- Location
- PA
With the tone set by this story? Oh yeah.
If you were to start writing a new tale in a new world and made it a world of light from the get go though? I bet that'd be a different deal entirely.
Petals of Titanium -- My Life as a Mecha Setting Bridge Bunny Quest
- Thread starter Gazetteer
- Start date
- Original Sci-Fi Users' Choice!
Voted best in category in the Users' Choice awards.
If you were to start writing a new tale in a new world and made it a world of light from the get go though? I bet that'd be a different deal entirely.
Tayta Malikai
200% Space Whale
- Location
- Australia
UrsaTempest
Don't Panic!
I would think those 'happiest, saccharin note' does actually happened.
I'll just wonder what other good things doesn't happen due to those happy ending.
I kid, I kid. I won't wonder, I'll just assume those good things are whatever doesn't win the vote.
I'll just wonder what other good things doesn't happen due to those happy ending.
I kid, I kid. I won't wonder, I'll just assume those good things are whatever doesn't win the vote.
- Location
- Nova Scotia
- Pronouns
- She/Her
Inserted tally
- Location
- Third planet from the star named Sol
- Pronouns
- He/They
Yeah @Gazetteer, for as much emotional turmoil as this quest has wrought for me (I took two significant breaks, one after update 11 and another after update 41) this has been a phenomenal quest and I really want to thank you for writing it. This was an incredible ride, and I'm grateful for how it's impacted me.
- Location
- MS, USA
All I will say is: the quest made/makes great reading material if your in the correct mood.
Update 047: After
- Location
- Nova Scotia
- Pronouns
- She/Her
The virtuous defenders swallowed their anger at their helpless enemies, the heroic defenders shielded Titan from the worst, 52 votes
A defeated enemy laid down their arms as one, the virtuous defenders swallowed their anger at their helpless enemies, 12 votes
The heroic defenders shielded Titan from the worst, the Imperial Guard weathered the storm, 9 votes
A defeated enemy laid down their arms as one, the heroic defenders shielded Titan from the worst, 4 votes
The virtuous defenders swallowed their anger at their helpless enemies, the Imperial Guard weathered the storm, 3 votes
A defeated enemy laid down their arms as one, the Imperial Guard weathered the storm, 2 votes
A defeated enemy laid down their arms as one, the virtuous defenders swallowed their anger at their helpless enemies, 12 votes
The heroic defenders shielded Titan from the worst, the Imperial Guard weathered the storm, 9 votes
A defeated enemy laid down their arms as one, the heroic defenders shielded Titan from the worst, 4 votes
The virtuous defenders swallowed their anger at their helpless enemies, the Imperial Guard weathered the storm, 3 votes
A defeated enemy laid down their arms as one, the Imperial Guard weathered the storm, 2 votes
Things go far from perfectly, as much as they might have gone worse. When most people — scared, desperate, backed into a corner and facing the prospect of death — are offered a way out, they will take it. Fanatics or not, as Lord Renaud's orders first to cease hostilities and then to surrender filter down throughout the surviving fleet, most obey them. Some obey grudgingly, others in numb, terrified relief.
Some, of course, don't obey at all. The most dramatic instances are the whole ships, small formations even, that refuse to power down their weapons and surrender. Some continue on with the fruitless battle, are surrounded and destroyed. Others make a break for it, seeking to hide somewhere out beyond Titan. These last will prove to be a problem in the months to come. Much more numerous are the individual mutinies. Pilots, ship officers, crew members who refuse to cooperate with the surrender, sometimes to the point of instigating deck-to-deck fighting.
This could have been where things went very wrong. The United Empire Marines boarding parties are made up of jittery, angry soldiers, frustrated from simply having watched and waited while the Navy fought and died to defend Titan, from being helpless all this time. When faced with a Divine Navy ship's assembled, unarmed crew, discipline holds.
"You are better than these monsters," one NCO reminded his boarding party, shortly before the airlock cleared.
When faced with the prospect of one surrendering Divine Navy officer surging to his feet, producing a concealed weapon and shouting "We are His shield and shining sword!", it would have been easy, perhaps even understandable, for the entire room to end up being swept with automatic fire. Instead, half a dozen bullets find the officer in question, leaving the others in stunned, fearful silence, but alive. Similar scenes play out elsewhere — body counts of one or two, but nothing that turns into a massacre of surrendering prisoners.
In the end, you are better than the invaders.
And so, Admiral Duke-Consort Renaud Grangier lives to be led onboard the HIMS Hawthorne. Albeit in handcuffs, under armed guard, and with the blood of his flag lieutenant sprayed gruesomely over his stark, white uniform. On the far side of the airlock, a familiar face regards him without a shred of warmth.
"Viktor," he says. "It's been some time."
Lord Admiral Sikes does not so much as twitch a smile. He looks at Renaud like he's a stranger. Under the circumstances, Renaud cannot find it in his heart to blame him. "Since before you betrayed your empress," Sikes says, his voice rivalling Duchess Grangier's for its sheer, arctic coldness. "And I will be addressed as 'Lord Admiral', if you please."
"As you wish, Lord Admiral," Renaud says. The silver and blue colour scheme of a United Solar Empire warship is oddly, surreally nostalgic. He commanded ships like this, once. When he was a better man, and the world made more sense.
"Sir," comes a professional voice. A woman holding a tablet in her free hand brings herself to a halt beside the Lord Admiral after weaving through his honour guard of marines, offering a smart salute. "Her Imperial Majesty has been debriefed. She offers her personal thanks and congratulations, and wishes to know how soon it would be convenient to send the enemy commander downplanet." Meaning, it is to be done right away as a top priority. The speaker herself is the picture of a proper staff officer, but more to the point, she's the absolute spitting image of Duke Rao.
Renaud has a brief flash of memory — a function at the Rao estate, several other Imperial Electors and their spouses in attendance, beyond the Duke and Lorelei. A shyly awkward preteen being forced to say hello to the guests, before being allowed to escape to quieter parts of the garden. It's strange, being here, suddenly confronted with these ghosts from a past life. That insular circle of peers and political rivals that the Civil War had utterly upended. That, somehow, was as disquieting as the thought of what ultimately lay in store for him:
Renaud had pointedly not sought protection for himself in the terms of surrender, instead choosing to extract guarantees for his subordinates' safety. At the end of this, most likely on the far end of a lengthy show trial, he can expect a well deserved execution.
Do the family proud, please our emperor, do not disgrace her, come back to her. I'm sorry, Lorelei, he thinks, I don't think I'll manage any part of that.
--
Titan B01,
Large orbital platform around Titan
You've had a shower, gotten a chance to put on a fresh uniform, eaten something — you're not even sure what, precisely, was pushed into your hands after your escape pod was finally retrieved, even if you dutifully consumed it.
Titan B01 is a standard cylinder style colony, one of the largest in orbit around Titan, having escaped major destruction thanks to a near-heroic effort by the Inner Fleet prior to your arrival. You're not in the colony proper yet, however. You're floating in a nook out of the way of the general congestion of the Navy spaceport, along with a cluster of other surviving crewmembers of the lost Titanium Rose. Outside the nook, the broad shafts and numerous airlocks of the spaceport are still an exercise in ordered chaos, uniforms floating in all directions, wounded personnel still being brought in in slowly diminishing numbers.
You float freely on the edge of the group, one hand holding a pouch of COFFEE, 2 CREAM, the other holding your tablet. The screen cracked somewhere along the way and for some reason, that as much as everything is threatening your calm. You're scrolling through a list of names — a preliminary list only, at this early stage. Checking each name you fear to see, acting out of a sort of robotic dread.
Andre, Cpt. Lilian, KIA
That one isn't unexpected, but it's still a blow. You stare at her photo beside the name on your screen for what feels like a long time, those tired, grey eyes looking back at you one last time. Thankfully, mercifully, Gloriana's name is not present, nor are the Rose's other surviving pilots. Nor, on a much shorter list of SRI casualties, is there any entry for Milo Owusu.
You switch to the Imperial Guard's casualty list, and you're immediately a little staggered by how long it is, a seemingly endless series of names including Lady-High-Commander Okello herself. With a sense of dread preceding the actual discovery, you scroll down, until you find the one you're searching for. Her name, such as it is, jumps out amongst the others, beside a characteristically unsmiling ID photo.
Grd 1st Class J6, KIA
"I'm glad for you. I'm glad you talk to me. I'm glad you're..."
"Your friend?"
"Yes. I'm glad for that."
You try to process this. To fully internalise that, along with so many others, your friend, who seems to have deserved a great deal more from life than she got, is never coming back. You close your eyes against a sudden burning you feel there. At least, before the end, you'd told her that much — that she was your friend, that she mattered. Bleakly, you wonder how the princess is taking it.
"Grayson." At the sound of the voice, as First Officer Grayson extricates himself from a hushed conversation to face the speaker, your head instantly snaps up as well. You'd recognise her voice anywhere.
Lori looks as bedraggled and tired as you've ever seen her as she catches herself on a handhold outside the nook. Still wearing her blue and silver pilot's suit, adorned in the crests of her family and her knight order, golden hair lank with sweat, looking like she wants nothing more than to just collapse somewhere. Somehow, floating there alive and intact, she's never looked more beautiful to you.
"I'm glad you made it," Grayson says genuinely, a smile struggling to form on his lips, but only partially succeeding.
"Likewise," Lori agrees. She pauses before adding, delicately, "I heard about the captain."
Grayson stops trying to pretend. His big shoulders slump. "After she'd finally gotten that promotion."
"Battles are seldom fair." Lori says it sadly, not trying to sound condescending. "She was a good officer." She looks at you all, gaze hitching for just a moment as it passes over you. "I'm sure she saw to her peoples' safety ahead of her own." There's a raw, pained subtext to those words, one that you can recognise from your more intimate relationship with Lori. It makes you wish you could go to her here and now, wrap your arms around her, try to make any of this okay.
"She died saving North's life," Grayson agrees, gesturing to you. The words are a painful reminder, and you think that he would not have been quite so blunt about them had he been in a better state of mind himself.
On the positive, it finally gives Lori an excuse to look at you and no one else. "... did she." The icy blue of her eyes seems to warm very slightly as she takes in your face, drinking in your presence. Confirming for herself that you're here in front of her, safe and sound. "Captain Andre died a hero, then."
"She did, ma'am," you agree. There's a general rumble of agreement from the group.
It's only after she leaves that you get the ping on your cracked tablet: An address and room number, and the single, promising line: I'll be waiting.
--
Titan B01,
Main residential cylindre
Sub-Lieutenant Rupert Mazlo feels at least twice his age as he forces himself to rise from his seat on the train car. Outside the train windows, the sight of Titan B01's curved cityscape rises up to either side, meeting overhead beyond the clouds at the centre of the colony. It's a vista that many find surreal, at first, but for Mazlo, it's home. Against all the odds, unlike the nightmares he's had every night since leaving Iapetus, this place has largely escaped damage.
Which is more than can be said for the ship that he's been living and working on for years. Mazlo finds himself reflecting, oddly, on precisely what kind of officer he is. What kind of superior he makes.
He's had North's type before. Good family, good schooling, talented if not as much as she seems to think she is. He's watched them arrive before, then leave and be promoted over him, while he stays where he is, at the same dead end post. No connections or important family to give him a leg up.
... and, truth be told, no particular talent himself to make up for it. How much of his resentment is the genuine unfairness of his situation, and how much of it is that? Certainly, Mazlo isn't the only one in the Navy to whom life has dealt a bad hand. He thinks, unavoidably, of Captain Andre, of the way she lived, and the way she died.
Maybe he'll improve. Maybe he'll be a better superior, to the next one. Maybe. Maybe he's thought all this before. Will the destruction of his ship and the losses they all took be enough to actually make it go beyond that, though?
The train comes to a silent stop, a friendly chime sounding to indicate that it's time to depart. Mazlo automatically rises along with everyone else, the feeling of B01's simulated gravity simultaneously weighing him down and reassuring him that this isn't a dream. Dreams never get that slight, strange bit of disorientation right, when you turn your head too fast inside a cylinder colony. He steps out onto the platform and is almost immediately attacked.
Seeing the small body intent on slamming directly into him, old instincts kick in, and Mazlo bends down to scoop up the delighted, squealing child. All unhappy thoughts are instantly driven from his head.
"Dad! Dad, I wasn't scared at all!" the young boy claims, eyes wide and earnest as he delivers the obvious falsehood.
"You weren't?" Mazlo says, doing his best not to laugh. "That makes one of us."
"He's lying," another voice informs Mazlo. All of nine years old, she is far too mature to engage in the kind of embarrassing behaviour that he brother is displaying. "He cried the whole time."
"I did not!"
"Did too."
Right now, even the bickering is nothing but a pleasant backdrop, and Mazlo simply reaches out his free hand, pulling her in close as well. Her feigned aloofness drops away. "I wasn't sure you'd come back," she admits, in a small voice.
"Well, I did," he promises. His wife stands a little ways away, delighted at the sight of her family, none of the money troubles or small stresses from work that usually plague her face currently there. Mazlo sets their son down, banishing the child's disappointment by putting his officer's cap onto his too-small head, as he crosses the distance to her.
"Welcome home," she says, smiling. She's blinking back tears, and, Mazlo realises, so is he.
"Good to be home," he says, and kisses her.
--
Donovan's is, unofficially, a military bar. There isn't an actual policy against tourists and other assorted civilians, but the regulars — servicepeople and veterans — are not particularly welcoming to them. Despite this, and despite the long, narrow room being packed by bodies in uniform, no one has anything bad to say about the scruffy looking man slumped over the bar.
He tosses back his drink with a morose air, keeping a straight face despite not particularly caring for the combination of cloying sweetness and burning alcohol content, ice clinking unsympathetically against the glass as he sets it back down on the bar. He's in his 40s, ambiguously European and with a build that implies regular trips to a gym, rather than seriously strenuous activity. His civilian clothing is formal but distinctly rumpled, as if he wore it to work and hasn't changed out of it in several days.
A shadow falls over him, and he turns to find a wall wearing a Navy uniform standing beside his barstool. "Hugo Andre?" the wall asks, uncertainly.
Hugo blinks, forcing his eyes to focus until the wall turns into a very large man. Young, black, distinctly solemn. Hugo finds the newcomer's shoulder patch, and at once understands. Or thinks he does.
Ltn. P. Grayson
HIMS Titanium Rose
"... that's me," Hugo says.
Lieutenant Grayson seems to relax slightly at the confirmation that he's tracked down the right drunk. "I served under your wife," he explains.
Hugo tries to match the name 'Grayson' to anything Lilian had said in her last messages. He surprises himself when he succeeds. "Grayson,'' he says, pointing at the name on his uniform. "You're her first officer. Were." He punctuates the self correction by trying to coax a little more numbing alcohol out of the glass, getting only melted ice.
Grayson blinks. "She talked about me?"
"Green around the edges," Hugo begins, "but a hard worker. The crew liked you. So did Lilian. She said you'd be fantastic eventually, probably right by the time they promoted you out from under her."
Grayson considers that. "I'll... take it," he decides. Which is good, because there's no opportunity to improve on the impression from there. Not anymore. Hugo decides not to furnish the young man with any stories of the less favourable impressions some of his predecessors had left on Lilian.
"Sit down." Hugo waves vaguely at the empty stool beside him. He half lifts the drink again, reminding himself that it's empty, and flags down the bartender, raising his voice over the din. "Two more of the same!"
Grayson takes the invitation, maneuvering his impressive bulk onto the stool. He offers a hand. "Pietro Grayson."
"Just call me Hugo." The handshake is surprisingly gentle, considering the size of the hand.
"What exactly am I drinking?" Pietro asks, eyeing the bartender as he mixes up two identical cocktails.
"Rusty nail," Hugo says. "Lilian's favourite." Accepting his own new glass as it's set down beside the empty, he holds it up, the amber concoction glowing pleasantly in the overhead light: "To a good woman."
"To a good woman," Pietro agrees, matching the toast. Then he takes a drink, and his expression is everything Hugo hoped it would be. "What is this?"
"A rusty nail," Hugo repeats. "Honey-Scotch liqueur cut with... more Scotch." He grins, looking at the drink fondly. "I said she was a good woman, I can't vouch for her taste. I mean, she married me."
Pietro laughs, and takes another sip, regardless of what he thinks of the taste.
--
Titan,
Underground
"Your Highness, the Empress is ready to see you."
Daystar smiles gently at the Guardswoman who has come to retrieve her, rising from her seat with a poise trained from girlhood. "Thank you," she says. "Please lead the way."
The young woman nods, trying very hard not to look too overeager. Her obvious pleasure at Princess Daystar's kind tone would have been endearing, another time. It still feels like Daystar's world has gotten just a little bit colder and emptier. She'll heal, with time. She hopes.
The sitting room Daystar had been deposited in is trying valiantly to look plushly appointed — expensive furniture, art on the walls, a false window showing the yellowish desolation of Titan's surface. The colours of House Helios feature prominently. All in the service of making it look anything but what it is: a carefully controlled holding room in a bunker meant to survive orbital bombardment, with a door capable of instantly sealing shut with bone-crushing force and two armed Imperial Guards standing outside. The guards stand respectfully at attention as Daystar passes.
"Have you been the Lord-Deputy-Commander's aide for long?" Daystar asks politely, being led down a hallway that is truly desperate to look imposing and regal. And not at all a carefully designed kill-chute.
"I haven't, your Highness," the Guardswoman admits. "I've had the honour of—"
The conversation proceeds nearly on autopilot. Daystar recognises the Guardswoman dimly — a younger daughter of Duchess Yan, whose family is a potential ally. It's the kind of pleasant, attentive interaction that makes people think back fondly on brief interactions with Daystar, and normally, that's something she enjoys.
Today she's just going through the motions and making the correct noises.
"I am pleased to see you well, my Empress." In the throne room itself, Empress Solana accepts Daystar's solemn bow of the head as her due, but swiftly crosses the gap between them.
"I am well, only due to our brave defenders," Empress Solana says, taking one of Daystar's hands in both of hers. "I am proud beyond words, to have you arrive in person."
"I am honoured by your praise, your Majesty." Daystar gives her aunt a tentative smile. "The true work was done by your skilled admirals and their subordinates, of course. I merely endeavoured not to get in their way."
"... Daystar," Solana says. Her voice is gentle, almost grandmotherly, just then. "We are alone, dear."
"We... are, your Majesty," Daystar agrees, not sure where this is going.
"I understand it must often be like this, for our family," the Empress begins, "but, I am not merely your Empress. I am your aunt, telling you that I'm proud of you. And that your parents would be as well, if they were still with us."
Daystar looks into her bright eyes, different replies turning slowly over in her head. Formal, politick responses. In the end, though, she's so tired. And this is a reprieve. "... thank you for that, Aunt Solana. I'm so sorry for Lady-High-Commander Okello."
Solana nods. "My friend of many years. I miss her greatly already." She peers at Daystar's face, concerned. "I think that I'm not the only one, of the two of us, who has suffered such a loss in this battle."
"... you're not, Aunt Solana," Daystar admits.
Solana nods, guiding Daystar along to a little table that has been set off off to the side. "We'll have some tea, dear," she says, "and you can tell me about it, if you like. Or not. I'm merely happy to see you and hear your voice, just now."
Daystar isn't sure if she will want to talk about Jaycee yet, but the offer is very sweet. "Thank you, Aunt Solana. Tea sounds lovely."
--
Titan B01,
Temporary Naval housing complex
You pause at an intersection of several hallways to lean against a wall and use your tablet's camera to examine how your hair is looking in gravity. This auxiliary habitat — similar to the ones back on Anchiale — is temporary Navy housing, with a little bit of office space tucked into one corner. The gravity is light and floaty compared to B01's main cylinder, but it's still a wonderful change after so long without. Standard Navy tile patterns are on the walls and floor, a little faded and scuffed from heavy use. At least the air scrubbers feel like they've been changed out recently.
You decide that your hair looks fine, even if in general you seem a little unavoidably worn down. You lower the tablet, and immediately jump as you realise there's someone standing in front of you. "North! I was worried."
Your annoyance at being startled is replaced by simple relief that the man in front of you is even alive. "Lieutenant-Commander," you say, saluting, then smiling genuinely. "I was too."
"My ship didn't explode," Owusu says. He's looking better than Lori did, earlier. You have to wonder if he managed to avoid having to do some of the additional duties many of the pilots got pulled into, following the end of the battle. The SRI may have decided they needed him elsewhere. He's dressed in a fresh uniform, the sleeves of his green jacket rolled up past his elbows. His face is its usual slightly cocky unconcern, but you can see a bit of the fatigue everyone is feeling in the set of his shoulders.
"Well, there's that," you admit.
He moves closer, reaching out to grip you by the forearm. "I'm glad you pulled through, North. We can use more people like you."
"Sentimental as always, sir," you say. You can't quite keep your smile down enough to sell your usual deadpan rapport with him.
He has to raise his voice slightly, as a fan kicks in loudly nearly overhead. "You know what I mean, Ensign. Although, I don't expect I'll be calling you that for too much longer."
"Sir?"
He shoots you one of his crooked smiles. "Things are going to be a mess for a good while, but that means that we'll be short-staffed."
"Which 'we'?" you ask, cautious enough to want to be sure.
"Well, everyone," Owusu admits. "We've got a whole mangled fleet of POWs to manage right on our doorstep, on top of everything else. But I meant the SRI specifically. Not just officers to interrogate, North — they'll have scrubbed the data on those ships as best they can before they surrendered, but it won't be perfect. While I can't officially speak for the vetting committee, I can safely say that you have a future in green." Then, before you can fully articulate a response, he adds: "Will you accept, should the offer come?"
You think hard. About everything so far, the career you want for yourself. About Lori, and about J6, and their opinions on the SRI. But haven't you already made this decision, in a real way? By now, you know who you are. "I think I will."
His smile breaks out into an outright grin. "That's what I wanted to hear." He glances down the hallway you're headed for, the one that contains Lori's room. "Show Glory a good time — she needs it, right now."
You give him a level sort of look, uncertain how to take the last remark. "... Thank you, sir," you settle with.
--
The unit is almost startlingly similar to the one you shared with your mother upon first reaching Saturn, but with one larger bed instead of the wall bunks from back then. It's a tight, spartan environment. Larger than what you had back on the Rose, but smaller by far than where Lori was staying back on Anchiale. Which, to be fair, had been a proper apartment, on a station that was much less over capacity than this one.
The door clicks shut behind you almost as soon as she lets you in. Which is good — Lori is wearing a uniform shirt over her underthings, and nothing else. This, combined with hair still damp from the shower, would normally be seductive. At the moment, you're too concerned about the tight, guarded quality to her features. It's just the two of you, but she's holding something back.
You've only just barely taken your shoes off to enter the living space proper, still thinking of what to say first, when she reaches over and pulls you in toward her. You don't resist. "Amani," Lori says, not saying anything else just yet. She seems to want to satisfy herself that you're really there. Her arms go around you as though you'll vanish if she doesn't hold on tight enough.
"I'm fine, Lori," you tell her, resting your head where her neck meets her shoulder. Her hand is in your hair almost protectively, keeping it there.
"You almost weren't."
"I know," you whisper back. "But I'm here now." You're aware that, as good as it feels to be held like this, you're not the one being consoled.
Nonetheless, her skin is still warm from the shower and smells faintly of Navy-issue soap. A scent you associate with the relief of ending a long shift of work — it's startlingly appropriate. After a moment of indulging in this, you force yourself to pull back, making a little space between you, enough to look up into her eyes. "You're not alright, are you?"
She looks back at you silently, and for a moment you worry she won't admit it. Then she gives a sigh you feel more than hear, a barrier coming down. "Every subordinate I left Titan with originally is dead. The ship I was tasked with protecting was destroyed."
You bring your arms up, taking her by the shoulders and guiding her down to sit on the edge of the bed. She doesn't resist. "You fought as hard as you could," you say, coming down beside her. Your hand finds one of hers, fingers intertwining.
"I did," she admits. "They're still all dead."
This time, you're the one who pulls her close, cradling Lori's head in your arms, the taller one, for once. She's surprised for a moment, lean muscle tensing against you — you know from experience that she's considerably stronger than you are. She doesn't try to pull away, though. She relaxes into your embrace, the pace of her breathing slowly matching the rise and fall of your own. Her hair is still damp enough to seep into your uniform, but for the moment, you hardly care.
"Thank you for being here," she whispers. For not dying back there on that doomed ship.
"I had to come back to you, didn't I?" Your voice is quiet, close to her ear.
She hums an acknowledgement, pressing subtly closer against you. Your heart aches for what she's feeling. At the same time, you're so glad that she's letting you in like this. It's long minutes before she speaks again.
"You were right," Lori says.
"About?"
"Kissing you wasn't a mistake."
You raise your eyebrows, a smile flickering onto your lips. "I very much hope you're not just deciding this now."
She shifts in your arms, straightening up a little. She's smiling now, if a little softer than her almost predatory smile often is when she has you alone. "I'm not," she assures you. You feel a surge of pleasure at the return of a little dry humour in her voice. But then, more seriously, she adds: "I'd be happier if you're going to get a desk job, after this."
You make a small, amused sound. "And I suppose you're going to apply to be moved to a staff position, Countess?"
She scoffs at that. "Not my skill set. Not my temperament. Although... a post at a station wouldn't be the worst thing in the world." Like your mother. You wonder if Lori is up for promotion anytime soon... although, considering recent events, that timetable is likely to be moved up for a great many people. "Besides," she adds, breaking your reflection, "I don't have Milo sniffing around, trying to poach me from the Navy."
"He says hello," you offer, a little sheepishly. "I saw him on the way here. He... guessed where I was headed."
Lori gives an exasperated sigh. "He gets to nose around in my lovelife when he's willing to see the same man more than once before moving on to the next." You elect not to mention the information you have pertaining to that. "You're changing the subject, though," Lori accuses.
She has you there. "He has... implied the opportunity," you admit. "Nothing specific, but it would apparently be a promotion."
"SRI janitor would be a promotion over Navy ensign, Amani."
Ouch. Although, hyperbole aside, she has a point. "Didn't you say that it's always a bad idea to get involved with the SRI?" you ask, adding a bit of teasing emphasis on the word 'involved'. "I think being in bed with one would count, don't you?"
She moves abruptly, pouncing you down to the mattress fast enough that it bounces beneath you. Somehow, you've gone from holding her to being pinned down by your wrists, her looking down at you with a mock-annoyed expression. "I'll make an exception for the particularly cute operatives," she says. Then she's kissing you hard enough to drive other thoughts from your mind.
Even in the face of everything that's happened, and everything that might happen still, things can be good.
Last edited:
cB557
voOOP
After everything, it's kinda life affirming that the hero of the story is still able to get a happy ending.
- Location
- Ohio
I'll take it.
I'll take it.
Oh man I'll take it. That was.....cathartic.
We/they worked and bleed for it, but in that end, we were the good guys, and we earned as happy a ending as could be expected.
- Location
- Florida
Mazlo with his family was absolutely beautiful. Honestly my favorite section.
- Location
- California
I can honestly say, this was a rather perfect ending. Thanks for the words these last years, and sorry for the negativity that I brought.
UrsaTempest
Don't Panic!
Mm. A nice read. Thanks~
Itssss ooovvveerrrr
.....whats next?
Thanks for writing this epic
.....whats next?
Thanks for writing this epic
- Location
- Aotearoa
Lovely suite of codas, and a warm finale to a very well written, engaging and emotional (in many senses) story.
My thanks.
My thanks.
Whiskey Golf
Being of Editing & Technical Assistance
- Location
- Chained to my desk
You're making me feel things, Gaz. Now I need to dry out my car, it kinda rained in here.
Hugs for everyone who survived.
Hugs for everyone who survived.
Omegahugger
Inattentive Idiot
Heh, it's a bit weird that we are actually at the end here.
Sometimes you forget that Quests actually can have an ending instead of just suddenly dying.
... Think she can get a hug in the afterlife?
Also young lady, your brother was clearly not crying out of fear, but rather out of empathy for the enemy soldiers who had to face the dread Mazlo in combat. There is no other explanation, and if anyone says different they are lying liars with no proof.
Also, I think Mazlo is the only character who got all the hugs they needed, despite us not voting to actually hug him previously.
And Amani gets to serve under him too, what joyous occasion!.. Not entirely worth the civil invasion with thousands of casualties that it took to get this promotion, but at least we got something good out of it.
... Something good besides a girlfriend and our sister back, Amani has been surprisingly lucky this past while.
... Wait, is that why we never got to see the boyfriend? Because they're gonna break up anyways and you avoid shippers angry at sunken ships by not giving them anything to hold on to? Because if that's the case, then it's absolutely working...
Sometimes you forget that Quests actually can have an ending instead of just suddenly dying.
Yes! The certified best boy is not officially dead yet!
J6 did deserve oh so much more than she got.
... Think she can get a hug in the afterlife?
YES! Certified second best boy is reunited with his family! This is good, this is exactly the sort of scene we've all bled and died for.
Also young lady, your brother was clearly not crying out of fear, but rather out of empathy for the enemy soldiers who had to face the dread Mazlo in combat. There is no other explanation, and if anyone says different they are lying liars with no proof.
Also, I think Mazlo is the only character who got all the hugs they needed, despite us not voting to actually hug him previously.
See? A vital hug defficiancy right here.
OWUSU MY MAN IT IS SO GOOD TO SEE YOU! YOU STAYED ALIVE DESPITE MY PARANOIA!
And Amani gets to serve under him too, what joyous occasion!.. Not entirely worth the civil invasion with thousands of casualties that it took to get this promotion, but at least we got something good out of it.
... Something good besides a girlfriend and our sister back, Amani has been surprisingly lucky this past while.
See, he even functions as a great wingman when neccesary! Owusu truly is the universal solution of the Empire.
... Yeah, Lori needs a break. I am not sure what the general rule is for military personnel and leaves and whatnot, but oh how I hope she gets a good long vacation.
Please don't, Lori. Don't give me that information. I am a shipper of the worst kind, nothing good can come from me hearing this. I can feel my goggles incorporating new info already, please send help.
... Wait, is that why we never got to see the boyfriend? Because they're gonna break up anyways and you avoid shippers angry at sunken ships by not giving them anything to hold on to? Because if that's the case, then it's absolutely working...
cB557
voOOP
Y'know, I don't recall any other readers mentioning it, but Grayson has always been low-key a pretty cool dude whenever he shows up, huh?
