His first mission with the IMC goes horribly. He can’t say he’s all that surprised, given his track record so far in life. It’s still unknown to him and everyone else how he made it through basic training. But he did, and here he is--should he feel some sort of excitement, here? His first injury out on the field. Taube’s first screw-up of many, he supposes.
His dominant arm is cradled against his chest and he can feel blood oozing onto the fabric of his gear from the bullet wound. He can also feel the sharp, grinding pain of broken bone-ends grinding against each other.
The feeling of eyes digging into him keeps him decidedly glaring into the floor. He refuses to meet anyone’s eyes, not even the medic’s as he’s tinkered with. Another IMC grunt stands guard at the door. While it feels like their gaze is more empathic and concerned, he resolutely ignores them as well. He doesn’t need to be pitied. If anything, he needs to be taught a lesson.
“Is he gonna be okay?” the guard at the door asks. Of course they’d be “concerned” about his well-being. If he were to be out of the field for too long, it would be another body out of work that could be instead helping the IMC with its work.
And, really, that’s all he’s good for at this point.
“He’s fine,” the doctor says bluntly, digging a piece of shrapnel out of Taube’s bicep and making him wince. “He’ll recover. This is far from the more serious injuries I’ve dealt with, and it’s also one of the dumber ones.”
He feels his face heat under the passive assault. He can tangibly feel his brows furrowing together further as he glares harder at the floor.
“It was a mistake,” the guard counters. “Everyone makes mistakes, doc.”
“Not everyone gets injured by their shitty mistakes, soldier.” Out of the corner of his eye, Taube sees the medic look directly at the guard and dare him to speak further.
“I mean, I’m sure I have at the very least.” He swears he hears a hint of teasing in the words. “Heaven knows you’ve had to stitch me back together from stupider things.”
“Which is precisely why it needs to be wrung out of a person.” He feels a harsh jolt on his shoulder, grabbing his attention. “Isn’t that right?”
“Yeah.” His eyes fall to the side. “It won’t happen again.”
“Don’t lie to my face. I’m not an idiot.” The medic’s voice is harsh again. “With the way you’re acting, I’ll be expecting another visit very soon.” He pushes the little stool he’s stooped over back and away from Taube, rising to his feet. “Both of you. Get out. Don’t come back.”
Meekly, he takes the medic’s words to heart. He rises silently, arm now wrapped in gauze and medical tape and stuck at a crooked angle, approaching the door. He desperately hopes the guard won’t speak to him on his way back to his bunk.
“Don’t take anything that guy said too seriously,” the guard says as soon as the door is shut behind them. Taube bites down a groan and keeps walking. Unfortunately, the guard is able to keep up with him. “Everyone here is a hardass. They take it competitively, it feels like.”
Taube doesn’t respond, focusing on his footsteps as they make their way through the halls.
“You’re new, right?” The guard continues to chitter. “I don’t think I’ve seen you before. ‘Course, that doesn’t really say much in terms of things. This place would hire damn near anyone if it meant they’d do what they asked.”
Surprise jolts through him. Why is this guy so openly speaking against the corporation that not-so-subtly made people that did so disappear without notice? “You’re stupid for saying that,” he mutters over his shoulder.
“This whole place is stupid,” the guard chuckles. “The higher-ups get a little too pissy when someone doesn’t kiss their boots the right way.” The guard bumps Taube’s shoulders with his own. “Plus, it’s only frowned upon if you get caught doing it.”
“It’s still stupid.”
“And why is that?”
“I mean, this place took us in, gave us jobs and shelter and all that. Why trash it?”
“‘Why trash it?’” the other echoes, seemingly stunned. “Have you heard of the shit this corporation does to get what it wants? War crimes upon war crimes, stacked on top of even more war crimes. The only reason people don’t speak out about it is because another war crime will be committed to keep them silent.”
“You really feel that way?”
“Absolutely. I wouldn’t be here if I had a choice.”
“So, why stay?”
“Taube, you think they’ll let me go if I defect? You think they’re just gonna let someone rumored to talk about the shitty side of things with his cohorts get away out into the world to keep jabbering?”
A pause. “No, not really.”
“That’s why I’m still here.” He hears the other man heave a sigh that sounds entirely too weary for someone his age. The guard is suddenly right next to him, crowding into his space respectively, but still close. “Always thought about it, though. Getting the hell out of here would be paradise.”
“Even as a whistleblower?”
“Even as a whistleblower. Not gonna waste my freedom knowing there’s awful things going on that I could do something about. They wouldn't be able to keep me shut down, even if the public begged me to shut up.”
Finally, he meets the man’s eyes. “That’s very noble. Stupid as hell, but noble.”
“It’s not about being noble,” the guard waves a hand dismissively. “It’s about doing the right thing.”
“Of course.” They pause outside Taube’s bunk, awkwardly hanging before the door. “Well, this is my stop.” Before he turns away, he adds, “Thank you for the company. You didn’t have to. But it was nice.”
“Nobody has to do anything if they really don’t want to. Just might end up dead with certain things.” The guard winks at him, then holds out a hand. “MacAllan. James MacAllan.”
Awkwardly, Taube reaches out with his left hand. “Robert Taube.”
“Nice to meet you. You’ll stay low about my ranting, will you? Just made a good friend, wouldn’t want him to get lonely without me being there because the officials caught wind.” A smile splits his face, honest and genuine.
“What ranting?” Taube smirks back at him. “All I heard was us talking about the glory of this place.”
MacAllan snorts and claps a hand on Taube’s good shoulder.”Good man.”
whiskey kitty is 30 now. there’s also finally some Lore in here
[ao3 link]
The rest of the evening is uneventful. James returns with supplies and, after quite a bit of calming gestures and explaining, accepts that Scar isn’t a threat to it or Barker. Scar keeps Blisk occupied (“occupied”...Barker swears he listened to the specter frame lecture Blisk about treating others equally for damn near half an hour). Sabre seems content to cuddle up to Scar’s warmth instead of leeching off Whiskey’s, which he, for some reason, finds himself happy over. Are you at that point, Barker? Are you going to get offended that someone else’s cat is cuddling yours instead of you?
So what if he is? She broke into his house and took up his space, he should be allowed to want something in return, isn’t he? He’s dwelling into an argument with himself when something finally clicks and he realizes that yes, he’s arguing with himself over a cat.
Nobody has to know, fortunately. He can keep it to himself if he keeps his mouth shut.
He goes through his still-newly-established nightly routine. Before, he’d crumple into bed as he was, still woozy and smelling of liquor, clothed in the same shirt and pants that he’d been wearing for days. He thinks better of himself now. He washes his face (Whiskey helps) and brushes his teeth, takes a shower if he feels the urge to do so, and changes into sweatpants before falling into the sheets.
It’s refreshing--who’d have thought self-care would make a man feel better about himself? He can hear Briggs’ words through some subconscious link: I told you that you’d feel better if you took care of yourself. Treating yourself like shit makes you feel like shit.
The Beer Cooler bunch--he’s started referring to the kittens as such, now that he’s settled on a name--are tucked neatly into their box and placed beside him on the bed. They all have their colored collars on, though they’re much too big to fit around their tiny necks. Whiskey trills to him as he finally lays down, pulling the covers over his shoulders. Thankfully, Scar seems to also be keeping Blisk quiet.
He can feel himself dozing off peacefully, for once. While, yes, there is a technical war-criminal-turned-home-intruder and his mech and his cat in Barker’s apartment, the door to the room finally feels like it’s enough to provide a sufficient barrier. He won’t lie to himself: ever since Blisk had shown up, he’d been terribly anxious about letting his guard down enough to sleep at night, even in the safety of his own room. He trusts James well enough.
Whiskey is in the process of plucking the kittens from the box and tucking them in the crook of Barker’s elbow as he falls asleep.
---
He hears someone, but can’t see them. The wreckage of the dropship still groans and creaks as it settles into the ground after plummeting from the sky. He can hear his CO now: ‘All you’re here for is to fly ships, man! You somehow managed to fuck even that up!’
Even crumpled on the ground, breathing laboriously, he feels that stab of fear at what his punishment for such a screw-up will be. The IMC isn’t exactly known for being kind and understanding to their troops. He’s heard rumors--proven rumors-- of some going completely missing when they displeased higher-ups.
As much as he hated his life, he still feared what would happen. Maybe it would have been better if the impact had killed him. Nobody would have noticed. All he serves as fodder for piloting. Nobody remembers their ship’s pilot; they remember the soldiers that charge in with adrenaline and victory on their minds. People didn’t give a rat’s ass about him, and he knew it.
He can hear someone talking over the din of the shouting and creaking. After further listening, he realizes they’re talking to him.
“Holy hell, Taube! Gave a helluva wild ride, didn’t you?” Instead of accusation and venom in the voice, there’s poorly-hidden concern laden in it. He can vaguely feel as wreckage is pulled aside and tossed away as whoever it is tries to maneuver their way over to him.
He should respond--it’s probably a higher-ranked soldier than he is. Try as he might, he can’t muster up the energy to make any sound other than labored breathing. He can feel something trickling down the side of his head. He hopes it’s just sweat. He knows it’s not.
“Christ alive.” Whoever it is stands over him, silhouetted against the flames that dance in the light breeze. “Really fucked yourself up, man.”
Here it comes: the berating of ‘how he should know how to pilot’ and ‘you should be better than this’. He almost ignores the words coming from the other in preparation for the scolding.
It never comes, surprisingly.
“We’re getting you outta here, hear me?” He can feel hands covering the gaping slice in his side that he hadn’t noticed until now. “Fuck--,” they say out loud as their hands slip and coat in his blood. “You’re not getting left behind like they think you are. I’m not allowing that to happen.”
The scraps of metal and glass and whatever else the ship was composed of are none-too-gently shoved off his legs. He watches numbly as the other person rips a tourniquet out of a spare pocket and wraps it around his right thigh. A dull, muted ache strikes out from it, but he’s so worn out that he can’t react properly.
“You good?” Of course he’s not ‘good’. He’s on the ground bleeding out. Still, he knows the other isn’t going to point that out to him so frankly. His vision starts to black out and fade, and the last thing he hears is the person yelling for a medic before his eyes close.
---
Barker wakes up with a jolt. It disturbs Whiskey, who chides him verbally and thoroughly. She must sense something is wrong, because she eventually stops and sits square on his chest, stretching out so her front paws drag over his face and her whiskers tickle his cheeks.
“Mrrph?” she says.
“Mmngh,” Barker responds. He wants to sit up, but the solid weight of Whiskey helps settle him down instead. Belatedly, he remembers the kittens, his free hand coming over to fumble around to make sure they’re in their right place.
He feels nothing.
Damned if the cat isn’t still on his chest, he jackknifes up on the bed. Whiskey holds on for dear life as she’s flipped, claws digging into Barker’s shoulders through his shirt.
“God damn you, girl,” he wheezes, hand already reaching over to turn the lamp beside the bed on. As the light flicks on, he realizes why he can’t feel the kittens in one spot.
They’re moving. They’re actively crawling away. Two of them squirm on the pillow above his head, seemingly play-fighting. Another kitten is tucked into the curve of his hand where it lays lax. The other three are spread out across the mattress, having themselves a good look-around of their surroundings.
For a moment, he’s stunned: they’re moving already? And so swiftly, at that? He’s got his work cut out for him now.
The next moment, he’s fretting: what if one of them crawls to the edge of the bed and falls off? What if he accidentally squishes one? He’d never be able to live with himself if that happened. What if they crawl away and can’t find their way back to Whiskey? What if they get cold? The “what-ifs” run through his mind so quickly he doesn’t have a chance to process them.
Frantically, he scoops them all back into a pile. He’d put them back in the box where they’d be contained in one place and safe, but he knows Whiskey would just pluck them all out again. He settles for setting them on his middle torso, using his arms to create an improv corral to keep them in one place.
Whiskey curls up in the center of the ‘corral’, purring as all six kittens shuffle over to her and quiet. He watches as they knead her tummy, and feels as Whiskey does the same thing on his stomach. The pin-pricks on pain are annoying, but he can’t find it in himself to stop her.
He’s not going back to sleep; he knows that. Barker settles into kitten-watch as the last bits of heavy sleep edge out of his mind.
Barker watches in blatant horror as Blisk opens the door to reveal a massive, hulking metal frame on the other side. Even Whiskey catches on that something is wrong: she hunkers down in her box and covers her kittens with the bulk of her body. Sabre, meanwhile, leaps out and towards the stranger. That must mean she knows them, right?
He stays silent as the specter frame with a good extra foot of height walks in as Blisk holds the door open. The jet-black metal plating is somewhat covered by a tattered old leather jacket. The sensors on its head are, quite obviously, locked right on Barker.
“So, yeah, I forgot to mention,” Blisk explains casually, as if Barker isn’t metaphorically planning out his dying wishes as he stands in his own home, “Scar here was meant to be a part of the bundle.” He claps a hand on the specter’s--Scar’s--shoulder. “You can quit mean-mugging him, by the way.”
Scar instantly relents. “I do apologize,” a surprisingly soft baritone voice speaks, “for the rather harsh first impression of myself.” Scar holds a metal-skeletal hand out to Barker. “I’m sure you understand that in our typical line of business Blisk is not a particularly…favored contender.”
“I am too, actually,” Blisk interjects. “You’re just very overprotective.”
Scar tilts his head. “You’re hired to kill people. That’s not necessarily a job looked upon highly.”
Barker has to bite his lip to keep from smirking at the banter.
“A man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do.” Blisk snaps, seemingly irritated that his grand reveal has led to him being chastised. He turns back to Barker. “He’s here because I have to have my own safety standards, as you can tell. You have that MRVN. I have Scar.”
“Blisk, friend,” Scar asks after a pause. “How did you end up here? Did our friend offer shelter?”
“No, I did not,” Barker interrupts Blisk opening his mouth to speak. “He showed up, threatened my life, and moved himself in.”
Scar seems appalled. “You--! You said he was a friend, someone that you’ve known since Demeter!”
“I have known him since Demeter,” Blisk clarifies. “He’s one of the runts that defected with that jackass MacAllan guy when things got too intense. I figured he owned me.”
Hearing MacAllan’s name taken in vain instantly makes Barker tense up. “Don’t you ever speak of him that way again,” he seethes, visibly angry. “He was my best friend, you bastard.”
“Yeah? He was a traitor, too,” Blisk counters. “You were as well. Why should I be respectful to him?”
Scar puts himself between the two men. “Because our friend here--I apologize again, I did not quite catch your name. Do tell?”
Barker says his name through gritted teeth.
Scar nods to him in acknowledgement. “Because our friend Barker owns the house you are taking refuge in,” he elaborates pointedly, like a parent scolding an unruly child, “and while you disagree with his past, he still deserves your respect.” The specter glares at Blisk.
“I don’t give a rat’s ass!” Blisk growls. “He--”
“He is letting you stay here, not that it sounds like you gave him any choice in the matter.” Scar claps a hand over Blisk’s mouth before he can make things any worse. “You may not be privy to it, but we owe him.”
When the tension between them still doesn’t let up any, Sabre steps in. She twines between Scar’s metal ankles. “Mrowah!” she says eloquently. Scar keeps his hand over Blisk’s face as he stoops over to pick her up.
“Oh, hello, dear!” Scar’s voice takes a kind and light lilt to it as he holds the cat close to him. “It seems she’s been handling things well.”
Barker wants to retort that she had actually just stolen one of his (cat’s) kittens earlier, but manages to bite back. “She’s a much better houseguest than your friend,” he settles on saying.
“Understandable.” Scar looks around. “Sabre isn’t too much of a disturbance, is she?”
“Her?” Barker parrots. “No. She fits right in.”
“In what manner?”
“Go look in the box,” Blisk hints.
Scar looks at Barker for permission to go further into his apartment before quietly padding over to peer in. “I see what you mean.” He looks to Barker again, hand out, waiting for permission again. Barker nods to him, leading the specter to slowly and carefully reaching inside to let Whiskey sniff his metal fingers.
She has absolutely no such thing in mind.
As soon as Scar’s fingers are in range, she swats furiously. Barker can hear her growling from where he’s at by the door, which urges him to scuttle over. Her ears are still pinned back and her face is wrinkled in a snarl as he approaches.
“I’m so sorry!” Barker apologizes emphatically. “She hasn’t done that before, with anyone. Except the vet. She hated the vet. Still, though.”
Scar rumbles warmly. “I do understand. She has a litter to look out for, and I am a stranger in her home.”
“Yeah, but…” Barker trails off. “Why doesn’t she like you but she loves him?” He gestures at Blisk. “You’re so much more--” he fumbles for words (he wants it to hit Blisk like a punch) “--tolerable.”
“She has her reasons.”
They all watch as Sabre skitters over at Whiskey’s angry noises, nosing into the box. When Whiskey doesn’t calm down, Scar respectfully steps away, letting Sabre in. Sabre is quick to try to calm the orange cat down, licking between her flattened ears and purring.
Scar leans towards Barker to whisper lowly to him. “I understand their relationship all too well, my friend. Blisk is quite bristly with people as well.”
Barker can hear Blisk scoff across the room. “For good reason!”
“Yes, ‘for good reason’,” Scar mimics. He heaves a faux sigh. “I promise you, I will keep him in check as best as I can, Barker. I’m quite sorry you had to deal with that sort of introduction with him in the first place.”
Barker hums distractedly. He’s decided he likes Scar. Scar is polite and understanding, respects his space and opinions, and--best of all--freely and openly chides at Blisk’s expense.
He doesn’t recall doing so, but apparently he had passed out on the bed again after what was definitely considered a pseudo-parental heart attack with the disappearance and then reappearance of Bud. Barker realizes so only because he is woken up by something warm and squirmy worming into the crook of his neck and shoulder. Barely managing to bite back an undistinguished (but in-character) yelp, he jackknifes up on the mattress. What if that thing had bitten him and left bite marks? What if he gets sick? What if it kills him?
“Mrrep!” says someone who is also on the bed. It takes his mind three seconds longer than it should to realize it’s Whiskey. She’s splayed out on her side, meticulously cleaning her deep orange fur. Beside her, the kittens (he needs to think of a collective name for them all, doesn’t he? Something like” The Beers”.” The Beer Cooler”. He’ll figure it out) look around, probably just as confused as he is at the moment. Their blue eyes are barely open, but they struggle to sit up and explore nonetheless. Thankfully, none of them can get very far--except for whoever it was that made it to Barker’s face while he was sleeping.
Subconsciously, he does a headcount: seven kitties total. That’s good. That means everyone is here. It appears that Whiskey’s look-alike--that is, one of them, at least--still sits where he’d been left on the mattress.
Right. Names. He knew certain names by the looks of the kitten: Heineken is the gray tabby with the little socks on his feet. Pibb is the gray-and-white hellion. Bud is the black one that sits there like a rock when he’s not actively being camouflaged or kidnapped. That leaves the three orange tabbies.
He approximately knows the names: Molson, Coors, and Brewster. Attaching one of those names to a specific orange tabby kitten is another story. He bites back a heaving sigh. This is the opposite of a problem for most people. Having three identical kittens isn’t usually as much of a hassle as it is for him. Other people also distinguish kittens from one another, unlike you. Barker blames it on his poor facial-recognition.
He has an idea. The lightbulb is dim, but it’s still lit.
Barker grabs a pen and starts scribbling.
---
“You can’t tell them apart?” Blisk wheezes as he tries to hold back his laughter. “You can’t tell the cats that you’ve had for almost two weeks apart yet?”
Sabre and Whiskey look at Barker from where they’re curled up in the kitten box. Goddamn, even they are judging him for his own faulty recognition habits. James watches from a wary distance.
“I wanted to get it right,” he defends himself. “Calling them the wrong name would confuse them, wouldn’t it?”
“They can barely hear in the first place, at this point.” The former merc takes a deep, steadying breath. “So, your solution to this was to use stickers.”
“That's all I have,” Barker counters again. He looks to his
Blisk holds his hands up placatively. “I’m not arguing any. I’m just saying there’s better ways to go about doing this. One that doesn’t involve hoping stickers stay on those things.”
For some odd reason, he feels offended on the kittens’ behalf. “Those things deserve to have their own identity, don’t they?”
“Why’re you gettin’ all rustled up over kitten names, Robert?” Blisk’s voice has a teasing edge to it now. “You’re treating these fellas with more respect than you do for yourself.”
Barker goes to argue, but pauses. He’s been cornered. Blisk is right. “You’ve got me there,” he admits, shrugging his shoulders.
“Do tell. What was your strategy?”
“I only have issues telling the three little orange ones apart,” he clarifies. “And they were the only ones that needed to be ID’d.” He holds out his arm, covered by MacAllan’s hoodie, and gestures to three stickers there. “Coors has a green sticker because he’s very easy-going. Green means things are good.” He catches Blisk’s gaze to make sure he’s paying attention. “Molson has the red sticker because he’s more of a fireball than his orange tabby siblings.”
“Why is the last one wearing a pink sticker? Does that mean anything?”
“I ran out of colors.”
“You really think those will stick? There’s better ways of doing this, you know.”
He’s baffled. “Like what?”
“Like using collars. Things that can’t come off easily, moron.”
He stops for a moment. Blisk does have a point. “Okay. You’re telling me I need to buy six separately-colored collars to tell them apart?”
Blisk gives him a deadpan look. “You tell me,” he mutters, “you’re the one having the issue with them.”
Quickly, Barker’s gaze swipes over to James. “You,” he points. “Can you go to the store for me?”
James blinks owlishly at him for a moment, confused. Its head tilts to the side.
“You know, they’re not built to decide if they wanna do something, Taube,” Blisk sneers.
“Fine. James, you’re going to the store for me.”
James, now with clear directions, stands straighter.
Barker hands the unit a card, which James dutifully places into a subspace compartment. “Six collars. Different colors.” He stops to think. “You may as well get more kitty food, too. You know what Whiskey likes.” Of course it does. It probably knows that better than you do, and you’re the one feeding her!
James diligently salutes Barker before heading towards the front door. It marches out with purpose, clearly intent on completing its given task. As the door shuts behind it, Barker swears he sees a shadow creep out of the outside alley. Subconsciously, he shrinks back into the apartment.
“Was that a good idea? I don’t think it was a good idea.” Barker answers his own question in the same breath. “James is supposed to be looking out, and I just actually sent it out away from me.” He drags his palms down his face.
Blisk scoffs. “Do you really think I’d--?”
“No, not you,” he waves a hand dismissively. “I’m talking about other…people. With purposes. Bad purposes.” The anxiety has already gained a foothold and is festering out of control.
“Cool your jets,” Blisk huffs. “On this night, and just like every other night here, nobody is going to blatantly try to break in.”
Both men turn to the closed door as footsteps pause outside it.
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