The Mud Wasps, as a group, fill a curious niche within the world of applied violence. Their designationâ Independent Combat Contractorsâ is a rarely-seen holdover from the messy transition period between Seccomm and Thirdcomm, wherein larger mercenary corps were subject to intense scrutiny. This designation marks them as limited in both resources and scale, but allows for a wider horizon of deployment under the jobs they take, and places them in a legal classing more in line with engineering than warfare.
ICCs, for this reason, tend to specialize in unorthodox jobs and doctrines. These five excel in âhardened environ liberation through medium-exploitative vectors.â They take the earth, and teach their enemies to fear it.
No Future, he/she, callsign âFigmentâ. SEKHMET-class NHP piloting the Lich âWHICH THRICE BURNED STILL PERSISTSâ. Iâve got a habit of (hearing things) echoing a bit, donât worry. (Tag: #something there)
Sup, nameâs Caoise, âsheâ and soft-launching âitâ. Callsign âSickcadaâ. Iâm a newly-made monster, think pre-fall Xenomorph. Workinâ on a new mech, âDANCE ON THE HOLYâ. (Tag: #the chronicle of sickcada)
Saleh Fakhour, reluctant of the Court of Emir Ambrose Khan, may he rot in obscurity. I go by she/her, and my callsign is âSquare Headâ because I actually kept with the wasp theme, unlike the rest of them. I am human, and I pilot the Chimera-pattern âHell Is Other Peopleâ. I also pilot the retrofitted corvette we call home, please do ask about her sometime. (Tag: #music of the gears)
Loulou. They/she. Callsign âThreadlineâ, of Sunzi âPOLYDNAâ. Saleh calls me âwitchâ. (Tag: #thrice a thief)
Field medic and artillerist of the team, Agwe Silva, he/him (human). My callsign on the field is âNestorâ, and me and my Barbarossa âMesmer Beatâ keep my friends alive through the worst of it. I donât really have the head for posting, but Iâll pop around when I feel like it. (Tag: #complicated care)
There we go! Feels a bit more personal, this time (from our hearts to yours).
{New pinned post again, yâall mostly know the drill but for those that might be new: Hi! my nameâs Quaver, I use it/she pronouns, and this is where I fuck around with my little guys. I made this blog to be about Nofie, initially, and heâll still be the main presence on it, but Iâd like to slowly branch out into a couple of the othersâ stories as I go!}
{a tag list is to follow for the arcs and stories that have come up so farâ I usually organize by major plot arc and, going forwards, by the main speaker in a post. General CWs follow for depersonalization, potential sharp veers into body horror (itâs a habit), and a fairly consistent return to mourning or grief. This blogâs been a little consumed by the prospect of death, if through a hopeful lens, and in a way each crew memberâs stories are gonna reflect a small piece of that, I think. Itâs the moral of every story, after all.}
Onscreen: the ground floor of an open five-story atrium, carpeted with a plush, black material.
Bookshelves cut from solid blocks of basalt stand in rows on the levels above, lining high corridors which lead away out of sight. Wrought-iron spiral stairwells ascend toward vaulted stone ceilings, with landings at each level. Ornate reliefs inlaid with gold, bronze, and scarlet coral decorate the iron banisters and railings, depicting processions of snarling hellhounds, wreathed in flames as they march forever upward.
Warm yellow light spills from brass gutters flowing with molten metal, all zigzagging overhead throughout the library to illuminate every corner. The gutters lead back to a chandelier-like crucible suspended over the atrium by bronze chains; spouts on its underside feed the gutter network with continual streams of liquid metal, heated until it runs like water.
All around are stacks of historical media in a staggering variety of forms, scattered across bookshelves or heaped in apparent disarray. Books, magnetic tape cassettes, audiovisual discs, vinyl record cases, cardboard tubes labeled with artwork titles, comics, magazines, maps tacked to enormous corkboards, scrapbooks, game cartridges, film reels, tangible representations of electronic files in archaic formats, microfilms, manuscripts, 3-dimensional scans of sculptures and pottery and tablets and mosaics, right alongside plastic figurines, cheap toys, and recreations of media playback devices.
If one looks closely, nothing can be identified which isnât sourced from pre-Fall Cradle.
In the center of the atrium, reclining on a black beanbag chair, is Garmr. His horns rest against a cardboard box labeled ârecent pullsâ with black felt-tip pen, and he cradles something white in his arms.
< âŠhey, yâall. Weâre alive. >
He turns, looks at the camera, exhales, and looks away.
< I donât like to show this place so much, but itâs mine. From when I was younger. Handlers wanted us doinâ hobbies. >
The white thing in his arms shifts; a set of triangular ears flick up. An Arctic fox, its head swiveling to address the viewer.
< âŠbroadcasting? >
< Yeah, buddy. Iâll handle it. You just rest unless thereâs anything you want to say. Ok? >
< Understood. >
The fox rests its chin on Garmrâs shoulder and closes its eyes, but begins to tremble uncontrollably as it moves. Garmr sets his arm on its flank and holds its hindpaws in one hand, working to keep it steady. He sets his other hand between its shoulders and uses one thumb to slowly, methodically stroke its ears.
Gradually, the fox relaxes, and so does Garmr.
< Ok. Sâalright. First thing, I guess.
This is Fox_3, Hachiâs comp/con. ItâsâFox isâshit, I donât really understand whatâs going on with it. Itâs our packmate, thatâs the big thing. Always was. Itâs my sibling, and weâre just now getting to know each other. >
Without turning, Fox begins to speak. Its voice is slow and faltering, but clear.
< L5FX: Hello. Guest user. My name is Fox Three, and my updated personal callsign is Luna 5. HowâŠare youâtoday?
I am a milspec electronic-substrate artificial intelligence, optimized for missile targeting and pilot support in combat drone management. My licensedâŠsister. is the FENRISĂLFR-class NHP, aerospace pilot CNS274-L3HK. Hachiko. I love her.
This is my registeredâŠbrother. Garmr. I love him. I love my pack. >
Garmr waits for it to finish speaking, then nods slowly and lowers his head to lick Foxâs cheek.
< Hell yeah. You too, buddy. Rest up.
âŠitâs got thisâtrouble with words. Has to either talk off a script or really, really think through everything it says. Has to. No choice. Been through the fuckinâ wringer, too; everything is that much harder right now. I think it had to work its ass off to say all that. >
Garmr gives a fangy, lopsided grin.
< It really wants to get in touch.
And Hachi, sheâsâwell, she made a broadcast, and yâall probably saw it. Fox isâŠgonna be chilling with me for a while. She needs time.
Next thing. Grey. >
The camera pans to track Garmrâs gesture as he points across the atrium. Coming into view, Grey lies on its side on the carpet, eyes open, not breathing. Perfectly still.
The material of its body has been replaced with an equivalent volume of dark metal. Its fur coat sags under its own weight, a field of metallic filaments bent close to its skin.
< Itâs alive, butâsolidified. I guess thatâs the metaphor. Depleted uranium. Weâve got instructions on how to reverse whatever was done to it, so it should bounce back.
Still. Gonna be a process. >
Garmr exhales, starts to speak, then halts. He tries again.
< Maâiiâs gone. >
The words make it out, and his teeth lock together behind them. He closes his eyes.
[AUDIOVISUAL STREAM SUSPENDED]
[AUDIOVISUAL STREAM RESUMED. DOWNTIME: 42m37s]
The camera feed clicks back on.
Clearly, Garmr has been crying. Heâs alone somewhere in the library, leaning against a stone bookshelf, hands laced behind his head.
It takes him a few moments to wrench his eyes to the camera. When he does, his lips pull back into a twitching approximation of a grin.
< Weâyeah, not gonna lie. We got smacked around pretty goodâ >
As he speaks, his voice abruptly goes thin. Throat closing off, he sucks in a breath. He stomps and rakes his paw back, grinding his claws against the tiled floor.
< Yep. Yeah. Weâre all fucked up. >
He bares his teeth for a moment. Snarls.
Under his breath, he counts to sixty. All around him, undulating light. Metal flowing through gutters.
< Okay. Being cool.
We all took damage. Iâm working on basic repairs, keeping us flying. On our way to a blink station, but itâs gonna be harder to get clear-for-jump without Maâii forging our papers. Weâre gonna need help, and we got manna.
Other thing. >
He glances down between rows of shelves, back to the atrium, where Fox lies still on the beanbag chair. Back to the camera. He speaks quietly.
< There was a ship, went after Coelacanth. Minimum Error Tolerance. Some kind of next-gen stealth subline, real skunkworks shit. Four-sided pyramid. Think it was NHP controlled, like us. Scary motherfucker. Maâiiâknows it, I guess? Contact of theirs, or something like. >
Garmr exhales, forces himself to stay calm.
< Maâii told us a lot about the things they did, but nothing about that. Anybody knows anything about this ship, I need to know what weâre dealing with. I can pay.
âŠalso. To everyone who pulled up to help us in legionspace: we owe you. You ever need anything, weâre here. Sunnyâespecially you. Thanks. Wouldnât be here without yâall.
Alright. Fox and I, weâll be in touch. Take care. >
Onscreen, a forest, soaked deep in rain. Half-rotten, a tree stump among ferns; undergrowth sprouts from a rich carpet of decomposing organic matter. Clouds of leaves against steel-grey, featureless skies, all blown and flapping in gale winds.
On the stump is Hachiko, head in her hands, hunched over, palms pressed to her eye sockets. With her fur soaked through and slicked flat against her body, her silhouette is changed. Gaunt, compressed, stripped of her outer cloudbanks of fur. All her avatarâs carefully human femininity is gone.
Naked, Hachiko is a wolf.
Trembling, she forces air in and out of her lungs. Each successive exhalation comes a little more voiced, more a growl. The sound is unmistakably, increasingly canine, with a hollow acoustic quality a human skull couldnât create.
Her lips pull off her teeth; she chokes, snarls, then speaks.
< Grey isâcomatose. Maâiiâcaptive, presumably. Who knows? >
A guttural snort, shifting into the kind of laughter produced by aching ribs.
< My brother is alive. My comp/conâ >
She snaps her teeth together, releases a muted shriek through them.
< âis alive? Sapient? A slave. I held it as my property. I didnât knowâ >
Her claws dig into her scalp, and she lurches forward, putting her nose between her knees. White teeth glisten in the rain, clenched together.
Hachi begins to whimper some word or another, but it never reaches intelligibility. In the next moment, her jaws begin to come apart in a slow, too-fluid motion.
The sound which reaches the viewer is not a scream, not at first. Too high-pitched, a dental drill, a batâs echolocation bark sustained to agonizing duration. The diffused half-light filling the forest dissipatesâor rather, the descending darkness gains substance.
[USER INTERFACE ALERT: ACTIVE MEMETICS DETECTED AND CENSORED. TERMINATE STREAM? Y/N]
All becomes indistinct, except for her head. It stuttertwists, in nested suggestions of over-and-over-and-over again, all trending toward a moment in which Hachi turns to look at the viewer.
[SUSTAINED MEMETIC HAZARD DETECTED AND CENSORED. STREAM WILL AUTOMATICALLY TERMINATE IN 3 SECONDS. CONTINUE? Y/N]
She is a single tapetum lucidum above gathering teeth.
< I have proxy control of Greyâs systems. Course for the gate is set, Garmrâs extracting Fox now. Keep your drive spooling, fall in on me. We are leaving. >
< âŠI canât do that, love. >
Qualic burst: a multilayered, staccato vocalization, brief and furious. Hachikoâs voice is barely audible in the cacophony, buried under guttural snarls and shrieks of frustration.
< No. Youâwill notâdo this to me. To us. Donât you dare. Donât you dare. >
< Iâm sorry. If I go, that warship will follow us. Iâll find my own way back, one way or another. I promise. >
< Goddamn you. >
_____
[L2 GARMR -> L3 HACHIKO]
< Alright, I got Fox and Iâm moving to rendezvous. Whereâs Maâii? >
< Good. Get set to jump on my mark. >
< Got it. 97% of .25c charge, ready in fifteen seconds. Maâii delayed? >
< Hachi. Where are they? >
< No. No, no, no, we canât justâ >
< Weâyou and Iâare getting Grey and Fox out of danger. >
< Thatâs all we can do, Garmy. >
< âŠcourse set. Ready for quarterlight ejection on your mark. >
Light and sound, someone in very close proximity. Fangs close around the scruff of Foxâs neck.
No voice to scream. Retrograde maneuvering thrusters, all fire. Priority one: withdraw damaged fore section from the hull of Object B. Reflexively, Fox closes the firing circuit for its hybrid-Gauss cannon, and recoil bursts through its body.
Fox is driven back a few centimeters before being caught in place. The skeletal steel of its frame groans under stress. Structural damage alarms bloom across its internal awareness, something like a great multifaceted crystal of flashing red lights and sound injected into the center of its mind.
Too much to process.
Full power to maneuvering thrusters, all reverse. Its microreactor surges with output, and Fox becomes aware that it is in deep, wretched pain.
Reification: a fox with its teeth stuck in the femur of a dead bull. Driven by unendurable fear, it pulls away until the joints of its own vertebrae agonizingly stretch apart, until its teeth start to wrench themselves from its jaws.
< No, no, no, stop! Stop it, your hullâs cominâ apart! >
Speech doesnât come, words do not arrive; spoken words demand to be built with excruciating care, so Fox has killed the words and their endless demands. Too much to process. Every sentence is a struggle, a Sisyphean labor of always-faulty composition and delivery. To speak is to have its thoughts divided into blocks of gelatin, to arrange them as neatly as can be done, and to watch them melt in the blast of a midday sun. That pain, on top of everything else, is beyond the operational parameters of this machine.
Speech doesnât come, and itâs no great loss. It experiences a dizzying shift of meaning at the sound of the Ensignâs voice, and realizes that it has only one word for âto hold with teethââbite, but thatâs wrong. With the shock over and gone, Fox can feel the difference.
Two immense fears: one, that of a raging, overwhelming hellhound, a hurricane every bit as intense as Hachi. He has always been a firestorm in the periphery, with whom Fox hasâblessedlyânever come into direct contact. The other fear, that of the canine-thing which took the hellhoundâs eye and should have killed Fox several minutes ago. Almost simultaneously, both of those fears collapse.
Garmrâs teeth, used this wayâthis is not a bite. The word is useless. Foxâs connotative indices show that bite always, always bleeds upon receipt into predation and eating and last-ditch, desperate self-defense. This is also not a nip, gnawing, an affectionate bite or a playbite, it isnât scruffing. Its choices are limited to the taboo, the paternal, the possessive, and the asinine.
Through this gestureâwhich has been given no name suitable to convey its beautyâFox comes to understand that it has a brother. All that entails.
Speech doesnât come.
< Thatâs it. Itâs okay. Iâm here, buddy. >
Residual plasmas swirl around Foxâs hull as its thrusters cycle down. The mechanical stresses on its body subside, and it quakes through the fading pain.
In the space surrounding Fox and Garmr, weapons of terrifying power are being discharged. Heat and radiation are painted across a dim canvas of starlight. Interactions occur between active sensor systems, directed energy weapons, refractive shielding, and wave-scatter composites. Layered ablatives vaporize into plasmas with strange properties, designed alternately to minimize or maximize attention. Heat management systems and hull wounds spew plumes of steam and atmosphere and infrared light into vacuum. The battlefield is strewn with exotic colors and patterns which can be made to occur only through artificial means.
Against that confusion, Garmrâs hull is a field of matte black stealth composite, perfectly stationary. Heâs near enough to Foxâs dorsal hull that, if it were able to maneuver freely, it could scrape him with the barrel of its cannon just by pivoting in place.
Doors open along his belly, and from one storage bay, he deploys a subaltern wearing a tool belt. A replacement arm has been hastily attached to the subalternâs damaged shoulder joint, and sections of its armor are flecked with shrapnel scars.
< Keeping comms to somatic qualia. Just hold tight, Iâm gonna get you out of there. >
Fox nods, pulling the skin of its neck taut in Garmrâs fangs. An instant later, Garmrâs eyes widen. His mouth drops open, releasing Foxâs avatar.
< Wait, fuck, sorry, I wasnât thinkingâ >
Whipping its head around, Fox finds that Garmrâs avatar is still crouched beside its. It lifts its upper body toward him; Garmrâs eyes widen further. Shaking its head, Fox taps at his shoulder with one paw.
Garmr, apparently, is now paralyzed.
< Oh. You want me toâ? >
Fox nods neatly, once. Twice. By the third nod, the precise, smooth quality of its motions has utterly destabilized. By the fourth and fifth and sixth and seventh, a fluttering mewl is gathering in Foxâs throat, vulpine and near to keeningâthe first jets of pressurized water leaking through fissures in a dam.
When Garmr speaks again, his voice has a different tone. Heâs quieter now; clipped words give way to a halting, strained cadence.
< âoh my god. Youâre an NHP. HowâŠ? How is that evenâŠ? Oh, buddy. Câmere, câmere, câmere. >
Garmr pulls Fox close and gnaws at the skin of its neck. In realspace, his subaltern ignites a plasma torch and sets about cutting through the corpse of Dunkleosteus, trying to free Foxâs hull.
< âŠIâve known you for years, and I justâwhat, missed it? I never knew? How did I never know? >
Rocking back and forth on his heels, Garmrâs chest trembles against Foxâs. Volitional impulses flicker from his casket to his subaltern, and Fox watches his remote body switch over to a preset cutting pattern. His hands are getting too shaky.
Fox realizes that, for better or worse, it needs words now. Static flickers in the black of its eyes, and its user-interface layers for verbal/somatic construction reinitialize before snapping back into place.
First boulder to push, done in four seconds. Now, it watches as the boulder begins to roll down the slope.
< It happened recently. I was not then the way I am now. >
So then, how am I different now? How did I change?
{Thanks to @neramontagueofficial for working with me on this absolute behemoth! You can view the opposing perspective here.}
There is a point that every engineer looks forwards to and yet, simultaneously, loathes: the first real interaction. Every variable and stress tolerance can be accounted for, you can have perfect confidence in your design, but the moment when your divine intent is brought against the chaos of reality will always put a fear within you. Saleh, now, feels something of that drop.
She looks about; takes stock of her works. Personnel, supplies, procedure. All as it ought to be.
A huge claw moves with uncanny ease, wraps itself joint by joint around her hand. âYouâre ready,â Cowie assures her. âPull the trigger.â
âThank you.â Sheâs right. If this is to end in disaster, let it. But let it end.
Sal's hand goes to her receiver, and elsewhere in the ship intercoms crackle to life. âAll personnel, this is your captain speaking. Please attend promptly to Habitation Deck Sub-Three. I repeat, all personnel, Hab sub-three.â Then it's done, and she waits.
The soft step of boots against metal flooring announces Nera's arrival before she appears in the doorway. She's been working in hydroponics again, but clearly took the time to change from the clean state of her clothesâ worn tank top, cargo pants. For an inconvenienced noble she wears it well.
"Nera!" Saleh smiles her best easygoing smile, and leans back against Loulou's handsâ the little woman's been laser-focused with setting her hair to braids for the past few minutes. Around her are all the other Wasps, tooâ Cowie provides her body as a graceful, curving recline for the two women, Nofie's ferrofluid/drone-suspension subaltern perched at its shoulder, and Agwe bookends the whole scene from the crook of the xenomorph's knee. A tableau of snacks, blankets, and pillows adorn the room, and a projector casts light onto the far wall.
"I wondered if the announcement had caught you at a bad time in your work," she continues in fluid Suldani. "I guess I forgot that it's your first time with this ritual of ours. I could've been more specific."
She keeps her tone as far from mocking as possible, but it's hard to avoid a little smugness, especially as she sees the disgust and dismay of someone who's been absolutely had draws across Nera's face. The noble casts a moment's glance at Cowieâ as if she'd betray me like thatâ and pauses just an instant more before social convention drags her in, finding the remaining free space at Sal's side. Her posture is ramrod straight, keeping wholly contact-free.
Sal, thankfully, isn't alone in appreciating the humor of the moment. "Welcome to (hell) yuri night, Nera," Nofie laughs, before grimacing. "Eugh. Low-confidence on that echo, y'all, I don't fuck with whichever one of (these stupid bitches) me spoke up there."
"Mandatory attendance, always has been and it always will be." Agwe motions to the wall, where a paused image sits of a cave grotto with two absolutely gorgeous women center-frame. "We've got some new stuff on the docket tonight, actually. You haven't missed anything."
Cowie doesn't add to the jibe, for what it's worth, but Sal's sure she can feel the low-pass rumble of a laugh echo through it.
Nera sneers as she puts together whatâs on the screen, dropping into Ispisahlari (it means the same to Saleh, but she far prefers its pre-translated phonemes to Galcomm). âMaybe the echo is right. I think whoever picked this might have it out for me.â
"Do not say so before we've even started." Sal sits up, gently but insistently tugs her hair from Loulou's grasp as she does. Now that there's a two-way language divide between them again, her words lose some of the momentary ease. "I was recommended this on the quality of the romances above all else. Whether or not Harrison Armory, who we both hate, can live up to Ispisahlari or Suldani soaps is the test, and we must conduct it in good faith." She grabs for a plate of torn flatbreads, mopping zhoug onto one.
"I'm open to new experiences. That said, it's good to hear you haven't been insulted silent."
"I'm just surprised that you have chosen to induct me into this ritual by testing the merits of a mutual enemy rather than that of a friend," Nera replies. Thank god, sheâs going for the food. "I have heard many good things about Sparri and Prosperan offerings, you know."
âI am sure for their quality, but consider. This is our first time being able to commiserate in person. We know what is good, and having it would give this day no special impact. Soââ Here she gestures to the screenâ âif we are satisfied, it is a revelation. If we are not, our ire extends in the same direction. You see?â
Finally, Nera relaxes. Settles back against a slope of chitin. Launch strain within acceptable limits. âItâs elegant, Iâll admit. But if our opinions differ?â
âThatâs the best (possible world) outcome, sometimes.â Nofieâs avatar canât eat, but she found a few qualic-captured sweets that she pantomimes snacking on as the scene rolls. âIt turns into a symposium in here.â
âTo spar with blunted blades. It speaks bloodless exertion.â
âMm. Now come on, letâs keep to topic.â Advance to cruise speed, maintain bearing. âThings are picking up.â
âââ
Ungrateful is really very good, is the thing. HA propaganda, sure, but well-made at that. Fantastical enough to avoid political snuff status, expertly acted. Almost avant-garde in some shots.
Itâs engaging. The whole crewâs locked in, come the second episode. Sal herself can almost forget the bias of its writers. Nera might be having a harder time thereâ she keeps sneaking glances, but the damn woman has her poise on. At least sheâd know if it was upsetting her.
âI am not wholly sure what they are trying to do with us always breaking to the Tilimsani agent. She seems very sympathetic.â
âDoes that even make sense for House Sand to be involved? I canât tell if thatâs a reach or not.â
âWouldnât feel realistic if Asteria was one-dimensional. But if this is some âshe sees the lightâ stuff, like⊠thatâs gonna be cheap.â
âI donât understand the appeal of her, actually.â Another lookâ well, at least someoneâs having the wine. âBut it does make sense to me, it is an open secret that Sand agents tend to be involved in counterinsurgent activities. What doesnât make sense is how isolated she is. Why send her in alone for a cell this large? Itâs clearly impossible.â
âI gotta guess itâs likeâ the mythical elevation of the antagonist. Hyper-competent enemy force, right? It lets them put all their character work on her, too.â
Saleh makes a face at that. Maybe she overvalued this show. âWait, is she a love interest too? That completely went over my head. I donât mind a star-crossed throuple, but the indications Iâd look for are missing.â
She only recognizes her slip a moment before Agwe punishes it. âRemember, this isnât an Ispisahlari flick. You canât go off flowers.â
Nera, thankfully, seems just tipsy enough to miss her chance at follow-up. âIt just feels like a missed opportunity. Every spy I have known has been deeply petty, the opportunity for a parallel in the same dramatic conflict in the Sand side could make her feel more real and get to their own propagandistic aims.
âAlthough I suppose the sandmen as some sort of horrifying super spies suits their ends just as well.â
âHow many spies you know?â Nowâs our chance to get the juice elite secrets.â
âAt least three, though two in various stages of retirement. Possibly more, spies and all. Youâve met one of them, actually.â
âI knew it!â Cowie pitches with laughter, and it almost throws Loulou off. âYeah, ok. Points to Nera for accurate critique, I wanna see âFuckyouâ attitude on Astoria or I riot.â
âYou are going to see nothing, we are talking right over the end of the episode,â Sal grouses, but this is exactly what she was hoping for. Everyone at ease, flowing conversation. âYou are both going to be talking about a bitchy censor bar and we will miss Bannerjee getting stabbed or eaten alive or kissed or something.â
"I hope it's getting stabbed," Nera offers. "Or they finally do something with the constant teasing that she will burn herself on her kobold's slag lines."
âWell then, pay attention. Though theyâre paying her far too much competence for that bit to resolve.â
Five minutes later, right before credits, she burns herself. The room explodes into laughter, and behold; Nera laughs too. Saleh trades barbs, plays into mock outrage for the bit, but internally sheâs ecstatic. Her design passes with flying colors.
All thatâs left is the punchline. She turns the conversation to what show should follow, nudges believably for an answer when Nera demurs, andâ
The screen fades up to white. Text writes in flowery script across the screen:
âAcross the glittering field of stars, love will always bring us home!â
The lights come up, and it is time to clean. The crew begins to disperse after one final episodeâ something far less controversial than the prior two shows, to cleanse the palateâ and eventually Saleh and Nera are left alone in the chamber. There are plates, glasses, an empty bottle of wine, all to be cleaned up and placed on a handcart for the short trip to the galley. Dopamine lulls away into a peaceful melancholy, the echoes of the moments before still reverberating in the room. Peace, of a sort.
Thereâs something Nera wants to say. She keeps almost getting to it, then evading at the last moment. Thatâs fine, Sal lets her have her time. Itâs worth observing this run-up, especially when the woman sheâs known so far is so usually determined.
It feels like catching her stumbling over Suldani in the greenhouse. She's wondered, now and again, if those moments were intentional. If Nera, so ready to make a game of things, had placed herself nearer the door in the hopes that her efforts would be noticed.
And then she goes and speaks it now, halting and unfamiliar, and Saleh doesn't know what to think.
âSaleh, I want to say am sorry for awkward. I feel bad. I want to ask you question.â
She straightens up, as if pulled by a cordâ visceral emotion twines through her in a knot too messy to name. Consideration, thenâ âYou havenât been learning that long, right? Iâm actually impressed.â She articulates her response a little more than necessary, responding in kind. Effort deserves appreciation, and even more so if this is the bid for vulnerability it feels to be. âEspecially with what youâve had to work with; I hear the translations are pretty awful. Ask away.â
âThank you.â Maybe Nera doesnât appreciate the assist, but she says nothing of it now. Her focus appears hell-bent on what she has started. âHow do you handle the alienation? The, uh, being-gone, live translation.â Her script noticeably deviates, now stumbling, and she corrects. âHow do you handle the knowledge that you will probably never return?â
âIiiiiiâŠâ Oh, dear. The question hits like a hand to a drum, echoing within her. All the absurdity and light from moments before rises up and out in an aborted laugh, drifting above them like smoke. âI donât know if Iâm the best person to ask. As far as everyone else seems to be concerned, I havenât really been âhandlingâ it at all recently.â She can barely disguise her unease with a jab, trying to reclaim some of their normal rhythm. This is kind, she processes; it feels almost wrong.
âYou handle it more good. Than me.â Beat. âIâve been angry. Tired. I feel big vagina in my heartââ Saleh hides her start at the mistranslation, in some ways itâs actually grounding to hear a genuine fuck-up in connotationâ âand I donât know how to fill it.â
Nera motions to the cast of padding and bandage and drain situated over her chest. Behind it, Sal knows, lies a wound as literally staggering.
She pauses, tries to order her thoughts. Breathes.
âIt⊠The wound. Youâve got a good metaphor going on, now.â What an absurd universe, so bent on allegory. Thereâs a parallel drawn somewhere in her brain, between the noble and a certain monster on her ship, and she hesitates before chasing the comparison away. âYou donât heal it. Or, I canât heal mine,â she hedges. âSometimes I try to pack it with things that make me remember home, andâ those tend to pick up the bloodstain, after a while.â
Maybe this is a mistake. Maybe she should switch back to Galcomm and not lead Nera by the nose on a language she barely understands. Maybe sheâs giving up too much.
âMy tantrum earlier, on the omni. That was me letting it soak through. I let my engineering, my friends, become a reminder of how awful everything is. I used to think that was all I needed, find new things to stop it up over and over and overââ
The metaphorâs tortured. She stops and lets go of it, soft resets with a shaken head. She needs a new approach.
âMy faith started on Cradle. You might be aware, I dunno.â Now she chooses her words carefully, they feel raw in her throat. âIt holds thatâs all who believe, so long as they are able, must go there. Go to a city, to a site, and make that hajj. I am at this moment one of the only people from my planet who can do this.â And I have waited long enough already. âWhen I go, it will be dragging Suldan behind me. I already know itâs going to be the most painful thing in my life, more than leaving. But at least the ache of the wound will mean something.â
Neraâs still cleaning, or pretending to. God, and they even avoid the same way. Thereâs a nausea, or something like it, that comes in this momentâ itâs familiar, if far reduced in magnitude since the rescue. Part of it almost feels like envy: only a few choices other people made, it says, differ her and me.
âThe story I told Cowie.â Nera breaks the silence. âTheââ and she says a word that Saleh does not know, but the circuitry wired under her jaw whispers a guess through her posterior temporalâ â<TITLE:ALLEGORICAL:WHO-TEACHES-AND-LEARNS>. Can not go back. I have tried the fix. <TITLE:ALLEGORICAL:?PERSON?STRUCTURE?-CALLS-TO-SERVICE>âs answer has not fixed it either. For me. I hoped you solved it. But I do not have the same weight.â
Beat.
âI do not speak well. But. You go is not what stop them. But I know the weight is a lot. I do not know the rules, but if you want me to I will help. Carry you? I think we all will.â
Something in her almost bucks. That her heart be made tender, in the same instant that Nera repeats the false equivalence that put a knife in the floor between themâÂ
She deflects. Reaches for the ache of gratitude instead.
âIt would be an honor. I know the planet is nothing special to you, but your presenceâ I would be so lucky,â she admits. Clears her throat. âThatâs not why I say it.
âYour answer wasâŠâ And here she pauses again, because this canât be personal. Nera has had enough of Salâs opinion, it hasnât helped. âYou built not for yourself, but to your uncle. To the new-old life. I think that right now you sit with your Pathfinder,â and she cannot remember the names of the Passions herself so she says âhanifâ, âand you need to find what work will let you hear the journey. Your fables have their opinions, butâ thereâs something to be said for the Wolf,â said the only way she can think. âIâve had to accept that, recently. What that looks like for you I donât know. But weâll carry you, as well, whatever it is.â
She has to hope Nera understandsâ for a moment something flashes in the womanâs eyes, and Saleh feels it scorch her like flame. Too long a moment later, Nera recovers with a nervous laugh. âI thought you would say <TITLE:ALLEGORICAL:JIHAD> led me wrong. The, uh, augur said it leads me too close.â Thereâs something on the contrailâs end, right at the edge of her wordsâ is it relief? Who of us does it belong to?
âI. Need to change my bandages.â She gestures again to her staunched wound. âHelp me? I need to tell you something else.â
The invitation gets a nod from Sal, who sets down the remainder of the work and nudges her slate to activity. âItâll want to take care of the rest anyway,â she supplies, indicating the stowaway. âCâmon, medical isnât far. Aggie will get on us both if we half-ass it.â
They go. Itâs a short trip, made shorter by familiarity. Nera almost leads Sal, more familiar with this route than even the captain of the Wings. Itâs a strange feeling, maybe nice. Nera is perhaps the second most paranoid person she knows, if this ship can feel like home then it is a victory.
When they arrive itâs Sal who looks around for instruction. A set of prepped supplies sits ready, good planning, andâ She glances away for courtesy as Nera unceremoniously strips her top, right there. No curtain. Yes, sheâs meant to help, although to what extent sheâs unsure, but the moment of transition feels raw. What she does catch, all the same, is quietly stored away.
âDo you mind if I switch back?â Neraâs speaking Ispisahlari now, her words flowing far more gracefully even as Salehâs c/c is forced to work. âI would have continued, but, aha, Iâd like to be as intentional as possible in what I am saying when I tell this story.â
âFeel free. You were doing good, but so long as neither of us need to bring Galcomm into this Iâm happy.â She allows herself satisfaction when Nera laughs, smug that someone understands her disdain here.
âThe thing Iâve always heard is that we learn Galcomm so that its speakers cannot hide behind the translation whe n they misrepresent you.â Nera picks at old bandages, draws them gory out of the hole punched in her breastbone.Â
âOh, I can imagine itâs a nightmare for diplomacy. How lucky I evaded that job.â
âPass the alcohol?â
Saleh wets a cotton with the dilute, hands it over and forces herself to study the wound for a moment. She knows it doesnât hurt herâ somehowâ but all her instincts rear back at the sight of bare viscera, of skin and bone split to show the cavern where her lungs sit, wet and gently pulsing and with no heart to rest beneath. Of blood, weeping gently down in a rhythmic drip, drip, drip. Working with Cowieâs blended body ill-prepared her for this, but she tries to learn now.
âWhat do you know of how I got this?â Nera again breaks the silence.
âI heard that you suspected Nofie would understand its significance, and she does not. That places it solidly outside my realm of comprehension.â
âThe bastard,â she hisses, the sting of alcohol crumpling her words. âYoud think you'd remember when you cut a girlâs heart out.â Before Sal can act on that deeply troubling sentence, she continues. âThat may be unfair. There was a place outside time where she took a number of people to: me, Maâii, Sarah, and her wife, andâ We seemed temporally erratic. The others that could answer when I checked donât seem to remember either, so I might be the only one who does right now. I know this is not reassuring.â
âYou would think he would remember nearly wiping himself from our memories. I know she doesnât see it as a sickness but this time stuff has concerned me from the start.â
Saleh rights herself from leaning on the wall. Now her study of Neraâs work is even more focused, as if some magic secret lives in the wound. âI wouldnât believe, but I donât need to. You have good proof,â she decides. âSo he did this to you?â
âYes and no. It was initially explained that we were needed to stabilize points in his timeline, parts where she had fractured and sought to regain control. I had seen it as an extension of that tendency he'd gotten into to use âtime stuffâ to meddle, driven to its logical extreme.â Neraâs hands are methodical at their work, sterilizing the network of drains that lead into her body. âWe stepped into those points in time, and for better or worse made sure it played out correctly. We reconciled the impulse, and it marked us in turn.
âI killed Marten.â Beat, roughly the length of a gunshot. âIn that version of events, I was the one that landed that blow, on that site, in the rain, and it was visited back on me. I havenât felt the same since.â
She wants to keep herself even-keeled; shock disperses as quickly and she can make it, hopefully nothing makes it to her expression. Sheâs used to a smokeglass intermediary; itâs made her skills lag. âIâm⊠glad youâre not trying to condemn yourself again,â she decides, âbecause it sounds like the one to suffer was you.â Because thatâs the thing, she still remembers how it actually went. The crashing sound of No Futureâs ribcage folding in on itself is burned into her mind, so it canât be Neraâs faultâ not in any way that matters. It isnât let to be. âIâm sorry you had to do that.â
"I admit I may have had more reservations if I knew what I was getting into, but I would go to any length for a friend." Sheâs not wrong, if this is the apology and point in itself.
But no, she keeps going, and Salâs perplexity alongside. She likes to think she can read Nera, the opposite is surely true, yet this puzzles her. "There are other parts of this.â Her anxiety seems greater than before. Copping to theoretical murder is easier than⊠what? âWhat I wanted to tell you in truthââ Sheâs so tired. The maiming, her escape, that wasnât all. ââone of the moments we had to visit was when she decided to expose herself to Sarahâs experience of the battlerage.â She would not tell me this unless she really needed this. So I will do as Iâve promised and give her witness. âWhen we were there, we were imposed on members of the crew.â I will relieve her of this weight.
âI was placed in your body, and there was some bleed. I was able to use your skills, and. I know more about your time as Court Architect than I have let on.â Sal reaches the point of surety with the plunge of a boar upon its spear, and is rent through.
In an instant her composure shatters. Shame at her deeds brought to lightâ fear that this could be used against herâ an aching kindness that Nera can look at her with any respect, and the pain that it redoublesâ deep and formless anger, that this person be made to hold her burdenâ all of it crashes against her and her words fail. She chokes, her eyes well up and the world smears.Â
ââThatâs not fair.â
Nera, to her credit, looks distressed. Lost, even, in a way that could be satisfying if it werenât so damn awful. She begins to say something, and Saleh registers the edge of some vain apology before she shakes her head to knock them aside. âNo platitudes.â Her psyche, blasted clean, is too raw to receive them. âPlease. I hope you respect me that much.â
She gains control enough to register that Neraâs still looking at her, and it stings. âFinish your fucking bandages, she adds hurriedly, without force. âLetâs not both suffer.â
ââŠI understand. Help me pack and wrap this then. Itâs faster with someone else.â
Bless her.
Sal quiets, taking the out and attending to the wound. Itâs still too much blood for her, and her eyes are shot and shiny, and her emotional state rests somewhere between âdonât cry into her goddamned chest holeâ and âLawahiz was right all alongâ, but her remains deft. Gauze and bandages are set in place, her hands dip within the lacuna and work, touch gracing past exposed lungs and the seam opened between Neraâs breasts. Itâs precarious, some still-sane part of her understands. Like Cowieâ more so, even.
She watches Neraâs words leave her body before she hears them. âI wouldnât be here if it werenât for you,â she tenders, halting. âI donât know where I wouldâve gone, but all of the pain I felt through you felt like the pain of home. Itâs selfish, coming to lay this at your feet, but it was the first time in a long time I felt like I could trust anyone, because I know you speak to me from experience and a genuine wish to make the world better and not a desire to prove your superiority.â
Saleh responds, and then breaks on a sob. Tries again. âIâm surprised you expected me to have any answers, knowing this.â She wants to say so much and she knows it will ruin her, so she moves instead to assess the damage. âYou said we were all imposed on. Lou isâ I havenât told anyone the extent of what Iâve done, down there, but she was who brought me escape. Did anyone, whoever got her, did theyâŠ?â
âI donât know. We didnât really talk about it after, but I know we didnât react quite the same. Maâii did seem to have trouble, though. The bleed was tangible, but in a way that seemed traumatic. I donât know what that means for them, though.â
Maâii. She canât tell whether that makes her feel safer or even more in danger. âIâll hope they were occupied with their own troubles,â she responds. The wear of emotion begins to leave her, and in its wake is bone-deep exhaustion. âI wish you had got this out of the way before we had to play our little game back in the hangar⊠It would have changed what I brought to you, I think. Thank you for telling me now, andââ
She sets a final retaining bandage. Considers her work, considers Nera.
âIâm glad you reached out to us. I donât think we would have sustained well, kept yet apart. And itâs good to know your state.â
âIâm glad too,â Nera confirms. âI donât know what going home wouldâve been like, but Iâm glad I didnât need to find out.â No doubt those fucking butterflies would have been on her in a secondâ Salehâs brain notes another point of familiarity with her closest crew. âI also didnât tell you then because I was unsure how to broach it. I was recovering, before we spoke, and during⊠I didnât want to pull your feet out from under you. I am used, in these situations, to people digging for this information ahead of time and pulling it out as an excuse to display their mastery. It wouldâve been unfair to do that to you, in the middle of the hangar. You deserve better than that.â
Nera gets up, andâ in the moment that proximity zeroes between them Sal feels the warm brush of lips against her cheek. Then sheâs off across the room, washing blood from her hands. Itâs⊠Small, amongst the cavalcade inside. Still too big to observe directly. But she notices it.
âAs always, too much doctrine. I beg you think less through.â There, a jibe. Something familiar to hold onto. âAt least youâre talking straight with me now. Iâm going to go lie down.â
What about the (Sally slaying) combat footage of the jaegers? You love that shit.
Yeah, but like. Ok one I watch it for the kaiju, two thatâs post-combat. Sending out a stream for, like, bread and circuses or whatever⊠That feels like poor taste.
Oh, did she finally get some half-decent cooking set up in that hell cube? That fiend should try my spacer recipes.
{Thanks to @neramontagueofficial for working with me on this absolute behemoth! You can view the opposing perspective here.}
There is a point that every engineer looks forwards to and yet, simultaneously, loathes: the first real interaction. Every variable and stress tolerance can be accounted for, you can have perfect confidence in your design, but the moment when your divine intent is brought against the chaos of reality will always put a fear within you. Saleh, now, feels something of that drop.
She looks about; takes stock of her works. Personnel, supplies, procedure. All as it ought to be.
A huge claw moves with uncanny ease, wraps itself joint by joint around her hand. âYouâre ready,â Cowie assures her. âPull the trigger.â
âThank you.â Sheâs right. If this is to end in disaster, let it. But let it end.
Sal's hand goes to her receiver, and elsewhere in the ship intercoms crackle to life. âAll personnel, this is your captain speaking. Please attend promptly to Habitation Deck Sub-Three. I repeat, all personnel, Hab sub-three.â Then it's done, and she waits.
The soft step of boots against metal flooring announces Nera's arrival before she appears in the doorway. She's been working in hydroponics again, but clearly took the time to change from the clean state of her clothesâ worn tank top, cargo pants. For an inconvenienced noble she wears it well.
"Nera!" Saleh smiles her best easygoing smile, and leans back against Loulou's handsâ the little woman's been laser-focused with setting her hair to braids for the past few minutes. Around her are all the other Wasps, tooâ Cowie provides her body as a graceful, curving recline for the two women, Nofie's ferrofluid/drone-suspension subaltern perched at its shoulder, and Agwe bookends the whole scene from the crook of the xenomorph's knee. A tableau of snacks, blankets, and pillows adorn the room, and a projector casts light onto the far wall.
"I wondered if the announcement had caught you at a bad time in your work," she continues in fluid Suldani. "I guess I forgot that it's your first time with this ritual of ours. I could've been more specific."
She keeps her tone as far from mocking as possible, but it's hard to avoid a little smugness, especially as she sees the disgust and dismay of someone who's been absolutely had draws across Nera's face. The noble casts a moment's glance at Cowieâ as if she'd betray me like thatâ and pauses just an instant more before social convention drags her in, finding the remaining free space at Sal's side. Her posture is ramrod straight, keeping wholly contact-free.
Sal, thankfully, isn't alone in appreciating the humor of the moment. "Welcome to (hell) yuri night, Nera," Nofie laughs, before grimacing. "Eugh. Low-confidence on that echo, y'all, I don't fuck with whichever one of (these stupid bitches) me spoke up there."
"Mandatory attendance, always has been and it always will be." Agwe motions to the wall, where a paused image sits of a cave grotto with two absolutely gorgeous women center-frame. "We've got some new stuff on the docket tonight, actually. You haven't missed anything."
Cowie doesn't add to the jibe, for what it's worth, but Sal's sure she can feel the low-pass rumble of a laugh echo through it.
Nera sneers as she puts together whatâs on the screen, dropping into Ispisahlari (it means the same to Saleh, but she far prefers its pre-translated phonemes to Galcomm). âMaybe the echo is right. I think whoever picked this might have it out for me.â
"Do not say so before we've even started." Sal sits up, gently but insistently tugs her hair from Loulou's grasp as she does. Now that there's a two-way language divide between them again, her words lose some of the momentary ease. "I was recommended this on the quality of the romances above all else. Whether or not Harrison Armory, who we both hate, can live up to Ispisahlari or Suldani soaps is the test, and we must conduct it in good faith." She grabs for a plate of torn flatbreads, mopping zhoug onto one.
"I'm open to new experiences. That said, it's good to hear you haven't been insulted silent."
"I'm just surprised that you have chosen to induct me into this ritual by testing the merits of a mutual enemy rather than that of a friend," Nera replies. Thank god, sheâs going for the food. "I have heard many good things about Sparri and Prosperan offerings, you know."
âI am sure for their quality, but consider. This is our first time being able to commiserate in person. We know what is good, and having it would give this day no special impact. Soââ Here she gestures to the screenâ âif we are satisfied, it is a revelation. If we are not, our ire extends in the same direction. You see?â
Finally, Nera relaxes. Settles back against a slope of chitin. Launch strain within acceptable limits. âItâs elegant, Iâll admit. But if our opinions differ?â
âThatâs the best (possible world) outcome, sometimes.â Nofieâs avatar canât eat, but she found a few qualic-captured sweets that she pantomimes snacking on as the scene rolls. âIt turns into a symposium in here.â
âTo spar with blunted blades. It speaks bloodless exertion.â
âMm. Now come on, letâs keep to topic.â Advance to cruise speed, maintain bearing. âThings are picking up.â
âââ
Ungrateful is really very good, is the thing. HA propaganda, sure, but well-made at that. Fantastical enough to avoid political snuff status, expertly acted. Almost avant-garde in some shots.
Itâs engaging. The whole crewâs locked in, come the second episode. Sal herself can almost forget the bias of its writers. Nera might be having a harder time thereâ she keeps sneaking glances, but the damn woman has her poise on. At least sheâd know if it was upsetting her.
âI am not wholly sure what they are trying to do with us always breaking to the Tilimsani agent. She seems very sympathetic.â
âDoes that even make sense for House Sand to be involved? I canât tell if thatâs a reach or not.â
âWouldnât feel realistic if Asteria was one-dimensional. But if this is some âshe sees the lightâ stuff, like⊠thatâs gonna be cheap.â
âI donât understand the appeal of her, actually.â Another lookâ well, at least someoneâs having the wine. âBut it does make sense to me, it is an open secret that Sand agents tend to be involved in counterinsurgent activities. What doesnât make sense is how isolated she is. Why send her in alone for a cell this large? Itâs clearly impossible.â
âI gotta guess itâs likeâ the mythical elevation of the antagonist. Hyper-competent enemy force, right? It lets them put all their character work on her, too.â
Saleh makes a face at that. Maybe she overvalued this show. âWait, is she a love interest too? That completely went over my head. I donât mind a star-crossed throuple, but the indications Iâd look for are missing.â
She only recognizes her slip a moment before Agwe punishes it. âRemember, this isnât an Ispisahlari flick. You canât go off flowers.â
Nera, thankfully, seems just tipsy enough to miss her chance at follow-up. âIt just feels like a missed opportunity. Every spy I have known has been deeply petty, the opportunity for a parallel in the same dramatic conflict in the Sand side could make her feel more real and get to their own propagandistic aims.
âAlthough I suppose the sandmen as some sort of horrifying super spies suits their ends just as well.â
âHow many spies you know?â Nowâs our chance to get the juice elite secrets.â
âAt least three, though two in various stages of retirement. Possibly more, spies and all. Youâve met one of them, actually.â
âI knew it!â Cowie pitches with laughter, and it almost throws Loulou off. âYeah, ok. Points to Nera for accurate critique, I wanna see âFuckyouâ attitude on Astoria or I riot.â
âYou are going to see nothing, we are talking right over the end of the episode,â Sal grouses, but this is exactly what she was hoping for. Everyone at ease, flowing conversation. âYou are both going to be talking about a bitchy censor bar and we will miss Bannerjee getting stabbed or eaten alive or kissed or something.â
"I hope it's getting stabbed," Nera offers. "Or they finally do something with the constant teasing that she will burn herself on her kobold's slag lines."
âWell then, pay attention. Though theyâre paying her far too much competence for that bit to resolve.â
Five minutes later, right before credits, she burns herself. The room explodes into laughter, and behold; Nera laughs too. Saleh trades barbs, plays into mock outrage for the bit, but internally sheâs ecstatic. Her design passes with flying colors.
All thatâs left is the punchline. She turns the conversation to what show should follow, nudges believably for an answer when Nera demurs, andâ
The screen fades up to white. Text writes in flowery script across the screen:
âAcross the glittering field of stars, love will always bring us home!â
If you like it, keep it. I've heard legends of your bag of woe....
( You feel the rubbing of a large pad of fiberglass insulation across the whole of your being. It feels..... itchy)
Ooc: MAJOR Tw for self harm. Nonlethal or even particularly dangerous to the character due to regeneration, would be very extreme on a real person
[Styx's nerve-analogues blend the line between machine and flesh, being organically grown, protein based fibre optics. Whatever force set the flesh there in the first place was precise, as though not every cell has its own nerve ending, each does have its own input, with nerve-analogous control and intra frame communication structures making up 20% of her bodyweight.]
[All to say, she has more "being" with which to feel itchy than many other beings in the orion arm]
[Combimed with the meat being under a thick, skin-like layer of metallic armour...]
Hey hi thanks this will be added. Normally.id say with memetocs that don't induce.serious harm, pranking sum1 with em as payment for adding to the collection is fair!
However.
[A phot- oh ra below she's dug through the armour with her teeth. Blood is everywhere, as is shards of metal, and also her shock claws are malfunctioning. Why? She bit through her metal bones and the arm is hanging on by three muscle fibres. The pharyngeal jaw esque structure of her arc.projector is missing tje lower half, and her tongue is gone; you can actually see the metal spines lining her throat, so much of her neck is torn open. Based on her habit of using eyes as cameras, one may wonder how she took this photo; one eye has been yanked right out and the optic "nerves" are distressingly stretchy.]
