Title: My Stars and Your Valleys
Summary: Gen. Sci-fi/Space AU. Jack Frost is a just a starship pilot trying to earn a living, but when he's hired to fly the Guardian and its crew of bigwig do-gooders to the edge of the known universe, the job could be more than he bargained for. Throw in vanishing children, stolen goods, bounty hunters, and weird superpowers, and maybe Jack should've stayed on his home planet with his sister after all.
Disclaimer: I own nothing of Rise of the Guardians, although I would kill to be a little more like William Joyce.
A/N: Except for a very small portion of the story, all of this will be from Jack's perspective. Please bear with the brief OC (Jack's little sister, Maggie) through the prologue, as the rest will all be from the POV of our favorite winter spirit. Or not winter spirit, because it's a non-magical AU. But you get the idea.
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Prologue – The Collectors
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The Collectors are back. The dark hulls of their ships hang heavy in the sky like so many grey storm clouds settling in. Maggie Overland averts her eyes as she shovels snow off the porch, but the monumental ships weigh on her mind even when she turns her back to them.
When she has done as hasty a job as she can without repercussion, she tosses the shovel into the tool bin and grabs some firewood from the stockpile beside the door. Once she hurries inside, the ceiling shelters her from the sight of the foreign starships, the walls sealing her in like a dark cocoon, and she lets out a breath.
The Overlands' home is a dingy grey in the filtered winter light, its simple furniture stark and the space wide and empty: Jack's still out in the fields, and their mother is where she always is. Stomping against the floorboards to warm her feet, Maggie tosses the wood into the furnace and peels off her thin cloak to drape it on the back of the kitchen chair. Juniper, their calico, winds between her legs. The cat's hungry, but so is everyone else in the house. Maggie's got nothing to feed him she wouldn't eat first herself.
Their solar panels have cracked under the heavy snows, and they haven't had money to pay the gas bill in ages, so she stacks up some kindling and lights the fire with a flint. After cracking the dampers open, she retreats to sink into a chair at the kitchen table, the stiff, hand-carved wood digging into her back.
It would probably be a good idea for her to putter around the kitchen, picking at the remains of their pantry as she tries to decide how to cook their scant leftover food into something that will serve three. But there's no meat until they've saved up enough for it in the spring, and she's tired of looking at the assorted mealy vegetables produced by their mostly barren garden beside the porch.
"We'll fix something up," Jack would have said once, grinning at her and trying to make her grin back by tossing her some stringy collard greens or juggling the lumpy winter squash. Her brother hasn't taken an interest in their meals in a long time, nor has he spoken with his usual lightly cheerful tone.
Hunger gnaws at her insides, but she's gotten good at ignoring it. Instead, she grabs the pocket holo-comm from its charger at the window and slides it into her palm. The clear screen looks as ordinary as the glass in the windowpane at her side, but the device stutters to life as she swipes her finger across it. A short burst of light scans her face, identifying her as a registered owner, and a stream of images and text floats into the air just above the screen.
As the furnace releases wafting puffs of warm air, Maggie scrolls through the local Net again for any reports of the Collectors. Weird—it's always more people leaving, she thinks. High hopes, off-world job placements right away, bringing money back home…
"Don't be so suspicious, Mags," Jack would have said—does say, even now. He may not say it teasingly, but he still realizes that it's important to cut back some of her more fanciful ideas before they get out of hand.
It's been a few months since the huge Collector ships first appeared in the skies. Maggie can still remember the sudden distraction during a regular trip to the village square with her brother, snow crunching underfoot as they bartered for a few extra potatoes. Jack was pretending in the sight of their neighbors that they weren't desperate for money, and Maggie was pretending not to see the slight bulge in the chest pocket of Jack's coat, which probably carried the stolen chestnuts he'd swindled from one of the off-world vendors just a few moments ago. And then, suddenly, the sky had thundered with the rumble of engines; Jack instantly yanked her backward to pull her behind him. The huge, cumbersome ships had been so out of place on their tiny home world—which counted itself as lucky if it saw more than two dozen trade ships in a month—that he wasn't the only one to have such a strong and fearful reaction, to hide or shelter from the foreign sight.
Ostensibly, the Collectors have been sent from a HAB Sector research company looking for a steady flow of new employees. The guarantee of a steady job is difficult to ignore on the icy planet of FS-12, where work and credits alike are hard to come by.
Maggie declines the holo-comm's offer to read the next article aloud to her (COMPANY EXPANSION MEANS MORE POSITIONS, FIRST COME FIRST SERVED) and opens a list of the newest Collector recruits. Among the number are the elder daughters of the Overlands' closest neighbors, an assortment of men from the village council, and a handful of names Maggie does not recognize. Paige Wilcox, Maggie's best friend from school, has been gone for three weeks, lost to the powerful allure of the Collectors promises: food, housing, safety, work. Maggie hasn't heard from her since the day she left.
For the millionth time, Maggie wishes the holo-comm had a transmitter powerful enough to pick up more than the local Net. Planets like FS-12, which waft through space in the farthest Reaches of the known universe, don't exactly have the connections or credits to boost the region's communication signals—which is too bad. The HAB Sector planets might have had more information about the Collectors, or at least more information about the company the Collectors are supposed to work for, but there's no way to access their Net from so far away. At one time, Jack might have helped her try to boost the signal—tedious and painstaking work, to be sure, though occasionally rewarding—but he's not interested in much besides their dwindling credits these days. Maggie would feel stupid for even asking.
Anyway, out here on a border planet, few kids Maggie's age have access to a holo-comm at all, let alone know how to use one. In fact, the Overlands only have the one device between them, left by Maggie's father before he took off for the stars several years ago. Nowadays, of course, no one uses it but Maggie: their mother bears an intense distrust for technology, and Jack refuses to touch anything of their father's, not anymore. The only reason Maggie's familiar with it at all is because she used to muddle her way through the strange interface to spend time on the missing persons boards, looking for any hint of the fate of her father and thinking—foolishly—that he might one day have the decency to send them a message.
Wishful thinking. For all she knows, her father stepped onto that starship and died in a smuggler raid before ever reaching another planet.
"Margaret?"
Maggie cringes at the quiet voice that echoes down the stairwell. "Yes—coming, Mama." She slides off the chair and slips upstairs, avoiding the creaky ones out of habit and hugging the wall as though it will prevent her from being seen.
The windowless hallway is dim as always, their mother having prevented all of Jack's efforts to install cheap light fixtures, and Maggie passes her and Jack's rooms to reach her mother's room at the very end. The door is slightly ajar, and Maggie wrinkles her nose at the murky scent of stale alcohol and some cloyingly sweet odor, a mixture of perfume and sweat. She stands away from the opening, unwilling to get too close. Maggie hasn't crossed the threshold of her mother's doorway in ages.
"Margaret?" Her mother's voice is hoarse. "Are you there?"
"Yes, Mama." Maggie slowly edges closer, pushing her finger against the door to open it a little wider. The heavy curtains are drawn shut, and her mother, sprawled across the bed, is blanketed in layers of thick quilts.
"I'm…out of medicine, dear." She coughs once, and the blankets shift. Becca Overland weakly props herself up on her elbow, a pair of hazy brown eyes slanting toward Maggie. "Is there more downstairs?"
Once, Maggie thinks, her mother was probably considered pretty. Nowadays, her straw-colored hair hangs limply from her head like tangled string, and her saggy skin is thin and pale. With deep-set eyes mired in dark rings, she looks like the pictures in the pamphlets from Doctor Ortega's office, the ones warning of substance abuse and addiction. Can her mother be considered an addict?
"No, Mama." Maggie swallows, the sour odor of cheap beer almost palpable as it sinks down her throat. "But we're going to have to wait, I think. We're low on credits and we're almost out of food."
Her mother drops her head back onto the pillow. "No. We'll manage the food. We always do. I can't just endure this pain."
Maggie clutches the hem of her skirt in tight fists. "I know, Mama. But—"
"Do you know?" her mother asks, her voice steely. It's almost worse that Maggie can't see her face properly in the darkness. "Do you have any idea what it's like, lying here day after day? My skin is on fire…and my nerves…" Her voice dwindles into a rattling breath. One bony arm extends to the floor by the bedside, where a number of empty beer bottles pepper the carpet. "Your brother used to think the same way. Told me the pain was all in my head, the nerves were all in my head. Told me I didn't need the medicine; I just wanted it." She chokes out an unhappy little laugh. "Things didn't end well for anyone then, did they?"
A jolt runs through Maggie at the words, though she should be used to this sort of bite by now. Her mother has rolled over enough that she can see Maggie's face from her pillows, and Maggie shakes her head obediently, her hand automatically creeping into her boyishly short hair to finger the raised scar running behind her ear and across the back of her skull.
"I know you don't mean anything by it, Margaret dear. But I need my medicine. Borrow from the Starkeys next door; they won't mind."
Instead of mentioning that she and Jack have already borrowed more credits than they can afford from all of their neighbors, Maggie nods slowly. "Yes, Mama. I'll go tomorrow."
"I'm sure your brother isn't doing anything strenuous," her mother replies dismissively, coughing again. "Send him today, before the market closes. For medicine, not food. Or anything else," she adds snippily.
It is nearly evening, and walking to the market in the heavy snow will be inconvenient at best, but her mother rolls over in bed before Maggie can figure out how to protest, the reeking scent of sweat and cheap beer rolling away with her. The conversation is obviously over, the decision made. Maggie tentatively pulls the door shut against the harsh whuffs of her mother's hoarse breathing.
She creeps gingerly down the stairs. Jack won't like this, she thinks as she pulls her coat back on. Her vision is suspiciously blurry, and she grits her teeth to reel her tears back in, taking a few calming breaths. She hates this, feeling caught between an ailing parent on the one hand and Jack's blank stares on the other. There is no pleasing either of them.
But between the two, her mother and her brother, Maggie is far less frightened of Jack. She grabs the pocket holo-comm, shuts the door behind her, and steps into the cold air.
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Jack has always been an expert at being invisible. In the rocky, pine-strewn hillsides of FS-12, he manages to disappear into the pale snow. The skill once drew Maggie's envy, especially since Jack used to use it for good fun: disappearing after a well-executed theft of Mr. Magrum's pears, spying on council meetings, dropping from tree branches to scare Maggie and her friends on their way home from the schoolhouse. Nowadays, he hides only so he can be alone.
Fortunately, he's currently caring for a handful of sheep, which makes him easier to track. The bleating alone draws Maggie in the right direction. She spots the livestock easily enough, their beige wool dusted with snowflakes as they pick at the dry brambles in the field near the Magrums' farm.
Still, it takes her a minute or two to find Jack, who is partly concealed in the bare undergrowth. He sags at the foot of a wind-bent tree trunk, perched atop its twining roots, his chin resting on his folded arms. The brown of his fur cloak acts as such effective camouflage that her eyes run past him twice before she recognizes him.
Her boots crunch in the snow as she approaches, and Jack picks his head up to look in her direction. Instantly, the moody slump to his shoulders eases away, and he shakes coffee-brown hair from his eyes and pastes something like a smile onto his face.
Maggie hates that he does that. Once upon a time, his worries were hers as well. Now, as she stares into the dark eyes that mirror her own, she can't even tell what's on his mind.
"Hey, Mags," he says, his voice flat even as he smiles up at her. "Why're you out here in the snow? It's almost time to pen the sheep."
"Mama wants us to go to the market before it closes," Maggie replies bluntly. "She's out of medicine again."
Something dark flickers across Jack's face, but it's gone in an instant. "Is she? Seems like we just got some."
"I know," Maggie agrees, "but she said she needs it."
Jack doesn't reply, just pushes himself to his feet. He's only fourteen, three years older than she is, but he towers several inches over her with his recent growth spurt. "Alright," he responds wearily, dusting snow from his pants, "we'd better move if we're going to make it in time."
Maggie waits as her brother leans down to swipe the shepherd's crook that once belonged to their father, holding it loosely away from him. He whistles for Spruce, the family sheepdog, and they begin to herd their tiny flock back home.
"How are we on food?" asks Jack, keeping one eye on Spruce, who is nothing but an amber blur as she nips at the sheep's heels. "Did we eat through all the rice yesterday?"
"Yeah. We're not so good," Maggie responds, though she doesn't elaborate. Jack can probably guess that they'll barely have enough to stretch past tonight's dinner. Normally, Jack and Maggie manage to tolerate their mother's demand for almost more medicine than the village doctor can keep up with, but it's harder in the winter when natural food sources are scarce: no berries, frozen streams, and little wildlife to speak of. "Did you see the Collectors?" she asks. It's a stupid question given the size of their ships, but she feels the need to change the subject.
Jack snorts. "How could anyone miss them?"
"They're already rolling out lists of who's going this time," Maggie replies, stepping up to totter across a snowy log. Jack automatically throws a hand out to steady her.
"Anyone we know?" he asks.
"Not really. One of the councilmen's sons, maybe." She leaps off of the trunk and slides a little on the icy ground.
"You ever hear from Paige?"
Maggie laughs. "Do I ever hear from anyone? Does anybody ever hear from anyone?"
"Mags, I really don't think it's some kind of conspiracy," he tells her again, rolling his eyes as he prods one of the sheep away from the edge of the road with the butt of his staff. "It takes a while to get into the HAB Sector planets, anyway. And you know we can't get anything but the local Net out here. It's not surprising we don't hear from people. And they do send their wages home, anyway."
"You don't know that," Maggie insists. "We never hear from them."
"Who else would make regular payments to family members back home? You think Black Industries just magically does that out of the goodness of their hearts? And so—what? They toss people through the hatch and into space, then pay their families?"
"It sounds stupid when you say it like that."
"It sounds stupid no matter how you say it," Jack laughs, and despite her worries, his good humor is contagious. Maggie grins and elbows his side. The sky is settling into a bright violet with the oncoming twilight, and the trees cast long shadows as they abandon the rolling hillsides and set onto the path back home.
They pause briefly to pen the sheep, Spruce dancing around them to chase the creatures into the fence. "Lucky," Jack declares as he and Maggie heave a particularly dull-witted one across the threshold. "It's winter, so your wool's still worth more to us than your meat."
"Plus they're adorable," Maggie adds, rubbing a velvety head.
The Overlands' house may be decrepit and dark, but the fence's barrier system still has enough solar energy stored to power up, at least, and it whirrs to life with a dull thrum when she enters the code onto the pad.
As they turn their backs on their family home and take the dirt road toward the market square, Jack's strides briefly begin to slow. Before the rickety house is finally swallowed by the dark copses and thick brush, he turns back to the building with an odd, musing sort of gaze before shaking his head to direct them back toward the market.
The Collectors' starships still loom in the evening sky, but so do deep grey storm clouds. Snowflakes begin to drip from above, the flakes thick and heavy. Maggie watches as her brother looks up with distaste and rubs them off of his eyelashes. Jack hates the winter. He has for some time now.
The sound of the market begins to cut through the hush of the settling snow, and as they reach the crest of the last hill, assorted stands and makeshift shops and tables spill out below.
FS-12 is a quiet border world, though its village council makes it much more civilized than the other, more barbaric planets of its kind that give planets of the Reaches such a bad name. Maggie's heard stories of fantastic foreign markets with exotic foods and otherworldly trinkets and strange races, but FS-12's market is just a simple outpost. After all, the planet houses only a few million beings, mostly humans, struggling to make a living. It can barely broadcast its own local Net. But food and housing are cheap on border planets—especially if, like Maggie's father, you have the skills to build your own home—and for those who can live off the land, it's a much simpler lifestyle than the bustle of the HAB Sector.
And speaking of foreigners, there are actually four Collector starships. One of them is docked in the field past the village square, its crouching metal form almost impossibly large against the tiny houses and two-story buildings of the village.
Jack and Spruce have already started down to the market, and Maggie hurries to catch up.
"Hey, do you…?" she begins before her mind can catch up to her mouth. She pauses, shaking her head.
"Do I what?" Jack asks after a beat, scanning the area around the foreign starship.
"Do you ever think maybe that's what Dad did? That he left with the Collectors?"
As soon as the words leave her lips, Maggie knows it is the wrong thing to say. Jack stills in surprise, frowning at her. His gaze falls, and hers follows it down to their father's hand-carved shepherd's crook in his hand. "No," Jack replies finally, his voice sullen. "He left years before the Collectors ever showed up. And we've never seen a single credit from him."
"I know," Maggie replies. "But—"
"He left, Mags," Jack interrupts, turning away. "And he's not coming back."
Maggie bites her lip. It's foolish to continue, but she has been mulling this over for so long that she can't stop now. "It's just that they promise all kinds of good things, so it seems like it would be tempting to—"
"Mags. Let it go."
And she does, except for one last thing. "I hate them," she adds bitterly, thinking of all the people waiting for loved ones, of Paige's promised letters that have never come, of their waiting for their father.
Jack's footsteps falter, but he does not respond.
The market is a single narrow road edged in low-roofed restaurants and wooden stalls topped with thick tarps to protect wares from the oncoming snow. Lines of harsh, solar-powered lights stretch across the road from end to end, and the smell of fresh mooncakes wafts through the air along with the muted thrum of guitar from the Outback Star Eatery up the street. Shoppers of all kinds—mostly human, with the odd nymph or leprechaun thrown in—meander about to sample food and gape at light shows. Displays of the newest holo-comms, decades more recent than the one in Maggie's pocket, glitter in the stark light beside recent advances in laser weaponry and automatic alarm systems.
A few of their acquaintances from the main square greet them with polite nods as they press past, but Jack and Maggie don't have as many friends as they once did. The Overland family keeps to itself these days. Maggie is profoundly aware of the pressing stares, and she knows Jack must feel them as well. A few whispers, too, follow them on their way: "Those poor Overland kids,"and "Whole family's cursed, innit?"
They've walked this road a thousand times before on their way to the doctor's apothecary, but Maggie doesn't remember the last time she felt so hungry while she was here. They pass a stand of produce fragrant enough to make Maggie's mouth water: currants, chestnuts, and aral berries along with off-world favorites like perps, cherimoya, and okanoi. Her stomach rumbles.
"Yeah, me too," Jack replies, a bitter twist to his lips. He pulls her sleeve. "C'mon."
The village doctor, Branson Ortega, is a friend by necessity: all of the Overlands have been his most frequent patients over the last few years. His clinic, a dusty grey closet just off the market road, possesses a display window boasting the latest in medicinal technology, complete with moving images and detailed records of the medicines currently on hand inside. As they approach, the display window flickers to show an image of the new and frighteningly lifelike computerized skin grafts that, if the scroller is to be believed, meld automatically to the skin and are capable of withstanding any blow without taking damage. THE CLOSEST SCIENCE TO GENETIC MODIFICATION, the scroller reads.
Jack and Maggie climb the stairs, and the pad at the door scans their bodies and health. A green circle lights up, and the door automatically curls into the ceiling to let them inside.
"Stay, Spruce," Maggie whispers. The brown collie whines but sits obediently beside the doorway as it closes behind them.
The inside of the clinic is considerably dingier than the outside display would lead most to believe, but its cramped waiting room is familiar and comforting to Maggie, who drops into the seat by the reception window. A dark-skinned ranch hand dozes in a chair nearby as a woman struggles to control her wailing baby in the corner.
"Jack! Maggie! Back already?" Dr. Ortega asks, peering through the window before Jack can even set their names down for the receptionist. He's a tired man in his fifties with hair of a premature grey, attesting to far too many years of worry here on FS-12. Everyone here looks older than they really are, Maggie thinks somberly.
"Just here for more medicine," Jack replies, shrugging his shoulders.
"Ah, right. Just a second." The doctor disappears into the back, and Jack shuffles back toward Maggie's chair.
"Jackson? And Margaret Overland?" the ranch hand asks, straightening in his seat with a yawn.
Maggie doesn't recognize the man, with his sun-tanned skin and curling brown beard, but Jack seems to. "Mr…Andresh?"
"That's me. Been a while," the man replies with a crooked grin. "Didn't think you'd'a recognized me."
"You and Dad used to take trips across the valley to trade sheep and cattle, right?"
"That's right. Stars, I can't remember the last time I seen your old man. Hell, last time I saw you, you was just big enough to help him herd the sheep. And your sister was all holed up at the house still." He pauses, leaning forward with a warm gaze. "Funny. You're two peas in a pod now—almost didn't recognize this one with all her hair chopped off," he adds, nodding his chin at Maggie. "What'd ya go and do a thing like that for, cutting all your long hair?"
Jack stiffens as he always does, fingers clenching guiltily at any mention of her changed appearance. It's true that they look more like siblings than ever since Maggie's accident three months ago, and were it not for the difference in height, they might even have been taken for twins. Dr. Ortega had to shave most of her hair to stitch the deep cut across the back of her head. Her hair, a matching shade to Jack's dark locks, has only now grown to a boyish length.
"Just thought it would look nicer like this," she replies, shooting Jack a defiant look.
"And where's your pa these days? Haven't seen him in half a decade at least, seems like."
"He left," Jack says casually. "Took off on a starship. You know."
The man looks taken aback, his light eyes filling with a pity that Maggie almost can't bear to see. After a moment, he laughs it off. "Ah, like everyone else, I guess? Collectors drive a hard bargain. Guaranteed work and enough credits sent home to buy your family's way out of debt."
"Something like that," Jack agrees.
"I'm on the way there myself right after I leave here, you know," the stranger continues as though Jack has not spoken. "My wife and I—" he pauses. "Well, it just seems to make sense. Credits go straight home to the family. And honest, I wouldn't mind a life in the stars about now. Fresh start and all that."
There is something oddly fierce in Jack's expression, something Maggie can't decipher, but he is spared from answering by the doctor's return.
"I'm afraid this is the last dose I can give you in such a short period," he says grimly, flipping through the data on his personal holo-comm. "Nocnitsa is addictive if taken too often. How's she doing, anyway?"
Maggie and Jack exchange a look. "No change," Maggie replies. "But she says it helps her not to hurt. And her nerves."
The doctor looks wary, but he still presses a small vial into Maggie's palm. Jack prods her side, and she pulls the holo-comm from her pocket and hands it to him.
"Thanks, doc," Jack replies, already moving over to the receptionist. The doctor stares after him for a moment, looking almost uncertain, before the crying child steals his attention away.
Maggie follows her brother, peering down at the familiar medicine. The vial, with its customary Black Industries logo depicting a running mare, is full of a coarse black powder, almost a fine sand. As Maggie turns the glass over, the substance seems to move and melt on its own.
"What do you mean?" Jack is saying, and Maggie glances up at his exhausted tone. "That's not possible."
"I'm sorry, but— " the receptionist taps at their holo-comm again. The display rattles off a few sentences in a dark red font. "There's no mistake. You don't have the credits to cover it."
"Not even the medicine?" Jack breathes, scrubbing his forehead. Maggie is similarly stricken: their funds have been incredibly low ever since their father left, taking the bulk of his business knowledge and a fair chunk of credits with him, but they have always had enough for medicine and food at a bare minimum. Lately, they've only been able to make payments for the medicine. And now…
"I'm sorry," the receptionist repeats awkwardly. "If you like, we can arrange it in a series of smaller payments…?"
Maggie, seeing that Jack appears too stunned to make a move, quietly sets the glass vial on the countertop. She gently pulls her brother's arm, leading him back out onto the darkening street. Spruce follows them, as do a handful of pitying glances.
.
There is a quiet metal bench just behind the secondhand shuttle parts store, the one whose stereo always booms awful, audiobotic remixes of their parents' classics. When they were younger and Jack didn't have the weight of the entire Overland family on his shoulders, he used to nick little sweets from the market for her, getel-crusted pastries shipped from neighboring planets, flower-like candies of unknown origin, and her favorite golden pears fresh from harvest out in the Loftian Galaxy. Back then, they used the area as a hideout, a place to reconvene breathless and exuberant over their stolen treasures.
Now, they collapse onto the bench in simultaneous stupor, Jack with his face in his hands and Maggie's eyes squeezed firmly shut, each frozen in silence for some time.
"What are we gonna do, Jack?" she moans aloud, shivering. The snow is still as light as it was earlier, but with the onset of night, the temperature has begun to drop dramatically. Spruce hops up onto the bench and lays her head and paws on Maggie's lap, but even the dog's warmth doesn't help much.
Her brother doesn't answer right away. "I don't know, Mags," he manages finally.
"We're gonna have to sell more of the sheep."
Jack makes a pained noise in the back of his throat. Maggie knows as well as he does that selling wool is the only reliable income they have now, along with their occasional sales of leftover produce from the garden.
A few minutes later, after her shivers grow more frequent, Jack stands suddenly, dragging the staff up with him. "C'mon," he orders. "No point in staying here."
They step out of the alleyway and into the light of the market. It's a little quieter now, some of the vendors having boxed away their goods for the night, but the crowds are thicker than ever, attracted by the temptation of food, alcohol, and music in one convenient place. Jack and Maggie weave through the milling bystanders on their way back to the side road that will take them home. Maggie is impossibly tired, her earlier hunger churning into sickening worry at the pit of her stomach. Spruce trots at her heels, and Maggie grabs the back of her brother's cloak so she won't lose him in the swarm of shoppers.
She is still lost in thought when Jack suddenly slows, pressing the staff into her hand. "Hang on a sec," he says, and then he melts into the crowd.
Blinking in surprise, she hurries forward to find him. Spruce whines, so Maggie rubs her head idly before grabbing her collar. She pulls the dog to one side and away from the flow of people, and she hangs on tightly lest Spruce wriggle away in the chaos.
Her brother reappears a minute later, a smile on his face of a kind she hasn't seen in a long while, a genuine warmth in his eyes. "Here," he murmurs quietly, pushing her so that her back is to the crowd. Both her hands are occupied, so he slips something into the pocket of her coat instead.
"What is it?" she asks, surprised.
Jack's face takes on a familiar mischievous air. "Snacks," he says, peering over her shoulder to be sure no one is watching before pulling down the lining of her pocket to reveal a handful of small, golden pears.
"Dinner," she replies, smiling uncertainly. "Thanks."
"I don't think we'll be able to get by just with stuff like that, though," he admits.
"I know. We'll…figure something out."
"Yeah," Jack agrees. She has seen that same, odd expression on his face earlier this evening, but it is now directed at her. Her brother smiles tightly, his dark eyes unreadable as he grips her shoulders.
Maggie frowns, unreasonably frightened. "Jack, what are you…?"
"I think I have an idea. And I promise everything's going to be alright." For some reason—and to her intense embarrassment—her eyes begin to tear up. Jack hugs her against his chest, a fond expression on his face when he draws away. "I'll be back, okay?
"Okay."
He vanishes once more into the crowd, slipping between strangers so easily that they might as well have been water. Maggie grips Spruce's collar more tightly, the weight of the golden pears comforting against her side.
It takes her only a few minutes to realize that he's not coming back.
Anxiety rumbles in her chest, and she orders Spruce to stick to her heels, the cumbersome weight of the wooden staff unfamiliar in her hands. Now that she has allowed herself to worry, Jack's plan comes to mind almost instantly, as though she has known it all along but could not bear to admit it to herself. She hurries down the market road, nearly shoving people out of her way, until the path spills out onto the main square, its buildings far enough away that she can make out the field where the Collector starships dock.
Except that the field is empty, the hulking starship missing entirely. She lets the staff drop to the ground, where it rattles on the cobbled street.
Jack is gone. She replays his words to her. I'll be back, okay? he said. Meaning that he doesn't intend to leave as their father did. Only that doesn't really matter, does it? No one has ever returned from a Collector ship.
I hate them, Maggie thinks, tears falling in earnest now. I hate them so much.
It will be many years before she sees him again.
.
.
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A/N: This was inspired by Firefly, Guardians of the Galaxy and a rewatching of parts of Star Trek: TOS. And Ready Player One. And Treasure Planet. Okay, also Star Wars. Basically if you're looking for all the space tropes, they're probably going to be here in this story. I do not apologize :-)
Going forward, know that I do not pretend to be an expert on science and/or space. I have been devouring books and documentaries on various aspects of space, and I've done the bare minimum of research into stuff from quasars to real-life invisibility cloaks, but I'm just a poor liberal arts major trying to get by. Feel free to let me know if there's something I've messed up, but keep in mind that I'm doing what I can.
So…if you're still here, please leave a review? This story is possibly the most difficult thing I've ever written—way out of my comfort zone—and I would really appreciate feedback of any kind. What worked, and what didn't? Were any parts confusing? How did you feel about the setting, the original characters? What was your opinion of Jack & Maggie? Even a few words would be EXTREMELY helpful, just so I can figure out how I'm doing here. Recently, I feel like I'm floundering about on the keyboard, just tapping out random letters :-)
Till next time!
ket