These drabbles are dedicated to my friend Myles, whom I’ve known for three years now. Thank you for sharing your muses with me & plotting these storylines which so beautifully reflect the best parts of our (& any) friendship. You have helped me through many tough times in my life, both significant & small, & I only hope I've managed to do the same for you.
warning: this drabble is kinda very sad.
PART TWO - feat. @leptinspired & @trackhoe-jack.
A strong wind blew up from the sea, bringing in fog and making the air on the island colder than it usually was. Tess didn't mind. If anything, he thought it was fitting. It was three years to the day since he lost Newt and made his way to the safe haven. Paradise wasn't paradise without his brother, but somehow he had still made it into a home, and he knew exactly who he had to thank for that.
Slowly he walked up the hill, away from the beach and towards the meadow where Newt was buried. He had dug the grave and built the coffin himself despite the other gladers' protests. He hadn't wanted to rest and recover. He had wanted to keep himself busy; to keep moving so maybe he'd forget that Newt was never going to move again.
The gravestone was another matter. That he had left to Thomas, because he didn't want the fact that his brother was dead to literally be carved in stone. Now that he stood before it, the weight he once felt was unexpectedly lighter. Perhaps he had finally reached the stage of acceptance, or perhaps it was the sound of familiar footsteps behind him reminding him that he wasn't alone even without Newt. There was still one more person worth carrying on for, who had always been there for him like Newt had.
“Hello Jack,” Tess spoke barely above a whisper, but the wind carried his voice where it needed to go. “I'm glad you came.” He turned and looked down at patches covering where Jack's eyes had once been.
Like Tess, Jack had suffered his own losses— that of his eyes and a leg— and he too had learned to carry on regardless. His mechanical leg and bandages served as a constant reminder of suffering, but also as a symbol of endurance. There was no one Tess respected as much as Jack. It amazed him even now that Jack managed feats such as climbing the slope by feel alone. Even more importantly, there was no one living that Tess loved as much.
They were both silent as they faced Newt's gravestone. From a distance, the act appeared meaningless. They had no flowers to offer, nor words for the departed. Jack couldn't even see the stone or read the words written on it. But to Tess, Jack's decision to come meant the world.
Tess moved to wrap an arm around Jack's shoulders and they stood supporting each other against the wind. “We've braved the wind together for years, you and I.” Tess choked back tears as he spoke. “And I know we will for years to come. Thank you, Jack. From Newt and from me.”
These drabbles are dedicated to my friend Myles, whom I've known for three years now. Thank you for sharing your muses with me & plotting these storylines which so beautifully reflect the best parts of our (& any) friendship. People need other people to grow & live as they should, & I'm lucky to have you in my life as one such person.
apologies for the sap, but it's that kind of occasion.
PART ONE - feat. @whctalksfirst, @mechdreamt, @duskserved, & @lvckyflyboy.
Graser lay sprawled out on a beach, staring up at blue sky and digging his fingers into the sand. This was not something he would have done, or even could have done, just three years before. He had lived— perhaps existed was a better term— in a world of permacrete and steel, with machines whirring and beeping all around him. Now he had escaped that machine and built a life of his own.
It had been an accident, joining the Resistance. Loss and misery permeated him as he was thrown from the existence he knew into the world of people he had believed were his enemies. Then he had met Poe.
Poe was not the hardened warrior Graser had expected. He was a warm person, constantly thinking of others with every action he took. Somehow he looked at Graser and instead of seeing a bitter & soulless enemy, he saw someone in need of a friend. It took a long time, but eventually that's what they became. Friends.
Graser had all sorts of friends now. He closed his eyes and he could recognize their voices in the distance. The sounds of ocean tides mixed in with the noise of mechanics working on X-Wings as pilots told stories of their latest feats. Poe was one of those voices, and he could only assume the mechanic who kept dropping things was his friend Skitch. Graser had known Skitch longer than any of the others, and if there was one thing that hadn't changed about him since childhood, it was that he was too clumsy and excitable to keep a wrench held in his grip for very long.
He could get up from his sun nap and join them, he thought, but he wasn't a mechanic & his own X-Wing wasn't in need of repairs. He no longer had the strict work ethic he'd had as a petty officer, working all waking hours even if he didn't need to. They had been invited back to this planet as a sort of retreat; a chance to recuperate on the familiar islands of Makem Hek before returning to their task of driving out the last remnants of the First Order.
Their hostess, Astra Sor, was also someone Graser considered a friend. When they first came to Makem Hek, he had been a broken person, in mind and body, and her kindness had helped him to heal. He didn't fully consider anyone in the Resistance as his friend at the time. Not even Skitch; not after witnessing the deaths of his past colleagues with the Supremacy's destruction. What little progress he had made with Poe and Skitch was shattered along with the bones in hands that fractured as he had lashed out in hysterics in their escape pod.
Astra rebandaged his hands, and in the process she became the first person since his childhood that he couldn't bring himself to be cruel to. He was distant at first, but the purity of her kindness reminded him of his mother, and it wasn't long before he considered her as a sister.
The tide drew in, touching his feet, and he jolted up and away from it. His sudden fear at the touch of the water reminded him of another friend whom he came to know through the others. He wasn't sure where Cescelly was right then; probably following Astra around like a starry-eyed puppy, trying to guard her and their baby from the planet's many nonexistent threats.
It was strange enough to be surrounded by the light of Makem Hek's thirty-three moons, but to be reminded of friends by all of his senses and to know it was all real was the strangest of all.
He heard someone shout his name— ‘Graser’, not Thanisson— and turned to see Poe waving at him to come over. He waved back, a smile on his face, and brushed the sand from his orange flight-suit before running to see why he'd been called.
It occurred to him as he ran that there was a time when he thought he'd only ever scowl at Poe. He had certainly come a long way in three years. No more dark rooms of metal, no more following orders blindly or spending his evenings alone. He was out in nature, living free from the darkness, and he had his friends to thank for all of it.
Praetor yawned again and gently brushed the wires and metal bits aside. This repair work… or whatever it was, could wait until she could actually remember. She returned her attention to Thanisson, quietly huffing in response to his distinct lack of concern. Then again, she had no idea what imagined monsters might prowl behind his closed eyelids… maybe they were comparable?
“You had better not, not a single other soul.” Praetor’s attempt to sound even a little threatening fell completely flat, but at least her tone showed how seriously she was taking this. Talking about something like this was practically giving Thanisson a peek into her mind… at least, what’s what it felt like.
And the other Knights… were guarded. So to willingly let him see left Praetor feeling oddly vulnerable. “Well… they always start the same,” she began, “Just a mission… I step into battle, but my opponents are… they aren’t enemy soldiers. Or even young-looking adults like us.” She paused. “…they’re kids. Young kids, and they aren’t even attacking. They’re fleeing.”
“It’s not a battle, it’s a bloody massacre… and every time, I go through with it. I can’t… In the dream, I don’t even hesitate.” Praetor briefly let her forehead sink to the table again and fell silent in shame. Even without the “gory details”, she could only guess how awful she sounded now. “Who are these kids? Child soldiers? Innocents caught in their parents’ crossfire? I never know.” She faintly recalled confessing that she was little more than a killer before, but that came with “First Order enemies” implied.
Whatever he may have been expecting, it wasn’t as dark as this. Praetor’s nightmares were far more gruesome then anyone her age should have to suffer and he could only guess at what caused them. She must have seen things of a similar nature that still haunted her in her sleep. But when? And whose side had she been on then?
“It’s only a dream.” The words slipped out before he could consider how discomforting they could be. She already knew that, yet still the dream recurred. Hearing it would make no difference. “What I mean is... you needn’t get caught up in the moral struggle of something you never did. It’s a horrible dream, yes, but that’s all it is. It doesn’t make you a monster.”
He had suffered nightmares himself before, but the situation was totally different to hers. What he dreamt of were memories, and never of committing atrocious acts himself. In all of his dreams he was the victim; either being horribly wounded or losing someone he dearly loved. He struggled to find the right words to reassure her now. How could he reassure someone who dreamed of being the enemy? Perhaps assurance was not what she needed.
“Just... don't let yourself think about it. Once you wake up, move on as quickly as possible.” He spoke sharply, like a drill sergeant trying to condition a soldier, but in a whispered tone. His posture was more relaxed now. Drills and protocol were more comfortable to him than emotion. “Think about something else. Anything else. Even if it's a simple task like making yourself a cup of caf.”
Rey didn’t respond to his comment about trusting him. “And what do you believe is right other than keeping yourself alive?” She asked curiously as she pulled out a knife and used it to peel an apple she’d been given. “People die on both sides of this war, but the Resistance hasn’t slaughtered five planets worth of people.”
“I had nothing to do with that.” He hardly allowed himself to think about the incident at all; a fact belied by the haste with which he answered. “I was a junior officer. I just monitored the docking bay.” Swallowing his pride was a strenuous effort, to the point that even now, when defending his involvement with the First Order could land him in trouble, he couldn't help but tack on a boastful comment.
“Though I did have the rather difficult challenge of keeping our TIE pilots alive. It's a lot easier said than done when every last one of them is in a contest for most reckless hero.”
It has been nearly 3 YEARS since I first started roleplaying Thanisson & I will be returning to this blog soon to celebrate that. I have 5 drafts which I still intend to reply to here, but you are welcome to send in a meme or message me to plot if you want to start something new! I will also be over at my star wars oc.
Graser turned to Rachel with a look of alarm. His arms moved to support her should she start to fall. He wasn’t sure what was happening, or what had brought on her struggle. Was it a panic attack? An allergic reaction? She could breathe just enough to speak a few words, at least.
“Rachel! What’s wrong?” He didn’t wait for her answer before reaching a hand to retrieve his smartphone from his coat pocket. If the situation was as severe as it seemed, he needed to call for an ambulance immediately.
Stepping off from the shuttle, Graser followed closely behind his father’s footsteps, looking just above the ground, but below the faces of any adults near. ‘Head down, thoughts to yourself’ was what he had been told about accompanying his father on business meetings.
He was told to wait in a hallway outside, away from where the deal was being discussed. It was more of a room really; much too big and square to be considered a corridor.
That’s when he saw her. A girl— a few years older than himself, but not quite a woman yet. He stood straighter and looked up at her face, forgetting instantly what he’d been told. ( Head down! )
“Father didn’t tell me they had a daughter,” he thought. ( Thoughts to yourself. ) “...She’s beautiful.”
“Fine. No work talk.” She repeats in a low voice before returning her attention to the food he was preparing. Obviously the pair of them were the type to butt heads about the simplest of things, more proof that the pair of them could never be on the same side. They had opposite beliefs, opposite ways of thinking, and if they were sober it was obvious they couldn’t be polite in their discussions.
As the plate was put in front of her, the woman muttered a thank you before picking up one of the forks. “Caf, please.” Of course, if their conversation was going to continue then she might need something a little bit stronger than that but Nes couldn’t just openly say that or do anything about it. So, lips were pressed into a tight line as she kept it together.
She quietly began to eat the food, giving him a kind acknowledgment for how good it was before continuing. Maybe the rest of the morning would be peaceful with no arguing.
As he turned back to the counter to make caf for her, Thanisson began to question himself. Nesota’s very presence irritated him and they were always at each other’s throats, yet he didn’t want her to go. It didn’t make sense. What was he doing? Still his hands moved like a programmed machine, putting a kettle on and fetching cups for the both of them. Meanwhile his food was on the table, growing colder. His breakfast wouldn’t be as hot as hers, all because he couldn’t bring himself to break the rules of hospitality he had grown up with.
He tried to think of something to say; something to break the uncomfortable silence that didn’t have to do with either of their jobs, but it was as if the door in his mind that led to less professional subjects was locked. Hobbies? Family? They couldn’t very well talk about those things without leading the conversation straight back into their work.
“This might very well be the most awkward breakfast I’ve ever had.” Thanisson set two cafs on the table and sat across from Nesota. His food was no longer hot, just as he had feared, but the caf was good. “We can’t even manage small talk, you and I. It’s pitiful.”
[ ᴏғғ ᴅᴜᴛʏ ] : i intend to start updating this blog more frequently, though priority will be given to my p/eter p/arker blog. if you wish to talk to me ooc, you will have a better chance of reaching me there or on my d/iscord (SmolSloth#1399).
Rey frowned when he pretended to be offended at her accusations of potential betrayal. “You turned it once to us if I’m to believe your story. What’s to say you won’t turn it back?” She asked with a shrug.
“I suppose you’ll just have to trust me.” He had grown increasingly irritated as she spoke. This girl believed herself above him in some way; he couldn’t guess her thoughts exactly, but her question implied that she thought she had trapped him into betraying himself. “I only do what I believe to be right. Generally that’s whichever option doesn’t involve people dying.”
“Do you believe every rumour you hear?” He didn’t understand why Praetor was so upset. Gossip spread about affairs between officers all the time and, more often than not, it turned out to be false. He couldn’t imagine her reprimanding everyone who had been the subject of such rumors, so why was she being so hard on him? The more he thought about it, the more defensive he became. “It isn’t true. Even if it was, why should you care?” He stood at his full height and put his hands on his hips. “It’s none of your business who I find attractive or not!”
Ahh – yep. There’s blood – it’s pouring down from the cut, and her hand comes away slick with it. Her eyes slide to the side when a handkerchief is offered, and she hesitates; she never has been one that’s liked taking help. But this isn’t exactly the sort of situation in which she ought to turn help down – something near-catastrophic has happened, and it’s already a wonder they’re alive. So many others, she’s certain, aren’t as lucky. She takes the handkerchief, brings it to her eye and swipes the blood away impatiently, before pressing the handkerchief hard to the cut above her eye. The pressure helps to stymy the bleeding.
“Just our pfassking luck.” She mutters in response to his comms being lost. Hana turns her own unit over and over in her hands, as if wishing could simply make it function again. But she’s not the tech expert – she can do some basic repairs, and can slice some really basic encryptions, but this? It’s beyond her. If Kellarov were here, that’d be one thing – Hana’s never found a piece of tech that Jayant couldn’t fix or crack. But they’re not; it’s just her and Thanisson. They’ll just have to make do.
Nodding a little, she moves slowly, hooking the unit back at her waist. Her free hand presses, palm flat against the floor, and she clambers to her feet, grimacing some. Her head is pounding, and she winces, but she manages, swaying a little, before she finally gets her balance. Her eyes turn to the man at her side as he tries and fails to stand, a little alarm sparking through her. Between her side and head, and his leg, they’re going to have quite the time getting out of here – but she’d rather not go it alone, if possible. Even she’s a little shaken by everything going on. So she moves over, offering her hand.
“Come on. Up you get; you can lean on me, and we’ll get out of here together.”
An injury was the last thing Thanisson needed right now. He let out an exasperated sigh as he stooped to examine his leg. He had hoped it was just a minor cut, but no, a shard of something— metal, possibly— was lodged deep into the side of his right leg. The good news was that it hadn’t gone all the way through and the wound wouldn’t bleed as much if he didn’t try to remove it. The bad news was that he couldn’t walk without pain running up his side and he would have to rely on Sudime’s support. That was mostly just bad news for his dignity, but he valued his dignity highly.
“Me, lean on you? You’re worse off than I am.” The amount of blood coming from her head was alarming to him, but then, he wasn’t a medic. He didn’t know how severe it really was. The only other times he had seen a lot of blood was at the academy nurse’s office and at the Finalizer medbay, and nothing he saw then compared to this. Sudime could walk better than he could, which was of some assurance, but her head injury was potentially far more dangerous than the piece of shrapnel in his leg. Unfortunately, he had no choice but to rely on her.
He stood once more, this time taking hold of her shoulder with one hand. Now that he was aware of his wound, he could focus on keeping his weight off of it. They managed to hobble together like this for a few feet before his leg inevitably cramped and they had to stop. His stubborn refusal to lean on her was hindering their progress. It didn’t take long for him to realize this (the cramping was an obvious enough sign even for him), so he moved his arm around her shoulders with a grumble.
“Alright, fine. I’ll lean on you. Just don’t tell anyone about this if we make it out of here. You got that?”
“Well… it is a living being it’s affecting,” Praetor offered, looking more at her mask than at him. “If grief didn’t affect us, and we truly were ruled exclusively by logic and rationality, well…” We’d be no better than droids, was on the tip of her tongue, but she’d seen droids with plenty of personality.
“I suppose we’d be empty machines,” she opted to say instead. Thanisson’s comment about his father being disappointed in him caught her attention, but Praetor herself had to avert her eyes. The topic of parents was never particularly fun for her to delve into… at least, her own. Thankfully, she wasn’t the focus. “…what sort of man would he have wanted you to grow into?” she asked, sitting up. “I’d suggest focusing more on becoming the man you want to be.”
Listening to her words had a strangely soothing effect on him, as if he had needed to hear those exact phrases for a long time, but they weren’t very helpful. His predicament was just as hopeless as before. “I suppose he’d want me to be a wise and cunning officer; efficient to the utmost. A major, like him, or even higher in rank.” He tried to smile, to cover his sadness, but it only made him feel more pitiful. “I want that too, though I don’t particularly care about surpassing major as long as I do my job well.”
Regret plagued his mind, telling him to shut up and get her out, but he had already told her too much. To cut her off now would be cold even for him. “I can’t afford to risk my reputation with a journey of self-discovery. I have to be what the First Order needs me to be... and I can’t do that as I am. That’s why I’m still off duty, you see. It’s not the burns. Those have healed up for the most part. I’ve been sidelined until I can control my emotions again.”
