Time travel, contrary to every romanticized film she’d ever seen, was not gentle. It tore through her bones like wind through a broken window, dragged her lungs inside out, and when she emerged from the calibrated field of the temporal gate, (Y/n) collapsed to her knees on the rocky edge of a rural road, her body trembling from the seismic rift between now and then.
She had arrived.
Italy. Late August. A full seven days before the Monza Grand Prix.
The machine behind her, hidden in the natural curve of an abandoned vineyard shed, hummed with residual energy. It would remain dormant now, counting down the days until its recall trigger auto-activated and dragged her back to her rightful place in time.
She had exactly one week.
Seven days to prevent a death that had unraveled her world.
DAY ONE: CALIBRATION AND CHAOS
Monday arrived with a blistering sun and the earthy scent of olives and dust. The roads leading to Monza were still relatively quiet, with only a few trucks beginning to weave into the circuit’s outer infrastructure. Construction teams moved like ants, assembling grandstands, banners, sponsor tents.
(Y/n) was not here for leisure. She hadn’t come to see her favorite driver in his prime, or to chase some fantastical dream of meeting a hero.
She was here to rewrite death.
So she planned.
For fourteen hours straight, she remained in the confines of her rented room, a sparse, no-nonsense Airbnb with peeling cream wallpaper and a loose doorknob. Her laptop, retrofitted with an offline archive of historical data, buzzed with life as she reviewed every known variable of the upcoming race weekend.
Circuit blueprints. Car setup expectations. Pit stop strategy leaks. Forecast models. The times Lando typically arrived at the paddock. Where he sat during press briefings. Even the grocery store he frequented three towns over.
She didn’t eat. She barely drank. She only calculated, drew, rewrote, highlighted, and memorized.
Every second mattered.
A single slip could shatter her fragile presence here, ripple a timeline she was barely allowed to touch, and doom Lando all over again.
And so she drew the line between herself and emotion. This was no longer about hope or idolization. This was war. A silent war between history and her will to bend it.
DAY TWO: STRATEGIC THREADS
On Tuesday, she moved.
Still cloaked beneath a plain black cap and unremarkable denim jacket, she made her way into Monza proper. The town had begun to stir, vendors unboxing shelves of merch, locals hanging up race-week banners on iron balconies. Conversations buzzed with predictions. But beneath the celebration, (Y/n) walked with surgical intent.
Her first task was securing access, not into the paddock directly, but into the spiderweb of people who could lead her there.
At a café frequented by junior reporters, she struck up a conversation with a British freelance writer who worked for a minor motorsports blog. She listened to him ramble about journalism politics, inserted a few well-placed motorsport facts, and by the end of their cappuccinos, she had an invitation to a media mixer the next evening.
She slipped through garages and back entrances, blending in with the local logistics team. A few forged passes and altered digital tags later, she had brief access to the behind-the-scenes movement of F1 personnel.
All the while, she stayed invisible, just another cog in the machine.
She had no intention of getting close yet.
Not until she was ready.
DAY THREE: THE MASK OF PROFESSIONALISM
Wednesday came with a murmur of anticipation. It was media day eve, when journalists flooded the paddock like migrating birds, cameras flashing, microphones poised, all seeking headlines, tension, and clicks.
It was also the day (Y/n) became someone else.
She studied the behavioral patterns of paddock staff: the way reporters carried themselves, the subtleties of posture and dress, how they asked questions, when they lingered and when they vanished into the background. In a rented flat, she transformed herself. Her hair was pulled back in a low, severe ponytail. Glasses replaced the shadow of her cap. She wore a tailored black blazer over neutral slacks and a forged ID tag clipped to her collar.
She chose her identity carefully, just another obscure stringer from a Scandinavian outlet unlikely to be questioned.
Her purpose was not to stir curiosity.
It was to observe.
To place herself just near enough to watch how Lando moved, how the team interacted, to map his proximity patterns and pinpoint the moment she could intervene without setting off alarms.
The fake credentials worked.
She passed through the outer checkpoint, nodded at security, and stepped into the paddock for the first time.
The hum of proximity nearly undid her.
This was sacred ground, where gods of speed lived and legends were born, and she was walking among them not as a fan, but as a spy rewriting destiny.
Everywhere she turned: mechanics working on brake ducts, engineers cross-checking tire sets, journalists whispering rumors. Lando’s face appeared on banners above her, youthful and bright, untouched by the cruel end that waited just beyond the calendar’s reach.
She swallowed her breath.
Tomorrow would be the real test.
DAY FOUR: COLLISION
She hadn’t expected to see him so soon.
Thursday morning, the paddock bloomed with chaotic grace. It was media day, and (Y/n), now fully immersed in her false identity, had blended effortlessly into the rotating scrum of journalists. Her voice recorder was fake, her questions pre-written and useless. She hovered near the McLaren hospitality tent, pretending to check her notes.
Then he stepped out.
Lando Norris.
Alive.
Closer than she had ever allowed herself to imagine.
He wore his team polo, sleeves pushed up to his elbows, curly hair half-tamed beneath a cap. He was speaking to a Sky Sports interviewer, his laughter effortless, his gestures animated.
(Y/n) froze.
In that moment, the reality of his existence hit her like a freight train. This was not a video. Not a digital echo. This was him, his presence, his vitality, the spark of him that had vanished a decade ago in her time.
She took a step closer, too close.
His gaze flicked to hers.
A second. Maybe less.
She dropped her eyes instantly and turned away, disappearing into the crowd. Her heart pounded wildly. She cursed herself for the lapse, for letting awe override strategy.
But it was done.
She had seen him.
And he had seen her.
DAY FIVE: EXPOSED
She arrived earlier the next day, certain the previous moment had gone unnoticed. But paranoia grew like weeds in her mind.
She kept her distance, careful to linger in shadows, moving with intention, not repetition. Still, there were glances. From crew members. A pause in a security guard’s eyes.
Something had shifted.
At lunch, it unraveled.
She was on her way out of the media tent when a firm hand gripped her shoulder.
“Hey.”
She turned, instantly blank-faced.
Lando stood before her—not smiling. His eyes were narrowed, jaw tense.
“I’ve seen you,” he said evenly. “Every day this week. Lurking.”
Her throat tightened.
“I’m with—”
“I know every journalist here by name. You’re not one of them.”
Around them, voices continued, unaware. But his gaze pierced through her like a blade.
“Why are you following me?” he asked, voice low. “Are you some kind of stalker?”
“No,” she replied too quickly.
His jaw clenched.
“Security.”
The word summoned two paddock officials like shadows.
“She’s banned,” he said without hesitation. “I don’t want her near the paddock again.”
The words cut deeper than she expected.
The guards escorted her out—not violently, but with enough finality that she knew re-entry under the same identity was impossible.
He thought she was obsessive.
Dangerous.
Delusional.
He would never understand the truth.
But (Y/n) was nothing if not persistent.
The mission had not changed. Only the method.
She burned her old disguise, ID badge, blazer, everything. By morning, she was reborn as another ghost in the machine: a logistics temp. Dirty uniform. Safety vest. No eye contact.
She no longer needed proximity.
She just needed sight.
From a distance, she tracked Lando’s movements. Watched the car. Studied the engineers. She marked the moment they wheeled out the setup sheets. Noted which tires were prepped for qualifying. Everything still pointed to that inevitable setup—the one that would fail him.
She was running out of time.
But her hands were steady.
The guards escorted her out—not violently, but with enough finality that she knew re-entry under the same identity was impossible.
He thought she was obsessive.
Dangerous.
Delusional.
He would never understand the truth.
----
Far above the chaos of the paddock, beyond the reach of cameras and civilian eyes, a conversation was unfolding.
In a sterile glass chamber lined with servers and screens, a council of shadowed figures reviewed the anomaly.
“She appeared on August 27,” said one, voice filtered and toneless. “Time signature from the future. Independent traveler.”
“No authorized clearance?”
“None. Built it herself.”
“A civilian breached the temporal field?”
Another leaned forward. “And intervened. Small changes. Observation. Surveillance.”
A pause.
“Don’t engage yet,” the leader said. “We observe. The timeline is already cracked. Further damage could cause collapse.”
“What about Norris?”
A silence hung like a guillotine.
“Let her make her move. Then we decide who must disappear.”
📝 Note from the Author:
Hello, my dear Alarwynnites! It’s the 24th day of this little time-travel chaos corner on Tumblr, and yes, this is the first post for tonight (yep, night!!). I was absolutely useless all morning and afternoon, just pure ✨lazy potato energy✨, so here we are now... posting at night like the nocturnal writing goblin I am HAHAHAHA.
But anyway, on to the important part!
Quick Recap: Our girl (Y/n) has time-traveled to Italy, one week before the Monza Grand Prix, with one desperate mission: to save Lando Norris from a death that shattered her world. So far, she’s survived the brutal effects of temporal displacement, crafted false identities, infiltrated the paddock, and even locked eyes with the very man she’s come to save. The problem? He thinks she’s a stalker. And now she’s been banned from the paddock, forced to pivot her plan while a shadowy organization watches her from above, waiting to see if she’ll break the timeline, or save it.
Stay tuned, because things are spiraling fast and she’s running out of time. Literally. Thanks for reading, as always.
Chapter 4 of Through the Star Field for You is live!
Read on AO3 →
Ash touches down in Akila expecting a dusty errand. What she gets instead:
🤠 A hostage standoff
💔 A daddy issues showdown
🔥 A gang shootout
🌌 An artifact-induced collapse (romantic tension intensifies)
…and maybe a little emotional whiplash.
Sam Coe is funny, heroic, and far too soft on our girl, whether he wants to be or not.
Ash is sharp, brave, and definitely not catching feelings. Nope. Not even a little. Certainly not while bantering in bars, surviving shootouts, and accidentally winning over his daughter. 👀
If you like:
slow burn space cowboys
Starfield canon woven into deep emotional ties
a strong female lead with secrets of her own
…you might just love this one.
💫 I update this Starfield fic + my Witcher Eskel romance fic every weekend
📚 Reblogs help so much and make my space nerd heart happy
Chapter 4-Akila Landing & Family Baggage
The dusty skyline of Akila stretched below them like a faded painting—bone-dry hills, golden light flaring off rooftops, and the spired silhouette of Freestar Collective flags flapping over the gates. It reminded her of Texas in some weird way. The Frontier’s landing gear hissed as the ship settled into the pad with a muted clang.
Ash braced herself as the hull adjusted to atmospheric pressure. Her shoulder bumped against Sam’s in the cockpit, but neither moved away. The silence between them was almost comfortable now. Almost.
Sam cleared his throat. “Hey… about what you heard earlier.” His voice was low, worn smooth around the edges. “That comms call with Lillian. I didn’t mean for you to… well, hear that.”
Ash tilted her head. “Sam, your ex-wife called you a ‘wandering dust-licker with a martyr complex.’ Pretty sure I wasn’t supposed to hear that either, but here we are.”
He grimaced. “Yeah. That’s her being… generous.”
“I’ve heard worse,” she said lightly, though there was no mockery in her tone.
Sam gave her a sidelong glance, watching her profile as she stared out the viewport. “Still. You didn’t sign up for domestic baggage.”
Ash shrugged. “Everyone’s got baggage. Yours just happen to yell over open comms.”
He barked out a laugh, scrubbing a hand over the back of his neck. “You’re not wrong.”
She offered him a half-smile, then nodded toward the city below. “So. This is your hometown?”
He leaned forward, elbow propped on the console as if the view required commentary. “Akila City. Home of well-made guns and self-righteous politics. And me, apparently.”
Ash narrowed her eyes. “Wait. Walter said you're some sort of celebrity here or something?”
He grimaced again, like it physically pained him to talk about. “Solomon Coe was my great-grandfather. He's the Founder of the Freestar Collective. Bit of a legend around here. They built statues and everything. Real heroic rebel stuff.”
Ash blinked. “Sooo... you’re basically space cowboy royalty?”
He scoffed. “More like a walking PR problem. Local celebrity with a bad attitude.”
“You ever get mobbed by admirers at the market?” she teased. “Or wake up to find someone’s named their pet Ashta after you?”
Sam chuckled, leaning back in his seat. “You’d be surprised. Got asked to sign a bra once. Lady was seventy if she was a day.”
Ash burst out laughing, covering her mouth. “You didn’t.”
“Oh, I did. Can’t disrespect the elders.”
Ash was still giggling as she stood, grabbing her gear. The ship’s ramp began to lower with a hiss of steam and metal.
“Well,” she said, slinging her bag over her shoulder, “if we run into more fangirls, I’ll be sure not to shield you.”
"Rude." Sam’s grin softened into something warmer, quieter. “Reckon I’m more worried about how you’ll do around all this.”
Ash met his gaze. “I can handle a crowd, Coe. Besides—you're the one with the groupies.”
He hesitated a second longer than necessary, then stepped aside to let her go first down the ramp.
“You lead the way then, hotshot.”
Ash descended into the wind and sunlight of Akila.
***
Akila City hit Ash like a wall of dust and sun-bleached wood. The air was dry, and the streets were streaked with half-dried mud from last night’s storm—more muck than sand, and more sullen than lively. No animals roamed the paths, no wandering livestock—just a low buzz of tension hanging in the air.
As they came around the corner past the General Store, she caught sight of the barricades first—crates, barrels, hastily thrown-up steel mesh. Armed lawmen crouched behind cover, weapons drawn, all eyes fixed on the two-story stone face of GalBank.
“What the hell?” Ash murmured.
Sam was already moving. He picked out the oldest of the lawman, a grizzled man in a long coat with an iron-set jaw and a faded silver badge. Sam approached, hands visible but confident.
“Marshal Blake,” Sam called. “What’s going on?”
The lawman straightened just enough to scowl. “Well, if it ain't Sam Coe. We’ve got ourselves a hostage situation. Don't suppose you came to pick up the badge again?”
Sam smiled and shook his head. “No, I'm here on Constellation business. How many inside?” Sam asked.
“Three robbers, heavily armed. Went sideways fast—one of the tellers took a hit to the leg. At least five hostages still breathing. They're holed up behind the main desk.”
Ash moved closer, eyes scanning the scene. Her voice was even. “You got anyone trying to talk them down?”
Marshal Blake looked her over, unimpressed. “Lady, I don’t know who you are, but we’ve got trained men on this. Last thing I need is a civilian making it worse.”
Sam stepped in, but Ash raised a hand—cool, calm. “I’m with Constellation,” she said. “Name’s Ash. I’ve talked people out of worse. You send in a squad with rifles, someone’s going to die. Let me try first. I'm sure you know Constellation's reputation.”
Blake squinted at her. “You trained for negotiations?”
“No,” she admitted. “But I’ve been in hostage situations before.”
Sam was watching her now, head tilted, something unreadable in his expression.
“You walk in there and they panic, it’s on you,” Blake warned.
“Understood.”
“No weapons. Open comms only.”
Ash handed over her pistol without hesitation. “Deal.”
She turned to Sam, gave him a look that said trust me, even if she wasn’t entirely sure she trusted herself.
“You sure?” he asked quietly.
She nodded. “They need someone calm. And we need in that bank.”
He gave her a crooked, not-at-all-comfortable smile. “Don’t get shot.”
Ash crouched beside the bank where the comm box was attached, just outside the doors. She opened the comms, which was already crackling with the sound of angry, nervous breathing on the other end.
“This is Ash with Constellation,” she said, voice low and even. “The Marshall said you wanted someone not on the Rangers' payroll. I’m here to help you walk out of this alive.”
Then a voice snarled back. “We didn’t mean to shoot him, alright? He reached for the damn alarm!”
“Okay,” Ash said gently. “So let’s not make it worse.”
“He’s alive, isn’t he? He’s breathing!”
“Good. That means you still have a shot at walking out without blood on your hands.”
Another voice chimed in, younger, shakier. “We didn’t come here to kill anyone.”
Ash’s tone didn’t waver. “Then don’t. You’ve got a window right now to de-escalate. Nobody else is hurt, and if you cooperate, that makes a difference.”
“They’re gonna throw us in a cell either way.”
“Probably,” Ash said honestly. “But a short sentence is better than a body count. You cooperate now, you’ve got a case for leniency. Judges look at stuff like that.”
No response.
She pressed her advantage. “Be real with me—how many hostage takers have you heard of getting out with a ship full of credits and not getting shot in the back?”
A long pause.
“You’ve got no clean escape. This isn’t a movie. It’s three of you and a room full of scared people in there and itchy trigger fingers out here. You push it, people die—and then the only thing you’ll get is a bullet or a longer sentence.”
The static shifted. Then: “If we come out now, they won’t shoot us?”
Ash turned to Blake, who gave a curt nod. “They’ll hold fire,” she confirmed into the mic. “Hands up. No sudden moves.”
A beat.
“Alright,” the voice muttered. “We’re coming.”
Two minutes later, the doors creaked open. Three sweaty, dust-streaked figures shuffled out, hands raised. One was crying. The others looked more numb than angry.
The marshals swarmed in behind them. The hostages were rushed out, mostly unharmed. The whole street exhaled.
Ash's legs felt weirdly loose now, like the adrenaline was only just catching up.
Marshal Blake gave her a look of grudging respect. “Not bad, Constellation.”
Ash shrugged. “They needed an outside perspective and someone to be real with them.”
Sam walked up beside her, expression soft.
“Didn’t even raise your voice,” he said, admiration clear in his tone.
Ash looked over at him, a flicker of mischief behind her exhaustion. “See? I can keep my cool.”
He smiled a little warmer than necessary. “I noticed.”
The sounds of the city started to return around them—boots on wood, murmurs rising. But for a moment, Ash just stood there, grounded in the stillness, with Sam beside her and the sun finally breaking through the clouds overhead.
***
The hostage situation was over, but the adrenaline still lingered like smoke. Across the square from GalBank, an outdoor bar had reopened its counter—rough wood tables shaded by rusted tin awnings, the smell of fried something hanging on the breeze.
Ash nursed a local lager, the bottle sweating in her hand. Sam sat across from her, boots propped on the edge of her chair like it was second nature, one arm hooked over the backrest.
“Well,” he said, tipping his bottle toward her, “you made quite the impression back there.”
Ash arched a brow. “You mean I didn’t get shot. High bar.”
“Nah. I mean you talked down three twitchy kids with automatic rifles and didn’t even break a sweat.”
She smirked. “That you saw.”
He laughed, low and warm. “Fair. Still—Marshal Blake hasn’t stopped grumbling about how you made him look bad. That’s basically a medal in Akila.”
Ash glanced around after yet another local said hi to Sam. “Everyone here seems to know you.”
Sam shrugged. “Small town. Big Coe legacy.”
“You ever get tired of being recognized?”
He took a long sip, eyes scanning the rooftops like they held old memories. “Used to love it. Then I started getting into trouble—bar fights, midnight races, one very unfortunate incident with a crate of stolen spice and a goat. The shine wore off.”
Ash laughed into her drink. “Please tell me the goat survived.”
“Thrived. Lived better than I did for a while.”
They lapsed into a companionable silence, broken only by the lazy clink of bottles and the distant buzz of post-crisis cleanup. Eventually, a lawman gave the all-clear nod from the bank’s front steps.
Sam stood, downing the rest of his drink. “Ready?”
“Lead the way, your majesty,” Ash said, sweeping an arm with mock reverence.
Inside GalBank, the tension had drained. Dust floated in shafts of afternoon light. The vault lay open now—rows of old safes humming quietly.
They each held a key, matching it against the lock numbers on the doors.
“Used to come down here as a kid,” Sam said absently, testing another door. “Hide from my dad. Pretend I was on a treasure hunt.”
Ash glanced at him. “Did you ever find anything?”
He gave her a sidelong look. “Yeah. Trouble. Every time.”
Her key slid into a lock at the far end. It clicked.
Inside: a single folded note, old and worn, the ink still sharp.
Ash read it once, then again. Her expression shifted.
“Sam,” she called, voice soft but clear. “Over here.”
He joined her, taking the note from her hands. As he read, his face hardened—shoulders going taut, jaw clenching like it hurt.
“I know where this leads,” he said quietly.
Ash studied him. “Who’s Jacob?”
Grimacing, he said, "Not important."
"Um, well, he took the maps and left a note saying to come get them from him in person. I'd say you two have history and id say it's not great. I have a right to know what I'm walking into."
Sam hesitated. Then, with visible reluctance: “My father.”
Ash blinked. “The one who left the note?”
“Yeah.”
“You didn’t want me to know.”
“No,” he admitted. “Don’t want anyone to know about our bad blood. Especially not you.”
Ash leaned a hip against the vault wall, watching him. “You think I’d judge you for daddy issues? Try growing up on a dig site surrounded by spiders the size of your face and a dad more obsessed with relics than raising his daughter.”
He looked at her, and something in his posture softened. A smile tugged at the edge of his mouth, genuine and a little helpless.
“You ever gonna stop surprising me?” he asked.
Ash tilted her head. “Someone has to keep you on your toes lest the 'celebrity' go to your head.”
He laughed.
The moment stretched between them—quiet, charged, just long enough for both of them to feel the shift.
Then Sam folded the note, tucking it into his pocket. “Come on. If we’re going to face Jacob Coe, we might as well do it before I change my mind.”
Ash fell into step beside him, her shoulder brushing his.
“Don’t worry,” she said. “I’m good at translating grumpy old men.”
He gave a wry smile. “Then you’re about to meet the final boss.”
They left the vault together.
***
The house was nicer than Ash expected—polished sandstone walls, dark paneled windows, a real wood door with inlaid brass. It sat a few blocks up from the main square, tucked behind a trimmed hedge and a privacy gate that seemed more decorative than defensive.
Sam stared at it with the same expression one might reserve for a hangover or a loaded weapon.
“You good?” Ash asked, stepping beside him.
He didn’t answer at first. Just reached up and knocked.
Moments later, the door swung open. A tall man filled the threshold—silver hair swept back, sun-lined face, arms folded like he was born disappointed. His gaze landed on Sam and narrowed.
“Well,” Jacob Coe said. “Didn’t expect you to come knocking like a goddamn vagabond.”
Sam’s jaw ticked. “Nice to see you too, Dad.”
“You’ve got two minutes,” Jacob said, turning without invitation and walking back inside.
Ash followed Sam in, noting the clean lines and expensive furniture. Everything looked curated. Cold.
“You got the note,” Jacob said flatly, not turning around.
Sam stepped forward. “What the hell were you thinking? Leaving a message like that—dragging strangers into our crap?”
Jacob rounded on him. “You think I want strangers poking into this mess? Maybe if you’d answered one of my calls or brought my granddaughter by—”
Sam’s voice rose. “Oh, I’m sorry. Was I supposed to call to argue with you? Because that's all we ever do. And if you think I'm bringing my daughter here to get twisted up by you like you did me, you've got another thing coming!”
Jacob barked a bitter laugh. “I only want what was best for her!”
“Like hell you did—”
“Enough,” Ash said, firmly but not loudly. She stepped between them and touched Sam’s arm, grounding him with a light pressure. He flinched at first, then slowly exhaled.
“Mr. Coe,” she said, meeting Jacob’s eyes. “We’re not here for a family reunion. We’re here for the maps.”
He crossed his arms. “And why should I hand them over to the both of you?”
“Because we’ll keep showing up until we get them,” Ash replied, calm as still water. “And because dragging this out just gives both of you more chances to say something you’ll regret.”
Jacob didn’t speak, but his eyes sharpened. Listening.
Ash pressed on. “You hand over the maps, we leave. You get your house back. Your peace and quiet. You get to be the bigger man. And maybe, someday, if things start to shift… it goes a long way toward showing Sam you’re capable of giving instead of pushing.”
A flicker passed across Jacob’s expression—too fast to pin down. Regret, maybe. Guilt. Something human.
“And Cora,” Ash added, softer now. “You want to see her again? Bridges only build one direction at a time.”
Silence stretched. The old man sighed, then walked to a locked drawer near his desk. He retrieved a thin black leather folder and slid it across the table toward Sam.
“That’s everything I had. Coordinates, notes. Take it.”
Sam looked stunned for half a breath, then scooped it up. “Thank you,” he said, clipped but not cruel.
Ash turned to follow him out.
At the door, Sam paused, then turned back. “You didn’t make it easy. But… thanks.”
Jacob gave a short nod. “Don’t make it worse.”
Outside, the sun had slipped lower, casting long shadows over the clay-brick street. They walked a few paces in silence.
Then Sam reached out and gave her hand a quick squeeze.
“That was... embarrassing. But you were good in there,” he said. “Better than I deserved.”
Ash squeezed back. “Don’t get used to it.”
He smirked.
She winked.
And they walked on.
***
The descent into the valley came with a hush that raised the hairs on Ash’s arms. Even the wind had gone still. The outpost sat low, tucked between two broken ridges like it was hiding from the sky. A few prefab buildings leaned at odd angles, reinforced with rusted scaffolding and slats of scavenged metal. Ash counted two turrets—one on the far ridge, another mounted high above a solar array.
“Shaw’s gang,” Sam said, voice barely audible. “They hole up here between jobs.”
Ash dropped to one knee and raised her new rifle, the one they'd bought together this morning with her signing bonus. “Cozy.”
He crouched beside her. “Not sure cozy’s the word I'd use. You ever take down an automated turret?”
"Nope," she murmured. “First time for everything.”
Sam gave her a sidelong look. “Right. Academic with a body count.”
She shrugged. “I’ll take the left ridge. Cover me?”
His grin was grim and quick. “Always.”
She moved fast and low, navigating the rocky incline with practiced grace. The scope found her target—first the snipers patrolling the rooftops, then the turret’s exposed energy core. She timed the shot between its idle rotations. One hit. Sparks. Smoke. It sputtered out like a dying breath.
Sam moved when she did—sweeping in from the opposite side as gunfire cracked in the air. A hail of bullets tore into the path where she’d just stood. Ash dropped behind a low wall and returned fire, taking out the second turret with a clean double-tap.
A gang member rushed her from the flank—she picked up her pistol and fired with one hand without hesitation. The old sidearm Sam had given her kicked harder than she expected, but the outlaw dropped.
Sam vaulted a crumbling platform, tackled another fighter mid-swing, and elbowed him in the gut hard enough to knock the wind out of him. He dispatched the last one with a sweep and a shot to the thigh.
They swept through the camp, picking up ammo and provisions along the way, until every last outlaw lay unmoving.
Ash met him near the entrance to the cave, breath still quick, adrenaline still hot.
“Clear,” he said, spinning the chamber of his pistol to check rounds.
She raised a brow. “Is this like a normal day in Akila city, shootouts and family feuds?”
“Only the good ones,” he shot back, running a hand through his dust-streaked hair, then re-situating his hat.
Ash holstered the pistol and looked past him, toward the gaping dark mouth of the cave.
“Let’s see what was worth bleeding over.”
Sam nodded, falling into step beside her.
They crossed the threshold together.
***
The silence in the cave felt oppressive.
Ash moved ahead of Sam, her boots scuffing softly against the stone. The deeper they went, the more the walls seemed to narrow and smooth—unnaturally so, like something had shaped them on purpose. Not tools. Not hands.
The light came first—soft, flickering, like starlight caught in water.
Then the hum.
Subtle, melodic. A vibration that settled into her bones, her teeth, her lungs.
Sam stopped beside her, his breath catching as the artifact came into view. It sat at the heart of the cave, nestled in a cradle of stone—glowing faintly, its surface shifting like liquid metal and glass.
He didn’t move. “Ain't that a thing of beauty?”
Ash stepped closer. Her fingers tingled. Her head buzzed—not pain, but… recognition.
Sam's voice came quiet. “You get the honors.”
She turned to him, hesitating.
“You sure?”
He nodded, though his throat worked like it cost him something. “Go ahead.”
Ash approached.
Each step felt heavier than the last, like gravity knew what she was about to do. The air thickened. She stretched out her hand—
—And the moment her skin touched the surface, the world fell away.
Music.
Not just sound, but color. Meaning. A symphony of stars echoing through her skull.
Light.
A burst behind her eyes, ancient and blinding. She wasn’t just in the cave—she was everywhere. Orbiting distant moons. Walking through dust storms on Mars. Lying on a rooftop under a double sunset with a man whose face she couldn't fully see.
Memory.
Not hers. Fractured glimpses of other versions of her. Other lives. Other choices.
And Sam.
Again and again—reaching for her.
She opened her mouth to scream, but there was no breath to give it shape.
Then... nothing.
***
The glow faded.
Ash’s body slumped to the stone like a marionette with its strings cut—hard and graceless, her limbs splayed, her chest barely rising.
Sam caught her before her head struck the ground.
“Hey,” he said, panic fraying his voice as he dropped to his knees. “Ash—Ash, come on.”
She was too still. Too pale.
He cupped the back of her neck, easing her onto his lap, his thumb brushing gently along her temple. Dust clung to her lashes. Her skin felt clammy under the cavern’s cool air.
“Ash,” he whispered, softer this time. “You gotta wake up.”
No response. Just that eerie, cavernous silence. The kind that made you feel like the world was holding its breath.
Then—her lashes fluttered.
“Was…” Her voice cracked, rough and low. “Was that your idea of a first kiss? Sleeping Beauty... whatnot.”
Sam barked out a laugh, all breath and relief. “Wasn’t gonna say it, but you do make a damn dramatic damsel.”
Ash blinked up at him, trying to focus. “Did I pass out?”
“Right after touching the glowy death rock. Yeah.” His voice wavered on the last word. “Don’t ever do that again.”
“I think I saw the whole damn universe,” she muttered.
He tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, his hand lingering on her cheek.
“You scared me,” he said quietly. “One second you were there—and the next…”
Ash’s brow furrowed. “You were calling me.”
“Damn right I was.”
She swallowed hard. “I didn’t think I was coming back.”
Sam’s jaw flexed. “Yeah, well… you did. And you’re not alone.”
They looked at each other and, for a second, neither reached for a joke or a mask. Just two people reeling in the aftermath of something vast and unexplainable.
Ash reached up, touching his wrist lightly. “You okay?”
“Hell no,” he said, but he smiled. “But you’re awake. So I’ll live.”
A silence stretched—not empty, but full.
Then, gently, he helped her sit up, keeping a steady hand at her back.
Ash glanced toward the artifact, its light now a dull.
“I don’t know what it did to me,” she said. “But it felt… familiar.”
Sam nodded, his fingers brushing down her arm as if grounding her. “Whatever it was, we’ll figure it out.”
Together hung between them—unsaid, but thick in the space.
She didn’t pull away.
And he didn’t let go.
***
Ash and Sam stepped into the fading light, the air sharp after the cave’s dense stillness. The sky was blushed gold, clouds tinged rose, and the surrounding ridges cast long shadows across the ravine. Ash’s breath still hitched a little—residual from the vision, from the moment she nearly didn’t wake.
Sam stayed close, not touching, but near enough that she could feel the heat off him.
Then the shout came.
“Well, hell,” a woman’s voice rang out, smooth and vicious. “Look what crawled out with the treasure.”
Ash’s head snapped toward the mouth of the ravine. There, flanked by at least half a dozen gang members, stood a tall woman with short-cropped hair, a long coat, and a rifle slung casually across her shoulder. Shaw.
Sam muttered, “Figures.”
Ash raised both hands slowly, palms out. “Let’s not turn this into something messy.”
Shaw snorted. “Darlin’, this was messy the moment you stepped on our turf. Whatever you found in that cave belongs to me.”
“It was never yours,” Ash said evenly.
“Doesn't really matter what you think.”
Ash glanced at the men surrounding Shaw—tired, edgy. Not quite itching for blood, but primed. She pitched her voice low, calm. “You fire on us now, it ends ugly. The kind of ugly that gets remembered. But if you walk away, no one needs to know you were even here.”
Shaw raised a brow. “You tryin’ to talk me down?”
“I talked down three twitchy robbers this morning before I’d had coffee,” Ash said. “You really wanna test my win streak?”
Shaw smiled—slow and dangerous. “Got a mouth on you.”
“She’s got more than that,” Sam said coolly. “Walk away, Shaw.”
"Well well, Sam Coe. Akila's prodigal son returns." Her and the men behind her laughed.
The two groups stared each other down.
And then the ground shook.
A scream tore through the silence—a shrill, ear-splitting roar—and out of the brush behind Shaw’s gang came the first Ashta, all scales and claws and primal fury.
“Shit!” Shaw barked, spinning around just as the creature pounced.
Everything exploded at once.
Ash dropped into a crouch and pulled her pistol. Sam was already firing, cutting down an Ashta bounding from the ridgeline.
Chaos reigned.
One of Shaw’s men was dragged off screaming. Another shot blindly into the trees.
Ash darted forward, grabbing Shaw’s arm and yanking her out of the path of a charging Ashta, before shooting it between the eyes. “Get to cover!”
Shaw shoved her off with a growl, but retreated behind a rock outcrop. “We’re square,” she shouted. “We’re damn square!”
Sam and Ash moved as one—back to back, dodging claws, firing in short bursts, covering each other like instinct.
The fight ended as fast as it began.
Five Ashta lay dead. The rest scattered into the underbrush, leaving blood and churned dirt in their wake.
When the dust settled, Shaw and her remaining crew were already backing off—bloodied, but alive.
Shaw gave Ash one last look—not a glare, not quite. Something closer to appraisal.
“Next time,” she said, voice rough. “I won’t be so polite.”
Ash gave a half-smile. “Next time, maybe you bring better back up.”
"I did. You already killed them." Shaw barked a short, humorless laugh, then disappeared into the trees with her crew limping behind her.
Ash let out a long breath and looked at Sam.
“Just once,” she said, “I’d like a quiet walk out of a cave.”
Sam smiled, blood-splattered and winded. “Then you probably picked the wrong job.”
They stood in the silence that followed—alone now, and alive.
And for the first time in hours, the sky above them felt wide again.
***
The hum of the ship was softer now—less engine, more heartbeat.
Ash stood at the galley counter, her damp hair wrapped in a towel, steam still clinging faintly to her skin. Clean, finally. The grit of the cave, the smoke from the fight, the copper tang of blood—they’d all been rinsed away.
She’d stowed her gear, changed into something loose and soft. Now she sat cross-legged on the common room floor, a datapad balanced between her and Cora, who was already giggling at a story involving a clumsy robot and a very opinionated cat.
“—just then the cat hit the override switch with its tail,” Ash read, eyebrows raised dramatically, “and the whole cargo bay went whooooosh into vacuum.”
Cora snorted with laughter. “That cat is so me.”
Ash nudged her with a foot. “You launching cargo bays out the airlock on weekends?”
“Maybe,” the girl said smugly. "Don't tell dad."
"I won't if you won't," Ash replied with a wink.
Sam leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, just… watching. There was a softness in his face that hadn’t been there when they left Akila—a quiet, unguarded quality that flickered to life when he found the two of them like this.
Ash looked up, caught him looking, and tilted her head.
“You staring, cowboy?”
He pushed off the frame and wandered over. “Just appreciatin’ the view.”
Cora rolled her eyes. “Ugh. Adults. Gross.”
Ash laughed. “You’re not wrong.”
He gave Cora’s shoulder a gentle squeeze. “Alright, bug. Time for you to finish your homework. Don't think I didn't notice the assignment you skipped.”
Cora mock-groaned but handed over the datapad. “Fine. But that essay is so boring.”
“It still has to be finished,” Sam shot back.
“Dictator,” she muttered, padding toward the aft hallway.
When she was gone, Ash stood, stretching her arms overhead. “She’s quick,” she said. “Reminds me of someone.”
Sam arched a brow. “Careful. I might take that as a compliment.”
“Take it how you like,” Ash said, brushing past him toward the cockpit.
A beat.
“You ever flown this bird?” he asked.
“Not really,” she admitted. “Only a brief lesson from Sarah. It was mostly me watching her tap buttons while lecturing me about patience.”
He stepped behind her as she dropped into the pilot’s chair. The stars stretched out in lazy arcs across the viewport. “Then it’s time for a real lesson.”
"Lets start off with steering." He reached around her, fingers tapping commands on the dash. His arm brushed her shoulder, then settled casually along the back of the chair—close enough that she felt the warmth of him, smelled the lingering trace of soap and something woodsy.
Ash adjusted her grip on the controls, acutely aware of how near he was.
“You smell good,” she said, not looking at him.
A pause.
Then his grin, slow and amused, beside her ear: “Don’t go distractin’ your instructor now.”
“Sorry,” she murmured. “Can’t help it. I’m very responsive to olfactory cues.”
“Big words,” he teased. “You tryin’ to flirt or pass a science exam?”
“Little column A, little column B.”
He didn’t move away. Instead, he shifted just slightly to guide her hands over the flight stick, his breath warm on her neck as he murmured course adjustments. Together, they guided the Frontier into a wide, graceful arc around Akila’s outer orbit.
Stars spilled across the glass. The world fell away behind them.
For a few minutes, it was just the hush of space and the quiet tension between them—something steady and building, like the stretch before gravity lets go.
“You’re a natural,” Sam said softly. “Flyin’ like it’s in your blood.”
Ash didn’t answer right away.
She just looked out at the stars, wondering—maybe it was.
And beside her, Sam stayed where he was, close but not pressing, his presence a steady tether in the blackest sea.
***
Sam hadn’t moved far. He leaned against the console, arms crossed, content to watch.
“You sure you haven’t flown this thing before?” he asked.
Ash smiled faintly. “What, and ruin my reputation as an amateur?”
“Serious question,” he said, stepping forward. “You fly like you’ve done it a hundred times.”
Ash’s fingers hovered over the throttle. She stared out the viewport, brows furrowed just slightly.
“Feels like I have,” she said quietly.
Before he could answer, the comms snapped to life—Sarah’s voice, sharp and urgent, filling the cabin.
“Sam, Ash. We’ve got a situation. Message just came in—Barrett may be trouble. We need you both back at the Lodge ASAP.”
Ash jolted upright. The atmosphere shifted in a breath—warmth replaced by alert tension.
Sam stepped toward the console, already checking their course. “What kind of trouble?” he asked.
“No details yet,” Sarah replied. “But it’s urgent.”
The comms cut.
Ash’s fingers were already moving, flipping switches, plotting coordinates. Sam hesitated only a second—then stepped back and nodded.
“Take us in.”
She looked at him, surprised. “You’re sure?”
“You’ve got this,” he said. “Fly us home.”
Ash adjusted the course with practiced ease, guiding the ship into a sharp curve toward orbit exit. The stars shifted, the blue haze of the atmosphere giving way to the shimmer of re-entry.
Sam watched her from the co-pilot’s chair, pride clear in his expression—but something else, too. Wonder. Maybe even awe.
“You really fly like it’s second nature.”
Ash didn’t meet his gaze. Her eyes stayed on the horizon as it rolled into view.
“It doesn’t make sense,” she murmured. “But… it feels like something I lost. And now it’s coming back.”
Sam didn’t speak.
He didn’t need to.
The ship slipped through the stratosphere, cutting back toward the Lodge and whatever waited for them below.
***
The warmth of The Lodge hit Ash like a balm.
Worn wood beneath her boots. The low hum of conversation in the next room. Somewhere, someone was playing soft guitar over the speakers. After the sun-scorched firefight and whatever strange current had passed through her body in that cave, this place felt... grounded. Human.
She’d barely said a word after returning. Just slipped the new artifact into the Armillary, where it joined the others with that now-familiar hum and slow orbit. The second it settled into place, her shoulders slumped—not in defeat, but fatigue. Muscles aching. Fingertips still tingling like she'd been holding onto lightning too long.
“Hey,” Sarah’s voice cut through the quiet, gentle, observant. “You alright?”
Ash nodded once. “Fine. Just sore. Long day.”
Sarah eyed her, unimpressed. “You look like hell.”
“Thanks.”
“Hang on.” Sarah disappeared down the hall and returned with a sleek metal tin. “Muscle balm. Lavender, eucalyptus, and something from Neon I’m not allowed to ask questions about. Run a bath. Use a scoop. Twenty minutes—no more, or you’ll see God.”
Second soak in one day. Worth it.
Ash cracked a tired smile and accepted it. “Much appreciated.”
“Seriously. Twenty-one minutes and you’ll start floating.”
“I’ll set a timer.”
Across the room, Sam stood near the hearth with Walter, drink in hand, posture relaxed but eyes still sharp. He wasn’t fidgeting exactly—but he hadn’t stopped watching the hallway since Ash disappeared into it.
“She dropped like a stone,” he said, voice quiet enough not to carry far, but just loud enough for Walter to hear. “Touched the artifact, then just—out.”
Walter frowned. “Out, like unconscious?”
Sam nodded once. “Yeah. Not breathing weird or anything. Just… gone. Cold, dead weight. Woke up a minute later, making jokes.”
Walter glanced toward the Armillary, then back. “You think she saw something?”
Sam’s thumb ran along the edge of his glass. “Wouldn’t be the first time. But it felt different. Like something hit her, deep.”
Sarah rejoined them, keeping her voice down. “Noel’ll run a few tests tomorrow. She didn't show any signs of system failure?”
“Nah,” Sam said, but there was a flicker of something else behind the word. “She just looked… off. Pale. Like whatever it was took more than it gave back.”
Sarah gave him a knowing look. “You care about her.”
Sam didn’t flinch. Just took another sip and said, “She’s one of us.”
Walter didn’t say anything, just raised a brow and offered a faint smile that said he wasn’t buying it—but he respected the game.
A little while later, Sam knocked lightly on Ash’s door, a steaming cup of tea in his hand.
He didn’t expect her to answer. Not immediately, anyway.
So when the door cracked open, and she appeared, towel wrapped around her like a makeshift robe, wet hair curling at her shoulders, he blinked.
“Hey,” she said, leaning a shoulder to the frame, expression sly. “You stalking me?”
He held up the cup. “An offering. Thought you might want a post bath tea.”
Ash smirked. “You bring the good stuff or is this Lodge standard?”
“Custom blend,” he said. “Mint, cinnamon, pinch of cardamom. Don’t ask me how I know that.”
She laughed under her breath and took it. Their fingers brushed for a second longer than necessary.
“You’re full of surprises, Coe.”
“Don’t go telling anyone,” he said, stepping back.
Ash leaned against the doorframe, watching him retreat. She took a sip—hot, sweet, grounding.
He turned once at the end of the hall, caught her eye again. Something unspoken passed between them.
She closed the door, smile lingering, and let herself sink onto the bed. The ache in her muscles had eased. Her chest still fluttered with whatever residue the artifact left behind. But under it all was a quiet steadiness.
She fell asleep thinking of Sam’s hands—brushing hair from her face in the cave, holding out tea in the hallway. Steady hands.
The kind you could hold on to if everything else slipped away.
A positive vision of a future where humans can actually learn from their mistakes.
I loved this book! The worldbuilding is robust enough to engage and give you a sense of what this world is like, yet it's not confusing.
The main character Dex (a nonbinary overachiever just like me) takes you on their journey to find... something. Because something is missing, and they have no idea what it is. Maybe it's crickets? A new job? Maybe if they go far into the woods where humans hadn't roamed for centuries, they'll know the answer?
It wouldn't be a major spoiler to say that life, this book, and even robots leave you with more questions than answers where the meaning of existing is concerned. Maybe, just maybe, finding nothing at the end of your journey is finding something. And perhaps the journey never ends?
In the case of this book, it hasn't yet, because there's a sequel that I'm very excited to read. I ate the book up in a couple of days, and its philosophical meanderings and lovely atmosphere was exactly what I needed to soothe my soul.
would someone be able to read my short story and give me some honest & constructive feedback? It's sci-fi (along the lines of Margaret Atwood and Ursula Le Guin) and only about 1,500 words long. i want to submit to a writing comp but need another pair of eyes on it for developmental reasons.
Pls feedback on:
is there anything you don't understand?
any problems with tenses?
any paragraph/aspect you think could be developed?
Do you get a sense of the setting?
spelling mistakes?
Any other pointers?
Triggers: threat, implied SA, implied violence
Please message me if you think you can help. I'm willing to feedback on a chapter/short piece (inc. poetry) of your writing (inc. fanfic) in return. Thank you.
Anyway, what I’ve been saying is that there are actually three types of sci-fi stories. I’m not saying any of them is better or superior. They all have great things about them. I just think we should have a better differentiation between them:
1. “Hard” Sci-Fi - science fiction that actually deals with the science part of the fiction, puts more emphasis on the “how” of technology and its direct consequences. The Martian is the only example that come to my head right now.
2. “Soft” Sci-Fi - science fiction that deals with the implications of technology, without going too deep into the “how”. It centers more around the human (or other forms’) story and how technology affects people. Black Mirror is a good example.
3. “Space Fantasy” - it’s just a fantasy story, but IN SPACE!!!! It has nothing to do with science or technology nor their applications or implications on people’s lives. Technology does whatever the story needs it to do and basically runs on magic. Star Wars is the most glaring example but pretty much the vast majority of mainstream sci-fi falls under this category.
C12 brought them to a room on one of the higher levels of the center. They opened the door and let TO, GiDi, and DH step inside before they came in after (...)
TO, you need to pay more attention and think about things a little more.
Genre:
Low fantasy, parallel world fantasy, lost world, soft science fiction. Philosophical fantasy?
Status:
4th draft
Themes:
Inherited sin, family ties, memory, home; facing colonialism.
Summary:
Anya LeBlanc takes a bite out of an apple and finds herself transported to a parallel world very similar to her own: the mythical resting place of kings, Avalon. It’s not an island of apples, but an archipelago of verdant countrysides, bustling ports, and vibrant cities with a longstanding connection to her world - and for Anya, a chance to reinvent herself. But Anya’s dreams of a better life are challenged by the nation’s harsh cultural divides and a silent struggle between magic users: on the one hand, the Wanderers, a group of Craft users with no memory of their former lives. On the other, the Wards, an elite and mysterious regiment of masked soldiers whose task it is to hunt down and eliminate internal threats. As Anya struggles to put her past behind her, and help her new friends reconnect with theirs, she will come face to face with her true inheritance and be forced to ask the question: can the past ever truly be forgotten?
first off, i’ve decided to turn off auto caps on my phone, and i’m gonna be real lazy about it, so the blog’s gonna look a little crooked. which i very much like.
pictured first!:
working on a soft sci-fi novella about an enby girl named Mud who’s living on a dying mining colony with her grandfather, Josiah. Mud’s going to hitch a ride off-planet on a space train—i get to use the word pantograph in a silly cosmic-to-quantum context, which is perhaps my favorite thing ever—and find herself caught in the crossfire of a robbery. when her traincar is detached, she’ll be cast adrift at near-lightspeed, and will turn her head and have herself a kaleidoscopic view of spacetime.
used to be i would scoff at using italics for an epistolary form, but then i reread No Country For Old Men—which, if i’m being frank, seems more like it’s about how the US is controlled by shitty old men than anything; it’s not as if violence is this unbegotten force, rather than a means of control currently held in monopoly by white men and the state. but that’s beside my point, which is that at the start of each chapter there’s a monologue by sheriff Ed Tom Bell, and they’re totally italicized, and McCarthy is notoriously too pretentious to even use quotation marks, so fuck it! Josiah’s father’s letters to him are in italics. yeet or be yoten.
ALSO, on the other half of the screen, i’m rewatching Train to Busan, which i friggin love. its violence is never too over the top, but it still manages to make its zombies terrifying in the way they rocket recklessly toward the nearest human they see, 28 Days Later-style. also, like 80% of the film takes place on a single train and isn’t boring? super impressive. even more impressive is that, among the small cadre of survivors we find ourselves rooting for, each and every one of their deaths is just gutwrenching, emotionally speaking, which i’m not sure any zombie movie has ever done for me (the death of Shaun’s mom in Shaun of the Dead notwithstanding).
*
the second photo!:
sometimes i’m not near my computer or i’m just too anxious to open it (been getting way better about that, though—thanks, D&D!). this note happened during one such instance, and became a little spitball session for Mud’s novella, in which i roughly sketched some of the weird shit that she might see as she’s spaghettified. it’s nice to do that kind of thing in a note—i don’t often feel as though i have my own permission to just write without constantly reworking what i’m looking at, but when i’m on my phone, that’s just not nearly as true. granted, that leads to way more half-baked (or, let’s be real, definitely all the way baked, LOL!) and/or mistake-ridden ideas. no matter; the iron hammer of the editor shall temper what the editor’s sickle does not slice away.
