#Static and agent t

[experiment1100]

TheStaticShow-Static, The Agent and a missing creator.

Glitch: you will not stop me from getting revenge for the pain they put me through.

I will destroy all.

and now with the main deal detained, it's time to deal with the rest.

Another thing with me and @mrchaosman

[whimsytwines]

Static Waves

Note: this is my first fic in a really long time!! I thought we needed some more sensitive Leon fics. Lmk if you want more <3 I’m open to requests!

Warnings: NSFW, MDNI, 18+

re4 Leon x fem agent reader

Oral (m receiving), tit play, fingering, creampie, vulnerable Leon :p

All agents: Report to headquarters, conference room C ASAP”

The call had come in at 2:17 am. Of course it had. Going back to the office at this hour was anything but appealing- especially after the brief week spent at home.

Sterile fluorescent lights of the office made your tired eyes squint. The big gulp style cup of gas station coffee had barely made a dent in your exhaustion. It was tiring- this job, the people, the missions. When you weren’t away, you were just going through the motions at home. The dishes piled up, as did the laundry, and things were just…mundane. You had gotten used to be away, no matter how much you craved home.

You sighed as you entered the conference room, choosing a seat closest to the door and letting your backpack slump into the floor.

“They woke you up too, huh?” A familiar voice said from a set across from you.

You hadn’t even noticed him in your sleepy slumber. Kennedy. You’d been on countless missions together, worked closely as colleagues, and often got paired up together. Still- he seemed so far away.

You had always seemed drawn to his rugged demeanor, which was carefully juxtaposed with his boyish charm. You felt like a school girl around him with an aching crush, careful to never let your guard down.

You shrugged, almost taken aback by his casual tone. “Yeah, unfortunately,” you shifted in your seat a little, turning your body towards him. “I’m surprised they called you back, especially after you being in Spain. You ought to be tired.”

“Mm,” Leon responded with a simple nod- one of acknowledgment at least. You watched as his eyes trailed away, leaving your gaze. As much as you tried to play it cool and unaffected, you so deeply wished for him to notice you more. You craved to crack him open and see just what he was without the “special agent” persona he embodied so well.

*

Leon tapped his foot and kept his head down as more and more agents sleepily piled into the room. The aroma of coffee crept through the air, inspiring his own alertness.

The conference was brief, but urgent. A newer, more aggressive strain of the T-virus had completely ravaged North Argentina. Seeing the satellite imagery showing the growing patterns of movement made your eyes go wide.

“Any questions?” The director asked. “Be quick. We’re headed out in half an hour.”

Leon kept careful eyes on you as you and the director discussed the rate of movement and where the virus was projected to hit. There was something about you, just watching you, that made his heart seem to pound in his chest. A couple times, you would look over to him, extending an offer to join in the discussion. After all, he had the most field experience in the room. But you didn’t know you could render him speechless with just your eyes.

Closing the discussion, the director gave you a pat on the shoulder before quickly recoiling. You had sustained a harsh injury on your last mission right before you had some home. “Sorry about that, Agent, I just wanted to remind you that you will be paired with Kennedy in Argentina. When you land, you will be escorted to your safe house and given further directions. Due to safety concerns, you two will be bunking together.” The director turned his gaze to Leon, who again, nodded followed by a yes sir. You couldn’t help but notice the slight curve of his smile before you looked away.

“I’m sure this will be no issue for our two top agents, you’ve worked together plenty.” The director concluded, before going around to the others and inform them of their bunking accommodations.

*

After landing and feeling more tired and delirious, you and Leon begrudgingly found your ride in the terminal. It was small, cramped car sticky with humidity. As much as you had dreaded this mission and what it entailed, you silently reveled in the excitement of being able to stay with Leon for the foreseeable future.

You both sat in the back seat, one small space between you. No matter how many missions, how many near-death experiences, no matter how many restless nights away from home- together- there was always some empty space between you.

When you finally arrived at the nondescript safe house outside of the city, Leon unloaded the “luggage” which was really just the two backpacks each of you brought, tipped the driver, and made his way to stand next to you.

The house was small, covered in vines, and had only a single dirt road leading to any sort of civilization. Before entering, you and Leon did some general safety checks, scanning the remaining exterior of the house, looking for any signs of forced entry.

“Looks good to me,” you said, wiping sweat off your forehead. “Can we go in now? I’m exhausted.”

Leon chucked, “I suppose, little miss impatient.” It looked as though he had finally smiled, perhaps revealing some more personally outside of professionalism.

Inside, the house was serviceable. It had a small kitchenette, a “living room” if you could even call it that, and a bathroom attached to the bedroom. You poked around the small house looking for a second bedroom, opening and closing small linen closet doors.

“I think there’s only one bed,” you sighed, pushing a closet door shut. “I can take the couch.”

As you made your way to the small sofa, Leon followed your steps, considering to touch your arm- but resisted the inclination. “Not with that shoulder of yours. Hunnigan told me about your injury on your last mission. You take the bed, I’ll take the couch.”

“Leon,” you protested, “the couch is practically child sized. It’s really no issue for me to sleep there. I just want to sleep.”

Leon thought for a moment, pacing around in small circle, thumb and index finger returning to its thinking position. His heavy foot steps had a rhythmic beat to them, practically putting you to sleep right then.

“You know what,” Leon said, his thumb returning to his chin, “we’re both adults here. We got paired up together for this mission. We can share a bed- like adults.”

You sighed, and nodded in agreement. You supposed he was right after all. This was by all accounts a business trip, you two were adults, and you had to make do with what you had. No matter how much you were satisfied with the outcome of the one-bed scenario, you couldn’t help but recognize how weird it felt. Sharing a bed with a longtime colleague who barely spoke a word to you outside work related matters.

“You unpack,” Leon directed, “I’ll see what rations they left us. Hopefully something good this time, I only got saltines in Spain.”

Unloading what little was in your backpack, you heard Leon rustling around in the kitchenette. Poking your head out, you saw him preparing two plates of peanut butter and crackers. How thoughtful, you chucked to yourself.

Not much was said for the rest of the evening. You two sat at the small table side by side, eating the “dinner” prepared by your colleague. Once, Leon’s knee brushed against yours, and you didn’t pull away. Neither did he.

*

When it came time to rest, you both laid as far apart as the bed would allow. You snuggled against the thin sheet for some sort of comfort, despite how hot it was in the house. Looking over to Leon, he did the same. Your mind began to wander, as you looked at his bicep prodding out from beneath his tight black t-shirt. He had always looked so handsome- so beautiful even. You felt safe having him there with you, in the middle of nowhere with a raging virus.

Leon could feel your eyes on him. It made him restless- unbearably restless. What he didn’t want to admit was that he didn’t offer to take the couch on the basis of professionalism or chivalry. He was afraid of this, feeling those foreign romantic feelings pop again. He was afraid of scaring you away if he said, or did, anything to cross the professional line.

Leon rolled over towards you, seeing your tired eyes still looking his way. You couldn’t help but smile a little.

“Can’t sleep either?” He said, his voice taking a huskier tone than usual.

You shook your head. “No, I guess all my complaining about being tired earlier was pointless.”

Leon chucked, then cleared his throat. “You ever wonder why we do this job? We see the worst there is out there, and just clean up the mess.”

“I mean….” You trailed off, taken aback by his question. Certainly there was more on his mind. “I guess somebody has to do it, and maybe we’re just good at what we do. You are, no doubt.”

There was a sort of caring infliction in your voice and he desperately craved more. You watched as Leon shifted again, resting on his forearm with his gaze on you.

“I’m sorry you know, for keeping my distance,” he said abruptly “from you, on these missions.”

There it was- that crack you were looking for. This was not Leon S. Kennedy the agent talking to you anymore, it was just him.

You reached out a hand to place on his, recoiling at first, then giving in. His big hands were rough and calloused, tensing at first, then easing up when he felt your touch.

“Professional boundaries are important,” you sighed, gently letting your hand fall away from his.

“That’s what I tell myself,” Leon said just above a whisper. “But that’s not why, and I think you know it.”

You watched as his eyes darkened and the air began to feel charged.

“I’m afraid of disappointing you,” he continued, continuing to lock eyes with you. “To everyone else, I’m the legend- the hero who survived Raccoon city. You see more than that, you see the flaws when we’re on these missions.”

His unraveling of emotions caused your throat to tighten. “Leon,“ you began, but Leon continued to break right before your eyes.

“I’ve lost so many people,” he sighed, this time looking away, as if to remember each face in his mind’s eye. “And…every time we’re back out in the field together, I’m afraid it will be you who I lose. I can’t fail you.”

You reached for him again, this time his stubbled cheek. Leon sunk into the gentle touch, cupping his rough hand on yours.

“Leon,” you smiled. “You won’t fail me, even if you tried.”

Leon’s eyes stayed on you as he turned to press his lips into your palm.

“I can’t keep pretending,” he confessed through breathless feather light kisses. “That you’re just my partner on missions. That I don’t think about you when we’re not on them-“

Before he could finish, you boldly but softly leaned in to fill the gap. That space, that had been there for so long, begging to filled.

His lips were soft and plush, his movements longing as he let go of so much careful restraint. He gently wrapped one arm around your waist, trailing his lips down to your hurt shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, gently pressing his lips into your skin. “I’m sorry you got hurt.”

“Leon,” you said breathlessly. He looked up to you, a burning desire so clear in his eyes. “Once we cross this line…or, do you want to cross it? What if someone finds out?”

Placing one more kiss on your shoulder, he confessed, “I’ve thought about this- about you- for so long. Please, let me take this chance.”

“Why don’t you tell me about it?” You smiled a cheeky grin, pulling the tank top you were wearing over your head.

For a moment, Leon turned bashful. He reached his hand out hesitantly to cup your breast, but recoiled. “I’m not good at this part,” he admitted. “The words, I mean.”

You gently pushed Leon back, straddling him, then rolling up his shirt. Leaning close, you whispered, “then why don’t you show me.”

His bare skin prickled and tensed at your touch, years of vigilance making even his vulnerability an exercise in control. Your hands explored his toned abdomen, feeling over countless rough scars you needed no explanation for. The jagged line that scaled his ribs- a testament to his bravery stepping in between you and the danger only a few missions ago.

With each move of your fingers, his composure fell more and more. He was unraveling in front of you- a sight you never believed you would see. Finally, you know who Leon Kennedy is stripped all his armour.

As Leon watches you tend to his age old wounds as you caressed his skin, he gently took your hand and guided it to his belt.

“Is- is this okay?” He stammered, a red blush spreading across his cheeks.

Undoing the buckle and zipper, you could feel the hard budge beneath. You shimmied his pants off, revealing a well endowed, thick cock.

You blushed at the sight. “I can’t believe you’ve been hiding this the whole time,” you said, attempting humor would ease your nerves.

Leon smiled, biting his lip. “Never seemed relevant to the mission.”

As your hands wrapped around him, he inhaled sharply and threw his head back. He had waited so long for this- for you.

You lowered yourself down and brushed your lips against the sensitive, dripping head. He already tasted so good.

Leon placed a hand in your hair and his body went rigid as you bobbed your head up and down. He couldn’t help but throw his head back and let out an unrestrained moan if your name.

“I- this feels…keep going,” he gasped in broken sentences. The man who always remained composed, who always had a witty comeback, who never cracked, was now reduced to broken fragments of jumbled phrases and ragged breathing.

You could feel his thighs tighten, his cock twitching deep in your mouth. You moan as you continue to go up and down, swirling your mouth around his head, until you feel his finger move to your chin.

“Not yet,” he gasped, trying to find his own words. “I want this to last.”

He swiftly switched positions, placing you below him. Leon needed more- needed to see you become the one undone. His hands crept down your stomach, pausing before the waistband of your sleep shorts.

“M-may I?” He asked, using his other hand to cup the side of your face.

All you could do was nod. As he took of your shorts with the same precision as he did with anything else, he reassured you that he had you, that he would make you feel so good.

Leon’s breath quickened as he felt along your wet lace panties. “So pretty…” he practically whimpered, circling your clit.

You closed your eyes as you felt one of his thick fingers enter you, your walks begging for more. Once he found a rhythm, he entered another finger, which elicited a lustful Leon! from your mouth.

“Just tell me if anything is too much baby,” Leon said, still pumping his fingers until you found your release.

You nodded, “need more…need you..”

Leon watched as you rode out your orgasm on his fingers. With his other hand, he stroked your face, murmuring sweet nothings. You met his lips again, this time much more fiercely.

He shifted his body again, this time still on top of you, but aiming for your entrance.

Your gaze fell on his eyes first, so stricken with raw emotion and lust. They traveled down to his cock, now only mere inches away from being inside you.

“I need you,” he reassured, pressing the tip in. You gasped. He felt so big, so thick.

Leon’s movements were careful at first, allowing you to adjust to his size. He told you if it hurt, to tell him. He told you how good you felt inside, how he had dreamt of this. I’ve got you, he moaned in jagged breaths. I’ve always got you.

Leaning down to your bouncing breasts, Leon flicked his tongue along a sensitive bud. He sucked gently as he pressed himself into you. “You’re so beautiful…” he babbled in between suckles. You buried your hands in his hair, pulling him closer, never wanting to let go.

As his thrusts deepened and quickened, Leon let go of your breast with a pop. Pushing himself up, he placed your ankles around his neck, he bottomed out in the depth. You were truly drunk on his cock, rolling your head back, screaming his name like a prayer.

“My god,” Leon gasped, feeling you tighten around him. He was becoming more desperate- and couldn’t hold on for much longer. “I-I’m close.”

“I need to feel you,” you moaned. “All of you.”

Without losing pace, Leon gazed longingly at you. He knew by all accounts this was wrong- hearing his name echo in the room from your breathless moaning. He knew if anyone were to found out, his reputation was tarnished.

As you continued to squeeze around him in fluttering clenches, he released ropes thick come into you. Now it was your name being repeated in awe, in drunkenness, as Leon continued to press into you- now softly.

Small beads of sweat dripped from his forehead, as he slowly released himself from you.

*

As you two boarded the flight home, Leon kept his hand in the small of your back- attempting to maintain some professionalism why still ensuring a point of connection.

“They expect a debrief an hour after we land,” you sighed, clasping the seatbelt tight.

Leon seemed solemn on the outside, and inside, he was melting entirely as he was overcome with worry of where things would go when they got back home.

“Can we talk about this- about us?” He said, a slight quiver in his voice, dropping an octave as he said the latter.

You gave his hand a quick squeeze, “later, I promise.”

When you returned to headquarters, the conversation of the virus and mission dominated the room. Things went well, the virus contained more or less, and little to no injuries were sustained. Leon exchanged glances with you every so often, as if he missed you from just across the room.

You and Leon agreed to keep in contact consistently when you weren’t on missions, making time to call when you could with such a demanding schedule. But just like that, not even intentionally, you two were back to your separate orbits.

Texting and calling became less frequent as the work piled up, as lives were lived separately.

A week after coming home from Argentina, you collapsed onto your bed after a long day of meetings and trainings. The bed was cold and empty- hollow without Leon filling the void. Snapping you out of your sordid memory of the trip you last shared with him, your phone buzzed.

SMS Leon K.: Just landed in Brussels. Virus is here too. Talk soon.

Before you could respond, a second one came though.

SMS Leon K.: I miss you.

All you could do was stare at the screen, in any attempt to feel his presence from phone. Warm tears flooded your eyes, as a silent sob crept from your chest. You looked to the ceiling, god I miss you too.

You texted back fast, Be safe, I miss you too. Request me to be your partner on the next one haha.

SMS Leon K.: Already did :)

[wolfbluebird]

The Cost of Letting Go

(Part 2- Version 1)

Avenger!Natasha x Villain Reader

Word count: 759

Summary: After losing you again, Natasha sets out to find you, to bring you home… but, unfortunately she doesn’t get that far.

TW: Mentions of death, anxiety. Heavy angst.

She retraced every step you’d ever taken, every shadow you’d slipped into, every whisper your name had ever left behind. There were no leads, not really. Just half-burned files, smudged ink in old safehouse ledgers, and a static-riddled voice recording of you breathing hard into a wiretap before it cut to silence. That silence had stayed with her. It followed her through every mission she abandoned halfway, every debrief she refused to attend, every long, sleepless night where the only thing keeping her upright was the echo of your voice from a hundred memories ago. She wasn’t supposed to care. Not like this. You were a villain, a fugitive with power in your veins and blood on your hands, someone she was meant to detain, not chase across countries like a woman starved. But you’d let her go. When you were the one holding the knife. When the choice could’ve gone either way. And she’d watched your eyes flicker soft for just a second, watched the edge of your mouth twitch with something almost like a goodbye—and then you were gone. And Hydra found out. And punished you for it.

Weeks bled into months. Intel dried up. The trail went cold. Everyone told her to stop. Clint, Steve, even Fury with his one good eye full of doubt. “She made her choice,” they said, assuming you’d run, defected, turned your back. But Natasha knew. You wouldn’t have left without a reason. You wouldn’t have stayed silent unless someone forced your silence. She knew what Hydra did to people who faltered. Knew what happened to agents who failed their orders. And the thought of that happening to you—of them breaking your stubborn mouth, your smart hands, the heartbeat she’d memorised one night when you were too injured to walk and she’d carried you across a rooftop—made something fracture in her. So she kept looking.

Safehouses, shell companies, blood-soaked labs that reeked of metal and antiseptic. She chased ghosts. Questioned corpses. Paid off scientists with trembling hands and bruises that matched yours. She almost died twice. Didn’t care. She stopped wearing her comms. Slept once every three days. Ate less. Got quieter. Meaner. Like she was shedding everything human to become a weapon again—sharp enough to carve her way through whatever black site they were keeping you in. It was grief, Clint said once, trying to stop her before she left again. “This is what you do when you already know she’s gone.” Natasha hadn’t answered. Because he wasn’t wrong. But she wasn’t ready to say it out loud.

Then she found the site. Deep in a ravine, shielded from satellites, its energy signature low enough to pass for ruins. The Hydra logo was long painted over, replaced with nothing. No guards. No heat. Just the ghosts of what had been. She didn’t hesitate. She went in.

There was no resistance. Just dust and decay and a stench she couldn’t name. She moved through the halls with her gun drawn, the silence screaming around her. Room after room. Torture equipment. Dried blood. Cells without doors. Beds with restraints. She found the room with your name on the wall—scrawled in chalk, over and over. Her hand shook when she touched it. A tally of days scratched into the concrete beneath it. The last one never finished. Just a broken line.

She found the records in a basement filing room. A drawer marked “failed assets.” Your file was on top. Red-stamped. TERMINATED. No details. No time of death. Just a log of dates and punishments and silence.

She didn’t scream. She just kept walking.

And in the final room, sealed tight with a rusted lock, she found the morgue.

Seven body bags lined the floor. No names. No identifiers. Like they were trash. Like you hadn’t mattered.

Her hands didn’t shake as she unzipped them.

Not until the seventh.

You were still beautiful. Even like that. Even with your mouth slack, your skin pale, a bruise high on your temple and stitches down your side like someone had tried to put you back together without knowing how. Your hands were folded over your ribs. Your lashes dusted your cheekbones. And for one horrible, impossible second, she thought she saw you breathe.

But you didn’t.

And when she collapsed beside you, when she pressed her forehead to yours and whispered your name over and over, it was the first time in years she cried like a child.

She’d found you. Just like she promised.

It was you.

But hidden away inside a body bag.

[Masterlist]

[annaswrites00]

Unscripted

fc43 x singer!reader

(4.2k)

Summary - It was all staged. The trips, the photos, the headlines. Franco knew the rules—don’t blur the lines, don’t want what you can’t have. But she wasn’t following the script anymore. And neither was he.… warning - none

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The cameras loved her.

That much was obvious.

The moment she stepped onto the carpet—white dress, soft fabric clinging to her frame like it had been sewn onto her skin—the static hum of camera shutters swelled like a heartbeat. She didn’t flinch. She smiled like she’d rehearsed it a thousand times, like she knew exactly where to tilt her chin, where to cast her gaze.

Franco Colapinto watched it all unfold from a step behind her, his jaw set, hands shoved into the pockets of his suit pants. He wasn't exactly a stranger to media obligations, he usually enjoyed them, but this—this was something else. Manufactured, delicate, strung together by a team of people who wouldn’t blink twice before swapping him out for the next available headline.

His agent’s words replayed in his head:

Just a few months. Just until the press cools off. Good for her image, good for yours. Nothing complicated.

Yeah, right. He had liked Alpine so far. He couldn't say the same for their PR team.

"Look alive, Colapinto," her voice cut through the haze, soft but sharp-edged as she glanced at him over her shoulder. "You’re supposed to look happy to see me."

He arched a brow, lips tugging into something that wasn’t quite a smile. "Do I?"

"You look like you're thinking about crashing into the pit wall."

"I wish,” he mumbled under his breath.

She shifted closer, the train of her dress brushing his shoe, the scent of her perfume settling in the space between them—clean, expensive, like white flowers and cold metal.

He offered his arm, the gesture stiff, mechanical. She took it anyway, curling her hand around his bicep like it belonged there.

“Smile like you mean it,” she murmured, just loud enough for him to hear as they stepped toward the waiting cameras.

“I don’t need to mean it,” Franco replied, glancing at her out of the corner of his eye. “I just need to sell it.”

The bulbs flashed, rapid, blinding.

His hand found her waist, fingers splaying over the silk like muscle memory, and she leaned in—too easily, too believably. Her nails brushed the fabric of his jacket, soft but deliberate.

They made it look real. That was the job.

But her grip was firm, grounding. And her pulse, when his thumb grazed the bare skin of her back, beat a little faster than he expected.

Interesting.

Not that it matters. He wasn’t here to get curious.

The reporters called their names, questions sharp and insistent, but the script had already been written. The team had emailed him bullet points on the way over: how they’d met, why they'd clicked, the timeline to memorize. A perfectly digestible, Instagrammable love story.

Together, they sold well.

They drifted through the press line like professionals—polite smiles, half-lies, her fingers brushing his just often enough to be caught on camera. It wasn’t hard. She knew how to work a crowd. And Franco… well, he knew how to survive one.

When they finally ducked past the velvet ropes, into the cooler quiet of the side hall, she let out a slow breath and unhooked her arm from his.

“Well,” she said, twisting a ring around her finger, “that wasn’t terrible.”

Franco leaned against the wall, studying her like a puzzle he hadn’t decided if he wanted to solve. "That’s what you call not terrible? I've never had so many cameras in my face before.”

"We made it out alive." She glanced at him, her lips curving into something like amusement. "And you only looked mildly homicidal."

He let the smallest smirk slip, but it didn’t reach his eyes. "That’s my charm." His smooth accent brushed over her skin.

"Oh, is that what you’re going for? I thought it was accidental.”

“You always this difficult, or is it just for me?” he asked, the words lazily drawn, but with something sharp laced underneath.

She shrugged, cool as glass. “Only with the people I like.”

Franco’s laugh was soft, unexpected. “You must like me a lot, then.”

She tilted her head, thoughtful. “I don’t hate you.”

“That’s generous.”

Their handlers reappeared, brisk and businesslike, ushering them toward the next checkpoint. Photo ops. Dinner seating. A brief, staged moment where he’d pull out her chair, maybe tuck a strand of hair behind her ear for the cameras if they really wanted to sell the narrative.

Before they parted, she caught his arm again, her fingers lingering.

“Just so we’re clear. I’m not exactly elated to be here either. But the least you could do is make it slightly enjoyable. We both signed that contract,” her voice was somehow demanding and soft at the same time.

Franco’s jaw tensed.

“Enjoyable? I thought you wanted believable. Not sure if we have time for both.” He tipped his head, lazy and cold, but there was something dangerous in his smile. "If you want me to make it fun, amor, that's extra."

"Trust me, I’m not here to fall in love with you." Her voice came out quieter than before.

"Good," he shot back. "Because I don’t have the time to break your heart."

Her laugh echoed behind her as she disappeared down the corridor, slipping back into the role with effortless precision.

Franco ran a hand through his hair, exhaling slowly.

This was going to be a problem.

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Franco remembered the moment when everything started to go sideways.

It wasn’t the cameras or the contract or even the cold press releases that would come later.

It was the room.

A hospitality suite at the Austrian Grand Prix, Alpine’s signature blue stitched into the chairs, cold water sweating on untouched glass bottles, the quiet hum of air conditioning struggling against the summer heat. Neutral territory, technically. But Franco knew what it really was: a negotiation.

When he stepped inside, there were already too many people waiting. His agent. Her manager. PR consultants. Brand representatives. Smiling too wide, speaking too fast.

And her.

She was sitting like she owned the place—legs crossed, chin resting against the back of her hand, nails tapping a slow rhythm against the armrest. Sunglasses still on, despite being indoors, her phone in her hand, as if none of this required her full attention.

She didn’t look up when he entered. Not right away.

He could’ve left then. Should’ve, probably.

Instead, he dropped into the seat opposite her, one arm slung lazily over the back of the chair.

"You're late," she said without looking at him, her thumb still scrolling across the screen.

Franco huffed a quiet laugh. "You're not my race engineer. You don’t get to tell me when I’m late. I’m not sorry I have a grand prix to prepare for. Didn’t really want this penciled into my schedule anyway.”

“I wasn’t dying for this either,” her soft voice snapped back.

A beat passed.

Then she smiled—sharp, electric, like she'd just been waiting for someone to swing first.

Across the table, the PR teams launched into their well-rehearsed pitch. Mutual benefits. Cross-industry exposure. Social reach. Controlled narratives. Blah, blah, blah.

Franco let it wash over him, the words flicking past his ears like static.

But she was still watching him, one brow raised, as if he were some curiosity in a glass case.

Her manager slid a printed draft of the contract across the table. Franco's agent pointed out key clauses—appearance requirements, shared interviews, social media posts, expected public moments.

Franco tapped a finger against the paper. "You really think people are going to buy this?"

The PR rep shrugged. "They don’t need to buy it. They just need to talk about it."

"And you—" Franco turned his attention back to her, the corner of his mouth twitching into something resembling a smirk. "You’re fine with this? Letting people think you’re wasting your time with me?"

She finally took her sunglasses off, folding them neatly and setting them on the table like it was a deliberate choice to let him see her properly now.

"Wasting time is relative, Colapinto."

His name sounded different in her mouth. Something about the way she let it roll, half-teasing, half-daring.

"I thought singers were supposed to write love songs about heartbreak and longing. Not fake boyfriends and staged vacations."

"Heartbreak sells better when it’s real." She sipped her coffee slowly, deliberately. 

His smile came quick, unexpected. Real. "Careful. You're almost convincing."

The meeting dragged another thirty minutes. Negotiations, schedules, event mapping. Franco let most of it slide past him like background noise. His agent would chase the details. His job was simple: look the part, play along, don’t make it complicated.

And yet—he found his attention snagging on her in the quiet pockets between conversations.

The way she twirled the thin gold ring on her index finger when she wasn’t speaking. The faint edge of exhaustion beneath her otherwise perfect presentation. The practiced ease in her posture, like someone used to being stared at but rarely seen.

When the final agreement was laid out, she signed first, pressing the pen with a little more force than necessary.

Franco watched her name curl across the page. Deliberate. Final.

When he scrawled his signature beside hers, it felt a little like the lights going out one after the next.

As the teams packed up, her manager nudged her phone toward her. "We’ll send the rollout plan. You two will do a soft launch first—maybe a candid photo at the paddock tomorrow morning, keep it low pressure."

Franco rose from his chair, slipping his hands back into his pockets. "So we’re starting tomorrow?"

"Apparently," she replied, swinging her bag over one shoulder.

He expected her to walk away then. But instead, she lingered, hovering just in front of him, her expression cool but not unfriendly.

"Do me a favor," she said, tilting her chin up slightly. "Don’t make this boring."

Franco’s smirk softened into something dangerously close to a real smile. "Only if you try to keep up."

He said it like this was some game. Like this wasn’t already slipping out of their control.

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Franco had agreed to this weekend the same way he agreed to most things these days—with a shrug, a quiet sigh, and the steady hum of his agent’s voice reminding him that this was good for his profile.

Exposure. Buzz. Headlines.

Lake Como during summer break. Expensive villas, still water, just enough cool grey light to make everything look like it belonged in a high-end perfume commercial. Picturesque. Curated. Precisely the kind of thing that would send social media into a frenzy.

Their teams had staged it down to the last detail.

The right people tipped off. The right photographers waiting just out of frame. The right restaurants, the right dock, the right villa with wide glass windows designed for perfect, accidental-on-purpose photo ops.

Franco sat in the back seat of the sleek, black car as it snaked along the winding roads, sunglasses low on his nose, the faintest ghost of irritation tugging at his mouth.

Next to him, she sat with one leg slung lazily over the other, her phone cradled in one hand, an earbud tucked in, the soft hum of music just audible when the road noise dipped. She scrolled like she didn’t care what she was looking at, like the endless stream of curated snapshots barely touched her. Detached. Effortlessly indifferent. Untouchable in the way only the truly famous learn to be.

Her hair caught in the late afternoon light, the strands glinting like fine-spun silk as they slipped behind one ear, framing the delicate line of her jaw. The sun flirted with the thin gold chain resting at her throat, catching on the edges as if even the light couldn’t resist lingering there.

She looked exactly like the person the world thought she was.

The girl from the magazine covers. The one who wrote the songs people blasted in their cars with the windows down. The one with captions that sounded just the right amount of intimate, the right amount of mysterious.

The one who smiled like she was in on some secret no one else would ever be cool enough to know.

Except Franco knew better. He knew that half those Instagram posts weren’t written by her at all. He’d seen the PR drafts on her phone. 

And maybe it was all the time they’d been forced to spend together lately, the endless flights and dinners and hotel lobbies where they sat side by side like perfectly staged furniture—but he had started to notice the things she didn’t post. The things no one else seemed to see.

The way she tugged at the dainty gold chain around her wrist when she was anxious, looping it once, twice, tightening until it bit into her skin. The way she bit the inside of her cheek when she was trying not to say something. The way her teeth dragged over the corner of her lip when her guard slipped, just a fraction, and something real tried to break through.

She was still doing it now. Biting the soft swell of her lower lip, a tiny mark blooming there in the shape of her impatience.

His fingers twitched at his side.

He wanted to reach over and press his thumb against her mouth. Smooth the tension away. Steady her. Make her stop before she bruised herself.

The thought struck him so quickly it nearly unspooled him.

Where the hell had that come from?

It rattled him in a quiet, lingering way. Not a crash. Not a burn. Just a low, rising heat under his skin. The kind that didn’t let you go. The kind that demanded to be noticed.

He shifted, dragging his gaze back out the window like the lake might have answers for him.

It didn’t.

Because nothing about her was supposed to feel real. Not the way she looked in the dying light, not the press of her shoulder against his when the road curved too sharply, not the way she’d started to exist in the smallest corners of his attention.

She was supposed to be a headline.

A contract.

A game.

So why the fuck did she suddenly feel like something else?

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The villa was made for this—

The wide, open balcony. The carved stone railing. The lake stretched out in front of them like liquid gold, shimmering under the weight of the sinking sun.

It was almost laughable how perfectly staged it all was.

Even the wine had been selected by someone on her team. Vintage, photogenic, the kind of label that would end up in tagged Instagram stories by morning.

Franco sat opposite her at the small round table, a faint breeze tugging at the ends of his hair. His sunglasses were abandoned somewhere inside. The air was warm, humming with the low thrum of cicadas, the sun softening into something syrupy as it slipped lower in the sky.

She poured the wine herself. Not for the cameras. They weren’t here now. It wasn’t a moment designed to be captured.

And maybe that’s why it started to feel different.

She leaned back in her chair, cradling her glass between delicate fingers, letting the stem spin absently as she stared out over the water. Her hair was mussed from the wind, loose from its earlier styling, a few tendrils curling against her skin. Her lips were still faintly pink from the sun, the same lips she bit when she was nervous, the same lips he couldn’t stop noticing.

“I’ve always hated this part,” she said, her voice light, but there was something brittle underneath it.

Franco glanced at her, the lazy spin of his own wine glass faltering just slightly. “Hated what? Drinking wine on balconies of million-euro villas?”

A small, humourless laugh slipped from her. “No. This part. The part where I start to feel like I’m vanishing.”

His brows pulled together, the edges of his irritation softening, replaced by something slower. Something like understanding.

“You?” He smirked, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “You’re everywhere. Billboards. Charts. Pap shots. Your face is practically its own currency.”

“That’s exactly the problem,” she murmured, tilting her head, watching the light fracture across the lake’s surface. “People don’t actually see me. They just see the pieces that are curated for them.”

She paused, dragging her thumb over the rim of her glass, tracing the circle over and over again. “Sometimes I think… I’ve been marketed so carefully that I’ve forgotten what parts were really mine to begin with.”

The honesty of it landed like a weight between them. Unstaged. Unsanitized.

Franco’s throat tightened. He let his gaze drop to the table, the wine glinting ruby red in the light.

“I get that,” he said finally, the words low, a little rough. “Being watched. Being followed. Answering the same questions until you forget how to talk like a real human being.”

His hand drifted to his wrist, fingers grazing the leather bracelet he always wore, tugging at it, the tell he didn’t realize she’d already memorized.

“You’re good at that,” she said, eyes flicking back to him, the smallest tilt of a smile tugging at her lips. “Talking like a headline. Winning over reporters and outlets.”

He scoffed, leaning back in his chair, stretching his legs out until his foot nudged hers beneath the table. He didn’t move it.

“And you’re good at pretending you don’t care what people think.”

Her gaze pinned him there, sharp and steady. “And you care more than you admit.”

It was nothing. It was everything. A casual accusation dressed up as a joke, except it didn’t sound like a joke at all.

The silence between them stretched, the air thick with something that wasn’t scripted.

Her foot slid against his, just a little, the slow drag of skin to skin like it wasn’t even intentional. Like maybe she didn’t realize she was doing it. But he knew she did.

And maybe he didn’t move away because he didn’t want to.

The sun slipped lower, casting her in a soft amber glow, outlining her like something worth worshipping.

“I don’t even know what your real laugh sounds like,” he said, the words slipping out before he could stop them.

Her brows lifted, playful, but her voice was quieter when she replied. “Maybe you don’t deserve to.”

His pulse thudded somewhere in his throat. “Maybe I want to.”

That made her falter, just for a breath. Her wine glass stopped spinning. She set it down, the clink of glass on glass almost startling in the quiet.

She shifted her chair, just a little closer. Her leg brushed his, her knee pressed against his thigh, and she didn’t pull away this time.

The heat in his chest bloomed low and slow, like something that had been waiting for permission.

“You don’t get to want things, Franco,” she whispered, leaning forward, her elbow resting on the table, chin tipped just slightly toward him, the curve of her mouth dangerous. “That’s not part of the contract.”

His voice dipped, syrupy, steady. “Fuck the contract.”

Her breath caught, a sharp little sound. She recovered quickly, but he’d already seen it.

“Careful,” she warned, the edge returning to her tone, but it frayed in the middle. “You’re starting to sound like you mean it.”

He reached out then, almost without thinking, his thumb brushing over her wrist, right over the delicate chain she always played with, his touch soft but heavy with intent.

Her pulse jumped under his skin.

“And if I do?” he asked, barely above a whisper, his thumb circling once, slowly.

Her eyes flicked to his mouth, just for a second.

“I told you,” she murmured, her voice breathy now, laced with something like panic, like want, like surrender. “I don’t want to fall for you.”

His thumb stilled. The air snapped tight between them.

“Good,” he said, leaning in until their faces were separated by a breath, by a choice. “Because I don’t have time to break your heart.”

But neither of them moved.

Neither of them pulled away.

Because maybe it was already too late.

His thumb still lingered at the fragile hinge of her wrist, a ghost of contact, his skin a slow burn against hers. It shouldn’t have meant anything.

A gesture. An accident. An echo of the script they were supposed to follow.

But it didn’t feel staged. It didn’t feel safe.

The sun melted low across the lake, dragging streaks of soft gold and bruised lavender over the water, catching on the curve of her jaw, lighting the faintest shimmer along her collarbone. She hadn’t moved. Neither had he.

The distance between them evaporated, but neither of them crossed it. Not fully. Not yet.

His thumb traced lazy, dangerous circles over her pulse, memorizing the stutter there.

She should have pulled away. She should have laughed it off, thrown some sharp, teasing remark between them to shatter the quiet.

But her chest was tight with something else—something slow and wanting, something that made her breath catch and stutter.

And she let him keep touching her.

The heat built like a storm trapped in glass, pressing against the edges, begging to crack.

His hand drifted higher, a careful path up the inside of her arm, his fingertips featherlight but purposeful, like he was learning her in pieces, like he wanted to burn the shape of her into his memory.

She couldn’t look at him. Not fully. The pull was too much, too dangerous. His mouth was too close. His breath brushed her cheek, the edge of her jaw, a quiet tremble in the air.

His lips hovered at the corner of hers—almost, almost—but the kiss didn’t land.

The ache of it was worse than if it had.

This wasn’t in the contract.

This wasn’t for the cameras.

This was the part they weren’t supposed to touch.

Her body tilted toward him anyway, the smallest betrayal. Her skin humming, her breath thinning.

Franco’s eyes flicked to her mouth, dark, a question written in the shadow there, a cliff’s edge they’d both been circling for weeks.

His hand slid to the back of her neck, fingers sifting gently through the loose strands of her hair, holding her there like she might vanish. Like if he let go, she’d dissolve into the sunset and slip out of reach entirely.

His breath was warm against her lips, his voice low and aching when he finally spoke,

“No te vayas todavía.”

Don’t leave yet.

His thumb brushed over the delicate chain at her throat, feeling the quick, shallow beat of her heart beneath it.

The restraint in him trembled.

She let out a shaky exhale, her nose brushing his, the smallest tilt toward him, aching to fall, desperate to stop herself.

Her hands hovered at his waist, not quite brave enough to pull him closer, not quite strong enough to push him away.

If she kissed him, she wouldn’t stop.

If she kissed him, she’d fall.

And the worst part? She wanted to fall.

His lips barely grazed hers, a cruel, featherlight touch, like he knew exactly how to unravel her without even trying.

Somewhere in the hazy moments of photo ops and organized lunch dates, the lines blurred.

The edges of the script curled inwards and caught fire, the ink bleeding into something messier, something they couldn’t quite name.

And maybe that’s why she stopped fighting.

The contact was featherlight at first, a delicate press of lips, like a secret traded in the quiet between heartbeats. But when she breathed him in, when she tasted the faint trace of wine on his tongue, something in her caved.

Her hands tightened at his waist, pulling him closer, fingers fisting in the fabric of his shirt like she’d been waiting to do it for weeks. Her mouth parted against his, deeper now, less careful, more desperate. The kiss tilted out of balance, out of caution, all slow-burning want and the crackling ache of something they couldn’t unwind.

Franco’s hand slid from her neck to her jaw, thumb skimming along her cheekbone, holding her like she was precious, like she was fragile—but his other hand found her waist, his grip firmer, grounding, as if to remind her that he was real, that this was real.

His heart thundered in his chest, pulsing in his throat, his skin, everywhere she touched him.

Her lips were soft, but the kiss wasn’t. It was a collision—a slow, deliberate unraveling, the kind that burned. The kind that lived in the bloodstream long after it ended.

Her breath hitched when his teeth grazed her bottom lip, the faintest scrape, like he couldn’t help himself. She chased him when he pulled back just slightly, like she already couldn’t bear the distance.

His mouth ghosted over hers, a soft, aching press. He was tasting her now. Like he’d been starving. Like he’d been waiting for her to break first, and now that she had, he didn’t want to stop.

His name slipped from her lips, a low, trembling sound that sent something sharp through his ribs.

He kissed her again. Slower this time. More deliberate. Like he wanted to memorize the shape of her mouth, the way she sighed into him, the way her fingers curled tighter when he deepened it.

And maybe they both knew they’d ruined it.

That whatever game they’d been playing, they’d crossed the line and wouldn’t be able to pretend after this.

But neither of them stopped.

She broke first, pulling back just enough to catch her breath, her forehead resting against his, her lips tingling, swollen from the weight of his.

The silence stretched between them, thick, fragile, reverent.

She let out a shaky laugh, almost bitter, almost in awe. “I didn’t want this to be real.”

His thumb swept over her lower lip, slow, careful, his voice a rough hum against her skin. “Too late.”

And it was.

Because the fall had already started, and neither of them had bothered to stop it.

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Thanks for reading!!

💋ྀིྀི💋ྀིྀི💋ྀིྀི

[preservationofnormalcy]

[See Halter, they said. I heard that a lot in my investigation. Halter knew a little bit about a lot, and a lot about a little bit.

It was never in any kind of reverent tone, or like you’d refer to some legendary agent. My “friend” Halter. This guy, Halter. He was well known, well liked, but…there was an edge there. People smiled when they talked about him, but then after a moment their smile would flicker. The two faced reaction was consistent. It was all very Preservation of Normalcy. 

I’d been in this wing once before, when I went to talk to Irene in Necrocommunications. I’d seen this door, but hadn’t thought much of it. Now it loomed, the newly-printed black letters on the frosted window intimidating despite their innocuous appearance. All the doors I’d knocked on had made me hesitant to do so, a sort of trauma response, but knock I did. I was greeted by a demon. 

A black shape opened the door. A hole in space, an outline of pure blackness that fuzzed out at the edges, almost becoming static. There were…eyes, in the shape. Somehow, despite the shape’s black on black coloring, eyes were visible, black static that glared at me, paralyzed me. An eternity passed with my body frozen and my mind a white hot coal.]

Norm] Jenny, glamour. 

[The voice was male, almost sing-songy. As if he were gently chastising a younger friend. The shape before me seemed to look back at the voice’s source, then made a gesture. Instantly, the blackness and the paralyzing feeling melted into the shape of a plump young woman with a mop of red curls. She was wearing a flannel shirt over a faded black t-shirt, with the sleeves rolled up to reveal her thick forearms, dotted with tattoos. The only abnormality was a pair of fuzzy antennae, not unlike what you might see on a moth, poking out of her hair. She looked at me with some concern, but almost more embarrassment, as if she’d merely bumped into me and made me drop what I was carrying.]

Jenny] Shit. Sorry! I am so sorry. I don’t keep the glamour on all the time, Norm isn’t very affected by the…you know. 

[There was a pause.]

J] Do you know? You’re Meghan, right? 

[It was only then that I let out my breath. A ragged gasp, my body shuddering in pure terror. I’m not sure how I didn’t fall over. That was more fear than I’d ever felt in my entire life.

The young woman seemed to notice, opening the door wider.]

J] Come in, please. You can…sit if you want. It passes pretty quickly. Can I get you some water?

[There was the pregnant pause that happens when a person offering a seat realizes that there are no suitable horizontal surfaces. The interior of the office was a mess. A chaotic mix of stacks of papers, brown file boxes, evidence bags. Every surface, every square foot seemingly taken over by something - even many of the walls were a collage of photos, documents, miscellaneous materials. The fear from the young woman, and I was realizing now that she had been the black figure, was beginning to subside, being replaced by a different anxiety. The scene reminded me very much of what I’d found in the ruined tunnel at the decommissioned radio tower, and I tried not to look at the walls.]

J] Sorry about the mess. We’re still trying to get Norm’s files organized after he had help moving them all.  

N] Speaking of. This one, file under “L” for lost, “C” for cities. Robin’s Egg paperclip, not cyan. 

J] Yeah, yeah. 

N] Hendricks, right? 

[The male voice again. I could hear an…echo in it. A tiny electronic quality that I only noticed now that I was closer. Along one wall sat a bank of computers and file cabinets. The chaos was a little more orderly on that side, but I was still distracted enough by it that I almost missed the man I was here to talk with. 

Among the computers and machinery sat a wheeled cart, not unlike the AV carts they used to use in schools. Electronic components arose from the cart, cables and boxes and tubes wrapping over each other in a woven mess that culminated in a glass tube that sat atop the structure. The tube was ten inches in diameter, and around eighteen tall with a domed top. The tube was filled with some kind of green liquid, and within that liquid, held in place by a series of plastic ribs, was a wrinkled organ. A human brain. At the front of the tube was a small metal plate, upon which was mounted a circular port. One eye looked out from that port. Without an eyelid or eyebrow to give it context, the eye communicated only a strange sort of examination. 

This was Norm. 

When he spoke, his voice came from a speaker mounted to the base of the tube, accompanied by a small light that glowed and blinked, following his voice.] 

N] Good to meet you, ma’am. I’d shake your hand, but — 

[With a metallic whirr, two small appendages extended from the mass of wires sitting at the top of the cart, little more than alligator clips activated by a wire.]

N] They’re still working on that part. 

Meghan] They…they didn’t tell me you’d—

N] They can’t. 

[Despite the electronic tinge to his voice, it perfectly captured a human’s inflection. His response was fast, politely curt. Cutting the questions off at the pass.]

N] And I can’t either. My condition is…somewhat classified. As far as the Office is concerned, I’m still doing my job. Obviously I have physical limitations, but that’s why Jenny is here. 

[I look over at the young woman, who sheepishly waves.]

J] Hi. Jenny Cold. Didn’t really get to introduce myself. 

N] I suffered an injury in the line of duty, and if it’s all the same to you, that’s all that’s relevant for this conversation. 

M] I….understand. 

N] I know you don’t. You’ve got all kinds of questions. Everyone does. Just trust that it’s better for everyone if those go unanswered.

M] Right. 

N] You want to jump right in? 

[It felt insane to do that, now. After Jenny, after seeing what Norm was, anything else felt pointless. Arbitrary. I lived in a world where a human could become that. The sucker punches kept coming and I wasn’t sure how long it would take before I threw in the towel.]

M] I guess I should. So…this is the social media office. 

N] Yes ma’am. My little initiative. So far it’s just the three of us. 

M] Three? 

N] Oh, sorry. Let me introduce you to MISSI. 

[One of his claws gestured to a computer sitting on a desk. This one was markedly older than the others, with its offwhite shell and big bulky CRT. As I took a step towards it, the screen lit up and displayed a pixelated mouth - giant cartoony shark teeth meshed into a wide grin, and text on the bottom read “HAIIIIIIIIIIII” in pink letters.]

N] She’s an AI. A truly sentient one. We call those ‘uppercase’ AI around here. She got moved over to us when she got put on probation. 

[I looked back over to the screen. The text at the bottom changed to “I AM DOIN GOOD!!!!!!”]

N] Yes you are, MISSI. Proud of you. 

[I rubbed my eyes, and Norm seemed to catch it.]

N] It’s a lot to take in. I’ve heard you’ve been all over the Office. 

M] I’ve met a lot of people. 

N] Well, you can take it easy here. We’re here to help as best we can. 

M] How do you mean? 

N] When I was active duty, I was on the diplomatic staff, but most of what I did was personal outreach. I was often the first person called when someone needed help, both extranormal and mundane. Both in the community and outside it. I’d be the sometimes hidden face of the Office. A friendly smile when people need it most. I had to keep secrecy regulations, but I’d still tell people what I could to help them with their problems, and get them to the person who could help them if I couldn’t. 

M] And that’s what you do here? 

N] Mostly! We get all kinds of questions sent in. Dangerous stuff, petty stuff. Procedural questions, law help, magical defense. I know a little bit about a lot, so most of the time if I don’t know what’s happening I can get them in contact with someone else. Or, Jenny does. 

M] What else does she do? 

J] I do a lot of screening questions. Some things get asked a bunch so we answer them privately, or they’re just…trolling, or uncomfortable. People asking about stuff that isn’t…safe for work, and the like. I also sort his files, which is going to take years at this rate. 

M] And…the AI? 

[The young woman interjects, almost before I’m done speaking; “MISSI.”]

N] Cybersecurity, mainly. Being sentient and digital, she can suss out cognitohazards way better than the old algorithms, and isn’t really affected by them. Her professionalism leaves a little to be desired, but we’re working on it. 

[I looked over at the old CRT, which was bleeding. I decided not to ask why.

Norm went on about different cases, different experiences where he’d helped people. Despite myself, I felt myself….liking him. He had a way of speaking, a sort of folksy voice that—

My heart leapt. My fingers went numb. He was doing this. There was no reason I would feel this way. I just met the man, and now I’d help him move. I’d watch his dog. It wasn’t a strong feeling, I wouldn’t die for the man, but if I worked with him day in and day out, how long would it be until I would? 

I could feel things bubbling up in my chest. Vomit, of course, but I could also feel that vague feeling of liking Norm fighting with my suspicion. I felt like I’d caught a snake slithering into the hen house. Was this some….magical spell? A psychic aura? Was all that machinery a way of….suppressing someone’s natural suspicion? Lowering their guard? I couldn’t discount anything, not after what I’d seen. 

I thought about those reactions I saw in people when they talked about Norm. A smile, then a flicker. Sure, that could just be a memory of his sorry physical state, but did they know, deep down, that it was all…fake?

I couldn’t stop the sweat on my forehead, or the ringing in my ears.]

N] —and, you know, like I always say,  perception is—

M] Are you human, Norm? 

[The air was sucked out of the room instantly. I could barely keep my breathing even. Jenny took a step towards the two of us.]

J] Hey, what kind of —

N] No, it’s okay. I can’t fight reality on this. No, I am technically not human. The official term is technological posthuman. That’s what it says on my paperwork. 

M] Are you….extranormal? 

N] Not….really. Not in a way the Office cares about. I wasn’t before my accident a few years ago. Some of this tech keeping me alive is running off of a magical programming language. A lot of this stuff comes from AbTech. Why do you ask? 

M] It just seems like — 

[A few years ago. He can’t talk about it. No one can. The bile in my throat pushed out any residual positive feeling I had. My hands trembled.]

M] What happened to you, Agent Halter? 

N] Meghan, I can’t —

M] Is he here? 

N] What? 

M] My brother, is he here? Is he like you? 

J] Jesus Christ, Meghan. 

M] You’re just as much a victim of this as anyone, Jenny.  

N] Meghan, I think I know what’s going on. You’re grieving and no one can even acknowledge what you lost. I went through that too, I’m still going through it. Take a breath, please. 

[There it was again. A radiating sense of good feeling towards this thing in the tube. It was sickly sweet now that I could sense it, cloying.]

M] You’re at the center of this, aren’t you? Of all of this. That’s why everyone likes you. They pity you because you’re in that thing but how many of their strings are you pulling? 

N] Please, you need to calm do—

M] Where is he?

N] We-

M] What happened to my brother?! 

[The scream ripped out of my throat before I could stop it. The tears melted onto my cheeks, and even I’m stunned once I realized how close I was to Norm. I’m not proud of it. But now I’m living in that moment, my body shuddering in rage. 

There is a long silence. Thoughts slip through my mind - is he dead? Did I kill him? A tiny part of me said ‘good. I hope so.’ When Norm spoke again, it was….ragged. The sound coming from the machine creaked and ached, staticky and muffled. It echoed, like an imprisoned man speaking through a long tube, farther away than anyone could ever reach.]

N] We broke the cycle. 

[I look back at Jenny in confusion. She has her hands over her mouth in shock, and looks just as confused.]

N] How often has this happened? A thousand million times for all we know. We saw some of them just vanish. We didn’t know why. Then worlds like ours winked out in ways compatible enough that we could understand it. She knew. She always knew. The cycle would come for her again. 

[The lights in the room flickered, dimmed. Norm’s tube bubbled, and several indicator lights on his wire assembly went into the red. His speaker was untuned now, almost slurring.] 

N] I made the choice. For everyone. I couldn’t handle a world like that. But she disagreed. She chose this one because she was a saint and couldn’t….couldn’t—

[Sparks flew from the cart and his voice was no longer a series of rational words. Syllables repeated, voices talked over themselves.]

N] WE COULD SEE IT. EMPTINESS. EVIL. EVERY STORY, EVERY TALE REFERRING TO THE THING WRITTEN IN OUR DNA TO FEAR. WE DIDN’T KNOW WHAT IT WAS UNTIL WE SAW IT. MASKS. OLD CHARLIE. ALBION. RHYTHMORZAX. IT CAME TO US AND WE KNEW REALITY WAS INSUFFICIENT. WE HAD TO AMPUTATE THE LIMB TO KILL THE INFECTION.

[The lights in the room shut off, and there was a moment of silence until an ear piercing shriek came from the brain’s chassis.]

N]  WE KILLED REALITY TO KILL IT. WE KILLED REALITY TO KILL IT. WE KILLED REALITY TO KILL IT. WE KI—

[A final shower of sparks, and he went silent.]

J] Norm! 

[Jenny rushed towards him, checking his readouts as well as she could in the dark.]

M] Jenny, I—

J] Not now! 

M] I am so sorr—

J] Just shut the fuck up, you’ve already done enough! 

[That energy, again. The same I felt when I’d seen the black shape at the door. Not as strong as before, but the sensation of being face to face with something designed from the ground up to prey on you. 

She murmured, half panicking, flipping switches until she seemed satisfied, and then slumped into a rolling chair nearby.]

M] Is…is he okay? 

J] He will be. 

[She rubbed her face, and I could see she was crying.] 

J] He will be. He just needs to reset. 

M] Reset his…

J] Just the software. It…he’s done this before. Whatever happened to him makes him panic, makes something in him almost….

[She looked away, putting her hand over her lower face, resting her elbow on the desk.] 

J] Revolt against himself. I don’t know. 

M] I’m sorry, I just—

J] Something is wrong, Meghan. Something is very very wrong at the Office. There’s a guy who works here, Doctor Chou. He's the head of AbTech, and I think...he did something to Norm when he brought him back.

M] Did something? 

J] I don’t know. I know it benefits him, but I don’t know anything else. Maybe he’s who you need to talk to. 

[Her tone was tired, angry. I interpreted it as the dismissal it was, looking once more at Norm.

Jenny looked back at the CRT that displayed the AI they’d spoken about. Maybe it and Norm had their own power source. A small character appeared on the screen, a sharp toothed smile in a hoodie, wearing a football helmet and punching the sky. The text along the bottom read ‘PUT ME IN COACH. PUT ME INNNNNNNNNN’

Jenny rubbed her face again, and got up. She ran a cable from the old computer to somewhere in the tangle of wires of Norm’s chassis, and there was a snap as it plugged in. The cartoon avatar on the old monitor silently laughed in glee, and vanished.]

J] You should go. I don’t know when either of them will wake back up. 

M] Right. Um. For what it’s worth, I’m….I’m sorry. 

[Jenny didn’t answer. I left her alone in the room, in the dark.]

[alisonsfics]

all it took

pairing: tony dinozzo x reader

summary: falling for your coworker was never something you planned on, but it happened nonetheless. so, you kept it top secret. this works fine until someone breaks into NCIS headquarters, and you and tony are put in harms way.

word count: 3k

warnings: hostage situation, guns, blood/injuries (nothing graphic), swearing

You sent a glare in Tony’s direction after getting hit in the face with a piece of candy. “Dinozzo!” You said, exasperatedly, trying to figure out why he had just thrown an M&M at your face.

“I called your name like five times. You didn’t hear me.” He explained. You ran your hand through your hair. “That’s cause I’m working. Gibbs is down in interrogation, and he needs something he can use. I don’t want to be the one to tell him I have nothing— whatever. What do you need?” You asked him.

“I want to show you a trick.” He said, excitedly. You and Tony were really good friends, which meant you both had no trouble having fun around each other. Gibbs didn’t always love this.

Tony tossed a piece of candy up in the air and attempted unsuccessfully to catch it in his mouth. You quickly put your hand over your mouth, suppressing a giggle. “Don’t you even,” Tony warned, expecting the sarcastic comment that was on the tip of your tongue.

“I wasn’t gonna say anything. I just figured a federal agent would have better hand-eye coordination.” You said, smirking at him. He knew he had just been challenged. “Alright, let’s see you do it.” He said, inviting you over to his desk.

You stood up from your chair and walked over to the side of Tony’s desk. He tossed a piece of candy your way, which you caught in your mouth on the first try. The smile on Tony’s face faded. “You were clearly assisted by my excellent aim,” he said, defensively.

You giggled at his sad expression. “So, what’s my prize for beating you?” You asked, curiously. A smirk spread across Tony’s face. “That depends on what you want.” He quipped.

A flirty comment out of Tony wasn’t anything knew to you. All of your coworkers knew you both were into each other, but hadn’t admitted it yet.

You thought about it, and his comment gave you an idea about the suspect down in interrogation.

“I need to call Gibbs,” you said, grabbing the phone off his desk.

“I’m very happy for you, but I don’t think Gibbs is going to care that you caught an M&M.” He said, not catching on yet. You flicked his arm.

“Ow,” he exclaimed, scooting his chair back away from you.

“Your phone’s not working,” you said, slamming it down. You raced over to your desk, grabbing your own phone. You heard the same static sound over your phone. “The phones must be down.” You said, confused since the phones were never down.

Over your shoulder, Tony saw a man step out of the elevator with a large gun. His first instinct should have been to grab his own gun and order the man to surrender. That was his job after all.

But not with you standing in the middle.

He dived over to where you were standing, pulling you down to the ground with him. As you both fell to the floor, you heard a bunch of rapid gunshots go into the ceiling.

You felt a burning sensation on your upper arm. You swore under your breath, wincing in pain.

Tony felt his heart sink as he noticed the blood seeping through your shirt. “Hang on, it’ll be okay. One of the ricochets must have hit you. Just looks like a graze though,” he said, tugging off the button-up shirt he was wearing.

He was left in a white t-shirt, tying his other shirt tightly around your arm.

“I need to see Special Agent Leroy Jethro Gibbs.” The intruder announced to the squad room. There wasn’t very many agents in the office today, but they were all now laying on the ground as instructed.

“Keep pressure on this,” Tony said, starting to stand up. You gripped onto his arm. He saw the fear in your eyes. Tony had never seen you scared before.

You weren’t scared for yourself. You were scared Tony would play hero and get himself hurt.

“Don’t,” you begged him. He could sense your desperation. “I won’t go anywhere,” he gave in. He wrapped his arm around your shoulders, keeping you close to him.

You heard heavy footsteps behind you. The intruder was standing right in front of your desk, staring at you both sitting behind it.

“You, up!” He ordered, staring at Tony. Tony slowly stood, holding his hands up. “I’m Gibbs. What do you need?” He asked, nonchalantly.

“You want to try again, agent? Because I know you’re not Gibbs.” He threatened. Tony shrugged his shoulders. “I’m Special Agent Gibbs. Don’t know what to tell you,” he lied.

You cursed Tony out in your head. He was amazing at his job, but always knew how to make you worry about him.

“How about you tell me the truth?” The intruder said, shifting his gun to point it at you. Tony jumped in front of the intruder, keeping you safe. “Hey hey hey, I’m Special Agent Anthony Dinozzo. Don’t hurt her” the words rushed out of his mouth.

The intruder smirked, realizing he had found Tony’s weak spot.

There was no bluffing when it came to you. Tony wouldn’t do anything that risked your safety.

“That’s better, Romeo. Now bring me to Gibbs.” The intruder demanded. Tony hesitated, looking over his shoulder at you. “She’s hurt. Let me call our doctor up here. Then, I’ll do whatever you want,” Tony negotiated.

The intruder considered his proposition for a minute, then turned to you. “You, come here.” He demanded. Following your training, you held your hands in the air and slowly walked towards him.

He pointed his gun at Tony and used his other hand to pat you down. You could see Tony tense up. “So, what do you want with Gibbs?” You asked, trying to get inside his head.

“My name is Jeremiah Parker. Agent Gibbs arrested my brother today, and I’m here to get him back.” The intruder explained, referencing the suspect that was down in interrogation with Gibbs right now.

Jeremiah ran his hand down your legs, grabbing your gun and throwing it to the side. His hand went back up to your waist.

You felt yourself flinch as his hand lingered on your ass. Tony noticed immediately. “Hey, get your hands off of her.” Tony snapped.

Jeremiah simply chuckled. “Calm down, Agent Dinozzo. I’m only looking for these.” He said, grabbing your handcuffs off your belt.

“Cuff his hands, sweetheart.” He told you. Tony gave you a soft smile, letting you know it was okay. You stepped towards Tony, grabbing both his hands and handcuffing them in front of him.

He grabbed one your hands and gave it a reassuring squeeze. “You’re shaking. It’ll be okay, I promise,” he assured you.

Then, Jeremiah grabbed your shoulders forcefully and pulled you away from Tony. He pressed the tip of his gun against your side.

“Call your doctor, and put it on speaker.” He instructed Tony, who nodded his head and obliged.

The phone rang once or twice and then you heard Jimmy’s voice come through the speaker. “Hello, this is Palmer,” he said, nonchalantly.

“Hey, Jimmy. I need to speak with Dr. Mallard.” Tony said, silently praying Palmer would know he only ever referred to him as Ducky. Jimmy mumbled “one second,” and then there was some silence.

“Hello, Tony?” Ducky asked. “Hi, Dr. Mallard. I need you to bring your first aid kit up to the squad room please.” Tony said, calmly. Ducky was silent for a minute, trying to figure out what was wrong. “Tony, what’s going on?” Ducky asked, already knowing something was off.

“Just hurry,” Tony said, almost snapping. He was almost pleading with Ducky. If Jeremiah knew anything was going on, he’d probably kill you both.

“Tony is everything ok—” Ducky started to ask before Jeremiah quickly hung up the phone.

You felt your body tense as he slammed the phone down. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. If your doctor does as he’s told, you’ll be just fine.” Jeremiah assured you, running his thumb over you cheek.

“I only bring you to Gibbs if you leave her alone.” Tony threatened. Jeremiah didn’t respond, he just chuckled to himself. “You’re the one in handcuffs. I don’t think you’re in a place to make demands.” Jeremiah told him.

The elevator door dinged. You all watched Ducky cautiously step out of the elevator, first aid kit in hand.

Jeremiah pressed his gun against your head. “Over here, doctor,” Jeremiah announced.

Ducky knew something was wrong just from the phone call. He wasn’t shocked that there was an intruder, but seeing a gun pointed at your head made him realize how serious the situation was.

“Ducky, Y/N’s arm got grazed. I need you to stay here and help her. Me and our friend have to go talk to Gibbs.” Tony told him.

Jeremiah shoved you towards Ducky, who held his hands out and caught you from falling over. Tony also lunged to try to catch you, even though his hands were handcuffed together.

Ducky wrapped his arm around your shoulder, in a fatherly manner. “Well Gibbs is down in interrogation now.” He said, looking towards Tony. You knew from Ducky’s expression that Gibbs knew what was going on.

You didn’t know why you were so nervous. You and Tony had worked in the field together for years, but he had never seen you this nervous. You didn’t know why it felt different this time.

You both were in dangerous situations all the time, but this time you were terrified that Tony would get hurt. He had the same worries for you.

Tony noticed how you were nervously biting your lip.

“Hey, it’ll be alright. You know me,” Tony said, softly. He was trying to reassure you, but it wasn’t working.

If you hadn’t seen the small beads of sweat on his forehead, you probably would’ve believed him.

But he was right. You did know him.

You knew he used humor instead of admitting he was scared.

You both had been hiding behind the “just friends” label for years, but Tony had always cared for you more he had ever cared for just a friend. As he saw the look on your face and the tear rolling down your cheek, he had all the confirmation he needed that you felt the same way about him.

He sighed at the irony of the situation. Tony was very aware that this could be the last time he saw you.

You also were terrified. As soon as Tony was out of your sight, there was no saying what would happen to him.

“Ducky, I need you to take care of her” Tony said with the most serious tone you’ve ever heard him use.

Jeremiah kicked Tony in the back of the leg, pushing him forward. “Let’s go,” he demanded.

As soon as Jeremiah turned away from you, you decided to copy one of Tony’s favorite movies, the A-Team, which he had forced you to watch with him.

You had the key to your handcuffs concealed in your hand. You quickly slipped the key into your mouth. “Tony wait,” you called out. Tony stopped in his tracks as you walked over to him.

You cupped his face and kissed him. Tony was shocked, but wasted no time kissing you back. He felt your tongue slip the key into his mouth. He smirked into the kiss, knowing that you remembered watching that movie together.

You reluctantly pulled out of the kiss. “Be safe,” you whispered. He nodded his head, “I promise.”

You felt Ducky’s hands on your arm, pulling you back towards him. You both watched as the two of them walked away towards the elevator.

“He’ll be alright, my dear,” Ducky reassured you. You turned around, leaning your head on Ducky’s shoulder as a few tears slipped onto your cheeks. “I really want to believe you, Duck.” You whispered.

“Anthony will do whatever it takes to come back to you because it’s you.” He told you.

As the elevator doors closed, Tony looked over his shoulder at Jeremiah. “If you put another scratch on her body, I swear to god, I will kill you myself.” Tony threatened.

“Is Agent Dinozzo in love?” Jeremiah questioned. Tony remained silent. He had barely been able to admit those feelings to himself.

“I am a sucker for love. It’s so sad that you’ll never see her again.” Jeremiah quipped.

Then, the elevator screeched to a halt. Tony knew that somewhere Gibbs was responsible.

Meanwhile, Ducky was dragging you up to MTAC. You had told all the other agents in the squad room to go up there to stay safe, but you weren’t planning on staying. You needed to go help Tony.

Ducky didn’t like that idea.

“Now, just come on, my dear. I need to look at your arm. Anthony has this under control. You could walk into an ambush.” Ducky tried to convince you, blocking the door so you couldn’t leave.

“Ducky. I think I love him, and I would regret staying here for the rest of my life if he gets hurt.” You told him, honestly.

Ducky nodded, sympathizing with your situation. “Then, let me fix this first.” He said, fixing the way Tony’s shirt was tied around your arm.

“There you go, but be safe.” He told you, letting you leave. You sprinted down the stairs and grabbed your gun off your desk. You opted to take the stairs down to interrogation instead of the elevator.

Tony and Jeremiah’s elevator finally continued descending down to the interrogation floor.

Jeremiah stuck his gun to Tony’s head, anticipating agents when the elevator doors opened.

The doors opened and revealed Gibbs standing with his gun pointed at Jeremiah. “Put your gun down, Agent Gibbs, or another one of your agents gets hurt.” Jeremiah demanded.

Ducky had told Gibbs about the weird phone call with Tony, but he didn’t know about you getting hurt.

“What did you do?” Gibbs asked, cautiously.

“Y/N got grazed by a bullet. She’s with Ducky now. She’s probably gonna need some stitches.” Tony informed him.

Tony promptly got elbowed by Jeremiah. “Shut your mouth, Romeo. Or your girlfriend is going to get more than a graze.” Jeremiah snapped.

Tony didn’t stop.

“Boss, drop your gun. You won’t need it to take him out.” Tony told Gibbs. Gibbs got the message and placed his gun on the ground.

Jeremiah had had enough. He threw a quick punch at Tony’s face, successfully hitting him right in the nose.

Tony’s plan worked.

He flinched, grabbing his nose with both his hands. He sneakily grabbed the key out of his mouth, but didn’t unlock the handcuffs yet.

Jeremiah walked Gibbs and Tony down the hallway, towards the interrogation room. Tony unlocked the handcuffs when Gibbs gave him the signal.

He popped his hands out and turned around, quickly smacking the gun out of Jeremiah’s hands. Then, McGee jumped out from around the corner with his gun pointed at Jeremiah.

Gibbs grabbed Jeremiah and quickly handcuffed him.

“Go get her,” Gibbs told Tony, but he had already started running towards the stairs. McGee followed after Tony, not quite keeping up. This was the fastest Tony had ever ran. His mind was racing with thoughts of you.

Tony got to the squad room and found your desk empty. You and Ducky were nowhere to be seen. Tony called your name a few times, desperately looking around for you.

McGee arrived shortly after Tony. “She could’ve brought everyone up to MTAC for safety.” McGee suggested. Tony sprinted up the stairs, slamming the door open as he ran inside.

He scanned the faces of all the agents standing in the room, not seeing you. Agents started to funnel out of the room, knowing it was safe now.

“Oh, come on, come on, where are you?” His mind was racing with possibilities.

Tony found Ducky. “Ducky. Where is she?” He asked, urgently.

“She went off to find you, Anthony.” Ducky informed him.

“Tony, Tony, down here,” Tony heard McGee screaming from outside.

Tony ran outside of MTAC and saw you standing down next to McGee in the squad room.

Once his eyes landed on you, he sprinted down the stairs, running as fast as his legs would take him.

He pulled you right into his arms, holding onto you tightly. “Are you okay? Please tell me you’re okay” you whispered into his shirt. “I’m fine. Gibbs has him. It’s all okay” he ran his hand through your hair, comforting you.

“What about your arm?” Tony jumped back, thinking he was hurting you. “I’m fine, Tony. Ducky’s gonna stitch it up. It hurts like a bitch, but I’m fine.” You assured him.

You looked at his face, wanting to double check that he was actually okay. “Your nose looks all red and swollen.” You said, noticing his injury.

“I had to get him to throw a punch at me, so I could get the key out of my mouth. I promise, it’s nothing. It takes more than that to hurt Anthony Dinozzo.” He told you. He pulled you back into his arms.

“I know this is part of the job, but I was so fucking worried about you.” You told him, squeezing onto him tightly.

He grabbed your chin and pulled your face up to connect your lips. He had one hand pressed against your cheek, and the other was on the back of your head. You rested your hands on his sides.

You weren’t taking any part of this moment for granted. You memorized the way his shirt felt under your fingers and spearmint taste on his lips.

“Oh, would you look at that? All it took to get you two together was a hostage situation.” Ducky said. You both pulled away and saw Ducky staring with Gibbs and McGee standing behind him.

“I can’t believe you used the key trick from A-Team. You are so amazing.” Tony said, pressing a bunch of kisses to your cheek. Tony couldn’t contain himself. After all, the girl he was crazy about used his favorite move from his favorite movie to save his life.

“I hate to steal her from you, Anthony, but she really needs those stitches.” Ducky interrupted.

“Don’t worry. I’ll hold your hand the whole time.” Tony said, cheesily interlacing your fingers with his and walking over to your desk where Ducky had his first aid kit opened.

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[snowblack-charcoalwhite]

Could you do your own analysis abt what traits/behaviours Aegon and Aemond got from Alicent? They both took after her and it's insane

What a wonderful question! Thank you for it, and my apologies for the delay with answering - and for the direction the answer ended up taking (you might have meant some specific examples as opposed to the more general thing I`m about to offer).

I`d like to start with this:

It definitely doesn`t mean that I enjoy watching either of them suffer or wish torment upon them (especially given that Aegon and Aemond are my absolute faves and Alicent is among my top 5 HotD/F&B characters as well). What I do find fascinating is how all of them are enduring the pain: living it, transforming it and channelling it into the world with nothing but a look.

And I find just as interesting the way the mother and the sons express their feelings when their adversaries find themselves in a tight spot, in one way or another:

It`s definitely schadenfreude but one tinged with the sense of curiosity and slight disbelief, as in "Looks like you could have problems as well after all, huh?"

Сontinuing with this mother-children connection, it has to be said that Aegon and Aemond are absolutely self-sufficient characters with their own motivation and unique traits; but in some way they are also Alicent`s agents, the way she speaks with the world (just like in one sense or another sense all people are continuation of their parents - even if they never knew them its their absence that leaves an imprint on a person`s soul).

Aegon is the voice of her suffering.

(I`m all in for the theory according to which Aegon is a nail biter just as his mother is a nail picker - and these habits do not come from a happy place).

Aemond is the voice of her bitterness and rage.

It`s almost feels like emotion-wise Aegon resembles Alicent in static while Aemond represents her in dynamic.

And it`s heartbreaking to think that when both of them were dead Alicent once again had to lock all her pain and anger within herself - and those grew insurmountable over the course of the Dance and eventually drove her mad.

Additionally, it`s of interest to note that all three of them are driven by duty in one way or another - but they handle it differently.

Both Alicent and Aegon wear theirs like a royal chain around their neck (if S2 doesn`t show us Aegon embracing the burden of ruling, if only for the sake of his family, I`m ignoring it); but where Aegon doesn`t take his off because of being afraid something terrible will happen if he does, Alicent just can`t fathom doing it. This metaphorical chain has grown into her body and become an inalienable part of her.

And for Aemond duty is not a piece to wear but a weapon to wield. He is so aggressive about it (even if it`s passive aggression) that it almost feels like it`s a material object - and a quite sharp one, a worthy addition to the sword and the dagger.

I`m sorry if the answer`s turned out to be messy. I just have way too many feelings about this family:)

[leajoyrambles]

"Schrödinger's Ghost Boy" but make it literal

hey so you know how the phandom has this ongoing joke about how Danny, being both/neither dead and/or alive, is like Schrödinger's cat but ghostly? you know how the thing with the cat is considered a valid explanation of certain principles in quantum mechanics? you know how the cat maintains that state specifically by being unobservable? you know how the theme song calls the Infinite Realms "a world unseen"? you know how—

*government agents swarm the stage; the camera feed fizzes into static, then hard cuts back to me standing in the same place, slightly disheveled but uninjured. I push my glasses up my nose, leaving a suspiciously red fingerprint on one of the lenses. Because my glasses are already smudged to hell, I do not notice*

ahem. so. basically, imagine that the "halfa" thing doesn't just mean being caught between life and death, but also caught between the realms of life and death. This would also be a portal AU, in that because Danny is partially erased from reality, things around him are as well. Basically, he's like a black hole — he gets pulled into this in-between, but because of the "gravity" that generates, so do his belongings. His usual haunts (ha) experience the gravity too, but because they're so connected to things around them, they become warped rather than absorbed (his bedroom evolves into a sort of portal, eventually, but I'm getting ahead of myself).

And how would this affect the people around him? I'm so glad you asked! That is, in fact, the point:

They forget.

Danny's existence? A black hole. And until the event horizon, everything is warped — space, time, reality, and memories included. No one who would have remembered him can even see him.

(There are some metaphors in here. Something something his home is his haunt is his gravitational field is all going to be consumed by him in some way, is going to come out different, like he did, and eventually there won't be an event horizon — Amity becomes liminal not because of the hole in reality, but because of the life it swallowed — grief as gravity so strong it warps everything around it — forgetting as haunting and haunting as a call to remember — the queer analogy of being so different that you're so alone that you have to rewrite the universe just to be heard — etc.)

Some details:

Danny's at his "most real" when he's in an inherent phase state — ghost form in the human world or human form in the realms.

Danny can interact with humans in human form, but they have to have prior exposure to reality-warping/ghostly stuff and no prior knowledge of his existence. (I have some outlines and drafts for this story already, and the main characters in this category wind up being Wes Weston and Valerie Grey)

The above is a good thing except for the GIW. Because they meet both criteria to a degree and are. hm. not good.

Vlad is not the same kind of halfa as Danny. It's sort of like... Phantom was born at the center of a supernova; Plasmius was born in the radiation a black hole belched out after eating a neutron star. (I'm getting way too into this metaphor.) The influence of gravity is wildly different between those two things, so while Vlad does "warp," he doesn't have a warping effect on anything else.

Vlad does, in fact, remember Danny. Unfortunately, he's still an asshole in this universe, so he mostly uses Danny's name to short-circuit the other Fentons' brains whenever he wants them to stop talking.

The phanon idea of "ghost lairs" is complicated for Danny; his lair mirrors his nature, unable to fully exist in the human world or the realms. This is where the "his bedroom becomes a portal" thing comes into play; places that are reality-warped maintain a connection to Danny, sort of like an anchor, and they all act as potential portals to his lair. His room is the start of what his lair mirrors in the human world, and it has the strongest warping, so it's both part of his lair and the most active portal to it.

Warping-as-portals also happens in people's minds; people who really cared about him eventually find those "portals" and access their memories, but this... definitely has some side-effects. (they do not care about the side-effects)

...and I have, in fact, already written an outline of most of the series and a draft of pt 1. (y'all are totally welcome to use this as a prompt though; just send me a link so I can read it!)

[run-little-hero]

T/CW // Unhealthy relationship, violence, grief, death, NSFW

The first time Hero engaged Villain in a fight was lifetimes ago, before tragedy had seeped its way into every part of their being. There’s a price attached to this job, Hero knows that now.

They’re facing Villain and the setting is all wrong. Hero feels like laughing. It’s absurd to think they ever did this in the name of justice. It’s all meaningless now; the fighting, the title, the prestige—meaningless to both of them, Hero can see that.

Minutes pass before Villain breaks their silence. “Sometimes I think I hear them say my name while I’m standing in another room.” They stare at the floorboards. Hero isn’t surprised they found them here. “I’m going crazy, right?”

Hero’s eyes drift to the couch. They remember falling asleep, Civilian’s head resting on their chest. The memory of burnt coffee wafts through the apartment.

“Would you be so lonely if you were going crazy?” Hero remarks.

“Maybe I wouldn’t.” Villain walks over to the coffee table, picking up an abandoned glass. “Hopefully it’ll get worse with time.”

According to the agents handling the case, Civilian’s relatives have been hard to locate, so no one has been by to clear out the apartment in the five days since they were killed. It’s not right their home should remain untouched. Something in Hero thought it might collapse in on itself now that it’s human isn’t in the world. This reflection of Civilian, destroyed.

And in the middle of this static snow globe is Villain. Hero’s enemy. The only person on Earth who understands what they’re going through. Hero hates them for it. For being a reminder.

“Villain,” Hero begins. “I want you to get out.”

Villain looks up. “I’m not done yet.”

“Done with what?”

Their expression morphs to anger. With a violent swing, they throw the glass onto the floor. Hero follows a few of the shattered pieces as they slide across the ground.

“I’m not done,” they repeat. Villain makes no effort to finish their statement. Hero understands anyways. Especially now, words seem so unnecessary. But how dare they destroy a piece of Civilian—what little they have left of them.

Hero tackles them, knocking the couch back in the process. Villain struggles, trying to push Hero off. Hero goes for their face, landing a punch across their jaw, then another. Blood drips from the corner of their mouth.

Villain manages to free themself with a knee to Hero’s stomach. They double over and Villain springs to their feet, running to grab a paperweight off a shelf. Hero gets back up, dodging Villain’s swing with the blunt object. They take the opportunity to push them through the glass coffee table. Shards dig into their bleeding hands as they struggle to rise. They’re stopped by the press of Hero’s boot on their chest, pinning them in place.

A sick smile spreads across Villain’s face. “They wouldn’t want us to fight, you know.”

Hero lifts their boot and stomps on Villain’s chest again, making them wheeze. “Shut up!” Hero yells. “It’s all your fault. You’re the reason they’re dead.”

“No,” they whimper. “If it’s my fault, then we split the blame.” Shut up. Hero can’t stand the implication.

“If you didn’t get in my way they wouldn’t have died! I could have stopped Supervillain!”

“I know that!” Villain cries. “You think I knew this would happen? You think I wanted this?” They sound as pathetic as Hero.

Hero blames Villain, but that blame is also inseparable from themself. If they’d protected Civilian better, if they’d just stayed away from them in the first place, they’d be alive. They’d never have been caught in the crossfire of Villain and Hero’s affections.

Hero takes their boot off Villain’s chest and bends down, grabbing them by the collar. Despite their efforts, Hero can’t convince themself that Villain’s feelings for Civilian are disingenuous. “I hate you,” they spit. “I hate that you’re here and Civilian’s gone. I hate that you’ve left me alive to deal with all this grief.”

They drop their hold on Villain and step away. “I hate how I wish it was me instead of Civilian, and not you.” Tears sting Hero’s eyes at the admission. Shame is a twisted thing. Love can hide behind it, disguise itself as such.

Villain scrambles, struggling to stand. They find their footing, brushing off shards of glass. They sway as they step forward, collapsing into Hero as soon as they’re within reach. Hero catches them.

They whisper, “I hate how we wasted so much time.” They’re crying. “Civilian wanted better for us, but we didn’t.”

Regret is the worst agony in grief. Hero knows they will never surface from it. Neither will Villain. They’re trapped in it, just as they’ve always been trapped in each other’s orbit.

Villain reaches for Hero’s face, cupping it with an injured hand. They drag a red finger across their lips. Hero holds Villain as they cry and bleed. Hero holds them as they kiss. It’s slow and sad. It’s full of a longing that will never be fulfilled. It contains emotions bursting to the surface and a truth finally acknowledged.

They part for a moment and Villain weakly pushes Hero onto the floor by the fallen couch. They wince as a few stray pieces of glass puncture their skin, but it’s forgotten as soon as Villain climbs on top of them and begins pressing kisses down their neck.

“Hero,” they whine.

This is the disruption Hero craved. Kissing their enemy in the wreckage of their mutual dead lover’s home. It’s deranged and it’s perfect for them.

“Hero,” Villain mutters in their ear. Hero fingers the buttons of Villain’s shirt. “Civilian.”

They freeze upon hearing the name. Villain just called them by Civilian’s name. It brings tears to their eyes. Desire courses through them.

“Say it again,” they demand.

Villain obeys. “Civilian.” Their name pounds in Hero’s ears as they listen to Villain chant it. “Civilian, Civilian, Civilian.” It’s the motivation Hero needs to rip Villain out of their clothes.

It’s poisonous. Polar extremes of grief and pleasure flood Hero’s mind until all three of them—Hero, Villain, and Civilian—warp together.

Hero can’t help but echo it back. “Civilian,” they say.

It makes Villain gasp. Their lips clash together. They choke on each other’s blood and tears and pretend it’s Civilian there with them.

Hero’s hands explore their skin. It’s the first time they’ve done this, but it’s something so inevitable it feels like it’s already happened. Villain feels so familiar. Hero focuses on the cacophony of ‘Civilian’s coming from both of them until they reach their climax.

Villain is breathless afterwords. “Hero,” they plead. Eyes closed, Hero feels Villain’s tears drip onto their face. “You’re all I have.” A kiss. “I need you.”

How terrible it is to find bravery in grief. It’s easy for Hero to say, “I need you, too. I love you. I have for a long time.”

They kiss, and Hero is filled with regret, because they will never be able to embrace like this without feeling Civilian’s absence. “I love you,” Villain mumbles.

They lie there well into the night. Villain falls asleep on Hero’s chest. Hero wonders if anyone would find them if they stayed like this, rotting away in Civilian’s apartment. They think it’d be a fitting tomb.

—

snippet #8

[greenthena]

Metatron's Tie

**Update: check the reblogs. There's a clear picture that shows the tie pattern as flowers. So, there goes my theory. Whomp whomp. Easy come, easy go, as Freddie says. @archangelween @drconstellation

People, I have been trying to get a good look at the Metatron's ding dang neck tie since September to determine what those little blue symbols are. Because, like everything in the Good Omens universe, I believe it's been put there for a reason. I also believe that God has no idea what she's doing, which is why she hired Neil Gaiman to run things for a few decades.

Despite being a so-called agent of Heaven, the Metatron's costume is coded as demonic, from his dark topcoat to the black stripes on his white shirt. The item I find most fascinating, however, is his tie. And this is probably in large part because I've had so much difficulty seeing the subtle blue pattern upon it and that has made my brain itch and made me hyperfixate. As one does.

I think I may have figured out the design, and it complicates all my Metatron theories, but here we go. The Metatron's tie is black, featuring a repeated small bright blue symbol throughout. I've guessed it could be a star or a planet. A cryptic sigil or maybe something to do with the coffee (I'm not a coffee-theory person, though, for the record.) I don't know what it is (well, maybe I do now, and I promise we'll get there in time...I'm a demon of my word), but I do know that it's important.

All the angels have references to their angelic status concealed within their costumes.

Michael is the watcher. She is the one who, in Saturday Morning Funtime, delivers surveillance photos to Gabriel. To reflect this, Michael wears a gold ring featuring several small pearls that symbolize eyes. She is ever-vigilant (hyper-vigilant, ya might say), and even has a contact in Hell (Dagon) to broaden her scope of observation. The placement of the ring in the pinky is also significant. A good watcher mustn't themselves be observed, so Michael, in her role as observer must slip under the radar. This corresponds to the pinky finger being small and quite literally underhanded, as in at the bottom of the hand.

Uriel's ring is a silver star, worn on her/their index finger, the digit associated with authority. (We call it the index finger because we use it to sort and catalog, creating meaning and order.) Uriel certainly commands authority, both in their overall calm and assured demeanor, and also in their actions. It is she who physically confronts Aziraphale prior to the S1 No-pocalypse, easily inspiring fear in the Principality. As for the symbol of the star, I believe it is a reference to modern Angelography (I might have made up that word, but I think you know what I'm talking about) which usually describes Uriel as a sun, star, or the flame of the Almighty.

Sandalphon's symbology is two-fold: a thick gold pinky ring featuring a pair of circles (kind of looks like a lego brick, to be perfectly fair) and that small gold grill he wears on his front teeth. Both these items are the most elaborate pieces of angelic adornment that we see. Sandalphon's overall aesthetic is much warmer than the other angels', leaning toward caramel and tan rather than dove gray. He's a bit of an odd ball in the host of Archangels and stands out based on his wardrobe choices alone. He's also the only Archangel not to return in S2. I don't want to make too much of this, because there are many in-universe reasons why we may not see Sandalphon again. However, in Judeo-Christian scripture, Sandalphon is closely joined with...wait for it...the Metatron, with apocryphal texts describing him as Enoch's (the Metatron's pre-angelic human name) twin brother. I take this with a hefty spoon of salt, though, since Neil definitely plays loosey-goosey with these dogmas and even the scriptures themselves are a veritable soup of contradiction. (The Bible is not a static or universally canonical text, and Hebrew scriptures, outside the Tanakh are a web of activity and debate as to what is accurate. I'm not here for the arguments today; this is not my Bat Mitzvah.)

Finally, we have Gabriel, the only Archangel who doesn't wear a ring. He does, however, wear a watch. I have two thoughts about the watch. First, clocks are thematically relevant in the Good Omens universe. From the grandfather clock in the bookshop to Crowley's elaborate wristwatch (which he has in both show and book) to the opening sequence of S1, which has far too many clock faces to count. So there's that. But holding time in one's hand (or on one's wrist) is a powerful metaphor that illustrates control and higher power. To possess a clock is to command time and space which are essentially inseparable. As the Supreme Archangel, Gabriel is nearly the top-ranking being in the universe (for a time, at least...see what I did there? pathetic laughter) and his wristwatch demonstrates this point.

If you're still with me, you're doing great. Good job.

We've got to see how important the Archangels' symbology is to their characters, I think, to really understand why the sigils on the Metatron's tie matter. So, finally to the point. Dolphins. Thanks for coming to my TED Talk.

To move forward, we'll need to call upon my old friend, the Tarot deck. Cards, in general, and Tarot, in particular, play a marked role in the GO universe. The Almighty Herself addresses the viewer in the opening lines of the show, "God does not play dice with the universe; I play an ineffable game of my own devising. For everyone else, it's like playing poker in a pitch-dark room, for infinite stakes, with a Dealer who won't tell you the rules, and who smiles all the time." As God speaks, cards appear on screen, and some of those are from the Rider Waite Tarot deck. One specific card that caught my eye in this montage is "Judgement."

This card features an angel blasting a trumpet and waking the dead from their graves on the Day of Judgement. The angel on the card is not named, as such. It's usually assumed to be Raphael, as he is the angel who is prophesied to call and raise all souls on this day. However, I've found other references naming the angel as either Gabriel or the Metatron. Now, I don't want to get overly carried away here, but in the context of Good Omens, reading the Judgement card with the Metatron as the angel pictured may actually make a lot of sense, and clarify the sigils on the Metabutt's tie. The Metatron postures himself as the Voice of God--the Mouthpiece of the Almighty. Kinda like a trumpet, yes?

Now look at the flag on the angel's trumpet. That's called St. George's Cross and it's a very prevalent European Christian symbol dating back to the Middle Ages. Like many images in the Tarot, it's a heraldic emblem that has meaning outside the deck, often associated with bravery and military might. It continues to be used in military iconography into the present day. The Judgement that the angel heralds is not peaceful. It's a call to war. The righteous will be gathered to Heaven and the wicked will be destroyed--a repeat of the first Great War in which Satan and the demons were cast into Hell. In the narrative of Good Omens, this war will bring about the end of time, the end of the world, and the beginning of eternity (hope ya'll like The Sound of Music.)

Kids (human and goat, alike) I think those little blue sigils on the Metatron's tie are Saint George's Cross. (I'm so sorry this is so small and hard to see. Now you know my pain.)

In the Final Fifteen, the Metatron speaks briefly about the Second Coming, which is a reference to Saint John of Patmos' prophecies--you might know them as the Book of Revelation. Some Christians interpret Revelation as an upcoming final judgement for humanity. And it seems, based on in-universe exposition, certain characters view these prophecies in a similar light. In the reverse body-swap at the end of S1, Crowley suggests that the averted Apocalypse was not the end of the conflict. "If you ask me," he says, "Both sides are gonna' use this as breathing space before the Big One. [...] For my money, the really Big One is all of us against all of them." And with the Metatron acting as the Mouthpiece of God, that "Big One," that Day of Judgement, if you will, may well be nigh.

I think the Metatron sees himself as the angel who rings out the Final Judgement. He is the Voice of God, after all. But here is a worrying thought. How little he would need to shift perspective to view himself as the Word of God, as well. The Gospel of John opens, "In the beginning was the Word and the Word was with God and the Word was God. The Same was in the beginning with God." The Word of God is an epithet for Jesus. The same Jesus whose Second Coming the angel of judgement is meant to announce. So what if the Metatron just plans to consolidate these roles for himself: the heralding angel and the Second Coming rolled into one. He would become Judgement Incarnate, supplanting the Almighty once and for all. And for my money, that sounds just like what a demon would like to do.

***I'm updating because several readers have pointed out that it seems like I'm saying Metatron=Demon because Demon=Bad. Thank you for bringing this to my attention--it makes me a better communicator. I can see where it's coming from. It's not my intention. Consider this meta sort of an extension of my "Metatron is the Murder Hornet" meta, which I'll link with the tags if you're interested.

Just wanted to clarify that I think at its heart, Good Omens is thematically about rejecting the dichotomy of good and evil and embracing the messy gray space that is reality.

When I call Metaboob a demon, it's not because I think demons are evil, it's because I think he's the hornet in the beehive and we've seen that demons need an angelic escort (Crowley and Muriel) to access Heaven.

TL;DR Angels are not the good guys. Demons are not the bad guys. Good Omens is NOT about that at all.

[experiment1100]

TheStaticShow-Static and The Agent Again.

Glitch: ...

Agent T and the others are made by @mrchaosman

[callmearcturus]

(i posted this but tumblr fucked up the formatting SO BAD and then the editor would not open so here's a re-do i guess!

bless u, bc this is the one that's gonna be Another Batshit Arcturus AU

except all the scenes I have sketched out are massive Act Two spoilers.... so instead, I'm gonna share the work-in-progress outline for Act One. or, specifically the modern day half of Act One. this story is told in approximately 2024 and 2011 concurrently, with the 2011 plotline providing vital context for the 2024 plotline.

for context: Ted is a director working with Rebecca's A24-style production company. Trent is a writer. Keeley is Trent's agent who managed to convince him to sell the movie rights to one book. act one is Ted trying to get those rights before a larger studio snaps them up. Act two is the filming of the movie. Act three is post-production and press tour.

One piece of additional context is that Trent is a reclusive writer who keeps writing extremely location-accurate novels set in America. Ted is shocked to learn the guy's not American, tbh. Here's the bibliography i made up for Trent:

[SPOILER, REDACTED]

editor for a few anthologies

The Sarpedon EP, 1968 (moody psuedo-mythical story about psychedelic/progressive rock in Nashville)

An Aquarian Guide to Atlantis, IL (weird, almost ergodic story of a hitchiker trying to get from St. Louis to Chicago and finding a strange town)

The Tides of Static (an anthology of seemingly disconnected vignettes that wind up linked by a radio DJ working a remote blowtorch tower)

Paris of the Plains (a sports drama/romance about a journalist uncovering a massive scandal in Kansas City football while trying not to rekindle her love of an old fling who's now working on the same team embroiled in the scandal. later adapted into the film The Time After The Last Time, directed by Ted Lasso, produced by Rebecca Welton)

so here, a glimpse of how I outline a story

ACT ONE: Pre-production

Storyline A (Ted POV):

Ted, modern day: Ted has to find Rebecca. She's supposed to be on vacation and Ted would never dream of interrupting her HOWEVER there's a scoop in Variety that Trent Crimm is auctioning the rights to his latest book despite years of resistance. Ted is terrified that someone is gonna buy the rights and make a bad movie or worse sit on the rights and never make anything out of them.

finding Rebecca takes some doing but Ted is determined and he knows all her offices and hiding places.

Ted is a huge fan of Crimm's work, has read all his previous books and has been keeping an eye out for him to maybe offer something up for adaptation. That it's specifically the one about a football scandal in Kansas City with a fantastic sense of space and also is a romance? Ted HAS to direct this movie, but Rebecca's studio can't compete with the huge prices that a Paramount or Disney would be throwing around. So they need to make a direct offer before the sale.

Rebecca emails Crimm's agent. This first attempt gets a polite, impersonal dismissal. So Ted is the person to reply (as Rebecca watches over his shoulder to ensure he's not making a fool of them) and tries to convince them to reconsider bc Ted is specifically interested in doing it right.

Still no.

T: "Get me an address, I'll fly out--" R: "Fly out? The address available through his agent is in London." T: "Okay, wouldn't've called that."

Rebecca gets Ted the address and Ted takes the Tube to get there bc he still doesn't have a car-and-driver. (He claims its organic location scouting.)

The address seems to be Trent's house but he's not there, just Keeley and Adelaide Crimm. They will not reveal where Trent is.

Ted notices Adelaide's accent and is relieved Trent is American. Adelaide says no, he's super british, but he took a job in America when she was young and brought her along.

The house is fully of photos of places. Addy is a photographer. Ted is thrilled to see shots of the Paseo, the Plaza, and other KC landmarks.

Keeley explains they are not really looking to option the book out because, well. They're not.

Adelaide kind of likes Ted and how he talks about her dad's books so she texts him later, gives Ted her dad's email. the one he actually checks, not the fake ones that get listed.

A turn for the epistolary as Ted attempts to reach Trent Crimm.

Ted emails Trent, who is baffled that he found this email address. Thanks Ted for his interest but tells him it was difficult enough to decide to offer up any rights and he frankly doesn't want to talk about it further, goodbye.

Ted takes a little time to try to read/watch every interview he can with Trent Crimm. They are basically non-existent and the ones that do exist are fully text.

Emailing each other continues: Eventually, Trent admits he's hoping the book rights are bought and sat on forever. Keeley was the one to convince him this was a good way to ensure Adelaide was set up for years to come and he could write his next few books without concern about money. But actually seeing such a movie? He wants nothing to do with it.

There's something unique about this email, a slip-up: Trent mentions he's in KCMO. The moment Ted realizes, he's inbound, racing to get there in time.

All for naught: Ted makes good time, probably the best possible time a guy can make from Heathrow to MCI to Emmanuel Cleaver Blvd without use of a fighter jet.

Still: Trent's gone, and Keeley's there.

Ted hangs a lampshade on the running gag: How in the sam hell is she always there instead of Trent?! "Yanno, I ain't ever seen the two of you in the same room together, Ms. Jones." Keeley cackles. "He's a slippery one! But trust me, you'd know him if you met him. He's got that aura of irritable uptight fiction author."

Ted is extremely discouraged that he missed Trent yet again, tells Keeley he is bound and determined to make sure this movie's done right but doesn't know what to do anyone. Keeley cracks, sympathetic, and gives Ted the Actual phone number for Trent. "Do not call him. He blocks all unknown numbers. Text."

So Ted does. Takes a photo of the fountains at the Plaza at night and sends it to Trent.

TL: I think the fight between Kit and Moses happens here at night, when they turn the lights on under the fountains and it's beautiful, all that watery glow. The contrast there, it reminds me of how painfully obvious it is that Moses wanted to take her there for real, to see her son playing in the water. It's the right place and the wrong time, it's always right place wrong time with them. LONG pause but Ted sees the text has been marked as "Read". Honestly he's surprised Trent has read receipts on. TC: Why are you in KCMO? TL: Flew here hoping to catch you. Last email, you accidentally hinted you were at your rental off Emanuel Cleaver. TC: Ah. An amateur mistake, I see. But I've slipped your net again, it seems.

Ted returns back home to London, resigned to taking another project and letting this one go. Pulls his copy of Paris of the Plains from his bag, reads it on the plane back.

Gets off the plane and he's missed a call from Trent Crimm. Shocked, Ted immediately calls back.

TC: "You have one shot, Mr. Lasso, so make it count. Tell me why you're so determined. It's not the job of a director to try to cajole a reclusive, unfriendly author into optioning his book to a boutique film studio. So why?" TL: "When I first moved to the UK, I was missin' home so much, I was turning into a barely-functioning daydrinker, and I almost gave up, went back to Kansas, gave up my career. But Beard loaned me his copy of Atlantis, IL and you... knew those roads and those people. You gave me a home I could carry around in my bag. Dunno if I would have survived without. Then I read Sarpedon, and Rebecca got me an advance copy of Tides of Static for my birthday." TC: "So you're a fan." TL: "No! I mean, obviously I'm a huge admirer, yeah, but... Trent, I just flew almost nine thousand miles just for a chance to talk to you about this, so I'm not gonna split hairs here. I need to be the guy to direct this. No one else is going to get it right, and I need it to be right, 'cause I know it. If you give me a chance, I'm going to move the whole production out to KC, I'm going to take what's in my head and put it on the screen. And I-- I think it's what's in your head, too." TC: "You know, it's supposedly my worst book. That was part of the little joke of it all; Keeley convinced me to sell something, so I picked the one the critics hated. You'll need someone good to do the adapting." TL: "Heck, if I need to write the treatment myself, I'll do it." TC: "..... Alright." TL: "!!!!" TC: "Nine thousand miles is an absurd ordeal to put yourself through and the writer in me wants you to get some payoff for it. So. Tell Ms. Welton to tack on another five million and its yours."

[callmissrogers]

That's My Girl | Part 1

Summary: A mission goes horribly horribly wrong, and Y/n knows it's her fault. Captain Rogers wants to be there for her, but she won't allow him to. But the team believes that there's more to this than simple hostage casualties. What is Hydra hiding?

Warnings: Angst, death, grief, and a wee bit of fluff stuck in there somewhere.

Word count: 3,527

(Only proofread once, so apologies for any mistakes)

Part 2

Y/n sat, face in her hands, leaning against her door.

It was all her fault.

They died because of her.

She had blood on her hands.

Try as she might to send her thoughts elsewhere, they still roamed back to what had happened the night before.

The street lights went out in an electrical burst, one by one.

Y/n looked around anxiously. The house had gone dark too. "we didn't have Intel on charge weapons." She barked over the comms. "Dang Hydra cockroaches!" Tony yelled. "They're trying to block our locators. I have a feeling that these are part of what the Shield x Hydra agents stole from headquarters." He finished. They could feel him pacing and moving his arms about wildly, as he always did.

"Well, let's recalculate. Charges or no, the doctor and his family still need our help." Natasha interjected.

They had come here after getting Intel on the kidnapping of a Doctor Cedric Bon. He had been a leader in black market plastic surgeries. Only his work had little to do with face lifts and tummy tucks, and so much more to do with attempts to actually turn the clock back on a person's age. Before, he had only managed to turn out some really messed up and damaged people, who could never undo what had been done to them. But a lot of chatter recently indicated that he had finally managed something akin to Steve's serum. But for youth instead of strength. 

Right after that, he and his wife vanished. One of Natasha's sources told them that Hydra had gotten them. They could only imagine what they wanted them for.

"OK. So, not being able to tell where everyone is presents a problem." Sam said worriedly. Now they'd be going in blind. They were going to relay on some of Stark's technology to help them locate where they were being held and go from there.

"It's a problem, but we'll find a solution. Sam you keep cover from the skies. Tony, you're in charge of entry points and keeping anyone else from coming in.  Buck, Nat, and I will handle whoever is waiting for us on the inside. Y/n, you gotta get'em out of there, ok?" Steve said, taking on the tone of voice he always had when he was in what they called Cap mood.

Y/n knew why he had asked her to handle that aspect. Her ability was mental and emotional manipulation. She could make someone believe a lie, calm down, get angry, or think whatever she wanted them to think. Not huge things, but simple things like "I should trust her" or "I should give her this key card." These thoughts and feelings never lasted and were always followed by a headache that resembled a hangover.

Even tho she could fight, frightfully skilled in martial arts, Steve must have figured her skill would be useful in helping the hostages relax as she moved them out of there. How wrong he was. . .

But martial arts also came in handy if one wanted to move about unseen, which y/n did.

It didn't take her as long as she thought it would to find them. They didn't have them in a cell, basement, or anything like that. They were locked in a bedroom on the second floor. It had two twin beds and a bathroom. For a hostage situation, this was pretty comfortable. Y/n put this off to the fact that Hydra thought they lulled them into a false sense of security so the doctor would do what they wanted.

That was her first mistake.

"I found them," She tried to say over the comms, but all she got was static. Only then did it occur to that she hadn't heard anyone say anything since they entered the house. They were probably jamming the comms.

She felt for her backup earpiece for such situations. It wasn't there. Why wasn't it there? *because you forgot to replace it after you last used it. the one time you hadn't used your checklist as you suited up. Steve would surely give you an earful. This was why that man loved checklists.*

She decides to press on anyway

Second mistake.

"Who are you?" The Doctor asked, his accent thick. "Just think of me as your rescue, Doctor Bon, Mrs Bon. I'm y/n, I'm a member of the Avengers and I need you to come with me. Now."

"Those men told us that they were part of shield reborn." Mrs Bon said doubtfully. "Shield reborn? There's no such thing."Well, then if you say we can't trust them, how do we know we can trust you?" Mrs Bon asked doubtfully.

Y/n turned and looked at her, her eyes changing from her usual green to a bright violet and then back again. Mrs Bon blinked a few times and then said, "we should trust her." "What did you do?" Doctor demanded. "Later, Doctor. She'll be fine, tho. You'll all be fine if you follow me." She said firmly.

She had stupidly been confident that she could do it all without any backup or any knowledge of what was happening down below.

"Do you know of a back way out?" She asked. "Um. Yes. They took me on a tour just today." The Doctor said nervously. "Why? Actually, no time. Just tell me where to go, but I lead." She said, exiting the room.

The Doctor told her how to find the servants' stairs, which were hidden behind a rather large painting.

She tried her comms again but nothing.

The stairs seemed to curve on forever until they opened up to a large kitchen. It was empty aside from men laying about with knives sticking out of their chests. 

Upon a quick scan of the room, y/n was sure it was safe for them to go.

After a quick dash to the backdoor, she pulled it open, stepping out into the night with them following close behind her. The yard was empty, dark, and soundless. It was now or never.

"Time to go!" She ordered, yanking them along with her as best she could. They would make it. They could duck into the woods. The others would clean up and find them later.

Mission accomplished.

Third and final mistake.

They were nearly there, just about to cross from the manicured lawn into the unkempt woods. But the moment the Bons attempted to cross, they jolted uncontrollably, and then they fell down, dead. . .

Y/n's eyes widened, dropping down, she frantically tried to give them cpr. First one and then the other. Tears stinging her eyes. "Come on!" She screamed. Hands trembling, she felt their necks. They were gone.

Hydra had implanted them so that if they tried to escape, they'd die. But why?

She just besides them until the others found them.

Nobody said anything on the ride home.

5 am.

The moment the jet landed, y/n jumped up, running out before anyone could stop her.

She went to her room slamming and locking the door behind her. Sliding down against it, she gave into the sobs.

Present moment.

Y/n had been sitting in the place since the night before. She didn't care that her legs had long since fallen asleep, that her back ached, her head pounded from crying. A heavy and sour feeling had settled in the pit of her stomach.

"Miss y/n," FRIDAY said, "Go away."Mr Stark says that there is to be a team meeting in five minutes."

She would be sick.

She knew she had no choice but to go to the meeting. It was mandatory for the official mission file before they filled out their own paperwork. It was a manner of protection for themselves as well as a record.

But that also meant that she'd have to go out there and explain to everyone just how she had failed, how she got them killed.

It was all her fault. All her bloody stupid fault.

"Miss y/n," FRIDAY said as a means to hurry her along.

"Fine." Y/n spat, pushing herself off the floor.

Get it over with.

The walk to the meeting room never felt so long as it had just now. Seeing everyone there, waiting for her to join them, made her blood run cold.

But, she was a part of this team. She had to be held accountable just like they did.

Steve was standing at the head of the table. Scrolling through a tablet that was projected onto the larger screen behind him. He glanced at her when she sat down, a mix of emotion on his face.

"OK. Well, you all know the drill by now. We need everyone's account of what happened last night." He said, sounding almost regretful that he had to ask.

One by one, they went around the table, each describing their movement in the mission. "I stayed on guard duty. No one came in or went out until y/n came out with the hostages. Then I flew to help, when I heard screaming and found that they were, in fact, deceased -" Tony said in a monotone voice. "I stayed on yours and Becky's six. We took out about 80-90 guards and agents before we made it outside and found out what had happened to the Bons." Nat said, choosing not to use the word decased, dead, or anything else remotely related to it. She was friends with y/n she knew how something like this would be to eat you alive from the inside out.

Then, the room grew quiet. Y/n knew it was her turn. They were nice enough not to all stare at her expectantly, but she still felt them pressuring her to tell them what went wrong, what she had done wrong.

She'd probably be put on leave for her stupid recklessness.

Her mouth was dry, heart pounding, and she finally looked up. Eyes meeting Steve's. He, unlike the rest, had been staring. His brows now knit together like they always were when he was thinking. She braced her hands on the table and slowly pulled herself up.

"Last night I was reckless. I forgot my other comm, so when they jammed, I couldn't get in contact with anyone. I didn't pay attention to any of the signs that told me it was too easy. I led them outside, and then they died right in front of me because I didn't even think to check for a chip!" She said, her voice increasing as she went along. "It was all my bloody fault. You can put that in the report, and I'll fill out my paperwork later." She spat and then stormed out of the room.

"Oh, she's not in a good place." Sam commented, sounding concerned. "She can't blame herself for the psychopathic nature of monsters," Bucky said, sighing. "There's no way she would have known about those chips. None of us would." He continued.

"What I want to know is why they were willing to kill them. Those chips have a kill switch. Somebody pressed a button to do it. Why didn't they want them alive?" Stark questioned. "There's something that's more important to keep hidden than having them alive." Steve commented almost absently, his thoughts distracted by something or someone rather. "They took them for a purpose, so they must already have all the schematics on the serum he created." Natasha added.

"He was a fast talker to give them everything in 24 hours. This isn't something you find in a textbook, " Bruce said.

"I want more information on where they were holding them and the agents we found there. Nat, can you head that up?" Steve asked before excusing himself without waiting for her reply.

"FRIDAY, Y/n's whereabouts?" He said once he got in the elevator. "In the kitchen, sir."

Y/n was pouring herself into a cup of coffee. She didn't drink alcohol because well she couldn't. Something about alcohol potentially making your heart stop makes one think twice about it.  So she would overload herself with caffeine instead.

She had just picked it up, allowing the mug to warm her hands. Suddenly getting the feeling that she wasn't alone in the room.  The last thing she needed was a speech about how it wasn't her fault and that the team was behind her all the way. Because she knew at least the first part of that was a big fat lie.

Finally, the person standing behind her cleared their throat. Steve. Of course. It had to be him.

Slowly, she made herself turn around, but she wouldn't look at him.

"What do you want?" She asked, forcing her voice into a monotone, hoping that he would get the hint and leave her be.

She knew what he wanted. He wanted to comfort her. He wanted to reassure her that this didn't change anything.

He stared at her a moment before answering, "y/n, would you look at me, please?" He asked, his voice gentil, nothing at all like his Captain America voice.

She just shook her head, eyes locked on her coffee.

He took a few steps towards her.

"Y/n . . . I know you think that -" "That what? That this all my fault? Check. That you're all disappointed in me? Check. That I'm the reason that the mission failed and two people are died? Check and check. We've established how I feel now." She snapped angrily.

Steve's expression shifted from one of pure concern to slight hurt. Not that she could see that, still refusing to meet his gaze. But he wouldn't allow himself to get offended. He did know how this felt and knew that she didn't mean it.

Carefully, he took a few steps forward and placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. Feeling her instantly tense up. "You can yell, cry, get angry. . . Just don't go inward on me." She said nothing, biting her lower lip, looking away, determined to push away what he was offering now. He sighed, not out of frustration with her but worry, "Shortcake, please say something." Shortcake, the nickname he had given her after they first met at that WW2 convention.

"Steve. Just stop being a hero for one second and leave me alone!" She yelled, slamming her coffee down on the counter, making it spill, and storming from the room. "Y/n!" He called.. He wanted to go after her but he respected her wishes and left her alone.

Once she had made it back to the safety of her own room, y/n collapsed on her bed, allowing herself to break down again.

Why had she done that? She knew that he genuinely just wanted to comfort her. But what did she do? Screamed in his face. Right.

She didn't move a muscle and eventually slipped off to sleep. A sleep that made her relieve the day the man she had just yelled at became a part of her life.

It was a cool day in May, y/n was walking around the WW2 convention. Her grandfather, grandmother, great uncles, and great aunts had all served. She grew up on the old stories, the old records, the old newspaper clippings, and books. Her parents had brought her to this convention every year since she could walk, and now that they were gone, she came alone. This time period was a part of who she was. So dressed in period appropriate dress reminiscent of Andrew Sisters' famous uniform, she took in all the sights.

Finally, stopping by a tent set up to be an old fashioned drugstore, complete with ice cream, sodas, lemonade, and sandwiches.

"I'll take a lemonade," She said with a smile. Noticing the man leaning against the other end of the counter.  She knew who he was, of course she did, just as she was very aware of who he worked for. Technically she was a colleague of sorts.

He quickly noticed her staring. But instead of looking bothered, he smiled. Slowly, he inched his way closer until he was standing next to her. "Which Andrew sister, are you?" He asked with a grin, making y/n blush. "Well. . Not technically supposed to be any of them. I just like the style. It has a bit more class than modern-day dress blues." "You served?" "Airforce. That is until..."Shield picked you up?" "How did you know?" "I might or might not have seen your file." "Sneaky." "I like to think I'm observant." y/n couldn't help but smile. They weren't lying when they said Steve Roger's was quite the charmer. Finishing off her lemonade, y/n turned to pay for it only for Steve to hold out a five dollar bill to the shop owner. "I - why did you do that?" She asked, baffled. "Because I'm a boy from Brooklyn in the 40s, and we don't let ladies pay for themselves." "Oh. I see." Steve couldn't help it. He was very intrigued and spoke before he could talk himself out of it. "Are you going to the show later?" He asked, referring to the bands and performers who would be performing 40s music that evening.

"I was planning on it." "Uh," He cleared his throat. "Would you like to watch it together." "Mr Roger's are you trying to ask me out?" He nodded, "Yes. Yes, I am." his cheeks tinged with pink. "Well, in that case, yes." He looked at his watch, "We still have about an hour before it starts..." "That we do. . ." She said, almost having pity on the poor man. Here he was, Captain America, and he was actually nervous. "Would you like to walk around with me?" She asked, deciding to make things easier for him. "Sure." He said, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his leather jacket. They walked around the field, sharing stories and just getting to know each other. The more they talked, the more Roger's lossened up. The hour flew by before they knew it, so they made their way over to the field. Most of the chairs were already taken by the early birds, so they stood further back. Y/n being only 5 feet tall, struggled to see over the crowd that had also found their way back there. Steve tapped her on the shoulder, "May I?" He asked, gesturing to a stand behind them. She nodded, and he gently picked her up and placed up on it, pulling himself up next to her. They could easily view the show from here. "Thank you for that," she said with a smile. "No problem. You can't help being a shortcake." He grinned. And the nickname just stuck from that point on.

Just a mere three weeks after that, y/n was asked to join the Avengers.

Y/n shot up in bed, room dark, glancing at the clock beside her bed. 3 am. Her heart was pounding, eyes puffy from crying. Her room felt suffocating and oppressive now. "I can't be here." She whispered aloud to herself.  Quickly changing her clothes, she made a beeline for the gym, determined to clear her head.

Steve, whose room was on the same floor, heard a door opening and shutting and then the ding of the elevator.

Sitting up, he rubbed the sleep from his eyes. He had a feeling as to who might be up and about at this late hour. There were only four of them on this floor and none of them were nightowls. So he knew exactly who it was.

Down in the gym, y/n was in the midst of the wing chun arena. Dodging, then getting in a few hits before leaping to avoid being struck in the legs. Steve walked in and just stood there for a moment, watching her. She was ripping them apart. Tho Steve was sure Stark wouldn't hold it against her.

With a scream, she kicked another apart and kept going. Steve was beginning to worry she'd soon take herself apart too. So, with another sign, he walked towards the arena. Leaping over the wall, making his way around the carnage toward the center where she was, just three more dummies to go.

Stopping just behind her, he said

"Y/n... that's enough. " She ignored him and kicked the top off of the dummies. "Y/n." He said a tad firmer, only to be ignored again.

He cared about her too much to allow her to completely self-destruct in front of him. So he grabbed her by the shoulders and forced her to turn around. Hands still on her shoulders, he looked down at her, hoping that she could see just how worried he was about her. How much he cared for her.

"That's enough." He tucked hair behind her ear.

"Do you hear me? None of this was your fault. I promise you that we will figure out who did this. We'll find out why. But Shortcake, it's not on you." He said hurriedly, his voice cracking as he pulled her into a crushing hug.

Part 2

[change-of-fates]

-throws chance inside of a microwave- [THIS INCLUDES YOU BLOG OWNER.]

``H U H -``

-You somehow rip the Spectre into reality, it's quite literally agent Chance with a spawn halo and tail with static skin

``W H A T T H E F U C K - WHO THE HELL ARE YOU?! ``

``No one important. Whichever of you fuck heads- plush- did this will be hunted for sport!``

``Why do you kinda look like me-?``

``Not import-``

-The audible sound of a gun reloading is heard, a unused round falling on the ground against... More unused rounds..

[aziraphales-library]

Hello wonderful peoples,

Do you have any recommendations for crossovers that take place in the Star Trek universe? Any length, any rating.

TYSM!

Hi! Here are some Star Trek crossovers...

The Neverending Ineffable Omens by Xenobotanist (G)

Crowley and Aziraphale open a bookshop on Deep Space Nine, where they meet the resident tailor and CMO and discover that the universe still very much works in mysterious ways.

Captain’s Log: Alpha Centauri by starspangledbread (G)

The crew of the USS Enterprise take a stop on the sparsely populated Alpha Centauri planets, and meet some new people. Well, people shaped beings.

Our Man Crowley by CopperBeech (G)

Crowley's wild ride through the digital networks took him to a few places that didn't make it into the book or screenplay. An hommage to both fandoms, an iconic DS9 episode, and the weakness for secret-agenting shared by Crowley and Bashir. “You must be my backup.” managed Bashir, trying to remain suave and in character. “Nice one.” Garak was probably distracted with some fancy commission, stitching on epaulets or ruffles or getting a drape just right, and the program had defaulted to a stock character. The man certainly looked suitably arresting: whip-slim, snug clothes casual but expensive, a chronometer that looked like it could control a city’s power grid on his left wrist. His nails were varnished jet black, an eccentric touch. “I’d guess this is Hell,” the other man answered-didn’t-answer, “but it’s a lot less crowded.” He looked up and down the corridor. “You seen an ugly little mook with a frog on his head?” he asked. Part 1 of From Soho, With Love series

To the Stars by strwbrygrl77 (T)

When the crew of the USS Enterprise ends up in the 21st Century, it will take a miracle to send them home again. Fortunately, the newest crew member knows an Angel who can help ... Unfortunately, this Angel is no longer on Earth. (A post S2 Good Omens crossover fix-it fic with Star Trek: SNW).

Restart Your Engines by anticyclone (T)

On their way home from a star-hopping vacation, Aziraphale and Crowley decide to spend a few days at Deep Space Nine. There's holosuites to be rented and good conversation to be had. (Oh, don't the tailor and his dear doctor remind Aziraphale of earlier days.) But… maybe when you can warp reality through the power of imagination, holosuite games aren't the best double-date activity. For one, Odo would really like to know why there's a car on his Promenade.

For Many a Lonely Day Sailed Across the Milky Seas by CaelumCalamitas (T)

Will Decker and Ilia are gone - missing - their attempt to merge with V’Ger failed. The probe, which has been discovered to be the long-lost Voyager 6 that was launched in the mid-20th century, is orbiting Earth. During its 300+ year travels, it has gained a limited sentience, and a determination to deliver the data in its memory banks with the Creator. All other attempts at communicating with V’Ger have failed. Kirk has negotiated with it for time to find the Creator it seeks. V’Ger will only transmit its message to that whom created it. If unsuccessful by the end of the allotted time, V’Ger will continue its “extermination of the biological infestation” on the Creator’s planet. Spock, still recovering from his own traumatic mind meld with V’Ger, is able to recall some of that data - a garbled and staticky partial message he believes was recorded on Voyager’s golden disc - and he recognizes the voice: “I, Crowley, made…static…you…on behalf of Earth, which we both love..." In collaboration with my Ineffable Artist teammate Chapollynh and inspired by Snowfilly1's fic "Loved the Stars So Fondly."

Angels are from Heaven, Demons are from Hell by Mrs_Cake_Is_Here (M)

Angels have created new alien species, 24th century Earth has turned into paradise, and Aziraphale and Crowley are Bored and in a Rut. Their once spicy Partnership is now steeped in monotony, miscommunication, and a significant amount of doubt about their future. Aziraphale believes a vacation filled with five-star travel accommodations and a stay on a pleasure planet is the solution. But even the best laid plans of angels and demons can go awry. Aziraphale and Crowley will have to overcome travel disagreements, contact embarrassment, transporter phobia, boring archaeology lectures, Deanna Troi, and the Essentialist Movement's sabotage of Risa, while trying to find time to physically and emotionally reconnect and start communicating (eventually). Basically, a lighthearted Good Omens-Star Trek crossover romp that follows Aziraphale and Crowley through the world of 90s-version 24th century Trek. They eventually find themselves in DS9 season 05 episode 07 (essentially as extras), where their vacation is inconveniently interrupted by a bunch of fundamentalists whose dastardly deeds inadvertently help an angel and a demon realize how much they love one another. Part 1 of Deep Space Omens series

- Mod D

[dystopicjumpsuit]

Stars Beyond Number - Chapter 20

A Whimper

Rating: M - Minors DNI

Pairings: Echo x Riyo Chuchi; Gregor x OFC Cerra Kilian

Wordcount: 2.4k

Warnings and tags: the shit hits the fan; mentions of Plan 99 (spoilers for TBB season 2 finale); angst; suspense; canon-typical violence (bearing in mind that in canon Mando cuts a dude in half, soooo... adjust expectations accordingly); references to torture; choking; blood and injury; character death; language.

Suggested Listening:

Summary: Echo deals with the fallout of Plan 99; Cerra has a polite conversation with the Empire.

A/N: This story shares continuity with Martyrs and Kings, "Double, Double Boil and Trouble" (part 2 here) and "Do It Again," but all the fics can be read as stand-alones.

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…Not with a bang but a whimper.

—T. S. Eliot, “The Hollow Men”

Echo sat motionless in the cockpit of the Marauder, staring blindly at the navigation controls. Tech was gone. They’d lost. And all of it had been for nothing. They had no way of locating Hemlock or his base—no way of finding Crosshair. Echo hadn’t just failed to bring one brother home; he’d lost another.

He mentally replayed those fateful moments in the railcar again and again. Could he have worked faster? Could he have done anything differently? Could he have changed the outcome? He didn’t know, and that uncertainty haunted him.

He turned to stare at the empty pilot’s seat. For an instant, Echo could almost see Tech there. He swallowed hard, pushing down the overwhelming grief that tightened in his throat, choking off his breath. His head hurt; his chest ached; his eyes burned with unshed tears.

Gonky shuffled into the cockpit and squawked so quietly that Echo didn’t hear him at first. The droid moved closer and honked a little louder, trying to get Echo’s attention.

Echo blinked and looked away from the vacant pilot’s seat. “What is it?”

Distantly, he heard a familiar rumble, and his heart began to race. He launched out of the co-pilot’s seat and sprinted out of the Marauder. He spotted the Venator hovering over Ord Mantell City and immediately commed Hunter. 

“Hunter, the Empire's here.” No answer came. “Hunter, do you copy? Wrecker?”

There was no reply; nothing but static on the comms.

Kark.

Cerra stumbled as the TK trooper shoved her into the corridor. She subtly tested the binders on her wrists, but they held fast. She fought down the tide of panic rising in her chest and tried to ignore the way her breath was beginning to spiral out of control. 

Exhale. One, two, three, four, five. Inhale. One, two, three, four, five. Oh, god, what if I never see Gregor again? Exhale. One, two, three, four, five. Don’t think about it. Inhale. One, two, three, four, five. 

She forced herself to focus on solving her immediate problems. First, she needed to get out of the binders. Impossible. Next, neutralize the trooper and take his blaster. He’ll blast me before I ever touch the deecee. Next, get to the hangar, steal a shuttle, and hit up the first Starcups she could find.

Piece of uj cake, she thought. Kriff, I’m going to die.

Her sense of impending doom only intensified when she reached the torture chamber—or rather, “enhanced interrogation room.” A stocky man in an officer’s uniform waited next to a table fitted with numerous restraints and an array of control panels and sinister-looking instruments. A tray of surgical tools and hypo-syringes sat next to it, neatly arranged. 

At least he’s organized. I’d hate to be tortured to death by someone who was sloppy.

“Agent Daivik, I presume?” she asked.

“Ah, Miss Kilian. So good of you to join me,” Daivik said smoothly. He turned to the TK trooper. “Take off her binders and get out.”

“Can’t wait to get me alone?” she quipped as the trooper unlocked the manacles.

“Hardly,” Daivik sniffed. “You are only useful because of the information you possess. Please lie down.”

“Aren’t you going to buy me a drink first?” she asked, rubbing her wrists to get the blood flowing to her hands again.

Daivik smirked, then his fist slammed into her shoulder and sent her careening backwards, the backs of her legs colliding with the interrogation table. He grabbed her by the throat and shoved her down onto the table. She kicked her feet desperately, but he pinned down her thighs with one of his legs as he forced her to lie flat on her back. She scratched and grappled with his hand that clamped around her throat in a vise-like grip.

“Ju—Ch—” she sputtered as her airway closed.

“Ready to talk so soon?” he snarled. “I’m just getting started.”

Nevertheless, he loosened his grip enough that she could speak.

“Choke me harder, Daddy,” she rasped.

He snatched his hand away with a revolted curse, and she saw her opening. She headbutted him with all the force she could muster, and his nose made a sickening crunch as her forehead smashed into his face. He staggered backward, and she seized a scalpel off the surgical tray and plunged it into his neck. Blood sprayed out of him instantaneously, spattering thickly over her hand, arm, and face, and she lost her grip on the scalpel as the hot, slippery fluid coated her fingers. 

Daivik’s pale blue eyes opened wide with shock, but he staggered toward her, his hands outstretched toward her neck. She clenched her hand into a fist and pounded the scalpel deeper into his throat, then curled her legs up and kicked him away with both feet. He lurched backward and fell, landing with a heavy thud. He went abruptly still as his head collided with the durasteel floor.

She leaned forward on the edge of the table, bracing her hands on her knees as she gasped for air. Her vision blurred, and with her clean hand, she wiped Daivik’s blood out of her eyes. The door hissed open, and the TK trooper rushed into the room. Cerra lunged for another scalpel, but before she could strike, she saw a flash of blue, and the trooper collapsed to the floor. A clone in gray and white armor stood behind him, blaster still raised. Cerra crouched in a defensive position, scalpel clutched in her fist. The clone smacked the control panel to close the door behind him, then lowered his blaster.

“You know, if you wanted to see me, all you had to do is comm,” he said as he removed his helmet to reveal a familiar scarred face and mismatched eyes: one brown, and one a cybernetic silver.

“Wolffe?” she gaped, her voice hoarse and ragged from Daivik’s bruising grip on her throat. “What are you doing here?”

“Saw you on the security holofeeds and thought you might need help.” He spared a glance at Daivik’s corpse. “Looks like I was right.”

“I had it under control,” she lied, her breath coming in short, sharp bursts.

“You were about to bring a scalpel to a blaster fight,” Wolffe said pointedly.

“Kriff you,” she replied without heat.

“Kriff me yourself, coward,” he grinned.

“Holocams?” she asked.

“Surveillance feeds are off for this room and the corridor outside. You all right?”

“Is that a rhetorical question?” she asked, pulling off her jacket and using it to wipe the blood off herself as much as possible.

“You don’t look so bad,” Wolffe said as he quickly began to strip off the TK trooper’s armor. 

She moved to help. “Been better, been worse.”

“What’s your plan for getting out of here?” he asked.

“Steal a shuttle,” she said.

“I like it. Simple, straightforward.”

“Want to come with me?” she asked.

He shook his head as they wrestled the TK trooper out of his compression suit. “I’ll stay here and cover for you from the command deck.”

“You sure?” she asked doubtfully. “They’re going to suspect I had help.”

“I’ll stay,” he repeated. “I have… other duties to fulfill.”

He turned his back to give her privacy as she changed into the black body glove, then handed her the armor one piece at a time as she suited up. 

“It’s a hell of a coincidence, you being on the exact ship they brought me to,” Cerra observed.

“Sure is,” he said, not meeting her eyes.

“Almost like someone knew I got captured and sent you in after me,” she said.

“That’d be quite the twist, wouldn’t it?” he agreed noncommittally. “Good thing neither of us knows anyone who would do that.”

“Good thing,” she agreed as she settled the helmet onto her head. “How do I look?”

“Not bad,” Wolffe replied. “You might want to take this, though.”

He drew one of his blasters and offered it to her. 

“I’ve got his deecee,” she said, gesturing toward the unconscious TK trooper. “I’m good.”

“Trust me, you want this one,” Wolffe said.

She glanced down at the blaster in his hand, and her breath caught as she recognized Jesse’s modifications.

“I could only find the one,” he said. “But I knew you’d want it back.”

Her throat tightened, and she swallowed hard before she managed to reply, “Thanks.”

He nodded, his eyes sympathetic. “Ready?”

“Any time. It was good seeing you, buddy.”

“You, too, kid,” Wolffe said, sliding his helmet firmly into place. “I’ll see you around.”

“That a promise?” she asked.

“Clone’s honor.”

They stepped into the corridor, and Wolffe closed and locked the door behind them. With any luck, nobody would discover Daivik’s body and the TK trooper until Cerra was safely off the Venator. With one final nod at each other, they parted, Wolffe heading to the bridge while Cerra made her way to the flight deck. 

She forced herself to walk at a normal pace to avoid drawing attention, though her instincts screamed at her to run. Her heart pounded, and she was grateful for the helmet that hid her face from the Imperials she passed in the passageways; she didn’t think she would be able to disguise her anxiety without it.

The hangar was nearly deserted when she arrived—no doubt thanks to Wolffe. Nobody noticed an extra TK trooper in the shuttle bay. Cerra selected a shuttle, then quickly located and disabled its transponder beacon. Once she powered up the shuttle, the Imperials would know something was wrong. She would have an incredibly narrow window to get out of range of the tractor beam. There would be no time to program the hyperdrive navicomputer; she’d have to use the last inputted coordinates and hope for the best. She took a deep breath and boarded the shuttle.

Settling into the pilot’s seat, Cerra began running as many of the pre-flight protocols as she could before engaging the sublight engine. This is it, then, she thought, beginning the power-up sequence and maneuvering the shuttle out of the bay.

The comms crackled almost immediately. “Nu-class shuttle, you are not cleared for takeoff. Return to the—”

She muted the transmission, then punched the thrusters to top speed, blasting out of the hangar and into space. The Venator opened fire, but as soon as she was clear of the ship, Cerra jumped to hyperspace. Safely away, she yanked off her helmet and leaned back in her seat, gasping for air.

“I can’t believe that worked,” she said aloud with a short, incredulous laugh.

Riyo stared at the flickering hologram of Echo’s face, feeling as though all the oxygen had been forcefully ripped from her lungs.

“How?” she whispered. “What happened?”

“The Trandoshan sold us out,” Echo replied, his face grim and twisted by grief and anger. “We barely made it out alive.”

“Why would the Empire take Omega? What do they want with her?”

“I don’t know. That Imperial—Hemlock—he said something about Nala Se. He said she’s still alive.”

Riyo frowned. “Could she have escaped the destruction of Tipoca City? Halle Burtoni told me there were a few Kaminoans scattered throughout the galaxy, but she didn’t mention Nala Se.”

“If Nala Se is working for the Empire, that can only spell trouble for us clones,” Echo said.

“I agree. We should discuss this with Rex. When will you be back to Coruscant?” Riyo asked.

Echo glanced away, refusing to meet her eyes.

Her heart began to pound. “Echo?”

He took a deep breath before he replied. “I’m not coming back to Coruscant.”

She blinked. “... What?”

“I’m staying with Hunter and Wrecker,” he said quietly. “Omega is still out there somewhere, in Imperial hands. We have to find her.”

“Cerra is still out there, too!” Riyo protested. “We need you here! We need you—”

“Riyo,” Echo said gently. “Rex and the others are doing everything they can to find her. I trust them, and I trust that she can take care of herself until they find her. Besides, if I know Cerra, she’s already making whoever took her wish they were never born. But Omega is only a child. We can’t abandon her.”

He was right, of course. She knew he was right. But knowing he was right didn’t make the crushing weight in her chest feel any lighter. She wanted to scream. She wanted to cry. She bit back the selfish words that sprang to her lips, knowing that speaking them aloud would only make things worse. Nevertheless, they reverberated in her mind.

I need you. I love you. Come back to me.

Echo reached for her through the holocomm, and she closed her eyes for a moment, imagining that she could feel the warmth of his touch.

“We will see each other again,” he said. “I swear it, Riyo. This isn’t the end for us.”

Without her comlink, Cerra had no choice but to use the shuttle’s communicator to contact Rex. Not only were the shuttle’s comms not secure, it was possible that the Empire was actively monitoring them. She keyed in the details for one of the team’s burner comm channels.

“Code kilo-three-two-seven. Scrapper to Monarch, come in,” she said. The minutes ticked by in agonizing slowness as she awaited a reply. When none came, she tried again. “Monarch, this is Scrapper. Please respond.”

The comm was silent. Fighting down her rising panic, Cerra ran a diagnostic to make sure it was functional. All systems were normal. She was just about to try a third time when the voice she loved most in the entire galaxy crackled through the speaker.

“Scrapper, this is Watchman. Good to hear your voice.”

Gregor. Oh, thank kriff. Tears of relief stung her eyes, and she hurriedly blinked them away as she responded.

“Back at you, Watchman.” Her voice cracked, and she swallowed. “Really good.”

“What’s your status?”

“I’m all right, but I could use a ride. Any chance you’re free for a pickup?” she asked.

“Affirmative. Head to delta-one-alpha-eight-two. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

“Copy that, Watchman. Fly casual.”

“You, too, Scrapper.”

Gregor ended the transmission, and Cerra let out a shaky breath. It was over. She was going home.

---

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