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Under Better Circumstances 1 - CoincidenceTitle: Under Better Circumstances - Chapter 1: Coincidence
Game: Mass Effect
Characters/Pairing: Commander Nevada Shepard (femShep) and James Vega
Chapter 1 Coincidence
"You're coming with me to Earth. Now," Admiral Anderson commanded, walking proudly in his Alliance blues. With his entourage following closely behind him, he stood out amongst the crowd of degenerates in Omega. A tall and brawny soldier with blood dripping from his Mohawk also accompanied him on his way to the docking bay.
"Forget it. There's nothing for me there," Lieutenant James Vega barked.
"I've got something for you. Something you haven't had before."
"Just throw me in the goddamned brig and be done with it!"
"You're not far off, Lieutenant," the Admiral shot back from the airlock of the SR-2, "Only you'll be guarding the brig."
Vega followed Anderson aboard and was immediately mesmerized by the Normandy's inte
A Turning Point in the Clockwork WarA war of attrition
depends on supply and drawdown,
how much you have and how much you use up.
With personnel, the balance concerns
the influx of recruitment versus
the outflow of casualties, deserters, invalids.
There is only so much loss
that a fighting force can sustain
and still fight.
Pilot Claude Archer was the first
to challenge his invalid discharge.
"I don't need legs to fly," he said,
patting the healed stumps of his thighs.
"My Osprey runs on elbow grease."
The members of the discharge board
paused and looked at each other.
What he said was true.
The Osprey-class fighter jets
relied on hand controls,
and a sharp eye and iron nerve.
Fingers flicked through the stack
of discharge papers -- so many, many pages.
So many soldiers lost, never to fight again.
They could not afford to let slip even one
who might be retained, somehow,
to face the front line once more.
Far less could the war effort spare
one of its best pilots.
So they put Pilot Archer back on the roster,
The Panic Room (A Supernatural One-Shot)“Dean…? Dean?”
The name felt like lead on Sam’s tongue, so thick and heavy that he wasn’t sure if the syllable had actually made it past his lips.
The only reason he was aware of something cutting into his neck was the trail of red that was marking a small pathway against the stark fabric of his shirt. The dark suit and tie that usually accompanied the white-collared look were missing, but he couldn’t remember why.
His brother’s name seemed to drop soundlessly into the dark space before him. Everything felt heavy. Dull. Maybe he was dreaming.
But dreams shouldn’t smell of dust and abandonment. They shouldn’t be framed by cobwebs and wallpaper so aged that their floral design has faded into funeral bouquets. They shouldn’t have flickering candlelight and robed figures looking down on you.
No, dreams shouldn’t be like that.
But Winchesters don’t have dreams. They have nightmares. Sam smile
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