#database refresh

[researinfolabs]

Top Benefits of Regular Database Refresh for Seamless Business Operations

Introduction

Today's business world relies severely on the reliable management solutions of databases. Such solutions keep things moving smoothly and assist in making good decisions. Among such practices is database refresh, ensuring no differences between data in testing or development systems and real-time data in production. Working well depends critically on high system reliability and growing a business.

Benefits of Database Refresh Now, let's talk about the benefits of database refresh in an organization.

Good application testing Ensuring a very similar test environment to real-life data situations A new database helps teams in the following ways:

Debug bugs before deployment

Test some applications in practical contexts.

Improving the quality at the new application release.

System performance optimization Updating your database will help remove old, unused, or broken data. It makes sure that:

No mess sits in databases.

Makes query processing speedier

It should be sure that systems work well without bringing unnecessary delay.

Improved Data Protection New database refresh operations often involve data masking or encryption. This means:

Production data should not be accessed by the wrong individuals in a non-production environment.

Follow data privacy laws, such as GDPR or HIPAA.

Lower chances of unauthorized people getting to private information.

Reduced Probability of Downtime

System failures and downtime are the direct impacts of using outdated or unmaintained databases.

Frequent database refresh fine-tuned and, in a condition, to provide top performance

it prevents failure, which may cause business operations to be interrupted

it keeps losses afloat, which is costly because of downtime

Better Team Productivity

Access to prompt and accurate information allows developers, testers, and analysts to work better. Stable databases ensure the following:

It reduces lag caused by poor-quality information.

It sets teams on innovation rather than debugging.

Make project timelines quicker and provide results.

Informed Business Decisions

A new database can provide current, accurate information to the organization that it needs to make business decisions. This gives rise to:

Greater strategic planning insights

Good customer experience through focused connections.

Data-driven solution able to propel growth

Compliance/Audit Readiness

Among the common updates are data cleansing and compliance checking, specifically for the companies that deal with sensitive information and have to stick by the book to the rules and regulations.

All legal formalities are satisfied.

Easy auditing with neat, organized data.

Protection from punishments or harm to reputation.

Conclusion

Regular database refresh is more than a maintenance activity—it’s a strategic necessity for businesses aiming to stay competitive in a data-centric world. By ensuring accurate, secure, and up-to-date databases, you can boost operational efficiency, reduce risks, and empower your teams to perform at their best.

Ready to transform your database management? Discover how our database refresh services can help your business achieve seamless operations. Contact us today!

[aresmarked]

i do try to constantly ground myself in characters' voices to ensure it reads like them in my fics, however long or short the moment

that said if you are a friend you do have to tell me if i'm off the rails. i will have stared at the words too long probably.

[renstardust]

Two months.

It had been exactly two months since you fled the First Order, leaving behind your life as Apprentice beneath Commander Ren.

You left without any trace or explanation. Ren assumed you left because you didn’t think anyone would care; that they could track down another dark side loving Force-user with ease. He worried that maybe, you thought you were disposable.

It’s not like the lingering glances or touches between you and your Master meant anything anyway — it was all just business. Neither of you had time for feelings or any of that soft shit.

He assumed you’d think he wouldn’t care if you left. That if anything, he’d probably be relieved. That he could find someone older, stronger, more serious about being in one of the most sought after positions in the galaxy.

Kylo was losing his fucking mind, actually.

The worst part was that he could feel you. Everywhere. Not just in the Force signature you’d left behind that lingered in the cold, metal hallways of the Supremacy, or in your former quarters (the same quarters he now only visits once a day, sometimes twice), but he could feel you, out there, running about.

Driving him utterly insane.

He replayed every little conversation in his head, every moment you’d spent together: training sessions, meditations, meal times, quiet moments in cockpits during missions. Trying to piece together every memory, trying to figure out exactly when and how he screwed up.

What he did — or didn’t do — to keep you.

Losing you made Kylo realize how deeply he actually felt about you. The sound of your voice that he felt soothed by, the way your black clothes hugged your body in a manner that would make his pants feel uncomfortably tight, how graceful and calculative your combat skills looked, both in training and actual fights.

He missed the warmth of your scent. The softness of your hair. Those beautiful fucking eyes. Your little quirks, your sense of humor, your confidence, your occasional stubbornness, your persistence.

Gods, he missed you. You haunted his dreams, interrupted his meditation sessions, caused a tightness in his chest that hasn’t disappeared since the day you were suddenly gone.

As if you were never here to begin with.

Kylo’s lip trembled, tears pricking at his hazel eyes as he sat in his quarters after a particularly rough day of training with the Knights. He shook his head, shoving his feelings aside, including the everlasting urge to go sit in your old quarters across the hall and try to smell the barely-there scent of your perfume. He still hasn’t let the cleaning droids come near that room.

Was he….grieving you?

Should he go looking for you? Maybe he could coax you back-

“Why is everyone being a dick to me today?”

Your voice suddenly filled his quarters, pulling him from his daze, the metal door sliding shut behind you. Kylo blinked, tense as ever, quickly rising from his seat and adjusting himself. His eyes were wide, eyebrows furrowed, lips parted.

“I get it, I took a little leave to visit my family, but I really needed it, and I’m glad I did it. Two months without my datapad was really refreshing too. It’s not my fault everyone else here is married to their job.”

Kylo cleared his throat, confused as all hell.

“Apprentice-“

“Especially Hux! He looked at me like I was a ghost. I get that we aren’t on the greatest terms, but he could’ve at least acknowledged me with a nicety.”

“APPRENTICE.”

Your lips snapped shut, eyes widening at your Master’s stern, husky voice. The extra deep version that you only heard when he was at his breaking point.

“What, Kylo?”

“Where the hell have you been?”

“…On vacation? I sent everyone notice like three weeks before I left. And the night before…?”

“Nobody knew you went on vacation.”

“But Officer Mitaka told me to have fun before I left.”

A beat of silence. A creak of leather in Kylo’s gloved hands, now squeezing into big fists. Tight, trembling fists.

“Which database did you forward the notice to?”

You raised an eyebrow. “Eleven. I usually message in eleven.”

“Highest ranking officials message in database thirteen, Apprentice.”

Your pupils dilate, lips parting. “Fuck, is that why none of you guys reacted to the pictures I sent?”

Kylo didn’t know whether he wanted to kill you, or take you right then and there. Irritation and relief pulsed through his body simultaneously as he took in slow breaths of frustration. He was fucking pissed.

And so, so fucking happy.

You were here.

You never really left.

Kylo pulled his lips into his mouth, eyes darkening before he responded. “Medbay. Now. Let’s go.”

“Why?”

“I’m getting you tagged, Apprentice.”

[rcvcgers]

Rotten Apples ❦.ׂ

chapter twelve: what i've become

masterlist , series masterlist , ao3 link

previous part | next part

oh yeah, i made a spotify playlist for this <3

18+ MINORS DNI

pairing: caleb x non!mc reader

synopsis: you and caleb prepare for the professor's meeting. when you see each other again, caleb is unsettled by what he sees.

word count: 14.2k words

warnings: please, please, PLEASE read the trigger warnings before proceeding. lightly proofread...it ain't perfect!

author's note: thank you all so much for 10k hits on ao3! i love and appreciate you all so much! it means the world to me! <3

oh and remember...the narrative isn't completely objective!

trigger warning: death/murder, bodily harm, manipulation, self deprecating thoughts, experimentation, exploitation, self loathing, angst, professor lucius is a sadist, gun violence, lucius is a creep if you squint, slight suicidal thoughts, let me know if i missed anything

my rotten apples <3 : @militaryapple , @kebarney , @pinkismyfavcolor , @romils , @erisnxxi , @rik0shii , @reni502 , @spacehopper27 , @llamabois , @likesvader , @pandoras-rabbit , @princessfruit , @lukassafespace , @jexireads , @etsuniiru , @tinnyrabbit , @orianakira , @xiaorixx , @beomluvrr , @sanzy4 , @vickykazuya , @blcknebula , @sleepydang , @flamedancer13 , @gojosbedwarmer , @silmeria-lafleur , @ikiru-wa , @animecrazy76 , @fealy , @i-messed-up-big-time , @motheraiya55 , @vvonunie , @1uv4jiya , @yuuuumii , @okumurarinsbabe , @mcdepressed290 , @luleck , @sanzy4 , @lucifers-silhouette , @crazygirl3001 , @april-likes-smut , @kazbrkker , @l1ttlebabyapple , @writersandroses , @kookie-my-little-sunshine , @curryexpress , @earthykitsunesrain , @raining4food , @chaoticbardlady99 , @lemonwithstupidity

Caleb stares at the computer, his foot tapping against the ground. Something inside of his chest urges him forward, to close the distance between him and the small machine. He wears his Colonel uniform, the hat hanging on a hook on his bedroom door. He sits on the bed and his gaze never breaks away from the laptop, his foot slowly coming to a stop.

It’s a bad idea to try and access the database twice.

It’s an even worse idea to use Josephine’s login information to get inside.

Caleb has always played it safe. He has always followed orders like the good soldier he was trained to be. As the Colonel, he rarely ever questions his higher ups, except for the Professor, and always takes the time to figure out which route is the safest for him and his men. He drags his feet over any and all mission plans that he has but when it comes to you…he wants to be reckless. He knows that the Professor will be expecting a calculated plan to extradite you, to pluck you from amidst the chaos, so the last thing he will be anticipating is chaos.

Professor Lucius knows that Colonel Xia plays it safe, so what will he think when the boy whose flame he tried to smother as a child is the one to come up with the plan?

The Colonel inches towards the computer. The screen illuminates right as he sits down, the fabric of his uniform constricting his body, pushing into his flesh as if he is being held down by chains and restraints. His hands feel heavy as he navigates himself back to Ever’s database, leather gloves protecting him from the keyboard and its desire to dig deeper into Ever’s plans. He plugs in Josephine’s login information, staring at the screen, his heart thumping loudly inside his chest despite its slow beat, and watches as the server processes his information.

The screen refreshes and he is met with V-03’s project file — your project file — right in front of him, exactly where he left it. Caleb slowly draws in a breath, his shoulders growing tense as he navigates the folders, his eyes scanning the screen and plethora of files to see if any of them are new. His skin tingles from beneath the Colonel’s uniform, the weight of his role and rank causing his mind to splinter, forced to play it safe in this moment as to not cause any kind of alarm.

One of them are new. It is labeled For His Eyes Only and it sits at the very bottom of the list, almost as if it were hidden in plain sight.

Did Caleb miss this from before? He could have swore that the file wasn’t with the rest before, it has to be new.

The label, though, feels like some sick and twisted calling card, and invitation to look upon the mess that he has inadvertently created. Just another reminder to never leave your side once he gets you back.

He still clicks on the folder. He knows he has to see what he allowed to happen. He must look upon the actions of his consequences. 

Has the Professor truly gone mad? Has he pushed you past the boundaries of morality and ethics, succumbing you to a fate far worse than death? Has he contorted your face beyond belief, turning you into a creature that children will have nightmares about?

Has the Professor turned you into Wanderer?

The screen is black. Caleb hesitates moving out of the folder, waiting for something to happen, his ears and back of his neck growing hot from shame and displeasure. He is about to move out of the folder when the video boots up, a small loading screen flickering to life before disappearing.

The screen transforms into the image of a cell with a lump hidden beneath thin blankets. A sire blares through the speakers, a sound that Caleb knows all too well. The mass from beneath the blankets begin to move, a pair of legs swinging over the edge of the bed, your tired face and messy hair being displayed to the camera that hangs in the corner of the cell.

You look exhausted, hunched over, clutching your stomach with closed eyes. Pain is carved into your face, a remainder that it is Caleb’s fault for you living and pushing through the worst of the worst.

If Caleb could remember what his time was like at Ever, only just a kid who had to look after himself and her, he bets that you have it worse than he did. He was just a kid, after all, or maybe the Professor is just a sick fuck who experiments on whoever walks through the doors or he deems to be interesting.

But you? You were caught in the crossfire, a loose end that Professor Lucius needed to tie, to eradicate your existence so you do not burn down what he has worked so hard to create and build for himself these past few decades.

Caleb leans towards the screen, his fingers sliding across the glass of the computer. He traces the small appearance of your face, his heart twisting and churning inside his chest, trembling at the idea of you being forever changed because of the professor’s evil ways.

You open your eyes and look around, a small yawn escaping your lips.

Oh, how Caleb misses watching you wake up, slowly processing that you aren’t asleep anymore. You’d look around the room while stretching out your body, letting out a big yawn while he laid in bed beside you, waiting patiently because he wanted to start his day when you start yours. You’d turn to him and have that cute, tired smile on your face, calling him a stalker for watching you sleep despite finding it annoyingly romantic. He would have pulled you back down with him and slowly covered your face in kisses while you tried to escape.

Escape…

Caleb shudders. You don’t stretch or look around. You look forward and straighten your posture. Your face remains stoic, void of any and all emotion, once the sleep has finally slipped from your body. You remain as still as possible, becoming just another one of Ever’s dolls that sits upon a shelf, forever waiting to see if the Professor wants to play with you today or if you’ll be spared of the pain and agony that comes with his games.

“Soon,” Caleb murmurs to the computer screen, speaking as if you can hear him, “you’ll be back in my arms soon.”

Your head twitches, slowly turning your chin up as you look straight into the camera.

The room is colder than you anticipated. One of the nurses were nice enough to gift you an extra blanket as the snowstorm raged outside Ever’s hidden base. You watched the snowflakes pass by your cell’s tiny window. It was one of the few ways to pass the time at the Ever facility, really. It was either that, being experimented on, or interacting with Viper alongside others in the common areas when you were allowed out of your cell.

To interact with others is a privilege, after all, a privilege that one earns. That is what the Professor taught you.

The blinking red light caught your attention first. One you were out of sleep’s haze, you couldn’t help but noticing the flickering light. It’s slow pulses luring you in. You turn your gaze towards it, tilting your head to the side. You push off of the bed and approach the corner of the room, looking up as the camera follows your movement. You slowly reach out for the camera, standing up on your toes, knowing that it is a losing battle to fight.

Aren’t all war consisted of small skirmishes? Perhaps this is one you are meant to lose, one that you know that you will not come back from. Or maybe, just maybe, this final battle will be decisive and show you what is in store for you and your future.

A piece of you wishes for a quick and clean death, to slip away into the darkness of permanent sleep so that you do not have to fight for your right to live.

Another part of you has a desire to live, to see through the pain and torture so that you will be able to have your revenge on the Professor and Ever for all of the things that they have done to you and others.

The red light shuts off. You let out a quiet sigh and lower yourself back onto the ground. The sound of dragging boots against concrete floors catches your attention. You lean back on your heels, eyes looking outside the close proximity of your cell. You push through the pain that resides inside of your stomach, the intense burning feeling as your intestines slowly stitch themselves back together, your intestinal lining returning to its previous healthy state.

You absolutely detest how your body puts itself back together. You hate how you can feel each and every one of your ripped muscles and tendons reach for each other, connecting in a fiery heat that can only be described as pure agony and pain.

You should be used to it by now. You know exactly what is to come when you wake up from the forced slumber, your dreams haunting your every waking moment as you remain curled up in your cell, your sobs and cries bouncing off of the concrete walls, deafening to those who listen.

The Professor claims that he is doing this to protect you, to prepare you for what the real world has to offer. He told you that the pain you feel will make you stronger, better, for the times when you will meed it the most. He says that you have been blind for so long, for allowing yourself to fall in love with an animal who needs to be caged.

You didn’t believe him at first, holding onto that hope that your loyal boyfriend, a lethal weapon who you have loved for so long, would burst through Ever’s doors and steal you away, saving you from eternal torture and leaping into paradise.

But he didn’t come.

The days turned into weeks and weeks turned into months. About to be eight months to the day, to be exact.

Every day that Caleb did not save you, you were beaten and screamed at, berated for being a fool who thinks that she will be saved. So, what did the Professor graciously do?

He made you better. Upgraded you, evolved you into someone that you can barely recognize.

Sure, you are able to heal yourself at incredible speeds, a mere paper cut is gone within seconds and you can grow a finger back just a day after it has been chopped off. Your skin may remain the same color, your old scars having disappeared, fading into nothingness. You’re stronger now, too, reaction times hitting you at super speed. He’s made you better, yes, and has turned you into someone who can take care of themselves. At least, that’s what he wants the public to see.

But you know the truth. You know the ugliness that hides beneath your skin, the way your muscles are perpetually aching, the way your body is constantly in fight or flight, having to defend yourself from the environment that Ever has set in place among its test subjects. You know that no matter how much you bleed, you blood will come back just in time before you die of blood loss. You know that whenever you heal yourself, or others for that matter, that your sanity and mind fractures itself, the glass of your mind stressed beyond belief as you survive through the days. You are on the verge of a breakdown, your mental state hanging in a delicate state, teetering the line between remaining sane and the pure bliss of your animalistic instincts.

An animal that will obey Professor Lucius, of course.

What was it that the Professor said? Whenever an animal is trapped, it will chew off its own leg to escape?

It’s all thanks to him that you’ll be able to grow a new one.

You remember the first time they beat you. You were helpless, strapped to a chair. You begged the Professor and other scientists to let you go, that this is all one big mistake and that if they were to release you, you’d claim that nothing happened and 

You silently return to your bed, sitting down with the blanket wrapped around your shoulders. You stare straight ahead, your eyes focusing on the bars that keep you inside the small cage.

A maniacal cackle echoes down the concrete hallway. Boots drag against the concrete floor, the sounds of its scrapes putting you on edge. Your eye twitches, your hands fumbling with the corner of the blanket, plucking at the leftover strings, trying to busy yourself and your mind before he comes.

Viper is one ugly son of a bitch. His scaled skin has always left you feeling uneasy, his black forked tongue getting a little too close for comfort when he comes near you, invading your personal space. His laughter is never welcoming or warm. It is a sign that bad things are to come, that the Professor is about to put you through another night of extreme pain.

Your eyes flicker to the camera, silently wondering who it was that was watching you.

A small sliver of hope strikes your chest, hoping that he watched. To see where you are, to make sure that you’re okay. You hold onto that small tiny speck of hope and hold it close to yourself. Sure enough, that speck dies every time. It dies whenever you remember that it has been eight months since you’ve seen him.

Eight months of experimentation.

Eight months of torture.

Eight months of crying yourself to sleep as your arm grows back.

Eight months of shedding your old skin and stepping into your new body, a weapon that the Professor can use at his beck and call.

Eight months of losing every bit of yourself despite being able to remember every single fucking thing that they have done to you.

Eight months of your own Evol fighting against the Toring Chip that was implanted at the base of your neck, ready to send electric shocks throughout your body whenever you misbehave or disobey orders.

Eight months of falling out of love with the person who vowed to protect you.

“So,” Viper’s exaggerated ’s’ sounds are like nails being dragged against a chalkboard, shivers running down your spine, all of the hair on your body shooting up. He comes into view and stands before you, tilting his head to the side as his lips curl into a smirk. “What did he do to you this time?”

You don’t immediately respond. You blink at him, your fingers stopping when your eyes meet. He relaxes himself onto the bars of your cell, an open display for all to see the Professor’s latest success. His thin pupils irk you, the way his eyes dart back and forth, constantly taking in new information before striking.

“Come on,” Viper quietly cackles, pushing his face up against the metal bars. Your blood runs cold. “What did he do to you? You took a long time to die. Made me lose a bet with Frank.”

“Arsenic poisoning,” you respond, voice strong and definitive. You narrow your gaze on Viper, watching as his body shudders from his laughter. “He wanted to see what happens on the inside of a body.”

The high pitched screeches, the low chuckles when he tries to catch his breath…oh how he was mocking you.

“Next time, die quicker for me?” Viper’s laughter instantly dies, turning serious as he grabs the bars of your enclosure. “You’d save me a whole lot of money.”

You raise an eyebrow at him, looking him up and down before giving him a nod. The quicker you die, the quicker you can get the pain of healing yourself over with…and so Viper can get the measly twenty diamonds he recklessly bets.

“Breakfast,” he slips open the slot at the bottom of the metal door and kicks the tray through.

Food — well, slop is a better word for it — sprays the walls, sticking to the dark gray cement, slowly dripping and rolling down the sides as gravity tugs it down. You wipe your cheek where some of the slop hit you, the awful stench filling your nostrils. You turn your head away and hug the blanket closer to your body.

You don’t even take a bite out of the food or lick the excess off of the pad of your thumb. You don’t feel like being poisoned again so you’ll starve yourself until you give into the hunger that claws the inside of your stomach.

“The Professor has a surprise for you,” Viper continues and watches you with a close eye. Your gazes meet and he chuckles, his hands pushing through the barrier of the bars. “He finally gets to show you off, his special soldier…”

There is contempt behind Viper’s voice. You pay it no attention, though, always knowing that Viper lives off of the Professor’s constantly validation. He hates being out of the spotlight, inhabiting the darkness of the crowd, a place where you are so desperate to be. To Viper, you are in his place and he will be so happy when you eventually crash out and the Professor finds a way to permanently kill you.

Silence fills the cell. You look away and out the window, the snow coming down harder than you anticipated. It will be another freezing night. Two thin blankets are the only thing you have to defend yourself from the cold. Perhaps the Professor’s next experiment is to see the effects of frost bite on the body. Maybe he’ll throw you outside and see how long it takes for you to freeze to death.

“You’re quiet today,” Viper comments with a sadistic giggle, “is it because I’m not as handsome as the Colonel?”

You freeze.

“Are my eyes not the perfect shade of purple? It’s a shame they’re yellow instead,” Viper tilts his head, tongue swiping over the piercings that hang from his lips, the mechanical parts of his skull catching your eye. “I wonder…how will you react when you see him today?”

You do not respond. You stare out the window again and stare at the morning sun as it moves above the horizon, floating into the sky.

Do you even want to see him?

You do not know how to react whenever Caleb comes up. Whenever your mind drifts to him, you become so overwhelmed with emotions.

Anger. Hatred. Love. Yearning. Desire. Sadness. Lust. Resentment. Confusion. Desperation.

The Professor has beaten you countless times and has used him as the reason for why you are so broken, why you were chosen to be his special subject. If it weren’t for Caleb, you would have never been in this mess. If it weren’t fort for Caleb, you would not have died so many god damn times and be forced to feel your body rebuild itself after the Professor has destroyed it.

A piece of you knows that Caleb never wanted this to happen. You know that he has tried so hard to keep you away from the Professor, especially after the meeting the Professor forced you to translate not too long ago. Deep down, you know that Caleb Xia would never hurt you.

So where is he? Why is he not here to protect you from the people he has deemed to be the scum of the earth? Where is the man who vowed to protect you after endless nights together, the man who promised to put his life on the line to keep you away from the hands of men like the Professor?

Maybe Professor Lucius is right. Maybe he did want to hurt you, payback for when you shut him out as an angsty teenager, for running away after you promised to go back inside, for letting him in so easily after all of these years of desperately pushing away the boy you fell head over heels for in your childhood.

You’re weak. You’re so fucking pathetic.

Caleb Xia never loved you, did he? His sweet words have been deceptive from the beginning. Besides, the entire time of your clearly fake relationship, he has been so enamored with her that you have been an afterthought.

And yet, you still feel sympathy for the man. He himself was in the same position you are. He probably walked along these halls and touched the same parts of the wall you did. Caleb probably dreams of this place, being subjected to the atrocities that he endured as a child.

At the end of the day, though, your overwhelming emotions can only make you feel one thing: numb.

The funny thing about the whole experimentation and Toring Chip process is that you are forced to remember everything. Your body simply will not let you forget what has been done to you. Unlike the other beings who were subjected to the Toring Chip, Caleb included, their minds and memories have been wiped clean, a fresh start to Ever to imprint their beliefs onto.

But you? You remember.

In the beginning it worked. You could barely remember a thing when the chip was first implanted into the back of your neck. You didn’t even remember your name when you first came out of your sleep, the Professor had to remind you of your own identity what what your purpose is at Ever. You blindly believed him, allowed him to poke hundreds of needles into your skin, to tear your body apart layer by bloody layer.

When your body evolved, though…that’s when it hit you.

All of the memories flooded your brain, a painful relapse of everything that you have ever been through. You could feel your Evol, your power, fighting against the Toring Chip. The machines did not register this change. All it saw was that your body was putting itself back together again.

How could the Professor have missed the fact that your Evol helped repair your hippocampus? It completely undone all of his work to make you his beloved soldier, a weapon that he can use whenever he wishes. He simply cannot experiment on you and then press the erase button on the trigger, that doesn’t work anymore.

You are smart, though. Cunning. Adaptable. You learned very quickly that the only way to survive this place is to pretend that you are as clueless and blank as they wish for you to be.

That, my friend, is the truth. It is the cruelest punishment that will ever be dealt to you in the game of life.

You scoff and turn to look at Viper. His hands hang through the bars of your enclosure, mocking you that he can leave whenever he pleases despite still being under Professor Lucius’ thumb. You slowly approach the bars and the reptilian man does not move, he doesn’t even flinch as you give him a warm smile, luring him into a false sense of security.

You take his hands. Your fingertips glide across the scales of his hands, scales that morph into human skin. It unsettles you, the coolness of his body to your warm touch. Can’t let it show, though. You keep quiet, basking in the silence of your plan as Viper slowly pushes into your touch. Your eyes flicker to his, a teasing smile crossing your lips.

He must feel as lonely as you do in here. He probably has never felt the respectable touch of a caring person before, having been subjected to countless experiments and indoctrination before you ever arrived.

“Do you still wish to protect him?” Viper asks, his tongue poking out from between his lips before darting back inside. “Do you still love him?”

You grip on his hands begins to tighten. Slowly, you raise your gaze from your connected limbs, traveling up his body piece by piece, taking in the leather of his outfit, the snake skin that he proudly wears, before finally landing on the green and yellow hues of his eyes. Viper begins to struggle against your grip. At first, he begins to try and pull away but you don’t let him. He tries to take a step back but you keep him close, drawing him right back into the cell bars. His breathing grows frantic, eyes flickering between you and your connected hands.

“Love is such a funny concept,” you whisper to yourself, a small grin spreading across your face as you use all of the force you can muster up, snapping Viper’s wrists.

You go through the same routine when the scientists come to collect you. Alarms begin to blare out and soldiers line up outside your cell with their guns pointed at you, guns that are meant to kill Wanderers and Evoled humans, not normal people like you once were. You turn and face the wall with your hands behind your head, the clanging bars of the cell sliding to the side as a scientist cautiously approaches. They slap handcuffs around your wrists, the blue lights flickering from deep inside the darkened metal. The cuffs are a mere formality, a way to keep you in check instead of actually holding you back.

What you were truly afraid of were the soldiers. At any moment, they can unleash pure hellfire upon you, the metal bullets ripping through your body, tearing you apart with such ease.

It’s not like you can’t die. You’ll revive just a few hours later, sobbing and trembling as your aching and burning muscles reattach, your nerves on fire as it registers every single process of healing.

They move you from your cell and parade you down the hallway where all of the other experiments that the Professor has tucked away can see. They hoot and holler as you pass by. They launch taunts and threats at you, their words seeping into your skin despite you not showing them just how much it unnerves you.

To them, you are Professor Lucius’ most prized possession. The one person they should aspire to be. The toy that he plays with every single day. The one person they dream about killing so they can take your seat under Professor Lucius’ gentle eye. They wish to tear you limb from limb, ripping your beating heart out of your chest so that they are spared a sliver of the same kindness that he shows to you.

Little do they know that your existence is pure torture. Every breath you take is noted, jotted down in a scientist’s notes just in case you decided to strangle yourself inside your cell. They watch you at all hours of the day. The cameras in your cell and main areas are perpetually on, the red light slowly blinking — breathing — as you are forced to undergo the Professor’s sick and twisted fantasies.

He has put you inside a cell for all to see. Scientists and soldiers can pass you by at any time of the day, laughing and snickering at your plight. Some days, the days that Professor Lucius decides to punish you by starving you, they walk by with bits and pieces of food. Freshly basked bread, rations from the solider’s emergency food supplies. They wave it in front of your face, watching as you reach out to pluck the scraps from their hands before they pull it away, laughing at the idea of you begging.

Ever has changed you. Will it be for the better? Or will you completely transform into a monster that you never asked to become?

The door to the holding cell slides open. The echoes of the other experiments’ yells and cries are now muffled from the distance as you step inside, slightly nodding your head at the scientists who sit inside. The usual scent of bleach and chemicals stings the inside of your nostrils. It makes you nauseous as the memories of previous deaths flood your mind, the scientists already beginning to clean the room as you’re curled up into a ball on the floor, sobbing as pain overtakes your body. The door slams shut behind you and the handcuffs are taken off, your wrists sore from how tight they always are. 

“V-03, you know the drill,” the first scientist says.

You suck in a breath and nod, knowing that if you speak you will be slapped or tased. You circle around the table and glance at what it holds: a Fleet uniform, hat, and a single gun. A shiver runs down your spine, the hair on the back of your neck standing up.

You bite back the questions that fill your mind. You do not say a word and sit in the metal chair. The thin material of your pants is not thick enough to combat the chill that seeps into your skin, putting you even more on edge than you already are. You try to steady your heartbeat, eyes flickering around the room until they settle onto the corner where the camera sits.

The scientists are at your sides. They begin to strap you into the chair, the restraints tight and coarse against your skin. The sensation is familiar to you. You two are no longer strangers. Your skin has adjusted to the constant restraints and is much thicker now but your trembling heart remains the same.

The red light slowly blinks. You draw in a breath, the red light grows brighter. You slowly exhale, and the light dies.

Are you watching me? You think to yourself. Do you see what you have done to me?

“Good morning, V-03,” Professor Lucius’ voice echoes from behind.

Your posture immediately straightens, the muscle memory of his particular routine settling into your bones, your eyes set to look straight forward and at the door of the holding cell. Your eyes do not move as he enters. He passes off a folder to one of the scientists and waves them away, mumbling something you can barely hear. They leave with a small nod, the door slamming shut behind them.

The Professor settles into the chair in front of you. There is a small, sick smirk on his face. There always is. It is unsettling, always making you feel as if there is something that he knows about you that you do not even know about yourself.

“Good morning, Professor Lucius,” you respond in a monotone voice. You have to be sure to keep it level, not too happy but not too sad…obedient. Just the way he likes.

“We have big plans for you today, V-03,” the Professor’s smiles, his yellowed and rotten teeth flashing at you. He leans back into his chair, his knees moving far apart as he spreads his legs, getting comfortable. “Do you remember your friend from the Farspace Fleet? The General?”

Your heart lurches in your chest. The blood in your veins grows hot, your ears warming as you try your best to keep your composure. All you can bring yourself to do is nod in response, slowly blinking as your body struggles to stay in place.

In the back of your mind you think about the time you were in middle school. You and Caleb were running away from a teacher after you decided to cut class early. The two of you hid inside the janitor’s closet, tucked away behind the brooms and mops, using the sponges and bottles of soap as a way to hide. The teacher passed by the closet and hesitated, the two of you breathing so quietly, faces close together as you hid behind one of the hanging towels. Caleb had the biggest smile on his face but you were so terrified, never having broken a rule before. He promised to keep you safe, that he will take all of the blame off of your shoulders and tell the teachers he dragged you away with him in case the two of you got caught.

Thankfully, you never did.

“You are deep in thought, V-03. Would you care to enlighten me what you’re thinking about?” Professor Lucius adjusts himself in his seat, his dark eyes trained on you.

You don’t make a sound and simply look around the room when your eyes on the camera. The red light fades for a moment before coming back to life. You match your breaths with its pace.

Are you going to help me get out of this one too?

“The camera,” you begin, slowly speaking the words as if you are under the influence of the Toring Chip, an image that you have perfect over the last eight months since arriving at the facility, “is it you watching me? Or is somebody else wanting to take a look?”

The Professor lets out an amused chuckle, turning around to stare at the camera that sits up in the corner behind him. He does not immediately respond, taking his time in turning back around and formulating a response inside of his head. You know that this is him buying time. He is trying to figure out a response that will satisfy you — well, his loyal and obedient solider.

“There is a guest who has been checking in on you,” each word sends chills down your spine, your heart pounding to every single word, squeezing and contracting in and out, contorting itself inside your chest. “You will be seeing him soon. He will take part in the…demonstration that we will put on for the General.”

A demonstration…what could he possibly mean by that?

“Do not worry, V-03, you are safe here, nobody is going to hurt you,” the Professor calmly states.

As much as you hate to admit it, you believe in what he says. You know that he is the enemy, but he has kept you safe from the outside world, keeping you hidden behind concrete walls that will never seem to fall.

Despite knowing how much he has hurt you, you know that your mind is fractured beyond belief. Grief and trauma absorb your actions and emotions. You have become just like the animal that he spoke to you about. It is just a matter of time until you gnaw off your limbs in order to escape from this place.

“Your baseline,” the Professor speaks.

“Weeping willows decay under the scorching sun with no water to flourish,” you act on instinct, knowing that if you were to hesitate or push back that Professor Lucius will hurt you again. You try to keep your heartbeat as slow as possible, to keep your eyes still and steady, to not give away the erratic emotions and turmoil that crash throughout your body and mind.

“A dog with no purpose is as good as dead. Are you a pet? Interlinked.”

“Interlinked.”

You stare into the camera and take a deep breath, watching as the camera gets closer, inspecting your eyes with a close look.

“What is it like to hold the hand of someone you love? Interlinked.”

“Interlinked.”

Your heart skips a beat. You think about Caleb and the first time you held hands. The Professor scribbles something into his notebook.

“Your baseline.”

“Weeping willows decay under the scorching sun with no water to flourish.”

You blink. Your hands grow clammy.

“Do you feel like something is missing from your life? Companionship? Interlinked.”

“Interlinked.”

You heart yearns for a man that you do not wish to know anymore.

“Repeat after me: the void is dark and there is no one else there to help me.”

“The void is dark and there is no one else to help me.”

Where are you, Caleb? Why haven’t you found me yet?

“You are an integral part to the system. System. Interlinked.”

“System. Interlinked.”

Professor Lucius pauses. He does not speak. He leans forward, the camera moving with him, as they stare deep into your eyes. You try not to falter, remaining as still as humanly possible. You do not pull away from them, knowing that it will be a challenge to escape out of. Adding time onto your already lengthy sentence.

“Both baselines, V-03.”

“Weeping willows decay under the scorching sun with no water to flourish. The void is dark and there is no one else to help me,” the words burn themselves into your memory, into your tongue. An invisible way of Professor Lucius branding you as his, marking his territory.

The two of you know that if you were to somehow escape his grasp, to flee from the prison he holds you inside of, he will be able to bring you back to him with those two simple sentences. You will revery back into the shell of a human being you are now, forever chained to him and his crimes, another casualty in the bloody massacre he has participated in as the ring leader.

The room falls silent, the whirring from the camera no longer filling your ears like an unpalatable white noise that you cannot escape from. Even in your dreams you hear the sound of his quiet interrogator, an unfeeling machine that will rip you to shreds the moment it gets the chance.

You truly are alone in this world, aren’t you?

The Professor snaps his fingers. The doors open and a single scientist enters the room. They hand him a date pad, one that you have only seen a handful of times before in the past couple of weeks. You gently bite the inside of your cheek, just enough of it so they will not be able to notice, and watch as the person leaves, the door slamming shut behind them.

“V-03, I will be regaining control of your body now. We will need to undergo a few last…measures to ensure that our demonstration for the Farspace Fleet goes as smoothly as possible. You can understand why we cannot allow ourselves to have any mistakes in front of the General, seeing how he is our most valuable customer,” the Professor speaks while typing away on the clear tablet.

You close your eyes, just for a brief moment, and slowly fill your lungs with as much air as possible. The taps of the Professor’s fingertips coming to a slow pause. You open your eyes.

A rush of ice covers your skin. Your consciousness is submerged beneath the shadows of your mind, your bodily autonomy being snatched from your very hands as it feels like you are forced to remain on a sinking ship in the arctic. You are forced to watch as your body scan is pulled up on the screen of his tablet, your once loose and relaxed limbs growing rigid and tough to move.

Your face relaxes and you can feel your lips curl up into a fake and plastic smile. The professor stands up and sets the tablet down. He extends his hands towards the restraints that hold you down. He slowly releases them from your body and you can feel the sensation of pins and needles stabbing into your skin as the material falls off of your body.

As much as you try to fight against the Toring Chip’s control, you are unable to move your body. Now that your tormentor has released you from the restraints, you are faced to reckon with the numbness of your hands and limbs, the way your brain has been detached from calling the shots and instead being replaced by a machine.

The Professor picks up the clear tablet and flicks his finger across the screen. Your body stands and takes a step forward.

“Good job, V-03,” his words make you scream but no sound comes out.

You are helplessly trapped inside of your own body. You will be forced to watch and bear witness to the acts he will make you commit, the sins of his actions being thrust onto your hands. The blood of his crimes staining your skin, leaving a mark as you cry on the inside of your mind, begging for release from this madness.

You know that your Toring Chip is different than Caleb’s. He explained it to you the night you two first came together during the summit. The two of you laid together in bed, his arm wrapped around you while you listened to his steady heartbeat. His chest was bare — a piece of significant jewelry absent from his neck — and he slowly explained to you the effects of his Toring Chip. He has one of the earliest version, which is inevitably bound to have flaws in its design. While the Professor can see his emotions through his bodily reactions, he could only persuade his emotions to complete missions. To suggest and give Caleb the push he needed to say yes to dire circumstances and jobs.

The Professor had no control over Caleb’s body. He can wipe away the cheeriness in Caleb’s eyes and try to erase the playful and fiery spirit that sits inside his chest, but he will never have full control over the Colonel. All he can do is give Caleb the push, to bend his emotions and cause his brain to rewire itself to do as he says.

You…you are a puppet while Caleb maintains some of his bodily autonomy.

The Professor stands close to you. A little too close. Despite not having control of your body, you still feel your body’s instinct to pull away, the nausea that festers inside of your stomach. He leans in, his oddly cold shoulder pressing into yours, the man fully turning to face you. He leans down and his nose grazes against your cheek.

You can’t close your hides. You have to watch from your peripheral vision as he closes the distance.

His breath his putrid. Teeth rotted, decaying inside his own mouth. He places a hand on your shoulder. Your body doesn’t react but you let out a blood curdling scream from inside your head.

“You are…magnificent, V-03,” he speaks, the words rolling off of his tongue like butter. It scares you. “You are my finest creation yet.”

He places the tips of his fingers on your collarbone and begins to slowly drag them across your shoulder and down your bicep, switching from the pads of his fingers to his nails, the somehow brittle lengths pushing into your skin. It teeters between the line of admiration and something more, something ravenous and lustful.

You know that Professor Lucius does not lust after you. He lusts after the power you hold inside of your body. He lusts after the influence that your presence will give him in the room full of high ranking military officers and officials, making him even more powerful and dominant than he could ever imagine.

After all, you are his most prized possession.

Not person.

Object.

A thing for him to play with. A doll for him to literally dress how he sees fit.

He’s done it before in the past, used the Toring Chip to have you come into his office, to put on dresses and clothes that he claimed was for his young daughter at home.

His office did not have any photos of his family. Not even a wife or portrait they took in the early years of their family life. Perhaps he did not want them to witness the ugliness he pours his life and heart into. Maybe he does not want to look upon their faces and come to realization that just like them — just like you — his experiments have souls and people who love them just as much as he loves his wife and kids.

“We need you to look the part for the Farspace Fleet,” the Professor continues to speak. He pulls his hand away from your arm and takes a step in front of you. He nods his head in the direction of the table where the Farspace Fleet uniform sits. “The General wants to see his shining translator transform into someone new…someone worthwhile and noteworthy. Someone…someone dangerous.”

Professor Lucius steps to the side and his nails drag against the metal table, quietly scraping before he flicks his fingers against the screen. He turns to look at you once again, the sickening smirk returning to his face.

Your body moves on its own, forced to look away as you hands reach up for the top button of your shirt. You listen to the Professor’s footsteps, the loud echoes coming to a close as he settles himself into one of the chairs. Your movements are robotic as you slip the shirt from your body, folding it, and place it onto the table.

Is it a blessing or a curse that you do not have to face him while you change. Many times before, especially after one of his experiments to see just how cruelly he can kill you and get away with it, he and other scientists take their time to examine your naked body, watching it heal, to see if there are any remaining scars to act as evidence of their crimes against you.

You push your pants off of your body. His footsteps move closer to you.

“Stop.”

You obey his command.

Professor Lucius’ fingertips press the bottom of your head, right where your hair ends and where the scar from the Toring Chip surgery remains. He drags his fingers down, tracing the fine, the line of your darkened and scarred skin from the very first surgery you underwent. It was way before your Evol blossomed and came into fruition. They inspected your spine, moving apart the nerves, rerouting them, obliterating your ability to walk before they fixed it.

“I’ll see if I can find a way to heal your skin,” the Professor whispers into your ear, sending chills across your body. He takes notice and chuckles, thinking that it is a positive reaction rather than one made out of pure repulsion and rejection. “Continue.”

You reach for the Farspace Fleet uniform. Your heart twitches inside your chest, disregarding the Professor’s control over your body as you feel the weight of the uniform in your hands. Professor Lucius continues to touch your body. He inspects every inch of your exposed skin, murmuring and humming to himself.

It is so utterly dehumanizing.

You slip the white pants onto your body and fasten the belt, the black holster strapped to your thigh. Next, you put on the black dress shirt, fastening the buttons with precision and ease before strapping the tie around your neck.

While your body moves, you think about the slow mornings you spent with Caleb just as the sun began to rise from above the horizon. He has been up for far longer than you. He worked out and showered, placing his clothes onto the bench at the foot of the bed.

You slowly woke up from the depths of sleep, a yawn escaping from your lips. Caleb always smiled at you. He slowly walked to your side of the bed and would sit on the edge, the mattress dipping down which made you roll towards him. He caught you in his arms and lifted you up, melting into his chest as he placed a kiss to the top of your head before he met your lips with his.

Caleb was in charge of making breakfast while you showered and got ready. He stayed in his sweatpants, shirtless just as you liked him to be, and brought the plates inside just as you finished putting your last shoe on.

The two of you would eat and talk about that day’s plans. He would ask if you were up for a date out or if you wanted to stay inside. You always joked that you needed to ask your boyfriend and see if it was okay with him. The two of you would share a laugh, the sounds of his chuckles forever echoing inside what is left of your crumbling sanity.

You would clean up the plates and quickly wash them, setting them to the side of the sink before moving back to the bedroom where Caleb stands, assembling his Colonel persona piece by piece. You watched from the doorway, waiting for the right moment to step in and assume your daily task of helping him with his shirt buttons.

It was always silent between you two. Silent, but comfortable. Safe. A time where the two of you can be you and Caleb, a moment of domesticity in your chaotic and demanding lives. As soon as you fastened the last button, he would sheepishly ask you for help with his tie, always ending his question with a kiss to butter you up.

The truth is that Caleb knows how to tie his tie. You knew it, he knew it, but it never failed to make you smile and make an off-handed comment about him being so co-dependent on you, asking him what he’s going to do when you aren’t there to help put him together.

Oh, the irony.

You slip the heeled knee high boots over your feet and pants, your body lengthening by a handful of centimeters. Of course the men of Ever and the Farspace Fleet chose for you, a woman, to wear heeled boots. No matter what aspect of life you are in — a cold war or in an office — their idea of a strong woman must always come with their idea of femininity, which is almost always laced in with impracticality.

The Farspace Fleet’s jacket is heavier than you anticipated. You have felt the weight of Caleb’s in the past, having wearing it around his apartment as he cooked dinner, a smile on your face as you tipped his own Colonel’s hat to him.

This…this feels different.

This is the weight of your own world on your shoulders of the life you have left behind. The constant reminders of him running through your mind no matter where you look or try to hide from. He always finds you.

You slip your arms through the sleeves and feel as Professor Lucius flattens out the wrinkles of the jacket from behind, smoothing out the shoulders and getting rid of any imperfections he may find. The leather gloves slip on like butter and you reach up to fix your tie, your movement causing it to tighten it tighter than you anticipated. A gasp slips through your slips and your hands fall to your side.

The Professor moves around you. You take a step back, your body receiving subliminal and silent orders from the man himself. His eyes never meet yours as his hands take liberties with you. He touches your stomach and his hands move up to your neck, grabbing your chin, and tilting it left and right so he can see is there is anything else he needs to change about you. Your hair is neatly put into a bun at the base of your neck, one to hide the nasty scar from the Toring Chip insertion. He brushes your hair out of the way and takes a step backwards, his gaze darkening the more and more he looks at you.

“Perfect,” he whispers, “you are…perfect.”

A single tear rolls down your cheek. The droplet has broken through the Toring Chip’s hold on your body’s agency, slipping through the cracks. The Professor is quick to catch it, though, since your hands are glued to your sides, unable to move as your soul and consciousness sob inside your fragile mind.

“Ah,” he breathes out, disappointment laced within his tone. Your body shudders as you begin to gain control of your body back from him.

Your once ice cold limbs begin to warm, thawing out as you wiggle your fingers. The Professor reaches up and wipes you tear away, observing the teardrop on the pad of his thumb. He turns back to you and lets out a huff of air, amused by your emotions.

“I see that you’re not as easily controlled. We’ll fix that,” the Professor whispers, leaning in. His rotten breath surrounds your mouth and nose, giving you nowhere to escape. He reaches for the tablet. You swallow the lump in your throat. He presses a button and everything fades to black.

Caleb clears his throat as soon as he exits the elevator while on route to the General’s office. It sits on the very top floor of the Fleet’s headquarters, just below the helipads on the roof of the building. Despite being so close to the top and where many of the Farspace Fleet’s aircrafts sit, the floor is surprisingly quiet. All that Caleb can hear is the click of his shiny leather boots against the freshly waxed floor as he travels down the hallway.

The top floor consists of the highest vetted employees. The General’s secretary is a Captain in his own right, earning his rank from within the Farspace Fleet before landing the job of a lifetime. Well, that’s what some people like to think.

Caleb has never found fulfillment in his duty as the Farspace Fleet Colonel. Sure, he has been able to find someone to fight for, someone to give him purpose as to why he is still with the Farspace Fleet, but now that you’re gone, the job has become, well, monotonous.

Maybe it is because he’s lost his purpose with you out of his life.

The Colonel raises his fist up to the door, waiting for a beat, before knocking. It is three loud knocks in a row, quick and decisive, that of a Farspace Fleet officer.

“Enter,” the General’s gravelly voice calls out. Caleb does as he is told, entering inside the office. The General spots him and smiles, leaning back into his hair. “Ah, Colonel Xia, what a pleasure.”

“The pleasure is all mine, sir,” Caleb responds, his voice having a hint of charm to it while his face remains neutral. 

He closes the door behind him and the tail of his coat fights with his legs as he enters the heart of the room. He stands in the center and stands in attention, his hands stiff at his sides. The General pushes away from his desk and wave his hand at Caleb. The man immediately relaxes, folding his leather clad hands behind his back.

“Sir, the plane is ready for departure,” Caleb informs the General.

The old man, whose hair has become significantly more white than gray in the passing months, rounds his desk. He used to be the same height as Caleb in the prime of his life. With his old age, though, he has lost a few centimeters and now the top of his head sits just below Caleb’s eye level.

“Ready so soon?” The General asks. Caleb simply nods in return. The older man grunts to himself, nodding his head as his gaze moves away from Caleb’s.

Caleb watches him with a close eye. His Colonel’s hat covers his eyes just barely enough for the cameras not to see his gaze turn deadly when the General looks away. His eyes darken from his glare.

He remembers the day you left. He remembers exactly how the General smiled at you, how he lured you in with false pretenses of allowing you to leave before ordering his men — the Professor’s men — to capture you. Was it his idea to drug you? Or was he the sick fuck who offered your body up as a sacrifice for Professor Lucius to pick apart?

When the General turns back to him, the light comes back to Caleb’s eyes. The corners of his lips tug up, a mirage to make the General think that he actually takes pleasure in being his personal chauffeur to the meeting with Ever. The older man smiles back, a small chuckle vibrating his throat, as he passes by the young man, patting him on the shoulder.

“Come on, kid, let’s be the first ones there.”

The walk to the elevator is one taken in silence, at least it was on Caleb’s part. He stayed behind the Genral, allowing him to be the one to guide him up the stairs and to the dark asphalt of the roof where one of the Fleet’s aircrafts sit. As they walk, people stop what it is that they are doing and speak with the General. Their gazes flicker to Caleb, who narrows his eyes in return, and they look away before breaking free from the duo’s flight path.

They walk across the roof’s tarmac, the loud roar of nearby jet engines filling their ears. As soon as they approach their designated craft, a whole set of the deck crew scatter from the plane. Caleb inputs his code and the back door opens, slowly lowering itself towards the ground. They enter inside and Caleb assumes the pilot’s seat, taking his hat off and hanging it on a nearby hook.

The front glass is tinted, blocking out as much of the sun as possible. Caleb still reaches for his jacket pocket, plucking a pair of black aviators, setting them on the bridge of his nose.

“I saw that you were one of the best pilots that the DAA has ever had,” the General boasts from behind. He pats Caleb shoulder once again and leans down, laughing, “if we don’t make it there in under an hour, then I’ll have to give a stern talking to someone at the DAA about their qualifications of what a good pilot is.”

Caleb lets out a fake chuckle, one that sounds just real enough to anyone who is listening. The General moves to one of the back seats as Caleb’s Adjutant, Liam, enters the aircraft. He sits across from the General just as Caleb closes the back door, engines roaring to life.

Caleb places a headset over his ears. The aircraft is a passenger jet, made for transportation of government and city officials rather than one for Deepspace Tunnel missions or dog fights with other countries. It is still heavily armed and  dangerous to those who think they can oppose it but lacks its agility and swift maneuvering abilities.

With Caleb behind the throttle, though, who knows what can happen.

Caleb flicks many of the switches and the aircraft’s engine roars to life, the body of the plane humming and vibrating. The engines begin to warm up as the passengers buckle in. Liam and Caleb share a quick glance with one another, nodding in sync, before turning back to their individual spaces. The General puts on his headset and begins to spew one of his many stories from his own pilot days, laughing their ears off as the aircraft begins to move.

Caleb’s pilot instincts take over. He maneuvers the aircraft out of its spot, docking it at the end of the tarmac. The runway is clear with the deck crew giving the thumbs up. Once Caleb receives the go ahead from the tower, the aircraft lurches forward, the throttle being pushed to the max.

In a matter of seconds, the aircraft takes flight, slicing through the air at top notch speeds. The General’s laugh echoes throughout the headsets but Caleb tunes it out, his sole focus on getting close to you as fast as possible.

Caleb lands the plane after forty five minutes. The once blue skies and endless green fields below have turned into dusk and a desert below. The plane, all thanks to Caleb's piloting, caught a tailwind and accelerated the flight. They even broke the sound barrier, the sly becoming silky smooth with nothing holding them back. The plane passed over hundreds of miles of land, crossing through different territories and countries.

They landed in Athas, a desert city far away from Skyhaven and Linkon, outside of the boundaries of any country’s jurisdiction. A place where everyone can be equals with no laws to abide by or rules to follow.

The aircraft screeches against the tarmac, Ever’s deck crew guiding Caleb and his plane on where to go after he lands. He follows their directions, sunglasses now off of his face, as he parks the plane close to a base built out of cement, a recent construction all thanks to Ever and the Farspace Fleet. Caleb was able to catch a glimpse of the contract while poking his head around during his search for you. He cannot believe that it is what led him here.

He shuts the engines off, listening to them cool down and feeling the vibrations cease to exist. He stands from the pilot’s seat, slightly stretching out his body, as he glances at the General. He makes his way down the length of the airplane, placing his Colonel’s hat back on the top of his head, covering his dark locks from the world.

“Colonel,” the General laughs with his entire belly, slapping him on the back just as he approaches, “that was one hell of a flight!”

Caleb feigns a smile, sheepishly chuckling. The General’s compliments mean absolutely nothing to him. They are meaningless, fake niceties that he must push through in order to get to you.

The back door drops open and the hot desert air wafts into the aircraft. Liam takes Caleb’s side, handing him a small note written on paper. The Adjutant follows after the General, leaving Caleb behind. He hesitates to walk, taking a quick glance at the note in his hand.

She’s the demonstration.

Caleb’s back stiffens. He crumbles the note between his fingers and slips into one of the crevices of his uniform, tucking it away where the world cannot see the truth that Liam has unveiled for him.

He knew that you were going to be at the center of it all. He held out for a sliver of hope, though, that you would be in the background, hidden from the eyes of bloodthirsty killers from other countries. He can’t even fathom just how exposed you will be, his mind wandering to all of the possibilities of what the Professor will have you do for a demonstration.

“Colonel!” The General yells over the sound of landing planes and the restless wind that creates havoc in the sky. His head turns to look at the man, eyes narrowing from the darkness of the craft. “This way.”

Colonel Xia nods, letting out a huff of air, and forces his legs to move, the aching sensation as the realization that you will be in the same room as him finally hitting. He passes by Liam and gives him a nod, the Adjutant remaining in the aircraft.

Caleb thought that he would feel lighter than air when he first sees you again. He dreamt of you floating down from the heavens, descending into his arms like one would see in in a vision from an otherworldly being. He knows that the idea of you literally floating down is ridiculous, but he wishes that it were that easy to get you back into his arms.

The cement building is taller than he expected. The closer the duo walks towards it, the higher and higher it pierces into the sky. It blocks out the setting sun and casts long and dramatic shadows across the freshly made tarmac. He follows behind the General, the Farspace Fleet duo the first of a handful of groups to approach the building. The General swings open the door, his course strong and unmoving. The other groups hang behind, speaking amongst each other as Caleb slips inside the building.

The lights are unusually bright. There is no decoration nor are there any other type of items to make the place feel like it has been worked in. Caleb and the General walk down winding hallways, descending deeper and deeper beneath the depths of the sand, the temperature dropping dramatically with every step down the stairs. The echoes of footsteps fills the cement stairwell, the exasperated huffs of air from the General being thrown into the mix.

It goes on like this for a couple of minutes until the stairwell reaches its end. Caleb pushes through the metal doors, holding it open for his superior officer, before moving inside himself.

Inside is a large hanger, larger than one would ever expect to be beneath the sands of the desert. It is a grotesque showcase of power, extravagant yet there is a sense of maliciousness in its constriction. A warning to those that would dare to oppose Ever with their advances of weaponry, transportation, and private militia.

The balcony overlooks the hangar. There are two lines on the side of the walls, large aircrafts meant for large transportation of goods — or soldiers — mixed in with fighter jets and even remote operated stealth jets made for reconnaissance and spying. Caleb saw a few of them in action while at the DAA, having shadowed a few of the pilots who flew them from hundred of miles away inside the Deepspace Tunnel.

In the middle of the hangar sits a large table. A small group of people sit below with a two soldiers standing off to the side. One of the men holds a cane, the Professor, as he speaks with people in white lab coats. Caleb is too far away to see what the soldiers look like, his eyes floating to the shorter one standing on the right in a black and white uniform, one that the Farspace Fleet dons, and an unsettling feeling ferments in his stomach, making him queasy, his feet dragging against the ground.

The General leads them down cement steps. They inch closer and closer to the table, finally gaining the Professor’s attention as he dismisses the scientists. They scurry away and flock the soldiers.

One of them looks remarkably similiar to you.

Caleb’s heart stops beating. He continues to walk but his purple eyes never leave your face. You stare off into the distance with your hands folded behind your back. You wear the Farspace Fleet uniform and the brim of the hat, donned with the Fleet’s insignia, shadows your eyes, concealing your full expression from his gaze. He clears his throat and looks away, following the General who approaches the Professor with a joyful smile.

“Lucius!” he exclaims, his hand slapping into the elder man’s, excitedly shaking his hand. “The day has finally come!”

“It has!” Professor Lucius smiles. Caleb holds back a wince at the sight of his yellowed teeth. “I am so honored to have you here, General.”

“The honor is all mine,” he responds. He turns to Caleb and waves him forward. Caleb obeys. “I brought Colonel Xia just like you requested.”

Caleb’s eyes meet the Professor’s. The old man places the entirety of his weight into his metal cane, leaning against it for support as his one excited grin turns sadistic in the blink of an eye. Caleb nods his head at the man.

“Colonel Xia…” the Professor’s voice drops an octave. Caleb’s eyes move away for a brief second, unconsciously moving to your face. The Professor snaps, catching his attention. “Eyes here, boy.”

Caleb’s back straightens. His fists ball at his side, eyes slowly darkening, narrowing.

“Good solider,” Professor Lucius comments and turns to the General, “always obeying orders.”

“The best of the best,” the General adds.

“I hope you will accept my invitation to be a part of the demonstration tonight…X-02,” Lucius smirks. Caleb’s body runs cold. He stiffly nods, clenching his jaw. Professor Lucius nods back. He turns to the General and the same aloofness he had before returns. “Please, take a seat. Have the Colonel stand behind you. We only have so many seats. I’m sure he’ll understand.”

Without another word, the Professor turns around and wobbles away. Caleb stays where he is, his superior officer pushing past him with a soft chuckle. His jaw is set, stuck in its tense positioning, when he turns his head towards you.

You’re staring at him. Your eyes meet his purple gaze. Your face does not change. You do not flinch, remaining as still as a stone statue. Caleb moves backwards but his eyes remain trained on you. Your eyes follow him, refusing to back down, as he tales his place behind the General. The rest of the room settles, the other Generals and Colonels and Captains taking their seats at the table. 

Caleb is the only one left standing. It is all a part of the Professor’s design.

“Welcome,” Professor Lucius begins, greeting the table. “I hope your journey was well and had no complications. I humbly thank you all for joining us, especially the Farspace Fleet for proving the materials necessary to set up a meeting place for us to gather.”

Nobody claps. Nobody cheers or greets the man back. They simply stare at the Professor, tilting their heads.

Caleb’s eyes flicker around the room. Many of the men inside have guns holstered to their hips and thighs. He can assume that the older man, such as the General, have guns inside their jackets and, well, the Professor has his super soldiers prepared and ready to protect him…including you.

“I know that my messages about what is to be unveiled tonight have been vague…they have been less than desirable, am I right?” There are a few nods across the table’s inhabitants. “Tonight, I have the honor to show to you the next phase of soldiers.”

The Professor holds his hand up and snaps his fingers. The sound echoes across the hangar. It captures the table’s attention, their eyes moving towards you and the soldier who stands beside you. Caleb recognizes the man beside you. He was in Caleb’s Farspace Fleet’s wing for awhile before he was honorably discharged, the reason unknown. He looks at him with a close eye, slowly breathing in, his chest puffing out, before exhaling.

You remain where you are, frozen in space yet again. Caleb’s heart aches for you. He has to hold back the urge to storm across the distance and pull you into his arms, to cry into your hair, and apologize for the sins that he has committed. He desperately wants to feel your skin against his. To feel the spark of your short-lived love for one another, to give him a reason worth fighting for.

“This is Staff Sergeant Hardy. He was one of the few lucky soldiers who received Toring Chip Version 2.0,” the Professor speaks. He holds his hand out to Caleb, the room’s attention turning to him. “This is Colonel Xia. He currently has Toring Chip Version 1.8 inside of him.”

You suddenly step forward. The sound of your step enamors the room, the deadly look on your face silencing the murmurs that sounded from around the table.

“And this…this is V-03. Her name isn’t important. She currently has the latest Toring Chip inside of her neck. Version 3.9 to be exact. She is the most advanced out of all of the soldiers here and she is here to redefine the way we look at and compete in war.”

Chills run down Caleb’s spine. His ears begin to ring as the Professor continues to speak. His mouth goes dry and he is unable to look away from the darkness that is inside of your eyes, the way you scan the room as if you are searching for your next victim.

From behind, the scientists roll up a large white board, one that towers over the people inside the room. A man towards the back tosses a newer and smaller version of OTTO into the air. Its wings buzz and it floats up, light flooding from its lens, projecting images onto the white board with vibrant colors.

“The Toring Chip initiative was a way for Ever to help governments and private militias to control their soldiers as well as yield their obedience. Ever since its origins, it has blossomed into something powerful, a tool that only men like us — men in power — are able to have control over,” the Professor addresses the room.

Their attention remains on him, their energy beginning to burst at the seams, wondering what he has in store.

“The first wave of Toring Chips proved that we are able to monitor a soldier’s emotions through their cognitive and cardiovascular charts. By using this information, it allowed its users to be swayed to complete missions and goals, making them think that what they are doing is for the good of mankind and not self serving purposes. It also allowed us to their memories, giving us leverage over their life by hanging their memories over their heads…a push in the right direction to do what is best for their minds and lives.”

Caleb swallows the lump that forms in his throat. He watches the Professor with a close eye, barely even paying attention to the images and words on the board. He notices an image of himself but does not pay attention, focusing on your face instead.

His eyes dip below the surface of your bust and he notices the gun that is strapped to your leg. It is sleek yet chunky, the barrel long and unforgiving.

“With the second version of the Toring Chip, we were able to hone in the skills from the previous version, allowing us to refine where we messed up and reign in our soldiers, keeping them on a much shorter leash so they have much more to lose…”

Caleb drowns out the Professor’s voice. He watches as your face twitches, eyes blinking rapidly, taking away the gloss that reflected the lights coming out of OTTO.

“With the third version…we were able to increase our reach over the soldier’s agency,” Lucius speaks, his voice not faltering, not one bit, as he holds it hand out. You step to his side and place a glass tablet into his hand. He holds it up into the air as you resume your spot on the other side of the board. “Unlike the others, it must be surgically inserted into the neck, unable to be dissolved, so they are forced to live with it for the rest of their lives. If you wish to remove it, well, it will have to be cut out from their bodies. Thank you, V-03. This is a data pad that holds all of her information. From it, I can control almost all of her bodily functions. Her consciousness is simply sedated, asleep while we take the wheel. I can tell her to stop breathing and she will obey. I can tell her when and what to eat, what to drink…she does it without question.”

A few of the men and officers at the table lean forward. Men from countries that are constantly at war with each other, ready to soak the ground beneath their feet with the blood of their enemies.

“Using this tablet allows me full access to her cognitive functions. I am able to fully control her…she is my puppet to use how I see fit,” Professor Lucius’ eyes move to Caleb. He stands still, unmoving as he listens to the way that the Professor has removed all of your autonomy with a smug smirk. “Whoever holds the leash is in control. They hold all of the power. They hold a soldier’s so called ‘free will’ in their hands.”

“Wait,” the General speaks up, “you are able to control her?”

“That is correct, yes,” Professor Lucius confirms. “She is fully mine to use. With the new Toring Chip, we have taken out all possibilities of rebellion or disobedience. She will complete whatever task is set in front of her.”

“Tasks such as…?” a man from the far end of the table asks.

“Who would want to play god?” a man murmurs from under his breath. “It is inhumane.”

“Is there a limit?” another one chimes in.

The Professor chuckles, shaking his head. The sound echoes inside of Caleb’s ears, the color draining from his face as the old man flicks his fingers across the screen.

In an instant, your body moves, hand reaching for the gun that is secure on your thigh. You pull it from its place and lift it into the air, aiming at Staff Sergeant Hardy. You pull the trigger, his neck exploding as blood bursts across the immediate area, splattering along the white board that sits behind you and the Professor. The Professor smirks, turning back to the men who dared to question him while you holstered your gun.

“Does that answer your question?”

The men remain silent.

“What makes V-03 special, though, is not the Toring Chip that is inside of her neck. No, no,” the Professor’s eyes darken. His chuckle is cold, heartless. He moves to the next image of his presentation.

A picture of your body is displayed on the screen. It is dated to a couple of months ago, the first day you were experimented on. You stand in the middle of the room with soldiers surrounding you, their frames massive and bulky compared to your small and fragile state  — which angers Caleb beyond belief but he refuses to let it show — and the video begins.

The men surround you. They begin to beat you senseless, your cries filling and echoing across the grand aircraft hangar. Caleb flinches ever so slightly. Your head snaps to him, your glare burning into the side of his face.

Professor Lucius clicks to the next video. In this one, you’re being cut open while awake, no sedation or morphine to be used to ease the pain. You scream out for help, for them to show you mercy.

In the next slide sits a set of photos. You are dead on a lab table, face bruised and bloodied, disfigured beyond belief. There’s a lump on your neck from where it broke, your death slow and painful as you slowly suffocated to death.

“From a young age, I have been interested in the evolution of the human race. When Evolvers came about, entering our society with Evols and powers that surpass a normal person’s capability, I couldn’t help but wonder what the human genome can hold. What made Evolvers so special whereas men like me and you, you who sit around the table, are stuck with no ability to show or protect ourselves?” Professor Lucius pauses, the question seeping into the minds of the men around the room. “The key is in our DNA.”

He moves to the next slide that showcases the DNA sequences that belong to you. On one side is when you were normal. On the other sits your new DNA sequence, one with your Evol present.

“There was no way for me arrange V-03’s DNA, that is simply a fact. So I had to look back in our world’s history and do some research, needing to find the answer to this question…that’s when it hit me,” the elderly man leans to look behind him, staring at the still warm corpse on the ground. He turns back to the room, offering them a simple shrug and smile, “Survival.”

“Survival?” The General asks, leaning forward. The Professor nods. “Lucius, what did you do?”

“I forced the Evol out of her. I forced her to evolve into the superhuman she was meant to be,” he lets out a breathy laugh, a maniacal one that unsettles the entirety of the room. “If we stress out the human body enough, it will be forced with a choice: death or survival. She chose to survive and the DNA sequence she needed to evolve was forced out of her. It was once asleep inside her body — herblood — but it is now awakened and her Evol is one of the most beautiful things I have ever seen!”

“Well…what is it?” the General asks, sitting on the edge of his seat.

“X-02, come forward,” the Professor waves Caleb over.

The room turns to look at Caleb. He hesitates to move, heart pounding inside his ears and chest. After a few seconds, he moves, walking around the long metal table as every single person in the room watches. The click of his boots is faint, the tip of his shoes dragging across the cement floor. You move and meet him in the middle, standing on the right side of the Professor while Caleb stands on the left, towering over you.

You look up at him, all of the color that was once in your eyes a dull gray, a cloud of fog overtaking it. It makes Caleb’s skin crawl at the sight. His eyes quickly examine your face, trying to see if you have been hurt or is there is a way for him to break you out of the haze.

His eyes flit to the tablet in the Professor’s hands. With that…he will get you back. It is the only way for you to escape and break free from his hellscape.

“V-03, if you would be so kind,” the Professor gestures his hand between you and Caleb.

Your movement is smooth yet there is a lack of humanity in it. You have fully been transformed into a robot, a servant for the Professor to use as he pleases. Your hand moves to the gun in your holster. You slip it out, a few specks of Staff Sergeant Hardy’s blood prominent along the silver metal. The gun spins in your hand, the barrel slipping into your hand, holding the gun out to Caleb.

He heart goes still. White noise fills his ears as he stares down at the gun. Caleb’s eyes move up your body. He stares at the Farspace Fleet uniform that you wear, a costume that you were undoubtedly forced into. It looks so foreign on you, the colors not fitting nor the shape of the jacket complimenting your body.

This…this is not you.

Has Caleb truly lost the love of his life? Has your soul been forced out of your body? Have you shed your skin and moved onto the next life?

“X-02,” the Professor says in a low and dangerous voice, “shoot her in the head.”

The air leaves Caleb’s lungs. His purple eyes slowly track up your body, observing the skin of your neck, watching as your chest slowly rises and falls, your breathing steady. When his eyes move back to your face, that is when he notices the sadistic smile on your face, your greyed out eyes making you look like someone he cannot even recognize anymore.

Caleb doesn’t ready for the gun.

The Professor huffs and swipes the weapon from your hands, forcing into Caleb’s. He moves to the side and lifts up Caleb’s arm. The Colonel’s soul has left his body, completely dissociating, drowning out the world that surrounds him.

Caleb did this to you. This is all of his fault.

The muzzle rests in the center of your forehead. Professor Lucius steps away. Both hands rest on his cane now, his eyes dark and lowered. His body vibrates from excitement. The room is silent.

“Do it,” Professor Lucius spits, “pull the trigger.”

Caleb’s finger rests on the trigger of your gun. The smile remains on your face. He can feel his body heat up, pulsating across his skin as his anxiety flares up, his heartbeat racing inside of his chest. Caleb’s breathing grows shallow, unable to keep up with just how fast his heart speeds inside his body. His ears ring, white noise the only thing he can hear besides the Professor’s voice.

Caleb stares into your eyes. He searches for any kind of humanity that you have left, wishing that you would give him a sign, anything to help him turn the gun towards Professor Lucius and blow his brains out instead. That would result in his death but it would be worth it if it meant giving you back your agency and autonomy.

“X-02! Pull the trigger!”

Caleb whispers your name, tears forming in his eyes.

To him, you are not V-03. You are your own person, someone worthy of love and admiration and not endless torture and despair.

He whispers your name, the sound ringing inside your ears. You try to fight against the Toring Chip, your screams only sounding off inside the confines of your own consciousness and mind. You beg and sob, wishing for him to break you free from this place while your world slowly crumbles from all around you.

“X-02! I order you to pull the trigger! Kill her!”

Caleb whispers your name.

You blink in response.

“X-02!”

Caleb becomes overwhelmed. He hears your joyous laughter in his head, the scent of your spiced apple perfume filling his nose. Memories of your lazy mornings together attack him. His eyes move down to your tie. He wonders if you needed help with it like he always does. Caleb shudders as the men in the room scream and shout at him, defying their orders.

You take a step forward, pushing your head into the muzzle, forcing him backwards. Caleb flinches.

BANG!

please drop a like, reblog, & comment!! i love see what you all have to say <3

i <3 commenters

[superbat-love]

Jor-El: You look troubled, my son.

Clark: It’s nothing.

Jor-El: There’s definitely something on your mind. Tell me. My knowledge database of this planet and technological capabilities have significantly improved. I may be able to help.

Clark: Well… [mumbling] I think I’m in love with Batman.

Jor-El: That would be an unwise choice. You should find someone whose moral values align with yours. Compatibility is important in a relationship.

Clark: Batman is a good man!

Jor-El: Your infatuation with them has adversely affected your language skills. It should be ‘bad men are good men’. In the Earthian language, they would call a good bad man an oxymoron. I would be happy to provide an Earthian refresher course specially optimized for your learning needs. Introduction to Lesson 1-

Clark: No, I don’t need an English lesson please. Not bad men, Batman, aka Bruce Wayne. You’ve met him before.

Jor-El: I see. A wise decision, Kal. With someone as bountiful as him, Krypton 2.0 will be repopulated much earlier than our target date and all will be well-provided for. Sending out the robots for construction of the underground tunnel between the Fortress and the Wayne Manor.

Clark: W-What?!

Jor-El: As per the Earthling’s time-honored tradition, I will dispatch our delegates to inform everyone from here to Gotham of this delightful news immediately.

Clark: Wait! [hears the distant trumpeting of marching band drones and a booming “Attention citizens!”]

Jor-El: Leave the preparations to me, my son. In the meantime, please look over this schedule that I came up with for the both of you.

Clark: [stares at the schedule appearing in front of him and turning red]

[winterspiderpurrs]

Happy never forgets a face. Never. It's what makes him extra valuable to someone like Tony Stark. Tony Stark, who runs Stark Industries. Tony Stark, who is head of the Carbonell Italian mob; though, while there is some speculation, it's never been proven.

Happy had a system. He categorized people into color groups.

Green for these people are no bodies and didn’t touch the crime world and were safe to interact with.

Yellow for people who are some bodies but won't cauae trouble but have connections.

Red are people who have connections and could cause trouble.

Then their were Black. Those are the unknowns, and they could be as bad as the reds. People a little too clean. Or people who maybe could be someone undercover. Not enough information on them.

Before every convention, Happy makes a point to do background checks on everyone. He memorized all the photos of the people attending. Sure, maybe Friday helps break into the databases to get the photos, but he is just trying to protect Tony.

So when Happy saw Tony talking to someone, he was already going through the catalog in his mind to place the person. Catching Tony's eye, he touched his black tie to silently signal the group the person falls in. Doesn’t mean it's gonna stop Tony, but it just means he is gonna be a bit more cautious. Hopefully.

Peter Parker. 20 years old. Just finished with his masters at Columbia University in Biochemical Engineering. Mother was a scientist as well. Mary Fitzpatrick. Irish. No father listed on the birth certificate. She married another scientist 4 years later, Richard Parker. Both deceased. Plane crash. Italian Aunt and Uncle raised him. Uncle died later. Shot at a Bodega. Not their area, so not tied to them. Trained as a gymnast. Big brown eyes, wavy brown curls. Smart. Cute. Flexible. Just Tony's type.

But something nags at Happy as he watches Tony and Peter talk.

He glances around the room when he spots them.

The Winter Soldier leaned against a wall, looking around the room on the left side, looking a little too casual. At the refreshment table section was The Captain. He worked for the government but has ties to the Irish mob, though, like Tony. Couldn't be proven. He was staring at Peter and Tony with a frown, not subtle at all.

Then it hits. See, there were rumors that The Captain had a kid. Had them young before he was involved with potential mob connections. And he recalls another rumor going around that there was a small riff between The Captain and The Winter Soldier, a love interest that was not approved.

He has to get Tony away from this Peter Parker.

Peter Parker, who potentially could be the kid of The Captain Steve Grant Rogers.

Peter Parker, who potentially could be the love interest of The Winter Soldier James Buchanan Barnes

[canmom]

so on royalroad, the english-language serial webnovel website, there's ads created by users for other stories at the top of each chapter - you know, for the common case where you're reading a book and you want to suddenly start reading a different book. (they set it up in a way that's fiddly to block.)

they're kinda fascinating? I almost want to start collecting them. they triangulate into genres with bulletpoints. isekai. cultivation. reincarnation. yes romance. no romance. harem. no harem. some of them use anime-styled art or fantasy concept art (most likely a lot of it either AI-generated or used without permission/attribution, I get the vibe)... but a lot of them are straight up just memes.

hell lemme just refresh the page a bit and see what I get. I'm only a liiiiittle selective here.

...I could keep refreshing but you get the picture.

and sure, it's just the same as the AO3 tagging system with a different set of aesthetic priorities right? people are searching for stories which scratch a very specific itch. but there's something weirdly fascinating in advertising a story based on how formulaic it is. or ads for a novel that look like ads for a mobile game. how so many of them refer to their protagonist as 'MC'.

I assume this like, works, or people wouldn't do it? Same principle as long light novel titles. otaku database theory stuff. I just... don't really get it! who's it for?

[hillbillyoracle]

🚩 Free/Cheap Ways to Prep 🚩

I see the misconception that it takes a lot of money to prep all the time. Which has always confused me. I got into prepping when I was completely broke. I started by slowly getting a 72 hour kit put together, buying a little extra pantry food each grocery trip, and taking classes when I could.

Below I've compiled a bunch of ways you can prep for free. Most of it is information oriented but a few are apps you can download and actions you can take to make an emergency situation a lot easier. This is US focused but many of these resources are accessible by and relevant to those outside of the US.

Heads up it's a long post. Pick whatever you're most interested in to start with. Get through what you can. No pressure.

Skywarn Training

Search for your local NWS station here then look for their Skywarn section.

I think Skywarn training is a great place for people to start. I've noticed most NWS stations have a version of Skywarn that can be taken online. The course teaches you about the major weather threats in your region, how to identify them, how to relay the information to your station if you can safely do so, and how to interpret information that your office puts out such as watches and warnings. It's really helpful. I just retook it recently and it was a great refresher course.

Unfortunately as budgets get cut, there's a possibility that this resource might go away so consider saving a copy for your reference and to give to others if you know how to do that (beyond the scope of what I can cover here).

Bonus: Establish your household's safe spots and evacuation plans and make sure everyone you live with knows them. If you live in a trailer, you should have a safe spot outside the trailer if you're able to get there and one in the trailer if you aren't able to leave in time (with the first being preferred). If you live in an apartment, find out what public storm shelters are available to you. If EF2+ tornadoes are possible, take cover in the most substantial shelter you can safely get to. If you're in a dorm or structured living environment, make sure you know their plans.

Stop the Bleed Course

Free course here

While having some equipment on hand can help, even responding to a person who's just gotten shot or suffered a deep wound with what you have on you is far far better than nothing at all. This course will take you through the basics of responding to bleeding and shock emergencies so you can improve a person's (including your own) chances of surviving. Super important course.

KIWIX - Offline Wikis

Website

Older tutorial

Newer tutorial

KIWIX is probably best known as the program that lets you store and access a fully offline copy of wikipedia for free. There are so many reasons you might want to do this; wikipedia has a bunch of well sourced medical and botanical and weather reference information that could be useful to you in an emergency or just when the internet has gone down.

But the nifty thing I like about it is that there are also other databases you can use with it as well like an iFixit one for repairing your devices.

Bonus: Collect resources for your phone and ereader as well. Here's a collection you can download for free but if you are inclined to sail the high seas, the world is your oyster in that regard. In addition to survival or informational resources, consider making sure you have some morale materials too. Having a comfort read or a comfort show in an emergency situation can be exceedingly helpful for staying calm. For high quality public domain ebooks check out Standard Ebooks.

Download Briar (Android Only)

Overview here

Briar is a peer-to-peer encrypted messenger that can be used completely offline. It is especially good for activists and those living under hostile surveillance but it's also a fantastic backup messaging app for emergencies - with a little set up required.

Why would you want something like this? There are a lot of use cases. Before we upgraded to Meshtastics, this was my nesting partner and my backup texting app for when the internet went down - which is does frequently where we live. If you have contacts set up before internet and/or cell signal goes down, this can be a way to communicate with those contacts.

Please keep in mind range matters. If they aren't very close by it will take substantially longer to get messages to and from people. But if they're reasonably close by, this can be a great Alternate or Contingency communication method in your PACE plan (short intro, longer intro).

Bonus: Learn more about what you can do to make your phone more private and secure. While most options are geared toward the Android ecosystem, there are things Apple users can do as well.

Download Offline Maps

Tutorial here

I would recommend Osmand for this. While Google Maps can store some offline maps, Osmand give you greater control. You can also use topographical and other maps with it as well.

Bonus: You can also get topo maps to download onto your laptop or phone without necessarily using them with another program. I suggest this if you decide to go with Google Maps for your offline maps as a backup. They can be a good thing to have digital and hard copies of.

Print a Reference Sheet

Reference sheet in video description here

Not much to say about this one. I have these printed in my various kits just as a back up. I have pulled them out and used them (mostly the sections on knots and first aid) a few times over the years but hopefully I'll never need to rely on them.

Compile and Print Out Your Contacts

Again, this one is pretty straight forward.

Go through your phone and anywhere else you keep contacts and list out their phone numbers at a minimum. Can be hand written or types up in a spreadsheet. Consider adding their email addresses and mailing addresses as well. I'd keep a copy in my wallet, behind my phone, in my car - really any place I can safely keep a piece of paper to reference.

In case this is found on you in an emergency where you're unresponsive, I'd consider also notating your basic medical information (allergies, medications, conditions, primary and secondary in-case-of-emergency contacts, primary doctor, etc) as well.

Note: if you're worried about getting detained and this info being used to hurt people you care about, I'd be careful about this one. Don't include addresses. Consider using symbols instead of names. Agree on security phrases with your contacts so anyone contacting them on your behalf can prove they're doing so with your permission.

Bonus: Get together with friends and family to come up with a PACE communication plan (short intro, longer intro). Include a copy of it with everyone's contact information in multiple place (hard copy and digital). Also, try to have digital and hard copies of recent photos of your family, friends, and pets in the event that you need to establish a search for them.

Take an Insurance Video

If you have renter's, home, or car insurance, make sure you update your insurance videos/photos at least once or twice a year.

I'm having some trouble finding a decent tutorial of it, but basically you want to have some proof of what you own and what condition it is in in the event you need to file a claim on in of it. The easiest way to do this in a home is to turn on your phone camera and slowly walk around the home trying to make sure you capture as much of it as possible and then walk in through the front door and video each room, making sure you have video proof of some of the larger purchases like TVs, laptops, phones, kitchen equipment, washer/dryer, etc. The same basic principle applies to your car.

No all insurance claims will require it but it's very nice to have in the event you need it and doesn't take much time to make and save in a few spots.

Digitize and Encrypt Important Documents

Info here

Not something I've finished doing yet but it is absolutely worth doing. Fires can burn up original copies. Having some way to prove you are who you are is really important, especially for receiving service after a disaster. Encrypting it is so key though so I wouldn't put this together without that component personally.

Learn Some Skills with What You Have

or ask on your freecycle/mutual aid group; or pick it up cheap

There's really too many of these to list but here are some places to start:

Learn to mend you clothes

Learn to tie some helpful knots

Make a penny stove with a aluminum can

Learn some basic first aid

Learn how to use a map and compass

Free ham radio exam study materials

Take some FEMA classes

Bookmark Helpful Websites

Some of these websites are less useful than they used to be given interference from the current administration but they are, at present, better than nothing.

Your local NWS station

Storm Prediction Center - Convective Outlook

Storm Prediction Center - Mesoscale Discussions

AIrNow - AQI monitoring

USGS - Latest Earthquakes

NOAA - Tsunami Warnings

NIFC - Wildfire Monitoring

WHO - Health Emergency Dashboard

CDC - Outbreak Information

US Food Recalls

PMC19 - Weekly COVID Monitoring*

Bonus: consider following your NWS station's IEM bot on Twitter, Bluesky, or Mastodon (use Ctrl+F then type your three letter station code). An NWS bot is also available for Discord servers (works best in regional or private discord servers).

*Quick note: Since solid info on protecting yourself from and treating COVID can be hard to find I'm including some here. Get to know the five pillars of prevention here. Instructions for cheap(ish) DIY air purifier here. If you need masks, check out r/Masks4All for recommendations/where to buy them and maskbloc.org if you need free ones. Info on to what you can do to protect yourself even if others in your house aren't COVIDing is here. Info on what to do if you catch COVID here.

I think I'm going to cut myself off there for now. There are so many more ways you can prep for free or cheap too so maybe I'll do a part two some time. I hope this gives you a jumping off point. Let me know if you have any questions and I'll do what I can to help!

[lakecountylibrary]

sending much love in this everyone is getting defunded time 💕💕💕💕 hope u guys are doing ok

Hi! Thanks! We are Going Through It!

The truth is, we don't how bad it's going to be for us specifically. You've heard of the federal-level funding problems; here in Indiana we're undergoing our own budget trials as well. Your support means the world to us.

I've put details about our state-level challenges as well as a refresher on the federal funding problems under the cut but here's the tl;dr:

There isn't much you can do for LCPL at the state level right now, but please call Congress and tell them to support libraries at the federal level.

The proposed FY2026 budget completely eliminates IMLS and that's not good. The American Library Association has a tool to make calling easy, complete with script!

And here are the promised details:

At the federal level:

The current administration used an executive order to dismantle the Institute of Museum and Library Services, which provided millions of dollars in grants to libraries across the country.

These IMLS grants were used to fund things like interlibrary loan systems, research databases, and braille/talking books libraries.

As of May 1, a temporary restraining order has been placed preventing the further dismantling of the department while things are investigated, but a lot of damage has been done.

On May 2, President Trump's FY2026 budget proposal [PDF] was released. On page 39, it calls for the complete elimination of IMLS (as well as many other departments such as the National Endowment for the Humanities and the National Endowment for the Arts). The American Library Association was able to sue for that temporary restraining order we mentioned partially because Congress HAD funded the IMLS for 2025. If Congress opts not to fund it for 2026 as suggested in this proposal, that'll be it.

This is the part where I repeat: please call Congress and ask them to support libraries. Here's the link with the script again.

And here's what's going on locally in Indiana:

Funding for Dolly Parton's Imagination Library has been eliminated from the state budget. After some pressure, Governor Braun has handed the program over to his spouse to try to fund-raise what's needed to keep it running across the state. Here's an article from the Post-Tribune with some library officials' perspectives on that decision.

Funding for the Indiana State Library has been cut by 30% (HEA 1001)

A new property tax bill has been passed (SEA 1) that will drastically cut libraries' main source of income. The Indiana Library Federation reported: "The Legislative Services Agency’s fiscal impact statement shows that SEA 1 would reduce public library funding by over $12.2 million in 2026, growing to nearly $16.8 million by 2028." (source, PDF)

So it's sort of... a lot. Lately. Thank you for reading all of this, and thank you for supporting your libraries!

[matt-from-peip-hr]

[Cal knocks on the office door, looking more tired than usual.]

Alright, what's on the agenda for today?

@calaverage

[Matt also seems incredibly stressed ]

Remember how we are supposed to refresh the educational materials? Someone attacked the database I had been creating.

[scarfacemarston]

Stucky and Angie/Peggy History reading list! (Or, a 1930s-1950s LGBT History List)

It took me a considerable amount of time to create this list. Please take just a second to “like” or even reblog my list. It makes a huge difference. I researched two different library databases, which took hours, and scoured through Amazon.

If you don't have time to read the whole list - my recommended pick overall is number 7.

I have tried to find free copies of the book when I can, but it's not easy with the newer books. Off we go!

Gay New York: Gender, Urban Culture, and the Making of the Gay Male World, 1890-1940 by George Chauncey

Amazon Link: Here. Archive Link: Here.

This is one of two defining gay in New York books. It’s an older book, but it has earned its place in the LGBT Book Hall of Fame. However, the book can be a bit dry. There are sometimes so many details that you lose the point of the passage. On the other hand, the details are incredibly useful, as he’s able to locate historical places by address and name the buildings around them, along with their histories. Most historians don’t bother to indicate exactly where buildings were located or where they are now. (Standing or not standing). I don’t know why more historians don’t follow this example. As a historic preservationist, it’s not that hard. There are times when the book is sexually explicit, so just be aware! Much of the book predates WWII, but two things: 1. You need to know the history that precedes it. Where did we come from? What has changed? 2. If you’re looking for Stucky history, you’re going to want the 30s and 40s, so you’re going to want the second half of the book.

2. A Queer History of the United States (ReVisioning History) by Michael Bronski

Amazon: Here. Archive: Here.

I’d be crazy not to include this book. It’s a more modern guidebook to LGBT+ history. I included the Disability History of the United States in the disability guide. This is a great introduction to LGBT+ history, and I think it provides a solid foundational understanding of the subject. Yes, WWII is mentioned, but I think the general history is great in the book. It does not shy away from difficult topics, and some people may find the book triggering as it contains blunt language to these topics that people may not be used to. However, this is the norm for minority history. Sometimes, we need to use more direct language to convey our point. The book is easy to read, so I highly recommend it. There is also a great deal of diversity between races and religions.

3. Odd Girls and Twilight Lovers: A History of Lesbian Life in Twentieth-Century America by Lillian Faderman

Amazon: Here. Archive: Here.

I own this book. Lillian Fadermen is literally the premiere historian of lesbian history. Like, there may be only ONE other historian that rivals her. If you want lesbian history, this is where you go. Don't let the age of the book fool you. Look at the beginning for the reasons why again. This book is actually on two of my LGBT lists because of the span it covers. This book covers everything, I swear.  

With all that said, her writing can be a bit dry. Some parts of the book were a bit of a slog, but she does use a lot of primary resources, and that livens it up a bit. Her book definitely has diversity in it, especially covering Harlem. There is definitely a lot of content that would work for Peggy and Angie. It's at least three chapters worth, but I still recommend the whole book.

4. Fighting Proud: The Untold Story of the Gay Men Who Served in Two World Wars by Stephen Bourne

Amazon link: Here. No archive link, sadly.

I’m actually thinking of buying this book. This is probably the easiest to read out of all the books. The tone is more conversational or story-like. The author’s preface and introduction were great. The first half of the book discusses World War I, which is almost never discussed, so that was refreshing. I recommend reading it but feel free to skip to the WWII section. He writes with great respect and reverence for the subject. It was extremely easy to read through the preview. (I used the Google Books preview.)

5. When Brooklyn Was Queer: A History by Hugh Ryan

Amazon: Here. No Archive link, sadly.

I didn’t expect to like this book, given the way the author focuses on himself sometimes, but he approaches his history through storytelling and interviews with members of the community. The information that couldn’t be gleaned from an interview came from his own investigations and subsequent historical research. The book kind of reminded me of Anthony Bourdain. It has a very rich span of history, and the last third of the book is most pertinent to Stucky, but the content preceding that is actually quite nice as well.  He’s similar to George Chauncey (First pick) in that he’s able to pinpoint locations. What’s unique about this is that the book was written in 2019, so his investigations would have to be updated from what Chauncey found decades earlier.  If you like Walt Whitman, you’ll especially appreciate the first chapter.  I recognized many of the locations discussed in the book as they were places featured in Steve’s history, including Red Hook.

6. Boots of Leather, Slippers of Gold: The History of a Lesbian Community by Elizabeth Lapovsky Kennedy and Madeline D. Davis

Amazon: Here. Archive: Here.

I'm not sure how much this book pertains to Angie and Peggy, ONLY because of the discussions of lesbian bars. It's up to you all if you hc Angie and Peggy visiting these. The book is set in NY but more outside of it. 

It also discusses being in the closet, but focuses more on out lesbians or at least, lesbians who didn't explicitly hide them selves. (I use lesbians in my writing just for ease. The book pertains to bisexual women as well!) The only thing that may frustrate some people is that femme women take a back seat in the book.  In a book about lesbians, it would be way better to have equality. However, the book talks about the working class a lot, which is a refreshing change. That fits Angie more in terms of her job, but I'm not sure about lifestyle. Peggy is more middle class. The book is also incredibly diverse, talking extensively about African American and Latinx communities. So, honestly, you have to decide whether this book is enough about Peggy/Angie or if you're interested in that aspect of history.

7. Coming Out Under Fire: The History of Gay Men and Women in World War II by Allan Berube

Amazon: Here. Archive: Here.

I liked this book so much that I actually bought it on Amazon after reading the preview.That should tell you all you need to know. In all seriousness, this is a great book. It's my number one pick. It’s highly respected for its high-quality research and writing. It’s a little bit technical in tone, so you may have to read carefully. I didn’t have much of a problem. I just skipped some of the acronyms, and I was fine. He conducted numerous interviews, which was wonderful. I went through the book very quickly. One thing I LOVE is that he works VERY hard to give lesbians their light in the book. It’s been very frustrating to see most of these books neglected women. Some of the book was actually humorous, and unsurprisingly, some of it was heartbreaking. I definitely recommend this book.

8. Hidden from History: Reclaiming the Gay and Lesbian Past by Martin Bauml Duberman (Editor), Martha Vicinus (Editor), George Chauncey.

Amazon: Here. Archive: Here.

It is another old book, but it is considered a must-read for historians or those interested in LGBT+ history. Many classes read from it. 

It discusses how to research these individuals while also providing diverse chapters on various subjects from different historians. The last six chapters of the book are most closely related to Peggy/Angie and Bucky/Steve.

One of the authors for one of the chapters is actually Allan Berube, who was already included in this list. Madeline Davis also has a chapter in the book. George Chauncey has a chapter on World War I for those interested. I don’t have the time or room to discuss each chapter. You’ll just have to see it for yourself.

Important Notes: You may notice that there aren’t a lot of books about women. That is partially due to laziness and misogyny, but also the true problem that there isn’t as much easily accessible information about lesbian, bisexual, or transwomen outside of stereotypes. There are academic papers that discuss how difficult it is to write about WLW. I can prove it. However, I call some of these historians lazy as while it is true that it is significantly harder to find sources about women, I get the feeling that some of these historians didn’t even try. 

A lot of the books are older, but that doesn’t mean they aren’t worth reading. A lot of the books have updates to them. They didn’t achieve such a high status of quality and success for nothing. For some reason, there were more scholars interested in the subject, OR they had more resources, even though we have a more advanced internet with databases.

[thatskynews]

Happy timezones Sky kids!

We have an update on the bug that was causing players to repeat the Daily Light refresh animation and not be able to forge candles. As I’ve stated in previous, less formal messages to you all in Discord, “This was a tricky one.”

What happened?

Without getting into too many technical details, the root condition for the bug was database-related. Specifically, there was an inability of our backend services to write to certain player fields—namely, the ones that record when the Light a player has collected is forged to a corresponding number of Candles.

What we ultimately found was a bug in the configuration of our provider’s database infrastructure, something outside of our control. Our team confirmed this by meticulously analyzing data related to the issue and worked with our provider, who was able to pinpoint a workaround on their end earlier this week as they continue to work towards a permanent fix.

What does this mean for players?

Players should be able to forge candles without any further problems. If you’re still running into this issue, please send us a bug report in the ⁠"report-a-live-bug" channel on the Official Discord.

What about making it right for players?

We are still in the process of analyzing data to verify the extent of this bug’s impact so that we can determine how to best offset the effects for players who were afflicted by it. Once we’ve figured that out, we will notify those players accordingly!

We know that this has been frustrating for the players who were experiencing this bug, and we want to send you all another thank you for bearing with us during this time!

[redsector-a]

Please note: This is a little snippet from a fusion of The Pitt with Stephen King's The Stand. If I ever finish the fic it will take a while. This snip will include reference to several characters having died offscreen (The Stand starts out with a flu virus that kills basically 99% of the population for those unfamiliar). There is also a suicide attempt and an allusion to a different attempt. This has not been beta read.

It is Mel/Langdon pre-relationship which is why I am sharing it for Kingdon week.

Day Four - Alternate Universe

Things got worse somehow when he made it inside, the only saving grace being the fact that there was some auxiliary power still on. A generator maybe? The solar panels they’d installed to take advantage of a grant that would cover their instillation and bank additional funds into the hospital budget? There were bodies everywhere. Everywhere, everywhere. God, so many fucking bodies. He wasn’t sure what he expected It was silent too. Nothing beeping or squawking. No ONE screaming or groaning.

Frank suddenly felt with a certainty that shook him that everyone here was dead except for him.

Everyone.

The lighting was somewhat limited, but more than adequate for him to make out the faces, the bodies, or at least the ID tags of the people he’d once worked with. Some of which he’d called friends. It took a minute for him to realize his hands were shaking as he slowly moved through the remains of the chaos. Even with the mask the smell was intense and he had to pause every so often as he made his rounds, performing a self imposed duty to at least cover the faces of the people he had known, say a little prayer to a god he didn’t believe in (but just in case) that they had found peace in the end. He should have tried to bury them, that would have been the most proper thing to do, but there were just so many of them. He wouldn’t be able to move them all, not with any dignity left for them.

Not without fucking up his back. A whisper sounded in his head – selfish, selfish, horrible man.

There were two security guards with their guns out of the holsters, one still clutched in a dead hand, the other having been dropped when the guard had fallen. And it was at that point that a bulb went on in Frank’s mind about what had been strange with a few bodies both out and inside. They had GSWs. Some staff beyond the guards did too he realized, Mateo lying with a shot to the back, like he’d been trying to protect the med student – what had her name been again? Javadi?

He had dry heaves several times but carried on until he thought he’d gotten each member of staff he could find. He was dripping with sweat, his back was starting to grumble, and he glanced with longing towards the drug locker.

No.

He had to focus.

He had to know.

And so he searched, the computer, still running, still able to access the hospital databases somehow, but he found nothing to indicate Tanner had been to the ER at all. Piles of paper strewn about but nothing with any iota of information he needed.

With a heavy sigh he made his way to the roof. Just to cool off and get some fresh air, he told himself. Get at least a somewhat higher vantage point on the rest of the city. Just to think and clear his head. Frank almost believed himself too.

The breeze was refreshing on his sweaty hair and skin as he gingerly sat down on the inside of the railing, though he wasn’t noticing his back at the moment, his mind too caught up in circles that wanted to turn into spirals and carry him downwards.

Frank hadn’t seen anyone else alive since he’d left the center, and even those last few had been sick and were most likely dead by now. His parents had had it, he could tell talking to them on the phone before the worst days had hit. Therefore there wasn’t a guarantee that whatever immunity he had would have translated to Tanner. It hadn’t to Maisie…his breath caught as he thought of his daughter but he managed to hold off on crying somehow. Even if his own immunity had translated to Tanner he hadn’t been in the house. Tanner was four, he wouldn’t be able to survive outside on his own.

Statistically there were probably what? Less than a thousand people left in Pittsburgh proper? A few more thousand in the surrounding metro? People that would probably need a shit ton of help to stay alive. Doctors being especially important. Frank could be useful, he could be important again.

Suddenly he was standing on the outside of the railing, the revolver he’d taken from in front of the security guard’s outstretched hand in his. Everyone he had known and loved was gone. He wasn’t strong enough for this. If he hadn’t been a fucking addict he at least would have been with his kids when they died. He could have helped at the hospital. But he was nothing but a weak and useless man. Between the shot and the fall off the roof surely that would finish the job this time.

He raised the pistol and closed his eyes as he opened his mouth. The door to the roof flew open with a crash but he paid it no attention.

“Doctor Langdon!!”

It took a second for everything to register. His name and title, shouted by a familiar voice. The sounds of someone running across the roof. And then:

“Doctor Langdon?” Softer. Concerned. The steps slowed and then faltered.

“Mel?” He turned, just in case his mind was playing tricks on him. She couldn’t possibly be there, could she?

Her eyes flicked to the gun in his hand and she made a strange little noise he’d never heard before, something devastated and lost and the expression on her face when she looked back at him…

“Mel!” The pistol was flung over the side and then he was on the other side of the railing flinging his arms around her and pulling her in tight against him. “Mel. Mel, god…” Frank couldn’t stop saying her name for some reason. Just ‘Mel, oh god Mel,’ and the like, over and over. He realized after a moment, after a little of his shock had worn off, that he was holding her ridiculously tightly. They were no strangers to hugs, but this was beyond that, the desperate clutch of survivors of a horrific event, and he hadn’t even asked her if he could. He made to loosen his grip, an apology on his lips, when Mel fisted her hand in the back of his shirt, keeping him close.

“No don’t, please-” she took a shaky breath against him – she was crying, he realized feeling particularly dumb and slow – “I need-” It’s his turn to make an inarticulate noise; something soft, wounded – and she tightened her arms around him, makes a few soothing noises against him, offering him support just after she’d asked him for her own.

They stood together like that for a long time, crying for everything they’d both lost, crying over the fact that they somehow still had each other.

Notes part two: I mean yeah it's dark, trust me, I know. lol But if you-liked might be a strong word lbr, but if you liked anything please let me know. It's been a minute since I did this.

[friendlyneighborhoodsynthezoid]

Plan 66

There were plenty of disadvantages to being experimental commandos, Hunter remarked to himself as the squad staggered towards their barracks, but there were upsides here and there. For instance, after a typically torturous day of training, testing, and reg torment, they were making their way towards their own private room- far from the prying eyes and muttered comments of regs and kaminoans alike. Granted, they were returning to said barracks in various states of exhaustion, many hours after late-meal, because maybe those disadvantages were just a bit more substantial. 

The door to the barracks slid open and the 99s swiftly scattered to various corners of the room. Hunter paused for a moment in the doorway, savouring the feeling of safety. His squad was here, together, and for now he could keep them all in his sight and away from danger. 

Hunter sat on his bunk and began readjusting his senses to the Kamino rain outside and the permanently unfortunate smell of the 99s’ barracks. His brothers were doing similar activities to declare to the world that they were done for the day- Wrecker began rummaging through the plentiful supply of snacks they absolutely weren’t supposed to keep in their room, Tech left his datapad on his rack and beelined it for the refresher before anyone else could claim the first sonic, and Crosshair collapsed face-first on his bunk and buried his head under a pillow without even pausing to remove his training armour. 

A few minutes passed in blessed peace. Wrecker began hoisting heavy objects over his head, Hunter began sorting through command training assignments he was expected to have done several months ago, and Tech emerged from the sonic and reclaimed his data pad. Hunter absentmindedly watched his brother coast through unknown reaches of the holonet that gave Tech his infinite wisdom. As he watched, Tech’s darting eyes stopped flitting behind their goggles and he sat down suddenly. “This is… not ideal.” He said, voice shaking very slightly. “Hunter? I-“

Crosshair’s voice emanated from his bunk, “I swear, if those bastards spring another of their ‘surprise assessments’ on us, Kamino will burn.”

“No, it is not-“ Tech cut himself off with a harsh exhale and simply turned his datapad around, the illuminated screen casting eerie light across the floor. Hunter edged forewarned and read off the screen: OFFICIAL G.A.R. REPORT FROM UMBARAN FRONT- FRIENDLY FIRE CASUALTY NUMBERS RISING

Hunter would have read more, but Tech turned the screen back around and pressed the datapad to his chest. “I read it,” Tech said, “it is a disturbing incident that merits immediate discussion.”

Hunter called over their other two brothers and they waited in tense silence for Tech to explain. “I have compiled an explanation from various official and unofficial sources,” Tech began. “From my understanding, the 501st and 212th legions suffered significant losses in a friendly fire incident arranged by their Jedi general.

“A Jedi did this?!” Wrecker gasped, “I thought they were in our side!”

“Indeed,” Tech said, “a Besalisk Jedi Master by the name of Pong Krell, who seemingly planned to leave the Jedi order and offer his services to the Separatists. 

The regs apprehended him, losing more men in the effort. He was executed on Umbara.”

“Who did it?” Hunter asked in morbid fascination. “Wouldn’t killing a Jedi be a death sentence for a clone? Did the 501st lose their commander? Was it… Cody?”

 “It would seem he was killed by CT-6922, otherwise known as Dogma. I have been unable to locate Dogma in any subsequent reports or communications. Furthermore, his number has been deleted from the Kaminoan database.”

“He killed a traitor,” Cosshair muttered, glaring at nothing, “and they made him disappear.”

 “So it would appear.” Tech put aside his datapad and levelled a serious stare at his brothers. Hunter felt Tech’s eyes catch his and hold his gaze. “I am reluctant to accept that all the Jedi will turn on their soldiers so easily. However, it is now a proven possibility. As such, it seems prudent to be prepared in case we are ever in the presence of a Jedi who wishes us harm.”

The squad exchanged glances. Wrecker was the first to break the silence. “But… will we even be working with Jedi? The regs have generals, but we’ll be on our own once we graduate, won’t we? We only really report to Cody.”

Hunter sighed. Time to be the sergent, he supposed. “It doesn’t hurt to be prepared, I guess. Cody’s got a Jedi. We can’t avoid them completely.”

Tech nodded once and set his datapad on his lap, hands poised to type. “Precisely. As such, we need a plan. Just in case.”

They nodded along grimly and echoed him, “just in case.”

___________________

The discussion took hours. Jedi, it turns out, were not very easy to kill. But the Bad Batch weren’t the Bad Batch for nothing. As such, many scrapped ideas, shouting matches, and some very unhappy consciences later, they had a plan. It wasn’t perfect and it certainly wasn’t pretty, but it was enough. Eventually, Tech finished typing. “Well,” he sighed, “I suppose that is that. Now it needs a name. The next available numerical designation is fifty-t-“ 

“Sixty-Six,” Crosshair interrupted unexpectedly. Throughout the entire discussion, he had been very quiet, providing ideas when required, but largely just observing as the plan came together. Yet every time they flagged, every time Hunter threw his hands up in despair and declared it was futile, he was there. He’d set a hand on Hunter’s shoulder and meet his gaze with a look that said far better than Crosshair himself ever could that he needed to stay strong for the sake of the squad.

That look was no where to be seen, now. In its place was an oddly dark, thousand-yard stare that put his brother uncomfortably in mind of a corpse. “It’s got to be Plan Sixty-Six.”

Tech, puzzled, tried to argue that “It does not makes sense to skip the preceding numbers for this one in particular,” but then Wrecker spoke up:

“No, he’s right. It’s gotta be that. It just feels… right”

Hunter found himself nodding along. For some reason, as soon as Crosshair said it, there was no alternative. Even Tech conceded the point, muttering some rationalization involving multiples of eleven.

In the dark, mind still spinning with the news of Umbara and the newly minted “plan 66”, Hunter was struck by the creeping feeling that they had just taken once step closer to something terrible. Something inescapable. 

Something horribly, world-shakingly, inevitable.

[zecretsanta]

ZEcret Santa Sign-ups 2024

Welcome to the sign-ups for Zecret Santa 2024!

If you’re new here or need a refresher, here’s how it goes:

This year’s sign up can be found here.  Just fill out the form and you get added to our Santa database!

On November 3rd, claims will be posted and you’ll be given the opportunity to pick the three you’re most interested in fulfilling. NEW: While we are still operating on a 'first come, first serve' basis, we will only cross off prompts if a prompt has been marked as a first choice multiple times

On November 16th, we’ll send out your assignments.  Choose a prompt from your giftee’s list and create something special for them - fic or art.

Submit your gift by the deadline (December 14th!) and we’ll go ahead and post it for you.

Notes about prompts:

We highly recommend for participants to have finished all three games or at least be familiar with the events of all three before signing up to the exchange. Spoilers will be present in the prompts list/spreadsheet for claiming!

Please give 3-5 prompts that you'd like your ZEcret Santa to choose from when making your gift! Your prompts should be applicable to either art or writing. Or, you're welcome to submit a mix of both writing and art-specific prompts! This is a SFW exchange, please be sure to submit SFW prompts.

If there’s anyone who you would not want to be paired up with during this gift exchange, please let us know during claims.

If you're unable to sign up at this time but would like to be contacted to pinch hit later on, here is the link to the pinch hitter sign ups form!

Please let us know if you have any questions or need any additional information! You have until November 2nd to sign up for the exchange. Best of luck to you all!

—Mod Carlos

[pancaketax]

What Remains | Chapter 18 The Hunt (Tony Stark x M! Reader)

TW : Detailed depictions of injuries and abuse. Mentions of past abuse Summary : Tony Stark becomes something beyond human , a machine driven by icy rage, relentless focus, and a singular goal: to find you. After receiving a horrifying call laced with sadistic cruelty and a scream he instantly recognizes as yours, Stark enters a sleepless, foodless, voiceless trance, transforming his office into a war room. Every screen, every algorithm, every ounce of technology is bent to his will in a digital manhunt for your location. When Jarvis finally locates a faint signal in an abandoned warehouse, Stark launches without hesitation, donning a specialized combat suit built for one purpose: ending this.

word count: 16.1k

Previous Chapter - Next Chapter Stark hasn’t closed his eyes. Not for a second. He hasn’t swallowed a bite, hasn’t taken a sip of water. He hasn’t moved from his desk since the exact moment that voice slithered into his ear, slick and jagged like a rusted blade. Since that obscene breath passed through the line, that whisper soaked in menace and sadistic delight. Since that scream that raw, flayed scream, human, far too human ripped from a throat he knows too well, just before silence fell, sharp as a guillotine. Something broke then. Not in him. No. Something froze.

He’s no longer a man, not really. Not in this suspended moment, where even time seems too afraid to move forward. He’s become engine. Mechanism. Open-heart alert system. His blood doesn’t circulate it pulses, furious, carried by a cold, methodical, almost clinical rage. He is anger, but an anger without shouting. An anger that thinks, that calculates, that watches, that waits. A storm contained in a steel cylinder, ready to explode, but for now channeling all its violence into the glacial logic of action.

In the office, the tension is almost tangible. The air feels charged, saturated with something indefinable a blend of ozone, electricity, and pure stress. Every surface vibrates slightly, as if the metal itself shared the heartbeat of its occupant. The silence isn’t soothing. It’s oppressive, built on thick layers of concentration, anticipation, restrained fury. Only mechanical sounds mark the space: the faint crackle of a screen refreshing, the nervous clicks of his fingers on holographic interfaces, the low vibrations of the servers in the adjoining room, humming at full capacity. Around him, a dozen screens stream data without pause. Some display ultra-precise satellite maps, sweeping over New York rooftops for any suspicious movement. Others track mobile signals, tracing the latest paths of every device even remotely connected to the target. Still others comb through databases, merge biometric information, detect faces, match voice prints. A thermal image of a building overlays a 3D city map. An audio feed scrolls at high speed, saturated with static. Nothing escapes analysis. Nothing is left to chance.

Stark is motionless, but every muscle in his body is tense. His back is hunched, elbows braced on the desk edge, fingers clenched around the projected interface hovering above the glass. His bloodshot eyes lock onto the central screen without blinking. His eyelids are heavy, but he doesn’t close them. He can’t. Not until the target is found. Not until the one he’s searching for is no longer missing. He won’t allow himself the luxury of weakness. He swore he’d never let anyone be hurt again. And he holds to his vows the way others hold to weapons. The blue glow of the monitors cuts across his face with surgical cruelty. Every shadow on his skin is a confession: fatigue, deep dark circles, drawn features, hollow cheekbones. But these marks don’t diminish him. They add a near-inhuman intensity to his gaze, a ruthless clarity. A will that, for now, eclipses even the most basic biological needs. He hasn’t slept, because he doesn’t have the right. He hasn’t eaten, because the thought hasn’t even occurred to him. His body is secondary. It’s nothing but a vessel for the mission.

He murmurs sometimes. Commands, codes, equations. He speaks to no one, but the AI responds instantly. Every word he utters is sharp, precise, guided by a logic untouched by panic. One name comes back again and again. A biometric file. A GPS identifier. Trackers. Coordinates. He’s no longer looking for a person — he’s hunting a fixed point in the storm. The center of a search and rescue system. And Stark is ready to flatten entire city blocks to bring that point back to him. When the internal alerts go off soft, discreet, almost polite signaling a drop in blood pressure, critical dehydration, or prolonged hypervigilance, he silences them with a flick of the hand. He shuts them off. Nothing exists outside this room, outside this moment. Outside this mission. The rage is there, but tamed, carved into a weapon.

Somewhere, he knows he’s crossing the line. That he’s nearing an invisible boundary. But he doesn’t care. He’s seen too many people die, too many names fade into archives. This time, he won’t be too late. So he keeps going. Relentlessly. He cross-references data, filters messages, follows leads. He digs, over and over, down to the bone. And behind him, the world can tremble all it wants. He’ll hold. Because he made a promise. Because this time, no one will disappear into the shadows without him tearing them out of the night.

His eyes never leave the screens. They’re locked in, anchored, consumed to the point of obsession. They devour every bit of information, every image, every pixel variation, as if he might uncover a hidden confession. Nothing escapes him. No movement, no data, no anomaly in the flow. His pupils, dilated from exhaustion, cling to the smallest detail, hunting a trace, a footprint, a breath left behind by the one he’s chasing without pause. He’s isolated search zones. Redrawn entire sections of the city. Compared every map of New York with thermal readings, overlaying layers like a surgeon operating through urban tissue. He’s overridden protections on multiple private networks without hesitation. Intercepted anonymous communications, analyzed movement patterns, recalibrated his internal software to tailor the algorithms to a single, solitary target. The tools he designed for international diplomacy, for global crisis response — he’s repurposed them now for a personal hunt. A cold war fought in the digital guts of the city.

And always, he comes back to that name. That shadow. That absence. Matthew. A ghost with no fingerprint, no signal, no flaw to exploit. But Stark refuses that idea. No. That kind of man doesn’t vanish. That kind of man always leaves traces — out of pride. Out of carelessness. Out of vanity. And if it means turning the city inside out, if it means digging down to reinforced concrete, to buried cables and the forgotten strata of the network — then so be it. He’s ready to search through the world’s marrow to find what remains. Cables snake across the floor, twisted like raw nerves, connected to makeshift terminals. Holograms hover in the air, pulsing with spectral, slow, almost organic light. The room, once functional and sterile, has lost its ordinary shape. This is no longer an office. It’s a clandestine command post. A digital war cell born out of urgency, powered by fear and brute will. On one wall, an unstable projection flickers: a gridded map of New York, each red zone corresponding to growing probabilities, invisible tension. Alternating, a partially reconstructed file plays pulled from a burner phone. The lines of code shimmer as if still resisting comprehension.

And at the center of it all, him. Motionless. A sculptor of chaos. He doesn’t move an inch, but his mind roars. He calculates, projects, anticipates at a speed even his most advanced AIs couldn’t match. He’s faster than the machines, because this time, it’s not for a global mission. It’s not to protect a council or a treaty. It’s not for peace. It’s personal. And nothing is more dangerous than a man like him when he’s acting for himself. His face is frozen. Carved from stone. No expression filters through. No emotion leaks out. He hasn’t spoken in hours. Not a word. His jaw is locked, clenched. His chin trembles sometimes under the pressure, but he doesn’t give in. His eyelids, heavy with fatigue, blink on autopilot but his gaze stays sharp, cutting. That look… it belongs to a man who’s already made up his mind. It’s no longer a question of if. It’s a matter of when, how, and how much time is left. And above all, of what will be left of the other man once he finds him. He is cold. Precise. Fatally focused. Each beat of his heart seems to align with the hum of the machines. He’s perfectly synchronized with his environment. A machine among machines. He’s become the system’s core. The cold, methodical intelligence of a silent hunt — carried out without rest, without sleep, without mercy.

The door slides open with a discreet, almost timid sigh. As if it, too, understood that this moment must not be disturbed. No sound dares to break the fragile balance of the room. Not here. Not now. Even the walls seem to hold their breath, petrified by the intensity that fills the space. The bluish light of the screens slices through the artificial darkness in shifting shards, casting sharp, vibrating shadows across Stark’s features — like carvings made by a blade. He doesn’t turn his head. He doesn’t need to look. He already knows. Nothing escapes him. His silence is a barrier, a verdict. He’s there. Frozen. Silent. Unshakable. And around him, the universe seems to understand that something has been set in motion. Something that can no longer be stopped.

Pepper enters without a word. The silence wraps around her instantly, like a heavy veil she doesn’t dare pierce. She says nothing — not yet. Everything about her is more subdued than usual, as if her body has attuned itself to the electric tension of the room. Her usual heels have been traded for flat shoes, chosen mechanically, without real thought. She knew when she got up this morning. No need to read the reports or check the alerts. She felt it, in every fiber of her being — this day would be different. Draining. Slow. Hard. And Tony, on days like this, is not a man to reason with. He becomes a wall. Steel. An unbreachable frontier. This isn’t a state crisis, not one of those media storms they’ve learned to face together, side by side, dressed to perfection with rehearsed smiles. No. This is something else. A silent war. Private. Intimate. And in that kind of war, Tony lets no one in. Almost no one.

In her hands, she holds two mugs. One is for her — a reflex gesture, more for the weight than the content, because she’ll set it down somewhere and forget it immediately. The other is for him. Strong coffee, black, unsweetened, scorching. Just how he likes it. She didn’t ask, didn’t guess. She knows. Because for years, she’s known his silences, his mood swings, his automatic habits. She knows the rare things that bring him a sliver of stability when everything is falling apart. She walks slowly. With that quiet elegance that is uniquely hers. Each step is precise, measured. She avoids the cables snaking across the floor like exposed veins. Dodges the hastily pushed chairs, the luminous angles of suspended holograms hanging in the air, slow and unstable like open wounds. Everything around her pulses, breathes, crackles. The smell of steaming coffee mixes with metallic fumes, with the warm emissions of overheating machines. A fleeting human note in this lair transformed into a war organ.

She approaches. Just a few feet from him now. The blue halo of the screens washes over her, casting cold, almost supernatural shards onto her skin. She still doesn’t say a word. Because she, too, senses what’s happening here. She reads silence like an ancient language. She knows that if she speaks too soon, too quickly, she could shatter everything — the balance, the tension, the fierce concentration holding him upright. Tony doesn’t even turn his head. He doesn’t need to. He knows it’s her. He saw, without really looking, her silhouette trembling on the standby screen, like a spectral apparition. He recognized her breath — controlled, steady, modulated by habit not to disrupt critical moments. He felt her presence the way you feel a warm current crossing a frozen room: discreet, but undeniable. She’s here.

But he doesn’t move. Not an inch. His fingers keep dancing over the interfaces, his eyes fixed on the data. His jaw remains locked, his posture rigid, unyielding. He doesn’t reject her presence. He accepts it without acknowledging it. She’s part of the setting, part of the very structure of this ongoing war. She is the silent anchor he’ll never ask for, but needs all the same. And she knows it. So she stays. Present. Still. Mug in hand. Waiting for him to speak — or to break. His fingers glide over the holographic interface with almost surgical precision. They graze the projected data blocks in the air, moving them, reorganizing, dissecting them as if trying to carve raw truths buried under layers of code, pixels, and silence. A building on 43rd Street. An unusual thermal signature spotted at 3:12 a.m. A encrypted phone line briefly located in South Brooklyn, before vanishing into a labyrinth of anonymous relays. He isolates. He cross-references. He sorts. He discards. He starts again. Every manipulation is an act of war. He develops a thousand hypotheses per minute, evaluates them, abandons them, replaces them. A thousand leads, a thousand fleeting micro-truths, vanishing as soon as he tries to fix them. And always, that voice in his head. That twisted, wet breath haunting him since the call. That scream — shrill, inhuman. That panic. And the silence that followed. The kind of silence only blood knows how to echo.

Pepper, still silent, watches. She hasn’t moved since entering. Her eyes shift from the screen to Tony’s face, then to his hands. She sees what he refuses to admit: his movements are less precise. They tremble sometimes. Nervous flickers, involuntary, imperceptible to others — but not to her. There’s that tiny jolt in his palm when two images overlap without matching. That subtle twitch of his fingers when the algorithm returns an empty result. That tension in his joints with every failure, every dead end. She takes a step forward. Slowly, silently. She places the mug at the edge of the desk, just within his field of vision. Not too close, not too far. She sets it where he could reach for it without thinking, by reflex, if some part of him still remembered how to drink something. If his lips still knew how to welcome anything other than orders. But deep down, she knows he probably won’t. Not now. Maybe not at all. She doesn’t touch him. Doesn’t interrupt. But her eyes never leave him. They linger on his neck, that taut, rigid line, almost painful. On his shoulders, hunched forward, drawn tight like bows ready to snap. She reads the exhaustion in the way his muscles clench, in how he holds his breath when results elude him, in that violent stubbornness that keeps him from stepping back — even for a second.

Then she speaks. Barely. Her voice is a whisper. A caress in a space saturated with tension. A suspended breath, respectful. As if she were speaking to a wounded animal, to a raw heart that a single harsh word might cause to shatter.

— "You should drink something."

No reproach. No judgment. Not even any real expectation. Just an invitation, soft, almost unreal in this room ruled by the cold light of screens and the hum of machines. A reminder, simple and human, that he still has a body. That he’s still a man. Not just an overheated mind, a burning brain, dissociated from everything else. She doesn’t expect a response. She doesn’t even want one. What she’s offering isn’t a solution. It’s a breath. An interlude. A hand offered at a distance, without conditions, in the eye of a cyclone she can’t stop — but refuses to abandon. Stark doesn’t answer. The silence remains, impenetrable. But she sees it. That blink. Singular. Slow. Almost lagging. Like a discreet malfunction in an otherwise perfect line of code. A micro-event, almost invisible but for her, it means everything. He heard her. He understood. Somewhere beneath the layers of adrenaline and frozen focus, her words registered. But he can’t stop. Not yet. Not while what he’s searching for remains out of reach.

She moves a little closer. Her steps are slow, calculated. The slightest movement could shatter the fragile equilibrium he maintains between lucidity and overload. She skirts the screens projecting a relentless flow of data, passes through the light beams of overlapping maps, walks through the holograms dissecting New York in real time: facades, sewer lines, rooftops, drone paths, shifting heat points. A fractured digital world, reconstructed for a single mission. And she, the only organic presence in this sanctuary of glass and light, walks forward until she’s beside him. Upright. Calm. Unshakable. She stands there, just a meter away. A silhouette in the bluish light. A presence. An anchor. Non-intrusive, but constant. And in that data-saturated silence, she looks at the screen in front of him. Blurry images flash by. Figures captured by an old security camera. Red dots blink in the darkness of a poorly mapped basement. Nothing conclusive. Nothing obvious. But she sees beyond that. She’s not looking at the screen. She’s looking at him.

She sees what he doesn’t show. What he himself struggles to ignore. That back, a bit more hunched than before. That hand clenched around the desk edge, knuckles white with tension. That breath, irregular, barely perceptible — but betraying an inner fight. That exhaustion, layered in invisible strata, like ash over an ember that refuses to die. He’ll never admit it. That’s not an option. But she knows. He’s burning out. Eroding. Slowly bleeding out everything that keeps him human. So she acts. Gently, but without hesitation. She reaches out. Picks up the mug left on the edge of the desk, still faintly steaming. And she moves it. Places it right in front of him. Where his gaze can’t avoid it. Where his fingers could reach it without thinking. A mundane gesture, almost insignificant. But heavy with meaning.

— "You need to stay sharp." Her voice is soft, but firm. It cuts through the thickness of the moment. "If he’s counting on you, he needs you at your best. Not collapsing."

He stays still for another second. Then, slowly, his gaze lifts. Like he’s returning from a far-off place, from a tension zone where the real world no longer reaches. He looks at her. Directly in the eyes. And she sees. She sees everything. The fatigue eating away at the edges. The redness at the corners of his eyes, signs of brutal sleeplessness. But most of all, that clarity. That burning precision still intact in the depths of his pupils. It’s a gaze that doesn’t waver. The gaze of a man broken a thousand times — but still standing. And in that gaze, she reads three things.

Fear. Raw. Visceral. The fear of not making it in time. Rage. Pure. Mechanical. The kind he holds back to avoid destroying everything.

And the promise. Absolute. Irrevocable.

— "I’m going to get him out."

No conditional. No wiggle room. He doesn’t say he’ll try. He doesn’t say if he’s still alive. He refuses to let those phrases exist. He leaves no space for doubt. Because doubt would be a crack. And if he cracks now, he collapses. She nods. Once. That’s all it takes. A silent agreement. A trust she offers him, without questions. Then she places a hand on his shoulder. Right there. A simple contact, but real. Solid. A light, firm pressure. Just enough for him to know he’s not alone. That she’s here. That she will remain here. Even if there’s nothing more she can do. An anchor in the chaos.

— "Then drink."

She adds nothing else. No need. Not now. And then she turns on her heel, leaving behind that room saturated with tension and blue light, walking away in silence, her steps barely audible on the hard floor. She slips away as she came — discreetly, with that silent dignity that’s hers alone. No unnecessary gesture. No look back. Just the quiet certainty that he heard her. That he understood. And that he’ll do what he must. A breath. A second. Then another. Stark remains still. His eyes still locked on the numbers, on the blurry images, on the shattered map of New York pulsing slowly before him. A suspended moment, almost frozen in code and light projections. And then, slowly, as if his body weighed a ton, his fingers stretch out. Slow. Almost hesitant. They brush the mug, grasp it. Raise it to his lips.

One sip. Scalding. Bitter. Perfect.

The taste, too strong, seizes his tongue, his throat, then burns its way down like a reminder. He closes his eyes for a second. Not out of pleasure. Out of necessity. Because that simple contact — the liquid, the heat, the sensation — reminds him that he still exists outside the war machine he’s become. And then, almost immediately, his eyes open again. Latch onto the screen. The map. The hunt. The engine restarts. But behind the invisible armor, behind the hard gaze and automated gestures, the man is still there. Just enough. For now. The mug, barely set down on the desk, hits the surface with a muffled clack. The sound, though minimal, seems to shake the atmosphere. Stark exhales. One of those irritated sighs that vibrate between clenched teeth, that fatigue turns into frustration, and frustration reshapes into buried anger. His fingers snap against the desk, nervously. Not a blow. Just a dry, rhythmic sound. Accumulated tension seeking an outlet, a culprit, a breaking point. Something to strike — or someone. But no one here is responsible. No one except him.

And then, it bursts out.

— "Fuck… why didn’t he activate it?"

The voice is low. But it slices the air like a blade. Sharp. Brittle. It doesn’t need to be loud to carry. It’s so charged with tension that it seems to vibrate in the walls. No explosive rage. No yelling. Just that clean line, that icy edge that says it all. It’s not a question. It’s an unbearable fact. A flaw in the plan. A betrayal of logic. He doesn’t need to clarify. The device, the gesture, the fear behind it all of it is obvious. In the hallway, Pepper has stopped. Without realizing it. As if her muscles responded to that voice before her mind did. She’s frozen. And she understands. She knows too. He’s talking about the device. That small, discreet piece, barely bigger than a coin, that he slipped into an anodized case with a falsely detached air. That neutral tone he adopts when the stakes are too high to admit. He presented it like a gadget. Just another safety.

A thing for emergencies. "Press and hold for three seconds" he said. Simple. Effective. And his location would be transmitted to the Tower in real time, with immediate triangulation and constant tracking. He insisted, without seeming to. Like a father too proud of a dangerous toy. Like a man who’s already lost everything once and won’t let chance roll the dice again. The kind of thing he doesn’t give to everyone. The kind of thing he only entrusts once. And even then. Under the pretense of humor. Veiled in sarcasm. And yet, you didn’t activate it. That thought gnaws at him. Consumes him. Because if it wasn’t forgetfulness, then it’s worse. Then maybe there wasn’t time. Or maybe he was afraid. Or maybe you thought it wouldn’t make a difference. And that Tony can’t accept.

Because the alternative… he can’t even imagine it. He built it in just a few hours. One sleepless night, a few curses, two black coffees, and a diagram sketched on a crumpled napkin. Because he was tired. Tired of not knowing. Tired of not being able to protect. Tired of seeing him wander through New York like a ghost without an anchor, sleeping in sketchy squats, living on the generosity of people as reliable as March weather. He was done with uncertainty, with instability. So he made something simple, small, efficient. A distress beacon. A miniature safeguard. Mostly to protect him from himself. He even tucked a secondary mic inside. Discreet, compressed in anodized metal layers. Inaudible to the human ear. Just a sensor, a passive ear, in case something went wrong. Because he knew it could go wrong. Because deep down, he felt that danger was never far. And now? Nothing. No signal. No vibration. No blinking light. No trace. The void. Nothingness. The shadow of a silence that screams. Abruptly, Stark spins in his chair. The movement is sharp, abrupt. His fingers slam down on the projected keyboard in the air, striking commands, executing code, calling internal logs. He pulls up the history. Checks for connection attempts. Scans the security logs, network access, secondary frequencies. No recording. No triggered signal. No distress call. The device was never activated.

— "It was right there." His voice is hoarse. Slow. Painfully contained. "Within reach. Three fucking seconds. And I could’ve…"

He cuts himself off. Right there. The breath caught. No anger. Not yet. It’s not rage. It’s vertigo. An inner fall. He sees the scene again. Precisely. In the hall, just days ago. He was holding the little device between his fingers, between two sarcastic lines. A detached, mocking tone, as always. Trying not to push too hard. Not to seem worried. He said it with a smirk, hands in his pockets: "Just in case. It beeps, it blinks, I show up. Easy."

And he remembers. That hesitation. The lowered gaze. That muttered thank you, without real conviction. As if it didn’t really concern him. As if he didn’t believe it. As if he was afraid to disturb and didn’t think he was worth coming for. Stark clenches his teeth. Bitterness sticks in his throat.

— "He didn’t get it, did he?"

The question escapes. Not aimed at anyone. Not really. He’s speaking to the void, the desk, the walls. To himself. To the echo in his head.

— "He thinks it only works for others." His voice tightens. Fractures. "That no one comes for him. That he has to wait for it to get worse. That he has to nearly die to justify help."

His fingers slap a screen with the back of his hand. A furious swipe. The images vanish in a spray of light.

— "Shit. Shit."

He gets up. Too abruptly. His chair rolls back. He paces, circles, like a caged beast. A shadow of armor without the armor. He runs a hand through his hair, ruffling it without thinking. His gestures are nervous, disordered. He teeters between genius logic and raw emotion.

— "I had him in my pocket," he breathes. "I could’ve found him in under two minutes."

His fist hits the back of the chair. A dry strike. Not brutal. But deep. A dull echo that lingers in the air.

— "But no. He keeps it on him like a fucking keychain. A symbolic thing. A gadget he doesn’t want to use. Because he doesn’t want to be a bother. Because he doesn’t want to raise the alarm."

He suddenly freezes. His breath halts. He stares at the floor as if seeking an answer no data can provide. The silence stretches. Then, in an almost inaudible murmur, rougher, more bitter:

— "He’s convinced no one’s coming."

And that thought. That simple idea. It destroys him from the inside. He closes his eyes. Clenches his fists so tightly his knuckles turn white. He fights. To hold back what rises. He won’t say he’s afraid. He won’t say he’s in pain. That he blames himself until it eats him alive. No. He won’t say it. So he turns back. Resumes his place. His fingers return to the controls. His gaze locks onto the screens. The maps. The fragmented data. What he still has. What he can still control. Because if he can’t turn back time… then he’ll find a way to catch up. No matter the cost. And he mutters under his breath:

— "I’m going to find him. Device or not."

Then he types. Not to write. Not to command. He types like someone striking. As if his fingers could punch through matter, bend the universe, shatter the whole world through the silent keys of a holographic keyboard. Every keystroke is a discharge. A sharp hit. A blow aimed at that invisible wall he can’t break through. A fight of data against the void, of will against absence. He types with an urgency that allows no delay, no hesitation. As if life, somewhere, depended on it.

Because it is.

And in the meantime, silence remains. Insidious. Heavy. The tenacious shadow of the action that never happened. The one that would have been enough. Three seconds. A press of the thumb. And he would have known. He would have moved. He would have run. He would have acted. He would have been there. But no. That absence, Stark feels it lodged in his throat, like acid he can’t swallow. It rises, clings, radiates. It stays, constant, until he brings him back. Until he has proof tangible, irrefutable that it’s still possible. That he’s still alive. The minutes pass. Like blades. Sharp. Precise. Unforgiving.

They cut into his focus, erode his patience, chip away at his certainty. Every second is a brutal reminder that time is passing. And this time, time isn’t an ally. He feels it slipping over his skin like a cold blade that can’t be stopped. But he doesn’t stop. He doesn’t blink. The office is bathed in semi-darkness. The blinds are down, the outside light filtered, as if daylight itself no longer had the right to enter. Only the screens cast their bluish glow on the walls, on the cables, on the opaque glass. And on him. That cold, spectral light slices across his closed-off face in sharp angles. Hollowed cheekbones. Brow etched with tension lines. Lips tight. He looks carved from quartz. Cold. Hard. Unyielding.

His eyes, fixed, barely blink. They follow lines of code, coordinates, overlaid maps, signal analyses, with inhuman precision. His stare is locked. Obsessed. He doesn’t falter. He scans. He waits. His fingers still move. Barely. With mechanical regularity. An almost hypnotic rhythm. They glide over holographic interfaces, brush through data windows, launch diagnostics, cross-reference streams. There’s no hesitation anymore, no improvisation. Only a logical sequence. An algorithm embodied in a man who refuses to give up. He doesn’t speak. Hasn’t for a while. He doesn’t even think — not in the usual sense. Human thoughts, full of doubts, memories, emotions, have been pushed to the background. He leaves space only for function. He calculates. He maps. He eliminates. He acts. Because that’s all he can do. And because as long as he acts, as long as he moves, as long as he searches, he’s not imagining the worst. And the countdown continues — silent, relentless. Invisible but omnipresent, it eats at his nerves like a tourniquet pulled too tight. A constant, dull pressure. There’s no number on the screen, no red blinking timer, but he feels it. In every heartbeat. In every passing minute, every interface click, every breath that’s too short, too sharp. He feels it under his skin like slow-diffusing poison.

Twenty-four hours.

That was the deadline. The ultimatum. Spat in his face with disgusting insolence, with the kind of sneering arrogance Stark knows too well. A provocation. A signature. A trap — not even hidden. A price laid out in black and white. The kind of message sent when you’re sure you have the upper hand. But it wasn’t the money that kept him awake all night. Not the numbered threat. Not the offshore account, not the conditions. That, he could have handled. Bought peace. Hacked the system. Turned the trap back on its maker. That’s not what stopped him from blinking, that jammed his throat, that retracted his muscles like a shock. It’s something else. It’s the image. Frozen. Unstable. Blurry. But recognizable. It’s the sound. That breath. That scream. Distorted by distance. By network static. But raw. Human. Ripped out. So real that even now, he still hears it. He could replay it in his head a hundred times, a thousand. He knows it by heart. The tone, the break in the voice, the burst of brutal panic just before everything was swallowed by silence.

That fucking silence. That’s what’s destroying him. What eats at him. What stops him from breathing normally. The silence afterward. The absolute nothing. That break that said everything, summed everything up. That screamed at him what he failed to hear in time. What he should have seen coming. That silence — Stark will never forgive it. Not the other. Not himself. Then suddenly, a voice slices through the air. Soft. Controlled. Synthetic. Like a strand of silk stretched to the limit, about to snap — but still holding.

— “Mr. Stark.”

He doesn’t even turn his head. He’d recognize that voice among a thousand. It’s been there forever — in his ear, in his walls, in his head. An extension of himself.

— “I’m listening, Jarvis.”

— “I believe I’ve found something.”

A shiver. Cold. Brutal. It shoots up his spine like an electric surge. For one heartbeat, his heart forgets to beat. Then everything reactivates all at once. Adrenaline. Tension. Hypervigilance.

— “Talk.”

Instantly, one of the main screens expands. The map of the city appears — familiar and vast — then begins a slow zoom. Details sharpen. Colors darken. The center pulls back. The frame shifts. Outskirts. Sparse buildings. Wasteland. Finally, a precise point. An abandoned industrial zone. Gray. Timeworn. Forgotten by the world. Drowned in abandonment fog. Where no one looks anymore. Where things are hidden when no one wants them found. Coordinates blink at the bottom of the screen. Precise. Cold. Real.

— “A minimal network activity was detected,” Jarvis continues. “Almost nothing. A very weak signal — just a few microseconds of connection — but enough to leave a trace. It was a disposable phone.”

Stark steps forward. He’s drawn to the map like it’s magnetic. His eyes latch onto the screen, fix on it, hold. He sees beyond the image. Through the ruined facades, under the layers of metal and dust. He wants to believe he can see what’s hidden there. That something is waiting.

— “Can you confirm?”

— “The model’s signature matches what we detected during the call. It briefly connected to a secondary relay antenna nearby. It might’ve gone unnoticed, but—”

He’s no longer listening. Or rather, he hears everything. He registers it all, but his mind is already elsewhere. Locked in. Compressed around a single fact. A single certainty. His thoughts tighten, converge on a single point. A red dot. Blinking. Clear. An abandoned warehouse. No activity for over ten years. No cameras. No patrols. No recorded movement. Nothing. The kind of place you choose when you don’t want to be found. The kind of place where secrets are buried. Or people. And then, a single thought imposes itself. Emerges from the chaos like a brutal flash of truth. A certainty branded into his mind like a red-hot iron.

You’re there.

Not maybe. Not probably. Not possibly. You’re there. His fist clenches. Slowly. Each finger curling until the knuckles turn white. He closes his eyes. One second. One breath. One anchor. Then opens them again. And in his gaze, there’s no more doubt. No more fear. No more wandering emotion. Just steel. Just fire. Just the mission.

— “Prepare everything. Now.”

And in that exact moment, the whole world narrows. There’s no more sound. No more fatigue. No more failure. Only this. A straight line. A single target. A burning urgency. To get you out. Pepper is there. Just behind him. Motionless. Straight as a blade. Her arms crossed tightly against her, in a posture that might seem cold to someone who doesn’t know her. But it’s not distance. It’s a barrier. A dam. A desperate attempt to hold back what she feels rising.

The pale glow of the screens casts his shadow on the floor, long and sharp, like a silent specter frozen in anticipation. Around them, the room is bathed in incomplete darkness, pierced only by the soft flickering blue halos on the glass surfaces — witnesses to this sleepless night that stretches on and on.

His face, usually so mobile, so expressive — the face that knows how to smile even during the worst press conferences, that can reassure with a single look — is now closed. Frozen. Like carved in marble. His jaw slightly clenched. His brows drawn in a barely perceptible but unyielding tension. But what betrays it all are his eyes. A gleam, contained. A discreet fire. Both anxious and annoyed. A light that flickers between anguish and a barely concealed anger.

She watches him. In silence. Lips tight. Shoulders tense. And she knows. She knows exactly what’s going on in his head. She knows the gears, the silences, the calculated movements. She recognizes this posture. This calm. This false calm. This almost elegant stillness that always comes just before impact. She’s seen it once. Maybe twice, in her entire life. And each time, something broke afterward. A wall. A promise. Someone. So she speaks. Not to convince him. But to try and hold him back for just one more moment at the edge of the abyss.

— “You should wait for the police, Tony.”

Her voice is calm. Measured. Perfectly composed. But it cuts through the air like a blade honed too well. It slices without shouting, without striking. It hits the mark. He doesn’t respond. Not right away. He moves. Slowly at first, then with dreadful precision. He reaches for the back of his chair, pulls his leather jacket from it — the one he wears when everything becomes too real, too dangerous, too personal. He puts it on in one sharp, fast motion. Automatic. Without even thinking. Everything is rehearsed. His movements are crisp, stripped of any hesitation. He’s no longer reflecting. He’s in motion.

One hand slides into the side drawer of his desk. The metal barely creaks. He pulls out a small object, barely bigger than a watch case. Smooth. Chrome. Discreet. He inspects it for a fraction of a second, spins it between his fingers, gauges it. His gaze clings to it, focused, as if making sure it’s the right one. Then he slips it into the inner pocket of his jacket. A tracker. A prototype. Maybe both. Maybe something else. When Tony Stark leaves like this, he never leaves empty-handed. And in the suspended tension of the room, in that moment when every gesture weighs like a decision, Pepper feels her heart pound harder. Because she knows, once again, he won’t change his mind. Not this time.

Without a word. He crosses the room like someone going to war. No haste, no visible tension. Just a methodical, silent advance, heavy with intention. Each step echoes faintly on the floor, absorbed by the cold light of the still-lit screens, by the walls saturated with nervous electricity. He heads toward the elevator, straight, relentless, like a guided missile.

— “Tony.”

This time, her voice cuts through the space. Louder. Sharper. She’s dropped the polite calm. There’s urgency in that word, a crack, something tense, fragile. Pepper steps forward, rounds the table. It’s not a command. It’s not a plea either. It’s a disguised entreaty, cloaked in reason, offered as a last attempt to connect. She’s searching for a crack. A hold. Any one. Not to stop him — she’s never held that illusion — but to slow the momentum. To crack the armor. To make him think. Just one more second.

— “This is exactly what he wants. For you to charge in headfirst. For him to have control.”

He stops. His body freezes all at once, mid-distance from the elevator whose open doors wait, patient, like the jaws of a steel beast. Slowly, he turns toward her. Not violently. Not with irritation. But with that icy precision that, in him, equals all the angers in the world. He looks at her. And his gaze is black. Not empty. Not crazed. No. It’s a sharp gaze. Cutting. Shaped like a glass blade, able to slice cleanly without ever shaking. He stares at her, without flinching, without softening the impact. His shoulders slightly raised, chin lowered, neck taut. A compact, tense posture. Not defensive. Not exactly. More like a predator’s. The eyes of a man who sees no alternate paths. Only the target.

— “You think he has control?”

His voice is low. Deep. Vibrating with that particular intensity he only uses in very rare moments — when everything tips, when what remains inside compresses until it becomes unstoppable. Every word is controlled. Measured. Almost calmly delivered. But in their precision, there’s something unsettling. A promise. A fracture forming. Silence falls behind that phrase. Suddenly. A thick silence. Charged. Almost unbreathable. It lasts only a few seconds, but they seem to stretch time. The elevator still waits behind him. The slightly open doors pulse softly, as if they sensed the suspended moment. Then he adds, without raising his voice, without looking away:

— “He made the biggest mistake of his life taking him.”

And it’s not a threat. It’s not provocation. It’s a verdict. A raw, cold truth carved in marble. It’s a fact. And it’s far worse than a scream. Then he turns away. One last time. And he steps into the elevator. He doesn’t look back. Doesn’t leave a phrase hanging. Doesn’t try to reassure. He disappears into the steel maw, and the doors close on him with a quiet hiss. Pepper remains there. Upright. Frozen. Her arms cross a little tighter, as if to hold back something threatening to collapse. The screen lights continue to flicker over her unmoving features, but they’re not what illuminates her. It’s intuition. Instinct. The one that whispers what she already knows deep down, what she’s felt from the beginning. Something is going to explode. And this time, she’s not sure anyone will come out unscathed.

The metallic floor barely vibrates beneath his steps. Just a discreet, restrained resonance, almost respectful. But in the frozen silence of the hangar, each echo seems to strike the air like a muffled detonation. Every step is a warning. A countdown. A declaration of war. The space is vast. Immense. A cathedral of technology bathed in cold, clinical, almost surgical light. The walls, made of reinforced glass and brushed steel, reflect sharp, precise flashes, slicing his shadow with every movement. Nothing here is decorative. Everything is functional. Calibrated. Optimized. Ready to serve. Ready to open, to strike, to launch. Ready to close behind him, too.

Tony moves with slow, controlled steps. Nothing rushed. He’s not running. He’s not hurrying. He knows exactly where he’s going. Every stride is calculated. Controlled. His gaze is fixed straight ahead, unwavering. No detours. No curiosity. His body is tense, but steady. Focused. There is no room left for doubt. At the center of the hangar, the launch platform awaits him. A circle of polished steel, inlaid with white LEDs pulsing gently, slowly, like a heart in standby. The light follows a steady, hypnotic rhythm, as if the structure itself were breathing. It sleeps. But it's ready to awaken at the slightest command. Around him, holographic showcases come to life at his approach. Sensors recognize his presence. Interfaces open by themselves. Images appear, fluid, clear. Silhouettes rise in bluish light, floating like specters of war.

His suits. The most recent. The strongest. The fastest. Masterpieces of power and precision, lined up in military silence. No words. No announcements. They stand there, frozen, waiting, like a metallic honor guard ready to activate at the slightest signal. Majestic. Relentless. Inhuman. They are beautiful in their coldness. Intimidating. Perfect. But he doesn't look at any of them. Not a single glance. Not a hint of hesitation. He passes through them like one walks through a memory too familiar to still fascinate. The suit doesn’t matter. Not this time. He isn’t here for spectacle, or showy power. He doesn’t want to impress, or buy time. He wants only one thing.

Efficiency. Extraction. The end.

His steps remain steady. His silhouette moves alone among the giants of metal. And in his wake, the air seems to vibrate with low tension, restrained anger, pain too vast to be named. The soldier is on the move. And what he’s about to do now… he’ll do it without flinching. His gaze is fixed. Frozen. With an almost inhuman intensity. He doesn’t blink. He doesn’t deviate. He aims. His attention is a taut line between two points: himself, and the target. It’s not anger you see in his eyes. That would be too simple. Too mundane. No — it’s worse. It’s frozen resolve. A sharp calm like a scalpel's edge. Clinical determination, purged of raw emotion, as if every feeling had been distilled, compressed into a single objective: locate, neutralize, retrieve. At all costs.

The suit he’s come for… it’s not the one from interviews. Not the one for demos. Not the one that dazzles crowds or makes headlines. This one, he only brings out when someone has to fall. No flash. No light. No declaration. With a sharp gesture, he activates the control interface embedded in the platform. The floor lights intensify, blink once, then a metal ring slowly rises from the ground, encircling him with solemn gravity. Everything remains silent. Nothing overreacts. Everything is perfectly calibrated. Robotic arms unfold around him, in a mechanical choreography of military precision. They don’t tremble. They don’t hesitate. They take position, ready to interlock, to serve, to build the weapon.

— "Omega configuration."

His voice snaps. Dry. Dense. Like a hammer strike on glass. And instantly, the machines comply. Without delay. Without flaw. The first pieces of the suit lock around his legs, securing his joints, enclosing his muscles in layers of reinforced alloy. The boots anchor to his feet with a soft hiss, each plate sliding into place with a perfectly tuned metallic click. Then the chest modules rise, locking over his ribcage. The red and gold lines slowly take shape, forming a symmetrical, ruthless architecture. Nothing is superfluous. Everything is there to protect, to absorb, to strike. The metal climbs along his arms, embeds into his shoulders, clamps onto his back. A vengeful exoskeleton. A body of war. Every movement is fluid, exact. The machine knows his rhythm. It knows his silence. It recognizes this moment when Tony Stark is no longer joking. He lowers his head slightly. The helmet drops with a magnetic hiss. It seals with a muffled chhhk. Instantly, his vision turns red. The interface lights up. Sensors activate. Data streams appear. Code scrolls. Maps. Thermal signals. Local comms networks. Building schematics. Ballistic paths.

He’s inside. He’s ready.

— "J.A.R.V.I.S., send the flight plan."

— "Coordinates locked. Route optimized. Risks assessed."

A moment. Just one. A tenuous silence. Like a held breath. Then Jarvis’s voice, lower, almost hesitant. A soft note. A nearly human tone, as if trying to reach through the metal to something deeper.

— "Tony… you don’t have to do this alone."

Not a tactical suggestion. Not a precaution. An offering. An outstretched hand. But Tony doesn’t respond. Not yet. One beat. Just a suspended moment between question and answer. But it won’t come. Because he’s not. Not alone. Not really. It’s not solitude that lives inside him. It’s worse. It’s that weight, hanging on his chest like an anvil: responsibility. He feels responsible. And that kind of responsibility can’t be delegated. Can’t be shared. It must be borne. Endured. To the end. He’s not doing this because he’s alone. He’s doing it because he’s the one who must. Because he was there when it happened. Because he should have seen, understood, foreseen. And because he will never forgive himself if he arrives too late.

A metallic breath escapes his shoulders. Light, but precise. The thrusters arm with a restrained growl. Internal turbines hum softly, like a beast holding back its power before leaping. The entire platform tenses. A low vibration rises under his feet, echoing the energy condensed beneath his heels. The lights turn orange. The floor opens. Slowly. In segments. Like a mechanical wound revealing the hangar’s nuclear heart. The air grows denser. Warmer. Electrified. Stark bends his knees. His muscles instinctively adjust for the imminent thrust. And then, without hesitation, without countdown, without another word…

He lifts off the ground.

With a piercing roar, the suit tears through the air. Flames burst from his heels, searing the platform, and Tony’s body becomes a comet of metal and fire shooting through the open ceiling, soaring at blinding speed into the already paling night. The hunt has begun.

The sky races around him. A continuous stream, distorted by speed, slashed by incandescent trails. Every inch of the armor vibrates under the strain, every thruster hums with surgical precision. The wind slams into him, compressed, transformed into pure force that only the flight algorithms manage to contain. The city stretches out below. Gigantic. Vast. Insignificant. Skyscrapers blur past like mirages. Rooftops, streets, glowing points of light — all turn into abstraction. But he sees nothing. Not the glowing windows, not the crowded avenues, not the numbers blinking across his heads-up display. Not even the overlaid messages, trajectory readings, or secondary alerts. He sees only one red dot. One destination. One objective. And nothing else exists.

He thinks only of you.

Of your body, twisted under the blows. Of your features, contorted by pain. Of your breath, ragged, torn, like each inhale is a battle against agony. Of your face, bruised, sullied, pressed against a floor too cold, too dirty, too real. He sees the blood, the unnatural angle of your shoulder, the fear diluted in your half-closed eyes. He sees everything. Even what you tried to hide. He still hears that fucking scream. The one he never should’ve heard. The one he should’ve prevented, before it ever existed. A scream you can’t fake. A scream torn from you, raw, visceral. He heard it through the phone, compressed, muffled by your breath, crushed by the violence of the moment. But despite the static, despite the distance, he felt it. Like a blade to the heart. Like a shockwave that didn’t just hit him. It went straight through him.

And in his mind, that sound loops. Again. And again. And again. Louder than any explosion. More violent than a collapsing building. It’s not a memory. It’s a living burn. An active wound. He sees it all again. Every second. Every word. Every tone. That bastard’s voice.

Matthew.

Every syllable spat like poison. Every word sculpted to wound. To provoke. To leave a mark. Not on you — on him. It was all planned. Orchestrated. A performance. A slow, cold, painfully precise execution. Meant for one person: Tony Stark. To hit him. To show him how badly he failed. To push where it hurts most.

And it worked. Fuck, it worked.

He still feels how his throat closed. The exact moment his heart skipped a beat. The absolute void that swallowed him when he realized he was too late to stop it but maybe not too late to save you. That instant shift, when all logic shattered, replaced by one certainty. He will pay. Not for the humiliation. Not for the provocation. But for putting you in that state. For daring to lay a hand on you. And Stark, now, isn’t flying toward a hideout. He’s flying toward an execution. His heart is pounding too hard. It no longer syncs with the armor’s rhythm. It hammers against his ribcage like a primal reminder that, beneath all the metal, despite all the tech, he is still a body. A man. And that body is boiling. His fingers tighten inside the gauntlets. The joints, calibrated down to the micrometer, creak under the pressure. He clenches. Too hard. Pointlessly. As if the pain might return control to him. As if he’s clinging to the sensation of something real. The internal temperature climbs a notch. A brief alert flashes, notified by a beep that Jarvis cancels instantly. He knows. Even the tech feels that something is cracking. That the tension line has reached a critical threshold. The tactile sync grows more nervous, less fluid. Not from failure — from resonance. As if the suit itself were reacting to the rage boiling beneath the metal. As if it knew he’s on the verge of detonating.

But he doesn’t scream. He doesn’t speak. He breathes. And he moves forward. Because rage — real rage the kind that doesn’t erupt but eats you alive, the kind that carves deep and anchors in silence, isn’t fire. It’s ice. A blade. A metallic tension that sharpens second by second. This is no longer about ransom. This is no longer an intervention. It’s not even a mission anymore. It’s personal. Because you… you’re not just some kid he hired. You’re not an intern, not a checkbox on some HR dashboard. You’re not a casting mistake he corrected in passing. You’re not one more name on a list of talent. You’re not a recruit. You’re that lost kid who showed up one morning with bags heavier than your shoulders, a voice too quiet, gestures too small. The one who looked at screens like they mattered more than the world. The one who barely spoke, but worked until you shook. Until you collapsed. Without ever complaining. Without ever asking for help. The one who clung to the work like it was the surface of a frozen lake. Just to keep from drowning. And that’s where it started.

Tony doesn’t know exactly when. When it slipped. When he stopped seeing you as an employee and started caring differently. Started checking if you’d eaten. Turning concern into jokes — but counting the times you said "not hungry." Setting rules. Break times. Making sure you got home. That you slept. That you didn’t vanish into the blind spots. Getting used to hearing you mutter when he worked too late. Paying attention. And now, he realizes it too late. This thing, this invisible thread, clumsy, imperfect, but real… it’s there. Damn it, it’s there. And now, you’re gone. And he’s going to cross fire, smash through every wall, burn everything down to find you. Because nothing else matters now. And that’s what’s eating him alive. Not guilt. Not passing doubt. No a slow burn, rooted deep in his chest. A slow poison, distilled with every heartbeat. Because that little idiot… you had a device. A fucking distress device. Not just any gadget. Not a toy.

A device he designed. Refined. Gave to you. Built in haste, but with care. Meant for this. To stop this. To block the worst. So he’d never have to hear screams like that. So he could get there before the blood spilled. And you didn’t even use it. Not a press. Not a signal. Nothing. You took it all. To the end. In silence. Like always. And that’s what drives him mad. The silence. That fucking habit of suffering quietly. As if it doesn’t count. As if your pain isn’t valid. As if your life isn’t worth protecting. As if pressing a button to ask for help… was already asking too much. As if he wouldn’t have come.

And now? Now you’re in the hands of a madman. A psycho acting out of vengeance, control, power hunger. A man with no limits, no brakes, who already crossed every line. Tony saw it. Heard it. He knows. Tortured. Broken. Gasping. The images come uninvited. Your face. Your features twisted in pain. That ragged breath, barely audible. The weight of your body giving out. The hard floor under your cheek. Blood seeping from a wound he can only imagine. And that look, more felt than seen, somewhere between fear and resignation.

Tony clenches his jaw. So hard his teeth slam together inside the helmet. The sound is dull, amplified by the metal echo. It vibrates through his temples. A muffled detonation ringing through his skull. He wants to scream. To hit something. To do anything. But he stays focused. Rage can’t come out. It’s compact. Controlled. Targeted.

The worst part? He still hears you. That murmur. Between gasps. That muffled breath, fragile, but so distinct. That tone. That voice he knows now. He recognized it instantly. There was no doubt. No room for illusion. He could’ve denied it. Lied to himself. Said it was a mistake. A coincidence. But no. He knew. He knew immediately. And from that moment, something inside him snapped. Not dramatically. No collapse. A clean fracture. Like an overtightened mechanism breaking in silence. Because now, it’s too late to argue. Too late to reason. Too late to call the cops. Too late for rules, procedures, delays.

Matthew is already dead. He doesn’t know it yet. He still breathes. Still thinks he’s in control. Thinks he’s running the show. But he’s not. He’s already finished. Erased. Condemned. Because Tony Stark heard that scream. And that scream changed everything. That scream signed Matthew’s death warrant. And he’s going to make him pay. Inch by inch. Breath by breath. Until he gets you back. Or burns the world down to drag you out of the dark.

When the Iron Man suit finally lands, it’s as if the whole world holds its breath.

A metallic breath explodes beneath the impact, followed by a dull rumble that cracks the already fractured concrete of the ground. The shock ripples through the foundations of the old industrial district, awakening the ghosts of rusted machines, worn-out beams, and gutted walls. Dust immediately rises in thick, greasy, lazy swirls, dancing around him for a moment before slowly settling, as if even it knows not to linger here. The air is saturated. Heavy. It reeks of rust, moldy wood, and decay embedded in the walls. It reeks of abandonment. And worse: expectation. The congealed oil on obsolete pipes reflects faint black gleams, almost organic, like fossilized blood. The ground creaks under his boots. All around him, the environment seems frozen. Trapped in a time that forgot how to die.

Icy wind rushes between the metal structures, howling through broken beams, whistling past shattered windows. It carries the cold of a soulless place — emptied, but not deserted. Not entirely. Around him is nothingness. A heavy, oppressive void. No sound, no light. Nothing lives here. Nothing breathes. Not even a rat. Not even a shadow. As if the rest of the world had the decency to look away. As if even the city itself knew that what was going to happen here… should not be seen. And in that thick silence, saturated with contained electricity, Tony remains still. His body in the suit doesn’t tremble. But everything in him is ready to strike. The HUD displays thermal readings, sound scans, parasitic electromagnetic signatures. Traces. Remnants. Leads.

He ignores them. He doesn’t need confirmation. He looks up. There. Right in front of him. The building. A block of blackened concrete, eaten away by time. It rises before him like a vertical coffin, planted in the ground. Its windows are empty sockets. Its crumbling walls seep with moisture and menace. It’s a carcass. A gaping maw. A lair. The kind of place where people are held. Erased. Buried. And deep inside, somewhere in there, he knows. You’re there. And Tony Stark came to get you.

The windows are shattered, slashed like screaming mouths frozen mid-silent howl. Shards of glass still dangle from some frames, claws of dead light ready to cut. The gutted openings let in a freezing wind that rustles the remains of forgotten curtains, faded, trembling like surrender flags. The concrete holds together only by habit. Cracked, eroded by seasons, cold, rain, and grime. By time. By indifference. Parts of the facade have collapsed in whole sheets, revealing the interior like a raw wound. Rusted beams jut from the gaping holes, still supporting broken, twisted staircases whose steps are gnawed by corrosion. A withered metal skeleton groaning under its own weight.

The scene is saturated with signs of dead life. Hastily scrawled graffiti, some grotesque, some terrifying, scream from the walls like echoes left by shadows. Split-open bags. Scattered trash. Abandoned syringes. A broken stroller, overturned. An old moldy couch under a porch. Traces of human passage, old, sad. But nothing lives here anymore. Everything reeks of neglect. Of misery. And something worse still: violence. That scent doesn’t lie. It seeps everywhere, even into the walls. A stagnant, invisible tension, but palpable. As if the very air had absorbed a memory too painful to vanish. An echo of blows. Of screams. Of fear.

Inside, it’s swallowed in thick, grimy darkness. No light. Just the blackness, mingled with dust, rot, and silence. But he doesn’t need light. Doesn’t need to see. His scanner activates instantly. The interface opens in a silent click, layering across his HUD. Schematics align, partial blueprints of the building take shape in 3D. Partial plans, modeled reconstructions from thermal scans, wave sweeps, mass detection. Heat sources appear. Faint. Distant. Unstable. And then, deep in that rusted steel maze, cracked concrete, and rotten silence… a thermal signature. Human. Residual. Nearly gone. A blurred point, nestled in a windowless room, behind thick walls. A trace. A breath.

Tony clenches his fists.

The sound is minimal. A quiet metallic creak, but full of tension. The gauntlets respond to the pressure, contouring his restrained rage, absorbing the shock. He doesn’t need confirmation. Doesn’t need to see more. Doesn’t need to wait. He knows. His instinct — that damn sixth sense he spent years mocking — screams through his body. It’s here. This rat hole he chose. This rotten theater for a filthy ransom. This stage for torture. A place not built to hold… but to break. To terrify. To harm. A bad choice. Tony approaches.

One step. Slow. Calculated. Methodical. Every movement is measured. The suit follows without fail, amplifies his stride, makes the ground tremble with each impact. Metal boots pound cracked concrete like war drums. A warning. A sentence. He doesn’t run. He doesn’t need to. Matthew’s time is already counted. His sensors scan blind spots. He identifies exits, access points, high ground. He’s already plotting firing lines, breach paths, fallback routes. He thinks like a weapon. Like a strike. Because he’s no longer just an angry man. He’s become a projectile. A terminal solution. A promise kept too late. And inside… someone is about to learn what it costs. To lay a hand on you.

He pushes the door with a sharp, decisive gesture. The metallic impact creates a brutal clang, and the battered frame wails in a piercing screech. The sound is long, grotesque, almost human. It slices the air like a cry ripped from a bottomless throat, the shriek of a grave forced open, or a coffin pried too late. The metal scrapes, shrieks, protests — but obeys. Before him, the hallway stretches. Long. Narrow. Strangled between two walls dripping with damp. The air is dense, fetid, soaked with stagnant water and ancient mold. A cold breath seeps from the walls, icy and clinging, sneaking into the suit’s seams as if to slow him, to warn him.

The walls are alive. Not with organisms, but rot. Dark mold clings to them, spreading in irregular patterns like necrotic veins. It crawls across the concrete, invades corners, slips into cracks. In places, the plaster has given way, reduced to gray dust. Beneath, twisted, rusted rebar protrudes — like broken bones, as if the building itself had been tortured, split open. A single bulb hangs from the ceiling, bare. Dirty. Its globe yellowed by time, its sickly light flickers intermittently. Suspended from a wire too long, too thin, it dances with every draft like a rope ready to snap. It blinks. Once. Twice. The yellow halo it casts wavers, bleeding against the walls. The shadows it throws stretch, distort, crawl along the ground. Shapes too long, too fluid, as if the walls themselves breathed beneath the dying light.

Tony doesn’t slow.

He doesn’t hesitate. His stride remains straight, steady, heavy. Each step echoes off the floor, amplified by the armor’s metal. Debris cracks underfoot: broken glass, plaster fragments, splinters of forgotten furniture. Every sound ricochets in the narrow hallway, trapped between the walls like a muffled volley of gunfire. But he doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t look around. He advances. Like a metronome. His eyes never leave the end of the hall, even as everything around seems to want to swallow him, smother him. He sees the corners, the ajar doors, the stains on the floor, but he doesn’t stop. He doesn’t deviate. He walks this hall like a trial. A purgatory. He knows hell waits ahead. He feels it.

And he’s ready to tear it open with his bare hands. Each step is a countdown. Each breath, a burning fuse. Each heartbeat in his chest, a war drum. He knows what he’ll find. Maybe not the details. Maybe not the form. But the essence. He knows the scent of blood is there, somewhere. That fear has left its trace. That pain has seeped into the walls. And he knows that you… you’re at the end. You’re there, in the dark, at the end of this sick corridor. Maybe unconscious. Maybe barely alive. But you’re there. And that’s enough. Because even if the entire world has to burn for him to find you,

Stark walks down that hall like a blade sliding into a wound. Slowly. Silently. Without flash, without unnecessary sound. He doesn’t strike. He infiltrates. He dissects. Every step is measured, controlled, charged with clinical precision. The weight of his body, perfectly distributed, flows with the suit’s supports. His boots barely graze the floor, but even that friction seems to vibrate through the air, taut with tension. Tension is everywhere. In his muscles, locked beneath the metal. In his jaw, clenched to the point of pain. In his nerves, on maximum alert. He’s taut as a bowstring. Like a weapon whose safety was disengaged long ago. Even his breathing is suspended. He hardly breathes. He’s sunk into a slowed rhythm, between apnea and absolute focus.

Then the smell hits him. Not softly. Not in waves. Brutally. A wall. An invisible punch to the chest. Heavy. Thick. A metallic stench clings to his throat, invades his nostrils like a warning. Blood. Not fresh. Dried. Hours old, maybe. Mixed with damp, with the building’s mold, with dust saturated with dead micro-organisms, with the stagnant rot that infests places where nothing lives anymore. The smell of a trap. The smell of pain. His stomach tightens. Not from fear. From rage. His heart doesn’t race. It slows. As if syncing to the place. He shifts into a deeper, duller, more dangerous frequency. His pulse beats like a drum ready to strike.

Above him, the bulb still swings — a pathetic relic of a once-functioning past. It crackles, flickers, sputters to life at intervals. Each pulse casts sickly light across cracked tiles, warped walls, and scattered remnants of a forgotten world. The shadows stretch, shrink, crawl along the walls like filthy hands. Even the walls seem to hold their breath. He steps forward again. One step. Then another. Every movement is fluid, silent, nearly unreal. His visor scans relentlessly. It overlays stacked data layers, displays thermal signatures, rough volume outlines, hidden masses behind walls. He examines blind spots. Gaps. Floor markings. Broken hinges, scuff marks on wood.

He doesn’t see Matthew yet. But he feels it.

Like a presence. A greasy vibration in the air. A low tension running beneath the walls like a rogue current. A sensation that cuts through him, visceral. It’s not intuition. It’s certainty.

He’s here. Somewhere.

And then he sees you.

You.

There’s no sound. No warning. No orchestral swell. Just that brutal, abrupt moment when the image slaps him in the face like a blow that nothing can soften. You're there. Not standing. Not sitting. Collapsed. Against the wall. No — not against. You’re melded into it. As if your body were trying to dissolve, to disappear. A trembling mass, dirty, slack with pain. No longer a person. No longer a boy. Just a heap of living, broken flesh. A dislocated silhouette in the dark. His brain takes a moment to understand what he’s seeing. This isn’t you. Not the you he knows. It’s something else. A ruined version. And the violence here isn’t hypothetical. It’s tattooed on you. Your arm is twisted.

Not bent. Twisted. At a monstrous, impossible angle. The elbow joint reversed. Bones displaced under stretched skin. Something that should only appear in accident reports. Not here. Not like this. Your shoulder has collapsed. Your hand, almost detached from the rest, barely trembles.

And your face... It takes Tony a second. Just one. But it lasts an eternity.

He doesn’t understand right away. He recognizes nothing. No features. No familiar contours. Just damage. Open wounds, horrible swelling, bruises stacked upon bruises. Your eyes — if they’re still there — are buried under hematomas. Your lips are split. Your right cheek is so swollen it distorts the entire shape of your skull. It’s a mosaic. A work of pure cruelty. And the blood… It’s still flowing. Not much. Not in spurts. In seepage. Slow trickles, like a steady leak. It slides down your temple. Your mouth. Your neck. It’s sticky. Matte. It ran, dried, and ran again. It’s on your throat. Your collarbone. Your chest. You’re soaked.

Not with sweat. With blood. With fear. With the filth of the floor. Your clothes are just rags now. Torn down to the skin. Deep tears are visible, laceration marks, fingerprints, nails, blows. Your hands are open. Literally. Cut. Your palms are cracked, marked by a desperate attempt to defend yourself. Your fingers are splayed as if caught in a frozen spasm. Your knees are red, shredded. Raw flesh peeks through peeled skin. And your back... He doesn’t even want to look. He can guess. He knows what he’ll find there. Marks. Burns. Blows. Traces of what no one should ever do to another human being. But he doesn’t look. Not yet. Because then... he sees it. Your chest.

It moves. Barely. But it moves. A breath. Weak. Jagged. Rough. A struggle with every motion. A breath that doesn’t really come out. A choked wheeze. But alive. You’re breathing. You’re there. Still there. And Tony stops cold.His entire body freezes. The armor locks with him, as if the machine itself understood. As if every fiber, every metal plate had turned to stone. Time collapses on him. A crushing weight. A shroud. His heart? It stops. It no longer beats. Just a void. An absence. A pulse. Heavy. Dry. In his temples. His throat. His stomach. What he feels has no name. It’s not fear. It’s no longer even anger. It’s a breaking point. A place in the soul where everything stops. Where everything is too much. Too much pain. Too much hate. Too much regret. Too late. Too far. He’s here. In front of you. And he can’t go back.

It’s a fracture. A rupture in everything he thought he could control. You’re alive. But at what cost? And somewhere, just a few meters away... Matthew is still breathing. But not for long. A cold shiver, sharp as a steel blade, climbs Stark’s spine. He doesn’t push it away. He lets it slide between his shoulder blades, slip under the metal like a warning that what he’s seeing isn’t an illusion, but raw, naked, implacable truth. Yet nothing on his face betrays this vertigo. Not a twitch, not a flinch, not even a blink. His rage, once explosive, has retracted into a clean, focused line. It’s no longer a storm. It’s a blade. Smooth, cold, sharp. A perfectly honed weapon, ready to strike the moment it’s needed. Not before.

His eyes stay locked on you, unblinking, unwavering. Every detail imprints itself in his mind like a photograph branded with hot iron: the grotesque position of your broken arms, the dark brown blood dried in rivulets on your chin, your neck, your chest; your skin, so pale beneath layers of grime and pain it looks almost like that of a corpse; the faint flutter of your chest, a fragile reminder that you haven’t crossed over yet. He sees it all. He doesn’t look away. And he will remember it. Until his last day. And yet, he doesn’t move right away. Everything in him is screaming. Every fiber, every muscle, every electrical impulse of the armor and his own body calls him to you, to rush, to drop to his knees, to check your pulse, your breath, to place his glove at your neck, to say your name. But he doesn’t give in. He is Tony Stark, yes. But here, now, he is also Iron Man. And Iron Man knows how to recognize a trap. Instinct needs no explanation. He feels that grimy vibration in the air, that invisible weight that warps the atmosphere around you, that intent still lingering, ready to pounce. He knows he’s not alone.

So he advances, but his way. Not slowly out of hesitation, but with control. One step. Then another. Controlled. Silent. The floor crunches beneath his boots, and even though the armor absorbs most sound, here, in this room saturated with shadows and stench, every movement rings out like a barely contained threat. The air is still. The walls seem to listen. The silence, tense, fills with static. He stops a few steps from you. Just close enough to see you breathe, to catch that tiny tremor in your ribcage, that breath that fights, clings, refuses to yield. Just far enough to strike, to raise his arm, to hit in half a second if something emerges. Because he knows: this is the moment Matthew is waiting for. The moment he thinks he can finish what he started. But he’s about to learn that this time, he’s not facing a wounded child. He’s facing Iron Man.

His eyes scan the room relentlessly. Every detail is absorbed, analyzed, memorized. The walls, covered in peeling paint, reveal patches of bare stone, gnawed away by damp. Mold streaks stretch up to the ceiling, which has collapsed in places, letting frayed wires dangle alongside crumbling fragments of plaster. Rusted pipes run along the walls like dead veins, slowly bleeding black water into the corners of the room. A distant drip echoes, irregular, distorted by reverb, like the heartbeat of a body already emptied of everything. The air is thick. Stagnant. It smells of oil, blood, mold, and abandonment. This isn’t really a place anymore. Not a living space, not a shelter. A dead place. Forgotten. A pocket outside of time, perfect for monsters to hide in.

And Stark knows it. It’s too quiet. The space is frozen in a dull anticipation. The smell is too sharp. The scene, too carefully placed. Nothing here suggests an accident. Everything has been calculated. And he hasn’t come to negotiate. He’s not here to understand. He’s not here to reach out. He’s here to end it.

So he speaks. Not loudly. Not shouting. His voice slices through the silence like a blade drawn slowly from its sheath. Low. Slow. Sharp. It doesn’t tremble. It doesn’t seek to impress. It states. It targets. It’s the voice of someone who’s gone beyond fear. Who knows the war is no longer a risk. It’s happening. It’s here. Present. Inevitable.

— "That’s your big plan, Matthew?"

The words hang in the air. Clear. Sharp. And they cut. The silence that follows is even sharper. It relieves nothing. It stretches. It weighs. It presses on the nerves like a finger on an open wound. A silence with a taste. That of blood just before the blow. That of a held breath, of the instant suspended between lightning and thunder. A silence ready to rupture. And Stark is ready to tear through it. He kneels.

The suit exhales softly, like a restrained sigh, when Tony bends a knee to the ground. Metal meets filth, dust, and the invisible fragments of an abandoned world in an almost solemn hiss. It’s not a brusque gesture, nor heroic. It’s a humble movement. Precise. One knee placed in the grime of a ravaged sanctuary, a cathedral of pain frozen in time, where the slightest sound feels blasphemous. He places himself near you. Within reach of your voice. Within reach of your breath.

Above you, the light flickers. It trembles at irregular intervals, swaying like a sick pendulum. It doesn’t truly illuminate. It hesitates. As if it, too, refused to fully expose what it reveals. The scene seems unreal. Suspended. Out of the world.

Stark only sees you now. His eyes are on you. At last. Truly. He no longer sees you through the lens of worry or authority. He doesn’t see an employee in distress, nor that lost kid he tried to protect from afar without ever really getting involved. He doesn’t see a responsibility. He sees you. The body you’ve become. This collapsed, mutilated body, barely breathing. That breath, ragged, whistling, clinging to life like a flame battered by wind. The position in which you’ve fallen, curled in on yourself, speaks of an instinct stronger than thought: to hide, to disappear, to avoid another blow.

Tony doesn’t move. Not yet. A long moment suspended in a bubble of silence. He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t move. Only his fist, slowly, curls. A controlled movement, silent, without tremor. A gloved hand, silently absorbing the rising tension, the seething rage, the refusal to accept what he sees. He observes you. He scans every visible patch of skin, every line of your battered face, every gap between the tatters of your torn clothing. He doesn’t want to miss anything. He wants to know. To understand. To see what you’ve endured. He’s ready for everything — except looking away. And what he discovers freezes him.

The recent wounds, he expected. He had imagined them, feared them. The swollen bruises, the black and violet hematomas covering your ribs, your stomach, your face. The clean or jagged cuts, open or dried. The blood clotted at the corner of your mouth. The split lip. The torn brow. Skin ruptured in places, stretched by swelling. All of that, he had seen coming. He had already heard the echo of the blows. Guessed the brutality.

But what he hadn’t expected… were the other marks.

The ones left by someone other than Matthew. The ones no sudden rage could justify. Scars. Fine. Old. Some nearly faded, white, invisible to the untrained eye. These delicate lines, precise, snake along your forearm, disappear under the fabric, reappear on your side. He recognizes some of them. He knows those clumsy cuts, those poorly closed edges. He’s seen them before. On other bodies. In other contexts. He passes a hand — slow, without touching — over your chest. A gesture both useless and necessary. An attempt to understand without harming, to see without interfering. Your top is torn. Not by accident. Deliberately. As if someone wanted to expose your fragility. As if your skin had become a trophy. A message. Your ribs are streaked with deep bruises, a blue so dark it looks black. These were blows delivered methodically. Not to kill. To mark. To leave a print. And beneath that recent violence, other, paler shadows appear. Older bruises, half-faded. Hidden scars. Belt marks. Traces of falls, perhaps. Of repeated gestures. Systematic ones. Not wild brutality.

Habit. Not battle scars. Survival marks. And Tony feels something fold inside him. Slowly. Painfully. As if the steel of his suit tightened, turned inward, crushing his bones, compressing his breath. He inhales, despite everything, but the air is too heavy, too foul. He feels cold sweat on his neck. The taste of metal on his tongue. This didn’t start yesterday. Not even this week. Not even this year. And the hatred rising now is no longer a fire. It’s a collapsed star. A core of pure fury. A point of no return.

— "Fuck..." he breathes.

The word slips from his lips in a hoarse whisper, no louder than a murmur. It doesn’t snap. It doesn’t strike. It falls. Heavy. Exhausted. It’s not an insult. It’s a prayer. An apology. A confession. A verdict. He could have said your name. He could have screamed. But he no longer has the strength to hide the collapse eating away at his gut. That single word carries it all: the guilt, the shame, the shock, the poorly disguised love, and that powerlessness he hates more than anything in the world. His eyes rise slowly to your face. He studies you, searches, hoping for a sign, a crack in that absence. You’re still unconscious. Or maybe just trapped in your own body. Your eyelids, heavy with pain, barely twitch. As if you’re fighting inside a nightmare too real. Your lips, cracked and swollen, part in an almost imperceptible motion. Sounds escape. Weak. Shapeless. Phantom syllables, swallowed by your raw throat, crushed by the shallow breath of survival.

You’re fighting.

Even now, half-dead, on your knees in the mud, in the blood, in the fear — you're still fighting. And Tony, he doesn’t understand how he missed it. How he could’ve overlooked it. He thought you were folding because you were fragile. That you were falling because you were weak. He discovers now that you never stopped getting back up. Again. And again. And again. And that by climbing back up alone, without help, without a hand to reach for, you broke. Slowly. Silently. From the inside out. Another anger rises in him. It doesn’t explode. It doesn’t burst like an uncontrollable flame. It’s slow. Deep. A fury that doesn’t make noise as it climbs but anchors in his gut, between his ribs, in every fiber of his being. It doesn’t burn. It freezes. A precise, surgical anger. Against Matthew, of course. Against the monster who did this to you, who turned your body into a map of pain. But not only.

Against himself. For not seeing it. For not wanting to see. For believing his rules, his demands, were enough. For forcing you to maintain an image when you were already falling apart. Against the system that let you slip through. Against the entire universe that abandoned you without so much as a flinch. Against the silence. Against the averted gazes. Against the excuses. Against everything that brought you here, barely breathing, bleeding in a place no one should know. And this anger — he keeps it. Not for the night. Not for the moment. He keeps it for what comes next. Because this isn’t a mission anymore. It’s not even vengeance. It’s an answer. A cold, precise, implacable answer.

His fingers spread. Slowly. As if releasing something too heavy to contain any longer. Then, just as slowly, his hand closes. Not in rage. Not to strike, nor to threaten. But as one seals a vow. As one locks a promise in the palm, sheltered from the world, where it can never fade. A discreet gesture, small, but charged with immense weight. He leans forward. Just a little. Just enough for his face to draw closer to yours, his features blending into the trembling light, his breath almost brushing your skin. He doesn’t try to wake you. He doesn’t disturb the fragile silence. Only to be closer. To speak for you, and only you. And in a breath that belongs only to him — hoarse, broken, dragged up from deep within — he whispers:

— "I’m sorry..."

It’s not a phrase said lightly. Not a line of circumstance. The words struggle to come out, each one bearing the weight of a collapsed world. They don’t shake. They crash. Heavy. Dense. Inevitable. And it’s not for the blows. Not for the broken bones, the bruises, the wounds, the blood. Not for the absence of rescue, the nights you waited without response, without a call, without presence. Not even for the hesitation or delays. Not for the wavering between compassion and distance. No. That’s not what he regrets. It’s something else. Deeper. More insidious.

He apologizes for what he didn’t see. For everything right in front of him that he ignored. For all the times he looked at you without really seeing you. For all the moments he should’ve understood, read between the silences, the tight gestures, the small changes in your voice, the blankness in your eyes. He’s sorry because he should’ve been the one to know. The one who reached out without being asked. He didn’t. And he knows it. You never told him. Not clearly. Not with words. But he doesn’t blame you. He blames himself. His inattention. His blindness. His comfort. Because he should have known. He should’ve seen past the surface, not settled for what you showed. He’s a genius, after all. He cracked codes, AI, government secrets. But he didn’t read you. You.

And now he sees you. Really sees you. You're here, lying down, broken, beaten, emptied to the bone. You carry the recent scars — but also all the old ones. The ones that tell something else. Another story. A life that didn’t begin tonight. Pain accumulated like strata in rock pressed too long. Blows someone made you believe were normal. Silences you were taught to keep. Constant adaptation, until survival became a reflex. Each scar is a sentence. Each bruise, a word from the story you carried alone, your throat tight, your body tense. And Tony is only just beginning to understand. Not everything. Never everything. But enough for the void to open beneath his feet. Enough for something to snap. For guilt to root itself where it will never leave. It’s not just Matthew. It’s not just this night. It’s everything that came before. This whole life you lived in the shadows, moving through with false smiles and stiff gestures. And he didn’t see. He didn’t know. He didn’t reach out.

He feels that truth in his fingers, in his tight throat, in the strange way his vision blurs without fully knowing why. And the anger returns. Deeper. Colder. But this time, aimed only at himself. Because he should’ve been there. But now that he is — now that he sees you — he swears, without even needing to say it, that it will never be too late again. Not a second time. Never. Stark doesn’t turn his head. Not right away. He stays still, locked in a perfectly controlled posture, his chest still bent over you, his body still tensed above yours like a shield of steel. But his eyes narrow, just slightly. An imperceptible detail to anyone else. An almost microscopic change, but revealing. He saw it. Or rather, he sensed it. Not a clear movement. Not a sharp sound. Just a shift. A faint vibration in the air. A thermal fluctuation, too precise to be natural. A flicker in the visual field, where there was nothing seconds ago.

The suit confirms it silently. A variation in air pressure. A subtle thermal footprint. A disturbance in the suspended particles. Something moved. Someone. In the shadows. He already knows. He doesn’t need confirmation. No detailed analysis. His instinct and the machine speak with the same voice. Matthew is here. He never left. He never fled. He waited. Coiled in the darkness like a knot of hate, hidden behind the ruined structures of the warehouse. A corner too dark for ordinary eyes. But Stark isn’t ordinary. His gaze adjusts. The armor’s sensors recalibrate instantly. Every shadow pixel becomes a map, a data set analyzed in real time. Shapes emerge, unfold, reveal themselves under thermal filters. He sees the silhouette. Humanoid. Crouched. Twisted in animal tension. Almost glued to the damp wall. Motionless — but falsely so. Ready. Ready to strike.

A predator. Or so he thinks. But to Tony, he’s not a beast. Not an opponent. He’s a parasite. A pest. A residue of misdirected hate. A mass of cowardice wrapped in a semblance of human flesh. Nothing more. And he waits. Stark sees it. He waits for the right moment. The right angle. He still hopes. One wrong step. One lapse. One second of distraction. He still thinks he can win. He thinks he can strike from behind. Finish what he started. Reduce further. Humiliate again. He believes this stage is his, that the dark protects him, that fear is on his side. But it’s not the same game anymore. And Stark is no longer the same man.

His fists clench. Slowly. Not in rage. In certainty. A cold pulse runs through the armor, from his shoulders to the thrusters in his forearms. Internal systems activate in silence. Energy builds. Not for show. Not to intimidate. But to strike. Coldly. Deliberately. And yet, he still doesn’t move. He doesn’t break the silence. He remains there, by your side, his body lowered like a barrier. You're still beneath him, fragile, barely breathing. And he stands, in that false calm, as the last thing between you and the one who still thinks he can reach you. But this time, there will be no negotiation. No ultimatum. No speech. This won’t be a warning. A chuckle. At first almost imperceptible. Just a scrape, a discordant note in the tense silence of the warehouse. Then it swells. Gains volume. Becomes a clearer sound — thick, mocking, like a bubble of bile rising to the surface. It comes from the shadows. From that cursed corner of the room that even the light avoids, as if refusing to reveal the truth. A place too dark for nothing to be there.

Stark doesn’t move. He doesn’t look up. Not yet. He stays crouched beside you, his body interposed between you and the thing that finally creeps out of its lair. A sentinel. A wall. A blade ready to cut. But his shoulders stiffen. His breath halts. His fingers stop trembling. He listens.

— “You really came in the suit, huh…”

The voice pierces the darkness like a carefully distilled poison. It has that dragging tone, unbearable, dripping with sarcastic self-confidence. It oozes obscene pleasure, filthy arrogance, sick amusement. The kind of voice that wounds before it strikes. It seeps into the air, hungry to exist, to dominate, to stain.

Matthew steps out of hiding—or what’s left of it. A shadow barely separated from the dark. Just enough for part of his face to appear under the sickly glow of a dangling bulb. Half a face. Half a smile. Wide. Frozen. Too tight. And his eyes… wild. Shining. Flickering with an unstable light, unable to fix on a single point for more than a few seconds.

— “For him? Seriously?”

He gestures vaguely toward your body on the floor, careless, almost lazy. As if pointing at a gutted trash bag. A carcass of no worth. His grimy fingers tremble slightly, but not from fear. From excitement.

— “The little favorite. The loser. The kid who can’t even breathe without collapsing.”

He takes a step. Slow. Pretentious. Nonchalant. His chest slightly puffed, arms wide, almost cruciform. A show-off stance. A provocation. As if offering himself for judgment, convinced he’ll walk away untouched. As if he’s challenging God himself amid the ruins of a world he helped destroy.

— “You sure brought a lot of gadgets to save a half-broken body, Stark.”

A higher, more nervous laugh escapes him. He doesn’t have full control. He thinks he does, but his words are speeding up. His breath quickens just a bit. A trace of madness laces every syllable.

— “You think all that’ll be enough? The thrusters, the scanners, the AI?”

He stops a few meters away. Far, but visible. Too visible. Grime clings to his clothes, his skin, his hyena grin. His face is gaunt, cheeks sunken, hands filthy. He looks like someone who lives in filth. And carries the arrogance of someone who thinks he’s untouchable. He believes he’s won. That he still holds the cards. That he has the upper hand.

— “You showed up like a superhero. Big savior. Like you actually care whether he’s still breathing.”

He tilts his head. A tiny movement. Almost childlike. Almost mocking. The gesture of a brat waiting for the adult to raise a hand just so he can laugh louder afterward.

Then, in a whisper, lower, crueler, slid in like a needle through skin:

— “Sad. To see you stoop to this.”

That’s when Stark moves. Not a sharp gesture. Not a threat. Just… he rises. Slowly. Very slowly. Each vertebra seems to align with inhuman precision. His back straightens. His shoulders lift. His gloved hands open slightly, fingers spreading, joints clicking faintly. A stance. A charge. But he doesn’t speak. Not yet.

Because Matthew goes on. Because he doesn’t understand. Because he still believes words protect. That taunts disarm. He still thinks Stark is here to play. That this restrained rage is only for show.

— “I mean, come on… look at him.”

He points again. His filthy index finger extended, trembling slightly. Not from fear. From ecstasy.

— “Take a good look at what he’s become. What I made him. And ask yourself what you were doing all that time.”

And that silence after — that void between two breaths… it’s the most dangerous moment. Because right now, Stark doesn’t see a man in front of him. He sees the outcome. The cause. The shadow behind the screams. And this time, he won’t look away. Matthew moves. It’s not hesitation. It’s a reflex. A sharp jolt of intention, of venom, of premeditation. His arm snaps in a motion too quick, too precise to be theatrical. He’s not trying to intimidate. He’s trying to end it. His hand plunges into his jacket with mechanical brutality, the rustle of fabric too sharp, a sound that splits the silence like a silent detonation. A glint of metal slides between his fingers. The black barrel of a gun emerges like a verdict. Cold. Final. He lifts his arm. But not toward Stark. Not at the looming figure of steel, red-lit, poised to strike. Not at the obvious threat, the armored man, the living weapon who could incinerate him with a single gesture.

No. He points it at you. You, still on the floor. You, vulnerable. Shattered. Barely breathing. You’re lying there, more ghost than flesh, your chest struggling to rise, your face drenched in blood—and that’s exactly why he aims at you. Because you can’t fight back. Because you can’t even look away.

The barrel aligns with clinical slowness. A descending trajectory, methodical, unbearable. A deliberate motion, thick with silence, cracking the air like an invisible slap. There’s no tremble of doubt, no hesitation. The quiver in his wrist isn’t fear—it’s anticipation. A sick pulse shooting through his arm, twitching his fingers on the trigger. Obscene pleasure in this total domination. His breath quickens. His eyes gleam. He savors. He knows exactly what he’s doing. Where he’s aiming. How he wants this to end. It’s no longer a threat. It’s an execution. A scene he’s imagined, rehearsed, craved. A twisted revenge. A show where he’s both executioner and audience. And in this suspended second, this instant where everything can tip, he becomes something worse than an attacker.

He becomes a man convinced he’s about to kill. Because he wants to. Because he can.

— “You got the money, then?”

The words fall like a dull-edged blade. No hesitation. No dramatic delivery. Just a string of words spat low, almost casual. Like a logistical question. His voice is dry, flat, stripped of emotion. Verbal mechanics, a routine, a question tossed out like checking an order. But the poison—it's in the posture. The gaze. The barely-contained tension in his outstretched arm.

The gun’s barrel stays still. Perfectly aligned. No longer shaking. Calm. Cold. A disturbing steadiness, almost clinical, like a surgeon ready to cut — except he’s not seeking to heal. He’s aiming to rupture. To erase.

He’s not really talking to Stark. Not really to you either. He’s speaking to himself, to feed the illusion of control he’s desperate to maintain even as he feels the ground slipping. He keeps playing, just long enough to delay the inevitable. To fabricate a role. The one who asks. The one who decides. The one who ends things. But there’s that barrel. Black. Smooth. A heavy promise stretched from his arm. He doesn’t move. He waits for an answer he knows is pointless. He knows there’ll be no deal. No negotiation. But he asks anyway. As if asking is enough to pretend he still owns the scene. As if it can mask the obvious rising in the air like an imminent detonation.

He’s ready to shoot. And it’s not the money he wants. It’s what comes next.

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