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silverlullabies · 8 months ago

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B E L L I C O S E

Summary: Captain John Price has faced countless enemies in his career, but none like you. A mercenary with a reputation, you infiltrate his unit under the guise of cooperation, but your true motive is far more sinister. Using charm and manipulation to pull their strings, Price finds himself caught in a game he can’t control or predict.

Pairing: Mercenary!Reader x Captain Price, vague mentions of Soap x Reader, Gaz x Reader, and Ghost x Reader

Word Count: 16k+

Tags/Triggers: Smut(18+), gaslighting, blood, murder, afab reader, psychological manipulation, guns, knives, death, violence (it’s based off a game about soldiers shooting bad guys, come on), oral (female receiving), vaginal sex, human trafficking, dubious consent, alcohol, really dark content, morally gray reader who’s probably a sociopath, enemies to lovers if you squint

AN: two things, one: I didn’t set out to write this as a morally gray reader. The story kind of got away from me while I was writing it. My bad. And two, I describe the reader as petite compared to the 141 but at its a reverse trope of the petite tiny girl so at least give me the benefit of the doubt and make it past the briefing scene before you give up on it because of the trope. The reader is based off an actual OC of mine in a book I’m writing. I just love Peepaw Price, okay.

BELLICOSE: adjective. demonstrating aggression and willingness to fight.

Alarm bells rang in Price’s head as he watched you, gliding through the shadows of his office like a panther hunting prey. He had known from the start that bringing you onto the team was a mistake. Bloodied teeth and hands stained with grit, fingers curling around blades and triggers with lethal precision.

In a room full of predators like the 141, you were still the apex.

But Laswell had insisted, and Price—ever loyal to her judgment—had conceded, like always.

It wouldn’t happen again.

***

It always started the same way: someone screwed up, and the stakes escalated. Regular operators couldn’t handle the fallout, so they called in the 141—need dirty hands wading through a cesspool of problems? They’re your men.

“You need her on this one,” Laswell had said, sliding your dossier across the sleek ebony wood table that probably cost more than one of his paychecks.

Price didn’t need to read it. Everyone knew The Mercenary. Every soldier worth his salt had heard your name whispered in the dark corridors of conflict.

Deadly. Beautiful. Like a vengeful goddess slinking through the battlefield, your reputation was legend even among special operators who had long since abandoned the idea of there being a god out there. You’d accomplished more in your career than most units combined would in a lifetime.

Price didn’t need to feel the weight of your file to understand. If you’d followed the conventional path, you’d probably be a five-star general by now—his commanding officer. But you had chosen a different way.

Government-contracted, available to the highest bidder, loyal to no flag but the one that paid your exorbitant fee.

The thought left a bitter taste in his mouth, a twinge of resentment he swallowed down. No luxury of choice for him, no hefty paycheck to chase. Just duty, the same beast inside him that clawed for rest while the storm outside only worsened. But duty called again, and so did you.

Laswell was right, though—Price’s men were good, the best, but this mission was something else. Human traffickers using victims as pawns, running weapons across borders into war-torn lands. Human luggage in a nightmare spun by bureaucratic oversight, one that allowed dangerous enemies to arm themselves.

Price couldn’t see any of his men fitting the part for what needed to be done. He wasn’t about to send Ghost, Gaz, or Soap into the field in a dress and heels.

“When does she get here?” Price growled, his gut tightening at the idea of relying on a mercenary. His instincts screamed danger. There was no loyalty from someone like you, only a paycheck. And if the money ran dry? You’d vanish, leaving them to pick up the pieces. A major risk.

“She’s already here,” Laswell replied, and Price closed his eyes, the weight of inevitability settling on his shoulders.

Of course you were.

***

You’re even more stunning than the stories claimed. Soft curves, sultry lines, more tantalizing than even the darkest fantasy hidden in the back of his mind—everything about you is crafted to disarm. Wide, calculating eyes and full lips that hint at wicked intent. Even under the harsh, shitty fluorescent lighting of the briefing room, you manage to look ethereal, otherworldly. The glow makes your skin seem almost too perfect, casting shadows that sharpen your edges in a way that commands attention.

Price feels his breath catch in his throat when he sees you in person for the first time—a reaction he despises in himself. He’s a hardened soldier, decades of battles etched into his soul. Yet here you are, making him feel like some green recruit with a schoolboy crush.

Your poise betrays years of experience. Relaxed, almost bored, you drape yourself across the briefing table like a cat lounging in a sunbeam. It’s unsettling, the way you’re completely at ease despite being surrounded by some of the deadliest men in the world. The 141, all seasoned killers, men who’ve faced horrors most can’t imagine; and yet you make them look like the ones on edge. Amateurs. Wet behind the ears recruits.

The way you sit, tipping your chair back on two legs, snapping your gum, it’s borderline disrespectful. You’re surrounded by battle-hardened operators, yet you act as if you’re in your living room. It’s a brazen, almost reckless display of control. You know they’re watching you, torn between admiration and frustration. Some of them shoot heated glances, others glare, but the reaction is the same. You’re already under their skin.

Your eyes lock onto Price’s, and that dangerous, knowing smirk curls your lips. It’s predatory. Calculated. You know the effect you’re having on the room, on him. It’s a game, and you’re winning before it’s even begun. Your confidence is unnerving. It’s clear you’ve been in rooms like this before, with men just like these, and you’ve always come out on top.

Price has seen your type before. Or at least, he thought he had. But as you shift, languid and lethal, he realizes he’s never encountered anyone quite like you. There’s something almost intoxicating about the way you move, the way you radiate power, sex, and control.

The dossier warned him about your preferred methods. Psychological warfare, it said, and you excelled at it beyond anything any military had ever seen. But now, watching you in action, he understands the depth of that statement. You aren’t just skilled: you’re a force of nature, effortlessly bending men to your will with nothing more than a glance or a smirk.

Price clenches his jaw, reminding himself to stay sharp. You may be beautiful, but you’re dangerous, and in this room full of predators, you’re the alpha.

The tension in the room is palpable as you continue lounging, still flashing that confident, almost taunting smirk. A few of the men exchange looks, clearly wrestling with disbelief. They’ve heard the stories, just like Price, but seeing you now, looking more like a runway model than a deadly mercenary; it’s hard for them to reconcile the myth with the woman before them. The weight of your reputation hovers in the air, but no one speaks it aloud.

Surely the stories were exaggerated, Price thought as he watched you, the quiet figure lounging amidst the behemoths of the 141. You were small—tiny, even—compared to the hulking men surrounding you. They were all sinew and muscle, hardened by the scars of war, skin puckered with keloids and edged with experience. Every inch of them screamed violence, battle-honed warriors ready to strike. And then there was you, standing in the center of it all, soft and petite, as if you’d somehow wandered into the wrong place.

Price struggled to reconcile the image before him with the legend he had heard. The Mercenary—the Mercenary—who had single-handedly taken out entire terrorist cells, dismantled cartels, and assassinated warlords, all while slipping in and out of hostile territories like a ghost. You had pulled off the impossible: extracting hostages from fortified strongholds, escaping death traps set by men who underestimated you, and—on one memorable occasion that seemed too far-fetched to believe—boarding a hijacked plane already 35,000 feet in the air with no safety net to catch you if you missed.

But standing there, you looked almost delicate. Fragile, even. As if a papercut would have you turning lachrymose hues to the men, the skin of your small hands unmarred by the callouses that should have come with years of holding a gun steady. How could someone like you, slight and lithe, with a frame that looked like it belonged in a ballroom, not a battlefield, be the same mercenary who had left trails of bodies in your wake?

It was unsettling. Disarming.

Price’s eyes flicked to the men around you. They were cautious too, thrown off by the contradiction you presented. They’d heard the same stories. Ghost, Soap, Gaz, and all his other men—they were all sizing you up, waiting for a sign, something that would confirm or deny the rumors that had reached their ears. But you gave nothing away.

It was easy for the stories to seem exaggerated, to dismiss you as anything other than the quiet, almost too-pretty woman standing before them. But Price had a sinking feeling that those stories, the ones that seemed too wild to be true, might not even scratch the surface of what you were capable of.

And that made you the most dangerous one in the room.

Finally, one of the newer recruits, eyes flickering with a mixture of curiosity and skepticism, breaks the silence. His voice cuts through the thick atmosphere like a knife. Impatient, he is. Price needs to drill that out of him before it gets him killed one day, or worse.

“Is this really her? The legendary Mercenary?” he asks, doubt threading through his tone. His eyes narrow, darting over your form as if searching for some obvious flaw, something that proves you aren’t the deadly operative you’re supposed to be. “She doesn’t exactly look the part.”

A low murmur passes between the men, and Price watches carefully, gauging your reaction. They’re on edge, these hardened soldiers, unsure of whether they should be impressed or insulted by the idea that you, this beautiful, relaxed woman, are supposedly their ace in the hole.

You don’t miss a beat. Slowly, with deliberate grace, you let your chair drop back onto all four legs and lean forward, resting your elbows on the table. The shift in your posture is subtle but powerful. The room stills as you survey the faces around you, that lazy, confident grin never leaving your lips. Then you speak, your voice low and smooth, dripping with a dangerous sort of amusement.

“I don’t look the part?” you repeat, eyes sparkling with mischief as you stretch languidly, the movement sending a ripple of distraction through the room. “Go on, sweetheart, tell me, what exactly do you think your enemies are looking for on the battlefield?”

The recruit hesitates, blinking, before he stammers, eyebrows furrowing as if expecting your words to be a trick question, “Uh… Well… people who look like us. Like soldiers.”

You give him a pitying smile, as if you’re explaining something simple to a child. “Exactly. They’re looking for people like you. Trained men, geared up, muscled, armed to the teeth. Big, scary soldiers who they can see coming from a mile away.” Your voice drops, growing almost intimate as you lean forward, eyes hooded. “They aren’t looking for someone like me.”

The room goes quiet again, everyone hanging on your words as you continue, your tone soft but laced with steel. “By the time they even think to check for someone like me? I’m already in their camp, already bleeding them dry, and they don’t even realize it until it’s too late.”

The recruit swallows, his skepticism fading as the weight of your words sinks in. Your beauty, your relaxed demeanor—it isn’t a weakness. It’s a weapon. A weapon that none of them had ever been taught to anticipate. You sit back in your chair, the smirk widening into something almost predatory, letting the silence stretch before you speak again.

“They see you coming. Hell, they’re expecting you. And sure, you’re tough. You’re strong. You know how to fight. But when you look like me, no one expects the knife in the back. No one expects the bullet between their eyes. They underestimate me.” You pause, the smirk twisting into something darker. “And it always costs them everything.”

There’s a shift in the room now. The men exchange uncertain glances, realizing that their assumptions about you have been dangerously naive. Price watches you closely, his gut tightening. You’ve won the room over, made your point loud and clear without so much as breaking a sweat. It’s unsettling, the way you wield words as skillfully as a blade.

Psychological warfare was your preferred weapon, the dossier highlighted.

And maybe that was your greatest weapon. You were the perfect trap—innocuous on the outside, unassuming. But underneath? Underneath was the lethal precision of someone who had mastered the art of deception, who had turned their own appearance into a weapon as sharp as any blade.

Price felt a knot of unease settle in his gut. You didn’t need muscles or brute force. You had something far more dangerous: the element of surprise. You wanted them to underestimate you. Hell, maybe you enjoyed it.

That realization hit him like a cold blade pressed to his throat, and Price shuddered involuntarily. It wasn’t fear, not exactly; not the kind of fear that came from facing an enemy in combat, but something deeper, more primal. The kind of instinct that had kept men alive for centuries. His spine stiffened as the sensation crept down to his core, urging him to adjust, to move, to make sure he always had his eyes on you.

He shifted his position, subtly but deliberately, ensuring that no matter where you moved in the room, he would never have his back to you. It wasn’t conscious, not at first—just an overwhelming sense that he needed to see you, track you, keep you within his line of sight at all times. It was survival instinct at its most raw.

He didn’t trust you. Couldn’t. Not after everything he’d heard. The stories. The way you could turn on a dime, shifting from ally to predator without a second’s warning. And though he knew you were here for the same reason he was—for now, at least—Price couldn’t shake the feeling that the real threat wasn’t the mission. It was you.

The worst part was that you never made it obvious. There was no overt menace, no clear sign of danger. Just the way you moved, fluid and graceful, like a shadow slipping through the cracks of light. It was too easy to picture you with a blade at his throat or a bullet between his eyes, and the thought unsettled him more than it should. You were a mercenary, after all—this was your game.

No, Price realized, he could never afford to look away from you. Not now. Not ever.

You turn your attention back to the recruit, and your voice softens again, the edge in your tone melting away like honey. “So yes, darling, I’m the one they call when things get ugly. Because no one expects the woman to be the monster.”

You let the words hang in the air, the weight of your reputation finally settling in as the men come to terms with what it means to have you on their side. There’s a reason Laswell insisted on bringing you in. A reason Price didn’t protest harder, despite the warning bells ringing in his head.

You’re a weapon. The deadliest kind. One they’re just beginning to understand.

***

The mission began in uneasy silence, the familiar thrum of the helicopter blades cutting through the tension in the air. Ghost sat across from Price, arms folded, eyes hidden behind his skull mask, but even without seeing his expression, Price could sense the discomfort. Soap and Gaz weren’t much better, both of them fidgeting in their seats, exchanging glances but saying nothing— unusual for the two normally loud Sergeants. The air was thick, charged with an unspoken anxiety, malaise.

You sat with them, but apart—physically and emotionally. While the men carried their weapons, tactical vests, and hardened expressions, you wore something completely out of place. Scandalous even, but necessary for the situation. A slinky dress, cut high up the thigh and plunging just low enough to leave nearly nothing to the imagination. Black, tight, and dangerous—like you. Every inch of it was designed to distract, to draw eyes away from the weapon concealed underneath the allure.

Price shifted uncomfortably in his seat. The idea of sending you in dressed like that—to mingle with human traffickers in their filthy, blood-soaked underworld—didn’t sit right with him. You wore no protection, no physical weapon. But he knew it was necessary. None of them could do what you could, slipping between shadows, playing the part so convincingly it was terrifying. You’d be in the belly of the beast, surrounded by men who bought and sold human lives.

As the helicopter roared towards the drop zone, you were the calmest one there, completely unfazed by the mission ahead. You sat with your legs crossed, leaning back against the hull as if this were a casual night out rather than a covert infiltration into the heart of a trafficking ring. You didn’t even glance at the weapons the others carried—why would you? Your body itself was the weapon, sharpened and deadly, while the dress was just a distraction even to the men on the heli.

Price looked out the window, eyes narrowed as he ran through the mission briefing in his head. The traffickers operated out of an exclusive club, hidden behind layers of corruption and bribes. The “Red Room,” they called it—a place where those with enough money could buy anything, anyone. And that’s where you’d be slipping in.

The plan was simple in theory, though nothing ever went as planned. You’d go in first, the rest of the team scattered throughout the perimeter, waiting for your signal. Once you had eyes on the targets—the ringleaders behind the trafficking operation—you’d take them down. Silent, quick, surgical. The rest of the team would follow, sweeping in to clean up the mess.

Price hated it. Despised it. The reliance on a mercenary, the need for you to infiltrate like this—it gnawed at him, leaving him with a deep sense of helplessness as he waited outside while you ventured straight into the lion’s den.

Call him old-fashioned, but the thought of sending a woman into a place built to break women, to degrade them into nothing more than objects, turned his stomach. His skin crawled with the weight of the decision he’d made, the reluctant agreement he’d given when assigning you this task, knowing what it would subject you to, despite your hardened reputation.

The helicopter jerked slightly as they neared the landing zone, the tension in the cabin tightening as they prepared for what came next.

The men checked their gear, but Price couldn’t help but steal a glance at you. You were adjusting the straps of your heels, unbothered by the shift in the helicopter. You caught him looking, and for a brief moment, you smirked—one of those dangerous, knowing smiles that sent a shiver down his spine.

“Relax, Captain,” you purred, voice low and dripping with amusement. “I’ve done this a hundred times. It’s not me you need to worry about.”

Price grunted in response, but the knot of unease in his gut didn’t loosen. He didn’t like this. He didn’t like you. But there was no denying your skill. You were their only shot at infiltrating and escaping without igniting a full-scale war that would spill into the impoverished neighborhoods surrounding The Red Room, putting the locals at risk.

The helicopter landed with a slight jolt, and you stood with the fluidity of a predator. As the doors opened, the cool night air flooded in, mixing with the heavy, pungent smells of the city—garbage, pollution, and the faint stench of decay clinging to its urban foundation coupled with the sting of hot metal from the helicopter.

You were already moving, stepping out into the shadows without a backward glance. Graceful. Tantalizing. A fucking problem if the heat pooling in his lower abdomen was anything to go by.

The Red Room was waiting for you, and with it, the men who thought they could play gods with human lives.

Inside the club, the air hung heavy with a haze of smoke and luxury, the heady mix of costly cologne, sweat, and spilt liquor clinging to every breath. Lights pulsed in time with the music, casting flickering shadows across velvet booths and marble floors. You moved like a wisp through the sea of bodies, effortlessly weaving past gilded figures lost in indulgence, your sharp eyes sweeping over each face, every shadowed corner, alert for the slightest hint of danger.

No one paid you any mind. Just another beautiful woman in a sea of beauty, here to be admired, objectified, discarded.

Your eyes never left the traffickers. They were predators in tailored suits, laughing behind the safety of closed doors, basking in their perceived invincibility. They had no idea that the real predator had already infiltrated their den. A viper in a den of wolves.

Among them, you spotted a target—a bloated, balding man, a thick cigar dangling from his lips as he smirked, a young girl, stiff with terror and silently pleading anyone with her eyes for help, held under his heavy fat arm like an accessory while he dragged her beyond double doors. In an instant, you melted into the shadows, slipping away from the glittering chaos of the club like a whisper carried on the wind, following them.

The Red Room was hidden down a dim corridor, guarded by two burly men. You approached them with a practiced, sultry smile; an expression crafted to exploit the foolishness and vanity of men like these. It worked, as it always did. One of them barely glanced at you before stepping aside, holding the door open without hesitation.

Inside, the atmosphere shifted dramatically. The decadent luxury of the club gave way to something colder, darker. The air in the hallway felt sterile and oppressive, thick with the stench of fear and cruelty. Tears and sex. Depravity and desolation.

As you walked, the soft click of your heels against the marble floor echoed through the space, a haunting reminder of the danger lurking just beneath the surface. Outside, the guards remained blissfully unaware of the storm about to break.

***

Outside, Price and his men lay in wait, a silent sentinel group surveying the entrance. They were a hawk-eyed presence, alert to every detail as they observed the ebb and flow of clubgoers; oblivious revelers lost in the rhythm of the night, unaware of the horrors festering behind the liquor-drenched walls of the establishment. Among them were the human traffickers, predators moving with calculated ease through the crowd, fully aware of the darkness that lurked within.

As the hours dragged on, tension grew palpable in the air. His men shifted restlessly, eyes darting towards the entrance, where your absence weighed heavy. The recruits fidgeted first, their anxiety contagious; soon, even the seasoned veterans succumbed to the unease.

You should have signaled by now.

An uncomfortable weight settled in Price’s gut, worry sinking like a stone, as doubt slithered into his mind. Had his trust in you been misplaced? Were your stories mere fabrications? Was he leading a lamb to slaughter, destined to storm the building only to find your lifeless shell left among the remnants of your fight, chewed up and spat out among the cum-stained shackles of other victims?

Just as he began to consider which of his men he would send in to check on you, the comms crackled to life, your voice sultry and cursory. “Bravo-Six, this is Bravo-Two, how copy?”

Price jolted, relief singing through his veins, the tension in his chest easing. “Solid, Bravo-Two. What's your sitrep?”

“Come see. Back door through the alley. Watch your footing. Follow the hallway on your left to a row of offices. Third door on your right.” And then silence enveloped the channel once more, your voice replaced by the eerie quiet that had plagued it for hours now.

Price exchanged a quick glance with Ghost, the closest man to him, before signaling for the team to move. The meaning behind your warning echoed in his mind, leaving him to wonder what you meant about needing to watch his footing.

He wouldn’t have to wonder for long.

As they entered the back door, the scene before him was grotesque. Bodies lay strewn across the floor, torn and mutilated as if an unstoppable force had swept through them like a violent storm. The human traffickers, buyers, and sellers were dead, their lifeless forms littered with stab wounds and bullet holes, blood pooling around them in dark, congealed puddles, mixing with shards of glass and spilled liquor.

In the shadowy corners of The Red Room, only the victims remained alive—caged like wounded animals, trembling and whimpering, their bodies splattered with the blood of their tormentors.

Price signaled to some of his men to break off and attend to the victims while instructing others to clear the club beyond a set of double doors. The pounding music masked the carnage that lay inside, a stark contrast to the horror they had just uncovered. The rest followed him down a lavishly decorated hallway into a series of opulent offices, where he found you standing amidst the chaos—three dead men scattered around you.

The fourth man knelt on the floor, blood oozing from a gash in his cheek, hands bound behind his back. His eyes wide in terror as he stared at you, as if confronted by a demon, his mind no doubt racing through a rapid reassessment of his life choices as you forced him to come face to face with his mortality.

“Saved you one,” you drawled in lieu of a greeting as you caught sight of the Captain, your hair and skin slick with the tacky blood of others, but not yours.

“You were supposed to call for us, not take on all the traffickers by yourself,” Price snapped, his frustration palpable. You blinked at him, as if the notion of needing assistance was a foreign concept, a radical idea that the 141’s involvement should have been more than a fleeting afterthought.

With an unapologetic shrug, you met his gaze, defiance radiating from you. “Easier this way.”

Unrepentant. Disrespectful.

He hated you. Fucking Mercenaries.

A slow, almost predatory grin curled at your lipstick stained lips, as though you could read Price’s mind and took pleasure in the thought that he despised you. Yet, you didn’t acknowledge it—not now. Still, there was a glint in your eyes, something that made Price’s jaw tighten. He knew you’d throw it in his face later. Call it instinct.

Instead, you turned to the bound man, giving his blood-soaked cheek a condescending pat, like one might to a dog. Blood sprayed across his already stained collar as your manicured fingers dug into his swollen skin. “Meet Vasily Mikhailovich. Human trafficker. Arms dealer. Limited intelligence. Smallest dick you’ve ever seen—”

Vasily snarled in rage, and despite his restraints, he lunged at you. Before Price or his men could react with anything more than raising their weapons, there was a sharp crack. Vasily collapsed at your feet, screaming in agony, his clavicle jutting grotesquely through taut skin. Price hadn’t even seen you move until you were casually resuming your stance, as though nothing had happened.

“That wasn’t very smart of you,” you mused, staring down at the whimpering man, nudging him with the tip of your heel until he rolled over. “It’s rude to try and hit ladies, Mikhailovich.”

A string of curses, half in English, half in Russian, spilled from his lips, but you only smiled, your amusement growing with each word.

You let him continue for a few seconds before you crouched down beside Vasily, your movements fluid and deliberate and his words seemed to die in his throat. You placed your fingers along his jawline, tutting slightly, shushing him.

Price saw it then, the way you wielded your allure like a well-honed tool. With a subtle arch in your back, your posture softened, the dim light of the office casting just the right shadows to highlight your beauty. Your lips curved into a sultry smile, eyes hooded, inviting him— and the rest of the men in the room by extension— to fall into your gaze.

“Shhh,” you whispered, and the air seemed to thicken as you reached out and traced the tip of your blood-slicked finger along his jawline and lower lip, feather light and lingering, like a lover’s touch. His breath hitched, a mix of pain and primal fear contorting his face, but his eyes, those bloodshot, desperate eyes, were hooked on yours.

“Good boy,” you murmured, voice a little sweeter this time, as if rewarding him for his compliance.

“You know, Vasily,” you purred, your voice like velvet, smooth and sinuous, wrapping around the room and dragging everyone into its grasp, “this could go one of two ways. You can keep fighting, keep snarling like the wild dog you are, or…” You leaned in closer, your lips nearly brushing his ear, your words a delicate whisper. “You can tell me everything I need to know. And I’ll make sure the pain stops.”

Vasily’s breathing grew ragged, his mind fraying at the edges, caught between the unbearable throbbing of his broken bone and the soft cadence of your voice. The way you spoke was a lullaby wrapped in threat, every syllable pulling him further into your orbit. Your touch, your voice, your closeness, all of it was like a drug, a disorienting effect that left him feeling both weak and intensely present all at once.

Behind you, Price’s men shifted, eyes flickering between you and the scene unfolding. Even Price, seasoned and hardened as he was, found himself unwillingly mesmerized by the subtle sway of your voice and the deliberate elegance of your movements. Your presence wove through the room like an intoxicating perfume, something that clung to the air, seeming to lull every threat into submission.

Like a manipulative deadly trap.

You moved your hand lower, tracing the lines of Vasily’s arm, lingering just above his restraints, fingers feather-light, the promise of relief so close yet maddeningly distant. His eyes fluttered, and for a second, the defiance in him flickered, like a candle in a storm.

“You’ll be a good boy, won’t you, Vasily?” The words dripped like honey, your lips curling into a smile that was equal parts deadly and intoxicating. Your words echoed through their minds, a seductive whisper that wrapped around their thoughts, making it difficult to focus on anything else. “I know you want to. It’s so much easier to obey. So much easier to make the pain stop.”

He swallowed hard, his tongue darting nervously across his cracked lips. “I—I don’t know anything,” he stammered, his voice hoarse, but there was less conviction now. Your presence was overwhelming, dominating. He wasn’t even speaking to a human anymore; you were something else entirely. Something that demanded submission. He felt powerless, helpless in your clutches, unable to pull away even if he wanted to.

You chuckled softly, the sound vibrating through him. “Don’t lie, Vasily.” You ran your fingers through his greasy hair, tugging lightly, enough to elicit a groan from him. His eyes half-closed as you tugged harder, the sharp pain mingling with the soft lilt of your voice in a way that confused him, that made his head spin. “I know you know. You wouldn’t be where you are if you didn’t. Now tell me…”

You let the sentence hang, trailing your free hand down his neck, your nails grazing his skin lightly, drawing a shudder from him. The whole room seemed to hang on your words, even Price’s men— even Soap, Gaz, and Ghost, seemed caught in your snare, their breaths shallow, as if they too were waiting for something to break.

Your lips brushed dangerously close to Vasily’s ear, tone warm, gentle, enough to make him doubt whether you were a threat at all, or if maybe, just maybe, you were on his side. He gasped, and his resistance snapped. “All right, all right!” His voice was strained, desperate. “It’s—it’s the shipments. The next one’s coming in two days. Weapons. Girls. They— they’re moving them through the docks. I swear. That’s all I know. Just—fuck.”

You smiled again, softer this time, a false kindness that made Vasily’s heart skip, and released your grip on his hair, smoothing it back into place with an almost tender touch. “There you go,” you whispered, brushing your thumb over the corner of his mouth. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

The relief on his face was palpable, as if he had been released from some invisible chokehold and in that instant the spell you’d weaved over the entire room like strands of spun sugar shattered leaving Price feeling like he’d been dunked into an icy lake.

Vasily’s entire body sagged, his muscles slackening under your gaze as you rose gracefully to your feet, giving a languid stretch and turned to Price, eyes gleaming with that same magnetic energy.

“All yours, Captain,” you said, your voice a little too sweet, a little too dangerous. “Unless, of course, you’re still doubting me?”

Price’s jaw tightened, the image of the bodies you dropped in the corridor outside of the office flashing through his mind, his eyes flickering on Vasily and the tent in his pants, the embarrassed flush of his cheeks. He didn’t want to give you the satisfaction, the boost to your ego, but his eyes betrayed him. He didn’t doubt you. Not anymore. None of them would.

***

Two days later, the docks loom before them, sprawling across the coastline like a forgotten graveyard of steel and rust. Shipping containers stacked high like tombstones, warehouses slouched in the distance, and cranes poised like skeletons against the darkening sky. The sea churns in the background, a slate gray mass flecked with whitecaps as the eastern wind howls through the gaps between the structures. The smell of saltwater and oil hangs in the air, thick and acrid, clinging to everything like a stain that won’t wash off. Overhead, the cries of gulls are swallowed by the low hum of machinery, the industrial heartbeat of a place where shadowy deals are brokered in the dark. The perfect setting for the kind of bloodstained business you’re about to tear apart.

Tonight, there’s no need for seductive disguises or glittering gowns. You’re clad in tactical gear that fits like a second skin, tight Kevlar pants hugging your form, combat boots laced tight, and a custom tactical vest that clings to your curves in a way that draws more than a few glances from the others. No helmet, though—when Soap questions your lack of NVGs, his brow furrowed in confusion, you merely smirk at him, your voice dropping to a playful coo as if he’s a child asking about monsters under the bed. “Don’t worry, love. I see plenty in the dark.”

Unlike last time, you’re not going in alone. You move with them, part of the team, though it quickly becomes clear that you’re still in a league of your own. As the raid begins, Price watches you weave through the shadows, faster and deadlier than anyone else. The operation moves like clockwork, the team dispersing to take their positions, rifles poised, eyes sharp. But while the others move like soldiers, precise and tactical, you move like a predator, instinct guiding you as much as training.

The first targets fall almost too easily. You glide up behind one of the guards, your knife flashing like silver lightning in the moonlight, and in an instant, the man crumples to the ground, his throat slit before he even knows what hit him. Silent. Efficient. Deadly. Price catches a glimpse of you through the scope of his rifle, watching as you drag the body into the shadows, your movements quick and fluid, and he’s reminded of the reports he read—brutal, vicious, without mercy.

But words on paper pale in comparison to the reality before him. As the firefight breaks out, gunfire erupts around the docks, chaos exploding in every direction, and you’re in the thick of it, tearing through enemies with a terrifying grace. You’re not just fighting; you’re dismantling them, piece by bloody piece. One man lunges at you with a knife, and in a heartbeat, you twist his wrist with a bone-snapping crack, slam him against a shipping container, and bury your blade in his chest without a second thought. Another opens fire, but before he can get a second shot off, you’re already on him, disarming him with a brutal kick to the jaw that leaves him sprawling on the ground. You don’t hesitate to finish him off, a single bullet to the skull, your movements cold and unrelenting.

Price orders his men to push forward, but his gaze keeps flicking back to you. He’s seen black ops soldiers in action before—seen Spetsnaz cut through enemies with machine-like precision—but you’re something else. There’s a ferocity in the way you fight, a raw, unbridled violence that has nothing to do with rules or regulations. It’s personal. Every move, every strike, feels like it carries a deeper purpose, as if the blood on your hands is a long-overdue justice you’ve been waiting to exact.

Soap lets out a low whistle over comms, his voice thick with awe. “Screaming Jesus, she’s a one-woman army.”

Price doesn’t respond, his jaw set tight as he watches you tear through another wave of enemies. The reports weren’t just accurate—they were restrained. You’re more than what they described, more than what even he expected. And as the last of the traffickers are mopped up, bodies littering the docks like broken marionettes, Price realizes there’s no one alive tonight who’ll walk away with a different opinion.

Not of The Mercenary. Not of the storm she unleashed.

It’s not long before the docks finally fall silent, what with you tearing through the traffickers like a hot knife through butter like you did. The echoes of gunfire faded into the night as Price surveyed the aftermath—bodies strewn across the grimy concrete, the remnants of a trafficking ring laid to waste. His team moved like shadows, finishing up the sweep, checking corners, and clearing out the last stragglers. Everything was by the book, clean and efficient, the kind of op that Price had seen a hundred times before.

But there was something different this time, and it wasn’t just the bloodied bodies left behind. It was you.

You stood near the water’s edge, wiping blood from your knife with a rag, the same calm expression on your face as if nothing extraordinary had just happened. As if you hadn’t torn through armed men like they were made of paper, leaving only devastation in your wake. You didn’t even glance at the bodies or the carnage around you. To you, this was routine, just another mission. Another paycheck.

Price’s eyes narrowed as he watched you. This was the part where you’d usually disappear—head out for your next contract, vanish into the night like the ghost you were. It’s what mercenaries did. They moved from job to job, no loyalty, no ties, just the endless chase of money and violence. He expected you to do the same now, your work here done.

But as his team packed up, ready to head back to base, you didn’t move.

Price signaled for the team to regroup, his orders coming out in short, clipped bursts over the comms. His focus was on his men, but his thoughts were on you. You weren’t leaving. Why weren’t you leaving?

You boarded the transport with them, sitting in the back, quiet, composed. Pupils blown wide as if you were excited instead of bone tired like the rest of them.

Soap, sitting across from you, gave you a raised brow, clearly curious, but he kept his distance. No one spoke. Not even you, which was… odd. Too odd.

Price kept glancing your way during the ride back, suspicion gnawing at him. What was your game? There was no reason for you to stay. No reason for you to be here, surrounded by military personnel, under their scrutiny. Yet you were sitting there, casual as ever, your gear still drenched in blood, as if this was where you belonged.

When the transport rolled into the base, Price caught Ghost’s eye, the unspoken tension crackling between them. His second-in-command seemed as wary as he was, but neither voiced their concerns just yet. They couldn’t. Not without proof. Not without something more than a gut feeling.

As they disembarked, Price expected you to peel off, maybe hitch a ride to the nearest city. But you followed them into the heart of the base, your steps unhurried, your presence unnervingly calm. You weren’t rushing to leave. You were settling in. Like you intended to stay.

***

A few days had passed since the raid at the docks, and everything seemed to settle back into the usual rhythm at the base. On the surface, anyway. Price was back to his routine, briefing the team, debriefing them, overseeing the cleanup from the mission. The trafficking ring had been dismantled, their operations left in ruin, and the victims had been taken care of. Everything should’ve been straightforward.

But it wasn’t.

His instincts told him otherwise. Something was off.

You were still here.

Price had expected you to vanish the moment the job was done. That’s what mercenaries did—complete the contract, collect the payout, and disappear without a second thought. No attachments, no lingering. But it had been days, and you hadn’t left. You wandered the base, moved through the halls like you belonged here, like you had no intention of leaving.

Every time he spotted you, that same unease crept up his spine. You wore the same calm, composed expression, no sign of hurry or purpose. You engaged with his men like you were another soldier of his making passing comments and bantering, the occasional smirk that tugging at your lips when Soap or Gaz tried to strike up casual conversation. And while the others seemed to accept your presence without question, Price couldn’t shake the feeling that something darker lurked beneath your cool exterior.

It was late one night when he spotted you standing near the armory, inspecting some gear. No one else was around. The quiet of the base hummed in the background, punctuated only by the low buzz of security lights. He stood in the doorway for a moment, watching you. You didn’t notice him—or at least, you didn’t make it obvious that you had.

He could still hear the rumors from the mission. Ghost, Soap, Gaz—they all talked about the way you’d torn through the enemy like a storm, leaving bodies broken and bloodied in your wake. Brutal. Vicious. No mercy. The reports hadn’t done you justice. And yet, here you were, walking through their base like the aftermath of that massacre hadn’t left a mark on you.

Price had seen enough soldiers go through hell and come out the other side broken or hardened, scarred in ways that never truly healed. But you? There was nothing but cold precision in your every movement, as if all the violence and death you caused was just another day at work. That was what bothered him the most—how utterly unfazed you were. How dangerous that made you.

As you turned, spotting him in the doorway, that small, knowing smile curled across your lips. Like you knew exactly what he was thinking. It was the same smile you’d given after the mission, when you’d cleaned off your knife without so much as a glance at the carnage you’d left behind.

“Price,” you greeted, your tone light, casual, as if the two of you were old acquaintances.

He grunted in return, stepping into the room, crossing his arms. “Still here, I see.”

Your smile deepened, your eyes gleaming with amusement. “Didn’t know I had a deadline.”

“You don’t,” Price replied, though his voice was tight, clipped. “But most mercs don’t stick around after the job’s done.”

Price narrowed his eyes, watching the way you shrugged off his question with a casual, almost too-relaxed air. “I like the company,” you said, your voice smooth, unbothered, like someone who had nothing to hide. But that was the problem, wasn’t it?

For someone in your line of work, you were too comfortable. Too at ease, lingering here long after the job was done. No mercenary sticks around just because they “like the company.” It didn’t add up.

He stared at you for a moment longer, your calm demeanor suddenly grating on him. And that’s when it clicked—the way you never seemed rushed to leave, the way your eyes tracked every movement in a room, like you were always assessing, calculating. This wasn’t about the company. It wasn’t even about the mission anymore.

Price could feel it in his gut, that same gnawing feeling that told him you were here for more than just the mission. You had a second objective, something that kept you close to them, waiting, watching.

He couldn’t shake the feeling that he’d let something worse than any enemy into their midst. A rot, festering beneath the surface, quiet and patient. You were no ordinary mercenary. You were a plague, spreading through their ranks, waiting for the right moment to turn gangrenous and poison them all from within.

His jaw clenched as he met your gaze, refusing to let the unease show in his eyes. “What’s your real game here?”

For a long moment, you said nothing, just watched him with that same maddening composure. Slowly, your head tilted, and a faint smile tugged at the corner of your lips, but it never touched your eyes.

“Curiosity, Captain. I’m simply curious.”

“Curious about what?” His voice was low, a deep rumble like distant thunder on the verge of a storm.

Instead of answering, you gave him that smile—a smile he knew all too well. He’d seen it before, on the faces of sociopaths who thrived on control. Lips pulled tight over teeth, but no warmth, no humanity behind the gaze.

A chill slid down his spine, and his fingers itched toward his gun. But he held steady, knowing that drawing it wouldn’t intimidate you. If anything, he had the unsettling suspicion it might amuse you instead.

***

Weeks passed, and you didn’t leave.

Price watched you like a hawk, waiting for the moment you’d pack up, chase down another contract, disappear like the mercenary you were. But you stayed. You drifted through their base like a shadow, always there but never fully integrated, always just on the periphery.

Every move you made was calculated, deliberate, and though no one said it outright, the entire team felt it. You were a presence; unsettling, magnetic, impossible to ignore. Like a lit candle you should keep an eye on less it be forgotten and burn your house down as a result.

Price had never felt this level of constant tension before. Not on long deployments, not during high-stakes missions. It wasn’t the enemy outside that kept him awake at night; it was you. The way you seemed to move through their ranks without ever fully being a part of them.

He stayed on edge, hyper-vigilant, like a coiled spring, knowing something was going to snap, but unsure of when or how. His senses were stretched thin, his patience even thinner.

It was like having a wolf among sheep, and worse, the sheep were growing comfortable with it.

One night, as Price sat alone in his office, eyes burning from lack of sleep, his head buzzing when there was a quiet knock on the door. It was Gaz, looking more awkward than usual.

“Sir, I thought you should know… Soap’s been, uh… spending time with her.” He didn’t say your name, but he didn’t have to. There was only one “her” that could cause this kind of unease.

Price’s stomach dropped. “Define ‘spending time,’ Sergeant.”

Gaz shifted uncomfortably. “They, uh… hooked up. Last night.”

Price’s hand clenched into a fist, knuckles going white against the desk. He didn’t want to believe it, but he could see the truth in Gaz’s eyes. The warning signs had been there. Soap had always been the bold one, reckless even, and you—well, you thrived on that. Price should’ve seen this coming.

His mind raced. Soap, of all people, had fallen into your web. He could only imagine how you’d spun it, lured him in with that seductive charm you wielded like a weapon. And now? Now one of his own was compromised, and he could feel the situation spiraling out of his control.

Price dismissed Gaz with a terse nod, and the second the door closed, he slammed his fist down on the desk.

This wasn’t just about Soap being reckless or stupid. It was about you. Staying on base for weeks without any clear reason, keeping everyone on edge. And now, with Soap tangled up in whatever game you were playing, it was like watching a slow poison seep into the unit.

He stood up, jaw clenched as he paced the room, trying to think. He couldn’t let this go on. He couldn’t afford to be patient anymore. Whatever your endgame was, you had already begun to rot away at the heart of his team.

***

Price didn’t sleep that night. He paced his office, mind racing, piecing together every moment from the past few weeks. Every time he’d caught your eye lingering on him, every smile that felt more like a test than a gesture of goodwill. Now, with Soap wrapped up in your web, it was clear that this wasn’t just his paranoia. You had an agenda, and he had let you into their midst.

The next morning, Price called a meeting. The men gathered in the briefing room, and he could feel the shift in the air as soon as you entered. All eyes gravitated toward you. You moved like you always did—fluid, confident, unbothered. Soap sat across the table, his gaze drifting to you more than it should, and Price’s jaw tightened.

He began to speak, his voice sharp as a knife. “We’re moving out tonight. Intel says there’s a shipment coming in—drugs, arms, the usual. We’re going to shut it down.” The plan wasn’t anything new—standard sweep and seizure. But it was the underlying tension in the room that couldn’t be ignored. Price’s words were meant to shift the focus, to drag his team back to where they needed to be. But as he spoke, he caught you watching him, your expression unreadable, a flicker of amusement in your eyes that sent a chill down his spine.

Once the briefing ended, the men dispersed, except for Soap, who lingered by you, grinning like he was in on some private joke. Price stared at him for a moment longer than necessary before heading out, fighting the rising frustration in his gut.

Later on after finishing up the mission, Price sat in his office, the faint hum of activity echoing through the hallways. His door cracked open slightly, letting in the soft shuffle of footsteps, the sound unmistakable.

“Captain.”

Your voice, low and almost playful, cut through the silence like a blade. He didn’t turn to look at you. He couldn’t trust himself to keep his composure.

“You’ve been awfully quiet lately,” you continued, stepping further into the room. He could hear the soft click of the door shutting behind you. “Everything alright?”

Price clenched his jaw. “I was just focused on the mission.”

“That so?” You circled around to stand in front of his desk, leaning against it casually, too casually for his liking. Your presence was overwhelming, filling the small space like a thick fog. “You don’t seem like the type to get distracted, Captain.”

“And you seem like the type that enjoys creating distractions.” He finally met your gaze, and the way you smiled in response sent a shiver of unease down his spine. You were toying with him, and worse, you knew he knew it.

“Why are you still here?” Price asked, his voice low, controlled.

Your smile widened slightly. “I told you before—curiosity.”

“Bullshit,” he snapped. “You don’t stay in one place this long for curiosity.”

You didn’t flinch at his tone, didn’t seem fazed at all. Instead, you leaned in slightly, eyes narrowing as you regarded him like a predator assessing prey. “I’ve spent time in many places. Ask around—check with units in Marawi, Mogadishu, Kandahar… even Berlin. I always seem to stick around longer than planned, don’t I?” You laughed lightly, shaking your head like it was an amusing coincidence. “But then again, maybe they never saw it either. Maybe you’re the only one smart enough to see the bigger picture.”

Price’s pulse quickened. Every location you listed, every unit you mentioned, could easily be verified. You knew that. But it was the way you laid it out—so casually, like you weren’t even concerned—that made him falter. Like you wanted him to check, knowing full well what he’d find. Hadn’t you been acting the same way there too? Charming your way through, making yourself indispensable, all the while threading yourself deeper into their fabric until it was too late to unravel you?

“You can ask, Captain,” you purred, leaning in just a little closer, the air between you suffocating with tension. “But you won’t find anything out of the ordinary. Because, if you start seeing ghosts in every corner… well, maybe the problem isn’t me…”

You trailed off meaningfully and Price didn’t answer. He couldn’t. His mind was racing, every instinct screaming at him that something was very, very wrong. You had stayed too long, ingratiated yourself too easily, and now Soap was involved. And even though he wanted to believe it was just a lapse in judgment on Soap’s part, he couldn’t shake the feeling that it was all part of a larger plan. And yet…

“You know,” you said softly, almost thoughtfully, “trust is such a delicate thing. Once it’s broken, it’s hard to repair. You start questioning everything. Everyone.”

The way you said it made Price’s skin crawl. You were baiting him, pushing him to the edge, and he was dangerously close to snapping.

“What the hell are you playing at?” he demanded, standing up, fists clenched.

You didn’t back down. If anything, you seemed to enjoy the tension, your smile sharpening into something more predatory. “Nothing at all, Captain. Just… enjoying my time. Having fun.”

Price took a step closer, his voice a low growl. “This isn’t a game.”

You tilted your head slightly, the smile never leaving your face. “I never said it was, Captain. I’m afraid you’re reading too far into things. Seeing shadows where there isn’t any.”

Price’s heart pounded in his chest as he stood there, caught in a web of uncertainty and suspicion. He didn’t trust you. Hell, he didn’t even know if he could trust his own men anymore, not after what happened with Soap.

But as much as he wanted to get you off his base, to throw you out and wash his hands of this whole mess, he couldn’t. Not yet. Because something told him that whatever you were really after, it wasn’t just Soap. And until he knew for sure what your endgame was, he had no choice but to keep you close—and pray that he hadn’t just let a fox into the henhouse.

As you turned to leave, Price couldn’t help but feel like he’d just lost a battle he hadn’t even realized he was fighting. “Sweet dreams, Captain. Good night.”

***

Price hung up the phone, staring at the receiver as if it could offer answers to the storm raging in his mind. Eight months. You’d lingered for eight whole months after your contract ended in Berlin, weaving yourself into the fabric of another unit’s daily routine, and just like the Colonel had said, you left without a trace of anything suspicious. No incidents. No trouble. Just gone, as suddenly as you had come.

But the Colonel’s words echoed in his mind: “I thought the same like you, Captain, Ja. I had my eyes on her the whole time, thought something was happening… but nothing ever came of it. She is slippery, that one, but not a drop of blut was out of place when she went away.”

Price exhaled slowly, leaning back in his chair, fingers massaging his temples. Eight months. He should’ve been reassured, should’ve felt some relief hearing that someone else, someone just as seasoned, had gone through the same ordeal. But instead, it gnawed at him, deepening the pit of uncertainty growing in his gut. If nothing happened then… why did every nerve in his body scream at him now?

He’d been in the field for decades, lived through hells most men wouldn’t survive, and his instincts had kept him alive through it all. But now? Now he was doubting himself. Questioning his own judgment, wondering if the years had worn him down, made him paranoid. Had it all finally caught up to him? Maybe the pressure, the decades of battle scars, were finally showing. Yet, every fiber of his being still rebelled against the idea of ignoring what was so blatantly wrong.

No, he thought. My instincts are never wrong. He had learned to trust that gut feeling, the one that separated him from the men who didn’t make it.

The door creaked open, and Ghost stepped in, interrupting the maelstrom of thoughts swirling in Price’s head. He stood there, imposing as always, but there was something different in his expression. Price sat up straighter, bracing himself.

“Sir,” Ghost started, his voice steady but with an edge of uncertainty, unusual for the Lieutenant.

“What is it?” Price asked, trying to keep his voice even.

“The mercenary,” Ghost clarified, his eyes narrowing slightly. “She took part in a training drill today with some of the recruits.”

Price blinked. That wasn’t unusual in itself. You’d been weaving in and out of different areas for weeks now, always showing up in unexpected places, like you were trying to familiarize yourself with every inch of the base. But the tension in Ghost’s stance told Price there was more to the story.

“What happened?” Price asked, already feeling a creeping dread in the back of his mind.

“One of the recruits made a mistake. Big one,” Ghost continued. “Nearly cost him his life. Got caught up in a malfunction on the rappel during the high-altitude training drill.”

Price’s heart skipped a beat. “And?”

“She saved him,” Ghost said simply. “Reacted faster than anyone else. Snapped the rope, pulled him out before he hit the deck.”

Price was silent for a moment, digesting the information. “She saved him?”

Ghost nodded. “Yeah. Kid would’ve been dead if not for her. She didn’t just follow protocol. She handled it like she’d done it a hundred times before.”

Price leaned back in his chair again, his mind whirling. You’d saved a recruit’s life, a move that should have earned you praise. But all he could feel was a deepening sense of confusion. You were smart—too smart, maybe. Every move you made, every little gesture, seemed calculated. Even this.

“Did she say anything afterward?” Price asked, narrowing his eyes at Ghost.

“Not much,” Ghost replied. “Just told him to ‘pay better attention next time.’ Then walked off like nothing happened.”

Price nodded, though the pit in his stomach widened. You were integrating yourself even more, and not just through casual conversation or staying on base. Now, you were actively participating in training, putting yourself in situations where people’s lives depended on you. Perfectly timed, Price thought. You knew how to make yourself indispensable, a hero even. It was the perfect strategy—who would suspect someone who just saved a recruit’s life?

But it only added to Price’s unease. You weren’t just hanging around. You were embedding yourself deeper into their operations, gaining trust in subtle, almost insidious ways. The other soldiers would start seeing you as one of them now, and that was exactly what Price had been afraid of. You were smart, calculated, and every move you made had a purpose.

Ghost noticed Price’s silence, his usual unreadable expression giving way to a flicker of concern. “You think she’s up to something?”

“I don’t know,” Price admitted, his voice rough. “But I’m damn sure we’ve let something in. And if we don’t figure it out soon, it’s going to spread.” He glanced at Ghost, knowing he needed his team more than ever. “Keep an eye on her. And make sure the others do too. If she’s playing us… I don’t want her to slip through our fingers.”

Ghost gave a curt nod before turning to leave, but Price didn’t feel any better. The pieces were moving, the game had started, and you had somehow made yourself both player and wildcard. And if Price wasn’t careful, you were going to turn everything on its head.

***

Unfortunately for the growing alarm bells ringing— screaming— in the back of his head, Price couldn’t deny the shift that had taken place after you saved Private Merrick’s life. The act, as timely as it was heroic, had made you a near instant legend on base. Where there had once been wariness, there was now admiration. Distrust had given way to camaraderie. The mercenary who’d sparked suspicion had, overnight, become one of them.

The recruits, green and eager to prove themselves, were especially captivated. They hung on every word you said, their wide-eyed awe palpable as you walked among them, offering tips, pointers, and more often than not, a sly smile that sent them stumbling over themselves. Soap, naturally, had been quick to follow. Gaz too, now. Wherever you went, they seemed to hover nearby, as if drawn in by some invisible thread you were masterfully tugging.

They weren’t the only ones. The seasoned soldiers, men hardened by battle, found themselves drawn in as well, their initial skepticism melting into begrudging respect. You were seen everywhere now: the gym, the shooting range, combat drills, simulations. You seamlessly inserted yourself into every facet of their routine, giving advice, correcting form, all with a confidence and casual ease that was impossible to ignore.

They ate it up: your presence, your guidance, the way you seemed to understand every nuance of warfare as if you’d written the manual yourself. And through it all, that same playful amusement never left your expression, like you were indulging them in some elaborate game only you truly understood.

For most, that was enough. The charm, the beauty, the undeniable skill, all of it combined into a perfect storm that left the men blind to the subtle machinations beneath the surface. But not Price. And not Ghost.

No, for Price, the growing crowd of admirers only deepened the unease gnawing at him. You were too good at this. Too adept at weaving yourself into the fabric of their base, ingratiating yourself with the men until even the most seasoned soldiers saw you as one of them. It should have been reassuring, knowing that so many eyes were on you, watching your every move. But it wasn’t.

Because Price knew that the more you were seen, the more you were in control. And control, he realized, was exactly what you wanted.

He’d watched you long enough now to know there was no accident in the way you operated. Every interaction, every gesture, was carefully measured, designed to draw people closer while keeping them just far enough from the truth. They saw the hero who saved lives, the expert who could outshoot and outfight most of them. They didn’t see the subtle manipulation, the way you orchestrated their perception of you with all the grace of a master conductor.

Price watched it unfold daily, helpless to stop it, and it unnerved him. You were a serpent in their midst, coiled and waiting, though for what, he wasn’t sure.

It was that uncertainty, the sense that there was more beneath the surface, that had him on edge. He tried to shake it off, to tell himself he was overthinking, that his paranoia was getting the best of him. But his instincts, the same instincts that had kept him alive for decades, refused to quiet.

And then there was Ghost. Silent, observant Ghost, who had taken to watching you with the same wariness that Price felt but couldn’t yet name. The two of them were the last holdouts, the only ones still resisting the pull of your charm. But for how long?

One evening, as Price sat in his office, the weight of sleepless nights and gnawing doubts pressing heavily on him, he heard the now-familiar sound of footsteps approaching his door. He didn’t need to look up to know it was you. There was something distinctive about the way you moved—too smooth, too deliberate.

“Captain,” your voice purred, cutting through the stillness of the room. Slid through the air, low and laced with amusement.

He didn’t bother to respond immediately, keeping his eyes on his paperwork (though his focus had long since abandoned him), hoping you’d take the hint. But of course, you didn’t. You never did. You weren’t one for leaving things alone.

You closed the door behind you and stepped further into the room, the space seeming to shrink around your presence. Thick and suffocating, creeping in the room like smoke. The sweetest perfume. “You’ve been keeping to yourself,” you observed, your tone light, playful, as if you were speaking to an old friend. Teasing. This was all a game to you. He knew it was. He knew you enjoyed every second of it.

“I’m busy,” Price muttered, not looking up from the papers scattered across his desk. Jaw tight. Molar aching. He could feel you watching him. Dissecting him with those sharp, calculating eyes. The room felt smaller with you in it.

“Busy with what? Watching me?” The challenge was evident in your voice, a hint of amusement curling the edges of your words. You took slow, deliberate steps towards his desk. Through the shadows. A panther hunting prey.

Bringing you here was a mistake but Laswell had insisted, and Price— ever loyal to her judgment— had conceded, like always.

The question hung in the air like a challenge, and Price’s grip on the pen tightened. It took everything in him not to snap, not to lash out in a way that you’d only twist into some game. He could feel his pulse quicken, an involuntary reaction to the control you wielded so effortlessly.

“Why are you still here?” he finally asked, his voice low and controlled. Brittle. Like rust flaking off metal.

“I’ve told you,” you began, leaning forward just enough to invade his space. You smiled, that maddening smile, like you knew exactly what you were doing. “I’m curious.” Tone dripping with false innocence.

Price isn’t a religious man but even he knows mythology all around the world say the same thing sometimes: a monster that takes on the shape of beautiful women to lure men in and bleed them dry. Siren. Succubus. Lamia. Jorogumo. Nymphs. You.

Price didn’t buy it. Couldn’t buy it. “Curiosity doesn’t make you stay this long.”

You smiled, that same infuriating, empty smile you always gave. “You really think I’m up to something, don’t you?”

He met your gaze, and for the briefest moment, he saw something flicker in your eyes. Amusement. Triumph. You know, he thought. You know exactly what you’re doing, and you’re enjoying it. The way you were looking at him— it wasn’t innocent at all.

“You’ve done this before, haven’t you?” Price asked, the words slipping out before he could stop them.

Your eyes glinted with something darker and the air felt heavier. “What do you mean?”

“You linger. Stick around bases after your contracts end. Like in Berlin,” Price pressed, his voice low but firm. “Eight months. That’s what they said. And nothing happened, right?”

Your smile widened, eyes flashing with a dangerous light. “Is that what’s bothering you, Captain? That nothing happened?”

Price’s heart pounded in his chest. You were pushing him. Toying with him, manipulating every word to plant more doubt, more confusion.

“You can call them, you know,” you said, leaning even closer. “Berlin. Warsaw. Cairo. Ask around. I’ve stayed on bases longer than I should have, but nothing ever happens. It’s just you, Captain. Just your paranoia.”

He stared at you, struggling to keep his composure, but you’d seen it. That flicker of doubt. That split second of hesitation. And you pounced on it.

“You’re getting tired, aren’t you?” you whispered. “Decades of service. Constant vigilance. Maybe it’s wearing you down. Maybe you’re imagining things.”

Price clenched his fists, feeling the tension coil in his muscles. He was tired, but his instincts had always been his guide. Yet you were so effortlessly making him doubt them.

“Or,” you continued, voice low and dripping with venomous sweetness, “maybe you’re right. Maybe I am up to something. But if that’s the case… what are you going to do about it?”

Price’s blood ran cold. You were challenging him, daring him to act, to confront you. And all the while, you wore that same damn smile, the one that made him feel like he was the one losing control.

You tilted your head, eyes gleaming as you stepped around the desk, slowly closing the distance between him and you. “You really do think I’m up to something, don’t you?”

Price leaned back slightly, his breath shallow, but he stayed rooted to his chair. You were close now, too close. The faint scent of your perfume mixed with the metallic tang of his anxiety.

Without a word, you reached out, your fingers grazing lightly over his shoulder. Price stiffened, the warmth of your touch sending a shock through his system. You leaned in, your breath brushing against his neck, and whispered, “You look tired, Captain.”

He wanted to move, to shake you off, but his body betrayed him. The exhaustion weighed down his limbs, and before he could stop you, your hands were kneading gently into the knots in his shoulders.

“Carrying the weight of the world, aren’t you?” you cooed softly, fingers working into the tension, the pressure just enough to make him falter. “Must be exhausting. No wonder you’re starting to see things… imagining things.”

Price gritted his teeth, fighting against the wave of fatigue that was crashing over him, but your touch was so… disarming. Slowly, without realizing it, he found himself relaxing under your hands, the exhaustion finally catching up to him. You felt it too—the way his resistance was crumbling, brick by brick.

“That’s it, Captain,” you murmured, your voice laced with false concern as your hands worked lower, pressing into the tight muscles of his back. “You’ve been doing this for so long. Decades of service. Always on edge. Always watching. Don’t you ever just… let go?”

Price’s eyes fluttered shut for a moment, and he forced them open again, fighting to keep control, but the words wouldn’t come. You’d stepped even closer now, leaning against his desk, nearly perched in his lap, your breath warm against his ear.

“I can help, you know,” you whispered, your lips so close they brushed against his skin. “Take some of that weight off your shoulders.”

Price swallowed hard, the tension in the air palpable. He knew what you were doing, knew this was just another layer of your manipulation, but his body wasn’t responding the way he wanted it to. His arms felt heavy, his breathing shallow. Your hands, now on his neck, massaged with an expert’s precision, coaxing him into compliance.

“I’ve been around, Captain,” you continued, your voice soft, hypnotic. “Berlin. Cairo. So many places where they thought like you—always suspicious, always looking for something that wasn’t there. And do you know what happened?”

You leaned in closer, your lips grazing the edge of his jaw, your breath sending shivers down his spine.

“Nothing.”

The word hung in the air, and Price’s head swam, caught between the fog of exhaustion and the insidiousness of your touch.

“I’m not the problem, Captain,” you whispered, your hand tracing down his chest, fingers curling ever so slightly against the fabric of his shirt. “You are. You’ve been at this too long. You don’t know when to stop. When to trust.”

Price clenched his fists at his sides, willing his body to move, to push you away, but he was trapped between his own fatigue and the intoxicating effect of your presence.

“I’m not here to hurt you,” you murmured, voice almost tender now. “I’m here because I think you’re special. Smart. Worthy of my attention. But you need to let go. Just a little. Stop fighting me. Stop fighting yourself.”

Your words wove their way into his mind, insidious and slow, planting seeds of doubt. His instincts, the ones that had kept him alive for so long, screamed at him to resist, to see through the haze you were creating. But his body was weak. His mind clouded. And you were so close, so warm, so soft.

Before he could speak, your fingers slid up to his jaw, gently turning his face to meet yours. The way you looked at him—predatory, with a flicker of something darker—made his breath hitch.

And in that moment, he realized just how far he’d fallen. How deep into your web he’d been pulled.

***

The feel of your skin beneath his fingers is rapturous. It’s been too long since he’s touched a woman like this. Years. Decades, maybe. Not since he was a recruit. Maybe not even then.

Your skin is so warm it sears him, like his fingertips are burning against molten caramel, soft and yielding. He bites along the curve of your inner thigh, and the sensation explodes in his mind, melting away whatever resistance he once had.

Electricity hums through him, short-circuiting the alarm bells that had been screaming in the back of his head for weeks. Blessed silence fills the space where doubt and suspicion had lived ever since he saw your dossier. He doesn’t understand you; he’s not sure anyone truly does— but this… this he understands.

Somewhere between one heartbeat and the next, your pants are gone, discarded in the blur of heated moments. His head spins like he’s been drinking the strongest liquor, intoxicated, consumed by the heat between you. He’s drowning, but for the first time in weeks, he’s at peace with it.

How did he get here? You’d walked into his office barely twenty minutes ago, and now…

Now.

His fingers hook around the waistband of your panties, tugging them down with a roughness that makes him groan. The sight of you, glistening, dripping… it’s almost too much.

“Fuck,” the word rumbles from his throat, thick and heavy, like a storm rolling in on a sweltering summer night. His body feels like it’s been set on fire, his blood ignited, burning like the tips of his cigars.

His hands slide up your thighs, fingers teasing along your slick folds. The sensation beneath his touch is almost overwhelming— sticky, wet, and so incredibly wanting.

“Fuck,” he murmurs again, the word dragging from his lips as his mouth waters. He can’t stop himself, not anymore. He leans forward, driven by instinct, by a deep seated need to taste you, to devour you.

The taste of your cunt floods his senses, richer than any wine, sweeter than any ambrosia. It’s forbidden, like a taste of something divine, and as his eyes roll back, he’s lost in you.

His hands grip tighter, fingers digging into the flesh of your thighs as if anchoring himself to the moment. The world tilts, his mind spinning as he presses his mouth deeper, dragging his tongue through your wetness. The heat of you, the taste—it’s all-consuming.

The low hum of his growl vibrates against your core, sending a ripple through you that makes you shudder. Every fiber of his being is alive, sparking, like he’s teetering on the edge of something cataclysmic. His control, usually so ironclad, is slipping with every pulse of your body beneath his.

You moan, soft but sharp, and it ignites something primal in him. He grips harder, pulling you closer, deeper into his mouth, losing himself in the taste of you. Your fingers tangle in his hair, urging him on, and he obliges without thought, driven by a need that eclipses every other instinct.

His mind is quiet. Blissfully, achingly quiet. No questions, no doubts. Just this—your warmth, your scent, your taste. His world narrows to this moment, this singular point of contact where you meet him, where everything else fades away.

He groans again, the sound muffled against you, and it vibrates through his chest like thunder. Every flick of his tongue feels like fire, every second stretching out into something timeless, endless. He’s lost, drowning, and he’s never felt so damn content in the suffocating pull of it all.

Price doesn’t remember how it started, doesn’t remember why it even began. All he knows now is that he’s here, with you, and the rest of the world is a distant blur, a forgotten consequence of this moment.

His mouth works against your cunt, slow but deliberate, every motion designed to unravel you further. Your gasps, your shudders—they fuel him.

His hands grip tighter, anchoring you in place, holding you still against his mouth. He’s seen your strength, knows how easily you could fight him off if you wanted. But you’re yielding beneath him, pliant in his grasp. Submissive in a way that twists something primal inside him.

He holds you firm, his mouth relentless, dragging you closer to the edge with every flick of his tongue. His lips press against your clit, a reverent kiss, sucking gently but with purpose, driving you mad with sensation.

“Price—oh, God,” you gasp, your voice ragged, hands clutching his hair, tugging, pulling. But you don’t push him away. You pull him closer, pushing yourself deeper into his mouth as he coaxes you to the brink.

Your body trembles, thighs shaking, and he knows you’re close. He can feel it in the way your muscles tighten, hear it in the way your breath hitches. And then you’re coming undone, keening above him as your orgasm crashes over you.

Price watches, captivated, as you fall apart. It’s a revelation, the sight of you trembling, unraveling beneath his touch, the taste of you flooding his senses. He drinks it in, savoring every drop, letting it fill him, consume him. There’s something intoxicating in it, a sweetness that lingers, turning his thoughts to static.

He pulls back when he’s had his fill, sitting up, licking his lips as though he’s just finished a feast. The sight of you, dazed, eyes half-lidded, makes something feral stir in his chest.

You slither into his lap, and despite the warning bells starting back up in the back of his mind—viper, viper, viper—he lets you. He can’t resist, not when you fit so perfectly against him, not when your warmth seeps into his skin like a drug.

His belt clinks as his pants fall open, and you smirk, that maddening, teasing smirk, the one that makes him want to either kiss you or strangle you. “That looks painful.”

His cock is painfully hard, the tip flushed, leaking, staining his boxers. Veins bulge along the length, and he’s never felt so desperate, so needy. “Because of you,” he grits out through clenched teeth.

Your smile widens, something wicked and knowing behind it, like you’re a siren luring him deeper into your trap. (Siren. Succubus. Lamia. Jorogumo. Nymphs. You.) “Want me to take care of it, Captain?”

You roll your hips, your slick folds sliding over him, making him jerk up involuntarily. His breath catches, and he nods, unable to form words, his need too great. “Please,” he rasps.

You coo softly, mocking him with your sweetness, teasing him with your control. But then you line yourself up, sinking down slowly, torturously, and he can’t stop the groan that rumbles from his chest.

His head falls back, body arching as the heat of you envelops him, tight and wet and perfect. It feels like coming home, and for a moment, he doesn’t care about the alarms in his head, doesn’t care about the danger you represent. He just needs this—needs you.

You’re not human—maybe you never were. A demon wrapped in the skin of an angel, something sweet and deadly. Sugar and spice for the righteous, poison for the wicked. Karma, incarnate. It’s no wonder Price can’t figure you out, can’t unravel the threads that make you. You’re his punishment, his purgatory, for all the blood on his hands. His salvation, his reward for all the lives he’s saved.

Not quite heaven, not quite hell.

But a taste of both.

He groans as you take him deeper, his mind slipping, thoughts unraveling with every inch of you that sinks down. His hands grip your hips, fingers digging into your flesh, desperate to ground himself, but the way you move—slow, deliberate—makes him feel like he’s losing a part of himself with each second.

The tight, wet heat of you is everything he didn’t know he craved. It’s too much, yet not enough. His vision blurs as you rock against him, your body molding to his, every roll of your hips a deliberate push closer to the edge. You’re in control, and he’s too far gone to even pretend otherwise.

“Fuck,” he rasps, voice strained. He can’t hold on much longer, can’t stop the coil of tension winding tighter and tighter inside him. “You—”

You smirk, that wicked smile playing on your lips as you lean forward, your breath ghosting over his ear. “What’s wrong, Captain? Can’t handle a little pressure?”

Your voice, soft and sweet, twists something inside him, tightening the knot of pleasure and frustration until it’s unbearable. He’s never felt this out of control, never let anyone take the reins like this. But with you, it’s different. You’ve slithered into his mind, into his body, like a drug, and now he’s addicted.

“I can handle you,” he growls, hands flexing against your skin. But even as he says it, he knows it’s a lie. You’ve got him, mind and body, and you know it.

You hum softly, running a hand through his hair, tugging lightly, making him groan again. “We’ll see about that, Captain.”

The way you say it, so sure of yourself, so calm, sends a shiver down his spine. You’re toying with him, just like you’ve been doing since you arrived. But now, he’s not sure if he cares. Not when you feel this good.

And that’s the danger, isn’t it? The way you make him want to let go, to stop thinking, to stop questioning. The way you turn his paranoia into a dull hum, background noise compared to the pleasure of you wrapped around him.

You lean in closer, lips brushing against his jaw, your breath warm against his skin. “Don’t worry, Captain. I’ll take good care of you.”

His breath stutters, fingers tightening on your hips as you start to move again, slow and deliberate, dragging out every second, every sensation, until he feels like he’s going to lose his mind.

The tension inside of him is unbearable, the coil of pleasure so tight it’s threatening to snap. Your hips roll against his, slow, deliberate. Each movement sends shockwaves of sensation through him. His breath is ragged, his control unraveling by the second, catching in his throat at the pressure inside of him builds.

Every part of him is on fire, and he’s teetering on the edge, so close, too close.

“God— fuck,” he groans. Half bitten off words is all he can manage, a guttural rasp as his head tilts back, eyes squeezing shut. You grind down harder, nails dragging across his chest, drawing out the sound again, like you’re pulling his soul from his body.

“You’re close, aren’t you, Captain?” Your voice is a soft purr, a taunting whisper against his ear.

He can’t answer, can’t even think beyond the need to chase his release. Every nerve in his body is lit up and burning with desire. All he knows is that he’s teetering on the brink, and you’re the one holding him there, savoring every second before you let him fall.

Then, with a flick of your hips and a roll of your body, he’s gone. Exploding into pleasure so intense it leaves him gasping, his grip on you tightening as if you’re the only thing anchoring him to reality. He’s lost in the sensation of it, his mind blank, his senses overwhelmed by the feel of you, the taste of you still lingering on his lips. His orgasm crashes over him like a wave, drowning him in sensations, and for a long moment, everything fades— every thought, every suspicion, every doubt. There’s only you.

You watch him fall apart beneath you, a satisfied smile curving your lips as you ride out his release before stilling in his lap.

For a moment, there’s nothing but the sound of his heavy breathing, the feeling of you still wrapped around him, tight and warm, your body molded to his like you were made for him. His head is spinning, mind foggy, but for the first time in weeks, he feels calm. The constant hum of paranoia, the nagging suspicion, all of it fades into the background, drowned out by the euphora still coursing through him.

His body relaxes beneath yours, muscles going slack as exhaustion takes over after weeks and weeks of very little sleep, and when you finally slip off his lap, he barely registers the loss. His mind, dulled and heavy, floats in the remnants of pleasure. Aware only enough to adjust his softened cock back in his pants with trembling fingers, before his hand falls to the side.

He feels your lips against his temple, something sweet and chaste and not at all like you, humming in his ear with that sultry purr of yours. “Sweet dreams. Goodbye Captain.”

He hums in a reply, too far gone in his post orgasm exhaustion to form words. His mind, dulled and heavy, floats in the remnants of pleasure, blissfully unaware.

He hears you slip out quietly, leaving him slumped over his desk in the dim light of his office, door closing softly behind you. For a moment, the world is silent, and Price drifts into sleep, still half dressed, lost in the afterglow.

***

The next morning, Price wakes up to the harsh sunlight filtering through his blinds, the dull ache of his body reminding him of last night’s encounter. He stretches, feeling the tension in his muscles, and his mind starts to replay fragments of the night before. But as he blinks awake, something feels… off.

Something stirs in his chest. A sinking feeling, like a weight dropping in his gut. He sits up, rubbing a hand over his face, the disquiet creeping in around the edges of his consciousness.

Price frowns, pushing the chair back and standing, a strange sense of urgency crawling under his skin. He grabs his jacket, heads for the door, and steps out into the hallway, his footsteps heavy with the weight of something unnamed.

The hallway feels different this morning—quieter. There’s a strange hush over the base, a weight pressing down on everyone that Price can feel deep in his bones. His instincts scream at him that something’s wrong. He moves briskly, trying to shake off the gnawing sense of unease as he makes his way through the building. The recruits he passes look subdued, heads down, expressions uncharacteristically grim. Even Soap, who’s usually animated in the mornings, sits off to the side in the mess hall, arms crossed over his chest, a deep frown etched into his face.

Price’s gut tightens.

He slows his pace as he approaches, his eyes narrowing at Soap’s slouched posture and the way the men seem more reserved, more… off. Something’s happened. The air feels heavier.

“Soap,” Price calls out, voice gravelly, but not quite as sharp as usual. He’s already beginning to piece things together, though he doesn’t like where the thoughts are leading.

Soap glances up, and for a moment, the younger man looks like he’s on the verge of saying something, something biting, maybe, or sarcastic, but instead, he just shakes his head, lips pressed tight in a line. “She’s gone, Cap.”

Price blinks, his chest tightening as the words register. Gone? His mind scrambles to process it, but there’s a distinct lack of clarity. He swallows hard, forcing himself to stay calm as he approaches Soap’s table, trying to keep the edge out of his voice. “Gone?” he asks slowly, though he already knows the answer. “What do you mean, gone?”

“She left early this morning. Ghost saw her off. Said she was chasing another contract,” Soap mutters, the disappointment clear in his tone. He doesn’t look at Price, just keeps staring at his half-eaten tray of food like he’s trying to make sense of something himself.

Price’s blood runs cold. Left. Another contract.

The events of the night before crash over him like a wave, the warmth of your skin against his, your whispered words, the way you’d coiled around him like a serpent, squeezing, suffocating. Goodbye, Captain.

Not goodnight—goodbye.

His heart stutters. You’re gone. And he let you slip away, not realizing that you were never planning to stay. That sinking feeling from earlier becomes a weight in his chest, pulling him down, down into the realization that he’s been played. He let his guard down, let himself get pulled into your orbit, and now… now it’s too late.

Price spins on his heel, already searching for Ghost. He finds him not far off, standing by the exit like a statue, arms crossed, eyes hidden beneath his mask.

“Ghost.” Price’s voice is hard, commanding. “Tell me what happened.”

Ghost gives him a brief look, unreadable as always beneath the mask, but something about his posture tells Price that he’s aware of how bad this looks. “She left around 0500,” Ghost says, voice flat. “Said she had another contract lined up. No fanfare. Just… left.”

No fanfare. Just like that. Price feels the bottom of his stomach drop.

He should’ve known. You’d been toying with him, leading him down a path he should’ve seen coming from miles away. You’d gotten into his head, played him like a fiddle, and now you were gone.

There’s a bitter taste in his mouth. He’s lost whatever game you were playing, and the worst part is, he doesn’t even know what the stakes were. He doesn’t know why you played the game, only that you won. You took what you wanted from him, left him reeling, and now… now he’s standing here, empty-handed, with nothing to show for it but this gnawing sense of failure.

Ghost shifts his weight slightly, glancing at Price as if waiting for a response. But what is there to say? The infamous Captain Price had been outplayed, and there’s nothing he can do to fix it now.

“Dammit,” Price mutters under his breath, rubbing a hand over his face. He feels the weight of exhaustion settle over him, heavier than before. He wants to be angry, to shout, to curse your name for what you’ve done. But all he can feel is that deep, gnawing sense of loss, like he’s let something vital slip through his fingers.

The base feels emptier without you.

***

Seven months later, the world had moved on, but Price hadn’t.

He tried to bury it; your games, the night you left, the way you’d gotten into his head and twisted everything around him. But the ghost of your presence lingered, always just beneath the surface. He told himself it didn’t matter, that they’d never cross paths again, that you were just a fleeting memory in a long line of battles fought and lost.

Until today.

The mission had been straightforward, at least on paper. 141 had been tasked with securing a high-value target in a remote compound somewhere in the Balkans, a dangerous op that left little room for error. They’d expected resistance, expected threats from the usual suspects— mercs, rival PMCs, all of the scum that rise to the surface during geopolitica conflict. But what they hadn’t expected was you, leaning against the wall with that infuriating, knowing smirk. Casual, like you’d been expecting them. Like this was all some elaborate setup for a reunion you��d orchestrated.

“Well, well, well.” Your voice cut through the silence, playful and dripping with amusement. “This is awkward, isn’t it?”

Price’s blood ran cold. His grip on his rifle tightened, every muscle in his body tensing at the sight of you. Ghost, Soap, and Gaz were flanking him, their expressions unreadable, but Price could feel the tension rolling off them in waves. No one said a word.

You tilted your head, watching them like a cat watches a cornered mouse. “This is starting to feel like one of those Facebook posts,” you mused, laughter lacing your tone. “You know the ones—‘What would you do if you ended up in a room with everyone you’ve ever had sex with?’” Your eyes slid lazily over them, glinting with amusement as you watch their reactions. Soap stiffens, turning a shade darker. Gaz shifts awkwardly. Ghost remains as still as ever, but everyone can see the tension vibrating through him. (Price knew about Soap, but he feels dread crawl up his spine when he realizes Gaz and Ghost fell for you’re games too) “Guess we’re about to find out.”

“Shut up,” Price growled, voice low, dangerous. But you just laughed, pushing off the wall and sauntering forward, not an ounce of fear in your eyes.

“Temper, temper, Captain,” you tutted, waving a finger at him. “You’re not still upset about our little game, are you? I told you goodbye, didn’t I?”

Price’s hands flexed around his weapon, his mind racing as he struggled to stay composed. He wanted answers—he needed answers. And this time, he wasn’t going to let you slip away without giving them.

“You played us,” he said, voice tight, barely controlled. “You got inside our heads. Why?”

You raised an eyebrow, your lips curling into a smile that was all teeth. “Why?” you echoed, feigning innocence. “Because I was bored, Captain. You lot were supposed to be the best, the infamous 141. Special operators, men who could match me, maybe even outsmart me.” You paused, eyes gleaming with amusement as you scanned the group. “But you didn’t, did you? Not a single one of you. Men are all the same, no matter how many wars they’ve fought.”

“Bored?” Soap’s voice cracked through the tension, sharp and disbelieving. “You messed with us because you were bored?”

You shrugged, unapologetic. “What else was I supposed to do? I’m the smartest person in the room, in any room. I’m not just saying that to brag. I was tested and my IQ’s through the roof. I’m a WAIS-certified genius with an Mensa membership. A prodigy if you will.” You tap the side of your head with the muzzle of your gun, flashing them a knowing grin. “You have to understand, that gets tedious after a while. I need something stimulating. You lot, you were supposed to be different. I thought you might actually pose a challenge.”

Price’s stomach churned at your words, bile rising in his throat. He didn’t want to believe it—that it had all been some sick game, that you’d toyed with them, used them, used him just to stave off your boredom.

“Turns out,” you continued, sighing dramatically, “you’re just like everyone else. Predictable. Boring. Disappointing. Men get angry, men get frustrated, men think with their cocks more than their brains, and they don’t stop to think. I even warned you in my dossier, didn’t I? ‘Psychological warfare’s my preferred method’, and yet none of you caught on. So really, you’ve only got yourselves to blame.”

Price’s vision tunneled, his pulse pounding in his ears. He stepped forward, closing the distance between you, and for the first time in months, he felt the overwhelming need to wipe that smug look off your face.

“You’re a piece of work,” Ghost muttered, voice low and rough. He hadn’t moved from his position, but Price could feel the weight of his anger simmering just beneath the surface.

You flashed Ghost a grin, unaffected. “I warned you, didn’t I? If you couldn’t see it coming, that’s on you.”

“You think this is some kind of joke?” Price’s voice was dangerously low, fury barely contained. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing, couldn’t believe how easily you were dismissing everything that had happened.

But you weren’t phased, not in the slightest. You took a step closer, your eyes glittering with amusement. “I think it’s hilarious, Captain. You were all so certain you could figure me out, so sure that you’d stay one step ahead. But I was always ahead, from the very start.”

The words hit like a punch to the gut, and Price’s fists clenched at his sides. He wanted to lash out, to scream at you, but he knew it wouldn’t do any good. You’d already won, and you both knew it. The game was over, and all that was left was the bitter taste of defeat.

Soap growls, taking a step forward, but Price raises a hand to stop him. His mind races. Every interaction, every word, every glance you’d shared over those months— it had all been apart of your game. And now, standing here, knowing you’d gotten what you’d wanted from them, Price feels the bitter weight of defeat settling in once more.

“What now?” he asks, his voice low, almost resigned.

You tilt your head, considering the question for a moment. “Now? Now we play a different game. I’ve been hired to stop you and the 141, so—“ the gun in your hand cocks and you smirk, that same maddening smirk that drove him insane. He tenses, the lead in his stomach drops.

“Ready for round two, Captain?”

#call of duty #cod mw2 #cod x reader #john price #captain price #ghost #ghost x reader #soap cod #john soap mactavish #soap x reader #Gaz #kyle gaz garrick #kyle garrick #kyle gaz x reader #simon ghost riley

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filamentlights · 4 months ago

Text

Cage Fights, and Pipe Bombs, and Diners, Oh My!

Clone x OC Week - Day 6, What if...the Clone Were a Mafia? || Fox x OC

Event Masterlist

SUMMARY: Struggling to make ends meet, aspiring Olympic gymnast and part time cage fighter Sakki is forced to take a match that might end with her hunted down by the most notorious gang on Coruscant.

Word count: 4.3k

Tags & warnings: mafia AU, cage fighting AU, cyberpunk AU, too many AUs, cage fighter OC, cursing, violence, blood, injury, gang fights, mafia!Fox, the biggest plot twist of this story is that the clones actually have money, aspiring gymnast part time cage fighter OC, cyberpunk setting, body modifications, graphic violence, Darth Maul is His Own Warning

“Ah shit.”

“You okay?” Ahsoka looked over in concern as Sakki hissed. She tried to smile, but it became more of a grimace as her leg throbbed.

“Yeah, ‘soka. I’ve just been a bit sore lately.” Sakki massaged her aching thighs, carefully avoiding putting pressure on the fresh bruises from last night.

Is it…” Ahsoka glanced around to make sure no one was nearby. Luckily they sat in a pretty secluded corner of the gym, behind the uneven bars. Ahsoka leaned in. “Was it a you know.”

Sakki grimaced. Last night’s match had been pretty brutal.

“Yeah. Some guy clipped me in the thigh when I was pinning him. Had a ring on that hurt like a bitch.”

Ahsoka patted her consolingly. The two had gone to academy together and then made it into Coruscant University with their joint dream of being Olympic gymnasts. Ahsoka, being self-aware nepo baby, came from a long line of legacy athletes: the infamously short tempered lacrosse player Anakin Skywalker being her older brother and legendary fencer Obi-Wan Kenobi being an older cousin of hers. Sakki had been lucky enough to catch the eye of Shmi Skywalker and be sponsored through her academy years and now in university. And though she couldn’t adopt Sakki like Ahsoka, the woman had always made Sakki feel welcomed among her family. That being said, only Ahsoka knew what she did in her nightly activities.

“And your,” Ahsoka cleared her throat delicately, “manager?”

Sakki snorted. Manager. Asajj would shit bricks if she heard her get called that.

“Did nothing, said nothing, probably didn’t even notice me limping outta there.” Sakki commented. Asajj was good at many things, mostly illegal, but caring? She’d sooner drink oil. Ahsoka bumped her shoulder comfortingly.

“Try to hang in there. If you win this competition then you can secure your scholarship for the rest of uni. Then you’ll be home free and you can never see Ass-ajj again.” Ahsoka pumped her fists, her voice deliberately cheerful. Sakki huffed and smiled.

“Yeah. It’ll be alright.”

Sakki slammed into the mat with a ringing thud. Pain lanced through her back.

“You’re more shit than usual, rat.” A cold voice from above commented lightly.

“Fuck off,” Sakki muttered.

“What was that?”

Sakki bit her lip to avoid saying something they’d both regret.

“You’re distracted.” Asajj commented, leaning down into Sami’s grimacing face. The older woman sneered.

1,000 credits. The fucking fee to even enter the goddamn competition that would decide her entire future cost 1,000 credits. Sakki snarled. Since leaving the gym, Coach Windu had sent out an email in his usual impersonal monotone about competition specifics. But what had caught Sakki’s eye was not the logistics of leaving at 3AM on a bus towards the venue, but a bright red text that read: 1,000 credit entry fee, due Sunday. No late fees accepted.

It wasn’t enough that she trained like a dog day and night just for the chance to participate. She’d scrimped and saved the past three months, and even swallowed her pride to ask Shmi to borrow some money for her competition leotard. Her apartment still hadn’t regained electricity.

Sakki screamed. She twisted and hooked her leg behind Asajj’s knee and lunged. Ever eager for a scrap, the older woman grappled against her. The two tussled on the ground a bit before Asajj eventually kicked her off.

“Get some water. I got a new job for you.”

Sakki took a swig from her bottle.

“What’s the job?”

“Saturday night. The Crimson. You’ll be fighting their home champion and defender.”

“What.”

“Fight starts at 8. Be there.”

Sakki couldn’t believe her ears.

“Again,” she stared at Asajj incredulously, “what. Are you insane? That’s the heart of Nightbrother territory. And you want me to fight their champion? Are you out of your mind, or do you finally have it out for me? Do you want me to actually die?”

“Don’t be stupid. I didn’t train you to get killed.”

“It’s the fucking Nightbrothers. Their home champion is the gang leader’s brother. Win or lose, I’ll get eviscerated.”

“It’s a 5,000 credit job.”

Sakki stared at Asajj. Five thousand credits for a job was obscene. She was lucky to make that in a month. Not only would it more than cover her competition fee, she could get new sheets for her mattress, pay her overdraft fees, replace her air filter after the smog flare up had rendered her old one useless, and she was tired of waking up coughing-

Sakki paused.

Five thousand was a lot. The rings never really paid that much because, not unless you were extremely high profile, because there’s always people desperate to fight for less and less. More and more young people being pushed onto the streets with no way forward except their fists. That amount of money was dangerous. Inhaling, Sakki narrowed her eyes at Asajj. The stony woman held an impressive poker face, but Sakki’s gut told her something was fishy.

“Asajj. I trust you. For better or worse, you still helped me out when no one else would. That being said, I think I deserve some truth. Exactly what are you getting me into?” She held Asajj’s flinty glare.

“It’s a personal job.” Asajj sighed, looked decades older. “I never explicitly told you, but I trust you’re smart enough to guess that I used to run in certain circles.”

“Yeah, you were something of a gangster. Did you scrap with the Nightbrothers?”

“Don’t interrupt, listen.” She ordered, making Sakki roll her eyes. “But, yes. I have quite a history with the Nightbrothers, especially their loath-to-exist leadership. Back in the day, we actually worked together a couple jobs. They were a lesser, subsidiary group of us. The Sisterhood.”

“You were in the Witches?” Sakki’s mind reeled. Asajj nodded sharply.

“Yes. I was going to be the next Matriarch. But they got too big for their own boots. Too arrogant so they staged a coup. There was a shoot out. We were killed.” Asajj was heaving by the end of it, but her eyes blazed. Sakki caught a flash of green in the woman’s blue eyes. A body mod. Various modifications were common, prevalent, in the galaxy. Even more so among the Coruscanti underworld. Cybernetic implants to enhance senses, a metal arm, hell someone probably got one to make their dick bigger. But the eyes were tricky. Delicate, almost filigree-like muscles that are so easy to screw up in one movement; it made it an obscenely expensive procedure. Only old, well-established families still used eye mods as marks of allegiance.

“I want you to fight their champion. Win. But not only win, you need to cripple Savage. Utterly humiliate him.”

“His brother will kill me.” They were notorious for their close brotherhood.

“No. Maul likes strength. He may rough you up for it, but you’ll be intriguing enough a mystery for him to take interest in you.”

“So?”

“So, he’ll call you up to his pretentious little office. Give a dramatic monologue. And you plant this in his office. They check all their patrons for any weapons or other prohibited items, so put it in your bra at the entrance.”

Asajj pulled out a device.

“That’s all you have to do. Do that, and I’ll give you the five thousand in addition to whatever earnings you get from the match.”

Sakki stared at the small listening device. She grabbed it.

“Fine.”

The crowd was roaring. Sakki’s head hurt.

Her opponent flared his nostrils. They circled. Lights, blinding white lights flashed in their faces. Her heart thudded from the combined energy of adrenaline and the screaming crowd. She grinned meanly.

“Give up,” her opponent rumbled. One thing Asajj failed to mention was that her opponent was fucking huge. A hulking seven foot something, he towered over her usually respectable 5’8, and was probably twice as broad as her. He was also an intimidating motherfucker for the crazy amount of body mods he had. Prosthetic horns grew from his head, full body tattoos that ran jaggedly down his sweaty torso, cybernetic eyes that glowed and probably helped his vision, fingers that extended into bionic claws, fresh snakebites along his bottom lip. It was par for the course for a Nightbrother to have an insane amount of mods, it was basically their calling card, but this man had an obscene amount even by their standards.

So yeah, she kinda fucked.

Sakki snarled, and lunged for his eyes. It was laughably easy for him to grab her arm, twist, and send her slamming onto the floor with his claws digging into her collarbone. The crowd surged with a deafening roar. Lucky for her, this brought her close enough to slam her leg behind his knee, making him buckle. She used this momentum to flip them and land two clean hits on his face before he threw her off. Her body flew until it hit the metal cage, and she thumped to the ground. Stars, everything hurt.

She looked around blearily. Her whole body ached from all the abuse. One thing that put her at a major disadvantage was that as an aspiring gymnast, she was forbidden from any sort of strength-enhancing mods. It was one of her draws as a fighter, being able to beat modded up opponents with only “pure human strength,” but that was for opponents who weren’t built like fucking trains.

Sakki picked herself off the ground. Wobbling a bit, with blue strands of hair falling out of her bun, she watched Savage get up as well. Grim satisfaction filled her, watching him clutch his cybernetic eyes and groan. She watched them twitch and crackle.

The sounds of the crowd faded away as Sakki refocused.

“Give. Up.” Savage gritted his teeth. Even though he could probably take her down now easily, he just stayed put. “You’ll lose anyways.”

He’s been letting her off easy this whole fight; not punching first, letting them circle to give her time to recover, telling her to give up, and in general pissing her the fuck off. She slapped the feeling back into her arms and readied to lunge again. His gaze hardened.

A spark flew from his cybernetic eye.

She lunged.

He caught her, of course, but that was fine. Using all her strength, Sakki slammed an elbow across his face until she heard something crack. The man roared in pain, echoed by the screaming crowd when they realized what she’d done. Sparks flew madly from his eyes where a few wires could now be seen poking through. After that, all she could remember was blinding pain as Savage thrashed her madly—barely even cognizant from the pain and sudden blindness. He sent her body flying. Sakki found herself, face pressed between the ground and the cage, staring into amused amber eyes through the crisscrossing metal.

Get up, the man mouthed.

She stumbled to her feet.

“You broke my brother’s eyes.” Sakki turned. The man seemed to neutrally observe her, but shit did she want to bolt. The door behind her slid shut, the lock automatically clicking in place.

Black tattoos travelled up in harsh, erratic lines. There was a gruesome artistry in them, that they drew your focus in to his glowing, yellow eyes. Piercing and unnatural. They flashed like Asajj’s, but they weren’t just decorative. She watched the gold flicker. There used to be talk about scientists replicating eagle-like vision in humans, but that had been shut down by the Scientific Ethics Committee.

“You get the expensive eye mods, yet both your brothers get cybernetics?”

Sakki had noticed, as she was preparing for the fight, a smaller thinner man with similar tattoos shadowing Savage. And similarly, his eyes were clinked and shifted mechanically, with only a vague pupil-like circle to indicate that it was meant to be an eye. Her bold—stupid—declaration seemed to amuse the man. Maul. The Nightbrother leader. The pocket of her bra, sandwiched under the pad weighed heavily.

He huffed, amused.

“They were not yet inducted to the Brotherhood when we stopped with the old ways.” Before they rebelled and killed the Nightsisters, is what he meant. Maul clasped his hands behind his back and strode past Sakki to look out the window.

“Sit,” he gestured at the expensive looking black couch. It wasn’t a question. “Refreshments?”

The plush leather squeaked under her weight. Beside it, a little push cart held a water pitcher and a single glass cup.

“I’ve never seen you in my club before,” he mused, in lieu of asking what he meant, which was why the hell are you here?Sakki took a gulp of cool water, soothing her raw throat. Her back and sides throbbed something fierce from being tossed around the ring. Not to mention the little gashes where Savage dug his nails into her shoulder. Sakki stared mournfully at her torn singlet, where the strap was broken from the fight.

“I’m used to fighting smaller rings. Safer for my reputation.” It wasn’t really a lie. Keeping a low profile by only taking small fights would keep her from getting too prominent, and keep the chances of her being a cage fighter from getting out.

“Why show up tonight?” His back was still facing her, but she could see his glowing eyes in the glass reflection. Below them, the cage where she’d just fought in sat.

“I need the money.”

“Yes, money is indeed a powerful motivator.” Maul went behind the desk and pulled out a small stack of credits and threw them her way. She caught the gleaming stack. With narrowed eyes, she counted them up.

“This is barely 200 credits. I was promised 700 for winning.”

He turned to her, his profile lit by the light coming in from the cage arena below them.

“Yes, well, consider it a damage fee.” Sakki’s hands tightened. He turned his back to her again. “Well, I am sure you must be busy. I have matters to attend.”

With that dismissal, Sakki slipped out the door.

She turned right.

Corridor on the right. Lay low. Asajj will do something to draw him out his office.

Out of sight from his office door, she waited. Her back pressed against the wall. She leaned closer and strained her ears, listening for any movement. A moment passed. Silence. Nothing. And then, she heard a click. Quiet footsteps. She waited until they faded.

She slipped back through the door before it slid shut. Now it was just her in this dark, creepy room overlooking the cage. Quickly, she dug through her bra and fished out the device. Running over to the desk, she searched for a discreet place to put it.

And then the door exploded.

“Where’s Jesse?” The man barked in her face, like he hadn’t just blown down a door. He had curly black hair with a few streaks of white among them, and he brandished a wicked looking pocket knife at her. Amber eyes glinted at her. He was the one watching her in the cage.

“I don’t fucking know, who the fuck is Jesse?” She snarled back. He took in her bruised up face, her torn and bloody singlet, and relaxed slightly. He looked pointedly at the device she was holding, making her scowl.

Then, two more figures burst into the room.

For a halting moment, Maul, and the other brother who’d tended to Savage, stared at her. Her, the man next to her, and the listening bug in her hands.

“You,” snarled Maul, and they lunged.

Maul’s hands extended out into claws. Like Savage, someone had extended and likely strengthened his natural nails to make sharp catlike claws that curved through the air dangerously. Unlike Savage, he didn’t share his brother’s courtesy.

Sakki ducked and came up with her own punch. Maul didn’t have his brother’s muscle, but he was fast as hell. Besides her, the man was fending off the other brother who was surprisingly vicious. Maul stalked towards her.

“You little rat. I knew there was something wrong with you. You were most suspicious. To think, you’re a little Fett spy.” He chuckled. Sakki caught the beginning of a maniacal grin. “You walk into my club, into my cage, in my territory.”

“You talk too damn much,” she spat, feeling a familiar thrill course through her veins.

He bared his teeth in a grin. “Oh yes, I will enjoy getting revenge for my brother. As they say, an eye for an eye is only fair.”

He fought like a goddamn cat. Claws first. Sakki dodged like hell, but they could both tell she was tired. Her movements lagged behind. Her back where Savage had thrown her into the cage throbbed. Maul advanced, making her jump back with each swipe. His eyes glowed. Predatory. He struck right, but she danced away. Her hip bumped against the cart with the water pitcher, and she could only step forward into his space. She went for his throat.

In her periphery, she saw the other man was exchanging blows with Maul’s brother. Something rumbled in the distance. Using the brief distraction, Sakki grabbed the push cart and slammed it into Maul, making him roar. She saw the other man bury his knife into the brother’s side. Without a second glance, they booked it.

Chaos greeted them.

People were running and fighting everywhere. A mob of people running for the exits while tattooed men brawled with identical looking tan-skinned men. One of them caught sight of her and her companion running and shouted something she couldn’t hear, but her partner did. He grabbed her.

“Shit, if Hardcase did something to the club then we better run. Now.”

They booked it for the stairs. They fought through the crowd. Sakki hit a skinny orange and black Nightbrother in the face, sending him staggering into a madly cackling girl with neon glowing green hair that was punching anyone who got near her, Nightbrother or not.

They made it up into the club that sat above, a front for the cage fighting. The scene was utter madness.

“What, why? What would he do?”

The man had his arm out, shoving past people to make room for her. The crowd surged around them. He tugged her into him, strong-arming through the crowd for the exit.

“No time, gotta go!”

She heard shouting.

“GO GO GO SCATTER-”

Something exploded.

If the odd stares were any indication, Sakki realized the two of them painted a pretty suspicious painting hobbling down the dingy streets. Maul had apparently nicked her before they escaped, and the gash in her leg squelched every time she put weight on it, so she was supported by the man with her arm around his neck and his around her waist. They had also made it out of the club right as the whole thing exploded into flames, and, while they were spared being reduced to cinders, meant they looked like they just walked out of hell. As they quietly limped away from the smoking wreckage, her mind still reeling from all the events of the night, something Maul said clicked.

“Shit, you’re a Fett.”

The man turned to her with a leery grin. His curly black hair had fallen out of their styling into his face. “Name’s Fox.”

Sakki scrunched her nose at him. Her body still felt like she was on cloud nine with the thrill of adrenaline, so her mouth moved before her brain could stop it.

“Well goddamn, you could at least keep your head down. I don’t need all these people knowing I’m with you. I got a rep to keep up.”

He pulled an offended look. “You’re a cage fighter.”

“Yeah but, I’m gonna be a gymnast. I don’t need a scandal about being involved with a kriffing Fett.” A notorious family in the Coruscant underworld. They mainly dealt in…security, but they had their fingers in almost every pie. Bomb, weapons, illegally strengthened bionics, spice, casinos; everything. And their leader? Unstable. Went off the rails and decided to clone himself with a couple crazy scientists who were shunned by the academic world for being unethical. She would know. Doctor Nala Se’s building on the Coruscant University campus was still up, though no one had used it in nearly two decades when it came out about all the disturbing research that went on there. She eyed Fox. Some of the remaining adrenaline was making her stupidly brash. “At least pop your jacket collar up to hide some of that face.”

Her hand around his neck moved to make the flap of his jacket lapel stand upright, but her movement was hindered so Fox ended up with one jacket lapel flopped on his cheek. She slapped the leather flap onto his cheek, trying to get it to stay.

“That just makes me look more suspicious.”

She rolled her eyes.

“Okay left here, and we’ve arrived!”

“This is a diner.”

“You think I’m gonna take you to my place? Buy me dinner first. Here. Now. I’m starving.”

Sakki collapsed into the red booth. A few patrons mulled about in the dark, early morning hours but they ignored the two figures. Flickering lights buzzed softly. A woman dressed skinny jeans that hugged her curves and a loose top greeted them.

“Two of my usual plus a milkshake,” Sakki smiled at the waitress. Darla frowned playfully, raising a dark eyebrow.

“Big spending? You win another match, sugar? You still got your tab running since July, Sakki.” Darla popped her hip, looking at the scruffy bleeding girl with gentle reprimand.

Sakki smiled blindingly. “No, I’m good this time. My friend,” she turned to Fox who was sat across from her, “here will be paying instead of me.”

He looked at her blankly.

“You do have money, right?” His jacket was *real leather—*real animal products these days were worth more than gold, with most leathers being synthetic—so she assumed he did. He inclined his head slightly. Sakki brightened, making her curly blue hair bounce. “Great! I can have my milkshake.”

“Oh and,” she called, “Darla, can you also get the kit for me?”

“Way ahead of you, sugar.” A bright red first aid kit appeared on the table. “And here’s some towels so you don’t get our booths all messy.”

“Thanks! You’re the best.”

“I know, sugar.”

Fox watched her leave with a sway in her hips. “You’re a regular, I’m assuming?”

“Yup,” Sakki popped the “p” sound. “Dex’s is the best place for cheap, good food. Especially after a fight, when I need the calories.” She propped her leg up on the booth, hands jittery. “Plus, they’re always super discreet since their customers are usually the unsavory kind.”

Fox eyed her tapping fingers and energetic smile.

“Are you always this hyper?”

“Nah.” She shook her head. “The adrenaline’s still running high though. I’ll come down in a bit. C’mon, help me with the stitches while I’m still up in the sky on stress hormones.”

Heaving a long-suffering sigh, Fox moved over to her side of the booth.

“You’re gonna need stitches.”

“Yes, yes, let’s do this quickly before I cry.” She shoved the first aid kit towards him.

“Alright, then.”

He searched through the bag, pulling out some isopropyl alcohol, disinfectant wipes, scissors, gauze, and some tape as Sakki pooled some towels beneath her bleeding leg. Finally, Fox pulled out a Ziplock with curved sutures needles. Spotting it, Sakki whined.

“Oh for kriff’s sake don’t tell me you’re scared.” Fox grabbed the bottle of isopropyl alcohol to disinfect the needles, also wiping down his hands.

“It’s a perfectly reasonable fear!” He took a disinfectant wipe and cleaned off her gash as best as he could.

“Again,” he drawled, “you’re a cage fighter. You should be used to this.”

“Yeah but like,” she twisted her hands nervously. “I can’t look.” He rolled his eyes.

“So you can stand getting thrashed by a seven foot giant, but not getting stitches.”

Sakki buried her face in her hands and groaned. She felt something touch the back of her hands. Opening her eyes, Fox had thrust his leather jacket towards her. He looked at her gruffly, “take it, I don’t want to get any blood on it.”

She grabbed it.

“You break it, you buy it, got it?”

“Yes sir,” Sakki snarked, and turned the piece of clothing over in her hands to examine it. The leather was beaten, but clearly had the shine of an item well-cared for. She spotted some pockets that seemed meticulously added on to the inside lining, even going as far as to find the same color thread for it. “La’anglitz Leathers. Year, 9214. Wow, this is real vintage.”

“Yup.”

Sakki put her arms through the arm holes, putting it on backwards to the jacket lay like a blanket on her. The sleeves fell down to her knuckles, the whole thing dwarfing her. She sniffed.

“What cologne is that?”

“Why are you sniffing my jacket?”

“Is that Old Spice? Seriously?”

“There’s nothing wrong with Old Spice,” he griped defensively.

“No, of course not! Hygiene should always be celebrated.” Sakki buried her nose into the collar and breathed deeply. Her eyebrows scrunched thoughtfully. She opened her mouth to make another comment when she felt the needle pierce her skin.

“OW, ow ow ow nnnneughhhhheuuuhffff.” Sakki squeezed the jacket sleeves into balls while she moaned in pain.

“Inspiring words.”

“Ffffffffffuck you.”

“Buy me dinner first.” His words were dry, but his hands were comfortably steady on her left calf. His amber eyes flicked up to meet hers for a split second, before refocusing on pulling the suture into place. His hands were warm.

She scoffed. “Okay whateve-oOOOOOHHHOHOHOHO WHY GOD.” Tears beaded the corners of her eyes. She shut them. She could feel the callouses against her shin. His left thumb began rubbing soothing circles into her ankle. “It’sokit’sokit’sok, I can get through this OH fffuck.”

“You’re doing fine.”

“How many more stitches left?”

“Do you want me to be honest or lie to you?”

Sakki paused, her face scrunched in agony.

“Hit me with the truth.”

“I’ve done one stitch.”

“Okay, progress is progress!”

“Out of fifteen.”

A/N: Unbeta’d, unedited, unbuttered; this shit is RAW. I’m already cutting it closer than I’m ok with for this entry, sooo there’s probably a million grammar mistakes. If u want actual quality, find this on AO3 where I can actually update it and clean it up lmao. I’ll leave a link once I actually post it there. Big chance I will return to this fic to clean up the ending and make her chemistry with Fox a bit better. But anywaysss, thanks for reading!

@orangez3st @clonexocweek

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elementofdawn · 10 months ago

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tumblr won't let me edit my old oc profile post anymore, so this is a remaster i guess

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dedicated character tag

Crow Melusine Kos (that’s two first names, always used together) (...their children call them 'Sine) former Pursued Con-Artist, Star-Struck Scholar, current Reticent Laboratory Director or Doting Naturalist light fingers/main they/them birthday: December 19

frequently wearing a mask that covers the upper half of their face; often plain colored with some painted details, such as vines, eyes or abstract lines. they paint their own designs - they doodle a lot while taking breaks.

faint lattice of scarring on top of head in memory of being buried alive. otherwise no scars of note.

underneath the mask, looks perpetually tired, with dark circles that never go away. typically very low affect in both expression and voice, speaks with a sort of soft, unwavering drone. not charming in personality, but used to sell ponzi schemes on the surface on the strength of their dead-pan manner making them sound completely and unshakably confident in whatever they’re saying.

casual interest in false-stars, especially a certain one of unusual brightness that was first sighted a few years ago. primarily studies Neathy animals and monsters. a bit scatter-minded and out of it as a professor, but students who thrive on hands-on, low-oversight learning rate them a solid “alright”. no longer spends much time teaching since taking a job as Director of one of Mr Fires' newest laboratories.

considers themself a parent to the moon-miser hybrid, and misses it greatly. may or may not be making preparations to grow a new monster baby in their lab. <3 now parent to a fluffy orange and cosmogone baby bat the size of a toddler of "mysterious" origins.

allergic to smoke and very much almost died when Mr Fires took them into an underground library and set it on fire with them still in it. incidentally has a “rivalry” with Mr Fires that consists of them metaphorically hitting each other with brooms. nowadays, is deeper entwined with Mr Fires than ever before, but don’t worry about it.

ESes that are canon for them: The Deadly Dapperlings, There is the Richest Juice in Poison-Flowers, The Tempest, Stripes of Wrath

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Carver The Hushed Crowner bag a legend/alt they/them

once student worker in Crow Melusine’s lab. asked by Crow Melusine to bring them the Vake, and no one was merciful enough to tell them the Professor expresses wanting a new monster to study literally every week and they could just ignore it.

child of a Khaganian mother and a Londoner father; grew up in London. used to work in one of Mr Fires’ factories as a crowner’s assistant, which mostly involved patching up injuries and “investigating” worker deaths/accidents and determining that the factory was not at fault and would not be compensating the family in any way. bit soul crushed about it.

“poached” by Crow Melusine, who helped them get into Benthic on the strength of their knowledge of anatomy and basic medical care mostly to tweak Mr Fires’ wires. Carver feels indebted anyway, because literally anything is better than the factory.

sought the Vake to gather samples for Crow Melusine’s research, but found themself captivated by it after coming briefly face to face with it. eventually got their sample, but gained permanent mobility issues from their wounds and was forced to give up the hunt.

now runs a small clinic in Spite, with an attached morgue for the temporarily dead--for safe storage until their recovery, or, for an extra fee, a guarantee that the deceased will stay dead an extra day or two. also does tattoos on the side. the clinic is guarded by three puppy-sized spiders, which they vehemently deny doting on like pets.

has never forgotten the Vake.

conscientious. arms like tree trunks. periodically non-verbal. nerve damage down left side of body from taking a claw to the shoulder. cane user. missing something. has something strange and bittersweet going on with Ada.

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Ada Durand tbd bag a legend/alt she/her, occasionally it/its in private

has to be the most fuckable person at the Singing Mandrake at all times.

child of a well-to-do industrialist father. never fit in with her peers. left home to become a monster hunter on a whim, but found that the hunt suited her. hedonistic and a bit thoughtless, loves jewelry and cares about her appearance. smug and smirking and sharp of tooth, but never really lets anyone see her innermost self.

the last Vake-hunter. killed the Vake and made it a part of herself.

still, an emptiness is left behind.

met Carver while looking to have an injury treated, and recognized something in their ever-unfulfilled longing for the Vake. can be found coming and going around their clinic at all hours ever since. hates that Carver lets the giant spiders sleep on the bed.

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Broken Tree of Ephemera, Mr Silk heart’s desire/alt they/it/she, depending on the identity they’re using

a Sorrow-Spider council that failed to reach consensus and split apart. many of their members died or scatted, but a core cohort remains, refusing to accept the pain of being apart, even when other sorrow-spiders dismissed the idea of wasting time and resources on trying to fix a failed union.

they co-inhabit a human-like silk puppet, with which they’ve infiltrated the human population of London in pursuit of a way to re-meld. thus, they came into contact with the marvellous.

have they been touched by the lives they came into contact with in the game and in their interactions with humanity? difficult to tell. though lifelike, their blank-faced doll body expresses little.

nevertheless, they won their hearts’ desire. the Masters, however, were none too keen to upset the Neath‘s already strained balance of power by handing the sorrow-spiders a brand new, red science-improved spider-council, and the Tree of Ephemera was obliged to agree to a transformation that might be more... easily controlled, and the duties and title of Mr ____ ...well, it’s a work in progress. the Tree is well aware that the Masters have no intention of ceding any real power to them, so they see little point in arbitrarily choosing an area of trade, despite their new colleagues’ repeated attempts to explain the necessity to their new nature. the only thing that matters is that the change will make them whole again: one body, a joined mind.

so far, to their so-called colleagues’ chagrin, their changes have not been wholly curatorial in nature. their puppet is growing as many flecks of shiny carapace as patches of fur, and has recently grown a glittering array of additional eyes.

less pleasing, they have begun to develop a distracting interest in weaving, silk, and other fabrics. Mr Veils watches them with increasing anticipation of an excuse to swat a gnat.

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Penelope Howard, “Penny”/”Ash” nemesis/alt she/he

when her brother Ashley’s lover was tragically murdered, he left his home and family and ventured to the Neath alone in search of her killer. there, he was killed (permanently), leaving his revenge unfulfilled.

as Ashley’s twin, Penelope has spent her life in his shadow. kind, thoughtful, intelligent, and naturally talented with every paintbrush, instrument or weapon placed in his hands, Ashley was loved by everyone. the ideal son. in contrast, Penny was just... Penny. after her twin’s death, it seemed only natural that she should take on his burden, following him to the Neath and taking on his identity to continue his pursuit. after all, he was the best thing about her.

is "Ash” avenging his brother, or the lover that he hardly knew? does it really matter?

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Woebegone the Captain Sunless Skies captain they/them

former London urchin. older than they appear. carries traces of Storm. sold their reflection to a fingerking. treasured. a doting parent and spouse.

FL ES canon for them: Homecoming

#.ocs

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kitterjitters · 2 months ago

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OC Tag Game

tagged by @blujayonthewing to talk about a blorbo!!! ty Jaybird!!

tagging @arealcrow, @humblegoat, @zigmatism, @riverdoge, @qunaributts, @graysongraysoff, @antique-romantic, and anyone else who wants to do this. no pressure of course!

without further ado...

y'all already know I'm gonna talk about my Son (gender neutral)

— GENERAL

Name: Princept Fialca Rex

Alias(es): Feng, Fangs of Tenebrae, Lala, Fee

Gender: Nonbinary

Age: 27

Spoken Language: Common, Elvish, Celestial

Sexual Orientation: Bisexual, prefers women

Occupation: Duke of House Tenebrae and Knight of House Aurum (Oath of the Crown Paladin/Cavalier Fighter)

— FAVORITE

Color: Dark red, but they wear mostly dark green, black, and silver bc those are the house colors of Tenebrae, which is their father's court.

Entertainment: They don't seek out entertainment for themself very often. The times they're sat watching someone else perform is usually during a feast or something, so in that case they'd probably say they enjoy ballet the most.

Pastime: Gladiatorial combat, writing poetry, and playing the violin

Food: Any red meat, or just anything they can really sink their teeth into

Drink: Red wine, but they don't drink it often

— HAVE THEY...

Passed University: Yes, they've received higher education within the two courts they were raised in. They didn't think it was ever necessary, always preferring combat training to academics, but as an adult now they do appreciate the breadth of skills they learned from schooling.

Had Sex: Oh yeah.

Had Sex in Public: Yes! With their previous partner Obrin. One time the two of them were too horny to wait until they could find a more private place, so they fucked in the barracks. Technically they were out of everyone's sight, but it was public enough that they definitely could have been caught.

Got Tattoos: Nope, but an early concept of their design did feature a big catfish tattoo, because catfish are one of the symbols I associate with them. As their design stands now, they're a little too visually busy for a tattoo.

Got Piercings: Yes, both ears are pierced once, and they might get more.

Got Scarred: Oh, a thousand of them, they love collecting scars. The most prominent ones are- the scarring on their right index finger where their claw was ripped out, the split in their right eyebrow from fighting a shambling mound, and most recently the jagged stab wound in their left flank from a party member.

Had a Broken Heart: Yes. Their true love Obrin was killed by a shambling mound, and she was not willing to be resurrected. Two heartbreaks in one. And in-game, they've discovered that their best friend Nomen is possibly a warforged built specifically to hunt Fialca's bloodline. Nomen is trying to resist the urges to kill his friends, but the reveal itself still hurt. Fialca hasn't given up on him though.

— ARE THEY...

A Cuddler: Surprisingly, yes! Though they come off very gruff and distant, they enjoy physical contact. And they are a very gentle giant when they need to be.

Scared Easily: Not really, they're military trained so they try to be prepared for anything. If something scares them, it means that thing is a legitimate threat to the lives of the ones they protect.

Jealous Easily: Abso-fucking-lutely. They actually try to avoid attachments because of this. But they also get attached very easily, so it's a struggle.

Trustworthy: They actively try to be. They know they can be intimidating, and they sometimes use that to their advantage, but if they need to gain someone's trust then they give it an earnest try. Despite it all, they are very kind.

— FAMILY...

Siblings: K'Willow Celeste Era (half sister, same mother), and Crown Princept Vergil Zephyrus (half sibling, same father).

Parents: Prince Regent Canir Rex (father), Lady Seeker Nymbus Era (mother), and Monarch Sempra Zephyrus (step-parent)

Children: None, and none planned

Pets: Tempest, black horse

#ocs #feng core #dnd #oc tag game #apologies for all the past tag games i never got around to #had the spoons for this one today

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clowndream · 1 year ago

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hi im open for commissions because i need money to live

ive been unemployed for just over a month now and the job hunt isn't going super well, i just need funds for groceries + gas until i get my first paycheck somewhere

you can DM me to request a comm here on tumblr (anons will be ignored), on twitter, or through discord

reblogs are SUPER appreciated

(plaintext ver of images under the cut)

CLOWNDREAM is open for commissions!

Headshots are $20 +$15 per extra character

Fullbodies are $60 +$45 per extra character

Chibis are $40 +$30 per extra character

How to commission me:

Contact me on Tumblr (clowndream), Twitter (clown_dream), or Discord (@clowndream)

Tell me what you want! Ask questions! I'll ask a lot of them too!

Payment will be done through Paypal in USD. I will need your Paypal email to send the invoice.

I will send a screenshot of the WIP sketch before asking for full payment.

Drawings will take from 5-20 days depending on complexity (or more if it's a special case.)

YES! I will draw...

Fanart

OCs

DND characters, WoLs, sonas, etc

Gore + Body horror

Monsters

Nudes

Ship Art

ASK! I might* draw...

Furries

NSFW

Reference sheets or character designs

Full illustrations

Sketch pages

Short comics

* Please ask first, prices may vary!

NAH! I won't draw...

Animals/ferals

Mecha

Ponies

Landscapes/detailed BGs

Real people

Hateful imagery

Important information:

All drawings will automatically come with flats. If you'd like rendering/shading as well, it will be an additional $10-20. If you don't want flats at all/just lineart, I'll knock $5-10 off the total price.

I have the right to refuse any commission for my own personal reasons.

Asking for major changes after the initial sketch is approved may incur an additional fee.

Commissions may take longer if I already have a lot in my queue.

Feel free to ask me questions at anytime or ask for updates!

#i am very not used to this sorry that everything looks so scuffed #commissions

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springfallendeer · 9 months ago

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Mania - A Lethal Company AU

Introduction: “Mania” is a Lethal Company AU that is highly inspired by the game, in its current incomplete state. It is also a slight FNAF: SB AU, in the sense that many of the OCs present in the story originate as FNAF OCs. Certain characters from FNAF may also make something of an appearance, though they will not be central focuses of anything.

The AU borrows a lot from the game while also tweaking (or even adding) a lot of details for the sake of more thorough worldbuilding/immersion into the story. Certain monsters present in the game will not be featured in the story at all. Others will exist but in largely modified states, in order to transform them from aimless environmental hazards to creatures all existing in the same ecosystem.

A lot of what happens or what is described in the AU is not going to perfectly mirror content from the games. This is not a lore accurate AU, but one that is building off of concepts seen in the game. Something that is based more off of blind, lore-free exposure to the game and full of “What if” speculation on how a world like this might reasonably work.

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Characters: Listing the present OCs and the people that they belong to here, as well as mentioning all of the current planned/possible cameo characters that are liable to appear in story snippets. Characters listed can be minor, but the overall idea is that they’ll be recurring and hence important enough to be specifically named.

OCs) - OCs that will be present in the story (and will ergo largely be the focus of the story).

Ayala: Primary protagonist of the story, belonging to me (@springfallendeer). Ayala is human and has been employed by the company in order to pay off her many legal fees and fines, which have been accrued as a result of being (Falsely) convicted for criminal activity.

Through crazy twists of luck and a surprising willingness to adapt, Ayala has survived being abandoned on Mania (as well as on other moons) MULTIPLE times, for long periods of time. As a result, she has learned a lot about how to survive on these otherwise uninhabitable moons.

—-----------------------------------------------------------------------

Jho: Another key protagonist of the story, belonging to (@twistedviper). Jho is a Bracken of the “Neckbreaker” variety, which is just a fancy way of saying that he is basically the typical in-game Bracken. His specific species has been named after its preferred method of killing humans.

Jho originally starts out hostile towards Ayala and is a threat held back only by his own confusion and desire to understand what humans actually are. But he eventually softens up and forms a strong bond with the woman, thus assuring her continued survival during her frequent incidents of abandonment.

—-----------------------------------------------------------------------

Pluto: A soft protagonist of the story, belonging to (@justaduckarts). Pluto a Ghost Bracken, which is a non-hostile subspecies of Bracken that gives off an ethereal, ghostly glow. She inhabits the same facility as Jho and eventually goes on to become his breeding partner. Her docile and curious nature also makes her friendly towards Ayala (and other humans) from the get-go.

—-----------------------------------------------------------------------

Hive: A soft antagonist belonging to (@justaduckarts). A man-made experimental hybrid creature that can be classified (loosely) as a “Maneater”. Hive was tailor made to be an efficient hunting machine that can take control of other creatures, namely Loot Bugs, Circuit Bees, and Maneaters. The problem was that he turned on his creators and now freely roams Mania, where he establishes himself as a looming threat.

Though he dislikes humans, he recognizes that he is in need of them in order to achieve his goals. As a result, he only briefly takes interest in killing and devouring Ayala. After which point his interest becomes more along the lines of claiming her as a suitable nest for his clutches of mindless offspring.

—-----------------------------------------------------------------------

Carlos: Antagonist and asshole, belonging to (@justaduckarts). Carlos is a human, and is the primary reason that Ayala has been put into the situation that she is in. He is a person of high power and authority who saw someone that he wanted, couldn’t get them, and proceeded to do everything in his power to punish her for it.

He is flat out a bastard using his high status to commit heinous acts against those who are beneath him. Plain and simple.

—-----------------------------------------------------------------------

Aberrant: A minor but beloved protagonist, belonging to (@pulsarsatellite). Aberrant is a Creepvine Bracken, which is a generally non-hostile but troublemaking subspecies of Bracken that clings to walls. He is a bit of a mischief maker, but he is never out to do actual harm to Ayala or to any of the other humans; at least so long as he remains unprovoked.

—-----------------------------------------------------------------------

Constance: A minor but distinct protagonist, belonging to (@thelonereni). Constance is a Sugarlump Tradesman, which is a unique subspecies of Bracken which lurks in an impossible to access nest. Her whole gimmick is that people can bring items to her (or lure live prey to her) to trade them for anything that she might have.

She is a creature shrouded in mystery and her true appearance will likely remain unknown. Just know that she is far more aware of the goings on of her environment than anyone might realize.

—-----------------------------------------------------------------------

Casterai: A soft antagonist turned protagonist, belonging to (@rnekopallet). Casterai is a Thorned Hunter, which is a subspecies of Bracken primarily encountered outdoors, though they do sometimes come inside. They are adapted to thrive in the harsh desert environment surrounding the facility. Initial hostilities are short lived, following which point Cas and Ayala come to friendly terms.

They’re still pretty dangerous with most other humans though. Largely because visiting humans tend to be unwilling to try and make nice with the random surface dwelling Bracken that will try to drain them of their bodily fluids if given the chance.

—-----------------------------------------------------------------------

Mars: A soft antagonist that eventually becomes something of a soft protagonist, though they may be better described as the anti-hero. He belongs to (@xnanosilverx). Mars is a man-made entity best described as a “Braken”, though his genetic makeup is far more complicated than one would gather at a glance.

Mars was produced in an attempt to create obedient and powerful entities that could be sent out to distant moons in order to gather resources. He is strong, intelligent, and able to fend off most enemy mobs with ease. But due to his treatment, he has developed a strong distaste for humans. As a result, he remains hostile towards Ayala for a while and considers her a threat. Though he does eventually soften up.

Only towards her though. He will still flat out kill any other human that he encounters.

—-----------------------------------------------------------------------

June: A soft antagonist turned tense protagonist, belonging to (@xnanosilverx). June is a human coming from a rival colony, thus making her and Ayala enemies from the get go. At least from her perspective, and from the perspective of those with power over her.

She is betrayed by her crew and as a result, she is left stranded on Mania, where she is expected to die. However, she encounters Ayala and (following some not so pleasant confrontations) winds up reluctantly teaming up with this rival worker in order to survive being stranded in the harsh environment until she can make it back to her colony.

From there, she, like Ayala, finds herself being regularly left behind by her crew. Though her circumstances are less a failure to return to the ship and more her assigned crews intentionally abandoning her out of fear. These continuous bouts of abandonment are what inevitably leads to these women forming a long term alliance, as cooperation assures both of their long-term survival in these harsh environments.

—-----------------------------------------------------------------------

FNAF Characters) - Note that more may be added in the future and they likely will not exist in a robotic form, but as a form of monster or human.

Sun: Standard Bracken x Thorned Hunter hybrid. Spends most of his time outdoors. Non-hostile. Protagonist. Unlikely to be involved in main story stuff and more as passing “Haha, look who's here!” and then I’ll write lewd things.

—-----------------------------------------------------------------------

Moon: Thorned Hunter x Ghost Bracken hybrid. Spends most of his time indoors. Generally hostile towards humans but easy enough to befriend. Antagonist turned protagonist. Unlikely to be involved in main story stuff and more as passing “Haha, look who's here!” and then I’ll write lewd things.

—-----------------------------------------------------------------------

Eclipse: Thorned Hunter x Creepvine Bracken hybrid. He suffers from gigantism and is therefore much larger than others of his kind. He is relatively innocent and curious in nature, though he can be quite dangerous if provoked. Firmly assigned to the protagonist status. Unlikely to be involved in main story stuff and more as passing “Haha, look who's here!” and then I’ll write lewd things.

—-----------------------------------------------------------------------

Afton: A human of the highest status in Ayala’s colony. One of the few aware of the dark reality of the system and why it works the way that it does. Raw antagonist working from the shadows, ultimately doing everything in his power to maintain the status quo. Will not be featured super frequently, though he will still be considered a major part of the story.

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Location: The primary aspects of the story setting will take place either on “Mania” (a non-canon moon crafted specifically for the purposes of this story) or in space, aboard the Colony.

Mania can be described as a “Super Moon” (in the sense that it is larger than the lifeless planet that it orbits, which has a far denser core and therefore a stronger gravitational pull). It is a celestial body with a unique atmosphere that is regularly plagued by potent electrical storms, which have an intense and adverse effect on mechanical objects. These storms make landing on or attempting to leave the moon an incredibly risky endeavor. It is not uncommon for transport vessels to crash when attempting to land or escape the moon. So much so that even the surface of the planet is littered with valuable metal scrap and rare resources.

Lore-wise, Mania is a celestial body that was briefly targeted for mining operations, as it is naturally heavy with a range of desirable ore and mineral deposits. It was highly sought after due to this, and due to the fact that mechanical items will thrive there… On good days.

When not plagued by magnetic storms, Mania acted as a “goldmine” that was practically overflowing with valuable goods. The strange workings of the atmosphere allowed mechanical objects to be used without manufactured power sources, which also allowed workers to go about their business for longer due to lack of a need to recharge or replace batteries.

However, on days when magnetic storms were active, fatal accidents would frequently occur. Mass power outages would periodically send entire facilities into chaos. Workers down in the mine tunnels would abruptly find themselves trapped in complete darkness with absolutely no means of communicating to those on the surface. Transport vessels in active touchdown or takeoff would abruptly lose power and crash.

While the mines were active, multiple employee deaths would take place on a weekly basis. The unpredictable nature of these magnetic storms made predicting their arrival near impossible, which in turn meant that attempts at working around the weather were also poorly executed.

Due to the frequent issues and the massive slew of casualties accrued over a short period of time, all mining operations were abruptly shut down and the moon was abandoned. Mania now exists as a moon which is only meant to be visited by the most desperate of collection crews.

The Colony, meanwhile, is one of many massive spacebound vessels in which huge populations of humans reside. There are many colonies, and likewise many distinct crews which all work for the same company. These colonies are very much at odds with each other, and each has its own distinct societal expectations. Conflicts between crews are not uncommon.

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Mobs: All of the mobs listed will be monsters featured or otherwise encountered throughout the story. Remember that much of the lore regarding these creatures will be changed, largely because I’m a whore for speculative biology and I LOVE to put things together in a way that creates an interactive world.

Canon Creatures) Note that this category will ALSO feature fan-made subspecies

Harmless Entities)

Tulip Snake: Will be standard to what we see in the game. Just some altered lore.

Manticoil: Will be standard to what we see in the game. Just some altered lore.

Roaming Locust: Will be standard to what we see in the game. Just some altered lore.

Outdoor Entities)

Eyeless Dog: The standard form will be present, as well as a Subspecies called “Spore Dogs” which have a symbiotic relationship with Ghost Bracken. The subspecies is actually docile and will only appear late at night.

Baboon Hawk: Will be standard to what we see in the game. Just some altered lore. Males might be specified as being bigger.

Kidnapper Fox (and Vain Shroud): Will be standard to what we see in the game. Just some altered lore. Possibly with some moon-specific variants that act the same but have different colors.

Circuit Bees: Will be standard to what we see in the game. Just some altered lore.

Forest Giant: Will be standard to what we see in the game. Just some altered lore.

Kamikaze Ant: A species of ground dwelling ants with access to chemical warfare. They have an acidic saliva that allows them to chew up metal, which they use to create their nests. When threatened, adult members of the colony will rush toward the target and explode, creating a shower of boiling acid that deals high amounts of damage. Can be safely lured out of their nest with food items, which creates an opportunity for their nest to be swiftly dug up and brought back to the ship.

Indoor Entities)

Bracken: The bracken will be a species heavily featured throughout the story, and will appear in the form of many subspecies. Those being the Neckbreaker (Standard), Ghost, Creepvine, Thorned Hunter, and the Sugarlump Tradesman. Not to mention the occasional hybrid. There may come the additional inclusion of other new species as time goes on and I expand upon the world.

Hoarder Bug: Will appear in the Standard form (The Hoarder), as well as in Flicker (Attracted to glowing objects) and Overcharge (Electric) varieties.

Thumper: Will appear in the Standard (Pale) and Cave (Black and gray) varieties. The Cave variety can climb and run across walls.

Snare Flea: Will only appear in the Standard variety.

Maneater: Will appear in multiple forms with slightly differing appearance, with distinguishing male and female appearances. The three distinct species will be the Standard (Charger - fast moving and chases down prey), the Hopper (Moves slowly but can leap huge distances due to specialized hind-legs), and the Mantid (slow moving ambush predator which hides and captures prey in mantis-like forelegs). The males of all three varieties have wings and will rarely leave the mines at night in order to seek out potential mates elsewhere.

Jester: The child of an Eldritch being, left brutally deformed by its parent. An unkillable and virtually inescapable entity which thrives on human suffering and seeks to regain the favor of its parent through human sacrifice. Has a fierce rivalry with its sibling, the Coilhead, who it once brutally deformed. The only of its kind which can appear on any moon at any given time. Always avoids its sibling.

Coilhead: The favored child of an Eldritch being, left brutally deformed by its sibling, the Jester. Unkillable yet easy enough to escape. Attacks humans for unknown reasons yet it is known to be ashamed of its unpleasant appearance. The only of its kind which can appear on any moon at any given time. Always avoids its sibling.

Bunker Spider: Only the standard Bunker Spider will be present though male and females will be differentiated. Mostly by the females behaving like Wolf Spiders, which carry brood upon their backs. Males are more aggressive while females try to evade threats by fleeing armed employees. Leaving her alone is ill-advised, though, as her babies may decide that it's time to become independent. At which point a swarm of baseball sized spiderlings will begin roaming the map in search of food.

Hygrodere: Just a slime. There won’t really be any variants. Though it will behave differently. It will be drawn to corpses and distracted by them for long periods of time while digesting them.

Spore Lizard: Standard variant only.

Nutcracker: Will appear in three variants who all attack slightly differently. The Standard (Shotgun. Get blasted.), the Fencer (Sword wielding. Death by impalement.), and the Berserker (Club wielding. Tracks down and beats people to death). Nutcrackers are established as being alien organisms that went on to be surgically modified in order to exist within their shells, for the sake of guarding specific building structures. Their unaltered species remains enslaved to this day and is used to perform all manner of tasks.

Velvet Stinger: A species of giant, wingless wasps which roam the interior of buildings, using gathered loot to build nests for their eggs. They resemble velvet ants and are roughly the size of a loot bug. Males lack stingers and guard the nests, whereas females have stingers and patrol the environment in search of food and resources. Both sport a massive set of mandibles, which are used to maim and cut apart prey.

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Environmental Hazards: This segment only really exists to introduce a few new environmental hazards that are specific to Mania, the primary moon that is explored throughout story elements.

Magnetic Storm)

A frequent environmental hazard associated with the moon. While not a constant occurrence, these storms happen on a weekly basis and it is not unusual for multiple to happen throughout a week (usually over the course of a few days).

These storms are harmless to organic life and only pose a threat to mechanical objects. While the moon is suffering from one of these storms, there will be random waves of intense magnetic force that roll across the terrain, completely disabling any mechanical item.

During exploration, these magnetic waves are largely considered a nuisance. They do not directly harm the explorers, but they do lead to regular injury or even death due to their ability to disable electronics. During one of these waves, handheld objects like flashlights and walkie-talkies will shut off and lose the ability to function. Lights inside of the building will also flicker briefly, before blacking out. Likewise, all functions of the ship will be completely shut off during this time.

For a period ranging from 5 to 30 seconds, all electronics will be completely incapable of being used. Following this period, all electronics will return to their previous function as if nothing happened.

These storms are the reason that Mania is considered to be a high risk moon, as if the ship is in active movement when a magnetic wave hits, there is a high likelihood of a fatal crash.

Sandstorm)

The main facilities of Mania are found in a well established desert environment, which means that it gets little water and has low humidity. This leads to a very dry and dusty landscape, which in turn means that during periods of high wind (which will usually take place the day before a Magnetic Storm), large amounts of sand and debris are picked up and carried for miles.

These Sandstorms alone are not a threat. They do not damage explorers or their equipment. On paper, these storms will make the landscape safer due to most outdoor mobs being unwilling to explore the area.

In practice, though, these storms are highly disorienting and are prone to bringing about the demise of explorers caught out in them. That being because the blanket of airborne sand is so thick that it is impossible to make out distant landmarks. Deaths most often occur as a result of explorers getting disoriented by their inability to see their environment, thus leading to them walking into rare patches of quicksand or simply getting lost out in the wilderness; where they inevitably get picked off by local predators once the storm subsides.

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Story:

The Earth is no more. And through no fault of humanity at that.

Centuries ago, the homeworld of the human race was destroyed. A series of inescapable cosmic events led to the planet first being left uninhabitable, and then left as little more than a blanket of asteroids floating aimlessly through the vacuum of space.

Asteroid strikes. Natural disasters. Pollution. Corporate greed and the overharvesting of valuable, but finite resources.

Alien invasions. War with beings the likes of which the human race had no means of understanding at the point of their arrival.

All of these horrific circumstances, and even more, played into the inevitable destruction of the Earth.

Which in turn led to the remnants of the human race being banished to the stars, where they would remain trapped aboard mechanical vessels as they embarked on a seemingly endless search for a new place to call home.

Many colonies were built.

Aboard these colonies went the remnants of humanity. Along with whatever plant and animal life they could be bothered to salvage.

The majority of life on Earth has since gone extinct. As humanity could not afford to save everything that inhabited the planet.

Only that which could be reliably farmed and used was granted salvation. Few animals. Few plants. The majority of each being used for food, fuel, or clothing.

The struggle for survival then swiftly moved into full swing as the fight to secure resources drove each of the colonies into dispute.

Numerous alien worlds were located and swiftly invaded in hopes of claiming access to their bounty.

Numerous alien worlds became the final resting place to countless human lives as the natives of those worlds inevitably retaliated.

Invade. Harvest. Suffer retaliation. Retreat.

Repeat.

All at the command of the High Counsel; those among the human race who have inherited great political power across the generations of struggle.

Always obey.

Always obey. They make the laws. The laws are enforced.

Obey the law, lest you be tried for your arrogance and dealt a fine that no job aboard the colony could ever grant you the means of paying off.

Lest you, as a criminal, find yourself recruited by The Company and sent out into the void to hunt for valued resources, until some hostile alien entity either takes your life, or you have succeeded in paying off your debt to your people.

Obey the law. Or be sent to those long abandoned worlds

Obey the law. Or be forced to salvage.

Obey the law. Or be forced to fight the ever looming fight.

Obey the law. Or be sent to them. The beast behind the wall. The beast with a body of writhing tendrils. The beast which will take your corpse as payment if and when you fail to present it with objects of suitable value.

The law is good. The law protects you. It keeps your colony strong and grants you a safe place to live, far away from the relentless hell of the alien void…

…

…..

…….

The Earth has been destroyed.

The cause? Forces beyond our realm of understanding. Entities born of infinity and destined to exist even after time has ceased to be.

Ours, and many other habitable worlds have been erased so that we, and the many other races of our magnitude, can be put to better use.

The Great Ones seek our flesh.

They crave our suffering. Our struggles for survival bring them delight. It satiates them in the way that a feast will satiate the masses.

We are their cattle. Born to be farmed and bred to be used to fulfill their goals.

We must do what is expected of us. Otherwise humanity as a whole will be culled so that new specimens can be bred anew.

Keep the masses unaware. Prevent the hysteria. The fewer of us who recognize that we are livestock, the better our odds of survival.

Serve the one behind the wall. Do its bidding. For it is the shepherd which assures our survival.

Expand the colonies. Expand the population. Send them our dead to satiate their cravings for flesh. For the shepherd will abandon their flock if it loses its worth.

Send the criminals. Use them as we always have; to benefit the free.

If there are no criminals. Create them.

Create whatever law you must in order to assure that our supply of sacrificial cattle can be maintained.

Do it.

You must.

If you want the human race to continue on, then you must.

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Extra:

The quota system is completely different in the story vs what would be seen in the game. Instead of getting 3 days to collect enough materials to meet an ever expanding quota, each worker has a debt that they must pay off in order to buy their freedom and escape the company. There is a minimum quota that needs to be met in order to pay off the fees that are accrued while incarcerated. Failing to meet this quota leads to the accrued fees being added to the overall debt.

Each 4 man team is working together to pay off their total amount of debt. All profits earned during each cycle will be divided equally among them.

Each individual worker will be released from duty once their specific debt is paid off, regardless of the total debt of the group.

Failing to meet “Upkeep Quota” (the daily accrued fees) will not automatically result in termination. However, failing to meet that minimum Upkeep Quota multiple times in a row is liable to do so.

Termination, or being fired, does not mean freedom. It means death. Either by being ejected into space and left to die (banished from the colonies due to failing to contribute to society), or by being consumed by “Jeb” after failure to deliver valuable goods.

Cycles still consist of 3 days, with a delivery expected to be made on the 4th. However, crews do not depart at the end of each day.

As opposed to daily landing and takeoff, crews will land in bases and venture out to gather resources from there. These bases are secured but must be maintained by the crew in order to deter threats.

Each base has some means of access to food and water. Workers will be charged for utilizing these utilities in excess, which will add to their accrued fees.

In the event that a base is at imminent risk of being overrun by hostile entities, emergency evacuation will take place. During such an event, workers must quickly board their transport vessel, otherwise they will be left behind to succumb to whatever fate awaits them.

Workers are given a couple of days to recover following each cycle. This is mostly to provide them medical treatment (which they are naturally charged for) in order to assure that they can continue to venture out on these dangerous excursions.

The justice system aboard the colonies is about is extreme as it comes. Breaking any law, no matter how minor the offense might be, is considered punishable by massive fine and incarceration. So stealing $1 from someone and murder are effectively punishable to the same level, though the fines that you will accrue will be (hopefully) different.

The “High Counsel” is made up entirely of people who are aware of the hidden reality of the situation. They are the people of power who create and enforce the laws in order to both keep the human population alive and under control.

There are multiple Eldritch entities in existence. Each has selected its own specific race to use as cattle. “Jeb” is the entity which is in charge of humanity. It both feeds on them and protects them from other entities that might seek to consume them.

In this setting, the gathering of scrap and other materials is very much a mislead. Jeb is the one giving humanity what it needs in order to continue to function. It has no need or desire to utilize the junk gathered by the workers. But it plays along with the little game that has been established, and likely disposes of offered goods almost as soon as they are collected. Either by sending them back to random moons/planets, or by just sending them to the colonies to be used however they will be used.

More details will be added as needed to further expand upon the ideas associated with the story.

#Lethal Company AU #Mania #Info Page

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