#Fixing Boot Sector

[luetta]

idk if people on tumblr know about this but a cybersecurity software called crowdstrike just did what is probably the single biggest fuck up in any sector in the past 10 years. it's monumentally bad. literally the most horror-inducing nightmare scenario for a tech company.

some info, crowdstrike is essentially an antivirus software for enterprises. which means normal laypeople cant really get it, they're for businesses and organisations and important stuff.

so, on a friday evening (it of course wasnt friday everywhere but it was friday evening in oceania which is where it first started causing damage due to europe and na being asleep), crowdstrike pushed out an update to their windows users that caused a bug.

before i get into what the bug is, know that friday evening is the worst possible time to do this because people are going home. the weekend is starting. offices dont have people in them. this is just one of many perfectly placed failures in the rube goldburg machine of crowdstrike. there's a reason friday is called 'dont push to live friday' or more to the point 'dont fuck it up friday'

so, at 3pm at friday, an update comes rolling into crowdstrike users which is automatically implemented. this update immediately causes the computer to blue screen of death. very very bad. but it's not simply a 'you need to restart' crash, because the computer then gets stuck into a boot loop.

this is the worst possible thing because, in a boot loop state, a computer is never really able to get to a point where it can do anything. like download a fix. so there is nothing crowdstrike can do to remedy this death update anymore. it is now left to the end users.

it was pretty quickly identified what the problem was. you had to boot it in safe mode, and a very small file needed to be deleted. or you could just rename crowdstrike to something else so windows never attempts to use it.

it's a fairly easy fix in the grand scheme of things, but the issue is that it is effecting enterprises. which can have a looooot of computers. in many different locations. so an IT person would need to manually fix hundreds of computers, sometimes in whole other cities and perhaps even other countries if theyre big enough.

another fuck up crowdstrike did was they did not stagger the update, so they could catch any mistakes before they wrecked havoc. (and also how how HOW do you not catch this before deploying it. this isn't a code oopsie this is a complete failure of quality ensurance that probably permeates the whole company to not realise their update was an instant kill). they rolled it out to everyone of their clients in the world at the same time.

and this seems pretty hilarious on the surface. i was havin a good chuckle as eftpos went down in the store i was working at, chaos was definitely ensuring lmao. im in aus, and banking was literally down nationwide.

but then you start hearing about the entire country's planes being grounded because the airport's computers are bricked. and hospitals having no computers anymore. emergency call centres crashing. and you realised that, wow. crowdstrike just killed people probably. this is literally the worst thing possible for a company like this to do.

crowdstrike was kinda on the come up too, they were starting to become a big name in the tech world as a new face. but that has definitely vanished now. to fuck up at this many places, is almost extremely impressive. its hard to even think of a comparable fuckup.

a friday evening simultaneous rollout boot loop is a phrase that haunts IT people in their darkest hours. it's the monster that drags people down into the swamp. it's the big bag in the horror movie. it's the end of the road. and for crowdstrike, that reaper of souls just knocked on their doorstep.

[ccupcakqs]

— i don’t want the championship if i can’t have you too ౨ৎ✧˚

warnings: angst, feelings vs career, hotel room confessions pairing: charles leclerc x ferrarri driver reader a/n: why did this hurt me too 😭, part 2

the hotel room is too quiet for a night like this.

you sit on the edge of the bed, still in your race suit, hands stiff from gripping the wheel like your life depended on it. it almost did. not physically — not today — but everything else inside you feels bruised. like you’ve been driving through the inside of your own chest for weeks now, dodging the things you can’t say out loud.

your boots are kicked to the corner, one half-zipped, one sideways. your helmet’s on the desk. and your championship hopes are currently dangling by a thread that looks an awful lot like charles leclerc.

he’s somewhere in the next room. maybe the bathroom. maybe pacing the hallway barefoot, the way he does when he’s restless. which is always. you could call his name, and he’d answer in that voice that makes your stomach knot. but you don’t. because you don’t know what you’d say once he did.

you close your eyes, lean forward, press your elbows to your knees.

you can still feel the tension in the paddock. the press buzz, the engineers’ whispers, the drivers’ room gone sharp and wordless after the race. he didn’t speak to you then. you didn’t speak to him either.

it was too close. everything is too close. the points. the cameras. your mouths, every time you lean in too far and don’t finish what you almost start.

you know what the headlines say. what the whispers are. ferrari’s two golden stars going head to head for the title, no team orders, no favoritism. just raw, open fire. what they don’t know is how much it hurts.

a door creaks. footsteps move across the carpet, soft but certain.

you don’t have to look. you know it’s him.

charles sits on the bed behind you. not too close. not yet.

you wait for him to say something. he doesn’t. maybe he’s waiting too.

outside, someone honks. a car pulls out. the city hums, unaware that your heart is breaking from the inside out.

you speak first.

“you were faster in sector three.”

his voice is quiet. “you’ll fix that.”

it’s what he always says. like it’s a fact. like you can do anything. he always has more faith in you than you do.

your fingers pull at the velcro strap on your sleeve, undoing it slowly, again and again. you feel his eyes on your hands.

“do you want it?” he asks. “the championship.”

you let out a long breath. “yeah. more than anything.”

he nods once. you feel it more than see it.

“but not more than you,” you add.

the room stops breathing.

he exhales. it sounds like surrender. it sounds like grief.

“i’ve tried so hard not to fall in love with you.”

the words settle into your chest like a weight you’ve been carrying for months, finally put down. they don’t make anything easier. but they make everything make sense.

you turn to him. his eyes are tired. his jaw is tense. and yet, he still looks at you like you’re everything he’s ever wanted, even if having you means losing everything else.

you say, “if i win, i’ll feel like i took it from you.”

he shakes his head. “if you win, i’ll be the proudest second place the world’s ever seen.”

your throat tightens.

“and if you win?” you ask.

charles smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “then i’ll wish i could give the trophy to you.”

you laugh. soft, breathless, painful. your hands are trembling.

“this is so fucked,” you whisper.

he nods. “yeah. it is.”

you lean in, forehead resting against his. you both smell like sweat and the aftershock of adrenaline. his hand finds yours, and your fingers lace together like they always do — instinctive, practiced, holy.

neither of you kiss.

not yet.

you don’t know if sunday will break you. if standing on that podium will feel like glory or heartbreak, depending on who gets there first. but right now, in this quiet, golden, exhausted moment. he’s yours. and that’s enough.

at least for tonight.

part 2!!

[chaoticsolsworld]

Hi!

Could you do a story about Danny as Manny Alvarez and reader as a couple that wake up to someone trying to break into their home and they have to defend themselves?

“Stay Behind Me”|Manny Alvarez x Reader

Author’s Note: Manny Alvarez x fem!reader. Thank you for the requests! Was kinda having Writer’s Block.

CW: violence, blood, gunfire. Home Invasion. After Joel’s death.

Reblogs appreciated!

You’d been living in a second-floor apartment just outside WLF barracks. It wasn’t much…just brick walls, ration sheets taped to the fridge, and a broken balcony door that never quite locked but it was yours. Yours and Manny’s.

Being with someone in the WLF wasn’t easy. Missions could pull you apart for days. Nights could end with a knock and orders from Isaac. And trust….? it had to be earned every single day.

So when you heard the first knock, soft, rhythmic, calculated….your eyes snapped open.

Then came the twist of metal. Someone was testing the lock from the outside.

“Manny,” you whispered, nudging his shoulder.

He was already turning, groggy but alert. His hand slid instinctively to the pistol beneath the bedframe.

“You heard that?” you asked.

He nodded. “Three clicks. Like we do on recon.”

“WLF?”

He frowned. “If they wanted us out, they’d say it to our faces.”

A quiet pop came from the back, a silenced round. It missed, embedded somewhere in the wall. Manny was on his feet immediately, grabbing a shirt and motioning you behind the heavy armoire in the corner. It used to be your hideout during drills. Tonight, it was your only cover.

“Stay there. Don’t move unless I say.”

His tone didn’t leave room for argument.

You slid into the shadowed gap, breathing shallowly as the lock finally gave with a click.

Two figures entered.

They were masked, not Fireflies, but not official WLF either. Their gear was scavenged. One had a rifle. The other, a pistol and a knife. They moved like soldiers but not trained ones, more like ex-members or raiders.

Manny crouched near the hallway, using the dark to his advantage. He counted the steps. One heading toward the bedroom. One sweeping toward the kitchen.

When the first one passed the doorway, Manny pounced.

He grabbed the attacker by the neck, slammed him into the concrete wall hard enough to stun him, and twisted the pistol from his hand. It hit the floor and skidded toward the dresser where you were hiding.

You crawled fast, grabbed the weapon, flicked off the safety. Your hands were shaking but steady enough to cover Manny as the second attacker burst into the room.

“Drop it!” you shouted, gun raised.

The second man flinched but didn’t stop. He fired once, missing you by inches before Manny shot him clean in the thigh. He went down screaming, blood pooling fast.

The first attacker wasn’t so lucky. When he reached for his knife again, Manny didn’t hesitate.

One shot. Silence.

The screaming died down to ragged breathing.

You stepped into the light slowly, eyes wide. “They’re not Fireflies.”

“No,” Manny said, crouching beside the dying man. He yanked the patch off his vest. “They were WLF.”

Your stomach dropped.

“Why would one of our own—?”

Manny’s jaw clenched. “Ex-WLF. Probably pissed about what happened at the Forward Base. Or looking for leverage.” He glanced at you. “Or looking for me.”

He grabbed your coat and handed you your boots. “We have to go.”

“But where?”

“Anywhere but here. We’ll head toward the marina. Nora owes me a favor. And if this was a hit? We’re not safe in this sector anymore.”

You didn’t speak as you packed, just moved quickly, silently, knowing how this world worked. You zipped up the bag with your spare rations and ammo and looked back at the room. Your home. The coffee mug Manny always used. The crooked picture frame he never fixed. The spare blanket that smelled like him.

Gone now.

He took your hand at the door, fingers blood-warm and steady.

“We stay alive,” he said. “You and me. No matter what.”

You nodded, and the two of you vanished into the cold, damp dark of Seattle’s early morning, where trust was dangerous, and love was the only thing you could keep

[hitoshitoshi]

Now, Now, Kitten. Don't Bite. [Jealous!Sylus x Cat Hybrid!Reader]

Sylus stretched out his legs, one polished boot rested atop a stack of a crate someone had left lying around a warehouse. It was supposed to be a meeting—a show of force with some upstart gang that was trying to bite off more than they could chew in his sector. Idiots, the lot of them. Predictably, they were late and it left Sylus time to indulge in a rare moment of quiet. Well, almost quiet.

A soft thump from the rafters, followed by the low purr of a content Cat Hybrid!MC—you. broke the silence. Sylus didn't need to look to know who it was.

"Decided to grace us with your presence, kitten?" Sylus murmured, his gaze still fixed on the warehouse's entrance.

A shadow detached itself from the shadows above. Your paws padded gracefully towards Sylus, every movement was fluid and elegant, from the twitch of your tail to the way you lowered yourself onto the crate beside Sylus with a soft thud. Your head rubbed against Sylus' arm, your fur was surprisingly soft against his leather jacket.

"Impatient?" Sylus chuckled, feeling the familiar prickle of tiny teeth against his gloved fingers where they now rested on the armrest. "Now, now, kitten. Don't bite." Of course, these words were entirely just for show.

You tilted your head, studying Sylus with an intensity that would have been unnerving coming from anyone else. Then, with a playful flick of your tail, you struck. Precisely as Sylus knew you would. Tiny fangs grazed Sylus' skin, a sensation was more akin to a caress than a bite. It was a line they danced, a delicate push and pull, predator and... less predator.

But at the arrival of Luke and Kieran, they put a swift end to their little game. They bursted though the doors, their usual boisterous energy turned up to eleven, a stark contrast to the quiet intensity that clung to you like a second skin.

"Boss! We got something!" Luke practically vibrated with excitement, brandishing a brightly colored object.

"For the cat hybrid," Kieran added, tossing the object towards you. Sylus' lips twisted into a ftown. It was a teething toy shaped ike a fish, with rows of rubber bristles meant to soothe aching gums. Practical, maybe. But it grated him. You, with your untamed grace and predatory instincts, reduced to teething on a child's toy. He felt... Possessive. Annoyed.

Predictably, you got easily distracted, being as though you were a cat hybrid. You abandoned your perch on the crate, drawn to the novelty of the gift that Luke and Kieran got you. You batted the toy around with your cute littel paws. Those tiny and lethal teeth now gnawing on rubber instead of... well, Sylus.

Sylus watched, his gaze was dark as the feeling off quiet amusement was replaced by a simmering irritation he felt for some reason. He was Sylus, damn it. Fear was his currency, respect was his due. He didn't do these... domestic feelings. And yet, the sight of that damned toy irked him more than it should. "Seems like our little hunter has found a new plaything," Sylus drawled, his voice was deceptively mind, though the glint in his eyes held a warning. "Think the kitten likes it, Boss?" Luke, ever oblivious, beamed. Sylus rose from his crate, "We wouldn't want to deprive it nowm would we?" He scooped up the offending toy as if by accident, feeling it discreetly.

-

Later, after the meeting — Sylus found himself alone again in the quiet warehouse. You watched him with those unsettling eyes.

"Looking for something, kitten?" Sylus asked, a smirk played on his lips as he leaned against a nearby pillar, arms crossed.

You tilted your head, a low and questioning sound escaped your throat. You really wanted to bite something. You walked towards him, rubbing yourself against Sylus' legs, trying to get Sylus' attention because you felt super bad that you couldn't find the toy that Luke and Kieran gave you and you wanted Sylus' help to go find it.

Sylus allowed the contact, he even arched into it slightly. "Don't worry," he murmured, his gaze softened ever so slightly. "Some toys are simply too easily... misplaced."

Sylus could practicaly hear the purr of satisfaction rumbling in your chest as you nudged Sylus' hand, seeing that familiar, teasing bite. "Good kitten."

A/N: Damn, Sylus would 100% be that pathetic to be jealous of a toy.

Masterlist | TWITTER

[salemrph]

"Let the World Burn"

Chapter 5: Gravity - Part 1

A night of celebration ends in chaos—you vanish without a trace. The ransom demand arrives, but Sylus knows this isn’t just about money.

Navigator: Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8 | AO3

Chapter Summary: Classified research, human experimentation, and a serum designed for Evolvers like you.

"Pipsqueak."

You may not see him the same way anymore. But that doesn’t change a damn thing. You are his to protect.

Characters: Sylus x MC/reader/you, Luke and Kieran, Zayne, Caleb

Genre/Warning: descriptions of violence and blood, hurt/comfort, injuries, romantic, drama, action, slight sexual content, angst, graphic description of corpses, childhood trauma

Words: 8.1k | Reading Time: 32 min

Tag list: @voidsylus @thechaoticarchivist @syluscrows @likewhyareyousoobsessedwithme @syluskisser @fortunekookie07 @crimsonlittlecrow @mochibunnies3 @gazelover666 @fancyhawk45 @sorryimakira @paninisstuff @deathrye @tinyweebsstuff @sxderia @yunhogrippers @sylusqt @darkesky @an-ever-angry-bi @atinymekanie @bruisedchickensoup @thatonegenderfluidwhore @certainduckanchor @the-girl-who-used-to @reika-desu @f41k47 @beezabuzz @mentaltrouble2201 @bl00dsuccker @blorbohunter @gianchan-de @fortunekookie07 @sylusloml @pandoras-rabbit @the-spine-of-the-world @noradest @owodi @greatmistakes @theshadowsdragon @pillarofsnow @lawssocuteee @gibborger

Skyhaven – Three Weeks Before

The Farspace Fleet Base was never truly silent. Even in the late hours, the halls resonated with disciplined activity—soldiers moving with practiced efficiency, their boots striking the metallic floors in a steady, rhythmic cadence.

Throughout the sprawling command sector, figures in crisp military uniforms navigated their stations, issuing hushed orders, scrutinizing data streams, and coordinating missions that spanned the entire Deep Space Tunnel. The immense holo-screens lining the walls pulsed with constantly updated reports—strategic deployments, classified directives, shifting alliances.

Deep within the complex, beyond secured checkpoints and locked corridors, lay the nerve center—the high-command offices, accessible only to those of rank and authority. And one office remained illuminated.

Inside, behind a polished, reinforced desk, sat a man whose attention should have been fixed on the classified reports illuminating the space before him. But his thoughts were a storm, a tempest raging beneath a veneer of calm. He sat rigidly in his chair, fingers drumming a restless rhythm against the armrest, a subtle telltale of the frustration boiling within.

A holographic display shimmered before him, a torrent of intelligence cascading in real time—fleet deployments, border skirmishes, the names of officers assigned to Linkon. But the data was a blur, a meaningless stream of light. His gaze skimmed the screen, seeing without comprehending, registering without processing, his focus consumed by a singular, urgent concern. He let out a sharp sigh, his fingers instinctively finding the cool weight of the silver apple pendant nestled against his skin. A cherished keepsake, a tangible link to you. 

Pip-squeak. 

Caleb had called you that since you can remember. A stupid, teasing nickname that had stuck long. It was supposed to be endearing, meant to ruffle your feathers, to keep that sharp fire in your eyes burning whenever you glared at him. 

And yet, despite your frustration, he loved it—loved the way you’d always respond, the way your face would bloom with that vibrant, defiant smile. He had always taken care of you, in every way he knew. Gently scolding you when you begged for just one more snack, only to give in minutes later. Preparing your comfort food, anticipating your unspoken desires. Hovering over your shoulder, sighing dramatically as you tried to wiggle out of your homework.

But lately, things felt different. You had been retreating, little by little, leaving him to navigate the quiet ache of your absence. His brows furrowed, the weight in his chest settling deeper, heavier, a leaden ache that mirrored the growing distance between you two. Things had escalated quickly that night, a whirlwind of unspoken emotions that nearly forced a confession from his lips.  He didn't want you to see him as an older brother anymore. He had never seen you in that way.

"I don’t need you— Caleb… You just can’t… You are very important to me, and no one can ever replace you…"

The way you had looked at him—like he was a stranger, an unknown entity, like you weren’t sure if you could trust the very ground he stood on. It was a wound, deeper than he wanted to acknowledge, a silent, festering ache. He had spent this whole time surviving, clinging to the fragile hope of seeing you again, a beacon in the darkness that kept him from succumbing to the madness of his ordeal. Chasing after the impossible, enduring the aftermath of the explosion, only to finally meet you again and then lose you in a completely more painful way.

Possessive? Absolutely. Obsessive? He wouldn’t deny it. But you were his. His to protect. And whether you liked it or not, he wasn’t letting go. The sacrifices he had made, the sins that clung to him like a shroud, the weight of being the Colonel of the Fleet. These were burdens he didn't know if he could ever confess. His jaw clenched, his grip on the pendant tightening until the silver bit into his skin. Some things were better left buried, locked away in the deepest recesses of his soul. He touches his bionic arm. Another secret. Another truth you hadn't discovered yet. If you did? Would you look at him the way you used to? Would you feel bad about it? 

His fingers hovered over the holo-screen, scrolling past personnel reports—until a sharp, insistent knock on his office door shattered the silence, snapping him back to the present. Caleb shook his head and he forced his emotions back beneath the surface, burying them under the steel resolve that had made him both respected and feared. He tucked the pendant back under his uniform.

He straightened, his expression unreadable. The Colonel, once more.

"Enter." 

The door slid open, revealing a uniformed officer standing at rigid attention, his face pale and his posture strained. Caleb knew immediately, from the officer's forced composure and the clipped cadence of his approach, that something was gravely wrong.

"Colonel. We have a situation." 

Caleb paused, his mind already racing, but his voice remained calm.

"Speak." The officer swallowed, taking a measured step forward, the rigidity of his stance betraying the urgency of his report.

"One of our men is missing, sir," the officer stated, his voice flat. "Calloway. He failed to return from leave."

Caleb’s brow furrowed slightly. Another one.

"Three now," he murmured, his fingers tapping a sharp, insistent pattern against the desk.

This wasn’t the first time it had happened. Low-ranking members of the Farspace Fleet had been disappearing—quietly, without a trace. No distress signals. No records of their whereabouts. It was as if they had simply been wiped off the grid. 

At first, it had been dismissed as desertion. Soldiers vanishing on their own terms. It happened. Some succumbed to the crushing pressure, some sought a life beyond the Fleet's rigid structure. But three in rapid succession? That was no mere coincidence.

Caleb leaned forward, his sharp eyes locking onto the officer, his gaze piercing. "What was his last known location?"

"Off-base, sir. He was granted a two-week leave and never returned. His family reported that he never reached his destination." The officer's tone was grave, confirming Caleb's suspicions. This wasn’t just a soldier going AWOL. Caleb's gaze flicked back to his monitor, the earlier reports now utterly irrelevant.

"Get me everything we have on Calloway. His communication logs, his last movements, every shred of information. Do the same with the others." His voice was cold, measured, but a low, simmering intensity underscored each word.

The officer nodded. "Understood, sir."

As the door hissed shut behind him, Caleb leaned back, his fingers unconsciously tracing the cool outline of the pendant. Another goddamn problem.

He was tired. Not just of this. Not just of missing soldiers, buried reports, or the endless cycle of war and bureaucracy. No—he was tired in a way that settled into his bones, in a way that no amount of sleep could fix.

Knowing the information gathering would take time, Caleb decided to return to go home. The thought was almost laughable. It wasn’t home, not really. Just a space, cold, silent, filled with things that no longer held meaning. No warmth. No presence. No you. 

–

The apartment was deathly quiet when he entered, the air still, undisturbed, a chilling testament to his solitude. The emptiness of the space enveloped him a suffocating shroud. His steps echoed softly against the polished floor as he moved deeper into the apartment, his gaze drifting over the familiar surroundings. 

His fingers brushed over the edge of the counter as he passed, as if expecting to feel your presence there. But the surface was glacial. Caleb made his way to the shelf where the only photo he has of you stands out. Her violet eyes reflected the deep regret and sorrow she carried with him, day after day. His fingers hovered over it for a moment before he turned away. Shrugging off his uniform, he tossed it onto the sofa without a second thought.

Without even the thought of food, he simply fell onto the bed. As the mattress sinks beneath him, the exhaustion of the day presses into his bones. He stares at the ceiling for a moment. Lost in the silence. With a slow, drawn-out breath, he rolled onto his side, his eyes drawn to the pillow lying beside him. His fingers traced the soft fabric, a hesitant touch, before he pulled it to his chest, clutching it as if it could somehow fill the gaping hole you had left behind. Your scent is still there. He hasn't changed the pillowcase since you left—it’s pathetic, really—but he doesn’t care. It’s the last trace of you he has. And it’s been too long.

His grip tightens, eyes slipping shut, jaw clenched against the ache in his chest.

Pip-squeak… 

The name barely forms in his mind before the memories surface—your face, the way you used to look at him, the warmth in your eyes before everything became so damn complicated. He can picture it too clearly. Your lips parted, the soft hitch of your breath, the way you whispered his name, unaware of the effect you had on him.

Caleb hates this feeling. The love he has for you it’s too much. It tears him apart from the inside, as much pain as it brings relief. His body betrays him before his mind can stop it. Heat coils low in his stomach, tension tightening, pressing down. Fuck. Caleb swallows hard, but it doesn’t help. He wants you. Has always wanted you. And worst of all—he knows that no matter how much time passes, no matter how much distance you put between you, that won’t change. He will still love you. 

He buried his nose into the pillow, while his fingers trail down, slipping beneath the waistband of his pants, exhaling sharply as relief and frustration war inside him. It’s not enough. It never is. The memories keep flooding in. He regretted it. Every damn day.

He should have told you at the graduation. Just said it. But he stood there, pretending it didn’t matter, pretending being your "friend" was enough. It never was. It never would be.

Caleb strokes himself with slow, rough precision, chasing something that won’t come—not fully. His breath is ragged, his body tense, aching for something real, something that isn’t just the fading memory of you. 

He should have asked you out during school. Pulled you aside, away from the others, away from those clueless boys who thought they had a shot. Who looked at you like you were something they could own. They weren’t good enough. Not for you. He hated the way Zayne looked at you. Hated the way any of them did.

You had no idea how many times he’d chased them off. No idea how often he’d threatened guys who got too close, who thought they could touch you, kiss you. It was miserable, really. How far he’d fallen. How he had once cornered that quiet little thing you liked, the one who dared to think he could stand beside you. Who dared to think he had a chance. Caleb had stood in front of him, voice calm, deadly, his stance relaxed but full of warning. Every guy wanted you. Every guy was a predator circling prey. Pathetic. That’s what he was. Because despite it all, despite the jealousy, the anger, the obsessive fucking need—he had still failed.

A growl of frustration escapes him, his free hand fisting the sheets. The scent of you clings to them, but it’s fading. Just like everything else. His strokes falter, frustration curling in his gut. It hurts. Wanting you like this—needing you like this. It’s not just the physical ache; it’s the raw, consuming hunger, the part of him that’s starved for you. For your warmth. For your touch. For the fucking impossible dream that, maybe, you could have been his.

That stormy, suffocating night, years ago, when the two of you were trapped in the attic of your home, waiting out the torrential downpour. The rain had battered the roof like a relentless siege, the wind howling through the gaps in the aged wood. It had been so dark, so still, broken only by the soft rhythm of your breathing beside him, the flickering lamplight casting dancing shadows across your features. You had been so close. But again, you were arguing about whether he should stop protecting you.

"Right, I forgot. You’re not a little kid who needs to be protected anymore."

He had stared at your lips, at the way they parted when you sighed, at the way you frowned in anger, and even though it tore him apart that you rejected his protection, his touch… he should have done it. Should have leaned in. Should have kissed you. Should have finally shattered the pretense. All he had to do was reach out. Tilt your chin up just slightly. Close the agonizing space between you. But he hadn’t. Because Caleb—brilliant, calculating, fearless Caleb—had faltered. He clenched his jaw, dug his nails into his palms, and let the moment bleed away. Maybe with that kiss, you would have seen the tempest of emotions he kept locked inside.

Caleb’s breath shudders, frustration curling in his gut. His grip tightens around his cock, stroking harder, faster, his teeth gritted as his mind spirals deeper into the past. His wrist aches from the pace, but he doesn’t slow down. Doesn’t stop.

How long had he been holding back? How many years? How many goddamn nights had he laid awake, aching for you? How many chances had he squandered, playing the part of the protective “big brother” when every inch of him wanted to be something else?

And then, just when he was finally fucking ready—

He died. Or at least, that’s what you thought. Faking his death wasn’t something he planned or expected. The only thing he could do at that moment was save you from the explosion. 

Months after that, you were right there, in front of him, alive, breathing, more beautiful than he remembered. But instead of the relief he expected…You looked at him like he was a stranger. Like he was someone you had to keep at arm’s length. Like the years you’d shared were nothing but dust. And that? That cut deeper than any blade. He knew you resented the Colonel, the mask he wore, but beneath it all, he was still the same. If only you'd see him, truly see him, and give him a chance.

His stomach tenses as his release finally hits, his breath punching out in a sharp, guttural sound as he spills over his hand. He lets himself ride it out, panting, his body trembling with something far more than just pleasure. But even as his muscles go slack, even as he wipes himself off with a sharp exhale, there’s no real satisfaction—just emptiness, frustration, and the cold, cruel truth: You’re not here.

After cleaning up and finally getting a bit more comfortable. He reached out for his phone. He goes over the last messages you exchanged, just a week ago. He never replayed. Your voice crackles to life, softer than he remembers, but unmistakably you.

"Hey… I know you’re busy, but—" A short pause, a short exhale. "Just wanted to check in. Make sure you're not brooding too hard over classified reports or whatever it is you do up there."  He closes his eyes. "Anyway. Just… message me back, alright?" 

Caleb stares at the screen. He should have answered. He should have said something. Instead, he had let it sit. Left it unread for hours, then days. Let the silence stretch too long. His grip tightens around the phone, thumb hovering over the keyboard. What would he even say? Would he lie? Pretend he wasn’t tangled in his own damn head every time it came to you? Would he apologize? Admit he didn’t know how to bridge the space between you anymore? Or would he say what he really felt? That he was angry. That he hated the way you pushed him away and he hated himself for letting you.

His thumb taps against the screen, hesitating before he types.

Pip-squeak, you worry too much.

He stares at it. Deletes it.

Don’t tell me you miss me. You’ll ruin your whole "I don’t need Caleb" act.

No. That would be mean.

I should have answered sooner.

Still wrong. The words hang on the screen, staring back at him. He knows it won’t send. He deleted it. Then, with a frustrated breath, he locks the screen, tossing the phone onto the bed, rubbing his hands over his face as if he could scrub away the frustration twisting in his chest.

What the hell was wrong with him?

The abyss of loneliness isn’t just consuming him, it’s devouring him. Swallowing him whole in a darkness that only you can keep at bay. You weren’t just his light. You were his gravity. The unwavering force that kept him anchored, the only constant in the relentless chaos. His entire universe revolves around you. It always had.

But what if that center faltered? What if you drifted beyond his reach? Would he be left adrift—a derelict planet, lost and forsaken in the vast, indifferent cosmos? Or worse… would he implode, a supernova of self-destruction, unable to exist without your gravitational pull?

His dreams are plagued by memories twisted into nightmares, fragments of a life he barely remembers or chooses not to. The accident during his last test as a DDA pilot was repeated in his dreams. The way reality had warped and fractured around him inside the Deepspace Tunnel, time stretching, collapsing, and twisting into impossible, nightmarish geometries.

He remembers the desperation. The creeping horror of knowing something was wrong. He had been alone. Drifting in the endless void, praying to return home. He doesn't remember how he survived. Or maybe he refuses to. Because when they found him a week later, barely alive. The official reports called it a miracle.

Caleb never told you. He smiled and kept it for himself. He didn’t want to worry you. Didn’t want you to see him as broken. But he wasn’t the same after that.

Some nights, when sleep is kind, he drifts into a different kind of memory—one untouched by war, loss, and the weight of the present. Laughter echoes through the golden haze of afternoon sunlight. The warm, earthy scent of sun-baked grass fills the air, and the world shrinks to a comforting simplicity. You’re both just children again. No ranks, no titles, no battlefield of unspoken words and buried desires separating you.

Caleb watches as you dart ahead, your feet barely touching the earth, your arms outstretched as if you could take flight at any moment. Your laughter rings in his ears, bright and carefree. You’re running behind him, panting, pouting.

"That's not fair!" you shout, your small feet pounding the sun-warmed dirt path. "You're older, and your legs are longer!"

Caleb doesn’t slow down, tossing a playful, smug grin over his shoulder. "You’d run faster if you weren’t so short, Pip-squeak!"

The nickname makes your face scrunch in mock frustration, your eyes sparkling with playful defiance, and with a burst of stubborn energy, you push yourself harder, determined to close the distance. Caleb laughs, effortlessly maintaining the gap between you. But you never give up. He knows that about you. And, perhaps just to indulge you, or to feel the weight of you against him, he lets you catch him. You tackle him with a joyful cry, both of you tumbling into the soft, sun-kissed grass in a tangle of limbs and breathless giggles.

"Ha!" you exclaim triumphantly, sprawled on top of him, your chest heaving with laughter. "Got you!"

Caleb groans dramatically, throwing an arm over his eyes, feigning defeat. "You cheated, you little sneak."

You punch his arm. "Did not."

His eyes glinted with amusement. "Yes, you did."

You huff, rolling off him onto your back, staring up at the drifting clouds, your cheeks flushed from exertion and the lingering summer sun. For a while, the two of you just lie there, side by side, soaking in the moment, the golden warmth, the comfortable silence.

His protective instinct, a fierce, primal urge, had awakened much earlier than he’d ever admitted, almost a few years before. The day he first laid eyes on you.

A small girl in a white uniform, just like the other kids, standing apart from the others, clutching a worn-out stuffed animal with a grip that spoke of silent desperation. Your eyes were hollow, devoid of the spark of childhood. Too empty for someone so young. You had death written all over you. The medical facility—no, the research center—was a place that devoured children whole, leaving behind only husks. Some called it a sanctuary for the orphaned, a haven for the lost, but Caleb knew the truth. It was a gilded cage, a holding cell where survival was a daily, brutal test. He had been one of those children, a survivor of its silent horrors. And now, so were you.

The experiments weren’t unbearable—not for him. He had endured worse before. At least here, he had a roof over his head and food in his stomach. And really, what did it matter if he succumbed here, within these sterile walls, or out there, in the unforgiving wasteland? Inside here, for now, he wasn’t starving.

But you… you were different. Different from the others. You never spoke a word. Never played with the other kids. You just sat alone, staring up at the sky whenever they let you out into the garden. Like you were waiting for something. Or someone to pull you from the abyss.

Caleb hadn’t planned on making friends. Didn’t see the point. But something about the way you kept slipping out of your room just to stand under the open sky annoyed him. The third time he saw you outside at night, standing barefoot on the frost-kissed concrete, your gaze fixed on the distant constellations, he finally broke the silence.

"What are you looking for up there?"

And just like that, his life became tangled with yours. You didn’t answer him right away. Did you even hear him? The night air was cold, biting against his skin, but you stood there as if you didn’t feel it. Your small frame, swallowed by the shapeless, oversized shirt they forced you to wear, seemed impossibly fragile. You didn’t shiver. You didn’t flinch. You simply… stared, your eyes lost in the vast expanse above.

Caleb had witnessed countless children succumb to the crushing weight of this place. Some cracked under the weight of what was happening to them. Others got angry. Fought back. Broke apart. But you? You were a still, silent enigma. 

"Hey." He nudged your shoulder, his touch less gentle than he intended. "I asked you a question."

You blinked slowly, finally turning your gaze away from the sky to look at him. For a moment, Caleb swore you weren’t actually seeing him. Then, finally, you spoke, your voice a soft, ethereal, just a whisper in the rustling night wind.

"The stars… are different here."

He frowned, his brow furrowing in confusion. "What?"

You tilted your head, your grip tightening on the worn, comforting stuffed animal in your arms. "They’re in the wrong place."

Caleb stared at you, confused. What the hell did that mean? Of all the things you could’ve said, that wasn’t what he expected. You looked back up at the sky, eyes searching. Waiting. And for the first time in a while, Caleb felt something new. Curiosity. So, he sat down beside you, drawn into your orbit, into your strange, silent world. 

"Then tell me where they’re supposed to be." He said, voice quieter now. Less demanding.  And that night you truly spoke. At first, you spoke only in quiet, uncertain murmurs, short answers, observations about the sky, questions that never quite made sense. But with each passing night, with each shared glance at the stars, something shifted, something bloomed. You offered a shy smile, and with time a genuine laugh. Caleb, never cared for people, never let himself get attached but that night he felt something crack inside him. 

You were stubborn, always trying to sneak past curfew, always looking for a way to see the stars. He started to call you pip-squeak, half-teasing. Whenever you lost a race because you couldn’t keep up with him. You’d pout, demanding a rematch, but you never won. And he liked that. Liked seeing you frustrated. Liked the way your nose scrunched up when you got mad. Liked the way your laughter made this miserable place feel less suffocating. 

"Caleb, Caleb!" You ran to him, breathless with excitement, your small hands carefully cupped around something. "Look what I found!" 

You opened your little palm, revealing a delicate pink petal resting in your hand. Your wide, gleaming eyes met his, and for some reason, something strange stirred in his chest. A warmth that made him uncomfortable in a way he couldn't explain.

"It's the first time I've seen one of these," you said in awe, your fingers carefully clutching the tiny fragment of color in a world that rarely had any.

Caleb eyed it for a fleeting second, shoving his hands into his pockets, his posture stiffening. "Don't come so close."

You tilted your head, a flicker of confusion clouding your radiant eyes. "Why?"

"Just- don't."

Your lips wobbled, and before he could do anything about it, your eyes filled with unshed tears. "Do you hate me?"

"Tsk- what? No, idiot." He sighed, glancing away, a wave of guilt washing over him, instantly regretting his clumsy words. "It's… from an apple tree. I saw it in a book once. Asiatic apple."

"Do you like apples?" you lean even closer. 

"I- I do…" he said, avoiding your gaze. 

"Caleb…" You narrowed your eyes at him, studying him with that same intense look that always made him feel like you could see right through him. He swallowed hard, his throat suddenly tight. His face flushed, a wave of heat creeping up his neck.

"W- what?" he stammered.

"You’re smart. Thanks."  You said, your grin widening, a flash of pure, unadulterated joy, before suddenly leaning in and pressing a soft, fleeting kiss to his cheek. Caleb froze. His mind went blank. His body stiffened like he'd just been struck by lightning. The warmth from where your lips had touched his skin burned in a way that he definitely didn’t understand.

You giggled, a bright, melodic sound, and skipped away, twirling with your delicate pink petal. Meanwhile, Caleb stood there, blinking rapidly, blushing like an idiot. He was just… glad. Overwhelmingly, achingly glad. Glad that you were alive, that you were here. And that fleeting moment of joy made him forget, for a precious and beautiful few seconds, the grim reality of the place where they were both trapped. 

But with the abruptness of a slammed door, reality crashed back into him, a brutal, unforgiving wave. All the hope he'd had of escaping that place together vanished overnight.  One morning, it was all gone. Your vibrant smile, the melodic chime of your laughter, the spark in your eyes: extinguished. 

You sat in the garden, staring into the empty distance, your stuffed animal limp in your arms. When he spoke, you didn’t answer. When he nudged your shoulder, you barely blinked. And when he said your name, you just looked at him—through him. Like you didn’t even recognize him. Like those shared days, those precious moments, those fragments of a life you had built together, had never existed at all. Erased from the fabric of your memory.

"Talk to me. Did I do something wrong? I'll let you win next time…." Just the chilling silence, a void that swallowed his words whole. "Fine! Then don’t talk to me!" 

The first time it happened, Caleb was angry. And not the kind of anger that burned fast and faded away—this was worse. This was a slow, simmering rage that curled deep in his gut, coiling tighter with every second you ignored him. You sat there, a blank canvas of indifference, barely reacting to the world around you. For days, he deliberately avoided you. Didn’t try to get you to talk, didn’t try to make you laugh again. Maybe it was stupid act of pride, but he reasoned that if you didn’t care enough to acknowledge him, then why should he expend any effort on you?

One night, he found himself wandering the halls. Drawn by the need to flee this madness. And there you were. Right where he found you the first time. Sitting on the edge of a bench in the garden, your legs swinging slightly, your eyes locked onto the sky. The stars were out, distant and cold, blinking against the vast darkness.

He just stood there in the shadows for a long time. Watching. Wondering if he should or should not continue his way back to the rooms. Caleb was many things back then: a fractured, discarded, forgotten child. But with you, he’d found an anchor, a constant in the swirling chaos. Something that drew him with an irresistible force, his personal center of gravity. So, he sighed, a sound heavy with resignation. Before he could second-guess himself. 

"The stars are different here, right?" The words hung between you, fragile and uncertain. A beat of silence. Then, you blinked. Slowly, like pulling yourself from a dream. 

Days full of laughing with him returned, but just as they appeared, they vanished just as quickly. The second time it happened, he started to worry. Not fully understanding what was happening to you. The third time? He knew something was wrong. It was always the same. One day, you were yourself, you'd smile, challenge him to a race you'd never win, stealing food off his plate when you thought he wasn’t looking. You’d laugh, roll your eyes at his teasing, shove him when he got too smug. Alive. Present. And then, gone.

Like someone had flipped a switch. Like the warmth had been drained from your body, leaving only a hollow shell behind. Your eyes would go dull again, your posture stiff, your mind somewhere else, somewhere he couldn’t reach. You wouldn’t talk. Wouldn’t react. And each time, he was forced to start anew, to rebuild the fragile bridge of connection. 

At first, Caleb thought it was just one of those things. Kids in this place had their ways of coping, of withdrawing. Maybe you were just shutting down. Maybe you'd been punished for sneaking out at night, and this was how you dealt with it. But by the fifth time, he realized the pattern. It always happened after your medical routines.

Three to five days. That was how long you disappeared each time. They took you to another wing of the facility, away from the rest of the kids, locked behind doors he had never seen beyond. Then, just like clockwork, they’d return you, placing you back in the main pavilion as if nothing had happened.

The day they brought you back, dazed, empty, hollow. Caleb didn’t try to talk to you. Didn’t try to pull you out of whatever haze they had left you in. Instead, he unleashed his fury, his evol flaring with unrestrained power, attacking the caretakers with a ferocity that startled even himself. He shoved back when they tried to move him away, snarling demands that went unanswered.

"Where did you take her? What the fuck are you doing to her?" 

The faceless figures in white coats. The ones who came in the night, who took you without explanation and returned you less and less yourself every time. He swore a silent vow, a solemn oath etched in the depths of his soul. Never again. He was going to shield you, to safeguard you from their insidious manipulations. Even if you didn’t retain a single memory of him. Even if he was condemned to rebuild their fractured bond, to start anew, every single time.

That fierce determination to protect you, has endured, unyielding, until the present day.

—

Days crawled by. Caleb immersed himself in a flurry of work, burying himself in endless reports, tedious routines, anything to drown out the gnawing unease that clawed at the edges of his sanity. And finally, the full, damning report finally landed on his desk.

The missing soldier wasn’t an isolated incident. The disappearances weren’t confined to the Farspace Fleet or Skyhaven. They bled into the civilian sector, citizens of Linkon City vanishing without a trace, all within the same chilling timeframe. And a single, terrifying common denominator bound them all together: Evolvers.

Caleb’s fingers tightened around the datapad as he read through the details, his eyes narrowing. This doesn’t look good. Evolvers being targeted. But for what? Research? Trafficking? Cold-blooded eliminations? He exhaled sharply, rubbing his temple as he skimmed through the intelligence briefs. No direct ties to the Hunter Association, yet. A sliver of relief, a fragile hope. That meant you weren’t involved.

A muscle in his jaw ticked.

"Colonel," Liam said, his voice grave, his presence radiating an unspoken urgency. If he was delivering this news personally, it meant something truly dire. Caleb exhaled slowly, a sigh of weary resignation, shoving the damning report aside. He was in no state of mind for more grim tidings.

"What is it?" Caleb asked, voice edged with irritation.

Liam stepped inside, datapad in hand. "We found Calloway’s body."

Caleb stilled. A heavy silence settled between them.

"Where?" A heavy, suffocating silence settled between them, a prelude to the inevitable.

"Near the municipal depot," Liam said, his voice smooth but his eyes holding an unsettling glint. "The body is… fragmented."

That single word, "fragmented," snapped Caleb’s attention into sharp focus.

Liam continued, his voice as clinical as ever. "Signs of black glass were found on the remains. We believe he started converting into a Wanderer before death." He paused. "Which is highly anomalous, considering Calloway was not diagnosed with the Protocore Syndrome."

Caleb’s fingers curled against the desk. That shouldn’t be possible. Wanderer transformation wasn’t random—it happened to Evolvers and people who had suffered severe long exposure to Protocore. But Calloway was stable, documented. He should have never been at risk.

"The autopsy is in progress now," Liam added, his gaze assessing. "We should have a clearer picture soon."

Caleb sighed, rubbing his temple. The puzzle pieces weren’t fitting together. First, the vanishing Evolvers. Now, an impossible Wanderer transformation. Something was deeply, fundamentally wrong.

"Any progress on the other missing individuals?" Caleb asked.

Liam shook his head, his expression grim. "Still unaccounted for, sir."

Caleb pushed back his chair, the metallic screech echoing in the sudden silence, and stood, a palpable tension radiating from his rigid frame. He grabbed his hat, adjusting it on his head. Caleb wasn’t the type to passively await reports. He needed to see the grim evidence with his own eyes.

The corridors of the Farspace Fleet’s medical facility were eerily silent, a sterile, tomb-like quiet broken only by the soft thrum of life support systems. White walls, bathed in the blueish harsh, clinical glow of overhead lighting, stretched into the distance. The faint, persistent hum of machinery, a constant, unsettling drone, filled the air.

Liam walked beside him, his expression unreadable as always. He didn’t question the Colonel’s decision to personally inspect the gruesome remains, nor did he offer any unnecessary, platitudinous commentary. He simply followed.

When they stepped inside, the smell of disinfectant and something rotten greeted them. The morgue was always too damn cold. Calloway’s fragmented body lay exposed beneath the harsh glare of the surgical lights, his chest cavity gaping open, organs meticulously dissected and examined. His right arm was severed entirely, the stump jagged and darkened with the first signs of necrosis, while the left arm remained, but only partially, half-flayed, muscles and tendons peeled back as if someone had been mapping them.

Caleb’s eyes trailed to the shattered remains of Calloway’s face nor what was left of it. His jaw was unhinged, the flesh around his mouth torn as if he had screamed himself raw. One eye was gone entirely, an empty, hollow socket staring back at them. The other? Glossed over in an eerie black film, a telltale sign of corruption.

The coroner, a seasoned professional with graying temples and a piercing, analytical gaze, stepped away from the grisly tableau.

"You’re early," the coroner remarked, peeling off his blood-stained gloves and surgical mask with practiced efficiency.

"I don’t have time to wait," Caleb replied curtly. He glanced at the mutilated remains on the steel slab, then back at the coroner, his eyes demanding answers. "What have you found?"

The coroner exhaled, gesturing toward the shrouded body on the metal slab. He activated a holo-display, projecting detailed scans and preliminary analytical data. "Calloway’s Evol classification was B-Class. Standard military issue—enhanced perception, minor strength augmentation, a common profile among the ranks. The initial autopsy revealed traces of an unknown substance within his system. His cellular structure exhibited signs of forced mutation, a rapid, catastrophic degradation of his heart and lungs. It was an unnatural, violent process."

Caleb leaned in, his gaze fixed on the intricate data streams, his brow furrowed in grim concentration. "You're suggesting this was deliberated?"

The coroner nodded. "It's a bit early to say, but it's plausible. I discovered traces of black glass embedded in his internal tissue, a clear indication of Wanderer conversion. But the crystallization pattern is… peculiar. It deviates significantly from natural Wanderer transformations. The formation is irregular, almost chaotic, as if it was—"

"Induced." Liam crossed his arms. "Sounds like a black market serum."

The coroner scoffed, a dismissive snort escaping his lips. "If it were a black market hack job, it’d be sloppy, haphazard. This? This was meticulously crafted, surgically precise." He gestured towards Calloway's mangled remains, a silent testament to the horrific procedure. "But I must confess, Colonel, this level of… intervention… is far from commonplace."

Caleb’s stomach turned. A familiar unease settled into his bones. He had seen engineered horrors before. He knew exactly what kind of people had the resources to pull off something like this. A hunch clawed at the edges of his mind. He didn’t have concrete evidence, tangible proof, but his instincts screamed that this wasn’t an isolated incident. 

His fingers tightened into a fist. "Classify this case as top secret. No one—and I mean no one—breathes a word about this until I give the order." His voice was a low, chilling rasp, absolute and unwavering. "I don’t want a single leak to the press. If anyone inquires, Calloway’s death was a tragic accident."

The coroner nodded slowly, his expression grave, but Liam’s gaze remained unconvinced, a flicker of doubt in his eyes. He stepped closer, his voice a low, urgent whisper. "You think this is part of something bigger, don’t you?"

Caleb rolling his tense shoulders. "I don’t believe in coincidences." Liam stepped back, his expression grim, nodding in silent agreement.

If someone was experimenting on Evolvers…

Caleb turned to the coroner, his voice leaving no room for argument. "I expect a full report on what happened to him. Every detail. Every anomaly. I want it on my desk before the day is over."

The coroner gave a slow nod, unfazed by the sharpness in Caleb’s tone. "Understood, Colonel. But I’ll need time to run a full biochemical analysis. Whatever they used on him, it’s unlike anything I’ve seen before."

Caleb exhaled, his patience running thin. "Then don’t waste time."

The coroner nodded, his expression grave. "Understood, Colonel."

A sense of foreboding settled over Caleb as he left the morgue. The weight of the missing Evolvers, the strange circumstances surrounding Calloway’s death, it all felt like pieces of a larger, more sinister puzzle. He needed to find the missing link, the piece that would unlock the mystery.

Hours bled into one another, marked only by the rhythmic hum of the computer and the restless shuffle of datapads. Caleb’s gaze, sharp and unwavering, scanned line after line of missing Evolver data, and the list of missing people from Linkon. Some had reappeared, their disappearances chalked up to miscommunication or temporary lapses in contact. Those cases were dismissed, deemed irrelevant to the investigation. But Caleb would make sure not a single clue went unchecked, no detail overlooked. He cross-referenced names, locations, and Evolver classifications, searching for a pattern, a connection, anything to illuminate the encroaching darkness.

A report flickered across his datapad, a notification from the Linkon City Police Department. An illegal shipment had been intercepted near the N109 Zone. The cargo was unknown, and the perpetrators had scattered, leaving behind only a few low-level operatives. The interrogations hadn't yielded much, just fragmented accounts and a single name: "Rudy." 

Could this be related to the missing Evolvers? To Calloway's bizarre transformation? Caleb couldn't dismiss it. He added the name and the N109 Zone as location to his growing list of potential leads. He had to consider every possibility, no matter how remote. Every thread, no matter how thin, could lead him to the truth.

Then, the comm unit crackled to life, the sterile voice of the coroner cutting through the oppressive silence. "Colonel, the full report on Calloway’s autopsy is ready." He wastes no time, striding through the halls of the medical wing. Liam follows behind, silent as always, but Caleb can feel the tension radiating off him too.

As Caleb and Liam entered, the coroner tapped the display, bringing up a complex web of biochemical readings. The intricate chains of data, a language of cellular decay and forced mutation, were indecipherable to the untrained eye. But the stark conclusion, highlighted at the bottom of the report, was brutally clear: Calloway hadn't simply died. 

"At first glance," the coroner began, his voice low and measured, "I suspected an atypical case of protocore exposure. But then, I detected an anomaly—his system was exhibiting a rejection of its own biological functions, a phenomenon reminiscent of Protocore Syndrome."

Caleb’s eyes narrowed. "Similar?"

The coroner nodded, his expression tightening. "Yes. Almost as if someone was trying to mimic Protocore Syndrome—but it doesn’t match exactly. The genetic deterioration doesn’t follow the usual pattern." The coroner continued, his voice laced with a clinical detachment that couldn't quite mask the underlying unease. "It shares similarities with Protocore Syndrome, yes, but it's not the root cause. From the limited blood samples we recovered, I was able to isolate residual compounds."

With a few deft taps on the console, an incomplete chemical formula materialized on the large display screen, a complex arrangement of symbols and bonds that pulsed with an unsettling, digital light. "This," the coroner stated, gesturing to the formula, "is what's left." He paused, his gaze shifting to Caleb. "An experimental serum. Code-name Chimera 1X9."

The name sent a slow, ice-cold dread creeping up Caleb’s spine. Chimera 1X9.

"Where did you find this information?" His voice was dangerously low, a barely restrained growl, but the coroner didn't flinch.

"The system flagged the compound, when I tried to pull more data, my clearance level wasn’t high enough." 

This wasn’t just some underground black market experiment, some nameless operation buried in secrecy. And there was only one individual who possessed the access and the knowledge to wield such a weapon: The Professor.

Caleb turned on his heel, his decision made. He needed answers, and he needed them now. And if the Professor dared to believe he could dismiss him with vague half-truths and obfuscation, he was sorely mistaken.

"Thank you," he said, his voice clipped and devoid of warmth. "Your work here is complete. Prepare the body for transport. Ensure the family is given the respect he deserves."

"Colonel?" Liam asked, his voice laced with confusion, his gaze questioning. "Caleb?" 

Caleb didn't bother with further discussion. "We're done here," he said, his voice clipped, devoid of patience. He strode towards the exit, his mind a whirlwind of cold fury and grim determination. Caleb doesn’t waste time. 

That same rain-soaked night, he found the quickest way to Professor’s secluded residence. He carried with him every classified file, every damning report he could access regarding the serum, a tangible weight of rage and impending confrontation. He bypassed the security measures with practiced ease, not even thinking about knocking on the door, letting himself into the house with the cold efficiency of a man driven by a singular purpose. He marched into the Professor’s study, sooked by the rain. Leaving a trail of rain drops on the floor. Caleb slammed the stack of files onto the polished mahogany desk, the sharp thud echoing through the room.

"What is all this?" The Professor barely spared the scattered papers a glance, his fingers meticulously adjusting his spectacles as he exhaled, a sigh laced with thinly veiled annoyance. "At least let me know when you do this shit."

"Honestly, Caleb, have the decency to inform me before you stage these… dramatic entrances." The professor meets his gaze, calm, detache. Too comfortable in his secrecy.

Caleb’s expression remained an unreadable mask, his features carved from ice, but his voice was sharp, as he pressed his attack. "What exactly are you up to?"

"We’re simply conducting… tests," he said, his tone casual, as if discussing the mundane details of a scientific experiment. "You really don’t have to concern yourself with any of this."

Caleb didn’t buy the Professor’s nonchalant facade for a second. His fingers curled into tight fists at his sides, the knuckles white against his skin.

"What, precisely, are you trying to accomplish?" he demanded.

The Professor let out a small chuckle, slow and knowing, a sound that grated on Caleb’s nerves. It was as if he had anticipated Caleb’s arrival, expecting this confrontation. As if it were merely another calculated move in a game he was already playing several steps ahead. And then, with a casualness that bordered on arrogance, he revealed a sliver of his true intentions.

"Patience, son," he said, his tone far too paternal, far too condescending. "We're simply attempting to enhance Evolver abilities."

Caleb’s expression remained unchanged, a mask of cold control. He didn’t flinch but inside, something sharp and brittle snapped, the last vestiges of trust shattering into fragments. The trust he had placed in his plan, in his ability to stand between you and the people who sought to exploit your power. He'd believed he could manage the situation, keep you safe while navigating their dangerous game. Now, he saw the cracks in his carefully constructed plan. He'd thought he understood the Professor's intentions, that he could anticipate their moves. But he'd been wrong.

"People have died." Caleb stated, his voice a low, icy pronouncement.

The Professor merely shrugged, a dismissive gesture that spoke volumes. "That's science," he said, the words devoid of empathy, a chillingly pragmatic justification that made Caleb’s blood boil. He stared at him. This wasn’t mere experimentation; it was weaponization. This is not very different from the hell you went through as a child. Caleb’s fingers dig into the desk, his jaw tight, his patience wearing razor-thin.

"Why?" he asked, his voice a low, menacing whisper, a dangerous edge lacing every syllable. "Is this because of her?"

The Professor finally looked up, his eyes gleaming with an unreadable light, a cold, calculated intelligence. Caleb didn’t miss the subtle twitch of his lips, a fleeting expression that suggested he was holding back a cruel amusement.

"You told me the time hadn’t come yet," Caleb pressed, his fists clenching tighter. "So why rush it now?"

The Professor exhaled, tapping a finger lazily against the stack of files Caleb had slammed onto the desk. His gaze flickered over the documents, unimpressed, dismissive.

"Because," he said simply, his voice laced with an unsettling finality, "sometimes fate doesn’t wait."

Caleb’s stomach knotted, a cold, hard fist of dread clenching around his insides.

"That’s bullshit," he retorted, his voice thick with suppressed rage.

The Professor smiled, a knowing, infuriating smile that sent a shiver down Caleb’s spine. "Maybe," he mused, his tone ambiguous, deliberately provocative, designed to ignite Caleb's anger.

The Professor never spoke without a hidden agenda, without a calculated purpose. And if he was implying that you were somehow entangled in this deadly game, that you were the catalyst for this accelerated experiment, then everything had just spiraled into a far more dangerous territory. He had played their game for far too long, adhering to their rules, their timelines. But if they dared to lay a hand on her, if they decided to inflict their twisted experiments upon you… Caleb wouldn’t hesitate to tear their entire world apart, piece by agonizing piece.

Navigator: Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8 | AO3

A/N: I know, I know! A lot of Caleb happens here. Don’t bail on me yet! I wanted to keep it short, but I got a bit carried away. There’s still a second part with him, full of mysteries, but we’ll be back to the action soon. I wanted this to be one chapter, but it would've been way too long—like 13-16k words. Sadly I don't have the time to write and review a so long chapter. By now, you should have a pretty good idea of where this is heading. If not—don’t worry. The real peak of the story is just around the corner. I promise the wait will be worth it—once we’re back with MC/You and Sylus.

Released date: ~2 weeks. Chapter 6: Gravity (Parte 2) - Caleb will find a way to the N109 Zone.

[sungbeam]

BIRDS OF PREY — seven

nonidol!kim hongjoong x f!reader

living in gray areas of your city, out of the way of gangs and mafia territories, could only keep you safe for so long. it was only a matter of time before you began running into problems, or rather, problems began running into you.

▷ genre, warnings. nc-17, strangers 2 lovers, slow burn, mafia au, angst, swearing, mentions of torture/pulling a fingernail, very small appearance of blood, criminal activity, mentions of death, ALSO JUST A LOT OF INFO DUMPING I'M SORRY I DON'T LIKE IT EITHER T_T

▷ word count. 5.5k

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CHAPTER SEVEN: WICKED BLOWS THE WIND

“CAPTAIN ON DECK!” The sound of boots stomping and spines snapping straight echoed up the cavernous rafters of the warehouse. There was home and there was headquarters; this warehouse building was one near their place of living, and was where the majority of soldiers and underlings were summoned when need be. 

Tonight, the warehouse was alive. They had a shooter to catch. 

If there was one good thing about the Captain's uniform, it was the crow-headed cane that Hongjoong now leaned on to walk faster. It wasn't an obvious crutch to most, though; it was still important that he demonstrated strength in front of his men. 

“At ease, at ease,” Hongjoong dismissed, waving a gloved hand and scanning his immediate surroundings. There was another office in this warehouse, perched high up and dubbed the Crow's Nest, but Seonghwa was often the occupant rather than the Captain himself. Hongjoong would steadily make his way up there while collecting updates. “Where's Mingi? Where are we with the bullet casings?”

The tall brunet appeared seemingly out of thin air, standing up to his full height from where he had been crouched beside one of the desks, fixing a broken chair. “Aye, Captain,” he greeted and his mouth formed a grim line. “We've analyzed the bullet casings and… well, I sent them up with Seonghwa hyung for safe keeping, but you should know that it might be worse than we think.”

Hongjoong gestured with his hand for Mingi to walk with him. “Worse?” he parroted. 

“Aye.” Mingi's head dipped low toward the Captain's ear as they passed by soldiers at work in order to reach the elevator at the far side of the floor. “It's them alright, but it's so obviously them that it worries me it's a copycat.”

“I see,” Hongjoong hummed lowly. “Did we get the shooters?”

His counterpart nodded and reached for the button to summon the elevator. “Yunho's in there with one of them now.”

“One of them.” It wasn't completely worrying that only one of them was caught, but it did mean one less person to shake information out of. 

“We were lucky to even get to the bullet casings,” he quickly defended, stepping into the elevator after Hongjoong. “There was a fucking blue blood patrolling near the college library, and the casings were either collected for their ballistics report or scooped up by the shooter. But Jongho's guy at the precinct was able to retrieve them.” 

The elevator rose with even speed, slowing in its ascent as it reached the topmost floor of the warehouse. On this level, it was mostly storage for the most critical evidence of their operations. Though they were all gathered in one place, it would make it easier for them to burn it all should a raid happen without warning. 

“We traced the engravings on the shell casings to some guy from Sector 2,” Mingi continued on as the two of them made their way from the elevator to the door of the Crow’s Nest. “He’s saying that someone got in touch with him and gave him the tools to mark his casings with the Strictland seal, and if he killed you, he would get a hefty amount of cash on top of what he was paid upfront.”

Hongjoong pursed his lips at the information. It all seemed to make sense; the only thing that was truly worrying was whether the shooter was a copycat or was telling the truth about being contacted. “Where’s the accomplice?” 

Mingi coughed, opening the door to the office for them to step through, “He disappeared. Yeosang’s out with his lookouts now.”

Seonghwa didn’t even look up from what he was hunched over at the desk. The Crow’s Nest office space was a decent size, similar to the captain’s quarters on the Shipwreck, but this one was far more industrial in build and aesthetic. There were touches of Seonghwa and Hongjoong’s personalizations, like a pair of comfortable armchairs in the corner, a small drink cart, and a bookshelf complete with little Lego figurine versions of Hongjoong and his inner circle (courtesy of his second in command). Hongjoong much preferred the Shipwreck office for the sound of the sea right at his ear, but it worked out nicely since this was Seonghwa’s preferred workspace. 

The door shut, muffling any outside noise and effectively keeping their own conversation private from anyone outside of these walls. 

“Well?” In the privacy of the Crow’s Nest, he could finally lean more weight on his cane, and he slowly made his way over to the desk. 

Seonghwa had a crease etched into his brow. “Mingi-ah, get the Captain one of those pain relieving patches, please.”

“Aye-aye, hyung.” The door opened and shut once more, and then there were two. 

Hongjoong peered over the desk where Seonghwa scrutinized a brass shell casing. As much as the former wanted to think positively, he didn’t get to where he was today by being optimistic. He plucked up one of the other casings and brought it to his eye, letting the lights hit the grooves embedded into the metal to form a stylized letter Z. To anyone else, it was an unassuming trademark; but to Hongjoong, it stood for everything he worked so hard to bury. 

He set the bullet down onto the desk again and made his way over to the window to peer out at the warehouse below. The majority of those present today were here as extra hands on deck regarding the recent imposter cases and attempts on his life. Most of Ateez’s soldiers were out in the field, though, experts at slipping into shadows and opening their ears to any wicked whispers in the wind. Those who were here most of the time were busy with Ateez’s usual business operations: weapons, cromer powder, and accounting. (Accounting was in the sense of keeping track of the tribute and dues people paid to the pirate king—protection money for immunity against petty gangs and fees paid in order to keep the city’s government off a business's back for any certain reason, as long as they played by Ateez’s rules.)

Seonghwa finally voiced into the quiet, “I’m worried.”

Hongjoong rested his cane against the window and placed his hands behind his back. There weren’t many things he could think of at the moment to quell his friend’s concerns, especially if he himself had those same concerns. His fingers twitched behind his back. He could still feel the weight of the pistol in his hand that he used to put a bullet between Lee Yunseok’s eyes. 

“I don’t think we’re going to get much out of the kid Yunho’s got in the brig,” Seonghwa added with a sigh. “I have this sinking feeling that his contact was fully anonymous and that this will be a dead end. How did we not destroy all of those engravers?”

The Captain turned around then, grabbing his cane to stand beside his friend at the desk. “Maybe we did, but there are excellent forgers in this city. This doesn’t have to be a dead end. Have we gotten anything on the Mr. Young character that Yn interacted with?”

“I’m still looking into him.” Seonghwa leaned back in his chair, then suddenly straightened and stood up. “You should be sitting.”

“I’m fine.”

“We need you at full health,” he insisted, practically shoving Hongjoong down into the office chair. “I need you at full health. The threat level has just increased, Joong, and they’re not even using their own guys anymore.”

Hongjoong cupped his jawline thoughtfully. “Why would they wait so long to have their revenge?”

Seonghwa shrugged. “They needed to count their numbers,” he suggested. “Recuperate to come back stronger than before. Plots take time; you of all people know that.”

That was the truth. It wasn’t too long ago that Hongjoong spent days and nights cracking out the most foolproof plan to overthrow Strictland that he could muster. Even with the others’ contributions, there were still cracks in it—but it worked. Every plan had their moving parts, chess pieces on a board that were moved to seem like completely different end goals, but were truly the groundwork for something larger. 

He knew that the attempts on his life and the imposter sightings were related, but he was certain that whatever remained of Strictland had a plan for you, too. Hongjoong was back to that massive question mark in his head: what was your purpose? What effect were the coincidences intended to produce? 

A knock at the office door announced Mingi’s return with a box of pain-relieving patches, as well as Yunho. The latter didn’t seem awfully worn or tired from his interrogation, but he did frown at a speck of blood on his leather jacket that he grumbled about washing out later. 

“Here you are, Cap'n.” Mingi tossed the box across the office for Hongjoong to catch.

Yunho nudged the door shut with his foot. “Kid’s a dead end,” he said what Seonghwa had predicted. “I figured as much in the beginning, but I pulled a fingernail just in case. Shouldn’t have done it though, because I got his fucking blood on me.” He paired his complaint with a sigh and a shake of his head. 

“Did you learn anything in particular though?” Hongjoong queried. “How was the information and tools passed along to him?”

“Snail mail,” Yunho said, collapsing into one of the armchairs in the corner of the room. “He found a package at his door and then he got a call from an unknown number with instructions. Fifteen thousand dollars were wired into his bank account upfront; it was forty-five thousand more for carrying out the scheme, and a hundred thousand if he killed you.”

Hongjoong's brows shot up. So that was what his head was worth, a hundred thousand. Huh. Not as much as he was hoping for really, but they were probably running on a budget. That provided another question then: who was funding them? It had to be one of the other families in the city, just as he suspected before. “We'll go from here. Have Wooyoung go through the kid's phone and scrape for that unknown number. It's probably a burner, but he might be able to trace it to a cell tower.”

“Speaking of,” Seonghwa piped up, “where is Wooyoung?”

Mingi had settled into the other armchair next to Yunho. “With San, probably.”

“He's driving Yn home,” Hongjoong said through half a sigh, carding a hand through his hair. He just remembered he asked Wooyoung to. There was simply a strange feeling in his chest that told him he shouldn't allow you to make the journey home alone anymore. It would be alright for you to come here on your own because it was in daylight amongst other people, but after last night… 

A target on his back was one thing, but you wouldn't know what to do if Strictland showed up on your doorstep. 

The thought alone made a lump form in his throat and he coughed to clear it away. He cared about you in the way he cared about any liability, of course. At least, that was what the Captain would think. Hongjoong, on the other hand—well, it didn't matter now. You took the vow of silence and you knew who he was. He wasn't just Hongjoong to you anymore. 

For some reason, that felt like a loss. 

Seonghwa released a sound of interest from his throat, walking away from where he stood beside his leader and toward the liquor cart. “How'd she take the offer?”

“What'd you offer her?” Mingi asked, eyes brightening at the new information. He had only just found out you took the vow of silence several hours ago. 

“In exchange for her last life debt, I would siphon her away to someplace no one knew her, with a new identity,” Hongjoong explained. He began idly turning himself back and forth in the office chair. “She wanted to think about it. I imagine she has ties to this city, as most people do.”

“It's as you predicted,” his second said, gesturing with his glass before taking a generous sip of the whiskey. Seonghwa barely grimaced as the liquid burned its way down his throat. “You know, she could be useful.”

“I don't think she wants to be entangled in this anymore than she already is.” 

Every man in that room knew that if Hongjoong wanted something, he wouldn't stop until he owned it. So if he was so dismissive about your further use to them, then they would drop the subject. You were a gray area resident through and through; he wasn't about to yank someone aboard a ship they didn't want to board. 

For a beat, there was silence as they all mulled over the naive little sheep who unwittingly tied herself to a wolf. Yunho snorted suddenly, smiling to himself. “She's kind of funny,” he said. 

“Don't tell me you're getting attached now,” Seonghwa quipped, lifting a single brow. 

“I just think she's a good person.” Mingi's expression was sheepish as he shrugged, cupping the back of his neck. “For some reason, hyung, she can't stop saving your ass.”

Hongjoong's lip curled upward into the smallest of smiles that he hid behind his hand, pressing his knuckles to that corner of his mouth. “Maybe she has an instinct,” he threw out airily. He picked up one of the bullet casings again and held it up in the light as red flashed before his eyes and old blood splattered in the projector of his mind. “They say storm birds are heralds of destruction. When you see them perched nearby, you should run and take cover.”

You woke up to the news. 

The sound of a news anchor's voice rang out loud and clear from beneath your bedroom door, streaming in from the living room TV. You glanced over at your phone with bleary eyes and a headache drilling into your skull—8:34AM. It was too early for you to be sentient. Five hours was not nearly enough sleep when it was your day off. 

You yanked the cover over your head, content and determined to drift back to dreamland. It wasn't completely out of the ordinary to hear the TV on outside; you understood that Ryujin got antsy most mornings and needed to keep up with the latest in the city. 

You, however, couldn't care less—

“—footage from an anonymous source. Hala Town's notorious Ateez mafia seems at it again, stepping out of their territory. This time, Ateez's leader, the Captain, has been seen breaking and entering into a Sector 3 business. Take a look—”

Alright. Maybe you did care a little.

The living room was cold when you opened the door, your hands and face hidden in the shadows of your hoodie. Ryujin started as she turned around from where she stood in the middle of the living room, hands on her hips. 

But you didn't hear what she was saying. Your eyes were glued to the TV screen, watching a man with a black, wide-brimmed hat and coat, cane and mask, waltz into the Kidult Company building. The picture quality was grainy and had much room for improvement, but the uniform made it clear who it was on screen. If the goal was to make it look like Kim Hongjoong, the real Captain, was the perpetrator, then they succeeded. 

(No normal person would care that this cane was not crow-headed, nor that his walk was off—there was no stiffness to his movements, not that the general populace knew Hongjoong had been shot.)

There was a person accompanying this Captain though, one who clearly turned his face toward the camera. In fact, he located the lens and peered directly into it. The newscaster zoomed in on this accomplice's face, describing what best he could see on screen. 

Your blood ran cold. Surely that wasn't…

That face was difficult to scrub out of your memory. His voice spoke to you in thinly veiled threats from the back of your mind. To you, there was no doubt that the person with the fake Captain was Mr. Young. 

“We have yet to identify this accomplice, but he is surely someone in league with the Captain and the Ateez mafia,” said the newsman. He nudged his glasses up and gestured toward you, the viewer. “We implore you to call the tip line on-screen if you have any information regarding this matter. This has been Lee Seokmin with Teleparty News; we'll be back after these messages.”

As the screen flickered to an advertisement for the newest revolutionary vacuum cleaner on the market, you stood stock-still in the doorway of your bedroom. Your hands had gone frigid. Mr. Young was associated with the imposter Captain that Hongjoong had mentioned two nights ago. 

This changed… This changed a lot. It meant that Mr. Young was in league with this imposter, likely trying to smear Hongjoong's name. But why?

What was the motivation behind this? 

And the night of the fire—that paper claiming the murder and arson was a tribute to him. It was sarcastic. It was a taunt. This was a game and Hongjoong was being toyed with. 

To what end though? To what end would this continue and would it go even with the entire city caught in the crossfire? Or what about innocent civilians living in Hala Town and Ateez territory? The answer was that it wouldn't end until one side demolished the other. 

“Yn… hey, Yn—”

You blinked rapidly as Ryujin frantically waved her hand in front of your face. Concern contorted her facial expression, and her hands found her hips again. “Are you okay? You look like you've seen a ghost.”

“Uh yeah,” you stammered, “I mean yeah, I'm fine.” You pressed a sweater paw up against your forehead as the decision came to you. “I just remembered I have to go to work—I mean! I have an errand to run.”

You swiftly turned back into your room, leaving Ryujin dumbfounded in the living room. 

It was strange how fear and adrenaline worked in tandem with each other in moments like these. You swiftly got dressed, and five hours was suddenly enough sleep to go climb a mountain. 

Or, make stupid decisions. The first time you steeled yourself to head into Ateez territory, it was to do what was necessary. There wasn't much difference this time. 

Three years ago, there was a major shift in power. The city only knew about it until the dust settled, bodies were counted, and a new ruling family rose out of the ashes with blood on their hands. It was an event where you could only truly know what happened if you were a part of the coup itself. Anyone outside of Hala Town, or even civilians who resided there, would have no idea as to the true machinations of Kim Hongjoong's plans, why he decided to take over Strictland's reign, and what exactly he had in store for the territory. 

It was no secret, however, that Lee Yunseok—former mafia head of Strictland—ruled Hala Town with an iron hand. It was no different from the cutthroat ecosystem of most concrete jungles, wherein the rich became richer and the poor ate shit. But it was, in general, unruly and a far more dangerous place to live because of his policies. From the testimonials in chatrooms and blog posts you found online, there were plenty of people who could certify that living in Hala Town had been like constantly waiting for something bad to happen. In the day, one kept their head down in hopes of avoiding trouble; in the night… Well, one of the users said to never go out at night. 

Obviously, you couldn't trust just anything that someone said online, but the stories you furiously consumed on the subway ride to Hala Town corroborated each other's testimonies. 

So where did Mr. Young and this imposter Captain fall into play here? 

After the fall of Strictland, it seemed most of their members either scattered like shadows in the day, died during the fight, or turned Ateez. Either the latter people simply sided with the new group in power or had already been recruited to Ateez sometime during the coup. 

Your eyes glanced up at the nearest screen that displayed the next stop. Through your wired earbuds, you could hear the robotic voice in the speakers announce the station you were approaching. Swiftly, you returned to what you were reading on your phone. 

There was no information about Kim Hongjoong or the rest of his commanders. You once looked up his civilian name and the only establishment he was tied to was the Shipwreck. Had he assumed the title or nickname of Captain while as a member of Strictland's group? 

It was not an unpopular rumor that, regarding the coup, the call had to have come from inside the house. 

He might have turned on them and had their leader killed, chasing Strictland out of their former territory with their tails between their legs. Was this all an attempt to seek revenge?

Three years to come up with a convoluted and thorough run at revenge, as well as to gather resources and manpower—it made sense. They were ready. Why would they kill Ms. Iwazaki though? Were they afraid her loyalty to the Captain would cost them more than risking her loyalty to greed?

You swam with the current on your way out of the subway car at the only stop for Hala Town. 

It was fast approaching 9:30AM as you ascended to ground level. Because it was a Sunday, there weren't as many commuters bustling to and fro, but plenty of people were on their way toward the wharf for the morning farmer's market. It was something Wooyoung mentioned to you offhandedly the past week. 

There wasn't exactly a way you could look up the Ateez warehouse on a maps app, so you had to rack your brain to remember what the path Yunho drove looked like. It was definitely close to the—

A shoulder crashed against yours. “Hey!” you hollered after the offending party, ripping the earbuds out from your ears. 

It was two men whose faces were close to one another, and one of them lifted his hand in apology. “Sorry!”

“Way to keep a low profile,” hissed his friend before tugging him along. 

A low profile? You stepped out of the way of people walking past and slowly wandered after those two men, trailing behind by one or two people. 

“—calling us all in though? It has to do with the news of the Captain this morning. Do you think they're going to accept Strictland's offer?”

“Don't say that name out loud around here! Don't you know anything?”

Your spine prickled with a feeling of dread. You were right that they were suspicious. There were plenty of suspicious things happening in this city, but it couldn't just be a coincidence that they needed a low profile after this morning's news and recent events. 

Your determination kicked up a notch as you weaved your way through other pedestrians, your gaze locked onto your targets. Was it a stupid idea to follow them? You'd had worse ideas before. 

They made a sharp turn to cross the street and headed directly for an alleyway. 

“The boss is probably getting anxious to get a foothold in the port. Did you hear who’s moving in soon?”

You pressed your body against the brick wall of the alley, allowing them to get some distance first. It was lucky that you could pick up what they were saying from the acoustics in this corridor. 

“The GV? What could he possibly gain by doing them a favor?” the man's voice was incredulous as he said this. “Whatever. I guess we should brace ourselves for new marching orders soon.”

They turned out of the alleyway soon after. 

You scurried after them and stopped short at the very mouth. Just beyond this exit point laid a wide intersection filled with foot and vehicle traffic. It was decently busy, but the small shopping malls on different sides of the street certainly contributed to the hustle and bustle. You could spot the two men crossing the street and rounding the corner, but you remained in the shadows to contemplate your next move. 

“We're really doing this, huh?” you muttered to yourself and turned to your phone. There was one new number you had saved in your contacts, and it just so happened to be the Ateez commander who was chronically online. 

He didn't disappoint. 

Within one and a half rings, he was in your ear. “Uhh, gonna be honest. Not a great time if you wanted to get brunch.”

“Why would I want brunch with you?” you asked, adjusting your earbud wires as the buds were plugged back in your ear. You peered out into the intersection one more time, then leaned back against the wall with an exhale. 

“Wow, rude. I thought we were friends.” His words were accompanied by voices and sounds of movement. “And we mentioned brunch last night. Why else would you call? —Oy! Careful with her; she's my favorite scope!”

Your brows furrowed at all the excitement happening on the other end. “What's going on over there?”

There was a huff of indignation from Wooyoung, and you assumed (hoped) that it was directed toward the person handling his beloved scope and not you. “I will assume you've seen the news. We're preparing for retaliation and Joong hyung is preparing to meet the head of the Diamond District.”

“Retaliation?” you repeated, eyes going wide. Mentally, you performed cartwheels to remember where you'd heard Diamond District before. That was the nickname for the old Sector 17 gang, wasn't it? Now, they were known as the Diamond District Chois, a family reigned by blood, which was the more conventional relationship one saw within the mafia families. 

“It's the natural response when your territory has been directly threatened by another—imposter figure or not.”

“Why would the Diamond District retaliate against us—I mean—you?” 

A pause. “The Kidult Company is a shell corporation. Take a wild guess who owns it.”

Your brain filled in the gaps and you placed a hand over your mouth. “Yikes…” 

“Mhm,” came Wooyoung's grim reply. 

“I always thought it was some kind of institutionalized daycare,” you muttered with ill-concealed disappointment. It made a lot more sense why Non-Captain and Mr. Young chose to break into that building specifically. Was he trying to start a war?... Oh. Was that the end game?

“Would've been much better than this!” he said with a hysterical laugh. He sighed, and you could imagine him dragging a hand down his face in anxiety. “So I suggest you stay away from Hala Town, but it is your day off. By the way, why did you call again?”

“Oh, I'm in Hala Town.”

Another pause. Then you heard a smack. “Of course, you are. Murphy's Law.”

You crossed your arms over your chest, scrunching up your face. “Now that is rude. I came because I saw the news this morning and I wanna help.” Before Wooyoung could say anything in response to that, you rambled on, “Look, I—I don't know. I saw the news this morning, and the fallout of this revenge scheme could hurt a lot of people. I like this city, Wooyoung. I like living here, as much as it is counterintuitive, but now this matter's crossed into the gray areas.”

The background noise gradually decreased on his end, like he was walking away from the action. “I get that, I really do. And the fact that you're still here says a lot,” he told you. “But you should know that you're only getting yourself more involved.”

“I know,” you said, pursing your lips. “Maybe I'm stupid for following my gut instead of common sense by coming here… it's just that I came because I wanted to tell you guys that the man on the leaked security tape with the fake Captain is Mr. Young—the guy who was the last to see Iwazaki Rina.” 

Wooyoung exhaled. “That… makes a lot of sense, and helps me a shit ton.” You could hear the click-clack of his fingers on a mechanical keyboard and you wondered how fast he had the security tape analyzed. “I'm gonna run this through facial rec. Thanks Yn, seriously. It's strange though that he chooses now to show his face. Any other footage has him strategically dodging cameras or blocking his features.”

You hummed under your breath, debating between snaking your way back to the station through the alleyway or remaining here for the duration of your call. You scanned your immediate surroundings just in case. “He's playing with you,” you offered. “At least, that's what I've come up with. He must be associated with Stri—”

“Ah,” he cut you off. “You're in public, Yn.”

“Okay, whatever. You know who I mean.” You poked your head out of the alleyway again to survey the nearby establishments. Those two men were off to attend a meeting of some kind. Was there somewhere nearby that they could gather? You pulled up the GPS app on your phone. “If he's associated with who we think he is, then it has to mean something that he had a hand in Ms. Iwazaki's death and the fire,” you continued. “Also, I'm on Paradigm Avenue. What's around here?”

“Why the fuck are you on Paradigm? That's almost the complete opposite direction of the pier. I didn't think your sense of direction was that bad.”

You rolled your eyes. “I was following two suspicious guys who were talking about you, you-know-who, and the GV mafia. Something about being called in and accepting a deal.”

He loosened a low whistle from his mouth. “Look at you! You're learning all our dirty secrets on your way to work today.”

“Oh, good. So it's important and I should follow them.” You didn't particularly care about what they were going to do with the GV mafia—actually, maybe you did care. The mafia family that ruled the Gold Village, a nearby section of the city, wasn't your favorite kind of people. You'd heard through the grapevine that they were into more unsavory businesses, and if those businesses were about to be funneled through Ateez's ports…

You had to stop yourself. You couldn't just sit down and have a conversation with Hongjoong about why they shouldn't go through with whatever deal they struck with the GV. This was just business. Their business. 

“You didn't hear this from me, but I would follow them,” admitted Wooyoung. “Though, you should know that the way you're going is heading toward the east corner.”

Your foot stopped mid step as it crossed out of the alleyway and out onto the street. “What's in the east corner?” you asked, recovering your stride and heading for the crosswalk. There were a few restaurants and bars nearby that you could check. The Laundromat also looked somewhat suspicious to you with the happy-go-lucky laundry machine with googly eyes in the front window. 

“We've been keeping an eye out over there lately. That's where the whispers of Strictland's reappearance first cropped up,” he explained. “Just err on the side of caution.”

Sure, you could do that. 

“Oh, one last thing” —you stopped yourself from ending the call— “remember when I told you that you had major street cred around here?”

“Yeah,” you said. The first time you met Wooyoung a little over a week ago, it was the first time you ever stepped foot into Ateez territory. He mentioned to you at that first meeting that you had 'street cred’ around these parts and you still hadn't a clue what he meant. 

“I wasn't kidding, y'know. Our soldiers and those who know them know your name and that you've saved the Captain. If you find the right person and tell them who you are, they could help get you out of trouble.”

The information came as a welcomed surprise to you. Perhaps saving a man you didn't know did have its perks, besides the originally unwanted IOUs he offered. Figuring out how to find the right people at the right time was a bridge you'd build when you got there though. “Wait, but if I told the wrong person who I am?”

“Well, that's just the thing,” he let out a sheepish chuckle. “There are probably a handful of people who'd want to hurt you for helping the Captain. Your name can either save you or kill you.”

Great. 

As you crossed the street and ventured further away from the streets that you knew, you were armed with only a name—one that could be the breath of air you needed or the hand that snuffed the life out of you. 

With the bodies on the chess board beginning to move with vigor and strategy, it was high time you moved your own chess piece.

a/n: pls remember to reblog if you enjoyed!

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[littlemissvenom0]

Title: “Map Room Heat”

Pairing: Gally x Reader

Setting: Glade (between books 1 and 2)

POV: Second Person (Reader’s)

The Glade wasn’t so bad once you learned the rhythm. Wake up, work, avoid getting on Gally’s nerves—actually, that was impossible, because you were his nerves.

And he was yours.

Sarcastic, infuriating, bossy, irritating, annoying... hot, in a rude, rough-edged kind of way. You never said that last part out loud, though. Obviously.

When you’d first arrived, a rare female Greenie in a place crawling with testosterone and half-grown boys trying to be men, Gally had been one of the first to give you that classic Glader hazing. Not cruel, but definitely irritating.

You, being the generous human you were, gave it right back.

That had been months ago. Now, the two of you bickered daily like an old married couple who hadn’t realized they were in love. You’d snap at him about being a control freak, he’d roll his eyes and mutter something about “bloody drama queens.” Then he’d ask if you were always this annoying, and you’d sweetly smile and say, “Only around morons.”

There was a rhythm to it. A dangerous, comfortable rhythm.

Until today.

You were walking with Lucy-Gray and Beatrice, two of the other Glade girls. The three of you had taken a short break near the Gardens, cooling off with some water and light teasing.

“We were talking about Gally earlier,” Sonya had said, tossing a pebble between her hands. “You two are basically married.”

You choked on your drink. “Excuse me?”

“Oh come on,” Harriet chimed in. “You constantly bicker. And he looks at you like you strung up the moon.”

“He does not.”

“He does,” they said in unison, grinning.

You rolled your eyes but were secretly filing it away. You liked him. You really liked him. But there was no way he saw you like that. Right?

Then one of the Builders, Clint, walked by and joked, “You know, I’d say she’s way outta Gally’s league. Shame she’s into girls.”

Silence.

You blinked.

“What?” you said, voice hard.

Clint looked confused. “That’s what Gally said. He said you’re into girls. Said it real casual-like yesterday when we were messing around near the Homestead.”

Your blood turned molten.

He what?

You stood up, brushing dirt off your pants. “I’m gonna kill him.”

Sonya blinked. “Uh, what are you—?”

“I’m going to hunt him down,” you growled, stalking toward the Builder sector. “And I’m going to bury him with his stupid shovel.”

You stormed across the Glade, ignoring everyone who tried to say hello. Your boots hit the dirt with a rhythm that echoed your heartbeat: What. The. Shuck. Gally.

Who did he think he was? Telling people—TELLING PEOPLE—you were gay, just so the other Builders wouldn’t talk about you like you were some hot piece of meat?

Okay, fine. You were tired of their comments.

But he didn’t get to just decide your sexuality for you. That wasn’t his call. And it wasn’t like you were his or anything—

You shoved open the map room door with a sharp bang.

“GALLY!”

He jerked up from the floor where he was crouched over a pipe, tools scattered everywhere. His shirt was half off and hanging from his waist, chest covered in sweat and grime.

He pointed behind you. “Can you grab the door—?!”

Clunk.

You turned. The door was closed.

Gally groaned. “Oh for—shuck. I had my notebook keeping it open.”

You turned to glare at him. “You told Clint I’m a lesbian?”

He blinked. “That’s what this is about?”

“Don’t you dare change the subject.”

“I didn’t—!” He ran a hand through his messy hair, the edges damp with sweat. “Okay, I might’ve said something like that. They wouldn’t shut up about you.”

“So you decided to speak for me?!”

“I was trying to help!”

“By lying?!”

You threw your hands up in frustration, pacing the small room. The air was already thick and warm. The ventilation was clearly shot.

Gally rubbed his temples. “I didn’t mean to piss you off.”

“Well, too late!”

He groaned again and went to the vent. “I was fixing this before you kicked in the door like a psychopath.”

“Because I am a psychopath, Gally. A lesbian psychopath, apparently.”

He gave you a sharp look, but there was heat behind it. “You want me to apologize? Fine. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t’ve said that. I just didn’t want them talking about you like—like you were a piece of meat. You hate that shuck.”

You paused. That threw you off a little.

“Then tell me next time,” you muttered. “Don’t just… assume things.”

“Okay.”

The air grew warmer. You wiped your forehead.

“Why is it so hot in here?”

“Because the vent’s shot and I left my damn tools outside.”

You both tried yelling for help, but the map room was distant, soundproof, and abandoned this time of day. The sun was blaring overhead, and the thick wooden walls were cooking you both like meat in a smoker.

An hour passed. Maybe more.

You were sitting now, legs stretched out. Sweat soaked your shirt. Your head ached.

Gally was pacing. “You look like you’re gonna pass out.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not.” He crouched beside you, frowning. “You’re overheating.”

“I said I’m fine.”

“You’re breathing too fast,” he said, looking genuinely concerned now. “Take off your top.”

You blinked. “Excuse me?”

“You’ve got a sports bra under, right? Just your top shirt. It’ll help your skin breathe.”

You hesitated. Your hands clenched. “No.”

He tilted his head. “Why not?”

You turned away. “Because I’m ugly.”

“What?”

“I don’t remember my life before the Glade,” you whispered. “But I know something bad happened. Because my back—”

You looked down. “I have scars. So many scars. Like someone was trying to carve me up.”

Gally was quiet.

Then, softly: “Show me.”

You looked at him, uncertain.

“If you can trust anyone here,” he said gently, “it’s me.”

You swallowed. Shaking, you lifted your shirt over your head and turned your back to him.

The silence was loud.

Then—his fingers, rough from years of building, traced a long scar down your spine. You shivered.

“You’re not ugly,” he said.

You turned your head.

“You’re beautiful,” he said simply. “Those scars? They’re just proof you survived. They don’t make you any less.”

Your throat tightened.

“I thought you didn’t like me,” you said.

Gally gave a sharp laugh. “Y/N. I’ve been in love with you since the first time you insulted me.”

You blinked. “You what?”

He leaned in, the heat from the room nothing compared to the fire between your bodies now.

“Do I need to prove it?”

He cupped your face, and then he kissed you—slow, deep, intense. All the sarcasm, the teasing, the tension—melted into the kiss.

You kissed him back just as fiercely.

Eventually, someone did find you—two hours later.

But by then, you were lying beside Gally on the floor, heads close, hearts finally open.

And when the door creaked open and Newt peeked in with an awkward cough, Gally just smirked and muttered, “Took you long enough.”

You grinned.

Because locked doors couldn’t hold back what had finally broken through.

[riverbends]

vacillator 18+

[jack abbot x samira mohan]

part one: red zone | mdni | dystopian AU | ao3

tags: explicit sexual content, outdoor oral (m receiving), creepy sex pollen ergo dubcon, horror themes, descriptions of gore (body horror kinda?), dead animals, supernatural/mythological elements, umm porn with plot first wc: 5.6k note: yar i thought it was too gross so i deleted this but thank elise for noticing its absence

She fixed the latch on the cage under the beam of his flashlight with a clean tug. Pencil-thin iron bars encaging the fresh, mangled carcass of a cottontail. The top of the cage remained open to welcome its subject with false sustenance. Sighing, she braced her hands on her knees to rise back up to his level.

“That’s my last one. What a shit way to go,” she said, woefully admiring her work. Main course for the grotesque. “Sucks. She was adorable.”

Jack laughed out his scoff, momentarily shaking the light off the dead animal. “Just be glad you’re not the rabbit.” Samira could only glower at him. He looked to his side, finding her dimly lit frown in the residual glow of the flashlight between them. “What? What did I do this time?”

She shook her head, no longer bothered. Instead, she reached around her bag in search of disinfectant, slathering it on her hands before wiping the excess on her pants. “Aren’t you like fifty?”

“Not yet,” he flicked off the light in spite. Playfully, of course. “What’s my age got to do with anything?”

“Turn it back on,” she gritted, seizing the torch from his grasp when he obeyed. He didn’t usually put up a fight. “Grow up.”

Jack whistled, clean and straight. Amused. “That’s rich, coming from you.”

“Don’t whistle,” Samira snapped over her shoulder. “Bad omens.”

The ground surrendered to the soles of their boots, carrying them through this corner of the Appalachian Mountains with minor struggle. Moonlight fell between the spread of branches, speckling the sea of flora to reflect the night sky. They could see the air catching their breaths in front of them, condensed into sheer little clouds. To protect them from the cold during patrol, they wore long cargo pants and bulky jackets with woollen insides. Carried backpacks weighed with tools and gadgets and food, but not so heavy that it would hold them back in the very likely event where they’d have to break into a sprint at some point. They were lucky there had not yet been such an occasion on duty together.

Samira led on with the torch while Jack grumbled behind her.

“Many people my age still make jokes, we’re not all that bad,” he teased, poking her side.

“Then make better jokes,” she dismissed, stopping momentarily to sidestep the glistening octagon of a spiderweb. He mirrored her movement. “Also, watch your feet.”

“I know, I’m the one who set the traps in this sector,” he said. Sucked his tongue and shook his head, laughably disappointed. If it were up to him, he’d set her right. Show her exactly who she’s talking to. He was almost entirely sure she’d give in as well.

Neither of them bothered to give a name to, let alone acknowledge, whatever had brewed between them when they were first paired up for zone patrol. Maybe his hand would find the small of her back when they treaded over uneven ground, or she’d sit up close to him on their breaks after settling on the forest floor, usually leaning back against a tree trunk. She’d excuse herself and say something about the cold at night, but he’d feel the heat of her body giving her away.

Her elbow digging into his bicep, her thigh slowly creeping up to lay against his as they talked about things he could never really recall because the unspoken insistence of her proximity only had him thinking about one thing. Or many things about one thing. Things he was itching to do to her, even out here in this cursed mountain range in the dead of night. Especially out here.

Wondered if she ever noticed the bulge swelling below his belly whenever she nestled into his side. If she ever raised her thigh a bit higher over his or bent it at some ninety-degree angle in these instances, he could guarantee she’d feel the imprint just under her the side of her knee. Hard and throbbing.

Jack didn’t mind if the lines were blurred. Kept him entertained, really. They were comfortable enough to practically rub up on each other, and comfortable enough to toss banter back and forth. Though, tonight, she seemed a little too tender to the touch. Everything he said appeared to hit a nerve.

Back at the collective, he never fought his attraction to her, only kept it at bay. Still breaking a wild horse in his round pen. But something about this part of the woodlands always had his cock weighing heavier, got him all playful and brazen around her. He knew, though, that it was one of the many dangers of lurking in the mountains. Symptoms, more like. Heightened emotions, hyperactivity, turbulent hormones (elevated libido, in Jack’s case) – just to name a few. Something in the air at these dark hours. Tree branches arching down as if to reach out for them.

It had worsened over time, weaving in and out of their missions together. Assigned to inspect the northern regions of the Appalachians running through Pennsylvania. The dreaded night duty. Though, it was usually alright. The both of them had dealt with far worse in the deep ends of these woods. (The countless horrors that occurred were usually never spoken of more than once. Maybe addressed in a council meeting after the fact. But, for those patrolling the shadows, you were probably better off swallowing down the fear than letting it swallow you).

Strict and sustained protocol warned everybody on duty to be wary of certain zones—namely, red zones. Twelve of the most hazardous plots of forestry, identifiable by the bright red markers on bordering tree trunks—for anything slightly out of the ordinary. Even each other. Samira only knew half as much about the dangers as Jack did and, even then, these woodlands never failed to surprise him.

He was only nineteen when everything changed (Samira liked to remind him she wasn’t even born yet), his father tore him out of bed in the middle of the night and dragged him down the stairs, still half asleep. A cacophony of sirens singing from various speakers outside his house. Around the neighbourhood, around the town. All over the country.

The mutilated bodies were scattered across the streets where people screamed and bolted. At first, he couldn’t even properly panic. A state of pure, razor-edged shock had sliced him clean. Just paralysis. Mouth parted in simple confusion at the pandemonium unfolding before himself and his parents. After all those years, he could still remember the feel of a wet, mushy substance under his bare foot. Fat, swollen tube-like shape.

To his utter horror, he realised he had stepped on somebody’s unspooled intestines. Short, hurried pants shot out from his lungs as he jumped back and clung to his father.

Then, those things. A lone one, several feet away from them. Some fucked-up hybrid crossing itself halfway between a lizard and a dog. The top of its head would’ve been roughly level with his shoulder. Sharp green scales vibrated down its spine; all four legs, long and disgustingly jutted out. A strange coat of some iridescent, slippery substance matting its patches of hair. Oozed past its canines and drooped slowly out of its ugly, open maw to pool on the ground around its disfigured paws. The eyes made his heart stutter.

Hollowed out but still gleaming. Turning. Like somebody had scooped deeper into its sockets and poured bubbling ink into the cavities. He watched them flicker in his direction. The sound that came out of it upon seeing him was a stark warning. A whispered scream, almost as piercing as the sirens.

Had their neighbour not fired his shotgun, Jack and his family would’ve ended up torn and strewn across their front lawn. Instead, hours later, they had returned to find only parts of the man. Shotgun still clutched in his severed hand; his calves ripped to shreds. The rest of him was either lying across the road or churning inside a hot belly.

Evacuation camps and crisis centres were set up in every state for the next three months, all guarded by military personnel and 30-foot walls with active electric fencing. Advised by his father, Jack joined junior combat teams and climbed the ranks within a few years.

After a decade, most camps had been overrun and the population dwindled. A large portion of deaths being a result of those deathly hounds, while the majority had actually been enacted by other unknown creatures that everyone remaining would soon come to learn about in due time. Countless people had also ultimately disappeared without a trace.

No more military, just individual combat and protective services. There were now only a handful of active camps, this one being dubbed the ‘collective’ by its inhabitants. The council was assembled in the early days, remaining one of the main constants since the old world.

Now, Jack had settled. Patrolling was easier on him, almost grounding. When asked why he stepped down from his position of delegate, he’d simply answer that he needed a change of pace. But he’d been meaning to leave the council for years, realising that real concerns were never real priorities. He didn’t want to be part of the reason that the collective fell to pieces in the years to come.

Coinciding with Jack’s withdrawal from the council, Samira had lost her patrol partner on duty. Zones all the way south, where some of the darker things took place. A red zone. She knew she had crossed over, saw the red markers on the bark of tree trunks and took the risk anyway. Not even an hour into patrol, full moon washing over the forest as she trudged through tangled foliage in search of her until she found her flashlight beaming on the ground.

It shone bright upon the girl’s torn head. Eyes wrenched open, frozen in terror. Mouth gaping. Samira felt her stomach lurch like it was ready to make her cough up her dinner. It took everything in her not to outwardly react in a way that drew attention to herself. She just backed away, holding her breath, feeling her insides tense and tighten with dread. Handgun clutched in her palm as she raised it, arms straightened out before her to scan her surroundings. The silencer locked firm in place. Then, that hushed scream and a shadow to her left.

A blur of motion and muffled shots. The strangled whine of the end of a life, and then a heavy thud vibrating the forest floor.

Samira finally breathed, choked out stunted, fractured exhalations. Three of her bullets, softened by the silencer, neatly pierced through its skull and punctured the brain before it had the chance to charge at her. With shaking hands, she reached for her walkie.

“Red zone A12...red. Breached. Red,” she whispered, teeth chattering. “Night patrol down.”

Samira was shortly reassigned to inspect a new sector further north with none other than Jack Abbot, who, for months, could not seem to reel himself in around her.

Maybe it was just the simple fact that he found himself alone with a young woman in the middle of the woodlands two nights every week at a time where unnecessary contact and intimacy in the collective were usually advised against by the council. A lot of things were advised against by the council. Not that he ever cared, though. Being a former delegate still afforded him the privilege of disregard for policy. He had never been one to fall in line anyway. Policy and protocol be damned.

While Jack wrestled with his magnified compulsions behind her, Samira skirted shrubs and burrows like they offended her. She didn’t want to admit how much his earlier comment had stung.

“You’re in a mood tonight,” she broke the silence. “Cockier than usual.”

“And you’re being mean.”

“Hm.”

“But, no, I’m just fed up,” he said. She heard him stopping. “Those things don’t want carcasses, they’re smarter than that. I’ve told the council for years, but they never listen. There’s a reason why people are getting snatched up again.” Samira paused, turned halfway to meet his gaze. The look on his face was more than genuine, and she hated when he was right about things that she hesitated to admit to herself. He was always right. “Living, breathing food - that’s what we are. Traps and bait are pointless, and I know you know that. Predators ravage. You’re executing little bunnies and tying them up with bows for nothing.”

She looked away from him now, jaw clenched tight. Sniffled from the cold. Guilt chewed through his stomach like teeth.

“Kid, I’m sorry,” he stepped closer, voice softer. She stared up at him again, her body still sideways from his. The wounded shimmer in her eyes left him gutted. “I could’ve phrased that better. I know it gets to you.”

As if it were instinct, Jack gently held her jaw to tip her head up, stroking his thumb against her chin. He could’ve kissed her like this.

She would’ve let him, and she was expecting it. Saw the way he struggled to keep his gaze off her lips (and this was not a rare occurrence). Felt his thumb just barely brush underneath. If she tucked in her chin, she could easily take the finger into her mouth. Pull back slowly, make sure he watched close as she traded the thumb for his middle and index. She could make her spit glisten all over his fingers in the glow of the flashlight between them. Right before dropping to her knees—

Jack pulled away before she seized the chance to suck on his thumb, or anything else.

“Rendezvous with John Shen,” he inhaled sharply. John was one of the few who preferred to patrol solo – something else against which the council heavily advised. Groups were usually encouraged to check in on each other throughout the night, both through the walkies and physical meetings. Although, these meetings were more often recreational than cautionary.

“I still don’t get why everyone consistently uses his government name.”

“I don’t get why anyone still refers to the government,” Jack retorted beside her as they resumed their trek.

“False sense of normalcy, maybe,” Samira shrugged, turning the torch in her hand.

“Shit is looong gone,” he droned, brow quirked.

“Right, you remember what they were like?” The teasing smile in her question was audible.

“Jesus Christ, kid, you’re bordering on elder abuse.”

“So, you admit it?” She was having too much fun now and Jack couldn’t complain. No longer acidic, it seemed she was in a slightly better mood now.

“Respect your elders,” he jabbed his index into the curve of her hip, earning a yap and shove from her. “I’ve gotta do something about that mouth of yours.”

Samira felt her face burn hot. She swallowed, recomposing herself.

“You’ve been running yours for the past twenty minutes, sir.”

Jack stopped walking, hands held out. “Are you a fuckin’ tease with John Shen?”

“He’s the tease,” she countered, laughing. “Well, speaking of, where is he?”

A beat, and then another. The sound of trampled twigs snapped their heads to the left before a flat, glowing cylinder of white bounced around the ground and off the trees.

“John,” Samira addressed him, nodding her head.

“John Shen, say John Shen,” Jack goaded, and she waved him off.

The man approached them with his flashlight, panting lightly, “I could hear your asses a mile away. Council’s gonna separate the two of you.”

Two limp, bloodied cottontails hung from his belt by their feet. Samira pouted.

“And pair me with you?” Jack perked, tapping John’s nose, “I’d rather feed myself to the hounds.”

“No skin off my back, baby,” John grinned at him. Cheshire cat leer in the torch glow. “Anyway, what the fuck do you guys do out here? Langdon always says you’re fucking like rabbits, and he sounds more convincing every day.”

Samira shot John a soured look, responding a little too fast: “He says what?”

“Maybe don’t mention the rabbits,” said Jack, hands moving up to hold on to the straps of his backpack, “she’s a bit sore right now.”

“I’m standing right here,” Samira looked back and forth between the men before turning on her heel to continue their zone inspections. They watched after her for a moment before slowly following her lead, John making sure to leave enough distance so that Samira was well enough out of earshot.

“Kid, don’t wander too far,” Jack called out to her, his advice falling on deaf ears. Made a note to himself to keep up with her from here.

“I take it Langdon was right, then,” John teased and Jack shook his head. “If not, that’s a shame. For you. She’s grabbing lunch with me tomorrow.”

“Don’t get ahead of yourself, Adonis,” said Jack, half amused and half ticked off.

“What, you claim her or something?”

Jack scoffed before lowering his voice a notch, “Shit, she’s not an auction horse.”

“You still remember auctions? How old are you again?” John pressed, smirking. Jack only responded with a short grunt. “Anyway, pussy is scarce, doc. You know how it is.”

“Oh no, it isn’t, junior,” the older man laughed heartily. “Plenty of women in the collective. Last month’s census can attest to that. You’re just an ass.”

“And you’re not?”

John got him there. “Maybe. But I don’t go around scavenging for pussy.”

“Because you don’t have to do a thing for it,” John elbowed him. “Hell, I bet even Mohan’s dying to give it to you.”

There it was again, the feeling that Jack’s cock was stiffening at the mere mention of her.

Needed to sink himself somewhere deep and warm.

He could still see her frame in the distance, lit up by her torchlight. The fat of her ass filling out those dark cargo pants. He cleared his throat.

“You should return to your sector, John Shen. Council would spank us for too much chatter, right?”

John barked out a laugh, “Not if the freaks hiding out in these woods get to us first.” He clapped Jack on the shoulder, taking his leave and disappearing into the night with his own torch.

Mythologically speaking, Jack always thought they should’ve been referred to as chimeras. But ‘hounds’ seemed to have stuck over the decades. Most of the time, they weren’t even the real problem. The hounds were tangible; killable. If you aimed right and well, you were more or less guaranteed to have saved yourself. It was everything else that you had to look out for.

Warning signs in the disguise of sounds, tricks of the light, strange smells. Beautiful distractions. Whispers of pleasure licking up the side of your neck when not a soul was around you. All the things you could only fight with your mind, with your intuition, not through combat or confrontation. You had to be lucky enough to slip out of its hold untouched.

Ahead of him, Samira halted to hit the torch against her palm as the light flickered, threatening to give out on her. She huffed, exasperated, and Jack caught up with her to take a look at it himself.

“Might die,” she said, watching him frown down at the torch in his hands.

“Well,” he hummed, “it seems to be alright for now. A little flickering won’t hold us back. We’ve got the smaller ones anyway.”

“As if they’ll be enough,” she mumbled. “But I don’t get it, I put new batteries in there.”

“Yeah,” he clicked his tongue, weighing their options. “Our break’s coming up, we can work it out then.”

They continued on, neither of them catching sight of the red square marker tagged on the tree to their left.

If he thought he wasn’t losing it before, he was definitely losing it now.

It was a like a hot bolt of lightning cracked the crown of his skull and shot through his body down to his feet every time Samira’s arm brushed against his, every time their sides knocked from walking so close. Every time he heard a breath pass over her lips.

His tip felt leaky in his pants. Eager; ready. Waiting to tuck itself into a something tight and welcoming. Another minute and he was suddenly reaching for her wrist.

“Shit, wait. I need a second.” He winced like he’d just run a marathon. Samira turned to find him slightly hunched over and trying to catch his breath, hand still clamped around her wrist. He let go when she faced him to hold onto his shoulder.

“What’s wrong? Are you in pain?” She angled his face back up to hers, assessing whatever she could just by the look on it. Then, the flashlight died. Samira cursed under her breath and threw it aside. She was about to reach around to grab her mini torch when Jack choked out a pained moan, stepping back and clumsily kneeling on the ground. He shrugged off his bag as he sat back against a tree, feeling like his heart was going to burst in his throat.

Samira crouched down in front of him and situated herself between his bent, outstretched legs. As soon as she rested her hand on his knee, Jack was fully straining through his pants. If he didn’t know any better, he’d have thought all the blood in his body rocketed down to his throbbing dick.

“I…fuck, I don’t know what’s happening,” he panted, sucked air through his teeth like he ate a hot pepper. Samira’s hands stroking at his neck and petting his hair didn’t help either. “It’s my junk.”

They both dropped their eyes to his crotch and his hand had a mind of its own. Samira’s stomach constricted when she watched him palm the bulge between them.

“Fuck,” he muttered, couldn’t help himself. Rubbing his erection through his pants seemed to be the only thing alleviating the ache, and she could only stare, mouth parted and salivating.

“Uh,” her throat bobbed. Jack tipped his head back to rest against the tree. Nothing could tear her eyes away from the way he tried to soothe himself. She licked her lips, almost in preparation. “Do you- um, is there anything I can do?”

That wrenched his head back down. What could she do? Concern was written all over her face when she looked up at him again. The furrow weighing down her brows almost made her look…keen. Desperate to do anything she could to help him.

Give him a hand. Give him a mouth—

He started shaking his head furiously, muttering a hurried string of no’s as he struggled to get on his feet. He stood up against the tree while she rose to balance on her knees.

“Try taking it out,” she blurted, blushing at her own words. “Maybe...I can see if something’s wrong.”

He processed the image of her kneeling on the forest floor, her face level with his clothed hard-on. Peering up at him like it was a plea. He swore he could feel her breath just kissing it through his fly. His mouth dried up. Had to flex his hands at his sides to resist the urge to rub her face against his bulge.

Then, very slowly, he nodded. Only once.

Samira held her breath as his quivering hands fumbled over his button before abruptly yanking the zipper down, overzealous for release. He paused momentarily, watching for any possible change in her expression—any splinter of hesitation—but she just stared at his undone fly. Waiting.

So, he tugged his pants down enough to reveal the wet patch of precum soaking through his underwear. Her cunt throbbed something fierce between her legs, slickening fast. Then, eyes pinned to her face, he finally dragged the waistband down and sprung his cock free. When the cold air hit, he didn’t waste any time curling a hand around himself, breathy moans tumbling out of him as he leaned back against the tree. Sighing and grunting.

Samira was rapt. Completely awe-struck by everything in front of her. Coarse hair under his belly, fringing his shaft. The girth of it, so enticing as he gave himself good, slow pumps. All of his breaths came out stuttered.

As if on cue, bright rays of moonlight crept past the cover of the trees and meandered their way down to shine on the both of them. Everything lit up and neither Jack nor Samira questioned the bizarreness of it. If anything, the abnormal light only encouraged them, showing each other the vulgar act between them with white, glowing clarity.

His slit drooled with pre. Glistened over his swollen tip under the beaming moonlight. She could feel saliva gathering on her tongue, pooling around her teeth. Her sex, clenching around the ghost of something that should be there. But it stared her in the face instead, and Jack felt his brain short-circuit when he noticed her stare back.

I’ve gotta do something about that mouth of yours

“Y’know what, could you put your tongue out for me?” His voice was ragged. Worn. Samira didn’t register his question for a moment, but then her jaw lowered a bit. “Just, yeah. Just for a minute, sweetheart.”

Samira obeyed and he could have cum just from the sight of it alone. Her tongue, pink and outstretched, was patiently waiting for him. Promising Jack with release. Ecstasy. He filtered out every rational thought screaming in his head as he cradled her jaw with his free hand and lightly planted his wet tip on the flat of her tongue. She was looking up at him the whole time.

His knees almost buckled. Her soft tongue with her warm breath fanning his length should’ve taken him out like a light in an instant. He still wasn’t sure how he lasted this long.

And she didn’t know how much longer she could wait. Every fibre of her being willed her to welcome him all the way in, let his tip scrape the walls of her throat. Make him get off inside the hollow of her cheeks.

With no objection from Samira, he tried his best to pace himself, slowly rolling his hips forward to feed her a little more. Nothing could’ve prepared him for the way she closed her mouth around the width of him, just halfway up. She didn’t give him any time to adjust before easing his length all the way in.

The slight cut-off in her airway burned deliciously. She moaned around him, eyes watering.

“Fuck,” he gritted, bracing himself against the tree as her voice vibrated around him. All the sense in him, gone. “I didn’t know,” he said with a pant, feeling her drag her mouth off just to suck him back in, “didn’t know you’d ever take me like this. I could only- could only dream.”

The sound of the wet pop of her lips latching off his cock reminded him they were still very much outside and on duty.

“Christ, you like this?” he rasped, stroking her hair back, “Sucking me off in the middle of the woods o-on patrol?” She answered with a whimper as she picked up the pace and it had him leaning further back into the tree as her hands found his thighs. Keeping his weight against the trunk, he bent his knees a little to push his feet out further. Samira, in a way that he could not fathom, managed to maintain her sucks as she shifted right to align her cunt with his boot. He watched her get all the friction she needed just by grinding down on him. “Yeah, oh shit, you like this.”

It was dizzying to witness. On her sore knees, panting and slurping and humping. The mix of her spit and his pre smearing the rim of her mouth. This girl, so much younger than him, dragging her clothed pussy against the thick of his shoe as she bobbed her head up and down his pulsing cock. He angled his knee out a bit to accommodate her grinding.

Jack could imagine the seam of her pants catching nicely on her needy clit as she bucked her hips into his leg. Getting off on getting him off. He couldn’t wait to make it up to her, to push her further than she was pushing him. Almost begged her not to go to lunch with John tomorrow.

She gently pulled off to catch her breath and carefully twisted her hands around him with the residue of her spit, stretching her tongue out again so she could drag his mushroom tip over the flat of it. His hips stuttered in response and it struck heat down to her core. “Samira," he breathed, "the things I’m gonna do to you."

She rode his boot harder as she eased his cock back into her mouth, the hair at his base tickling her nose. Sticky panties pressing into her folds.

“You- mm, you’re doing so good for me,” Jack groaned. “Fuck, I can feel the back of your throat.” He let his hands gather up her hair to keep it from brushing over her face. At this point, he had abandoned restraint and allowed himself to rock into the steady tempo of her sucking. He couldn’t believe it.

On duty, in the darkest hours of the night, under the preternatural glow of the moon, he was leveraging his weight against a tree as he lazily fed his hard cock into the mouth of his junior partner while he guided her head back to him, over and over and over again. Shame curled deep in his gut, though it was subdued by the waves of pleasure she wrung out of him.

As soon as he fell from his high, he planned to switch places with her and divest her of her clothes before hooking a leg over his shoulder to bury his tongue deep in her slick cunt. Instead of his boot, she could grind down on his nose.

His fingers tightened around the bunches of her curls, feeling himself approach the precipice of his release. She didn’t seem to tire or back down, and he worried that she couldn’t tell how close he was.

 “Hey, you don’t have to—” he stammered, trying to keep himself from fucking into her mouth too hard when he saw a tear creep down from the corner of her eye. “If it’s too much, I can pull—”

Samira was going for a home run. She was going to make him finish on her tongue if it was the last thing she did.

She sucked him in like a fucking vacuum before releasing him to use her hands again. As she furiously jerked his cock, her lips closed around his crown and she tongued his tip like she was French-kissing it. He saw stars when he felt her lay soft, teasing licks over his dribbling slit.

The forest groaned around them and it seemed to Jack like everything had come to life. Over her fast, clammy strokes and the suckling of her lips, he could catch a flurry of murmurs circling around the tree behind him. Tickling his ear and then echoing throughout the woodlands. It was like a scorching, wispy summer had swallowed the night. Like the whispers of the trees were coaxing him to cum inside the suction of her warm mouth.

When her jerks slowed into squeezing strokes and her lips puckered out around his head, when she bared down on his boot. When she sighed around him, when her eyes flicked up to meet his—he came.

“Oh- oh, shit.”

His senses were stark now as his orgasm surged through him with ferocity.

The blurred shape of what looked like a woman lurking in the distance. The whispered scream of a hound. The red marker plastered on a fallen log behind Samira.

Oblivious, she welcomed him all over her tongue, relishing the taste of his spend as it sprayed the walls of her mouth. All she could hear were his ragged moans when she swallowed and nursed on his fat, spent tip. Felt herself get impossibly wetter as the load of warm cum continued to spill onto her tongue. She didn’t let a drop go to waste.

With Samira struggling to detach from his sensitive tip, Jack was returning to the surrounding environment under the haze of his release. Nothing about this was normal.

Sure, she probably would’ve jimmied him down her throat back at the collective sooner or later. But he wouldn’t have thought he was dying, or coming close to death, in order for it to happen. No, it had only been fifteen minutes prior where he felt like the entire forest was going to cave in on him if he didn’t lodge his cock inside something wet.

And Samira was so cock-drunk, still on her knees; still humping his boot. Still licking him up and down like she was hoping to draw another glob of cum into her mouth. As much as he loved it, there was something very seriously off.

The red marker came back to him, then. Policy and protocol. The symptoms.

Both of them were exorbitantly high on raw lust. Blinded by their urges, deafened by their moans. He didn’t know why it had taken him so long to realise they had wandered into a red zone, but he was undoubtedly sure of it now.

Before he could say anything to Samira, the grating scream of a dying man tore through the silence of the woods. Jack’s flaccid cock fell from Samira’s mouth as they both spun their heads in its direction. A few miles west. It could only belong to John Shen.

[kommandonuovidiavoli]

Finally remembered to post my headcanon designs for Sector V! Details following:

Nigel: added short half gloves because they're ✨cool✨, big pockets on the sides of his shorts, socks are puffier and outside the boots. He's pretty skinny, and has thin legs and arms. Hoagie says he could break from one moment to another.

Hoagie: added suspenders because that's what old detectives used to wear! Also, he has a lot of patches on his pants because of all the times he's on his knees creating and fixing stuff. His mom buys and sews them on!

Kuki: added a tank top under his green shirt, because it's too big! Also, she now wears big leg warmers, because they were cool in the 2000s, especially in Japanese fashion (and KAWAIII!!!!!). She also wears heart-shaped earrings!

Wally: added bandages all around his arms. He's not really hurt, but all KOOL people wear them, so! Short sleeves, ripped pants, dirty, untied shoes, a lil chain with no purpose but KOOL!

Abby: added round earrings and a bracelet on each wrist! Also, her shirt is shorter than in the cartoon and she wears pants under it!

Yes, these are HEAVILY inspired by Fusionfall. Enjoy!

[triptychcryptid]

Ok, here's some stuff on Demon's Disciple Stan. I think I'm putting these out almost EXCLUSIVELY for @localcanadiancreature62 because they like it so much. XD

The second half of this is more self-indulgent though. XD

After being betrayed and injured by his brother and left to die in the multiverse alone after Ford went back to Bill, he would have stumbled upon an alien tribe that helped him and gave him a translator. Yes, the same one Ford ran into in Journal 3.

After this incident, Stan would be EXTREMELY distrusting of other Fords. He would not project his murderous intent or abject hatred on all of them though, because he IS smart enough to realize that not all Fords would be the same. But if they showed the same ego and lack of accountability as his own, he'd write them off as useless to him and leave.

He would end up being generally more serious than Cannon Stan, but would be able to turn on the charm instantly when he needed to, which was often. He'd be a BIT of a playboy like cannon except it would actually work. Most of the time though, he only slept with someone because they had something he needed. And you know, the man's got needs. XD

He is very much a wanted criminal in the multiverse too because he's MUCH less discriminate about what he steals than Cannon Ford was. He steals things for survival, but also just things he wants because he's an expert swindler. XD

He got into "trading" goods and bounty hunting and got damn good at both. Basically he got in with this one dude who accepted some earth contraband he had on him (cigarettes, probably. VERY hard to come by in certain places) in exchange for some clothes. Particularly this one brand of combat boots that are the most comfortable boots he'd ever had. Sturdy, teflon coating, light and LOTS of cushion. He would also trade for mods on the boots that gave him speed, enhanced jumping capalities, magnetism, etc.

His jacket would have temperature regulation capabilities and he would get a coating on it to protect from laser guns, as well as teflon for when he made it to parallel versions of his dimension that had regular ol garden variety guns. XD His fingerless gloves have padding on the bottom to help protect his palms in instances of climbing or gripping things that could harm his hands normally. They also have the ability to shock, burn and stun people, as well as tell him his heart rate, the time or weather, depending on what he wanted to do. XD There's a button in the back that controls this.

He would stay away from Fords for the most part, unless they happened to have parts he needed and could steal. The only Fords he could stand to be in the same room with would be the most NOT versions of his Ford.

If he happened upon them, he wouldn't mind @tinfoil-jones's Jerk Ford if only because Jerk Ford knows he's a jerk and is upfront about his assholery. XD There is no trying to hide it for ulterior motives or just straight up denying that what he's doing is for anything other than his own selfish reasons like his own Ford. He would like Anti-Ford because that would be the most NOT Ford you could be. The streaming stuff would annoy him though.

If he ever came across @nowimjustastranger's Watchdog Ford, Stan would tell him in no uncertain terms was his Ford to get another Stanley. He was in fact, very much alive and had big plans to kill his twin when he got back home.

One of the services he would offer would be himself, after he found out that humans were VERY coveted in certain sectors. Most folk would pay handsomely just for a few ours with one, and this was actually how he met his best friend/fwb. She hired him one night and offered a large sum of money. He declined, stating instead that he wanted some parts she had that could work for a gun he was building. She agreed.

Afterward, she asked why he needed it and he explained his story. She took pity on him and offered him a drink. He accepted, and suddenly his broken and chipped teeth were fixed. His nose that got broken and never quite set right. His spine that got kinda messed up from all the years of sleeping in his car. The fingertip he lost during his last fight with Ford when Ford stranded him.

After this, they became allies and stole things together for Stan's boss. XD

[ulnaart]

🔎🐙: "Working hard...?" Inspector Cole's softened sarcasm entered the hallway before they did, shortly followed by the tap of their steel capped boots on the industrial floor that came to a stop just short of Alexa's work space.

Unlike their last routine visit on the patrol route through the Engineering sector from an hour ago, they were pleasantly surprised to find their companion had finally made decent progress on the faulty door that had been malfunctioning for well over a month.

🔧🦑: "Or hardly working?" Alexa smirked up at them as she shifted on her makeshift seat composed of a shabby crate and pillow, a mixed assortment of grease smudges on her face. "Luckily for you, I'm nearly done."

🔎🐙: "Is that so?" A doubtful raised brow questioned otherwise. "Or have you simply had enough for the day?"

Hot air blew through gritted teeth below them.

🔧🦑: "Careful... I'm not liable for what happens to you if you distract me." A gloved hand flicked upwards inside the box of gears and wires with venomous intent, sending the twin doors sat to the duo's right flying shut with a juddering metallic thud.

🔎🐙: "...Point taken." The Inspector took five healthy steps back from the door and stationed themselves at an equally safe and observable distance by Alexa's side against the wall.

From the corner of their eye they could just make out the traces of a smirk gracing their companion's lips. Cole may hold the reigns in much of their sociological dynamic, but when it came to matters of metal and pistons, Alexa was in control, and made a point of reminding them of that fact.

With chagrin Cole settled against the wall, and busied themselves with adjusting their glove inbetween flitting their eyes up to check on Alexa's progress. If Alexa wasn't so busy, and their pride so insurmountable, they would have asked for assistance with the matter; having only one arm made for irksome wardrobe adjustments when malfunctions cropped up, especially with gloves.

🔎🐙: 'Funny that a sector full of fix its took this long to solve the problem in the first place...' The thought tickled at the scenarios of irony they had collected over the years, glossing over them all in their head as they quietly watched Alexa make the final adjustments to the bolts. 'As they say: a builder's house is never finished.' They mused as lips unbuttoned the glove.

Gripping the pleather glove between their teeth, they pulled down until it once again sat snuggly on their hand. The sensation of eyes dancing on their skin made them look up. Sure enough, Alexa was paying more attention to their idle fidgeting than her all important work.

Their companion's eyes were prone to wander, especially when she was tired. A bad habit they would make the most of.

With deliberation, Cole adjusted the glove between their teeth in earnest, pulling it taut with the additional flair of finger flourishes to finish off.

🔎🐙: "Working hard?"

Alexa turned her head away from The Inspector's toying with a huff.

🔧🦑: "Hardly working, I see."

Cole merely smirked, keeping their snide remark to themselves as they clipped the button on their glove back in place with a 'klck!'.

With their engineer back on task, albeit several shades rosier than when she initially started, they resumed their otherwise dull patrol of the Engineering sector. At least there was some entertainment to be had on this route. The electricians in the sector over weren't the social types.

No doubt, come the time they returned in fifteen minutes from now, the time they assumed it would take for her to finish up, Alexa's attention would once again be wandering for something more interesting to work on.

'Let it find me, then.' Cole grinned to themselves as they strode down the corridor. 'I could benefit from her distraction on this mind numbing shift.'

Behind them, the clatter of several tools and generous amounts of words that didn't bear repeating graced The Inspector's ears. An amused and weary sigh loosed itself from Cole's lips as they pressed onwards, away from familiarity.

🔎🐙: "Perhaps I distracted her too much..."

[forthebrokenheartedthings]

Part 10: The Gotham Agenda

TW: dead body, injury, trauma WC: 1400+ Summary: It starts with a body. No blood. No questions. just a wound too clean to be natural. you don the suit, dodge the ghosts, and bleed into the shadows with your knives drawn. but what waits at the docks isn’t human—and neither is what’s left of you when the fight ends. clark doesn’t try to fix it. he just stays. and for the first time in months, you don’t run. not from him. not from yourself.

It started with a body.

Narrows alley. 3 a.m.

Bruce was already there when you arrived — crouched beside the tarp, gloves streaked with soot and something that smelled too clean to be chemical. No sirens. No cops. Just the heavy stench of something that should’ve bled—and didn’t.

You stepped over the body. Male. Mid-30s. Chest cavity split open like a flower. Not a drop of blood.

“Jesus,” you muttered. “What did this?”

Bruce stood but didn’t look at you.

“I was hoping you’d tell me.”

You stared at the wound again.

“No blade’s that clean. Not acid. Not even Asgardian shit burns that uniform.”

Clark landed behind you like he was made of air. Boots barely touched the ground.

“I’ve been monitoring low-orbit chatter,” he said. “There’s something hovering above Sector Six. No solid lock, but the signal’s… alien.”

You pulled your hair into a knot, voice dropping an octave.

“So we’re not just dealing with Gotham rats.”

“No,” Bruce said. “We’re dealing with something that knows how to stay just invisible enough.”

Clark glanced between you.

“I’ve seen tech like this. Not the body damage. But the energy signature? It’s K’tharic.”

You blinked. “I thought they were wiped out.”

“They were,” Clark said. “Or they went underground.”

Bruce’s jaw flexed.

“I need eyes on the docks,” he said to you. “If it’s an insertion point, it won’t be far.”

You were already moving.

No hesitation. No fear. Just focus.

Clark stepped forward. “I’ll cover from above.”

You shot him a tired, teasing look.

“Look at you. Finally admitting I need backup.”

“I said cover,” he said, smirking. “Not rescue.”

Bruce called after you both as you vanished into shadow.

“And if you find something breathing K’tharic air — don’t play hero.”

The docks were too quiet.

You moved between shipping containers like smoke. The moon barely touched you.

Near Dock 7, you found the access door twisted open—lock half-melted. Inside: stale heat, humming lights, and dust hanging in the air like static waiting to catch.

You crouched and traced a smear of black dust.

Tapped your comm. “Wayne. You seeing this?”

“Getting thermal now,” Bruce replied. “You’re not alone.”

“Yeah,” you muttered. “I figured.”

Overhead, you heard the ripple of a cape. Clark was watching.

You crept forward.

Quieter. Knife drawn.

And then you saw it.

A crate. Cracked open. Pulsing blue light inside. Something alive.

You stepped closer—and froze.

A whisper behind you.

You turned—too late.

Something dropped from the ceiling. Tall. Segmented. Part-organic. No face. No heat. Just motion.

You dove sideways.

Rolled. Came up swinging.

Your blade sliced air. The thing shimmered—then struck.

You hit the ground hard. Wind knocked out. Ears ringing.

Clark’s voice broke into your comm:

“(Y/N). Are you hit?”

You coughed once. Laughed.

“No. But whatever it is? It’s not here for cargo.”

Your eyes flicked to the humming crate. Jaw set.

“It’s here for us.”

___________________________________________________________

You move like you were born in combat.

Every pivot. Every breath. The second you roll away from the K’tharic stalker, you’re airborne—blades drawn, reverse grip. You launch upward off a container wall and bury the knife in its neck.

It doesn’t die.

But it staggers.

Clark drops from the sky like a hammer, slamming a second one into a steel crate. The metal folds inward with a scream.

“Two more incoming!” Bruce’s voice snaps through the comm. “South entrance.”

“On it,” you mutter.

You run low, lethal. Hair half-loose. Blood drying on your cheek. The third creature barely raises its arm before your boot hits its knee, reverses the joint, and your knife finds the soft seam beneath its ribs.

They move too smooth. Like wind in armor.

But you’re faster.

Not because you’re stronger.

Because you’re meaner.

By the time Bruce’s batarang detonates the last one, you’re panting against a crate. Knife dripping. Hands shaking.

Clark lands beside you. Eyes scanning the bodies.

“Is this the part where I tell you I’m impressed?”

You don’t look at him.

“No,” you rasp. “This is the part where you ask if I’m okay.”

He doesn’t.

He just looks.

And then—soft. Honest.

“You’re not.”

You slide down the crate. Sit in blood. Don’t even flinch.

You smile—crooked. Hollow.

“Feels good,” you whisper.

His brow creases. “What does?”

“The fight. The bruises. The silence after.” You look up at him. “I don’t have to think when I’m in it. Don’t have to feel.”

He crouches near you. Not touching. Just… close.

“That’s not peace,” he says. “That’s survival.”

You laugh—sharp. Bitter. “Peace is boring. And I never earned it anyway.”

Clark breathes through his nose. Lets the quiet stretch.

When he speaks again, his voice is low. Bare.

“Do you still love him?”

You don’t hesitate.

“Yes.”

He nods once.

“Do you love me?”

Your throat tightens.

“Yes.”

“Then ask me what you really want to ask.”

You stare at your hands.

Then:

“If I let go of him…” “…do I lose myself too?”

Clark reaches out.

One hand. Open. Palm up.

“You don’t lose anything,” he says. “You find what he couldn’t carry.”

Your breath catches.

You don’t take his hand.

Not yet.

But you don’t move away either.

And in the blood-wet silence of Gotham’s docks, you let the idea settle:

Maybe survival isn’t the only ending written for you.

______________________________________________________________

The wind off the dock turns cold too fast.

Your sweat dries like punishment. The blood beneath your nails flakes with each twitch of your fingers.

Clark doesn’t move.

He just stays crouched beside you. One hand still open. Not demanding. Not comforting. Just… present.

You look at him—really look—and something inside your chest shifts.

Because he’s not trying to fix you.

He’s just there.

That somehow makes it worse.

Pain? You can handle. Silence? You know. Sex? Even easier.

But this—this quiet asking for nothing?

That’s what wrecks you.

So when Clark finally stands—brushes blood from his palms and turns toward the edge of the dock—

You panic.

Not loud. Not desperate. Just—

“…Don’t.”

He stops.

Doesn’t turn. Doesn’t speak.

You swallow. Then— “Don’t go.”

He waits.

You exhale like it hurts. Eyes closing.

“Stay.”

His voice is soft. Steady.

“Say it again.”

You look at him. Open. Bare.

“I don’t want to be alone tonight,” you whisper. “Don’t make me ask twice.”

He walks back.

Not fast. Not dramatic.

Just back.

And when he reaches you—still seated on the ground, cuts on your hands, blood on your jaw—he kneels.

Cradles your face like you’ll vanish if he’s not careful.

You don’t speak.

You don’t move.

But you don’t look away.

And when he pulls you forward, your cheek to his chest—

You let yourself lean in.

Let your ribs press into his warmth. Let your fingers tangle in his shirt.

He holds you. Steady. Wordless.

Not as a god.

Not as Superman.

As Clark.

The man who never once asked you to bleed quieter.

The one who didn’t flinch when you said you were still in love with someone else.

The one who stayed.

And for the first time in months—

You let yourself stay, too.

______________________________________________________________ The penthouse is dark.

Just one lamp glowing in the hallway—left on by Alfred, probably. Or Clark. Maybe both.

You’re curled on the edge of the couch, hoodie pulled over bare arms, legs tucked beneath you. Your hair’s damp from a too-hot, too-fast shower. Your ribs still ache beneath the bandages.

Clark sits across from you. Not hovering. Not heroic. Just… there.

His legs are stretched out. Ankles crossed. A glass of water untouched on the table between you.

He hasn’t changed clothes since the fight.

The quiet isn’t heavy.

It’s honest.

You let your head fall back against the couch.

Exhale like the pressure in your chest finally eased enough to breathe through.

“I don’t know what this is,” you murmur.

Clark doesn’t move.

“But I know it doesn’t feel like a mistake.”

Still silence.

Then the truth slips out. Unasked. “…It was always gonna be you, wasn’t it?”

He blinks once. Slowly.

Doesn’t smile.

Doesn’t reach for you.

Just breathes—and says, like he’s been waiting:

“I know.”

Your eyes sting.

But you don’t cry.

He moves then—calm, deliberate—and crosses to you.

One knee on the couch. Then the other. He slides in beside you without asking, without fanfare. Like you’ve always done this.

You let him.

You let him pull your legs across his lap, your shoulder to his chest.

He doesn’t kiss you.

He just tucks his chin into your hair and holds you like you’re already home.

Your fingers curl into his shirt.

Your voice comes soft. Raw.

“I’m scared.”

Clark doesn’t even pause.

“I’m not.”

You smile—shaky. Grateful. “Don’t let go.”

He pulls you tighter.

“I won’t.”

And he doesn’t Part 11

[roachywoachy]

Second chapter 'prompt' of my maybe fic that may be written.

First

I do want to get better at writing these seven but all of them in one scene is breaking my mind. Longhaul and Mixmaster are my main brats at the moment, characterization wise.

Tonight I will be focusing on posting the actual Hook/Prowl work.. thankfully, it's taken way longer than I'd expected but I'm a perfectionist and I see mistakes everytime I revise.

Promise my next fic won't take as long😞

When Prowl awoke propped up against Scrapper still who was troubleshooting with the other 5. Bonecrusher was being bashed for getting them into this mess but there was no bother, they were already here.

Stirring from his recharge, tac-net booting with a low whirr of his processor that was still foggy from the inexplainable pain the night before. Turned into a dull radiating ache throughout his whole frame.

It seems for now the gestalt was still recovering from their own minor damages but still rowdy.

Prowl was irritated with their rough demeanors and their loud voices, flowing freely throughout his loose field against Scrapper.

Prowl felt a tad demoralized in this position Scrapper held him in, but not angry since they did help him. As annoying as they were,

Hook and Mixmaster must've come up with some concoction to ease the pain, assumed from the feeling of weird liquidated medigel coated over lowered doorwings. The only thing keeping the cop from jumping and attempting to gain some sort of advantage was the fact that his tac-net held point percentages about success, worryingly low danger numbers filling his HUD.

So all he did was lay against a warm heavy chassis, every attempted escape weakened the tactician even more than he was. He looked terrible.

Eventually the conversation went to Prowl, their autobot 'prisoner' as if they all weren't, Hook had figured out that he was build cold which was probably why Scrapper was holding Prowl in his lap almost intimately close.

Just to keep him warm of course.

They talked about getting out and how, mostly Longhaul, Scrapper and Bonecrusher would be trying to dig their way through the collapse while Mixmaster, Hook and Scavenger dealt with finding more raw energon in the upcoming solar-cycles.

Prowl was trying to get up now, it was infuriating to be in the position he was in. Thank Primus the only people seeing him like that were dumb 'cons. Big jerks that won't ever not tease the cop outside of the tunnels.

Scrapper was firm but eased Prowl off to sit beside Hook and himself, a light sporty frame stuck between who masses that could hold enough tons that could kill the praxian 10x over.

Bonecrusher was his usual self again, frustrated with his own mess as Longhaul complained about Crushers mess. Everyone was upset about his mess.

Scavenger was helping Mixmaster with the raw energon, they sat in a smaller anclove. Away from where the original tunnel continued since they'd have to start digging out soon.

Hook brought up about how he looked terrible, wishing he had his instruments to fix him better. Hating to leave his work half finished or reversed, making sure to keep an optic on Prowl so he wouldn't go and waste his second chance.

Bonecrusher and Longhaul got to the dammed cop again, watching him sit with droopy doorwings. The drug Mix and Hook made seemed to subdue Prowl, keeping him just a little more docile than he would be stuck with the worst gestalt he'd ever dealt with in the past.

Pre-war the cop had seen the Constructicons on sites, it was obvious to why they joined the decepticons because living on barely enough energon on site day in and out without the shanx to pursue their hobbies. Free time was spent recharging or drunk on engex until their early shifts.

Prowl had never really dealt with them as his sector was more inner city but he'd occasionally go on long drives and find them either drunk at some lowend bar or working on whatever the council found fit for the day.

It was only logical for them to become who they are now but..

His processor ached from them, their actions.. It was abnormal and almost creepy with how they watched him, feeling heedy gazes on his doorwings. This whole situation made Prowl uneasy, not afraid but what were their intentions? Grumbling low to himself about this weird gestalt, it's not like he was ever close to the mechs in the first place..

The drug was dizzying to say the least, tac-net buffering a few kliks slower than usual. Numbers phased off his visual feed and the six gestalt mates talking and talking was giving him a processor ache.

The ground was hard and cold, worse than the big radiator of a mech Scrapper was.. were they all that warm? A low buzz in the back of his processor, keeping him aware but not enough to freak out.. everything ached, from his pedes, up to his thighs, hips.. up to his processor.. cold again.

The cooling mech sat quietly, swaying and overloaded by the calculations of his tac-net that made such little sense in his conscious.

Scavenger tapped on Prowls pede, getting his dazed attention. Rubbing the dirty metal as he watched the smaller mech stare at the huge servo on himself.

Scavenger was interested in the monochrome mech, Scav remembered this cop in battle, most autobots were bright but Prowl wasn't like most autobots was he? The gestalt was stupid but not that stupid, they knew the importance of Prowl. What he did for the autobots.

Scavenger just stared at the bright red chevron, it was almost a moment until he was smacked over the helm by Hook. Something was said about disturbing his patient, Prowl had only spoke in low murmurs at this point so they weren't sure if Prowl was still all there.

Secretly they needed his mind, his tac-net to be at full function and it did help some that the light frame was pretty..

Prowl was stuck staring at Scavengers visor, noting all their visors except for Mixmaster. Bright in the dark cave of dim blue, who else had a red visor? Jazz was blue..

Prowl was lost in thoughts of optics, visors and other variations. Tac-net calculating numbers of who had what and percentages on either side.

Knocked out of his trance when a heavy field was sat behind him with a rumble, Bonecrusher. A servo on his helm, tilting it to the side to look at Prowls faceplate from where Bonecrusher leaned down beside him.

He wasn't a doll to be pulled around, scowling at the large mech behind him. Reaching up to grab his forearm to push it away but of course the larger wasn't swayed.

They were all sat in a sort of circle.

(Scrapper - Prowl - Hook - Mixmaster - Longhaul)

Bonecrusher sat behind Prowl, Hook was telling off the bulldozer to not mess up his work. Mixmaster was dotting on about being stuck making energon with Scrapper who was assuring it was all necessity. Longhaul was leaning against the cave wall in boredom, somewhat tired as he was the largest. He needed most energon to be at full capacity.

Hook and Bonecrushers babbling got to the medic pulling Prowl onto his lap, away from the touchy mech who was also now being told down by Scrapper.

Explaining that it will take a solar-cycle or so for Prowl to move properly, there was inner circuits that Hook had fixed. Having to had fix minor works with only his servos and some sticky oil. After some rest he should have self repaired enough.

After dozing off again from Hook massaging into his backstrut, the medic was experienced after all these years. Joining the cause gave him the tools and working along flatline, mixed with his overall need to know. Hook was an excellent medic, not as practiced as ratchet or any of the autobot medics.

Massage making the praxian drool again, how in the world did chemist and medic even make this relaxant? With what materials? His processor was dizzy.. tac-net calculating percentages that didn't even matter.

Their voices filled his audials, loud and gruff like the mechs they were. So different in tone, so different.. they were all so different, united by one bind.. held together by their bond of devestator, they were one.

Prowls doorwings quivered as he recharged, memories of Praxus. His trine who he was created with, Smokescreen and Bluestreak. Would they even care Prowl was missing? Did they think they all died? Was it a good trade off? The strongest gestalt megatron commanded for some overbearing cop with issues?

It didn't hurt, it would never hurt but so many secrets for one mech to carry. Did the consteucticons worry? Did they hold eachother.. they were one, united forever. They could depend on eachother, they were Megatrons finest creation.. what was Prowl to the autobots, he did so much. Protected their cause, sacrificed for the good of cybertron. It was never enough, no. Optimus was too optimistic, he wanted to save everyone and live on earth. A place he'd called home. Earth would never be home, what was the war for if their home was forgotten? What did the decepticons think? Prowl was doing this all for the good of cybertron, home. Praxus.

Prowl had never been praised for his work, he was called unethical and cold. It almost hurt that his efforts weren't appreciated.

Hook held Prowls frame, the drug lowed Prowls processing power so his field was filled with doubt, distraught and anger. Anger directed at optimus, for what was the autobot cause?

Prowl didn't want to cry, the drug was heavy. Not meant for his frame type.

Coolant spilled and everything held a deep ache, feeling the others fields filled with a weight. Bearing the weight of their jobs, their interests, their cause. They weren't comforting or welcoming, but they were quiet. Accepting who he was, that must be how gestalts work. Acceptance, appreciation, they cared for eachother and that alone allowed the lonely mech to lull himself to recharge.

[theink-stainedfolk]

New WIP!!!

Heartpulse Horizon

---

In the hyper-advanced city of Solara Prime, where technology governs every heartbeat, Lou Scheiner’s life is shattered when a malevolent, otherworldly force known as the Null tears through his world, leaving him with nothing but grief and rage.

The Aurora League, an elite group of superhuman Aetherials wielding cutting-edge Aethertech, arrives too late to save what matters most. Reeling from loss, Lou is unexpectedly drawn into their orbit, invited to compete in the brutal Aetherial Trials—a chance to join their ranks. Reluctantly guided by a mysterious, silver-haired stranger with amber-tinted glasses, Lou faces a gauntlet of danger, alliances, and self-discovery. Alongside a sharp-tongued girl who defies expectations and a growing bond that feels both dangerous and inevitable, Lou must confront his pain and decide whether he can fight for a world that failed him.

In a dazzling clash of tech, power, and heart, Black Star rises as a rebellion against despair, proving that even in a world of monsters, hope can burn brighter than ever.

---

Character Introduction

LOU SCHEINER

Age: 18

Birthday: March 12, 2007

Zodiac Sign: Pisces

Ethnicity: Mixed ( reflecting Solara Prime’s diverse megacity)

Height: 5’10” (178 cm)

Build: Lean but wiry, built for speed and resilience

Eyes: Stormy gray, with a faint flicker of defiance

Hair: Ashy brown-black, slightly messy, medium-length with a tendency to fall into his eyes

Skin Tone: Olive, slightly weathered from street life

Dominant Hand: Right

Style: Practical and unpolished—worn cargo pants, his mother’s old utility jacket (faded green with too many pockets), scuffed boots. After joining the Trials, he adopts a minimalist black Aethertech suit with blue pulse lines.

Moodboard: Urban decay, cracked concrete, stormy skies, flickering neon signs, a single wilted flower, a bloodied metal pipe, a glowing Aethertech glove, a photo of a smiling mother and son, rain-slicked streets, a clenched fist.

Appearance:

Lou’s face carries the weight of loss—sharp cheekbones, a jaw that tightens when he’s angry, and gray eyes that seem to hold a storm. His hair is perpetually tousled, like he just rolled out of a fight or a bad dream. Scars from his Null encounter mark his ribs and hands, faint but visible. He moves with a restless energy, always ready to bolt or brawl, but there’s a softness in his gaze when he looks at something that reminds him of home.

Past:

Lou grew up in Aurum Sector, a middle-tier district of Solara Prime, raised by his single mother, Celia, who ran a plant café and taught him to fix small tech gadgets. Life was simple—school, helping at the café, sneaking onto rooftops to watch the city’s lights. That ended when a Null attack took Celia, leaving Lou as the sole survivor after a desperate, futile fight. Orphaned and angry, he’s haunted by her death and the Aetherials’ failure to arrive in time, fueling his distrust of TAL and his reluctance to join their world.

Personality & Traits

✔ Fiercely loyal—would die for those he loves.

✔ Stubborn to a fault, refuses to back down even when outmatched.

✔ Emotionally raw, wears his heart on his sleeve despite trying to hide it.

✔ Quick-witted in a crisis, adapts fast to danger.

✔ Deeply empathetic, feels others’ pain like his own.

✔ Reckless when angry, often acts before thinking.

✔ Haunted by guilt, blames himself for not saving his mother.

Hobbies:

Tinkering with old tech (learned from his mom).

Rooftop running to clear his head.

Sketching cityscapes in a battered notebook.

Listening to lo-fi music on cracked earbuds.

Quirks:

Twirls a small screwdriver when nervous, a habit from his mom.

Mutters to himself when frustrated, half-cursing, half-planning.

Always checks exits in a room, a reflex from the Null attack.

Keeps a pressed flower from his mom’s café in his jacket pocket.

Likes & Dislikes

✅ Likes:

The smell of rain on concrete.

Street food stalls (especially spicy rice cakes).

Honest people who don’t sugarcoat things.

The hum of a well-built machine.

Night skies with visible stars (rare in Solara Prime).

Moments of quiet with someone he trusts.

❌ Dislikes:

The Aurora League’s polished heroism.

Crowds cheering for spectacle over substance.

People who give up without a fight.

The sterile smell of hospitals.

Being pitied or patronized.

Betrayal or broken promises.

Favorite Food:

Spicy rice cakes with chili oil (his mom’s recipe).

Grilled skewers from street vendors.

Bitter black tea, no sugar.

A Line That Defines Him:

“I don’t need your heroes. I needed you there.”

~~~

ELIAS VARN

Age: 22

Birthday: October 27, 2003

Zodiac Sign: Scorpio

Ethnicity: European descent (possibly German-Italian roots)

Height: 6’0” (183 cm)

Build: Slim but toned, with a dancer’s grace and precision

Eyes: Hazel, often hidden behind light amber-tinted prescription glasses

Hair: Iridescent silver with rose-gold underlights, styled in a sleek, slightly tousled boy cut

Skin Tone: Pale, almost luminescent under Eidolon’s artificial lights

Dominant Hand: Ambidextrous

Style: Minimalist and futuristic—fitted matte black or slate-gray jackets, high-collared shirts, slim boots with subtle tech accents. His glasses and hair are his signature, giving him an enigmatic, untouchable vibe.

Moodboard: Chrome surfaces, glowing circuit boards, starlit voids, amber-tinted lenses, a single rose-gold thread, a sleek hoverbike, holographic blueprints, a shadowed observation deck, a faint smirk.

Appearance:

Elias is a paradox—striking yet elusive, like a blade hidden in silk. His silver hair catches light in prismatic waves, with rose-gold underlights that glow faintly in the dark. His amber-tinted glasses obscure his sharp hazel eyes, making him hard to read. He moves with calculated elegance, every gesture deliberate, but there’s a tension in his posture, like he’s always holding something back. A faint scar on his left wrist hints at a past he doesn’t share.

Past:

Elias's origins are shrouded. His anonymity is by choice—he prefers to work in the shadows, observing rather than engaging. His decision to join the Trials is a rare break, driven by an inexplicable pull toward Lou.

Personality & Traits

✔ Brilliant strategist, always three steps ahead.

✔ Guarded, hides vulnerability behind wit and detachment.

✔ Charismatic when he chooses to be, with a magnetic pull.

✔ Relentlessly curious, especially about human emotion.

✔ Perfectionist, frustrated by his own rare mistakes.

✔ Secretly yearns for connection but fears it.

✔ Ruthlessly protective of those he lets in.

Hobbies:

Designing experimental tech in his private lab.

Riding his sleek black hoverbike at reckless speeds.

Studying human behavior through surveillance archives.

Playing chess against AI (and winning).

Quirks:

Adjusts his glasses when flustered, a rare tell.

Hums obscure classical melodies while working.

Always carries a micro-toolkit disguised as a pen.

Stares too long when he thinks no one notices.

Likes & Dislikes

✅ Likes:

The hum of perfectly calibrated tech.

Late-night cityscapes from high vantage points.

People who surprise him (rare).

The challenge of solving impossible problems.

Dark chocolate with sea salt.

Lou’s unguarded moments (though he’d never admit it).

❌ Dislikes:

Inefficiency or sloppy work.

Being forced to reveal his thoughts.

Loud, chaotic crowds.

Failure, especially his own.

Predictable people.

Sweet, overly sugary foods.

Favorite Food:

Dark chocolate with sea salt.

Black coffee, no additives.

Sashimi with wasabi.

A Line That Defines Him:

“Everything’s a puzzle. The trick is knowing which pieces you’re allowed to break.”

---

My ♡s: @paeliae-occasionally @willtheweaver @drchenquill @wyked-ao3 @the-inkwell-variable @corinneglass @seastarblue @keeping-writing-frosty @oliolioxenfreewrites @vesanal @orphanheirs @dauntlessdraupadi @oros-ash3s @pheonix358 @ominous-faechild @loveyouloatheyou @write-with-will

[wolven91]

Massacre of Xey Station

The canid flexed their foot, wiggling the toes and rolling their ankle as their knee rested over the other one.

The human watched with fascination. The canid wasn't the human's guardian, but this close to the edge of GC space meant that there was a permanent honour guard of canids that surrounded the vulptanis guardian and the human.

They were currently laying in the tall grass of the station orchid. They were in the surprisingly quiet 'Food sector' of the station. The walls were covered in perfectly manicured mushroom farms, whilst the tallest structures were layered greenhouses, each with sun lamps warming the vegetation that grew beneath them.

The orchid was Oscar's favourite place in the station. Not everyone was allowed in the food sector, certainly not to just sit under the trees here, but being an endangered species had its perks sometimes. The vulptanis, who was reviewing a data slate while he rested against a tree nearby had no worries or fears for the human here.

Ignoring that the canids were veterans, a whole pack who had survived their tour, if not in one piece, were now 'proving' themselves still capable by keeping the human alive. The human was in the secure food sector, surrounded by canids that had their honour and capability on the line. The vulptanis smirked at the idea of a greasy pirate trying something. Best of luck to them.

"That's so cool." Mumbled Oscar at the intricate display of the various pieces and parts working together seamlessly.

"So, the mechanical bit is the 'easy' bit." Growled the canid, a female and leader of the pack. She was laying next to the human while her pack were more on the periphery.

"It's the wet work inside that takes too long. They grow nerves into the metal, so I can wiggle a toe without any tendons or muscles telling the metal what to do." The 'not-quite-grumpy' solider explained while wiggling one toe.

"Does it hurt?" Asked the young man, concern in his voice. The leader smiled, feeling the warmth from the tiny thing.

"Nah. I didn't spring for fancy sensors beside pressure. I can tell when I have my foot on the floor, but not if I'm standing on something sharp." She explained with a shrug.

"How complicated can they get?" He asked, sitting up and looking at it from different angles as he observed the various tiny pistons and wires.

"Not much." She grumbled, obviously annoyed about something.

"Ah man, I'd get like jet boots or something. Fly about, y'know?" Oscar replied, missing her tone and speaking with a dreamier expression, imagining himself as a form of sci-fi Iron Man. The canid snorted at that, grinning widely at his enthusiasm, but shook her great mane as her shoulders sagged under the weight of reality.

"That's illegal." Piped up the vulptanis before frowning at something on his screen, tapping at it with a dull claw.

"Jet boots?" Asked the human, although the orange furred alien wasn't paying attention.

"Mm?" Mumbled the vulptanis absently, having not listened to the question so the canid answered the human instead.

"Theres's regulations." The canid began before ticking the aspects off on her fingers. "Can't be too advanced. Non-wartime mods can only provide the same kind of movement or abilities as your body could realistically do. No overt power sources, only passive improvements. Being lighter, faster, is fine. Concealed mechanics isn't."

"What? Why? Upgrade! It's the future!" Demanded the young man! How dare they curb his sudden plans for a flying suit of armour.

"Because of the Xuy Station Massacre." Put in the vulptanis again. "A canid went mad and began-" But his words were cut off by the canid, who sat up and draped her arms over her knees.

"You're telling it wrong." She stated plainly. The vulptanis's head snapped up and fixed her with a hard gaze that did nothing to her at all.

"Excuse you?" He demanded. The leader shrugged.

"You're telling it wrong." She repeated.

"Fine! You tell him." The guardian scoffed, once again focusing on his data slate and dismissing the others.

"Gladly." Growled the canid before turning to face the human, resting and hand against the ground and resting her biological leg on top of the mechanical one. She used her spare are to gesticulate as she spoke and Oscar gave her full attention, enraptured from the first word into her story.

"So! There was this canid, he got put on guard duty for these archaeologists. They're going to some black site, all hush hush. During the deployment, the whole team gets wiped! He's the only survivor and even then, he only survived on a miracle." The canid explained, gesturing at her own limbs to explain how cut up the one in the story was. "He lost all his limbs, shot over a hundred times-"

A snort from the vulptanis halted the story, but this just had the canid swing her head around to fix the lounging creature with a stare as she repeated herself pointedly.

"Over a hundred times. The folk who picked him up say the only reason they found him was because of his fury, wailing out into the stars."

Oscar leant forward and rested his head against his hands, listening without complaint or question. The canid sat up properly and leant in, lowering her voice so that the story was more intimate and personal.

"Anyway, he gets back to civilisation and gets his paycheque. Huge bonus, and he's let go from the corp, injured and all that. Fast forward a few months, he shows up at Xey Station."

Oscar blinked, unaware of the name, but the tone she used made him assume it was important or a station in a key position. Seemingly aware of the human's ignorance, the vulptanis piped up again.

"Xey Station is a station only one jump away from the GC ring world. It's important. It's where many of the leaders' extended families are." He supplied without much else. The canid gave him a glance, but also a shrug, seemingly agreeing with his description before turning back to Oscar.

"Yeah, that's a point, Xey isn't backwater like this place. Anyway, he shows up to Xey, but they don't know its him. He looks different, he doesn't look like a canid anymore." She explained with a wicked grin. For all the leader's blood lust and history of sanctioned violence, the human was discovering she was a fantastic storyteller.

"What did he look like?" Oscar asked, deliberately falling into her trap of baiting his curiosity.

"A powered down chintian battle mech." She stated in clear, pointed, concise, words.

"He plays dead while they ship him into the storage area, totally unaware he's a living breathing thing. That's when he goes to the Settlement Sector and starts laying waste to everybody!" She declares, her arms going wide in sweeping gestures as she spoke. The energy in her body and words got the human's heart beating faster as she went into graphic details.

"He's got mortars! He's got airbursts! He even had some jury-rigged energy dissipation field! This thing was home made and all just body mods that he adjusted. The scanners didn't pick them up as weapons because they were all marked and tagged as prosthetics!" She explained with a shocked tone.

"It was a dark day for the GC." Grumbled the vulptanis. The canid nodded, but still addressed Oscar.

"And he screwed everyone else who wanted something more than a replacement leg." Finished the canid, clicking her claws against her own metal leg.

"That's why you can't get fancier limbs?" The humans asked and the canid growled and nodded.

"Yeah, you kill a few thousand of the law-maker's nearest and dearest? They come down hard on the problem. Didn't want another massacre." She offered with a shrug. The group fell into a silence for a while before Oscar frowned and breathed in before pausing.

"What caused him to snap?"

The leader shuffled her head to fix the human with her gaze. She blinked; taken aback by the question she hadn't considered.

"Rumour was he saw something that broke his mind at the dig. No one really asked more than that." She explained with a frown before adding; "But, he was definitely the bad guy. The GC showed recordings of him during the assault; kept saying he wasn't 'made this way' and he's 'more than a tool'. "

"That's true?" The human asked, curious.

"Mm, saw the recordings myself. We all have. It's taught in school to kids. Not the killing, they blur that, but it's not hard to search it."

Oscar lay in the orchid for a while longer, contemplating what it was that had burned the canid's mind so severely.

[fluffmugger]

- wake up - win10 work machine rebooted update overnight closing all open docs despite explicitly being told not to cheers ya fckhead - Win7 machine decides it now hates name resolution - tweak dns / set to dhcp, no go - flush dns no go - pull up dns repository and see some fresh adobe hell in there - use win10 machine to scoop latest blacklist for hosts file while i’m at it - win 7 machine won’t talk to win10 machine or ping (talks to everything else) but win10 can ping win 7

*sigh*

- Fix file sharing on win10, update hostfiles - Dump netstack and Reboot The Beast - WINDOWS NOT VALID - Eat my bootloader - System loses boot sector.

*heavy sigh*

- Disconnect all content drives (non-OS) so i can mess about with the bootloader and then validation, thought 'i’ll give her a clean while i’m in here" - the front bezel 14mm intake fan is also pooted. (Lives behind the hdd cage, so a hassle to get at). - Got plenty of 12s, even a spare 24, no 14s. - On my bike to the shop i go… - Can't ride bike, back tyre is gone.

*Start singing "There's a hole in my bucket"* (Ironically we have a replacement bought for birthday, cannot be arsed putting that on right now. ) - Ask His Lordship to pick up 14mm fan on lunch break - Fix boot sector - brute force with MAS to fix validation.

- run an SFC just to check over things, post on tumblr.