Helen Rose Thwaite

@helenthwaite.bsky.social

62 Followers 206 Following

Writer of SFF Romance. Master of dungeons (and maybe dragons?) Nerd of many colours. Owned by Theodore Deacon (see banner). She/her. https://ko-fi.com/helenwritesstuff

“There, cap,” Lexie said. “Dead ahead.” Floating some distance from the Anthe was a small, silver dot, not dissimilar to a star. I squinted but couldn’t decipher any details. “Zoom in?” The image pixelated for a moment, then sharpened again, this time closer to the object. It was roughly seven foot long, rectangular, with a keypad under a small window. I had sat forward at the first image, but straightened as recognition hit. “That’s a stasis pod.” I blinked but the pod resolutely stayed where it was. “How the hell is there a stasis pod all the way out here?” “Unclear, cap.” “Yeah, it was a rhetorical question.”
The fading light made them indistinct until they were perhaps a hundred yards away. Then I wished that I’d remained oblivious. There were three of them, and they were huge. I could see why Darien and the team had dubbed them wolves: they were wolf-shaped with lupine heads and snouts, sloped backs, and barrel chests, but their coats were the shaggy fur of creatures built for extreme cold. They trotted easily in my direction, tongues lolling between canines made for shredding flesh. I turned and ran.
And so I let her walk away, the taste of her on my lips, the imprint of her body against mine. The heart that she’d given life to withering like a flower in the fall. Fuck, but heartbreak made me poetic. I snorted, then shook myself. I’d deal with this how I dealt with everything — shove it all the way down and carry one regardless. I bent down and picked up the shotgun. Slung it over my shoulder and then headed to the base, whistling tunelessly. I’d set up the shooting gallery not far from home. Sure, Lyla’s ankle was improving, but I hadn’t seen a reason to make her walk further than was necessary. It was closing on midday, with the sun at its apex. A scattering of clouds and a soft breeze. So fucking normal, right up to when it wasn’t.
I eased out of Darien’s bed, smiling to myself. I dug in the duffel for clean underwear and changed over while he was in the shower. After pulling on trousers and a top, I wandered over to his wardrobe with the intention of finding him something to wear that wasn’t black. The unit was the same as the one in my room — hanging space over four drawers — and far more organised than mine. I found underpants and socks in the top drawer, and jeans in the one below. Several shirts hung on the rail. I flipped the hangers and rolling my eyes at the wilder prints. He was such a goof. At the end of the rail, folded over a hanger, was a grey jumpsuit. My room’s previous occupant had one of those as well. I’d not thought anything of it — a team on a mission would surely have had the same suit to start out with — and I hadn’t taken a closer look. Darien’s suit had the back facing out and, in neon green letters, spelled out three words which changed everything I knew about him. “Necron Correctional Facility.”
screenshot of the learn direct website showing the link to the a level in english lit course
“Focus, Lyla.” God, did he have to say my name like that? “Focus and aim, then squeeze the trigger.” Focus. I would have laughed if there was enough air in my lungs. His hand pressed my stomach firmer. I closed my eyes and turned all my attention on that weight. On moving it up and down. A few deep breaths gave me a modicum of equilibrium. I looked at the target. Aimed the shotgun. The weapon jumped when I squeezed the trigger, the force ramming it into my shoulder. My vision went dim with pain. Darien put a hand on it and then his lips to my temple. Only when my pain ebbed did I realise what he’d done — what he was still doing. His lips were soft as the kiss lingered. He held me in a loose embrace; one hand on my aching shoulder, the other on my abdomen, reminding me to breathe. Breathe. How was I supposed to do anything when he was kissing me? Then his lips moved to my ear. “There you go.” His tone was proud and a different heat flooded me. “Got it right in the chops.” I blinked away the bizarre haze of pain and arousal, and saw that he was right. His rough painting of a wolf’s head had a series of holes where its mouth had been. I’d done it — not only fired the blasted gun, but I’d hit the target.
actor Todd Stashwick as Deacon in the tv version of 12 Monkeys being as hot as all holy hell
“You are going to wake up,” I told him, my commanding tone spoilt by the waver in my voice. A low hum made me turn. Made relief swamp me. The bright yellow of Peter’s sides stood out against the green grass, the cart that the autonomous mobile robot pulled rattling over the uneven ground. Peter stopped obediently beside me with a happy chirp. I patted its roof without thinking, then clamped my teeth together. Anthropomorphising the vehicle was Darien’s thing… and I’d clearly picked up on it. Like thinking of them by the names he’d assigned. But thinking of it as a whom instead of a what didn’t mean that it could help me deal with Darien. Getting him onto the cart was all down to me and it took longer than I’d hoped. He was tall and sturdy, and I wasn’t used to moving masses. I was panting by the time he was on, his body somewhat twisted. I made an attempt to get him comfortable, before shaking myself — getting him back to the base was the important thing. I dropped onto a space on the cart and programmed Peter to take us back to base.
Lyla touched my cheek. Then she sighed and dropped her forehead to my chest again “Darien?” “Yeah?” “I want to go home.” My heart sank. I ought to have known this was coming — it was, after all, what we’d been working towards — but the thought of her leaving cut like a knife. Quite when she’d infiltrated my defences wasn’t something I could put a finger on, I only knew that she’d wormed her way into my affections. That I would have died for her today. I had killed for her. I loved her.
A cherry red bass guitar leans against a white sideboard full of whimsy
“Hey,” he said, and gave me another shake. “Breathe, Lyla. It's this place. Not you. For fuck's sake, breathe.” I was, but too quickly. My head spun and spots floated across my vision. “W-what's happening?” “You're having a panic attack. Or did you mean the ship?” He let go of my left arm and put his hand to my jaw. His warm touch was more stabilising than it had any right to be as he drew my focus to his face. “It's still here, kinda. It's phased.” “What? How?” “It's... I don't know, okay? Not technically. March's theory is it was something to do with the moon and retrograde. Upshot is there's two versions of this planet, existing in the same place but slightly out of sync, time-wise. Every so often, the two touch and things... shift worlds.”
Teeth closed around my arm, the bite piercing my skin. It hurt like hell. I leaned into the pain, letting it fuel my anger. Anger gave me strength — I punched the bastard thing in the nose. “Boop,” I said, and it released me with a yelp.
Agony lanced up my leg and I gasped hard. The short distance to the en-suite suddenly seemed like a kilometre. Impossible. However, I really needed to relieve myself. Maybe if I took it slow… I minced around the edge of my room, using the wall for support. As I reached the far side, the ensuite door finally within reach, the entrance door slid open. Darien started in, then stopped when he saw me. His lips thinned and he rolled his eyes. “Really?” he said, his tone flat. “I need the toilet.” Darien sighed, but he came over and put an arm around my waist. I felt more secure for his support - something that confused me no end. He’d been rude, dismissive, and… constant despite it all. I leaned into him. He grunted but said nothing. I bit back a smile.
Photo taken 15 June 1996 of the Arndale Centre in Manchester, with a mushroom cloud behind after an IRA bomb exploded.
He cried out, flinging an arm wide. I caught his hand and held it. His palm and the pads of his fingers were calloused from digging in the ground. There were tiny scratch scars across the back of his hand from when he’d tended to his roses without protective gloves. I lifted his hand to my mouth. The silver ring he wore on his third finger was cold against my lips. I examined it. It appeared to be handmade; a flat section of metal bent into a circle and flowers etched onto it. Though the cuts weren’t deep, I was still sure that the rough shapes depicted roses. The same flowers that he cultivated in the dome. That he’d stayed to care for despite the danger. My gaze shifted to his face. What did they mean to him? It had to be more than an obsession. And just as assuredly not something he’d talk about while he didn’t trust me.
The chirp of an alarm pulled me out of the haze of concentration. The sound emitted from Darien’s chronometer. I raised a quizzical eyebrow. “I set an alarm for an hour before sunset. Means we need to go.” I looked back to the panel. I was almost done, but I bit the comment back — I’d dismissed his concerns before and almost paid for that with my life. I wasn’t about to repeat the experience. “All right.” I pulled myself up, wincing as my right knee clicked. “It’s nearly there, though. Hopefully tomorrow.” Darien nodded, but his focus was already outside of the ship. He wasn’t quite tapping a foot, but I got the sense that he wanted to. Patience was not his forte. Or even his fifty.
“How dangerous are these wolves of yours?” I asked. “They're not mine,” Darien groused, then sat back on his heels to look up at me. “A couple of the team were attacked while they were outside. Nothing serious, just a coupla bites that Egon sorted out.” “Egon?” I was asking too many questions. I knew that from the way he rolled his eyes. On the other hand, it wasn’t my fault that he seemed incapable of a decent explanation. “Never mind. You specified outside. Can they not get in?” “Nope, and I've no idea why. March was the only one of us who knew a bit about zoology, but she hadn't studied them cos she needed a sample and all that shit.”
Screenshot of the Merlin app showing the bird song captured this morning
I'd not gone more than two hundred metres when I heard a scream. I rolled my eyes and then picked up my pace. The shadow of the Herminia was black against the purple sky. I couldn't make Lyla out, but the wolves? There were four of them, huge and snarling – the sound carried easily on the still night air. “Lyla, get down! I yelled, cocking the shot gun. I aimed over the ship and fired. The wolves scattered, then winked out of our existence. They wouldn't be gone for long. I ran to the Herminia. Lyla was crouched, her eyes wide. I grabbed her arm and pulled her up. “Stupid, bloody woman! I warned you.” Lyla pulled her arm from my grasp. She shook her head, bottom lips trembling, then threw her arms around my neck. My arms went around her by instinct. She shuddered in my startled embrace.
A man dressed in all black and wearing a cloak and bronze mask walks through a crowded market .
Todd Stashwich as Deacon in the TV version of 12 Monkeys
Space was forever trying to kill me. Case in point: my usual flightpath through the outer edge of the system had just become hazardous thanks to a cloud of dust swept in on a solar wind. While my starship Herminia had a shield, space dust was different to micro asteroids. The latter would ping off the shield but dust was more pervious. It was like neutrons in its ability to get past the shield and into... everything.
“How dangerous are these wolves of yours?” Lyla asked. “They're not mine,” Darien groused, then waved a hand as if to forestall her next question. “A couple of the team were attacked. Before the program was shut down. Probably why it was – they deemed not to give a reason.” “Were they badly injured?” “Couple of bites. Nothing serious.” He glanced at her. “They can't get inside.” “Why?” He sighed hard. “I've no idea. March was the zoologist, but she hadn't studied them as far as I know. Needed a sample and all that shit.” Lyla frowned. Not studying the one thing attacking the outpost personnel struck her as very short-sighted. Unless whichever agency had simply decided that the risks were too great and cut the project down. She watched Darien eat. His movements were small and very precise. A man who knew every cut mattered. Did he prune his roses with the same care? She imagined so.
It’s like the time I electrocuted myself on a car battery, only on steroids. My nerves light up. My muscles spasm. The pain grips my head in a vice and I think that I might be having an aneurism. My knees buckle and I scream as I drop. An arm wraps around my waist. The demon pulls me back against his chest. The pain recedes but my head continues to swim. Tears roll down my cheeks. I can’t coordinate my legs and I’m left hanging from the demon’s grasp like a wet rag. My only consolation is that his breathing is just as ragged as mine. That he’s shaking just as much as I am.
Crocheted dice bag in grey yarn decorated with a pink and yellow flower