Luck

Soundtrack: Soldier – Gavin DeGraw

Havyn's POV

True allies are like those credit chips you find dropped on the ground. They turn up when you least expect them, and frack if they don't appear in the weirdest places…but even if you don't think you need one, you're pretty kriffin' glad when you find it.

"This is a Sorusuub SSK blaster. It's got an adjustable sight and a hair trigger. I call it Flashy," he explains, holding out the heavily-modded weapon. "It's the first blaster I ever owned, and I want you to have it."

My gaze won't stop flicking to the proffered firearm, and I hate it. The action is too...transparent.

My fingers are already twitching expectantly, loosening around the well-worn grip of the rusty holdout blaster I've used for years. Traitor. With an all-too-familiar surge of willpower, I force myself to stand still and look at the options.

On the one hand: free blaster. On the other hand...no.

That's not my blaster. It's not my blaster. I didn't earn it, didn't pay for it with my credits, didn't even win it in my own fight. It's got things - indefinable, ambiguous things like meaning and sentiment and memories - written all over it, and to take it would mean...I don't know what it would mean. All I know is that it would give him a foothold, and I don't want that.

Rule number one: I'll work with you, fight alongside you. I'll give you my opinions whether you want them or not. I'll be your greatest ally or your worst nightmare. But I'm not going to be your friend.

"Why? I'm doing fine; you don't have to give me anything," I retort, my tone smoothing over the skepticism in the inquiry. " 'Sides, I already have a blaster. Didn't exactly down all those Seps by pointing a stick at them and shouting 'pew, pew, pew', did I?"

It's easy to see right through this guy. So utterly kriffing easy that I'm actually having too much fun to be cynical. I'm talking about the lead on Skavak, the well-paying work, the weird questions at the cantina. All of it took me by surprise for about four seconds. Maybe five, if I really care to be generous.

I don't.

I've got it all figured out. It's the classic bait-and-trap; act the easygoing nice guy, make the poor, emotion-wrought girl go all starry-eyed for her benevolent hero, and the rest is history. Forget it. I've been around the galaxy too many times to fall for that. And really, what else could he be doing? This is Ord Mantell.

Nobody is this nice on Ord Mantell.

"Well, I'd like if you'd take it anyway. It'd help me rest a lot easier, knowing that you're ready for anything," he insists. Then, with a little quirk of the lips, he actually spins the blaster around his finger and gently places it, handle-first, into my palm.

The sarcastic retort dies on the tip of my tongue.

It's polished. He actually polished it. I can tell, because there's no way the durasteel on a used blaster catches the sunlight and shines the way this one does. I turn it over in my hands, looking over the mechanisms. It's beautiful; each part separately cleaned until it shone, its barrel replete with seamlessly-integrated mods, the way the handle fits into my palm so comfortably...

"I can't," I tell him quickly, shoving the blaster back at him. "Look, it's nice. Really nice. Frack if that isn't the nicest firearm anyone's ever given me. But that's just it; I can't just let you give that to me." My gaze alights on his eyes and stays there, stone-cold and never yielding. "I don't owe anything to anyone else, and I like to keep it that way."

For the first time since they've met, he actually seems to lose patience with me. "Captain, I don't know what kinda guy you're used to having around, but I was raised a gentleman. And a gentleman does not let a lady go out there and fight a horde of Separatists, on his behalf, without a good blaster by her side. You don't owe me anything for this." He holds out the blaster again, emphatically, and I know he's not going to stop until I accept it.

I'm stunned. For some reason, all that comes out of my mouth is, "...I don't know whether to be pleasantly surprised about this or insulted about you trashing my old holdout blaster. I don't care how good you are at building custom firearms; this ol' thing has got me through some tough scraps."

He lets out a patient sigh and holds out a hand. "Can I see it?"

I give him the weapon, following as he leads me over to a modification bench in the corner. He angles to the side so that I can watch him take apart the holdout blaster, hands expertly arraying the various components out on the durasteel surface for me too see. "Just like I thought," his murmur drifts through the air, "It's seen a lot of wear. Trigger's getting a bit sticky, lots of ground-in residue on the inside of the barrel, never mind that the firing mechanism is rusty and corroded. This thing's a miniature explosion waiting to happen. And, you know, I'd prefer it didn't blow up in your hand while you're surrounded a hundred-to-one without a backup weapon."

Still, I continue to watch in silence as he takes apart Flashy for the sake of comparison; showing me what each upgrade does to improve the safety and effectiveness of each shot. The one-sided conversation quickly degenerates into recitations of blaster lingo and technical terms patiently drawled out in a twangy accent, and eventually all I can think is yeah, I owe him for sure now.

Strangely enough, I'm okay with that.

...He owes me too, after all.

Before I know it, the blaster is pieced back together and he's still holding it out to me. "So...now will you take it?" he asks again.

"All right. Fine, you win," I grin, throwing my hands into the air in mock exasperation.

He catches one and presses the firearm into my palm with both hands, folding my fingers around the polished barrel like they were always meant to be there.

It was just a gesture borne out of good-natured teasing. It didn't mean anything. And somewhere deep down, I knew that.

It didn't matter. I've never had my hand held. Not even in jest. At least...not since my head was filled with the color spectrums of beautiful, glorious life; peaceful dreams of healing mists sinking deep down into the icy waters of Tythos River and freezing there in yellow pools of hate.

Not my friend, not my friend, not my friend.

The lightheartedness of the moment is broken then. We both sense the icy chill seep into the air, my piercing stare dragging the transgression out into the light and telling him this is not okay the only way I know how.

I can hear the chains on my jacket clinking like windchimes as I recoil, delivering my hand and my weapon into freedom.

"Thanks for this. I'll make good use of it," I drawl, my voice back to its' smooth, rolling monotone.

"Right. Glad you like it," he edges, his hand flying to cover the back of his neck self-consciously. "Good luck out there, Captain."

I am merciless, however, and don't stop pinning him with that accusing stare even after he manages a friendly, apologetic grin. My lips curl into a semblance of a smile, though it doesn't quite reach my narrowed eyes.

"I don't need luck. I have blasters."

A/N: Shameless Mass Effect 3 reference for the win.

YEAHHHH KROGANS :3

Anyway, looks like Hav's ice barrier is starting to break up a bit. Which is good. I don't like writing her when she's all distant like this. She acts all cold, but really she's a sweetheart...just wait until I introduce a surprise person three chapters from now and you'll see what I mean.

Question time! How long do you think it will take Havyn to be best buds with Corso? When (what mission) do you think it'll be? Who is this surprise new person I have in store for you readers? Should I keep doing the first-person POV every now and then? What do you like or not like about the story so far?

Thank you to writtenrhythm for beta reading this chapter, and you guys have a good night!