Howdee, readers! This is my first Storm Hawks Fanfiction, my first Fanfiction at all, indeed, so please be gentle if I'm not down with the groove and all that. Heh. But I hope you enjoy!

And, since I'm not Asaph Fipke, I don't own the Storm Hawks. Do I own Weaver? I hope so. Possibly though she doesn't agree.

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SHARDS

Broken glasses in the tavern used to be a rarity. Not any more.

A plate exploding against an upturned table. Smashed mugs, half a chair. Weaver only caught glimpses of a few solid things in the mêlée. Well, that solid was subjective. All she knew was that her wooden bar was definitely solid, and she was definitely hidden behind it, and if no one noticed her, well so much the better. But she had a metal pipe clenched in one hand. Just in case.

Sure, in a tavern, brawls were a given. But they use to be conducted with a kind of reverence for the establishment. The given was that if the tavern got smashed up...you didn't drink there any more. For one thing, there'd be nothing to sit on, if you used the chairs for weapons. And for another thing, there were generally more than a few reg'lar like customers who'd be happy to king-hit the fella what smashed up the keg and all the good glasses right out the door.

But...these brawls, they were different.

The brawlers, for a start.

Cyclonians. Talons. Since they started coming in, every night, the reg'lar customers moved on. Drifted away to greener pastures. Well, safer pastures. Everyone had heard rumours about Cyclonians, and even the guy who sat in the corner with the dark hood and the scars didn't want to find out first hand if they were true. So the only ones who drank at the tavern now wore green and red and smug grins. And they expected new chairs the next day.

Weaver slunk towards the door. The brawl would keep going until nobody was conscious. Why Cyclonians thought smashing up their own wing-men was a good way to relax, she'd never know. She suspected it had something to do with working for an evil tyrant. But she did know that just now, while that guy flung the bottle at that mob over there, and that guy who was moaning on the ground grabbed that guy's ankle, she could kind of leap from behind this table and- there. Out the door.

All the Sky Knights really ought to do to defeat Cyclonia was build a huge tavern.

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"We've got no more cups." Weaver ran her fingers over the remains of a wine glass. The shards sparkled as she brushed them. There was a glisten of blood on one jagged piece.

"Good! They can drink out of a trough, for all I care." Her father, Gyro. Shrivelled and dark as a date, lanky and permanently scruffy. He was perched on the edge of a chair that was missing its back. It was the only one with four legs, actually. His skinny legs were stretched out in the rubble. Last night had been...particularly bad. Weaver frowned. Did that mean anything?

"Papa! Your bar. You've never even...the reputation of the bar is at stake!"

"Pah. Whut reputation would that be? Nobody but Cyclonians drinks here no more anyhow. And I don't want no share of their reputation."

"What ever you say. I'm off to make cups...leaves'll have to do, or something, I 'spose."

"Weaver?" His face was a maze of deep lines, when he frowned.

"Yeah, papa?" She half turned, looking over her shoulder at him.

"Y'know I don't want you working in the tavern. I'd rather ye did sommat with your cousins on the farm..."

"I know. But I want to. It's for the best, pa." The girl strode out, kicking through the debris. Sturdy boots, a requirement of life on Terra Tarlk. Here there be mud. Weaver smirked to herself.

Mud and trees and a life of honest work and best of all, the tavern. It had a name. Tarlk Tavern. Not very original, admittedly, but it did the job and on Terra Tarlk, that was all anybody could expect of you.

Now, Tarlk Tavern...Weaver had heard so many stories about the history of the tavern that it seemed almost like a tiny country. It had seen its fair share of rebellions and people who thought they ought to be kings and queens, and it'd seen golden times to. Only now, it was seeing Cyclonian time and Weaver couldn't imagine that it'd ever recover. It didn't seem as though Atmos would ever recover, either.

Through the dark pines, Weaver could see tattered clouds flagging against the blue sky. Fine weather, though the chill in the air and the whispering of the trees promised snow. Weaver felt her spirits lift. It was still...beautiful here. Behind her, smoke still curled joyfully from the tavern's chimney. In front of her, as she loped along the tiny, winding forest path, a skimmer plummeted lazily through the trees.

Wait. What?

Weaver watched. There was no other word but astonishment. She could practically feel her jaw unhinge. Sure, sure, Talons were strange fliers in her opinion, but it was midday, no time for drinking, and besides, from what she could make out, this skimmer was a kind of tannish, darkish colour, not red and cold grey. But there were things that rode on skimmers that weren't Talons that'd still...well, some of them would eat her. Twas what the rumours said, anyhow. She slipped between two dense pines, crouched amongst the ferns and fallen branches.

Whoever was ridding the skimmer didn't want anybody to see it. They'd shrouded it under the shadowy branches of a grove of trees, dulling the glinting metallic surfaces with leaves. Who'd want to hide their skimmer, on Terra Tarlk? Weaver's knowledge of Atmosian politics was limited, but serviceable- Cyclonia = evil empire. Considered to be keen on expanding said empire. Atmos = free world. Protected by Sky Knights. Others = good and bad. It generally just depended on the situation. Or your perspective.

Hm. So someone who was not a Talon was hiding their skimmer on Terra Tarlk...generally considered to be the 'local pub' for Talons. So an…enemy of Cyclonia. So a good guy? Were there any people who wouldn't mind eating her who were enemies of Cyclonia? Argh. She had no idea. There was only one thing to do, in a situation like this!

Sneak closer and have a look at the potentially-hungry-skimmer-rider. Obvious, really.

Forest floors were a lot cracklier to stalk through than Weaver had expected. She crept slowly, putting one foot down softly before even thinking about the other one. Sticks, where she swore there had been no sticks before, broke under her boots. The girl was hunched as low as she could, which, for an awkward and unproportionate fifteen year old, was not very, and tried to sound like a creature of the woods. Given, a rather heavy, slow creature of the woods, which had to push saplings out of the way. But a creature of the woods, stealthily moving undetected towards the mysterious skimmer and its possibly voracious rider.

The reality was rather disappointing. Weaver could make out the skimmer now. It was tan and indigo and silver, and the indigo symbol on its retracted wing panel looked rather unviscious. In fact, the longer she looked at it, the more it seemed to be familiar. Definitely friendly looking- a Sky Knight.

The rider had vanished before Weaver reached the skimmer. Well, nothing for it. Weaver risked an admiring glance at the ride and then stumbled out onto the path. Cups, cups, she had to find cups. And now that she thought about it, benches instead of chairs would be a good idea. Harder to pick up and smash over somebody's head.

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The tavern's yard was empty of any skimmers as Weaver pushed the gate open with her hip. But she caught snatches of a low conversation, drifting out of the tavern's wide, open doorway. She could recognise her father's voice, but the other was unfamiliar. Weaver squinted through the sun glare that reflected off the tavern's white walls. Through the doorway, she could just make out a thin figure leaning against the bar. The room was shadowy, but it looked female- the speaker that she didn't know. The Sky Knight! Quick, light footsteps carried Weaver across the dirt to the tavern's front wall. She crouched in the dust, her arms full of mugs and cups and glasses, and possibly a goblet digging into her ribs.

"Gyro, I can't tell you how grateful I am. The information you gather is invaluable," the accent was clipped, a light, female voice.

"Oh, Sky Knight, only doin' my civic duty," gruff, raspy. Weaver's father.

"Still...should harm come to you..."

"Pah! You mean this mess? Small price, to have Cyclonians babbling their drunken hearts out right in front of me. But there is one matter. We discussed it...you prob'ly don't remember..." Gyro's voice quavered with uncertainty.

"I remember. But Gyro, you said yourself; she chose to keep working in the tavern. Her love of this place, and you, is still much stronger than any hate she might feel for the Talons. There is no need!"

"But Starling, Interceptor, it is so dangerous for her here!"

"And you think it would be any less dangerous, you think if she were with me she would be any safer?" The voice rang out, laced with bitterness. "No! That is definitely not true. You can keep her safer here."

"One day, Sky Knight, you'll see that--"

Weaver's load cascaded out of her arms and clattered across the wooden floor. Her palms hit the floor, and she caught herself before her nose made impact. Damn. Leaned in to hear just a little too far...

Thin boots, brown leather with armour shin-guards. Weaver looked up, stifled a groan. She could make out a face, haloed with purple, spiked hair. Two olive eyes- staring at her. Weaver flashed a grin.

Starling appraised the girl with a cold stare. She was twig thin and gangly, but her arms and legs showed evidence of the heavy lifting that came with shifting kegs and broken furniture. Short, brown, practical hair. With her sprawled on the floor, Starling couldn't make out how she held herself; but there was the bright spark of confidence in her brown eyes. The grin- wide, showing two rows of white teeth- was defiant. And silly.

"Get up," snarled Starling.

Gyro had moved quietly from behind the bar, gathering the spilled cups. Weaver shot a pleading glance towards him but he ignored her, pushing in an errant chair. So he'd managed to find tables and chairs, then. The Sky Knight nudged at her arm with a boot. It wasn't gentle. Weaver groaned and heaved herself up. Reflexively, she leaned away from Starling and avoided that steely stare.

"Yeouuch!" Weaver clutched at the back of her head, pressing down against the stinging pain. Starling's hand hovered, outstretched, in front of the woman. The irritated glare hadn't ceased.

"You're an Interceptor, I bet you eavesdrop on people all the time and—yeouuch!"

"I don't get caught." Weaver caught the tiny tinge of smugness, dared to return the glare. Regretted it. Felt a spark of resentment; this was her tavern too. And she wasn't as immature as everyone assumed, just because she liked to grin. They had been talking about her.

"Well, well, if I was with you, if you taught me how not to get caught--"

Tiny stars burst across her vision. Maybe that had been a little reckless.

"Hey, could you maybe stop doing that?!"

The Interceptor sighed, gave Gyro a two fingered salute, and brushed past Weaver.

"She'll be back," growled Gyro, "wants to check out the Talons tonight...something big going on. But just because you know, Weaver, don't mean you have to involve yourself- you stay out of it, okay?"

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Yep, so that's it, the first chapter. Longer than I intended but you gotta roll with the words!

So, err, feel free to review :3 and be as harsh as you like, because I honestly would prefer to know what's wrong with it than just have horrible little insecurities. Er =]]