Session export: Trail by Fire

Unblinking sanguine eyes stared between two targets, assessing.

One hide was thicker. Harder to penetrate, with bullets/knives/needles. Coarse and fine fur, a double coat meant to provide insulation against sub-arctic temperatures. Not truly white, the hairs were colorless, and would look yellowed in a different light.

The other was smooth and short, more silken, turning darker or lighter when the grain was pushed one way or the other. Thin, though. A pleasant texture, but inferior at heat retention, easily damaged and not nearly as heavily weighted.

“Hrm,” Foxen grunted, and, torn between the two options, turned back to the third that had been relegated off to its bronze mediocrity. Dense, wooly, dark brown, looking like it had been attacked badly by a comb on a windstorm, but supple buttery leather on one side. The medium option, compared to heavy and lightweight.

Which would make Flyndt happiest?

Could he even make Flyndt happy anymore?

Grunting again, he shoved that thought away into its compartment and locked the box. Shot it twice for good measure. Returned to the task at hand.

Flyndt had once mentioned beds of furs from hunted animals, when describing his people’s homes. The climate on Selen was tropical with a handful of temperate and arctic zones depending on location/elevation. The house was of a height to get mild snow blown down from higher up the mountain in the winter months, and those were oncoming in just a paltry 105 rotations. Preparation was necessary.

And. Their nest only had blankets, linens, pillows, padding. Suboptimal. Inferior. Flyndt had mentioned blankets and furs. A total oversight.

He liked the rugs. Clearly Foxen had errored in missing fur textures. Been distracted by their relation to animalia. Failure on his part.

- The point was not to entice Flyndt back to their nest. Deny. He would provide furs for all the rooms, couch, theirs Foxen’s, and Flyndt’s. He just needed to determine through trial and error which kind was best of them all first.

Perhaps Flyndt would sleep better, then, wherever he wanted to sleep. And it would be fine that it was in his own room, door closed, again. Understandable, with what they’d found in that horrible fucking ethereal hellscape. Flyndt had as much time and space as wanted. Foxen would carry on normal routines of mission and maintenance. He didn’t fucking care if he was throwing out uneaten kew'maxi every other night. He didn’t care that he hadn’t slept in 192 hours without night terror/paralysis/sweat/panic, nor at all for the last 87 of those. He didn’t care that many things had been disassembled but the parts used for nothing rather than tinkered into scraps, or that yesterday he had found Mal'ines outside Flyndt’s door too and felt a stab of something shaped like sympathy with the droid (he’d picked it up and allowed it to perch on his shoulder, obtained oil bath and permitted its shut down cycle with him while he laid prone at 181° in an empty nest and stared at the ceiling/water for 6.2 hours until light crept in the windows).

That was all O.K. He told Flyndt so. Just like all of their shit. He needed to process, rest, heal however the fuck he was going to, and while he did Foxen would tell the well wishers to eat pavement and make the house as much a home as was possible, at least until he could find Gaile and get Flyndt back to his actual home and what was left of his family, fuck.

- So. Which to blanket present first? Taun-Taun, minkbat, or bantha?

At least only two of those had memory files attached to the pit. Yippee.

Sighing, the Mandalorian surrendered on staring inanimate fabrics into revealing their secrets and packed each up into their respective boxes, shoving them back into a corner of his closet. He left the pool and went to the kitchen, considering Action Plan for dinner while pulling out his pad. Reinforcements, at a distance, were required.

🦈: Need your opinion. What kind of furs are best? 🐠: °•°•°•°• 🐠: furs??? Wym 🦈: What is there to mean. Furs. Skinned and treated animal hide. 🐠: FOR CLOTHESM!?? FOZZIE NOJ NTID THE BBYS 🦈: For fucking blankets. Like anything else an animal is slaughtered and harvested for. And I’m not sourcing from some farms. Calm the hell down. 🐠: that’s not better 🦈: And your boytoy probably hunting and harvesting his own is? Head out of ass, just answer the question. 🐠: u suck 🐠: idk whatever’s soft??

Useless. Ugh.

Did he want to text Bril.

No.

Ugh.

Maybe Jax would have a productive opinion. But as the hybrid went to pull up his contact, another message notification arrived. Not from Minnie.

Jare Brûleé

What.

Why.

For fuck’s sake.

He inhaled. Set the pad down, went about making some tea. Got a cup in his hand before opening the message, but didn’t drink.

Likelihood whatever was contained here would make him spit out anything he was consuming: 9000%.

Cole raised an eyebrow as he got dressed, looking over at her but deciding not to question what exactly had caused that reaction of all things and instead stepping into the bathroom to trim his beard to stubble. It was a regular maintaince and something to do while Sofila sorted out this meeting.

Foxen was…mildly surprised when he opened the message. Aside from the one previous outgoing parcel, timestamped 41.06.11 Galactic Standard, roughly three months and twenty-four days ago in which he had notified that this was his contact and that he owed her a debt, there had been no other correspondence.

He had anticipated that she would write even more atrociously than she gabbed, much like Minnie, if hopefully with fewer cartoonish, garish pictographs. The first count is proved a false assumption, and the second, a surprising boon. Her text, while flawed, is composed of sentences and to the point.

…hope…Flyndt well…

Assessment: approved.

Unfortunately, they are not well. But still. It is a kindness, and she is paying it to Flyndt. Approved.

I have a favor to ask.

His pierced brows raise. She had rejected his oath sworn at the time of the Uneva mission. Now she’d changed her mind?

Hm.

The ask is simultaneously not difficult and acutely close to impossible. Likelihood of Sagitta improving: an abysmal 3.76%.

Although. That statistic assumes improvement= survivability. If he only assessed combat efficacy, then possibility of improvement increases approximately: ≤67%.

If she was capable of listening, anyway.

In his mind’s eye, the line in the graph plummets in an exponentially negative faction.

“Hrm.”

Red eyes leave the pad and fix on the hallway that is dark and quiet. On the living room that has empty couch and unoccupied floor rugs and the fridge that still holds the uneaten kew'maxi from last night. He doubled up stock on the trail mix. The levels in the containers have been going down, a very small amount, even though he never sees it; Flyndt only sometimes goes out to eat when Foxen’s door is closed. He lays there staring at the ceiling and hears it happen.

A croak of a hoot answers his knock knock, but that’s all.

The eyes go back to the pad, staring at the screen.

- He assesses.

They are only some two weeks removed from intense and horrifically traumatic, difficult to mentally process combat and warfare, in an environment that is barely understandable and deeply emotionally and mentally affecting.

They had just started to spar once a week themselves, between the two of them, determined to overcome it. Determined not to flinch from each other. To lose anymore, or let that man take it from them.

The last two times he sparred with anyone, outcomes were poor. Against Karran and the animals nearby resulted in disrupted sleep and deterioration for a month. Against Evelyn resulted in overstepping bounds and reminded that his absolute control is still fractured. Reminded that someone broke him, and he cannot be unbroken.

However.

She did save Flyndt. Enabled him to take those arrows instead. And while she had rejected his oath, and he thus owes her nothing, he had meant the words of calling upon him for that.

Also: nothing he is doing is helping here. The furs in the closet aren’t going to bring Flyndt’s mother back, or make him want to visit the cairn a little ways up the hill. He recognizes that the feeling of uselessness is beginning to eat away at him. He can manage it. He can manage so much more than that. But it would perhaps, possibly, be healthier to turn to an activity outside of their home for a few hours.

The logic is secondary, though. The begrudging fact of it is, there is blood to be paid in this.

The Mandalorian sighed and typed back.

Erinos Compound, western training facility. No animals. No recordings. No spectators with your whole fucking Clan showing.

He would not be a fucking show again.

Select time and date. Before 1800. Bring your weapons and make a list of what you want to learn so I can provide any others.

Cole was about done when Sofila appeared in the doorway and the Human was about to respond when she disappeared again.

He just shook his head, cleaning the sink up and his neck before stepping out to pack his gear more properly for transport. Either way they’d be heading off of this planet today, it was best not to walk around like a bounty hunter if you wanted subtlety.

The reply was not long coming.

Foxen was in the midst of mixing some seed cakes to dry bake when his pad vibrated on the counter. He washed his hands and picked it back up.

Then frowned.

I can show you several maneuvers and basic stances and holds for numerous types of weaponry in an afternoon, but controlling your emotions is not that. Neither is awareness. Those take dedication. Do you want me to spar with you or do you want me to train you? Distinction required. If you don’t know yet or don’t want to commit, irrelevant. Trial sparring session still accepted.

His gaze went to the hallway again, and he recalled: ten months, two days, and six hours of memories like watercolor blooming on a blank page, life with the Omwati, alive again. More than that: alive, and afraid, for the first time in his life. Wanting. Dreaming. Things he had buried.

His world.

Tomorrow 1200. Your Cole, accepted. No animals with him either. Confirm. See you then.

He was about to set the pad aside with a bone-weary sigh, but hesitated, and glanced at the hallway again. It was necessary to tell Flyndt, but he didn’t want to disturb him.

He tabbed over to their messages. So many. His eyes burned, and he rubbed at his chest where it felt crushingly, suffocatingly small and empty and hollow for no logical reason at all. They were less than 13 m apart, perfectly alive and well, vitals on their chips nominal.

You don’t get to feel fucking lonely when he’s grieving, you bastard, get it together.

The growl then is at himself, but his sneer softens as he types to his bird.

🦈: I’m making seed and rice cakes if you want the snack later. 🦈: Status report: functional at baselines. Perimeter secure. Mal'ines oiled. Left fruit for Drakor in his spot, but no visual. Looked for 5.03 minutes under cover. Success. 🦈: Are you O.K, my dream?

He deleted that last bit and resumed reporting. It was easier.

🦈: Jare Brûleé, subject: Sagitta, aka blabbering green ronto woman reached out. She wants me to spar with her. I agreed. Tomorrow 1200 Western compound grounds. She is bringing her partner. You’re welcome if you want to walk a little. Or will have house to yourself. Possibilities. 🦈: End report. I love you. 🤟.

Then the Mandalorian sighed and set the oven and a timer and went to the weapons locker, beginning to plan.

“Oh, we have time then. Did he say where? It isn’t easy to get from Port Ol'Val to some planets for their midday.”

He was still hunched down, trying to break down his sniper rifle enough to fit in the backpack but still be reasonably quickly to put back together when they got.. wherever they were going. Thst wasn’t a public place where full blown rifles weren’t a bit much.

The Human glanced round to her, eyes landing on the door for a moment before back to his pack, “We can find somewhere. This place will want us to check out before too long anyway.”

“Oh, okay.” Cole noted on the comment on Foxen using sign. It had been a little while since he’d needed it but itd probably be fine.

“Selen would make sense, we can get over there once we’ve eaten.” He spoke, shifting up to his feat and pulling the backpack over his shoulders. “Maybe a swim, if he’s going to prove to be a tough fight for you.” Hed suggest just resting but, kriff, Sofila was about as good at sitting still as a Tatooine was at being cold. “And yes, I’ve heard of Clan Erinos. One of the Mandalorian clans associated with Arcona. One of them lived on the Voidbreaker for a while, Jax he was called. Spoke.. a couple of times I think, but he was around for a while. Is this Foxen one of them, if this happening on their compound?”

Cole nodded. If Foxen was Erinos then there’d probably be some.. baseline of expectations for behaviour. Maybe. He’d be on watch either way, professionalism around new people was important unless they were definitely trustworthy, so he quickly batted away those thoughts. It’d be fine.

She’d be fine.

“Let’s go.” He opened the door, stepping through and holding it open until Sofila was in the doorway.

Click … Click.

White-yellow light washed over a small corner of a dim room. It caught and trapped shadows in the folds of blankets bunched into a nest upon the floor. Metallic sheens danced over rust spots of machine parts, bolts, nuts and tools. Avian scratches briefly illuminated on colored flimsiplast squares before being plunged into darkness with another click.

Click…

Olive fingers bitten rough paused, hovering over the switch on the small light panel stolen from the Erinos junkyard long ago, lamp still lit. Whatever its envisioned purpose was had since been forgotten.

Like her face, his Whi(mother).

How long had it been since he imagined it last? Was her feathers gold? Her eyes that of a firebloom or creeping jewl? How did the sun etch along her features when she smiled? Why did her voice change with each broken attempt to draw it? And will as he may, there was no conjuring the image before himself, no woven illusion to stare upon. Flyndt groaned and rolled over, his sunset gaze catching the glass cylinder on his desk and the bright amber crystal suspended inside it. One tug on the curtain covering the window overhead, a beam of light to refract into a spears of ashen orange.— .

— Brzzt, Brzzt…

In the midst of the floor, his datapad vibrated just out of arms’ reach on the rug, screen glowing light blue but muted otherwise. It stirred several more times before the Omwati pushed himself out of his nest, palms pressed against scribbled lists of features and hypotheses. Flyndt pulled the pad over, knowingly flicking the screen on to find Foxen’s name and autopilot reading.

‘Are you O.K., My dream?’

🦜: °•°•°•°•°• 🦜:

I…do not know…No. He should be out there aiding with seed cakes and the L0-LA droid, to spot the Keeradak and hail him. Flyndt wanted…he missed him, a lot. Yet every time his hand reached for the Nautolan’s door his chest constricted, that vile thought creeping back. ‘Whi, Atta(father), Gaile…he caused them all misery or harm or hated them for doing something selfless and good. What if he hurt Foxen too? Has he not already?’

He was so tired. Tired of thinking and avoiding, of having his entire body buzz even when retreated into a corner of his room on the floor tucked away and unseen. Exhausted of this overwhelming feeling of hopelessness. Flyndt was done and wanted to just throw it all aside, all the doubt and thoughts the hiding. His thumb brushed over the final messages from Foxen. A spar with…the name sounded familiar but he was struggling to pair it with a face. However…

🦜: O.K. thanks. 🦜: °•°•°•°•°• 🦜: 🦜: I might come watch. 🦜: °•°•°•°•°• 🦜: Love you too, 🤟

A large exhaled racked his shoulders as Flyndt closed the device. It felt like he just throw himself over a cliff. No take backsies. Setting the datapad down with a light toss to the side, he leaned back against the unused mattress behind him and closed his eyes.

Tomorrow then. To trying.

“Sofila, let’s go.” Cole called out, stood in the doorway of the room they’d stayed in the Citadel. He didn’t wear all of his gear, most of it being still in his backpack, but the assault blaster rifle and his blaster pistol were still plain to see on his person. The hunting knife was not.

The previous day had been a lot of travelling, making haste from the city upon cities of that planet and the memories it held, some eating and a good bit of sleeping. Neither had slept particularly well but it was better than nights that came before it. Probably. Cole wasn’t as sure but at least he wasn’t the one expected to spar today. The Human knew where his skills laid and it usually required the enemy being down the scope of a blaster. Not in his face.

He could afford to be a little tired when all he was doing was watching and making sure this spar didn’t go too far. Oh the irony in that but he’d made a point the evening before to at least resolve that. It didn’t fix it, but it was as close as it could be for him and Zuza. It was better.

That was a worry for another time.

Currently it was making it to the speeder service on time to make it to the compound early. Hopefully.

Cole stayed a step behind her, in case she needed to turn suddenly or something. It was better to not be directly beside her when she was leading.

Which was fine, it gave him time to take in the surroundings and whoever might be around.

I love you.

I love you too.

Might come.

O.K.

O.K.

The rest of the day progressed. Given the contents of the impending day, Foxen made the decision to bypass the empty nest and instead settled in sufficient position for upright semi-conscioueness 0.3 m right of Flyndt’s closed door. Some form of rest would be required. Ongoing 96 hours without sleep untenable. The body would be performing strenuous activities liable to trigger stress response. Adjustment required.

Proximity soothed the mind/body. He settles early, and sets the mind to a detached state. Set time: 9 hours.

The intended meditation is interrupted by the door opening. He’s alert in an instant, and dull sunset eyes, watery, stare at him while a beak clicks, trying to make words, but unable.

He knows the feeling so fucking well.

Instead, Flyndt’s hands make stiff, stuttering motions, Can we– can I? in the direction of their? bedroom.

Yes, he replies emphatically. Yes, always, love.

Nothing more needs to be said. They go, and Flyndt flops into him and the sheets – which are inferior for his bird, he thinks, pissily, at the box of furs he stuck back in the closet – and that.

It’s not okay. But that’s O.K. And they’re here.

The sleep is like coming home.

Unfortunately: an appointment. The body extracts itself with extreme unwillingness from plastered armful of Omwati at 0800, two indulgent hours later than intended. Food/water/hygiene and associated routines are accomplished. He spends an hour performing stretches, exercises and forms, then drills with the collection of armaments for one more half hour. Leaves fruit for Drakor but does not stay out more than the necessary 143 seconds to sprint to and achieve placement of items on receptacle now built onto the keeradak’s preferred tree perch; today is not the fucking day to test his limits in exposure.

At 0950, he leaves for the training grounds, signalling his departure with a knock knock and deliberately loud opening and closing of the front door. He carries a duffle of equipment and a hopeful container of half the seed cakes, given Flyndt had not emerged for breakfast.

Halfway down the path, he hears the door behind him opening and closing again, and the brush of ghosting footsteps that stay at a distance to follow. His shoulders unspool, but he makes sure not to look over the shoulder at any point. It is perfectly likely if he looked, there would be nothing there, Flyndt having cloaked himself, but it is the consent of the matter; if Flyndt does not wish to be seen, then he won’t look. He will not create the need to hide, just respect the want.

They arrive at 1034, having taken the trek down to the rest of the compound at an unhurried rate, feeling the air warm from its mountain nip on the skin.

The main room is unoccupied, as he’d asked it to be. There were so few of them now, reserving space wasn’t hard. 52.91 km² for less than 100 people. This compound was aspirational; more space for ghosts than the living, waiting for future generations.

- The Mandalorian went to a set of benches and tall lockers to one side, depositing his things and setting the seed cakes out at the very end of one bench then walking away and going to another locker with his bag. He changed into appropriate clothing for practice, then went to the weapons racks that lined a mirrored wall, selecting a few options from what he recalled of the Sagitta’s arsenal. At least, before they’d all been made to strip down and shoot bows most clearly didn’t know how to handle.

He was sitting in the middle of the mats when 1130 came and the doors opened again. Red eyes knifed over, and inventoried: mild appreciation for the time.

Two figures entered. The familiar female Mirialan, category: fucking disaster, and a Human male. He assessed, staring at their approach, and rose to meet them.

Flyndt had slipped inside after the Nautolan and paused, watching the man prepare for this meeting. His stomach won out, a faint rumbling in his gut. He drifted over and nabbed the container of seed cakes from the bench.

Pivoting, the Omwati halted, gaze trailing to linger on Foxen as he changed. His nose twitched, a tickled sniff breaking his concentration. Reaching up with one hand, he brushed free a loose feather and fumbled to catch it. He stared at it for a second before a light smile curled his lip and he melted back into a weave of shadows and light, disappearing.

Content with himself a bit and one less feather in hand, Flyndt made his way to a near by pillar. Gripping the container’s lip between his teeth, he started climbing – nearly slipping off the durasteel beam twice before securely reaching a rafter above. The avian set about making himself comfortable to watch the impeding training session, and mumbled on a seed cake.

Cole raised a hand, a more casual greeting an actual one.

He watched her sign, raising his hands to add in his own greeting when Sofila turned round to explain. The Human had it in him to look somewhat sheepish.

“I understand sign. I should have mentioned that to you, sorry.”

Good to meet you

He added on, toward Foxen.

Identified: surprise, mild. Both signing to him, even if the Sagitta’s was less practiced.

She’d had the children teach her? What sort of progress had she made in the last approximately four months?

Ugh. Unknown variables. Well, tactical goddamn flexibility, self. He’d just simplify his speech, like when he was teaching Flyndt.

Files updated. Human male, 1.73 m, approximately 75 kg, designation: Cole, category: her World. Inventory: sign language, Basic. Assessment: combatant, killer, highly attentive, possible like experience from the way he moved/stood/observed room upon entrance, eyes moving to each exit and even rafters. Weapon callouses and scarring on fingers, burns, scar on face; crook between first and second phalange on second digit of right hand suggesting trigger finger, right handed?

He nodded back to the male as a courtesy then resumed assessing the Sagitta.

First thing was first.

I can hear you. Signing to me not necessary. If you cannot understand me, say so. I will type. He gestured then to his datapad, strapped to his thigh in a special sheath. The knives were not visible, but present, of course. What are your parameters?

Non-lethal, he agreed, and then lifted one pierced brow 3 cm. The Nautolan stepped back to the edge of that particular square of matting and stopped, waiting.

Cole nodded, taking on the information. He looked over Foxen, taking the Nautolan in. Sofila had been right about the size of the man.

She hadn’t mentioned the scarring. The man was more experienced than had been likely beforehand but it made sense for a member of the Erinos lot he supposed, to be more experienced.

The Human glanced toward the benches, making his way over there.

“I’d suggest non long term damage as well, Sofila. Just in case.”

Cole settled down, taking his blaster rifle off and placing it on the bench beside him. It wasn’t the easiest thing to sit with. The rest remained on him as he settled to observe.

Occassionally his gaze made way to the rafters. He’d lost track of whatever was up there but was painfully aware of the fact that something had shifted.

The Nautolan hybrid watched the Mirialan move and balance, but also observed the male move to the benches. Catching his gaze darting up searchingly, as if unsuccessful, swelled pride in his chest. He didn’t let his eyes look up, but knew above somewhere was his bird. Rafters, of course.

His focus remained on the Sagitta, who came springing up out of her hand stand and declared herself ready.

Foxen gave her a flat look.

No, he said. Then: your parameters: non-lethal, no long-term damage. Accepted term undefined. Weeks? Months? Lifetime? He shook his head, making a hard gesture, narrowing his eyes down at her. Be specific. Long term could be no paralysis, spine breakage, denied. Could still snap your leg. Define. Also. My parameters: no fire, lightning, lightsaber. No burning. No whips, fiber cord. No restraints. He paused, and then nearly did look up, considering the fight with Karran. The upset, Flyndt’s at seeing him damaged. No broken bones.

Foxen waited for her nod, then considered the ask.

Uncertain, he admitted. Sometimes yes. Others no. Would today be doable? He wouldn’t assume she couldn’t take him down. Still recovering after war. For our safety, no. This time. Match rules? Or until beaten?

Well. That list made sense from the scars visible. More sense considering that clothing hides a lot.

Cole continued observing, keeping still with his hands set in his lap.

Confirm, Foxen replied, and waited two beats.

Then he chambered an arm and pistoned a fist directly into her face.

Foxen leaned back 3°, and one girder of an arm flew up, wide palm catching the bare ankle that extended straight out in a kick. For a heartbeat, he just held her there, the Mirialan, to her credit, stable at her core even as her supporting leg wobbled and her expression widened in shock.

Then his grip tightened, and his lip lifted in a sneer as he pivoted at the hip, pushed off the mats, and whipped the woman around by the leg like a weighted ball, throwing her bodily full through the air and slamming her down to the ground. A moment later his foot was on her chest, bearing down as he stood over her. Red eyes stared down unblinking, waiting.

The hybrid barely seemed to acknowledge the blows, land though they did. He just leaned his weight slightly forward, applying the smallest flex of muscle, of pressure a clear and present threat as her ribcage gave a creak. He stared down, face black, blank slate.

Waiting.

Cole tensed. Watching carefully.

He noticed crumbs falling but it was a side bar to the fact this guy could break her rib cage easily right now. Well. He shouldn’t. There was no reason to and if for no reason, Foxen did, then thered be an entirely different fight happening.

Hed just listed some of the things he didn’t like fighting after all.

Good, Foxen said, as he watched her rise and exhale, having gotten what he was looking for when she tapped out. You’ll yield. That means you can learn, J-A-R-E. Again.

This time the massive Nautolan rotated out into a stance similar to her own, knees and elbows bent, arms up, tensed to move.

Foxen batted the punch away, ones arm raising, the deflection hard enough to entirely open Sofila’s stance. At the same time, his other hand, with only four digits, lifted and caught her punch just like he’d caught her leg.

He pushed, and already out of her stance, Sofila was forced back a step. Foxen loomed directly into her guard with brutal speed unfit for his bulk, his fist slamming into her stomach, then his trunk-like leg sweeping both of hers, pinwheeling her back to the mats as the breath exploded out of her.

In a swift movement he knelt, placing his straightened hand stiff as a knife itself to her throat.

Accurate, he corrected with his other hand, held up high for her to see.

The jab, though solid and forcing him to retract, didn’t seem to phase the Nautolan much. He flowed directly towards, crashing like a tall ocean wave even as she got to her feet.

The Mirialan, just back upright, threw herself backwards with a yell, flipping over onto her hands like she had done those hand stands, only using the momentum to spring away in a full vault. She cartwheeled hand over heel and back to her feet, then dashed to the side, trying to round him.

Unfortunately, Foxen was quick too, and his stance changed, falling out of the tight upright pose of Mandalorian Core she recognized and into something else. It seemed like his body went liquid for a moment as he slid to the ground in a lunge and then launched himself up, a chambered arm striking out with his hand bent, open, fingers spread like claws. He hooked her in the chest once more and slammed her down, again, each five-point of contact feeling like being stabbed with his sharp nails.

“Sofila!” Cole was on his feet in a moment. Yes he was here to protect her but kriff, that was a break of the agreement and-

She did not look right. Kriff.

His hand went to his blaster rifle, not wanting to stun her but still flicking it to that setting as he continued, walking a little closer, “Sofila, get off of him. Round over, now!”

5.3 seconds.

That is how long it takes to realize the extent of his error.

He forgot that she could produce fucking barriers. Fast enough to literally stop a bullet from a gun.

3.2 seconds

His knee touched the floor, palm too, catching himself as his momentum threw him back with impressive force, headtails flying. A dazed rush of blood in his head blacked his vision briefly, which he ignored, already moving to stand–

2 seconds.

A body was on him. Latching onto his back, hot, sweaty skin against his headtails, a weight on his shoulders, barely heavy but there–

Something closed around his throat.

Pressure.

The collar.

The collar.

Click.

The metal heats faster than the flesh does, but it is thick. The skin is not. The superficial layers are already bubbling by the time the burning around the neck truly sinks in. Two pains.

The vent closes, but it is not over. The collar bakes the neck/shoulders. It is a dry day, so the mouth does not even open to make no sounds; the lips/tongue/pallette are stuck together. The eyes have no water. The body does not sweat, and the steam left no dampness.

Under the collar, the flesh smolders. The skin puckers around the blisters. The sensation is that of being on fire without flame.

The voice says, “Too fast today, pet. No more of that. We can’t have such short shows.”

The body knows what that tone means. A switch on remote clicks, and the electricity comes.

The body twitches on the packed floor, burns ripping open where they scrape–

…

…

On the mats, Foxen had gone stone still, limp, red eyes unfocused. His face slowly twitched, mouth falling open and eyes widening in indication of cut off airflow, but he didn’t move from the Mirialan’s hold.

“Give him space.” Cole spoke curtly, spotting the shift of expression and instead turning his attention on Foxen. He didn’t approach. Kriff, he didn’t know the Nautalon.

But there was a reason for the rules that had been laid out and Cole wanted to keep on him for now at least. For Foxen’s sake if not anyone elses.

It was like a switch flipped.

Somewhere between the speech around the body and the sound of feet close by broke into the cell and then it was not the cell it was the training room and it was threat–

The massive Nautolan moved, jerking suddenly and then was on his feet and several meters away, back to the mirrored wall, a throwing knife in each hand. His chest rose and fell in sharp, short bursts, red eyes locked on the two figures.

Cole had to fight with himeslf to not react to the obvious threat.

It was a fight won, the Human freezing into place with his hands not on a blaster pistol. He stared down at where Foxen had planted himself against the wall.

“Foxen. The spar is over.” He knew it was stating the obvious but kriff he wasn’t going to talk down to the man like a kid or.. something. He didn’t know. Cole wouldn’t know how to handle himself if he was freaking out, never mind another person who he didn’t know at all. He still didn’t look to Sofila, placing his concerns for her aside until this more imminent threat had passed.

Yet still, he clocked where he was in case he needed to pull her out of the way.

Ni ceta…

I’m so sorry…

The spar is over.

Respirations: increased. Heart rate: increased. Threat inventory: one jediit, martial, barrier, healing, life-debt, other abilities unknown; one unknown, armed with blaster, protected by barrier, skill unknown, quantity unknown.

Assets inventoried: fifteen throwing knives, training weapons, duffel w/ pistols, loaded with rubber blanks; 8 m away. Outnumbered–

There was something on the floor.

Copper stripped, with a core of silvery blue. A single feather. Location: 0.4 m away. The targets had not come closer. It had to have fallen off of him.

The feather–

Flyndt.

Above–

Above.

Red eyes left the two threats and flicked up.

Not alone.

A blur, there in the shadow of a rafter, dusting crumbs. A nearly subsonic, soft hoo? A signal. Asking.

Assistance?

Okay?

Not alone.

Not alone.

Flyndt.

Safe.

OK.

O.K.

His hand lifted, forming the symbol, adding, Bad moment. The other slowly, slowly slid knife back up sleeve compartment. One then the other. The Foxen exhaled, trying to return breathing to normal levels. Back pressed to the mirrors. Scars itching.

Then he looked back to the Mirialan female.

Why, he signed.

Cole let his posture relax, gaze returning to Sofila as she started signing.

Failing more. She looked at him first. Why…

He shifted, uncomfortable but remaining in place close to her. It wasn’t like hed fucked up worse not weeks before the war.

He was there if she wanted him. Not that he knew what Jare meant really but assumed it was bad.

Knowing safety was above him and watching, Foxen allowed himself to peel the body off the wall by centimeters as the Sagitta began to shift. The expression of open-mouth/no sound is a familiar one. It is like Flyndt’s face, the night before. Broken, trying.

Instead she speaks with her hands.

He knows that thing.

He knows lost control. Strong emotion. Bad dreams. Hah. Yeah, bad dreams.

Failure.

Her face scrunched right around the eyes, as though the lacrimal ducts are attempting to lubricate, but she clenched her jaw.

Incorrect action.

His eyes narrowed.

Yes, no, he tells her, and stalks forward 3 m to the edge of the mat, keeping 1.2 m distance between them. Red eyes glare down, and he shakes his head. You are J-A-R-E. But that is not, he pointed at her chest, the strange black discoloration she has indicated. J-A-R-E: how you choose to normally behave. Reckless. Foolish. Willfully ignorant. Compromising. Endanger self and others this way. Ineffective protection, inefficient combat. Poor choices. This, he gestured between them, and then pointed at her again, hard, is broken.

The hybrid’s hands fell, his words condemning, but not to silence. Instead, he flicked two buttons on the inside of his palms, at his thumbs, releasing the half-glove portion of the fabric. He pulled each sleeve off in quick succession, dropping them to the floor like she had her top. Then, he reached over his shoulders and pulled the tight, sleeveless synthetic turtleneck overhead, flexible, moisture-wicking fabric clinging and dragging at his headtails and horns before it came off.

He dropped that too, then paused, and after 10.2 seconds, turned around, presenting the Mirialan his back, brushing aside mangled headtails.

Scars.

- It was all scars.

Layers over layers.

Faint, faded lashes, pulled and scrunched at the skin as if they had been stretched, the evidence of a much smaller body growing with them, a whip laid down long ago. Swathes and swatches of burn tissue. Lacerations, bullet and blaster wounds. Teeth and claw marks, Sagitta would recognize; the jaws of animals, chewing on flesh, savaging. Overlaid it all, more whipping scars, a carpet of them. They disappeared like so many others into the bind of his cloth belt and pants.

The arms were no better, now revealed; wrists wrung in pale tissue, marks of bondage that had to have ground down to the bone, layered over smaller scars. More evidence of beasts. More burns and cuts. Things from– who only knew what made that sort of shape. And his throat, rung like his wrists, a thick banding of tissue with odd indents and lines, as if a brand had been left around his entire neck, rubbed right in or seared by heat.

He stood for another 30 seconds exactly, then turned back around. A necklace hung over his nearly as scarred chest, feathers on a cord that matched the one on the floor and the tattoo framing a scar dead center on his sternum, large and placed as to have obviously been deadly, just like the Mirialan’s.

I, Foxen signed at himself, and then spelling out, B-R-O-K-E-N. Broken. I was broken. So now I choose to get better. I work for it. You were broken. You are broken. And you will not fix it if you do not own it. Say it. Or get out. I won’t waste my time.

Cole watched with a steady gaze, hand briefly grazing at his own neck before catching himself. By all the karking stars in the galaxy… No wonder Foxen had such a long list of rules.

His eyes found Sofila, not allowing himself to examine the scars too deeply.

An exhale from above, a quiet huff barely audible with the silence of the Nautolan’s gestures. Flyndt’s gaze had been shifting between the pair, watchful and on alert after that spar. His body was still tense, muscles coiled where he had half-crouched half stood in the shadows of the rafters, his gloved hand pressed against the dura steel beam beside him that connecting the rafter to the roof above.

Seeing the scars again was normal now, but hearing Foxen refer to himself as broken, physically and mentally, always was a punch in the gut. Yet another thing he sometimes wishes he could have gone back and prevented, though such wishes leave the question on if they would have truly met and become known if had. Sighing deeply, the Omwati sat back on the beam, straddling it and drawing a knee up under his chin, seed cakes forgotten about. He dropped the veil hovering around him and reached out slowly and intently to brush against the Nautolan’s mind with the feeling of support and presence.

Cole had accepted being pushed away, but remained crouched beside her.

For when she was ready.

The Nautolan hybrid had noted the flash of color up above as Flyndt let himself be seen, felt the brush of that watercolor, firecracker, sunset presence that was home. It came with strength, assurance, a tinge of regret.

It’s O.K. he tried to feed back, though even this many months on, he had no idea, truly, how to. He just felt, or didn’t. And Flyndt stayed through them both, chose him, knew him, all the same. Knowing you, worth it.

O.K.

And it helped, that assurance. It helped the feeling of being fucking exposed, bare, less, piecemeal. Broken. Because he was safe with Flyndt. And they were putting themselves back together. Day by day. Not always successful. But failure counted too.

Foxen watched the Sagitta with a blank face, uncaring of her protests. His lip nearly started to curl when she shook her head, denying. Fine, if that was going to be her choice, then so be it.

But then she started to sob. Fell to her knees and gasped and sobbed.

Identified: strong emotion.

Yeah, kid. I know.

He just stared through all of it, waiting, and when she successfully calmed down, the female met his stare and spoke.

“I am broken. And I will fix it.”

“Hrm,” the Nautolan grunted, and then went about pulling his shirt back on. He left the sleeves. They weren’t serving much purpose now. He assessed, took three slow breaths, checked the exits, checked the rafters, checked himself.

Could he stand contact right now?

For this.

…

Confirm.

He stalked over, stopped 0.43 m away with a warning look to the Cole, Her World, and then extended a hand.

Then stand up, he said with the other that wasn’t offering assistance. And we’ll fucking fix it.

Strong emotion was fucking tiring.

The Nautolan’s face immediately scrunched up.

Lady I am not your brother, he snapped with his hands, disengaging the brush of their palms and stepping back a good meter immediately. One pain in the ass is enough. You want hugs and sisterhood, go to Minnie. You want to learn to control your shit and fight better, you can message me. Do not touch me outside agreed sparring parameters. It fraks me up and I might frak you or myself up.

With that said he turned and strode back over to his duffle, his long legs eating up the distance. He extracted a water bottle – one of two, the other with tiny bubbles and flakes of mint clinging to the inside – and turned back to toss it to the Mirialan.

Emotional breakdowns require hydration. Bring water to any of these sessions in the future. Nutrition and sleep also ideal. Don’t have extra snacks though. The cakes are for Flyndt.

He pointed up, only because the Omwati had uncloaked, and mostly as a courtesy to her informing him of her Cole beforehand. Jumpy McFrakinFamiliar and his rifle over there.

Watching the little wave, he rewound the conversation mentally. Then repeated himself, slower and simpler.

Slow down, confirm. I said: we can train, but friendship, go to Minnie, he repeated the sign she’d shown back, rotating his hand to show it from multiple angles, M-I-N-N-I-E. M-I-N-N-O-W. I know you’re friends. She talks about you. Will show you our names. Have you selected one?

“I haven’t needed one.” Cole shrugged. Hed been using sign longer than that, but it was for a purpose and not general conversation.

If someone ever gave him a name hed use it but the situation had yet to come up.

He watched with careful interest, having spotted Flyndt up in the rafters the moment they appeared and having to resist the urge to defend himself. Hed managed at least.

The Nautolan’s look was almost flippant for how flat it was.

Of course she knows sign. Who do you think taught her growing up? It wasn’t actually a question, and his face didn’t move, but he wouldn’t be surprised if she took it as one. He memorized her sign, and then slowly displayed both his own and Flyndt’s, one at a time.

W-O-W, Foxen fingerspelled, for emphasis. Good job there, pal. Don’t know how you figured that out, what with the pictures of us she keeps on her walls and you sleeping over, or how much she talks, or the two N-A-U-T-O-L-A-N-S in this Clan both signing.

He went slowly, just in case of communication difficulty.

Although.

Sarcasm aside. Fairness required. Not an uncommon reaction. Strangers never assume relationship even when they see us talking. We are very different. Yes, she is my baby sister. I raised her. And then, with the feeling of Flyndt still brushing his mind, blooming something in his chest, hope with feathers, maybe, he chose to share: She looks much more like our mother.

Rude to assume two are related because they same species

Cole signed from his spot beside Sof.

Tactically flexible assumption with contextual clues, Foxen retorted.

The Nautolan paused at that, seemingly selecting a response.

Yes, he agreed after 10.4 seconds, I did. But more than that. She grew well. She is her own force of nature.

He clocked the redness/smudge of darkness around her eyes, weariness in posture, tone. How her gaze followed their hands sluggishly, and squinted, as if through headache. Identified: exhaustion. Probably from emotion.

Do you want to leave? he asked. Self-care: priority. One revelation enough for one day. You said something true, difficult. That is enough.

Cole had shrugged at the initial repsonse Foxen gave.

He remained otherwise quiet as they spoke, feeling a touch awkward admittedly.

There was crying. And he did not know what to do about that. But he felt it, even if it made him shift in his seat and avert his gaze for a time, his thumb running over the etched design into his glove. Flyndt did not look back until Sagitta expressed her gratitude to Foxen.

The Omwati stayed in his roost and watched the exchange as best he could read from there. He noted his partner’s gesture towards him. The few loose crimson plumes on his head rose with the acknowledgement. Flyndt nodded back to Sagitta. His attention stayed for a moment before a brief topic drew his gaze away again.

Discontent with his own reaction to something that demonstrated Foxen opening up to the Mirialan, Flyndt stood and paced back towards where he left the tub of rice cakes. His feathered bangs twitched when he stooped to pick it up. Closing the lid, he started making his way back the way he came, pausing once in a while to steady his balance and eventually wavering near the pillar he had used to climb up here, debating descending.

Cole had already, upon her moving, made way for his bag. He gave a short nod and came to her side before looking to Flyndt up in the rafters and back down to Foxen.

“Bye.” He spoke, not really.. knowing if he even needed to.

Bye, Foxen signed back, pleased at the Sagitta’s acknowledgement of Flyndt and memory of Drakor. With a hrm, he watched them walk away, drawing his datapad out of its holster. He typed quickly.

Good choice. You are Jare, and broken. Also: fixing it. Also: the person that helped save my World. Who is Minnow’s friend. Who remembers Drakor and has the Cole. Also facts. Train again another time. 24 hours notice. Jax informed us of your joining. There is space on the compound if rest required.

Satisfied with the message, he turned away and strode over to where Flyndt was beside one wall, at the edge of rafter beam, balancing. He stoney face creased, open to the Omwati as he looked up.

O.K.? he asked. His head tilted, watching his bird waver. Catch? Or stay?

Flyndt had watched them leave after signing bye and nodding back to Sagitta. There was a small tinge of discomfort realizing he did not once spoke to her verbally, but he was present that’s…something. A sigh. Sunset eyes look down to catch inquiring sanguine.

“Catch.”

He tossed the tub half full of seed cakes to Foxen and scaled down the pillar to join him. Shifting on his feet and hooking his hands on his belt, his gaze shifted back to the Nautolan. “O.K…you? It, hoo, the training was…” Flyndt raised and wobbled his hand a bit in gesture.

Admittedly, the container had not been what he’d been asking about or expecting catching. Disappoinment identified. Nevertheless, his reflexes were excellent, and with the forewarning the Nautolan easily rescued the somewhat diminished seed cake receptacle from the air. He noted how many were left from the number he’d placed in as Flyndt climbed down, then looked to his home and took in the sounds of each syllable made.

Peace.

He stuck the container under his arm and made the wobbly gesture back.

O.K., back in control, yes. Thanks for the feather. Precious. Helped me. He gestured to his throat, not quite a sign, but obviously indicating something like a collar. Headlock/pressure/mild asphyxiation caused memory. Back in the cell– he stopped mid-sign, changing gestures. Details probably better left out, right now. Enough bad things to think on. Can tell some other day, if wanted. For now, house would be good. If O.K. with you? Or…walk?

He never used the sign home for their dwelling; only for Flyndt himself.

Crimson feathers fluttered at what Foxen chose to share, a quiet concerned warble under his breath. Flyndt reached out and brushed his leather-clad hand down the Nautolan’s arm, snagging the man’s hand with his and giving a lithe smile. “Always, feather, yours. And to hear, sometime.”

The Omwati turned his attention to Foxen’s suggestions, eyes darting to the chrono on the wall. “Hoo, we can walk? Do,” Flyndt shrugged, another brief smile, “you want to go hike? A bit up mountain, maybe?”

Always yours.

Yes. Please. He wanted. If they could–

Yours, he’d told Flyndt. Given his name. Inked what he couldn’t keep of marks.

The Nautolan smiled back, and gently threaded their fingers, squeezing the hand.

I would like that, he agreed, and was pleased thinking of his preparation, already having water specifically for the Omwati in his bag. Though, also lots of weapons. It wouldn’t be a burdensome weight. However.

Red eyes met sunset.

With home, weapons not necessary.

This was safety.

Let’s go. O.K.

O.K.

Cole hesistated before nodding.

“No reason not to.”

No good reasons, at least. Dragging Sofila to the other side of the system because he wanted to sleep in his own bed tonight was selfish considering the day she’d had. The days she’d been having.

Cole closed his eyes for a moment, continuing packing once he’d taken the moment. He was still tense, he did his best to recognise it and dial back his initial reaction. Control.

“Not really, Sofila. I don’t remember what it was about already anyway.”

He closed the backpack. It didn’t take long when it was just bits and bobs they were carrying anyway. Cole picked it, crossing the room and placing it down near the door after.

“It’s just stupid kriffing nightmares.” Cole exhaled sharply, grimacing. She had them too, that wasn’t fair- Kark. “Not that they’re- Kriff.”

Breathe. In and then out. Slower. The Human pinched the bridge of his nose. He didn’t know what to say that wasn’t just making excuses or a lot more personal than what he felt like sharing here. Or.. at all honestly. This had been a problem for so long, he’d grown used to it. It was a problem in itself but there was more than enough to focus on other than that.

Cole looked toward her, remaining stood where he was and trying to not let the pain of that statement reflect in his expression.

“I’ve tried. I’ve been trying-” He started but just as quickly cut himself off. He hadn’t slept well since he was fourteen. He couldn’t remember what it felt like anymore, just the knowledge that it had happened. He’d been trying to be better, sure but the nightmares? They’d exhausted all the actual options they had. Cole forced himself to speak softer, trying to force away the tension but it was still building. “I’m not going anywhere. I’m sorry that that- That you-”

The words weren’t coming right and he lowered his hand from his face, slipping it into his pocket. It was hard to argue when she’d walked in with him holding a blaster to his temple a month ago? Was it more now or less?

“I don’t know what to do Sofila.” He eventually came up with, shame churning in his stomach. It was honest. Too honest. Cole let his gaze drop back down to the bag, before to where her bags were. She wasn’t ready yet either way. It didn’t matter. The urge to be anywhere but here would have to wait.

Foxen had arrived well ahead of time, of course.

The guest barracks area were not completely unfamiliar to him. He had seen them as a footnote on planning blueprints before his capture, and had gone to examine them rigorously for quality/security/amenities when he and Flyndt had first landed on Selen some two months after their escape. But Flyndt had decided to accept Foxen’s offer of open domicile. Flyndt hadn’t wanted to be parted then either.

And now…

I love you, ner vercopa. Goodnight.

I love you. Goodnight.

Hands speaking when mouths couldn’t. Hot, olive-skinned hands stripped of their gloves, carefully cupping his throat, brushing the side of neck, carotid, snagging at leather cord of necklace with feathers that were his, always, and freely gifted given. Sunset eyes, tired, hollow with grief, meeting his, checking.

O.K?

Yes, O.K.

They could replace the bad with better. Heal together. Maybe not always okay, not ever. But sometimes. A gentle, trusted touch, replacing restraining arms, banishing shocking, burning metal collar.

It had been a nice hike. And tiring enough for small touches, shared bed, sleep.

Two full nights in a consecutive row, great success.

So the morning has been positive. And Foxen had felt no begrudging for the training appointment because of it.

At least until the time for meeting came and went by 4.2 minutes with exceedingly idiotic argument. His hearing is excellent. His memory downloads every word through the door.

The time was not a grave insult, not with the improved mood of sleep/Flyndt presence. However.

The stupidity is so excessive it actually offends.

‘Stupid nightmares.’

His dreams are full of repeated experiences of dying/maiming/violence/torture, teeth/claws, and killing Flyndt in many and varied forms primarily involving skeletal crushing.

Stupid?

Pal, absolutely frak you.

A knock sounded at the door, firm and demanding.

Foxen reached out to cup the Mirialan’s entire head in one large hand and shove her around out the door while she was still applying footwear.

Warm up, he told her. Stretches, twenty laps around this barracks. Go.

Then his red gaze went to the Cole, and he jabbed a finger at the male.

You. Quote: ‘just stupid kriffing nightmares.’ Define: stupid.

Cole had frozen in place at the door being on so suddenly. It made him feel sick, as if everything had just been upended but no. His feet were on the floor. He was standing. His head turned toward it, instinct still bearing through as the rest failed.

By the time Sofila got up to deal with it he brought himself back fully, forcing his shoulders to relax, looking toward the door as Foxen as he instructed Sofila on training. He watched with some caution but just a cool gaze.

Kriff he’d forgotten about that entire-

Then she was gone and Foxen was still standing. There. Red eyes staring down at him and quoting his own damn words. And if he’d heard those…

Cole clenched his jaw but eventually managed to relax it enough to give some form of rigid answer.

“It was inaccurate.”

He knew. They knew. Weak. They’ll all know before long and then what you pathetic piece of-

What part is inaccurate? The Nautolan continued to stare unrelentingly, unblinking at the male, who displayed high stress/malfunction, based on desaturation of skin/sweat on brow/clenched jaw making audible teeth creaking and slow words once rigid tendons tried to allow mandibular movement.

Sadly Foxen was taking up the entire doorway and preventing exit. It didn’t stop him glancing back into the room before returning to the threatproblem.

Take a 50/50 shot jackass it wasn’t a long kriffing statement-

“The word stupid.” He spoke, catching himself before he actually snapped that out loud.

“Hrm,” Foxen grunted, observing eye movement and threat response.

He took two steps out of the doorway, 0.7 m, and continued to sign. Just one, with raised brow of question.

Why?

More space. It was enough, Cole letting the tension drop slightly. Not much but it was less of a strain to maintain the stillness.

It was almost enough that he was actually surprised by Foxen making a noise. Almost.

“To clarify, you’re asking why I think it was inaccurate to call nightmares stupid?” He asked, really disliking the direction this was going in. He knew Foxen had overheard more. This was just… painful. Uncomfortable.

Correct, the Nautolan replied.

Fuck.

“Because it’s an involuntary response of the mind. Never mind the fact I said it in frustration as I’m sure you also heard, considering the context that followed while you were listening in from out there.”

Clarification: so you do not legitimately think that nightmares are ‘stupid,’ as something involuntary cannot be?

He didn’t bother to acknowledge the comment about his overhearing.

Well. Some involuntary actions could be very stupid.

“In this case, that is correct. Context matters for others.” Cole shook his head, asking instead, “Is there a point to this?”

Yes. Point is: horrible fraking nightmares of traumatic things that cause sleep loss, terror, pain, suffering, difficulty in communication even with the person who is the entire World to you, as Sagitta, his hand made the S brushing cheek, claims you are. Even with them, disrupted sleep, EXHAUSTION, difficulty touching in any way, anger, loneliness, strong emotion, physical debilitation, fear of hurting one another – all of these caused by nightmares, brokenness. Needed confirmation that you were not asserting these were stupid. Stupid possible meaning: lacking intelligence, pointless, meaningless, laughable, weak. If you had been asserting any of these things, then I would choose to apply your face to the concrete a conservative twelve times for insulting my Flyndt, me, AND Sagitta.

He paused, leveled a look.

But if you just mean involuntary then I guess we’re FINE, champ.

“Sofila.” Cole corrected lightly, on instinct as he processed it all. It barely registered he was even saying it.

The fact that she’d referred to him as her whole world shocked him. It was a weight. Not an unpleasant one by any means but it was dragged down by guilt. He was kriffing all of it up. Not that he hadn’t known that but even without Foxen plainly laying all of that out, knowing that she felt that way, that deeply, even out of their conversations.

He wasn’t sure how to fix it but it started with not having a 7 something foot Nautalon staring him down like he was a child.

“I guess we’re fine then. Apologies for the inconvience of my personal difficulties.” A layer of irritation entered his tone, biting. It was a dumb thing to say but he wasn’t a child here. Not one to be lecutred over a misuse of kriffing words.

Yes, yes, offense over your raised voices and my superior hearing. Such as: ‘I’ve been trying. I don’t know what to do.’ Suggestion for consideration: what are you doing to try, what are you thinking about this process.

He turned on his heel and began walking towards the exterior, looking around for the Sagitta running laps and Flyndt.

At least he left. Once the footsteps began fading Cole very carefully shut the door, walked over to the bed and sat down with his head buried in his hands.

Shaking hands. For kriffs sake.

He shifted, tucking them under his arms. The position was fitting, it felt like he’d just been punched in the gut. By a complete stranger who now knew far more about him than Cole ever would have wanted him to. Any stranger. He wasn’t a kriffing doctor how was he supposed to know- The doctors hadn’t known. He hugged himself a little tighter, almost restraingly so.

Twenty minutes. He’d give himself that. To calm down and force himself outside to at least observe the training. That seemed fair.

It wasn’t the strong thing to do but he felt it was pretty strong of him to not have broken something by now. Pathetic but it’d have to do.

A whistle, a somewhat trill.

From the shadows cast by the eaves and terrain nestling the compound was a flutter of faded salmon pants and dark teal as Flyndt materialized. He strolled towards the Mirialan with one hand tucked into his belts and another carrying a canteen. Halting beside her, he offered it to her.

“Hoo, here…” Crimson feathers raised lightly and he shrugged, “No one was in training center, so came out here.”

Foxen, having emerged from the entrance to the guest barracks, paused in the doorway. He folded his arms and leaned against it slightly, really just staring at Flyndt as the Omwati ghosted out from the ether and spoke with the Sagitta.

Happiness. Caution. Hope. All things felt that his bird had decided to come out again today too, and even uncloak to the infuriating animal woman.

“Mmm,” he hummed near silently to himself.

“He was not,” Flyndt answered, a perplexed look crossed his face. Where did Foxen head off to? He was quickly distracted by her following questions.

“Drakor? He is well, healthy. Sometimes come to eat fruit or meats we set out, but think the cooler air coming in he does not like. Goes to other roosts more.” A light click of his tongue as he considered something to ask back, “Have you heard from Archian about Stomps?”

He forgot how loud and vibrant she was, energetic – and not in the way of his own where he can not sit still because everything buzzes and the mind is racing…or maybe she did feel that but it came out like soapy bubbles on the wind. Flyndt peered over at the photos, watching the images switch from creatures to familiar young shistavanens. “The young are way smaller than the Rontu. Aksel looks happy with them and his sister too.”

Not talking to Archian as much he didn’t question, but Flyndt certainly gave her a look while she grumbled and then laughed at the mention of the Monk. “Why? The man is highly capable warrior but plays buffoon. What needs to interact still? Do you like mead?”

Wait.

Cold winds, Drakor didn’t like them?

Hrm.

Could he build a heated shelter for Drakor? Or maybe more trips over to Ussun?

Or could they leave their scents and foods around a suitable roost perch here at the base of the mountain?

Hrm.

And what were they looking at of adolescent rontos and Aksel? It seemed like a positive thing. He couldn’t see her pad from here though…

Chatter unlikely to be so positive when he engaged, though.

So the Nautolan just stayed put, watching.

“That is what I mean, he wishes to be known as…flip-flop covered mead…” Flyndt cut off and dropped it. The monk was not important really, nor did he have to understand her reasoning to keep in touch with the man. A shrug and his gaze shifted to their surroundings away from the guest residence, an awkward pause. Her grin unreturned.

“Grieving, remorse, anger, hopeless. I feel like a hive of nies live under my skin,” his sunset eyes flick back to hers for a second and he shoved his hand back into his belt, a gesture akin to using a pocket. “You asked how I was. I did not answer. Yet, I wanted to ask about you, and yesterday, so is fair to share.”

Flyndt turned to face her fully, a solemn look giving way to a tinge of sympathy. “I do not know you. We met twice, but fought side by side so I respect you… Hrmm,” a deeper hum than the Omwati’s tone left him and he gestures two letters as he continues, “Are you…O.K.?”

Cole hadn’t actually bothered to check the time. He had no idea if it had been twenty minutes but the Human could stand to face people again. To face Sofila and smile and not drag her down with him. To face Foxen and not want to either punch him or walk as far away as possible.

Emotional response mostly contained until he was somewhere safe- well. More safe than here. There wasn’t much of anywhere that was actually safe.

He walked out of the guest building, coming up behind Foxen’s figure standing in the doorway and allowing a few of his steps to be louder so the Nautalon would be aware of his approach but otherwise offering no other warning. Cole’s gaze looked out past Foxen, on Flyndt and Sofila. She was sweaty but was grinning. That was good at least.

The sound of steps scuffing deliberately alerted the Nautolan, so he wasn’t surprised when the Cole arrived. All he did was take a step forward to lean back against the doorway rather than standing in it and leaning aside, providing egress and also sightlines.

He said nothing to the Human; didn’t even look at him. But he did gesture a single-worded sentiment into the evacuated space for the Cole to observe before he parked himself once more to stare at Flyndt and the way the light hits his cheeks and feathers and the shape of each breath with which he speaks and how he moves alive and grieving.

Them, he said.

Cole stepped into the space left open on the otherside of the doorway, clasping his hands behind his back.

He nodded, to the word Foxen gestured into the air, barely catching it. There was little more that needed to be said. They made all the kist worth it. For as uncomfortable as he was, he could undertsand on some level that it there was a shared understanding between him and Foxen on the topic of them. It’d be enough for today.

Flyndt watched the shift in Sagitta’s posture, her body language, unblinking save for the passing of pale nictitating membranes. For a brief second, he thought she was cold and considered potentially offering his vest coat, a thought he really rather not for propriety’s sake. But the clearing of the throat, loss of her smile, and averted gaze, it painted a solid picture of someone uncomfortable, weighed under heavy emotions. Flyndt resisted the urge to shift his feet, uncertain how to comfort that.

‘No…But I keep fighting.’

The Omwati met eye contact with her, his plumage rising a fraction before he swallowed and turned away. Can she help him? Who knows really, but he rolled the offer, the tilt of her head and gentle gaze in his mind. She made it hard to keep walls up and decline.

“Maybe. I do not know presently,” he gave a wince of a smile to her, attempting to deliver his openness of her assistance despite his inability to share — that sinking feeling of dread getting closer more people. Yet, the Mirialan had him considering, sincerity in those eyes. Flyndt sighed and gave her a truer smile, raising his fist to her in a gesture he learned from Minnow.

“To keep fighting? Together?”

Across the way, Foxen groaned softly to himself.

Goddammit Minnie, he thought, but–

His own lips were curling up, just seeing Flyndt’s sunrise smile and making that dumb gesture.

Cole smiled. It was genuine despite how tenuous he felt. She was a bright spark among it all. There was anger to follow to now, but she was a steady push in the right direction whether or not he wanted to keep going.

Though he was finding he wanted to keep going for her.

The Human raised a hand in greeting but didn’t fancy yelling across the way so left it at that.

‘And if too tired, let someone know.’

Flyndt let that sink in for a moment before turning to follow her gaze. He met those sanguine eyes watching him, suspecting they had been for awhile now what with the man’s somewhat relaxed position. Nodding, he raised a hand as well in return, his brow softening on the Nautolan hybrid. A chuff escaped him and he shrugged, turning towards Sagitta once more before closing any distance towards their companions.

“He is very big, you know. If need help taking down,” the Omwati gave a warbled whistle and patted his belt twice with a small cocked grin, “Could team up sometime?”

Foxen didn’t stop staring at Flyndt when the Sagitta acknowledged them, or when Flyndt met his gaze and waved. His lips merely stayed curled up for the Omwati alone.

He did, though, straighten from his lounge and prowl over, red gaze but briefly deviating from his bird as he nodded at the Mirialan. It was called sharply back by the whistle.

What are you thinking, clever bird? he asked.

Flyndt looked up away from the Mirialan to Foxen halting beside them. Recalling an old comment by the taller man, he gestured cheekily.

“Hmm?” ‘Plotting world,’ he paused, uncertain of what sign to use, “hoo, domination.”

Foxen’s grin showed further teeth as he chuckled deeply, a raspy rumbling thing. He dropped quickly in a kneel, leaning towards the Omwati, reaching out while he gestured back but not touching.

I’d get on my knees for that, the hybrid replied with a heavy stare, before leaning back on his heels once more, casually, and fingerspelling. He’d noticed the pause. D-O-M-I-N-A-T-I-O-N. Domination. He showed the sign again, slowly. Domination.

Cole turned his head toward her slightly, quiet for a moment before nodding.

“It’s probably about time, if you’re done here.” He kept his voice low too, though doubted they’d exactly pay attention even if they could hear them.

Without turning to look back, Foxen extended one arm behind him, snapped his fingers, and gestured behind his back, mirroring the signs in reverse as if to his front.

Not started. Five more laps.

Cole raised an eyebrow, not that Foxen could see, but then shrugged.

“Well that answers that question.” He commented, but looked to Sofila and tilted his head. They could still go if she wanted to, but Cole somehow knew that she’d rise to the challenge.

He brought his data pad out here for a reason.

Cole sat down on the grass, pulling out his datapad.

It by no means meant he wasn’t watching, listening, but he hadn’t checked in in a day or so and well. It was nice to know what was going on, on Ol'Val primarily but across the Dajorran System. He only had so much access to things beyond that, but being informed was important.

Flyndt repeated the gesture and committed it to memory best he could, something to add to the list of practice. An inside joke between them in theory would end up sticking. His crimson feathers raised with his attention focused between them. He missed Sagitta slipping away towards Cole, only noticing when fingers snapped and Foxen’s backwards signing he didn’t understand from his angle. The context came to his best guess when the Mirialan took off running.

“Hrmm, she lost count earlier, seemed she did extra laps,” his gaze met the Nautolan hybrid’s again, head cocking to the side lightly. “Do you intend to spar today or drill endurance?”

“Hmm,” Foxen replied, mimicking the tilt unconsciously. His hands returned between them. Don’t think want to spar again yet unless requested. Not with her so soon after Bad echo. High likelihood bad for me. Think determining what she wants, first. Questions. Maybe, a test.

Red eyes slipped to the Cole in the grass on his datapad.

Supposition: that one is damaged also. Itchy trigger finger. Hiding something. Unsure if I trust. However. Sagitta says he is like to her as you to me. So allow.

Reading along as he listened, Flyndt nodded to Foxen’s reasoning. He could understand the hesitation, best for all involved. It made more sense to figure out what the woman wanted anyways to begin with. His passive face flashed with curiosity at the mention of a test, but the look quickly shifted as a his partner continued.

‘Who is not broken?’ the Omwati asked rhetorically with a heavy sigh. The man’s uncertainty in trusting the human was enough for Flyndt to note being watchful around him for now, but the comment of one’s meaning to another drew a brief small smile. ‘O.K. Will watch but try, yes?’

Foxen smiled back, gratitude in his gaze and posture. O.K. Yes. Thank you. Then, though it had been rhetorical, he added, Broken, yes. Also: beautiful, and reached to ever so lightly cup the Omwati’s cheek, thumb brushing under one nictating eye. The touch lingered until they heard pounding footsteps returning, and he turned and stood again as the Sagitta arrived.

Bouncing on balls of feet, as if vibrating for more, not panting at all yet.

Hm.

Passable.

Also, energetic.

Whoopee.

Good, he told her, because she had followed instructions exactly both times without complaints. Then, Now, we’re going to sit in a fucking circle and share. Sit.

He pointed towards the Cole in the grass. The area immediately outside the guest barracks had been clear cut for initial construction, but six years later, the grass and lichens were hardy, and the surrounding trees would provide adequate shade until the afternoon when the sun reached its zenith.

Cole looked up from his data pad as they got close enough that they were definitely approaching. Sofila’s expression held no explanation, just the slight crease to her eyes that usually popped up when she was confused. Foxen was as unreadable as a stranger would be. Same for Flyndt. They were keeping distance.

He straightened a little as Sofila settled down, placing the data pad into his lap and closing the display off for now. His eyes flickered to her but was more focussed on the other two. On the feel of his concealed pistol. Knife. He hadn’t brought much out but Cole hadn’t let himself be fully disarmed for a long time and wasn’t starting in unknown territory.

Once the two were situated next to each other, Foxen placed himself down as well, a firm meter away from both. With Flyndt close to him, the effect was a rhombus, not a circle, but the effect was sufficient.

He faced the Sagitta and lifted his hands. While he had two possible options for translation (one 900% more reliable than the other) he still elected to gesture slowly and with simpler terms.

First: have you thought about what you want. Your original message said: control, anger management, better combat. These are different things. Thoughts?

Flyndt had pulled on his pants to gather the loose fabric while sitting down crosslegged in their skewed circle. He did not say anything, much like Cole, and merely observed silently. His gaze shifted mainly between Sagitta and Foxen, occasionally flicking toward a small movement of the human’s. It was hard not to note them, not after his partner pointed out not trusting him. Cole was not the only one who was acutely aware of blades at their belts.

Foxen nodded to her each time she paused, indicating listening. His head cocked, a birdlike gesture, at admission of wanting to fight and punch more.

Do you want MY assessment of what you are doing wrong? he asked. Or to move on to next question?

Cole watched her, the way she tensed. Defensive. Like she always got when she was told getting herself kriffing killed wasn’t the answer.

Was tactical play by play the answer she’d been looking for when she’d asked before? It hadn’t felt like it but maybe he’d messed up never addressing it.

She was trying to not look at him.

He let his gaze wander away.

Noting the resignation more than consent, but electing to respect the words she spoke, Foxen launched into an explanation at 62% normal speed.

Frontline tactics perfectly suitable, situationally. Uses: cannon fodder absorbing fire, breaching enemy lines, establishing footholds. However: high casualties. Purpose is not to survive. Purpose is sacrifice. This is military doctrine. He paused, allowing for possible translation of highly specific words that couldn’t be simplified. Correct: you need to stop ‘throwing yourself’ into battles. Not because it is self sacrifice. You choosing to die is your choice. J-A-R-E part, problem part, is thoughtlessness. Lack of coordination, information, willingness.

On U-N-E-V-A, we did not act as a unit. No coordination at all. Absolute disaster of a mission. Specifically, you: going out into firing lines, crossing back and forth over battlefield and up and down cliff, sympathy for animals, protected them. This was equal to sympathy for enemy forces. Protecting enemy equals harming allies. Prolonging battle. Causing confusion, distress. Coordination fails. In combat, most critical is order and control. When one agent is wild card, acting on own, NOT. THINKING. running out without plan or without informing– chaos made. More people die. Unit suffers. You have only managed to ‘take care of it’ on combination of sheer luck and skill. Luck is bullshit variable. You will die, and whoever you want to be in front of will die. This is inevitable outcome if you continue as is.

-

Another pause, a check.

You threw yourself in front of my gun. As an ally. This is a DISASTER to basic firearm safety, team safety. Fraking sin. However. Then you chose to stay there. I respected that choice. Yes, you can block a bullet. You blocked my blow yesterday. You can heal. You are jediit. Your equipment may be helpful. All true. But that is not your weakness. Your weakness is rashness, ignorance, emotion. You require control. Thinking. Respect of OTHERS’ CHOICES. To also be in danger. To also die. You have strengths, but you use them poorly. They can be refined. End opinion on category: what I’m doing wrong on topic: front lines.

Cole gave Sofila a sharp look upon seeing Foxen mention standing in front of another person’s kriffing gun. Running in front of the enemy and back again. Helping the damn enemy when being attacked and clearly in conflict.

By the stars and what laid beyond.

He just let it be a glance. Forced as much strain out of his gaze as he could and kept the mask neutral. It was a game he’d played all his life, containing reactions. She was here to learn. This was the point.

A brief trill escaped under Flyndt’s breath, his feathers ticking lightly as his lips pursed like something said had bothered him. He remained quiet as Foxen gave his evaluation, only speaking up to interpret at any point it seemed Sagitta was struggling to follow along, waiting of course for her to try working it out first. That is how one learns, right?

Echoes. Echoes of the past. Lectures, gentle and stern conversations, setting joints and bruised bones. Gradually, his mind slipped more and more into past memories that his translation aid came with a growing delay until he altogether dropped sharing it word by word.

“That is all he has to say on it,” the Omwati summarized. A second later realized he did a disservice to Foxen doing so, his eyes glancing over apologetically for a second. “Sorry,” both to his partner and to the Mirialan he addressed next, “I agree with Foxen, Sagitta. Lack of communication and coordination is how one gets everyone killed. I had to learn this too, still struggle but glad my mentors drilled it before tragedy could happen…”

Again.

Flyndt paused, eyes casting down to his thumb tracing the design of his glove for a moment. He sighed and clicked his tongue, gaze flicking back to the Mirialan. “Mentioned want to control anger? I say, go lift a rock.”

The Nautolan hummed at his bird in acceptance of the apology, having noticed Flyndt’s slowing and eventually stopping speech and focusing more on him than either the Sagitta or the Cole for it. He recalled things Flyndt had shared, during Kote Ky'ram, guilt and mourning and the lap of wide open waves turned into something foreign. But asking for help, games of chase, easing to the water. Small stories of painful lessons. Yes.

He wanted to apologize, suddenly, for having reminded the Omwati of such things when already his heart was grieving. But not with witnesses.

Later, perhaps.

As it was, Flyndt’s suggestion seemed notable. Foxen pointed at him and nodded.

Repetitious manual or concentrated labor, productive to self control. However, practice later. First: check in. Your thoughts on what said. Then: more questions.

Foxen hummed at her, then nodded. He had noticed some of the tenseness, but it was only a note.

Consideration of criticism, validation, acknowledgment of wrongdoing: all thoughts to be said. Don’t need you to give me an essay. Just need to know you are able to listen. Good. The compliment was an addition, meant to encourage. Second part: anger management. Do you want opinion on this as well? Or only front lines? He then held up a finger for pause, and then explained: I am going to ask you a lot of questions today. Confirmation, consent to be given opinion, to be lectured, etc. You might find this… tedious.

Surprisingly to the other two, probably, the Nautolan’s lips twitched upward at this, another glimpse of his shark like smirk, red eyes briefly darting to Flyndt and back again.

But necessary measure. Consent: supreme importance. Example: asking me to train you, not same thing as asking for my thoughts. Specifics required. So: yes/no on anger topic, example: yesterday.

The Nautolan considered her while she thought, staring unblinking, and nodded at her acceptance.

Yesterday, he began. Walk through it. We began sparring. One round, you tap out. Second round, you got angry. Then what happened?

“Sofila your arm.” Cole spoke, finally, his tone soft. She was shutting down, he wasn’t going to force her to keep going but he wasn’t close enough to stop her from scratching herself.

He didn’t know if getting up would disturb whatever the kriff set up this was.

If she kept going he wouldn’t care, flashes of the first time he discovered this habit and the state of her firmly in the front of his mind.

Foxen observed the whole thing, though there was not a hint of judgement in his gaze, a blistering lack of pity, nothing but steady regard.

Confirm: move on, he said. Then: yes or no: end of discussion, plan another time, if requested.

The unblinking stare caught everything.

Frustration. Relief. But also: slight inwards curvature to cringe of spine, crease of brow, elevated carotid pulse under skin of throat, locking of jaw. Display: refusal of emotion, denial. Self-harming seemed unconscious, for how the Cole stopped her and she cursed. Not a deliberate control mechanism, as he would have done.

Strong emotion. And, he would hypothesize, likely frustration prominent with self. Reasonable self-review, or depreciatory?

Supposition from previous interactions and current inventory if evidence: 304% likelihood of the latter.

Hrm.

Correction required?

But thoughts unknown, and asking: now no. Therefore, remaining actions: giving.

Good job, he said. Boundaries, consideration for the self and strong emotional duress: progress. You are thinking. Better.

The eyes shifted to the Cole, having noted his predator/prey stillness. It is a mirroring quality, the watchfulness. Concern for the Sagitta. Stress/danger. But the Cole is not the focus. Perhaps he will listen to sound advice 1.2 m away from him.

Foxen looked back to Sagitta, head cocking again.

Another time, confirm. No more questions. Message me with 48 hour notice, will confirm or deny. What now: up to you. He gestured around them, and let his hand fall a few inches closer to Flyndt’s knee beside him than previous.

Cole shifted to stand, he was closer to the door to get their bags so remained in place though.

Foxen stood third and nodded down at the Sagitta.

Progress, he repeated, and then, Goodbye.

No more needed to be said.

The Nautolan looked down to his partner, expression softening again as he offered Flyndt his hand.

The Omwati accepted the hand and hopped to his feet. He dipped his head towards Sagitta with a small smile. “It was…good to see you. I look to horizon for next we meet.”

To…the man beside her, their name missed, Flyndt gave him a nod goodbye as well, with a much more fleeting smile.

The two pairs went their separate ways, collecting their things. Foxen watched the outsiders leave, towards the designated port area, safe with Flyndt beside him, and considered. Watched the burned-scarred Mirialan, who was Jare, raging inside and leaving wreckage, but who chose to change.

He pulled his datapad out, typing briefly.

Edit: Jare Brûleé … Contact changed: Trailed by Fire

They’d see which name she deserved.