#MAP Monitoring data

[kaisollisto]

(set sometime after this)

what do I look like_

Beatrice pauses, she knows there is only one correct answer but she hesitates. She runs a quick diagnostic scan in her system before she hovers over the chatbox. 

She’s run data on Ava for so long it should be easy to rattle off the numbers and geometry of her curves, the environment and the scale and magnitude of her body. She could close her eyes and sculpt her 3D model running on the barest of functions of her own body. She could chart her topography map on the stars. She could describe how and why every single rock and soil sediment came to be and formed on Ava. What forces of nature changed and shaped her the way she is now. 

The “_” bar flickers at her, Beatrice thinks that’s Ava’s way of blinking at her. She should start at the beginning, should describe the grueling process of creating an infrastructure to be supported by her, the new agriculture that has emerged because of her but it seems like there is no answer she can give that can match the weight of Ava’s question. 

There’s a rawness to her message, like Ava has invited her inside to peer inside a panel with a fraction of her wiring. (She’s seen vague blueprints for it, has even attempted to emulate a new environment from Jillian’s leftover notes but none of them make it past the first couple tests.) It’s a new thing to learn from her, to realize that she will always be changing but Beatrice is stagnant. 

Beatrice places her hand on the patch of grass on the cliff side. She can peer over the edge and watch as they pass by the blinking cities below. She wonders if this may help, if it could bring her closer to describing her in a way that Ava has only known. 

Ava is silent and Beatrice didn’t think she could feel this much from one question. She doesn’t know how to describe it but it feels like all of the bolts inside of her are expanding and she too must adapt. It’s odd what Ava is asking, (at the core of it all am I still me?) 

The numbers don't seem to matter anymore, how could she even begin to quantify any sort of Ava with her data. There are no words fit to describe her. It’s frustrating, everything that she’s ever known is running away from her. There must be something wrong, she must be doing this wrong. 

And for a moment Beatrice falters, she falters, she feels diminutive. A query to an answer that she doesn't have. A tender sort of thing from Ava that she cannot grasp, a whisper that she cannot hear. 

She’s missing something, she must have missed something on Ava. It’s incomplete and wrong and she must start over. There must be an adequate way of seeking her, finding Ava’s answer. 

I don’t know._

[nnctales]

Exploring the Diverse Landscape of Surveys: Unveiling Different Types

Introduction Civil engineering, as a discipline, relies heavily on accurate and comprehensive data to design, plan, and construct various infrastructure projects. Surveys play a crucial role in gathering this essential information, providing engineers with the data needed to make informed decisions. There are several types of surveys in civil engineering, each serving a unique purpose. In this…

[cyberswift-story]

Road Condition Monitoring System(RCMS): Enhancing Efficiency with AI-Powered Solutions

The quality and sustainability of road infrastructure play a pivotal role in societal development, economic growth, and the safety of communities. To address the challenges of road construction and maintenance, advanced digital tools such as Road Condition Monitoring Systems (RCMS) are becoming indispensable. Leveraging technologies like AI-powered pothole detection, data analytics, and interactive visualization, RCMS ensures efficient planning, monitoring, and maintenance of road networks.

[detroitography]

Map: JustAir Air Quality Monitor Network in Detroit

A project idea that has been in the works for just shy of a decade was finally made real by the team at JustAir and the Wayne County government. While I worked at the Detroit Health Department I worked on conceptualizing and then managing an effort to create an air quality sensor network that could provide neighborhood-level updates on air quality. The issue was that EPA and EGLE monitors were…

[retailgators]

Brand Monitoring Services

Online brand monitoring works straightforwardly. It helps analyze your brand on social media and other web sources. Additionally, it stores the relevant data for future analysis. We efficiently provide brand monitoring services using different data scraping tools.

[inventionvision]

Best Practices for Using Strip Chart Recorders: Tips for Accurate Data Recording and Analysis

A strip chart recorder is an invaluable instrument, delivering a visual representation of variations in electrical or mechanical signals over time. Its accuracy in capturing real-time data makes it a critical tool across numerous industries.

[bongopowder]

perfect (abbacchio)

⁺ . ✦ .　⁺ jojo's bizzare adventure (abbacchio x reader) ⁺ 　 . ✦ . ⁺

content (18+): nsfw, oh he hates you...

word count: 4.4k

a tune for you: not another song about love (hollywood ending) lol

Moonlight trickled through the open shutters, the alabaster rays of soft light highlighting the room in uniform streaks, interrupted only by the glow of the monitor in front of you. Map after map, tab after tab, click after click, you persist, shuffling through the information as your eyes strain to continue looking at that damned screen. It had been hours – no, days – trying to figure out where this hideout was, and to no avail, a previously unwavering hope staring to dim with every new dead end. The work usually becomes intoxicating when you sink into it, the circuits of your brain firing with dedication and grit, attention usually unwavering. But it was something about tonight; your mind wandered, shuffling through memories like a filing cabinet, searching for some kind of answer.

You never understood why he hated you so much. What had you really done?

It wasn’t as if you were useless, or a delinquent. Undertrained? Perhaps, you could admit that, but your Stand had only awoken a few months prior, after first meeting Bucciarati and Polpo. Since then, you had been nothing short of dedicated. So why?

You rub your eyes, quickly realizing the futility of being caught up on such uncontrollable things. More important was the map in front of you. Of course.

A gentle knock causes your head to snap in the direction of the nearby door, the emptiness of the room creating a hollow echo.

“Come in,” you call curiously, checking your watch. 10:30.

Bucciarati peeks his head around the door with an appreciative and knowing smile, his hand lingering on the door’s handle as he steps into the room.

“Thought we’d check on you,” he starts, now walking towards the desk. “Any progress?”

We?

You tense slightly as you see Abbacchio follow behind Bucciarati, his unreadable eyes scanning the room for a moment before falling on you.

“You should really turn a light on in here… You’re going to kill your eyes,” Bucciarati says, leaning over to snap on the lamp perched on the desk. The unwelcome brightness causes your eyes to flutter shut for a moment before readjusting with a sigh.

“Yeah, you’re right,” you mumble softly with a nod before turning back to the screen. “As for updates… I can tell you where the location isn’t. No progress on where it is, though.”

Bucciarati hums softly, clearly disappointed as his hand moves to his chin in thought. Abbacchio, on the other hand, makes a sound that can only be described as a grumble, before looking away from the screen.

“Not even a general area?” Bucciarati eventually asks.

“Well, depends on how general you’re looking for,” you reply, gesturing to the map. “I’m certain it’s among these streets, however, it’s probably too large to survey. It’s just… a lot of data to go through alone… Sorry.”

“You need another hand?”

“Well,” you tilt your head in thought. “I guess someone else would help… I think alone I can finish in another few days, but it might be quicker if someone else is available.”

“Abbacchio,” Bucciarati speaks, standing up straight and turning to the man beside him. “Help her tomorrow.” Abbacchio scoffs, waving his hand for a moment before replying.

“She said herself she can do it alone,” he retorts, expression hardening with his mumble.

“She also said it would be faster with help. The quicker we know the location, the quicker we get paid. Now,” Bucciarati continues, placing a hand on Abbacchio’s shoulder before turning to walk out of the room. “Both of you can discuss a plan for tomorrow, and then seriously, go to bed. It’s unhealthy to be working so late.”

A light smile tugs at your lips as you nod, grateful to be nearly done for the day. Abbacchio opens his mouth, as if to protest, but quickly closes it and looks away, nodding with a slight huff as Bucciarati leaves, closing the door behind him.

“So,” you clear your throat nervously, shifting the desk chair to the side before turning back to the monitor. “Really what I need is you to read these files, and-”

“How long is this going to take?” Abbacchio interjects in annoyance.

“I… I don’t know. I mean, if you read fast, a couple hours. Just scan the police reports and tell me where the units were in each of them. I’m trying to triangulate the location,” you explain calmly, trying to soothe your beating heart.

“Fine,” he crosses his arms, standing up straight, narrowed eyes darting across your face.

You nod again, standing up from your chair awkwardly as you put the computer to sleep. Quickly organizing the papers sprawled out on the desk, you try to relax your tensed shoulders, secretly hoping he’ll leave, saving you the trouble of having to engage in small talk. And again, with the quick switch of the lamp, the room is left in eerie darkness.

Much to your surprise, he lingers, body rigid with agitation. He clears his throat as you stand up straight, though you want nothing more than to walk out that door, mere feet away from you.

“I’m sorry, I really don’t want to be doing this either,” you nod and speak quietly, trying to be reassuring as if he expected you to say something.

“Don’t. Just, don’t,” he snaps, his voice strained. It was though you could feel his temper slowly running out. You nod, eyes suddenly finding the carpet very interesting as you wait for him to leave the room.

“Why do you have to apologize all the time,” he mumbles, almost under his breath as he steps towards the door.

“What?” you reply, though quickly regret even speaking.

“You always apologize for no reason,” he turns to you, words almost coming out as a growl. “It really pisses me off.”

“Oh, um, I’m sorr-” you pause, swallowing nervously before correcting yourself. “I mean… I’ll avoid it in the future.”

“Why?” his question lingers in the air, and in the darkness, you swear you see him step closer.

“I… I don’t know, I just feel like you’re always angry at me,” you whisper the last few words quietly, as if almost afraid to admit it.

“You don’t know why?” he scoffs, mindlessly cracking his knuckles. “You never react to anything…” his deep voice drops further, each syllable accentuated with irritation.

You take a meek step back, your hands meeting behind your back as you look up at him. Pursing your lips, ridden with anxiety, you can only wonder what exactly you’re doing wrong.

“God, why can’t you just be a normal person? Even now,” he rolls his eyes, stepping closer to you. “You’re too damn respectful even when you shouldn’t be. It’s infuriating…”

“I’m… too respectful?” you tilt your head to the side, confusion peeking through your nervousness. “Should I not be-”

Something in him seemed to snap, your words interrupted as he pushes you back into a nearby wall, firmly holding you in place by your shoulder.

“You’re too quiet and agreeable, all the time,” he spits with anger, his body pressing closer to yours. “It’s as if nothing can make you angry.”

His breathing grows heavier, dark eyes looking down at you as he tightens his grip on your shoulder, his other hand clenching into a fist at his side. You’re trapped, his hips nearly touching yours, your back pressed tight against the wall, the palms of your hands sweating against the paint.

“I…” you begin to studder, the words getting lost in your throat as you look up into his eyes.

He leans forward, his face now inches from yours, etched with anger and irritation, yet somehow… conflicted.

“You never get mad, or raise your voice…” he mutters softly, voice still dripping with frustration.

His other forearm moves beside your head, further restricting your movement and encasing you further against the wall. You can feel his hot breath against your skin, noticing the way his eyes travel across your features and down your body.

You were sure he could hear your heartbeat, the way it raced like a drum, pounding almost painfully at your ribs, the sensation growing more powerful as the seconds passed. His eyes meet yours, his gaze now unwavering. He’s so close. Impossibly close.

“It’s like you’re… perfect. It drives me insane,” he mumbles, voice barely a hushed whisper, the soft brush of air tickling your cheek.

“W- what?” you breathe in shock, eyes searching his face in the darkness. “What do you-”

“Shut up,” he grumbles firmly, his eyes flickering down to your lips in the darkness. His grip on your shoulder was tight, almost painful, as his other and traveled down towards your face.

Silence permeated the room, broken only by the mingling sound of deep breaths. The heat of your bodies nearly pressed together was overwhelming, and his hand on your shoulder was like fire through the fabric of your clothes. You search his face desperately, your vision subconsciously drawn to his lips, which softly part.

Suddenly, his expression softened, more than before and only slightly, as if the last of his anger and frustration had begun their transition to something new. Something more dangerous.

Within a second, his hand gently releases your shoulder, fingers lingering on the seam of your shirt before wandering down your arm, his touch light and tantalizing. His other hand now reaches towards your cheek, pushing back a strand of hair and slowly caressing it with his thumb.

“Tell me to stop…” he whispers again, almost desperately now, his vision clouded with urgency and desire.

The words catch in your throat, if there were any words in the first place. You can’t reply, or rather, you don’t know if you want to. Inhaling sharply at his tender touch, you can’t seem to look away from him, your body frozen in an unfamiliar blend of anxiety and yearning.

“You should… You should stop me,” he insists, his hand now moving to your waist, pressing you further against the wall.

But you can’t.

God, you want to. You want to leave and forget this confusing interaction ever happened but the more you look up to his lips the more you feel yourself melting into his touch. He hates you, and you know that, but something about it makes your chest tighten.

It’s conflicting; you shouldn’t. You really shouldn’t.

He felt your breath hitch, and in a second he was kissing you. It wasn’t smooth or gentle, but rather like a crash of waves, his teeth roughly colliding with yours in desperation. And how it was filled with frustration, as if you both resented it but couldn't stop.

His hand found your scalp, pulling your head back and deepening the kiss further as his tongue finds yours. God, you hated it. Hated the way he tasted so sweet, hated the way his hand ran up your body, hated the way you wanted him so badly, as if starved for his touch.

The kiss grows hungrier with every passing second, unbroken even as you both struggle to breathe, mind and body focused only on the sensation of his touch. You feel yourself grow lightheaded, breaking away for only a moment to gasp before his lips crash against yours yet again.

You’re drowning in the sensation of him, stars dancing along the sides of your vision as your hands move to his chest, fingers sliding gently across the opening of his shirt. He groans, the sound swallowed by the proximity of your lips, just as he shifts his grip to your waist, pulling you closer into him.

A soft moan escapes your lips as you feel your hips press against his, your back instinctively arching and eliciting another desperate sound from him. He whispers your name against your lips, tone laced with agitation and need as he grinds his hips against yours, pushing you further against the wall.

“Abbacchio-” you whimper back, only to be silenced as he plants a wet kiss just below your jawline.

“Just… be quiet,” he grumbles, lips grazing your neck before he rests his forehead against the wall behind you. You hear his breaths coming in uneven, chest heaving up and down almost tumultuously. He sighs, and you feel his grip tightening in your hair, the tug making you wince slightly.

Gently, you run your hand further up his chest, fingers brushing along his collarbone and neck before settling in his hair. You feel him shudder under his touch, his hand on your hip tightening as his fingers dig into your skin.

“S-stop,” he hisses softly, swallowing a groan caught in his throat. “I’m trying to…”

You bite your lip, trying to control your own breathing. He’s right; you shouldn’t be doing this, but it’s far too late for reason and restraint. You continue to run your hand through his hair, coaxing another soft groan from Abbacchio who presses his head further against the wall.

“You… you’re too…” the words seem lost in his mind, his shallow breaths growing more erratic as your palm feels his racing heart, his forehead pulling back from the wall. “Too… perfect.”

With the final husky word, his lips find yours again as his hand tugs your chin up to meet his mouth. It’s different from before: just forceful and passionate, but with an inexplicable affection, conveyed by the way his hand traces along your jawline, thumb softly caressing your cheek as your lips continue to move against his.

Your arms wrap around his neck, tenderly pulling your body closer to his without breaking the kiss. He responds almost immediately, both hands moving to your hips as he moves you into him, grinding himself against you.

Your breath hitches as he continues, shifting his thigh between your legs and granting you more friction. He rocks you back and forth, upper body still pressing you against the wall.

One of his hands moves around your hips, running along the bottom of your thigh as he tugs your leg up, hand fingers resting along the inside of your knee and pulling it to the side of his body. His hips move against yours again, the newfound angle drawing more soft moans from your lips.

Those sounds were his final straw, his other hand immediately grabbing your other thigh and pulling you off the ground and against his body. His lips never leave yours, the kiss growing deeper and more desperate as his patience wears thin, evident by his bulge now pressed against your hips.

He pulls you away from the wall, now urgently stumbling towards the desk which you had left, hands kneading into your skin. Your body feels as though it’s on fire, the feeling of your back being slammed onto the desk barely registering as your senses focus on the friction between your legs as Abbacchio grinds down on you.

He quickly lifts a hand to haphazardly shove aside the assortment of office supplies and technology hindering your ability lie flat, the monitor in particular making a crashing sound as it hits the wooden floor. He pulls you by the front of your shirt back up to him, your mouth smashing against his so hard and desperately you swear it’ll leave a bruise tomorrow.

His forearm rests gently on the desk beside your head as he situates his body between your legs again, tugging you down so your hips are flush with his own. He lets out a soft moan as you wrap your legs around him, the feeling of his muscles tensing on top of you leaving a shiver running down your spine.

“Off, now,” Abbacchio’s deep voice commands with fervor, already beginning to tug at your shirt. You barely have time to lift your arms as he strips it off of you, tossing it to the side with surprising forcefulness.

Without wasting a second, his hand slips under your bra, cupping your breast and making your breath catch in your throat. He uses his other hand to tilt your head back against the desk, now nipping at the sensitive skin below your jaw.

Your body is taught with desire, the feeling of his hand beginning to press and squeeze your skin only heightening the sensation. Your back arches as you feel his hot breath against your neck, his free hand moving behind you to unclip your bra.

As it falls to the side, he pulls back for the first time, eyes roaming across your body with appreciation and an undertone of frustration. His chest heaves as a soft sound catches in his throat, eyes eventually trailing up to meet yours in the moonlight, pupils dilated with hunger.

“Perfect,” he grumbles under his breath, the flattering word spoken with a hint of vexation. You open your mouth to speak but are silenced by the feeling of him unzipping your pants, already pulling them off of you, with your underwear quickly following behind.

You gasp as the cold air hits your skin, heightened by the feeling of him spreading your legs once again. He settles between them, leaning over you with a forearm beside your head, his hand beginning to stroke the hair along your scalp.

His other hand drifts downwards, touch gentle and light as he teases his way along your sternum and stomach. You swallow in anticipation, eyes looking up at his as you bite your lip, silently praying that he can see how badly you need him without having spoken a word.

His gaze grows hazy, his eyes shutting for a brief moment as if controlling himself, before his fingers finally travel lower, right where you want them.

He lets out a soft gasp as he feels you, before mumbling something incomprehensible under his breath. As he begins to move his fingers against you, you find your head digging further back against the hard wood of the desk, your hand coming up to grip his shoulder.

Softly, he slips a finger into you, his knuckles curling gently to find the right spot. You gasp soft and squirm under him, your fingers digging more tightly into him. His other hand quickly finds its way to your chin, his elbow still resting on the table as he jerks your head back to face him, his eyes staring deep into yours.

“You’re going to look at me,” he whispers demandingly before his finger begins to move in and out of you, his thumb shifting to press against your clit.

You moan softly, eyes squeezing shut as you shiver in pleasure; his grip on your chin tightens as his fingers pause yet again.

“I said, look at me,” he hisses, his breath tickling your lips. You slowly open your eyes again, meeting his gaze as your body shivers in returned anticipation.

He continues his ministrations, fingers now moving quicker and deeper inside of you as you force your eyes to remain open, studying his features: the slight parting of his lips, his darkened eyes, the flush on his pale cheeks.

It’s now that you can really see the effect you’ve had on him, even in the low light. His eyes are half lidded, desperate and needy but somehow still frustrated. The soft purple of his lipstick is nearly gone from his lip, the edges smeared messily like watercolors.

You gasp as he pulls his fingers out of you, trailing up your folds before resting on your lower stomach. The emptiness almost hurts, the aching in your body returning as you crave more of his touch.

His lips quirk into a smirk, the expression almost feeling belittling as you lie beneath him, your naked form contrasting his fully clothed one.

“Please,” you whimper softly, biting your cheek in embarrassment as the words leave your mouth.

He scoffs slightly, pushing off of you as the smug expression remains plastered across his face. You sit up, watching as he removes his belt, the sound of metal hitting the floor almost electrifying, the anticipation nearly drawing a sound from your lips.

With an almost evil tantalization, he begins to strip, removing each piece of clothing slowly and with intent, eyes never leaving yours. He watches carefully as you study him, watching as his toned muscles contract as he moves, traveling down just in time to watch him tug at his own boxers.

His demeanor is different now, the anger and desperation from before morphing into a possessive dominance. The boxers drop to the floor, pooling at his ankles and leaving him completely exposed to your wandering eyes.

His weight is on you again within a mere second, his bare skin pressing against yours, the heat of your bodies mingling as he captures your lips into another kiss. You moan softly, indescribably desperate for him as you wrap your legs around his hips again, tugging him closer against you.

Sounds of pleasure fill the small room as he rubs against you, grinding his hips against yours, a final tease before the main show. Your pleading whimper is followed by a breathless beg, the words swallowed as he continues to kiss you with hunger.

He finally positions himself, his hand moving to your hip as he holds your body in place, lips not breaking apart from yours. Gasping against your mouth, his forehead presses against you as he finally slides into you in a single, fluid motion.

You feel a wave of pleasure wash over you, the sensation growing more intense as he begins to move against you, the weight and motion seemingly pushing you further into the desk. Unable to stifle the string of moans that fall from your lips, your hand finds the back of his head, gripping desperately into his hair as your breath caresses his face.

“F-fuck… fuck you,” he whispers, voice cracking in passion as his fingers tighten around your hip, sinking further into your skin. He continues to thrust into you with the smoldering passion of pent-up frustration, movements desperate and disheveled but leaving you a crumbling mess beneath him. It’s electrifying, the feeling of his skin on yours, the sensations of his hands along your body, desperately grasping at you as if he can’t control himself.

He shifts his hand from your hip, running it down to your thigh before hoisting your leg up, hooking your knee around his shoulder. Without giving you a second to adjust, he thrusts harder into you, the new angle sending your head lulling back into the wood, your hair tangling as you squirm and gasp.

Your hands grip desperately at the desk, fingers finding a series of files and feeling them crumple under your forceful touch.

As one of his hands rests on your thigh, keeping your leg held over him, the other wanders across your stomach and up to your chest, giving your breast a squeeze without disrupting the erratic motion of his hips. He groans your name softly, over and over, the words spilling out like a familiar stream, as if second nature.

You feel the pleasure beginning to culminate, the heat building as his hips continue to snap rhythmically forward.

“Don’t… don’t you dare… not yet,” Abbacchio commands through shallow breaths, his pace never faltering.

“I’m- I can’t… I can’t,” you gasp softly, body taught with tension already as you balance on the edge of release, trying desperately to hold on.

He pulls out of you, not even giving you enough time to gasp as he grabs you by the waist, flipping you over on the desk. Your breath catches in your throat as you feel your chest hit the wood and your feet hit the floor, your hands instinctively reaching out again, desperate to hold onto something.

A quiet grumble of need fills your ears, paired with the sensation of fingers tracing along your spine, traveling down before gripping your hips.

You hear a deep sigh before feeling the sensation of him slipping inside you again, your trembled moan filling the silence of the room. He wastes no time, already beginning to move again, arguably with more force than before.  

He presses his palm down into your back arching your back further and causing a string of curses to leave his lips. Your eyes screw shut and your fingers grip the edge of the desk, unable to focus on anything other than the heat continuing to build in your body, seemingly freezing your other senses.

You can’t take it anymore; the sounds of his groans, only growing louder, in combination with the sensation of his hand now grazing across your body, nearly sends you over the edge.

Another gasp catches in your throat as his hand slips under your body again, his finger slipping between your folds as his hips continue to snap against you. His touch is firm and slightly careless, clearly inebriated by pleasure.

“You… you’d better…” Abbacchio’s mumbling grows more desperate and incoherent with every passing second, his pace speeding up as his finger continues to move against you.

His name rolls of your tongue, becoming louder and more husky as you reach your climax, your body shuttering softly against the desk and seemingly directing him through his release as well. His hips slow, body almost collapsing on top of yours, his chest now pressed against your back and leaving you pinned against the desk.

He sighs softly, head almost nuzzling into your hair as his hand finds the side of your waist, caressing it gently as he continues to lie on top of you. You hear his breaths subsiding, the rising and falling of his chest against you growing less erratic and more peaceful.

You swallow, blinking as you catch your breath and begin to relax against the wood, the weight of his body on yours offering a strange sense of contentment. His free hand glides up your arm, fingers tracing along your skin before reaching your hand. He slides his palm up your wrist, eventually intertwining his fingers with your own before rubbing tender circles along your skin with his thumb.

You’d hate to break the silence. And what could you even say?

Perhaps it is better to appreciate the moment for what it is, with the cold moonlight now a dim flickering through the shutters, his warm breath against your neck, a feeling of drowsiness tugging at your serene consciousness. Whatever feeling of frustration, pent up feelings of lust and passion that were feeling before, seemed to melt away with the night. This current feeling, the lingering intensity of emotion and sensation, alongside the tranquility and silence of your surroundings, could only be described by one whispered, frustrating, and even desperate word.

Perfect.

[spiribia]

not sure how common of a sentiment it is but some of my favorite particles of guild wars 2 were in wandering the maps early on completing the renown hearts. i've seen these referred to as tedious fetch activities before, but i loved to 'walk around putting feed in cow troughs / disarming landmines / clearing out giant spider egg sacs / setting up bear traps / selecting the correct dialogue options for NPCs.' i loved getting to know the world in that manner - the free roam format of gw2 doesn't instruct you 'i run a farm - what you have to do now is fetch me 5 pieces of firewood and return, thank you, here's a second thing, i have rats, go kill 5 rats and return', it says 'i run a farm where i'm currently stretched thin ever since the elder dragon disruption - we have a rat infestation, we need firewood, our fences are in disrepair, wild animals keep killing my chickens, and workers are forgetting to take breaks and eat, and i haven't had time to make the rounds and bring them these lunches i packed. if you could lend a hand with any amount of any number of these things, you would be saving my hide.' then you go to the next settlement and they're like 'we're a research team studying the effects of the elder dragon blight on the land - we need to make sure our monitoring devices are set up properly, that any researchers that may have passed out from environmental hazards are recovered and / or defended against hostile life, and that we weed out any inquest spies among us that want to use our data for nefarious purposes.' and so on. eventually, the accumulation of any small activities you do in aid fills up the bar for the area to completion. i even like traditional fetch quest format myself, but it's the difference between being told 'hey, my hands are full, can you hold the door for me' and seeing someone with their hands full approaching a door and having the option to hold it open. you become a good samaritan and an active participant in the world. you understand the broader scope of people's daily struggles and get a sense of what their lives are like. it made me care about the world. my long winded post to say they should have let you help kryptis in their little camps set up fortifications and raise morale by talking to them and helping one of them collect nayos flowers because it heard that tyrians have rituals to commemorate their dead and a few astral ward people died in here and they want to do something for them

[tinydefector]

Hi!! 😆

Can I have Soundwave x human reader (smut pls (ง ͠° ͟ل͜ ͡°)ง)?

People didn't write him much, my husband need more love 😔🤌❤️✨

Thank for reading this!!

Stress relief

Soundwave x human reader

Warnings: Smut, Oral, Cockwarning

Word count: 1.5K

Request and ask open, read pinned post

Soundwave masterlist

__________________

"Soundwave can you re-check that scanner for me, I can't reach it to recalibrate its systems from here" the human's voice calls out to the intelligence officer, as they move around Soundwave desk in a scattered fashion trying to find maps and energon signals.

 Soundwave helm tilts slightly at the request as he turns to observe his human.he runs his own diagnostics, clearly indicating the scanner does not need recalibration. Soundwave almost uncanny mix of voices patch together speak:  " assistance not required. Scanner functioning adequately."  He remains standing quietly, typing away at the large computer with his servos while his tendrils rearrange scattered data pads. 

Their eyes meet his visor, looking up at him slightly frazzled. "Are you sure they are?" 

 With a sigh, he re reviews the scanner readings again, analysing more closely given the human's evident fatigue. His displays flash as data is processed.  "Confirmation: scanner calibration within normal parameters. However, you appear in need of recharge." The mixed voices of Knockout, Starscream and their own voice echoes back at them as He awaits a response, sensors attuned to subtle cues that could indicate the depth of exhaustion and other issues requiring assistance. 

"I'm fine soundwave" they call out while moving back to continue working, soundwave wraps his digits around them, pulling them back against his form, his visor tilted down to look at their eyes, he knows full well they are exhausted and Fatigue was catching up to their smaller frame. "I promise soundwave, I'm fine"

Soundwave detects elevated stress levels and the possibility of accident or harm at the current state of exhaustion. Soft ventilations cycle through his frame as his digits gently but firmly enfold the human in a protective hold.  "Statement: physiological indicators suggest otherwise."  His visor dims softly. Forcing the issue would risk negative impact, not only on his work but their work too.  

"I'm not gonna win this argument with you am I?" 

 Soundwave's visor remains dimmed calmly as the human speaks. He processes their words carefully before responding.  "Negative." They sigh softly and press their head against Soundwave's shoulder plating, each of his steps echoing throughout the halls.   "Are you going to stay with me tonight, or does megatron have you working even more?" Soundwave processes the question, sensing his partner's wish for company while recharging.

 A brief comm link check confirms he has no urgent tasks requiring his attention for night's cycle. "Megatron: aware of mission status. No tasks assigned to Soundwave at this time. I will remain for your recharge cycle"  he responds as the doors to his quarters slide open upon their arrival.   

A soft nod comes from his little lover as they lay against him. Their body is exhausted, but their brain isn't willing to shut off. After laying against soundwave for another ten minutes with no luck with falling asleep, they sigh, fidgeting around while trying to get comfortable.

 His vocalizer hums a deep, resonant tone, One digit begins tracing lazy circles on the back, slowly tracing their spinal column, "Systems are monitoring. Please attempt to rest,"  comes another of his recordings.

"Not tired," they whisper while looking up at Soundwave, leaning into his touch, enjoying having him focus on them instead of work. They had both been overrun with work as of recent.

helm tilting minutely as nonverbal concern radiates through his plating.  " Do you require distraction from responsibilities through additional stimuli?"  

They sit up resting on Soundwave's lower torso, hands spread out across the Decepticons chassis. "I am tired, horny and frustrated, soundwave, and with  everything happening, when we get even a small amount of time together, you get called away," they mumble. 

 Soundwave cycles a calm ventilated sigh, processing their words. His field pulses with understanding and care for their concerns. "Your doubts are logical. However, my function is to maximise efficiency of all personnel. A brief interface encounter now could provide valuable recharge. I will ensure we are not disturbed."  His field and plating radiate gentle invitation. 

 A soft gasp escapes their lips as soundwave pulls them further up his body. The Decepticon's digits caressing their body. Leaning in closer, they press their lips to his visor.  A low hum resonates from Soundwave's vocoder. One digit trails tenderly down a flank as another cradles them, holding their form against plating of his chest as a loud purring sound vibrates from him.  

A small squeal leaves their lips as Soundwave discards their clothing quickly with nimble digits. Dimming the lights, Soundwave carefully lowers his battle-mask with a soft hiss, His purple optics glow softly in the darkness, as a talon traces down his lovers form, tracing patterns into their skin.

Leaning close 'til his ex-vents whisper against skin, Pressing a gentle kiss to willing lips in silent promise, he commits this moment to memory. A soft content sigh falls from the human's lips as they kiss him back. It's slightly awkward but neither cares at that moment.

Soundwave runs soft kisses along their neck, chest, and hips as he brings them closer.

At the human's content sigh, gentle pulses from his plating as cooling ex-vents whisper against sensitised skin, his touches trailing softly yet deliberately to relax tense muscles and ease away lingering worries. 

As Soundwave’s glossa finds its way between their legs, soft moans fall from their lips. Small hands move to grip his helm. "Soundwave." At the human's soft calling of his name, Soundwave rumbles acknowledgment against flesh, his servos gripping hips to hold them steady as he runs his glossa across their needy sex. drinking in their essence, committing every hitch of their breath, and fluttered responses to permanent memory files saved only for him. 

As warmth spreads within the human's pliant frame, Soundwave's field surges in adoring pulses, lips, and glossa blessing willing flesh in turn as his devotion shows through electronic hums and tender strokes. Their head rolls back as their back arches, soft whines leaving them with each stroke of Soundwave’s Glossa as it presses into their sweet form. "Soundwave, please," they whine out, their hands attempting to pull the mech's face closer. 

At their breathless plea, Soundwave rumbles acknowledgment, Talons gently part willing thighs as his glossa delves with new focus, oral prehensors savouring each hitching gasp and soft cry his ministrations draw forth. As warmth peaks within the willing human, Soundwave dedicates all sensors to saturating their body. It doesn't take long for them to reach release, so much pent up energy, stress and frustration slips away as they go boneless in the Decepticon's hands. Soft pants leaving their parted lips as soundwave cleans up the mess with his mouth. Gentle affectionate rumbles leave him, field swelling with pulses of devotion and gratitude as he cleans every trace of pleasures with care. His glossa traces tender after-touches as their body goes lax in his hold. 

Optics remain darkened as he simply dedicates sensors to monitoring each slowing ventilation and relaxing muscle, wishing only to ensure their full tranquillity. Soundwave raises his helm to cradled hips,kissing it lightly and nuzzling farewell against flushed skin beneath laboured breaths, inhaling the musk of their sex and skin. 

A final hum resounds through his plating, and powerful yet delicate digits stroke through human hair with utmost care. his array's interface plaque shifts aside, hisses open and pressurises his spike.Optics flare softly to gaze upon at his lover's relaxed features. Secured in cradling servos and pulsing field, the human's lax yet willing frame I'd slowly pressed against his body, content simply to maintain sensory contact,

soft whines fall From his human's lips, as they take him in their body stretching with a loud moan. A few soft thrusts are all it takes for Soundwave to settle into them, cradling their body close, At his lovers soft sounds of pleasure, Soundwave rumbles gentle reciprocation, cradling their sated form securely against his form with one arm as his other arm retrieves a datapad

Ever once in a while his optics flicker down to monitoring his partner's relaxation even as his digits skillfully operate the pad's controls. Data streams across the display - ship schematics, translation algorithms, delicate encryption sequences - yet his true focus remains solely on the human resting atop his array. 

Here in isolated peace, all doubts dissolve. His frame supports theirs. Tired eyes slowly drift closer as soft breath even out, indicating they had fallen asleep, small hands are spread out across his chassis, their body moving slightly with each breath they take. This was true contentment. At the human's soft, steady ex-vents and relaxing muscles, Soundwave's field cycles in waves of tranquil pulsations, a digit gently strokes their hair, back and shoulders as his embrace holds them securely. 

“rest well little one” his voice mumbles softly for no one to hear but himself. 

[cyberswift-story]

Enhancing Gas Pipeline Management with GIS: Key Benefits and Applications

In the energy and utilities sector, gas pipeline management is complex, requiring precision, safety, and a clear strategy for both existing infrastructure and future expansion. Geographic Information Systems (GIS) have revolutionized pipeline management by providing a spatially accurate, data-rich view of assets. From asset management and leak detection to route planning and demand forecasting, GIS is becoming indispensable for gas companies. This blog delves into the ways GIS transforms gas pipeline management, delivering benefits across safety, efficiency, cost-saving, and planning.

[colloquialcolors]

Well. Goddamn. Having finished In Other Waters. What a phenomenal game. No clue how to effectively recommend it to people in a way that both sells it accurately but also doesn't understate how. Thoughtfully and intentionally it's made. But I do want to capture my gut reaction, right off of finishing it. So. Hrm. Lets see.

- You experience the entire game through screens- minimal graphics, dots and radars and scans and texts. It is scientific and methodical and- not tedious, exactly, but. Exacting. You scan, and move, and monitor, and the whole world is lines and dots and bare bones information on a screen.

- But the world is also alive. It's so beautifully, wonderfully- at times, terrifyingly- miraculously alive.

- I don't know how to describe the way that the game builds this, but it feels like learning a language, or slowly seeing a pattern. Little things move in the water and you learn to recognize the movements. Wordy, beautiful descriptions for every spot you move to. Entries on the intricate and bizarre biology that grow in detail and understanding as you find more pieces and analyze more things.

- Its like. The entire mechanic of- you put together entries about each plant or creature or organism, piece together information in walls of text, and when you finally learn enough, you are rewarded- with a sketch, a visual representation of the thing you have been reading beautifully worded entries of, something you have been imagining and visualizing.

- You are reading, and scanning, and gathering, and imagining and theorizing. And then you, suddenly, can see it. You read about the shimmering veils of bioluminescence strung together in inky darkness, and then you see a rough sketch of an organism constructed out of blinking lights, metres long. You spent hours wading through waters reading about the way the light filters through water on the reef and the brilliantly colored plants sway in the waves and suddenly you see a sketch of one of the leaves. Fast moving dots described as winged, fast moving creatures, and you document their burrows and their paths and their food and then. A rough scientists sketch of one.

- The whole game. Feels like that progression- a slow sense of awe. Repetitive, intentional steps, unfolding into pictures.

- You are the only thing like you, in the whole game. An observer learning the world. You are alone, but not exactly. You are a guide, acting as the eyes and hands and leader for someone you only know through text. Ellery talks to you through text prompts, and not always- but she does talk to you.

- You are her hands and eyes- you scan and move and decide where to go and monitor the oxygen and power to keep her safe and fetch all the samples. She is your hands, and eyes- she describes each new point you move to with painstaking detail, describing the sand swirling in water or light glittering, or the way darkness closes in, or the way bioluminescence throws shadows. She notes down the information and processes the samples and is the one to write the entries and turns all the data into something real.

- You move Ellery around the whole game, act in service of her, but she feels very distinct from you- secrets of her own and backstory you have to earn from her even though you guys move as one unit.

- And you learn about Ellery, and Minae, and. man. man.

- The way the screen changes with different biomes- the colors and the music shifting. The way that the layout stays the same but you feel the differences. Deep darkness alleviated by points of light. Open, sunny sands with swaying vegetation. A choking, cloying algae bloom.

- The UX stays the same, for all of these. The color, and indicators of topography are all that changes. But you feel the differences.

- Look, the mechanics are- finicky. A little unintuitive. Occasionally frustrating. But it feels right- like operating a clunky control board to steadily map an unknown space. You learn it, clumsily, and you get the motions down until it feels right. Navigation is- at times slow, and tedious, and confusing. There aren't really shortcuts to navigate through the different sections. But that feels right too.

- The game itself is not always fun to play. But it is rewarding, and it feels worth it.

- There's a whole ocean of inexplicable, alien life! And you get to explore it in a way that feels so intentionally, lovingly crafted. I don't know what to say beyond that. What. A fucking treat.

... also the plot about corporations fucking up ecosystems because of the never ending desire for profit and the destructive impact of thoughtless corporate greed. so. you know.

[carriesthewind]

Yeah so anyway, I'm making my response to this fucking garbage its own separate post in case people want to reblog it without having to reblog a scare-mongering lie.

This video pisses me the fuck off whenever I see it, and today I'm not in the mood to just scroll past.

Wow! Am I being lead to panic by scaremongering algorithm fodder completely unsupported by real evidence?! test:

The reason you think something exists is just what you're being told by a nefarious *them*, there is actually a conspiracy behind it!

I, an ordinary person with no expertise who critically examines the world around me, have uncovered this conspiracy.

"That's what they're telling you." (put the emphasis wherever appropriate for the conspiracy of your choice - in this case, it's on *telling*)

This new tech thing is actually a bad idea and the old school method was better - which clearly proves there must be a secret conspiracy, because why allow the possibility of incompetence and investor tech-hype when you can instead assume a highly-competent evil conspiracy?

I will now tell you my conspiracy theory while scrolling rapidly through a document without pausing or allowing you to actually read any of it. This allows me to look like I have proven my claims while doing nothing of the sort. Because do you really think someone could do that? Quickly flash a document on screen and just lie about what it says?

But Owl! This is real! A user upthread found the patent and it *does* prove it!

Yeah. I read the linked patent. Did you?

Let's quote the "real purpose" hidden in the patent, as claimed out in the video:

"The real purpose of these screens is to use the little camera at the top right here to scan your face and use AI facial expression analysis to judge whether or not you like the packaging designs of the product you're looking for."

This is complete made up horseshit.

First, let's look where the reblogger directs us, to column #4 on page 17:

"Preferably, each retail product container further comprises customer-detecting hardware, such as one or more proximity sensors (such as heat maps) , cameras, facial sensors or scanners, and eye-sensors (i.e., iris-tracking sensors). Assuming cameras are employed, preferably cameras are mounted on doors of the retail product containers. Preferably, the cameras have a depth of field of view of twenty feet or more, and have a range of field of view of 170 degrees with preferably 150 degree of facial recognition ability. Preferably, software is employed in association with the cameras to monitor shopper interactions, serve up relevant advertisement content on the displays, and track advertisement engagement in - store." (emphasis added and references to figures removed for readability)

That is the extent of the "nonconsensual data collection."

Now, to be fair, there is some stuff on page 18 and 19 which kinda-sorta-maybe has at least some relation to the claim in the video:

"Preferably, the controller/data collector is configured such that as a shopper stands or lingers in front of a given retail product container, the display associated with the retail product container changes yet again. At this point, preferably the controller/data collector has been able to use the customer-detecting hardware to effectively learn more about that particular customer, such as gender, age, mood, etc. The controller / data collector is configured to take what has been detected about the customer to determine which advertisement and other information to present to that particular customer on the display associated with the retail product container in front of which the customer is standing. By tracking shopper data in parallel with which advertising content is being served on all displays within the viewing range of the shopper, the retailer and the brands are better served, providing new analytics. As such, the system provides advertising, influence opportunities at the moment of purchasing decision, optimizing marketing spend and generating new revenue streams....

"Additionally, preferably all inputs collected by the IOT devices will be analyzed locally as well as remotely (via cloud) to provide the feedback inputs for the system to push more relevant/targeted content, tailored for the consumer. The analytics are preferably conducted anonymously, images captured by cameras are preferably processed to collect statistics on consumer demographic characteristics: (such as age and gender). This data is preferably subsequently analyzed for additional statistics for the retailers that are valuable for in-store merchandise layout design and smart merchandizing, including the ability to track the shoppers “traffic” areas, known as “heat maps”, areas were [sic] customers would concentrate more and spend more time exploring, etc." (emphasis added and references to figures removed for readability) (And note the repeated emphasis on preferably - they don't have a patent to do any of this.)

Which, like, not great! I fucking hate the idea of shit like this! But there is literally nothing here about monitoring your expressions to sell the data about how you react to packaging!

This isn't a nefarious plan hidden in the patent. It's tech bros adding on totally sick ideas about how they can sell this shit to walgreens. (Because to be clear, I'm sure walgreens's corporate office would love to collect and sell this kind of information. But just because they would, doesn't mean they can or are. And this patent sure as hell doesn't prove it.)

Because let me be clear: the image capture of consumers is so irrelevant to the product that it literally isn't even included in the claims section of the patent.

Because the patent is quite explicit and detailed about the idea they are selling big retails stores on - this is a better, new, innovative, tech-driven way to "provide an innovative advertising solution"! (The words "AI," "intelligent," and "machine learning" are deployed liberally, but in the same way that "blockchain" was a few years ago. It's advertising tech hype.)

I want to make it clear - the OP in the video is straight up lying to you. Whether for fun or profit or just attention, I don't know and I don't care. If you shared this, you probably should have know better, but everyone makes mistakes. OP, on the other hand, is just a fucking liar.

But Owl! What about "the senators looking into this"?

I don't know how to tell you this, but thing linked about is a press release by a politician's office. That doesn't mean it's not true, but it's not evidence on it's own. Like, the letter linked in the link included links to sources, but is not itself evidence (ooh, layers of links to actually get to a source, my favorite)(actually my computer wouldn't even goddam open the links to the source, I had to independently search for it).

Anyway, the letter to Kroger linked in the press release by the senators contains a single sentence and a single link relevant to the claim here (linked for your convenience because it sure as hell wasn't for mine). Unfortunately, this article is itself based on a goddam press release (That isn't linked! Again, you're welcome.)

And when we finally get to the underlying fucking source. "In addition to transforming the customer experience and enhancing productivity for associates, the EDGE Shelf will enable Kroger to generate new revenue by selling digital advertising space to consumer packaged goods (CPGs) brands. Using video analytics, personalized offers and advertisements can be presented based on customer demographics." So it's purporting to something *kind of* like the claim in the video, but an entirely different format completely unrelated to the thing the video is scaremongering about.

Now Kroger did actually start using the advertising screens in 2023. And you can believe what you want about the data privacy claims and the claims about not using video, just sensors (which remember is entirely consistent with the patent). But remember: being skeptical of a company's claims is fine and good! It does not mean you have proven they are lying, and it especially does not prove you have claimed they are doing something extremely specific! And most of the articles, and the letter from the senators, are (much more reasonably) concerned about so-called "dynamic" or surge pricing. (Which is not related to the screens.)

Like goddamn. Aren't there enough real problems with surveillance and price-gorging to be concerned about without having to make up fake ones? Hell, why can't we at least be concerned with the real problems with those dumb screens, which is that the a) make shopping harder and b) catch fire?

[covid-safer-hotties]

Also preserved in our archive

There are an increasing number of states across the U.S. where "very high" levels of the virus that causes COVID-19 are present in wastewater.

According to the U.S. Centers for Disease Control and Prevention (CDC), Idaho, New Mexico and South Dakota all had "very high" levels of the SARS-CoV-2 virus in their wastewater during the week between November 17 and November 23, 2024.

The week prior, between November 10 and November 16, only New Mexico's wastewater had this level of the virus present.

Arizona, Arkansas, Kentucky, Maine, Massachusetts and New Hampshire currently have "high" levels of COVID-19, while "moderate" levels were detected in Minnesota, Nebraska, Nevada, Oregon, Rhode Island, Utah and Wyoming.

(Follow link for interactive map!)

Nineteen states had "low" levels, while 14 states and D.C. had "minimal" levels of the SARS-CoV-2 virus present in wastewater.

Between November 10 and November 16, "high" levels were detected in Arizona, Kentucky, Minnesota, Oklahoma, Pennsylvania and South Dakota, with "moderate" levels of the virus detected in Colorado, Idaho, Maine, Maryland, Ohio, Oregon, Rhode Island, Utah and Wyoming.

The data from New Hampshire, Mississippi, Oklahoma, and South Dakota all have limited coverage for the most current data, which means it is "based on a small segment (less than 5 percent) of the population and may not be representative of the state/territory," the CDC explains. Additionally, North Dakota has no data for this period.

The CDC monitors COVID-19 levels in wastewater as part of its surveillance strategy to track the spread of the virus in communities. Infected individuals shed the virus in their feces, meaning that monitoring wastewater can reveal increases in infection rates earlier than clinical testing or hospitalizations.

"The wastewater viral activity level indicates whether the amount of virus in the wastewater is minimal, low, moderate, high or very high. The wastewater viral activity levels may indicate the risk of infection in an area," the CDC said.

Wastewater data helps public health officials allocate resources and make informed decisions about mask and vaccination policies.

In the week ending November 23, about 4.5 percent of COVID-19 tests around the country came back positive. This represents a 0.3 percent increase from the week prior. Some regions had rates of up to 6.3 percent, such as Arkansas, Louisiana, New Mexico, Oklahoma and Texas.

"SARS-CoV-2, the virus that causes COVID-19, is constantly changing and accumulating mutations in its genetic code over time. New variants of SARS-CoV-2 are expected to continue to emerge. Some variants will emerge and disappear, while others will emerge and continue to spread and may replace previous variants," the CDC said in a statement.

Subvariant KP.3.1.1 made up 37 percent of COVID-19 variants in U.S. wastewater over the two weeks before November 23. The new XEC variant made up 24 percent, KP.3 made up 17 percent, JN.1 made up 8 percent and "other" made up 14 percent.

For the same period, variants detected in positive test samples were slightly different, with KP.3.1.1 making up 44 percent of recorded COVID infections, XEC totaling 38 percent and MC.1 composing 6 percent.

[gullemec]

Invisible Smoke

Golden Ruin - Chapter One

series masterlist ao3

Pairing: Billy Butcher x f!reader

Summary: Six months after the destruction of CytoGenix, the Boys are back and better than ever. Well... for the most part.

Warnings: reader experiences a panic attack, discussions of PTSD/trauma, mild smut, angst, happily ever after isn't so happy :(

Please let me know if I missed any TWs <3

WC: 7.1k

A/N: Hello and welcome to Golden Cage's sequel series! This has been percolating in my mind since I finished writing Golden Cage (which, for context, was in summer 2024 lol). I'm so excited to pick up where we left off and see what these nerds get up to <3

You stroll down the sunlit sidewalk, your sneakers tapping a steady rhythm against the concrete.

The air hums with the familiar symphony of the city, the honking cabs and chatter of passerby and rumble of the subway beneath your feet like a chorus. Warm rays of light filter through the gaps between towering buildings, dappling your cheeks in fleeting patterns that feel almost like a blessing from the city itself.

A city that is finally starting to feel like home.

As you turn onto 5th Avenue, your gaze lifts instinctively, drawn to the familiar sight ahead. There it is. The Flatiron building, with its iconic triangular frame slicing sharply through the crystalline blue sky. It stands proud and defiant amidst the bustling world below, like the bow of a grand ship cutting through turbulent waters.

The sight is a balm, a touchstone amidst chaos. No matter how many times you walk this path, the comfort it brings never wanes. It’s more than just a building to you now, it’s a symbol. A reminder that in a world teetering on the edge of collapse, some things can still stand tall, steadfast, unshaken.

You weave through the sea of Manhattanites, dodging tourists with cameras and businesspeople glued to their phones. As you approach the Flatiron, you take a moment to admire its beauty and grandeur, the way it stands out against the myriad of skyscrapers and office buildings surrounding it. The city buzzes with its usual frenetic energy, but you’ve learned how to flow with it, like water finding its way around rocks.

You heave open the heavy front door and quickly rush up the stairs to your new office. 

After months of covert negotiations, Butcher had finagled the use of the abandoned Greywal & Co. Import & Export offices on the top floor, bartered as a perk of your group joining the Bureau of Superhuman Affairs as contractors. It's a marked improvement from your previous hideout, the grimy laundromat basement with leaking pipes and the lingering smell of detergent. You still wake up sometimes with phantom memories of that dark, damp space where everything in your life had started to unravel.

Pushing open the glass door to the office space, the faint creak of old hinges announces your arrival. Inside, the room is alive with the energy of preparation. Maps and photographs plaster the walls, red strings connecting points like veins in a pulsing network. Desks are buried under a mess of takeout cartons, coffee-stained papers, and gear waiting to be packed. Monitors hum softly, their screens glowing with encrypted data streams.

Sunlight filters through the arched windows, casting the space in a hazy golden glow that feels almost serene, if not for the tension crackling in the air like static.

The chatter dies instantly as all eyes snap to you.

Awesome. You’re late, again.

You raise a hand in apology, still slightly out of breath from your brisk walk. “Sorry, sorry! Came as soon as I got your text.”

Mallory’s eyebrow arches in that signature expression of disapproval that somehow stings worse than any verbal reprimand. Her silence weighs heavy in the room, a scolding in and of itself.

Butcher’s eyes meet yours across the room, his expression unreadable. He offers you a curt nod, which you return with a small smile. You round the corner of his desk and perch yourself on its edge. His presence is an anchor, steadying you against the rising tide of anxiety.

Mallory rises from her seat, and the air seems to shift. The room quiets further, everyone instinctively straightening as her commanding voice cuts through the stillness.

“We intercepted intel about a meeting at the Russian consulate tomorrow morning,” she begins, her tone clipped and precise. “Vought executives are holding a private session with Russian diplomats. No press. No fanfare. Just whispers.”

She pauses, her gaze sweeping the room, letting the weight of her words settle. “Whatever they’re planning, it’s big. We need ears in that room.”

A delicious tingle of anticipation races down your spine. Finally.

“How big we talkin’ here?” Butcher drawls, leaning back in his chair with the practiced ease of someone who’s seen far too much.

“This could tie into the superweapon rumors we’ve been tracking,” Mallory replies, her voice razor-sharp. “The overseas labs, the classified experiments… This meeting might give us the proof we need to shut it all down. We can’t afford to let this slip.”

You glance around the room, catching the flicker of renewed determination in everyone’s eyes. For months, the Boys have been chasing shadows, piecing together fragments of a puzzle no one seems able to solve. A superweapon, supposedly capable of destroying Homelander. An opportunity like this could blow it all wide open. 

Mallory’s gaze zeroes in on you, sharp and unyielding. “You and Hughie are on this.”

The spark of excitement sputters into an icy stab of dread.

“Wait, what?” Hughie blurts, his voice pitching upward. “You mean us? Like, sneaking into the consulate us? That’s… uh… not exactly my strong suit.”

“I’m not asking you to steal state secrets,” Mallory replies, her tone cutting. “You’re going in as caterers. Plant a recording device, listen in, and get out. Keep your heads down, and no one will notice you.”

“Right, because that always works out great for us…” Hughie mutters, earning a smirk from Frenchie.

You feel the familiar grip of doubt creeping up your spine. This is no small task. It’s the kind of mission where a single misstep could mean disaster. It’s been ages since the Boys had a lead this good, and Mallory wants you on this. Anxiety creeps in at the edges of your mind, that old familiar feeling of inadequacy paying you an unwelcome visit. Your father may be gone, but his presence left a permanent etching in your brain, a voice that tells you to make yourself small and to shrink away from a challenge. 

You shake it off. You refuse to let that voice win.

“We can do this,” you say, injecting steel into your voice. “No one’s going to suspect a couple of random caterers. I’ve been practicing. I can handle it.”

Butcher’s dark laugh cuts through the room, low and biting.

“Practicing, eh?” he sneers. “Need I remind you what happened the last time you and Hughie tried goin’ incognito? Love, this ain’t amateur hour. You’re walkin’ into a bloody nest of Vought execs who’d gut you the moment they sniff something’s off.”

Your stomach twists as memories flash. The acrid scent of burning metal, the heat at your back as Homelander’s laser eyes chased you out of the laboratory. The thrum of your heart in your chest as you practically dragged Hughie out of the building. The hours spent taking subway trains across town to shake your tail. 

But that was months ago. That was your first real mission. You’ve learned. You’ve grown. No one gets to underestimate you, not anymore. 

“I know what’s at stake,” you snap, meeting Butcher’s gaze head-on. “I’m not going to screw this up.”

His jaw tightens, concern flickering in his eyes. “I don’t like the idea of you gettin’ mixed up in all of this. Your arm’s barely healed.”

You gape at him. “My cast has been off for months!”

“That don’t mean it’s healed!” he retorts, exasperated.

You know he's doing this out of concern, and you know he's seen enough shit in his time to know exactly how dangerous something like this could be. He’s seen more than his fair share of bloody messes and catastrophic endings to missions that went sideways. He knows just how quickly things can spiral, how one wrong move can turn a carefully laid plan into a disaster. But for all his cynicism, he also knows you, what you’ve been through, what you’ve survived, what you’re capable of now.

In the six months since your father’s body became a bomb, detonating CytoGenix Headquarters and reducing it to a smoldering pile of rubble, your condition has been rather… delicate. Concussions, fractured bones, months of physical therapy. Your body had taken a beating, and your mind hadn’t fared much better. But as soon as the cast came off and the doctor cleared you of the worst of it, you were ready to throw yourself back into the action. Ready to stop sitting on the sidelines and start making a difference again.

That was, of course, until you ventured out on your first mission post-explosion. It had been simple, low-stakes, meant to ease you back into things. But nothing is ever truly that simple for you, is it?

~~~

The warehouse loomed in the distance, its corrugated metal exterior streaked with rust and grime. You adjusted your binoculars, squinting through the rain-specked windshield of your car. From your vantage point, parked a block away, you had a clear view of the loading dock. Two men in coveralls were hauling crates onto a forklift, their movements unhurried.

Mallory’s intel had led you here, a warehouse allegedly housing contraband Compound V, tucked away in the Brooklyn Navy Yard. It wasn’t a complex mission. Snap photos of the crates, jot down delivery times, and get out before anyone so much as noticed your shadow.

Observe and report, Butcher had said. No heroics, no improvising. Simple, yeah?

His tone had been sharp, but there had been something else beneath it. A hesitation he hadn't quite managed to mask.

You’d nodded, eager to prove yourself. This was your first mission since the explosion at CytoGenix, since the weeks of recovery spent with a cast on your arm and a pounding ache in your skull. The approval from the doctor had been your ticket out of the purgatory of desk work and stakeouts. You were desperate for something real, no matter how small. 

This was your chance to show Mallory, Butcher, and the Boys, and yourself, that you could still do this.

Grabbing your camera, you slipped out of the car, staying low as you crept toward the chain-link fence. Rain pattered softly against your jacket, the cold seeping into your skin. You found a gap in the fence and ducked through, careful not to snag your clothes on the jagged edges.

The air near the warehouse smelled damp and metallic, tinged with the sweet scent of oil. You settled behind a stack of pallets, raising the camera to your eye. Through the lens, you could see the workers more clearly now, their faces obscured by hoods. One of them pried open a crate with a crowbar, revealing rows of glowing blue vials.

Bingo.

You snapped a few photos, your finger steady on the shutter. It felt good to be back in the field, to have a purpose again. You pressed the button on your earpiece. “Got visual confirmation. Looks like a couple hundred vials. Snapped a few shots.”

Butcher’s voice crackled in your ear. “Good. Keep eyes on ‘em. Let me know when they’re done unloading.”

“Roger that,” you murmured.

You were about to shift for a better angle when it happened.

A loud bang echoed from inside the warehouse, sharp and sudden. You flinched, the sound slicing through the air like a gunshot. It wasn’t a weapon, just a crate toppling over, but the noise slammed into you like a freight train.

Your breath hitched, your vision narrowing as the world around you dissolved. The damp chill of the rain vanished, replaced by searing heat. You were back in the stairwell at CytoGenix, the walls trembling with the force of the explosion. The acrid stench of burning plastic filled your nose. Your body hit the wall with a sickening crack, pain exploding in your skull. You could hear Monica’s screams, the chaos, the blaring alarm—

Your chest tightened, and you clawed at your jacket, desperate for air. The camera slipped from your hands, clattering to the ground. Somewhere in the distance, Butcher’s voice barked in your earpiece, but it was drowned out by the deafening roar of your heartbeat.

You stumbled backward, your legs giving way as you pressed yourself against the cold metal of a shipping container. The rain had soaked through your clothes, but you barely felt it.

Breathe, you told yourself. Just breathe. But the air wouldn’t come.

The earpiece crackled again. “Oi, talk to me. What’s going on?” Butcher’s voice was sharp now, threaded with concern. When you didn’t respond, he cursed under his breath.

You don’t know how much time you spent there, head between your knees, chest heaving, rain pelting your crumpled form, before heavy boots thudded against the ground nearby. You barely registered the figure crouching in front of you until his hand gripped your shoulder, firm and steady.

“Hey.” Butcher’s voice cut through the haze, low and commanding. “Look at me.”

You blinked, your gaze snapping to his. His dark eyes were steady, pinning you in place. He moved his hand from your shoulder to your wrist, pressing it against his chest.

“Feel that?” he said. His heartbeat was slow and deliberate, a metronome against your racing pulse. “Breathe with me. In through your nose, yeah? Nice and slow. Come on.”

Your breaths were shallow and ragged, but you tried to match his rhythm. In, out. In, out. The pressure in your chest began to ease, the roaring in your ears fading to a dull hum.

“That’s it,” he murmured, his tone softer now. “You’re alright. You’re here.”

The warehouse came back into focus. The rain dripping off the container, the distant rumble of a forklift. You were shaking, but the world had stopped spinning.

“I—” Your voice cracked, barely audible. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t.” Butcher cut you off, his grip tightening on your wrist. “Don’t start with that. This ain’t about being sorry. You’re human, yeah? You’ve been through hell. This shit’s gonna happen.”

He released your wrist, standing and extending a hand to you. “Now, come on. Let’s get you out of this pisshole.”

You hesitated, glancing back at the warehouse. “But the mission—”

“Forget the bloody mission,” he snapped. “We’ve got what we need. Right now, you’re my priority.”

The words hit you harder than you expected. You took his hand, letting him haul you to your feet. His grip was firm, grounding.

As the two of you walked back to the van, Butcher kept a hand on your shoulder, a silent reassurance.

“You kept your head longer than most would’ve,” he said gruffly as you climbed into the passenger seat. “That takes guts. It’ll come back to you.”

His words stayed with you long after the mission, but so did the moment itself, the memory of panic and failure, the echo of your father’s voice whispering in the dark, reminding you of all the ways you didn’t measure up.

~~~

After that, Butcher made it his personal mission to keep you permanently benched. He relegated you to desk work, poring over files and surveillance footage, or staking out low-risk locations that barely required you to leave the van. At first, you told yourself it was temporary, that it was just his way of being cautious. But as the weeks turned into months, the frustration grew.

It wasn’t just about the boredom for you. It was the feeling of being underestimated, of having to prove yourself all over again. You’d fought tooth and nail to stand shoulder to shoulder with this team, to earn their trust and respect. And yet, here you were, still fighting the whispers of doubt, both theirs and your own.

But none of that matters right now. This mission is yours, and you’re not about to let anyone, least of all Butcher, doubt you again.

“She’ll be fine,” Frenchie interjects, breaking the tension with his usual easy charm. His warm smile crinkles the corners of his eyes as he looks at you. “Ma poupette has the brains for this. Just remember, roll with the punches, eh?”

You raise your eyebrows at Butcher, as if to say See?

Butcher doesn’t respond, his jaw tightening as he glances away. His silence says everything.

Mallory steps forward, her commanding presence cutting through the tension like a knife. Her voice is sharp and no-nonsense. “This is not a debate,” she says, her tone leaving no room for argument. “You two are handling this. This is very straightforward. Plant a listening device, get the intel, and get out.”

She pauses, letting her words settle before continuing. “I’ll have a van on standby if things go sideways, but the goal is to keep this quiet. No one notices you, no one remembers you. Understand?”

Her piercing gaze lands on you, heavy with expectation. “I trust you can handle it,” she says, her tone softening just enough to let you know she means it.

A flicker of pride warms your chest, solidifying into determination. You nod, your chin lifting as you steel yourself for what’s ahead.

Mallory’s gaze shifts to Butcher, sharp as a blade. “But you need to trust each other. That’s the only way this works.”

Butcher exhales sharply, clearly biting back a retort. He glances at you, something unspoken passing between you, a grudging respect, maybe, or a flicker of belief he doesn’t know how to voice.

You turn to Hughie, who looks like he’d rather be anywhere else. His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows hard, his nerves written all over his face. But after a moment, he nods back at you, his lips curving into a weak but genuine smile.

In the months since Mallory’s return, you’d found yourself yearning for her approval with an intensity that surprised even you. Her presence cast a long shadow, and you were keenly aware of how she had sized you up on that first night in your apartment. The disapproval in her sharp gaze had been palpable, cutting deeper than you cared to admit. Could you blame her, though?

After years spent in the shadows, having walked away from the Supe-killing squad she’d built with blood and iron, Mallory had been dragged back into the fray. All because she’d heard whispers about the Boys regrouping, more recklessly than ever, in her view, and, worst of all, that they’d let you, the daughter of a Vought crony, into their ranks. If you were her, you’d probably have dragged yourself out of retirement, too.

Though the team had rallied around you, defending your place in the group with fervor, it hadn’t stopped the wildfire of doubt that had sparked in your chest from Mallory’s initial appraisal of you. You understood the value you’d brought in those early days. When CytoGenix was still standing, when your father was alive, when Monica was pulling the strings, you’d offered something no one else could: inside intel. You’d been a bridge to a world the Boys couldn’t otherwise touch.

But now?

With CytoGenix in ruins, Monica gone, and your father’s legacy reduced to nothing more than ash and regret, what did you have left to give? Sure, there was the six-figure inheritance, a hollow consolation prize if there ever was one, but it wasn’t as if money meant much in this line of work. Money wasn’t what this team needed, wasn’t what earned respect here. The voice of self-doubt, ever persistent, had made itself at home during those early months, whispering venom in your ear. 

You’re a liability. A loose end. They don’t need you anymore. You’ve outlived your usefulness.

Your teammates had tried to drown out that voice. Annie, now your closest friend, spoke about you like you hung the fucking moon. Frenchie, with his gentle reassurances, had told you time and again that you belonged. MM had treated you with the same quiet respect and faith he gave to everyone he trusted. Hughie, loyal to a fault, never wavered in his belief that you were part of the team. Even Kimiko, in her own way, had made it clear that she valued you.

And yet, in the still moments, when the adrenaline wore off, when the noise of missions and plans faded, you couldn’t help but wonder. What am I doing here? What do I bring to the table?

Everyone else had a clear role, a purpose that tethered them to the group. Butcher was the leader, the strategist, the one who saw the big picture even when it was dark and bloody. MM was the anchor, the meticulous planner who kept things running smoothly. Frenchie was the wildcard, a fixer with a knack for making the impossible possible. Kimiko was the muscle, the silent force of nature. Annie had her connections to Vought, her inside knowledge of the system they were trying to tear down. Even Hughie, awkward and unassuming as he could be, had carved out his place as the team’s moral compass.

And you?

What were you?

But now, you think, this is your moment. This is your chance to prove, not just to Mallory but to yourself, that you’re more than a liability or a loose end.

No more doubts. No more underestimations. No more living in the shadow of what you’ve lost.

As the meeting begins to wind down, Mallory’s orders echo in your mind. Her voice had been calm, clipped, and deliberate, leaving no room for questions. It left plenty of room for doubt, though. Across the room, you catch her watching you again, arms crossed tightly over her chest. Her expression is as unreadable as ever, a mask of cool indifference that offers no clues. Still, there’s something in the slight tilt of her head, the narrow set of her eyes. Displeasure? Doubt? Maybe both.

The weight of her gaze feels heavier than it should, a silent challenge you can’t shake.

Your thoughts are interrupted as Butcher slides onto the desk beside you, the wood creaking under his weight. The casualness of the action is belied by the intensity in his expression. He leans in close, his voice low but gruff, tinged with an edge of warning.

“Listen,” he says, his dark eyes boring into yours. “I don’t give a toss what Mallory says. You get even a whiff of trouble, you pull the plug and get the hell out. Ain’t nothing in that room worth your neck, you hear me?”

The protective note in his tone catches you off guard, as it often does. Beneath the layers of cynicism, anger, and bravado that make up Butcher, there’s a thread of something softer, something he’ll never admit to. These rare moments of vulnerability always take you by surprise, a glimpse of the man beneath the scars. Normally, you’d relish it, store it away like a secret. But this time, it feels tainted.

Tainted by Mallory’s gaze, still burning a hole into your back. Tainted by the ever-present question of whether you even deserve to be here, let alone trusted with this mission.Tainted by the way his desire to protect you feels inhibiting.

You nod, though the knot in your chest tightens. Your eyes flicker back to Mallory, who hasn’t moved, her stance as rigid as her judgment. Is it disapproval that’s carved into her features? Or is it concern? The two blur together in your mind, indistinguishable from the spotlight of her scrutiny.

“I hear you,” you say, turning back to Butcher. Your voice is steadier than you feel, the words forced past the lump in your throat. “But I’ve got this.”

Butcher lets out a short, humorless laugh, shaking his head. “Right,” he mutters, his tone teetering between skepticism and reluctant admiration. “Guess we’ll see.”

For a moment, the air between you feels heavy with unspoken words. There’s something he wants to say, something more than the gruff warnings and the veiled concern. But he doesn’t, and you know he won’t. That’s not who Butcher is.

As the others begin to filter out, the tension in the room doesn’t dissipate. It lingers, thick and suffocating, clinging to the walls like a stubborn fog. Mallory remains rooted in place, her gaze unwavering, as though she’s waiting for something. For you to crack, perhaps, or to prove you’re worth the risk she’s taking.

You take a breath and straighten your shoulders, forcing the tension out of your body. It’s an effort to lift your chin and meet her eyes, but you do. You hold her gaze, refusing to flinch under the weight of her scrutiny. You know what she sees when she looks at you. A wild card, a question mark, someone with everything to prove and too much to lose.

But you won’t falter. Not this time.

This is your moment. Your chance to silence the doubts. Hers, Butcher’s, and most importantly, your own.

This time, you’ll prove you belong.

~~~

The faint smell of garlic and onions hit your nose as you step into your kitchen, the sizzle of oil in the pan filling the otherwise quiet apartment. Butcher stands by the stove, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, a kitchen towel slung over his shoulder like he owns the place.

You lean against the doorway, watching him work. It’s strange, seeing him like this. The man who’d faced down Supes without a second thought, who carried enough emotional baggage to rival the Titanic, now stood in your kitchen, cooking pasta like some scene out of a rom-com.

“Didn’t know you could cook,” you tease, folding your arms across your chest.

Butcher doesn’t look up, but a faint smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth. “Don’t look so shocked. I ain’t completely useless, y’know.”

“I think Frenchie’s the one who usually takes over the kitchen,” you say, stepping closer and glancing at the array of ingredients he’d gathered. Garlic bread, a fresh block of Parmesan, and… is that basil? “But this? This is impressive. I might let you stick around.”

“Generous of you,” he mutters, though there was a warmth in his tone.

You grab a glass from the cabinet and pour yourself some wine, the familiar hum of domesticity wrapping around you like a well-worn blanket. The scene feels so out of place. Butcher standing in your kitchen, the two of you sharing a quiet evening after the intensity of Mallory’s briefing. It’s almost too peaceful, too fragile, as if the world outside these walls doesn't exist.

“How long has it been since you cooked for someone?” you ask, leaning on the counter beside him.

He gives a short laugh, but it lacks any real humor. “Long enough. Don’t keep count, love. What about you? Last meal you had that wasn’t takeout?”

You shrug. “Probably the last time Frenchie decided to experiment with some weird fusion dish. Couldn’t even tell you what it was, but it was damn good.”

He turns off the burner, drains the pasta, and starts plating. The silence stretches as you watch him, the usual guardedness in his expression softening just enough to make you wonder what’s going on in his head.

“Thanks for this,” you say quietly, gesturing to the meal.

He hands you a plate and nods toward the table. “Yeah, well. Figured you could use a proper meal before the big day.”

Ah, there it is. The tension that’s been simmering since the briefing.

You sit down across from him, swirling the pasta on your fork. “You’re worried.”

He doesn’t answer right away, focusing instead on his own plate. Finally, he leans back in his chair, fixing you with a look that’s equal parts exasperation and concern. “Damn right, I’m worried. This gig’s a bloody powder keg, and you’re walking straight into it.”

“I can handle it,” you say, trying to keep your voice steady. “I’ve been waiting for something like this. A chance to prove I’m not just—”

“Not just what?” he interrupts, setting his fork down.

You hesitate, the words catching in your throat. Not just dead weight. Not just some liability Mallory’s tolerating because of what I used to know.

“Nothing,” you mutter, looking away. “I just mean I’m ready. My arm’s fine, my head’s fine, and I’ve been practicing my breathing. I know what I’m doing.”

Butcher lets out a heavy sigh, dragging a hand down his face. “You’re fine, yeah. But this ain’t the same as sneakin’ round some empty warehouse or trailing some low-level Supe. One wrong move tomorrow, and you’re dead. Or worse.”

“Worse?” you echo, raising an eyebrow.

“You know what they’d do if they caught you. Vought don’t play fair, love. Never have.”

His words send a shiver down your spine, but you square your shoulders. “You think I don’t know that? I’m not an idiot, Butcher. Did you already forget everything I did to stop Vought from getting V2? You don’t get to keep sidelining me just because you’re scared I might—”

“Because I care about you?” The words burst out of him, sharp and raw.

You blink, startled into silence.

He shakes his head, his hands gripping the edge of the table. ��I’ve seen enough people I care about end up in the ground. I ain’t gonna let that happen to you.”

Your chest tightens, frustration bubbling up. “So what? You’re just gonna wrap me in bubble wrap and keep me locked up in the van while everyone else takes risks? That’s not fair, Butcher. I’m part of this team, whether you like it or not.”

“I do like it,” he shoots back, his voice quieter now but no less intense. “I do. You just… You scare the shit out of me, is all.”

“Okay,” you sigh, annoyance heavy in your voice. “Just… keep it to yourself. I don’t need you psyching me out.”

The air between you is heavy, charged with the weight of everything unsaid.

The silence stretches as you eat, both of you locked in a stalemate neither of you wanted to win. Finally, he stands, picking up the empty plates and carrying them to the sink. His back is to you, his shoulders tense.

“Look,” he says, his voice low, “I know you want to prove yourself. And maybe you’re ready. But you’ll forgive me if I ain’t in a rush to see you get yourself killed.”

You stand, walking up behind him but stopping short of touching him. “I’m not going to die, Butcher. I’ve got too much to live for.”

He turns his head slightly, just enough to glance at you out of the corner of his eye. “Yeah,” he murmurs, his voice almost too quiet to hear. “You better.”

When you fall into bed together later, Butcher moves with a deliberate tenderness that takes your breath away. There’s no rush in the way he touches you at first, no sharp edges to his usual brusque demeanor. His calloused hands skim your skin like he’s trying to memorize every curve, every scar, every part of you that makes you who you are. Each touch carries a message, unspoken but crystal clear. You’re all I think about.

His hands settle on your hips, strong but careful, pulling you closer as though the mere idea of distance between you is unbearable. When he holds you in his arms, every knot of tension in your body begins to unwind. There’s no room for doubt, no space to overthink the unanswered questions or the simmering tension that has been building between you for months. In his embrace, you hear the words he’s too guarded to say. I’ll keep you safe. It’s all I can do.

At first, his movements are slow and steady, as though he’s afraid to break you. His lips graze your collarbone, lingering there with a reverence that almost undoes you. His gaze locks on yours, dark and searching, and for a moment, you swear he’s looking right into your soul. Every kiss, every brush of his fingertips across your skin is a vow, a reassurance. You’re here. You’re mine.

But then something shifts. What starts as gentleness deepens into urgency, his movements growing frantic, almost desperate. His breathing becomes heavier, his grip tighter, as though holding you isn’t enough, he needs to anchor himself in you, to feel you in every way possible. There’s a plea in the way his lips press harder against yours, a tremor in the way he whispers your name, hoarse and unsteady. Don’t leave me.

His eyes meet yours again, and this time they’re blazing with something raw, something unguarded. It’s as though every wall he’s built around himself has come crashing down, leaving him exposed and vulnerable in a way that Butcher rarely allows himself to be. What he can’t bring himself to put into words, he pours into his touch, his kiss, the way his body moves against yours. Every pull, every grasp, every shuddering breath screams what he can’t say aloud. Mine. Mine. Mine.

And yet, there’s no possessiveness in it, no trace of dominance. It’s need. Pure, aching need. The need to protect, to keep you close, to show you just how much you mean to him, in the only way he knows how. In his arms, you don’t feel claimed or conquered; you feel seen, cherished, adored. His actions speak louder than any declaration ever could, telling you everything he keeps locked behind his gruff exterior. You’re the only thing in this godforsaken world that I can’t lose.

By the time you collapse together, tangled and breathless, his arms wrap around you with a firmness that feels like a promise. His face is buried in the crook of your neck, his breath warm against your skin, holding you like you’re the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth.

For a long while, neither of you says a word. 

Maybe you don’t need to. 

~~~

The air inside the office feels heavier at night. The soft hum of the city seeps through the windows, but the sharp glow of the desk lamp casts an artificial stillness over the room. Mallory sits behind the desk, papers meticulously stacked in front of her, a pen twirling absentmindedly between her fingers. 

You have a thick manila envelope tucked under your arm, stuffed with building schematics for the Russian consulate, profiles on the delegates Mallory expects to be present, and clear instructions on when and where to place the bugs. Hell, she even included the catering menus in case either of you were stopped and asked questions about the food. She’s being thorough, but it only serves to increase your apprehension. She wouldn’t be going this far if this mission’s success wasn’t absolutely crucial.

Mallory begins to gather up the papers on her desk. “You’ve got the details. You and Hughie should run through them a few more times tonight. You only get one shot at this, and I don’t need to remind you what’s at stake.”

You glance around, expecting Hughie to walk in any moment. “So... where’s Hughie? I thought we were going over the plan together.”

Mallory doesn’t look up immediately, her pen pausing mid-spin. Then she meets your gaze, her expression unreadable but edged with purpose. “I didn’t invite Hughie.”

You quirk an eyebrow. “Oh? Why?”

“Because that’s not the only reason I wanted to talk to you,” she says, her voice even.

You tilt your head, folding your arms as curiosity flickers to life. “Alright. What’s this about, then?”

She sets the pen down deliberately, her focus now fully on you. “It’s about Butcher.”

The name lands like a stone in your stomach. You try to keep your voice steady. “What about him?”

Mallory leans forward slightly, resting her elbows on the desk. Her eyes harden, not with anger, but with something sharper. Concern wrapped in steel. “He’s dangerous. You know that, don’t you? He’s a man willing to burn the world down to protect the people he loves. And he’ll burn himself down, too, if it comes to it. You know what he did after Becca died.”

Your jaw tightens instinctively. “Butcher’s been through hell. I don’t think anyone here can blame him for the choices he made after that. The choices you gave him.”

Mallory exhales deeply, leaning back in her chair as if to give you space to process her words. “I’m not blaming him. I’m warning you. That man has a black hole where his sense of self-preservation should be. And if you get too close, you’ll get pulled into it. Just... be careful.”

Her words hang in the air, tightening around you like a noose. You shift on your feet, crossing your arms tighter as a defensive barrier. “Why are you telling me this?”

Mallory’s gaze softens ever so slightly, though her tone remains firm. “Because I don’t want to deal with the consequences of his actions if anything were to happen to you.”

“It’s not like that between us,” you reply quickly, the words coming out more defensive than you’d intended.

She raises a skeptical eyebrow. “Isn’t it? I’ve seen the way he looks at you. And the way you look at him.”

You sigh, shaking your head. “I mean... we care about each other, sure. But he doesn’t—he doesn’t love me.”

Mallory’s lips press into a thin line, her expression unreadable. “William Butcher is not the most... eloquent man I’ve ever met. He doesn’t always know how to express his feelings. Doesn’t mean he doesn’t feel them. But feelings or not, you deserve to know where you stand. Especially if you’re going to stick around for this fight. Because if he won’t protect you the way you deserve, you’ll have to protect yourself.”

You glance away, her words striking a nerve you hadn’t fully acknowledged before.

“Alright,” you mutter, more to break the silence than to agree with her. “Thanks for the advice, Mallory.”

Her voice stops you as you turn to leave. “Just remember, Butcher doesn’t stop. Not until he’s got what he wants. And sometimes, that’s the most dangerous kind of love.”

You don’t look back. The words follow you anyway, clinging to you as you walk out into the night.

~~~

The night feels unusually quiet, the soft hum of the city muffled by the walls of your apartment. You sit on the edge of your bed, staring at the faint reflection of yourself in the window, the lights of the city glittering in the distance. Mallory’s words echo in your mind, relentless and insistent.

He’s dangerous. That man has a black hole where his sense of self-preservation should be, and if you get too close, you’ll get pulled into it. 

You exhale shakily, running a hand through your hair as you turn the thought over and over in your mind. You’ve always known Butcher was complicated, that he was damaged in ways you may never fully understand. But isn’t that part of what drew you to him? 

He’s fiercely loyal, to the point of self-destruction. He would do anything for the people he cares about, throw himself into danger without hesitation, take on battles that seem impossible, all because he refuses to let anyone else suffer if he can help it. There’s something magnetic about that kind of conviction, something that made you feel safe in a way you hadn’t felt in years. And when Butcher sets his mind to something, there’s no stopping him. That determination, that fire, it’s intoxicating to be around. It makes you believe he could conquer anything, even the impossible.

But now you see how those same qualities twist in the wrong light. That loyalty turning into obsession, that willingness to protect becoming vengeance. The single-minded determination you once admired, is now a blade that cuts through everything in its path, leaving those closest to him bleeding in its wake. How many people has he hurt without even realizing it? How many more will he hurt if he keeps barreling down this road, blinded by the need for revenge?

You think about the destruction he leaves behind, how he carries that chaos like a storm cloud over his head, and how sometimes, standing next to him, you feel like you’re drowning in it.

And yet, there’s another side to him. A side you don’t think anyone else has seen in a very long time. The way he softens when it’s just the two of you, the way his voice loses its edge, the way he looks at you like you’re the one thing in the world that doesn’t hurt him. You’ve caught glimpses of the man beneath the armor in the gentle way he brushes your hair out of your face, the rare moments of vulnerability when he lets his guard down and tells you things you know he’s never told anyone else.

It’s that softness that keeps you here, keeps you tethered to him despite everything. You know how long it’s been since anyone has seen that side of him. You know how much it took for him to let you in, even just a little. And it feels good—God, it feels so good—to be the one person who gets to see him like that.

But then doubt creeps in, insidious and familiar, a voice whispering in the back of your mind. Is it enough? Is this enough?

You wonder if you’re fooling yourself, if you’re clinging to the idea of what your relationship could be instead of what it actually is. You think of Becca, the shadow she casts over everything, and you can’t help but ask yourself… Am I just filling a void that he doesn’t know how to let go of?

Your chest tightens at the thought. You don’t know where you stand with him, and truthfully, you never have. You’ve never defined what this is between you, never talked about it, never said I love you. And maybe that’s because he doesn’t feel the same way. Maybe he doesn’t know how to feel that way about anyone anymore.

The worst part is, you’re not sure you’d blame him if that were true. He’s been through so much, lost so much, and you know how hard it is for him to let himself care about anything at all. 

It doesn’t make it hurt any less, though.

You bury your face in your hands, Mallory’s words haunting you again. You deserve to know where you stand. Because if he won’t protect you the way you deserve, you’ll have to protect yourself.

You can’t tell if you’re more scared of losing him or of admitting that maybe you already have. Maybe you never really had him to begin with.

The thought settles like a weight in your chest. For the first time, you find yourself wondering if you made a mistake, if involving yourself with someone like Butcher was always destined to end this way. And as the doubt swirls and tightens around you, the question that lingers in your mind feels like it has no answer.

Do I stay? Or do I walk away before I lose myself completely?

I will have a taglist for this series, just lmk if you want to be added :)

[communistkenobi]

this also happened a lot in mando s3 but the acolyte has this problem where it portrays bureaucracy as this thing that is obstinate and arbitrary for no reason. like the arbitrariness doesn’t take on an institutional form so you just get random characters being stubborn for no reason because they’re managers/leaders/etc., because that’s how bureaucrats behave, they just want you to sign forms and get official approvals and wait for new orders for no reason, it’s not really tied to any larger operation.

and like in contrast, in Andor there was a plot point where Dedra figured out that the Empire’s decentralised data structure was making it extremely difficult to track Cassian because they’d subdivided regions of Imperial territory on their maps and separately monitored each region, so if he stole things in two separate administrative regions of space it didn’t register as suspicious to them because none of those regions were cross-communicating with one another. like the particular form that the imperial bureaucracy took was producing a specific security problem that required centralising their data structure and looking at their own territory in a new way, because their data was producing a specific type of gaze and way of relating to information collected by the state. like normally I wouldn’t be so frustrated but this type of conflict has already been demonstrated to be completely possible in a Star Wars setting

[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?

~~~

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