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passingnotions · 2 months ago

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Out of Office | Yeseo (ft. Mashiro)

smut, 2.9k words

“Who brought all that cake?” You walk up to the cubicle, mouth full and still taking another bite.

“Hm?” She continues typing a seemingly endless email.

“The one in the break room.”

“Oh, the intern.” She’s focused on the second monitor now, lost in some spreadsheet.

“You’re the intern.”

“The new intern.”

You shift your stance; raise a brow in anticipation.

“They’re in an onboarding meeting right now.” She tilts her head towards the conference rooms.

Through the blinds, though far, you can spot figures bathed in blue projector light. “Huh. alright.”

“Also, I got hired last month—come on.”

“Sure but you’re still under me—” You try, stumble through it. “You were, under me, last week.”

“That joke’s not landing.”

“Yeah, it isn’t.”

The room in the distance lights up. There’s movement, a handshake? They’re standing around and chatting.

“She’s your type.” She stops typing; looks up at you.

And you stop chewing. “Shiro, what am I supposed to make of that?”

“Just saying.” Her eyelashes bat a faux pout. “Hope I don’t get replaced?”

“Catching feelings, are we?”

“Oh.” Tone breathy, thespian, and with a hand at her chest. “From our very first night.”

A door opens at the end of the office space. You straighten up, finish what’s left of your pastry, and shoot a look towards Mashiro while heading over to your desk.

From where you sit, there’s not much to see. You listen to the shuffle of steps somewhere on the floor, to the casual chatter. There’s corporate laughter—measured, mechanical—and a lilt to a voice you hadn’t heard before. The sounds come and go. Close, then far, then close again: she’s getting introduced to everyone.

Eventually: “oh, think we missed someone over on this corner?” Pretty platform heels clatter around to where you sit until finally revealing themselves. She’s a cheating five feet tall. Dark and elegant hair frames this darling, sweet look. Prettiest fucking cheeks on the planet. “Hello! I’m Kang Yeseo.” She extends a small hand. “Pleasure to meet you.”

“Pleasure’s all mine,” you manage, standing up and returning the gesture.

“Oh, I see you found the pastry tray I brought.” She looks at the small plate by your keyboard. Her smile is beaming. “Hope everything was to your liking!”

“Yeah—yeah.” Your best is a nonplussed nod. “It really is.”

You hear your boss call out over the divider wall. Says she’s the new intern. Starts tomorrow. Ah, I see, you reply. Your head tilts when you realize. The calendar marks Friday. “Working over the weekend?”

“They said it’d be easier to learn because of the slower pace. Can’t say no to that!” She laughs. “I’ll be shadowing someone.”

You work tomorrow.

“Guess I’ll be seeing you in the morning, then.”

“Oh, great! We’ll get to know each other fast!” She’s all verve—begins to walk away from view before finishing her own sentence. “Nice to meet you again. Gotta head back to the tour!”

You collapse on your chair, processing. “Nice to meet you, too.”

There’s a narrative step you miss, trip over. You’ll have to pick up the pieces sometime. They’re probably tangled in the locks of her hair, the glint in her eyes, or that flashing, disarming smile—

Okay, alright. It’s not romance, not by a longshot, but you do see her twirling the ends of her locks every once in a while, like she’s the one in love and, hey, sure.

Because you fuck the girl so well that she’s consumed by the idea of you.

Mashiro strokes your ego over the week and Yeseo your cock, over the weekends. That’s your onboarding procedure, if anyone were to ask.

Shiro says you’ll make Yeseo fall for you, that maybe you already have, that there’s no way those university boys give her anything worthwhile when it comes to attention. Salaryman, Mashiro says, has the money, the apartment, the free time, and god that cock.

You stop Mashiro—recommend she go into acting. Say it suits her. She asks, at some point, which angles you think the camera would best capture. Her face is on the mattress, ass at a complete diagonal opposite.

“This, right here.” You’re making a frame right behind her with your fingers, then catch her gaze in the full length mirror over to your right. “This is the one.”

“Mm,” she hums. “I bet.” Mashiro reaches her arms back, face still on the duvet. Her palms land flat on her ass, and with a gripping pull, she spreads open.

Your arms fall to your sides—they settle, defeated—and you think it’s amusing that the bed frame sits so low to the ground. It makes you kneel, though Mashiro already makes you kneel without having to ask, regardless of whatever piece of furniture she’s propped up on. It’s less skill, more innate talent—like she was made for you, built, sculpted—but, yes, Mashiro has the skill, too. She’s well practiced on what makes you practically melt. You’ve run your hands over that piece of art a million times and it still has you sighing your deepest sighs when your knees finally hit the ground.

With your palms replacing hers—ass and cunt kept spread open and waiting—Mashiro speaks through the reflection. “You look mesmerized.”

“I am.” You can hear the smile in her voice and smile back. Your hands get busy, kneading.

Like a pup that’s excited to be played with, Mashiro wags it a little, to mess with you, because it throws your brain for a loop every single time. “Tongue, baby.” She pushes her whole body back a bit, tone sultry. “Come on.”

“When’s the last time I made you cum?” You ask.

“Every time,” she giggles out.

You give Mashiro a long, slow lick. Admire the luster. “No, as in—” she’s so close that you’re breathing her in—“when did you stay over last?”

Before she gets a chance to inhale a response, you get to work. Sheets scrunch in her fists. “Ah,” Mashiro lets out gently. “It’s been more than a week.”

Your hands don’t let go. You’re pulling her onto your face and your tongue laps, laps, laps—lips locked. It’s, immediately, a mess. Spit, wetness. The taste is divine.

You take a second to breathe. “I missed you.” It comes out so, so low, like gravel, like the need to eat this woman out reverts you to only the most instinctual and primal.

Your fingers are leaving impressions on her pale skin, you realize. You’re not even grabbing on that hard.

“I know you did.” She laughs.

You go back in; she moans. It’s a whole thing. Your tongue runs flat from clit to rim and you’re unsure which one of you throbs the hardest.

But Mashiro turns, eventually, flips herself over, and pulls a pillow under her head for support. She wants to look at you, in the reflection, face to face—loves to look at you when she cums. And you’ll make her, every time.

“Could come over more often,” she says, kittenish, and you know exactly where it’s headed. “But you’re always so busy.”

You tease a finger right over her folds. “Uh huh.” Slip it in.

Her breath hitches when you curl it at the right spot. You love messing with each other like that.

“You have a spare key, Shiro. Can come over any time.” Your lips are curled into a wicked smile, and you dive back in, lick her a couple more times, kiss her thighs, have her throw her head back in delicate bliss.

“And walk in on you two?” She pulls your head up—stares. “I’d be devastated."

“Heartbroken, I’m sure.” You’re holding her gaze and putting another finger in; her hips buck. Fuck—you enjoy this as much as she does.

She bites her lip and her eyes go narrow when you hit that spot again, letting your face go. It’s permission: make me, until my legs quiver, until I can’t fucking take it anymore, please.

You slide in another, because you’re allowed, and frankly, because you enjoy the obscenity of it. She’s stretched out and you simply stare. In, out, a bit of a curl again, as much as three digits permit. You’ve heard Mashiro say worse, to be fair, curse out heaven and hell. Knowing that you could take her much further feeds your ego.

“Bet you couldn’t bear it,” you’re saying, straightening up, fingers still in her cunt. You stare at her pretty legs, folded and spread open, giving you all the damn room in the world. “Watching me fill her up with a load that you’d want for yourself.”

The little whimper when you slip your fingers out is as cute as it is profane. You’d do anything for her, for less than that. To watch her unravel every time is enough of a reward.

“Is that what you do?” Mashiro catches her breath, finally. “Pump the little thing full until she leaks?”

You settle your knees on the mattress, aligning your stiff cock, and nodding. Guilty as charged. You decide it’s best to have her cumming with your length inside her messy-wet folds. “You get so slutty when you’re jealous.”

Your cock starts back on the path that your fingers just explored as she quips, “bet you don’t even wash the bedding before it’s my turn.” Mashiro’s nodding along at your slow thrust. She’s all play, still, but your cock’s splitting her open bit by bit. Attention’s divided, to say the least. “You’re such a whore.”

“Baby,” you coo, proud because her gaze falters. You’re halfway and she’s already slipping a hand down to play with her clit—though it’s not until you sink to the base with a firm push that you take her breath away. She does this eyes-shut exhale.

And no, it’s not romance here, either.

“Only you get the bed.”

It’s been a couple of Fridays since you last worked weekends, and any excuse is a good excuse for Yeseo. Company outing after work? Take her home. New to this part of town? Poor girl, you’ll show her around (and take her home). Ah, too tired to walk to hers tonight, and yours is only one train stop away? The pair of jeans she has on today, by the way—christ—bless casual Fridays. You do, in fact, take those home, too.

How impossibly fortunate. A straight flush. You have the girl cockdrunk for a whole fucking month. Not to say that she doesn’t have you similarly obsessed. That much goes without saying.

And, again, there’s some fill-in-the-blanks section that has to go unfinished or we’ll never really get to—

You both wake up at midnight—yes, midnight, because you had crashed on your sectional only six hours prior. There was actual work to be done this week, on top of the fact that Mashiro went home with you three out of those five, exhausting days. She gives you weekends off; calls it the babysitting gig. You tell her to not do that.

Now, Yeseo’s in the shower. The scene is cut-to, a tad jarring and sudden. Interior apartment, Saturday, zero hundred hours. You have the noise floor where it’s all ambient sound out in the living room, your kitchen appliances buzz, the aircon kicks in. Nice and quiet, until the figurative camera sends it down the hall and past your bedroom door. Wet white noise fades in. Rhythmic… clapping?

There aren’t that many useful euphemisms from here on out. Everyone has read this script before.

The intern’s against glass. It’s a heavenly slope, really, the way her upper torso is flat on the shower door. With hands braced at either side of her tits, her lower back arches out—legs tensed, tiptoed—and her ass angles out just so. It’s plush, it’s deadly. Your hands are settled on that striking indent where her hips and waist meet while your own hips push, thrust, and press against her round, easy cheeks.

Fuck—

Yeseo pushes back in kind. The tempo is practiced and well known to the both of you, though there’s a key difference. The camera wouldn’t pick up on it, not from the angle it would find itself at. And you yourself can’t figure out if this right here is where you’ll end it—where the scene cuts.

A little longer, you’re telling yourself.

See: contraceptives—left the whole pack back at the office. It’s the whole reason why you decided to fall asleep in the first place. Yeseo said something about buying some right as you both stepped through the front door but your mouths sufficed for the subsequent half hour. Some dinner, that was.

And because there’s no self-control, she didn’t have to do much to persuade you into taking a shower before heading to the closest pharmacy, or gas station, or anywhere that happened to be open at this ungodly hour and—

Again, no polite terminology here.

You’ve been fucking her raw for the past ten minutes. Her fertile arousal gathers at the base of your cock every time you piston in, in, in—so messy, smeared, depraved—and your thumbs leave flush-red marks whenever they press onto her smooth, luxury skin.

So you cum, naturally. Flood her womb. It’s filthy, because Yeseo is at that point, too—the girl put a finger over her clit a minute ago and ran it in circles until her eyes went hazy, went dumb. Until her thus-far dulcet moans turned into half breaths and broken whimpers. There’s a ‘yes’ in there somewhere, a flash in the pan, brief and hissed, as the tension in her chest breaks into more cries of pleasure with your name intertwined.

You groan, then, slipping out only a moment after and holding your cock like it’s fucking expired. The feeling is an overstimulated frenzy—electric, and still jolting. Out of all things, however, what fucks with you is not what you did, but how it looks: her figure shivers as she plants her heels back on shower tiles; hot and sticky white lands next to her feet.

It reeks of debauchery—hasty, impatient. Yeseo’s cunt leaks and all you think about is dipping back in for seconds.

But the scene cuts. Shower steam continues to rise and, with it, your thoughts fade into the next.

She’s reading something that you’re sure is not right. Perhaps it’s not wholly accurate. It’s also noon now, for what it’s worth. the sleep’s polyphasic—a total blur—as it always tends to be over the Saturdays and the Sundays.

“Seventy-two hours,” Yeseo says. She’s sitting on your kitchen counter, eating grapes. Girl hasn’t had a single piece of clothing on since the day before.

“You’re kidding.”

“Says it can be effective even five days after.” Her mouth’s full. “Damn.”

You close the fridge and walk over to her. “Are you reading an AI summary?”

“Well, it’s summarizing the links below that, so.” She turns her phone towards you.

Levono-whatever-the-fuck’s the active ingredient—Plan B. The morning-after pill.

“Uh huh,” you say, incredulous. You’re also sweating, almost.

“We’ll get it Monday morning,” Yeseo ensures. “Grape?”

“Can’t we head out right now?”

She feeds you the one, hovers another in front of your lips. “I’m doing a round of laundry.”

The bunch that you bought this week happens to be seed-in.

“And that stops you—” You swallow. “How?”

“The condoms are in my duffle bag, the one that has the rest of my clothes?”

“Ah,” you discern. “The one you left at the office.”

“The one I told you,” she asserts, “to get for me before heading out.”

Open your mouth. You’re gullible by choice, you tell yourself—Yeseo feeds you the second.

She has one set of clothes, one, and it won’t be ready for another thirty minutes. It crosses your mind that you forgot the color of her underwear, at this point. Never properly memorized it. You figure it foreshadows what’s left of the weekend; settle on that fate.

“Wanna put on the movie I mentioned the other day?” She hops off the laminate and walks towards the couch. The edge of the counter is imprinted on her upper thighs and it’s safe to say you’ll be having to replay the film some other day, at a time where there’s at least one layer of fabric to dissuade you from the inevitable. Not like that ever does anything.

You hum. “Not a bad idea.”

Yeseo stands so casually in your living room, working the remote, nothing on. The curtains are pulled back and a noontide shine contours her shape as if the heavens were on a campaign to meddle with you at every possible turn. Your eyes are glued to each and every divot on her skin, to the curves and the lines that lead to them. Her hip cocks off to the right and it has your head tilting to the left—could get you dizzy just like that.

You try to determine where to start again, though walking over to her, it’s not much of a conscious decision. Your palm lands and unabashedly grabs the heft of her ass. No hesitation. It spills through your fingers—has you hard in an instant.

“Should be fun,” she says, absentminded. With the way the selection box goes over and around and anywhere but any of the streaming apps, you know she’s not quite paying attention to the TV, either.

You, regardless, still ask: “what’s it about, again?”

The answer to the next is no.

“Does it matter?”

Superfluous, and somewhat of a spoiler, but this does snowball until the aforementioned Monday morning. Sunday will have you running the same scenes. The blocking will maybe be a bit different, though the outcomes are all the same: you suck at pulling out.

And you’ll tell yourself it’s by choice.

#kpop smut #madein smut #kepler smut #yeseo smut #mashiro smut #male reader #reader insert

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lazysoulwriter · 3 months ago

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monaco madness - pedro pascal.

Pedro had always known you were obsessed with Formula 1. The kind of obsessed where Sunday plans revolved around race schedules, where you angry muttered driver names in your sleep, and where he once caught you watching an onboard camera video from 2008 just for fun.

So, when he suggested going to Monaco for the Grand Prix, it wasn’t just because of the glitz, the yachts, or the allure of Monte Carlo. It was because he loved seeing you in your element.

What he hadn't expected was to get completely sucked into it himself.

From the moment you stepped onto the circuit, decked out in Ferrari red, you were practically vibrating with excitement. The roaring sound of engines in the background made your eyes light up in a way that had Pedro smiling like an idiot.

“You’re going to explode,” he teased, tightening his grip on your waist as the two of you made your way to your seats.

“I might.” You turned to him, grinning, adjusting your sunglasses. “Do you even understand what’s about to happen?”

Pedro scoffed. “I understand that cars go fast.”

You snorted. “Wow, expert analysis. Maybe they should hire you for commentary.”

“I’d do great,” he said smugly. “I’d just point at the screen and go, ‘Look at that one. He’s winning.’”

You rolled your eyes, looping your arms around his neck. “You are so lucky you’re pretty.”

“I am pretty,” he agreed, leaning down to steal a quick kiss before you could pull away.

“Pedro!” you scolded, laughing against his lips. “We don’t have time for this! The race is about to start!”

Pedro groaned dramatically but let you go, watching as you practically bounced in your seat.

The cars lined up, the lights went out, and the moment the engines roared to life, you grabbed his hand without even thinking. Pedro barely had time to process the chaos before you were on your feet, screaming alongside thousands of other Ferrari fans.

“GO, GO, GO!”

Pedro had never seen you like this. Eyes wide, face glowing, shouting in frustration when someone overtook a Ferrari like they had personally offended you.

“Are you serious? That’s a penalty!” you cried, throwing your hands up.

Pedro leaned in, amused. “I have no idea what that means, but I love how angry you are.”

Before you could reply, a Ferrari made a daring overtake, nearly brushing the wall. The entire grandstand erupted, and Pedro felt something shift inside him. A thrill ran up his spine, and suddenly, he got it. The speed, the tension, the sheer insanity of it all. His fingers gripped the railing, and before he could stop himself, he was shouting,

“OH, SHIT! THAT WAS INSANE! FORZA FERRARI!”

You whipped your head toward him, stunned. “Wait. Are you—Are you into it now?”

Pedro ran a hand through his hair, exhaling. “I think I just saw God.”

You burst into laughter, throwing your arms around his neck and kissing him full on the mouth. “Welcome to the dark side, tifoso.”

For the rest of the race, Pedro was in it. He booed strategy calls, cursed at pit stops that took too long, and even found himself gripping your thigh when things got too tense. Every time Ferrari made a move, you both jumped out of your seats, yelling like lunatics.

At one point, he turned to you, slightly out of breath. “I swear to God, if we don’t win, I’m—”

“You’re what?” you challenged, grinning.

Pedro narrowed his eyes. “I don’t know yet, but it won’t be pretty.”

You laughed, pulling him down for another quick kiss. “You’re so dramatic.”

He smiled against your lips. “And yet you love me.”

When the checkered flag finally waved, Pedro collapsed into his seat, exhaling like he’d just competed in the race himself. You giggled, straddling his lap, running your fingers through his hair.

“So?” you asked, tilting your head. “Worth it?”

Pedro smirked, brushing his thumb over your cheek. “I’m never missing a race again.”

You grinned. “That’s my baby.”

And just like that, Monaco had gained another die-hard Ferrari fan.

---

requested! loved thissss.

#pedro pascal #pedro pascal x reader #pedro pascal x you #pedro pascal x y/n #pedro pascal f1 #pedro pascal au #pedro pascal fanfic #pedro pascal fanfics #pedro pascal fic #pedro pascal fics #pedro pascal fluff #pedro pascal one shot #f1 #pp

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tangibletechnomancy · 1 year ago

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The reason I took interest in AI as an art medium is that I've always been interested in experimenting with novel and unconventional art media - I started incorporating power tools into a lot of my physical processes younger than most people were even allowed to breathe near them, and I took to digital art like a duck to water when it was the big, relatively new, controversial thing too, so really this just seems like the logical next step. More than that, it's exciting - it's not every day that we just invent an entirely new never-before-seen art medium! I have always been one to go fucking wild for that shit.

Which is, ironically, a huge part of why I almost reflexively recoil at how it's used in the corporate world: because the world of business, particularly the entertainment industry, has what often seems like less than zero interest in appreciating it as a novel medium.

And I often wonder how much less that would be the case - and, by extension, how much less vitriolic the discussion around it would be, and how many fewer well-meaning people would be falling for reactionary mythologies about where exactly the problems lie - if it hadn't reached the point of...at least an illusion of commercial viability, at exactly the moment it did.

See, the groundwork was laid in 2020, back during covid lockdowns, when we saw a massive spike in people relying on TV, games, books, movies, etc. to compensate for the lack of outdoor, physical, social entertainment. This was, seemingly, wonderful for the whole industry - but under late-stage capitalism, it was as much of a curse as it was a gift. When industries are run by people whose sole brain process is "line-go-up", tiny factors like "we're not going to be in lockdown forever" don't matter. CEOs got dollar signs in their eyes. Shareholders demanded not only perpetual growth, but perpetual growth at this rate or better. Even though everyone with an ounce of common sense was screaming "this is an aberration, this is not sustainable" - it didn't matter. The business bros refused to believe it. This was their new normal, they were determined to prove -

And they, predictably, failed to prove it.

So now the business bros are in a pickle. They're beholden to the shareholders to do everything within their power to maintain the infinite growth they promised, in a world with finite resources. In fact, by precedent, they're beholden to this by law. Fiduciary duty has been interpreted in court to mean that, given the choice between offering a better product and ensuring maximum returns for shareholders, the latter MUST be a higher priority; reinvesting too much in the business instead of trying to make the share value increase as much as possible, as fast as possible, can result in a lawsuit - that a board member or CEO can lose, and have lost before - because it's not acting in the best interest of shareholders. If that unsustainable explosive growth was promised forever, all the more so.

And now, 2-3-4 years on, that impossibility hangs like a sword of Damocles over the heads of these media company CEOs. The market is fully saturated; the number of new potential customers left to onboard is negligible. Some companies began trying to "solve" this "problem" by violating consumer privacy and charging per household member, which (also predictably) backfired because those of us who live in reality and not statsland were not exactly thrilled about the concept of being told we couldn't watch TV with our own families. Shareholders are getting antsy, because their (however predictably impossible) infinite lockdown-level profits...aren't coming, and someone's gotta make up for that, right? So they had already started enshittifying, making excuses for layoffs, for cutting employee pay, for duty creep, for increasing crunch, for lean-staffing, for tightening turnarounds-

And that was when we got the first iterations of AI image generation that were actually somewhat useful for things like rapid first drafts, moodboards, and conceptualizing.

Lo! A savior! It might as well have been the digital messiah to the business bros, and their eyes turned back into dollar signs. More than that, they were being promised that this...both was, and wasn't art at the same time. It was good enough for their final product, or if not it would be within a year or two, but it required no skill whatsoever to make! Soon, you could fire ALL your creatives and just have Susan from accounting write your scripts and make your concept art with all the effort that it takes to get lunch from a Star Trek replicator!

This is every bit as much bullshit as the promise of infinite lockdown-level growth, of course, but with shareholders clamoring for the money they were recklessly promised, executives are looking for anything, even the slightest glimmer of a new possibility, that just might work as a life raft from this sinking ship.

So where are we now? Well, we're exiting the "fucking around" phase and entering "finding out". According to anecdotes I've read, companies are, allegedly, already hiring prompt engineers (or "prompters" - can't give them a job title that implies there's skill or thought involved, now can we, that just might imply they deserve enough money to survive!)...and most of them not only lack the skill to manually post-process their works, but don't even know how (or perhaps aren't given access) to fully use the software they specialize in, being blissfully unaware of (or perhaps not able/allowed to use) features such as inpainting or img2img. It has been observed many times that LLMs are being used to flood once-reputable information outlets with hallucinated garbage. I can verify - as can nearly everyone who was online in the aftermath of the Glasgow Willy Wonka Dashcon Experience - that the results are often outright comically bad.

To anyone who was paying attention to anything other than please-line-go-up-faster-please-line-go-please (or buying so heavily into reactionary mythologies about why AI can be dangerous in industry that they bought the tech companies' false promises too and just thought it was a bad thing), this was entirely predictable. Unfortunately for everyone in the blast radius, common sense has never been an executive's strong suit when so much money is on the line.

Much like CGI before it, what we have here is a whole new medium that is seldom being treated as a new medium with its own unique strengths, but more often being used as a replacement for more expensive labor, no matter how bad the result may be - nor, for that matter, how unjust it may be that the labor is so much cheaper.

And it's all because of timing. It's all because it came about in the perfect moment to look like a life raft in a moment of late-stage capitalist panic. Any port in a storm, after all - even if that port is a non-Euclidean labyrinth of soggy, rotten botshit garbage.

Any port in a storm, right? ...right?

All images generated using Simple Stable, under the Code of Ethics of Are We Art Yet?

#ai art #generated art #generated artwork #essays #about ai #worth a whole 'nother essay is how the tech side exists in a state that is both thriving and floundering at the same time #because the money theyre operating with is in schrodinger's box #at the same time it exists and it doesnt #theyre highly valued but usually operating at a loss #that is another MASSIVE can of worms and deserves its own deep dive

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hanibalistic · 8 months ago

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ALIEN OUTREACH PROGRAM | KIM JONGSEOB. HAKU SHOTA.

genre | fluff / found family au, slice of life au

synopsis | when a planet exploded, the government sent two of its surviving residents to live with you .

word count | 11.5k+

warning | mention of violence / unwanted sexual advances (brief; side character)

note | wrote most of this early 2024 and stopped. decided to rush finish it.

The government sent you two aliens from the alien outreach program you were referred to join by a close friend.

The program was recently created when a nameless planet that was initially suspected to be on its way to collide with the Earth ended up exploding instead. The news of the explosion was broadcast worldwide, but the fact that the surviving residents of the planet landed on Earth as a result of the explosion was kept secret to avoid social panic, hence why the outreach program operated on a 'referral only’ basis.

Each applicant underwent a relatively easy screening process and three rounds of interviews before they were notified through an encrypted text message that they’d been cleared to foster.

You underwent the same process, and in retrospect, you figured the interviews were held for the faculty to access all aspects of your life, beginning from your social circle to the depths of your mental state.

At the end of your onboarding process, you were told that you would be fostering a pair of aliens—a pair of brothers, they suspected. Either way, you were told they were bonded.

You hadn’t minded the responsibility. If anything, you figured the monthly financial compensation could significantly help your appalling rent situation. The cog in the wheel was that they were initially tested to be high-risk-level aliens.

The only reason you could think was behind that outrageous decision was not their trust in your ability to monitor them but rather their disinterest in your livelihood as a struggling new graduate.

You could always leave it to the government to treat poor people like guinea pigs. But, the more you looked at it, Soul and Jongseob didn't seem as dangerous as their profiles stated.

Soul and Jongseob—they didn't come with those names, which hadn’t been a problem during the first few weeks of their stay when the three of you spent most of your time getting acquainted with each other.

You weren’t sure how shaken up they were about their home being destroyed, so besides being cautious of their undisclosed alien abilities, you walked on eggshells around them in consideration for their emotional state.

The two were docile, for the most part, and quiet. When they weren’t whispering among themselves, they were communicating telepathically. Figuratively or literally, you were uncertain. You only knew they were difficult to read without human features. You never knew what they wanted or how they felt about anything outside of observable behaviors, such as their obsession with the television, their likeness for sweets, and their unwillingness to shower.

The program coordinator hasn't given them the green light to go out and explore Earth on their own yet, so before you could figure out how to ideally talk them up in the mandatory monthly progress reports, they've got no choice but to stay home and discover entertainment through unconventional means.

It was the furniture at first. Charred spots on the couch left behind by the apartment’s last tenant, the hinges of the balcony curtain rod torn off, and the worst of it all: shattered pieces of a set of utensils that your deceased mom gave you as a congratulatory gift for moving out, thus taking a big step into adulthood.

That was the first time they’d seen you sob, your body curled up on the floor and your palm stained with blood slit out by the broken glass. They had been unfamiliar with human emotions at that point in their stay. Still, taking a frame out of television shows, they could understand, at the very least, that what you showed was sorrow and heartbreak.

They didn't understand the concept of a mother. After all, they were born through natural phenomena, such as the trickling of water or the imploding of ancient rocks. Your response to their playful mistake was illogical. However, still, it made them fidget and waver wildly to watch tears roll callously into your mouth.

People call it empathy, they thought. Empathy, or love—the inability to see another in pain, the desire to never hurt another. Most humans have it for everyone, but more strongly for those they prioritize.

A few days later, a plate clumsily glued together by gray-colored blobs that looked suspiciously like alien skin greeted you on your nightstand. You never said anything about it, but you put it in your mother’s shrine in the apartment.

Little did you know that sometimes, in an attempt to model your actions, Jongseob and Soul would put pieces of candy next to the plate for her.

After the furniture, they tuned down their drive for curiosity. They played with less significant things, such as your freshly cleaned laundry.

At last, it came down to electronics—the television, the radio, and sometimes your laptop and gaming console. Jongseob geared more toward the console and television, and Soul liked anything that made funny noises.

As they got comfortable around the apartment and started clashing with your lifestyle, it gradually became more annoying to address them with words like 'hey!' and ‘you!' when you needed to scold them about something they've done, so you decided individual names were necessary.

Mercifully abandoning a random name generator online, you told the two aliens to choose how they wanted to be addressed.

Soul had been very excited about picking a name for himself. His outrageous choices reflected his enthusiasm, ranging from food ingredients to fictional character names to literal home appliances.

You've had to—patiently and gently—explain to him for a month the reason why you wouldn't call him Megamind or the literal stove was because they weren't real names (and you didn't want to).

Eventually, you two made a compromise. The initial choice was to have everyone call him by the famous RPG he never played—Dark Souls. He settled on being called Soul.

Jongseob was more direct but still indecisive. He mixed a few celebrity names he heard on TV into different pairs. He handed you a written list—surprisingly!—of names for you to choose.

You didn’t want the responsibility of selecting something as important as a name, so you told him you could put out a pointer finger, and whichever name you ended up pointing at after he moved the paper around would be his name.

After hearing how mundane Jongseob's name sounded, Soul came to you one night and asked that you help him think of a name of a similar caliber. He had requested that you keep this between you both, as he didn't go to Jongseob about it out of embarrassment that his other half would accuse him of being a copycat.

You attempted to deter Soul from such outrageous thoughts. Jongseob was the last person to make unnecessary accusations, after all. But Soul was determined to keep this a secret between you two, so you agreed.

It was proven difficult for him to make up something normal, as he tossed and turned for several nights only to end up knocking on your bedroom door, asking for a second opinion.

You had stayed up with him for a few nights, often laying half-asleep on the couch while he remained silent on the opposite end with pursed lips and intense eyes.

One particular night, though, you decided to turn on the television to keep yourself awake, and the channel was airing a rerun of an old, beloved cartoon.

“Oh gosh, I haven’t watched this in so long,” you exclaimed under your breath as you leaned back, the controller rolling off your thigh. “This was my childhood afterschool show.”

“Woah,” he scooted closer to you, “that’s cool.”

"It is," you muttered, wholly focused on the screen. When a particular ice-powered character appeared, you let out a soft swoon. "Ah, look at him! He's still as cool as ever."

“Who's that?” he whispered.

“His name is Shota. He was my favorite character in the show,” you said, heaving a sigh as rather embarrassing memories flooded before your eyes. “I loved him so much.”

Soul turned to you. The lights flickered in your eyes, not telling him much of what was happening in the episode but enough to let him know that you were paying a lot of attention whenever the character was present.

He noticed now that you've leaned your head on his shoulder, and your eyelids were lowering by the second. The previous attention you spent on the TV screen was replaced quickly by sleepiness under the comfort of Soul's presence.

“You did?”

"Yeah?" you hummed, his sudden question confusing your own emotions for a second. "I mean, yeah. He is really cool and–okay, technically, everyone in animation is good-looking, but he was my type."

"Oh." His voice trailed off into deep thought, but it didn't take him too long to perk up again and say, "I want to be called Shota."

You raised your brows and sat up, leaning back to watch him with amusement. “You like the name, huh?”

“No.” He shook his head. “You like Shota.”

There it was, then. Soul gained a new name that night—Shota.

Being able to call them by name gave them a sense of identity, and you had a drastic development in your connection with them. You thought you’d always received them without judgment, and you did.

Still, once it registered in your normalcy that they’ve got a name, it was as if their existence became more tangible. However, as important as that, the first milestone of your relationship was when they finally took a human form.

Before realizing they could shapeshift, they’ve been stuck in their alien form, which you thought was similar to how movies and video games have always portrayed outer-space species.

You wouldn’t have minded if they stayed in that form until it was time for them to be recalled to the facility they came from, but it seemed they were the ones who got curious about the human body.

You’ve noticed for a while how they would shift parts of their figure according to what they see, sometimes after people on the TV and other times after you.

What you thought would be a slow process turned out to be done and over between you leaving the apartment in the early morning and returning from work in the late afternoon.

Surprisingly, seeing two poorly shaped human boys loitering around in your apartment instead of the usual irregularly shaped creatures was less bewildering than seeing your old sketchbooks scattered everywhere on the floor.

Those were your fallen dreams, a career not pursued in exchange for securing a stable future, which wasn’t all that stable now that you're going through it.

You knew they were bored at home. Still, it was a surprise to see that they'd found the boxes of old things dusted away at the back of your closet—what were they doing rummaging through your clothes, anyway? You’ve got to have a strict talk about boundaries after this.

At least their attention was away from the fabrics in your closet as they pulled out your sketchbooks and decided to change themselves according to the most appealing visual. However, since your old character sketches were amateur and poorly drawn, their shifted bodies looked sloppy and humorously eerie.

Soul wasn't entirely sure what was wrong about it, especially since you couldn’t stop laughing when you saw them, and Jongseob taught him that laughing meant joy.

When you picked up one of the books to flip through them, your smile dimmed, and your eyes focused in a way he had never seen before. Jongseob later told him it may be bitterness, but not the angered kind because your eyes were soft.

Soul didn’t quite understand the distinction; your eyes were almost always soft.

That night was the first time in a long time you picked up a pen and drew something again so you could help them polish their appearances. Through that experience, you learned two things: your drawing skills have massively deteriorated, and aliens were indistinguishable from humans once they took a hyperspecific form, to a point where they bleed the same color.

Both settled on having blond hair, one frizzier than the other. Looking from far away would force you to mistake them as twins, but this was leagues better than communicating with two gooey creatures without solid features or forms.

You stared at the pencil sketches on the pages and back up at them, finding it uncanny how accurate their shapeshifting abilities were. Then you turned to them with furrowed brows.

“Both your hair is a little long,” you muttered.

Tapping the pencil at your chin, you thought about making modifications to what you’ve drawn for them, but when you told yourself to flip the pencil around for the eraser, your hand was unwilling to move.

You have sat on the floor for hours, drawing and erasing, making changes and corrections that suit their liking and help them look natural. You weren’t sure if they got tired from using their powers, but you certainly became exhausted from gripping a pen for so long. You’ve been too used to typing on a keyboard.

“Wait here,” you said, putting the papers and pen on the side.

You returned with a few trinkets in your hand, which you dropped on the floor after you knelt down across from them.

Scooting in front of Jongseob first, you hummed with disregard to his skeptical gaze as you played with the hair clips in your hand by smushing them together.

When you reached a hand out to push his bangs back, he caught a glimpse of the darkened slit still healing on your palm. He ignored it. You pushed at the tips of his locks ghostly with your nails before pressing a palm to his forehead and swiping his bangs up, exposing his forehead.

The boy closed his eyes at the sudden impact, and when the chilly afternoon air hit his skin, he widened his eyes and pursed his lips into a grimace.

Before they took a solid shape, your touch would go through their gooey form and feel indistinguishable from any objects that would poke through them.

This was the first time he’d felt the touch of your hand, and he thought it was as gentle as Soul must have thought your eyes were. Unlike Soul, though, he would never admit that he inwardly shivered in contentment when your palm subconsciously dragged over his head into a stroke.

“This should keep the hair out of your eyes,” you said after clipping his bangs to each side of his face. You leaned back to take a better look at him and nodded in approval despite him looking as if he just snapped out of a trance. “You look great.”

“You drew me well,” he said. “Thank you.”

"You're so formal, Jongseob," you mused, placing your hand against his cheek before pinching it playfully. "But being polite is good. You are most welcome."

Your injured palm touched his skin, the calloused surface dragging a regrettable line over his conscience. He hoped it would heal faster; it was a marker of his mistake, a symbol of your pain.

But, still, you used the same hand to tread over him with kind steps, so most importantly, it was all a sign of your forgiveness. He turned his head away from your pinch, but he didn't let himself swat you away for embarrassing him.

You laughed at his reaction. The sound took root inside him and made a permanent space.

“Now, Soul!” you exclaimed once you pulled away.

The boy remained still when you stood up and got behind him. After bouncing the hair tie against your wrist, you sat on the couch, and then you laid your hands over his head and carefully brushed his hair with your fingers.

You gathered just enough to fill your curled fist, your nails gingerly dragged over the side of his head to separate parts of his bangs, and then you tied it into a short ponytail.

Once you were done, you attempted to stand up to move across him for a review of your handiwork, but Soul suddenly leaned back against your legs, the back of his head hitting your knees when he faced up to look at you.

His hair brushed against your skin like a choppy broom, and then you forgot about the sensation as you met his eyes with a raised brow.

The corner of his lips quivered, and his eyes were round and wide with expectancy. When he realized you let him lay on your knees, his lips pursed into a grin, his knees pulling themselves closer to his chest as his shoulders shrunk with a barely audible laugh.

“What did you do to my hair?” he asked curiously.

“I tied it into a ponytail,” you replied as you angled your torso to look at his face straight, “so they’re not in your face all the time.”

He closed his eyes when you fixed his bangs with your fingertips. Once they were perfectly angled to each side of his temple, you ran your palm flatly down the side of his face, soothing his new hairstyle with a taste of approval.

Soul pressed his lips into a grin; his eyes opened but were barely visible, hidden behind crescent shapes. You bit back a smile; you just now noticed how his features turned out so dainty like a flower learning how to bloom in Spring.

"Hey, look at you," you said in an airy whisper. "How pretty you are.”

He laughed, his voice a weirdly pitched wave released into the air, almost like he was yodeling. Jongseob huffed in disbelief at the unexpected sound; questions, and brotherly mockery trailing out of his mouth, one worse than the last. You turned to bicker with him about saying nicer things, and Soul couldn't sense anything other than your warm hands left sitting by his jaw.

He watched you from your knees. Your chin moved with every word you said, your nails gently scratched his skin between sentences, your legs frozen on the spot to avoid discomforting him.

It was human nature. Everything.

The way your skin flopped, the way you subconsciously reached to touch, the way you put him first. Those traits were possessed by most human beings, but Soul reckoned he admired them more when they were yours.

What was that called? Jongseob taught him so many things; he was always smarter. But Soul couldn't properly receive too much information at once, not at the pace Jongseob could retain them. Was this joy? No. His fingers were itching for you, which was not a criterion for joy.

You looked down at him when you felt his hands grab your shoulders. "What's up, Soul?"

He made unclear noises as he flipped his body over, his chest pressing against your knees. He got on his feet into a crouch and leaned up, his arms circling around your neck into a hug.

You fell back against the couch and froze to register what he did. Before you could figure out he tackled you in a hug, your arms had already gone around his shoulders to press him against you.

“Hey,” you whispered. “What’s going on?”

Soul bit the inside of his cheek when he realized you allowed it. He could feel you so much more properly now, and he responded to the revelation by holding you tighter and burying his chin in his overlapped forearms.

His eyes squeezed to relish in—what was this feeling, again? Joy? He wasn't exactly smiling, though. The way his brows were pulled into a swirly furrow, and his lips were downturned would show that he was sad. But he wasn't. He was happy and tackled you because he wanted to hug you.

"I really like you."

You blinked, your lips gradually pulling into a downward smile. "Where did you learn that from?"

"Hmm." His voice was muffled. He didn't want you to know he learned it from you.

The two got the authorization to leave the apartment after you wrote in the monthly report that they've changed shapes and, more frequently than before, began to express their feelings.

However, they rarely took advantage of the newfound freedom, and you understood why.

They have yet to learn how to get around the area using public transportation. If the metro lines were less complicated than what was currently set in place, they may have an easier time navigating it.

Alas, the metro system remained both a local and a tourist's nightmare. However, even if they knew how to take the bus or the train, they've yet to learn where to go because they've never been outside.

And, last but not least, they didn't have the money to make going out enjoyable.

You have taken them out to different places after determining all the necessary expenses, such as the increased bills and grocery items. You would use whatever was left over from the program funds to take them to weekend hangouts.

There was the outlet where you bought them new clothes and their designated utensil set because they apparently needed their own.

There was the arcade, where you had sworn they used alien means to get all the prizes they did, but you also wouldn't put it past Jongseob to be weirdly good at gauging the space of a claw machine.

Oh, and a science museum, which you didn't think Jongseob was too interested in, but he hadn't complained because Soul was having the time of his life at the exhibitions.

You let them try alcohol by the river at night once. Turned out their bodies automatically eliminated all the intoxicating substances, so they were only tasting the bitterness without getting drunk.

That could be a blessing or a curse; without intoxication, you weren't sure what alcohol is good for.

You ended up dousing yourself with all leftover bottles of beer and entirely blanked out that night. You couldn't remember what happened, so the two made sure they told you the following day about how you were sobbing and throwing up. You cried for your mother, and you told them they were the closest people you've got.

You had woken up with the two on your bed. Jongseob slept with a box of tissue near his hand, always prepared to jolt awake to catch your puke and wipe your mouth of snot. Soul was curled up next to you with puffy and swollen eyes.

Apparently, he wept alongside you because he thought you were in too much pain to even move from the floor, and he didn't know how to help. He had cried so much that he tired himself to sleep, but he kept close to you to make sure your heart was constantly beating.

You haven't drunk much since, knowing how much they hated your drunken state. If you were getting drunk, it was out of obligation, like when you were invited to a business meeting.

You remembered that night well. It was the night you discovered why Jongseob and Soul were considered high-risk.

It wasn't uncommon for interns or someone of a lower rank in the company to be taken advantage of during business meetings.

When a topic could be adequately discussed and solved by presenting a supervisor with ample knowledge, yet the department chose to bring an extra, much younger employer as a companion, it was almost always a perverted decision.

You were no stranger to the problem. You have seen your colleagues be invited to join business meetings like those before, but this was the first time you were called to be in one.

The social hierarchy and the risk of unemployment made it impossible for you to turn down shots pushed your way by the department head from the negotiating company, who your supervisor was trying to rope into a grand business deal.

After a few drinks, you have entirely given up on expecting decency from anyone at the table. At least your supervisor was having a great time. Your words slurring through your unstable body jolts made the negotiation easier, and you unknowingly helped your company seal a deal when you clumsily agreed to have the department head drive you home.

He remarked about your tense knuckles on the drive home, acknowledging your skepticism but not challenging it. You watched the road like a hawk, or as much as you could, with your vision slightly blurred anyway because you wanted to ensure he wouldn't drive you elsewhere. He didn't.

After what felt like years, you arrived at the apartment building and inwardly breathed a sigh of relief.

"Thank you for driving me home," you said with a curt bow after you gathered your things from the floor.

"You're welcome," he mused, watching you clumsily loop your forearm over the straps of your bag. He leaned over the passenger seat then, whiffs of alcohol unmistakable in the air. "Hey, I should walk you upstairs. I wanna make sure you get back safely."

"That's not necessary," you said after a low, thoughtful hum. You didn't look at him when you spoke, partly because you were having difficulty focusing on anything other than the acidic taste at the back of your mouth.

"I… I have someone at home. He's going to–um… he's going meet me by the elevator. He'll walk me up."

"Oh? I didn't know you had a boyfriend."

"I don't–" you squeezed your eyes tightly and shook yourself awake–"I mean, yes. I do have a boyfriend. He's coming down to get me.”

The man stared at you silently for an uncomfortable, calculative second. Your head was heavy from his stare, mixed in with the alcohol trying to take over.

You unconsciously licked the corner of your lips when you tried to find something to fill the unease, only to realize that the only way to feel better was to leave his car. You reached for the door handle behind you blindly. Unfortunately, the search for it has given him the time to press the master lock button on his side of the door.

“I should get going," you said after heaving a defeated sigh.

"You don't actually have a boyfriend, do you?" he muttered.

You didn't know how to answer. You didn't, but it was true that there were people at home waiting for your return, both harboring the potential to be mistaken as your boyfriend if seen by an unassuming person.

You were forbidden from coming clean about Soul and Jongseob's identity, but what other reason could there be for you to have two boys sitting in your apartment? You three were orphans, and they're your brothers! Or were you just letting two friends crash at yours? You weren't thinking fast enough to pull a story out of thin air.

"Look, I don't know what made you so scared. I'm not going to ask to go inside your apartment. Trust me. I'm just going to walk you upstairs and make sure you get inside."

"No." You shook your head. Even in mild drunkenness, you could sense that the man had no good intentions. "I can do that myself. Thank you."

You pressed the lock button and pulled the door handle. You hastily flung the car door open, finding it difficult to push it all the way.

Turning around, fully prepared to dash out the second your feet touched the floor, an impending doom dropped on your head when you heard a haphazard opening of a car door behind you.

You clutched your bag to your chest and slid off the passenger seat, borderline hopping out of the car. Your ankle bent, but you recovered reasonably quickly. The next step in your emergency plan was to run for it; you've got your keycard attached to your worker's badge. All you needed to do was open the door and slam it shut behind you.

Spinning away from the car door blocking your path, as you hastily pushed it all the way open, you were immediately met with a playful scream and a pair of hands gripping your shoulders. You inhaled sharply and accidentally swallowed the knot of air.

"You didn't have to make things so difficult,” he said as he shoved you back onto the passenger seat. "Why did you have to go and force me to act so violently? All you had to do was let me walk you home.”

Gurgle of saliva rushed up your throat to drown out your cries for help. The back of your mouth soured with an acidic taste that smelt of the beer you were forced to drink; if only they could burn human skin, you would have spat them out.

The knot of air you just swallowed squeezed through your chest with difficulty, almost as if it wanted to make a home for itself in the middle of your body. It made you choked up. Breathing with your chest became a stagnant process.

There was no security at your building, and you figured the other residents would ignore any noise, given this was no high-class estate and the walls were thin.

Screaming would only make the man angrier and possibly more excited. Instead of your voice, you should use your legs instead. There may not be any final blows, but at least there's a chance to delay what felt like the inevitable.

You kicked your feet blindly, feeling them land on solid ground several times, but not enough to release yourself from his grasp. Eventually, he groaned out loud and dug his nails into your arm, bringing your torso up quickly just to slam you down.

Your back hit the center console, the bottom of your neck scratched past the gear stick, and your head hit a solid surface.

Zaps of painful numbness ran through your body; a consistent ringing traveled to your ears, but you couldn't express it. Tears dripped from your eyes when you started to desperately claw at the hand undoing your belt, but you still couldn't say anything.

You only stared at the lights above you. They were blinding, like the eyes of a God. He was observing your struggle to be free of being violated.

The sound of a zipper reverberated in your head. You've never noticed how loud they were and wondered if you would always hear it after tonight.

Fingers hooked themselves at the waist of your pants, and the next second they were gone. A pained groan traveled through the air with a gentle swoosh of wind. You needed to find out which one came first.

Jongseob hasn't used his powers for a while and has been diligent about controlling them in emergencies where they were prone to slip through his grasp. It had been challenging to learn to live in a world where his powers were destructive only because of how delicate everything else was, but he have managed well so far.

Still, his body was not used to its sudden usage, evidently shown in the way his fingers twitched uncontrollably after he pulled the man off you. A sneer found its way to his lips; how sickening to think that his undoing could be at the hands of a predator.

Rushing over to the car door, he leaned over your body to carefully pull you up. You instinctively flinched at his touch and then calmed down the next second when you realized he was not aggressive.

He reached a hand behind your head, fingers moving about to look for any apparent injuries. When he concluded that there was none, he turned his attention to you.

“Hey,” he said. “It’s me. Jongseob."

You forced your stomach to stop shivering in more oxygen and turned your eyes to stare at his familiar face. Jongseob, with his blond hair curly as ever, stared back at you with soft concern.

You calmed down; it was an instinct learned from caring for them (or your apartment) when they first arrived to live with you.

Reaching up to grasp his wrist, you stopped his hand and hoarsely asked, "Why are you down here?"

"I heard your tears fall," he said, his fingers leaning out to wipe the tears from your cheek despite your soft protest.

"From all the way up?"

"The air shifts when that happens. I'm sensitive to you–" he looked away sheepishly and quickly shrugged–"these things. I'm sensitive to these things in general."

Jongseob was vigilant. His home planet blew up, and he has a brother much clumsier than himself. His vigilance and maturity were set in place for both of them, especially as they were thrown into an unfamiliar place.

You understood. You’ve never spoken about it in great detail, only ever making small spaces to praise him for his emotional intelligence.

There had been an irk in his intuition before he rushed downstairs. The television sounded of static, the uncomfortable stick of your couch, his inability to progress in the game he was playing—everything gradually added to the unknown irritation he felt beneath his skin until, finally, a shatter of glass.

It was a hallucination, but when he turned toward the kitchen, he realized the air was painted the same color as the first time you broke down in front of him.

Something was wrong. He knew he would figure it out because he was sensitive to you. The sound of your emotions has long taken root and bloomed in Jongseob's consciousness, a garden of his own making, and now he could pinpoint you from a mere drop in the air.

You couldn't find flaws in his response. There never was any; the caliber of aliens remained unknown to you the past months. But he's here, and you felt safer than ever, so you let your guard down and breathed out a whimper when speaking his name.

It rolled off your tongue like a snowboarder outrunning an avalanche—suffocating, afraid, and desperate. Incoherent explanations followed after, an attempt to clear your name, to prove to someone that you didn’t cause this.

Jongseob's heart squirmed in discomfort at the sight.

He looked at his hand, fingers that learned dexterity, connected to his hands and arms that could do many things. He could press buttons on a gaming console, use chopsticks for food, and hold multiple recycle bags for groceries.

He remembered the day they changed into human beings, how the first thing Soul did after growing himself a pair of arms and a body that could feel was to hug you both.

You offered to hug him that night after Soul pulled away. He had refused it, and you joked about how he was too cool for a little hug. Perhaps he thought so subconsciously, but he always knew he wasn't big on physical affection. Its notion gave him goosebumps. The unapologetic, unconcealed display of affection freaked him out.

He liked to be subtle and unnoticed, like tending to the garden in his mind where the most delicate and beautiful things bloomed in your stead, like keeping you constant in his mind, like remembering that there's love there.

"Come here," he whispered, extending his arms to your back and bringing you to him. "It's okay. I believe you.”

You thought he smelled like jasmine or whatever petal scent there was. Jongseob shivered ticklishly when you buried your nose in his shoulder to sniff it. He didn't put together that no matter how much he hid it, the garden seeps out because the truth cannot be concealed nor omitted.

He wished he could hug you for the first time under better circumstances, but you and he knew he wouldn't have agreed to it if it wasn't an emergency. It was brief but much needed.

When you voluntarily removed yourself, he glanced down at your pants to find that your belt was undone, your button was gone from its spot, and your underwear peeked from the zipper forced open. His jaw locked, and his eyes hallowed out.

It checked out with your rambles. Everything you said makes sense.

A sudden feeling penetrated his insides after the conclusion was made. He found it hard to breathe at the terrifying presence of a particular, bloodthirsty desperation. He suppressed an exhausted exhale and ignored the thirst for harm.

“Let’s go home,” he muttered as he slowly helped you to your feet. “Let’s get cleaned up.”

You listened to him, pushing yourself off the passenger's seat while he reached to the floor for your thrown bag. He wore it on one shoulder, fixing the strap before reaching for your hand.

After slamming the car door shut, he brought you with him over the front of the car. His footsteps were quiet, borderline silent, leaving only your shoes' clumsy scratches on the floor. You only felt faint traces of heat from the car's headlights as he covered most of it by standing on your side.

You arched your neck up to look at his downturned lips, his hair covering his eyes even though you've repeatedly told him to keep them out. You would scold him again when you had time, knowing he'd wear the same indifference on his face.

It felt like nagging a child sometimes; you've heard adult men generally tend to behave the same way.

“I was using the hair clips you got me. I took them off to come down here,” Jongseob said, not sparing you a glance. “You could have gotten me normal ones.”

“The Powerpuff Girls are cute,” you said. “You’re exactly like Blossom.”

“Please don’t speak nonsense.”

He squeezed your hand, making you chuckle. When you bumped your head to your side, you hit his shoulder. He didn't used to be so tall, and he didn't used to be so big. You suddenly felt small beside him, in a way that rained disaster, in an unexpectedly romantic way, and you were thinking about him as if he were human again.

"Shit, no way. You do have a boyfriend, then?”

Jongseob turned around, stepping forward to keep you behind him on the way. You peeked over his arm, a distasteful sneer twitching on your face.

You both faced the man just now getting on his feet. Jongseob inwardly hummed, acknowledging that his throw had likely done a number on the man's body. He hadn't meant to react so harshly, but he also didn't care that it ended up hurting someone a great deal.

“He looks a bit young, intern.”

“I’m twenty.”

"Good grief, he can't even drink yet!" The man laughed like he was choking on the air. "Does he know what he's doing?"

Jongseob rolled his eyes.

He knew this type of person: the kind who’s all bark and no bite. At least in front of nonchalance, they have no bite in them. Their only perk was that they knew how to pick their battles.

The man clearly noticed early on that he was not superior in physical strength. Therefore, choosing a fistfight would be a solution out of his league. That left him with one thing: trash talk. A lot of it, from your taste in men to his made-up flaws.

It was fine, though. Jongseob was a sensible person, and violence is never sensible.

"Hey, you could have tried me out if he hadn't come here. I would have changed your stubborn mind."

Violence is almost never sensible.

“Wait here," he muttered monotonously as he turned to you. He brought your hands up to your cheek and pressed his palm over them so you looked at him. “It'll look scary, but I promise nothing will happen to you."

“What?” you breathed out, your eyes trailing after his back. “Jongseob?”

It took a moment, but it was all you could see once you noticed it.

The green from the leaves, the brown from the tree trunks, the orange and white of apartment and street lights, the silver of the man’s car, the gray of concrete walls, the burgundy of the brick floor, the pink and yellow of flowers, the black of tires, the blue of the sky, the light of the stars and moon, the white of the man’s shirt, the milk of his skin—the colors were being drained from everything, making it look like a frame out of a film noir.

Your hands trembled as your eyes pinned themselves at the approaching sky. It couldn’t be the alcohol forcing an illusion before your eyes as you felt yourself remarkably awake and clear-minded from the adrenaline. The sky was approaching! It felt closer. You couldn’t be mistaken. After all, it wasn’t everything you got to see a colorless world, and you’ve barely recovered from panic.

Lowering your head, you turned to the trees surrounding the apartment buildings and furrowed your brows. The leaves were falling one by one gradually, and scrapes of tree trunks were being peeled off its body. The tires of cars were deflating, the flowers were lowering, and the sound of once-stable structures cracking became more audible. Everything was falling apart; everything was dying.

Everything but you, your bag, and your clothes. Nothing happened to you, just as Jongseob promised you.

“Jongseob–“

You were abruptly cut off by the sound of a horrible coughing fit that bordered on a choke. Eyes widened, and your feet quickly brought you to stand behind the alien. He stared silently at the man who left nail marks on your shoulders, who was currently doubled over on the floor, heaving for oxygen.

The colors were drained from him entirely, and his skin began to melt from his head. Clumps and clumps of fat liquid dripped down his eyes in a honey-like texture and then down his mouth, filling it up to stop him from gasping for air.

A buzzing noise sounded from his completely enclosed body, like a train screeching to an emergency stop. No air went in or left his body. He was a box sealed shut and thrown in fire to be melted into its original form—a clump of cells. He was going to die.

Jongseob was going to kill him. As much as you felt the action was justified, a bigger picture was already painted that you must carefully analyze before prioritizing your vengeance.

It would be easier to explain the death of one man rather than the death of a plot of land. The desiccating of your surroundings cannot be explained by anything other than the doing of a supernatural. In this case, it would be Jongseob, and the program coordinator would jump through no hurdles to figure that out.

Suppose it got out that he killed someone. In that case, separation becomes inevitable, and you’ve gotten so used to having those two around that you couldn’t fathom living in a soundless apartment ever again.

The consequences of killing the man outweigh the disappointment of not.

“Hey–no. Jongseob, no. Stop it. Stop it now,” you demanded as you rushed to stand before you. You grabbed his hand and pushed it down, squeezing it with all the strength you could muster. “You will not kill anyone tonight.”

He peered down at you, no light flooding his eyes despite recognizing your face. “He was disrespectful to you.”

“He was, and that’s terrible,” you admitted. “But there are other ways to handle this. If everyone killed each other for being horrible, we’d not have the world we do today.”

He blinked, seemingly thinking through the points you presented. But then he shrugged. “I’m not everyone, am I?”

“You–“

You poked your tongue to the inside of your cheek, not surprised by his defiance but very much annoyed. Between him and Soul, he was always the one who talked back more.

For a time, you chalked it up to him being innocently curious about the human world, but after a while, you realized he was just bratty. If you kept that personality trait in every monthly report, you were sure he would have been called back for a mental evaluation or something along those lines.

But being a tattle-tale was not necessary. You knew how to snap him out of it.

“I said–“ your words flew through gritted teeth, and you shot a hand up to pinch his ear so you could pull him to your face level–“we are not killing anyone tonight!”

He stumbled at the harsh yank, redness flaring up at the spot you were squeezing. His hand let go of the tension building up through using his power, immediately returning the colors back to their original place.

Helpless whines sounded from his mouth as he bent his waist to accommodate your halfhearted corporal punishment. Still, he did not attempt to push you away.

“Okay! Okay! Calm down!” he yelled.

“Calm down?”

“No–I mean, yes! Yes, calm down, but not like that!” he exclaimed. “Stop pulling my ear!”

You squeezed your eyes in contemplation before letting go. Your short bicker gave the release of Jongseob’s power enough time to gather itself on the fallen man’s face and patch him together. He stood up and tripped on air but caught himself before his face could kiss the ground and bolted for his car.

Jongseob reflectively grabbed your arm and stepped closer to you, staring as the car engine started and the man drove away without another word.

His chest heaved up through a large inhale. He noticed the way his arm had been trembling since you forced him to stop using his power. He wasn’t afraid, only unfamiliar with something he used to hold so dear to himself.

His power has always been offensive, but not to the degree it showed on Earth. It wasn’t used to kill his peers, and it definitely was not used to pull the cosmos to him.

That discrepancy shook him as much as when he thoughtlessly maxed out his strength after not using it for so long. The muscle strain reminded him of how careless he was and caught him off guard.

He didn't like it. He was supposed to be good at controlling his given ability. He was supposed to be good at controlling his actions. He was supposed to be sensible.

“Are you okay?

He slowly turned to you. Your face came into view under the flicking street light like the moon inched closer to Earth when he pulled it down to protect you. He couldn't tell if his eyes or heart saw you more because they both jolted in your presence.

Curling his fingers around the strap of your bag, he stepped forward to close the unnecessary gap between you both. He tried to peek over his frizzy bangs to no avail, so he ducked and lightly swayed his head to move them out of the way. He tilted his head lower to your level and looked through his lashes, his brows raised.

“Are you?” he asked.

You closed your parted lips and averted your eyes. The invisible outline of the man’s car remained vivid when you glanced at the empty spot. Once you turned back to Jongseob, knowing what he could do to people and how willing he was to do it, the illusion released its tight grasp on you.

You didn’t forget—you couldn’t forget, that even in such an ordinary world, even if all you’d ever do in life was work and play, even when it came to the least threatening harm, Jongseob would never have you anywhere near it.

“You saved me,” you said. “Thank you.”

“But are you okay?”

You smiled as you reached up to rub his ear softly between your fingers. “I’m sorry for pinching your ear.”

“[Name],” he started, but when you began to frantically squeeze his earlobe, he groaned and pulled your hand away. “Okay! Okay! I won’t ask anymore!”

He brushed his hands on his shirt when you finally let him go, a permanent scoff hanging on his cutely puckered lips. Rolling his eyes when he saw your smile, he huffed a sigh before adding, "When we go back, and Soul asks you about the marks on your shoulders, tell him something happened at work. I don't want him to freak out."

Soul and his power were interlinked. They come hand in hand, particularly his own greatly conveniences Soul's. While he absorbs colors, Soul absorbs monochrome.

Once Jongseob finishes sucking up all the colors around him, he leaves behind a grayscale perfect for Soul to use. That's how they're linked with each other, like two halves of a whole.

The one difference was that Soul had a problem being in control when his power was utilized, while Jongseob knew what he was doing. When Jongseob hurts someone, it is always because he wants to, and he could be easily stopped with persuasion. Soul was different.

Given that nature is that he turns into something that isn't himself, he would also not think and act like himself. Jongseob didn't want anything more to happen tonight.

“Oh,” you nodded, “I was going to lie anyway.”

“Thank you,” he muttered, then a beat later, almost inaudibly, “for everything, actually.”

He wanted to say everything he did was for you, to let you know that he will continue to do everything for you. But, despite all his talent in thought articulation, he was too timid and shy to express sentiment, so he kept his mouth shut.

Crossing his arms, he recalled the moment he noticed you in the passenger seat, with trembling limbs and an unopened mouth. He fixed his jaw and hid his hands from the colorful world, as he felt rather afraid of the truth—the existence of his devotion to you and the responsibility it spawns.

That kind of devotion causes a strain on both parties and cannot be undone. That kind of devotion, in his willingness to drag a carcass to your feet, is a self-inflicted curse. That kind of devotion, a synonym for love, an antonym of honor, is a burden. Jongseob trapped it behind his lips and prayed to God that he relearned how to restrain it in his hands by a mere cross of his arms.

Pray to God—he licked his lower lip as the lines of your face redraw themselves in his replaying memory—look at them and pray.

You taught them to get groceries when you were away at work.

They always did well with helping out around the house; you never knew or asked whether any alien abilities were included.

Jongseob was excellent at ensuring every surface was wiped clean. Soul always knew where everything was after he put them somewhere.

Grocery shopping was included among household responsibilities. Besides the constant sneaking of junk food, they ensured they got everything you requested.

They have frequented the market so much that the elders who ran most stores could recognize their faces and orders. After giving it a few more weeks, Jongseob and Soul were, unfortunately and hilariously, roped into the pile of gossip that never ceases to circulate the shops.

Apparently, they both live with you! But which one of them is your boyfriend?

"What's a boyfriend?" Soul asked in response to the question.

The shopping bag in his hand crinkled when he squeezed the handle. His round eyes followed the fruit stand owner as she moved around to get him what he needed: apples, oranges, bananas, and whatnot.

As she brushed past Soul to get to the box of apples, she spared him a glance and rolled her eyes, mistaking his genuine ignorance as him dodging the question. She picked up a few apples, examining each one with ease before reaching an empty hand out to Soul, beckoning for his shopping bag.

"You know what a boyfriend is,” she said. “Why are you acting coy? Are you the boyfriend?”

Soul pursed his lips together into a helpless frown. He didn't know what 'coy' meant either.

The grandma dumped the apples she chose in the bag and briefly looked up as she prepared to march toward the oranges. When she noticed the clueless expression on Soul's face, she paused with squinted eyes, and then an enthusiastic gasp jumped out of her mouth.

"Oh my! The other blond boy is the boyfriend, then? But you're in love with them?" she assumed, her fingers waving and pointing accusingly at Soul. "Or is it Jongseob you're in love with? I always thought you two were brothers, but I guess I was wrong!"

"We're very close, so we're basically brothers," he clarified. "But we don't have–um. Our mom and dad don't exist."

She looked away from the box of orange, one of them still ripe in her hand. “For how long?”

“Since we’re born.”

"Oh, poor dear." She walked away from the box of oranges to give Soul a pat on the shoulder. She stopped at the front of the display and began sifting through the boxes and randomly grabbing more than he had asked for. "Dead parents and a failed romance. Living with the couple, no less!"

Soul has not a lick of an idea what she was talking about. He would repeat his question about what a boyfriend was, but the old lady's eager rambles made it impossible for him to fit his voice in the air, so he focused on listening.

Beginning with her stories about her old romance and her detailed recollection of her past loves, he realized she, surprisingly, has a lot of wisdom to offer.

Here was what Soul gathered from the nosy grandma about a boyfriend: a boyfriend is and does many things.

A boyfriend waits for you to get off school or work, wants to spend a lot of time with you, never keeps secrets from you, thinks about you all the time, hangs out with you when he has free time, takes care of you when you are sick, loves to hug and touch you, never yells at you, and puts you above himself.

Usually, he lets Jongseob do the listening and summarizing, so he was very proud of himself when he independently came to this grand conclusion: "[Name], I am your boyfriend."

"Oh my god–" Jongseob looked away from the TV at Soul, who randomly announced the statement by the kitchen door as you cut up some apples. He slapped a hand to his forehead. "Soul, I already told you we're not their boyfriend!"

After pushing all the apple slices onto a plate, you dropped the knife in the sink. Swiftly opening a drawer to pick out a small plastic tube, you slammed it shut with a swing of your hips and turned around to lean against the cabinet.

You shook the tube, the toothpicks inside making a sandy noise with each shake, and you looked out the kitchen door behind Soul's shoulder at Jongseob, who still had his head in his hands. But the peek of his snaggletooth told you he was failing to suppress a smile.

"Who told you that, Soul?” you asked.

"The grandma at the fruit stall told me about her old boyfriends," Soul answered.

“Really? All of a sudden?” you mused. “What started that conversation?”

Soul followed you out of the kitchen after you stuck three toothpicks on three random apple slices and slammed the tube on the countertop. He blindly turned the lights off and closed the door on the way, hurrying up to sit on the floor by your feet as you placed the plate of apples on the coffee table.

Jongseob scooted closer to the edge of the couch and reached over for a slice, popping it in his mouth and starting to answer before he finished chewing.

"They were asking which of us is your boyfriend at the market today," Jongseob said.

“Which one? Not even if one of you were?” you snorted.

“They’re very determined that one of us is dating you.”

“Oh, I know what dating means!” Soul perked up. “I learned it in a drama.”

You looked down in disbelief and nudged him with your feet. “You learned dating but not what boyfriend means?”

Jongseob let out a giggle. He slid off his seat and brought his knees to his chest to fit in the space between the couch and the table. You brought your legs up when he moved closer to the middle to be next to Soul.

Out of habitual playfulness, you reached down to do a series of aggressive actions, from ruffling his hair to squeezing his cheeks. Jongseob protested, leaning away from your attacking hands as his arms flew up to swat you away like a fly.

“You never do this to Soul!” he exclaimed.

“Well, yeah,” you responded mindlessly as you let him go. “He’s nice. He just lets me.”

Soul grinned from ear to ear when you touched his face. Your touch was soft, like it always was, shifting from his jaw to his cheeks to his hair. He never got enough of the sensation of human touch, no matter how trivial.

Looping an arm around an old man at a crosswalk, picking up a kindergartener after they tripped from running around, Jongseob’s hands going through his hair to tie a ponytail for him, your fingers dabbing gently on his face with skincare products—it’s warm, fleetingly so, and human, which lasts.

Jongseob feigned a puking noise after watching you mess around with Soul’s facial features for a few seconds. He got up from the floor and headed to the kitchen to find a drink.

You ignored his distaste, drowning Soul with your immediate attention. He grinned at you, his side bang falling to the back of his ears. What a sight of sore eyes, with his eyes so round and wide, his smile so genuine and willing. He looked at you like you were the only person he wanted to see and spoke like it was his first time using his voice. You cooed to yourself, to the void: look how pretty he is!

“Hello,” you whispered with your palms on his face, gently pushing his cheeks together to bring him to you, “Shota.”

“Hello,” he returned in a volume that mirrored yours, “I bought the fruit myself today.”

“Yeah, I know,” you beamed.

“[Name],” he reached up for your face to urge you close so nobody else would hear, “am I really not your boyfriend?”

You laughed from your throat, but the noise huffed out through your nose rather than your pursed lips. Shota squinted his eyes at the warm air and frowned. You kept laughing at the topic, both you and Jongseob, but he was hung up about it.

The old lady at the fruit store mentioned a list of criteria for being a boyfriend, and he believed he checked off everything on the list!

He spends his entire day waiting for you to come home from work, and after you do, he’d spend the rest of the day with you. Jongseob does the same, but Shota has never kept any secrets from you, mainly because he’s got none, but that still counts toward a check off the box!

He cared for you when you got drunk, even though Jongseob did most of the cleaning and handled your personal hygiene. However, Shota lets you hug him, so he has the upper hand that round!

“It’s complicated,” you said. “You’ve watched dramas, right? Have you noticed that although two characters love each other, they’re not considered together?”

“No,” he shook his head, “they’re together to me.”

“Well–“ you rolled your eyes up–“yeah, okay. I suppose that’s fair.”

Looking back down at him, you rubbed his cheeks with your thumb and shook your head in disagreement. “It’s still more complicated than you think.”

Shota’s bottom lip couldn’t help but jut out when he gradually pulled the corner of his lips into an upsetting frown.

The idea plagued his mind since he was first introduced to it at the market, and too much time and effort was put into giddying himself over this. The disappointment of his fantasy—you agreeing that he is your boyfriend—falling off was immeasurable.

“What are you two whispering about?” Jongseob interrupted once he returned. He looked between you and Soul, and then he frowned. “Are you still on the boyfriend thing?”

“Yeah,” Soul dragged out with a brief wave of his hand. “You won’t let me be your boyfriend because we’re supposed to be like brothers, and now [Name] won’t let me be their boyfriend because it’s too complicated!”

“You told him it’s too complicated?” Jongseob questioned, putting his elbow on the edge of the couch when he turned around to raise a brow at you.

Your eye twitched at his judgemental tone, and you almost lunged to tackle him to the floor. “It is complicated!”

Jongseob pulled a face.

One of the things that inconvenienced his technical way of processing information was relationship problems, particularly the fact that everyone around him loved to create issues that shouldn’t be there.

He understood that certain situations reveal emotions that could be difficult to ignore, but he didn’t see a reason for ignorance when one could face them straightforwardly.

People tip-toe across the winded roads too much for the sake of empathy despite it not being due, and then responses like ‘it’s too complicated’ spawn when it’s fundamentally incorrect to say so.

“How?” he questioned. “Do you like Soul?”

“I like the both of you,” you said.

“I know.” He nodded. “But do you like him?”

You smirked awkwardly. “No.”

“Then it’s not complicated,” Jongseob said with a clap. He turned to Soul, whose eyes had been darting between you two during your brief conversation, and he shrugged. “You can’t be [Name]’s boyfriend because they’re not in love with you. That’s it.”

“Woah! Why did you suddenly switch the wording?”

“Why not? It doesn’t make a difference,” he said. “Are you in love with Soul?”

“No.”

“I’m in love with you, though.”

You shook your head and patted Soul’s shoulder. “No, you’re not.”

“Ahm, we don’t–haha, we don’t know about that,” Jongseob mused between forced chuckles as he nodded at the floor.

His eyes widened briefly as a calculated thought about Soul’s untainted feelings for you flickered through his mind. When he looked up and saw your deadpan, he pulled his lips into a thin line, stretching it into an ugly smile that made his upcoming words sound flat and borderline incoherent.

“Do you remember what happened a few months ago because of the evaluation?”

It was a month after Jongseob saved you at the bottom of the apartment estate. You had decided to omit that detail from the monthly report; you told yourself it wasn’t necessary because it wasn’t an extraordinary development about Jongseob but rather an incident that happened to you.

However, deep down, you knew you kept it a secret because you were afraid the program coordinator would find issues with what happened and separate you two.

A few weeks after you turned in the monthly evaluation, a detailed post about a freak accident where a boy who choked a man through telekinesis was posted on one of the most popular social media forums.

Nobody believed in the post; most comments redirected the author to a sub-forum where people post fantasy stories they’ve written, but it was how your program coordinator found out what happened. Within five days of that post, you received an email about a temporary separation.

They gave you a week to pack their things and prepare them for leaving your care.

Jongseob hadn’t said anything when you sat them down to tell them that they would be relocated to another home indefinitely. You didn’t think Soul really understood what happened until the time of departure. Either that, or he hadn’t felt the effect of separation until the moment it was happening, as it took multiple staff members to successfully release his grip from your arm.

But what you hadn’t shown them were the scars on your forearm, all of them scratched into a bloody storm by the unassuming Shota, who, in a state of panic, had unknowingly sucked up the monochromes around him and begun the initial phase of transformation.

His sharp, blade-like nails dug into your forearm through your sweater, forcefully grounding himself by your side when he was asked to get inside the van. But you didn’t say anything other than words of reassurance. With a hand on the side of his head, all you had told him was that you’d see him again soon.

His nails dragged several lines down your skin when he was pulled off of you. You didn’t react to it, only pressing a palm to the wounds and shoving the pain to the back of your head.

If you let it be known that he hurt you, there’s no way they’d be allowed back in your house. You thought he knew, though. You believed Shota knew what he did because he stopped struggling and went to sit next to Jongseob in the van after making eye contact with you.

You three weren’t kept apart for too long, surprisingly. The worst they did was give you a slap on the wrist and a warning to not hide information from them again.

“It’s a normal reaction to being taken from his home,” you said. “I think he missed the normalcy more than he missed me.”

“You’re wrong.” Jongseob crawled over to Soul and beckoned for his attention with a finger snap. “Do you remember when we left home for a few weeks? Why did you throw a tantrum when they came to get us?”

“Huh?” Soul faintly puckered his lips in thought. Once recognition hit, he opened his mouth in realization and nodded. “Ah! That time! I–“ he tilted his head with soft inhales–“did I throw a tantrum?”

“You did,” Jongseob reached up to grab your arm and gestured to the scars, “there’s literally proof.”

“I didn’t do that on purpose,” Soul argued. “I was distraught, I didn’t want to leave [Name].”

“Case in point. See?” Jongseob dropped your arm on the couch with a triumphant shrug. “I told you.”

“That doesn’t prove anything,” you said. “Families do that with each other, too.”

“Is that what we are?” Jongseob asked, raising his brows. “We’re a family now?”

“Not legally. I would have to adopt you two,” you said. “But then you would be my son, which is weird.”

“We could be your brothers.”

“I want to be your boyfriend,” Soul chimed in. When you chuckled through a tight-lipped frown, he sighed. “Okay, brother is fine.”

“Good,” Jongseob hummed dismissively before returning his attention to you. “Is there a way for us to legally become siblings, though?”

It wasn’t something you thought about. The significant details of the outreach program were not known to its participants. They let you know before you signed the contract that it was a program to help assimilate aliens to the human world, and you didn’t doubt that to be the case.

However, calculating the money the government was spending on the participants just for them to foster aliens—it didn’t make sense.

The foster system for human children was severely underfunded, yet the one for space creatures wasn’t. If you had to guess, it was because there’s a catch to alien assimilation, especially when they’re bonded with a person from Earth.

At the end of the day, you’ve no idea if Jongseob and Soul would be allowed to stay with you for a long time.

“I don’t think we can,” you replied, leaning forward and rolling your eyes. “But who knows? Maybe they’re secretly writing a new constitution for alien residents on Earth, but we definitely won’t legally become a family anytime soon. It’s okay, though. We can do it in theory!”

“What does that even mean?” Jongseob snickered. “In theory?”

“I’ll show you at some point,” you said sheepishly. “I just have to give someone a heads-up first.”

The mausoleum was quiet. You didn’t think you’d ever seen it crowded before.

Carefully putting the flower into the compartment, your eyes brushed past your mother’s picture, and you relaxed.

“Hey, Mom. It’s been a while.”

You didn’t make a habit of visiting frequently, so whenever you did, you’ve got a lot of say. Your busy work life, social life, and almost nonexistent love life. The good and the bad. The embarrassing and the ugly. The fact that there were few people around made it easier to ramble to a picture, and sometimes, you wondered if the ones in her neighbor compartments were listening too.

You didn’t speak in detail about the alien outreach program you joined, partly because it was still confidential to the general public, but you told her about the ‘twins.’

“I’ll bring them over when I get the chance,” you said. “I’ll see you later then.”

Reaching out for the compartment door, you prepared to close it when you suddenly jumped in realization.

“I almost forgot,” you laughed. “This is for you.”

Letting go of the door handle, you reached for your bag and pulled something out. You waved it about and gently blew on it before stacking it neatly next to the flower you bought.

It was a polaroid of you three.

#jongseob x reader #jongseob imagines #jongseob fluff #soul x reader #soul imagines #p1harmony scenarios #p1harmony fluff #piwon imagines #piwon x reader #piwon fluff #piwon fanfic

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xoln04f1xo · 1 month ago

Text

An alternate F1 world where vampires secretly rule the grid. Some humans work for the teams, unaware of the true nature of their employers... until you arrive.

Pairings: Vampire!Lando x Human!Reader

Warnings: none!

WC: 0.8k

Divider Credit: @bleedingspiral

The motorsport world is filled with adrenaline, speed, and spectacle - but no one tells you what hides beneath the surface. Not until you’re already knee-deep in it.

You arrived in Bahrain just after midnight. The desert air was dry, the breeze unusually cool against your skin as you stepped off the plane, dragging your suitcase behind you. You were exhausted from the 12 hour flight, but nerves kept you sharp. It was your first real job - communications assistant with McLaren Racing, a role you'd barely dared to dream of landing. Your interview had been swift, almost too easy, and the onboarding process oddly efficient. There were whispers online that F1 teams operated like secret societies. You were about to find out just how true that was.

You reached the paddock the next morning, half an hour before sunrise. Everything was still - too still. Mechanics moved with silent precision, voices hushed in a way that felt rehearsed. The hospitality suite gleamed in the pre-dawn dark, it's glass reflecting soft golden light, but the inside was cold. Not temperature-wise but something else. Something deeper. The kind of cold that came from empty rooms and too much silence.

A woman in a McLaren polo met you at the door, clipboard in hand.

“You’re early,” she said, voice clipped. “That’s good. You’ll learn that things… move differently around here.”

You nodded, unsure of what she meant. She didn’t introduce herself. Just led you inside and began rattling off a list of duties and expectations: press management, social media scheduling, handling Lando’s more… eccentric requests. You barely registered the names. It was all too much.

Then, you met him.

Lando Norris.

You'd seen the photos online, bright smile, boyish charm, a cheeky energy in every interview. But the man who stepped into the suite was... not that.

He was dressed in black, not the usual papaya orange, and he moved like smoke. Effortless. Silent. Controlled. His eyes found yours almost immediately.

He didn’t smile.

“You’re the new comms girl,” he said simply. His accent was softer in person, but his words carried a strange weight. He stepped closer, too close, and you felt your heart stutter.

His eyes were strange, too bright. A pale green laced with gold. They gleamed in the low light, and when you blinked, they seemed to glow.

"Yes," you said, trying to hide your nerves, "I'm..."

"I know who you are," he looked you over slowly, and not in the usual celebrity-sizes-up-the-staff kind of way. His gaze lingered at your throat.

It was then that he smiled, faint, just the barest curve of his lips. "Try not to get eaten alive."

You didn't respond, mostly because your brain short-circuited. He walked past you, and the cold he brought with him seemed to cling to the room.

The rest of the day passed in a blur. You met the team, were shown the media pen, given a lanyard and badge that said "All Access." But no where felt safe. People kept their voices down. Everyone avoided the shadows, especially the garages.

You caught a glimpse of Charles Leclerc during the press briefing. He was laughing with Max Verstappen, but when he turned towards you, the laughter died. His smile became something sharp, something hungry. You looked away quickly.

Later, when you were alone in the hospitality, reviewing your notes, when the lights flickered. A low hum filled the air - not mechanical, not quite electric. You froze.

Then he appeared.

Charles stepped out from the darkness, hands in his pockets, head tilted.

“There are rules here,” he said. His voice was like silk and ash, soft but laced with something deadly. “If you want to survive, you’ll need to learn them.”

You stood, your notebook clutched in your hand like a shield. "Excuse me?"

He was in front of you before you could blink.

Too fast. Inhuman. His fingers brushed a strand of hair from your face. Cold. Icy cold.

“You smell like sunlight,” he murmured, nose nearly grazing your cheek. “They’ll notice.”

You jerked back, stumbling. But Charles just smiled.

“You don’t belong here,” he said simply. “But perhaps that’s what makes you interesting.”

You didn’t sleep that night. Every creak in the hotel room, every whisper of wind against the window made your skin crawl.

The next morning, the drivers gathered for a team shoot. You watched them - Lando, Charles, Max, Lewis, and the rest - moving like predators in expensive race suits. Their movements were too smooth, too synchronized. You began to notice things. Lando never ate. Carlos Sainz wore gloves even in the heat. Esteban Ocon never blinked.

And none of them were ever out in the full sun.

Your breath caught when you realized you were the only one who ever flinched at the light.

Later, while uploading footage, you caught Lando staring at you from the garage. His eyes met yours through the tinted glass. You couldn’t look away. There was something in his expression - not menace, but hunger. Curiosity.

Possession.

You pressed your hand to your throat. It still felt warm. Still… untouched.

For now.

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marlynnofmany · 8 months ago

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One More Earth Animal -- Part Two

(Part One is here)

Fernando Hwan Tengku-Jones was expecting a cat. His friend on the colony world had said they were sending one that somebody’d left behind — poor thing! —and Fern couldn’t wait to give it a good home. He’d already cat-proofed his quarters as best he could. Fragile things were put away, his reading lamp was secured to the bedside table, and he’d grabbed a few cardboard boxes from the recycle stash that would make good hidey-holes. A litter box should be available somewhere in this space station’s commerce sector — he’d been here before. He could check after the drop-off. As much as he would have liked to get that set up first, he wasn’t in charge of the schedule.

His Frillian crewmates were curious about the companion animal that the captain was allowing him to bring onboard. He’d spent the last half of the trip telling them every story about cats he could think of. Each of them rippled their frills in patient disinterest, but he didn’t mind. They’d be won over by the adorable kitty soon enough.

When the ship docked at their usual berth, Fern did his part in helping unload the usual shipment. The specialty maintenance shop here always ordered the same stuff at this time of the rotation. Everything was normal. But then Fern got to dash off to meet another ship, and he was more excited than he’d been in a long time.

He called ahead, and was told to meet at the cargo bay door. When he arrived, he saw that this ship was unloading boxes as well. He didn’t see any logos anywhere, and the boxes weren’t even all the same kind, plus the crew wasn’t wearing uniforms.

Looks like one of those freelance setups, he thought while he patiently waited at a distance. That always sounded like such an unreliable way to make a living. But at least they get to travel to interesting places. Where there are cats!

When the crew finished handing the motley assortment of boxes off to a motley assortment of customers, the one with the tablet waved him over. This was a cute little lizard who probably wouldn’t want to be described that way. As yellow as a very serious banana. She called into the ship for somebody else to come out, and Fern was delighted to see another human carrying a cat-sized cage.

“Hello!” the other human said, waving her free hand. “I have something important to tell you about your new friend here.”

Fern was immediately worried. “Is it injured? Or pregnant?” His captain had approved a single animal, not a litter.

“Thankfully, no!” she replied, setting down the cage with the front turned away from him. “First of all, he’s perfectly healthy and perfectly tame. And he’s been fixed. But most importantly, his stink gland has been removed.”

“His what?” Fern thought of his aunt’s cat who had stunk up the house by scent-marking the walls. Wasn’t that just pee, not a gland?

“Congratulations,” the other human said. “You are the proud owner of a non-spraying skunk.”

“A what?” Fern said on reflex, processing her words.

She lifted the cage and turned it so he could see inside. “This is the friendliest little snuggle buddy, and he likes being brushed.”

Fern stared. A very fluffy skunk stared back. While most of his brain was still circling in shock, the thought surfaced that the animal really did seem tame: not threatening to spray even though its gland had been removed. Theoretically.

He asked, “You’re sure it’s completely de-stinked?”

“Yes.” The other human nodded. “Our medscanner is top-notch. And I spent a lot of time with him on the trip here; I’m certain he was hand-raised as a pet. No idea how the poor guy ended up in the middle of nowhere, but he more than deserves a loving home. Think you can give him that?”

Fern’s heart twinged, and he shook himself. “Yes, absolutely. Did he come with a name?”

The other human smiled. “Nope! That’s up to you. I’ve been calling him Fluffy, but that’s just a placeholder.”

“Seems pretty accurate,” Fern said, gazing through the bars.

The yellow lizard stepped forward with the digital paperwork. Fern signed for the skunk, his thoughts in a whirl.

“If you’re already set up with cat food, good news: skunks will eat that,” the other human told him. “They’re omnivores, so this guy will eat a lot of the same stuff you do, just try to keep it as close to nature as you can out in space: plain and not overly processed. He’ll love peanut butter and chicken eggs if you can get them. Oh, and keep him away from the usual list of Crazy Human Toxic Foods! No chocolate, onions, garlic, or caffeine. Or hot peppers, though that’s more unpleasant than poisonous for him.”

“Right,” Fern said, handing the tablet back. “Good to know; thank you.”

“Sure thing! I hope you guys have a long and happy life together.” She presented him with the cage and gave his uniform a look. “Merchant ship, right?”

“Talented Toolmakers, of Frillian Pride,” Fern recited automatically as he accepted the armload of skunk. “I got hired when the route changed to spend more time in human territory. But then it changed back, and I haven’t seen much from home lately.”

“Well this guy’s glad to have you,” the other human said. The lizard was already walking back into the ship. “We have to rush off to another delivery, but good luck! Skunks can get into places they shouldn’t, and claw things open that a cat wouldn’t be able to, so keep him away from the engine room.”

“Got it!” Fern waved goodbye as the other human trotted back onto her ship. While the bay doors closed, Fern took careful steps back toward his own.

He expected his crewmates to react in alarm at the news that his cat was a skunk … but he’d forgotten that they were unfamiliar with Earth animals.

“If it can’t make that smell, and it isn’t going to bite anyone, then I don’t see a problem,” the captain said. “Just keep it in your quarters while it gets settled in. You can bring it out under supervision later.”

“It really is as fluffy as you said,” remarked the engineer.

“What does it eat?” asked the pilot.

Fern replied, “A lot of the same things I do.”

“That’s convenient!” the pilot said. The others agreed.

And that was that. Fern took the skunk into his quarters, let it waddle around and sniff everything, then fed it a messy plate of cat food. He put a folded hand towel in the cage and gently stuffed the skunk back in so he could run off to buy a litter box without worrying about what it would do while he was gone.

He splurged on a fancy litter box with a covered top and an auto-scooper, designed for ship’s cats. When he set it up and opened the cage, the skunk went right for it, which was a relief.

Probably a relief for him too, Fern thought. He’s been in that cage a while.

The captain announced that they were taking off. Fern settled down to socialize with his new pet, confident that he wouldn’t be needed for a while yet. Their route was predictable, after all, and this next part involved a lot of empty space before they reached the warehouse.

A lot of empty space, and pirates.

Human ones according to the intercom, which just made the whole thing more insulting. This was NOT the taste of home he’d been missing. The captain’s announcement held a lot of profanity, and Fern could see why. It was bad enough to be shaken down when they had cargo they could be reimbursed for, but right now their hold was empty. And the pirates wouldn’t accept that.

They’ll want our own tools, Fern thought, looking around his quarters. And food, and fuel, and… His gaze fell on the skunk nosing about his bookshelf.

And fuck them.

He lunged for the intercom button. “Captain, if you’re sure they’re human, I have an idea.”

Several minutes later, the pirate ship locked onto the merchant vessel, and clamped an adapter over the airlock. Pirates gathered, ready to board, armed with guns and knives and vicious grins.

Those grins evaporated when the first pirate looked through the airlock porthole at what waited for them on the other side.

One lone human, wearing a breather helmet and carrying a fluffy, agitated skunk.

The pirates detached immediately and took off with enough thrust to rock the ship.

The pilot got the merchant vessel back on course, while the captain sang praises over the intercom, and Fern brought Fluffy the Fearsome back to his room for some well-earned brushing.

The next time that particular merchant ship passed through the area, it had a large emblem of a skunk pasted next to the company logo.

~~~

These are the ongoing backstory adventures of the main character from this book.

Shared early on Patreon! There’s even a free tier to get them on the same day as the rest of the world.

The sequel novel is in progress (and will include characters from these stories. I hadn’t thought all of them up when I wrote the first book, but they’re too much fun to leave out of the second).

#somebody wanted to see the guy's reaction #and I couldn't pass that up #there is one swear word in this story #it's not where you think #skunks #in spaaace #humans are weird #and so are our pets #haso #hfy #eiad #humans are space orcs #my writing #The Token Human #and friends

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stellarbit · 1 year ago

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Two Faces pt 2

Word Count: 12.5k Pairing: fem!reader x Bad Batch, light Tech and Crosshair nods Warnings: SFW, bitch of a mother, crosshairs mood swings, Summary: You arrive back home with Clone Force 99 to prepare to be your senator sister's stand in at an upcoming event. Letting the Batch learn more about who you actually are. Part 1 note: hope y'all like it, thank you all who sent in requests for it and suggestions. I live laugh love for this shit man.

“Ensure our guest arrives safely on her homeworld. Report back once the Gala is at an end.” Lama Su instructed Clone Force 99, his inky gaze shifting to where you stood in line with them at the steps to the Marauder. “You are most welcome here on Kamino. You have an open invitation should you find a need for it.”

Since your sister’s appearance, Lama Su’s demeanor shifted from gritted tolerance to that of a generous host. Time spent at your mother’s side taught you a politician’s patience was rarely forthcoming.

You attempted a practiced smile, the kind drilled into you from birth. “That’s something I will truly keep in mind.” Lama Su bowed his head slightly and dismissed himself, retreating back into the hangar doors.

Left alone, neither you or any of Clone Force 99 budged and a heavy silence settled over the group. From the corner of your eye, you noticed a few heads turn your way. Looking anywhere but directly at them, you piped up, “Ready whenever you are, Sergeant.” Despite Tech’s reassurances that everything had worked out 'better than predicted,' falling back into rhythm with Clone Force 99 was proving more difficult than you had hoped.

Hunter was the first to move. “Alright then, let’s move out.” He turned and you all followed, with you trailing after Crosshair as the last of the group.

Midway up the stairs Crosshair turned and extended a hand to you - an offer of assistance and perhaps a peace offering. A gesture you walked right by. Crosshair retracted his hand and, mostly, kept his frustration in his throat.

They’d told you about their ship, a modified Omicron-class attack shuttle, but being on it was certainly a different experience. The smell alone disenchanted your anticipation. Touches of the different men were strewn throughout. A knocked over stack of history magazines, food wrappers, half used tins of gun oil, and what looked to be sliced up target practice sheets. It was fairly easy to see who left what, but oddly enough there was hardly a trace of Echo.

Tech caught your hesitant inspection and directed you to the passenger seats. “Sit here during take-off.” Tech pointed to a seat equipped with restraints. “Once we make the jump into hyperspace, it will be safe for you to navigate the ship.” You silently took a seat, pulling the over-the-shoulder restraints into place.

Tech left for the pilot’s seat, Echo already in position as the copilot. Hunter positioned himself in front of a navigational screen, between the cockpit and your seats, while Wrecker and Crosshair accompanied you in the restraint seats. The restraints barely accommodated Wrecker’s size, causing his arms to push into your space as he sat on your left. Across from you, Crosshair stared you down.

In the hours between the confrontation with your sister and packing onboard the Marauder you’d deliberately avoided Crosshair. He, on the other hand, tracked you with that hawkish watch of his and didn’t take his eyes off you.

His watching you, deciphering you, was a part of him processing the shifted dynamics. Much like you trying to piece together how Tech found out your identity, Crosshair ran through your weeks together, over and over, searching for all the clues he’d missed. He searched your face as if the specks on your face would tell him.

Mostly, he kept counting the scars on your face. One nicked across your nose, likely from his elbow cracking you across the face. Another cut through your eyebrow with a matching one sat on top of your cheekbone. Admitting to himself, it was difficult to discern which of his many blows might have caused these specific marks.

A large part of him actively ignored the thought of what bruises may be hidden beneath your clothes..

He grit his teeth as he watched you continue to pointedly ignore him. He thought bitterly, If you’d just told us from the beginning I wouldn’t have been so severe. Your eyes cut to him with a look as sharp as his. Crosshair narrowed his eyes, a silent challenge between you. Your only response was a twist of your mouth, looking away in disinterest.

“Care to share what’s on that pretty little mind of yours?” The sneer in Crosshair’s voice had you closing your eyes, summoning your remaining patience. “Or do you want to keep us all in the dark?”

You rolled out your jaw, nodding through a deep breath. Settling on the sorriest excuse for a smile, you responded, “It must be difficult to never know when to shove off.” Your words elicited a low growl from the sniper, adding genuine enjoyment to your expression.

Wrecker sat still, gripping his ill fit restraints and keeping his good eye on you with a sideways look. Unlike his brother, Wrecker had made no attempts to push you up to that point. While roughing up a reg during training was standard for him, realizing it had been you all along left him uneasy. The memory of how you had fought against his grip when he had you by the throat now churned his stomach.

The entire vessel shifted and blue light cascaded through the ship. “We’ve made the jump into hyperspace.” Echo announced from the cockpit.

Crosshair shoved himself free of the restraints and stalked off for the front of the ship. You attempted to follow suit, but your restraints didn’t release as smoothly.

Frustration got the better of you and you rammed your hands twice into the bars before Wrecker gently released the safety device. He crouched down to your eye level, anxiety pulling at him. “Listen, I didn’t know it was you under that armor.” He shook his head lightly. “And I’d do it again with any reg… But I-I’m sorry it was you.” Wrecker’s eyes searched the floor for something else to say.

His expression tugged at your heart just enough for you to cave. “Wrecker,” you leaned forward and touched his shoulder. “I’m not mad with you, you couldn’t have known and, honestly, would be weirder if you had.” Wrecker kept his gaze averted, guilt still eating him.

“I take offense to that.” Tech chimed as he walked over.

Ignoring him, you gently turned Wrecker’s face to you. “The only reason I’m upset is that you would ever think this was a game to me.”

His eyes went wide and his head snapped back. “No, no! I never said that!”

“Then why lie and play soldier?” Crosshair said simultaneously from his seat next to Hunter. Crosshair placed a toothpick in his mouth and reclined.

“Crosshair, stow it!” Wrecker snapped, pivoting on the balls of his feet. “You’re just making it worse.”

You truly believed that coming from anyone else, the question might not have stung so sharply. But coming from Crosshair, it made you want to scream.

“You know what?” You took a deep breath and stood, gently nudging Wrecker aside. As you exhaled, you clapped your hands together, your attempt to stay calm crumbling as your voice escalated to a yell. “I’m sorry. I am. I am sorry for going along with your mix-up!”

Crosshair grit his teeth and tensed in his chair, a snake ready to strike.

Puffing your chest out, you thrust a finger at him, “I wasn’t playing soldier. I want to join my sister’s guard, so my mother sent me to train. If no one knew I was here and I got the training, I was going to do just that.” You groaned at the thought. The edge in your voice ebbed as you lamented, “Letting you think I was my sister seemed like an easy alibi. I’m sorry I lied to you, but I’d do it again if I had to.”

The topic begged the question, what will happen now that they know?

Tech, not fully grasping the situation, interjected, “Requiring you to mask your presence suggests this wasn’t a decision she was happy with.”

That was not a road you wanted to go down with them. Waving the comment aside with a flippant hand you replied. “She had a different plan for my life. This was just her making sure I knew what I was getting into.” You were surprised at how convincing your tone sounded.

Hunter turned away from the navigational screen, leaning back with a foot propped up on his knee, clearly skeptical. “She had to have known you’d get the kriff kicked out of you with us—or worse. Why not just send you to train with your sister’s guard?

Your chest tightened at the question. “Mother only wants what’s best,” you lied smoothly. Gesturing towards them all, you added in a lighter tone, “Besides, why train with guards when I can learn from the elite?”

Leaning against the back of Hunter’s chair, Echo looked incredulous. “Have you ever even stepped foot in a training facility before?”

You hummed an affirmative, holding your breath, but with the eyes of unconvinced soldiers on you, you quickly exhaled and admitted, “No.”

“In that case,” Tech said, pointing a finger at you. “I’m impressed you managed to only get your nose broken once.”

“We broke your nose?” Hunter sat upright suddenly, surprise in his voice. You resisted the urge to touch your nose or glance at Crosshair.

“I chose this,” you stated firmly, pressing a hand to your chest. “I had chances to back out, and I came anyway. I’d rather you treat me like the clone you thought I was than look at me with pity.” You gestured towards Hunter, whose face was an odd mix of pity and concern. “Honestly, I’d prefer that,” you added, nodding towards Crosshair.

You had hoped the small gesture would serve as your own olive branch, but a glance at Crosshair told you it hadn’t worked. He maintained a tight-lipped frown, his expression stubbornly aggravated. The standoff between you two lingered until you took a step towards him, and he rose from his chair, meeting you halfway with a defiant stance.

“What more could you possibly want from me?” you demanded, hands flaring palms up. There was a raw satisfaction in shedding the veil of polite politics and expressing your true feelings. Voicing your frustration felt liberating, like stretching long-dormant muscles.

Crosshair tilted his head down to meet your gaze, the toothpick rolling to one corner of his mouth. His voice was low and steady, “You attacked me.”

Fury surged through you as you snatched the toothpick from his lips. “Attacked you?” you nearly shouted, incredulous.

Leaning in, Crosshair scrutinized your seething expression, face flushed and fists clenched. Then, unexpectedly, a barely there smile cracked his scowl. Now he was just having fun.

“Crosshair.” Hunter warned as he slowly started to rise.

“You heard me,” Crosshair retorted swiftly, emphasizing each word, “You. Attacked. Me.”

Echo was too slow to intervene as you grabbed the lip of Crosshair’s chestplate. He snorted dismissively, and you were consumed by a silent, burning rage. Something primal snapped within you, and without words, only a fierce growl escaped you as you lunged at Crosshair, hands driven by pent-up anger.

Crosshair began to laugh, a mocking, bitter sound that only fueled your rage as Hunter grabbed him and pulled him back. Echo swiftly moved between you two, his arms outstretched to create a barrier. Your fingers slipped from Crosshair’s armor as you reached desperately past Echo, trying to get at the sniper.

Hunter, his frustration evident, shoved Crosshair further away and then spun around, pointing a finger sharply at you He then turned to address both of you, his voice raised over the commotion. “How many times do we have to break you two up?” His tone was stern, a mix of reprimand and exasperation reflecting the strain of repeatedly managing your confrontations.

As Hunter pushed Crosshair further away, Crosshair shot back a snarky, taunting remark. "If she could keep her hands to herself, we wouldn't need breaking up."

With a low growl, you threw the toothpick still clutched in your hand, watching it strike Crosshair squarely in the face. It was a minor victory, but seeing his annoyance flare was satisfying. Stepping back slightly, no longer trying to shove past Echo, you fixed Crosshair with a taunting smirk. “Ah, so that’s what’s bothering you. This is the first time a woman’s touched you without a medkit.”

Hunter, witnessing the petty exchange, rubbed the bridge of his nose in frustration. "Enough!" he barked, hand chopping in front of him. "We’re on a mission, and I need you two to not kill each other. If I have to keep you separated until we reach our destination, I will."

Notching his hand at his hip, Hunter sighed. Looking at you he shook his head. “Well, you certainly don’t act like a Senator.” Amusement lifted the tattooed side of his mouth.

“Or a soldier,” Crosshair added sharply, slipping another toothpick into his mouth. He watched you a second longer before giving a light scoff, “But good to know our little kitten has grown claws.”

‘Little kitten’ heated your face but Echo guided you away before you could take the bait. “If you haven’t stepped foot in a training facility,” he said, ushering you towards the front of the ship. “What about the cockpit of an attack shuttle?”

And with that you were distracted, allowing for the rest of the journey to pass in relative peace. Aided largely by the fact that you and Crosshair now had a ship and four soldiers between you.

As the ship began its descent, Tech started detailing the time differences and adjusting for the local standard. Wrecker, seated beside you, yelled, “Yeah, yeah, we can tell it’s late.”

“Or really early,” you quipped, nudging him playfully. Truly, you hadn’t kept track. It turned out to be late into the evening.

Echo and Crosshair had swapped seats, positioning Crosshair in the copilot's seat and further from you. Sitting across from you, Echo leaned forward slightly, curiously asking, “Who do you think is receiving you?”

“Receiving me?” You parroted in confusion.

Wrecker nudged you playfully, flashing a grin. “Yeah! Who’s waiting for ya at the platform?”

Your eyebrows shot up as you glanced down, realizing you hadn't considered this. Normally, no one 'received' you unless your sister was visiting home. You managed a smile, easing into the conversation. “That’s not really a tradition of ours.”

“That’s odd,” Tech said, extending his neck out and raising his voice to ensure you heard him. “I read that the planet’s governor, that is your mother, is well known for her welcoming of distinguished guests.”

“Well, I’m not a guest,” you responded sharply, a hint of bitterness in your voice. With a forced laugh and a casual flip of your hand, you added to cover your misstep, “That is, I’m not just a guest, I’m family.”

As the ship landed and the restraints remained locked in place, Crosshair spoke for the first time in hours. “Looks like you’re wrong about that.” His tone made you strain against your restraining bars in attempts to see outside.

You were unable to see anything but the sky view of the hangar. But you were sure of it, if anyone was there it was your sister. The thought flipped your stomach.

As soon as the restraints unlocked—and Wrecker helped free you—you dashed for the exit. Crosshair was at the mouth of the exit when you pushed past him, hurrying down the stairs. Your chest heaved with anticipation as you spun around, searching for a familiar face, but your sister was nowhere to be seen.

As you were about to have words with Crosshair, your attention snagged on the sight of three clone troopers walking around the ship. Approaching you were two unmarked clones flanking a Clone Captain distinguished by teal blue markings.

CT-7569, the Captain assigned to your planet. The clone presence was meant to be a show of good faith by the Republic, but your mother treated them as ornamental. They ‘maintained peace’ by bolstering your mother’s security and accompanying important trade vessels. CT-7569 usually escorted your mother - you found it made her presence more tolerable. In the end, you and the Captain spent many mindless political gatherings in each other’s company.

As the Captain approached, you wracked your brain trying to recall the name he went by. Embarrassment set in as you realized you might never have known his name, despite having memorized his designation number long ago.

Pushing those thoughts aside, you stepped forward with a genuine smile. “Captain,” you greeted warmly.

“Good to see you back, Miss,” the Captain replied as he halted a few feet away, his men positioning themselves to his sides. His helmet shifted slightly, his gaze drifting past you. “I was wondering if you’d return. I hardly believed it when they said you went to Kamino.”

You edged closer, lowering your voice to a hiss. “How do you know about that?”

“You left with the Governor and Senator, but only they returned. Seeing as how that flight log only showed a trip to Kamino… well it wasn’t hard to figure out.” He chuckled, the sound echoing slightly inside his helmet as he reached up to remove it. The familiar features of the Captain started showing, all wrinkled by an amused smile. “So, how’d that conversation go?” he asked, referring to your discussion with your mother about your plans. His gaze then darted past you, doing a double-take. “Wait—is that the Bad Batch?”

You gave an empty blink. “The what now?” A smile wobbled your lips. They certainly never mentioned that.

CT-7569 nodded, letting out an impressed laugh. “Experimental Unit 99. They call themselves the Bad Batch.” His eyes held a touch of shock before he shifted to a questioning look at you. “This is definitely a story I want to hear.”

“Captain,” Hunter greeted, stepping up beside you with Echo on his other side, while Tech positioned himself next to you. Wrecker and Crosshair presumably took places behind you, maintaining their distance. They all kept their helmets on, reminding you of the edge ‘regs’ put them on.

CT-7569 straightened up, his accompanying clones mimicking his posture, and he replaced his helmet. “I’ve heard good things about your squad, Sergeant. Good to meet you, men.” He extended a hand to Hunter, and they clasped each other’s forearms in a soldierly greeting.

“Thank you, sir.” Hunter nodded

As the Captain and Hunter exchanged pleasantries, you desperately thought back for the Captain’s name. You had faint recollections of hearing it in passing or his men occasionally dropping formalities. Those snippets were vague but persistent, hinting you were just a syllable away from full recognition.

The Captain looked back to you and the name clicked in place. He began telling you something, but your thoughts were far from his voice. Instead you were lost in the thought of having treated the clone before you, a soldier who offered you kindness when that was beyond the scope of his mission, as just a nameless soldier. You were always polite and grateful for their support and the respect you had for clones inspired you to protect your sister, but you’d rarely thought of who they were beyond soldiers.

And with him, you were practically friends.

“Miss?” The Captain’s voice finally reeled you back in. When he saw your focus return he said, “The Governor gave no orders for your arrival, but we can take the men to our barracks wing to settle in.” Pivoting to his men, he began giving orders to escort Clone Force 99.

You quickly cut in.

“Howzer,” The name immediately silenced him. He seemed caught off by the sound of his name on your tongue. “There is plenty of room in my wing. I’ll show them up.”

He opened his mouth to respond, but you pressed on, “The Governor didn’t issue orders because their mission requires discretion. An empty wing is more suitable than a barrack on full display.” You’d taken some liberties speaking for your mother, but he didn’t need to know that. Instead you added, “Which reminds me, why are you here if she gave no orders.”

Howzer chuckled warmly. "I spotted an inbound ship from Kamino on the flight manifest this afternoon. I figured it was you and couldn’t resist the chance to see you limping off of a ship.” The sentiment made you laugh. He added, nodding his head, “Just wanted to make sure you were alright.”

“She held her own,” Hunter came up beside you with a hand on your shoulder. “Even got the better of one of us once.”

“Twice.” You quickly corrected, earning a disgruntled noise from the sniper behind you. The curious tilt in Howzer’s helmet, from behind you and back, made you smile.

“Well then,” Howzer relaxed, a smile in his voice. “We’ll leave you to it. I’m sure I’ll see you tomorrow.” He turned to depart, but you reached out and grasped his arm to stop him. He looked from your hand to your face.

“Thank you, Howzer,” you said earnestly, sliding your hand down to his and giving it a warm squeeze. “For being my friend.”

His helmet shifted back slightly, caught off guard once more. After a brief pause, he nodded and returned the squeeze gently. “No need to thank me,” he responded lightly. “Just a perk of the job,” he addressed you by name and you could have heard the wink in his voice. You realize he might have never said it before. Howzer turned away with his squad following. As they walked off, one of the troopers elbowed him lightly, only to receive an aggressive shove in return.

“I think I might be sick.” Crosshair murmured from behind you.

You snorted, looking over your shoulder at him. “Feeling queasy, huh? Maybe it’s just your batch going bad,” you teased, giving a playful nod to the nickname you had just learned. Crosshair groaned and Echo coughed to hide a laugh. Bad joke.

“Oh, c’mon.” You gestured for them to follow. “Let’s get to bed.”

Your family home was an architectural marvel built into the side of a mountain, its expansive windows offering a panoramic view of your planet’s capital city below. The residence had been in your family for generations, serving not just as a home but as a political hub, given your family's long history of public service. Though not every generation produced a Governor, there always seemed to be someone who utilized the sprawling estate as a political stage. Under your mother and sister’s tenure, it had practically transformed into an embassy.

Nestled on the quieter, mountain-facing side of the house were your private quarters. Your room, located at the end of a secluded corridor, offered a reprieve from the politics of the main halls. The other two rooms along your corridor remained mostly unoccupied, reserved for the occasional guest, a benefit of your mother's preference to keep you out of the public eye.

You paused at the door next to yours, explaining the solitude of your hall. Extending a hand towards the spare room, you said, “Either room can accommodate your squad, but feel free to use one or both.”

The group exchanged looks, weighing their options. Echo mumbled something about needing a break from the usual barracks scent, but ultimately, they decided to stick together. Their loyalty to one another reminded you of the times your sister would stealthily retreat to your room during her political campaigns. On especially tough days, she would stay the night, and in the early, dark hours of the morning, you would both slip away to the nearby hot springs.

The memory used to be a safe haven for you. Now it left you feeling oddly cold.

After bidding the boys goodnight, you retreated to your room. Setting aside a bag for the morning, you prepared for a much-needed early soak in the warm springs.

Waking well before dawn, you were eager for the comforting waters. From the back of your closet, you retrieved an old rope ladder with patches of fabric woven into it—evidence of years of repairs. Hardly necessary now, the ladder had been a crucial part of your escapades during your younger years, when you were more tightly bound by your mother’s expectations.

Your room opened onto a quaint veranda, bordered by sturdy stone balusters. This railing, carved from the mountain itself, served as your usual escape route.

As you’d done numerous times, you tied the rope off and unfurled it over the ledge of the terrace. Peering down, you were reassured to see the ladder hanging just a few feet above the ground. Despite the 100-foot drop, a few firm tugs on the knots confirmed it was secure. Bag slung over your shoulder, you straddled the railing, preparing to make your descent.

“That would not be advisable.”

The unexpected voice sent a jolt through you, your arms instinctively gripping the railing to prevent a startled fall. Pressing your face against the cold stone, you scanned for the source of the interruption.

The veranda wrapped around the building, with each room opening onto its own curved section. There, leaning casually against the railing of the adjacent balcony, were Tech and Hunter. Hunter rested his elbows on the railing, a cup of caf hanging between his hands, while Tech leaned his hip against the railing, also sipping his drink. Both were wearing a set of black casual clothes, a long sleeve shirt and pants. It was Tech who had called out to you.

Tech adjusted his goggles, scrutinizing the rope ladder with a critical eye. After a moment, he relaxed slightly and nodded to himself. “The multiple repairs, along with the current condition of the rope, significantly compromise its integrity. If you attempt to climb down, the likelihood of the rope failing is high. You would fall from approximately,” he paused, his gaze measuring the drop, “68 feet.”

“You don’t know that,” you muttered, rolling your eyes as you climbed back onto the safety of the veranda.

“Care to test that theory?” Tech retorted, an amused challenge in his tone, though he already knew your answer.

Instead of responding, you walked over to the stone wall divider, where vines clung and crawled up its surface. Grabbing one, you used it for leverage to hoist yourself onto the railing and then climbed along the railing to their side of the veranda.

Hunter, witnessing the muscle memory in your movements, took a leisurely sip of his caf. "Does that come from having a sister too?" he commented dryly, watching as you landed beside them.

You snorted, “More from young rebellious years.” Glancing around, you noticed the absence of the other men

“Still asleep.” Hunter answered your search, gesturing a thumb over his shoulder. Hunter stood to face you, half sitting on the railing and looking you over with a raised brow. “What exactly were you doing?”

You nodded towards the treeline and the forest beyond. “There’s a hot spring not too far up the mountain.” Tech set his cup on the stone handrail and pulled out his datapad, tapping a few buttons as you continued, “My sister and I used to sneak out from time to time for a dip.”

Tech, always the analyst, chimed in, “I am picking up a heat signature a kilometer out.” He pivoted, scanning in other directions. “This mountain must have volcanic properties to create such a natural phenomenon.”

Impressed, you hummed in agreement. “You’re not wrong—”

“I seldom am,” Tech interjected, still focused on his device.

“—the mountain was once a volcano,” you finished, matching his flat tone.

Tech, now fully absorbed in geological data, murmured, “Fascinating how such places become sanctuaries over time.”

Hunter half-sat on the railing as he watched the sky beginning to lighten. Following his line of sight, you asked, “Are you two always the first ones up?”

“We’re terrible sleepers,” Hunter replied, throwing a knowing glance at Tech. “Tech’s brain doesn’t have an off switch.”

Tech rolled his eyes as he switched from his datapad to the device on his forearm. "And his heightened senses make him easy to disturb," he explained, tapping a few buttons before squinting at the screen. "So, yes, to answer your question—Hunter and I are usually awake before the others."

You heard Crosshair before you saw him. “Not for long with your prattling.” Crosshair appeared, pushing through a fabric curtain. Despite the dim morning light, he squinted as he joined you outside, his gaze shifting between you as if searching for an unsaid clue. Finally his eyes looked you over and he sucked on a tooth, asking, “Here with our orders so soon?” You didn’t miss the lighter tone in his voice. He was joking with you.

Well that’s a good step.

The early hour dampened your mood for bickering, so you forced a smile instead of biting back. “You are as lovely in the mornings as I’ve dreamt.” you quipped, immediately regretting your choice of words by the look he shot you, avoiding his smirk by pretending to brush dirt off of your sleeve. “On the note though, we can expect a droid with our instructions sometime-”

“Mistress?!” A panicked,metallic female voice echoed from your quarters.

“Now, apparently,” you huffed, impressed yet annoyed by the droid’s timing. “Just a second, 9-E!” you called back to the protocol droid now audibly clattering through your rooms. The three men barely had a moment to react before you turned back to the ivy-covered wall. “Another reason to be glad you stopped me,” you tossed over your shoulder as you climbed.

By the end of the next hour, your family’s silver protocol droid was leading you and the Batch to your mother’s salon. It was the room she formally received visitors in and her typical venue for confrontation. You were particularly worried about the latter category.

“9-E,” you said, holding the droid back by the shoulder just before reaching the salon's doors. The droid swiveled its head to face you, and you gave its shoulder a reassuring pat. “I need to speak with my mother alone. You can come by afterwards, okay?”

The droid seemed to fuss for a moment but ultimately nodded, its voice a mix of concern and programmed calm. “Try not to provoke her this time, Young Mistress. She is in good spirits this morning,” it advised before waddling away. 9-E had been a loyal fixture in your life, often acting as a stand-in nanny. You respected its reverence for your mother, which is why you spared it from witnessing the more challenging family moments.

“What exactly are we walking into?” Hunter mumbled to you.

“Nothing to worry about.” You reassured, but you had a feeling your face didn’t match your tone.

Pushing open the heavy salon doors, you stepped into a room bathed in morning light, offering a panoramic view of the capital. The salon was meticulously arranged with luxurious decor that spoke of your family’s political heritage. At the far end, your mother, the Governor, stood two steps up by a large window, her silhouette framed against the cityscape.

The tall woman stood in a deep purple dress with an overcoat of similar color, all with golden embroidery. Her eyes combed the lot of you as you approached, her expression undeniably cold. There were no witnesses present so there was no show to put on.

In fact, the lack of guards or attendants did not bode well for the conversation.

You paused at the base of the steps leading up to where she stood, the rest of Clone Force 99 arrayed slightly behind. They all stood firm with their helmets tucked under their arms.

“Good job on the prompt return,” she said, cold yet perfectly polite, as if she were addressing a droid rather than her daughter.

“I would never keep you waiting,” you responded, maintaining the formal veneer.

Her lips twitched in what might have been a smile on a more congenial face but came off as a grimace. “You’ve already done so,” she said crisply. “Come here.”

Not wanting to further prove her point, you immediately ascended the steps. She reached out abruptly, her fingers clamping around your chin with a firmness that bordered on painful. Slowly, she moved your face side to side examining the marks, some still pink, on your face. Her lip curled. “The only thing you had going for you,” she murmured disdainfully, releasing your face with a sharp flick of her wrist.

Turning her gaze on the men assembled a step below, she gestured towards you without looking back. “Surely, the Prime Minister instructed you not to coddle her.”

Hunter, Wrecker, and Tech exchanged uncertain glances. From where they stood, it did not look like they coddled you. Crosshair and Echo kept their eyes on your mother. One was coiled for her next move while the other knew better than to take his eyes off an unpredictable politician.

Hunter didn’t recall Lama Su giving that directive and he didn’t have the political finesse to know what answer your mother wanted to hear. His eyes slid to you once more, before answering with cautious formality. “We trained her as rigorously as any member of the Republic's forces, Governor.”

Your mother's attention drifted downward contemplatively before returning to you with a subtle nod. Waving a hand at you, she managed a disappointed smile as she addressed Clone Force 99. “And that is all an elite clone force is capable of?” She held up a finger, considering something for a moment. Without further comment, she moved gracefully around to your back.

Her hands felt cold and foreign, you barely resisted the urge to lean out of her probing touch. With pressure she slid her hands over your shoulders and down your back, probing for vulnerabilities. Occasionally her hand grazed a bruise, at which you tensed but didn’t react further. Then, her fingers found their mark—just behind your shoulder, a spot still tender from Crosshair drilling into you.

As the pain sharply cut through your muscle, you instinctively jerked forward. Your mother's firm grip on your shoulder kept you in place as she pressed harder into the tender spot. The discomfort escalated until a grunt of pain escaped you, at which point she finally eased up. Out of the corner of your eye, you noticed movement among the clones.

"There we are," she crooned, her voice chillingly soft as she pushed you toward the troopers. "My apologies for questioning your efficacy."

You hardly stumbled, but cleared your throat against the still present ache in your shoulder. Straightening out, you kept your eyes averted. You’d withstood your mother’s treatment your entire life. You let yourself believe it served a purpose. Whether it was to raise you to her standards or simply to prove her point. This felt different. Humiliating you served no purpose at this moment. After a lifetime of this, you thought, perhaps it’s just what you deserved.

Finally, you looked at Clone Force 99 thinking you’d find them at attention, trained into stoicism. Instead, they no longer stood in line.

Crosshair was further out than the others, mid-step, nearly mid-bite and restrained only by Wrecker's firm grip on his shoulder. Wrecker himself stood uncharacteristically still, his usual demeanor replaced by seriousness. Wrecker was holding Crosshair back, but you’d be forgiven to think he was urging his brother on. Beside him, Hunter and Echo mirrored each other’s posture, frowning with fists clenched at their sides, looking like they were about to snap. At the end of the line, Tech maintained the most composed state, though a slight frown tugged at his features as he held a finger to the light on his goggles.

Theirs was more of a reaction than most who had witnessed a glimpse of your mother. These men barely knew you and they didn’t think you deserved this.

They didn’t deserve to see this.

You offered a smile to the men who barely knew you. None of them moved as you tucked your hands behind your back and faced your mother.

She didn’t bother meeting your gaze, rolling her eyes away as to not entertain whatever confidence struck you. “The Gala is tomorrow evening, you will be briefed later.” Later, her always had a vague way of leaving you waiting. “Make yourselves scarce until then.” She waved you off, turning to face the cityscape again as if you and the situation at hand were little more than a minor inconvenience in her day.

You gave a respectful bow and swiftly made for the door. Without hesitating, you passed directly between the members of Clone Force 99, not waiting to see if they offered any form of courtesy to your mother before following you.

You all stayed silent until you made it back into the corridor.

“Now you see the reason for the rope ladder.” You said lightly as you led them away.

Echo quickened his step to match yours, a look of concern - if not anger - on his face. “What happened there? That woman is your mother?” He gestured incredulously back towards the salon, shaking his head “She’s... she’s cruel.”

“Always has been.” you replied with a shrug, not bothering to hide your truth anymore. “I’m just sorry you saw it.”

“Someone like that shouldn’t be leading people.” Echo asserted.

You didn’t stop walking, but managed to side eye Echo. “She’s not like that with others.” That answer didn’t calm the cyborg.

Tech chimed in from behind, his datapad beeping softly. “It’s surprising she hasn’t been exposed on the Holonet with that kind of behavior.”

“You’ll understand once you see her tomorrow. There’s no surprise in it.” you scoffed, leading them further away from the scene.

The group murmured amongst themselves, clearly troubled by the encounter. Wanting to shift their focus from your mother, you planned to seize the opportunity presented by the early morning chill in the air.

As you approached your rooms, you spun around, effectively blocking their access to their quarters with a playful stance. They all looked so somber.

“Enough of that.” You said sternly, but there was a lightness in your chest that you hadn’t felt in ages. They remained in similar shades of uncertainty.

The absurdity of it all hit you —the idea that your mother, with just a small show of herself, could unsettle a group of battle-hardened soldiers. These men faced deadly threats without flinching, yet here they were, shaken by the woman who raised you. The stark contrast between their usual bravado and their current discomfort was ridiculous, really.

Laughter burst from you, resonant and unrestrained, filling the stone corridor. Echo muttered something to Hunter that you didn’t catch, but it only fueled your amusement further. Your sides began to ache, pulling at a tender bruise, yet you continued to chuckle through the discomfort. For a moment, you thought you’d never be able to stop.

Wrecker’s brows were the first to lift as he surveyed his brothers’ reactions. You covered your mouth with your hand, another laugh threatening to bubble out. Crosshair and Tech shared a look of confusion and evident disturbance. The sight of Tech’s furrowed brow and slightly open mouth pushed you over the edge again.

As the last waves of humor receded, you clutched your sides, threw your head back, and expelled one final, drawn-out sigh. A lazy smile spread across your face as you met their gazes once more. Shaking your head, you teased, “You face droid armies and risk your lives every day.” You gestured dismissively towards the direction of your mother’s salon. “And one measly Governor ruffles your feathers?”

A short pause passed and Tech said in a flat tone, “I think I am glad to not have had a mother.” Echo groaned, covering his eyes with his hand, but you found the sentiment funny.

To shake the residual tension, you sighed, “Listen, I really don’t want to dwell on her right now. Instead…” You slid back a few steps, nodding over your shoulder with an adventurous glint. “Come with me to the hot springs?”

Wrecker perked up first. "The hot springs?" His interest was evident as he shared a smile with his brothers, but Hunter remained reserved, arms crossed, his expression tight.

"They're worth the hike," you coaxed, waving them to follow. "It's not far, and it's the perfect way to unwind."

Hunter's brow furrowed as he considered the risks. "We don’t know when the Governor might call us back. It's best not to stray too far," he advised pragmatically. With a heavy sigh, he added, "I'll stay back, keep watch for any messages."

"Same here," Echo interjected, raising his scomp-link arm slightly. "Besides, long soaks really aren't my thing anymore."

You looked hopefully at the remaining three. Wrecker pumped his fist in the air, clearly eager. Surprisingly, Crosshair, despite his sour look, gave a shrug. "I’m in," he said, placing a toothpick bobbing between his lips.

Tech pulled his datapad out, but gave a quick wave. “I will join as well. I'm curious about the natural phenomenon." He paused, pointing a finger at you. "However, we're definitely not using your ladder."

That comment drew a wary look from Wrecker. "Ladder?" he asked.

Which made sense once the lot of you stood at your veranda’s railing. Tech and Crosshair were down to their blacks, the closest You’d just finished pulling up your ladder when Wrecker stepped back. “On second thought, you guys go ahead. I’ll stay here.” He said uneasily.

You spun on him. “What?!”

Hunter clapped him on the shoulder, chuckling. "Come on, Wrecker, it's not that high."

Tech stepped up beside you to peek over the railing. “That’s about 20 feet too high for his comfort,” he clarified, diagnosing Wrecker’s hesitation. “He's not great with heights.

Wrecker rubbed the back of his neck, his discomfort apparent. “Yeah, I’ll pass this time,” he admitted, resigning himself.

“Alright,” Echo interjected, heading back inside. "Let’s go find some food then," he suggested, inviting Wrecker to join him in a more comfortable pursuit.

Hunter pushed off from his spot leaning against the railing. “You three have fun, but don’t be too long.” He followed after Echo and Wrecker, pausing at the doorway to your quarters to sigh, “Just don’t kill each other.”

The annoyed sound Crosshair usually made at such comments didn’t come. Looking as bored as ever, Crosshair was busy scoping out the ground below. His lack of response felt underwhelming. He passed a cool look at you before silently grabbing for the bag he and Tech brought. From it he pulled a grappling hook and a descent device.

Tossing the device at Tech, Crosshair tossed the bag over his shoulder. “I’m going down first.” He pointed a finger at Tech. “You get to carry her down.”

The three of you ventured to the hot springs, Crosshair notably silent for the duration of the journey. Once there, Tech immediately scoped the surrounding area. The hot springs were a true miracle of the mountain. Nestled at the bottom of a hollow, a handful of pools steamed off into the branching hanging above. The pools were all interconnected, hot water bubbling between them and lapping against the smooth stones lining their boundaries.

This quiet nook, forgotten by all but you, was your sanctuary. The cloud forest and warm waters felt like a personal sacrament, and sharing them with someone, especially Tech with his eager fascination, filled you with a sense of happiness. A feeling that quickly vanished upon looking at Crosshair. The residual smile fell from your face. He wasn’t looking at you but his face was one of disinterest.

The spectrum of Crosshair you’d witnessed over the course of a few days made you realize how little you truly knew the men of Clone Force 99. You’d expected their reaction in various shades of Tech’s reaction. Annoyance and skepticism you’d prepared for, not this sudden coldness.

Only a few hours prior he’d seemed at least cordial for the first time since learning the truth. Now, he seemed unable to even look at you.

When it came time to shed your outerwear, Crosshair’s reaction was sharp. A sweeping look of you sent distaste across his features, and he turned away, leaving abruptly. Tech dismissed it as just another example of Crosshair’s stubborn nature, but to you, it felt deeply personal.

You checked yourself before entering the waters. Outside of a few bruises he would’ve known about, there was nothing scandalous about your bathing suit.

Moving from his perch at the edge of the pool, Tech dipped into the waters next to you. He shook his head, gesturing to where Crosshair had stood. “Problem?”

You bit the inside of your cheek, determined not to let Crosshair's attitude dampen the moment. Leaning back against the warm rocks, you turned towards Tech, who was now unguarded and bare in the water. “Perhaps one,” you said with a light tone, your eyes inadvertently scanning his exposed skin.

Your eyes roved Tech’s bare upper body, thankful for your already present flush from the springs. As Tech lifted his goggles to defog them, you peek beneath the water's surface and your face heated at the realization that he was completely nude. Once his goggles were back in place, he caught your gaze. “And what would that be?”

“You are naked,” you pointed out, an amused undertone in your voice.

Without missing a beat, Tech replied, “And your clothes are transparent.” His response made you snap your attention to your own attire. To your horror, Tech was right - the wet fabric had gone see-through.

Tech glanced down at himself, seemingly puzzled, then shrugged. “As I have never partaken in such recreation before, I merely followed your example” The bubbling waters filled the brief silence that followed. Tech’s gaze flicked from your chest back to your eyes, his expression marked by genuine confusion. “What is the issue?” he asked.

Not even a shadow of understanding graced his face, he was devoid of any of your engrained reservations. It occurred to you that perhaps the social nuances of nudity were lost on clones. What use would trivial embarrassment serve for soldiers?

Tech’s gaze dropped to your chest again, but you saw nothing lewd in his attention. In place of the lechery you’d expect, his expression only held curiosity - as if your skin could tell him what you weren’t. Here was Tech, a battle seasoned soldier, sharing a moment of innocence with you free of the judgmental social expectations you were trained to abide by. The realization took away the anxiety you felt.

Chuckling, you managed to speak through your amusement, “They’re not supposed to be transparent, you know.” Your humor softened into a warm smile as you observed Tech’s puzzled expression. “It’s generally good practice to wear something a bit more... substantial when you’re swimming.” You waved a hand over your transparent clothing. Winking at him you added, “Or at least when you're in mixed company.”

Tech absorbed this information, his head tilting slightly as if filing away a new data point. “Ah, social norms?” he queried, more intrigued by the learning opportunity than embarrassed by his faux pas.

“Yes, exactly,” you agreed, your smile lingering. “But honestly, don’t worry about it. It’s just us here, and it’s actually quite refreshing to just relax about it.” You appreciated his unguarded state, a rare departure from his usual precision.

Nodding in understanding, Tech’s slight smile suggested he was becoming more comfortable with the situation. Adjusting his goggles he cleared his voice. “I will take note,” he responded, his voice carrying a hint of amusement now joining yours. A hue of pink came to his complexion - whether it was due to the warm waters or the new information you weren’t sure.

You watched him for a moment, the scientist in him always observing, always analyzing. It was endearing and made him all the more fascinating.

“Speaking of relaxing,” you said cautiously, curious about his thoughts beyond his duties. “Have you ever thought about what you’d like to do when the war is over?”

Tech paused, his gaze drifting off across the steamy water. “I haven’t given it much thought,” he admitted slowly. “There always seems to be another mission, another objective. But, I suppose...” his voice trailed off as he considered the question more seriously.

“An adventurer, maybe?” you suggested playfully, watching his reaction.

Tech looked at you, surprise registering on his face before it softened into contemplative curiosity. “An adventurer,” he repeated, rolling the idea around in his mind. His smile reappeared. “Exploring new planets, studying uncharted ecosystems without a firefight waiting around the corner—that does sound appealing.”

Your conversation drifted into a comfortable silence you both relaxed into. Eventually Tech announced it was time and you got to work heading back. You gave yourself plenty of credit for keeping your eyes above Tech’s waist as you gathered yourselves. Enough credit to indulge yourself in fully devouring the sight of him in his blacks as he led the way back to the grappling line.

Tech tugged his damp blacks into more comfortable angles before crouching in front of you, offering to carry you as he had on the way down. The first time you’d protested, this time you gladly climbed on board.

Securing your arms around his neck you chuckled, “And this really isn’t heavy for you?”

Tech scoffed, bouncing you into position as he stood. “You should not be surprised. After Wrecker, I am the strongest of my brothers.” Your brows raised at his use of ‘brothers’ as well as the fact of his strength. “Any concern is unwarranted, I am more than capable of carrying you.”

Your reply came in securing your still damp hold on him and that was enough for Tech to launch you both towards your veranda above.

Showcasing his tactical skills, Tech expertly got you up and over the railing without so much breaking a sweat.

"You were right," you exhaled, releasing a breath you hadn't realized you were holding as Tech helped you down from his back. Laughing lightly, you admitted, "You were right to carry me." Referring to your initial push to rappel on your own.

Tech straightened to roll out his shoulders. "I would get used to it if I were you," he remarked, a playful edge to his voice.

Dropping the bag from your shoulder, you squinted at Tech. “Get used to what?”

With a confident tilt of his head, Tech smiled. "The fact that I am typically correct." His tone, imbued with humor and self-assurance, sent another flutter through your stomach.

A familiar voice came from the open doors of your quarters. “I am glad to see you are taking your duties seriously.” Your sister’s voice spun you around. Her eyes were focused on the forest beyond, leaving it to guess whether she was addressing your or Tech.

Stepping out from among the drapes, she wore a floor-length light purple dress, cinched at the waist with a golden chain and her hair pulled back by an opal comb. The sight tightened something in your chest. Given that you were summoned to be her stand-in, her presence at home was unexpected. “I didn’t think you’d be here,” you admitted.

She glanced over Tech as she stepped towards you, with her attention lingering before she finally looked at you. “The hot springs?” She asked with a raised brow.

“We had the time,” you replied simply.

Humming thoughtfully, your sister pretended to smooth her dress, keeping her focus on you as she dismissed Tech. “You may leave us, trooper.” Her newfound, cool demeanor you’d first witnessed on Kamino was jarring to say the least.

Tech didn’t immediately leave, but looked at you first. His eyes darted between yours with something like concern and a silent question in his attention. Acutely aware of your sister’s scrutiny, you offered Tech a smile of assurance. He returned the gesture with a nod and promptly excused himself.

He was most likely still in earshot when your sister asked in a cool tone edged with criticism, “What are you doing, sister?”

“Waiting on Mother’s instructions.” You hadn’t expected to sound as snippy as you did.

By the way her eyebrows settled, neither did your sister. Maintaining eye contact, she waved a hand at the doorway behind her. “I meant with the clones.” She shook her head, frustration furrowing her brow. “This stunt of yours is going too far.”

“This stunt of mine?” You recoiled slightly, genuinely confused. “What do you think I’m doing?”

Your sister began pacing the veranda, rubbing her forehead and shaking her head in frustration.. “I thought you were getting some-” Her hand whipped around flippantly, “-Latent rebellious phase out of your system,” she scoffed, looking skyward before fixing her gaze back on you. “But now I’m beginning to think you…” Her voice trailed off as she stopped, pinning you with a stern look.

She approached with hands outstretched to capture your face. Her warm palms gently pressed on your face, a cherishing touch. “Negating your duties to this family is one thing. Fraternizing with lab experiments is another.”

Lab experiments.

The connection wasn’t instantaneous, after all, it was unthinkable that your sister, who had always been the epitome of compassion, could utter such a callous phrase. When her meaning sank in, you took a step, perhaps the first one ever, away from your sister. The morning sun caught on golden threads sewn through your sister's dress, giving her an off putting halo that chilled you.

Throughout your life, where your mother’s efforts were indifferent, your sister exemplified compassion for others. To hear her now, casually dehumanizing an entire race, was like seeing a stranger in her guise. Hearing your mother through your sister, wearing such a familiar face, gave you pause.

Something fractured inside you, and it sharpened your voice to a jagged edge. “How could you say something like that?”

Suddenly, her face softened into the warm grin you adored. With a sound of concession her hands waved around her head in submission before falling to her sides. “I’m just saying you were born for more than this.” Pulling you close again, she planted a kiss on your forehead, like you were a wayward child.

A vein of anger pulsed through you as you shoved her off. “And what exactly was I born for?” You challenged, barely restraining the bite behind your tone.

Your aggression didn’t dim her smile; she brushed off your rising ire with one calm word, “More.”

“Now,” she announced, clapping her hands together as if to dispel the tension. “I’m here to ensure everything is in order for the Gala.” Without checking to see if you followed, she began walking back inside, detailing the timeline for the next day. She never looked back, so accustomed was she to your lifelong habit of trailing behind her.

Anchored in place, you watched her disappear into your quarters. ‘Lab experiments’ kept turning over in your thoughts.

Beyond the sisterly love that always bound you, it was her opinions, thoughts, and motivations that you so sought to protect. She aimed to improve people’s lives and be the voice of your planet’s needs. Without her selfless, kind drive—or even the calculating leadership of your mother—you knew you could still support your people and protect your sister by becoming her shield.

But this new facet of her, the glimpses of a harsher woman unknown to you, troubled you. Supporting your sister and raising her voice above your mother’s was one thing. Supporting a voice that echoed your mother’s was another entirely.

Compared to participating in whatever pageantry your mother and sister had planned, scaling the ivy-covered wall beside you looked was the more appealing option.

Your sister called your name, finally prompting you forward. You could dwell on your family after the event.

The Gala was to be held in a hall open to the public, whereas the rehearsal took place in the privacy of a separate, more secure hall. Typically the venues were one in the same but with your standing in, necessary precautions were taken.

While you managed the rehearsal, Howzer briefed Clone Force 99 on the layout and security protocols of the structure.

Having finished surveying the building’s perimeter, Howzer led the squad up a switchback staircase carved into the mountain. “This is the last access point to the building and, coincidentally,” he noted as they reached the top stair, “a backdoor for tomorrow.”

The stairs led to a rocky outcrop that overlooked the hall where the event would be held. The hall was dimly lit, with staff attending to last-minute preparations.

“It’s an impressive structure,” Hunter remarked, walking to the edge of the outcrop. He knelt down, scanning the windows and balconies below through his binoculars.

Based on Tech’s research, neither the Governor nor the Senator had heat on them. The entire estate was designed to be impenetrable, and as far as Hunter was concerned, everything was in order and controlled. Hunter stood to face Howzer, rolling a shoulder towards the estate behind him. “This seems pretty straight forward, why the extra security?”

Howzer thought, nodding through a long inhale, “The Governor doesn’t do anything without necessity.” He paused, but could only shrug, “But I can’t say. She hasn’t indicated any specific threat.”

Having been on a similar line of thought as Hunter, Echo was the next to question with a question. “Why are clone troopers stationed here anyways?” Clone troopers went where there was unrest and instability; conditions that did not describe your planet. Yours had been stable, if not outright prosperous, in the war so far.

“This planet exports more raw energy than most planets in the Mid Rim combined.” Howzer explained. “From what I’ve been told, when the war started and sides were being chosen, the Republic wouldn’t risk losing this planet’s energy supply so they’ve done everything possible to placate the politicians here.”

He continued, “Plus, having Clone troopers escort the major energy shipments? It’s a smart move for keeping away Separatists and pirates.”

For most of the afternoon, Crosshair had kept his attitude subdued. Whether it was due to a lack of commentary or abundance of restraint was anyone’s guess. Eventually, his patience waned, and he couldn’t help but interject, his voice dripping with disdain. “And where does being a glorified bodyguard come into play?” There was no curiosity in his question, only pure condescension.

Howzer shifted his weight, a muscle feathering over his jawline. Looking Crosshair over he mused, “Seeing as how we’re in the same boat for the next two days,” Scoffing, Howzer turned his attention back to venue below and continued, “Why don’t you let me know when you figure it out?”

That earned a laugh from Wrecker. Almost knocking Crosshair off balance, Wrecker knocked him with an elbow and chuckled, “He gotcha there, Cross.”

A snarl rippled over Crosshair’s lips, twisting into a mean smile. “So you enjoy playing lapdog for a few prissy politicians?”

“Prissy is one way to put it.” Tech added under his breath as he lifted his scanner in the air.

A smile softened Howzer’s features as he noticed a familiar figure stepping out onto a balcony. "Like I said - it has its perks," he said, his gaze fixed on the scene below. The two of you were discussing something with your sister holding a datapad between you while 9-E trailed you.

Crosshair followed Howzer's gaze, his annoyance cooling slightly as he spotted you on the balcony. The sniper clicked his tongue and stepped back from the ledge.

Tech, still fiddling with his scanner, noticed the change in Crosshair and found you. He watched you for a beat, glancing between Howzer and you, before tucking his device away. “It looks like they are nearing the end of their preparations. This would be a good opportunity to head back.” It was all the prompting his squad needed to start moving towards the stairs.

Howzer didn’t immediately move, his eyes dropping away before locking back on you. “Tell me something,” He said, voice dropping low. “How’d she take it?”

The question sent a pulse of silence through the men as they exchanged looks. Howzer faced the group, tapping the scar that marred his left cheek. “I saw her face.”

“Running to her defense?” Crosshair's voice was sharp, tinged with scorn.

Echo passed Crosshair a disapproving shake of his head. Sounding impressed, Echo was the one to answer, “She handled herself like a soldier.”

That was the answer Howzer expected, but still his shoulders fell. Howzer's expression softened slightly, though a hint of sadness lingered. "Prissy doesn't even begin to cover her on a good day," he muttered, more to himself than to the others.

In the limited time the Captain was stationed on your planet, he’d caught on quickly enough to your family dynamics.

Initially, the Senator had seemed the most approachable. She was amiable, respectful, and appreciative of the clones' efforts, contrasting sharply with the Governor’s dismissive air. Whereas, you were distant, something Howzer took as alignment with the Governor’s sentiments. Rumors even made their way through the barracks that it was the Governor that kept you away, that she deemed clones unworthy of her daughter’s company. Howzer shut the insubordination down, but he’d be lying if he said he hadn’t thought the same thing.

It wasn’t until the first conference Howzer attended with your family that his perspective changed. The conference kept the Governor distracted and gave you the first real chance to approach him. Your humor surprised him, your unabashed admiration for the clones even moreso. After an evening with you, he found himself in your company at every opportunity. While your leash was tight, more so than you probably even realized, you definitely knew your way around your restrictions.

Once Howzer heard how the Governor spoke of you and your ‘lack of ambition’ Howzer understood he only saw a small part of the whole. After a time she grabbed your arm so hard you winced, he worried about what she did when there weren’t witnesses. In the end, Howzer decided it wasn’t his place to comment. Even as a Captain in the Grand Army of the Republic, he was only a clone trooper.

So, he kept things professional, maintaining a safe boundary with you. Yet, he indulged your questions about training and duties, even encouraged you to get training if that’s what you felt your path was. When you didn’t return from Kamino, that safe boundary quickly felt like a noose on your neck.

Your safe return felt like a second chance. Howzer wouldn’t be a silent bystander again.

“You know,” Howzer addressed the group but looked directly at Crosshair. “We were made to take hits. Clones are trained all our lives to take this well.” He walked past the men, bumping into Crosshair on his way, adding, “Makes you wonder, doesn't it? What taught her to handle it so well?”

This was the first time a reg left Crosshair silent and the first time he resented his ability to see so far off. He didn’t want to look at you.

That evening, you returned well after dark. Exhausted, your feet ached, your back was sore, and your mind thoroughly numbed from your sister’s constant instructions. You didn’t even bother with the lights as you made your way through your quarters.

Slumping down on to the edge of the bed, you began pulling at the tight shoes your sister chose for you. As you bent, a twitch ran through you that flared pain in your shoulder. It reminded you of all the reasons your shoulder was sore and why you were staring at a pair of ugly, golden slippers.

A burst of rage sent the slipper soaring into the wall ahead of you. Unsatisfied, you ripped the other off and chucked it toward the open veranda doors, where it landed just short of the outside.

Annoyed with yourself, you retrieved the shoe, and as you neared the door, you caught the drift of voices outside. With soft steps, you continued onto the veranda for a better listen.

Hunter’s stern voice made it through the wall first. “Crosshair, calm down.”

“No,” Crosshair snapped, his voice as furious as when you had headbutted him. “He knew who she was and didn’t say anything. He got us into this situation.”

Great, you inwardly groaned. They’re talking about me. Discomfort bloomed in your chest, sending prickling anxiety up your spine. They were fighting because of you.

Echo interjected, his tone just as firm. “The Prime Minister got us into this, not her. And you’re only making it worse with your attitude. Keep it to yourself. We have a mission to do and she certainly doesn’t need it,” he snapped, footsteps receding as he presumably walked back indoors.

As you strained to hear who was left, Tech’s reasoned voice floated over. “I hardly see how my knowledge of her identity caused any problems.”

“Oh, don’t act so innocent.” Crosshair fumed. “You knew, and because of your silence, I—We could’ve handled things differently.

Tech sighed, a mix of frustration and resignation in his voice. “I merely respected her decision to train without interference.”

“And look where that got her,” Crosshair retorted sharply, his voice dripping with bitter sarcasm.

At that you sucked in a small breath.

Tech started to push back when Hunter finally stepped in, “We’re done here. Tech, Wrecker, inside. Crosshair, stay out here and cool off.”

From the sounds of it, the others retreated inside and the solitary grumbling confirmed it for you. As softly as possible, you walked to the railing. You swallowed what you could of your anxiety and leaned over the balcony to peer around the ivy wall.

Sure enough, there Crosshair was, head in hands, leaning on the handrail. Catching him in this small moment of silence felt like seeing something you shouldn’t have. The moonlight illuminated him, bouncing off his hair enough to give him a glow. He was beautiful.

“What could you possibly want?” You jumped when Crosshair’s sharp tone cut through the silence. He dropped his hands and met you with an irritated look.

The first thing that came to mind spilled out, your nerves getting the better of you. “I want a lot of things.”

Crosshair shifted his weight onto one elbow, twisting in place to see you better. “What?” The tone in that one word sounded like a larger, more insulting question.

Swaying from the balls of your feet to your tiptoes and back, you considered tossing yourself from the balcony rather than saying another word. Staring out over the forest beyond you were slow to think of anything. Hesitantly, you started, “I want… this Gala to be over.” You turned a smile on Crosshair, hoping the humor would crack his scowl.

It didn’t.

“And I want to apologize.”

That caught his attention. His sour expression pinched with confusion. He straightened, resting his hand on the railing. “For what?” he asked skeptically.

Taking a sidestep in his direction, you took another jab as lightening the mood, crooning, “Don’t get your hopes up, it’s not for headbutting you.” His face didn’t change and the grip he had on the railing went white, spiking that prickling anxiety again. Crosshair said nothing, pushing away from the railing to leave.

“Crosshair, wait!” You scooted to where the veranda met the dividing wall.

“Save it.” He growled without looking back.

His walking away, dismissing you, not giving you the time of day - all of it broiled a rage deep seated within you. A rage that had been festering inside you since childhood. The very same flood of rage that sent your shoes flying earlier. One of which you still held in hand.

Chucking the slipper as hard as you could, it found its mark on the back of Crosshair’s head. At an abrupt halt, he stood frozen, then slowly faced you. Where the moonlight once brought out a beauty in the man, now darkened an already angry glower.

“What was that for?” His voice was dangerously low.

Refusing intimidation, you curled your fingers into the air in front of you. Through gritted frustration, you said, “Because I’m tired of you being an ass! You’re angry with me so just-” Your hands fumbled in front of you, making angry shapes as you worked out the last words, “Just say it!”

Crosshair said nothing, going silent as he took two long strides, gripped the railing with one hand, and vaulted himself around the wall with fluidity. You managed to get out of his way as he danding on your side without a sound. He didn’t move any closer, but even feet away he stood over you.

Not backing down, you were the one to close the distance, doubling down by saying, “Say it to my face.” He dodged the finger you thrust in his face.

The two of you stood like that, on the cusp of something angry, for almost a moment too long. As if neither of you had fully thought this through. Thought through what to say or how to say it. Especially seeing as your typical mode of conflict wasn’t on the table.

His jaw clenched a few times before he spoke and, much calmer than you expected, Crosshair said, “You should have told us who you were.”

Your frustration bled into desperation. “Crosshair, please, this isn’t a game to me. If I wanted to train, I had to-” On instinct you reached for his arm but he stepped out of reach before you made contact.

You both froze with your hand still hanging between you. Simultaneously, the two of you broke eye contact to look at your hand and when he didn’t swat your hand, you reached for him again. And again, he evaded you.

“Crosshair.” You said slowly. “What is going on?” His avoidance seemed like anger, but his sidestepping made you think again. “Why are you avoiding me?”

“I...” Crosshair’s voice trailed off as he fell back a step, something flickering in his eyes. He tried to look elsewhere, but you stepped into his line of sight. A little jolt ran up his neck, almost taken aback by your persistence. What little control he had over himself seemed to be slipping.

Careful of the boundary you toed, you held his gaze while extending a hand to him again. His eyes didn’t falter, but the breath he held told you he knew what you were doing. With the caution of handling a wild animal, you gently touched his forearm. The muscles in his jaw went tight at your touch.

In a voice reserved for your sister, gentle and patient, you pushed softly, “It’s more than not telling you, isn’t it?”

The moonlight softened Crosshair’s brown eyes to a pale hazel and revealed a flicker of whatever fight he had with himself. “If I had known who you were-”

“You wouldn’t have trained me?” You cut him off, too eager to know his inner workings.

His mouth opened just enough for him to say, “That’s not it.” For only a second, had you blinked you’d have missed it, his eyes scanned your face.

You didn’t need to ask to know it was marks on your face he sought.

“No.” A dawning realization tilted your head. You weren’t sure if you were flattered or offended. “You wouldn’t have used me like a punching bag.”

Like a child caught in trouble, those pale hazel eyes widened. This was, perhaps, a shared realization.

“Are you avoiding me because you’re ashamed?” Crosshair didn’t respond, his silence a confirmation as he looked away, unable to meet your gaze.

“I… I don’t want to hurt you,” he finally admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. “Not more than I already have.”

His confession pushed your hand from his forearm to his hand, balled into a tight fist.

“Look at me,” You urged gently, wedging your fingers into his. “Crosshair.” For a long moment, he remained still, then slowly, he found your eyes again.

You shook your head with a weak smile, the weight of his guilt adding to your own. Squeezing his hand you made your own confession. “I am sorry-”

“Don’t-”

“No.” You said firmly, squeezing again. “I am sorry. I didn’t mean to drag you all into this. I just…” A crack in your voice made you pause. Coughing through it, you continued, “I just wanted to be more than I am.”

Red hot shame burned tears into the corners of your eyes. The hold you had on his fingers, sat loose in yours, suddenly felt like an imposition. For weeks he was forced to be in your company. Now you forced him away from his duties to be another unwilling participant.

You slipped your hand from his at the thought of doing anymore damage. Your retreat made it no farther as an armored arm slung around you.

Crosshair pulled you close, trapping you under his chin. The sound of crickets was dampened by his breathing and drowned out entirely when Crosshair spoke.

“Don’t apologize to me or anyone else for that matter.”

The moment was fleeting. Before you could fully register or react to his words, Crosshair let you go, stepping back to give you space, his expression perfect neutrality. The feel of his arm lingered around you and kept you speechless as he lightly swiped a thumb over your eye.

When all you managed were a few blinks, his lips pulled slightly to one side. “That’s not a good look for you.”

Warmth spread through your chest when he made a swipe over your other eye. You chuffed at the soft gesture, but gently pushed his hand away. While your touch still lingered, you playfully tugged his hand to the side, as if inviting him to dance.

Angling a smile up at him, you asked, “And… who can’t keep their hands off of who?”

Crosshair’s smile vanished as he rolled his eyes and groaned, pulling his hand back. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

You palmed away any remaining tears, chuckling as you stepped back. “Oh, get over yourself.”

There was a beat of silence before you both laughed. It was the first time you heard him laugh softly. The lingering warmth from your brief, shared laughter made the cool night air more bearable.

“As fun as this is,” Crosshair drawled, taking another step away. He flashed you one last disarming smile before turning on a heel to leave. “I think someone needs her beauty sleep.”

Your stomach fluttered as you watched him walk away. Seeing him so relaxed and even playful made his tease feel unexpectedly charming.

With a light laugh and a wave, you called out, “Go away, Crosshair.”

Alone on the veranda, you wrapped your arms around yourself, absorbing the night’s calm. The day had been the longest you’d had in a long time. And at the end of it all - you somehow felt good. Making amends with Crosshair made you feel hopeful that whatever tomorrow brought, you were ready for it.

Whether the men of Clone Force 99 knew it or not, they were changing your life forever.

taglist: @bruh-myguy-what @havocsix2havoc5 @thebadbatchfan @rhyscosmos @euphrosyn3 @a-rose-of-amber @reader3 @gingermeowmeow @noraantilles @tbbtechlover @fruityfucker @sparks0918 @patat-gurl @locamoka-blog @gvnthesia @astralqueenoc @the-adventures-of-alex-aurelius @faborriku @galaxyquirks @bimboshaggy @starlightaurorab @commanderblood @froggygal @bbuckysbeardd @baddest-batchers

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cringefailvox · 7 months ago

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staticbelle au, because this bsky art gave me brainworms. seven years pre-canon, charlie's mom and the radio demon have both disappeared, though it's too early to tell whether either of them is truly gone yet, vaggie hasn't fallen yet, and charlie is completely on her own. she's estranged from her dad, she has barely an inkling of a plan for how to save sinners, and her overwhelming compassion has nowhere to go—she wants to help people, but she doesn't know how. then she notices there's a new overlord syndicate on the rise, surging to fill the spaces the radio demon has left behind, and every window advertisement or tv commercial she sees insists that the vees want nothing more than to lend a helping hand to the downtrodden, if you would only trust them.

she's not stupid. she knows not to immediately take other demons at their word, especially not overlords, but the vees are swiftly building something she hasn't been able to accrue in two centuries: influence. sinners are listening when they talk, people are tuning into their shows and flocking to the entertainment district because it's safer than many other places in the pentagram, and charlie thinks this might be exactly what she needs. if she can convince the vees to platform her, if they're half as generous as they seem, she might have a real shot at changing people's afterlives for the better. and if they don't want to help her, then... she'll just have to be really, really convincing! no biggee!

enter vox, who cannot believe his luck. the kittens and rainbows, dumb blonde princess of hell waltzes right through his front door and offers him the opportunity of a lifetime to get into good graces with the royal family. he's greedy with alastor's absence and overeager to get his foot in the door on an even playing field with the other overlords, since bringing velvette onboard has catapulted the three of them into the mainstream and he's not about to lose his momentum now. he'll entertain her delusions, maybe give her her own talkshow segment late at night when no one who matters will be watching, forge a link between the morningstar name and the new identity he's staking out for himself in the wake of alastor's disappearance. after all, the worst that can happen is she embarrasses herself under his name and he has to swoop in and oh-so-benevolently rescue her, and it's not like val doesn't already do that every other week. plus, ratings are ratings.

so he keeps his word. he gives her a platform, albeit a limited one; he enthusiastically encourages her ideas for rehabilitating hell and privately thinks it's hysterically idiotic; he lets her deliver her pitches in musical form live on air and isn't charmed, not even a little bit. he expects that eventually she'll get discouraged and give up, and when that happens, he's going to step in with a warm smile and gently suggest that they try something a little different, a little more vox's speed, and if he can get her hand shaking his in the process then that's only a magnificent bonus.

except. charlie refuses to quit. she's not an employee, so she comes and goes as she pleases from the tower and suddenly vox's days are being interrupted by a sheepishly excitable princess who has a new script for him to look over or a tune she wants a second opinion on and of course vox is accommodating every time, of course he's supportive, even when he's so fucking irritated he plasters on an indulgent grin and invites her in, because he's made an art form out of swallowing his real feelings for the sake of appeasing the public or valentino or alastor and this is not a relationship he can afford to jeopardize with something as trivial as hurting her feelings.

so he indulges her. he picks up one of her glitter pens and reaches over to scribble something on her illustration of all the overlords holding hands and it's all downhill from there. before he can think to pump the brakes, he's being looped into genuinely investigating what qualifies as sin and redemption for damned souls, he's having his architects draft plans for an extravagant rehabilitation hotel that makes her cry when he idly mentions it, he's sighing and enduring the way all his vulgar mugs have mysteriously been rewritten with positive messages instead (fuck hug alastor!), he's letting her lean over the rim of his pools and gasp with sheer delight over his sharks because that doesn't give him the warm and fuzzies, not at all—and he's even somewhat patiently heeding her constructive criticism about all the mind control and abusive work environments and predatory business practices that the vees engage in. like, obviously they're not going to stop, but he does talk to val and vel about toning it down a bit, at least while charlie is around. gotta keep little miss sunshine happy, right? (no one tell him that he really doesn't need to be doing all this, he won't listen.)

meanwhile, charlie has gone full starry-eyed dreamer with vox's backing. for the first time, someone is genuinely supporting her, even if that person is an evil capitalist who sometimes feeds his employees to his sharks and is definitely hypnotizing people with his ads but, uhh. everyone has flaws!! and doesn't it kind of balance out, if he's helping her figure out how to redeem people, ensuring her ideas have real power and structure behind them, and even limiting some of the fucked up shit his partners do for her sake? maybe he's not doing it for the right reasons, but he IS doing good, and shouldn't that matter? charlie absolutely thinks it does. she didn't really intend for vox to be her first case study for proving that every sinner has the capacity to be better when given the opportunity, but like hell is she NOT going to milk this for all it's worth for as long as it takes for vox to realize that he's committed to the bit too hard and actually. Likes her. and wants her to succeed. and feels his mood lift when she's in the room. and may or may not be addicted to making her happy. g-d fucking dammit

all this to say that one day, when he presents her with the operational plans for the grand opening of the happy hotel, and she exclaims "oh my gosh, thank you thank you thank you" and leans up on her toes to kiss the corner of his screen before tackling him into a hug, and his screen explodes with pink pixelated hearts—well, he's well and truly fucked himself. whoops! the princess of hell is your girlfriend now. yeah, you've lost the plot. mazel tov

#i May be obsessed with them #staticbelle #voxlie #vox #charlie morningstar #hazbin hotel #charlie

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fictionfanatic-wren · 24 days ago

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The robin games

chapter 5/7. The Robin Games - Chapter 5 - Fictionfanatic_Wren - Batman - All Media Types [Archive of Our Own]

The small, dimly lit maintenance room was packed wall-to-wall with capes, armor, and confusion. Superman hovered just above the ground, arms crossed. Green Arrow was crouched near the half-eaten protein bar like it was a crime scene. Wonder Woman stood by the door, stone-faced. Hal Jordan paced, while Barry looked like someone had kicked his dog. “Alright,” Dinah said, hands on her hips. “Someone needs to explain why it smells like old coffee, protein bars, and deodorant for teenage boys in here.” “Because someone’s been living here,” Ollie grumbled, holding up the half-unwrapped bar with two fingers. “Look at this. Half-eaten. Not even wrapped properly. There’s coffee residue in the cup holder and prints on the terminal.” “That’s definitely not ours,” Barry added, squinting at the cup. “That’s the mug I’ve been looking for since yesterday. Yesterday, people.” “So someone’s been camping out on the Watchtower without us knowing,” Hal said, turning to Bruce with narrowed eyes. “Care to explain how your billion-dollar security system missed a freeloader living in the walls?” Bruce stood silent, face unreadable. “It didn’t miss them,” he said finally, tone low. “It found them just now.” “That’s not an answer,” Hal shot back. “I’m still processing the data,” Bruce replied smoothly, eyes never leaving the half-powered computer console. Clark floated a little closer, scanning the equipment with his x-ray vision. “There’s a whole tech setup hidden behind the panels,” he reported. “Wires, a motion sensor jammer, even a router spoof. This wasn’t slapped together. This was deliberate.” “So the real question,” Ollie muttered, “is which one of us brought a secret intern onboard.” Barry perked up, hopeful. “Maybe it’s a stowaway from Earth? A well-meaning super-fan?” “With access to League systems?” Diana said, one brow arching. “And the ability to bypass our security and, according to you, eat your pizza?” Barry deflated. “...Yeah, okay, probably not a fan.” “Let’s take stock,” Dinah said, ticking off her fingers. “We’ve had: stolen pizza, missing coffee mugs, glitter bombs in the armory, Green Arrow’s door screaming shame at him, and now someone is nesting in our walls. Someone very skilled.” Hal rubbed his temples. “Okay, real talk. If this is about the laser pointer prank from six months ago, I already apologized, Barry.” “That’s what you want me to think,” Barry snapped, arms flailing. “Maybe this is the long con. The real revenge!” “You are not important enough to sabotage with a long con,” Bruce said flatly, stepping past them to inspect the panel Tim had hastily closed. Everyone froze. “Spooky,” Clark said carefully. “That sounded kinda personal.” “Let’s not fight,” Diana said, sighing. “Let’s focus. Whoever’s here is skilled enough to hide, hack, and infiltrate without being caught for days. We need a plan.” “Oh, I’ve got one,” Ollie muttered. “We burn the whole maintenance wing and flush them out.” “Ollie.” “What? It worked with raccoons.” Bruce straightened from the console. “No fire” he said. “But we lock down non-essential areas. Increase patrols. Motion sensors, heat trackers, and set traps in likely routes.” Everyone nodded, except Barry, who just looked mournfully at his empty mug. “…I miss my coffee.”

Tim Drake moved quickly through the narrow metal duct, his body pressed low and knees aching from the awkward angles. He was running on pure adrenaline now, he’d narrowly escaped being discovered in the maintenance room, but not without losses. His spare toolkit, the laptop charger, and Barry’s coffee mug were all left behind. “Fantastic,” Tim muttered under his breath, the distant hum of voices below fading as he crawled deeper into the Watchtower’s belly. “All because someone decided to trigger an alarm right next to me.” He paused at a junction in the vent, twisting to glance at the corridor below through a slatted grate. Then, Thump. The faintest vibration in the metal above him. He stilled. Every instinct screamed caution. Someone else was in the shaft. Tim slowly reached for a small baton from his belt and turned. From the shadows, a low voice spoke: “You’re incredibly loud for someone who’s supposed to be stealthy.” Tim froze. A small figure crouched just ahead, perched in the shadows like a gargoyle. Damian. The youngest Robin looked perfectly at ease, barely winded, his cloak tucked tightly around his small frame, expression full of judgment. Tim narrowed his eyes. “You tripped the alarm, didn’t you.” Damian tilted his head. “Of course I did. This is a competition. Only the competent deserve to win. You were getting too comfortable.” Tim exhaled sharply, crawling closer so they could talk without echoing. “You little gremlin, I had a whole system running. I was fine until your stunt brought the League breathing down my neck.” Damian’s eyes gleamed in the dim light. “You were growing complacent. And it was funny.” Tim pinched the bridge of his nose. “You know if they’d found my stuff-” “Then you would’ve lost. You should thank me for teaching you the importance of vigilance.” Tim stared at him. “You sound exactly like Bruce when he’s being a hypocrite.” “A compliment.” Tim groaned. “You stole Dick’s gear too, didn’t you?” Damian didn’t answer, but his smug silence spoke volumes. Tim muttered something under his breath that was definitely not appropriate for younger ears. The two stared at each other in silence, crouched in opposite corners of the vent. For a moment, there was a grudging, still tension between them. Then Tim sighed. “Fine. Truce. Just for today. I need a new hiding spot.” Damian raised a brow. “I’m not sharing my camp.” “I don’t want it. Just a direction that isn’t crawling with League members and panic.” Damian considered this. Then he jerked his chin to the left. “Upper deck. Storage vents near the armory. Leaguers don’t patrol there much.” Tim paused, then gave a curt nod. “Thanks.” Damian arched a brow. “Try not to get caught. It would be… disappointing.” Tim rolled his eyes and began crawling away. “Right back at you, gremlin.” Damian smirked as he disappeared into the shadows, already thinking of his next move.

Jason pressed himself against the cool metallic wall, breathing shallowly as he listened to the distant sound of boots echoing through the corridor. Way too many boots. He peeked around the corner. Green Arrow. Black Canary. Flash. All moving in different directions, radios buzzing on their hips. “Maintenance room sweep’s clear,” Dinana’s voice crackled over the comms. “Yeah, but somebody left a thermos of my coffee in there,” Barry hissed. Jason ducked back, swearing under his breath. This was bad. The League was in full lockdown mode now, walking around like a bunch of angry substitute teachers trying to catch kids passing notes. All because of one little triggered alarm and a missing mug. Okay. And maybe the trip wire in the gym. And maybe the slightly rigged training bot that randomly screamed insults at ollie for two hours. And, yeah, okay, a few pranks. He crept backward into a dark corridor that led to the utility crawlspaces. His old hiding spot in the storage bay was now way too risky, at least three League members had passed through in the last hour. Jason muttered to himself as he climbed into an access tunnel. “Could’ve just let Tim or Damian take the fall, but nooo. I had to switch Barry’s toothpaste with marshmallow fluff and now the whole tower’s on DEFCON 1.” He crawled deeper until he found a narrow space behind a ventilation conduit, the metal panels warm against his back. He took off his helmet, wiping sweat from his brow, then pulled a granola bar from his pocket and bit into it like it owed him money. Footsteps passed by again above. Jason closed his eyes, forcing his breathing to slow. This was fine. This was manageable. He’d hide here for a bit, wait for the tension to cool, maybe frame Hal later if things got dire. No one suspected that Red Hood himself was in the watchtower. Yet. But the moment his eyes started to droop, a voice blared from a nearby intercom: “Reminder: motion sensors have been temporarily enhanced in this sector due to recent… incidents. Please report any suspicious movement immediately.” Jason sighed, then shoved the rest of the granola bar into his mouth. “I swear to god, if I find out Tim set this up…”

Watchtower, Sector B1, Personnel Quarters Dick Grayson moved like a shadow, a very annoyed, gearless shadow. His crawlspace hiding spot had been compromised hours ago. And without his tools, he was flying blind in a nest full of superheroes and security systems. Damian had swiped everything from his little rooftop nook, even his emergency chocolate bar. The betrayal stung. "Never trust a ten-year-old with murder training," Dick muttered under his breath as he crept through a dim hallway, every motion smooth but fueled by pure desperation. His Nightwing suit, while flexible, was now a beacon without the signal disruptors. The sleek navy blue made him far too recognizable for someone trying to stay unseen. He needed a disguise. Fast. He turned a corner, and stopped. Room B1-04. The door was heavy, black, and marked only by a biometric scanner and a simple nameplate: RESTRICTED, ACCESS LEVEL 10 Most of the League assumed this room was storage or an unused system control station. But Dick had known the truth since his early Robin years. Batman’s quarters. He hesitated for exactly two seconds. Then: “Desperate times…” Dick bypassed the lock with a quick override Bruce had taught him back when trust between them wasn’t a limited resource, and slipped inside. The room was spartan. Clean. Every corner obsessively organized. A minimalistic bed, a locked trunk, and a closet lined with armor and utility gear. But no personal touches. No photos. No journals. Classic Bruce. Dick moved to the closet. His heart thudded in his ears as he flipped through the suits, mostly standard Bat-armor, backup units, and even one older prototype with an awkward yellow emblem. Finally, he found it: a slimmed-down, stealth-variant Batsuit. Jet black, lightweight. More flexible than the others, probably one Bruce wore for espionage operations. Perfect. Dick stripped off his Nightwing gear in record time and pulled the suit on. It clung to him like a second skin. The cowl, smaller than Bruce’s standard, fit well enough once he adjusted the chin plate. He looked into the darkened windowpane and smirked at the reflection: “Well. I guess I’m Batman now.” He paused. Then shook his head. “Nope. Not saying that out loud again.” Just as he secured the last piece of armor, he heard footsteps outside the hallway.

Dick didn’t expect to be stopped. That was the whole point of wearing the suit. But as soon as he turned the corner, he nearly ran straight into Green Arrow, Canary, and Martian Manhunter, all looking like they’d been mid-conversation until the second he appeared. “Batman,” Ollie said with a nod, stepping aside to let him pass. Dick managed a stiff nod back. “Arrow. Canary. J’onn.” He deepened his voice slightly, not a full growl (he wasn’t going to parody Bruce), but just enough to pass. It seemed to work. At least for a second. Until Green Arrow squinted. “You look… thinner than usual.” “I changed my diet.” Dinah tilted her head. “And you’re walking weird.” “My leg was injured in Gotham. Minor strain. Nothing worth filing.” Martian Manhunter stared. Hard. His glowing eyes narrowed like he was scanning something just off. Dick’s internal panic flared, was the suit giving him away? Heat signature? His height? He subtly adjusted his posture and folded his arms across his chest, classic Bruce. “If there’s nothing else, I need to return to my work.” Canary blinked. “We were going to brief you on the Star City gang forming. You skipped the last two meetings.” “I was busy,” Dick said, already turning to walk past them. “And I read the reports. Proceed without me.” He held his breath as he walked away, back rigid, cape swishing just enough to look dramatic. The moment he turned the next corner and was out of sight, he bolted into the next maintenance shaft like his life depended on it. Inside the vent, he slumped against the wall, yanked off the cowl, and exhaled. “Never again,” he muttered. “I need a double the cookies when i win. And therapy.”

#ao3 #batman #dc comics #bruce wayne #dc robin #dinah lance #dick grayson #barry allen #justice league #jason todd #ao3 writer #ao3 fanfic #tim drake #damian wayne #clark kent #oliver queen #hal jordan #arthur curry #diana prince

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childrenofcain-if · 8 months ago

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Hello, Axel, I'm a big fan of all your works and have been following you since the first blog you had of What Lovely Bones. I'm super excited about this new book and it really looks like you've found your niche and moved along with it so far.

I've always felt that you were a great writer and you've only gotten better over the years, I sometimes feel like a proud sibling because I've been here since you were nineteen and you're now twenty one, if I'm not mistaken 😅

Ok I'm rambling now so let me get to what I wanted to ask: how does your writing process go and do you have a schedule to work with. I really don't want you to feel burnt out over things in the future like you did with your other projects

wow, we have an og here, it seems. glad to have you onboard for what’s been like 3 years now (i think)!

i wouldn’t say that i have a particular ‘niche’ when it comes to genres and whatnot, but it’s not very surprising to see the assumptions either. i’ve been decently motivated to write this story and have been very productive without burning myself out so no writer’s block on the horizon yet, but i won’t jinx myself.

i don’t think i have a specific writing schedule, to answer your questions. my creative juices flow freely sometimes or just remain stagnant the other times. i do write my ideas down when they come to me so i won’t forget about them later. but i’ve also learned that you just can’t force yourself to write when your brain is running low on motivation or ideas.

it’s a five-step process for me when i do decide to write:

review the notes which includes the ideas i previously jotted down sporadically.

adjust them to how it might fit onto the scenes that i’m writing.

connect the ideas and assign characters, choices, and ultimately the consequences of said choices.

talk to myself for the dialogues and note them down as well, laughing to myself like an escapee from a psych ward and patting myself on the back for particularly witty one-liners.

black out while typing and later gain consciousness with a terrible back pain, hands cramping up, and at least 5-10k word count per writing session.

a lot of these ideas will never see the light of the day—e.g.: MC getting hit by a hockey stick so hard that they get a concussion and can’t hear out of their right ear—but they do serve as a runway for other ideas to take off.

if i had any advice to give writers, it’s to just. write. it. down. maybe you think it’s irrelevant/weird when the ideas first come to you, but by that point you already have the foundations ready. all you have to do now is to adjust it and build up on it.

#this has been my tried and true process so far #thank you for the thoughtful ask og bonnie #if: the ballad of the young gods #interactive fiction #interactive novel #twine wip #interactive story

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tessa-liam · 10 months ago

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Life Goes On

Marabelle Series

Chapter 15 – Part 2

Choices – The Royal Romance, AU – (cross-over with Rules of Engagement)

Series Premise – An American teenager from New York City is introduced to the world of a small European country and its society of royalty, nobility, and commoners. How will her life story be transformed? Will this new adventure bring her happiness...or regret?

Marabelle Series Masterlist, My Complete Masterlist

Main Pairing – Crown Prince Liam Rys x F!OC Lady Sophia (Sophie) Taylor

Other Pairings – Maxwell Beaumont x M!OC Daniel (from NYC), Drake Walker x F!OC Melanie Smithson

Most characters belong to Choices/Pixelberry Studios

Series Rating – M*🔞Warnings: this series will have NSFW material, drinking, crude language & innuendo, gun violence

Many thanks to @selina012 for pre-reading.

Category – Alternate universe/on-going series/angst/fluff/cross-over with Choices Rules of Engagement

Chapter Summary – Liam returns home to Cordonia to find Sophie and to address his nation about the university terror attack.

Music & Title Inspiration: Life Goes On, Ed Sheeran, Luke Combs; Run To You, Lucy Thomas

A/N1: Bethany Beaumont, Maxwell’s mother, is originally from the U.S. and is Barthelemy Beaumont’s second wife. Annabelle Beaumont (deceased) is Bertrand’s mother.

A/N2: ‘Social Season’ in this AU series refers to a traditional period in the spring/summer for royalty and members of the court to take part in Balls, dinner parties and charity events.

A/N3: Heartfelt thanks to @Selina012 for joining me in writing ideas and with dialogue/content for this chapter and series.

Aboard the Royal jet, Rashad peered outside the window and took in the white sands of Cordonia's shores passing by. Suddenly his ears popped, and the pilot spoke over the intercom, announcing the estimated arrival time was in 5 minutes. He felt nervous and helpless and could not help but repeat his fears in his mind: ‘There hasn't been any good news’.

Drake watched Liam walk away from his seat, his hand curled around a glass tumbler filled with an expensive scotch. He wondered if they would hear news before they landed. Remembering his best friend's emotional spiral downward after the past assassination attempt three years ago at the palace; this had the makings of that same pattern. This time though, Drake was not going to leave Liam alone.

The dire problem of not having any clues where Sophie was at the moment was suffocating.

As they waited to land, the minutes seemed to draw out. There was not much he or any of Liam's guards could do but wait and prepare to offer the crown prince their full support.

Liam finished off his scotch, the fiery liquid barely registering, and tried to review the notes for his upcoming address to his nation in his head while stepping into his private suite onboard.

There had still been no update on his beloved Sophie's whereabouts or circumstances.

He took a deep, long breath and turned to Bastien walking next to him with unmistakable determination. "Bastien, contact the security team back home immediately. I need all the current details on the scene and an update on the rescue operations."

Bastien sprang into action, calling the security team leader and putting him on speakerphone so that Liam could hear the conversation in real time. Captain Sean Wilson answered the call.

"Captain, this is Crown Prince Liam Rys, requesting an update on the incident at the University of Cordonia." Liam's voice came through the phone speaker, clear and strong.

"Your Highness, the situation at the scene is complicated and we have deployed additional rescue teams to help facilitate the speedy rescue and recovery process.”

The captain’s voice was tired but remained professional. "We have confirmation that multiple students have been injured in the shooting. We have increased security three-fold around the campus and are working diligently to track down the suspects."

Liam's fists clenched involuntarily, but he remained stoic as he continued. "I need a complete list of all the known casualties. I want to know about each and every one."

"Your Highness, we have established a comprehensive emergency response mechanism. At present, we are compiling the information and rescue teams are working at full ability. The list of casualties is being urgently collated, and I will send it to you via encrypted channels as soon as it is completed."

Liam nodded, and though he could not be seen, there was an unmistakable insistence in his tone: "I need this completed as soon as possible. In addition, please continue to strengthen the search and rescue efforts to ensure the safety of all students. At the same time, increase the manpower to hunt down the suspects and I demand that they be brought to justice in the shortest possible time."

Shortly after hanging up, the sound of an encrypted email rang on Liam's tablet, which he quickly clicked on; and displayed a list of known casualties on the screen as asked. There were fourteen people in the column of the dead, and dozens of names in the column of the injured. Liam took a deep breath and began to go through the list of names, one by one, each name like a sharp blade, stabbing at his heart. He searched carefully, afraid to miss any possible detail. But until the end, he did not find Sophie's name.

Liam clenched his fists, his eyes shining with unshakeable determination. "Bastien, as soon as the jet lands, we will go to the scene and assess the situation personally.”

Bastien, at once responded: "Yes, Your Highness. I will ensure that everything is in place."

Liam turned his head to stare out the window at the clouds; his heart was in turmoil. Although Sophie's name did not appear on the list of casualties, his fears did not diminish. He knew that the lack of news did not mean that Sophie was necessarily safe. That she might still be struggling, or that for some reason she might not be able to communicate with the outside world. He had to ensure that Sophie was safe personally.

Thinking of this, he took out his phone and touched Sophie’s number with trembling fingers. But all he heard on the other end of the line was a cold, robotic voice: 'Sorry, the number you are trying to reach is unavailable.'

Sending a text, he carefully tapped every letter, as he expressed his worries and thoughts.

'Love, please call me as soon as you get this message. I'm worried about you.'

___

'Where are you? Are you safe? Why can't I reach you?'

___

'I'm already on my way back to Cordonia. Please wait for me. Please.'

As the minutes ticked by, the 'unread' message on the screen was an ironic and cruel reminder of the futility of all his efforts.

Frustrated, he then tried to call Sophie's aunt and then sent a text message to Maxwell. 'Max, are you okay? Where are you? Have you heard from Sophie?'

Shortly after, his phone vibrated and Liam checked the text immediately .... only to see Maxwell reply,

"Liam, me and Daniel are at the Malic Hotel now, we're all right. But Sophie got separated in the confusion!!!!😢 I have been trying to reach her without success. I'm really worried about her.'

Receiving this update, Liam, although still anxious, was also relieved that Maxwell felt safe. He immediately replied: "Max, good to hear you're okay. Please keep in touch, I'll be back as soon as I can, and we'll find Sophie together."

Liam then picked up his phone again and sent a text message to Sophie's Aunt Bethany:

'Duchess Bethany, this is Liam. How are you? Have you heard from Sophie? I am very concerned for her safety.'

A few minutes later, Bethany replied to his message: 'Your Highness, I'm fine, but Sophie hasn't been heard from since the ceremony. I am also anxiously awaiting her contact. Please try to not worry, I'm sure she will be all right'

Liam's heart sank to rock bottom as he closed his eyes, silently praying that she would be found safe and unharmed. At the same time, he also felt a deep sorrow for all the innocent victims of the attack. He understood as crown prince, he had the responsibility and obligation, along with his father, to ensure the security of the country and its people. This attack was an acute test of his leadership.

University of Cordonia, Capital

As Sophie wandered aimlessly through the maze of people, her eyes welled up. The adrenaline of an earlier escape from the auditorium faded and she felt more sadness, fear and heartache than she had ever felt before. For a moment, she could not control her emotions and tears ran down her cheeks. How she wished it all had been a bad dream, that she would wake up and find that it had all been a false alarm.

An hour later, Sophie and other surviving students and guests were evacuated in an orderly manner to a hotel outside of the campus, the Malic Hotel. The hotel was temporarily requisitioned as an emergency shelter and was surrounded by police and security personnel to ensure internal safety and order. But even so, there was an indescribable tension and unease still in the air.

Sophie had been assigned to room 302. The moment she stepped into her hotel room; Sophie could finally catch her breath. She sat wearily on the edge of the bed, looking out of the window with empty eyes, but her mood could not be calmed. She was eager to know more about what happened at the graduation, especially the mysterious men in black masks, their identity, purpose and why they were there; all of these became lingering questions in her mind.

She instinctively wanted to turn on her phone, hoping to find some clue or news report that would at least give her a sense of what had happened. But reality threw icy water at her - her phone screen was broken and riddled with cracks. She quickly pressed the power button, but the screen only flickered a few times, and then no longer responded. Sophie's eyes flashed with despair, as her contact with the outside world was completely cut off.

Thoughts came like a flood. She missed her Aunt Bethany, who supported her no matter what she was going through, who gave her endless warmth and encouragement, and who always made her feel at home in Cordonia. At the same time, she missed her horse, Marabelle. Every time she mounted Marabelle's back and galloped across the wide fields of Ramsford, all her troubles seemed to go away with the wind. Marabelle's eyes were always full of trust and loyalty, and there was a tacit understanding between them without words. How she wished now that she could feel the freedom and joy of running with Marabelle again.

But most of all, she missed Liam. In this unknown and dangerous moment, how she wished he could be with her, give her support and comfort. Liam, the man she was in love with, who gave her strength. She had never been so impatient to see him, to feel safe in his arms.

Now, however, she could only face all this alone; tears in her eyes had slipped down once again. In addition to missing Liam, Sophie's mind was filled with anxiety about the attack. She did not know how many people had been injured or even killed in the attack; whether Candy and Tom would get better, or what was going on with Maxwell and Daniel. They were her friends and family, and their safety stuck with her. She prayed silently that they would be safe.

Amidst this anxiety, there was so many questions. Who were those men in black at the graduation? Why would they target innocent students? What is the purpose behind this attack?

What puzzled her even more was the emblem of the earth and the baby. What does it mean? What has it got to do with the attack?

Her mind was full of confusion and uneasiness, questions swirled with no answers in sight, leaving her breathless. She tried to piece together every detail of the night in her mind, hoping to remember a clue or an answer. But the images were fragmented, leaving her unable to grasp and put together any useful information.

"Liam ..." Sophia muttered under her breath. She recalled what Liam had said about what he had experienced as a young prince and the memories of an assassination attempt that had fear cutting through his heart like a sharp blade.

Exhaustion came flooding in, overwhelming all her thoughts and feelings. Sophie lay in bed, breathing smoothly and deeply, and her body relaxed, as if all her worries and pain had been temporarily released at that moment. She drifted off to sleep with all her doubts, uneasiness, sadness, and longing for Liam.

The Royal Palace, Cordonia

The press was relentless. Inside the throne room, King Constantine stood stoically, as members of the press core demanded answers about the campus attack. Constantine cleared his throat and addressed the press directly and with the assurance of his years of reign and released a statement:

“At this dark hour, I stand before you with profound grief and pain in my heart. Like many of you, I am mourning the lives lost today, and we pray for the wounded to make a full recovery.

While we grieve the senseless violence that struck our country, we are also furious with the loss and sorrow brought on by those responsible for this evil act. We cannot and will not tolerate the murder and harming of innocent lives simply because they were in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Those who commit such unspeakable acts will be held accountable and prosecuted to the fullest extent of the crown.”

Stepping down from the dais, Constantine was at once escorted by his royal guard out of the throne room. He looked visibly shaken and gripped his cane, trying to stand straight and upright.

Constantine's face was pale, and his eyes were filled with deep sorrow, his elderly face looked worn. But he refused to shed tears, still maintaining his dignified manner, while in public.

Lawrence, his personal guard, moved quickly to his side, “Your Majesty, the Royal jet has just landed with your son.”

Malic Motor Hotel, temporary safe house, University of Cordonia

The second group of surviving students were transported to the Malic hotel in orderly batches by the police in the pre-dawn night. The bright lights in the lobby could not hide the tension and in these in the air. Police officers, security personnel and medical staff were busy shuttling through the hallways to ensure that every student was properly accommodated.

The noise of footsteps and a murmur of conversation broke the sounds of the night. Sophie woke up, opened her eyes slightly, and through a gap in the half-closed curtains. She saw several figures hurrying along the corridor, as if new survivors had been brought in. She got up and dressed. Soon the door was gently opened, and a figure slowly entered the room. It was a girl about Sophie's age, a little wobbly in her step, visibly shaken by the night's horror and still reeling from the shock.

"Hey, um ... excuse me. I was assigned to this room. Is it okay if I come in?" The girl's voice was small and trembling, and her eyes were slightly timid.

Sophie at once stood up and smiled back, "Hello, come on in." The girl came closer, and Sophie could see her face. She had an East Asian face, long deep brown hair, and large black eyes full of fear and confusion, as if she had just woken up from a nightmare.

The girl said softly, "thank you, my name is Hana. What happened tonight was terrible ..."

Sophie took Hana's hand and sat her down on the edge of the bed. "Hi Hana, my name is Sophie. I know we have been through the same horror. But it is all right now. We can talk together and maybe it will make you feel better." Sophie tried to sound calm and friendly, hoping to bring some comfort to the girl.

Hana gave Sophie a grateful look, and took a deep breath. She began with great determination to recount her own experience at the graduation.

"I was with friends and all of a sudden the lights went out and they were gunshots ... I tried to run away, but there were screams and chaos all around me. I really don't know how I got out. I was taken to the stadium with some people and stayed there almost overnight until we were brought here. But I never saw my friends again. I got separated from them, I do not know what became of them..." Hana wiped tears from her eyes.

Sophie listened quietly, with a surge of sympathy and understanding. She thought of her friends Candy and Tom, and her cousin Maxwell and Daniel, and a pang of worry filled her heart.

"Hana, I've had my own friends injured and go missing too. Candy's arm was hit by shrapnel, Tom was shot in the shoulder, and they are both in the hospital; and Maxwell and Daniel got separated from me when they escaped. I am really worried about them. But I'm sure they will be all right. Your friends must have gotten out safely, too. You must believe that."

Hana's eyes flashed with emotion and trust as she listened to Sophie's words. "Sophie, you are such a strong person. If only I could be as brave as you."

Sophie patted Hana's arm gently and smiled wryly.

"Hana, it's normal to be afraid in this situation. In fact, I am also afraid, and all the people who have been through this attack."

Then Sophie's tone became a little heavier, and she decided to tell Hana what she had seen. With that, Sophie picked up the paper and pen on the table in the room and drew the sign from memory. Hana's face turned pale when she saw Sophie's drawing; her eyes widened, and she repeated in disbelief, "you saw this sign?"

Sophie nodded, her words unmistakable, "Yes, I'm sure. It was a very strange sign. I saw it clearly. They acted quickly and in an orderly manner. They were not ordinary thugs."

Hana held Sophie's hand tightly, her voice shaking slightly. "This sign, I have seen on the news, but with what specific event, I can't remember. However, it is definitely unusual and must be the hallmark of an organisation or group."

Sophie's eyes sharpened, and she frowned in thought. "This is no coincidence. The men in black were clearly prepared, and their attack may well have been targeted. We must tell the police about this as soon as possible.”

Hana shuddered, her voice filled with fear and worry. "But... will that put us in danger? If they are really that powerful, will they retaliate?"

Sophie's heartrate quickened. Of course she was afraid. The scene of Candy and Tom being shot and wounded replayed again before her eyes. The blood staining their shirts, the pain and helplessness weaving in their desperate eyes. These were images that she could never forget.

Then, in her mind, the panic of people running away, their faces showing fear and helplessness. Screams, cries, and pleas for help made up the most tragic symphony of the night. Fires were burning, the smoke was billowing, and the whole evening was enveloped in despair and confusion.

But thinking of the students who had been victimized, of Maxwell and Daniel who were still missing, and of Candy and Tom who were still in the hospital ... Sophie took a deep breath and quieted her heart. She could not let her fear consume her. She knew that her friends needed her. ... 'If you do not step up, Sophie, this kind of tragedy will happen again.'

Sophie stiffened her resolve, her voice was soft, yet powerful: "No, Hana, we cannot stay quiet. Candy, Tom, and your friends are just some of the many people who were hurt tonight. If we stay silent because we are afraid, more people will be hurt in the future. We can't let this continue to happen."

Hana's fear was replaced by a kind of courage as she listened to Sophie's words. "You're right, Sophie. I won't back down," She nodded firmly.

"Sophie, I'm so happy to meet you." Hana looked sheepishly at Sophie, blushing.

"If it wasn't for you, I don't know what I would have done."

She touched Hana's arm and smiled, "I know you have determination, too, Hana." Sophie was genuinely happy ... happy to be friends with Hana.

Sophie hesitated for a moment, then whispered to Hana, "Hana,can you show me the news? My phone broke during the attack." She pulled out her cracked cell phone.

Hana nodded, and picked up her phone from the nightstand to open the news app. Together, they stared at the small screen, searching for news related to last night's university shooting.

On the screen, several shocking reports soon came into view. The mass shooting at the University of Cordonia had attracted widespread attention from the national and international community. The report detailed the chaos and bloodshed of the night, but also said that the police were fully investigating the incident and promised to bring the perpetrators to justice as soon as possible. As she read, she felt mixed feelings.

Sophie continued browsing. Suddenly, a marked headline hit her eyes and made her heart beat faster. --

"Crown Prince Liam Rys urgently ends his visit to Italy and returns home to respond to the shooting incident at Cordonia University."

She tapped eagerly; the live broadcast of the news began automatically.

On the screen, Liam stood in the doorway of the familiar white, shadowy auditorium, behind which the smoke had not fully cleared and live images of ambulances and police cars could be seen. Liam's figure stood unwavering behind press microphones.. He wore a black suit, his eyes were slightly solemn, but his face was more resolute and decided, that could not be ignored.

Sophie stared intently at the screen, every subtle expression of Liam tugging at her heartstrings. His voice came clearly over the phone, calm and strong.

Sophie's eyes were red and brimmed with tears. Her heart was racing, as she felt Liam's deep emotion coming through the screen. And then Liam's words turned to unquestioning determination:

Sophie stared at the screen, her tears spilling onto her cheeks. The moment she heard him say the words, 'Our Cordonian family', her heart swelling with indescribable excitement and pride; she wanted to run to his side and face all of this with him. However, this emotion was quickly overcome by reason, knowing that she could not expose her relationship with Liam, especially when there were other people around watching. She gently turned down the volume on the phone for fear that Hana would notice her emotional reactions. She clutched the phone tightly, as if she could feel Liam's presence and power in her hand.

"Sophie, what's wrong?"

Hana's voice sounded softly, interrupting her thoughts. Sophie suddenly came back to herself with a disguised smile, trying to sound natural. "Oh, nothing, I just didn't expect Prince Liam to be back so soon, it's only been a few hours since the shooting."

There was a subtle tremor in Sophie's words, afraid that her mind would be read by Hana and cause unnecessary trouble for Liam. She knew that at this particular moment she had to be careful not to reveal her relationship with Liam.

"Hana, could I possibly use your phone again? I want to send a text to my family and tell them about my situation."

Hana heard her words, a flicker of concern in her eyes. She seemed aware of Sophie's inner struggle and longing, but out of respect and trust, she did not ask any more questions, just smiled and nodded, "Of course, Sophie." You can use it whenever you need."

Sophie gave Hana a grateful look, and a warm wave came through her heart. She quickly opened the text messages on the phone, her fingers jumping over the keyboard, as she sent two messages. The first one to Aunt Bethany and the second one to Maxwell. In the text messages, Sophie told them that she was doing well and that they should not worry. She expressed concern for Maxwell and Daniel and hoped they were safe.

After sending the two texts, Sophie took a deep breath and began her text to Liam. She edited the text carefully ...

"Hi, Li, this is Sophie.

I'm all right. I am in Room 302 at the Malic Hotel at the university.

There was a shooting at the graduation, and I was lucky to escape. My phone is broken, and now I'm texting you on my roommate, Hana's phone.

I know you must be terribly busy and worried at the moment, but please believe me, I am fine and safe.

Don't worry about me. Just focus on what's needed right in front of you. I love you and look forward to seeing you soon."

The message didn't mention Liam's real name, and Sophie was confident that he would get her message. After pressing the send button, the words "Delivered" appeared on the screen. Suppressing her feelings, she quickly removed the text message, making sure it left no trace.

It didn’t take long for Sophie to hear back from Maxwell and Aunt Bethany.

Maxwell:

“Sophie, it’s so good to hear from you! Daniel and I are at the Malic Hotel too, and we are doing fine. We were looking for you, too. Just relieved to hear you are okay. We’ll talk more when we meet up.”

Aunt Bethany:

“Dear Sophie, I’m so happy to hear from you! Thank God you are okay. We are all so worried about you, but now we can relax. Be safe and we will see each other soon.”

After receiving notifications of incoming messages, the corners of her mouth cannot help but raise in a happy smile, a big stone in her heart finally fell to the ground. Sophie held the phone and re-read their loving words, feeling the warmth and support from her family.

A ray of sunlight penetrated a gap in the curtain and gently spilled into the hotel room, shining on Sophie's face. She gently closed her eyes, quietly feeling the warmth of the sun, the soft light made her very at ease, like a pair of warm hands, smoothing her fear and anxiety away. She was relieved that Maxwell and Daniel had escaped safely and that she could tell Aunt Bethany about herself.

And Liam will know that she's safe. Sophie found a trace of comfort and strength in reaching out to him.

"Thank you, Hana." Sophie smiled and handed the phone back to her new friend.

Hana took the phone and put it away, quietly watching it all, with a warm glow in her eyes. She may not know the story between Sophie and Liam, but she could sense that there was a deep emotion and connection with him in Sophie's heart. In this time of uncertainty, they were supporting each other and facing life's challenges together.

Cordonia International Airport

The Royal motorcade was situated on the tarmac in wait to take Liam and his men to the university.

Liam strode quickly and confidently to his SUV after his security detail had provided Liam with a report of all the victims and fatalities. Sophie's name was not listed, and Liam's heart remained uncertain, until he saw her with his own eyes.

His duty of keeping alert and informed for his country allowed Liam to control his fears of the possibility of seeing his beloved injured or worse. He fought against every fiber of his being to not burst through the chaos, with full disregard, to search for Sophie among the evacuated students. Liam, surrounded by his royal guard, Drake and Rashad, he walked onto the university grounds.

Drake, on the other hand, was not worried about propriety and cared for none of it. He rushed in and did not pay attention to anything but finding Sophie and Maxwell. He broke past some of the law enforcement and was met by a swarm of flashing cameras and press microphones.

"Back away!" He snapped, having to put his forearm up, and not relent. The flashing bulbs, whirring of camera lenses and questions being thrown at him was enough to drive any sane person mad.

"Don't you have decency? What type of scoundrels and fiends are you?"

An officer who recognized Drake, yelled, "settle down, everyone, he's an American friend of the prince's, stand down and don't crowd him."

On the campus of the University of Cordonia, even after several hours had passed, the chaos in the auditorium had not abated by a minute. Several police cars and ambulances, flashing their warning lights, stood by the side of the road at the ready. Police officers and ambulance workers were busy moving around the scene, serious and focused, although physically and mentally exhausted, but still stuck to their posts, to deal with the incident.

A police cordon has been placed around the scene to seal off the auditorium from the outside world. Liam saw the chaos and destruction ... and the despair of his people.

Liam took a deep breath, adjusted his emotions, and walked resolutely into the crowd and up onto the raised dais. The crowd grew quiet, and all eyes turned to the crown prince.

" Last night, our university campus has experienced an unprecedented trauma. On behalf of the royal family of Cordonia, I extend my sincere comfort and deepest condolences to all those who have been hurt and who have been affected by this tragedy. Your pain is the pain of all Cordonia. We will do everything possible to provide the necessary support and needed assistance to make sure everyone gets through this."

At this point, Liam's eyes flashed a subtle tenderness, that is his endless miss and love for Sophie.

But Liam took a deep breath and condensed his emotions and anger into a powerful determination.

"We will not sit idly by and let go of any of these terrorists. I promise that the Crown will use all resources in its power to track down the attackers and punish those responsible for this tragedy. We will bring justice to the victims, and to our people, to our Cordonian family."

***

The sky in the east gradually lightened as the night slowly faded; like the tide falling, as if in response to his words. A ray of dawn pierced the darkness, and the sun rose at last. The golden light slowly and gently spread over the campus, silently dispelling the darkness and cold; to bring a touch of warmth to the morning. There was renewed trust and hope in the eyes of the crowd. At this moment, they are silently praying, their hearts are full of deep hope: may such a tragedy never be repeated, so that the dead can rest in peace, and so that the living can find the strength to move forward; In the hope that the murderer will be punished, and there will be no hiding places of any crimes and evils.

As the Royal guard escorted Liam from the stage, Bastien approached with Liam’s mobile phone in hand.

“Sir, Lady Sophia has left you a message.”