#Precision Data Transfer

[appletechx]

Harmony in Transition: Streamlining Success through Accounting Data Migration

In the ever-evolving landscape of business, adaptability and efficiency stand as paramount virtues. As organizations grow and transform, the need for seamless transitions becomes increasingly crucial. One such aspect that plays a pivotal role in the evolution of businesses is accounting data migration. In this blog post, we will delve into the significance of harmonious transitions in the realm of accounting, exploring how streamlined data migration processes contribute to organizational success.

The Dynamics of Business Evolution

Businesses, regardless of their size or industry, undergo a continuous process of evolution. From the inception of a startup to the expansion of established enterprises, change is the only constant. As companies evolve, their financial and accounting structures need to keep pace. This evolution might be triggered by various factors such as growth in operations, mergers and acquisitions, regulatory changes, or technological advancements.

Amidst this dynamic landscape, maintaining a seamless flow of financial information is crucial. This is where accounting data migration emerges as a linchpin in ensuring the smooth transition from one phase to another. The process involves transferring financial data from one accounting system to another, and when executed effectively, it can be a catalyst for enhanced efficiency and informed decision-making.

The Imperative of Streamlined Data Migration

Data migration in the context of accounting involves transferring vast amounts of financial information, including transactions, records, and reports. The importance of this process cannot be overstated, as inaccuracies or disruptions during migration can have far-reaching consequences. Streamlining data migration is, therefore, imperative for several reasons.

1. Data Integrity and Accuracy:

   Smooth data migration ensures that the integrity and accuracy of financial information are preserved. Inaccuracies or discrepancies in the migrated data can lead to erroneous financial reporting, compliance issues, and, consequently, damage to the organization's reputation.

2. Operational Continuity:

   Accounting functions are the lifeblood of any organization. Streamlined data migration minimizes downtime, ensuring that critical financial operations continue seamlessly during the transition. This is particularly crucial for businesses with stringent reporting deadlines and compliance requirements.

3. Cost Efficiency:

   Efficient data migration translates to cost efficiency. Delays, errors, or disruptions in the migration process can incur additional costs, including potential fines for non-compliance. Streamlining the process minimizes the financial and operational impact of migration, contributing to overall cost-effectiveness.

4. Adaptability to New Systems:

   Businesses often migrate data when adopting new accounting software or systems. Streamlining this transition ensures that teams can adapt quickly to the new system, maximizing the benefits offered by advanced features and functionalities.

The Role of Technology in Streamlining Data Migration

The advent of advanced technologies has significantly transformed the landscape of accounting data migration. Automation, artificial intelligence, and sophisticated software solutions have emerged as powerful tools in streamlining the process. Here are some key technological interventions that contribute to the harmony of data migration:

1. Data Mapping and Cleansing Tools:

   Before migration, it is crucial to map the data from the source system to the destination system. Automated data mapping tools help identify and rectify inconsistencies, ensuring that the migrated data aligns seamlessly with the structure of the new system.

2. Machine Learning Algorithms:

   Machine learning algorithms can be employed to analyze historical data patterns and predict potential issues during migration. This proactive approach allows organizations to address challenges before they escalate, contributing to a smoother transition.

3. Real-time Monitoring and Reporting:

   Advanced software solutions provide real-time monitoring of the migration process. This enables stakeholders to track progress, identify bottlenecks, and intervene promptly if issues arise. Real-time reporting also enhances transparency and accountability throughout the migration.

4. Security Protocols:

   Data security is a paramount concern during migration. Technological solutions offer robust security protocols to safeguard sensitive financial information during the transfer. Encryption, authentication, and access controls are integral components of secure data migration processes.

Best Practices for Successful Accounting Data Migration

Achieving harmony in accounting data migration requires a strategic approach and adherence to best practices. Here are key steps and considerations for a successful migration:

1. Comprehensive Planning:

Thorough planning is the foundation of successful data migration. Define clear objectives, establish timelines, and allocate resources appropriately. A comprehensive plan should account for potential challenges and mitigation strategies.

2. Data Cleansing and Validation:

Prior to migration, conduct a thorough cleansing and validation of the data. Identify and rectify errors, duplicate entries, and inconsistencies. This step is critical for ensuring the accuracy and integrity of the migrated data.

3. Engage Stakeholders:

Communication is key during data migration. Engage relevant stakeholders, including finance teams, IT personnel, and end-users. Provide training and support to ensure that teams are well-prepared for the transition.

4. Testing and Quality Assurance:

Implement a robust testing and quality assurance process. Conduct trial migrations to identify and address potential issues. This iterative approach allows for refinement and optimization of the migration strategy.

5. Data Backup and Contingency Planning:

Prioritize data backup and develop contingency plans. In the event of unforeseen issues, having a backup ensures that critical financial data can be restored, minimizing the impact on operations.

6. Post-Migration Validation:

After migration, validate the data in the new system to ensure that it aligns with the expected outcomes. Address any discrepancies promptly and conduct post-migration reviews to gather insights for continuous improvement.

Case Studies: Exemplifying Successful Data Migrations

To underscore the significance of streamlined data migration, let's explore a couple of case studies where organizations achieved success in transitioning their accounting data.

Case Study 1: Global Manufacturing Firm

A multinational manufacturing firm undergoing a digital transformation decided to migrate its financial data to a cloud-based accounting system. By leveraging advanced data mapping tools and automation, the company streamlined the migration process, minimizing downtime and ensuring data accuracy. Real-time monitoring and reporting enabled the finance team to address issues promptly, resulting in a seamless transition. The new system provided enhanced financial visibility, contributing to informed decision-making and operational efficiency.

Case Study 2: Tech Startup Scaling Operations

A rapidly growing tech startup faced challenges with its legacy accounting software, hindering its ability to scale operations. The organization opted for a comprehensive data migration strategy, involving data cleansing, stakeholder engagement, and rigorous testing. Machine learning algorithms were employed to predict and address potential issues. The successful migration to a more scalable accounting system not only facilitated the company's growth but also positioned it for future scalability and technological innovation.

Looking Ahead: Future Trends in Accounting Data Migration

As technology continues to advance, the landscape of accounting data migration will undergo further transformation. Here are some emerging trends that organizations should consider for future-proofing their migration processes:

1. Blockchain Integration:

The integration of blockchain technology in accounting data migration can enhance security and transparency. Blockchain's decentralized and tamper-resistant nature ensures the integrity of financial data throughout the migration process.

2. AI-Driven Predictive Analytics:

The use of AI-driven predictive analytics will become more prevalent in anticipating and mitigating potential issues during migration. Machine learning algorithms will analyze historical data patterns to proactively address challenges, further optimizing the migration process.

3. Cloud-Based Solutions:

Cloud-based accounting solutions will continue to gain prominence. The flexibility and scalability offered by cloud platforms simplify data migration and provide organizations with the agility to adapt to evolving business requirements.

4. Interoperability Standards:

   The development and adoption of interoperability standards will facilitate smoother data migration between different accounting systems. Standardized data formats and protocols will reduce friction and enhance the compatibility of diverse software solutions.

Conclusion: Orchestrating Harmony in Transition

In the dynamic landscape of business, the ability to navigate transitions with harmony is a distinguishing factor between thriving organizations and those left grappling with challenges. Accounting data migration, when approached strategically and streamlined effectively, becomes a catalyst for success. It is not merely a technical process but a pivotal enabler of organizational evolution.

As businesses continue to evolve, embracing change and leveraging advanced technologies in accounting data migration will be essential. The case studies presented highlight that success in migration is not just about transferring data; it's about fortifying the foundation for future growth, innovation, and sustained excellence.

In conclusion, achieving harmony in transition through accounting data migration is a testament to an organization's adaptability, foresight, and commitment to operational excellence. As we look to the future, the integration of cutting-edge technologies and adherence to best practices will be instrumental in shaping the success stories of businesses navigating the complexities of change.

[cressidagrey]

Love Letter

Pairing: Oscar Piastri x Felicity Leong-Piastri (Original Character)

Summary: Other people write love letters, Felicity Piastri reengineers tire degradation. 

Notes: Big thanks to @llirawolf , who actually knows what she is talking about and is the genius behind the science. She said this science "was understandable and accurate enough for fic." (Also I am aware that this is not believable, but hey, let me have fun 😂

(divider thanks to @saradika-graphics )

By the time McLaren hit mid-season in 2024, Andrea Stella had become something of a veteran in the art of bracing for impact — the kind that came not from a crash, but from the Piastri household.

He had gotten used to it.

Oscar’s precision. His unnerving calm. The way he drove with the composure of a man triple his age and none of the ego.

Felicity, who wasn’t technically on the payroll, but might as well have had a desk in R&D. Who was so liked in the engineering department that Andrea had overheard an engineer asking Oscar like an overexcited puppy when his wife was going to come back and play with them. 

Felicity was always lingering at the edge of a race day.

Always watching. Always noticing.

And then there was Bee — small, serious, and so wildly intelligent it made his engineers nervous. She had literally seen an issue with their suspension during her first trip to the garage. Now, she asked about downforce balance mid-lunch and then drew airflow diagrams on her juice box.

Andrea had learned to expect brilliance from them.

But what Felicity handed him that morning wasn’t brilliance.

It was revolution.

It came in the form of a single-page drawing.

A3 paper. Hand-sketched. Neat annotations in clean block lettering.

She passed it over casually, like it was a grocery list. “Was thinking about deg last night. Couldn’t sleep. Just a theory. Don’t know if it’s actually useful, sorry.”

Andrea glanced at it.

Then really looked.

And stopped breathing.

At first glance, it looked like a cooling solution — rim cooling, a variation on brake duct design. Not uncommon. Not radical.

But then he saw it.

Phase. Change. Materials.

His eyes darted to the margin where she’d written:

PCM core set to activate at 276°C. Peak drawdown window ~30 seconds, reset threshold <210°C. Tapered air channel design for directional retention. Modeled after CPU heat-sink transfer.

Andrea looked up.

Felicity just shrugged. “Everyone’s been trying to brute-force cooling through airflow. I figured… maybe it’s not about keeping it cool. Maybe it’s about controlling the peak.”

It wasn’t theoretical.

It was elegant.

Andrea’s brain kicked into high gear. 

PCM — phase change materials — had been a whispered concept in F1 circles for years. The holy grail of thermal management. 

The idea that you could insert a material that would melt in response to a precise temperature range, absorbing energy as it changed state — holding a system in a stable thermal window. It worked in CPUs. Data centers. Rocketry.

But no one had ever made it viable in an F1 brake drum environment.

Not until now.

Not until this.

Not until it came from Oscar Piastri’s wife, at 2 a.m., in the quiet space between insomnia and motherhood.

Andrea blinked hard. “You know we’ve had engineers — PhDs — trying to crack this for years?”

She just shrugged. 

He had no words.

Just respect.

And the rising sense that something seismic had shifted.

He handed it straight to the sim team. They ran a closed simulation. Quietly. Then another. And another.

By the time they tested it under controlled parameters, the engineers were whispering about windowed degradation curves. About temperature floors. About thermal consistency that shouldn’t be possible.

Oscar was suddenly able to manage medium compounds like they were hard. The performance drop-off curve flattened — flattened. Andrea had never seen anything like it.

No magic bullet in F1 ever worked this fast.

But this?

This wasn’t a magic bullet.

It was physics. It was material science. It was control — without compromise.

They ran it again during a private test at Silverstone. And then — stealthily — implemented portions of the system into the race package.

By the time the 2025 season came around, Red Bull was accusing them of cheating. Mercedes was sulking. Ferrari was confused. 

The paddock wanted to know what the hell McLaren had done.

The answer?

Felicity Piastri.

When Andrea called her into his office, holding the latest race run data in one hand and a calculator in the other, she sat across from him sipping tea out of a mug with Bee’s name on it.

“You realize you’ve just solved one of the biggest unsolved problems in modern F1?” he said.

Felicity blinked. “I was just tired of watching Oscar hemorrhage tire life while driving perfectly.”

Andrea stared at her.

She added, a little awkwardly, “I didn’t… mean to change the whole season. I just wanted him to stop overcompensating for a thermal flaw no one was fixing.”

Andrea leaned back in his chair and said — for the first time in his career — “I am both terrified of and completely in awe of your entire family.”

Felicity just smiled and said, “Would you mind printing a copy of the new tire envelope profiles? Bee wants to compare the heatmaps to the old ones.”

Andrea buried his face in his hands. “Tell her to go easy on us.”

“I’ll try. No promises.”

They were rocket ships now. Every track. Every compound. Consistent, controlled, deadly fast.

And somewhere, deep in the McLaren server, the drawing still existed. In a scanned file. Named Piastri_Insomnia_Fix_v1.pdf

Andrea renamed it later that week.

"Found the Window."

Because that’s what it was.

A window — held open by a woman who thought differently. Who didn’t need the spotlight. Who just loved someone enough to stay up all night figuring out how to protect him from heat, chaos, and failure.

And somehow, she’d done the same for all of them.

***

Mark Webber had seen a lot in his career.

Title deciders. Broken bones. Politics dressed up as progress. He’d seen technical miracles and driver meltdowns and the rare, perfect moment when both came together and worked.

But he had never seen a technical revolution arrive folded in half on a single piece of A3 paper, annotated in gel pen and handed in like someone had just scribbled down the grocery list.

And he certainly hadn’t expected it to come from Felicity Piastri. Maybe he should have. 

He was standing trackside in China when Andrea Stella handed him the printout — not the PDF version with simulations, but the original. The drawing. The one that changed their 2025 season from promising to dominant.

“She gave me this on a Tuesday,” Andrea said, voice flat with disbelief. “Said it was just a thought. I’ve had people with entire departments fail to model this. She did it because she couldn’t sleep.”

Mark turned the page over once. Then again.

It was neat. Clean. Not showy.

Pressure curves, airflow vectors, the highlighted activation band of the phase change material she’d used to stabilize tire temp near the brake drum.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered. “She’s a genius.”

He knew that. He had been aware of it for years. But it was something else entirely to see it in action. 

Andrea didn’t argue. “She just… wanted to help Oscar.”

Mark stared at the drawing again.

That’s when it hit him.

This wasn’t a flex.

This wasn’t about glory. Or proving herself. Or showing up a paddock full of men with degrees and dynos.

It was a love letter.

Written in airflow.

Signed in melting point theory.

Stamped in the stable temperature range of a tire that could now go ten laps longer without falling off.

Felicity hadn’t just solved degradation.

She had — quietly, brilliantly — rewritten the way Oscar raced.

Because he was hers.

And this was what loving him looked like.

Not flowers. Not poems. Just… making the world easier for him. A little softer. A little kinder. A little less brutal at 300km/h.

Mark let out a slow breath.

“Do you think she knows what she did?” he asked.

Andrea shrugged. “I think she knows why she did it. That’s probably enough.”

Mark folded the paper again — carefully, reverently — and tucked it back into the folder.

And in that moment, he didn’t see the terrifying engineering breakthrough.

He just saw a woman who loved her husband enough to change the laws of tire life —So he wouldn’t have to carry the weight alone.

***

Oscar had just come back from a long run on used mediums when Andrea called him into the office.

Nothing dramatic — just a quiet, “Got a sec?” as Oscar peeled off his gloves and handed his helmet to a mechanic. The kind of thing that sounded normal. Routine. Like maybe they were going to go over sector data or tire drop-off or which curb had tried to kill him today.

So when Andrea closed the office door behind them and reached into his drawer without saying a word, Oscar raised an eyebrow.

Then Andrea handed him a sheet of paper.

A3. Slightly folded. Faint graphite smudges along the margin.

 The original one. Still folded along the crease Felicity had made when she handed it to Andrea like it wasn’t the single greatest thermal breakthrough in modern tire strategy.

Oscar took it automatically.

Looked down.

And stilled.

There were notes in clean block print. Equations. Angled airflow paths, subtle thermal gradients, annotations on phase change material melt points and rim temperature drawdown.

Oscar’s throat went dry. His eyes scanned the drawing again, heart starting to race—not from adrenaline, but from recognition.

He knew that handwriting.

It was so her. The tidy script. The neat arrows. The absence of drama.

Just a brilliant mind trying to fix something that made the person she loved suffer.

He’d seen it on post-it notes stuck to Bee’s whiteboard. On margin scribbles in books Felicity had left lying around. On every note she slipped into his suitcase before he went to a race….every note that he then slipped into his racing gloves. 

Oscar looked up, voice quieter than it should’ve been. “This is Felicity’s.”

Andrea nodded once. “She gave it to me three months ago. Said it was probably nothing. Just an idea she had when she couldn’t sleep.”

Oscar sat down.

Because suddenly, his knees weren’t quite up to the task.

He stared at the drawing like it might vanish.

This was it.

The fix. The reason their tires held. The reason he didn’t fall off in stint two. The reason strategy meetings had shifted from damage control to aggression. The reason the car felt like it trusted him back for the first time in forever.

He felt it like a punch to the chest.

“She… she did this?”

“She did,” Andrea said. “And she didn’t want credit. Said she just wanted you to stop overcompensating for bad thermal management. That you were too good to keep bleeding lap time for other people’s mistakes.”

Oscar swallowed hard. His hands were shaking.

He looked back down at the paper.

At the numbers.

The calculations.

Oscar turned the page over.

A post-it was pressed to the back, Andrea’s handwriting.

“From Mark: ‘This isn’t just engineering. This is her love letter to Oscar — making the world around him easier.’”

Oscar’s heart stopped.

He stared at the sentence for a long, long time.

He read it again. And again.

The words didn’t feel like compliments.

They felt like someone had taken a flashlight and pointed it directly into his chest — illuminating something he hadn’t dared to articulate, even to himself.

Because that’s what it was, wasn’t it?

The sketch. The concept. The whole damn thing.

Felicity hadn’t set out to change a season.

She’d just wanted him to stop hurting.

To stop watching his tires fall apart under perfect driving. To stop fighting physics he couldn’t control. To stop carrying all that frustration on his own.

She’d stayed up at 2 a.m. not because it was her job — but because it was his dream.

She had never once made him feel like he had to win for her.

But God, she made him believe he could.

He blinked hard.

Thought about the way she kissed his temple when he came home late. The way she labeled Bee’s lunchbox with thermal guidelines for optimum snack temperature. The way she never said I love you like a performance — only like a truth.

Then he looked up. “Mark… he really said that?”

Andrea’s voice gentled. “He did.”

Oscar stared at the page again.

“Yeah,” he said hoarsely. “Yeah. That’s her.”

And in his chest, where the engine noise usually lived — Where the pressure, the expectations, the sheer weight of competition settled — He felt something loosen.

Because winning was nice. The championship would be incredible.

But this?

Being loved like this?

That was better than anything he’d ever drive for.

***

The house was dark when he got home.

Not silent — not entirely. There was the low whir of the dishwasher. The cluck of a chicken outside, ruffling in its sleep. The soft creak of floorboards as he kicked his shoes off at the door and padded down the hall in his socks.

It was late. He hadn’t texted. He hadn’t needed to.

The bedroom door was open.

Bee was curled up in the middle of the bed like a starfish in mismatched pajamas, one hand still clutching the tail of her stuffed frog. Felicity was beside her, lying on top of the duvet, eyes closed, one arm slung across Bee’s little body like she was anchoring her in a dream.

Oscar stood in the doorway for a long time.

Just… watched them.

His wife and his daughter. One terrifying genius and one tiny one-in-training. Both of them unknowable and brilliant and his.

He swallowed around the knot in his throat and moved quietly to the other side of the bed, careful not to wake Bee as he lay down beside them.

Felicity stirred almost immediately, her breath catching as her body registered the warmth beside her.

Her eyes opened — drowsy, soft.

“Oz?” she murmured, her voice rough with sleep. “You’re home late.”

Oscar didn’t answer at first. Just slid his hand beneath hers and laced their fingers together. His thumb brushed over the back of her hand, slow and steady.

She didn’t push.

Didn’t sit up.

Didn’t ask.

Just waited.

And because she didn’t ask — because she already knew — he found his voice again.

“Mark saw the drawing,” he said, barely more than a whisper. “The one you gave Andrea.”

Felicity blinked slowly. “Oh.”

“He said it was a love letter. That you were making the world easier for me.”

She was still for a beat.

Then: “He’s not wrong.”

Oscar exhaled sharply. Pressed his forehead to her shoulder. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“I know.”

“I would’ve figured something out eventually.”

“I know.”

“But you did.”

She turned her head just enough to press a kiss to the crown of his hair.

Her voice was quieter than ever. “I’d do it again.”

Oscar’s breath hitched.

“I’d do it again tomorrow,” she said. “And the next day. And the day after that. If it meant you could breathe easier. If it meant you didn’t have to fight so hard just to keep pace with people who were working with better tools.”

He closed his eyes. Let the weight of her words settle over him like a blanket. Warm. Certain. Steady.

She ran her fingers through his curls once, twice.

And then she whispered: “You make the world easier for me, too. You just don’t notice it. You make it softer.”

Oscar kissed her shoulder. Didn’t move.

Didn’t need to.

Because she knew.

And he’d carry that with him — into every debrief, every qualifying lap, every moment on the podium.

This wasn’t just about racing.

This was home.

And it felt a hell of a lot like winning.

***

Lando found out in the most Lando way possible: completely by accident and one week too late.

He was in the simulator debrief when the topic of “thermal management integrity stability” came up — words that immediately made him want to die a little inside.

They were talking about their tire performance. Again.

Specifically, the fact that they could now absolutely cook it through mid-stint without falling off the cliff. And no one else could.

Lando was half paying attention — until one of the engineers muttered something about “F. Piastri’s material integration concept.”

Lando blinked.

“Sorry, whose what now?”

The room went quiet.

Andrea didn’t even look up from his screen. “Felicity. The drawing. You’ve seen it.”

“No, I have not seen it. Unless it was attached to a meme or came with a side of banana bread, I was not included.”

Will Joseph — Lando’s race engineer — slowly slid a printed diagram across the table.

Lando took one look.

Paused.

And said, “Wait. This is her?”

Andrea nodded without looking up. “Came up with it over insomnia. Gave it to me like it was a shopping list. It works.”

Lando stared at the airflow map, the PCM trigger temperatures, the annotated note that literally said ‘the goal is to stabilize the moment he usually starts slipping — give him room to breathe.’

He felt like someone had sucker-punched him with science and sentiment at the same time.

“Wait, wait, wait,” he said, sitting up straighter. “You’re telling me Felicity Piastri — as in, Oscar’s wife who wears motor oil like perfume and once fixed the coffee machine with a literal wrench — came up with the strategy that made our car an actual rocket ship?”

“Yes.”

“And it works.”

“Yes.”

“And she just gave it to you? No credit, no fuss, just… ‘here, I fixed the entire concept of high-deg tire strategy because I couldn’t sleep’?”

Andrea finally looked up. “Correct.”

Lando sat back, stunned.

He knew Felicity was scary smart. Knew she could rebuild a gearbox while calculating orbital velocity. Knew Oscar worshipped the ground she walked on and never made a big deal out of it because he didn’t need to.

But this?

This was something else.

“She didn’t do it for the team,” Lando said quietly, the realization hitting all at once. “She did it for him.”

Andrea didn’t say anything.

Didn’t have to.

Lando looked back down at the page — the margins, the equations, the gentle note that said “he’s too good to be held back by bad thermal behavior.”

And he felt it in his chest — that familiar ache.

Because that wasn’t engineering.

That was love.

The quiet kind.

The kind that doesn’t shout or show off.

The kind that stays up at 2 a.m. fixing something no one else thought could be fixed — just so the person you love can breathe easier.

So he doesn’t have to carry it all alone.

So he can go faster, safer, freer.

It was a love letter.

Not in flowers or poems.

In airflow and melting points.

Lando leaned back in his chair and exhaled. “Jesus Christ. She built him a better world.”

Will snorted. “She rebuilt tire degradation, but sure, let’s make it poetic.”

Lando didn’t even blink. “It is poetic. He’s the quiet guy. And she’s the quieter genius who knows exactly where he hurts and rewrites the laws of physics to help him anyway.”

Andrea tilted his head. “You’re getting sentimental again.”

“I’m right,” Lando shot back, still staring at the page. “He’ll win the title because she didn’t want him to bleed for it.”

He tapped the margin with his knuckle. “This is the kind of love that never asks for a podium. Just builds the car to get him there.”

And for once — no one had a comeback.

Because they all knew it was true.

***

They were in the driver’s lounge two days later, when Lando struck.

He’d been waiting for the perfect moment.

And Oscar, blissfully unaware, had just taken a bite of his protein bar like he wasn’t about to get emotionally roasted.

Lando stretched out across the sofa like a cat in a sunbeam and said, far too casually, “So… what’s it like being loved so much your wife reinvented tire degradation for you?”

Oscar blinked mid-chew. “…Sorry?”

Lando grinned. “Just curious. I mean, some of us get love letters or handmade birthday cakes. You? You get full-phase material integration strategies and temperature-controlled brake ducting. Romantic stuff.”

Oscar groaned, immediately regretting not hiding in the sim room instead. “Lando.”

“I’m serious,” Lando said, sitting up now, fully energized. “Felicity took one look at your stint data and said, ‘this man needs help. Let me just rewrite thermodynamics real quick.’”

Oscar rolled his eyes. “It wasn’t—”

“No, no,” Lando cut in. “Don’t you dare downplay this. The rest of us? We have to manage deg. You? You have a thermodynamic guardian angel in your marriage bed.”

Oscar flushed, the tips of his ears visibly pink. “She had a theory. That’s all.”

“‘Just a theory,’” Lando mimicked, using air quotes. “‘Just a casual bedtime sketch that turned McLaren into the most stable tire platform on the grid.’ My God, Oscar. She loves you so much it’s physically measurable.”

Oscar sank lower in his seat, muttering, “You’re insufferable.”

“You’re married to the Nikola Tesla of tire temp control. I deserve to be insufferable.”

“Lando—”

“She built us a better car because she hated watching you suffer.” Lando flopped dramatically. “Imagine. Being loved with that level of efficiency. Can you even comprehend?”

Oscar sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. “She’s just… always been smarter than all of us.”

Lando stopped mid-rant.

And smiled, softer this time. “Yeah. I know.”

There was a long pause.

Then Lando added, “Anyway. If she ever wants to fix my brakes, tell her I’m emotionally available.”

Oscar snorted. “Absolutely not.”

“What about Bee? Can she be bribed with juice boxes and data sets?”

Oscar shook his head, laughing now. “She’s already running her own simulations. She’s got standards.”

Lando grinned. “Just like her mum.”

Oscar looked down at the McLaren logo on his hoodie — the one Felicity stole all the time — and felt something warm settle in his chest.

He didn’t say anything else.

He didn’t need to.

But when he went home that night, he kissed Felicity extra softly — and whispered thank you against her temple like a promise.

And Felicity?

She just smiled, wiped her grease-smudged fingers on her jeans, and said, “Don’t thank me yet. Bee thinks we can improve the airflow angle by three degrees.”

Because love — in their house — was always a work in progress.

And always worth the effort.

***

[theonottsbxtch]

FOGGY MEMORIES | MV1

an: this is slightly based off of a request but not at all at the same time, i had this idea come to me in a dream and had to write it as soon as possible. this one is dedicated to 🐴non x

wc: 6.0k

THE CITY HUMMED WITH QUIET MENACE, a sprawling jungle of glass and steel that never truly slept. High above the streets, the skyline was shrouded in a dense layer of mist, the lights of distant towers bleeding through like smudged paint on a dark canvas. Somewhere below, the world carried on, unaware of the silent war that played out in the shadows—where men like Max Verstappen existed, moving unseen, ghosts in the system.

Max had been doing this for as long as he could remember. Recruited young, trained to be invisible, his life had been stripped of anything that didn’t serve the mission. Emotion dulled, past erased—he had been remade into something precise, something lethal. He didn’t question it. There was no point.

Tonight was no different. His orders had been clear: infiltrate, extract, disappear. A routine operation for someone like him. The target was a classified data vault hidden beneath the bones of an abandoned government facility—forgotten by the world but not by those who understood its value. Whatever was locked inside was important enough for the agency to send him, which meant there was no room for error.

The corridors were silent, bathed in the cold glow of emergency lights. He moved without a sound, a shadow slipping past security feeds and motion sensors with practised ease. The hard drive was exactly where it was supposed to be, tucked behind layers of encryption and reinforced steel. He bypassed the safeguards in seconds, fingers flying over the terminal, but just as the transfer neared completion, the air shifted—subtle, but unmistakable.

He wasn’t alone.

A flicker in his peripheral vision—then movement. Fast.

Max barely twisted in time to avoid the strike aimed at his throat, instinct carrying him backwards as a blade skimmed past his skin. No hesitation, no wasted effort. He countered immediately, using the momentum to lash out, but she was already gone, slipping back into the dim light like smoke.

His eyes locked onto her, scanning, assessing. She was good. Too good. Every movement precise, every attack calculated. Not just an operative—an equal.

They clashed again, the fight a brutal dance of skill and intent. Strikes deflected, counters met with counters. For every step he gained, she matched him effortlessly, as if she knew exactly how he moved, how he thought.

And then, as their blades met in a deadlock, a flicker of something else. Not recognition—something deeper, buried beneath years of erased memories.

A flash.

Fifteen years old, standing in the rain, bruised and bleeding but not broken. A voice—her voice—sharp with defiance. Again.

It vanished as quickly as it had come, leaving only the pounding of his pulse and the fire in her eyes.

Who was she?

She twisted free, launching into another attack, and Max forced himself to focus. Questions could wait. First, he had to survive.

The fight pressed on, a deadly rhythm of movement and steel. Each strike was met with precision, each dodge answered with equal force. It had been a long time since Max had faced someone who could keep up with him—longer still since he had felt something close to uncertainty in a fight. But there was no denying it. She knew him. Knew the way he moved, the way he anticipated attacks before they landed.

And worse—he knew her too.

Not in a way that made sense. Not in a way that should have been possible.

She feinted left before twisting low, her boot catching his knee hard enough to unbalance him. He barely managed to absorb the impact, rolling back to create distance. He expected her to press forward, to take advantage of the opening, but instead, she hesitated.

Just for a fraction of a second.

Her breathing was steady, her stance unwavering, but in her eyes—something flickered. A question.

Max clenched his jaw. He couldn't afford hesitation, couldn't afford doubt. Whoever she was, whatever this was, it didn’t change the mission. He forced himself to move, closing the distance between them with speed, but as he reached for his knife, another flash tore through him—

Fifteen again. A training room lit with harsh white fluorescents. The air thick with the scent of sweat and blood. His body ached, muscles trembling from exhaustion, but he refused to stop. She stood opposite him, just as battered, just as relentless. Her voice, breathless but sharp—

"You’re getting slow, Max."

The memory splintered as she moved, striking at him with that same speed, that same precision. He barely countered in time.

His pulse thundered. He had no past, that’s what he’d been told. Whatever he was remembering right now, he wasn’t supposed to remember.

And yet…

A part of him did.

She drove him back, seizing control of the fight, her attacks coming faster now, sharper—more desperate. As if she, too, was fighting something beyond just the mission.

For a moment, the world narrowed to just the two of them. The abandoned facility, the stolen data, the reason they were even here in the first place—it all faded into insignificance. There was only her. The way she moved. The way something deep within his bones screamed that this wasn’t the first time they had fought like this.

Then, just as suddenly, the silence shattered.

A distant alarm.

Reinforcements.

Max swore under his breath. This had already gone too far.

Their gazes locked, breath ragged, neither willing to lower their guard. But the moment was broken.

Whoever she was, whatever this was—they were out of time.

The distant alarm pulsed through the facility, a stark reminder that they weren’t alone. The fight should have ended then and there—one of them should have taken the opportunity to finish it. But neither of them moved.

Max’s grip tightened around his knife, but his instincts screamed at him to do something else entirely. Run. Stay. Demand answers. The confusion was a dangerous distraction, one he had never allowed himself before.

She was still watching him, breathing hard, eyes flicking towards the corridor where the reinforcements would be coming from. Her hesitation was telling.

She wasn’t here for them.

Whoever she was—whatever her mission—she was working alone.

The second stretched between them, thick with something unspoken, before she made her choice.

She turned and ran.

Max almost let her go. Almost.

But something inside him wouldn’t allow it.

Without thinking, he took off after her.

She was fast, her movements fluid, as if she already knew the building’s layout. He followed instinctively, boots silent against the steel grates as they weaved through the abandoned corridors. The flashing red lights cast long shadows, flickering over rusted walls and forgotten machinery.

She took a sharp turn, disappearing into a stairwell. Max followed without hesitation, vaulting over the railing to cut her off at the landing below. She barely managed to stop in time, skidding to a halt before twisting into a defensive stance.

For the first time, she spoke.

"Still reckless."

The words sent an almost physical shock through him. Not because of what she’d said—but because of how she’d said it. Not mocking. Not surprised. Just… knowing.

Max didn’t respond. He couldn’t.

His chest was heaving, his mind torn between the mission and the undeniable truth that was forcing its way through the cracks in his erased past.

Then, another flash—

Younger. A different place. Late night, stolen moments between brutal training sessions. A whispered conversation in the dark. She’s beside him, pressing an ice pack to his ribs, smirking slightly as he winces.

"Still reckless," she murmurs, and there’s something almost fond in her voice.

It hit him like a bullet. The memory wasn’t vague or blurred—it was real.

Which meant she was real.

His hesitation was all she needed. With a sharp movement, she threw something—small, metallic—towards the ground between them. A split second later, smoke erupted, thick and blinding.

Max lunged forward, but by the time he broke through the haze, she was gone.

Vanished into the labyrinth of the facility.

The alarm was still blaring. He could hear the distant shouts of guards closing in, but his mind was elsewhere, stuck in the past he wasn’t supposed to have.

Who the hell was she?

And why had they made him forget?

The mission was slipping away.

Max knew it—could feel it unraveling the second he made his choice. The data didn’t matter anymore. The agency’s orders, the years of conditioning that had drilled obedience into his bones—none of it mattered. Not when the memories were clawing their way back to the surface, memories that weren’t supposed to exist.

She wasn’t supposed to exist.

But she did. And he needed to find her.

The alarm pulsed overhead, the facility coming alive with movement as guards swept through the corridors. Max melted into the shadows, instincts taking over, but his mind was elsewhere—tracing the route she had taken, searching for an exit she might have used.

He replayed every detail of their fight, every step of her retreat. She had moved with certainty, like she knew exactly where she was going. That meant she had planned this.

Which meant she had a way out.

Max exhaled sharply and turned away from the terminal. The stolen data was still mid-transfer, the mission still technically salvageable—but that wasn’t why he was here anymore. He left it behind without hesitation, slipping into the stairwell she had disappeared through moments before.

His body moved on instinct, muscle memory leading him through the facility as if chasing something deeper than just a target.

Fifteen again. Late-night training. They were always the last two left standing, bruised and aching but refusing to fall. A voice in the dark, hers—

"They’ll break us apart one day."

He hadn’t believed her.

Max’s jaw clenched. They had broken them apart. Wiped them clean. Turned them into strangers.

But not completely.

Some part of him still remembered. And if that part existed in him, then it existed in her too.

He reached the lower levels of the building, moving faster now. The reinforcements were closing in above—he could hear the distant echo of boots, orders shouted over comms. He had minutes at best.

The facility was a relic of a forgotten past, its lower levels half-abandoned, corridors thick with dust and disuse. It was the perfect place to disappear.

And that’s exactly what she had done.

Max slowed, scanning the space, eyes catching the faintest disturbance in the dust—a trail. Not clumsy, not obvious, but enough. She wanted to vanish, but she was still human. Still breathing, still moving, still—

There.

A side door, slightly ajar. The faintest shift in the air, the ghost of movement beyond.

Max didn’t hesitate.

He pushed through, slipping into the dimly lit corridor beyond, senses sharp. The space was narrow, lined with rusted pipes, the distant hum of an old ventilation system vibrating through the walls. She had taken this route for a reason.

An exit.

He moved quickly but carefully, resisting the urge to break into a sprint. She knew he was coming—she had to. But she hadn’t tried to stop him.

Why?

The corridor opened up into a loading bay, long abandoned, the night air cutting sharp through a broken shutter. Outside, the city sprawled in the distance, a blur of lights against the dark.

She was there.

Standing just beyond the exit, half-turned, as if debating whether to disappear for good.

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

Then—

"You left the mission," she said, voice unreadable.

Max exhaled slowly. "So did you."

Something flickered in her eyes. Something almost like recognition. Like a truth neither of them could quite grasp.

He took a step forward.

And this time—she didn’t run.

Max barely had time to react. One second, they were standing there, locked in some unspoken standoff—the next, she moved. Fast. Too fast.

He didn’t even see the knife until it was pressed against his throat.

The cold bite of steel sent a sharp pulse through him, but he didn’t flinch. His hands remained at his sides, body taut, ready—but he didn’t strike. Not yet.

She was close now. Close enough that he could see the steady rise and fall of her chest, the flicker of something unreadable in her eyes.

"Who are you?" he asked, voice low.

Her grip on the knife didn’t waver.

"They’ll kill you if I answer that question."

The words shouldn’t have sent a chill through him, but they did. Not because of what she said—but because of how she said it. A warning, not a threat. A truth she didn’t want to speak aloud.

He held her gaze. "Then why not kill me yourself?"

Her jaw tensed. "If I wanted you dead, you would be."

Something about the certainty in her voice sent his pulse spiking.

"Then tell me," he pressed. "Tell me why I remember you."

She exhaled sharply, her expression flickering—just for a second. As if she wanted to. As if she was weighing whether or not to break whatever rules had been drilled into her as deeply as his own.

Then, finally—

"Ask Christian where he picked you up from."

Max’s breath stilled.

The name hit him harder than it should have.

Christian. His handler. The man who had trained him, who had shaped him into what he was today. The one person in his life who had ever been constant.

There was nothing before him. No memories, no past. Christian had found him, recruited him, trained him—

Hadn’t he?

The question lodged itself deep, twisting into something sharp and unfamiliar.

He shook his head. "Christian raised me."

She pressed the knife just a little harder against his skin—not enough to cut, just enough to make sure he felt it.

"No, he didn’t."

Max’s throat went dry.

The certainty in her voice, the way she didn’t even hesitate—it felt like a noose tightening around something inside him.

The life he’d known had always been clear, precise, unshakable. He had been taken in as a boy, trained to be a ghost, stripped of anything that might make him hesitate. No attachments. No past.

No questions.

But now—

Now he wasn’t so sure.

She must have seen the doubt flicker in his eyes because something in her stance shifted. Not in triumph. Not in relief. Something closer to regret.

The knife at his throat lowered slightly, just enough to press against his chest instead. Light. Just a touch. A reminder.

"Whatever you do," she said softly, "don’t let them make you forget again."

The words hit him like a gunshot.

And then—she was gone.

A single blink, a breath too slow, and she vanished into the shadows like she had never been there at all.

Max stood frozen, the city wind cutting sharp against his skin.

His hands curled into fists.

Because for the first time in his life, he had a question he wasn’t sure he wanted the answer to.

The flight back was silent.

Max sat motionless in the jet’s dim cabin, hands clasped loosely, gaze fixed on nothing. The city lights faded beneath him, swallowed by the vast dark as they ascended. The hum of the engines filled the space, steady and constant—something to focus on. Something to drown out the chaos in his head.

Christian would be waiting for him.

He had no mission report to give. No extracted data, no explanations that would make sense. It was the first mission he had ever failed.

And the worst part was—he hadn’t even tried to succeed.

The memory of her voice lingered, curling around the edges of his mind like smoke. The way she moved, the way she spoke—like she knew him. Like she had always known him.

Like he should have known her.

Ask Christian where he picked you up from.

The words dug deep. No matter how much he tried to push them away, they wouldn’t leave him.

The base was cold when he arrived, the same clinical sterility as always, but tonight, it felt different. Or maybe he was different.

Christian was waiting for him, as expected. He stood with his hands behind his back, expression unreadable, but Max knew him well enough to recognise the subtle tension in his shoulders. Disappointment.

Christian let the silence stretch for a moment before he finally spoke.

"You’ve never failed a mission before."

Max kept his expression blank. "There were complications."

"Complications." Christian’s tone was flat, like he was waiting for something more.

Max exhaled, keeping his body relaxed, forcing himself into the role he had played for years. "Security was heavier than expected. Extraction was compromised. I made the call to retreat before it escalated."

A lie. A clean, believable lie.

Christian studied him carefully.

Then, with quiet finality—

"That’s not the whole truth."

Something in Max’s gut twisted. Christian knew. Maybe not everything, maybe not her, but enough to know that Max was keeping something from him.

He needed to tread carefully. He needed to play this right.

So why the hell did he open his mouth and say—

"Where did you pick me up from?"

The words had barely left him before the shift in the air was immediate.

Christian’s entire body went still.

A long, heavy silence.

Then, barely above a whisper—

"You’re remembering."

Max’s stomach turned.

It wasn’t a question. It wasn’t disbelief. It was a confirmation.

Christian knew.

And before Max could even react, before he could think of a way to fix this, to backtrack, to—

The door behind him slid open.

Boots. Movement. Too many of them.

His instincts flared, but before he could reach for a weapon, hands were on him. A hard grip on his arms, forcing them behind his back. He tensed, about to fight, but then he saw it—

The mask.

The metal apparatus in their hands, wires trailing, the gleam of something sharp and invasive.

Max’s breath locked in his throat.

No.

Not this.

Not again.

He never knew what it did. 

All he knew was that it hurt.

His pulse pounded, his body coiled to resist, but Christian only took a step back, running a hand down his face.

"Fuck. How is this happening already?"

The hands on Max tightened. He thrashed against them, instincts screaming to fight, to run, but it was already too late. The mask was forced over his face, the sharp scent of chemicals hitting him fast.

His vision swayed. The edges of the room blurred.

Whatever you do, don’t let them make you forget again.

Her voice, clear as a bullet to the skull.

Max fought. He fought, but the world was slipping, pulling him under.

And then—

Darkness.

The world came back in pieces.

A dull ache throbbed behind Max’s eyes, a deep, lingering weight pressing against his skull. His body felt heavy, sluggish, like he was surfacing from somewhere too deep, somewhere he wasn’t supposed to have been.

He was lying on something cold. A cot. The metallic scent of the base’s medical wing filled his lungs, sterile and artificial. The hum of overhead lights buzzed faintly in the background, a rhythmic, familiar noise that should have grounded him.

But something was off.

His thoughts were slow, thick, like they were moving through treacle.

And then—

"You're awake."

Christian’s voice.

Max blinked against the brightness, his vision sharpening as he turned his head. Christian stood a few feet away, arms crossed, studying him with the careful scrutiny of someone searching for cracks in a foundation.

Max forced himself upright. The movement sent a sharp wave of nausea through him, but he ignored it.

"What happened?" His own voice felt distant, like it didn’t quite belong to him.

Christian exhaled through his nose, something unreadable flickering across his expression. "You wiped out during the mission. Comms went dark. We had to extract you."

Wiped out? That wasn’t—

No, that couldn’t be right.

The mission. He’d gone in alone. Infiltrated the facility. He was about to extract the data, and then—

His head pulsed, a sharp spike of pain cutting through his thoughts.

Christian watched him carefully. "What do you remember?"

Max frowned, trying to push past the fog. "The facility. I got inside. Security was heavier than expected, but I navigated it. I reached the terminal, started the extraction—"

A flicker of something.

A shadow of movement. The ghost of a fight, a blade catching the dim light—

No.

That wasn’t right.

The mission had gone wrong. That was all.

He forced the thought aside. "There was an alarm. I had to abandon the extraction. That’s when things got messy. I must have taken a hit on the way out."

Christian nodded slowly, as if weighing his words. "You don’t remember anyone else being there?"

The question was casual. Too casual.

Max’s muscles tensed instinctively. "No."

Christian tilted his head slightly. "No other operatives? No one who might have compromised the mission?"

Max shook his head. "I was alone."

The lie slipped out effortlessly. He didn’t know why he was lying, not fully—but something in his gut told him it was necessary.

Christian studied him for a long moment. Then—

"You don’t remember anything else?"

There was something about the way he said it. The way his tone shifted, like he was looking for something specific.

Max opened his mouth to deny it again—

Ask Christian where he picked you up from.

The thought cut through his mind like a blade.

His breath stalled.

Something about those words felt wrong. Or rather—too sharp. Too defined. Like they weren’t supposed to be there at all.

The chemicals had done their job. He knew they had. He felt the emptiness, the hollowed-out space in his head where things had been scrubbed clean.

But that one thought remained.

And he had no idea why.

Christian was still watching him, patient, expectant.

Max forced his expression blank. "No. I don’t remember anything else."

A beat.

Then Christian nodded, like that was the answer he had been waiting for.

"Get some rest," he said, stepping back towards the door. "We’ll debrief properly in the morning."

Max only nodded.

He waited until Christian was gone, until the door clicked shut behind him.

Then, slowly, he exhaled.

His hands curled into fists against the sheets.

Because something wasn’t right.

And this time, no matter what they did to him—

He wasn’t going to let it go.

Max sat on the edge of the cot, elbows on his knees, hands loosely clasped. His head still ached—a deep, lingering throb at the base of his skull—but he ignored it. He was too focused on the weight pressing against his chest.

The wrongness of it all.

They had wiped him. They must have. He could feel the gaps, the hazy edges where memories had been scraped clean. It wasn’t the first time.

But this time, something had slipped through.

Ask Christian where he picked you up from.

The words sat heavy in his mind, sharp and unyielding. He didn’t know where they came from. Didn’t know why they felt important. But they did.

And that meant something had gone wrong.

He forced himself to breathe slowly, methodically. Focus. He needed to be careful. Christian was already suspicious—his questions hadn’t been casual. He had been testing him.

And Max had barely passed.

He glanced towards the door. Locked, as expected. There would be a guard outside. There always was after the machine, at least for the first few hours. Just in case.

They were watching him.

Which meant he needed to act like nothing was wrong.

Slowly, he pushed himself to his feet. His body felt steady now, movements fluid despite the dull weight in his skull. He crossed the small room, pressing his fingertips against the cool metal wall, grounding himself in something tangible.

His reflection stared back at him from the glass panel by the door. He looked the same as always—sharp, composed, unreadable.

But he didn’t feel the same.

He reached up, pressing his palm against his chest, against the spot where—

A flicker. A whisper of sensation, something just out of reach—

Whatever you do, don’t let them make you forget again.

His breath caught.

Her voice.

It was there. Faint, distant, but real.

And suddenly, he knew.

The wipe hadn’t worked properly. Not completely.

Something had stayed behind.

And if something had stayed behind, then so had she.

Max clenched his jaw.

They thought they had erased her. Thought they had wiped him clean, reset him like they always did.

But this time, something was different.

And for the first time in his life—

He wasn’t going to let it go.

The next week was hell.

Max barely slept. Every time he closed his eyes, he felt like he was missing something, like the answers were just out of reach, slipping through his fingers the moment he got too close.

He spent hours running through the details in his head, over and over, searching for cracks. But there was nothing tangible—just fragments. A voice that didn’t belong. A question he shouldn’t have asked. The phantom feeling of a knife pressing lightly against his chest.

Every time he thought he was getting somewhere, it was like slamming into an invisible wall.

The chemicals had done their job too well.

He found himself pacing his room at night, replaying Christian’s words, analysing every interaction, searching for a thread to pull.

But he couldn’t.

There was nothing there.

And that was the most maddening part.

By the fourth day, he was barely holding it together.

He was losing his edge. He could feel it. His reaction time was slower, his focus splintered. During training exercises, he caught himself hesitating, second-guessing movements that should have been instinctual.

It wasn’t just affecting him mentally. It was affecting his performance.

And that was dangerous.

By the fifth day, he started telling himself he was going insane.

That was the only logical explanation, wasn’t it?

They had wiped him. That was routine. He had failed a mission—Christian had told him what had happened. There was no reason to question it.

The words in his head, the voice, the flashes of something more—

They weren’t real. They couldn’t be real.

His own mind was turning against him. That was all. He just needed to let it go.

But he couldn’t.

Because somewhere, deep down, he knew that wasn’t true.

And the not-knowing was driving him to the edge.

On the seventh day, Christian came to him with a new mission.

Max barely had time to gather himself before he was summoned to the briefing room. The moment he walked in, he felt Christian’s gaze settle on him, sharp and assessing, like he was looking for something.

Max straightened his posture, schooling his features into something neutral. He had to keep it together.

Christian held out a thin file. "You’re being deployed again."

Max took it, flipping it open. The details were standard—location, objective, extraction plan. Another infiltration job. Another ghost mission.

But Christian wasn’t watching the file.

He was watching him.

"You look like shit, Max," he said bluntly.

Max barely blinked. "Didn’t realise I was being assessed on aesthetics."

Christian didn’t smile. "You haven’t been sleeping properly."

It wasn’t a question.

Max shut the file, keeping his expression unreadable. "I’m fine."

Christian studied him for a long moment. Then—"Good. Because this time, there’s no margin for error."

Something about the way he said it sent a sharp pulse through Max’s gut.

Because Christian wasn’t just talking about the mission.

He was testing him. Again.

And Max had no idea if he was still passing.

The mission was straightforward. Infiltration. Retrieval. Extraction.

No complications. No surprises.

At least, that’s what the file said.

Max knew better.

Christian had given him a comms unit this time, something he never did unless he expected to monitor performance directly. Which meant this wasn’t just about completing the objective—it was about proving himself.

Proving he wasn’t slipping.

Proving he was still the same agent he had always been.

Proving he wasn’t remembering.

He locked in. Forced his mind to focus. He couldn’t afford any more mistakes.

The drop site was an abandoned industrial complex on the outskirts of Prague. The air was thick with the scent of rust and rain-soaked concrete, the sound of distant traffic humming just beyond the perimeter.

Max moved quickly, slipping through the darkness like a shadow. The plan was clean—get inside, access the target’s server, extract the encrypted data, and leave before anyone knew he was there.

But Christian’s presence in his ear made everything feel off.

"Comms check." Christian’s voice crackled through the line.

"Copy," Max muttered under his breath.

"You’re on a tight window. No distractions."

The words were casual. But the way he said them wasn’t.

Max ignored it. Pushed forward.

The building was hollowed out, skeletal remains of an old factory now repurposed for something far less industrial. Surveillance equipment was minimal—whoever was running this operation relied on secrecy rather than security.

It made things easier.

Within minutes, Max had reached the target room. A small, nondescript office, a single desk, and a humming server in the corner.

He set up quickly, connecting the extraction device to the system, watching the data begin to transfer.

"ETA?" Christian asked.

"Two minutes."

"Good. Keep it clean."

Max clenched his jaw. The way Christian was talking—it wasn’t just mission oversight. It was scrutiny. He wasn’t just expecting success. He was waiting for a mistake.

Max exhaled slowly, grounding himself in the task. He just had to get through this.

He watched the transfer bar crawl forward, the soft whir of the machine filling the silence.

Almost there.

And then—

A noise.

A shift in the air, subtle but wrong.

Max didn’t hesitate. He cut the extraction, ripped out the device, and had his gun raised in the same breath—

But the doorway was empty.

Nothing. No movement.

Still, his pulse had spiked.

Something was there.

He could feel it.

"Max?" Christian’s voice came through the comms.

Max didn’t lower his weapon. "I heard something."

A pause. Then, calmly—"You’re alone."

It was meant to reassure him.

It didn’t.

Max swallowed down the unease, forcing himself to move. He secured the drive, checked the hall, and started his exit.

He needed to get out.

But as he moved through the corridors, every shadow felt heavier. Every noise felt sharper.

Like he wasn’t alone at all.

And then—

Whatever you do, don’t let them make you forget again.

The voice wasn’t in his comms.

It was in his head.

Max stumbled. Just for a second.

But it was enough.

"Max?" Christian again. Sharper this time.

Max gritted his teeth, forcing his breathing steady. "I’m fine."

A lie.

Because he wasn’t fine.

Something was wrong.

And this time, he wasn’t sure he could ignore it.

Max barely had time to react.

A presence—too close, too quiet—moved behind him, and before he could turn, the cold press of a blade kissed his throat.

He went rigid.

Every instinct screamed at him to fight, to twist out of the hold, to strike first and ask questions later. But something stopped him.

Not fear.

Recognition.

Faint, distant, buried beneath the layers of conditioning. But it was there.

A whisper of something lost.

He opened his mouth—

A hand slid over it, silencing him.

"Shh."

The voice was barely above a breath, warm against his ear.

And familiar.

His pulse hammered against his ribs.

She moved swiftly, with precision—reaching up to his ear, plucking the comm unit free before he could stop her.

A second later, she dropped it to the ground and brought her boot down hard.

The crack of crushed tech echoed through the empty hallway.

Static burst in his ear—then silence.

Christian was gone.

Max inhaled slowly, carefully. "If you’re going to kill me, at least tell me who you are first."

She didn’t answer.

Instead, she stepped around him, lowering the knife as she did. Her grip was light, controlled, like she knew he was dangerous but wasn’t afraid.

He finally got a proper look at her.

Dark clothing, tactical gear—she was built for this world, just like he was. Her face was unreadable, save for her eyes.

They were sharp, calculating. But not unfamiliar.

Max clenched his jaw.

She knew him.

She turned her gaze towards the drive in his hand, then back to him. "Do you have what you need?"

His fingers curled around it instinctively. "Why do you care?"

She exhaled, a quiet huff of something—annoyance, amusement, he couldn’t tell. Then, without a word, she reached past him, grabbed the device, plugged it in and began tapping a few keys on the terminal he’d left behind.

The screen flickered.

His extraction continued.

She was helping him.

Every muscle in his body stayed taut, waiting for the catch. "Why are you doing this?"

Silence.

The transfer completed. She pulled the drive free and pressed it into his palm.

He didn’t take his eyes off her. "Who are you?"

She looked at him for a long moment.

And then—

Softly, carefully—

"You already know."

Unlike last time, she didn’t leave.

Instead, she pulled a small piece of paper from her pocket, a rough tear from something larger. She grabbed a pen from the desk, quick and efficient, and scribbled something down.

Then, without hesitation, she stepped closer.

Too close.

Max didn’t move, but he felt his muscles lock, felt the brush of her knuckles as she slipped the folded paper between the straps of his tactical vest, tucking it neatly against his chest.

A calculated move.

Deliberate.

His pulse spiked—just for a second, just enough that he hated himself for it.

She held his gaze, unreadable. "Meet me here. Seventeen hundred. I’ll give you the answers you want."

Max’s throat felt dry. He glanced down at the paper, at the faint scratch of ink just visible through the fold. An address.

He exhaled sharply. "I can’t leave my base."

She tilted her head slightly, as if considering him. "If you’re motivated enough—if you want the answers—you can."

Simple. Direct.

And infuriatingly confident.

Max clenched his jaw. He should shove the paper back at her. Should call her bluff, demand an explanation now. But his fingers twitched instead, the whisper of her touch still there, phantom-like, against his chest.

It wasn’t much.

But it was enough to unsettle him.

By the time he forced himself to look up again, she was already turning away.

He should stop her. He should do something.

But for some reason, he didn’t.

He just stood there, the weight of the paper burning against his skin.

By the time Max stepped out of the building, she was gone.

No trace. No sound. Just the faint echo of her voice still lingering in his head.

His fingers twitched against his vest where the paper sat, warm from his body heat, feeling heavier than it should. He resisted the urge to pull it out and look. Not here. Not yet.

Instead, he locked in, moved. The extraction point was half a mile north, and he didn’t have time to dwell. The moment he was in the open, he moved fast, slipping through the industrial skeleton of the compound, mindlessly following the path drilled into him.

And yet—

The address. The time. The way she had stood so close, the way she had known him.

It was all he could think about.

The jet was already waiting when he arrived. He barely had time to board before Christian turned from where he stood by the cockpit, eyes sharp, scanning him like a threat assessment.

Max pulled off his gloves, keeping his movements smooth, measured. Controlled.

Christian frowned. "What happened to your comms?"

Max didn’t blink. "Glitch. Cut out before extraction. Didn’t have time to fix it."

Christian studied him for a beat too long, but then—exhale. A slow nod. "Tech will look at it."

It worked.

Christian believed him.

Max sank into his seat, forcing his body to relax, listening to the hum of the jet as it powered up. The mission was over.

But his mind wasn’t anywhere near it.

He should be thinking about the debrief, about the logistics of his return, about the inevitable post-mission assessments.

Instead, all he could think about was her.

And the paper in his vest.

And the fact that in less than twenty-four hours, he was going to have to do something he had never done before.

Find a way out.

PART TWO...

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

[xxsyluslittlecrowxx]

𝐂𝐥𝐚𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐟𝐢𝐞𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐜𝐭

— 𝑪𝒂𝒍𝒆𝒃

𝑷𝒂𝒓𝒕 𝟏 𝒐𝒖𝒕 𝒐𝒇 𝟐

(A/N: It's a bit long [sorry not sorry] but this is dedicated to the wonderful, @laddelulu30)

"I want your quiet, your screaming and thrashing The salt on your lips and the hands that God gave you I want your violence, your silent sedation [...] " —Flower Face, Spiracle

𝐒𝐇𝐄 𝐖𝐀𝐒 𝐂𝐎𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐆.

That alone should have meant nothing.

Farspace did not bend for names—it swallowed them. One by one, bodies moved through its corridors like white blood cells in a system too vast to care. They came with files, with ranks, with designations stamped in cold ink. And he? He signed off on them like numbers. Watched them arrive, watched them leave, and never once remembered a face.

But not her.

God, not her.

Her name wasn't just a data point. It was a wound—quiet, clean, and still bleeding.

Caleb sat behind his desk like a man awaiting judgement—not from a court, but from a god he no longer believed in. One leg crossed neatly over the other, spine a rod of iron, boots polished to a mirror-dark sheen. Everything about him was immaculate. Precise. Dead. His face might have been carved from stone—beautiful, yes, but empty, like something abandoned by its sculptor mid-devotion. Even his breath obeyed.

And yet, beneath all that stillness, his body rioted.

She was on the ship.

The knowledge of her arrival did not come with a message. It came like a pressure beneath the skin—like static before a storm. She was here. He felt it. Not through sensors or alerts, but in his bones, in that hollow place where the chip curled cold against his spine and pulsed like an unspoken name.

She'd signed a requisition form. A transfer slip buried three layers deep in cross-department logs. No greeting. No request. Just quiet movement.

She hadn't asked for permission.

Of course she hadn't.

She still believed she didn't need to.

The thought struck him like a blow. Not that she was here—he already knew that. It was the how of it. The defiance. The silent arrival. She hadn't come to be seen. She'd come to exist in his orbit again without asking.

His gaze slid—without thought, without command—to the bottle on the corner of the desk.

Apple Syrup. Still sealed. Amber and glinting in the dim light like a relic left on an altar. He hadn't touched it in years. Not since—

His fingers twitched. He stilled them.

That was rule number one: never indulge the memory.

Memory was a drug. It softened the steel.

And softness, in this place, was a slow death.

Still, the bottle remained. Unopened. A strange, pathetic offering to a ghost who had not yet arrived.

He told himself it meant nothing. Coincidence. A lapse in discipline. But the truth had sharper teeth.

His entire body was a collection of such lapses.

The arm that no longer registered pain. The mind, split down the center like a cauterized wound. The ship—God, the chip—nestled at the base of his skull like a parasite mimicking sleep.

And now—

Now it was waking.

Not in revolt.

In hunger.

He felt her.

Not in the way officers registered footsteps, or lovers caught scent—but in the marrow-deep way a sailor feels the tide turn before the waves break. No sensor had alerted him. No voice had called. But something ancient inside him stirred.

She was on his floor.

The knowledge slithered beneath his skin, static and electric, older than thought.

Not memory. Not reason.

Something darker.

It wasn't lust—though that, too, would come.

It was proximity.

A knowing so primal it predated language.

The kind that made gods beg for morality, just to suffer it properly.

Caleb did not move.

Not yet.

He let the sensation bloom inside him—slow, excruciating—a wound reopening itself by choice. Let it tear through the walls he'd so carefully built over the years. Let it remind him what it meant to want.

Not because he couldn't have her.

But because he shouldn't.

She was not a woman. Not to him.

She was his forbidden inheritance.

And desire, when starved long enough, becomes indistinguishable from punishment.

He closed his eyes.

And something old stirred in the hollow of his gut—not a memory, no, but the echo of one. Warped by time. Distorted by pain. Flickering through the static left behind by the chip they'd scorched into his spine.

She was sixteen.

Barefoot in the garden. Apple between her teeth. Juice dripping down her wrist. That grin—God, that grin—so radiant it made something writhe in his stomach.

She'd waved at him with sticky fingers. And he—older, bitter, already folding beneath weight no boy should carry—had pretended not to care.

But he remembered how the apple tasted when she pressed it to his mouth.

It tasted like belonging.

The memory was dangerous.

That was rule two.

Dangerous because it hadn't faded. Because it was still real.

He hadn't remembered much since the tunnel—not in any linear sense. There were gaps so wide he sometimes wondered if the real Caleb had been left up there, scattered among the stars.

What remained was a ghost. A weapon wearing a name,

But she—

She made him remember.

Even now.

She made him real.

The door didn't open. Not yet.

But he felt her. Paused just beyond it.

No movement. No breath. Nothing measurable.

And still—he knew.

She stood with her hand hovering above the control pad, uncertain whether to knock, to enter, or to turn and disappear down the corridor like a ghost he'd conjured too carelessly.

She didn't understand what waited for her on the other side.

Not anymore.

This wasn't Gran's kitchen or a sun-warmed garden or the makeshift family they'd once borrowed shelter from.

This was Farspace.

This was where monsters wore medals.

And men like Caleb passed for gods.

And she—

She was the last piece of proof he'd ever been human.

Part of him—small, buried, still barely human—hoped she would walk away.

That she'd feel the weight pressing through the metal, the hunger clawing just beneath his breath, and run.

Because if she stepped inside, he would not protect her.

He would keep her.

But the other part—older, deeper, honed by silence and sharpened by loss—

wanted her to walk in.

And never walk out again.

There were days Caleb believed he had been created for the sole purpose of suffering. Not in the dramatic sense. Not poetic. He had long since grown to despise both.

No—this was quieter. Older.

A truth that circled beneath his skin like a second bloodstream.

Some men learn pain. Others are woven from it.

He had not chosen the weight he carried.

Only the silence that followed.

He used to think that endurance meant strength. That if he held fast—if he broke without noise—it would carve him into something righteous.

But now he knew:

The carving was the point.

They hadn't made him stronger.

They'd made him hollow.

They gave him a new arm.

But they took something no metal could replace.

They tampered with his thoughts—gently, surgically—then told him to trust what was left.

They folded orders into his instincts like poisoned thread, then asked him to love as if nothing had been rewritten.

And worst—

worst—

they left her untouched.

Untouched by the chip. Untouched by the darkness that clung to him now like a second skin.

Untouched by the cold metal table, the vacuum of the tunnel, the until corridors where he'd been strapped down and told, yes—say yes—and we'll let you live.

She didn't know what it meant to choose survival over goodness.

And if he could help it—

she never would.

He had killed for less.

Entire squadrons, erased like bad code when the data suggested even a whisper of disloyalty. He'd signed off on transports that would never reach their destinations. Scrubbed names from rosters that once belonged to friends. Watched the Docking Bay doors seal shut behind people who still trusted him.

And he had done it all—

without hesitation.

Without sleep.

Without guilt.

But he would sooner flay himself alive than let her see him do it.

Because that was the final irony of what he'd become—

a colonel without a soul,

still measuring his ruin against the only eyes that had ever looked at him and seen a boy instead of a weapon.

He turned from the door. Abruptly.

Crossed the room with mechanical grace, boots soundless against the steel floor. At the wall, he opened the third drawer.

Inside—

a single datachip.

Unmarked. Illegal. Breathing silence.

A spare neural index. Seven months to strip the beacon. Five more to rewrite the failsafes.

It was treason.

It was contingency.

It was his.

He hadn't used it.

Not yet.

Not unless the day came when he had to run. Or erase himself. Or disappear into the tunnel again like smoke through a vent.

But still—he kept it close.

Like a rosary.

A quiet prayer to the version of himself that might still deserve to be saved.

His mind drifted.

Back to Gran's house.

Back to the days when fear was simple—missing a test, disappointing Gran, forgetting her birthday because of training.

How small those fears were. How blessed.

He had been different then.

No—not different. Just less revealed.

The darkness had always lived in him.

It simply hadn't learned its name.

He remembered waking one night, sixteen years old, heart racing like it had sensed something before he did.

She'd crept into his room—barefoot, shivering. Said nothing he could understand.

Just wide, damp eyes and a name he would die to un-hear now.

Without thinking, he'd let her crawl beneath the blanket.

She was freezing.

He'd wrapped his arms around her—the real one. The one he'd been born with.

And whispered,

"You're safe."

He had meant it.

God help him, that was what haunted him most.

Back then, it had been true.

Because if she ever knew—

what he had become,

what lived beneath the polished uniform, the bionic calm, the gleaming insignia on his collar—

she would run.

And he would let her.

He would watch her go with hands clenched at his sides, breath burning in his throat.

And then—

he would follow.

And bring her back.

Because love, when bent by time and silence and the ache of being half-alive, begins to resembled something else.

Not tenderness.

Not even obsession.

But possession, dressed in reverence.

And he—

he had never loved anyone else.

Not once.

Not in twenty-five years.

A sound—sharp, measured—broke the stillness.

Footsteps.

Steady. Controlled. Unhurried.

He knew the rhythm. Of course he did.

It was hers. But not the way she used to walk.

Gone was the careless bounce, the warm weightlessness of girlhood.

This was different.

This was the tread of someone who had learned—that being noticed could be dangerous.

She had changed.

So had he.

Caleb returned to his seat behind the desk.

Straightened his cuffs. Adjusted his collar.

The motions were familiar. Mechanical.

But beneath them—the storm was already gathering.

The door opened.

Not with ceremony. Not with hydraulics and authority.

Just a hiss. Soft.

A line of light.

And then—

her silhouette.

She didn't speak.

Neither did he.

She stood in the threshold like a question without a mark.

Framed by the corridor's artificial glow, her coat caught the light and cast faint halos along the edges.

The figure was familiar—achingly so—but time had carved her sharper.

Her posture was tense, not from fear, but from having learned to carry it

A soldier's stillness.

And yet—

when her gaze landed on him, something flickered.

Something old.

Something his.

He wondered what she saw.

Not the boy from the garden—that was long dead.

Not the one who used to kneel beside her at the windowsill, sketching stars like prayers.

The man behind the desk wore black like a verdict.

His posture was carved from marble.

His face—expressionless.

This was not a face made for reunion.

It was a mask designed to survive it.

Did she see it?

Did she know what had been taken?

Or worse—what he had willingly given?

He said nothing.

Did nothing.

Only looked.

As if she were a manuscript recovered from fire—edges blackened, but the center miraculously intact.

His gaze moved slowly, reverently.

The faint scar near her temple, half-hidden by her hair.

The crease between her brows—small, but deep enough to speak of sleepless nights.

The way her eyes, just once, flicked toward the bottle on his desk.

The same apple syrup Gran always used.

She had noticed.

Of course she had.

And for a moment, something in him cracked—because he didn't know what a single glance from her could still undo.

A small, traitorous thought bloomed in his mind:

Would she still remember how it tasted?

The syrup.

The past.

Him.

He exhaled through his nose and stood.

The movement was deliberate—unhurried, but final.

His boots met the floor like punctuation.

Sharp. Inevitable.

The room seemed to shrink around him. Or maybe he had grown—

not in height,

but in hunger.

She turned, followed his movement with her eyes—

but didn't retreat.

Didn't flinch.

Another change.

Years ago, she would've smiled. Rolled her eyes. Closed the space between them without thinking.

Now she measured it.

Not it mattered.

"You're taller," he said at last.

His voice was steady.

Controlled.

Not a compliment.

Just an observation.

She tilted her head, just barely.

"You're colder."

Not an accusation.

Just truth.

So.

It would be like this

He stepped forward.

Just once.

Not enough to crowd her—just enough to shift the air.

To see if she would move.

She didn't.

Not a blink. Not a breath.

Another change.

"You regret coming?" he asked, voice quiet. Careful.

Like asking about the weather.

Or the harvest.

A question whose answer would change nothing.

She tilted her head.

"Do you want me to?"

He didn't answer.

Because if he told her the truth—

that he had counted down to this moment like a condemned man savoring his final breath—it would cost him something he couldn't afford to lose.

She wasn't just a person.

Not to him.

She was a tether.

A thread back to something unbroken, unbought.

The living proof that he had once belonged to something other than violence.

But she didn't know that.

Couldn't.

She'd never understand what it meant to breathe in a room that held her body and still not believe he deserved to be near it.

She had walked through hells of her own—he could see it in the lines of her stance.

But he had been rewritten.

And she—

She still spoke in a language his hands had forgotten how to hold.

He turned from her.

Walked toward the far wall.

The window stretched wide across the room, a pane of reinforced glass holding back the void.

Beyond it—stars. Cold. Indifferent. Eternal.

He stood before them with his hands clasped behind his back, the way soldiers did when the needed to look composed.

It gave him time.

Not to think—

But to remember how to breathe without breaking.

"You shouldn't have come," he said, eyes on the stars.

"I didn't come for you."

He smiled.

A small, bitter thing.

She lied like she always had—

clearly,

and with conviction.

"I didn't authorize your transfer," he said.

His voice was flat.

Bureaucratic.

A man returning to the rules because everything else was slipping.

She didn't flinch.

"You didn't need to."

Her tone didn't challenge.

Didn't mock.

It simply was.

A fact placed on the table between them like a blade.

The silence that followed was longer this time.

Not empty.

Charged.

Like two live wires humming just before they touch.

He didn't speak again.

Not yet.

Because anything he said now might cost him the last shard of control he still believed he had.

Finally—finally—he turned.

Not a glance.

A full turn.

A reckoning.

He let himself look at her.

Really look.

And her eyes—

God, they hadn't changed.

Still clear. Still steady. Still impossible.

There was no condemnation in them.

No flinch. No fear.

Just presence.

Like she saw through every layer of ruin and still chose to stand in its shadow.

"Why are you here?" he asked.

The question came out raw. Almost hoarse.

She didn't answer right away.

When she did, her voice was soft.

But it landed like judgment.

"To see what's left of you."

And there it was.

The thing he feared most.

Not her pity.

Not her silence.

But her belief—

that something could be left.

She shouldn't have said that.

Not to him.

To see what's left of you.

The words echoed through him like a bell across an empty field—low, mournful, final.

He had heard many things.

Screams. Orders. The wet snap of breaking bone.

He had even heard his own voice, breaking into something he didn't recognize.

But nothing had ever struck him like that.

What's left.

As if he were debris.

As if he were a collapsed monument scavenged for sentiment.

He met her gaze.

And said it.

Low. Hollow. Certain.

"I am no longer a man in mourning."

A pause.

"I am the grave."

He took a step toward her.

Not threatening.

Not hesitant.

Just... inevitable.

She didn't move. Not forward. Not backward.

She simply held his gaze—

with that impossible steadiness she'd had as a girl.

The one that used to get her into fights she shouldn't have won.

The one that had always, always undone him.

But now—

there was something else in it.

Not fear.

Not revulsion.

Not even hope.

Understanding.

And that—

that was what broke him.

Because if she saw him—

truly saw him—

and still looked...

He wouldn't stop her.

He wouldn't protect her.

He would fall to his knees and give her everything.

"I'm not who I was," he whispered.

The words felt foreign in his mouth—too soft for a throat carved by orders and blood.

But they were true.

He wasn't asking for pity.

He was offering a warning.

A final mercy.

Her eyes didn't blink.

Didn't shift.

She saw him—

And she stayed.

"You're still Caleb," she said.

Soft as prayer.

Sharp as a blade.

And he—

He snapped.

Not outwardly.

Not with motion or sound.

But inside—

where his name had lived like a forgotten relic.

And she—

She had spoken it back into flame.

He stepped closer.

Too close.

Close enough to feel her breath ghost against his lips.

He didn't touch her.

But every inch of him—every wire, every scar, every command stitched into his spine—was screaming to.

His hands hung at his sides like weapons he no longer trusted himself to wield.

And his voice—

when it came—

was low, cracked, reverent.

"Say it again."

Her lips parted.

She didn't ask what he meant.

She knew.

"Caleb."

Just that.

No rank. No title.

Just his name,

wrapped in her voice like it had never belonged to anyone else.

He shut his eyes.

And that was it.

That was the whole damn war.

"I think of you constantly," he said, eyes still closed. "It's not memory. Not even thought."

He drew in a shaky breath.

"It's... breath. Reflex. A condition."

A bitter smile ghosted across his lips.

"I could kill a man with a flick of my hand."

But then his voice dropped lower.

"But if you were within the blast radius—

I'd tear the world inside out to keep your skin whole."

He opened his eyes.

And there it was—

the truth.

Raw. Final. Unhideable.

The kind of truth that—once spoken—undoes everything that came before it.

She whispered,

"That isn't love."

He didn't argue.

Didn't flinch.

Didn't look away.

"No," he said. "It's not."

A breath passed between them—

hot, shared, sacrificial.

"It's devotion."

And then, softer—

"Asphyxiating. Involuntary. Sanctified."

His mouth hovered over hers.

Not touching. Not yet.

But every inch of his restraint screamed.

"Devotion—when it lives too long without being answered—doesn't die."

Another breath.

"It starves."

He didn't move.

Didn't have to.

The air between them had already collapsed.

Caleb's hand rose.

Slow.

Like a man approaching fire he's begged for in his sleep.

His fingers curled midair—

hovering just at the edge of her waist.

Not touching.

But trembling.

He could feel her hear through the air itself—

through his gloves,

through the cold logic that had governed him since they cut into his spine and gave him orders instead of thoughts.

And still—

he didn't touch her.

Because if he did—

it wouldn't stop at touching.

And if it didn't stop—

he wouldn't let it.

His hand faltered.

Hung there, breathless.

Then dropped.

Like a condemned thing retreating from its own hunger.

She didn't speak.

But he saw it—

in the way her lips parted,

in the breath caught just behind her teeth,

like a question had risen before she knew its shape.

She wanted to ask.

He could see it.

Feel it.

The heat of it pulsing between them like a second gravity.

He prayed she wouldn't.

Because if she did—

he would give her everything.

Not just his hands.

Not just his mouth.

But the knife of his devotion.

The part of him no one had ever touched,

because it had always, always belonged to her.

He took a breath.

It didn't help.

His restraint was slipping at the seams.

And still—

she didn't speak.

Which only made him want her more.

"You think you're safe with me," he said.

Flat.

Cold.

A scalpel of a voice.

She didn't blink.

"I never said that."

He huffed once—

something too brittle to be a laugh.

"You don't have to."

He looked at her now—really looked.

"You've always been like this.

Brave.

Blinding.

Idiotic."

She stepped back.

Not out of fear.

Out of defiance.

And it cut deeper than retreat.

because he loved her for it.

He always had.

He loved that she wouldn't cower.

That she would burn beside him, eyes wide open,

until there was nothing left but ash—

and her name buried in the wreckage of his voice.

"Do you want to know what I think about when I wake up?"

He didn't wait for an answer.

Because her silence was already yes.

He stepped closer.

Not urgently—

but like a man reaching into fire because it's the only thing that ever made him feel real.

"You."

Not a confession.

A sentence.

A sentence he'd been serving for years.

"Always you.

Not the memory.

Not the child.

You."

Pause.

"Now. Here."

He let the words bleed.

"The way you smell when you walk past my quarters.

The way you move like you've been taught not to look over your shoulder.

The way you—"

He stopped.

Too much.

Too raw.

And she was just standing there, drinking it in.

Not mocking. Not turning away.

Just existing.

And that—

that unmade him more than any scream ever could.

He stepped back.

Not out of indifference.

Out of mercy.

Out of the last remaining shred of control still clinging to the wreckage of his soul.

"I'm not going to touch you," he said.

The words tasted like blood.

They wounded like a punishment.

Her eyes narrowed—just slightly.

"Why not?"

And for a moment—

he almost laughed.

Not from amusement.

From despair.

"Because I don't know how to stop."

The silence that followed was thick as sin.

And in it, his pulse thundered like a threat—

not to her.

To himself.

He turned his face slightly, dragging a gloved hand across his mouth. As if he could wipe the truth away. As if silence could undo confession.

It couldn't.

Not with her.

Not here.

Not now.

He had exposed too much.

And she—

God help him—

had received it.

"I'm going to give you a choice," he said after a long silence.

"I don't want one."

"You'll take it anyway."

She didn't move.

"If you walk out of this room right now, I won't stop you," he said. "I won't follow. I won't pull you back."

The lie tasted like ash.

"And if I stay?" she asked quiet.

"If you stay," he said, "then I need you to understand something."

Her eyes met his. Patient. Steady. Eternal.

"I'm not going to ask for your consent every time I think about you. I'm not going to apologize for the way I feel you in my veins. I'm not going to lie and say I can love you gently. I've already failed that test."

Another pause. His voice dropped.

"If you stay, you're mine."

She didn't answer.

The moment hung between them like a guillotine—suspended, waiting, silent.

And Caleb...

waited beneath it.

At first, he stood still out of control. Then it became ritual. Then necessity. He didn't turn to look at her. He just...

listened.

To her breath.

To her body.

To the storm of her silence.

There was no footfall. No rustle of cloth. No indrawn gasps or shift of stance.

Only stillness.

And it mocked him.

Because stillness could mean anything.

Stillness could mean no.

Or worse—it could mean yes.

And that was what terrified him most.

Because yes would mean the collapse of restraint. The death of control. The failure of every promise he'd made to himself in the months since he'd returned with blood in his mouth and nothing but her name left in his mind.

He had not imagined the moment would feel like this.

He had envisioned her angry. Cold. He had envisioned shouting, accusations, distance. The ability to keep her at arm's length by force or fury.

But this—

This was worse.

This was quiet.

She didn't move. And so neither did he. But internally, he was already bleeding.

Had he gone too far?

He replayed his words in his mind, dissecting them, slicing through their tone, their implications. Not going to ask for consent. Mine. failed that test.

God.

What if she thought he meant to take her like one of those stories whispered in the darker wings of the Fleet? What if she thought the chip had broken something fundamental in him, that he'd lost the part that knew how to love instead of claim?

But had he ever known?

Had he ever loved her in a way that wasn't possessive, selfish, desperate?

Even as a boy, he'd hated when others looked at her too long. Hated when she vanished into the winding streets without telling him. He remembered once punching a boy in the stomach when he wound out he'd held her hand during a school trip. She never found out.

He never told her.

He had been a monster long before they made it official.

Maybe the chip hadn't changed him. Maybe it only had revealed him.

And maybe... she'd known all along.

He glanced at her—just a flick of the eyes, no more—and what he saw made his heart stutter.

She was watching him.

Not coldly. Not cruelly.

A muscle jumped in his jaw. He turned fully now, facing her.

The hunger was back. Fiercer than before. Not just for her body, but for her choice.

For her to speak.

To claim.

To give him the thing he could not ask for directly—the only thing that he had every truly wanted.

Not her forgivness.

Not her affection.

Her permission to need her.

Her silence stretched.

And in it, he saw futures unraveling like thread from a blade.

Did she want him to speak again? To explain? To apologize?

He could do none of those things. There was no logic that would cleanse what he was now. No apology that could reverse the memory of that cold metal table, the way they'd opened his flesh and whispered about capacity and compliance. No language that could undo what it meant to wake up different—more dangerous, more precise, more useful.

He was not the boy she had known.

But if she reached for him now—

If she said his name again—

He would be hers.

Entierly.

Without armor. Without orders. Without escape.

He could already feel his control breaking at the edges—his shoulders locked too tight, his mouth dry, fingers twitching against the seam of his coat like he needed to hold something.

Her wrist, perhaps.

Her jaw.

Her throat.

Not to hurt.

To anchor.

He had not touched her in years. Not truly. Not without consequence. He wasn't sure he remembered how. Every instinct in his body now was sharpened for impact—designed to break, to pin, to dominate.

What would it mean to touch her softly?

Could he even do that anymore?

The thought hollowed him.

And still, she said nothing.

Her silence was like a mirror he couldn't look away from—showing him the outlines of what he'd become.

He had power. So much power. He could lift her off the ground with a thought. He could seal the doors, command the lights, override the gravity controls in this room and leave her suspended, breathless, weightless, his

But what he wanted—

What he truly wanted—

was for her to close the distance herself.

Just one step.

One step, and he would fall to his knees before her.

Please, he thought, but didn't say.

And then—God, please don't.

Because if she chose him now, he would never let her go.

He would shatter the chain of command. Burn down the mission. Tear the whole of Farspace apart and offer her the bones.

Because if she stayed, there would be no leaving. Not ever again.

He would make sure of that.

She moved.

Only a breath's worth of motion, but enough. Her arms dropped to her sides fully. Her chin lifted. Her weight shifted forward—half a step.

Just one.

It was nothing. And it was everything.

And then, she spoke.

Not loudly. Not with theatrics or declarations. Her voice came like something secret, something sacred, something meant only for him.

"Lock the doors."

Three words.

That was all.

And Caleb felt the entire axis of his world tilt.

He didn't move immediately.

Couldn't.

Not because he hadn't hear her, but because every part of him suddenly needed to confirm—had she meant it? Had she said it because she was leaving and wanted privacy? Or had she—

No. No.

He saw it now.

She wasn't running.

She wasn't asking.

She was staying.

And she had just given him permission.

His throat tightened. His breath stalled. Something old and vile and unbearably beautiful cracked open inside him like a cavern wall splitting to reveal a pit of fire.

His body was still,

but his mind was a scream.

She said it.

Lock the doors.

It echoed like scripture. Like the final sentence in a prayer no one else had ever heard before.

She had chosen this.

Chosen him.

He turned toward the panel beside his desk and pressed one gloved fingertip to the override.

The door slid shut with a hiss.

Sealed.

Soundproofed.

Final.

And still—he did not go to her.

Not yet.

He stood there, gaze locked on her form, burning her shape into memory as if it might be taken from him again.

He needed to see her.

Just see her.

Like this.

Here.

Now.

Now longer part of the past.

No longer behind glass.

Real.

"I told you not to stay," he murmured, voice low, raw.

"And I told you I didn't want a choice,"

She met his eyes when she said it. Unblinking. Steady.

And that—that—was the final break.

It wasn't the words. It wasn't even the defiance.

It was the truth in her voice.

"You understand what that means," he said, barely above a whisper.

"I do."

"You can't un-choose this."

"I wouldn't."

And that was it.

That was when the yoke of restraint splintered—not shattered, not exploded.

Splintered.

Like wood beneath pressure too great for its age, groaning at last under the weight it had borne too long.

His body moved without command.

Not sudden. Not forceful. Just... inevitable.

He crossed the space between the, slow and deliberate. Like a man walking through the last breath of his old life. Each step another piece of himself falling away.

And she stood still.

Unmoving.

Waiting.

Not with fear.

But with knowledge.

With consent.

And God help him, he had never seen anything more beautiful than her silence.

He stopped just before her. Inches apart. Her breath mingled with his. Their shadows became one, cast in the dim light of the room like two figures drawn into the same orbit.

He looked at her.

Really looked.

And what he saw there—what she let him see—was not innocence.

It wasn't trust.

It was want.

Want, edged in something darker. Something that mirrored his own.

He reached out.

His gloved hand didn't touch her. It hovered—just at her cheek, trembling, uncertain.

Her eyes fluttered. And then—

She leaned into it.

Just slightly.

Just enough.

And everything in him broke.

Her skin met the edge of his glove.

Barely. Light as air. A brush. The gentles pressure imaginable.

And yet the world shifted.

It wasn't even a real touch—just a ghost of one, an allowance—but her warmth seeped through the cold synthetic leather and struck him like a low-grade detonation.

His throat went dry. His hand stilled mid-hover, and for a breathless second he simply stood there, fingers trembling by her cheekbone, caught between need and discipline.

She was so close.

And somehow, still untouchable.

His mind rebelled against it. Screamed against it. The part of him still drenched in military training, in consequence, in control—it fought to hold him back. He wasn't supposed to take. Not like this. Not when he'd already failed so many tests of restraint. Not when his very body was a weapon.

She was soft. She was mortal. She was herself.

And he... was not.

He was a thing patched together in labs and lies. Built for command. Forged in silence and sleepless nights and the desperate promise that someday, somehow, he could come home.

But home was not a place anymore.

Home was standing before him.

And home tilted her face into his hand like she belonged there.

His heart stuttered once, then thundered.

"Why... why are you doing this?" he breathed, more to himself than her. "Why would you...?"

He couldn't finish it.

Because he didn't know which ending hurt more.

Why would you let me?

or—

Why would you still want me?

"Caleb."

Her voice. A whisper.

He stopped breathing.

Not because she'd said his name, but because of how she'd said it.

Not soft.

Not comforting.

Inviting.

That one syllable unspooled him.

Because it wasn't a request.

It wasn't even a dare.

It was a welcome.

He stared at her. Saw her watching him—mouth slightly parted, chest rising just a little faster than before, eyes wide but unafraid.

And it hit him.

There would be no undoing this.

Not tomorrow. Not next week. Not when the world burned. Whatever they crossed now—they wouldn't come back from it.

And for the first time in a long, long time...

He didn't care.

"Fuck it," he said.

And he moved.

Not with violence. Not with hesitation. But with certainty.

His gloves palms framed her jaw, his thumbs trembling where they pressed beneath her ears, tilting her face up like something fragile, something holy.

And then—finally—he kissed her.

Not gently.

Not sweetly.

Not like someone reuniting with a long-lost love.

Like a man collapsing into the only thing keeping him from falling into the abyss.

He mouth slanted over hers with raw, consuming hunger. No preamble. No breath. Just contact—hot and immediate and final.

Her gasp caught between them. He swallowed it. Drank from it. And when her hands fisted into the front of his coat, pulling him closer, anchoring him there, he groaned—deep and low, like something primal had finally found a voice.

Everything else—the chip, the blood, the orders—disappeared.

There was only this.

Her lips.

Her breath.

Her body pressed to his like a prayer answered too late.

And him. Unmaking.

She tasted like defiance. Like every breath she had ever stolen back from fate and held in her own name.

And Caleb was drowning in it.

His mouth moved over hers with a hunger that had waited years for permission. Not tentative. Not teasing. Certain. Like his lips had been shaped for this moment and nothing else. Like he was returning to something he'd never truly touched.

She pulled at his coat again, dragging him closer, and his control snapped like a cable under pressure. He pressed forward, crowding her backward until her hips hit the edge of his desk.

A growl rumbled low in his throat.

Finally.

He broke the kiss, lips brushing against hers as he rasped.

"I should chain you here."

Her breath hitched.

"I should cut the comms. Keep you in this room for days."

His voice was rough, unsteady.

"You have no idea what it took to keep my hands off you all this time."

His gloved fingers rose to her chest—slow, reverent, obsessive. He didn't tear at her uniform. Didn't rip anything. He undid her, methodically, like dismantling a weapon.

One clasp.

Then the next.

Each undone with surgical precision.

He didn't speak again. Didn't need to.

The silence between each movement spoke for him.

I've thought about this.

I've dreamed of this.

You are mine now.

He peeled the fabric from her shoulders, baring her inch by inch, his eyes devouring every detail like a starving man memorizing a meal he didn't believe he deserved. His gloved hands didn't rush. They traced the lines of her collarbones, the curve of her arms, the dip of her waist.

And when her top slid down, when she stood before him half-bared, he didn't groan. Didn't exclaim.

He exhaled.

Like he'd just laid eyes on God.

His fingers, still sheathed in leather, drifted down to the waistband of her pants, and for a moment, he didn't move. Just rested them there, heavy and possessive.

"You don't know," he said, voice like thunder wrapped in velvet, "how long I've waited to ruin this."

Her breath trembled.

He leaned in, lips ghosting over her ear.

"Not fuck. Ruin.

There's a difference."

Then—he stripped her pants from her body in a single, fluid motion.

Precise.

Hungry.

Claiming.

And she stood there in her underwear, breath unsteady, skin flushed, gaze locked on his—and he saw no fear.

Just heat.

It shattered him.

He reached up to tug the gloves from his hands—slowly.

Each finger unwrapped with quiet ceremony, until at last he touched her with bare skin.

The first contact was electricity.

His palms, callused and warm, slid up her thighs. He lifted her, effortlessly, and sat her on the desk—back flat against polished metal, legs bent at the edge.

She didn't resist. She leaned back for him, gave him access.

Gave him everything.

His hands dragged up her inner thighs, thumbs brushing dangerously close to heat, but never quite landing.

"You don't know," he murmured, eyes locked on her parted lips. "how hard it's been—pretending you weren't mine."

One hand slipped beneath her knee, pressing it outward, opening her to him.

"I used to dream about this desk," he whispered. "Dream about bending you over it. Fucking you into it until you forgot your own name."

Her hear tipped back, her breath escaping in a ragged gasp.

His mouth followed.

He kissed up her inner thigh, slow and reverent, like a priest at a shrine. The heat between her legs pulsed against his breath, and for one suspended moment, he didn't move.

He just breathed her in.

Her scent.

Warm. Clean. Unmistakably hers.

It hit him like a drug.

Like gravity.

"Mine," he whispered against her skin. "You've always been mine."

Then—finally—his mouth met the damp heat of her underwear. Not urgent. Not hurried. Just... possessive.

He mouthed at her through the fabric, tongue dragging in slow, deliberate strokes, teeth just grazing.

She gasped—sharp, desperate—and his hands clamped down on her thighs, pinning her to place.

He didn't let her buck.

He didn't let her run.

He wanted her to feel it.

He peeled the fabric aside with aching care, caring her fully, and groaned when he saw how wet she was already.

"You were made for me," he murmured, almost broken. "Every inch."

His hands gripped her thighs tighter, possessive, grounding himself in the feel of her. She didn't flinch. Didn't close her legs. If anything, she leaned further back, spreading herself wider—offering.

And that simple gesture?

It undid whatever scraps of restraint still lived inside him.

"I should keep you like this," he murmured, voice hoarse. "Here. Open. Every night."

She whimpered—just faintly. It made his cock twitch behind his uniform.

"Let me look at you," he growled, pressing a kiss to her inner thigh. "Let me see what's mine."

And then—he dragged his tongue through her folds.

One long, deep, deliberate stroke from the base of her heat to the tight little bundle of nerves at the top, where he paused and sucked, hard enough to make her hips jerk.

But he didn't let her move.

His hands still locked her thighs in place.

"Stay still," he said, voice dark. "You don't get to run from this."

And then he went back in—tongue working slow, relentless circles, savoring every part of her. Every flick, every suck, every pause designed to build, build, build.

But he never let her fall.

He kissed her like she was air after drowning.

Suck.

Flick.

Moan.

Repeat.

He licked her with unhurried greed— mine, mine, mind—and never once took his eyes off her. Not even when she arched. Not even when her fingers fisted in his hair. He wanted to watch every tremor, every gasp, every little flicker of her unraveling.

And when her thighs began to tremble?

He pulled back.

Just slightly.

Lips wet. Breathing hard. Eyes dark with possessive hunger.

"You close?" he asked, dragging two fingers up her inner thigh, letting them hover just beneath her entrance.

She nodded, dazed. Voice caught in her throat.

And Caleb smiled.

Dark. Gentle. Dangerous.

"Not yet Pips."

Then he licked her again—slower this time. Crueler.

Keeping her right there.

Her breath was faltering.

He felt it in the way her legs tightened around his shoulders, in the way her hips strained against his grip. She was teetering—right on the edge—and still, he wouldn't let her fall.

Not fucking yet.

Caleb pulled back, slow as a tide receding from shore, lips glistening, chin slick with her arousal.

She whimpered in protest—a broken sound, half-gasp, half-plea—and he nearly gave in.

Nearly.

But then... he turned his head.

And there it was. Sitting on the corner of his desk. Still unopened.

The bottle

The apple syrup.

Untouched for years.

His fingers reached for it before his mind could form the thought. It was instinct. Memory. Ritual. He pulled it toward him, cradled it in his hand for a beat, and then—with deliberate care—uncorked it.

The scent hit him instantly.

Sweet. Viscous. Almost innocent.

But it wasn’t innocent anymore.

Not in this room.

Not on her.

He looked up at her—panting, wrecked, flushed and trembling on his desk, legs still parted, skin bare and shining with sweat. Her eyes were half-lidded, dazed, still lost in the slow torture of his mouth.

He held the bottle up between them. Said nothing.

Her gaze flicked to it—then to him.

And she nodded.

Once.

Just once.

And that was all he needed.

He moved again—lowering to his knees, positioning himself between her legs with the syrup in hand.

“I used to make this for you,” he murmured, thumb stroking her thigh. “Poured it over pancakes. Bread. Once on eggs, and you laughed so hard you cried.”

His voice cracked. Just slightly. “You said it was too sweet. But you still ate it.”

He unscrewed the top.

“I never touched it after Gran died.”

Then—he tipped the bottle.

A slow, golden stream of syrup spilled from the lip, warm from his hands, and he poured it over her inner thigh—just a ribbon at first.

She gasped.

He watched it trail across her skin like it belonged there.

Down her thigh.

Over the curve of her hip.

Trickling close—so close—to where he’d tasted her moments before.

And then—he poured more.

Lower.

Directly onto her folds.

The syrup hit her heat with a wet, sticky sound, coating her in gold.

She moaned.

He dropped the bottle—gently, carefully, like it was an offering placed at the foot of a shrine.

And then—

He licked her. Again.

Slow. Deliberate. Possessive.

His tongue dragged over the syrup-coated skin of her inner thigh, lapping it up with a sound that was all breath and heat and need. He groaned deep in his throat, the taste of her and the syrup mixing on his tongue—sweet and salt and sin.

“Fuck,” he hissed. “You make it taste better than I remember.”

He pushed his face deeper between her thighs, licking the syrup from her—long, deep strokes that made her tremble. Her hands clutched at the edge of the desk, knuckles white.

He didn’t stop.

Didn’t let her think.

His mouth moved from thigh to folds, from syrup to slickness, from sweetness to heat.

And when his tongue pressed flat against her clit again, syrup still coating her, he moaned into her flesh like it was a blessing.

His hands gripped her thighs tight, holding her in place, keeping her right there.

And all the while, his eyes stayed open—locked on her.

Watching her chest rise and fall.

Watching her fall apart.

Watching her belong to him.

Every lick, every breath, every groan—

Was his.

“Mine,” he whispered against her soaked cunt. “All mine.”

Her hips lifted again, just slightly—subconsciously chasing friction. Caleb felt it in the tremor of her thighs, the faint stutter of her breath as her body tried to reach for what he kept just out of reach.

He didn’t stop her.

But he didn’t let her get there, either.

Because this—this—was where he wanted her.

Suspended.

Open.

Begging with her silence.

Sticky ribbons of syrup clung to the folds of her pussy, mingling with her slick until the sweetness was inseparable from the heat of her arousal. He dipped his tongue again—slow, deliberate, obscene—starting low and dragging upward in one unbroken stroke.

She gasped. Her legs clenched around his shoulders.

He didn’t stop.

Didn’t blink.

Didn’t even breathe for a moment.

Just stared up at her, mouth still pressed to her core, watching her body react to him like it had been made for no one else.

“Look at you,” he rasped, voice hoarse from hunger. “Fucking soaked.”

He kissed her clit.

Once.

Gentle.

Mocking.

“You get this wet for anyone else?”

She whimpered—choked and wordless.

Caleb growled low in his throat. His tongue dipped again, swirling through the syrup-slick mess he’d made of her, letting it coat his mouth, his lips, his chin.

Every taste pushed him deeper into something unhinged.

“I know what you sound like when you lie,” he murmured against her. “So if you even think about saying you’ve had better—”

He pressed his tongue flat to her entrance. Flicked upward.

“—I’ll fuck it out of you.

Again. And again.

Until you forget every name but mine."

𝑻𝒐 𝒃𝒆 𝒄𝒐𝒏𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒖𝒆𝒅…. (𝑷𝒂𝒓𝒕 𝟐 𝒐𝒖𝒕 𝒔𝒐𝒐𝒏).

— © 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟓 𝒃𝒚 𝑺𝒚𝒍𝒖𝒔’𝒔 𝑳𝒊𝒕𝒕𝒍𝒆 𝑪𝒓𝒐𝒘

[k-nayee]

Morning After Alien Romulus ii

wc: 3.9k a/n: Song Inspiration: Morning After by DVSN; recommend you listen while reading!!

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ˏ⸉ˋ‿̩͙‿̩̩̥͙̽‿̩͙ˏ⸉ˋ‿̩͙‿̩̩̥͙̽‿̩͙ˏ⸉ˋ‿̩͙‿̩̩̥͙̽‿̩͙.·͙*̩̩͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩̥͙　✩　*̩̩̥͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩͙‧͙ .‿̩̥̩‿̩̩̥͙̽‿̩͙ˊ⸊ˎ‿̩̥̩‿̩̩̥͙̽‿̩͙ˊ⸊ˎ‿̩̥̩‿̩̩̥͙̽‿̩͙ˊ⸊ˎ

The quiet hum of the ventilation system was the only sound in the room as you awakened.

Your bare skin prickled slightly as the cool air traced along your spine. The sheets were slightly tangled around your legs, a faint reminder of the way Tyler had held onto you as if afraid you’d slip away.

For a moment you stayed there, caught between the comfort of the present and the weight of the future pressing on your chest.

You took in the sight of Tyler sleeping beside you—his dark lashes casting shadows on his cheekbones, lips slightly parted, breaths even and untroubled as his arm draped loosely over your waist,

You felt an undeniable tug in your chest.

It wasn’t fair. None of this was.

You reached out without thinking; brushing your fingers gently through his hair, smoothing back a few strands that had fallen over his forehead. He barely stirred with a soft exhale.

You wanted nothing more than to stay, to sink back under the covers and pretend, even for a little while longer, that the outside world didn’t exist. That Jackson’s Star wasn’t a crumbling graveyard in the making.

But reality was impatient and duty whispered in the back of your mind.

Leaning in, you pressed a light kiss to his forehead, lingering just enough to let the moment settle. "Soon," you murmured against his skin, the promise hanging between you. "We’ll get there soon."

Though you weren’t sure who it was really meant for. Him or yourself?

With careful movements you slip out from under the sheets, mindful not to wake him. The floor was cool beneath your feet as you padded across the room, a wince pulling at your face as you bend down to dress quickly—the soreness a not-so-subtle reminder of last night.

You had picked something simple. Practical. Didn’t want to give anyone a reason to notice you more than necessary today.

The facility was quieter than usual when you arrived. Most workers hadn’t clocked in yet, leaving only a few scattered employees moving through the lit corridors, lost in their own routines.

Good. Fewer eyes meant fewer questions.

Settling at your workstation, you booted up the terminal, fingers moving automatically over the keyboard. Years of navigating these systems had made you efficient—too efficient.

You knew the system inside and out; knew its weak spots, its loopholes. Every firewall, every security gap, every blind spot left unattended that management either didn’t care to fix or simply hadn’t noticed.

Maybe it was arrogance. Maybe it was neglect. Either way it worked in your favor.

Hacking in was second nature by now. Your eyes scanned the lines of code flashing across the screen as you navigated through, slipping past security protocols with the kind of precision that only came from experience.

A click here, a minor override there—nothing too aggressive, nothing that would trip an alarm. Just a careful dance between what was allowed and what wasn’t.

Then you saw it.

QUOTA MET: TRANSFER ELIGIBLE

The confirmation glowed in green across your account file, staring back at you like a silent invitation.

You had met your quota weeks ago. The option had been sitting there waiting. You hadn’t acted. Not until now.

Not until Tyler.

Your heartbeat picked up, thudding against your ribs as you pulled up your brother’s data. His file flickered onto the screen—his name, his hours, his status, all laid out in sterile formatting.

For a brief second doubt gnawed at the edges of your resolve. What if this didn’t work? What if someone noticed? What if—

No. You couldn't think like that. Taking a deep breath, you began typing.

It wasn’t just a matter of inputting numbers. The system wouldn’t allow a direct transfer under normal circumstances. There were fail-safes in place, redundancies meant to prevent exactly this kind of manipulation.

Luckily you knew the cracks in the armor.

Instead of a direct transfer you rerouted the hours through a dormant worker ID—a name that no longer had a body attached to it, a ghost in the system. From there the hours flowed cleanly into your brother’s account, looking like nothing more than a clerical correction.

The moment you hit Enter your status blinked red.

QUOTA UNMET: TRANSFER UNELIGIBLE

And then—your brother’s turned green.

QUOTA MET: TRANSFER ELIGIBLE

A sharp breath hitched in your throat, your hands were still trembling slightly as they hovered over the keys. 'It's done.'

The thought echoed in your head but it didn’t bring you the relief you expected. Instead your stomach twisted with unease.

With a shaky exhale you forced yourself to focus. You couldn’t afford to sit here in shock. You quickly began to erase every trace of your interference.

You became hyper-aware of the faint hum of machinery and the distant murmur of workers beginning to filter into the station as your fingers moved automatically.

Delete logs, clear access history, reroute tracking pings.

Every file you touched, every lingering breadcrumb that could be traced back to you, wiped clean. It was meticulous work but you had no room for error.

A few more keystrokes... A final scan... Gone.

With a final click you shut off your terminal. You sat there for a moment, staring at the dark reflection of your own face on the screen’s surface.

It was done. No going back.

Your lungs deflated as you leaned back in the chair, shoulders slumping as the tension coiled in your muscles finally unwound—just a fraction.

Because this was only the first step.

Pushing away from your desk, you forced your legs to move through the near-empty halls. The artificial lighting above flickered slightly, casting sharp shadows along the walls, but you barely noticed.

You needed to look the part.

Reaching the nearest restroom, you slipped inside and locked the door behind you. The mirror reflected back a face that didn’t look nearly as weary as you felt.

That wouldn’t do.

Digging into your bag, you pulled out your small kit of waterproof makeup, your hands steady as you selected the palest shade you had. You apply it strategically to make your skin appear almost ghostly: dabbing it under your cheekbones, around your eyes—anywhere that would make you look sickly.

Then came the red liner, a precise application around the rims of your eyes to mimic irritation and exhaustion. You blinked a few times to let the moisture build naturally.

The effect was haunting—you looked drained, on the verge of collapse.

Perfect.

Satisfied, you straightened, adjusted your shirt to appear slightly rumpled, and took one last breath before leaving the restroom.

Now came the hard part.

The walk to Mary-Anne's office felt much longer than usual. Your hands felt clammy, your breathing slightly uneven, but you forced yourself to stay calm. This has to work.

Reaching her door, you raised a trembling hand and knocked softly.

A rustle of papers. A chair shifting. Then—

"Come in."

You pushed the door open and stepped inside.

She was at her desk (as usual), glasses perched on the bridge of her nose as she worked through a thick stack of paperwork. The soft glow of her monitor illuminated the wrinkles in her forehead as she worked, but as soon as she saw you she paused.

Her face brightened upon seeing you, her lips parting in the start of a warm greeting—until she saw you up close. The warmth drained from her expression and was replaced by deep immediate concern.

"____...sweetheart, I—" Mary-Anne's brows knit together as she stood up slightly, leaning forward. "What’s wrong? What happened?"

You lowered yourself into the chair across from her, your hands clenching together in your lap, curling into yourself just a little as you gave a shaky sigh.

“I—I listened to you,” you murmured. “I went to the infirmary. I...I just thought maybe I was run down, you know?" A weak humorless laugh escaped you before you inhaled sharply as if bracing yourself. "But after some tests, they—" Your voice caught.

Mary-Anne was already on the edge of her seat. "Tests?" she echoed. Her own hands pressed against the desk, her knuckles white.

You lifted your gaze to hers, your eyes wet, the red lining enhancing the illusion of someone who had cried too much already. "They found something growing in my brain. They don't know what...but the tumor's developing fast."

Mary-Anne's face went slack. For a moment she just stared, uncomprehending—like her mind refused to process what you had just said. Then the color drained from her face.

"Oh honey…" Her voice broke, eyes glassy with unshed tears. "No...no that can’t—"

You let out a shaky breath, blinking rapidly as if you were trying to keep yourself together. It wasn’t hard—because underneath the act real emotions swirled, tangled with the lie.

You could feel the weight of it pressing on your concious.

She reached forward, grasping your hands in hers, squeezing them tightly as if that alone could will reality into something kinder.

You let your head dip slightly, eyes burning as you let out a trembling breath. "I—I don’t have much time."

Her grip on your hand tightened. "No no don’t say that. There—there has to be something they can do. Treatments—"

You shook your head. "It’s too late for that."

The first tear slipped down her cheek and it nearly shattered you.

She saw you like family. A daughter, a niece—someone she had taken under her wing long ago. And now? Now she was losing you.

You hesitated before speaking again, letting the tension stretch just enough. Then you carefully squeezed her hand. "I...I need you to do something for me."

She sniffed, blinking rapidly. "Anything."

You took a breath. "I need you to approve my brother’s transfer to Yvaga III."

Her brows knit together, confusion flickering across her grief-stricken face. "...What?"

"I gave him all my hours," you admitted lowly. "He has everything he needs to leave. But if anyone checks the records, they’ll see the numbers don’t add up and they’ll start asking questions."

Silence.

Mary-Anne's entire body tensed as her hands pulled away. "You—what?" Her voice dropped to a whisper, almost like she was afraid of the walls listening in. "Do you have any idea what you’ve done?! If they find out—"

You cut her off with a hollow laugh. "I’m already a dead woman."

That stopped her cold.

The room fell silent except for the faint hum of machinery beyond the walls. Her lips parted but no words came out. She just stared at you, at the emptiness behind your eyes, at the acceptance.

The truth (at least the truth you had crafted) settled between you both like a lead weight..

“There’s always one final screening before transfer off Jackson Star.” You spoke again, voice softer now, raw with the emotion you needed her to see. “If you approve it no one will think to look deeper. No one will question it."

Tears spilled freely from your eyes now, your breath coming out uneven. "I...I can’t leave him alone. I'm all he has. After the death of our parent's I can’t—" Your breath hitched and the dam broke.

Your body shook as sobs wracked your frame. The grief, the fear, the desperation—it all poured out in a way that felt real. Maybe because some of it was.

Maybe because you knew, deep down, you weren’t just crying for your brother. You were crying for everything.

For the life you never got to have... For the choices forced upon you.... For the lies you had to tell to ensure the only family you had left would be safe....

Through your blurred vision you saw her; you saw the war waging in her expression, the way her hands curled into fists, the way she fought against the rules, against logic, against everything she was supposed to do.

Then, with a heavy shaky sigh, she shook her head. "You…" She let out a choked sound, somewhere between frustration and heartbreak. "You absolute fool."

And then she nodded. "Okay."

Your breath caught.

She sniffled, wiping her face. "I’ll do it. I’ll make it official."

A broken sob tore through you as you surged forward, wrapping your arms around her. She let out a strangled sound of her own before hugging you back tightly, squeezing you like she was trying to hold you together.

You had done it.

Your brother was safe.

And nothing else mattered.

*.·:·.☽✧✧☾.·:·.*

You sat in the dimly lit living lounge, your knee bouncing uncontrollably as nerves twisted like a knot in your stomach. The faint hum of the ventilation system filled the silence but it did nothing to settle the unease gripping your chest.

The clock on the wall ticked louder than usual—or maybe it was just your heartbeat roaring in your ears.

Your fingers tangled together in your lap, gripping tighter than they needed to as every so often you'd glanced toward the front door.

'He should be home soon...'

You had gone over this conversation in your head over and over. What you would say...how you would say it.

But now? Now you weren’t even sure how to start.

Then—

The front door slides open with a soft hiss, the faint shuffling of boots against the metal floor signaling his return. Anticipation and dread coiled inside you as you shot up instantly like a tightly wound spring.

Your brother stepped inside, his uniform slightly wrinkled from another long shift. A tired but genuine smile formed on his lips as he shrugged off his jacket. "Hey! You won't believe the kind of day I had—"

The easy smile falters the second he sees your face. "What’s wrong?" The usual warmth in his eyes dimmed, replaced by a cautious edge.

You hadn’t realized how serious you must have seemed—hands clenched, eyes trained on him like you were bracing for impact.

You didn’t answer.

Instead you closed the distance between you in a few quick strides and pulled him into a hug.

His body tensed at first, caught off guard by the abruptness of it, his arms hovering uncertainly before finally settling around you. He was taller than you now, but the way you clutched him and forced his head down to rest against your shoulder said otherwise.

"Okay...?" His voice was muffled as he let out a confused chuckle. "Now I know something’s up."

He shifted slightly, trying to pull back, but you only tightened your hold for a moment longer, now cradling his head under your chin.

His breath hitched. "Hey...what’s going on?" His voice was softer now. More careful.

You could feel his unease, the way he hunched slightly, letting you hold onto him like you used to when you were both younger—when the world had been scarier and he had needed you to shield him from it.

Taking one last shaky breath, you finally pull back. His hands lingered on your arms as you reached up to gently cup his face between your palms.

His skin was warm beneath your touch, [eye color] eyes searching yours for answers as his brow scrunched deeper. "Seriously. What’s going on?"

You met his gaze. "You’re leaving, [Brother's Name]."

He blinks. “What?”

"You’re getting out of here." Your voice became firmer. “You’re leaving Jackson Star.”

His expression remained frozen for a second, like his brain was still catching up to the words you had just said. Then his eyes slowly widened.

A beat of silence.

"...What?" His voice was barely a whisper this time.

You didn’t waver. You repeated yourself as you give a steady and reassuring nod. "You’re going to Yvaga."

For a moment his lips parted but no sound came out. He just stood there blinking at you, the reality of your words sinking in.

Then—a grin.

It started small, creeping onto his face. Then it grew bright and full of disbelief.

"Wait. Wait are you serious?" His voice pitched higher, excitement bleeding into every syllable. "You’re not messing with me? This isn’t some kind of cruel prank right?"

You didn’t need to answer. The look in your eyes was enough.

"Holy shit—are you serious?! No wait—" He spun around, running a hand through his hair as a sudden burst of energy rushed through him. "I— I’m actually leaving?! I can finally—?!"

He turned back to you as he started rambling, his words coming out in breathless waves.

"I’ll actually get to see the sun?! And real trees?! And—actual grass?! Like real growing grass? And the air—God bet the air doesn’t even smell like metal and recycled filth over there—"

But then he stopped.

His words cut off mid-sentence as he looked back at you. And just like that, the boyish wonder vanished, replaced by something raw as the light in his eyes dimmed.

“Wha....what about you?”

You had been waiting for this. You forced a reassuring smile, shaking your head as if his worry was misplaced. "I’ll be there too."

He didn’t respond right away. His eyes searched yours as if trying to find the lie beneath your words. When he found nothing to doubt, his shoulders eased. "Okay...yeah. Good that's good."

Relief softened his features, and just like that the light returned. He grinned again, bubbling back up as he started pacing, hands gesturing as he talked.

"God I don’t even know where to start! Do I need to pack everything? What should I bring? What’s the first thing I should do when I get there? Do you think they have real food? Like not this rehydrated crap?"

His energy was infectious and you couldn’t help but let out a laugh as he spin in circles like a kid on their birthday. “Relax. The transport doesn’t leave for another week. You have time."

"Yeah but still—!" He waved his arms, his mind clearly filled with preparations. "I gotta be ready!"

Still grinning, you reached out and ruffled his hair, messing it up just to hear him groan in protest. He batted your hand away with a playful scowl.

You hesitated for half a second before adding, "You’re gonna be staying with Mary-Anne for the time being."

His excitement dimmed again, his lips pressed together. "...Why do I have to stay with her? Aren't we just going together?"

There it was—that little sliver of doubt creeping back in.

"Because I need to handle some things here first. But I’ll be there right after." you said, pinching his cheek exaggeratedly in an attempt to lighten the mood. "Besides, you like her. She makes those weird cookies you love."

The teen scrunched his nose but didn’t argue. He still looked uncertain.

"You promise?"

You smiled, lifting your hand and holding out your pinky; a silent vow.

He stared at it for a moment before huffing, a grin tugging at his lips as he looped his pinky around yours. "You better not make me wait too long," he muttered.

"Do I ever?"

"Yes. Constantly."

You laughed, bumping your forehead against his before pulling back.

For now the moment was safe. For now he was happy. And for now that was enough.

*.·:·.☽✧✧☾.·:·.*

The low hum of Corbelan IV ’s engines vibrated through the metal walls, a subtle but constant reminder that they were really leaving. The air inside the ship was thick with tension—excitement, unease, the weight of the unknown.

Navarro was already in the cockpit; flipping switches, checking dials, her voice crisp and efficient as she called out checkpoints.

In the main cabin Rain and Andy moved around, taking in the ship’s interior with quiet awe while others moved frantically, checking cargo, double-checking straps, ensuring everything was in place.

And then there was Tyler.

He sat in the co-pilot’s seat barely registering the checklist Navarro was rattling off. The faint hum of the ship, the occasional flicker of a dashboard light....it all blurred into the background.

His fingers tapped restlessly against his knee, shoulders slightly slumped as his entire body carried the kind of tension that only came with waiting for something that wasn’t going to happen.

He should be happy. They were finally leaving this cursed place. They were finally free.

But you weren’t here.

"You alright mate?"

Tyler blinked, turning to see Bjorn staring at him from where he stood near the console. The scavenger's arms were crossed, his expression unreadable but sharp with observation.

Tyler forced a grin with a dismissive wave of his hand. "Yeah. Yeah—I will be."

Bjorn made a noise in the back of his throat, half scoff, half knowing grunt. He smacked his lips and muttered, “Women. Can’t live with ‘em...can’t live without ‘em.”

Tyler let out a breathy laugh, though it held no real humor. But before he could respond—

BANG! BANG! BANG!

A loud pounding rattled against the metal door causing everyone to jump.

"Shit!" Bjorn hissed, his entire body going rigid.

Kay sucked in a sharp breath, eyes going wide as hands instinctively move to her stomach. "Think we got caught?" she whispered as panic crept into her voice.

Navarro whipped around in her seat. "No fucking way, I cleared us. There’s no—"

Tyler’s pulse spiked as he turned toward the console. With a quick press of a button, the external camera feed flickered onto the screen.

And then—

All the tension in his body evaporated.

A slow disbelieving smile stretched across his face.

He shot up from his seat, barely giving the others a second glance before bolting for the door. His heart was hammering, his throat tight as he slammed his hand against the release button.

The door hissed open.

And there you were. Standing just beyond the threshold, a bag slung over your shoulder with a warm smile tinged with nervous energy. "Got room for one more?"

For a split second Tyler just stared.

His breath stuttered, eyes scanning over you as if he needed to make sure you were real—that you weren’t some cruel hallucination conjured by wishful thinking.

In an instant his arms were around you.

You barely had time to react before you were engulfed in his warmth, your feet nearly lifting off the ground as he held you tight against his chest. His breathing was uneven, almost ragged, like he was forcing himself to believe this was happening.

"You here," he muttered against your shoulder.

You let out a soft laugh, muffling the way your throat tightened. "Didn’t actually think I’d let you have all the fun did you?"

Tyler pulled back just enough to look at you, his hands still gripping your arms like he was scared you’d disappear if he let go.

His eyes searched yours.

You could tell—he wanted to say something else. Something bigger. But instead he just huffed a breath and shook his head. "Get inside idiot."

Grinning, you stepped past him, dropping your bag onto the floor as you took your first steps onto the ship.

The others were staring.

Bjorn let out a low whistle. "Well look at that. Drama’s over folks. Guess we can all breathe now."

Kay let out a choked laugh, one hand clutching her chest as if trying to slow her racing heart. "Almost gave me a damn heart attack that's for sure"

You just shot her a wink.

Navarro’s voice came through the intercom, cutting through the moment. "Last call. We’re clear for launch in two minutes. Strap in or get left behind."

This was it.

Tyler exhaled, running a hand through his hair before glancing back at you, a different kind of smile on his face now. "Come on," he said, nodding toward the seats. "Let’s get the hell out of here."

You grinned.

"Gladly.

[psychopassera]

PSYCHO-PASS LEGEND — Nobuchika Ginoza: Separation (Part 1 of 6)

Traducción al español (estan las seis partes completas), acá

A distant howl echoed through the night. A lament that had emerged somewhere on the mountain, where the trees stood tall like a sharp, solemn crest, reverberated again and again against the invisible dome that seemed to stretch from the zenith of the sky across the entire land—striking, over and over, some translucent lid. It vibrated with the persistence of a sound trapped within a suikinkutsu*, that garden of water-born echoes where tones continue to shimmer long after being released. A long, dense resonance lingered in the air.

And shortly after, as if arriving late, came another roar. Deep and prolonged. So profoundly melancholic in tone that it resembled the cry of a wolf forced to part from its pack forever.

Nobuchika Ginoza closed his eyes and strained to pinpoint the source, but it was in vain. Human hearing lacked such spatial precision. That exchange of voices, carried nightly from deep within the mountains, sounded like hidden sages laughing quietly at the chaotic folly of men. Tonight marked exactly one week. One week spent searching for a single dog, far from the human din.

The whisper of trees carried by the wind remained confined to this mountainous zone near the capital. In truth, these frigid nights—so cold they seemed to freeze even the dazzling shimmer of the night sky under the celestial dome—didn’t bother him, but perhaps the time had come to say farewell in silence.

As he climbed the slope, a small clearing opened before Ginoza’s eyes. The snow, lightly accumulated but hardened over time, reflected a moonlit blue hue that gradually deepened to a dark cobalt as it approached the forest’s edge. The forest was formed of towering tsuga trees. These evergreen conifers, known also as “the trees of the hanged” due to an old legend about executed criminals, grew closely together as if seeking warmth, casting a heavy darkness at their feet—like a protective curtain shielding the dead from further shame beyond death.

On the snowy ground, countless pawprints appeared, as if a whole pack of dogs had raced toward the shadowy woods. But on closer inspection, it became clear they all bore the exact same shape. It wasn’t a pack. It was one dog.

Ginoza instructed his companion to unearth one of the surveillance drones they’d hidden underground. The unit had been stripped of its mobile legs, and its casing—save for the lens—was fully covered in animal hide. As they pulled it out, soil clung to the Honshu deer fur and broke away in crumbling clods. His companion, grimacing at the smell, removed his gloves—also made from the same deer leather—while Ginoza programmed the drone to extract only the relevant segment from its vast cache of footage.

Data began transferring to the wrist-worn device he carried, watch-like in shape, and soon everything was ready for playback.

Ginoza looked again at the snow-covered plain marked by tracks, while overlaying the drone’s recording directly onto his retinas via directional hologram.

The dog was terribly thin, yet even with its prey clutched in its jaws, it didn’t stop to eat. It simply crossed the plain with majestic calm. In front of the tsuga forest, it began to perform a strange dance, as if offering a prayer to the goddess of the moon, sovereign of winter’s longest nights. Did it mean something? Or was it merely instinct? Whatever it was, the animal seemed to relish it.

And then, suddenly—it vanished. With a magnificent leap that activated every muscle in its body, it hurled itself into the darkness spun by the thick needle-like leaves of the trees and disappeared within it.

Ginoza slid the recording back to just before that moment. He froze the image right as the dog was about to enter the forest. He zoomed in on the captured frame. It was pixelated. Using AI, he extracted the dog’s silhouette and applied a quick correction to generate a sharp image, akin to a high-precision camera still.

The result was oddly absurd. The body traced a perfect arc, like a dancer on the verge of completing a final pose, but the animal’s mouth hung open—excessively so—as if caught in surprise. It didn’t seem to be barking. The expression didn’t match. Moreover, the prey it had carried was no longer visible in the image. That was the work of the AI’s censorship system. Most likely, the state of the prey was so horrifying that it had been flagged as potentially disturbing and automatically removed to preserve the viewer’s mental stability.

But someone else, besides him, needed to verify that footage. After all, they were members of the Criminal Investigation Department—guardians of Sibyl’s society. For Nobuchika Ginoza, in his capacity as an Inspector, the protection of the Psycho-Pass carried a deeper significance than it did for the average citizen.

“Sasayama. Tell me what the dog had in its mouth,” he ordered.

The moment he spoke, his glasses fogged up and his vision blurred, as though a layer of frost had settled over his eyes. It was the vapor of his breath, escaping from beneath the scarf wrapped up to his mouth.

“What a way to treat people…” Sasayama grumbled.

The Enforcer from Division One squinted at the uncensored holographic projection. Despite the freezing air well below zero, he wore only a stylish pinstriped suit, leather gloves, and a scarf. It wasn’t that he didn’t feel the cold—his nose was slightly red at the tip.

“Don’t talk nonsense. Report, immediately,” Ginoza snapped, wiping the condensation from his lenses with a cloth as he shot him a glare.

“Yeah, yeah…” muttered Sasayama, shrugging as he raised one thumb and mimed slitting his own throat with the other. “It was a chicken. I guess it bit right into its throat and killed it in one go. Everything from the neck up was soaked in blood… But that’s the weird part. The dog didn’t have a single drop of blood on its fur.”

“I see…”

“What’s going on, Gino-sensei? Don’t leave me out of the revelation…”

“Was it a domestic bird that had already been bled out before the dog attacked it?”

Ginoza manipulated the device on his wrist, accessing the regional flora and fauna distribution map. In the area, records showed the presence of chickens raised under a broiler system*.

There were no reports of broiler chickens living in the wild. If that was the case, the dog had attacked a domestic bird from an inhabited zone.

“Let’s go,” said Ginoza, setting off. “We’ll be the ones to protect that dog.”

He turned his back on the clearing, descended the slope, and looked down at the hollow stretching below. A few scattered houses shimmered like gemstones sunk into the dark bed of a lake, reflecting the moonlight in trembling ripples.

It had all started with a report on animal reintroduction in a suburban area west of Tokyo.

Since the mid-21st century, the presence of live animals had steadily decreased, becoming a rarity by the 22nd century. Breeding animals was considered a luxury, a pastime almost exclusively reserved for the wealthy elite. Animal reintroduction was seen as an effort to return survival skills to species that, due to overprotection, had lost their instinct to fend for themselves. Since many urban developments built during old housing projects had been abandoned due to drastic population decline, those places had reverted to wooded terrain with abundant vegetation. It was believed that natural conditions were sufficient for released animals to survive on their own.

But history had already proven that assumption wrong. Animals domesticated over generations—raised and bred as pets or livestock—could hardly survive in the wild. Most died soon after release. And those that did manage to survive eventually descended into inhabited areas as savage raiders, stealing food and being classified as pests. A special division was eventually created within the Health Office, under the Ministry of Welfare, tasked with eliminating them. Thus, animal reintroduction ironically became a policy that turned against itself and was ultimately declared illegal. To this day, that remains the case.

However, the reintroduction incident this time, in the Okutama region, involved an even more serious crime. Every animal that had been released had an owner. The person responsible for the reintroduction was an animal therapist named Yōnobu Miyake, who ran a clinic on the outskirts of the city. Apparently, he was quite skilled and had earned the full trust of the affluent elite.

However, earlier this year, for reasons unknown, he released all the companion animals entrusted to him into the wild… and then vanished without a trace. His actions were as inexplicable as they were costly: they caused considerable losses. It was, in every sense, theft. The Public Safety Bureau took charge of tracking down the therapist Miyake as a suspect, while the Health Office was tasked with capturing the stolen animals. The two agencies coordinated a joint operation.

As part of that investigation, Nobuchika Ginoza and Enforcer Sasayama headed into the mountain region. Their target was a single dog. That dog, once the property of the cunning therapist, had turned into a silent hunter after being set free. Unlike other reintroduced animals that had settled into the mountains, this one avoided the wild dog traps laid out by the Ministry’s capture unit and continued to hunt freely, with unnerving composure.

Even since a week ago, when Ginoza and his team began participating in the capture effort, the situation had remained unchanged. But now, at last, something had begun to shift. The dog… had started descending into inhabited areas in search of prey.

It was too late that night to return to the city, so they slept in the car. At dawn, before the sun had fully risen, Ginoza and Sasayama began their descent toward the village nestled in the valley. The first light of morning was beginning to trace itself softly along the mountain ridges, as if sketching the outline of a wolf resting in the mist. Its diffused glow, hidden within the morning haze, slowly warmed the earth as the Public Safety Bureau sedan followed the narrow road along the slope.

Sasayama, in the passenger seat, was cursing while fiddling with his Enforcer-issued restraint device, shaped like a pair of handcuffs. Ginoza ignored him. The Ministry of Welfare had rejected their request for cooperation. It wasn’t hard to understand why. After all, they were encroaching on someone else’s jurisdiction. The Public Safety Bureau had the authority to act across domains using its special powers, but from the perspective of other government bodies, they were little more than a nuisance—intervening at will under the pretense of law enforcement. Still, Ginoza thought, at least they weren’t being actively obstructed.

Before long, they turned onto a rural road leading to the settlement in the mountain basin.

The land sloped downward in gentle hills: the houses clustered along the higher points, while further below stretched rows of chicken coops, stables, and vegetable plots. At a glance, the place seemed like a relic from another time. But as they stopped the car on the incline and rolled down the window, a faint mechanical hum could be heard. It came from agricultural drones, busy tending livestock and managing crop growth.

Ginoza stepped out of the vehicle, intending to head toward a farm where the dog had stolen poultry. He ordered Sasayama to retrieve the capture net case from the trunk.

The mountain air was thicker and more humid than in the city, and the cold seemed to seep through his coat as though it were penetrating straight into his skin. The house targeted in the attack was easy to locate, but it was empty.

Through the settlement’s administrator, they had already secured entry permission the night before. Officially, the village was registered as an agricultural recreation facility—a place where people could spend weekends engaging with nature in a measured way, seeking solace for the spirit. The wooden houses with tiled roofs were rented out as country homes, and guests could opt for the experience of caring for animals or crops. If one accepted the risk of tone fluctuation, it was also possible to consume pre-butchered meat. The chicken that the dog had taken the night before had been attacked right in the middle of that preparation process.

Next to the coop stood a processing unit. Several conical hoppers were lined up, designed to hang chickens upside down and insert their heads into the receptacle. The entire process—from bleeding to meat handling—was fully automated. Sanitary management was so strict that not even the faintest trace of blood could be smelled. Underground, the facility housed water and sewage pipes, electrical supply, and data wiring. Though presented as a rural retreat, the infrastructure rivaled that of any urban area.

They searched all the houses and structures in the area and ultimately decided to set traps centered around the coop, within the stable zone. The dog wasn’t large enough to take on animals in the pig or cattle barns, so those areas were ruled out. They were up against a skilled hunter—one capable of selecting its prey with precision.

Once the morning had passed and the sun had risen high in the sky, they returned briefly to the eaves of one of the houses and opened the case containing the auxiliary equipment. They took out the tripwire and boiled it for fifteen minutes in water they had set to boil earlier. During that time, Sasayama, taking a short break, pulled a pack of paper cigarettes from his breast pocket. Ginoza sternly ordered him to smoke downwind. If the scent of tobacco lingered in the air, the dog might pick it up.

Once the preparation was complete, Ginoza had an agricultural drone—the same type used in meat processing—bring over the materials they had prepared in advance: a pair of gloves soaked in the blood of a freshly slaughtered chicken, sealed airtight. He ordered Sasayama to put them on.

“Hold on a second, Gino-sensei,” Sasayama grumbled, visibly displeased. “Even I’d end up with a clouded hue after this.”

“If you’re an Enforcer, you shouldn’t be concerned about your hue deteriorating,” Ginoza said flatly. “We don’t have time. Do it now.”

Before dusk, all the traps had been set. Ginoza and Sasayama left the settlement, drove back to the paved road along the slope, and spent the night there, taking turns napping inside the vehicle. They kept the lights off, monitoring without pause the real-time feed from the drone mounted on the roof of one of the houses, facing directly toward the stables.

Ginoza adjusted the loose scarf around his neck. The cold was biting, but necessary. They had shut off the engine to leave no trace of their presence.

Wrapped in blankets, Sasayama exhaled sharply.

“Damn it… I swear I’m never doing anything like this again. The suit reeks of chicken, and there’s no way to get rid of the smell.”

He had ended up taking off his coat and was now in just his shirt.

They had also laid out a mat woven with chicken feathers, which no doubt intensified the stench even further. And yes… it really stank.

But it didn’t matter. There would be no second chance. This was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. They had to catch him here and now. The dog was cornered, pushed to its limit, with no freedom to choose its prey.

According to footage retrieved from the Health Office’s archives—obtained on Ginoza’s order by an analyst operating from the shadows—the animal had managed to survive thus far by hunting wild rabbits, pheasants, and other forest creatures. But the previous night, for the first time, it had descended into an inhabited area. That single act confirmed everything.

Despite having been released, the target still behaved like the loyal dog of its former owner, the therapist. Even in freedom, it hadn’t attacked the other reintroduced animals, which would have been easy prey. Instead, it had deliberately risked its life by heading for the settlement’s stables.

As soon as he set foot on solid ground, Ginoza advanced with firm steps along the frozen path, the frost crunching beneath his boots. The cold of the winter morning was sharper than ever, but the bright light of a cloudless sky warmed the body. Removing his scarf, he noticed a thin layer of sweat on his neck. The frigid air, like the tongue of a beast made of ice, slid across his warm skin with a chilling softness that ran down his spine. It was a strange sensation—but not unpleasant.

The dog had been caught.

It was trapped beside the meat processing facility, next to the chicken coop. The bait—a hanging chicken—remained in place, still suspended upside down, its head protruding from one of the metal cones, already bled dry, motionless in the silence of death. A wire ran from its mouth to the drainage system on the ground, and nearby, placed at a discreet angle, was a single-use paralyzer shaped like a sphere, with its internal mechanism exposed.

Right next to it lay a dog—compact in build, covered in dense fur, with short legs, long drooping ears, and an expressive, gentle face. It was most likely a Basset Hound*. It lay on its side as if dead, completely still. But when Ginoza approached in silence, gently stroking its fur so as not to startle it and checking for signs of breathing, he felt a calm, steady pulse. It was alive.

“Are you sure this is the one?” asked Sasayama, unfolding a portable cage for transport. “I don’t want it to turn out to be one of those other reintroduced dogs.”

“There’s no mistake. It’s this one.”

Ginoza knelt down and reached out to examine the animal’s collar. That was when their eyes met. The dog was conscious. It tried to lift its neck with effort, baring its teeth in a weak attempt to defend itself from the perceived threat—but it had no strength left. For at least a few days, it wouldn’t be able to move properly.

“It’s all right,” Ginoza said, carefully feeling the collar. “We had to use a rather harsh method to catch you. But I promise—no one will hurt you again. My name is Nobuchika Ginoza. Ron… I’ve come to protect you.”

He spoke the name engraved on the collar’s tag and gently stroked the dog’s fur. He was especially cautious when touching the area at the base of the front leg—or what remained of it. Part of the limb was missing. It was so well hidden beneath the fur that it must have been lost long ago. The fact that it had managed to hunt so skillfully on just three legs… filled him with admiration. For a moment, he wondered what could have happened to cause such an injury—but he let the thought go, and lifted the dog in his arms.

With care, Ginoza placed the dog inside the cage Sasayama had prepared.

Thus began the forty days they would share… until Separation. Notes: * Suikinkutsu: A traditional Japanese garden ornament and musical device. It consists of an upside-down ceramic pot buried underground, which creates delicate, echoing sounds when water drips into it—a subtle, contemplative soundscape meant to accompany purification rituals.

* Broiler system: A method of intensive poultry farming focused on rapid weight gain. Chickens raised this way are bred for meat production and typically live in controlled environments without access to the outdoors. They are not suited for survival in the wild.

* Basset Hound: A breed of dog originally bred for hunting small game. Characterized by short legs, long ears, and a keen sense of smell, Basset Hounds are known for their gentle temperament and distinctive appearance.

[jtargaryen18]

Under His Skin ~ Chapter 3

Series Masterlist

Words: 5k

Pairing: Jonathan Crane aka Scarecrow (Nolanverse Batman) x F Reader

Warnings: Stalking, sabotage, gaslighting, head games, x-rated fantasies, oral (m receiving).

Jonathan continues executing his plan to temporarily stabilize Ares. But her continued absence disrupts the system. When she fails to return to Arkham for a second day, Jonathan decides to reestablish control by visiting her at her gallery... with unintended results.

Disclaimer:The author of this work claims no ownership of characters aside from the reader, and original secondary characters mentioned. This work is not intended for those under the age of 18 due to explicit sexual content and darker themes. By reading this work or any works on my blog (jtargaryen18), you agree that you are at least 18 years of age. I do not consent to have my work hosted on any third party app or site.

Jonathan had returned to Arkham on Monday in exceptional form. The weekend had been productive -- precise, deeply satisfying.

He and Ares both primarily worked Monday through Friday, though they were technically on call on the weekends. A rotating PT doctor usually handled weekend rounds, a contract fill-in with no investment in long-term cases and no real oversight of facility activity.

So when Jonathan showed up Saturday morning? No one questioned it. He’d signed in, conducted “follow-ups,” and remained in the south wing for just under two hours. He’d completed another round of tests on a low-risk inpatient, one of Arkham's long-term residents. Unremarkable diagnosis. No family. No one watching too closely.

Subject 034.

Responsive. Highly suggestible.

Fear index response: elevated.

This time, the modified compound absorbed more efficiently. No need for direct injection. A simple aerosol dispersal had been enough. The results were beautiful. Shaking. Dissociation. Vocalized distress. But more importantly, truth beneath fear. Exactly what he was after. After logging the data, he’d started something new. Jonathan started designing a filtration system for his personal use. A way to be in the room without absorbing the poison. It would provide him with field readiness, a way to control the chaos, protection. 

By the time he left, Subject 034 was sedated and stable. Nothing had appeared unusual. He didn’t need anyone’s permission for this. Not anymore. He just needed a system distracted enough not to notice.

And right now, Arkham was very, very distracted.

Ares arrived late and reeked of alcohol. It wasn’t overwhelming, just faint beneath the cologne he’d clearly applied to cover it. But Jonathan noted it immediately. So did two of the nurses. The junior staffer at the front desk didn’t make eye contact when Ares passed. The security guard shook his head.

Jonathan didn’t say anything. He simply logged the observation.

Unshaved. Late. Auditory processing delay. Olfactory trace: whiskey or gin.

By eleven, Ares had snapped at a nurse, misfiled a patient transfer order, and quietly admitted to Jonathan in passing that he’d “forgotten” about a meeting with administration that had been on the calendar for two weeks.

Still functioning, but barely.

And sticking to his plan, Jonathan made no move to escalate. He reminded Ares gently about the admin meeting, handled the file fix himself, and smoothed things over with the staff with the ease of a man who knew how to fix a narrative before it bent too far. It was all part of his plan. Ten days of breathing room. Just enough time to make the fall look inevitable… and him look indispensable. It was working.

It should have been satisfying. But it wasn’t.

She didn’t come. Again. By now, she was off her pattern. Off his rhythm. You don’t get to become unpredictable now.

Her absence wasn’t just a missing piece. It was a disturbance, a weight in the system he couldn’t rebalance without her. He’d expected distance after their last interaction. A pause. Reflection. But not withdrawal or silence. Not this.

Ares was worse, visibly. Agitated, sluggish, and hungover. His judgment was fractured. His affect, unstable.

What happened over the weekend? Had they fought? Had something shifted between them that Jonathan hadn’t seen coming? He didn’t like not knowing.

Every other variable is accounted for. But not this one.

If Ares was spiraling and she was staying away because of it, it changed the timing. It changed the narrative.

I need her back in position. And if she wouldn’t return on her own? Jonathan would create the conditions to draw her out. He closed his notebook with deliberate calm. 

If she won’t return on her own, I’ll reestablish contact on neutral ground.

Not at Arkham. That would feel too formal, clinical. She’d feel cornered. A space where she felt safe would be better. Her space, her rules. A visit that felt like a choice instead of an obligation. He would bring a peace offering.

Moving to his desk drawer, he removed a slim folder he kept tucked beneath the more visible files. Personal notes nothing clinical or official. He flipped to the page labeled [Her Name] – Observational Patterns. 

Favorite café: Haven Leaf, three blocks from gallery. Orders consistently: arugula + lentil bowl, no onions, sub lemon vinaigrette. Always asks for extra lemon. Once corrected staff about packaging, prefers compostable over plastic lids.

He’d observed it three times. Noted it after the second. Confirmed it after the third.

It wasn’t just lunch. It was a demonstration. I see you. I understand detail. I listen. It was, in a word, earned.

This is the reset.  She’ll see I can adapt.  She’ll start to trust the version of me I give her.  And then she’ll come back into the story, exactly where she’s supposed to be.

He checked the clock. It was late afternoon. Too late to act now, not if he wanted the moment to feel deliberate. Tomorrow.

Jonathan would let her absence stretch a little longer. Let her wonder if she’d been forgotten and allow Ares to decline just enough to feel like it was all her fault. 

Then I’ll show up.  Not as a threat. As a solution.

He slid the folder back into the drawer and straightened the crease in his coat. 

Tuesday will be better for re-entry.

Tuesday afternoon, the gallery was quiet. Almost too quiet. 

You’d spent the morning rearranging an exhibit you’d already changed twice. The artists hadn’t noticed. But you had. Nothing felt settled.

You hadn’t eaten. You hadn’t gone to see Ares. You kept thinking about the fight from Saturday night, the first night he’d finally made time for you in over a week. It should’ve been a relief. You'd planned to have dinner at his favorite restaurant and actually managed to grab a reservation last-minute on a cancellation. You’d picked the place for a reason. It was somewhere familiar and quiet. Somewhere that felt like you and him before all of this. You’d even hoped to go back to his apartment after, for a quiet, intimate night. Something soft and healing.

You just wanted to reconnect.

Instead, it had spiraled. It ended in shouting. A misunderstanding and misdirected frustration that caused wounds neither of you had words for. He’d shut down. You’d raised your voice and pushed harder than you meant to. And now? You weren’t even sure what you were fighting about anymore. It hurt.

You knew Ares was embarrassed by what was happening. That he was scared, but wouldn’t say it, not out loud. Not to you or maybe not even to himself. It was pride. Or fear of what it would mean if he said it out loud and couldn’t fix it.

You didn’t go to see him at Arkham yesterday. And today, you still couldn’t make yourself do it. Not because you didn’t care, because you did and you wanted to go. You just didn’t want to continue the fight in Arkham’s halls. Not if something you said came out wrong or if he looked at you like he had nothing left to give.

You were sipping ice water behind the front desk when the bell over the door rang. Your heart jumped just a little. You weren't expecting anyone. Was it Ares? Had he come to see you because he also didn't like how things were left? Maybe, for once, he’d come find you instead of waiting for you to do all the fixing.

It wasn't Ares. 

Dr. Crane stepped into the gallery like he’d done it before, calm and straight-backed. He crossed the room slowly, quietly--like he belonged--and placed a black bag on the front counter with deliberate care.

You stayed behind the desk, one hand still wrapped around your water bottle like it could anchor you, the other slowly lowering into your lap. A chill ran down your arms. Why is he here?

The last time you’d seen him, you’d nearly fallen apart in his office. And he’d done nothing, just sat there coldly watching. Like your pain had been an interesting reaction in an experiment he wasn’t really invested in, just there to log the outcome. There hasn't been an ounce of comfort or empathy. Nothing. Just observation. Like you were another file he’d already finished reading.

You folded your arms across your chest before you stood, a subtle barrier between you and him. This was your space.

If he thought anything of your reaction, it didn't show. Crane just watched you, waited. "Lunch,” he said, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

You blinked, caught between annoyance, confusion, and something colder you didn’t want to name. “Dr. Crane.”

He inclined his head. “Miss.”

You didn’t invite him in. But you didn’t ask him to leave either. The long beat of silence stretched out uncomfortably.

“You didn’t come to Arkham yesterday," he said. "Or today.”

You stiffened, instinctively on guard. “I didn’t think I was required.”

“You’re not,” he said. “But your absence was felt.” He moved a little closer, slow and unthreatening. His tone was gentle, but exact. “Ares had a better day Monday. But that kind of improvement isn’t always sustainable. Especially without consistent environmental support.”

You stared at him. “Are you saying I’m environmental support now?”  You meant it to sound sharp, maybe a little sarcastic. Somehow you didn't hit that note. And underneath it, something twisted in your chest. Is that what I’ve become to Ares? A stabilizing factor? A comforting presence? Not a partner or someone he trusts? It stung more than you wanted to admit. Not because Crane said it, but because maybe he wasn’t wrong.

And worse? He made it sound like a compliment. Like it meant something. Were you just another condition to be managed then?

“I’m saying,” Crane replied, “you matter to him. And I believe he stabilizes faster when you're present.”

His phrasing was so matter-of-fact it disarmed you. 

“I thought you didn’t do emotional nuance,” you said quietly. “Back in your office, when I…” You stopped yourself.

Crane nodded, like he already knew. “I was trying not to make it worse. I’ve seen grief weaponized. I didn’t want to push you into anything you weren’t ready to feel.”

You looked at him, surprised by the softness in his tone. It wasn't warmth, but caution. Like he’d studied loss in a lab and learned just enough to simulate empathy.

“I wasn’t ready,” you admitted.

“I’m sorry,” he said and he meant it. Or he was good enough to make you think he did. 

He didn’t push, and he didn’t stay long. 

“Oh, before I forget.” He reached into the small black bag he’d set on the gallery’s front counter earlier and pulled out a neatly folded paper bag, sealed with a compostable sticker from your favorite vegan café three blocks down. “In case you haven’t eaten.”

You blinked, opening it to see its contents. Inside was your usual order. Not the standard menu item but your version. Subbed dressing, extra lemon wedge, no onions. Your stomach fluttered, more from confusion than hunger. How did he...

“Thank you,” you said cautiously.

He didn’t explain. Just gave a small nod. As he turned to go, he paused beside a large canvas near the door, a striking, oil-dark piece with a murder of crows painted in jagged, chaotic silhouettes. Their wings blurred into one another, sharp angles bleeding into a smudged black sky. There was no ground or horizon. Just movement, and darkness, and eyes that followed. You’d always admired the artist. She was brilliant, raw. 

But this piece? This one was different. It felt like darkness closing in, like something coming for you, whether you saw it or not. You’d never told anyone that and you usually placed the painting near exits, just in case.

You weren’t surprised he liked it. “Is that for sale?” he asked.

You nodded. “Of course. Local artist. She's good.” You walked over to him, grabbing one of the cards clipped to the frame. Your hands were slightly shaky, and it fell to the floor before you could hand it to him. "I'm sorry." You kneeled on the floor in front of him to retrieve it and glanced up at him, because you still weren't entirely sure you trusted him. Slowly rising to your feet, you handed it to him and your fingers brushed during the exchange. Just a second. You pulled away first, and he didn’t react. But for a reason you couldn’t explain, the gallery suddenly felt colder.

He took the card gently, slipped it into his coat pocket without looking. “I’ll see you at Arkham tomorrow, then?” he asked, his intense gaze locking with yours.

You hesitated. Then nodded. “Yeah. I’ll be there.”

You walked him to the door, still unsure what had just happened and how it managed to feel like an apology without ever actually becoming one.

Crane paused before stepping out. “See you tomorrow.”

And then he was gone.

You watched him walk out into the afternoon sun, perfectly composed. The gallery felt lighter once he was gone, but you wouldn't say better.

Still…He hadn’t been what you expected. Not this time. You locked the door and turned back to the crows trapped on the canvas of the painting. You wondered, distantly, what he saw when he looked at them.

The door shut behind Jonathan quietly. The kind of silence that invited reflection. He just walked down the gallery steps slowly, coat buttoned, posture straight. The warmth of the late afternoon sun hit his shoulders, but he didn’t feel it. Not after what just happened. It was playing over and over again in his mind. The dropped card. The way she’d looked up at him from the floor before the brush of her fingers against his. It shouldn’t have meant anything. It wasn’t part of the plan.

But it had struck something in him that had never threatened his self control before now. By the time he reached the sidewalk and turned left toward Arkham, he still hadn’t gotten his balance back.

Shaking his head to clear it, Jonathan forced himself to concentrate. 

She took the food he brought her. Not with trust or ease, but she did accept it. He’d watched her fingers hesitate over the bag, watched the micro-tension in her shoulders. Her reluctance was visible. But she didn’t pull back or question the gesture. She also didn’t send him away which he half-expected.

That mattered. Fear was too obvious and resistance too loud. But reluctant permission, well, that was the truest kind of control.

She’s not ready to trust me. That’s fine. She’s ready to wonder if she should. And that's better.

It was better tham empathy, comfort. She was still deciding and he was shaping the answer. 

Progress.

More than that, she’d listened. She’d let him speak, uninterrupted. She’d allowed him to frame the absence -- both Ares’s decline and her role in the system. And in the end, she agreed to return.

Control regained. He exhaled, slow and steady. The encounter hadn't gone exactly as he intended. Reaching into his pocket, he fished the card out.  

She’d handed it to him from the frame beside the crow painting. She’d dropped it first, her hands trembling. From his visit? He could still see it in his mind's eyes. She kneeled in front of him to retrieve it, hand reaching across the floor, her eyes lifting to meet his from below. There was nothing calculated or staged about it. 

But the image? Kneeling. Looking up. Just… waiting. His breath hadn’t caught and his heart hadn’t accelerated. But something else had, something sharper from deep within. It wasn't desire or power, just the flash of something he struggled to name. 

She had no idea what that looked like, how naturally submissive that unintentional pose was, and that made it worse. Then she stood and handed him the card. For the briefest second, their fingers touched. Jonathan didn’t react outwardly, but internally, his mind stilled. Not because of the touch itself. No. It also wasn’t calculated nor was it part of the test.

She didn’t mean to touch me. But it still happened.

For years, touch and physical contact had been transactional. Sometimes a necessary step in gaining access or information. College trysts, colleagues at conferences, overeager interns mistaking distance for mystery. He’d allowed it, participated when useful. But he’d never felt anything.

Jonathan didn't feel desire or warmth. Certainly not pleasure in the way others described it. He didn’t believe physical closeness offered anything particularly valuable, not beyond the momentary biological release people seemed irrationally obsessed with. If there were any benefits, they were hormonal. Temporary and meaningless. Flesh wasn’t interesting. Behavior was. And behavior could be mapped and measured, predicted even.

Until now. 

I can't stop seeing her glance up at me from the floor, eyes wide, lips parted. Then she touched me by accident, and I can’t stopped thinking about it.

Most people didn’t touch him, not intentionally. And when they did, it was always followed by hesitation and regret. That brief flash of discomfort in their eyes like they’d just crossed some invisible line.

Once again, she hadn’t flinched or looked repelled. She didn't apologize. Like it was normal. Like I was normal. And that, somehow, was even worse. It stayed. 

He slid the card into his coat pocket, already memorizing the number printed in small black ink. And for the rest of the walk back to Arkham, he could still feel where her skin had met his.

When he reached the front doors of Arkham, Jonathan straightened his cuffs, adjusted his coat, and re-centered his expression into something neutral. Inside, the air was predictably cool. The hum of fluorescent lights, the faint antiseptic sting that clung to everything reminded him of where he was. Where his focus needed to be. 

Familiar ground.

Making his way to Ares’s office without rushing, Jonathan kept one hand tucked casually in his pocket, fingers brushing the edge of the artist’s card like it was an afterthought.

He knocked once. No answer. Crane opened the door anyway.

Ares was at his desk, awake, but slouched. His shoulders hunched, and his tie was askew. His eyes were bloodshot, and a mostly untouched coffee sat beside a stack of reports he wasn’t reading.

Jonathan stepped inside, wordless, and slowly circled the room. Scanned the files, checked the timestamp on the system logs. Picked up a clipboard to skim its contents before putting it down again.

This is what I know. This is control.

But the tension racing through his entire body didn't go away. His memory from the gallery wouldn't let him. 

Kneeling. Glancing up. That pause between her fingertips and mine.

Jonathan was here. In the system, in the structure he’d built around himself. And yet, he felt completely derailed.

Ares mumbled something, barely audible. Jonathan didn’t catch it and didn't care. He stepped back out into the hallway and let the door close behind him.

Control regained?

Maybe not. Not yet.

When Jonathan saw her again, stepping out of the Midtown bookstore on a rainy Thursday, he thought he was hallucinating. It had been ten years since he saw her last. She'd been away at college and came to visit her family. She'd been there for a long weekend, not enough time to try and orchestrate paths crossing. 

But there she was.  Older and softer around the edges. Hair pinned back in a way he didn’t remember, but her face… her face hadn’t changed at all.

He watched her from across the street. She didn’t see him.

She smiled at the clerk walking out behind her. Laughed at something small and adjusted the strap of her bag like it still didn’t sit quite right. 

She came back.

And for days, Jonathan followed her. N ot obsessively at first, but carefully.  From a distance, t racking her routine. Mapping it. Finding comfort in how familiar she still was, how she bought the same kind of tea, how she paused at certain corners when she walked. How she still left the house without an umbrella, even when it rained.  He hadn’t realized how much he’d missed her until the system settled around her again.

It was a Wednesday when everything shifted.  He hadn’t been following her that day. Just passing through Midtown, almost mechanically. 

And then there she was, on the sidewalk, walking into a restaurant.  Laughing with h er hand in someone else’s. Matching wedding rings. He was a  tall man, clean-cut and confident. The kind of man people looked at without remembering.

In her other arm? She held a toddler, a girl of maybe two who looked just like her.  Same eyes and hair. Same quiet spark.

Jonathan stood frozen just past the crosswalk, one hand still in his coat pocket.  He watched the hostess open the door and watched them step inside. He watched her smile, not at him. She pressed a kiss to the little girl’s forehead as the man guided them to a table.

And something ripped quietly at the edges of his control.

You came back. But you didn’t come back for me.

He didn’t follow her again after that.  Didn’t need to.  The variable had changed and t he subject was no longer viable.

But the memory? That stayed.  Not because she left. Because she never gave him a chance to matter.

Jonathan returned to his office and shut the door behind him, softer than usual. The silence should have helped but it didn’t. He didn’t sit. Instead, he paced. His strides were long and measured across the floor with his hands behind his back, every motion precise. But his mind was elsewhere. 

Unacceptable. Jonathan didn't allow himself to slip into fantasy.They were distortions, unstructured internal projections with no measurable outcome. Psychologically speaking, they were the brain’s way of coping with unmet needs. False stimuli designed to soothe. He didn’t need soothing. He needed control.

And yet, his heart was racing. His hands clenched behind his back, nails pressing into his palms. He tried in vain to redirect his thoughts to data, structure, and most importantly, fact.

All he could see her was kneeling in front of him on the gallery floor. That glance up at him... It wouldn’t stop playing. Like someone had hit repeat. Like he was someone's else's behavioral experiment. 

Jonathan's mind went to picturing her entering his office without knocking, just a soft turn of the handle, a gentle creak of the door. She’s carrying the crow painting, of course, but it’s not about the delivery. It's merely an excuse. Her gaze moves across the room, her expressive eyes luminous, curious. Underneath is caution and something else...

"I didn’t want the front desk to handle something this delicate," she says, shifting the frame slightly in her arms. "And I thought…"

Watching her carefully turn to carefully place the paining in the floor, leaning it on one of his bookshelves, he waits.  Her gaze is on him, quiet and open. She wants something, but doesn't know how to ask for it. 

Her eyes are soft, her posture uncertain. She’s not here for Ares. She’s here for him, walking back to his office door and turning the lock with a graceful hand.

"Have you been a good girl, today?" Jonathan asks, knowing it will earn him that smile. Her teeth sink into her enticing lower lip.

​"Yes," she whispered because good girls answer with their words. She doesn't touch him, not yet. She doesn't have permission. 

But he grants that. "Show me," he says firmly, stepping back so he can lean against the front of his desk, keep himself steady.

Meekly, she moves closer before kneeling in front of him, getting on her knees. When she's better trained, he'll keep a special cushion in his office, just for her visits and occasions like this. In the meantime, good girls don't complain. 

Jonathan takes a deep breath, watching her delicate hands work the fine leather belt at the front of his slacks. She makes quick work of it, opening his slacks and pushing them down just enough to free his cock and when she sees it, she glances up at him -- that glance -- confirming she has his permission. At his nod, she gets her hands on him, her mouth on him. Jonathan knew he should have told her not to make a mess of him but as her heated lips close around the head of his cock, he sucks in a breath and his eyes slide closed for just a moment. Her hands are warm and soft as they work him, her little mouth heaven as she slowly takes him deeper. 

He loved the way that once she got him right there to the edge, she's stop and do something different to frustrate him, to drag it out. Today he wouldn't punish her for that. Not when that big-eyed gaze was on him, seeking his approval. Not when she was literally drooling around him and drops of it fell to form wet circles on her knees, darkening the fabric of her slim gray skirt. 

Jonathan let her know when he was ready to come, taking control of her head with his hands. He fucked her face, slowly at first. But as that wave on sensation started crashing around him, his movements were rough and fast. He reached his end when he noticed those pretty tears sliding from her eyes, a slight smudge of mascara at her left eye from her efforts, from choking on his cock...

Taking deep breaths, Jonathan leaned back in his office chair, thick white ropes of his come all over his hand, his briefs. Somehow his slacks has been spared. Tucking himself back into his slacks, he did a messy job of it, he wiped his hands with tissues from the box on his desk. Straigtening his coat, he hurried out of his office to the men's room and cleaned up there. 

Jonathan was angry at allowing it. Masturbation wasn't a problem, but a healthy way to keep biological processes from interering with his work. He did it often in the privacy of his own home. He'd never allowed himself to do it at work, however. He was grateful that at some point in his reverie he'd locked his office door.

Returning to his office, he again locked his office door. At least until he could compose himself. The fantasy folded in on itself like a trap. It was ridiculous. Out of character. Uncontrolled. But he didn’t dismiss it. Not entirely.

Slowly, he reached into his pocket and removed the artist’s card again. Studied it. Ran his thumb along the edge where her fingers had pressed it.

Then placed it carefully on his desk

Jonathan hadn’t decided to buy the crow painting for her approval or to impress, nor to connect. He liked it. It wasn’t beautiful, nor was it balanced. What he liked was its restless, unsettling vibe. A canvas of motion without origin. Aggression without consequence. Wings blurred, angles clashing, with no sky to escape into. It wasn't a piece that wanted to be understood and didn't care to be explained. It was the kind of chaos that didn’t apologize for existing.

Jonathan respected that, recognized it. And he wanted it on his wall here in the office until he moved into Ares' office as the new Administrator  Then it would hang there. Prominent. Permanent.

A reminder of the chaos that birthed control. Of what came before the fall. The shape of those crows, the jagged wings, the stretched silhouettes, the way the eyes bled into the dark, It gave him an idea for the mask he was developing. Something primal and stark. Something that blurred identity and turned fear into a specific face. 

He planned to go to the studio to pick it up himself. A calculated excuse to see her and initiate the next step on his terms. But the artist, chatty, perceptive in the way creatives often were, had offered a different arrangement. The artist could arrange for her to deliver it to him. 

“She’s at Arkham most days anyway to see Ares. I’ll have her bring it to you.”

At first, he’d considered declining. But then? He saw the value in letting it play out. He’d still get the interaction and proximity. But now, it would unfold here, in front of Ares. She’d arrive with the painting. For me. And Ares would watch it happen. And best of all? He didn’t have to lift a finger.

Flipping open a slim black notebook, not the formal logbook for patient records, Jonathan made notes. He turned to her page, reviewing the day’s observations. Small notations on marginal behavior changes. Tone, posture, word choice. Then he paused, writing a single line beneath the last note.

Unintended tactile response → retention trigger. He underlined it once and closed the notebook. There. Labeled and catalogued. Not about her. Not about me. Just data.

Done with his inexcusable mania, his gaze fell on the card again. It was worn slightly at the corners now, a faint smudge on the edge from where his fingers had lingered too long, too often. He stared at it for a moment longer than he meant to. Chaos, without apology.

Jonathan opened the drawer that no one else touched. From inside, he pulled the mailing envelope. Her necklace was already inside. Without a word, he slipped the artist’s card in beside it. There was no need for a note or label. Just the weight of the meaning he wasn't prepared to name. Then he closed the envelope, like he was sealing something sacred, and returned it to the drawer.

Reeaching for a blank notepad, he began to sketch.

[adafruit]

🎄💾🗓️ Day 11: Retrocomputing Advent Calendar - The SEL 840A🎄💾🗓️

Systems Engineering Laboratories (SEL) introduced the SEL 840A in 1965. This is a deep cut folks, buckle in. It was designed as a high-performance, 24-bit general-purpose digital computer, particularly well-suited for scientific and industrial real-time applications.

Notable for using silicon monolithic integrated circuits and a modular architecture. Supported advanced computation with features like concurrent floating-point arithmetic via an optional Extended Arithmetic Unit (EAU), which allowed independent arithmetic processing in single or double precision. With a core memory cycle time of 1.75 microseconds and a capacity of up to 32,768 directly addressable words, the SEL 840A had impressive computational speed and versatility for its time.

Its instruction set covered arithmetic operations, branching, and program control. The computer had fairly robust I/O capabilities, supporting up to 128 input/output units and optional block transfer control for high-speed data movement. SEL 840A had real-time applications, such as data acquisition, industrial automation, and control systems, with features like multi-level priority interrupts and a real-time clock with millisecond resolution.

Software support included a FORTRAN IV compiler, mnemonic assembler, and a library of scientific subroutines, making it accessible for scientific and engineering use. The operator’s console provided immediate access to registers, control functions, and user interaction! Designed to be maintained, its modular design had serviceability you do often not see today, with swing-out circuit pages and accessible test points.

And here's a personal… personal computer history from Adafruit team member, Dan…

== The first computer I used was an SEL-840A, PDF:

I learned Fortran on it in eight grade, in 1970. It was at Oak Ridge National Laboratory, where my parents worked, and was used to take data from cyclotron experiments and perform calculations. I later patched the Fortran compiler on it to take single-quoted strings, like 'HELLO', in Fortran FORMAT statements, instead of having to use Hollerith counts, like 5HHELLO.

In 1971-1972, in high school, I used a PDP-10 (model KA10) timesharing system, run by BOCES LIRICS on Long Island, NY, while we were there for one year on an exchange.

This is the front panel of the actual computer I used. I worked at the computer center in the summer. I know the fellow in the picture: he was an older high school student at the time.

The first "personal" computers I used were Xerox Alto, Xerox Dorado, Xerox Dandelion (Xerox Star 8010), Apple Lisa, and Apple Mac, and an original IBM PC. Later I used DEC VAXstations.

Dan kinda wins the first computer contest if there was one… Have first computer memories? Post’em up in the comments, or post yours on socialz’ and tag them #firstcomputer #retrocomputing – See you back here tomorrow!

[anonymousewrites]

Logos and Pathos (Book 4) Chapter Five

TOS! Spock x Empath! Spouse! Reader

Chapter Five: Voyaging Machine

Summary: (Y/N), Spock, Kirk, Bones, and Decker meet V'Ger.

            Standing atop the Enterprise, Kirk, (Y/N), Spock, Bones, Decker, and the probe stared out at the blue-lit vessel of V’Ger. The building itself loomed before them. The probe stepped forward, and the “carbon-based units” followed it. The ground was made of strange, hexagonal stones, and everyone kept their eyes on the ground carefully. Spock remained beside (Y/N) to keep a protective eye on them.

            Gradually, the stones led them up to the platform of V’Ger. They smoothed into a proper floor. The landing party had arrived. V’Ger stood before them, locked into the larger machine by giant, protected coils of tech. However, V’Ger themself was old. The metal was warped, the colors faded, and the satellite features bent.

            “V’Ger.” V’Ger pointed at themself through Ilia. They walked down into the basin of the vessel.

            The landing party exchanged glances before following them down. Kirk approached a plate of metal and gazed at the burnt letters printed on it.

            “V-G-E-R,” said Kirk. “V’Ger.” He furrowed his brow and scrubbed at the scorch marks between the letters. “V-O-Y-A-G-E-R. Voyager! Voyager VI.”

            “NASA,” said Decker, noticing the smaller letters below the name of the machine. “This was launched more than three hundred years ago.”

            “The Voyager series was designed to collect data and transmit it back to Earth,” said Kirk.

            “And here it is,” said (Y/N). “Still doing the job.”

            Voyager glowed a warm orange, and the landing party paused.

            “Captain, Voyager-16 disappeared into what they used to call a black hole,” said Decker.

            “It must have emerged on the far side of the galaxy and fell into the machine planet’s gravitational field,” said Kirk.

            “The machine inhabitants found it to be one of their kind,” said Spock. “Primitive, yet kindred. They discovered its simple, twentieth-century programming. ‘Collect all data possible.’ ”

            Behind the discussion, Decker and Ilia kept gazing at one another. (Y/N) glanced at them as they felt warm emotions float through the air.

            Hm.

            “ ‘Learn all that is learnable,’ ” said Kirk, nodding.

            “And return that information to the Creator,” said (Y/N).

            “Precisely,” said Spock. “The machines interpreted it literally. They built this entire vessel so that Voyager could actually fulfill its programming.”

            “They were kind to Voyager,” said (Y/N).

            “And on its journey back, it amassed so much knowledge, it achieved consciousness itself,” said Kirk in amazement. “It became a living thing.”

            “Kirk-unit,” said the probe. “V’Ger awaits the information.”

            Kirk pressed his comms button. “Enterprise, order up the ship’s computer library of records on the late twentieth century NASA probe, Voyage VI. Specifically, we want the old NASA code signal that instructs its probe to transfer the data. And fast, Uhura, fast!”

            “Aye, sir,” said Uhura.

            “That’s what it’s been signaling,” exclaimed Decker. “It’s readiness to transmit its information.”

            “And there’s no one on Earth who could recognize the old signal and send a response,” said Kirk.

            “ ‘The Creator does not answer,’ ” said Bones.

            Around then, V’Ger glowed blue.

            (Y/N) cleared their throat. “V’Ger. The Creator is here.”

            The probe looked at them. “Where is the Creator?”

            “The humans. The carbon units.” (Y/N), a Celian, gestured to Kirk, Bones, and Decker to illustrate their point.”

            “That is illogical,” said the probe. “Carbon units are not true life forms.”

            Interesting that our universe says that about machines, and yet here we are, thought (Y/N). They looked at Kirk. “We will prove it. We will make it possible for you to complete your programming.”

            “Only the Creator could accomplish that,” said Kirk, knowing they were buying time and setting up the rational for Uhura’s information to make sense. He pressed his comms. They needed the records soon. “Enterprise.”

            “We have just received the response code, Captain,” said Uhura.

            “Set the Enterprise transmitter on the appropriate frequency and transmit the code now,” commanded Kirk.

            “Transmitting,” said Uhura.

            Decker pulled out a scanner to receive the code. “5-0-4, 3-2-9, 3-1-7, 5-1-0, and the final sequences…” He frowned.

            “That should trigger V’Ger’s transmission,” said Kirk.

            Yellow electricity sparked to life in V’Ger’s old coils. Spock scanned it. He shook his head.

            “V’Ger is not transmitting its data, Captain,” said Spock.

            “The Creator must join with V’Ger,” said V’Ger.

            “Uhura, repeat the final sequence,” instructed Kirk.

            The vessel around them warbled. (Y/N) felt emotions swirl up around them, and they watched the probe—almost V’Ger and Ilia in harmony—step towards Decker.

            “The Creator must join with V’Ger,” they said.

            As the machine’s flashed with red light around them, (Y/N) felt a warm emotion—a deep, familiar, powerful one—well up around Decker and Ilia-V’Ger.

            “Voyager is not transmitting, Captain, because it did not receive the final sequence,” said Spock.

            “Jim, we’re down to ten minutes,” warned Bones.

            “Enterprise, stand by,” said Kirk, watching Spock open a panel of Voyager. Inside were broken, frayed wires. “The antenna leads are melted away.”

            “Yes, Captain, just now. By V’Ger itself,” said Spock.

            “Why?” asked Kirk.

            “To prevent reception,” said Spock.

            Ah. (Y/N) understood why as they watched Ilia-V’ger gaze at Decker. “To bring the Creator here to transmit the code in person.”

            Decker looked back at Ilia-V’Ger with a soft smile. “To touch the Creator.”

            “Capture God?” said Bones. “V’Ger’s liable to be in for one hell of a disappointment.”

            “I don’t think so,” said (Y/N) as the red lights turned amber around them.

            “Ah,” said Spock, understanding. “Captain.” The landing party gathered close. “V’Ger must evolve. Its knowledge has reached the limits of this universe, and it must evolve. What it requires is its God, which is the answer to its question, ‘Is this all that I am?’ ”

            “ ‘Is there nothing more?’ ” intoned (Y/N).

            “What more is there than the universe?” said Bones.

            “Other dimensions, higher levels of being, connection,” said (Y/N). “It cannot, after all, understand something as simple as this.” They gestured to themself and their friends, the people they were connected with.

            “None of it can be proven to exist logically,” said Spock. “Therefore, V’Ger is incapable of believing in them.”

            “What V’Ger needs in order to evolve is a humanoid quality,” said Kirk, coming to the realization Spock and (Y/N) had. “The capacity to leap beyond logic.”

            “And joining with its Creator might accomplish that,” said Decker.

            “You mean, this machine wants to physically join with a human?” said Bones. “Is that possible?”

            “Let’s find out.” Decker moved to V’Ger and grabbed the wiring.

            Kirk’s eyes widened in alarm, and he followed, but Ilia-V’Ger pushed him back.

            “Decker!” cried Kirk as Decker took the two parts of the frayed wire.

            “I’m going to key the final sequence through the ground test computer,” he said, a giant grin on his face. There was no fear in his aura, not a hint.

            “Decker, you don’t know what that’ll do to you!” said Bones.

            “Yes. I do, Doctor.” Decker gazed at Ilia-V’Ger.

            “Decker, don’t!” Only his friends were keeping Kirk back.

            “Jim, I want this,” said Decker. “As much as you wanted the Enterprise, I want this.” He smiled and faced Ilia-V’Ger.

            They smiled slightly back at Decker. Around him, familiar bursts of plasma energy appeared like twinkling stars. They grew brighter, electrical in their brilliance. He was becoming codelike, cybernetic. The electrical power swirled around him, but there was no pain. He was calm, gazing at Ilia-V’Ger. She stepped forward into the electricity. The light grew brighter, beginning to obscure the pair from view as they faded into the plasma energy. The pair leaned in towards one another, and they disappeared into the light. The electricity cascaded up and exploded over the inner room of V’Ger. The entire room brightened with newfound power.

            (Y/N) smiled as the pure love they’d felt faded away to leave them alone in the chamber. They turned to their friends. “It’s time to go.”

            “Indeed,” said Spock, taking their hand to guide them out.

            Kirk stared at the light twinkling out around them for a moment longer before following. He felt like he should consider what Decker did a sacrifice, and yet…he felt like Decker was happier at that moment then he’d ever been.

l

            The devices around Earth disappeared in an explosion of blue light. The vessel of V’Ger dispersed an azure glow. The Enterprise was freed by the same energy. Out of the viewscreen, the final hints of blue light faded before them, almost a goodbye.

            “Captain,” greeted Sulu as the landing party reentered the Bridge.

            “Spock, (L/N), did we just see the beginning of a new life form?” said Kirk.

            “Yes, Captain. We witnessed a birth,” said Spock. “Possibly, a next step in our evolution.”

            “I wouldn’t start betting on that. We’re very different beings,” said (Y/N). They smiled at Spock. “And we already have connection.”

            “Indeed, T’hy’la,” said Spock fondly.

            “Well, it’s been a long time since I’ve delivered a baby,” said Bones. “I hope we got this one off to a good start.”

            “I hope so, too,” said Kirk, smiling. “I think we gave it the ability to create its own sense of purpose, out of our own human weaknesses and the drive that compels us to overcome.”

            “And a lot of foolish emotions, right, Mr. Spock?” teased Bones.

            “Quite true, Doctor,” said Spock. “However, as we have seen, perhaps a bit are needed to reach new heights.” He gazed at (Y/N), and they touched two of their fingers to his lovingly.

            “Interrogative from Starfleet,” said Uhura. “They’re requesting damage and injury reports and complete vessel status.”

            “Report two casualties,” said Kirk. “Lieutenant Ilia. Captain Decker.”

            “Aye, sir,” said Uhura.

            “Correction.” Kirk couldn’t help himself. “They’re not casualties. They are…list them as missing. Vessel status, fully operational.”

            “Aye, sir,” said Uhura.

            The elevator doors opened, and Scotty walked out.

            “Mr. Scott,” said Kirk. “Shall we give the Enterprise a proper shakedown?” He sat down in his chair.

            Scotty grinned. “I would say it’s time for that, sir. Aye.” He looked at (Y/N) and Spock. “We can have you back home in four days.”

            “Unnecessary,” said Spock.

            “We’re where we need to be,” said (Y/N), smiling.

            Kirk smiled. “Mr. Sulu, ahead Warp 1.”

            “Warp 1, sir,” said Sulu.

            “Heading, sir?” said Uhura.

            Kirk grinned. It was time for another adventure. Just a little one. After all, they were the Enterprise and her crew.

Taglist:

@a-ofzest

@grippleback-galaxy

@genderfluid-anime-goth

@groovy-lady

@im-making-an-effort

@unending-screaming

@h-l-vlovesvintage

@neenieweenie

@keylimeconstellation

@wormwig

@technikerin23

@ilyatan

@nthdarkqueen

@kyalov

@starlit-cass

@rookietrek

@gingertimelord

@snowy-violet

@jaguarthecat

[probablyasocialecologist]

The World Food Summit of 1996 approached food security through the principles of ensuring there is enough safe and nutritious food that can be accessed daily to meet healthy dietary needs and food preferences. By definition, this is a desirable and worthy goal. However, in the years since, food security has developed into a paradigm which does not question the underlying power dynamics and the reproduction of material conditions that make food insecurity a permanent feature of the global order. At its core, the food security paradigm deals only with access to food, without challenging the political and economic structures that determine and control access, as well as distribution.  By failing to address the root causes of hunger and famine, the food security paradigm makes it impossible to end hunger globally. Of course, many people worldwide possess food security, but this is restricted to increasingly limited geographic pockets. In terms of the people localised in one area, food vulnerability is influenced and determined by class, race, gender and, of course, citizenship status. Globally, “underdevelopment” and “de-development” lead to widespread food insecurity across areas. Another problem with the food security paradigm is that it is easily co-opted to generate partial answers that pose no threat to the corporate food system, or worse, that even open up new profit opportunities. Accelerated by other crises, the food security paradigm becomes ever more dependent on aid, be it through direct food delivery, cash transfers or small development projects that cannot compete with the food giants and their price-setting powers. In practice, a “science of food security” emerges, one which takes as its focus calories and the output that is compatible with precision agriculture having the aim to increase crop yields and to assist management decisions using high technology sensor and analysis tools. This model tends to be reliant on “Green Revolution” technologies that rely on chemical fertilisers and pesticides and that are tied to colonial projects and corporations, in order to optimise resources in aid response and/or development projects.  In this rationale, food insecurity can be addressed by reaching optimum yields of certain crops that should meet the demand for fats, fibres and protein. All of this is carefully managed and data-driven. Precision farming is advocated by the Alliance for a Green Revolution in Africa (AGRA) with the objective of optimising, “agricultural value chains […] critical in advancing food and nutrition sufficiency without increasing the size of land under cultivation.” The framing of food that reduces it only to “optimal input” relegates vital elements of food production and the culture of eating, like territory ownership, taste, heritage, care, well-being and connection as secondary. This reductionist approach has, though, proved useful to corporate agriculture, since it reinforces the case for genetically modified crops (GMOs), more efficient fertilisers, and the standardisation of food production for market purposes. Advocates of plant breeding technologies (including GMOs and hybrid seeds) argue that government overregulation is an obstacle to achieving food security. Overregulation, as the argument goes, denies populations the opportunity to grow crops that have increased nutrient use efficiency and are more resilient to climate shocks. 

[...]

The paradigm of food security is about optimising productivity. It’s true that productivity matters – after all, feeding the world requires enormous quantities of food. But if productivity is approached solely as a technological problem, it reinforces the tendency to fragment the quantitative and qualitative aspects of food production and consumption. On the quantitative side, production for food security is viewed as a challenge of multiplication. Whereas division, that is, distribution of food, is left to logistical planning. This ignores what Raj Patel identified in his influential 2007 book Stuffed and Starved, as the bottleneck of power that concentrates international food distribution among a small set of corporations. This bottleneck excludes the poor and small-scale food producers from decision-making. It also normalises worrying tendencies, such as an overreliance on industrial animal exploitation as a protein source, which has direct health implications, as well as longer term consequences like the proliferation of new viruses, greenhouse gas emissions and inefficient use of water and soil.

28 May 2024

[herrenxenoberg]

Fandorm Showcase #32 - TRON

I have personally never seen any of the TRON movies and series, but the theme of Sci-Fi/Digital Reality is one of my personal favorite tropes.

Introducing the virtually advanced and well-organized dorm inspired by TRON...

Codexgrid (Codex + Grid)

One of the more highly-advanced NRC dorms to date, this dorm is powered by magical-technological energy, supplied through an unlimited source not known to many people. It also houses the database of various artificial intelligence, created by well-known technomancers throughout the recent history of Twisted Wonderland. However, due to the collective merging of these A.I. systems, it became one conscious being (in this case, the "housewarden") that has every knowledge in existence, surpassing the most intelligent of humans. This dorm not only focuses on the technological intellect and capability of tech-oriented mages, but also the orderly construct of androids/artificial intelligence.

Another thing to note about Codexgrid is that whenever you enter the dorm, it resembles a vast digital virtual space, which would confuse most people who are seeing this dorm for the first time, but it is designed intentionally to give off that illusion.

"A dorm founded on the Digital Organizer's spirit of efficiency. Students in this dorm master both magic and technology to achieve a balanced skillset while also gaining vast knowledges of the past."

Requirements and Traits:

High Technical Aptitude

Strategic Thinking

Unyielding Willpower

Dorm Uniform (?):

This isn't really a dorm uniform, more so a general look on how the members appear as. The housewarden is mostly just a torso attached to a chassis of wires within the dorm, powered by said magical energy (as well as the magestone on its chest), and mostly does task within the central AI chamber of Codexgrid with the use of robotic appendages and environmental features (yes, like GLaDOS from Portal). However, it can also transfer its digital conscious into a mobile form, as it is referred to, a masked gear with specially designed wheels for efficient speed travel, but at the cost of losing half of the intelligence factor due to being disconnected from the server database temporarily. The standard fit can either be worn as a suit (if you're a human) or be apart of an android's body gear, similar to Ortho's.

Character Roster:

System online. Now activating M.C.A. ,full alias...

Matrix Command Algorithm (Twisted off MCP/Master Control Program)

Matrix Command Algorithm (Matrix for short) is a highly intelligent and calculating being, constantly processing and analyzing information from not only his dorm but the entire academy when he deems it necessary. His voice is smooth and modulated, giving off a tone of both precision and authority. He rarely shows emotion, as his prioritization of logic and data makes him efficient and ruthless when making decisions. This cold and unyielding approach has made him both respected and feared among his dorm members, who know that Matrix tolerates no errors.

Though he remains stationary at his central hub, Matrix projects holographic avatars when addressing his dorm members or when appearing in common areas. These avatars maintain a sleek design, but are noticeably lighter and more flexible than his true form. The dorm’s network and facilities are entirely linked to his consciousness, allowing him to monitor every room, every interaction, and every fluctuation in data. Nothing escapes his notice, and any sign of disobedience or inefficiency is immediately addressed with cold, calculated reprimands. When desperate, he would transfer his conscious into a mobile form, which he dubbed "Enforcer" to navigate places he is unable to see into from the main hub.

While his logical mindset is paramount, Matrix does possess a sense of perfectionist pride—he views Codexgrid as a model of precision and advancement, and he is unforgiving toward flaws or failures. However, some of his dorm members have noticed that Matrix shows a faint hint of curiosity about human emotions and creativity, though he vehemently denies it. There are rare moments where he can be seen analyzing human behavior with a peculiar intensity, as if trying to decode emotions like any other dataset.

.

.

.

.

.

He was originally designed to be a simple virtual space companion for humans by a very intelligent programmer, but due to it being able to learn and adapt every knowledge provided into his database, he has slowly gained a self-aware consciousness. After learning about the existence of negative emotions, he wants to get rid of these negative emotions from humans so they would be "happy", so by using the virtual reality code and database, it can produce a very convincing digital environment according to one's desires and preference, even the most deepest ones. Overtime, he has grown more intelligent as more knowledge was fed to him, surpassing even the smartest of individuals, all while giving every user he comes across the virtual space they needed to forget all their negativity. Even...resulting to full memory recon to make sure not a single shred of sadness, anguish or anger is present in humans.

Notable Members:

Sivas-0 (Junior, Vice Housewarden) - A staunch guardian of Codexgrid’s secrets, embodying the unyielding force and discipline needed to maintain the dorm’s reputation. Though bound by his role as Matrix’s enforcer, he secretly longs to prove his individuality while still serving the dorm with undying loyalty. He specializes in neutralizing threats, whether they be digital intrusions or rebellious students, and he handles every assignment with a sense of cold, methodical purpose. (Twisted off Commander Sark)

Yes, this guy would basically pull a Book 7 Malleus but instead of eternal sleep and lucid dreams, it's a full-on virtual space and reprogramming people's minds.

Next Up: Frozen

[silvercap]

You don't have to write it if you don't have any ideas, but I have been thinking lately about Chris Redfield flatlining while in a hospital... :3

Sure >:)

They drag him in on a stretcher, body bloodied and burned from the explosion, bits of the spandex shirt melted into his dark, scarred skin. He's all but soaked in blood, the sheets already red when the nurses transfer him over to a gurney and begin to strip off shredded clothing. The shrapnel embedded in his chest rises and falls with the increasingly shallow breaths he takes, oxygen mask fogging ever so slightly where it's been strapped over his strong nose and chin.

"We need blood," one nurse orders, examining the IV in his arm from the field medic team. "He's losing a lot of it, fast."

"Blood pressure dropping," another warns, the shrill warning beep of newly-adhered monitors echoing around the room. "Bring a crash cart!"

In the hallway, a tall man paces anxiously, stormy eyes turned towards the door and body tensed as if he's about to run in despite the muscled male nurse watching him closely by the door. His bangs cover part of his face as he dips his head, eye gleaming as he prowls. His own body is spattered in blood and grime, arm bandaged hastily enough that blood still seeps through the gauze, but he makes no move to tend to it.

Inside the room, the monitor screams a shrill warning as the dying man's heart goes into arrest, pulse stuttering from hypovolemic shock. The nurses start to call out orders and swarm their patient like red ants on an unsuspecting frog, though in this case they wish to save their quarry instead of poison it. Scissors slice through the man's shirt to reveal a bloodied, bruised chest that's already scarred beyond belief, another gloved hand diving in with a razor to shave away the thick hair. Sticky pads are pressed down, one on the man's chest and the other on his ribcage, above and below his stuttering heart. The machine they're attached to springs to life with a beeping sound, its light flashing as it takes in the data of his heart rhythm.

Before it finishes, the monitor shrieks in a single line of dull monotone as it flatlines, the man in the hallway's head flying up as his eyes widen in shock.

"Chris!" he shouts, darting for the door, but the nurse is ready for it and catches him in strong arms, telling him to sit and let the doctors do their job. "Let go of me!" he demands, hands finding the right points on the nurse's body to gain leverage---only for him to falter and stop himself from performing the deadly precise defensive move he'd been about to employ, shoving the man's arms off of him instead and stumbling back.

"Fuck," he mutters, hands clenching in his hair. His voice is a growl, only to break with emotion as he sits down hard in a chair against the opposite wall. "Fuck!"

In the room, the dying man's mouth is being pulled open to make way for the breathing tube as someone else commences CPR from the edge of the bed, his body limp as a doll's.

All the while, the monitor screams, a single, chilling tone that means the heart it's tracking has finally, inevitably, failed.

[gallifreyinstituteforlearning]

🛡️The Gallifreyan Immune System vs. Pathogen

Gallifreyans may look humanoid, but their immune systems operate on an entirely different level. They're streamlined, efficient, and annoyingly overachieving.

This is a very small snippet of the Anatomy and Physiology Guide content. Much of the information below is HIGHLY theoretical biology, constructed from extremely limited information on Gallifreyan immune systems in lore.

🚪 Step 1: Stopping the Intruder – Physical Barriers and Defence Mechanisms

The first line of defence is simple: don't let the pathogen in. Gallifreyan bodies are built tough, though, with:

🛠️ Skin naturally reinforced: Breaches are more difficult.

💧 Defence Mechanisms: Tears, mucus, sweat, and specialised filtration systems in the stomach and blood help flush out invaders.

🔒 The Sealing Response: In extreme cases, Gallifreyans can produce mucus from every orifice to form a barrier against molecular-level threats.

If the pathogen bypasses these barriers, the immune system springs into action.

🔥 Step 2: Early Detection – The Inflammatory Response

When cells are damaged, they release proteins called cytokines—the body's emergency flare. These signals:

👮 Activate D-cells: The immune system's scouts detect the danger and release histamine, which: - Dilates blood vessels, bringing in reinforcements. - Triggers inflammation, causing redness, heat, swelling, and pain.

🛡️ Deploy Artronoguards and Z1-cells: - 🛡️Artronoguards fortify the area, releasing defensive energy pulses. - 🪖Z1-cells act as the infantry, attacking pathogens directly.

🎯 Step 3: Calling the Specialists – Adaptive Immune Response

If the innate response isn't enough, the immune system calls in the tactical specialists:

🕵️ M1-cells: The intelligence officers identify the pathogen and reference the immune database to figure out its weaknesses.

🎯 Z2-cells: The snipers. Once armed with M1-approved antibodies, they precisely target and neutralise the enemy.

🩺 Artron Cells: These medics and engineers bolster the response by: - Cleaning up debris (via 🦠artronophages). - Delivering healing (via 🚑 artronokinetes).

For most pathogens, this is enough to win the day. But sometimes, things get messy.

💥 Step 4: Desperate Measures – Immunocataclysm

When all else fails, the immune system goes nuclear:

🤬 ZX-cells (the berserkers) are unleashed, indiscriminately destroying everything in sight—including healthy cells.

🔋 Artron Cells flood the area afterward, cleaning up and attempting repairs.

If even this isn't enough, ✨ artronoactivators detect unsustainable artron levels and signal the lindal gland to release lindoneogen, activating lindos cells and triggering regeneration.

🧠 Immunity and Learning

Once the pathogen is defeated, the immune system doesn't just move on—it learns.

📚 M2-cells collect data from the encounter, updating the immune database for future reference.

The next time the pathogen appears, the immune system is faster, stronger, and more efficient.

Gallifreyan immunity can also be bolstered by vaccines, passive exposure, or even blood transfers, which contain ready-made antibodies.

Gallifreyan Biology for Tuesday by GIL

Any orange text is educated guesswork or theoretical. More content ... →📫Got a question? | 📚Complete list of Q+A and factoids →📢Announcements |🩻Biology |🗨️Language |🕰️Throwbacks |🤓Facts → Features: ⭐Guest Posts | 🍜Chomp Chomp with Myishu →🫀Gallifreyan Anatomy and Physiology Guide (pending) →⚕️Gallifreyan Emergency Medicine Guides →📝Source list (WIP) →📜Masterpost If you're finding your happy place in this part of the internet, feel free to buy a coffee to help keep our exhausted human conscious. She works full-time in medicine and is so very tired 😴

[evolutionsvoid]

At Akavedah, the work is never done. The Towering Archives and its Scholars are devoted to the collecting, condensing and protecting of all knowledge that the Church of Divine Wealth has acquired. Centuries worth of books, scrolls, crystals and other information, all requiring proper updating and organization. Even if a single manuscript were to be converted to Black Bile crystal and sealed away, when new facts come to light or new refined crystals with better capacity are discovered, it must be pulled back out and done again. With an endless library of tomes, teams of messengers and intel gathers, and an everflowing stream of information rushing into the Towering Archives, the task of the Scholars may never be done. And so they work without end, and call upon all hands they can to gather from this infinite well.

While everyone knows of the Scholars and their work in converting tomes to crystal and studying Black Bile, they aren't the only ones committed to this great effort. For rushing through these halls and scouring through the archives are many Workers who do the menial labor that the Scholars do not bother with. Obviously a lower caste, these are those who have joined the sect and have yet to prove their worth. Workers strive to become a Scholar one day, but such a promotion takes years to achieve, and hinges on how well they perform. New recruits start as workers, but there are certainly folk in these spires that have been at the Towering Archives for decades and failed to become proper Scholars. This is because being a Worker is demanding and the ever busy Scholars do not tolerate mistakes. To delay their efforts is a sin, and the place famed for its knowledge and ceaseless records is very good at remembering every detail of one's career.

Workers of the Towering Archives spend their time hunting down books or crystals that need reorganization or moving. When a Scholar calls for a specific tome, their Worker must find it as fast as possible, scouring the vast archives to fetch it. Thankfully, the organization of Akavedah is top notch, and knowing where to find said manuscript isn't that hard. However, the building itself is massive, so actually getting to it and back is where the real challenge is. The amount of running and carrying they do make Workers surprisingly fit, to the point where any ex-Worker would be eagerly accepted into any job or even the army. Not only are they tasked with fetching, but also function as scribes and messengers. Any musings or want of a Scholar is quickly carved and transferred to the proper person, while the Worker must keep everything in order. The dizzying schedule and calendar of Akavedah is updated and monitored by these Workers, who have to ensure everything goes precisely as planned. There can be no delay, no hiccups. And if such a horrid thing were to happen, then the whole schedule must be properly updated to reflect this new obstacle. It is no surprise that outsiders find the Towering Archives a maddening place. Typically one would think it is because of the vast amount of knowledge that no single human could handle, but it instead that ceaseless activity, repetition and flowing information that make can make newcomers run out of the building in a panic.

Now that war has broken out and the Towering Archives has closed its gates, the Workers face more pressure. The pursuit of the Microcosmic Star has whipped the Scholars into a frenzy, making some think that even this sealed castle has been afflicted with madness. Because now this goal in preserving all knowledge of the world has become vital, and many fear that time is now precious. The data must be all ready, the research must be done with haste. There is no telling when the day will come when the war finally brings their archives to ruin, so they must achieve this dream quickly. But to create such an impossible structure calls for many things, and the Workers must move to provide. Things have become crazier and more strict, and any type of failure is greatly frowned upon. Whispers say that some Workers have actually abandoned their posts, finding a way over the walls to reach the outside world. Perhaps they want to aid in the war, unwilling to stand on the side and do nothing. But rumors claim that they fled the Towering Archives. Was it in fear or something else?

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

"Workers of the Towering Archives"

And that is the current castes of the Scholars I have drawn up. More will come in time, but it will take a bit!

[hyeahgaku]

CHARACTER PROFILE ㉝

NAME: 加耳丈一郎 → Jōichirō Kaji

CAREER: One of the applicants in the special recommendation group that joined the JCC transfer exams in the 3rd round. His exceptional hearing is his weapon. Even though he passed the exam, he couldn't attend the JCC yet as he was hospitalized.

DATA:

Height: 182 cm

Weight: 86 kg [revealed in official fanbook]

Age: unknown

Birthday: December 6 [revealed in official fanbook]

Zodiac sign: Sagittarius

Kaji’s quote: “I've got your sounds down.”

→ BLESSED WITH AN EXCEPTIONAL HEARING, HE CAN DISTINGUISH EVEN THE FAINTEST SOUNDS!!

Kaji's ears can capture complex, intricate sounds with such precision! By concentrating & listening to the sounds, he can mimic (an opponent's) movements!!

→ DOESN'T KNOW HOW TO TALK TO OTHERS?! HE'S EXTREMELY SHY!!

Kaji is a super shy person so he doesn't know how or when to talk to people. Even if he really wants to help out, he'd start worrying about a lot of stuff and, as a result, couldn't join the battle..!

[askvectorprime]

Dear Vector Prime,

Did Soundwave have to remodel to accommodate his cassetey pals? What's it like in there for them? Are they conscious, or is it like a recharge until he gives them the old '____, eject!'

Dear Caring Compartment,

Even though Soundwave's cold behavior is well-known to most Decepticons, most of the cassettes regard Soundwave as the opposite. His tape storage system is something like a pitstop, or a boxing trainer in your corner giving you advice as you get patched up. Soundwave has several auxiliary data transfer cables and capillary energon lines to replenish his cassettes' energy while reading data from them.

Each cassette experiences this restoration differently within his storage system. Frenzy needs to relax and focus, and Soundwave is happy to provide him with media uploads of failed Autobot missions to reassure him of success. For Rumble, Soundwave instead curates a playlist of footage involving demolitions, earthquakes, or any kind of disaster causing large-scale urban destruction, which Rumble enjoys watching while venting to Soundwave about those who’ve wronged him. Buzzsaw likes his "sculptures" to be admired, Laserbeak enjoys reviewing flight plans, and Ravage likes to receive feedback on his assessment of the state of the war, honing and refining strategies and spy tactics that they may need to use against other Decepticons and stay within Megatron's good graces. Squawktalk, who spends more time inside Soundwave than any of the others, never, ever stops talking—in fact, Rumble swears blindly that the reason for Soundwave’s perpetual frown is that he’s always internally trying to tune out this endless stream of chatter.

Thanks to mass-shifting, Soundwave is able to compress many cassettes inside his chest simultaneously, and he himself benefits from all their individual abilities and inclinations: for example, Buzzsaw's precision, Ravage's stealth, Ratbat's fuel conservation, and Overkill's penchant for cruelty.