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matcha3mochi · 3 days ago

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PROTOCOL Pairing: Doctor Zayne x Nurse Reader

author note: love and deepspace is my addiction guys LOL anyways enjoy!!

wc: 3,865

✦��┈๑⋅⋯ ⋯⋅๑┈•✦

Akso Hospital looms in the heart of Linkon like a monument of glass, metal, and unrelenting precision. Multi-tiered, climate-controlled, and fully integrated with city-wide telemetry systems, it's known across the cosmos for housing the most advanced medical AI and the most exacting surgeons in the Union.

Inside its Observation Deck on Level 4, the air hums with quiet purpose. Disinfectant and filtered oxygen mix in sterile harmony. The floors are polished to a mirrored sheen, the walls pulse faintly with embedded biometrics, and translucent holoscreens scroll real-time vitals, arterial scans, and surgical priority tags in muted color-coded displays.

You’ve been on the floor since 0500. First to check vitals. First to inventory meds. First to get snapped at.

Doctor Zayne Li is already here—of course he is. The man practically lives in the operating theatres. Standing behind the panoramic glass that overlooks Surgery Bay Delta, he looks like something carved out of discipline and frost. His pristine long coat hangs perfectly from squared shoulders, gloves tucked with methodical precision, silver-framed glasses reflecting faint readouts from the transparent interface hovering before him.

He’s the hospital’s prized cardiovascular surgeon. The Zayne Li—graduated top of his class from Astral Medica, youngest surgeon ever certified for off-planet cardiac reconstruction, published more than any other specialist in the central systems under 35. There's even a rumor he once performed a dual-heart transplant in an emergency gravity failure. Probably true.

He’s a legend. A genius.

And an ass.

He’s never once smiled at you. Never once said thank you. With other staff, he’s distant but civil. With you, he’s something else entirely: cold, strict, and unrelentingly sharp. If you breathe wrong, he notices. If you hesitate, he corrects. If you do everything by protocol?

He still finds something to critique.

"Vitals on Bed 12 were late," he said this morning without even turning his head. No greeting. Just judgment, clean and surgical.

"They weren’t late. I had to reset the cuff."

"You should anticipate equipment failures. That’s part of the job."

And that was it. No acknowledgment of the three critical patients you’d managed in that hour. No recognition. No room for explanation. He turned away before you could blink, his coat slicing behind him like punctuation.

You don’t like him.

You don’t disrespect��him—because you're a professional, and because he's earned his reputation a hundred times over. But you don’t like how he talks to you like you’re a glitch in the system. Like you’re a deviation he hasn’t figured out how to reprogram.

You’ve worked under strict doctors before. But Zayne is different. He doesn’t push to challenge you. He pushes to see if you’ll break.

And the worst part?

You haven’t.

Which only seems to piss him off more.

You watch him now from the break table near the edge of the deck, your synth-coffee going tepid between your hands. He’s reviewing scans on a projection screen—high-res, rotating 3D models of a degenerating bio-synthetic valve. His eyes, a pale hazel-green, flick across the data with sharp focus. His arms are folded behind his back, posture perfect, expression unreadable.

He hasn’t noticed you.

Correction: he has, and he’s pointedly ignoring you.

Typical.

You take another sip of coffee, more bitter than before. You could head back to inventory. You could restock surgical trays. But you don’t.

Because part of you refuses to give him the satisfaction of leaving first.

So you stay.

And so does he.

Two professionals. Two adversaries. One cold war fought in clipped words, clinical tension, and overlapping silence.

And the day hasn’t even started yet.

The surgical light beams down like a second sun, flooding the operating theatre in harsh, clinical brightness. It washes the color out of everything—blood, skin, even breath—until all that remains is precision.

Doctor Zayne Li stands at the head of the table, gloved hands elevated and scrubbed raw, sleeves of his sterile gown clinging tight around his forearms. His eyes flick up to the vitals screen, then down to the patient’s exposed chest.

“Vitals?” he asks.

You answer without hesitation. “Steady. HR 82, BP 96/63, oxygen at 99%, no irregularities.”

His silence is your only cue to proceed.

You hand him the scalpel, handle first, exactly as protocol demands. He doesn’t look at you when he takes it—but his fingers graze yours, cold through double-layered gloves, and the contact still sends a tiny jolt up your arm. Annoying.

He makes the incision without fanfare, clean and deliberate, the kind of cut that only comes from years of obsessive mastery. The kind that still makes your gut tighten to watch.

You monitor the instruments, anticipating without crowding him. You’ve been assisting in his surgeries for weeks now. You’ve learned when he prefers the microclamp versus the stabilizer. You’ve memorized the sequence of his suturing pattern. You know when to speak and when not to. Still, it’s never enough.

“Retractor,” he says flatly.

You’re already reaching.

“Not that one.”

Your hand freezes mid-motion.

His tone is ice. “Cardiac thoracic, not abdominal. Are you even awake?”

A hot flush rises behind your ears. He doesn’t yell—Zayne never yells—but his disappointment cuts deeper than a scalpel. You grit your teeth and correct the tray.

“Cardiac thoracic,” you repeat. “Understood.”

No response. Just the soft click of metal as he inserts the retractor into the sternotomy.

The rest of the operation is silence and beeping. You suction blood before he asks. He cauterizes without hesitation. The damaged aortic valve is removed, replaced with a synthetic graft designed for lunar-pressure tolerance. It’s delicate work—millimeter adjustments, microscopic thread. One wrong move could tear the tissue.

Zayne doesn’t shake. Doesn’t blink. He’s terrifyingly still, even as alarms spike and the patient's BP dips for three agonizing seconds.

“Clamp. Now,” he says.

You pass it instantly. He seals the nicked vessel, stabilizes the pressure, and the monitor quiets.

You exhale—but not too loudly. Not until the final suture is tied, the chest closed, and the drape removed. Then, and only then, does he speak again.

“Clean,” he says, already walking away. “Prepare a report for Post-Op within the hour.”

You stare at his retreating back, fists clenched at your sides. No thank you. No good work. Just a cold command and disappearing footsteps.

The Diagnostic Lab is silent, save for the low hum of scanners and the occasional pulse of a vitascan completing a loop. The walls are steel-paneled with matte black inlays, lit only by the soft glow of holographic interfaces. Ambient light drifts in from a side wall of glass, showing the icy curve of Europa in the distance, half-shadowed in space.

You stand alone at a curved diagnostics console, sleeves rolled just above your elbows, eyes locked on the 3D hologram spinning in front of you. The synthetic heart pulses slowly, arteries reconstructed with precise synthetic grafts. The valve—a platinum-carbon composite—is functioning perfectly. You check the scan tags, patient ID, op codes, and log the post-op outcome.

Everything’s clean. Correct.

Or so you thought.

You barely register the soft hiss of the door opening behind you until the room shifts. Not in volume, but in pressure—like gravity suddenly increased by one degree.

You don’t turn. You don’t have to.

Zayne.

“Line 12 in the file log,” he says, voice low, composed, and close. Too close.

You blink at the screen. “What about it?”

“You mislabeled the scan entry. That’s a formatting violation.”

Your heart rate ticks up. You straighten your spine.

“No,” you reply calmly, “I used trauma tags from pre-op logs. They cross-reference with the emergency surgical queue.”

His footsteps approach—measured, deliberate—and stop directly behind you. You sense the heat of his body before anything else. He’s not touching you, but he’s close enough that you feel him standing there, like a charged wire humming at your back.

“You adapted a tag system that’s not recognized by this wing’s software. If these were pushed to central review, they’d get flagged. Wasting time.” His tone is even. Too even.

Your hands rest on the edge of the console. You force your shoulders not to tense.

“I made a call based on the context. It was logical.”

“You’re not here to improvise logic,” he replies, stepping even closer.

You feel the air change as he raises his arm, reaching past you—his coat sleeve brushing the side of your bicep lightly, the barest whisper of contact. His hand moves with surgical confidence as he taps the air beside your own, opening the tag metadata on the scan you just logged. His fingers are long, gloved, deliberate in motion.

“This,” he says, highlighting a code block, “should have been labeled with an ICU procedural tag, not pre-op trauma shorthand.”

You turn your head slightly, and there he is. Close. Towering. His jaw is tight, clean-shaven except for the faintest trace of stubble catching the edge of the light. There’s a tiredness around his eyes—subtle, buried deep—but he doesn’t blink. Doesn’t waver. He’s so still it’s unnerving.

He doesn’t seem to notice—or care—how near he is.

You, however, are all too aware.

Your voice tightens. “Is there a reason you couldn’t point this out without standing over me like I’m in your way?”

Zayne doesn’t flinch. “If I stood ten feet back, you’d still argue with me.”

You bristle. “Because I know what I’m doing.”

“And yet,” he replies coolly, “I’m the one correcting your data.”

That sting digs deep. You pull in a breath, clenching your fists subtly against the side of the console. You want to yell. But you won’t. Because he wants control, and you won’t give him that too.

He lowers his hand slowly, retracting from the display, and finally—finally—steps back. Just enough to let you breathe again.

But the tension? It lingers like static.

“I’ll correct the tag,” you say flatly.

Zayne nods once, then turns to go.

But at the doorway, he stops.

Without looking back, he adds, “You're capable. That’s why I expect better.”

Then he walks out.

Leaving you in the cold hum of the diagnostic lab, your pulse racing, your thoughts a snarl of frustration and something else—unsettling and electric—curling low in your gut.

You don’t know what that something is.

But you’re starting to suspect it won’t go away quietly.

You sit three seats from the end of the long chrome conference table, back straight, shoulders tight, fingers wrapped just a little too hard around your datapad.

The Surgical Briefing Room is too bright. It always is. Cold light from the ceiling plates bounces off polished surfaces, glass walls, and the brushed steel of the central console. A hologram hovers in the center of the room, slowly spinning: the reconstructed heart from this morning’s procedure, arteries lit in pulsing red and cyan.

You can feel sweat prickling at the nape of your neck under your uniform collar. Your scrubs are crisp, your hair pinned back precisely, your notes immaculate—but none of that matters when Dr. Myles Hanron speaks.

You’ve only spoken to him a few times. He’s been at Bell for twenty years. Stern. Respected. Impossible to argue with. Today, he's reviewing the recent cardiovascular procedure—the one you assisted under Zayne’s lead.

And something is off. He’s frowning at the scan display.

Then he looks at you.

“Explain this inconsistency in the anticoagulation log.”

You glance up, already feeling the slow roll of nausea in your stomach.

Your voice comes out measured, but your throat is dry. “I followed the automated-calibrated dosage curve based on intra-op vitals and confirmed with the automated log.”

Hanron raises a brow, his tablet casting a soft reflection on the lenses of his glasses. “Then you followed it wrong.”

The words hit like a slap across your face.

You feel the blood drain from your cheeks. Something sharp twists in your stomach.

“I—” you begin, mouth parting. You shift slightly in your seat, fingers tightening on the datapad in your lap, legs crossed too stiffly. Your body wants to shrink, but you force yourself not to move.

“Don’t interrupt,” Hanron snaps, before you can finish.

A few heads turn in your direction. One of the interns frowns, glancing at you with wide eyes. You stare straight ahead, trying to keep your breathing even, your spine straight, your jaw from visibly clenching.

Hanron paces two steps in front of the display. “You logged a 0.3 ml deviation on a patient with a known history of arrhythmic episodes. Are you unfamiliar with the case history? Or did you just not check?”

“I did check,” you say, quieter, trying to keep your tone professional. Your hands are starting to sweat. “The scan flagged it within range. I wasn’t improvising—”

“Then how did this discrepancy occur?” he presses. “Or are you suggesting the system is at fault?”

You flinch, slightly. You open your mouth to say something—to explain the terminal sync issue you noticed during the last vitals run—but your voice catches.

You’re a nurse.

You’re new.

So you sit there, every instinct in your body screaming to speak, to defend yourself—but you swallow it down.

You stare down at your datapad, the screen now blurred from the way your vision’s tunneling. You clench your teeth until your jaw aches.

You can’t speak up. Not without making it worse.

“Let this be a reminder,” Hanron says, turning his back to you as he scrolls through another projection, “that there is no room for guesswork in surgical prep. Especially not from auxiliary staff who feel the need to act above their training.”

Auxiliary.

The word burns.

You feel heat crawl up your chest. Your hands are shaking slightly. You grip your knees under the table to hide it.

And then—

“I signed off on that dosage.”

Zayne’s voice cuts clean through the air like a cold wire.

You turn your head sharply toward the door. He’s standing in the entrance, posture military-straight, coat half-unbuttoned, gloves tucked into his belt. His presence shifts the atmosphere instantly.

His black hair is perfectly combed back, not a strand out of place, glinting faintly under the sterile overhead lights. His silver-framed glasses sit low on the bridge of his nose, catching a brief reflection from the room’s data panels, but not enough to hide the expression in his eyes.

Hazel-green. Pale and piercing

He’s not looking at you. His gaze is fixed past you, locked on Hanron with unflinching intensity—like the man has just committed a fundamental breach of logic.

There’s not a wrinkle in his coat. Not a single misaligned button or loose thread. Even the gloves at his belt look placed, not shoved there. Zayne is, as always, polished. Meticulous. Icy.

But today—his expression is different.

His jaw is set tighter than usual. The faint crease between his brows is deeper. He looks like a man on the verge of unsheathing a scalpel, not for surgery—but for precision retaliation.

And when he speaks, his voice is calm. Controlled.

His face is unreadable. Voice flat.

“If there’s a problem with it, you can take it up with me.”

The silence in the room is instant. Tense. Airless.

Hanron turns slowly. “Doctor Zayne, this isn’t about—”

“It is,” Zayne replies, tone even sharper. “You’re implying a clinical error in my procedure. If you’re accusing her, then you’re accusing me. So let’s be clear.”

You can barely process it. Your heart is thudding, ears buzzing from the sudden shift in tone, from the weight of Zayne’s voice cutting through the tension like a scalpel. You look at him — really look — and for once, he isn’t focused on numbers or reports.

He’s solely focused on Hanron. And he is furious — not loudly, but in the way his voice doesn’t rise, his jaw locks, and his words slice like ice.

Just furious—in that cold, calculated way of his.

“She followed my instruction under direct supervision,” he says, voice steady. “The variance was intentional. Based on patient history and real-time rhythm response.”

He pauses just long enough to let the words land.

“It was correct.”

Hanron doesn’t respond right away.

His lips press into a thin line, face unreadable, and he shifts back a step—visibly checking himself in the silence Zayne has carved into the room like a scalpel.

“We’ll review the surgical logs,” Hanron mutters at last, voice clipped, his authority retreating behind procedure.

Zayne nods once. “Please do.”

Then, without fanfare, without another word, he steps forward—not toward the exit, but toward the table.

You track him with your eyes, unable to help it.

The low hum of the room resumes, like the air had been holding its breath. No one speaks. A few nurses drop their eyes back to their datapads. Pages turn. Screens flicker.

But you’re frozen in place, shoulders still tight, hands clenched in your lap to keep them from visibly shaking.

Zayne rounds the end of the table, his boots clicking softly against the metal flooring. His long coat sways with his movements, falling neatly behind him as he pulls out the seat directly across from you.

And sits.

Not at the head of the table. Not in some corner seat to observe.

Directly across from you.

He adjusts his glasses with two fingers, expression cool again, almost as if nothing happened. As if he didn’t just dress down a senior doctor in front of the entire room on your behalf.

He doesn’t look at you.

He opens the file on his datapad, stylus poised, reviewing the surgical results like this is any other debrief.

But you’re still staring.

You study the slight tension in his shoulders, the stillness in his hands, the way his eyes don’t drift—not toward Hanron, not toward you—locked entirely on the data as if that can contain whatever just happened.

You should say something.

Thank you.

But the words get stuck in your throat.

Your pulse is still unsteady, confusion mixing with the low thrum of heat behind your ribs. He didn’t need to defend you. He never steps into conflict like that, especially not for others—especially not for you.

You glance away first, eyes back on your screen, unable to ignore the twist in your gut.

The room empties, but you stay.

The echo of voices fades out with the hiss of the sliding doors. Just a few minutes ago, the surgical debrief room was bright with tension—every overhead light too sharp, the air too thin, the hum of holopanels and datapads a constant static in your head.

Now, it’s quiet. Still.

You sit for a moment longer, fingers resting on your lap, knuckles tight, back straight even though your entire body wants to collapse inward. You’re still warm from the flush of embarrassment, your pulse still flickering behind your ears.

Dr. Hanron’s words sting less now, dulled by the cool aftershock of what Zayne did.

He defended you.

You hadn’t expected it. Not from him.

You replay it in your head—his voice cutting in, his posture like stone, his eyes locked on Hanron like a scalpel ready to slice. He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t even look at you.

But you felt it.

You felt the impact of what it meant.

And now, as you sit in the empty conference room—white walls, chrome-edged table, sterile quiet—you’re left with one burning thought:

You have to say something.

You rise slowly, brushing your palms down your thighs to wipe off the sweat that lingers there. You hesitate at the doorway. Your reflection stares back at you in the glass panel—eyes still a little wide, jaw tight, posture just a bit too stiff.

He didn’t have to defend you, but he did.

And that matters.

You step into the hallway.

It’s long and narrow, glowing with soft white overhead lights and lined with clear glass panels that reflect fragments of your movement as you walk. The hum of the ventilation system buzzes low and steady—comforting in its monotony. The air smells of antiseptic and the faint trace of ozone from high-oxygen surgical wards.

You spot him ahead, already halfway down the corridor, walking with purpose—long coat swaying slightly with each step, back straight, shoulders squared. Always composed. Always fast.

You hesitate. Your boots slow down and your throat tightens.

You want to turn back, to let it go, to pretend it was just professional courtesy. Nothing more. Nothing personal.

But you can’t.

Not this time.

You quicken your pace.

“Doctor Zayne!”

The name catches in the air, too loud in the quiet hallway. You flinch, just a little—but he stops.

You break into a small jog to catch up, boots tapping sharply against the tile. Your breath catches as you reach him.

Zayne turns toward you, expression unreadable, brows slightly furrowed in that ever-present, analytical way of his. The glow of the ceiling lights reflects off his silver-framed glasses, casting sharp highlights along the edges of his jaw.

He doesn’t say anything. Just waits.

You stop a foot away, heart thudding. You don’t know what you expected—maybe something colder. Maybe for him to ignore you entirely.

You swallow hard, eyes flicking up to meet his.

“I just…” Your voice is quieter now. Careful. “I wanted to say thank you.”

He doesn’t respond immediately. His gaze is steady. Measured.

“I don’t tolerate incompetence,” he says calmly. “That includes false accusations.”

You blink, taken off guard by the directness. It’s not warm. Not even particularly kind. But coming from him, it’s almost intimate.

Still, you can’t help yourself. “That wasn’t really about incompetence.”

“No,” he admits. “It wasn’t.”

The hallway feels smaller now, quieter. He’s watching you in full. Not scanning you like a chart, not calculating — watching. Still. Focused.

You nod slowly, grounding yourself in the moment. “Still. I needed to say it. Thank you.”

You’re suddenly aware of everything—of the warmth in your cheeks, of the way your hands twist at your sides, of how tall he stands compared to you, even when he’s not trying to intimidate.

And he isn’t. Not now.

If anything, he looks… still.

Not soft. Never that. But something quieter. Less armored.

“You handled yourself better than most would have,” he says after a moment. “Even if I hadn’t said anything, you didn’t lose control.”

“I didn’t feel in control,” you admit, a breath of nervous laughter escaping. “I was two seconds from either crying or throwing my datapad.”

That earns you something surprising—just the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth. Almost a smile. But not quite.

“Neither would’ve been productive,” he says.

You roll your eyes slightly. “Thanks, Doctor Efficiency.”

His glasses catch the light again, but his expression doesn’t change.

You glance past him, down the corridor. “I should get back to my rotation.”

He nods once. “I’ll see you in the lab.”

You pause.

Then—because you don’t know what else to do—you offer a small, genuine smile.

“I’ll be there.”

As you turn to leave, you feel his eyes on your back.

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fearfulfertility · 2 months ago

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INTERNAL AFFAIRS INCIDENT REPORT

DRC Internal Affairs Division

Date: [REDACTED]

Subject: Internal Audit - Quota Breach - Case File [REDACTED]

To: Director [REDACTED]

From: Inspector [REDACTED]

I: Audit Trigger

This audit originated from an anomaly flagged by the Compound Oversight Unit following a routine cross-comparison of mortality curves, biometric telemetry, and average fetal volume expansion across paternity compounds in FEMA Zone 5. Paternity Compound 144, in particular, demonstrated a statistically aberrant rise in surrogate experience [REDACTED] collapse, a condition only observed in gestations over 18 fetuses. While the facility’s internal reports claimed average pregnancies between 8 and 11 embryos per surrogate, biometric logs suggested fetal counts ranging from 18 to 23 embryos per case.

Due to the severity of the physiological strain such numbers would imply—and the lack of official documentation acknowledging it—a Level 2 Integrity Audit was ordered. The Internal Affairs Division performed an unannounced sweep of all surrogate biometric records, insemination logs, and surveillance data from Cycles [REDACTED] to [REDACTED].

What followed revealed not only systemic concealment of lethal overloads but also willful obstruction motivated by personal psychological deviance.

II: Surveillance Analysis

Biometric data recovered from Wards 3B through 7E indicated that surrogates began exhibiting rapid and extreme abdominal distension by Day 11, surpassing known volumetric thresholds typically seen by Day 17. Skin tension diagnostics showed redlining stretch marks and dermal fissures in [REDACTED]% of all recorded subjects. In multiple cases, respiratory compression and full [REDACTED] subluxation—typically observed only after Day 30—were logged as early as Day 19.

“We knew something was off when they were too big to move before the second week. One of them just looked like that blueberry girl from Willy Wonka or some shit. But the logs said 14 embryos, so we assumed it was just edema.” - Employee GS-144-217

Footage recovered showed numerous surrogates experiencing aggressive fetal growth and abdominal distension, with growth rates in Ward 6C indicative of at least 23-25 embryonic masses. Two surrogates suffered multi-organ [REDACTED] before a team from the Compound Oversight Unit could intervene, though all fetuses were successfully delivered via cesarean.

“We knew something when we saw the guys from Ward 2. We were blimps compared to them, and they were twice as far along as us. I mean, I can literally see my belly growing!” Surrogate, later determined to be carrying quattuorvigintuplets (24)

Despite this, the internal logs submitted to the Archive Management Unit recorded all affected surrogates as having a “successful delivery with standard expiration.” The discrepancy was manually edited at terminal station 144-T12-OP47—registered to an Insemination Operations Unit employee named [REDACTED] (Employee ID IO-144-611).

III. Device Failure & Impact

Each MNAIS unit in Ward Blocks 3–7 had suffered [REDACTED] desynchronization following an outdated firmware push. Rather than delivering the standard 8-12-embryo load, units programming applied a multiplier to its quota and began injecting up to 24 fertilized embryos per cycle, with no error code generated.

Employee IO-144-611 discovered this failure within three days but refrained from submitting a maintenance report. He manually edited implantation records to match quota expectations, falsely logging a randomization formula (6–11 embryos per surrogate) across all documentation streams. Employee IO-144-611 then overrode the automatic alert system from the local Postpartum Command, which would ultimately log surrogates giving birth to higher fetal quotas than inseminated with.

His actions delayed DRC response for 41 days, during which:

42 surrogates suffered [REDACTED] rupture before Day 28, [REDACTED] overload, or uterine [REDACTED], necessitating emergency C-sections. No fetal fatalities.

17 surrogates expired mid-labor after undergoing compound [REDACTED] due to displaced [REDACTED], necessitating emergency C-sections. No fetal fatalities.

3 surrogates, against all medical prediction, reached Day 33 and birthed successfully, but ultimately expired post-extraction. No fetal fatalities.

26 surrogates still gestating, average 19 embryos per individual.

IV. Behavioral Profile – Employee IO-144-611

Subject: Employee IO-144-611 Tenure: [REDACTED] Position: Regional Implantation Supervisor Clearance Level: Tier II – Override Authorization Security Clearance: Revoked as of [REDACTED]

Following confrontation and seizure of his local system access logs, Employee IO-144-611 was detained and subjected to a Tier III Psychological Assessment. During this evaluation, the root of the concealment was uncovered.

Psychological Findings:

Employee IO-144-611 exhibited a previously undiagnosed paraphilic fixation classified under Government Code [REDACTED]: Macrophilia, a pathological sexual arousal in response to abnormally large bodies or bodily expansion.

Upon exposure to the visual data of overloaded surrogates—particularly those carrying between 19 and 23 fetuses—Employee IO-144-611 demonstrated elevated oxytocin and dopamine levels, a flushed dermal response, and sustained pupil dilation.

Under questioning, he confessed:

“I couldn’t report it. If I said anything, they’d shut it down, recalibrate the racks, lower the numbers again. You don’t understand. They were… monumental.”

He further admitted to deliberately withholding service requests for malfunctioning implantation equipment, specifically the Multi-Nozzle Accelerated Implantation System (MNAIS) units, which had developed a systemic fault causing them to implant +[REDACTED]% above calibrated embryo counts.

V: Displincary Response

1. Equipment

All MNAIS systems in Paternity Compound 144 were ordered offline for 24 hours.

Software rollback and integrity checks were completed under the supervision of IT Command.

Ward 3B was closed to all personnel below Grade-D rank, and affected surrogates were contained to minimize public awareness.

2. Actions

Psychological Services Command has formally reclassified [REDACTED] Employee IO-144-611 as Class-A Deviant – Mentally Compromised via Paraphilic Obstruction.

Archive Management Unit has censored relevant administrative records.

Public Affairs Division has disseminated a press release to DRC-approved news channels, citing [REDACTED] as the cause of the shutdown for Paternity Compound 144.

Facility Operations Command has transferred any personnel who raised professional or personal concerns about the citation.

[REDACTED] Employee IO-144-611 detained to Isolation Cell 6E.

3. Recommended Process Updates

Expand psychological screening to all Grade C employees and below.

Recommend quarterly psychological deviance evaluations of Grade B employees and below.

Implement full biometric auto-logging for all surrogate embryo counts—disable manual override across zones.

Closing Remarks

Employee IO-144-611's indulgence in personal gratification resulted in unsatisfactory delays to our facility's operation. Proper procedures have been implemented to prevent further disruptions and ensure that fetal quotas are adequately maintained.

[Report prepared by Inspector [REDACTED]]

----------------

Sending...

Read...

----------------

Date: [REDACTED]

To: Deputy-Director [REDACTED], Security Office

From: Director [REDACTED]

Subject: Internal Audit - Quota Breach - Case File [REDACTED]

Deputy Director,

Following my review of the [REDACTED] file, I would like to register my formal dissatisfaction with how Inspector [REDACTED] handled this matter. While I acknowledge the necessity of enforcing procedural transparency, the inspector’s decision to escalate the MNAIS malfunction as a containment emergency rather than a potential breakthrough reveals a worrying lack of vision.

To put it plainly, the equipment failure at Paternity Compound 144 resulted in spontaneous fetal yields well above the current national minimums, with documented gestations ranging from 18 to 23 embryos—many of which progressed past Day 25 with surprisingly high internal cohesion and containment. Had Inspector [REDACTED] exercised creative initiative, the anomaly could have been reframed as a pilot overcapacity trial rather than triggering a full-blown mechanical audit and unnecessary decommissioning.

Such a rigid interpretation of oversight policy has compromised a unique opportunity for data extraction and jeopardized our ability to scale gestational loads in future cycles. This shortsighted compliance fanaticism is increasingly common in mid-tier personnel and must be corrected.

Accordingly, I recommend that Inspector [REDACTED] receive formal censure and retraining through the Training & Development Unit for failing to recognize the strategic potential embedded in abnormal conditions. Our agency requires flexibility under pressure, not reflexive alarmism.

On a separate but related note, I would like to approve the personnel reassignment request for Employee IO-144-611. Despite his classified psychological profile, his unique enthusiasm may prove operationally useful if adequately directed. I am authorizing his immediate transfer to Site [REDACTED], where he is to assume the role of Supervisory Insemination Officer. In the correct environment, they are an asset and IO-144-611’s tendencies are no longer a liability.

Please liaise with the Facility Director [REDACTED] at Site [REDACTED] to ensure the transfer.

This matter is now considered closed from my office.

Regards,

Director [REDACTED]

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soon-palestine · 1 year ago

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So it turns out that Elons trip to Israel wasn't just for kosher theater and an IDF propaganda tour.

A secret meeting took place while he was there that went virtually unreported by any news media outlets.

In attendance was Netanyahu, Musk's tour organizer, investor Omri Casspi, Brigadier General Danny Gold, Head of the Israeli Directorate of Defense Research & Development and one of the developers of Iron Dome, Aleph venture capital funds partner Michael Eisenberg, and Israeli cybersecurity company CHEQ CEO Guy Tytunovich who is ex-israeli intelligence unit 8200.

The six men talked about technology in the service of Israel's defense, dealing with fake content and anti-Semitic and anti-Israeli comments, and the use by non-democratic countries of bots as part of campaigns to change perceptions, including on the X platform.

The solution Musk was presented was the Israeli unicorn CHEQ, a company founded by ex-Israeli intelligence unit 8200 CEO Guy Tytunovich that combats bots and fake users.

Following the meeting, Elon signed an agreement with cheQ, and apparently, the reason for the quick closing of the deal was Elons "direct involvement" with the company.

Now. What they won't tell you.

Israel is primarily responsible for the creation of bots. There currently exists dozens of ex-Israeli intelligence firms whose sole purpose is perception management, social media influencing/manipulation, disinformation campaigns, psychological operations, opposition research, and honey traps.

They create state of art, multi layer, AI avatars that are virtually indistinguishable from a real human online. They infiltrate target audiences with these elaborately crafted social-media personas and spread misleading information through websites meant to mimic news portals. They secretly manipulate public opinion across app social media platforms.

The applications of this technology are endless, and it has been used for character assassination, disruption of activism/protest, creating social upheaval/civil unrest, swaying elections, and toppling governments.

These companies are all founded by ex-Israeli intelligence and members of unit 8200. When they leave their service with the Israeli government, they are backed by hundreds of billions of dollars through Israeli venture capital groups tied to the Israeli government.

These companies utilize the technology and skills learned during their time served with Israeli intelligence and are an extension of the Israeli government that operates in the private sector.

In doing so, they operate with impunity across all geographical borders and outside the bounds of the law. The Israeli government is forbidden by law to spy on US citizens, but "ex" Israeli intelligence has no such limitations, and no laws currently exist to stop them.

Now back to X and Elon Musk.

Elon met with these people in secret to discuss how to use X in service of Israel's defense.

Elon hired an ex-Israeli intelligence firm to combat the bots…. that were created by another ex-israeli intelligence firm.

Elon hired an ex-israeli intelligence firm to verify your identity and collect your facial biometric data.

Do you see the problem yet?

Israel now has end to end control over X. Israel can conduct psychological operations and create social disinfo/influence campaigns on X with impunity. They now have facial biometric data from millions of people that can be used to create and populate these AI generated avatars.

They can manipulate public opinion, influence congressmen and senators, disrupt online movements, manipulate the algorithm to silence dissenting voices against Israel, and they can sway the US elections.

When the company that was hired to combat the bots is also Israeli intelligence…

Who is going to stop them?

Cyberspace is the wild.west. There are currently no laws on the books to regulate foreign influence on social media. There is nothing to stop them from conducting psychological operations and disinformation campaigns on unsuspecting US citizens. These companies operate with impunity across all geographical boundaries and there is nobody to stop them. But don't take my word for it.

For anyone wondering what the end game is for this, it was recently verbalized by Vivek Ramaswamy here on X. To narrow and completely eliminate the gap between what we say (think) in private and in public. In practice, the thought police of the future. And X is actively working on it.

#palestine #gaza #free palestine #twitter #bots

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howlsofbloodhounds · 4 months ago

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Idk if u answered this before but would color have social media

cause idk why but I find it funny as hell that they would know brainrot and the souls would be laughing about it so much

I personally don’t think he’d be on social media much, at least not compared to Epic or Killer.

He’d definitely have a phone and probably has a few games and social media apps downloaded, like Tumblr mainly because he likes the stimboards and looking at posts about his interests, probably has YouTube.

I can only see him having TikTok because Killer and Epic kept sending him videos via text messages that he could never watch because he didn’t have the app downloaded.

Other than that, I think not only is Color very behind on recent apps, trends, memes, etc. due to his decades of isolation and having to figure out how to operate and adjust to technology again (especially recently developed technology that he might’ve missed out on during his time in the Void), but I also don’t think he spends much time on his phone except during periods where he felt too alone and isolated (during his time in the hospital perhaps) and during the period where his and Killer’s friendship was still developing during Killer’s time under Nightmare.

I’m considering the idea that maybe lurking on social media apps, not doing anything but watching videos and reading comments or just silently watching other people talk to each other in discord servers or group chats, could potentially help Color feel less alone without the overwhelm and stress of having to physically be around people before his mind and body has time to adjust to it.

But there’s also the possibility that lurking in group chats and not being acknowledged because he’s not chiming in to chat—or worse, deciding to chime in and being ignored—could trigger an episode of derealization in him.

He can’t see, touch, or even hear the people that’s supposedly behind the screens and typing those messages—he has no proof they’re actually real. He has no proof that his existence is still real, and that he hasn’t been forgotten or erased again.

These times are probably when he needs to take breaks from social media, from his phone, and try to find a way to ground himself before he spirals into a panic attack or an episode of psychosis.

On top of this, with time still moving on while he was in the Void and there being no technology during his time in captivity—and very little activities to do to keep his mind and body active—not only would Color be very far behind in technological advancements, but he may struggle with cognitive decline—such as memory degeneration or struggle with memory retrieval.

So even if he’s handed a phone he knew existed before he fell into the Void—even if he knows that he understood how to use this phone before—he’ll still struggle to recall how to use it.

Skills require reinforcement. Without practice, even basic technological skills (like using a phone, typing, or navigating software) could deteriorate. If he used to code, edit videos, or operate specific devices, those abilities might be rusty or completely forgotten.

Without the mental exercise of problem-solving daily issues (which technology often requires), their ability to “figure things out” could be impaired.

He might experience anxiety or frustration when encountering technology, feeling overwhelmed by how much they don’t understand.

Phones, computers, smart assistants, AR/VR, and even basic interfaces would feel foreign. He might not immediately understand touchscreen gestures, biometric security (face ID, fingerprint scanning), or AI assistants.

With social media platforms, he wouldn’t understand what’s popular, how they work, or digital etiquette. They might not recognize how entertainment has shifted from DVDs or early internet platforms to on-demand streaming.

Entire ways of communicating—like meme culture, slang, internet trends—may be lost on him. Multi-factor authentication, encryption, and cybersecurity concerns would be unfamiliar.

They may not understand how to navigate digital privacy, potentially making him vulnerable to scams or data exploitation. He might expect direct phone calls rather than texting or social media messaging.

Emojis, GIFs, and shorthand might be confusing or seem meaningless to them. Color might begin to feel frustrated and alienated, feeling like a “time traveler” thrown into a world he doesn’t understand, struggling to keep up.

They may resist using modern technology due to intimidation or resentment. He could avoid it as much as possible, or even grow to develop Technophobia.

The sheer speed and saturation of digital life (ads, notifications, video content, instant access to information) might be too much at once—and Color could struggle with overwhelm and sensory overload, the stress leading to episodes of dissociation.

He might try to make a call but not understand why payphones no longer exist or how smartphones work. He might struggle to use a self-checkout machine because he expected cashiers.

He might not recognize voice-activated AI assistants like Siri or Alexa, thinking a person is speaking to them. He might find modern websites overly cluttered and overwhelming compared to the simpler internet he knew.

He might get lost in a city because he expected to read paper maps rather than use GPS apps. He might feel isolated in conversations when people reference digital culture, memes, or slang he doesnt understand.

They might have an emotional reaction to something like facial recognition or biometric security, feeling watched or controlled.

They’d need gradual reintroduction to prevent overwhelm. Someone patient would need to walk him through even basic things like using a phone or searching online.

He might prefer physical books, notes, and manual methods rather than digital alternatives at first. If he focuses too much on how far behind they are, it could fuel self-loathing or despair.

This could be a deeply frustrating and alienating experience, reinforcing the sense that the world moved on without him.

On top of all this, too, is the fact that 1. he is a Sans alternate timeline, therefore he likely ‘grew up’ Underground and only had access to whatever technology fell from the Surface intact or whatever was able to be scavenged and repurposed, and 2. he has the souls of human children inside him.

He can potentially be effected by their knowledge of things on the Surface and human culture based on their what they’re able to tell him, show him, what he dreams about (potentially souls’ memories), or even if something triggers one of the souls and he sees whatever they’re remembering.

Taking further into account that not only have the souls been removed from the rest of the world for about two decades like Color has, but they were removed from the Surface and human world for even longer via being locked away in jars.

On top of that, it all depends on what year the souls were born and what year they Fell/were killed, and how far apart the six of them were. One soul might know something about technology none of the others do, because the other souls either weren’t born yet or died before getting to know.

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joehills · 1 year ago

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The EFTPS quarterly tax payment system got a login overhaul and no one warned me.

I tried to log in to EFTPS last night to pay my quarterly taxes and was surprised that they've revamped their authentication flow.

They now have three options for Multi-Factor Authentication, and I had to pick one and set that up before I could even get to the page to enter my EFTPS credentials.

The first option they have, PIV/CAC is only for federal employees, so that's not helpful to me.

The next two options for everyone else are login.gov and id.me.

I looked at both options and login.gov seemed easier to set up quickly (and they’re not a private company that collects biometric data), so I’m gonna recommend them.

If you like processes, I took notes on my steps:

1. Visit https://www.eftps.gov/eftps/

2. Click the “MAKE A PAYMENT” button

3. Wait for a new page to load with three login options

4. Click the “LOGIN.GOV” button

5. Wait for the Login.Gov|Treasury page to load

6. Click “create an account”

7. Enter your e-mail address

8. Select English

9. Accept the Rules of Use

10. Click Submit

11. Check your e-mail for a confirmation link

12. Load the URL from the confirmation link

13. Enter a secure password

14. Set up MFA with your preferred methods (app-dependent and out of scope for these instructions)

15. At this point, if you were quick enough, it might take you straight to the EFTPS traditional login page, which still requires your old EFTPS enrollment credentials. If not, head back to the EFTPS page and click MAKE A PAYMENT and use your login.gov credentials and MFA now.

I would strongly recommend setting that all up now, and not waiting until January 16th, as this will be the first tax deadline this system was in place for and we have no idea how well the servers can handle the load.

Until next time, y'all, this is Joe Hills from Nashville, Tennessee.

Keep quarterly estimating!

#eftps #irs #quarterly estimated tax

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mariacallous · 1 month ago

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These days, when Nicole Yelland receives a meeting request from someone she doesn’t already know, she conducts a multi-step background check before deciding whether to accept. Yelland, who works in public relations for a Detroit-based non-profit, says she’ll run the person’s information through Spokeo, a personal data aggregator that she pays a monthly subscription fee to use. If the contact claims to speak Spanish, Yelland says, she will casually test their ability to understand and translate trickier phrases. If something doesn’t quite seem right, she’ll ask the person to join a Microsoft Teams call—with their camera on.

If Yelland sounds paranoid, that’s because she is. In January, before she started her current non-profit role, Yelland says she got roped into an elaborate scam targeting job seekers. “Now, I do the whole verification rigamarole any time someone reaches out to me,” she tells WIRED.

Digital imposter scams aren’t new; messaging platforms, social media sites, and dating apps have long been rife with fakery. In a time when remote work and distributed teams have become commonplace, professional communications channels are no longer safe, either. The same artificial intelligence tools that tech companies promise will boost worker productivity are also making it easier for criminals and fraudsters to construct fake personas in seconds.

On LinkedIn, it can be hard to distinguish a slightly touched-up headshot of a real person from a too-polished, AI-generated facsimile. Deepfake videos are getting so good that longtime email scammers are pivoting to impersonating people on live video calls. According to the US Federal Trade Commission, reports of job and employment related scams nearly tripled from 2020 to 2024, and actual losses from those scams have increased from $90 million to $500 million.

Yelland says the scammers that approached her back in January were impersonating a real company, one with a legitimate product. The “hiring manager” she corresponded with over email also seemed legit, even sharing a slide deck outlining the responsibilities of the role they were advertising. But during the first video interview, Yelland says, the scammers refused to turn their cameras on during a Microsoft Teams meeting and made unusual requests for detailed personal information, including her driver’s license number. Realizing she’d been duped, Yelland slammed her laptop shut.

These kinds of schemes have become so widespread that AI startups have emerged promising to detect other AI-enabled deepfakes, including GetReal Labs, and Reality Defender. OpenAI CEO Sam Altman also runs an identity-verification startup called Tools for Humanity, which makes eye-scanning devices that capture a person’s biometric data, create a unique identifier for their identity, and store that information on the blockchain. The whole idea behind it is proving “personhood,” or that someone is a real human. (Lots of people working on blockchain technology say that blockchain is the solution for identity verification.)

But some corporate professionals are turning instead to old-fashioned social engineering techniques to verify every fishy-seeming interaction they have. Welcome to the Age of Paranoia, when someone might ask you to send them an email while you’re mid-conversation on the phone, slide into your Instagram DMs to ensure the LinkedIn message you sent was really from you, or request you text a selfie with a timestamp, proving you are who you claim to be. Some colleagues say they even share code words with each other, so they have a way to ensure they’re not being misled if an encounter feels off.

“What’s funny is, the low-fi approach works,” says Daniel Goldman, a blockchain software engineer and former startup founder. Goldman says he began changing his own behavior after he heard a prominent figure in the crypto world had been convincingly deepfaked on a video call. “It put the fear of god in me,” he says. Afterwards, he warned his family and friends that even if they hear what they believe is his voice or see him on a video call asking for something concrete—like money or an internet password—they should hang up and email him first before doing anything.

Ken Schumacher, founder of the recruitment verification service Ropes, says he’s worked with hiring managers who ask job candidates rapid-fire questions about the city where they claim to live on their resume, such as their favorite coffee shops and places to hang out. If the applicant is actually based in that geographic region, Schumacher says, they should be able to respond quickly with accurate details.

Another verification tactic some people use, Schumacher says, is what he calls the “phone camera trick.” If someone suspects the person they’re talking to over video chat is being deceitful, they can ask them to hold up their phone camera to their laptop. The idea is to verify whether the individual may be running deepfake technology on their computer, obscuring their true identity or surroundings. But it’s safe to say this approach can also be off-putting: Honest job candidates may be hesitant to show off the inside of their homes or offices, or worry a hiring manager is trying to learn details about their personal lives.

“Everyone is on edge and wary of each other now,” Schumacher says.

While turning yourself into a human captcha may be a fairly effective approach to operational security, even the most paranoid admit these checks create an atmosphere of distrust before two parties have even had the chance to really connect. They can also be a huge time suck. “I feel like something’s gotta give,” Yelland says. “I’m wasting so much time at work just trying to figure out if people are real.”

Jessica Eise, an assistant professor studying climate change and social behavior at Indiana University-Bloomington, says that her research team has been forced to essentially become digital forensics experts, due to the amount of fraudsters who respond to ads for paid virtual surveys. (Scammers aren’t as interested in the unpaid surveys, unsurprisingly.) If the research project is federally funded, all of the online participants have to be over the age of 18 and living in the US.

“My team would check time stamps for when participants answered emails, and if the timing was suspicious, we could guess they might be in a different time zone,” Eise says. “Then we’d look for other clues we came to recognize, like certain formats of email address or incoherent demographic data.”

Eise says the amount of time her team spent screening people was “exorbitant,” and that they’ve now shrunk the size of the cohort for each study and have turned to “snowball sampling” or having recruiting people they know personally to join their studies. The researchers are also handing out more physical flyers to solicit participants in person. “We care a lot about making sure that our data has integrity, that we’re studying who we say we’re trying to study,” she says. “I don’t think there’s an easy solution to this.”

Barring any widespread technical solution, a little common sense can go a long way in spotting bad actors. Yelland shared with me the slide deck that she received as part of the fake job pitch. At first glance, it seemed like legit pitch, but when she looked at it again, a few details stood out. The job promised to pay substantially more than the average salary for a similar role in her location, and offered unlimited vacation time, generous paid parental leave, and fully-covered health care benefits. In today’s job environment, that might have been the biggest tipoff of all that it was a scam.

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mantrasmartidentity · 6 months ago

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covid-safer-hotties · 7 months ago

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Reference preserved in our archive (Daily updates!)

Just a 'mild' reversal of a fetus's internal organs...

Context and significance A striking increase in situs inversus cases, diagnosed by ultrasound, was observed several months following removal of zero-COVID-19 policies in China, which coincided with a surge in SARS-CoV-2 infection. The rare clinical evidence presented here reveals a previously unobserved possible fetal consequence of maternal SARS-CoV-2 infection specifically during gestational weeks 4–6. To date, visceral lateralization has never been definitively linked to a specific developmental time in humans due to the rarity of such fetal samples. This study advances our current understanding of gastrulation-stage development and possibly provides the most robust support yet linking an environmental factor to occurrence of situs inversus, opening new research directions into mechanisms of visceral lateralization in humans and consequences of SARS-CoV-2 infection in pregnancy.

Highlights • Situs inversus is associated with SARS-CoV-2 infection at gestational weeks (GWs) 4–6 • Results herein support previously undefined visceral lateralization at GWs 4–6 in humans • SARS-CoV-2 infection at GWs 4–6 is well supported as an environmental risk factor for situs inversus

Summary Background A dramatic increase in fetal situs inversus diagnoses by ultrasound in the months following the severe acute respiratory syndrome coronavirus 2 (SARS-CoV-2) surge of December 2022 in China led us to investigate whether maternal SARS-CoV-2 exposure could be associated with elevated risk of fetal situs inversus.

Methods In this multi-institutional, hospital-based, matched case-control study, we investigated pregnant women who underwent ultrasonographic fetal biometric assessment at gestational weeks 20–24 at our hospitals. Each pregnant woman carrying a situs inversus fetus was randomly matched with four controls based on the date of confinement. Relevant information, including SARS-CoV-2 infection, and other potential risk factors were collected. Conditional logistic regression was used to test possible associations between fetal situs inversus and SARS-CoV-2 infection at different gestational weeks as well as individual risk factors.

Findings A total of 52 pregnant women diagnosed with fetal situs inversus between January 1 and October 31, 2023 and 208 matched controls with normal fetuses were enrolled. We found no association between an increased risk of fetal situs inversus with gestational SARS-CoV-2 infection or with other risk factors. However, fetal situs inversus was significantly associated with SARS-CoV-2 infection specifically in gestational weeks 4–6 (adjusted odds ratio [aOR] 6.54 [95% confidence interval 1.76–24.34]), but not with infection at other gestational ages, after adjusting for covariates.

Conclusions Increased risk of fetal situs inversus is significantly associated with maternal SARS-CoV-2 infection at gestational weeks 4–6, corresponding to the fetal developmental window for visceral lateralization in humans.

#mask up #covid #pandemic #public health #wear a mask #wear a respirator #covid 19 #still coviding #coronavirus #sars cov 2

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thesilliestrovingalive · 9 months ago

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Updated: June 15, 2025

Reworked Group #4: S.P.A.R.R.O.W.S.

Overview

Tequila and Red Eye successfully dismantled a rogue military organisation engaged in illicit human trafficking and arms dealing, which had also planned to launch a global bioterrorist attack in collaboration with the Pipovulaj. The plot involved spreading a plague to control the population, transforming numerous innocent civilians into violent Man Eaters as a means to create a twisted form of super soldier. Impressed by the exceptional performance of Tequila and Red Eye as highly capable spies, the Intelligence Agency and Regular Army jointly established a covert operations branch, S.P.A.R.R.O.W.S., through a mutual agreement.

The S.P.A.R.R.O.W.S. is responsible for gathering intelligence and managing information to prevent public panic and global hysteria. They provide their members with specialised training in high-risk covert operations that surpass the scope of regular Intelligence Agency agents, which are all conducted with utmost discretion and situational awareness. Some of these special covert operation missions involve precision targeting of high-priority threats and strategic disruption of complex criminal schemes.

They're known to have the fewest members among the military branches of the Regular Army, often numbering between 100 and 150. This small size means that each agent is familiar with the others, even if they're not family, friends or acquaintances. This familiarity significantly contributes to their nearly perfect teamwork achievements, allowing them to complete duties more quickly and efficiently when working together.

Insignia

It features a cerulean square Iberian shield, rimmed with a spiky teal vine that’s outlined in bronze. Above the shield, the words "S.P.A.R.R.O.W.S." are inscribed in bluish-white, surmounting a stylized pair of bronze eyes with a yellowish-white star at their centre. The shield is flanked by a stylized peregrine falcon holding a gilded blade on the right side and a male house sparrow clutching an olive branch on the left side.

S.P.A.R.R.O.W.S. Base

The Intelligence Division is tactically positioned adjacent to the Joint Military Police Headquarters, deeply entrenched within a dense and remote forest in Northern Russia. The rectangular military compound features a forest-inspired camouflage colour scheme, a secure warehouse for military vehicles, multiple surveillance cameras, and several elevators leading to a subterranean base. They have a rooftop array of parabolic antennas that enables real-time surveillance, threat detection, and situational awareness, preventing surprise attacks and informing strategic decision-making. The base features comprehensive protection through an advanced security system and a defensive magnetic field, which automatically activates in response to potential threats, safeguarding against enemy attacks.

The base features a state-of-the-art command and surveillance centre, equipped with cutting-edge technological systems to orchestrate and execute operations. Additional facilities include:

An armoury housing the group’s most cutting-edge, high-clearance weaponry and specialised ordnance.

A high-tech meeting room with a high-resolution, encrypted display screen and multi-axis, AI-enhanced holographic projection system.

A state-of-the-art gymnasium for maintaining elite physical readiness, featuring biometric monitoring systems and AI-driven training programs.

A fully equipped, high-tech medical bay with regenerative treatment capabilities and telemedicine connectivity for remote expert consultation.

A secure dining area serving optimised, nutrient-rich rations for peak performance.

A high-security quarters with biometrically locked storage for personal gear and AI-monitored, secure communication arrays.

A Combat Academy, led by Margaret Southwood, featuring a heavily fortified training area with advanced combat simulation zones, tactical obstacle courses, stealth and surveillance training areas, and high-tech weapons testing ranges.

Extra Information

S.P.A.R.R.O.W.S. stands for Special Pursuit Agents and Rapid Response Operations Worldwide Strikeforce.

Members of the S.P.A.R.R.O.W.S. are commonly known as "Sparrowers" or "Following Falconers", reflecting their affiliation with the unit and their close relationship with the P.F. Squad.

Despite being part of an elite covert operations branch, Sparrowers face a significant pay disparity: males earn a quarter of the average government agent's salary, while females earn about a third. Additionally, underperforming Sparrowers, both male and female, experience further financial hardship due to delayed salary payments, often waiting between one to two months to receive their overdue compensation.

The S.P.A.R.R.O.W.S. conduct their covert operations in collaboration with the Peregrine Falcons Squad who provide primary firepower and protection for their agents.

The handguns carried by Sparrowers are the Murder Model-1915 .38 Mk.1Am or Classic Murder .38 for short. It’s a double-action revolver that features a 6-round cylinder. Originally designed to enhance the Enfield No.2 .38 Caliber revolver in 1915, the Murder Model retained only the frame and grip from the original. All other components were replaced with newer parts in later years.

#writerscorner #creative writing #writing #iron eclipse au #metal slug #snk #gaming community #rework #redesign #history #insignia #logo #base #headquarters #extra information #sparrows #tequila #red eye #margaret southwood

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allandoflimbo · 2 years ago

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Never Again (1)

Pairing// Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Type of story// Multi-Chapter

Bucky and Y/N hate each other. A lot. This isn’t your average enemies to lovers story. This is an enemies and lovers story. It will be dark. There will be sex.

Never Again masterlist || updated every thursday

Bucky

“You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen, Asa Nusara.” Bucky’s voice was like warm honey laced in gold.

“Your attempt at lying is becoming more unconvincing by the day, James.” Asa replied jokingly, but with a serious tone.

Bucky frowned as the back of his fingers traced over her dark beautiful skin on her cheeks. His thumb runs over her brow bone and then up over her head.

A beautiful black tattoo in the shapes of waves followed over her skull.

He traced those as well.

Asa could feel her heart accelerate as his blue eyes finally found her black ones.

Usually, he would play along with her jokes, but this time, his face stayed serious.

“I’d never lie to you, Ukatana.” He whispers.

The last word dangles in the air. The post coital energy around them envelopes the word tightly, holding onto what’s left of the conviction he’s trying to convey to her.

He feels her bare legs run in between his and she lets out a pleased sigh.

She takes his hand that’s on her face into her own hands and intertwines their fingers together.

Leaning in closer to him, she rests her forehead against his.

She thinks she’s going to fall asleep.

Bucky lets his nose slide against hers, tilting his head just slightly to capture her lips in a soft and gentle kiss.

“You really have to go in the morning?” He asks, pouting his bottom lip like a little boy.

“Ayo and Okoye need me. I need them. We need possession of the orifice necklace.” She states, her authority and dominance showing him that there is no hesitation in the matter, leaving no room for anything to get in the way.

He respected this greatly.

“I’ll be damned to find out why that necklace is so special that you must be away from me for a weekend,” he brings her hand to his lips and kisses the matte black band on the ringer finger. It was interlaced with gold vibranium, “unacceptable. you’ve only been my wife for nine days and I already have to let you go.”

Nusara chuckled.

“Forty-eight hours. It’s barely letting me go.” She leans forward and kisses him again, “I’ll return Monday morning. We have to start packing anyway to go back to Wakanda. Did you forget our beautiful home awaits us?”

“And our little goats.” Bucky adds with a small chuckle.

“The goats are to stay at the farm, James. I mean our home.”

Bucky smiles and nods slowly.

He lets go of her hand and grabs the side of her waist, bringing her in closer to him.

“I know, Asa. I know.”

Asa drapes her left arm over Bucky’s torso and rests her right cheek just over heart.

In minutes, they’re both asleep in his small Brooklyn apartment where they had fallen more in love two years ago.

Monday evening rolls around faster than Bucky had thought it would. With packing and getting things ready for his move back to Wakanda, it took up most of his time and it kept him busy.

He had packed most of his things. He left most of Asa’s stuff untouched as to not invade her privacy, nor the Dora Milaje’s.

The black and red cape he was gifted on his wedding day to wear is the last thing he packs away into suitcase before he hears a knock at the front door.

He’s confused as he look at the door.

All his friends weren’t in town so it couldn’t be Sam or Wanda. The Thunderbolts haven’t been together in months, and Yelena was oversees.

Asa never knocked.

Bucky, with the help of his job to the government, had special biometric locks installed at his apartment so she would just use that to get in.

A knock wasn’t necessarily normal so the uneasy feeling he gets is expected.

Letting out a deep breath, he finishes zipping up the bag and stands up on sturdy legs before making his way over to the door.

When he opens it, standing there are Nakia and Ayo holding their vibranium spear, their postures high and head straight.

Standing in front of them is Shuri.

Aside from the formal arrival, what pushes Bucky’s nerves off the edge is Ayo’s obvious tear streaked cheeks.

His stomach sinks.

Hard.

“White wolf.” Shuri’s tone when she calls Bucky his title is sturdy but soft.

He knows that tone all to well.

Bucky ignores her completely, his trained eyes fixing on Ayo. Through much training and durability, she looks strong and powerful, but Bucky’s experience quickly helps him see the falt in her facade.

Her inexperience to hide emotion is in her eyes and the way she is currently blinking.

Bucky has a gut feeling but he won’t listen to it unless it’s said.

He puffs out his chest and his eyes stay on Ayo.

“Where’s Asa and Okoye?” Bucky asks Ayo. But Ayo is staring over his shoulder, unmoving, “Ayo-”

“Sergeant Barnes-” Shuri starts again.

“Okoye is back in Wakanda already.” Ayo responds, cutting Shuri off.

Bucky’s expression doesn’t change but his left eye twitches slightly. He can feel his hand tightening around his doorknob.

Nakia, Ayo, and Shuri step foot into the apartment, forcing Bucky to take a step backwards.

The door is closed behind them.

It’s then, in the privacy and intimate setting of his and Asa’s home, that Bucky’s walls start to deteriorate a little more. His breathing picks up and his eyes are switching back and forth between the three women.

They also are less stiff and Shuri’s eyes soften.

Time goes by slowly as nothing is said.

Bucky’s practically huffing out of his nose now as he take another step back.

“No.” Is all he says. It’s a low growl.

“I’m sorry—” Shuri barely gets her words out before Bucky’s palms goes to his eyes and he closes his lids tightly.

“No.” He says loudly.

“Bucky—” Shuri tries again.

Her words this time are cut off by a very audible shaky inhale through his nose.

Oh, he was going to cry.

They watch as his fingers grip into his hair, his eyes finally opening and gaze gluing down to the ground.

“I’m very sorry, Sargent Barnes.” Nakia.

His face turns into an angry snarl as he turns around.

“Damn it, damn it,” he repeats. His left hand grabs desperately as his hair, “damn it!” He yells so loudly it bounces off the walls.

His vision is compromised now. Water is all he can see.

Pain and anger is all he can feel.

Ayo isn’t one to easily flinch, but Bucky’s kick to the glass coffee table does it for her.

“No, no, no,” he keeps saying to himself. Shuri swallows hard, wiping a lone tear off her face that had fallen during his last yell, “Shuri, no.” Bucky whimpers as he finally turns around to face them. Their heart breaks as they watch him finally burst into tears, “please.”

Bucky looks like he’s moments away from collapsing, his face paling dramatically, when Shuri’s hands goes to his shoulders. She gives him a sympathetic look as she guides them both slowly to sit down on his couch. The shards of glass breaks underneath her shoes and the soft fabric of the sofa underneath them, is the only sound for a few seconds until they are finally next to each other.

He falls apart.

Bucky brings her in for a tight hug.

She swallows thickly as his sobs echo loudly around the room.

They don’t know how long they stay like that.

It feels like hours until he speaks again.

Eyes bloodshot, he stares at his hands between his knees as he picks at them.

He’s also cried out; heart and soul deflated.

“How’d it happen?” He asks, ripping off the bandaid.

His voice is hoarse and he sounds rough.

“We had traced down the orifice. We were just about to enter the chamber it was located in when our entire system was breached,” Nakia states with a steady voice, “it caught us all off guard. He—” she stops right away and Bucky’s eyes drifts from his hands to the space above it. He knows she’s talking about whoever it was that murdered his wife, “It— we don’t know who the figure was—it wore all black, covered head to two, not nearly as skilled but it caught us off guard enough that when they came in—” Bucky’s face twists at this, he almost looks disgusted and physically repulsed by what he was hearing, “she was the one inside —it was fast. Too fast for reaction.”

There’s a long silence. They can feel his fury as Bucky slowly stares up at Nakia.

“You’re telling me,” He sounds menacing and cold, “an incompetent criminal in comparison to the Dora Milaje, caught my wife and her friends off guard enough to kill her in a fraction of a second and escape fast enough for you to not even see who the hell they were?”

His loud voice reverbs around them.

They felt guilty, and just as pained as him.

Nakia swallows thickly and blinks away the tears in her eyes.

“They were fast.”

“I heard you the first damn time!” He screams.

Ayo’s spear comes down hard in front of Nakia as a form of protection.

Bucky stands abruptly and points behind him as he stares at Nakia.

“My wife was in there alone! You let her go in alone! You left her without protection, without guarding her back. You let her with a will of your own step into that room and didn’t think to keep your guard up after a breaching, and watched her get killed!”

A spear is placed horizontally to his throat by Ayo and Bucky swallows hard.

He knows better than to react this way.

These girls weren’t just the most powerful women he had ever known in his life and deserved the upmost respect, especially after what they’ve done for him, but they were his friends.

He’s being emotional and irrational.

“James. Step back.” Ayo says. Bucky does as he is told, more tears falling out of his eyes, “Nakia wasn’t even on this mission.”

Bucky looks at Ayo. He sniffs.

“But you were, Ayo.”

Ayo swallows hard.

“I was,” her voice is less uneven, “And what she is telling you is the truth. None of us saw it coming. I don’t think the person that was there even realized we were either. I’m so truly sorry. I know you are in pain, and so are we. If we could’ve prevented it we would’ve, but it happened very quickly. She was killed before we realized someone else was even in there.”

He didn’t know what he wanted to do anymore. As his heart trembled, Bucky wasn’t sure if he wanted to set the world on fire or himself.

He steps away from them and walks over to his window. He looks outside into the Manhattan skyline.

He bites at his bottom lip as he tries to control more bottled emotions.

He refuses to look around his apartment, but it’s hard to when he sees some of the reflection of it in the glass.

It was a reminder that Asa had been here just two days ago, living a domestic life with him.

His heart pains again and he whimpers.

It takes him minutes to realize Ayo had come up behind him and put a comforting hand on his shoulder.

“I’m assuming they got away? Since you don’t know who they are.” They don’t have to verbally respond. The silence is already an answer for him, “and that they got the necklace.”

Pointless mission.

Failed mission.

With a cost- a loss.

His wife.

“How did it happen?” He asks, emotionless.

He had to find out information. He needed it. No matter how hard.

“Gun shot.”

He swallows the knock in his throat and keeps his back rigid, eyes never deviating from the skyline.

“Where?” He asks next. There’s a long silence and he can feel his anger brewing even further. Brewing for the stranger that did this to his wife, “where?”

“Her skull.”

Bucky cringes.

“Fuck.” He breathes out.

He runs a hand down his face.

“And Okoye?”

“Stray bullet grazed her cheek. She’s in recovery.”

Bucky’s welcome to Wakanda a week later was much more than warming.

Everyone was heartfelt and kind to him. He appreciated it, he always would from this country, but he also expected no less.

They felt pity for a young widower. For a loss of one of their greatest in their force.

The loss of a powerful woman, the greatest he’s ever known; fallen to a bullet.

He never would’ve expected this. Not in a million years.

The funeral is a nightmare. People greet him as if they’ve known him forever, some he never even knew. They don’t give him space and they mention her name each time.

He could only handle so much.

He hates thinking about it, but her coffin is gorgeous, laced in gold and red vibranium.

He watches, sucking his bottom lip into his mouth, as its lowered to its resting place at the end of the evening, just before sun fall.

Bucky doesn't take off his wedding ring.

He doesn’t think he ever will.

The Wakandans still allow him to reside in the city if he chooses. He’s surprised they’ve even given him an option since what happened with Zemo. Asa had been, for the most part, his plane ticket in.

His and Asa’s beautiful apartment remains untouched and brand new. It grazes the highest of clouds as it overlooks the rivers and hills he’s learned to call home.

Now, this beauty reminds him of his lost love. It physically breaks his heart.

Looking into the bright orange sun, he’s reminded of the stolen nights in the huts.

He remembers their long nights where they would help their goats and sheep give birth to their little babies, when she had taught him how to bottle feed them.

When they had fallen deeply in love and had their beautiful Wakandan wedding.

Being here, in their apartment, without her, felt wrong.

“Hey.” Sam’s voice startles Bucky for a moment before he turns around to face his best friend.

Sam gives him a weak but genuine smile.

Bucky sticks his hands in his pockets and looks back into the setting Sun.

“Doesn’t feel right being here anymore.” Bucky feels that anger again, the one that makes him physically boil.

“What’s next?” Sam asks.

“I’m going to find him, Sam. I’m going to find who did this and stick a knife through his heart.”

You

Your life was destroyed at nineteen years old.

Up until then, you served as a Hydra operative. Your father was one and Hyda is all you’ve known. You were taught by them and trained by them. Willingly, you stayed. You worked as a recruited spy, performing mediocre missions for them when needed.

It had been going well for you, until your nineteenth birthday.

You were taken in the middle of the night, drugged and blind folded.

When you woke up, your living hell began.

You woke up in a dark cell.

To your left was a bolted door that probably weighed hundreds of pounds. To the right of that was a little metal bucket.

The stench was unbearable and you were freezing cold.

The walls around you were cement, molded, and so was the floor underneath you. You were terrified as you continued to awaken from your drugged state, finally gathering the energy to begin crawling at the chains around your wrist.

You were chained.

You began hyperventilating.

You became frantic as you tried getting them off.

“Hayden.” You stopped. The voice got your attention and you looked towards the door. It began to creak open. You found yourself moving away from the man, your legs flailing wildly as you tried to get away, but he kept getting closer. “Hayden.” He says again.

“That’s—that’s not my name.” You stutter out, throat dry like sand paper.

“It is now.” He crouches down in front of you and repeats, “Hayden.”

You didn’t have the patience for games.

“Where am I?” You ask, stronger this time.

“You’re at a Hydra facility, agent.”

You frown.

You were being held captive, treated as an enemy. Why were you taken against your will? By your own people?

“I don’t understand. I would’ve just come if asked.”

The man chuckles and shakes his head.

“Not for this,” he leaches forward for a strand of your hair and rolls it between his fingers, “you were chosen specifically for this, but we wanted to make sure you wouldn’t back out.”

You felt pride.

“As long as it’s in the desire of Hydra and helps us, I most likely wouldn’t back out.” You say matter-of-factly.

It’s then that you realize your face is covered entirely. The only thing peaking out are your eyes. That’s why your voice was muffled.

The dark eyed man nods his head.

“You were chosen as test subject zero eight seven six for the orifice experiment.” He says.

You’ve heard of it before.

“Human enhancement, but with the capability of healing and given any power of their choosing, based off placebo and free will. Mental. It’s energy is off psychosis.” You say.

“Correct. Which is why it needs to be a hydra agent. Your power of your choosing will side with our shared desires. Your controlled power will originate from this,” he holds something up in front of you.

It’s a gold chain, and dangling off of it is a red stone, circle shaped.

It shines, its light bouncing off your face.

It was gorgeous.

You find yourself reaching for it naturally before he pulls it away from you.

“We will train you, little girl. Then we’ll begin experiments. But between experiments, your endurance will be put to the test.”

You could only frown as you heard the door open again.

When your eyes landed on the new guest of arrival, a shiver ran down your spine.

You weren’t star struck.

You were repulsed.

Despite the urge to get away as far as possible, his blue eyes were startling in the darkness of the room. They were piercing and hard to look away from.

You had only ever heard about him.

Hydra’s biggest and best asset.

The man who not only surpassed you in every way possible, but believed in everything you didn’t.

It didn’t matter to you that he was now part of Hydra, because in reality he wasn’t.

He, Bucky, believed in everything you didn’t. This man in front of you right now was just a puppet.

You never understood how Hydra could accept that.

You hate everything he stood for as both Bucky and the winter soldier.

You were equally envious of this Weapon as you were disgusted by it.

He had only gotten so close to you before you quickly hocked up what you had in your throat and spat it at his shoe.

“Slap her.” The man instructs loudly, “Enough to hurt, but not kill.”

Oh, bring it.

You grunted before the pain escaped in your skull. Your head fell back against the wall and you could taste the iron in your mouth.

Your vision went black for a fraction of a second.

“Hayden, this is just the start. He will make you endure pain so you can build your endurance and tolerance to it. And you’ll learn to take it.”

You didn’t enjoy this part of your gift.

You spat at the winter soldier’s feet again, this time blood was mixed in with your saliva.

“Hit me again, you piece of shit.” You grit your teeth at the soldier.

The man looks at Bucky and nods at him, and as the soldier is about to hit you, you kick his arm away, making him fall forward. You wrap your legs tightly around his head.

You let out a growl as you began to choke him with your thighs.

“Fight back, soldat.” You grunt through clenched teeth.

The soldier obliged, easily slipping from your grip and wrapping his left hand around your trachea.

You gasped for breath as you stared at those soulless eyes.

Blue like the sky on a sunny day.

Your least favorite kind of weather.

“Tomorrow will be your first dose, Hayden.” The man kicks the Weapon’s leg to let you go, “Soldat.”

You gasped again as his grip left your throat and you were able to breathe again.

“Rot in hell, you disgusting pig.” You say hoarsely through burning pain.

You were excited to be Hydra’s next test subject, and it started off well.

After your first dose of the burning drug, you became faster and gained more dexterity. You’ve never felt anything like that very first dose. You were convinced, you were all convinced, it was going to be a success.

But that was also when the accident happened.

You knew it was an accident when it happened, and not intentional, because you knew for a fact that Hydra wanted you in prime condition. They wanted you trained, but they didn’t want anything getting in the way of the experiment failing.

It happened fast.

You had been in the room again with the soldier. Your face was still covered, minus your eyes. You figured they wanted your identity hidden.

Bucky’s eyes never left yours. Not when you were punching him or when he kicked your head.

He had stood up, stepped on your cheek with his boot, and forced your face into the ground.

You’ve never felt any pain like it.

You grabbed his leg, pulling him down onto you when you felt that searing pain in your lower stomach.

You were gasping and breathing as your wide eyes stared back into his cold ones.

What the fuck did he just do?

“Soldat!” The shout came and the soldier quickly pulled himself off of you, knife still in hand.

They had punished him in a severe way that night, as deserved, and you were taken away to the medical wing.

For the first time in your short life, you almost showed a reaction of sorrow when after your surgery the doctor that told you he had shredded your entire uterus.

They had to use 15 litters of blood to keep you stable.

After three weeks in recovery, and being of no use to your people, you were finally allowed to resume training again.

This time, the soldier was only pulled out for you every once in a while.

Each time, you wanted to kill him. Kill him for being a disgrace to existence and for taking away something you never really wanted until it was gone.

After your second dose, you were the same in terms of strength and skill, but when three weeks went by without another dosage, they could sense something was wrong.

You started getting sick.

You were dying.

It didn’t take much for everyone to realize you were being poisoned by the serum.

Wether it was the incident with the soldier that threw it off, it was never confirmed, but suspected.

After your fourth dosage, you got better again, almost like a cure, and you were able to go three and a half weeks without getting sick.

With each dosage you stayed better for longer, but that was all it did for you.

Hydra took you off the mission five months later, choosing they’d terminate the project all together. You weren’t gaining more powers and it was killing you instead.

Issue with that was you now needed the dosage to keep surviving. After your eighth and last dosage at the facility, you’d knew you’d only be okay for two months before your body started dying again.

They promised to help you by sending you what you needed to keep you going. By your first year, you noticed your cure time was no longer prolonging. After each dosage, you’d only be able to be okay for four months before you got sick again.

The feeling you got when you were sick and being poisoned was unbearable.

It’s been ten years, and you still weren’t used to it.

You never had to worry about a lack of shortage or help since Hydra still had smart scientists prepping your medicine for you.

That is, until exactly three months ago when you got the news that the orifice dose was being discontinued due to lack of certain resources.

“They expect me to just die?”

“There is one way. One way we can try. The orifice necklace. Its power is immeasurable. Some of the strongest on earth. Maybe it could even cure you.” Your closest friend, and your favorite Hydra agent partner, Ivan says.

The orifice necklace.

“Gabrïël destroyed that after he found out my mission was a failure.” You say.

“That wasn’t the real one, Hayden. I can tell you where it is, but the issue is, there are others after it now, too.”

“Who?”

“Wakanda. Even some of the lasting Avengers. Other spies working for the government. Sword, even.”

“Tell me where it is. I can get there first.”

The night before you left for Mexico for the orifice necklace, you stared at what little you had left of your medication in your medicine cabinet.

You had two doses left, one which you would need to take in four weeks.

If you didn’t get that necklace soon, you were dead in nine months.

You wouldn’t dare tell a soul, but you were terrified.

Your hand trembled as you held one of the remaining doses.

You didn’t want to die, and least of all, you didn’t want to run into anyone while trying to retrieve it.

One of the people which was a complete waste and a vermin in your eyes.

You took a deep breath, and put the bottle back in the cabinet. You walked back to your room and sat on your bed.

You began looking through your photos on your phone.

It was a photo of you and Leo, your best friend, just a week before his murder.

He was killed by the attack in New York by the Avengers nearly a decade ago.

This was your reason for trying to get that necklace.

You would keep yourself alive for him.

Placing your phone down next you, you then roll up your left sleeve.

A large scar runs down the skin.

He had done that after your third dose.

You had then stabbed him in his thigh. You felt great when you’d done it, but when you were finally alone in your cell, you cried for the first time.

…

Bucky Barnes.

That’s what his name was.

“Get me in, Ivan.” You spoke through your com, “I can get out just fine with my speed, but I need it open first.”

“I’m trying, Y/N. You need to bare with me. Try going a little to your right.” Ivan says.

You roll your eyes and hold your arms a little higher. You had already gotten inside the coal mine and you were standing just outside the chamber, but through the back.

To avoid any possible run ins with the cocky avengers, you both decided this was the best approach.

You were lasering thorough the thick rocks, but the laser was acting up.

Just when you’re about to to complete the circle, it goes out again.

“Jesus, fuck, Ivan.”

“I’m doing my best here. I’m pulling what power I can without the risk of calling attention. Even if that side of the freaks aren’t here, if Hydra even finds out too, we’re screwed. They don’t know we’re here stealing this.”

“Don’t know why they never tried to get it before. Also, do you really think the avengers are even here yet? They don’t have the same power of jets they used to have when their lord and savior Stark was still around. And Hydra will give me a promotion for this. That is, if this necklace really works and actually saves my life.” Your voice drifts our towards the end.

“You’ll be fine.” Ivan says quietly, “Got it!” Just as he says that, the power returns to your laser and it finishes the cut. You keep your left hand on the rock so it doesn’t fall and make a loud noise. You lay it gently down on the floor.

You stand back and look at it.

“I guess it’s big enough for me to crawl through.”

“Make it fast.” Ivan says.

With a sigh you stick the laser in your back leather pocket and crawl down onto all fours. You shimmy your way through the whole and into the chamber Ivan led you to. It’s dark, smells like wet earth, and is humid. Your eyes dart around the room, until finally you find a marble box on a stand on the far right side of the room.

You were thankful for your enhanced eye sight. You knew a regular person wouldn’t be able to see it right away.

You could feel your excitement brewing.

This was your ticket to survival.

You didn’t want to die.

You open the box, and you feel the tears brewing in your eyes when you see it.

A beautiful red stone.

You take it into your hand. You don’t feel different yet, but you figured it takes time.

A very small sound of a foot on a small rock has you quickly going for your gun on your waist.

Pulling your face and hair covering higher over your head, you blindly aim your gun behind you, giving away three shots.

You know reaction is reckless and stupid. Under normal circumstances, you wouldn't haven’t pulled the trigger that soon, or at all. But with that necklace in your hand, you were afraid of losing it.

You were desperate. Your action was irrational as you shot at whatever was behind you, and escaping through your man made hole.

And then you ran and ran in the darkness.

The orifice necklace was right there, right in your hand.

“I have it, Ivan. I have it!” You shouted happily as you ran towards your jet.

“Make it quick, Y/N. I see something here on my radar.”

“On it.” You reply back curtly.

You retrace your steps with practice. The second you’re back in your seat, the sigh that leaves your mouth is palpable.

Ivan’s already in the pilot seat, getting the aircraft ready for take off.

You pull the necklace out of your jacket and stare at it in your hand.

Then something happens.

Your stomach drops.

There in your hand, the necklace begins to unravel into several pieces.

The red stone is the only thing still in tact, but in it is a message you hadn’t seen before.

Nice try.

Bucky

It’s been the hardest month of Bucky’s life since he’s been back.

He left Wakanda the day after the funeral.

He had decided that Brooklyn would be the best option for him.

His first home.

He still hung out with Sam and Wanda, and on occasion he kept contact with Yelena.

Him and Sam were the closest, though. They went on rogue missions together for the government and did their part when needed.

Every now and then, Peter Parker would stop by and say hello. It’s not like Queens was far. A whole different world, for sure, but he was practically a neighbor. Peter was like the little brother Bucky never had. It took him a second to warm up to Bucky, though.

Nobody would ever get closer to him as much as Steve or Sam ever did.

Getting used to life again after Asa was terrible.

Bucky even had to clean his internet history to make it.

They had googled places for puppy adoptions and vacation spots just the days before her death.

Bucky wouldn’t think about puppies for a long time now. Nor any vacations.

He just wanted to be alone.

The scarce missions with Sam helped some to distract him, but he’d still come home tired and depressed.

Everyday he’d try to contact Shuri or Ayo to find out any status of the mystery person from the chamber. When every-time he’d hear the same thing “nothing yet”, he’d do his own research, and also ask Sam for help.

One day, the answer was different.

“Hey, Buck. We’ve got a possible lead.”

He felt several emotions.

Excitement, fear, and anger.

For some reason, the confirmation of an actual killer reminded him that this wasn’t some nightmare he was just dreaming.

This was real.

Bucky had never sped so fast on his motorcycle before. Running a few red lights and nearly getting hit by a suv was the least of his concerns right now.

When he arrives to where the mission meetings have been held lately, Fury is already sitting there with Sam to his right.

“The Orifice Necklace,” Fury starts, a photo of it is on the screen behind him. Bucky eyes it like it’s the most disgusting thing he’s ever laid his eyes on. What was so special about this piece of shit necklace? “It’s a supernatural stone that releases some kind of healing power. Wakanda has known about it longer because of security reasons. They don’t want this in the wrong hands,” Bucky still doesn't understand the hype, but he understands it’s danger now in the wrong hands. Whoever it was that killed Asa really wanted it for some self gain, “Under certain circumstances, they’ve decided to ask us for help. The orifice necklace that was at the chamber in Mexico was a fake. The real one was taken we suspect maybe months before. We actually think it’s in the position of some undercover agent in Sword, which makes this tricky. Reasons for suspicions aren't disclosed other than sword members reporting strange incidents since a few months ago.” Fury says.

Bucky scoffs

“I know, Barnes, this isn’t easy for you—”.

“What?” Bucky practically laughs out the word, “you think going after the person who killed Asa is hard for me?”

“You aren’t to kill that target. That person doesn’t even have it. Their death is no use to us. Bring them in alive and alive only.”

“Are you going to tell me where?” Bucky asks.

“You sure Bucky is the right person for this? He’s too close to this case.” Sam says.

“You’ll both go together.” Fury answers. He turns back to Bucky, “There will be a gala in Venice next weekend. We suspect that the person who knows who has the real necklace, the person from the chamber, will also be at this event,” Fury doesn’t lose eye contact with Bucky when he says the next part very slowly; “We suspect them to be Hydra affiliated.”

Bucky’s jaw clenched and his nose flares.

“I expect no less from an inhumane group of people.” He’d say worst, and he wants to, but he’s feeling emotional again. He quickly rubs his nose over the back of his hand and moves up closer to Fury, clearing his throat, “Name?”

“We only have one name that came up in suspicion, based off an experiment that was done ten years ago. It was in a file we found during one of our hydra facility raids. Experiment Orifice. The subject’s name is Hayden,” Bucky takes in a deep breath as he hears the name for the first time.

“Any distinctive features to watch out for?”

“A scar on their left arm. Starting from the palm to the elbow. That’s all we know.”

“Bucky. You’re really sure you want to be the one to do this?” Sam asks, unsure about this whole thing.

“Who else are we gonna call, Sam? Wanda’s lost her shit. Peter’s a bartender now. Who the fuck knows where thor is. We have no options anymore. Even Maria is dead,” Bucky stands up, “We’ll go.”

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