#if absolutely NO ONE knew about the massacre i think the intel line had to be

[mixelation]

there are many fics out there with the plot of "character finds written documentation of the Truth behind uchiha massacre," but i've never read one where it.... made sense why records were kept? or documentation was even made at all?? this is something you would never, ever want anyone to find. why have anything to find at all?

like i can see a scenario where detailed documentation on intel of the planned coup and subsequent moves by konoha to mitigate the situation exist. you'd want that to keep track of yourself, and to pass on in the case of change of command or looping in new people, and it might suddenly become relevant again years down the line even if you solve it. so i can see that sitting in a sealed box somewhere, or if it was destroyed, maybe something was missed somewhere

but i don't see why you'd have a piece of paper just like GUESS WHAT ITACHI WAS ACTING ON ORDERS sitting in the archives or in danzo's desk or something??? you don't write down secrets that bad

ways someone could solve the mystery via snooping in paperwork (non-exhaustive, obviously):

danzo DID keep documentation out of some weird arrogance about the matter, or because he personally wanted to make the coup public. i don't spend a lot of time thinking about danzo so i can't decide if this is IC or not, but at least it's a reason

hiruzen keeps documentation, either out of guilt/regret or because he knows he's getting replaced soon and he thinks his successor should know (or, fuck, he thinks future generations should know)

there's no documentation about the massacre itself, but someone gets their hands on that misplaced file about the coup and Makes Connections, or there's a little annotation about someone suggesting extreme force

there's FAKE documentation of itachi's mental health or something along those lines to help conceptualize the massacre with the cover story, and someone recognizes forgeries/why details don't add up

the complete lack of documentation is ITSELF the clue. like please give me a scene of a character finally breaking into the hokage's personal archives and all the files labeled for the uchiha massacre are literally filled with blank paper

[agent-kihyun]

Undercover [Prologue]

Spy!reader x mafia boss!Yoongi

Prompt/Summary: When the CIA sends you to go undercover to infiltrate South Korea’s infamous mafia group, Bangtan Sonyeondan, you expect the mission to be quick and easy. But as you develop relationships and walls come down, things begin to get a little tricky.

WC: 1290 or something like that lol

Warnings: dorky/witty humor, asshole bosses

☆

Working for the CIA was a job you never thought you would have. Infiltrating Bangtan Sonyeondan, South Korea’s largest and most powerful underground mafia organization, was a task you never thought you’d be assigned while working at the agency.

You were a rather talented intelligence operative, having collected tons of valuable intelligence that helped CIA special agents bring down large crime syndicates. Your abilities to remain undercover, act, and subconsciously interrogate were of the highest degree. You weren’t a household name in the agency, but that was about to change.

When you were called into a conference room rather than your supervisor’s office, you knew there was something going on.

You opened the door with caution, stepping inside to find the blinds closed completely and the television monitors on the wall with the CIA logo displayed.

“Agent L/N.”

You heard a voice that didn’t sound like your supervisor’s at all.

“Yes this is she,” you responded, looking around for the speaker in the dark.

“Please have a seat,” the voice spoke again.

You obliged and took a seat in one of the revolving chairs. The lights in one half of the room turned on and revealed a group of men and women in suits standing around a man wearing glasses and a sharp navy suit. You sized him up quickly, noting that he was probably middle-aged (flecks of gray on the sides of his hair), not married (lack of wedding band on his ring finger), and exhausted (eye-bags). This man had absolutely nothing to lose (in addition to a flair for the dramatic).

“Welcome. I’ve heard a lot about you, agent L/N. Your intelligence gathering skills far supersede that of other agents,” he began. You noticed your supervisor pull her lips into a thin line. Clearly, she was bothered by something.

“I try not to brag too much,” you offered a dry joke. The man hummed in amusement but continued.

“Because of your skills, my team and I have decided to send you on a mission that will...challenge you,” the man said with a small smirk. You raised an eyebrow in confusion and chose to be bold when you asked the next question.

“Remind me who you are again?”

The man rose his eyebrows and glanced at your supervisor. He looked back at you while taking his glasses off.

“I’m your boss’ boss, Stuart Casey. The head of the organized crimes unit,” his tone suddenly changed from smug to serious. At this, you raised your eyebrows.

“Sarah didn’t inform you? What a shame,” he crossed his arms on the table. You pursed your lips in response and shrugged.

“Sorry,” you told him.

“Agent, don’t think you’re getting out of this because of disrespect. You are doing this mission,” Casey glared at you. Your expression became unreadable as you carefully chose your next words.

“What is this mission about?” You asked.

“Before I answer that, I have two questions for you: one, have you ever been to South Korea?”

You shook your head, “No sir.”

“Follow up, have you ever heard of a mafia group named Bangtan Sonyeondan?”

You furrowed your eyebrows and hid your lips between your teeth.

You definitely knew Bangtan Sonyeondan. Several other agents have had tried to infiltrate and conduct reconnaissance on the group but they never came back. Some of those agents were your friends. To say you didn’t like Bangtan was an understatement. You detested them, loathed them. And now you were chosen to join your friends in the group of fallen agents who attempted to bring them down.

“You can’t be serious,” you anxiously said.

“Oh agent I’m very serious,” Casey replied.

“With all due respect sir, several agents have already tried to collect intel on Bangtan and they didn’t come back. What makes you think I’ll be different?” You asked.

“You, agent L/N, have skills that the other agents did not. You are one of the top intelligence agents here, I have faith that you’ll perform accordingly,” Casey informed you.

“If I’m one of the top agents, why aren’t you sending another agent?”

“You’re the only one available.”

“That’s ridiculous!”

“Y/N,” your supervisor interrupted. She stepped forward, a stern look on her face as she stared at you. You stared back, pleading with your eyes for her to stop this. But she only gave you a look of sorrow in return.

“Apologies. I stepped out of line there for a moment,” you cleared your throat. “What if I get killed? Bangtan is dangerous, if they find out who I am they will not spare my life.”

“We’ll send our next available agent,” Casey blinked at you.

“Sir, we’re agents, not objects. We’re not expendable,” you insisted, feeling frustration and anger bubble inside you.

“Agent L/N I don’t think you understand; we need to bring Bangtan down before it’s too late. We’re doing whatever it takes to accomplish this,” Casey narrowed his eyes at you. Now you did understand. The CIA was not going to stop sending agents until Bangtan was gone for good. Which meant that you needed to do your job right so that no one else would have to take your place.

“Then I need to lay down some ground rules myself, sir,” you folded your hands on your lap. “But before we do that, what is it that I need to do?”

Sarah handed a thick file to Stuart who handed it to you.

“Bangtan is currently in the works for an illegal arms trade, so we need you to find out everything you can on who it’s from, who it will go to, the uses...everything. If those weapons get in the wrong hands, we could be in for a massacre. You will pose as a tourist, get into Bangtan’s good graces through one of the members and gather the intel. Do you understand?” Stuart told you.

“Yes sir,” you nodded. The truth was, you didn’t really understand. How were you to get in their good graces? Pose as a tourist? That’s ridiculous. They would see right through you. You’d have to change your plan and improvise. You weren’t about to tell that to Stuart though.

“We already have new identification documents and ran it through the embassy. You’re all set to go. I hope you have a bag ready,” Stuart stood up and buttoned his blazer. You joined him and shook his hand.

“I always do, sir.”

☆

As you left the room, your supervisor pulled you to the side and began speaking in a hushed tone.

“I want to say that I’m sorry,” she began.

“What for?” You asked, but you already knew the answer.

“For allowing him to choose you for this mission. I told him you were off limits, that we needed you here, but he insisted on having you take it,” she crossed her arms. “It pisses me off too that he’s blowing through agents like they’re used tissues.”

You sighed and shook your head. That’s why she looked bothered in the room. She didn’t want you taking the mission just as much as you.

“It’s okay. This is my job. I just have to make sure I don’t fuck up. No pressure, y’know,” you shrugged.

“Do what you have to, Y/N. Whatever it takes to get you back alive. You know what you’re doing, the protocol isn’t always the best to go by,” Sarah placed a hand on your shoulder. You nodded in agreement.

“I’ll let you go. You have a plane to catch,” Sarah let go and allowed you to get going. You turned and walked down the hall to exit the building.

Sarah whispered one last sentiment as you left her alone.

“Good luck, agent.”

[dememarquette]

Midnight Caller

Adria's day went as well as they usually do.

Training drills. Stake outs. Patrols. It was all very normal if you didn't know better.

But she did. She felt it; Heaven was perpetually on edge. The polarizing shadow war had made itself into the atmosphere and into routine- the specifics of which she only knew from 'mistakes' as a lowly pawn, and the details she gleaned inbetween. At this point, the increase of raids was normalized. It was ordinary to systematically sneak out demon operations, no matter how trivial the charges. Specialized drills were more frequent, too.

All of the added procedures were tying her guts into knots. The situation was becoming more and more wrong each passing day, but there was no trade-off. There hasn't been an update in months. The park was in limbo. They  were asking every other time she dropped by until eventually realizing she had nothing to give. And may never. Cheerful as they were, nobody liked the quiet. Suspense bothered her, for their sake, for hers. Playing the long game in subterfuge meant she lived life in paranoia, yet not one iota of it was concerned with Hell. She was as scared of a demon as her shadow, but Heaven. Heaven was something to be feared.

She didn't know what to consider her role in this. Double-crossing? Triple? She tried not to think on it. It'd only get her worked up, but when that inevitably failed, she realized no treasonous term felt right. She didn't hate Heaven. She wasn't actively working against it. It's just her allegiance didn't fall into carefully sectioned off labels and sectors- it fell into place by virtue. And reason.

But being screamed at all day that her reasoning was wrong and flawed bred self-doubt. Her mind never seemed to shut off, even after the mission reports were read, and the raids concluded.

She lounged on her couch. Muscles in her back and shoulders were rigid after a stressful day, but there was one thing that always seemed to help: Colin. On top of everything she supposed she should feel guilty about that too but she absolutely did not. It was a little piece of wrong that felt right.

COLIN: How was work, sweetie?

He wrote. He just got off shift at a private rodeo show where it was not the bulls being wrangled. Her phone, thankfully, does not receive pictures but needless to say, he was happy to unwind and see her too.

ADRIA: THE NORMal. sarah is really a piece of work.

COLIN: Awh, what happened?

What happened!

What happened was her squad-mate’s penchant for public humiliation. Adria had a thick skin, but if you're going correct her on fighting form, you'd better be able to back it the fuck up! She punched at the keys with her thumbs, detailing the tiff in atrocious texting, 150 characters at a time. She sent a chain of three messages, the order of which they sent in was left in the hands of God, when her screen blacked out.

A cheerful ringtone replaced it. That delightful sequence of Nokia chirps had been featured in three separate horror movies in the past two decades, and that auditory connotation was no less portentous now. Demetrius’ name flashed in eight-bit.

She answered on first ring. "Demetri?"

"Adria, thank G-man."  He heaved. "I need you."

Adria cupped her phone with both hands. "What's wrong?"

“What’s wrong?” He wheezed. "What isn't?"

His first fake emergency was a text. His second very real! emergency was also a text. This was a call, and already his desperation pierced through her shitty reception in four syllables. Demetri’s voice was an octave higher than she'd ever heard it and hysterical. She'd seen this man handle pressure (and if you ignored his thing with snakes), nothing short of imminent doom bothered him.

The contrast was horrifying.

She launched off her couch, storming her quarters. The bedroom door rebounded off the wall as she breached her closet. The more utilitarian parts of her uniform were ripped from its display. She yanked a set of greaves over her knees. Her hair was a tousled mess, an ondoyant spread across her shoulders, but she had a band around her wrist to crudely tie it back should this turn into a brawl. At the time he was calling? The night couldn't go any other way. She wasn't on shift but they held raids at all hours.

She saw it: demons dusted into ash. One coming to the other's call only for a massacre. The Powers were organized and lethal, and her vague and sporadic feedback was never going to cut it, either to sate Heaven, or save them. She was stupid for trying. Her superiors hired on someone else to intervene, to gather intel, and now she was on the phone with Demetrius-

"Demetri?!" She panicked, shoving her forearms through her bracers. "Talk to me. I can't help if I don't know what's going on. Is Niko okay? Archer?"

The line went quiet and her wings folded out in a forceful draft. Adria was a full second away from making the plunge from Heaven to Hell, when over the line there was a single sniff.

“Look on th-...the tv- MTV." He said. "Righ'now.”

Adria's head snapped up. There was no 48-inch mounted on the wall. She didn’t have a smartphone, how would she have a cable?

But context worked with what she gathered from her time on the computer and the demon himself. MTV was no news outlet nor has it had any respectable programming since the 1990's. Their ragtag group was a spectacle but nothing she imagined making a time slot between Teen Mom and MTV Cribs.

(That's a compliment.)

"Excuse me?"

"Channel- channel forty-eight. PleaaaAAse."

She stiffly straightened up. She was half armored- the bottom half ready for the war that would be her fall from On High, while the other awaiting on conformation for where this was going. "You're...going to have to describe it to me. Where are you?"

"Home."

"And you're not dying?"

"I don't knooooow." He whined. "Probaply."

She audibly heard the melodramatic flop.

On the other end, he slapped against the counter top. Sulking on his kitchen island, his rings tangled in his bangs. He stared in disdain at the source of his despair. It was a frame paused on his television set. Depicted was an unflattering still of a suburban mom. Her jumpsuit was as orange as her fake tan, and two streams of black poured down her face like she tried her wings at a newer, trendier 270 degree angle.

Adria had no way of knowing this, else she had reason to hang up then and there. "What does that mean?! Is ANYONE in danger? Is ANYONE dying?"

"Are you even looking?!" He said, frustrated.

"No. No I am not. What is it?"

"They're taking Samantha in!"

"What."

He flailed his hand at the set. In his mind, he was the image of every tragic hero in a cathartic Renaissance painting. "She's getting arrested!" He cried. "Fuckin' Ricky set her up, th-the child suppor' payments. 'n after she got Kaytee and G-ma Hoovie in the pyramid scheme no one will talk to her-"

"And why do I care about this woman’s shitty decisions?"

"She's not gonna make it into season six!!" He shrieked.

"Oh Jesus."

She remembered that. She remembered a lot more than she thought she would. They were characters from a colorful cast from their last hangout.

It wasn't her idea, obviously. She owed him for their first training session. Retribution for her violation of his trust, he called it. Somehow it was separate from the favor she already promised him but that's what he dismissed as semantics, preceding a change of subject. Nevermind how he tricked her into a strip club, she arrived dutifully at his apartment in the forth circle of Hell. That was two months ago.

That day he opened the door more casual than she’d see him before, which wasn't saying much. He was still swanky- buttoned down in something she'd seen in an all-too-dramatic cologne commercial, hue set off with a matching Rolex that told time with three faces. She, on the other hand, arrived in gym shorts. He said 'no armor' on the summons so when he opened up, he tensed like a wild animal. His hands even raised like she taught him ("Protect your head!"), and it was a good fifteen minutes of her standing on his blistering doorstep, convincing him she wasn't there to pulverize his face before she was allowed inside. He relaxed.

And eventually, so did she.

She crashed on his couch. Arms wound around herself so tight, she was ready to make fun of every vapid star that strutted onto the screen. Reality shows were stupid. A waste of time, clearly staged, and air-headed entertainment. All she was here to do was get through four hours of this garbage so he'll trust her for self defenses classes again.

However, Demetri took criticism like a champ. He pointed out that she had literally no reference point at all for television programming (true), and hit play.

At first she was entirely correct in her assumptions. These Real Housewives were overacting, over-dramatic, and overly ridiculous- but around the twenty minute mark, the first twist, it was apparent that was the charm. They were ridiculous. They were all impossibly absurd, and no matter how much she had the gist of their one-dimensional personalities, they'd surprise her with a curveball she never saw coming, dramatic irony Shakespearen in any other context. When she stopped commenting on how these stupid things would never happen in real life, it clicked.

"So...why is this lady breaking into her cousin's flat?"  She picked at finger foods he set up on the table, small pastries he credited to Donnabelle. She needed something to do with her hands while she pretended to not be interested in the television she was very interested in.

"Hm?"

"I mean,” She shrugged, too jerky to be casual. “If they just made up. Why would she break in?" He quirked a brow.

Truth was he’d been a nervous wreck the whole time too- he just wasn't as transparent. Never had he cared more about anyone else’s usually-contrarian opinion more.  Covertly he watched her more than the re-run. It didn’t make sense, but when her question rang sincere he grinned. The arc maxed between his ears before it pulled back into something more restrained. "Ah, well. That's why she set up the brunch. Her cousin has incriminating photos on a flash drive."

"But we know this because it's been broadcasted to all of America."

"No actually," He sat up, invested. She noticed afterward that she leaned to follow. "We know they exist but we don't know what's on them. My guess is it's something to do with last year's bachelorette party since that got the fire department called, but the forum thinks it's..."

And that's how she started caring too much about some random group of nutjobs in the city.

She still believed it was staged bullshit, but it was fun staged bullshit. She watched nearly three hours of dramatic close-ups, cryfests, and varying degrees of misdemeanors until the night was called. Time flew before she knew it, and their goodbye was a lot less awkward than their hello.

She wasn't expecting to revisit any of that in the near future.

She stared at the keys of her phone as she snapped back to reality. Demetrius was slurring through a monologue calling for Samantha's salvation (eloquently coined "FreeSam2k-2k-shit-2k19?") when it registered: Samantha Drama was a lot more preferable than the alternative.

"-'ish not like the scheme was her fault, y'know. She's a business woman at heart."

"...She sure is."

"'scatcly!” He said, overly relieved. “You get it!"

She sighed, head in her hand. The restless energy she amassed depleted into pure appreciation of the overreaction. Her overreaction- and if he was oblivious to the whiplash she suffered, it was missed entirely. It was gone. Replacing it was the sound of her barely holding back laughter. She rubbed her eyes. God, what was he doing? "Demetri, are you drunk? Did Archer give you the pilfered party booze?"

"Aria-Adria, please. Less focus fer two secons."

"Okay, okay.”  She pulled the tie from her hair. “So. Samantha."

“Samantha, yes.”

She indulged, smiling. "Is this the one who uh....cheats at dog pageants?"

“NO that's Kristie!" He corrected, distressed.

“Oh- sorry. The lady that held the intervention at the baby shower?”

“Yes,” he sobbed.

“I’m...sorry??”

“She was just tryna- tryna show her kid that she- aw fuck.” Glass clinked. "Oh no."

"What?"

"I spilled it. Fuck."

The phone rustled loudly. She listened, with her head tilted into her phone. Demetrius was struggling, but she was too. She bit the corner of her lip so her laughing wouldn't carry over the line.

"Back." He rasped, returning like he lost the war.

"You okay over there?"

"No. I need- I need to bail her out." He said. He’d run out of options, his voice teetered on a whimper. "I jus' gotta."

She walked back to her living room. Hasty strides before were now a languid stroll, as the armored plates fell off her knees in a clatter. She threw her bracers into her pillow as she hit the sofa beside them. The threat was neutralized. "No,” she said. “You should not bail her out."

"I have to. She's all alone in there- y'know I'm good'for it, Adria. Issat short for Adriana by the way."

"No it is not, but I'm VERY sure she's fine."

"What do I do?!"

"You're still home right?" She barely got the question out with a straight face.  "Like you're not out, and definitely not in the Alpine area?"

"Wha' you tryna say? 'at I'm not r’sponsiple?"

"That you're drunk off your ass."

"Does that make any of it- any of it less real?" The volume softened as he scolded his phone. An old selfie that he used as her contact photo served as her avatar and the source of his betrayal. "I'm SO hurt. My feelings are real, Adria."

"Oh yeah?"  Her head canted. She was staring at a blank wall, but imagery from the other end of the line was so clear. She could see his face too. That lopsided grin. Bent brows when he feigned offense, even if his eyes were still smiling while he clutched his heart for the effect. So distinctively him. "I thought you were too cool for feelings."

"Welp. S'where you're wrong~"

"Am I? You're quick to make fun of other people's."

"Is 'is about yoouurs? Hmmmmm?"

She debated her answer as clinking and swearing reared up a second time. She heard him bat the glass around, coordination beyond her expert salvage, before he returned, forgoing the cup altogether. Whatever. He still had the bottle. "Maybe."

"Maybe what?"

"It seems at times you care more about Samantha’s. Like right now."

"Whaaaaa-!! Yer only sayin’ that cuz you like teasin’ her. Jus’like I like teasin’ you."

Her fingers combed through the waves rolling over her shoulders, as she smiled. “I got that much."

"I'd bail you outta jail too, y'know."

"You are not bailing Samantha out of jail."

"'n if I don't," He continued, galvanized into another tangent. "If I DON'T tease you! Then what we doin', hmm?"

She quirked a brow. She was going to love this. "What does that mean?"

"Whatdoyamean what’do I mean. I dunno how else t'talk to you!!" He said, phone brushing with static when he shrugged. "Yer somethin else. It's scary."

Or not.

The word punctured her bubble of amusement. Scary? She knew she could be intimidating. And sure, she beat him up more than once. And sure he was a baby about it, but before Adria’s heart had the chance to sink-

"I trust you so much," He continued, shrilly and mystified. "Isn't that crazy?"

Her heart caught. "W-what?"

"Riiiight? But it happens.” He shrugged. “It happens when, when people got this intense light. A light y'just wanna be a part of. D'you know how rare that is?"

"I don't-"

"You know!! Of course you know." He asserted, finding it inconceivable that she didn't understand. "Some people jus' got it. It draws you in. People like me don' got it- we don' got it- so its blindin' when we do see it. You got it, girl. You got it baaad," He sang. "I mean FUCK- yer "spyin'" on us and we take you everywhere we go! An’ an’ all I wanna do right now is invite you over. Have you here. Again."

Adria blanked.

Staring wide-eyed, she had no idea what to say.

“O-oh.”

Her wings slid down the sofa in a soft shh. Unsure she heard him right, praise was just something she couldn't wrap her head around. Even as the conversation devolved into an ad-libbed ‘Come on Over, Baby' Christina Aguilera parody (’Spy on Over, Baby’ - execution as good as one would imagine), no one thought that way about her. No one talked about her like that. No one ever had- no matter how much, how long, and how hard she tried to do the right thing. She was a series of failures, stemming all the way back from her first charge.

But Demetrius was more than happy to tell/sing to her otherwise. Her feedback wasn't necessary. In fact, she couldn't get a word in. He rambled hard and assiduous about that signature compassion he couldn't compute. About their classes against heavenly forces. About the way the right thing always just seemed to spring into her mind, without cause or consideration. His opinions had receipts- which was something Heaven never bothered to audit.

Thoughts of doubt were smothered before they had the chance to manifest. They tried. Unable to defend against his points, they wanted to dismiss the call as inebriated prattle, but she wouldn't. She refused- it felt nice. They were compliments with no ulterior motive. No seeds of manipulation she could detect, and he didn’t want anything from her this time.

She could have comfort this once, just this once, before jumping back into scrutiny tomorrow.

That in mind, when a lull settled in the conversation, she took it. She pulled her knees into her chest, and closed her eyes.

“Thank you...Thanks, Deme. That means a lot.”

But where she expected a stiff refute of anything tottering the edge of the sentimental (she tensed for it), or another bout of prattle, she heard a thump over the line.

A cold pause followed. She twitched from her pleasant smile. It stretched. Seconds feeling like minutes, the quiet was just short enough to spurn concern, but not enough to ask, when he broke it. He sucked in air through his teeth. Devoid of his former drunken rapture, the tacit draw unnerved her. “No problem.” He said.

Her world dimmed. Her confidence had barely got its bearings before being dashed. The beat of awkwardness was back. That void that pulled the light from their talks, how she could be enjoying herself before the tone flips on a dime and she regrets reaching out at all-

“...Are you okay?”

“Yeah. Yeah...” He dragged his face. “No.” He sighed. “No I’m fuckin’ not.”

Just like the party. That’s what it took. She hit that mysterious trigger again. The precise sentiment she needed to wipe the audible grin off his face. It was her. It had to be her. She misread the entire situation. His admiration had been clear as day, but now it muddled.

“I’m sorry.” She hovered above a whisper, apologizing without knowing why.

“Don’t be. It was all me.”

“What was you…?”

“You. Me. This.”

It solidified the weight in her chest. All those positive thoughts had just blossomed. To tamp them down so soon as a regret... Demetri wasn’t a guy about that scene. She knew that, and yet-

That’s where her mistake was.

She’d been telling herself the same thing since the fair- she was delusional. She didn’t need it echoed.

“It’s fine.” She cut him off. “You should rest- night Demetri. I’ll, I’ll check in when I can-”

“I let you go.”

She stiffened.

“I saw that light and jus’....poof. Gave it away- like a joke.” He said, abruptly sober. “Who’m I kidding? It was a joke. On myself!! Were cowboy strippers worth it? I mean...t’see THAT ‘n let it slip. Who am I?” He brazenly interrogated his open apartment. His theater set-up was a whole five feet away, and it was a crime scene as far as he was concerned. He truly had fun with her that night. At the fair. Shopping. But it was Colin she was going home to, and that was entirely by his own hand. “Thas’not me.” He said. “Thas’never been me- I’m in hell fer wanting everything. Why would I learn now?”

Archer pushed him to make a move. He dismissed him. He was so damn sure he’d figure out his own way. Demetrius was convinced that honesty and upfront communication were tacky, and not because he was entirely inept at sincerity. But what he was realizing tonight was that window shut.   He’d earned one of her darkest secrets only to be iced-out of what was troubling her at the party. She stared at her phone the whole drive home. His moment passed. Now he was paying for it, but without the inhibition to suffer in silence.

“I made a mistake.” He said, with finality. “I want you. That’s what’s wrong.” “You...want me.” "Mmph. Fuckin’...cowboy strippers aren’t even that funny.” His muttering trailed off, disintegrating into incoherent rambling and something that sounded suspiciously like ‘Colin is a douche.’

Her mouth closed. She had nothing to say.

Whiplash was back, but this time there was no recovering. She had no words. No response. Nothing to fill the quiet, but he did not have much intention of doing so either. The clinking, clanking, and sentence fragments stopped. They both settled into quiet- an awkward, but powerful one.

It dragged for minute. Then five. She was reluctant leave it, to be the one to break it, but her head was buzzing and so was her phone. Missed texts were adding up. There must’ve been seven now. Someone else was impatient for her attention. And while Colin could wait...

"Demetri?"

"Hmmmm?" He hummed, sleepily but somber.

"Did you...did you mean-? Were you implying-" She cringed. She regretted the question before she asked. Maybe it was best not to pry. Just enjoy it. It’s how things had been going so far.

Besides.

What would happen if he did answer now?

She hugged her knees. Her heart had taken enough collateral damage. It was time to give it a break. Tonight changed things. She’d have to see what that meant. "Nevermind. Uh, thanks. I mean.Thanks again. I guess. Don’t go bailing anyone out of prison."

"Aye-aye," he mumbled.

On the other end, he slumped. Wine smeared around his table, he half-heartedly sopped it up with a rag before giving up. The marble was feeling awfully comfortable. His head propped against his shoulder, and it slid into lean.

She kept the phone affixed to her ear, eyes closing. The night opened with her walking the demon through the five stages of grief for a reality star. In a bizarre way, in a way neither could have expected, he provided a comparative comfort. These thoughts she’d been having- these errant ideas, these cues- were justified.

"Deme?" She finally asked.

But there was no response. He was out like a light, drooling on the marble.

She listened to a few breaths before bidding a quiet 'good night' and hanging up. Exhausted now, but in the best way, she posed to snap her phone shut.

Just before she did, the screen returned to Colin.

Her cursor flashed where she left it. It tailed the end of a long, angry message her heart was no longer in. Unwilling to tarnish her revelation, or feed the new, fresher guilt winding in her stomach, she hit the back key. One letter blinked out of existence at a time, then words, then entire lines.

ADRIA: actually dont worry about it. goodnight. COLIN: ok! Good night :D

[thexgrayxlady]

Stirred, not Shaken

Notes: So, entirely self-indulgent Shenko fanfiction? Yeah. That’s what this is. It's been a while since I wrote anything of any length. I had some fun with this though. Also IDK I always headcanoned Shepard as being older and it would be kind of cool to see the choice of class have some impact on backstory/storyline. 

Stirred, not Shaken

For the third time that night, Mira Shepard set down her datapad and just about threw her stylus across the desk.

She leaned forwards and rested her head in her hands, trying to shut out the sound of the drive core. She would have to bring this up to Tali and Adams when she checked in with Engineering tomorrow morning on rounds. In addition to making it nearly impossible for her to concentrate on writing up the mission report, she did not want to waste time on costly and expensive repairs to a prototype drive core.

She had a reputation amongst the alliance for flawless paperwork. She had a reputation for how much she loved her paperwork. She had a reputation for how much she could get away with on account of perfectly filed paperwork. She’d never hear the end of it if she sent a badly written report to Alliance Command on account of a malfunctioning drive core.

She opened the folder on her left again and took her outline out of the pocket to read it again. Even her outline was sparse, erratic and in no way up to her usual standard, and this mission had been anything but standard. This report had to be perfect, every detail in order, yet she couldn’t focus for long enough to even write a decent outline, let alone commit anything about Ontarom to the datapad.

To make matters worse, the damned drive core noise was making her nervous.  She stood up and paced the short distance between her desk and her bed. It would take half an hour at most to meet with Tali and Adams, but she had to get this report to Alliance Command before they heard from Wayne and Toombs.

They should have been picked up twenty minutes ago, but the cruiser was running late. Command would want statements from both of them as soon as possible. She had at most three and a half hours until the Alliance had their version of events. There wasn’t time to visit engineering tonight if she wanted to finish this report on time, but if there was something wrong she should know about it.

She’d never hear the end of it if she died with unfinished paperwork on account of a malfunctioning drive core.

She took a moment to breathe and think. If she was the alliance analyst receiving this report and supplemental information, she’d take the time to requisition any files pertaining to Akuze before reading the reports. Given the publicity surrounding the massacre, they’d only give this assignment to a senior analyst and while they’d take the time to do it right, they would be experienced enough to know how to do it quickly.

With the requisitions, she would get another twenty minutes at most. Especially if they gave it to O’Hara. That woman was a tacky dresser, but she could find files like nobody else.

If she wanted this done right, she would have to start as soon as possible. It had to be done right. If the one bad mission report she filed was related to Akuze, they’d notice the discrepancy. They’d look into it. They’d scrutinize her earlier statements, looking for anything that didn’t fit with the current narrative. It’s what she’d do in their position.

She would have noticed the pattern. Nothing but perfect paper work until Ontarom. That would indicate that something about that mission was very wrong. Then she would have started digging. She would have asked why Ontarom was so different from every other mission. She would have found out about Akuze. If it was just a nosey Alliance analyst, they would probably stop there. Mira Shepard was, as everybody knew, up until Toombs, the sole survivor of Akuze. It was understandable if she was shaken by the mission on Ontarom.

A nosey analyst might stop at the word Akuze. Someone else would start digging further. Wayne studied what happened at Akuze. He might have video footage. They would notice discrepancies between her story and video. That could mean the end of her career.

Sure, she was more valuable to the Alliance now. She was the first human Spectre. But there was so much that depended on her success. The reputation of her entire species was at stake. If she was found out, they could discredit not only her but all of humanity.

If someone else was in her position, if she was the person assigned to this case, she would want her out of the Spectre program. Maybe humanity was pushing too hard for a position on the council, but they’d lose any chance at all if she was disgraced. Whether it came from someone within the Alliance trying to remove her quietly or another race blowing everything up in her face, it she didn’t take control of the narrative, it was only a matter of time until her career was over.

She didn’t have time to go to Engineering if she wanted to fix this. She had to have faith that Tali and Adams could fix whatever was wrong with the drive core before it blew them all into little element zero covered bits, her unfinished paperwork forever floating through the vacuum of the Milky Way.

She picked up her datapad again and winced as she took a sip of her now cold coffee. The gnawing feeling in her stomach grew as she glanced at her outline. She set down the datapad and turned the paper over. The blank lines bothered her less than the scrambled, harried, half-finished work she’d done.

Just as her fingers brushed up against her stylus there was a knock at her door. She closed her eyes and straightened her back and opened her omni-tool to unlock the door.

“Come in,” she said, taking a step back and another sip of her coffee.

“Commander?” It took all she had not to flinch as Kaidan entered the room. If he was back, it meant her countdown’s already started. It would take twelve minutes minimum to transfer custody of Toombs and Wayne from himself and Garrus to the Alliance officers picking them up, then a further six to reach the ship from the planet’s surface.

“Lieutenant,” she replied, tucking her stylus behind her ear. “I trust Toombs didn’t give you too much trouble.”

“Transfer went perfectly ma’am,” he said. “I thought you’d want the records for your report.” He hesitated for a moment. “Unless you’ve already sent it off to command.”

“No I…” she hesitated, trying to get her nerves back under control. If it was anybody else, it would have made her look worse. “Thank you,” she continued. “I’m still finishing up and they would be nice to include.”

He nodded, made a couple of quick keystrokes on the datapad, she’d receive the files in a moment.

“I just thought you should know that Toombs seemed like he was doing alright when he got onto the shuttle,” he said, still lingering in the door way. His warm, brown eyes were full of a sort of concern she didn’t want to think about. “I think he’s gonna pull through.”

“Good to know,” she replied. She’d only half heard him. “What about Wayne?”

“He was promising all sorts of Cerberus intel to Commander Gregson, but if Cerberus is really as powerful as he says it is, I think it’s going to be gone by the time he can work out a deal,” he said, sounding at least properly disgusted with Wayne for working for Cerberus.

She had to stop herself from laughing. There had to be some dark power in the universe at play if the agency that tried so very hard to kill her wound up saving her career.

“Of course he is,” she said. Disgust with the bitterness of her stale coffee masked her worry. “Those shadow group types always offer up data when they get caught.” At least she would have offered up good data. “Is that all Lieutenant?”

“That’ll be all Commander,” he replied.

“Thank you. You’re dismissed,” she said, turning back to her desk.  Then she caught sight of the blank paper and as the door opened again, she added, “Wait. Before you resume your duties, check in with Engineering.”

“Of course,” he said. “What am I checking in on?” She tilted her head to the side, confused that he even had to ask.

“You don’t hear that noise?”

“What noise?”

“The drive core. You don’t hear how loud it is?”

He stood absolutely still for a few seconds, listening. “No. There’s just normal engine noise.”

She took another sip of coffee to cover up her grimace. If there really was no noise, maybe she was more on edge tonight than she thought.

“Ma’am, are you alright?” he asked. She blinked, stared at him for a moment. His voice was soft, maybe a little worried.

She considered all he’d told her about BAaT. Most of it things that weren’t in his record. Maybe he would understand. Maybe he wouldn’t. He’d acted in defense of another person. She acted out of self-preservation.

“Kaidan,” she said, instantly regretting her slip in professionalism. “I…” For a moment, she thought better of it. She didn’t need to burden him with her worries. She didn’t want him to see the normally consummate professional Mira Shepard having a fit over things that should have been buried six years ago. “I’ll be fi…” She was his commanding officer. He shouldn’t be responsible for her emotional wellbeing.

“Shepard?” He stepped towards her. “If you need anything, I’m here.” Maybe, just maybe, if she was paranoid enough to think the drive core was about to blow her and her unfinished paperwork across the galaxy, she needed to talk to somebody.

“Close the door. Sit down.”

He took the desk chair as she sat at the edge of her bed. She leaned forwards and stared at her hands, then up at him.

“What I’m about to tell you cannot leave this room.”

She looked him directly in the eye. Lieutenant Alenko was a good man. If he promised her this, and he meant it, she trusted he would keep it secret. If he didn’t, well then she would give him the same story she’d told time and time again about Akuze.

“I promise it won’t.” She studied him, his body language was open, if a bit nervous. She would be too if her commanding officer told her that something did not leave the room.

“Good,” she said, staring into his warm, open eyes. She doubted if he could lie if his life depended on it and she was so grateful for it. “I’m a fraud.”

He recoiled slightly, more confusion than disgust. “What do you mean?”

“How much do you know about my service history prior to Akuze?”

“Only what it says in your file Commander,” he replied. “The Alliance sent you to University of Earth in Boston as part of one of their specialist training programs…” for just a moment, she allowed herself a smile. She was prouder of her degrees than almost anything else, even with what it took to get them. “…then immediately after you were drafted into the N7 program, you finished with commendations, then were assigned to small posts until…”

“Until Akuze,” she said. She sighed and she stared at her hands again. He was her second in command on the battlefield. He deserved to know everything about the woman he was serving under, no matter how horrible. “Everything before then, it’s not lies, but it’s not the whole truth. When I enlisted, I had every intention of spending as little time in a combat zone as possible. I was supposed to go into Admiralty Law. But two years into my degree, someone saw something in me…”

She closed her eyes for a moment, remembering the pit forming in her stomach as she read the e-mail from Admiral Essex. “Be in my office at eight AM. We must discuss your future in our program.” She’d pictured this day for over two years. She considered taking the money she stashed in her dorm mattress and running, but she put in too much work to get where she was to throw it all away without a fight. So at eight AM sharp, she was waiting for Admiral Essex in the nicest clothes she owned.

The Admiral found out about forged transcripts from a high school she dropped out of when she was fifteen to start cooking the books for a street gang. But even then, she’d done a good job.  She fooled them for two years. They should have thrown her out right then and there, but Admiral Essex knew a useful operative when she saw one.

She’d proven herself an excellent hacker. She maintained a perfect GPA. She was performing exemplarily in training. She was willing to operate in some very gray areas and to do whatever it took to achieve a goal. More important, she would owe the Alliance everything.

It was agreed upon that so long as she maintained a standard far above and beyond what was required and served in an agreed upon fashion, casting her aside at this point would be a wasted investment. So long as she held up her end of the bargain, nobody would notice if one student’s records from one inner city school were wiped out by a virus.

Kaidan didn’t need to know this though. Not tonight.

“…and my career path changed.  I worked my ass off to finish degrees in legal studies and electrical engineering…” Essex insisted on electronics, to see if she was capable enough to handle to workload. “…then I went into the N7 program as an infiltrator.

“What does this have to do with Akuze?”

“It’s context.” It sounds more like, “It’s an excuse.”

“I was never a soldier Kaidan. I was a spy.” He didn’t respond and she kept staring at her hands. “I was good at it too.” She openly flinched at the pride in her voice.

“You sound like you miss it,” he said. She tilted her coffee cup to the left, watched the last few drops roll around the bottom.

“I’d be lying if I said I didn’t,” she said. “I liked the challenges, the glamour, the tactical cloak, but I appreciate having parts of my record that aren't redacted.”

“Is that why the DNA scanner on Noveria said you were Mary Read?” She laughed. She spent a good amount of their visit trying to convince Parasini that it was a mistake. She suspected now Parasini didn’t think so.

“Old alias,” she said. Noveria was a small, straightforward operation to retrieve research the Alliance paid for, but never recieved. All it took was a little charm and greasing a few palms.

“It must have been interesting,” he said.

“I went behind enemy lines and retrieved data, sabotaged operations, performed selective removal of high ranking enemy combatants, and if something went wrong, I was trained to disappear. I did field operations as part of N1, but I was overwatch, not frontline, and they were…” She sighed. “They weren’t Akuze.”

She glanced up at him. He looked confused, but he didn’t look like he hated her. It wasn’t as if she’d given him anything particularly reprehensible, but she had to assess which Akuze story he'd accept. He was still processing, but he was still open to her. She could consider telling him the truth.

“They liked to move me into and out of operation zones as a soldier. People look out for an N7 infiltrator, they don’t look at a recently transferred grunt. About a month before we had an operation, they’d transfer me into a squad heading into the area, a couple weeks afterwards they’d transfer me out. I was just getting my papers in order when we diverted to investigate the distress signal.”

“Akuze was a mismanaged debacle. Wakefield was ill-suited to command. During my time in that unit, I witnessed no fewer than thirteen violations of command protocol.” Not dissimilar to what she was doing now, but she wouldn’t dwell too much on that.

There was more venom in her words than she meant for there to be. She’d kept her dislike of her former CO out of any Alliance reports or media. She had to keep up her image. The good soldier, who knew all of her former squadmates by name and was respectful and deferential to her fallen commander.

“We should have retreated the second we saw the thresher maws.” She took the stylus from behind her ear and started twirling it between her fingers. “You want to bring a tank if you’re fighting one of them. There were three. If we scattered and ran for the landing zone right away, some of us would have made it. Not all of us, but more than if we stayed to fight.”

“We tried to get a distress call to the Tacoma, but the coms were jammed. Even if he didn’t have the sense to order a retreat, Wakefield,” she wouldn’t justify that man with his rank tonight, “at least told us to get to cover. Two of my squadmates and I bunkered down behind a boulder at the edge of the nest.”

She could still remember Nguyen’s hand on her shoulder, forcing her down into cover as her shot went wide and the way her face plate sizzled when she couldn’t follow suit fast enough.

“I’d never trained for anything like it. You can’t train for anything like Akuze,” she said, chancing a look at the Lieutenant. “We tried to keep our heads, but there’s no protocol for how to handle watching your medic get melted by space goo.”

He leaned towards her. “Commander, it’s okay…”

“No. I'm thirty-three. It was six years ago. I’ve dealt with it and moved on,” she said. The pity party Akuze inevitably brought up bothered her more than any residual feelings from the incident. “We took heavy losses scrambling for whatever cover we could get. A few just ran for it. They never made it far.”

“Wakefield told us to keep shooting. Some of them did. It didn’t make a difference. By the time he was dead, there were less than twenty marines going up against three thresher maws. There were too few of us to run, too ill-equipped to fight, but at that point, they didn’t see another choice.”

“Sargent Lewis made a break for our position,” she said. “Corporal Gonzales ducked out to provide her with covering fire. Lewis never made it over. Gonzales never made it back.  Operations Chief Nguyen grabbed Gonzales’ assault rifle and told me she was going to give me cover if I just started shooting back at the damn things.”

She had a sniper rifle prone to overheating too fast and the tremors made it difficult to shoot straight, but if she could hit one it would do some damage.

“I had my shot set up, I was going to hit one of the bastards through the head with a polonium round, then it lunged at somebody. I tried to line up a second shot, but the ground was shaking and I was too far down my scope to notice another one spitting at us. Nguyen grabbed me and pulled me down. The impact knocked us both back. She was dead by the time she hit the ground.”

She looked back at her coffee cup, unable to look Kaidan in the eye. He’d yet to react in an overly negative manner. She took a deep breath. She was in too deep to tell him she was the only one to survive the retreat.

“I remember lying there, stunned, thinking, “I don’t want to die here. I don’t want to die for nothing.” I knew that if I got back up, I’d be going to my death no matter what. So I didn’t.”

She went quiet for a minute, waiting for him to respond. When he didn’t, she continued, “I laid there, playing dead, listening to the screaming of my squad and the shrieking of the thresher maws until the ground went still and I still waited, with Nguyen’s body draped over my legs, until morning. Then I ran for the landing zone and I never looked back.”

She almost didn’t notice when he got up and sat down beside her.

“The next thing I knew, I was giving statements to Alliance officials and when they asked me how I got away, I was going to tell them what happened, but I…” She willed her hands to stop shaking, but they didn’t. At least her voice remained steady. “I thought about how hard I worked to get where I was. I couldn’t throw almost ten years of hard work and exemplary service away on a desertion charge.”

“I grew up with nothing,” she said, sitting up straight.  “I had to work harder than everybody else to get what I had and I finally made myself into someone I could be proud of. I couldn’t take that chance. I told them I was the only one to make it to the landing zone. I just wanted to go back to work, but the Systems Alliance wanted a hero. Then the media got involved and they took Sole Survivor of Akuze and ran with it.”

“I wasn’t close to my squad. I didn’t know most of their names until the night before the first press conference. By the time the press tour and memorial services were over, I knew their names, their faces, their family, their hopes and dreams. And my career in intelligence was over. I was deemed too much of a public figure to go back, so they transferred me and you know the rest.”  

Kaidan was quiet. She hazarded a glance at him. He was still and his face was hard and contemplative. She knew could take it if he found her story unacceptable. She could take it if he put in a transfer request. She appreciated Lieutenant Alenko and all the support he gave, but she would get on with the mission if he didn’t stay.

She bit her tongue to keep from talking. She was good at talking. She was good at getting people to do exactly what she wanted by talking. She didn’t want to do that to him.

“Shepard,” he said. “You know I don’t always agree with your methods. I don’t think I would have done the same in your position.” She hadn’t felt that sort of falling feeling since she first spoke to Admiral Essex. “But you were the only one who survived to tell the tale and get justice for your squadmates and I’m sure they’d be grateful you’re still here. For what it’s worth, I am.”

“Everything I’ve earned since then, every command post, every promotion, it all comes back to Akuze. If there’s proof of how I survived, everything I’ve done will have been for nothing,” she said.

“You were in an impossible situation. You did what you had to do,” he said, putting a hand on her shoulder.

“I know,” she said, pulling away from him. “I know what I did and I’m not ashamed of it. If they dropped me back onto Akuze, I’d do it all over again. I don’t feel like I could have saved them or that I shouldn’t be here today, but I’m scared Wayne has records.”

“Even if he does, the Alliance won’t hold it against you,” he said. “You’ve proven yourself a hundred times over since then. Commander, you’re the first human…”

“I know. And because of that, everything I do will reflect not just on me, but upon humanity as a whole. There’s so much riding on my performance. I can’t just be good, I have to be perfect. If Wayne has footage of Akuze, the best case scenario is that it doesn’t go beyond the Alliance and they quietly retire me from service to preempt anyone else from digging into me.”

“That’s not a best case scenario.” He was right, but it wouldn’t do her any good to prepare for the real best case scenario.

“Other species don’t like that there is a human spectre. Humanist groups like Cerberus think I’m too pro-alien. If they get ahold of it, it’s only a matter of time until they discredit me and humans lose the respect of the council. Humanity deserves a hero and…”

“…And they got a spy,” he said. “I think it’s good enough. I’ve seen what you can do Shepard. They didn’t make you a spectre just because of Akuze.”

“People don’t see anything else when they look at my record. Akuze has already cost me one career. I can’t let it happen again,” she said.  

“It won’t,” he said, reaching out for her again, but stopping himself. “You’re not alone Shepard. You have the rest of the crew and myself backing you up.” She nodded and he laid a hand on her shoulder. “Anything you need, I’m right here.”

“Thank you,” she said. “For listening and for…” for seeing me when I was weak and pretending I wasn’t.  

“Any time,” he replied. She was painfully aware of his hand on her shoulder and the space between them.

“I should probably get back to my report,” she said. “I barely started and well, there’s a lot to do.”

“Do you need any help with it?”

She should have said no, but she was so far behind and her outline was shit. “If you want to.”

“Alright,” he said, getting up. “I’m going to get a coffee before we get started. Do you want anything?”

“Please. Black, no sugar,” she said, handing him her mug. “Thank you.”

He paused by the door for a minute. “Commander, before I go I have to ask, do you take your martini shaken or stirred?” She laughed. Maybe this would be alright after all.  

“Stirred. I’m not a heathen Lieutenant.”  

[silvokrent]

Gears in Motion - 3

What better way to start off the orn?

At precisely 7:00 AM Prowl stood in front of the door to his office.

Even though his shift didn't start for another hour the tactician had long ago fallen into the habit of showing up early for his work. Today, an additional thirty minutes earlier than usual, given the mountain of datapads he knew awaited him on the other side of the door. Knowing how long it would take to go through all of the files gathered on his desk, he'd opted to forgo his morning Energon and proceed directly.

Didn’t mean he was necessarily looking forward to the prospect.

Cycling a vent of air, Prowl keyed open his door and stepped inside.

And did a double-take.

He was pretty sure that there had been at least several piles in his inbox and on his desk when he'd locked up for the night, with several more stacked on his filing cabinet.

So why, then, were half of them missing?

A prank was the first thought that occurred to him, and he had to physically bite back the desire to seethe. As if planning that game wasn't bad enough, someone had the audacity to distract him by making him hunt down his errant reports?

Snorting, Prowl strode around his desk and picked up one of the few remaining datapads―a mission statement which required a second signature―and gave it a precursory glance, worried he might find something tampered with. Instead, much to his amazement, the screen lit up directly at the bottom of the page, where Optimus Prime's elegant scrawl could be clearly seen underneath his own.

With a sudden inkling in the back of his mind, Prowl proceeded to look over the next datapad―and sure enough, this one (an inventory notice for the armories) was signed off on too. Every report that had required dual authorization from at least two officers had been given the go-ahead.

Suddenly, several hours' worth of overview and peer corrections had been done.

To top it all off they had been arranged on his desk and/or filed alphabetically by department.

For a long, bewildered moment the tactician could do little more than stare at the unexpected charity.

Again Prowl looked over Optimus' signature. The logical conclusion was that at some point in the night the CO had come in and proceeded to go over the paperwork, filling in what needed filling in, before taking the datapads specifically for his briefings back to his own office.

A bemused smile tugged at the corner of his lips, an honest, unrestrained gesture. Of course the Prime would have thought nothing of it, even with his own duties to attend to. That was just who he was.

The Second stood from his chair and exited the room, walking down several doors and poking his head inside the familiar office.

"Prime, sir?"

His leader looked up from whatever he'd been working on. He blinked in mild surprise before offering a welcoming nod. "Yes, Prowl?"

The tactician straightened. "I wished to thank you for assisting me in my work the night before, despite the inconvenience to yourself. It gives me the opportunity to see to my other duties." Had Prowl not turned to leave at that very moment, he might’ve seen the shock on the CO's face. "That is all, sir. Thank you."

Not willing to overstay his welcome, Prowl continued on his way.

"But…," Optimus said to the empty room. "But I didn't do any of that."

He got the call on the fourth orn following the Crystal City Massacre.

In direct relation to the attack work had steadily been piling up. Reports were constantly coming in as the departments sent intel back and forth, in effort to compile what little they had. All of it was underscored with increased urgency and an emphasis on fortifying outposts. There was an understandable worry over whether or not Autobot bases would be targeted next, none more vocal about it than Red Alert. Despite the numerous officer meetings that had been held since their return, they had absolutely no clue what the Decepticons were trying to achieve through Crystal City's destruction. Theories were volleyed back and forth, with a few halfhearted proposals proffered up to fill in the gaps. At the end of the orn the only thing Prowl had to show for it all was a sizable pile of datapads and a growing headache that had acutely placed itself directly behind his right optic.

He was halfway through authorizing ammunition transport to Simfur when an incoming communiqué interrupted him. Pausing mid key-stroke, the tactician calmly hailed the caller over his radio. This is Autobot Prowl.

It's Ratchet. The exhaustion in the medic's tone was nearly palpable. His voice sounded coarse and rough, like someone had taken a sandblaster to it. Requesting your presence in the medbay immediately.

The unexpected summons was enough to halt Prowl's typing. Narrowing his optics slightly, the tactician stared into his monitor. I was unaware that I was on the roster for a medical checkup. Did you schedule me for a malware upgrade?

No, although I should probably do that sooner than later. The survivor from Crystal City was just brought online. He wants to speak to you.

That was why he was being deterred from his work? A brief flicker of annoyance passed through him. Nonetheless he politely demurred, While I'm pleased to hear the good news, surely he would want to speak to Optimus? After all, the Prime heads our faction and could explain his situation better—

No. He asked specifically for you. First thing he did once he stopped panicking and was lucid again was ask to speak with the mech who saved him. According to First Aid, you were the one who found him. Given what the kid's been through I'm not about to deny him slag. Get down here now. That's an order.

With that said Ratchet cut the line.

Sighing faintly, the SIC signed off and pushed away from his desk. The trek through the base down to the medbay was an uneventful affair. Yet as he neared the CMO's domain he found himself taken by a sudden apprehension. One of the many qualities which he thoroughly lacked was adaptability, hence his overcompensated planning skills. In any given circumstance Prowl functioned best when held all the cards in his hand, had adequate time to prepare.

But this?

There had been no warnings, no heads-up. Just an order to haul aft downstairs and talk with the sole survivor of a genocide. It made him feel unsettled, even if he would never admit such a thing aloud for fear of being thought less of. He didn't know what to say. He had nothing, and had been told nothing. Couldn't Ratchet at least have had the decency to give him some kind of warning, or at least hint as to why the Neutral wanted to speak to him? A roiling churn in his tanks made the tactician feel somewhat sick with apprehension. Ruthlessly he shoved the feeling aside and slid past the crystal doors.

Medbay proper was filled with a half dozen medics scurrying about, either running back and forth with tools or tending to the few patients present. He spotted First Aid and Hoist at a glance, and caught a glimpse of Pīpō heading inside an adjoining storage closet.

A flash of red and white at the corner of his optic had him switching direction toward the ICU. Ratchet was just emerging from one of the private surgical suites when he caught sight of his commander approaching. Lips thinning, he beckoned Prowl over. "Good. You're here. He's through this door." The medic gestured to the room from which he'd emerged. "I don't think I need to tell you he's been through a lot. Just...be gentle with him. Your usual charming self should suffice."

Prowl arched a skeptical brow at that. His expression then schooled itself into its regular calm, serene air. "I will be careful, Ratchet. Nor will I do anything to deliberately upset him. You have my word."

"It's not your word I'm worried about so much as your definition of 'tact,'" snorted Ratchet. "It's not what you say, but how you say it. Keep that in mind."

"I will not overstep my boundaries," Prowl assured. "Although I must admit, I'm pleased to finally hear that you've begun practicing what you preach. Your patients must be doubly ecstatic."

A surprised chuff of laughter left the medic as he lightly flicked Prowl on the chevron. "It keeps them honest, and me sane. No one's complained about my methods yet. And Sideswipe doesn't count, so don't even go there."

Prowl refrained from returning the bout of amusement, although he did briefly incline his head. "I wouldn't have bothered. I'm of the opinion that Sideswipe benefits from your ire, even if he doesn't necessarily retain the lesson from the experience."

"Tell that to him and his slagging brother." It was there, just barely, but the growl held the faintest trace of affection. It vanished before Prowl had the chance to dwell on it, as Ratchet turned that suddenly baleful stare upon him. "Don’t start badgering the kid for information. Whatever he’s going to say, he’ll say. Got it?”

Prowl didn't directly respond, instead choosing to nod in acknowledgement before he stepped inside the ICU. Once the doors hissed shut behind him he turned to face the mech bundled on the berth.

The scorch marks he recalled from when he'd found him had obviously been sanded down. Old, damaged armor had been repaired, with only weld marks showing where gaping wounds had once been. Optics formerly dim with low energy now glowed fantastically bright. The Neutral shifted, and the motion caused his doorwings to fan out behind him.

Correction—doorwing.

Instead of two back-mounted panels there was only one. The damage had obviously been extensive enough to ruin the hinge or the entire wing itself, warranting its removal. Without the second appendage the 'bot looked off-kilter and exposed.

As soon as Prowl had entered the small mech had jerked upright, like someone had come up behind him with an electrical prod.

"Good afternoon." He watched Prowl with wide optics as he dragged a chair over and took a seat a respectable distance from the berth. "My apologies for taking so long to get here. My name is—"

"Prowl," the other mech supplied. He glanced down at the hands folded in his lap. "I remember who you are. You found me."

That caught him slightly off guard. Given how disoriented he'd been when he had discovered him, Prowl doubted how much the young survivor would have retained from the encounter.

"I know this is a superfluous question, but how are you?" There. Nice and simple. A safe place to start.

The gray Neutral looked away. "I'm not really sure how to answer that, since I don't really know what to feel."

Never mind, then.

"Is there..." Prowl cleared his intakes. "Is there something that I may do for you..." There was a question in his voice, an unspoken request for a designation.

"Bluestreak." The Neutral shyly looked his way. "My name is Bluestreak."

"Bluestreak," echoed Prowl as he committed the name to memory. "Is there anything that I may provide you with, or bring you?" With his rank at least he was afforded the luxury and the ability to offer him whatever he wanted, within reason, of course.

White optics abruptly turned back to him. "Everything I want I can't have," he rasped, and the words thundered through Prowl like the pounding of a waterfall. His friends, his coworkers, his exclusives, anyone he'd ever known was dead. That waterfall was frothing with blood.

He berated himself viciously for the thoughtlessness.

Again, white optics turned to stare at him, and for the first time the tactician saw a hollowness, in addition to the physical pain and fear. Ghosts danced behind the lenses, specters sifting in his gaze, all the haunts and horrors as much a part of him as they were the wreckage that lay hundreds of miles away. Looking for all the world like they couldn't wait to claim the last victim.

Vaguely ill, Prowl wondered how long it would take before this one died, too.

Neither spoke for a minute.

"Thank you," Bluestreak blurted out.

"For?"

"For saving me," he said simply.

"You're welcome."

Again, uncomfortable silence, with neither mech willing to look the other in the face.

"If you wish to talk...," Prowl began, clearing his intakes, "if there is anything I can do to help, I am only a comm. line away. Please do not hesitate in calling me, should you require my assistance." He sensed that there truly wasn't much more he could do, and felt a prickle of regret knowing how little he'd done. At least he could leave with the knowledge that he'd offered what he could.

The SIC made to stand from his chair.

"Wait!"

Prowl slowly sat back into the seat, facing him with hands folded in his lap. "What is it?"

Beyond the slither of fear that shone in Bluestreak's expression, there was another emotion. Prowl found that he couldn't put a name to it. "Who did this?"

There was no mistaking what he meant.

"They call themselves the Decepticons." Finally, something that the SIC could give him. Information. Closure, perhaps. "Their leader is a mech who goes by the name Megatron."

"They have red optics," murmured Bluestreak. His empty but not-quite-empty stare bore into his. "Yours are blue."

A rather obvious thing to say, but Prowl resisted the impulse to correct him. "Yes."

After lingering for a moment on some unknown decision, the Neutral lifted his hand. Gray fingertips lightly grazed the dermal metal just below Prowl's cheek, and he resisted the reflex to pull away. Something in the survivor's mind seemed to click at the contact, and his optics widened.

"You're real," he breathed out.

Lacking a proper context for the strange phrasing, Prowl couldn't find anything to say to that.

But on some instinctive level that defied words the pieces were coming together. Like a dreamer sloughing through the wisps and tendrils of dusk looking for the part that wasn't in his head, the touch was breaking through the barriers. Separating where the harsh nightmares ended and the waking world began. At last there was an anchor in the eye of the hurricane. The world that had been spinning so frighteningly fast on its axis had finally, finally, come to a stop.

Of all the things Prowl had expected, the last was seeing his reflection superimposed over a sudden rush of color in the previously white optics. The residual traces of Neutrality faded out in the spirals and glass, replaced with an intense blue.

His hand remained hanging between them.

"Can I join the Autobots?" Bluestreak begged. "Please?"

Against all damnable logic, Prowl couldn't find an explanation for reaching up and resting his hand atop the other 'bot's. "Of course."

If being an Autobot was the farthest thing from being a Decepticon, then Bluestreak gladly made that choice.