Port Ol’val Current day
Baby Turi wailed in Socorra’s arms, his little mouth rooting for sustenance but repeatedly denied mother’s milk.
“No, do it look like I know what I doing? It karkin’ hurt, Atyiru. He’s like Hoover droid!”
The new mother sat on her couch, a blanket half draped over her and Turi and panicking at the baby’s cries. Socorra could torture a man to death yet her son’s helpless wails and tears tore at her heart and upset her as much as him. Atyiru waddled over to sit next to them, examining the problem with eyeless countenance.
“You’re only giving him the tip, so he isn’t latching properly. You need to give him the whole muffin, dear. Watch.”
The blind Miraluka reached over and grabbed the woman’s left breast and nearly shoved it into the newborn’s mouth like a practiced nurse. Instantly the baby suction-clamped on and began nursing as if he had been starved for a week, tiny tears streaming down his precious face. Socorra grimaced and rearranged her cradling-arm to get more comfortable on the couch.
“See? Oop and there’s the milk let-down. It’s a weird feeling, isn’t it? Like your body is suddenly all happy and titillated to feed the litlun.”
“Thanks,” Socks replied quietly, although a slight nod agreed that it was, in fact, a weird and uncomfortable feeling.
“Now, now, none of that, missy.”
“None of wh– argh out of my head. Stop it.”
“Oh you know better- I can stop only as much as you can, mm? Now I hear that self doubt. You are adequate. It just takes practice and time. Just like baby burritos.”
The human woman sighed. “When are boys coming back? Wyn say they’re going out to bond but I know that is utter bantha osik. It not like we not going to instantly know. I should have gone with them.”
“You dear are where you need to be this moment, bonding with the litlun. There will be plenty more adventures.” Atyiru slowly stood from the cushions and started making her way to the door. “I’ll be right across the hall if you need anything else!”
“Wait,” Socks held up her free hand. “We no tell you his real name yet.”
“Oh pshaw, I knew the minute he was born.” She flapped a hand as she left. “Bold of you to assume you could hide that from me. Wink.”
Later that day
“They’re not as delicate as you think, you know.”
Socorra stood in her tiny living room, highly fretting over the toddler holding Turi in her arms. Kirra cradled the baby like an expert, not that Socks knew or believed. He was quiet, staring curiously with young, barely-born hazel eyes up at the girl. Quiet, as if they were telepathically conversing.. or merely content.
But he was quiet, and that mattered a lot to the brand new mother. It took the edge off a little of all of the unknowns. Relax, she attempted to tell herself, looking around the spartan flat for something to distract her. There really wasn’t much. She had already restocked the changing table and folded and refolded the little clothes. She poured a glass of water from the pitcher on the cafftable.
“Your brother is no born yet. How do you know to do any.. of this?” She gestured to the cradling but more importantly the burrito Kirra had made of the baby and blanket.
“The orphans! Papa goes see them often. They need friends, just like Aunny Sawks. Oh there they are!”
The doorbell suddenly chimed. Socorra spit her water out.
“What? Kirra, baby, meshla, what did you do?!”
“I brought Aunny friends, so you’re not lonely anymore.“
The woman’s face almost paled as she scrambled to look at the multiple security holos.
The Erinos-Tyris flat was across the hall from the Araave-Tyris’ and nearly identical, save for the welcome mats at each doorstep. Both were painted presumably by Kirra, one with two adult humanoid figures named Mama and Papa, and a toddler Kirra, pointing to Mama’s belly labeled “Weyne”. The other was two adults “Aunny Sawks and Unca Wyn” and a toddler Kirra, with a scribbled out arrow from Sawks belly to an “updated” tiny baby figure in the toddler’s arms named Turi.
All cute pretense stopped with the visible and hidden security of both flats, Sawks and Wyn’s abode a little heavier with hidden-not-hidden panels and one obvious holocam that seemed to judge its visitors.
A holocam blinks above, two-point-thirteen meters up, reddish light dull in its fisheye lense for the sole purpose of alerting observers of its active recording presence. He blinks, glancing over at that light, mid-sentence–
There are hooks in his mind.
Denton detonates. The smell is off. She does not know it like he does, even prying it out of his head. She cannot conceive of it the same way, not with her senses. Cannot scent like he can. But it is close. And the burning – she gets that right.
Fire is her favorite.
“…ax? Sir? Sir.”
The voice is distant, and then it is not.
He wonders if she has heard him scream, or if she is using his own memories of the half-Selenian’s voice, as though trawling a databank for similar soundbytes. Both options flood his mouth with saliva to wet his teeth, unhinge his jaw at the hook. He wants to bite and shake and tear, in retribution of his Mate’s pain or in protection of their memories. It is a possessive thing. Hideous. Kobign still holds it gently.
He has not got the moisture much left in his body for more tears, but they manage to squeeze some, much like the spittle around his dry mouth and raw throat. His vocal cords tore hours ago. But these sounds, he almost bows to them. Being aware of it all is the only saving grace.
She gives up on that tact, and the fire returns. There is poetry of brotherhood in this, somewhere: how they both know of burning so well.
“Irian!”
A hand fisted at the back of his neck, and he stumbled, snapped back into the hallway on his knees over painted pastoral scribbles of things they would never have. He gasped in, breathing, lungs burning.
“Hey, there, love,” Kobign’s tone was firm and soft at once, commanding him. “Back with me?”
He used his flesh hand to cup Jax’s cheek, lifting it, meeting their eyes. Jax whimpered, trying to lean into the touch and also back into the grip on his neck that anchored him home.
“Aye,” he rasped, ears pinning down, a whine.
Kobign knelt a little to rub their cheeks together, and he whined again, and loved this man with all he had.
“Where’d you go?”
“…I will tell you later?”
Hazel eyes were flint and steel, narrowing at him first, then flashing up to the camera, to the doorway. No doubt doing a very simple calculation and finding the output disagreeable, by that little frown he hid quickly. Jax butted their heads, still in easy reach.
“Please?”
The other man sighed. “Alright. C'mon then, sir, got duty to report for.”
He offered a hand up, finally letting go, and Jax took it, pushing off the floor. He smoothed at his pantlegs, checking for dust or dirt from the drop with a military precision, and then started smoothing at his hair. Kobign chuffed at him.
“Hey, silver vulptex, if you looked any better I might just have to get jealous. You’re fine. Go on.”
He found a small, genuine smile back at that, laughing softly. But then…
“You are not…coming in?”
The light smile buffered for a moment, a brief pause that seemed to stretch longer in the half-Selenian’s mind. He exhaled and glanced toward the waiting door, feeling his chest constrict.
You don’t belong here–
Not Erinos or Mando, kark, not even an Arconan. He barely knew Socorra aside what’s on her dossier, in Jax’s tales, and the few hangouts he fakd his way through. Wasn’t entirely faking though, genuinely enjoyed himself. That makes the charades more believable, yeah?
Both self inflicted and forced imposter syndrome aside, There were so many actual reasons he could think of on why he shouldn’t be within one hundred meters of this place. Safety for the happy little family he finally noticed was scribbled on the mat beneath their feet.
Whiiine, fur brushed his hands after the few seconds had lasped, followed by a light nibble. Kobign reached out and scratched the red and tan lanky cythraul with a sigh, giving Jax a wince of a smile. “Probably should walk Canchi a bit more first, wouldn’t want him peeing in excitement or hopping on them.”
Jax tried to keep his face from contorting into a pout, he did. But his eyes widened and his ears folded back flat anyway, and the whine he emitted was much like Canchi’s. He shook his head hard again, as much to dislodge pain echoes as to make his ears flop back into submission and stand attention.
“That is probably smart. Especially around a youngling. Yes. Good thinking.” He reached far down to give the cythraul some affection as well, yipping back at him. “Be good for buir, ade. No trash swim this time. We have an infant to meet, we have to wash our hands and paws and be very careful!”
No more puttering and avoidance though. Jax straighted up, leaned over to kiss Kobign’s salted brown curls.
“I love you,” he said, easily and adoring, then turned for the door once more and squared his shoulders. His only hand reached out and pressed the buzzer.
Kobign only scrunched his nose a little bit at the memory of Canchi’s dumpster diving incident. It quickly softened as he pressed gently into the kiss, a hand finding brief purchase on thr taller man’s hip. “Love you too, Irian.”
He gave the hybrid a squeeze before stepping away too. The half-Selenian hated leaving him to do this alone, but he needed to. With a pivot, he called to Canchi, patting his leg and trying to hype the independent canine to follow him. The red and tan Cythraul trotted after…
Socorra’s face nearly turned red. “Ahh girl, no friends! Meshla must ask. Always. Forever!”
Flustered, a dozen foreign curses muttered under her breath. Socorra knew she couldn’t send them away. They all needed to keep up appearances, Kobign more than anyone else.
“Ayah. Aunnie go get shoe next time!”
With a huff the woman moved to the wall panel at the door and punched and scanned through several security measures to open it.
Spicy, incense-infused warmer than warm air wafted thickly across the threshold, followed by the distinct scent of exotic kitchen spices, lingering far after a meal had finished. To the wolfman in the hall it was clearly the source of the woman’s personal scent, calling up thoughts of ancient mysteries and of a civilization lost to time.
Socorra stood to the side of the doorway with one hand on the wall panel. Seeing Kobign suddenly missing, the other hand casually slipped to behind her waist. Her singular arctic eye darted around looking for him.
She was still dressed for the office, minus the blazer, and the shoes, an image not so fondly remembered by the males. The desert woman’s dark-skinned feet were bare, an odd detail to think of; for all the power the Elder wielded they were tiny, almost adolescent feet. Jax wouldn’t soon forget she had managed to kick him in the jaw with one once, when she was damaged and weak, a long time ago.
“Where Kobign?” Socorra asked first and foremost, the accent clipping short and over enunciating the syllable in his partner’s name. It was socially impolite to not greet first but her sense of safety and need for control was far more important than some social standard.
He does not mean to flinch when the door finally opens, but he does. It is a combination of factors, from the overwhelming strength of the incense, unimpeded now by tightly sealed durasteel, to the sudden appearance of that tan face and arctic eye, to the sound of her voice asking him anything.
Where Kobign? the question reverberates, doubling back on him from several hundred directions, with slight variation: where was Kobign, what was Kobign doing, this night, that, during the assault, how long have you known Kobign, why did Kobign attack…
And he answered them all the same, in every language he knew, shouting or growling or whispering, until he could not answer any longer.
“I killed Immet Ecan.”
She had never laid a hand on him, never had to. A few DIA agents had seen to the physical persuasion. But still, her eye narrowed, and it is with a distant pride, the kind that preens under his Mate’s attentions, that he noted her small fingers flicking, forced to gesture because he is proving difficult.
The smell of Kobign’s skin from those gentle touches lingers just enough on his cheek that when Jax blinked, he managed to stay mostly in the present, despite the sheer saturation of spice on the air. Tears blinked free, into his fur, eyes watering from it, and his throat burned from something other than conjured fire. He stopped breathing through his nose, swallowing a whine as his ears pinned, opening his mouth to pant his breath doggedly instead. It does not matter; Socorra has seen all of his teeth already, when she made him scream.
- But there is no table between them now, no chains on him. Her feet are bare, even if she is dressed similarly. He is not dribbling blood from a missing tooth. Underneath that awful incense, he can smell mother’s milk.
And, he tells himself, Kobign is coming back. So is their troublesome ade after his walkie. Kobign is coming back.
He licked his lips, and answered her honestly this time, “He is only walking Canchi. He will return. He is carrying our gift for the youngling, so do not be startled if he drops off a package. We mean no harm.” He does not swear anything to it, because he doubts she would take his word, but offers a crisp salute. “We only came to visit, Sir. Forgive me, but you seem of a somewhat surprised. Should I take this as confirmation that we were not, in fact, invited, and that young Kirra was not at your dispatch to do said inviting?”
Socorra stared at her vod’ika, or the wolfman hybrid that had been one, watching him suffer now in the wake of the scents of her home. That and the sudden intrusion removed any possibility of keeping his prior interrogation compartmentalized, already made difficult for the woman incapable of forgetting anything.
Her expectations of the old Mandalorian’s stubbornness and endurance under Force interrogation had been met, but he was much louder than expected. The quiet, unassuming scholar’s well-spoken voice had taken on a primal and mighty tone, an unforgettable howl to her small Human ears. She had never seen him so feral.
But Timeros’ words a decade prior had been louder, when she had named Consul Wuntila a tyrant. Jax only screamed for a short time, while she had screamed for years, tortured by Arcona’s Justice until the mantra became hers: Protect the Consul, protect the clan. By any means necessary.
The weight was carried heavily by the last of the Old Guard, like a thorned, leaden mantle upon her shoulders. Lauded then and punished now as war crimes in the new, softer Arcona, it had stung deeply to be fired from Director and had thrown her into disarray.
…do not be startled.
Her damaged, arrhythmic heart skipped more beats than usual. Jax’s words resonated, causing those burdened shoulders to slump and her weariness to become apparent.
We mean no harm.
The crow’s feet around her eye deepened, and lines formed at the corners of her ruby lips. Even her long locks seemed gray more than the silvery-white throughout the raven mane. As if not just her life force was stolen by Timeros all those years ago, but her innocent youth as well, now masked behind illusion or simply the way the woman carried herself.
Socorra didn’t command Jax to stand at ease or offer a return salute.
“You need not address me as such,” she finally replied. “I am leader in Arcona no longer.”
She should no longer bear the Erinos family and clan name either.
I am no better than Wuntila, he who had beaten the osik out of Talos to goad Teroch out of hiding. I harmed my own vod’ika to get the truth from Kobign. I am worse than the man I named a tyrant. I do not deserve to lead my brothers.
Instead of answering him Socorra turned her back and tapped into a wall panel, causing the air inside of the small entryway to begin cycling out. She moved away from the door and her hand from the hidden knife behind her back. Jax saw no fight left in her eye, and she had left herself vulnerable to the towering hybrid. But he also knew the Sith was a master manipulator, a mindbender, the Grand Master’s personal spy even.
“Come in,” she said, gesturing inside. “Are you hungry? I feed you. I have warm rice still, or I prepare something, you must eat. Do you like spicy? Of course you do, spicy healthy. Plenty ale and raava. Socorran chai and woolong dark-dragon tea. If you incorrectly want fruity, Marick have froo-froo tea. You go there, across hall. And stay.”
The upkick of air vents caused a subtle flinch from the tense man, ears perking to track the sound, as if following the hiss of a gaseous grenade or venting airlock. But no such damage came. Instead the atmosphere began to cycle somewhat, and the burning in his every sinus and pore became less of a conflagration and more of a smoldering of coals. He barked another cough, but took deep breaths of the outside air and waited a moment for the ventilation to do its work before stepping in after her.
And if in that time, he also told himself, Kobign is coming back, Kobign is coming back, he is coming back, as an assurance of the lioness’s den he entered, then so it was. He understood from whence his misgivings arose, the traumatic response not unfounded nor illogical, if presently unhelpful and unnecessary.
He focused hard on his metal foot, until he could make it take that first step, breathing shallowly but slowly in compromise of a deep inhale that would surely set off his nose. Bright blue eyes flicked around, in part searching for threat or trap, but mostly, only curious of the woman’s living space and what she had made of it. One’s home conveyed so much about oneself. His own had said quite a lot, before her agents had reasonably ransacked it.
The reasonable part, he removed himself, because otherwise he would be furious and despairing over the artifacts, art, keepsakes, and literature that had been damaged thereof.
He took another low, lull-tongued breath, and spoke again.
- “I would be honored beyond measure to sample the chai of your black sand people, Sir,” Jax replied, indeed able to smell now as the incense lessened slightly the previously masked warmth of mulled rice grains, dusty and hearty and pleasant. “Spicy is ideal, is it not? We are Mando, after all. Although I shall confess,” his words tripped slightly, the casually used turn of phrase feeling distinctly less casual in the context of being shared between them, now, after… “ah, admit that I… cannot handle as much spice as our brethren. Too sensitive. But no need to trouble yourself preparing anything fresh for guests uninvited. You have my sincerest apologies for the intrusion. We only thought…a new child in the Clan is the greatest of blessings…I would have come pay respects and know his name as my kin sooner…but how these things go, time can so get away from us, can it not?”
It was a polite lie, but they would both know that, and so no lie at all.
“Where indeed is our young Kirra? I believe a word about permission is in order before we excuse ourselves after a cup.”