#mission season: reconnaissance | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

rockheadcd · 3 months

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Although not nearly as experienced as other defenders, Stonedge is selected for an operation under Rhodes' contingency contract plans. The operation doesn't entirely go as smoothly as the team liked it to. Takes place before he discovers a certain runaway feline. cw for crush injuries. Just a lil supercut for worldbuilding. :)

"Operator Stonedge?"

"Hey, hey, we're on base, you can call me Roark. No need for formalities here."

The archosaurian looks up from his work, perhaps some of the most agonizing for those unable to sit still, handheld drill with the most precise of bits painstakingly stripping away raw stone from fossilized bones. For someone so loud with his laughter, his cleanroom was eerily quiet when he was working on something in there. The Rhodes associate squints at him through the clear panel—she's not here for casual conversation.

"The Doctor has selected you for a mission. I'm here to brief you."

Ah, that makes a little more sense. Roark switches off the drill and carefully sets aside his tools, peeling off of a rolling stool and eventually coming around to exit his little office, carefully removing and hanging up a mask and gloves in a peg right near the frame. "Sorry, what's up?"

"You'll be assigned under our contingency contract with Leithanien."

Oh. That wasn't expected to hear on this fine, bright midday morning that didn't penetrate this lab. Not even a year in, and he's being picked up for this.. he'd heard from more seasoned operators the kinds of difficulties these operations incurred. They paid well, unsurprisingly, but they had a tendency to push people to their breaking point. Roark vaguely remembered some sage advice from a fellow defender hired on as a merc.

'Don't get yourself killed out there.'

( yeah, no kidding, huh )

"Not a training ground?"

"Nope. We've evaluated overall risk to be nine," she explains, remaining calm in her briefing, but even her thrill of the upcoming operation leaves much to be desired. Her eyes are distracted by the resigned flop in the archosaurian's tail. At least she understood, he figured, continuing on, "Although, it should be fine. You've been recommended for this phase of the contract—fourteen days total. They're mines."

A crack at a joke gets him to scoff. "Ha, ha." Alright, he does appreciate the sentiment here. "I thought that area was cleared, though?"

"It's never empty for long, it's too lucrative of a waypoint for those who don't follow any sole monarch." Alright, that makes sense. She finally waves towards Roark to follow her—better, more precise information was available elsewhere, clearly. Perhaps it did make plenty of sense that it was a caprinae that could provide intel and round up the people about ready to be shipped off to god knows where. "The subcontracts are in other areas of Terra, but this one is the most desirable," she explains, "Unfortunately our reconnaissance has verified there are some very strong creatures patrolling the depths of the mines. They're reminiscent of Sarkaz minions."

Roark gives a hum of thought, following his escort to one of war rooms across the landship. "I thought we hired Mudrock...?"

"You'll see."

"Those constructs have no life to them. They are.. reanimated, on a technical level, but rest assured they do not behave like my friends."

Mudrock's presence is demanding in the war room despite her soft voice, muffled behind mask and voluminous suit. Roark has long gotten used to her manner of reference, having understood with the way he handles bones found with dirt caked between worn joints. Hell, she's probably more attuned to the earth far more than anyone else due to her peculiar methods of witchcraft—but it's fascinating nonetheless. No wonder she managed to attract so many lost souls here. Still, she manages to tower over most of the operators in the room with presence and seniority alone, Roark included, as they sit around a flat table, purely neutral, it's only burden the sprawl of reports that all have to do with this new operation. Roark pouts a little. "So, there have been knock-off constructs around and these ones are also held together by arts, but not necessarily in the same way you were able to imbue them."

"Mm."

"And then, the actual caster has been identified, but doesn't seem to be related to Reunion, but as a local Leithanien?"

"Mm."

Another voice speaks up—a Rhodes Island special op. "With this level of arts, we can narrow down our suspect belonging to the Witch King's Remnants," he adds, and the rest of the team doesn’t seem particularly thrilled. Those of Leithanien roots are especially perturbed. It makes sense why this particular contract was prioritized, and more importantly, why Rhodes was contacted to carry out the operation.

"—So, that leaves us with a unique strategy to handle these constructs, between heavy defenders, and our ranged operators, doesn't it?" Another operator takes the moment to muse aloud, and eventually the entire room begins to chime in on options of how to tackle this interesting repeat that had brought Mudrock and her squad here. In the end, she was a dissenter and wanted the best for the people who found hope in her presence, but in this case, the motives of the new threat in question could easily be presumed as nefarious at best, and downright cataclysmic at worst. Regardless, a unanimous observation noted was the certainty of broken bones, and if someone were to break some bones, it damn well better not be the ranged operators.

Roark finds a little excitement as much as he finds significantly more concern about the very real dangers that exist. The mines themselves offer very little by way of space, limiting the squad to only seven operators, among other variables. This isn't an operation in which they can retreat and try again—it's all or nothing. No leaks, more danger, less space, and a lot of sheer will. Something like this was bound to happen, right? Roark's history in Columbia made this his home turf, abandoned or not. He knew he'd be one of the first choices like the other operators here.

When discussion eventually finalizes, the objective is clear: find and eliminate the caster. Secondary objective? Don't bring the house down with the squad in it, if it comes down to it.

"We depart at oh-seven hundred. Any questions?" The caprinae looks up from her papers and looks around at the assignees. Not a single question remains. "If nothing, then you're all dismissed."

In unison, "Yessir."

The deployment of juggernauts is intentional in this situation, with the limited resources at hand. The sole arts healer that was dispatched with three other ranged operators would prioritize them over both Mudrock and Roark. The latter two's responsibility was to prevent their fellow vanguard from getting squashed from the far more dangerous constructs. The vanguard needed to flush out the spellcaster if they couldn't finish the job alone. With these kinds of limitations, it would have been a much higher risk having a sole executor specialist among the ranks. If something happened, there would be a slim chance anyone could go retrieve them. It just wasn't in the books to lose another head.

Even so, Roark still feels like he's pressed in a sardine can with how close the jagged tunnels come close to his shoulders. It's dark and cold save for the originium lanterns hanging off their belts, but if nothing has collapsed since the recon mission, the layout of the mines should be consistent—there should be some natural clearing ahead of them, where much of the mining had occurred prior to the operation being shut down. It also meant the general surroundings would be large enough for the constructs to patrol about—a caster following the Witch King would never let their guard down ( a smart one, anyway ). A hand signal from Mudrock ushers the team to extinguish the lights, and they soon find themselves in dim surroundings once more, save for some natural lighting ahead.

"The constructs are awake," she says softly, barely heard past her mask. The caster must have been aware. The team presses on.

Most of the team has seen this battlefield, but Roark is not one of them. The earth overhead shows signs of erosion, stalagmites and stalactites share the ground they stood upon, shaken loose over time. The night sky peers through scattered holes along the ceiling, fragile enough to crumble under the weight of a heavy animal, if any remained after wayward catastrophes. Their only light is the moon, but at least their blood gives them a slight advantage, the ranged operators especially. So far, the haphazard masses of stone and debris work as excellent cover and platforms to perch upon.

Roark has been asking himself when shit will hit the fan for the last half an hour.

The constructs are not silent in their footfalls, but they feel so much closer than they really are without line of sight. "When one finds a target, the rest will follow. Stay alert," the Sarkaz advises quietly, and the squadron begins to disperse, the four ranged operators moving to scale the rock face for a vantage point, and the vanguard staying with the other defenders to a pre-negotiated escort point—the intent is to draw the constructs into the same lane of traffic, giving their much faster cohort a clear route to flush out their target, receiving easy aerial cover from one of the rangers. It was a simple plan on paper, aside from the fact it relied on both defenders to survive against the brunt of as many constructs as could fit, and be intuitive enough to know when their landscape will crumble around them.

( phew, you can do this. everyone can do this. quiet breaths. be aware of your surroundings. don't get killed )

"We're in position," comes communication from above, out of sight from the ground floor of this cave. Thankfully, they can hear one another nicely with feeble landmass blocking signal—with how quiet the old mining quarry is, such low volume still sounds as if they never detached at all.

"Roger," the archosaurian replies as quietly as he can. He and Mudrock follow suit, each lane of jagged rock formations and rubble within their sights. It's time to make some noise. "—Begin Operation: Lead Seal."

Overhead, the ranged operators open fire, arts manifesting and flinging through the air inaudibly until they pierce into the constructs, some igniting against the living rubble, others diving into the faux ligaments of dirt and dust that give shape. Out of his peripheral, Roark sees Mudrock's enchanting finish as a shield manifested by her arts bubbles around her. Roark braces himself, hammerpick between his hands and arts conduit activating under his will, encased in the steel and iron of his weapon. The constructs bring their attention to the defenders nearest them, just as planned, and now it's up to them to ward off these giants to exhaust the caster behind them ( and that, he knew, would take much longer than he wanted ).

The construct lunges, three-fingered fist colliding into the flat edge of Roark's hammer with a force that pushes the breath out of him. His arts is rigid, much like Mudrock, but it stays on his person. He pushes his swing forward, parrying stone as it crashes awkwardly into the ground, tremors causing loose gravel to shift and tumble in the neighboring tunnels. ( ah, this will be tougher than anticipated... ) Roark twists his weapon to the spike on the other side, taking the moment to wail on the joints of the construct in the small window of time he has as it recoups itself, signaling the ranged operators to focus on toppling the constructs' balance. The strategy seems to work each time the construct gets up and attempts to reach towards the defenders as they dance out of the way and focus on dismantling as much of the rock armor as possible.

"—I see a core between all of the rocks!" Roark hears one of the operators above from the earpiece clinging to him. Mudrock observes in kind.

"I see.. that must be how the constructs are controlled—it seems my hypothesis was correct. We must break the core to break the enchantment."

"—Seems easy enough, right?" Roark responds, gaze searching for said core and eventually spotting a glint between the plates of stone. "That looks like originium—it's a conduit?"

"This must be how our target can use arts from a distance. We do not know how many they can control at once."

Thundering steps clamor down the aisles of stone, loose dirt dropping to the ground from overhead. Roark finds another colossus racing towards him like a bat out of hell. "—I, uh, at least four of these, apparently." Ah, he's going to be tired after this one, huh. The juggernaut braces himself once more, cracking into the chest cavity of stone for his comrades to remove one of his problems, turning his attention to the other one. He's worried, all things considered—there should have been more, right? If this caster was a follower of the Witch King... there possessed some kind of freakish use of arts, right? If these weren't behaving like Mudrock's own as she so claimed, then where else was all of that concentration going?

Ah.

These colossus were a distraction.

The explosions that occur sound muted to the archosaurian, even as he sees the surrounding rock and dirt crumble, crack, and disperse around him and the team, thud after thud causing tremors in every direction, chunks falling with no resistance from overhead. "A cave-in! MOVE—! Prioritize our vanguard!" Roark shifts his hammerpick's brute force to the shrapnel in a meager attempt to pierce larger obstacles, but other, smaller, faster pieces scrape against his skin and tear at his utility uniform. Others do their best to shield from the blasts around them, faring better than the defenders on the ground.

( ugh... hurts... )

There's always risk in manifesting arts like this, especially as an infected with this level of assimilation. There's a vague thought about the beating he'll get from the medical staff by the time they get out of this—he feels the familiar stiffness, a fist balled around his joints, squeezing. It's the warning sign of over-exertion, but what the hell was he supposed to do? The only way to handle the brunt forces is to hunker down and use his arts on himself! Still, it's only a matter of time before the disarray settles and their target can identify where everyone is. He doesn't need their assassination foiled in the commotion, and when he feels the relief from somewhere behind him, he remembers his objectives. They could make use of all of this, too, couldn't they? "Thanks for the back-up," he huffs out over communications, happy that the medics were okay so far. Nearby, Mudrock is faring better than him, her arts' shield a bubble strong enough to negate much of the projectiles from all around when it shatters. Man, he is so jealous.

"—I'm going in," he hears another voice in his ear, and his head snaps towards the general direction of the planned route that was in no doubt unstable. Shit, that's their vanguard. Really?!

"Texas, you sure? This cave wants to come down!"

"Don't worry. It's only a slight deviation from the route." Calm and collected as always, isn't she?

He's going to worry. Even though she is fully capable, he's going to worry.

Roark holds in a stress sigh.

Alright, well then. With the knowledge of her approximate location, they can make this easier for her in the little time they have to work with in this new labyrinth of theirs. Offshoots inevitably interconnect in this area, there's a good chance this particular room was going to be a proper quarry, but perhaps such a project didn't get that far before major incidents took place. It's not all that different from abandoning the mines back home in Columbia before a catastrophe hit, really.

"—Okay. Diverting attention away from vanguard route. Let that caster know where we are!" Roark hefts himself in the opposite direction of Texas, towards Mudrock's position—a feint to believe they've been cornered ( which, isn't far from the truth, really, he has no idea what exits they have that aren't too high above them ) as the colossi tremble in the wake of resurging arts.

Mudrock seems as if she's squinting behind her mask, looking at the remaining colossi that seemed to have regain vigor despite being simply animated, her posture leaning towards it just a little as if scrutinizing. Roark missed the core on this one after the commotion of all the explosions. "This doll contains a stronger connection to it's host... he was diverting his Arts between all of the explosives, after all."

"He's gonna hit like a whole landship, isn't he?"

"Yes."

"—We found stable ground, we've got you covered, defenders!" comes assurance over the radio, and Roark heaves a breath. This is the most both of them could do—stall.

( don't get yourself killed out there. )

"Alright—we'll take it, then!" Roark finds his vigor, knowing the worst that could happen is if he doesn't give his all and lets this whole cavern swallow the team under all of this rubble. He exhales, mustering up his arts between the conduit and himself—such things accelerated the disease, but he sees it as a necessary risk in order to help his comrades. All they need to do is survive until Texas takes out her target. It'll be fine. The grip on his weapon tightens as the colossi approach, any spare jutting rocks crumbling against the sheer weight as they move closer. The resilience from the arts... it's still intimidating.

"Here they come, Stonedge," Mudrock alerts him, and Roark takes that as he cue to take a stand next to her. "Whatever they do, we must not relent."

"We won't!"

The colossi bring their stone masses together, large, dense boulders as fists, and Roark can only assume the arts is being channeled right into the impending slam—they feel so small under the shadows of this, and even the ranged arts doesn't seem to be affecting the colossi at all.

"Nothing's working! Just get out of there!"

Roark grits his teeth. He's not moving, and neither is his fellow juggernaut.

The colossi throw their entire weight onto them, and the archosaurian's voice strains under the exertion—clipped to his ankle, his oripathy monitor beeps. Joints and muscle strain under the weight as the spikes on his hammerpick lodge themselves into the rock. Mudrock fares no differently, straining under the weight. Roark feels it in his knees the most, and he desperately tries to reinforce his own body, drawing on his own infection to get there. Drawing thoughts is impossible, as it all just sounds like white noise, and anything vocalized is involuntary.

The colossi bear down and he feels no give even as he pushes against it with everything he's got. The fear that his body will give out before it's over is the only thing that he can begin to feel ( of course it's fear, that's the only other real thing isn't it! ), coupled with the adrenaline and refusal to fathom what awaits him if he eases up even for a moment.

"No..!" The half-whine comes out in a struggle, for the caster's arts isn't simply bound by his own body's limits like Roark's is. Such a keen difference is exactly why the oripathy has grown so wildly along his tail, for he has to use more than what he has available. It's another step in an irreversible direction. He strains, pushing and pushing and pushing, arts feeling like joints have grown over, cemented into place. The blood that runs through him ignites, and the burn is inescapable—his monitor whines at the sudden delta in biometric data, and Roark can't bring himself to care—he just knows his arts are working overtime.

God, it feels like wildfire.

The oripathy manifests, he realizes, the burn peeling into splitting pain enough to throw his body into a dissociation—it was instant, the dizzying sensation of being forced out of his body and yet still being just aware of enough of the sensations in his joints, this piercing, splitting, nails puncturing a stream of lava—Roark is barely aware that there's something coming out of his mouth, some kind of noise.

Shit.

This is it. He's overdone it this time. This peeling, burning sensation is at the surface of his skin and he's glad he can't even so much as look. His limbs feel frozen in place and yet they physically ache to move, unresponsive despite the efforts.

( i can't take this anymore i can't— )

The colossus shifts suddenly, as if the tether to it's host is yanked in some direction, disturbing the equal force placed upon the defenders. It shudders, and the distribution is uneven, heavy and biased.

Stonedge screams, knees finally buckling from under him.

What little he acknowledges thereafter is lost for days. Mudrock uses her might and arts to force the colossi back, veering it away from Roark as the core loses the brilliance it once had as a focus. Such dead weight was far too dangerous, but in the wane of impenetrable defenses, the ranged operators' arts pick away at crumbling the heaving masses of stones into smaller pieces, before it eventually crumbles into the heap it once was.

The force upon the archosaurian disappears in seconds, but his body still feels as if the shadow of weight is there, fighting it off despite collapsing against his hammerpick, arms failing and letting the heavy end crush into the ground first. He doesn't even acknowledge the busy communication in his ear, unresponsive aside from the inability to catch his breath and difficulties standing. He remains unaware of the blood that stains around his knees in slowly growing dots that speckle upon his uniform's pants, the medics immediately aware something has gone horribly wrong.

Texas gives the all clear of the objective. Mudrock, even in her exhaustion, scoops Roark over her shoulder while another operator takes his weapon. Mission complete, casualties observed.

"Whatever you do, Stonedge, don't pass out on us, okay?"

"The readings on his tracker aren't going to be good, we need to get out of here, now!"

"Stonedge, say something!"

Roark struggles to find where his body is, and the sensation—rather, lack thereof—feels vaguely familiar. This is not that far from the beginning of his oripathy, when the pain of originium manifesting was new. He fights to curl his fingers, and finds relief when they finally obey, sore, burning. One foot can limply jostle, and the other doesn't feel like it responds. That's... not good. Although his breaths are labored and deep, his chest feels like it's pounding, still.

"I'm here... I'm here," he finally breathes out, "I just... I'm in a bad... bad way."

Mudrock settles her shoulders as they make their way out from the abandoned mines, operators ahead scouting for cave ins and obstacles from the minor quakes brought on by the colossus' attempts. For as long as this cave system has been utilized and constructed, there was much less to worry about. One of the medics examining Roark finally comments on the blood. "Your joints collapsed under the weight when that caster was taken out—if we get out of here in time, we can save your legs. One is worse than the other, but we've tightened up the safety straps to limit the backwash of minerals entering your bloodstream."

Oh.. oh, that would make sense, huh. Roark grimaces, aware of said tightness, even in his daze. The medic speaks up again.

"There's crystals on your elbows... your arts exceeded your body's natural limitations."

"No wonder I'm out of it.."

"Just keep talking to us, our route's clear. And don't look down, either."

"Roger..."

Roark has never been a fan of being incapable of standing on his own two feet, be it figuratively or literally. Yet, what he relies on the most isn't something he was born with, anyway. He didn't ask for it, either, and for a little while, saw it as a mark certain for death—a punishment for caring about others in an uncaring world inside of the borders of an exponentially uncaring nation. When he realized it allowed him to handle the more dangerous work, it became a boon. Understanding the complicated relationship between his own biology and oripathy turned it into a weapon he relied on. Adding layers upon layers of usefulness, in the end, didn't change that it never belonged to him. He was just another patient, another Infected. He could believe he was something more than that if such exposure to these abilities of his made others happy.

Being faced with the damage done now left him a little lost in that regard. There was no way he'd be back in operations anytime soon. He wasn't even sure if he'd be able to get around at all for the time being, which, is restricting for an active guy like him.

In the end, all he's been trying to do is distract his thoughts from the IV plugged into his forearm and the mess that was the discolored swelling that bellowed at his knees. The bruises that appeared over the few hours of transport evolved into deep purples and more gruesome yellow, saturated enough to display on his darker complexion. To his dismay, much of the blood that had taken the liberty of oozing between ruptured skin was, in fact, the sprouting of oripathy crystals, the same as the tough, obsidian-like crystals that remained along his tail. Sure, he was numbed to the pain as one could reasonably be allowed, but the exhaustion was something else—stressing out the medical staff wasn't his intention, but everything directed at him just felt so delayed. It didn't help that the initial observation was that the muscles around his joints ruptured, painting a very unappetizing visualization while he was stuck in the gurney like a ragdoll.

"You really screwed yourself this time, Roark," quips a fellow archosaurian—Gavial, with clipboard in hand, likely documenting this whole mess and looking mightily unenthusiastic about his most recent decisions. She had been the one to give him his screening when he first boarded Rhodes, one of the few operators with excellent knowledge of archosauria as there weren't many at all. She had also been the primary surgeon for the arduous process of giving him the mobility back in his tail back then as well. He just likes to keep her busy, it seemed. She goes as far as knocking him on the head to get him to react sooner, and he blinks slowly.

"Little bit, eh? How's it look?"

"Like shit."

"...Fair point. I also feel like shit."

"We don't have a lot of time to do this right, but lucky for you, the oripathy's the only reason you're not in anaphylactic shock. Blood's seeping out enough to not poison your body as fast as these injuries normally would. Unfortunately, you still need a blood transfusion."

"But, I'm tired, Gav."

"If you do so much as close your eyes I'll beat a headache into that thick skull of yours so hard that it hurts too much to sleep. Wait 'til it's done, and tell me if you feel something different." Her recording is finished, and she's already fishing up the right tools for the job—whatever that job may be. Roark knows better to protest, even as one of the few operators that aren't terrified of her and her practice. Her efficiency in emergency care is unparalleled, and given they can hold a conversation, perhaps Roark ended up blacking out the worst of the stabilization.

"Maaan—alright, alright. Walk me through this, I'll try to follow."

"First thing's first, our resident vampire's gonna work on all the blood loss you've had on the way back, and cycle out the damage from your crush injury. As for us," Gavial vaguely gestures towards the small team that Roark was unaware even existed, scrubs and all, "We have to extract all of the originium out of your joints, or you're not gonna like it."

And he's gotta stay awake for this? Maybe being unable to feel his limbs makes the anxiety flop in his stomach worse.

"And, you better tell me if you feel anything painful. I mean it."

Considering his knees are the description of what it means to be blown, Roark nods in full compliance.

He tries not to focus too much on the instruments that far too quickly turn a fresh crimson as the team preps according to Gavial's instructions. The main objective here was to extract the new growths, remove any tissue that showed signs of necrosis, examine his joints at the source, suture up his legs back into shape, repeat the process for his elbows, check the rest of his body for signs of crush damage, and all the while, pump and cycle him full of fluids to keep his body from going any further than shock.

Oh, shock. That's probably why he wasn't panicking over the potential chances of losing his limbs, huh. There's the trust in the medical staff at Rhodes, too, of course.. and, maybe the acceptance of the risk. He's not particularly upset at being the only one to sustain any major injuries in such a high risk operation. He was asked to perform, and perform he did.

Roark appears as zoned out as he feels, vaguely aware of Warfarin's presence, hooking a blood bag to the wheeled rod that was carrying a plethora of fluids, labeled with words Roark couldn't even begin to understand the purpose for, much less read at all. Maybe his condition was more serious than he was told, or, maybe he was told and had already forgotten. Ah, well.

He not aware of the time, either, but seeing Gavial take a moment to crack her back and shoulders gives him a vague indication it's probably been a few hours. And then there's the travel time back from the mines. It's been awhile.

"Good news is that he's stabilizing. We might be able to begin surgery after he receives two units," he hears Warfarin report as Gavial and now familiar assistants drop shards of obsidian crystals into a metal bowl, each plink a different signature than the one that came before. Roark lolls his head to one side, trying to keep his arms from moving too much. He's tired.

"Works for me. He looks like he's about to take a nap, anyway. We'll likely need to borrow some donor skin for his joints, but soft tissue loss has been minimized due to the crystallization taking place. The worst of the muscle trauma is partially from being stabbed by his own oripathy." Gavial is the only doctor capable of being surprisingly easy to understand, although he wonders if it's for his benefit. "Skin from the thigh should suffice. His recovery won't be as bad as the initial report, but he's going to need several weeks of PT and making sure he doesn't volunteer himself for anything stupid." She clicks her tongue, another thought coming to mind. "Examine his tail afterwards, his charts need to be updated for an unexpected increase in his originium-cell assimilation. A scan for his spine as well. That's his problem area. Let's prepare for reconstruction surgery. Knock his ass out."

Roark, naturally, doesn't remember anything else after that.

When he comes to, he's no longer in the operating room surrounded by other operators and medical personnel alike—he's alone, bandaged up and stiff and surprisingly relaxed. Well, that simply had to be the intravenous pain medication in his system, considering his joints don't want to cooperate, held back by stitches. After a sigh, Roark settles back, resolved to be stuck only moving his arms by shoulders alone. Lifting his legs is even less practical, and all the interesting things to look at ( that is, all of the wounds ) are dressed in gauze. Damnit.

This is going to be a long recovery, isn't it?

"Ah, Stonedge, you're awake, perfect."

When he looks up, Gavial is there, arms crossed with clipboard in a hand, dangling. "You've been out for a whole day so far, I almost thought we lost you after all."

"Nah, I wouldn't go down that easy," Roark laughs tiredly, "Although I can't really go up at the moment, either."

She nods, a smirk playing on her lips, "Guess you figured that one out by yourself, huh? I need to change your bandages and check those stitches, anyway. We'll give them a bend before wrapping them up again. Otherwise, surgery went smoothly, aside from all those crystals we had to extract. Don't do crazy shit like that again, alright?"

Ah, well... "I didn't really have a choice, but—I'll try! I'll try! Don't hit me with that!"

Gavial just laughs before she grabs a fresh roll of gauze out of the medicine cabinet standard to these rooms. "Your arts do better when you're about to get the crap beaten out of you, anyway. Here, how's your arm when I bend it...?"

Changing bandages allows Roark to finally see just how much damage his oripathy required without completely ruining his mobility—the bruises are the worst he's ever seen, especially on himself. Between the stitches and the muscles crushing under the pressure, he much preferred them to be wrapped up. Thankfully, the worst he feels is soreness, and the stitches don't tug dangerously taut. Still, he can't be throwing himself around until the skin adheres to itself. Being bedridden sounds more boring than anything, and he asks Gavial if she can bring a few books from his labspace, to which she eventually obliges. It's really all he can do between these check-ups, trying to eat small meals, and otherwise being unable to stand for the next couple of weeks while his muscles heal. The process required more mental sanity than Roark had after the operation, and Gavial surprises him with another notice.

"By the way, you're also getting mandatory psych evaluations for the trauma."

"Huh—"

"To prevent phantom pains, or at least to learn to identify them from reality. It's common after experiencing severe pain, and with your track record—" Roark looks a little sheepish, "—you've got a tendency to compartmentalize trauma. We have to make it easier before you're cleared for operations again."

"Oh. Right. That would make sense, wouldn't it."

Gavial sighs and shakes her head. "You defenders are the worst, I swear. Anyway, I'll handle your PT when you have enough strength to stand, but it'll depend on how easily your joints recover from all the extractions. Two meals a day, hydration intravenous. Vitals every two hours. Bandage changes every morning or as needed if sooner. Counseling program will be two weeks, ten sessions. And you will tell us if you need more, understand?"

Roark scratches at his head, trying to keep track of everything, but for the most part, he'll be subjected to whatever the medic on duty will give him. At least he's not completely abandoned. "Yeah, just make sure I can see it somewhere since I can't write it down myself."

"No problem. If something feels off, give us a holler."

"Ah, hold on.. how is my back?"

Gavial's expression flattens some, much to his worry. "The amount of activity required of the originium in your body went beyond what your current suppression was capable of, so the crystals had a spur in your problem areas. That's the other reason why you'll be on mandatory bedrest for a while. Some crystals expressed on your spine, again, and a CT showed growths spawning in your tail, but we were able to do some preventative extractions while you were under. Those will heal sooner than everything else, but your assimilation rate has gone up by three percent. Still moderate, though, since you're not exposed to dust all day."

"Ah, Dad wouldn't be happy to hear that, but, oh well. I guess I gotta take it easy."

"Were you planning to get knocked out?"

"No—!"

"Then you better take it easy."

"I will, I will—"

"Good! That's what I like to hear. I'll see you in a few so I can get you some books." With that, Gavial is already on her way out. Roark can only look at his fresh bandages and sigh.

There's the psych evaluation to consider, he eventually comes to remember—not that he's ever lied through them or anything, it's just... difficult to word things when he's never had a reason to find words for some of the shit he's experienced. But, while he's not allowed in combat, he'll be allowed off the landship eventually as part of his enrichment. Mandatory excavation time... yeah, maybe that sounds nice to do. He'll have to bring it up with Gavial when she comes back then. This was going to be a long few weeks, wasn't it?

The flex in his joints feels more smooth, less taxing and fearful. Where stitches joined his skin together was now several crescent scars, raised and pale against tanned skin. His degree of strength in them still had some months to go, especially now that it was safer to do lighter reps in the training room, but Gavial had ensured he was not going to be completely feeble and unable to hold up his own weight in the meantime. Well, really, she beat his ass in physical therapy, and certainly made sure he hadn't lost an ounce of flexibility required of him against his will.

He could still feel his hamstrings stretched in ways he would remember in nightmares.

But.. all things considered, his body hadn't faltered as much as he had feared, granted, having a fellow archosaurian had helped immensely with the knowledge about their race and what sorts of training responded best. Even the shortcomings were addressed, even if Roark felt like he was about to snap his joints in half at times. The weeks felt like years, but he couldn't deny that Gavial's regimen prevented the muscles around his healing joints from total atrophy. The rest he could maintain on his own, and he was able to walk freely with weight.

"Lucky for you, Roark," Gavial overlooks her notes, incredibly long and detailed, but she skims as if there's no more than a paragraph, "Looks like you're finally cleared to take excursions off the landship. Good timing, too, we'll be in Higashi for about a couple of weeks for onboarding and supplies. You've shown good progress picking up that hammer of yours, and you'll need to work those muscles back for... two months, based on your weekly trend."

Roark looks hopeful, hilarious on a rugged looking alligator like him. "Can I go fossil hunting then?"

Gavial rolls her eyes. "Yes, as long as you don't overdo it. Snap your joints and I'm letting you rot with 'em."

Now, he's beaming. "Hell yeah—! Thanks, Gav!"

"That's Doctor to you." She gets a chuckle in return. "Now get the hell out of here before I change my mind. I'm signing off on approval for recreational activities, so you can request whenever you want. You're still not cleared for operations, though."

"I'll take it for now, I'm gonna go digging—" and Roark is taking her words seriously, bounding up and out of her office to go find the nearest administrator to give him his leave notice for the day.

Gavial adds another note to her report.

Patient's mental stability relies heavily on access to hobbies and manual labor. Continue to monitor damaged areas and evaluate oripathy response. Advise as necessary. Patient excels in outdoor activities. Update physical therapy location to the landing strip.

Roark is aware of the way he feels different in carrying himself—emotionally, he recovered far faster with the acceptance of his role, and those in the operation had checked in on him sporadically to ensure he was doing well. Of course, that was consciously. Physically, he wasn't near where he was at prior to the contract, with his endurance temporarily squandered and slow to rebuild. He was getting impatient, and being able to excavate in a completely new territory was too much of an exciting opportunity to give up.

What history did Higashi's lands hold? Was it anything like Columbia? Sargon? The possibilities excite him and it's near agony that he can't carry himself across the landship faster. Ugh, right, he needs to check in with the administrative office to get his leave. Fine, fine. Any faster and his legs will end up too sore from the exertion. Everything is so behind.

( you have time, you have time... ) The reminder drilled into him during his wellness visits repeats over and over, and Roark tries to slow himself down. He can't help it, he argues with himself, all the way down the hallways, through the conversation with a Rhodes Island receptionist, all the way back to his lab, while gathering his equipment, and it finally ceases when he retrieves his weapon from his room. It's heavier than it used to be.

( that's why we're going on an excursion, 'cause this is also part of the tools. this pick has been with him for almost a decade now.. )

He settles the heavy end against his shoulder, easing the strain on his arms. That feels better. Alright. Time to go hunting, then.

#🗻 ━ 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍'𝗌 𝗐𝗁𝗒 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗒 𝖼𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗆𝖾 𝖺 𝗋𝗈𝖼𝗄. / roark hc.#🌑 ━ 𝗈𝗉 𝗇𝖺𝗆𝖾 𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗇𝖾𝖽𝗀𝖾. / arknights verse.#🌙 ━ / worldbuilding.#long post #for reference it's....tipping towards 7k words. good luck.#edit: ft a few canon operators no i didn't describe shit HEEHEE

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marierg · 1 year

Text

Attack on Tantis: Mission Brief

WARNINGS: Mentions of insurgent activity, violence, death, and general military like talk. So if you aren't up for that don't read.

Hemlock analysis

Planet: Wayland 1- Wayland System, Ojoster Sector

Grid: N-7 Coordinates: 275.823, 244.99

Largely uninhabited, known as a wildlife preserve. The former civilization ended for unknown reasons 3000 years prior to the Clone Wars. Best known for large herds of Legogil Horses (noted for their superior speed) and for a dark green fern that grows along the lava flows where other plant life cannot.

Planetary Topography includes Temperate rain forests, rivers, volcanic mountains and lava flows. Current seasonal weather at time of Omega's capture would appear between spring and summer. If this particular location has a rainy season it could result in heavy mud, soil make up surrounding the mountain is unknown at this time. Given possible adverse reactions to weather and topography few outer perimeter security (remote/electronic) defenses are thus far observed.

Mount Tantis: Located on the primary continent of the Northern planetary hemisphere of Wayland 1. Set between the Equator and the Northern magnetic pole. Surrounded by rivers on 2/3 side from current reconnaissance photos. Old Republic Files cannot date when the Complex was first built, but at some point prior to or just after the start of the war the Science division there expanded the facilities within the mountain to include both a military barrack and private suites for the Emperor himself.

The Complex is demarcated into 3 primary sections with approximately (estimated from schematics) 35+ levels.

The upper 7 levels in section 1 indicate the private residence, possible offices, a smaller shuttle hangar. If estimates are true then we can surmise that these levels reasonably have separate turbo shafts with complete access to the facility. However we can also infer that the security of this level is also top priority, with possible security clearance codes, Bio scans, etc.

The second section would appear to be the primary base of operations within the complex. This is likely where the clones are being experimented on, but prisoners may also be housed elsewhere. Schematics show that there are several science stations, medical bays, and a large Cloning chamber similar to the ones found on Kamino. If subjects of the Hemlock experimentation group are unable to self extract the team assigned this area will need assistance with the wounded. There is also a large security presence that can be found on this level, probably where the internal security is located. There is also a large craft hangar on this level which appears to house a garrisons worth of fighters, speeders, and other transports. There are several mechanical hoists and repair stations within this area so we can also infer that this area serves to do repairs on craft as well. Of top priority in this section will be disabling of security protocols and communication, acquisition and evacuation of experiment subjects, destruction of cloning chambers and laboratory, and locating and elimination of Dr. Hemlock (Absolute top priority).

The third level extends from just below the main hangar and from reports and diagrams seems to house three primary areas: detention block, the computer mainframe, and the military barracks. This is where things could get tricky, we don't know where the predominant number of prisoners are being held between the second and third levels. We can guess that the prisoners able to aid in their own escape will come from this level. Of top priority though will be to lock down the troopers in their barracks (thus reducing the numbers we need to fight), taking down the security and communication systems, acquisition of intel (human lives first though, this later), and evacuation of the Detention blocks.

Beneath the third section is an unknown labyrinth, power station, and sub level sewers. Unknown if this could be a point of ingress/ egress (in and out) will require further recon.

Pre-mission Operations and Logistics:

Thorough reconnaissance of the area to observe troop rotation, base and personel movements, supply shipments, effect of local weather on the base (esp. security), prisoner transports, hack into communications for audio observation, and to find possible points of entry/ weaknesses of defense. Additionally wildlife observation would be valuable if animal trails or movement could aid in the attack (are birds often observed near the hangar or base doors, do the larger mammals congregate near the mountain, dear trails/stampede paths).

There will be a necessity for both offensive air support and air evacuation. Given the unknown numbers at least 2-3 larger transport craft would be preferred. Another possibility is to commandeer the transports already in the hangar itself. The problem with this is the possibility of being tracked, so its an option but not a great one.

Establishment of a Treatment Center/ Base of Operations:

Needs to be operational and ready to go before the first ship lands.

With the known factors being that there will be injured and mentally fragile POWs from this rescue there needs to be a base of recovery operations and medics who know how to operate it. The treatment center needs to be hidden, remote, and on a planet of little interest or well protected. All supplies and other resources will need to be in place prior to mission. Among the food, medicine and equipment most would consider is an additional pharmacological need for anti psychotics, antidepressants, sleep aids, & sedatives. It will also need adequate power to run multiple surgery and recovery areas at once. This is for two reasons: repair of injuries and removal of chips. Additionally the clinic area needs have closed loop or secure access and communications. This is so that in case we do get a Patient(s) who are programmed (a la Manchurian candidate) to contact the empire it can be contained and not reveal the location.

Recovery from this experience will be a long one, psychological deprogramming will take months to years if we are basing it off of modern psychiatric practices. Further and additional counseling over what happened during order 66 will also be necessary (in an ideal world; however I know we probably wont have resources on hand).

Transitioning to hiding as a civilian:

Will need to acquire several sets of civilian clothing and hair dye to help match in with the populace. There may be a need to remove tattoos and erasure of the clone bar codes as well. Unfortunately funds are likely limited and best we might be able to do is drop small groups of troopers to remote planets to hide with little more than a few days rations and a set of clothes. It's a sad but harsh fact, there's gonna be a limit on what can be done and triage dictates that after things settle down the birdies must leave the nest. Drop points should be outter rim or non aligned (example- Hutt space) planets, places where the Empire won't look for a good while. Other options are to see if there are any friendly planets (Alderaan/ Mandalore) that could help give sanctuary. Part of preparation for leaving should be contingency plans, protocols for if the empire shows up looking, emergency (secured) communication with the primaries of the rescue team (Rex & Co.).

Possible Allies for aid and support:

Senators Chuchi and Organa: Monetary, possibly materiel or personnel support. It would all have to be on the DL

Bo-Katan Kryze and the Mandalorians: If you think that I'm not above having Rex call in a favor then you'd be dead wrong. This woman owes Rex and the Clones a debt for helping to free Mandalore. Mandalorians as a culture hate to owe anything to anybody, it works to our favor. On top of this Wayland is one sector over from Mandalorian space. If we can obtain ships and fighters for assistance then all the better, However what could be invaluable is if the Mandalorians let the team set up a base of operations on one of the less populated planets (Zanbar, Krownest, or Gargon).

The Martez sisters- We know that they are helping Rex already and are excellent mechanics. We need ships and people on board who can pilot so that the fighters can fight.

Phee Genoa and associates- Pirates can get their hands on anything. We need Everything off books cash in hand and no trails back. Again I will state that Phee would likely help due to her friendship with the Batch. She has numerous skills and is good in a fight.

The town of Pabu- Possible location for more long term care and eventual settlement for those who may need continual support. Some folks don't do well on their own after treatment and need community support, I can think of none better. I will also add that the Batch has helped to rebuild and made friends here, people who may be willing to fight and or lend aid of other kinds.

Intelligence:

Troop numbers

Prisoner numbers and condition

security in use and means to bypass

communication among the enemy especially emergency communications and reinforcements (dead switch emergency signal; ie-rishi moon signal)

numbers of enemy air support active

movement within and outside the facility/ perimeter- scheduled/ regular/ paterns/ blind spots.

Points of entry and egress- doors/ fences/ hangar bays/ ventilation shafts/ sewers/ caves

points of damage to facility function and points of destruction

In the military this would be covered by the following types of reports:

SALT- Signs Activity Location and Time

SALUTE- Size, Activity, Location, Uniform/Unit (Identify personnel), Time, & Equipment (vehicles, weapons, force multiplier equipment)

Needed Air assets:

a scouting vessel with stealth capability/ signal scrambling.

3-4 smaller gunships/ transports for air support and evacuation needs.

The Plan:

24-48 hrs prior to attack:

Reconnaissance team insertion, 2 man unit. This is likely a one way trip. Limit to 1 or 2 transmissions of information to limit detection. Prior to attack will also need this team to plant an EMP (electromagnetic pulse) device near the communications and main hangar. Device needs to be timed or remote activated prior to the main attack. If there is inclement weather (thunderstorm) trigger then for masking purposes. This will deactivate part or most of the systems within the facilities not on emergency power backup and distract the enemy. Recon is to move in and rejoin teams 1 & 4 once hangar is secure.

Main Force:

2 groups- 4 teams

Attack time: 0100 (1 am)

Extraction time: before 0200 (adjust as needed)

It goes without saying that time is crucial, the timeline above is an eternity for any special operations team, but it is also taking into account having to move wounded or incapacitated POW's. All teams should be cross trained and know the others jobs in the case of a problem or death. There will be a need to pivot and adjust as the mission moves and progresses.

Group 1 piloting one of the gunships will fly in low and fast taking out the cannons at the perimeter then do a fly over for a troop drop in the tree line above the second level. Insertion of team 1 accomplished they will then proceed to the hangar, secure and hold position by ANY means necessary. Once secure, a second craft with teams 2, 3 (and if a 3rd craft not available also 4) shall enter for prisoner retrieval while team 4 takes out the remaining security forces.

Team 4 is also responsible for helping to guide teams 2 & 3 while tracking unsecured enemy movement, maintaining dead switch signals, security override on doors and turbo lifts, and maintaining normal communications transitions so as to maintain appearance. If needed for further man power team 4 or recon can move to cover after primary objective is obtained.

Team 2 is to search the medical, laboratory, and cloning floors. Primarily they are to figure out how to free the experiment prisoners, however the other part is to find Dr. Hemlock and eliminate him. This is the part that needs repeating, once Hemlock is found he is to be shot on sight. This monster cannot escape. In addition to eliminating a clear and present danger to the galaxy eliminating Hemlock denies the empire of a brilliant resource that cannot easily be replaced.

Team 3 will have the harder challenge of freeing the detention level which is housed next to the security force barracks. The barracks size indicates possibly a force of 500, however we cannot be sure if this includes officers or not. Team 4 needs to override protocol measures and secure the barrack so that enemy numbers are limited. We are attacking at night to also aid in this, most of the staff will be asleep and in their bunks. Hopefully most of the prisoners in the detention block will be mobile and able to aid in their evacuation.

Once team 3 has the prisoners they shall also plant an explosive device within the main computer bank. Once all prisoners are secure in the hangar, head count all parties and proceed to load and get the hell outta dodge. Once air borne trigger the explosives, this will add to the chaos and help divert the enemy. Once clear jump to hyperspace and land at appointed recovery station.

All present will likely need to shelter in place for a while, until safe to move.

Sources:

starwars.fandom.com and swgalaxymap.com

Tags:

@rain-on-kamino @wild-karrde @cocolinagoodnight @droids-you-are-looking-for @ladysongmaster @chopper-base @timberwood-101 @random-user753 @darthsydnious @brrrrgobrain @sw-2020-1

#bad batch #bad batch season 2 #tbb s2 #tbb #tbb echo #tbb hunter #tbb tech #tbb wrecker #tbb crosshair #tbb spoilers #tbb omega #star wars

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chloemydarling · 1 year

Text

Adapting

Chapter 1

Robbie…

Cold wind swept over the tarmac, whistling past his already frozen ears and making him frown. The black blue darkness of pre-dawn cast it’s shadows over air crafts and buildings behind into an indeterminable mass of shapes and angles. Robbie surveyed over the horizon, watching as forms melted into view from the shadows.

People in groups of two and three plodded across the black top towards him in rapid pace. His squad would be falling in line by 04:30 sharp, he’d already been here at the ungodly hour of 03:30 to oversee both choppers were ready and all laptops set to his dossier. Checking in with the pilots, looking over the cargo and ensuring for the third time that all laptops were ready to go, Robbie took in a steadying breath. Murmurs and footsteps behind him greeted his ears and he was pleased the team arrived.

Turning, he took in the faces that belonged to the files he’d hand picked them from. Two missing. Looking past the helmed heads lined up before him, Robbie saw they were lagging behind and taking their time to catch up.

As he watched them, one turned around and pushed the other over. Rolling as he fell, that one lagged behind. Whoops and hollers faintly rang out over the expanse from them to him, he felt a pang of annoyance. Checking the face of his GPS, 04:29 beamed up at him in electric green.

‘They’d better run fast’

He didn’t want to put on the hard ass persona this early on. Waiting with a carefully schooled stern expression, he watched as the stragglers jogged up and slowed to a huffing, gasping stop at the group. The slowest one arrived and doubled over on his knee’s to catch his breath. The first one immediately dropped his hand in a nut shot that left Robbie’s jaw open in disbelief.

‘Stupid’ Robbie couldn’t help the fleeting thought, but judge them he did.

‘This isn’t playtime’

Seeming to have expected the attack, the slow one dipped to the side and stepped away just far enough to avoid being touched. He darted his eyes at Robbie for a second, then looked away to scowl at his partner who was still smiling and feinting a punch.

Slowly, Robbie walked right up to them and looked each one in the eye. He then turned his chin to the side and tipped it toward the line of mercenaries waiting command. Wordlessly the last two fell in line and stood like the others. Checking his GPS again, 04:36 glowed up at him and he glowered at it. He had enough time to brief the team and get the mission going, this wasn’t a bad start.

“Stop!” the hushed shout came from none other than the stragglers.

More fidgeting among them, a doofy laugh and then Robbie’s temper flared. He didn’t need to know what happened, getting it to stop was his only concern. Another peel of barely contained laughter and one shoved the other, mumbling defensively. Others in line were distracted now, watching the two rather than wait at the ready. It seemed to be catching. This was going south already.

‘I could leave them behind.’

The unbidden thought tempted him, but he needed every man on the team. This was not a rookie mission, these were not new kids on the block. Standing at the ready for his direction were seasoned veterans with decorated careers that had led them to the road of independent contracting. He had picked each one, meticulously balancing their specialties to suit reconnaissance and withdraw mission.

‘Just who the fuck are these two?’

Standing tall and setting his jaw, he stalked over to the two clowns and got right up into the closest one’s face. He leaned in until he saw the guy back up, just a bit, and then stared hard. Being shorter than the younger man did not steal his resolve, he glared as hard as he could into the quailing face. He was about to open his mouth and give him an idea of what was expected of him, but noted the wide eyes and pale face. He could see there was no problem here. Dipping his chin in a fraction of a nod, Robbie turned his malice over to the real culprit, the first one visibly wilting in relief.

Surprise stunned him, Robbie stared for a second in confusion. He was looking at exactly the same face, only rather than fear and regret he was met with glaring insubordination. Dark eyes narrowed at him in open challenge, the square jaw set wide and flexed in a return of his own expression.

‘Twins’

He’d known he had hired brothers, saw the names plainly on their respective applications, but he hadn’t expected this. Dropping his eyes down to the flak vest, he read the call sign and returned his eyes to the clown’s unruly stare. Another chilly gust of wind picked up, snaking itself through his fatigues and making him eager to board already.

“Octane. You seem to have the jitters. Are you feeling nervous maybe?”

His tone belied the concerned phrasing, letting his eyes and tone drip with disapproval and loudly so. He wanted the squad to listen in, needed to set this upstart off on the correct footing if he was going work on this mission. Cracking a shit eating grin, Octane leaned in, meeting his superior in proximity in a much too easy display of bravado.

“No sir! Ready for orders sir!” His eyes danced with mirth, he’d just shouted in Robbie’s face at full volume.

The dark eyes drilled into his with purpose. Robbie doubted very much this man would follow orders. He wasn’t willing to leave him behind over attitude, the Puffton’s needed to be recovered and time was against them already. Could they manage without their tracker? The jokester’s grin widened as Robbie considered what to do to keep him in line.

‘Just what is this guy trying to prove?’ Robbie stepped back and announced for everyone to hear.

“You can’t keep your hands to yourself. Why is that?”

He looked among the crew and rested his eyes back on Octane, hoping a little humiliation and social mirror cues could settle him. Chuckling, Octane shot back without a moments hesitation, as his brother shot him a warning glance.

“Just happy sir! I’m a hugger!” The jovial tune became bouncy. This guy lit up when given the chance to be center of attention.

“Settle your happy ass down! You’re wasting time.” His tone was dropping as his patience wore thin.

“Do not touch him again.” Robbie warned as the dope started bouncing on his heels. What was with this guy?

“What is your problem?” He barked this now, fresh out of patience.

“I’m feeling energized sir!” Crinkled, happy eyes bored into his, along with a crooked grin.

Robbie stared, unimpressed. What was he supposed to do with that? Octane bit his lip and glowed with contained laughter. A few merc’s chuckled and muttered amongst themselves, the brother stared hard at the idiot. Robbie could feel the mood shifting among his team and decided what to do.

“Octane. Burpee’s until I say stop, and listen up while I talk.”

Robbie had wasted enough time on this chump, he wasn’t interested. Hopping to, the bad twin set to dropping down, lurching out, rising and jumping. He made a loud show of his breathing and flexing, hamming up every moment he could.

“Two!… whew! Haa.. Ack, Three!… Whew!” Laughter erupted among the line.

Robbie almost laughed. This guy could not be serious for one second. Had they been colleagues, he might have been amused, but being in the position of power meant it was he who had to keep this Charlie horse under reigns. He had had enough.

“No need to count Octane, I’m watching every move. You shush and listen while you work.” He used the mean voice. Humorless, brooking no arguments and channeling his own father as best he could. He kept it up for the speech too, he disliked how the others were loosening up due to bad influence. They sharpened up at his barking tone.

“Call signs from here on out. Keep in radio contact at all times. Do not separate from your squad mates. Get familiarized with mission details in the dossier. You have 2.5 hours to catch up on what we know, do not neglect your special orders. Each of you has them.” He paused, taking a moment for everyone to ingest this.

“We will be landing at”- He stopped himself, checking the time again and frowning deeply at 04:55 impossibly there. He had expected to depart at 04:40 and arrive shortly after sunrise. Tossing one dirty look to the now genuinely gasping merc doing punishment burpee’s, Robbie finished with an audibly displeased huff.

“-Later than desired. Expect sunrise before we land.” Keeping his own attitude in check, Robbie called out each call sign to their designated team and gave the signal to board and depart. He entertained the notion of leaving Octane there doing burpee’s as the choppers left, but funny as the mental image was he still absolutely needed him.

“Octane, stand at ease.” He strolled over to the sweating dolt, satisfied to see his face was red from the little exercise in office politics. He waved off the others to board, and noted the long forgotten twin waiting loyally by the door of the craft. Once again meeting Octane face to face, Robbie got comfortable looking into the rebellious eyes.

“Get your bag and board. Read the dossier.” He dismissed him and surveyed the area. He made eye contact with Bravo team pilot, giving a thumbs up and jogged to board right behind the brothers on Alpha team. To his dismay, Octane was right back at picking on his brother. Was this compulsory? Robbie glared as the good twin hopped in and saw Octane lift his boot to kick his brother in the back of his supporting leg.

Predictably, the brother balked and fell sideways with his bag toppling him to the ground. Cackling, Octane stepped over him and boarded while his brother insulted him from the cold tarmac. Leaning down, Robbie took the brother��s shoulder and offered a hand up when they made eye contact. Hefting him up, Robbie boarded last and watched Octane with impatience.

Minutes in, Octane handed the laptop over to his brother, whose call sign read Buckshot, and restlessly looked around the cabin. Robbie had been watching them, studying them out of sheer boredom. Could he find a difference between them other than their tags? As he watched, their subtle body language spoke volumes.

Buckshot was rather mild, sitting back relaxed and carefully pouring over the details written on each slide in the laptop. Robbie appreciated that. As Buckshot sat diligent, he seemed also to be pointedly ignoring his brother.

Octane looked like a caged animal. He stretched his legs out, pulled them back in. He stretched only one out, kicked his brothers boot with the other. Sitting up straight he ran a thumb under his seat straps, flexed his spine and cracked his neck. His eyes roved around the room, glanced out the windows, then eventually flicked over to him.

Octane looked away after a little staring contest, a half smirk on his face as he turned away to flick Buckshot in the ear. Robbie could imagine how tiring a brother like that would be. His restlessness was palpable in the room, a frenetic energy that left Robbie expecting him to act out soon.

It didn’t take long. Just as Robbie grew tired of looking for ways to tell them apart and decided to stare out of the window, a disgruntled sound drew his eyes back. Octane was laughing and sitting back on the edge of his seat as Buckshot pulled at his helmet, which was screwed halfway around his head.

It didn't look comfortable sideways, the headphones pulling at strands of hair. Robbie was going to let it slide as harmless, dumb sibling stuff but when Octane started trying to twist Buckshot’s nipple through his vest he spoke up.

“Hey!” His tone was sharp. He disliked doing this, didn’t like this part of the job. Managing people was a bitch.

“Knock it off! I’m sick of it.” He hoped the dummy wouldn’t up the ante. Octane burst into giggles and gripped Buckshot’s knee with both hands. He rocked back and forth as he giggled until he was drawing deep gales of breath. He seemed to relish being in trouble.

‘Just relax you weirdo’ He couldn’t believe this was a man grown and not some teenager.

Buckshot righted his helmet and rubbed his nose, which was very red now. He looked right at Robbie and held his gaze. His eyes were resigned but soft, they seemed to be saying ‘thanks for trying’ and then he looked at Octane and spoke to him. Robbie couldn’t hear what they said as they spoke back and forth, but he was satisfied that Octane was shutting up. Having achieved the feat of settling Octane down, the brothers were quiet and time began to drag. The chopper soared on forever, and the air grew stuffy from being breathed up.

Glancing at Fisheye who sat beside him, Robbie clicked on his playlist. Fisheye was absorbed in his particular instructions on the personal file, Robbie had written this himself and didn’t need refreshing on any details, so he skipped two songs and listened as drums and electric guitar thrummed in his ears.

He had just downloaded this, and it rocked. Flight of the Valkyries was meant for heavy metal and he listened to it twice as the flight wore on.

The sun began to rise, tinging the blue cloud cover in bright pink and orange. Robbie hoped they were getting close, his body was feeling stiff and cramped sitting so long. He had found himself watching the twins without realizing he’d been doing it more than once, and now made an effort not to watch them.

Instead he looked out the window as endless water rippled and glittered in the rising morning light. He nodded his head along to the drums, enjoying the slide of guitar with bass notes right behind it.

As a metal head, he knew to expect hearing loss with age but that didn’t stop him from blasting his favorite songs, he just couldn’t help it. Music was visceral for him, took his mind away and gave his body tingles like a roller coaster would. He could hear his wife harping at him about it in his mind. He smiled to himself, he didn’t have to turn it down right now. As the drums rolled and he tapped out the beat on his leg, a pinging whine cracked through the window and by his face.

Cracks in the window caught his eye and the alarms blaring past his heavy metal music sank his heart. Air pressure dropped and Robbie’s face felt cold in a sudden gust. Another bullet winged past and the engine made a very bad sound.

The chopper lurched sideways in a free fall. Robbie felt his heart drop and a scream stuck in his throat as the sensation of falling and lifting away from his seat sent his mind reeling. Bracing his arms and legs for impact, he felt his chest tighten in dread. They were going to die. They were still much too high for a safe landing and the circles they were making made him dumb with fear.

‘Who the Hell shot us?’ He wondered briefly, uselessly, as if that would change this.

As they raced toward the ground he wondered what it would feel like, a sick anticipation he couldn’t shake. He grasped with all his might to keep his hold on the head rest and the ceiling, but felt his center of gravity changed direction violently and his vision whirled.

‘Holly!’ His mind screamed. ‘I’ll never see Holly again! My God, Gracie!’ His body lurched again, thudding hard into something in an almighty impact that shook him entirely. He felt his body vibrating from the hit.

The world went quiet, and he couldn’t think at all. Disoriented, weak, head blindingly painful, he could only feel himself falling again.

He hit something.

Then everything went dark.

#kelvin #robert kelvin #the forest #kelvin sotf #sons of the forest kelvin

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spacetimewithstuartgary · 8 months

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Digital terrain models zero in on Martian surface

Picture soaring over a rugged canyon on another world, strapped into an imaginary hang glider. Or getting a bird's eye view of craters that stretch on for miles and following along the same paths as the robotic rovers that have explored the surface of Mars. All of this is possible—virtually—thanks to specialists at the University of Arizona's Lunar and Planetary Laboratory.

A team at the Lunar and Planetary Laboratory has created realistic terrain models of Mars' surface using specialized software and high-resolution images taken from space. Known as digital terrain models, or DTMs, these renderings allow mission planners to examine landing sites for landers and rovers and scout routes across the alien terrain, laying the groundwork for ongoing and future Mars exploration campaigns.

Creating a DTM begins with high-resolution images taken with the High Resolution Imaging Science Experiment, or HiRISE, a UArizona-led camera instrument aboard NASA's Mars Reconnaissance Orbiter, or MRO, which has captured detailed views of the red planet's surface since 2006.

Unlike a consumer-grade digital camera, HiRISE does not take "snapshots" of a scene—rather, it relies on a method called push-broom photography. As the orbiter passes over Mars, the camera takes a long scan, producing pictures used to create DTMs, which are topography maps and capture the shape of planetary surfaces.

"DTMs take a long time to make," says HiRISE outreach coordinator Ari Espinoza, "so the fact we've been able to crank them out in such high numbers underscores the value that HIRISE still has—especially because no one else is making such high-resolution images of Mars' terrain."

HiRISE can resolve objects as small as three feet, about the size of a coffee table. Thus, HiRISE can reveal potential snags and obstacles in landscapes that may look deceptively easy to navigate when viewed from a distance. The sheer amount of DTMs from UArizona has made them a sought-after resource used to examine changes in Mars' geology, find safe landing sites and navigate rover routes.

For each DTM, two images of the same area are necessary. HiRISE captures each image on a separate orbit and at a different angle, and combining the images results in a so-called stereo pair.

Essentially, the set of images making up a stereo pair mimics the left eye and right eye, creating a sense of depth, explains HiRISE scientist and DTM lead Sarah Sutton.

"When you look at the images together with special glasses—like the red-blue glasses often handed out at science fairs—it allows your brain to make a 3D image," she says.

The stereo pairs are then used to produce the DTMs—an intensive process that involves a coding component, examining the actual images taken by HiRISE and editing the DTMs.

The program launched in 2008 with Sutton being the sole producer of DTMs. Thanks to a growing team that includes student workers, the effort is on track to complete more than 150 for this year alone, a record. September saw the completion of a major milestone when the number of total DTMs passed the 1,000 mark.

"Production has gotten a lot faster because we have better targeting of stereo pairs, more automation in our process, and we are continually refining our methods," Sutton says.

Editing especially requires a lot of hands-on work. For example, stark differences in lighting, such as a dark shadow covering one side of a crater, can cause errors that need to be evaluated by a human pair of eyes.

"In such cases, the computer doesn't register what is actually on the surface, and so it makes things up that we have to correct manually," says Branden Gosse, a recent UA graduate who now works as a research technician for HiRISE.

During HiRISE's repeated passes over the same area, it sometimes witnesses changes on the Martian surface that provide valuable scientific clues about dynamic processes, Sutton explains.

"We can observe seasonal changes in frost cover or dunes moving across the land," she says. "That's only possible with DTMs, since they correct for differences due to the individual images being taken from slightly different optical perspectives."

On top of depicting surface changes, DTMs help Mars rovers navigate terrain that could be dangerous. While small, sharp rocks are too small for DTMs to resolve, they can effectively display hazardous sand dunes that rover wheels can get stuck in. In collaboration with cameras aboard rovers, DTMs can even enable almost real-time navigation of rovers' routes.

Making space science tangible

The feats accomplished through DTMs have been made possible through the scores of UArizona students who have produced them over the years, culminating in 1,000 DTMs made from a pool of almost 8,000 stereo pair images. Although DTM production has a steep learning curve, the benefits are immense and planetary science gets more tangible, according to Sutton.

"DTM production gives students the opportunity to see how space science really works outside a classroom," she says.

Simultaneously, the HiRISE team learns from students' new perspectives, and students learn how to work with the software, according to Max Cabrera, a student worker majoring in physics and astronomy.

"Last semester, there would be this overlap where I'd use the techniques from DTM production in class and vice versa," he says. "There was this nice back and forth that helped me hone my edge for coding."

Even with a long history under their belt, DTMs cover a very small percent of Mars' surface—less than 1% or 2%—which highlights the extent of contributions HiRISE can continue to make for as long as the hardware lasts. With students and scientists hard at work in the DTM lab, the topography maps are bound to secure the success of Mars missions—and possibly even human space exploration in the not-too-distant future.

According to Alfred McEwen, the mission's principal investigator, "DTMs are critical for finding future landing sites for humans or robots as well as monitoring safety and what is happening on the surface."

"Researchers for other moons and planets wish they had something like HiRISE and the MRO orbiting their field of study," McEwen says. "High-resolution images are highly desired pretty much anywhere that you have a solid surface."

Aside from HiRISE, McEwen serves as deputy principal investigator for the Europa Imaging System, or EIS, on NASA's Europa Clipper spacecraft, scheduled for launch next year. Similar to the flyovers over Mars' surface, the Clipper mission will involve studying Jupiter's moon Europa, the sixth-largest moon in the solar system, during a series of flybys.

"As the spacecraft orbits Jupiter and makes close passes to Europa, we hope to get the same kind of stunningly beautiful pictures of this icy world as we do of Mars with HiRISE," McEwen says.

TOP IMAGE....Rendered from a digital terrain model, this image shows Ganges Chasma, a deep canyon on the eastern end of Valles Marineris, the largest canyon system not just on Mars, but in the entire solar system. Credit: Kevin Gill, JPL-Caltech

LOWER IMAGE....Rocky outcroppings are visible in this digital terrain model of Martin Crater on Mars created by Kris Akers at the Lunar and Planetary Laboratory. DTMs offer faithful renditions of the topography and surface features of planetary bodies and help mission planners pick safe routes for rovers and landers, for example. Credit: Kris Akers, HiRISE, Lunar and Planetary Laboratory

#science #space #astronomy #physics #news #astrophysics #mars

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usafphantom2 · 1 year

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Ukrainian Air Force forms new attack squadron with Su-24 bombers with British cruise missiles

Fernando Valduga By Fernando Valduga 06/03/2023 - 16:00 in Military, War Zones

The Ukrainian air force has been... busy. With a pre-war force of only 125 or more fighters and bombers, the Ukrainian air force defended the sky over Kiev during the first hours of the Russian attack on the city in the spring of 2022 and, after the attack collapsed, changed its attention with positions on the front lines in eastern and south of Ukraine.

In 15 months of intense combat, the air force lost at least half of its stock of pre-war jets — and dozens of pilots. But in the midst of this violence, a small community was relatively idle: the section of the 7º Bomber Regiment that takes care of the missions of recognition of the service. The airspace over the battlefield of Ukraine has become very dangerous for manned reconnaissance flights.

Working closely with the United Kingdom, the Ukrainian air force has equipped at least part of the reconnaissance section - which flies with Sukhoi Su-24MRs two-seat supersonics from the regimental base in western Ukraine - armed with British-made Storm Shadow cruise missiles.

And now the reconnaissance pilots are firing the 1.5-ton subsonic Storm Shadows at targets up to 155 miles away, specifically targeting the warehouses on which the Russian logistics rely to feed, supply and arm the combat battalions.

These attacks are part of what military planners call a "modeling operation". That is, an effort to create conditions for a successful offensive - unraveling the logistics of the enemy and leaving his frontline forces hungry.

Ukraine's long-awaited offensive for 2023 has not yet begun. New brigades equipped with Western-made tanks and combat vehicles are ready. The spring mud season is over. The Ukrainians are waiting... for something. Perhaps for the Su-24 crews will finish attacking the Russian supply lines with their new sophisticated missiles.

The Ukrainian air force had only 21 and up to 25 Sukhoi Su-24M bombers and Su-24MR reconnaissance planes when Russian forces expanded their war against Ukraine starting in the early hours of the morning of February 24, 2022.

All pre-war bombers and reconnaissance planes - up to 16 of the first and nine of the last - belonged to the 7º Bombers Regiment at Starokostiantyniv air base.

In one year and three months, the regiment lost at least 17 Su-24s. Victims of Russian air defense missiles, mainly. It is known for sure that the Russians shot down a Su-24MR and killed their two crew members over Poltava Oblast in central Ukraine in October. It is not clear how many of the other 16 losses involved recognition variants. Possibly none.

Fortunately for the 7º Bomber Regiment, there were up to 47 old Su-24 fuselages stored throughout Ukraine, many of them in the aircraft cemetery in Bila Tserkva, near Kiev. The technicians have been fixing these old jets to keep the 7º Bomber Regiment in the war.

When the UK government decided in February that it would provide the government of Ukraine with its first cruise missiles launched from the air, the Su-24s of the 7º Bomber Regiment - specifically, the Su-24MRs - were obvious candidates to transport the ammunition.

In mid-May, London confirmed that it gave Storm Shadows to Kiev and modified the existing Ukrainian planes to launch the almost 5-meter missiles with its 1,000-pound warheads. A photo of a photo that Ukrainian Defense Minister Oleksii Reznikov posted on Wednesday shows the Su-24MR with the number of the "yellow 60" nose taking off with a Storm Shadow on the right side

The United Kingdom's Defense Minister, Ben Wallace, signed the photo for "all the brave 'few' who risk everything for the glory of Ukraine". A nod to the few brave pilots of the Royal Air Force who defended Britain from the German Blitz during World War II.

The Storm Shadow of more than $1 million is a good combination for the Ukrainian air force. The missile is highly autonomous and therefore adaptable to a wide range of aircraft types. Storm Shadow and his French and German cousins set up Tornado bombers and Mirage 2000 fighters, Rafale and Eurofighter.

The stealthy cruise missile was probably easier to integrate into Ukrainian jets than the GPS-guided bombs and guided missiles that the United States promised Ukraine from last year. To make Kiev's Sukhoi Su-27 and Mikoyan MiG-29 fighters compatible with American weapons, the contractors improvised poles under the wings and connected them to new monitors installed in the cockpits of the jets.

In contrast, the missile manufacturer MBDA - technically, its predecessors - designed the Storm Shadow for maximum ease of use in what Italian air force test pilot Enrico Scarabotto described as "an incredibly low pilot workload cockpit environment".

Most of the programming work of a Storm Shadow takes place on the ground, before a mission. Technicians use the Storm Shadow Data Programming System to tell the missile where to attack and at what angle.

Storm Shadow navigates towards the GPS coordinates, but corrects its course by examining the terrain that passes below it and combining it with known features. As it approaches its target, the missile opens its nose to reveal an infrared search engine that searches for the target's heat profile - and guides the weapon to the impact.

All this means that a crew does not need to do much to launch a Storm Shadow, except deliver it to a starting point that the missile recognizes. Thus, the work of integrating Storm Shadow into a new type of aircraft mainly involves the installation of a physical interface - a pestle - and the testing of plane-missile pairing to ensure that there are no aerodynamic surprises.

It is this simplicity that apparently allowed the Ukrainian air force and its British supporters to form what is equivalent to a new long-range attack squadron - eight or more Su-24MRs armed with Storm Shadow - within the 7º Bomber Regiment damaged by the battle ... in just three months.

The Sukhoi reconnaissance jets that turned into missile carriers quickly began to work. Explosions at Russian logistics sites in the occupied ports in Mariupol and Berdyansk in recent days are possible indications of Storm Shadow attacks. Both ports are almost 160 kilometers from the front, placing them beyond the reach of most of Ukraine's non-Storm Shadows weapons.

Reznikov said on Sunday that all the Storm Shadow that the Su-24 crews launched hit their targets.

Source: Forbes

Tags: Military AviationUkrainian Air ForceStorm ShadowSu-24 FencerWar Zones - Russia/Ukraine

Fernando Valduga

Aviation photographer and pilot since 1992, has participated in several events and air operations, such as Cruzex, AirVenture, Daytona Airshow and FIDAE. He has works published in specialized aviation magazines in Brazil and abroad. Uses Canon equipment during his photographic work around the world of aviation.

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hexonthepeach · 2 years

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dark & stormy 5: blue skies

summary: you’re a housekeeper in a seedy hotel working through the worst hurricane of the season when you’re invited to spend the evening with your two sexy but enigmatic co-workers. when you accidentally uncover their secret identities you're dragged into a darker world—one you may already know too well

pairing: jaehyun (nct) x johnny (nct) x fem!reader (code name: jenny)

genre: the late-70s/early-80s miami vice/nice guys/secret agent johnjae/reader au no one asked for or: a work of madness inspired by the infamous w korea shoot

word count: 11.6k of 63k

warnings: explicit sexual content (m/f, m/m, mmf threesome) [see chapters for detailed tags], dark themes, implied murder, drug-use (alcohol, quaaludes), drugging w/o consent, stalking, kidnapping (non-sexual), bondage, minor knifeplay/gunplay, slight age gap [y/n early 20s, jj late 20s/early 30s], y/n implied dark origins/criminal history (OC vibes but history left open for interpretation), sleep paralysis/nightmares, walk-on guest appearances from other nct members inc. sungtaro in later chapters

fic masterlist

read on AO3

chapter warnings: mild violence, descriptions of gore and suturing, a whole lotta angst, mild sir kink

“So a priest is drowning in the river when a boat comes along. No, no, the priest says, I don’t need help I have God on my side—”

The bells of the Duomo di Modena ring over the square, drowning out the next part of your partner’s joke. It’s just in time as the waiter brings your second espresso. You tuck your hair behind your ear, looking into your hand mirror, self-conscious not of the flyaways but the empty yellow cobblestone behind you.

“Grazie,” you say, adjusting your sunglasses to look over them at your partner in crime. “You’ve already told me this one before, Woo. God gets upset because he sent three boats.”

“Way to kill the punchline,” Jungwoo says dejectedly. He picks at his cornetto, long-lashed eyes flitting over you to fix on the waiter and offer them a smile. You give him a look of mock sympathy.

“You need to work on your repertoire,” you offer. “Maybe throw in a rabbi or a nun.”

“It’s not my fault you remember everything,” he says while scoping the town square behind you. “Know any jokes about nuns?”

At this hour in the morning foot traffic is at its peak, but more pigeons are navigating the entrance of a historic monument than passerbys. The Romanesque architecture reaching to the heavens seems altogether mundane when there’s tourists stepping around the cordoned blocks of stone to capture it in film.

“I promise if you have a fresh joke I’ll listen to it,” you offer as consolation.

“How about this one, it has a clown—“

“Is he me? Or the doctor?”

“No,” he sniffs, mock offended, crossing his impossibly long legs. “Maybe.”

You check your earpiece, thumbing the mic in your trenchcoat’s lapel. You leave it on, the dual echo of your partner’s mic catching the occasional car horn or loud conversation. That first sip of fine roast from the cup in your hand is enough to keep you breaking and running.

“Nervous?” Jungwoo catches you off guard, rosy lips splitting into a knowing grin.

“No,” you counter immediately, both knowing it’s a lie.

It wasn’t your fault you’d landed on the European continent with much less of a professional discipline than your previous missions. It wasn’t just that the stakes were higher, with you in charge of reconnaissance and intelligence gathering, but that you’d been sent without much of a lead.

While your partner was largely useless in physical combat he was more than talented at espionage. Agent Kim had talked you into and out of dozens of situations, and he had a nose for danger that had saved you before. But you couldn’t help but feel you were being thrown to the wolves.

The debriefing with the Deputy Director had been short and to the point: prevent the acquisition of a stolen asset at a drop somewhere in northern Italy. You’d chased leads though museums and hotels in Paris, even taken a short trip to the Alps, until a tip in Monaco. You'd been given the message while Jungwoo flirted with a Carabinieri to avoid being taken into custody at a murder scene you’d stumbled into.

“Find Guinivere stolen by a hippocampi.”

A cursory lead for research had landed you in Emilia-Romagna, conveniently the site of a festival and a scientific conference, and a cathedral with some odd Arthurian history you didn’t have time to dive into but had a gut feeling would work in your favor. You were beginning to think you’d chosen correctly.

“Eleven o’clock. The man with the newspaper he isn’t reading. He’s been at the same spot, eyeing the gate since Mass let out. I think he’ll move soon.”

“I see,” Jungwoo says, glancing over his shoulder for a moment before drinking from his Americano. “Need a scene?”

“Nothing too overt, please,” you say. You can’t help but be haunted by the incident involving a wig where he’d been dropped out of a casino by security, killing your conversation with your first lead in weeks.

“Got it,” he says with an easy smile. “You going to church?”

“Hopefully I don’t burst into flame the moment I walk in,” you sigh.

“I have a little something for you. For courage,” Jungwoo says, reaching into his inner jacket pocket. You watch as he performs a magic trick, pulling out a long length of scarf. The attention from the café residents around you is negligible but you blush all the same.

“You shouldn’t have,” you say, as he deftly folds the square of silk into a triangle. The leopard motif is immediately recognizable as an Yves Saint Laurent piece you’d eyed in Milan, pretending to be the kind of clientele who could afford it.

“For courage,” he says, reaching over the wrought-iron table and your forgotten pastry breakfast to tie it over your head and behind your high bun. “There, you look like Audrey in Charade now. Go get ‘em, tiger.”

“Do you know what’s wrong with you?” You ask him as he stands up.

“No, what?” He asks, puzzled. You let him realize you’re telling a joke by the way you pull down your sunglasses to wink at him.

“Nothing,” you quote, waiting for him to get it.

Jungwoo tips his black hat with a grin, not bothering to head for the exit of the cafe patio but instead simply walking over the low fence, making a beeline for the empty square. You finish your coffee, steeling your nerves and checking your surroundings in your pocket mirror before following in his wake.

It’s easy to become lost in the bustle, tourists mixing with the crowd leaving morning service. You keep your focus ahead but watch out of the corner of your eye as the slim man in black rounds your earlier target and stands besides him. He pulls something from his pocket and throws it on the ground.

Your cue to continue is a rush of wings as every bird in a 100-yard radius descends on a free breakfast.

“Good work,” you say into your hidden mic. “I’m going in.”

The cathedral is open between services but surprisingly empty except for a few parishioners and visitors. You cross yourself upon entering, taking a seat in the back and allowing yourself to bask in the impressive gothic vault and bare brick arches, leading to an apse illuminated in gold and quaint paintings of Christ, Mary, and saints.

Once you have your bearings you pretend to drop your purse, leaning down to scan the dark wooden benches for anything left beneath them. Within a few seconds you’ve caught sight of the steel briefcase—it was always a briefcase—towards the front and left.

“Your friend is bird-free,” Jungwoo’s musical voice is in your ear.

“Intercepting the package now,” you answer in a whisper.

“Looks like he has company.” The response spurs you to move faster, slipping out of your seat and rounding the columns so as to be out of the eyeline of the central nave. You’re almost to your goal when you see an uncharacteristic group of three men enter under the giant rose window, shadowed against the exterior.

Immediately you drop down and crawl to the case, startling an old woman sitting at the other end of the pew. You look up at her, startled, as you fight to undo the lock chaining it to a wooden leg, finally deciding to pick up the bench with a loud squeak and pull it to you.

“Scusi,” you whisper, moving past her knees and still crouched as you head towards the nearest exit on the north side. The door is right ahead of you but so is someone else, hidden in the dim corridor.

“Dove stai andando con quello?” You can see the short man reach into his jacket pocket and respond automatically: you bull rush him with the case, knocking him to the floor before turning on your heel and sprinting in the opposite direction.

“Fermala!” He calls out behind you but the other men have already split to chase, sidling down the rows and around the columns to cut off your escape. You knock down an iron candelabra to ward off the fastest of your pursuers, barreling out the massive south-side door and past the stone lions guarding the entrance.

“Fourth door, fourth door,” you repeat, veering right to head back towards the square. At the sound of the gate opening again you duck into another entryway. This side of the Duomo is much more busy, crowded with vendors and tourists.

“I’m on the north side, too much heat. Heading into the tower,“ Jungwoo says in the channel.

“It’s a little late to set up a lookout!” you hiss.

“I’ll cover you. Head to rendezvous point C.”

You bite your lip reflexively, pulling out the Beretta Compact in your trench pocket. You peer around the stone wall to see the thugs pausing a stone’s throw away, scanning the crowd. You duck back just as a shot rings out—chips of stone explode over your head, but not from the door. Two more men approach, shouting.

You’re effectively pincered. so you do the only sane thing under the circumstances and sprint into the crowded square, the second and third reports just as unnoticed over the band playing near the street.

A woman screams behind you but you can’t afford to look, knocking aside a number of people as you break free of the throng and past a row of cafes. You’re nearly taken out when the heel of your leather pump breaks in a cobblestone crack but it also saves you, another bullet zinging overhead. You turn to see the gunman aim again, raising your own weapon but two seconds too late—

He crumples to the ground without you having to fire.

“Nice shot,” you say, line of sight leading to the massive tower.

“Wish I could take credit for it.” You can hear the surprise in Jungwoo’s voice. There isn’t time to consider who else has your back, breaking off your other heel with a kick and streaking down the nearest alleyway crowded with crates and empty wine barrels. You’re catcalled by a number of delivery men sitting around smoking until you pull your gun on them.

“Can I get a ride?” you ask, Italian forgotten, commandeering the fastest looking of their scooters. You grip the case between your knees, twisting the throttle to zoom down the bumpy corridor towards the nearest road.

“Two cars in pursuit, black Mercedes, looks like they’re heading to—”

You can barely hear him over the irritating whine of the small engine, avoiding pedestrians as you break out onto a main thoroughfare trafficked with taxis. You don’t make it far before you hear the familiar rev of a car engine and horns honking, your pursuers weaving between cars to follow you.

You’d chosen your escape vehicle poorly but it did have one advantage—you bank off the road again and down a side street that turns out to be a stairway, teeth clacking as you hit each step and are yelled at with insults you save for later by an old man flattened against the wall.

“—not that direction!” Jungwoo says, but the only way out is through, holding on for dear life until you’ve finally spotted the windows of the street-level shops. You explode out of the alleyway and into traffic, swerving wildly to avoid colliding with another bicyclist. You end up in an intersection, the sound of horns exploding around you.

For a moment you’ve lost direction, facing back towards where you came from, and that’s when you see the familiar shape of a black car barreling down on you, just one block away. You head towards the next pedestrian side street but this one is at a standstill, forcing you to navigate parked cars and lose speed. Behind you the screech of tires indicates your pursuit is almost at an end—a bullet pinging into a rear windshield just two feet beside you.

“Come on, come on,” you mutter as you end up on the sidewalk, scattering people left and right and overturning carts. Somewhere nearby sirens pick up, sending your heart skyrocketing into your throat.

This was about to get much more messy, but you were trained for this, you think. You’re almost there, almost free—

A red sports car cuts off your path, swerving in such a tight turn you’re immediately braking and on your side. Luckily you weren’t going faster and the scooter is light but you’re thrown to the ground, case skidding along with you as you desperately hold on to it.

The passenger door swings open, revealing the absolute last person you want to see in that moment, as winded and battered as you are and on the verge of being riddled with gunfire.

“Hey babydoll. Need a ride?”

“Please, just pull over,” you say for the dozenth time. Outside the car windows the landscape is a yellow-green blur, each curve in the road making your head spin as Johnny takes them at breakneck speed. You’re being held hostage on your own operation, and as grateful as you are to be out of a firefight you’re only getting more angry by the minute.

“No one is following us now,” you say, “you can slow down. I need to get out of this car.”

“What are you going to do, hitchhike?” Johnny asks, more than a little sarcastically, his hand on the shifter. “Get friendly with the local livestock?”

“I said stop!”

You have to grip the dashboard, burning rubber as he brings the Ferrari Quattrovalvole from 140 kph to 0 in a matter of seconds. The screech of tires fades away until the ticking of the engine is the only sound.

“Well?” He asks, his gloved hands flexing on the wheel. “Happy now?”

“Get us off the road,” you say. “Please.”

Up ahead is a break in the crumbling stone wall fence and he pulls the car out of its wide spun-out turn, idling into the dusty entrance of an orchard. You fly out of the passenger seat well before the engine’s cut off, immediately dropped into the pink embrace of a pastoral fantasy—ancient cherry trees in full bloom.

A small band of sheep watch you curiously from down the row as you do the only thing you can to let out your frustration: you scream.

The sound echoes for what feels like miles. Once you’ve regained your composure you turn to find Johnny losing it, laughing like he’s seen the funniest thing in his life. His body shakes with suppressed laughter as he leans against the red roof of the sportscar, tall enough that it barely provides cover when you remove one of your ruined shoes and launch it at his head.

“Shut up!” you yell. Johnny barely manages to duck, doubling over.

“I won’t say a word.” He raises his hands in the air in a gesture of surrender once he’s through his fit. You throw your other shoe at him, going wide enough that he collapses again in mirth.

“I had it under control,” you say, no longer embarrassed. “I would have made it on my own.”

“I never doubted you,” he says, walking around the car. “Just figured you could use a faster way out.”

Johnny is dressed much more casually than you’d expect for the kind of asshole who could take a new Ferrari straight out of the factory: tight jeans and leather jacket over an incredibly loud Versace shirt . He lifts his Wayfarers to wipe the tears from his eyes, as always amused at your expense.

“If you didn’t doubt me then what in the hell are you doing here?” you shout. “Aren’t you supposed to be in Istanbul?”

You turn away from him to hide your expression. You didn’t mean to let on that you knew where he was. You certainly couldn’t let him know that you always knew where he was, thanks to your contacts in the Agency.

“Had a break in the schedule and a craving for Bolognese,” he says. You automatically register the smug tone in his voice and wish you had another shoe to throw.

“Did the Director tell you to come?” You ask, rounding on him again.

“Absolutely not.” He shakes his head, more seriously.

“It was his idea then.” The words feel like acid on your tongue.

Johnny doesn’t respond.

“You think I don’t know about you shadowing me in Mexico City? New York? Wasn’t Iceland enough for you?”

His face doesn’t give away anything but you watch his jaw shift, smile fading.

You continue, emboldened by finding blood and grit on your leg from where you’d skidded across the pavement.

“Is this how it’s going to be, then? You just conveniently pop up every time I’m on assignment like the world’s most unemployed superspies?”

“Listen—“

“You know who gets yelled at? Me!”

Your voice upsets the sheep not scared off by your scream, their belled necks ringing as they move out of range of your anger.

“Internal Security drilled me for an hour about going rogue, and I covered for you! I really thought I was compromised in Reykjavik. Do you know how hard it is to lose two dedicated agents on an island the size of Kentucky?”

“It was impressive,” he admits, not hiding that feline look of amusement.

“I bribed my way onto a fishing boat in a storm,” you yell, pacing in your ruined pantyhose. “They had to extract me from Finland. Qian thought I was defecting.”

“I’m sorry—“

“No. You’re not. You had no business being there,” You cut him off, voice shaking with unleashed anger. “I’m tired of being part of whatever twisted little game you’ve concocted. I’m not here to be your plaything. Or your damsel in distress.”

You pull your hand through your hair, relieved to find your scarf still there but realizing how wild you must look, raving on about your silly little adventures in avoidance.

Johnny is uncharacteristically quiet, eyes on the old road as he considers what to say next.

“I’m sorry,” he repeats, finally. “I never thought of it as rescuing you. Or playing a game.”

He sounds so distant it makes you walk back a little of the anger that had been building in you. It’s been there since your first field assignment, when your instinct that you had an invisible tail had proven right. At first you’d chalked it up to standard oversight, but then it had happened again. And again. The fuse had finally caught when you’d been dressed down for it.

Surely you could have dealt with it sooner—you could have confronted him before you left for this trip. But old habits die hard, and you’d gone out of your way time and time again to dodge him.

“What was the reason, then?” You ask.

You watch him squint up at the cloudless sky, brushing back the black-dyed hair that’s fallen over his forehead.

“Professional curiosity.” He looks at you again, almost wistfully. “Chasing you around the globe wasn’t all my idea.”

“Of course,” you say, exasperated.

You knew who was really causing you grief in this scenario—Johnny would have just been dragged along. The certainty of it makes you feel guilty for venting your frustrations on him, but also a little heartsick.

You weren’t that important to him, after all. Just another fling.

The NCTA didn’t have a strict hierarchy but it was clear within a few months he was at the top of those in field action, if not actually in charge. As such, he was frequently brought in to do supervision on new agents or missions. An unavoidable eventuality in your case.

It had been so easy for him to slip into his role with you in the handful of unavoidable home office encounters. He’d been nothing but kind, willing to joke and flirt in his usual, offhand manner. Not once had he danced close to confrontation. You’d been grateful but it had nagged at you how little he seemed to care.

You remember the first time you’d been in a shared briefing, the sharp smell of his cologne from a few seats down triggering sense memories so potent you’d gone to smoke on the rooftop afterwards. Or your anniversary dinner last autumn when you’d brushed into him joining the others on your way to the coat check, finding yourself caught in his easy stare like a moth pinned to a board.

Every time you’d heard him laugh in another room, or seen him walking around with that maddening self-assurance on the way to another meeting, you’d felt like your entire world was spinning off-axis.

It had been a long time since you’d felt so small, back in a worn-out uniform with bleach burns on your knuckles. You didn’t like feeling that way, not after everything you’d been through to succeed in this new life.

“Are you putting down roots here or are you ready to go?” Johnny asks gently, breaking your reverie. He opens the passenger door for you.

“Where are you taking me?” you ask. You’re not letting your guard down, now.

“That was too coordinated of a situation to be bad luck on your part. Best to lay low for the next few days. I’ll take you up north to a safehouse and do the hand-off for you.”

He notes your pinched brow and continues, “We would have been called in regardless. This is above your paygrade.”

“What about Agent Kim?” You knew better than to abandon your partner, even if it seemed there wasn’t much you could do without help.

“He’ll be fine,” Johnny says, cracking a careful smile. “He has back-up.”

You feel the disdain twisting your face but he doesn’t say anything, pulling his sunglasses down again.

“It’s a long drive. Do you mind if we take it to speed?”

“Go as fast as you like,” you offer, slipping back into the plush leather seat and taking the time to brush off the bottoms of your feet to free them of crushed cherry blossoms before you close the door.

“Thank you,” the words slip from your mouth unbidden.

“For what?” He asks, incredulously.

You shrug. “For giving me a moment to think.”

You roll down the window to finally pay attention to your surroundings, lost in bird song and the light breeze sending pink confetti-like petals to the ground. “It really is beautiful here.”

“It is,” he says, leaning towards you, his arm brushing against your chest. You stiffen only to find he’s reached across you to pull the seatbelt tight, buckling it smoothly.

“You’re welcome.”

The engine purrs into life and you’re back on the way towards your destination, a new kind of tension keeping the words you wanted to say and the stray feelings of remorse buried deep inside of you.

Hours later finds you well out of the endless cycle of farmlands and vineyards, and back into a coastal city that you only recognize as Verona from signage and the maps you’d memorized. Buildings made of time-grayed stone blend into one another past your open window, the evening air redolent with spring flowers and the promise of rain.

The safe house is a narrow two-story number with a view of muddy river waters, illuminated gold by the setting sun and the warm glow from former gas lights. Johnny has already told you where to find the key and how to avoid the ancient landlady in the apartment below, but he doesn’t move from his seat even when you say your farewell.

You find yourself leaning down beside the car, unsure how to conclude.

“Will you be coming back?” you ask. You can’t hide the almost hopeful quality of the question, your heart racing in your chest.

His face is hidden to you in the dim light, hands gripping the wheel and shift stick again. “I don’t think that will be necessary.”

“Thank you, again,” you say, in lieu of something more apologetic, or pleading.

“You’re right, you could have handled—”

“No,” you say quickly. “I’m glad you were here. I needed you—I mean, we needed you there.”

He seems to want to say something but after a pause he shakes his head, eyes on the road.

“I’ll see you back at HQ,” he says. “Get some rest.”

You step back and watch him drive away, feeling the first raindrops begin to spatter on to the warm stone beneath your feet. You’re soaked through by the time you remember to go inside.

It’s midnight when the pounding on your door begins and you rush to the heavy wooden door to open it, heart racing and gun hidden under a silk robe that had been part of the surprisingly stocked complement of the house.

Your spirits fall a little when you hear it’s a woman yelling in Italian–most of it unrecognizable but for some of the curse words you’d picked up in your travels.

“Oh mio dio,” the old woman says when you finally open the numerous locks. She appears to have been woken up, hair in curlers and just as similarly dressed for bed.

“Posso aiuturla?” You ask, hiding behind the door.

“Le tue scarpe,” she says, thrusting a glossy bag through the opening before making her way back down the stairs, lamenting just as loudly as she had through the door.

You place the delivery on the wooden table, next to the remnants of a cold dinner of meats and cheese and slightly stale bread, along with the bottle of Barolo you’d found in the en-suite kitchen.

There’s no label on the box but inside is a beautiful pair of handmade leather heels, the quality better than anything you’d buy even with your generous salary. You’re still burdened by the spendthrift nature of a survivor, not sure if such beautiful things are meant for you.

You try them on, not surprised when they fit perfectly.

Your grandmother had once told you never to give shoes as a gift, that the person would walk out of your life. Just a silly superstition, you thought, but it makes you quickly take them off, feeling a little dumb for walking around in them while mostly naked.

Another knock on the door has you back without a second thought, expecting to find the landlady.

The stranger darkening your doorway in a motorcycle helmet doesn’t wait, breaking through the unclosed locks to force his way in. You kick the door closed but it’s wrested open, and you reach behind you for anything that can save you.

“Y/N,” the person says, raising their hands.

The safety on your Beretta is already disengaged, finger taut on the trigger expecting the heavy pull of a double action. You don’t relax, putting space between you and the open door, the knife on the table calling just as surely as the gun in your hands.

Slowly, carefully, they remove their helmet.

You’d had a gut feeling just from their build but you gasp a little when you see the bruising on that familiar face, blood streaking the left side of his jaw.

“What are you doing here?” You ask, not lowering the weapon.

Jaehyun drips water onto the floor, hands still raised. He turns to close the door and lock it, as if forgetting you’re there, discarding his helmet on the table as he checks the window over the sink and closes the lacy curtains.

You lower the gun as you follow him around the old suite, struck dumb. Jaehyun turns off the bedroom light before closing the open balcony door, cutting off the white noise of rain outside.

“Were you followed?” You ask in a panicked tone—not just from the circumstances but because you’re alone with him in the tiny space, your eyes still adjusting to the lack of light.

“No,” he finally says, peering through the space in the drapes. His answer doesn’t instill you with confidence.

“What happened?”

You follow him into the tiny bathroom with its claw foot tub, watching as he turns out the light even though the only window is high-placed and just big enough for ventilation. The candle you’d lit for your bath still flickers on the shelf, allowing you to see the look of pain on his face in the mirror when he removes motorcycle jacket, revealing the familiar glossy crimson of blood soaking through his dress shirt.

“My god,” you exhale. “Sit down before you pass out.”

You can’t chide him for coming here instead of going to a hospital or a back-alley doctor; you know that’s out of the question in your line of work. Instead you set the gun down and retrieve the field medic bag from its usual place in the closet, sneezing from the dust that coats it.

You return to find him slumped against the sink, wet hair plastered to his forehead with sweat and blood.

“I’m going to need more light,” you say. You reach to flip the switch but are stopped by his hand on your back.

“It’s not bad,” he says. “Just looks bad.”

“I’ll be the judge of that,” you say, ripping off his ruined shirt. Underneath you find an ugly, deep gash through his shoulder blade, a graze by the looks of it–no exit or entry wounds, just a powder burn. Whatever he’d gotten into had happened in close quarters. You knew him well enough now that it had to have been a last resort.

“You idiot,” you say, cleaning the edges of the wound with an alcohol-soaked wad of gauze. “Why are you here?”

What possessed you to ride two hours in the rain just to bleed all over my bedroom? Is what you want to ask, but you hold your tongue.

A sharp sound escapes his teeth as you debride his wound without warning him, continuing once you have assurance he’s still conscious. You’re a little more careful as you dab at the exposed muscle, watching his back twitch with each touch, but he doesn’t complain again. He’s hunched over, almost penitent, as you work.

Jaehyun whispers something inaudible, and you have to lean in to hear him repeat it.

“Wanted to make sure . . .”

“You could have called, you know. This place has a secure line.”

“. . . I’m glad you’re okay,” he mumbles.

“Stay with me, there’s no way I can carry you,” you say loudly, throwing the ruined towel in the sink. “I’ll need to do sutures. Can you get to the bed first?”

It’s a fight to help him up, his mass so much bigger than you remember it, but you make it to the small bed, helping him remove his heavy boots before he collapses. The bed cover stains immediately, his clothing dripping watercolor pink patches into the old fabric.

Even if he isn’t in a position to fight you about it you throw your scarf over the nightstand light before clicking it back on. It’s your only illumination as you drink from the wine bottle to steady your hands. No training on banana peels could prepare you for your first attempt at stitches on living tissue, and as much as you think you’re prepared your first subject is too precious for trial.

“I don’t have a topical anesthetic in here,” you say, rummaging one last time through the bag for a vial to match the needles inside. “Can you handle it?”

His face is turned away from you, but you think he assents.

“I’m sorry,” you say, digging in with your silver hook.

Each pull of the needle through his dermis makes your spine tingle with sympathy, but you manage to close the wound. He endures the pain face-first in a pillow, not making a sound until you’re done and cleaning up your hands and the mess in the bathroom.

“Thanks,” Jaehyun says, finally, voice muffled.

“You’re going to want to get that restitched by a professional,” you say. “Turn over.”

You help him onto his side, checking the wounds on his drawn face and opting to treat them topically. Most of the blood you clean from his neck and chest appears to be from an unknown source. You don’t want to think about that–how much you’d give to have been by his side when he’d given them hell.

“Is Kim alright?” You ask. He blinks against the cotton swab you’re using to apply ointment to his cheek.

“Yeah,” he says. “He made it to the rendezvous.”

“Thank you,” you say, repositioning him to cover your shoddy work with dressings. His skin is soaked with sweat by the time you wrap another layer of gauze around it.

“I missed you,” he says, once you’ve met his eyes. They’re a little glassy but he seems awake, searching your face for a response. You don’t allow the words to touch you, just feeling them in your gut, like you’ve been weighed down with stones.

“I know,” you murmur. “So you and Johnny were there the whole time?”

“I missed you,” he repeats. You check his forehead for fever but he catches your hand, pulling it to his bare chest. “I’m sorry for scaring you.”

You pick a crust of blood from under your fingernail, reaching for the wine bottle again.

“You’ve never scared me,” you say. Yes, you’re scared, right now–for different reasons. You know better than to show it.

“Why did you leave, then?” he asks.

You offer him the bottle rather than answer, turning your face away. You listen to him get up, propped against the pillows, and fight the flinch when his cold hand closes over yours to take it. His touch lingers after you’ve let go.

“It was easier than saying goodbye,” you admit. A tear leaks out of the corner of your eye, and you quickly wipe it away on your sleeve. “I’m sorry for stealing your watch.”

His fingers brush your cheek, bringing you back to look at him again. He’s a portrait of quiet regard in the half-light, lashes low over his dark eyes as he takes you in.

“Don’t apologize for that. I wanted to give you more.” Free of the blood you can see that creasing in his cheek where his dimple is, the one you’ve only seen when he was truly happy.

“I know.” You can’t fight the tears anymore, so you let them drip down your nose and onto the bedspread. “I couldn‘t. I can’t.”

That’s as honest as you can be, with him and with yourself. Trust was not something you’d ever had, not even with family, not with friends, and certainly not with a stranger you’d known mostly in your periphery for one summer.

You hadn’t lied when you’d said you wanted to know him better, but what you had hidden was even worse: you didn’t want him to know you. Not your weaknesses, or your loneliness. And certainly not the magnet-like pull you’d felt every time he was near, even when he was just a ghost on the edge of your world.

It was easier to pretend it was something physical, something temporary.

Something never to be spoken of again.

Your face is buried in your hands when he pulls you into a careful embrace, pulling you into the wedge between his head and uninjured shoulder. There’s a featherlight brush of lips on your temple, just the smallest gesture but it unburdens some of what’s been weighing you down for as long as you can remember.

“Can we start over?” He asks.

You let out a trembling breath, catching your tears before they can slip through to his collarbone. “Are you and Johnny going to let me be?”

“I didn’t . . .“ he begins. “Do you know why we got you into the Agency?”

“Just figured you wanted something more,” you say. Something I couldn’t give you, you think.

“We didn’t want you to feel like you were alone anymore.”

The feral part of you is clawing and spitting at the idea of being taken care of. You let the hand on your hair quiet her into submission, until you feel ready to speak again.

“I need to know that I belong here on my own terms, by my own merit.”

He sighs. “You do.”

“I mean it,” you say, sitting up to make your point. “I can’t be your . . .“

Your words die on your tongue. You’re shocked to see his eyes are as red as yours must be, his jaw ticking with emotion.

“Did it ever occur to you that maybe I just wanted to be with you?”

The blood drains from your face as you watch him break. He covers his eyes, head knocking against the headboard as he tries to keep it together. You can't miss the tracks of wetness on his cheekbone, mingling with the rain and sweat that’s collected there.

Not once had you ever seen him this undone. The rawness of his emotion terrifies you.

“I felt so stupid,” he says, smiling ruefully beneath his arm. “You needed space but I didn’t know how . . . I guess I had this idea that if you had a choice you’d come back to me."

He swallows the thickness that's built up in his voice. "But you didn’t.”

The lump in your own throat isn’t going away anytime soon. You feel heavy, made of lead for how little you can react to him in this different kind of crisis.

“Every time I saw you it felt like I made it worse,” he says. “After that day at the shooting range I knew . . . ”

That day had never been one you could bury: the first and last time you’d spoken to him since Florida. You’d had plenty of warning on who would be your combat arms instructor in the first months of intensive training, and you’d gone to your assignment with the iron resolve to see the course through.

Jaehyun had been waiting for you, field-stripping an impressive, long-range rifle. The silhouette of his shoulders and his bent head against the green of the firing range were just as natural to your landscape as if he had been in that hotel room again, palm slapping against a malfunctioning TV. You'd stood there, as speechless and uncertain, waiting for him to turn around.

Toughen up, toughen up, toughen up. The words repeating in your head had done zero except distract you from the simplest thing you could have done: just say ‘hello.’ You’d watched the careful smile disappear from his closed mouth, replaced with cold politeness, and a part of you had gone with it.

You made mistake after mistake, occupied with even just the smallest changes of distance between you physically, unable to hide your distraction. He hadn’t reprimanded you. Maybe that was worse, seeing his face screw up with disappointment at every wide shot, repeating the same instruction in a flat voice.

The next day he was gone—a temporary reassignment the Deputy Director said, but one that never finished. You’d trained with Agent Nakamoto instead, grateful for the new teacher even if he was less forgiving in his own brand of quiet discipline.

“I was sure you hated me,” he says, voice strained. “But it was worth it. It felt like there was something broken inside of me, and the thought that you might be happy and safe fixed it.”

You shake your head, knowing the damage can’t be undone.

“I’m sorry for being your shadow." He sinks into the pillows, staring at the ceiling. "I can leave you alone, if that’s what you want. Johnny makes it look so easy, man, but he’s not okay either. He’s just better than me at hiding it—”

“I’ve never hated you,” you speak, at last, still stuck a few sentences prior. “I loved you.”

Jaehyun is unable to process the words, rolling over. “What?”

“I left because of that,” you're unable to repeat it. “That’s what scared me. Not you, not what happened.”

“But you—why . . .“

“I didn’t know you. Didn’t know what you saw in me. I still don’t believe it,” you say, getting up and putting distance between you so you don’t lose the slim shard of confidence behind your confession.

“I figured I’d get some relief in knowing what you really were like once I joined,” you admit. You pace, bare feet catching on cracked tile. “Like every awful thing I’d made up in my head to distance myself was true.”

Your fingernails are digging into your arms, trembling despite the solace of finally saying it out loud. You can’t look at him, eyes dry but your lip is chewed to stinging. Jaehyun is silent in that old, familiar way, emboldening you.

“The worst part is . . . I think you're actually a good person.”

Everyone had stories about him—even that asshole Donghyuck had showered Jaehyun in praise, once you’d earned his trust. The bitterness at hearing your ex-lover’s name had dwindled until you’d stopped leaving the room or—in Jungwoo’s case—asking for silence. You’d listened to every passing aside, every heroic yarn, registering the admiration and awe as if it was your first time encountering it.

All you’d found out was already there in your memory: his quiet perseverance and kindness, his odd sense of humor. He had a willingness to do the worst work for no reward, regardless of how much it distanced himself, unable to understand why it brought others closer.

All things you’d seen but willingly would have blinded yourself to if it meant you could move on.

“You weren’t my secret friend on a bus bench anymore. Or something more, you know. You were perfect and untouchable and larger than life and I was just . . . I’m just me.”

The words hang, growing more pathetic as you realize what you’ve said. There wasn’t another person on the planet that could make you question yourself that way. You feel more wrung out than the towel in the sink, and just as dirty.

“But that’s all I wanted,” Jaehyun says, right behind you. “Just you.”

You hadn’t even heard him get up. He’s so close the heat of his body feels like burning. He has a fever, you think, but before you can turn around he’s wrapped around you, face in your hair.

“Why?” You ask, voice tremulous.

“Because you trusted me, even when you shouldn’t have. You protected me.” His arms are tight around your own, practically crushing you. Somehow, you don’t feel trapped.

“Where do we go from here?” you ask aloud.

“Don’t know,” he says, head resting on your shoulder. “But I know that I . . .”

You reach up in reassurance, finding his forehead cold and clammy. In the time it takes for you to turn he’s somehow grown heavier, your knees buckling under the weight.

“You need to lie down,” you say, gently. “You’re going into shock.“

“I–” he says, eyes fluttering into his head. He collapses, taking you with him.

For once you’re grateful for the excruciating regimen the Agency has put you through—you manage to put up a fight before you reach the floor.

Jaehyun barely responds as you elevate his legs with a pillow, making you rush to the icebox for the emergency saline storage you hope isn't expired. Another day, another first: this time finding the vein in his death-pale arm so you can feed the IV line in.

You think it’s enough to abet the hypovolemic shock but you pick up the phone and dial the emergency code all the same. You’d never forgive yourself if something happened to him, and you’re sure Johnny wouldn’t let it rest for your natural lives, either.

Now that he's in repose you can tell it’s not just the trauma written on his face that's made him look so different. He's lost weight and his hair has grown out past his ears, messy over his forehead. He looks like a boy again. One you’d never know but might learn, in time, if he let you.

“I love you, too,” you finish for him, resting your cheek against his chest as you check his breathing, the slow but steady beat of his heart in your ear.

They called it the Tiger’s Den, and though you’d never been called up here before, you’d always known it was an inevitability. Like walking through the gates of Hell when you eventually met your end. Hell has to have some nice places, you think. Maybe you'd get a nice desk in Limbo.

You’re just beginning to feel at ease when the secretary in the spacious front office gives you a look like you’re meant for the deepest reaches.

She picks up the telephone, buzzing the interoffice. “Director? Juliet is here. Yes. Yes, I know. Of course, sir. Your 15:00 is postponed.”

She places the receiver down, leading you to the door and punching in an elaborate code.

“You can go in,” she nods. “Director Lee and Agent Suh are expecting you.”

You open the double doors into the office hesitantly, like you’re moving underwater. You’re immediately struck by how vast the space is, the late-afternoon sun outlining the topography of the city in gold past a wall of windows.

It's beautiful, you think, less sterile and brown than the rest of the headquarters—a testament to the mid-century period the Agency was founded in. The Director's taste is immediately obvious in the vibrant Joan Mitchell piece on the showcase wall behind his imposing and yet very empty desk.

You find the gray-haired man sitting casually at the conference table. He’s much younger than you expected, or it could just be the way he looks and is positioned: legs akimbo and leaned back.

Director Lee studies the projector feed in front of him, horn-rimmed glasses halfway down his nose, seeming to come back to reality only after you've made it a few feet away from him.

“Hello, sir,” you say, giving him a half bow. Keeping your attention on the agency head is the only possible distraction you have from the six-foot-something demon on the corner of your vision. You don't turn to acknowledge him, sure one look will break your manufactured calm.

“Hello, Y/N, so glad to finally meet you.” Director Lee’s voice is gentle, if a little distracted. He’s smaller than you expected, too, blinking up at you owlishly from where he sits in front of a pile of microfiche.

“It’s an honor, sir,” you say with utmost conviction, reaching out to take his slender hand in a polite handshake before dropping back.

“Agent Suh.” You nod in the other man’s direction, trying to remain neutral.

The attempt is futile, at best; Johnny is staring at you with his usual reserved but in-on-the-joke expression. You’re not surprised when he looks you up and down while nodding in return.

You’d prepared yourself for this meeting like it was going to be your last on earth, getting an emergency fitting of a black suit dress from one of the Agency’s recommended vendors. You know you look better than usual, but you can’t tell how he feels about it.

You size him up as surreptitiously as possible. Johnny is in a midnight navy three-piece, his longish bronze hair tucked back behind his ears. It's more than a little embarrassing to find yourself staring at him, pretending to study the schematics on the screen behind him.

“You two know each other, I hear?” Director Lee breaks the tension with little regard for either of you as he reads through pages.

“Yes, sir. Agent Suh was kind enough to provide my original referral. I wouldn’t be here without him,” you say. The double-meaning is underscored by your lips twitching.

You don't know what to expect but it certainly isn't the way Johnny immediately relaxes, smiling easily as he places a hand on the back of one of the replicate Eames chairs circling the polished wood table.

“Good to see you again, Jenny.”

The warmth in his eyes gives you pause. It didn’t look like he was expecting you to take a lashing—unless he found it funny. That had to be it, you think.

“Good, good. Moon speaks highly of your work, says you’re a natural.” The Director assesses you, finally. “Do you know why we called you in here?”

You wonder if this is a trick question, your carefully planned admission and apology forgotten.

“I expect it’s to go over our failure in Modena, sir.” You keep your voice and face clear of anxiety.

“Failure?” Director Lee looks at the other man quizzically.

Johnny only shrugs. “The intercept, sir.”

“Oh, you mean the firefight, in the middle of a packed city in broad daylight. The one with multiple casualties, including my best agent?" Director Lee doesn't have to raise his voice to instill terror in you, but it's clear he's directing his sarcasm at the other man in the room.

He pinches the bridge of his nose above his spectacles. “No, we reviewed that already. Agents Suh and Jeong have taken responsibility for compromising the mission and will be reprimanded accordingly.”

“Sir?” You sway a little in your heels, taken aback.

“Consider my report a formal apology, Agent L/N,” Johnny says, gesturing to the pile of paperwork in front of him. “We went off-plan without informing you in advance and were flagged by the other party.”

You stare at him, waiting for some continuation of the punchline.

“You and Agent Kim couldn’t have known what you were getting into,” he says. “Think of it like walking into a mousetrap set for a bear.”

“Kun give you an earful, I expect?” Director Lee asks, taking a drink from the delicate china cup in front of him.

“Yes, sir,” Johnny nods, solemnly. You see the twist at the corner of his mouth that indicates he's enjoying this.

“Good. Make sure Jae checks in with him once he’s discharged from Medical, otherwise he’ll send me another one of those awful memos.” Director Lee shudders visibly as he sets down his tea, turning to you.

As clouded as his expression is, he looks at you much more kindly. "You have nothing to be concerned about, L/N. Your quick thinking saved the day, we have what we need.”

You wish you could feel relieved but the reminder of Jaehyun’s stint in the hospital has you sinking into the polished granite floor.

It'd been over a week since you watched him loaded into the Agency’s emergency transport in the early hours before dawn. The lack of communication had worn you down but you’d also done little to move past it, only confirming he was safe. Medical was strictly off limits as part of the wing of research laboratories and you told yourself you didn't have the clearance, much less a valid reason, to check in on him.

You were getting good at lying to yourself, these days.

“Thank you, sir,” you say. “I appreciate your trust—“

“Oh yes, so why you’re here,” Director Lee stands up and looks awkwardly around, searching the table for something before flitting to his desk.

Johnny turns away, coughing to cover his amusement.

“Here we are,” the older man says, pulling something from his briefcase and offering it to you across a surface covered in oddities and stacks of files.

“We don’t have much by way of ceremony here for promotion to acting field agent status, but this should do. Congratulations, Agent Y/N.” Director Lee nods at you, his small face pleased. “Go ahead.”

“Thank you, sir,” you say, opening the case. You stare at the silver and black timepiece inside, stomach twisting. It’s a similar make to one you’d traded in at a Miami pawn shop almost two years ago, smaller and elegant enough for your build. You already know what the custom engraving on the back will look like but you don't take it out, feeling empty.

“You’re going to want to run by the lab and have Dr. Huang help set it up, it being a new model and all.” The Director checks his own watch, shutting his briefcase. “Sorry. I have a previous appointment I'm already late for."

Your shock of not being berated but rather being graduated now shifts to something you're far less sure you can handle.

"Agent Suh will fill you in on the next mission,“ he says, buzzing past you.

“Is Deputy Director Moon joining us?” You ask aloud, already knowing the answer.

“He’ll no longer be your point person,” Director Lee says, waving off your offered closing handshake from ten feet away. “Feel free to use the office for as long as you need.”

“We’ll be out of your hair in no time,” you blurt out in his wake, watching him dart through the doors you’d just come through. As much as you’d imagined your first meeting with the Director going differently you’re unsurprised by his departure; it was common knowledge he kept an impossibly busy schedule.

“Have a seat,” Johnny says once the massive room is empty. You turn back to him slowly, watching him as you take your place at the table, choosing an empty chair far from the Director’s.

“It’s good to see you, too, sir,” you say. He doesn’t respond to the affectation, his profile colored black-and-white by the plans projected on the massive screen behind him.

“Have any questions about Italy?” Johnny asks. He slides a folder across the table to you with a flick of his wrist, still standing.

“No, sir. Is there anything mission-critical I missed in the debrief?”

“Nothing that won’t cover,” he says, nodding at the file. Some of the tenseness you feel slips away.

“How are you doing, Y/N?”

The question catches you off-guard, drawing your attention away from the xerocopy.

No one has asked you anything personal in your time in basic field training, you certainly didn’t expect that level of disclosure now. It’s not like he’s asking it with the tone of someone who knows your answer. No, you suspect he’s probing for an honest reply.

“More than fine,” you say after catching your breath. “I like it here, sir.”

“I’m glad to hear it.” He smiles. You can tell it’s not in his eyes by the lack of creasing at their corners. It should feel strange to be able to read him so well after so long, but even in Italy you’d sensed it—a familiarity that no formality could kill.

“Do you have any questions?” he asks, deliberately.

It’s so subtle, the way his eyes drop to your mouth and then back up again, but your heart skips a beat as if he’d touched you with a look. More than a touch—like he’d run his hand down your face. You quash that impulse as quickly as you can, trying to focus.

“No, sir,” you say. Your heartbeat feels like it’s louder than the hum of electricity from the projector. “Do you . . . do we need to go over anything?”

Johnny moves across from you, bisected by distorted gray lines. He picks up a dossier, nodding at its twin within your reach. “Nothing that isn’t mission-critical.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Stop calling me ‘sir’,” he says, voice suddenly cold.

You blink up at him, again frozen mid-scan of the report. His usual air of joviality is gone and replaced with displeasure. This is new to you, and not altogether unwelcome.

“My promotion couldn’t have been that good,” you venture. “Sir.”

Johnny crosses his arms, suit straining against the tension in his wide shoulders. “Now who’s playing games?”

Heat flares in your cheeks. The words slip out of your mouth before you can calm down. “Did you lie about compromising the mission in Modena?”

“No,” he says, flatly. You give him a withering look, waiting for him to laugh it off or at your expense, but he’s just as stiff as before. “Scouts honor.”

“Good,” you sigh.

“Good? Not going to throw another shoe at my head for almost ruining your first op?"

You don’t have a response, looking down at your feet to escape his scrutiny. This is why you hadn’t wanted to be placed with him so many times before–you felt like an open book in front of him, incapable of hiding how you felt.

“I don’t think I can do this.” Your thoughts are unfiltered as you shift in your seat.

“A mission brief or . . .”

“Work with you.” You know the words hit him hard, but the blow circles back to you. Guilt immediately wells up inside you, fizzling the rage you've begun to feel. Out of the corner of your eye you see him drop the file, hand running through his hair.

“I’m sorry if I made you feel uncomfortable.” He waits for your response before continuing, but your tongue is firmly tied. “If it’s about what happened before, I can promise that it isn’t going to affect any working relationship–”

“It’s not about that,” you blurt out. “I just don’t think I’m a good fit for this team.”

His eyes narrow. “I hate to break it to you, but there’s only one team for active field agents. And you’re on it now.”

“I can ask for a reassignment,” you say lightly, moving to get up. ”I’ll put a petition in with the Director tonight.”

“Running away, again?” It’s not the barb that makes you stop but the way Johnny says it, more bitter than cruel. You find yourself wishing it was the latter, so you could be angry at him, at anyone but yourself.

“Please just sit down.” He exhales loudly.

“I’m not running . . .“ you begin, unconvinced by your own words.

“Consider it an order, then,” he says, quietly. “I’m still your supervising agent, for as long as that lasts.”

You comply, hands gripping the arms of your chair to keep it from rolling back.

“I promise I’ll make the transfer request, myself, if it’s necessary.” Johnny paces around the table, leaning against it a reasonable distance away. “But you have to tell me why.”

Because you can barely concentrate when he’s around? Because you have to remember how to breathe when he’s in the same room? None of it is acceptable even without your line of work, where distraction is deadly. That professional distance had been there before and you know he can maintain it.

It’s all down to you.

And that’s the problem, isn’t it? You can’t even be mad at him for the right reasons, that coal-like lump in your chest not squashed pride or indignation. The more you try to stoke it the more you understand how petty it really is.

The one time in your life where you’re required to pretend to be someone else, the one thing you’re good at, and you can’t be. Instead you’re an exposed nerve, unable to meet the eyes of the person standing next to you. You realize he’s turned the projector off when the only sound in the room is the ticking of the watch on the desk, somehow loud beneath the closed lid.

“I just don’t want to be a liability,” you say.

“You’re not a liability.” Johnny sounds bemused. “We don’t bring liabilities on as assets.”

“You watched over me–”

“As hard as it is for you to believe, it is standard operating procedure to observe and grade new agents.”

“Then why did you pull strings to get me here?” you snap.

He shifts uncomfortably. “Is that what this is about?”

He picks up the box from the table, before your stare can burn a hole in it. “So you think this is a consolation prize?”

You wait a spell, mostly to keep from erupting at him but also because now that he’s within reach the anger is bleeding into a different kind of intensity inside of you.

“Did you ask the Director to promote me?” you interrogate him.

“You’re not going to believe me even if I say ‘no’, are you?”

You don’t have to answer. You don’t think you could without slipping.

“Give me your hand,” Johnny says. You don’t know how to respond until he leans forward to lift your arm from the chair with surprisingly little force for how rigid you feel.

"Yes, we helped you get into the NCTA. Yes, I've monitored your progress at every step.”

He waits until you relax to continue, as if he’s afraid you’re a bird that will take wing. “But that’s the extent of it. As much as I wanted to help you, I kept my hands clean. Except for convincing Moon to stay on as your handler. I don’t think you understand how much work that was.”

That surprises you, but you catch yourself before you can look up at him quizzically.

“He was always meant to be a temporary assignment. Older agents like that, he’s more at home doing dirty work than being stuck in an office."

He lays the watch cuff over your wrist, snapping the clasp shut, not letting go even after it’s securely weighed down by it.

“I’m sorry if you felt like you didn’t earn this. Because you can be assured there's nothing I could say or do that got you this," he says, tone softening. "That was all you."

His grip changes carefully, a long-fingered hand enclosing your own. That livewire current you expect in touching him for the first time in years isn't numbing at all. No, your head is buzzing with errant thoughts, heart flip-flopping in your chest.

“Now do you still want to leave?” he asks.

You shake your head slightly, mouth dry.

“Since we’re going to be on the same team from now on, do you think you can try trusting me?” Johnny asks, gently.

You realize you haven’t exhaled yet, long after you find your answer.

“I trust you.” You’re surprised by how easy it is to say it.

“Then what’s the matter?”

“I don’t . . .” you muster the courage to be honest. “I really don’t trust myself.”

“You earned this,” he says, squeezing your fingers assuringly.

“That’s not what I mean.” Your voice cracks. You glance up to find him watching curiously, relaxed and half-seated against the table beside you. Surely he can feel it, if he can’t see it–the way you’re vibrating in his grasp.

“Why don’t you tell me?” He asks, his thumb running over the back of your hand in lazy circles.

“Because I’m not sure if that would be appropriate, sir.”

Your eyes go wide as you realize your verbal slip, pulling back but unable to escape as he holds your wrist firmly, tugging. It’s easy for him to hoist you up, and you catch yourself with a hand on his chest before you can stumble into him.

Just like that, you’re a magnet flipped in the right direction.

You don’t move away, and he doesn’t either, long enough that you can feel his heart pounding beneath the layers of tweed and dress shirt and muscle, the way his breathing is just as quick as yours.

Jaehyun was right, you think. He was better at hiding it.

“Look at me,” he says, a fingertip tapping underneath your chin.

You tilt your chin upwards, meeting his gaze, melting into what you see there—a reflection of your own nervous expectation, colored not just by desire but something much, much more enticing.

“Whatever you’re thinking right now, I just need you to know one thing,” Johnny says, breath washing warm across your forehead. “You can only call me that if you want to.”

Do you want to try . . . ? echoes from a million miles and minutes ago, when he’d had you feeling just as vulnerable sitting on a hotel bed, playing games for children. The difference now is that you don’t feel small, anymore.

This time, you know what you want. And you aren't going to let the invitation you see written plainly in his face go unanswered.

You rise up on your toes, heels leaving the floor as you do the one thing you’ve tried to avoid since you’d first seen him again: you kiss him.

As desperate as you feel, you take your time, letting your buried emotions translate into your exploration of his plush mouth. You don’t sense any hesitation when his lips part and allow you in. You wrap a hand around his neck, bending him down until his grip finds your waist, helping you reach him.

You stay like that for awhile, calves aching by the time you slide down him, tongue wetting your bottom lip as if to taste the sweetness of him there. His pupils are dilated, cheeks flushed, but otherwise he’s still patient beneath you, waiting for your next move with an almost shy half-smile.

“Is that what you want, sir?” You glide your hand beneath his vest, feeling his pulse quicken and his breath stutter.

"You don’t want me to answer that here,” Johnny muses, back to holding onto the table behind him. You can see the whites around his knuckles, feel how he’s poised as if to keep from caging you in.

“Why?” You move your hands to his tie, caressing the dark red fabric.

He leans in conspiratorially, brushing your ear as he whispers into it. “The Director likes to record his meetings.”

The rush of excitement guiding you fizzles into mortification. You pull back only to feel the tug of his teeth on your earlobe, making you yelp in surprise.

“I thought that didn’t bother you?” He laughs as you glare up at him.

“It didn’t bother me before.”

“We should probably find a place to talk about this,” he offers, voice a purr under your fingertips. “Why don’t we go get a drink to celebrate?”

“I’d like that,” you say, before tugging him down by his tie. “After.”

This second time you meet neither of you are holding back. His hands are in your hair to keep your teeth from colliding, tongue licking into your mouth. You don’t realize you’re halfway up his frame until he’s hoisted you off him, dropping you on the table.

You’re closer to eye level here, but his attack subsides—nose nudging yours as he kisses your face, smearing your carefully-applied lipstick. Some of it has transferred to his own mouth, making you wonder what it would look like elsewhere.

"This was not what I was expecting when you walked in this room." He says, containing himself.

Johnny's palms are flat on the table as he pushes against it between your legs, probably getting more relief than what you are with your ass deep in the sharp cardboard edges of a pile of slides.

"This isn't me forgiving you for Italy," you say, scooting forward to wrap your legs around his hips. "You can make it up to me."

He loosens his tie, but you stop him from taking it off, kissing his neck and tentatively licking the sweat that's beaded under his starched collar.

“I’m going to need a verbal affirmation that you want to continue,” Johnny says with bated breath.

“Is that agency speak for ‘covering your ass'?’” you whisper, too turned on to be annoyed.

“No, babydoll,” he says, throatily. “It means I’m going to fuck you right here and right now unless you tell me otherwise.”

“Please fuck me, sir,” you say, reaching for his belt.

“God you have no idea how much I missed you.”

It doesn’t take long for his words to catch up to you in deed, neither of you bothering to undress, exploring each other under layers of clothing. He stifles a groan when he finds you're already soaked through the expensive silk underwear you'd worn expecting your own funeral.

“You sure you want a quick–”

The sudden chime of the door breach stops you both, frozen mid-makeout, and you have all of a few seconds before there’s a rush of air as the office entry blows inward.

“Sir, I told you there’s a very important meeting happening,” an unfamiliar male voice rings out from the other room, in the wake of the man who walks in.

“And I told you, I left the discovery file here this morning and it can’t wait–” Kim Doyoung makes it in a few brisk steps before he freezes, registering the scene with appropriate horror.

“Oh for the love of god, not again.” The lawyer hides his face with his briefcase, red to his dark hairline.

“Again?” you hiss.

“Not me!” Johnny protests under his breath, fighting to zip his pants back up.

“I’m going to pretend I didn’t see this,” Kim says loudly, still shielding himself as he rushes to the Director’s desk to retrieve a thick, green file.

You bury your face in Johnny’s suit jacket, appalled. “I’m going to be fired. On my first day . . .”

“Hey Doyoung,” Johnny says, startling you both. “Remind me what the employee contract–”

“Clause 10(b) of Interoffice Relations,” the other man says automatically, regretting it instantly. “Really, Suh? We eat on that table!”

You see the devilish glint in Johnny’s eye and cover his mouth before he can say another word.

“Thank you, sir,” you call out.

“I expect a Consensual Relationship Agreement on my desk by tomorrow morning, Agent,” he says, icily. The door slams shut with a shudder, leaving you both a mess of laughter and relief.

“What’s the odds on that happening to us a third time?” you ask, but Johnny is already retrieving one of your shoes from the carpet, slipping it back on from where he’s kneeling on the floor.

“You like them?” he asks. You brush the hair from his forehead, admiring the view.

“My favorite pair,” you say.

“Time for that drink, then?”

“After,” he kisses your calf before standing up and offering his hand. “I know someone else who'd like to congratulate you.”

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