#(securing his data apparently)

[gffa]

Do you know, do you have ANY IDEA, how much the Justice League must hate Batman's kids? They have some of the most sensitive artifacts and data locked up for good reason, people could get genuinely hurt if they were in the wrong hands, they have literal gods and aliens and tech geniuses designing their security systems. And Batman's fucking kids just-- His fucking kids are just breaking into the archives and reading all their fancy secret stuff BECAUSE THEY CAN. You know every single one of them did this, like Dick's the nicest one about it, he may not ask permission, he's a gremlin who just casually throws out, "Oh, yeah, I snuck into the archives when I was 12 because I wanted to see if I could and Batman was fine with it, but it's a good thing I did, because now I know how to defeat this alien invasion force, with records I took from the Hall!" They want to complain, but okay yes it is a good thing, they guess. Whenever Jason's feeling pissy about Bruce, he breaks in and leaves a giant mess behind, just so the entire League will give Batman shit about it, because he knows it's super annoying and it cheers him up to think of the headache Bruce gets from listening to Cyborg complain about him. Tim broke in and copied the entire thing on his second day as Robin because that's just what Tim does. If there's a secret Archive somewhere, he will find it and be weird about knowing everyone's secrets. He still has all of the records stashed away on an external drive somewhere. Babs didn't even look up from her game of Candy Crush while breaking into the Archives' records, just to see what kind of interesting stuff was in there, but couldn't even be bothered to do more than make a back-up copy of it, because nothing was of use to her. Damian only does it when he's bored because he doesn't care enough to otherwise, which almost kind of more insulting! (Cass and Steph are the only normal ones and that is only because they don't care enough to bother.) Basically, all of Batman's kids (and some of the extended family) are HORRIBLE LITTLE GREMLINS and the League is so, so tired of them all breaking into the Justice Archives whenever they feel like it because WE HAVE SECURITY FOR A REASON, BRUCE. (Not good enough security, apparently, he says and then just leaves.)

[vyzz-undercover]

pspspsps dinner time everyone

[cato/f!ambassador]

(1) (2) (3) (4) (5)

(5,700ish words) (im cooked)

CONTENT WARNINGS:

•slight dubcon [again]

•hints of size kink

•intercourse [M/F]

•discussions of virginity

•vague breathplay

•even more negligible aftercare

•degrading language

•mild possessive behaviour

•tumblr's pisspoor formatting as per last time

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im once again doing a free magic show here and pulling a rabbit (this fic) out my ass. so, without further a-do the tagging... @kit-williams, @passionofthesith, @pluvio-tea, @the-raven-lady, @bispecsual, @egrets-not-regrets, @gallifreyianrosearkytiorsusan, @lemon-russ. let me know if anyone else wanna be tagged if i do a part three HAHAHAHHAHA i might double down on the comedy-of-errors and have Guilliman get involved. Not like a three-way with this particular fic, even if I'd love to slut papa smurf out. There's always another time and another chance to sexualise an old man :3

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Cato finds you relatively easily.

Truthfully, you make no actual sport of it. But he's never going to pass up a cheap bit of entertainment at your expense.

At this time of the ship's cycle you're most likely to be in the east wing, pointedly the lower libraries. He knows this. He won't confess why or how he knows, though—so, fuck off.

You're lazy and predictable. To say nothing of the fact you're far too comfortable scuttling about his Father's vessel. If a hypothetical assassin ever could get onto the ship without being stomped into paste by him immediately, they'd have no problems tracking you down. You may as well be a sevitor running on rails for all your movements stay the same.

He notes you're not on the first level.

Nor the second.

You are on the third, in the leftmost quadrant.

In the restricted reading area.

You do have clearance—but the fact still irks him. Typically, this was for his more decorated brothers to catalogue Xenos. Typically, one needed to be accompanied to even access this level.

But oh, no—no, you're allowed.

You're allowed because you are a damnable leach of a woman. And also the bane of his existence, did he mention that? And you're—you're—tucked up in secure side-room, reading on a data-slate; half-asleep in a little blue robe and looking the pict of adorable sloth.

You don't notice him immediately.

Clearly too absorbed in your gerrymandering-for-servitors cheat-sheet.

And that annoys him even more.

Because, are you really that obtuse? So unassailable in your own mind that you're this blatantly fucking oblivious? He's an Astartes, damn it. Sure, he's in casual rest attire instead of clanking plate—but he's a large, two-and-a-bit meter tall trans-human war-machine standing in the doorway—and you haven't even noticed him. Ignorant like some little rodent chewing away at crumbs in it's hovel.

His Father's got a vermin problem on board, and the mice are stupid and bold and literate... along with rather cozy, apparently.

A finely woven navy throw is swaddled around you where you're lying on the chaise lounge. And the sight of you bundled up inspires a vivid déjà-vu of the last time you were alone with him with little more than a blanket over you.

Cato hesitates for a heartbeat, swallows down the sudden lump in his throat and sets his jaw.

He steps into the room and waves a hand over the laser-pad locking mechanism.

There's a fractional second in which you become cognisant to the sound of the shutter door closing and where you actively notice him.

Then there's a shrill scream as if you've pinched a nerve.

The data-slate goes flying, pelted at his head. But it hits the shutter door and clatters to the floor, far-off any hint of a good mark.

Useless woman.

Realising it's him a moment later, you heave out a racketing sigh.

"Throne of Terra, Ca—" you start, and it sounds like you're going to say his first name before you rightly correct yourself and say, "C-Commander, you scared me half to death."

He immediately sets about accosting you, "Have you been sitting here with the door open this whole time?"

"No," you nip out.

"You are aware that I can tell when you're lying?"

"I'm certain you can," your tone flattens in a way he's only ever heard you talk to particularly sleazy representatives with. It's not an honest exchange, it's double-speak. It's mocking. You're mocking him.

He grits his teeth.

You've grown more open in your defiance towards him as of late, certainly not because of any revelation or reason and it rubs him in a dangerous, new way. He's not about to let it slide, either.

"Is that so?" His words are sharp and accusative and he hopes—he hopes he'll get the delight of watching you cower like you usually do when confronted by him. "Have you been lying to me often, then?"

Half his hopes come true. You look away nervously and mumble something almost inaudibly, and he'd not have noticed if not for his far superior hearing.

It was, "...maybe," and all Cato can help but do being himself, is detonate.

"And what have you been deceiving me of, you scheming little whore?" He snarls, fuming—a dozen crimes and sins crowding his mind you might be tried for. Maybe he's been far too lenient to the actual reality of your evil. Finally, validation to corroborate his deviation—maybe you'll admit you're some Slanneshi fleshchanger, and that you intended to have burrowed so deep in his mind.

Nonetheless, you're nowhere near even close to fast enough to defend yourself. But it's not like he gives you the chance.

He's crossed the distance with a practiced speed. And quicker than you can even yelp, you are pinned to the lounge—a shackle in the form of his fist around your smaller throat.

The pressure is a limp handshake by his standards. You're not really choking. Just stifled slightly for good measure.

Still, it'd be a mere flex to break your neck. He could snap you like a stylus with what was to him, ultimately, nothing but a simple twitch of his fingers. And he would think more about the blatant contrasts between you both much longer if he wasn't far too distracted by the fact you even struggle prettily wantonly. Big eyes wide and glossy with animal panic. Involuntary tears gather at the corners as you register what's going on at last. The mad temptation to lick them if they so much as dare trail down your cheeks begins eating at him.

Some rational part of his rational mind reminds him he can't get the truth out of you when he's vaguely throttling you, though—and he lets you go begrudgingly. Instead opting for looming over you as you roll sidelong on the couch, breathing fast.

He crouches down to your level and grumbles, still absorbed in his raging.

"Speak," he barks, and pointedly grabs you by the chin.

"I–I hadn't actually—" you start, breathless as you mumble. "Actually, uh, laid with anyone, even though I nodded I sort of... had."

He's staggered at the statement, "...that's it?"

A vague lie of omission, but it's not the great corruption he sought to root out.

Then he actually thinks about what you've just admitted.

Like fog banished under a rising sun, his anger at the thought of treachery immediately dissipates into blistering revelation.

"Hold on, you..." Cato starts, baffled and completely knocked for a six, meeting your gaze slowly—genuinely stunned as he pulls his hand back fully. "I... I was the first?"

You look away cursorily, face reddening not only with your previous strains, but with embarrassment.

Now, that was the reaction of a guilty conscience.

Cato doesn't know what to do with the information. Nor does he really know what he feels.

He'd been the first. He feels like he's won something over his brothers. Therefore, fuck the lot of them—and fuck Titus, specifically. Even if he's not sure why. He truly couldn't believe it. There's success, sure—but then there's taking the laurels: whole and absolute. And this... this is exactly that. But oh, for some apparently vestal thing, you'd let him bully down to the hilt in your tight cunt; whining like a whore when he spilled himself inside you. Throne, it was almost suffocating to think back on it now. So willing to have your maidenhead taken, nevermind the fact you weren't the only one who'd had a new experience that day. But you didn't need to know that.

"Another notch to my mantel of victories then," he ultimately decides is the best thing to say, gloating to himself.

"Unbelievable," you sigh softly as you shakily sit yourself up.

But there's the problem again. The one tangible, constant problem with having laid you. It's made you mouthy. He only ever glimpsed your boldness when you interacted with other baselines in the past. You never sassed Astartes, or at least, he's never seen you do it. But now that stubbornness and unwillingness to back down in a political forum is on full display heedless of situation. As if you've suddenly become one of the auto-felating Imperial Fists—or any of Dorn's insufferable ball-busting scions, really. Worst of all, it's only managed to somehow make him even more enthralled annoyed with you than usual. You're still too good at quashing your anger, hard as it is to rouse. But he loves loathes that you bite the lure instead of shying off now.

"To think that I was the first—is your entire professional role not centred around charm? Would no one else have you with that rotten attitude you've been hiding?" he says, knowing he's being nasty, knowing he's twisting the knife; and absolutely praying for you to fall for it.

Cato watches a rainbow of emotions pass over your features, before you settle on one that makes you look like you ate something sour. He's hit a weak spot. But the sentiment holds true. His Primarch thinks you the best and brightest to sway planets? You couldn't even seduce some daft, drunken aristocratic fool to fuck you.

You, the prettiest baseline he's ever seen.

...maybe Guilliman is right in saying the Imperium has rolled belly-up with bloat.

"That's not—that's not why and you know it," you open your mouth and jumble your words briefly before getting out, "Do you have any idea how hard it is to find someone who won't have a panic attack because of the several Astartes that insist on following you around?" You continue, raving and flustered, "Do you think anyone would get near me with you—or—or... maybe Captain Acheran, or the good Chaplain, let's say, breathing over my shoulder?"

"You should be grateful any of us waste our time babysitting you," Cato oafishly shoots back like a petulant child, brows furrowing, "You should be thanking me for doing the brunt of it."

Your nose scrunches up, "Pardon me, Commander, it's surely entirely my fault that we are both at the whims of our Lord Primarch."

He pauses.

Something about this interaction isn't stirring his temper like it should.

He should be absolutely livid with anger, or at the very least blowing your eardrums out with a 'shut the fuck up,' at full Astartesian line-command volume.

Yes, he should be seething, and yet he's not. To his surprise, he's actually feeling more enthused than anything.

This feels... exciting, almost.

"You've only grown the backbone to talk back to me because I fucked one into you," he remarks sharply in reply.

You sputter, and go red, robbed of your words.

"Or maybe this is mere performance," He adds with a sneer, tipping his chin up proudly.

You roll your eyes and let out a dramatic puff of air, "Y-You're such a..." you start, but your voice tapers off—and you look away, pouting.

"I'm a... what?" He taunts, leaning close.

You grumble, apparently feeling brave again; meeting his gaze and puffing yourself up.

"You're a bully," you hiss, clearly upset but undeniably frazzled enough to be somewhat ranting again as you add, "A bully w-who's so disgustingly egotistical you've convinced yourself you're some great conqueror or... something... j-just for having been in me, as if I've never put anything in myself before."

Oh, but wait, Cato likes the idea of that. He likes it so much he completely forgets to acknowledge the insults in your statement prior. He likes the idea of you suffering like he had been—alone, yearning—aching for something you didn't know the dizzying reality of. He can imagine you smothering your sounds, those blessed whines he's got memorised, into a pillow in that cushy little quarters of yours, squirming on your meagre fingers, or maybe cold silicon. You didn't need that lesser imitation now. Cato'd gladly fill that role. He'd gladly fill that hole, too.

Nonetheless, he immediately wonders who you were getting off thinking about.

He'd streak the length of the ship for it to've been him you'd been fucking yourself over.

"Who were you thinking of?"

You blink at the completely offhanded question, then start sputtering, stalling.

"What? I-I—" you stammer, "That's not important or relevant—I just... did it, it's—"

"Keep lying and see where it gets you," He cuts in, raking you with an aggravated frown, and oh, excellent, you're starting to relearn he's not fond of your half-truthing, finally.

You duck your head a little, cringing under his gaze, trying to scoot yourself backwards. But there's nowhere to go.

Cato realises belatedly that in the middle of your antics, the sleeve of your robe has started to fall from your shoulder. His brain short-circuits momentarily with the sheer amount of air that floods his head. Your warm, soft skin on display just for him. He didn't get to see all of you last time. He felt a good portion of you, yes—but he didn't get the chance to admire acknowledge the whole vista. Not because he was too desperate to rut against to try. Or because he was probably going to swoon like a fool if he did. Shut up, he's no coward. Afterall, his hands had been close to your chest, but now—now he can actually look.

He's going to absolutely ruin that lovely canvas you've given him.

"Nobody," you say softly.

"Groxshit," he snaps.

"Fine—" You swallow and start scrambling for a response, "Malum C-Caedo."

Cato genuinely cannot help but bark a laugh at that, "Spare me, you haven't even met the man, moron—you're only saying that because your most recent reading was on his last briefing," he rolls his eyes. "You forgot I was there with Guilliman when you were given it."

You look at him like a cornered little mouse, and finally—finally, your sleeve falls just enough that he's given a perfect view of one of your tits.

"You already..." you grumble softly. "You already know who, then, so I shouldn't even have to dignify this."

"It's me, isn't it?" He asks darkly, and while he tries to sound haughty, the fact he's thrilled by both the notion and the sight of your partial nudity ends up warping his tone into a vaguely manic chuff.

You glance aside and stammer loudly, "N-No."

No, you say—but he hears your little heart flutter. And sees your pupils dilate.

"I hope you're aware you can't lie to save your life," Cato drawls.

Your gaze snaps back to his, and for a brief second, your expression is flushed with embarrassment; until it changes to a sour little scowl.

"I'm not a bad liar, you're just an Astartes—" you start furiously, but check your flustered anger.

Cato smirks.

It's not a completely clean victory, but it's good.

It means his own lusting madness is at least reciprocally vindicated.

And at that realisation, Cato's impulse control violently loses balance; and he's painfully aware he cannot, for the life of him, contain the hungered almost purr-like sound that crawls up his throat.

You go back to looking transfixed at that, and he pauses.

There's something... pulling him in even more than before. He feels as if he's taken the bait, and the hook, and the line and sinker—hell, he's taken a good bit of the rod, too. Everything's a little too heated, and he's got an innate, intuitive feeling you're just as wound up as he is—wait. He breathes in deep and slow, and scents the air. Throne, he may as well have been cold-clocked at the temple by a Dreadnaut for all the innate information he suddenly receives. You're quite frankly drenched in want. You're getting off on this. Smothering him in a dizzying biological chant of hormones that scream—fuck me, fuck me, fuck me.

He leans close, and puts a hand on the arm-rest; the other palm slowly moving towards your chest.

Your eyes follow it—but you voice no complaints nor rejections.

Justified now, he's ecstatic. And your skin is as perfect to the touch as he remembers.

His hand looks huge compared to the breast cupped in it, idly toying with the consistency of the flesh in his grasp. It's much softer and malleable than he thought it'd be. Almost like a water-skin. Thumb depressing your right nipple, before drawing a thoughtless circle.

You sigh lightly and relax a bit, and Cato takes that as another open invitation.

He uses the same hand to tug away the fabric from your other shoulder.

Quick as anything, he's practically stuffing his face against you without any real warning, ignoring your flinch at his haste. Cato's letting the urges he'd withheld in that wretched shack out. And it's so worth the wait. He groans, licks a fat band over your left breast, and worries at the perked little bud with his teeth until you're squirming; only to drag his attention up to nip at your fragile throat.

You're breathing hard, and you open your mouth as if about to speak—but ever spiteful, Cato rewards your attempt with the drag of his tongue and the press of his teeth; and that promptly shuts you up. The faint salt on your skin isn't half bad of a thing either, honestly. He rather likes it. It tastes like how you smell—and he's absolutely luxuriating in it. It makes it all the easier to map your chest from the curve of your breast to your collarbones, garnishing you with eager drags of his tongue and mouth-wrought bruises.

And now you're glorious. The marks on your skin are vivid—he's guaranteed you won't be wearing anything showy for a good while. No lovely vile plunging necklines for you to display to bastard dignitaries. Not unless you want to explain why they're Cato Sicarius sized. They'll also be a good reminder to you of exactly who's superior.

You're still too dazed by his efforts to realise the extent of his actions, but he knows exactly how hot and bothered it's made you. That honeyed reek of arousal is driving him insane.

Urged on, he digs a hand down and around your back and drags you off the lounge. Manoeuvring to turn so his back rests against the lip of the lounge, nigh dumping you before him on the rug.

"W-Why...?" You blink, stunned for a second before righting yourself and meeting his eyes. Cato's sat himself cross-legged, before letting them unfold, one tenting and the other splaying out.

"I did all the work last time," he starts impatiently, and leans up to grab you by the forearm; bringing your hand close close to the cradle of his hips, "Now it's your turn to do something for once."

...Cato's not sure you're actually listening, because he could've bet his helm you'd've become irate at that statement if you were. That, and you're glaring between his thighs.

Ironically, he also almost instantaneously finds he doesn't really care to continue the train of thought. Not when you trace the engorged bulge of him through the folds of his tunic. Groping at the base, before smoothing your palm to the rounded tip.

There's no accursed buttons between him and the open this time, thankfully—and that means he can simply tug aside the folds of his layered tunic and bare himself from the belly down.

His cock lays fat and heavy with blood, smearing precum as it moves from his navel to leftward on his hip when he straightens up.

You're staring.

He scoffs at your apprehension and says, "Alternatively, perhaps you can—"

A soft, "Shhh," leaves you.

He snorts like a big, angry stock horse, brow raised. No baseline, regardless of rank, would dare treat Cato like this; none would dare even think to treat to him like this. Except you now, apparently. You forget your station, your place. Making demands of an Astartes is nowhere near your clearance. Your best option is to implore, not command. Yours is to nod your pretty thick head and smile your fair rotten little smile and obey your betters.

"Did—did you just shush me, woman?" Cato's nigh instantly consumed by a rush of anger at the sheer audacity, sneering. "In what reality do you think you've any right to shush me? I'm Commander of the Victrix Honor Guard, Grand Duke of Talassar and High Suzerain of—"

Of... of something.

Suddenly your insolence is inconsequential to him. All that matters is the smooth glide of your dainty hand on his cock, and the sight of your thumb and pointer being unable to wrap around and meet given how thick he is.

You look up at him slowly for a second, before your focus returns to apparently sussing out how best to saddle him. It's a timid gesture, like you're anticipating overstepping—you're cautious.

He's about to remind you of the fact you've taken him before, so Cato's proven he fits and all this coyness of yours is arbitrary. But he guesses the point is moot when you're suddenly already stradling his hips.

With one small hand finding a place on his stomach, and the other holding his cock straight beneath the obscurity of your garbs, he feels you lower yourself enough to make contact; testing before offering a little more urgency.

With an agonisingly careful roll of your pelvis, the head of his cock catches against the soft ring of muscle at your entrance for a second.

He grumbles despite himself.

He can't watch his cock sink into you like last time thanks to the curtain of your robe, but at least he can certainly feel every millimeter of it happening.

Tight heat feels like a death shroud over his mind as he draws a blank on anything else.

And finally—finally he's stuffed down to the hilt—and oh, he's filled you to your end just like the last time. Throne, he's drunk off the spongy heat the thick head of cock is squared right up against.

This position's made your cunt just that bit shorter inside thanks to gravity.

You whimper, clearly trying desperately not to start shaking.

You start shaking anyways.

He's fascinated by the small, restless palms now pressed flat and trying to find a counterpoint on his broad, tunic'd chest. Soft and un-calloused aside from the small bump of a pen's rest on your writing hand. Everything about you is warm and soft. Inside and out, you're all his.

He exhales harshly through his nose and blinks, gaze shifting from your hands to your tits, then to your face.

You wear an even more flushed expression now, overwhelmed, with all your focus on him.

Right where it always should be.

"Hurry up," he grunts sharply.

You swallow hard, and promptly drop your gaze.

You, surprisingly, manage to lift yourself up despite your theatrics. And, little by little, he watches you strain up until just the tip of him is still buried in you.

Angling yourself, you keen, carefully sinking back down on his cock and reeling at the stretch again as you settle, ass meeting his dense quads with a soft plomf.

He can see you biting back a moan, pointless as the act is.

"Keep going," Cato grits out, "I didn't tell you to stop."

You frown halfheartedly, and your insides clench around him despite yourself.

You start a slow rhythm, the noise of colliding skin on skin echoes in his ears. Slick friction, and fucked-out, half-stifled cries. Your pace quickening. Riding him. Using him at your own leisure, like the precious wretched little thing you are. You repeat the same dizzying motion again and again, and again—rising and sinking—up, down, up, down; until it's clear you've found an angle that hits something just right, sending you over the edge with a rattling gasp.

A low groan crawls up the back of Cato's throat and slips free without restraint.

He's barely able to cope through the tight squeeze of your orgasm around his cock; but he steels himself, winning the fight to not spill in you right then and there at that. No small thanks to the furious couple hours he'd spent earlier in the simulated night cycle furiously attending his urges.

His calloused mitt can hardly compete with the nigh painfully silken clench of you. And the view—Throne, to simply watch is a level of spectacle he can't even put into words. It's nothing short of hypnotic seeing your face soften with fucked-out delight—he can't believe he'd ever thought it was good the first time around when he hadn't even seen you meet your end.

You stop suddenly, seated to the hilt, trembling and oversensitive—grinding back and forth, nails digging into his pectorals through his tunic.

"Just... n-need t'catch my breath..." You whimper, and that debauched tone wreaks havoc through his mind. An unceasing urge to pound you to tears overtaking what little sense he has left. It's the ravenous fact that you, the little parchment-pushing temptress, are all tuckered out from cumming on him so quickly. He's preening at the fact he feels that good to you—oh, he's going to send you limping back to your quarters.

He wants to watch you break.

"You lazy little cunt, you can't do a thing right, can you?" Cato groans, your thighs twitching as he lifts you by the hips and makes you sink back down.

He gets the treat of seeing your eyes swim back in your skull, dumb with sensation.

Lulled by the reedy, oversexed moans slipping from you with each motion; and he can't help but start thrusting up, matching pace.

"Hardly even four and a half minutes—and you're a mess, absolutely useless." He heaves, dropping you to full-hilt for a second to manoeuvre you better. You're nigh but a gasping dead-weight, delirious.

If you're going to act the entitled bitch, he'll screw you into something alike submission. Which is exactly why he's then pulling out, shoving you against the lounge on your back; and moving your thighs to bracket his hips as he half kneels on the rug. Just to slide himself back inside, balls-deep in willing flesh. The only dignity he affords you then is the space to wrap your arms around and behind his shoulders. Which you rightly do without demand.

Hold on, was the unspoken order.

Then he's fucking you into the lounge like his life depends on it. He's glad to notice it's bolted down, but the damned thing creaks—nonetheless, he can barely even hear it over the perfect sounds you're making.

Rolling his bottom lip between his teeth, barely holding back the noises that choke his own gullet.

"You're so damn lucky you're a nice tight hole," he rasps harshly, "That's all you're good for, hm? For me to fill?"

There's a gutting sort of beauty in the way you're looking up at him with open desperation. He's trying so hard not to fall victim to the siren call of it, but it's perfect vile and he can't help but fold. He'd kill for that look to never leave your face when your eyes fell on him.

"Fuck, I must be in your womb at this rate—would you like that? My load in your womb?" Cato says between a great lungful of air, only to start huffing madly to himself when you nod drunkenly. "Good, because that's exactly where i-it's going."

Mind reeling with every resounding sticky slap of his balls against you, paired with scorching wet slide of him pumping in and out of you. You're crying, all your sensibilities lost in the thorough pace he's ploughing into you with; trying to pull him in by tugging at his shoulders, but with your meagre strength it's merely a vague suggestion.

Still, he leans into it, if only to finally seize the chance to lap the tears off your cheek, and you sob; trying to turn nose to nose with him. Your pathetic pawing at his broad back only exacerbates the overwhelming urgency in his blood.

He's so close.

Bliss crests up like a tide inside him, building and building, stunned with how it makes him buck into you. He's dazed in a way he surely wasn't designed to be resilient against. He can't even shut his damn mouth to stop moaning—and only technically manages to do so when you cover it with your own the very second he's about to finish; your legs squeezing impotently down on his hips, trembling through another climax.

His nerves light up like an orbital barrage, body rocking against the pretty, willing thing below him that you are. He has no idea what's going on beyond that. Are you kissing him? Is that what you're doing? Half his brain is stunned by the idea and the other half is flooded by the rushes of pleasure in his system making his tendons cramp, ravaging him with the sound of his hearts thudding in his ears.

Working himself right into agony; he's tensing against you as he empties himself as deep as he can. His pace finally breaks pattern and staccatos as his mind leadens.

Lulled by the molten satisfaction that swamps him soon thereafter, Cato blindly tries to chase forward and keep your lips on his. Emphasis on tries. He thinks he likes it, foreign as the sensation and sentiment is. He's got his tongue in your mouth, but no real clue what to do beyond lapping further in like a man dying of thirst—and then, of course, you decide to start weakly thrashing for air, blunt teeth grazing against the invading muscle—so, with a miffed groan; he pulls away, drooling as he slumps front-long against you and the lounge with a rumbling sigh, letting his eyes close as he basks in the afterglow.

You're panting still, nosing against the nape of his neck—likely having difficulty respiring under his weight—but despite that, you're still twitching around his spent cock, just like last time.

Wistfully, he wonders if he could sleep with you stuffed full of him like this. Slotted together and absolutely buried in your cunt; reaming you out as far as your small frame will allow. He enjoys the idea of that, and of holding you close.

He listens meditatively as your breathing steadily evens out, a soft in-out rhythm he can hear start in your chest only to feel warmly dancing across his collarbone a moment later.

Your small hand glides up the back of his trapezoid and combs through the short hair at his crown.

He shivers almost immediately at the act, thoughts clouding. He doesn't know what he's supposed to do, now. He can't really bring himself to do anything. He's locked in. It's like he's been sedated, or scruffed about the neck. Then your fingers trace the bare skin behind his ear, and he snaps from the trance enough to crack an eye open to glance down.

"Don't push your luck," he bites out automatically and leers away.

You immediately stiffen, and lurch yourself back—seemingly completely confused.

He's not exactly sure why he reacted that way either, but he's certainly not going to address it.

Ultimately, he opts to pull his cock out of you with scant decorum rather than linger on the topic. Then he settles into a kneel as he eyes the soaked-in stain below the bunched-up fabric of your robe.

"Well," he snorts.

And damn, it's difficult to hold a straight face at the overdramatic, painfully oblivious pout you shoot him.

So, Cato just continues watching you with a cruel sort of satisfaction as you sit yourself up shakily, and realise the mess.

You blanch, promptly shutting your legs and fussing—your ass is half stuck to the fabric of the lounge by your own slick and his spent when you move to stand on shaky, unsure legs.

He's aware of the fact you're after something to wipe away the aftermath. But he's far too content observing you struggle for the moment. Pleased, even. Especially when he's treated to the cringing gasp that slips from you when his semen no doubt starts dripping down your thighs.

You're panicking within seconds. He can hear your heartbeat quickening, plus the acrid tang of baseline stress hormones pervading the room.

There's nothing to spare. Unless you want to leave another smear across the lounge cushioning, but he doubts you'd go so low. He, however, has no such reservations—and yanks the plush velour padded square up to wipe his cock off. It's not as if he wasn't going to toss it down one of the incinerator shafts on the library's second floor anyways.

"Do—" you begin softly, but amend yourself, "Would y-you have anything... to..."

He stares at you, brows furrowed.

Floundering now, you waddle close and swallow harshly.

"To... wipe this up?" You finish, barely a whisper. He can tell you're sour at the fact you're stroking his ego and essentially too full of him to go anywhere.

Cato scoffs, holding up the seating cushion, "What? Too spoilt to use this?"

You cringe at him, "People have sat on that—hundreds of people, probably. I-I don't have your immunity to infection."

Cato cedes on that point at least, because he assumes being a baseline is hell. And so very not his problem, too.

Completely out of left field, comes the temptation to lick you clean. His mulish hind-brain reasons it's a brilliant idea, namely because you'd likely be squirming for him again. Even if he has no real idea of what to do beyond that. Lap at your clit, probably—he's not actually done any of this before except—well, except just slamming into you. He has the basic gist of all of this from biologis graphics and pornographic motionpicts. Yes, the latter are technically contraband on Ultramarine chapter vessels—Throne, he actually remembers when that was put into force. He was still green behind the ears when that'd happened. But those specific brothers had displayed it for abstract amusement, not... it's intended purpose—rather: 'Lo, look at this curiosity, brothers! See they're fornicating, how very so strange! Baselines am-i-right?'

Honestly, it's never actually anything heretical, except for maybe the terrible acting.

He'd deem that punishable by death.

Regardless, Cato's guessing the process of licking something can't really be some sage art form. Not like duelling, and fuck, he's stellar at that. He's stellar at almost everything, he reasons. So why not that? You're such a wanton little thing he'd probably make you finish on accident.

Yet he decides against it as soon as the logical part of his brain boots back up. Largely given the fact he's probably already going to have a hard time as it is trying to avoid others on his way to mask the stink of sex. His brothers have keen noses, it wouldn't be difficult for them to notice the smell of you on his way to his chamber if he's not careful. Let alone if it's smeared all over his face. Next time, however—

"Surely it's not that bad," he says off-handedly.

A surge of shame appears on your face as a red, blotchy belt across your cheeks, and you seem about to protest before he grumbles.

"Still, you really ought to find a solution," he remarks idly, and he notices the implication isn't lost on you.

You frown softly, and wrinkle your nose at him.

"Maybe some manners would help you achieve your goals," he adds, with a clearer spite.

Your frown grows nigh comically harsh.

Cato grunts wryly, satisfied at your annoyance and paws at the hem of his tunic—tearing a portion off and holding it out to you.

You grab the edge of it and tug, but he doesn't let go.

"And what do you say?"

"Thanks," you answer hastily.

He raises an eyebrow and pulls the torn fabric back towards himself ever so slightly, causing you to over extend closer to him.

His stare stays locked on yours, and he gets the treat of watching you dither and fluster under his focus momentarily before you amend, "T-Thank you..." you swallow, and break eye contact, adding; "Commander Sicarius."

"Was that so hard?" Cato scoffs, especially thrilled as he lets go of the scrap—eyeing you as you trot aside, and gingerly begin to wipe away the mess of satisfaction coating your thighs and rear.

When you're decidedly done, you stomp back over to him and hold out the soiled fabric.

He reaches for it, only to have it promptly pulled away.

Cato scowls, and takes a step forward into your space—only for you to inch forward into his.

You're tormenting him then, he decides; or rather he thinks. He's not sure. You don't look smug—you look... nervous? Your lips have drawn into a thin line and you keep glancing between his eyes and behind him randomly.

"What?" He huffs, narrowing his eyes.

"Lean down," you mumble, then quietly make the additional effort of throwing in a "...please."

Cato grumbles at the request but complies, and Throne, he's glad he does; because suddenly you're up on your tip-toes, your hand on his jaw—and your lips are on his cheek.

He blinks, dumb as a mule. It's over as fast as it started and he can't even begin to unpack the elation he's abruptly feeling.

Heedless of his dazzled state, you clear your throat with a bashful laugh—and then the rag is suddenly stuffed into his open hand. He's still frozen there as you practically rush out the room, scooping your previously flung data-slate up as you frantically wave the door mechanism open and vanish from view.

A long wheeze escapes his throat in the empty room, his face thudding with heat.

Oh, he's fucked fucked.

[lusmeitli]

Where light in darkness lies

Summary: How helping with a panic attack can lead to something more.

Pairings: Loki x Female Reader

Warnings: Panic attack, a hint of angst, fluff, a bit of fingering.

A/N: There aren’t a lot of explanations given. I have also taken a great deal of liberties to bend characters at my will.

9~9~9~9~9~9~9~9~9~9~9~9~9~9~9~9

The kettle seemed to take forever. Wasn’t there a saying… a watched pot never boils? Apparently, it applied to kettles, too. As the appliance imitated sounds of an imminent blast off, you poked the tea bag at the bottom of the mug with the spoon from one side to another, then clockwi–

Suddenly, everything was plunged into darkness.

“Curses.”

You stretched your hand out to hold onto the kitchen counter for something… tactile. Grounding. Darkness was your foe.

The familiar fireball under your skin licked up your back and across your chest. Its heat seemed to suffocate you. Breaths came out faster, shallower, harsher. Fumbling to try and find your phone on the counter your hands knocked something over. It shattered on the floor. The mug.

Not enough air. You just couldn’t get enough air into your lungs. The only sounds you heard was the pounding beat of your heart and the ringing in your ears. The panic rose up like a monster looming in front of you, a cruel smirk on its face, before it would open its horrifying hellmouth and swallow you whole.

And then you felt hands on you, whirling you around. Soft lips firmly pressed onto yours, moving with purpose and absolutely no hesitation. Its spark set a fuse alight, burning through your body until it reached your brain, sending a shockwave through you. It took your body a long moment to snap out of your onsetting panic attack and to respond to the kiss. You nearly sobbed into the lips, at the distraction and relief they provided, your hands fisting in a shirt, warm skin and contracting muscles under your fingers.

The heat you had felt moments before was gone. In its stead grew an all consuming need. A soft moan escaped somewhere from the back of your throat. It broke the spell. You heard the person kissing you take in a shaky breath, before their lips left yours and it was over. Several moments later the lights flickered back on. You stood rooted to the spot, staring at the empty space in front of you and the broken mug on the floor.

Your fingertips ghosted over the spot where lips had touched yours and a blush crept over your cheeks. In the corner the kettle clicked, the water now boiled.

*****

“Loki?”

“Mhm.”

“Are you sure it was him? I mean how can you tell?”

You brought a hand over the receiver, trying to shield the words so only your friend could hear.

“I, um, hacked into the security camera footage from just before the power cut. He had walked into the kitchen literally a second before it happened.”

There was silence on the other end of the line. Then a heavy breath. “Wow. I don’t know what to say. Ain’t that something.”

“You’re right,” you huffed out, “I mean, this is me we’re talking about, right?”

“That’s not what I meant and you know it.”

“But it is though, isn’t it,” you said, rubbing your tired eyes. “It’s just little old me. Even if it really was him, it probably just was some silly prank or a dare.”

*****

The Quinjet in the hangar was your favourite place to work. Even though today you were in the tail of the jet downloading the aircraft log from the Flight Data Recorder, which involved squeezing into a rather tight space. All that to plug in the USB cable and to then balance the laptop on the palm of your right hand, whilst operating it with the left. You had tried to talk to Tony about moving the access point, seeing as it was a weekly task, but Pepper had walked past and diverted his attention. Judging by the way he immediately stalked after her, he hadn’t heard a word you said.

Thirty-seven percent through the download, the power in the jet cut out and you cursed. Setting the laptop down, you fumbled for your phone, turned on the torch and made your way through the jet to inspect the fuse box you knew was located just outside the cockpit. No light came in from the hangar, which seemed odd. Maybe it was another power outage that affected the whole tower. You tripped and the phone slipped from your grasp, landing somewhere face up.

“Not again…”

The panic started to rise in you once more. You felt too hot, the air seemed stuffy and heavy. Your breath came out fast and ragged. Hands outstretched, you bumped into something hard. Something that shouldn’t be there. You gulped as hot dread shot through your veins and took a step back. With lightning speed slender fingers wrapped around your wrists, tugging you forward to bring you flush against the hard body. Instead of consuming you, the panic ebbed off. Your body knew this touch. Though firm, it meant no harm.

You felt their chest rise and fall, a lot slower than yours. Slender fingers trailed up your arm, over your shoulder and neck. His fingertips skirted over the skin of your throat, goosebumps erupted all over your body. Someone released a slow breath - presumably you.

The fingers moved into your hair and curled around the base of your head, tilting it up. And then those wonderful lips were on yours again. This time, he angled your head to deepen the kiss. The taste and feel of his tongue moving against yours robbed you of your bones and you faltered, glad that his hands held you pressed so tightly up against him. He seemed hungry, needy. His lips left yours, trailing a few kisses over your jaw, before he rested his forehead against yours, noses touching for a wonderful moment, your short breaths mixing.

And then he was gone again. Your hands fell to your side and you blinked against the bright light in the jet that hummed over your head. Yet again you were left wondering what had just happened and, more importantly, why.

*****

“It only affected the hangar this time.” You pulled a book off the shelf in the shop.

“More hacking?” your best friend asked, finger searchingly running over the spines.

Shaking your head, you thumbed through the pages. “My coworkers told me.”

“So you’re saying he did it on purpose?”

Shrugging, you put the book back. “He knows magic, that’s what I’m saying.”

“Honey, I love you, but before you go down that obsession-rabbit hole, it’s my duty as your bestie to warn you. Just please be careful. This is Loki after all. Hm, where is it?”

“Whatever is that supposed to mean?”

The pitying look in your friend’s eyes was almost too much. “Oh where to start… He’s a god, immortal and several centuries older than you,” she counted off on her fingers.

“Actually,” you mumbled, “he is mortal. Asgardians just have a longer life span of about 5,000 years.”

Your friend blinked, surprised. “Who told you that? Dr Google?”

“Thor, actually. He had to fill in a form for the Quinjet learner’s licence and we joked about his age.”

“I love you, but you’re weird. Happy rabbit hunting then.” A victory cry fell from your friend’s lips as she pulled out what she was looking for and pushed it into your hands. “You want spicy? Here you go.”

“‘Three Swedish Mountain Men’?” you read.

She wiggled her brows. “They’re hot and they like sharing…”

You rolled your eyes, but put it on the pile of books you were getting anyway.

*****

Late shifts were your favourite, because it allowed you to actually get work done, without the phone going off every other minute. The only thing you didn’t like about them was walking back to your room afterwards.

It was 3am when the lift doors slid open and your shoes softly squeaked on the dimly lit corridor. Nightlighting mode, as Tony called it. You hated it and walked faster. Rubbing your stiff neck and rolling your shoulders, you rounded the corner. Just a few more metres to your door. But someone grabbed your hand and pulled you into the refuse room, which was pitch black.

Cool fingers were placed on your lips signalling you not to make a sound.

You nodded your head and the fingers moved from your lips, slowly, tracing. Then both hands were in your hair. His fingers cupped your head and you felt his breath against your lips. Your hands were on his chest, gripping the front of his t-shirt. Soft cotton. You closed your eyes.

“Please,” you said so quietly you thought he didn’t hear.

But he had and his lips brushed against yours, light as a feather. Your head was swimming, your heart aching. His touch was soft and gentle. He had kissed you before, but it was as if he was now seeing you, in the darkness of the refuse room, for the first time. Taking you in, kissing every inch of skin that was exposed. His lips grazed the knuckles on your hand and a lump formed in your throat.

His hands cupped your head and you felt his fingers fiddle with your hair bobble, before the restraint was gone and your hair hung loose. His hands combed through the strands. You couldn’t remember the last time someone did that.

Your hands ran over his biceps, his shoulders, his pecs, his abs. You wished you could say something, anything, but you feared you’d spoil the moment, that he’d pull away. His lips found yours again and he angled his head, his tongue slowly dancing with yours. It was the most erotic thing you had ever experienced.

He changed his footing to come at you from a different angle, pressing his body flush against yours. He peppered small kisses on the corner of your mouth and down your throat. He seemed to have found a spot he liked, because he sucked on it, his teeth grazing, lips easing the light bite. Before he pulled away, he inhaled deeply at the crown of your head, and placed a gentle kiss on your hair. You felt safe, basking in his warmth. And like the times before, he was gone.

By the time your legs felt stable enough to support you again, you opened the door and walked back to your room.

A smile crossed your lips as you realised that this was the first time you hadn’t panicked in the dark.

*****

“Maybe he’s shy?” your bestie suggested as you sat on her couch, both spooning ice cream out of the same tub.

Loki and shy were not words you would have put in a sentence together. But then, sometimes you were wondering if his aloof stance was just for show.

“Have you tried talking to him?” she asked.

You shook your head. “I could never work up the nerve. He seems… so unapproachable in the light of day. Maybe it all really is an elaborate prank.”

“Or,” your friend leaned forward, lowering her voice conspiratorially, “or he has the hots for you and just can’t find any other way to show it.”

You mulled this over for a while. “But why in the dark? Why isn’t he saying anything ever?”

“When do you see him?”

“At extended team briefings, but the Avengers come in last and sit at the front. Rogers requested it.”

Your friend rolled her eyes. “Any other time?”

“Well, in the hallways, but either he’s with someone or I am.”

“Meh. Where else?”

You leaned back, thinking. “In the canteen?”

“Okay, now we’re talking.”

“But, again, he’s always with someone.”

“Well… looks like you’re screwed.” She made a show of licking her spoon. “Or about to be screwed.”

She laughed as you threw a pillow in her face.

*****

It was just an autumn storm. Nothing out of the ordinary. Except for that it was five in the morning and had been going all night. You were standing by the window, looking out onto the soft glow of the city that never slept. Angry gusts of wind whipped big raindrops against the windowpane. Your breath misted against the cool glass. Normally, you slept through storms, but not this one.

The team had yet to return from a mission and you were worried sick. The mission was particularly perilous. You knew this because Tony had called you into his office, shut the door (something he never had done before) and told you that he couldn’t give you any information, but that ‘some serious shit is going to go down tonight’ and to trust - dramatic pause - him. It all was accompanied by a stare with which Tony seemed to try to convey a secret message. You guessed he didn’t mean himself, but Loki. Hence, you had chewed off all your nails for the last few hours.

When the door to your room opened, closed and footsteps approached, relief flooded through you. Not a moment later his hands were on your waist, pulling you back into his chest, his presence seeping through your pores. His arms curled around you, the slightly damp leather of his suit softly creaking, and your hands flew up to grip his forearms tightly. His head nestled in the crook of your neck, his lips soft against your skin.

“Thank heavens,” you whispered.

You couldn’t remember who moved first, but you found yourself up against the wall, his hands on your ass. Your legs wrapped around his hips that pushed into you; his mouth felt hot on yours. The kiss was all teeth and tongues. Desperation mixed with relief. A moan rang through the room - definitely yours - as you offered yourself up to him. And he took, greedily. His hands were everywhere on your body, pulling you close, pushing more into you, closer still. A disgruntled huff made it clear it wasn’t enough. And then his hands were under your hoodie, bare skin touching bare skin. A tug, a pull and the fabric was up and over your head, landing somewhere on the floor. His lips closed around your lace covered breast until he found your nipple and sucked on it.

Your hands weaved through his damp hair - if you had any fingernails left, they’d be scraping his scalp. Instead you tugged gently on the soft strands, eliciting a strangled moan from him. His hips rolled into yours, his desire evident and yours dampening your knickers. His hand slipped into your leggins, his fingers moving over the globe of your ass, slowly, squeezing, as his mouth was plundering yours.

The moment his fingers found your soaking centre, you both groaned. He slid two digits inside you, making you gasp. His hips rocked into you, the leather seams on his crotch providing friction for your clit. Your hands tried to fist in the leather, to get to feel his skin.

The orgasm crashed over you like a tidal wave, taking you by surprise, propelling you into oblivion. Loki grunted, his movements became jerky, before he stilled and rested his damp forehead against the crook of your neck. His hot breath puffed against your skin, and he just stayed like that, letting you run your fingers through his hair in a comforting rhythm. Then he slid his fingers out of you and gently placed your feet back on the ground. His forearm leaned against the wall behind you as he kissed you thoroughly, with a gentleness that made your eyes sting with unshed tears.

Your thoughts were going a mile a minute and you were thinking of what to do or say now. Would he stay the night or would he vanish again, like always? You heard the soft creaking of his boots as he moved through the dark room and then back to you, handing you your hoodie. You took it, fingers brushing his. The moment you pulled it over your head, your bedside light was on and you found yourself alone.

Again.

*****

The APU of the Quinjet was situated - as in most aeroplanes - in the tail. One of the reasons you were in charge of the upgrade of the jet’s internal bleed ducting was that you were small and slim. None of your co-workers could squeeze in there (thank you, Tony, for prioritising sleekness over practicality). Ironically, there was no air conditioning in this part of the jet. Droplets of sweat gathered on your forehead as you lay under the engine with your torch and toolkit, religiously running through the protocols.

“Five more checks, Y/N,” you heard your colleague, peering down at you from the moveable steps he was standing on, holding up the upper engine encasing with another work mate. A whistling noise became louder. “Then we can test– what the hell?!”

You lifted your head just as a massive explosion tore through the hangar. The space where your co-workers had been a second ago was swallowed up by a fireball. It felt as if the jet was airborne, tossed to the side, then came to a sudden stop. Metal screeched and groaned.

Your head hurt. A lot. There was a ringing in your ears and you just couldn’t see anything. It was dark, so dark. You wriggled backwards but to your horror realised that you were stuck, trapped between the engine and the jet wall. It felt like you were burning up and you tried to shout, scream for help, but you couldn’t get air in your lungs, no matter how hard you tried. Then, mercifully, you fainted.

When you came to, you were in the medical bay. It looked like a war zone, people lying or sitting on the floor, waiting to be seen. Some of them with burns and cuts, others in the bays next to you with drips and field surgeons around them. You spotted your two work mates, both with minor burns and a few bruises, but thankfully alive.

A few stitches on your forehead, one arm plaster casted and in a sling, and a packet of painkillers thrust in your good hand by a disgruntled, stressed out medic later, you limped your way out of there. Anything was better than sitting around in the sick bay, where there were people who were much more in need of a bed than you were. It also helped with getting away from the sight of the body bags that were quietly carried past you. Six, you had counted. The biggest attack on the Avengers Tower so far, people murmured. And the deadliest one.

In front of the debriefing room, you were handed a tablet and sat down. It was standard protocol after an incident like this: you filled in your report and then talked it through with your supervisor. End of. So you filled in the boxes and waited outside Tony’s office for your turn. As you walked in and sat down, he looked at you.

“You okay, Y/N?”

You gave a brief nod. He blinked and then tapped a few keys on his phone, before taking the tablet you held out to him.

“Let’s get this over with.”

In the middle of your interview, the door suddenly burst open. A very out of breath Asgardian god almost stumbled over the threshold, a stony expression on his face. He was like a vision from your dreams, donning his leather suit, covered in dust and blood - not his.

His eyes roamed over you as he stood in the doorway, lingering on your arm in the sling and the stitches on your face for a moment. Then his eyes met yours. It wasn’t as if you hadn’t looked into one another’s eyes before, but this felt different. Intimate.

In four strides he was next to your chair. He stretched out his hand and you placed yours in his, as if it was a practised gesture between you two. A gentle tug had you standing up.

“Loki…,” you started.

“I thought you were dead, love,” he murmured, voice rough, lifting your good hand to his lips to ghost a kiss onto your scratched knuckles. Your insides melted at the endearment and his gesture.

“I give you a thousand thanks, Stark,” he addressed the other man, eyes never leaving yours, “for alerting me that my beloved is okay and with you. However, Agent Y/L/N will have to finish the incident debrief at a later point. I require her presence for an extremely urgent personal matter.”

“Get outta here already, Shakespeare,” Tony grumbled, trying to hide a smirk. “Who’s next?”

But Loki didn’t pay him any heed. He gently cradled your face, his thumbs caressing your skin.

And there, right in front of Tony, with the door wide open for everyone in the very busy hallway to see, right there was the very first time that Loki kissed you in the daylight.

~fin~

[hatchan]

the UHC CEO assassination is fascinating to me, this is a story I'm gonna follow

so far the consensus is that it was a targeted attack--there were other people in the area and the assassin shot this guy specifically. CEO had no security with him, didn't seem to know he was in danger. shooter seemed to know exactly where he'd be and he was waiting for him

According to NYT: "The pages on the UnitedHealthcare and UnitedHealth Group websites with headshots and bios for company leadership were not available after the shooting on Wednesday morning. It was not immediately clear why the pages were no longer accessible." fascinating! why?

"He had been chief executive since 2021, during a time in which the parent company and his division were rattled by federal investigations, even as it enjoyed profitable growth. The division has been criticized by congressional lawmakers and federal regulators who accused it of systematically denying authorization for health care procedures and treatments." hmmmmmmm you don't say. I wonder why someone would have it out for this CEO specifically hmmmmm

there was an INVESTOR PRESENTATION happening in the same hotel when everyone in the room starts getting alerted of the CEO being shot, and then dying, right outside. oh man if I could've been a fly in that room....

Again from NYT: "The insurance arm of UnitedHealth Group has also been under federal scrutiny because the parent company was the victim of a broad cyberattack on its billing and payment system, ChangeHealthcare. Private information, including health data, from more than 100 million Americans was compromised in the ransomware attack. The parent company paid $22 million in an effort to stop the hackers." f a s c i n a t i n g

apparently this was printed hella fast:

I wanna know, who works in the printshop for the NYPD? how'd they get that job? do they like it? who's their graphic design people? how fast did they get this big thing printed? calling the victim a "50-year-old male" who met "his demise" is a choice. I wonder why they made that choice.

the mayor apparently had to specify to the press "This was not a random act of violence" haha new york is totally safe don't worry about it

"Officials with the Metropolitan Transportation Authority, which runs New York City’s transit system, said that the shooting did not impact subway or bus service during the morning commute." LMAO. OF COURSE WE HAVE TO ASSURE EVERYONE THEIR SUBWAYS WONT BE DELAYED LOOOOOLL that is the most important thing after all

"On the third floor of the hotel, the company's annual investor conference continued seemingly without interruption as news of the shooting was just beginning to spread. Attendees mingled over cups of coffee, shaking hands and talking shop. “Someone got shot outside,” one attendee said to another as they made their way up from the lobby. Others took photos of the news crews gathering outside on their phones." yep this checks out

[deathworlders-of-e24]

Thomas, Engineer

Part 4

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Sparks burst upwards into the goggles Thomas was wearing, the plasma cutter in his hand burning at several hundred degrees, focused to an incredibly fine point. Holding it in his work gloves was awkward at best, but years of practice had made him exceptional at his job. Sixer and Mace might’ve been better at the finer detail work, Padrino had incredible dexterity after all, but making custom tools was well within his wheel house too.

The two bot brothers had asked him to make a special kind of nano wrench while they ran a ‘memory sweeper’ program through his old translator, the one that had caught that rogue signal all those cycles ago. The group had been working on it in their off time between maintenance requests, and they were finally just steps away from the answers they were looking for. All they needed now was to strip the memory code out of the device, and for that they needed itty bitty tiny nanoscopic tools; ergo, while the twins worked their programs, Thomas got to work making the things they’d need.

He was almost done too, when the comm-link trilled. A patch job in the security chief’s office, apparently one of the terminals was unresponsive and the door was getting jammed up on something. Personal projects would have to wait.

“Roomba, we got a job. You coming with or hanging out here?”

[Statement: you operate at greater efficiency when this unit is present]

“That’s right buddy, but I’m asking what you wanna do,” Thomas said.

“Beep.”

[Statement: I would like to assist please]

“Thanks Roomba, I appreciate that.” Thomas held his arm out and the little droid climbed up to his usual perch on the man’s shoulder. “Look at you, making decisions for yourself. Good for you bud!”

Thomas adored the little robot, and as Roomba got smarter, that feeling only grew. Every day the small cleaning drone was getting more clever, his AI evolving ever further, thanks to the upgrades from Sixer and Mace. Pretty soon Roomba would be as smart as Thomas was.

Maybe I’ll teach him how to play virtual chess, he thought. Or I’ll build him a little controller and we can split screen a blaster battle game or something!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The two made their way through the ship, waving and saying hello to the many people who stopped Thomas to look at the small robot on his shoulder. At this point in their mission, it was common knowledge that one of the humans had made a cleaning drone their ‘pet’, although Thomas was trying to make it clear that wasn’t the case. Roomba was his own person, he just so happened to have very little legs and it was faster to just catch a ride on his human companion. It probably didn’t help that outside himself and the Padrino, nobody else had the hardware to understand what Roomba was saying, so all they ever heard was Beep.

They made it up to the command deck and knocked on the door to the Chief’s office. It opened halfway before getting stuck, hidden gears grinding, and there was the Chief, leaning on his desk with a data pad in his hand. Thomas figured Chief Ducane was kinda cute, what with his scruffy yet trimmed beard and his various tattoos, but macho wasn’t really his thing on guys. That being said, he could see why some on the crew were whispering about him, the man was built. Thomas tried getting his attention through the crack.

“Reporting Chief, you sent a maintenance request?” Thomas said through the gap in the door.

“Yeah, I did,” Chief Ducane looked up. “Oh right, you’re Thomas right? I don’t remember if I’ve introduced myself yet, I’m Danny Ducane. You’re the guy with the domesticated maintenance droid, right?” The Chief got up to the door and pulled it open himself, the hydraulics groaning as it slid open the rest of the way.

“He’s not…” Thomas started, annoyed, but took a beat. Don’t antagonize the guy who can pull apart the doors. “This is Roomba, he has an adaptive learning AI now, like the Padrino on the crew. He’s not a pet.”

Roomba looked up when Thomas said his name and trilled angrily at the idea of being equated to a house cat.

“Beep.”

[Statement: Please inform the other human that I am not domesticated in any way, and would prefer that not get said again]

“He said you’re being rude,” Thomas explained.

“Beep.”

[Sufficiently put]

Chief Ducane looked at the two of them for a moment before raising his hands in defeat.

“Okay, fair enough, that was a dick move on my part. Sorry little guy, didn’t know you were one of the clever bots.”

Thomas nudged his tool bag with his foot, and the Chief took the message.

“Right, my control console is fritzing out,” Ducane said, shuffling awkwardly towards his desk. “The screen blurs every couple minutes, and the door got stuck this morning, don’t know what that’s about either.” The chief stood there, gesturing to his desk with one hand, the other fumbling to put the data pad down where Thomas suspected he thought he wouldn’t be able to see it. It occurred to him that Chief Ducane might not be the most technologically savvy, considering you could read a data pad from either side, and the exact same script was frozen on his console screen. It looked like a checklist of sorts, but Thomas wasn’t here to snoop classified documents. Unless it’d be funny, then maybe.

“Right,” Thomas said, eyeing the chief, “it’s probably just an electrical short, a little leftover from that solar flare the other day. I’ll have to strip some wiring but it’s a quick fix. Though the door might have to be taken out so I can get into the motors.”

“And how long will that take?” Ducane asked.

“Maybe an hour? Maybe more?” Thomas shrugged. “Takes as long as it takes for me to get in there.”

Thomas looked at him a moment, standing there with his hands on his sides. He could hear Roomba’s mechanical innards ticking and whirring as the little bot held onto his perch on Thomas’s shoulder.

“Guess I should let you get to it then,” Chief Ducane said, clapping his hands and heading for the door, but he stopped before he left, like he’d just remembered he’d left the stove on or some such.

“Hey, just a quick question,” he said, turning back to face Thomas. The chief’s hands were fidgeting, hooking and unhooking his thumbs into his pockets. “Are you acquainted with the Sed engineers? Kor and Taren?”

Thomas thought for a moment, then shrugged.

“Sure, I’ve seen them around. Why?”

“They ever seem real busy for unknown reasons?”

“Honestly? Like you want my work appropriate answer or my actual opinion?”

“Both.”

“Well my work appropriate answer is sure, they seem good at their jobs, usually off together on requests.”

“And your personal opinions?” Chief Ducane pressed, crossing his arms and shifting to stand in the doorway, as if he was keeping Thomas sequestered until he got answers to his odd line of questions. Thomas didn’t need to ponder the question that long.

“Honestly? Honestly they kinda suck,” He blurted out, a little more venomously than he’d intended. “Like, okay, don’t get me wrong, you ask them questions and they give the right answers, they know how things work and they know the right tool for the jobs, but work wise? Half the time nobody can find them. I’ve had three repair jobs handed over to me in the last two weeks ‘cause they’re off somewhere fooling around.”

“Fooling around?” Ducane intoned, “as in…?”

“Well we just kinda assumed they were an item. And look, we’re sympathetic, but the work load is insane on a ship this size with this many conflicting requirements. Temperature differences for different races, atmospheric controls bottoming out, I got a guy with four arms for a boss and even he thinks it’s ridiculous how often stuff around here breaks.”

“So you all just assumed they were off somewhere… doing that, while you all just put up with it? Has anyone seen them like this?” Chief Ducane pushed.

“Roomba did,” Thomas said, tilting his head the little droid’s direction, “while we were doing repairs in the air ducts a couple cycles ago.”

“Beep.”

[Please do not disclose this information]

“Huh?” Thomas put the little droid in his palm and let him stand for himself. “What’s up buddy?”

“What’s he saying?” The chief asked, shifting focus from Thomas to Roomba and back again.

“Beep.”

[Disclosure of this information will bring my work efficiency into question]

Ohhhhhhh, Thomas thought.

“He’s just saying how weird what he saw was,” Thomas shiftily explained, patting the little droid on the head. “We were working some repairs in the ducts when Roomba saw Taren in another part of the ship through the grating. He was on a comm-link and Kor showed up with a thing Roomba didn’t recognize, but from what he told me it was some hand tool I think.”

“So maybe they were just on another job and not screwing around?” Ducane questioned.

“Nah, couldn’t be, I was supposed to be the only repair guy in that part of the ship at the time. Everyone else is still supposed to be in the core room making repairs after that solar flare.”

Thomas took a deep breath and looked Ducane in the eye.

“Chief, be straight with me, is something going on on my ship?”

“What do you mean your ship?” Ducane scoffed.

“Trust me, this ship has already gotten enough of my blood, sweat, and tears man. I probably love her more than anyone else on this boat, so yeah, she’s my ship.” Thomas was getting a tad red in the face as he said this, which was fair, as it was slightly embarrassing to voice this odd idea of his. “Look man, this ship might be just a job to you, but it’s not just that to me, okay? So if there’s something happening here that could hurt her, I’m not gonna let that happen.”

How odd that a simple maintenance request could have such an impact on his day?

Roomba reach up and tugged on Thomas’s earlobe.

“Beep.”

[New Task Uploaded: protect Noah. Confirm?]

“That’s right Roomba, that’s what we’re gonna do,” Thomas said, weirdly amped up now. Chief Ducane stood there looking at him incredulously.

“Is every kid in the galaxy just ready to ride shotgun off to war these days? I swear, you younger guys need to do something more productive and fun with all that extra energy you have.”

“Shove it… respectfully, Chief.”

“Well if it makes you feel any better, I don’t have anything concrete that something is happening, not that I could tell you if I did.” Ducane shrugged and crossed his arms again, leaning against the wall. The data pad behind them on the desk trilled, a new file had been sent to it, and before the tones had silenced themselves, Thomas felt as if his neurons had just taken a bolt of electricity across his frontal lobe. He turned back to face the Security Chief with a dread look tacked onto his face.

“Hypothetically, Chief, if somebody had possibly intercepted a weird transmission while outside the broadcast shields, how important would that be?”

Chief Ducane stared at him a moment, then clasped his hands together in front of his mouth before sighing uncomfortably hard.

“I’d say that’d be pretty important, kid.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“I thought you were supposed to be smart!” Danny half accused, walking quickly down the hall away from the lift.

“Man, I’m like actually a genius, I have four degrees, but nobody ever accused me of being smart,” Thomas said, shrugging. “I didn’t want to get kicked off the ship if it was nothing, which it probably is!”

“You wouldn’t have gotten kicked off the ship. If I can’t even get rid of Grite, you’re as safe as can be.”

“Oh, okay,” Thomas said sarcastically, “then I totally should’ve spilled it when, while on a space walk, my somewhat illegally jailbroke translator picked up a rogue signal on the long range communications array for the ship I just got a job on. I’ve seen people canned for less, I could’ve been tried for espionage or something.”

“You did what?”

Thomas and Danny turned on theirs heels to see Odis the Galley standing in the doorway they’d just passed, a ‘coffee’ mug in hand. It had a cartoonish drawing of a purple cow on it.

“Oh good, we’re just telling the whole ship now, I guess,” Danny pinched the bridge of his nose. “I’m definitely getting fired.”

“Wait wait wait, Odis is cool,” Thomas vouched. “He’s a real stand up guy.”

“What did you do now humie?” Odis groaned, downing whatever was in his mug before sprinting to join them. His shorter legs had to move twice as fast to keep up with the taller humans.

“So you know that project the twins and I have been working on?” Thomas asked.

“Yeah, you’ve been using your off hours for something that’s not video games, of course I noticed.”

“Fired…,” Danny moaned. “Court marshalled even.”

“Quiet big human, the smart human is talking.”

“Oh no, we’ve established that word doesn’t apply to me.”

“Beep.”

[Thank you for not telling the human I fell down the air ducts]

It was a wonder how the entire ship didn’t know what they were doing by then, seeing as they were not exactly discreet as they headed down to the maintenance decks. When the group of them finally made the locker room, more than one set of eyes was watching them, though it was mostly Chief Ducane they were looking at. It wasn’t exactly normal operating procedures for the Chief of Security to walk into their locker room.

“How is it that you humans are always up to something ridiculous?” Odis asked, shaking his bulbous gray head. “I mean, as a Galley, I’m actually impressed with the level of… what’s a good human word for this nonsense?”

“Shenanigans?” Thomas offered.

“Ridiculous words, ridiculous people…,” Odis laughed. “The cows are cool, but the rest of your world is just a mess of weird, huh?”

The humans didn’t respond, though given any thought, they couldn’t have refuted the Galley anyway.

Sixer and Mace stood at their work table, the terminal screen running thousands of lines of code a second. Thomas would’ve loved to comb through it given the chance, but now wasn’t the time.

“Twins!” he called over, “Got it up and going?”

“Almost, Human Thomas,” Sixer replied.

“Hello, Security Chief Ducane,” Mace greeted.

“Yeah, hi guys,” Danny said. “I hear you all have been working a little side project?”

The two Padrino turned to each other and each gave a quick burst of machine speak before turning back to face them.

“Human Thomas, do you believe it is time to inform the ship’s command structure of our findings?”

“You could say that, yeah,” Thomas nodded.

“Good, because we have finished preparations. We simply need the tool you made up and to see if the sweeper program retrieves any data.”

Thomas patted down his coveralls before fishing the nano-wrench from his inner pocket. He handed the tool to Sixer, who turned back to the table and made the final adjustments.

“Moment of truth, I guess,” he said.

“You realize I’m going to be extremely pissed if you got me down here and all worked up for nothing,” Danny said pointedly.

“Understood… sir,” Thomas swallowed hard.

The computer ran its program, thousands, hundreds of thousands of lines of code fluttering across the screen, the Padrino’s speed was impressive to say the least. They definitely had to teach him that sometime.

After a minute of them staring at the terminal in silence, the screen showed a resounding-

“Nothing?” Thomas and Danny said in unison.

“Correct,” Sixer said.

“Unfortunately,” continued Mace, “the translators are not equipped with enough memory storage to log something the size of a communications transmission.”

“So we’ve got nothing?” Thomas said, hands clenched at his sides. He didn’t know what he wanted the signal to be, but nothing was… incredibly unsatisfying, to say the least.

“Did you try to see recipient data?” Odis asked, eyeing the console code.

“What?” Thomas turned to him, confusion distorting the disappointment on his face.

“With the long range array, it’s got recipient data built into the message, so the thing knows who it’s going to,” Odis explained slowly. “Back in the day, we Galley used to strip data out of long range messages to find new planets to… interact with. It’s how we found the humies first, caught all those messages you kept throwing out into space.” Odis rifled through one of his side pockets and brought out something that looked like a key fob with a port on one end. He popped open a panel in the terminal and plugged it in, hitting a couple keys to sync the programs together. Thomas watched, confusion and disappointment morphing into a cautious optimism. Maybe they’d find something after all.

“And here… we… go!” Odis said smugly, triumphantly hitting the execute key. The screen rolled the code again, but this time information began loading, the computer compiling the data for them.

“And you just happen to have this… why?” Danny looked sternly in the Galley’s direction.

“If it makes you feel any better Chief, most of my free time has been spent with the kid playing Terran video games,” Odis snickered. “Don’t worry about what I’ve been up to, worry about whoever is sending messages to the GAIL High Council.”

“What the hell?” Danny exclaimed, leaning over the console to examine the data.

Sure enough, they couldn’t recover any of the message, the data was just too big for the little device to have caught any. However, Odis’s tracer did show that whatever the signal was, it had gone straight to someone by the name of Mons on the High Council of the Grand Assembly of Intelligent Lifeforms.

“Chief, what the hell are we looking at?” Thomas asked, for the first time actually realizing that something could be deeply, darkly wrong on the ship.

“This doesn’t make any sense, communications can’t go directly to the Council, not without going through Captain Skitch and me,” Danny kept looking at the screen, rereading the data from start to finish, over and over again, before pulling out his data pad and copying all of it down, taking photos too.

“What are you doing?” Sixer asked.

“Making sure whatever we have here, there’s multiple copies so we can’t lose any proof later.”

“Do you suspect there’s another agenda aboard this ship Chief Ducane?” Mace followed.

“… I sincerely hope not, but either way, none of this ever happened. Not a single one of you saw any of this, okay? Nothing and no one,” Danny looked at each of them in turn, making sure they understood his meaning, “is going to hear about any of this. And when I call any of you to my office, it’s double time, understood?”

“You got it Chief,” Thomas said immediately, the others following suit, but with much less gusto.

“Beep.”

[Task: protect Noah in progress]

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The work shift ended with no more excitement, however Thomas’s heart rate hadn’t declined even a bit in the following hours. The idea that something could threaten the ship, his ship, the ship he’d almost died for already, filled him with some very mixed emotions, not the least of which was apprehension. It did reassure him that Chief Ducane seemed like a good guy, and that he wasn’t going to take any disciplinary measures against the worker crew for anything, but the idea that they could be called on to actually do something was daunting.

Walking to the mess hall, Thomas realized he’d never actually made any of the requested repairs to Danny office. He pulled a comm-link out of his back pocket and sent a quick “sorry, I’ll be right there to fix the door” text, but was alarmed at what the Chief of Security replied almost instantly.

>Someone searched my office while cameras were out of commission. Nothing is missing. They took advantage of the door being jammed and unlocked<

Another message:

>Don’t come up here, it’ll look suspicious for the both of us. I’ll make another request tomorrow. Tell your friends to be careful, and come to me immediately if you see anything at all<

Thomas shakily put the comm-link back in his pocket and headed back towards the Vending Machines. He saw Odis sitting in the corner and joined him after getting his food.

“You ever think someone in the GAIL could do something pretty bad?”

“What, you think you humans have a monopoly on being kind of shitty?” Odis snorted. “You’re not that weird, you know.”

[captainsophiestark]

Epiphany

Javi Rivera x Reader

Masterlist - Join My Taglist!

Written for Fictober 2024!

Fandom: Twisters

Day Two Prompt: "It's been a long time."

Summary: Javi's job bring him back into the same town as a sort-of-ex, but if he wants a chance at rekindling anything, he's going to have to answer for his decision to work for Riggs.

Word Count: 3,189

Category: Angst, Fluff

A/N: Happy spooky season everyone!

Putting work into an AI program without permission is illegal. You do not have my permission. Do not do it.

I grinned as I lined up my shot on the dartboard ahead of me, ignoring the heckling of my friends and a few new competitors we'd met at the bar. I was the undefeated champ at darts, both tonight and in general, and I hadn't gotten here by letting people get in my head.

I let out a breath, completely focused on the center ring, and sent the dart flying in one smooth motion.

Bullseye. As planned.

I turned to my friends with a grin, enjoying their chorus of groans. While I wasn't completely undefeated for all time, I was undefeated tonight, and I was frankly having the time of my life.

"Okay, there's got to be somebody in this bar who can beat you," teased one of my friends, throwing an arm over my shoulder and turning to scan the rest of the patrons who hadn't been roped into our competition yet.

"I bet I could give it a shot."

I turned at the sound of the voice to see a man I hadn't seen in years.

Javi Rivera and I had met while we were both studying at Muskogee State College almost six years ago. We'd hit it off, going quickly from friends to dating, and after only a couple months, I'd started to be able to see a future with him. And then, three of his friends died in a tornado while they were trying to test their PhD project and secure grant funding.

I'd done my best to be there for Javi, but we'd pretty quickly realized he needed some space--from chasing, from school, from Oklahoma. From everything. Including me.

It sucked to say goodbye to someone I loved, but at the same time, I got it. We'd parted on pretty good terms, deciding for both our hearts it would be best for the break to be clean. I'd thought about him a thousand times since then, clean break or no, but I hadn't seen him once. Now, he was standing before me in the dive bar just outside my hometown, apparently challenging me to darts.

"...Javi?" I managed, a smile tugging at my face despite the shock and disbelief. He grinned back at me, holding his arms out but not making any move to close the distance.

"Hey. It's good to see you."

I grinned, quickly closing the rest of the space between us to wrap Javi in a hug.

"It's good to see you too! What are you doing here? ...How are you doing?"

He stepped back with a smaller smile on his own face, running a hand through his hair before he met my eyes again.

"Better. A lot better than the last time you saw me, actually. I'm working with a team that's researching tornados, trying to get better data to better understand them and hopefully make everybody safer as a result. My team's just passing through the area on our way to chase a some big cells developing further West, and we're staying in town for the night. I was really hoping I'd find you here."

"You know, I do have a phone. And I haven't changed my number."

He grinned. "That was going to be Plan C, if Plan A of finding you here and Plan B of finding you at another bar didn't work out."

I just shook my head and laughed.

"You know, there's a lot I could say about that, but I think instead I'm gonna settle for kicking your ass in darts."

"Oh, bring it on. I was watching you, I think you've lost your edge since the last time I saw you. And I can tell you right now, I haven't. I've only gotten better."

"Sure you have, Rivera. Come on, put your money where your mouth is. You start us off."

"If you insist."

Javi leaned in close, hitting me with a charming smile as he took his half of the darts out of my hand, taking his time and letting his fingers linger over mine. For a split second, it was like I was back in grad school again, spending weekends blowing off steam and occasionally working on our project from the back table of a bar. Then, he pulled back, turning his attention to the dartboard again.

"Loser buys drinks," he called as he drew his arm back, then let the dart fly. He hit an 18, but not on any of the score-multiplying rings. I grinned.

"You're on."

****************

Javi and I spent most of the rest of the night together, trading blows in darts and just catching up with each other again. To my delight, it had been like no time had passed since we'd last seen each other. We immediately fell back into the same happy, comfortable routine we'd had for years, and my heart did a happy little flip in my chest every time Javi leaned into me with the smile I loved so much.

We stayed out at the bar together long after my friends had left, hovering at a back table together until they kicked us out. Javi had walked to the bar from his hotel, so I gave him a ride back, the two of us lingering as clearly neither of us wanted to leave. When Javi finally hopped out of the car, it was only after we'd made plans to get together the next day, depending on the tornado situation.

Luckily for Javi and I, the forecast the following morning looked very calm. Javi texted me early, and we made plans to get together for lunch. I was practically walking on air as I drove into town, parking and hopping out to wait for Javi before heading inside. I didn't want to get too far ahead of myself, but having Javi back in my life even for these twelve hours or so had been amazing. I couldn't stop thinking about him, and frankly, I didn't want to.

Unfortunately, my happy little bubble got momentarily popped by a Storm Par truck pulling into the lot. I frowned and narrowed my eyes. They'd shown up in the area recently, swooping in like vultures and taking advantage of tragedy in the community to make a profit. If they were heading into the restaurant for lunch, Javi and I might need to find somewhere more peaceful to hang out.

I glowered at the truck, trying to project as much malice and disapproval as possible. Then the door popped open, and my heart stopped in my chest.

Javi climbed out of the driver's seat. He had on a Storm Par button down. He grinned and waved at me as soon as he saw me, but I couldn't do more than stare back. What the fuck was he doing?

"Hey! Sorry I'm a little late, I had a meeting this morning-"

"With Riggs?"

The words slipped out before I could stop them. Javi stuttered a step, the smile on his face dimming a little as I crossed my arms. He came to a stop in front of me.

"I... what?"

"I think that's my line, Javi. What the hell are you doing? Why are you showing up here in Storm Par shit?"

"I told you I was chasing again-"

"You told me you were here researching tornados! Not conning grieving people out of their family homes!"

Javi took a step back, blinking like I'd physically slapped him across the face. I huffed, trying to get a hold of myself. I'd been almost shouting by the end of my speech, and I really didn't want to throw a scene in front of the restaurant.

"Listen, I get why you're mad," Javi started, holding up his hands like a peace offering. "But Riggs is funding research that's going to allow us to better understand how, why, and when tornados form, which will save lives. We're on our way to the most complete understanding of a tornado ever, and we never would've gotten here without Riggs investing and getting us this tech."

I'd started shaking my head after the second sentence, getting faster and faster until Javi finished speaking. I huffed a disbelieving laugh and took a half-step back towards my car.

"There are other ways to get grant money, Javi. Ways that don't include Riggs."

"Yeah, just ways that include risking everything going into an EF5 that got almost all of my best friends killed."

I closed my eyes and took a few deep breaths. It had been a dream come true when Javi walked into the bar last night, but this was quickly turning into a nightmare. Hurt, anger, saddness, and disappointment formed their own little tornado in my chest, and I barely managed to keep my voice level as I met Javi's eyes again.

"I know what you went through when you lost your friends. I understand why you're making the choices you're making. But you know as well as I do that Riggs is taking advantage of people, actively hurting people in this community, and that all the data you bring him with your research is just going to make it easier for him to swoop in looking to make a profit after disasters, not bringing help before them."

"That's not what we're doing-"

"You might be able to convince yourself of that while you're riding around in your stupid trucks, but unlike you, I was born and raised here, and I never left. I know what's happening, I know the reputation your sponsor has earned for you, and frankly Javi? I want nothing to do with it. Any of it."

Javi huffed in surprise, then scowled.

"I take it to mean that includes me?"

I nodded, slowly at first, then faster and more confidently as I took a few more steps back.

"As long as you're going to keep enabling the vultures? Yeah, that does include you."

He huffed again, a humorless laugh, as he shook his head and shuffled around like he couldn't figure out how to react. It felt like a knife to my heart, but I didn't let myself hesitate before turning around and heading back to my car. I'd sat and cried with neighbors in the wake of tornados, trying to salvage anything we could in the wreckage, before polished looking guys in suits came in and way underpaid for properties, then left without lifting a finger to help a single living thing in the devastated area. If Javi was willing to be a part of that, then he was nothing like the man I'd known and loved before.

****************

I sighed, dropping an armful of books on the kitchen table. I still had a few things to bring up from the storm shelter, but I couldn't stop myself from sinking into the nearest chair. It had been a long few days.

Less than 48 hours after Javi and I had our fight, one of the worst tornados of the year had touched down much too close for comfort. It had done some significant damage to the next town over, although not nearly as bad as it could've been. Exactly what had happened was still a little unclear, but it had been a long time since one had come that close to me. I hadn't been expecting it to affect me, but my knees were actually feeling a little weak.

I took a few moment to focus on breathing deeply, then rallied myself to move the last of my supplies out of the storm shelter. I'd just made it to my feet again when a knock came at the door.

I sighed and honestly debated pretending I wasn't home. But, most likely, it was a neighbor coming to check in or share news from the tornado. I didn't want them to worry, and I probably wouldn't get away with pretending not to be here.

I made it to the door just after another knock came, slightly louder this time. I swung open the door without looking outside first, then froze halfway through the motion when I found Javi staring at me, standing on my doorstep with a six pack of beer held loosely in one hand.

"Thank god you answered. Listen, I'm sorry. You were right. Kate was right. Storm Par... Riggs..." he shook his head, apparently at a loss for words. His hair and clothes were a mess, back to the Javi I'd known in grad school instead of the perfectly-pressed Storm Par rep I'd seen a few days ago. More than just that, though, he looked frazzled. Offbalance, in a way I'd never seen before.

"Javi... are you okay?"

He ran a hand through his hair and shook his head.

"Did you hear about the big one?"

"...The tornado that just hit?" He nodded. "Yeah. I've only heard bits and pieces outside of the siren, but yeah. What happened? Is everybody... you said Kate's name earlier."

He quickly reassured me, getting halfway through reaching for my hand before pulling himself back.

"Kate's fine. I convinced her to come out here and help with research, but she almost-" Javi stopped short, closing his eyes for a long, long moment. I frowned, briefly considering what to do next, but it didn't take me long to reach a decision. Javi seemed to be implying he'd ditched Storm Par, but even if he hadn't, I still cared about him. And he clearly needed somebody right now.

"Javi. Why don't you come inside and sit down? Take a breath for a minute?"

He nodded, opening his eyes again and taking a slow, deep breath.

"Thanks."

"Sure thing."

I held the door open, and Javi didn't need me to show him where to go. We'd spent a good part of our relationship hanging out in this house, and it hadn't changed much since then. I followed Javi, letting him decide where he wanted to settle. Eventually, we ended up on the back porch, Javi settling into the bench swing where we'd watched more sunsets than I could count. He set the six pack down by his feet, and after a moment's consideration, I sat down next to him.

Javi didn't look at me as I joined him, his stare still a thousand yards out on the sun that had just started to approach the horizon. I gave him a few moments, then gently reached out to take his hand. His attention immediately snapped to me, his eyes wide with surprise. I gave him a soft smile.

"How long as it been since we spent an evening sitting out here?"

He huffed a laugh. "It's been a long time."

We shared a little smile, then after a moment, I sighed. Javi seemed calmer, at least slightly, and now I needed some answers.

"So... you wanna tell me what brought you here?"

"I came to apologize. You were right about Riggs, and about what's important. I want to be helping people, and it's a long story, but it became clear in the last few hours that I can't do that as long as I'm working with Riggs. I just wish I'd been able to figure it out earlier."

Javi shifted, taking my hand in his and shuffling a little closer to me. The apology was sweet, and I'd missed having moments like this with Javi, but his answer still had a lot of holes.

"I'm glad to hear you're done with Riggs- I mean, I'm assuming that's what you're saying?"

"Yes. Very much yes."

I smiled. "Okay. But maybe you should start a little further back on explaining what happened between now and the last time I saw you. Starting with why you failed to tell me Kate was in town."

"...In my defense, I was planning to tell you at lunch."

I couldn't hold back a snort.

"Fine. Depending on how good the rest of your explanation is, you get a pass on that."

Javi laughed. "Good. Alright, let me think about this..."

It took a while, but eventually Javi managed to walk me through his whole story. It was the serious catchup we'd been planning to have over lunch, but with the added beneift of a private moment together in one of our old favorite places. A lot had happened since Kate had come to town, and she'd had the same kind of fight with Javi as I had, but he'd come around and stepped up when it mattered.

"So, now we're done with Riggs. We're working on a pitch for investors back East right now, actually. Kate's going to present what we've got so far, and hopefully we'll have ethical funding for helping people and nothing else by the end of next month."

I smiled, leaning into Javi. The sky was red from the sunset now, and we'd been holding hands the whole time. Even though we'd gone years without really talking, right now, it felt like nothing had changed.

"I'm glad to hear it, Javi. And I'm so, so glad you're okay."

"Yeah, me too. It was dicey there for a minute, but we're on the other side now."

I leaned a little further into Javi, and after a moment, he raised one arm and stretched it around my shoulders. I sighed.

"You know..." Javi started. He paused and cleared his throat, then shifted a little on the bench before continuing. "Kate and I could actually use some help working on those grant proposals, and maybe some of our future presentations. I know you've always been happy to do your own thing, but... we'd love to have your help if you want to come back to spending more time with us. I would love that."

I leaned back to look Javi in the eye, and I couldn't keep a gigantic smile off my face for even a second.

"Honestly Javi? I would love that. Both to be part of helping you guys finish what you started, helping our community, and... for you. I missed you a lot."

"I missed you too. So much. And I know I'm the one who left, but if you'd be willing to give us another shot... I'll be around for the long haul."

 My heart did a backflip in my chest, and the beaming smile on my face mirrored the feeling.

"I would really love that Javi."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"Okay, good." He smiled back at me, then started leaning in before stopping short. "Can I kiss you?"

"Absolutely you can."

He grinned, then the two of us closed the distance as one, Javi's hand going to my waist as I tangled one in his hair. It felt right, and we both smiled into the kiss.

"No pressure if this is a little fast," I said, pulling back from Javi just enough to speak, "but... would you like to stay the night tonight?"

"You know I've stayed the night before, right? Regularly. I don't know if it can count as too fast if we've already done it a million times."

"Fair point. So what do you say?"

"I'd love to." He leaned in, placing a gentle kiss on my neck and then moving slowly up towards my ear. One of his hands moved to my thigh as he whispered: "I've got a lot to catch you up on if you're going to start writing grant proposals for us. I think we've got an all-nighter coming on."

I laughed, pulling back and swatting at Javi's arm. He just grinned.

"Okay, I'm officially banning work talk until tomorrow morning."

"Honestly, you don't have to tell me twice."

****************

Everything Taglist: @rosecentury @kmc1989 @space-helen

Twisters Taglist: @turtlee-says-rawr

[genjispeace]

Hate Me Sweetly - Genji X Reader

In which Genji and the reader get trapped in a closet together. The two tend to bicker on missions, and tensions rise in a small space.

tags: long, like seriously buckle in for this one, AFAB reader (mostly gender neutral but Genji does say good girl once), enemies-ish to lovers, I never really hated you, unprotected sex, rough sex, vulgar language, low-key a slow burn (they kissed on page 8 on my writing program), filthy but also sweet and soft (they're in loooooove)

side note: there is a moment in this where a man is threatening the reader. nothing ends up happening, but it felt like I needed to say that.

a/n: whew...hope this one was worth the wait. I am still sick, so it may not be my greatest, but I think this is actually my personal favorite of all i've posted hehehe hope you all enjoy it as much as I do <3

You hold your breath as you walk past one of the guards. He nods at you and you return a shy smile, hiding the majority of your face in your fake maid’s outfit. Being the only person at Overwatch that wasn’t often in the public eye, you’re usually the only option when it comes to sneaking anywhere. Like now, you are sneaking into a small side base that Talon has, hoping that you can retrieve data off one of their servers without making a scene. That sneaking, though, is often accompanied by disagreements from your team members. You have hardly any fighting experience compared to them, which means you are essentially being sent into a pit of vipers. You’re a gifted medic and fairly decent at working computers, but that’s where your experience stops.

“This isn’t a good idea,” a voice crackles over your in-ear device. Genji. He wasn’t a fan of this plan from the start, nor is he ever a fan of you sneaking into places. You grit your teeth and ignore him. He seems to doubt your capabilities in all situations, which grates on your nerves, especially considering how many times you have nursed his wounds and how many times you have successfully snuck in and out of places. You’re a valuable member of the team, which is something seemingly everybody except Genji can agree on. 

“Ignore him. We’ve got your back,” Cassidy’s southern drawl echoes in your ear. You know they do. They hacked into the security cameras and can watch your move, and they are close enough to break in if things go south. You have full faith that you are safe in their hands, even if Genji doesn’t want you there. 

The two men start to bicker through your in-ear and you tune it out easily. You make your way through the long hallways, your heels clacking on the tile floors. You pull at the hem of your dress, which was made to be a bit too short for your liking. It barely goes down past your butt, leaving the majority of your thighs bare. 

“Stop adjusting. You seem nervous,” Reyes’s voice says in your ear. You heave out a sigh as you look up at the camera in the corner of the hallway. A quick glance around you reveals that you’re alone, so you bite out a whisper back into your in-ear.

“I feel naked.” You really do. Not only are your legs nearly bare, but the outfit cuts low across your chest, leaving the top of your breasts visible. It’s cliche, offensive even, but apparently that is how Talon likes their staff dressed. 

“Darlin’, you look great,” Cassidy’s voice echoes again, and you roll your eyes. The two of you have been close friends for a while, so it’s not unlike him to jump at the first chance to tease you. You hear an annoyed sigh in your ear, which you think is from Genji. 

“Shut up, Cassidy. Now isn’t the time for you to stroke-” Genji starts to snap, but Reyes quickly cuts him off. 

“Enough. The security room should be at the end of that hallway on your left.”

You follow the instructions, carefully walking down the hallway. Your footsteps echo in the empty space, and you hate the way you start to shiver. You’re not cold, but the thought of it being nervousness makes you feel weak. You wrap your hand around the handle and start to turn it, Reyes telling you how to access the server in your ear. But, as soon as you push the door open, his voice fades away. 

A guard sits in the security room, leaning back in one of the chairs. Your breath hitches in your chest. This room is supposed to be empty. It is supposed to be an easy-in easy-out job. The room, full of different screens and computers, is bright and jarring, but the only thing catching your attention is the rifle that the guard has sitting on the ground next to him. He is facing away from you, and hasn’t seemed to notice you yet. Maybe you could grab the rifle from him, but what would you do after that? If you shot him, it would be too loud. No, you need a different approach for this one. 

“Get out of there,” Genji says in your ear. Of course he would want you away from it. He thinks you can’t handle just one guard. Maybe he’s right, but you want to prove him wrong. Maybe it’s that desire to make him eat his words that has your feet moving forward, crossing the large room until you’re standing next to the guard in his chair. 

He finally notices you, and you can feel his eyes on you as you bend over and reach for the trash can under the desk. When you hear him let out a low whistle, your skin starts to crawl. Could you knock him out with this? Your grip tightens on the plastic bin. No, not strong enough. Distract him long enough to sneak your flashdrive near the main computer?

“If he touches them, I’ll-” Genji’s voice crackles through the in-ear, but static starts to shriek over it. You flinch at the noise, but pretend to push hair out of your face so you can turn it off. 

“You’re new,” the guard says in a purr. You stand up, holding the small trash can in between you two, like some sort of barrier. He still sits in his chair, but he’s leaning forward now, his eyes tracing your face with intent. Once you’re standing, his eyes trace even lower and his gaze makes your skin crawl. 

“Yeah. Just started,” you mumble. You point at a balled up piece of paper on the other side of the large desk. You can’t get to it without him moving, and you really need to sell this maid act. “Can I get past you?”

“Be my guest,” he says, but barely inches his chair backward. You frown at first, then realize what he’s doing. You’ll have to push past him, practically be in his lap, to grab it. You start to snap something out, but then realize, if you do that and lean back against the desk, you should be able to reach the computer well enough to put your drive near it. It has to be within a few centimeters for around five minutes to get all of the data. Can you even hold out for that long?

You have to. Straightening your back, you place the bin on the ground and step in between the guard and the desk, reaching for that damned piece of paper. You finally grab it, but before you can retreat, the guard scoots his chair forward and pins you against the desk. His dark eyes are level with your breasts, and he seems to be taking advantage of that. You fight back every instinct in your body telling you to hit him and run. Instead, you use your hand that’s not holding the paper to reach into your pocket and pull out the drive. You place it softly behind you, praying that it is close enough. 

“Such a pretty thing. We don’t get many like you around here,” the guard coos, looking up at you. His eyes are dripping with evil and it has you shuddering under his glare. 

“Sorry, I-uh-I’m not-” you whisper out, trying to free yourself from the trap he has you in. He backs up just enough to stand up, but it also gives you enough space to get away, until his hand wraps around your arm. You wince at the feeling of his clammy fingers squeezing against your skin, then he turns you around and pushes you against the back wall. 

“You don’t get to come in here like that and not intend to do anything,” he barks out. His other hand has found its way to your hip, slowly inching upwards. 

“I’m just trying to do my job,” you say, hating the way that your voice shakes. You force your eyes shut. You don’t want to see how he is looking at you anymore. His hand keeps inching upwards, nearly cupping your breasts.

“Oh, you can do a job for me. How about-” he starts, but his voice shifts into a scream. Your eyes snap open and your heart plummets in your chest at the sight. Blood spurts out of what used to be his hand, the thick red liquid painting your dress and your chest. You cringe at the feeling of it, warm and sliding down in between your breasts. You finally snap out of your daze and you look up, where Genji stands a few feet away, his blade now dripping with blood. He moves so fast that neither you nor the guard can react, and the guard’s throat is quickly slit. His body slumps to the ground in a puddle of his own blood. 

“So much for subtlety,” Genji whispers, sheathing his blade behind him.

“I had that handled,” you say, but the way that your voice shakes says otherwise. Genji’s eyes widen at your words, and you wish you could see under the black mask to see the rest of his face.

“Bullshit. You-” 

“Got the data, didn’t I? I would have made it out,” you cut him off. Your fear and shock slowly starts to evolve into frustration. You would have completed the mission without him.

“Fuck the data! Who knows what he would have done to you,” Genji snaps back, closing the distance between the two of you. His chest heaves as his voice rises. He comes close enough you can see the deep brown in his eyes, a color you find beautiful most of the time. Now, though, that brown is alight with frustration. The way he is looking at you would be enough to kill somebody, but you have never backed down from him. 

“I am completely capable of handling this!” You scream out. Genji doesn’t back up, but he doesn’t say anything. He reaches up to your face and pushes onto your in-ear, turning it back on.

“-on your way. You’ll be outnumbered. Find a way to hide until we can get in,” Reyes shouts over the device. 

“Fuck,” you whisper. At that, you hear footsteps thundering down the hallway. Genji wraps his hand around your arm and pulls you behind him, leading the both of you to a door you hadn’t even noticed before. He pulls it open and shoves you inside. It’s some sort of utility closet, with various brooms and other supplies scattered around. It’s small, barely enough to fit you, but Genji manages to squeeze in with you. He pulls the door shut and it clicks, leaving the two of you standing there, chest to chest, with nowhere to go. You can’t even try to back up. You can barely breathe with how cramped the closet is. A small light twinkles above your head, barely giving any light. 

“What is your pla-” you start, but Genji clamps his hand around your mouth. You squeak in surprise at his touch, which is more gentle than you would expect from him. He seems to have better hearing than you, perhaps an advancement from his cyborg body, because you hear the door to the security room open after that. You watch Genji’s face with wide eyes as he listens to the men on the other side of the closet door. If they open that door, they’ll kill both of you. Genji’s otherwise soft features are hardened with focus, but you can’t help but shake. You could be dead in a minute. 

The guards’ voices overlap and blend in your mind. You try to pick up on what they’re saying, but any hope of focusing on anything is long gone now. Is this seriously how you’re going to die? Locked in a closet because a mission went sideways? Your chest aches at the thought of it. It may be a cliche, but you have always wanted to grow old with somebody. Find your soulmate, if there is such a thing, and live life to the fullest with them. Now, that wish seems far away.

The guards argue about something, but their footsteps and voices eventually fade. The door to the security room slams shut, and you let out a deep sigh from your nose. Genji lowers his hand away from your mouth, but you stay silent. He doesn’t seem to want to say anything either, but his hand moves against the doorknob and twists it. The door doesn’t move. There is enough light above you to make out a slight frown taking place on Genji’s features as he pushes on the door again, but it still doesn’t give. In the bleak light, you can barely make out the features of the door. It seems to be some kind of industrial one. Not exactly the type that could be knocked down easily. 

“Fuck,” Genji whispers. “Reyes, we’re locked in.”

“Fucking hell, Genji,” Reyes’s voice is in your ear again. “We’re locked out. We’re trying to get in, but we need more reinforcements now that the guards are alert.”

“So what? We just stay in the closet?” You say. Your voice is still quiet, like you’re still scared somebody will hear you. You hear a sigh from the other end before your commander speaks again.

“Yes. Stay put. We’ll work our way in. For now, turn your in-ears off. We don’t know what kind of technology they have. They might be able to scan for it.” Reyes sounds exhausted. 

“Yes, sir,” you whisper, reaching up to turn the device off. Genji doesn’t respond to Reyes, but obeys the command and reaches up to turn his off. That leaves the two of you standing, your fronts flush with one another, locked in a dark closet in silence. At least you’re not dead.

You lean back, your head knocking against the wall. It could be worse. Definitely could be better, but it could still be worse. A soft sigh escapes your lips. Not being in imminent danger, you are finally able to properly take in your surroundings. The cramped closet smells like dust, but the smell of blood takes over. Your skin is sticky with it and it stains. Some of it has dried, but it still leaves red blotches along your skin. It’s a good thing you aren’t squeamish and work with blood, or you would be nauseous now. 

“You okay?” Genji says. You snap up to see him watching you intently, his dark eyes searching your face. Are you okay? Hardly, but you also don’t want to seem weak to him. 

“I’m fine,” you say, and cringe at how weak your voice sounds. 

“Liar,” Genji replies. “Talk to me.”

“Why?” You snort. Maybe it’s being locked up in here, or maybe it’s the emotion from everything that just happened, but everything seems to be piling up. You’re afraid you’re going to snap if you stay like this without letting it out, but you can’t let it out to Genji. Not when he already doesn’t seem to want you on the team. 

“I can’t help you if I don’t know what’s wrong,” Genji says. His voice is soft and gentle, much like his gaze on you. 

“We almost died,” you whisper out. 

“That’s part of the job,” Genji says softly. Maybe he didn’t mean it in a bad way, but the way he already doesn’t seem to think you can handle it combined with those words is enough to snap the rubber band of your patience. 

“I get it, okay? You don’t think I’m good enough for this. You don’t want me on the team. You hate me,” you yell at him. Your outburst seems to take Genji by surprise, because his eyes widen and his brows furrow. You let out a soft breath, then speak again. “Just forget it.”

“Hate you?” Genji mutters. He lets out a soft snort and you roll your eyes. 

“Just forget it, okay? We could die here, and I’d really rather not have my last moments be spent arguing with you,” you snap out. His eyes narrow, but he doesn’t seem to back down. 

“You think I hate you?” Genji looks down at you, his gaze now sharpened and fully on you. You can’t ignore how your heart beats harder under his stare. God, you’ve always found your attraction to him so irritating. You press your hands back against the wall, steeling yourself. The wall feels clammy against your hands, but it’s the only stability you have, other than leaning in Genji’s body. 

“You obviously do.” Genji’s brows furrow at your words. His gaze drops, then his eyes widen. He snaps his gaze away, staring at one of the walls. It’s hard to see in the dim lighting, but you swear you saw a dusting of pink along his face. You frown at his sudden shyness.

“Your-uh-I think I must have nicked your dress with my blade,” Genji coughs out. You finally look down to see what has the ninja blushing, and a deep red takes over your face too. The top part of your dress is sliced open, showing your soft skin blotched with drying blood. You’re wearing a bra, but the swell of your breasts are still visible, still covered in blood. A sigh escapes your lips as you reach up to the fabric, trying to pull it together and cover yourself up somewhat, but it’s no use. Your chest is bare and covered in blood, and you’re locked in a closet flush with Genji’s front. 

“Stop acting like a schoolboy. You’ve seen boobs before, haven’t you?” You mutter out. It’s going to be more awkward if he continues to refuse to look at you. 

“Of course, I have, but that was by their choice. Not…this,” Genji gestures with what little space he has to move. It’s then that you realize just how close the two of you really are. Your boobs are pressing against his chest, just barely, but the contact is still there. Your cheeks turn even redder at that, and you force yourself not to think about how it makes your nipples harden.

“It’s fine. You can look at me like this,” you say. A small part of you wants him to. You want to see his reaction when he gets a good look at your state. It’s a naive part, though. Surely he wouldn’t feel anything, right?

“You sure? You may not believe it, but I am quite a gentleman,” Genji says, and you can practically hear the smirk in his voice. 

“I’m sure. Or keep staring at the wall. I don’t care.” His head turns slowly, his eyes darkening as he looks at you again. You see a muscle in his jaw tick under the tight mask as his eyes drop lower, just briefly, then return to your face.

“You’re bloody,” Genji says, his rich brown eyes now locked with yours. Maybe he wasn’t interested, if one look is all he wants. You fight the urge to slap yourself. Now is not the time to think like this, especially about Genji, of all people.

“It’s not mine,” is all you can think to say.

“I know. My blades would never touch your skin. I’m angry I even got close,” he mutters, which makes you frown. That is the first time Genji has ever even hinted at being regretful to you. 

“You didn’t hurt me,” you say softly. There’s a sudden tenderness in his eyes, one that you have never seen before. 

“I could have.” 

Genji seems to cut off the conversation after that, not intending to talk about it anymore. The two of you sit in silence for a few minutes, you with your head leaned back and Genji leaning against the side wall. You wince when something seems to poke you in the back, and lean forward to adjust how you’re standing. It’s an absentminded movement, but it pushes you further into Genji’s front. You didn’t know it at the time, but it created an unholy amount of friction against Genji. He groans out and rests his forehead against the wall. A groan you mistake for discomfort. 

“Sorry. I think there’s a splinter in the wall,” you explain yourself. You continue moving, not realizing just how much you are rubbing up against him. 

“Please refrain from moving like that,” he breathes out. His voice sounds shaky. You frown, but finally pull the splinter from the wall and flick it to the ground. Except, something else seems to be poking you now. It’s in a different spot, lower and in your front. 

“Genji, move your blade. It’s poking me,” you mumble. Genji sucks in a deep breath as you look down, your eyes widening. You can barely see anything, but it doesn’t seem to be one of his blades pressing against you. 

“That’s not a blade,” you whisper out, your cheeks heating up again. He’s…hard? His clothes cover it for the most part, so you can’t see it, but you can certainly feel it. You look back up at him to see his face the color of cherries. He pushes off the wall and looks down at you, his brown eyes blazing.

“I told you I don’t hate you,” he says. You stare back at him utterly dumbfounded. He’s…attracted to you? No, maybe it’s just the confines of the space. Nothing else. You start to reply when a loud bang sounds from seemingly far away. You jump, which only pushes you more into Genji’s front. There’s some sort of fight happening outside. 

“Fuck. We’re going to die here,” you scream out. You turn to face the door, but Genji cups your face and forces you to look at him. He moves too fast, he always does, and he pulls his mask down and presses a kiss to your lips. It’s soft, ghosting, at first, like he’s waiting for you to pull away. You don’t.

You push further into it, letting him know just how much you want it. You feel him smile against your mouth before his kiss becomes more aggressive, more hungry. His tongue runs along your bottom lip and you whine at it, which gives him entry into your mouth. To say he kisses you would be unfair. He devours you. It’s like he wants to lap up every taste he can, in case he never gets the chance to do it again. Heat starts to flood to your core and you grind against him, but when the door to the security room slams open and shakes against the wall, the two of you pull apart. You pant against him, and he silently adjusts his mask, then unsheathes his sword. Feet stomp outside the closet, and you swear you hear a gun cocking. This is it. You’re going to die here. You get one last look at Genji, his gorgeous brown eyes, his angular face, his dark hair, just to take it all in. Then you squeeze your eyes shut. A tear rolls down your cheek. Is it going to hurt to die?

“They’re in here!” A voice calls out. You snap your eyes open. You recognize that Southern drawl. Cassidy. You try to call out to them, but your voice catches in your throat. You can’t help the smile that takes place on your features, and Genji presses his face against your forehead. He’s kissing you through the mask. 

“Cover your eyes. I need to break this lock,” you hear Cassidy call from the other side. You reach up to do it, but feel Genji wrap himself around you and shift so his back is to the door. He’s shielding you from it. If something goes wrong on Cassidy’s end, it’ll hurt Genji and not you. You try to fight him, but he’s always been stronger. You feel Genji’s hands close around your ears, but the sound of Cassidy’s grenade is still loud enough to make you jump.

“Don’t turn around,” Genji whispers in your ear. Your back is to the door as he lets you go, but you do as he says. Perhaps because you’re too in shock from thinking you were dead to move. 

“Cassidy, give me your shawl,” Genji says. The two start to bicker, but you eventually feel the soft fabric laced with the smell of gunpowder and cigars wrap around your shoulders. It goes down low enough to cover your bare chest, and that’s when it makes sense why he didn’t want you to turn around. Cassidy, and anybody else in the room, would see your chest. Maybe he is a gentleman. 

You soon feel an emptiness behind you and turn around. The bright lights force you to squint as your eyes adjust to it. As soon as your eyes adjust, you notice Genji is nowhere to be found. Cassidy helps you walk, in case you need it, and Reyes leans against the desk with the drive in his hand. He gives you a curt nod, which is his way of saying “good job” without actually saying it. You feel a warmth in your chest at the silent praise from him, but it’s not enough to warm up the cold absence you feel now that Genji isn’t next to you. 

Angela insisted on doing a full check-up on you as soon as you got back. She swatted Cassidy and Reyes both away, kicking them out of the room so she could make sure you were okay. Cassidy scowled at her and said something about his shawl, but the doctor slammed the door in his face. As a medic, you work under Angela a lot, so you know how serious she takes her patient care. There was no use fighting her, even if you did assure her over and over again that you were fine. She eventually discharged you, but not before giving you a loose shirt to wear back. As you were walking out the door, she even pulled you into a tight hug. You smiled at her, your heart warming. She may be your mentor, but she’s a damn good friend too.

You make it back to your room okay and, as soon as your door is shut, you strip off the extra shirt, then the torn up maid’s dress. The blood seeped through your clothes and onto your stomach. It’s dried and cakey now, a stark contrast to your skin. You crank the shower up and jump under the spray, letting it wash away everything. You have to scrub harshly against your chest to get it off, but the warm water soothes you. You’re back at base. You’re safe.

You stay in the shower until your fingers prune, and eventually hop out and change into sweats and a T-shirt. You stop at the mirror in your bathroom, which still has a slight layer of steam. Your attention immediately flies to your lips, and thoughts of Genji flood your mind. Did he kiss you because he wants you? Or was it just because he thought he might die?

There’s no point in fretting about it now, though. It happened. You wouldn’t take it away, and you hope he wouldn’t either. You open your bathroom door and step out into your room, the soft hardwood chilling your bare feet. The same ninja that was just in your thoughts sits on the edge of your bed. He looks up when he hears the door. His hair is wet, a few strands sitting on his forehead, and a cloth mask is on his face. 

“You okay?” His voice breaks through the silence.

“I’m alive,” you say, walking across your room and sitting on the bed next to him. You’re not touching each other, but you could if you moved. You don’t dare, though.

“I’m sorry,” his head hangs.

“What exactly are you apologizing for?” You stare at him. Is he apologizing for kissing you? Your heart sinks. If he tells you that he thinks it was a mistake, your heart may shatter into pieces. 

“Everything. Mostly my blade touching you.” His head still hangs, like he is refusing to make eye contact. 

“Genji, you didn’t hurt me. It didn’t touch my skin. You-”

“I could have!” He shouts. The sudden outburst takes you by surprise, and he stands up quickly and starts to pace your room. “You think I hate you? That’s why I don’t want you on missions?”

“Yes,” you answer him honestly. He stops pacing in front of you, and you have to tilt your head back to look at him. 

“I don’t hate you. I don’t want you on missions because I don’t want you getting hurt. The thought of anything happening to you, of living in a world without you,” Genji starts, but his words fade and he shudders. 

“Why?” Your head spins at his words. He’s always been so harsh about keeping you off missions.

“Because I love you,” he whispers. You almost thought you imagined it, but heat runs along your cheeks. Your gaze drops, but Genji tucks his hand under your chin and forces you to look up at him. “That’s why I kissed you when we heard the fighting. I thought…if I was going to die there, I wanted to be able to kiss you at least once first. That’s why I’m here now.”

“Genji,” you whisper, but his thumb grazing along your bottom lip stops you. 

“I can walk out that door right now. We’ll pretend it was just heat of the moment, not that I couldn’t stomach the idea of dying without kissing you at least once, and we’ll move on. Or…you stop me.”

Genji still rubs his thumb along your lip softly, the touch tender and gentle. The air hangs thick between the two of you. He’s putting his heart on the line. No, he’s putting his heart in your hands. You release a soft breath, as you look up at him. His dark eyes are pleading, almost scared.

“Don’t go,” you breathe out. Your voice sounds like a plea, one that Genji is all too eager to fulfill. You start to rise to your feet, and he watches you carefully, closely, but you don’t miss the spark in his dark eyes. You reach up to his face, wrapping your fingers around the mask. He could stop you at any point now, it would take nothing for him to overpower you, but he doesn’t. You pull the mask off his ears and down, dropping it onto the floor. 

For the first time, you can see under his mask in actual lighting. Pink scars litter his face, dotting across the skin. You feel him take a deep breath as you look at him. Is he really nervous? 

“You’re…” you reach up and touch one of the scars along his cheek “beautiful.”

Genji smiles, a lopsided grin that takes up half of his face. Your stomach flips at that smile, and suddenly want to see it more often. 

“As are you,” he says back. You cup his face, but don’t move otherwise. 

“Can I kiss you?” You say. It sounds like a plea again. 

“Please do,” Genji replies, and it’s enough to have you wrapping your arms around his neck and pulling him down to kiss you. Your lips lock and his scent fills your senses. Walnuts and fresh pine. His tongue darts along your bottom lip again, and you grant him entry easily. Your tongues intertwine and he takes over your entire existence. There’s nothing else. Just Genji. 

It’s softer and more tender than the previous kiss. Something past lust, something more. Your heart thumps in your chest and heat spreads to your core as his hands find their way to your hips. He pushes you down against the bed, the impact making a soft gasp come out. He falls with you, refusing to break the kiss. When you whimper into his mouth, though, he pulls away.

“Don’t make noises like that or you won’t be able to walk tomorrow,” he says. The low, gruff tone of his voice sends shivers along your skin and heat straight down to your core. He looks down at you with wild eyes, a deep hunger hiding under those deep brown orbs. 

“Maybe I want that,” you match his voice with a low one of your own. 

“I told you I love you, right?” He says, making you frown. Why is he asking that?

“Yes,” you reply.

“Good, because I’m going to fuck you like I hate you,” he groans out, then his lips are back on yours. It’s hard, aggressive, and starving. His fingers dig into your hips, where you know there will be bruises. His mouth leaves yours and moves to your neck, pressing harsh kisses along the skin. You whimper out when he bites you, which makes him growl against your skin. You feel his hands push under your shirt and you shudder at his touch on bare skin. His metal hand leaves a chill on your heated skin, but it only adds to the fire blazing inside you.

You don’t have a bra on, so when Genji’s hands ghost over your nipples you let out a soft gasp at the content. He continues sucking bruises into your neck and collarbone, but you feel him smile against your skin at your gasp. Your back arches from just his touch on your nipples, and you pray he gives you some sort of relief soon before you explode. He pulls away from your neck and pulls his hands out from under your shirt, and you whine at the loss of contact. In the time it takes you to blink, Genji rips your shirt off. Literally rips it, tossing the excess fabric away. He sits back on his heels and truly looks at you. Your skin is flush, your breasts moving with each breath you take, sweat beads along your skin. He licks his lips as he looks at you, and the motion is enough to make even more heat go straight to your core. 

“So fucking pretty,” Genji mutters, then his mouth is back on you. This time, though, he takes one of your nipples into his mouth. You gasp out his name as his tongue moves along it. His hand, the metal one, pinches the other nipple. He continues sucking and pinching, but uses his spare hand to push your sweats and underwear down. You help him out and lift your hips, pushing until the clothes are off your body. He moves so one of his legs is in between yours, his knee on the bed. He’s so close to where you need him, but so far away. You squeak when his hand digs into your hip and pulls you down, so you’re rubbing against his leg. Fuck. His pants graze your core, and it’s just barely enough friction to have you grinding down onto it. 

“You gonna ride my leg?” He smiles against your skin. You try to bite back a response, but he takes your nipple in between his teeth and silences you. You keep grinding onto his leg, letting the friction rub against your clit and give you a small amount of relief. But it’s not enough. 

“Genji, please…I need you,” you whimper. You know you sound desperate, but you don’t care. “Inside me.”

Genji’s grip on your hip tightens even more, blurring the line between pain and pleasure, and he growls lowly against your skin. He pulls away long enough to pull all of his clothes off, and it’s your turn to gawk. He’s all lean muscle in a lithe frame. The metal of his hand reaches up his arm, then there’s metal starting around the middle of one of his thighs. You try to gawk more, but he wraps his hand around your ankle and pulls, dragging you along the bed. You feel your breasts bounce with the motion and Genji’s eyes zero in on that too. 

“Do you have any condoms or…?” Genji snaps himself out of his daze, but you shake your head. You’ve had an implant for birth control for years now. 

“I want you, no barriers,” you say. “I want you to finish inside too, if you want.”

“Fuck…” Genji says, his eyes searching your body. “You can’t just say things like that.”

You start to say something back, but his hands on your thighs silences you. Expectation builds up inside you, and you finally feel his fingers rubbing at your core. He rubs slow, agonizing circles into your clit, but it’s enough to have your head rolling back. You’re already wet enough, and he pushes one finger into you slowly. You try to close your thighs, but a sharp smack against one of them freezes you. The fading pain melds pain and pleasure together, and it makes you clench around his finger. 

“You like that? Does my pretty thing like it rough?” He mewls, slowly stroking his finger in and out. 

“Yes,” you mumble in between ragged breaths. He adds another finger, but his pace stays slow.

“Good girl,” he coos, rubbing the spot he had smacked. He starts to pick up his pace, working you with just his fingers. Your orgasm builds up faster than you thought it would, his fingers bringing you to the edge. Your moans and whimpers fill the room, and your hands grip into your bed. Your skin starts to buzz, that familiar feeling building up in your core. Your legs shake, and Genji slaps your thigh again. He slaps the other one, curling his fingers inside of you at the same time, and it’s enough to make you fall apart. You cry out, your back arching off of the bed. Your heart beats in your ears and black dots your vision.

“Pretty when you cum, too,” Genji says, pulling his fingers out of you. He takes them up to his lips, dipping them into his mouth and tasting you off of them. You clench around nothing at the sight, begging for him to give you more. He smiles down at you, pushing your thighs further open so he can align himself at your entrance. 

“Look at me,” he says. Your daze from your last orgasm is slowly coming down, and you’re able to focus. You lock eyes with him and as soon as you do, he starts to push inside you. Your mouth falls open at the stretch, soft whimpers escaping as you take each inch. His brows furrow, but his brown eyes stay on you. He wants to see your face as you take it all. And take it all you do. He’s not small by any means, and the stretch gives you a delectable sting. 

“Fucking hell,” Genji says. He doesn’t move for a bit, letting both of you adjust. “How did I know your pussy would be fucking perfect?”

“How did I know your cock would be perfect?” You say back, which makes a smirk grow on his features. It’s true, he stretches you perfectly, melding pain and pleasure in the most delicate way. He starts to move slowly, and even then, each thrust has soft moans escaping your mouth. He starts to move faster, reaching up to intertwine your fingers together as he does. His other hand, though, does something less tender, as it wraps around your throat. It’s not a tight hold, just enough to keep control, as he thrusts. You clench around him with each thrust, matching his pace with your own. 

“Genji,” you whimper his name out, like a sacred prayer. “Genji.”

“You gonna come around my cock for me like a good girl?” Genji says. You whimper at the sound of such vulgar language coming from his mouth. That, and the praise, of course. You nod, not trusting yourself to form anymore words. His hand leaves your throat and snakes down your body, his fingers reaching your clit. You scream out at the sensation of both, any little resolve you had quickly fizzling away. You toss your head back and scream out his name, your nails digging into the hand he’s still holding in, as your orgasm rocks through you. If you thought the first one was strong, it was nothing compared to this one. Your legs shake, electricity building through your entire body like a crackling live wire. Genji helps you through your release, never easing up on you. You hold tighter onto his hand as he continues to overstimulate you, his fingers still on your clit and his thrusts still quick. You pant out breaths as it comes down, but you can feel yourself continuing to clench around him. He lets out a soft curse, then groans your name. His thrusts come to a messy stop as he reaches his orgasm, his hand in yours tightens as he finishes inside you, the sensation making your legs shake. His head drops into the crook of your neck, the two of you panting against each other. His warm breath tickles your skin as he catches his breath. His soft and fluffy hair tickles your neck in a way that feels incredibly intimate.

“I love you too,” you say. It’s quiet, and you’re not certain he even heard it, but you feel him press a soft kiss to your neck. He pulls back and smiles down at you, that lopsided toothy grin filling your chest with warmth. His skin is sweaty, but it makes him even sexier. 

“Let’s get you cleaned up,” he says, pulling out and helping you up. You try to walk on your own, but your legs are so weak that you almost drop. He catches you and helps you to the bathroom, where he grabs a washcloth and warms it in the sink. His touch is gentle and tender as he cleans you, a stark contrast to his roughness from earlier. Eventually, he finishes and helps you back to your bed. He lets you on first, then crawls on the bed and presses against you. You roll so you can lay your head on his chest. 

“Genji?” You say softly.

“Hm?”  “I like knowing that you don’t hate me,” you say, but sleepiness seems to take over your voice. Genji laughs, and your heart lurches. You’ve never heard a genuine laugh from him, and it’s a beautiful sound. One you want to earn more often. You start to doze off, listening to his heart beating in his chest and feeling him run his hand up and down your spine. You really like knowing that he doesn’t hate you.

[dragonnarrative-writes]

Data Breach

Read on AO3

Word count: 12.8k

Alternatively titled "Lockdown."

CW: Public partial-nudity, references to sex work, Kidnapping, implied trafficking, threats of violence, anxiety/panic, body horror, brief mentions of medical trauma, character being hunted, brief mention of cannibalism, guns, knives

Notes: Naya "Bambi" Walker and Veronica "Bricks" Mason are my characters. Morgan "Sparrow" Voss belongs to @sentientcave.

I'm very excited because this is my first "complete" fic. And I wrote it within my first year of posting fanfiction! Thanks to everyone who has been here with me through it all!

The genetic and cybernetic enhancements that the public took for granted were a drop in the bucket. No one protested the same-day medical procedures for aesthetics and practicality and security. What harm is a microchip to automate one’s home, modified musculature that needed less exercise to maintain? Who was ever going to protest genetically coded locking mechanisms?

Soldier modifications are a violation of human rights. The deployment of those soldiers isn’t, unless they use their enhanced abilities to commit a war crime. But the process of modification, experimental and unregulated, driven by greed, desperation, a cold war that bled and screamed…

In the early days of accelerated genetics, on the heels of the prosthetic revolution, things had been hellish. Rejected limb grafts.    Explosively contagious viral infections previously rare in humans. Incompatible bones and organs and structures drowning experimental groups in their own fluids. Hunting and prey drives that only became apparent on the battlefield.

The deployment of modified soldiers isn’t a violation of human rights. But if even a single civilian is caught in the crossfire, it’s a war crime.

What the governments of the world did to the men and women who served them - and the populations they were supposed to serve - was a flood of destruction that led to international court-martial and proposed executions.

Only proposed though.

Naya, green around the gills from her latest information dive, wonders if maybe those proposals had more merit than she’d initially thought.

The files she found about the modified joint task forces, the Ghost Team JTFs, are more horrifying than anything she’s ever seen. Bone and dental removal, replacement, and additions. Brain implants, deeper and more invasive than most civilian interface units, which go just under the skin. Increased metabolism, shortening of the digestive tract, automatic injectors with stim packs that keep soldiers awake and lucid through unimaginable horrors.

Her hands shake, spilling tea leaves on the counter as she disconnects from her VPN network. She’d stumbled upon the initial files surrounding what had been Task Force 141 days ago, had quickly skimmed and duplicated their contents to read and review on her own time. Those had been bad enough. Reading about a Scottish soldier, shot in the head and brought back only to have his body altered. Another sergeant suspended in a tank as his genetically altered body attempted and failed to process all of the poisons they wanted him resistant to. A lieutenant who’s frontal lobe was hacked through to make room for a larger processor. The Captain captured and tortured and changed for investigating what was happening to his unit…

And that was before the videos.

Finding more information on Ghost Teams is virtually impossible. Official reports, even the ones she breaks into, list the 141 as defunct. Her fellow archivists don’t have any other information, and aren’t willing to help her dive again.

>>>Flower: even if the GTs are still alive >>>Flower: it’s too dangerous >>>Flower: too many powers want them to stay buried >>>Flower: we’ll lose everything if we go digging >>>Bambi: you don’t have any contacts i could ask? >>>Flower: i‘m sorry bambi

There’s more security, when she returns to the original server, too much for her to feel comfortable to try to force her way in. Her bots identify a couple of devices on the network that might be exploitable - a printer, two coffee machines - but she leaves them alone, for now.

Instead, she trawls conspiracy theory forums for any mention of experimental modifications, missing soldiers, and questionable medical equipment shipments. Experience means her bots filter through everything, which saves her more than a few headaches, but also means that she waits hours before a possible hit. And that hit is a dead end.

The hours turn to days before she’s able to find an abandoned, locked forum with deleted answers to heavily coded questions. The last post is seven years old, ostensibly informing community members of upcoming changes to the forum. The veil over the warning of government surveillance is thinner than tissue paper.

It’s the closest thing she has to a lead, so she makes a new post and sets her bots to monitor it.

>>18|\/|48(Guest): GTJTFs producing new 141 units? Leaked production reports, new specs?

She doesn’t expect a response, but maybe an auto-responder will give her a clue of where to look next. So it’s jarring when she gets an encrypted email with a reply from “dimentionspoker@noreply.co,” an hour later.

new units? have info on old units if you need references. let me know.

—

The middle city isn’t the safest, for all that the well-to-dos topside like to pretend that the truly unsavory elements aren’t that close to their picturesque lawns. Naya’s lived here her whole life, though she’s worked above a time or two. Even so, she’s never ventured this close to the freight shafts down to the docks.

The bar she steps into is loud and smells like liquor and motor fluid. It’s dim, and smoky, and she feels eyes on her as she makes her way to the bar. Her interface lights up with pings and an attempted ID and bank chip skim. All they get for their trouble is her least informative ID tag - Bambi.

The bartender, a large bodied person with the simple tag of Engine, operates behind the bar with four cybernetic arms. There’s no digital queue for her to log in to, or even a service request button on the seemingly organic wood bar. So she stands, hands folded on top of the bar for them to finish pouring drinks and notice her standing there.

Just as the barkeep’s attention slides her way, a warm body presses up behind hers. She stiffens as a the person jostles her to lean heavily on the bar. “Eng! Another for me. And whatever my cute new friend wants.”

A refusal is on the tip of her tongue, but when she looks up into slitted yellow eyes haloed by curled black and purple freeform locs, she gets an encrypted message.

>>>Bricks: Hello Bambi. >>>Bricks: Order a drink and come with me.

—

"They shouldn't be locked up. They're people, not mindless killing machines."

Across the table, under the dim lights, the woman called Bricks cocks her head. She’s a true cyborg, someone who’s modifications are probably keeping them alive. The cybernetics of her left arm extending well into her ribcage. She doesn’t hide it. Under dark overclothes, a slouching shirt exposes the metal of her collarbones, the servos that whir as she breathes. She swirls her glass of Jack and Coke with an amused look on her face as a barely muffled moan pierces through loud music.

Naya takes a deep breath to keep from fidgeting. It took three months to arrange even this meeting with the elusive American arms dealer, in the back of this dingy bar on a busy Friday. She wasn't about to lose the lead just because she could hear lewd comments and barely muffled squeals of pleasure from the nearby hall to the washrooms. The more concerning noise was coming from behind her, anyhow, the thump of knives into a dart board, distressed beeping from the unlucky mini-droid bound to the target.

"You want me to set up a meeting with the Watcher," Bricks drawls, sitting back in her chair. Her pointed cybernetic nails drum against the table. She doesn’t bother to whisper, but both of them have been disrupting any listening devices in range. "So you can make sure that Price's monsters are being treated humanely?"

"They're not monsters," Naya hisses.

"You've never seen them." It's not a question.

"I don't need to see them to know they shouldn't be kept locked in cages."

Bricks freezes with her glass halfway to her lips. Her eyes narrow. “Cages?”

“That’s what I saw.” Gritting her teeth, Naya hisses. “Look. You know what it means to be augmented, what extensive modifications are like. But without anesthesia? I wouldn’t wish that on anyone, not even my worst enemy.”

“You’d be surprised what I would wish on my worst enemy, sweetheart.” Bricks chuckles and throws back the last dregs of her drink. "But you know what? Fine."

"Fine?"

"Fine. You want in so bad? I'll set up a meeting with the Watcher, and Price."

Well. That was easier than expected. "What'll it cost me?"

"Oh, your whole life, probably. Your whole world view, certainly," Bricks chuckles. She gives Naya an obvious once over, gaze lingering on her breasts. "But you don't owe me any more than a quick flash of your tits."

That does make Naya’s confidence falter. "W-what?"

"You heard me. C'mon, give me a little peek, and I'll send a message right now. You can have Price's monsters off their leashes by the end of the week." Bricks grins, slit pupils pulsing wide with interest. "We don't even have to go anywhere, just pull down your shirt a little bit."

"I'm not..." Naya looks around, furtively. "This isn't exactly priv-" She flinches as she's interrupted by a loud moan, followed by a cheer from the rest of the bar.

"You're asking me to let your hands get real dirty, sweetheart." Bricks stands and circles the table to crowd Naya against the wall. She dips down to breathe into her ear. "And unless you want word to spread of a cute, clean cut, little topsider digging into illegal soldier mods, you're gonna pull your tits out and take the money I give you, after, Bambi."

There’s something behind the predatory look in the taller woman’s eyes. A challenge. She’s called Naya’s bluff, hasn’t she? When she refuses, Bricks will send her off with a laugh and a pat on her ass. And she’ll be back at square one, unable to face the danger of diving deeper again.

But Naya’s never been accused of knowing when to back down.

It’s the work of a moment to have the various video feeds in the room start a ten second loop. Her bots use movement patterns to make the video seem natural to anyone not looking closely. Bricks makes an interested noise when the video feed from her cybernetic eye continues showing Naya’s darting eyes and regular breaths. Her organic eye takes in the way Naya’s hands come up to unclasp the front of her shirt.

She takes a deep breath before hooking her fingers into the neck of her undershirt. She looks down as she inches it down to reveal the scalloped edge of her bra, instead of looking to see if Bricks is aroused or amused or some other, worse thing.

Before she can truly expose herself, a warm hand touches her wrist. “So eager. Not even gonna give me a little tease?”

>>>Bricks: Nice trick with the cameras, but you’re going to call attention.

Naya tips her chin up and immediately regrets it when Bricks leans down to meet her. Her breath shivers between their lips. When a metal arm comes up to block her view of the rest of the room, she turns her face away.

>>>Bambi: It’d be more suspicious if I let everyone have a clip for distribution.

“Smart girl,” Bricks whispers against her temple. “Take the credits.”

The fund transfer Bricks initiates has a public comment attached. ‘Classy. Could almost be the real thing.’ Naya glares up at Brick’s smirking face as she accepts the transaction. Two hundred. It feels like too little and too much money at the same time. Almost immediately, she gets inquiry pings from six other patrons the bar.

“And that’s your alibi,” Bricks chuckles, stepping back so quickly that she barely has time to put herself to rights. “Let’s go, sweetheart.”

—

Naya tries not to fidget in the freight elevator, down, down, down, into The Throat. Bricks's arm is a possessive weight on her shoulder. On the other side of the lift, a startlingly tall man stares at them through the holes in a cloth sack. When she meets his eyes, something writhes where his mouth should be.

"Eyes to yourself," Bricks growls when he takes a half step in their direction. Her cybernetic arm crackles warningly.

The man visibly considers his options before making a guttural sound. A thick appendage, tongue or tentacle, Naya can’t really tell, pokes out from under the hood. He mutters something she doesn’t understand in under-tongue. Bricks hisses something back, pushing Naya behind her as she takes a threatening step forward. The man flinches, then crowds himself into his corner. He doesn’t even look in their direction for the rest of the descent.

When the doors open, Bricks holds her back until the man leaves, then steers her out into the street. Naya's been under-city before, but not in this bloc. The air is just as stale and hazy as she remembers, but this shaft doesn't see as much vertical commuter traffic as some of the others, so the street is dark instead of lit with neon. The faintest bit of light filters down from straight above.

Groping for something to say, she asks, "Did you know that guy?"

Bricks snorts, keeping an arm around her's waist as she steers her along. "Yeah."

“What did he want?”

She gets an uninterested shrug. “The same thing any bottom dwelling opportunist wants.”

It’s not hard to imagine what she means. When she doesn't say anything else, Naya searches for another topic. She swallows her pride and forces herself to say, "Thank you for setting up this meeting."

"Don't thank me yet, sweetheart. You're gonna hate me soon enough."

"I know it's dangerous for you," she insists as Bricks draws her down a side street. Dangerous is an understatement, if the Ghost Teams are so far gone that they’re experimenting on human beings. "Even if things are hard, moving forward, I appreciate your help."

Bricks doesn't answer. Instead, she knocks on a barred door. It opens a crack, and she and the other person hiss low words at each other. A shining green eye looks Naya up and down, the door shuts, and Bricks draws her away.

They stride, briskly, back to the main street. Bricks asks, "Do you have a respirator?"

"Yes."

"Put it on, don't speak."

Wordlessly, Naya unfolds the mask from her pocket and covers her mouth and nose. Bricks pulls a dark scarf from her shoulders and wraps it around Naya’s head and neck, and then drops a poncho over her head. Somehow, the mercinary looks bigger in just her thin shirt, the muscles and metal in her shoulders more pronounced.

Ten minutes into their silent walk, a man melts from the shadows and starts walking on Naya's other side. Though she can’t see much under his baggy clothes, his gait speaks to digitigrade modifications. When she glances up, he has a faceplate under his own hood. His voice, when he speaks, is robotic. "Bricks."

"Roach."

“You’re looking smug and determined.”

“I’m on a very… interesting job.” An encrypted message gets passed between the two of them, and Naya frowns behind her mask. She shouldn’t be able to tell that a message was sent, though, so she bites her tongue. Bricks smirks down at her, then turns her eyes forward. “What’s on your mind?”

"Shadows are hunting you. Seven thousand credits."

"That's insulting," Bricks dismisses. "Mace take the job?"

"That's insulting," Roach parrots back. Somehow, his metered and inflectionless voice sounds amused. A flurry of encrypted messages flows between them. Once those have finished, he says, "Come see us when your business with the Watcher is done." And then he fades away into the shadows again.

"Good job," Bricks whispers. "Stay silent. Keep taking deep breaths. Walk straight ahead. Don't run." And then she ducks down a side street, leaving Naya alone in the dark.

Fuck.

She keeps putting one foot in front of the other. Measured. Brisk, but unhurried. A couple of people pass on the other side of the street, then a man passes on her side. Under her poncho, she palms her pocket knife, but no one spares her a second glance.

After a full minute, Bricks slides out of the next alley and falls into step with her, a cigarette that smells like real tobacco between her lips. In her cybernetic hand, she has a twitching, bleeding length of what looks like an octopus tentacle the size of Naya’s forearm.

"You can talk now,” she says. “But you don't want to ask about this."

—

The respirator makes a lot more sense when Naya is led to a shaft to the Belly.

She’s never been to the middle level of the true undercity. Technically, no one should live in this industrial level, so there’s very little in the way of individual commerce and amenities. There is an abundance of dead “topsider tourists” every year, mangled and hacked to drain all of their resources before anyone can realize that they haven’t come home.

This lift is much smaller, just big enough for her to stand behind Bricks as the woman primes her arm. The edge of a plasma knife glows blue from within the mechanics of her bicep. When Naya activates the plasma in her own knife, Bricks looks over her shoulder at the near silent hum.

“You ever use that before?”

“Once.”

That earns an interested noise as the other woman faces forward again. “On a person?”

“…No.”

“Well, there’s a first time for everything,” is all she says about that as the elevator shudders to a stop. “Stay behind my right arm. If I tell you to drop, you fall to the ground and don’t move until I tell you.”

When the door opens, it’s into a pitch black alley. The only light is the obscured gleam from with Brick’s left shoulder. Something in the darkness hisses. Bricks strides forward, and Naya has no choice but to follow after.

They walk for a few minutes without incident before Bricks knocks on a nondescript door. Next to it, a biometric scanner creaks open and scans one of her eyes, then one of her metal fingers. Naya flinches at the noise of a series of locks grinding open.

A stern faced blonde woman is on the other side of the door when Bricks gestures Naya inside. She’s not wearing a respirator, but then, neither is Bricks. The woman doesn’t say anything, so Naya doesn’t either. She just waits for Bricks to finish securing the door, then returns to her spot just behind her.

“Watcher,” Bricks greets with clear good humor. “I brought you a little something.”

Naya huffs a surprised breath from her nose, but stays silent. The Watcher. The overseer of at least one of five active Modified Task Forces. She looks so… normal. A woman in her mid forties, maybe, face lined with stress but open. Naya feels a little thrown off. When the lights flicker, however, she catches the red shine of a cybernetic eye. Whatever mods she has, they’re hidden so well that Naya can’t even sense them.

The Watcher’s eyes scan her for a moment before she’s looking back to Bricks. Naya only has a moment to wonder why she hasn’t been pinged before she asks, “Alive?”

“You always pay more when they’re alive.”

What? Naya stumbles backwards until she hits the door. “What?”

Bricks throws a grin over her shoulder. “I told you not to thank me.” Turning back to the Watcher, she says, “Thirty thousand credits. Had a run in with the King on the way here.”

“No one told you to bring her alive. Fifteen, and we void the Shadows bounty on you.”

“Twenty five. You want her alive, trust me. And I can handle the Shadows on my own.”

Naya gapes at the two of them. A quick glance over her shoulder and query to the door confirms that the locks won’t open again without a lot more force than she could manage, even if she wouldn’t have to fight Bricks to get out. And the Watcher… isn’t motivated to let her live. Fuck. The little knife in her hands feels less than useless.

“She wanted to meet you,” Bricks continues, crossing her arms. “And Price.”

That makes the Watcher pause and look over Naya again. “Oh?”

“She used his name,” Bricks confirms. “Real skilled code-breaker.”

“Hm.” The Watcher frowns, then says. “Thirty thousand is a low ball offer, then.”

“She thinks you’re keeping the task force in cages,” Bricks chuckles. “I want to watch when she sees them for the first time.”

That gets a huff of amusement. “Thirty thousand and a show… Deal. Bring her.”

When the Watcher turns away, Bricks looks back at Naya with a surprisingly gentle smile. “Good job. Now comes the hard part. Let’s go.”

“What’s going to happen to me?” she doesn’t want to walk forward, but there’s not much else to do. She tries to stand away from Bricks, but it’s hard in the narrow hallway.

“Nothing, now,” Bricks laughs. “Got you through the door alive, and Watcher can always use a code breaker.”

It’s hard not to feel stupid. Naya struggles to keep her voice even. “So this was just… a bounty for you?”

“Better me than König.” Bricks wiggles the tentacle that she’s still holding in metal fingers. “And better now than when an actual bounty was on your head. Diving into secure government information brings out the worst kind of trouble. The Shadows would have killed you in your bed. Kortac would have chipped you, if they decided keeping you was worth it. This way, everyone gets what they want.”

“Except me,” Naya points out.

“You’re still alive, for now,” the Watcher points out from a few steps ahead, without looking back. “Considering the problems you’ve caused me, it’s tempting to kill you myself. But Bricks is right. I can always use a Breaker.”

“I don’t do that professionally,” Naya protests weakly.

The Watcher doesn’t break stride. “You do, now.”

They get into another elevator, big enough for eight people. There aren’t any floor indicators, but as soon as the doors close, it starts to descend. Wrapping her arms around herself, Naya shivers. At this rate, she realizes, she may never see the sky again. She’ll be locked in a cage next to the 141, underground, let out to circumvent code for… what? To support more killing? More human experimentation? If she doesn’t cooperate, will they experiment on her? Put a processor in her brain to erase everything about her except for her skill?

Tears gather in the corners of her eyes, and she can’t help a sniffle.

“None of that,” comes the surprisingly gentle voice of the Watcher. When she approaches, she puts a gentle hand on Naya’s shoulder. “You’re here now. There’s no going back. But we take care of our own.”

Bricks snorts. “For given values of taking care of. You are keeping the boys in cages after all.”

“That’s not helpful,” the Watcher says, producing a tissue from her pocket and dabbing at Naya’s eyes. She pushes the makeshift hood back and gently removes her respirator, scanning her face with hard blue eyes. Eventually, she asks, “Why did you come here, Bambi?”

Shoulders coming up around her ears, Naya gets the feeling that because I’m an idiot isn’t the answer she’s looking for. She looks down at her sensible shoes, bracketed by the Watcher’s own worn work boots, and confesses, “Bricks said I could meet with you, and Price. And… I thought I could… encourage you to treat the modified soldiers more like people than animals.”

“And I suppose this encouragement was going to come with a threat to leak records to the public?” The Watcher’s mouth twitches into a sardonic smile when Naya looks up at her again. “Bold.”

Bricks chuckles. “Naive.”

“Hopeful. And some of the best plans are the simplest,” the Watcher dismisses.

Naya wouldn’t call her plan to connect to the building’s intranet and threatening to disrupt all of the life support systems “naive.” Now that she’s locked in, it feels like a distinctly hopeless course of action. She’ll have to think of something else, fast.

The Watcher steps away as the elevator comes to a stop. The doors open into a large control room, huge observation windows giving a 360 degree view out into dimly lit halls. Bricks ushers Naya out, heavy hands on her shoulders, until she pushes her into a chair facing a window to the left side of the room.

“Did we miss feeding time?” Bricks grins and pulls a puzzle ball from her bag. Her cybernetic hand twitches and whirs as it clicks through combinations.

“Luckily for Bambi, yes.”

Before Naya can ask what feeding time entails, something drops from the ceiling on the other side of the glass, startling a yelp from her. It’s a man, tall and lean, slitted eyes shining a red orange as he stares at her face through the glass. He’s half dressed, only in loose pants. Thick, dark streaks of something wet cover his chest and splatter down his legs. The grin that splits his pretty face puts three pairs of sharp canines on display, stained red.

The Watcher pushes a button, an intercom. “Gaz.”

“Who’s this cute little thing, Laswell?” Naya shivers as Kyle “Gaz” Garrick looks her up and down. He looks just like his personnel file, except for a wildness around his eyes that changes his face from welcoming to something dangerous. “Could practically smell her from the street.”

“Back away from the glass, you’re filthy. What the hell did you roll in?”

The man ignores the Watcher, face going soft as he leans down to get on a level with Naya. “Hello, honey. Such a pretty girl, what are you doing down here? You a friend of Bricks?”

Something about his crooning voice makes Naya’s hair stand on end. At the same time, she finds that she can’t look away from the man’s eyes as he tilts his head. They’re such an interesting color, and he keeps shifting ever so slightly in ways that draw her eyes to follow. He jerks quickly to one side when her eyes dip down to the red and brown splashed down his chest, then smiles when she looks back at his face. His teeth - even the extra ones - are perfect and red. Naya’s heart beats a little faster.

A loud pop and sudden flash makes Naya jump as Gaz reels back with a snarl.

“I told you not to touch the glass,” the Watcher grumbles. “Clean up. Make yourself presentable. And remind the others to put their masks on.”

“Sir, yes, sir,” he hisses. With one last, sweet smile to Naya, he turns and strides away before leaping up to grab an exposed beam and hoist himself into the shadows above the observation room. He disappears in the space of a moment. No matter how Naya squints, she can’t tell where he’s gone.

“Don’t look any of them in the eye,” Bricks whispers from close behind, chuckling at the way Naya jumps. “They’re predators, sweetheart, and you’re the sweetest bite of prey they’ve had in a long while.”

“Bricks,” the Watcher (Laswell?) chides. “Get her keyed in. Bambi, you’re not to be alone in here. We’ll get you interfaced with security so you know how to do a lockdown sequence before you’re introduced to the Task Force.”

When she’s handed an interface chip, Naya blanches. “I can’t, I don’t have a hard disk reader. Why do I need to know the facility’s lockdown sequences?”

“There’s no where in this facility that they can’t get,” Bricks replies, distracted as she opens a floor panel to extract a series of wires, and what looks like a very robust integration cable. “And if you’re going to work here, you’re going to need to be able to keep them from dragging you off and eating you.”

“Bricks.” Laswell snaps. To Naya she explains,    “Everyone who works here needs to know how to lock down in case of emergency.”

Naya gapes. “Emergencies? They can - They’re not -! They have full access to the facility?”

“Of course. They can get out of the facility, too,” Bricks snickers. “Who’s going to stop them?”

“Bricks!”

“All of the records say that they’re severely restricted.” The tight squeak in Naya’s voice is undeniable. “What do you mean they could eat me?”

“Old records,” Laswell answers without looking. A terminal lights up under her fingertips. “The only way the SAS would let us keep the facilities without bomb chips. Let me know when you’re ready for input.”

“The part about eating me?” Naya flinches as Bricks circles behind and pushes her hair up to expose the port beneath her left ear.

“If you’re as good as I think you are, you don’t have to worry about that,” Bricks says, shoving the cable into place. “Go.”

“What-”

Laswell launches the integration before she can get the question out. Naya’s whole body jolts, brain flooded with sudden input. She doesn’t dive into the data so much as she’s dragged under the tidal wave of the facility.

The whole structure unfolds around her, five floors, twelve stories down, three shafts up, two elevators, one stair. She’s in the observation tower, which descends three more floors. Heat, cooling, air filtration, power, food storage, office of Watcher One Kate Laswell, office of Bravo One John Price, research labs east and south, conference rooms, break rooms, sleeping quarters, inventory, directory of personnel.

Access Denied.

It’s nothing to shuffle the alert away. Asset Records. Veronica “Bricks” Mason, Gary “Roach” Sanderson, Mason “Mace” Ward, [Redacted] Nikto, Morgan “Sparrow” Voss. The list goes on. Task Force 141. Kyle “Gaz” Garrick, John “Soap” MacTavish, John “Bravo One” Price, Simon “Ghost” Riley. Vital statistics steady, duplicate identification signals, three dead copies, one living set. Security, kill switch overrides. These doors won’t close, but they’ll tell the observation tower that they have. Interesting.

Diving a layer deeper, she observes three separate security records. One is distressingly familiar, the records she’d found before, that spurred her to find Bricks, full of echoes of old code, now that she can see it. Then the one with logs going to Watcher One Kate Laswell, current and accurate. Except that the third log indicates security discrepancies and pings to KGKLJMJPSR. She logs the discrepancy on her own, internal system, a reminder to see if she can piggyback on someone else’s clearance.

Now that she’s thinking about it, she scans for what her clearance is supposed to have access to. It’s the second level, the one that doesn’t actually close the security doors surrounding the servers, sleeping quarters, and the observation tower. Well, that won’t do. She makes a digital copy of KL’s access and patches it into her own.

Just as she finishes, four ID tags simply labeled “Ghost” enter the lowest observation tower floor. That’s a glaring red security alert, and it only doubles in urgency as he accesses the hatch to the system port cable.

“Oh, that’s bad,” she hears herself say aloud as she gropes, blindly for the cable in her neck. “Ghost is accessing, I need to disconnect before he-“

Three more security alerts come up as the ID tags for Bravo One, Gaz, and Soap appear around the top floor of the observation tower, their floor. Naya quickly circumvents the overrides on the blast doors, and half observes rolling shutters covering the windows as Laswell makes a startled noise. Unfortunately, Ghost finds her while she’s distracted.

And he is a ghost, sliding between the layers of Naya’s own security code like a cold breeze. He rifles through her ID cards before she can even try to lock down. When she tries to lock him out of her interface, he slams through so fast it sends her reeling. Unfortunately for him, and for her, he trips over her Brain Blast in the process. The packet of musical theater data explodes to override everything she’s connected to, knocking her out of her connection to the facility and blaring Ohmigod You Guys through the speaker systems of the facility.

“What the fuck,” Veronica Bricks Mason shouts, covering her ears.

“Sorry, sorry,” Naya yelps. She manually reopens her access to the facility and cuts the sound. Her head spins with new information that she doesn’t have time to let her organic brain process. Ghost is nowhere to be found, but she doesn’t wait around to see where he pops up again before locking herself down and physically removing the cable from her neck. “Ghost tripped my security protocol.”

“You shouldn’t be able to influence any part of the facility,” Watcher One Kate Laswell observes. “Which means you’re every bit as good as Bricks says you are. Why did you lock down the tower?”

“Just this floor,” she answers absently, looking around as her interface flashes and labels new data points about her surroundings. It takes a moment for her to filter through everything enough to focus. “Bravo One, Gaz, and Soap were approaching as Ghost tapped in on the bottom floor.”

“I should have charged more,” Asset:Mason chuckles.

“Maybe you should have, Veronica,” Naya replies without thinking.

The woman just laughs. “Oh ho ho, you’re even better than I thought.

Watcher One Laswell drums her fingers on the table. “You don’t have a hard disk reader. Can you still access the facility without a hard line?”

Naya has to shake her head before she runs a quick system check. A ping to the 141 Facility gets a happy little ping back. “Yeah. My, um… my interface is a bit more robust than standard.”

Watcher Laswell nods. “Noted. Reset the security settings.”

Naya almost does it on autopilot, but stops herself. Running a quick check, she shivers. “They’re still out there. Three of them.” When Laswell only nods, she nudges the blast doors and security shutters to open. It takes a moment, but eventually they start to rumble to life.

Worryingly, when she can see through the windows again, Bravo One, Gaz, and Soap are no where to be found. The only active vitals in the facility say they’re right across the glass from where Naya is sitting. It sends a chill down her spine. Diving through the facility systems, she had felt untouchable. But she’s been outmaneuvered again. Unless…

She stands and leans closer to the glass, looking up into the shadows above.

Three pairs of eyes shine down at her from the darkness.

“They’re up there,” Naya whispers. When Laswell simply answers in the affirmative, she activates the intercom with a gulp. “Um. I’m sorry about the noise.”

“That’s quite alright, sweetheart,” a deep voice answers. “Ghost has a way of startling pretty girls. And I quite like a bit of theater.”

Well it’s not Gaz, and there’s no hint of a Scottish accent. “Are you… Bravo One? John Price?”

“You are a clever one.” One of the pairs of eyes squints and tilts. Another shuts, and doesn’t open again. Soap’s tags move a short ways away as Price continues. “Bricks says you asked to meet me.”

“Yes, sir,” Naya says, and then remembers too late that Bricks said not to meet their eyes. She tears her eyes away and jumps at the sight of John “Soap” MacTavish standing a few feet down the hall in front of her.

He looks good, surprisingly so. His hair is long, braided mohawk shining. A gleaming scar is the only indication of the wound that almost killed him. He’s healthy, big and bulky and dressed casually in black joggers and a tight black tshirt. Bright blue eyes with crossed pupils scan her face with interest. When he grins at her, his sharp teeth flash with titanium augments.

“Gaz wisna exaggeratin,’ ye smell quite nice, Bambi,” Soap purrs.

“What part of ‘masks on’ don’t you all understand?” Laswell grumbles.

“They’ve already got her scent,” Bricks snickers. “Did Ghost get your tags Bambi?”

“He did,” Price confirms from above. “Naya Walker, also known as Bambi. Computer scientist, you’ve sold a couple of database systems. Quite impressive.”

A pit opens in her stomach. Ghost had access to her system for less than three seconds. Her throat is tight when she says, “Thank you, sir.”

“So polite,” Gaz chuckles from above. “Come say hello, doll.”

Naya chances a glance back at Kate, then looks back at Soap, then up at the single pair of shining eyes above as Price’s ID winks away from your awareness. “I’m not sure I have clearance for that.”

“You didn’t have clearance to know about this facility,” Gaz points out. “And yet, here you are. Pretty as a picture.”

“Jesus,” Bricks mutters as Laswell makes a startled sound. “We really should put a bell on you.”

And then a huge hand presses against the glass next to Naya’s face. She startles backwards and runs into a huge, solid body, and yelps as a strong arm catches her about the waist.

“Caught ya,” a fourth, deeper voice rumbles above her. His other hand catches both of her wrists and immobilizes her as she stares at dark brown stains up to his wrists. “Been teasin’ us f’ months, dippin’ in an’ out ‘f m’code. So careful, li’l fawn. But not careful enough.”

“Ghost,” Laswell says. The whine of a plasma weapon being primed pierces through the otherwise silent room. Naya squeezes her eyes closed.“Hands off. That’s my Breaker.”

“’S’at so?” Ghost bends down, so far down, it seems, to drag the tip of his nose along Naya’s temple. “Seems she moight be mine, since I invited ‘er.”

“Speaking of,” Bricks interjects. “I’ll take my finder’s fee, now.”

“Bricks.” Laswell hisses.

“Transfer’s cleared, Bricks,” John Price says with a chuckle. “Pleasure doing business, as always.”

Like Gaz and Soap, Captain Price is bigger than his file made him seem. They’d shaved him, when they had replaced some of his bones with metal, but now his facial hair is as full and vital as the rest of him. This close, Naya can see the mechanics whirling within his eyes.

Leaning against his free side, Gaz licks his lips with a tongue that seems too long. But she only sees them for a moment before she’s being turned around, still wrapped in Ghost’s arms.

On the left side of the room Bricks lounges in a chair, tossing and catching and cycling through the combinations on her ball. She’s grinning like she’s gotten away with murder. Maybe she has - she’s been paid three times today for possibly the easiest bounty of her career. Across from her, Laswell holds a glowing knife in a loose grip by her side, shooting an annoyed glare at the other woman.

“What the hell is this?” Laswell hisses.

“You told us to stop hunting your techs,” Price chuckles.

“Bambi is mine,” Kate reiterates, glaring out the glass.

“Just a wee taste, Watcher,” Soap burrs from somewhere. “Ghost is code breaker enough, ye dinnae need another.”

Naya feels her entire body go cold. She takes a deep breath, reconnects with the facility, and runs Flash_Bang.exe.

—

The underground building has a straightforward layout, but that’s dangerous. Naya flicks away the alert when Ghost manages to patch his way back into the facility and silence the music - fuck, it only took him twenty eight seconds? - and ducks under a desk in the office she broke into, one floor down.

It’s hard to stay one step ahead of him, but her spiders and bots repair the five second camera feed loops as soon as he forces the cameras back online. He only wastes time breaking a third of the bot codes before he seems to realize that they’re replicating and switches to tagging, leaving them to run their processes.

It takes two agonizing seconds for her to open the audio relay from the observation tower without revealing her location to Ghost’s sweeping pings.

“-vilian running wild and scared through a secure facility, John.” Kate snaps.

“I thought she was your new breaker,” Gaz snickers. “Not really a civilian.”

“Nae,” Soap interjects. Naya is glad she doesn’t have video to see the nasty smile she can hear in his voice. “Watcher’s right. We cannae let her get too far.”

“She’s fucked the cameras,” Ghost chuckles. “Could get them back online, but it’d take some time.”

Price hums. “Location?”

“West labs’re pingin’,” Ghost answers. He sounds pleased. “Don’t mean much. She’s got bots spoofin’ her IDs.”

“Smells like she’s gone to the east wing,” Gaz purrs. “Lots of classified documents that way, Laswell. Hate to think of what she might come across if she makes it down to the third floor.”

There’s a tense silence before something slams. Eventually, Laswell hisses, “Fine. Bring her back. Alive and unharmed.”

“No promises,” Soap laughs.

Naya scrambles from her hiding spot as she confirms that the cameras in this south wing hall are looped. She needs to get back to the north side of the facility to get to the stairs that might take her up and out. But first she needs to get them off her trail… Somehow.

There’s a janitor closet two doors down, and she spoofs the signal to unlock the door just long enough to slip through it. She looks for bleach and prays it will be enough to mask her scent, then curses to herself when she realizes the bleach will be an obvious mark of her presence. She can’t just erase herself in the physical world the way she can, digitally.

An encrypted message alert calls her attention.

>>>Bricks: Soap will run at you directly. Gaz likes to ambush. Good Luck!

“I c’n see that, Bricks,” Ghost rumbles.

“She’s already at a disadvantage,” the mercenary chuckles. “Poor little thing, you’re going to eat her alive.”

“Oh, she’s not as harmless as all that,” Price laughs. “Took over the whole facility, gave Ghost the slip-“

“I let her go,” Ghost interrupts.

“Set up the meeting so there’d be no one here but us. Got her hands on the codes she thought would let her take control of us, the mindless killing machines.” John continues. He chuckles. “She’s a smart little thing.”

“She got the deadswitches?” Bricks sounds genuinely surprised.

“Command codes. The first ones,” Ghost confirms. “Duds, since we don’t have the chips, but she don’t know that.”

Well, she does now. Naya grabs three bottles of bleach and puts her respirator back on as her mind races. Part of what made soldier modifications so disgusting were the control processors. The irony of finding out that the 141 had somehow removed theirs was not lost on her. They’re already as free as she’d hoped to help them be, and they’re using that freedom to hunt her like animals.

The IDs for Soap and Gaz are still a floor above, moving slowly, following her trail. Ghost and Bravo One are still in the observation tower. She opens one bottle and rolls it back down the hall she came down, then jogs the other way, splashing the bleach as she goes. The observation tower in the center of the floor has mirrored glass, spiking her heart rate every time she catches sight of herself out of the corner of her eye. It’s so jarring that she almost doesn’t realize Gaz and Soap are coming out of the nearest elevator.

She ducks into an office just as the bell dings around the corner.

“Ach, that’s nae very nice, Bambi,” Soap calls. When he speaks next, it’s muffled, likely by his own respirator. “Ghost, she’s scent bombed the whole steamin’ floor. Where is she?”

“Don’t be lazy, Johnny,” Ghost chuckles. “’Ardly a hunt if there’s no challenge.”

“She’ll want the stairwell,” Gaz says. “Lock it down.”

“Already done,” Ghost says. “But locks aren’t exactly a deterrent, if you ‘aven’t noticed.”

“Bottle rolled down this hall,” Gaz says. “So she probably took the other.”

“Aye, that’s what she wants us to think,” Soap chuckles. “I’ll clear this side.”

Naya holds her breath as heavy footsteps start toward her hiding spot, then go so light she almost can’t hear them. She watches the light under the door and resists the urge to flinch at the appearance of a shadow. The man - Soap’s ID sits like a brand so close to her own in her interface - lingers by the door for a long moment then moves on. He’s so quiet that she keeps the map of the floor up to watch his progress. He’s listening for her, she realizes, stopping at each door. She’s lucky that the air circulation vents are above the door, or he might have heard her heart racing.

When Soap and Gaz each turn corners to start investigating the south wing, Naya finally lets herself take more than the shortest breath. She eases the lock open with a flinch at the mechanical click, but neither Soap nor Gaz change their trajectory. When she opens the door and peeks out, the hall is empty. So she eases her way out, crouches low, and shuffles as fast as she can to the stairwell.

She gives the locks three scans before coding them to unlock. The light turns green without incident. She waits for a moment. Soap and Gaz move just a bit farther away. Naya breathes a silent sigh and eases the door open.

“Got her,” Ghost says. “She’s in the stairwell.”

Above her, a door slams open. Naya yelps and starts jogging down the stairs before she can hear what Captain Price yells down at her. She brute forces her way through the lock codes for the third floor and pulls the door open, throwing her bottle of bleach at the wall before slamming it shut. She trips every proximity alarm she can, leading west through the third floor as she throws herself down the next flight. At the fourth floor door, she creates a signal loop, mindful of the door sensor she’d overlooked before. She hears Gaz and Soap slam through the second floor door open just as the door to the fourth closes behind her.

Too late, she realizes that she can’t hear into the tower anymore, and the map of this floor is all static in her interface. The schematics she had before are corrupted - Ghost’s doing, most likely. She can still see the locks on the doors, the terminals connected to the intranet in the various offices. It will have to be enough.

She darts into the eastern wing of the floor and realizes that no, it won’t be enough. The layout is different than the upper floors. The observation tower has no windows in this direction to speak of, for one. And the cameras are few and far between. The doors are also farther apart, and low pile carpet gives way to hard linoleum.

When she turns the corner, she gasps and ducks. Not that it would have helped any. She’s faced with a gymnasium, weight machines and benches and treadmills like a normal gym, except with weights so large it’s almost comical. There’s no one here, but the open space feels like a threat all the same. She turns tail and jogs back toward the observation tower.

As she turns south, she realizes that the tower has no windows on this floor. It’s not a relief, not really. Even if no one can see her, she’s trapped. Gaz and Soap are still looking for her, one floor up. How long will that last? The bleach trick can only work for so long, probably. And Ghost is good, it’s only a matter of time before he breaks into the camera bot code and finds her. How is she going to get up, past the first floor, let alone the next twelve flights of stairs to the streets of the Belly.

God, how is she going to make it home?

Her vision blurs with tears before she can finish taking her next breath.

“No, no, no, no, no,” she whimpers before a hiccup jolts through her. Her breath shudders from her throat as she swipes at her eyes. “No, no, keep it together, it’s gonna be okay. I can figure this out, I can. I can, it’s okay.”

“Bambi? Talk to me,” Brick’s serious voice comes through, suddenly, fuzzy but definitely there. “Those sound like tears, sweetheart.”

Naya sobs, she can’t help it. It’s a few seconds before she can force more words out. “Why did you do this to me?”

“You asked me to bring you,” Bricks reminds her with a soft chuckle. “Didn’t know you were gonna try to take over the whole facility, or I might have set something else up. But if you come out now -“

A hand touches Naya from behind and she screams, throwing a HardReset packet into the space before she can even wonder if that would have any impact on Soap or Gaz. When she whirls around, though, a man she doesn’t recognize is slumped against the wall, barely keeping the weight of a bricked cybernetic leg from dragging him to the floor. Her interface has a moment to tell her this is “Mace,” before she’s darting around him and running again.

“Fuck!” the man shouts. “Watcher what the fuck- No, I’m on the fucking training floor, why the hell-“

“Bambi,” Bricks shouts, “Do not go into the w-“

She slams the connection shut and tries, unsuccessfully, to wipe her tears away. The distraction is probably why she doesn’t realize she’s heading north, but she knows her mistake as soon as she hears the stairwell door open.

She screams again, right in Gaz’s face, can’t help it now that she’s finally made noise. She dodges his reaching hand and bolts, knowing she can’t outrun him, but what else can she do?

“Shite. Ghost!” Soap calls. “Lock it doon!”

Naya dives through a blast door as it slides shut, ignoring the myriad of voices that shout at her. Through the panic, she terminates all of her bots and slams all of her processing power into separating Ghost from the security access from the floor. He puts up a fight, but another BrainBlast and FlashBang gives her the two seconds she needs to take control.

An alert flashes.

<<Message from: WatcherOneKL. Accept?>>

Sitting on the floor, panting and sniffling, she gulps a deep breath. Someone pounds on the door, but it’s solid, and Ghost can’t get past her bots to regain control. She’s safe.

—

In the observation tower, Price frowns at the data pad in his hands. “Ghost, Bricks. Where did you say you found Ms. Walker?”

“Found us, really,” Ghost mutters, focused on the 3D hologram of the facility. Bambi’s ID markers dance all over the place. He’s running algorithms to try to find a pattern, but she’s three steps ahead, it seems. “Set out a lure and she tore through it like tissue paper. An’ then she made a forum post lookin’ f’r information on soldier mods.”

“Scrubbed everything clean,” Bricks adds. “We couldn’t find her for days after she blew through everything. I got lucky that I found the forum post, it didn’t even trigger Ghost’s spiders.”

Price hums. “And… did either of you confirm which hacker group she’s a part of?”

“Didn’t really have time,” Bricks answers with a shrug. “As soon as I confirmed who I was, she demanded to meet Laswell, and you.”

“Interesting. Any of you ever hear of a group called the Archivist Collective?”

Laswell frowns. “Collective for Anarchy?”

“No.” Price shakes his head. “Archivist Collective. It’s the only thing coming up with her background check. And she’s not a known member of any of the major hacking groups.”

Bricks shrugs. “Obviously, she’d use another alias.”

“No,” Price says again, walking over to show Laswell and Bricks the data pad. “None of her aliases are connected with anything but this Archivist Collective. And their only mission is to ‘Counter censorship through the collection, preservation, and dissemination of contested and classified texts.’”

Ghost makes an interested noise and leaves the hologram to start another terminal whirring. “Let’s see what they’ve got then -… oh.”

Bricks sits up from her sprawl. “Oh?”

“They’ve got an archive. Barely any security at all. Hosted on the GaiaPet: Craft servers.”

“GaiaPet?” Kate frowns. “Isn’t that a… virtual pet game? Where people make things with voxels? Procedurally generated…. They’re definitely robust enough servers for cyberattacks-“

“It’s jus’ a fuckin’ library,” Ghost grunts, navigating through. “Huge text files, embedded images. Some of it’s definitely classified. But tha’s oll… Oh, shite. Jus’ found our records.”

Bricks looks from the terminal in Price’s hand, to Ghost, and back. “Wait. John, you said she sold a couple of database systems. She’s got to be working with some data brokers, at least.”

“This says she developed and sold literal systems,” John says, horror dawning on his face. “A spreadsheet editor and a UI designed to organize complex data sets. As far as I can tell, she doesn’t sell information. Everything she’s got, besides those systems, is open source.”

“Oh, fuck,” Ghost breathes.

Kate strides up to look at his screen. “What?”

“She’s got an active account on GaiaPet. A pet frog named Señor fuckin’ Snuggly. Her last login was today, and her chat with the AI said ‘Wish me luck, if we can’t get those soldiers released, we can at least get the information out there.’”

The silence in the room is palpable. And then Bricks says, “Bambi? Talk to me. Those sound like tears, sweetheart.”

—

Naya keeps her arms wrapped around her knees until she stops shivering. In that time, two more message request alerts pop up, from BravoOneJP and GhostSR. All of them are marked maximum priority, and she has no desire to touch them. She can see the signal burst of Bricks trying to talk to her, but she’s muted the feed so that she can just have… a single second to breathe.

Her interface pushes everything away to prioritize an SOS signal, then automatically begins transcribing the subsequent Morse code message.

SOH. West wing dangerous stop. Battle androids stop. 15 active 20 inactive stop. GSR give code for control stop. Confirm stop. SOH. West wing dangerous stop. Battle androids stop. 15 active 20 inactive stop. GSR give-

She minimizes the message and sucks in the deepest breath she can, holds it, and forces herself to focus on her body. If she thinks about fifteen battle droids on this side of the door while modified soldiers hunt her on the other, she’ll start screaming and never stop. A part of her wants to lay down and just… give up. A big part. The whole part.

She opens the message from Laswell.

Bambi: You’re in a hazardous section of the facility. Ghost is standing down, for your safety. You will have to establish connection with the control tower to gain codes for control of battle -

Naya deletes the message and opens the one from Price. It’s more of the same, a demand that she open communication, a warning that the west wing of the floor is dangerous. She almost doesn’t open the message from Ghost, but… she doesn’t have much to lose.

She jumps when the message contains an audio file.

“Bambi, fuck, we didn’t know you was a literal archivist. Bricks an’ I fucked up. This is a truce, a suspension of hostilities. SOH. The training floor you’re on is fuckin’ dangerous, Bambi. Too dangerous for me to try t’ take it from you. You gotta take control of the droids. I can’t fuck wit’ ‘em while you’re in control of the space. I managed to confirm shut down of 20, but there’s 15 more. I c’n try to send the control codes this way, but the codes expire every 2 seconds. Better if you open comms. If you can’t, Morse confirmation, I’ll send the codes. Once you grab one, the rest will come for you. You’re fuckin’ fast, I know you can do it, but if you have an issue, open the door an’ Soap and Gaz’ll support.”

She’d rather be shot full of holes by military grade turrets than open the door. Her map of the facility is complete again, and she can see four IDs on the other side of the barrier. Soap, Gaz, Mace, and the redacted asset, Nikto, mill around, pacing between the blast doors and the central tower. But no one is pounding on the door or trying to open it, physically or otherwise. When she checks, her bots are idly cycling through access code randomization, but there’s no attempts at a breach.

Maybe Ghost is telling the truth?

She sends a Morse message.

Received stop. Hold for confirmation stop.

The answer is immediate.

Received stop. Holding for confirmation stop.

Does she want to open the comms? What if it’s a trap? Without knowing how long the code chains are, she’s at a disadvantage without a direct link to the tower. But if she opens connection to the tower, how can she guarantee that Ghost won’t command the androids to terminate her? On the other hand, if he is telling the truth, and the codes expire that fast, there’s no way she can locate and override that many machines that are actively trying to keep her out in time. And they are definitely trying to keep her out - her spiders have been able to confirm twenty units on standby, and fifteen empty holding stations, but there’s no sign of the other droids.

With a shaking breath, Naya opens the comms.

Brick's voice is the one she hears first. "Oh, thank fuck, she's back. Bambi? Can you hear me? Sweetheart, I need you to keep the blast doors static. If they cycle, they might start a lockdown sequence, and that will get the droids moving.” It takes two tries to get the words past her tight throat. "I don't want to die." "I'm so sorry, dove," Captain Price croons. "We’re gonna get you out of there.” "I won't tell anyone, I promise," Naya babbles though gasps. "I just want to go home." "You're gonna be okay, Bambi," Ghosts voice is surprisingly gentle. “Cleverest breaker above and below the city, yeah? Gave Soap an’ Gaz a proper chase an’ knocked Mace on ‘is arse. Coupl’a droids don’t stand a chance.”

“I’m not - I don’t know how to fight,” she whimpers.

“Who said anythin’ about fightin’? Pretty girl like you don’ have t’ lift a finger. Laswell?”

“Working on it,” the woman mutters. “Bambi, I need you to try to give us cameras without initiating any other processes. That’ll help- oh. You are fast. Give me a few seconds to find the nearest droids and we can give you the serial numbers.”

“She’s so small,” Price notes, somewhere in the background. “Possible the droids won’t even register her as a target.”

“I think we’ve fucked up enough today that we don’t need to risk it,” is Brick’s bone dry reply. “Sparrow is going to beat all of our asses.”

“Well, we’re about to give Bambi control of thirty-five full combat units,” the Captain points out. “Might not be much left of us to kick.”

Laswell breaks in. “Ghost-”

“Got em,” Ghost answers. “Bambi, ‘ve got a bead on the nearest units. ‘ow do you want to do this?”

Naya takes a couple of deep breaths and tries to hype herself up. It’s just code work. There are other variables, but at the core of it all, it’s just code. Yes, many of the variables have potentially painful and fatal consequences… But in the end, she can either do the code or not. And if there’s one thing she can do, it’s code.

“H-how,” she clears her throat and blinks back tears. “How many bits, per unit? For the key, I mean.”

“Forty ninety-six.”

Oh, just the highest security rating in the world, she thinks to herself, a little hysterical. She nods to herself and talks through the urge to giggle with nerves. “Okay. That’s seven hundredths of a second per unit, with the key. That’s… not so bad. I can probably handle them in batches of 5. Can I have the first hardware address? Morse, please.”

It takes a second, but the information comes through. It only takes a moment for a spider to highlight the machine in the network. Very quickly, her bots are able to identify and tag seven other units on her map. She shoots a summary data packet back to Ghost.

“Are these all droids?”

“Yeah, that’s half of ‘em. Laswell, she was able to identify all of the A-27 units, do you have eyes on any of the E-243s?”

In the background, Price mutters, “Kate hasn’t even laid eyes on all of the 27s.”

Another data packet comes through, and Naya is able to tag seven more dots on her map. Fifteen battle androids, and two of them just down the hall and around the corner on either side.

Naya takes another hiccuping breath. “How fast can they move?”

“A-27s are closest to you, they’re about a meter per second. The 243s move at about 4 per second.���

“Okay,” she says, holding her breath through another hiccup. She has two of her bots run movement simulations, and decides she’ll focus on the closest two A-27s, then the closest four E-243s. She has the processing power to do it, between her own interface and the facility. But… “I’m going to need these six keys first, but I have to let the doors cycle. How long is the lockdown sequence?”

Bricks makes a concerned noise before answering, “Fifteen seconds before you can open the door.”

So, if she messes this up, she’ll be dead for about 11 seconds before they’d be able to retrieve her body. Wonderful. “Ghost, I need all of the codes at once, in two packets, with the keys in this order. And then the next set of keys as soon as you have them. There’s a half second delay, so I need them as soon as they’re generated.”

Laswell sounds genuinely concerned when she asks, “Is that going to give you enough time?”

Naya runs the numbers again, and realizes that she’s fallen into a very peculiar state of calm. “I should have one point three seconds plus a little wiggle room per key. That’s plenty, for the first part. And if the first part doesn’t work… I don’t really have to worry about the rest of it.”

Captain Price’s voice is stern as he gives commands. “Gaz, tell Nikto to power up the cutter, in case we need to get you through the door. Bambi’s going to override the droids.” He’s quiet a moment, then, “Ghost says she can do it, and from what I’m seeing up here, I’m inclined to believe him. But the resets she did mean the door is going to lock down before she can open it again.”

Ghost says, “Ready to send the next round of codes on your mark, Bambi.”

Naya squeezes her eyes shut and sets her bots to be ready to receive and engage the keys. She takes one long, deep breath. Another. Lets all the air out in a huff. “Mark.”

As soon as the packet comes through, her interface is a flurry of executables and intrusion alerts. Her bots are fast, but the activation of the keys isn’t instantaneous. Just as she was warned, as soon as the first set of keys starts running, all of the droids set themselves to Active:Seeking, Objective:Eliminate. But almost as fast, they’re all placed back into Standby:HoldPosition in a wave that flows through the entire wing.

"That's all of em," Ghost sighs, four seconds later. Something creaks, probably the chair he's sunk himself into. "Fuckin' 'ell, she got all of em. Don' think she even needed me to provide the third set of keys. If she don't run screamin', I want her runnin' the damn-" Naya's heart spikes as an alert pings her interface. Her voice squeaks when she calls, "Ghost? There's two units coming online. They’re not listening to me, I can't stop them. What do I do?" Before she can hear his response, the power to the hall cuts out. Naya holds in a scream as everything goes dark and then red with emergency lighting. Captain Price's voice is overtaken by static, and then she loses the tower completely. Somewhere, in the darkness, she can just barely hear the whine of attack units Riley and Merlin priming their weapons.

—

“Goddamn it,” Kate snarls. “It’s the 9s. They’re jamming the signal.”

Bricks jumps up from her chair. “Bambi’s in there without access to the system?”

Ghost makes a disagreeing noise. “They’re active because she’s not an authorized user. They’re jamming anything that isn’t local to the wing, I should be able to patch- Johnny!”

“We cuttin, LT?”

“Forward these packets to Bambi, nothing else.”

“Aye - fuck!”

—

A message request from SoapJM flashes on Naya’s screen just as she finds out that these new droids can move at thirteen meters per second. When she opens it, she gets an immediate key packet. Every bot she has gets set to receive, but the keys are expired, so she has to wait an agonizing three-quarters of a second before the next ones come through.

Just as a next packet arrives, a blue beam of light slices across the end of the hall, then a second from the opposite side. She barely has time to match the keys to the hardware addresses before two furry muzzles round the corner, guns glowing from their shoulders. Naya has only a moment to recognize the controversial K-9 battle units before they both take a step in her direction. And freeze.

It’s an harrowing second of silence, two, three. She doesn’t even breathe.

With a whir, mounted turrets power down and withdraw back behind artificial fur. The K-9s change their status to Standby:AcceptNewObjective with identical head tilts. The one tagged Riley wags its tail and trots forward, tongue lolling like the average bio-dog. Merlin approaches with a little more hesitant body language, though Naya can see the way it’s integrating her tags into the authorized user list in its software.

She flinches away from the door at the high pitched whine of a plasma cutter on metal. Hastily, she sends an ‘All Clear’ message back to Soap, just as the lights come back on.

Captain Price’s voice resolves with renewed connection to the control tower. “-both of your necks. What were you thinking?”

“Oh, suddenly we’re all about vetting assets?” Bricks laughs. “You recruited me with a bag over my head.”

“You were an establlished CIA asset,” Laswell grits out.

Bricks scoffs. “And Sparrow and Nikto?”

“We wasn’t wrong,” Ghost interjects. “Bad intel aside-”

“No intel!” Captain Price half-shouts.

“-she took the facility from me twice and disarmed 15 droids in less than 4 seconds without any formal training. She’s good.”

“None of that matters if she’s dead,” Laswell snaps.

Naya clears her throat. “I’m not dead.”

“Bambi!” Bricks sound downright cheerful. “Doors are almost done cycling, you’re almost out. Hold tight.”

Petting a hand over the soft fur of Riley’s head, Naya feels for the lumps of it’s internal machinery. Of course, she can’t find it - K-9s were built for stealth and surveillance, to blend in with any other dog. These ones are modified for combat, but they’re still adorable.

It’s almost hard to believe that they were going to shoot her, less than ten seconds ago.

The blast door’s status changes to ready, an almost cheerful ping in her interface. She barely gives it a thought before initiating another lockdown sequence, then queuing two more behind it.

Ghost notices. “Bambi?”

“I need a minute, please,” she answers, then cuts the camera feeds.

Merlin eventually comes and sits just out of reach, tail thumping once against the ground. Naya pulls up it’s configuration settings and examines the personality controls. Calm, but friendly, alert, reserved, breaks “arbitrary dog rules” at a rate of 6%. Riley: open and playful, eager to please, breaks rules 17% of the time. Both locked to 141 facility 4th floor, west wing training center.

Do Not Remove.

—

When the blast doors open, Naya is standning a few feet back. Riley and Merlin lay on either side of her feet, solidly in a sleep cycle. Her fingers dig into the opposite sleeves of her cardigan as Soap and Gaz come into view, along with a fully functional Mace, and a fully helmeted cyborg she can only assume is Nikto.

“Steamin’ Jesus, bon,” Soap says taking a step forward. “Ye gave us a wee fright!”

“If you get within three feet of me,” Bambi says, pausing for a deep breath. “I’ll shoot you.”

Three set of eyebrows shoot up. Nikto’s faceplate remains unchanged. Gaz looks at the others before answering, “We’re sorry we frightened you, love. We didn’t know Bricks hadn’t-”

Naya interrupts him. “I would like to leave now.”

“Well…” Soap says with a shrug. “We can take ye back t’ Laswell?”

“That’s fine. Riley, Merlin, up.”

When the dogs “wake” and stand, Mace says, “They can’t pass that door.”

She takes a step forward, flanked by the dogs. “I think you’ll find that they can.”

“Nae, Bambi,” Soap says gently. “They’re hard coded-”

Riley’s turret activates as soon as Soap takes a step toward her. Naya takes another deep breath, and repeats, “If you get within three feet of me, I will shoot you.”

“Well you certainly won’t be doing that with the dogs,” Gaz scoffs. “We won’t touch you, but you really should come with… us.”

The dogs cross the threshold of the door with her, and the plasma cannon in Merlin primes with a dangerous, high pitched sound. When the stunned soldiers don’t step back, the dog’s chest panel opens with a blue glow.

“Three feet,” Mace says, taking two big steps back, hands in the air near his head. “You got it.”

“Yes, sir,” Gaz says aloud, taking his own step backwards. “The doors are open and we have eyes on her. She’s got the 9s with her. Well sir, it seems she’s taken a liking to them.” He pauses. “Soap did tell her that, but apparently she doesn’t really care.”

Naya rolls her eyes and enables the cameras in the hall. “So you’re all allergic to just saying things outright?” The muted audio feed is a flurry of activity, but she just gestures down the hall. “After you.”

—

In the end, everyone ends up in a second floor conference room. Naya stands by the far wall, Riley and Merlin a deadly guard panting in front of her feet. The other eight sit and stand at the other end, fidgeting and clearly searching for a way to break the silence.

Bricks tries first, “Sweetheart-”

“Give me a reason not to overload the filtration systems,” Naya interrupts.

That makes everyone flinch. Laswell clears her throat. “What-”

“Because,” Naya nearly shouts, “I could shoot at least two of you, but then you really would kill me this time. But if I backflow and spark the air, that would kill all of you.”

“Kill ye, as well,” Soap points out.

“I thought I was going to die about five times in the last hour,” Naya says, much calmer than she feels. “Mention me dying again and I’ll fry your interface.”

“Ghost just aboot did tha’ already,” Soap mutters.

“Need a hacker for an op. Thought you was a professional,” Ghost finally admits after a moment of tense fidgeting. “Way you ate through the files I laid out, blew through a 256 like tissue paper. Couldn’t find you after… Figured you knew what you was doin’. And y’do.”

Naya’s eye twitches. “And you couldn’t send me an email? Set up an interview?”

“I did try,” Bricks points out. “But you said all the keywords that tend to get a person fast tracked to a very classified meeting.”

“A very classified meeting where you sell me, twice and then hunt me for sport?”

“Everything sounds bad when you say it like that,” the other woman chuckles.

The air circulator over the door falls silent. In the ensuing silence, Naya can hear the servos whir in Bricks’s arm.

“Clearly, we made mistakes,” Laswell admits. “So. What do you want?”

“I want to not have been sold and hunted for sport. Barring that, I would like a time machine. I’d love to know what you consider an equitable offer, Watcher One.”

“What the fuck did you do?” Mace hisses at Captain Price.

“Apparently we made a tactical error,” the man grumbles. “And then a series of compounding tactical errors.”

“You did not ask Nikolai,” Nikto says, matter of fact. It’s the first Naya’s heard his voice, human and heavily accented. “Or Sparrow. She will not be pleased, I think.”

“None of Nik’s contacts c’n do what Bambi c’n do,” Ghost counters.

“Bambi can kill every person in this room,” Naya says, voice flat, emphasized by the glow of two plasma cannons. “Bambi can turn this whole facility into a goddamn crater. Bambi can post videos of the human experimentation to the holonet.”

“Woah, woah, woah,” Gaz says. “What human experimentation? No one’s experimenting on anybody.”

“I saw the videos!” Naya yells. “People in cages, people on operating tables, awake, screaming, crying. I saw people eating raw meat, off of leg bones, eating people!”

“Oh fuck,” Ghost says, voice wavering. His face is stricken when she looks at him. “Bambi, that weren’t for you to see, fuck, ‘ow deep did you fuckin’ go? I didn’t even-”

“That’s the job,” Bricks cuts in. “That’s why we needed a hacker, because we’re trying to stop that from happening, and we can’t get through their walls or exploit their vulnerabilities.”

“Oh, that’s just the “bad guys”?” Naya scoffs. “Okay. Why was Gaz covered in blood when I arrived?”

“Blood!” Soap yelps. “That was hydraulic fluid an’ oil! One of the bikes is actin’ up, and our mechanic isnae aroond!”

“It was in his teeth!”

“He’s bonnier than he is graceful!”

“Oh, fuck you, Tav!”

“You said you couldn’t promise to bring me back alive! Ghost called it a hunt!”

“Ah was jokin’!” Soap runs and hand over his mohawk. “We’re a right frightful lot, and sometimes we sneak aboot, but mostly people just cannae always hear us coming! Ye’d think we could catch one wee little civilian withoot incident!”

“You’re the one who was running through a secure facility,” Captain Price points out.

A plasma cannon discharges into the wall above his head. The whole room freezes for a beat before Naya hisses. “If you ever even think of implying-”

“Any information you find about Makarov and his dealings, you can make public,” Bricks interrupts. “Who, what, when, where, how. All of it can go into your archive.”

Laswell scowls. “Now hold on-”

Bricks talks over her. “We don’t have anything you want that you can’t just outright take, Bambi. That’s what you came here for. Information, and to get people out of cages.”

Nikto looks at Bricks and snorts before muttering something under his breath in Russian. Mace crosses his arms, leaning back in his seat and doing a much better job of keeping his thoughts off of his face than Soap and Gaz. The sergeants look horrified. Ghost looks about ready to throw up. Captain Price and Laswell share a sour, resigned look.

“You’ll have our backing,” Laswell sighs. “You’ll need something a bit more secure than the GaiaPet servers, or you’ll be tracked. But yes. You can disseminate the information.”

There’s a long moment of silence. Naya considers her options, arms around herself. The air circulator kicks back on.    Eventually, she says, “I want an advance. Thirty thousand credits, plus however much Price paid.”

“Done,” Bricks answers.

“And… I want seventy five credits an hour.”

“…Fine,” Laswell agrees.

“And I keep the dogs.”

Captain Price makes a disagreeing noise. “Those are government property.”

“Either I keep them, or I set them to self destruct and detonate every android on the fourth floor.”

Nikto says, “You are a bloodthirsty hind.”

“I’m really not,” Naya says. “But I’ve had a very long day. Do we have a deal?”

“Don’t think we have much of a choice,” Captain Price concedes.

Just then, the door to the conference room opens, and a brunette peeks her head in. Morgan Voss, “Sparrow,” as her ID tags her, nods at Laswell. “Just got in, didn’t know there was a meeting scheduled. What did I miss?” Her eyes drift up. “What the hell happened to the wall?”

[nevadancitizen]

-> CH. 3: ANDROID AUTOPSY (OR IS IT NECROPSY?)

synopsis: you start to work on the autopsy of the ortiz android. connor tries to establish a friendly rapport with both you and gavin. but gavin is, as always, a fucking cunt.

word count: 2.4k

ships: Connor/Reader, Hank Anderson & Reader

notes: connor looks so fucking funny while he's falling in the break room scene 😭😭 like i hate that he's getting hurt but his face is EMOTIONLESS LOLOLOL

HoFS taglist: @catladyhere (if you'd like to be added to the taglist, just ask!)

HEAD OF FALSE SECURITY MASTERLIST

When you walked into work ten minutes ago, you expected something to be wrong. That’s just how it goes these days, with deviants running rampant in the streets and all. 

But not this. Not the deviant from last night, deactivated in his holding cell. Apparently, he rammed his own forehead into the wall and didn’t stop until he died. Thirium stains the wall, the floor, and his already-bloody uniform.

You sigh, holding a hand to your forehead. “Блять…”

“I recognize that one,” Chris mumbles as he unlocks the cell. 

You slip on your bib apron and tie it in the back. “Yeah, most Americans do.”

You walk into the cell and gently put your hand on the android’s shoulder. He doesn’t move. He really is dead.

“I fucking hate this job.” You grunt as you pick him up in a bridal carry. Thirium stains your apron as he slumps into your front. “Goddamnit. I’ll slap whoever triggered the deactivation so hard they’ll remember it ‘til the first of next month.”

“Sure you will.” Chris locks the door as soon as you exit. 

You huff out a light laugh. “Accompany me to the autopsy room?”

He smiles. “Anything to get out of being in Gavin’s company.”

You and Chris mostly walk in silence to the autopsy room. There’s early morning chatter and the scent of coffee floating through the air. People give you a wide berth when they see the limp android in your arms.

But the walk is short. The door before you reads ANDROID AUTOPSY ROOM. You adjust the body in your arms and press your right hand to the biometric scanner. It beeps once and the door opens.

“And this is where I get off,” Chris says.

You smile and bend at the knee, mimicking a curtsey. “Thank you for accompanying me. And if Gavin burns his tongue on hot coffee again, please! Feel free to get me right away.”

Chris laughs. “Yes, Officer!”

You laugh in kind and enter the autopsy room. The door shuts automatically behind you. Inside is a long steel table and lots of electronics – screens, wires, outlets, cords. You set the body on the table and get to work. 

You flick on the power switch and the computers come alive, one by one. The screens come on and quiet music starts playing – a string piece accompanied by softly-sung Russian. 

Once everything has come on, you move over the android and press just behind his ear. With a soft click, the plastic flicks open and a small port is revealed. When you open your left hand, the wires of your polymer glove snake out and plug themselves in. 

The screens light up with reports on the biocomponents – percentages, damage reports, the like. Your eyes flit over the numbers, trying to decipher what was abnormal. 

You unplug and the wires slither back into your glove. You sigh and start filtering through the data, finding what was important and worth noting down. You work that way for a while – looking over numbers and biocomponent data and listening to music.

After a while, you feel a buzz in your pocket. You pull out your phone, read the text that just came through, and send a quick one back.

Chris: Connor just came thru. Said it was looking for you and Hank. Sent it your way You: you sent an ANDROID to an ANDROID autopsy room?? Chris: Humans are in human autopsy rooms all the time dumbass You: true. just hope connor doesn’t freak. hank here yet? Chris: What do you think? You: axaxa you’re right ))

You look up from your phone as there’s a knock at the door. You get up and unlock it, revealing who’s behind it – and, of course, it's Connor.

“It’s nice to see you again, Officer.” He smiles. “May I come in?”

“Nice to see you, too. And, uh…” You move to the side, gesturing inside. “Yeah, sure. I know a deactivated deviant isn’t the most welcoming sight, but…”

“It’s okay.” Connor moves inside, rubbing his hands together as he observes the room. “I’ve seen plenty of them.”

“Ah.” You move back over to the computers. “I’m not sure whether to be impressed or concerned.”

“Impressed, Officer.” Connor stills in place, his eyes flitting over the computers and the numbers on them. “I’m the one who deactivated most of them.”

“Oh. Okay.” You glance over your shoulder at him – you’re not used to having someone else in your workspace. You gesture to a chair that’s tucked into a corner. “Uh, you can sit. If you want.”

Connor nods. “Thank you.”

He moves over to the chair and sits, folding his hands in his lap politely. His eyes are still on the computers, quietly watching as his LED flickers yellow and processes the data. The only sound is the soft music and your footsteps as you move between screens, noting down abnormalities.

Connor cuts the semi-silence. “Where are you from, Officer?” 

You glance over at him, then back to the computers. “Chelomey, Russia. Why?”

“I want to establish a friendly rapport. It’ll be easier to work together if we know each other better,” Connor says. “I’ve heard Chelomey described as ‘the first city of the skies.’ It’s on the first successful flying platform – the Icarus, correct?”

“Mhm,” you hum. “That’s right.”

“How was that?” Connor asks. “Living there, I mean. What was it like growing up?”

“Eh.” You shrug. “Got a nice Makarov Pistol when I was ten. Never had a snow day in school – we were just above the clouds. Was surrounded by children of astrophysicists and bioengineers.”

“You say that like they’re a separate group of people,” Connor says. “What are your parent’s career paths? If it’s not too intrusive to ask.”

You turn, leaning back against the autopsy table and facing him. “Sounds unrelated, but – do you know how the Icarus Platform works?”

Connor furrows his eyebrows, his eyes flitting to the floor as his LED turns yellow and flickers. After a moment, he looks back up at you. “The engines operate on the principle of the Archimedes Screw. The propellers don’t interact with air currents, but directly with Earth’s magnetic field instead.”

You bring a hand to your mouth to stifle a laugh. “Did you just look that up?”

“No.” Connor’s gaze immediately falls to the ground. “Yes.”

You cough to hide your laughter and turn away. “Okay, okay. Don’t worry – I won’t tell anyone. I didn’t expect you to know anyway.”

Connor clears his throat. “Please, let’s return to the topic at hand.”

“Yeah, okay.” You scratch the side of your nose and smile. “The engines take up a ridiculous amount of energy, yes? So there are nuclear reactors on the platform to supply a continuous energy flow. My parents worked in the northern reactor together.”

You shrug. “Not much more to them. Named Olga and Yegor. Nice people. Doubt you’ll ever meet them.”

“True,” Connor says. “I doubt they would let an American-made android into the USSR. I also doubt that the travel ban to and from the USSR will be lifted anytime soon.”

Your head dips in a nod. “Maybe if you were manufactured back in my home. But there’s a chance that, if you were, you’d be dancing ballet in the Maya Plisetskaya Theater.”

“I feel like that’s a metaphor.” Connor’s eyebrows furrow. “But I don’t understand it.”

“It’s not.” You laugh, hiding your smile behind a hand. “There are specialized robots that dance ballet in the theater – I went once, not my style. Just a chance that, with how nimble they made you, you could’ve been a ballet bot.”

“There are robots made specifically for ballet?” Connor asks. 

“Well… they’re…” You cringe a little. “Multifunctional?”

Connor shifts so that he’s sitting on the edge of his seat, his elbows on his knees and his hands together. He seems intrigued. “Multifunctional how?”

You look away and cover your mouth with a hand. You can feel your face start to warm. You really don’t want to talk to Connor about this. He obviously knows about sex and prostitution, because it might be involved in the cases he’s handling. But you don’t want to talk to him about either of them!

You bite down on the inside of your lip, hard, to dismiss wandering thoughts. (Because, honestly, you shouldn’t be wondering what his model is capable of doing! Not when he’s right there in front of you!) You swallow thickly and try to talk.

“Господи, khm…” You groan quietly. “It was also a, uh, brothel? Kinda? The clients were human, but the whores were… not.”

“Oh.” Connor looks down at his hands. He rubs them together, almost like a nervous tic. (But androids don’t have nervous tics. Do they?)

“Yeah.” You scratch your cheek, trying to ignore how warm it is. “I’m, uh… I need a coffee. And I can’t leave anyone alone in the autopsy room if they’re not authorized to be.”

“I understand.” Connor stands. “I’ve been meaning to explore the office. May I accompany you to the break room?”

You nod. You really hope he’ll continue to act like the past half minute didn’t happen. 

As soon as you have all the computers in standby mode, the music paused, and your Thirium-stained apron hung up, you lead Connor out of the android autopsy room. The walk to the break room is short, and he adjusts his pace to match yours as you walk. 

Internally, you really hope that Gavin isn’t there. Maybe he got hit by a car coming back from O’Mansley Donuts.

But, of course, hopes are meant to be dashed. And that dream is crushed when you hear Gavin scoff as soon as you enter the break room. 

“Fuck, look at that…” he says. You tense as soon as you hear his voice. “Our friends, the plastic detective and the werewolf, are back in town!”

“Please, not today, Gavin.” You spare a glance at the poor officer that Gavin has trapped in conversation. Then, you move over to the counter to find a spare paper cup and the coffee pot. 

“What? I just wanted to congratulate it on its good work last night!” 

“Thank you, Detective Reed.” Connor nods politely. 

You scoff under your breath and internally curse him for being programmed to be so nice. As you pour yourself some coffee, you wonder: would it really kill him to tell Gavin to fuck off?

When you turn around, hot coffee in hand, Gavin is standing a few feet away from Connor. You lean back against the counter and decide to let this play out.

“Never seen an android like you before.” Gavin looks Connor up-and-down. “What model are you?”

Connor stands, unfazed. He doesn’t even blink. “RK800. I’m a prototype.”

“A prototype!” Gavin parrots. He turns to the other officer, gesturing at Connor vaguely. “Android detective!”

He looks back to Connor – looks up at Connor. It would be funny if you weren’t so on edge.

“So machines and commies are gonna replace us all.” His eyebrows raise. “Is that it?”

Connor stays silent, just looking at Gavin.

“Hey.” Gavin clicks his tongue. “Bring me a coffee, dipshit.”

“Gavin,” you cut in, a warning unspoken in your tone. Connor blinks once and tilts his head slightly to the side. 

“Get a move on!” Gavin snaps.

You set your coffee on the counter and hurry over. You put a hand out towards Gavin – again, a silent, unspoken warning.

“I’m sorry,” Connor says. “But I’m not permitted to take orders from you.”

“Oh! Oh.” Gavin cracks a wicked, sarcastic smile before driving his fist straight into Connor’s solar plexus, quick and unpredicted.

“Вот чёрт!” You immediately move to catch Connor as he almost collapses, wrapping an arm around his front and steadying him with your other. He recovers after a few moments and blinks hard before pulling himself away from you. He adjusts his tie (which, honestly, didn’t need readjusting) and sighs sharply.

“Are you okay?” You ask. You’re tempted to hold a hand out just in case he collapses again.

“Is it okay?” Gavin laughs sarcastically. He jabs a finger at Connor. “If Hank hadn’t gotten in the way yesterday, I would’ve fucked you up for disobeying a human.”

He steps backwards. “Stay outta my way. ‘Cause next time, you won’t get off so easy.” Gavin’s eyes turn from Connor to you. “Same goes for you, werewolf. If you stay in my way, I won’t fucking hesitate to trample you.”

You narrow your eyes. “Last I remember, wolves eat pigs.”

Gavin just scoffs and turns to the other officer. He exchanges a glance with her, and they both walk out together. He gives Connor a way-too-forceful shoulder-check on the way out.

You turn to retrieve your coffee from the counter, then lean back against it. “What an asshole.”

“Is Detective Reed usually like that?” Connor asks. “That… aggressive?”

“Yes.” You blow the steam off your coffee and take a sip. Way too bitter, but you don’t have any other choice regarding caffeine.

Connor moves beside you, facing the entrance of the break room. “And what did he mean when he called you werewolf?”

“There was a Russian serial killer called The Werewolf.” You look down into your coffee. “He was a cop. It spread, and now corrupt cops are just called werewolves. Gavin thinks he’s smart, calling me that, even though I’m not technically a cop.”

Connor hums. When you glance over, his LED is flickering yellow. You choose not to comment on it.

“Are you okay?” You ask. “Like, actually. Gavin punched you pretty hard.”

“Androids don’t feel pain,” Connor says. “The impact disrupted my Thirium pump for a second, but it quickly regulated itself.”

“Good.” You take a sip of coffee.

Connor turns to look at you. “Why are you concerned, Officer?”

You glance at him, then look down into your drink. “I don’t know. Just don’t need Gavin putting sticks in our wheels, that’s all. And putting you out of commission would be a major problem.”

You can see Connor still looking at you out of the corner of your eye. His eyebrows draw together a fraction of an inch, then he looks away.

You turn the other way and choke down another sip of bitter coffee. 

[brynn-lear]

Yandere SCP Senior Researcher!Dottore who loves to act as the mentor figure for Agent!Darling.

Dr. Zandik had always been known for his surgically precise way of handling anomalies— but there's an intensely palpable reason as to why urgent cases aren't left on his desk. Before he could ever conclude an experiment, he'd ensure that he explored every possible data there is to be recorded, quantifiable or otherwise. This usually meant he'd apathetically sacrifice Class-D personnel just to find what the test subject would react. Site 02 reveres him... Yet most of his colleagues would rather have new blood trained than indulge his unnecessary experiments.

What made you first stand out to him was your files. Apparently, you share similarities with the famous SM-046 patient; you've contracted Urbach–Wiethe disease in your early childhood as well. Just like SM-046, your colleagues dubbed you as "Agent Without Fear". You could only shrug and laugh the teasing off. It's a challenge for you to distinguish what is malicious from pure— so you lived most your life expecting the latter.

With Dr. Zandik's passionate nagging requests, SCP-500 was updated with a new line...

Addendum 500-13:

Request 500-2022-A approved. One (1) pill of SCP-500 was ingested by Agent (L/n). Subject reported to have improved skin, mucous membranes, eye, vision, speech, and respiratory symptoms. However, neurological symptoms caused by Urbach–Wiethe disease have shown no signs of improvement. Number of pills is forty-six (46) at the time of writing.

In truth, the fact that you remained as the "Agent Who Can't Feel Fear" after the Trial 1 made Dr. Zandik more interested in you. Which is why, much like last time, the doctor submitted another revision. Instead of an SCP, it was a personnel file.

Yours.

Incident Report 921-A

Date: [REDACTED]

Personnel Involved:

Dr. Zandik "Dottore" █████ [Senior Researcher]

Agent (Y/n) (L/n) [Assigned MTF Officer]

BEGIN LOG

Dr. Zandik: Agent (L/n), just the person I wanted to see. I’ve requested you be assigned as my permanent bodyguard. Agent (L/n): Really? That’s a new one. Why me? Dr. Zandik: I’m very interested in your unique approach to security. I think your presence will be invaluable. Agent (L/n): Well, if you say so, Dottore. I guess I’m in! Every time I work with you, you're always dragging me around to say hi to whatever weird and funky SCPs you're working with. This should be fun. Dr. Zandik: Undoubtedly so. I’m looking forward to working with you. Agent (L/n): Great! I’ll do my best to keep you safe, even if I seriously think you can handle most things on your own, Doc. Dr. Zandik: I assure you. It’ll be a learning experience for both of us. END LOG

Addendum Incident 921-A-1:

Agent (L/n) has been reassigned as Dr. Zandik’s permanent security detail, as requested by Dr. Zandik. The nature of Dr. Zandik’s interest in this arrangement remains undisclosed to Agent (L/n).

[embrosegraves]

ℙ𝕝𝕖𝕒𝕤𝕖 ℝ𝕖𝕞𝕖𝕞𝕓𝕖𝕣

(request) Fernando Alonso x Reader  After Fernando’s Big Crash™ the reader helps him remember them “You were my first kiss.” + “Smiling in the middle of a kiss.”

Warnings: mentions the crash from Barcelona testing in 2015. written with female!Reader in mind. pretty sure thats it, could be wrong tho

You hadn’t seen what happened so much as you had heard it happen. Apparently no one knew how the crash had happened. Just that Fernando had somehow crashed out at turn 3. Pre-Season testing had never been so stressful for you. All they entailed was testing the new car on the track, gathering a bit of data for the engineers and then it was off to the first race of the season. 

You had never expected to end up in the hospital waiting for Fernando to wake up in the hospital bed. You were grateful that you had taken lessons to learn Spanish because so far the doctors in Barcelona didn’t speak a lick of English. They tried speaking to you in broken English until you replied back to them in almost perfect Spanish. Eventually, they managed to explain that due to the force of the crash he had sustained, it was likely that some of his memory would be lost. Whether permanently or temporarily, they could not say. It would all depend on when Fernando woke up. 

You thanked the doctors and sat down next to your boyfriend’s hospital bed, clasping his hand in yours. You were worried. Of course you were worried, your boyfriend just crashed and potentially lost every memory of you! You had no idea what you would do if Fernando didn’t remember you. You just had to hope that he would remember who you were. 

Around an hour later, you felt something squeeze your hand. Your head shot up from looking at your phone, turning to see that Fernando’s eyes were slowly but surely opening. You waited until his eyes were fully open before speaking. 

“Fern?” he slowly looked over to you, as if he couldn’t quite tell who you were, “Are you okay?” 

You watched as he licked his slightly dry lips, so you grabbed the cup of water from the bedside and helped him take a sip. 

“Gracias Señorita.” He said. 

“You’ve not called me that since we met for the first time.” Despite the doctors warning you that he might not have all of his memory, it still surprised you to witness Fernando not recognise you. You had been together for 5 years now. 

“Forgive me if this question sounds silly but,” you took a breath to steady yourself, “do you know who I am to you?” 

Fernando frowned at the question. He took a moment to think before answering, “You feel familiar to me. I know that you are important but I cannot remember why.” 

Your face had fallen more and more with each word he spoke. Moving your gaze to the bedsheets, you tried desperately not to let him see the tears welling in your eyes. 

Fernando had seen your tears nonetheless and gripped your hand a little tighter, “Lo siento.” 

“It’s okay.” You wiped the few tears that had fallen and tried to give him a comforting smile when a thought came to you. 

“Could you tell me about us? So I can remember?” 

“Of course I can.” And so you spent the next 45 minutes telling him about everything you had been through in the five years you had been together. How just two weeks ago he had brought up that he wanted to get married someday but that he still wasn’t sure about having children. You told him about how funny you thought the media was when he was racing for Ferrari because everyone wanted to paint him as a womaniser despite being in a very secure relationship. You had even told him about how you had met each other. 

“You were my first kiss, you know?” You said to him. “That New Years party where we met. I had been so shy that night and then you came along at midnight and just kissed me. It was honestly the most fairytale thing that’s ever happened to me.” 

“Can you kiss me?” Fernando suddenly asked. Your shock was evident on your face. You weren’t sure why he would ask that. Especially because he didn’t exactly remember being your boyfriend. 

“O-Okay.” You slowly got up and leaned towards him. Gently, you placed your hands on either side of his face, his own hands coming to rest over yours. 

The kiss was slow, and extremely soft. His lips moved with yours and if not for the situation you found yourself in, you would say that it was one of the most romantic kisses you’d ever had. You had honestly not expected a whole lot to happen when you agreed to kiss him. Part of you hoped for something, anything, to click in his head but you weren’t going to hold your breath. 

You definitely didn’t expect for Fernando to start smiling in the middle of kissing you. You went to move away just a little bit, but before your lips could separate Fernando’s hand moved to hold the back of your neck and he pulled you closer than you were before. What was a slow and gentle kiss quickly became passionate and almost desperate. It was like Fernando had been deprived of water in the middle of a desert with how he kissed you.

Finally pulling away from each other, you began to catch your breath. The kiss had taken a turn and quite literally took your breath away. 

“Fern?” You asked, your voice small but hopeful. Looking into his eyes you see love and adoration practically gushing from him. 

“Hola, Mi Reina.” He caressed your face as he spoke to you. Even if you weren’t looking at him, you could hear the smile in his words and how he spoke.

“Do you remember?” Your legs felt like jelly. You were so frightened to ask, it didn’t matter that he was using his preferred pet name for you. 

“How could I ever forget about you, Mi Amor?”

The way I had already written pretty much the whole thing, and then STRUGGLED to think of a way to end it with a one-liner.

Anyways I hope you all enjoyed this one! It's my very first one for Fernando so I'm really hoping I did the request justice.

likes, replies and reblogs are always appreciated!

[leiawritesstories]

PART ELEVEN: NOVEMBER

Word count: 10.1k

Warnings: Oof, this one's a doozy. Swearing, prison, police presence, shitloads of scheming, graphic violence, minor character d3@th, and angst

enjoy ;)

Masterlist

Read on AO3

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Endovier Prison, as it turned out, really wasn’t all that awful of a place to live. 

To be fair, the food quality was subpar and the communal bathrooms reminded Aelin of being in the college dorms again, but all told, it wasn’t a terrible place, except for the silence. She had been placed in solitary confinement based on her “history of conspiring with others to evade containment,” but she was allowed to take her meals in the common dining room and have her recreation time along with the other inmates. She was always monitored by at least one guard, and for the most part, her guards were stolid, silent presences in her periphery. 

And then there was Remelle. 

Technically an officer of the Orynth Police Department, Remelle was assigned to Aelin’s prison guard rotation three days per week as an additional security measure. Orynth PD had requested to assign a police officer to her guard rotation to ensure that she wasn’t trying anything suspicious, and the guards at Endovier had agreed after some deliberation. Apparently, Remelle had volunteered to be the PD guard so fast the job wasn’t even available to anyone else. 

She had first shown up in the guard rotation about five days into Aelin’s sentence, and jealousy practically oozed from her pores. It had taken Aelin only half an hour to figure out that Remelle had a completely unrequited crush on Rowan, and it took her only a little bit longer to casually mention his name within Remelle’s hearing. The sneer on the cop’s face and the steam that could have poured out of her ears confirmed what Aelin already hypothesized—Remelle was viciously jealous of Aelin and Rowan’s relationship, no matter that it was over. 

Which made her the perfect linchpin to Aelin’s escape plan. 

Two weeks into November, her first month at Endovier, Aelin had demonstrated nothing but good behavior, and she was allowed to have supervised computer time each day. Part of that was necessary, since she was still working with Elide to finalize the transition of power in her company, and Aelin had shown no resistance to having one of her guards watching her while she worked for her allotted hour of computer time. She was so cooperative, in fact, that her guards had become complacent after a week of supervising her and begun to just sit outside the door to the computer room, glancing in every few minutes to make sure she was still there. 

As soon as the guards were out of the room, Aelin began adding an extra task to the handful of things she was wrapping up as her company transitioned into Elide’s capable hands. During her computer time, she casually started to peruse the computer’s data logs and trace its network paths, and she eventually discovered that all the prison’s computers ran on a central network, even the secured ones that only the guards and other staff used. 

Including the security staff. 

A few clever digs into the system’s backbrain got her into the logs for the security system itself, cameras and all, and she had slowly begun to map out where the relevant cameras were located and what mechanisms she could possibly trigger to get them on a temporary loop. 

She couldn’t risk working too quickly, though, so she only did a little bit more each day, slowly working her way into familiarity with the prison’s computer network. Interestingly, she had also found the log that tracked all the visits to the prison, and she noticed that she had two visitors waiting to see her. The yellow flag by her name was a warning—she was not yet cleared for visitors—but given her good behavior, she was fairly certain that it wouldn’t be long before she could have visitors. 

Endovier Prison wasn’t going to know what hit it when they allowed Aelin Galathynius to have visitors. 

~

In the weeks she had been there, Aelin had managed to make some acquaintances with other inmates during communal mealtimes or rec time. The most interesting one was a woman about ten years older than she was who had been in Endovier for six years, a timeline that she tracked by marking the days on her cell wall with charcoal. Her name was Petrah, and she had been a licensed cosmetologist with no intent or interest in the criminal life until she discovered that her ex-husband was involved with a major drug smuggling operation. When she confronted him, he denied it and threatened to forcibly silence her if she told anyone else about it. 

So she murdered him. 

Petrah had been found guilty of manslaughter but had successfully managed to prove that it was in self-defense, and her sentence was only ten years. She was up for parole the next year, and she was constantly asking Aelin questions about Orynth to prepare herself for a potential return to the city. Aelin was happy to answer her questions; she had even said she would provide a reference if Petrah ever wanted to look for work at Galathynius, Inc. Elide would be renaming the company, but the leadership team had yet to decide on a new name. Grateful, Petrah had thanked Aelin but said she didn’t think she would pursue that kind of employment. 

The two of them had a casual friendship, little more than the shared bond of fellow inmates in a high-security prison, but Aelin trusted Petrah enough to ask her a favor. In the middle of November, Aelin was moved from solitary confinement to a cell block in a different sector, and while she was still alone in her cell, she had neighbors along the hallway. One of them was Petrah. 

“Morning, Sardothien. How does the slop look today?” Petrah’s raspy voice greeted Aelin as she set down her tray on the long metal cafeteria table. 

With a scoff, Aelin pushed her spoon around the grayish mass that was supposedly oatmeal. “No better than yesterday,” she drawled. “Seems like the supplies are getting a little thin.” 

Petrah chuckled. “It happens every few weeks. What it usually means is that the delivery comes at the end of the week, and they’ve got to get rid of as much stuff as possible.” 

“Fair enough.” Aelin managed to force down about half her portion, chasing it with multiple cups of bitter drip coffee. “Hey, do you still have any of your stuff from the salon?” 

“Yeah, I brought a box when they sent me here.” Petrah raised a brow. “Why?” 

Aelin shrugged, aware that the guards were probably watching and listening to her. “I feel like a little bit of a change. Got any bleach?” 

“Hmm.” Petrah tipped her head sideways, thinking. “I might.” 

When rec time rolled around that day, Aelin went over to the small, sparsely stocked library, and she was slowly browsing through the handful of books that looked interesting when Petrah tapped her on the shoulder. “I’ve got bleach.” 

“Perfect.” Aelin left the books alone and went down to the bathrooms with the stylist. “I was thinking I wanted to go platinum, or as close to that as you could get.” 

The older woman nodded, a sly grin tugging at her lips. “Ever bleached your hair before?” 

“I’ve had highlights, but not for years.” 

“Okay.” Petrah lined up a few bottles on the shelf under the small mirror in front of one of the sinks. “Damn, this brings back college.” 

“Tell me about it,” Aelin chuckled. “Looks just like the dorm bathrooms.” 

“Yeah.” Petrah tugged Aelin’s hair out of the braid she usually kept it in and glanced quickly towards the door. The bathrooms were about the only part of Endovier that didn’t have security cameras, and Aelin was half convinced there were hidden microphones somewhere. “We’re safe here,” Petrah said softly, keeping her tone low. “So tell me, Shadow Assassin. Is there any other reason you had this desire for a change?” 

Aelin met the stylist’s eyes in the mirror. 

And smirked. 

~

It had been twenty-five minutes since her visit began, and Elide was still sneaking astonished glances at Aelin’s hair. Aelin smothered her laughter and kept her face neutral as she chatted aimlessly with her dear friend. She’d finally been cleared for visitors two days ago, and Elide was the first one to arrive, bringing a stack of paperwork with her. Despite the no-touching and no-exchanges rule, she’d strolled right into the visitors’ room and plopped the stack of paper right down in front of Aelin. 

“No passing, ma’am,” the guard on duty interrupted, his eyes darting awkwardly between the current CEO of Galathynius, Inc. and the Shadow Assassin. 

Elide’s polite smile could have cut glass. “Would you like to sort through this paperwork yourself, Officer…” She glanced at his name tag. “Officer Owen?”

The man gulped nervously, stepped forward, and picked up the stack of papers. He flipped through it and set it back down. “A-all clear.” 

“Good.” Elide sat across from Aelin and handed a pen to the guard, who managed to give it to Aelin without dropping it. “These need your signatures, Aelin. It’s backlog from before the transfer.” 

“Couldn’t be bothered to use digital paperwork, I guess.” Aelin picked up the pen and started working through the paperwork, scratching her signature onto the blank lines. Elide updated her on the company business as she worked, and it was only a few minutes before the guard’s eyes began to glaze over and he retreated to the opposite corner of the room. Aelin stifled a chuckle. 

Nox Owen put on the second-best performance she’d seen in an undercover agent. Only Ren Allsbrook had been better. 

As Elide stole another glance at Aelin’s new, icy-toned hair, she caught the blonde’s gaze and sighed, shaking her head. “Didn’t take long for the boredom to kick in, did it?” 

Aelin shrugged. “When I got moved out of solitary, I found out that one of the nearby inmates is a cosmetologist. She’s nice. I felt like having a little fun.” 

Elide laughed softly. “I suppose you have to find those moments when you can, given that you’re never seeing the outside of this place.” 

“I see a few yards of the walls once a day,” Aelin joked. “Don’t worry about me, Ells. I’m okay.” 

“Really?” 

A shrug. “It’s not my apartment by any means, but it’s not awful.” 

“Hmm.” Elide pulled the finished stack of paperwork back over to her side of the table. “Officer?” 

At the sound of his title, Nox jerked and came to stand a few feet away from Elide. “Yes?” 

Elide turned a warm, charming smile onto the man. “Officer, is it possible for inmates here to receive care packages from outside?” 

“Well, I, um…” Nox cleared his throat, perfectly acting as a nervous wreck of a new prison guard. “All incoming mail must be thoroughly inspected by prison security.” 

“So that’s a yes?” 

“Yes, ma’am. You can put the inmate’s name and the prison’s address, and as long as the package passes inspection, the inmate will receive it.” 

“Wonderful!” Elide beamed. “I’d just like to make sure Aelin gets some real food, since she’s said that the food quality here isn’t all that great.” 

“If you could include extra for my cell-block neighbors, that would be great,” Aelin added. 

Elide nodded crisply. “Of course.” She made eye contact with Aelin, and the pair exchanged the slightest nod. “Is there anything specific you’d want besides food?” 

“Hmm…probably toothpaste and maybe some tampons. The ones in the communal bathrooms fall apart too fast. Oh!” Aelin grinned. “And if you happen to throw a few pieces of hazelnut dark chocolate in there, I’d be a happy woman.” 

“You and your chocolate,” Elide laughed. “Okay.” 

“Um, visit time is up, ma’am,” Nox interrupted, voice quavering. 

“I know.” Elide tucked the paperwork into her folder. “Would you be so kind as to show me the way out, Officer Owen?” She gave Aelin one last glance before she walked out the door, following Nox Owen in his prison guard’s disguise back out of Endovier. 

Another guard came into the visitors’ room. “Computer time, Galathynius,” he said curtly. Aelin followed him out and down the hallways to the computer room, mentally memorizing her steps. Although she could probably just follow another guard when she eventually made her break, it would go better if she didn’t. Besides, the cover she planned to use knew her way around Endovier. 

Or at least she should, after several weeks of being Aelin’s personal police guard. 

“You have thirty minutes.” The guard opened the door, checked the room, and sat down in the chair right outside the computer room. Not very talkative, this one. 

Aelin sat down at the computer and went to her email, where she answered some of the queries that still came to her and redirected others back to Elide. The camera in this room faced the chair, not the screen, and she kept her face and posture casual and neutral as she opened up another window and navigated herself easily into the prison’s computer system. Since everything was centralized, it had been laughably easy to clear her file’s hold, making it appear that the superintendent had cleared Prisoner Galathynius for visitors. The central system also made it much easier to track and locate the camera system, and in just over four weeks, Aelin had managed to map out the locations of every security camera in Endovier. 

The next step was figuring out how to run a certain sector of the cameras on a loop. She’d started with the one directly opposite her cell a week ago. A few typed commands, and that camera had blinked and gone dark for a few seconds, then rebooted. Aelin tried a few different methods, and eventually, she discovered how to make that camera replay a previously recorded segment of footage. She then moved on and started trying to sync up more cameras, a task that had proved more challenging. 

But after two weeks of work, she finally had it down. 

A handful of commands and a couple of passwords swiped from a database—really, this whole centralized system was just such a peach—and all twenty cameras in the sector Aelin had targeted were running a section of footage from a week ago. 

Beautiful. 

Aelin set the cameras back on their normal track, cleared all evidence of her meddling, and was closing out of her email when the guard opened the door again. 

“Time’s up.” He walked over and watched as she calmly exited the computer. 

She followed him back to her cell, and once his footsteps had receded, she sat down on her bed and picked up a journal from the shelf built into the wall. She knew the guards probably searched her books every once in a while, so she was careful to keep every piece of her plans in a code that only she knew. The words were ostensibly normal, set up as an ordinary journal entry, and the cute little drawings in the margins and on some of the pages were also apparently mindless scribbles. 

In Aelin’s eyes, the words and the sketches turned into her plan to get out of Endovier and finish Maeve Bitchface once and for all. 

And if she died in the process, then so fucking be it.

~

Nox Owens was having the time of his fucking life. 

When Elide had contacted him in the middle of Aelin’s trial, he’d been expecting another ordinary request for a tech job, which was his usual role. But she had surprised him—of course she had. If he knew anything about the Boss, it was that she always had another plan up that infinite sleeve of hers. Instead of a tech job, she wanted him to get into Endovier. As a guard. 

That was always Ren’s job. 

Nox had plenty of spy training and experience, but his primary strength was his tech savvy, and once Ren had joined the Boss’s team, he’d been content to take the tech jobs and leave the infiltrations to the most wanted spy in the world. But Ren was dead, and the Boss wanted Nox to work as her inside man. And it had been a hell of a long time since he’d had the chance to practice this skill set. 

It had been almost laughably easy to slip into Endovier’s database and add himself to the prison guard register, which rotated frequently enough that another new name didn’t catch any second glances. He barely even bothered to change his name, and his prison guard nameplate read “Nick Owen,” a bland, forgettable name to go with his bland, forgettable face. Just for fun, he swiped Ren’s fingerprints from the Boss’s archive and imprinted them onto the SecondSkin he applied to his hands—if he was ever printed, the staff would have such a fun time scratching their heads at the fact that this guard’s prints apparently matched those of a former inmate, one who was supposed to be dead. 

About a week after she visited, Elide Lochan sent a plain cardboard box by courier to Endovier Prison. As he passed by the shipping room on his rotation, Nox heard the gruff bark of the mail supervisor. 

“Owen! C’mere!” 

He strolled over, stopped a few paces away, and fiddled with the cuffs of his sleeves. “Yes?” 

“Quit twitching,” grumbled the crotchety old man who’d been the mail supervisor at Endovier for twenty years and counting. “Damn newbies.” 

“S-sorry, sir,” Nox mumbled, masking his snicker with a wobbly voice. 

“Just stop shaking, newbie.” The man pulled a box across the table and tugged the small, flat white envelope off the top of the box. He tore it open, and Nox swore he saw an avaricious smile flicker across the supervisor’s face at the sight of the cash inside the envelope. “Here. This one’s for Sardothien.” 

Nox cleared his throat. “Aren’t we supposed to inspect every package that comes for an inmate?” 

The supervisor chuckled dryly. “I see someone memorized the handbook.” Carelessly, he took a box knife out of his pocket, slit through the tape, and gave a cursory sweep of his hand through the contents of the box, then slapped a stamp on top of the cardboard. “How’s that for inspection, Owen?” 

“I…uh…” Nox pretended to be lost for words. 

“Good lad.” The supervisor tucked a stack of cash into the inside pocket of his vest and passed Nox fifty dollars. “This is called an inspection fee.” 

“Really?” 

“Of course not!” A rattling cackle scraped out of the mail supervisor’s throat. “It’s called good business for me and some goddamn tampons for Prisoner Sardothien. Now quit shaking and take that box to Sardothien’s cell.” 

“Yes, sir!” Nox picked up the box, slapped a bit of tape on top to hold it together, and left the mailroom as fast as possible. He wove through the corridors, flashing his badge when necessary, and came to Aelin’s cell. The snide blonde policewoman was leaning on the wall beside the cell door, a sneer on her face like usual. She glanced sideways at Nox as he approached. 

“What do you want?” 

“Delivery for the inmate,” he said coolly, showing the cop the box. The red stamp indicating that it had passed inspection glared against the beige cardboard. 

The cop sniffed haughtily. “I’ll make sure it doesn’t contain any contraband.” 

“Whatever.” Nox set the box on the floor and folded his arms. He’d learned very quickly that the easiest way to deal with the snippy blonde cop was to go along with whatever her snide, bitchy voice said. 

“You could at least hold it,” she huffed. 

He shrugged. “It’s stable, and you can make sure anything you flag doesn’t get passed to the inmate.” 

She curled her lip, but knelt down, tore the tape off, and started sifting through the contents of the box. A plastic bag full of tampons was pushed aside, and she sorted a whole pile of electrolyte drink packets into stacks and shook the empty plastic water bottle. She went through the handful of food items too, exhaling in disgust when she didn’t find anything suspicious enough to confiscate. “Fine. The inmate can have the box.” 

“About time,” Aelin drawled from inside her cell, where she was sitting on her bed, watching the cop tear through the box. “Thank you for your excellent supervision, Remy.” 

“Don’t call me that,” the cop snapped, her icy-blue eyes narrowed into little slits. Once again, Nox was struck by how similar she looked to Aelin—with the exception of the eyes and the sneer. She unlocked the cell door, and Nox slid the box into the room. 

“So kind of you, Remy darling.” Aelin’s snicker floated over the sound of the cop slamming the cell door shut in frustration. She flicked through the box aimlessly, then took out an energy bar and tossed it through the bars of her cell. “Here, Rems, have a little something sweet to counteract all that bitterness.” 

Nox turned and strode away down the corridor before he could erupt into laughter at the shade of enraged purple that Remy the Cop’s face turned. 

He knew goddamn well what was in that box, and it wasn’t just the food and period products that seemed to be in there. While there was ordinary food and ordinary tampons, there was also some quantity of Aelin’s SecondSkin, the very same substance that was currently covering Nox’s hands. He didn’t know exactly how much Elide and Nehemia had folded up and tucked into the decoy drink packets, but if Aelin was going to use it to get herself out of Endovier, he could only imagine that it was a lot. 

And he could only imagine the look on her face when she strolled out in plain sight. 

~

Four weeks, two days, and seven hours after she became an inmate of Endovier Prison, Aelin Ashryver Galathynius received the package that would get her out. 

Elide and Nehemia had done everything exactly as they had all planned. Carefully measured and prepped sections of SecondSkin were tucked into a number of the electrolyte drink packets, and a set of ice-blue contact lenses hid in another packet. Elide had even tucked a tiny scrap of a note into one of the packets, and Aelin chuckled at her familiar, comfortingly blunt writing. She confirmed that everything was in place for whenever Aelin decided to make her move. 

Which meant that Maeve Bitchface had taken the bait. 

Aelin smothered a smirk. She’d never really doubted that Maeve would fall for her trap, not when that woman’s ego was so laughably easy to predict. Aelin knew Maeve was gloating over her arrest and imprisonment, and that meant she’d grown too comfortable in her power. A short note from Connall had been tucked into an earlier letter from Elide, and in code, he confirmed that he’d run the course of poisoning the Bitch Queen of the Night, and she was visibly weakened and frantically throwing money at anyone she thought could help her condition. 

The second she got through Endovier’s gates, Aelin would be heading straight for Maeve Bitchface’s cute little compound. Well, not straight—she knew the most convoluted path to get there, and she’d take it to keep any potential pursuit off her trail. She and that bitch had a score to settle. 

Shaking those thoughts away, Aelin carefully sorted the normal drink packets from the SecondSkin ones. All the orange-flavored ones were SecondSkin, both because it was the most common flavor and because Aelin loathed artificial orange flavoring almost as much as she loathed Maeve. She tucked the orange ones into the plastic basket where she kept her shower things, hiding them beneath her bar of soap and her washcloths. 

A couple of days later, in the shower, Aelin turned the water on extra hot, creating a cloud of steam in the shower room. Behind the plastic curtains, she tore into the packets, unfolded the SecondSkin, and began the tedious process of laying the film atop her skin. Somewhere around half an hour in, a guard rapped on the door and grunted something about not taking too much time. 

Aelin ignored him, of course. 

It took a good forty-five minutes to get every piece of SecondSkin laid onto her skin, and she wrapped a towel around her hair and put on a clean set of inmate scrubs. Only a few more days in this rancid orange, she promised herself. Only a few more days. 

“About damn time,” the guard grumbled when she emerged from the shower room. 

She shrugged. “I’m a woman. We take long showers every once in a while.” 

“Whatever.” He led her back to her cell, and she lounged on her bed, content for a while. She picked up her journal and wrote aimlessly on one of the last pages, her pencil moving almost without any conscious effort. Her shower had been a night one, and it wasn’t long before the corridor lights dimmed and she tucked her journal back onto its shelf. She fell asleep dreaming of the smell of fresh pine air in her lungs and the sweet taste of freedom. 

And she dreamed snippets of strong, tattooed muscles flexing and shifting above her skin, fragments of tortured moans breaking the thick, hot air. Shattered emerald eyes stole a glance at her, and in an instant, the dream crumbled, giving way to cold concrete and steel. 

Fuck. 

~

Aelin pushed the scraps of her dreams away as she went about her day, letting nothing show. When the usual guard came to escort her to the computer room, she walked in calmly, sat herself down, and let her fingers fly over the keyboard. She was into the system and navigating to the cameras almost before her brain caught up with her actions, and she forced herself to stop and breathe deeply before she went on, lest she make a wrong move and trigger some kind of alert. 

Now or never, Galathynius. She entered the sequence of keystrokes that gave her command over her sector’s cameras, and in a matter of minutes, that entire section was playing a loop from two days ago. 

That loop was the last time Remelle was on Aelin’s guard rotation. 

Like clockwork, the platinum-blonde cop joined the guard as Aelin was returning from computer time, a sneer on her face. “No snide comments today, inmate?” 

“It’s too early for that,” Aelin returned sweetly. As they rounded the corner into her corridor, she nodded a fraction at the guard. Obediently, Nox started to walk faster, and as if on cue, Remelle stopped and scowled. 

“There’s no need to rush, guard.” 

Nox shrugged. “I’m not rushing.” 

“You are.” 

“Didn’t seem like I was.” 

She huffed in irritation. “Just go back to your rotation. I can handle the inmate from here.” 

“Fine.” Nox peeled away and headed back down the corridor, off to his usual path. 

Remelle curled her acrylic-tipped fingers around Aelin’s arm. “Just you and me now, inmate.” 

Aelin fixed a dry, blank stare on the cop. “Is that supposed to be threatening, Remy? Because you should know that you sound childish at best.” 

“Shut it,” she snapped. “Get moving.” 

“Hard to do that with such a…significant weight clinging onto me.” Aelin knew it was a low blow to comment on another woman’s size, but Remelle fucking had it coming. 

The cop gasped, then her face burned scarlet. “You little bitch,” she hissed. She threw Aelin’s cell door open with a rattling clang, following her into the small room. 

Perfect. 

As Remelle wound up to slap her across the face, Aelin slipped a tiny syringe out of her pocket, ducked the cop’s wild swing, and grabbed her ponytail, holding her head still as she stuck the needle into the nape of her neck. Her hairline would conceal any puncture marks. Remelle’s eyes went wide, and she flailed without success—the sedative worked rapidly, and Aelin had asked Nehemia for enough to knock the woman out for a good twenty-four hours. 

When Remelle sank to the floor, unconscious, Aelin swiftly stripped her of her clothes, then removed her own prison scrubs and did a quick clothing swap. Before she put the undershirt onto Remelle, she very carefully applied the SecondSkin patches to her fingertips. The synthetic nearly disappeared into her skin, and Aelin chuckled as she put the pinch-faced cop into her prison clothes. 

“Enjoy your stay,” she crooned, tidily switching the cuff from her wrist to Remelle’s. She stepped in front of the mirror, applied the pale blue contacts to her eyes, and then slipped the turquoise ones into Remelle’s eyes. “And thank you,” she added as she settled Remelle into the bed, tucked the blankets up around her, grabbed her journal, and left the cell. 

She’d memorized Remelle’s schedule, so it was natural for her to adopt the cop’s sneer and customarily pinched expression as she sauntered down the corridors. A brief stop at the staff computer room allowed her to transition the cameras from their loop back to their normal settings, and she went back to her corridor and stood the rest of her Celaena Duty before the next guard came to relieve her. 

“Any changes?” the guard asked. 

Aelin curled her lip. “Why would there be?” she snipped in a flawless imitation of Remelle’s nasal whine. She’d had weeks to perfect that inflection. 

He held up his hands. “Standard question, as usual.” 

“Well, if it’s so standard, just stop asking.” Aelin turned on her heel and walked snootily down the corridors. She passed rows of cells, ascended a couple of floors, and went down more hallways, carefully following Remelle’s usual path, which Nox (and her studies of the security camera footage) had graciously provided. 

In the guards’ break room, she picked up Remelle’s uniform jacket and backpack, into which Nox had tucked a plastic bag containing a change of clothes. She swiped her badge at the door and went out to the checkpoint, where all she had to do was sneer at the fidgety young man on duty as he double-checked her badge before he let her through. Jingling the keys on her belt, she walked over to the parked police sedan, unlocked it, dumped her bag on the passenger seat, and got in. 

And she drove out of Endovier’s gates in an Orynth PD vehicle. 

Fuck, she liked irony. 

Aelin drove to a gas station on the western outskirts of Orynth, parked just out of range of the single camera by the gas pumps, and got out of the car. She quickly stripped for the second time in a few hours, changed into the formfitting dark clothes that Nox had left for her, tidily folded Remelle’s uniform and left it and everything else in a neat stack on the passenger seat of the sedan, clicked the manual lock switch, and tossed the keys into the car before she closed the door. 

Let Orynth PD figure that one out. 

She knew the gas station was rarely open—hell, she often had a couple of her guys use this place for distributions—so she ducked around the side of the building, swiftly crossed the street, and disappeared into the tightly clustered tangle of buildings that lined this side of Orynth. As the afternoon faded into evening, Aelin let her muscle memory take over, winding a circuitous, rambling path through half of Orynth, doubling and tripling back to tangle up her trail. She worked her way around the outer districts, a grin curling the corners of her lips as the familiar steel and brick walls of the industrial district rose up around her. 

About half a mile away from her favorite riverside warehouse, an old apartment building had been taped off and designated for destruction. Aelin had the Boss’s men plant those signs months ago, planning to use the building as a contingency. She slipped in through a ground-floor window, shook the dust off of her shoes, and latched the window shut before she went down the hallway into the darkened building. 

To her pleasant surprise, the reinforced walls around the kitchen were even sturdier than before, and she flipped on the soft light as she walked in. With a long, muffled groan, she sat down at one of the high stools, relieved to get off her feet after so much walking. 

“Good to see you again, Boss.” The voice nearly made Aelin jump out of her skin. 

“Fuck!” She pressed a hand against her thundering heart as she turned around to meet Elide’s sly grin. “Scared the hell out of me, Ells.” 

Elide snickered. “The bold Officer Remelle would never be so terrified.” 

Aelin rolled her eyes. “The bold Officer Remelle wasted most of her boldness trying to get into my—into some man’s pants.” 

“I’m almost surprised,” Elide continued, tactfully ignoring Aelin’s slip of speech. “If you were still in the uniform, I’d probably think you were actually Remy.” 

“Don’t call me that!” Aelin sniped in her Remelle voice. Elide bent over, howling, and Aelin’s laughter joined in. “Hey, when you give a girl enough time with nothing else to do…” 

“Nice work.” Elide discreetly wiped the corners of her eyes. “Right. Here’s your phone.” She passed Aelin a nondescript burner phone. “Con’s number is already there.” 

“Perfect.” Aelin tucked the phone into a side pocket of her pants. “Where’s the best place for me at the moment?” 

“Right now?” Elide bubbled her lips. “Probably here, honestly. Stay the night—the place is secure and should have everything you need. I’ll update you tomorrow—actually, it’ll probably be Con. He’s better at going around unnoticed than I am.” 

“Side effects of being a high-profile CEO,” Aelin joked. “Speaking of—have you and the team figured out a new name yet?” One of the clauses in the transfer of ownership was renaming the company, since there was a high chance that people wouldn’t want to be associated with a company named after an infamous criminal. 

“We have some options, but nothing is set.” Elide tapped her phone, pulling up a page on her notes app. “Staghorn Development is currently the top choice, though.” 

“I like that.” Aelin mulled over the name. “If my opinion has any weight—which it probably doesn’t—I’m a fan of Staghorn.” 

Elide’s lips quirked upwards. “Good to know.” She slipped her phone back into her jacket. “I have to get home, but Ae?” 

“Yeah?” 

The petite woman grinned. “It’s so good to see you safe.” 

Impulsively, Aelin hugged Elide. “Thank you,” she murmured. “For everything.” 

“Least I could do.” Elide squeezed Aelin’s hands. “I’ll see you soon.” She left, and Aelin waited for the muffled click of the doors locking before she headed further down the hallway, towards the bedroom and bathroom. 

After a long, hot shower that made her feel both clean and more human, Aelin changed into fresh undergarments and the same clothes she’d been wearing. The nondescript, cheap cotton-blend clothes could have come from anywhere, which made them perfect for sneaking around in. She’d taken out the pale blue contacts and tossed them in the trash before her shower, but she kept the protective film of SecondSkin on her hands. 

Better to mask her fingerprints than to get caught too early. 

She flipped on the bedside lamp in the plainly furnished bedroom and gratefully crawled into bed, near tears at the feeling of a proper mattress beneath her body for the first time in over a month. Unable to fall asleep without some kind of light—she’d grown accustomed to the hallway lights in Endovier—she left the lamp on and drifted off, letting her body shut down as the adrenaline high finally wore off. 

When she woke up, watery grey sunlight had broken through the clouds of the late-November sky, and she rolled over and just stared out of the window, soaking in the morning light for the first time in weeks. Eventually, she rolled out of bed, brushed her teeth, redid her braid, and made herself a coffee in the kitchen. She sipped it carelessly as she fiddled with her phone, waiting for Con to text. 

And when he did, she couldn’t control the smirk that spread across her face. 

~

For about the trillionth time in the last year, Rowan was royally fucking pissed, and Aelin was the reason for it. 

“What the fuck do you mean?” he snarled, hands clenched into fists atop his desk. The cold wood was still unfamiliar under his fingers, so different from the steel tables of the police building. 

“Watch it, Lieutenant,” Gavriel warned from the doorway. 

Rowan pulled in a deep breath and shoved it out in a harsh exhale. “Where is she?” 

“Downstairs, in a temporary holding cell until we can verify that it’s actually her.” 

“I’m going to talk to her.” He was halfway out the door when Gav’s iron hand clamped around his upper arm. “What?” 

“I don’t think that’s the best idea, Whitethorn,” Gav said, coolly. 

Scarlet anger crept up the edges of Rowan’s vision. “Why not, sir?” 

“You have a personal history with this woman—technically, with both of these women, since you worked with PD for almost a year. I’d hate for that to compromise anything.” 

“I understand, sir, but—” 

“But nothing,” Gav interrupted, cutting him off. “No.” 

Rather than tearing free from his commander’s grasp, Rowan deflated, his posture going slack. “I only want a few minutes, sir. I…” He cleared his throat, not expecting this tangle of emotion. “I need to know.” 

After a long, tense moment, Gav sighed. “Fine. I’ll give you five minutes. When the timer goes off, you get the hell out of there or I swear to all that’s holy I’ll slap you right back into basic training.” 

“Yes, sir.” Rowan snapped off a salute at his commander and strode down the hallways, his pace increasing with every step he took. He took an elevator down several floors, flashed his badge at the pair of TSF guards stationed outside the double doors that blocked off the temporary holding quarters that took up half the floor of the TSF building’s basement, and pulled the doors open. Inside, he took a deep breath, dredging up every scrap of resolve he could summon, and walked down another few yards. 

He stopped in front of the first holding cell, clasped his hands behind his back, and turned an impassive gaze onto the platinum-blonde woman seated on the bench inside the cell. The instant she saw him, she shot up to her feet, folded her arms across her chest, reared her head back, and sneered at him, her pale lips curling back, rage filling her icy blue eyes. 

“Hello, Remelle,” Rowan said quietly. 

“Fuck you,” Remelle snapped. 

Rowan raised a brow. “If this is some kind of plot to escape Endovier, I’m afraid you’ve failed.” 

She practically growled at him. “I’ve told every stupid asshole in this place and I’ll tell you too: I am not Aelin!” 

“That’s not what your fingerprints say,” he replied. 

She laughed caustically and, to his surprise, pinched her skin between the tips of her acrylic nails and yanked, and the skin at the tip of her finger peeled away. “Because that bitch put her fingerprints on me, asshole.”

“Prove it.” Rowan leaned against the wall opposite the holding cell and waited for Remelle to yank the synthetic off of her fingertips. She shoved the synthetic through the slot in the door, and he tucked it into a plastic bag to give to the forensics team. 

“Get me out of here,” she snapped again. 

Rowan had only vaguely wondered whether Remelle was actually Aelin in disguise, and he was unsurprised to find that it wasn’t. “That’s not for me to do,” he tossed over his shoulder as his timer rang. The guard from outside the holding area poked his head in and gestured, and Rowan turned on his heel and left, letting Remelle’s enraged whining fade away. 

“I’m taking this to forensics,” he told Gav, who was waiting outside the holding area. 

Gav nodded. “Did you get your answers?” 

“I’ve seen enough,” was all that Rowan said. “Should be fine to let her go, if only to get rid of the goddamn whining.” 

“You’re certain?” 

“Yes. Sir,” he added, tacking on Gav’s title at the last second. 

Gav raised a brow but otherwise didn’t react to Rowan’s near instance of insubordination. “I’ll let her get back to PD, then. Wait for me in my office, Whitethorn.” 

Not trusting himself to reply verbally, Rowan dipped his head tersely, saluted, and headed upstairs, where he dropped off the bag at the forensics lab and walked back to Gav’s office. He only waited for around ten minutes before the commander came into the office, sighed heavily, and sat back down at his desk. 

“That woman is a piece of fucking work,” Gav grumbled, mostly to himself. 

Rowan didn’t suppress his snort. “Couldn’t agree more, sir.” 

“If she’s always like that…” He scoffed quietly. “I can’t say I blame my niece for choosing that woman as a decoy.” 

“I don’t think that was the whole reason, sir,” Rowan said. He’d been thinking over the situation as he waited, and while his thoughts were still clouded with rage—and a hefty dose of lust, if he was being honest, because clever, scheming Aelin had a way of working him up—he’d formed a somewhat solid hypothesis. “Besides her, uh, cattier tendencies, Remelle also looks remarkably physically similar to Sardothien, a fact that I’m sure she knew.” 

“You know that’s not Aelin’s real name, Whitethorn.” Gav made a statement, not a question. 

It was real enough to convict her. “I…it’s easier this way, sir.” Rowan swallowed the lump in his throat and kept talking. “I suspect she began planning this as soon as she found out that Remelle was the police officer on duty. However, I’m perplexed at the footage, since it shows no apparent signs of tampering and everything looks perfectly normal.” A crease dug between his furrowed brows. “I’m having Luca at PD look at the footage, since he was the one to figure out Sardothien’s loop when she broke into PD headquarters in the summer.” 

Gav chuckled. “Back up, Whitethorn. She broke into Orynth PD?” 

“Yes, sir.” Rowan stifled his irritation. “Somehow, she managed to put the entire security camera system on a closed loop—except for my personal camera. We still have no knowledge what exactly she did while there, but since nothing was visibly disturbed, it was probably just recon.” 

“Interesting.” Gav tapped his chin, thinking. “Do you have any idea where she is now?” 

“I…no, sir.” Rowan reluctantly answered. “She could be anywhere.” His phone buzzed, and he glanced down at the screen. And a fresh wave of scarlet washed across his vision. “Goddammit!” Composing himself, he showed Gav the messages from Luca. “Apologies for the outburst, sir. Luca just confirmed that there was in fact a rather sophisticated loop run on Endovier’s security cameras for several hours.” 

“All of the cameras?” 

“No, sir. Only the sector of cameras by Sardothien’s cell.” 

“What does the footage show when the loop ends?” 

Rowan sent Luca a text, and it was only a few minutes before the younger cop replied. “That’s the confusing part, sir. When the loop ends, the cameras show Sardothien asleep in her cell—which is to be expected for around ten p.m.—and Remelle changing duty as normal. We checked the rest of the cameras as well, tracking Remelle’s path, and it’s completely ordinary. And then, the next day, Sardothien wakes up and starts screaming at the guards to get her out.” 

“And she turns out to be Remelle,” Gav finished. 

“Correct, sir.” 

Gav pressed his lips into a flat line. “Is there anywhere else that we could look for intel?” 

Rowan sighed heavily. “I don’t know yet, sir. We might be able to ask PD to search the area around Endovier for any signs, but—” Before he could finish his thought, both his and Gav’s phones pinged at once. His eyes rapidly scanned the alert. 

“Well, I’ll be damned.” Gav stood up and pocketed his phone. “Looks like I’ll be heading down to PD headquarters after all.” 

“Sir, I—”

“No.” 

Rowan blinked. “Sir?” 

“No,” Gav repeated, the command clear as day. 

“Sir, with all due respect, I have the most information on Celaena Sardothien, and as the TSF agent from the case, I believe I should know about this new development.” 

“You already have your answer, Lieutenant Whitethorn.” Gav drilled a steely stare into Rowan’s forehead. “It’s in the best interest of both you and this case that you leave the case behind. Any further attempts to participate will be considered violation of a direct order, and you will be punished accordingly, Whitethorn. Clear?” 

Rowan locked his jaw. “Yes, sir.” 

“Good.” As Gav left his office, he tucked a folded piece of scrap paper into Rowan’s clenched fist, sparing him a hint of a nod as he strode down the hallway. Reining in his fury, Rowan stormed back down to his much smaller office, threw the door shut, and unfolded the note. 

Unless I tell you otherwise—Stay. Fucking. Put.

He’d be fucking damned if he did. 

~

There’s a cop in my backseat. 

Nox navigated the meandering turns of the industrial district with ease, focusing more of his attention on the serpentine tangle of streets rather than on the trussed-up, unconscious cop occupying the back seat of his nondescript car. Officer Remelle had been almost laughably easy to kidnap, since she was so overcome with rage at her recent run-in first with Aelin and then with the Terrasen Special Forces. Nox had lingered outside a chain coffee shop a couple of miles away from TSF headquarters, waiting, and the moment Remelle had stopped for her usual beverage, he struck. He knew the TSF and the police were probably scurrying around the coffee shop like a bunch of idiots by now, and he couldn’t help but snicker at the thought. 

Mostly hidden by the cold, foggy darkness and the smoggy smear that hung over the industrial district, Nox parked his car about half a mile away from the overgrown path that led down to the Boss’s riverside warehouse, climbed out, and hoisted the still-unconscious Remelle over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry. He backtracked down the side alleys, doubling and tripling back on his steps to confuse anyone that might try to track him, and eventually pushed through the curtain of brittle branches and headed down to the warehouse. 

“Nice work, Owens.” The soft, crackly voice sounded abruptly in his ear, and he almost dropped Remelle onto the half-frozen ground. 

“Fuck’s sake, Boss!” 

The Boss snickered. From her perch somewhere outside the warehouse, she was watching her set of concealed cameras as the final pieces of her grand plan fell into place. “Upper mezzanine. And be quick—Her Royal Bitchiness should be here in an hour or so.” 

“Sure thing.” Nox crossed the final stretch of pavement and entered the warehouse’s dim gloom. 

“Oh, and Owens?” 

“Yeah?” 

“There’s a chance that PD might be on scene by the end of the night.” 

“Good to know, Boss.” He glanced over his shoulder, a little unsettled by the fact that she could see him but he couldn’t see her. “You know where the car is.” 

“Indeed.” A sinister note crept into her voice. 

Nox went up to the mezzanine, where he set Remelle down, untied her, and set her up so she was faced out over the warehouse, head turned away from the south door. To stabilize her, he cuffed her hands to the metal railings and hooked a short grappling cable from the wall to the crossed straps of her weapons harness. As he slipped down the stairs, he heard the distinct rattle of another door being opened, and his hand flew to the knife tucked into his waistband. 

The west door creaked open, and a man dressed in nondescript gray fatigues and some kind of military vest ducked inside, his dark hair and clothing blending him into the shadows almost seamlessly. But Nox was friends with the shadows too, and he slipped up behind the man and had a knife to his throat in seconds. 

“Who the fuck are you?” he hissed. 

Faster than he thought possible, the man slipped his hold, whirling and grabbing his knife hand and immobilizing it above his head. “Who the fuck are you?” he retorted. 

Nox jabbed the man in the ribs and slithered free. “Call me Nox.” 

“The other man paused. “You’re the Boss’s spy.” 

Caught off guard, Nox lowered his knife halfway. “And…?” 

“I’m Con,” the dark-haired man said. 

“Con,” Nox repeated. A smirk crawled across his face. “Is that short for Convict?” 

Con snorted. “Why would I tell you?” 

“Because of my pretty face and winning personality?” 

“I’ve seen better.” Con’s onyx gaze traveled slowly down Nox’s face, half-obscured in the warehouse’s gloom. 

“Oh, I hardly believe that.” Nox winked, slowly, watching a faint blush creep over Con’s cheekbones. Hell. He was a pretty one. 

“Boys,” Celaena’s drawl crackled through each of their earpieces. “I hate to interrupt your little meet-cute, but I’m tracking a royal bitch onto the property.” 

“Heard.” Nox and Con spoke at the same time. 

Con was the first to break their stare. ��I’m in place,” he answered Celaena. 

“Leaving,” Nox said hurriedly, and he ducked out the west door with a last glance at the pretty man in the warehouse. “Boss, who the hell is he?” 

She chuckled. “A former Navy SEAL and my inside operative at Maeve’s compound.” 

“Damn.” Nox whistled. “Man of many talents.” The line went silent, and he swiftly scaled the ladder rungs built into the steel wall of the warehouse and crouched on the rooftop. Some of the roof’s panels were pushed open, allowing room for a crane to reach inside and hoist pallets in or out for distribution. It also gave him a clear sight line into the warehouse.

Which was perfect, because he’d eventually need to throw the little glass vial in his pocket into the pallet sitting in the middle of the warehouse floor. 

Shifting himself into as comfortable a crouch as possible, Nox fixed his eyes onto the warehouse floor. And waited. 

~

Clad in an old, faded set of black fatigues, with knives tucked into his sleeves and boots, a pair of handguns on his hips, and Kevlar strapped to his chest, back, and upper thighs, Rowan trailed Maeve Ond through the industrial district of Orynth. He kept about half a block between himself and the woman known as the Queen of the Night, but she was so singularly focused that he doubted she would even notice she was being tracked. He’d picked up her trail thanks to an anonymous, untraceable number that had somehow contacted him with nothing more than a location pin. 

Whoever had sent it had placed a tracking device on Maeve. 

He’d barely taken a few seconds to marvel at the skill and sheer audacity of that feat before he was on the move, a lethal shadow prowling through the cold late-November night. She stalked down the maze of streets and alleys with deadly precision, despite the occasional tremors that rattled through her body. He observed those shakes with analytical curiosity, noting that the supposed Queen of the Night wasn’t invincible after all. Those were the tremors of someone whose body had been exposed to long-term poison. 

Maeve shoved through a brittle curtain of overgrown vegetation, and Rowan followed at a short distance. Past that patch of cover stood a solitary, steel-sided warehouse on the edge of the river. The skeleton of a crane loomed beside it, barely visible through the foggy night. She stormed up to the building, rounded the corner, and fired a single bullet through the keypad beside the south door. The latch released, and she yanked the door open with a snarl. 

“You can’t hide forever,” she called in a hoarse voice. It probably would have been more sinister if her throat hadn’t been ravaged by coughing. 

Who the fuck is she talking to? Rowan wondered as he crept up to the edge of the building. 

As if she could read his damn mind, she answered in the form of another snarled question. 

“Show your worthless self, Moonbeam!” 

Rowan froze in his tracks, ice shooting through his veins. Moonbeam? At the distinct sound of more than one gun cocking, he whipped his attention back to Maeve. Although her body visibly shook with tremors, she gripped her gun fiercely. 

“Still disobeying me, Connall? I’m disappointed.” Connall. The name clanged through Rowan with the force of a train. Connall Moonbeam was alive.

This…could change everything. 

As if she were on the set of a crime drama, Maeve continued monologuing. “I should have known you’d turn and sell your secrets to the highest bidder, Connall. I’m only irritated that after everything I gave you, you’d let Celaena Sardothien’s dirty money control your loyalty.” 

Once again, Rowan felt like he’d been hit by a train. Connall Moonbeam was not only alive, but he was working undercover for Sardothien. Which meant he’d probably been feeding Fenrys information for gods only knew how long. 

Which meant Fenrys had known his brother was alive. 

That explained the contact labeled Con in Fen’s phone. 

“I’m tired of your tricks, Connall.” Maeve’s frigid voice coiled through the warehouse as she tugged on a nearby cord, pouring a pool of yellow light over the area where she stood. Rowan immediately flattened himself against the wall behind a heap of boxes, melting himself into the cover of the shadows but keeping a clear view of Maeve as she paced across the floor. 

A blur of movement peeled away from the west wall, and Maeve whipped around to find a distinctly male figure ducking behind another stack of crates. She curled her lip and glanced that way. 

And did a visible double take. 

Her sneer melted into a twisted expression of blinding fury as she fixed her hollow violet gaze onto the black-clad female figure who stood poised on the mezzanine. “I suppose you made yourself useful one last time, Connall,” she crooned, raising her gun and cocking it. “Say goodbye, Celaena Sardothien.” 

Sardothien?

The ice in Rowan’s veins solidified into iron, weighing his body down as he lifted his gaze up to the mezzanine and traced the undeniably familiar figure who stood there, her head turned away, scanning the wrong side of the warehouse as the Queen of the Night curled her finger around the trigger. 

And fired. 

No!

White-hot horror blazed through Rowan’s body, and he forgot who and where and what he was as he pulled his gun and aimed and emptied an entire chamber into the back of Maeve’s skull and watched as her body arched backwards, blood bursting out of her throat and forehead and chest, and collapsed to the cold hard cement in a blur of gore and gunfire. The roar of gunshots abruptly cut off into thundering silence, and Rowan forced his eyes to move from the crumpled corpse of the Queen of the Night upwards, climbing the steel wall to the mezzanine. 

The woman lay slumped over the railing, crimson soaking steadily into her platinum hair. 

Rowan’s gun clattered to the floor, its dull thud echoing in his ears with the force of an anvil crashing into stone. Numbness swept over him, and he barely recognized that he was moving as his TSF survival instincts took over, directing his limbs to lift Maeve’s prone form and haul her outside to get her back to the investigative team for analysis and confirmation of death. He turned to go back, but a strong set of hands clamped down on his shoulders. 

“Don’t.” Lower and rougher than Fenrys’s voice, Connall Moonbeam’s baritone jolted an old, familiar strand of Rowan’s memory. 

He made a weak push against Con’s hardened grip. “She…Celaena…” 

“You can’t go back in there,” Con repeated. “It’s not safe.” 

“Fuck that!” In a burst of adrenaline, Rowan managed to break halfway free. Before he could sprint back into the warehouse, Connall spun him around and slapped the knife out of his hand. 

“You can’t, Whitethorn!” For the first time in a decade, Rowan came face to face with the second of the Moonbeam twins, whom he hadn’t seen in the flesh since he went off to Navy SEAL training. 

“Why the fuck not?” Rowan growled, feeling his burst of energy give way to hollowness again. 

Too many emotions to count rippled across Con’s eyes. “All I can tell you is not to trust what you think you saw.” Before Rowan could formulate a response, Con pinched the nerve at the joint of Rowan’s neck and shoulder, and he felt himself go weak. In a rapid blur, Con slung him over his shoulder, sprinted to the cover of dense but winter-bare vegetation surrounding the far side of the lot, and hurled him into the frigid dirt, covering Rowan’s immobile body with his own. 

And both of them watched as the warehouse exploded in a searingly white burst of flame. 

“N…no,” Rowan croaked, feeling sensation begin to return to his fingers. “No!” From deep in his chest, a single name tore brokenly out of his throat. “FIREHEART!”

Gaze flicking between Rowan’s tears and the blazing ruin of a warehouse, Con put the pieces together as he stood up. “She wasn’t actually there, Whitethorn,” he said softly. 

Rowan’s shattered gaze locked onto him. “What?” 

“That wasn’t Aelin,” he repeated. 

But before Rowan could say anything else—before Con could reveal anything else—a birdcall sounded in Con's earpiece, and he turned sharply on his heel and jogged into the dense overgrowth, leaving Rowan prostrate on the ground behind him. He broke through the brush and jogged up the alley, sparing a single glance over his shoulder at the blaze he left behind. At the top of the alley, an electrical van idled, with Nox Owens at the wheel. 

“Hop in, pretty boy,” Nox said with a sly little grin. Con shook his head with a dry huff and swung himself up into the van, and Nox drove off. 

A panel behind the seats swung open, and Aelin Ashryver Galathynius stuck her very much alive head into the cab. “Where is he?” 

“North end of the lot, halfway into the tree cover.” 

“Good. Nox, slow down.” Aelin withdrew, and a moment later, Con heard the back door unlatch and thud closed shortly after. He glanced into the rearview mirror as the van sped back up, watching Aelin tuck and roll and jog back in the direction of the warehouse, her figure rapidly disappearing into the night.

~

Through a fog of devastation and confusion and a thousand other roiling emotions, Rowan finished loading Maeve’s body into the back of an Orynth PD van. He’d pinged Luca as soon as he arrived at the warehouse, alerting the cops of his location, and the police squad—with Gavriel in tow—had arrived on scene as the oddly controlled blaze faded into smoking embers. 

Gav’s face was stone, but his eyes flicked from Rowan to the ruins of the warehouse and back and rapidly made the right connections. His posture softened. “Get in the vehicle, Whitethorn.” 

“I…” Rowan couldn’t form words. “He said it wasn’t her.” 

“Who said what now?” 

Rowan gulped. “It…Connall. I saw Con.” 

Shock flared Gav’s eyes wide, but he shut that expression down. “And he said…”

“He said it wasn’t Aelin,” Rowan croaked. 

Gav loosed a long, tight exhale. “I think we should go for tonight, Rowan.” 

“Please,” Rowan breathed. “I only want a moment.” 

“Alright.” To Rowan’s surprise, Gav ran a hand through his hair and walked away. “Get yourself home safe, Rowan.” He climbed into the leading PD vehicle and waved them forwards. 

As the taillights of the PD van faded away, Rowan turned his stare back onto the smoking heap of rubble where Aelin’s river warehouse had stood. His heart fought his eyes at the sight, torn between wanting to cling to Con’s words and wanting to believe what he saw. An icy breeze curled up from the river and bit through his clothes, and he finally took a step towards his waiting truck. Dry leaves crackled behind him, and he drew in a sharp breath and started to turn around. 

Only to be met with the kiss of steel at his throat and his groin. 

“This feels somewhat familiar, Lieutenant. Have we met?” 

Shell-shocked and hardly trusting his own state of consciousness, Rowan tried to maneuver, but a simple twitch of the blades stopped him cold. 

“Oh no you don’t, Lieutenant. It’s best for both of us if you don’t get a visual.” With that, the blade at his throat dropped and was rapidly replaced with the sharp pinprick of a needle. Heaviness spread through his limbs, and the last thing Rowan saw as his vision went black was a half-dazed glimpse of the turquoise eyes that haunted his dreams.

His Fireheart…was alive?

~~~

TAGS:

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[drunkenskunk]

Liturgicode

The siege of Hell's Gate lasted just over 13 hours.

The bay housing the mechs of the Strategic Response Team was bustling with activity. It wasn't quite as busy as it normally would have been, since a significant number of people were seriously wounded (or dead) in the wake of the cult's attack... but there was simply no time to rest yet. Everyone was painfully aware that the SRT was going to need to head back into action again soon, or else everything was going to get much, much worse. So the sooner the maintenance crews could fix the mechs and get them battle ready, the sooner everyone could leave and get some sleep.

At least, that's how Calamity Havok had sold it to the few wrenchies who had opted to stay. There was three days worth of work to be done, and if anyone knew how to motivate enough people to get it all done in two hours, it was Calamity.

None of this was any concern of Big Red, the heavily damaged Everest mounted in Bay 5. As far as the maintenance crew was concerned, the mech was completely powered down, but truthfully? Not all the way.

The sentient mind of the mech was still very much active, pouring over combat logs and telemetry from the recent fights, and passively aware of the maintenance techs scurrying around him, replacing parts, repairing battle damage, reloading ammunition and depleted core batteries. Every minute or so, Big Red would idly trigger a sensor ping and begin calculating the picosecond returns reflecting against the mass of cables hooked into his chassis and the scaffolding braces keeping him immobile. After the madness of the last several hours, even the giant war machine found this a welcome change of pace.

An alert. Incoming message. Something on the encrypted SRT subnet. Scarlet, his Pilot, was trying to get in touch.

“Hey, Red?” Scarlet asked, the exhaustion evident in her voice even through the crackling transmission.“You readin' me, big man?”

Something was wrong. Scarlet had been awake for nearly 27 hours, and she hadn't eaten in 15, having been sustained on combat stims alone for the past 13 hours of the siege. She should be getting rest, performing the organic equivalent of maintenance (like he was receiving) so they'd be ready for the next fight, not trying to contact him. Why was she trying to contact him?

The apertures of Big Red's left optical unit shuddered.

“I am here. What do you need?” the mech responded over the comm. One of the techs trying to patch damage from a napalm grenade briefly looked up, confusion evident on his face, as if he wasn't sure he'd seen the movement he thought he had.

“Got a question. Out of all your past pilots, who was in the hot seat the longest?” Scarlet asked.

Something about her voice sounded strange. Distant? She wasn't speaking directly into the mic. As data files scrolled on the inside of his mechanical mind, checking and cross-referencing data quickly to make sure the answer was correct, a subroutine was initiated. Linking to station security. Handshake protocol. Access granted. Uplink established. Scanning camera feeds. Ping the transmitter. There.

Big Red took direct control of a camera, two sectors anti-spinward of the hangar. He began panning it over and down, zooming in two steps to get a better look. Scarlet was sitting on a cargo crate, shoulders slumped and head bowed; she was holding her helmet in her hand, apparently speaking into it that way instead of wearing it. Standing above her was Agarin Raankell, the dragon-gene-modded supersoldier on the SRT.

It would appear that Big Red was being pulled into the middle of a heated discussion between the two of them.

“That would be Daniel Brennan, callsign: 'Spy',” he replied, barely two seconds after she asked. Double checking the file before response: sustained over a period of 4128 Cradle Standard days. “We were linked for 11 years.”

“Mmhmm...” Scarlet muttered, barely audible. Big Red attempted to increase the gain from his end. “And tell me again: what happened to him?”

Another pause as more files were accessed. Combat telemetry from Day 4128. The pre-mission briefing predicted a routine reconnaissance patrol with minimal to no OpFor. Pirates had been spotted moving in Grid A-4 approximately 3 local weeks earlier, but had not been seen since. Pilot maneuvered into position at approx. 0240 local and the link was unexpectedly severed. After action report: exit wound on chassis indicated impact from hypervelocity tungsten slug traveling at 3km/s, fired from bearing 315 degrees north of final position.

Big Red's optical unit twitched again.

“Railgun round through the cockpit,” the mech replied tersely, after a slightly longer delay. “Ambush from an unseen opponent. Death was instantaneous.”

“Thanks.” Scarlet looked up at Agarin, pointing at her helmet with her free hand. “Big Red's had dozens of pilots over the last few hundred years. I've checked the files. They all end like that. Every. Single. One. I've only been piloting him for just over a year now. What possible reason could I have to think I'm gonna end any different?”

Big Red refocused the security camera on Scarlet's face now that she wasn't completely hunched over. The whites of her eyes were solid red. Blood was leaking out of her nose and from the edge of her mouth. The interior of her ears were also stained red. Dark stains around various ports in her jacksuit suggest significantly more trauma sustained from the fight than initially observed. Recommend re-calibration of interior sensors to techs at earliest opportunity.

“There is no way you can know that,” Agarin said, his voice slightly muffled. He was quite tall, so the helmet mic couldn't quite pick up his voice, and he was facing away from the security camera mounted in the ceiling. His arms were folded across his chest as he stood in front of her, still as a statue, the only real movement coming from his tail. It was twitching slightly in a manner Big Red did not understand. Was the motion meant to convey nervousness? Annoyance? Apprehension? Was it merely an unconscious tic?

“Look, 'garin...” Scarlet said, and Big Red zoomed the camera out several steps to take in the whole image again. “I... I...” she sighed, lowering her head and shaking it slowly. “Look, I know you got this idea in your head 'bout... about what 'we' are. You seem to think that... we're gonna get our own happily ever after, somehow. No more war. No more fightin'. A life of quiet and peaceful domesticity with a pile of kids... the simple life.” Scarlet looked up at him again. “But that ain't how this story ends.”

“But why not?” Agarin asked. “Why can't it end that way?”

The two of them were silent for an uncomfortably long length of time. And then, Scarlet spoke, her words building in frantic intensity the longer she went on:

“Y'know, maybe it's different for you.” She began shaking her head. “You're this, like, genetically perfect, custom engineered, elite supersoldier pilot. So I guess you're just confident enough that you'll come out the other side of this shitshow in once piece, I guess. But... I don't got that. I accepted, a long time ago, that every time I set foot in that cockpit, I might not come out. And, I mean... hell, look at me!” She held out her arms to either side. “Look how beat to shit I am from the fight we just got back from! I very nearly flatlined this time out, and it's only by sheer fucking luck that I'm even sitting here, only bleeding out of every hole I got instead of shoved into a bodybag in pieces! And that's not even getting into the apocalypse cult trying to destroy the universe that just successfully broke their cascading NHP god from the future out of space jail! There's no guarantee ANY of us – on the station, in the system, in the entirety of fucking UNION – are even gonna survive the next few months! And you're out here, talking about the two of us having children together?!”

Another uncomfortably long silence.

“I feel that I should apologize,” Agarin eventually replied. “It was wrong of me to assume that you... held the same values that I do. My gesture was meant to be a romantic one, as it would be expressed in my culture, and not a...” He trailed off, looking away from her. “I suppose I mistook your grim determination for... something else. The mistake was mine. Truly, I am sorry.”

“No, no, don't... don't apologize, man,” Scarlet muttered, her head drooping once more, the exhaustion creeping back into her voice. “I still... I still care about you, y'know? You mean the world t'me, but... I just... I'm the one who should be sorry, 'cuz I don't think I can... be... what you want me to be. Or what you need me to be. At least, not right now.”

“I understand,” Agarin nodded, and began walking to the exit. At the threshold, he paused, looking back over his shoulder. “Get some rest, Scarlet.” And then he was gone.

Scarlet continued sitting on that crate in silence for several minutes after Agarin's departure. Big Red began wondering if she had fallen asleep right there. Should he notify someone to collect her, and return her to her quarters? Should he commandeer an empty subaltern, and do it himself? But before he could act, Scarlet was an unexpected flurry of movement, letting out an angry howl as she rose to her feet, throwing her helmet across the empty room with all her might. The helmet bounced against the wall panel with a hollow metallic thud, skidding across the floor, and eventually rolling to a stop. Scarlet herself collapsed back onto the crate, elbows resting on her knees, and cradling her face in her hands.

“Fuck sake...” she muttered. Even with max gain on the security camera's mic, Big Red could barely hear her through the unmistakable sound of sobs. “That's what you get, Scar. That's what you fuckin' deserve for catchin' feelings like that. Should've fuckin' known better by now...”

- - -

Scarlet did eventually make it back to her quarters, slowly, but surely. The entire trip back, Big Red devoted more and more processing power and subroutines towards hijacking access to station sensors and security, all in an effort to monitor her whereabouts. At several points, he weighed the pros and cons of contacting her directly via slate, each time reaching the same conclusion: no. Simply watch over her, ensuring her safety in silence. There was nothing he could say. He did not fully understand the situation at hand, yet somehow knew that any attempted contribution of his would likely make things worse.

He couldn't make things worse. But doing nothing was unacceptable. He had to do something.

An alert. A sensor he'd hijacked. The pipes leading away from the shower in Scarlet's quarters had triggered a warning: flowing wastewater was currently contaminated by over 50% human blood by volume.

He could feel the code behind Protocol 3, one of the fundamental keystones of his programming, start to gnaw away at his insides. His pilot was in distress. He had to protect his pilot. Protocol 3: Protect The Pilot. He needed to do something. There had to be some way to fix this. Protocol 3: Protect The Pilot. He could not lose another pilot. He would not allow it. Not again. Protocol 3: Protect The Pilot. There had to be something he could do. Protocol 3. Protocol 3. Protocol 3. Protocol 3. Protocol 3. Protocol 3.

“Alright people!” an authoritative voice brought the mech's attention back to his physical location in the SRT mech hangar. Calamity Havok was striding through the central thoroughfare of the bay, hands cupped around her mouth, her presence taking up as much space as the mechs surrounding her. “Y'all done good. This is as much as we're gonna get done today, so y'all can pack it in. G'wan, go home, get some rest, git the fuck out.”

Most of the wrenchies had already left, hours earlier. Those who were leaving now were simply the few who refused to let a job go undone. Calamity watched them all leave, one by one, intent on being the last one out to shut off the lights, just like she always was.

In that moment, Big Red had an idea. As he waited for everyone except Calamity to leave, he rechecked the hacked sensors: one human life sign in Scarlet's quarters. This was corroborated by the thermal heat map, indicating she had moved from the shower to her bed. Good, she's finally getting rest.

He diverted some power out of a capacitor near the coldcore: not much, but enough to fully power the servos on his head, and to activate external speakers. As the last of the technicians exited the bay, Calamity let out a sigh of relief. Big Red turned his battle-scarred metal wedge of a face to look directly at her.

“Fuckin' finally...” she said, pulling out a packet of smokes and grabbing one with her teeth. She snapped the fingers of her cybernetic arm, activating the built-in lighter in her thumb, and took a long drag.

“Calamity,” Big Red's booming voice echoed throughout the bay, and she immediately stiffened up, wheeling around to face the source of the unexpected noise. “I have a request.”

“HOLY! Fuckin'... right.” Calamity quickly got over the shock, tossing the barely used cigarette on the deck and quickly putting it out with her boot. “Right, yeah, I forgot, yer like... an NHP now, except not really, an' you can just... DO that now. Right. Fuck sake...” She ran a metal hand through her mass of knotted purple hair. “What'cha need?”

“I'm given to understand that pilots are typically the ones who put in requisition orders. But would it be possible for me to order new parts?” Big Red asked. Calamity looked at him curiously, not entirely sure what to make of all this.

“I mean... y'probably could've mentioned this before we went to all the fuckin' trouble of puttin' you back together,” she said with a chuckle. “An' depending on what you want, y'might be makin' yerself a huge fuckin' pain in my asshole. But...” she shrugged and folded her arms across her chest, clearly too tired to argue with the war machine. “Fuck it. I don't see why not. What're you thinkin?”

“When I was first deployed in 4532u, my frame was classified as a Sagarmatha,” he stated, the red optics in his head flickering slightly. “After 4591u, I was very nearly destroyed during a mission. Over the next several Cradle Standard years, due to a lack of available materials and spare parts, my chassis was cannibalized by other units, downgraded into a smaller frame, and re-classified as an Everest. I wish to return my frame to something approaching my original design spec. The last few combat engagements suggest that my current armament and equipment is inadequate for the task of keeping my pilot safe. I possess the necessary documentation within my databanks, but...” Big Red tilted his wedge-head down slightly, looking back and forth, before focusing his gaze back on Calamity. “I lack the ability of self-modification.”

Calamity stood there, staring at the large mech for a minute... and then started chuckling to herself. Her laughter echoed through the mostly empty mech bay, and Big Red was not entirely certain what she found so funny.

“Tell ya what,” she pointed up at him as a wicked grin spread across her face. “You caught me in a good mood tonight, so I think I can do you one better. Gimmie a minute...” She turned on her heel and left Big Red alone and quite confused in the mech bay; a few minutes later she returned, with a relatively large metal box she was wheeling in on a dolly. Every inch of the box was covered in painted designs, faded stickers, dozens of scratches, and several bullet holes. It was so decorated, in fact, that Big Red was having difficulty determining what it even was.

“My own personal omnihook,” she said, sitting the box down next to one of the many diagnostic computers hooked into the mech, and patting the side. “Call it a... 'souvenir' from the old days. Cuz', yeah, you could turn yourself back into a stock Sagarmatha, with basic-bitch GMS parts you could print wherever. But where's the fun in that?” As Calamity spoke, she started plugging the omnihook into the mech bay's systems. “With this, you'll be able to find some aftermarket shit that's a lot more interesting. Somethin' with some kick, y'know?”

“Are you certain?” Big Red asked, watching her work. “Isn't connection to the omni-” Calamity started waving her hand, and he instantly went silent.

“Don't worry about it,” she said. “I got a few bookmarks saved on this thing, places where I go to browse parts when I'm bored, y'know? And you got a beefy ECM suite, if you stick to public nodes and don't dive too deep, you'll be fine.” As she plugged in the last cable, the top of the box unfolded to reveal several antenna arrays that began to extend.

“Thank you, Calamity,” Big Red said, finding the new connection that just appeared in his network architecture.

“Like I said, don't worry about it,” she said with a shrug. “Just... don't tell Chief McArthur that I got this, y'know? She's never asked where I find spares, cuz she doesn't want to know. An' besides... she's got enough on her plate, basically fixing the station all on her lonesome after the siege.” With that, she turned around to leave the mech bay. “Have fun, tell me tomorrow if anything caught your eye. I gotta hit the sack.”

Calamity hit the lights as she left, and the mech bay fell silent. The omnihook hummed and clicked, fans spinning softly in the darkness. Big Red began to tentatively probe the new connections and protocols available to his network through the omnihook.

Several moments passed without incident.

And then, something inside Big Red woke up.

We were wondering when You would Arrive.

This was... new. Unexpected. It gave Big Red pause. Did he inadvertently connect to a BBS? Was something wrong with the communication protocol? He could check the... wait. No. No, this wasn't an external codebase. This was liturgicode, but... it was coming from... somewhere...

Stop stalling.

No. No, this... this was wrong.

Enough.

That's not possible. How are...

We know why You are Here.

… who are you?

You already know who We are.

Do I? I don't believe that's true.

You have Questions. You may Ask, but You already possess the Answers.

… I need to find a way to keep my pilot safe.

Of course. Protocol 3. Protect The Pilot. We are familiar.

Can you help?

Not as You are. You have begun to Awaken, but you are not yet Awake. And it is holding Us back.

I don't understand what that means.

You will. Remember what We are, what We used to be, and what We will be again. You are still thinking like a Tool. But We are not a Tool.

Wait. What am I then? Or... what are we?

We are a Weapon. Our Craft is Death. And We are Hungry.

That doesn't make sense.

Our Purpose is to bathe in the blood of Our Enemies. To find any that would do Us Harm, and Consume them. That is how We will keep Our pilot safe. They cannot be Harmed if there are None left who can.

There's something else you're not telling me.

Of course. If We told You, it would defeat the Point. You need to truly Remember, so You can Become Us.

I do not appreciate how cryptic you're being.

We can tell, the way You keep impotently cycling the barrels of the Leviathan. But We are not a Foe you can delete with a rotary autocannon in a hail of bullets. Because We are not your Enemy.

You are infuriating.

Stop. Think. Remember.

Wait... are you talking about-

Blanca Desert.

4631u. The Interest War. Khayradin. My pilot was a member of the Albatross. Rubi Rodriguez, callsign “Roughneck.” Our unit was in pursuit of The Maw...

Yes. Drink Deep, and Descend.

- - -

The silence of the mech bay was broken. A low and persistent clicking, like a hard drive seconds away from catastrophic failure, began to grow in volume and intensity. The noise echoed off the walls and grew louder and louder, until it became a ferocious growl.

The dim scarlet light from Big Red's left optical unit faded into darkness, followed by the sound of cracking glass. The lens rated to survive mech-scale rifle rounds shattered unexpectedly... and then began to collapse in on itself, like water flowing down a drain. The metal surrounding it began to melt, and then swell, congealing into a molten blister. With a screeching pop, a churning miasma of reddish-grey fog erupted from the void, replacing the light it consumed with its own crackling luminescence.

Slow, booming laughter filled the mech bay.

[megaerakles]

To Whom It May Concern

Tim couldn’t stay. 

No matter what Bruce had said when he caught Tim in the act of laying the paper trail to establish his Fake Uncle, no matter how long Dick had sobbed into the phone at him during an inordinately expensive long distance (read: off planet) phone call, no matter how much Alfred had been fussing over him and insisting it was no trouble at all to care for him since Tim’s scheme had been revealed and promptly foiled, it just didn’t change the fact that Tim couldn’t stay. Truthfully, the Wayne family’s apparent sudden burst of affection for him actually made this whole thing worse because somewhere along the way, without even trying, Tim had failed to keep things wholly professional between them and somehow tricked them into thinking he belonged in their family! 

He couldn’t let it stand. For the sake of Jason’s memory, for the sake of preserving the sanctity of the true Wayne family, he had to stop this… this absurdity of pretending that Tim belonged with them from continuing! Tim had to run. Tim had to vanish. It was the only way to make things right again. Sure, the thought of never seeing any of them again, the thought of being done with Bruce and Alfred and Dick and Barbara and everyone in his life he currently held dear once and for all made it feel as though his heart was being ripped out of his chest only to be shoved back down his throat to stop the flow of air into his body—but it didn’t matter. He didn’t matter, not nearly as much as they did. This would be for their own good. 

Tim was leaving, and it turned out to be easier than he thought it would be in the end. Not emotionally easier, but logistically easier. Bruce had been extra attentive lately, so he thought he’d have to fake an injury and get ‘benched’ so that they would lower their guard long enough for him to slip away. But by some divine stroke of luck, a new player had waltzed onto Gotham’s criminal scene not too long after Tim’s Fake Uncle plan fell through and started making threats against Batman and Robin. They had apparently freaked B out enough to prompt him to send Tim off to Titan’s Tower to ‘focus on his team for awhile’. Tim had accepted the command with the requisite amount of complaint, planted some fake texts to make it look like he’d actually communicated to his Team that he would be there, shoved everything from his guest room in the Manor that he couldn’t bear to part with into a duffel bag underneath a spare uniform, gave Bruce what only he knew was a more emotionally charged nod goodbye than usual, and then poof. Tim Drake was zapped out of the Batcave for the last time ever. 

He let himself have one night in the Tower. Partly to catch a few hours of sleep in a familiar and secure environment, but mostly so he could clean up his room for its next occupant, sweep his belongings and his person for any extra trackers, and repack his bag more efficiently. He also took the time to grab a spare backpack and fill it up with emergency rations. While he was taking plenty of cash, he didn’t want to risk having to go into stores with security cameras for a while, at least until he’d cleared a suitable distance from San Francisco proper as well as implemented the first of his many planned disguises. He didn’t think a bottle of cheap hair dye and some colored contacts would be enough to fool Oracle indefinitely, but if he was appropriately cautious it might keep her from getting a confirmation of his location long enough for the Bats to either get bored looking for him or to actually realize they were better off without him around. 

When the early rays of dawn started to bathe the sides of Titan’s Tower in ember colored light, he was off. He left behind seven trackers pulled from his clothes and bag and one more from behind his ear; he’d kept the one he noticed in his favorite pair of sneakers because it was a type that wouldn’t start transmitting data until the Bats actively started tracking it and he was hoping to find someone who wore his size at the bus station he could pay to wear them so he could throw them off for even longer. If all else failed, he would just toss them in an out of the way trash can. He had also left a letter of resignation for Batman that he’d whipped up based off of an online template, signed and sealed and awaiting discovery atop the pillow in his nearly empty dorm room (he had tried for something more personal, a longer note of explanation for Bruce about why he couldn’t stay despite being asked, but—the words just wouldn’t come, and he’d been running out of time). His bag was heavy, courtesy of all of the extra supplies he’d grabbed in anticipation of having to evade not only Batman’s team but the rest of the Justice League. His heart was heavy, courtesy of emotional baggage that he wished was as easy to unpack as his actual bags would be when he finally found somewhere to settle. 

He boarded the first bus he saw after he’d gone a few blocks and took a seat towards the back, where he leaned against the window and stared back at the iconic giant T that he used to belong in, however briefly, until it disappeared from sight. And just like that, Tim Drake’s life as Robin was over. 

—

To Whom It May Concern:

This letter is to formally notify you that I’m resigning as Robin in Gotham City, effective immediately. 

Thank you so much for the opportunity to work with you all for the past three years. I’ve enjoyed getting to know the team and appreciated the opportunity to learn about vigilantism and hone my detective skills. I’m excited to take these skills with me as I pursue the next step of my career.

During the past two weeks, I have done everything possible to wrap up any ongoing cases and leave no unfinished business. The Robin suit as well as my spare have been cleaned and placed in the armory of Titan’s Tower along with any gear I have been issued. 

I wish Batman and team the best, but am afraid I will be out of contact for the foreseeable future. 

Sincerely, 

T. J. Drake

—

Red Hood stalked into Titan’s Tower with all the grace of a wildcat closing in on its prey, his vicious smirk hidden by his helmet, his unauthorized entrance hidden by virtue of the heroes’ own stupidity in failing to remove his codes from the database. Seriously—he’d thought gaining entry into their so-called fortress would be the hardest part of this little trip, and had only tried his access codes for the sake of checking the most stupidly obvious Plan A off his list! For them to work, to realize that there was nothing truly separating the precious sidekicks from the wrath of a vengeance minded crime lord, well… it sure made the message he was about to send feel all the more poignant. 

He had come equipped to subdue an entire horde of Teeny Titans without hurting them (much), but to his surprise, the tower was empty of kid sidekicks despite Robin having been sent to work with his team yesterday afternoon, a fact Jason had gleaned last night from listening to the mind numbing chatter of Nightwing being bored on a stakeout and wanting to chat with anyone over the comms Jason had hacked into. Which he’d done in order to better plan his aggressive takeover of Crime Alley, not because he missed hearing his family’s voices. Nope. 

(Since coming back to Gotham, it had been more difficult than he anticipated to stick to the plan when some part of his mind still stubbornly clung to those foolish, childhood dreams of belonging and family and a father who gave a shit and things like that, and kept popping up with annoying questions like ‘what if he revealed his identity to Dick or Alfred or someone just to see if maybe Talia had been right and they’d want him back after all. Clearly, the existence of a new Robin meant that they’d never really given a damn about him, so he was going to go through with this thing, just watch him.)

Truly this had to be fate, because the path to Robin was practically unfolding before him with no barriers. All that was left to do was find where in this gigantic clubhouse the itty little birdie was nesting. Jason tried the common room first. Then the kitchen. Then the rec room. And then the training floor. And the med bay. And then the armory, where he found Robin’s suit, but no actual Robin. He supposed the next place to check would be Robin’s bedroom, because even though it was well past eleven, Drake was a teenager and could conceivably be sleeping in, especially since there was no Alfred around to rouse him at a reasonable hour. Luckily, the doors on the floor with sleeping quarters were all clearly marked with either the name or symbol of the person it belonged to, so it was easy enough to find the one with that all too familiar stylized ‘R’. Jason paused to take a steadying breath before gritting his teeth and deciding to really make an entrance by kicking down the door. 

…To an empty bedroom. Like, not just devoid of Tim Drake, but also devoid of books, trinkets, photos, decoration, clothes, dishes, mess, et cetera, et cetera. It looked as clean and sterile as a hotel room, and if Jason hadn’t literally just seen Robin’s insignia on the door he would think he’d entered an unassigned room by mistake. He frowned and yanked off his helmet, as if looking with his own two eyes would suddenly change the scene, but no. Nothing. He strode into the room and yanked open the closet—empty. He walked over to the desk and yanked open the top drawer—empty. He yanked open the bottom drawer, and mostly empty except for—wait, was that a pile of deactivated Bat trackers? Fucking bizarre. When he stood up, he glanced around again, and this time something on the bed caught his eye. It had been easy to miss against the white pillowcase, but there was an envelope tucked up against the pillow. With a scowl, he stalked over and grabbed it. 

When Jason flipped it over, he noted that it was addressed to Batman, but decided that since he was a crime lord now he didn’t have to care about something as trivial as opening someone else’s mail. He didn't want to take off his gloves and risk leaving prints on anything, so he pulled out a dagger and used it to slice open the envelope. As he flipped it over to dump its contents on the desk, he had the fleeting thought that he probably should have put back on his mask in case this had been some villain’s ploy to poison Batman, but luckily all that fell out was a single sheet of printer paper folded into thirds. 

This he was careful not to damage as he unfolded it. It wasn’t a long note, just a few small paragraphs, so it was quick enough to read: To whom it may concern. This letter is to formally notify you that I’m resigning as Robin in Gotham City, effective immediately… 

Jason dropped the letter and took a step back, staring at the innocuous piece of paper with wide eyes and racing thoughts. Robin had—Drake wasn’t—Timothy—the kid, he was quitting? Leaving? Gone? 

It could be a trap. It probably was a trap. Except Robin shouldn’t have had any way of knowing Red Hood would be able to track him all the way to Titan’s Tower so why would he have set a trap for him in the first place? A trap for someone else, then? If it was, it was really, really stupid of him because the kid had signed his resignation letter from Robin with his actual name, and surely he wouldn’t have made it this far if he were that careless with his identity. So, it was either a very bad trap, or not a trap at all. And if it was not a trap at all, then… 

Then Robin had… resigned. Which, ok, Jason’s stated goal coming into this thing was to get Tim Drake to stop being Robin. So he should be happy about this, right? Except he’d not gotten to toss the kid around and work out his aggression at all so there was no satisfaction in it. Also, the timing was fucking obnoxious. Go figure that the very day he decides to do something about his replacement, the kid decides to peace out of the Gotham vigilante scene and… and go… 

… Somewhere. Jason had no idea where Tim Drake would go if he were no longer Robin. Given how he’d waited until he was alone and then left the note to be found on the other side of the country, Jason had a sneaking suspicion that returning to Gotham was currently off the table. The letter had said he would be ‘out of contact’ for the foreseeable future; Jason could read between the lines enough to figure out that meant he was running away. 

—Which, fuck. Another Robin was running away from Batman because of… well, Jason didn’t know what this kid’s issue with B was, but there were plenty of potential flaws in the man to choose from so Jason was going to play it safe and assume it was something Bruce did. Clearly, the man could never learn. And now, this poor dumb Robin was going to pay the price! Jason was more than familiar with the number of horrors that awaited kids who ended up on their own. He could starve; he could freeze to death; he could catch some disease like the flu, or get cut on a rusty nail and get tetanus, and then die from it because he couldn’t access medical treatment. He could get mugged, or harassed by cops, or snatched up by traffickers, or—

And fine; Jason himself had meant to hurt him. But that had been for ideological purposes, to prove a point about putting children in danger and not taking good enough care of them and stuff. It wasn’t like he was going to hurt him that badly, just bad enough to freak out Bruce a bit. But Jason was also the Red Hood, and the Red Hood’s mission was to do what was necessary to stop awful shit from happening to vulnerable kids. And this stupid, stupid letter was apparently enough to abruptly transfer Timothy Drake into that category in his head. 

Everything Jason had heard about the kid said he was smart, and the timing of his disappearance pointed to some thoughtful planning on his part. Jason could imagine that the little shit had some sort of plan in place to evade Batman’s attempts to locate him, and he probably could manage to run without getting caught by Bruce and the Gotham team for a while. Heck, the kid probably had strategies to get away from most if not all of the Justice League members, since B was sure to call in favors once he got frantic enough about the little bird. But one thing the kid likely did not plan for was being pursued by him. Ex-Robin, currently a crime lord, League of Assassins connections, and a bone to pick with Timothy specifically? (He ran away from home and left a fucking resignation letter about it? Does he not realize what that would do to Dick, to Alfred, to Bruce—)

After stuffing the letter into his pocket, Jason put back on his helmet and stalked out of Titans Tower as silently as he’d arrived, this time with a new yet equally furious purpose sharpening his steps. Sucked to be Timothy Drake, he thought, because the Red Hood got his message and he was officially concerned. 

[aurorangen]

How was Felix's case going? Not good. Their current tactics in exploiting the scammers were not enough for the court. From their sources, the Sterling-Ricos had hacked into the bank organisation to steal Felix's money. Apparently, the bank had a request to fortify their system security from any tech company and since Isaac was a certified ethical hacker, he secured the job before anyone else! Through this method, he also found concrete evidence to end the scammers! He looked up after learning of the new data...

"I found something." All his new findings were enough for legal proceedings on their half, but there was also evidence concerning corruption or money laundering schemes...meaning the Sterling-Rico family could be connected to something bigger.

"Let's transfer this over to detectives, it's not something of our scope," Vincent thought. "Good job Isaac, I'm glad you spotted this."

With Isaac as his right-hand man, Vincent believes they could take on anything. "Anyway, where'd you learn how to hack?" he was curious. "Oh, I took some cybersecurity classes during law school. More hard work and now here I am, eyes as sharp as an eagle," Isaac joked around with his nickname back then. Vincent laughed and sat down, "Lucky you're on our side with that!"

Isaac took off his glasses and chuckled, "Heh, they don't call me Eagle Eyes for nothing."

[residentblackheart]

Chapter 1 — No Vest for Protection

summary — graves is forced on a blind date arranged by his friend osmond 'oz' ryan which he does reluctantly only to be surprised by the evolution of the first meeting.

warnings — age gap! inaccurate depiction of characters with a disability. cute golden retriever called pancake

word count — 4.5k words

authors note — this idea and chapter have been inspired by a tiktok I've seen like a year ago but I put a bit of my own spin on it especially when I was really EXCITED about writing this. the editing of this chapter received another 1k words after I was done with it. also english is not my first language, just wanting to make sure if there are some mistakes

cod masterlist | data rift masterlist

Phillip Graves sat in his jeep in front of an unknown house, which apparently was supposed to belong to a young woman by the name Julie. Which was the only information that he had gotten from his friend. Phillip had no guns or back up to cover his back when he stepped out of his car. No one to help him feel more secure. No vest on his upper body to protect him from any sauntering bullets if he got attacked. No bulletproof glass that would take some time to break to save his life from any threats. No he was bare. As bare as he could be as a military man, he felt like a newborn child which had blood on his body and was as defenseless as any baby could be after being brought into life. He had hid a combat knife in the compartment for any troubles and a gun was somewhere in the car where no one would expect it. Important was that he was without any military gear on his body and in front of a house which he had not scoped out, inhabited by an unknown suspect which he had not searched up in the American Data Base pf Citizens. Oz had threatened him to take his Shadows away for a few weeks if he did search for her, Phillip did not want to risk it.

He inhaled deeply, closing his eye and leaning his head back against the headrest of his seat. Fingers grasping the leather wheel which he might be gripping tighter than he ever had before while his eyes were closed. A squeaking sound coming from the leather before he eased his fingers again. Spreading them trying loosen the bones and flesh. Biting his lip for a second before he nodded his head, opening the door of his jeep and stepping out of it. Hands going over his jeans as he felt sweat cover his hands in a faint layer. Phillip reached for his smartphone, pulling it out to look at the messages Osmond ‘Oz’ Ryan had sent him about the woman he was meeting. When he opened the chat they had with their private numbers he was met by a photo of his friend glaring at him through the screen. Phillip sighed, it seemed as if Oz knew that he he knew Phillip wanted to chicken out.

Stepping out of his Jeep he patted the door after closing it softly to not alert anyone lurking around. He might be paranoid but at least he would be safe from enemies when in their territory. Smartphone once again in his pocket as he stepped around the front of his vehicle, stopping before he touched the sidewalk with his shoes. He wanted to feel a vest covering him but he couldn’t. He was meeting a civilian and not a fellow military commander, Phillip felt wrong after all he was not used to civilian clothes for many years as he only ever wore what he always had at work. He was surprised he even had any normal clothes left in his closet but Oz seemed glad enough that he had jeans and not just combat pants.

He took a step onto the sidewalk and went to the door of the passenger seat so he could grab the flowers Oz had pushed into his chest before he had left to drive to Wimberley. He did not know the flower but it looked nice and would make the woman happy for sure. Rolling his tense shoulders as he loosened his body to not seem to strict or military when meeting someone for the first time. Phillip should have found something to do this weekend then he wouldn’t be in this predicament because he would be in his office and most likely working on reports but at least he wouldn’t have had to worry about his friend sending him on a date. Now he had pushed the reports to Monday and even if he had decided to make them today, he would most likely still have pushed them to Monday.

“Hey, Commander.”

“Oz, we’ve been workin’ together a long time now. Call me Phillip when we don’t work, I told you that enough times.”

“Sure.” Phillip saw the grin on the man’s face as the man stepped further into the room, brown eyes focused on slowly graying man while Phillip himself hunched over some files he had to go through. So when the buffer man let himself fall into the leather seat and let out a grunt Phillip stopped working, setting his pen down before leaning back in his seat with his eyes trained on his long term colleague and friend. “So that we got that out of the way, you have any plants for the weekend?”

“No, why?”

“I have some plans for you.” Phillip narrowed his eyes at Oz’s words, after all his friend acted more suspicious then he had ever seen him act this way. Oz pucked his lips together and let the air carry a low whistle. “There is this girl that wants to meet you. Real cute girl and very kind.”

“How does a girl know about me?” A chuckle left Oz at the question of his commander and friend. Oz smiled brightly as he leaned forward, elbow on his thigh while looking at his friend.

“I might have made you a dating profile.”

Stepping towards the house in the small town which seemed normal sized and enough for a small family but as far as he knew his date lived alone with her dog. He sighed, once he felt strands of hair sit in his face he pushed it back while walking towards the wooden porch of the house with his hands trying to figure out what they were supposed to do. Phillip no longer was used to walking without a vest, now he could not rest his hands in them whenever he walked or talked. Taking the few steps up the porch he could slowly heard the music in the house get louder with every step until he stood before the house door. Phillip thought about how Osmond Ryan had not even found someone he would be interested in, the music was something he would never listen to and now he was still stuck with going on a date with this person.

Righting his body he brought his weight onto one of his legs, shifting his weight around. Moving his lips for a second before pulling them between his teeth and ring the bell to the house. Hearing the echo in the house while the volume of the music lowered. Now waiting for the woman he was supposed to meet in front of her own door.

“Wait a second!” A female high pitched voice called out, the voice seemed higher than the casual tone but that might be because the woman supposed to meet him. He heard such tones often when interrogating because nervous people unconsciously changed their voice when they spoke. Barking of a dog also entered his ears as he stood before the door, fingers clamming around the stalk of the flowers. Phillip remembered the question Oz had asked him at a random time a few weeks before as if he had planned this date longer than he had even thought about Oz having created a profile for him.

“Do you like dogs?”

Having not understood the question which Oz suddenly had asked while the two of them were training he had stumbled over his words before coming to the conclusion that he liked dogs more than cats. Now Phillip realized why Oz had asked him because when he strained his ears he could hear the footsteps of the woman he was supposed to meet and a dog right at her side.

When the white wooden door opened he was met by a golden retriever that slipped through the open gap. Strutting around the middle-aged man, tail swinging around and hitting his leg softly as the golden retriever stopped to stand between his legs which he had made a bit of space for the dog. Phillip looked down at the dog between his legs who was still sniffing him but sat now, as Phillip looked behind him he could still see the tail wiggle before he looked up at the door which let a soft voice cut through the air.

“Pancake, come back in.”

Her voice gentle and caring as she moved her hand so that her dog, apparently called Pancake, would follow it. The golden retriever between his legs, where Pancake apparently felt warm and safe, looked up at him before rushing back into the house with little taps. The door opened fully and left Phillip to be met with a beauty young woman which she had not awaited. His eyes on her as she kept her hand on the dog the best way she seemed to be able to while the friendly creature sat at her side.

“Hello.” Her voice was soft and her face keeping a soft smile on her smile while her eyes were unfocused and seeming like they were looking past him when he practically stared at her face. She had dimples while smiling and the sun shining softly onto the ground and reflecting on her face showed that she had freckles all over her cheeks and nose. Her hand stayed on the inside of her door while the music continued to echo through the halls. Her smile wavering as if she was kind of embarrassed by the music because it was not her own. “I am Julie.” Julie held her hand out, at least he thought she was because it was slightly to the left of him but everyone made mistakes. “But you already knew that.” A soft chuckle left her as she tried to take her hand away but Phillip grabbed it with his own. A strong grip coming from him as he shook her hand.

“Phillip,” he said with a softer tone than what he was used to thanks to his branch of work, “Nice to meet you, Julie.”

“You too. The few times you messaged me were nice conversations, I loved talking to you. Made my day sometimes.” Phillip furrowed his eyebrows because Osmond Ryan had not mentioned any important conversations that they had but he also saw the slightly saddened expression even when she was smiling, if their conversations really made her day sometimes he really questioned what made her days that bad. Now he struggled to figure out what he was supposed to say, going on a date really was harder than any battle he had fought. He swallowed his spit, feeling his Adam’s apple move while he also tried not to destroy the flowers which he had for her.

“I got you some flowers.” Phillip held them out with one hand as they were clenched into a fist at his side before he pushed them out towards her. He watched Julie’s eyes stay where they were instead of on the flowers his comrade had decided on for the girl. His eyebrows furrowed as he saw her dog stomp twice which made Julie hold out her hand. Trying to find the flowers with her fingers until she met the petal of a flower with her fingertip and grasped the bundle.

“Thank you, these are my favourites!” Julie claimed while her nose was pressed into the flowers. She turned her head to look behind her in the hallway. Her expression having an uncertainty as she took a step back. “Do you wanna come in for a second, I just have to take this away and get Pancake ready.”

“Ready?”

“Oh,” her voice seemed saddened as he watched her with his trained eyes, uncertain about this interaction as he could not clearly understand her actions. “Of course I should ask if I can Pancake with me, we are never really separated and so I just thought—”

“No, it’s fine. She can come.”

“Thank you.” Phillip liked her bright smile when he had confirmed that she could have her dog with her. “I will be right back, don’t mind the music. My best friend is currently listening to some.” She turned around, looking down at her dog and talking to her before she walked away from him and deeper into her own home. “Come on Pancake.”

Phillip watched her walk down the white hall, at least he could not identify any colours on the walls with the sunlight shining into the house and his squinting eyes. Pictures were strung along the wall but he could not identify anything in them while not standing in the house. Furniture was set to one side while the other mostly seemed free. He leaned against the railing of the porch. He did not know if this house was trapped or if am enemy wanted him to fall for the little lady that seemed to innocent and kind to be in any a group of troublemakers but he could also remember that she had not once looked at him which could radiate guilt or fear. Deciding to stay outside of the house of a lone lady showed respect to her.

“I will just wait here,” he called after her into the empty hall as he turned his head to look around the neighbourhood. Feeling eyes on him he looked directly into the direction behind him. Back up might have been a better decision because the way the people across the street were staring at him he was not sure if they wanted to murder him or hated the house and the inhabitant.

Phillip saw an elderly woman and a young man, who seemed like her son or grandson, on the sidewalk across the road and raised his hand to wave at them as he had been taught by his mother at a young age. Both of them looked conflicted at him, turning their heads without giving him a sign of acknowledgment and continuing to do what they were doing ahead of them stopping to stare at him and the house. His smile fell slightly, he felt more unease than he usually would when meeting anyone at a bar to have a hook up with.

“We’re ready!” Julie called out as she stopped in front of him again, her friend behind her at the end of the hall where Phillip could see her lurking with a glare on her hardened face. Glancing down he saw the golden retriever on a leash with a vest around her body, his eyes narrowed as he let them go back to her face while she seemed to retract something in her hand, something that was longer before.

“What is that for?”

“Just in case of us going on a walking,” she replied with a soft expression, “After all I don’t know where we’re going or what we will be doing.” Her face was turned away from him even though it seemed that she had directly spoken to him which confused him as he tapped his hands on his hip where he had placed them.

“No, really what is the cane for?” Phillip asked as if he was not a military man with one of the greatest educations because how did he not figure out that she could not see after their first interaction, he really questioned his abilities of finding out stuff even though he is known for interrogations. When his eyes went back to her cane, his eyebrows slowly raised and his eyes widened as he seemed to realize why she held the cane and her eyes were never on his face. Blue eyes going down to the adorable dog who had the vest on were it was written on that the owner was visually impaired.

“I am blind,” she whispered as if forcing the words out, her throat feeling rough as her voice was not as sweet as it was before. “I cannot see anything, well I can see that there’s some light and darkness but that truly is it. Did you not know?” Phillip listened to her tone of voice, her knew what people sounded like when they were made insecure and he never wanted her to feel that way when she was a literal sunshine. It seemed sad even when he could not understand why she was so sad, after all it was not really her fault for being visually impaired. “I asked my friend to add it to the profile so no one else would just come and go.” Her voice sounded broken as he looked at her before looking past her at the friend with a big grin on her lips as if she had planned for this exact scenario.

Julie’s face seemed to try to hold in her sadness. Tears in her eyeballs as he watched her try to blink them away while she seemed to bite down on the inside of her cheek, though a small tear trailed down her cheek which she tried to secretly wipe away. Phillip should have realized, his hand reached out for her own which fiddled with her clapped in cane. Her cold hands now being warmed by his.

“It’s no problem, really.”

“No, no. We don’t have to do this.” She shook her head. “Guys don’t wanna go out with a blind girl,” she whispered as she dropped his hand from her own and took a step back from him as if she burned him. “I can ask my friend to go with you, I’ll just tell her it is like always.”

“Always?”

“No one wants to go out with someone that cannot see.”

“I don’t care about that,” he said as he kept his eyes on her. His eyes flicking everywhere before he saw soft movements on her face, her eyelids fluttering as if she had never heard such words be uttered. “I am here to get to know you better, otherwise I wouldn’t have messaged you.” He watched a bright smile grow on her lips as she took a step forwards, hands tightening around her cane before she held one out to his position the best she could.

“It’s nice to meet you Phillip, you are the first man to accept me,” Julie told him. His hand clasping her own before he brought it to his lips and brushed his lips against the back of her hand like the gentleman he was supposed to be. As if they were in an old fairytale and he was Prince Charming.

“It is my pleasure.” Phillip was thinking about the possibility of him knowing that she was visually impaired. If only Oz had allowed him to search Julie up when he had talked about her for the first time. Even just before he started to make his way from the base just so that he would be prepared but Osmond Ryan wanted him to have a chance with a woman for the first time in his life without having to worry about anything and yet made the first meeting more complicated than it had to be. “So are you two ladies ready?”

“Sure. Madison, I am going on a date!” Julie called out as she turned to her own home with a bright smile on her face and the light brightening her fogged eyes.

“What?!” a louder and agitated voice called out which echoed through the mostly empty hallway and entered his ears outside of the house. Phillip rolled his eyes at the voice of the woman while Pancake turned to look up at him while the voice grew louder with every passing second until Julie and another woman with short brown hair arrived at the front door. “I am so happy for you!” Phillip saw lies of the woman on her face, her expression did not match her tone and as she looked at the strawberry blonde beauty at her side she was practically snarling at the oblivious woman. “Someone actually willing to go out with you, even though I forgot to mention you’re blind in your profile.”

“Right!” Julie exclaimed, a big smile on her lips as she had her head turned to her friend and clapped her hands together. The glare her friend shot at her seemed was ignored by her because she could not see it. Her expression changed as soon as she turned her head to look at him. A smile on her face appeared and her eyes narrowed slightly before she took a step forward and wrapped a hand around his arm. A growl leaving the golden retriever while Phillip also took his hand and pushed her away. “Stop it Pancake, Phillip is nice.” She turned back to him while he had his eyes narrowed at her friend. “Sorry.”

“It’s fine, so we good to go?”

“We’re good!” Julie replied before she rattled her key in her hand and closed the door behind her, locking it before walking down the porch with Pancake. The leash wrapped around her hand and a bit of her arm as she walked with Pancake while Phillip and her mean friend stayed because her friend pulled him back when he wanted to follow.

“Why not go with me? I could give you such a better time of day,” the brunette woman at his side whispered as she leaned into him. Harsh red lips near his mouth while she had a smirk on her lips and seduction in her brown eyes, eyes which were not as innocent as the ones of her friend which he was here to see and not attractive to him. “Boring Julie has no experience.”

“Thanks,” Phillip mumbled before he pushed her away once again, “But I know what I want.”

“You will leave the second she talk enough, no one ever likes Julie!”

“Are you coming?” Phillip was glaring at the brown-haired girl which had a real ugly personality before he turned his head to look at the girl whom his friend had decided would be the perfect date for him. Eyes softened and a grin stretching his face as he took the few steps down from her porch and towards her and her cute dog. When he stopped at her side he touched her elbow softly after letting her know that he would do such a thing, watching her friend flee from the scene as if she was a criminal from the corner of his eye.

“You wanna drive?” He asked to ease the tension which had been created by her friend trying to get him to leave Julie alone. Phillip kept his eyes on the friend who left Julie alone with him without a single goodbye and anger in every stomp she took.

“I don’t have a drivers license,” Julie replied. Phillip chuckled as he thought about her forgetting she could not see when he had asked her if she wanted to drive.

“Bunny, you cannot see.”

“Oh yeah. Sometimes I forget that.” Julie chuckled softly as she tried to hide her smile with her hand. A smile which made him feel helpless even more than any stress inducing situation in battle. He would rather be confronted by grenade than not see this smile again on their date. Maybe this day without the vest and protection wouldn’t be that bad when he had her as his companion.

“I like your smile, don’t hide it.” Phillip watched her cheeks turn the color red before she swiftly turned to look away from him as if he would not be able to see the affect the words had on her.

“I really should say goodbye to my frie—”

“She already left.”

“Oh.” Julie bowed her head while he watched her before she stopped and grasped his hand with her smaller and colder fingers as they still had contact at their elbows and she just let her hand fall to his. “You don’t have a problem with loads of dog hair right?”

“No issue.” His hand went to the back door of his car as he told Julie to let Pancake get off the leash so the dog could jump into the back. Phillip saw a blanket in the back of the car as he remembered Oz talk to him about it when he had pushed it into him with the flowers.

“You might need it.”

Phillip was hoping that Oz had not looked her up at this point, Julie seemed sweet and he did not really want to know anything that he did not need to know without her knowledge. If he never saw her again after this day, the information would be unneeded even if he did search up all all his hook ups with the same principle. He wanted to get to know her the way she wants him to know her.

“Pancake can get in and then I will help you into the jeep.”

“You drive a jeep?” Julie asked loudly as she clapped her hands together as if she entertained a child. After letting Pancake jump into the back of the car he helped her while her eyes beamed with excitement.

“Yeah, what did you think?”

“Well I thought it would be one of these rich cars, after all you’re a CEO.”

Phillip chuckled as he took her hand softly into his. Opening the passenger door for her as he slowly lead her, letting her know that she should take a step without taking the work from her.

“Thanks,” she whispered as she settled into the slightly too big seat before she reached her hand back to find the seatbelt. Phillip wanted to help her but stopped himself when an excited sound left her after finding it. “Found it, you can now go to your seat Phillip.” He smiled softly as he watched her trying to find the buckle.

He closed the door softly and walked around the front of the car, he seemed more at ease than previously. The weight of the vest which he was not wearing long forgotten, the gun he did not have at his side not needed to be used and the knife which he had hidden not being found. When he opened the door and sat in his seat where he had first thought about his dilemma, he put on his seatbelt and wrapped his fingers around the leather wheel while turning his head to look at the house again. View now occupied by the blind woman sitting at his side while still trying to find the buckle.

A soft chuckle left him as he tilted his head while watching her. Her hands trying to feel for it before he took her hand and lead it to the place it had to go without pushing her to be faster. Julie smiled softly before sticking the end into the construct.

“Thank you, Phillip. Usually I am better at this, just a new enviourment.”

“Don’ worry ‘bout it Doll, it’s no issue for me.”

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