#foreignobjecticus

“Captain Jarvik picked you out especially, did he?”

Tarrant laughs as he packs his survival kit. “There's no need to be jealous, Samson,” he says. “You know it's a two person mission. The captain simply wants the best pilot with him, that's all.”

It's not a particularly subtle boast, but Samson isn't a particularly subtle man. “If you say so,” he smirks, but Tarrant ignores it, and whatever gossip or innuendo he's been listening to. “Oh well, good luck to you.”

[Rest of plot goes here]

Tarrant wakes up in the dead of a freezing night with a sharp pain ringing through his spine.

“Shut up, shut up,” he hears Jarvik whisper to him, although Tarrant hasn't said anything, but he does start to struggle as it becomes clear what's happening, trying to grab hold of something and coming away with nothing but handfuls of desert sand. “Shut up, you can take it, you're a man. This is what men do when they're alone together, this is fine, this is normal. You can take it, just let me...”

Tarrant whimpers under his breath. He is starting to process what's happening to him as his body comes back online; he can feel Jarvik's cock, thick and crude, pushing shallowly inside his tight rim and popping out again with each reckless thrust. But he can't understand it. This can't be happening, can it? Not to him. Jarvik wouldn't do this. Jarvik respects him, admires him, thinks he has a bright future ahead of him, why would he?

“God, you're so beautiful.” Jarvik bites violently the crook of his neck, making him cry out. “Such a beautiful boy, I had to, at least once – god–”

It's over within minutes. Tarrant feels Jarvik shout against his skin, and then the sickly feel of something hot and wet sliding between his cheeks. Jarvik falls asleep easily, still clinging to him for body heat, leaving him stunned.

He still can't believe that happened. It must be some sort of dream, right? People like him don't get–

Icy winds brush against his bare skin, revealed by his torn open uniform. The angry side of him wants to run. But it would be stupid – they are still waiting for the transporter out of here, and he won't survive in the desert on his own. It is his captain's duty to take care of him.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Thorin, Bard, Balin, and - after a challenging stare-down with Dwalin - Shepard all seated themselves around the kitchen table. The rest of the dwarves made do with whatever seating they could manage, with Kili, Fili, and Ori electing to plunk themselves directly on the floor rather than challenge any of the older dwarves for their seats. Shepard himself waited until the last dwarf - Bofur, making a comfortable throne of several empty sacks and a bucket - had been seated before addressing what was to his mind the most urgent topic at the table.

"We need a plan of attack. What are our entry and exit strategies? Do you have a plan for dealing with the big lizard? What's the terrain like, inside? Do you have a layout of the interior?" Shepard's rapid-fire questioning seemed to take Balin and Bard aback, but Thorin merely reached into his coat and pulled out a large piece of heavy parchment. Unfurling it, he used some smooth stones from another pocket to weight the corners so it wouldn't curl up again and Shepard craned his head forward to get a good look.

The parchment appeared to be some form of local map, and Shepard set his jaw. He'd been through training in N-school that had included how to work without the benefit of a HUD or compass, but when planning an all-out assault on a fortified enemy position with an enemy force consisting of one unknown alien the approximate size of a house, he couldn't help but wish for at least a decent 3-d rendering of local topography. The map in front of him, with its hand-written legend and distinct lack of anything approaching a usable scale, was almost more a hindrance than a help. Still, it offered some insight, at least, and while he could wish for more Shepard would work with what he had in front of him.

"We will not be going in through the front gate; there is a better way. We will get in and out through there - or rather, our Burglar will." Bilbo looked deeply alarmed at Thorin's statement, but the king rolled on without giving the smaller being a chance to interject. "If all goes according to plan, we should not need to deal with the worm. We will need weapons, though, and supplies."

The last statement had been directed at Bard, who had gone terribly quiet when Thorin had spread the map upon the table. Shepard couldn't read Bard's expression, but there seemed an almost peculiar desperation behind his eyes that Shepard didn't like in the slightest. Desperation lead to doing stupid shit like facing off against assassins alone, or taking a one-way trip on an elevator to nowhere.

Of course, it also lead to stupid shit like going off alone to an unknown planet in the middle of some kind of energy field on the slightest off-chance of saving an entire race, so maybe Shepard wasn't in a position to throw stones. Still didn't mean he had to like it, though, especially when Bard murmured something to himself too quietly for Shepard's tanslators to catch. He frown at the local. "What?"

"'The Lake shall shine and burn,'" Bard said, a little louder this time. It sounded like a quote of some sort, but Shepard had never heard it before in his life. He didn't get the chance to ask for the full text, however, as Bard straightened up and glared directly at Thorin. "You mean to go into Erebor, into the maw of the dragon itself." He seemed incensed, though Shepard couldn't quite see why. "Do you know what will happen, if the dragon wakes? It would be the end of Laketown; the dragon would burn it all."

Thorin lifted his chin and returned Bard's angry glare with a challenging look. "I intend to get at least part of my Company into the Lonely Mountain, yes. But I do not intend to face the dragon that day; I simply need the Arkenstone, that I may call upon the armies of my brethren." Thorin seemed to think that was reassuring, though Shepard privately had his doubts. He wasn't quite certain what an 'Arkenstone' was or why Thorin needed it to summon up armies, but he couldn't help but think that - according to the bits and pieces he'd put together over the course of the journey - that Erebor had had an army, and it hadn't done them very much good the day the dragon first arrived.

Bard seemed to agree, judging by the stormy expression moving onto his face like a Noverian blizzard. Shepard sighed internally; if he wanted inside the mountain, he'd have to back Thorin's play no matter what he actually thought of the idea. Reaching under a pouch on his belt, he unhooked his folded Executioner pistol from its magnetic moorings and flipped the combat settings on it. He set it on the table as it finished unfolding, heat sink and biotic enhancement readouts blinking a bloody red light up into the assembled faces, and met Bard's stormy gaze with what he hoped was something reassuringly steely.

"I will do my damndest to make sure that doesn't happen," he said in his I'm-Commander-Shepard-Saviour-of-the-Galaxy-I-Got-This voice, "but stopping here isn't an option. Too many people are counting on us to get back objects stored in that mountain; besides, I'd rather have the dragon wake when I was ready for him, and not whenever he got bored and I wasn't ready. So the question is," here he tapped the side of his gun for emphasis, though he made sure to keep his finger well away from both the safety and the trigger. "Will you be ready?"

Bard stared at him for a long moment before striding almost angrily - but still quietly, so as not to disturb the children, nearest Shepard could tell - to a bundle of netting strung up near the ceiling. A quick tug had the whole kit and kaboodle unrolling into his arms, revealing several crude polearms made of billhooks and fishing blades strapped to long lengths of wood. The edges glinted in the light of the dying fire, their rough appearance apparently belying a very sharp edge. Shepard flipped the Executioner pistol back to standby and re-holstered it before walking over to help Bard with some of the more awkward weaponry.

Thorin sputtered like a malfunctioning comm-piece as Shepard and Bard managed to get all the weapons laid out on the table without gutting any of the dwarves who were crowding around the table to see. Apparently he'd expected something a little more professional, or at least that's what Shepard could make out from his outrage. Shepard himself couldn't see what the problem was; despite their somewhat ramshackle appearance, they stayed solid when moved, had a nice heft to them, and the pointed ends looked plenty sharp enough to gut a man as easily as they'd once been used to gut fish and other wildlife.

The other dwarves apparently agreed with Shepard's assessment as Thorin was thoroughly ignored in favor of examining the weaponry. Nori tested the attachment points of the blades to the wood with a satisfied expression while Bifur tapped along the wooden hafts for reasons Shepard couldn't quite make out. Dwalin looked like he wanted to swing one of the billhooks to test it out, but a hand from Balin stopped him; there was just not enough room inside the house to swing a dead cat without hitting someone, let alone a makeshift halberd, and Shepard gave Balin a grateful look after Dwalin sullenly returned the billhook to the table.

Surprisingly, it was Bofur who actually interrupted Thorin as the royal dwarf really started to gather steam about the necessity of proper weaponry. "No, actually, these look like they should do fine," he said as he waved a particularly cruel flensing knife around in what Shepard privately thought was far too negligent a fashion for a weapon that sharp. Bifur plucked the weapon away from the be-hatted dwarf even as Bofur continued "they'll be more useful than swords - got more reach to them - and besides, anything we'd find in the armory here would be of Mannish make and not much better than this anyway."

Shepard raised an eyebrow as Thorin subsided into more general muttered complaints; why would being of 'Mannish' make be a problem? It's not like the weapons they had in hand weren't of 'Mannish' make.

Nori caught his skeptical look, and snorted. "Mannish smiths don't make weapons for Dwarven strength," he said sotto voce. "It doesn't tend to end well for the weapons. Besides, their steel is inferior; these blades look like they came from Erebor itself, back when it traded with Men for more than just gold."

He tapped one of the larger blades for emphasis, and Shepard could just barely make out some sort of heavily worn symbol underneath the pointing finger. "Some kind of maker's mark?" he asked quietly, and Nori nodded.

"Aye. One of the smaller foundries that made tools instead of weapons; it was shut down before Erebor fell as the king ordered all forges switched over to only the higher-value weapons and armor that would bring in more gold." Nori's lips curled in disgust over the last statement, and Shepard found himself agreeing with the sentiment. Reducing the diversity of production just for the sake of short-term gain just sounded like a bad idea overall, and after everything he'd done for the galaxy...Well, he had a lot more fondness for the tools of creation rather than the weapons of destruction right now.

While he and Nori had been speaking, Balin and Thorin had been having an equally hushed - if possibly more fraught - conversation, and Thorin knocked on the table as a consensus was reached. "While I would prefer weapons that were forged for the purpose of being weaponry," here Thorin shot Balin a baleful look, which the older dwarf ignored with aplomb "we do not have access to them, and getting access would take more time than we have left." He tapped one of the makeshift harpoons for emphasis. "So, we will use what we have. Dwalin and I will each take a spear, as trained warriors. Bofur and Bifur will take the other two, as their normal weapons are polearms as well and they have the most experience. The rest of you will arm up as you can with clubs or slings." He looked around the room. "Any questions?"

"Er, I have one," ventured Bilbo somewhat uncertainly. "It, well, it's more of a statement, really." He held up his little sword, still in its sheathe. "I rather managed to keep my weapon with me throughout all that unpleasant business in Mirkwood."

Shepard could see the calculations going on in Thorin's head, and it didn't surprise him when the dwarf gestured to Fili. "If you'd be willing, Bilbo, I believe Fili would be of mot use wielding a sword. His preferred style is paired long and short swords."

Bilbo nodded and handed his sword off to the younger dwarf, though Shepard thought he saw a tinge of regret in his eyes. Shepard had his own arms, of course - the elves had taken his knife, but they hadn't recognized the folded-down Executioner or the heavily-modified Viper as weapons and he had conveniently forgotten to inform them of the fact. He'd miss the knife, though, and Grunt would give him shit for losing it. He'd have to try and bargain with the elves to get it back when all this was said and done.

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