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nightcrews · 11 days ago

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Mission Sideways

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Gaz x Reader

NSFW | Romance | Humor | Embarrassment

Word Count: 7,253

Rating: Explicit

Status: One-Shot

“Did…did you just…” “Don’t.” You whisper, mortification filtering sourly into your stomach, “Don’t fucking say anything.” “Bloody hell.” He breathes, turning his head away from you. Great. He can’t even look at you now. You might as well crawl in a hole and die, at least then you wouldn’t have to deal with whatever this was.

Additional Tags/Warnings:

••• ▰▰▰ SECURE CHANNEL OPEN ▰▰▰ •••

In your line of work, things can go from good to bad in the blink of an eye. A mission going sideways isn’t unheard of, it’s rather fairly common. They didn’t create Special Forces operatives for no reason, they needed someone who could follow a plan and create a whole new one on the fly for when shit did hit the fan. That, and it was badass to get a crew of top of the line killers together to do what they do best.

Thankfully, you’d never had to do much of the quick thinking for group decisions as a whole and not just yourself. There had been one time you’d risked life and limb by dispatching an enemy soldier with a cluster of hostages at your back, the possibility of him giving away your location as he died outweighing the probability of him definitely giving it away alive. But other than that, it was which weapon would kill the bad guy the soonest? Which path would save your skin the easiest? Which killshot would bring everyone home?

So, one random Tuesday night that found you and Gaz in the Beijing office of a high-ranking Chinese General, you weren’t expecting to have to make a decision to save your life. You left that up to Gaz.

The rest of the 141 had their own assignments, clearing the building and working through the halls for the information they needed. You and Gaz had been tasked with finding a dossier that General Huang may or may not have, in relation to recent “unknown affiliated” attacks on foreign trade vessels. You worked methodically through the office, pulling open drawers of his desk, checking every shelf on the wall, flipping through every book just in case, but the files remained hidden.

“There’s gotta be a trap drawer in the desk.” You say, watching Gaz carefully put the last book back in the bookcase, “There always is in the movies.”

Gaz deadpans a look at you and shakes his head, “Only you would equate this to a movie.”

“Uh, because it is?” You scrunch your face in his direction, kneeling down to run your hands along the wood panels of the desk, rifle thumping against the floor, “Foreign operatives raiding a General’s office for intel in the dead of night? Intel that could possibly save lives and stop a war from breaking out?”

“When you put it that way.” Gaz sounds amused from the other side of the desk, and you can picture his smile before his fingers brush against yours as you search for a secret compartment. You do your best to keep the kicking of your feet and high-pitched giggling in your head to strictly in your head. The last thing you need is for your face to give away the fact that you were so down bad for your partner, that you couldn’t even handle his fingers touching yours for approximately half a second. You won’t even get started on all the cold showers you had to take after a sparring session. Soap lived for throwing you suggestive looks over his shoulder when Gaz wasn’t looking.

Your fingers compressing a panel under the desk wipes all thoughts from your stupid crush-addled brain, and you snap to attention as the panel slides to the side, revealing a thick binder wrapped with a leather strap, “Gaz, I got something.”

He comes around to your side as you carefully remove it from its spot, kneeling next to you smelling like cologne and military gear and heaven. You unwrap it and take out the documents to inspect them, finding dozens of trade routes and correspondences with different entities on when to hit the cargo ships coming through. It was all there, laid out in black and white letters.

“Bravo 2-6 to Bravo 6, how copy?” Kyle says quietly into the mic on his chest.

“Solid copy Bravo 2-6.”

“Got the documents, about to move to RV point.”

“Copy that, Soap should just about be there.”

“Ready an’ waitin’. All quiet over ‘ere.” Soap’s voice confirms.

“Rog. We’re coming to you, Soap.”

But no sooner had he said it, than there were footsteps outside the door, accompanied by a male voice speaking Mandarin, presumably on a phone call. You and Gaz both freeze, peaking over the desk toward the door. Your pulse jumps as the boots pause right in front of it, and the jangle of keys has you grabbing for your rifle.

Gaz swears under his breath, eyes scanning the room for an exit, but finding none, other than the multi-story windows that would most certainly involve your death should you jump from them. They land on a small door on the far side of the room, belonging to a tiny closet that you’d already searched in the hunt for the binder in your hands. In the blink of an eye, Gaz has it ripped out of your grasp, shoved back into the desk, secret panel slid into place, and is dragging you across the room by your arm as keys twist in the lock of the door.

Before you can think, your back is pressed up against the wall of the closet, and Gaz against your front, both of you crammed like sardines in the cramped space. All of your gear doesn’t help matters, and you silently take stock of all the equipment you’re going to move to new spots after this. Just as the General comes striding into his office, Gaz has the closet door silently clicking shut.

You can see the General through the slats in the closet door, thankfully the kind that he can’t see you, and you strain to hear any of the conversation he’s having.

“I thought he was out of town.” You whisper into Gaz’s ear.

“He was supposed to be.” He says, a lethal calm to his voice that said he’d be having a chat with whoever fucked up the intel later.

You can hear the General having a somewhat heated discussion, but it becomes increasingly more impossible to focus as the circumstances of your situation start to set in. Or rather, you are suddenly keenly aware of the fact that one of Gaz’s legs is shoved between yours, much like yours is between his, because every time he moves it rubs against you in all the wrong—or right—ways.

You tried to ignore it, you really did, but with the thought of him being so close, feeling his entire body pressed so heavily against yours, you really were doomed from the start. It also doesn’t help that, again, you’d been well and truly fucked up over this man since you met him. And, in your opinion, it isn’t even your fault!

Gaz, by your definition, was one of the hottest men alive—both in looks and personality. The sarcasm only upped the ante. And the way he could knife a guy? Pure visual poetry. So ex-fucking-cuse you for being a little hot for him.

You had been since the day you first met him, a rookie on the task force shitting yourself but trying to act like you weren’t. Price had paired you up for that first mission, and despite still being a little rough around the edges, Gaz had treated you like an old friend and had your back the entire time. He had ever since.

He was the first person to greet you in the morning, the one who sat next to you in the mess, on infil and exfil, who’d hauled your wounded ass out of a collapsing building even after being shot himself. It’s something special, you think, finding someone who fits so seamlessly into your life, that you wonder how you survived without them. Gaz was as essential as water to you, and that fact alone was simultaneously comforting and terrifying.

Despite all that, though, the two of you had never crossed over the line of comrades. You wanted to—fuck you wanted to—but you’d never been able to place where Gaz’s interest lay.

Back in the closet, the two of you are so close, you can barely breathe in at the same time, chests crushed together and gear not helping. Your head has the option of resting against the wall, or tipping back to rest your chin on Gaz’s shoulder, but either way, you risk inadvertently kissing him if you get too close. He also has you bracketed by his arms on either side of your head, most likely because they didn’t have anywhere else to go, but in your fantasies, because he was about to kiss you within an inch of your life. Stupid. But you were a dreamer, okay?

“Gaz, how copy?” Soap’s voice all but bellows over the comms in the silence.

You cringe, eyeing the General as if he could hear your earpiece, but he just sits at his desk and chats on.

“Gaz?” Soap says again, then your callsign, “Anyone copy?”

Gaz sighs quietly, clicking his mic and all but breaths, “In a bit of a pickle, stand by.”

“Understatement.” You comment, your chin practically resting on his shoulder.

“Ah, could be worse.” He whispers, lips quirked in a smile, “Could be Soap in here.”

You whisper out a laugh, “Worse for me or you?”

He huffs out a laugh too, breath tickling your ear and sending butterflies to where they don’t belong, “Let’s just say, I’m glad I’m stuck in here with you.”

You try not to take that any certain way, but you definitely still do.

Something in the General’s conversation catches Gaz’s attention, and he shifts to try and hear better. This causes his thigh to press up right in between your legs, and it’s all you can do not to gasp in surprise as white-hot pleasure shoots up your spine. Your surprise jolts your body, which only grinds yourself against him further, and you slap a gloved hand over your mouth to muffle your breath as all your flirty thoughts about Gaz culminate into horniness.

And he keeps fidgeting! You have no clue how General Huang hasn’t discovered you both by now with the way he shifts his weight from foot to foot, bending his knees from the lack of space. With every move he grinds his thigh against your pussy, and every move only intensifies your growing pleasure.

He seems to pick up on your distress after you try and shift yourself away from his leg, hands having reached up to ball in the arms of his hoodie, because he shifts back closer to you and frowns, tipping his head down to whisper, “You good?”

You definitely were not good, especially now that his breath was back ghosting down your neck, lips brushing against your ear, voice a raspy whisper. He moves again—the man was now worse than Soap—and it’s all you can do not to honest to God moan as the pleasure takes a sharper turn.

You gasp quietly into your hand, your head thumping back against the closet door as you involuntarily throw it back, your hips bucking forward into him. Gaz fucking twists again, and you squeeze your eyes shut against the impending doom between your legs, gritting your teeth and silently begging for an early grave.

After his leg grinds against you yet again, you grip his arm tightly, clinging to his hoodie as if it were the last shreds of your dignity, and whisper, “Stop. Moving.”

“What?” He asks somehow finding another reason to grind his thigh into you, and you could honestly cry.

“Gaz please stop moving.” You plead. What the fuck was General Huang doing taking so long at this fucking time of night? Wrap the call up and go, buddy.

“Why, what’s wrong?” He asks, concern evident in his voice. If you weren’t practically combusting on his leg, you would definitely find it endearing.

“Gaz—” You start trying to tell him not to move again, when he does exactly that, and you end up biting his shoulder to cover up any of the little noises that might escape you as you fall apart against him.

The feeling radiating through your body can only be described as pure ecstasy, your limbs quivering from it, and—yep, you’re grinding yourself on Gaz’s leg. Holy fuck.

One of his hands manages to find your hip, attempting to steady you and find out what was happening, which only adds to the static in your brain.

As soon as you come down, you want to dive out of the closet and beg General Huang to put you out of your misery already. Like holy fuck, the horror and shame was enough to end your life right there.

“Did…” Gaz pauses, “Did you just…”

“Don’t.” You whisper, mortification filtering sourly into your stomach, “Don’t fucking say anything.”

“Bloody hell.” He breathes, turning his head away from you. Great. He can’t even look at you now. You might as well crawl in a hole and die, at least then you wouldn’t have to deal with whatever this was. Soap was going to eat this right up.

You shift your weight, hips starting to cramp from the angle you were crushed into, when your thigh presses up in between Gaz’s this time. You feel your eyes widen before you brain really catches up, and Gaz’s whole body jerks in your embrace.

He’s hard. Honest to God bricked up.

“Now’s your turn not to move, love.” He rasps out, turning back to look down at you with half lidded eyes. It was a look that you’d only ever had wet dreams of.

You cock your head, and being the person you are, decide to test the boundaries. Lifting your leg, you press it against his boner and watch as his head tips back and lips part, before he snaps back to reality and shoots you a look.

“Sorry.” You say innocently, batting your eyelashes. You ‘accidentally’ do it one more time for good measure, getting him back for all the times he’d done it to you.

“Fuck me.” He breathes to himself, pressing more of his body weight against you in an attempt to immobilize you. You let it work, staring up at him as he stares back, and you’re pretty sure a match would have lit the entire place ablaze from the energy sparked between you. As it is, your stomach flops and you go a little light headed.

Just as you thought maybe Gaz was starting to lean down toward you, General Huang shouts something into the phone, startling you both. He stomps across the room and out the door, slamming it shut before the sound of keys in the lock has Gaz pushing out of the closet.

You eye the windows across the room, wondering if it really was worth just ending it all so you didn’t have to face the embarrassment, when Gaz disrupts your intrusive thoughts by heading over to the desk. He bends down to open the secret drawer, grabs the binder out, and holds it out to you. You take it and then stare at him stupidly until he keys up his mic.

“Bravo 2-6 to Bravo Team, back on track, both of us pushing up to RV.”

“Good copy, Gaz. Exfil is two klicks out.” Price says.

“Lets go.” Gaz says, motioning toward the door.

“Gaz—”

“We’ll talk about it later. Let’s just finish the mission, yeah?”

You nod, turning to head toward the door, and pretend you don’t see him reach into his pants to readjust himself. You also pretend not to commit that to memory for later use.

The others are waiting at the designated rendezvous point, and you slap the binder into Price’s waiting hand, “It’s all there, Cap. Huang’s been the one behind all the recent attacks.”

Price claps you on the shoulder and gives Gaz a proud look, “Good work.”

You hear exfil before you see it, welcoming Soap’s familiar presence at your side as the helicopter blades beat down on you. He bumps your shoulder with his, and you don’t immediately look up at him.

Second only to Gaz, Soap was your constant—your friend, confidante, partner in crime. You trusted him implicitly, taking comfort in his pure friendship. After a hard mission, a failed mission, even a good mission, you looked to Soap for his ability to soothe anyone’s mind. He looked for you, too, and you can only hope you provide the same presence for him.

He bumps your shoulder again, and you turn your gaze away from the chopper to find his ocean blues full of curiosity. Too full.

“So what happened?” Soap asks.

You squint suspiciously at him, “What do you mean? Nothing. Nothing happened.”

He looks at you like you just grew a second head, “So you weren’ in a pickle? What took ye so long then? Too busy winchin’ in a closet somewhere?”

“Winching?”

Soap rolls his eyes, “Kissing.”

“No!” You say, affronted, as if you hadn’t just came on Gaz’s leg and nearly kissed him in a closet.

He gives you a suspicious look this time, humming halfheartedly as he follows you to the newly landed chopper. You file in after Gaz, slipping into your usual seat next to him for the flight back to your temporary base. You risk a glance up at him, knowing uncertainty is probably flashing like a neon sign on your face.

To your horror, Gaz is already staring back, and you look away in embarrassment that you were caught. But fingers on your wrist help you relax a little, and a message tapped in Morse against your skin alleviates some of the worry that had begun to creep into your bones.

We’re okay.

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Despite that, for the next few days, you and Gaz dance around each other. Really it was one-sided. He would leave as soon as you entered a room, and if he walked into one you were already frequenting, he turned right back around and left. It was torture unlike any you’d ever trained for.

You knew how to withstand the mind games of an experienced interrogator. Knew how to hold out against the various tools of torture and methods to physical pain. You could detach yourself, disassociate, deal with losing consciousness, suffocate fear. You knew how not to break.

But no one had ever taught you how to withstand losing a presence you’d grown so accustomed to. How to deal with watching them come into a room, see you, and find the nearest exit. How to go from cracking jokes with each other one day, to barely speaking the next. You don’t know how you aren’t supposed to break from this.

So, the day you finally get back to your home base, when Soap announces they’re all going for drinks at their favorite local pub, you jump at the opportunity to drown your sorrows. To your surprise, Gaz comes with.

It’s when you’re four drinks in, that Soap corners you at the bar, blue eyes alight with alcohol and mischief, “Alrigh’ lass, what fuckin’ happened?”

“What do you mean?” You ask, sipping your fifth drink.

“In Beijing.” Soap presses, voice drowned out by the crowd and the music playing from the jukebox, “You an’ Gaz have been avoidin’ each other like the plague since ye went to the general’s office.”

You shake your head, which only makes things dizzier, “Nothing happened, Soap.”

“Bullshit.” Soap says, “You two were thick as thieves, an’ now ye aren’t talkin’?”

“It’s…” You search for words that would tell a different story, but what’s the point? Maybe it would feel better to tell someone about your fuck up, to get it off your chest. Besides, it wouldn’t be the first time you talked about such topics with him, the Scot having been clued into your infatuation a long time ago. You sigh, “I fucked up, Soap.”

“How so?”

“I might have…came…on him.”

He stares at you for a long moment before tipping his head in question, “Ye’re gonna need te elaborate on that one.”

“We had to hide in this tiny fucking closet because General Huang showed up, and when I say tiny, I mean tiny. We barely fit.” You explain, “So we’re pressed up against each other, right? And our legs are shoved in between each other. Well Gaz keeps moving around, and it’s,” You motion down there, “you know, up against me, and I just…fucking orgasmed on his leg.”

“Oh fuck.” Soap says, but looks like he wants to burst out laughing.

“Yeah, and then he got hard.”

“Oh fuck.” Soap grins, leaning into your space, “He came too?”

“No, thank god!” You press a hand to your chest, “But now he barely even looks at me. I fucked it all up, Soap. He probably thinks I’m the most disgusting piece of shit on the planet.”

Soap looks bewildered as he takes a drink of his beer, nearly sputtering as he asks, “Are ye out yer heid, lass?”

“I don’t think so?”

“Ye think Gazzy isn’ talkin’ te ye because he thinks ye’re disgusting?” Soap barks out a laugh, and you resist the urge to swat his arm as a few people look your way, “Lass, Gaz won’t look at ye because he’ll pop a boner if he does!”

“Come on, be serious, Johnny. I feel like shit. I literally bit off all my fingernails about this.”

Soap’s face is red from held back laughter, “Oh fuck, bonnie, ye’re killin’ me. Ye really are. Gaz is right mad about ye, and you comin’ on his leg probably made ‘im nearly pass out. I’m dyin’ just thinkin’ about it.” He pauses to wipe his eyes, ever the drama, “I guarantee he hasn’t stopped thinkin’ about it since then. Take it from me, once somethin’ like tha’ happens, a hard-on canna be stopped.”

“Okay but how do you know that?” You ask, hope swelling in your chest, “That Gaz getting hard was over me and not just a natural bodily reaction that he didn’t want?”

“Cause he’s crazy fer ye, hen.” Soap says earnestly, “Lad’s been half in love with ye since he met ye.”

“How do you know?”

“Everyone knows, lass.”

You can’t help but look over to the table where the rest of the 141 sits, your heart aching as you watch Gaz laugh at something Price says. His smile is so bright, wrinkling the corners of his eyes. He leans back in his chair, taking a drink of his beer, and slaps Ghost on the shoulder. He looks so incredibly content. So beautiful.

As if he could feel your stare, his eyes flick to yours, and his whole face goes warm with his smile. You smile back, clinging to this one scrap of familiarity he’d given you since you returned. His dark eyes ground you to the spot like they’d entranced you, warm and cocoa-brown, a gentle caress and a shocking jolt all in one.

You were forever bewitched by him.

“See, lass?” Soap says quietly, hiding his smile behind his pint, “Everyone knows.”

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By the time Price has wrangled you all back to your wing on base, Soap and Ghost are walking arm in arm down the hallway, competing about who would die for the other more grandiosely. Price strides behind them looking like he needs an Alka-Seltzer. And that leaves you and Gaz to bump shoulders in silence.

Everyone splits off to their respective rooms, calling out a goodnight as they do.

“Night.” Gaz says your name, bumping your shoulder one last time before turning to his door. You walk a couple more steps forward, listening to Gaz’s bedroom door close, before a wave of courage washes over you like you’d only ever felt in a life or death firefight.

Clenching your fists, you straighten your spine and march to Gaz’s door, knocking on it before you can change your mind. He opens it, looking mildly surprised to see you, when you blurt, “I’m sorry!”

“You’re…” He blinks, “Why?”

“For the closet.” You say, deflating a bit, “I made things weird, and I’m sorry. I just…my body just did it and I tried to stop, but I couldn’t. And I know that sounds made up, but I swear to God, Gaz, I’m not trying to be some sort of fucking pervert or anything, I’m just really, really attracted to you, and that probably makes things even more weird now, but it’s true, and that’s why what happened in the closet happened, and—” You take a deep breath, aware that you’re rambling, “And I’m sorry. Okay? I’m sorry. I just hate not talking to you.”

Gaz looks momentarily caught off guard, smiles softly for a moment, and then sighs, stepping aside, “Come in, lets not give Soap anymore fuel.”

There’s a scoff from the direction of Soap’s room.

You let Gaz close the door behind you, and watch as he sits down on the edge of his bed. The room is a standard barracks room, but Gaz has put his personal touches here and there. There’s team memorabilia from his favorite football club, some souvenirs from missions you’ve gone on, and photos of his family as well as 141. There’s also a wax melter in the corner by his bed, giving off a soft, warm glow in the otherwise dark room. Lilac fills your nose and puts you more at ease.

“Let’s get one thing straight.” Gaz says, and you ready yourself for his anger toward you, but instead, he says, “You have nothing to be sorry for.”

“I don’t?”

“No.” Gaz frowns, the action making the scar on his cheek dimple, “Fuck. I’m the one who should be on my knees begging you to forgive me.”

That wouldn’t be so bad—

“But you didn’t do anything.” You say, forcing yourself not to think about Gaz on his knees, staring up at you with those wide dark eyes, eyebrows turned up, begging—and you’re thinking about it.

Gaz shakes his head, “I’ve been avoiding you since we got back.”

“Oh.” You say, hurt stabbing your heart despite already knowing he had been.

“But it’s not for the reasons you think it is.” He swallows thickly, “I’ve just been…thinking. About what happened. And I can’t stop thinking about it.

“Like, thinking about it how?” Jesus Christ, you’re a Special Forces operative, have some fucking eloquence.

“Thinking about being so close to you. About hearing your breaths. About…feeling you come against me.” He sighs, wetting his lips, and his eyes grow heavy with something dark and feverish, “Wanting to make you come myself.”

O-kay you were not expecting this turn of events when you came here tonight. You thought you were going to explain yourself, grovel to him a bit, swear it would never happen again, and hope for the best. Not listen to Gaz tell you he wanted to get you off for real this time.

“I thought I made it weird.” Gaz continues like he hadn’t just said what he does in your sex dreams, “Getting hard over you while you were standing right there? Fuck, that was scarring. I’ve never been more embarrassed in my life.”

“Funny, that’s how I felt about coming on your leg.” You say with an awkward laugh. You wish someone would actually just shoot you.

Gaz chuckles too, “And even worse, like I said, I kept thinking about it. So when I’d see you around base, I’d get a fucking hard-on almost instantly. Didn’t want to risk you seeing it.”

So Soap had been right, the bastard.

“Well, if it helps,” You feel your face flush neon, “I can’t stop thinking about it either.”

“About?”

“Everything you mentioned before—being so close, feeling your breath, feeling you.” You dare to look at him, swallowed whole by the roaring fire in his eyes. The heat there, the want only adds to the liquid courage in your system as you continue, “Thinking about what else might have happened if we’d been in there longer.”

“Oh?” He arches an eyebrow, his slim fingers wrapping around your wrist to just hold it, “And what else would you have wanted to happen? That closet was pretty tight.”

You shrug nonchalantly, but inside, your heart is hammering away and you’re on the floor of your mind rocking back and forth, “Don’t act like you weren’t about to kiss me, Kyle, I won’t listen to you.”

He huffs out a laugh, suddenly pulling you between his legs. His head is level with your breasts, hands resting on the back of your thighs. When he looks up at you, his dark eyes glint, eyebrows pulled up in a pout, “Too bad I never got the chance. I really wanted to.”

“Yeah too bad.” Your hands travel from his shoulders to the back of his head, “Not like I’m not right here or anything.”

“And you’d want me to?” He asks, voice still playful but with an edge of seriousness, “Kiss you?”

“I have since I fucking met you, Gaz.” You finally admit to him, “I’ve been obsessed with you for just as long.”

“And here I was thinking I was the only one.” His thumbs rub circles on your thighs, “Trapped in that closet panicking because I’m head over heels for the girl I’m smashing. And not the way I wanted to be.”

“Definitely not what I had in mind when I thought of being crushed by you.” You agree.

“Then, you want to know what else I’ve been thinking about? Other than what happened in Beijing?”

“Hmm?”

He looks down at your breasts thoughtfully, then back up at you, his hands smoothing up your leggings to squeeze your ass, “I could tell you, or I could show you.”

You nod, stomach dipping, “I’ve always been more of a hands-on person.”

One long arm reaches up to grab you by the back of your head, pulling you down to smother your mouth with his, lips warm and needy. You fall into his lap, scrambling to get your legs on either side of his as his tongue drags against your lower lip. You don’t have the willpower to draw this out, to tease him, opening your mouth to allow his tongue to glide with yours. The taste of him overwhelms you, alcohol and gum and Kyle, and you wish the incident in the closet had happened a whole lot sooner because damn.

His arms snake around your waist, pulling you into him as close as possible, breath warm against your lips whenever he opens his mouth to catch his breath. You wrap your own arms around his shoulders, breaking away from him to use your weight to push him back against the bed. His chest rises and falls with his pants, hands gripping your waist as you lean back down to kiss him again.

“Tell me again,” Gaz says against your lips, “why we haven’t done this sooner?”

“Fuck if I know.” You answer, “I didn’t know you were interested.”

“You do now.” He says, and you can feel him smile. His hands frisk up from your hips, pulling your shirt with it. Those dark eyes search your face for any sign of hesitancy, but you give him none. As if you hadn’t dreamed about Gaz getting you naked before.

The fact that you aren’t wearing a bra has his eyes closing and lips curling into a smile, and you shrug, “They’re uncomfortable.”

Gaz hooks a leg around your waist and flips you onto your back in the blink of an eye, his fingers making quick work of your leggings and panties. His eyes roam your body, drinking in everything he hadn’t been able to see before. You let him look, basking in the glow of his attention. You loved the way your body looked, weren’t shy of someone seeing it, and having the person you’d always wanted to see it actually see it? Euphoric.

“God you are something, love.” Gaz mutters, pulling his hoodie over his head. You’d seen him shirtless so many times, practically drooled over it in the gym, and now being able to run your hands over his muscle, the tattoos, the scars, you don’t think there’s any going back from this. He was the point of no return disguised as dark skin and old knife wounds.

“Speak for yourself.” You say, arching an eyebrow at the v dipping below his jeans.

He looms over you, one hand squeezing one of your breasts as his mouth finds your neck. It trails lower, down over your collarbone and to the other breast, tongue swirling over your nipple before nipping at it with his teeth. You make a small noise in your throat, and then gasp when his fingers pinch the other nipple.

“You have amazing tits, love.” He mumbles, voice half muffled by said tit.

“And you have an amazing mouth.”

He laughs, eyes flicking up to yours, and he smiles devilishly, “You haven’t seen the half of it, yet.”

“Big talk.” Your voice jumps as he bites your breast rather harshly, and the ache between your legs grows, “Hope you can back it up.”

“I can.” He says confidently, and, just to prove his point, he abandons your breasts to kiss a path down your body, until he’s settled between your legs. Your thighs are thrown over his shoulders, and he leaves bruising kisses along the inside of them that you know you’ll be staring at for the next few nights. He hooks his arms around your hips and pulls you into his face, and when his fingers finally part you and his tongue licks a stripe of fire right up to your clit, you finally let your head tip back in bliss.

Gaz had not been lying when he said you hadn’t seen the half of what his mouth could do. His tongue, warm and slick, pressed firm circles against your clit, arching your back off the bed as your pleasure built up as embarrassingly fast as it had in the closet. He seemed acutely aware of this fact, because every time you felt your stomach tighten, body coiling tightly, he’d dip his tongue low to ease you from your orgasm. Back and forth he did this, building you up, only to bring you back down. It was give and take, and it was driving you fucking insane. But the sharpness you felt every time you almost came was unlike anything before it, and it was suddenly daunting just how intense it may be.

“Fuck, Gaz, come on.” You whine after he brings you back down again, the frustration of being so close so many times making tears prick at your eyes, “I’m dying here.”

“So dramatic.” He says against your pussy, and you barely resist the urge to grind your hips into his face for something, anything.

“Please, Gaz, I’m actually begging.”

He chuckles, but this time, when he presses his mouth to your clit, two fingers slip their way into your pussy. You slap your hand over your mouth as you cry out from the intrusion, pleasure lighting up every nerve in your system. And even if he tried to bring you back down, Gaz would not have been able to stop the orgasm that grips your entire body in fire and ice and dark and light. Your calves wrap around his head, pulling it more firmly into your pussy, fingers pulling harshly at his short hair as your moans bounce off the concrete walls.

Gaz’s tongue helps you ride through it, continuing the circles as his fingers curl inside you. You should maybe be embarrassed that all it took to make you come was one thrust of his fingers, but you can’t think around the tremble of your body and numbness in your limbs.

When it finally ends, you lay light headed against Gaz’s pillows, watching him sit up and crawl over you in a daze, “Who taught you that?”

“Me, myself, and I.” Gaz says with a smug smile, “And lots of trial and error on willing participants.”

“Feel free to use me as an experiment whenever you want.” You say earnestly, trying to smile, but you’re pretty positive it’s more of a crazed look.

He hums, kissing you once before leaning back to unbutton his pants, “You had me at ‘feel free to use me’.”

“That’s fine too.”

He gets his pants off, and you finally get to stare unashamedly so at his dick. And it is a dick. One of the nicest—no, the nicest dick you have ever seen. He takes it into his hand, sighing at the touch, and pumps himself a few times to relieve some of the ache. When he lets it go, you watch it bob, undoubtedly throbbing as it had been in the closet.

“Is it okay if we skip the blow job this time?” He asks, kneeing your legs apart as he drapes himself back over you. His cock nestles itself along your pussy, hot and hard and—yep—throbbing against you, “I just really don’t think I could last with your pretty little mouth on me.”

“I’ll make it worth the wait.” You boast, and you do believe you can back it up just as well as Gaz had, if the raving reviews on your blowjobs had anything to say about it.

“I’m sure you will.” He breathes, mashing your mouths together and crudely shoving his tongue into your mouth. You wrinkle your nose at the taste of yourself, but it came down to picking and choosing your battles, and you’d rather have Gaz’s tongue in your mouth than not.

He lifts his hips just a little, shoving a hand in between your bodies to guide himself between the folds of your pussy. Just as you think he’s about to push in, he hesitates and asks, “You’re sure you want this?”

You open your eyes, meeting his dark gaze, and something soft bleeds into your chest and floods your heart, “I’ve never wanted it more with anyone else.”

A tender look flits across his face, and the softness enveloping your heart deepens. Holding your gaze, he pushes the head of his cock into you, and you gasp as you feel him stretch you open, filling you to the brink of too much. His eyes glaze over almost instantly, mouth going slack as his hips bob more and more of his cock further into you. He lets out a hiss when he’s buried himself fully inside, letting his forehead drop to rest against your shoulder as he pulls his hips back. You moan as you feel the drag of every single inch of him, fingernails digging into the meat of his shoulder-blades.

His hips snap forward, rocking your body with them, and you can’t help but clamp around him as he lets out a quiet moan of his own. He sits up then, his hands gripping your hips tightly as his own continue their slow roll into you. He hums with every thrust, breathing heavily through his nose. His head tips back, the muscles of his stomach flexing with every thrust of his hips.

And holy fuck there is no way you could ever fuck someone else again. Gaz has gone ahead and ruined you before he’d even finished fucking you.

He catches you by the backs of your knees, his cock slipping out of you as he pushes your legs back as far as they can go, until your knees are resting on either side of your head because you’re a flexible bitch. He fucks right back into you in one long stroke, hot and thick, and the moan you let out can only be described as filthy.

The new angle has him hitting deeper, and you find yourself holding onto your own ankles, tucking your legs under your arms for dear life as his cock takes you apart.

“That’s right, good girl,” Gaz pants, the sound of his thighs slapping against yours making your head spin, “take it just like that for me.”

His thrusts are hard and fast, drilling you down into the mattress so roughly you bounce back to meet him. Distantly you think the bed might be squeaking too loudly, and if it’s not, the headboard is definitely slamming against the wall bordering Soap’s room, but one particularly deep stroke has you forgetting who Soap even is.

Gaz slams into you again, but instead of pulling out, he ruts into you, humping himself against the pillow of your ass as if the thought of not being as far inside you as possible is unbearable. You let go of your legs as he falls over top of you, continuing the frantic grind of his hips, and let them wrap around him in relief.

“Feels amazing.” Gaz whimpers against your neck, head tucked into the crook of your shoulder, “So fucking good. Gonna come soon.”

You can only nod as your pussy clenches, and he hisses, grinding into you a few more times before pulling out completely. He wraps a fist around his glistening cock, jerking himself until he’s moaning, hot, thick ropes of come streak across your belly. He whimpers as his hand frantically pumps his cock, hips bucking into it as more come unloads onto you. You watch him, enraptured by his every move, every sound.

You were so fucked. By him. For him.

As soon as the last of his come was spattered onto your stomach, he flops next to you on his back, panting heavily up at the ceiling. You want to roll over to press yourself to his side, but you’re still half-paralyzed from your orgasm and Gaz’s dick. That, and you’re still covered in his come.

Gaz tips his head to look over at you, grinning slightly as he says, “How you doin’, love?”

“I think you nearly killed me.” You groan.

“That a compliment?”

“The highest form.”

“I’ll wear it with honor then.” He says, rolling onto his side to plant a kiss to your forehead, and then groans to his feet. You watch him disappear into his bathroom and then reappear with a damp washcloth, feeling your face heat up as he gently wipes you clean.

“Thanks.” You say, suddenly shy despite having been fucked within an inch of your life five minutes ago by the guy.

Post-sex had never felt like this before—tentative, fragile. It was probably because you’d never had feelings for the people you hooked up with in the past, leaving before you had to be told to. You waited for the inevitable hints Gaz would throw your way, an awkward smile, a cleared throat, a declaration that he was going to bed and you should too.

But he simply crawls into bed next to you, leaving you with the side closest to the wall, and pulls you up against his chest. You blink in his embrace, daring to let yourself get comfortable there. With Gaz, you felt safe. With him, you belonged.

“Stay.” He says softly, voice reverberating through his chest against your ear.

You smile to yourself, all shy thoughts dissolving into fondness instead, “Yes, sir.”

Gaz groans good-naturedly, then says “Thanks for coming on my leg in that closet.”

“Don’t mention it.” You murmur, falling asleep for the first of many nights with your sergeant, floating on whatever cloud allowed that sort of debauchery.

••• ▰▰▰ SECURE CHANNEL CLOSED ▰▰▰ •••

For this and more, come check me out on AO3!

#gaz call of duty #kyle gaz garrick #call of duty #kyle gaz x reader #kyle gaz x you #kyle gaz smut #gaz x reader #gaz x you #fanfic #fanfiction #smut

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furioussheepluminary · 2 months ago

Text

𝐆𝐡𝐨𝐬𝐭 𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐭𝐨𝐜𝐨𝐥

pairings: liar x liar, non idol au

synopsis: lies

warning: lies, ft minsung, hyunjin and changbin

a/n: if you have extra eyes for errors no you cant.

previously...

The house was quiet. A deep, heavy kind of silence that wrapped itself around the walls like a second skin. Only the occasional creak of old floorboards or the low hum of the fridge dared to stir. Bang Chan stood at the doorway of his room, the faintest sliver of light from the hallway catching the rigid line of his jaw. He glanced down the corridor toward your room. Your door was shut. He’d waited long enough, listened for your breathing to settle, watched the soft shuffle of movement behind your door stop. You were asleep. Finally.

He stepped back in and closed his door behind him, locking it. The folder he brought back earlier in the day—one he hadn’t dared open in front of her—now sat like a loaded weapon on the desk by the lamp. Cream-colored, slightly wrinkled, marked with a simple black label:

OP–SHADOWGATE : EXT-4271

He opened it. Slowly. The pages were crisp, printed in typeface and scattered with clipped photos, redacted names, and codes he recognized as off-grid intel. Private databases. Not FBI. Not CIA. This file had been buried beneath four layers of encrypted shell companies and abandoned ops.

But what hit him first was the photo.

You. Y/N. But not as he knew you.

The Y/N in the file wore darker clothes, your hair shorter, your eyes sharper. You looked… cold. Calculated. Military-grade precision in every movement. Every surveillance still of you was timestamped—none of them recent. All of them deeply embedded within reports about missing data, covert meetings in Singapore, Berlin, Tunisia… and one photo that made the breath catch in Chan’s throat—

A handshake. With a known arms trafficker.

What the hell? Page after page confirmed it.

Y/N L/N. No government affiliation. No agency tags. No loyalty flags. Not FBI. Not CIA. Not Interpol. Not even MI6. Instead, three bold letters marked the top corner of one document:

SCU. Chan stared at it, blinking.

Special Covert Unit. A name only whispered in the deeper shadows of intelligence circles. It wasn’t part of any official government. It was a freelance shadow operation—made up of former agents, soldiers, defectors, and ghosts. People who didn’t officially exist anymore. People who could do what governments couldn’t.

And you were one of them.

He ran a hand through his hair, standing abruptly and pacing across the room. The betrayal simmered just beneath his skin. You had lied to him. Let him believe you were an agent, his colleague. You played the role perfectly.

And now, he realized, you’d probably been tracking him. This wasn’t partnership. This was surveillance.

FLASHBACK — 5 HOURS AGO

The dim alley behind a nondescript Vietnamese café. A man stood near the loading door, lighting a cigarette with trembling fingers. Bald. Tall. Wire-rimmed glasses and a nervous tic.

Chan approached with his hood up.

"You said you had something I needed," he muttered. The man barely looked at him. “Your girl’s not who you think she is.”

Chan's silence made the man nervous. He reached into a leather pouch and handed over a sealed file.

"She’s on her own payroll. SCU. Has been for years. She's gotten in deep with people you’d shoot on sight. Singapore? That was the third time she’s crossed paths with Petrov. She might not even want you alive.”

Chan had stared. Said nothing. Took the file and left.

The rage started to build in his chest. A quiet fury. His heart beat hard against his ribs, but his hands were steady. He didn’t know what her game was yet… but he would. He grabbed his burner phone from beneath the loose floorboard under his bed and tapped out a quick, encrypted message to Jisung:

BIRD’S IN SHADOW.

SHE’S SCU. NEED A DEEP DIVE. NO MISTAKES.

PRIORITY ONE.

DO. NOT. TELL. HER.

He hit send and watched the message disappear into the black void of the encoded network.

Then he stared at the door. The one separating him from the woman who saved his life—

and may have been the one holding the blade to his throat all along.

---

The sharp ping of a notification cut through the heavy silence of the room, cracking the late-night calm like glass underfoot.

Jisung groaned into the pillow, half-buried under a tangle of bedsheets and the warm weight of Lee Know draped across his back. Lee Know stirred slightly but didn’t wake. His face remained tucked against Jisung’s shoulder, breathing soft and slow.

Jisung squinted at his phone from under the covers, fingers fumbling to unlock it.

One New Encrypted Message — Burn Line [CHAN]

> BIRD’S IN SHADOW.

SHE’S SCU. NEED A DEEP DIVE. NO MISTAKES.

PRIORITY ONE.

DO. NOT. TELL. HER.

That jolted him awake.

He sat up too fast, causing Lee Know to mumble something and shift with a sleepy arm reaching for him. Jisung gently slid out from under him, muttering, “Sorry, baby. Emergency. Sleep,” pressing a kiss to his forehead.

Lee Know didn’t even flinch—dead to the world.

Jisung padded out of the room barefoot and pulled his laptop from under the couch cushions in the living room. His fingers flew across the keys like they’d been waiting for this exact command.

SCU.

He already didn’t like it. SCU wasn’t just off-books. It was the stuff of ghost stories shared between agents over whiskey and paranoia. An elite, unaffiliated covert unit—ruthless, self-sustaining, and impossible to track. The fact that you were one of them? That was bad enough.

But what he found next was worse.

Kallisto.

He hadn’t seen that name in years. The last time it came up, a Russian scientist had vanished from a NATO stronghold. The whispers pinned it on Kallisto—a faceless middleman known for smuggling secrets, laundering intelligence, and forging high-level cover identities.

Every major intelligence server had fragments of Kallisto's digital fingerprint, but no one could identify him.

Until now, obviously. Jisung cracked open one of SCU’s old Istanbul logs. He cross-referenced Y/N’s operation history, missions involving black sites, off-grid assassinations, chemical extraction. And there it was.

An encoded drop-off record.

Marked: KALLISTO — ESCORTED CARGO: L/N

The IP trail was faint. Half-wiped. But he knew this code. He knew this formatting. His eyes widened.

"...No way."

He dug deeper. The metadata on the embedded cryptographic pings led back to one person.

HWANG. HYUNJIN.

“What the actual hell…” Jisung whispered. Hyunjin. The eccentric art dealer. Hacker. Occasional ghost in the machine when they needed access to black market caches. Your silent little tech whisperer. The guy you “called sometimes.”

Hyunjin was Kallisto.

The black-market ghost tied to former Russian intelligence circles. Jisung leaned back in the chair, letting out a long, low breath. His skin felt clammy, the adrenaline finally catching up to him.

You had lied. Big time.

And suddenly, everything about you—your calm, your silence, your innocence—it all made sense. He stood, went back into the bedroom, and gently shook Lee Know awake. “Minho… wake up.”

Lee Know blinked up at him, groggy but alert. “What’s wrong?”

Jisung knelt by the bed. “We’ve got a problem.”

---

They sat side by side on the couch now, Lee Know scrolling on his own device, eyes scanning the material with practiced calm. Jisung was pacing.

“She’s SCU. Confirmed. But that’s not even the worst part—she’s been working with Hyunjin. He’s Kallisto, babe. Like, the Kallisto.”

Minho stilled, a slow exhale leaving him. “Petrov’s operations. The Geneva leak. That guy?”

“Yeah. And Y/N had contact with him on record. Multiple times.”

“So, either she’s compromised,” Minho muttered, piecing it together, “or she’s playing some kind of deep game. Either way…”

“We can’t let her know we know,” Jisung said. “She’s too good. The second she suspects, she’ll vanish.” Lee Know nodded slowly. “Then we make a backup plan. Containment strategy. Something in case she decides to flip on us.”

They leaned over the laptop together. Drawing lines. Mapping timelines. Creating an algorithm that would flag any divergence in her behavior.

“She’s not FBI,” Jisung added softly, almost like it stung.

Lee Know watched him, his hand finding Jisung’s knee. “This is bigger than her now. We play nice. Act like we trust her.”

“And if she decides to go full double-cross?”

---

SOMEWHERE IN BERLIN — FIVE YEARS AGO

The rain was silver in the glow of neon. Cold. Soaked into the cracked asphalt like bloodstains washed clean too many times.

Hyunjin leaned against the shadowed mouth of an alleyway, hood up, hands in the pockets of a double-breasted coat tailored to perfection. Beneath it, a handgun pressed against his ribs and three encrypted drives waited in his briefcase like poison seeds. His gaze flicked upward, catching the silhouette of the woman through the haze—sharp steps, no hesitation, like she wasn’t scared of anything.

She shouldn’t have been there.

And yet… there she was.

Y/N.

She didn’t flinch when she saw him. She didn’t blink, either. Just stood before him like she already knew his name.

“You’re Kallisto?”

He smirked. “I don’t usually get called that to my face.”

“I’m not most people.”

God, that voice. It wasn’t soft—it was steel sharpened in silence. She carried herself like a storm that forgot how to scream. Beautiful in a way that made him ache, because it came with distance. She was untouchable. Purpose incarnate.

She was his type of problem.

---

PRESENT — SOMEWHERE IN TURKEY, KALLISTO’S SAFEHOUSE

Hyunjin sat barefoot at a sleek marble table, screens aglow in the dim light, lines of code reflecting in his tired, brilliant eyes. Cigarette smoke curled into the air like a dragon’s breath, untouched. His hair was half-tied, sleeves rolled up, black ink peeking from the veins of his forearm.

One screen displayed a dossier.

L/N, Y/N. Alias: Sparrow. Former asset of Operation Daggerfall. Unverified handler clearance.

He stared at her picture longer than he needed to. They’d met in Berlin by accident—but what followed was no coincidence. Y/N had needed access to something no agency would touch. The CIA had written her off. MI6 had wanted her dead. The FBI wouldn’t touch her without a valid background.

Hyunjin gave her one. He buried her records so deep no database could scratch them. Gave her a full identity, a backstory rooted in minor ops and forged casework. He made her real, not just on paper but in the eyes of the federal machine.

Why?

Because she was the first person in his life who didn’t ask him who he worked for.

And he liked the lie that he wasn’t dangerous around her.

---

THREE YEARS AGO — RUSSIA, THE BLACK VAULTS

K.B.V. — Komitet Bezopasnosti Vnutrennyaya. The Committee for Internal Security.

Hyunjin had been part of them once—not fully initiated, but deep enough. A rogue intelligence offshoot made of remnants from the KGB, rebranded under the skin of modern espionage. Hyunjin had been brought in as a teenager. A prodigy. A cyber mercenary capable of crashing entire power grids and rerouting missile guidance in under seven minutes.

He had worked operations where no one left alive. Where targets were innocent, and missions weren’t labeled necessary, just paid.

But somewhere along the way… he cracked.

It was a girl, actually. A blonde. From France. He never talks about her. After that, Hyunjin started playing both sides. Selling intel to the West. Helping the ones meant to disappear. That’s how he ended up in your orbit—how he became the one man you could count on to clean up her messes.

But he never told you about his KBV roots. Never told you that your fingerprints were once auctioned on the dark web and he was the one who bought them before someone else did.

He protected you. He watched your walk into fire. He patched her comms. He killed for her—quietly, efficiently. And every time you said “thank you” in that clipped, mission-focused tone… a small, pathetic part of him ached. Because you never looked at him the way he looked at you.

---

He pulled up footage—grainy but clear. The gala. Again. The kiss. Chan’s hand on her waist. Her lips against his. Hyunjin stared at it like it betrayed him personally.

He leaned back in the chair, exhausted.

“…You never wanted me,” he said into the silence. “But you keep calling.”

He closed the screen and locked everything down. Then turned to the window, watching a city he didn’t belong to breathe in the dark. And in a hidden vault under his floorboards, a letter addressed to Y/N sat sealed. Unread. Unsent. Just in case he ever didn’t come back.

---

The morning peeled itself from the edges of the horizon, warm gold bleeding into the sky like ink dropped into water. The air was still damp from the night rain, and the cobblestones outside the safehouse glistened faintly in the soft light.

Inside, Y/N zipped up the final bag with the kind of practiced grace that made it clear this wasn’t her first covert exit. She wore a dark hoodie, her hair tucked beneath a cap, and had the quiet look of someone already in the next country in her mind. Chan watched her from the doorway, arms folded, his face unreadable except for the faint shadow beneath his eyes—a storm bottled too neatly.

He knew. Everything. But she didn’t know that. He grabbed his own bag off the floor, slung it over his shoulder. “You double-checked the back exit?”

“Twice,” she said, brushing past him lightly. “You’d be surprised how many ops go south just because someone forgot to check for cameras.”

He gave a small, empty smile. “Wouldn’t surprise me at all.” They stepped out into the dawn.

---

The taxi smelled faintly of cigarettes and lemon-scented wipes. The driver grunted something in Czech and pulled away from the curb, the soft rumble of the car the only real sound as the city began to stir around them. Chan sat by the window, his hand curled loosely near his mouth, eyes locked on the blur of minarets and rooftop pigeons sliding past. Y/N sat beside him, her gaze forward, one leg bouncing slightly.

He broke the silence casually, voice wrapped in silk and smoke.

“You ever work with anyone out of South Carolina?”

Her eyes flicked to him. “SCU?” A pause. Careful, he thought.

She shrugged. “Not directly. They’ve got their own ghosts. You know how it is—oversight, contracts, a lot of red tape. Why?” Chan tilted his head, still watching the window.

“Just… someone mentioned a woman in one of my old circuits. Said she moved like she wasn’t trained by the Bureau.”

Her eyes narrowed just slightly, just long enough for him to catch it. “You think I move like that?” He smiled faintly, turning to look at her now. “I think you move like someone who doesn’t wait for orders.”

That earned a breath of a laugh. “Maybe I don’t.” They lapsed into silence again. But in Chan’s mind, wires were already reconnecting. Her answer wasn’t defensive—it was practiced. Slick. And vague enough to slide past the truth without ever touching it.

She’s good, he thought. Too good.

The taxi rolled to a stop in front of the departure’s terminal. Morning travelers bustled past with overstuffed luggage and sleep-laced chatter. Chan and Y/N stepped out, blending in with the chaos like shadows.

As Y/N adjusted the strap on her carry-on, her phone buzzed. She glanced at it.

[Jisung]: Your flight's confirmed. Prague to D.C, gate C-22. You board in 1 hr. You’re welcome.

Chan’s burner buzzed next. He checked it discreetly, heart thudding low and slow like a warning drum.

[Jisung]: Kallisto = Hyunjin. Confirmed.

He’s deeper in Russian circuits than we thought.

Do NOT confront her.

Play along. We’re building the counter-plan.

Chan’s jaw tightened. Just slightly. He slid the phone back into his jacket, turned to Y/N with that easy, almost-charming look he wore like armor.

“C-22,” he said. “You want coffee before we go through security?”

She blinked, surprised for a second by the shift. “You’re buying?” He smirked. “You’re still recovering from that fish crime you ordered last night. I owe you.”

As they walked into the terminal, he walked just a step behind her. Watching. Calculating. And the entire time, he smiled like he didn’t know a thing.

---

The room was dimly lit, washed in a cool blue glow from the multiple monitors lined across the wall like portals to chaos. The table was cluttered, half-empty mugs, a bowl of almonds, USBs scattered like confetti, and at the center of it all: Jisung, hunched forward in a hoodie, eyes flicking fast over the screen.

Lee Know sat behind him on the edge of the couch, arms folded, head tilted with that signature mix of exasperation and fondness. His hair was messily laid back, and he wore nothing but a black sleeveless tee and joggers that slung low on his hips.

“Baby, it’s past three,” he said gently. “Your brain’s going to short-circuit. Come to bed.”

“I can’t,” Jisung mumbled, rubbing his eye with the back of his hand. “We just pulled up something off that Turkish backdoor server. There’s something encrypted buried under the Havana list—some weird metadata…”

Lee Know sighed through his nose, padded barefoot across the floor and crouched beside him, eyes scanning the screen.

“… ‘OSCAR,’” he read aloud.

Jisung leaned in closer, typing furiously. “That name was tagged on the Havana trade manifest. Not as cargo. As the person who signed off Petrov’s transfer. But this doesn’t make sense—there’s no trace of her anywhere. No photo. No paper trail. It’s like someone built a ghost and gave her a name.”

Lee Know stared at the file; expression unreadable for a second. Then he stood, walked behind Jisung, and wrapped his arms around his shoulders, pressing his lips to the side of his boyfriend’s head.

“You are too sexy to be this stubborn, you know that?”

“I’m trying to focus here.”

“And I’m trying to get you to sleep so you don’t pass out in the middle of a firewall breach tomorrow morning.”

“I said I’m fine—”

Lee Know leaned down and kissed him again. This time slower. Then once more. Again.

Jisung’s fingers slowed on the keys. “Lee Know…”

“Yeah?”

“What are you doing.”

“I’m kissing you.”

“Why are you kissing me?”

“Because when reasoning fails, seduction prevails.”

“I hate you.”

“You’re lying.”

“I am lying.”

Lee Know slipped around and gently straddled him on the chair, pressing their lips together properly this time—hands warm against Jisung’s jaw, mouth coaxing the tension out of him in lazy, warm kisses. Jisung gave in with a soft groan, arms looping around his waist.

“Just a minute,” he murmured against Lee Know’s lips.

“Take your time,” he whispered back, dragging the kisses slower, lazier, trailing from his jaw to his neck. “I’ll keep you here till the sun comes up if I have to.”

They didn’t speak after that. They just swayed together in the low light, lost in something too tender for words—breaths mingling, mouths brushing, the tension of espionage fading for a moment into something personal. Familiar.

Then,

PING.

The laptop chimed. Jisung blinked against Lee Know’s collarbone, dazed. “That… was the metadata dump. It decrypted.” Lee Know groaned dramatically and flopped back into the couch, dragging a throw pillow over his face. “If that turns out to be a decoy file, I’m deleting the internet.”

Jisung pulled himself up, adjusted the screen—and then froze. His brows furrowed, fingers hovering above the keys as an image popped up.

“Holy sh—”

“What?” Lee Know sat up. Jisung didn’t look away from the screen. His voice dropped.

“That’s her. Oscar.”

An elegant silhouette in grayscale. No face. But the metadata showed something else: A log of clearance codes used during Operation Nightfall. Signed off… under the name Reynolds.

Lee Know leaned in, eyes narrowing.

“…They’re working together?”

Jisung nodded slowly, jaw clenching. “And they were in Havana.”

---

Rain whispered against the windows of the high-rise apartment, streaking the glass in slanted gray lines. The place was sharp—clean lines, sterile decor, too polished to be personal. Just like the man who lived in it. Reynolds stood in front of the bar, pouring himself something darker than his thoughts. The amber liquid sloshed into the tumbler with a quiet clink of ice. He looked tired. More than tired. Worn. His tie was loosened, top buttons undone, and there was a trembling tension in his jaw that hadn’t been there the day before.

Behind him, Petrov leaned back on the leather armchair like a cat that knew it had nine lives. He wore black, all black, a cigarette lazily perched between his fingers despite the no smoking sign Reynolds always insisted on. His eyes tracked Reynolds like a man who expected a bullet—but wasn't scared of it. “You look like shit,” Petrov said calmly in his thick Russian accent, exhaling smoke toward the ceiling.

“I ran into Oscar last night.”

That got his attention. Petrov straightened, the smirk dissolving from his face like fog. “…She’s here?”

Reynolds turned, drink in hand, and gave him a cold, slow look. “In my goddamn living room, Viktor.”

Petrov held his gaze. “I didn’t call her.”

Reynolds’ voice cracked with low fury. “Bullshit. You compromised the gala. She shook your hand in the middle of gunfire. You were a goddamn beacon.”

“I was saving your operation—”

“You were making yourself the center of it,” Reynolds barked, slamming his glass down on the bar with a sharp crack. “Now she thinks we’ve lost control. She thinks I have. She threatened to light this entire op on fire if I don’t have Bang Chan’s head before the deadline.”

Petrov rose from the chair, the smirk now fully gone. “I swear to you; I didn’t say a word to her. She doesn’t know about Chan. Not from me.”

“She knows enough to show up unannounced,” Reynolds snapped, stalking forward. “And if we don’t get in front of this—if we don’t figure out something, she’ll pull the plug and do it her way. And her way? It’s not clean. It’s not political. It’s nuclear.”

They stood there, the weight of a thousand betrayals thick in the air.

Petrov flicked his ash into the tray, then muttered, “So what now?” Reynolds pinched the bridge of his nose, thinking. Calculating. The mind of a man who'd sold both secrets and souls for survival.

“We give her something,” he said finally. “A breadcrumb. Not Chan. Not yet. But something that makes it look like we’re playing ball. And in the meantime—”

He looked up, eyes sharper than a blade in the cold.

“—we come up with a contingency plan. In case she decides we’re no longer necessary.” Petrov nodded slowly, then lifted his glass.

“To desperate partnerships,” he said dryly. Reynolds didn’t toast. He just turned away, staring out at the rain.

“God help us all if she realizes how far off-script this really is.”

---

Terminal 2, Gate 22, En route to Washington D.C

The check-in line was long, but not noisy. But Y/N wasn’t distracted. Not really. She stood a few paces behind Chan as they waited at security, watching him with that instinctive sharpness she'd honed for years. Something about him was different. Distant. Not cold—but guarded. He hadn’t said more than ten words since they’d left the safehouse.

She watched the tightness in his jaw as he shifted his weight from one foot to the other. His hand gripped the strap of his bag a little too hard. His lips were set in a firm, unreadable line.

And Y/N, despite every instinct telling her to just play it cool, found herself leaning toward him gently as they passed through the security scanner.

“You alright?” she asked softly, keeping her tone light. “You’ve been weirdly quiet. Not that I’m complaining. It’s just… not your usual kind of quiet.”

Chan looked at her. For a moment, his eyes flickered. Like something inside him softened just enough to let the truth nearly spill out. But instead, he offered a faint smile—a hollow one.

“Just tired,” he said. “Didn’t sleep well.”

“Nightmares or intel?” she teased, her voice playful but careful. He let out a small exhale, neither confirming nor denying. Just moving through the moment like a man carrying too many unspoken truths.

She didn’t press. Not yet. As they approached the gate, their boarding passes beeped and they crossed into the jet bridge, walking side by side in the sterile tunnel that led to the aircraft. The hum of the engines rumbled ahead, but her mind stayed focused on the man next to her.

Maybe it was the look in his eyes. Maybe it was instinct. Or maybe it was that unshakable thread between them—tension, trust, and something else they never had the courage to name. Just before they stepped into the plane, she said, “You know… whatever it is you think I’m hiding from you… maybe just ask me, Chan.”

That stopped him. He turned to her slowly, brows barely lifted, lips parting slightly as if caught off guard. She gave him a small shrug, eyes calm but not challenging. “I’m not saying I don’t have secrets. We all do. But if you want the truth, you can always ask for it. I won’t lie to you.”

That hit harder than it should have.

Because the file still burned in his bag. The truth already stared him in the face, and yet—her voice made him hesitate. Made him doubt. And that scared him more than anything else. He nodded once, eyes dropping to the floor for just a beat too long. Then he stepped into the plane, leaving her to follow behind, unaware that the first real fracture had just begun.

---

The room was dark except for the flickering light from at least six different monitors. Strings of code cascaded like falling rain across black screens. The air smelled faintly of soldered wire and burnt coffee, evidence of Hyunjin's relentless routines. His desk was a chaotic masterpiece: old USBs, passports, a disassembled burner phone, and a half-finished oil painting of a fox that had long since dried unfinished.

He leaned back in his chair, eyes half-lidded, a single cigarette resting between his fingers but never lit. His gaze flickered over the final set of coordinates he’d decrypted an hour ago.

Location: Prague > Departure: DC

Subject: BANG C. / YN

He exhaled sharply through his nose. They were moving faster than expected. With the same elegance he brought to his art, Hyunjin leaned forward and opened a separate interface. His fingers tapped quickly, unlocking a channel so heavily encrypted it would take even the best black hat a week to scrape the metadata. But Oscar? She’d receive the message in seconds.

He clicked the microphone icon and spoke low into it:

> Oscar. Your package is mobile. Destination: Washington D.C. ETA six hours. Suggest containment on landing. You still want the ghost or just the soldier?

He released the mic, leaned back, and pressed SEND. A soft beep confirmed it was received and decrypted. He sat there, motionless, fingers steepled. His eyes didn’t blink for a few seconds. Because despite what he had just done—despite the mask of cold indifference he wore so well—it wasn’t just a mission. Not when it came to her. Not when it came to Y/N.

Hyunjin whispered under his breath, “What the hell are you doing, pretty girl…?”

He was about to pull up the next operation file when another alert blipped in the corner of his primary monitor.

Incoming Message: UNRECOGNIZED KEYCHAIN

Encryption: NERVE Protocol / Red Spider Variant

Location masked

Brows lifted. He hadn’t seen this protocol in years. Only a handful of elite black-market hackers used it. Most of them were ghosts. Off-grid. Untraceable. Curious, he opened the message.

> KALLISTO. I see you. You can paint in Prague, hide in Spain, sip tea in Seoul. But sooner or later, I'm gonna unplug your router and use your bones as Wi-Fi extenders. :) – spider.exe

Hyunjin blinked. Once. Twice. Then he snorted—actually laughed. Loudly.

“Spider.exe?” he muttered. “That’s cute. Very cute.”

He leaned forward and quickly activated three different defense protocols, sealing his connection routes and initiating a trace sweep. Not to find them—he wouldn’t succeed. But to at least see what sort of game they were playing.

He stared at the signature tag of the hacker’s handle again. It was old-school. Reckless. Personal.

“…Who the hell are you?” he whispered, the smile still on his lips, eyes sharpening like a wolf finally smelling blood.

Because someone was watching him.

And even though they were clever… Hyunjin had survived the K.B.V. by being smarter.

---

Jisung leaned back in his chair, legs folded, hoodie sleeves pushed halfway up as he spun a pen between his fingers. The laptop screen in front of him still had the encryption pulse active—the same encrypted system he’d used to poke the bear.

Or rather, poke KALLISTO.

Lee Know was somewhere in the background brushing his teeth, humming a tune from that one old K-drama he refused to admit he liked. But Jisung? He was grinning, eyes wide and glinting with mischief as he typed again into the Red Spider interface.

OUTGOING MESSAGE

> Yo Picasso.exe — you draw fast but you paint slow. FYI, I'm the nightmare that crash-lands your Dropbox and plays Baby Shark on loop till you cry in Morse code. Wanna play tag, comrade?

ENCRYPTED SEND > DELIVERED

Beep.

He waited. Not even fifteen seconds. His eyes caught the alert on screen.

INCOMING TRANSMISSION – USER: APOLLO.S13 // KALLISTO

Encryption Signature: Modified Russian VektorShell – Unscramblable

Jisung whistled. “Damn. Old school and expensive…”

Then the message decrypted.

RECEIVED MESSAGE

> Tag requires two players. You don’t ping like NSA, but you’re not FSB either. Your syntax is juvenile, your jokes? American. But your footprint is clean. Too clean. Either you’re new, or you’re very good. So tell me: how long have you been inside my system?

Jisung blinked. “Oh, he thinks I’m inside.”

He cracked his knuckles, rolled his neck, and grinned like a devil in a hoodie. “No idea who I am? Good. Let’s keep it that way.”

He quickly began coding his reply—half jokes, half riddles, all wrapped in a sarcasm sandwich.

OUTGOING MESSAGE

> Define ‘inside.’ Metaphysically? Emotionally? Or spiritually? Because honestly, I’ve been living rent-free in your RAM since you sent Oscar that voice memo. C’mon, Kallisto. Play a little.

Another beat.

Ding.

KALLISTO REPLY – 1:38 RESPONSE TIME

> Cute. But cute things die first. Keep poking, spider. When I find your web, I’m setting it on fire.

Jisung snorted, closing the lid of his laptop slowly like he’d just made eye contact with the final boss of a game. He leaned back further, arms crossed behind his head.

“Oh, he mad mad. Baby boy got attitude.”

Lee Know walked in, towel over his shoulder, frowning. “You’re flirting with Russian hackers at again?”

“…Technically he’s North Korean-trained but, y’know, semantics.”

Lee Know sighed, but smirked. “You’re not gonna tell him who you are?” Jisung grinned. “Nah. Not yet. Let’s see how long it takes Picasso to realize he’s been painting on my canvas.”

---

FLIGHT 297 – SOMEWHERE ABOVE KENTUCKY

Cabin dim, engines humming low, and the soft glow of overhead lights pooling like moonlight around their seats.

Y/N leaned back into her seat, head tilted toward the small window, watching as clouds slithered past in the night sky like pale ghosts. The plane wasn’t packed—just a scattering of sleepy passengers lost in their own silence. She’d been watching Chan from the corner of her eye for about twenty minutes now.

He was quiet. Too quiet. And something about the way he’d been since they left the safehouse was… off. Not cold. Just… calculated. Like he was mentally running risk assessments on everything, including her.

She didn’t press. Not immediately.

But curiosity and survival had a similar itch, and eventually, she turned toward him, voice soft. “So… what’s the plan when we land in D.C.?”

Chan didn’t look up right away. His gaze was fixed on the seat in front of him, fingers tapping rhythmically against the fold-down tray. Then, slowly, he shifted in his seat, casting her a quick glance before leaning a bit closer.

“Friend’s place,” he said simply, voice low. “Guy I trust. His name’s Changbin.”

Y/N’s spine straightened by less than a millimeter. Her eyes didn’t blink. Her breath didn’t skip. But something in her stomach knotted.

CIA.

She knew the name. Not from files, but whispers. Operation Scarfall. Beirut. The Berlin Deviation. He was the CIA handler you didn’t want to get on the bad side of. And he was close to Chan?

Shit.

But her face? A masterpiece. She smiled gently. “How close are we talking?” Chan exhaled a quiet chuckle, rubbing the back of his neck. “He almost got me court-martialed on my first inter-agency mission. Gave me hell for three weeks because I mislabeled a cipher doc.”

Y/N blinked. “Sounds like a great first date.”

Chan gave her a look, one that almost held a smile—almost. “He earned my trust the same way I earned his. We nearly died pulling each other out of a blown-out building in Benghazi. Haven’t been able to get rid of him since.”

Y/N nodded slowly, still pretending. Still sweet. Still the Y/N he thinks he knows. “And you think he’s the best place to start?”

“He’s not just a friend,” Chan said, voice flattening slightly. “He’s a fixer. Quiet but connected. If there’s anything left buried in D.C., Changbin can dig it up, burn it, and sell the ashes to the highest bidder.”

Y/N tucked that away. Filed it next to “Find a way to keep Changbin at arm’s length.” Chan’s eyes narrowed slightly, scanning her features. “Don’t worry. I’ll be the one to break the situation down to him.”

“Situation?”

He hesitated. “You. The mission. All of it.”

“Ah.” She crossed one leg over the other, lips curling into a soft smirk. “You think he’s not already ten steps ahead?” Chan scoffed lightly. “He probably is. He’s probably listening to this conversation right now. But I owe him the explanation anyway.”

She nodded, turning her gaze back to the window, watching the lights of a city far below flicker like dying stars. And deep inside—beneath the calm, beneath the softness—she wondered:

How long could she keep playing this game? Because it wasn’t just Chan anymore. It was CIA. And Changbin. The man who once interrogated KALLISTO in a shipping crate in Kaliningrad.

This was going to get messy.

REAGAN NATIONAL AIRPORT – WASHINGTON, D.C.

The air is heavy with dew and anticipation. The city sleeps—restless and unaware.

The plane’s wheels kissed the tarmac with a soft, tired bounce, jostling the passengers gently awake. Cabin lights blinked on fully, casting shadows over drawn faces and travel-weary limbs. Y/N stirred beside Chan, stretching subtly as the pilot's voice crackled overhead, welcoming them to the District of Columbia.

They moved in silence, the kind bred not of awkwardness but of focus—of sharpening blades before the next fight.

Baggage claim was a ghost town, the conveyor belt humming like a tired lullaby. Their duffels arrived quickly—black, nondescript, and heavy with secrets. Chan hoisted his without strain, glancing once over his shoulder as Y/N lifted hers. Always watching. Always calculating.

Outside, the chill was sharper than expected, the kind that bit through jackets and whispered of coming storms. Chan stepped a few paces away from her to the curb, phone in hand, raising it to call a cab. And that’s when her phone pinged.

One message. Unknown number.

Encrypted tag: MirrorOp-11.

She unlocked it, frowning faintly as the screen displayed:

> The spider’s getting closer to the web.

Better check your corners. – K

Her breath hitched just slightly—barely, but Chan caught it.

Unbeknownst to her, as she tilted the screen just slightly for a better read, he caught the top of the message from over her shoulder. His gaze flickered, lips twitching into a slow, almost amused smile.

Kallisto.

He knew that message wasn't from just anyone. And "the spider"? It was one of Jisung's oldest hacker tags—playful, dangerous, elusive. The digital equivalent of a red laser pointer and a loaded gun. Still pretending not to have seen a thing, Chan turned and flagged down a taxi with an easy wave, his voice calm.

“Over here.”

The yellow cab rolled up with a tired groan, headlights splashing across their faces. He opened the door for her first like always, and she slid in, her phone slipping into her coat pocket. Chan followed and closed the door behind them, then leaned in to the driver.

“Northwest. 14th and T Street,” he said smoothly. The driver gave a nod and pulled out into the sleepy city streets, tires whispering over damp asphalt.

Y/N’s expression was mostly neutral, but Chan didn’t miss the subtle tension in her posture, the tight hold on the strap of her bag, the way her eyes darted once to the rearview mirror, checking for tails out of habit.

“You okay?” he asked casually, glancing sideways at her. His voice had that soft, worn edge like coffee at dawn. “You looked like you saw a ghost back there.”

Y/N turned to him, lips already lifting into a gentle, practiced smile. “Yeah,” she replied easily. “Just... tired.”

He tilted his head, studying her just a beat longer than necessary, then nodded. “Of course,” he said, leaning back against the seat. “You’ve been through hell.” His tone was comforting. Reassuring. The protective leader. But his thoughts?

If you only knew what I saw.

If you only knew who I’m talking to. And what we’re building behind the curtain. The cab turned onto a main road, headlights cutting through fog, and the Capitol slowly began to rise like a giant in the distance watching them.

And Y/N?

She pressed her lips together and glanced down at her phone once more. She didn’t reply to the message.

Not yet.

Because suddenly…

It felt like someone else was watching the spider too.

---

The taxi hummed quietly as it pulled up in front of a narrow street lined with quiet row houses modest, but timeless. Each brick home had the same bones but showed off its own personality: a windchime here, mismatched flower pots there, paint chipping in just the right way. And in front of one—olive green door, cracked white trim—was where Chan told the driver to stop.

“Here,” he muttered, already reaching for his wallet.

Y/N stepped out first, stretching her arms with a quiet sigh as Chan paid the driver. The morning air was still cool, birds chirping overhead in the sleepy hum of D.C. suburbia. They looked like tourists, really. Two travelers with their bags and fatigue under their eyes. Nothing suspicious. Nothing wild. Just two people with too much history tucked into carry-ons.

As the car drove off and the sound of its tires faded, Chan walked up to the doorstep and gave three sharp knocks against the wood. There was a pause. Then footsteps. A shuffle. The squeak of a hinge and the door cracked open.

“Jesus Christ,” came a voice, deep and raspy, still thick with morning. “Who the hell fucked you?”

Chan barked out a laugh. “Real welcoming, Bin.”

“Hey,” Changbin grinned, stepping back so they could see him fully. He was barefoot in sweatpants and a black tee, hair messy, a toothbrush still in his mouth like a cigarette. “Had to be said. You look like a war crime.”

“I was a war crime,” Chan said with a smirk. “Come on, Y/N.”

Y/N stepped forward cautiously, bag slung over one shoulder, eyes darting over Changbin with subtle appraisal. She recognized the CIA air before he even spoke—calculated eyes, compact build, that low hum of suspicion always thrumming under the surface.

Changbin blinked at her. “And you are…?”

Chan shifted beside her. “FBI. She found me.”

There was a beat. Then Changbin’s lips twitched.

“A she found you?” he said, brow raised. “Damn, low blow, bro. I thought the Ghost of Langley would be found by some tatted-up Russian or an old white guy named Walter, but this—?” He let out a breathy laugh. “Nah, I like this better.”

Chan rolled his eyes and flipped him off as he crossed the threshold. “Eat shit.”

“Already did. The yogurt expired two days ago,” Changbin shot back, closing the door behind them with a heavy clunk and twisting the locks. He looked back at them. “Make yourselves at home. Couch is yours. Kitchen’s to the right. Don’t touch my protein powder or we fight.”

Y/N smiled politely, easing her bag down by the wall. The space was cozy in that ex-operative kind of way—bare walls, sturdy furniture, hidden cameras in the corner if you looked hard enough. Homey... if your version of home came with bulletproof blinds.

Chan looked over at Changbin again, that subtle softness tugging at the edge of his mouth.

“I missed you, bro.”

That wasn’t something they said easily. Not in this world. Not unless they meant it. Changbin’s expression flickered. “Yeah, well… you better’ve. I had to watch your name bounce through six different kill lists like a damn ping pong tournament.” He crossed over and pulled Chan into a half hug, the kind where you clap each other’s backs hard enough to bruise. “Good to see you in one piece, man.”

“You too.” Chan stepped back, grinning. “How’s your girl?”

Changbin snorted, dragging a hand through his hair. “Mad at me. Thinks I took a late-night op to avoid therapy again.”

“Did you?”

“Obviously.” He gave a shrug like: what’s a man to do? “She’ll forgive me. Eventually. I bought her a plant.” Chan shook his head with a smile. “You’re gonna die in your sleep.”

“Probably. At least I’ll die pretty.”

And just like that, the door to safety had shut behind them but the door to strategy, to planning, to war, had quietly opened. And no one said it aloud yet, but it was there in the glances, the sighs, the heaviness behind every word.

Because this wasn’t just a safe house.

This was the first chess move.

I can't wait for my lovely blue to see this 😙

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mostlysignssomeportents · 8 months ago

Text

How to have cancer

THIS WEEKEND (November 8-10), I'll be in TUCSON, AZ: I'm the GUEST OF HONOR at the TUSCON SCIENCE FICTION CONVENTION.

I've got cancer but it's probably (almost certainly, really) okay. Within a very short period I will no longer have cancer (at least for now). This is the best kind of cancer to have – the kind that is caught early and treated easily – but I've learned a few things on the way that I want to share with you.

Last spring, my wife put her arm around my waist and said, "Hey, what's this on your rib?" She's a lot more observant than I am, and honestly, when was the last time you palpated your back over your left floating rib? Sure enough, there was a lump there, a kind of squishy, fatty raised thing, half a centimeter wide and about four centimeters long.

I'm a 53 year old man with a family history of cancer. My father was diagnosed with lymphatic cancer at 55. So I called my doctor and asked for an appointment to have the lump checked over.

I'm signed up with Southern California Kaiser Permanente, which is as close as you come to the Canadian medicare system I grew up under and the NHS system I lived under for more than a decade. Broadly speaking, I really like KP. Its app – while terrible – isn't as terrible as the other apps, and they've taken very good care of me for both routine things like vaccinations and checkups, and serious stuff, like a double hip replacement.

Around the time of The Lump, I'd been assigned a new primary care physician – my old one retired – and so this was my first appointment with her. I used the KP app to book it, and I was offered appointments six weeks in the future. My new doc was busy! I booked the first slot.

This was my first mistake. I didn't need to wait to see my PCP to get my lump checked over. There was really only two things that my doc was gonna do, either prod it and say, "This is an extremely common whatchamacallit and you don't need to worry" or "You should go get this scanned by a radiologist." I didn't need a specific doctor to do this. I could have ridden my bike down to the KP-affiliated Urgent Care at our local Target store and gotten an immediate referral to radiology.

Six weeks go by, and my doc kind of rolls the weird lump between her fingers and says, "You'd better go see a radiologist." I called the Kaiser appointment line and booked it that day, and a couple weeks later I had a scan.

The next day, the app notified me that radiology report was available in my electronic heath record. It's mostly technical jargon ("Echogenic areas within mass suggest fatty component but atypical for a lipoma") but certain phrases leapt out at me: "malignant masses cannot be excluded. Follow up advised."

That I understood. I immediately left my doctor a note saying that I needed a biopsy referral and set back to wait. Two days went by. I left her a voice message. Another two days went by. I sent another email. Nothing, then a weekend, then more nothing.

I called Kaiser and asked to be switched to another Primary Care Physician. It was a totally painless and quick procedure and within an hour my new doc's intake staff had reviewed my chart, called me up, and referred me for a biopsy.

This was my second mistake. When my doctor didn't get back to me within a day, I should have called up KP and raised hell, demanding an immediate surgical referral.

What I did do was call Kaiser Member Services and file a grievance. I made it very clear that when I visited my doctor, I had been very happy with the care I received, but that she and her staff were clearly totally overloaded and needed some kind of administrative intervention so that their patients didn't end up in limbo.

This is a privilege. I'm a native English speaker, and although I was worried about a serious illness, I didn't have any serious symptoms. I had the ability and the stamina to force action in the system, and my doing so meant that other patients, not so well situated as I was, would not be stuck where I had been, with fewer resources to get un-stuck.

The surgeon who did the biopsy was great. He removed my mass. It was a gross lump of yellowy-red gunk in formaldehyde. He even let me photograph it before it went to pathology (warning, gross):

https://www.flickr.com/photos/doctorow/54038418981/

They told me that the pathology would take 2-5 days. I reloaded the "test results" tab in the KP website religiously after 48 hours. Nothing was updated. After five days, I called the surgical department (I had been given a direct number to reach them in case of postsurgical infections, and made a careful note of it).

It turned out that the pathology report had been in hand for three days at that point, but it was "preliminary" pending some DNA testing. Still, it was enough that the surgeon referred me to an oncologist.

This was my third mistake: I should have called after 48 hours and asked whether the pathology report was in hand, and if not, whether they could check with pathology. However, I did something very right this time: I got a phone number to reach the specialist directly, rather than going through the Kaiser main number.

My oncologist appointment was very reassuring. The oncologist explained the kind of cancer I had ("follicular lymphoma"), the initial prognosis (very positive, though it was weird that it manifested on my rib, so far from a lymph node) and what needed to happen next (a CT/PET scan). He also walked me through the best, worst and medium-cases for treatment, based on different scan outcomes. This was really good, as it helped me think through how I would manage upcoming events – book tours, a book deadline, work travel, our family Christmas vacation plans – based on these possibilities.

The oncologist gave me a number for Kaiser Nuclear Medicine. I called them from the parking lot before leaving the Kaiser hospital and left a message for the scheduler to call me back. Then I drove home.

This was my fourth mistake. The Kaiser hospital in LA is the main hub for Kaiser Southern California, and the Nuclear Medicine department was right there. I could have walked over and made an appointment in person.

Instead, I left messages daily for the next five days, waited a weekend, then called up my oncologist's staff and asked them to intervene. I also called Kaiser Member Services and filed an "urgent grievance" (just what it sounds like) and followed up by filing a complaint with the California Patient Advocate:

https://www.dmhc.ca.gov/

In both the complaint and the grievance, I made sure to note that the outgoing message at Nuclear Medicine scheduling was giving out false information (it said, "Sorry, all lines are busy," even at 2am!). Again, I was really careful to say that the action I was hoping for was both a prompt appointment for me (my oncologist had been very insistent upon this) but also that this was a very broken system that would be letting down every patient, not me, and it should be fixed.

Within a couple hours, I had a call back from KP grievances department, and an hour after that, I had an appointment for my scan. Unfortunately, that was three weeks away (so much for my oncologist's "immediate" order).

I had the scan last week, on Hallowe'en. It was really cool. The gadget was awesome, and the rad-techs were really experienced and glad to geek out with me about the way the scanner and the radioactive glucose they infused in me interacted. They even let me take pictures of the scan visualizations:

https://www.flickr.com/photos/doctorow/54108481109/

The radiology report was incredibly efficient. Within a matter of hours, I was poring over it. I had an appointment to see the doc on November 5, but I had been reading up on the scans and I was pretty sure the news was good ("No enlarged or FDG avid lymph nodes are noted within the neck, chest, abdomen, or pelvis. No findings of FDG avid splenic or bone marrow involvement").

There was just one area of concern: "Moderate FDG uptake associated with a round 1.3 cm left inguinal lymph node." The radiologist advised the oncologist to "consider correlation with tissue sampling."

Today was my oncology appointment. For entirely separate reasons, I was unable to travel to the hospital today: I wrenched my back over the weekend and yesterday morning, it was so bad that I couldn't even scratch my nose without triggering unbearable spams. After spending all day yesterday in the ER (after being lifted out of my house on a stretcher), getting MRIs and pain meds, I'm much better off, though still unable to get out of bed for more than a few minutes at a time.

So this morning at 8:30 sharp, I started calling the oncology department and appointment services to get that appointment changed over to a virtual visit. While I spent an hour trying various non-working phone numbers and unsuccessfully trying to get Kaiser appointment services to reach my oncologist, I tried to message him through the KP app. It turns out that because he is a visiting fellow and not staff, this wasn't possible.

I eventually got through to the oncology department and had the appointment switched over. The oncology nurse told me that they've been trying for months to get KP to fix the bug where fellows can't be messaged by patients. So as soon as I got off the phone with her, I called member services and filed another grievance. Why bother, if I'd gotten what I needed? Same logic as before: if you have the stamina and skills to demand a fix to a broken system, you have a duty to use them.

I got off the phone with my oncologist about an hour ago. It went fine. I'm going to get a needle biopsy on that one suss node. If it comes back positive, I'll get a few very local, very low-powered radiation therapy interventions, whose worst side effect will be "a mild sunburn over a very small area." If it's negative, we're done, but I'll get quarterly CT/PET scans to be on the safe side.

Before I got off the phone, I made sure to get the name of the department where the needle biopsy would be performed and a phone number. The order for the biopsy just posted to my health record, and now I'm redialing the department to book in that appointment (I'm not waiting around for them to call me).

While I redial, a few more lessons from my experience. First, who do you tell? I told my wife and my parents, because I didn't want to go through a multi-week period of serious anxiety all on my own. Here, too, I made a mistake: I neglected to ask them not to tell anyone else. The word spread a little before I put a lid on things. I wanted to keep the circle of people who knew this was going on small, until I knew what was what. There's no point in worrying other people, of course, and my own worry wasn't going to be helped by having to repeat, "Well, it looks pretty good, but we won't know until I've had a scan/my appointment/etc."

Next, how to manage the process: this is a complex, multi-stage process. It began with a physician appointment, then a radiologist, then a pathology report, then surgery, then another pathology report, then an oncologist, then a scan, then another radiologist, and finally, the oncologist again.

That's a lot of path-dependent, interdepartmental stuff, with a lot of ways that things can fall off the rails (when my dad had cancer at my age, there was a big gap in care when one hospital lost a fax from another hospital department and my folks assumed that if they hadn't heard back, everything was fine).

So I have been making extensive use of a suspense file, where I record what I'm waiting for, who is supposed to provide it, and when it is due. Though I had several places where my care continuity crumbled some, there would have been far more if I hadn't done this:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/10/26/one-weird-trick/#todo

The title of this piece is "how to have cancer," but what it really boils down to is, "things I learned from my own cancer." As I've noted, I'm playing this one on the easiest setting: I have no symptoms, I speak and write English fluently, I am computer literate and reasonably capable of parsing medical/technical jargon. I have excellent insurance.

If any of these advantages hadn't been there, things would have been a lot harder. I'd have needed these lessons even more.

To recap them:

See a frontline care worker as soon as possible: don't wait for an appointment with a specific MD. Practically any health worker can prod a lump and refer you for further testing;

Get a direct phone number for every specialist you are referred to (add this to your phone book); call them immediately after the referral to get scheduled (better yet, walk over to their offices and schedule the appointment in person);

Get a timeframe as to when your results are due and when you can expect to get a follow-up; call the direct number as soon as the due-date comes (use calendar reminders for this);

If you can't get a call back, an appointment, or a test result in a reasonable amount of time (use a suspense file to track this), lodge a formal complaint with your insurer/facility, and consider filing with the state regulator;

Think hard about who you're going to tell, and when, and talk over your own wishes about who they can tell, and when.

As you might imagine, I've spent some time talking to my parents today as these welcome results have come in. My mother is (mostly) retired now, and she's doing a lot of volunteer work on end-of-life care. She recommends a book called Hope for the Best, Plan for the Rest: 7 Keys for Navigating a Life-Changing Diagnosis:

https://pagetwo.com/book/hope-for-the-best-plan-for-the-rest/

I haven't read it, but it looks like it's got excellent advice, especially for people who lack the self-advocacy capabilities and circumstances I'm privileged with. According to my mom, who uses it in workshops, there's a lot of emphasis on the role that families and friends can play in helping someone whose physical, mental and/or emotional health are compromised.

So, that's it. I've got cancer. No cancer is good. This cancer is better than most. I am almost certainly fine. Every medical professional I've dealt with, and all the administrative support staff at Kaiser, have been excellent. Even the doc who dropped the ball on my biopsy was really good to deal with – she was just clearly drowning in work. The problems I had are with the system, not the people. I'm profoundly grateful to all of them for the help they gave me, the interest and compassion they showed, and the clarity and respect they demonstrated in my dealings with them.

I'm also very grateful to my wife, my parents, and my boss at EFF, all of whom got the news early and demonstrated patience, love, and support that helped in my own dark hours over the past couple of months.

I hope you're well. But you know, everyone gets something, eventually. When you find yourself mired in a broken system full of good people, work the system – for yourself and for the people who come behind you. Take records. Make calls.

Look after yourself.

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/11/05/carcinoma-angels/#squeaky-nail

#cancer #medicare for all #m4a #health #socialism or barbarism #oncology #kaiser #kaiser permanente #kp

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midnight1nk · 2 months ago

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‼️IMPORTANT NEWS

PLEASE READ: The following is a full report in regards of the Medi situation, the episode “The Lil’ Fellas” and everything else you need to know. This is intended for informative purposes, as I already stated my personal thoughts about the situation. Transcripts will be provided for most of the photos’ descriptions. Content warnings include: proshipping/darkshipping, whitewashing. View at your own discretion.

MediExcalibur2012 (also known as “Medi” or Paul) has been working with the SMG4 Team for around five years as an editor, machinima artist, and voice actor—most notably recognized as the voice of SMG1. He has also contributed as a writer for several past episodes. In addition to his work on the show, and like others on the team, he runs his own channel under the same name, where he uploads personal content not affiliated with the show or its canon.

A few days after the release of the episode “SMG4: The Lil’ Fellas”, several viewers observed that the two children, Hat Kid and Bow Kid, were strangely recolored to resemble Mario and Meggy. At the time, they admittedly dismissed it as speculation, feeling it was just a coincidence. However, some of this speculation went as far as claiming that this was intentional.

A video uploaded by youtuber SZH4 theorizes that the kids are Meggy and Mario’s biological children, based on the fact that their colors align with the MxM fankids Megan and Maggie Jr. found on the Steam Workshop. As he interprets it, the Team's (supposedly) alluding to the idea that Mario x Meggy could be canon. In the final section of the video, SZH4 addresses a message to “haters” of the MxM ship, stating that the theory was made for fun and expressing confusion about how certain moments between the characters are seen as merely platonic. He states, “[Those moments] prove that they’re more than just siblings. Just look closely at the signs and don’t tell me that ‘oh, siblings love each other like that’. I think it’s a different level of love.” [x]

The situation took a drastic turn when, on his discord server, Medi responded to the viewer speculation with the following message:

According to his confirmation, these kids were intended to reference the models. Though he didn’t say it outright in this message, he was clearly aware that they were MxM fankids, as it was explicitly stated in the model names, and he had used a color picker tool on the texture files. This was when everything started to go downhill.

A few people from Medi’s server shared this message on Twitter from late May 4th to early May 5th. Responses from many sides soon overwhelmed the community feeds. Many expressed anger, this being the last straw of Medi’s previous actions, and are urging the Team to take action. Others, including MxM shippers, defended Medi with the claim that it was just an “Easter egg” and shouldn’t be taken seriously. That is not to say all of them are shippers, but do believe this situation was taken too seriously. The creator of one MxM fankid, for instance, released a statement regarding it, quote:

The problem isn’t that a reference was included in the episode, but rather the intentions behind them—the MxM ship. From the Team’s side, Luke himself made it clear before that he was uncomfortable with this particular pairing, canonically Meggy and Mario seeing each other as siblings. None of the Team had overstepped the boundaries he set in production—until now. Not only has Medi disrespected Luke’s wishes, but he also betrayed the rest of the Team, who had no role in what he did. He twisted the trust and intentions of the others, supposedly all for a “reference.” Medi responded to those who brought this point up to him in defense; the following screenshots were provided by Twitter user WickerDan, quote:

(Yes, you did see it right. He edited the message and I’m unable to find the OG message). For the sake of readability in the next screenshot, I’ll leave the transcript here:

“Oh they know about the video and are fine that it exists. I remember I was at the pub one time with all of Glitch and Luke and I were joking with each other about that video and having a good laugh with each other. If they really had an issue with that video or even the ship itself, I would've been fired a long time ago.” — Medi

(BTW that thin screenshot was sent in February, not exactly related to the last episode). This, of course, was sent by Medi himself so take it with a grain of salt. It isn’t usual for these reports to have an unreliable source, but it was brought up for 2 reasons:

The “would’ve been fired a long time ago” was the same excuse he gave in the behind-the-scenes videos in his channel. While those moments were ambiguous in interpretation, as it was for any of the other ships, the scene he’s twisted in the last episode was obvious.

This unfortunately started to spark some doubt on Luke’s OG stance on the ship. Again, these statements from Medi can’t be trusted, and he provided no proof that this exchange happened in the first place.

Some viewers began to notice another issue: Bow Kid, that was meant to be a black character from the OG game, was recolored to have a lighter skin tone to match the fankid’s. This is undeniably whitewashing. User AnEyeArtist, on the other hand, proposed that the lighter skin was done because of a lighting issue and not of Medi’s doing, screenshots also provided by WickerDan:

Though it likely isn’t the case since it is a drastic change with having pictures side by side. For those who say that the kids are simply recolors, it’s the intent behind them that truly matters.

As for the rest of the Team, they weren’t aware of Medi’s intentions until early May 5th. Medi’s actions had managed to slip through the cracks during production, and the Team clearly had no idea until now. As mentioned before, many viewers have been urging them to take action regarding the situation. One proposed solution was to give Medi a warning; others want him to be fired. At the time this report is being written, there has not been an official statement from anyone on the Team.

One thing is certain: what Medi has done to the last episode can’t be undone, and we may not see the episode the same way again. Just because it is “fiction” doesn’t make it right or harmless. MxM is a proship—it always will be, regardless of whichever “version” is being discussed. The intent is what matters. As mentioned at the start, this report is meant to be informative and prevent any misconceptions within the community. While I’ve put my personal feelings aside for this, there are still some things left to establish:

Please do not harass the rest of the Team. This was solely Medi’s doing; they had nothing to do with this. “But they knew how Medi was.” Not like this, never like this. Medi managed to ruin the episode for everyone, regardless of which side they were on, and the team’s hard work on what was once a great episode is now ruined. An absolute betrayal. This must be hard for them to learn about, and I can only extend my apologies for what happened.

No matter the side, we can agree that something has to be done, and Medi must face consequences. I mentioned the possibility of him being fired or receiving a warning, and some of you already know where I stand. From what I've observed across all platforms, this would certainly be a difficult decision to make. On one hand, firing him would lead a portion of the viewers to claim it was too harsh. On the other hand, giving him a warning would be seen as not strict enough. Either option would only escalate the situation, with the possibility that the Tari VA controversy could be brought into the mix. The best possible course of action would be to not assign Medi any scenes related to Meggy and Mario and restrict him to exactly what the script intends. Though not everyone will agree, this approach should be enough to calm the waters, and it's likely the Team would handle it this way based on previous instances. It’s not a guarantee that this would happen exactly, but it is something.

Regardless, we must do our best within our community to stay informed and spread awareness, not letting it go silent so quickly. This show means something to us, in one form or another. Understandably, a lot has happened over the last few days. If you need a moment to breathe, take it. Treat yourselves with other media, get a snack, and allow some time to take your mind off things. Prioritize your mental health. But if you can, join the voice of our community.

Greater in numbers, we can fight for it with all we have, take it back from his doing. Even something as simple as using the hashtag #DoSomethingAboutMedi to spread the word would help. Any update that comes our way will be posted, as always. In the meantime, take care.

#‼️#please read!!#smg4 #smg4 news #dosomethingaboutmedi #(content tags ->)#cw: proship #tw: proship #cw: whitewashing #tw: whitewashing

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noideabutsims · 7 months ago

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Donut Co. Rainboho-tastic Throw Rugs

Simmers, Prepare for a Rainbow Explosion of Cozy Comfort! 🌈💥

Donut Co.'s Rainboho-tastic Throw Rugs are here to add a touch of playful magic to your Sims' homes!

These aren't just rugs, they're whimsical works of art, bursting with vibrant colors and free-spirited charm. Imagine your Sims sinking their toes into the soft, plush pile, feeling the joy of childhood with every step.

✨ Two enchanting designs: A shooting star soaring through a rainbow sky, and a whimsical rainbow nestled amongst fluffy clouds. It's like having a little piece of happiness right under your Sims' feet!

✨ Perfect for any space: Add a pop of personality to nurseries, playrooms, bedrooms, living areas – anywhere your Sims need a touch of cozy comfort.

So ditch those boring, beige carpets and embrace a world of color and imagination! Donut Co.'s Rainboho-tastic Throw Rugs are here to transform your Sims' homes into havens of playful charm. Download them today and let the good vibes flow! ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Some images have my reshade on - the blueish tint means NO reshade!*** If you are interested in my reshade, or want to see how much it changes the color - you can find it here: https://www.tumblr.com/noideabutsims/763209634729345024/remember-those-days-reshade-preset-guess-what?source=share *****RUGS IN GAME HAVE BEEN SIZED UP USING [ + ] KEYS!***** ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Has 2 swatches New mesh

All of our CC can be found by typing " Donut " into the search bar! Name: Donut Co. Rainboho-tastic Throw Rugs Buy Mode Description: "Simmers, get ready to inject a dose of rainbow magic into your Sims' homes with Donut Co.'s Rainboho-tastic Throw Rugs! These aren't just rugs, they're portals to a world of whimsy and wonder, where shooting stars dance across the sky and rainbows nestle amongst fluffy clouds.

Imagine your Sims sinking their toes into the soft, plush pile, feeling the joy of childhood with every step. These vibrant creations are perfect for adding a pop of personality to any room, from nurseries and playrooms to bedrooms and living areas.

So ditch those boring, beige carpets and embrace a world of color and comfort! Donut Co.'s Rainboho-tastic Throw Rugs are here to transform your Sims' homes into a haven of playful charm." Will be releasing more content soon! stay tuned! ❤️ (NOT affiliated with EA or Maxis in any way! We just make CC!) ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ DOWNLOAD: Curseforge: https://legacy.curseforge.com/sims4/build-buy/donut-co-rainboho-tastic-throw-rugs Patreon: https://www.patreon.com/posts/116722524 Google Drive: https://drive.google.com/file/d/1ihTWnoNa9pIqoTEkBqSbaiKzi3PZL7rP/view?usp=sharing ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Due to financial issues and our promise of never paywalling our content; We have to ask that you guys download on our curseforge if you are willing and able. Just using their site to download makes us be able to have at least a small income that helps us when things get tough - however no matter where you download; we genuinely appreciate every download regardless!! If you can, you can find our curseforge here!: https://legacy.curseforge.com/members/the_lady_gaia/projects @alwaysfreecc @maxismatchccworld

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echoreconcrew · 2 months ago

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Stolen Imperial Files - Captain Howzer

SUBJECT FILE: #7569-HWZ-RYL STATUS: DESERTER – ACTIVE THREAT LEVEL: high DESIGNATION: CT-7569 “HOWZER”

AGE: 26 (BIOLOGICAL) SPECIES: HUMAN EYES: BROWN HEIGHT: 6'1" ALIAS: HOWZER HOMEWORLD: KAMINO

TRAITS: EXHIBITS A CALM, STEADYING PRESENCE—COLLECTED, PRINCIPLED, AND PROTECTIVE BY NATURE. TENDS TO FORM DEEP EMOTIONAL BONDS, PARTICULARLY WITH CIVILIANS AND SUBORDINATES, WHICH OFTEN OVERRIDE PROGRAMMED LOYALTY TO COMMAND. SHOWS STRONG INTERNAL CONFLICT BETWEEN DUTY AND CONSCIENCE, LEADING TO ACTS OF DEFIANCE WHEN IMPERIAL ORDERS CONTRADICT PERSONAL ETHICS. INSPIRES TRUST AND LOYALTY AMONG HIS PEERS THROUGH QUIET STRENGTH, EMOTIONAL INTELLIGENCE, AND UNWAVERING RESOLVE. AFFILIATIONS: GAR

BIOGRAPHY

CT-7569, codenamed “Howzer,” is a clone officer formerly assigned to Imperial garrison command on Ryloth during the initial post-war occupation. Publicly considered a model officer, Howzer’s service record within the Republic Army was unblemished, with commendations for loyalty and command efficacy. Following the rise of the Empire, Howzer remained stationed under the directive of Vice Admiral Rampart to enforce martial stability across Twi’lek territories. Subject’s defection occurred during the Ryloth Uprising (see Rebellion Suppression Dossier #RLS-INC-33). During an attempted extraction of known insurgent Cham Syndulla, Howzer openly disobeyed Imperial orders, directly intervening to prevent execution of civilian and rebel targets. Eyewitness reports confirm subject incited clone troopers under his command to stand down and join the resistance, resulting in a failed detention of key insurgents and a compromised garrison post. CT-7569 was detained under Imperial security protocols and listed for tribunal transport to Imperial Justice Station ODR-3. During transit, subject escaped custody under unknown circumstances (see Prisoner Transfer Breach Report #ODR-EVAC-19A). It is suspected that Howzer’s extraction was coordinated by rogue clone elements or sympathetic internal agents. Subsequent sightings across the galaxy have placed CT-7569 in proximity to known clone deserter networks, including cells operating beyond the Mid Rim. A verified field report submitted by CC-3636 confirms visual identification of Howzer on Teth, in the company of CT-7567

PROFILE NOTES Command Proficiency: Trained under Republic High Command; known for adaptive strategy, effective squad cohesion, and exceptional morale leadership. Psychological Deviation: Subject’s behavior during the Ryloth Uprising indicates possible inhibitor chip degradation or suppression. Moral Alignment Shift: Extensive exposure to civilian populations, particularly on Ryloth, may have influenced a psychological realignment. ISB analysts suggest subject exhibits strong empathic bias toward native resistance movements and fellow clones.

THE HUB Ask to join the Tag List!

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sayojin · 23 days ago

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attempted to design grian today (+ absolutely necessary grimpulse bit to show off grian's powers and my impulse design for the umpteenth time)

yapping about design choices under cut, as always ↓↓↓

his design only makes sense with the unnecessary minecraft worldbuilding that i made up but ill try to make it sound cool without pulling out my 30k words note files.

hes basically a shape shifter originating from the void.

in my delusions, minecraft has four dimensions, we got the overworld, the nether, the void and the aether(yall remember that shit?) so all the hybrids i make up for hermits/lifers originate from one of the four(for the most part). so think xisuma from the void, tango from the nether, skizz from the aether, jimmy from the overworld etc etc.

hybrids from the void have poor vision/are blind cause sight isnt the most useful sense in the endless pitch black. So like xisuma uses his helmet to get extra input from his surroundings and grian (who allegedly has holes for eyes) has thems appendages with tactile receptors that help him visualize his surroundings. transforming into things/beings helps with that too.

also gave him wing-like markings for his watcher affiliations, which btw makes him somewhat aether-ish.

he gets nerfed in his own life games by being locked to one specific form (chosen by watchers) so like in 3rd life he appears avian, in double life hes watcher adjacent, in wild life he kinda gets more freedom on superpower day.

his hair is prolly choppy and asymmetrical cause brother cant fkn see but cuts it himself anyways. it covers his "eyes". he also wears glasses sometimes too

thats about it :3 (well, theres more but we'll be here for days if i keep going)

#grian fanart #hermitcraft grian #grian #grimpulse #digital art #fanart #my art #hermitcraft fanart #hermitcraft #hermitblr #mcyt fanart #mcyt

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justinspoliticalcorner · 1 month ago

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Olivia Troye at Olivia of Troye:

What happened to individual privacy in America? If you’ve been reading my work, you know I’ve been raising alarms about the national security implications of this administration’s overreach for months, starting with what looked like a politically motivated purge at the NSA. That was the first clue. Now, we’re seeing the broader plan come into focus: a vast federal database powered by Palantir, bringing together the private records of millions of Americans. Yes, Palantir, the company founded by Peter Thiel, a major Trump donor and MAGA megaphone. The same Palantir that’s been embedded within our intelligence community for years, developing tools to track terrorists and build connections across massive datasets for counterterrorism efforts. Tools that, when used with oversight and restraint, helped save lives. I know because I’m familiar with them, given I spent most of my career in national security. But those same tools, in the wrong hands, can become the backbone of a mass surveillance regime. And that should make all of us, regardless of our political affiliation, uncomfortable.

Palantir didn’t just appear out of nowhere. It has spent nearly two decades embedding itself within the U.S. government, from the Pentagon to the CIA, from the IRS to ICE, which recently awarded the company with a $30 million contract to target and also track the self-deporting of illegal aliens (the company has been on the books for ICE since 2009). Are they tracking all the U.S. Citizens and people legally residing in the United States, too, that ICE is “mistakenly” picking up during their raids? Perhaps Palantir could provide a better data system so the Trump Administration doesn’t lose track of the children being separated from their parents this time around…but I digress. Palantir has been a partner in navigating the post-9/11 security state and, over time, evolved into the go-to contractor for everything from border enforcement to COVID-19 vaccine distribution to battlefield intelligence, securing over $2.7 billion in U.S. government contracts since 2009.

Throughout the past week, reporting has surfaced that the Trump Administration has tapped Palantir to build what basically amounts to a national surveillance platform, one that likely links together Americans’ health data, financial transactions, education records, immigration history, and law enforcement files across agencies, into one master system. This is not speculation. This is happening right now under the direction of an administration that is openly working on punishing political enemies, attempting to control dissent, and bypassing legal checks. Let me put this in plain terms: This is how authoritarian regimes take root–not overnight, but bit by bit under the guise of "efficiency," "safety," or "patriotism." They collect the data, connect the dots, and then target the people. And here's the twist that should stop everyone in their tracks: Even Trump’s own base is sounding the alarm. MAGA influencers and far-right allies are now openly asking if Trump has turned on them. Longtime loyalists described the Palantir national citizen database plan as Orwellian, questioning why this administration, their administration, is building a database that could be used to track Americans like political enemies.

Olivia Troye wrote a column on how Palantir will play Big Brother and target your freedoms.

See Also:

For Such A Time As This (Andra Watkins): State-Sanctioned Moral Values

#Palantir #Privacy #Trump Regime #Peter Thiel #Olivia Troye

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preciousjoongie · 2 months ago

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⊹ HOTEL ⊹

⊹ but I keep messin' with ya, and now you're messin' with me

⊹ synopsis ⇝ you and karina are from rival gangs, looking to hunt each other down. what happens when your bosses accidentally assign the both of you to the same hotel to take each other out?

⊹ genre ⇝ smut, enemies to.. lovers (?), sniper/guns, slightly blood, kissing, marking, fingering (karina!receiving), oral (y/n!receiving)

(karina's pov)

"karina." a deep and smooth voice rang out; echoing throughout the dark and empty warehouse. I stepped forward, my chest involuntarily puffing out, my chin raising with confidence. my body bent forward, my head down and facing the ground. slowly rising my back up, my eyes met with my boss—kim jongin. "sir." I spoke. he grabbed a black envelope and slid it to me on his table. I grabbed it, opening it up. it was her. y/n y/l/n.

my face twisted in anger and shame. "2 years back, I sent you after y/n y/l/n. you were unsuccessful with returning her alive—unsuccessful at returning her at all," he reminded me. I nodded my head, my confidence slowly fading from my body. was I finally going to get my punishment for my failure? "but.. i've decided to give you another opportunity."

my ears perked up as if I was a puppy. my eyebrows slightly lifted as I lifted my head. "really?" my breath was airy and faint. he nodded, leaning forward. "this time will be different. bring her back dead; you have my orders to kill on sight." he instructed in a firm and serious tone. "yes, sir. I won't let you down this time." I replied. him choosing me and giving me another chance to go after my worst enemy gave me a confidence boost. he gave me a simple nod. I bowed before him once more before turning on my heels.

my boots echoed off each step up to the top floor, my hands gripping the envelope. sitting down in a lounging areas, crossing my legs and reopening the envelope.

[CONFIDENTIAL DIRECTIVE — RAVEN UNIT: BLACKLOTUS]

TO: KARINA

OPERATION CODE: ECLIPSE

TARGET:

Codename: LUNA

Real Name: Y/n Y/l/n (Alias: Black Mamba)

Affiliation: SIREN Syndicate

Status: High Threat

MISSION OBJECTIVE:

Terminate on sight. No negotiation. No extraction. You are the final step.

DETAILS:

Target is lethal. Reports suggest martial arts, skilled weaponry, and psychological warfare tactics. Known for high body count and zero traces. Last seen trailing intel out of Hongdae and ghosting a clean-up crew in Osaka.

Location pinged at Hotel Vanta, Room 1109, checking in under forged name C. Min. Expected to be alone. Window of opportunity: 18:00 - 23:00.

WHY YOU:

You’ve crossed paths before. You understand how she works. She left one of ours breathing just long enough to send a message.

WARNING:

Underestimating her will get you killed. This isn't just a hit. It's a statement.

No body, no payout.

No hesitation. No mercy.

Walk in quiet. Walk out alone.

End transmission.

I leaned my head back, exhaling a breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding. sliding the intel back into the envelope, I headed for my room and started packing. the boss had already arranged a separate hotel for me—just a few miles from Hotel Vanta. strategic distance, less heat. I was scheduled to check in at Vanta the following day.

(your pov)

I flipped through karina's background file, fresh from my boss’s hands. looks like she’s still stirring trouble—still got my name on her kill list. but I’m not letting her get the first shot. not this time. I’ll end her before she even sees me coming.

[CLASSIFIED COMMUNIQUE — SIREN SYNDICATE]

TO: Y/N (Alias: Black Mamba)

MISSION CODE: BLACKCRESCENT

TARGET:

Name: KARINA (Alias: Karina)

Affiliation: RAVEN Syndicate – BLACKLOTUS Division

Status: High Priority Threat

OBJECTIVE:

Terminate the target on sight. This is not reconnaissance. This is an execution.

INTEL:

Target is lethal, surgically precise, and emotionally detached. Known for charm-based infiltration and silent kills. Internal chatter places her in Hotel Vanta, Room 1114, under the alias K.Jin. Intel suggests she’s alone — but don’t get comfortable. She doesn’t need backup.

This is the one who ghosted your extraction crew in Busan. Left your handler gutted and smiling like a message carved in skin. You were warned then: she won't miss but maybe we were wrong. More intel has let us know that she has trained harder so this time, just might not.

WHY YOU:

Because you’re the only one who won’t hesitate. You’ve danced with her before — long enough to know she’s not a shadow, she’s a blade. And a blade only stops when it’s broken.

DIRECTIONS:

Get in clean. Room 1114. No hesitation. No warning. Don’t let her speak. Don’t let her breathe.

DIRECTIVE FROM COMMANDER NYX:

“She’s not a girl, she’s a weapon. And weapons don’t get second chances.”

No trace. No noise. No mercy.

Finish it.

I scoffed at the final line in her file. she's not a girl, she’s a weapon. yeah, well—if she was really a weapon with any sense last time, I wouldn’t be breathing right now. tossing the envelope onto the pile of clothes in my suitcase, I zipped it shut. I was ready.

exiting the hideaway house, I slipped into the black van idling at the curb—engine humming low like it already knew where we were headed. Muse Valley Hotel was the first stop, a quiet shell of a place tucked into the hills just far enough from Vanta to stay off radar. the plan was simple: blend in, observe, wait. on the second day, I’d make my move. that's when I’d check into Hotel Vanta and finish the job. to finish yu jimin.

It wasn’t just a mission. It was a reckoning.

(karina's pov)

I stepped into the hotel—Muse Valley. “name?” the receptionist asked, her voice flat with exhaustion. “K.Jin,” i replied. her fingers clacked against the keyboard as she scrolled through the system, eyes barely meeting mine. “room 117, fourth floor,” she said bluntly, turning to grab a key off the wall. she handed it to me without another word. i took it, nodding once, then pulled my suitcase behind me toward the elevators.

the elevator doors slid open with a soft chime. i stepped inside, alone, the hum of fluorescent lights overhead sounding louder than it should’ve.

fourth floor. button pressed. doors closed.

as the elevator climbed, i caught my reflection in the mirrored panel—black hair falling sharp around my face, eyes unreadable. a weapon, not a woman. i had to remember that. my nerves were tighter than they should’ve been. she was only a few miles away. and i’d trained for this—two years of silence, sweat, and steel. y/n wouldn’t get past me. not this time.

the dull ding of the elevator and the light shake of the stop snapped me out of my thoughts. I stepped out, scanning the hallway with the same glance I gave every new place. subtle. fast. a rhythm built into my bones. just be aware of all my surroundings. room 117 was at the far end, right-hand side. as I walked, my boots barely made a sound against the carpet.

I unlocked the door and pushed it open. a single bed, curtains drawn over the windows, the room cold and uninviting. I shut the door behind me, tossing the keys onto the bed as I walked around, letting my gaze drift lazily over the ceiling and corners. a soft beep echoed from somewhere above, just behind the door. a camera. I didn’t flinch. I knew it was one my boss had placed before I even stepped foot in here.

(your pov)

as I watched tv in my room—room 112—a soft and faint sound hit my ears. boots. could be anybody. right? they didn't stay for long, they were gone after a couple of seconds. I relaxed back in my bed, continuing to look at the screen. something didn't feel right, and as great of a soldier I am, i've learned that my instincts aren't always right.

I pushed the uneasy feeling aside, focusing back on the TV, trying to drown out the quiet buzz of the room. but even as the hours ticked by, the weight in the air wouldn’t lift. something was lingering, just out of reach. I checked the time. almost midnight.

I shifted on the bed, pulling the blanket up, trying to get comfortable. my thoughts circled, like a loop I couldn’t shake. the sound of those boots. something oddly familiar. the strange tension in the air. but I couldn't find any reason to stay alert—nothing had happened.

still, I went through my usual checks. the door was locked, the window sealed. I slid the knife under my pillow, just in case. the TV flickered with some distant show, but I wasn’t really watching anymore. I stared at the ceiling, listening to the hum of the building settling around me. finally, exhaustion won. I closed my eyes, my body giving in to the weight of the day, even though my mind kept replaying the same thoughts.

tomorrow. it all happens tomorrow.

and with that, I fell into a restless sleep, the shadow of my mission hanging just above me.

(the next morning)

I pulled on my black leather shorts, the cool material sliding against my skin, fitted just right. the weight of the knife in its holster at my side felt like a steady reminder of what was to come. I need no more than a knife, for it that were to be useless, I was more of the weapon. the rest of the outfit was tactical: fitted shirt, boots laced tight, everything streamlined, nothing to hinder me. I fixed my fitted top in the mirror before tying my hair into a ponytail.

I stepped into the hallway, closing the door. shit. I forgot my earpiece. going back in, I grabbed it, fitting it into my ear. I walked back out, I turned to face the door closing it and locking it. my boots made no sound on the carpeted floor as I walked, each step purposeful.

I stopped. a small smile tugging at my lips as I felt the barrel of a handgun press against my skull. a chill ran down my spine—not because of fear, but from the exhilaration. the soft, almost imperceptible click of the gun—its chamber loading a round, the sound too familiar, too precise. a warning, a signal, and yet... I wasn’t moving.

"karina.." I spoke softly—the smug smile in my voice was noticeable. she hadn’t pulled the trigger yet. that was enough of a clue.

"it's been 2 years. you're still sloppy," I added, my tone a mix of amusement and challenge. her hand slightly shook holding the gun. the click of the chamber echoed in my ears, but I didn’t flinch.

I could practically hear her steady breathing behind me. the tension was thick, as if the world had paused, holding its breath just like we both were. "well, what are you waiting for? you have me? shoot. shoot, karina." I instructed. right as her finger moved to the trigger, I swiftly turned around, kicking her in her stomach. the gun flew down the hallway.

she bent forward, holding her stomach. she recovered quickly, eyes flashing with fury. without hesitation, she lunged at me, her movements fluid, precise. I sidestepped just in time, feeling the rush of air as her fist grazed my shoulder. karina spun on her heel, aiming a quick strike to my ribs. I blocked it, but the force pushed me back a step. She was fast—faster than before. a proud and amused chuckle escaped my lips, "you've gotten faster."

in my moments of glory and joy, before I could react, she lunged—her fist colliding with my jaw, knocking my head to the side. the sting was sharp, disorienting. she didn’t give me a chance to recover. karina's knee slammed into my ribs, and I staggered, the breath knocked out of me, my body falling to the floor. she's gotten stronger, too?

I tried to stand up, but she was already on me. with one swift movement, she grabbed my arm, twisting it behind my stomach. her legs straddled my back, one hand pushing my head to the floor. I let out a groan. "wow, karina.. I didn't expect this from you." I huffed, with a chuckle.

"there's a lot more where that came from," she said, grabbing my hair and lifting me up to her face. "really?" I smiled, locking eyes with her. karina nodded with a hum. "wanna show me?" I asked. karina huffed, slamming my head back into the floor. I left out a groan, my tooth cutting into my lip. "shit!" I cursed, the pain radiating through my face.

"you won't get away from me that easy." karina whispered. I forced myself to exhale, then with all the strength I had left, I heaved my body, twisting and bucking beneath her, overriding her words. she lost her balance for just a split second, and that was all I needed. I spun, knocking her off me with a violent push, her head hitting the wall. I grunted, standing up quickly. blood dripped from my lip—I wiped it off.

she struggled to stand up, her ears ringing from the impact of her head hitting the wall. as I walked over to her, I grabbed her by her hair, making her look up at me. "you may have gotten better, karina. but you'll never be as good as me." both of our breathing was heavy. karina went to sneak me— to punch me but I was quick to catch it and grab her wrist, twisting it behind her back. I yanked her up, dragging her toward the open door of her room.

karina tried to resist, but I slammed her into the doorframe, pushing her inside. the moment we crossed the threshold, my eyes locked onto the camera in the corner of the room. karina's eyes followed my gaze. “didn't expect that, did you?” karina asked, a smug chuckle coming out of her mouth. "you won't last. they'll be here soon." she sniffled, sort of struggling to breathe through her bloody nose.

"oh, yeah? and how long is soon?" I asked. she furrowed her eyebrows. "you won't make it.." she responded. I didn't say a word. instead, I walked her to her bed, pushing her on it and letting go of her arms. she sighed at the soft surface welcoming her in. she turned over, looking at me hovering over her. her breathing picked up—I couldn't tell if it was from fear or something else.

"something wrong, karina?" I bent down to her face. karina gulped. her eyes flicked from my eyes to my lips. she went to say something, her mouth opening, but nothing came out. karina's eyes drifted down to my fingers that were trailing her thigh. "I'm messin' with you. but does that make you nervous?" I asked, head dropping to her neck, my lips ghosting her neck.

"y/n..?" karina's voice was full of question, but laced with something deeper—desperation. her brows furrowed as my lips brushed her neck, slow, deliberate. she didn’t move, not right away. her hand gripped onto my side. I moved my hip back, pulling my lips out of her neck. "don't touch me," I commanded, not wanting to take any chances of her suddenly getting the upper hand on me. I grabbed the knife on my side, throwing it on the nightstand.

my lips traveled back to her neck, "we're not supposed to…” she whispered, voice barely holding together, not finishing her sentence—a gasp leaving her throat. “and yet,” I murmured against her skin, “here we are.” she shivered. not from fear, not from cold—but from everything unspoken between us. her body was still coiled tight beneath mine, but she didn’t push me away. not yet.

this time when she shivered, it was from my hand; my cold hand gripping onto her hip. my hand slowly traveled up her shirt as I slowly, deliberately, i parted my lips and pressed them against that spot just below her jaw. she stiffened, but didn’t pull away. my cold hand kneaded her breast until I felt her nipple grow hard. karina hissed, huffing a harsh breath.

I sucked gently at first, then harder, my mouth working over her skin in slow circles, my tongue flicking against the growing mark. a quiet sound escaped her throat, somewhere between a gasp and a curse. her fingers curled slightly against my side, unsure whether to push me away or pull me closer. "please.. let me touch you." karina's voice softly broke as I pinched her nipple.

my head arose from her neck, my lips brushing against her cheek as i hovered there. "and why would I let you do that?" I questioned her just above a whisper. her sharp, painted eyes flicked up to mine, dark and desperate, but still defiant. "the same reason you're touching me. to feel. not as an enemy or target." her breath was heavy, still feeling my cold hand gently stroking her thigh. "do what I say and I'll let you touch me." karina nodded slowly.

"lay back." I instructed. karina's back softly hit the bed, legs dangling off the edge. I pressed a small kiss to her exposed stomach before pulling her shorts off in one swift motion, along with her panties. she gasped at the sudden move and the cold air hitting her wet pussy. "I haven't touch you yet, karina. you're already this wet? tsk tsk." I chuckled at her pathetic attempt to close her legs and hide from me.

my fingers ran through her wet folds once—my finger bumped her clit and brushed against her entrance. karina hissed, moving her lips lightly; another chuckle escaped my lips. "so pathetic.." I spat. a whimper left her throat, eyebrows furrowing. "you want me to touch you right, baby?" I asked, running my fingers through once more and collecting some of her juices. she watched as I took my two fingers in my mouth, tasting her. she bit back a moan. I raised an eyebrow at her with a small smile. "answer me, karina." she quickly nodded.

I looked in her eyes as I took my middle finger and ring finger, slowly entering her pussy. a soft squelching noise echoing throughout the room. karina whined, moving her hips. I grabbed onto her hips roughly; not on purpose, it was sort of like a habit. something I couldn't really explain. "please, give me more." she whined.

"shh, baby. i'll give you more." I shushed. she nodded and sighed as she felt my fingers move at a slow pace, curling at just the right angle to push against that one spot. she moaned, her mouth left agape. "you like that?" I asked her and she nodded vigorously. my hand left her hip and pushed below her abdomen, onto her bladder. I moved my fingers faster, adding a third.

"ha- ah, fuck!" karina moaned, curling her fingers into a fist. she slammed her hands onto the bed, gripping the white sheets. she cried out, moving her hips uncontrollably. my thumb reached up to her clit, rubbing slowly. "look, karina." I turned my head to the camera. "I bet they're watching us. watching how you fall apart on your target's fingers. they must think you're so, so.. pathetic."

she turned her head to towards the camera, whimpering. she knew how pathetic she looked right now. the amount of pleasure—just from her target's fingers, I might add—was insane and made her feel like she was cloud9. "I'm gonna c-cum, y/n!" tears pricked karina's eyes the closer she got to the edge. "cum on my fingers, karina." I leaned up and whispered in her ear.

I pushed onto her clit and curled my fingers up once more into that one spot. she grabbed my wrist, crying out. "s-shit!" her back arched off the bed as she came on my fingers. I slowly pulled my fingers out of her pussy, looking down at her sticky mess.

she quickly came down from her high, sitting up on her elbows. she watched as I stuck half of my fingers in her mouth. I sucked off her cum, closing my eyes at the sweet taste. I opened my eyes to see her biting her lip, "taste." I said, grabbing her jaw. her mouth immediately opened. I smiled, sticking my fingers in her mouth. I watched her face as she sucked on my fingers.

her own hand traveled between my legs, her fingers finding my clothes pussy—she rubbed gently, but harsh enough to feel. "wanna taste you now," she said, her mouth leaving my fingers with a small pop. karina smiled at my shaky breath. I nodded, my mind going hazy. she got up, pulling up her shorts, leaving them up unbuttoned. I lied back on my elbows, her hands gripping my shorts and pulling them down to my ankles.

she kissed onto my abdomen, getting lower and lower each few kisses. as much as she wanted to wait a bit and tease me, she couldn't; karina wanted to taste me then and there. "now i'm messing with you." her lips left got down to my clit, pressed a soft, open-mouthed kiss to it. I threw my head back softly at the sensation. her lips wrapped around my clit, sucking on it softly. I let out quiet moan, leaning my head back up to watch her.

she looked up at me, flattening her tongue at my entrance and licked all the way up to my clit, once again, wrapping her lips around my clit. she suck harder this time, gripping onto my thighs. "karina. so good." I moaned. she giggled into my pussy, my thighs closing from the sensation.

she opened her mouth wider, pushing her head further into my pussy. her tongue did wonders at my entrance while her teeth occasionally bumped my clit. I moaned louder and more frequently. I placed my hand on the back of her head trying to push her face deeper—if that was even possible. "you're doing so good," I whined. karina lightly shook her head, slurping up all of my wetness. broke moans slipped out left and right. "karina, i'm cumming." I panted.

she pushed her tongue into my entrance to catch whatever she could. her slurps only got louder as I came. lifting her head from between my thighs, her mouth was covered in my slick. I leaned forward, kissing her lips—getting a taste of myself.

I pulled away, looking her in her eyes with a small smile. my hand tangled into her hair, gripping hard. I slammed her head into the nightstand, letting her hair go—her body going limp on the floor. I stood up, pulling up my shorts with a small hiss. I bent down to her, "aww, I'm so sorry, baby." I coo, pushing her hair out of her face. a bruise already forming at the side of her head.

picking up her limp body, I threw her over my shoulder. I grabbed my knife from the nightstand and put it back in the holster on my side. walking out of her room, I tapped the side of my ear, channeling my boss, "I got her." I spoke.

"copy that." he responded, the line disconnecting. "you should've known, yu jimin. never let your guard down."

114 notes · View notes

halcyone-of-the-sea · 2 years ago

Note

Hiya! I’m so happy your requests are open omg your writing is impeccable. So I’ve been with this concept in my head for so long since I read this prompt somewhere: what is with your weird fascination with me?

And just immediately my head started creating a story about reader having the nickname ‘Death’ because she has the highest body count known, skilled as no other and, also, imposible to know on a deeper level because she is like a wall, not letting anyone in. Until John Price needs her for a mission and is, as the prompt says, fascinated by her (and feeling other things he doesn’t want to admit), and is able to break her a little when he gets hurt in a mission after months of working together.

Glory to the Reaper

PAIRING: John Price x F!Reader

SYNOPSIS: He was strange, you admitted to yourself. Always around even when you didn't want him to be. But perhaps the Brit just might surprise you.

WORDCOUNT: 5.8k

WARNINGS: Angst, blood, death, gore, canon typical violence, avoidance tactics, fluff, pining, hurt/comfort, etc.

A/N: I switched around the codename but it's still the same plot! Enjoy, Anon!

*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*

Your eyes slip over the file on the table, slowly caressing the parchment with easy and careful consideration of every word and comma—searching. Focusing. You hum under your breath and slide the page away to spy on the one behind it, the room quiet and the air cold. Outside the window the entire compound is asleep, only the light of the street lamps illuminating the land; inside this office, your feet barely shuffle over the tuft of the rug.

Clicking your tongue, you go to the next document in the pile.

The still-warm body flinches and jerks below you, but you barely notice—he hadn’t put up much of a fight; wasn’t memorable. Sighing and itching over the mask along the bottom of your face, you snatch the last six papers from the desk and fold them four times, stuffing them into your vest pocket.

Stalking with sure steps, you press into the radio on your gear as you step over the body and head to the door. Bloody bootprints follow behind you like a crimson shadow of surefire death.

“Actual, intel secured. Heading to Evac now.” Laswell was listening intently on the other end, your Op of the highest priority.

You wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t, surely. The small click from the other end greets you as you shove open the office’s door and saunter down the hallway paved with glints of marble and pools of viscera like a Roman horror story. Eyes numbly slide past the scores of bodies; necks slit and stomachs burst from bullets fired through silencers.

“Good job, Tomb,” Laswell utters, voice fast and serious as always. “What’s the clean-up status?”

Your lips flinch upward, “I suggest fire and a prayer, Actual. But no one knows I’m here. Main house is neutralized.”

A small pause later and a huff of dull amusement.

“Copy, Tomb. Your ride is waiting—best not to miss it, we need you back sooner than later.” The structure of your lungs rearranges in a small chuckle that echoes off the ceiling; molten silver from the moon slips over your darkened form. The patch upon your right shoulder is illuminated in steady intervals, the familiar image of a mausoleum and a guarding Sphinx.

Alone, that patch is, with no other dark affiliations beyond that demonic cause. Many see it right before they meet their end, but the insignia was entirely left to ruin—no one sees it and lives besides other soldiers.

“Copy.” Your voice is easy and bland as the curtains from the single open window shake in the breeze. “Tell the boys I’m on my way.” You pass the window and slap a gloved hand to it, hearing the squeak of the frame as it hits back down before you turn the corner, slinking away to reform into a figure that evokes grim glances and sliced sentences.

—

You stare into blue eyes with a sheen of disinterest coating your own, hands stuffed into your pockets and gear heavy on your chest. From your shoulder, the strap of your rifle sits as you speak, tilting your head, “Captain Jonathan Price of Task Force 141.”

The man was tall, you admit, fit and formed to harsh military life. Undoublity he’d been in the service for decades. You’d seen his face before—the brunette beard and the strong jaw; small eyes with wrinkles, it’s how you had ID’d him. Plus the bucket hat. Laswell had told you he’d been inquiring about your file and you’d done your own digging off the books.

John grunts a greeting before nodding.

“Pleasure. Tomb, was it?” On the tarmac, you glance around with stiff shoulders as the blades of the helicopter slow down behind you. Morning was just on the horizon, and you hadn’t gotten a wink of sleep on the flight back.

Lips thin, before your vision slides back into place. John’s hands are crossed casually, but his blue holds glints of intrigue. You don’t like that. “...The one and only. Excuse me.”

Walking past, you move like a crane, legs taking long, steady, strides. A hand comes up to scratch at your cheek through your face covering. Laswell was expecting you immediately.

And those feet at your side were not supposed to be there. Your eyes shimmer lowly at the shadow of John as he follows.

“Should tell you that Laswell’s in building two, then.” Pace halting, the Captain continues off on his own as your sharp gaze burns into his neck. He spares a glance over his expansive shoulder before adjusting his course to the East. “Told me to bring you to her. We need to have a little chat, yeah?”

You stay silent, watching John travel to the larger building where Laswell was apparently now waiting for you. After a still minute where you listen to the birds waking up and the scent of dew is in your hidden nostrils, you sigh deeply and roll your shoulders before beginning to walk behind.

“Hm,” Garbled grunts are only heard by you as you stay well enough back from the man. Cautious as you stare at his head.

He holds the door open for you when you finally make it, and you stand blankly from the opening as John’s calloused hand clenches over the door. When you don’t enter, the Captain shakes his head and releases a deep chuckle.

“Alright, then,” he mutters, shuffling through the door first. You follow the strain of his back until you look away and reach for the barrier, pushing it back from you. Making your way inside, you sigh and wonder what you’re getting into.

“Laswell said you don’t like strangers,” eyes peek back at you as the buzzing from the overhead lights echoes in your ears. Your throat releases a hum; shoulders showing a picture of wound ease. “Can’t say she’s wrong, now can you?”

Watching another soldier pass the two of you, you tilt your head to make sure the stranger’s footsteps turn the corner before you answer John’s question with a raised brow to mirror his own.

“Did she also tell you that I don’t plan on joining One-Four-One, Captain?” His bearded smirk catches you slightly off-guard, perplexed by not even the hint of shock in his gaze. He’d done his research.

John grunts as his eyelids narrow, amused. Your muscles tense.

“Affirmative.” The meeting room door is opened and this time he allows you to ease your paranoia by slinking in first.

In the room sits an occupied Laswell, a long table, a projector, and black-out windows. Confused but used to last-minute changes, you simply enter silently and pick a chair with your back to the wall and a good view of the room.

“Laswell,” you utter in greeting as the woman hums a hello, shifting through numerous files. In your breast pocket, you pull out the files you’d stolen and toss them onto the wood. John stands near the entrance with crossed arms, hips shifting every so often as his feet re-situate themselves.

He blinks down at the papers and then back to you with a careful glance at Kate.

Your Station Chief chuckles when she looks at you, tilting her head before she snatches the prize.

“Good work as always, Tomb.”

“Why is he here?” You get to the point, one hand going up to brush over your hair as the other sits limply on the seat’s arm. Your gear sits heavy on you, but that brutal tic of curiosity blooms.

John’s lips twitch before he answers, “An offer. Knew I wouldn’t be able to meet if Laswell wasn’t the mediator, eh? You’re bloody difficult to track down.”

“Offer?” Small talk never mattered to you, hadn’t since you’d signed up, and probably never would. You didn’t understand why people beat around the bush—just say what you need to say and get it over with. There was only so much time in a day.

It seemed John Price carried part of that opinion as well.

Blunt, you admit to your opinion of the man, and sure of his strengths.

“I need your skill set.” Kate looks back and forth between you two before she focuses on her work, multitasking. John continues, pointing a hand at you in demonstration from their hold on his chest. “Mission in three days. Turkey…” He watches you closely as if gauging your abilities. “You in or out?”

You wait in a dim silence for a minute or two before you tilt your body to Laswell, eyes still stuck in stormy blue and pale wrinkles inlaid with dirt.

“Kate?”

“Totally off the books,” the woman says confidently, pen sliding over paper. “Two targets in Bursa. There’s a file in your office.” Raising a brow, John hides his cheeky smile behind a bored mask.

“Take your Lieutenant,” you glare, “Ghost, was it?”

Price shakes his head, hat flinching along with it. “On assignment. I’ll need an answer today, Tomb. Time’s ticking.”

Your jaw clenches in annoyance, “Capture or kill?”

John shrugs nonchalantly, “Either. Is this a yes or a no?”

In this game of cat and mouse, you find yourself slipping. Your obligations as a soldier call to you to take the mission immediately, but for the simple fact that this Captain was unknown to you—and apparently, you weren’t unknown to him.

John was checking all of the boxes of people you didn’t like to be around.

Your voice grits out, eyes burning in their glare, “...When?”

His smirk makes you want to storm out.

“Tomorrow. 1300.” The air in the room is thick, tense like a thick layer of molasses was overtop everything. Under the table, your foot taps to the steady beat of your heart, your face tensed, and the layers of your facemask suddenly too formed to your neck and chin.

Twitching your nose you dig your eyes into John, peeling down his expansive shoulders and chest to take in the layers of packs and other miscellaneous items. His thigh holders and the way they hug his legs. You end with one last dead-on look into his eyes, trying to pinpoint intentions and flay the lines of his brain.

Most people glance away, but John returns the look with a casual tilt of his head and a raised brow. Not at all off-put.

Your hand steadily clenches over the chair.

All you give him is a firm nod—nothing more than a mere jerk of your chin. Kate sighs from where she’d been watching.

“Perfect. John,” she points her pen at the Captain as you both stare off. John grunts before his eyes flicker to the side, leisurely roving back moments later. You blink and rub your forehead. “You have your answer. Now would the both of you get the fuck out of here?”

“Copy, Kate.” John sighs, and you huff; standing as you plan out the amount of time you have to clean up and sleep before you have to leave. With an easy brush of your shoulders, your form shimmies past the Captain with dull enthusiasm.

You weren’t happy about this, but fine. You’ve been through worse.

As you shuffle down the hallway to the armory, your ears quirk when the footsteps ring in the drums of your ears like a hiking beacon. Already you’d memorized the walking pattern.

The thump-bump, bump-thump, of boots and the clink-clank of metal on metal. Shoving down a growl you hiss out into the air, not turning around.

“Problem, Price?” A gruff humph bounces.

“Negative, Tomb.” His shadow comes to conjoin with yours, large body standing side-by-side. Eyes flash to the side of your face, hidden from all by the cloth—like a bored cat, you continue to pave your way to silence; hoping whatever thought this man had in his head would disappear. “Just curious, see.”

“Curious?” your brow raises, the make of your muscles showing your unease. “Can’t help you with that.”

“No, probably not, eh?” John grunts and reiterates as strange emotion spikes in the lines of his face as he glances along you. “Tomorrow. 1300. Don’t be late.” With nothing more, he halts and pivots, peeling back to leave your side as his sudden absence leaves you devoid of heat.

Confusion breeds in your chest, but your steady legs carry you on until your tension leaves. Under your breath you utter a question as you enter the armory, shuffling your rifle off of your chest. “What the hell was that about?”

—

Price and you stand inside the safehouse with fast hearts and narrowed eyes. Blood was dripping down your hands, the black gloves flooded with gore that sure as hell doesn’t belong to you.

“Fuck,” John growls, guttural reverberations echoing off the walls. With stiff ribs, you go and lightly peel back the fabric of the nearest window to study the street below; looking for any suspicious figures. Frowning, you see nothing and let the curtain fall, eyes wafting to the Captain.

“We either lost them or they have surveillance on the building. Best for you to not leave either way.” The mission had gone sideways—apparently one of the targets had an ID on John as a member of One-Four-One. One thing led to another and resulted in you sticking a knife into some man’s gut to get away when he’d been spotted. You blink at his agitated expression, the black beanie on his head ruffled as he runs a hand over it.

But you don’t say anything else. Peeling off your gloves, you listen to him as a rain of blood splatters the carpet.

“This sets us back—since when does bloody fuckin’ Metin Baydar know who I am?” John’s hands are clenched, jaw so tight you wonder if his molars will crack under the pressure. A smirk twitches your lips at the thought. “Tomb,” you slowly tilt your eyes to him. The man sets his lips and crosses his arms, the brown casual wear in his chest bunching. “I’ll need you to be my eyes on this, yeah? If I leave this position I jeopardize your safety.”

“My safety?” you huff a laugh and push your gloves into your loose pants. “Captain, I don’t need you to worry about my safety.”

He seems to pause for a moment, and with a shake of his head his blue eyes shutter closed. A deep, tight, breath is taken and those tiny lids are forced back as you lock gazes. You send a blank look his way and he nods firmly.

“Keep low.” Is all he grunts, feet standing apart and his stare intense. “Copy?”

A swirl of amusement dances in your gut—you tap the earpiece in your shell with a stained streak of blood on your fingers. John stares, unreadable.

“I’ll leave when the streets cool. Just keep on the line so I can relay my intel, Price.” After a moment of silence, your eyes tighten with intrigue. “How do you wonder Baydar knew your face?” Standing by the window again, you peek out and keep John in view. His form shuffles, and he scoffs before walking beside you. Over your shoulder, he also views the buildings and businesses below. You still at the sensation of his breath on the back of your head, hand twitching over the curtain. It ruffles your hair for a moment before you snap out of it, eyes blinking rapidly. “Your Task Force isn’t exactly known,” you finish your sentence, voice strained.

Clearing his throat, as if realizing how close he’d gotten with only the intention of gazing outside, the man’s form jerks back; taking a step or two away to give you distance. Your far-gone eyes blankly continue to look outside but your chest gains some tension to it. You don’t know why.

This Brit is strange. You frown, watching a cat traverse the concrete far below. Not that I really have much to go off of.

“Haven’t a clue.” John sighs again, one hand going to itch at his chin. “Your guess is as good as mine. One thing I do know is that we have to fix this. Now.”

“You should tell Laswell,” you mutter, turning around and walking past him to stand around your packs—all of which hold your gear. Your knife was set into a small sheath inside your shirt, leather wrapped around your waist as you stopped near the coffee table. You pull the lip of your clothes up and grasp at it before peeling the metal out with an inquisitive eye.

If there was any breakage to the tip, you’d be furious.

John watches from across the room, catching glances at your bare skin riddled with scars and burns; unmarred flesh foreign. He feels his breath hitch before you drop your shirt back down and bring the blade into the light.

Holding it parallel, you gaze along the edge and tilt your head, eyelids half-closed.

“Kate?” Price answers you, clearing his throat. “No, it’s better not to create any more shite. She’ll be good off not knowing, yeah?” The brunette’s brow raises in question.

You hum and don’t reply.

The rest of the mission was spent with the two of you conversing over the open line of your comms as you scoured the streets for any sign of the target, feet carrying you over the city as the chill of the late afternoon set in. Presently, you didn’t know how to feel about your situation. Working with others was a strain on your focus—on the walls you’ve built up; John had obviously noticed that you didn’t exactly play well with others. It was plainly stated in your file, after all.

“—attitude, or lack thereof, is a detriment to the structure of any team/unit/platoon that she is placed into under all circumstances. Recommended reserved operations to limit drawbacks.”

Having a pleasant attitude wasn’t your job.

Stalking around the corner, your ears twitch to John’s voice. “Sitrep, Tomb. What’s it looking like out there?”

It was strange, then, that the man over the line was so eager to speak to you. Your sigh hits on deaf ears, and you respond as you carefully walk past civilians making their way home.

“Quiet. No sign.” The silence re-settles and you gradually loosen again. Like a cat, your ears twitch to hear the muttering from the commuters; eyes sliding with watery film across faces.

Baydar owns a restaurant as a front for funding terrorists. Anyone exiting from this direction could be part of it—

“You said you’d never join One-Four-One,” John’s voice makes you shove down a flinch, ripped out of your focus. In your pockets, your hands close into fists, and a deeply annoyed mask fits itself over your expression. “Why’s that, then?”

“What is this?” Your voice goes cold, “interrogation time?”

“With a record like yours, you’d get pick of any Task Force or SOF in country.” The Captain seems to ignore your hiss and jab as his deep voice continues; accent low. You hear the drag of a cigar and the puff of smoke. Internally, you’re thankful for the casual yet attentive acknowledgment of your skills—how the man doesn’t seem in the slightest worried about you. “Why is it that you’re always alone out ‘ere? Couldn’t wrap my head ‘round it, truthfully.” A tobacco-slick chuckle, “Bloody hell, people would kill to get you on a mission like I did, eh? No doubt.”

For a long time, you don’t answer, leaning against the wall across from your target’s restaurant doing recon. Frown tight and face stiff. John’s voice fizzles.

“Ah, fuckin’ forget it Love, just a man’s curiosity speaking for ‘im. I’ll leave you to focus.” Before the line can click, you open your lips—as if the things have a mind of their own.

“People are unpredictable.” The Captain’s breath is gently puffing over the line. He listens and you know he hangs on every word; it was a strange feeling to know that. From under you, your feet shuffle. “They do things that don’t make sense. I don’t like dealing with it.”

A grunt. “Well, can get behind that…” John had a smirk on his lips, you can hear it. “You’d lose your head if you met MacTavish.”

Your focus waning, you blink, getting sucked into this strange interaction with an even stranger man.

“Yeah?” You wonder, head tilting to the side. “One of yours?”

“Hm,” he affirms and the chill of the night caresses your skin. John chuckles. “Sergeant. Bloody good shot, but can get into trouble faster than his fucking gun can fire.”

Your mouth quirks. “Sounds horrible.”

“Makes my job a living hell,” John admits and you shock yourself by listening. “But no one better to keep by my six…You’d ease up to him.”

“I’m not joining, Price,” Your voice mutters out like how a dragonfly snaps its translucent wings on still air. “This is it.”

In the safehouse, John hums under his breath, staring out the window at the blinking lights of the city as you watch the restaurant with far-off thoughts. A smile twitches his lips. For some reason there was something about you he wanted to figure out—something to unravel. You were like Ghost sometimes, but more… fascinating. Darker.

And you knew how to get the job done better than anyone.

John wanted you on his Task Force, your expertise, and the only way to get that was to take you apart like a puzzle of razor blades. Study you. Learn you as the edges cut up his flesh. The Captain had no idea what picture you’d make when everything was in its proper place, but he’d be willing to try with the very tenacity that had gotten him this far.

But there was something else there, too. Some kind of tightness in his chest when you looked at him; he'd gotten it when he’d seen you on the tarmac back not so long ago like some schoolboy. Those blank eyes of yours…why did he want them to light up?

Why did he want to see your laugh?

John wasn’t immature enough to not know his own feelings or attractions, but this was an entire section of its own. Blinking, the man grunts to himself and smirks. “Well, better make it last, then.”

You feel your eyelids carefully pull in surprise.

“I…” Your voice starts but dies off, swallowing saliva down as your mouth clacks shut with a connection of teeth. Closing your eyes, you steady your heart, which had suddenly created a concerning skip in its beats.

John places the cigar back to his lips and takes a long drag, leaning out of the window to watch the smoke disappear into the twinkling lights. Lips peeling his beard hairs back.

—

As it turned out, the mission in Turkey wasn’t the only time you’d have to deal with John Price, and it certainly wasn’t the last time you’d see his face in front of yours. One mission turned into two—two into three and so on. You hadn’t exactly wanted it, but you found you couldn’t turn him down either.

At whichever base you were stationed at, all of a sudden he’d just show up; standing on the tarmac with his arms crossed and that casual set to his shoulders. The first time you’d seen him after Turkey, you had half convinced yourself he was a mirage. And then he’d smirk at you and tilt his head and you’d have no control over your words.

It was pathetic…disgusting…it was…it was…

You shake yourself back to the present when a bullet whizzes past your head, a sharp call from across the utter warzone you’d found yourself in the middle of.

“Tomb, what in the hell’s wrong with you?!” John’s voice is harsh, and you lock onto it. “Get your gun up!”

You sigh, unperturbed. Peaking past the large crate you use as cover, your eyes glare at the enemy soldiers across the dock, fixing your finger’s position over your M4A1. The small unit you’d been dragged into by John was mostly dead—only four of you remaining from the ten.

It wasn’t supposed to go down like this.

Jerking back, a splintering of wood explodes in front of you as the next fast piece of metal nearly takes your nose off. With a grit of your teeth, you flick your safety off and swivel your shoulders.

Popping from the top of the crate, your sharp eyes lock onto the first visible body before you press your finger to the trigger with practiced ease as the word shrieks all around you. Recoil is eaten into the padded kevlar of the junction of your shoulder and arm.

When you dart back, the body has yet to hit the ground.

“There she is!” John calls, and you look forward with a steady stare as the brunette laughs from behind his own crate a few feet away. “Keep your head in the game, Tomb.”

You frown, normal facemask back over your chin hiding it. While you loathe to admit it, John had grown on you in these…what was it…? Months? Yes, that seemed about right.

Months of joint missions. You could hardly believe that he’d dragged you out like this.

“Tell the others to flank,” Your voice whisps over the line like smoke, “Left side—there’s a gap in the crates.”

John looks you in the eyes and blinks, eyelids twitching. With his beard covered in gunpowder, the man looks across the open space between the gunbattle to the left. Sure enough, right before he’s forced to snap back down to cover, the Captain spies a very well-hidden gap in the defenses.

He smiles viciously like a dog, and barks a laugh to you, nodding, “Good eye! Boys,” the two don’t pause their assault but call their questioning voices over the line. You don’t listen, occupied with giving off bursts of gunfire and trying to avoid the eyes of your fellow dead soldiers. Your lungs are compressed inside of your ribcage like prisoners. “Flank left. We’ll cover you!”

“Sir!” Steadying your breath, you avoid John’s confused glances and scoff to yourself, resituating your clammy hands.

When all’s said and done the four of you are the only ones left. Letting your gun sit on your chest you use the body as an armrest, allowing it to hang off the side from the trigger-guard. Your fingers twitch, and as John speaks to the two men, you stare silently at the gushing bodies of your fellows like phantoms spring from their chests.

John’s voice slows when he sees you apart from them, glancing at the soldiers at your feet before ordering the remaining men to get to the evac point. They try to argue everyone should be going together, and on all accounts, they’re completely right, but John won’t hear it.

“Go—that’s an order.” Reluctantly, the two glance at each other and speed off.

You jolt at a call of your name, head turning to face stormy blue as they gaze at you with concern. Stopping a few feet away, John stands still and folds his arms, face going rigid with concern as he glances you over for wounds.

His head slightly leans in, chin down.

“...You alright?” Hand flinching, you clear your throat.

“Why wouldn’t I be?” You ask, fixing the position of your feet and forcing away the images of dead bodies and blank eyes.

You’d seen scores of men dead before—friend and foe—but you had thought you’d never have to see more of your own fall. It had been a long time since you’d felt the distant lull of numb horror in the back of your brain; like some ocean wave that drowns you under every time it comes back. It always comes back.

John narrows his eyes and frowns deeply, glancing around and hiding the slight way his right arm sags.

“Tomb?” He says it so lowly that you really have to focus, ears straining. That gravel was back, and you found yourself latching onto it. “Eh, you just focus on me, yeah? I’m right ‘ere.”

“I know,” you snap, eyes shuttering away only to find more vacant stares. You flinch back and look up into the sky; a sudden burn in your brain that you need to quell.

The man grows even more concerned with you, taking a step forward and clenching his jaw. He studies you, your shaking tension and the clench and loosening of your fists—attention always on you but roving to the dead men all around. Something clicks with a violent inhale.

John moves to you without a word and grasps you around the shoulders quickly. You gasp at that, immediate reaction to shove away, but only gape at the warmth that he brings you instead—the steady presence and chest to lean on. As the Brit drags you, you focus instead on calming your breathing.

The Captain lightly shimmies down your facemask and you suck down tight air as you go limp into his side.

“C’mon, Tomb. It’s alright. I’m here. I’m right here.” He’s muttering to you, disguising his pained grunts in favor of taking care of you.

That strange affection for you had grown in your time together…not that he’d said anything. It was more proper of him to watch out from a distance, not sure of your own feelings or the probability of you gazing back at him with the same amount of concealed longing. Many a night he’d sat on his bed and wondered. Wondered how an animal so extraordinary and remarkable took the form of a woman with a black sphinx patch and sharp eyes.

John had heard you laugh once through your expeditions together—sniping in Greenland. Once had been enough; if he never heard it again, he could still recall the pitch and frequency to the yawning of his soul. He didn’t need to hear it again.

It was locked into the fabric that made up your skin and speech, and every time he stared at you he could find it in your eyes.

The Captain puts you down near a crate around the corner, letting you lean into it as he turns and captures your neck from either side. You shake under him, blurry vision stuck to his dog tags as they wink against his chest.

“Tomb,” John says again, and with a lick of your chapped lips, you carefully turn your head up. Blue eyes crease worriedly. The thumbs on the sides of your neck caress up and down your rapid pulse steadily; calluses creating stimuli. A small smile meets you. “There we are, atta girl. Focus.”

Tears dribble down your cheeks, and you flatten your lips, whispering out brokenly, “I said I don’t like teams.”

John’s heart breaks.

“Oh, Sweetheart,” his hand captures the back of your head and you’re brought into a deep and firm embrace—gear pinching and prodding but neither of you care.

When was the last time you’d been held like this? The feeling makes your mouth quiver, your face stuck into the junction of the Brit’s neck and shoulder.

“John…” You whimper out and his arms around you only tighten—his tense nose shoved into your scalp as his eyes closed tightly.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispers, heart racing, “I’m so, so, sorry.”

You don’t know long he holds you there, the air filled with blood and death but just so soundly resting atop his vest and limp to his gentle swaying. The tears dry at some point, they always have to. Sniffling, your burning face takes in the scent of beard oil and gunpowder and you find yourself calmed by it.

Calmed by John.

The man holding you waits a moment more before he slightly leans back, staring down at you intently; nervously. You lick at the tears drying into the line of your mouth to taste the saltiness on your tongue as fingers grasp at your chin.

Angled up, your face is on full display.

John sighs and the drowned keratin of your lashes flutters, embarrassment flooding you. His eyes crease before his hands come up to take away your sorrows with a soft brush of his digits. The man clears his throat tinily, voice deep with emotion.

“Better?” Your eyes dip away from his, knowing you’d been staring.

“I…” Glancing over his right shoulder absentmindedly, you only get a word off before you see a fountain of red. Blinking away the last of your tears, John’s finger on your cheek stops moving as you freeze—stiff to the touch.

His panic spikes again.

“What’s going on—”

“When did you get hit?” Your voice is hard and laced with something you can’t name. Shaving back from John you frantically grab at his arm. In an instant, the Captain is whirled around and shoved back into the crate; he grunts loudly, eyes snapping wide.

“Fuckin’ hell.” He grumbles, but flinches when you peel at the bloodied layers of his compression shirt. John smirks, letting your touch rove him as your nose scrunches. He represses a shiver at the bite of your nails, whispering out, “If you wanted to throw me ‘round, Love…all you had to do was ask.”

You blink rapidly and turn your fast gaze to his eyes as you stutter, fingers covered in blood and holding apart the fabric of his outfit to show a bullet graze to his pale upper bicep. John’s cheeky smirk grows and against all the pain and the dark corners, you feel a bubbling in your gut.

A small chuckle snakes out, like twinkling bells.

“Shut up,” your smile leaves him breathless, smirk falling to a small open-mouthed screen of obvious admiration. A hum marks the back of his throat, eyebrows loosely curving upon his forehead.

You look over and find him like this—his gaze trapping you like his arms had. Like music, it takes you into its melody. Staring, your smile, gradually too, leaks out.

“What are you doing?” Your question is breathy. "What is your fascination with me?" John’s eyes stick with you, the shining, shimmering, blue. There are tempests held there and if this man was anything, he was a storm of intentions and promises.

“Looking,” John answers lowly. "Just looking."

You take down a breath, “At what, John?”

He chuckles at you, face close and pleasant, “Y’know, I haven’t quite figured that one out yet, Love.”

Blindly you wonder how the world can still turn while you both stand here—was it, even? How can life go on when such things are uttered to light? When they’re buried deep into your marrow like the dirt on top of a grave?

How can the Reaper knock at your doorways when love exists in such quantity…in the fractures of his eyes? Only when his lips brush yours do you understand.

It’s all here, and then it’s gone. Nothing can truly be as it was in the past, and therein lies the small, glorious, deaths. Both a blessing and a curse.

Your lips press deeply into one another and the blood of old wounds dries.

TAGS:

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democracyunderground · 3 months ago

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Alt National Park Service

We apologize for the length of this post, but we felt it was important to share the full details with you.

In early March, a group of Musk-affiliated staffers from the so-called Department of Government Efficiency (DOGE) arrived at the National Labor Relations Board (NLRB), the federal agency responsible for protecting workers’ rights and handling union disputes. They claimed their mission was to improve efficiency and cut costs. But what followed raised serious alarms inside the agency and revealed a dangerous abuse of power and access.

Once DOGE engineers were granted access to the NLRB’s systems, internal IT staff quickly realized something was wrong. Normally, any user given access to sensitive government systems is monitored closely. But when IT staff suggested tracking DOGE activity—standard cybersecurity protocol—they were told to back off. Soon after, DOGE installed a virtual system inside the agency’s servers that operated in secret. This system left no logs, no trace of its activity, and was removed without a record of what had been done.

Then, large amounts of data began disappearing from the system. This wasn’t routine data—it included sensitive information on union strategies, ongoing legal cases, corporate secrets, and even personal details of workers and officials. None of it had anything to do with cutting costs or improving efficiency. It simply wasn’t supposed to leave the NLRB under any circumstance.

Almost immediately after DOGE accounts were created, login attempts began—from a Russian IP address. These weren’t random hacks. Whoever it was had the correct usernames and passwords. The timing was so fast it suggested that credentials had either been stolen, leaked, or shared. Security experts later said that if someone wanted to hide their tracks, they wouldn’t make themselves look like they were logging in from Russia. This wasn’t just sloppy—it was bold, calculated, and criminal.

One of the NLRB’s IT staffers documented everything and submitted a formal disclosure to Congress and other oversight bodies. But instead of being protected, he was targeted. A threatening note was taped to his door, revealing private information and overhead drone photos of him walking his dog. The message was clear: stay silent. He didn’t. He went public.

This isn’t just a cybersecurity issue—it’s a coordinated effort to infiltrate government agencies, bypass legal safeguards, and harvest data that can be used for political, corporate, or personal leverage. With Elon Musk directing DOGE, it’s hard not to see the motive: access to union files, employee records, and legal disputes that could benefit his companies and silence critics. This same playbook appears to be unfolding across multiple federal agencies, with DOGE operatives gaining quiet access to sensitive systems and extracting vast amounts of data without oversight.

The truth is, DOGE was never about making government more efficient. It was about taking control of it from the inside. What happened at the NLRB is not an isolated incident—it’s a warning of what happens when billionaires are handed unchecked power inside public institutions.

#DOGE #Elon Musk #CYBER CRIMES

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wolfylady · 3 months ago

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Salvation

Summary: It started with a look and then a smile. She was just another name on a continuous list of rotating faces. But then she smiled and it wrecked his world. He would lie, cheat, and kill, just to keep her in his orbit.

Trigger Warning ⚠️: Obsession and Manipulation

Word Count: 621

Chapter 1: The First Smile

Enjoy!

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The first time John Price saw her, the world didn’t tilt. It didn’t shift. It snapped.

Clean. Silent. Immediate.

It started with a smile.

One he hadn’t earned.

One he didn’t expect.

One that detonated something buried deep in his chest like a forgotten landmine.

She stepped onto base with a duffle slung over her shoulder, boots caked in dust, stride purposeful—measured. A transfer from MI6, if the morning report had anything useful in it. Her name barely registered then. Just another addition to the Task Force. Another operative shaped by war and secrecy.

Until she smiled at him.

Not out of protocol. Not forced.

It was real. Warm. Uncalculated.

He was standing near the edge of the training field, arms folded, half-listening to Soap and Ghost bicker over a faulty sim round. The sun was high. Heat clung to the concrete. Standard chaos on base.

And then she walked into view—sharp-eyed, tightly wound, her stance reading like someone who knew how to follow orders but hated doing it. Her file would say discipline, structure, performance metrics. But her mouth said otherwise.

That mouth—God, it curved too easily.

She caught his eye.

Held it.

Smiled.

And just like that, he forgot whatever Ghost had just said.

It wasn’t like the others.

It wasn’t the stiff respect of a subordinate.

It wasn’t the flirtation he usually shut down cold.

It was recognition. Familiarity without history. Like she saw him—not just the rank, not the legend, not the weight of all his years—but him.

And then she was gone.

Turning to speak to Gaz, laughing at something stupid. Probably a joke. Something light and forgettable.

But her laugh chased him for the rest of the day.

He told himself it was nothing.

A flicker of interest in a sea of rotating faces.

But he felt it.

All damn day.

During debrief, during comm checks, during sparring evaluations—her voice echoed. Her name stayed on his tongue like a habit he hadn’t formed yet.

That smile sank in like a blade beneath his ribs.

He didn’t sleep that night.

Every time he closed his eyes, he saw it again. That smile. That impossible warmth. And it made something in his chest feel unstable.

Like he’d swallowed something live.

At 01:13 hours, the glow from his desk lamp cut through the dark.

Her file lay open across the table.

Name: Crowley, Veronica Elise

Callsign: CROW

Rank: Sergeant First Class (E-7)

Branch: SAS, Tier One Operator

Former Affiliation: Secret Intelligence Service (MI6)

Clearance Level: COSMIC TS/SCI

Languages: English, Russian, French, Spanish

DOB: 14 January 1994

Age: 30

Height: 5'6"

Place of Birth: York, England

Blood Type: O+

Religious Preference: Non-disclosed

Next of Kin: Crowley, Daniel (Brother)

He read everything.

Deployment history. Former handlers. Every operation with her name in the margin. He studied commendations, psychological profiles, redacted summaries with words like precision and unstable potential and asset recovery.

He traced her path from intelligence to black ops to special recon and finally, here.

To him.

It should have been enough.

Knowing her record. Understanding her skill set.

Filing her under “high-performance operator” and moving on.

But it wasn’t.

Because he didn’t want her service history.

He wanted her tells.

What made her pause in a fight.

What songs she played when she thought no one could hear.

What she dreamed about when the war faded from her eyes for a moment.

He told himself he just needed to know.

So he could get her out of his head.

If only it were that simple.

Because when he finally shut the file and turned off the lamp, his hands were still shaking.

And in the quiet, the memory of her smile haunted him like a ghost.

wolfYLady: Just got into Call of Duty—and wow, I’ve got brainrot bad. So naturally, I decided to write this. I'm planning a whole series centered around obsession with Ghost, Soap, Gaz, Keegan, and König. The main character is basically a self-insert (y/n) placeholder—so have fun projecting. I just love the idea, in fiction, when something so simple as a passing smile, or kind word, can just bring them to their knees. Shout out to Bluegiragi and Kathy Ifnt, whos amazing artwork have singlehandedly doomed me to a life of crippling COD brainrot, I am now feral for all their COD work. If you can, go support them, and we can all join a "COD but make them slutty" support group.

Chapter 2 🔜

Link to: Ao3

Master List of Twisted Sin Series🔜

#john price #captain price #cod price #fanfic #read on a03 #dark romance #price x oc #obsessive love #cod #call of duty #call of duty john price #brainrot #Just got into Call of Duty—and wow #we can all join a “COD but make them slutty” support group #oc is a placeholder for reader #captain john price #call of duty fanfic #john price x reader

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yukipri · 2 years ago

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Clone File: Morbs (YukiPri OC)

Basic info:

Name: Morbs Number Designation: CC-4413 Generation: 1 (0.9) Rank/Title: Chief Mortician of the GAR, Kamino Chief Mortuary Trainer (former) GAR Affiliation: Entire GAR, primarily stationed with the 212th Attack Battalion Character status: YukiPri Original Character

Disclaimer: Morbs' story will likely make more sense if you've read The Prime Override, as he's introduced with context in this fic. He will also make more sense if you've read about the other 2 clone medics mentioned in this file, Ashe and Stabber.

Backstory beneath cut!

Overview:

Clone morticians are specialists even among medics. Every clone medic knows the basics of how to care for the deceased, but in war, priority must always go to the living. As such, it is common to find only one clone mortician per star destroyer or permanent GAR base, with greater numbers stationed in Tipoca City or various Republic medical centers.

Morbs, or CC-4413, is considered the Chief of this group of medical specialists. He is the originator of the division, and was assigned to develop both the position and the training curriculum of clone morticians in tandem with Ashe’s primary medical training.

Prior to the start of the Clone Wars and through the early war period, Morbs oversaw the Tipoca City Primary Clone Morgue, which processed all clone bodies. There, he managed biopsies, distribution of cadavers, and the care and processing of all of the bodies of his deceased brothers. He also trained other clone morticians who had completed general medical training prerequisites and were approved by Ashe, as well as future Chief Medical Officers who were required to have completed hands-on training time in the morgue to earn their certifications.

Morbs would have been content to remain in this morgue for life, but as the main body of the GAR prepared for deployment, it became clear that the number of bodies being processed on Kamino would plummet. Morbs was reassigned to the front lines, where his expertise would see more active use, leaving his morgue behind in the hands of his assistants. He primarily travels with the 212th Attack Battalion, but frequently visits medical centers and goes where he is needed.

Background:

Morbs was one of five Generation 0.9 CCs selected by Nala Se to begin the development of the clone medical track. While all subsequent medics are CTs, the Generation 0.9 CCs underwent manual age acceleration, putting them physically ahead of their Generation 1 peers in chronological age. Morbs and his fellow CCs were test subjects used to establish the start of the medical specialization path before their younger brothers were of age to begin that training.

As CCs, they are overqualified for the general medical training that Nala Se is building, and Nala Se quickly turns to using them for other experiments as well. Their unique position as the first experimental medical clones gives Nala Se more oversight over them than any other clones, with far less supervision as well. They are “her” clones to test as she pleases.

In the depths of her labs, Nala Se conducts experiments that she had been banned from conducting on standard troopers by the contract with the Prime Clone, Jango Fett. Morbs later learns that these tests would be considered “torture,” and are illegal in the Republic. He and his brothers are tested for the physical limits that clones can reach, including tolerance for exposure to various stimulants such as heat or chemicals, as well as sensory limits such as their maximum threshold for pain. She also experiments with the potential for building up tolerance and even immunity to various drugs and poisons. She takes all of the data she gains and incorporates them into the medical training for the clones—thus, ensuring that her tests still fall under the scope of “developing medical training.”

Two of the five CCs perish as a result of these experiments. Ashe is ordered to decommission the third when he fails to meet Nala Se’s standards. This leaves Morbs and Ashe as the only survivors of their initial group. They cannot speak of their experiences to anyone else, as Nala Se is the only other witness. Not even Kote knows what they experienced. Between the two of them though, they can never forget that their senior medical positions were earned with blood.

Morbs has always been a quiet but keen observer, and knew from early on that Ashe has reasons for wanting to be in the medical track, and that this is a path that he’s chosen and is motivated to push through. Morbs is brought into the Ghosts’ plans relatively early, and having had the most first-hand experience seeing just what Ashe’s position entails, he wishes he could do more to help his brother. However, Morbs is also realistic, and knows that he doesn’t have the same passion and dedication driving him. He does what he can, but he can’t see himself being the medics’ leader that Ashe is. He feels guilty for not being able to offer to take Ashe’s place, when he’s the only one in a position who could. He tries to make up for it by loyally following him, and doing what he can as a supporter.

In addition to not having the drive, Morbs also feels he is cursed with misfortune. While he excels as a medic and not even Nala Se can find anything lacking in his record, most of the patients that Morbs touches seem to end up dead for reasons unrelated to his skills as a medic.

He’s assigned to oversee a group of cadets, who end up having a fatal genetic mutation that gives them all heart attacks while he’s on observation. The wing with patients that he oversees collapses due to an architectural problem, and they all die. He’s conducting a surgery, when the power goes out, and he’s unable to save his patient with the tools he has available. He tends to some brothers, who leave his exam room fine, but are killed in a training accident a few hours later. He’s assigned to take over a simple check up, and finds his patient already dead before he enters the room.

Every additional incident makes him increasingly uncomfortable with working with living patients. He knows he has the skills, but it doesn’t seem to matter, because most of his patients end up dead anyway. Statistically, it’s not impossible, but after a certain point it’s certainly improbable, and yet it continues to happen. Clones are rarely superstitious, as they have no cultural basis for it, but Morbs feels that there’s something absurdly wrong with the amount of death that seems to follow him everywhere.

He only feels that he’s safe for his brothers when working with those already dead. He can’t kill them if they’re dead before they’re even assigned to him. When Nala Se announces that a new mortuary sub-track will be added to the primary medical track, Morbs dives for it because he can’t think of a better position for himself. If death follows him, he might as well embrace it.

As he and Ashe are given more access to resources including those from outside of Kamino to help them develop their respective training curriculums, Morbs finds himself increasingly interested in not just the practical aspects of death, but also the more cultural and spiritual elements as well. It’s sparked by his own unluckiness and wondering if others have experienced the same, but is fed by his curiosity when he realizes that most nat-born cultures have different ways of processing death and grief that are deeply engrained in how they handle their dead. Nat-born lives are for the most part extremely foreign and utterly irrelevant to anything clones will likely ever experience, but death is almost universal. Morbs finds this fascinating.

The clones are brusquely told that they “march on,” when they die, as Mandalorians do. But why? Where do they march to, with whom? What is waiting there? If that is the inevitable eventual fate of all of them, regardless of Ashe’s or Kote’s efforts, shouldn’t it perhaps be Morbs’ job as the Chief Mortician to at least consider what happens after?

While Morbs has no answers for the afterlife, he certainly has many thoughts, which he shares with the silent cadavers who he works with. It seems like they can hear him, he thinks, for all that none of his words are spoken out loud.

While sitting in on a Ghosts meeting as they develop code words for their growing underground organization, Morbs mentions off-hand that their brothers who are dead, but aren’t, are, “Marching on to join Kote.”

It’s not his fault that their overseers failed to really explain what “marching on” means, nor really instill any true understanding of “glory” either. So if they choose to define it for themselves, with “marching on” meaning to join their other brothers (who may or may not be dead), and “glory” as fighting for their brothers, something tangible that they actually understand and care for…well. They are, after all, supposed to die for the glory of the Republic anyway. No one will question the language.

While most of Morbs’ brothers are exceedingly practical, and must be, Morbs finds his niche in thinking about the not practical. If having ways of respecting and mourning the dead helps all other sentients, why shouldn’t it help them too? Morbs experiments with how he thinks their dead should be treated, and the bodies in his morgue are, as always, his silent audience.

He grows to consider the dead bodies in the morgue “his men” in “his army.” After all, those who are also marked dead, but are actually just with the Ghosts, are also allowed to “consider serving” despite being equally dead on record. And are not the bodies that he repurposes to hide the missing bodies, the dead whose organs and limbs save the lives of their living brothers, not also serving their brothers? Just because they were unlucky, like Morbs, doesn’t mean that they aren’t still being helpful, aren’t still actively saving their brothers. Because that’s all what any of them want to do: help each other.

Morbs assigns himself their Commander, as he is in charge of them, cares for them, and directs their “campaigns.” The rows of cold lockers that house their bodies are “barracks.” He talks to them, praises their missions, and grieves for them when they finally march on to their second deaths via cremation, only after which they are truly gone.

While none of Morbs’ students go to quite the same level as Morbs himself in humanizing their deceased brothers, he makes sure that all of them leave his morgue with a firm understanding that even when dead, their brothers are still their brothers. Pieces of his ideology and treatment of bodies linger in all of the medics who handle their dead.

Morbs treats the dead as his men because he wants them to be able to live on just a bit longer, but admittedly that’s not all. It’s something that also helps with his guilt over not being able to assist Ashe in his decommissionings. He can’t stop those deaths any more than Ashe can, and he can’t even share in the pain of murdering them. But he can promise them, and can promise Ashe, that once their bodies leave Ashe’s blood-stained hands, that Morbs will welcome them gently to his morgue. That they’ll be treated tenderly, with humanity, and that their existences won’t mean nothing. That if they’re capable of it, Morbs will do whatever he can to ensure that they too can serve Kote before their bodies are gone.

Morbs likes to think it offers Ashe some comfort.

General Info:

Most clones have only ever heard of Morbs, who is extremely elusive. Even after deployment, he rarely leaves the morgue wing attached to medical. Whereas Ashe feels a complicated mixture of self-loathing and knowing that he’s unwelcome in other spaces because all other clones loathe him too, Morbs is simple. He likes being with his men, they’re his favorite group of clones. The living get plenty of attention amongst each other. He just is happier with his own men, and prioritizes giving them his own attention.

He’s eccentric and more than a little creepy, but his reputation means that many of his brothers are very curious about him. He has a strict “no one alive past this line” rule at the entrance of the morgue, with very few exceptions, so not even those who try to catch a glimpse of him while visiting medical have much luck. Spotting him outside the morgue is both like an exciting cryptid sighting, but also potentially a bad luck omen. Morbs is oblivious to the excitement his presence causes, as he’s usually just in a rush to get back to the morgue.

Morbs is so mysterious that only a very limited handful of his brothers knows how truly odd his habits are. He has an assigned bunk, but ignores it and sleeps in a specially padded cold locker so that he can “sleep in the barracks with his men.” He calls it his favorite bunk, and tells the other medics he wants to rest there when he one day inevitably dies. He will sometimes forget to take care of himself, ignoring his own living needs to eat, drink, exercise, hygiene, etc. until a medic, usually Stabber, drags him out of the morgue to handle it. Stabber thinks Morbs is an example of how truly unfair their genetic enhancements are, because Morbs somehow maintains his solid CC-class physique with essentially zero effort on his part.

Unlike Ashe, who wants to be out in the field, Morbs never wants to leave his morgue for anything. Once he has been relocated into the morgue on the Negotiator, he only steps out when absolutely necessary. He doesn’t want to see the sights of the outside galaxy, doesn’t want to see the people or try the foods. He thinks all air outside of the morgue that is not optimized for the preservation of clone bodies is distasteful. He especially hates heat, sunlight, and humidity, insisting that it will “cause us to decay faster.”

The one exception to this is if there is a morgue, funeral, cemetery, or something else death-related going on. He learned about other cultures’ death practices, and he’s admittedly still curious about them too, mostly in the context of whether there’s anything else he can do to improve the experience for his men. If the ship is planetside and there’s supposed to be a famous cemetery, he might be seen quickly slinking outside, face completely veiled to avoid exposure to the elements.

Relationships:

Morbs maintains a close relationship with Ashe, though it’s one he’ll rarely show in front of others, always maintaining a professional distance if they have company. But Ashe is the only living person that Morbs will seek out for company, always while Ashe is alone. Morbs is the only one who knows the extent of what Ashe suffered during his early training, and had experienced much of it with him. He is concerned about Ashe, but doesn’t offer medical help, as he feels Stabber does that enough, and he doesn’t trust himself to think of Ashe as a patient; that never ends well. He will instead offer Ashe silent company.

Morbs claims to despise Stabber, especially since he’s the one responsible for taking him away from his morgue on Tipoca City and forcing him onto a star destroyer. Because Stabber is the CMO of the 212th, prior to Ashe joining them, Morbs is forced to interact with him the most. Morbs doesn’t like Stabber because he considers the other medic, “far too alive.” Stabber’s high energy, movement, and noise levels all grate on Morbs’ preference for stillness and darkness. Still, he reluctantly respects Ashe’s former assistant’s skills as a medic, and will follow his orders.

He also won’t admit it, but Stabber was the one who gave him his name. Stabber had a habit of announcing that Ashe’s work buddy “has the morbs,” a phrase he’d picked up from one of Ashe’s training resources that he claims means “has emo vibes.” Stabber liked the sound of the word so much that he began shouting it every time he encountered Morbs, and it ended up sticking. Morbs pretends he doesn’t care, but secretly thinks it’s fitting.

On the other hand, Morbs has a surprisingly amicable relationship with the Jedi he interacts with most frequently, Obi-Wan. He was very leery of letting Obi-Wan come anywhere near the morgue, not trusting an outsider with his delicate men who are unable to defend themselves. However, Obi-Wan found Morbs’ ruminations and philosophies fascinating, and was easily able to bait him into a conversation by expressing interest. Despite being surrounded by war, Morbs often seems strangely detached from it, preferring to speak less about the realities of war and the gears that move it, and more about why various cultures frame death and the afterlife in certain ways. While the conversations are often melancholy in nature, Obi-Wan appreciates the strange normalcy of it, knowing that Morbs would likely have these same questions regardless of whether there was a war. Morbs likewise is invested in hearing about death traditions from an outside perspective.

While the other clones aboard the Negotiator were at first both morbidly fascinated by Morbs, they were discouraged from actually interacting with him because he says things like, “You should not be in here, unless you are dead. Unless you would like to be dead, in which case I can help you,” or, “Oh, well you don’t look like you’re dying. How unfortunate.” However, they gradually realize that Morbs is not as aloof as he first appears.

He isn’t opposed to speaking, as long as it’s about his men. They realize that while Morbs refuses to let any curious bystanders or unqualified personel enter the morgue for no reason, he’s always eager to learn more about those in his care. Clones who have lost brothers can always count on him wanting to hear about the deceased, and if they’re present in his morgue, Morbs may even allow them to visit. When the first clone brings Morbs some flowers, because he saw that some nat-borns planet-side were laying flowers by the graves of their lost loved ones, Morbs is tickled by the action. Clones are not granted proper graves, and those in Morbs’ morgue are still “on duty.” But Morbs creates a little sterilized shrine in a corner of medical close to the morgue, where he collects these offerings and allows his brothers to visit. If the tablet Morbs laid there is turned a certain way, Morbs knows that one of his brothers wishes to speak to him about someone deceased, and he slinks out of the morgue to listen to them.

Because Morbs is the Chief Mortician, he not only processes the bodies that pass in front of his own hands, but he obsessively goes over the reports sent to him by all other clone morticians and standard clone medics, who are in charge of marking all final fatalities. As such, he has the most comprehensive knowledge of all deceased clones. On the rare occasions that they are able to conduct larger, collective remembrances, if Morbs is available, he will often be called to lead them.

Obi-Wan observes that Morbs is acting almost like a priest or other religious leader, but Morbs scoffs at the idea. He has no intention of leading a religion; he just cares about his men.

And all of the clones will join his army, one day.

Appearance:

Morbs wears a modified version of the clone mortician uniform, a black version of the standard softshell white medic uniform. As the Chief Mortician, Morbs wears a longer knee-length version of the uniform, along with a black kama over it to signify his CC status. He also has a rank bar, and red shoulder pieces to show his personal training from Nala Se, like Ashe and Omega. He technically has armor, but he’s never worn most of it since his fitting, and he doesn’t plan on wearing it either. His men serve without wearing armor, so why should he? If the ship is ever boarded, he intends on going down with his men in the morgue, a plan that no one will allow him to follow through on.

The one piece of armor he does occasionally wear is his helmet, which is a black version of Ashe’s. He must occasionally process bodies that have been exposed to hazardous conditions, and in these cases, he’ll don his helmet for its filtration and advanced sensors. He is so utterly uninterested in his own armor that it was left unpainted, and Ashe decided to paint it black for him, so it can match Morbs’ aesthetic preferences. While Morbs never acknowledged the gesture, he shows his appreciation by not protesting when he’s told to wear it.

After leaving Kamino, he grows his hair long and wears it loosely tied back, because as a non-combatant, he isn’t limited to practical hair styles. The exact length changes constantly as he uses his own hair to create wigs and patches for any of his men who may have had their own hair damaged. He refuses to share his hair with anyone who isn’t dead.

He also gets tattooed, two dark lines dripping down his cheeks from his eyes. He saw nat-borns with the look in some funerary documentaries he watched as a cadet. He doesn’t know that what he saw was nat-borns with running makeup, but he likes the look because it looks like a trail of permanent black tears on his face. He takes it to be a metaphor that he is always thinking of his men.

Morbs also has deep permanent bags under his eyes. This is due to a mix of him constantly forgetting that he needs sleep, along with him not wanting to sleep because he has so many thoughts to ponder.

While he usually just wears his uniform, he has a veil that he throws over his head whenever he has to step outside of the ship or Republic medical facility for any length of time. He also has an ornamental headdress he’s fashioned for special occasions, such as when he has to welcome an exceptionally large number of men to his army, is conducting a field cremation, or is leading a remembrance. The headdress is created from shards of plastoid armor he’s had to pull from his men.

Note:

Morbs’ designation, CC-4413, was chosen because the number 4 means “death” in many Asian cultures, due to how it sounds similar to “death” in many Asian languages, including but not limited to my own Japanese/Chinese cultures. Tetraphobia, or the fear of the number 4, is a thing! The number Thirteen is an unlucky number in other cultures. The number “4413” felt fitting for this character who is so immersed in death and bad luck!