#terminal warehouse

[fashioneveryweek]

MIU MIU “Tales & Tellers” presentation

[cbjpeg]

Yokohama, Japan 2023 © Christian Baumgarten

[eopederson2]

Transportation with grain terminal, Tacoma waterfront, 2019.

[theonottsbxtch]

FOGGY MEMORIES PT 2 | MV1

an: hello party people we're back with the long awaited pt 2, sorry it took this long and hopefully the next part won't take this long. i just have so many ideas and so little time atm :(

wc: 5.7k

part one

GETTING OUT WAS IMPOSSIBLE

Or at least, it should have been.

Max had spent years operating under the agency’s iron grip, slipping between missions like a ghost, but never disappearing on his own terms. That wasn’t how it worked.

Agents didn’t leave. Not without clearance. Not without orders.

And yet, as the clock edged closer to seventeen hundred, Max knew, he had to go.

The piece of paper burned against his skin, tucked safely beneath his tactical vest, its weight heavier than it should have been.

This was reckless. Dangerous.

But he had no choice.

Slipping past security required precision.

He timed it perfectly.

The changing of the watch. The overlap in shift rotations. A blind spot in the cameras he’d memorised long ago, not because he’d ever planned on escaping, but because he didn’t like being watched either.

He moved like he was meant to be there, weaving through corridors, head down, posture relaxed. He passed two guards, neither gave him a second glance.

Then he was at the outer gates.

The clearance terminal glowed softly in the dim light, waiting for authentication.

He reached into his pocket, pulled out a keycard he wasn’t supposed to have, and swiped it.

A second’s hesitation.

Then—

Access granted.

The gate slid open just enough for him to slip through.

And then he was gone.

By the time he reached the city, his pulse had settled into something even, but his mind hadn’t.

Every instinct screamed at him to turn back, to cut his losses, to forget this before he made a mistake he couldn’t undo.

But then he thought of her.

The way she had looked at him, the way she had said "You already know."

The way she had known things he didn’t.

And he kept walking.

Towards the address.

Towards the answers.

The address led him to an old, disused train yard on the outskirts of the city. Rusted tracks stretched out beneath the dim evening light, the air thick with the scent of damp metal and oil. It was quiet. Too quiet.

Max kept his movements careful, scanning his surroundings as he approached the meeting point. A warehouse, half-collapsed, its walls lined with shattered windows and creeping vines.

He didn’t go inside. Instead, he stopped just short of the entrance, leaning back against a rusted container, arms folded, waiting.

He wasn’t stupid. She would come when she was ready.

And she did.

The blade pressed against his throat before he even heard her move.

Max exhaled through his nose, not tensing, not resisting. "You really need to stop greeting me like this."

A small, almost amused hum came from behind him. "I’ll consider it."

The knife lingered a second longer, then it was gone.

He turned just in time to see her step back, watching him with the same unreadable gaze as before.

She was different in the light. Still sharp, still composed, but softer around the edges, less shadow, more real.

But that didn’t mean she trusted him.

"Strip."

Max blinked. "What?"

She crossed her arms. "Take it off."

"Excuse me?"

She arched a brow, unimpressed. "Your gear. Your shirt. I need to be sure you’re not wired."

Max clenched his jaw. "You think I’m working for Christian?"

"I think Christian would have noticed you sneaking out. And if he did, he’d send you here for answers under his terms, not yours."

He didn’t argue. Because she was right.

But that didn’t mean he liked it.

Still, he sighed, rolling his shoulders before reluctantly pulling off his tactical vest, unzipping his jacket and shrugging it off.

When he reached for the hem of his shirt, he hesitated, just a second.

Her eyes didn’t waver.

Christ.

Scowling, he pulled it over his head, letting the cold air bite against his skin.

She stepped closer.

Max forced himself to stay still as her fingers brushed lightly over his ribs, over his collarbone, checking for any hidden wires or devices. It was methodical. Clinical.

But his skin still burned where she touched.

She must have felt the way his pulse jumped slightly beneath her fingertips, because her eyes flicked up to his. Amusement, maybe. Or curiosity.

Then she stepped back, satisfied.

"Alright," she said simply.

Max exhaled, running a hand through his hair before pulling his shirt back on, shaking his head. "If you wanted me undressed, you could have just asked."

She huffed a quiet laugh. "Don’t push it."

He smirked, just a little. Then it faded.

Because now there was nothing left in the way.

No excuses. No distractions.

Just the questions burning in his skull.

He met her gaze.

"Who are you?"

She didn’t answer straight away.

Instead, she stepped closer, slow and deliberate, her eyes never leaving his.

Max held his ground, but something in his chest tightened, his breath coming shallower as the space between them disappeared.

Then—

Her hand came up, fingers light as they brushed against his cheek, a gentle caress that sent something sharp and electric tearing through him.

He froze.

"You look just as you did before," she murmured, her thumb tracing lightly along his cheekbone.

And then—

Pain.

A sudden, brutal onslaught of memories, crashing into him like a freight train, fracturing something deep in his skull.

Not the sterile, clinical flashes he’d had before.

These were different.

More intimate. More real.

A quiet moment in dim candlelight, their bodies exhausted from training, her fingers in his hair, a whispered joke between them, his own laughter soft and unfamiliar.

The feel of her back pressed against his, both of them moving in perfect unison, breathless and exhilarated after taking down their targets in perfect synchronisation.

The way she had once looked at him, not as an opponent, not as a stranger, but as something else entirely.

And then—

A promise.

One neither of them had kept.

Max gasped, staggering back a step, his breath ragged, his hands coming up to clutch his head as if that could stop it.

The memories flickered, blurred at the edges, slipping through his fingers like water. He couldn’t shape them exactly, couldn’t hold onto them before they disappeared into the void again.

But they were there.

And so was she.

Watching him.

Waiting.

Max swallowed, his voice hoarse when he finally managed to speak.

"What did they do to us?"

Her expression softened, just for a moment. Then she exhaled, shaking her head.

"What did they do to you, my love?"

Max’s stomach lurched.

The words were a gut punch, sending another ripple of wrongness through his already fractured mind. He knew that phrase. Knew the warmth in her voice, the weight of it, the way it curled around him like something familiar.

But it didn’t belong to this life.

It didn’t belong to him.

Did it?

He shook his head, throat tight. "Stop. Just, stop playing with me and tell me the truth."

She inhaled slowly, watching him carefully, then—

"You were born in the Netherlands, Max. That’s where we were raised. In an orphanage."

The world tilted slightly. His pulse roared in his ears.

"You’re lying."

She didn’t even flinch. "I was four when I got there. You were already there when I arrived, you were three. You used to follow me around, always getting into trouble, always dragging me into it. But you never let anyone hurt me. Not even the caretakers."

His breath came shorter now, fingers twitching at his sides. "No."

"Growing up, that turned into something else. A promise. That whatever happened, we’d stick together."

Flashes hit him again.

A tiny hand gripping his wrist. A voice, young and defiant, telling him to run.

"You’re lying," he whispered, but even he didn’t believe it now.

"You taught me how to fight before we even knew what a real fight was," she continued, voice steady. "We trained together. Always together. And then they took you, at 15."

Max’s jaw clenched so tight it ached. "Who?"

Her eyes darkened. "Them."

Something curdled in his stomach.

Then—

"The Netherlands?" His voice cracked slightly around the word. It felt foreign in his mouth, unfamiliar. He should remember it. If it were true, if any of this were true, then it should mean something.

But it was blank.

Erased.

She nodded. "It’s where you’re from."

His hands curled into fists. "Then why don’t I remember it?"

A ghost of a smile, sad, knowing. "Because they made you forget. And Christian—" She hesitated, just for a second. Then she met his eyes again, unwavering. "Christian never taught you Dutch or German, did he?"

Max stilled.

She tilted her head slightly. "You knew them already. But he taught you the useful languages instead, didn’t he?"

The floor beneath him might as well have cracked in two.

Because she was right.

Christian had taught him French. Spanish. Mandarin. Arabic.

All useful. All efficient.

But never Dutch. Never German. Never anything personal.

Max swallowed hard, his heart thudding against his ribs. "Who the hell am I?"

She stepped closer again, slow and deliberate, and for some reason, Max let her.

Her hand came up, gentler this time, fingertips just ghosting the side of his face. He didn’t pull away.

"You’re my Max," she said softly.

His chest tightened painfully.

He didn’t know what to do with that.

Didn’t know how to be that.

His. Hers.

Not Christian’s. Not the agency’s.

Just hers.

It didn’t make sense. Nothing made sense.

His voice came hoarse. "How did you find me?"

Her expression flickered, something raw and weary crossing her features. "I’ve been searching for you ever since they took you."

Max swallowed, his throat dry. "Since I was fifteen?"

She nodded.

His mind whirred, working the numbers. "Fourteen years ago."

A long, exhausted exhale. Then—

"I got recruited by Austrian Intelligence."

His brows pulled together, confusion flashing across his face. "What?"

"They always knew my ulterior motive," she continued. "I was never just theirs. I worked for them, trained under them, but I never stopped looking for you."

Max stared at her, disoriented, the pieces still loose in his mind, still fighting against the block that had been drilled into him.

But one thing was clear.

This wasn’t a coincidence.

This wasn’t just another mission.

This was his life. His real life.

And she was the only person who knew the truth.

Max let out a shaky breath, running a hand through his hair, fingers gripping the strands as if he could somehow ground himself.

"You’re telling me," he said slowly, forcing the words out, "that while I was being trained to be a weapon, while I was following their orders, you were out there, looking for me?"

Her eyes softened, something achingly familiar in them. "Every second."

His throat tightened. He wasn’t sure why, but the weight of it, of her, was pressing down on his chest, making it harder to breathe.

She had spent fourteen years searching.

And he had spent fourteen years forgetting.

His fists clenched. "Why me?"

A ghost of a smile, small, barely there. "You know why."

He wanted to argue. He wanted to tell her she was wrong, that he didn’t know anything, that this entire thing was impossible.

But the memories were clawing at him again.

Flashes of laughter in the dark. The feel of small fingers intertwined with his own. A whispered promise, spoken with the kind of certainty only they could have had.

A promise to never leave each other behind.

His stomach turned violently. "I don’t— I don’t know what to do with this."

She stepped closer, her presence steady, unwavering. "Yes, you do."

Max swallowed hard, pulse hammering. "So what next?"

She held his gaze.

And then—

"We run."

Max stared at her, his pulse thundering in his ears. "Run?"

She nodded, eyes sharp. "They’ll never let you go, Max. You know that, don’t you?"

He did.

Even before this, before her, he’d always known, deep down, that there was no retirement from this life. No clean exit. The agency didn’t train operatives just to let them walk away.

And yet, hearing it now, in this context, sent a cold dread curling in his stomach.

He swallowed hard. "Tell me everything."

She took a breath. "You were taken when you were fifteen. We always knew something was off at the orphanage, the people who came in and out, the way they watched us, the tests they made us do. But we were kids, we didn’t understand."

Max’s jaw tightened. Somewhere, deep in the back of his mind, something scratched at the surface. The distant echo of fluorescent lights. A man’s voice, clinical, detached. "He’s showing promise. We’ll take this one."

She continued. "When they took you, I fought. I tried to stop them. But I was just a sixteen year old girl, Max. They took you, and I couldn’t do anything."

His chest ached.

Sixteen. Alone. And she’d had no idea where he’d gone.

He clenched his fists. "And then?"

"I spent years looking. When I turned eighteen, Austrian Intelligence found me. I knew what they were when they approached, I knew what they wanted. But I didn’t care. I let them train me. I played their game. Because I knew it would get me closer to you."

Max exhaled slowly, trying to process it.

She had spent years searching, training, infiltrating, just to find him.

And all that time, he had been under Christian’s wing. Being shaped into the agency’s perfect operative. Forgetting.

He ran a hand down his face. "Fourteen years."

She nodded.

And for a moment, they just stood there. The weight of everything between them pressing down like a vice.

Then—

A slow, mocking clap.

Max’s blood ran cold.

The sound was deliberate, echoing through the abandoned train yard. Casual. Amused.

And then—

"Such a cute, bittersweet reunion."

Max turned sharply, already knowing who it was before his eyes landed on him.

Christian.

Standing a few metres away, gun in hand, aimed directly at her.

Christian sighed, shaking his head with the kind of disappointment a father might have for a reckless son. "Max," he said, almost pitying. "You should have known better."

Max didn’t move. His whole body was coiled tight, his mind screaming at him to think, to act, to do something. But Christian’s gun was still pointed at her, and that was enough to keep him rooted to the spot.

She was still. Calm. But Max could see the sharp calculation in her eyes. She was measuring the distance, considering her odds.

Christian smiled slightly, as if he knew. "I’ve got to say, I’m impressed. I knew there were gaps in the wipe, I’ve always known. But I didn’t think you’d really go looking for them. And I certainly didn’t think she’d be foolish enough to hand them back to you."

Max clenched his fists. "Why?" His voice was low, tight. "Why take me?"

Christian exhaled, almost looking bored. "Come on, Max. You were always meant for more than that orphanage. You were built for this life. You proved that the moment we took you in."

The words sent a cold shiver down Max’s spine. "Took me in," he echoed bitterly.

"Yes. Took you in. Made you. And look how well you turned out." Christian shifted slightly, tilting his head. "It’s a pity, really. If I’d known back then how attached you two were, if I’d known she’d spend fourteen whole years chasing you, I might’ve taken both of you."

Max’s breath caught in his throat.

Next to him, she stiffened ever so slightly, her jaw tightening.

Christian smirked. "Would’ve saved us all this trouble. But alas—"

His grip on the gun shifted slightly.

"Not that it matters. You’ll be coming back one way or another."

Max forced himself to stay still, his mind working frantically. "And if I don’t?"

Christian’s smirk widened. "You will." He tapped his temple. "You think we’d really let one of our most valuable operatives walk around without a failsafe?"

Max’s stomach twisted.

No.

No, he would’ve known. Wouldn’t he?

Christian hummed. "We know exactly where you are at all times, Max. And when we need you to stop thinking so hard—" His smirk sharpened. "Well. We have ways of dealing with that too."

Max felt sick.

There was a tracker in him.

A leash he hadn’t even known about.

He took a step back, his heart hammering. "What did you—"

A sharp hiss.

Christian’s words cut off, mid-sentence, mid-smirk, as a tranquilliser dart buried itself in his neck.

His eyes widened, shock flashing across his face. He stumbled slightly, swaying as his body locked up, his limbs turning sluggish.

Max barely had time to react before he hit the ground.

She exhaled sharply, muttering under her breath, "For fuck’s sake, Charles."

Max barely had time to register the name before she tilted her head back, looking up. Instinctively, he followed her gaze.

Perched on the rusting steel beams above them, a figure crouched with all the ease of someone who belonged in places they shouldn’t be. Brunette, lean but athletic, eyes glinting with amusement. He twirled a tranquilliser gun between his fingers, looking far too pleased with himself.

"I didn’t need saving," she called up.

"Yeah, you did," he called back, grinning, a french accent in his voice.

Then, without a moment’s hesitation, he jumped.

Max tensed, fully expecting him to plummet to his death, but instead, the man twisted mid-air, landing gracefully in a crouch, like a damn cat.

He straightened, dusting himself off, before flashing a reckless, lopsided grin. "You’re welcome, by the way."

Max just stared. "Who the hell—"

The man extended a hand, all confidence. "Charles. Pleasure to finally meet you, mate."

Max didn’t shake it. "Right. And who exactly are you?"

Charles didn’t look remotely put off. If anything, he seemed delighted. He turned to her, jerking a thumb at Max. "He always this grumpy, or is it just me?"

She sighed. "Charles."

"What?" He grinned. "I’ve heard so much about this one, you can’t blame me for being a bit excited."

Max’s brows furrowed. "Heard?"

Charles smirked. "The Italians and Austrians are allies. We work together. And let me tell you, mate—" He clapped Max on the shoulder, far too familiar. "She talks about you all the time."

Max glanced at her. She rolled her eyes, unimpressed. "Charles."

Charles just waggled his eyebrows. "You’re welcome for the save, by the way. Again."

Charles rocked back on his heels, looking far too relaxed for someone who had just tranquillised a high-ranking operative. "By the way," he said casually, inspecting his nails, "I ran out of horse tranquilliser, so he’ll be up and awake in less than an hour. We should probably get going before he starts shooting."

Max scowled, rubbing a hand down his face. "You use horse tranquilliser?"

Charles shrugged. "What can I say? Some people can take it."

Max opened his mouth to argue, but before he could, Charles reached for his hand.

Max instinctively snatched it back. "What the fuck are you—"

Charles grabbed it again, this time tighter, and dug his thumb into his wrist, pressing down with precise, practised pressure.

Max tensed. "Oi—"

Charles smirked as he felt what he was looking for. "Ah," he drawled. "There’s the beauty."

Max’s stomach twisted. "What?"

Charles lifted his gaze, grinning. "Tracker. It’s in your wrist. Probably buried deep, but it’s there."

Max yanked his hand back, skin crawling at the implication. He clenched his jaw. "And you knew that how?"

Charles waggled his eyebrows. "Because I’m good at my job, sweetheart."

She groaned. "Charles."

He flashed her an easy grin. "What? That really was a heartwarming reunion. I almost shed a tear."

She shot him a glare. "I will shoot you."

"Wouldn’t be the first time," he quipped, then clapped his hands together. "Alright, lovebirds. Let’s move before Sleeping Beauty over there wakes up and starts ruining our evening."

They moved fast.

Max had been on the run before, had been on missions where staying ahead of the enemy was the only thing that mattered, but this was different. This time, he wasn’t just running. He was defecting.

Charles led the way, navigating the dark streets with an ease that suggested he’d done this a hundred times before. She was close behind him, her movements sharp and deliberate, scanning their surroundings constantly. Max stayed quiet, processing, recalibrating.

The tracker.

It was still inside him.

They needed to get it out, fast.

After a long, tense journey, they reached a nondescript building tucked away in the backstreets of the city. Max barely had time to catch his breath before Charles was shoving open a heavy steel door, leading them down a set of stairs into what looked like an underground medical facility.

Inside, a man was bent over a cluttered desk, rifling through medical equipment. He was older, mid-forties, glasses perched on the bridge of his nose.

"Freddie!" Charles called, grinning.

The man didn’t even look up. "I told you," he said flatly, "that is not my name."

"Dr Frederick," she corrected, shooting Charles a glare.

Charles waved a hand dismissively. "Details."

Dr Frederick finally glanced up, his gaze flicking between them. "What do you want?"

Charles clapped a hand on Max’s shoulder. "This one’s got a little problem with his wrist. Thought you might be able to help."

Dr Frederick adjusted his glasses. "No."

Charles groaned dramatically. "Freddie, please."

"It is not my name."

"But you’re so good at this stuff."

Dr Frederick gave him a deadpan look. "No."

Charles sighed, turning to Max. "See, this is the problem with the French. So much passion, so little willingness to help an old friend."

"Charles," Dr Frederick warned.

"Freddie," Charles countered, grinning. "Look, all I’m asking for is a little favour. A tiny bit of surgery. A minuscule extraction. Barely worth mentioning, really."

Dr Frederick pinched the bridge of his nose. "You are insufferable."

"And yet," Charles said smugly, "you love me anyway."

Dr Frederick exhaled heavily, muttering something under his breath in Italian. Then, after a long pause, he finally said, "Fine. Sit."

Charles grinned victoriously. "I knew you couldn’t resist me."

Dr Frederick ignored him, turning to Max instead. "Give me your wrist."

Max sat stiffly on the medical table, jaw clenched as Dr Frederick adjusted the surgical instruments. The small underground clinic smelled of antiseptic and old paper, and the hum of a fluorescent light buzzed somewhere overhead.

"This will hurt," Frederick said bluntly, not offering any unnecessary comfort.

"Great," Max muttered. "Looking forward to it."

Frederick didn’t acknowledge the sarcasm. Instead, he snapped on a pair of gloves and took Max’s wrist, pressing two fingers along the underside until he found what he was looking for.

"It’s deep," he murmured, more to himself than anyone else. "Not standard placement. They didn’t want you finding it by accident."

Charles leaned against a counter, arms crossed, grinning like this was the most entertaining thing he’d seen all week. "Must feel great knowing you’ve been microchipped like a lost pet."

"Shut up, Charles," she and Max said at the same time.

Charles just smirked.

Frederick ignored them all, pressing a needle into Max’s skin. "Local anaesthetic," he said shortly. "I would offer general, but I assume you don’t have the time for that luxury."

Max barely had time to respond before the numbness spread, dulling the pain as Frederick made a precise incision.

He worked quickly, hands steady, eyes sharp behind his glasses. Max had been trained to handle pain, but even with the numbing agent, he felt the pressure, the unnatural tugging under his skin. He clenched his jaw, watching as Frederick extracted a small, black fragment of metal no bigger than a grain of rice.

The tracker.

It sat in the doctor’s palm, glinting under the sterile light.

"There it is," Frederick said, unimpressed.

"Well, that’s underwhelming," Charles remarked.

Frederick shot him a look. "Take it. Do whatever you want with it. Just get it away from here."

Charles took the chip between two fingers, inspecting it. "Oh, I’ve got ideas." He winked at her, then shoved the chip into his pocket and stretched. "Right, I’ll go drop this somewhere suitably inconvenient. Try not to get yourselves killed while I’m gone."

Max rolled his eyes. "Get out, Charles."

"Miss me already?" Charles grinned, then slipped out the door before anyone could respond.

The second he was gone, the tension shifted.

Frederick turned to Max, inspecting his stitched-up wrist. "It will hold, but don’t be reckless."

Max flexed his fingers, testing it. "No promises."

She sighed, then looked at Max. "We need a plan."

He nodded, already thinking. "Christian knows I’m gone. Even without the tracker, he’ll assume I’ve gone rogue. We don’t have long before they start closing in."

She folded her arms. "Then we hit first. Before they’re ready."

Max met her gaze, feeling the weight of everything between them, the past, the present, the war they were about to start.

"Alright," he said. "Let’s do it."

Without another thought she leaned over the makeshift surgical table and grabbed a map.

They spread out the battered old map across the metal table in Frederick’s back room, the edges curling with damp and age. She pointed to a marked facility near the Alps, tapping her finger twice on the paper.

“This is where the data Christian’s been collecting ends up. Not at HQ. Not at any of the supposed satellite sites. Here. Quiet. Off-grid. Guarded like hell.”

Max leaned over, brow furrowed. “And what’s there? Storage?”

She shook her head. “No. Processing. They’re not just collecting information, they’re rewriting it. It’s how they do the memory wipes.”

Max’s stomach twisted. “So that’s where they took me.”

She nodded once. “And every other little kid that was like us.”

Frederick hovered behind them, arms crossed, reluctant but clearly invested now. “It’s not a place you walk out of. You realise that, yes?”

Max didn’t look away from the map. “We’re not planning to walk. We’re planning to burn it down.”

She gave a small, humourless smile. “That’s the spirit.”

Frederick huffed. “You're both mad. And doomed.”

Max looked up at him. “Probably. But if they’re rewriting people, weaponising kids and erasing their lives, then someone’s got to stop it.”

The room fell quiet for a moment. Then she reached into her jacket, pulled out a small flash drive, and slid it across the table.

“I’ve been gathering fragments of what I could. Locations. Transit logs. Staff names. It’s all encrypted, but someone like you,” she nodded at Frederick “can help us crack it.”

He looked at the drive like it was radioactive. “You just want to drag me deeper in, don’t you?”

“You’re already in,” Max said quietly. “You helped remove the chip. There’s no going back.”

Frederick groaned under his breath, rubbing his temples. “I hate all of you.”

She smirked. “That’s fair.”

Max stood, rolling his shoulders. “Right then. We need supplies. Weapons. A route in.”

“I know a guy,” she said. “He’s German. Paranoid as hell, but he owes me a favour. We’ll need to go through the mountains to find him.”

“And me?” Frederick said, still frowning.

“You stay here,” Max replied. “Crack the drive. Send us everything you find.”

Frederick muttered something that sounded suspiciously like bloody lunatics and how mac wasn’t his boss, but nodded all the same.

She folded the map, tucked it into her coat, then looked up at Max.

“You ready?”

He looked down at the fresh bandage on his wrist, then back at her, at the woman who had somehow ripped open the cracks in everything he thought he knew.

“Yeah,” he said. “Let’s finish what they started.”

The mountains loomed ahead, jagged against a sky bruised with early morning clouds. Their boots crunched over frostbitten ground as they trudged through narrow, twisting paths. Max hadn’t realised how much he’d come to rely on tech, drones, trackers, satellite feeds. Now, they were ghosts slipping through silence, guided only by memory and instinct.

She walked just ahead of him, wrapped in layers, her face half-shielded by a scarf. Even like this, she moved like she belonged to the shadows, alert, deliberate, never wasting a step.

“Remind me again,” Max said, breathing into his gloves, “why your paranoid German friend lives halfway up a mountain with no phone reception?”

“Because,” she said without turning, “he likes goats and hates people. You two might get on.”

They reached a stone cabin just as the sun broke weakly over the ridge. Smoke curled from the chimney, someone was home. She knocked once, then again in a strange rhythm. A pause. Then a scraping of metal bolts and the door opened a crack.

A rifle appeared before the face did.

She didn’t even flinch. “Nice to see you too, Nico.”

The barrel lowered slightly. “Thought you were dead.”

“Not yet. This is Max.”

Nico eyed him with a look that said don’t get comfortable. “British?”

“Sort of,” Max muttered.

With a grumble, Nico stepped aside. “Come in before the cold does worse than Christian ever could.”

Inside, the place was cluttered and warm, thick with the scent of woodsmoke and engine oil. Max kept his hands visible, noting the various weapons strewn across shelves and walls.

She got straight to it. “We need gear. Access tech. C4, comms, entry tools. Enough to storm a ghost facility buried in concrete and bad memories.”

Nico raised a brow. “And why, may I ask, would I ever help with that?”

“Because you owe me,” she said simply. “Prague. Eight years ago. You’d be dead if I hadn’t taken that bullet.”

He stared at her for a long time. Then muttered, “I strongly dislike you.”

She smiled. “Still not my problem.”

It took them three days to plan. Nico was paranoid, but meticulous. He handed Max blueprints, schematics, equipment lists. They worked late into the night, checking routes, escape plans, failsafes.

And on the second night, when Nico had gone to sleep, it was just her and Max sat near the fire, the weight of everything suspended for a while.

“You alright?” she asked softly, watching the flames flicker across his face.

He nodded, slowly. “Yeah. Just… this is a lot to process. You, all of this. I don’t know who I am without them, and I hate that.”

She reached out, fingers brushing his hand. “You’re still you. The part they couldn’t reach. The part that found its way back to me.”

He looked at her then, really looked. The flames danced in her eyes, but it was the honesty there that undid him. Something shifted in his chest, cracked open.

He reached up and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, his touch lingering. “I think I’ve always known you.”

Her breath caught. Then she leaned in, slow, deliberate, giving him the chance to stop it.

He didn’t.

Their lips met gently at first, uncertain, like rediscovering something precious. Then it deepened, years of lost time catching fire between them. Her hands tangled in his jacket, his fingers at the nape of her neck. The kiss was quiet, but it said everything — I missed you. I remember. I’m yours.

When they pulled apart, her forehead rested against his.

“Whatever happens tomorrow,” she whispered, “we face it together.”

He nodded, his voice thick. “Together.”

The facility sat like a scar carved into the mountain, brutalist and grey, half-swallowed by snow and rock. From the ridge above, they watched the rotation of the patrols, three-man units, every eight minutes, armed to the teeth.

Max adjusted his earpiece, one of Nico’s designs, untraceable, short-range.

“Everyone in position?” he asked.

“Ready as I’ll ever be,” Charles’ voice crackled in his ear. “Nico’s already moaning about the cold. Might shoot him just for warmth.”

“Piss off,” came Nico’s accented reply. “I’ve been up since four planting explosives. You want a warm seat, you can sit on the detonator.”

Max smirked faintly, but his focus didn’t waver. He turned to her, crouched beside him, dressed in black from head to boot, rifle resting against her shoulder.

“You sure about this?” he asked.

She didn’t hesitate. “This is what we came for.”

Max leaned in, brushing his fingers against hers. “Just… don’t get yourself killed.”

She met his gaze, soft and fierce all at once. “You either.”

Then, too quick to overthink, he kissed her. It was rougher this time, urgent and breathless, the kind of kiss you give someone when you don’t know what the next hour holds. She clutched the front of his jacket, grounding herself in him, like for a moment the mission didn’t matter. Just them. Just this.

When they broke apart, she was already moving. “Let’s finish it.”

Chaos erupted within minutes of infiltration. Charles cut the lights with a grin in his voice, “Happy blackout, boys”, and the entire west wing went dark. Nico triggered the first explosion on a far wall, drawing the guards out like moths to a flame.

She and Max moved fast, ghosting through corridors, silent and lethal. Data cores, servers, security feeds, they planted charges on every last one.

In the heart of it all, Max found the processing room. The machines still buzzed, humming with stolen memories, rows of them, patient files, fragments of lives rewritten and buried. His own name flickered across a screen. Deleted. Rewritten. A lie.

He slammed the drive in. Copied what he could. Burned the rest.

Then he heard her.

A muffled shout through his earpiece. Gunfire.

Max’s blood ran cold.

He took off running, boots slamming down corridors slick with smoke and debris. Around the corner, through the shattered doorway, he found her, pinned by a soldier twice her size, blade at her side, one arm limp and bleeding.

She looked up, and for a moment, even in pain, she smiled. “Took you long enough.”

Max lunged. Took the bastard down with brutal efficiency, two hits and he didn’t get back up. Then he dropped to her side, hands already reaching for her.

“You’re hurt.”

She winced. “Just the arm. Got cocky.”

“You’re not allowed to die. Not after everything.”

“Wasn’t planning on it.”

Then came the sound, heavy boots, radio chatter. Reinforcements.

Max’s breath caught. “They’re coming.”

She reached up, bloody fingers curling into his jacket. “Listen to me—”

A shadow moved behind the glass.

Gunfire cracked.

Blood splattered.

Her body jolted, eyes wide, and everything blurred.

Max caught her before she hit the ground.

“No—”

Then on the other side through of his earpiece he heard Charles, “Max, they’ve got me— Fuck” Charles’ voice crackled through the comms, ending in a sharp grunt.

The room was red.

And then—

Static.

End of comms.

PART THREE...

taglist: @angelluv16 @evalynkillgrave @fergalaxy @alexisquinnlee-bc @carlossainzapologist @oikarma @obxstiles @verstappenf1lecccc @hzstry8 @dying-inside-but-its-classy @anamiad00msday @linnygirl09 @mastermindbaby @iamred-iamyellow @amyelevenn

[jude457]

i think one of the most criminally underexplored post-games dynamics is how inho would be completely broke—and not like “struggling to pay rent” broke, but “you betrayed the ultra-elite and now your entire financial existence has been erased” broke. entirely dependent on gihun and junho-level broke.

because he did betray the games. he let junho escape. he didn’t kill gihun when he was supposed to. he hesitated. that’s all it takes. somewhere up the ladder, someone sees the cracks and goes: “so the front man isn’t as loyal as we thought. fine. cut him off.”

and suddenly, everything’s gone.

the money he won back when he was a player? seized. whatever offshore accounts they funneled it into? wiped clean. his front man salary? untouchable, now that his name’s flagged for internal betrayal. all the perks—chauffeurs, wine subscriptions, tailored suits, private clinics—GONE. his accounts are frozen. no phone plan. no ID. no insurance. not even enough cash to buy ramen from a convenience store.

so now inho has nothing. no power. no safety net. he’s surviving on the soft, unstable mercy of gihun’s and junho’s tolerance—and he knows it.

he can’t even get a normal job. not a desk job, not night shifts at a warehouse, not anything. his résumé is a graveyard. ten years gone without explanation, unfillable. worse, his old position in the police didn’t just end—it was terminated. it sits there like a stain on every application he starts and abandons. and what does he even have to offer now? surveillance techniques? gun training? staying quiet while people die?

just imagine inho (ex–front man, ex-millionaire) having to swallow his shame, look gihun in the eye, and ask, “can i get this book on moral collapse and the futility of existence? it’s only 10,000 won.” like a teenager begging for pocket money. he should’ve been smart enough to do what gihun did: smart enough to pull all his money out in cash. but no. and now he’s broke and forced to politely request permission to read about why everything is meaningless.

[hameesstuff]

"Trigger Discipline"

Title: "Trigger Discipline"

Word count: ~6.2k

Themes: Exes to lovers, Mafia, Violence, Soft Smut, Angst, Fluff, Almost death scene.

Preview: He’s dragged blood-soaked bodies through alleyways and whispered orders that ended lives. But nothing ever rattled Johnny like the new folder on his desk—one that read your name. You who once kissed his bloody knuckles and told him he was more than what the world made him. Now he’s ordered to erase you. The only woman he's ever loved.

But love doesn’t follow orders. Not even in the mafia.

___________________________________________

A Clean Shot

Johnny had a ritual when it came to bodies.

Late at night, when the streets fell silent and the city stopped pretending it was clean, he’d roll up his sleeves, light a cigarette, and handle the mess himself. It wasn’t about trust—though he had little of it—it was about control. About making sure every job ended with a period, not a question mark.

Tonight was no different. A warehouse. Concrete floors. One bullet to the head, another to the chest for good measure. He crouched beside the corpse in a black suit that didn’t wrinkle, pulled off his gloves, and stared into the glassy eyes of the dead man like he might confess something in his final silence.

He didn’t.

“You sure you wanna keep doing cleanup?” Doyoung’s voice echoed as he stepped into the dim light, arms crossed. “You’re the boss now. The man who orders the trigger, not pulls it.”

Johnny stood slowly, flicking blood off his gloves before tucking them into his coat pocket. “Sometimes I don’t trust the hands holding the gun.”

Doyoung raised an eyebrow. “That paranoia gonna kill you before anyone else does.”

A small smirk curled on Johnny’s lips. “Let it try.”

Two hours later, back at his office—top floor of a building people assumed was abandoned—he sat with a glass of whiskey and a stack of target folders. He wasn’t reading them. Not yet. He just liked the weight. The gravity of lives outlined in ink and photos.

Until one slipped free and landed face up.

Your face.

The glass in his hand didn’t fall, but his grip tightened. His throat clenched so hard he couldn’t breathe, like the past had reached out and wrapped its soft, familiar fingers around his neck.

You looked the same. Maybe prettier. Hair up in a lazy clip, a small crinkle at the edge of your smile as you knelt beside a child, their hands buried in paint. The caption on the photo:

Name: [REDACTED]. Status: Civilian. Occupation: Kindergarten Teacher. Priority: Immediate Termination.

Johnny didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just stared.

You hadn’t spoken in three years. He left you for a life he thought you’d never survive beside. You loved flowers and fairy lights and poetry about the moon. He left blood on his doormat every Thursday.

He should burn the file. Call it a mistake. Tell Doyoung he’d handle it and then vanish you to some new life in a different country, maybe.

But something in his chest—something he hadn’t felt since your bare arms wrapped around his torso in a summer rain—began to twist.

He leaned back, whispering like a curse:

“…Fuck.”

Paper Hearts, Loaded Guns

The street outside the school was quiet, dappled in soft morning light filtered through thinning spring leaves. Johnny stood across from the playground, silent, unmoving, the hood of his black coat casting a shadow over his eyes.

And there you were.

Bent over in a room full of color and chaos, gently tying the shoelaces of a boy who was crying too hard to speak. You whispered something—he couldn't hear it, but he didn’t need to. The child nodded, wiped his tears, and hugged you around the waist.

Johnny didn’t blink.

You hadn’t changed. Not in the ways that mattered.

Still pretty in the kind of way the world didn’t deserve. Still moved like the weight of the world was something you carried for others. Your hair was up in that loose twist you always did when you were focused. There were chalk marks on your skirt. Crayon smudges on your wrist. And somehow, it made you glow.

His fingers curled inside his coat pocket where the pistol rested, the cold metal a stark contrast to the warmth rising in his chest.

He’d forgotten how much he missed you.

He remembered the first time he kissed you.

He’d had blood on his hands that night too. You were barefoot on the kitchen floor in his apartment, laughing softly as you stirred noodles in a pot, humming something off-key.

“I’m dirty,” he had said, stepping in cautiously, fists clenched at his sides.

“I know,” you replied, and turned to look at him. “But I still want you to hold me.”

So he had.

And he hadn’t let go until the sun came up and his heart remembered it could still beat for something other than survival.

Now, watching you crouch by a chalkboard where your students had scrawled crooked letters, he felt the ghost of your fingers brush his again. The memory of your mouth against his jaw. The whispered I love yous in the kind of silence that made a man forget he was born into violence.

You were peace.

And you were on his list.

His phone buzzed in his coat.

Doyoung:

You’re dragging your feet. You said you’d handle it. HQ is breathing down my neck. We confirmed it—she’s the witness’ tie. Clean shot. No questions.

Johnny looked up at the classroom window. You were laughing now, hair falling out of its clip. A little girl placed a sticker on your cheek, and you didn’t remove it. Just smiled like joy was the most natural thing in the world.

That night, he didn’t drink.

He just sat at his desk, file open, staring at your name. Again. And again.

You were a teacher. A civilian. A bright spot in a world of darkness he’d willingly sunk into.

His thumb brushed your photograph.

The burn behind his eyes came fast.

He closed the file and whispered into the silence, “I’m not killing her.”

Even if it killed him.

The Man Behind the Bullet

Rain came hard that night—thick sheets against the glass, soft thunder rumbling like a distant war Johnny had already lost. The city was quiet in a way that made him restless. His office lights were dimmed low, his black shirt still clinging to him from the walk in. He hadn’t bothered drying off. He needed the cold.

The file sat open on the desk. Again.

Your photo stared back at him—head tilted, half-smile tucked into the corner of your lips like you were keeping a secret only he could ever understand.

Maybe you were.

Maybe that’s why it still hurt.

He hadn’t spoken your name aloud in years. Not since the night he left, standing in the doorway with his bag and his demons and that look on your face—the one that shattered him.

You never asked him to stay.

And he’d hated you for it.

But only for a day.

Then he hated himself.

Two years earlier

You’d been curled against his chest in bed, legs tangled together, rain tapping soft on the window.

“I can hear your heart when I lay here,” you’d murmured, fingertips grazing the tattoo over his ribs.

“It’s fast.”

“That’s just you,” he replied, kissing your temple. “You scare me.”

You smiled softly. “Why?”

“Because when I look at you, I start thinking about things I shouldn’t want.”

“Like what?”

“Like soggy pancakes with our lttle kids. Sunday mornings that aren’t covered in blood.”

You had gone quiet then. But not cold. You just whispered, “You deserve those things too, Johnny. Even if you don’t believe it yet.”

Now, in this office built on silence and fear, all he could hear was your voice—faint and warm and far too close.

He poured a drink. Didn’t sip it.

There was a knock at the door.

Doyoung stepped in, slicked with rain, holding a USB drive. “Final proof,” he said grimly. “Your girl was seen talking to the witness last week. Same bookstore. He was killed two days later.”

Johnny stiffened. “She’s a teacher. That shop’s on her route home.”

“She hugged him.”

Johnny looked up, slow and sharp.

Doyoung raised his hands. “I’m just saying. Boss, it doesn’t matter how she got tied to this. HQ wants it done. If it wasn’t you, they’d send Taeyong. And he won’t hesitate.”

The room grew still. Heavy.

Then Johnny said, voice low and hard, “If Taeyong touches her, I’ll put a bullet in his mouth.”

Silence.

Doyoung exhaled and leaned on the wall. “You never even told us why you left her.”

Johnny turned away. “Because I loved her.”

Outside, the rain had stopped.

And across the city, you were closing your classroom for the night, unaware of the storm circling your name. You packed up the glitter glue, hummed to the silence, then paused.

There it was again.

The ache in your chest.

Like someone you once knew was standing just outside the door.

Ghosts in the Doorway

It started with a knock.

You weren’t expecting anyone. It was nearly 9 p.m., and your apartment was tucked on the second floor of a quiet building that smelled like old books and warm bread. You were still in your soft house sweater—oversized, worn at the cuffs—curled on the couch with a mug of tea cooling in your hands.

The knock came again. Quiet. Firm.

You frowned, setting the cup down, the strange unease curling at the base of your neck. When you opened the door, the breath left your lungs.

Johnny Suh stood there.

Dripping rain onto your doormat.

Black coat. Black eyes. Hands stuffed in his pockets like he didn’t trust them to stay still. You hadn’t seen him in three years, but God, he still looked the same—older around the eyes maybe, more carved at the edges—but still heartbreakingly him.

You didn’t speak.

Neither did he.

For one long second, it was like the world had forgotten how to spin.

“I’m not here to hurt you,” he said first, voice low. Hoarse. Like he hadn’t spoken to anyone in days. “I swear.”

You didn’t move.

“You shouldn’t be here,” you whispered.

“I know.”

He exhaled, the weight of the universe in his shoulders. “But I needed to see you before they do.”

“Who?” you asked, even though part of you already knew.

He hesitated.

Then: “People who kill for less reason than I have.”

The silence between you turned thick. Heavy.

You stepped back without a word, and he followed you in.

Your apartment was small, warm. Familiar in ways that made his chest ache. You still kept candles on the windowsill. A bookshelf half-falling apart. A cat he didn’t recognize blinked up at him from the kitchen counter like it already hated him.

He stood in the middle of the living room, dripping on your rug, hands twitching.

You watched him carefully. “You said before they do.”

Johnny nodded once.

And then—for the first time—you saw it. The pain in his eyes. The guilt in the line of his jaw. The tight way he held himself, like he didn’t know if he was here to beg or bleed.

“They sent you,” you said softly.

Not a question.

He didn’t lie.

“Yes.”

The floor fell out from under you. But you didn’t cry. You didn’t scream. You just stood there—arms crossed over your stomach like you were holding yourself together—staring at the man who once made you believe the world could be kind.

You let out a breath like it broke something inside you.

“Was I really ever just a job, Johnny?”

“No,” he said instantly. Stepped forward. “You were the only real thing I ever had.”

He didn’t touch you.

Not yet.

But he looked at you like a man memorizing every line of a poem he would never get to read again.

And then, finally: “I’m not going to hurt you. I don’t care what they say. I’ll burn the whole organization to the ground before I let them touch you.”

You blinked.

“Why?” you whispered.

He looked wrecked when he said it.

“Because I still love you.”

Before the Fire Started

Three Years Ago.

The night before he left.

The city was asleep, but your apartment lights were low and golden. You stood in the kitchen wearing one of his old black shirts, too big on your frame, the sleeves rolled up as you swayed barefoot on cold tiles.

Johnny leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching you stir soup in a chipped pot.

“You look domestic,” he teased softly.

You smirked without turning. “Don’t ruin it.”

He stepped closer. Slowly. Carefully. Like he knew this moment was borrowed time.

“I like it,” he murmured, now behind you. His arms wrapped gently around your waist. “You. Here. With me. Like this.”

You stilled in his hold.

Then slowly leaned back against his chest, letting the silence settle.

“You’re tense,” you whispered.

“I’m scared,” he admitted. “Everything in my world breaks. I don’t want that to happen to you.”

You turned then, both hands pressed to his chest.

“I won't, Johnny. Not when it’s you.”

He bent his head, forehead resting against yours.

“I don’t get to keep this life,” he said, barely audible. “The people I work for—they don’t let you have peace. Or light. Or love.”

You tilted your face up, eyes stinging.

“I don’t care.”

He smiled. Soft. Devastated.

“You should.”

That night, he made love to you like a man saying goodbye with every touch.

He memorized your breath, the way you whispered his name, the way your fingers gripped his shoulder when you came apart around him—like he was the only place in the world you felt safe.

He kissed your throat afterward, whispering, “I’ll never love again. Even if I live to be a hundred. There’s only you.”

You kissed his mouth to quiet the ache.

Now.

You stared at him in your living room, jaw tight, eyes unreadable. The hurt hadn’t dulled with time—it was just quieter now. Sharper in how it pierced.

He was still standing there, soaked and sleepless, looking at you like you were the only clean thing he had left in the world.

“I shouldn’t have left you like that,” he whispered.

You didn’t respond.

You just stepped closer—heart beating too loud—and reached up.

Your fingers brushed the scar under his jaw. One he didn’t have before.

He didn’t flinch.

“You still smell like smoke,” you murmured.

Johnny’s throat bobbed. “I never stopped burning.”

Between the Trigger and the Touch

You didn’t speak for a while.

Not after tracing that scar. Not after his breath hitched at your touch like he’d forgotten how to be held gently.

The room was quiet but charged. You turned away slowly, walking to the window, arms folding tight over your chest. The city lights blinked below, rain still glittering on the glass.

He didn’t move.

“I waited,” you said finally, voice like a scraped match. “For weeks. I thought maybe you’d knock again. Maybe you just needed space. But you didn’t even leave a note, Johnny.”

He exhaled sharply, pain twisting through his features. “I couldn’t. If I stayed—if I wrote, called, anything—they’d know you mattered. You’d be dead by now.”

You turned to him. “And now?”

“I don’t care anymore,” he said. “If I die protecting you, then I die doing the one good thing I’ve ever done right.”

Your breath caught.

Johnny stepped forward then, slow and deliberate, stopping a few inches from you. His voice dropped.

“I dream about you.”

You swallowed.

He kept going. “About what I left. About what I ruined. You cooking barefoot. Laughing. The way you used to fall asleep on my chest mid movie.”

Your lips twitched.

He saw it.

A faint, broken smile pulled at his mouth too.

And then: “Do you still listen to that stupid playlist? The one you made me for night drives?”

You blinked hard. “You remember that?”

“I remember all of it.”

Silence.

And then he said, quieter, “Do you want me to go?”

You could lie. You could say yes. You could ask him to disappear again so your heart didn’t have to remember how to ache.

But instead—

You reached for his hand.

Fingers lacing slowly. Trembling.

“No,” you said.

And he looked at you like he was about to fall to his knees.

When the Light Broke

You whispered, “Kiss me.”

And for a moment, nothing in the world existed except his lips brushing yours.

Slow. Reverent. Like he’d waited his entire life for that single contact.

It wasn’t just a kiss—it was an apology, a confession, a resurrection.

Your fingers trembled as they curled in his jacket. His hand cradled your jaw like you might disappear again if he held too hard. Your bodies hadn’t touched in years, but they remembered. His mouth moved like he was desperate to memorize you again.

You broke apart only to breathe. You were just about to say his name when—

The window behind you shattered into a thousand pieces. A blink. A sound like thunder swallowed in glass.

And then—

A burning punch to your side.

You gasped.

The air was gone. Your legs buckled.

Johnny caught you mid-fall, and suddenly the world was sideways. His arms tightened around your body, but your vision was already going soft at the edges.

“No.” His voice was jagged. “No no no no no—”

Your blood soaked through his hands instantly. Hot. Fast. Too fast.

He dragged you behind the couch in one fluid motion, his back shielding yours as more glass sprayed across the room—fragments glinting in the air like falling stars. But no more shots came. One bullet. One message.

You coughed. Choked on your own breath.

“Johnny…” you managed, voice like smoke.

He ripped his jacket off and pressed it to your side, hand shaking so violently he almost missed. “Stay awake. Don’t you dare fucking close your eyes—don’t you dare—”

Tears flooded your vision. Not from pain. From the sound of him. You’d never heard him sound like that.

Like he was dying too.

“Help’s coming,” he said. It wasn’t a promise. It was a prayer.

Your lips parted, blood trickling into your mouth.

He pressed his forehead to yours, eyes wild, voice breaking. “I just got you back. I just got you back. Don’t leave me like this—not you—”

Your body was going cold.

But his hands never stopped holding you like they could pull your soul back in.

The Aftermath

The cold sting of antiseptic filled the air as Johnny rushed through the hospital doors, adrenaline still running through his veins, mixing with the heavy weight of panic.

You weren’t supposed to be here. You weren’t supposed to be hurt.

He wasn’t supposed to be holding your bleeding body in his arms, fighting for your life in the back of his car. It wasn’t supposed to be real.

But it was.

He shouted for help as soon as the doors opened, his hands shaking so badly he could barely feel the blood on them anymore. Your blood. The warmth of it on his skin still burned like fire.

“Emergency!” he barked, voice cracking with desperation.

They moved fast, voices echoing in the chaos, and in the blur of rushing hands, he finally let go. Reluctantly. He stepped back, watching helplessly as the doctors and nurses surrounded you—working fast, speaking in quick, sharp commands. He was useless in this moment, and it tore him apart.

“She’s losing too much blood!” one of the nurses shouted.

Johnny barely registered their words as he stood, frozen in the doorway. His chest was tight, his throat clogged. His body was still shaking from the shock, but it wasn’t from fear anymore. It was from the guilt. The ache of knowing he might’ve just lost the one person who ever meant anything.

One of the doctors looked at him, eyes hard, and gave him a single, firm command.

“You need to leave. Now.”

He didn’t argue. Didn’t fight. He turned, the weight of the world pressing on his shoulders as he stepped into the sterile hallway, his mind racing with a thousand thoughts that couldn’t be caught.

The hours dragged by.

Johnny didn’t leave the hospital. He didn’t sleep. He didn’t eat. He just waited.

And waited.

By the time the sun cracked the sky and the sterile lights in the hospital halls flickered to life, his eyes were sunken. He’d spent all night pacing, trying to stay awake, to stay present. But a deep, gnawing dread crawled under his skin—the fear that you might not make it.

The sound of a door opening caught his attention. A nurse appeared, her face tired but calm.

“She’s stable.” she said, her voice soft. “She’s going to be okay.”

Johnny exhaled. It was like he hadn’t realized he’d been holding his breath all this time. His heart beat again, and for the first time, the weight seemed a little less suffocating.

But it wasn’t enough. Not yet.

“Can I see her?” he asked, voice raw.

The nurse nodded.

When Johnny walked into your room, the sight of you—pale, bruised, breathing steadily beneath the sterile white sheets—nearly broke him all over again.

You were alive. You were breathing. And that was enough.

He stood by your bedside for a long time, just watching you. His eyes tracing every inch of your face, memorizing every detail in case he never got the chance again.

When your eyes finally fluttered open, it wasn’t shock or pain that crossed your face. It was relief.

“Johnny…” you whispered, your voice hoarse.

He took your hand, fingers trembling as he gently kissed the back of it. “I’m here. I’m here.”

“Don’t leave.” You whispered, barely audible. The faintest of smiles curled your lips.

“I’m not going anywhere, baby,” he whispered back.

And for that moment, it was enough. But not for long.

Hours later, you fell into a deep, healing sleep.

Johnny’s gaze lingered on your face one last time. He knew he should stay. He knew he shouldn’t go.

But there was something he had to do.

He quietly slipped out of the room, leaving a single kiss on your forehead, and as he walked down the empty hallway, the weight of the decision crushed him.

You’d live. You’d heal. But he couldn’t let this go.

Not yet.

The morning after, Johnny was already gone.

Blood Bath.

He didn’t wear gloves.

He wanted the blood on his hands.

Johnny didn’t knock when he entered the second-floor room of the warehouse. The metal door slammed open, a blinding flash of moonlight cutting across the shadows. Inside, the man who’d given the kill order—Leon Vargas—was seated at a round table, surrounded by half-empty glasses and two bodyguards.

Johnny didn’t hesitate.

Two bullets. Two guards dropped before they even reached their guns.

Vargas shot up from his chair, stumbling backward as Johnny strode in like death itself. Dressed in black, eyes cold, jaw tight—he looked like vengeance incarnate. His gun remained steady, a seamless extension of his fury.

“You shouldn't have touched her.”

“Johnny, wait—”

Johnny’s fist slammed into Vargas’ jaw, sending the man reeling against the wall. He followed him, grabbing him by the collar and slamming him down onto the table, glass shattering beneath the weight.

“Was it a message? Huh?” Johnny hissed, gun pressed to Vargas’ mouth. “That kindergarten teacher? My ex? That was the line you wanted to cross?”

“I didn't know—”

Another punch. This one split his lip.

“You did. You knew exactly what you were doing.”

Vargas coughed blood, a shaky laugh escaping. “You went soft. Thought you needed reminding.”

Johnny froze for a moment. That laugh. That arrogance.

Then he smiled.

But it wasn’t kind.

He reached for a knife from his belt—cold steel glinting in the low light—and drove it into Vargas’ thigh.

Scream.

Vargas writhed beneath him, blood pouring down the chair leg.

“I haven’t gone soft,” Johnny whispered into his ear, voice calm and cold. “I’ve gotten worse. Because of her.”

He twisted the blade slowly, like he was savoring it.

“I love her. You made me bleed for her. Now you’ll drown in yours.”

He pulled the knife free, slick and dripping, then stepped back and emptied his entire magazine into Vargas’ chest.

The final shot went into his head. Point blank.

Johnny stared at the body, chest heaving, blood on his hands, his face, his soul. But his eyes were calm now. His monster fed.

He dropped the empty magazine, reloaded, and turned without looking back.

His hands were stained red.

And now, finally, so was his soul.

Epilogue: “The Quietest Thing”

The city was far behind them now.

Up in the hills, where the clouds rolled slow and the nights came soft, a quiet house sat tucked behind rows of apricot trees. It smelled like jasmine in spring and woodsmoke in winter. And tonight, it smelled like home.

Johnny stood barefoot in the hallway, shoulder against the frame of her bedroom door.

Inside, your daughter was curled up under a pink blanket, knees tucked to her chest, a stuffed rabbit clutched tight in her arms. Her hair fanned out across the pillow like ink in water—thick and dark, just like his.

You stood at her bedside, humming something faint as you tucked the blanket higher. The glow from the nightlight kissed your cheek, and Johnny felt it again—that quiet, shattering ache of love so deep it felt like forgiveness.

“She’s growing fast,” he whispered.

You turned to him, smiling gently. “She’s already smarter than both of us.”

“She’s got your heart,” he murmured.

“She’s got your fight.”

You walked over, sliding your hand into his. He kissed the back of it, eyes drifting back to the tiny body sleeping peacefully in the bed.

“She asked me today if you were a superhero,” you whispered. “Said you have hands like a soldier but eyes like a prince.”

Johnny swallowed. “What did you tell her?”

“I said no,” you said softly. “You’re not a superhero.”

His heart thudded. You leaned in.

“You’re her father,” you whispered. “That’s better.”

Outside, the wind danced through the trees.

In the living room, Doyoung was passed out on the couch, glasses askew, a coloring book open on his chest—one your daughter had abandoned halfway through. Crayons littered the floor. Classical piano music still hummed faintly from the kitchen speaker.

The home was chaotic in the way only happy homes are.

Johnny reached for you as you stepped into the living room, pulling you gently onto his lap as he sank into the armchair near the fireplace. You melted into him like you always did—like the world outside didn’t exist anymore.

“I thought the blood would follow me forever,” he murmured into your shoulder. “Even when I left, I thought… one day, she’d see it in me.”

“She won’t,” you whispered. “Because it’s not there anymore.”

He held you tighter.

“You gave her a different name than the one you lived under,” you said. “You gave her peace. You gave her a life.”

He looked up at you slowly, eyes glassy, voice raw. “You gave me a soul.”

You leaned in, resting your forehead to his. “And she gave us a forever.”

That night, as the fire crackled low and the world quieted, Johnny slipped into his daughter’s room one last time.

He kissed her forehead, brushed a curl from her cheek, and whispered the words he never thought he’d live long enough to say:

“I love you, little one.”

She stirred faintly in her sleep, a soft hum escaping her.

And in that moment, Johnny realized:

He’d never be a monster again.

Because the only thing he killed now—was the past.

The End.

___________________________________________

[dadvans]

buck v. gerrard (season 8)

they'd probably play it for drama, but in a hypothetical break-up of the 118 where buck has to go report to gerrard, i can imagine him undermining gerrard in every way for pure hilarity:

gerrard tries to do the muddy boots on clean floor or chrome trick after buck is done cleaning. he gives buck a knowing look, but buck nods and is like, "don't worry, cap, i know the drill," then turns around and yells PROBIE! to get the new grad's attention, so he can delegate cleaning. the bigger problem is afterward when gerrard sees buck giving the probie a pat on the back, like, hey man, better than i've ever done it! look at that! great job! (Buck: 1, Gerrard: 0)

gerrard tries to make buck stay behind on-shift part one: buck does a full inventory, and when the truck rolls back in the house, buck is holding up new color-coded spreadsheets about regular inventory checks to be initialed by someone on each shift, x amount many times a week. surely, he won't be able to enforce it, but--

gerrard tries to make buck stay behind on-shift part two: when the truck rolls back in the house, buck has made dinner for everyone. "you hungry, guys?" he calls down. everyone goes upstairs to see a gourmet fucking meal, and the only thing that isn't absolutely spotless in the entire firehouse is buck's apron and the towel he has over his shoulder. gerrard, pissed, goes to eat his cold leftover pizza in his office, alone. (Buck: 2, Gerrard: 0)

so, after that, everyone is adhering to buck's inventory management schedule (Buck: 3, Gerrard: 0)

gerrard starts bringing buck on calls so he can't undermine him anymore, and he's heard about this kid, he's a disaster magnet and he doesn't always follow protocol, so maybe he'll be able to exercise his authority, find a clear cut path to a suspension or even (he tries not to be too hopeful) a termination. the only time buck goes against protocol is when a beam in a warehouse fire unexpectedly falls and pins gerrard to the floor when they're supposed to be evacuating, and buck's the one who turns around and saves him. (Buck: 4, Gerrard: 0)

gerrard wakes up in the hospital. buck is sitting there, fusses over him, and then in the gentlest way possible tells gerrard he's on administrative leave because of the shoulder, but it's ok! buck's been there before, i mean, when he was much younger so he's not sure what coming back from that's like at gerrard's age. before he leaves he's like, oh, and one more thing. takes out his phone, gets next to gerrard and snaps a selfie of the two of them. he then looks at the photo fondly, says, "ha. tommy's gonna love this one. okay, see ya, cap!" and leaves. (Buck: 5, Gerrard: 0)

[preciousjoongie]

⊹ HOTEL ⊹

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

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

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

(karina's pov)

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

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

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

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

[CONFIDENTIAL DIRECTIVE — RAVEN UNIT: BLACKLOTUS]

TO: KARINA

OPERATION CODE: ECLIPSE

TARGET:

Codename: LUNA

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

Affiliation: SIREN Syndicate

Status: High Threat

MISSION OBJECTIVE:

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

DETAILS:

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

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

WHY YOU:

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

WARNING:

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

No body, no payout.

No hesitation. No mercy.

Walk in quiet. Walk out alone.

End transmission.

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

(your pov)

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

[CLASSIFIED COMMUNIQUE — SIREN SYNDICATE]

TO: Y/N (Alias: Black Mamba)

MISSION CODE: BLACKCRESCENT

TARGET:

Name: KARINA (Alias: Karina)

Affiliation: RAVEN Syndicate – BLACKLOTUS Division

Status: High Priority Threat

OBJECTIVE:

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

INTEL:

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

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

WHY YOU:

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

DIRECTIONS:

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

DIRECTIVE FROM COMMANDER NYX:

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

No trace. No noise. No mercy.

Finish it.

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

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

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

(karina's pov)

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

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

fourth floor. button pressed. doors closed.

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

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

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

(your pov)

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

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

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

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

tomorrow. it all happens tomorrow.

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

(the next morning)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[writereleaserepeat]

Hear No Evil - Chapter 2

Masterlist

Chapter 1 // Chapter 3

CW: bbu, bbu-typical institutional slavery, nonsexual nudity, it/its pronouns used to dehumanize

Rowan hadn’t slept. Ever since he’d signed those papers, and ever since a tag reading sold was affixed to the top of the boy’s cage, he’d been caught in a whirlwind of panicked activity. There was so much to do, and not enough time to do it. As he walked out of the WRU warehouse, his head was spinning. He couldn’t even begin to imagine the essential rescue training he was missing, how much knowledge he lacked compared to the PLF’s experienced rehabilitators.

“Your delivery is scheduled between eleven and one,” the saleswoman had said as she handed him the paperwork, like the boy was a piece of furniture. There’d been no background check, no inquiry as to his credentials, no investigation to ensure that he was purchasing a pet for its intended purposes. The only questionnaire he’d been asked to fill out was related to his satisfaction with WRU’s service at the event – a survey he’d politely declined.

Just like that, with a stroke of a pen and a touch of his credit card to a digital terminal, Rowan had been granted the legal possession of a human being.

Still dizzy from the weight of responsibility he had just created, Rowan came to his senses long enough to make it home from the liquidation event. The rest of the day, and the rest of that night, were spent trying to make his condo ready for the incoming arrival.  

Dawn hadn’t yet come when Rowan’s phone buzzed. He stopped fussing with the clothes in the hamper long enough to see it was a text from “Josh J. (Work)”

Sure man, I’ll cover your shifts this week. Everything good? You basically never take PTO.

No, Rowan wanted to reply, things were most decidedly not good. He’d acted on a rash impulse and was way out of his depth. As someone who’d been working for a decade and a half as a pet liberationist, he’d sworn to do good. He’d sworn to dismantle the system, to save who he could, to protest injustice. All that time, all that effort, and he’d still put money right into WRU’s hands in a moment of weakness.

And for what? To bring home a victim he didn’t have the knowledge or skills to help? This wasn’t even a victim that was prioritized for rescue, one with a strong chance at rehabilitation and reintegration into society, but a young man from a liquidation event with some undisclosed and undiagnosed problem.

All of that, however, wasn’t his colleague’s problem. Rowan grit his teeth and drafted what he figured was an innocent white lie.

Yeah, I’m fine. It was a hectic weekend and I realized I haven’t taken time to breathe in years. I’d think I’ve earned a few days away.

He didn’t want to elaborate any further.

Hell yeah. The response buzzed almost instantly. Then another. You fucking deserve it. No one hustles like you, boss. Crack a beer, put on the PGA, and I’ll try to make sure the station doesn’t burn down before next Monday.

Rowan would most certainly not be cracking a few beers and putting golf on the TV. At that very moment, he was doing his best not to get sick from worry or pass out from exhaustion. There were mere hours between his present breath and the boy’s arrival.

He’d spent the night doing his best to get ready to face the consequences of his actions. He’d combed the PLF volunteer site and tried to read every manual they had available on rehabilitating victims. He’d pulled his desk and computer out of the windowless den and set up the futon to make a bed, something resembling a room for the boy to call his own. He’d run out to the nearest department store and filled his arms with clothes that would be close to the boy’s size, at least from what Rowan could best guess looking over the papers. He’d tried to clean up the condo, but it was going to be impossible to make the space look livable before his latest acquisition arrived.

Hole-ridden sheets stretched over an ancient futon, clothes that likely wouldn’t fit right, the last of the toiletries Rowan could find in the drawers, a bathroom that had been hastily scrubbed with Comet from the very back of the closet - it all would have to be good enough for now. It just had to be good enough until Rowan could get his shit together.

It wasn’t much comfort to tell himself that it was probably better than what the boy had had in a long time.

As his shaking hands tried to fold yet another oversized sweatshirt - the boy would like that, wouldn’t he, something comfortable and warm? - Rowan knew there was one more call he had to make before the boy’s arrival. As much as he wanted to run from the reality of what he’d done, hide in shame from the fact his impulses had brought him to such an untenable situation, he also knew that he couldn’t get through this alone. He’d signed the papers, the charge had hit his card, he’d shaken the salesperson’s hand. He now legally owned a human being, a trafficking victim, an abuse survivor.

Folding laundry would have to wait. It was already almost seven in the morning, and the day wasn’t getting any younger. Rowan heaved a shaking breath from his lungs and sat down on the couch cushion next to the hamper. He hated how much his fingers trembled as he hovered over the familiar contact in his favorites list. It was two hours later on the east coast, and Grey would be on his way to the office if he wasn’t there already.

A lump lodged in Rowan’s throat as he hesitated again, face hot with shame. He’d come to his extensive privileges with the PLF through consistent dedication to the cause. His typical level-headedness and rationality had prevailed time and again, earning him promotion after promotion. He was one of their most crucial and well-hidden operatives currently active in the field. And yet, and yet, here he was, a pet arriving at his doorstep with no foresight or forewarning.

“How are you supposed to help this victim recover if you can’t even make a phone call, you idiot?” Rowan chastised himself through a grimace as he rubbed his palm across his furrowed brows. Rationally, making this phone call was the best way to get both himself and his incoming houseguest the help that they needed. Rationally, Rowan knew that he had to make this phone call sooner or later. But rationality hadn’t exactly been the captain of his choices over the last twenty-four hours.

It took another minute of gnawing on his lower lip before Rowan finally brought himself to hit the call button. The phone rang once, twice, three times, and-

“Hey there, Rowan! How’s my favorite videographer and secret agent?” The familiar and ever-cheerful voice washed over Rowan like a ray of welcome sunlight. It was warm and relieving, and some of Rowan’s tension immediately melted away. He could do this.

“Morning, Grey.”

“Yeah, it’s a morning indeed! What is it, not even seven there yet? Early morning for a busy man. You doing alright after the liquidation event yesterday? Any chance to pull footage or sound bytes yet? I’ve told her she needs to be patient, but you know Darcy is when they’re waiting on new content for our socials.”

Rowan took a breath and closed his eyes.

“Listen, man, I need your help. I went to the liquidation event, I got set up to take footage like I always did, they let me in without a hitch. But- but I might have done something a little impulsive when I was there.” The entirety of the admission wasn’t quite ready to come to Rowan’s lips, the words lodged somewhere behind the lump in his throat.

“Please don’t tell me they clocked you,” Grey groaned, his words thick with anxiety. It was the groan of worry that came with all the stresses of Grey’s status.

The two friends might have begun their time at the PLF together back in college, but while Rowan had been content as an agent with boots on the ground and neck on the line, but Grey’s ambition had taken him on the executive track. While Rowan busied himself with infiltrating warehouses and transportation trucks, Grey had climbed the ranks to become Vice President of the North American Division of the PLF. Although their career paths had diverged along with their practices, they’d remained as close as ever through their ideals and hard-fought friendship. And so Grey had become a full-time liberation executive, while Rowan kept his craft to weekends and evenings between his full-time job at the TV station.

“No, nothing like that,” Rowan said, falling over his words as he tried to soothe Grey’s fears. “No cops, no drama, no one suspected a thing. I got all of the footage I’d hoped to get, some sound bytes too. There was some seriously fucked up stuff, worse than usual, and it’ll make some great clips for us, this is some really great material. I’ll be editing it this weekend, at least I’d planned to do that, and-“

“Take a breath, man, take a breath. If you got in and out without a hitch, why’s the sky falling?”

Rowan swallowed, and pressed on.

“I- I, uh- I saw a victim there. I mean, I saw a lot of them, right, that’s the whole point of the event, that’s why we go. But you know, there was this one. There was something different about this one, okay? I can’t tell you what it was, you just, you’d have to see it to believe it, to feel what I felt. I looked at him, and I just- I couldn’t say no. It’s like he begged me to live with just his eyes. I’ve never seen anything like it before, and I mean never, and you know how long I’ve been doing this. So I- I guess- I rescued him. Bought him, really, if I’m not going to sugarcoat it. Cash upfront for a lifetime contract, signed on the warehouse floor, delivery set for later this afternoon. He should arrive in about four hours, actually, now that I look at the time.”

There was a pause, and Rowan could hear a slight crackling over the line as Grey took a breath. Finally, when Grey’s voice came again, it was more tired than Rowan had heard in quite some time.

“Jesus Christ,” Grey muttered. Rowan could picture his exasperated face even from more than a thousand miles away. “What were you thinking? You aren’t trained as a rescuer, you haven’t been assigned a rehabilitation team, and there’s no way we can get him in for an urgent medical work-up on such short notice. We’re not prepared for another intake, and you’re not-“

“I know, I know. I fucked up. I fucked up big time.” It was Rowan’s turn to cut his friend off. That guilt, that shame, it was heavier and heavier as Grey confirmed Rowan’s worst fears. This was a fuck-up on a massive scale. But there was no going back now. That boy was going to be in his home today, and he was going to be alive. That had to count for something, right?

“What’s wrong with him, huh?” Grey asked this over the sound of distant keystrokes. It was like the frustration from just moments ago had dissipated, and the confident leader had emerged with an air of business around him. It was that very trait that had made Grey a no-brainer for such a high-ranking role within the PLF. “You rescued him from a liquidation event, so this isn’t going to be a standard rescue case. Give me some more details, and I can try to connect you to a rehabilitator nearby for immediate and emergency intervention. I’ll need you to send me scans of the purchase papers, the ones with your contract, as well as any that come in his box later. Do you have his WRU ID number? I’m opening a rescue file in our system for him now.”

And now it was Rowan’s turn to let out a breath of relief. There was no anger left – no, there never had been anger to begin with – as Grey proved that he was every inch the liberationist that hundreds admired him to be. If Grey was going to scold Rowan, it would come at a much later time.

“I don’t actually know why he was sent for liquidation,” Rowan admitted as he hauled himself off the couch and walked back over to the kitchen table. It was piled with papers and books, all displaced during his frenzied cleaning and preparatory efforts, and it would probably take him some time to figure out where he’d actually put the contract papers. “I only had a few moments of contact with him on the floor, and the sales agent was vague. I looked over the papers, but it was only as far as the sales agent had mentioned in their words – he’s a dual-trained Domestic-Romantic with no apparent problems other than so-called ‘selective obedience.’ He apparently went through their standard and advanced refurbishment programs, but that didn’t fix the obedience issues. Cognitively, he was attentive and lively on the floor, capable of making eye contact and engaging with his surroundings. Physically, well, it was hard to tell under the jumpsuit. I saw some of the usual scarring under his uniform, and some fresh wounds on the sides of his face, but that’s it.”

Grey hummed as the keystrokes continued.

“Alright, well, that’s not really helpful. Sometimes they don’t share the true reason for the liquidation, and it’s up for the rescuer and their team to figure out the extent of the issues. I’ll need to get you a case manager who can follow up once he’s had his medical work-up and paperwork fully reviewed. It looks like our roster has a special-instance rehabilitator located about twenty minutes away from you, and I’ve already got her assigned to the case in our system. She’ll be the person you report to until we get a case manager for you both. She’s been with the PLF for about four years now, with twelve total successful rehabilitations, eight being special cases from liquidation events or other emergency rescues. I’ve sent her your contact information just now, and I told her to reach out as soon as possible. I hope she can get out there today, it being a Sunday and all. Her name is Angela Herrera, phone number ending in 8742, so pick it up when she calls.”

“You’re a miracle worker, Grey.” These five minutes had already changed everything. Rowan – and the boy – weren’t in this alone. They had not just the weight of the PLF, but the power of Rowan’s dearest friend, behind them now. Help was on the way. And by god, Rowan was going to take that help with open arms.

Grey gave a soft, strained chuckle.

“No, you’re the miracle worker today. You have given a human being a second chance at life, and that’s worth more than all the money in the world. Now, I would never recommend what you’ve today done to anyone, and it’s not going to be an easy path forward. But I know you did it with a good heart, and with good intentions. Most of all, I know that you are more than capable to handle this, even in these less-than-ideal circumstances. You are strong and you are smart – you’re going to have to be, for the sake of this boy.”

“I know. I will be. I’m going to do this, and I’m going to do it right from here on out. Even if this is how it has to start, it’s by-the-book going forward. You have my word I am going to put my whole heart and soul into making this right. Not for my sake, but his.”

Even without words, Rowan could feel Grey smiling.

“I know. Of all the people in the world, I can always trust you, even if you’re an idiot sometimes. Don’t worry about the footage from the event until you have your new guest settled in, alright? Any new liberation material can wait, and if Darcy bugs you about it, tell them to talk to me. Make sure you read through the PLF rescue manual on the rehabilitation site, then when you’re done reading it, read it again. When your guest arrives make sure you use a conversational tone, soft voice, lots of praise, slow movements and hand gestures, all of that stuff we went over in training for interacting with victims in the early stages of recovery. I know it’s been years since you took the training, but it’ll come back to you.”

“Of course. I already have the manual printed out and on my table somewhere – fuck, I swear I printed it, along with ten thousand other things, it’s here somewhere – but I read it. I’ll read it again now, as soon as I hang up. I’ll let you go so you can get back to your job saving the world. I’ve got my hands full over here, I guess. And, Grey… thanks for your help. Really. I guess I should thank you for not chewing me out either.”

“Oh, don’t count that out yet,” Grey said. “I’ll save the chewing out for a more opportune time, well after your new guest is settled in. Hell, I hope I can do it in person. We’re overdue for a visit anyway, and of course I’d love to meet your guest.”

“Noted.” Rowan felt his smile twinge slightly into a grimace. Of course, he wouldn’t get let off the hook so easily, not under Grey’s watch. “I’ll be on the lookout for a call from Angela or you, yeah? Otherwise, I’ve got to finish getting ready.”

“Yes, of course. Like I said, call me if you need anything, and I mean anything. Just because I’m Vice President now doesn’t mean I’m not your friend. You call, and I will pick up.”

“Likewise. Always. Chat later, Grey.”

“Later, Rowan.”

As soon as Rowan hung up he collapsed back into the couch, the already-wrinkled rescue manual clutched between sweaty fingers. There was so much to learn, so much to do, and so little time to do it. But it had to be better than death, right? Whether that was a lie or the truth, it was what Rowan had to tell himself now. Grey was on his side, and the weight of the PLF was behind him. They were going to give this boy a fighting chance at life, a second chance to live as a man, and not as someone’s pet.

It would be Rowan’s greatest challenge yet.

---

The third cup of coffee had just finished brewing in Rowan’s coffee pot when there was a knock at the door. It was half-past eleven, and despite knowing that this moment had been coming, the tightness in Rowan’s chest suddenly became as heavy as a stone. There was hardly a breath left in his lungs as he stumbled in a daze to the door.

He peered through the peephole and, sure enough, there were two men in WRU-branded coveralls waiting on his welcome mat.

A final deep breath in, heart fluttering like a hummingbird’s wings, and Rowan threw the door open.

“Good morning, Mr. Bailey. We’re here to complete your delivery.” The man’s voice was monotonous, droning, almost exhausted. It was like he was going door-to-door selling gym memberships rather than delivering a human being to a stranger’s home. And just as a salesman would, he shoved a clipboard with a thick stack of papers in Rowan’s direction.

“I need to scan your ID and have you fill out this confirmation paperwork. Once that’s done, my colleague and I will go get your delivery from the truck. As soon as it’s in your possession, you’ll have a final release paper to sign to effectuate the property transfer.”

Property. That’s all the boy was in the eyes of the law. In Rowan’s care he would be so much more, but for now, Rowan had to play into the charade for a few minutes longer. He grabbed the clipboard with sweating palms.

“Yeah, sure. Let me see those.” He scribbled something resembling his signature on any line he could find, wanting to get this over with as soon as possible, and slammed the pen down as he reached the final page. “There, I think I’ve got it all. Here’s my driver’s license, that alright?”

The man looked over Rowan’s ID, apparently blasé as he matched the birth date on the plastic to the one Rowan had scrawled on the paper, then handed it back to Rowan with a grunt.

“Looks like everything’s in order here. We’ll be back in about ten minutes with your purchase. Does this building have a freight elevator? Tends to be a bit easier to maneuver for us.”

“Yeah, down the hall and to the left past the fire doors. Can’t miss it.”

“Great, thanks. We’ll be right back.”

And to their credit, they were. After only seven minutes of Rowan pacing his recently-cleaned hallway, all of his shoes tucked in the shoe rack rather than strewn across the tiles, a second knock came at the door. This time, when Rowan opened it, there was a large pine box on dollies between the two WRU personnel. The first thought that crossed Rowan’s mind was how much it looked like a coffin.

“Alright, here’s your delivery. Is the hallway fine, or do you have a room set aside?”

Rowan did have a room, but he didn’t want anyone associated with WRU in his home a moment longer than they had to be.

“Hallway is fine.”

“Great. Then we’ll go ahead and put your box there, and once we’ve got it off the dollies, we’ll require your signature right here.” Another paper on yet another clipboard was thrust into his hands, and Rowan’s mouth was dry as the box was rolled into his hall and heaved off the dolly and onto the floor. There wasn’t a sound except for the slight scrape of pine across the floor, and then the scratching of a half-dead ballpoint pen across paper, and then the shuffling of even more paper.

The WRU delivery staff gave a final look over where Rowan had signed before a forced smile came over their faces. The tall one spoke in a tired service voice, just like a cashier who was pitching a club card.

“Congratulations, Mr. Bailey, the transaction is complete and the property has been fully transferred into your ownership. The rest of the documentation for your purchase and otherwise accompanying the product are contained in the box, including an additional copy of the sales contract and the property’s medical and training records. Further information, if necessary, can be obtained from WRU directly, as can additional copies or digital copies of the necessary documentation. When putting any inquiry in with WRU, please use both your purchase number and the product’s WRU-issued identification number. If you’ve been satisfied with today’s service and delivery, please fill out the survey that will be sent to the email we have on file for you. While the cost of delivery was included with your purchase price, at the conclusion of the survey, you will have the option to leave a cash tip if you were particularly satisfied with today’s delivery service. Thank you for choosing WRU.”

The words bounced off Rowan’s consciousness as his attention turned to the box. The boy was in that box, waiting for him. All he could bring himself to do was wave off the delivery personnel with an open hand.

“Got it, I’ll look for the survey and all that. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’d like to tend to my… purchase.”

Before they could respond Rowan shut the door on them. They would receive no additional praises or compensation for their role in facilitating this abuse. What mattered now was that Rowan was, legally, the boy’s owner. And the boy was here now in his possession.

Rare courage overcame Rowan. Perhaps it was the fear driving him, perhaps it was the anticipation, or perhaps it was delirium from the all-nighter. Whatever it was, Rowan didn’t spare a single spare moment before undoing the deadbolts on the top of the box and heaving the lid open.

And there, laying motionless in a bed of straw, naked but for the black leather collar around his neck, was the boy.

---

Light pierced the pet’s eyes like a bolt of lightning. Its ears had been ringing, and although it couldn’t hear what had transpired beyond the walls of its box aside from the slight murmur of voices, it had prepared for the lid of the box to be opened.

You’re lucky, Handler Green had said with his hand wrapped around the pet’s throat, moments before it was thrown into the box and the lid cut off any light. You’re not going to die today. This is your last chance, so don’t fuck it up.

The last few hours – had it been hours, or had it been longer? – in the box had been filled with little more than abject terror. No amount of breathing exercises or attempts at sleep had soothed its nerves. All it could think of was the future ahead, the new master that would await it once the box was finally opened, how it would make its first impression to the person that held its life in their hands. If it failed here and now, it would surely die.

All it wanted now, and all it had ever wanted, was to be a good pet who served its masters well. It rehearsed its positions between waves of panic attacks, it silently recited its old master’s favorite recipes step-by-step until the ingredients sounded like poetry in its mind, and it stretched each morning to keep itself flexible and pliable. It tried its best to listen in training, no matter how hard the ringing had made it. And when it received punishments or corrections, no matter how severe, it remained silent.

Now, with light streaming into its box, it had a final chance to prove that it was good. The pet was certain that it could be good, be useful, be the perfect pet its new master wanted. Though fear was sticky on its parched tongue, it knew from training that fear would lend itself to its determination and would likewise reduce its error rates. Today, on this very first date, that fear would serve it well.

Fear meant that it was still alive.

The pet had been specifically trained for this moment, and it was well-practiced in this first essential maneuver. Handler Green had gone over the routine with it again last night after it had been brought back to the training facility from the warehouse. For once, Handler Green hadn’t administered any additional punishments as they rehearsed the motions. Perhaps that meant the pet had done something right.

In those same fluid movements it had practiced just some hours ago, the pet sat up from where it had been nestled in the straw, heaved a leg over the side of the box, then another, and threw itself to the floor and onto its knees. Its legs tucked comfortably beneath it in the kneeling position, the same one it had been taught to assume from those earliest days in training. Its joints ached from the time in the box, but pain wouldn’t stop the pet now, it never did. The pet did many things wrong, but not this one small thing – it could kneel as long as its master needed.

And though the pet didn’t dare raise its eyes, the flash of movement from its hurried scramble to the floor confirmed its fearful suspicions. That same man that had stood outside its cage at the warehouse, the same one it had accidentally made eye contact with, was its master now.

Hands on its lap, the pet bowed its head, kept its gaze low and fixed on the dark wood floors. Although its ears rang, and although it couldn’t quite hear if Master was speaking, it strained for the relief and release of a command all the same. All it wanted was the chance to prove, once and for all, that it was good.

---

Taglist:

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@dislexiher @cc1010foxy @onlybadendings @panstardalia @tempoghast

@dokidokisadness @anonfromcanada @starfields08000 @bloodredfountainpen @pumpkin-spice-whump

[cbjpeg]

Yokohama, Japan 2023 © Christian Baumgarten

[starryeyedstray]

fic premise: when hank and connor reunite and hug it out at chicken feed, hank realizes that deviancy isn't the only new thing about connor. he's got trauma now too.

In the aftermath of the Android Revolution, Connor had been busy. His missions were clear: organize security and make New Jericho safe for androids. That was clear. Many days were spent organizing and meeting and talking and surveilling and patrolling and discussing. Androids didn’t need sleep. They could just keep performing tasks endlessly. And so that’s what Connor did. He kept going and going. Distracting himself. Completing his missions. It wasn’t that Connor was hesitant to go into stasis. That he was reminded how he would go into stasis every time he reported to Cyberlife. Every time he was in the Zen Garden. Every time he saw Amanda. He wasn't afraid that if he went into stasis they would seize control again. Connor was just busy. Busy completing his new missions.  

And then 3 weeks passed. And then suddenly he was told to rest. 

“I’ve seen you working Connor. You haven’t stopped and I know you’re up doing patrols while the rest of us go into stasis,” Markus said one day when it felt like things were finally settling down. “You need a break.” 

“Markus, I don't need a break. I can function optimally as I am.” 

“I’m not taking no for an answer. I’m telling you to rest. Take a break for a day. You can get back to fulfilling your role here tomorrow. Now go rest.” 

Connor knew he could probably persist or ignore his orders. But Connor vowed to make up for what he had done in the past by helping Markus. And if Markus was issuing a command, he was going to follow through.  

“Got it,” he replied.  

“Thank you. See you here tomorrow.” 

Connor left the warehouse that was New Jericho’s temporary HQ and started walking. He could stick around New Jericho, but he knew some deviants still felt discomforted by his presence. Plus, with how crowded it was, it'd be difficult to find a place for him to idle without bothering anyone. And he didn't like being idle anyway.

He considered calling for a cab, but he wasn’t sure if he’d be able to do that anymore. Cyberlife had covered any extraneous costs that were incurred while he worked on cases, but now that he severed himself from Cyberlife he was certain that they would not be covering those expenses. Besides, he didn’t know where he wanted to go. So he just walked. He flipped his coin absently as he did. He was supposed to be taking a break. But he had no where to go. When he went deviant, he lost all directive. He could no longer go back to Cyberlife.

He flipped his coin as he came at an intersection. Heads was left. Tails was right. Heads. He did that many times until he realized that he was near somewhere familiar. A soft snow had begun falling and Connor realized he was approaching Chicken Feed, the food truck Hank had taken him to when they worked together. Hank.

Connor had not seen Hank since the night of the Android Revolution. In the midst of all the androids awakening another at the Cyberlife Tower, Connor suggested that Hank leave since it could get dangerous. Hank agreed and Connor escorted him out of the building along with the army of new deviants.  

Before Hank got in the car that the other Connor had tricked him into driving here, Connor announced, “Lieutenant, I regret to inform you that I will no longer be your partner at the DPD. I only worked there under the collaborative directive between the DPD and Cyberlife. I have since terminated my associations with Cyberlife.” 

“No shit, kid.” 

Connor hesitated before continuing. “I’m sorry you got dragged into all of this, but I really did enjoy our time together, Hank. Perhaps, we will meet again.” 

Hank grasped his shoulder and gave it a squeeze. “Come visit me, kid. When things have settled down. You know where to find me.” 

“Past experience suggests that you are not always where you're supposed to be,” Connor said a hint of a smile on his lips. 

Hank laughed, “That never stopped you from finding me before.” 

The likelihood of Hank being here at the same time as Connor was very low. The food truck wouldn't be open and many humans have already evacuated Detroit. In fact, the probability of Hank being here while Connor was at this time of day was 0.8%. But Connor rounded the corner anyway. He had nowhere else to be. He was supposed to be on a break. And then he saw something in the distance. A large figure cutting against the white backdrop of the snow. 

Connor quickened his pace. A scan confirmed it. It was Hank. Hank turned as if expecting him and took a few steps toward him. They stopped short a couple feet of each other. Connor was unsure of what to say. He wasn’t sure what he should say. But Hank cracked a smile and Connor couldn’t help but crack one too. The lieutenant then stepped forward and pulled him into a hug. Connor had never hugged before. But he instinctually lifted his arms to reciprocate the hug. Hank's hand was at his neck holding him in place and it felt... comforting.

They stayed quiet before Hank finally released him. Hank had been worried that the revolution was gonna fail somehow. That he was going to lose Connor.  It hadn’t and he hadn’t. Everything turned out okay for the most part. Hank opted to hold Connor out at arm's length, hands on his shoulders. “It's been awhile. Thought you had forgotten about me.” 

“Androids don't forget unless our memory is reset.” 

“It’s just an expression.” Hank grinned. “Surprised you found me out here at this time of day.” 

“I was not seeking you… It happened by chance.” 

Hank furrowed his eyebrows. “Seriously?” 

“I was told to take a break. So I walked and arrived here.” 

Hank laughed. “They told you to take a break, eh? I’m taking one too. What do they got you doing out there?” 

They began a slow walk around the area as they swapped stories. The DPD was in chaos with all the precinct changes and trying to manage the evacuation and handling looters and protesters. It was difficult work.  

“The workload would be a helluva lot easier if you still worked there.” 

“I did increase your productivity by 87% while we were partners.” 

“You pull those number out of your ass?” 

“It was based off performance re—” 

“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” Hank said with a nonchalant hand wave. He had learned it was better to just cut off Connor sometimes. Hank eyed the darkening sky and the increased snowfall. “Let’s go. The snows really piling on.”

And indeed it did. The snow fell faster quickly after. The temperature dropping that even Connor’s HUD showed a warning that he would soon be outside of optimal operation range. The wind picked up a flurry of snow wrapping around him. It felt cold.  

And he was back in the Zen Garden. A figure appeared in front of him through the blizzarding snow. It was Amanda. “We just had to wait for the right moment to resume control of your program."

...

Hank began to quickly shuffle to his car as the snow and wind began to bluster around him. “Damn, might not be able to drive if it gets any worse,” he called back. 

No response.  

He turned and saw Connor had fallen behind him a bit. “Con—” 

A bright pulsing red LED caught Hank’s attention. Something was wrong. Hank ran over. “Connor!” he called. Connor’s eyelids were fluttering. His arms wrapped protectively around himself. He grasped Connor’s shoulders and shook him. “Connor? What’s wrong? Connor!” he called. The once gentle snow becoming a blizzard.

Connor finally responded to the haphazard shaking. His eyes rapidly blinking until they finally focused on the lieutenant. LED shifting to yellow. “Hank?” 

“C’mon kid,” he called as he pulled Connor toward the car. They entered and Hank turned it on. The storm made the visibility low so they would have to wait it out for now before driving home. 

Hank dusted off some of the snow and eyed Connor who still seemed a bit unfocused. His LED spun yellow 3 more times before switching back to blue. 

“What the hell happened back there?” 

“What are you referring to, Lieutenant?” 

“You stopped back there and.. your light was red. What happened?” 

Connor looked away. His blue light turning yellow briefly as he thought. Hank could see the glow off the window. “I don’t know.” His arms were still tightly wrapped around his chest. Remembering the cold.  

“Is it too cold or something?” Hank questioned. He didn’t really know how androids worked, but maybe they weren’t supposed to be out in the snow for that long. Hell, Connor was wearing just that thin blazer he always wore. He must be cold. Hank began taking off his jacket and turned up the heater. 

“I am functional until temperatures drop below zero degrees Fahrenheit.” 

Hank tossed him his jacket. 

“I assure you that you need a jacket more than I do. Androids don’t feel the effects of the cold unless its well below freezing.” 

“Well, ya look cold.” 

“Lieutenant—” 

“Just put it on.” 

The car’s temperature was warm enough for a human to be relatively comfortable even without a jacket so Connor obliged to appease Hank.  

Hank sighed. “So if it wasn’t the cold, what caused your err… malfunction?” He wasn’t sure what word he should use to describe what happened to Connor. 

Connor wasn’t sure if he wanted to tell the truth or lie. He considered Hank a friend. Previously, it had been a part of his programming to cooperate with his partner. But now there was no end goal or reason to remain close to Hank. They weren’t solving a case. But Connor still wanted his company.  

“A recording of a memory replayed in my head that I had not pulled up intentionally.” His LED was spinning yellow. 

“A recording of a memory… so like a flashback?” 

“That is the equivalent human experience.” 

“I take it, it wasn’t a very good memory.” 

Connor closed his eyes. LED flashing. Yellow. Red. Yellow. He opened his eyes again. “It was not.” 

Hank studied Connor’s face. It was neutral now, but not the usual neutral face he usually sported. There was a lightness to that neutral face. A brightness in his eyes. There was tension in this one. His eyes flickered to Connor’s reflection in the opposite window. LED still yellow.

Could androids get PTSD? If their brains were wired like a humans, maybe they could. There were cases where androids would go through trauma and injury causing them to deviate and they were sent for reprogramming. Or disassembled. It had been so natural at the time, but the thought of that now made his stomach turn. There was no way in hell he’d let that happen to Connor. They’d find another solution. But what the hell would Connor even find traumatic?  

Hank recalled the first time he had remembered it turning red. This was before he learned what the colors really meant. He had seen interrogated android’s LEDs flicker red or yellow previously so he knew what it generally meant stress or something. But he never gave it much thought. Until he saw Connor’s go red.

Against Hank’s orders, Connor had dived into the middle of gunfire to try to read a deviant’s memories. The deviant shot himself in the head and Hank had come running after Connor panicked that he had been injured. He grabbed the android to see if he was hurt. And berated him with a mix of anger and relief when Connor said he was okay. And then Connor admitted he was scared. And Hank hesitated. Noticed the red LED for the first time. Before Hank could even come up with something to say, Connor was back to his usual self. Focus. Driven. Blue LED. Back to the mission. Revealing the clue he had found out about Jericho. It almost gave Hank mental whiplash. He had seemed so frightened but now he was back to normal. At the time, he figured androids didn’t hold onto trauma like that. But now, he suspected Connor was just really good at pushing it down for the sake of the mission. 

He later learned that red was an indicator of severe distress. So he started paying attention to the color of Connor’s LED.  

The second time he had seen Connor’s LED go red was when they were at Kamski’s house. Hank didn’t like Kamski. Everything about him screamed he was a pompous asshole living in his ivory tower. Him and his fucking Kamski Test. Connor had almost shot that android girl. But despite Kamski’s persistence, he relented, his LED flashing red. Hank was so relieved he hadn’t really noticed at the time. Not until he was back in the car driving back to the station.  

It was strange. Even with a gun to his face and his life on the line, Connor’s LED only ever was yellow. Real physical danger never seemed to distress Connor. Feeling scared. Feeling empathy. Those are what had distressed Connor. What made his LED flash red. Acknowledging emotions before he had deviated. So what emotion had triggered it today? 

“Do you want to talk about it?” The snowstorm had lightened up; the blizzard passing. A light flurry of snow remained.  

Yellow. Red. Yellow. If Hank hadn’t been staring he would have missed it. 

“No.” 

Hank sighed. He knew what it was like for people to pry so he wouldn’t. “Let’s go to my place.” 

-end-

hope y'all enjoyed this piece!! it's part of a larger fic i've been working on but haven't made much progress recently. i haven't been writing much lately (too focused on drawing) but wanted to release this and maybe get some motivation to finish the fic haahahhah.

[nonverbalnaji]

Merfolk Anatomy and Worldbuilding for my Jayvik Mermaid AU

Cross posting from the threads I did over on Bluesky into one place for ease with some wording adjusted for clarity. This is what I've done for my fic The Ebb and Flow of You which is on Ao3.

Please note before you read on that I will be discussing physical speculative anatomy, the impacts of that on society, culture, and gender, as well as information about reproduction. Additionally, in my fic I tweak how Viktor's disabilities present, and he doesn't have a terminal illness. (Tooth-rotting Fluff is a big tag for my fic aha).

Setting - Undercity Underwater

So in this story, Zaun is the underwater city/region for merfolk and Piltover is much the same but spanning over both sides of the bridge. Topside/Bottomside and Undercity are still used as terms between them

Zaun is made up of three levels in Runeterra and Arcane. The Promenade (where the warehouse is), the Entresol level (the lane), and the Sump (the fissures and mines). Fissures were easy to nod to underwater, while the Promenade and Entresol is more about proximity to the city than levels of depth.

While Vander isn't a Baron in the show, he still holds a position of power that felt analogous to here. He and Silco still had a fight, but in a slightly different context with the scarring becoming promenant due to Gray toxins which is a mixture of underwater gases and pollutants from Topside.

While I figure an air-based and water-based pollutant would work differently, I've gone with the assumption that the Gray is still trapped in certain areas or zones that affect the livability due to the toxicity affecting food sources and farming potential, as well as being a risk to construction.

Merfolk Anatomy and Viktor

A thread on the merfolk anatomy I have in The Ebb and Flow of You. While this was based on the amazing art by Snow Le Art, it was as early as chapter 1 that I realized that there would be some differences that I wanted to make logical sense (or at least to me) in regards to fins and organs.

As a quick aside, Silco is half merfolk and half Sharfin (shak fin with constant elision) hence why he has a sharp sense of smell. It's also thanks to discussing logisitics of mpreg with my partner that 'seataurs' were coined since we were talking about how seahorses aren't actually viviparous.

We'll get to that topic in another thread but this will be covering fins and why Viktor has hearing issues. When I wrote this thread initially, I realize I've hit a bit of a plot hole perhaps, but I'm going with he learnt to talk and the issues were a later development from being born in the Gray.

In my mind, merfolk have: a pair of pelvic fins, one on each hip; an underfin that starts at the edge of their 'seam' or 'pouch' and ends where their tail has a knee-like bone (idk maybe); their dorsal fin extends from their scales and there's a slight colouration there and where scales end.

Viktor was born with a twisted spine, and as such this is shown with his dorsal fin. One of the important functions of a dorsal fin is to keep fish from rolling belly up, so Viktor needed to compensate for this, he swims slower than other mer and with a tilt if he's not moving his hips as he swims

This was to nod to his leg like in the show, even though the injury to his tail fin is also analogous. While he won't be dying in this fic, the delayed impact of breathing the Gray was a usable reason for what I will get to in the fic regarding his hearing which might sound strange buuuttttt

There are some Amazonian fish that have enlarged swim bladders (used to breathe and buoyancy) that have evolved to have *lung tissue* and so they breathe air. Perfect for merfolk! THEN I came across something called the Weberian Apparatus, which connects the swim bladder to the auditory system...

This apparatus uses the swim bladder as a kind of resonance chamber, so my logic here is that it's either not fully developed for Viktor or there's some issues that need investigating perhaps, you'll have to read on to find out but it was a neat find to adapt his lung issues to hearing issues

When I word it like that it sounds weird XD Worldbuilder things though.

Merfolk Reproduction - the Hear Me Out

So. Cloacas. Hear me out. In part, it was from a 'Why Not Both' moment but also because I was trying to figure out if merfolk would have a similar separation of uh, passages like we humans do. For fish, their anal or cloacal fin (which I've dubbed as underfin) can separate these passages.

It also made sense that even without a cloaca that there would be a pouch or sorts to protect uh, appendages. While it's more so amphibians and non-bony fish that can have cloacas, technically by definitions, merfolk *are* a kind of amphibian, being able to breathe both under water and in air.

It also made sense that even without a cloaca that there would be a pouch or sorts to protect uh, appendages. While it's more so amphibians and non-bony fish that can have cloacas, technically by definitions, merfolk *are* a kind of amphibian, being able to breathe both under water and in air.

In the previous thread I mentioned Seataurs or Seahorses being ovoviviparous. Instead of this live birth like mammals, this means that they hold eggs that develop internally before birthing them. Otherwise, fish are ovoparous, in that they lay eggs and either fertilized before or after.

I decided to have both as an option, taking into account environmental and social safety as both can have advantages and disadvantages. While carrying an egg can make sure it's safe, it does put the birthing parent at risk, but laying eggs is also risky depending on where the eggs are laid.

The other thing I wanted to explore was the impact of this physiology on gender identity and expression. And at least in a fantasy setting, accessibility for transfolks and any diversity is a no-brainer to me. So while this story won't focus on the humans, the city of progress is progressive here.

This is also nodding to what I've read about fish that change their reproductive anatomy in response to environmental circumstances as well as some fish like clown fish who literally transition from male to female as part of maturing. So in this fic, merfolk are androgynous and change as they grow

This means that modelling of diversity and education is important for understanding. It wouldn't be a sudden change say from the ages of roughly 12-25, and experimentation with pronouns and expression would be a norm. Viktor's case, he has leant masculine but not too far from androgyny out of choice

The flexibility and choice in part is because I like the idea of Viktor being able to have a space where he can experiment and explore, living his best life vibes. Even when he falls pregnant, that won't make him any less masculine, just like with any seahorse dad. Hopefully I can write this well <3

And if this all sounds interesting, you can find this fic over on Ao3 here:

[in1-nutshell]

Can I request Artemis, M'gam, Robin, and Aqualad reacting to to DCpool destroying a wave of enemy robots while dancing to Bye Bye Bye?

That song was living rent free in my head for MONTHS when I went to go see it.

Hope you enjoy!

Artemis, Aqualad, M'gann and Robin react to DCpool doing the 'Bye, Bye, Bye Dance'

SFW, Platonic, Mention of injury, Mutant reader

YOUNG JUSTICE

As usual the covert mission was a bust and now the team was fighting for their lives.

Well, everyone else was fighting for their lives, DC was having the time of his life.

Pat of the team had been splintered off all across the warehouse where the enemy robots were housed.

DC found himself surrounded by the biggest group of robots.

DC has both his katanas out before looking at the audience. DC: “Oh I think you know what am about to do with these wannabe Terminators. Same thing Wade did to those TVA ski mask looking pricks.” He gets into a running position. DC: “This is for Logan and Wade!”

Artemis and Robin were in one of the building’s security rooms when they saw DCpool surrounded by the robots.

 Artemis is about to call in for backup for DC when Robin tells her to stop and watch.

It. Is. BRUTAL.

The way their teammate was dispatching the robots with extreme efficiency and ruthlessness was scary… and graceful?

They swear they can hear music in the background.

Both make mental notes to ask DC about his prior training before joining the team.

Artemis squints closer to the screen. Artemis: “Is he—Is he dancing?” Robin: “I think he is?” DC grabs a metal ‘femur’ of one of the bots’ exoskeletons and throws it into the bots chest. The oil splattering on the ground and face. Both heroes wince. Suddenly the camera falls next to DC, who just picks it up and holds it if he were taking a selfie… with the offline robot. Robin: “Oh that’s just wrong.” DC kisses the temple of the bot before chucking the camera to go back into the fray. Artemis: “Super wrong.”

Aqualad and Miss Martian are the unlucky ones to be in the same room as DCpool and the robots.

They are fairing well as a pair against the bots.

Barely, but doing all right.

M’gann is worried about DC handling the bots by himself.

Aqualad tries to move closer to where DCpool is to see what he could help with.

Both Atlantean and Martian are in shock seeing how well he is doing.

VERY well…

M’gann gets a bit sick seeing how brutal DC is getting rid of the enemy.

Kaldur knows he is going to need to talk to him about… this when everyone gets back to the cave.

Wait—was he dancing!?

M’gann: “I don’t think he needs any help.” Both of them watch DC uses one bot’s head to bash another bots head in. Oil and wires fly everywhere. Kaldur: “I don’t think so.” DC looks their way. DC: “Heads up!” He kicks the head over to Kaldur, who dodges just in time to hit another robot from behind. DC: “WOAH! Is this fun or what!” Kaldur: “DCpool I do not think—wait why is there music? How is there music here?” DCpool shrugs. DC: “Never question the power of fighting songs Nemo.”

[ithebookhoarder]

Hey! I love your writing🥹 If you’re taking requests, please could I get your take on: female reader & Javi P are in a relationship. She finds out she’s pregnant a couple of weeks before a huge raid and hides it from everyone. During the raid she gets cornered by one of Pablo’s men and screams “I’m pregnant, I’m pregnant” Javi’s hears over the radio, his head snaps up and he takes off running to find her, Steve not far behind. + the aftermath once they get back to the embassy. Thank you ❤️

Crossroads (Javier Peña x AFAB!Reader)

A/n: MY HEART 💔  Thank you to whoever sent this gem in! I promise I’m also working on all the other requests in my inbox. I have them all started as drafts, but I get random bursts of inspiration for one at a time and then this happens. I’m so sorry for those of you patiently waiting - I will get to finishing them. Soon. This one just popped in my inbox and ran away with me... oops?

Warnings: Swearing, violence, mentions of pregnancy, mentions of possible termination of pregnancy, injury, references to drugs and the cartel. 

Masterlist

You didn’t know why you hadn’t told Javi. It seemed strange now, to think that you hadn’t told the one person who deserved the most to know. 

Maybe it was denial? Fear? Fear that he’d react badly? Fear he’d react with excitement? 

You couldn’t be sure, but why you hadn’t told him didn’t matter now so much as the fact itself. You hadn’t told Javi you were pregnant, and now it was too late. 

Now, you were stood inside a crappy warehouse, alone, waiting on a contact to confirm intelligence for a raid you had planned for later that night. Sure, you could tell him tonight once this whole mess was over with, but that was dependant on both of you getting out of this operation unscathed - and whilst you were both great agents, you’d learned long ago never to under-estimate the prey you hunted. 

Escobar and his network were intelligent, well connected, and somehow always one step ahead. It was why you relied so heavily on contacts such as the one you were meeting right now.

Only eighteen, Sophia was the daughter of one of Escobar’s runners and desperate to get herself and her family away from the cartel.

She had approached you some weeks ago, begging and pleading for your help fleeing the country. In exchange she had offered the one thing of value she had - intel. Positioned close enough to the organisation to gather information, Sophia was also removed enough not to attract attention or suspicion. Hell, she said none of Escobar’s men even acknowledged her existence unless they wanted a drink, a smoke, or to paw at something during their visits. 

It seemed like a perfect opportunity for everyone involved. Or, it had, should you say… now, staring at your watch as the minutes ticked by with no sign of the young girl, you began to suspect something was wrong. 

God damn it. 

You sighed, running a hand through your hair as you tried to fight the urge to radio out to the surveillance van positioned further down the street. There was no need to get them worked up yet, not when Sophia could just be running late… the last thing you needed was Javi or Steve getting antsy and pulling you out, blowing your cover and fucking up the raid you had planned for later tonight. 

No, those two had always been protective over you, long before you and Javi had started seeing each other romantically. It was frustrating, even if a little flattering at the same time, to know you had two such loyal friends and partners. 

They never held the fact that you were a woman against you, but then again they’d never had cause to. Now? Now you were a walking stereotype. A liability. A pregnant woman carrying her partner’s child whilst trying to run ops in the middle of a war zone… They’d pull you out of the field so fast it would make your head spin - something you had worked too hard to risk. Not until you were certain… certain it was what you wanted, hence your decision to keep things quiet for now. 

In fact, the only person who was aware that something was different about you was Connie, and that was because you had needed her help to confirm it. 

What with her job at the clinic, and being Steve’s wife, Connie was the best option when it came to confirming your fears, rather than trying to risk a visit to a local doctor - one who was likely to talk to whoever would ask, no matter whether it was one of Escobar’s men, or even someone who could feed it back to the embassy. 

No. Connie was your only choice, being both discreet and loyal to a fault - something you had never been more grateful for than now.  That, and she was your closest friend outside of the office. There was no one else you wanted more to be holding your hand whilst you waited to find out if this was actually happening. 

She had also been more than willing to talk you through your options afterwards, promising to honour your wishes no matter what you decided - even if she kept trying to convince you to tell Javi. 

"He deserves to know," she'd sighed softly, holding your hand and wiping away your tears. "He's kind and he loves you. All he'd want is to support you. You know that."

If only you could be so sure of that.

Javi? A baby? The two things didn't seem compatible, even if he did have a soft spot for Olivia, but she wasn't his... a biological child that was yours to raise, protect, and nurture... it was a whole other situation - and given that Javi thought coffee was a food group, a situation you weren't sure he was ready for yet.

Hell, you weren't even sure you were ready for this yet, which was probably why you hadn’t made any decision other than to just carry on working like nothing was wrong until such a time as the answer came to you... if it came to you... or perhaps the universe would answer it for you... 

Why else would you be risking your neck here in this warehouse, late at night, distracting yourself and delaying the inevitable moment where you’d be forced to chose?

After all, inaction was still action in this kind of situation. You knew you couldn't keep putting off the conversation forever, but that didn't make it any easier to know what to say or do in this situation.  

Thankfully, that was the moment you were startled from your spiralling thoughts as footsteps echoed across the room. 

You recognised the sound as someone came in, closing the squeaking rusted door you’d already entered through. 

“Sophia?”

You watched as the girl crept from the darkness, nervously tugging at her sleeves. 

You paused.  

As timid as Sophia had seemed previously when you met one another, you still felt something was off as she moved towards you. It was like the energy rolling off of her was wrong... sending shivers running down your spine as you felt your fingers twitch towards the gun sat at your side. 

“Y/N?”

“Yeah, over here,” you called, “I was starting to think you weren't going to show.” 

It was like watching a rabbit, twitching, with wide eyes, like she was about to bolt at the first sound. “I’m sorry.” 

“Sorry? What for?” you asked. “It’s ok. You could have called to say you were going to be late but-” 

Then you heard it. 

The click as the gun was cocked behind you. 

Without even turning you knew you had been betrayed. 

“Sophia,” you sighed, trying not to let the fury show on your face as you stared at the sobbing girl in front of you. After all, you couldn’t really blame her had you been in her situation. You should have expected it, actually. The call had been far too easy and the information too tantalising for the DEA to pass up. 

Still, that didn’t change the fact you were now here… stuck… held at gun point by the two men who had entered the room when you weren’t looking. 

Shit. 

You really had been distracted tonight and now you were paying the price for your mistakes. 

“I’m sorry.”

The apology was barely audible through the girl’s tears. 

“Me too, kid. Me too.” 

You watched as one of the men kept his gun trained on you, whilst the other marched over to Sophia and shoved the wad of cash into her hand before pushing her out the door in a clear message to beat it. They had what they wanted, as did Sophia - she had her life and her freedom, for now. 

Who knew how long it would actually last... 

Hell, who knew how long you’d last given this sudden change of events? 

The door had barely shut behind her when the man who’d given her the cash turned back towards you. 

“So, you’re the one who’s been snooping around? Trying to get our girl to talk?” he teased, his tone cold and mocking. “Don’t you know what happens to little girls who stick their noses in places it don’t belong?”  

The threat was clear as he grinned, his friend walking around you so that you could see the gun held in his hand, pointing directly at you. 

Your own gun was snatched from its position at your side, tucked instead into the man's jeans for safe keeping.

“Well, lucky for you, the boss wants to know what you know, and where you got that intel from,” your captor continued, his tone oozing with a sick satisfaction. “If you tried to make a rat out of Sophia, who knows who else you’ve got squeaking away in your gringo ear. So, you see, we can’t just kill you, else I’d be pulling this trigger right here and now… but when we’re through with you, you’ll wish I had.” 

You couldn't help it. You flinched as the man nearest you stepped closer, gesturing towards the door with his gun in an obvious signal. 

“Move,” he hissed. “Now.” 

Shit. 

You take a deep breath, trying to remind yourself that you weren’t alone. That your comms were still in place, and that there were still men positioned outside the warehouse. The moment you emerged, with two men holding you at gun point they would be surrounded. 

But would that be before or after they had the chance to pull the trigger and plant a bullet in the back of your skull? 

You’d seen enough of these hostage situations to know how they went down, to know that the hostage didn’t always make it out… the directive was to remove the sicarios - they were the priority. 

Not you. 

It was that thought that made your stomach roll as you began to move, legs shaking so hard you weren’t sure you could stand. 

"Where are we going?” you stammered, you mouth so dry you can hardly form the words. 

“Shut up, bitch," the thug sneered, shoving you forward. You could practically taste his contempt. “Keep walking unless you want me to shoot you in the leg and drag you myself.”  

You knew he’d do it too. He seemed the type to be cruel - to get off on inflicting pain and exercising what tiny slither of power he had. 

However, you also knew that letting these guys move you to a second location was as good as a death sentence. 

No, this was it. 

You had to make your final stand here and now if you even wanted a chance of making it out of this in one piece. 

It was for that reason you said a silent prayer before clenching your fists. Two on one… it wasn’t the best, but it wasn’t the worst odds either. You just had to be smart. After all, they needed you alive for now - they’d foolishly revealed that much. 

You could work with that. 

"You do realise that waiting outside those doors is a whole bunch of DEA agents, right?" you jabbed. "You walk outside with that gun pointed at me and you're dead."

"Shut up, bitch," the man with the gun snapped back sharply. "You think we're gonna fall for that? Nice try. Now, get moving."

"Hey, it's your funeral."

"I said shut up-"

"Dude, maybe we should go out the other way," his colleague interjected, the hesitation exactly what you'd been hoping for. "We can get the van round out the back, off the road and out of sight of any police."

"No."

You took the distraction as your cue.

The moment you felt the gun drop from your back you were on them, throwing the weapon upwards and sending the resulting shot up into the ceiling.

Your foot was next, smashing up between the man’s legs in a well rehearsed manoeuvre, followed by your elbow slamming into the other man's face, stopping him before he could reach for you.

The few precious seconds you'd bought yourself were all you needed to make a run for it, bolting back towards the doors up ahead.

Your fingers reached up, squeezing the switch on the side of the mic you had taped under your collar, ready to call for back up. 

But you never got the chance. 

Your fingers had just grazed the switch when you felt something collide with you from behind. A great weight that sent you crashing down onto the ground, hard. 

You tried to roll over, only to be met with a fist slamming into your face, too fast for you to even try and block him. 

The ferocious assault caused your head to bounce off of the concrete with a sickening thud. Pain exploded, your eyes filling with tears, and your vision blurred as the shock of the impact resonated, unleashing agony that pulsed through your skull. 

A silent cry escaped your lips, full of shock and pain. 

Shit.

Your assailant jumped off of you, following through with a swift, vicious kick to your ribs, knocking all the air from your lungs with the force of the blow. 

Scrunching your eyes tightly, you tried to fight the nausea and pain, to fight for a precious breath. 

“Stop,” you begged, hating how weak you sounded. However, something inside you roared, an urge to fight taking over you - but not just for yourself, but for the future that was growing inside of you... a future you hadn’t been sure of until right now…

Now, as you stood to lose it. 

It suddenly didn’t matter if Javi wanted this baby or not, or if he would be happy or terrified or disappointed. What mattered was that he would never get the chance to be any of those things, to decide for himself, to have the opportunity to choose what life he wanted. 

He needed to know… you couldn’t die here, without him knowing… 

“Stop, please!" you pleaded. "I’m pregnant! I’m pregnant!” 

Without even thinking, you curled your legs in tight, huddling into a ball and trying to block your stomach before he could land the next blow. 

However, it never came.

“Hold on!” your assailant’s partner scolded. "Not here. The boss wants her alive for now.” 

He paused. "The bitch deserves it!"

Then you heard it - the door slamming open. The thundering of boots running across concrete towards you. Orders barked in Spanish. 

You watched as your assailants silently gaped in horror, raising their hands above their heads as they were suddenly surrounded by figures... 

Why was it so hard, all of a sudden, to make things out?

It was hard to distinguish one sound from another, to see anything beyond colours and shapes as your world began to dissolve. The warehouse was replaced by a dark haze that seemed determined to consume you no matter how hard you fought against it.

“Y/N!” 

Javi’s voice echoed in your ears, a swirling sound full of panic, yet it somehow made you feel calm... safe...

“Y/N!” 

“Javi,” you croaked, as you felt yourself slipping into the darkness.  

Your body had turned into cement. 

That was the first thought that crossed your muddled mind as you felt the beginnings of consciousness returning to you. It was as if every part of you had decided to refuse to respond to your demands, held down by invisible weights. 

You'd been knocked unconscious once or twice before in your lifetime, but this grogginess was a first... an uncomfortable and disconcerting force, trapping you on the brink of the land of living.

You had no choice but to lay there, helplessly listening to the sounds around you, each becoming clearer as your faculties gradually returned

Machinery beeping.

Footsteps passing in the hallway. 

Voices caught in frantic conversations. 

"- Javi, calm down. I know. I'm the one who should be feeling guilty, letting her walk in there by herself." "We all thought the meet was secure, Murphy. How could we know she was gonna turn on us? And Y/N, the crazy, stupid - Why didn't she tell me?" 

Javi’s voice was full of anguish.

"Dude, calm down. Y/N’s the strongest person I know. She’s alive and gonna wake up. You heard the doctor, the swelling in her head is down and she’s going to wake up. That’s all that matters now. You can discuss the baby, and what you’re going to do, later."

The baby? You caught the words, a weird rush of relief flooding through you at the confirmation that your baby was alright... 

Thank god. 

And Javi knew? 

That thought echoed over and over in your mind as you felt yourself beginning to fade back into the darkness from which you had come. 

Stubble softly scraping the back of your hand was the first thing you noticed when you finally came to. That, and the pressure of someone squeezing your hand tightly. 

You knew the grip without even opening your eyes. You'd felt it often enough, the rough calloused hand holding yours, brushing against you, touching every single part of you... "You've got to wake up, honey," came an also familiar sound, luring you ever closer to the land of the living.

You'd know that voice anywhere, considering it had become your constant companion. It was the first thing you heard every morning and the last thing you heard at night.

"Please," it continued. "I'm so sorry, ok? Sorry for everything - for making you feel like you couldn't tell me about this. Just... shit... I need you to wake up, cause I fucking love you and I can't- can't lose you-"

Somehow, that was all it took. Those words flipped a switch inside you, allowing you to find the strength to peel your eyes open and register the full extent of your surroundings - including the man sat beside you.

Turning your head, you were greeted with a sight so perfect a part of you thought you must still be dreaming.

Javi.

Sat next to you, you realised he had your hand pressed to his cheek, his lips pressing soft kisses to it in between words.  

He didn't seem to notice the fact that you had stirred, so lost in his desperation. It was probably why he jumped, flinching as you reached over with your free hand to run your fingers through his hair.

"I love you too," you croaked in greeting.

“Y/N?”

Javi had never seemed so fragile as he did then. Eyes wide, he looked nothing like the ice-cold DEA agent you often glimpsed in the field. Instead, he looked like one good gust of wind would send him toppling to the ground had he not already been sat down in one of the plastic chairs that you had come to recognise from your repeated visits.

“Javi, where - where am I?" you continued softly, "What happened? What day is it?" "Sssh. It’s alright. It's almost Saturday. You've been unconscious for over twenty-four hours, even if it felt fucking longer.” His hands were warm as they cupped both sides of your face, guiding you towards him as he kissed you like his life depended on it. 

It was as if neither of you could get close enough to one another, you curling yourself eagerly into his side, breathing in the soft scent of his cologne and cigarette smoke.

“I... I’m sorry,” you choked, the words tumbling out of you before you could even realise what you were saying. “It was my fault. I should have known that something was wrong-”

“No,” Javi scolded, tensing at your guilt-ridden tone. "No, don't say that. Don't - don't do that to yourself. This isn't on you. It's a fuck up - a colossal fuck up, yes, but one we didn't see coming. We vetted the source. She was good. We cleared the meet with Carillo and the Ambassador... there was no way we could have prevented this."

"But-?"

"Carino. Stop. Please," he begged. Yes, Javi actually begged and it was enough to stun you into silence. "I just... talking about the meet? I honestly don't care about all that right now. The who, why how of what happened will still fucking be there later... but right now? Now, you're here... you're alive... and you're finally awake."

His tone melted your heart, making you somehow wish you could absorb every ounce of pain he was experiencing. It hurt you, to know you had caused the man you loved such agony. In a way, you'd had a slightly easier time of it, being the one to sleep through the after math of this disaster. He had had the hardest job; waiting, watching, and worrying.

You knew that pain yourself, having experienced it firsthand since your arrival in Colombia. You'd never forget how it had nearly torn you apart, waiting as Javi had been admitted after a close shave in a shoot-out.

Those two days had felt like an eternity. Two days with no news... just sitting and waiting and praying.

“I ... I could hear you, by the way.”

“What?”

“I heard you,” Javi repeated softly, snapping you out of your head and solidly back into the present, “over the radio. I heard what you said when those assholes hit you - about the baby-”

You froze.

Despite knowing that this moment would inevitably come, now that it was finally upon you, you suddenly wished you were back in the realm of unconsciousness you'd just come from.

"Javi," you began nervously, your voice barely above a whisper. "Please, don't be mad at me-"

“-Well, too bad, sweetheart because I am mad. So mad," he exclaimed sharply, "I'm mad at you for not telling me, for putting yourself in danger like that, knowing you're pregnant. I’m not saying you had to decide to keep it or whatever, but it would have been fucking nice to be asked. To know. To not find out after you put yourself on the line." "I- I didn't know what else to do."

“And I’m sorry for making you feel like that,” Javi added swiftly, his tone softening with every passing moment.

It was like watching the air deflating out of a tire, the fear and the rage dissipating almost as quickly as it had first appeared. 

“I get it, why you may not have wanted to tell me... I’m mad at myself that you felt you had to do this alone. I thought you’d trust me enough to know I’d support you, no matter what you decided.”

“I do, Javi,” you sobbed, unable to prevent a tear from escaping your eye. “I just... I got scared and I panicked. I think keeping it secret was more my way of pretending this wasn't real, that I could act like it wasn't happening, that I had more time.”

Silence. 

“Javi, please say something. Anything...” 

"What's there to say? You're pregnant." He shrugged in a desperate attempt to look nonchalant, but you could see the truth. Underneath it all, Javier Peña was utterly terrified.

It didn't matter how much he tried to hide it behind that calm swagger of his, and the crossing of his arms over his chest - you knew him better than anyone. You'd seen him at his very best and his very worst. Such was the lot of living in a war zone, let alone falling in love in one.

Fighting the urge to let your tears escape your burning eyes, you reached over and took his hands in yours. To your relief, he didn't fight you. Instead, he lifted his gaze, his eyes wide and telling you all you needed to know without even asking.

He had obviously spent the last 24 hours mulling the entire situation over and over in his head since the moment he had first heard the news. Lord knows he'd probably imagined each and every possible outcome for the future... your future... "Y/N, I don't know what to say or do. I never even thought about being a parent."

"Me either..." you confessed, relieved to finally be able to say the words aloud to the man who'd needed to hear them the most. "I mean, could the timing be better? yes. I never pictured something like this happening so early on, but it has and now we have a choice to make. To have longer, just the two of us... Or to become a family of three, but either way we'll work it out together. I will love you unconditionally, no matter what you choose but you're my partner, Javi. You have a say in this too. We're a team."

"Y/N," Javi whispered, his voice pained. "I ... I thought I'd lost you... back there in that warehouse, seeing you lying on the ground, knowing I could have lost you, lost this - it was all my worst fears realised." Gently taking your head between his hands, he wiped the tears away. "I love you, too," he declared. "And... if you want this, with me, then I'll try to be a good father."

It was as if a weight had been taken off of you. To know that he was with you, no matter what... that was all you'd ever wanted.

"That's all I can ask for, Javi," you whimpered, failing to hide the playful smile that fell into place, "because let's face it; you don't have much choice anyway, because I'm not going anywhere."

Javi's own signature smirk tugged at his lips. “Good, because I can't lose you... I can't be left with just Murphy. Can you imagine? We'd drive ourselves into an early grave.” 

"Javi!"

It felt blissful for you both the be able to laugh again. To joke like nothing had changed between you, even if it had - for the better, ultimately.

“Speaking of... Where’s Steve?” 

Javi paused. “Went with Connie to get coffee - I feel I should mention that Steve’s pissed you didn't tell him too, you know.”

You groaned. You weren't surprised. “I’ll add him to the list of apologies. Do you think making him and Connie godparents would make it better?” 

“Woah there,” Javi scoffed, the beginning of a smile tugging at his lips. “One day at a time, querida. One day at a time.” 

[pleaseletmeinibeg453]

Paper cuts

|Jelsa, Modern AU, Enemies with Benefits, Fake dating, Forced Proximity|

Agent Elsa Stenford [NID-SO-ES-07] — Operation Report Upload Log

—Logged into secure terminal: Vienna Safehouse Terminal-2

—Date: 2022-07-08

—Time (UTC): 23:16

—Connected to secure node: NIDNet

—Report file: OP_SILENTRAVEN_AAR.enc

—Encryption status: Secured with NID Master Key — encryption signature verified (Checksum ID: F1A5-7C9B)

—Recipient(s): Jack Frost, Section Chief Special Operations (SO-92A), Acting Division Supervisor (DS-4), National Intelligence Directorate

—Transmission channel: Priority-One Secure Uplink (Classified Level: TOP SECRET)

—Transmission status: COMPLETE — audit log updated (Reference Log ID: ES07-0525-2214)

—Backup status: Encrypted local backup stored (Partition ES-07-SAFE); master copy uploaded to Central Ops Archive (Vault-4)

—Field confirmation: Agent ES-07 signed digital attestation; no tampering detected; self-authentication successful

Note: Automatic alert dispatched to Division Supervisor terminal. Clearance authentication required upon access.

---------------------------

Operation Silent Raven is an ongoing mission targeting a covert illicit arms trafficking network operating primarily in South Carolina. [Flag—Acting supervisor: Delete ‘ongoing mission’ — this is filler from someone unfamiliar with concise reporting. Vague and redundant.] This report details recent operational progress, intelligence collection, and actionable recommendations. [Flag—Acting supervisor: You clearly do not understand report structure. This useless sentence wastes time and space.] 

The primary objective is to identify, monitor, and dismantle the arms trafficking chain responsible for the flow of small arms and light weapons through various transit points in the region. [Flag—Acting supervisor: Restating obvious without any specifics or measurable targets reflects poor understanding of operational goals. Omit.] HUMINT sources have verified the existence of a new maritime transit corridor utilizing the seaport. [Flag—Acting supervisor: “HUMINT sources” is lazy projection. You apparently cannot be trusted to identify sources properly. Brackets demonstrate careless drafting.] SIGINT intercepted encrypted communications that suggest coordination between traffickers and local facilitators. [Flag—Acting supervisor: ‘Suggest’ is weak speculation, unbefitting a professional intelligence report. Either confirm or remove this guesswork.] 

Financial forensics have traced suspicious funds transfers totaling approximately $8 million USD linked to traffickers. [Flag—Acting supervisor: Provide specifics or this bland, meaningless statement reveals superficial analysis.] Technical surveillance detected multiple covert meetings in [Urban Centers], corroborated by photographic evidence. [Flag—Acting supervisor: Using placeholders signals either incompetence or utter disregard for accuracy.] On 2022-06-21, interdiction team, operating with local law enforcement, seized 250 illegal firearms at the port city warehouse. [Flag—Acting supervisor: Poorly structured sentence; the muddled passive voice further obscures the facts you apparently cannot clearly present.] Two principal suspects were detained, providing critical intelligence that identified higher-level facilitators. [Flag—Acting supervisor: Passive construction and vague attribution further demonstrate your failure to take ownership of this data.] 

Informant “Falcon” supplied actionable intelligence regarding a planned arms shipment scheduled for early June. [Flag—Acting supervisor: Finally, a clear statement, but unfortunately, it’s buried among verbosity and filler.] Operational security protocols were heightened after detecting possible surveillance by hostile intelligence actors. [Flag—Acting supervisor: ‘Possible’ surveillance indicates your uncertainty and it undermines the entire assessment and betrays inadequate situational awareness.] The network disruption has temporarily halted major arms transfers. [Flag—Acting supervisor: ‘Temporarily’ suggests you lack the insight or confidence to forecast outcomes. Such ambiguity is unacceptable.] 

Surveillance and intelligence collection continue focusing on secondary facilitators and financing channels. [Flag—Acting supervisor: Non-specific, passive phrasing again. You appear unable to report with decisiveness or clarity.] Coordination with allied intelligence agencies is ongoing to leverage broader interdiction efforts. [Flag—Acting supervisor: “Allied intelligence agencies” — weak and meaningless. Omit.] Risk assessment indicates elevated threat levels against NID assets involved in this operation. [Flag—Acting supervisor: Without elaboration, this statement is worthless. The absence of detail is either negligence or incompetence. I’m leaning towards the latter, although the first one also seems to be your defining trait.] Approve expansion of covert operations targeting secondary facilitators and financiers. [Flag—Acting supervisor: Recommendations lack essential resource planning and rationale, further exposing your inexperience.] Request additional SIGINT and counter-surveillance resources. [Flag—Acting supervisor: ‘Additional’ is meaningless without quantification. This sloppy request reflects poor operational understanding.] Initiate an inter-agency task force to address cross-border financing and logistics. [Flag—Acting supervisor: Unsubstantiated recommendation with no defined objectives — this is amateurish.] Continue monitoring and protection of key HUMINT sources and operatives. [Flag—Acting supervisor: Failing to specify protection protocols reflects a dangerous oversight on your part.] Attachments include interdiction team after-action report, financial transaction analyses, SIGINT intercept summaries, and photographic documentation of seized arms and facilities. [Flag—Acting supervisor: Referencing attachments without actual inclusion indicates either incompetence or disregard for proper reporting. Which one is it?]

Flag—Acting supervisor: This report is miserably inadequate and reflects a disturbing lack of professionalism and capability. The careless placeholders, vague assertions, passive voice, and speculative language betray your failure to grasp even the basic standards of intelligence reporting. Such work not only wastes time but actively hampers operational efficiency. REWRITE. 

---------------------------

Secure Directive

From: Jack Frost 

[Code: NID-SO-JF-01]

Section Chief, Special Operations / Acting Division Supervisor [Code SO-92A/DS-4]

To: Agent Elsa Stenford [Code:NID-SO-ES-07]

Subject: RE: Report Review – Operation Silent Raven

Classification: TOP SECRET // EYES ONLY

Agent Stenford,

Your submitted report for Operation Silent Raven is wholly inadequate and reflects a concerning lack of analytical rigor, operational discipline, and professional attention. The presence of unresolved placeholders, vague assertions, speculative conclusions, and critical data gaps is unacceptable at this operational level and wastes valuable time and resources.

This level of oversight is incompatible with the standards expected from an intelligence officer assigned to this unit. You are to:

1. Eliminate all placeholders and provide verified, cross-checked intelligence.

2. Remove speculative or assumptive language; include only confirmed, actionable data.

3. Rewrite sections for clarity, precision, and direct accountability — passive formulations are unacceptable.

4. Deliver detailed, concrete descriptions of sources, operational locations, timelines, and outcomes without ambiguity.

5. Ensure all referenced materials are attached, properly labeled, and internally consistent.

6. Strengthen recommendations by specifying exact resource needs, operational impacts, and executable directives.

7. Fully address risk assessments with defined threats, probability ratings, and specific mitigation strategies.

The supervisor-annotated version of your report (File ID: SR-Report-Rev1-JF) has been uploaded to the secure review system. You are to address all marked corrections and resubmit the fully corrected report no later than 1800 hours today. No further extensions will be granted.

Jack Frost 

[Code: NID-SO-JF-01]

Section Chief, Special Operations (SO-92A)

Acting Division Supervisor (DS-4)

National Intelligence Directorate

---------------------------

Agent Elsa Stenford [Code: NID-SO-ES-07] — Report Upload Log (Revised Submission)

—Logged into secure terminal: Vienna Safehouse Terminal-2

—Date: 2022-07-09

—Time (UTC): 17:38

—Connected to secure node: NIDNet 

—Report file: OP_SIENTRAVEN_AAR_v2.enc

—Encryption status: Secured with NID Master Key — encryption signature verified (Checksum ID: F1A9-7C3B-R2)

—Recipient(s): Jack FrostJack Frost (NID-SO-JF-01), Section Chief Special Operations (SO-92A), Acting Division Supervisor (DS-4), National Intelligence Directorate

—Transmission channel: Priority-One Secure Uplink (Classified Level: TOP SECRET)

—Transmission status: COMPLETE — audit log updated (Reference Log ID: ES07-0525-2316-R2)

—Backup status: Encrypted local backup stored (Partition ES-07-SAFE); master copy uploaded to Central Ops Archive (Vault-4, Revised Submission Folder)

—Field confirmation: Agent ES-07 signed digital attestation; no tampering detected; self-authentication successful

Note: Automatic alert dispatched to Division Supervisor terminal. Clearance authentication required upon access. Revision flag registered under Audit Protocol 4B.

---------------------------

Secure Directive

From: Jack Frost [Code: NID-SO-JF-01] 

Section Chief, Special Operations / Acting Division Supervisor [Code: SO-92A/DS-4]

To: Elsa Stenford [Code: NID-SO-ES-07]

Subject: RE: Secure Directive – Operation Silent Raven Report (Revised Submission)

Agent Stenford,

I have completed my review of your revised report on Operation Silent Raven. The annotated document is attached under:

Attachment: SilentRaven_Rev2_ES07_JFcomments.secure

To be precise: this submission remains below acceptable operational standards. Your continued use of speculative phrasing, unsupported assertions, and vague recommendations demonstrates a concerning lack of analytical discipline. This is not a matter of inexperience. You are not a trainee, Agent. At your level and position, you are expected to understand and apply the standards of rigor, precision, and clarity required in all agency reporting. That expectation is not optional.

Your report exhibits repeated failures:

1. Speculative language where concrete analysis is required;

2. Lack of referenced source attachments, despite multiple directives;

3. Unquantified risk assessments, absent methodological support;

4. Action recommendations devoid of operational specificity.

This is not a learning exercise nor is it a second chance, Agent Stenford. I should not be required to remind you of the foundational protocols governing intelligence reporting. You are expected to deliver work that reflects your clearance level, your operational rank, and your assigned responsibilities — without need for remedial oversight.

You are hereby directed to produce a final, fully compliant, actionable revision and submit it under secure protocol no later than 1300 hours tomorrow. Failure to meet this directive will result in formal escalation to the Division Office for immediate performance review. There will be no further instructions, no extended clarifications, and no tolerance for repeated submission failures.

Jack Frost [Code: NID-SO-JF-01]

Section Chief, Special Operations (SO-92A)

Acting Division Supervisor (DS-4)

National Intelligence Directorate

*

Operation Silent Raven: A report

1.⁠ ⁠Executive Summary:

—The target group’s network activity has intensified in the last 72 hours, with encrypted communications suggesting a planned operation within the capital region. [Flag—Acting supervisor: “Suggesting” is a charming euphemism for “guessing.” Precision is not your forte, is it?]

—HUMINT sources indicate the possible involvement of an external actor, potentially destabilizing regional security. [Flag—Acting supervisor:  “Possible” and “potentially” — a truly inspiring display of hedging. I applaud your commitment to ambiguity.] While these indicators warrant heightened surveillance, conclusive evidence regarding the exact nature and timing of the planned event remains unconfirmed. [COMMENT: I look forward to the day when ‘unconfirmed’ is replaced by ‘confirmed.’ Continue taking baby steps, we’re all here to babysit you and instruct on every level, not to do our job.]

2.⁠ ⁠Intelligence Sources:

SIGINT: Intercepted encrypted transmissions on frequencies 8.1 GHz to 8.3 GHz, believed to originate from multiple cell towers in the downtown sector. [Flag—Acting supervisor: “Believed.” A masterclass in non-committal language. Bold. Yet, it fails to meet the minimum standards of verification.] Metadata analysis aligns with previous hostile activity patterns.

[Flag—Acting supervisor: Please specify the parameters of your analysis. Otherwise, it reads as a hopeful suggestion rather than intelligence.]

HUMINT: Confidential informant reported unusual meetings near industrial sector 4. Reliability assessed as moderate; corroborating SIGINT incomplete. [Flag—Acting supervisor: ‘Moderate’ is an imaginative way of saying ‘I’m not sure.’ The agency appreciates your creativity but prefers facts.]

IMINT: Limited satellite imagery from 23-25 MAY shows increased vehicular movements near potential staging areas, but imagery quality insufficient for identification of personnel or equipment. [Flag—Acting supervisor: Including non-identifiable imagery is an excellent way to fill pages. Whether it aids operations is another matter. But who cares?]

3.⁠ ⁠Operational Assessment:

The convergence of SIGINT and HUMINT suggests preparatory steps for an operation targeting critical infrastructure. [Flag—Acting supervisor: ‘Suggests’ again. I see a pattern. Perhaps next time try ‘confirms’ or ‘demonstrates.’] Risk assessment places the likelihood of attack at moderate (probability 0.55), with potential impact categorized as high due to target significance. [Flag—Acting supervisor: : Quantify your methodology. Numbers plucked from thin air are less useful than no numbers at all.] Recommended actions include intensifying electronic surveillance, deploying field assets for direct observation, and liaising with allied cyber-intelligence units to monitor digital footprints. [Flag—Acting supervisor: Vague directives are the hallmark of an inexperienced analyst. Details and accountability please.]

4.⁠ ⁠Recommendations:

Immediate deployment of SIGINT intercept teams in the identified frequency bands. Enhanced HUMINT debriefings with source ES-27 to confirm meeting details. [Flag—Acting supervisor: The lack of specificity here suggests an admirable level of trust in the reader’s imagination.] Coordination with Cyber Ops for real-time network traffic analysis. [Flag—Acting supervisor:  Nomenclature alone does not constitute a plan. Flesh this out.]

Notes [Acting Supervisor] : 

—Formatting inconsistent with NID operational report guidelines. You’ve transformed a simple formatting standard into an elusive art form. Bravo.

—Failure to attach referenced supporting materials AGAIN. This recurring omission hinders operational efficacy. Consider attaching documents next time.

—In conclusion, REWRITE.

---------------------------

Agent [Code: NID-SO-ES-07] — Field Report Upload Log (Revised Submission)

—Logged into secure terminal: Vienna Safehouse Terminal-2

—Date: 2022-07-10

—Time (UTC): 13:00

—Connected to secure node: NIDNet

—Report file: OP_SILENTRAVEN_AAR_v3.enc

—Encryption status: Secured with NID Master Key — encryption signature verified (Checksum ID: F1A9-7C3B-R2)

—Recipient(s): Jack Frost, Section Chief Special Operations (SO-92A), Acting Division Supervisor (DS-4), NID

—Transmission channel: Priority-One Secure Uplink (Classified Level: TOP SECRET)

—Transmission status: COMPLETE — audit log updated (Reference Log ID: ES07-0710-1300-R2)

—Backup status: Encrypted local backup stored (Partition ES-07-SAFE); master copy uploaded to Central Ops Archive (Vault-4, Revised Submission Folder)

—Field confirmation: Agent ES-07 signed digital attestation; no tampering detected; self-authentication successful

Note: Automatic alert dispatched to Division Supervisor terminal. Clearance authentication required upon access. Revision flag registered under Audit Protocol 4B.

---------------------------

Secure Directive

From: Jack Frost [NID-SO-JF-01]

Section Chief, Special Operations / Acting Division Supervisor [Code: NID-SO-92A/DS-4]

To: Elsa Stenford [Code: NID-SO-ES-07]

Subject: RE: Secure Directive – Operation Silent Raven Report , Revocation of Field Authority and Immediate Reassignment

Agent Stenford,

I was informed last afternoon that due to shifting operational priorities, the report in question [Ops Silent Raven] is no longer required. 

After review of your latest submission — the revised report you provided earlier today — I must formally acknowledge that the material remains below acceptable operational standards. While I did not realistically anticipate any significant improvement, it is nonetheless disappointing that even after detailed corrective input, your output failed to meet the basic analytical and procedural thresholds expected of an intelligence officer at your level.

However, the time I was forced to expend personally correcting and annotating your repeated errors constitutes an unacceptable diversion of supervisory resources. You have now occupied more of this division’s time and attention than your current role warrants.

Accordingly, effective immediately, your independent field authority is revoked. You are reassigned to trailing support under Intelligence Officer Logan Parrish [CODE: NID-SO-LP-33], Team Blue. While Officer Parrish holds the same formal rank as you, his superior reliability and competence justify his lead role in this arrangement.

You are to operate strictly under Officer Parrish’s direction, with no independent decision-making or external communications without prior clearance. This corrective assignment will remain in place until further notice and serves as a necessary intervention to address the persistent deficits in your performance.

You are to report to Team Blue at 07:00 hours tomorrow, prepared and fully compliant. Written acknowledgment of this directive is required by 16:00 hours today. Noncompliance will result in immediate formal disciplinary action.

Jack Frost [Code: NID-SO-JF-01]

Section Chief, Special Operations (SO-92A)

Acting Division Supervisor (DS-4)

National Intelligence Directorate

---------------------------

Elsa Stenford read the message over and over again, because she knew it wasn’t serious. It must be a mistake. A joke. That’s what it was. Maybe if she read it again, it would change, it would shift and it would fix itself. So she read it, the words physically burning her, over and over again, but it stayed the same. She just stared at it, mouth hanging open, eyes wide with shock, unblinking. 

“Elsa?” Merida’s voice shattered the silence in her head. “Are you—”

“THAT MISERABLE FUCKING BASTARD! THAT FUCKING—” She stopped herself, but there was just too much rage and hate in her, enough for her to combust and paint the walls red. "FUCKING PIECE OF SCUM! I FUCKING HATE HIM, THAT USELESS, ARROGANT, SLIMY RAT!"

---------------------------

[playedcrowd5610]

Operation: Payback - Danny Phantom x Transformers Prime

Summary: Danny and Knockout team up to get some payback.

---

Set in a series where Danny finds Starscream one day and decides to start haunting the Decepticons. That's basically all the context you need but if you want more here is the rest of the series:

Haunting the Nemesis

Part 1: Chasing Stars

Part 2: Burning Rubber

Part 3: Adventures of the Decepticons' Pet Ghost Or Tumblr Master List

-

Notes:

This chapter is a little darker than my other ones; viewer discretion is advised.

TW: Threats, injury, mentions of experimentation and torture.

-

Danny shoved his hands in his pockets as he walked down the halls of the Nemesis on the way to the medbay. It's been a couple of days since the event with Breakdown and M.E.C.H., and Danny had taken every available opportunity to visit the blue Con — that is, at least, when Knockout hadn’t decided to put a ban on visitors and put his husband in power down to get more rest and heal. 

The door to the med bay slid open easily for him. He stopped in the entryway and glanced around the room. On the medical table, Breakdown was deep in recharge. Danny looked up at the readings on the monitor to make sure he was stable before glancing around the rest of the room. Knockout wasn’t here.

“Knockout?” he whisper yelled, not wanting to wake Breakdown, but there was no response.

Danny frowned. It wasn’t like Knockout to leave Breakdown unattended, not with how he’d been acting since the injury. He had been constantly checking readings, tweaking equipment, doing anything he could to keep his processor busy. 

Danny tapped his foot on the ground as he was thinking. Breakdown was asleep, so Danny couldn’t really hang out with him anyway. And right now, Danny was more concerned as to where Knockout could be and what was so much more important than Breakdown. He sighed deeply before turning on his heel out the door. Time to find himself a Decepticon Medic.

-

It didn’t take too much searching to locate the red sports car. Danny found him in a research hub-type room with a small desk and large monitor just a few doors down from the Med Bay. It seemed the Con still wanted to be close to Breakdown after all. 

Knockout, hunched over one of the terminals, had his optics fixed on the screen, completely engrossed in whatever he was doing. 

Danny stepped forward, curious about what had captured the medic’s attention. “What are you doing?”

Knockout’s servos twitched, but he didn’t jump. “Must you always sneak up on me like that?” He muttered, his tone sharp. His optics flickered briefly down to Danny before he returned his gaze to the screen.

Danny tilted his head, stepping beside Knockout to get a better look at what was on the terminal. “What’s this?” 

Knockout sighed heavily, leaning back slightly as his field pulsed with a mix of frustration and something… darker . “I’ve been working on tracking down the human scientists responsible for Breakdown’s condition.” His voice was laced with bitterness, and he gestured toward the screen. “I think I’ve found something—a warehouse they may be hiding in.” He gestured vaguely towards the screen.

Danny crossed his arms, not liking where this was going one bit. Knockout wanted revenge, and he was going to get himself hurt in the process. “And what, you’re just going to go down there? Alone?”

Knockout’s optics narrowed. “Of course I’m going down there,” he growled, his EM field flared with pure hatred. “They took him apart. They nearly killed him. I won’t rest until they’re nothing but scrap.”

Danny’s field mimicked the sentiment. But he needed to keep a level head here. Someone had to. “Knockout, you’re going to get yourself killed. If they can take down Breakdown, they can take you down, too.”

Knockout’s engine growled in irritation. “I’m not Breakdown. I’m faster, smaller, more precise. I know how to fight them now. They ambushed Breakdown when he was hurt. If they had fought him head-on, they would have lost. I won’t make the same mistakes.” He glared at Danny as if he was the source of his problems. “And I’m not staying here while those humans walk away unpunished.”

Danny let out a long sigh, shaking his head. “Alright, then.” Danny stretched his arms over his head. “I guess I’m going with you.”

Knockout blinked, his optics flickering with confusion. “What? No. You’re not. You’ll get yourself killed down there, human.”

Danny shrugged, his voice calm but firm. “If you’re going, I’m going. I’m not going to let you get yourself torn apart. Besides, what good are you to Breakdown if you end up dissected in some lab, too?”

Knockout scoffed, his tone bitter. “And what makes you think you’d be any help? You’re fragile.”

Danny sighed. “If I’m there, I can make sure you don’t get yourself killed. Plus,” he added, “I’d hate to be the one to tell Breakdown that his husband died trying to defend his honour.” He looked up at the medic with a raised eyebrow. 

Knockout said nothing, just glared, but Danny could sense the conflict in him. “And maybe,” Danny continued, “I want to get some payback too.”

Knockout’s optics softened slightly. “You’re either very brave or very foolish.”

Danny grinned, “Probably both.”

–

Danny and Knockout stepped through the groundbridge, the swirling green portal spitting them out at the edge of a dense forest. The trees surounded them, casting shadows as the sun began to set, leaving the air cool and damp. Ahead, just visible through the tree line, was a massive, gray structure that looked to be some kind of old military base. Obviously, the place they were looking for. 

Knockout took a step forward, his bright red frame standing out against the greenery. His optics narrowed as he surveyed the scene. Danny could feel the aggression flowing off of him in waves. Danny bit his lip and looked up at the buzzsaw-happy Con.

"Alright," Danny said, clasping his hands together. "We need to do this with minimum casualties."

Knockout scoffed, crossing his arms over his chest plates. "Minimum casualties? What was the point of coming here then, if not to destroy them?" He asked incredulously, his voice filled with venom. “Im not just going to not hurt them because you care about their lives. Not after what they did,”

Danny sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. He had expected this reaction. “Look, as much as I’d love to see them all gone, I need you to trust me. If we kill a bunch of them, it’ll only make things worse.”

“How, exactly?” Knockout snapped, his frustration growing.

“These organizations, ones like M.E.C.H ,” Danny gestured vaguely towards the warehouse. “They get their funding and support by showing their benefactors that there’s a ‘threat’ they need to handle. You kill their soldiers and they’ll have all the proof they need to go to their backers, show the damage, and say, ‘Look, this is why we need more weapons, more experiments, more funding.’ I’ve dealt with groups like this before—"

Danny sighed before continuing. “I’ve learned that the more attention you give them, the more justification they have for their horrible work. We need to  take them out without creating a mess that makes them look like the victims.”

Knockout’s engine rumbled angrily. “So what? We just let them get away with torturing Breakdown?” His field buzzed with indignation.

“No, not exactly,” Danny replied. “What we do instead is this.” He held up a USB stick for the mech to see. ”We upload a virus into their systems. One my friend and I designed years back. It'll destroy everything they’ve got on Breakdown, wipe all their data, and crash their networks. It’ll also let us track their other bases so we can go after them again if we need to. That way, we dismantle them from the inside out.”

 "And here I thought I could at least enjoy dismembering a few of them," Knockout grumbled.

Danny ‘hmmed’ thoughtfully before smiling slightly. “Dismemberment’s still on the table, but they have to survive it.”

Knockout let out a sound that was somewhere between a laugh and a groan. “You're impossible.”

Danny grinned. "Just practical." He paused before giving Knockout a serious look. “I’ll be the distraction, take out a few guards quietly, and get us into the building. You stay here, and once I signal you, you come in, make a second distraction, and I’ll handle the tech.”

Knockout grumbled but didn’t argue. He could tell Danny had thought this through. And, as much as he hated to admit it, there was logic in what the human was saying. “Fine,” Knockout relented, his tone dripping with reluctance. “But if you die down there, I won’t feel bad.”

Danny chuckled. “Sure, sure.” He placed a Fenton earpiece into his ear and connected it to the direct comline through his phone to Knockout’s comm. Luckily, after some modifications, he made the large, clunky, bright green thing much more discreet than his parent's design.

Then Danny transformed into his human form in a flash of bright light. Knockout had seen it before, back when they’d gone racing together. The transformation still intrigued the medic, but now wasn’t the time for curiosity.

“Alright,” Danny said, taking a deep breath. “I’ll make sure to be quick. You just make sure you’re ready to do your part when I need you.”

Knockout nodded, but his focus was already on the warehouse. His optics tracked the human guards, watching their movements and patterns. His field buzzed with tension and hatred. He wanted nothing more than to charge in and start tearing things apart, but he waited, trusting—for now—that Danny's plan would work.

–

Danny slipped through the shadows, careful to keep out of sight as he navigated the perimeter of the base. His heartbeat thrummed in his ears, but his movements were swift and deliberate. Just ahead, another guard stood by himself, seemingly focused on a comm unit. 

Danny crept closer, his feet barely making a sound on the gravel, and phased his hand through the back of the guard's head. His fingers tingled as he used a trick he didn’t often employ—sending a light electric pulse through the guard’s neural system. The man crumpled to the ground, unconscious but unharmed. Danny stepped over the limp body and continued forward repeating the action with every other guard he came across.

Once he had knocked out the patrolling guards, he didn’t have much time left before someone would notice. He approached the rear entrance to the warehouse. The door was locked, but that didn’t do much against a half-ghost like himself. He phased his hand into the keypad, the lock mechanism sparking momentarily before the door swung open with an eerie creak.

Danny stepped inside, immediately noticing the clipboard on a nearby desk. He snatched it up, tucking it under his arm, and walked in with casual confidence, as if he belonged there. The interior of the warehouse buzzed with activity: techs working on various machines, computers beeping, and soldiers moving crates of equipment. Danny rounded a corner, his breath catching when he spotted a man standing tall at the center of the room, overseeing the operation.

White hair, no mask, smug expression. He didn’t need an introduction. Breakdown spoke enough about the pain caused by this human for Danny to know immediately.

Silas.

The sight of him made Danny’s skin crawl. He clenched his jaw, biting back the snarl that threatened to escape . Danny's mind flashed back to others like Silas—men who thought they could do whatever they wanted to people with no repercussions. The room quieted as several operatives spotted him. Simultaneously, multiple guns raised, with clicks of the safety being turned off, barrels trained on his chest. Danny raised his hands in mock surrender, his voice smooth and nonchalant.

"Hey, hey, guys! What's the problem? I’m just here about the new weapons shipment.” The guards seemed slightly confused. 

“We aren’t expecting a shipment.” One of them called out. 

“I’m with Fenton Tech. We were looking for a new business opportunity, so I was told to come in here and bring you some of the newer models. Don’t shoot me. I’m just the delivery boy.” Danny shrugged. The clipboard is still in his raised hand.

Some lowered their guns slightly, confusion replacing hostility for just a moment. Silas, though, was not so easily swayed. He stepped forward, his icy gaze locking onto Danny. Danny felt the urge to glare back with all the hatred he was feeling. But he knew he couldn't. 

“Fenton Tech?” Silas asked, his voice sharp. “As in the ghost -hunting equipment?”  

Danny froze for half a second but quickly recovered, forcing a cocky grin onto his face. “The one and only. Our gear doesn’t just work on ghosts—it works on robots, too. Figured an organization like yours would be interested. We’ve got a pretty solid track record with the Guys in White if you need references.”

Silas stepped closer, each step deliberate and predatory. Danny fought to keep the false confidence in his stance as Silas moved into his personal space, close enough that Danny could feel the man’s breath. Silas’s smirk was razor-sharp.

"Is that so?" Silas murmured, his tone dripping with skepticism.

Danny tilted his head, trying to keep it light. “Yeah. I mean, hey, it’d be a shame not to use our equipment for something a little more… exciting, right?”

For a tense moment, Danny thought Silas might actually buy it. Then, with a dismissive wave of his hand, Silas turned to his men. “Get him out of here.”

The undertone was clear: kill him .

Danny’s muscles tensed as one of the guards moved in to grab him. Without missing a beat, he twisted, snatching the gun from the man's holster. In the same fluid motion, he phased through the guard’s grip, and fired a shot into the man's knee. The soldier crumpled with a shout, and Danny was already moving, firing two more shots into the legs of the guards nearest him.

The room exploded into chaos. Silas dove behind a wall, pulling out his own gun while the other operatives scrambled, shouting commands as they trained their weapons on Danny. Bullets whizzed past, and Danny ducked behind a large piece of machinery, using it as cover.

“Alright,” Danny muttered into the comm, dodging another hail of bullets. “Officially distracted. You’re up, Paint Job. Come in swinging.”

It didn’t take long before the Decepticon barreled through the main hangar door, sending it flying off its hinges before the agents even registered his presence.

“Doctor in the house,” Knockout quipped, his voice dripping with amusement as he surveyed the chaos. 

Danny groaned, facepalming as he ducked to avoid another spray of bullets. “Really?” He hissed into the Com.

Still, Knockout was the perfect distraction. Now, in full panic, the operatives shifted their focus to the towering mech, firing uselessly at him with regular bullets. They bounced off Knockout’s armour, only leaving a few minor scratches. Danny winced, knowing full well Knockout would complain about that later.

With the agents thoroughly distracted, Danny took his chance. He sprinted toward a nearby computer terminal, weaving between the chaos. He jammed the USB stick into the port and started typing rapidly, the virus already loading into M.E.C.H.'s systems. But before he could finish, searing pain shot through his hand.

A knife had pinned his hand to the keyboard.

Danny hissed in pain, looking up to see Silas standing above him, a smirk on his face.

“I’m not stupid, kid,” Silas said, voice low and dangerous. “I know a distraction when I see one.”

Danny chuckled, though it came out more like a growl. “And here I thought…”

“Save it,” Silas interrupted, stepping closer, his presence menacing. “I’m going to enjoy this. First, we’ll dismantle your little friend over there, piece by piece. You’ll get a front-row seat. Then, once we’re done with him, you’ll be next.”

Danny’s eyes narrowed, core seething in anger, not for himself, but at the thought of them hurting Knockout. "You scientists are all the same. Evil freaks. Torturing innocent people just because you can." His voice dripped with disgust. “You’d kill a newborn if it gave you scientific readings.”

Before Silas could respond, Danny spat in his face, his disgust clear. Silas wiped it off, a dark chuckle escaping his lips. But before he could say anything more, Danny phased his hand through the knife, ignoring the pain as he grabbed the blade by the handle, pulling it out of the terminal.

In an instant, Danny lunged at Silas, tackling him to the ground. He pinned the man beneath him, with the knife at his neck. “You’re going to pay for what you did to Breakdown,” Danny snarled, his voice low and dangerous.

Silas, ever the psychopath, smirked, his voice calm despite the situation. “It was fun, you know. Experimenting on him. Seeing how far I could push…”

Danny’s eyes blazed with green energy, his fury rising. The urge to lash out was overwhelming; he had told Knockout no killing, and now he was getting close to breaking his own rule. Silas focused on Danny’s face. More specifically, Danny's eyes. 

"You're a little scientific marvel yourself, aren't you, kid?" The man chuckled. “I would love to find out what makes you tick.” Danny narrowed his eyes, trying to ignore the comment. But then – his gaze shifted to Silas’s right eye. 

“You know what they say, Silas…” Danny’s voice was almost calm, cold, as he tilted his head slightly. “An eye for an eye, right?”

Silas’s eyes widened, realization dawning just a moment too late. Panic flashed across his face as Danny’s hand phased into his skull. There was no hesitation. With a swift motion, Danny pulled out Silas’s right eye—the same eye that had been taken from Breakdown.

Silas yelled in pain his hands flew up to desperately clutch at his now-empty socket, slick with his own blood.

Danny stood, looming over him. “If you ever hurt someone I care about again,” Danny growled, voice cracking with energy. “I’ll come back, and next time, I’ll drag you to hell myself. Am I clear?”

He turned away, leaving Silas on the floor, Danny’s bleeding hand still gripping the knife. He had more work to do.

Danny sprinted back to the panel, checking the status of the virus—it was done. The screens flickered, and data was rapidly disappearing from M.E.C.H.’s systems, just as planned. Danny yanked the USB out and slipped it into his pocket. The mission was a success.

But as he turned around, his gaze landed on Knockout, and Danny’s stomach churned. Knockout’s servos were smeared with an unsettling amount of blood, more than Danny had expected. He grimaced, his eyes shifting down to his own hands, stained a gory red from both the stab wound and where he’d torn Silas’s eye out. 

I guess that's what you should expect when you bring a Decepticon to a human fight.

Danny stepped over several unconscious—or at least he hoped they were unconscious— M.E.C.H. agents scattered across the floor, most of them sporting burn injuries from Knockout’s electric prod.

“Knockout!” he called up to the towering medic, standing amidst the carnage, his optics still gleaming with a dangerous energy.

Knockout's optics snapped to Danny. He looked almost ready to attack him, but quickly pulled back when he recognized him. As their eyes meet, the whirring of Knockout’s buzzsaw slowed to a stop.

“We’re all good,” Danny said, motioning for him to stop. “Let’s get out of here.”

Knockout hesitated, his optics scanning the room as if debating whether or not to finish off the remaining agents. But after a beat, he nodded begrudgingly. Without a word, he scooped Danny up, carrying him across the room with ease. Danny noticed the way Knockout stepped over the bodies without a second thought.

When they made it outside of the warehouse through the giant hole Knockout had burst through, the Decepticon quickly transformed, and Danny was dropped into the passenger’s seat as Knockout’s engine roared to life. Tires screeched, and they took off down the road.

Knockout remained silent for the drive, and Danny stared at the blood staining his hands. He clenched them into fists, not sure what to feel—satisfaction, guilt, or something else entirely.

-

Knockout and Danny sped through the groundbridge, screeching to a stop inside the Nemesis. Danny stepped out of the vehicle and onto the purple flooring. Knockout transformed back into his root mode, and his optics quickly zeroed in on Danny’s injuries. His hand was still bleeding from where Silas had stabbed it.

“You’ve been shot,” Knockout stated as he gently scooped Danny up to inspect him closer.

Danny winced, looking down at his shoulder and saw a bullet hole through his shirt that he hadn’t noticed before. “Huh. Guess I didn’t feel that one.”

Knockout’s grip tightened as they made their way to the medbay. Danny tried to ignore the fact that he was currently sitting in blood-stained servos. The doors to the medbay slid open, and Breakdown stirred from his recharge, sitting up on the medical berth. His lone optic flickered groggily as he took in the sight of Danny and Knockout, both bloodied and battered.

“What in the Pit happened?” Breakdown asked, his voice thick with confusion and concern.

“We went to visit the people who did that to you,” Danny said, offering a wry smile. “Nice company.”

Knockout smirked, his tone dark as he added, “Their screams were delicious.”

Danny grimaced, but Breakdown’s reaction was immediate. His optic widened in alarm, and he looked between Knockout and Danny, worry written across his face. “You could’ve been hurt!” he snapped at Knockout.

Knockout, at the very least, had the nerve to look chastised. “It was fine… It was worth it.” He said. Knockout placed Danny down on a nearby bench, turning his attention to the human’s wounds. His servo hovered over the injuries for a moment before he sighed and went to one of his shelves. He pulled out a medical kit—the same one left behind after Starscream had brought a human nurse onboard—and handed it to Danny.

“Since you always insist on doing these things yourself,” Knockout muttered, passing the kit to Danny.

Danny nodded, taking the kit without hesitation. “Thanks.” He set to work, patching up his hand and shoulder.

Once he finished wrapping the bandages around his hand, Danny turned to Breakdown with a grin. “Oh, right. Got a gift for you.”

Breakdown tilted his helm, confused, as Danny pulled something from his pocket. He held it up, and Knockout’s optics narrowed when he saw it.

“From Silas,” Danny said. “He sends his love.”

Breakdown stared at the dismembered eye in stunned silence for a moment, then let out a huff of surprised laughter. “Well, ain’t that somethin’. Didn’t expect a souvenir.” Despite the grimness of the situation, there was a flicker of approval in his expression.

Knockout glanced between the two of them, his EM field still humming with the adrenaline from their mission. “If it’s any consolation, I don’t think Silas will be bothering us again anytime soon,” he said, a wicked gleam in his optic.

Danny leaned back, finally letting the exhaustion seep into his body. “Good. He deserved a lot worse for what he did to you.” He glanced at Breakdown, his expression softening. “I just thought… you should have something of his. To know we didn’t let him get away with it.”

Breakdown’s optics met Danny’s, a mixture of gratitude and something deeper crossing his face. “Thanks, kid. I appreciate it.”

-

Notes:

A comment from the last chapter inspired me to make a little crack meme animatic. You can watch it here! I'll also post it at the end of this chapter. (lol, yes, it is a bit jarring compared to the chapter content, but it can be a pallet cleanser XD)