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Written for [community profile] fic_promptly prompts or for prompts from [personal profile] scribblesinink, who also betaed all the pieces. Lengths are 395, 440, 230, 355, 355, 710, 560, 585, 235, 615, 340, 185 and 140 words. Mostly John/Aeryn, but also appearances by DRD 1812, Pilot, Rygel, Scorpius, Harvey and Braca.

Prompt: Author's choice, author's choice, to navigate a new reality.

Peace Dividend

John was half-aware of Aeryn approaching even before she spoke. "How's it coming?" She put a hand on his shoulder and bent forward to drop a quick kiss on the crown of his head.

"Slowly." He leaned back as she straightened, closing his eyes and resting his head against her stomach, enjoying being close to her. "It was a lot easier when I knew what the Ancients knew."

"You don't have to do this, do you?"

Cocking one eye open, he saw she was frowning down at the pages of scribbles spread out on the table in front of him.

"No, but—." He reached up and groped for her hand, still lying lightly on his shoulder, and squeezed it. "I'm a scientist. I was a scientist first, before I was an astronaut." Before he was a lot of other things. Like a mass murderer. He tried not to think about that too much these days. "Besides, I'd like to go home properly some day. Introduce the kids to their grandpa...."

"You think you'll be able to make a wormhole to Earth?" Aeryn circled around and folded herself up on the bench next to him, biting her lip.

He shrugged. "I don't know. Maybe not as close as the last one, but close enough. Though I don't think I'll be able to sense them forming any more, not the way I could. But even without the Ancients' knowledge, I reckon I know more about these things than anyone else. And I know what's possible. The shape of the thing. Someone's got to look into it, eventually, and what else is there to do around here? Turn down yet another damn offer from the Eidelons to get involved in Peacekeeping politics again?"

Aeryn laughed ruefully. "Did Pilot tell you we got another transmission?"

John snorted. "No." A sudden thought struck him and he peered at her anxiously. "Unless that's what you want?"

She shook her head. "No. I'm happy helping the Eidelons train their elite pilots for a few days every cycle, but I've had more than enough of planetary squabbling. But we did get an invitation to visit Chiana, if you can bear to tear yourself away from this." She put her hand on top of his notes.

"Sounds good." John shuffled the papers together. "How many worlds is that company of hers trading with now?"


Prompt: Any, any, the walls between dream and reality are beginning to blur.

Unrealized reality

"Wait, where the hell are we?" John looked around wildly. So much pink....

"I don't know, John." Harvey picked up a stuffed toy from the pile heaped high on the bed—probably a rabbit, but it was hard to tell; it was also very pink—and examined it with a dubious expression. "You have so many strange places in your mind."

John turned around slowly, taking another look at the decor. Barbie's boudoir? No, wait.... "There was this girl I dated.... First year in college."

Harvey had cleared a small spot among the stuffed animals at the edge of the bed, carefully placing the half dozen he'd moved on top of the rest. He perched awkwardly in the space, one leg crossed over the other, resting his hands on his knee. "Did you like this girl?"

"Umm, not really." He'd gone off her quite a bit more when he'd seen her dorm room. On the other hand, he'd been in her dorm room. "But I was kinda hoping to, you know, uh, get some action."

"Ah, yes. The human desire for intimacy." Scorpius's tone made John feel like a lab rat. He looked up at John with what was likely meant to be an ingratiating smile—we're all men of the world here—but merely succeeded in appearing even more unsettling than usual. "And did you?"

John remembered making out a bit on top of the stuffed animals, aware of being watched—judged?—by hundreds of beady little eyes. At one point, he'd turned his head and found himself looking straight into the grimace of a disapproving bear. It had killed the last of his desire: he wanted to get laid, but not that much. Not long after that, he'd found an excuse to flee. "No," he answered shortly. This was one of those times when he really wished he didn't feel compelled to talk to Harvey. But it was almost impossible not to. Harvey had gotten right inside his head, literally and figuratively.

Harvey had picked up a toy giraffe and was turning it around in his hands, tipping it upside down as if checking its sex. "And do you wish to be intimate with Officer Sun?"

John leaned back against the closet door and crossed his arms. "It's complicated." If there was one subject he really didn't want to discuss with Harvey, it was Aeryn.

"John?" Someone was shaking his shoulder. "John? Wake up. We've got company!"

He started awake, finding himself staring up at Aeryn, her expression anxious as she leaned over him.

"Too damn right we have," he muttered to himself as he swung his legs over the side of the bed and reached for Winona.


Prompt: Any, any,

"Alexander wept when he heard from Anaxarchus that there was an infinite number of worlds;
and his friends asking him if any accident had befallen him, he returns this answer:

'Do you not think it a matter worthy of lamentation that when there is such a vast multitude of them, we have not yet conquered one?'"

Not yet conquered

Scorpius walked around the star map projected over the table. A swathe of dots in one color here; clusters of dots in another color there. If he had the wormhole weapon in his hands, he could wipe the second cluster out entirely. Even without the weapon, the knowledge to create wormholes, to be able to direct them and to be able to send a fleet of ships down them—without liquified crew—would let him destroy those blinking red dots the old-fashioned way. Would let him spread the blue dots across ever greater swathes of the sky.

All in the service of the High Council, of course.

A wormhole would also let him quickly reach that other small green dot, that hung quietly on the far side of the galaxy, sixty cycles away by current means. It mocked him, that dot, with its presence and its distance. Just as the stubborn, foolish native of that world—currently walking the hallways of his ship—continued to mock him with both the partial knowledge he'd unwillingly revealed and his ability to conceal the rest of it.

It grieved Scorpius that he could not yet conquer those worlds, the distant and the close, and that he could not yet conquer John Crichton and make him yield the knowledge he held. But that small green dot, that one world among many: that was the key to all of them.


Prompt: Any, any, everything can be explained with science

Scientific method

"You're saying you can explain everything with science?" Aeryn let out a quiet grunt of effort as she made sure a cap in the prowler's engine was tight.

"Uh-huh." John followed her as she moved along to the next section of the engine. "Well, not me personally. But everything comes down to science, yes. Physics, Biology, Chemistry. Is that an injector for the chakan oil?" He peered over her shoulder, fascinated by the deftness of her hands.

"Yes." She pushed back, jostling him out of her way, and rounded the rear of the prowler to start work on the other side. "So I can see that science can explain things like prowler engines and control surfaces and oxygen replenishment systems, but... everything?"

"Uh-huh." John tracked her around the prowler. "Didn't you have technicians to do this sort of stuff?"

"Yes." She bit the word off sharply. "But in case you hadn't noticed, we don't have any technicians on board Moya. All prowler pilots are taught basic maintenance in the event they are separated from their main unit." She looked sideways at him as he leaned closer to confirm that she was making the same checks and adjustments on this side of the prowler. "So science can explain thoughts—or what passes for them in that tiny brain of yours?"

"Uh-huh." He turned his head and met her gaze.

She drew in a breath and let it out. "Feelings, too?"

"Uh-huh. Neuroscience. Brain chemistry." He edged a little closer, his voice falling to a murmur. "Pheromones. Stimuli...."

Her eyes were wide and dark as she looked back at him. Her lips parted slightly. He leaned a little closer, breathing in her scent. God, she was one hell of a woman....

Abruptly, she stepped back, slamming down the prowler engine cover and nearly taking his fingers off as he jumped away. "I suppose science has its uses. But I have no interest in further study." She wheeled on her heel and stalked out of the hangar.

John leaned back against the prowler, arms crossed, grinning to himself. Sometimes you didn't need any science at all to explain things.


Prompt: Author's Choice, Author's Choice, an afternoon to themselves without their children (or other family members) about

Home comforts

"You really thought I'd like this?" John reached out and turned over the video case to read the title again, before looking back up at the TV screen.

"Olivia chose it." Aeryn rolled sideways and rooted briefly in the pile of videos next to the bed, before holding another case up for John to see. "She said this was one of your favorites and that you would therefore enjoy this other one as well."

"Yeah, well, my sis always did have lousy taste in movies." John pulled Aeryn back against him, nuzzling her hair and breathing in the scent of the oils she'd used to wash it and, underneath that, her own scent, comforting and familiar and right.

She twisted to look at him. "You are not enjoying this movie?"

He shrugged, his eyes following the car chase on screen. "It's okay, I guess." His words were half lost in a sudden blare of sirens from the TV's speakers.

"Would you rather watch something else? This?" Aeryn held up the video she'd picked up.

"Nah, we'll finish it." Video time with Aeryn wasn't really about the videos, after all. "But maybe when we're done, we can watch one of those documentaries?" He kissed her ear, savoring the taste of her skin. "Those weren't really for me, were they?"

Aeryn wriggled her shoulders. "Olivia said they might help me understand your culture. Your planet's history."

"Not much need for that now...." He idly played with a strand of her hair. The wormhole was gone and who knew when there'd be another one anywhere in the vicinity.

"She also said they would help me understand you. Though I sometimes think these—" She waved at the screen "–are more help. Your cowboys and indians."

"They're cops, not cowboys," he objected, without much heat. After a moment, remembering how clearly Olivia had been able to see Aeryn's feelings for him—and his for Aeryn—and how she'd given him Mom's ring before he left, he added, "My sister's a smart woman."

One day, he promised himself, they'd get back to Earth, so Aeryn could use her new-found knowledge—and so he could see Livvy again.


Prompt: Author's Choice, Any/Any, one never expected the other to know anything about ballroom dancing

(Military) Two-step

Catching Aeryn by the hand, John drew her into a ballroom hold and waltzed her around his quarters on Talyn. She tensed at first, trying to pull away from him, her feet stumbling, before she relaxed and picked up the rhythm of the dance.

"This is a close-quarters combat drill?" Her forehead had creased into a frown.

He laughed as he led them in a few more turns. "No, it's a dance. Though I suppose, when you think about what Prom can be like...." Abruptly, he stopped, pushing back and holding her at arms' length. "You don't have any art, do you?"

"Me?" The frown had deepened.

He shook his head. "No, Peacekeepers. I mean... you design things—clothes, spaceships, guns—and you decorate them a bit, but... they're kind of functional, aren't they? You don't have music. Or dance. Or painting.... Things that are just beautiful for their own sake. You know, art?"

She shrugged one shoulder. "Such things are unnecessary."

He gave her arms a gentle squeeze. "No, they're not. They make us... human."

She stepped back, wrenching herself out of his grip. "I am not human, John. We are not human."

"I know, but...."

Inside, he was kicking himself. He hadn't meant to upset her or criticize her people. He'd just been startled by the sudden observation that, while D'Argo had his shilquen and Rygel had tried to paint and Zhaan had painted, Peacekeepers didn't seem to do anything like that.

He gave her an apologetic grimace. "Sorry. I meant, they make us... more. More than just soldiers or astronauts. They make us happy or sometimes sad. They help us understand the world and each other. And sometimes they're just fun." He stepped closer, offering his hands to her again. "Like dancing's fun. I'm not very good, but I'd like to teach you."

She hesitated—not ready to forgive him yet or simply unsure about his proposal?—before she moved back into his embrace. He began to lead them in a waltz again, enjoying the feel of her in his arms.

After a few minutes: "Is this the only dance you know?"


Aeryn glanced up from cleaning her pulse pistol. "Is he asleep?"

"Uh-huh. Finally." John leaned against the door to their quarters and yawned. "Took three stories."

"Maybe your stories are too exciting." Aeryn holstered her weapon and looked up at him, softening the remark with a smile.

"Goldilocks and the Three Bears?" He shrugged. "Could be."

"I don't think I've heard that one yet." Sometimes Aeryn stood out of sight, listening, as John put their son to bed. "But three bears? That sounds very dangerous. I'm not at all sure these Earth stories are suitable for bedtime."

He laughed. "I would've thought a good dose of terror immediately before bed would be right in line with Peacekeeper training. Besides, they're traditional."

"Hmm." Aeryn wasn't entirely sure about every Earth tradition—but she liked that John was trying to share at least some of them with their son, to give him a sense of his heritage, even if he would likely never visit his father's homeworld.

"Been thinking about something else that's traditional." John pushed away from the door and held out his hand to her. "We never danced at our wedding."

Aeryn raised a disbelieving eyebrow. "I was a little busy at the time. You were a little busy at the time."

"Uh-huh. Even so...." He urged her up with a gesture. Sighing, she stood and took his hand and let him arrange them: her hand on his shoulder, his on her waist, their other hands joined. He began to move in—she searched back through her memory: a wallis? No, a waltz. She followed, letting him lead and realizing how inexpert he was now that she knew the steps.

After a minute he stopped and pulled back from her, surprise etched on his face. "When did you learn to dance?"

She made a face. "On Talyn. With...."

...the other John. The words hung unspoken in the air between them for a moment. But that was all long in the past now, and they'd made their peace with it.

This John nodded. "He was a good teacher."

"Yes, he was." Aeryn stepped closer, back into hold. "So why don't you let me lead?"


Prompt: Author's choice, author's choice, uneasy

Be careful what you wish for

Pilot would never tell the others, unless they asked him directly, but he likes it when they come hang with him in his den. Of course, his connection to Moya means he's never truly alone. But that's different. They don't... talk, he and Moya. He simply knows what she knows, and knows what she wants, instinctively and immediately. Whereas Moya's crew are inscrutable unless they speak to him, and can surprise him with their stories of the places they've been and the things that they've done and the lives that they've lived. Surprise him with the way they tell him, as much as with what they say.

So he ought to be pleased that Commander Crichton and Officer Sun have been spending a lot of time in his den the past three days. Ever since Commander Crichton hoisted himself onto Pilot's control console, leaned close and murmured, "Hey, Pilot. Is there some place on Moya you can still talk to me if you need to get hold of me, but no one else can use my comms to eavesdrop on me?"

Pilot gestured with his two upper arms. "I could create an area where the signals from a comms unit could not escape through the walls—but then my signals would not be able to reach your comms unit either."

"A Faraday cage." Commander Crichton nodded. "Right."

Pilot noticed that Commander Crichton did not appear to be wearing his comms unit right then. As if he did not wish to be overheard asking for somewhere he could not be overheard. Reaching out and absently pressing three controls in sequence, in order to modulate a temperature fluctuation on the hamman side, Pilot remarked, "If you were here, with me, and your comms device was not, I could still talk to you, as we are talking now."

Commander Crichton gave him a startled look, and then leaned forward and planted a kiss on Pilot's brow ridge. "Pilot, you're a genius." Before Pilot could think of a reply, Commander Crichton slid off the console and hurried away.

He was back less than half an arn later, leading Officer Sun by the hand. Pilot dipped his head at her. "Hello, Officer Sun."

Officer Sun dragged her attention away from Commander Crichton for a few microts to bestow an awkward smile on Pilot. "Hello, Pilot."

"Pilot?" Commander Crichton was drawing Officer Sun down to sit next to him on the floor in front of Pilot's console. "Don't tell anyone we're here."

"As you wish." Pilot leaned forward and saw Commander Crichton had his arms around Officer Sun and was whispering in her ear. Of course, being Pilot, he could hear every word Commander Crichton was saying.

He soon wished he couldn't.

And now it's been three days of this. He understands they are in love and he is happy for them, because he has seen how unhappy they have been apart. He understands—from Commander Crichton and Officer Sun's whispered conversation, and recalling when Commander Crichton asked him to take comms offline to check them—that it is imperative Scorpius does not know, and therefore imperative no one else knows. And it is his mission to serve the crew as best he can.

He just wishes they could conduct their affair somewhere other than right under his nose. He really wishes they wouldn't keep forgetting he's right there....


Prompt: Any, Any character who could reasonably be considered an adult, "I need an adult!"

This is a companion piece to A Helping Hand

Night Terrors

Rygel propelled himself quietly into the central chamber, hoping Pilot wouldn't hear the emptiest of his stomachs growling. Not that Pilot would object to a raid on the food stores in the middle of the night, but he might mention it in passing to someone—D'Argo or Aeryn or Chiana—who would complain about it. Even though they had plenty of food on board right now.

He carefully reached forward to open one of the storage boxes, but before he could touch it, an indistinct mumble from behind him made him start. Swinging round hastily, ready to offer up a quick excuse, he saw Crichton stretched out on one of the benches, his head pillowed on his arm and his coat tucked around him.

What the yotz is he doing here?

Rygel moved closer, peering down at him. Crichton muttered something again and Rygel realized he was asleep. Why he was asleep in here, getting in the way of Rygel's business, when he had a perfectly decent set of quarters, Rygel didn't know. But as long as he didn't wake up....

Rygel began to back away, but even as he began to move, his stomach let out another loud, unhappy growl. Crichton shot upright, his hand reaching out and grabbing Rygel's sled. "What are you doing here?" he hissed, blinking uncertainly at him.

Rygel pressed on the controls and yanked the sled backward out of Crichton's grasp. "I might ask you the same thing!" he hissed back.

Crichton swung his feet to the ground and scrubbed his hands across his face. "Didn't feel like sleeping in my quarters," he muttered. A shiver ran through him.

"Why ever not?" Rygel edged forward again, though he was careful to keep out of arm's reach.

"Just—." Crichton hesitated and then gave a resigned shrug. "There some critter in my quarters. Maybe more than one."

Rygel looked nervously over his shoulder, torn between wanting to run and wanting to put John between him and whatever-it-was. "What kind of creature?"

Crichton shuddered again. "'Bout as big as a comms device. Black. Lots of legs. It was on the floor next to the bed when I went in, and then it spotted me and scooted up onto the bed. Scuttled." Crichton made a face as if he could smell something bad. "It scuttled."

Rygel snorted. "Sounds like a Karnetian spider to me. The DRDs found a couple lurking in that batch of fruit we brought on board at the last commerce planet. They're harmless." He couldn't imagine why Crichton was making such a fuss, unless—. He peered suspiciously at Crichton. "Are you scared?"

Crichton bit his lip, before giving a reluctant shrug. Rygel reckoned that must be a yes.

"But I've seen you take on all sorts of monsters!" he objected.

Crichton held up his hands, spreading them wide. "Big monsters. Not itty bitty little ones." He brought his hands to within a couple of hentas of each other, measuring out the size of a Karnetian spider, and gave another shrug. "I have this thing about spiders, okay? Too many legs."

Rygel snorted. "Just shake it out of the blankets and call in one of the DRDs to catch it."

"I—." Crichton heaved a breath. "Look, I really have this thing about spiders...."

Rygel rolled his eyes. "So I suppose I'll have to save your frelling eema again? Come on." Swinging round, he headed out of the central chamber in the direction of Crichton's quarters. Crichton was really going to owe him after this.


Prompt: Any, Any, “There is nothing like returning to a place that remains unchanged to find the ways in which you yourself have altered” - Nelson Mandela


He spent so many years wanting to find a way to reach the stars. And when he did—by a happy and an unhappy accident—he spent the next four years wanting to get home. And now that he's home again....

He's no longer the son who, in his father's eyes at least, knows less of the world and how it works and where the power lies, because he hadn't walked where his father walked.

He's no longer the brother who would have done all in his power to protect Susan and Livvy, but thought the worst that they could face would be another man, with a gun or a knife or a fist.

He's no longer the lover who was never too serious, for all he cared about Caroline and Kim, and all the other women who drifted in and out of his life, because he'd never understood what it was to really love someone, body and soul.

He's no longer just one human among billions, one American among millions, who thinks his place, humanity's place, is at the center of things, at the pinnacle of achievement and power and strength.

He looks at photographs and recognizes people and places and past events. This world—this small, fractious, precious, oblivious, squabbling world—is still familiar to him. He maybe understands it even better than he did before he left it. But it doesn't know him, not any more.


Prompt: Author's choice, author's choice, teaching an old dog new tricks


"I am sorry, Commander." Elack's Pilot bows her head. "Elack and I cannot spare any DRDs to help you. We have so few left that are functional, and they are needed to maintain our core systems."

"They can't repair each other?" John hoists himself onto her console, so the two of them are more or less at eye level.

"Unfortunately, no." She gives a sorrowful shake of her head. "If a DRD becomes non-functional, a leviathan will simply create a new one. But Elack is no longer young and—."

"No new babies. Gotcha." John wonders why he's never noticed that Moya's DRDs don't get repaired. Probably because most of them look alike. Except for One-Eye, of course—and he remembers now that he did need to fix One-Eye by himself. He slides off the console. "Maybe I can help with that?"

A few hours later, a table in the maintenance bay is piled high with a half dozen DRDs that were backed into various corners or hidden between crates or still clinging forlornly to the walls. Most of them look too battered to be revived, but a couple don't seem so bad, once he gets the covers off. He's checked with Elack's Pilot and she's okayed him using the ones that are too far gone for spare parts.

It's a day later before he finally brings the first DRD back to life. He's filled with a strange mix of pride and elation—is this what being a father will be like?—as it slowly raises its eyestalks and blinks at him. He reaches out and gently caresses the nearest eyestalk. "Hey, little guy. How're you doing? Feeling better?"

The DRD beeps at him—was that a yes?—before spinning around slowly, flexing and testing its various tools. Making a full circle, it faces him again and dips its eyestalks with another beep: thank you.

John grins back at it. "Let's see if we can get some more of your buddies fixed up."

The next DRD takes a little less time to revive, now that he knows more what he's doing. The whole time, the first one lurks by his side, occasionally bringing tools across the workbench to him when he asks, or accompanying him to the central chamber when he goes in search of food cubes, or simply examining what he's doing. John's a bit surprised it hasn't scuttled off to help the rest of Elack's DRDs keep the place running, but he's oddly glad of the company.

The second DRD does scoot away almost as soon as it's fixed, heading for a nearby opening that John thinks is something to do with the life-support ventilation system. Maybe Elack's got the DRD capacity now to make the air a little less stale.

The first DRD is still with him, though. It burbles a series of beeps at him, a happy sound, as he looks over its remaining brothers and sisters, wondering if any more of them can be rescued, or if he should go looking for some others.

The DRD burbles again: the same sequence. John pauses in sorting through the dead DRDs and turns to look at it. He knows that sequence. In fact, he's been whistling it to himself while he's been working.

He whistles the first few notes again. The DRD beeps them back at him—and completes the phrase.

He reaches out and brushes the back of his finger over the DRD's cover. "1812, huh? Guess I need to teach you the rest of that." Picking the DRD up and setting it on the ground, he tilts his head in invitation. "Come on then, 1812. Let's see who else we can find to fix up."


Prompt: Any, any, do not pass go

Playing the game

"What the—?" John craned his neck and peered up at the approximately house-shaped chunk of green plastic looming over him, before looking down at the sharp lines under his feet that formed giant letters spelling out Marvin Gardens. Next to the green wall, a sliver of bright yellow ground showed itself.

"This place really is a most fascinating insight into your culture, John." Harvey was skipping toward him, taking care not to step on the lines dividing the path they were on into a series of rectangles. "I had no idea until I found this memory that your people were so focused on commerce and cut-throat competition."

"Yeah, consumerism. It's a thing." John spoke absently, turning around and confirming that the image he'd expected to find on the square behind him was indeed there. He turned back to Harvey. "What are we doing here?"

Harvey slapped him on the back cheerfully. "Playing a game, John. Isn't that what we always do when we meet like this? What are you going to be? The car? The battleship?" He gave John a mirthless grin. "Pity there's no space module, hmm? Though if I understand the rules correctly, that square behind you acts a little like a wormhole and will transport you a great distance to somewhere you may not want to be. So," Harvey gripped John's shoulder tightly, "shall we begin?"

"I'll tell you what I'm going to give you to play with." John forced Harvey's hand off his shoulder. "The boot." Pivoting around, he put both hands on Harvey's chest, shoving him backward past the corner of the green building, across the yellow ground and out over the thick black boundary beyond which a formless grey mist swirled.

Harvey flailed his arms as he tumbled down into the mist. "But, John—!" His plaintive cry floated up from somewhere far below.

John cautiously leaned out over the edge and called down, "Go directly to jail! Do not pass Go! And definitely do not collect two hundred dollars of wormhole knowledge!"


Prompt: author's choice, author's choice, first kill

Passing Out Ceremony

Her first kill was exactly like the hundreds she'd done in the simulators—right up to the moment when the enemy ship exploded. Instead of the standard simulator pattern that signaled success, she saw an unfamiliar swirl of sparks and flying debris. It distracted her for a fraction of a microt, before her eyes zoned in on a fresh target and her hands instinctively steered her Prowler into an intercept path.

Later, back on the command carrier, she walked the gauntlet of the older, more experienced pilots in her squadron, accepting the slap of palm to palm as they acknowledged she'd earned her place. And after that, there were drinks—a lot of drinks—and Henta at her side; she'd made her first kill, too—and falling woozily into bed—and dealing with a pounding headache the next morning when she had to be back on duty at the same unholy hour as usual.

She was a real Peacekeeper now. A million tiny fragments of ship—and pilot—sparkling and turning in the sunlight, above a planet whose name she couldn't have told you and didn't care to know, were mute testament to that.


Prompt: any, any, the mismatch of what s/he feels with what s/he (doesn't) remembers

Out of his mind

Braca wishes Commandant Grayza wouldn't use that stuff of hers—the Heppel Oil—every time she wants to recreate with him. It's not like recreation is a big deal, after all; it's just a way for shipmates to relieve the tension of living in close quarters. Though he guesses it's more awkward for a Commandant, with only subordinates for partners. But—loyal Braca!—he would never go gossiping in the officer's mess or remind her of it when they're back in uniform.

He'd just like to be able to remember: to not suddenly wake with a quarter of an arn lost and find his clothing disheveled and his heart racing and his mind a blank, while Grayza gives him a satisfied smile and a few words of praise. He'd just like to know what they the frell they... what the frell he did.
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May 2016


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