#but. i feel like i’ll really regret not taking the abstract proofs course?

[roryparis]

course selection is going sooo

[unmanageable-day]

Merry Go Round (pt.2)

On one Sunday in the autumn, Minhyun unusually took the first move to ask Yesoo hangout. It was nothing fancy, just a casual lunch date and walking around Itaewon without much words between them. Since Yesoo didn't take Minhyun's hand, and it seemed like holding Yesoo's hand never slipped his mind, Yesoo tended to walk behind him. And once again, no one really knew if Minhyun at least realized that Yesoo was not beside him when walking.

The last stop was gelato cafe. Minhyun ordered Yesoo's favorite yogurt and strawberry sorbet for her and got himself vanilla milkshake. They sat at a corner with a window and street view.

"Yesoo, do you remember when I said there is something I want to say?"

"Yes, what is it?"

"First of all, please forgive me for everything, and for this too."

Okay. Yesoo braced herself. Here it comes.

"Yesoo, I don't think I can continue this relationship anymore," he briefly said. Then he started stuttering. "It's just.. I.. you know..."

"Okay," she calmly responded, cutting off his stuttering. "It's fine. You don't have to give any reason."

"But, I..."

"No, really. I understand."

"What? You do? How?"

She shrugged. "I just do."

The two of them remained silent, seemingly trying to find the right words. As for Yesoo, she also tried hard to hold her tears from falling. Minhyun, as usual, maintained his flat face.

"Anyway, thank you for everything. I really appreciate your time spent with me." Yesoo started to talk quickly and a bit mumbly when she got nervous. "I don't even know why I confessed to you. Maybe I was crazy back then. I didn't even expect an answer. But, well, look at us." Eventually a drop of tears successfully fell.

Minhyun noticed that. Yet he did nothing. All he said was sorry and handed her a tissue he got from the cashier, which she refused to take.

Yesoo wiped her eyes with her hand. "No need to be sorry. It's not your fault." Her voice sounded trembling. "Maybe this relationship is a mistake. And it's nobody's fault. We just met at the wrong time, and I'm not the right one for you and so are you."

Minhyun sat still. He couldn't think of anything.

"So, this is it, yeah? Thank you, Minhyun, for spending your time and bearing with me for the last 2 years. It's been a lovely merry go round with you."

"Thank you, too, for bearing with me," he slowly said.

"Likewise." She got up from her seat, which made Minhyun look puzzled.

"Are you leaving now?"

"Yes, I'll get going first. It's embarrassing that you looked at me like this." Her voice sounded unstable, yet still managed to smile and let a little chuckle.

"Let me take you home." He also got up.

"Thank you, but no, thank you. If you do, it just makes it harder for me." She faked a smile after her eyes got all teary. "See you when I see you, Hwang Minhyun."

After that, only the clicking sound from Yesoo's shoes was heard. Bit by bit, the clicking sound was leaving further and further, until it didn't leave any trace.

Minhyun sat down again. His eyes stared at nothing. He surprised himself that it just happened quicker than he thought. He expected a long talk instead of approval 3 seconds after he spilled it. It's okay, you did right, Minhyun, he convinced himself.

 Yesoo wished her eyes didn't get puffy after letting her tears out by binge-watching tear-jerker movies she rented at a movie cafe. That was a silly wish, she knew it. She had finished watching Hachiko, Cell No.7, and she was about to continue to watch Along with the Gods. She found her cheeks wet by her running tears and she didn't need a mirror to find out her eye make-up was already a mess. She regretted wearing non-water proof mascara.

Yesoo didn't even want to cry in the first place. In fact, she couldn't cry her heart out. How she wished she could bawl out loud until her eyes dried out. It was just she couldn't, even though her heart felt congested so bad. That was why she needed those tear-jerker movies to help her relieve everything she felt.

The cafe waiter suddenly knocked her rented room to tell that her time was running out in 15 minutes. She raised her head to see the clock that showed it was already 8 PM. She quickly fixed her messy face - wiping off her eye makeup and patting some lipstick on her cheeks, tied her hair into a bun, and paid the bill before leaving the place. She probably looked drunk - or sick - although not even one drop of alcohol went into her mouth.

While wandering around on her way to get home, of course she had to bump into Hui. Thank goodness it was just Hui.

"Hey, where are you going and what's with your face?"

"It's nothing," she said, shaking her head twice. "I'm going home. You?"

"No particular destination." Hui took his time glancing at his old friend. "Do you need someone to talk with?'

Yesoo shook her head again. "I'm good."

"I'll walk you home?" Hui had predicted her answer, so he quickly continued before she opened her mouth. "Come on. I don't take no as an answer."

Being a gentleman, he offered his arm to Yesoo who gladly took the offer. She let her arm linked to Hui's. That was actually the first time they had such a physical contact even after being friends since junior high school. Although it was the first time, nothing felt awkward. Instead, she found it warm. Or probably the cashmere coat that Hui wore was what makes it feel warm.

 ~~~

 5 months later

 Hwang Minhyun woke up to his normal Saturday morning; quiet. He checked the clock only to find out he was 2 hour earlier than his alarm which was supposed to ring at 7 AM. It had been a non-stop episode of him having difficulty sleeping at night. He always woke up in the middle of the night every one or two hours. It was all because a dream he had. It was not a sweet dream, not a nightmare either. It was a dream but it felt so lucid to him. He rubbed his eyes before finally decided to get up and do some exercise. Perhaps an early morning jog could help him figure out why Yesoo kept appearing in his dream.

Right. Yesoo. It had been a week since he started to have a series of dream that involved Yesoo. He didn't hate it, nor like it. Disturbing? Not really. He found it more like confusing. This dream was like a flashback of his journey with Yesoo from the very first day. It pictured a pair of happy lovebirds with genuine smile to each other. He smiled at that picture. It kept going on for days. Until the smile faded away slowly, until it was gone completely. He started to feel something must be wrong.

What he noticed in his dreams – and what he thought it was one of the causes why he was feeling strange – was how Yesoo at first always held his hand tightly that slowly she loosened up, until she gave it up and let it go. Minhyun had to admit that he was upset to see that scene. But he couldn't unsee that. The dream that felt so real kept going on, and finally it showed how Yesoo slowly decelerated her walking pace. 5 seconds ago she was still by his side, 5 seconds later she walked behind him, and eventually she just stopped walking. Minhyun felt like roaring at his own self who didn't even look around to see Yesoo was not there anymore. But he couldn't. No matter how much he wanted to open his mouth, even just a little.

I was like that? He laughed at himself. Right, I was like that.

Sometimes he thought to himself, why did he say yes in the first place? So what if Yesoo was the first girl ever confessed to him? Did he like her too? Or maybe he was feeling thankful to her?

Frankly all Minhyun knew about Yesoo was that she was from College of Design, where the building campus was the closest to his Theater and Film Department. Until one day she showed up to confess to him.

If it wasn't Jung Yesoo, would he still say yes?

 In the middle of working hour, Minhyun found himself staring at one particular contact in his phone; Jung Yesoo. He remembered the last time he called and texted her, the profile picture was herself in a mountain that was taken in autumn last year. He remembered it because he was the one who took that photo. Now it was changed into abstract, random doodles.

Minhyun was too absorbed in his own thoughts that he didn't realize Jisoo was standing behind him. "Is that Yesoo? She draws that? She's good," Jisoo loudly said, which of course startled Minhyun.

Minhyun immediately locked his phone while chuckling awkwardly. He didn't answer Jisoo.

"How is she doing? It's been a while," Jisoo asked.

It was hard for Minhyun to not get flustered. Luckily his stone face sometimes helped him at a time like this. He only said a short yes.

Jisoo shrugged before leaving him alone. He noticed something wrong with Minhyun. But he wouldn't push him any further since he knew how Minhyun was never open about his feelings. "Don't forget to have lunch!" Jisoo half shouted at him.

It had been days that he didn't eat well. It was either skipping meal, or eating too much unhealthy food, or eating too less food. The clock showed lunch time. He didn't feel like eating, but his stomach was growling. With heavy steps, he dragged himself to the restaurant across the office.

His feet stopped when his eyes recognized a short haired girl that looked unfamiliarly familiar at the cashier. He wished his eyes were deceiving him, but he knew his heart wished it was her. His feet felt heavier as he approached her and he still went for it regardless.

"Yesoo?" he called.

The girl turned her head as she flipped her hair. "Minhyun," she greeted back with a beam, and clearly sounded surprised.

They ended up sitting together, face to face. Yesoo maintained her smile, which wasn't as wide and genuine as he could remember. "It's been a while," Yesoo started the conversation.

"Yeah." Minhyun was loss at words for a second. "You got your hair cut."

Yesoo automatically stroke her own hair. "As you see," she said, sipping her hot latte.

"Are you meeting your client around here?"

"No," she spoke with low voice. There was this hesitant feeling when she talked. "I'm meeting someone else."

Minhyun stunned for a moment. "Someone?"

She nodded.

Still stunned, Minhyun's gaze eventually landed on her hands which were holding on her glass tightly. He unconsciously glared at her finger with a ring on it. As long as he knew Yesoo, she never wore any jewelry or accessories on her hands. And now, a ring?

"Anyway, how are you doing?" Minhyun changed the topic because he had a bad feeling lingering in his head.

"I'm good. How about you?"

"I'm okay as well." He faked a smile. No, I don't think I'm perfectly okay. "Look. About us..."

Yesoo's smile faded once she heard the word us. And before Minhyun continued speaking, her phone rang just on time and she excused herself to pick up her phone.

"I'm sorry, but I gotta go now."

Minhyun was flustered, particularly thinking that he hadn’t finished talking. Yet to make her stay there wasn’t a wise option as well. He just had to send her off. "Oh, okay. Be careful on your way."

She hurriedly left the restaurant, leaving Minhyun whose eyes followed her until she walked out of there. And that was when he caught someone else was already waiting for her outside.

Lee Hwitaek.

He could see Hui's genuine happy smile when Yesoo came to him. He could see Hui immediately took her hand before really leaving the cafe area. Am I dreaming? he thought to himself.

He wished it was a dream. In his dream lately he saw someone else offered his hands to Yesoo who already let go of Minhyun's. He couldn't clearly see the face. All he knew that in his dream she without doubt accepted the offer and firmly gripped onto the hands reaching to her.

Minhyun sat still and stared at nothing, leaving his hot chamomile tea remained full. He even ignored numerous missed calls; 10 from Jisoo, 3 from Raina, and 2 from Seonho. And now his phone was ringing again. Minhyun didn't even bother to look at his phone.

"Oh, Minhyun hyung is here." One of the callers happened to find him and approached him.

"Oh, Seonho, Guanlin, you're here," Minhyun weakly said.

"Raina noona is looking for you."

Minhyun stayed silent, making the two younger boys confused. Both Seonho and Guanlin quietly looked at each other while guessing what happened to their senior.

"Seonho and Guanlin, you know Lee Hwitaek?"

"Hui hyung? Yes, we do."

"Hwitaek.. what kind of person is he?"

"He's nice, kind, and very friendly. He works very hard to make a good music."

"Ah, really?"

"Does he... have a girlfriend?" Minhyun didn't even know why he asked that. Maybe he was slowly losing his consciousness.

"He just got married a couple months ago," Seonho answered, a little bit excitedly. "It was quite shocking because he barely had no life other than writing lyrics and producing songs. No one ever knew he had a girlfriend."

"I envy him. He's married to his best friend," Guanlin added, showing his gummy smile.

Married? Minhyun smirked, slightly chuckling in disbelief. To his best friend?

 ~~~

 Congratulations, you’re so amazing Congratulations, how could you be so fine? How could you trample on me? I see your smiling face, I guess you forgot everything How is he? Is he better than me? Did he erase all your memories about me?

 Minhyun abruptly pressed the next button to change the song. He wished he could sing along to that song. The lyric was good, yet it didn’t seem to support his condition right now. It was more like being made fun out of it.

Minhyun took his phone. Without thinking he lurked on social media, searching for anything. Until a crazy idea crossed his mind. His fingers slowly typed ‘Jung Yesoo’. He stared at her profile picture when she still had her long hair for a pretty long time. Minhyun smiled at himself. She looks good with short hair, he thought. His thumb scrolled up and down to find out that Yesoo had been inactive on her social media. Her last update was seemingly a candid photo of herself with her new hair that was taken 3 months ago. And if he remembered precisely, it was one day after he broke up with her. The caption written was ‘Taken by Lee H.T’. For one second, it made him furious. Recalling now that he was nothing to her, he just got quiet.

Another crazy idea slipped his mind. Now he was searching for Lee Hwitaek. He wished there was another Hwang Minhyun with a better brain to scold and mock him for being stupid right now. His heart couldn’t take it after looking at Hui’s feeds that was full of 3 things: Yesoo; Hui and Yesoo; Hui and Yesoo showing affection and physical contacts, mostly hugs. Don’t forget the lovey-dovey and sometimes cheesy captions, that Minhyun guessed it must be Hui.

 Minhyun had never felt so weak as if his energy was all drained. He wondered how Yesoo was doing right after they broke up. Was she okay? Was she like this too? Was she not feeling anything that she just got married in 3 months after breaking up? If this overthinking kept going on, his head might explode. He was thinking about taking a day off but Raina as his supervisor would kill him for not showing up since they were working on a project that Minhyun himself initiated.

Minhyun dragged his feet to the lift and was about to close the door when someone screamed to hold the lift. He hurriedly pressed the open button and found Hui entering the lift. Now there were just two of them. He was aware that sooner or later he would meet Hui. But not this soon. "Congratulation on your marriage," Minhyun said with expressionless face.

"Thank you." Hui drew a little smile, and added, "Wait, I think I should be the one who thank you."

Minhyun didn't answer although he didn't understand what it meant.

"Thank you, Hwang Minhyun, for breaking up with Yesoo."

Minhyun's ears felt hot instantly. He tightened his hidden fist inside his coat pocket.

"If I didn't see her swollen eyes after crying her eyes out that night, I wouldn't have the courage to make up my mind and propose to her."

Yesoo... cried? A lot?

 Regret always comes late, they say. Minhyun often told himself to regret nothing. Yet now he regretted that it took a very long time to realize how comforting it was when he had Yesoo’s hand in his. How good it was to have Yesoo taking care of him. How relaxing it was when they spent time together even in complete silence. And now he couldn’t have all that anymore.

 Full version is available on AFF under the username joyful_joy :

https://www.asianfanfics.com/story/view/1353993/merry-go-round-vs-roller-coaster-angst-romance-nuest-minhyun-hui-pentagon-wannaone

Feel free to stop by there!

Cheers~

[complicatedbravery-archive-blog]

i.        First night, Sympathy walks home sort of dazed, sort of numb. She’d known, in an abstract kind of way, the risk she took when she disobeyed Pinkerton’s orders and snuck back into S.C.R.A.T.C.H.’s Long Island headquarters to rescue Henry—but that had been right, and if she hadn’t done it Henry would be dead now.

Whatever.

She gets home. She goes to sleep.

In the morning she wakes up hurting. Muscles stiff as rusted hinges, and the burns on her wrist from those damned handcuffs sting and itch and throb all at once; bruises mottle her torso, the bloody mess where a guard’s bullet skimmed her leg congealed into a disgusting scab. Nothing to do but peel herself out of the catsuit and hobble to her shower and clean herself up—

She sits in the shower for a long, long time, hot water fading to lukewarm.

Gin and tonic for breakfast afterwards—Sympathy doesn’t have the stomach to eat. She flips on the television and settles in to brood over the morning news. The Agency always hosts a press conference after a big win and sure enough there’s Henry, crisp in a new suit and looking only a little uncomfortable with all those cameras in his face and Steele behind him wearing that sleazy, self-congratulatory grin she hates and Pinkerton at his shoulder all brusque manly efficiency saying this’d been a tough one but at the end of the day no jilted lover was a match for the combined skill of Nick Steele and Henry Greene, Agency’s best and brightest; Sympathy screams and her half-finished drink shatters against the screen.

         It was me, not him, not them, it was ME—!

Fury doubles her over, forehead pressed to the tiled countertop and everything in her twisting up in a kind of hateful despair. They will never let you in, Kitty had said, and now Sympathy can’t think why she’d been so adamant about it not being true. Of course it was true.

ii.       Caprice calls around noon.

“Oh, Sympathy…”

Sympathy, who’s been wrapped up in a blanket and considering her options for the past few hours, manages a noncommittal grunt.

“How are you doing? I just can’t stop thinking about it. It was so awful of Pinkerton to do that to you—you deserved a promotion, not—”

“Yeah,” Sympathy says, flat. “Yeah. Woulda been nice of you to say so last night.”

There’s a long silence filled with the faint hiss of the phone line and Sympathy pulls the blanket tighter around her shoulders. Last night, when she and Henry finally trudged into the Agency’s Manhattan office, battered but victorious. Last night, when Pinkerton heaped on the praise for Henry’s daring and initiative and then quietly took Sympathy aside to fire her—you’ll never work for the U.S. government again, young lady, and be grateful you aren’t being prosecuted for mishandling classified information.

Last night, when Doris—of all people, Doris!—had been laughed out of the room for asking but what about Sympathy? If it weren’t for her—

Last night, when Henry shifted from foot to foot and cleared his throat and said Sympathy did really help, you know, and then not quite looked at her when Nick clapped him on the shoulder and said that of course Sympathy had helped a bit, but it had been Henry who saved the day, Henry who defused that time bomb…

Last night, when Caprice just hovered at Nick’s elbow and shot a few nervous glances Sympathy’s way, saying nothing when Pinkerton pulled Sympathy aside, nothing when a stony-faced security guard escorted Sympathy from the building, nothing nothing nothing—

“You’re right,” Caprice says, in a very small voice. “It was just… there were just…”

“I get it.”

“Doris quit,” Caprice says. “This morning. In—in protest, you know.”

“Right.”

More silence. Caprice clears her throat. “I’m really sorry.”

“I don’t really feel like talking,” Sympathy says, and hangs up.

Right away she feels bad, because it isn’t Caprice’s fault, because Caprice has never been good with conflict, because Sympathy knew full well this might happen when she took that file, because this is her best friend—but deeper than that is the hurt, the humiliation of last night like acid eating her from within.

They will never let you in. They will never let you in. They will never—

Maybe it isn’t so surprising. Sympathy had hurt the investigation as much as she’d helped, right? Got herself and Henry captured. Let Kitty and Tick Tock escape. More luck than talent that she’d come out on top, in the end. Pinkerton had said as much last night—except, except.

Without her, Henry would’ve fumbled around in Kitty’s apartment until god only knew when.

Without her, he would’ve rushed to the Long Island base by himself and gotten captured alone, with no one to call for backup and no one to rescue him; he’d be dead now.

Without her, Kitty’d probably be holed up in the D.C. right now, safe in a bubble of frozen time.

You can never truly win.

iii.      Free time is something Sympathy’s never been any good with; not having anything to do means her brain starts careening off in all sorts of different directions at once, and she can only spend so much time at the gym, only so much time bumming around downtown before that restlessness sets in. By Friday she’s resorted to climbing buildings in between job interviews just to stave off the boredom, and consumed more gin in four days than she typically does in four months.

On Friday night, Sympathy answers a quiet knock and finds Henry standing in her doorway in the same crisp suit he wore for the press conference and flowers in hand. She stares at him for a long moment, trying to make sense of the image.

“Yes?” she says at last.

He falters. “I just came to see how you were doing,” he says weakly. “And… apologize.”

Against her better judgement, she stands back to let him in. “The flowers?” she asks.

“Don’t women like flowers?” It’s so quiet, and so uncertain, that Sympathy almost doesn’t hear it—but she does hear, and it makes her want to throw something. She’s been feeling like that a lot, this week.

“Whatever,” she mutters. “I’m fine, Henry.”

“I-I miss, uh, seeing you around the agency,” Henry says weakly as he follows her into the apartment’s kitchen. “You know, it’s just—not the same without—”

“Uh-huh.” Sympathy crosses her arms and turns to face him. “Apology accepted. You can leave the flowers on the counter. Was that all?”

A shadow passes over his face. “Are you mad at me?”

“Am I—” she snorts. “Am I mad at you?”

Yes, she remembers now, that was the part that made Kitty’s argument so unbelievable in the end; Henry was nice. He’d seen sense, she’d thought, and invited her along to confront Kitty and she’d saved him and she just couldn’t imagine him stabbing her in the back like that. He respected her; he’d stick up for her.

Only he hadn’t, not really. Token protest and token apology but at the end of the day he’s willing to do this, willing to slide along and split the credit with his cousin and let Pinkerton shove Sympathy out with nothing but a regretful shrug.

         She’d trusted him.

“Kinda mad at everyone right now, Henry,” she snaps.

“…Well, I… I was just, uh, thinking,” he murmurs, not quite looking at her. “Look, Sympathy, I know I screwed up at the celebration, I know, and I came here because I was hoping to make it up to you.”

“It’s a bit late to—”

“Kitty’s in New Zealand,” he says, and for a second all the air seems to leave the room. Sympathy’s heart skips a beat. “She and Tick Tock cooked up this mind control serum and captured a beach resort; they’re using a modification of Oscill’s technology to generate this time-scrambling field around the perimeter so nobody can get in. They’re threatening to flood the whole country’s water supply with the serum if the Queen doesn’t surrender by Sunday night.”

“Henry…”

A week’s worth of bottled-up rage melts away in an instant; it’s like every piece of her mind clicks back together into a streamlined whole. If the serum’s disseminated through water she’ll need access to water treatment plants, plumbing, aquifers; that’s where we’ll catch her, not at her resort—

Henry says, “I’m not supposed to be telling you any of this, Pinkerton doesn’t know—but you deserve a second chance, Sympathy.”

She refocuses on him, wary again. “You mean it?”

Gently, he takes her hands and squeezes, his gaze bright and earnest. “I’ll make sure you’re given the credit you deserve, this time,” he says. “Please—I kinda need you. We made a pretty good team last time, right?”

“We did!”

“And…” He’s nervous again, suddenly, letting go of her hands to smooth his hands over his hair. Sympathy pays him little attention, to preoccupied by the pre-mission checklist she’s running over in her head. Catsuit, scuba gear, bullet-proof vest, insect repellent, gonna need a camelback or something for personal water storage, hypnosis belt— “I was thinking,” Henry says, “that after… uh, after we save the world… again… maybe we could, uh, get dinner?”

The pre-mission checklist screeches to a halt. “Dinner?”

“Yeah, like… at the Tempo Club, maybe?”

“…Dinner?” Sympathy stares at him, her stomach sinking. The flowers, the nice suit… “Like… a date?”

“Yeah! Like—like a date.”

“No,” she says, too startled to be nice about it. His face falls.

“Is it because you’re mad at me? Because I—”

“No,” Sympathy says, sharper, “it’s because I don’t want to.”

Henry looks like he’s been kicked in the gut—and surprised, too, genuinely surprised like for all his nerves he didn’t really think she’d say no; a terrible thought occurs to her and she asks, “Did you invite me on the mission so I’d go on a date with you?”

He hesitates before denying it. Just for a second. Long enough.

Something cracks inside her like rotten ice and there’s just a hollowness underneath and Kitty’s voice, the Agency will still give him the credit and he’ll take it—no, Sympathy had said, and she’d been wrong and Kitty had been wrong too, in a way, because Henry would take it but then he’d turn around and pretend to be sorry just to get a date and he’s never craned his neck to look up her skirt or leaned in close in hopes of getting a view down her shirt and he’s never called her sweetheart or gorgeous or baby or hellcat or I like ‘em with a bit of fire but this is worse, far worse than the everyday degradation piled on her by Nick Steele or Roger Pinkerton. He doesn’t think she’s worth anything but her pretty face, her good figure, but making her think he did was just fine, apparently—

She jerks away. “Go.”

“Sympathy—”

“Just go, Henry.”

He goes, and Sympathy listens to him shuffle out of her kitchen and out the apartment door and the automatic click of the lock behind him and only when she’s sure he’s gone and can’t come sauntering back in to try to change her mind does she let herself sink against the counter and bury her face in her hands.

iv.        When she’s calmed down a bit, the thought that rises most to the top of her awareness is Kitty is in New Zealand. And she’s careful not to think too much beyond that as she buys herself a plane ticket under the name Karen Bloom—the fake identity she quietly put together for herself a year ago during an excruciatingly boring two weeks at the Agency—and packs a few necessities into a duffel bag.

Just street clothes—jeans, t-shirts, her workout clothes. Nothing from the Agency, nothing that might be compromised by the GPS chips the Department of Disguisement likes to hide in its equipment. She leaves her phone, too, and empties her wallet of everything but cash.

She skims through the news just enough to get a solid idea of where Kitty’s hostage beach resort is, jots down the address on a scrap of paper, grabs her Karen Bloom passport, and calls herself a cab to JFK.

It’s a long flight, she tells herself. Plenty of time to change her mind.

v.        She doesn’t change her mind.

vi.       Getting into the resort itself is a simple matter of waiting for high tide and then swimming beneath the time-scrambling barrier, which seems not to work underwater. Dripping and very glad she didn’t bring anything but clothes, which can stand being dunked in seawater a couple times, Sympathy crouches low and sets off toward the low-slung buildings of the resort.

It takes her about thirty seconds to confirm that Kitty anticipated this weakness in her defenses; this stretch of beach is deserted because it’s strewn with traps. Sympathy picks her way through them, inch by inch, slow and steady.

She’s a stone’s throw from the resort when she hears the telltale whoosh-clank of Nick Steele’s steel pants. A moment later his head pops out of a pit about a yard to her left; he’s scuffed and sour-looking, too focused on the buildings ahead to notice her.

Sympathy tackles him, takes a good hard swing at his pants’ control panel. It shatters under her fist and she feels the impact lashing up her arm, her knuckles left a bloody mess but that doesn’t matter because the steel legs spasm once and then go still, and all Nick can do without them is flail helplessly while Sympathy strips his gear one piece at a time. She even takes his laser ring and slices off his casts so by the end he’s in nothing but his suit, wrists secured behind his back with his own cuffs, his legs limp and useless on the sand.

When she picks him up by the ankle and drags him the last couple yards to the resort, the sock she stuffed into his mouth muffles his wails. It’s a good sound, she decides, satisfying after four years of the indignities he slapped her with.

A pair of Kitty’s guards (mind-controlled slaves?) meets her at the sleek glass doors of the first building. “Boss is inside,” says the one on the left. “Wants to see you.”

She leaves Nick with them and they direct her through the luxurious front lobby, down a half flight of stairs to a sunken interior courtyard, which features a pool and more lusciously dripping foliage than you could shake a stick at. Kitty herself is lounging poolside with a margarita in one hand and a glossy 21st century art book in the other.

“So,” Kitty drawls, peering at Sympathy over the top rims of her sunglasses, “I suppose you’re here to stop me.”

Could say yes, Sympathy thinks. Could pretend she hasn’t just beaten up one of the Agency’s finest and dragged him to Kitty like some beast to slaughter, could bluff that there’s a dozen other agents surrounding the resort to offer cover, could still change her mind.

She doesn’t want to. It’s an odd feeling, wondering where her morals went.

“Actually,” she says, “I wondered if I could still take you up on that offer.”

For a long, tense moment, Kitty just gazes at her, expression unreadable. Then she says, “They gave him all the credit.”

“Yes.”

“And he took it.”

“…Yes.”

“You poor girl. Come, sit.” She sets her book aside as she swings her legs off the lounge, and Sympathy sinks onto the vacated space feeling—feeling something, feeling shivery and emptied and a bit like crying, prickly heat in her cheeks. Kitty strokes a hand down her back, says, “You may not believe this, but I’m disappointed for you. I am. I meant it, you know, when I said you have the makings of a great spy. It’s a shame the Agency refused to see it.”

“You see it,” Sympathy says, very quietly.

“I do.”

She trembles; the words reach in and touch some deep part of her that wants recognition, respect—it feels like the first full breath after an almost-drowning, like sunlight after storms. Doesn’t matter if Kitty’s just laying the flattery on thick to win Sympathy over—doesn’t matter, because she sees enough value in her to be worth trying. “I brought you Nick Steele,” she blurts out, craving more, needing more. “I caught him trying to infiltrate the resort and, well, figured I should take him out for you—”

“Really?” Kitty sounds delighted, and impressed, and Sympathy closes her eyes, letting it wash over her, soaking it in. “Well, let’s go and see him then!”

vii.      Kitty’s guards have Nick trussed up in the resort’s laundry room. It’s a temporary measure, Kitty tells her as they stroll arm-in-arm into the spacious, white-tiled room, while her ‘kittens’ build her another alcove of death. “In the meantime,” Kitty says, “I suppose we’ll just have to shoot him.”

“Wait.”

Sympathy catches a flash of exasperation in Kitty’s expression as she lays a hand over the older woman’s, directing the barrel of her pistol towards the floor rather than Nick’s head. “Sympathy,” Kitty says, a little impatiently, “if you’re going to be a part of this organization you’re going to need to let go of this silly notion of not—”

“Let me do it.”

For the second time, Kitty fixes her with a hard, incomprehensible stare.

“Please,” Sympathy adds.

Slowly, Kitty’s hand shifts beneath hers and the cool metal of the pistol is pressed into her palm; Sympathy shudders as the full weight of it settles into her grasp. She’s never liked guns much, for all that she’d made use of the Agency’s shooting range every week.

As she adjusts her grip on the pistol, she looks up at Nick. He looks alarmed by this whole turn of events, but there’s a knowing sort of gleam in his eyes, too; maybe he expects her to turn the gun on Kitty, expects that this will all turn out to be an elaborate ploy to sneak them both into the occupied resort.

Sympathy aims the barrel directly between his eyes, and breathes in and out, and thinks about all the times in the last four years he’s made her feel small or trapped or helplessly angry, all the times she watched his eyes slink up from her ankles to her waist and how it never mattered what she wore, nice slacks or frumpy skirts or the neat dresses that otherwise made her feel good when she put them on, how she could’ve worn a burlap sack and he still would’ve leered up her legs and she’s never felt anything more disgusting than that, her gorge rises just thinking—

And breathe in, and breathe out. She wants to be calm. She will be calm. She’ll hold all that pent-up anger and revulsion in her mind and pin it and examine it like a slide beneath a microscope because it doesn’t matter anymore, because he’s tied to a washing machine and she has a gun, and the glittering smugness in his eyes is dwindling to nothing as he realizes that she’s serious.

Because she’s the one with power, now.

She cocks the hammer, slides her finger onto the trigger. In the instant before she pulls it back, she hears Nick Steele whimper through his gag.

She smiles.

viii.     It doesn’t all really hit her until a few hours later, the enormity of everything that’s happened in the past week. Pinkerton’s firing her, the whole sorry mess with Henry, running off to New Zealand on a whim—becoming a murderer.

How good it felt, that last part.

Kitty sets her up in one of the resort’s VIP suites, a spacious series of rooms with breathtaking views of the beach, and Sympathy showers in a daze and then, wrapped up in a fluffy bathrobe probably more expensive than the entire contents of her duffel bag, curls up on the couch and really cries for the first time since her horrible last night at the Agency, cries heaving ugly sobs that shake her whole body, cries until she’s washed out and peaceful inside, cries herself into a meditative, half-sleeping state while she watches the sky turn pink and dark with the sunset.

Eventually she sleeps.

ix.       “How does it feel?” Kitty asks her the next morning, over a breakfast of fresh fruit and paper-thin crepes and some of the best orange juice Sympathy’s ever tasted.

“I’m not really sure,” Sympathy says. “It’s all a big jumble. A good jumble, mostly, I think, but I’m waiting for the other shoe to drop.”

“In what way?”

She shrugs, nibbles at a strawberry. “For the moral crisis to hit, I don’t know. I shot a man in cold blood yesterday; that should mean something more than it does right now.”

Kitty lifts an eyebrow. “Does it mean something?”

“…I’m glad he’s dead. It kind of scares me that I’m glad?” A week ago she’d hated him, but the idea of killing him would’ve horrified her; the notion that she might enjoy killing him, might find it wonderfully cathartic, even more so.

“Some people,” Kitty says, “are called to villainy.” Her gaze catches Sympathy’s, her eyes very dark and touched with a surprising degree of understanding. “It can be frightening, to be young and feel that pull to power—especially as a woman. We are not supposed to be great, we women, and so we’re taught to shun these desires, cling to convention. Listen to the good guys.” She toasts Sympathy with her orange juice, a wry little smile touching her face. “I don’t think you were ever quite as noble as you thought. You wanted the glory, the prestige—the respect. And, in many ways, being a hero is the easier, more obvious path.”

She leaves off there, and Sympathy’s quiet for a moment, mulling over this suggestion. “So you think I just… faked the moral values I’d need to be a hero?”

“Because that made you feel safe,” Kitty says, nodding. “There’s nothing wrong with a good, noble woman feeling an ambition to help people—but it was never about helping people for you, now, was it?”

“…No. Not really.”

“Mmm.” Kitty offers her an approving smile. “You’re a lot more like me than you wanted to admit a week ago, Sympathy Jones. I knew it the moment you burst in through my window with that stolen case file. Now, dear, if you’re finished with breakfast…?”

“Yes?”

Kitty rises, gesturing for Sympathy to follow. “Well, we’ve got a water supply to lace with mind control serum,” she says. “And I’m afraid you’re terribly under-dressed for the occasion.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. But never fear! Here at S.C.R.A.T.C.H. we have a range of catsuits the likes of which those dunderheads at the D.O.D. could only dream…”

x.        It’s amazing how much better Sympathy feels in a proper suit. This one is dark grey, nearly black, looser around the legs and equipped with pockets; the top is sleeveless and snug over a bulletproof vest and dusky-purple long-sleeved t-shirt. There’s a belt fitted with half a dozen of Tick Tock’s gadgets and a perfect set of boots and—

Yes, she thinks as she buckles herself into the helicopter beside Tick Tock, she made the right decision coming here. Maybe not the good one, but she feels like herself again now.

There’s S.C.R.A.T.C.H. operatives all over New Zealand already, slipping packets of serum into every aquifer and rain barrel they can get their hands on, but she and Kitty and Tick Tock are headed to the headwaters of the Waikato to strike the final blow. Sympathy stretches her legs, feeling—if she’s honest with herself—a little giddy at the prospect.

The magnificence of the flight is dampened somewhat by the landing, and the half dozen Agency operatives waiting for them at the headwaters. Kitty’s goons leap out of the helicopter to deal with them, and Sympathy, after only a second’s hesitation, wriggles out of her harness and follows them.

Real battles are quick, dirty, ugly things—she learned that at Long Island, and she’s prepared for it this time. She tosses an agent in front of a S.C.R.A.T.C.H. sword and smashes another’s nose with her elbow and ducks, steps, foot meets solar plexus and by the time he’s hit the ground it’s over; three of the agents are dead or dying, two more’ve been dog-piled by the goons, and the one Sympathy kicked is wheezing on the ground at her feet.  She flips him over and drags his hands behind his back to cuff him.

“Sympathy…?”

Familiar voice, though breathless. As the surge of adrenaline drains away, she takes a second look at the agent’s face and blinks, startled. “Henry.”

He’s getting his wind back now. “Sympathy, Sympa—what are you doing here?”

“What’s it look like?”

“Th-this isn’t you,” he says. “You’re not—you aren’t—I know you’re angry right now, Sympathy, you have a right to be angry… But this isn’t you.”

“Isn’t it?” She wrenches him upright, and he cranes his neck to look imploringly at her.

“You’re not evil,” he says. “Don’t—please don’t let your anger drive you to do things you’ll regret. You’re better than that, you’re—”

From behind them, Kitty says, “Oh, shut up. Tick Tock? Bring the serum.”

“Right away!”

Henry struggles against her grip, but Sympathy has him fast. Desperately, he says, “Sympathy, whatever she’s told you—she doesn’t care about you, she doesn’t care about anybody but herself, remember? You know that!”

“And I suppose you do care about me?” Sympathy mutters.

“I love you!”

And the world stops for a second, the same way it did when he asked her to dinner two days and a lifetime ago; Sympathy is aware of Kitty tensing beside her, like she’s afraid this might be an argument capable of snapping Sympathy out of it after all, and Henry sags in her arms, what she can see of his face twisted up with helpless pleading—and I love you I love you Iloveyou echoing in her head.

She drops him, recoils.

“Funny way of showing it,” she says flatly, in almost the same instant one of the goons yells, “Backup incoming!”

Sympathy takes another step back, turning to see a whole squad of agents charging towards them. “Kitty—”

“Helicopter!” Kitty shouts, and there’s a mad scramble as Tick Tock winds back and throws a handful of serum packets into the headwaters while Sympathy helps Kitty back into the helicopter; it’s already lifting off the ground when Sympathy leans out to clasp Tick Tock’s outstretched arm and haul him inside, her heart thumping as the crackcrackcrack of gunfire begins. She falls back against her seat as the helicopter rises out of the danger zone, and Kitty is laughing and Tick Tock is laughing and her blood’s racing again and an absurd, delicious thrill streaks down her spine—and maybe it’s that their uninhibited joy is infectious and maybe it’s adrenaline making her a little hysterical and maybe it’s both, but Sympathy finds herself snickering along, breathless and grinning.

Once they’re well clear of the battle, Kitty leans over and claps her on the shoulder. “Good show! Tick Tock, did those packets of yours make it into the river?”

“I think so,” he says, beaming. “There’s not much the Agency can do to stop us if they did. They’ll dissolve and infect everything downriver, and soon the whole island will be ours for the taking. Whether they like it or not.”

“Mine for the taking,” Kitty says, though without much bite. “Good. Back to the resort! We may as well luxuriate in peace while we wait for the others to report in.”

She pats Sympathy’s shoulder one last time, and the three of them spend the flight back to their resort in peaceable, contented silence.