#ao3 just isn’t good training data

[snickerdoodlles]

*pinches nose bridge* even if there wasn’t 6 degrees of separation between AO3 and generative AI, has anyone in this tag even considered that if it was possible for individuals to fuck up generative AI or their training datasets just by writing a/b/o fic, then fascists, bigots, or even just internet trolls could and would fuck it up worse with hate speech

[skzdarlings]

bodyguard: the first guard | part two | chan/reader

masterlist.

(part one of the previous story.)

part one | part two | part three | tba

( read on AO3 )

A sequel to the Bodyguard. Miroh's daughter is assigned a bodyguard of her own. The past is confronted when old friendships and new enemies are pushed to the brink.

pairing: bang chan/reader content info: sequel to the bodyguard (felix/reader). this is a new reader perspective. the previously established story dyanmics: explicit violence, mentions of torture, death. chapter word count: 12,000 words.

-

B E F O R E

Felix is wearing itchy civilian clothes, the jeans distractingly stiff.  Regardless of how many field missions he is assigned, he never gets used to undercover disguises.     

“Look what I found,” Chris says, dropping into the seat beside him. 

Chris looks marginally more at ease in his baggy basketball shorts and baseball cap, passing for a teenage boy on an afternoon train with his friend.  They are in the passenger car outside the first class cabin, a compartment that should contain their mark but presently sits empty. 

“Uh, the target?" Felix asks.  “You know, the thing you just went to find?”

Chris giggles like the whole situation is funny.  Felix is far less amused.  This should have been an easy job: get in, kill the mark, steal back the data he took from Miroh, and get out.  But so far it has been tedious. 

Felix can’t even blame Chris this time.  For some reason, Chris has been more accommodating lately.  Chris is fifteen, almost sixteen, and Felix is twelve.  They have both been active in the field for a couple years. Felix is not sure why Chris has opted for sudden compliance.  He does not necessarily volunteer for jobs but he accepts them without much grudging reluctance.  He will occasionally voice his worser grievances but for the most part he is keeping his head down. 

Maybe it is the result of all those punishing sentences in the Cell.  More than once he has been shoved down there, sometimes alone and sometimes with Miroh’s daughter.  Felix would not want to spend any isolated time with her.  But maybe she is intimidating enough to get through to Chris.

Whatever it is, it is working.  Excluding moments like this when Chris is giggling and distracted and doesn’t seem to care about the job at all. 

“Relax, Felix,” Chris says.  “It’s a train.  There’s only so many places he can be, yeah?”

“Well, there’s one place he’s supposed to be but he isn’t there, is he?” Felix says.

“Lighten up, mate,” Chris says.  “We’re supposed to look normal.  Normal kids have fun.”

Chris dumps a candy bag in Felix’s lap.  Felix looks at it like it’s a bomb.

“What am I supposed to do with this?” Felix asks.

Chris opens his own bag and starts eating the candy. 

“That,” he says.  He tosses a piece in the air and catches it in his mouth. When he tries to do it again, Felix snatches it mid-air and throws it on the floor.  This makes Chris laugh.

“He was in the dining car,” Chris relents.  “Four security officers.  Ex-military.  Piece of cake.”

“Why didn’t you say that before?” Felix asks, annoyed.  He starts to stand but Chris yanks him back into his seat. 

“The hell, man?” Chris says.  “You gonna go ventilate the guy while a bunch of civilians are having afternoon tea?  Ya think that might blow our cover?  Just a bit?” 

Felix frowns but he knows Chris is right.  Miroh does not like a public mess.  They will have to wait until the mark returns to the privacy of his cabin.

Felix does not like waiting.  It is a part of a soldier’s training, but his least favourite part by far.  He prefers action.  With the quiet stillness comes fear, doubt.

The latter makes him sweat.  He tries not to think about it.  His life is his mission.  Through Miroh, Felix has contributed good things to the world.  Lately, it just seems like no matter what he does, the world does not stay good. 

The Enemy has been dead for two years.  The new enemy, his idiot heir, has holed up like a dragon guarding his hoard.  He has built defences so high that not even an army like Miroh’s can breach it.  There has been no retaliation, no offensive strike like the old enemy, but these deep roots are almost more sinister.  Felix is starting to think this might be hopeless.  That maybe Miroh is wrong.  That maybe some things cannot be saved. 

Felix crinkles the candy bag in his lap.  He gathers himself and exhales. 

“Fine,” he says.  “How long do you think he will be distracted?  Enough time to get the data?”

“If it’s in there, yeah,” Chris says.  “Might as well check.  He just started eating so we should have some time.”

“Then what are we waiting for?”  

Chris frowns like Felix is inconveniencing him with the job they were sent here to do.  

Felix is not in the mood to argue.  He shoves his candy bag in his back pocket and pushes past Chris.  They make their way down the aisle.  No one lifts their head, the two boys disappearing in their inconspicuous disguises.

They pick the lock to the first class cabin.  Felix opens the door and looks around the room, for a moment a little stupefied by the luxury.  It is all deep mahogany and gold trim.  Their target is an engineer who stole designs from Miroh to sell to the enemy.  The wealth of this cabin exemplifies that corruption, surely. 

Felix tells himself that as he rifles through the luggage.  He finds a laptop and tells Chris to stand guard while he collects the data.  Chris is the better fighter but Felix is better with technology.

The laptop loads.  The home screen is the mark with his family, three smiling, sunny-faced children, all younger than Felix.  It gives him a queasy, uneasy feeling, a feeling that should be long scrubbed out of him by now.

He blames it on the rocking of the train carriage.  Physical sensations can manipulate mental energy. 

He searches through the computer storage for the stolen designs.  Both Miroh and the enemy are chasing government building contracts, tying their businesses irrevocably to political power and pursing relationships therein.  These plans will cinch the deal for whichever party has them.  The engineer who betrayed Miroh masqueraded as a potential recruit before stealing the plans.

There is only one problem; Felix knows how to read metadata and he cannot find anything that was once on Miroh’s servers.  In fact, some of these designs go back years, well before Miroh even considered pursuing these contracts.

“What’s taking so long?” Chris asks, poking his head in the room.  “You’re usually a computer whiz.  Is something wrong?”

“The files aren’t here,” Felix says.  For the fifth or sixth time, he opens what looks like the plans.  Everything except the metadata matches the description.  But that metadata does not lie.      

These files do not belong to Miroh. 

Chris double checks the corridor before joining Felix.  They look at the files together. 

“Isn’t that it?” Chris asks.  “It looks like the right thing.” 

“Yeah, but it’s not,” Felix says, his eyes darting frantically all over the screen.  “Or it should be.  But these, uh, these files aren’t Miroh’s.” 

“What do you mean?”

“I mean this guy stole the plans from Miroh.  But all these files are original.  They were never on Miroh’s servers.”

There is a moment of quiet.  Chris is not famous for reservation so Felix looks at him.  He is embarrassed to find a pitying look on Chris’s face. 

“Felix,” Chris says.  “Come on, man.”

It is not exactly a condescending tone, rife with too much sympathy to be so cruel, but It sounds like Chris is saying, don’t be stupid.

Felix swallows.  He looks down at the plans.  The realization hits him and the words come to his mouth, rising like bile.

“We’re not stealing back the plans,” Felix says.  “We’re just stealing them.  Aren’t we?”

“Well, yeah,” Chris says.  “You didn’t know that?”

“How did you know that?” Felix snaps back, embarrassed and upset and very, deeply confused.   

“It wasn’t exactly a stretch,” Chris says.  “It’s what Miroh does.  It’s what they all do.  You haven’t figured that out yet?  You?” 

Felix, who has done the most assignments.  Felix, who is the most successful agent in the special-ops program.  Felix, who is the best only because the real best refuses to be.

He studies Chris, this older boy who seems so confident he has all the answers.  Felix does not even know all the questions.  He feels that weakness and vulnerability he so hates, the entirely world suddenly unfamiliar enemy terrain. 

“Look, it’s fine,” Chris says.  “Just take the data and we’ll leave.  We’ll tell Miroh the mark got away.  He cares more about the plans anyway.”

“Lie,” Felix says.  “You want us to lie to Miroh?”

“It’s not a lie,” Chris says.  “It’s just protecting the truth.”

Felix stares at him.  Chris, on steadier feet than Felix, sighs and pushes Felix out of the way.  He loads the data onto the external hard drive himself.  He then makes a show of ejecting it and putting it in his pocket.

“Let’s go,” Chris says.

Felix does not get a chance to protest because the door opens.  They have no time to react.  In seconds, they are joined by the mark’s security team. 

Felix knows how to fight.  It is second nature to him.  He should not need to think.

But he does.  He overthinks.  He gets a look at the mark before a bodyguard whisks him away.  Felix thinks of the smiling faces on those children.  He thinks how he is not much older than them.

There is a growing pit of anxiety inside him.  It swallows him whole.

Felix and Chris fight to get away.  Chris could take all these guards on his own but he is trying to avoid severely hurting them.  That distracts Felix too.  Suddenly, Chris’s refusal to fight does not seem like cowardice but instead it is something Felix cannot name. Something he once saw in Miroh but doesn’t anymore. 

Distracted, Felix does not fight like he usually does. 

The first class cabin is a private attachment at the back of the train.  The fight lead onto the outside landing at the end of the car.  A guard dislocates Felix’s shoulder.  The next thing Felix knows, he is tumbling over the railing.  He manages to grip with his good arm, holding all of his body weight to avoid getting snagged and ripped along the train tracks. 

But it won’t save him.  He’s going to die. The realization hits him like any other calculation in a fight, when he measures his odds and deduces his best move.

He has none.  The train is moving too fast and he is at a bad angle to jump.  He has one good arm keeping him alive and no way to fight the approaching guard.  Chris has taken out his own adversaries and should be retreating with the data.  That is what they are trained to do.  The job is more important than the soldier.  In a crisis, you leave the weak behind. 

Felix braces himself to let go, hoping the above-average strength in his body can also withstand slamming into railroad tracks at high speeds.  He suspects even if he does survive, he will be severely injured, abandoned in the middle of nowhere, and dead to the only place he has ever known.

But the guard falls back. Chris knocks him out with sharp efficiency.  He then lays the unconscious man down with almost comical gentleness.

Chris runs up to Felix.  Felix wants to shout at him – everything from go away and finish the job to my shoulder hurts and I need you to save me. 

Chris gives no opportunity for argument or acquiescence.  He shouts, “Hold on!”  Then he swings himself over the railing.  He wraps an arm around Felix and hauls him into his side.  Once secure, he carries them back over the rail and onto the landing. 

“What are you doing?” Felix asks.  He cannot slow the race of his heart, seemingly tethered to the thunder of the train car against the tracks.  He is not sure it will ever slow again.  He thinks he might remember this moment forever.

“What am I doing?” Chris asks.  He laughs for some forsaken reason.  “Just doing this, mate,” he says.

He seizes Felix by his injured shoulder.  Felix winces, having only seconds to brace himself before Chris shoves his dislocated shoulder back into place.   Agony washes over Felix, hot and sharp, the pain rattling him worse than the actual dislocation.

“Sorry,” Chris says.  “Sometimes getting better hurts more for a bit.”

The rest of the mission is a blur to Felix, lost to the throbbing ache in his shoulder and a similar pain taking root inside him.

They make it back to Miroh’s facility.  Chris hands the hard drive off to an upper level agent while Felix sees a medic.  The bag of candy is still in his back pocket.  He sits in the infirmary a long time, just crinkling it between his fingers.  He feels like his world is crashing around him. 

It is days before Felix has an opportunity to see Chris again.  They are in different barracks because of their age difference, the soldiers grouped by year.  When Felix finds Chris in the corridor, Chris is talking to Miroh’s daughter who lives in the barracks too.  They are on their way to their bunks. 

Felix taps Chris on the shoulder.  Chris looks at him, his laughing expression faltering when he sees Felix.  He must see something in him that Felix cannot even recognize in himself. 

Chris turns to Miroh’s daughter and says, “I’ll catch up, yeah?”

She spares Felix a glance and Felix feels an unusually panicked skip in his blood.  It feels like she can see his mental turbulation the way Chris can.  But unlike the rest of them, she has a direct line to Miroh.  She might live and act like a soldier but she is more and always will be.  Felix balks under her scrutiny, worried she will see his doubt and report it right back to Miroh.

Felix is grateful when she leaves.  But when Chris looks at him so expectantly, Felix no longer knows what to say. 

It takes a moment.

“I wouldn’t have done the same for you,” Felix finally says.  It comes out as instinctively as a punch.  “I wouldn’t have saved your life.  I would have just finished the job.”

Chris blinks at him.  He exhales on a laugh.  Then he claps Felix’s good shoulder, a touch of clear camaraderie. 

“I know, Felix,” he says.  “I didn’t do it so you would pay me back.  I didn’t do it because I thought you would do the same.  I did it because it was the right thing to do.” 

Felix thought he was speechless before but now he is truly at a loss.  Even his long engrained instincts fail.  He is out of punches. 

Chris just smiles at his confusion.  With one final nod, he turns and retreats to his bunk. 

Felix stands in the corridor, wounded but bandaged.  He stares at the place where Chris stood, like if he looks long enough then Felix will understand what Chris understands.  That maybe there is a right and wrong outside of what they have been taught.  Maybe things exist outside of this place. 

Maybe some things can be saved. 

-

P R E S E N T   D A Y

“Ah, it’s the classic story,” Changbin says with a sigh.  “A boy and a girl, forced to share a bed.  He is her bodyguard.  She is an heiress.  Should we kiss on the lips?”

You whack him in the gut with a pillow and he erupts with giggles.

Changbin has been your so-called bodyguard for a few weeks now.  It has changed little in your daily routine as your father had assigned Changbin to your department sometime before that.  The special-ops program was written off as an experiment with potential for future development, though that development has long sat arrested.  Bang Chan is in your father’s direct employ while Changbin has been on different teams fulfilling different missions.  When you started taking the lead on projects, he served under your direction. 

It is why your father is not happy.  The bodyguard arrangement was meant to assert his control over you, using an agent as his eyes and hands.  Miroh is not good at relinquishing power, not even to someone like him, or maybe especially to someone like him.  You have always been a good, loyal, obedient soldier and daughter.  Taking over projects and assuming command was inevitable.  Somehow you have wronged him by doing everything right. 

Lately, your work has been meagre clean-up duty.  Miroh has been accruing assets and terrorizing his way into the mess left behind by his late enemy.   It is making Miroh’s paranoia even worse.��  He has seen for himself how this powerful house fell apart just because its patriarch died.  The business was left in shambles, underlings squabbling like helpless children.  It was ripe for picking. 

You have been cleaning whatever mess is left behind.  This week you have been cleaning out some old office buildings, primarily sifting through abandoned storage for anything useful that might have been sequestered.  You are spending the night at a nearby safe house, sharing a room with Changbin.  The rest of your team is scattered around the house. 

Seeing as your father has relegated you with menial tasks, you have taken it upon yourself to conduct your own investigations.  Your findings have been on your mind all day.  It is why you do not respond to Changbin’s joking with your usual wit. 

“You’re quiet, murder princess,” Changbin says.  “Should I be worried?”

He drops his mask on the nearby desk then unholsters his gun.   He places it beside yours.  It is a testament to your dynamic that you feel comfortable disarming around each other.  You would certainly never do it around your father.  But Changbin is different.   You are not someone who seeks true friendship but you acknowledge the necessity of teamwork especially in times of crisis.  You do not fully trust Changbin as you do not fully trust anyone, but he is loyal and you reciprocate that dependability.

It is why you beckon him forward.  You are sitting on the bed, feet on the floor.  Changbin pulls up a chair to sit in front of you. 

“The enemy had a multi-level security system,” you say.  “Physical in some capacities, digital in others.  My father has always been more preoccupied with offense than defense, so in that regard they were always a step ahead of us.  That is the part my father is interested in.  That is all he sees.” 

“And what do you see?”  Changbin asks.  His disposition changes with the severity of your words, joviality replaced with equal seriousness. 

“I don’t see anything,” you say.  “That’s the problem.”

He lifts an eyebrow, curious.  You show him the image on your tablet, then swipe to the next one. 

“The security log is missing information,” you say.  “There is no trace of anything unusual transpiring the day they were all killed.  No breach, no shutdown.  Everything is normal until everything is gone. Someone scrubbed every last second of data from the digital system.  Someone who knew the system well enough to not just delete the surface files but to clean the server entirely.” 

“So what are you saying?” Changbin asks.  “You think it was an inside job?”

“I know it wasn’t us,” you reply.  “I know it wasn’t any of the usual players.  This family had enemies in every market.  If it was one of them, you’d think they would have stepped forward to assert themselves by now.  Whoever it was had no interest in taking over company assets.  No interest in even sticking around.  Someone went to great lengths to make the entire thing look ambiguous, to leave everyone asking more questions, to turn our heads in one direction while they disappear in the other.  Someone professional.  Someone technologically capable.  Someone whose only motivation was escape.” 

His jaw is clenched as he stares at the images, but you can see the gears turning in his mind.  When he meets your gaze, you sit forward.

“Changbin,” you say.  “What happened on that mission?”

He does not need specification.  Changbin is usually like you, pragmatic and realistic.  He does not dwell in his emotions and never for so long.  It has been well over a month now but he is still rankled by that warehouse confrontation with Lee Felix. 

“Ah, Yongbok,” Changbin says wistfully.  His eyes are downturned but his thoughts are somewhere else.  “You remember him.  He always needed a fairy tale to believe in.”    

That much is true.  You and Changbin have always been simple soldiers manoeuvring through the morally complicated world around you.  You never had any delusions that Miroh was better than his enemies, simply that one or the other was inevitable.  You knew you could make a bigger impact in the fight than watching from the sidelines. 

Felix was competent but naïve.  He believed in Miroh unequivocally which is why he blind-sided them all with his betrayal.  To this day, you do not know why he joined the enemy, nor why he stayed. 

It makes sense he might have naively devoted himself to a different cause. 

“What fairy tale was that?” you ask.  “The enemy?”

“Chris.”  Changbin looks at you beneath the sweep of his dark bangs.  His smile is wry.  “He asked me about Chris.” 

You blink back at him, surprised by the answer.  After stumbling over any number of replies, you say, “That wasn’t in your initial report.”

“It didn’t seem important,” Changbin says with a shrug.   

“You have a responsibility to report back everything—”

“Yes, commander,” he says dryly.  He slumps in his seat and crosses his arms.  “Does it matter now?  I told him Chris was dead.”

Not a lie, in a way.  Bang Chan was a rebellious subject in his youth, nothing like the merciless soldier he is now.  The inhuman machine was wrought through inhumane treatment.   You were not privy to the grittier details nor have you ever felt an inclination to investigate.  You do not need knowledge of the gruesome torture that was administered.   The results are the same: the rebellious boy died.  He has been gone ever since he was dragged into a basement room for correction. 

“Chris,” you say.  The name sits heavy on your tongue.  “Why would he want to know about Chris?”

“The better question is, why didn’t he want to know about me?” Changbin retorts.  It sounds like a joke, his tone jumping back into comically exaggerated hysterics.  But there is a tension in his shoulders that was not there before.  “You know he didn’t even recognize me?  Ah!  The little brat!  I knew him too!  I wasn’t Bang Chan, no one was … But I was there.  Forgetting me… We’re all that’s left!” 

You tilt your head and study Changbin, as if there are more answers in his face than in his words.  Your gaze drifts to the scar by his eye.   He got hit today, taking a swipe meant for you.  Other adversaries have sent agents to scour the late enemy’s business remains, but they are no match for soldiers of Miroh.  

Changbin joked he was being a good bodyguard.  In truth, he is a good bodyguard.  Your security team is competent but nothing compared to him.  It has made a difference, having someone so reliable at your back, even though it has painted a target on his.  Your father is not happy Changbin outsmarted him.  Changbin jokes about it, as he is wont to do, claiming he can’t wait for a pummelling of his own.  He is probably right.  Miroh has been quiet about the bodyguard assignment but that does not mean he has surrendered.  He is a strategist.  He is patient if it means results. 

Raising children into soldiers is a testament to that patience.  You look at Changbin, arguably the last true survivor other than yourself.

We’re all that’s left.  

You find yourself reaching for him.  It is not like you, but lately everything seems out of character.  You touch his face, drawn to that scar, a scar that should be yours.  You touch it very lightly. 

When you meet his eyes, he is looking at you strangely.  You are not a famously affectionate character, not even with him.  You rip your hand back and shake your head. 

“What’s wrong with you?” he asks, more curious than accusatory. 

“Nothing,” you say.  “I mean – well.”  You scrub a hand over your face.  The weeks have healed the worst of your injuries, but it is still littered with scars, including the ones Changbin gave you. 

His eyes linger there before he sighs and drops his head.  He rubs his face too. 

“We’ll talk later,” you say, suddenly feeling the weight of today, not to mention the accumulative exhaustion of the days before.  “It’s been a long day.”  An understatement.   

Changbin doesn’t argue.  You separate to use the facilities and dress down for rest.  You sleep in sweatpants and a t-shirt, your weapons and shoes not far.  The one bed has plenty of space.  You lay down first, certain that your mind is running too fast to rest, but all that exhaustion catches up to you. 

You wake some time in the middle of the night.  When Changbin gets out of bed, the dip and rise of the mattress stirs you.  You blink awake, watching him amble over to the window.  There is a cushioned seat and he plops down, his arms crossed and his eyes on the stars.

You wonder if you look that young out of combat clothes.  His hair is ruffled and the black t-shirt and pants are comfortably fitted.  His face looks vulnerable and open as he stares into the night. 

“You’re awake too,” he says, not looking at you. 

“Obviously,” you reply.  You push yourself upright.  “You woke me.”

“Sorry,” he says, trying to flash you one of his jovial grins but barely managing. 

“You look tired,” you say. 

“Thanks,” he replies with a laugh. 

“You should go back to sleep.”

“I’m on bodyguard duty,” he jokes, gesturing to you.  “I need to make sure no one murders the murder princess.” 

You give him a dry look that makes him giggle.  Naturally his humour returns at your expense.  He really is the little brother you never had. 

You slide off the bed and join him at the window seat.  You shove and kick like bickering children until you are comfortably settled.  You sit with your legs curled up to your chest, mirror images of each other.  He looks out the window and you look at him. 

“What are you thinking about?” you ask.   

“Nothing,” he says, an automatic response.  Then he shakes his head and sighs.  “I don’t know, princess,” he says.  “I don’t think you’ll understand.” 

“What makes you say that?” You cannot help but feel offended even if he is probably right.  You do not have heart-to-hearts, which is what this feels like, a quiet moment carved out of chaos.  If everything was different, you would just be two friends talking about your normal lives. 

Your life is anything but normal. 

“I know you,” he answers, simple and confident.  “I know who you are.  Even when – well, no matter what happens, I guess.”

“Well,” the words are out of your mouth before you can stop them, “that makes one of us.” 

You swallow your thoughts quickly.  Your innermost turmoil cannot be entrusted with anyone.  It is dangerous to even think such weakness, never mind vocalize it.

Changbin looks at you with a pinch in his brow.  You look away, up at the sky.  You wonder about the vantage from the stars, seeing the bigger picture of your life.  Your pain and sacrifices have to be worth something.  Miroh always said the world was full of shadows, dark spots no regular person could clean.  He was right about that.  He is definitely one of them, but sometimes only darkness can fight darkness.  Or so you thought.  All this business with the enemy has changed things.  That darkness collapsed in on itself like a black hole, taking everything with it. 

“It used to be easier, didn’t it?”  Changbin asks.  “Just doing what you’re told… You can tell yourself it’s not your fault, that it would have happened anyway… Maybe I was believing in fairy tales too.” 

You look at each other.  He just sighs. 

“A part of me feels like I never grew up,” he says.  “I’ve always been what I am.  Maybe it’s time to stop.” 

“That sounds a lot like treason,” you say, realizing how dramatic it sounds after the fact. Miroh is a businessman and this company is not a country.  And yet treasonous is what it feels like, a deep betrayal to the place that raised and shaped you into what you are.  It feels like treachery to even think about abandoning it after everything. 

“Maybe it does,” he says.  He gives you another wry smile, flicking his bangs out of his face.  “Does it matter?  He already wants my beautiful head off its beautiful shoulders.”

“You shouldn’t be saying this to me,” you say.  You’re Miroh’s daughter.  Your relationship with your father might be fraught, but your loyalty is to this house and always has been.  It is the only constant in this tumultuous, violent world. 

“Are you gonna tell on me?” Changbin teases, so unserious on such a deathly serious matter.  He just laughs at your silent but intense stare.  He shakes his head as he looks out the window.  “I don’t worry about that.”

“About what?”

“You telling on me.”

That stops your heart faster than the treason. 

“Why not?” you ask slowly, as if you are wary of a trap about to spring. 

Changbin puts a hand in his hair, shaking out his ruffled bangs.  He looks normal but also not, his strong body so clearly built for violence.    It is why you are shocked when he reaches out, when he touches you like you touched him, an undemanding press of his fingers along a scar.  

Your startled eyes find his.  It splits your focus.  You see Changbin right now, older, stronger.  You also see him younger, thinner, looking at you with concerned eyes as he wipes blood off your brow. 

You blink again and it is just him as he is now. 

He drops his hand. 

“You don’t trust anyone,” he says.  “I know.  Ha!  I really know.”  He swings around, planting his feet on the ground.  He reaches into his pocket then flicks open a pocketknife.

It should make your heart palpitate, a soldier with a weapon in your proximity, especially when you are unarmed.  But there is no rush of blood, no fear, no worry.  You just look at him, seeing all of him, young and old.  You realize there has been more than one constant in your life. 

The knife catches a glint of starlight, a flash of light in the darkness. 

“You and I are the same, aren’t we, murder princess?” he says.   “But also not.  You were raised in the pen with us but it was never the same.  We’re just animals to him.  Raised to the slaughter, ha!  But not you.  One way or another, you’re going to be someone.” 

You watch as he lifts his hand. He curls and uncurls a fist.  He looks down at his palm. 

“When it happens,” Changbin says, “Because it will happen, tomorrow or in a month or a year or whenever Miroh decides… But when I go like the rest of them… When it’s just you and you’re trying to decide who you want to be, not who your father wants you to be…  When you’re trying to remember everything and you can’t decide what was real and what was just training and what was Miroh…” 

He draws a slow slice across his hand, not so deep to be detrimental to his grip, but enough to draw blood in a long, thin line.  You look at this small scar as if it the deepest wound you have ever encountered. 

“Just… remember me,” he says.  “I didn’t bleed because I believe in Miroh.  I’m your soldier, not his.”

You are at a loss for words.  You do not think there are any words, none that you were raised to know.  You can only stare at the little trickle of blood as it runs down his wrist and drips onto the floor. 

You have always felt very alone.  You learned to thrive in that solitude.  Even clinging to the hope of your father’s approval proved exhausting and useless.  You accepted your high promontory was a lonely one.  

Not even that solitude compares to the idea of Changbin gone.  Even if you go weeks without seeing him, he is out there somewhere.  You both keep your heads down, get the job done.   Not the best soldiers, not the worst, but the ones still here. 

You let instinct override your senses for the second time that night.  When he makes to stand, your reflexes snap into action.  You grab him by the arm and snatch the knife.  He has no time to respond, watching as you slice a similar scar on your own palm. 

Your eyes meet.  You are unflinching, more resolute than ever.  You clasp his hand and the blood smears in a signifying pact that needs no other words. 

Only when the moment settles do you say, “You’re not a half-bad bodyguard.”

His laughter comes to him slowly, none of that empty joviality but a genuine burst of it.  His eyes crinkle and his smiles widens and the laughter bubbles out of him. 

“I’m the best bodyguard,” he says.  “And don’t you ever fucking forget it.” 

-

In the light of day, last night’s whirlwind of dramatic emotions feel tempered.  You and Changbin are able to conduct yourselves with a proper degree of soldiership.  Though his words and your promise are in the back of your mind, you put it away for now.

You dress in combat gear and pack your bags for another day of infiltration, investigation, and clean-up.  It is hard to say how easy or difficult the day will be.  If you encounter other agents, the confrontation could complicate things, but sometimes that is better than a long day with no interesting discoveries at all. 

The enemy had properties scattered all over town, some active and some not.  This particular office building is a very old one, seemingly long since abandoned and turned into company storage.  Some of these boxes have not been touched in decades, perhaps remnants of the business as run by the previous generation. 

A thick layer of dust coats the desks and boxes.  At least your masks are put to work, filtering the dusty air as you trail through the building. 

“Yahhh,” Changbin whines, flicking some papers off a desk.  “Today’s going to be boring.” 

“Yup,” you say in accord.  There is no way anyone else will be here.  You doubt there is anything of value to be discovered, but Miroh will harass you if you do not complete his missions as outlined.  With so much tension between you already, it is better to keep your head down and complete the menial tasks, even if it is blatant busy work. 

A few of your officers are sent ahead to sweep the building.  It is not a towering skyscraper but several tall floors nonetheless.  Your subordinates take different floors while you and Changbin take an upper level.  You begin the tedious task of rifling through the abandoned documentation.

“I’m a supersoldier, not a secretary,” Changbin gripes, moving boxes with more force than necessary.

“You’re not a supersoldier,” you say without looking up from your work.  “There’s no such thing.”

“I’m pretty close,” he says, flexing and kissing his bicep. 

“When you start flying, maybe I’ll consider it,” you retort, dryly.

“All right, I’m not a supersoldier,” he says.  He takes off his mask to grin at you.  “But I am super good looking.” 

You take off your own mask to throw at him like a projectile.  He squeals and ducks, then proceeds to cuss you out for the next few minutes while you smile. 

Eventually he takes a seat.  He props his booted feet up on a desk while sorting through some papers with absent-minded perusal. 

“So tell me again about the security log,” Changbin says, evidently growing bored within minutes. 

You can hardly blame him.  It is why you are about to reply, but your thoughts are quickly obliterated.  Gunfire reverberates in the nearby stairwell, followed by shouting and thumping.  Seconds later, your warning pagers are vibrating.  Your officers’ voices come through the communications software.

“Hostile enemy agents breached ground zero,” they say.  “Be ready for confrontation.”

You and Changbin spring into action.  Your masks are unfortunately abandoned, too far to grab in a rush thanks to your shenanigans, but your bags and weapons are within reach.   You swing them on and arm yourselves, racing into the corridor to join the rest of your team. 

It happens very fast.  One moment, this ancient building is nothing more than a dilapidated office from a bygone era, brimming with useless nothings that no one would want.  The next moment, it is overflowing with enemy agents, pouring in one after the other. 

You and Changbin join the other officers in the stairwell.  None of you are prepared for the sight that greets you, the sheer number of adversaries that come streaming into the building at rapid speed.

“What the fuck,” you say, realizing far too late you cannot take this many agents.  You have not had anything near this problem before.   

You look at Changbin, both of you shooting uselessly to stop the encroach of hostiles. 

“We need to retreat,” you say in unison.  You nod at each other. 

The message gets passed along the communicators.  There is no way to escape through the ground floor, the enemy agents chasing you up the stairwell.  You take out your phone to call for back-up, relaying the message directly to Miroh’s team leaders. 

“Can you at all identify the hostiles?” the man asks. 

“Do we know who they are?” you shout at Changbin over the gunfire and chaos. 

“Ah, well they’re not friends!” he replies.

You pause in your ascent to squint down at the approaching horde.  The uniform colours are familiar at a glance, but the dog tags confirm your suspicions.  It locks you in place with shock and confusion, because there is no way that makes any sense. 

These agents belong to the enemy.  The enemy.  It explains the numbers, as only that house could rival Miroh in terms of size and numbers.  But it is not possible he is conducting an offensive attack because he’s dead and his business is in shambles.  There is no one to conduct an operation on his behalf.  It makes no sense. 

Changbin grabs you by the back of the neck, hauling you up the stairs with him. 

“Not the time to stop and smell the flowers, murder princess,” he says. 

“It’s the enemy,” you say.  “I don’t know how or why, but it’s them.”

“We’re sending a back-up team straight to you right now,” Miroh’s leader says. 

You end the call to focus on your surroundings, confusing and chaotic as they are. 

You watch as several of your officers are taken down.  You wince at each reverberation of a gunshot that kills them.  A dozen more faces flash in front of your eyes, every child in that program with you, every enemy you have killed on Miroh’s behalf.  Chris.  Felix.  Changbin, young, small, looking at you with concern.

The reign of fire follows you.  You think you will be hearing gunshots for days. 

“Get her out,” one of your officer’s says into the comms, directed at Changbin.  “Leave through the roof.  We’ll hold them off.”

You trip running up the stairs. 

You never trip, far more coordinated than the average soldier.  But you hear your officer say that and your mind’s eye is overwhelmed with the image of them dying.  Because that is what will happen.  You should not be bothered by it.  You can train a new security team.  They exist for this exact reason. 

But all their faces are flashing in front of your mind.  Your team, the program soldiers, the First Guard.  A thunderous pain rattles down your spine, a cry leaving your lips as you are inundated with visions of death that you suddenly cannot shake. 

“Up, up!” Changbin shouts, hoisting you onto your feet.  “You’re better than this!” 

He’s right.  You are a soldier.  You trained for this.  You were made to fight. 

You push through the pain and thunder.  You get your feet back under you.  You race with Changbin to the roof and trust your team to do what is best. 

You slam and bolt the door behind you.  You look around for something to barricade it but there is nothing.  Changbin meanwhile opens his pack and takes out the rappel line and harness.  You have had little use for it on most of the assignments, but it is standard tactical gear when assigned any investigation or clean-up work, as it can require getting into locked areas through sky access.   You almost left them behind today, knowing the building was abandoned and you would have no difficulty getting in.  You are glad you decided against that. 

“Here,” Changbin says, handing you the harness.  “Put this on.”  He ducks back down to finish securing the line on the edge of the roof. 

“They’re not gonna be able to hold them,” you say, fitting the harness around yourself.  It is second-nature.  You hardly need to think, fastening every buckle as you stare at that closed door.  “They’ll be on us in seconds,” you say.  “They’ll just follow us over the roof on the line.”  You grant your odds are better on the street, that you can endeavour an escape, but that is only if you get that far.  Those enemy agents are going to blast down that door like it’s made of cardboard, then they will be on you. 

Your heart is pounding in your chest, your adrenaline propelling every breath.  You do not have time to think twice.  It is why it takes you so long to notice that Changbin has not put on a harness. 

“What are you doing?” you ask when he stands, completely unprepared to rappel down the building.  “We have to go! Put your harness on, idiot!” 

He takes the hook and locks it onto your harness, fastening it with a few skilled flicks of his fingers.  You grab his hand, stopping him. 

He takes a breath and finally meets your eye.  The wind blows his dark bangs across his face, opening up his expression to you.  You can feel the furious scrunch of your own features go lax.  Just like that, your adrenaline dwindles, all that heat turning to an ice cold block in your chest.  It drops to your gut.

“Changbin,” you start. 

“You’re going to go down that line,” he says.  “When you’re at the bottom, I’m going to cut it so they can’t follow you.  It will buy you time to get to the vehicles and get away.”

“Absolutely not,” you say.  “What the fuck are you thinking?  You—”  

“I’m your bodyguard,” he says with that wry smile.  “This is my job.  Let me do it.” 

“No,” you say, struggling against him.  You try to unhook the rappel line but he fights back, not your usual play-fighting but deadly serious.  “You can’t be serious!” you shout.  “We’re the same thing!  If you’re staying and fighting then I’m joining you!”

“We’re not the same thing!” he shouts back.  “You’re a Miroh!  You need to get out of here!”

“You’re right, I am a Miroh!” you say.  “It’s me they want anyway!  You put on the harness!  You can still get out of here!”

“I’m not leaving here without you!”

You want to reply.  The words are right on your lips: I’m not leaving here without you either. 

But before you can say them, all that thunderous pain fractures your vision again.  Your focus splits.  You see Changbin in front of you, dressed in his combat gear with the wind in his hair.  

Then everything changes. 

The sunny sky darkens and the rooftop disappears.  You see the colour grey.  It is all around you, halfway blinding you, filling your lungs so you can hardly breathe.  You blink rapidly, as if that will clear your vision, but it is just more grey and the sound of faraway voices. 

Then you see Changbin again, in his combat gear but years younger.  Just a teenager, all skinny cheeks and sharp angles.  There is no wind in his hair.  There is no wind anywhere.   He is bleeding profusely from a head wound, a stark slash of red in the middle of so much grey.  He says your name.  You hear your own voice but it is a foggy, faraway thing.  You cannot make out what you are saying.  When you look down, you cannot see your body.  You can only see him.  You can only hear him.    

“I’m not leaving here without you,” he says.

Then you are abruptly yanked out of that grey.  You are back on the rooftop in the sunshine. Changbin has his hand planted on your chest, securing the last piece of the harness.  You hear the thud of someone kicking at the bolted door.  You look there frantically.  Changbin does too.  Then you look at each other. 

“I told you I was the best bodyguard ever,” he says, smiling.  

He whips off his glove, revealing his freshly scarred hand.  He grabs your bare hand, the one with the still-tender scar.  He clasps your hands together and looks at you with a desperation you have never seen before, like he is trying to tell you a thousand things with just a glance. 

Then he slowly lets go of your hand. 

“Sorry I can’t fly,” he says. 

He shoves the middle of your chest, hard.  You go tumbling over the edge of the roof just as the enemy agents break the door down. 

There is nothing you can do mid-air.  You can only shout his name, terrified and furious and desperate all at once.  You scream your emotions out until the line comes to an end, a few feet from the ground.  You unclip your harness and drop to the ground smoothly. 

“Can anyone copy?” you speak into your comm, looking up at the roof helplessly.  You watch as an enemy agent swings over and starts to climb down the rope.  You draw your gun and brace yourself.

Then Changbin’s head pops over the edge.  “Copy,” he says, then cuts the line. 

You jump out of the way.  Seconds later, the enemy agent comes careening into the ground.  The pile of rope lands on top of him.

“Fuck,” you say.  “Fuck, fuck, fuck.  Changbin!” you shout hysterically into your comms.  “Changbin, can you copy?”

He doesn’t answer.  You run over to the body, searching for something.  You don’t even know what, you just know that this whole situation is wrong. 

It does not take you long.  You roll the body over.  Though his neck is now twisted at a fatal angle, you recognize the agent.  He was standing in your father’s office just a few weeks ago.  His name was Agent Slump.  You shot him through the shoulder. 

These are not enemy agents attacking the house of Miroh, they are your father’s men attacking you.  

You push away from the body, looking frantically up at the roof for any sign of further commotion.  You see nothing from this vantage. 

You run back into the building.  You let adrenaline and instinct carry you up the stairs, taking a few at a time and ignoring the burn in your thighs.  This is Miroh, you keep repeating to yourself.  Your father has done this.  Sending fake enemies after you.  Teaching you yet another lesson.  You said you could handle yourself.  You said your security team could protect you.  Now you are running past their dead bodies, your chest heaving from exertion and emotion.  You find yourself blinking back tears.  You cannot remember the last time you cried. 

“Changbin,” you say into your comm, tripping on another step.  Your voice comes out of the comms on your dead officers.   It echoes in the empty stairwell.  “Changbin, answer me, please,” you say.  “It’s not the enemy.  It’s my father.  It’s Miroh.  Changbin.  Changbin.”

You are halfway up the building when you hear voices below.  You stop to listen.  Your vibrating phone makes you jump. 

“Miss Miroh?” comes a voice, then you see one of your father’s officers at the bottom of the winding stairwell.  This one is not playing a part.  He is in the standard uniform.  There are more officers behind him.  The back-up you called like an idiot. 

You do not go back down.  You drop your phone and race to the roof.

“Get her,” you hear the officer say, then the stairwell is thundering with footsteps as they chase you. 

You no longer know what you are doing.  You do not know where you are going or what you will find.  A part of you is unsurprised when the rooftop is empty, that they got away, that now your father’s men can come in and play hero. 

You look around for Changbin but you cannot find him anywhere.  You try to tell yourself that is a good thing, that it could be worse, that he could be as dead as your security team, just a body on this roof.  You try to tell yourself that he is safe.  It was just Miroh.  They are probably taking Changbin back to the main facilities right now.  Everything will be fine. 

Deep down, you know nothing will be fine.   Everything has changed. 

You hear the officers behind you.  You look around.  The building next door is too far for a regular person to jump, potentially too far for you to jump.  It will be cutting it close, but it is all you have.  At this point, you halfway hope you’ll fall and your father’s men will be forced to report they let you die. 

You shed the top layer of your combat shirt, getting down to the tank top underneath.  You are not sure it will make a difference, but every bit counts.  You back up and count a few seconds, then you take a running leap off the roof.  You get a grip on the next one, though not without a lot of pain.  You grit your teeth and hoist yourself up, ignoring your scraped arms as you take off running.  You open a skylight and drop into the building.  Another empty corridor stretches in front of you. 

You decide your objective it to escape.  You can confront your father after, but right now you need to prove you can handle yourself.  You can get out of here. 

You are certain your father’s men will have the vehicles locked in.  Once you escape this building, you will have to find another—

A window behind you shatters.  You duck and cover your head as glass explodes around you.  You roll to get away, though your limbs are shaky from everything.  When you get to your feet, it is more unsteady than usual. 

You turn around.  You feel that sinking feeling in your gut again.

“Oh my god,” you say.  “Of fucking course it’s you.” 

Bang Chan stands there, cold and ungiving like the living shadow he has become.  Your father likes an agent that can both disappear and intimidate, so Chan somehow feels like a terrifyingly huge figure, looming over you, despite the fact he is not much bigger or taller.  His presence is hulking, as deadly and awful as you remember.  He stares at you with those dark eyes over the half-mask.  He is not breathing especially hard despite the fact he just took a running leap from the opposite building and smashed through a window.  His body is as steady and ungiving as his gaze. 

You do not waste any more breath cursing.  You turn and run. 

You know it is useless but you have to try.  In your head, if you get away, that is a bargaining chip.  You can talk to Miroh, you can show him that you were right, you can have Changbin back, and Changbin will be fine and—

You let out an aggravated cry when Chan grabs you.  You manage to rip away after a few good kicks.  It is amazing what hidden strength lies in adrenaline.  Your heart is pumping even faster than your last fight with him. 

You duck into a stairwell and jump over the railing, landing a couple floors below.  You keep doing that, ignoring the fact you can hear him copying you.  If you look back, it will slow you down.  You keep jumping until you hit the bottom floor. 

You make it a few steps before he grabs you again.  This time he is relentless, a big gloved around wrapped around your throat. 

That adrenaline betrays you.  It is like all your training abandons you as your terror and fury rips through you.  You struggle against him, your motions jerky and frantic and poorly strategized.  He pins you to the wall, using his whole body to lock you in place so you stop kicking him. 

“Let me go,” you say, barely above a whisper.  It makes him tighten his grip on your throat.  You twitch helplessly, gripping his arm uselessly, your face pinched with anger.  

You are swiftly joined by the other officers.  You glare at them, still digging your nails into Chan’s arm.  He does not soften his grip until he is ordered, then he puts you on your feet.  You stumble, your vision covered in black spots as you suck in deep, gasping breaths.  It was not even just the choking, as he did not squeeze hard enough to fully incapacitate you, but as your adrenaline dwindles, your strength does too. 

You trip for the third time.  Someone grabs you by the shoulders and pulls you back up.  You are not sure if you are more surprised or terrified to find it is Chan, looking at you with calculating eyes.  You stare back at him, this manifestation of your father’s worst, most inhumane actions.   You are torn between apologizing to him and kicking him again. 

Then another officer grabs you.  You watch with alarm as he puts you in handcuffs.

“What the fuck?” you ask.  “Who’s fucking side are you on?”

“Miroh always, of course,” the officer says.  “This is for your own good.  You are behaving erratically.  Don’t be scared.  We will inform your father that you tried to flee from your own protective officers.  I am certain he will do everything in his power to ensure you cannot put yourself in harm’s way again.” 

You have no more words.  An animalistic cry escapes from your chest, ripping through you.  Even with your hands cuffed behind your back, you dive at the officer and take him down.  You bite down on his ear until you taste the metallic tang of blood.  He screams under you until someone rips you off him.   They hold you by the back of the neck like a poorly behaved puppy. 

The officer gets to his feet.  Blood is pouring down the side of his neck, part of his ear torn.  You spit blood at him.

He raises his hand as if to strike you.  You stand there, chin jutted forward, ready to take it. 

Then you realize it is Chan holding you.  When the officer brings his hand down, Chan moves you.  He steps in between you and catches the officer’s wrist. 

Chan says nothing.  He does not need to say anything.   He looks at the officer and the officer swallows. 

The officer snatches his hand back and straightens his clothes. 

“We’re leaving,” he says.  “Guard, take your charge.” 

You are looking smugly at the officer.  That cockiness dissipates when Chan turns around and looks at you.  It has you immediately shrinking away, then flinching when he grabs your arm.    

They take you to a truck.  It is one of the holding trucks, the kind they use for transporting undesirables.  It is obvious they always intended to lock you in chains.  You have been in metaphorical chains your whole life, and it is only taking this to realize it. 

You try and slow your frantic breathing.  You cannot have a breakdown right now.  It will only make it harder for you when you confront your father.  You are already at a disadvantage, being dragged to him in literal chains.  You will be completely at his mercy, and Miroh does not have mercy. 

You sit on the bench in the back of the prison truck.  You expect to be alone with an officer, giving you time to strategize and think, but then it is Chan climbing into the van and sitting on the bench across from you.  All the hairs on your body stand up.  You cannot concentrate on anything with Bang Chan in close proximity.  He moves like a wild animal, something predatory and swift about him.   When they close and lock the door, your heart skips beats. 

Chan says nothing.  He never says anything.  On the rare occasion you have been in contact, you have not heard a word out of him.  You seldom have anything to do with the missions he runs.  They are above even your paygrade, the worst of Miroh’s work. 

You swallow.  He is not speaking but he is staring.  He does not remove the mask.  You have not seen him without it in years.  He is nothing but a soldier.  An army unto himself. 

Your heart skips another beat.  An idea slowly forms in your mind. 

You are better than average.  Chan is better than you.  You cannot take all these agents on your own, but you could definitely take them with his help.   Of course, that is an entirely hypothetical thought.  It would be absolutely, completely, severely ridiculous to even try.   You are certain the best reaction you will get out of Chan is nothing, just a penetrating stare and silence.  The worst would probably be a snapped neck. 

You curl your hands behind your back.  The scar on your palm stings.  You clench your jaw.

You have nothing else to lose. 

“You’re not a soldier, you know,” you say. 

Just like you suspected, he says nothing.  He just stares at you.  The truck rattles along, jostling you so your handcuffs jingle.  He moves with the sway of the vehicle, hardly affected. 

Your fear turns to frustration.  You heave a breath. 

“Did you hear me?” you ask.  “You’re not a soldier.  You’re a prisoner.  You’re not who you think you are.  Miroh has you under his control, but it’s not real.  The real you is in there somewhere.  And the real you—”  The words come rushing up, slamming into your furiously clenched teeth, “The real you hates Miroh almost as much as me.” 

Chan stares at you.  That is expected.

What is unexpected is the slow tilt of his head.  It makes you shiver, instinctively cowering as he studies you.  His brow slowly quirks, a questioning expression.  You did not know he could make such an expression. 

“Are you… listening to me?” you ask.   

He straightens, but he still looks questioning.  It is enough for all your desperation to rush to the surface.  You fall forward, slamming on your knees in front of him.  You are so scarred and bruised, it hardly matters.  More important is the fact he looks down, as if he is more concerned by it, though you cannot read any more expressions on his stoic face. 

“Chan,” you say.  “Chris.  Whatever you want to be called.  If you’re in there, then listen to me, please.  I know you don’t know me.  We hardly knew each other at all growing up.  But we did grow up together.  Miroh is controlling both of us.  He is going to use us to do things.  He—”  You curl your fist behind you, needing to feel the sting on your palm.  It brings a tear to your eye. 

Chan is looking at you, expressionless again, but it doesn’t matter.  You have to try.

“It’s not just us,” you say.  “This is bigger than you and me.  I have a—I have a friend—my friend, you understand, and I—”

The van comes to a stop.  Chan grabs you by the shoulders and puts you back on your bench.  You screw your eyes shut and shake your head.  You want to scream. 

When you open your eyes, you pour all your anger in your glare.  It is not directed at Chan, though he is the one to catch your gaze and hold it. 

You are still looking at each other when the door is unlocked.  There was only a small window providing light in the cabin of the truck.  A bigger slash of golden light has you wincing. 

Chan is unaffected, still staring at you.  An officer opens the door wider and nods to him. 

“Let’s go, guard,” he says. 

Chan gets up.  You watch as he struts past.  He jumps out of the van and lands smoothly on his feet.

Then he reels back and punches the officer.  It is quick as a snap, the unconscious body hitting the tarmac in a flash.  It makes you jump, the bench rattling underneath you. 

You sit, petrified, confused.  Chan slowly turns.  You blink at him.

He holds out his hand. 

“What?” you say.  It comes out a rasp.  You cannot manage more words.  There is no way your frantic, barely coherent pleading got through to him.  This man has been tortured into compliance.  There is no humanity left in him, no memories, no emotions, no hopes.   He does not feel anything.  He does not understand anything.  He is a weapon.

He is still holding out his hand. 

There is nowhere to go but forward.  You get to your feet and shuffle towards him.  He still does not speak, nor does he look at you with any particular expression.  He just holds out his arms and lifts you out of the van.  When you are on your feet, you stare at each other.

He spins you around.  A gust of breath whooshes out of you.  You panic for half a second, then you realize he is unlocking your handcuffs. 

Never mind.  He is breaking them with his bare hands.  You watch as they hit the ground in a mangled heap.  You turn around slowly, your knees still shaking. 

Chan is calm as the other officers approach.  Someone asks why you are out of your handcuffs. 

Chan looks at you.  You do not know why or how, but he nods. 

You nod back.

You are a soldier.  You trained for this.  You were made to fight.  It is time to remind them of that. 

-

Your father is in his rooftop garden.  Miroh has a few soft hobbies like that, gardening among his favourite.  He sees himself as a cultivator as much as a green thumb, bringing more life into the world despite what life he takes.  It balances for him.  The ends always justifies the means. 

You walk into his garden.  It is obvious he is not expecting anyone, much less you.  He does not have time to hide his surprise.   You just fought your way through all of his security measures, battered and bruised and beaten.  You have not seen yourself, but you are certain your body is a canvas of violence right now. 

“Hello, father,” you say. 

“Go to my office,” he replies without hesitation.  “We will talk there.”

“No,” you say calmly.  “We’ll talk right here.  Right now.” 

He is holding a watering can.  He puts it down without looking and it tips over, splashing everywhere.  Neither of you look at it.  Your eyes are locked on each other.  You both know what he did today.  He is smart enough to work that out. 

“Where are my men?” he asks. 

“Detained,” you answer.  Chan is holding them off somewhere.  You still do not know why or how, but there will be time for that later.  You have to solve one problem at a time. 

You have no real plan.  You are making it up as you.  All you know is that scar on your hand is throbbing.

I’m not leaving here without you. 

You touch your palm, running your finger over the scar.  You do not look away from Miroh as you approach him.  Your legs are weak, your knees shaking, your body in agony, but you take one step after the other.  Given the stricken look on his face, you think this might be more disturbing than if you were healthy. 

Your injuries might have made you equal fighters, but his arm is still in a cast, weakening him too.   He will not win in a one-on-one fight.  He is smart enough to know that too.  It is why he takes a careful, calculating step back. 

“You’re injured,” he says.  “Go to the infirmary.  We can talk after.”

“We can talk now,” you reply, taking another step forward. 

“Whatever it is, it can wait,” he says. 

“Where is he?” you ask. 

You are both speaking calmly, moving slowly.  The watering can is slowly leaking water, gurgling in the background.  Wind moves through the flowers.  You hear birdsong in the sunshine.   Still, in the background, it feels like the world is screaming, the high-pitched whistle of that pot at a boiling point. 

“Who?” your father asks. 

“I’m not playing any more games,” you say.  “I’m not playing dress-up with any little secret agents.  I’m not getting in any rings and playing made-up fights with your silly toy soldiers.  No more lies.  No more games.  No more secrets.  Seo Changbin is my best officer.  I want him back.  Tell me where he is.” 

“His time as a soldier has run its course,” Miroh says.  “His body is more useful than him.  The initial special-ops experiment was a failure.  His genetics might unlock the key to replicating the medicant.  We can try again.  You should want to help me.  You would know better than anyone what worked and what did not.” 

Your exhaustion and emotion nearly gets the better of you.  You almost hurl right in front of him, imagining all the horrifying implications of genetics and keys.  You imagine them taking Changbin apart, piece by piece, experimenting on him like a slab of meat. 

You keep your disgust and horror down.  You take another step forward. 

“Give him back to me,” you say.  “Right now.  I told you already.  I’m not playing any games.” 

“You are deeply unwell,” your father says, his tone changing as he looks at you with more scrutiny.  His whole face seems to darken with the furrow of his brow.  “This is not like you.  Go to the infirmary.” 

“I’m not asking again,” you say.  “Give him back to me.” 

“Why?”

Because you’re my father, should be a good enough answer.  You know it will not work.  You know he does not care.  Miroh hates you because you are his daughter.  Miroh is not scared of anyone because he knows he is the best.  He is scared of himself in you.  You never stood a chance. 

“Because he’s my friend,” you say, because that is the only truth that matters anymore. 

It makes your father laugh unexpectedly.  You do not break. 

“Your friend?” he asks.  “Oh, well, my dear, if he’s your friend, then of course I’ll suspend all my plans and operations!”  He continues to laugh.

“I already told you,” you say.  “I’m not asking again.” 

You fly at him without further warning.  He has a half-second to react, his eyes widening as he side-steps clumsily.  With your mutual injuries, it is not much of a fight.  After a short scuffle, Miroh kicks at your legs, your weakest point, and you double over.  He swings his knee up into your stomach and it makes you fall, curled protectively over yourself.  You plant your forehead on the ground, arms around you, breathing hard. 

“That is how a daughter should be before her father,” he says, looking down at you in your broken little bow. 

You look up as he reaches into the lapel of his coat.  He has kept his gun in the same place for years.  In the same place you always keep yours when you wear a long coat. 

He puts his hand there and finds nothing. 

You uncurl, showing the gun in your hand.  You point it, cock it, and place your finger on the trigger as you stand. 

“If the next words you speak are not his exact location, I’m killing you,” you say. 

“Then kill me,” he says. 

He must know you are running on fumes and a half-baked plan that you did not believe would work.  He is calling your bluff, knowing you like he knows himself.  You will drop the gun and concede.  Miroh wins.  Miroh always wins. 

But you are gripping that gun with your scarred hand.  It sends a twinge of pain shooting up your arm.   You hear Changbin’s voice in your head.

You pull the trigger. 

You are not sure who is more surprised.  You can feel it on your own face, dripping with your sweat and blood.  You lower the gun and watch as Miroh stumbles backwards, frantically patting his chest.   You wonder if he is wearing any protective layers.

It doesn’t matter, in the end.  You spent the last few minutes walking him backwards.  If you couldn’t get the gun, you were going to grab him and threaten him with the edge of the roof. 

When you shoot him, he stumbles.  He falls back.  He goes right over the edge.

You stand there for a long minute.  The watering can has emptied.  The wind has gone still.  The whole world seems to stop.  When you drop the gun, it hits the concrete with a clatter.  It feels very strange that the sun is still shining. 

You walk to the edge of the roof.  You look down.  Your father has loomed over the world from this perch for years, looking over the things he has so meticulously grown. 

He is laying in a broken heap at the bottom of it now. 

You do not know how long you stand there.  The wind begins to blow again.  You feel it on your face. 

Then you hear a voice.  It nearly makes you jump. 

“What now?” it asks. 

You turn around.  Bang Chan is standing there in his dark combat gear, that half-mask still fastened in place. He has finally broken a sweat, his hairline damp, and his chest is moving a little faster with breath.  He is human somewhere under there.  Deep, deep down.   You have no idea what to do with that human anymore than the soldier. 

One problem at a time. 

A few more officers appear on the rooftop.   Chan turns.  You approach him. 

“What now?” you repeat.  You scoop up the discarded gun and point it at the officers.  Chan draws his own and does the same.  You stand side-by-side, arm-to-arm, eyes on your adversaries.  “Right now,” you say, “we fight.” 

You pull the trigger. 

The fight begins. 

[copperbadge]

I’ve messed around with AI a little, because I like to understand a thing when I’m formulating opinions on it and I’ve found the best way to do that is to climb into the thing and start pushing buttons. I’ve been unimpressed with ChatGPT; its fiction chops are oddly saccharine, and of course you can’t trust the nonfiction it spits out because everything it says needs to be fact checked. It claims it can’t “lie”, only misinterpret data from the sets it was trained on; devs call the misinterpreted data “hallucination”.

Part of what I was testing was whether it could competently do my job, so that if my boss starts asking about it, I can give him a decent report. I asked it for biographies of a few wealthy people I’ve researched in the past, and it spat out some respectably generic information that was mostly correct. However, most of the people I research now are not like “so rich I’m famous for it” levels of wealthy, and harder generally for me to find information on, as I assumed it would be for ChatGPT. 

So I thought I’d see what it could do with someone more middle class, and asked it for a biography of Sam Starbuck. 

What it returned was like what you would get if you told me “Write a flattering biography of yourself and don’t worry that I’ll be fact-checking anything you say.” It was mostly true, but it hyped up my achievements as an author in ways that I would consider not entirely honest, and said I was also a professional editor and that I had led prestigious writing workshops in the past. That’s plain untrue, but I can see where it would be making that assumption, because my author bio sounds like a lot of other, more famous peoples’ author bios, and I would guess it just pulled in some of their verbiage for color. 

But the wildest part of the bio was that it named three of the novels I’ve written. Or rather, it named two novels I’ve written and one novel that I definitely have not. It said I was the author of a novel called “Like Clockwork”. Just in case I had written a fanfic titled “Like Clockwork” and forgotten about it, I checked AO3 and also asked ChatGPT for a plot summary of Sam Starbuck’s “Like Clockwork”. And sure enough it hallucinated a multi-paragraph summary of an entire novel I’ve never written, on AO3 or anywhere else. (It was not a good summary. Very Generic YA SF Thriller.) 

ChatGPT is very good at one thing: apologizing. When I pressed it about where it found the data it couldn’t say, when I asked why it had made up the plot summary it couldn’t tell me, when I asked if it could show me source links or data it drew on to create “Like Clockwork” it of course would not. But it always said it was sorry...

Anyway, my best theory from googling is that every year there are roughly nine million news stories about how Starbucks Coffee’s holiday cups are back “like clockwork”. 

I suppose I should be glad the novel’s title isn’t Unicorn Frappucino.

[raina-at]

Intuition

The journey through my AUs continues, today it's my kind of Unilock boys from Guess Who's Coming for Christmas Dinner, but this stands very well on its own as well.

----

“Stop fidgeting.”

“I can’t help it. I look ridiculous.”

“You do not,” Sherlock says, indignant, reaching over to adjust John’s tie. “The suit is perfect. Now stop fidgeting and keep your eyes open. One of these people is a cat burglar and a jewel thief.”

“Yeah, and the rest are bankers and brokers,” John mutters, adjusting his cufflinks. “Find the thief in a roomful of thieves. Like looking for a needle in a pile of needles.”

“Careful, your class prejudices are showing. Now look around and try to look like you regularly spend a thousand pounds on a bottle of wine.”

John snorts and takes two flutes of champagne from a tray, handing one to Sherlock. He takes a sip and hums appreciatively. “At least the booze is good.”

They make their rounds, chatting with several people, and for the first time, John is glad for the hours and hours he spent trying to make nice with Sherlock’s posh family, because he now knows how to use summer as a verb, and he’s learned to pronounce chalet correctly. 

“What about this chap?” John points at an elegant older man across the room. “He gives me the creeps.”

“What are you basing this deduction on?” Sherlock asks, taking an unobtrusive look at the man John pointed out.

“Dunno. Something about him. Intuition.”

Sherlock huffs an exasperated sigh. “John, there is no such thing as intuition.”

“‘Course there is.”

“No. What you call intuition is your brain making deductions and drawing inferences from a hundred subconscious clues and disseminating the data to you as uneasiness, because you haven’t trained your brain to observe consciously. You need to learn how to separate the context clues and observe them, systematically and consciously.” Sherlock gestures at the man John indicated. “Look at your fellow here. His shoes are bespoke Italian loafers, incredibly expensive, this make and model are only made in Florence, which just happens to be the site of one of our thefts. His watch is British Army issue, meaning he has military training, further fitting our profile. He’s wearing glasses he clearly doesn’t usually wear, given there are no imprints on his nose, and he recently dyed his hair. He fidgets with his tie like you, meaning he’s unused to wearing one, and what banker isn’t used to wearing a tie?”

“So, what you’re saying,” John says, with an amused smile, “is that I’m right?”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Yes, John, you are right. But for the wrong reasons.”

“You’re so lucky I love you, you incurable smartarse,” John mutters, depositing his empty champagne glass on a nearby tray.

“If I’m not entirely mistaken,” Sherlock murmurs as he leans closer to speak in John’s ear, “you especially love my smart arse.”

John grins. “Not entirely accurate. I love your smart brain, and I love your spectacular arse.” John leans closer and kisses Sherlock once on the lips, then murmurs, “How about we get out thief and go home, and then I can show you just how much I love your smart arse?”

“You’re right, you know,” Sherlock says, drawing back a little to give John an affectionate smile. “I am lucky.”

John pecks him on the cheek, smiling softly. “So am I. Now let’s get our jewel thief, and go home.” He makes a gesture for Sherlock to precede him and then follows, making no secret out of his appreciation for Sherlock’s truly fine arse.

Lucky indeed, he thinks, as they walk once more into battle.

-----

I think I'm done with my AU journey, I think I hit them all at least once. I'll double-check, and if you can think of one I haven't done, please drop me a line, but I think I've done them all.

Um.... Bingo?

Tags under the cut as usual, please let me know if you want to be tagged or untagged. Also, periodic reminder that I'm posting these on AO3 here.

@calaisreno @totallysilvergirl @jrow @peanitbear @jolieblack @meetinginsamarra @helloliriels @keirgreeneyes @lisbeth-kk @friday411 @givemesherbet-blog-blog @weeesi @thalialunacy @thegildedbee @dapetty @salmonsown

[al-astakbar]

☆ The Gift -- Thrawn x reader ☆

> title ☆ The Gift ☆part 5/?

> summary ☆ As congratulations for his recent promotion to Grand Admiral, Emperor Palpatine gives Thrawn a gift -- a young woman who has been trained as a pleasure companion.

> pairing ☆  Thrawn x reader ☆ word count [1.9k] ☆ warnings for this part ☆ brief sexual language > series warnings ☆ dubious consent; sexual slavery; concubine/ sex slave AU; will add more warnings as more parts are posted

>series navigation ☆ part 1 ☆ part 2 ☆ part 3 ☆ part 4 ☆ part 5 ☆ part 6 ☆ part 7

>posted on ao3

author note!! To be very clear, in this story reader is a concubine against her will and is gifted to Thrawn, but there is at no point any noncon between Thrawn and reader. Reader is never noncon with anyone, either referenced or explicitly, and there is never any explicit noncon. However, this is a darker take on Thrawn and he doesn't really have many hangups about putting his gift to use...

You are awoken in the dark by a shrill, persistent whistle. Disoriented, you twist in the sheets and fumble for your data pad to check the time— before it registers in your brain where you are. The Chimaera. Grand Admiral Thrawn’s personal quarters. Your data pad isn’t here but where you left it on your night table back on Coruscant. Or, more likely, your room has been cleared out for the next trainee. Your personal effects will have been collected and reissued. 

The whistle plays again over the loudspeaker— which you know must not be the correct term for it in the Imperial Navy. You’ll have to refer to it as such in front of Thrawn and see if he gets annoyed enough to correct you. Then, an announcement. 

“Now reveille, reveille. All hands heave out and trice up. Reveille.” 

Just as you are about to flop back down, the door zips open. Thrawn is there, in silhouette. 

You groan in annoyance. 

“Good morning.”

“Is that loud speaker gonna be an every morning type of thing?”

You are slightly disappointed by his lack of reaction. “The time now is—“ he checks his chrono “— one minute past zero six. In twenty minutes, you will accompany me to the bridge. You’ll find your additional daily wear robes in the wall locker, and personal hygiene items in the fresher.”

You just sit there, and contemplate flopping back down and pulling the covers over to block out the light. 

“I recommend you make a start now,” he says. “Whatever state of dress you are in at 06:21 will be what you wear for the rest of the day. Including on the bridge.” He turns and goes back down the short corridor to his office, leaving the hatch open.

Surely he’s bluffing, you reason. Bringing his pleasure companion to such a place would likely embarrass the crew, and damage his reputation. As much as you’ve heard of Grand Admirals and other Imperial elites flaunting their hedonism, few would take such a risk.

On the other hand, testing him seems foolish. 

Mustering great willpower, you swing out of bed, wash and dress, and go to his office. The lights are dim again, and he makes no move to turn them up when he sees you enter.  

“Why do I have to come to the bridge?”

 “I believe you will find it interesting. Alternatively, you may stay here in my quarters, under guard.”

“Would they also watch me pee?”

His eyes narrow. He very deliberately sets down his datapad and walks over to you. Measured, stalking steps, hands behind his back. He does not look to be in a permissive mood. He comes to stand in front of you, close so that you have to look up to his face, and when he speaks, his voice again has that soft, dangerous quality that had made you want to get on your knees for him. 

“I was remiss, last night, in not laying out my expectations for you.”

Last night… you shift on your feet, trying to press your thighs together in a way he won’t notice. There is a dull, sweet ache between your legs, from his size, and the way he had fucked you, hard and thorough. And the low, breathy moan he had given just before he came a second time…

He is much too perceptive, however, and asks if you are sore, or in discomfort. 

You scowl at him, not caring that you’re being a brat about everything. “Like you care.”

“But I do,” he says. “You are mine to use as I wish.”

You feel another swell of arousal, against everything you tell yourself, that it’s wrong and obscene and a betrayal. It’s not how you should feel about him, not when he speaks about you like you’re an object for his pleasure. You blush, looking out the viewport and refusing to meet his eyes. 

He finally speaks out of the heavy silence. 

“My expectations are simple. First, that you will be obedient and respectful. I will not tolerate disruptive behavior.” 

You barely— just barely— restrain yourself from interrupting him to ask for a precise definition of disruptive. 

“Second, when we are alone, you are not to cover your face.”

You realize the pause he leaves is a prompt for you to obey this rule. You sweep your veil back and pout at him, annoyed more so about being told what to do than the rule itself. 

“Of course, you could also do away with it altogether, if you wish.” 

“But I— I can’t!” The mere suggestion of it is scandalous, and coming from a Grand Admiral, no less. 

He only gives you a dispassionate look, then directs your attention to the dining  area where breakfast is laid out. The same two droids that had served dinner are standing by.

Thrawn pulls out your chair for you, and you accept his courtesy with ill grace. 

“You could even wear different clothing,” he says, taking his own seat across from you. “The robes are beautiful, but impractical. Especially on a starship.”

You consider this for a moment, then tell him, “I’ve been wearing them for a year and I still trip on them pretty often.” 

The droids move in, pouring drinks-- juice, water, caf-- though you wish you could ask for tea. When you reach for some jam, somehow your veil falls down over your shoulder, making you accidentally dip your sleeve in the caf creamer. You swear quietly, trying to sponge the light blue liquid out of the fabric.

“Why do you think I’ve set this rule?” He asks. 

It takes you a moment— another one of his non- rhetorical questions, and a confusing non-sequitur until you recall the earlier thread of conversation. A quirk of his mind, perhaps, that you’ll have to get used to. “Assassins!” You blurt out, almost knocking your toast to the floor. 

Looking pleased, or perhaps amused, he sits back in his chair with a nod and goes back to whatever he was doing on his datapad.  One of the serving droids pours him a cup of caf without him gesturing for it, though he doesn’t touch it.

Between bites, and not caring that you’re interrupting his work, you ask why, if he’s so concerned about attempts on his life, he has you staying in his quarters, sleeping in his bed, taking meals with him.

“What if I’m the assassin?” You challenge. 

“Are you?”

“No,” you say petulantly.

“I have explained and believe you understand the consequences of such an action. Have I overestimated your mental faculties?”

“No.”

“Do you intend to kill me?” 

You frown at him. “I could be past reasoning.” Might try, you leave unsaid. 

“And how would that benefit you, in the long run? What do you envision as the outcome?” He makes it sound more like an invitation for a thought exercise than a threat. 

So you pause to consider. “Well, if I made it past intent, and actually tried, I’d probably have to surprise you. If I failed, and you could tie it to me, I’d probably get the rest of my life breaking scrap in the Aamiqh Deeps  if I’m lucky. Or you’d just vent me out the closest airlock.” 

“An efficient solution,” he says, and you look at him sharply, wondering if you mistook that dry tone for sarcasm. “How would you attempt it?”

“Attempt it after this conversation, or before?”

The corners of his mouth twitch, a small smile, and you feel absurdly pleased at that reaction. “Let us keep things simple for now. Before.”

You wrack your brain for what little you’ve been able to observe about him so far. It hasn’t even been a full day. Any habits that could be exploited, parts of his daily routine you could slip into unnoticed. You have yet to see him eat, drink, or sleep, and at this point, no matter how near-human he looks, have no reason to assume he actually needs rest or sustenance the way you do. Sex, then? 

You begin speaking all this aloud, and he nods or comments at particular lines of reasoning. “It would be best if I could wait longer, make more observations.” Part of you can’t quite believe you’re saying all this to him-- and in the back of your mind, you realize it’s probably foolish, and could be taken as evidence of intent to harm him, but he already holds all the power anyway. “But if I couldn’t, or found out that none of the obvious things would work--”

“Those being?”

“Poison in your food or drink. Or get you while you’re sleeping. I couldn’t even be sure that what works on humans would work on you. I guess maybe I could--” you stop yourself, feeling silly for playing along with all this, but he urges you to continue.

“Go on.” He sounds entertained and intrigued.

You take a bite of your food, which has gone cold. “Med bay. Could be a way to access your records. I don’t even know what species you are. And there would be medications in there, if I did figure out something that would work.”

“And if not?”   

You tilt your head, gazing out at the serene, beautiful starscape. If you had thought there was even a chance that he would allow you to have embroidery supplies-- well, there would be no way he’d let you possess needles after this conversation. “There must be someone on the ship who doesn’t like you. Maybe even someone relatively high up?” You look back at him, taking in the striking sight of him: his gleaming red eyes, keen and alert and fixed on you, and his sharply handsome features and dark hair, his perfect uniform and heavy rank plaque that seem made to fit him and only him. You hesitate on your next thought. It would be hurtful. “Someone who doesn’t like that you’re…”

“Non-human,” Thrawn says. 

You nod, not willing to cross the line and ask him why he serves an Empire that, by law and creed, considers him inferior. “I think it would be easy to take advantage of. People who think like that can be… single-minded. They wouldn’t like that you’re more successful than them.”

“Perhaps,” he allows. 

“That could also solve the issue of getting off the ship, after I… you know.” You shift uncomfortably. It’s a strange thing. You had always thought, the whole year on Coruscant, that upon meeting whoever you ended up with, you’d want them dead. 

Thrawn is not what you expected.

You squeeze your thighs together, trying very much not to think about how he had looked at you last night, how it had felt with his singular, searing focus on you, how he had sounded when he’d felt you almost lose control.

He regards you intently, letting you squirm, before he finally answers. “A clever thought. Yes, there are certainly those who resent being under my command.”

“Were you trying to get me to convince myself that trying anything is a bad idea?”

“No.” His expression softens just a little, so briefly you might have imagined it. “I simply wished to hear you reason through a problem.” 

He lets you be, then, no further incisive, testing questions. He returns to his datapad, and you sip idly at your caf, watching distant ships and stars through the viewport.

Exactly at 06:21, he stands and indicates for you to come with him— finished with breakfast or not. 

“Keep up,” he says mildly, when he sees you dawdling. “Or you will find yourself on a leash.”

☆ link to part 6 ☆

☆join tag list☆ <- this is the easiest way to make sure your request is recorded, however anyone is also welcome to dm me if they want to be added.

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[levi-venn]

The First Toothpick

Chapter Four: A Little Juicy Gossip

Gen Fic - Mentor/Protege

Summary: Cad Bane teaches Crosshair how to be a sniper. The kid picks up some other habits as a result.

Chapter Summary: Crosshair meets Todo 360 who does not know how to keep a secret.

Chapters: Ch 1 | Ch 2 | Ch 3 | Ch 4 | Ch 5 | Ch 6 | Ch7 | Ch8 | Ch9 |

Available also on AO3

“Great callouts, Hunter! You’re a natural leader. Wrecker, we’re gonna need stronger droids to handle your strength. Tech, you sliced those panels in record time! Now let's see," The lieutenant looked at his datapad, scrolling through the rest of the data. 

Crosshair waited for his turn.

The lieutenant kept scrolling, frown deepening.

A brotherly hand squeezed Crosshair's shoulder. He pushed it away. He didn’t need comfort. He needed feedback.

“Alright, pack it up, soldiers,” the lieutenant said, tucking his datapad away. “The final test of the quarter is tomorrow.” 

“Hey, wait,” Hunter said. “What about-”

Crosshair's elbow found Hunter's ribs, chasing the question away.

“Is there a problem, soldier?” The lieutenant asked, raising an imperious brow.

Hunter clutched his side. “No, sir.”

The lieutenant left.

Crosshair would have left too if not for his brothers surrounding him, blocking his escape. 

“You did great , Crosshair,” Hunter insisted. 

“You hit every single mark flawlessly,” Tech observed.

“Yeah! You’re wizard!” Wrecker shouted.

Molten anger heated Crosshair's cheeks. “It doesn’t matter what you think,” he hissed. “The lieutenant’s opinion is all that matters. They are going to retire me.”

“I won’t let that happen,” Hunter said.

“It’s not up to you, Hunter,” Crosshair said. 

“Bugger this,” Hunter sighed and grabbed Crosshair’s wrist, tugging him towards a nearby ventilation grate. "Recon time. C’mon.”

Crosshair thought about kicking him, but...the recon may prove useful.

“Aww, recon?! I wanna come, too!” Wrecker whined.

“This mission requires more stealth than you are trained to handle, Wrecker” Tech indicated. “Also your size would break the air vent.”

“Hehe, yeah, I’m a real tank,” Wrecker grinned, proudly.

Hunter hoisted Crosshair up into the air ventilation tunnel before leaping up behind him.  The tunnel ran in a dozen different directions like a many-armed rapthar, each path identical to the next. Hunter always knew instinctively where to go. It didn’t take long before they found the vent overlooking the lieutenant’s office.

There was another clone in the office with him. 

No...not a clone...

“Is that Fett?” Hunter whispered. “Last time Fett was here, they took Radar away.”

“I know,” Crosshair snarled quietly.

“Oh yeah,” the Lieutenant snickered below, taking his seat at his desk. “He's the best in the facility.” 

“Cut the sarcasm, Pynk,” Fett leaned against the wall, arms folded across his chest. “We need a sniper in this squad.” 

“Don’t get me wrong, he’s a good sniper, but we train good snipers every day. This squad needs someone extraordinary and he isn’t. It’ll save a lot of time and energy to just retire him and pick up a normal sniper for the team.”

A normal sniper…

Crosshair had heard enough. He shoved Hunter down the tunnel and followed him, angrily wiping his blurry, wet eyes as they went.

“Are they gonna retire Crosshair?” Wrecker whispered loudly to Tech as Crosshair climbed out of the vent.

“They will have to retire me first,” Tech said, adjusting his goggles, not bothering to lower his voice. “I won’t let them take him.”

“Yeah,” Wrecker slammed his fists together, “me neither.”

He ignored them both. He made a point to ignore them both. They were all idiots, thinking they could change anything by just wishing it wouldn't happen.

And Crosshair was an idiot for daring to think he could be extraordinary.

The next day, Crosshair earned the nickname “Misfire.”

Not long after that the bounty hunter, Cad Bane, took him away.

***

Crosshair couldn’t sleep.

The room was too quiet without Wrecker’s chest-rattling snores, too dark without the faint glow of Tech coding on his datapad, and even though Hunter was practically a ghost at night even when awake, Crosshair missed him, too.

Facing the fact sleep wasn’t going to find him, Crosshair slung his rifle over his shoulder, tip-toed down the hall past Bane's room, slid down the bannister, avoiding the creaky stairs altogether, and slipped soundlessly out the front door. The weather-beaten porch was barely held together by whatever rusted nails poked out of the cracked wood. He kept his steps light, but each footfall he could feel the threat of a creak beneath his boots. He leapt over the stairs entirely and landed in the dark soil with little more than a quiet squelch.

The moon was a meager sliver in the sky that didn't do much to illuminate the wheat field, but the way it moved in the wind reminded Crosshair of the black waves of a rarely calm nighttime Kaminoan sea. 

“Goin’ somewhere?”

Crosshair hadn't heard anyone approach. How was this possible? And yet, as he turned, he found that Bane had been sitting in a rocking chair in the darkest corner of the porch, only his red eyes, half-moons obscured by the brim of his hat, could be seen.

Crosshair refused to be rattled. He planted his feet firmly in the soil and and puffed up his narrow chest. “I’m going to scout the perimeter.”

“Got sensors for that, kid” Bane replied. “Ain’t a soul out there except for us n’ the Fabools.”

“Then I’ll go check on the Fabools.”

“You don’t gotta worry about them until tomorrow mornin’. Todo will show ya what to do.”

Crosshair had no response. Wrecker's clumsy question floated in his head.

Are they gonna retire Crosshair?”

He needed to do this. He needed to do...something.

Bane’s head tilted slightly.  “What?”

Crosshair didn’t respond.

I don’t want to be retired. I want to live… at least long enough to fight a real battle with Tech.

Bane let out a strained growled, his spurs jingling as his boots landed heavily on the porch. In the darkness his scarlet eyes cast harsh shadows against his scarred face. 

“You n’ me are gonna get along a lot better if ya stop bein’ so fuckin’ timid. You’re a soldier, right? You’re an elite sniper? You’re a tough guy? Then stop bein’ afraid of everything. I’m bein’ paid to train ya, but I may ask Jango for extra cuz I gotta go lookin' for yer spine first before I can teach ya anything.” Rows of sharp teeth gleamed in the dark. “Start talkin’.”

I want to live.

I want to live.

I want to live.

I-

“I…don’t want to be retired.”

The teeth vanished. The eyes dimmed. Bane leaned forward and into the meager moonlight, confusion etched into his scarred face. “What do ya mean ‘retired’?”

“If soldiers don’t meet their lieutenant’s expectations, they’re retired and their data gets erased. Radar and Pintsize were retired last year. No trace of them anywhere. Like they never existed.” Crosshair scrubbed his sweaty palms against his pant legs. He couldn’t stop talking if he wanted to, like trying to fight momentum down a steep hill. “Radar was redundant. Hunter’s tracking skills were sharper than his. Pintsize could barely hold a blaster with his tremors. The lieutenant said I’m not ‘extraordinary’ like the rest of my squad. I dropped my sniper rifle last test. They started calling me-”

The name seized in his mind. Tech’s magnified eyes glaring at him as if he was somehow holding onto the name. 

“That’s not who you are.”

“Jango knows about this? These retirements?”

Crosshair blinked. “What?”

“The retirements. Are they his decision or not?”

“It’s the lieutenant’s decision.” 

Bane rested his elbows on his knees, his unyielding glare boring into Crosshair. “Who’s this lieutenant? What’s his story?”

“A first generation clone. Lieutenant Pynk,” Crosshair thought about how to describe him. “He’s an asshole.”

Bane snorted. “Yeah, I gathered that much. So when you told me you’re the best in the facility that was his sarcasm I was hearing?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “Well, fuck Pynk. We’ll show him what extraordinary looks like.” he extended his hand. “Gimme your rifle.”

Crosshair tightened the grip on his rifle strap. “Why?”

“Oh yer full of questions now, huh?” Bane sneered. “Official inspection, soldier. Give it here.”

With a small hiss of protest, Crosshair handed the rifle over.

Bane gave the rifle a little spin as if testing the weight. He looked through the scope. He ran his fingers over the stock and gave it a good shake.

“No wonder you can’t razzle and dazzle anyone,” Bane snickered. “This here’s a piece of bantha poodoo .”

“There’s nothing wrong with my rifle.” Crosshair said. “I clean it everyday. I calibrated it this morning. It’s fine.”

“Yeah?” Bane tossed the rifle back to Crosshair. “Prove it.”

Bane stood up, reminding Crosshair just how tall the Duros was compared to him. He was taller than Pynk and somehow that was comforting to know. In one swift movement, Bane hopped over the porch railing and with a crisp snap of his leather duster, he vanished around the side of the house.

Crosshair followed. At first it looked like Bane had simply disappeared, but upon a closer look, the side of the house was covered with a wide wooden trellis far too reinforced to withstand just the weight of creeper vines.  He looked up and saw a brief glimpse of the brim of Bane's hat on the roof. Crosshair slung the rifle over his shoulder and climbed. 

Some of the roof tiles were flatter and smoother than they appeared, leading to an ornamental bell tower half the size of Crosshair and far too small for Bane to fit. Still, Crosshair peeked into the bell tower and found...a short chute leading into a spy holodrama.

It was one part sniper tower, one part high-tech surveillance bowl filled with panels and devices similar to the simulation models Tech ran through to practice slicing communications and monitoring air traffic.

Bane sneered up at him. "C'mon in, kiddo."

“What is this?” Crosshair asked, hoisting himself into the chute and using the short ladder to climb down.

“Crow’s nest, watchtower, sniper tower, reinforced bunker, whatever we need it for. There are a couple of cots under the false floor if we get swarmed and have to lay low for a while.”

“Who would attack us?”

“The local authorities, mercs lookin' to even the score, raiders aimin' to steal the Fabools which can sell for a pretty credit on the black market.” Bane pressed a switch under his seat and the blank wall flipped over to reveal a pair  of LL-30 blaster pistols and a 773 Firepuncher rifle, the kind Crosshair had only seen in firearms databanks Tech sliced in for him.

Bane grabbed the rifle, charged it up, and checked the scope. “Don’t have to worry about any of that tonight though. Tonight, we’re doin’ some target practice...”

He dialed something into the control panel. A long opening slid 280 degrees around the tower at Crosshair’s eye-level, no taller than his fist, yet a screen flickered around the opening to reveal a holographic image of the surrounding area. 

“I can see everything,” he said.

“That’s the idea,” Bane replied. “Watch the field.” 

He flicked another switch and a blue light shimmered over the wheat field as the security shield went down. 

The grass started to quiver almost immediately. 

“What’s out there?” Crosshair asked, sliding the barrel of his rifle through the opening and peering through the scope. 

“Stalker lizards,” Bane said. “Lookin’ for a free meal inside that Fabool enclosure. Tell me what ya see.”

Crosshair toggled the heat sensor display on and off, watching the heat signatures from the lizards and the dark shadows of the landscape. “Lizards about a meter long coming from the southwest.” He scanned the enclosure next, remembering his training. Always check doors, corners, exits, and blindspots.

“We have blindspots.”

“Where’re the blindspots?” Bane asked, clearly a test. 

“South and East walls of the enclosure.”

“Already covered. Look again.”

The heat signatures didn’t change. The landscape didn’t change much either. Crosshair lowered his scope and leaned over the edge of the bell tower as if it would help. “How-”

Bane grabbed his jumpsuit and pulled him back. “Stay in here.” He pushed some monoculars into Crosshair’s hands. “Your little toy scope doesn’t have a range finder, use these.”

“It’s not a toy.”

“It surely is. You wanna be an extraordinary sniper? You gotta grow up n’ use a real sniper rifle. Now quit givin’ me that death glare n’ look at coords 233.32, 33.4.”

Fuming, Crosshair looked through the monoculars. “Coords 233.32, 33.4.” He repeated. 

Crosshair dialed in the coordinates and let the cursor on the display guide his movements.

There were several panels in various parts of the field. Each panel was painted with a shiny yellow number and embedded with silver reflective discs. “Are those mirrors?”

“Tell me which one to shoot.”

“What?”

“Can’t believe I’m sayin’ this, but yer askin’ too many questions. Just do it.”

Crosshair rolled his eyes and shifted his scope from mirror to mirror until the caught the reflection of a stalker lizard climbing up the fabric wall of the enclosure.

“Panel two, center.”

A blaster shot rang out, it ricochet off the mirror and the low-power stun blast knocked the lizard off the enclosure, driving it back to the treeline.

“Again.”

Crosshair aligned his vision. Another panel. “Panel three, top left.”

The blaster bolt fired, ricocheted, and hit its target.

“Keep callin’ ‘em,” Cad said. "Faster."

“Six, low right. Four, center. Two, top center. Two, top left, no wait-”

“Two, middle left,” Cad corrected and took the shot. 

“How do you see them without the monoculars?” 

Bane snatched Crosshair’s monoculars and shoved the Firepuncher into his hands. “Built-in rangefinder in the scope. Give it a try.”

Bane’s rifle was heavier than his, but it also felt sturdier and a lot more powerful. He did a quick procedural check of the power cell, the scope angle, and acclimated himself to the weight before sliding the barrel through the opening.  The scope was alive with readings. Rangefinder, coordinates scale, the crosshairs shifted as it looked for moving targets and returned to center when there was nothing. 

“This is cheating,” Crosshair grumbled.

Bane snorted. “No such thing in this business. Besides, you can spend all the fancy credits in the galaxy and it don't make you the best. Yer greatest mod is yer eyes n' yer instincts. Now shut up n’ start firin’. Lizards are startin’ to swarm.”

The heat signatures doubled and Crosshair took shot after shot, chasing the lizards away.

“Good.” Bane said.

Good, but not extraordinary, Crosshair thought.

Two lizards scaled the corner of the enclosure. Crosshair hit the leader and it landed on its follower, scaring both away.

He waited for Bane to praise him. It was an impressive shot.

Bane remained silent.

Another lizard leapt from a panel onto the enclosure wall. He shot one mirror and it ricocheted off another mirror and hit the lizard between the eyes, sending it sprawling backwards before scurrying off. 

That was impressive too. He waited for the Lieutenant...no...he waited for Bane to comment.

Bane said nothing.

“He’s a good sniper…This squad needs someone extraordinary.”

He took another shot. The blaster bolt bounced off the mirror and hit the tail of the lizard. It kept climbing. 

He took another shot. The lizard dropped.

“Sloppy,” Bane said.

Crosshair’s bolt hit the edge of the enclosure, wool sizzled. The Fabools inside bleeted and honked irritably.

“Shit shot.”

“Are they gonna retire Crosshair?” Wrecker asked, eyes wet with tears.

Another miss.

“Worse,” Cad said.

And another.

“Shittier.”

He shot a mirror, it ricocheted into the night.

“Now yer takin’ yer failure out on the mirrors, huh?” Cad snickered. “Try again.”

The rifle felt heavier. Like the hands of a dozen laughing cadets and one unimpressed lieutenant was pushing it down. 

“Look out, here comes Misfire.”

The heat signatures began to multiply through the scope.

“What’re you doing?” Bane asked. “I said try again.”

Shit shot…worse…failure…

The trigger refused to move. 

“Misfire…Misfire…Misfire…”

“Dank farrick,” Bane swore and grabbed the rifle, firing five shots in quick succession. Blaster bolts soared and ricocheted off the mirrors, scaring away the rest of the lizards. He punched the control panel and the blue shimmering shield spread across the wheat field again. “What was that about? You forget how to shoot?”

Crosshair's hand twitched. He didn't move. He stared at the rifle.

“What the hell, kid?”

Crosshair couldn’t feel his fingers.

Hands shaking, he managed to hoist himself out of the bell tower.  By the time he got to the bottom of the trellis he realized he had left his own rifle behind.

Tears blurring his eyes, he raced back to the front of the house, crashing through the door and stomping up the stairs. 

He hid under the covers.

In a bed that wasn’t his.

Without the rifle that he didn’t deserve anyway.

***

The next morning, the house seemed empty. Bane wasn’t downstairs, but breakfast was waiting for Crosshair. A plate of bacon and eggs on a warming plate.

He ate quickly and guzzled the apple juice, politely pushing away the black caf and wondering if it was only there because he knew Fett was never far from a cup of caf.

He wandered outside to the sun sprinkling the wheat field with golden light. It made him squint. Climbing up the trellis, he poked his head in the bell tower. Neither rifle nor Bane was there.

His heart dropped. He felt sick. If Bane confiscated his rifle, then Crosshair was probably heading back home today. He hoped he’d be able to say bye to his brothers before they retired him. Then again, he didn’t get to say bye to Pintsize and Radar.

Climbing back down the trellis, he walked to the Fabool enclosure punching in the code he watched Bane use the day before. The gate swung open and before he could fall into a cuddle pile of Fabools, a stout droid flew directly at him, nearly slamming him against the gate.

“Who are you?!” The droid asked, round, unblinking yellow eyes flashing with suspicion, his thrusters hissing angrily as he floated in front of Crosshair’s face.

Crosshair pushed himself off the gate. “Bane told me to take care of the Fabools with Todo this morning.”

“I am Todo 360,” the droid declared, spindly arms flailing. “Did Mr. Bane order you to spy on me?” 

“No. If I was going to spy on you,” Crosshair said, dryly. “You’d never know it.”

The droid’s three-fingered hand touched his non-existent chin thoughtfully. “Oh. Hmm. That’s…a valid point. Fine, you may stay, but I am in charge here and you will tell Mr. Bane that I am doing a perfectly good job and I don’t need any help.”

“Fine by me.”

“We’ll start with feeding practices!” Todo announced, shooing away the Fabools who seemed to hate the sound of his thrusters. They rolled towards Crosshair and away from the noisy droid. It was hard to worry about retirement when there were a dozen soft, bouncing balloons begging for his attention, and Crosshair decided to enjoy the moment, taking time to pet each one while Todo did all the work. 

“Well, you’re already proving yourself to be an adequate assistant," Todo said, cleaning the water trough. "It takes me three times longer to fill their troughs when they try to bully me into their cuddle piles.” Todo floated towards the hose and dragged it across the enclosure, straining between words. “Your...reaction...to them...is...far…different…from…Mr. Bane’s…first…interaction.”

“What do you mean?” Crosshair asked.

“Oh, Mr. Bane was terrified of the Fabools when Fett brought him here. Practically climbed up on the fence to get away from them. He was scared of a lot of things back then though.”

Crosshair’s jaw dropped into his lap. “Bane? Cad Bane?”

“Well he wasn’t Mr. Bane back then. Just Cad. He hadn’t chosen a surname. Some Duros culture thing. I never understood it.”

“How long have you known Bane?”

“Many, many years.”

Crosshair cupped a Fabool chick in his hands and pressed it against his cheek. It snuffled at him, inquisitively. “Why was he afraid of the Fabools?”

“He full of paranoia when we met him,” Todo said, lightly. “Just distrustful of everything, in general.”

"But..." Crosshair stared dumbfounded at Todo. “How did he get so…”

“...so very 'Bane' ?” Todo asked.

“Yes.”

Todo held up an authoritative finger. “By eating his vegetables, little boy,” Todo hummed and floated towards the food sacks.

Crosshair rolled his eyes. “What else do you know about Bane?”

“Oh, I know lots about him. I’ve known him for a very long time. I’m his most trusted confidant. I am sworn to secrecy though so I couldn't possibly share anything with you.”

Considering how much Crosshair learned about Bane in the thirty seconds he knew Todo he decided to just nod. “Okay.”

“But…” Todo floated forward, hands rubbing together conspiratorially. “...I do have a few juicy tidbits I could share if you’re interested.”

Crosshair made a mental note to never tell Todo 360 anything about himself. “Sure.”

“Oh goodie! It’s so rare I find someone to gossip with that aren’t Fabools. Bossk and Aurra tell Mr. Bane everything .”

Crosshair scooted forward, setting the chick down on the ground only to have two fabools bounce into his lap and a third bounce against his back. Somehow all of the Fabools reminded him of Wrecker, only cuter and less annoying. “What else do you know?”

“Hmm…oh! Here's something. He didn’t know how to use a blaster when he met Mr. Fett. Mr. Fett taught him everything he knew about being a mercenary.”

“I figured that much.”

“But did you know that Mr. Fett and Mr. Bane engaged in a bar fight before Mr. Fett left for his secret project?”

“Why?”

“Is it not obvious? Mr. Bane idolized Mr. Fett, followed him around like a fabool chick bounces after a feed bag. When Mr. Fett left mercenary work, he left Mr. Bane behind. Mr. Bane took it very personally, but I think it was the best thing that ever happened to him.”

“Why?” Crosshair pressed.

“Because that is when Mr. Bane found that cool confidence in himself. Mr. Fett was always there to lift him up, reward his victories, and tutor his failings. Mr. Bane had to figure out how to exist without Mr. Fett and it was then I noticed that confidence grow like a hmm…like a cactus blossom! He went from Mr. Fett’s shadow to being quite the opposing figure himself.”

Crosshair sat quietly, absorbing this fact. It was hard to imagine the Bane today cowering from Fabools or needing help from anyone.

Or starving for someone else's approval.

When he thought of Bane, he thought of the easy stance, arms relaxed and thumbs hanging over his belt buckle, a toothpick casually moving between his teeth, round eyes behind hooded lids that could see through a person with more accuracy than a scope. That nonchalant drawl, the cheeky turn of phrase, unrattled, and prickly.  

All the things Crosshair wanted to be. 

“Has Bane ever had an apprentice before?”

“Not to my knowledge. Mr. Fett’s request is unusual, but Bane would do anything for-”

“Kid, get up.”

Crosshair startled, whipping his head back to find Bane leaning against the wall, arms folded, toothpick rolling lazily in his teeth. How long had he been in the enclosure? A Fabool snuffled at his boot, lost interest than bounce against Crosshair's head.

“Come with me.” Bane left the enclosure without another word.

Crosshair didn’t move at first. Not because he was covered in Fabools, but because he knew this was the end.

Retirement…

He’d finally find out what happened to Pintsize and Radar.

“Nice to meet you, Todo,” he said, standing up and gently rolling the fabools away who happily bounded towards the droid.

“Oh! Well nice to meet you too, um… ‘Kid’.”

“Sit down,” Bane said, pointing to the rocking chair on the porch before going into the house.

Crosshair sank onto the flower-patterned cushioned seat, trying and failing to rest his boots on the railing. It was too far away. He sighed and drew his legs up, hugging his knees. He watched the skies for a ship to come and pick him up. 

Bane came out a few minutes later and sat in the other rocking chair, boots landing with a jingle of his spurs on the railing. Crosshair’s rifle was in his hands. It took all of Crosshair’s self-control not to lunge for it, hug it, and promise he would never abandon it again.

He hugged his knees tighter.

“Doesn’t take a genius to know why you ran out last night,” Bane began, tilting his hat up to look Crosshair in the eyes. “You crave praise like a dying man thirstin’ of jocola . I don’t reckon you get a lot of positive reinforcement at the facility n’ ya know what? Tough shit. The sooner ya realize the galaxy ain’t gonna give ya validation is the day ya actually become the extraordinary sniper I know ya can be.

“This is the last and only time I’m gonna say this," Bane continued. "Yer real fuckin’ good, and yer gonna be the best. I ain't ever wrong about shit like this. Now...you hold onto that praise because after this conversation, I ain’t gonna be nice to ya anymore. Yer gonna get pushed n' pushed hard, yer gonna get shaken, and I’m gonna do everythin’ I can to get ya past this bullshit worry about what everyone else thinks. Maybe you’ll hate me, hell ya might even shoot me in the back, but it’ll be worth it because it’s gonna send ya past that kraytshit extraordinary standard Pynk’s got for ya.”

Bane offered the rifle back to Crosshair. “I promise, by the time ya get back home, yer gonna be tougher than a reek’s horn n’ twice as deadly.”

The moment Crosshair’s fingers touched his rifle, he knew it was augmented. It felt like a Firepunch. Better scope, heavier stock, a weapon for a real sniper. He peered through the scope. 

“Whoa,” Crosshair murmured, scanning the field with his scope, toggling between more scanners than he knew existed. “Wizard.”

“Listen kid, in this galaxy there’ll be plenty of people tryin’ to put you down, break your spirit, break your bones. Only person you gotta trust is yourself. Yer all ya need, you understand me?”

Crosshair realized it was a lesson Bane had to learn when Jango left for Kamino. It would be a lesson Crosshair would carry with him the rest of his life.

Even if Bane was hired to train him, to be this mentor, it meant something to Crosshair. "Understood."

“Go clean up. Food’s in an hour. Beef stew minus the carrots. After that you start yer real trainin’. Deal?”

Crosshair hopped up, slinging his rifle over his shoulder. “Deal.”

“One more thing, kid.”

“Yeah?”

“What did you and Todo talk about this morning?”

Crosshair didn’t bother lying. “You.”

Bane growled quietly. “That gossiping little shit. What did he say?”

Though Crosshair didn’t intend to lie, he also didn’t feel like ratting Todo out. So he was honest about the thing that mattered most. 

“He said you’re better off without Fett around.” 

The words seemed to splash cold water on Bane’s face. The mercenary  looked away, out to the golden field, too bright in the noonday sun. 

“Is it true?” Crosshair asked. 

Bane’s glare didn’t skewer Crosshair as sharply as he expected. In fact, it looked like he may even answer.

“Target practice starts at dusk. Bring your A-game, kid. Not holding back on you. Now get outta here.”

And with that Bane sank into his rocking chair tilted his hat forward over his eyes.

The conversation was over.

Crosshair was happy he asked.

[literallyjustanerd]

Are you as inconsolable as I am about never getting to see what happened to Cody after he went AWOL?

GOOD, YOU SHOULD BE. And also, here's a fic about what I'm choosing to believe happened next.

Relationships: Commander Cody/Obi-Wan Kenobi, Commander Cody & Captain Rex

Summary: Marshal Commander Cody has gone AWOL. Alone and on the run, he has nothing to guide him but the memories he struggles to confront, and the family he hopes he can reclaim. But that is not the only path calling to Cody. Obi-Wan is dead, at least officially, and yet, he cannot help but to hope. Already living on borrowed time, taking both paths may not be an option.

Read chapter one here or follow it on AO3 - any and all feedback is greatly appreciated!

***

            Marshal Commander Cody of the esteemed 212th battalion of the GAR has pawned his armour for a few credits. Laid out the pieces before a seedy-looking merchant in the dim lower levels. Even haggled over the price like a common scrapper. Worst of all, he cannot even muster the dignity to feel ashamed for it.  Scarcely has half a rotation passed since he threw all his honour to the wind and went AWOL. But already he is learning that if he is to survive, there is little room for anything more in his mind than pragmatism and a healthy paranoia. Not that guilt and doubt don’t still try to muscle in on the edges. Once again, he is affronted with the conjured image of his holofile, the bold red stamps that would by now be plastered across every data signature: AWOL. Deserter. Enemy of The Empire.

            It isn’t as if he had woken up that day with the express intent of abandoning his post. Though admittedly it had been a long time since he’d woken up feeling anything like a loyal soldier. His final weeks as Marshal Commander he had felt more like a pawn in a particularly brutal game of dejarik than a respected military veteran. He could feel it in all his brothers. The lurking unease, like the prickling at the back of your neck when you sense a sniper’s barrel trained on your back. And yet, on top of it, a thick blanket of haze that made those feelings impossible to face, turned your thoughts away from them the moment you tried to approach. He would march through his day, carrying out the orders that were given, thankful for the brief glimpses of peace that obedience would afford. It became almost meditative at times. Though he knew it should alarm him to feel his sense of self shrink in favour of acting without thought or question, he couldn’t seem to rein himself in. But at night, in the quiet of the barracks, his mind would wander, seek out those places that made his skin crawl and set his teeth grinding. The inexorable human impulse to poke at an open wound, just to feel the pain thrill through your veins. To be brazen and treacherous enough to wonder silently in your own mind if The Empire is really acting in your best interest. That wound is one of the deepest, has never been allowed to heal over before Cody prods at it again. But there are plenty of other scabs to pick.

            The reports all say that he is dead. He. The general. His general. Cody has had to fight especially hard against the pains in his head to even think those words. His name is still out of reach. He knows it, knows it as well as he knows himself. It may as well be etched into his armour with every other dent and blaster strike, carved like his scars into his very skin, and yet not since the moment that Order 66 had taken effect has he been able to say it. Not to anyone, not even to himself. The night before he left for that last mission to Desix, he had lain with lips parted until he had lost track of the seconds on the chrono, trying to force his mouth around the words. No sound came, and yet his lungs had emptied as though he had cried it out loud. Even when he read the reports –which he did repeatedly, a solemn ritual under the cover of night– his eyes would slide off the name like oil. Nonetheless, he knew the facts. Or what The Empire had decided would be the facts. His general, his traitorous, treasonous Jedi general, was dead. Though no body had been recovered. And reports were inconsistent about who had witnessed the supposedly fatal fall. Cody had seen all the Jedi perform far more death-defying feats than surviving the battle on Utapau. Force, his general had even been declared dead once before and returned days later with barely a scratch. His stride unbroken and the same serene smile on his face that left Cody with a new knife in his chest every time he pictured it.

            Desix had been the final straw. The last fistful of dirt on the grave of his faith. Faith in peace, faith in The Empire, faith in anything he or his vode had done in the years since their creation. Ames had not been the least bit surprised when the order of her execution was given. She had expected it from the start.

Peace was never an option.

And yet, she had softened at Cody’s words, let Cody wax about war and survival and deliberation (where had he learned to negotiate like that?) and respected him enough not to shoot him when he laid down his blaster. She wholly expected The Empire to kill her without thought or mercy, and yet, the hope of a ceasefire, of safety for her people, had been enough of a lure to let her release Grotten. A hope Cody had given her, and a hope that earned her nothing more than a blaster bolt to the chest. Perhaps he was punishing himself for his foolishness on the transporter back to Coruscant. Or maybe he had finally been given the push he needed to muscle through the pain and face what he had known from the beginning. Huddled in the corner, aching joints lowered to the floor, he had trained his breaths deep and slow, and plunged headfirst into the roiling sea of his memory, fighting the swell to get down deep. At first he was fumbling in the dark, grasping for something, anything solid, and the screeching dissonance in his head almost made him abandon the task altogether. But then, a glint in the distance. Something to latch onto, anchored far enough below the surface that the waves no longer hit quite so hard.

***

            “How you do it, I do not know.”

Outside. Orange sky. Gentle breeze, slight chill. Quiet.

“I only do what needs done, sir. You’re the one the men look to for assurance.”

The laugh that follows is not right. Meek and cynical where it should be soft and melodic. Cody aches.

“Assurance, I’m afraid, that is more often an act than it is genuine, my dear.”

“Sir?” A hand atop his, a warm weight. Is it really there? Or had Cody merely wished so hard for it that his fantasies have leeched into memory?

“The war is nearing its end. I know everyone here can sense that.” A shaky intake of breath, a furtive glance stolen to the side. “I have felt something in The Force. I cannot be sure what it means, I only… I fear the end of the war may not bring the peace we hope for.”

Cody opens his mouth to speak. No words come. This is not right.  A shuffle beside him. A face no longer in profile. It is hard to look him in the eyes – like staring too long into hyperspace.

“All of this to say, when I find myself at ends like this, it’s you I look to. Whenever I’m in need of something safe, something steadfast. You’re… a rock in the storm. For me, for all the men. They need you.” A pause. In reality perhaps only a moment. In memory it is a lifetime.

“As I need you, Cody.”

Lilac sky. Quiet. The air is still. And as clear as crystal, it is there. The name laid out in memory, falling from lips that now refuse to find it.

“And you’ll have me, Obi-Wan. Always.”

***

            He had woken the next morning after scarcely little sleep, the sun still buried far beneath the horizon. Silently, methodically, he had risen, gathered his things, and walked for the last time from his barracks. He had not paused before his feet crossed the threshold. He had not looked over his shoulder at the towering buildings with their painted-over insignias and walled-up memories. His feet took him through the streets, moving like a ghost to the nearest bank of elevators, and he had watched level 5127 slide up and out of view. For the first few hours he had managed to convince himself that he might have intended on returning. Even as all of his meagre belongings clattered in his pack with every step. Listless, he’d spent some time first wandering the streets and alleys, aimlessly turning corners and weaving further into the shadowy arms of Coruscant’s underbelly. Then, as lights flickered on in what passed for dawn on the lower levels, he slipped through the doors of a tiny speakeasy, the kind he used to reprimand his men for visiting during shore leave. A booth at the back was dark and secluded enough to take the edge off his fear at least momentarily. He spent seventeen of his forty-two credits on spotchka before he allowed himself to regret it. Twenty-four before he was allowed to realise that they would soon send troops after him. And a full thirty before he could finally approach the truth: he was never going back, and this departure was long overdue. CC-2224 was a wanted man.

            All of which left him with one final, looming question. He knew of clone deserters. Many. Some of his closest vode had come up on the daily reports as having slipped away in the night or disappeared during routine operations. Where they went next, how they paid their way, who they became… Cody had no hope of knowing. He was a soldier to the core of his being: his mind didn’t flex the way some of his brothers’ did. He knew little of the streets, the real world outside his insular military mindset. He knew how to plan an operation to take down a smuggler ship, not how to talk his way onto one. But unless he could get off Coruscant, he was a dead man walking. An example to be made to the other remaining clones, like the few captured deserters he’d seen before. The ones he’d forced himself not to look away from. The storm in his mind still rages, the water rising, and his chest tightens against the fear of drowning. From the depths another name rises, another he has fought to keep in his mind.

Rex is out there, somewhere. Reports had come in of his activity. They did not name him, and yet Cody knew immediately beyond any shadow of doubt. He could recognise Rex’s strategies from a mile away – fiercely clever and confoundingly crazy in equal measure. The Empire kept it quiet, not wanting to let slip that his numbers were increasing and their activities growing bolder. Weapons shipments disappearing. Counterfeit chain codes distributed to fugitives. An entire Imperial Freighter hijacked, once. Though he knew he was supposed to feel only contempt for such treasonous actions, Cody hadn’t been able to conjure anything but pride in his vod’ika, even before deserting. Now that he is allowed to think like a traitor, Cody allows himself a smile, his first in weeks, at the thought of seeing his brother again. Knowing Rex, though, finding him would be no easy feat. He was more cunning than Cody in espionage, always had been. His comms were airtight, his trails nonexistent. Making contact would be tantamount to impossible. Although not quite as impossible as the other thought tugging at Cody’s mind, the other path he felt himself being swayed towards. Regardless, both were pipe dreams until he got some credits together and left this planet far behind.

            So it is here that Cody finds himself. It isn’t even an argument in the end. He had expected some trepidation as he tried out the thought of selling his armour. But propriety and nostalgia are weak arguments against self-preservation. It only made sense. He is instantly recognisable in his armour. It weighs him down, and it’s worth the most by far of anything he had to sell.

A worn-out chime rasps through the pawn shop to signal his entry, and he somewhat awkwardly weaves his way to the counter at the back. His movements are still impeded, despite stripping his upper armour off to leave only his blacks. A surly twi’lek greets him with little more than a bare lift of an eyebrow. Could be that he isn’t the first clone deserter to find their way to her. Could be her profession demands she keep an unwavering demeanour. Or, it could be the death stick dangling at the corner of her mouth. It certainly explains the haze and smell permeating the cramped space.

“Selling or buying?”

Cody hefts the pack containing his helmet and upper armour to the bench.

“How much for the whole set?”

After a clumsy attempt at haggling, he relents on a price that seems at least halfway fair. Even throws in one of his larger blasters to sweeten the pot, only keeping the smaller, more easily-concealed pistols to himself. The twi’lek catches him off guard when she asks him for his name. She must sense his panic, the slightest twitch pulling at her mouth.

“Don’t worry. Doesn’t get shared with the seccers,” she said. “Don’t even have to be your real name. Just something you can give if you come back.” Cody can’t picture that ever happening. And yet, after a beat of silence, he speaks.

“Dar’ruus.” Nodding sluggishly, the twi’lek scrawls the name down on a stained sheet of flimsi. He spends the first part of his pay picking up a shirt, a pair of worn pants, and a jacket. Second-hand but sturdy, some type of synthetic animal hide. Dark colours, easy to blend in. He fastens the jacket up to the neck and pulls on the hood, but still, he feels bare. Raw and exposed, like a tauntaun with newly shed skin. The twi’lek regards him with the same steady disinterest as when he’d first entered, barely moving as he approaches the counter to pay for the clothes and a few basic supplies. His armour still sits next to the till, not yet put away. Gingerly, he runs his blaster-calloused fingers over the helmet’s top fin one last time, as if in apology, though he is unsure to what or to whom he is apologising most. When his fingers reach the end, tumbling from the once-golden crest, he takes a long, deliberate breath. He sets his jaw, straightens his back to raise his chin above the fog of guilt constricting his lungs, and does what he always has done: put one foot in front of the other, and trust that the plan, whatever it may be, will catch up with him.

[omgiamwish]

Goodbye

They knew this mission was going to be important and/or dangerous one way or another. So they were careful. They made a plan.

It only takes seconds for everything to go horribly wrong.

Warnings: death, grief/mourning, art with graphic injuries

word count: ~1900

read below or on ao3

“Sooooo,” Leo draws out the word obnoxiously. “How much you wanna bet that this is a trap?”

“Scoff! You heard Raph. Those guys didn’t even know he was there. Twenty bucks.”

“Well maybe they did notice Raph, and he just didn’t realize. Not everyone’s as bad at lying as you, y’know.”

Donnie turns to glare at his brother without faltering in his step.

To the casual observer, it should appear that they are merely taking a late night stroll. In reality, he and Leo are using their ninja training to scope out the rather large house (mansion?) just outside Witch Town, looking for entrances, security, defenses… Raph and Mikey are doing the same on the other side.

“Excuse me, I am excellent at lying. Anyway, if you’re so worried about it, why did you okay the mission?”

Leo rolls his eyes. “I’m not worried. And I okay’d it because Raph is right; we can’t take the chance that this guy isn’t making a doomsday weapon.”

Donnie hums and flips down his goggles, Leo falling back and lifting his arms into a stretch, shielding Donnie from the main road. He does his best to make sense of the data in a few quick seconds before returning his goggles to the top of his head. Leo falls back in step with him and Donnie activates his comm before resting his forearm on his brother’s shoulder, leaning in and pretending to point at something in the mushroom forest with his other hand.

“I still don’t think it’s a trap, but unless this guy’s got really good mystic shielding- and I don’t even know if that’s a thing that exists bee-tee-dubs- there’s nothing mystic in the house besides a bit of security on the outside. Looks like locks and a really old forcefield. Strongest on the ground floor, patchy higher up.”

“Copy,” Raph replies. Leo says nothing, so Donnie lowers his arm.

“Y’know,” Leo starts after a moment of silence, “I can admit that I may be a bit of a sore loser-”

“And a sore winner.”

“-but just this once, I don’t think I’d mind ending the night twenty dollars poorer.”

“Yeah, you kinda shot yourself in the foot with that one,” Donnie drawls, though he also hopes that this mission leans more towards ‘wild-goose chase’ than ‘trap’ or ‘world-ending threat’. Not just because those things would be a pain to deal with, but because they’re all still kind of healing from the last world-ending threat; Leo’s shell bridges aren’t due to come off for at least another four months.

Leo smacks his shoulder, Donnie smacks back, and they continue walking and noting possible entrance points (a window here, a balcony there) until Raph’s voice comes back over the comms.

“We’re going in.”

“Copy,” Leo answers.

Donnie pulls up his barebones map of the area and has just enough time to note Raph and Mikey’s location before they disappear off of it.

“Wait, what?!” Leo grabs his arm. “Where’d they go?! Did they get portaled somewhere else?”

“No, their trackers went offline.” Donnie tries not to panic as he dismisses the map and activates the comm again. “Raph, come in. Mikey? If you can hear me, get out of there!”

They stare at their comms for an agonizing long second, waiting for a reply, any reply, before Leo swears and draws his swords.

“Shit. Shit!” he yells, cutting open a portal and leaping through, Donnie on his heels. They land at their brothers’ last known coordinates. “There!” Leo points and Donnie sees the open third floor window a moment later.

Leo’s already running.

Donnie sprints after him.

The world explodes.

.

.

.

.

.

Donnie lies stunned, panting heavily. Smoke rolls across his vision and flames lick the peripherals. He can’t hear anything over the ringing in his ears.

Bomb, he thinks numbly, recalling the concussive force that swept him off his feet and slammed him into the ground so hard that he bounced.

He chokes on his next inhale.

Donnie jerks, trying to roll over. Agony stops him and he flops back down, screaming. He thinks he’s screaming- he still can’t hear.

The choking is scarier than the pain, though, so he flails himself into sitting upright instead. He leans over, coughing and huffing until his airway clears.

Donnie stares at his blood-splattered plastron. Watches blood continue to drip drip drip from his beak. Bloody nose. He shifts his gaze a little and realizes there’s a hunk of stone crushing his legs.

“Raph,” he calls weakly, wanting his big brother to come and fix it.

Raph…

He remembers.

Donnie drags his gaze up and stares at the giant fiery hole in the mansion.

“Raph!” he screams, and now- now he can finally hear his own voice, wretched and broken and faint, drowned out by the crackle of flames rather than the ringing of his own ears. “Raph!”

He shoves at the stone trapping his legs. It takes a few pushes before it slides off.

“M-Mikey!”

Donnie tries to stand and immediately falls with a cry. He curls up and screams his agony and frustration and fear into his knees.

He swipes at his forearm to activate the escape pods, but all that gets him is an error message. He tries to slap the release of his battleshell, thinking he’ll just get the pods manually, but his hand goes right through where the strap should be and hits his neck instead.

Donnie gasps, a fresh burst of anxiety jolting through him. Frantic patting at his shell only reveals that his protection is gone, just the opposite strap left hanging loosely off his shoulder. Frustrated and overwhelmed, he tears it off and throws the stupid useless scrap away from him.

He tries the tracker data next and sobs in relief to see that Mikey and Raph have come back online. Leo’s there too, just a short distance from Donnie. He can crawl there, he thinks.

Donnie pushes himself onto his hands and knees and starts to drag himself forward over the rubble-strewn lawn. It’s difficult- he’s crawling over stone and brick, metal and plaster, splintered wood and shattered glass. He tries to avoid what he can, but he’s bleeding all over his wrappings by the time he spots a familiar green foot.

“Leo!” he sobs in relief, crawling the last few feet a little faster. He drinks in the sight of his brother and-

“Leo?” Donnie whispers, horrified, disbelieving. No. Nope, nuh-uh, no. This is- Leo’s- no, it’s wrong! Wrong wrong wrongwrongwrong-!

Donnie reaches a shaking hand out, terrified and half-convinced despite his denial that he won’t find a pulse.

His fingers jerk and brush Leo’s jaw, and Leo’s eyes crack open.

“Dee?”

Donnie gasps and presses the back of his wrist against his mouth.

“D-donnie?”

“You- you’re-” Donnie chokes. “You’re gonna be okay. You’re gonna be okay,” he whimpers, pleads, lies as he reaches over his brother’s shoulder to grab a katana hilt. He tugs the blade free from beneath Leo’s body and presses the grip into Leo’s limp hand. “You need to make a portal. Home. Now.”

Leo stares blankly for a moment before his eyes cut to the flaming, bombed-out mansion. “Whu’bout… Raph? Mikey?”

“I’ll stay here and help them, but you need to go home to Dad, Leo. Please.”

Leo focuses back on him and Donnie wishes he could read the emotions that pass over his face, but all he can label is a furrowed brow.

“Please,” Donnie begs again, but Leo is already tightening his grip on his sword, raising it an inch. His markings light up beneath the blood and grime, blue light crackles off his sword, and for a moment, Donnie has hope.

Leo coughs and drops his sword with a cry, hands clutching at his plastron as his glow fades out. Donnie wrestles his brother’s hands away from jagged, bleeding edges and holds them to his own chest.

“S-sorry,” Leo gasps. “Sorry. ‘M sorry.”

Donnie shakes his head, unable to say anything.

“I th-think one of my bridges broke,” Leo whispers as his eyes slide shut, a tear escaping to dampen his mask.

There’s nothing Donnie can do. His tech and his body are broken and useless. He can’t carry Leo to help like Raph, or make a portal like Mikey maybe could. He can’t even- he feels like there’s something he should be doing to comfort Leo- anything!- but he doesn’t know what it is! He doesn’t know!

Donnie lies down next to his brother, clutching his arm and pressing their heads together. He’s shaking from how much his chest hurts, but Leo lies horribly still. Not even breathing anymore, he observes numbly, and then squeezes his eyes shut, wishing he hadn’t observed anything at all.

The mansion is entirely ablaze now, with patches of flame on the lawn and mushroom trees growing bigger. Is Donnie the last of his brothers alive? Will he die too if he doesn’t move? He can hear approaching sirens; maybe the Hidden City Fire Department will rescue him.

He can’t bring himself to care. Donnie can barely move himself, let alone carry Leo, and he’s not leaving his brother.

.

.

.

A crackle over the comms. “Leo, Donnie, where are you?”

Raph. Donnie mouths his older brother’s name, but he can’t give voice to it. The relief that Raph at least is still alive isn’t enough to drown out the- the- this is grief, isn’t it? The feeling that’s far more agonizing than his crushed and bleeding legs? He felt it before, most horribly and recently in those few minutes when he thought Leo was dead or soon to be, but now Leo really is-

“No. No no no, no please.”

It takes a moment for Donnie to realize that he’s not hearing Raph’s voice through the comms. And another moment before he can hear his brother’s approaching, limping steps over the sirens and flames.

He hears a thud on the other side of Leo. A pause in breathing. Then renewed, choked back sobs that make Donnie cry even harder.

It’s kinda funny (not haha funny) that when Donnie cries for himself, he wails and screams and lets everyone know exactly what his problem is, but he can’t even make a sound now. Not a voiced one anyway, though he chokes and gasps.

“Hey, buddy.” Raph’s voice breaks and he sniffles. “Are your legs hurting ya?”

Donnie cracks open an eye to look at Raph, but he sees Mikey limply cradled in Raph’s arm and slams it shut again. He doesn’t want to know. He doesn’t want to know. He can’t, he can’t, he can’t.

“I’m- I’m not gonna hurt ya if I pick ya up, am I?”

Donnie shrugs, then shakes his head. He doesn’t know. He doesn’t care.

“Okay then. Okay. Here we go.”

Raph is gentle in maneuvering Donnie and Leo into his arms, though there’s apparently no avoiding the fresh waves of pain jolting through Donnie’s legs.

“Sorry, Raph’s sorry. Don’t worry, we’ll be home soon. We’ll get ya fixed up. You’re gonna be okay.”

Unlikely, Donnie thinks. He doesn’t feel like he’ll ever be okay again.

[neopuff]

title: training word count: ~4600 ships: six/holiday summary: Six wants to see how Holiday handles herself in a fight. ao3 link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/48252376

“Holiday.”

She was working diligently in her new lab and turned slowly to find Six standing in the middle of the room, staring at her with his hands at his sides. He looked very serious and a little uncomfortable, but to be fair…he always kind of looked that way. “Hey. What’s up?”

“Knight and I have been talking.”

Holiday glanced left and right, then back at him, staying quiet in the hopes that he’d continue. He was pausing for a little longer than she expected. “Okay?”

“I’d like to train you,” he said quickly, looking away from her face. “In hand-to-hand combat.”

“Oh.” She finished swiveling her chair around and faced him fully. “That’s not necessary, Six. I can handle myself just fine in a fight.”

“Just fine isn’t good enough,” he responded forcefully. He didn’t want to offend her, but he’d been recently made aware of Providence’s newer, stronger unit of soldiers. It was undeniable that they would be able to overpower her easily with their skills and he wanted to make sure she’d be safe if he wasn’t around to help.

Holiday frowned and turned back around to her computer. “I’m not sure when you expect to do this, I don’t have any free time as it is.”

“Anytime. Whenever you can.”

She sighed. It wasn’t like Six’s idea was a bad one, but she genuinely wasn’t sure how to fit fight training into her schedule. “I should be back from Lagos by Friday. We can talk more about it then.”

Six paused for a moment before walking over and taking a seat in the chair next to hers. “You’re leaving again?”

“I can’t exactly investigate anomalies from here.” She was typing something hurriedly, taking a break in their conversation to focus on the text. After a minute of silence, Holiday turned back to him with a tired expression. “This is the only way we can hope to find Rex before Providence does.”

“I know. But…you just got back from Berlin yesterday,” Six said quietly. He didn’t want to sound like he really missed her when she was gone, but he really missed her when she was gone and she just kept leaving for days (sometimes even a week) at a time. They were on Month Four of life away from Providence and her trips had significantly increased in quantity over the past few weeks. “When are you leaving?”

“It’s a twelve-hour flight,” she answered. “So I want to leave tonight.”

“What’s the anomaly?” Six suddenly wondered if he should go with her. He didn’t have anything urgent planned for the next few days and it would be nice to feel useful.

“I picked up a biosignature that’s similar enough to Rex’s to warrant checking out.” Holiday opened a file on her computer and brought up an image of a world map with blinking data points. “It’s the exact same biosignature that I noticed in Ulaanbaatar and Tegucigalpa.”

He stared at the data on her screen. “Didn’t those end up being false alarms?”

“Yes, they did.” She sighed again. “But that might mean I just took too long to get there. Rex could be popping in and out of some interdimensional wormhole and I keep missing him because I’m taking my time.”

Six usually fought the urge to comfort her physically, but in that particular moment he didn’t know what else to do. He reached his hand out and laid it gently on top of hers. “You can’t be everywhere at once.”

Holiday didn’t seem to notice his hand, focused entirely on the screen. “I think I need to put together some sort of mobile lab. If I was consistently on the road, I could catch these anomalies much faster-”

“Holiday.” He squeezed her hand tight, forcing her to actually take note of the contact. “No.”

She glanced down at his hand on hers, then up at his face. “No?”

“You need a home base. You’ll go crazy without it,” he said softly, trying not to sound too desperate to have her around. “I understand your perspective on this, but you need to take a breath. We’ll find Rex when we find him.”

Holiday stared at him, a curious expression on her face. She looked like she was trying to size him up somehow. “Can I have my hand back?”

Six pulled his hand away from her and shoved it in his pocket, feeling embarrassed. “Sorry.”

“It’s fine.” She wiggled her fingers and put her hands together on her lap, giving him a small smile. “You’re probably right, Six. I’m already stressed enough as it is.”

After a momentary pause, Six realized exactly what to say. “Combat training is a good way to deal with stress.”

She tilted her head at that response and her smile turned into a smirk. “Is that so?”

He nodded.

“Alright. Sure.” She stood up and rubbed her hands together. “If you’re so insistent on keeping me around here, I guess I can humor you.”

Six frowned at her comment, knowing she was joking (he was pretty sure, anyway) but still feeling like he should defend himself. He followed her and they walked side-by-side towards the room he’d been using for training. “You’ve been away a lot, Holiday. I don’t like…not seeing you.”

Holiday gave him a confused look, though she definitely wasn’t unhappy. She looked a little bit flattered by what he said, actually. Flattered and confused. It was an interesting combination.

His words suddenly hit his ears, and Six glanced away from her face as he tried to figure out the best way to correct himself. He didn’t want to sound overeager or anything, just needed her to know that he was paying attention. “You don’t always communicate well when you’re away. I can’t help you if I don’t know your status or where you are.”

She chuckled and rolled her eyes, clasping her hands together behind her back. “Such a worrier.”

They fell out of step as Six paused, staying back a moment to consider her words. Was it a bad thing to worry about her? He didn’t think it made her uncomfortable, but he didn’t want to come across as clingy. He wasn’t. He just didn’t ever want to be uninformed when it came to her. Especially not her location or her physical status. He went back to walking and caught up with her quickly, hands in his pockets. “Would you rather I didn’t worry at all?”

“No. It’s nice to know you care.” Holiday stared down the hallway as she spoke, her fingers interlocking behind her. “You didn’t used to be so vocal about these kinds of things.”

He gave her a short hum of affirmation. Six always felt a brief sting of agitation whenever she or Knight or Bobo brought up the old version of him - he knew there were differences, of course there were going to be differences, but he didn’t like to be reminded of it. He also didn’t like to hear bad things about his old self. Sometimes, Holiday would tell him a story that she seemed to think was funny or charming, while Six just found it sad. He always got the feeling that his older self wasted a lot of time, especially when it came to her. “I’m sorry.”

Holiday turned, smirking, and walked backwards slowly. “Nothing to be sorry for.”

Behind her, they finally made it to Six’s training area, which used to be an old warehouse. It was also where they kept their vehicles and their plane, and where some equipment was stored that Holiday hadn’t found any use for yet. Without Rex’s giant mechanical hands and super strength, some things just weren’t worth moving around the base.

Six watched Holiday make her way into the middle of the room, tightening the bun in her hair and rolling her shoulders in preparation. He followed her, stopping a good five feet away from where she was standing.

“So how do you wanna do this?” Holiday asked, turning towards him and stretching her arms. “Do you show me what to do and I copy you, or…?”

“You attack me,” he said quickly. “I want to see how you fight.”

“Um…okay.” She stared at him awkwardly, then looked down at her hands. She’d jumped into this wholeheartedly and suddenly didn’t know what to do with herself. “Should I just…? Like, now?”

“Whenever you want.” Six stood there, hands at his sides, looking unprepared. But they both knew he’d be ready for whatever she threw at him. He wasn’t the sixth deadliest man in the world for nothing, after all. “Come at me as if I was an enemy.”

Holiday continued to stare at him, though her expression changed from serious to pouting in a way that was, unfortunately, very cute. Six tilted his head slightly and wondered when she was going to move, or if she’d already given up. Obviously she wouldn’t be able to beat him and probably wouldn’t even be able to hit him, but he was curious about how hard she’d try if given the challenge.

Suddenly, without saying anything, she started bouncing from her left foot to her right foot and held her fists up in front of her - posed like a boxer.

He hadn’t expected that, and raised a single eyebrow curiously.

She rushed forward and thrust a fist directly towards Six’s face - one he easily dodged, but he had to admit she was already surprising him with her methods. With him slightly to her right side, Holiday launched her outstretched fist sideways towards him. Instead of dodging again, Six caught her wrist and pulled her to the side, holding her steady.

“You should focus on the knuckles of your pointer and middle fingers,” he said sternly, letting her go. “Punching someone there ensures the most damage to them and the least damage to your hand.”

Holiday took a step away from him and rubbed her wrist - he squeezed tighter than she would’ve expected him to. “Okay. Makes sense.” She stared back at him and then down at her hands.

Before Six could say something else, she came at him again - this time with a palm strike directed at his chin. He moved out of the way with little effort, but was caught off-guard when Holiday brought her elbow back and aimed it right towards the center of his chest. He pulled back to avoid her and immediately noticed her attempt at a leg sweep.

Instead of dodging, Six grabbed her by the ankle and pulled - forcing Holiday into an awkward pose with one outstretched leg and one bent at a weird angle. She gasped and put her hands down on the ground to balance herself and he took that opportunity to let go and step away. He wasn’t trying to fight her - he just wanted to see how she handled herself.

She sighed and glared at him while moving around to sit more comfortably. “Is this all just an elaborate way for you to humiliate me?”

Six smirked and reached out his hand to help her up. “I actually thought that was good.”

“Really?” Holiday asked suspiciously. She took his hand and let him pull her up - bringing them almost chest-to-chest for a moment before they quickly let go of each other. “No notes this time?”

“Well…you need to move faster,” he commented.

“I can only move so fast,” she responded, hand on her hip. “Not all of us are superhuman like you.”

“I’m not-” Six started, and then stopped. She was obviously exaggerating, he didn’t need to argue. “The sweep wasn’t a bad idea, but it’s better after you’ve managed to hit your opponent first. They’ll be distracted. Without that, you leave yourself vulnerable.”

Holiday nodded. “Got it.”

His fingers twitched a bit and Six wondered how much he could really teach her in this one session. They’d need to do this repeatedly, day after day, for as long as possible, before seeing real improvements. Not that he minded spending so much time with her, but she wasn’t kidding about the amount of time it’d fill up. “Have you ever been captured before?”

“What, like, held hostage?”

“Sure.”

Her thoughts lingered back to several moments over the course of her time working for Providence - most recently, when Dr. Brandon Moses stole her sister while his lackeys held her back. “Yes.”

Six didn’t linger on the brief bout of anger he felt knowing that his older self hadn’t prevented such a thing from ever happening. “How did you escape?”

“Um…” She tried to recall the details, though her mind had been so blurred by rage at the time, it was hard to remember. “It’s hard to, uh…here. Hold my wrists behind me.”

After a moment of hesitation, Six did as she asked. “Like this?”

“Yeah.” Holiday struggled against his hand for a moment, remembering how it felt. “I think…I- yeah. Foot first.”

Without warning, she lifted her foot off the ground and struck it down right on top of Six’s. He grunted and moved his foot out of the way as soon as he could, but didn’t let go of her wrists.

“Well - damn it,” Holiday mumbled, still struggling to get her hands back. “He lost his grip when I did that and I smashed him in the face.”

Six let go of her and wiggled his foot around, trying to get all the feeling back in it. “You didn’t have to actually hit me.”

“You can take it,” she said with a smirk. Slowly, she imitated the hand movement from so many months earlier, pressing the palm of her hand against his chin. “Hit him like this. He fell down, dropped his gun, I grabbed it. Then, uh…then there was an EVO, and you showed up.”

He grabbed her by the wrist again, gently pulling her hand away from his face. “Sounds like I should’ve been there sooner.”

“It was complicated,” she said with a shrug, not taking her hand back just yet. “But that’s not the point. I did alright before the EVO showed up.”

Six lowered his hand further, but didn’t lose his grip on her wrist. “Doesn’t sound terrible. Didn’t work on me, though.”

“I didn’t kick you as hard as I kicked him,” Holiday said, smiling.

He smirked. “What would you have done if he hadn’t lost his grip on your wrists?” Six finally let go of her arm and grabbed her by the shoulders, turned her around and repeated the pose from earlier. “You’re being held like this, you tried kicking and it didn’t work. You need to consider other options.”

She tried to wiggle her wrists again, not surprised to feel that she couldn’t get anywhere. There wasn’t much she could do with her arms, either, and trying to kick him backwards was a fruitless task. Holiday tilted her head back and forth while she considered what else would make sense.

Six watched her curiously and then leaned his head down to ask her what she was thinking. At that same moment, Holiday came up with a brilliant idea, and quickly slammed her head backwards into Six’s face.

There was a loud smack! that echoed around the room as he lost his grip on her and fell back a step. Six immediately reached a hand up to his face, unprepared for Holiday’s assault on his nose.

“Ha, ha!” She lifted her hands in the air and turned around triumphantly. “How was that- oh, my God.” Holiday stepped into his personal bubble when she realized she’d hit him much harder than she’d thought, and she reached up to push his hand out of the way. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to, uh…well, I guess I did. I didn’t think I’d hit you.”

He shook his head and let her examine him, lightly palpating the bridge of his nose. “It’s fine. Nothing’s broken.”

She didn’t look convinced until she felt around a little longer. “Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize.” He rubbed his nose again, embarrassed that she’d managed to hit him so hard. “I did ask.”

Holiday chuckled and wrapped her arms around herself. “That probably would’ve been worse if my bun wasn’t in the way.”

Six considered that, and for a moment wondered if she should wear her hair differently. Realistically, any haircut longer than Five’s was a bad idea in a fight. But Holiday kept hers out of the way, so it was better than letting it loose. Plus, well… “I like your hair this way.”

She smiled in that kind of confused way that she always did when he gave her compliments - Six never quite knew if that meant she liked it or if he was making her uncomfortable again. Holiday glanced away from him and ran two fingers through her bangs, opening her mouth as if to say something, but then closing it again silently.

He looked away from her and cursed himself for making things weird. He took a few steps back and rolled his head, stretching out his neck. “Try to hit me.”

“Huh?” Holiday stared at him, confused, as if that wasn’t what they’d been talking about for the last fifteen minutes. “Again?”

“Again.” He flexed his wrists. “I won’t stop you this time.”

“Unless my form is really awful, I’m sure.”

Six smirked. “Exactly.”

With that, Holiday came at him, once again starting with a punch to the chin that he dodged without breaking a sweat. He shuffled behind her, not planning to fight back, and Holiday countered with a quick turn and another punch. She was focusing on her two strongest knuckles, as he’d suggested, and Six felt a little pang of pride that she was listening to him.

Still, he dodged again. When she tried to punch him once more, he instinctively reached out a hand and caught her fist - then pulled her closer to him. In a real fight, he’d use that as an opportunity to disable his opponent with a swift punch to the gut. With Holiday, he realized a moment too late, he’d just pulled the woman he was gradually developing very strong feelings for right into his chest, putting them almost face-to-face.

She pulled herself out of his grip and hopped away, clearly not having expected him to do that. To be fair, he hadn’t expected it, either. It was hard to turn off his instincts.

Holiday shuffled her feet back and forth for a moment before coming at him again, this time aiming for his chest. If she couldn’t hit him in the face, she could certainly try to get him somewhere larger. His shoulders were very broad and gave her a big target.

But he was the sixth deadliest man in the world, and aiming a little differently wasn’t going to change that fact. He moved out of the way instantly, with an almost superhuman speed, and Holiday found herself staring at nothing. She felt a chill behind her and turned around to find Six standing there, a smirk on his face and his hands in his pockets.

She knew she didn’t have a chance, but damn if that smirk wasn’t pissing her off.

As she tried to punch him again and again, Six kept dodging and kept his hands in his pockets, looking very suave and annoying and Holiday really wanted to hit him. She pouted and decided to play dirty - pulling her leg back to knee him in the groin.

To her complete lack of surprise, Six noticed and caught her - he wrapped a hand around her knee and held it in place. “Holiday,” he said sternly, as if she’d done something wrong.

“What?” she asked with a guilty smile. “It’s what I would do in a real fight.”

Six tilted his head at that, giving it a moment of thought. Then he muttered, “Good.”

She pulled her leg back and got into another boxing starter pose, which made Six’s smirk turn into a small smile. Something about her choice of fighting style was insanely cute, in his opinion.

“Why don’t you fight back?” she asked suddenly, thinking that it might give her more of an opportunity to hit him.

“You don’t want me to do that.” Six shook his head. He would not fight her. Absolutely not.

Holiday stuck out her tongue playfully, feeling silly from the adrenaline and how much she was enjoying herself. “You don’t even have to go easy on me.”

Six rolled his eyes behind the sunglasses, knowing she could probably tell. “Not happening.”

“C’mon, Six. How am I supposed to learn if you’re holding back?” She bounced from one foot to the other, smiling at him. If he got close enough in an attempt to hit her, she could definitely get him. Even if he took her down, her goal was one smack delivered via anything other than the back of her head.

With a tilt of his head, Six considered that. He could have her pinned in less than a second. But…he might hesitate because she’s Holiday and hurting her was one of his least favorite things to do. He could do it, though. It just might take a second longer than it should.

Holiday assumed he was ignoring her and came at him again, this time ready for another palm strike. She aimed for his right shoulder, and before she knew it he’d ducked down and swept a leg under hers - making her lose her balance and fall right to the ground.

She gasped at how quickly everything happened, but instead of being met by her back painfully hitting the hard ground, she felt a hand cradling her as she was laid down oh-so-carefully. Holiday opened her eyes to see Six staring down at her, smirk still ever-present on his handsome face.

“Well.” She glared at him. “Somehow I thought you’d hesitate a little more.”

Six leaned over - not too far, couldn’t be too intimate with her, of course - and kept his hand flush against her back. “That was one of several mistakes.”

“Several…” she muttered, offended. “Maybe it’d be better if I fought someone more at my level.”

He leaned back and pulled her up with him, hand still holding her steady and keeping them closer than was appropriate. “Too bad I’m all you’ve got.”

Holiday chuckled, a sound that made Six’s heart flutter just the tiniest bit, and then she gave him a very friendly punch in the arm. “I’m not complaining.”

They both paused suddenly, and stared at the spot on his arm where she’d just hit him. After a moment, Holiday perked up and smiled triumphantly. “Ha! I got you!”

“That doesn’t count.”

“It absolutely counts, you sore loser!” She punched him in the arm again, this time earning a frown as Six pulled his hand away from her to rub the spot she kept hitting.

He stood up and didn’t offer to help her this time, unmistakably feeling a little embarrassed that she had technically managed to get him. “No one’s punched me in the arm like that since Trey,” he commented dryly, speaking more to himself than to her.

Holiday pushed herself off the ground and stared at him, suddenly feeling shy. She glanced at his face, which was turned partially away from her, then down at the floor, then back up at him again. She knew there was a Five, now there was a Trey. He’d once mentioned a One to her, a few months earlier. There was probably a Two and a Four in the mix as well.

Somehow, despite knowing his title as sixth deadliest man in the world, she’d never been under the impression that he and the five in front of him were…friends. Or even associates, necessarily. Truth be told, she didn’t understand how that ranking worked. Was it a contest? Martial arts tournament? Probably not. The more she learned about it - which was almost nothing, of course - the more Holiday got the feeling that it was not an official worldwide ranking and was more of a social club.

Of…assassins.

She took a few steps closer to Six, standing beside him as he muttered something about them being done for the day. In a moment of adrenaline-fueled confidence, she asked, “Can I tell you something that’ll make you uncomfortable?”

Six’s eyebrows scrunched into an expression of pure confusion and he looked down at her. “Can I stop you?”

“Nope.”

“Then go ahead.”

Holiday knew he was prioritizing his curiosity over his sense of comfort and that knowledge made her feel better about what she was going to say. “I just…wanted to tell you that I, um. I really love hearing about the people from your past.”

He glanced at her, one eye visible from the side of his sunglasses.

“You never used to mention them. At least, not to me. Makes me feel more…included, I guess.” She shrugged, her confidence fading under his gaze. “It’s nice to know that you still trust me. Maybe even more than you used to.”

Six frowned at that, wondering if it could be true. He was under the impression that his older self had been completely in love with her, though whether he trusted her or not was another question entirely. As they currently stood, she and Knight were the only people he could trust. It would stay that way until they got Rex back, he was sure. But there was a tension between himself and Knight that occasionally cropped up, something to do with the way their relationship had changed over the last six years. In the end, though he trusted his ex-partner implicitly, there were many parts of his life that he trusted Holiday with more.

In that moment, Six felt a strong urge to kiss her. He often felt such an urge - when he saw her first thing in the morning, or when he saw her working diligently, or when she returned from a long trip away, or when she was leaving for a trip, or when she said goodnight at the end of a long day. But right there and then, after a half hour of playful banter and touching and smirking and confessing, he really felt like it could be a perfect moment to go for it.

He was not going to do that, though. Instead, Six stuffed his hands into his pockets. “I do trust you,” was all he managed to say.

That was enough to put a small smile back on her face, and Holiday gave him another look (one of those looks, that made him wonder what exactly she was thinking) before heading towards the exit. “I’m gonna take a shower and then get ready to leave for Lagos. We can do this again when I get back.”

Six watched her carefully, trying not to focus on any specific part of her. He just enjoyed watching her, he supposed. And though that thought was dangerous, and problematic, and unfortunate…he didn’t have the energy to care. He didn’t want her to leave again. He wanted to share a shitty microwave dinner with her and tell her some of the not-terrible stories from his old life - he wanted to see if they would make her smile.

He took a deep breath and followed her out the door. He needed to let Knight know he was going to accompany her to Nigeria. Just in case Providence showed up and she needed protection. They’d agreed that she needed to learn, after all. So the man in white wouldn’t be able to argue.

Six smirked, thinking about the twelve hours he was about to spend alone with Holiday. Maybe they could switch the plane to autopilot and continue her training mid-flight. That might even be fun.

[addcests]

a family is you, and you, and :: ch2 - ao3 mirror

pairing the addcest is there if you believe

words 2133

rating [T]

summary "Hey, Dominator, where's Psyker?" It's an innocent question, at first. And then it rings, rings, rings through Dominator's mind constantly, like an incessant nagging that he doesn't want to quite acknowledge presently. Not yet. So he doesn't. "He's out." It's not a complete lie, anyway. --- If you'd ask each Add what family meant, they'd have similarly different answers. A contradiction in and of itself—a testament to the very conception of their existence. Yet, there lies one thing wholly similar; a conviction all three share: they'd fight for their family. And now they must.

note chapter 3 is almost done as well!

“You know, if you’re lonely, I could always invite you back.” When there is no response, he presses, "back home."

There was so, so, so much Dominator could say in lieu of a pretty little offer like that.

“And leave behind my work?”

It's not really an answer, but Dominator loves flitting around topics like this with his new daily visitor.

Regardless, Esper smiles at that, paces his way over to Dominator and kneels into his lap rather abruptly. Unlike a certain younger, inexperienced researcher, Dominator, seeming to expect it, allows the motion without nary a fuss or blush and Esper’s grin grows all the more wider for it. “Aww, no fun,” comes his pretend pout they both expect as well. “Why’s that? I think it would be pretty lively with an extra body.”

Dominator’s not sure if the portal hopper is making light conversation or if he’s seeking something more. Again, he tries not to let that train of thought settle for long. “You know, you shouldn’t even be here.”

“And you should know I’m not very good at doing as I’m told.” Esper chirps without missing a beat because Dominator knows he’s enjoying this way too much.

But Dominator isn’t upset in the slightest. Far from it, signaled by his bemused laugh softening the look on his face. “And I did always so love that about you,” Dominator says, smiles genuinely, gently carding his fingers through the length of Esper’s hair, nails scratching at the scalp. A little display of affection he couldn’t resist. He may have spoken of Psyker having a soft spot for the other but, as time passes, Mastermind—he—would come to grow one as well. “Well, I won’t deny you that. I also do so enjoy your company.” 

Esper’s like putty in his hands, melting into his touch, leans all his weight onto him, and exhales a pleased little noise. 

Dominator lets him, humming as he keeps one hand on the small of his back, fingers dancing absentmindedly along his thin frame while his other hand dances across his keyboard, his attention split between the two. For the moment, he relishes in the silence he’s managed to secure. Even if it’s brief.

“Mmm, where’s the cat cube?”

“Apocalypse,” Dominator corrects, not missing a beat, “is offline. Standby. I have him holding data for me.” 

Esper falls silent once more. Dominator’s not sure if it’s because he’s lazing into his touch

or that nefarious but brilliant mind of his is plotting something. 

“Do you miss him?” Dominator asks, filling the silence. He also doesn’t let Esper answer, and continues, “I may not be a Mastermind anymore, but that simply means I am more than one step ahead, my dear. I know you’ve used him for records. And no, I will not let you see the ones you’ve made.” 

The time traveler finally peels himself off of Dominator (the scientist notes, regretfully) and he peers down at the other. “No? I can’t convince you?” Dominator recognizes that playful quip in his voice. “No way to change your mind?” And Esper leans in closer, the space between the two now long gone. 

Again, Dominator doesn’t miss a beat either, used to their little game now; the hand at Esper’s back still nudges him closer, and he smiles up at him. “Not at all,” he replies back just as easily. “I’m used to your little tricks, Esper. That may have gotten a rise out of me before, but it’s different now.” 

Esper pouts, head tilting as he regards the scientist before him, a glaring juxtaposition of how he he's completely ignoring the compromising position he put them in. “Is it really so different now?” 

Dominator doesn't stop his laugh, leans over to place a chaste little kiss on the corner of his mouth to satisfy the time hopper. 

He hasn't the faintest idea.

“Are you going to tell me to go home now?”

This time when Dominator laughs it’s for a different reason, chuckling. As his eyes narrow with mischief, he smiles brightly at Esper. “I was under the impression that a certain someone doesn’t listen very well.”

“That’s right!” Esper sings songs, his face beaming with a mirthful cheeriness upon hearing Dominator’s answer, and makes himself even comfier in Dominator’s lap. 

Dominator doesn’t mind the company, and so he finds himself working with Esper cuddling close. He finds it adorable, really. Especially when he turns his full attention back to Esper and finds that he actually dozed off, smiling to hear the light exhales that signal a deep sleep. A rare luxury for him. There’s no way he was going to send him along his way like this, so Dominator lets him rest as he is.

Before the scientist knows it, time escapes them both and Dominator can feel his legs turn to jelly from supporting the other’s nearly dead weight. Esper started pretty upright in his lap and arms but now he’s completely sprawled along him, limbs every which way. Not much unlike that of a cat. He smiles down at the still-dozing Esper, ruffles his hair affectionately, and scoops him into his arms. 

He saves his work and shuts it down, locking it. Back turned, he proceeds to the ever-familiar corridor he’s growing acquainted with lately and makes for his bedroom. If Esper wants to doze so much then at the very least he could do so in a proper bed. Another luxury. 

Dominator doesn’t bother stripping down and joins Esper for a little cat nap.

He suspects the other will be gone long before he can wake anyway, which he doesn’t mind. It’s the last thought he has as his eyelids grow heavy and he lets Esper curl into him more.

When he does wake, it’s as he thought. Esper is long gone, the spot on the bed that held his weight is still there but barely evident. He sits up and rubs at his teary eyes from sleep, looks around, and his eyes lock on the digital clock displaying the time. He also sees the framed photo he recalls from the other day or so. 

Upright this time.

Certainly not of his doing. 

===== → loading … :\\ destination found: 100% =====

“Feeling lonely?”

“No,” comes Mastermind’s curt reply as he walks away from Psyker who has decided to flop all against the couch, occupying all the space. So much for sitting there too. If he is going to be so rude, Mastermind could simply find somewhere else to be. Without sparing the taunting brawler anymore thought, the scientist makes his way to his lab, mug of coffee in hand, thoughts aimlessly wandering. 

He steps into the entryway to the lab, looks around and notices a familiar glint out of the corner of his eyes, and smiles down at a few pictures Psyker had set up some many months ago.

“You stay in there so long, you’ll forget us. So here’s some pictures.”

Obviously, the brawler was always being a little shit, joking as loves to do, but it was a nice sentiment. He appreciates it more than he can put into words. (More than he can ever tell him.) 

His eyes then fall to the singular frames that held solo shots. (Vaguely, he couldn’t help but wonder when those shots were taken.) He walks by the table, fingertips brushing along the edges as he takes step after step. Shortly after, he comes to a halt before a familiar frame. It was a shot he tried so hard to veto but it was an unfair matchup of two against one from the start. The photo of the three was Psyker's idea. And Esper was in on it. So, of course, Psyker would include this one. No thanks to help from Esper. 

“Mastermind!” comes the time distorted voice.

And speaking of his favorite time traveler.

As always, he hears Esper before he sees him. Frantically, he nearly drops his mug trying to place it aside, knowing that Esper would be landing in his arms in three, two—the impact of catching his lithe frame still jostles Mastermind around, never fully prepared to catch Esper. “Why can’t you just come through your portals normally!?” He hisses. 

“I have absolutely no clue what you mean.”

“Esper,” the scientist starts again, his tone warning as he turns his head the other way to avoid the affectionate nuzzle from the other. 

“You’re no fun! Unlike a certain someone else,” comes Esper’s light pout. Most likely fake, Mastermind assumes.

He wonders why he’s bringing up Psyker though, because he could as easily blink in and out to him just a room away. “Well, if you want the certain someone else, you’ve missed him by some coordinates. He’s hogging the couch. And—will you cut it out! That t-tickles…!” He doesn’t mean to let his voice stutter with colorful laughter, but when Esper noses at his neck like that, nuzzling into him, it’s not ticklish. It’s embarrassing. But hell if he’ll let Esper know that, or that he likes it so much. “Psyker’s in the other room I said already… !”

Their struggle proves too much for him, so he helps Esper to steady his feet, giving the other no choice but to stand. 

He frowns at this new arrangement and Mastermind’s answer, then replies, “I’m not talking about Psyker.”

And as usual, what is a conversation with the great Diabolic Esper now and then if he wasn’t left a little puzzled afterwards? Despite this, he isn’t here to decode whatever was running through his counterpart’s scheming mind, so instead, he asks, “Where were you this time?” He watches as Esper walks around him, strolling past the entry point of his lab like it’s his. (Though, technically it was at times. The way he uses his things without his asking and Mastermind simply coming to accept this fact.) 

“Out,” he drawls, eyes darting around before he hops into a portal, and appears on the far opposite side of the lab. “Where’s little Apoca?” And then blinks back into a distance near him, being courteous enough to not force Mastermind to strain to hear him or shout his reply.

“Somewhere around here. Why?” When he’s finally within earshot distance with Esper once more, he places a hand on his hip and raises an eyebrow at him, “I know it’s you stealing him and not Psyker. Which, by the way, he did not appreciate you using him as a scapegoat.”

As he paces around the lab, checking over his scattered devices and parts, Esper finds said cat cube nestled among Mastermind’s things as if it were a bed. He sets Apocalypse upright, and boops him. “Why not? If you can do it, can't I? Since you blame him for everything else don’t you?”

“That’s—!” Not true. He wants to say, but the words fail to leave his lips. And even if Esper is only teasing, Mastermind still clamps his mouth shut and averts his gaze. This time, he folds his arms to his chest before speaking again, deflecting as he does, “What do you need Apocalypse for today, Esper?” 

The little cube then boots up from sleep mode. The cube’s cat face lighting up and its ears twitching as its system and configurations load. As soon as it recognizes both creator and partner, Apocalypse snuggles into Esper’s hold, nuzzling his palm demandingly.

“You have spoiled him rotten,” Mastermind chides, voice nagging. But despite saying so, he bites back a smile as he walks over to the two, patting Apocalypse fondly. 

“Don’t worry, Mastermind, I’ll bring him back soon. He makes a great napping partner.” Esper turns his owlish stare towards the scientist. “Or, will you join me instead?” However, the devilish smile that forms on his lips after indicates a very false innocence that Mastermind could clearly see through.

Mastermind does not stutter as he exclaims his name. “E-Esper!” He definitely doesn’t blush afterwards either!

Esper's cackles echo through the lab as he watches Mastermind try to hide his red cheeks. His lips curl into a satisfied smile as he whirls around with Apocalypse bundled in one arm and his free hand waving over his shoulder. They both knew the exclamation of his name was answer enough.

As it is, Mastermind hardly gets much more of a say, only left with the choice to watch as Esper blinks out of sight with Apocalypse in tow, its synthetic meows the only thing left echoing in the spacious room of the now empty lab. It’s not as if he had plans to truly stop Esper, chaotic little thing that he is. Still, he sighs softly, though there isn’t a trace of annoyance to be found. 

Smiling to himself, he speaks to the long-gone Esper, “Though, perhaps I was the one that spoiled you rotten.”

[goldpomegranates]

solid grip

007!Male!Reader x Bond Boy!Tom Hiddleston

Rated E for explicit sexual content, dubious consent, & voyeurism WORD COUNT: 2.2k also on AO3.

Playing wrangler to another double-0 would normally be child's play, but when a crime lord sets her eyes on Mr Hiddleston thanks to his natural charm and insistence of being a gentleman, the assignment gets dicey. He plays the role of seductor to perfection, and much to your dismay, all you can do is watch.

—x.

MI6 gives him a gun. It comes as no surprise really, following the events at Monte Carlo and the narrow escape that cost you two months’ worth of off-duty physical therapy in order to regain feeling in your right arm. No doubt he’s learned how to use it in that time, has eased into how his own limbs should move in close-quarters-combat. He’s sharp-eyed, quick witted, and one hell of a fast learner. A little bit much for just being a secretary shipped off to play Bond Girl to your 007, but you’ve never complained.

Thomas certainly has, but he forfeited the right to do so the moment he took that gun from Q. Packing power beyond most conventional handguns, the Beretta is tailored to his specific biometric data, its grip and barrel modified to sit comfortably in his hands. The way his long, slender fingers wrap around the polished surface, forearms straining against the recoil during target practice has been distracting, to say the least.

Unfortunately, the gun is only the start. At times, he is his own deadliest weapon, if even by no choice of his own.

You keep an eye on him from behind Q’s desk, the camera feed unrealistically crisp for a tiny lens perched in a nondescript corner of a cramped room. The audio feed is less grand, and the situation is dicey.

In the back room of a nightclub in London, another double-0 is playing the good girl card, her voluptuous chest and thighs barely reigned in by the sleek red evening dress she’s wearing. Tom hangs on her arm like a protective boyfriend, trying to sell the ruse to the crime lord currently dealing them an offer. Drugs, weapons, state secrets, the usual.

Said crime lord, also a lady of astonishing build and beguiling presence, eyes them both with interest beyond the professional kind. She’s playful, waving baggies below their noses as her hulking bodyguards wield assault rifles by all exits. It’s meant to be a reconnaissance mission, a quick in-and-out, but she’s taking too long to crack, and your people are getting antsy.

“Get me a name, double-0,” you say, applying just a hint of pressure. Neither reacts, but you know they’ve heard you.

You are not a handler, neither are you a supervisor, but this was meant to be your assignment had you not taken a bullet for the secretary. Q was, miraculously, on vacation, and as devoted to Queen and Country as MI6 is, the true voice of the people was the five hundred pound note. Especially the five hundred pound notes you swiftly slid into the home team’s pockets in order to grant yourself a say on the mission.

“—another type of payment,” the lady says, a feedback loop leaving your ear ringing.

Tom steps aside, awkwardly wringing his hands as the crime lord takes the double-0 by the hips and kisses her cheek. You make nothing of it, all agents have trained for this kind of scenario, but it dawns on you that Tom isn’t, in fact, an actual agent. He’s a glorified sidepiece, a decorative charm planted, in this case, to make his female counterpart come off as powerful.

You’re about to offer a warning but he interrupts the two women, hands to his chest with concern clear across his face. The mics are barely holding on and, had the Quartermaster been at HQ, he would’ve found a way around the problem. Instead, it’s just you on visual, a gaggle of runts on the ground, a double-0 in a bind, and a secretary who thinks he can retcon a potentially disastrous situation.

“Sinclair, don’t let him,” you tell the double-0. “Hiddleston, I’ll make sure this is the last field mission you ever see.” In hindsight, you figure that was exactly what he wanted to hear.

There’s a reshuffling of people, quick conversations, and snappy commands, and you watch in abject horror as the bodyguards mill out of the room with the double-0 in tow.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” You are usually a tad more composed in these kinds of situations, but you have zero faith in Hiddleston getting the name you need when oftentimes doing so requires techniques you know the man won’t be able to stomach.

To inflict torture, one must first be subjected to it.

The bastard was too much of a gentleman to even consider the option, but his English sensibilities were definitely questionable when you witness him curl a finger beneath the crime lord’s chin, slowly tipping her face up to look at him. Her hands grip the front edges of his jacket, her blood red lipstick glossy under the room’s lighting. She smiles at him, eyes squinted with copious amounts of suspicion, but she seems appeased for the time being.

She sits on the couch in front of him, her legs crossed, and beckons him forward with a finger.

You count the hidden weapons in the room.

It shouldn’t bother you. You’ve seen it before, have sat through far more grotesque situations. You’ve trained for this. You all have. It’s your job to give it all for the assignment, no matter the cost.

In some cruel twist, the mic picks up everything. The rustling of fabric as acrylic nails play with his belt, the ripple of a zipper, the shocked gasp. You could take the headset off, but you don’t. You shouldn’t in case she breaks and gives up the name of her supplier.

“Very chivalrous of you,” she says, and you can see the movement of her elbow, can imagine her hand wrapped around him, “giving yourself up to protect your girl’s honor. Although was that truly the reason?”

Tom’s back is to the camera, his feet wide apart for balance. She leans forward and his head tilts back, eyes fluttering. You can’t see that last part, but you’ve had him in a similar situation, beheld the way he wore pleasure when teased.

“The world needs more men like you,” she continued, before the sound of a moan around a mouthful came through the headset. She pulled back, putting her hand back to work. “Whores, I mean. Good looking ones with proper manners and a deep-rooted desire to get thoroughly fucked.”

He makes an indignant sound and retaliates by taking a fistful of her long hair. She takes it in stride, leaning into the grip as she jerks him off.

“Do you have anyone back home? No offense, but you and that woman hardly have any chemistry. You couldn’t fool a blind woman if you wanted to.”

She goes in with her mouth again, this time staying there for a long moment.

You look away from the screen, disgusted by your interest. The hot, heavy pulsing between your legs something you will have to program out of your system in the near future.

You have played it fast and loose these past several months, courting Tom in some sort of acquaintanceship with benefits fantasy. Despite never truly sleeping with him, always stepping away when things got too heated, this nagging possessiveness grew exponentially pervasive.

It’s not part of the job. It could never be a part of your life while on the job. The only friends you could afford to name were your Quartermaster and M, and those were just your work buddies at the most. Lovers were few and far between, the occasional hit and run to let off steam, something that has become unnecessary when training and field work were just as effective.

But here was Mr Hiddleston getting under your skin, getting felt up by someone else under your supervision, apparently enjoying himself going by the way he enthusiastically removed his jacket.

And the sounds he made. Maybe he was adept at torture, just not the painful kind.

You look back at the monitor out of the corner of your eye and see that they’ve moved. For the love of everything holy, he’s sitting on the couch, trousers undone and cock in hand. She’s hovering over him, knees on either side of his thighs, dress bunched up in her hands.

You can’t bear looking anymore, but you do. You do. The way his hands hold onto her back, guide her in a graceless bounce that looks as sloppy as it sounds, the way he thrusts up to meet her has you gripping the edge of the desk.

The rub of fabric over the mic is grating, but it isn’t enough to obscure his thoughtless ramble and her vicious whisper. A whisper that puts you on high alert again, eyes and ears open. “Quite the show for your mates back at MI6, I reckon,” she says with a laugh, cradling his face in her hands. “Should I tell them?”

“Don’t,” Tom says, momentarily clear.

“Should I tell him?”

Your knee stops its jittering, your entire body going still. It has to be a coincidence, you tell yourself, digging through the scene in front of you. She’s cunning, everyone on the case knows this, and she will say anything to get under anyone’s skin. Just because she is able to read him doesn’t mean she knows him.

“So, it is a boy,” she says, gasping, breathless. “Is he as charming as you? Oh! Is he a double-0?”

Through the haze, Tom’s eyes momentarily flicker to the camera. She doesn’t seem to catch him doing so, but you do. Your finger hovers over the metaphorical panic button, the one that will send everyone in the vicinity crashing into that fucking room and run damage control. The situation has now gone from precarious to dangerous, and you refuse to get another red mark on your ledger.

“Is he watching us right now? Can he hear us? Why don’t you go ahead and tell him how tight I am, how hard you are inside of me?” She leans back, her hands on his knees for leverage. And that’s good. Her hands are preoccupied, nowhere near a weapon. “Is it me? Or is it the thought of him watching that has you dripping?”

You cross your legs, expression schooled despite the absence of eyes around you. Maybe Medical was right and you should have taken a proper leave, at least until the remnants of painkillers and whatever other substances had left your body. You spare a thought to James and how he would have handled the situation, or any other double-0 for that matter. Hell, you even consider reaching out to Moneypenny for advice and your thoughts are drifting.

The headset crackles with the sound of a voice that isn’t Tom’s, but someone else on location. You catch a hint of your name, and a choppy question you take to mean whether or not they should move in. The answer makes itself impossible when on the other end all you can hear is the debauched cries of two people—one of which you wish was you and that is a problem. That is a big fucking problem. Playing around with the secretary is one thing but getting defensive about said secretary clearly enjoying a quick shag on the job is so far out of bounds you momentarily consider reassignment.

“Do not engage,” you say, and in return you get Tom’s sweet gasp.

The lady has wrapped herself around him, and while his hands rest at her back, pressed together, he’s staring at the camera. His gaze is steady despite the sultry part of his lips, his movements slow and measured. He leans back enough to lift her dress and show you where they meet, the slow glide of him moving in and out of her, the heavy weight of pleasure on his face.

You dig deep for that iron control that landed you the position. Back ramrod straight, you tell yourself the reason why you’re resting a hand over your thigh is for balance, a grounding touch, and not at all because you came close to pressing a palm against your groin. Shifting in your seat provides no relief, accidental pressure sending you to your feet.

Leaning over the desk, hands firmly splayed over the high-tech surface, you breathe evenly through your nose as you continue to listen. The woman’s frantic panting, Tom’s pleading as his voice goes higher than you’ve ever heard it before, and you want it. You want him.

The finishing blow leaves you lightheaded, his long and ragged moan stroking the deepest parts of you until it echoes inside of your stomach. The aching throb between your legs has not gone away and you will do nothing to remedy it, just suck it up and keep going, get your agents home safe.

“Disengage,” you say over the headset, ignoring the waver in your voice. “If she’s not giving it up after that, there’s no use in pursuing. We’ll find another way.”

The crime lord whispers into Tom’s ear, and you can see the moment it happens, the triumph in his eyes telling you that he got it, that she broke at the last second, but you know better. There’s no dick good enough to surrender an empire over. Whatever that woman has up her sleeve will come at a steep cost. But some bridges can be allowed to stand through the night.

“Get yourself cleaned up, Mr Secretary. Our men are on the move.”

[spanishsenpai]

Daycare Attendants Need Training Too

Chapter 1 - Chapter 2 - Chapter 3 - Mini Chapter - Chapter 4 - Chapter 5 -  Chapter 6 -  Chapter 7 -  Chapter 8  - Chapter 9

Just a quick side note; I'm changing a couple parts of the first chapter! 1. Sun's transition to Moon wasn't painful and 2. Sun is now 7 feet tall instead of 10. I might even go down to 6 feet. 10 just felt to tall and in the game, it looks like Moon is shorter than Freddy and I'm pretty sure Freddy isn't 11 feet tall. (If he is, Vanessa is one TALL lady)

Oh and the sun ray on top of Sun's head and the nightcap are what give them that extra foot of height!

Here’s the AO3 link if you’d rather read it there!

Sun powered on at exactly 6:00 a.m. with a stretch and a loud yawn. Since he’d just been switched on yesterday, he’d stayed powered off through the night to help his remaining files and data organize itself. Now, he’d only need to do nightly power downs at his discretion or every hour to charge.

Apparently during his power down the last of the shock’s effects had left his system. To his relief, he was able to backflip and cartwheel and dance around to his heart’s content until at 6:30 he received a message blip to go down to the main floor.

Excited to use the ceiling wire again, Sun made quick work of heading down. He couldn’t wait until the ball pit was filled and he could jump in from his balcony. Some of his joy dissipated as he was met with Mrs. Beverly’s unfriendly face yet again. There were only 3 technicians with her this time, each still sporting their clipboards. Sun suppressed the sounds of discomfort his vocalizer wanted to make.

“Good morning, Mrs. Beverly!” Sun sing-songed loudly as he skipped over to them. Her presence reminded him of the belts strapped to him, making his movements a little less animated than usual, in fear that somehow that would set them off.

To his surprise, she replied, “Good morning Sun. Today we’ll be reviewing more rules and your conduct around children.”

Sun stood up straighter. ���Oh boy! Does that mean I get to play with them today?” His sun rays spun in excitement.

“No, of course not. We will run hypothetical scenarios until you have encountered most situations and have achieved an optical outcome for each.”

“Oh,” he said, not bothering to hide his disappointment. Being able to play and color with the children would’ve made up for the shock-y belts. And to top it off, everything Mrs. Beverly had said sounded incredibly boring, and probably painful. 

“Alright, no more standing around, let’s get started. Go stand in front of the bridge.”

Sun cringed but cartwheeled over, trying to make the best of the situation. If he could swallow nervously, he’d have done so then. “Is this a good spot?” he called, having stopped his cartwheels in a handstand before flipping up to his feet.

“Yes. Now tell me what you would do if a child made a mess.”

Bouncing excitedly in place, Sun clapped his hands, “Oh, ho, ho! I know this one! I’d clean it up!”

Mrs. Beverly nodded, “Yes, you would clean it up, immediately.”

A technician at her side suddenly threw a bag of blocks on the floor, scattering the colorful wooden cubes across the blue padding. Sun stared at the mess for a moment, before clapping again, happy to know exactly how to fix this. Just as he was about to take a step over to the mess, he screeched in pain, hugging his hands to his chest. His fingers spasmed against his will as the shock ended, leaving him artificially gasping and bent over his hands.

“You need to be faster than that. Any mess is a hazard to children and, if not handled as quickly as possible, could put the company at risk of a lawsuit. Clean this up.”

Even with his circuits still throbbing, Sun nodded and rushed over to stack the blocks back into their bag. He stood up, hunched over slightly, with the bag in his hands. The technician took it and wrote something down on her clipboard. She whispered something to Mrs. Beverly while Sun stood, tapping his pointer fingers together nervously. It was now he noticed that the other 2 technicians had disappeared. 

Mrs. Beverly turned her attention back to him after a moment. “You’re programmed with a connection to the many sensors and cameras in the daycare. These will need to be constantly monitored for signs of a mess or children in danger.”

Before Sun could even nod that he understood, a red warning appeared in his vision that signaled a mess had been made behind the smaller play structure. Realizing he was being tested right now, Sun quickly did a running skip to the area. He completed the run with a front flip right in front of some fallen stuffed barrels. 

“Up! Up! Up you go!” he sang cheerily, hoping Mrs. Beverly wouldn’t shock him if he announced he was doing the task.

He hadn’t even finished stacking them before another alert appeared. Sun gasped and practically threw the last barrel on top before cartwheeling away to an area of chairs and tables where a tower of chairs had toppled. Just as he’d started putting them back, another alert signaled the barrels had fallen again!

Sun tried to work faster, but was interrupted by yet another shock. He cried out, falling to his knees from the strength of it. His arms were trembling from the strong shock and his spine felt like it wanted to lock up as he sat shaking slightly on the floor.

Mrs. Beverly’s shoes appeared in his vision. He looked up at her, sun rays tilting back slightly at the disappointment on her face. “Not only were you too slow, you didn’t even finish stacking the barrels properly. Finish cleaning this up and go back to where you started.” There was no sympathy in her voice at the sight of Sun kneeling with his hands and fingers trembling from aftershocks.

“A - Alrighty Mrs. Beverly!” Sun tried to sound happy, but as he stood and resumed stacking the chairs, pain reignited across his spine each time he bent down. He couldn’t restrain a quiet whimper at a particularly strong spark of pain that made him drop the chair he’d been holding and brace against the chair stack.

The whimper rose to another screech as he was shocked again. Though it wasn’t as strong as the last, the pain Sun was already in made it feel much worse.

“No slacking off, Sun. If you’re going to be in charge of this daycare, you need to be able to push past a little discomfort,” Mrs. Beverly snapped from the doors out of the daycare.

Sun tried his best to be fast, but pain was a very new sensation that he was discovering he disliked very much so! Still, when he finished and skipped back to Mrs. Beverly, he didn’t trust his limbs or spine to support a cartwheel or flip at the moment, he could tell he still hadn’t done it to her satisfaction. 

Hunching his shoulders and interlacing his fingers together, he stopped in front of her, looking very ashamed. “I - I did my best! I promise! Cross my heart! My - My arms just don't seem to want to work right at the moment though!” 

She stared at him in silence, which he took to mean she wasn’t accepting his apology. He tensed, ready for another shock yet he still yelped at the small zap.

“There are no excuses, Sun. Now, get back to work.”

Another alert appeared and Sun bolted off to fix the problem.

Later, when Sun was told to go back to his room, not even the excitement of using the ceiling wire made him happy. In fact, it made his already sore spine ache worse as he hung, practically limp until his feet made contact with the balcony. Not to mention he’d discovered he could get headaches and had one now.

He whined as he sat down roughly on the floor. It wasn’t even closing time, but a few hours after lunch Mrs. Beverly could tell Sun wasn’t going to be able to perform to her expectations no matter what threats she made.

‘Moon?’ Sun tried, probably the quietest he’d ever been in the 2 days he’d been awake.

To his immense disappointment, there was no response. Sun so desperately wanted to talk to Moon. He craved some kind of friendly conversation, but clearly Moon was still not interested and Sun was too tired and sore to try and get past whatever mental block Moon had made.

He shut down and didn’t reactivate for the rest of the night, though his fingers still trembled until the early hours of the morning.

[scuttling]

(You Want To) Make a Memory

Fandom: Criminal Minds Pairing: Aaron Hotchner/Latina Original Female Character Word Count: 19,858 Chapters: 5 of 5 Complete Tags: 18+, NSFW, Amnesia, Anxiety attacks, Sex dreams, Dom/sub, Daddy kink, Praise kink, Unprotected sex, Vaginal fingering, Dirty talk, Choking, Biting, Hickies, Oral sex, Making love, Angst and feels, Shower sex, Size kink Summary: Sophie gets amnesia while working a case and forgets everything from the last two years: her friends, her job at the BAU, and her boyfriend, Aaron. Note: This is a reformatted, previously published work. :)

Link to AO3 or read Chapter 1 below!

The thing Sophie finds most complicated about her work at the BAU is that it’s their job to predict the unpredictable. Yes, they are all highly educated, knowledgeable profilers, with decades of experience between them, and human behavior typically follows patterns that are easily discernible if you have the right training. But even armed with all the information, all the statistics, all the data, there’s one thing they can never really know for certain: what a desperate person will do in the heat of the moment.

The unsub they are looking for is a white male, aged 25-35, who lives alone, has a steady daylight job, drives a red pickup truck, and has a problem with older female authority figures. Sophie could go on and on about this particular type of unsub—she could tell you where he shops, how he spends his evenings, his favorite sport/team/player, probably even what he’ll eat for dinner tonight—but there’s no way she can know how he’ll react to the FBI at his door, or the consequences his actions will have.

The team is canvassing the neighborhood they believe the unsub resides in, and she and Spencer were assigned the four hundred block; they each take a separate side of the street, and work their way down house by house trying to find someone who fits the profile, or knows someone who does.

“Any luck?” Sophie asks Spencer when they meet back up at the end of the the block. He grimaces, uncertain.

“There was one guy, but…” She gestures toward the SUV and they walk toward it together.

“What happened? Profile didn’t fit?”

“He was the right demographic, the vehicle fit, but he wasn’t disorganized. In fact, his home looked like it belonged in a catalog: photos on the walls, decorative items, nothing out of place.” She frowns a little, because it’s clear this guy has raised some red flags for her partner, and she trusts his intuition when it comes to stuff like this.

“And he lives alone?” she asks, confirming. That’s a pretty big part of the profile, considering what he does to the victims. He nods.

“Yes, no indication of a girlfriend or wife living there.” Sophie blows out a breath, leans against the side of the SUV.

“Okay, let’s brainstorm. Maybe... he hires a housekeeper.” Spencer shrugs.

“He didn’t seem like the type, but I guess it’s possible.”

“Alright, well… Okay, so our profile is of a man who kills older women because he has an issue with an older woman who is an authority figure in his life. We thought maybe his boss, but what if it’s his mother?” she asks, face lighting up a little. This theory makes more sense, actually. “What if she comes over while he’s at work, cleans the place up, redecorates, just takes complete control of his life, even his private space, and he loses it?” He nods enthusiastically.

“That is extremely more likely. Now that I think of it, all the photos were of him and an older woman who could be his mother.” Sophie pulls out her phone, gestures over her shoulder with her thumb.

“Let’s head back there; Hotch and JJ are just around the corner, I’ll let them know we might need backup. 412?”

“Yeah—hey, that’s the truck. That’s the truck,” he says with more urgency, pointing down the street at a rapidly approaching red pickup truck that matches the description of the unsub’s. Shit.

“Okay, get in the car, call Hotch,” she instructs, and they both barely make it in before the truck rear-ends the SUV on the driver's side; Sophie’s head hits off the steering wheel hard, and the car rocks, and she looks over at Spencer, a little disoriented, to make sure he’s okay. He’s holding his wrist, like maybe he hurt it bracing himself.

When she gets her bearings, she starts the car, throws it into reverse, ready to apply a little force and potentially keep him from striking again, but he backs up, speeds up, and cuts the wheel to go around them, striking her door and driving past. It’s then that another SUV cuts him off, and Hotch and JJ jump out, guns drawn; the unsub raises his hands, surrenders, and it’s over as quickly as it began.

“Sophie?” She can hear her name, but her head is swimming. She touches the cut above her temple, pulls back a hand covered in blood, but she knows head injuries bleed heavily, so she’s not worried. She’s more worried that she can’t tell where that voice is coming from. It’s like she’s in a fun house, sounds echoing from all sides. “Sophie, can you hear me?” She hums in response.

Kind hands are on her face, turning it toward the sun, and she scrunches her eyes at the brightness. She knows the hands are trying to help, but her head already hurts, and the light isn’t doing her any favors.

“Gotta… get up,” she mumbles, and the hands hold her waist, help her out of the car. Her left foot hurts when she puts her weight down on it, and she almost folds, but the hands hold her up, and she thinks she smiles.

“Reid—is she okay?” That voice is a voice that makes her want to answer immediately, even if her brain hasn’t quite caught up. She stumbles over her words.

“‘M okay. Just my… head.” A different pair of hands hold her up, and her brain is working enough to recognize that she loves the smell of the person attached to the hands. They are serious hands, and one of them sweeps gently over her face.

“Can you open your eyes for me, baby, please?” that good voice asks, and she wants to do anything the voice asks, but her eyes really hurt. She must say that out loud, because the voice says softly, “That’s alright, don’t strain yourself. Medics on the way. You’re going to be fine.”

“Tell him…” She is placed back in the car, can feel the softness of the seat against her back, and it’s nice. “Tell him that was mean… and not to do it again.” She feels lips on her face, turns toward them, sighs when they brush over hers. “Mmm. Or I’m going to… tell his mother.”  When Sophie wakes up, she feels like she’s been repeatedly punched in the head, thrown down a flight of stairs, and then run over by a truck, so, naturally, she groans. She doesn’t dare open her eyes at first, can already see the fluorescents flickering through her eyelids, but her mouth is dry, and since she knows she must be in a hospital, she knows that there’s a little plastic pitcher of water somewhere within her reach.

Cautiously, she cracks one eye, finds the pitcher and a kind looking woman with fair skin and dark bangs staring back at her.

“You’re awake!” she whispers excitedly, and she leans forward for a hug, which Sophie does not return, because she doesn’t know the woman. The woman must feel the tension in Sophie’s body as she sits, arms at her sides, and waits for the hug to end, because she pulls back, concerned. “Are you okay? Did I hurt you?”

“No,” she begins, unsure of how to put this politely. Her voice is dry, rough, and the woman pours her a glass of water, which she takes gratefully. “I’m sorry, I just… I don’t… Do I know you?” Her face falls, and she looks confused, and then abruptly worried.

“My name is Emily. Prentiss. Does that ring a bell?” Sophie thinks back, tries to navigate around the pounding in her temples, and ultimately shakes her head.

“No, I’m sorry. And I mean no disrespect—I meet a lot of people for work, so sometimes it’s hard to keep track.”

“Where do you work?”

“I work for the FBI. Intelligence.” Sophie takes in the woman’s outfit—black turtleneck, gray pants, boots, government issued handgun—and tilts her head curiously. “And you?”

“FBI. Behavioral Analysis Unit.” She pulls her bag closer on the seat beside her, pulls out her credentials, lets Sophie hold them. “Have you heard of it?”

“Sure, of course. I have an interview there next week, actually.” She hands back the badge with a smile. “Small world. Uh, do you think that what happened to me occurred because of a crime, or something? Is that why you’re here?"

Agent Prentiss gives her a sad smile, then stands, pulling out her cell phone. “You know, we’re really not sure what’s going on. Excuse me for one moment, I need to make a call. I’ll get your doctor while I’m out there.”

“Okay. Thanks,” Sophie calls as she heads out of the room, and she pours another glass of water.

When the agent returns with the doctor, she looks tenser, but the doctor just shoots her a kind smile. “Hello, Sophie. I’m glad to see you’re awake.”

“Thank you; I’m glad to be awake. How long have I been out?”

“About two days. You were in a car accident, do you remember that?” She’d catalogued her injuries while alone—laceration to the head, some pain and swelling there; aching wrist, sore but unbroken; bruised ankle, tender but okay to put pressure on—and they are consistent with a car accident, but she shakes her head.

“No, ma’am, I don’t remember.” The doctor frowns, an expression the agent behind her mirrors.

“What’s the last thing you do remember?”

“Um.” She closes her eyes, thinks hard for a moment, but it hurts her eyes. “I was driving home from work, I think? Or about to leave for the day. It’s kind of blurry.”

“That’s alright, don’t press too hard. It should come back to you in no time.” She steps around the bed to pull her chart off the wall, skims it briefly. “We’re going to have to run some scans; I’ll give you a moment with Agent Prentiss, and then I’ll send someone in to take you down to the lab, okay?”

“Sure. Thank you, doctor.” The woman smiles and walks out of the room, leaving her with the clearly unhappy agent. “Is everything okay, Agent Prentiss? You look about as bad as I feel.” The woman sighs, drops back down into her seat, folds her hands in her lap.

“The doctor believes you’re suffering from retrograde amnesia. You don’t remember some things you should remember. Quite a bit of time.” Her throat goes dry again, her heart beats rapidly in her chest.

“That’s not possible. I remember driving home from work… or, getting in the car to drive home from work, just the other day.” She shakes her head like she’s not sure what to say.

“I know, Sophie, but that’s not a recent memory. You don’t work at the Grant building anymore.”

“What do you mean? I’m the Intelligence liaison. I mean, I applied for the BAU job…” She’s wanted to work there since she found out about it, to put her degrees to good use; to get an interview is almost unheard of, everyone told her, but she made the cut, even bought a new suit to wear. It’s still hanging in her closet.

“And you got it,” Prentiss says gently, reaching forward to take her hand. “You and I have been working together at the BAU for almost two years.”

Sophie can’t be blamed, she doesn’t think, when she leans over, reaches for the wastebasket, and promptly vomits.  “So I’m a profiler, and I’ve been one for two years. I work with you and we’re friends,” Sophie repeats as a bit of a recap. Prentiss nods.

“Yep. Those who profile serial killers together, stick together.” She says it with a smile that doesn’t touch her eyes.

“Wow. Okay. I’m really sorry I don’t remember you.” She shrugs it off, and Sophie sighs. “Any other major life events I should know about? Did I get a cat, go vegan?”

“You don’t have time for a pet, and you like cheese too much,” Prentiss jokes, but that does sound like something she’d say. Her face gets serious after that, and she even looks nervous. It makes Sophie nervous, too. “You have a boyfriend.”

That raises her eyebrows.

“I have a boyfriend.” She smiles softly, nods.

“Yes. He’s… it’s funny, because he’s actually... our boss.” Sophie blanches. Talk about a close-knit group.

“I’m sleeping with my boss? That is not like me.” She barely sleeps with anyone, too busy focusing on her career and not that into one-night-stands, but her boss of all people? That’s just plain stupid.

“It’s really not like that, trust me. You two are in love.” Okay, she’s heard enough. Maybe Prentiss is a prankster, playing some wildly hilarious joke on her amnesiac pal.

“I’m in love. Did I actually say that?” She knows herself pretty well, flaws and all, and she’s been a vehement skeptic when it comes to love for… god, as long as she can remember—no pun intended. Prentiss nods, looks very serious.

“Yes, I’ve heard you say it many, many times. You two live together.”

“We live together? For how long?” This can’t be right; one of the things she values most is her privacy, her solitude. She lives a quiet, simple life, aside from being an FBI agent, and she likes it that way.

“About six months,” she answers carefully.

“We’ve lived together for six months? How long have we been dating?” Her voice sounds a little shrill even to her own ears. Prentiss is being very cool about it all, doesn’t so much as blink.

“It’s a year next week, actually. He’s been trying to come up with a surprise for your anniversary.” Sophie feels a little lightheaded.

“Anniversary. Fuck.” She squeezes her eyes shut, which hurts, opens them only so the pain will go away. She knows they’re teary, can’t help it, but she doesn’t want Prentiss to see her like this. She hates being vulnerable, always has. “I can’t remember two years of my life. I can’t remember my own boyfriend, my own job. My friends.”

“I can tell you about them, if you want,” she offers cautiously. “The doctor said it could help, but if you feel like it’s too much, let me know.”

Sophie nods carefully. She wants to know, she needs to know.

Prentiss—Emily—is so genuinely kind. She sits there for an hour, tells Sophie about work, and their team—their friends, because the group is very tight, gets together for dinner and drinks, and they all support each other’s non-bureau endeavors, and she feels so sad that she can’t remember them, can’t recall anything Emily is rattling off so easily it’s like she doesn’t even have to think about it.

She talks about some tough cases they’ve worked on, and how they always end with a cookout or a family dinner so they can remember why they do the hard things, why they keep fighting. She talks about people they’ve helped, saved, brought comfort to. She talks about flights home on the jet, how sometimes they sit in quiet, companionable silence and other times it’s all teasing and laughter and the good things in life.

Then she starts talking about Aaron—the boss/boyfriend—and Sophie does cry, a couple of tears rolling slowly down her cheeks. She’d never imagined in her life that she would be as loved as she is, if Emily’s stories are true, and the fact that she can’t remember any of it is like a knife to the gut. She wants to scream, to make someone pay for what she’s missing, but she knows none of that will bring her memory back, so she dials back the rage as quickly as it came—huh, that’s new.

Usually, her particular brand of anxiety attack would happen right about now, always worse when she’s afraid or angry. She anticipates tightening in her chest, shortness of breath, ringing in her ears that takes forever to go away, but it doesn’t come. She’s able to calm herself with a deep breath, and despite the fact that the rest of her life is a dumpster fire right now, this feels kind of good. It feels like progress, not a story told through someone else’s eyes, but a tangible feeling she can hold onto and think, I am a different version of Sophie than I was two years ago. A better version, maybe. But at least different. That, above everything else, makes it real.

A nurse walks in to take Sophie down for scans, and Emily just smiles, a bit sadly, and tells her she’ll be there waiting when she returns.

It’s a small comfort, something she holds onto as she’s taken down to the lab. When Sophie makes it back to her room, Emily is waiting there as promised, and she has a duffle bag sitting on the bed. “The doctor says you can go home while they wait for the scans,” she says with a smile; she probably thinks it will make Sophie happy, and it does, but the idea of going to a home she’s never been to is a little unsettling. Still, it’s nice to know there are people who care about her who will help her through it, that she’s not alone. That’s not something Sophie of two years ago would have been able to count on.

She smiles back, and Emily helps her change into clothes that somehow still smell like the hospital, but it feels better to be dressed and not stuck in the flimsy hospital gown that always makes you feel weaker and sicker, more injured than you really are.

She hears a voice from out in the hall, a voice that catches her attention immediately, and she walks over to the door, peeks her head out to see if she can find the man it belongs to.

She does, and he is almost too good-looking to be real. Somehow, she both instinctively knows that this man is Aaron, and can’t see how that could possibly be true.

“Emily. Is that Aaron?” she asks to confirm, pointing to the tall, serious-looking, frankly smoldering hot man having a conversation with her doctor at the end of the hall. She peeks her head out the door too, looks toward him with a smile.

“Yeah, that’s him. Do you remember him?” Her tone is guarded but hopeful, and Sophie sighs.

Remember him, no, not in the way she means, but every cell in her body feels alive and on fire just from catching a glimpse of his face, so she’s pretty sure Emily is right and she’s crazy in love with him. And his suit. Who looks that good in a suit?

Her boyfriend, apparently. Who she lives with. Who she’s been with for a year. Her mind is still a little blown.

“I don’t recall any memories of him,” she whispers, as if he can hear her from down the hall, “but, uh. I think my body remembers him.” Emily looks at her, eyebrow quirked, and she blushes. “Or, you know. Parts of it.”

Realization dawns, and Emily grins. “Okay yeah, that tracks. You two are kind of all over each other. It’s an intense vibe.” Sophie takes a moment to imagine that, what it would be like to be in a relationship with this man.

He looks intense, which can be good or bad, with the kind of mouth you could kiss forever, smile against. He’s taller than her by about a foot, which thrills her, and broad, as evidenced by the jacket stretched across his shoulders, which really thrills her. He’s older, maybe early forties, which she doesn’t feel particularly strongly about one way or another, with gorgeous dark hair and eyes, and when he shakes hands with the doctor, silver wrist watch gleaming under the fluorescent lights, her mouth practically waters.

“Earth to Sophie. You’ve got a little drool, there,” Emily teases, pointing to her own mouth, and Sophie groans.

“You didn’t prepare me. You didn't tell me he was hot.” Aaron turns away from the doctor, starts walking down the hall toward her room, and she ducks out of the doorframe, Emily following suit. She puts a hand to her forehead, not in physical pain, but mental pain for sure. “God, this is going to be so awkward. I’ve got a total lady boner for the guy I’m in love with that I can’t even remember.”

“It might be a little awkward at first, but you guys are sweet together. He’s going to be so caring and understanding, give you all the time you need.” She puts her hands on Sophie’s arms, grounding her. “We’re going to focus on trying to get your memories back, but the doctor said you shouldn’t stress.”

“That’s easy for her to say,” she mutters, crossing her arms, “she didn’t forget her big sexy boyfriend.” She hears a soft chuckle from behind her and instantly flushes, which makes Emily grin.

“Sophie, this is Aaron.” She physically turns her, and Aaron is smiling gently, which makes him look even better than when he was serious and expressionless. Her heart thrums in her chest.

“Hi. I’m sorry I don’t remember you. I want to.” She sticks out her hand for a shake, feels dumb instantly, but he takes it anyway, holds it for a moment. His hand is rough, so much bigger than hers, and part of her hopes he never lets go.

“That’s alright. Dr. Bracken is confident you’ll recover all of your memories in time. She’s given me some instruction on ways we can try to jog your memory, but no stress, like Emily said.”

“I guess we’re not considering the fact that losing two years of your life is a little stressful,” she counters, and he laughs again.

“You haven’t lost anything. Just misplaced them for a while.” He steps toward her, like he wants to touch her, comfort her maybe, but freezes, thinks better of it. She’s torn between wanting to get to know him better first and wanting to jump into his arms immediately, so she decides to let him set the pace. “So… Do you want to come home with me?” His voice is soft, hopeful, matching his eyes. “Garcia—our friend, another coworker of ours—has offered to put you up at her place if you’re not comfortable with that, so no worries either way. You have a place to go.”

Her stomach sinks a little at the thought of being anywhere but home, even though she has no idea where that is, and she looks back at Emily, who smiles encouragingly.

“I think I want to go home,” she decides after a moment, and she turns back to look at Aaron. “Is that okay with you?” He nods seriously.

“Yes, of course. I want you home with me. I just wanted you to know you had other options.” Emily slips past her, a hand on her elbow, and finishes gathering up her belongings while they talk. “The rest of the team is going to come over for a little bit, if you’re okay with that. The doctor said it would be a good idea, since you spend most of your time with them, but if at any point it gets overwhelming, let me know. No hard feelings if we send everyone home.”

“Okay,” she breathes, her head already swimming a bit just from talking to Aaron, and he does step forward, then, giving her her space but indicating that he wants to come closer, if she’ll let him.

“May I put this on you?” he murmurs, and opens his palm to display her rose necklace, the one she wears, must still wear, everyday. At least that hasn’t changed. “The EMTs gave it to me when they brought you in. I’ve been holding onto it for safekeeping.” She nods, turns around, and he slips it around her throat, clasps it, brushes a careful hand over her neck to move her hair out of the way. “That’s better,” he says, his breath ghosting over her skin, and she sighs, wants to sink back against the heat of his body; she just knows how comforting it would be, how safe she would feel. Instead, she turns and smiles softly.

“Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.” They hold eye contact for a moment, and then Emily appears at her side, making a face like she knows she’s interrupting something.

“Ready to get going?” she asks, handing Sophie’s duffle bag over to Aaron. “I’m going to stop at home and then I’ll head to your place.”

“Absolutely. Thank you, Emily,” Sophie says sincerely, stepping forward to pull her into a tight hug. “I appreciate everything you’ve done for me. I hope I remember more about you soon.”

“I’m happy I could be here, and I know you will. Just give it some time.” She pats her on the back, and then leaves the room.

Aaron carries her bag and leads her out to the parking garage, toward a standard federal issued SUV, and he opens the door for her, closes it behind her with a gentle smile.

Time to go home.

Taglist ❤️: @arsonhotchner @mrsh0tchner @ssahotchie @sleepyreaderreads @mintphoenix @meghannnnnn @disgruntledchowchow @azenpal

[stuffkin]

futaba spends a day on the town with ryuji. everything goes terribly wrong. 

i think this is my final thing for @mcschnuggles’ potluck (AND it’s puzzleverse!) bc it’s 4am where i am and i’m starting to crash but who knows! maybe i’ll do something after sleep lolol

ao3 link!

Why did she think she could do this? She should have listened to her brain, not her heart and its stupid want for something more. But she’d thought she’d leveled up enough for this, and she isn’t alone, and, and, and–

Ryuji won’t look at her.

He won’t let go of her hand, but he won’t look at her. What does it mean, that he won’t look at her? 

Futaba wants to go home. But she’d promised Sojiro and Akira she’d be okay. Promised Ann. Promised Ryuji.

She isn’t sure the promise to Ryuji matters anymore.

It was supposed to be a small group outing. Her, Ryuji, Ann. Two of a pair, they were, determined to add one more pea to their pod. And the worst part is, Futaba wanted–wants–that. But Ann got whisked away at the very last second by her nefarious agency for an emergency fill-in. A plot twist Futaba hadn’t expected, but should have, because of course an outing to Akihabara wouldn’t go like she wants. Like she needs. Never does. 

Ann apologized to both of them, said they could reschedule. Ryuji waved her off, professing they’d be fine without her if Futaba wanted to forge ahead. A classic mistake on Futaba’s part–split-ups always lead to trouble. She’d agreed anyway. 

She pretended not to see the panic that had flashed across Ryuji’s face as Ann left. 

He hasn’t looked at her since. 

Now, they’re wandering the aisles of the most cramped game store Futaba’s ever been in, and believe it or not, she’s been in quite a few.

Small places are not her friend. Not with the way the walls seem to close in on her and the noise bounces around her and the people–oh, God, the people. The games are merely a mimic to lure her into the enemy trap. Still, they’ve been in the shop for twenty minutes already, which Futaba is pretty darn good, especially since people keep cramming into the miniscule space. And for once, she can’t blame them; the games on display are fantastic. It even makes her forget about her worries for a hot second. 

“Hey, what do you think about this one?” Futaba picks up a case and flips it over. “It has werewolves.” 

“Sure,” Ryuji says, even though the answer makes no sense with the question. He flinches when someone brushes by him. It strikes Futaba as wrong, somehow. “Let’s get it.”

He didn’t even look at the game. “Um. Okay.” Any excitement Futaba had gained fizzles away quickly, once more replaced with the suffocating fear that Ryuji doesn’t like her. Suddenly the bright colors and even brighter lights don’t seem so fun anymore. When Ryuji leads her to the cashier, she barely notices that Ryuji’s the one to pay for the game. She barely notices when they leave the shop. She almost misses Ryuji’s question. 

“Is there anywhere else you want to go?” Usually, there’s a bounce to Ryuji’s voice when he asks questions. Now, it falls flat. Tired. Bored. Oddly tight, like a spring ready to pop. She knew it; he doesn’t want to be around her anymore. Who can blame him? She can barely stand herself. 

“U-um…” Futaba tries to mask her anxiety. But everything she’d scripted for the day fries in her brain. Corrupted data, cannot be saved. Her throat aches from how hard she’s trying not to cry. “N-no.” 

“Okay.” Ryuji’s shoulders sag, just a bit, and how is Futaba supposed to interpret that as anything other than relief? “Let’s head back to Leblanc then.” 

Neither of them say anything else all the way to the train station. It’s all Futaba can do to keep her breathing under control. There’s no way she’s going to waste her breath on words! But even as terribly as she’s feeling, she does have to admit she feels a little better now that they’re at the end of their adventure with home waiting just on the other side. The knot in her chest loosens just the tiniest bit. 

If only Ryuji would look at her. Or say something, even if it’s something incredibly stupid like, Hey, wouldn’t it be neat if ducks could shoot lasers out their eyes? or I had a dream about a giant pink squid the other night. He doesn’t even notice that she keeps peeking at him. His eyes are locked on the opposite wall. It’s a far away enough look that she could probably pull free of his ridiculously sweaty hand to do a jig and he wouldn’t even notice. Before she can seriously consider testing this theory, the train arrives. Futaba jumps; Ryuji barely blinks as it whooshes by. 

Boarding is a nightmare. People are packed wall to wall like molecules in a block of ice. If only it were that cold. It leaves them little room to squeeze on and just enough space to be squished against one of the walls. Oh, she wishes they would have waited for the next one, or the one after that, but she certainly isn’t going to be the one to break their mutual silence. It’s a game now. A special form of denial to soothe the sting. 

Ryuji’s fingers twitching in her grasp has her glancing upward in spite of herself. At first, her only thought is That’s not Ryuji. But of course it is, because there’s no one else besides them with an obnoxiously bright dye-job. The whole set of his face, though, is all wrong. A jumbled up slide puzzle. Like before, his eyes are fixed on nothing, but the corners pinch into little creases, and there’s a faint blush creeping up his neck to grip his jaw. Futaba wonders how he hasn’t cracked a tooth from how tightly it’s clenched. The worst part is what she can hear. She shouldn’t be able to hear it over the sound of the clattering  train and chattering people, not to mention her headphones, but she hears a rattly breath that comes out too short. 

Oh. Oh. Futaba’s watched herself in mirrors enough times to know what’s happening. Morbid curiosity. She’s also spied on Ryuji–all of the thieves–enough times to know a tell when she sees one, even if she’s not sure what it’s telling. A different kind of curiosity. 

Ryuji’s teetering on the edge of a panic attack. That explains so much. 

Suddenly, she’s feeling so much better about the day. Well. Not about Ryuji, but the fact that it isn’t her fault. She thinks. She can figure that out later. 

“Hey, look at me.” Her voice is a little strained, but it gets the job done. Nervous eyes glance at her before flicking away again. Without letting go of his hand, she wriggles her way into his line of sight. “I said look at me.” 

Ryuji freezes, biting his lip again, but he looks at her. Oh, yeah. Her guess is right on the money; while she has the attention of the meatsuit his brain drives around, there’s not much going on behind those big brown eyes. Knock knock. Nobody’s home. 

“Okay, good,” she says, even though it isn’t. “You’re okay, we’re okay. You don’t like trains?” She doesn’t give him a chance to answer. “Me neither! They’re like a super hard dungeon teeming with enemies! But it’s okay because we’re together.” 

A quick squeeze to her fingers tells her that she hasn’t lost him yet. Good. Because if Futaba’s being honest with herself, she’s barely holding on to her own thread. Almost out of life points. If Ryuji weren’t feeling so bad, too, she’s pretty damn certain that she’d be the one having a panic attack. 

She continues monologuing all the way to Yongen-Jaya. Anything to keep them both distracted and tethered to his hellish plane–train–of existence. As they finally, finally, step out of the station into thankfully empty streets, Futaba spread out one arm and takes a deep breath. “Freedom.” Ryuji doesn’t say anything, but she hadn’t expected him to. He still looks like he’s about to come apart at the seams. Futaba takes control of player one and tugs him along to Leblanc. 

They barely get through the door before Sojiro’s onto them. He barely gets a glance in before he’s setting down his crossword. “What happened?” 

If Futaba hadn’t been so worn down, she would have laughed at how quickly Akira spins his head. It’s like he’s possessed. He must have popped it, because he grimaces and presses his hand against it. He’s quicker on the uptake than Sojiro. “I got them.” Stepping around the counter, he ushers them both towards the stairwell. 

Ryuji makes a beeline for Akira’s bed as soon as they’re up the stairs, tucking himself into the corner with no hesitation, as though he’s done this a million times. Perhaps he has. Futaba knows she’d go to Akira if she felt poorly. In fact, she has. Several times now. What piques her interest, though, is the way Morgana slinks into Ryuji’s lap without a word. The way Ryuji’s hands automatically start smoothing down the fur. The duo are so normally at each other’s throats that the flipped switch is downright bizarre. Unscripted. A glitch. 

Akira barely glances at them before turning to Futaba. “What happened? Are you okay?” 

She keeps her answer simple. “Too many people. Too high-level for me. Us, I guess.” She peeks around Akira at Ryuji, who keeps his head ducked and face hidden. Morgana’s murmuring to him, but she’s still too far away to make it out. “I didn’t think crowds got to him.” 

“They don't.” Akira grimaces. As much as his blank slate of a face can grimace, anyway. Futaba would love to program a model of him just to see how many wacky faces she could give him. Her attention surfaces as he speaks again. “Not usually, anyway. Are you sure you’re okay?” 

Futaba takes a moment to run through the diagnostic checklist. Jittery, check. Fatigued, triple check. Nothing sounds more wonderful than curling up with her stuffed unicorn underneath her weighted blanket. 

It also doesn’t seem as bad as it usually does after such a scare. The anxiety’s still there, yes, but dulled. Maybe she’s getting better. The more logical answer is that the variables are different–someone needed her more than she needed them. Ryuji needed her. Later, once she’s recharged, she’ll run a control test. 

But, right now, Akira is waiting patiently, expectantly, for an answer. “I’m okay,” she answers truthfully. “Better now I’m at home base.” 

The corner of Akira’s mouth curls upward, and he pats the top of her head. The warmth and weight of his hand smooth over the frayed edges nicely. “Good.” 

She tries peeking around Akira again. “Is he okay?” 

“He will be,” Akira says, as though it were he who had been on the train with Ryuji and not her. He glances back towards the bed. When he shares a look with Morgana, his eyes narrow, just enough for Futaba, Queen of Noticing Things, to notice. Whatever decision he’s trying to reach doesn’t take long to come. “Hang on.” Leaving her near the stairs, he pads over to the bed and crouches next to it. The soft murmures between he, Morgana, and Ryuji are still too soft for Futaba to hear. The small zing of anxiety–they’re talking about her!–is tamped only by the urge to stamp her foot–it’s not fair!

But it doesn’t take long for Akira to return to her. “Futaba, this is important, okay? Can you keep this a secret?”

“Scout’s honor,” Futaba answers, in spite of never being a scout.

Akira nods, appeased. Raising his hand, he twists one of the loose curls dangling in front of his glasses. “Have you heard of age regression?” 

Regression. Well, there’s a familiar word that she never thought she’d hear out loud, let alone from Akira, let alone about Ryuji. Barely half a beat passes before she ducks around Akira to flop onto the bed. “We have a baby!?” 

Ryuji’s head flies up in alarm. If she’d thought his eyes were wide before… Behind her, Akira shuffles closer to the bed. “Calm down, Futaba.” 

“But baby!” She pulls herself up into her usual perched position. Logically, she knows there’s no reason for her to be so excited. After all, it’s pretty clear that Ryuji regressed from stress, and that’s not a whole lot of fun. She assumes. But at the same time, she wants him to know it’s okay. That he can do what he needs to feel better. 

Still, maybe it is a bit much, given the circumstances. “Sorry, Ryuji.” 

He doesn’t say anything for a moment. When he does, his voice comes out soft, softer than Futaba’s ever heard it. “‘Sokay. ‘Cited.” 

“Of course I am!” She flings her arms out, whacking Akira in the stomach. She pays the quiet grunt no mind. “How can I not be with an itty bitty kiddo to play with?” She pauses and tilts her head. “Are you itty bitty?” 

A shrug from Ryuji. From Akira, “That would be a yes.” The floor creaks as Akira walks away from the bed. 

While Akira does whatever it is he’s doing, Futaba rests her chin on her knees and lowers her voice. “Do you want me to go?” To her surprise and glee and relief, Ryuji quickly shakes his head. She beams. Not that she’s going to tell anyone, but she doesn’t think she’d feel too good alone right now. The irony isn’t lost on her. 

Ryuji stops petting Morgana long enough to pat the spot next to him. Futaba wastes no time in scrambling to sit next to him. “How on earth are you so cute?” Even as she’s giggling at how quickly his ears turn red, she’s filing that information away for later. Her brain is buzzing at mach speed to process everything. 

“He’s cute when he wants to be,” Morgana concedes, pushing his head against Ryuji’s hand. “He knows how to use it to his advantage.” 

Even though he doesn’t say anything, Ryuji’s face twists. Then he mutters, almost too quick and too quiet for either of them to catch it. “‘M sorry.” 

“What?” Futaba blinks owlishly while her stomach sinks. She thinks she knows where this is going. “Ryuji, there’s nothing to be sorry for.” 

“Uh-huh.” Fingers drumming nervously along Morgana’s back, Ryuji is nothing but nervous energy again. “Messed today up.” 

“No, you didn’t.” Futaba loops her arm around Ryuji’s. “We’re still hanging out, aren’t we? And,” she adds as Akira returns with a bag and sits at the foot of the bed, “we get special rights to boss this nerd around!” 

“You do that anyway,” Akira points out. He opens the bag, but doesn’t take anything out. His eyes flick to Ryuji. “Do you want…?” 

Ryuji ignores him. “Wanna keep hangin’ out,” he tells Futaba earnestly. “‘M sorry if you thought I didn’t.” 

Futaba blinks again in surprise. He’d picked up on that? What else does he notice? Still it tugs the knot of worry from before completely free. “It’s okay! You were feeling pretty blegh, huh? You could have said something.” 

“You didn’ say anythin’.” 

“Because I thought I was gonna mess it up!” Futaba pokes Ryuji’s cheek. “We’re a couple of silly geese.” 

For the first time that day, Ryuji cracks a smile. “Uh-huh.” 

Akira scratches his leg. “Wasn’t Ann supposed to be with you?” 

“She had to leave.” Futaba pouts. “Evil agency swept our princess away to another castle.” 

“I see.” He fiddles with the clasp on the bag. His eyes flick to Ryuji. “Did she know?” Ryuji’s face burns. When he shakes his head, Akira sighs quietly. “Did you know?” This time, Ryuji turns his face to the wall. It’s the answer Akira was afraid of, if his frown is anything to go by. 

As much as Futaba wants to ask, she pockets the questions for later. “Akiraaaa, we’re thirsty.” 

The frown turns upside down. “Oh, are you?” Tapping the bed to get Ryuji’s attention again, he asks, gently, “Water or juice?” A complicated feeling crosses Ryuji’s face. All scrunched up with feelings that have nowhere to go. Instead of saying anything, he holds up one feeling. Akira nods. “Okay.” To Futaba, he says, “I’ll get you juice.” 

“How come I don’t get a choice?” 

“Do you want water?” 

“...no. But make it orange juice!” she demands. Akira ruffles both of their hair before leaving them be. Futaba exhales loudly through her nose.  “He’s so fussy.” 

“Bubba’s the bes’.” Ryuji rubs his eye. “Taba’s bes’, too. ‘N’ Momo.” 

Morgana flicks his tail. “Yeah, you better not forget about me.” 

“Don’t bully the baby, Momo.” Futaba reaches over and squishes his cheek.

“I’m not!” Morgana whines, bristling. It makes both Ryuji and Futaba giggle. 

When the laughter subsides and Ryuji’s placating Morgana with more pets, Futaba picks up the bag. Something rattles around inside. “What’s in here?” 

“Um.” Ryuji hesitates. He must decide the contents aren’t worth secrecy, because he follows up with, “Baby stuff.” 

“Can I see?” Once she has the go-ahead, Futaba peers inside. It’s about what she’d expect from a baby bag, but if she’s being honest, she’d expected more. A few sippy cups, a pacifier, a blanket. Tucked away at the bottom is a bottle that looks like it’s never been touched. But that’s all. No toys, no nothing. Does Ryuji not like playing when he’s regressed? Have they just not figured out what he likes to do yet? Maybe he just likes cuddles? Maybe he has more stuff at home? As much as Futaba already knows, she has next to no information about Ryuji’s specific brand of babydom. Later, she’ll poke and she’ll prod so she knows everything about it. Right now, though, she frees the blanket and wraps it around Ryuji’s shoulders. “Ooooh, this is so soft!” 

Some of the tension in Ryuji’s body drains away. He shifts a little closer to Rutaba. “Mhm. Bubba got it for me.” 

“That was super nice of him, huh?” Futaba rests her head against Ryuji’s. “We’re super lucky to have him.” 

A frizzy head pokes up over the railing. “You two talking about me?” Akira asks as he rejoins them. In his hands are two water bottles and a cup of juice. He hands the juice to Futaba.

Futaba sips her juice. The coolness soothes a dull ache in her throat that she didn’t realize was there until now. “Just about how much of a dork you are.” 

Akira scoffs as he grabs one of the sippy cups with water and hands it to Ryuji. “Takes one to know one.” 

“Hey!” Futaba nudges Ryuji. “What do you think, bub? Who’s the bigger dork?” Ryuji sips his water quietly before pointing at Akira. Futaba crows in delight while Akira gasps and presses his hand to his chest. They can see the edges of a smile from behind the spout of the cup. Mission accomplished, Futaba thinks. She nudges Akira with her foot. “We wanna watch something.” 

“Oh, do you?” Akira raises an eyebrow. “What’s the magic word?” 

She leans towards Ryuji again. “Can you help me, bud?” Nodding, he whispers something into her ear. Grinning wildly, she also points at Akira. “Abracadabra!” 

With an overexaggerated sigh, Akira slides off the bed and grabs his laptop. While he’s setting it up, Futaba gently taps her fingers against Ryuji’s cheek. “Thank you for sharing this with me, baby. And for spending time with me. I’m sorry today wasn’t a very good day.” 

“‘Sokay. Ryuji slides down until he can rest his head on her shoulder. “‘S better now. Lots of ‘sperience points.” 

“You’re right! You’re so smart, bub.” As they all settle in for an episode of Sonic–she’s not surprised in the slightest–Futaba mulls it over. All of her worries from the beginning of the day seem more like a dream than reality. Deleted. And with this li’l guy by her side, it won’t be long until they level up, together.

[ecto-american]

Humanity

Upon their arrest by the GIW together, Valerie learns something interesting about Phantom and herself that make her question just how human both herself and Phantom are.

note that this isn’t a phic phight thing, just something i wrote literally months ago for Lexx but forgot that i wrote

on FFN and AO3

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

They didn't even have the decency to arrest her before Mr. Lancer's class. Being arrested for...well, the Guys in White were never really clear as to why they showed up to Casper High to arrest her. But whatever the reason, that would have been one hell of an excuse as to why she was not just missing, but why she couldn't turn in that book report that she not only didn't do, but hadn't even read a single page of yet. Valerie had an inkling she knew why, but she remained completely silent the entire march out the front doors of the school. She wasn't an idiot after all.

The agent to her left opened the door, and the agent to her right put his hand on her head to duck her into the white SUV. The door closed, and Valerie glanced to see just how tinted the windows were, as well as the police-style framing of the windows and the separation between the driver and passenger as well as the backseat dwellers.

"Oh, I was wondering why we stopped here."

That familiar voice made her jump, and she turned to see Phantom. He was in the exact same predicament. Hands behind his back, leaning against the seat, though she could immediately tell that his handcuffs were much clunkier and glowed. Obviously anti-ghost.

"You!" Valerie hissed. She immediately leaned into the window, lifting her leg up, and she began to kick him repeatedly. "What the hell are you doing here!?"

"Ow!" Phantom hissed as she got him in the shoulder, and then his rib. She didn't stop, and she didn't miss. "AH! Fuck, stop it! OW!"

"Knock it off!" one of the agents boomed. The sudden, strict tone made Valerie pause. She kicked him one more time, square in the face, before finally stopping.

Phantom made a weird wheezing noise, and she saw him shift to rub his nose on his upper arm and shoulder. He frowned.

"My nose is bleeding," he complained.

"I hope your nose is broken!" Valerie snapped back at him.

Phantom glared at her. He made a weird noise in his throat, and it took Valerie a moment to realize what he was doing. Preparing spit. And indeed, the ghost teen stuck his tongue out, drool instantly dripping, and he leaned in. Valerie instantly leaned away from him.

"Ew! Gross! Get away from me!" she complained.

"Nu-uh!" Phantom replied, his tongue still out as he continued to scoot. He got close enough to open his mouth, and some of his saliva dripped onto her knee.

"Gross, gross, gross!" she shrieked. Valerie kicked him in the side, and Phantom let out a pained wheeze.

"Knock. It. Off," the other agent snapped at them. They had gotten into the driver and passenger's seat, and both were glaring at them.

"She started it!" Phantom accused. The driver frowned at him, obviously not amused. Phantom scooted back to his side of the backseat. Valerie stayed pressed against the window and door. She could hear the drive mutter something about hating kids before turning the vehicle on, and they drove off.

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

They made the duo sit in the interrogation room for three hours, according to the clock. They had, thankfully, just connected the teenagers to the table via a long chain and handcuffs, so that they could at least be a bit more comfortable, even though Phantom, and for some reason her, were both given anti-ghost bracelets to wear. A box of tissues were also tossed onto the table, and Phantom had spent the first half hour tending to his bloodied nose. He stuffed all the used tissues, grossly, into his pocket, though she suspected why he did that. It had his DNA on it.

Phantom nor her attempted conversation. Neither were stupid. They essentially stared at each other and the walls, their only words were occasional out-loud wondering of when somebody was going to show up to question them already.

Obviously her more pressing question was why the hell they were still together. For some reason, Phantom was with her every step of the way of their weird little field trip. They got escorted in together, processed together, and now were sat at the exact same interrogation table. Why? She had absolutely no idea. Didn't they normally separate people they arrested?

At exactly 6:38 PM, somebody finally opened the door, and she and Phantom sat straight up.

The agent that sat before them was a large man, muscular and tall with big hands and sunglasses that fully blocked any chance of the teens from seeing what he was looking at.

"We know you're both half-ghost."

Valerie's mind instantly went to Vlad. That must have been what he was...she had been debating with herself for weeks now as to what he was. A ghost disguised as a human? A human who had ghost powers?

She pushed those aside to look at Phantom. To her surprise, he was pale. Nearly as white as his hair, with anxiety sweat drops beginning to form. Her interest peaked instantly. Silence hung in the air. The man said nothing, simply keeping his attention intensely on them. Valerie

"That's ridiculous," Valerie finally said something. She nearly added that the entire idea itself was ridiculous too. Well, it kind of was. It was so weird to grasp, but it wasn't really something that she wanted to think too hard about these days, and especially now. There was nothing more that she'd love to do than to throw that manipulative old bastard under the weird half-ghost freak bus. However, not only was it probably not a good idea to start beef with a literal superpowered-villain billionaire...but Dani was still out there.

"Don't lie to me." The man sounded agitated. "Both of your ectoplasmic readings are abnormal."

Ectoplasmic reading? Her? Valerie stared at him as if he had grown a second head.

"I shouldn't have any ectoplasmic reading," she pointed out. "I'm alive. Alive people don't have ectoplasmic readings."

The man opened up his folder, pulling out a few choice pieces of papers to slide her way. Phantom silently watched them, his eyes wide and his face looking utterly blank yet...so fearful. Valerie opted to ignore him for a while, accepting the papers to hold as she read through them.

She was familiar with how to read ectoplasmic readings, charts and monitors by now. Green eyes scanned the data, frowning in confusion as she checked the details, and she could see out of the corner of her eye Phantom leaning in to read too. She adjusted her position so that he couldn't.

This description was definitely her, and...she was giving off ectoplasmic readings. Not really in the same way as a normal ghost; there was something distinctively different about hers that any set of trained eyes could pick up on. But how?

"I don't understand," Valerie spoke slowly. "I'm alive." She put the documents back down on the table. "You can take a swap or slap some ghost goop stuff on me. Hell, prick my finger." Valerie held her palm out to the man. Her anti-ghost bracelet sparkled a bit in the light of the room. At least she now knew why they made her wear the bracelets too. "I'm not dead."

The interviewer stared intently at her hand. He gave a neutral hum of acknowledgement, swooping the papers back up.

"Testing and experiments will be reserved for a later time," he replied. Valerie got instant goosebumps. Testing and experiments? "Maybe a few hours in holding will help you realize why you should just come clean to us."

"Can I get some water first?" Valerie asked. The agent snorted in amusement as he stood up.

"Ghosts don't eat or drink."

She felt numb, and she had no idea how to respond to that. Two more agents came into the room, and they silently took the teenagers further into the building until they reached a door. The third agent opened it, and Phantom and Valerie were ushered inside.

The room almost immediately led into bars, and the first thing Valerie could think of was just how much it looked like jail. Two uncomfortable looking bunk beds on either side, a toilet in the middle, a small sink, and no windows. The light was dim, and the room was cold.

Phantom was pushed in first, and then Valerie, and the bars clunked as they closed. She turned to see the bars begin to glow as the bars were locked.

And there was no goodbyes. The agents were eerily silent as they filed out, and the door was shut behind them. She could hear the faint click as it also locked.

Valerie turned to see Phantom's reaction, and he still looked shaken and pale. She already suspected the answer, but she needed to hear it.

"So...are you?" Valerie asked.

"No!" Phantom's answer was way too quick. "What about you? Don't you hate ghosts?"

"I'm not half ghost!" she snapped back. "I have no clue why they'd think that."

Phantom studied her for a moment. His eyes lit up.

"Your suit!" he declared. "The one Technus gave you. It must make your reading wonky."

The second he reminded her, she felt a cold shiver. Suddenly her heartbeat felt off, and she assumed she was colder than usual because of...ya know. That couldn't be true. It had to be wonky readings. The suit was so nice...so much nicer than the suit that she had made herself. It was so much more powerful, so much nicer, just flat out cooler.

She put her heart over her chest. She still had a heartbeat, right?

"What's your excuse?" she asked. Phantom didn't say anything. He turned his attention to the wall, staring blankly at it.

"...Why would they let us stay trapped in here together?" Phantom changed the subject. Valerie narrowed her eyes at him, but she had to admit. It was a good point. "Especially knowing that we'd just plot our escape together."

"Pump the breaks, Phantom. I'm not escaping," Valerie scoffed. "They'll realize their mistake and just let me go."

"Well, they're not gonna let me go," Phantom frowned. "The Guys in White don't exactly play nice with ghosts. And I'm not leaving without you."

"Not my problem," Valerie replied. She raised an eyebrow at him. "Unless...of course there's a reason for it to be my problem."

"You can't just do it out of the kindness of your heart?" Phantom sounded sarcastic, despite staring at her desperately. Valerie crossed her arms. "Please?"

"Give me one good reason to escape with you."

And thus began a staring contest. Phantom shifted from foot to foot, and he glanced at the floor. A lightbulb made the realization click. The GIW knew her identity. They arrested her at school. But they didn't know Phantom's. Nobody probably did. This was likely a ploy to get them to reveal themselves to each other. How or why, Valerie wasn't sure. But now it was glaringly obvious to her.

Phantom was half-ghost. Just like Dani. Just like Vlad. The Guys in White don't play nice with ghosts, and she had a strong feeling that they didn't care much about playing nice with humans either. Especially if they suspected that there was ghost within them.

"Nevermind," Valerie sighed. Phantom stared at her, and he...looked scared. "I can destroy ghosts…" But I really can't take part in destroying a human.

Phantom grew a bit pale again, as they both knew the unspoken words. He took a deep, shaky breath. His reaction was all she needed to know, that this wasn't some weird lie or ploy.

"So. What's our game plan?" he asked.

Valerie studied their surroundings. She reached out to touch the bars of their shared cell, taking immediate note that she wasn't shocked.

"Well, obviously there's that big shield outside," Valerie lightly mused.

"I can get past that shield," Phantom spoke up. "Under the...right circumstances."

Valerie nodded. If Phantom was able to turn human away from the prying eyes of cameras and more, they could both obviously escape right out the front door. Hell, they could likely utilize both Phantom and his? Human? Side? Whatever he was called.

"This facility was designed for ghosts, not humans," Phantom continued. "If we worked together, we can probably make a quick exit." Valerie hummed in agreement.

"That's not just enough," Valerie replied. "I'll just get arrested again. They know who I am. Like, they know Valerie Gray is the huntress." Phantom frowned, and he thought for a moment.

"We could maybe delete their evidence files or something?" he suggested. Valerie paced their cell for a moment.

"There has to be some kind of computer security room somewhere," Valerie spoke aloud to herself. "If we can find it, we can probably wipe evidence and also fully take down the shield."

Phantom leaned against the back wall of the cell.

"I don't think that's enough," he replied. Valerie stopped pacing to stare at him. "We need to make sure the Guys in White don't do this again. Ever. Never even have the chance to get to this point again." Valerie scowled.

"They help hunt ghosts!" she protested.

"And they'd consider Danielle a ghost and rip her to shreds," Phantom countered. The reminder of that little girl hit her straight in the gut. She sighed.

"I don't know," she said slowly.

"They're a government organization, they'll rebuild," Phantom pushed. "We just need to stall them long enough to buy time for us to figure out how to keep you, Danielle and I safe."

She hated it, but...yeah. She wasn't really in the best position either. Valerie had no clue what was going on with her, but the Guys in White were incredibly persistent...and she knew her dad wouldn't be able to afford a lawyer for her anymore.

Valerie held her wrist up. Her suit's bracelet was basically hidden underneath the anti-ghost one, but she could still feel it there. Her suit wasn't gone. She could still access it, and that made her feel more confident in that she was still human. Which she had to be. Right?

Valerie activated her suit, and she held her wrist up to read the screen. She pressed a few buttons.

"I think I can figure out a map of this place," she said. "And from there we can see where's what."

Her forearm glowed brightly as it gathered data. It took a few moments of calculating, but soon, she had her results. Phantom was soon peering over her shoulder, both of them studying the map.

"How accurate is this?" Phantom questioned.

"It tends to be fairly decent. Sometimes it's hit or miss with collapsed buildings, but overall it's spot on," she replied. She adjusted the screen, zooming it out. "I can only get the floor we're on though."

"That looks like it could be some kind of utility room," Phantom pointed to a specific room. Valerie zoomed in on it, studying it.

"Yeah," she said slowly. "Yeah. Gotta be. It's got a lot of power coming to or from there. Has to be a source, or at the very least some kind of major technology area."

"Either way, we should destroy it," Phantom said. Valerie frowned.

"I don't know," she hesitated.

"I mean, you can't even summon your powers."

Phantom glanced down at his wrists, glancing curiously at them before setting his sights on Valerie's arms.

"Can you shoot them off?" he asked.

Valerie tried to summon one of her weapons. She waited. And she waited. Nothing came, and her gut became queasy. She couldn't get her ghost weapon. None of them would summon. This had to be a bad sign. Or was it just the GIW prepared against humans too? That was the most logical explanation. She couldn't be…But also she could be...after all the ectoplasmic readings...

"Um, actually, I think I can…" Phantom's voice caused her to truly look at him again. The ghost was fiddling with his wristbands, using his knees to lock it in place as he attempted to slip his wrist through the band with no success.

"Here, let me try," Valerie interrupted him. Phantom glanced up at her.

"Can you shoot them?" he asked. Valerie forced a weak smile, but she held up a screwdriver.

"Got something even better. My travel tool kit," she replied. After too many breakdowns in the field, she had replaced a small pouch that previously held smoke bombs, something she rarely used, with a few small tools. It was easily one of the best choices she made.

Phantom held his wrist out to her, and she turned the bracelet around. Eventually she managed to pry a piece of the metallic covering off, exposing screws and a few wires. Valerie didn't undo or cut anything right away, both her and Phantom silently trying to make sense of the connection and mechanics behind it. Would really suck to find out the hard way that disconnecting a certain wire would trigger an alarm, after all.

"I think you shouldn't touch the red wire," Phantom lightly mused. "Pretty sure that's a power, and if you turn it off it'll be bad news."

"Mmm, yeah," Valerie agreed. "I think I can just unscrew this though, and we should just be careful to not slip the wires off."

Phantom nodded, and he waited patiently as she did just so. After twenty minutes of careful disconnecting, Phantom had two hands free, and he flexed his hands with a happy sigh.

"God, that just feels so much better," he told her. He motioned for her to hand him the screwdriver. "Here, I'll do yours." Valerie shook her head.

"I can't leave. I won't say anything if you escape, but they know my identity."

Phantom frowned.

"I'm not leaving you here. Come on, you saw your map. We can destroy their power. We can destroy this entire building," he began, only for Valerie to cut him off.

"And do more destruction? Is that all you think about?" she snapped. "You're safe. They know my identity. You want me to get more charges or something? I can't risk it. I'll just stay here. They'll figure out soon enough that I'm fully human." A full human who apparently had mixed logic as to whether or not they could use their ghost hunting suit. If she was fully human, she could summon those weapons, right? Unless it was specifically preventing any ghost weapon, regardless of the user, use it.

"Red, I don't think you understand," Phantom told her. "They're not going to go easy on you. Even if you prove you're human, they're not going to believe you. You heard them. They already denied you contact to the outside world."

That reminder sent a chill down her spine.

"Then tell my dad," she told him. Phantom stared at her. He began to unzip his suit, and she instantly began to look away. "Dude, what the hell?"

"Valerie, look at me," he demanded.

"You're naked!" she protested.

"I'm not naked, just look."

She decided to humor him with the intention of taking a quick peek. But when she saw him, she felt a cold sweat hit her. Phantom had only zipped enough to expose his chest, and there was a distinctive Y-patterned scar on his chest that stood out against the other scars.

"This is what happened last time I was trapped here. I'm not going to leave you alone here," he stated. He suddenly looked away, and he quickly zipped his suit back up. "There's no way in hell I'm going to risk this happening to you. Red, you need to come with me."

That urgent gut feeling of needing to go finally crashed into her. The GIW would never believe her. Not just because of stubbornness, but...Valerie herself wasn't even sure anymore.

She swallowed dryly, and she nodded. Her right wrist was offered to him.

"Do you know what to do?" she asked. Phantom scowled.

"I just watched you do it," he reminded her. She rolled her eyes, but held her wrist up for him, and a half hour later, she too, was free.

She wasn't sure if she was more concerned or relieved to instantly feel that distinctive rush of power back. The second Phantom removed her bracelet, she knew that she could summon any of her ghost weapons now at her fingertips. But she could still summon her suit regardless, and activate her GPS abilities. Was this normal? Valerie had no clue what this meant anymore.

"So, next step, I think we can escape through here."

Valerie looked up to see Phantom was now floating by the vent at the top of their cell. He was already using her screwdriver to undo the vent cover. She pulled her map back up on her forearm, glancing at it and studying it.

"I'm pretty sure the vent will go straight to that electric room," she told him.

"Oh, now you're finally seeing the big picture?" Phantom lightly teased, glancing over his shoulder as he popped the vent cover off. She nodded at him, but didn't crack a smile.

"...You and Dani may look just alike, but I never want you two to have matching scars," she said. Phantom's smile dropped, and he nodded in agreement.

He placed the vent covering on the top bunk, handing Valerie back her screwdriver. She slipped it back in it's pouch.

"Here, I'll give you a boost up," Phantom offered, pressing his hands together. She nodded, stepping a foot onto his hand. With ease, Phantom pushed her up, and she grabbed onto the vent, pulling herself in. It was surprisingly fairly roomy yet not, and she managed to get comfortable on her stomach, pulling her map back up.

"Ready to commit several federal crimes?" Phantom's voice half joked. She looked behind her the best she could to see the ghost right behind her. She snorted in amusement.

"Ready as I'll ever be," she replied. "Just follow me. It's time to give these idiots hell."

And hell they did. Who knew that the Guys in Whites headquarters could cause such a colorful explosion.

[crescentsteel]

Keeping a Secret - Part 3

pairing: Tsukishima x f!manager of Sendai Frogs genre: sexual tension/crack/fluff/slow burn warnings: lots of swear words, tsukki being a a closet softie wc: 7.3k (Ill just stop apologizing for this long chapter updates at this point)

[a/n]

Let me know if you want to be part of the taglist uwu

AO3

Part 2 || Part 4 || masterlist

“Remind me again why are we here.” Tsukishima tells you as soon as he steps foot inside your room. 

He scans the room and immediately notices the mess that it is, particularly the top bunk of the bed which he doesn’t doubt must be your share of it.

On the wall on the left side of the room are posters of seascapes and sea animals of different varieties while the desk bolted under it are framed photos of Sendai Frogs. He recognizes them all;, one was taken from the first win of the team on the first year you joined as the manager. The second is a photo of the team at the gym with the new members that year, including Kyoutani who had just recently joined. The last one is a selfie of you on the bus doing a peace sign and winking at  the camera while everyone was sleeping.

He kinda feels bad for your roommate now. You’re practically hogging the whole room.

You put down your bag on the floor and shoot him a confused look. “To do our project?” 

When you told him to meet in your dorm, he agreed because he thought you meant the common area. After all, he had no reason to think you’d invite him to your room. You two may have disregarded the club incident, tucking it away as a sordid memory from a night of insanity, but that doesn’t mean it is forgotten. However, that doesn’t seem to be the case with you as you appear to genuinely find nothing wrong with the current situation. 

You seat yourself at your table, taking out your laptop and notes from the trip last time.

“Go sit, Tsukishima,” you say without even looking at him as you spread out your notes on the table’s surface as your laptop boots up. 

“We could’ve just done this in the library, or at least in the lobby,” he says as a matter-of-factly.

“True, but I also don’t see any problem with doing it here,” you answer passively, still occupied with arranging your papers. 

He was right. It really does not bother you at all. So, he shouldn’t be bothered with it either. This way, at least, no one would see you and him together. You’re a person he doesn’t want to be associated with hanging around with anyways. 

“Do you always invite your groupmates to your room?” He asks out of curiosity since it didn’t seem like anything for you to just invite him in, as if you didn’t care much about your privacy. 

“Hmm. Depends,” you answer. 

He takes out his own laptop, but still eyes you as he prods further. “On what?”

The curve of your lips tugs up slightly as you sit up straight and lift your gaze away from the notes you took out and finally turn your attention to him.

“I welcome those who won’t get handsy with me.”

“Even if you’re the one who’d get handsy with them?” he boldly counters.

You cock your head to the side with hints of amusement playing across your features, which vexes him. The question was supposed to tear your composure, not entertain you. 

“Alright, let’s get the fucking elephant out of the room since it bothers you so much,” you announce with levity. 

If you’re going to be honest, the kiss still finds its way to your mind sometimes. You just keep pushing it off so that you won’t get stressed out by it. What you find interesting is that he still keeps shoving that fact that you kissed him as if you wanted to do so.

Well, you literally did kiss him, but it’s not like you sought for it prior to the incident. 

It just … happened.

“I’ll come clean, good sir, if you’ll allow me,” you declare sarcastically before setting a more serious tone. “I admit it. It was one hell of a mistake to kiss you. But I didn’t mean to. As ridiculous as it sounds, I really didn’t. It was just one of those stupid, off-the-cuff things people do.” 

Your voice takes an accusatory note when you ask, “And why do you sound like I harassed you or something? Hmm? ‘Cause if I remember correctly.”

You cross your arms and look up, pretending to be deep in thought before facing him again with a fraudulent shock. “Oh right!” you exclaim exaggeratedly. “You kissed me back,” you add in almost a sing-song manner.

You put an elbow on the table and rest your cheek on your palm as you hold his glare with a snide grin. “How about that?” 

He continues shooting daggers at you but you don’t falter. Quite soon enough, he lets up and returns to the passive, apathetic face he usually wears, which signals your victory for the argument. “Like you said, it was one of those dumb on the spot whims.”

You nod agreeably. “Alright, great. Now that that has been established, let me reassure you. It’s never ever gonna happen again. Ever.”  

Your eyes are devoid of any humor while your words drip with firm resolve. Yet, he finds it off that you’re not asking him to do the same given that you both just agreed that you are equally accountable for that imprudent act. He is almost just as guilty. 

“Aren’t you going to ask the same from me?”

Your somber expression breaks into a humored one as a laugh rumbles from your throat. You shake your head in comical delight while you look at him. “No, I won’t. Actually...” you drift off as you scoot closer to him until you’re right beside him. “Give it your best shot.”

You close your eyes and tilt your chin up. Did you really just dare him to kiss you? Kiss those stupid lips and have a repeat of that appalling night? 

Should he?

He would do it just to erase the smug off your face, just to prove you wrong. But similar to that night, he can’t bring himself to do it. He hates the idea of instigating such a thing. 

Even more so now that he’s already had a taste of those lips. Those lips that felt too exquisite that it infuriated him. Those lips that took away his logical thinking. With you offering those lips to him so generously, you make him hate them even more. That pretty face and that playful smile of yours do nothing but add to his fury. 

“Can you get your face away from me?” 

You peek one eye open before bursting into laughter, making his displeasure towards you skyrocket. Why the fuck is he always your laughing stock?

“See? This is why I don’t mind you coming over, Tsukishima. I bet if I strip naked right now, you’d walk out in a heartbeat.”

His scowl deepens. The mental image of your unclad body is very much unwelcome and unappreciated. “Bring that up again and I really will leave,” he snaps. 

Even with your smile intact, your humored expression dissolves a bit and is replaced by a curious guise.

“You know, everyone likes me except you,” you say with no shred of diffidence.  

You really are full of yourself. You might be ‘likeable’ for a lot of people, but that doesn’t mean every single person you meet actually likes you. He’s certain there are people who you rub off the wrong way -- people like him. 

“Isn’t that a bit too conceited, even for you?”

You shrug your shoulders indifferently. “Maybe so. But you’re the only person who shoves your blatant dislike on my face.”

“You didn’t seem to have a problem with it for the past three years,” he replies as he flips his laptop open and boots it up so he can turn his attention somewhere other than you. 

“I didn’t need to work with you like this for the past three years.”

He doesn’t know where you’re going with the conversation so he doesn’t respond anymore. He’s certain you know why he finds you a pain in the neck. You constantly get on his grill with every opportunity you get. Maybe if you didn’t, he could actually tolerate your topsy turvy persona. But it’s as if it’s your personal mission to aggravate him.

“I’m putting the deal I offered during the trip,” you announce.

“What deal?” he asks as he starts typing bullet points of what should be done today so he can go home already.

“Forget I’m the annoying manager when it’s just us two. And I won’t deliberately piss you off.”

He types the last bullet point before returning his attention on you. “Then what? I suddenly become nice to you?”

“Hell no! I’m not asking for a fucking miracle. It’s not like you’re ever nice to anybody. Geez!” you explain derisively. “I just want us to have a conversation where you’re not giving me death glares.”

You give him a smile, one that lacks your usual haughtiness. Still, he can’t tell if you’re being serious or if you’ll actually manage to hold the deal you’re proposing. Truth be told, he wants it. He can’t handle you being your usual if you two have to meet beyond training hours and, even worse, in private. 

If this keeps up, he might end up cursing this subject by the end of the semester, which would be a waste because likes this subject way too much for you to taint it with your idiocy.

“Deliver your end of the bargain. Then you’ll have mine.”

Your eyes twinkle with glee at his semi-approval. “We have a deal then.” 

You go back to where you’re seated a while ago and proceed to start discussing at hand.

--

With the start of the game season, training has become more intense. Coach Mira had the team work on the weak points she identified with the help of  the data you tallied from last season’s games.

“Kyoutani! Do not lower those arms just yet. Keep those elbows up when you block,” Coach yells at him, as Kogane spiked from the other side of the court.

She looks over at the other players practicing their jump serves. She furrows her brows at something. Following her line of sight, you see that it falls on Tsukishima. 

On his next serve, the ball spins ferociously but is of low height that it hits the middle of the night. 

“Y/n,” Coach calls out. She didn’t have to say anything else as she cocks her head to Tsukishima’s direction with a telling expression on her face. She’s asking you to handle him, and you know exactly why. 

Before he can toss the ball for another jump serve, you yell out merrily which you know will definitely catch his ears, “ Tsukki!! ” and jog to where he is. His blank expression turns into a scowl when you reach him. 

“Can you stop calling me that?”

“You’re so mean. Aren’t we close enough for me to call you ‘ Tsukki ’?.” You ask with a dramatic pout and exaggerated false woes that he visibly cringes after hearing it. 

He doesn’t respond to your pretentious act. “Why are you here?”

You instantly lose the cheeky act and get to what Coach Mira wants to let him know. You’re just going to twist the words a bit to his ‘liking.’ 

This is the problem you noticed with Tsukishima, one worse than his rotten way of interacting with the team. He can be incredibly unmotivated at times, and when he is, he only gives the bare minimum amount of effort. 

It’s the one thing you can say you truly dislike about him because he’s a professional athlete for crying out loud. It doesn’t matter if he’s unmotivated, uninspired, or doesn’t feel like trying. He should be disciplined enough to push himself to put as much work as he usually does when training.

“You’re not going to get those serves in with that half-assed attitude of yours,” you say sternly while you eye him with a threatening stare. 

His face scrunches in utter displeasure. He’s well aware that he’s not feeling his best today and he’d rather do blocking drills for the whole raining than do ten consecutive jump serves. 

“Since enthusiasm is the answer to everything else, why don’t you try it?” He bites back, which you obviously weren’t expecting. He’s always irritated when you point out his mistakes, but thus far he has always stayed silent. 

Maybe the amount of time you’re spending together outside the gymnasium has made him reach the limit of his patience… which isn’t even a lot to begin with.

“Are you serious?” you ask incredulously.

Of course he wasn’t. You might have some sort of experience with volleyball (although he doesn’t know to which extent), but jump serves are difficult. The coordination of the toss and the run up to hit it at the right angle is aggravatingly hard to pull off, especially for him since jump serves need tons of practice.

He detests the practice for it; he needs to run, jump, and swing his arm over and over. It is boring and tiring for him because it is purely based on physical prowess, compared to practicing blocking where he’s actually thinking. 

He thought you’d leave him alone when you stepped away. Instead, you come back with a ball in your hand. You dribble it off the floor with unbendable focus as if you’re trying to recall something.

“Are you serious?” he’s the one who asks this time. He was just fucking around. He didn’t expect you’d actually respond to his provocation.

“Yep,” you answer with your full concentration on the ball in your hand as you spin it vertically. Some of the players notice what you’re up to and briefly stop what they’re doing to watch.

You close your eyes and take a deep breath. You bat them open with burning determination before you toss the ball. 

Instead of watching the ball, he watches your form. There’s no trace of awkwardness in your movements, almost like you’ve done this frequently before. The three-step approach is nearly perfect as you propel yourself up to jump. 

The sharp sound of the ball hitting your hand causes the rest of the gym to look at you. The ball spins ferociously at a height he’s not sure is sufficient to get over the other side of the court. He wishes it won’t. That would be the second worst thing you could ever do to him, the first one being that certain occurrence he’d rather not think about again. 

You falter on your feet when you descend from your leap but you immediately look up to see if your serve makes it. Everyone else, including him, is on the edge as they watch whether the ball will get in or not.

It roughly scrapes the edge of the net, effectively thwarting its velocity. Still, it bounces off and lands inside the opposing court, causing the rest of the team to cheer you on as the ball hits the floor.

You seem to forget for a short while that you did it to spite him as your face beams with inexplicable joy while his contorts with ire. 

Even if the momentum of the ball was broken, you still managed to get it over - the one thing he hadn’t been able to do from his last eight attempts. Meanwhile, you did it on your first. 

You definitely had a lot of experience in high school. No beginner can manage to do a jump serve like that, even if it was flawed.

‘Shit,’ he silently curses when you face him with a cocky grin disguised as a pleasant one. 

“Who knew that my experience being an outside hitter and captain of my high school team would still be useful as your manager?” you ask as you slowly walk towards him.

He doesn’ expect that your knowledge about the sport came from first-hand experience. He thought you’re manager of another team previously or just a crazy volleyball enthusiast.

You pick up another ball and softly push it against his rib as you look up to him with contempt. “Don’t tell me I can do better than you,” you spur him on with squinted eyes.

He snatches the ball away from your hands and steps back from the serving line. He spins the ball one time and tosses it high. Instead of a three-step approach, he makes it a four to increase his vertical jump. He tosses it high enough and channels all his rage for you at the ball. 

With how high he jumped, the ball easily goes over the net. Its trajectory curves when it crosses over and hits a spot a little bit just beyond the end line.

He clenches his fist at his another failed attempt despite exerting more than necessary effort for that shot. He avoids looking at you for he’d be put in an even worse mood if sees that taunting grin of yours. 

But of course you had to make yourself seen and intentionally go in front of him with an impressed look in your face instead of a condescending one. 

“That was great! Holy shit. It was just a smidge out. Wow.” You applaud him earnestly, and as much as he despises it, it makes him a little less bad about that missed shot. 

“Can you leave me alone now?” He drives you away to fend off the stupid feeling. He’d rather you just walk away and don’t say anything. “Not like that serve mattered,” he mutters in annoyance.

“What are you talking about? It was awesome!” you yell out with your eyes shining with flagrant admiration, which annoyingly strokes his ego. 

“Just a bit less and it would have been in a spot difficult to return,” you remark as you pat his shoulders approvingly before heeding his request to leave and go back to where Coach is. 

“Sorry, Coach. I distracted everyone else,” you scratch your head with an apologetic smile when you return. 

“I’d tell you off, but everyone seems more motivated now, so good work I guess,” she commends you with a satisfactory tone.

“He looks really pissed though,” Coach Mira adds as she glances at the blonde middle blocker.

“More than you know, Coach,” you reply with a wide smile as he serves another ball and gets it in this time. 

--

Prior to your meeting with Tsukishima today, you proposed to finish the project as soon as possible so you can both focus on other other uni subjects on top of training hours. He immediately agreed, which didn’t surprise you because even though it’s not game season, you’re pretty sure he can’t wait to stop having to see you.

The project’s deadline is in three months, but you believe you can finish it in less than two if you meet up at least twice a week to work on it.

It should be okay, given that you both agreed to have a truce of some sort from the usual dynamic of your relationship. You actually think that it’s not going to work out smoothly, but you still suggested it with the hopes of decreasing his animosity towards you. Yes, it’s fun and amusing most of the time, but outside the gym where you’re just a classmate and not his manager, it’s kinda draining to deal with it. 

“Won’t your roommate mind if there’s a stranger in your room?” he asks as he sits down and rummages through his bag. 

“Oh.” You thought he already figured it out because he didn’t ask about it on his first visit. “Didn’t I tell you before? I don’t have a roommate.” 

His eyes immediately go to your bunk bed that you didn’t bother getting replaced because it’s convenient when you’re too tired. You usually just mindlessly throw your stuff at the top bunk for a later clean-up.

“Wanted the whole room to myself,” you add.

“Spoiled, little rich brat, aren’t you?” He really doesn’t have much basis for his statement. He just wants to say something nasty and sneer at you because he wants to get back at how you called him out during training the other day.

When he meets your gaze, you raise an eyebrow at him, reminding him about your agreement while working on the project. He purses his lips to the side and returns to his passive expression without saying anything. You roll your eyes in response.

“Well if being a scholar while working as your manager is being a spoiled rich brat, then by all means. Do consider me one,” you answer before looking back on your screen. 

He would have never thought you were a university scholar. You don’t look like the type. You’re way too carefree and all over the place. He would’ve thought it was a joke, if not for the tiny offended glint he caught when he said you’re a spoiled brat.

That’s exactly the reaction he wants to get from you, yet it didn’t feel satisfactory. On the contrary, it’s making him feel like a prick. He is being one, but he doesn’t expect to feel like one, especially towards you who does nothing but get on his skin. 

Still, hell would freeze over before he apologizes. Instead, he prods on the topic.

“Why would you even work as a manager if you’re already a scholar?”

It doesn’t make sense to him. You don’t need the work if your university fees are already waived. It will just pile on to the academic requirements you will need to maintain. 

Your hand stops scrolling on your mouse as your eyes soften, still  remaining on your laptop. “Cause I love it,” you utter like it’s the simplest thing in the world.

The look in your eyes is instantly replaced by mockery when you lift them to meet his. 

“Someone’s being inquisitive today.”

He gets his headphones out and plugs it to his laptop. He really is curious why you chose you to be their manager, but you just had to be an obnoxious bitch and break the agreement you offered to him just the other day. 

He knows you’re too much of a chaos to actually pull it off, so instead of wasting his energy by being irritated by you for the day, he’d rather pretend you’re not there.

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” you say loudly with a wide smile, yet he can see the sincerity of the apology through the slight panic in your orbs. You must have realized he’s had enough of your shit. “My bad. Old habits hard.” You laugh nervously. 

You speak again when he puts down his headphones on the table. “I may have quit the sport, but I still love it. I love taking care of players like you guys who have the same passion for it.”

“Doesn’t seem like it’s worth it,” he comments with unheld honesty. You could have a lot of time off of your hands if you quit being their manager. You don’t even need the job.

You plant your hands on the floor and lean back as your gaze drifts to the photos of the team displayed on your desk.

“You might be right. A marine science student dedicating her time on sports even though she’s not an athlete? It does sound impractical. But,” you revert your eyes back to him as you continue on, “it makes me happy. That alone makes it worth it. Even if I don’t get paid, I’d still do it.”

Your face glows with pride and joy with your last statement, completely undeterred by his earlier cynicism. If anything, you look even more convinced that you’re doing the right thing. 

He can’t tell if he finds it admirable or disturbing. Probably the latter.

“There’s more to life than just sleep, study, and survive, don’t you think?” 

It was a rhetorical question that he would’ve still refuted if someone told him that years ago. Back in his freshman year in high school, he thought overzealous passion was stupid. Unless an individual is some sort of prodigy, it wouldn’t get them anywhere even if they keep trying to death.

Still, he put in a lot of work -- more than he should -- when he was playing in Karasuno. What was just a club became entirely something else for him, which, up until now, he still hasn’t put quite a finger on. 

When he graduated from Karasuno, he wasn’t sure what to do. He wanted to continue playing, but there was a nagging feeling behind his head that he shouldn’t. He thought that that part of his life was already over and while it was good while it lasted, it was time to move one. 

Yet, when he was handed out an application form for the university’s college team, he found himself grabbing the sheet of paper. 

He didn’t have any reason to pursue it beyond high school. He knows he’s good, but he’s not that good. He was at university already. It was time to focus on his future and ignore the itch to hold the ball with five other players on his side of the court.

What’s even more absurd was the next day, he submitted the application form and tried out for the team. He said to himself it wouldn’t hurt to go on playing until he has finally had enough. He’d just ride it out until he got tired of it. 

In his sophomore year, he was scouted by Sendai Frogs and that’s when he knew that the unreasonable passion he has for volleyball is not going to go away. Even now in his graduating semester, he’s still not ready to give it up.

He won’t admit it in your face, but, in a way, he can agree with what you just said. Life is more than just getting by and surviving. That’s the only reason he can think of to justify his choice to continue volleyball: so that he wouldn’t have this constant dissonance that pursuing the sport is a vacuous path he’s treading on. 

“Anyways, back to work now, yeah?”

You smile briefly at him and return to the research you’re tasked to do. He puts his headphones back in his bag and gets back to his own task as well.

He thought all is well and you won’t pester him until you both finish what you’re supposed to accomplish for the day. Unfortunately, he thought wrong. 

You suddenly close your laptop and start whining. 

“Tsukki.”

As usual, he does his best to not acknowledge your existence. 

“Tsukkiii, ” you whine louder. 

For the love of God, you sound the most annoying when you use his nickname. Even though you’ve used it several times now, he’s still not used to it. In fact, he does not believe he will ever get used to it. Shimizu and Yachi not even once called him that, and they were more respectable managers than you are. Sort of. It doesn’t matter that you’re more active and hands on when managing the team.

“Tsuuuk -”

“What?!” You successfully manage to get his eyes off the screen.

“I’m bored,” you pout. 

He glares at you unbelievably. What are you, a five-year-old? 

“And that is my problem, how?” he asks with disdain. 

“Aren’t you getting tired?” you ask back, unfazed by his blatant irritation. But then again, you never are. 

He is getting tired too, but he’d rather drag his brains and eyes out than rest and extend the time he’s going to spend with you. 

“Let’s take a break, please, ” you cry out with pleading eyes. 

“I don’t care what you do. Just leave me out of it.” He puts his attention back on his laptop and looks for the journal article he found significant among the other tabs he opened. 

“I’ll feel guilty if I see you still at it while I goof around,” you admit. 

He really couldn’t care any less. None of what you’re blabbering about is any of his concern. If you keep at it, he’ll just take out his headphones again to drown out your childish whining. 

“I know!” You suddenly perk up. “Let’s review for our quiz,” you suggest eagerly. “We have one tomorrow, right?”

He almost smirks at your suggestion, but he manages to suppress it. He’d rather not let you see that he’s pleasantly amused with your suggestion. 

He didn’t expect that that was your idea of taking a break. He thought you were going to propose something completely absurd like watch stupid videos online because that’s something he could totally see you doing on your free time. 

But yeah, he can definitely use a review. It would be a productive break from the strenuous researching and writing you two have been doing. 

Even though he still hasn’t verbally agreed, you continue on. “To make it interesting, there’s a penalty for every wrong answer.”

He sits up straight, pushing his glasses closer to his face as you successfully gain his full attention. “What penalty?”

Your smile widens when you realize that he’s finally acknowledging your idea of taking a break. 

“Okay, okay.” You rub your hands together in excitement before you clasp them together. “For every wrong answer you get, you need to say something nice about me. And of course vice versa.”

He scowls at the idea. “I prefer the opposite. Get the answer wrong and you get insulted. That sounds more of a punishment.”

You shake your head with your lips pressed into a thin line from disapproval. “Nope. If I get even one wrong answer. I’m sure you’ll get into a litany of rude shit you piled up against me over the years. And I’ll just sit here uncaringly receiving your fury. Does that excite you?”

Hell no. It will infuriate him even more if he throws something at you and you just take it apathetically. But he still doesn’t agree with your initial mechanics. It’s not fair to him.

“No, it doesn’t. But the consequence of a wrong answer is too easy for you.”

You place a palm on your chest and gape at him. “Me? Too easy for me ?” 

You break into a boisterous laugh while still maintaining eye contact with him. He just stares back at you stupefied with no idea what you found so hilarious.

“Tsukishima,” you say after recovering from your disparaging hoots of laughter. “I can think of literally one nice thing about you. Maybe two if I tried hard enough,” you explain with your face still crinkled with the laughter you’re trying hard to contain. 

If you’re trying to provok him to take on your challenge, you definitely succeeding. “Fine,” he hisses. 

Your laughter is completely thwarted when your eyes widen with delight as he succumbs to your plan. 

“Great! Okay, two more rules. One, objective questions only. Two, we can’t say anything that involves Volleyball. For example, you can’t tell me that I’m a great manager, because I’m very much aware of that already, okay?”

His frown only deepens from your conceitedness, only to realize that that’s the only aspect of you he’d consider complimenting you about. 

“But there is nothing else nice about you other than that,” he says without any trace of sarcasm or ridicule, only stating what he considers the truth. 

But you don’t take any offense in his statement. You’re expecting as much. That’s why you added two more rules to push the both of you to take the review seriously.

“Better not get anything wrong then,” you counter easily because it’s as simple as that. It’s a review just for a quiz after all. He shouldn’t be that worried.

“Thirty minutes to review. Then let’s start the quiz?”

You take that he’s fine with it since he closes his laptop and gets his set of notes from his bag.

You get your phone and set a thirty minute timer. You do just as he does and focus on your own notes, skimming over the last two chapters covered during lectures. You concentrate on your learning materials but the alarm sets off after what seemed like ten minutes to you.

You frantically check your phone to see if you put the wrong time, but you didn’t. Thirty minute have indeed passed. 

When you glance at Tsukishima, he’s already looking at you with crossed arms and a self-satisfied smirk. He must have finished before the timer went off. He wouldn’t have that smug expression if not. 

Even though you haven’t fully gone over the last parts of the lesson covered, you can’t help but be enlivened at how competitive he is. He must really hate losing. 

You notice it too with the way he plays volleyball. He might look calm on the surface, but you know he wants to crush his opponents. And right now, that opponent is you. 

His muted excitement affects you. Even though you’re not totally prepared, you’re confident with your own wits. 

“Ladies first, so go ahead, Tsukishima.”

He clicks his tongue, his usual habit when he’s irked with something, but this one was forced to make it appear as if he didn’t like what you said. But you can tell that he doesn’t give a shit about that and he actually can’t wait to ask away just to so you can get it wrong.

Unfortunately for him though, you two are just exchanging questions when your mini game starts. He answers your questions without hesitation and you do just the same since most of his questions are in your own list that’s supposed to be for him.

“What’s the movable membrane found on the eyes of amphibians?” It’s his sixth question that has you racking your brain for the correct answer. When you don’t respond immediately, he sniggers like he’s already won. 

But you do know the answer, or at least the first letter of it. It's the letter N. N-something membrane.

“Nictaling membrane,” you answer unsurely. 

The spread of his wicked smile immediately tells you you’re wrong. “It’s nictating,” he corrects you. 

“Oh come on! I’m just one letter off,” you strongly reason out.

“Yeah, and that would still be marked wrong in the actual quiz,” he refutes.

Damn it. He’s right. That one letter makes a whole lot of difference your professor will definitely not let go.

He places one elbow on the table and rests his chin at the back of his hand, keeping his eyes trained on you as he silently anticipates for you to pay the price of your penalty.

You bite your lip disquietly when you realize the rule you set was a double-edged sword for you can’t also think of anything nice to say about him. There’s that terrible attitude of his which is usually your source of fun, but not exactly something you can call nice. 

You have something in your mind, but your pride won’t let you voice it out. 

He starts tapping the table with his fingers. “You’re wasting both our time, y/n.”

You accept your defeat and tell him anyway. “Fine. I think you’re smarter than me,” you confess. 

You expect him to agree unanimously, but instead he looks at you stupefied, blinking a few times without saying anything. 

“But you’re a scholar,” he remarks. You’re not sure if he just disagreed with you or he’s just putting that fact out in the open. 

“Well, yeah. But I’m just really good at studying and have good time management. You’re actually smart. You’re critical with stuff,” you explain. 

You cheated a bit with your answer since most of your basis is from volleyball games. Although your trip last time is also proof of that. He provided really good input on how you should go about with the project. 

“Okay! Moving on,” you proceed before he can comment further on what you just said and milk it to his benefit.

You ask another question, which he also knows that correct answer to. Originally, you just wanted a fun but effective way of reviewing, but now you kind of want him to get at least one question wrong so you can get even. 

“What do you call the structure the lower vertebrae of anurans is fused into?” he asks another difficult question. 

You rub your palms on your face, your frustration clouding your mind from recalling what it could possibly be. You push your hair back and sigh when you realize that you’re not getting this one either. 

“I don’t know,” you surrender. 

His current expression is the most lively one you’ve ever seen from him outside volleyball games, but it isn't a pleasant one. He looks like a villain whose evil master plan is coming to fruition. 

Maybe you should’ve just agreed with his earlier suggestion to get insulted when you get it incorrectly. You would’ve just sit it out and brush it off afterwards, not make your brain hurt even more from thinking about non-existent good traits from the guy across your table. 

You look around as you desperately try to think of something remotely nice about him.

“Oh,” your eyes meet his right the moment you recall that instance, and form a genuine smile as you remember it once more. 

“It was real nice of you to let me lean on you on the way back to Miyagi last week.”

He removes his elbow from the table and fixes his posture, losing the lax and confident aura he had two questions ago. 

“You would have woken up face down on the bus floor if I didn’t,” he says defensively as if what he did needs that explanation for it to be acceptable. 

You honestly thought he’d rather let you fall flat on the floor. You’re about to ask him back then if he was sure, but you just accepted his angry, yet generous offer which you didn’t expect to come from him.

“I know. I just didn’t think you’d let me rest on your shoulder, so thanks,” you say earnestly, not a trace of your usual cheekiness present. 

“It felt nice and comfortable” you add reservedly. You’ve been wanting to thank him but you didn’t know how to bring it up without being awkward for you’re only used to dealing with grouchy Tsukishima.

It’s only then you realize that despite his palpable dislike towards you, he’s not a complete asshole and still cared enough for your welfare that time.

He remains expressionless with his eyes drifting down to his notes, avoiding your gaze as he does so. “The answer is coccyx, also called urostyle,” he ushers back to the question you got wrong, dismissing what you just divulged, which you’re thankful for because you feel like fidgeting with what just dawned on you.

“My turn again then!” you said too loudly as you try to shake off the feeling and put your focus back on the review.

You read the only item left in your list, still hoping that he gets it wrong since this is the last. 

“What part of the amphibian nervous system regulates heart and respiratory rates?”

Unlike previous questions, he doesn’t answer off the bat this time.

“You’re wasting both our time, Tsukishima,” you repeat what he said to you earlier even though it's only been seconds after you uttered your question. 

“Don’t get ahead of yourself. I know the answer,” he declares with reassured confidence. “It’s the cerebrum.”

You decide to hold his gaze for two second before you burst his bubble. “Fucking finally!” you rejoice in his defeat. 

“Close enough, Tsukishima. It’s the cerebellum,” you announce all too cheerfully.

He hurriedly gets his notes and cross checks if you’re actually telling the truth. You just watch him scramble with a very pleased smile on your face as he goes rigid. 

“Fuck,” he mutters to himself. He must have seen that you were telling the truth.

You start squirming in your seat. Oh man, you’re way too excited to hear what he has to say about you. You want to egg him on, to tell him to hurry up but that might affect what he’s going to say so you force yourself to shut up. 

He raises his gaze at you while you make sure you’re not smiling too wide to annoy him even though you’re reeling from anticipation. 

He still doesn’t say anything, but you know he’s thinking based on the way he’s studying your face. 

“You have a slightly above average face.”

You run that by again in your head, not understanding what he meant by it at first. 

Above average face? Did he just say you’re pretty if translated from a socially incapacitated person’s language? Is that why he was staring so hard at you?

Of all the things he could choose to say something about, he decides to compliment your appearance? You know that you're a bit good-looking, but you don’t think he notices it. He doesn’t seem to be the type to care about that stuff.

Even when you first met, he just looked at you with a vacant expression and greeted you blandly out of courtesy while the rest of the team ogled at you. His apathetic eyes eventually turned scornful over time because of how often you pick on him, and despite that, he does acknowledge that you are pretty.

You’re used to being showered with admiration because of your face so you’ve developed a natural response to it: a gleeful smile with a spritely ‘aww, thanks!’

But with Tsukishima, it doesn’t kick in. Instead, you avert your gaze away from the unwanted fluttering in your chest. You can’t even look him in the eye as you try to collect yourself and think how you’ll respond to that without looking flustered. 

What the heck is wrong with you? That could hardly be called a compliment. Now that you think about it, it actually sounded sort of like a product review with its lack of any fondness. 

With that in mind, you manage to regain some of your composure and offer him a faint. “Um, thanks.”  

Tsukishima looks at his two remaining questions he listed and even though he’s winning the game, he doesn’t feel victorious at all. Your confessions did nothing to make him feel good about himself. They were too sincere that they made him uneasy.

He also doesn’t like that he had to admit you’re pretty. He expected you’re gonna make a fuss about it. He actually would’ve preferred that than you being uncharacteristically embarrassed about it.

Something weird is definitely going on. You’re not acting like yourself and neither is he. There had been too many opportunities to badger you, but he just let them pass by. Same with you. You could have easily teased him about letting you know he finds you attractive.

“I’m out of questions,” he lies to end the damn review. 

“Me too, actually,” you say with an apprehensive laugh.

So it’s not just him. You also feel the change in the atmosphere between you two. Your smile is uncertain and you look like you don't know what to do to remedy the situation -- that is, if you even know what’s wrong with it because he sure as hell doesn’t. 

But even if he has no idea what’s going on, fortunately, he knows how to end it.

“I’m tired. I’m calling it a day,” he says as he starts packing up his stuff. 

You seem to agree since you don’t say anything and just watch him collect his things. You only react when he stands up. 

“Oh yeah. Sure!” You stand up as well.

“I can see my way out on my own,” he stops you when you start to head for the door.  

You freeze on the spot then nod timidly. “Okay.”

As soon as he steps out and closes the door, you plop yourself back to where you were sitting. You grasp the edges of your table as you softly bang your head against it, gasping a heavy breath of relief when the air becomes undoubtedly lighter after he is gone.

“What the fuck was that?” you mumble with your cheek against the wooden surface. 

Part 2 || Part 4 || masterlist

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