Writing: This Isn't Anarchy

    So I'm kind of developing a new story. I have no idea how far it's going to last, but it's doing a lot better than the majority of other little spurts of inspiration I get on occasion. Which I am taking to be a good sign.

    The title is a work-in-progress. They say writing a book is the hardest part of being an author, but titling has to be right up there too. It's hard.


There’s always the brave, reckless few who fight the order, and refuse to take their fate lying down. Who hope instead of accepting defeat.

The Essche family is among the Elect, the elites of the Sagittarian Cluster, owning one of many transcontinental mining enterprises that turn whole planets into forms of endless capital. The process displaces millions, whose only choice to survive is to accept the positions offered them by the same companies that took everything—low wages, poor conditions, crowded communities.

It’s been happening for generations, with no sign of the cycle ceasing.

Adaline Essche, the second daughter and heir, born with the genetic coding her sister lacked, grew up with her every whim fulfilled—while being trained to take on her father’s business. Natalia Essche, first of Hannady Essche’s two daughters, left. She vanished three years prior and the feeble attempt to find her was unsuccessful.

There’s a star-map leading to the unknown and an insurrection publicized as chaos.

This isn’t anarchy. It’s revolution.


    It's still rough around the edges (mostly rough around the edges), but my cast of characters have some good footing, I'm actually contemplating in coherent thought what the theme will be, and the MC is a challenging sort of different from the average personality of the rest of my main characters. Though her sister is a bit more what I'm used to and will probably flow a lot more easily. 

    Leave a thought, yeah? My Tumblr audience was a typical Tumblr audience and left me hanging on feedback. 

    And sorry I haven't been very active. Let's just chalk it up to a busy, busy, busy month. Busy. Really busy. You get the gist.

    Thanks for sticking around!

    Ad astra per aspera.
    To the stars, through difficulties.

Writing: Sarris + "bringing her home"

    It is not June yet, okay? I'm still ahead of the deadline. This is going to be a lame post, but it's a post and it counts, okay? I also might have to go to work in forty minutes and have to eat, do my hair, brush my teeth, and finish getting my snack together. Short post.

    Long story short, I'm in Alaska (again), I'm working 1-8pm, five days a week, our internet is not in our house yet, and I've been reading a lot of books.

    Yeah. That's about it. It's been a busy few months of travel. Once again.

    My writing scribbles have meandered all over story ideas, but I liked this scrawl best that I did over this last week. Hopefully you guys do too.

    Original storyline, just by the way. Since it's so confusing with the four some different storylines and I get turned around every once in a while as well.


    Sarris found herself wide awake despite not having slept in almost two days. The starliner thrummed around her, as soothing and constant as the sleepy warmth pressed to her front.
    It felt like events had not stopped slipping past faster than she could almost comprehend. Two days ago she had been returning home to an empty apartment and an aching pain in the wake of visiting Tara—again.
     Now she glanced down and wondered that the past forty-eight hours weren’t anything more than a dream. That she would wake up in an empty bed, reaching for the only constant in her life, only to find him gone.
    Downy blond curls were stark against the gray of Sarris’ uniform jacket, softening the military edge in a way no smile could. Quiet breaths left the child in her arms as she slumbered.
    At six months old, Ruusan was just beginning to take an interest in the world, and was sleeping through the night on a somewhat regular basis. Not that it would’ve made a difference.
    The Warrior had been struck by the vivid blue of her eyes from that first moment on the side of the road after dragging the crying child from the burning wreck of her parents’ streamer.
    Letting her head settle back, Sarris stared at the illume casting faint light over the rows of seats, the low setting telling that their destination, Sinjaro Kahn, was in the late hours of night. Sleeping now would be in the passengers’ best interest.
    She hadn’t commed Novarr any details beyond asking him to meet her at home tomorrow, or the earliest he could get away from his current job.
    This wasn’t something she would be able to talk about, could make a decision about, without being able to see him, to grip his hands with hers and see the truth of his own choice in his eyes.
     Ruusan could and would change everything. Already had. Even if they didn’t keep her, even if they committed her as a ward of the bureau on Norsha’ac, Sarris knew there would be no going back now. Not after memorizing the weight of the child in her arms, the pitch of her cry, the gentle scent that clung to her hair and skin after a bath.
    It was burned into her mind as deep as Gogam, as her time with the Force, as the people who meant everything to her.
    No, there was no return from here. And Sarris didn’t care, as she laced her fingers together over Ruusan’s back, her eyes closing. She knew that she wouldn’t get much rest, but it was worth it to at least try. There was no telling when Ruusan would awaken. Or what the next few days would hold, for that matter. She would need every moment of respite she could manage.

    //

    Sarris knew that the only thing Novarr would read on her face and in her eyes would be strain, so she grabbed his hands, hoping the contact would help him understand.
    “You’re really starting to freak me out here, Sar,” his voice was strained, brows at an odd angle as he attempted to keep at least a hint of a smile on his features. His fingers were tight around hers with rising tension.
    The words stuck in her throat, as easy as they should’ve been, but she didn’t know what to say anymore.
    Staring into the concern in his gaze, the Warrior struggled. She didn’t do well conversing even within normal parameters, let alone when it came to an issue of this magnitude.
    “Her name is Ruusan,” Sarris murmured at last. Her name almost got stuck, came out as a whisper. “She’s six months old, Norsha’acite, and her parents are both dead. Killed in a streamer accident.”
    Novarr was uncomprehending, a frown crowding out his failing attempt at a smile, and he rubbed agitated circles around her knuckles with his thumbs. “What about her, Sar? I need details here, babe.”
    “Next of kin waived their claim, she was going straight to a bureau-operated home, Novarr.” Sarris was unfamiliar with the desperation crawling beneath her skin. It was wishful, devastating, craving, unthinkable, nothing like she’d ever known.
    Her hunter, her Novarr, waited, knowing to give her time, to allow her to work past her barriers and speak, perhaps already thinking he knew where this was going.
    “I—“ Sarris paused, closed her eyes. “She’s here. I brought her home with me. She’s asleep in our bed right now.”
   It might have been amusing in any other situation, with any other circumstances. Novarr stopped functioning, frozen, staring at Sarris.
    She let him process, her attention on their conversation, but every sense tuned to the small noises of their apartment. Waiting for that familiar cry to come.
    It would be weeks before her usual sleeping schedule returned. Before her senses dulled again from razor sharp awareness, at a level she hadn’t seen in years.
    Since her first years off Gogam, struggling with the blood that had soaked her.
    “We… have a baby?” Novarr’s dawning comprehension made warmth spread through Sarris’ fingertips.
    Drawing in a breath, she explained in low tones, “If that’s what we want. I have temporary custody because of my dual status as a Warrior that’s acknowledged by both Kahn and Uhric. It allows some space to maneuver legally.” Away from the emotion of the situation, her tongue loosened, thoughts flowing with more ease.
    Not that it made a difference what she said now. Novarr wasn’t attending again, just smiling, a goofy expression she didn’t see on him often. His good humor was usually more focused, not an uncontrolled reaction like now.
    “Her name is Ruusan?” He checked, squeezing her hands at odd intervals.
    Sarris blinked at him. Nodded once. “Yes. Ruusan Armstrong.”
    “And her family doesn’t want her?”
    “No.” That was the part of this she couldn’t understand. How Ruusan’s grandparents had walked into that security station where Sarris had waited with their granddaughter, and had turned their backs on her. Had signed all the forms to give up their rights without looking at her twice.
    It had made her burn with anger. That they were so willing, so eager, to be rid of Ruusan. Of her blue eyes and golden curls, her sweet giggles and priceless babbling.


    Short but sweet, I hope. Unfinished, as with all my projects. But it hit me during church last week and I ran with it. This is a phase of their lives I never really got around to writing out, just put a mental marker in with an idea of events and moved on to bigger fish.

    Baby Ruu is so. adorable. Just so you know. One of those babies that makes you think, "I wouldn't mind having kids after all" because she's just precious and a sweetheart and. Yeah.

    I've gotta run now.

    Thoughts?

    Ad astra per aspera.
    To the stars, through difficulties.

Writing: Jade + "isn't this illegal?"

    Hey, look who actually has something to post. It's from several weeks ago, granted, but at least it's something.

    You have no idea how long I agonized over that fight scene. And how many martial arts gifs I looked at on Pinterest, trying to figure out what moves to have Jade pull. And then how on earth to write said moves. So I'm sorry if it's ultra wonky and weirdly paced. I'm just thankful that I got it down.

   Um. Yeah. Writing has been slow. I did scribble a little something in the car, but it's disjointed. The writing ability has dulled again and it's hard to kick it back in gear. Le sigh.

    But this is deviant verse, post the Ruusan kidnapping arc. Jade showing off her mad skillz and being weird. As normal. And Charles being awesome.

    Someone remind me to hit the ground running with Dax/whatever I'm going to name him and (oh, what about Dackson?) start writing something for him. 

    Charles stepped into the warehouse after the sentry let him through with only a small monetary donation and a mention of his good friend Jade. He was pretty sure the guard had shown some approval in response to her name and had to wonder what Jade had gotten herself into this time.
    The action was happening several hundred feet away once he stepped through the heavy, metal door but it was still like being hit in the face with a tidal wave of voices, noise, and blinding white light.
    The contact had to stop and regain his bearings, adjusting to the extreme light variance and then trying to decide just what he was looking at. A rather large group of people stood in a frenzied cluster around the main attraction of the night, and even though what that was was out of his vision for the moment, but it wasn't difficult to draw conclusions. Dead of night, out of the way location, guardsmen starting several miles out, and now, high-powered lighting on an activity that was being betted on. Charles didn't frequent illegal fighting rings, but the few he had stopped in at had been very similar to this.
    And it had to be a human versus human fight, because there was no equipment for dogs or any other creature hanging around in the fringes of the warehouse, plus the fact that Jade would have no purpose at any of those sort of places.
    It was nicer than some he’d been to—at least it was in a warehouse, and not an hour out of the city in a barn with nothing but hales of bay and outdated lamps to light the space.
    But still.
    He sighed and stuffed his hands into his pockets. She was going to be right in the middle of the crowd, probably one of the fighters. Which was news to him, as this had never come up in the nonexistent “Jade Digest” as a pastime of hers, but neither was Charles surprised. 
    There was no way he could condone this habit, but she was more than capable of participating in and surviving any sort of unlawful fights she could buy her way into, seeing as her day job was made up of many similar components. Plus, she was a big girl. She could make her own choices.
    Resigning himself to his fate, he started making his way around the crowd in a subtle manner in an attempt to find a break in the mass that he could see through to spot his longtime friend.
    Jade, Jade, Jade, you well accomplished, but possibly over confident, oddball. Only you would come to one of these places for fun.
    Keen eyes surveyed the feverish audience, looking for a break in the wall of bodies.
    Finally.
    There was a small gap that he headed towards, preparing himself for the crush of people. Nothing put him out of his comfort zone like being surrounded by bigger, burlier men who were out to enjoy a blood sport and who could crush someone like him just by not looking where they were stepping.
    Putting his skills to work—Charles had not spent half his life learning to be unnoticeable and honing the ability to slip through a crowd with ease to let them go to waste now—he eased his way towards the front, ears ringing.
    The combined voices of the spectators was a fearsome thing. He could scarce tell one shout from another, but could make out the difference in tones, knowing who was cheering and who was jeering. One man Charles ducked under the arm of hurled a vitriol string of curses, no doubt being on the losing end of a considerably large bet.
    Charles took a quick step back before another of the onlookers could clip him in the chin and put him out of commission for the rest of the fight, before he’d even laid eyes on his goal.
    Jade owed him for this. So owed him for this.
    The things I do for you, dearest.
    With one final movement, in which he sidestepped and tucked himself through a narrow gap between two more shouting observers of the fight, the contact found himself a mere two feet from the ring. It was cordoned off by pulsing blue cords, which, by the look of them, would deliver a stinging bite to whoever touched it, keeping the brawlers in and the spectators well away.
    Hazel eyes travelling, the next thing that caught his attention was the blood. It was splattered at odd angles across the cement floor, some of it smeared by what looked to be footprints, other portions untouched. But all pointed to a brutal fight.
    Initial assessment complete, Charles flicked his gaze to the two competitors, anxiety already tightening in his chest. The larger of the two fighters was everything he expected in a place like this—nothing but pure muscle and a face that could make his mother cry—and the other… 
    The brute turned his stance, following his opponent as the slight woman with a swipe of red across one cheek and a shadow of purple forming on the curve of her jaw took quick steps away from him.
    Apprehension swelled in Charles’ chest unbidden. He knew she could handle herself, had seen her do it, but that knowledge wasn’t helping.
    Jade dropped to sweep out with one leg, avoiding a heavy blow aimed for the side of her head by a narrow margin. She caught her adversary’s right leg behind her calf and yanked, misbalancing her opponent with the motion. He tottered and Jade was on him in a heartbeat, dark eyes intent and without a hint of pain as she went in to try and finish the fight. 
    Hair clinging to the back of her neck swung free with her violent surge of movement, lunging upwards from the ground, pressing her advantage. One arm came up hard to catch him in the solar plexus, the other in a firm defensive  position in case he caught his wits again before she expected it. Everyone in the crowd let out a low breath when the man expelled all the air in his lungs at the force of Jaydn’s wallop, his eyes bulging in his head.
    Charles had to force his hands to unclench, already tense after even the few brief moments he’d been standing there. Trying to tell himself that Jade is a grown woman who knows what she’s doing did nothing for him. He’d known her since she was nothing more than a gangly teen who distrusted the universe from day one in it and the last fifteen years of growing up didn’t make a lick of a different right then.
    She followed up her winding blow with an elbow strike to the jaw, form closed and tight, leaving no space for a mistake and yet with the fluid ease that came with years of training and hard-earned experience. The man’s head snapped to the side and he staggered away, making a feeble attempt to swing at Jade.
    The crowd’s roar spiked as they tried to urge him on—Charles had no illusions that there would be only a few betters to walk away with a fat wallet that night. Jade had the appearance of an underdog. She didn’t get bet on, didn’t get chosen first, because she didn’t come off as deadly or even intimidating, like the rest of her family did. Not unless she was aiming for it.
    As the contact watched, Jaydn danced out of reach, bare feet sliding across pocked concrete, and Charles was struck by the gracefulness of the movement. It was so unlike her usual fighting style, the one her whole family utilized. They fought like Gogamians; hitting hard, not aiming to draw the clash out, finishing the skirmish with as little effort as possible. This was an art unto itself, the type people made a legal, professional living off of.
    He had to wonder if any of these beefy onlookers had any idea about the show they were witnessing.
    Her opponent—a man to Charles’ left shouted move your feet, Thrace—lurched after her, regaining himself as he bellowed in anger, red in the face from exertion. They crossed the small area of the ring, Jade always just out of reach, light and easy, never taking a lifted step, sliding instead. Always grounded, always ready to dig in.
    Charles’ lungs felt like they’d contracted to half their size when his longtime friend neared the ring’s border. She skirted the edge of thrumming cordon, passing just feet from where he stood, unfazed by the painful burn that awaited a hair’s breadth from her skin. 
    Thrace followed, blinded by his rage, intent only on trying to land a blow. The fight would degenerate to the level of bar brawl if he got his hands on Jade, and judging by the spike in fervor, the audience knew it. Some jeered, others goaded on the lumbering man. Charles kept his hands deep in his pockets, silent, tracking every quick moment, trying to determine what Jade’s next play would be.     
    She was toying with Thrace, that much was obvious. Letting him get close enough to feel confident about taking a swing, then moving out of range in the next breath. Linger, retreat. Linger, retreat.
    Shifting from one foot to the other, he contemplated bailing to wait elsewhere until Jade had finished, because there was no way this could be good for his blood pressure. Illegal fighting rings weren’t places he frequented for a reason.
    The dance continued for what felt like an eternity. A quiet began to fall over the onlookers as they waited with baited breath for the final move, Charles among them. It was only a matter of time now, and they all knew it.
    One beat.
    Two beats.
    The panting breaths of the two fighters as they circled. Thrace had caught onto her game and had stopped falling for Jaydn’s baiting.
    Dark eyes glinted. Charles had a sudden vision of a cat on the verge of pouncing.
    He wasn’t far off.
    Jade took a half step back, then reversed direction and surged forward, towards Thrace, crossing the span between them in a matter of heartbeats. On her last stride, she pushed off with her back foot, kicking out with the same limb and using the momentum to scale Thrace, toes driving into the space where his thigh met his hip and give herself the foundation she needed to get to his shoulders. Hands gripping his head, digging into his hair, Jade swung herself up and around so she could lock her legs around his neck, still utilizing that forward impetus to jerk Thrace off balance. One more hard twist of her body, throwing her upper torso out to the side and they both went down, hard.
    Charles didn’t want to imagine the expanse of bruising Jade would be facing in a handful of hours, flinching as the duo went crashing to the concrete floor, Jaydn’s hip and shoulder taking the brunt of her impact.
    It didn’t disconcert the woman, though. Jade’s head came up in the moments after she and Thrace went sprawling, watching as his face reddened, then purpled, as the effect of her chokehold took hold. He made a paltry attempt to struggle, his unimpeded arm flailing out, but it was a doomed effort from the start.
    Counting down the seconds—five, four, three, two, one—Charles braced for the swell of noise as Thrace’s eyes rolled back into his head, unconsciousness taking him and declaring Jaydn the winner of the fight.
    The cacophony of voices rose and peaked. Bets would be collected and the loser dragged from the ring to be brought back around. Within the safety of the cordon, Jade rolled to her feet, fingers going to push back loose strands of her hair, a poorly repressed smile tugging at her mouth.
    She sought Charles out with her gaze, quirking a brow once she’d made eye contact, as if to ask what’d you think?
    His only response was an exasperated shake of his head, before he started to shift through the crowd to where he could see the supervisor of the fight was keying in the code to take down the electrified partition. Jade headed that way as well, stepping over Thrace, out cold, as she went. 
    “Some fight, champ,” the supervisor was saying as Charles reached him, lifting the deactivated fibrous cord that kept the fight separate from the crowd for her. 
    Jaydn ducked low to slip between the two upper cables, coming upright on the other side with a grin. “You did a good job by picking Thrace, Kashi. That wasn’t an easy win.” Her dark gaze flicked to Charles, smile widening further. “Hey, old man. Come out to see the show?”
    “Work, I’m afraid,” the contact responded, stepping in closer when someone whacked him in the shoulder with an elbow. Ignoring the spike of pain, he took a quick inventory of Jade’s injuries. 
    It was far easier to see the extent of the damage from her tussle when up close; the bloody nose, bruised jaw, and hair plastered to her forehead and neck from sweat. Nothing that wouldn’t wash away or heal. Her attention was already back on the third member of their trio, however.
    Kashi, the short, stocky enabler of the brutal display, slapped Jade on the back and used the placement of his hand to urge her into motion, good humor clear on craggy features. “Come on, Vance. I’ve got your stuff in the corner and your cut of the winnings, then you can head out.”
    A small jerk of her head told Charles to trail them as Kashi led the way through the crowd. Insults were thrown as often as, if not more than, compliments from the milling spectators. Thrace must’ve been something of a legend to this crowd, because having a woman bring him down wasn’t going over well.
    The sooner they got out of here, the better.
    It was darker in the corner of the warehouse, away from the temporary spotlights that had been installed in the rafters for tonight. No one made to follow them, though, and that put Charles more at ease. 
    “There you are. Safe, as promised,” Kashi announced, gesturing to a small pile of clothing and a bag on the ground.
    Jade nodded, going to snag a pair of slacks and shimmy into them, pulling them up over the capris she’d fought in. While Charles averted his gaze, the other man felt no such consideration, watching her disappearing curves with undisguised appreciation.
    “I assume you have my cut of the winnings?” The hunter prompted, and there was mild warning in her voice, enough that Kashi was quick to look to the side.
    “Yes. There’s the expected fee for, ah—“
    “Take whatever cut you usually do, Kashi. I’m not planning on coming again.”
    The snort was hard to stifle. Jade was in the midst of pulling on a loose shirt and couldn’t see the despairing look that crossed the fight supervisor’s face. He would lose a lot of potential money by her not coming back.
    Kashi was smart enough to know better than to argue, though. With a heavy breath, he conceded, “You got it. I’ll meet you by the exit.”
    There was a mumbled affirmation in Gogamian as Jade pulled her hair out from its tie to shake it out.

//

    He didn’t speak until they’d left the warehouse and its inhabitants far behind. “So. Illegal fighting. Interesting pastime.”
    Jade took in a deep breath, hands in the pockets of her pants and head thrown back to take in the night air. “I don’t know how to explain it, Charles. Fighting gets my pulse racing in a way it doesn’t when I’m working. It—I guess that it drives away the demons for a little while."
    Charles could've sworn that the moon illuminated a smile that pulled at her features—and a true smile. Not just a quirk of the lips. He had to remind himself to keep pace with the hunter. It’d been a long time since he’d seen that smile. Months, if not years.
    "I get in that ring and there's nothing else but me and my opponent, Charles. I'm not tracking my siblings' positions. I'm not assessing possible threats. I'm not building a veritable library of criminals in my head. I can narrow in, block everything else out. There isn't time to think. I take a breath, and he’s coming at me again. Then the crowds are drowning out all the noise and the lights make it hard to see and he comes at me again and again until one of us goes down." Passion lent a foreign vibrancy to Jade's voice, bringing her words to life and transporting the contact back to the scene he'd witnessed to twenty minutes prior.
   Charles had to resist the urge to sigh. "You certainly have a knack for unusual pastimes, my love."
    Jade did snort, casting a smirk at him over her shoulder before she wiped blood from her nose with the back of her hand. "I can smell the disapproval on you."
    The contact raised his palms in a gesture of innocence. "I said no such thing."
    "Didn't have to." She spat off to the side to get blood out of her mouth, making a face. Which she really didn't need to because she already was a sight to be seen with the bruises already forming, visible even in the poor light.
    "Now I remember why you aren't the one who works cons," Charles commented, dry humor overtaking his tone as he ambled along at Jade's side.
    Something akin to a laugh bubbled out of her. "Is that a subtle way of telling me that my manner could be seen as offensive in some circles?"
    His grin was nothing short of cheeky. "Possibly."
    "I hate acting anyways, so it all works out well in the end. But shak, that was a serious work out. I may actually be sore tomorrow." Jade crossed her arm over her collarbone, using the other to stretch out the toned muscles in her limb.
    "Was that a subtle brag, Jaydn Vhander?" Charles didn't have to reach far for false outrage, but he did have to fight to maintain a suitable expression. After all, he had seen her bring down Thrace. If she’d been serious about the fight instead of out just to relieve stress, it would’ve been over long before he’d gotten there. 
    "Charles, please. You know that I am above bragging. We both are aware of the fact that my skills far outweigh most opponents I am faced with. I have no reason to brag when one well-placed punch can do it for me." Despite her mostly factual tone, there was a saucy sway to Jade's hips and a tilt to her lips that betrayed her.
    Grinning, he smacked her in the ribs, feeling no sympathy when she flinched at the light blow and strolled past while the hunter paused to catch her breath before jogging to overtake him again. "You have a ride, I assume?"
    Elbowing him in one quick strike and then throwing her shoulder into his to push him off balance, Jade jogged a few steps to be out of retaliation range before responding, "Of course. Half an hour walk away, at that privatized pad on the edge of Upper Westside's jurisdiction."
    Holding his side—Jaydn didn't know the meaning of playful jab and never really had, when he thought about it—Charles nodded, even if she couldn't see it. He wasn't going to ask where she’d gotten permission to touch down at a private landing pad. They all had those connections that made their lives easier. "That works. We can talk shop and then I can get a ride in to the spaceport from there."
    There was a grin on her voice when she shot back over her shoulder, her high ponytail swinging with the motion, "You up for a run, old man? I don't look this good because I walk everywhere."
    "Impudent brat. I'll meet you there. Take the long way around and maintain your amazing physique even better." Charles had to shake his head, partly because of exasperation but more in amusement.


    As always, thoughts, comments, or critiques are always welcome. I love feedback or just chatting. Both is good.

    Ad astra per aspera.
    To the stars, through difficulty.

Writing: Anomaly, Not Prodigy + "too close."

    Well, first, I'm not dead, contrary to popular belief. Even if I kind of feel like it with this headache.

    Second, look who's actually fulfilling that self-imposed requirement of one post a month, at the very least.

    Not that it's anything all that new, but it was written in the last six months and I kind of like it, so it counts.

    Life is crazy, my family has turned nomadic again, and writing has been minimal between college work and finishing an intense television show. That's a basic summary of my recent life.

    Now onto this latest peek into Jaz's life. Shall we?


    Jaz stood at her sink with the heavy-duty hand soap at her elbow, aware of her two returned teammates behind her but more focused on the grisly task at hand.
    Blood cleaned off her skin in watery, red waves, splashing against the silver basin of her kitchen sink and dribbling back down the sides to rinse down the drain. In just her skintight tank-top that she wore as a third layer beneath her uniform, the rest having been left on the floor of her kitchen, staining the tiles a darker shade of maroon, the smeared red was visible up past her elbows.
    The silence was weighty.
    They’d ambushed her on her way home from delivering her mission report to her superiors. Zach and Daniel, their faces long-stripped of the baby fat of youth and grown to their full, towering height, come home at last.
    Too bad she’d long moved on.
    Jasmine wanted to feel cynical but found that she could feel nothing at all. Her body was numb. She worked in silence, movements mechanical. Kano would be fine but her heart had still iced within her.
    The captain knew what was going on behind her. They would be exchanging long looks in the absence of her attention, having perfected the understanding of each other during their five years away.
    One arm scrubbed raw, she transferred to the other, the grainy soap biting into her tender skin as Jaz cleansed herself of her teammate’s blood without mercy.
    Too close.
    It had been too close.
    She never should’ve taken those two on. 
    It was too soon after Mio and Levi. They still haunted her, appearing when she was weakest, screaming in her dreams and smiling in the sunlight. 
    Kano and Shun helped but not enough—nothing would ever be enough. Not when it came to getting that sadistic smirk out of her mind, to getting that pooling blood out of her hair. 
    A weight settled on her shoulder and Jasmine reacted.
    Not even pausing to draw in a breath, she rammed her elbow backwards to where she could feel him standing, twisting aside, water splattering with every fast motion. Jade-green eyes were lifeless as she grabbed the nearest makeshift weapon—she should never have taken off her chōkuto—and gripped the dull blade in her wet hand, already calculating how to maximize its potential when—
    Zach flickered a breath away from her, wrenching the knife away and throwing it against the wall with a harsh utterance of, ”Snap out of it, Jaz.”
    The counter bit into the small of her back. Chest rising with normal breaths despite her exertion, Jaz went still, staring up at him, trying to see the boy in this man before her and failing.
    His slate-grey eyes only relaxed, tense frame winding down again, when she nodded once, a sharp movement.
    They both turned their heads to look at Dan, where he was still reeling from the suddenness of her blow to his solar plexus, one hand extended to support himself with a nearby counter.
    The faucet in the sink continued to let out a steady stream of water, waiting for someone to interrupt its pattern.
    Jaz felt no remorse for her actions, reaching out to shove Zach away from herself before returning to continue getting the blood off of her arms.
    “Sorry,” Dan wheezed, breaking the quiet. Jaz felt his apologetic gaze more than saw it. “I shouldn’t have snuck up on you like that. Looks like you’ve had a really rough day of it.”
    There was no forthcoming response from the Primary Elite as she finished at the sink, skin chafed and burning but devoid of the maroon life-force that had rocked her so badly. Jaz flicked excess water from the tips of her fingers as she moved to dig in her cupboard for an oft-ignored bottle of rum, one that had taken up residence in her kitchen shortly after returning from hell.
    It was still a quarter full. It’d be enough for tonight.
    “Jaz?” Dan again, hesitant, uncertain of how to proceed.
    She wasn’t surprised. Not quite the homecoming he’d been expecting. But she would be grateful to Zach in the morning, for keeping him intact while they had been away.
    For now, the glass she found clattered on the countertop and the rum sloshed over the side, wetting her fingers, as Jaz poured herself a generous portion. 
    Realizing that she’d given no response to Dan, despite the numbness in her body, the exhaustion threatening to drop her as soon as the alcohol swirled in her bloodstream and her near-painful degree of tension was forgotten for a few hours, Jaz turned to face them after ten minutes of ignoring their existence.
    Daniel had cropped his hair short, but there were still small curls all over his scalp, impossible to escape. Green eyes were older than she remembered, but then, weren’t they all? His counterpart, two inches taller and annoyingly keen in his gaze, had retreated to lean against the opposite counter, watching her.
    Jaz let the rum wash over her tongue, feeling it burn down her throat and kindle embers in her gut, warming her being from the inside out. “I apologize,” she articulated, voice rough with lack of recent use, but dispassionate. Blank. “My team ran into trouble while out.”
    Trouble being a band of seven mercenaries, fast and trained in the art of battle against the Special Forces of Busan. 
    “I’m sorry,” the more compassionate of the duo uttered, true feeling in the regretful twist of his mouth.
    Jaz felt nothing. Her rum scorched its way down her esophagus. She swirled the half-full glass with a drying hand, watching the rich, amber liquid churn with the simple motion. “We’re fine.” 
    We’re was an easier lie to say that I’m.
    Lifted head, level gaze. “What did you two need?” Jaz intoned, knowing she had fifteen minutes before it was lights out whether she liked it or not and she had every intention of embracing unconsciousness when it graced her.
    It was Zach who shifted to draw her attention, responding in his usual, reserved manner. “We hadn’t seen you since we got back and had thought now might be a good time, which was a mistaken assumption.”
    “You’re correct.” Jaz wasn’t one to beat around the bush, even less so now. 
    Visiting hours at the hospital would start at ten am, but a black uniform and an imposing presence would get her in at seven to see her teammate.
    “We can head out, Jaz,” Daniel dropped back into the conversation, brows knitted together in consternation.
    Her gaze settled on him for a moment before refocusing on her booze. “Do that. I need to sleep.”
    Sleep, think, decide. Get up, find paperwork, check up on her hospitalized teammate.
    The list felt like it wouldn’t end because of the emotion that it would involve.
    She didn’t deserve them. And they had done nothing to have her brought down on their heads.
    A quiet scrape of shoes on tile pulled Jaz from her thoughts, head coming up again. Dan held out his hand in a silent request for her hand. It struck her as odd. He’d always been the hugger of the three of them. Why change that now?
    Ah, yes.
    She’d knocked the wind out of him and had been ready to go after him with a dull butter knife last time he’d initiated touch between them. This was his safer option, apparently.
    Switching her glass to her left hand, Jaz complied, pressing her cold fingers into the warm roughness of her childhood teammate’s. Dan clasped her slender hand between the both of his, hold strong and secure. His smile was still a bit dimmed in the face of her disinterest in their reappearance, but no less genuine.
    “We can catch up another time. Tell your teammate to get healed up soon, alright? And you really should go to bed as soon as we leave. You look ready to drop.” His instructions were well-intentioned but still got no strong response out of her.
    Jaz inclined her head after a moment, if only to appease him. Ever the tactful one, Daniel Becker.
    Dan grinned. “Good. Shall we go then, Zach?”
    That man shrugged once, watchful but not offering any opposition.
    Some things may have changed, but it seemed that other things would stay the same for the rest of the time and the interactions between the childhood friends appeared to be one of such things.
     Jaz made no move to see them to the door, did not offer any farewells beyond one lifted finger as she lifted the glass in her hands to her lip again to drain the contents in one long draught.
    She would regret it in the morning to a degree—drinking on an empty stomach didn’t end well—but she found a bottle of water on one of her countertops to counteract the dehydrating effects of the alcohol as her front door shut.
    Once they were gone, Jaz flicked off her kitchen lights and went to lock up, letting the water chase her rum down in an unsavory mingle of tastes. She needed a shower but had little interest in the effort, so it was routine only that got her out of her clothes and under the steaming showerhead to wash the remaining signs of the grueling fight from her body.
    More blood was washed away. Dirt had stained her skin despite her uniform and was soon forgotten as well. Once completed with her ritual scrub, both of hair and body, Jaz shut off the water and found her towel.
    There was nothing homey in the scent of the long, voluminous cloth. It smelled musty and of dust from sitting unused for two weeks but it dried the water from her slowing form.
    Sliding into enough clothing so that she’d be more-or-less decent in the case of sudden visitors, Jaz staggered to her couch, slamming her shin into the low coffee table, but not even that pain was able to break her from her exhausted state of mind. 
        Her couch smelled like herself, like afternoon sunlight and spilled beer, and even of her many male acquaintances who liked to drop by unannounced, and where the towel had failed, her nest of blankets succeeded in surrounding her in home and Jasmine collapsed into their embrace.
    Telling her team goodbye was going to be hard and nothing in her looked forward to that moment. But she would wait until Kano was on his feet again, able to take the surprise of it without bringing himself further harm.
    Jade-green eyes opened in the pitch-black of her living room, staring out at the shadows of her furniture, collected despite the way her heart turned in her chest.
    It was better, this way. They would be safer, this way.

    Sleep came and Jaz didn’t even consider fighting it. She was ready to go and slipped into the black with a whisper of a breath to tell of her departure. 

//

skip

//

     It was drizzling when Jasmine returned to the hospital a handful of days later, the required paperwork tucked in a folder that she carried in one hand. The nurse at the desk recognized her and smiled in greeting, oblivious to how the captain was dripping on the freshly mopped floor. 
    “Elite Matsuda has already come through, Captain, and should still be with your teammate,” she announced with cheer that Jaz couldn’t even begin to reciprocate.
    Her face felt stiff, plasticized by what she knew came next.
    So she nodded once, murmured her thanks, and flicked off some of the excess rain from her person before she walked away. The sunny nursed called after her to have a nice day and Jaz lifted one hand to shoulder-level in semblance of a wave before disappearing around the corner.
    Busan General Hospital had multiple wings, two of them devoted entirely to the Collective’s expansive Special Forces, who made up a good deal of the medical emergencies who came through their front door. A high portion of those were training inflicted—those critical developmental years between when you graduated from the Academy until you got your feet under you as a Tyro produced many, many injuries.
    But the rising tension between the Collectives meant that there was a rising percentage of combat-related injuries. 
    Kano was far from the only Elite in the recovery ward recuperating from a close brush with death due to an ambush and the resulting close-quarters fighting. 
    It made anger burn in her chest, despite knowing that this was part of the brewing conflict.
    Jaz had wrench her mind back to focus on where she was going. Her standard-issue boots made echoing thuds as she walked with lengthy strides through the quiet halls, devoid of the visitors that would start arriving later in the day, after visiting hours had actually begun.
    The trademark slouch of her youth had faded after her year with Min. It was with a straight back and hands at her sides that the woman moved now, unlike the slumped shoulders and hunched back she’d adopted as a self-defense mechanism as a child. He’d wanted her to act as if she always had a purpose, to be unashamed, refusing to hide. 
    Noting the passing numbers, Jaz stopped outside the correct hospital room and paused before knocking. 
    This was for their own good, she reminded herself, letting the discomfiting smell of antiseptic reinforce her decision. The papers in her hand would change everything and it would be for the better.
    She rapped twice and waited until a familiar voice called, “Come on in, we’re all decent in here!”
    Shun, so like Dan and yet so different. She wasn’t surprised that he’d beaten her here. 
    Their bond was just as tight as Zach and Dan’s, despite having a quarter the time behind it. 
    Jaz toggled the lever to get the door open and entered with muted footsteps, searching the roomy space inside for her two teammates. Kano’s roommate, a Tyro in for a ruptured appendix, glanced at her as she closed the door behind herself. He did little more than offer a wave in greeting, after her strict orders the following morning to not even consider getting up whenever she dropped by.
    The kid would probably kill himself if he tried to follow protocol right now.
    With a vague smile and a nod before solemnity took over again, Jaz moved past him towards the curtain bisecting his half of the room from Kano’s.
    Her teammates were in the midst of eating what was no doubt a contraband breakfast, which Jaz arched a brow at. Bacon and pancakes can’t have been what the nurses wanted Kano to be eating for the time being, but they no doubt had a contingency plan in place if they did get caught.
    It only took them a moment to process her presence.
    And that contingency plan came into play as Shun smile winningly, closing his take-out box with a smooth box and rising in the same movement, as if there weren’t anything suspicious occurring under the hospital staff’s notice.
    “Captain,” he greeted, and Jaz could hear the heavy layer of charm that he laid on. “So good to see you this bright and early.”
    Kano didn’t care one whit about his compatriot’s efforts , considering the way he continued to eat behind Shun. The brat knew he would get away with it and Jaz knew a moment of exasperation because he was correct. 
    Jaz sighed. “Shun, stop trying to win me over. It doesn’t work. Kano, you have syrup on your cheek.”
    Smooth operator though her may have been, Shun had learned his painful lesson of when enough was enough early on and rocked back on his heels with a far more natural grin. “Sorry. Figured I’d give it a shot.”
    “Morning, Captain,” Kano greeted, finishing his illegal breakfast and leaning forward to set his take-out box on his rolling table, settling back with a mild grimace. 
    The tone of his skin was paler than normal, but he was sporting that annoying little ponytail of his like always and even though there were dark marks from pain and sleeplessness under his eyes, her subordinate of just three months was alert and willing to interact with his visiting teammates.
    The file in her hand got just a little bit heavier.
    Jaz felt herself relaxing despite her wish to remain reserved through the next half hour, some of the stress draining from her shoulders against her will. “How’re you doing, Suong?” 
    The use of his surname fooled no one. Jaz would always care, no matter how hard she might try to detach herself. But Kano and Shun knew—they knew about Mio and they knew about Levi and they knew about Haydn who had taken everything from her. 
    They got where she was coming from and didn’t begrudge her continuing insistence on trying to distance herself from them.
    No matter what came out of her mouth, the truth was always bared through her actions. Her voice. How she took care of them.
    “Better than yesterday,” Kano responded, tilting his head toward the available seat on the other side of the bed.
    Jaz took him up on his wordless offer, settling into the hard plastic chair, her back to the window that was letting in gray light from the cloudy morning skies. Rain was continuing to patter against the glass, picked up from from when she had arrived ten minutes prior. It would be a long, damp walk back to headquarters to file her returned status to solo operator.
    Both men watched as she got comfortable, yellow folder balanced across her knees until she decided to reveal the contents.
    “That’s good. What’s your projected release date?” Her jade-green eyes drifted to meet now-familiar brown, which were narrowed at her. Just a fraction, but enough that she knew he was starting to pick up on an odd vibe.
    Wary now, Kano drew out, “Next week, but three more after that until they’ll sign off on a return to active duty. You okay, Captain?”
    Never one to beat around the bush. Jaz liked that about him, but appreciated that particular facet of his personality a bit less than she might otherwise at the moment. “I’m fine. We just… need to talk.”
    “We’re listening, Cap,” Shun broke in, leaning his forearms against Kano’s hospital bed, starting to clue into what his counterpart was already tracking on. 
    Jaz stilled, not allowing the way her heart squeezed in her chest to show through. They deserve better than me. They deserve to be as secure as possible in their captain.
    “Captain?” Kano checked, shifting to sit up again, his brows furrowed in concern. “What’s going on?”
    Summoning the stoicism and blankness that had gotten her through so many hard mission briefings, through well-intentioned sympathies, through Mio and Levi’s memorial ceremony, Jasmine fished out the two clusters of stapled and collated papers.
    She didn’t have to look to know what was printed upon the white sheets. Transfer request forms for Elite squad members of more than a month. 
    “First-Class Elite Matsuda, Elite Suong,” she addressed them with all the formality she could muster, straightening her spine in an unconscious movements. The forms were held out to them in an unwavering hand. “You two are to fill out these and submit them to human resources at headquarters at your earliest possible convenience.”
    There was little room for argument or contest left in her tone. 
    Her two subordinates, soon to be former, frowned at her but the captain refused to be affected, delivering the forms to their reluctant grips, then settling back against the unpadded chair back, arms crossed loosely over her chest.
    Jaz didn’t miss the wary glance that Kano and Shun shared before they both started reading what she’d given them.
    Shun’s reaction was immediate and far more vehement than she had expected. His hazel blue eyes sparked with an anger that didn’t kindle in such a way very often even as he ripped the three-page stack in half and threw it over his shoulder to let it flutter to the floor. “Don’t even start to give me that bullcrap, Captain.”
    “Shun,” Kano warned, flashing a cautioning look towards his counterpart, remembering that, even though their team was close, Jasmine O’Haire was still their captain and superior officer. 
    Unperturbed and placid, Jaz blinked at Shun but didn’t respond to his ire, waiting for Kano to finish after he returned his attention to his perusal and finally set the forms down amongst the folds of his blue hospital blanket.
    Once both pairs of gazes were levelled in her direction, one still filled with resentment, the other far calmer but vexed just the same, the woman set about explaining herself in modulated tones. “I was hasty in agreeing to take on a team. Previous experiences have clouded my judgment and it isn’t fair to the two of you. Put down what you wish in the performance review. They should allow a transfer without too much resistance.”
    They were silent for a long minute. Shun, because he was still reigning in his knee-jerk anger, and Kano was churning, trying to formulate a response. Jaz gave them the time they needed—it wouldn’t be an easy transition to accept. 
    She wasn’t their first captain, but their last had been one from a founding family and she knew firsthand what that meant for a soldier from the second-tier. Still, her body protested the way her muscles tensed over the stress building in her chest.
    “What… brought this on?” Kano articulated at last, looking far more haggard now than when she’d first arrived.
    Hesitating, Jaz shifted to bring up her leg, resting one booted foot on her knee and clasping her hands around her ankle. Stowing away her momentary uncertainty, she afforded Shun a glance to gauge his stability, before murmuring, forcing herself to hold Kano’s gaze, “There’s a make or break moment when you have a teammate’s blood on your hands. I’ve been there before and am unable to stand up under it this time.”
    Pause. Breath. “I will not watch you two die as well.”
    The rebellious light in the younger male’s fizzled out and the supine of the two had a stricken expression cross his already pale features. Even if she hadn’t known them as well as she did, Jaz would’ve been able to sort out that they hadn’t considered this aspect of their situation.
    A strained smile pulled at the corner of her mouth for a brief moment, but even that was difficult. 
    It was hard to imagine stepped outside the city walls and not have these two flanking her as they engaged in friendly ribbing over the latest love of Shun’s life.
    “Think about it. Submit the forms. Resources should be able to get the request up to one of the commanders by the time you’re ready for active duty, Kano,” Jaz bade the duo, rising from the uncomfortable hospital chair and offering a more genuine smile in farewell. “I’ll see you two around.”
    “Wait,” Shun found his tongue, straightening from his slump. “Respectfully, sit back down and quit running for a minute, Captain.”
    Jade-green eyes narrowed at his tone. He didn’t usually push his limits like this. “Watch it, Elite. I will write you a citation if need be.”
    “Then be reasonable, ma’am.” Shun shot back.
    “Matsuda,” Kano cut in before Jaz had a chance to get after him herself. “Take a walk.”
    “Are you seriously pulling rank on me right now?” The younger male was incredulous, his attention swinging to his compatriot. 
    In an even, unyielding tone, the Elite confirmed, “Yes. Cool your head, then come back. Captain O’Haire and I will be here when you return.”
    Looking between the two of them, Shun let out an annoyed huff but obeyed, pushing away from Kano’s bedside and veering around the curtain to disappear from sight. Despite his anger, the door didn’t bang when it closed, announcing his departure.
    Spine still stiff, Jasmine eyed the remaining, bedridden man, who was in the midst of folding up the transfer request forms and placing it next to his empty takeout box. 
    “He is right, though, Captain,” Kano commented with some degree of care, returning his attention to her again. “This needs to be a team decision and not just you. I respect that you’re not having an easy time of it, but we deserve a say in this as well.”


    The more time I spend on Jaz's story, in her world and with her teammates, the more I fall in love with it all. You know how some writers have a story that's their "baby" and they spend quite seriously years writing, editing, and perfecting it?

    Well, I think Jasmine and the ins and outs of Anomaly, Not Prodigy are going to be my baby. There's so much potential for the story, so much to be explored and developed and put into play, from characters to world politics. 

    It'll be a good place to seriously work on my paltry worldbuilding skills, too, which have been in dire need of sharpening for some time now. 

    And I comment all this because I was editing back through the above drabbles and was struck--yet again-- with how very much I love this story and the people who live in it. Kano and Shun. Zach and Daniel. Ren. Mio and Levi (though I haven't written much of them yet). Min. Whitecourt. Captain Jasmine O'Haire.

    Yeeeaaaah, this story is definitely going to end up being my baby. Sigh. Oh for the work ahead of me.

    If the lead-up to these drabbles are confusing, let me know and I'll fill you in on the details. And even if it's not confusing, let me know what you think, yeah? I adore feedback of any type.

    Thank you for your patience with my erratic posting schedule, and for reading. 

    Ad astra per aspera.
    To the stars, through difficulties.

Writing: Sarris (military!au)

    Well, it's not Valentine's Day, which is probably a good thing, after rereading this blurb.

    It's not quite in the festive spirit, let's put it that way. ::cough::

    Inspiration source: a rewatch of Jack Ryan: Shadow Recruit and the beginning sequence of him joining the military and subsequently being badly injured in a helicopter crash, landing him in Walter Reed Hospital for rehab. 

    I'm not sure what it was about it, but the combo made me want to write Sarris in a similar situation, although my focus is on the emotional journey for her as she struggles through rehab, and not on the "life after" portion. Not yet, anyways.

    Mild content warning for the scrawl in general. There's not a lot of details, but Sarris was injured in a tangle with a bomber while deployed overseas, and is not handling the end of her career as a soldier very well. It's overall darker than I tend to write and there is some talk of PTSD. Just as a head's up.

    Also, I was terribly lazy in the research department and just threw in details that may or may not be accurate to how the process actually works. 

    (Kudos to those who can guess who the "her" is that Sarris thinks about.)


    It happens nine months into her seventh deployment.
    Afterwards, they tell her about her own bravery, about the lives she saved in one blind moment of reaction. It’s on the news, on the lips of her nurses, her doctor, the members of her squadron who are allowed to make the flight to see her—everywhere she looks.
    All Sarris remembers is the split instant where she’d recognized the telltale signs of a bomber on that man and her body had moved itself on instinct. The instincts that had kept her alive and uninjured through every tour she’d asked for until that point.
    When she wakes up in the NATO hospital in Kandahar a week later, after days of passing in and out of agonized consciousness, red hazes of pain, they tell her about the people she’d saved before they tell her the price of those actions.
     She’s never going to be able to walk the same way again. Her hearing is shot on her right side, and the shrapnel she’d taken all down her back limits mobility in her right arm and means when she first regains consciousness, she can’t feel anything past her hips.
    They say she’ll be getting a medal—medals, in fact—and she couldn’t have cared less. She’s not going back to the front lines, where she has lived for the past eight years of her life. Where she belongs. The only place where the innocent blood on her hands weighs a little less.
    Only her CO seems to get it, somewhere in the subtext, when he comes three weeks later, right before she’s scheduled to head to Maryland and Walter Reed to undergo multiple surgeries, heal, and then start rehabilitation.
    “You’re getting an honorable discharge. The doc said there’s no way you’ll be back in the field, even if you do well in rehab. You’re done, Nadir.”
    “I know.”
    “You did well. You had a good run and we’re going to miss you out there. I know you’ve never been much of a people person, but you should know we trusted you to watch our backs, Master-Sergeant.”
    “Yes, sir.”
    “You’ll be alright. Get through rehab. Everything else will fall in place.”
     She’d had no answer for that.
    Ten years of her life she’d devoted to the United States Army, with no intentions beyond giving everything she had left of herself for others. Because of those two lives she had taken, had never been convicted of. That gang—the Shedek—would always be with her, inked as deeply in her skin as they were in her soul, but that doesn't mean she will ever stop trying to erase the damage they, and by extension, her, had wrought.
    And now even that had been ripped from her.

    //

   The flight stateside was one of the longest she’s ever endured. Even longer than three years ago, when her squad had returned home less two members.
    She starts refusing the pain meds the day before she’s scheduled to ship out back to the U.S., and not even the jarring motion of takeoff and the subsequent hours of turbulence bring her to submission. It doesn't mean her three attending nurses don't offer at least half a dozen times to hit her with a shot of morphine.
    The doctor that meets her two days later in another white, sterile room doesn't have much more to say than the one in Afghanistan. They’ll operate, repair as much of the damage as they can, then she's going to rehab for at least a year.
    Days passes in a blur of time, beginning and ending with a blinding veil of pain. It wakes her up in the middle of the night without fail, which she never admits, even when the doctor who comes in at oh-eight-hundred on the dime every morning asks her several pointed questions about it.
     It’s late summer in Maryland, which means oppressive humidity outside if there’s not another sporadic bout of heavy rain. After her surgeries are done, all three of them, Sarris goes outdoors as often as her caretakers will both take her and let her. Which isn’t often, but she needs the change of scenery if she’s not going to lose her mind.
    Television has never interested her—she knows all she needs to about the state of the world (she prefers newspapers anyways) and there’s no point to watching the countless television shows that are prolific on cable—and it’s hard to find a delivery address for Amazon if she wants to order books.
    The nurses are too friendly—always asking about her family, if she’s sure there’s no one she wants to call, and what a unique set of tattoos she has, what’s the story? The doctors are too repetitive—always the same information, over and over.
    Sarris considers trying to get in touch with her, but knows better than to even contemplate it. Their parting hadn’t been on good terms. Even though Sarris has recognized that missing piece in her life, she knows there is a very slim chance that she’s been forgiven of the things said that day. 
    (“He will be the death of you.”)
    And there’s nothing that she can do anyways. It’s over and all that’s left is to pick up the pieces. 
    A month after her final surgery and some preliminary rehabilitation, the hospital staff moves her from her too-white room to an alternate ward in a different building altogether. She isn't mobile enough to take care of herself off-site and with no family being produced, the military becomes her primary guardian. Unless she improves in leaps and bounds, enough to navigate Baltimore unaided, the hospital will remain her prison until they deem her fit for release. 
    As she has with everything else life has bombarded her with, Sarris bears through the torment that every waking moment is with silent neutrality. 
    It is not the worst storm she's ever weathered. 
    It may be the second most devastating, but at least it is only her that bleeds this time. No one else. Just her.
    (Murderer. Killer. You deserve this. This is punishment for your crimes.)
    Sarris shuts her eyes to blank out the smiling nurse and the bag of fluids she carries and wishes the disembodied voices in her head could be blocked out just as easily. 

    //

    “Hey, Nadir!”
    Silence.
    “Nadir?”
    Nothing.
    “Oh, come on, at least it isn’t your first name.”
    Continued quiet.
    “Alright, fine, Master-Sergeant Nadir, would you please stop and lend me a moment of your apparently precious time?”
    "What do you want, Doctor Schaefe?" She doesn't lose focus on the task at hand—one foot in front of the other, one step at a time—hating the burn in her body over something so simple as walking. The two parallel bars are warming beneath her lingering grip.
    Over-friendly, incessantly inquisitive. Warm brown eyes and genuine compassion for his patients. (She fights not to see it as weakness.) He plants himself in her path, too close for comfort and there’s nowhere to go besides backwards, which sounds two times as complex as moving forward at this point. "First, you've been going for twenty minutes and need to sit down."
    She looks up, meets that knowing expression, that easy-going but not to be ignored persona that's been hounding her since day one in this personal Hell, and is aware that he's correct. Her body is shaking from the effort that every step takes, perspiration beading her forehead.
    That doesn’t mean she’s going to let him know it, though. Tightening her fingers around the bars keeping her upright, Sarris stares him down, unflinching. 
    Schaefe narrows his eyes at her, pensive, but continues speaking after a short delay. “Second, the nurse said you left even the Ibuprofen untouched this morning. Want to tell me what that's all about?”
    It surprises her that this hasn't come up sooner. They all want to talk about her chronic refusal of any pharmaceuticals before long. 
   “No.” Sarris glances over her shoulder, where she knows her watch dog nurse is on standby, waiting for the slightest hint that her assistance is needed. 
    The woman comes to guide her to a nearby seat, the doctor backs off without further prying, and the soldier—the soldier wishes that was what she still were. 

    //

    Nights are the hardest. The longest. 
    When the doctors are gone and the nurses settle in for the night shift. There is only beeping in the halls from computers and monitors—they sound like an IED and Sarris has to tell herself to breathe. 
    Darkness blankets everything, because the rest of the patients are sleeping, and the lights have been flicked off for the night. 
    Sarris sits upright in her bed, fingers flexing, wanting of some sort of safeguard against possible attack. 
    PTSD, the psychologist says when three weeks pass and her nurses grow tired of her ceaseless vigils, calling in reinforcements to deal with what they see as a problem. 
    Sarris doesn't disagree with him. 
    He's right. She spent almost eight years over there—she knows the signs, from others and in herself. 
    But it’s also saved her life and for Sarris, it isn’t a problem; she knows how to run on four hours of restless sleep for weeks, even months, if that’s how long it takes to disconnect her mind from the belief that she’s still on the frontlines. 
    And she knows how to stop herself dead in less than a heartbeat to keep from killing someone when they approach without warning.
    By this time, there is no solution to it for her. There is no recovery, no treatment, there is no coming back. There is just Sarris Nadir, once gangbanger turned soldier. 
    You don’t want to see me on drugs; is her only explanation, skipping his prognosis of ”you have severe post-traumatic stress and need to start getting help” altogether,  and knows the psychologist’s mind is racing behind his neutral expression as she gets up to leave.
    
    //

    The weather starts to turn. 
    Sarris watches the leave start to bronze from her glass box on the sixth floor up. 
    The air is too moist still, too heavy with water for her comfort. She is used to scorched earth and deserts. Lips peeling, skin cracking, nose bleeding. Air so dry it sucks the life out of everything it comes in contact with. 
    Humidity sets her on edge, her senses telling her something is wrong, even when she slips into brief unconsciousness. 
    Fall begins to bear down on them and Sarris gets quiet. Says less. Withdraws further. 
    She hates the crutches, hates the wheelchair, and does not pass a day without wishing that that d--n bomber had done his job as well as she’d done hers. 
    Bleeding out in the sand would’ve been a less cruel fate than this. 
    The voices in her head have no sympathy. They pleasure in the black swallowing her, the helplessness killing her. 
    Sarris wakes up and aches to move. She wishes for death if only to escape the weakness of the body she has relied on for so many years to be strong. There is no strength in her legs, her arm will not respond when she needs it to, and the loss of hearing in her right ear has given way to an incessant ringing in her left. 
   Each morning is a reminder that she is never going to run again, is never going to be able to tackle an obstacle course, fire a rifle, swing a punch, or carry a comrade like she once did. 
    She is a soldier to her very marrow. 
    And living through every day in rehabilitation is a steady stab to her soul that tells her she can no longer be.


//


    Cliffhanger!Siani strikes again and I am so sorry. Inspiration cuts in and out on a regular basis for me.

    But, personally, I like this scrawl. I tried to get snips of a different writing style in there, focusing more on the abstract and letting reality drift in now and then, which... sort of worked. Maybe. You can decide.

    It is kind of depressing, which I apologize for. But Sarris is a person of motion, of action, and, as we catch glimpses of in this au, repaying for a crime she committed years ago. And her method of payment has been ripped away from her in one fell swoop, depriving her of drive and purpose for life. It'll take a while for her to find a new way to keep pushing forward.

    Her story actually parallels quite nicely with the original storyline, although, between the different galaxy version and the here on Earth version of Sarris' story, here on Earth has quite a few less extremes. 

    And yes, Novarr is a rehab doctor. Don't ask me. He's one of those stupidly talented people who can do whatever they want, more or less, if they put their mind to it. I think the doctor gig was a mid-life crisis escapade. Unusual, considering most guys might buy a car, but he's an unusual sort of chap.

    Is love in the air?

    Hard to say. He's the bane of Sarris' existence at the moment, but he's started that way in all the other 'verses too. We'll have to see.

    As always, I welcome comments, critiques, or whatever ambly, rambly thought passes through your head. Let me know, yeah?

    Thank you for reading. ^_^

    Ad astra per aspera.
    To the stars, through difficulty.