Hi! I'm Laurance (they/them). This is my Thrilling Adventure Hour sideblog which is mostly Sparks Nevada, Marshal on Mars. My main is @all-0f-the-above
I post exclusively TAH on my DeputyOnMars ao3 pseud (archive-locked), and every fic will be posted on this blog, too, under the tag #LauranceWritesOnMars (Laurance writes on Mars, formatted as all one word). If you have any issues accessing the full fics, feel free to DM me and I'll happily send you a copy :)
blog background image from NASA
pfp from by Victor Moussa
Croach comes back from helping the Widow Johnson with her space rat problem, but something's wrong.
Gen. | 2,225 words | Sparks Nevada & Croach the Tracker (friendship, partnership)
read on ao3 (archive locked to avoid ai scrapers)
Save for the scratching of an ink pen, the marshal station is quiet. Sparks Nevada reads through an authorization to share information with the United Solar System Alliance, only pausing to sign on the line at the bottom of every few sheets of paper. He isn't thrilled about giving the alliance more opportunities to dig its nose into the affairs on Mars, but after several different near world-ending events, he'd decided it's worth it for the access to backup when the going gets tough.
The Marshal Station doors are open. Good afternoon, Croach the Tracker.
"Good afternoon, Martial Station Artificial Intelligence," the voice of his martian companion sounds like it's directed up at the ceiling, as if the AI has a face he's supposed to be looking at.
Sparks has yet to look up, as there's nothing to indicate any amount of urgency, "Hey Croach, you finish up with The Widow Johnson's space rat problem?" She'd called in the morning, screaming something awful, and asked for help with the invaders in her cellar. It wasn't a killer robot, so they made the executive decision that it was a one-person job.
"I have already resolved the infestation of space rats in the perishables cellar owned by the human designated 'The Widow Johnson.' I did not immediately return to the Marshal Station after its resolution, as I needed to obtain information from the human being designated 'Barkeep' due to an alteration that occurred to my physical state."
"Physical wh-" Sparks' head snaps up from the form he was working on. His expression quickly changes from surprised to confused, however, because there seems to be a perfectly ordinary-looking Croach in front of him, "What're you talkin' about? Y'look just fine to me."
Big black eyes narrow slightly, "I have just imitated an exhale from a singular pair of human lungs. Did I do it correctly?"
"Yeah, uh, why did you do that, exactly?"
"Poor human. Only possessing a measly four sensory capabilities, your species-"
"Five," Sparks clears his throat, interrupting to roll his eyes, "We have five."
"Access to a number of senses represented by a single digit number is the lowest of any life form on G'loot Praktaw-"
"Mars."
"Which you designate 'Mars,' yes. It is that which you would designate 'a wonder' that your species was able to invent spaceflight to leave the planet on which it evolved to habitate."
"We're doin' just fine with five, Croach." He's tempted to keep the argument up until he remembers what started the whole thing, "Now what is this whole 'something's wrong with my body' drama you and the Barkeep are on about?"
"I assure you this was no unconscious vision of memory reorganization, Sparks Nevada. There is a real and present problem with my physical form."
"Which is?"
Croach takes his time to respond, allowing the ambient noise to penetrate what was a conversation. The winds of Mars make the walls creak and whoosh as they glide over the old roof. If Sparks didn't know better, he'd think Croach is embarrassed. All the human inferiority talk reminds him of their partnership's early days. Back when they knew less about the other's species. Before the town became familiar with having a martian around- wait a second.
"Croach."
The big, shiny black eyes finally return his gaze, "That is indeed my designator."
"Barkeep's a human. How'd he know what to do if a human can't even tell what's wrong with you?"
Hypercattle leather shoes shuffle in place on the floorboards, "The human being designated Barkeep was also incapable of sensing my altered physical state. I sought him out for..." his eyes dart around the room, "information reasons."
"I can't keep askin' follow up questions," Sparks gestures at the veritable mountain range of paper stacks on the desk, "out with it."
"Earlier today, while cleaning up the ranch-domicile owned by the human being designated The Widow Johnson, I was offered a food item. She was insistent that she would be under onus to me were I not to consume it, so indeed I did. Upon returning to the human settlement, I detected a change in the makeup of my Nah Notek similar to that of when I took unofficial residency at the human bar designated O'Toole's. Therefore, I sought out The Barkeep, as he has a wide knowledge of beverages and food items containing the toxin designated alcohol."
"Croach.” A jolt of adrenaline shoots through his system, slowing down time just slightly as his mind begins to race, “You didn't-"
"It was made known to me that a human dish designated fostered yellow Earth fruit contains this toxin, despite the name not specifying its inclusion.”
The marshal was in his friend’s personal space before the end of the sentence, straining his eyes in a futile effort to visually perceive the change in his nanotech. By the time he processed every word, a few beats had passed. “Wait,” he held up one hand, “‘fostered yellow Earth fruit’? I’ve never heard of that. And I’m an expert in human food; been eatin’ it my whole life.”
“I believe the Widow Johnson designated it ‘Bananas Foster,’ and served it with your white milked ice.”
“Ice cream.”
The exoskeleton at the corner of his mouth twitched up almost imperceptibly, “Which you designate ice cream, yes. I was made to consume one of your human measurement units known as ‘cups’ of the dish before leaving.”
Something inside Sparks’ chest loosened, “You didn’t have much, then.” Despite his apparent relief, he's still thoroughly examining every detail of the face in front of him.
Croach nods.
Their prolonged closeness outside of the apparent emergency begins to register with Sparks. Turning around to hide the relief that’s spreading over his face, he tries for a nonchalant affect, “You’ll be fine then, I reckon.” Tapping a few keys on the marshal station computer, he pulls up the town’s public bulletin system, “In the meantime, you’re off deputy duty.”
“I never accepted a position in your human law enforcement services. To do so would bring shame to my tribe and-”
“Yeah yeah, I know. I mean your whole onus thing. That don’t include goin’ after robots ‘til your nanotech-"
“Nah Nohtek.”
“Whatever. ‘Til it’s back to normal.” The marshal sits down in his chair, drafting an announcement on Croach’s temporary benching. In his peripheral vision, blue shoulders tense in what he can only imagine is agitation.
“Sparks Nevada.” He’s using the tone of voice that implies the target is a complete idiot. Joy. “The healing capabilities of my Nah Nohtek are completely functional, and only function at 0.93 times the speed when it is unaffected by the toxin designated alcohol. My body is, and remains, entirely more capable than your human one.”
Ignoring the bait, Sparks lets his clacking keys fill the lapse in conversation. Indes- no, indisposed. He makes a mental note to get ready for Felton to come running in ten minutes after it posts, and for Red to bust down the door in a few hours, demanding to know what happened.
“Sparks Nevada.”
“Hm?”
“You have not responded to my previous statement.”
“Yeah, ‘cause it’s not changin’ nothin’,” he hits the enter key with a little more force than necessary, “You’re still off duty.”
Croach walks up to the desk, “Your reasoning and use of double negatives is-”
He holds up a hand, “Just. Take the time off.” He goes back to typing, “I’d be under onus to you or something. Don’t need my right hand ma- martian gettin’ himself into a bind, if you wanna help out, work on the file backlog,” it hurts him to let someone else do paperwork, but if it stops a friend from getting’ himself killed, it’ll be worth it. Finished with the announcement, Sparks sets it up to post at the top of the next hour and logs out of the computer. Given the circumstances, he should go and clear up the area around town to reassure everyone that one deputy’s absence isn't going to be an opportunity for killer robots slip through.
For some reason, Croach hasn’t moved. He’s staring rather intently at Sparks’ face, which is starting to make his skin feel a touch too warm. The last time he’d seen the guy like this, he’d been sitting on the marshal station floor and parsing out the instructions to assemble a desk to replace the one that got destroyed by a blob infestation.
“Staring at me isn't going to change my mind.”
“I believe that you are experiencing the human emotion designated ‘fear,’”
“What?!” Sparks hopes the incredulity comes through his natural monotone, and walks over to where he stores the robot fists and laser pistols, “I ain’t scared of nothin’, you know that.”
Croach’s voice follows him, “The Red Plains Rider informed me that, after my apparent demise, you experienced the human emotions designated ‘guilt’ and ‘grief’ for an extended period of time.”
Damn that woman and her attempts to educate Croach about humans. “Yeah, anyone would’ve if their- their buddy’d just died.” Sparks attaches the pistol's holster to his belt.
“To stop yourself from experiencing these emotions once again, you are illogically hindering my ability to repay my onus to you via completing tasks to improve the safety of your human settlement.”
That isn’t what he’s doing, is it? Sparks puts a hand into one of his laser fists, carefully flexing each finger. Keeping people safe is just his job, how he feels about it don’t matter none. And yet, the memory of a dying friend has been at the front of his mind ever since hearing about the Widow Johnson’s well-meaning gift. The panic, the words left unsaid, and the utter desolation. Years ago, he would've brushed this thing off and doubled down on him bein' the marshal and the planet-wide authority. Go and ride Mercury 'til the sun dipped below the horizon in order to get his lungs aching enough that the gnawing feeling is easier to ignore.
But he's not the same man who first showed up on the red planet. For better or for worse. No matter how hard he tried, a little wisdom crept into his skull. He has to accept that some honestly - as much as it pains him - would reduce the chance of Croach throwing himself in front of laser bullets for the time being.
Sparks turns to look at his friend, who's only two paces away from him, “Listen. Us humans ain’t exactly known for our logic. We go with our gut more often than not." A fact Croach has complained about regularly. "I’m askin’ you to stay back because,” he glances down at the robot fist on his left hand. There’s a few grains of Mars' red sand in one of the knuckles. He takes a deep breath in before speaking, “It’d distract me from my work, knowin’ you could- could be bleedin’ out somewhere.” He doesn’t spot a visible response from Croach, so he lets himself look up, “That good enough for you?”
The only answer from his friend is an unblinking stare.
They stand in silence for couple dozen of Sparks’ rushed heartbeats, so he starts making a to do list. While he’s out marshaling, he should go by and let the Widow Johnson know what she’d gone and done by makin’ a martian stay for dessert. The bulletin should publish in forty minutes, which should be more than enough time to get back before Felton and Red make it to the marshal office from panic and concern, respectively.
Croach says something much sooner than Sparks was expecting, so he misses it, “What?”
The martian is blinking again, “I understand.” He nods once to emphasize his comprehension. “I will remain here at the building designated ‘The Marshal Station’ and move the extraneous papers into their assigned folders.”
Thank god that worked. Sparks hadn't honestly expected it to. “Uh, good," he flexes his robot fists a few times, "Great. Thanks buddy,” he gives Croach’s shoulder a pat as he walks past and over to the station doors.
“Sparks Nevada.”
He turns around, “Yeah, Croach?”
“I…” the blue hands at his side twitch just slightly, “Were I to be a human and experience your human emotions, I would likely feel the emotion designated ‘gratefulness.’”
Huh. All that chat with Red must’ve given him some pattern recognition skills. Sparks isn't sure why he finds it harder to breathe all of a sudden, so he elects ignore it, “Thanks. I’ll, uh, keep that in mind?”
The Marshal Station doors are open.
“I’ll be back in half an hour.”
“Understood. I will lessen my onus to you within the premises of the the Marshal Station while you are on what you designate as a ‘patrol.’”
“You do that.” Sparks doesn't move, allowing himself one last look at the uninjured chest of his friend. A reassurance that he's still in one piece.
The Marshal Station doors are still open.
Slipping his hat on, he lets himself annoy Croach as a reward for tellin’ him how he feels, “Don’t misplace anythin’ while I’m gone.” The muffled indignation on the other side of the, now closed, marshal station doors is worth whatever pointed remarks he'll hear later.
He moseys on over to Mercury, swings himself up, and leans forward in the saddle, “Hiya!”
--
my first sparks nevada fic! and the first fic I've published in... a while. I was supposed to finish and edit some others first, but then I got possessed by my love of the Thrilling Adventure Hour and ended up here. whoops.
floundering at trying to balance the Southern American need to turn some -ing into -in' with the anxiety need to standardize spelling throughout a written work
Croach implies his onus to Sparks is something he doesn't like until the man tries to make him stay back for his own safety, in which case he becomes the most obstinate motherfucker on the red planet
Couldn't stop myself from making a Thrilling Adventure Hour sideblog. Got was possessed by the need to write Sparks Nevada, Marshal on Mars fic, so uh- whoops.
I'll post fic on here and on ao3 (archive-locked) under the pseud deputyonmars (1). If you want to read on ao3, log in with your account or sign up for one using your email here (2)!
First Sparks and Croach friendship/partnership fic will clear editing within a week. I have other wips I should be working on but I guess this is happening now. If you want to beta for me, please send an ask or a DM! I'm used to doing it all on my own but I'm completely open to constructive criticism (I used to edit research papers all the time, I can take malicious criticism too lol).
