#candy requests

You had a bad day at work and an even worse transit home. When you boarded the train along with everyone else hoping for a swift trip at the end of the day, an announcement blurted over the intercom. A droning mechanical inflection spelling everyone’s sordid fate. The particular railway that takes you straight to your apartment is out of order due to an undisclosed cause, forcing all who boarded to walk right back off. You didn’t anticipate a different route home, unfamiliar with the destinations of the remaining arrivals. It’s only a couple miles. You begrudgingly decide to walk the distance despite the forming blisters on your ankles, feeling a stinging agony in each step. You hiss and gasp every few steps, resorting to walk on your tip-toes for a bit before you realize you must look ridiculous.

Distracted, you stop at the corner of a crosswalk to lean on a traffic light, slipping your heel out of your laced-up sneaker. The fit is tight enough that it won’t fall off while simultaneously relieving the direct pressure of your shoe on your blister. You repeat the action with your opposite shoe, sighing in relief when you are able to take a step and not recoil from the pain. The wind is lightly hitting the wounds, soothing them with its draft. 

You smush the frame of your shoe with every step, knowing they will be wrinkled and warped later, but you don’t care. When you finally start to feel at ease, a deep and seductive voice from beside you warrants your attention. “You’ll ruin those if you keep walking in them like that.”

You know that voice. Glancing around, you cannot make out the direction it came from, almost like the thought popped up in your own mind. Your head is on a swivel, but you’re at a loss; everyone around you is walking unbothered with their eyes glued to the ground or their phone screens.

“They might already be a lost cause.” The voice echoes in your ears with no culprit in sight.

“But my blisters…” You respond in your own thoughts, defeated that you have to disclose something so woefully embarrassing to this phantom articulation.

Within the same instant you finish this explanation, a broad and protective arm is draped over your shoulder, manually shifting your placement away from the bustling streetside with a familiar buffer keeping you that much further away from the zooming cars passing by. It’s such a commanding motion, you have little say over where you are being led next. You’re not objecting though, comfortable in his grasp, confirmed by the smell of his cologne. You breathe it in, tropical and floral notes of ripe mango and orchid blossoms.

“What are you doing here?” You whisper to him lowly, peeking at his obscured form shrouded by the black hood. The hand that holds you has darkened extended claws spreading from his cotton sleeve. His eyes glow in shadow, slitted by the setting sun but no less out of focus as he scans every silhouette in the vicinity. Those violet patterns leave sharp impressions down his face that resemble thorns. One bad slip and a mob of obsessive fans would appear in an instant. You question his appearance, wondering what would possess him to put himself at risk to simply walk you home. 

“I was in the neighborhood.” He tells you, his gravelly cadence monotone and rich with allure. His feet sync up with yours, seamlessly dodging every obstacle in your path while cutting the remaining distance in half with his expeditious control. 

You can’t be certain of it, but it feels like between every few steps, you’re quite literally gliding on air. He yields your weight, skipping through effortlessly. The laws of physics do not apply to him. The fluttering nervousness in your stomach is either a result of the subtle shift in gravitational forces or your billowing anxieties. At this moment, you cannot tell.

You hate to admit it, but you love it when he does this. He’s only ventured out and found you a handful of times before, each one more random and unexpected than the last, yet he always appears when you need him most.

In no time, you’re at the entrance of your towering apartment building. The sun has dipped farther out of sight, the skies bathed in the very same violet as his markings. Once the adrenaline of the walk has worn off, his fangs recede and the fire in his eyes extinguishes. The glimmer of patterns disappear and his faux human skin tone returns to the surface, replacing the pastel indigo.

“You didn’t have to do that.” While adjusting the bag on your shoulder, you tuck your heels together to hide them with the breadth of your pants.

“I know.” A small tuft of his magenta hair sways in front of his eyes as he smiles at you, taking a single step out of your space but still close enough that his chiseled form lies less than an arm’s reach away. “I wanted to.”

“Do you maybe wanna to come up for a bit?” The proposal is hopeful, and you shrink slightly at the furrow of his brow and shake of his head. He tucks his large hands into his pockets, sullen to deny your wishes.

“I don’t know.” He admits sincerely but with a scheming tone. “I really wish I could, but I should have headed back over an hour ago.”

“An hour?!” You exclaim mutedly, shocked he’s still standing here talking with you. “Don’t let me get you into trouble.”

“Hm.” He scoffs aloud, pulling a hand out of his pocket to stroke your hair. Wearing a charming smirk, he draws you in close by the nape of your neck, using his thumb to lift your chin so that he can kiss you. His irises flash with that golden twinkle, displaying his demon side for a split second. “Not possible. I make my own trouble.”

He steps forward and reaches for the handle to your apartment building, opening the door for you.

“What are you doing?” You ask as he implores you to enter the building. “I thought you were expected an hour ago.”

“If I’m gonna get into trouble, might as well make it worth it.” He shows you inside, following closely to spend the night in your apartment.

~~~

“This is stupid.” Abby knows what quote-unquote “girly” movies entail; mushy heartfelt scenes, tissues for sopping up tears. He’s over it all before you even hit play.

“I’m watching it.” You scroll through to find the movie in question, hovering over it for a few seconds as he continues to rant and rave.

“I’m not.” Abby rolls his eyes, standing up from the cushioned sofa.

“Fine.” You click the movie and the screen goes black to welcome the opening credits. “I’ve been waiting all summer for this to come out.”

“What is it even about?” Abby circles the sofa, leaning on the back of it while you settle in comfortably.

“It’s kind of a long concept, but the theme is reincarnation. I think.” You rack your brain to harness the memory of the trailer when you watched it. “At least, how love survives through space and time.”

“That sounds dumb.” He continues, letting up on the back of the sofa to stand up straight.

“Will you let me just enjoy this in peace?” The opening credits come to a close, welcoming the first scene of the movie.

“I’m gonna get a snack.” He departs for the kitchen. “Have fun with your sappy film.”

“I will!” You snuggle up on the sofa, a blanket in your lap and a steaming mug of your favorite hot drink in both hands.

You’re about two-thirds of the way through it when he returns, a bowl of popcorn being placed on the coffee table in front of you as a peace offering. The movie is going on a lot longer than he expected, and he’d rather not admit he’s feeling lonely due to your lack of attention. He has no desire to watch the movie, but something catches his eye that he didn’t expect to see.

“Is that supposed to be Seoul?” He recognizes the silhouette of the metropolitan skyline depicting the capital and largest city in South Korea.

“Yeah.” You nod in confirmation while taking a couple pieces of popcorn. “In the dystopian future.”

“It’s under water.” He’s perplexed by its darkened and grim appearance, a city he knows and loves now altered by soulless oppression and uniformity.

“The world is ending.” You’re fully involved with the movie by now, slightly put off by all his questions, but you correct yourself when you realize he’s actually displaying interest.

“Pretty cool they have flying cars though.” The scene you both are viewing reveals the technological advances in the chrome and steel city nearly completely swallowed by the ocean. A high speed chase ensues and a transport tunnel is flooded to eliminate the soldiers pursuing the heroes of the movie. “I didn’t know they allow fight scenes here.”

“You’ll come to find there’s all kinds of things you don’t understand about these so-called ‘girly’ movies.” You wink at him, plopping a piece of popcorn into his mouth while he wraps his arms around you, calling a truce to the insensitive banter.

He falls silent, sitting back to watch the movie as well, but as it progresses, more questions arise. The scene changes to a time period of pirates, effectively throwing the viewer hundreds of years into the past. There is a man being poisoned by the skipper of this sea-faring vessel rocking them violently back and forth within the infirmary. 

The captain leaves and an African slave enters the fold suspecting something amiss with the relationship the two have forged. The slave correctly surmises poison to be the cause of the man’s ailments, forcing him to drink seawater to induce vomiting.

“Wait, what’s going on?” Abby ponders aloud, even more confused now. “Is this the same movie?”

“Yes.” You softly answer, following along with these other subplots.

“How?” Abby won’t let this go, so you resort to a brief explanation of events leading to his visual conundrum.

You pause it on the sickly man below deck, pointing at his pallid complexion and feverish disposition. “This guy has been reborn through the ages from this time period well into the future you just saw.”

He’s squinting, trying to hang on while you rewind back to the scene that takes place in dystopian Seoul.

“They put some makeup on him so he looks Korean, but it’s the same man and actor.” You flip flop back and forth to both scenes and he understands. “See? And he’s not the only one that is reborn like this. Every member of the main cast has correlating alters that fit them with the time period.”

“That’s weird.” Abby picks it apart, disquieted by the executive decision the creators of this film made while not knowing its significance quite yet. “Why wouldn’t they just get a Korean actor?”

“Because it’s supposed to be the same man.” You clarify, hoping he gets it. “Remember what I told you about reincarnation?”

“This is way too complicated.” Abby is discouraged, losing hope in getting a grasp on this film you hold in such high esteem. “I thought this was supposed to be like a love story with sappy crying and stuff.”

“It is!” You’re saddened at the fact it hasn’t clicked. “Look, I’ll restart it so you’ll be brought up to speed.”

“Ughhh…” He dramatically laments. He certainly hates a challenge, keen on understanding the puzzle himself and refusing to be bested by a silly movie “Start it up.”

He sits beside you, silent and watching the whole way through. You come to a scene that was flashed for a short moment at the beginning of the movie, a man who committed suicide with his last words being recited himself. As Abby watches, the pieces begin to fall into place. He’s seen these characters appear in the other timelines, coming full circle on their true method to the madness as he witnesses for himself the reality that love outlives death.

“Finished in a frenzy that reminded me of our last night in Cambridge. Watched my final sunrise, enjoyed a last cigarette. I believe there is a better world waiting for us Sixsmith. A better world, and I’ll be waiting for you there.”

As the scenes progress between times of past and distant future, Abby recognizes the man who wrote the letter as the one currently narrating. “Hey, he wrote the music! The Cloud Atlas Sextet! He’s the one who found the book the poisoned man wrote on the boat!”

“I know!” You‘re already trying to hold back tears, but Abby hasn’t quite made it to that level of realization yet. You point at the screen rapidly. “Watch!”

His name was Robert Frobisher, their lovely narrator for this heartbreaking segment. The next scene depicts him climbing into a bathtub just as he did at the start of the film but neither of you knew the reason yet. Now you do, watching him ready a Luger pistol to fire, placing it into his mouth and pulling the trigger.

Sixsmith himself, the recipient of this letter, is seen stepping up a narrow staircase, greeted by a man at a lodgings front desk. Sixsmith fears the worst, especially when he sees the man at reception has squeezed into a vest far too small for him; a vest once worn by the very narrator he seeks.

“No… Why? Did he give that away?” Abby points out that the man reciting his note was the one to wear that opulent article of clothing.

“Because…” You sniffle but before Sixsmith could request the location of the room of his beloved, the unmistakable sound of a gunshot blares above. Sixsmith clambers upstairs while his darling lover continues to recite his goodbyes, ending it all after taking an irredeemable blow to his career after he was discovered to be the murderer of his maestro. “He doesn’t need it anymore.”

“Oh…” Abby realizes, deflating when the shot rings out. “He is the one who shot himself in the beginning, isn’t he?”

Tears gather at Abby’s waterline when he at last connects the dots. He looks back at the screen, sniffling while the last line in the note ends, unable to look you in the eyes as he lets himself feel the gravity of the moment.

“I believe we do not stay dead long. Find me beneath the Corsican stars where we first kissed. Yours eternally, R.F.”

The tall, blond-haired Sixsmith gets there far too late. He sees his lover lifeless in a mess of surging crimson. Shamelessly, he surpasses the rim of the tub, holding and whimpering over him as his palm is stained with Robert’s blood.

You look over and you start to see Abby covertly wipe his cheek. His questions have stopped and he’s fully focused on how this will come to a close.

Another time jump happens and you’re back to Seoul. A woman you both have grown acquainted with over the course of the film has returned to finish her interview that has chronicled the whole movie. As she answers these inquiries, she is actively explaining things that have transpired in the past and will transpire in future

“Reports say Commander Chang was killed in the assault.” The interviewer provokes Sonmi-451 with news of her deceased lover and accomplice.

“What assault?” Upon hearing this, Abby puts his emotions on pause to gain clarification, playing his sniffles off. “And isn’t that the same guy who plays Sixsmith?”

“Yes’ it’s him! I told you Chang wasn’t the only one!” You announce cheerfully when you see that he’s really been paying attention. “Just keep watching!”

The interview continues. “Would you say that you loved him?”

“Yes, I do.” Sonmi-451 smiles as she says this.

“You mean you are still in love with him?”

“I mean that I always will be.”

You both watch as the scene displays a flashback to the events she was just describing in the interview. A revolutionary war has broken out and Sonmi-451 is the voice of their hope. Amidst her National Emergency Message, she is depicted overseeing a brutal attack on her people as their oppressors aim to silence her. 

“Is that…?” Abby is on the edge of his seat when Commander Chang comes into view throwing grenades and blasting holes into all his approaching enemies. The man leading the assault team is the very same who’s been traveling through lifetimes in the name of fighting for the people’s cause and breaking the chains of tyranny while embracing love in all its forms. The same man who wrote the book that brought freedom to many slaves while he was being poisoned on his way home from Africa. That is the man leading the fight against the innocent, and Abby couldn’t be happier. “Whoo! Let’s go!”

Abby cheers loudly, jumping out of his seat at the intensity of battle like this is the final quarter of his favorite sports game. “Why aren’t you getting up? Isn’t this a good thing?”

You shake your head from side to side, grabbing more tissue to blow your nose into, still sobbing as Sonmi-451 continues her message. Abby sits beside you, comforting you with a hand on your knee as he receives Sonmi’s final message.

“Our lives are not our own. From womb to tomb, we are bound to others, past and present… And by each crime and every kindness, we birth our future.”

Sonmi is momentarily distracted by Commander Chang on the battlefield, finally blown away by a stray grenade blast. The frames linger on shrapnel scaring his singed face. He’s been killed and Sonmi witnesses it all. Tears fall from her eyes, taking the next scene back to the rigid and formal fugitive interrogation.

“In your revelation you spoke of the consequences of an individual’s life rippling throughout eternity. Does this mean that you believe in an afterlife? In a heaven or a Hell?”

“I believe death is only a door. When it closes, another opens. If I cared to imagine a heaven, I would imagine a door opening and behind it, I would find him there waiting for me.” Sonmi’s hopes manifest the imagery the movie follows. You both gasp, sitting back in your seats in shock when exactly that appears; a cozy white door fixed between knitted curtains and vintage wallpaper opens, letting splendid sunlight in. You begin smacking Abby on his back in excitement when you correctly assume who’s going to come through that entrance.

“Commander Chang!” You both scream with tears in your eyes, wailing hard and hugging each other at this beautifully happy ending. They may not have achieved it in the future, but all that matters is that they kept finding each other through space and time.

A woman who looks just like Sonmi mixed with Little House in the Prairie stands from her rocking chair, running to her one true love that fought tooth and nail to get back to her. Hallmark movies have nothing on this. Abby is a mess alongside you, struggling to see through the flooding in your eyes as the interview with Sonmi-451 comes to a close.

Three emotionless escorts arrive to take Sonmi away where she will be executed for her crimes, but the interviewer now revealed to be a reincarnated Sixsmith has one last thing to say. “If I may ask one last question, you had to know this union scheme was doomed to fail.”

“Yes.”

“Then why did you agree to it?”

“This is what General Apis asked of me.”

“What, to be executed?”

“If I had remained invisible, the truth would stay hidden. I couldn’t allow that.”

“And what if no one believes this truth?”

“Someone already does.”

As the movie ends in a beautiful sequence, you are left with a warm and fuzzy feeling in your heart despite the road to get there laden with tragedy. The music that gives the film its name sings to your souls as the ending credits ensue. Abby looks at you, then you to him. You both cry out in laughter with your faces drenched in streaming tears after getting to share such a wholesome experience together.

“So, what did you think of the movie?” you ask, reaching for more tissues while handing a couple to Abby.

“It wasn’t as bad as I thought.” Abby jokes, and you softly elbow his side to earn a chuckle to escape him.

“You loved it and you know it!”

“Maybe I did.” He smiles, easing you into his lap so that he can receive a kiss from your hovering lips. “Maybe I just like that I watched it with you.”

~~~

This is one of the first official times you have made it out to a Saja Boys concert since you both secretly started dating. You pay for your ticket just like any other fan, filing into the venue. It’s a smaller establishment than the massive stadiums they’ve performed in before. Their setlist isn’t very long either, creating a more intimate setting. However, the presence of so many concertgoers makes things far more cramped than you’re used to. In the face of your uneasiness, you press on for his sake. You promised you wouldn’t miss this.

As the concert carries on, the collective swirling energy only elevates as the fans go crazy. They’re screaming at the top of their lungs, vibrating in their places and jostling around you incessantly. The dark enclosure is sliced through with blinding lights. You can’t hear any music over the voices booming around you. Your ears start to ring and your vision declines into fogginess. 

As your breath hastens, a decimating tightness forms in your chest, igniting an excruciating burn that only seems to get worse. The tingliness in your fingers spreads through your hands and up your arms. People on all sides of you are closing in tight. The air is hot and thick with humidity. You cannot stand it any longer. You begin fighting your way to bob and weave through the crowd.

You are swept up with the current of bodies, beckoning you to abandon all ceremony and do everything in your power to make it out. You don’t know how you manage it, but you successfully navigate to the exit, and while you were hoping it would serve as your saving grace, the head change worsens when you pass the threshold and the cool night air fills your lungs. You were under the impression that this great escape would bring relief, but it proves to be the cause of more pain.

Making your way to the deserted back alley while the masses are occupied with the party indoors, you stumble to the nearest wall, bracing yourself to the immoveable structure. You find yourself easing to the ground, your back sliding against the rough building’s exterior. Having fully descended, you hang your head between your knees, tightly gripping the layers of clothing currently restricting your aching chest.

Your breathing has only gotten faster. You begin to wheeze audibly, desperate to be saved from these harrowing afflictions. You don’t even realize your face stained with emotion as it streams down your cheeks, its droplets soaking into your shirt.

Through all the panic and turmoil, a voice says your name. It’s hard to detect through the ringing in your ears, but you will not forsake its call. You bring yourself to open your eyes. Things haven’t come into focus just yet, but a hooded silhouette manifests right in front of you as if it appeared through smoke, golden glowing eyes beaming at you like headlights on a vehicle.

As you blink away your sorrow, you finally see who it is that came to your rescue. Abby has come and found you, ensuring you are not alone at your most vulnerable. How did he know you were gone? You made the assumption that he would be far too busy putting on the show to even notice that you made your hasty evasion, seeing that he snuck away to find you himself.

“It’s okay.” He takes a knee to get closer to you, comforting you with soft circles on your back. “Just try to breathe.”

“I-I don’t think I can.” You stutter, still hyperventilating as you cry. On top of everything, you’re now burdened with the embarrassment of him seeing you in such a state of dismay. “I don’t know what’s happening. I’m s-sorry…”

“In through your nose and out through your mouth.” He does not accept your apology for there is nothing to be sorry for. “Do it.”

Listening to his sympathetic commands, it is decidedly easier said than done. “I can’t… I can’t…”

“Yes you can.” He squeezes your shoulder with that robust palm of his; the anchor keeping you grounded. You hold on tightly to his wide wrist with both of your hands, tiny by comparison.

“I’m going insane.” You hate these episodes, blindsided when the impending doom creeps in, lying in wait to consume you from the shadows.

“Nonsense.” Abby lifts your chin and solicits an engaging visual connection and it works. Little by little, the pain in your chest eases and you find an even keel in due course. You rejoice when the worst of the storm passes, leaving only his loving embrace to welcome you back to reality. “There you are. Better?”

“Yes.” You agree, seeing him with his hood pulled over and pointed markings slowly fading away, but the golden glint in his eyes remains. “I’m sorry.”

“Stop saying that.” He requests seriously, tired of hearing it.

“But your fans-” You look past him to where cheerful concertgoers are beginning to congregate in the streets following the show’s conclusion, but are cut off when he assertively keeps your gaze trained on him with that hold he has on your jaw.

“They don’t matter to me nearly as much as you do.” Abby strokes your cheek with his thumb, your head being dwarfed by his spanning appendages. A bubbling nervousness different from before flutters to the surface; a welcome nervousness. One that you hope never fades. “They’re not going anywhere, and when you left, I couldn’t rest until I saw it for myself.”

“Saw what for yourself?” You lay the weight of your head into his hand, letting him hold you.

“That you are safe.” He smiles, saying it so plainly obvious and yet you’ve never known someone to be so watchfully dedicated.

“I tried to stay, but the crowds…” You admit shamefully, but when he starts to lean in, the second his lips meet yours, everything melts away. Your fears seem meaningless when you’re in his presence, reminding you that you have nothing to worry about for as long as he is in your life.

“We were on our last song.” He pets your hair as it falls beautifully around your face. “You didn’t miss a thing.”

“Are the others mad you left?”

“They know the drill. I don’t have to ask them to cover for me.” As he speaks, he adjusts himself, scooping you with one arm under both your knees and the other supporting your back as he hoists you against his muscular chest. Having heroically plucked you from the cold, hard ground, he’s able to speak directly into your ear, the warmth of his breath causing you to giggle from how it tickles. “What do you say we get out of here?”

“I say, what are you waiting for?” You wiggle your nose against his, placing a kiss directly on the tip of it. He dissolves at your lovely display of affection, biting his lip to hold himself back and stifle his prominent desires. 

“Don’t look down.” He dismounts, using the environment as a cloak to keep you both undetected from the citizenry below. You smile as you are lifted high above the city, gliding on his supernatural powers into the starry night sky.

~~~

“So what made you want to try this recipe?” Abby asks, watching you shred some fresh herbs and other greens.

“It seemed easy enough.” You shrug, collecting the herbs into a small glass dish to be used later. “I had it in a restaurant and was convinced I could make it better at home.”

“What’s it called?”

“Shrimp Scampi.” You smile, saying the words with a lively inflection. “Fun to say, isn’t it?”

“Scampi. Scampi.” He lets the word roll off his tongue a couple times, understanding the amusement. “Yeah, I guess it’s pretty funny.”

“Want to help me slice this shallot?” You pass him half of the bulb as well as a sharpened knife.

“How do you want it?” He takes the shallot and utensil, lining it up just like you.

“Like this.” You begin to move your knife up and down, demonstrating the portions longways. Abby does exactly as instructed, maybe even with more dexterity than you for a second. “Yep. you got it.”

“Does this go into the pan you’re warming up over there?” Abby gestures to his side where a skillet rests on a heating element with glistening olive oil coating the bottom.

“Yes!” You enthusiastically confirm. “Why don’t you start tossing them into it.”

It would appear that he took your directions literally as he moves a couple steps away from the stove, holding the cutting board steady under one arm while playing shallot basketball with the other.

“What are you doing with my shallots, mister?” You feign anger, knowing he’s just trying to make fun.

“Practicing my aim.” He responds, continuing to toss strands into the pan so that they may sizzle.

“Okay, you’ve done enough practicing.” You start to urge him towards the stove, but he doesn’t budge. Instead, he passes you the cutting board. “You don’t want to do it?”

“I’ll just watch you.” Something about the way he says that tells you there’s more about this exchange you may be missing. Was the humorous intermission a ruse for a deeper issue?

Challenging, you hand him back the cutting board. “What’s the matter? You think you’re gonna mess up?”

“What? No!” Almost offended, he can see that you’ve noticed his shift in demeanor.

“Then what is it?” You know better than to leave well enough alone.

“It’s hot, okay!”

“What’s hot?” You wonder what he could possibly mean, laying your eyes on the sizzling skillet. “The pan?”

Laughter explodes out of you as Abby crosses his arms in annoyance. You catch your breath and address this head on. “So- wait. Let me make sure I have this right. You. A literal demon. You’re scared of a little hot oil?”

“Hey, getting singed by fire is way different from having oil splashed on you!” Abby reasons, pointing a finger at you in defiance. “There’s a reason it was an efficient way to defend castles.”

“I’m sorry, I assumed you just didn’t feel it.” You stifle back a giggle.

“We do feel it. You just… get used to it.” You’re disarmed by his soft side coming through and decide to make amends

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know.” You are sincere in your apology and he brings down his walls again.

“I’m just kidding. I wasn’t actually offended.” He clears the air with sarcasm. “Though, I will say I don’t do enough cooking to be confident with putting the rest of those in.”

“We’ll do it together.” You smile while reaching for his hand in guiding him to scrape all the shallots off the cutting board with the back of the knife. “See? Just like that.”

As they begin to break down and caramelize, he sniffs the air when you crack fresh salt and pepper over the shallots. “Mmmm… That smells good.”

“We haven’t even added the garlic yet.” You pull out a microplane and grate two cloves right over the hot oil. As soon as it hits the pan, the scent grows deeper and more savory. His mouth is watering as you toss and stir them around. “See those chili flakes?”

Abby looks over to where you’re pointing with your wooden spoon, a nearby bowl with vibrant seed pods of warm hues. He adorably takes them from where they’re resting and spins around to show you. “Got ‘em!”

“Throw a dash into the pan for me, will you?” You move your spoon aside, giving him space to sprinkle.

Abby goes the extra mile, lifting his arm above his head when he’s already so tall. The sprinkles fall like confetti, decorating the shallots with healthy pops of color. After he sets the bowl aside, he rests his chin on your shoulder and hugs you from behind. “What’s next?”

“Actually, I have to keep this moving so it doesn’t burn, so I was hoping you’d cut a handful of those cherry tomatoes in half for me.”

“Urghhhhhh….” He groans, dropping his hands to his side and stomping over to the cutting board again. “But I wanted to keep hugging you.”

“You will get plenty of hugs from me when we get to eat this for dinner.” You smile while stirring. “Now chop!”

He starts chopping them, and after a couple handfuls he looks at you and asks, “Is this enough?”

“That’s perfect!” You bounce in place and he grins sweetly at your approval “Bring them here.”

Once added, the tomatoes blister and break down amongst the caramelized ingredients. After a while, it comes time to deglaze with a couple tablespoons of white wine. Abby sees you reach for the glass bottle, wrapping your fingers around the neck of it. “Woah, is it drink’o clock already?”

“This is for the food, you goober.” Abby stands corrected as you swish a couple splashes into the pan with your thumb providing a sensible stop to the flow of the wine.

“Of course it is.” Abby crosses his arms again, doing that when he’s bested. “I knew that!”

“Sure you did.” You laugh while continuing to stir. You have a warm mug of vegetable stock on the counter beside you, pouring a little in following the wine. “Is that water boiling over there?”

Abby leans over and nods. “Yep.”

“Okay, good.” Capers and basil make it with the other aromatics, finalizing the sauce for this dish. As you toss your seasoned raw shrimp into a separate hot skillet with oil and lemon zest, you task Abby with setting the noodles to simmer. “Those bundles of cavatappi, put them in the water.”

Abby backs up, lining his shot like he did before, but you call him out. “Are you going to throw everything in my kitchen?”

“Just the fun stuff.” Abby shrugs, treating your handmade pasta noodles like a winning pitch. You want to be upset, but you can’t deny it does look pretty fun. He throws one bundle, causing a splash to spill over the stove’s surface. He then does something unexpected and offers you the other. “C’mon. You know you want to.”

You take the pan off the heat, setting the sauce and fully cooked shrimp aside to keep warm. Approaching Abby, he hands you the stringy bundle of dough, flour being transferred from his hands to yours. You resume a similar stance to his, throwing the noodles right on the mark with a secondary splash. “Okay, that was a little fun. We’re just making a mess in the process.”

“And messes can always be cleaned.” Abby cages you in with the counter. “How long do those have to cook?”

You lean back and set a timer for four minutes, giving you a grace period of a minute or so until they’re done. “Too fast to do anything worthwhile.”

Abby can see you want him but are saddened at the finite period of romance to be shared, taking advantage of every second he gets. He lifts you with ease, seating you on the flour-dusted counter space where your noodles were rolled out. You’re at his level now, his face right in front of yours. His powerful arms coil around you. The ticking of the timer sets a hasty beat like an impatient metronome.

His kisses are full and impassioned. His tongue slithers into your mouth, exploring its taste as his saliva melds with yours. His taloned hands thread into your hair and he grips you fervently, yanking your head back to mark your neck with his fanged bites.

Just when you start grinding into him and his lips find your mouth once more, the timer goes off. You continue to kiss him, accepting all he has to give, until you scream at yourself from the inside not to let the noodles turn to mush. 

“Gah!” You gasp for breath, pushing him aside so that you can race to the boiling pot, carry it to the sink and strain the noodles.

“They’re not overcooked, are they?” Abby points out, his sinister grin very prominent in his speech when he sees he’s done well in distracting you. He walks over to meet you, watching the strained noodles fall right back into the pot. “I hate bloated noodles.”

“Well, if they are, that would be your fault, wouldn’t it?” You take the noodles back to the stove, setting it down so that you can pull one out and test it. After ripping it in half, you give one portion to Abby for him to taste it himself. “Only one way to find out.”

As you put the noodle into your mouth, Abby does the unthinkable. Actually, you should have guessed that he would do this; he throws the noodle right at your kitchen wall.

“What did you do that for?!” You’re at first outraged at the waste, hoping to gauge his opinion of something you worked really hard on making. 

“I read online that this is the best way to see if noodles are done.” The quaint innocence in his response disarms you. It is true, you have heard that before, but you always thought the notion to be silly and relied on taste instead of physics. You reel yourself back, taking a breath and reminding yourself that every glimpse into his mind is a blessing, no matter how eccentric.

Taking in the depth of his charm, you’ve but one thing to ask. “Well, what does that mean?”

You both look at the noodle still clinging to your wall, picturesque alongside the other artwork you have suspended there, having not moved an inch.

“That means it’s time to plate this up.” Abby licks his lips, craving a bite. “I’m starving.”

You do just as he requests and put everything together. The shrimp are coated with that decadent sauce you made, wonderfully finished with the heaping bundles of thin pasta. After a healthy stir and toss around, you load up a couple bowls, placing a portion of buttered and toasted baguette beside each swirling pile. You can see the eagerness on Abby’s face when you depart from the kitchen to rest both bowls on the dining table where you then sit across from him to enjoy the fruits of your labor.

With no words spoken, the only sounds in the space come from silverware twisting on plates and Abby’s spirited devouring of the Scampi. He doesn’t even need to say it. His moans of bliss as he shovels forkful after forkful into his mouth tell all. You don’t even make it halfway through your own serving when he stands up and heads to the pot for more. 

“You like it?” You ask meekly while driving your fork into a plump piece of shrimp.

Sauce drips from his chin as his cheeks balloon with food. He swallows the bite currently in his mouth so that he can speak. “I love it. Like I love you.”

He lets you collect the mess on his face with a folded napkin, his strong jaw so colossal in your grasp. You kiss him this time, committing every ounce of his happiness to memory. “I love you too.”

∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆

You’re starting to regret signing the paperwork that keeps you tied to this boring planet, downtrodden by the constant rain showers and unexciting scenery. The ocean spans as far as the eye can see, drowning the world in a turbulent swirl of waves. You’ve been here for a month now with five more left to go and you feel as though you’ve not even made a dent in the required hours logged for your grant. When they told you that you’d be stationed in a well renowned cloning facility, it was unclear the nature of the subjects they are cloning. You had only heard rumors of the military force built from scratch and commissioned for the Republic. It was a completely different experience witnessing them for yourself. 

Other than your regular daily duties, you were given relatively large access to Tipoca City. It is a privilege to be here, being allowed to conduct your own research observations in your off time when you’re not slinging soup into saucers. Though, with such exclusive residents, if you’re not one of them then you’re not worth the time of day. Most of the troopers you see through your line hardly acknowledge your existence, save for an eye roll or scoff in your direction when you try to strike up conversation. You were beginning to lose hope of gaining a single friend here, that is until an eccentric group of clones started passing through your queue. 

You haven’t seen them in the entirety of your stay here, wondering where they’ve been this whole time and not stationed with the rest of these troopers. “Hey, who are those guys?” You ask one of the other soldiers filling his tray with lunch foods on display between you. 

“Oh, them?” His nose scrunches in a disgusted grimace when prompted about this mysterious group, not holding them in very high regard. “They’re defective. The rest of the boys and I call them The Bad Batch. Trust me, you don’t want anything to do with those losers.”

The trooper very noticeably avoids the table that this supposed Bad Batch is seated in and a silver-haired slender fellow stares back at the passerby with piercing eyes, one of which ordained with a rather unique tattoo resembling a scope’s graticule. His gaze travels back to you once the trooper sits down and he rolls his eyes at you, just as so many other clones have done so before. 

You’re beginning to lose hope in gaining an acquaintance if, at the very least, you can’t interview one of these interesting persons for your research. In the same breath, you question your entitlement to their time. These clones must have challengingly full schedules and you shouldn’t input yourself into their itinerary, whatever its contents may be. You decide it’s best to keep all associations strictly in the mess hall.

Another few days go by, and you attempt the same interaction each time; a simple wave accompanied by a lighthearted smile. Sadly, despite your bids for connection, they are all either too focused on the food in front of them to acknowledge your message or they disregard you altogether. The only one who actually receives your gesture is the silver-haired and he remains unamused.

In seeing this, it sparks an idea that is sure to be a foolproof way to win them over. You’re aching to know their names, especially that grumpy silver-haired one who seems to have a special sort of scorn for you.

While in the late hours of the kitchens, you scramble the cabinets and pantries for ingredients that could make anything, but the relatively bland menu items issued to the soldiers where flavor is not a priority. You are missing all the classic ingredients that make a cake such as eggs, butter, and sugar so this is sure to be a challenge. You assess the ingredients you do have and check things like yogurt, milk, and flour. The other ingredients will require some improvisation.

Scouring every cabinet and shelf you can, you manage to locate cans of jogan fruit puree that you can use to sweeten this confection. You’re unsure what you’re going to end up making, keeping all your options open until you have assessed your mise en place.

So far, you’ve acquired yogurt that can be used to moisten and add supple density to whatever it is you decide to make. The pureed fruit can be strained and blended with the syrup even more to add a deep flavor of sweetness without being artificial or overpowering to your other natural ingredients. Looking at the countertops, you spot a metal tin full of caf grounds and ponder brewing a strong pot to infuse with the milk. If you blend the notes of coffee with the rich taste of the chocolate protein supplement from your personal stash you brought with you, you might be able to fashion something that passes off as chocolate brownies, albeit calorie dense and full of protein.

The first couple attempts bubbled and boiled in the oven before solidifying into an inedible rock once cooled. You struggle for hours tweaking your measurements and feel helpless with this project, likewise wasteful for sabotaging so many ingredients. None of them even care that you’re taking this time to make them something. Why are you even doing this in the first place? It’s not like they’re going to want to try it anyway…

The chiming of the timer shakes you out of your self-deprecating thoughts. You’re terrified to open the oven in fear of being confronted with another failure, but you digress, pulling on the handle and feeling a wave of warm, rich-smelling heat waft from the chamber.

With squinted eyes, you peek through your lashes to catch a glimpse of the pan but notice it’s not bubbling over nor is it smoking. Retrieving your confection, the edges are perfectly crisp while the center remains thick and spongy. You’re not wanting to count your nunas just yet, waiting until it’s completely cooled to cut them up and have a taste. You wouldn’t dare serve them something that tastes like bantha poodoo.

Once cool to the touch, you flip the pan of brownies over, plopping them on a cutting board where you will divide into equal sized squares. The knife glides through them like butter and you’re actually excited to taste them after all your crude attempts prior. The pan yields sixteen brownies and you sample one, allowing each of the group to have three brownies each. You’re always quite conscious in portioning, ensuring there’s enough for everyone. Who knows? If these are received well, perhaps you can incorporate these to be a permanent part of the clone commissary menu. 

The moment of truth arrives. Too excited to sleep, you linger in the kitchens, cleaning and prepping for the daily rush while also scanning for the recipients of your gift. It’s beginning to become increasingly difficult to contain your nervousness. Trying your best to act natural, you casually watch as they navigate to the different counters and queues, filling their trays and hoping they make their way to your little area behind the transparisteel shiels, but they don’t. 

Between greeting the other clones with a regular ‘good morning’, you still wave at them from afar. Perhaps you’re too far away from them to see, and the only one who responds is that silver-haired soldier, a brow raised and puzzled by your constant engagement. His eyes dart back and forth before falling to his tray where they will remain for the duration of his dining period. 

Shrinking back on yourself, you’re having second thoughts on giving them the brownies, feeling the urge to chuck them all into a trash compactor out of spite. Regardless of your inner distress, you wait for the perfect opportunity to place them on their table before they all stand to return to their barracks. The window of opportunity is closing, and you rush over to their table when they start gathering their cutlery and dishes to be cleaned. The tallest, hungriest of them all stands from the table first and is taken aback by your sudden approach. “Uh, excuse me miss. We can take care of our own trays.”

“Oh no, I’m not here for that.” You sheepishly state, abashed that they think you’re wanting to clean up after them. “I trust you boys know how to keep tidy.”

“Speak for yourself.” The silver-haired one disagrees, folding his arms while scanning you from your head to your feet, pausing for a while when he spots the metal box filled with treats. “What’s that?”

“Oh, actually it’s nothing. I should probably”-

“I smell something sweet.” The tallest one states, his nose sniffing the air just above your head. “Let’s see it.”

The entirety of the group is crowding around you now, curious to take a look into your little box of goodies. Your heart jumps in your throat at their attention finally being drawn to you, dwarfing you with their fortified physiques.

“Well… I’m new here and am having trouble getting on the rest of the clones’ good side.” You set the box down, hearing it clatter against the table’s hard surface as it advertises your jitters. Shakily taking the top off, the area is filled with the decadent fudgy aroma of your brownies and the tallest one wastes no time in sampling a square. “I was hoping we could be friends.”

The tallest one sinks his teeth into the brownie, and you’re pleased to find that they’re still soft and chewy, no audible crunch resounds from his mouth as he lets out satisfied hums with every bite. “Wow! You guys ought to try one before I eat them all!”

“Well, I made enough so that there are three for each of you! So please be sure to share!” You add while the one with goggles adjusts them on his face, glancing over the treat in wonderment as the one with the bandana takes a couple and passes a square to the one retrofitted with cybernetics. 

“They can have mine.” The silver-haired one shakes his head from side to side, almost as if he’s offended you brought these for them. “I don’t want any.”

“Your loss, Crosshair.” The tallest one remarks to him, taking another couple brownies for himself.

“Wrecker, leave him at least one. In case he changes his mind.” The one with the bandana argues as slowly but surely, they give their names away so organically and you commit each to memory.

“Hunter’s right.” The one with the goggles interjects. “Don’t be so greedy now.” 

“Tech, are you sure we should be bringing more food to the barracks?” The one with the cybernetics asks Tech and you’re curious as to what that means. Might they have a pest problem?

“It’s quite alright, Echo.” Tech assures the final unnamed clone. “Something tells me these treats won’t last the night.”

Tech still has about half of his brownie left when he begins analyzing it, savoring little nibbles and trying to identify the ingredients you used. “We’ve never had anything like this here before. If I might ask, how did you ever figure out how to make this… this… what do you call this?”

“Where I’m from, they’re called brownies.” You smile, replacing the lid on the remaining squares that haven’t been consumed to retain their moisture. Glancing between Tech and Crosshair, you notice that his eyes pretentiously tumble in their sockets again when his brother engages you. “And I’ll admit, it was very difficult. I had to make do with a lot of substitutes and I nearly gave up towards the end.”

“The chocolate is so prominent.” Echo discloses as he bites into the brownie and chews endearingly. “Where did you manage to find real chocolate all the way out here?”

“That’s the thing. I didn’t.” At this mention, Crosshair’s ears perk up, listening intently at the rarity of this delicacy and possibly considering he’s missing out. “I have a cocoa flavored protein dietary supplement I brought over for myself. They don’t have it in the kitchens, but they do have coffee!”

“How industrious!” Tech chimes in with an index finger pointed to the ceiling. “Adding coffee to chocolate desserts can enhance the chocolate flavor without adding any discernible coffee taste.”

“So, you’re saying there’s caf in these?” Wrecker asks, eyes dilated with evidence that he’s already getting wired from the caffeine.

“Great. Now look at what you’ve done.” Crosshair grumbles from afar before slapping his palm against his face. “He’s going to be wired for hours because of you. But you don’t care because you’re not the one who has to deal with him.”

“I-I didn’t know. I just wanted to do something nice for you guys.” You’re dejected by this revelation, completely unaware that you definitely laced these treats with a highly reactive stimulant without a consideration that any of them would have a sensitivity to it. “I’m so sorry…”

With your head hanging down, you fight the urge to engage with them any longer, speed walking back to your post where you want to forget about all this by submerging yourself neck deep in dish duty. However, as you’re walking away, you hear them carry on with conversation amongst each other with your back turned.

“Realistically speaking, unless Wrecker were to eat the entire batch of brownies, they wouldn’t have a very substantial effect on him.” Tech argues, deducing the efficacy of the coffee you infused. “The rest is merely the power of suggestion.”

“That wasn’t cool, Crosshair.” Echo adds. “She was just trying to make friends.”

“You wouldn’t have that attitude if you actually tried one.” Hunter continues the dispute.

“Yeah!” Wrecker exclaims. “These are the best things I’ve ever eaten!”

Hours pass by and you’re taking the lonely walk back to your personal quarters, arms sore from your incessant scrubbing to save the pans you nearly ruined with your botched first attempts at the brownies. The main hall lights are dim and the grim ambiance of the ocean planet’s atmosphere cloaks the residential halls in shadow. The inactivity in this wing tells you that everyone is already fast asleep and you’re woefully jealous that they’re taking advantage of their well-earned resting period when you’re so late to your own. In this solitary hour, you make a pact within yourself to forget about making friends and focus on finishing your hours and getting the kriff out of here. These men… their hearts are locked up and you’re running out of combinations to try. Do they believe love is a waste of time, or are they saving their love for someone you will never be? Perhaps things are better off this way.

You’re getting closer to your personal quarters when a silhouette standing at the end of the hallway startles you. Knowing you’re in non-threatening territory, you continue with your eyes glued to the floor while pretending you don’t see the very obvious silhouette in the corner of the corridor.

“They’re really good, you know.” That discernibly sly voice speaks to you from the darkness, and you stop dead in your tracks, aware of who’s posted outside your door now.

“What do you want?” You retort, as dismissive and standoffish as Crosshair has been towards you.

“I wanted to thank you.” Crosshair holds out the singular brownie with a bite taken out of it he reluctantly accepted before Wrecker volunteered to eat any unclaimed squares. “For going through the effort to make these.” 

“I see.” You look between him and the control panel you’re punching your personal access code into, making it seem like he’s inconveniencing you by dividing your attention. “So you actually tried one.”

“Yes.” Crosshair breaks eye contact, regretful of his behavior. “The truth is, I noticed you on your first day here over a month ago, but I didn’t feel that I had a right to approach you.”

You chuckle to yourself upon walking into your room, motion detecting lights switching on when it senses you and Crosshair making an entrance. 

“Did I say something funny?” The whole point of Crosshair conducting this confession under the cloak of night is to avoid ridicule, anger boiling when he addresses your laughter.

“It’s nothing. It’s just,” You catch your breath after a little fit and continue. “We both made decisions based on false assumptions of one another. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t bake those brownies just to have a reason to talk to you.”

“I had no idea.” Crosshair deflates, recalling his abhorrent behavior. “I suppose I shouldn’t have neglected your approach so bitterly, and that our sparse interactions prior to finally speaking were susceptible to being misread.”

“You think?” You scoff in surprise at his admittance. “You were looking at me like I had grown a second head.”

“I was just surprised you noticed me.” Crosshair shrugs and you smile at the humble modesty he allows you to bear witness to when no one else is around.

“Why couldn’t you act like this to me before?” You ask, removing your culinary smock to reveal a set of form fitting fatigues. You catch Crosshair staring as you unbutton the top section, pulling your upper torso out of the sleeves and tying the excess textile around your waist.

“Are you kidding me?” Crosshair rhetorically asks. “They’d never let me live this down. They’re so used to me putting on this vicious and offensive front, it would be strange if I acted differently all of a sudden. They wouldn’t believe that I can change. Even if it is for a pretty girl.”

Crosshair walks closer to you, deepening his voice when he delivers those last couple words and there’s absolutely no room for speculation about his feelings for you now. You match Crosshair’s energy and step into his space, letting him know you share the same proclivities for him as he does for you. “I think you’re wrong. They seem like the perfect people to accept you just as you are. And besides, you’re a great actor. You should pursue a career in entertainment if this gig doesn’t work out.”

“And by gig, you mean the occupation I was bred for?” Crosshair’s expression when he says this makes you stir, captured by his pearly white smile.

“Remind me to add ‘sense of humor’ to the list of things I need to teach you.” You mention teasingly, leaning forward to graze your chest against the firm plate of gray and crimson armor snug to his torso. He’s far taller in this close-up perspective, hovering his face just an inch or so above yours. You want to jump for a taste of his lips, but Crosshair bites one, flashing his canines at you before speaking.

“Care to give me a few lessons right now?” He beckons, drooping his head a little lower.

“Don’t tempt me…” At the delivery of your words, your mouths graze lightly against each other with barely enough breathing room to say anything else. His eyes blink slowly with passion as you hunger for this approach, dragging out every second of suspense that he doesn’t clash his lips with your yet.

Crosshair purses his mouth, touching it to your open lips softly. Your streams of breath combine when you both let out an exasperated sigh, gasping and deprived of oxygen as your shared anxiety momentarily overrides involuntary actions like taking in air. Unable to hold out any longer, you attack each other with a rapturous sequence of kisses while trying and failing to get a sense of what his body feels like. These overlays of plastoid are an obstacle you must overcome and Crosshair senses your desperation to bypass it.

While keeping his lips secured to yours, he starts by sliding his gauntlets off, followed by his bicep bracers. The pauldrons and chest piece come next, unbuckling the fasteners as you hear more pieces clatter to a pile on the floor. He guides you over to your living space sofa where you feel your heels bump up against the edge. You lose your balance and break the kiss by falling into a seated position atop the cushions, stunned by how he’s twice as tall and even more intimidating at this angle. His under suit does little to hide the many handsome details of his physique and your mouth waters when his muscles catch the light just right. 

Unprompted, you start to unbuckle the belt around his waist, or at least you enter a hurried plight to do so, but you can’t figure out how to unfasten it. Crosshair’s gloved hands find yours, holding them still with measured discipline as he knows exactly what it is you want, luring you in with a prize directly in front of your face. However, just as you’re enticed by the treat concealed behind a codpiece, Crosshair’s gloves add a dept of radiating warmth that disperses through the fabric and burns into your skin. Crosshair lets go of one of your wrists and the air hits you in a cool rush with the absence of his touch. He takes hold of your face, lifting your gaze up to his while clamping your jaw with a thumb on one cheek and the rest of his digits on the other. The heat from his fingertips causes your face to flush as you gulp to appease the tension building within you, not knowing what it is he plans to do to you next.

“Open.” He orders, and you staunchly obey. With steady hands still keeping you in place, Crosshair circles your lips with his index finger before slipping it into your mouth. You can taste that these are clean gloves, only detecting notes of the brownie he was holding as well as the faint aroma of washing detergent. You indulge in this offering, biting down on the digit and massaging your tongue against it as Crosshair cycles his breathing to not be overwhelmed by sensation too soon. You can tell by the mask of bliss on his face that he likes to see you open and willing to explore each other’s deepest desires, pushing his finger against your tongue to fight against your massaging as he conducts a miniscule battle within your maw.

To test his bounds, you increase your bite around his finger, and he hisses with the pain, scrunching his nose and biting his lip in approval. He lets you have your show of force before retrieving his finger from your teeth in an agonizingly slow process, letting you fully saturate the glove in your spittle. “Quite the good girl you are for me, aren’t you?”

“You’re right…” You interrupt your speech to lick your lips clean of the residual saliva Crosshair left there with his dampened finger. “I am rather good at being naughty.”

Crosshair finally unbuckles his belt and lets his codpiece fall at his feet with a thud. “Let’s see you prove it then.”

Taking his challenge, you reach for his under suit waistband and yank it down to reveal his throbbing cock, hardened by your suckling on his finger. It bounces deliciously in front of you and Crosshair is floored by your brazen display yet again. His skin is smooth and lean as you skate your palms along the contours of his bare hips, the bones jutting out and pressing through the taut skin. Your tongue swirls about the head of his weeping cock, already glistening with that deliciously sweet arousal dripping from it. 

Crosshair holds back a deep growl, dissipating its audible resounding through his chest and you feel him subtly vibrate with that dispersal of energy he so vehemently tries to conceal. Though, it isn’t until your sampling of his torrid length grows in ferocity that he actually starts letting you listen to his depraved moans. They sound like they’re clawing to escape his throat, only for their melodic resonance to be cut short and dispersed again through cyclical breaths. Still, each adorable little whine stifled by his virile principals adds a degree of attraction with how he clings so tightly to his indoctrinated self-control. You’re hoping after this, he’ll allow himself to not take everything so seriously.

You catch a small glob of spittle from your mouth and begin stroking your slick fingers up and down Crosshair’s veiny shaft using both hands. Looking up at him, his jaw drops as you more thoroughly demonstrate your skill set in this area. He releases higher pitched groans and exuberant curses through your sensual strokes and slurps, jostling a bit when you pay extra close attention to his more sensitive areas. 

Just when you think you’re achieving an effective rhythm, Crosshair pulls your mouth off his cock unexpectedly, his abdominals flexing with evidence that he’s straining himself to not blow his load all over right then and there. “Careful, pretty thing.” He warns. “Don’t want to ruin your own fun.”

“Oh yeah?” You wipe your jaw, licking your numb and staticky lips as Crosshair shifts himself into resting on both knees between your spread legs at the edge of the sofa. He begins to pull your fatigues completely off where you’re in nothing but your underwear and muscle shirt. “What exactly does this ‘fun’ entail?”

“I don’t know.” Crosshair says plainly, his right canine tooth flashing in the light as the creases of his tattoo become more pronounced with his smile. “I’m still working on it.”

“Wait, you mean to tell me you’ve never done this before?” He definitely could have had you fooled with how involved he’s been thus far.

“Surprised?” His head sinks between his shoulders and you feel bad for questioning him. Even worse for getting him to confess something like that. “You shouldn’t be. I’m surrounded by eight-foot-tall engineers who run this place or people with the same genetic makeup as me.”

“But I’ve seen just in my time logging hours here that you leave on missions. A lot.” You counter, offering him reasoning for opportunities for relationships he certainly deserves.

“Yes, of which every hour is reported. We’re too busy scanning the battlefield to worry about love or friends.” Crosshair discloses, melancholic and indifferent to the stipulations of their deployments. “We’re property. Not people.”

Listening to Crosshair tell you these harsh yet true things about his place in the world is more valuable than any observational affairs you’ve learned in your stay here, fortuitously getting that interview you were looking for. Only this time, it’s coming from a place of unfettered sincerity and even a little pain. You take Crosshair’s face in your palms when he says this, comforting him with your touch and giving him time to process the emotions that come with announcing something transparent like that aloud. 

“The reason I was trying to make friends with the clones here is because I had a feeling that the arrangement was as such.” You pet the sharp frame of his cheekbones with your thumbs and notice a slight sparkle at the waterline of his eye, manifested emotions threatening to spill over. “I see you as much more than the objects your creators perceive you to be.”

Crosshair blinks lazily and nuzzles into your palms, reveling in the moment he quite literally found someone to tell him the things he so gravely needs to hear. He then wraps both arms around you, enveloping you into a hug while kissing you with more crushing lasciviousness than before, if that’s even possible. He threads his fingers into your hair and really moves his lean body against yours.

Crosshair playfully shoves you away, creating space between you and leaving you wantonly aching for his kiss now that you’re laying down on your back with a slight bounce against your cushions. Your legs are still draped over the edge with Crosshair on his knees between them. He’s pumping his shaft in his fist to wake it back up after your short intermission, his tongue jutting from between his teeth like a wild serpent. You feel his gaze outline your form from your head to your chest until his focus lands upon the comfortable patterned underwear you have on. It by no means has the sexual allure of a thong or other piece of lingerie, but Crosshair seems to have taken a liking to this particular garment of yours.

Crosshair touches you through the thin material. He finds your tender little bud and presses firmly, circling it repeatedly. Your hips begin to swivel at this motion, suffering from the shielded touch and wanting Crosshair to caress you with those mitts of his. There are little peeking separations from where his sleeves have pulled away from his gloves and you notice the stark contrast of his skin tone against the black hue of his suit. His sleek attire adds an impish mood to this exchange as you are unable to tame the kinky thoughts that flood your brain seeing him exposed yet so covered up like this.

Crosshair still doesn’t pull the fabric aside, choosing to see if he can manage to bring you to a fluttering climax without doing so. And surprisingly he does. The sensation is so different from your traditional methods used on yourself, typically predictable and unchanging. Yet, the constant lack of direct contact creates an overstimulating phenomenon that travels through your very core. The fabric between your thighs becomes moistened yet Crosshair uses that to his advantage, slathering the saturated slick all over you through it. His gloves are likewise taking on excess wetness but this is precisely what he planned. Pretty soon, you’re so drenched and dripping with your own arousal that you forget for a second that he’s still doing this through a barrier.

It doesn’t stop there. Crosshair bumps the head of his cock to the little wet spot he made, separating the lips of your pussy with it and doing the same thing he was doing before but with his plush tip instead. He keeps his fist coiled about the base of his shaft and operates using it like a pleasure wand, moving in methodical circles as your joined ecstasy takes you both by storm.

You had no idea the benefits of a measure like this, having never experienced such patient foreplay before. For someone to claim he knows nothing about what he’s doing, he certainly embarks you on a journey to discovery of things you didn’t even know you liked. You cry into your fist, biting your knuckles when he takes you through another throttle of electrifying reactions. But before you can ride the waves of this instance, he takes your doused undergarment into his gloved hand and bunches up the section separating your skin from his. His clenched fist yanks on the article of clothing you both have so sinfully soiled and you hear a couple threads snap with his aggression. You could care less if he ripped these clean off you, stomach turning with a surge of nerves when he lets out feral bellows as he holds onto your underwear while still rubbing himself on your juicy center.

“You’re so beautiful.” He mutters just above a whisper, eyes hazy and drowning in lust. He suddenly closes the distance and slumps over you, catching your jugular between his teeth as he pushes himself inside no more than an inch. The unexpected splitting of your walls brings you to wail in time with his assertive bites, yet you still wriggle for more. Crosshair continues to murmur obscene phrases into your ear and the heat of his breath tickles you immensely. You’re caught in a whirlwind of delight as Crosshair straightens out his posture again while looking down on you with your panties still pulled to the side. Now that he’s starting the initial thrusts, the hand he was using to guide himself is available. His hips move forward and back, splitting you sweetly but not too fast as he compresses your spread body by bringing your knees to your chest. His free hand anchors itself to your abdomen, slowly moving up to your breasts with every little thrust and you hold your knees in place to allow him to use you however he likes. 

He challenges your nerve and lifts your muscle shirt, exposing your nipples while keeping his hand flat atop your sternum. You get an idea of what it is he’s wanting to try, but waits for your nonverbal approval as your vocalizations are otherwise unintelligible. The magnetic pull of his palm to your neck is impossible to ignore, his gloved fingers resting just below your collarbone and only drifting closer with each movement. You nod at him, mouthing the words ‘choke me’ to him and Crosshair obeys your command.

He fucks you hard now, rapidly pushing himself as far as he can into you knowing you can withstand what he has to offer. He squeezes the pillar of muscle around your windpipe but doesn’t cut off your airways, proficiently executing this maneuver in a way you both find undeniably gratifying. Your moans have all but ceased while Crosshair shamelessly fills in the gaps, grunting and tugging on your underwear still bunched up in his fist. Crosshair’s thigh guards pinch the skin of your ass every time he drives himself inside and you revel in the sting. 

His grip loosens around your throat and you’re gasping for the first vestiges of real breath in the time he’s been choking you, whining at Crosshair while maintaining eye contact. This erotic gesture definitely has a hand in sending him over the edge, hastening his pace with which he fucks you until he’s quaking with ravishment. 

Crosshair lets go of the hold he has on your undergarment, letting the stretched elastic fall in a wrinkled mess where it limply resembles a pair of panties anymore. Leaning back a bit, he takes his length in his hand and finishes all over your clothes, coating them in pearlescent stains. You laugh under your breath, overjoyed to see the payoff of your efforts while he looks a little embarrassed.

“That went a little differently than I planned.” Crosshair confesses, his hardness shrinking fast while he stays posted at the edge of your bed holding his soiled hand out, not wanting to dirty anything else.

“I’d say that went just as I suspected. Better, even.” You tease him, removing your shirt along with the mess he left, tossing him the garment inside out so that he can clean himself off. He gawks at you, watching intently as you rise from the sofa, turn up the brightness of your overhead sterile-white lights and drop the used underwear to the floor to walk about, naked as the day you were born. The living quarters you’ve been issued are comfortably small, consisting of a short corridor flanked by a bedroom and a refresher on each side that leads to a cozy little common area with a backdrop of Kamino’s stormy seas in the distance. The transparisteel windows are slightly opaque with only vague shapes giving way to what lies beyond the veil. Crosshair is astounded by your audacity to flaunt yourself in front of the whole city, wishing he had your courage. You pull a robe and a set of pajamas from the drawer you walked to and set it on the bed you had just risen from. “But if you want a shot to redeem yourself, you’re gonna have to join me in the shower.”

“Redemption?” Crosshair strips himself of all remaining plates of armor, his flaccid cock regaining its verve at this notion to take you again. He practically sprints at you, following your scandalous lead and showing his lanky nakedness beside you in front of the obscured window. He crouches down, bending his knees to scoop you by the backs of your thighs and rousing you with a spectacle of strength. He picks you up and cradles you effortlessly, walking into the refresher with you giggling in his grasp. “I wouldn’t pass up an opportunity like this for anything.”

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Wrecker

“Hey! I have one of those!” Wrecker announces through the barracks as he returns from a nightly ‘fresher break. It’s long past everyone’s bedtime and you accidentally left your black and orange patchwork lothcat doll out on top of the covers instead of concealing it in your bedding when climbing out of your bunk.

“Shhhh!” You cut off Wrecker aggressively, not wanting the whole squad to know you nightly sleep with a stuffed animal, hiding it with a swift maneuver of your blanket.

“What?” He asks, baffled by your sudden assertiveness. “What did I do?”

“Please, just forget what you saw. Okay? Promise me.” You beg, pleading with him to drop it.

“You’re acting really weird.” He discloses, raising a brow at you. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine, Wrecker. Just… I don’t want people to know about that.” You sit defeatedly in your bunk, unsure if you can trust Wrecker with this secret.

“Why not?” He scoffs confusedly. “Everyone knows I have Lula and could care less.”

“Yeah, but have you seen yourself?” You ask, making Wrecker aware of your anatomical differences in appearance and strength. “You’re at least three or four of me!”

“What does that have to do with anything?” Wrecker asks, suddenly self-conscious of his massive stature.

“Nobody would be dumb enough to tease or pick a fight with you.” You say as you tuck your knees to your chest, emotionally stopping short. “Me on the other hand? I don’t need to give anyone more ammunition against me than they already have.”

“Hahahahahah!” He laughs, loud and boisterous and it startles you.

“Shhh!” You scold him again, repeating your previous shushing. “What’s so funny!?”

“You act like I don’t get made fun of, when I probably do way more than you!” Wrecker’s smile and laugh are contagious, planting the first seed of doubt that you may be overthinking this whole thing.

“Really?” You double take, relaxing the hold you have on your knees a bit. “How do you deal with it?”

“I just think about how nice Lula makes me feel. Or how fun it is to do the things that make me laugh. I’m not really thinking about anyone else when I am enjoying myself so much.” He tells you, speaking his logical influence as easy as breath fills a pair of lungs. He’s right. Who cares if anyone sees that you sleep with a stuffed animal. It’s your home away from home and one of your few reliable sources of comfort, not to mention the additional support it gives your spine as you sleep. 

“You know, you really are a wise fellow, Wrecker.” You praise him, taking the lothcat plush out from under the covers so that Wrecker can get a better look at it.

“In that case, call me Wise Wrecker!” He exclaims, but you dryly refuse to laugh at his joke, knowing the added humor a stint of awkward silence would be.

“I’m not going to call you that.” You finally respond, flatly.

“Fair enough.” Wrecker says before you both burst into quieted laughter, your sides splitting from the strain of trying to keep the volume down.

“Will you both just go to sleep?” Hunter addresses annoyedly, not caring about the affairs of either of your habits, only upset that his own rest schedule has been interrupted.

You and Wrecker return to your bunks, snickering under your breath while giving each other humorous smiles. You tuck yourself in, curling up and dozing off with your favorite stuffy in hand, without a care of who might see it come morning time.

Echo

You’ve been up practically all night doing something Echo can’t quite make out. He wouldn’t be able to rest easy if he didn’t at least check up on you. He rises from his cot on the ground and emerges from his tent.

Your flickering silhouette appears to be shuddering with frustration. Just as Echo approaches, he could have sworn you were using your sleeve to wipe your face. “Everything okay?”

You quickly scramble to hide whatever it is you were working on between your crisscrossed legs, though the evidence of your recent lament is still written all over your face. “Yep-yep. Just uhh… Couldn’t sleep.”

“There’s something clearly wrong. Maybe I can help.” Echo notices you’re refusing to make eye contact with him, choosing to keep your attention on the glowing flames in front of you. The shine being emitted from the embers is caught in your glistening waterline and Echo watches in real time as another set of tears stream down your cheeks before you could catch them. “Are you hurt? In pain?”

You shake your head in denial, still aching but not in the way that he thinks. You pull the raggedy little keepsake from where you were concealing it in your crossed legs and show him exactly what has you so distressed. There is a large tear in an object that looks like it used to be a blanket. The overall structure is reduced to its basic threads, merely a net of what it once was. “I ripped it when I was taking it out of my pack to go to sleep.”

“And now you’re trying to fix it?” Echo questions, making the astute assumption with the needle and thread in your other hand.

“I use frayed threads that shed off it to repair the holes.” You reason with Echo, feeling that he’s questioning why you keep it in the first place when it’s in this stage of deterioration. “But this is way too big a tear. I don’t think I can do it.”

“Hand it over.” Echo extends his hand. “I’ll give it a shot.”

Thanks to a bionic appendage he picked up from one of his last missions, he begins sewing your blanket with both hands instead of fumbling with his scomp. The ease with which he sews your blanket back together renders the tear practically invisible with how exact he secured the stitching.

“There. It’s not perfect but… it’ll hold.” Echo hands the blanket back to you and you’re actively trying to locate the large rip in the fabric, but it’s been perfectly mended. “Wha... How? Who taught you to sew like that?”

“No one in particular. It’s part of our training as clones.” Echo shrugs with a smile. “If it can hold flesh together, fabric is no issue.”

“You’re a lifesaver, Echo.” Tightly hugging your blanket, you rub your face on the lived-in softness as you go back to watching the flames. Echo’s expression widens in a soft and accomplished grin, prideful for being able to extend assistance to you in a time where you felt ashamed and alone. He stays with you for the rest of the night, keeping you company by the fire.

Hunter

You are new to the group, having only been freshly recruited within the last six months. This is the first official mission you’re designated to be a part of and it’s already having you second guess your capabilities. You’ve never felt a sense of homesickness like this before. You thought it was bad when the eccentric conveniences of your safe haven of a bedroom were replaced with sterile halls and communal spaces of the clone training facility. Experiencing days and days of travel on end is a new kind of hell, being forced to adapt to your own set of sea legs is something no amount of training can prepare you for.

Hunter monitors the ship’s course while everyone sleeps, though he notices that you can’t seem to quiet your mind. He can detect a soft humming coming from where you sit in the gunner’s mount all the way across the ship. Hunter assumes it’s a lullaby or a favorite tune you use to soothe yourself, something that reminds you of home. He feels bad that he’s unsure of what to do in order to comfort you, so he gets to thinking.

He ensures the Marauder’s course is solid and immoveable, the autopilot engaged with the implementation of interstellar travel. He leaves his post at the flight deck and retrieves a small article that he picked up before you all disembarked on this long and strenuous journey. He’s not certain how you would receive the offering, if you would be upset for overstepping his bounds, so he tries to confront you gradually to gauge your feelings before presenting it to you.

He takes slow steps down the path of the ships’ hull, nearing the ladder that leads to the mount. He stops short of it when he hears that you’ve put an end to your singing. “I know you’re there.”

Hunter emerges from the shadows, metaphorical hat in hand. “Sorry… I was just checking on you.”

“Was my humming too loud?” You ask, self-conscious of anyone else hearing your somber song.

“No! Of course not.” He immediately denies, careful not to say anything that would make you want to hide any part of yourself away. “Besides, these guys could sleep through an aerial bombardment if it came down on them.”

You don’t say anything else, opting to stare out the window as the shining colors flicker by. Hunter climbs up the ladder and comes closer beside you. “Are you okay?”

“I thought I would be.” You sniffle, lost in thought. “This is harder than I anticipated.”

“It’s always difficult the first time out.” He says, sympathizing with your discomfort. “I can tell you’re strong though.”

“Not strong enough, I guess.” You feel pathetic, no better than a child wishing for their mother when the going gets tough. “Why does this have to hurt so badly?”

“Tell me what’s eating you.” Hunter pries, intent on hearing you out so that he can maybe lend you some assistance in a way you didn’t expect.

“Everything is unpredictable. We hardly know if our intel is good half the time, we can’t touch down on a single planet without almost dying, and it’s been weeks since we’ve had anything to eat that wasn’t foraged or fought for.” You explain your woes, having to remind yourself to keep your voice down in consideration for those around you despite your audible frustration.

“I think what you’re missing most is the stability of civilization.” He looks to the galactic smear of the hyperspace glow as it shines brightly in the window, reminiscing about his own creature comforts. “We struggled with that a lot when we were shinies, same as you.”

“How did you overcome it?” You ask, helplessly.

“Well,” Hunter looks at his snoozing brothers cozily passed out in their preferred sleeping spots. “I suppose, we just try to make it feel like home wherever we go.”

“Hrmph…” You scoff at the simplicity of his reasoning. “Easier said than done.”

“Is it?” Hunter recovers a personal belonging of yours you thought you left in the barracks on Kamino while amidst the rush to be deployed. It is a hand-woven scarf about three feet in length with an array of muted woodland shades of green heathered throughout.

“What?! How?!” You snatch it from his grasp and press it to your face, giving it a big sniff so that the fragrance can calm you better than any man-made aromatherapy. “Where did you get this?”

“I saw it resting on your bunk before we loaded up.” He says guiltily, a forlorn expression of misdeed painted across his face. “I had a feeling it was important, but I didn’t want you to feel weird about my snooping around in your things.”

“I could care less about that, Hunter.” You tightly hug the scarf one last time before wrapping it proficiently around your neck and shoulders. “You really did something nice for me here, and I appreciate that.”

“Will you be able to get some sleep now?” Hunter asks, smiling as he descends the ladder, pausing at the foot to check on you.

“I think so.” You confirm, already succumbing to the drowsiness this scarf influences over you with its intoxicating perfume that makes you think of a simpler era, your eyelids having fallen by the time hunter makes it across the hull and back to the flight deck.

Omega

“Can I play with this?” Omega approached you with what you presumed would be a stick from outside, one of Hunter’s blades at the very most, only to be surprised when she had presented a little hand carved wooden spaceship. To Omega’s untrained eye, she mistakes this for a common toy and is unaware that it is all that remains of your father’s memory. You practice restraint in wanting to snatch the object from her little hands, giving her the grace to embrace her childlike wonder, however, it isn’t going to change your answer.

“Where did you find that?” You ask her calmly, knowing she has the sense not to damage your belongings but is still forthright enough to occasionally overstep her bounds.

“It was on the shelf by your bunk.” She tells a white lie, surely out of her immature panic for not getting the simple response she expected.

“Where did you really find it?” You pry, knowing she’s sure to confess the truth when you demonstrate assertion.

“It was in that little box you keep on the shelf…” She admits, hanging her head low and offering for you to take the carving from her. You do, caressing it in your palms while giving it loving strokes across its polished exterior with your thumb.

“There’s a reason I keep it in that little box, Omega.” You take her by the hand and walk towards the sleeping nooks. Locating the clear display case on the shelf, it has evidence of being tampered with by hands other than your own. It’s obvious Omega feels guilty for her tresspasses, but she knows not the intricacies of your keepsakes, having probably caught a glimpse of this object in the past and thinking it is frivolous in your possession, an adult with a child’s toy. “It’s very special to me.”

“Special?” She questions. “How so?”

You sit beside her on your bunk, taking the display case in your lap. Placing the carved ship safely into its cozy compartment, you offer for Omega to hold it. “My dad made it for me. It’s of the naval vessel he and his crew built themselves.”

“Wow…” Omega says in astonishment as she examines all the many details even closer, holding a newfound appreciation for them. “It must have been quite a ship.”

“It was.” You agree, a strained tightness in your speech.

“What happened to it?” She asks, giving the box back to you. You take it, setting the whole thing back on the shelf in an ornamental fashion so you both may look at it together.

“I don’t know.” You sigh, chin slightly trembling through the words. “He and his crew went out for a test flight and got overtaken by a maelstrom. They were never seen again.”

Omega’s expression changes to pure sorrow. You can tell she feels regretful for treating your keepsake with the logistic equivalent of a plaything. “Oh… I-I’m so sorry…”

Omega rests her head on your shoulder, a moment of silence fills the bunk as you both sit and look at the carving together. You’re pulled into the harsh reveries of that fateful day, still pained by events that took place long ago. She reaches for your hand to hold in comfort and apology, unable to ignore the pain in your voice when you were explaining these things to her. 

“You don’t have to be sorry, Omega.” You tell her after a few moments of memoriam. “Some things just aren’t meant to be toys.”

Tech

You’re absolutely panicking. You could have sworn you left it right here. Where could it have gone? 

“What are you looking for?” Tech asks, unable to ignore your frantic searching and scanning.

“N-nothing.” You answer, short and unwilling to elaborate.

“Hunter and Echo went through the ship’s interior and discarded various articles they deemed to be refuse.” Tech adds and your stomach sinks. There’s no way they could have mistaken your keepsake with trash, would they? “Perhaps it was collected.”

“And thrown where?” The urgency in your voice is startling, yet Tech maintains an even keel.

“Well, Ord Mantell’s infrastructure of disposal would consist of,” Tech pauses, his brows rising with the severity of the fate that awaits your keepsake. “Sanitary compactors.”

“You mean it’s gonna get crushed and incinerated?!” You exclaim in shock, fearing the worst. You’ve wasted enough time here, it’s time to get going on foot. Promptly, you ditch Tech and descend the boarding steps to try and reach nearby waste disposal receptacles that Echo and Hunter could have dropped the garbage in.

“Wait, I still don’t know what it is we’re looking for!” Tech hollers from a few meters behind, light on his feet so as to keep up while you both navigate corridors of the landing bay.

Sure enough, you appeared in the nick of time. The closest dumpster to you is next in line to be collected. You sprint as fast as you can and leap into the steel compartment of waste, digging through old food scraps, empty containers, broken mechanical parts until you finally find it.

“Ah! I got it!” You exclaim, holding it in the air just past the rim of the bin so that Tech can see.

“Yes! That’s all well and good, but you need to get out now!” Tech climbs atop the dumpster and balances himself on the rim before offering you his hand. You take it and he seamlessly pulls you up from the filthy depths, narrowly escaping the collection truck.

“Was that really worth all this trouble?” He gestures to your stinky clothes and dirtied keepsake after you both make it a safe distance away from the vehicle’s route.

“Yes.” You huff and sigh, out of breath from your theatrics. “It was absolutely worth it.”

“It appears to be no more than a dirty dishrag.” Tech scrutinizes the object in your possession. “I can see why they thought it should be discarded.”

“It’s not a dishrag.” You bite back with a scowl. You smooth its fur out, stretching out some of the wrinkles. “It’s a section of a fathier hide.”

“Why do you keep it?” He asks, not understanding the inner mechanisms of this level of attachment.

“My mom cut this section off a big blanket she was making for me. She knew I just liked petting the fur so she made it something I could take everywhere. I couldn’t exactly lug a whole blanket everywhere I went.” You smile downward at it, stroking a couple fingers against the grain of the follicles until the different pigments are fanned out. 

“What is the significance of this object?” You smile at Tech’s next question, aware that he truly wishes to understand why you feel the way you do about the pelt.

“The blanket this came from is reduced to ashes now.” You wish to cleanse it, wash it of its imperfections just as you plan to shower as soon as you get back to the ship. “It reminds me of my mom, when she was still alive. Like I have a piece of her with me.”

“I see.” Tech seems to be getting it. “So, this being thrown in the trash is akin to the gesture of discarding her, or her love rather, in the same way.”

“Something like that.” You rapidly blink away the sting of tears, fighting the urge to allow your emotions to get the better of you. Tech can see you struggle when he notices your silent battle, wishing to unburden you himself.

“I apologize for my prior diminishing of this assault on your psyche.” Tech extends a hand, inviting to hold your pelt with no concern about its soiled state impacting him, for the stains can be washed clean, its sentiment however is there to stay. He takes it, handling it gently.  “What would have happened if we couldn’t find it somehow?”

“I’d just be very depressed.” You shrug, unwilling to even brainstorm a different outcome. “I’d get over it after a while. Maybe...”

“Well, I’m glad you recovered it after all.” Tech praises you for your perseverance, recognizing this trait as one that he would love to see in a colleague of his. “I’ll tell the others to be more mindful of your belongings as well so that we don’t repeat this unfortunate occasion.”

“It’s not so unfortunate.” You smile, taking the keepsake back from Tech when he offers it. “It was kinda fun digging through the trash.”

“Really?” Tech asks in disbelief, squinting in slight disgust at your remark.

“No. I am very uncomfortable right now.” You confess with an air of humor but still serious about the smell.

Tech can’t hold back his laugh, politely holding his arm over his mouth to giggle. “Come along. Let’s get you cleaned up.”

Crosshair

It’s the dead of night and Crosshair feels the urge to relieve himself in one of the nearby communal lavatories. He’s drowsy, half asleep as he walks the narrow path there. He wasn’t expecting to see anyone upon entry, startled when he notices you’re at a sink splashing your face with water from the faucet. He hurries past and enters one of the unoccupied stalls, slipping by unnoticed.

You turn the faucet off and dab your face with a few disposable towels. The sigh you release is shuddering, blatant evidence of untamable agitation. You cycle your breath a few times, in through your nose and out through your mouth. At last, you manage to momentarily quiet your afflictions and peer directly into your eyes as they stare back at you in the mirror. Shaking your head, you look as if you’re trying to manually shed yourself free of the things that vex you. It only takes a few moments of self-reflection before you’re angered by who’s looking back, resisting the urge to ball up your fist tightly to land a punch and shatter this interactive canvas. Crosshair watches as you take a step, winding up your swing, but you lose your motivation midway through the move and abandon the thought.

“Woooosh!” The automatic sensors on the toilets initiate the flushing mechanism and Crosshair jumps behind the cover of the stall’s door before you can spot him. Having already spent too much time here, you finish drying your skin and quickly pace back to the barracks.

The sudden loud announcement of his anonymous presence caused a spike in his heart rate, the throb of his pulse resounding loudly in Crosshair’s ears. He finishes doing his business and returns to the barracks as well, intent on completely forgetting about the instance.

Upon his entry, you’re back in your bunk just as he suspected. Your back is turned so you’re facing the wall. If you were still awake, you’re not keen on announcing it to him, opting to minimize confrontation by pretending you’re already passed out. He climbs back into his bunk, albeit struggling to fall asleep. Once he stirs awake, it’s hard for him to go back down again.

After a good half hour of staring at the ceiling of his bunk, he detects a disturbance coming from yours. Your limbs begin thrashing beneath your blankets, jolting with panicked bursts of energy that seem to be triggered by your unconscious trance. You start mumbling frantic phrases under your breath, pure terror in your voice.

“N-No… Please... I-I have c-credits…” Crosshair listens to the things you say from where he lays in bed, hoping to gain context from the fragments of your psyche revealed in your stressful slumber. “Take them…Please… Don’t hurt me…”

The wake-up alarms are sure to go off any minute. Crosshair is partially sympathetic to your struggles, but his pride prevents him from establishing empathy and resentfully holds you accountable for his lack of sleep. He chooses to do nothing, letting you struggle and convulse not ten feet away from where he rests. This goes on for at least another five minutes until the blaring intercom bells announce the expectation for all soldiers to report to their morning posts.

Echo emerges first, standing tall and stretching himself to his anatomical limits while greeting the rest of the squad. “So, how’d everyone sleep?”

“Who kept leaving and coming back?” Tech asks, revealing that you apparently disappeared multiple times through the night.

“Was it the same person who kept taking in their sleep?” Hunter adds to the investigation, apparently having been kept up from your incomprehensible verbalizations as well. 

“Ah… I’m sorry you guys.” You own up to their accusations, knowing full well they were talking about you. “Nighttime is just hard for me occasionally.”

“Occasionally?” Crosshair antagonizes. “We haven’t been able to get a solid eight hours since you were assigned to us.”

“Cut it out, Crosshair.” Wrecker speaks in defense of you. “I still remember how scared you were of swamps when we went for the first time.”

“That’s different. Everyone is afraid of swamps. They’re terrifying.” Crosshair turns his attention back to you, hoping to say something that would really end this argument once and for all. “Maybe you should keep a stuffed animal like Wrecker if we’re going to have to listen to crying all night.”

You’re taken aback by how intentional the venom in his voice is, unaware that this is a sensitive area for you, not to mention how downright nasty the level of teasing he’s dishing out. You softly gasp to yourself, biting your tongue in rageful anger as you turn to leave so as to not dig yourself a deeper grave. 

“Wait!” Echo hollers after you, but you’re already out the blast door and halfway down the hallway by now. They know not where you’ve gone, letting you have time to yourself while they let Crosshair know just how wrong he is.

“You shouldn’t have said that Crosshair.” Hunter scolds him, disappointed in his brother’s behavior and shameless disregard for your frame of mind.

“Yeah, and what’s wrong with having a stuffy like Lula?” Wrecker takes his own little toy in his hand and uses it as a utensil to deliver smacks and soft impacts across his face. Crosshair annoyedly swats it, his temper being tested with this brotherly taunting. “Maybe you should have one! It might help you not be such a jerk.”

They don’t see you for the entire rest of the day. You’re as avoidant as possible, always staying a step ahead of them until nightfall returns again and you’re expected in your quarters. They’re running through practice drills in the battle simulator, and you decide to linger in the medical lab for a while before starting your nightly routine. 

Thankfully, there’s no one to be found when you return. You immediately make for the personal locker opposite the bunks in the compartments against the curved wall. Whatever it is, it’s not exactly locked away securely, only put in a simple footlocker meant to be easily retrievable, yet Crosshair would have never found the thing even if he were looking for it.

You carelessly left the blast door open, far too focused on fulfilling your own emotional need to even account for environmental awareness. Crosshair watches from the doorway through the open entrance, keen on seeing what it is that’s so precious you must hide it from everyone.

From the footlocker, you pull out a large pillow the length of your upper torso. It is stitched to resemble the form of a six-legged and plump voorpak. The unveiling of the fact that you actually do have your own stuffed animal strikes Crosshair with overwhelming penitence. He’s been confronted with the very reason why you kept this hidden in the first place.

You take the plush from its dark confinement, studying it closely as if you’re nonverbally asking it for forgiveness after locking it away. It’s such a quirky little thing, unique just like you. How could Crosshair have been so cruel as to pass such direct judgment? He’s fearful he won’t be able to live this down. He curses himself as he sees you tightly hug this little voorpak plush to your chest, quietly sobbing into its synthetic fur.

He watches you pore over the quaint and delicate traits of this keepsake, giving it all your attention before you inevitably conceal it from the light of day again. Just as he gets locked into studying your mannerisms, he is greeted with a forceful pat on the back from Wrecker, already questioning him with why he is lingering in the doorway. “What are we looking at?”

Crosshair is startled, jumpy and trying to hide the fact that he was indeed somewhat spying on you. In the time that he takes his attention away from you and addresses Wrecker, Crosshair notices that you are already tucked into your bunk with your stuffed animal safely out of sight. Your back is turned in a similar way that it was last night when you had come back from the communal restroom, already putting up the façade to make the others believe that you are fast asleep.

“Oh. They’re back.” Wrecker is careful and lowers his voice, elbowing Crosshair roughly in the side before he walks into the room. “Have you thought up an apology yet?”

Crosshair sneers at him, though his focus on you was broken long enough for him to see in the time that it took him to look at Wrecker and back at you, you have already hopped into bed, keen on cutting yourself off from them once again. Crosshair isn’t even sure if Wrecker had seen your little keepsake, surmising that your seamless reaction time offered the perfect grace period you needed to disguise what you were really doing. 

The rest of the squad file in shortly after Wrecker, yawning to themselves and shedding their plates of armor to comfortably climb into bed, ready to start the cycle all over again tomorrow. However, Crosshair’s transgressions the previous night end up pestering him tenaciously to the point that he does not rest until he can verify you’re sleeping soundly.

Like clockwork, after a few hours of silence, you’re back to your cyclical thrashing and mumbling. Your feet knock about the corners of your bunk repetitively while gaining in force the longer you’re immersed in the terrors of your dreams. Crosshair sneakily abandons his bed, advances towards the footlocker he saw you stow your plush pet in, retrieves it, then tiptoes in the direction of where you lay restless and twitchy.

Your eyes move rapidly beneath your eyelids, sealed shut with the magnetic authority of your nightmares. The glistening sweat at your brow and flushed features illustrate just how severe your state is, ashamed for the hazing he conducted this morning. Your mumbling starts to resume, a repetition of those same fearful phrases that shine a vile light on a part of your past you’d rather forget. Though, before you could fully give into the throes of your dreadful troubles, Crosshair deposits your stuffed animal where it can be directly nuzzled into your face. Its remedial scent gets wafted into your nostrils and it immediately quells your internal misery. Your breathing returns to normal and your sleep talking has even completely ceased. Crosshair emits a sigh of relief, following your lead and letting himself finally relax as well.

From this moment forward, he doesn’t tease you or anyone about personal affairs like that ever again. You wake up the following morning to find that you’ve strangely had the best sleep since being recruited, relatively speaking. Stretching your limbs to loosen them of their nightly stiffening, you notice that Crosshair is already up and at’em. He nods once at you, a straightforward way to say good morning, that is until you notice a new addition making its home in your bunk as well, the very plush you thought was tucked out of sight.

Tilting your head at your beloved voorpak plush pet, you are enlightened to the reason why you slept so soundly. Crosshair nods at you a second time, a tight-lipped grin slowly emerging on his face before his expression quickly falls flat again. He goes about his daily priorities when his brothers begin to stir in their bunks, but you don’t hold this against him. You feel that what you privately shared holds far more meaning if no one else knows. So, you both keep this tender-hearted secret to yourselves, sharing a stronger and more empathetic understanding with one another.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“How far are we from the extraction point now?” Echo asks Tech, pacing behind Hunter who is currently taking point. You’re between them with Crosshair and Wrecker behind you. 

Tech taps a few buttons on his datapad and it brightly flashes, its strobes disrupting the natural ambient obscurity of the dark woods. Dusk has fallen quickly upon you, and you still have a long way to go. “If we keep this direction, we should be there by morning when Rex arrives.”

“You mean we have to camp out here another night?” Wrecker dejectedly clarifies.

“Don’t complain.” Crosshair interjects. “It’s not our fault you decided to finish off your rations the first few days of this excursion.”

“It’ll be alright. You can have some of mine, Wrecker.” Hunter quells the impending verbal spat fueled by exhaustion and hunger. “Let’s find a place to camp.”

“Where would you suggest?” Echo asks, gesturing to the turbulent climate. The wind blows against the thick woodlands as darker clouds move in above. The scent of drenched soil is already traveling in the air as the perfect conditions allow for a rainstorm to brew in the area. “If we don’t find higher ground then we’ll get washed away with the flash floods.”

Crosshair scans the tree line and spots a cliffside ascending a majestic waterfall. The rock formation atop the peak is the highest point away from the dangers of rising waters. “There.”

Everyone sees where he’s pointing then gets moving. The wind picks up, on it travels the tiniest sprinkling droplets that begin to moisten the apples of your cheeks and weighing down your eyelashes. “We need to hurry! The storm is closing in!”

Everyone acknowledges your warning and collectively accelerates the pace of the group. A semi-short jaunt through the thicket soon reveals that there’s a section of impassable raging rapids blocking your path to the waterfall’s cliff. 

“Great. Now where do we go?” Wrecker challenges Crosshair’s incentive, deciding whether or not to blame him for leading the squad to a dead end.

Without a definite answer to that query, Crosshair turns to Wrecker and becomes argumentative. “Well, I don’t see you looking for options here.”

“Stop it, you guys.” Getting between them, you place a palm on each of their chest plates. “This is wasting time.”

“Time we most certainly do not have.” Tech adds, holding up his scanner to show the storm is getting larger and faster.

“Wrecker! See if you can knock over this dead tree!” Thankfully, Echo was already looking around for ways to take advantage of the environment, finding one as soon as the arguing reached an intermission.

“ That I can do!” Wrecker confidently discloses, taking a few steps from the edge of the riverbank to flank behind the thick trunk. The branches are bare and graying, ashen with dehydration. Shoving his entire body weight against the trunk, the creaking and splitting of wood grows louder than the distant thunder. The sky has darkened in shades of gray, the storm still roaring from afar. 

Wrecker’s efforts are fruitful as the tree’s structure is dislodged from its roots, splintering violently as the top-heavy weight of the dead wood slams the towering column to the ground. “Bridge is secured!”

“Nice one, buddy.” You endearingly praise him, giving him a pat on the shoulder. “Let’s all start to go across, one at a time.”

“I’ll go first to test it.” Wrecker volunteers, climbing atop the intricate root-system and slowly walking the narrow path. His large stature does not disrupt the stability of the makeshift bridge thus confirming that it’s safe for everyone else to walk on. Wrecker reaches the end, taking a small leap off the trunk and sticking the landing on solid ground before hollering across the crashing waves. “Alright! Who’s next?”

Hunter ascends the tree and travels across flawlessly. Echo takes his place behind him with Tech falling in as the next one in line. They all have the humility to wait until the other is completely across the bridge, something Crosshair neglects due to his own impatience. 

“Okay! It’s your turn!” Echo addresses you nervously after Tech makes it across. “And you might want to be quick about it!” 

You nod, hoisting yourself atop the timber. Although, the water has already started to rise, periodically slamming into the side of the structure in the areas it’s too high to pass through the space beneath it. It jostles the tree a bit and you fall to your knees, clinging to it while on all fours. 

“The log’s not gonna hold!” You holler at them while trying to stabilize yourself on the rattling evergreen. “I-I can feel it slipping!”

The panic in your voice gets their attention, but their helplessness drives you further into dread. Waves, one after the other, ram full speed ahead into the bark and you struggle to stand, almost falling into the water.

“Don’t try to get up!” Hunter instructs with urgency.

 “Just crawl!” Wrecker suggests.

“Go as fast as you can!” Echo yells as he and the others try to hold onto the swaying branches of the only lifeline you have, anchoring it as best they can to the ground.

“Crosshair still has to make it over!” Tech mentions through gritted teeth as he expends all his strength to keep the tree from moving.

“I’m already coming over!” Crosshair says in rebuttal from the opposite side of the river. “I’m not waiting for this thing to be washed away!”

“Crosshair, we said one at a time for a reason !” Looking over your shoulder, you argue back at him when you see that he is, in fact, making his way down the path, growing narrower by the second. Splashes of freshwater lap at your hands and knees as each of Crosshair’s steps cause the tree to slightly roll with the flow of the currents pushing against it. “Please! Go back!”

“And leave me stranded here?” He counters, angrily. “I don’t think so!”

“Crosshair, she’s right!” Hunter calls, trying to stop him from proceeding towards you. “Wrecker can always drop another tree!”

Regardless of their precautions, he refuses to listen, hastening his gait, too quickly it seems as the fallen tree starts to roll with the waves, flowing parallel downstream. Since you’re on all fours, you have a stark disadvantage of maneuverability as the entire thing capsizes, taking you under the water as the tree turns on its kilter. All sounds of the external world are quite literally drowned out by the deafening noise of the violent undertow threatening to swallow you permanently. You have no idea what happened when you were submerged, if Crosshair reached the other side or if you’re on your way to a drowning death yourself. Your nose and throat burns with the unwelcome feeling of water invading your facial orifices, swallowing more when you are beaten against the walls of the river such as a pinball in an arcade. You couldn’t have been down for more than a few seconds when a massive hand plucks you from the depths and deposits you directly on solid ground. You regain a sense of what’s up and down, coughing your lungs clear of residual water that made its way in when you realize that the muffled voices are gaining clarity, revealing the active arguments between Crosshair and the others.

“Negligence like that could have killed her!” Hunter kneels at your side, patting your back to assist in your expulsion of the water you swallowed. You’re feeling faint, unable to breathe properly as the constant irritation forces every breath to get caught in your throat.

“What were you thinking?” Wrecker likewise scolds him, wanting to know the mentality behind a drastic move like this.

“A back-up plan was already mentioned.” Tech disappointedly adjusts his goggles. “This was easily avoidable.”

Before Crosshair could answer for himself, he’s interrupted by a fierce thunder clap that closely resounds after the blinding flash of lightning. Wrecker scoops your weakened body up and decides to put you on his back in a makeshift piggy-back ride. 

“Save it, all of you.” Echo addresses them without looking, instead keeping his eyes glued to the swirling clouds in the sky, their downpour already falling across the fertile lands and slowly reaching their position. “We don’t have the time.”

“Urghh…” Crosshair grumbles under his breath, pulling the grapple attachment from his pack to secure to his Firedpuncher. The shot is deployed and the hooks are driven deep into the rocky edge. The waterfall is coating the others in a fine mist, yet no one remains as drenched as you are. One by one, they ascend the cliff and fortunately find that there is a cave at the top. The need to build artificial shelters is not as dire and they can settle in directly. However, you’re in for a rough night as no amount of campfire will dry your clothes fast enough to not have a lasting impact.

Hunter and Echo tend to the fire while they distribute rations amongst themselves. “Hey, you want some?”

“Nuh-uh…” You respond, having lost your appetite after such dreadful events.

“It was quite a tumble you took.” Hunter tries to convince you. “You should really eat something.”

“I said I’m not hungry.” You enunciate through staggered breaths and a quivering jaw.

“You don’t look so good.” Wrecker tries to comfort you, but you’re through with being treated like you’re less than- not as strong, not as capable. “We can build another fire if-”

“ Argh !” You toss your arms in the air then angrily scoot you and your dampened cot away but still in proximity of the fire. You lay on your side and turn your back to them, pulling your coat closer around yourself to try and conserve more of your body heat. Your body stiffens and you can’t shake the tremors, but you remain stubbornly defiant, refusing to expend any more energy on being awake for another second. “I’m going to sleep.”

After a few moments of awkward silence, you can hear the rustling of dry leaves arranged amongst the snapping of twigs being set down closer to you. Crosshair is further into the cave away from the light of the fire, keeping to himself after a disastrous event took place at his hand. The others carry on with their idle conversations as they light the second fire, hoping it will help you by the time morning comes. The radiant warmth does warm you enough to fall asleep, but the cold dampness still clings to your skin, chilling you every time a draft ripples up your spine. It’s a rough night, each agonizing hour passes and you can only manage to get a couple winks of sleep at a time before being ripped from your slumber with another offensive gust of wind to disrupt your rest.

The cycle continues all the way up to when the others are roused one by one with the morning sun. The stormy skies have all gone, revealing just how effective this vantage point is.. You can see everything for miles. If it weren’t for you being under the weather, you’d hold this view with far more reverence, but as of now you just want to be heading back to Kamino as fast as possible.

“There it is!” Tech correlates his calculations with the reading of the environment and points out the exact location you can expect to see Rex’s removal team arriving any moment. “At the bottom of the valley.”

“Finally!” Wrecker’s loud cheers travel through the cave, but you still remain lying on your cot, unwilling to move. Your statuesque body grabs his attention and he takes a knee at your side, nudging you lightly. “Uh, didn’t you hear Tech? We’re gonna be going home soon!”

“Hard to hear anything when you’re yelling like that.” Your annoyed enunciation on that word startles Wrecker and he retracts his hand when you jolt a shoulder forward, going out of your way to avoid his touch.

“Oh, I uhm… sorry.” Wrecker’s sullen voice strikes sense into you and you feel bad for lashing out at him, slowly rising from your cot to look him in the eyes. 

“No, I’m sorry. That was mean.” You shakily prop yourself up, rubbing your sunken eyes and brushing the sweaty hair out of your clammy and flushed face. “I just… my head is pounding .”

“Whoa, you should probably drop by the medbay when we get back.” Echo takes one look at you and cautiously stabilizes your stance, making note of your wobbly stature.

“I’ll be fine.” You dismiss him. “I’m just tired.”

Just as Hunter advances towards you with Crosshair sauntering behind, a trio of shuttles descend from the cloud canopy and plant themselves directly on the anticipated extraction point. His glance switches from the aircrafts making their landing to you and your pallid complexion. You’re turning green, beads of sweat forming at your brow. Hunter puts a hand on your shoulder without a word and you instinctively attempt to evade his grasp such as you broke contact when Wrecker did the same, but his grip is reinforced and he stops you from slipping away. You look at him, concerned with why he’s invading your personal space until he places a palm over your forehead.

“Stay still, please.” He orders you, flatly. His palm is cool to the touch, refreshing as it slowly quells your torrid temperatures. Crosshair watches as you sigh into his touch, almost perplexed with a look of disgust on his face as if he’s offended on your behalf for being handled this way. He would never let another person do this to him, let alone freely offer to do it for someone else. Your eyes meet for a split second only for him to promptly break the connection, unwilling to be confronted with the very likely possibility that he is the cause of your current condition. Hunter continues his informal examination, confirming your worst fears to be true. “Hmm… You have a fever.”

“You’re joking.” Rolling your eyes, you step out of Hunter’s grasp and shake your head in dismissal. “I would know if I had a fever.”

“It is in your best interest to listen to Hunter in circumstances such as this.” Tech clarifies, hoping to give you pause before allowing yourself to become so final in your determinations. “He is never wrong when it comes to sensitive thermal readings. If you wish, we can conduct a proper scan on the ship to verify-”

“ Urgh ! I said I’m fine !” You shoo everyone out of your space, advancing forward and away so that you can begin to follow the path from the mouth of the cave to the clearing that the shuttles have landed in. “Let’s just leave already.”

You take point, reaching the coordinates with ease. Although, on the short venture there, your body begins to show undeniable signs of malaise. Upon reaching the shuttle, you find an unoccupied seat and plant yourself there, head in hands and trying to get the world to stop spinning. You don’t even pause to greet Rex or any of the other troopers, far too focused on trying to maintain what little decorum you have left that’s keeping you from collapsing on the floor of the hull here and now. The rest of your squad ascends the boarding steps after you, shaking hands and making their greetings amongst themselves as the shuttles leave the atmosphere when Rex tilts his head in your direction to inquire about you. “That bad, huh?”

“She’s not feeling well.” Hunter discloses quietly. “She fell into a river last night and she hasn’t quite recovered.”

“She didn’t fall in!” Wrecker announces loud enough for all to hear, shoving past the group of troopers to join the conversation in the center. “Crosshair might as well have pushed her in himself!”

The shock in Rex’s expressions as he processes this information speaks to the collective disdain the others have for bearing witness to his cowardice. “You what ?”

“She’s fine.” Crosshair shrugs, unable to avoid the oppressive attention of his brothers. “She said so herself.”

“She clearly isn’t.” Echo folds his arms. “You know what is required of us when we are deployed.”

Rex is becoming more aware of the gravity of Crosshair’s actions, shifting the dialogue to a full report of said events. “Tell me exactly what happened.”

“A storm was imminent.” Tech starts. We were not far from a viable vantage point, the cave you landed beside when you met us for extraction.”

“I shoved a dead tree across a nearby river to make a bridge that we used to get there.” Wrecker adds.

“The flood waters were rising fast, and all but she and Crosshair had made it over.” Echo’s input causes Rex to nod, having a feeling that he can expect what’s to happen next.

“And what is it that you do?” Rex shifts his gaze to Crosshair, refusing to speak at first. He looks over at you rocking back and forth with the turbulence of the aircraft, head still nestled in your hands.

Crosshair heaves a deep sigh, accountability finally catching up with him. “I guess I panicked and… I started trying to move before she was ready.”

“Why did you panic?” Rex asks, not scolding but keen on understanding the choices behind Crosshair’s actions.

“The tree was becoming unstable.” Crosshair sighs again, as if speaking his mind is inflicting a shortness of breath due to his nervousness. “She was instructed by the others to crawl to the other side since standing upright posed a threat that it would roll with the current, taking her with the waves.”

“And then?” Rex is patient, wanting to get everyone’s version of events before reaching a decisive conclusion.

“And then…” Crosshair pauses, looking at you again with apology in his eyes. “I thought that I could run across quickly, taking her with me.”

“But it didn’t play out that way, did it?” Rex determines, regrettably.

“No sir, it didn’t.” Crosshair hangs his head, looking back now and cursing himself for behaving so irrationally.

“What happened next?” Rex urges him to continue, everyone else close by listening intently.

“By the time I started running down the log, it was already turning over.” He swallows harshly in his dry throat, having not been prepared to speak so much, especially about a subject this difficult. “It all happened so fast I just… Before I knew it, I was on the other side and-”

Crosshair cuts himself off, unable to say the last few words as they’re far too painful, so Hunter finishes the sentence for him. “And she wasn’t there.”

Rex nods once, turning on his heels to pace towards you. The hull falls silent as they hang on the suspense of their captain’s next moves. He takes a knee in front of you, tapping your arm to get your attention. Slowly lifting your head, Rex takes one look at you and confirms your feverish nature. 

“Dodged a bullet, you did.” He tells you softly as he stands, allowing you to rest your head in your hands once again. He rotates one more time, facing his brothers. “Things could have gone much worse.”

“If not for Wrecker pulling her out, we could have lost her and this extraction would have turned into a recovery mission.” Echo shudders at the thought of returning with one less soldier than they left with.

“I hope you learned your lesson.” Rex wags his index finger at Crosshair and the other troopers collectively giggle and snicker when their leader shows his disciplinary side. “Because she’s going to be your responsibility until she’s better. Got it?”

“Cap, you can’t be serious.” Crosshair tries to object, but Rex stops him with a wave of his hand. “Besides, we don’t take orders from you anymore.”

“But you do take orders from Generals.” Rex taunts him mercilessly. “I’d hate to know what Skywalker would think about this.”

Crosshair grumbles under his breath, defeated and unable to deny when he’s been bested. If Rex’s commanding official were to catch wind of what happened, they would be forced to go through rigorous training, workshops, and team building exercises; all of which Crosshair would rather die than endure. 

You sense the displacement of weight as a secondary person deposits themself in the unoccupied seat beside you. Peeking over to your right, you see that it’s none other than Crosshair himself. “What do you want?”

“You heard Rex, didn’t you?” He scoffs.

“Yeah. It was pretty funny actually.” You chuckle. “You’re in trouble .”

“Shut up.”

“Doesn’t answer my question.”

“ Apparently , you’re my responsibility.”

“No.”

“No?”

“You obviously don’t want to do this.” You clearly state to him. “Leave me alone.”

“I can’t.” He tries to negotiate, but you’re already sick of having this pointless discussion with him.

“Why? Because you have ‘orders’ not to?” You argue, putting air quotes around the word orders. “Don’t waste your breath.”

Crosshair can see that he’s really hurt you. You sit back, slumped into the seat with one arm folded over your stomach and the other sealing your eyelids closed, still trying to keep yourself from getting sick and spilling your guts all over the floorboards. He sits with the damning consequences, replaying the events in his mind over and over until he’s sick with himself. What was he thinking? If that were any one of his brothers, zero hesitation would have been his method of operation. Was he trying to show off? Was there really any cause to panic? He’s second-guessing every little thing, not knowing if he can even justify his actions anymore.

 Once back at clone headquarters, individuals split amongst themselves in groups and make for different activities. Some go to the mess hall, others go to the shooting range, and the rest decide on the barracks. You’re amongst the few that decide to turn in early, taking slow steps down the stainless hallways until you reach the room. The blast door slides open and you’re hit with the wafting stench of body odor, dust and lived-in fabrics. It forces you to double over, nearly hurling what little of your stomach contents all over the pristine white tiles. With a hand clamped tightly over your nose, you shield the stench from invading your senses any further, resealing the blast door as quickly as you can to finally breathe a fresh breath of air, untainted by their suffocating aromas. It’s a wonder how you managed to sleep in there comfortably before. “ Eugh … Maker, that is  foul .”

“Maybe it’s a good idea to head to the medbay after all.” Crosshair tries to get the last laugh, but you’ll have none of it, still requesting that he leave you alone.

“I’m not going anywhere with y-” Before you could finish the sentence, the lack of oxygen from holding your breath coupled with your frail disposition sends you into a split-second episode of lost consciousness. Your legs buckle and your limbs fall limp. Dropping to your knees, you don’t realize that your half-awake instinct resulted in you reaching for Crosshair in desperation. His clean, orderly scent replaces the stink you fell victim to just now and you find yourself taking deeper breaths, swallowing his essence with every lungful. He has discarded all ill will he had when Rex bestowed this priority onto him at the sight of your helplessness, culpable for your predicament. 

“You can hardly stand.” Crosshair helps you to your feet, not letting go of your flimsy appendages. “And you expect me to just leave you here?”

“You were gonna leave me on that mountain .” You coldly answer, unable to just forgive and forget this careless attempt on your life, however intentional it might have been.

Crosshair stares at you with a spiteful grimace, knowing you’re right but smart enough to not deny it. Instead, he does the unthinkable.

“Wha- Put me down!” He scoops you up into his arms and quickly begins advancing towards the infirmary. 

“No.” He squeezes you tighter, an effective method of stopping your struggling. His eyes remain trained ahead and you’re left examining his features up close. You try to ignore it, but you can’t bring yourself to look away from his stark perfection. The entire trip there, Crosshair earns strange glances from every onlooker in his path. Through each silent judgment, he remains steadfast and continues to carry you. His effortless strength makes you feel weightless even with your anchored fatigue propelled by your illness. You’re dead weight in his arms, surrendering to his grasp and finally letting yourself rest your head on his chest plate.

He rounds the corner into the infirmary where you both are greeted by no one. Not even a medical service droid makes itself known. The quarters are completely empty. You can feel Crosshair pause, hesitant as to how to proceed, until he leads with placing you on an examination stretcher attached to the wall. He departs from your side, searching nearby drawers and cabinets for supplies to use.

“We should probably wait for AZI.” You suggest, scooting back against the wall to sit upright and supported. 

“You act like nursing a cold is so difficult.” Crosshair locates a few different pill bottles, a heating pad, a sterile receptacle for water as well as an unopened canteen. Setting everything down, you notice that he also retrieved a medical scanner when you weren’t looking. “Look up.”

Obeying his request, you point your nose to the air as a bright blue holographic field is cast across your face. The scanner lets out a few mechanical chirps and beeps before computing the results you are blindsided by your own acquiescence. You half expected yourself to be more defiant, to put up more of a fight than this, but once Crosshair started showing true sincerity you couldn’t overlook it for another second.

Crosshair scrolls through your diagnostics and confirms everything you already know to be true. Along with the readings, it shows suggestions for remedies and procedural tactics for curing you. Among them, the utmost priorities are an increased intake of fluids, antipyretics at least twice a day, and of course, bed rest.

Crosshair opened the little pill bottles, one being a multivitamin and the other, a fever reducer. He puts both in the cap of one of the bottles and offers it to you. You present your upturned palm for him to drop both tablets into it before going for the canteen. When you try to grab it, Crosshair reaches for your wrist, holding you still while hovering above you in your space. It’s startling at first, being met with such unexpected force, that is until you can detect the burdensome pain in his eyes. “Crosshair?”

“I-I’m sorry.” He tightens his grip on your wrist, not quite painfully so, but enough to be a discomfort. “What I did was unacceptable.”

“It’s okay.” You try to comfort him, but he doesn’t let you, undeserving of your care.

“No, it’s not .” Crosshair lets your wrist go, offering you the canteen to take your medicine with, then steps away from your bench to create distance after handing you the heating pad. “I made a terrible mistake, and nothing is worth a risk like that. Especially not your life.”

“Then why did you do it?” You demand an explanation, hurt by how easily you were discarded. “What’s stopping you from leaving now? You should be afraid my germs will make you sick .”

“I don’t want to leave you.” Crosshair clenches his jaw tightly, speaking through his teeth to refrain from shouting. “I don’t want to now, and I didn’t want to then.”

“Then why did you?”

“I don’t know!” He actually does shout this time, unable to control himself. Though, with this outburst, he is allowed a cathartic release of energy that helps him process these very confusing feelings. Within him, he’s wrestling with a giant, and he refuses to let him win this time. “I thought I could make it over to you fast enough but…”

“But you failed.” You spell his insecurities out for him in black and white and he winces.

“Yes.” Crosshair admits. “I failed my objective, my squad, but worst of all, I failed you.”

Nearby from one of the storage compartments, Crosshair pulls out a pillow coupled with a wool blanket. He advances closer, intent on giving them to you.

Trying to take them from him, he doesn’t let you, pushing you onto your back so that he can position the pillow beneath your head then tuck you in by draping the blanket atop your form. The warmth of the blanket with the heating pad is cozy. Your exhaustion from the sleepless night before is catching up to you, but you’re afraid he’s going to leave you to recover alone as soon as you close your eyes. Something stirs within you, being shown this side of him he lets no one see. You wish to ask him something, turning on your side under the covers so that your face is within arm’s reach of his.

“I know you probably want me to leave.” He begins to stroke your forehead, moving the slightly sweaty strands so that your face can get some air. He touches you with trepidation, as if he could break you with the mere weight of his fingers. Brushing his gloved knuckles over your skin while alternating between threading his fingers into your hair, you can feel the internal struggle with giving you what he thinks you want while acting on the impulses that tell him he’s not worthy of your presence. “They should have soup in the mess hall.” 

“You’re only doing this because Rex’ll have you in trouble with General Skywalker if you don’t.” You try to pierce through his ruse, hoping to correctly predict his pretentious motives, only to be met with the opposite. You rise, refusing to nestle into the little bed he’s made you, keeping yourself propped up on your elbows.

Crosshair thinks to himself, heart hanging heavy in his chest with all the woulda-coulda-shouldas. He’s so guilty of looking ahead that he often neglects what’s right in front of him. He should have held his ground, cursing himself again for staring at the mess he’s made. For all he knows, redemption is inherently given when you are the one taking the chance, that second chance that’s changed its mind on him. He cannot make up for what is done, but he can decide to be different, to treat you differently. Crosshair now has the sense to proudly acknowledge that his flawed logic is to blame for his heart’s silly mistakes.

You’re hanging on his silence, wondering why he’s not answering but instead choosing to hold sincere eye contact with you for an extended period of time. He might as well have written the words all over his face. The way he’s looking at you is unfamiliar, with no traces of annoyance or disdain to be seen.

“Rex’s orders have no authority when I want to be here.” Crosshair reaches for your hand, guiding you to lay down on your side and relax so that you’re no longer straining yourself by keeping upright. “I used to think I was so good at keeping my heart under control, so I kept pulling away. I thought that would help me get over it. Get over you .”

“What are you saying?” You ask, anticipating the direction this interaction is going to take.

He takes such long pauses in between speaking, cycling his breath and clearing his throat. He’s gravely nervous about something, and you’re starting to get an idea of what. “It’s so easy to give into what we fear most. I never thought that one of these days I would find the courage to say this, let alone even know what to say.”

“Would you please just tell me already?” The impatience is eating you alive.

He keeps both your hands cradled in his, squeezing and rubbing them softly. He clears his throat a few more times, stroking your hands periodically between. These nervous tics of his are actually adorable. He’s put on the spot and for once, this sniper’s poise is crumbling right before your eyes.

Crosshair fortifies himself, frightfully aware of his suspicious reaction and grounds himself with a sweet kiss on your forehead. He moves your hair and presents your bare skin, presses his lips to it and holds himself there for a short while. His breath tickles your brow and his scent cascades over your entire face. He still holds remnants of the evergreen woodlands on his armor and you deeply inhale his air as if it were a sample of designer cologne.

Crosshair pulls away and you take one of your hands to touch his face, dragging your thumb along the lines of his tattoo. He gives you a smile, but it’s masked by his own guilt and shame. “Lately, I haven’t been able to hold back what I feel, and I chose the worst moment to try and demonstrate that to you.”

“Crosshair…”

“Just wait.” He stops you, kind but strictly. “I let my pride get the better of me, but that’s no excuse. I apologize for diminishing the severity of your suffering. I don’t expect you to forgive me. You shouldn’t.”

“But I do.” You avow, smiling at him with praise and adoration. Such a kindness hits him like a vibro-blade to the heart as he still feels as though he’s undeserving of your blessed grace. “You made a mistake, yes, but you don’t deserve to be hated for it.”

“Even if I hate myself?” Crosshair asks, defeated and aggrieved. 

Daringly, you scoot to favor one side of the makeshift bed you’re laying in, opening the blanket for Crosshair to climb inside. He gives a shocked double-take at this invitation, then finds himself actually settling into your space. In order to take advantage of the small area, he lays on his back while you drape an arm and a leg over top of him. The blanket is covering  you both from the chest down and he is surprised by how comfortable it is to finally be off his feet. You lay your head on his chest and listen to his heart as its beating slowly accelerates.

“You shouldn’t hate yourself.” You whisper, voice inflection faltering with your tiredness. “It makes it harder to love others.”

Crosshair lets your sleepy phrasing set in, realizing just how right you are. His own self-loathing could have resulted in your watery grave. Riddled with contrition, his arms coil around you with no intention of letting go. With each of his deep breaths, he allows the truth in your words to calm him. His heartbeat drops back down to a favorable pace with each second he hugs you. Your illness and exhaustion have gained ground and you can hardly keep your eyes open. Another kiss befalls the top of your head, followed by the delicate stroking of your hair. You’re slipping deeper and deeper into the land of nod, losing touch with reality by the second. Just before your consciousness goes light’s-out, you could have sworn you heard him humming.

It’s been a while since you had a deep sleep like that. Startled, you wake up a few hours later and find that Crosshair is nowhere to be seen. A sudden jolt of alarm runs through you but is immediately appeased when the blast door to the room slides open. In walks Crosshair with a tray of that steaming soup he kept mentioning before as well as a cup of fruit juice and a little ration packet of dry crackers. 

“You’re awake.” He announces as he sets the tray on one of the swinging bed tables that can be perfectly positioned in front of the patient. “How are you feeling?”

“Like I could use a shower.” You catch a whiff of the clothes you were forced to sleep in again, desperate to be rid of their damp sourness. 

Crosshair chuckles under his breath at your answer, certain now that you’re on the mend. “Good. You can do that when you’re finished eating.”

“You know, Rex isn’t here.” You test his mood. “You can drop the whole nurse act.”

Crosshair challenges you with the soup, taking the spoon in his hand and scooping a heaping amount into it. You realize too late that your mouth is opening as per his silent command, and he deposits the soup into your mouth. The broth coats your tongue in its simple flavors, and you chew on the medallions of diced vegetables. It is only after this first tasting that you notice just how famished you are, taking the spoon from Crosshair to slurp it up yourself. 

“It’s not an act.” He enlightens you while giving you room to enjoy your food. “Or do I need to prove it by cuddling you again?”

You nearly spit out your soup, coughing on it as the seasoned broth gets caught in your throat. Amidst your trouble with infirmity, the induced delirium brought you to believe it was all a dream. The cuddling… His humming…

Regaining yourself, you coyly smirk at Crosshair, swirling the spoon seductively in the bowl. “I think I could use some more convincing…”

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

You’re well aware of Saren’s surveillance over you, exploiting his power as a Spectre. The council regularly cycles their archivist personnel so as to keep things fresh, and you could tell that he was crushed when you opted to service one of the other members of the council in a completely different department at the Citadel. He was counting on seeing you every morning, smelling your perfume filling the space in his quarters, watching your graceful movements as you glide from room to room. Now, some other nobody has the fortune of witnessing your beauty all for themselves and he cannot stomach the thought. 

Proactively thinking, he heads to the offices early and locates the registration computers. After a few swift maneuvers, he methodically rearranges your schedule as well as report records and has you filed under his own secretarial position. Now, all he has to do is play the waiting game.

The commuting masses have made their appearance, the offices are filled, but you’re nowhere to be found and it’s going on five minutes past the time you’re expected to arrive. Saren reclines back in his chair, awaiting the ticking time bomb that is sure to explode promptly with your entrance.

“What the fuck did you do?” You storm in, throwing the door open to his office so hard that his minimalistic desk ornaments and wall decor tumble to the ground.

“I’m not sure I follow.” Saren’s pretentious attitude makes your blood boil as he sits completely unbothered in his desk, hardly even acknowledging your presence.

“For someone who calls themselves the smartest person in the room, you’re terrible at playing dumb.” Folding your arms, you pivot your weight on one hip, unintentionally swinging your curves in his face, taunting him.

Still refusing to look you in the eyes, his ostentatious nonchalance gets under your skin, and you resist the urge to strike him across the face here and now. He just keeps typing, that is, until he decides to overlook your concerns by giving you orders. “If you’re done whining, I need you to send out the memos for next week’s Council meeting.”

You greet him with the same energy he’s been confronting you with, abrasive, impatient, petty. You don’t answer and make no move to reach for his little stack of pamphlets. He finally takes his eyes off his holo-terminal, glancing up to see your displeased face staring right back at him. He lets out a grumbled sigh, turning his monitor off so that he can give you his undivided attention. “Very well. I’ll humor this little… outburst of yours.”

“I’ve had it!” You turn on your heels, making for the exit door when he stops you.

“If you leave, don’t expect to have a job in this office anymore.”

“You can’t do that.” Turning around, you shake your head at him and call his bluff.

“I can do anything I want.” He boasts.

“Says who?”

“Says I.”

“You’re insane if you think I’d come back here.” You stand in his doorway, threatening to take the commotion outside for all to see. “I requested a different department for a reason.”

“Ouch. I take great offense to that.” Saren slowly advances towards you. Your stomach plummets at the sight of his slender yet fortified stature closing in. He bypasses the defensive walls you put up with ease, knowing exactly how to get you going. He seals the door shut, ushering you out of the way so that you’re now completely alone with him. “And here I thought you liked all the little bonuses I gave you.”

“You and I both know those ‘little bonuses’ aren’t worth it when you treat me like trash at every other turn.” You fold your arms, attempting to appear unamused as more distance is put between you two, backstepping to hopefully conceal just how insane he’s driving you in this moment.

“Come now.” He scoffs with a tilt of his head. “You liken me to a prison warden.”

“Pretty damn close if you ask me.”

“Fine.” He steps out of your space and returns to his seat behind his desk. “Enlighten me on how awful I am to you.”

“Well, for one, you act like you own me.” You begin. “I don’t know where you got it in your head that I am anyone’s property.”

“So, you admit, you wouldn’t fuck your new boss if you had the chance?” He brazenly instigates. “Because you were awful willing to fuck me when I first took you on.”

“I chose to fuck you back then.” You aggressively clarify. “The notion of which makes me sick to think about right now.”

“Careful.” He warns. “You’d be wise to tread lightly.”

“Or what? You’ll fire me? I can just have it appealed and you’ll see me back here come next week. The worst I get is a paid vacation.”

“Then tell me why you chose someone else.”

“It didn't matter who I chose.” You shake your head in disbelief, as if the subject of personnel was even in question. “I just didn’t want it to be you.” 

“Why?” He keeps pushing.

“Are you seriously asking me that?” You pause, baffled at the sheer lack of accountability in accordance with Saren’s behavior towards you. “You starved me out of lunch breaks, I am a professional at holding my need to relieve myself, the number of overnight hours I worked was criminal-”

“What If I promise to abide by your terms?” He interrupts, a slight hint of culpability bleeding through in his speech that you didn’t expect. It’s so pathetic, it almost sounds like he’s begging.

“You can’t expect me to believe you.” You roll your eyes. “And don’t make this all about me! You’re the one who unethically influenced my schedule when you could have just asked me if I wanted to renew our contract.”

“Would you have said yes?” Standing back up, Saren turns it around on you, actually taking your wants and needs into account in his decisions. It surprises you, making you second guess if this is genuine sincerity or if he’s just trying to control you again.

“Well… I don’t know.” You reminisce about the good times working with Saren, the honeymoon phases as you called them. Depending on his varying levels of stress, you got used to such mystifying ups and downs, would it be worth it to go through the emotional whiplash again? “I would need to sleep on it.”

“Why? Afraid there might be things about me you find… repulsive?” He backs you into his desk, pinning your hands to the tabletop as he hovers over you “I can promise you there’s plenty.”

“I won’t hold my breath.” You gasp, your chest shuddering against his rigid uniform.

“I can always take it away.” Saren tells you slowly, dragging his tongue across your jaw as he coils a hand around your throat. “I mean it.”

“Is there a question in there?” You feign objection, pushing against him with resistance.

“It’s a statement.” He takes another step closer, pushing his hips into yours until the edge of the desk starts digging into the flesh of your thighs.

“You turians are brutes.” You whisper against his face, the free-moving mandibles adjusting to receive your breath and dissect the flavors in your mouth via scent. They click and chitter before quelling themselves to allow for him to speak.

“Mmm…” He hums, the deep reverberation rattling in his chest. So primal. Animalistic. “But you like that, don’t you?”

“I would rather die.” You spit the words back at him, hoping to conflate your attitude enough to intimidate, but the attempt fails, and Saren appears more entertained than anything.

“Dying is the most alive a person will ever feel.” He methodically places his girthy leg between the both of yours, pressing his protective plates against the plush softness of your inner thighs while putting distance between your feet. The way you both pore over each other with fragile words, waiting patiently for the other to crack open and shatter under an iron will. “And you would be blind to not see the romance in that.”

“Oh, so this is you being romantic?” You patronize him, sensing a punishment is imminent and you cannot reject your impulses any longer, unable to deny the cravings you have for his firm discipline. “You’re really trying, alright.”

“You know having anyone else other than you here is… it’s not the same.” Saren uses the hand that’s coiled around your throat to manually turn your face to the side so that he can speak directly into your ear. His seductive timbre drops an octave, and his suave voice grows more convincing by the second. “I won’t tolerate a hit like this and act like it doesn’t bother me at all.”

“And what of the things that bother me?” You are the only one who can manage to instill a sense of shame and guilt in Saren. He can’t explain it, but your unwillingness to accept his entitled mistreatment strikes some sense into him. He loosens his grip on your neck but remains close, keeping you pinned to the desk. “I need assurances.”

“Don’t disclose these stipulations to me if you do not intend to return by my side.” Saren lets up, scanning you with his eyes. “Officially, I mean.”

“Where in that sentence did you hear me say yes? I haven’t agreed to anything yet.” You grind against the thigh posted between your legs, allowing your actions to speak in your abstruse code, showing just how badly you cannot resist Saren’s influence. 

“You’re such a confident, pretty thing.” He cranes his head over you, regaining the tension he had around your windpipe before. “I’ll have you screaming the word when you’re bent over my desk.”

“Only a real man would stop wasting time and do it already.” You ridicule him, knowing it lights a fire in his belly. “Or are you afraid someone will walk in?”

Saren unhands you violently. The swift quickness with which he lets you go makes you jump where you stand as sections of your hair are thrown into your face. Without breaking eye contact, he takes a few paces backwards towards the closed door and engages the maglocks. He means business and you’re grateful for the fruitful turnout of this interaction, anticipating what he could possibly have in store for you. You’re sure to find out soon.

“Turn around.” Saren commands and you obey. You can’t see him, but you can hear his steps creep up on you, inching one by one until he’s on your heels. One of his hands falls upon the middle of your back. The touch at first is lenient. Gentle. But as time goes on, he takes a fistful of your blouse and forcefully shoves you down so fast that you nearly collide your face with the desk. He’s more careful with you than that though, only wishing to keep you on your toes.

“Don’t worry. I won’t hurt you.” Saren playfully mentions while gravely announcing your indisposed position, keen on recognizing your true desires now with visual evidence of your arousal. “Unless you want me to.”

You’re paralyzed with bliss. You’ve successfully coaxed him into your web, and he believes it was all his idea. He thought he was so clever thinking he was going against your wishes when this has been a ploy from the beginning to get him to show his true colors and reveal how unhinged he is for you.

Saren releases the hold he has on your blouse, smoothing the fabric back down to a more comfortable setting. He continues to pet your backside, his hands circling the contours of your hips and tracing the outline of your physique. They move lower and lower, his tridactyl hands lifting up your skirt to pull your pantyhose down. He groans to himself, admiring every little thing that he’s seeing. “Would you have really forced me to go through the rest of the year without catching a glimpse of this ass in my office every day?”

“You would have survived.” The bold phrasing you choose earns a powerful spank to be slapped across your cheeks. You stifle a yelp, hoping to conceal the pleasure you find in his corrections, but he only follows that slap with an even harder one, forcing you to release your moans.

“I’m beginning to think you only did this to get back at me.” Saren calls you out, diving deeper into the psychology of this attraction. “You know there’s no one who can satisfy you like I can.”

Craning your head back to look over your shoulder at him, he stops his spanking to hear you out. “I don’t come to work to be… satisfied.”

“Please.” Saren delivers another strike to your ass, and you jostle against his desk with the force. “I’m like a song you got stuck in your head playing on repeat. I see you biting your lip when I talk to you.”

“So that’s what this is about.” Your provocation is working, elevating your sarcasm to a level of bravado that he strikes annoyance in. “I never would have pegged the great Saren Aterius to be the jealous type.”

With this, yet another crisp slap stings the skin, and you feel the warmth of your blood rise to the surface, blooming into a delectable color a few tones more saturated than your natural shade. You focus on the fine grain patterns in his desk, locking in and feeling yourself slip into subspace when he continues to spank you. Each clap of his hand against your ass is euphoric, a long-awaited payoff that is more gratifying than you could have ever imagined. 

“Jealousy is a very natural reaction.” Saren admits wholeheartedly now, owning up to that which he refused to mention. He stops his striking of your backside for the time being, slipping the tips of his fingers between your swollen cheeks to glide against your exposed entrances. You instinctively begin to rub your knees together, squeezing your most sensitive areas as hard as you can to gain even a modicum of additional pleasure. Saren notices and he immediately reprimands you, opting to rip your undergarments clean apart so that he can kick space between your feet without having to remove them. “And besides, you can’t deny the fact that you cannot escape the thought of me.”

You’re completely exposed and spread apart. You can feel the cool draft from the air conditioning vents cast a slight breeze on your nethers. Saren is staring at just how soaked you are, practically dripping all over his floor. “Now I know you’re reaching”

Saren goes down to one knee, crouching low as he takes the supple crests of your individual cheeks in each hand. His serpent-like tongue is then dragged along the length of you from front to back. The sheer amount of control he has over this appendage of his makes you think it must have a mind of its own, the way he soaks every inch with saliva. He’s not shy with it either, vigorous and rough as he shoves his beak deep into your crevice. Between his tender sampling of your arousal, he bares his teeth and further decorates the canvas of your skin with more than impact bruises, littering you with fierce bite marks. Between each chomp and nibble though, Saren kisses the exact area he inflicted sensual pain upon as if to seal the gesture with his version of love.

“You want to talk to me about reach?” Saren laughs your rebuttal off, knowing exactly what to do to make you eat those words. “You should reconsider.”

Having been sufficiently saturated, Saren takes one of his massive digits and plunges it deep into you. The fresh sensation of being penetrated is extreme. One turian digit bears the equivalent of at least two human fingers, swirling about your walls to open you up in preparation for the main event. Your eyes go cross when he pokes and prods you repetitively, using his thumb to apply pressure to the hard little bead that is your clit. With a single hand, he’s able to work you over time and time again. You grind into his palm, rocking your hips back and forth with every orgasmic release until your leg muscles begin to ache with the strain. No calisthenic workout could ever make you burn like this, pushing your anatomy to its limits until you don’t think you can keep coming, but you do, and Saren makes sure of it.

“So much for putting up a fight.” Saren teases. Your thighs are glistening with wetness, dripping down to soak your torn stockings. Saren loves the way your legs are clamped around his hand, curling his digit within you to scrape his gloved claw against your wanton core. Upon locating this precious spot of yours, he masterfully manipulates it in tandem with his vigorous fidgeting of your clit. You cannot contain yourself, accidentally releasing a mewl a bit too loud than you planned. The tremors reverberating through you accentuate your sounds with a melodic vibrato that Saren has been longing for. He lives off your reactions, far too attached to them as your approving moans speak to his egotistical esteem in spelling out his carnal aptitudes. He gives you a parting chomp on your left cheek in praise, soothing the pain such as an animal licks their wounds. “Always a good girl for me.”

You’re breathless and weak in the knees, resting the entirety of your body weight on the surface of his desk. If not for it, then you’d be in a puddle on the floor by now. The blushing heat suffocates your face, and you almost don’t recognize that Saren is rising to his feet and freeing his stiffened girth from his uniform, far too caught up with your untameable inner rapture. “No one gets to fuck you like I do. Say it.”

“N-no one… gets to fuck me like youuu~.” Upon you speaking the last words in Saren’s verbal request, he pushes his rigid length into you, stopping just past the tip. Your tightness holds him snugly and he gravely underestimated the exhilaration he would feel from this. The heat of your center is scorching, soft and sopping and he has to take his time or else he’s sure to blow his load before he makes it all the way in.

Saren steadies his breathing, gripping the base of his cock with his moistened hand to slather the remnants of you all over himself. He pulls out, rubbing the bulbous head in circles all over the exterior of your pussy lips, periodically pushing inside between strokes. Though, when you try to rock about again, he promptly halts your movements by laying himself flush at your hips. The tip of his cock descends from your entrance with this displacement of position and he begins fucking the junction of your thighs. The thick ridges glide along your swollen sensitivity with every thrust. If he keeps going like this, he’s sure to make you come again, but he would never do something so inattentive. 

Saren, so jaded yet passionate. One look at you and his false front crashes and burns, incapable of accounting for the way you factor into the affairs of his heart. He always thinks about what it’s like for him to be the one who’s on your mind. Do you wish for him always, or only when it suits you? Saren keeps himself together by maintaining his distance, his aloofness. When he tells his barefaced lies, you refuse to believe him, aiming to see them collapse. Your venomous tongue has him swinging on the pendulum of love or hate when in his head, you, as a pair, seem so right but it will never quite be enough.

He holds you steady by the hips as he bottoms out of the snug grip you had on him with your clenched thighs, taking his now completely lubricated cock in his fist to angle himself directly at your entrance. His bulbous tip touches your slit and with one swift motion, he splits you apart again. You gasp at the sensation of Saren’s forceful dilation, each ridge fighting the resistance of your tightness to be pushed deeper inside. The first three notches are swallowed up by your cunt with ease, but the thicker bottom two are not cooperating and that’s when Saren thinks outside the box.

“You’re so fucking, tight. Urgh…” Saren mentions this as if he’s angry, but you can tell he loves it. The subtle incompatibilities with your human anatomy and his turian physique makes getting off a challenge, one of which Saren is obsessed with. “Hold on, pretty…”

Saren warns you clearly and you’re still unable to anticipate what his plans are. With nothing keeping your legs bound, he lifts one in the air and takes a fistful of your ripped stockings, holding your limb upright. The widening of your stance is exactly the move he needed to be able to fuck you deep and rough, ensuring you are taking every single inch of him. 

“Be truthful…” Saren addresses you, rutting himself harder, deeper with every syllable. With each thrust you can feel him stretching you mercilessly as the final two notches at the base of his cock finally get sucked into your sex. The smoothness in his words holds a honey-like viscosity as their sweet temptation is poured into your ears. You can hardly concentrate on anything other than just how perfectly he’s using you up right now. His hands are strong as they keep you in place, spreading you apart. Meanwhile, his hips are stronger as their force is the means that you’re being so deliciously impaled. “No one else can afford you, can they?”

Saren spins you on his cock, pushing your extended leg over as far as the joint can bend so that you follow his lead and rotate your body as you lie on the fortified furnishings. He assists you in this by taking your opposite leg in the other hand and manually gyrates you around so that you’re now upwards on your back and facing him, no longer on your stomach staring at his desk. Upon meeting your gaze, he is filled to the brim with pride at how disheveled you look. Your makeup is smeared, your hair is a mess, and your clothes are worse for wear. Saren cannot resist revealing more of you for his eyes to drink in. They stare piercingly at you, undressing you mentally before he goes the extra mile with ripping the remainder of your outfit open.

You whine and sigh, filling the room with the sound of your salacious moans with every little movement he makes against you, unable to properly enunciate a reply. Saren pulls himself out to the tip, watching as your flesh molds around every ridge and vein that hugs his cock, only to pierce you with full force to watch your eyes grow wide as saucers with the sensational surprise. “Mmmm… Didn’t think so.”

Saren lowers himself over you, his tongue hanging out of his mouth as it inches closer to gain a taste. Your skin is dewy to the touch, a thin film of sweat having emerged with your strenuous activity. Each time Saren pulls himself back, the cavernous ridges that add to the plumpness of his notches are felt within your walls, grinding against your internal anatomy in ways no human cock could ever dream of. You swivel your hips again, repetitively, and Saren can feel his hardened exo-skin grind perfectly against your clit with the flow of his hips in tandem with yours. 

“Those sad masses out there wish they could fuck you like me, huh?” Saren taunts, knowing how difficult it is for you to talk when you’re otherwise occupied. “Don’t they?”

“Yes, Saren…” You utter quickly under your breath, fast enough so as to not falter in speech, but maybe too fast for his liking.

“What was that?” He changes his pace to excruciatingly slow, causing a rise out of you that makes you writhe and wriggle for more. “I didn’t catch that.”

He notices your impatience and gives you what you want, Aware that every lunge of his hips pushes you closer and closer to that explosive end.

“Y-y-yes-s-s… S-S-Sar-ren…” You stutter, succumbing to the throttle of his whim. His exo-skin meets your clit with a familiar rhythm, and you can’t hold back the sudden and violent tightening of your core. Your walls constrict around Saren’ nearly locking him in if he weren’t so impervious to your resistance. The sensitivity of your climax is monumental as he’s never felt you so aroused before.

“How much do you like it when I take you as mine?” Saren asks, tightening the grasp he has around your throat enough to send you skyward, but keeping mindful of your ability to breathe and speak.

“I don’t like it…” You whisper through gritted teeth, constantly squirming yourself against him.

Saren chokes you tighter, scrutinizing your choice of words.

“Come again?” He challenges before opting to thread his fingers into your hair at the nape of your neck to expose you for a sharp bite, his innuendo not being lost on you. Each row of fangs on either side coupled with his slithery tongue makes your entire body flutter, waves upon waves of euphoria washing over you, threatening to pull you down with the current.

“I said I don’t like it.” You shake out of the hold he has on your nape and lunge forward, easily done as he’s practically resting his entire body weight atop you now. In this swift motion, you make for the exposed and vulnerable section of his own collar and sink your teeth into it. The scaly texture is foreign as it is caught between your own unyielding maw but the noises Saren makes at this display of strength certainly surprise you. “I love it.”

This is the most transparent you’ve been with each other since the beginning. Saren cradles your face in his hands to claim every bit of you, inside and out. He holds eye contact, losing himself in your tenderness and allowing himself to show a different side of him, the side that only reveals itself when he knows it will not be rejected. You’ve proven to him that you can not only keep up with the grandiose menagerie of ups and downs his circle has to offer, but you’d voluntarily be that soft place to land when he exhausts himself with his self-destructive antics. The facetious back-and-forth with him was merely a game. At the root of it all, you can tell that Saren is perilously lonely.

“Say that again.” He requests, notes of kindness in his voice as he addresses you this time.

“I love it.” You repeat yourself as per his request. The conviction with which you speak is shocking, having not associated that word with the likes of himself at all before. It rings in his head like an ethereal melody, striking him in a way that no amount of prior shared perversions has been able to replicate thus far. He cannot falter on his word now, fearful that he might humor how hard he’s fallen for you, unable to look back.

“Don’t stop…” He interrupts himself to lift you into his arms, taking your place by seating himself on the top of his desk where you were lying previously, nestling you atop his lap so he can lift you up and down on his cock, using you as he pleases. “Don’t stop saying that.”

“I love it. I love it. I love it.” You obey him, stating the phrase over and over again, able to decipher the actual reason why he wishes you to do this. He would never confess to something so outright despite knowing it is true. He coils his powerful arms around you, lifting you up then slamming you back down repetitively on his lap. His grunts and grimaced expressions advertise the very thing you’ve been waiting for. He moves you with ease, driving himself upward while viciously growling in anticipation of filling you with his scorching hot spend.

He lets that phrase soak in, really listening to the way it rolls off your tongue while you fight to maintain control over your speech. He punctuates your sentences with vigorous thrusts, splitting you apart while also suffocating you with his adoration. His feral bites and nibbles morph into unabashed kisses and soft licks, littering markings that mirror the imprint of his teeth. His bite penetrates harshly and you’re certain you’ll be feeling the repercussions of this exchange long after things are all said and done. 

Saren’s aggression has all but melted away. He ventures to kiss the apples of your blushing cheeks, following the shape of your face until he meets your lips, something he has since held back from doing in excess when with you. The uneven seal on your mouth is surprisingly comfortable and compatible with his overlapping jaw bones. Sharing your sinful flavors by the mouthful, Saren abandons all inhibitions and gives into the raw amiability, his cock pulsing within you as its tip gushes with an overflow, swelling your lower abdomen even more. The bulge in your stomach is ballooning with the surplus of spend with such exponential pressure, you’re full to bursting. Without taking his face off yours, he groans loudly into your mouth, his tongue still dancing as it remains intertwined with yours. 

With a few final pumps, he finishes, and you’re left dazed and drunk on the hypnotic nature of his authority. Saren slides out of you slowly, allowing you to feel every notch leave your body before popping the plug on your soaked and swollen cunt. Saren pulls his mouth away from yours to gasp for breath, a string of shining saliva still connecting your tongues together at the tip. Your jaws hang open as you bear witness in awe, the streaming rivulet of milky donations as it drips down the crest of your ass, dirtying the surface of Saren’s desk. 

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything more beautiful.” Saren talks about you with pride, his eyes scanning your marked up body when he sees you wear his gifts on your skin like tailored accessories. Your body trembles, still riding the waves of bliss he bestowed upon you with smears of eyeliner and blush rubbed out of place. Your outfit is a mess, almost completely torn off as evidence of the ravaging you experienced, and Saren couldn’t be more pleased with himself. “Let’s get you cleaned up, shall we? You’re in violation of a plethora of dress codes.”

You laugh when he teases you, lowering himself one last time to slither his tongue around your nipples, alternating between the two before placing a couple departing kisses atop them. He removes the remainder of your ruined wardrobe, stripping the shredded articles off you until you’re completely nude.

“Does this mean you want to write me up?” Following along with his teasing, you let him know very clearly that you are quite fond of this exchange and recognize his association with the phrase ‘I love it’ and your unspoken feelings for each other. “Maybe… punish me some more?”

“Only if you say please.” He responds with little to no regard on how late you’re pushing the opening office hour. Having corrected his own wardrobe malfunctions, he readjusts his uniform suit and begins tending to you, opting to maneuver one arm under your knees and the other at the middle of your back. He takes you in his grasp and lifts you up, carrying you to his personal restroom equipped with a shower, sink, and a closet full of many different stylish options to choose from, all in your size. 

“The hell is all this?” You ask, acknowledging the massive elephant in the room.

“Don’t look so surprised.” He scoffs. “You must have an idea where all those spare pairs of panties came from when we’ve had our… meetings in the past.

He sets you down on a plush bench secured to the wall beside the walk-in shower. On the storage shelves rest an assortment of toiletries and luxury effects. He takes a bottle of essential oils and aerates its vibrant and minty scent with the shower’s steam. Lathering it in his palms, soon the entire room’s ambiance has altered with the improvised freshener. You notice how he’s taking his time with you, curious if he’s forgotten his work priorities altogether. “What about your schedule?”

“The itinerary will still be full when we’re done.” He leans over, nuzzles his pointed face into your neck. “You can’t expect me to be so cruel as to request that you carry on your daily duties with proof of what we’ve been doing all morning written all over you.”

“I don’t know.” You twirl a lock of your hair around one of your fingers, playing coy. “I think you’re really hot when you’re cruel.”

Saren dials the aggression back up, switching one of those kisses with a ferocious bite that has you clawing at him for more, clinging to his shielded stature. Once done kissing you, Saren straightens himself and disrobes before your eyes, likewise showing off his undressed form, same as you. His uniform suit falls from his armored skin, exposing the jagged exterior that would send the average suitor running for the hills. Instead, you’re spellbound by his extraterrestrial origins, a dainty damsel this voyager has set his sights on with no aspirations to look away. He helps you to your feet, keeping you steady as you are soon getting drenched beneath the lavish downpour of the shower. Yet, he gives you that all too familiar look and you know you’re in for another round of fun. “In that case, I’m about to be downright monstrous.”

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Argh!” Wrecker exclaims from where he stands in the kitchen of your house, slamming cabinets and closing drawers in search of more nibbles. “We’re out of snacks!”

“Way ahead of ya, big guy. I was about to make a run!” You say while leaning against a plush recliner in the living area, slipping your shoes on. “Any special requests?”

“Ooh! Get those twizzler things you shared with us last time, some chips,” Wrecker gives you tasty suggestions for snack foods he prefers, knowing you will indulge his interests. “Oh! And some peanut butter! You’re almost out of peanut butter!”

“Okay bud. Twizzlers, chips, and peanut butter.” You smile at him, grinning at his endearing face as he looks at you like you hung the moon. “Anyone else? Requests?”

“Are you sure you should be heading out so late?” Hunter asks, standing up from the couch in the living area.

“Why not? I do this all the time” You finish sliding your shoes on, kicking yourself at the heels to better place them. “You guys forget, I’ve been living here alone for a while. How long have you been staying here?”

“Approximately one month.” Tech chimes in, precisely at the right time.

“Exactly.” You dispute your confident claims in the routine habits of your lifestyle, unwilling to change them just because you have guests. “Besides, I could use the fresh air.”

“Do you have your protection?” Echo joins the conversation, scanning you to make sure that you are taking the established safety measures to put them at ease. 

“Got it right here. Even loaded with the ammo you gave me.” You lift your zipped-up jacket pocket and reveal the outline of a revolver-style firearm concealed within. “Jeeze, if I didn’t know any better, I’d say you guys are just like my dad.”

Just before you open the front door to exit, you are stopped by a hand on its frame, keeping it shut. “No, we are much worse.”

“I get it, Crosshair.” You shrug his arm off, finally opening the door to leave. “Last call for special requests!”

“Just… be safe, okay?” Hunter tells you, sincere in his words as well as his eyes. “Come straight home.”

“Aye aye, captain!” You tell him jovially, closing the door behind yourself.

It’s a cold walk to the corner store. There is a light layer of frost on everything in sight, sparkles and shining flecks reflecting the crisp moonlight from above. You blow warm breath into your palms, keeping them nimble in the biting frost. Your knit hat hangs low on your forehead, pulled down far over your ears to save you from the harsh temperatures. At last, you make it to the corner store, the heat of the interior immediately defrosting you from the short walk here. You humbly greet the clerk where he stands behind the counter, though, something doesn’t seem right with him.

“Cold one out there, huh?” You attempt to strike up cordial small talk, but the clerk remains frozen, almost as if he’s stricken with anxious fear.

Regardless, you make your way down to the snack aisles, lifting one of the stacked hand baskets to carry hooked through one arm. The chips have their usual suspects; spicy selections, everything cheesy, and then assorted munchies like popcorn, pork skins and the beef jerky territory. Knowing how much Wrecker and surprisingly Echo liked the cheese puffs last time, you splurge and get two family sized bags. In addition to these, you remember to grab a couple cans of assorted nuts for Crosshair and Tech to share amongst themselves, the salted variety. Hunter’s penchant for jerky has you wondering if you should stick to his regular black pepper flavor or get him something adventurous. Though, before you could decide or even make your way to the peanut butter and twizzlers, you feel the eerie presence of someone, no, multiple someones standing behind you.

“S-sorry, do you need to grab something?” You shift your weight to the side, moving your hand basket defensively in front of your body. “I’ll get out of your way.”

You try to bypass the triad of men, but they close in on you with every shuffle of your feet. With your eyes nervously planted on the floor, you didn’t see that they have each donned an anonymous and frightening mask to conceal their features. “Uhm… Sorry. If I could just-”

One of them stops you with a bony, gloved finger on the center of your sternum, inhaling deeply as he cranes his head towards you. “She smells worse than I thought.”

“Excuse me?” You pull the basket of goodies up and between you, pushing the bony finger out of the way while also affording some space from this mysterious leader of esoteric followers. 

“Aw, see that lads? Wee thing’s offended.” He berates you menacingly, lowering his hand atop the brimming basket you currently are keeping as a divider. “What’s all this then? Treats for your dogs?!”

He tosses the basket far down the aisle, littering the clean floors in crushed chip crumbs and mixed-up treats. The force with which it was thrown was inhuman, startling you with such abrupt violence. You look at the clerk across the room, despondent to see that a fourth and not previously seen individual is handing him a bribe of folded up bills. Your heart sinks into your chest at the blatant awareness that you’ve been sold out. For whatever reason, you’re not sure, but there’s no time to waste speculating now. 

You go for the gun in your jacket pocket, plunging your hand past the zipper seam, pulling the hammer back with your thumb then shooting it through the fabric. The smell of gun smoke in the air burns your nostrils, but it doesn’t hurt as bad as your palm from absorbing all that recoil. The masked man invading your personal space staggers backward, blood spurting from the entry wound you made in his shoulder, effectively winging him with your revolver. The splatters hit the floor like acid, corroding the immediate vicinity as it bubbles and smokes up in a sickening chemical reaction. For a second, you feel yourself shrink back into the aisle, petrified at this person withering away by your hand, but the equally terrified look in the rest of their eyes behind their masks empowers you. 

Straightening your posture, you raise the gun in preparation to fire again if anyone else even looks at you funny, but an unforgiving appendage disarms you from behind, forcing you to drop the gun while a cloth with a sweet-smelling but acidic astringent is placed over your nose and mouth. It just goes to show you have no idea how many assailants paid their way to get you alone. This was bound to happen whether you prepared for it or not. At least you managed to put up a fight, costing them one of their own. As you struggle and writhe in this unknown person’s clutches, the man you shot has been reduced to a sizzling puddle on the tile floor of the corner store. Your vision fades out with that being the last thing you see.

“It’s been over an hour, Hunter.” Echo pulls the curtains back on your windows in search of you walking up the front steps with goodies in hand, finding nothing. “She should have been back by now.”

“Maybe there was a long line at the checkout counter?” He tries to placate everyone’s worry, failing to ease his own nerves in the process.

“It takes a maximum of ten minutes to make the trip to the establishment, estimating the expected amount of elapsed time to be no more than half an hour to go there, make her selections, and come back. That’s if you’re leisurely about it.”

“Tech is right.” Wrecker agrees, worriedly. “That’s way too much time to be out in this cold.”

“I was wondering when the rest of you would get the picture.” Crosshair declares, already standing at the door, ready to brave the ruthless outdoors.

They make it to the corner store you frequent most, sniffing around to see if they can catch onto your scent. Echo strikes up a conversation with the clerk but gets nowhere. Wrecker points out the mess of chips and other snacks scattered on the floor that one of the hired custodians was in the middle of cleaning up when they arrived, but it was chalked up to an accident during restock. Though, the clerk’s dishonesty does not completely put them off. Hunter inhales the air of the store, closing his eyes to detect the health statuses, ages, and even genders of the people that once occupied this space. He shakes his head from left to right, grabbing the attention of his brothers and bringing a screeching halt to the investigation. “I know where she is.”

You come-to whilst being hoisted into the air via chains and weighty iron cuffs at your wrists. The metal braces dig into your flesh with every yank upward, bruising the layers of skin and muscle they come in contact with. The room is dark, and it smells musty and damp, almost like a wet dog. You spin in a circle for a single rotation before you’re stabilized by a pair of gruff hands on your ribcage. 

“Humans. Such fragile creatures.” A man showcases a bottle of chloroform, dangling it in front of your face before turning on his heels to toss it against a wall at the other side of the room, shattering the glass into pieces. 

“Fuck off.” You’re in no position to make threats, but you’ll not make this easy for them, nor yourself.

Not saying anything, he keeps you still, only stopping your spinning long enough to plant a back-handed, closed-fisted punch across your face. You whirl around disorientingly, a growing headache emerges immediately from the dizziness compounding with the strike you just suffered. Everything is blurry, what little you can see by the light of the moon coming through a sorry little skylight high above you in the ceiling. You can feel a hot bloom coursing straight to your nose, inflamed and dribbling with blood. The bitter, metallic flavor leaks down your throat and turns your stomach, causing you to groan at the queasiness. You spit at him, dark red splatters staining his skin, but he does not flinch.

“Not a very polite one, is she?” He talks to the rest of his lackeys still hiding in the dark while laughing at your expense like hyenas as he wipes his face with a woolen sleeve. He lets you continue to spin for another few rotations to really tire you out, your blood having made a mess of your neck and chest by now. “I’ll have fun beating that attitude out of her when she’s turned.”

He stops your incessant whirling in place, the rattle of iron chains clinking overhead when he disrupts your movements grounds you. His eyes glow abnormally in the lack of light, burning into you such as that of a primal animal staring at its prey. His blue irises shift to a vibrant gold, a color not naturally occurring in human genomes. You gasp at the sight, choking on remnants of blood clotting in your throat. “What- what do you want with me?”

“What kind of question is that?” He retorts, a vacancy in his face that highlights the presence of his carnal hostility. He rips off his mask to reveal his morose visage, getting right up in your face. “Why do any of us want you?”

At this provocation, a roaring chorus of voices from mouths unseen exclaim their reasons for this obsession over you, interrupting each other with their selfish vocalizations as words contort into barks and yelps.

“Mother!” 

“So tender!”

“So loving!”

“Her warmth could put demons to bed!”

“I would risk an eternity of damnation for her!”

“Great mother!”

“Love us!”

“Love us like those mutts of yours!”

“I’m not anyone’s mother!” You argue with the remarking articulations coming at you from all directions, frantically jostling the chains that bind. “You’re not making any sense!”

Oppositional growls and snarls shift the mood from jovial and triumphant to cold and hateful. The man daring to face you in this intimate proximity sharply intakes a breath, sucking his teeth in disapproval. “Now, you’ve gone and upset them.”

“Please, I don’t know what any of this is about.” You desperately plead, frightened by all these despairing accounts. “You have to let me go!”

“You expect me to believe you let an entire pack of them into your home willingly?” He pauses to empty your revolver’s ammunition on the floor, the surrounding shadows growling evilly at the sight of the blinking shells as they clatter to the stone floor. “They even knew to give you silver bullets.”

“A pack of what?!” You have no idea what it is these people are referring to, even more confused by this added detail of customized armaments bestowed upon you under the guise of a gift.

“Oh darling. They didn’t tell you?” He feigns a pout, pursing his bottom lip when you reveal this rather important tidbit of information.

“Tell me,” You trail off as his eyes glint when the moon’s light grows brighter. He orders one of his lackeys to step forward in a sort of demonstration, giving him the floor for a moment. Upon his approach, his posture is hunched over with his back rounded. His face contorts at the height of his snarl, clenched teeth and downturned brows giving you their foreboding stare down. “...What?”

His skin melts off, but not to the bubbly, corrosive effect you witnessed before when you were forced to pull the trigger. It appears to be sliding from a thick layer of wiry fur growing in uneven tufts from deep within. His body shifts and changes, muscles flexing into new appendages with every grunted exhale. Clawing at his own flesh with massive mitts, he rips his previous self to shreds, giving this new form an unobstructed path to resurrection. He violently spasms, growing double in height as well as stature. When his bipedal form is brought down with the weight of this transformation, he lands on all fours with his hands having turned into massive paws and his hominid features now giving way to that of a canine’s. His ears are pointed back, eyes piercing you with their barbaric gaze. His fanged maw gleams in the darkness, pearly white as each extensive tooth becomes more saturated with saliva by the minute. The thick heat of his breath wafts over you as he inches close, droplets of his spittle falling from his jaws and onto your face and hair. His growl drowns out the chaos of the surrounding spectators, deafeningly occupying the forefront of your senses.

You whimper at his exhibition of power, unclear where the hierarchy of their dynamic lies. They all behave so independently while clinging to the word of a single person’s order. The wolf-man revels in your scent, scrunching his snout to taste you in the air. The one who commands him steps forward and brings the dog to heel, but only long enough for him to speak to you. “Get the picture now, darling?”

“You’re all monsters.” You utter in the face of death, jaws larger than your head millimeters away from anything vital.

“I wonder what your precious pets would think if they heard you say that.” He asserts, a lower timbre in his voice as it contorts to its truest inflection. His throat releases wave after wave of guttural growls, reverberating with an almost melodic vibrato as his human facade dissolves as well. He soon grows too large for the anthropoid shell that contains him, splitting through his hairless sheets of flesh. He rips his face off like a mask, exposing the man-eater’s truest form with yet another booming bellow that nearly ruptures your eardrums. 

Now with two fixated muzzles cemented to you, they slice open portions of your clothes to showcase more of your skin for them to sample. Your stomach is exposed as half your shirt is cropped off, one of your pant legs has been removed as well to make you look even more helpless and disheveled. The sensation of their pointed digits tracing against you is equal parts sickening as it is humiliating. The cool air hits your body where your clothes are cut apart. An agonizing tremor brought on by this improper conduct releases in the form of a tear-soaked cry at this informal unveiling. The spectating onlookers are ignited with manic infatuation, wishing and dreaming that they were in the place of their peers. Though, it is at this moment that the sanctity of this private headquarters has been compromised. Before either of them could sink their teeth into you, both adversaries are tackled by two imperceptible forces.

The area falls silent as the collective is forced to process such a disruptive intermission. Everyone watches as the group of silhouettes grapple unrestrainedly, rabid snarls and conflicting yelps creating a diversion for someone to come to your rescue. 

“There’s not much time.” A man with a pair of recognizable goggles flashes his lemon-tinted lenses at you, strenuously working at your shackles. “We have to move quickly.” 

“Tech?” You ask, not expecting to see him here.

“We’re full of surprises. Didn’t Hunter tell you that?” He shrugs as he looks down at you for a second, still fighting with the locks above your head. He’s so close, his clean aroma offering a lovely reprieve from the harsh odors wafting about you.

“Is it true?” You raise the question to Tech, but he averts his gaze, keeping his steady hands at work on unlocking the shackles.

“Let’s not talk about that right now.” He replies, hoping you’d drop the subject.

“Tech!” You snap at him insolently. “Is it true?”

“Yes.” He defeatedly releases your shackles, giving up on trying to break into them with his bare hands. He knows he is capable of mustering the strength, but the distraction of you makes this seemingly simple task more difficult than he can manage at first. “We thought it best you didn’t know, to protect you.”

“You see how that is contradictory, right?” Rolling your eyes, you cannot bear to think they kept this from you in fear of judgment. Is that what they think of you?

“We can dispute this after we get you out of here, alright?” Tech reaches for your shackles again, more calculated and determined to free you this time.

“Wait, we?”

Tech tilts his head behind him at the four figures clashing in a tornado of tails and teeth. “Do you really think I’m foolish enough to come here alone?” 

“Tech, when I called them monsters, I didn’t mean-” You try to reiterate the insult you delivered, not knowing if they arrived early enough to hear it.

“I know.” He says, flashing his own gleaming irises through his goggles. However, the tender moment does not last long as the hackles in Tech’s back thread through the malleable layers of his skin and clothing, rising in a feathered fan along his spine. He removes his protective headwear, tucking it into your pocket while looking directly into your eyes, his primeval shift coming on fast.

“Watch out!” You holler in warning, but Tech is able to sense the threat before it can even get close to him. Tech promptly turns his back to you, bracing for the barbaric confrontation head on, impeding its ambitious plight in claiming you for himself. These shackles are a curse, swinging you in place while your friends fight fearlessly in your stead. Frustratedly, you yank on the tethers but sadly only bruise yourself more in the process.

You begin to realize why Tech deposited his goggles with you, witnessing his outer exterior withdraw while engaged in this heated brawl. It’s different though, seeing him metamorphize while fending off your attackers. They come at him from every corner, yet he’s able to gouge out eyes, deliver bites harsh enough to shatter bone, and send the snarling masses whimpering with their tails hanging lowly between their legs all while caught between the partial extent of his shift.

More encircle him, looming like sharks hidden by the abyssal depths of ambiguous oblivion. Your sight has adjusted well enough to the vague environment and you’re able to pick your allies out from the horde. Tech remains closely in front of you, doing a considerable amount of crowd control alongside a larger, broader hound that you deduce to be none other than Wrecker, confirmed by the sight of his milky left eye. The first pair of your assailants are still occupied by the figures that put an end to your wardrobe malfunctions, one with a lengthy pelt the shade of pure obsidian while the other is as sterling as the coins in your wallet, an initiating action no doubt led by Hunter and Crosshair. 

Tech gets jumped on, a set of jaws fixed to his ear that almost slice it off his head, but he breaks through this biting hold, shoving his forearm into the brute’s neck and pushing him with ease until his back meets the wall. Tech immobilizes him, impaling on a perfectly placed iron hook through his spine. His quadruped appearance slowly reverts back to his human self, and you recognize him as one of the aggressors from the shop, lifeless and bested.

With Tech occupied, Wrecker totters on his hind legs, his towering outline crumbling to a motionless pile on the floor. You yank on your shackles again as you’ve nothing else to exert your energy over. Someone takes the bait, their untamed addiction for violence fueling these misdeeds. A scrutinizing bystander extends a clawed and hairy arm to try and stop this fool from falling for one of the oldest tricks in the book but is too late.

Like a good dog, Wrecker plays dead, luring the fanatical follower to his murderous end. At the assailant’s confident leap, he lunges, flinging himself in an arched pathway through the air in a daring pounce, but Wrecker catches him by the throat before he could even stick the landing. Within a blink of your eyes, Wrecker has him pinned to the ground as his own jaws crunch down, ripping apart the soft tissue of his jugular from the pillar of muscle that is his neck. Yet again, proof of their lethal nature has tilted its hand as another human corpse manifests in place of the beast Wrecker tore through, the magic no longer being sustained by a beating heart.

Onlookers howl in defiance as their pack members are dropping like flies, engaging with Hunter and Crosshair in a malignant standoff. As one tries to make his stance known with a charging lurch forward, his chieftain corrects him with an austere roar as he dominates the other masses, making them cower with flattened ears and wrinkled snouts. They reform their defensive lines, flanking each other with their noses pointed to the floor. 

That leaves Echo you’ve yet to locate, heedfully scanning the murky shadows for any sight of him when all of a sudden, the chains keeping you suspended have begun lowering you back down to the ground. The blunt disruption causes you to spin again, revealing the very person you were looking for hard at work activating the pulley to trigger your release. 

“Echo!” It’s a wonder if he can even catch your words through the onslaught, hard of hearing yourself. Although, as fate has a tendency to intervene, your cheerful vocation is terminated when a pair of robust arms pull you flush against a still-human body. You have been lowered to the point you can stand on your own two feet, but the constraints around your wrists pose a secondary obstacle. Echo throws the portion of leverage ropes aside and goes for a revolver identical to yours, most likely loaded with the very same silver rounds he gave to you. With your jaw upturned to the ceiling, a spiked index finger on the tip of your chin holds you in place. Their spare hand is used to keep the chains of your shackles down, pinning your arms to be joined in front of you.

“Stop. Right. There.” A final, unchanged follower maintains the vision of consuming your soul, his head bent right at the crook of your neck. He stands behind you, cleverly using you as a human shield to make himself a harder target for Echo to shoot. “Careful not to hurt mother.”

“She’s not your mother.” Echo’s stoicism leaves much to be desired, calculating his shot with your head in such close adjacency.

“Oh, that’s right.” He grips you even tighter to lick your neck, his wide tongue dragging up your cheek and next to your fluttering eye. He obnoxiously coats you in his sticky spittle, stringy and viscous as he slurps his tongue back into his mouth like a hungry puppy. “She’s yours.”

“She’s not ours either! She’s no one’s mother!” Echo argues with him, rejecting the relationship he thinks they have with you.

“Doesn’t seem like that to us.” He retorts, opening his maw for another bite but Echo’s inciting inquiry hinders his enterprise.

“What is it that you want?” Echo humors your captor, hoping to come to a less volatile end between the three of you.

“What do all living beings want?” He almost hums the words in a lazily joined depth of phrasing, resting his expanding rows of teeth against your shoulder as his face grows from a flattened structure to a pointed snout. “A place to belong.”

“I can’t help you with that.” Echo confronts him with logic, but it does not quell the skirmish.

“We don’t want your help, you imbecile!” His voice changes with his savage shift, more of his human physique dropping in clumps at your feet. “We want it from her.”

“Sorry, but she told you no.” Echo pulls the gun up to his eyeline, aiming for the beast’s head in case he tries anything dicey. 

“There are ways around that.” He tells Echo, headstrong and stubborn in his decision even if he knows it would kill him. You scream as blood spurts from the ripped section of flesh on your shoulder, thankfully not damaging any vital arteries, but you will surely succumb to the imprinting transformation if it is not rectified in a timely manner.

“NO!” Echo shouts before pulling the trigger and firing a shot directly between the eyes of the wolf that bit you. You collapse to the floor beside yet another sizzling and corrosive puddle of acid as this disruption signals the rest of Echo’s brothers to go prone and hit the deck as if it was rehearsed, giving Echo a clean chance to unload the five remaining rounds into the straggling assailants, killing all of them in one fell swoop.

The air is soon tainted with the blistering aroma of decay. With all threats eliminated, Echo is rejoined by his brothers. Wrecker pushes himself to the forefront and insists on carrying you out of the hideout himself, the rest following closely behind on all fours. You seize vigorously in his arms, the fresh bite infecting you with its venomous toxins. With your eyes rolling to the back of your head, Wrecker howls loudly, wailing in lament for what’s happened to you. He increases the speed of his gait, springing himself off rooftops by the cover of night with his brothers on his tail in a hasty retreat back home.

Wrecker kicks your door open, hurriedly morphing back into his human form to set you down on your sofa. It gives you a more lenient surface to continue your thrashing while everyone else scrambles around the house in search of remedies to ease your afflictions.

Hunter locates gauze and cotton pads to dress the wound while Crosshair fetches some hot water and clean towels. They assemble alongside Wrecker at the couch, cleaning the wound gently with the water before dressing it with the gauze to stop it bleeding. Tech closes the distance, reaching into your pocket to retrieve his goggles from your possession, placing them back over his face. He then turns to Echo, a contrite scorn developing in his features. “There’s only one way to stop this, Echo.”

“We’re not doing that!” Echo argues resolutely, denying the notion before it’s even said.

“What does he mean, Echo?” Wrecker urges to know, seated at your side trying to hold you stable.

“This.” Crosshair says, pulling out a violet vial of wolfsbane tincture. “It’s the only cure.”

“Are you insane?” Wrecker pushes the vial down to confront Crosshair for even having it in his possession. “That stuff is deadly to us! Even more so to humans!”

“And this isn’t?” Crosshair argues, pointing at your convulsing body on the couch, your clothes ripped apart with black and blue ligature marks on your wrist, all sealed with a bloodied nose and busted lip. “We’re almost out of time! You know she doesn’t want to turn into one of us!”

“Why do you still have that?” Echo asks, shocked he of all people would hold onto something as hazardous as poison.

“I thought it might come in handy.” Crosshair says with a sarcastic shrug, acknowledging their current predicament.

“Tech, how much of that is she able to metabolize before it… you know.” Hunter ventures to investigate the logistics of giving you the medicine, not knowing where to even begin when it comes to dosages.

“Judging by her height and weight, an eighth of the vial would be enough to start. We microdose in these increments until it’s completely flushed out of her system.” Tech is already preparing syringes, getting a makeshift intravenous administration station ready. Sterilizing your arm with a bit of alcohol, he taps the meat of your joint to make your veins more visible, pushing the first dose into your system. “Hold her down.” 

The boys reach for an appendage each, feeling the sporadic jerking and jostling of your limbs from beneath their tightening grip. The tincture works similar to a detox, cleansing your blood of the cursed venom, but the process is grueling and prolonged. You scream like banshee, your bones breaking into larger, more archaic structures before painfully reverting back to your human form, still shrieking in agony with every contortion. 

“How long is this supposed to take?” Wrecker’s regret comes through prominently in his voice as he pushes his entire weight down on keeping you in place, his brothers likewise struggling with your disorderly maneuvers. “This is not okay!”

“It’s part of the treatment, Wrecker!” Hunter tells him, raising his voice in part to be better heard while also expressing his own dejection of his inability to pacify this infernal possession. “Don’t let go!”

What felt like an eternity was only a process that lasted thirty minutes at the most. Your seizing has stopped, but your heartbeat beckons to follow in suit. You’ve gone cold and colorless as you manage to take a breath once every couple of seconds. Practically dead, you retain a few slight signs of life, albeit incredibly faint. 

“Is she?” Echo is the first to release his grip for fear he will bruise you further, your body having fallen still and lifeless to the point he cannot utter the word.

“Deceased? No.” Tech monitors your pulse and confirms activity. “This agent behaves much like the humans’ morphine; similar reactions happen when administered in excess.”

“So, she’s not hurting anymore?” Wrecker asks, petting your head to move the sweaty strands of hair out of your face, slowly revealing your sunken cheeks and rouged eyes. 

“She’s comatose.” Tech also displays a comforting gesture towards you in the form of soft dabs of a moistened towel being pressed to the parts of your face Wrecker cleared of your locks. “Completely unconscious.”

“When do we give her the next dose?” Echo asks, wanting to stay on top of your medicinal schedule.

“Once again in six hours, and then every twelve hours after that until we’ve exhausted the vial’s reserve. 

“We’ll stay awake with her in shifts.” Hunter suggests, exhausted from the turn of events. “I’ll take first watch. The rest of you, get some rest.”

“Hunter, let me stay up with you.” Echo asks, concerned with the well-being of his brother.

“I got this.” He smiles, sending his brother down the hall to nurse their own wounds and sleep in his bed. “See you in six hours.”

As they all depart to their assigned rooms, Hunter looks at the vial, then at you. Shallow breaths exit your mouth as he ruminates over Crosshair’s possession of this foul substance while thankful he kept it after all this time. Tech had manufactured the concoction as a precautionary measure were they to enter a suicide pact. A chronic source of their pain comes from being forced to suppress an intrinsic part of themselves in order to conform to a societal expectation. They’re outcasts, rejected by all but with a value and worth no one else understands. When you found them and gave them a place to stay while asking for nothing in return, it gave them hope that kindness was still out there, and that they could one day deserve it. Of course, the presence of institutions, traditions and structure are there for the safety of the collective, but when it goes too far to the point that people refuse to question their leaders, it results in a plague of close mindedness where everyone’s perspective becomes rigid and stale.

When Tech made a vial for each of them, his brothers were insulted with the notion of offing themselves, pouting their portions down the drain. Crosshair kept his though, even after all this time because he still sits with the idea of giving up.

It’s nice seeing you finally at rest. Hunter sits at the edge of the sofa, his head in his hands with the chilly vial pressed to his skin. It’s smooth sailing at first, that is until the episodes of illness started to surface. Your body is beginning to reject the wolfsbane, cold sweats brought on by torrid fevers and the first thing you’re greeted with upon waking up is ballooning cheeks full of vomit. You groan and gurgle, clamping a hand over your mouth as you heave. Hunter is snapped out of his drowsy interlude, alerted by the sound of your gagging. 

“Oh! Here! Take this!” He scrambles to locate a sort of barf bag, a thick paper sack from a pastry sleeve you purchased on the street. It still smells of sweet crumbs, now soiled by your puke as you empty your stomach into the receptacle. Hunter lets out a relieved sigh when you manage to get every drop into the sack, handing it over to him to discard.

Just as fast as you woke up, you are out again, sleeping off more of the exhaustion. Hunter steps out of the room and rouses Echo for the next dose as well as shift change. This cycle continues until everyone has had a turn alone with you. With nothing left in your stomach, you no longer feel the need to spill your guts, able to recover with long measures of motionless sleep. Hunter, Echo, Tech and Wrecker’s shifts all come and pass, leaving Crosshair to be the last one by your side when you open your eyes for good this time. 

You shift around under the covers, making fists with your hands to rub the crystalized sleep from your eyes. Crosshair watches you slowly regain your senses, and you don’t notice him sitting in the recliner opposite to you at first. When you finally do, he is at the edge of his seat, the tips of his fingers digging into the plush arms of the chair. “I’ll go tell them you’re awake.”

“Wait!” You blurt at him through a coarse modulation, your voice cracking with the sudden exertion, coughing a couple times, a sharp rasp escaping you. “Water, please?”

He redirects his course, stepping towards a nearby coffee table to retrieve a cup of fresh water with a straw in it, reserved for you at this particular moment. You weakly sit up, a difficult task as an extended period of laying here has you almost totally integrated with the cushions. He takes a knee in front of the couch, easing the straw into your mouth so that you can hydrate yourself. Though, he does not anticipate your raging thirst, having to pull the drink back so you don’t choke on it. 

“Easy.” He cautions you sympathetically while you gasp between slurps. “Slow sips.”

You listen to him, taking in air between each drink. Once your palate has been refreshed, he presents his initial idea to you now as a proposition. “Do you want me to let them know you’re up?”

“No.” You admit with a foggy gloom replacing the usual sparkle in your eye. “Just be with me for a second, okay?”

Crosshair takes his place in the recliner again, agreeing to what it is you request of him. An uneasiness hangs between you two, then you speak. “What happened?”

“I think I should get Tech to explain that.” He fidgets dubiously in the chair, scooting to the edge like he’s about to stand up.

“I don’t want some incomprehensible scientific report.” The weight of your words keep Crosshair seated. “I want you to tell me in your own way. What. Happened.”

Crosshair sits back, abandoning the idea to summon everyone else. “You almost died.”

You reach with your right hand to the opposite shoulder, wrapped multiple times over with cotton pads and gauze tape. The sweetly spiced scent of honey and turmeric bleeds through the layers, an orange stain seeping to the surface. You groan at the soreness, despotic memories flashing with the perspective of Echo firing his gun in your direction while also seeing a pair of jaws rip a chunk from your shoulder. “Yeah, I remember that.”

“No, you don’t understand.” Crosshair clarifies, hinting at the hidden depth in the events that unfolded. 

“Help me then.” You plead, clutching to the blanket they draped over you to warm your frigid bones.

“It’s not the bite that kills you.” Crosshair twiddles his thumbs, interlocking the rest of his fingers as he looks down. “It’s the venom.” 

He points at the syringes and the empty vial that stained the glass purple sitting on the counter in the kitchen, bloodied bandages and bottles of astringent still left out. You sit with his confession for a few moments, pushing your blanket aside to see the blackened veins spreading like a web at the injection site sealed by a cotton round and a band of tape.

“Most humans cannot survive an attack to that extent. We had to use unconventional methods to flush it out of your system.” Crosshair continues as you take the emptied vial in your hand.

The scent is reminiscent of forest pine and ashy sage with sour hints of citrus. “Wolfsbane.”

“Yes.” He conforms with a nod.

“Doesn’t this kill you too?” You ask, puzzled by their possession of the bullets and now this.

“It’s supposed to.” Crosshair shrugs, hiding behind a wall of indifference again.

“Why?” You press further, setting the vial down.

“To neutralize the venom.” He says so matter-of-factly, as if there is no other reason they wanted to save you.

“Did you know I would make it?” There’s a long pause when you request his thoughts on this, proving that he needed time to think about it.

“We all had faith you would.” He finally tells you.

“Why didn’t any of you say something?” No longer holding back, you are determined to learn the reason for their deceit.

“We couldn’t bear the possibility of your rejection.” He says the words like they poison him to acknowledge, revolted expression for allowing himself to become so vulnerable.

“That’s ridiculous.” You scoff, seeing your friendship so plainly while still blind to all their baggage.

“Is it?” Crosshair argues, standing up now and talking down on you. “When you’re hunted wherever you go? When people judge you without even bothering to understand your origins?”

“Crosshair I-”

“We wanted to save you from the curse of knowing what it’s like to be hated. To be an outcast. To be called a monster.” A single tear escapes his eye, falling down the reticle marking before he could hide evidence of its glimmer. “Not so ridiculous, is it?”

The doors in the hallway open, everyone else entering the room when they hear the commotion at the exact moment Crosshair storms out, remarking one last thing to them before leaving the house to sit on the porch. “She’s awake.”

“So, he told you?” The dust settles and Echo can connect the dots.

“Yes.” You flatly confirm. “He did.”

They all silently wait for further reaction, the impending rejection they have felt their entire lives, but it doesn’t come.

“You should have told me what you are.” You scold them, but with ardor and not animosity as you allow your disapproval to switch to gratitude. “When I called them monsters before, it was more in terms of their character. As far as I am concerned, you’re my saviors.”

“Did you tell him that?” Wrecker points behind himself, referring to the lonesome Crosshair sitting in exclusion on the veranda outside.

You shakily emerge from the cushions, eager to get your bones moving after being stuck in one place for so long. The cool night air greets your lungs anew, reviving your once faltered essence. Crosshair does not flee upon your approach, letting you sit with your legs folded next to him. He bounces his foot, a fist resting on his knee until you make a reach for it. You unfurl his clenched fingers, relaxing his hand so that you can interlock your fingers with his.

His leg stops bouncing and his tempered breaths ease into long, tranquil spells. The glimmer of gold in his eyes shows you just how close his anger was to getting the better of him, fading to a more welcoming brown. He holds your hand, squeezing it tightly while you both gaze up at the gleaming full moon high up in the sky. His ache to connect, to be loved and to belong is thickly masked by outward apathy, fury and avoidance. Crosshair had taken a step into vulnerability to see what you would do with it, jumping the gun when he expects you to behave like everyone else.

“No matter where we go, we’ll never be able to change the way people see us.” His jaw trembles, fighting back his emotions with all his might.

“You changed the way I see you.” You give his hand another squeeze, smiling impassionedly while looking into his eyes. “And I truly see you, Crosshair. I see all of you.”

You may not be able to change society, but that does not mean individual hearts are unable to be enlightened in order to find and create a loving family. The rest of them join you with Crosshair on the porch, sitting together under the moon and rekindling your relationship just as easily as it was challenged. These little steps that initiate a long journey to healing have begun.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Who’s this?” Captain Rex addresses Hunter just before they part ways following the mission debriefing.

“Oh, I don’t know.” He looks to the nameless woman lying on a hovering stretcher amidst the now calm but cloudy battlefield. Other soldiers are being loaded onto stretchers and divided categorically into survivors or the fallen. This woman is among the survivors, yet she wears no designation, no affiliation insignias. Her alignment in this war is an enigma. Regardless of this, they refuse to leave her behind. “She took an incredible beating though.”

“How is she still alive?” Rex looks at the extensive wounds she’s sustained. A large gash obstructs her left eye, coating her face in vibrant streaks of crimson. She’s been stabbed, a singular entry wound blooms at the lower-right quadrant of her abdomen. A very apparent fracture in her left femur pierces through her suit. On top of it all, she’s singed from head to toe with superficial burns, and the protective padding on each glove has been ground down all the way through to her knuckles. “She’s practically on death’s door.”

“Iron will to live if I ever saw it.” Hunter pushes the cart with her incapacitated body into the possession of the shiny medics where they emphatically load her up on the Republic frigate. 

“Are you going to check on her when she wakes up?” Rex flatly asks his brother in arms, wondering if he has any intention of keeping tabs on this mystery woman. “Figure out her story?”

“Do you even need to ask, cap?” Hunter rhetorically confirms, a confident smirk appearing on his face. “We could use a soldier like her on our side.”

Weeks pass and you’re kept in a medically induced coma to ensure you recover fully and with as little pain as possible. You couldn’t wake up soon enough, unable to handle any more of this absence. Absence of feeling, thought, hunger, thirst. This absence of awareness is a curse. You don’t know why, but something about not being able to have control over your bodily autonomy is unnerving, even in this trance-like state you’re being kept in. The psychological panic is setting in and you’re beginning to reawaken while still residing deep inside the inoperable husk of your body. The pacing of your breath accelerates, and your pulse monitor resounds an alarm that beeps repetitively in tandem with your heartbeat. Medical service droids hover over you with their beady, illuminated eyes pointing their blinding glare directly into your sensitive corneas. You’re slowly becoming more and more aware, the discomfort of foreign sensations igniting like flames inside and out. 

The droids stumble out of your way when you try to sit up to see just what exactly they have hooked up to you. Reaching for the things causing you the most discomfort, you firmly grasp the endotracheal intubation system currently lodged in your esophagus. With a singular swift motion, you yank it out and cough up the residual lubricant and phlegm all over yourself and the equipment. The next object of annoyance is this eyepatch over your left eye, rendering your current levels of sight inadequate until you rip the gauze from your face. You spill onto the floor in fright, eager to get away from the dispassionate machines that pore over you, stripping yourself of the remaining gadgets and monitors still sticking to your skin or cuffed around your limbs.

There lies a shred of salvation in the form of a row of enclosed storage cupboards that line the base of the room. The echoing chirps and beeps of the droids as they approach is terrifyingly disorientating, never mind how absolutely garish the room is, what with its countless panels upon panels of floodlights. You whimper as you navigate sealing yourself into the cupboard by utilizing a stray electrical cord and fashioning a simple slipknot over the handle. With the remaining length of the cord, you hold on tight to the opposite end of it, coiling it around your palms a few times over. Cramped between canisters of astringent and other cleaning supplies, the doors rattle from the outside, testing your waning strength as the torrid heat of tears paint your face when all of a sudden, the struggle just… stops.

“What are you doing?! Leave her be!” An unfamiliar voice commands from the other side. Despite the illusion of your exterior threat having been thwarted, you don’t let go of the cord. You don’t know where you are or how long you’ve been here. As far as you can ascertain, you can’t even recall your name. The voice hollers even louder, ordering the brainless machines to give whoever wishes to enter the ability to do so.

Your knuckle bones peek through the opaque layers of your scarred skin as you clench your fists around the cord even tighter. Droids are one thing, being confronted by an unknown human is a different beast entirely. With no intention of letting go, you fight with the cupboard door hinges, pushing their limits in order to stay closed. The shadows of assorted figures are ushered away from the exterior of the cupboard until a lone silhouette remains.

“The environment is free of perceived hostiles.” The voice sounds concerned as it speaks with a vernacular you contend with, but you’re cautious to give into his kindness. “You are safe.”

“No.” You respond flatly, reinforcing your grip on the cupboard doors.

“You can’t stay in there forever.” He adds, hoping to reassure you but it doesn’t work. You stay where you are, fingers going numb at this point, but you remain steadfast and keep the cupboard sealed. The slack of the cord is once again tested, but you defiantly tug it towards yourself and allow for absolutely zero leeway to be afforded by the doors. “ Hello? ”

“W-what is this place?” You timidly ask, intent on identifying more about where you have end up.

“Your contusions and fractures were tremendously severe, so we brought you back to the ocean planet of Kamino to recover.” He tells you, patient and benevolent.

“Who’s we?” You inquire, unable to see anything but the darkened interior of this cupboard.

“Why, the Grand Army of the Republic of course.” Pride and reverence come through strongly in his voice when he regards his capable clone brethren.

“Why can’t I remember anything?” The dread in your accounts illustrate just how vulnerable you are, completely at their mercy. “What did you do to me?”

“All we did was assist in your healing.” He explains apologetically. “It’s possible that memory loss occurred as a result of your injuries.”

You and this unknown man share a moment of silence for a while until it is broken again by his persistent involvement.

“This knot.” The person on the other side of the cupboard challenges your resistance with a different approach, opting to give you praise where it is due. “Very industrious of you. Quite an effective fastening method.”

“Don’t try to change the subject!” You demand, jostling the doors so that they forcibly clatter against the frame. “What do you want from me?”

“I was told to check on you.” You can hear his palm drag along on the exterior of the door, petting its manufactured smoothness. “Won’t you come out of there?”

“I don’t want to.” You deny him the opportunity for further confrontation, maintaining your enclosed position.

“Is there anything I can do to help you feel safe?” He continues to press you for information, but you’ve burned through all the energy it takes to talk, still sore from having ripped the tube from your throat.

“I want to be left alone… Please.” You admit in defeat, a soft wavering of your speech as you succumb to sadness.

“As you wish.” He rises to his feet, and you can hear the sound of his receding footsteps leave the room, closing the door and even locking it behind him so that no one else can invade your space before you’re ready.

Your nerves are still shot, trepidation setting in deeper than the panic, so you decide to tie the cord to a loop in your waistband, releasing some of the pressure that’s been building in your swollen fingers. Finally able to relax in this confined isolation, you notice that you’re feeling cozier in this little den you’ve made for yourself.

It takes a while for you to adjust to this new normal, having fallen asleep right in the cupboard with the cord still secured to your waistband. You reawaken, a sharp stinging sensation annoying you in the back of your throat. Coughing repetitively, you make attempt after attempt at clearing your airway, annoyed when a section of phlegm remains lodged so persistently that you cannot draw it out. 

Your noisy dilemma is put to a halt, a hand clamped over your mouth when you hear the same gait that walked through here before approach from the now opened blast door. Strangely, no words are uttered. He says nothing as he sets something down on the floor a couple feet to the left of the cupboard. Holding your breath, you do not wish to announce your awareness of his presence, fearful that you might have to engage in conversation. 

You’re dying to get air into your lungs, but this man sure is taking his time, lingering in the doorway for a few moments before resealing the hatch. Though, the second you hear metal sliding against the reinforced threshold, you release all the contained coughs and finally dislodge the obstruction in your airways enough to proceed. Untying the cord, you struggle for breath as the fatigue of your suffocating predicament develops. Pushing the door open with the base of your forearm, you tumble out, crawling on all fours in order to sit with your back against the wall. Your eyes slowly adjust to the burning, brightness of the medical wing’s setting; a surgical necessity to keep environments like this particularly beaming. At last, your gaze lands on a tray of a somewhat vibrant selection of food accompanied by a tall, cylindrical canteen filled to the brim with purified water. 

The corners of your mouth are no longer anchored down, lifting up slightly at the sweet sight of the tray having been set on the floor, with no pressure to return to the bed. On your hands and knees, you drag your sore body back to the cupboard and take the tray of food as well as the canteen into the den with you, emptying the space of cleaning products and storage bins to afford more area to rest. Hunched over the tray, you examine the assortment left for you. There’s a bowl of warm soup with medallions of protein and vegetables swimming in the thick broth. An enclosed foil sleeve of sweet biscuits is labeled distinctly different from the salty crackers beside them, blue stripes instead of red on their packaging. Although, what is catching your eye even more than everything else is the single ripened meiloorun, its nectar wafting on the air and causing your stomach to involuntarily contract with hunger.

The clean water soothes your throat as it glides past your lips, taking gulp after gulp until you choke on the excess, having gotten ahead of yourself. Replacing the cap on the canteen, you set it down on the floor of the cupboard to instead reach for the bit of fruit.

As soon as you sink your teeth into it, something happens. Foggy mental connections are formed but are not fully established, making you feel as if you’re forgetting something. It bothers you, persistent as this mystery hangs on the tip of your tongue just the same as the nectar, only to dissipate when the flavor does.

Once the bit of fruit has been completely consumed, you begin working at the stew, utilizing the crackers to soak up some of the hearty broth. It softens the crackers, adding a degree of enjoyable texture to the soup. You eat it in its entirety, surprised at the fact that your stomach aches for more when your bowl is emptied. You down the rest of the water before discarding the refuse on the tray with dirty dishes and foil sleeves. Holding the stack of sweet biscuits in your palms, you back into the opposite corner of the cupboard after setting the tray back on the floor outside, extending your legs so that you can position the doors slightly ajar. 

The biscuits are snappy and brittle, breaking off into crumbs with every bite. Despite this flaw in production, the flavor is remarkably appealing. Notes of honey and spices linger on your tongue as you chew, satisfied by these treats. Though, your moment of reprieve doesn’t last long as the blast door slides open once again.

Satiating your hunger is rendered unimportant as your priorities immediately shift when confronted with this unknown party. You peek through the tiny crack in the cupboard doors and identify an armored man walking towards your den. He examines your empty tray through a pair of golden lenses laid within a set of goggles secured to his face. Without incident, he bends down to collect it, taking a knee in front of the cupboard dangerously close to your hiding spot. You recognize his gait and determine that he’s the same person that spoke to you before.

“I see the food was to your liking.” He mentions politely, but you instinctively drop the sweet biscuits in your possession and reach for the cord you tied to the exterior handles, tightening the slack to shut the opening. He sighs at this action of yours, afflicted by your reclusive nature. “I have more of those biscuits if you want them. Or would you prefer the fruit?”

Releasing your hold on the cord a bit, you crack the doors open just enough to see a fresh meiloorun in one hand and a foil sleeve in the other. The label across the packaging is blue and you definitely want the sweetness it conceals. He speaks to you again. You can hear him clearly without the barrier dampening the tenor in his voice. “It would require you to leave the cupboard.”

Unwilling to trust but eager to tend to your own needs, hunger has overridden your logic, and you don’t even humor the thought that these goods have been tampered with until it’s too late. However, it’s been a significant amount of time since you started your feast. If there was anything wrong with what you had just consumed, you would have seen the effects by now.

“I don’t see why you can’t just leave them on the floor like last time.” You argue through the little slat.

“That’s a shame.” He acquiesces to your request, setting the sleeve of biscuits and meiloorun in the same spot he put the tray on. “We would like to formally meet you.”

Another person comes in view of the thin slat. He wears a bright red bandana with darker hair framing his features accentuated by a skeletal tattoo across the left portion of his face. “You were out for a long time. Do you remember anything?”

Concentration on that which does not exist strains your mind as a headache emerges in real time when asked this question. Through ringing ears and splitting temples, you manage to utter a response. “N-no…”

“Does Corellia ring a bell?” The long-haired one asks. “What about the Unbroken Clan?”

“The Unbroken what ?” You are all mixed up by what he’s saying, not a word of it landing where it needs to. “I-I’m sorry. I don’t remember anything beyond waking up here.”

“Give her some space, Hunter.” A third man appears, putting himself between you and the other two. You can make out cybernetics spanning along his bald scalp as well as a singular prosthetic on one of his arms when he puts down an offering of folded fabrics. “Here. It’s a new set of clothes. We will leave so that you can change.”

“Aw!” An additional person you did not account for exclaims in dismay, shouting loudly from afar. “I wanted to introduce myself.”

“You can show off to the shinies in the mess hall all you want, Wrecker.” Yet another unseen person antagonizes the gruff and loud one as they file out of the room, speaking with a varying articulation that sets him apart from all of the others. 

Once you know for certain that they’re gone, you emerge from your cupboard and set your sights on the sleeve of biscuits and plump melon atop the clean bundle. Following the trials and tribulations of your recovery, you eventually meet them all, learning names beyond the ones said in passing. Once given clinical permissions, they are quick to put you to work in testing your skills in CQC and weapons proficiency, but promptly discern that you are lacking any formal training and wonder how you even found yourself on such a hectic battlefield in the first place. You manage to train hard enough through rounds of physical therapy and vigorous forging of skills to be deployed with your saviors as a secondary field surgeon.

It’s been a few months since you’ve been taken under the wing of this capable clone force. You want for nothing, certain that you’ve found your calling. The routine of daily priorities becomes your lifeline. It gives you something to focus on, a healthy outlet to put your energy to. Despite not originating from Kamino, you earn a numerical designation akin to your associates by the sequence of CC-47713, but they all refer to you by the name of Allie due to its visual likeness to the number sequence.

You had a rather rocky start to overcome, but this incredible facility of proliferation turns into an established home. However, the fabric of reality becomes tested when you and your squad receive a questionable mission demanding your diverse levels of expertise. According to your superiors, there has been a set of problematic bounty hunters causing a nuisance on the jungle planet of Devaron that need to be eliminated. 

“What business do we have here in the Corellian Trade Spine?” Hunter proposed this inquiry, suspicious of why they were specifically requested to this location.

“What is your sudden obsession with Corellia?” Echo asks him, paying no mind at their current placement in the planetary system.

“That’s where we found Allie.” Hunter lowers his voice, suddenly conscious of the mention around you.

“Yeah, but that’s all a blank space in my head. Corellia has no significance to me.” You turn on your heels and face them, confident and with a smile. “I’m at home wherever I am with you guys.”

“You might want to rethink that notion before speaking so soon.” Crosshair adds, annoyed with this humid and insect-infested environment already. “It looks like we are here.”

You reach a building that seems to be an abandoned droid manufacturing facility. Judging by the looks of the rusty equipment exposed to the elements, the building hasn’t been touched in ages. Wrecker examines the structure from top to bottom, studying its eerie appearance before speaking. “Where did you say this lead came from?”

“It was an anonymous tip from a local concerned citizen.” Tech clarifies, reading the report directly from his data pad.

“It doesn’t seem like there’s many locals in this neck of the woods.” Hunter remains vigilant and skeptical of entering the facility. “Maybe they were all driven away?”

“Something’s off.” Crosshair declares. “The place is clearly deserted.”

“You’re right.” Echo agrees. “It doesn’t have the appearance of a bounty hunter hideout to me.”

“Wait, who’s that?” Hunter’s attention is drawn to a silhouette emerging from the facility’s depths. 

“Tech, did the report say anything about negotiations?” You ask, growing increasingly confused by the brewing tension. “Are we meeting a contact here?”

“Negative. Our objective is to eradicate the area of insurgents.” Tech deciphers the orders for the group, the rest of them huddling together on guard.

“There’s only one.” Wrecker raises the barrel of his DC-17m and aims it at the unknown person approaching. “This will be a piece of Uj cake.”

“Stop!” Hunter calls out to the mysterious shadow. “Put your hands on your head and walk backwards to the sound of my voice!”

The shadow does not obey, steadfast in its approach so Hunter addresses him again, even louder and more serious. “This is your final warning! If you do not comply, we will be required to use force!”

“Pity. I expected there to be more of you.” The shadow speaks, seemingly privy to something you nor your clone associates are aware of. “Whose idea was it to forgo backup?”

“There’s six of us and only one of you.” Crosshair adds assertively. “We don’t need any backup.”

“Mmm. Bold, are we?” The nameless person taunts you and your squad, instigating this interaction.

“Who are you? Did you call us here?” Echo demands answers, unable to pinpoint if this man is wielding any weapons or in possession of other invisible threats.

“I am the Grand Leader of the Unbroken Clan.” He starts, shedding some light on his identity at last. With a swift removal of his hood, you are able to see a head of silver hair now shining in the darkness that gives reference to his withering age. “Well… at least I was, before you all ruined that for me all those months ago.”

“Ruined what? You’re not making any sense!” Hunter is desperate to form the correct mental connections, but there is something missing that he and the rest have not realized. "Whatever we did, we were just following our orders!"

“Krynthia, tell me your duty.” The Grand Leader ignores Hunter, speaking only to you at this moment despite calling you by a moniker you do not recognize. A strange occurrence happens. That name, those keywords flip a switch in your head as your thoughts have been seamlessly overridden. You catch a glimpse of something in your mind’s eye, focusing on it so intently that you cannot fully perceive reality, having been submerged in psychosis. 

"Krynthia?" Wrecker looks between you and the Grand Leader in confusion. "Who the heck is Krynthia?"

“My duty is to serve the Grand Leader of the Unbroken Clan.” With each word you utter, panic has transitioned to calmness, and you feel at ease. What’s to come is second nature, it occurs as easily as breathing. You walk into the platform of your psyche, a painted and polished facade composed of hand-picked memories that would render you wholly corrupted if you were conscious of the dark truths they conceal. Each step forces you to descend deeper into the deceitful narratives, slipping away by the second. You’ve disassociated, no longer receiving the feedback that surrounds you as it truly appears. Everyone that was once an ally is now your enemy. 

“Krynthia, tell me your fear.” He beckons another question, presenting you with the threshold of annihilation at your will.

You twitch and shiver, losing yourself in his words. “My fear is to fail the Grand Leader of the Unbroken Clan by not fulfilling my duty.”

“Allie! Snap out of it!” Hunter grips you by the shoulders, shaking you in place in hopes of bringing you to your senses, but you’re already too far gone. “Don’t listen to him!”

“Krynthia!” He yells the name loudly this time, rousing the very demons he embedded deep within you. “Tell me your craft!”

“My craft is death.” A moment of petrifying trepidation passes, and you respond, ears ringing with the echo of this covert command. The voices of your squad are now drowned out and muffled, unable to reach you as you are pushed six feet deep into your subconscious.

You are teleported to a happier period in your life. With every step, the world's appearance around you transitions into an elegant ballroom. Every surface in the space has been polished, shining illustriously. The clatter of your heels against the floor is enchanting as it reverberates through the halls with sparkles of sunshine peeking through the curtains along every wall.

Then, there he is. Your father can be seen at the center of the room awaiting your arrival. He is a pillar of strength and reverence in your household as you live to make him proud with every fiber of your being. His arm is outstretched, an invitation to take advantage of this pristine dance hall. You accept and he dexterously twirls you about with grace, your feet coming in contact with nearly every inch of the floor. He feels warm, his smile even warmer. You do not wish to fail him. You would rather die than be a source of disappointment.

“What did you do?” Hunter’s bewilderment is contagious as the rest of them begin to back away from your suddenly rigid form. Your eyes have become so dilated, there’s nothing left of your irises. Only two darkened black holes remain embedded within your skull.

“Hunter…” Echo starts to back away, unnerved by your alarming activation. “Any suggestions?”

“Be careful! You don’t want to hurt your little friend, do you?” The Grand Leader provokes them even further while you are trapped in this transition.

Crosshair and Tech are the closest in proximity to you. They set their blasters to stun but you disarm them before they could align their sights. You reach for Tech’s gun first, fluidly dodging the stun charge Crosshair delivers as Tech completely absorbs the blast. He is down for a second but not out just yet. It is only when you utilize Crosshair’s momentum against him that they both are incapacitated, launching Crosshair’s entire body at Tech in a retaliative slam.

Standing upright, you crush both blasters in your palms with an unfathomable amount of strength, rendering the firearms useless. Intimidatingly sneering over your shoulder, there are still three opponents in need of handling, and you will not stop until your mission is accomplished. 

Wrecker, Hunter and Echo begin to elicit crowd control equipment in order to take you down using non-lethal methods, but the flash grenades and smoke bombs pose a nonexistent threat to you while debilitating themselves even more. They have seen you in training and would never bring themselves to inflict harm on someone they call a friend. And yet, this side of you is so different, nightmarish and demonic. What exactly would it take to wake you up from this abhorrent dream?

Violent combat begins but your mind is in the space between here and nowhere. You’re sitting at the edge of a bottomless pit and the abyss calls to you, urges you to just give in. Slip into its depths and be swallowed whole. The more you focus on the abyss, you begin to hear voices, see lights. But it all grows fainter and fainter the longer you sit here on the edge, you start to forget what it all meant in the first place. It frightens you, the distant sounds of distress and raised voices. Should you fall and be cast into the unknown? Or should you stay up here where it’s solitary and safe? It’s so cold… Maybe you should stay where you are after all… 

“Krynthia? Is there something wrong?” Your father can see that you are distracted, breaking the cadence of the ambient music being flooded into your ears as it surrounds you in the ballroom. The methodical maneuvers you pose in tandem with the brilliant symphony mimics the fateful dance you are engaged with in reality, engaged in a deathly skirmish.

“I-I don’t know.” You look around for a hint that would give you even a shred of revelation but come up short when all you see are grandiose furnishings and bedazzled decor. “I just feel like I’ve forgotten something.”

“Nonsense.” He smiles at you, pushing a lock of hair behind your ear.  “Everything you could ever want or need can be found right here.”

“Yeah…” You accept, unable to pinpoint the source of so much bother. Perhaps it’s best to forget about it. “You’re right, Papa.”

“Of course, I am.” He smug but humorously agrees. “I love you, my dearest Krynthia.”

“I love you too, Papa.” You beam at him, enchanted by the world in his eyes.

“Now, it’s about time we had our afternoon tea.” He moves to the side and a large table brimming with treats and savory dishes appears out of thin air. You do not question the dreamlike conjuring methods of this cuisine, far too eager to indulge and fill your belly. Your father plucks a single meiloorun from the abundant spread, offering it to you knowing it is your favorite.

“Allie! Allie please! Can you hear me?!” Echo is caught in a chokehold while Hunter screams at you, trying to loosen your unrelenting grip with the assistance of Wrecker’s fortified hands. You are unaware just how close you are to crushing his windpipe, operating out of blind necessity within your encoded core functions. Echo falls limp in your arms as Wrecker and Hunter sever your hold with an abrupt shove to collect him and back away, wary of becoming your next victims. Thankfully, Crosshair and Tech have regained their composure, disbanding the hesitation they once reflected in their brothers.

“You named her like a house pet?” The Grand Leader scoffs. “I didn’t think assets of the Republic were allowed to be so sentimental.”

Crosshair sprints towards you, landing an incredibly forceful punch across your jaw but the disruption doesn’t faze you even the smallest bit. You assess the reception of your next threat, finding that Tech has taken the low ground in an attempt to sweep your feet out from under you. With a simple sidestep, you are able to evade the affected area of his attack, but it lands you directly into the unforgiving hold of Wrecker’s bear hug. 

“Why! Why are you doing this!?” Wrecker keeps your arms restrained as he shouts in your ears, but your legs are still at large, kicking and squirming with all your might. You release guttural screams and primal growls, frustrated by your immobility. 

“You brought this on yourselves!” The Grand Leader announces. “When the Mourner’s Wail Syndicate forged a rebellion against my clan, you were the last nail in the coffin! The death of my Krynthia rests on your shoulders! My legacy was threatened by your war efforts, and I had no choice but to engineer an heir of my own! I have created the perfect daughter, an epitome of a human weapon!”

Wrecker struggles to keep you contained, absorbing every bit of aggression you are delivering while Tech and Crosshair experiment with an array of tranquilizers and sedatives in his arsenal but none of them are taking effect. The maniacal energy seething from you is pure agony blended with fury and rage. Tech and the others can hardly recognize you from the seemingly harmless person you were before.

 You plant a strong kick across Tech’s chest plate to afford some distance between him and Crosshair before sinking your teeth into the tiny, exposed gap in Wrecker’s armor at his wrist. You bite down so hard you begin to taste the bitter, iron-flavored ichor soaking into his under suit when your teeth break past his skin barrier. 

“GAH!” Wrecker shouts, letting you go from the shock of this wound you inflicted. You lunge at him, securing yourself to his torso with your intertwined legs hooked at the ankles as you punch him repeatedly in his concealed face. His helmet offers a degree of protection, but the sheer force of your aggression is enough to effectively ring Wrecker’s bell. Unable to take your beating anymore, he grips you tightly by the waist and tosses you away from him as hard as he can. You tumble into the space of the Grand Leader, his approving expression causing the brainwashing to become reinforced.

“Yes! That’s my girl!” His cheers of approval instigate your unhinged behavior when he bears witness to the cruel nature he programmed into you. “Finish them!”

“She’s being controlled!” Echo groans alertly after having been roused from his incapacitated state. He rises to his feet with the help of his brothers. “She wouldn’t be doing this otherwise!”

“We have to snap her out of it!” Hunter urgently relays to his brothers. “Allie! It’s me, Hunter! Don’t you recognize us?”

You tune out the words they’re saying to you, operating much like a machine. They struggle to dodge every swing of your fists and sweep of your legs, but you fight dirty, dealing cheap shots and low blows.

“You don’t have to do this!” Tech takes a few punches to his abdomen, fighting through the pain to bob and weave your lightning-fast movements. Just when you raise your leg for a kick, he spins around to flank you from behind where he blasts your temple with his armored elbow.

You stagger for a moment, dazed and unsteady as you blink away the discomfort, an even fiercer migraine coming on. It fuels your rage; another guttural battle cry emits from the pit of your stomach as you charge at him.

Echo steps in to defend Tech, letting the mechanical enhancements of his leg prosthetics add a damaging weight to the hindering brace of his knee into your gut. It tortures him to hurt you this way, remorseful as he is the reason the air has been deliberately void from your lungs. You cough and choke on the lack of breath, your appearance having fallen into a feebler state, but they must not let their guard down for they are intent on keeping each other alive no matter how untethered you become. “This isn’t you! You know who you are!”

You finally catch your breath, feigning exhaustion to lure Wrecker in. With one misstep, he is close enough so that you can unsheathe his vibro-knife secured to his leg and begin slashing superficial cuts into the vulnerable flesh that his armor does not cover. He hisses and groans at each laceration, but he doesn’t hold a single one against you. Instead, he intends to pacify you with kindness, clamping his massive hands over yours to end this attack as best he can with as little pain as possible. “Remember Kamino! Remember our home!”

“Don’t you get it?” The Grand Leader mocks Wrecker’s hopeful disposition. “Property is not afforded the luxury of choice!”

“Listen to yourself!” Crosshair attempts to attack The Grand Leader, but you abandon the vibro-knife he refuses to let go of to act on your main objective. Crosshair then has to continue his plight of attack as you act as a human shield between the squad and the Grand Leader. “Would you do this to your real daughter if she were still alive?”

“She stopped being my daughter when she chose to bear a child with the heir to the Mourner’s Wail Syndicate!” The Grand Leader tells them this with an undeniable air of mourning in his voice, as if he truly believes the familial attachment to his own flesh and blood has evaporated simply because she fell in love.

“He can’t make you do this! You’re a trooper, like us!” Wrecker shouts between dodged punches after getting involved in the dispute between you and Crosshair. At this notion, flashes of your time together on Kamino appear like blinks in your mind’s eye. You see the orderly mess hall full of clone brethren, even the barracks you share with them, but the throbbing in your head increases tenfold, motivating your rage to berserk levels. A fracture in your concentration leaves an even deeper gash in your mind, and you suppress the thoughts and images to continue to fight.

“Don’t you see? He’s weak without you!” Crosshair calls out the Grand Leader’s bluff as he cowardly spectates in the foyer of the facility, safe and away from getting his hands dirty. “This is all a lie!”

Echoes of their words can barely reach you. It sounds like roaring thunder claps, each syllable getting a little louder. “ Don’t you… He’s weak without… all a lie! ”

“What is that?” You ask your father, having not experienced this dissonance in your paradise.

“Oh, it’s just a little rain. Nothing to worry about. Come dance!” The symphony gets louder but you still hear the thunder.

“Why does it sound like someone’s talking?” The resonance shakes the foundation of the palace, rattling the window panes with the weather’s turbulence.

“You’re imagining things. Perhaps you’re tired after such a long and festive day. You should rest.” With these words, the ballroom converts to a master bedroom furnished with a canopied bed adorned by the finest of fabrics. “The tea is making you sleepy, I am sure of it.”

“I don’t understand…” It’s as if you’re hypnotized, unable to hold your eyelids open any longer. You can’t resist being ushered to bed for as soon as you hit the pillow, you are fast asleep where you dream the strangest dreams.

You wake up from what felt like a very long nap. More than a nap. You had to have been asleep for an extensive period of time. A single door fills the space where the ballroom once was, silent and unnerving. It beckons you to open it, but you know not where it leads. The coldness you felt before threatens to freeze you where you stand, crystalizing you until you’re secured to this place like a statue. After a while, the biting sting feels kind of nice. It coats you like a blanket, entrapping you within your own warmth. Your eyes close and you feel yourself slowly succumb to the disassociation, finding comfort in the withdrawal. That is, until you hear something. Or maybe it’s someone.

“He’s weak without you!” The words are coming to you loud and clear now, and for the first time it feels as though you are looking at the world with new eyes. “This is all a lie!” 

You’re out of breath, bruised and battered but still trying to fight. Crosshair and Wrecker stand no more than an arm’s length away as you and them are caught in a grapple. Echo, Tech and Hunter are all trying to break your hold to no avail. They’ve not only tired you out, but the illusion implemented by The Grand Leader has begun to slip what you stand here at an impasse. 

“What are you waiting for!” He commands when you display even the slightest weakness. “Kill them!”

Every second you’ve lived through in your entire life up to this moment spins like a carousel in your psyche. The Unbroken Clan. Corellia. Kamino. All of it. Lying through his teeth, he made you believe that you were actually his daughter, his Krynthia, in order to control you with reveries he manually implanted in your head. He raised you with an iron fist cloaked by a velvet glove, rigorous torture and conditioning to ensure you were as unstoppable as he wished. You have become suffocated by the vows he failed to deliver. Nevertheless, this fragile empire he has built bore the foundation of salt and sand, now crumbling under the weight of his hubris.

“Do it!” He screams at you, but it is only here that you realize just how badly you want to kill him. You glance between the others, evidence of blood and bruises of their own blooming beneath their armor. You hate him for making you do this. Not all is fair in love and war. Does he have no shame for being the source of your bitterness? “Do it now !”

“RAHHH!” You lunge for Wrecker’s vibro-knife once more, throwing it smoothly behind you in the direction of the Grand Leader who stands multiple yards away. They all back off as soon as you demonstrate this empowering display of self control breaking through the brainwashing. Unable to expect this outcome, the massive breadth of the blade impales the Grand Leader in his chest, pinning him to the rusted facility wall. He coughs, blood oozing from both the wound as well as the corners of his mouth. He gasps for breath, gripping the knife by the hilt to try and fail to pull it out. You walk towards this weezing, elderly man, unable to recognize him from the false images he spoon fed you in your cerebral paradise.

“I get it now.” You revel in his suffering as he squirms before you, having turned the tables. “I understand what I am made of and how you broke me down in order to get me to submit, but what I don’t understand are the feelings and attachments you forced onto me. These memories are not my own.”

“Identity is j-just a story we tell ourselves.” He coughs again, more blood spurting out of his mouth to collect at your feet between his stuttered speech. “I just h-happened to be the one to tell that story to you. It is true. Those things did happen. The imagined misfortune as well as the b-blessings make you lifelike.”

“Lifelike, but not actually alive.” You counter, poking more holes in his reasoning. “My connection to you means nothing.”

“It means everything!” He fiercely enunciates at the cost of even more blood spilling from the wound and forming a puddle on the floor.

“It’s not real.” You gently rest your palm atop his hand on the hilt of the blade, almost lovingly, only to push it in as far as it goes. He succumbs to his injuries, the other hand reaching to caress your face, but the light in him fades out before he could get the chance. He spent all this time singing of saviors when he was the arbiter of his own sorrow. This man resorted to reaching through the dark for a life that wasn’t meant to be, at a cost of your sanity. “I am not not your daughter. You never loved me.” 

The Grand Leader set up you as the villain of this story, yet he is the one who left you for dead on Corellia knowing a certain clone force wouldn’t have it in their heart to ignore a person in need. He took what he wanted of you and flipped it only to serve him. Little did he know, his unrelenting torture beat the fear out of you to the point that death has become an afterthought. What is tenderness? What is kindness if it was all seen through rose colored glasses?

“Allie?” Echo peers into the darkened foyer, Hunter, Tech Wrecker and Crosshair all standing side by side. They’re hurt and it’s your fault. You make it to the doorway, head hung low in shame as you’re unable to look them in the eyes.

“You’re okay!” Wrecker pushes his brothers aside and scoops you up into a similar bear hug that he squeezed you with before, the only difference being the absence of your homicidal tendencies. “You had us scared for a while there!”

You fall apart in his arms. The iron-rich fragrance being processed by your senses only brings you to loathe yourself even more as you rest your head on his chest plate in order to conceal your tear-streaked face.

“I’m sorry…” You whisper, muffled by Wrecker’s arms enclosed around you.

“Hm?” He turns his unscarred ear in your direction, craning his head closer to yours. “What did you say?”

“She said she’s sorry, Wrecker.” Crosshair puts a hand on his shoulder, applying the smallest bit of pressure to signal Wrecker to set you down. He can tell you’re exhausted, forlorn by how emotionally crushed you look right now.

“You have nothing to be sorry about.” Tech reassures you sincerely. “You were not operating consciously. That was blatantly clear to see.”

“That’s just it.” You think back to how easy it was for the automatic channels of your mind to be overridden, unwilling to go through that again. “I’m too dangerous to be kept alive.”

“Now, you’re just being unreasonable.” Hunter disagrees with your decision, inferring that while a sacrifice in order to save those you love is noble, but committing that same sacrifice to people please is just tragic. “You said it yourself. You understand what you’re made of. He has no control over you. Not anymore.”

“Your designation is CC-A7713.” Echo reinforces this belief, reconditioning your mind with a different kind of encouragement. “And we call you Allie.”

“Let’s go home.” You nod at Wrecker’s suggestion in silent confirmation, accepting everyone’s declaration as truth. Wrecker keeps you in his arms, choosing to carry you himself despite all the cuts you’ve littered him with. It is an honor to hold you, to serve with someone as unstoppable as you. You fall asleep in his grasp before making it back to the ship where he sets you down on one of the unoccupied racks. Tech initiates a hyperspace jump that would take them back to Kamino, tending to their superficial injuries on the way, as well as yours while you rest. When you wake up again, the horrors of the past are nothing but a distant memory, more focused on the future than ever before.

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