#secure file transfer protocol

[jeszrosse]

🧬 “Deviation”

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MANIPULATIVE!Albert Wesker x Reader | One-shot AU | Reader Unaware | Deep Psychological Control | Obsession-Slowburn

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⚠️ Possessive behavior • Surveillance • Delusional Justification • Isolation tactics • No reader realization • Smut • Stalking

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🧬 1. [Observation]

It begins, as most things do with Wesker, in silence.

Your first day on the team, you barely warranted a glance in the surveillance feed.

Another lab technician. Another replaceable assistant. Another insignificant moving part.

But then you lingered.

Stayed late. Came early.

Read the case files beyond your clearance level and didn’t flinch at the corpses.

You passed the first test.

Not that you knew there was one.

You thought it was coincidence that no one sat beside you in meetings.

That your access card opened doors you never requested.

That the intern who made a joke about your smile was transferred within the hour.

It wasn’t coincidence.

It was calibration.

He was isolating the variables.

And you, you became an anomaly worth noting.

He began compiling minor reports on your behavior, tucked into encrypted files labeled with meaningless acronyms—justifications for your existence in his system. He logged your arrival times, the hesitation in your speech, the way you handled scalpel trays with a certain… reverence. Clinical on the outside, but with the sharpness of someone who wanted to understand.

You weren’t like the others—those limp, nodding bureaucrats or ambition-hollowed researchers. You read between lines. You saw things. You didn’t ask for approval.

It should’ve been threatening.

But instead, it was fascinating.

---

🧬 2. [Containment]

Wesker doesn’t trust easily.

He trusts data.

Outcomes.

Silence.

But you unsettled the metrics.

You moved differently. You saw things. You questioned protocols he didn’t authorize you to read.

And he watched.

The way your fingers hovered over a scalpel you didn’t need to touch.

The way your reflection lingered in the biohazard glass.

The way your laugh, rare as it was, made low-ranking guards look up.

So he changed the guards.

Restricted hallway access.

Reassigned co-workers.

Built your world to orbit only him.

And still—still you never noticed.

Not when your new desk faced his office.

Not when your login synced with his terminal.

Not when your lunch orders began arriving, already paid.

You thought it was protocol. Efficiency. Company structure.

It wasn’t.

It was obsession.

Even your chair was adjusted—replaced with one designed to support your back based on posture data from security footage. Your lighting changed imperceptibly across weeks, tailored to prevent eye strain and keep you awake longer, sharper.

He scheduled briefings when you were most alert.

Redirected minor crises to ensure you'd report directly to him.

He watched the way you blinked when you were confused.

Memorized the twitch of your mouth when you were about to ask something risky.

Your coworkers left one by one. Transferred. Fired. Reassigned.

Those who got too familiar? Disciplined. Quietly.

You didn’t wonder why your inbox felt so clean.

Why no one interrupted your concentration anymore.

Why the company started feeling like a corridor, narrowing around you.

---

🧬 3. [Degradation]

It got worse.

Or—closer to the truth.

He found himself pausing the security feed just to watch the curve of your spine as you bent over notes.

He rewound your voice recordings, cataloguing the inflections in your “Good morning, sir.”

He deleted the word sir from your tongue in his mind.

He didn’t want your respect.

He wanted your obedience.

Your trust.

Your presence, constant and unrelenting.

You belonged in his space, like air belonged in lungs.

He just hadn't told you yet.

Sometimes, you left behind small things—sticky notes, paperclips, coffee cups. Harmless. Forgettable. But he kept them all.

The mug with a faint mark of your lip balm.

The pen you once clicked while reading virology samples.

A typed memo, crumpled, with a single word scratched out and replaced. "Necessary."

He examined them not with sentiment but calculation.

These were not keepsakes.

These were proofs of proximity.

You were slipping under his skin molecule by molecule, and he needed evidence of your presence in his domain.

But there were moments—dangerous ones—when calculation gave way to something darker.

Moments when you reached for a dropped stylus beneath the lab table and the hem of your coat pulled taut across your thighs.

Moments when you tilted your head to read something over a microscope and exposed the soft column of your neck.

Moments when the feed from the surveillance cameras caught just enough.

He knew every angle of your body from security footage.

The way your blouse sometimes gaped slightly when you leaned forward.

The way you stretched without thinking, unaware of how it framed you.

Unaware of the man watching—memorizing.

It was a weakness.

A flaw in his design.

But sometimes he would watch the footage at half-speed, eyes burning, jaw clenched, and tell himself it was for behavioral monitoring.

That the brief tightening in his chest wasn’t arousal, but concern.

And yet—when you bent to pick up a file one night, alone, late, and the back of your skirt lifted just slightly—

—his fingers had twitched.

Not from irritation.

From restraint.

From the raw, silent thought that he could take you. Right there.

Not in fantasy. Not in dream. But in brutal, clinical, breathtaking reality.

He could fuck you against the sterile counter and no one would stop him.

No one would even know.

But he didn’t.

Of course he didn’t.

He was control. Discipline.

He filed the footage.

Encrypted it.

And watched it again the next night.

Hands behind his back.

Jaw locked.

Throat tight with the sick, hungry coil of desire he refused to name.

You didn’t know.

Didn’t see.

Didn’t feel the weight of a man who no longer saw you as a subordinate or asset—

—but as something already his, simply awaiting the correct time to be claimed.

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🧬 4. [Denial]

You never caught it, but he looked away first.

Every time.

Every instance your gaze met his, however briefly.

You assumed it was deference. Coldness. That clinical thing he wore like a second skin.

But it wasn’t.

It was containment.

Because the sound of your voice—the precise cadence in which you said “Understood, Doctor Wesker”—lit up some dormant, vile thing in him.

Something untested.

Something monstrous.

He was not above temptation.

He was simply better at dissecting it.

The way you smiled at your coworkers, never at him?

He noticed.

The way you stood just a fraction closer when anxious, fingers tightening at your sides?

He filed it away.

He let others believe you were isolated by accident.

But he'd engineered that loneliness. Curated it.

Suffocated anything that threatened to pull your attention elsewhere.

You never got that offer for project co-lead.

Never received the anonymous gifts left at your desk by interns.

Because Albert intercepted them.

Silently. Strategically.

You didn’t know it was his hand pulling you toward him, only that every direction seemed to fold inward until he was the only constant.

The only man who saw you.

Who understood you.

He watched you trace your notes, watched your lips form silent syllables, and all the while he denied himself.

Denied the heat pooling in his abdomen.

Denied the cruel ache behind every “Goodnight, sir” you uttered.

Denied the nightly compulsion to run simulations of what you would sound like begging.

And when he couldn't sleep, he listened to your voice on the lab’s intercom archive.

Just to hear it.

To pretend.

To substitute control for contact.

And still—he told himself he had not crossed the line.

Not yet.

Because you were still untouched.

Still pure, in the way only someone unaware of their ownership could be.

---

🧬 5. [Possession]

He began to see it in everything.

The way others looked at you—a threat.

The way you spoke about your family—a liability.

The way you said “thank you” when he passed you reports—intolerable.

You didn’t thank him.

You didn’t understand him.

You couldn’t.

But that was fine.

Understanding would come later.

He started curating your tasks more delicately.

Steered you away from field ops, too dangerous.

Assigned you exclusively to him, citing “performance optimization.”

You didn’t protest.

You thought you were being promoted.

But in truth, you were being drawn in.

Woven tighter.

Placed carefully, perfectly, exactly where he wanted you.

In his office.

In his world.

In his reach.

Your name was embedded in his daily reports. Your security log-in pinged his terminal every time you swiped a door.

The other researchers stopped referencing your work without Wesker’s express permission. He had erased your reputation as independent—you were his now.

And no one questioned it.

Not when his gaze burned through the glass walls of the lab.

Not when he stood beside you in meetings like a shadow wearing a tailored suit.

Not when his hand briefly brushed yours while reviewing samples, and he didn’t pull away.

He didn’t need to pull away.

He had already claimed what he wanted.

---

Now, his fingerprints existed on more than your reports.

He’d rewritten your schedule to end near his. Aligned your meals. Synced your lab hours. Even your breaks were subtly shifted, your elevator stops timed perfectly with his descent.

You didn’t see it.

But he did.

Every day you returned to your workspace slightly adjusted—your chair moved back in, your pens restocked, your personal mug rotated exactly one degree counter-clockwise.

“We’re optimizing,” he’d say.

“For your convenience.”

He'd begun accompanying you to biometric checks. At first, a coincidence. The second time, an excuse. By the third, he was inputting your medical logs himself.

His voice was always calm. Always formal. Always patient.

But his gaze lingered.

His presence loomed.

And his hands—always gloved—brushed against the small of your back far too often for protocol.

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And he watched.

From behind glass. From dark monitors. From still frames and slow replays. When your blouse sat a little too low. When your eyes wandered where they shouldn’t.

You were careless with your innocence.

But he would be careful for you.

He adjusted the brightness of the surveillance feed. Zoomed in. Studied the way you leaned too close to your keyboard.

Imagined your breath fogging the screen.

Imagined how easily that breath could hitch. Could falter. Could beg.

You have no idea, he thought.

But you will.

Not yet.

But soon.

Understanding would come later.

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🧬 6. [Infection]

The final stage was the most dangerous.

You said his name once.

Not “sir.”

Not “Wesker.”

Just:

“Albert…?”

His gaze snaps up from the report.

You’re standing in the doorway of his office, the heel of one shoe slightly kicked back, as if you weren’t sure whether to enter. The folder in your hand trembles slightly—an involuntary twitch you don’t even notice. But he does.

He notices everything.

The breath that stutters in your throat after the name escapes.

The flicker of hesitation in your pupils when his expression doesn’t immediately soften.

The way you shift—defensive, unsure—before you correct yourself:

“I mean—sir. Sorry, I meant—sir.”

But it’s already too late.

The damage is done.

You spoke it aloud.

Not in passing.

Not as a slip of protocol.

Not with bitterness or irony.

But with concern.

Soft. Tentative. Almost gentle.

And that… that is what undoes him.

You don’t know he has a file buried six levels deep into a server no one else can access—labeled with your name, storing every image of you captured on internal footage.

You don’t know he’s wiped out four internal transfer requests that would have pulled you from his floor.

You don’t know he personally selects your meals for team events—ensuring your preferences are always met, even when no one else notices.

You don’t know he’s kept you here, orbiting him, perfectly placed, under the illusion of promotion.

And now you’ve said his name like it belongs to you.

Like he does.

“Sir,” you try again, a nervous laugh escaping you. “Apologies. I—I didn’t mean—”

He stands slowly, measured, the desk separating you like a fragile boundary he’s had to respect for far too long.

“No need to apologize,” he says coolly. “You simply… surprised me.”

But inside? His thoughts are nothing but static.

He replays the syllables.

Not just the sound, but the shape of your mouth when you said it.

He files it into memory. Deep. Permanent.

And he knows—sooner than even you do—that this is the beginning of the end for the illusion.

Because from this moment on, you’ve stopped being a project.

Stopped being a subject.

You’ve become a trigger.

A fixation.

An opening he hadn’t anticipated—but cannot ignore.

You said his name once.

You won’t realize until it’s far too late:

You’ll never say it the same way again.

Because you didn’t know what you’d done.

You didn’t hear it the way he did.

Like it was already yours to say.

Like he wasn’t a god.

Like he was a man.

A man who had already rewritten every security protocol to keep you near.

A man who eliminated colleagues who made you uncomfortable.

A man who—if you ever truly looked—might shatter the illusion of “normal” with one cold sentence:

“You’re not here by accident.”

“You’re here because I designed you to be.”

But you don’t know.

You smile politely.

You offer your reports.

You drink the coffee that arrives on your desk precisely how you like it.

You go home.

You live your life.

While he rewatches your day in full.

While he listens to your voicemails and deletes names from your inbox.

While he studies you like you’re the last unexplained miracle on Earth.

While he reminds himself that love is irrelevant.

Control is what matters.

And he already has it.

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He’d timed every entry and exit.

He knew how long you took in the restroom.

Which hallway you paused in to check your phone.

What time of day your voice grew tired.

He saw it as clearly as he saw cell degradation under a microscope.

That slow unraveling.

That quiet compliance.

You were adapting.

Your posture had shifted. Subtly. You walked faster when alone. Slower when near him. You dressed differently—more reserved, perhaps without realizing. You avoided eye contact with male superiors.

Wesker approved.

He didn’t speak of it.

Didn’t need to.

The conditioning was holding.

You had stopped asking questions.

Stopped challenging schedules.

Stopped requesting to work from other wings.

You had folded into the environment he designed—one where he was a constant hum beneath your daily routine. Where his name lingered at the back of your tongue. Where his voice set your pace and his silence set your nerves.

---

“You don’t know what you’ve done,” he muttered to himself, watching the security footage replay. While he studies you like you’re the last unexplained miracle on Earth.

There you were again. That exact moment. Your eyes soft, confused, lips parted: Albert…?

He paused the video.

Leaned back.

Let the sound echo in the sterile quiet of his office.

It was not an accident.

Not some sweet slip of tongue.

No.

It was the infection taking root.

Your body catching up to what your environment had long accepted.

Dependence.

Deference.

Attachment.

He could work with that.

Love was messy. Emotional.

But dependence—he could mold.

He could reinforce it, reward it, create just enough tension to keep you needing his approval.

To keep you needing him.

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(A/N: should I make a part 2??? I mean- I already have it. I just wanna hear it from you dirty sluts;>)

[maiamore]

THE LINES WE CROSS: PART ONE - NO SAFE HAVEN

Pairing: Javier Peña x Forensic Scientist!Reader

Rating: 18+ | W/C: 2.1k

Summary: in the heart of Colombia’s war on narcos, you, a forensic scientist transfer in from the states. you find yourself working closely with Javier Peña and quickly find that he isn’t the man who stays—letting him in will only lead to heartbreak.

Tags: set during seasons 2 & 3 of narcos, mentions of drugs & violence, reader smokes briefly, no use of y/n, p in v, tinge or yearning, enemies/colleagues to lovers, talks of guns, javi comes with his own warnings 

A/N: excuse me while i bury myself, this series is going to hurt me

MINI-SERIES MASTERLIST | MASTERLIST

It had been a year and a half since you’d traded the sunny shores of California for Medellín. Forensic sciences had seemed like the perfect fit with your qualities considered–analytical, precise, and rooted in facts. You told yourself the move was for the greater good, that your expertise could actually help bring down Pablo Escobar’s goddamn empire. And you did help. Too well, in fact. Well enough to piss off the cartel, drawing their gaze in ways that had you flagged as a threat if you stepped too out of line.

Medellín wasn’t just dangerous, it had an endless pool of corruption. Moles lurked in the agency, evidence mysteriously disappeared, and the chain of command couldn’t always be trusted. You learned that lesson after getting fucked over a couple times, but Javier had learned it long before you.

So what did Peña do when things got messy? He cut through the red tape, ignored protocol, and went straight to the source.

You.

“The answer is no.” You pushed past the figure blocking your entry into the onsite lab at the CNP headquarters. “Crosby will have my head and you know that.” 

Negotiating with Javier Peña was like trying to argue with the tide–relentless, it always found a way to pull you under. He wasn’t loud or pushy. He didn’t have to be. 

But that wasn’t the problem here. He was asking for favors against protocol. “I don’t have the authority to hand you shit without–”

“Filtering through command,” he cuts in, his voice low and impatient. “Yeah, I know how the game works.” He shuts the door behind him, eyes darting to check for anyone lingering nearby. 

“You and I both know,” he continues, taking a slow step closer. Your brows furrow as he steps closer, though it doesn’t stop your heart from pounding into your ears. “Whatever you find here?” He gestures vaguely at the lab equipment and files neatly stacked on your desk. 

“It’s not reaching us with the whole picture, is it? It gets watered down, picked apart, buried. And then what? We’re chasing ghosts while Escobar sits pretty.”

He was close now–too close. His hand casually brushes the security badge clipped to your waistband. Your hips jump. Though Javier isn’t fazed, he merely twists it with his fingers, the motion deliberate, drawing your attention to his hands before his voice brings your focus back to him.

“We’re the good guys here, carita. You can either help me, or stand by while this whole fucking mess gets worse. Your call.”

You were silent. Biting the insides of your cheeks at his tone. Deep, calculated & with intent to pry into your conscience. 

“I can’t do that.” You manage to squeeze your way out the small space he backs you into, stepping around him and sinking into your chair, trying to put some distance between you two.

Javier sighs, dragging a hand through his hair. He knew this wasn’t going to be easy. You were a hard worker—a little too on the books, but had a good heart.

His gaze drops to your purse on the desk. No movement, no reaction, just that sharp look of his, cutting through everything.

If there was one thing he knew how to do, it was to needle his way into people’s weaknesses and exploit it.

So he approaches you. 

“Peña, nothing you say will change my min—“

“Cute piece you’ve got there,” he interrupts. “P32, right? Semi-automatic.”

Your fists tensed on your desk. He wasn’t mocking you, there was no smirk nor condescension. Just a calm observation that hit like a punch to the gut.

He leans down, palms pressing flat against the desk as he lowers himself to your eye level. “Let me guess,” he continues, his tone steady, almost grim. “They told you this was just a job. Something to make a difference, maybe even save a few lives. Didn’t mention you’d need that to protect your own.” He nodded toward the gun in your purse, the weight of his words sinking in.

Your throat tightens, and you quickly zipped your purse shut, shielding the weapon from view. “We’re in Medellín,” you retort, albeit defensively. “It’s…not a crazy thought.”

Javier straightens, his hand brushing over a loose strand of your hair, tucking it behind your ear with ease. His voice softened, but the edge remained. “No,” he agrees, gaze unwavering. “It isn't. That’s the problem.”

“I can keep you safe,” he mutters with a gentle lilt. “Have my men escort you home. Make sure you don’t need to use that thing. You do your job. Let me handle the rest.”

The touch burned, your skin prickling where his fingers had grazed you. You jerked your head away, teeth gritted as you stared at the desk, refusing to meet his gaze.

He doesn’t wait for your answer. 

Instead, he reaches for your pen holder, scribbling his number on a loose scrap of paper. He tapped the desk twice, loud enough to draw your eyes.

“If you change your mind,” he said, sliding the paper toward you. 

You hadn’t planned to use it, not so soon, at least. 

Your mind was still on Javier and everything he embodied. He was hard to read, motives wrapped in layers of charm and deflection. He wasn’t a bad person, as far as you could tell. Morally grey, probably. No one sane smoked that much.

But most importantly, his reputation preceded him. That was one thing you did know for sure. 

Whispers followed you whenever you handed over findings to the DEA. Offhand warnings came when you casually asked about him. Avoidant. Shady. Persistent. Words spoken by people who worked with him longer than you had.

And his partner, Murphy, had warned you the same when he caught your lingering gaze.

Peña ain’t the guy you go to for a shoulder to cry on.

That stung.

He’s good at his job, don’t get me wrong. Hell, he’s the best we got, but don’t get caught up thinking he’s somethin’ he’s not. That’ll bite you in the ass faster than these fuckers can.

It effectively made you immune to his mild flirtations, knowing it wouldn’t go anywhere. Still, you liked to draw your own conclusions. Which was why you couldn’t shake what happened in the lab. The way he’d asked, the way he’d looked at you.

Like he already knew you’d cave.

It made you wonder if turning it down could’ve been the wrong choice. You wanted a win for once. 

You stepped out of the embassy one evening with a clouded mind, fatigue weighing on you as you clicked your key fob with a weary sigh.

Nothing could’ve prepared you for this. 

The deafening sound of the explosion knocks you backwards, the heat simmering into your skin even from a distance. You looked up and watched your car blown to fucking smithereens, reduced to a blazing wreck with the harsh smell of burning metal filling the night skies. 

It wasn’t just the fact that this was a deliberate attempt on your life–the bomb remotely detonated, waiting for you to approach. It was the brutal realization that you were no longer safe. Not even a few meters from the embassy.

Someone was watching you. 

A chill runs down your spine. Within blinks, officers swarmed the scene, shouting orders and securing the area, but their voices were distant, muffled by the high pitched ringing in your ears.

With shaky hands, you grab the crumpled paper Javier had scribbled his number onto from the bottom of your bag. The line picks up after a couple of rings.

“Peña.”

“They blew up my car,” you whispered, the words barely making it past your lips.

There was a pause, a sharp inhale on the other end, he didn’t need to know who was calling.

“Where are you?”

“The embassy.”

“Be there in ten.”

He was there in five. Javier takes a look at your car–or what was left of it–with a cringe before he falls into step beside you. He stayed quiet as Pinzón’s men canvassed the scene, the cigarette he lit casting a faint glow in the dark.

You lean against a patrol car next to him–thumb digging hard enough to bleed into your palms. 

“Ballistics CTI found a few days ago traces back to Pablo’s sicarios,” you said quietly, breaking the stillness. You gave him information that wasn’t on the books, not for the DEA yet at least. Something you weren’t supposed to share. 

It was an unspoken agreement, a concession to the protection he could offer. 

Javier looks at you, pulling the stick away from his lips as he exhales the tobacco. Taking in your words.

Though he recognises the anxiety painted on you. A cloud of smoke wafts within your peripherals. Weirdly enough, it was reminiscent of warmth. A reminder that he was there. By your side. 

“Didn’t come here for that.” There was a slight insinuation in his words. Flicker of vulnerability in him perhaps. Admitting that he wasn’t here so you could hold up your end of the bargain. That he might’ve cared more than he was letting show. 

You held out your hand, palm up. It took him a beat too long to realize what you wanted. “You smoke?”

You nearly wanted to roll your eyes at the utter disbelief in his tone. As though you weren't capable of meeting his imaginary expectations.

But he was right. You didn’t smoke, never had. This war had a way of chipping away at the person you thought you were. 

As you place the cigarette he hands you between your lips, Javier shifts closer, his lighter flaring as he cupped his hand around the flame to shield it. 

His gaze lingered, just for a moment, on the way your lips curved around the white stick. Briefly, his thumb slips from the spark wheel. Studying your features in the faint glimmers of flame. 

He shakes away a thought as though it burned him just to think. He tries again, with a crackle from the mechanism, the tip of your cigarette ignites.

“Slowly.” 

You look at him through your lashes as you take a slow drag, letting the burn fill your lungs. Immediately, you begin coughing at the first puff. 

He lets out an amused scoff at your struggle. Though you feel a warm palm drag down your lower back in rhythmic taps. 

“Bienvenida a la guerra, carita,” (Welcome to the war.)

“Javi—…can’t anymore.”

You feel your legs falter. Slumping onto Javier’s body, forearms flat against his chest. You didn’t know how long you were going for. He just didn’t fucking let up. The sweat from your thighs sticking to his has you lazily grinding onto his still throbbing cock, your legs aching from bouncing on his lap.

 “Pobrecita. Getting tired?” (Poor thing.) He cooed as he thumbs the dip of your waist as a soothing gesture, taking in the sweet noises you’re making for him. You shoot him a disgruntled look, which only seems to spur him on further.

He couldn’t come. Not yet. He willed himself not to spill into you, focused on the dull sticky squelches from where you both connected. 

You let out a sharp whine when you feel his hand tangle around your hair. He hikes you up to jolt you from leaning your weight against him. “Hold on–fffuck, neña, almost there,” words spilling out with a growl. 

Two palms shoot out to grab your wrists as he steadily fucks you. “God—Javi, Javi!” Your throat was hoarse, feeling overstimulation consume you while he snapped his hips upwards. Thrusts growing meaner and clumsier. 

He feels the buildup. With his head thrown back, he groans out in reverence, the feeling of your perfect fucking pussy swallowing him greedily. “Fuck–”

“I-Inside–…” 

He frowns at your words, as though he were battling his own thoughts. But he decides quickly and you feel him hike your hips deeper into him. You feel him grip around your arm, other grabbing your waist to get you as close as possible.

He tenses. Grunting in short bursts as he reaches his high. Spilling into the rubber. 

What he doesn’t account for, is seeing the wide tear of the condom as he pulls out. Watching as milky residue pools around the base of his cock, bubbling back into you. “Shit!”

And he physically jolts. A strained gasp leaves his lips as he blinks quickly awake. Sleepy gaze darting around the empty room.  He slowly sits upright. Surveying the room. Void of you. 

Gabby lays next to him. Sound asleep with her face buried in the pillows. Javier drags a palm down his face with a prolonged groan. 

The sticky evidence of him cumming in his sleep like a fucking teenager–evident with the damp spot blooming on his blanket. “…Fuck me.” –

SERIES TAG LIST (Feel free to DM for removal):

@gothcsz @nicolebarnes @hangmanscoming

[echoreconcrew]

Stolen Imperial Files - Captain Howzer

SUBJECT FILE: #7569-HWZ-RYL STATUS: DESERTER – ACTIVE THREAT LEVEL: high DESIGNATION: CT-7569 “HOWZER”

AGE: 26 (BIOLOGICAL) SPECIES: HUMAN EYES: BROWN HEIGHT: 6'1" ALIAS: HOWZER  HOMEWORLD: KAMINO

TRAITS: EXHIBITS A CALM, STEADYING PRESENCE—COLLECTED, PRINCIPLED, AND PROTECTIVE BY NATURE. TENDS TO FORM DEEP EMOTIONAL BONDS, PARTICULARLY WITH CIVILIANS AND SUBORDINATES, WHICH OFTEN OVERRIDE PROGRAMMED LOYALTY TO COMMAND. SHOWS STRONG INTERNAL CONFLICT BETWEEN DUTY AND CONSCIENCE, LEADING TO ACTS OF DEFIANCE WHEN IMPERIAL ORDERS CONTRADICT PERSONAL ETHICS. INSPIRES TRUST AND LOYALTY AMONG HIS PEERS THROUGH QUIET STRENGTH, EMOTIONAL INTELLIGENCE, AND UNWAVERING RESOLVE. AFFILIATIONS: GAR

BIOGRAPHY

CT-7569, codenamed “Howzer,” is a clone officer formerly assigned to Imperial garrison command on Ryloth during the initial post-war occupation. Publicly considered a model officer, Howzer’s service record within the Republic Army was unblemished, with commendations for loyalty and command efficacy. Following the rise of the Empire, Howzer remained stationed under the directive of Vice Admiral Rampart to enforce martial stability across Twi’lek territories. Subject’s defection occurred during the Ryloth Uprising (see Rebellion Suppression Dossier #RLS-INC-33). During an attempted extraction of known insurgent Cham Syndulla, Howzer openly disobeyed Imperial orders, directly intervening to prevent execution of civilian and rebel targets. Eyewitness reports confirm subject incited clone troopers under his command to stand down and join the resistance, resulting in a failed detention of key insurgents and a compromised garrison post. CT-7569 was detained under Imperial security protocols and listed for tribunal transport to Imperial Justice Station ODR-3. During transit, subject escaped custody under unknown circumstances (see Prisoner Transfer Breach Report #ODR-EVAC-19A). It is suspected that Howzer’s extraction was coordinated by rogue clone elements or sympathetic internal agents. Subsequent sightings across the galaxy have placed CT-7569 in proximity to known clone deserter networks, including cells operating beyond the Mid Rim. A verified field report submitted by CC-3636 confirms visual identification of Howzer on Teth, in the company of CT-7567 

PROFILE NOTES Command Proficiency: Trained under Republic High Command; known for adaptive strategy, effective squad cohesion, and exceptional morale leadership. Psychological Deviation: Subject’s behavior during the Ryloth Uprising indicates possible inhibitor chip degradation or suppression. Moral Alignment Shift: Extensive exposure to civilian populations, particularly on Ryloth, may have influenced a psychological realignment. ISB analysts suggest subject exhibits strong empathic bias toward native resistance movements and fellow clones.

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[pleaseletmeinibeg453]

Paper cuts

|Jelsa, Modern AU, Enemies with Benefits, Fake dating, Forced Proximity|

Agent Elsa Stenford [NID-SO-ES-07] — Operation Report Upload Log

—Logged into secure terminal: Vienna Safehouse Terminal-2

—Date: 2022-07-08

—Time (UTC): 23:16

—Connected to secure node: NIDNet

—Report file: OP_SILENTRAVEN_AAR.enc

—Encryption status: Secured with NID Master Key — encryption signature verified (Checksum ID: F1A5-7C9B)

—Recipient(s): Jack Frost, Section Chief Special Operations (SO-92A), Acting Division Supervisor (DS-4), National Intelligence Directorate

—Transmission channel: Priority-One Secure Uplink (Classified Level: TOP SECRET)

—Transmission status: COMPLETE — audit log updated (Reference Log ID: ES07-0525-2214)

—Backup status: Encrypted local backup stored (Partition ES-07-SAFE); master copy uploaded to Central Ops Archive (Vault-4)

—Field confirmation: Agent ES-07 signed digital attestation; no tampering detected; self-authentication successful

Note: Automatic alert dispatched to Division Supervisor terminal. Clearance authentication required upon access.

---------------------------

Operation Silent Raven is an ongoing mission targeting a covert illicit arms trafficking network operating primarily in South Carolina. [Flag—Acting supervisor: Delete ‘ongoing mission’ — this is filler from someone unfamiliar with concise reporting. Vague and redundant.] This report details recent operational progress, intelligence collection, and actionable recommendations. [Flag—Acting supervisor: You clearly do not understand report structure. This useless sentence wastes time and space.] 

The primary objective is to identify, monitor, and dismantle the arms trafficking chain responsible for the flow of small arms and light weapons through various transit points in the region. [Flag—Acting supervisor: Restating obvious without any specifics or measurable targets reflects poor understanding of operational goals. Omit.] HUMINT sources have verified the existence of a new maritime transit corridor utilizing the seaport. [Flag—Acting supervisor: “HUMINT sources” is lazy projection. You apparently cannot be trusted to identify sources properly. Brackets demonstrate careless drafting.] SIGINT intercepted encrypted communications that suggest coordination between traffickers and local facilitators. [Flag—Acting supervisor: ‘Suggest’ is weak speculation, unbefitting a professional intelligence report. Either confirm or remove this guesswork.] 

Financial forensics have traced suspicious funds transfers totaling approximately $8 million USD linked to traffickers. [Flag—Acting supervisor: Provide specifics or this bland, meaningless statement reveals superficial analysis.] Technical surveillance detected multiple covert meetings in [Urban Centers], corroborated by photographic evidence. [Flag—Acting supervisor: Using placeholders signals either incompetence or utter disregard for accuracy.] On 2022-06-21, interdiction team, operating with local law enforcement, seized 250 illegal firearms at the port city warehouse. [Flag—Acting supervisor: Poorly structured sentence; the muddled passive voice further obscures the facts you apparently cannot clearly present.] Two principal suspects were detained, providing critical intelligence that identified higher-level facilitators. [Flag—Acting supervisor: Passive construction and vague attribution further demonstrate your failure to take ownership of this data.] 

Informant “Falcon” supplied actionable intelligence regarding a planned arms shipment scheduled for early June. [Flag—Acting supervisor: Finally, a clear statement, but unfortunately, it’s buried among verbosity and filler.] Operational security protocols were heightened after detecting possible surveillance by hostile intelligence actors. [Flag—Acting supervisor: ‘Possible’ surveillance indicates your uncertainty and it undermines the entire assessment and betrays inadequate situational awareness.] The network disruption has temporarily halted major arms transfers. [Flag—Acting supervisor: ‘Temporarily’ suggests you lack the insight or confidence to forecast outcomes. Such ambiguity is unacceptable.] 

Surveillance and intelligence collection continue focusing on secondary facilitators and financing channels. [Flag—Acting supervisor: Non-specific, passive phrasing again. You appear unable to report with decisiveness or clarity.] Coordination with allied intelligence agencies is ongoing to leverage broader interdiction efforts. [Flag—Acting supervisor: “Allied intelligence agencies” — weak and meaningless. Omit.] Risk assessment indicates elevated threat levels against NID assets involved in this operation. [Flag—Acting supervisor: Without elaboration, this statement is worthless. The absence of detail is either negligence or incompetence. I’m leaning towards the latter, although the first one also seems to be your defining trait.] Approve expansion of covert operations targeting secondary facilitators and financiers. [Flag—Acting supervisor: Recommendations lack essential resource planning and rationale, further exposing your inexperience.] Request additional SIGINT and counter-surveillance resources. [Flag—Acting supervisor: ‘Additional’ is meaningless without quantification. This sloppy request reflects poor operational understanding.] Initiate an inter-agency task force to address cross-border financing and logistics. [Flag—Acting supervisor: Unsubstantiated recommendation with no defined objectives — this is amateurish.] Continue monitoring and protection of key HUMINT sources and operatives. [Flag—Acting supervisor: Failing to specify protection protocols reflects a dangerous oversight on your part.] Attachments include interdiction team after-action report, financial transaction analyses, SIGINT intercept summaries, and photographic documentation of seized arms and facilities. [Flag—Acting supervisor: Referencing attachments without actual inclusion indicates either incompetence or disregard for proper reporting. Which one is it?]

Flag—Acting supervisor: This report is miserably inadequate and reflects a disturbing lack of professionalism and capability. The careless placeholders, vague assertions, passive voice, and speculative language betray your failure to grasp even the basic standards of intelligence reporting. Such work not only wastes time but actively hampers operational efficiency. REWRITE. 

---------------------------

Secure Directive

From: Jack Frost 

[Code: NID-SO-JF-01]

Section Chief, Special Operations / Acting Division Supervisor [Code SO-92A/DS-4]

To: Agent Elsa Stenford [Code:NID-SO-ES-07]

Subject: RE: Report Review – Operation Silent Raven

Classification: TOP SECRET // EYES ONLY

Agent Stenford,

Your submitted report for Operation Silent Raven is wholly inadequate and reflects a concerning lack of analytical rigor, operational discipline, and professional attention. The presence of unresolved placeholders, vague assertions, speculative conclusions, and critical data gaps is unacceptable at this operational level and wastes valuable time and resources.

This level of oversight is incompatible with the standards expected from an intelligence officer assigned to this unit. You are to:

1. Eliminate all placeholders and provide verified, cross-checked intelligence.

2. Remove speculative or assumptive language; include only confirmed, actionable data.

3. Rewrite sections for clarity, precision, and direct accountability — passive formulations are unacceptable.

4. Deliver detailed, concrete descriptions of sources, operational locations, timelines, and outcomes without ambiguity.

5. Ensure all referenced materials are attached, properly labeled, and internally consistent.

6. Strengthen recommendations by specifying exact resource needs, operational impacts, and executable directives.

7. Fully address risk assessments with defined threats, probability ratings, and specific mitigation strategies.

The supervisor-annotated version of your report (File ID: SR-Report-Rev1-JF) has been uploaded to the secure review system. You are to address all marked corrections and resubmit the fully corrected report no later than 1800 hours today. No further extensions will be granted.

Jack Frost 

[Code: NID-SO-JF-01]

Section Chief, Special Operations (SO-92A)

Acting Division Supervisor (DS-4)

National Intelligence Directorate

---------------------------

Agent Elsa Stenford [Code: NID-SO-ES-07] — Report Upload Log (Revised Submission)

—Logged into secure terminal: Vienna Safehouse Terminal-2

—Date: 2022-07-09

—Time (UTC): 17:38

—Connected to secure node: NIDNet 

—Report file: OP_SIENTRAVEN_AAR_v2.enc

—Encryption status: Secured with NID Master Key — encryption signature verified (Checksum ID: F1A9-7C3B-R2)

—Recipient(s): Jack FrostJack Frost (NID-SO-JF-01), Section Chief Special Operations (SO-92A), Acting Division Supervisor (DS-4), National Intelligence Directorate

—Transmission channel: Priority-One Secure Uplink (Classified Level: TOP SECRET)

—Transmission status: COMPLETE — audit log updated (Reference Log ID: ES07-0525-2316-R2)

—Backup status: Encrypted local backup stored (Partition ES-07-SAFE); master copy uploaded to Central Ops Archive (Vault-4, Revised Submission Folder)

—Field confirmation: Agent ES-07 signed digital attestation; no tampering detected; self-authentication successful

Note: Automatic alert dispatched to Division Supervisor terminal. Clearance authentication required upon access. Revision flag registered under Audit Protocol 4B.

---------------------------

Secure Directive

From: Jack Frost [Code: NID-SO-JF-01] 

Section Chief, Special Operations / Acting Division Supervisor [Code: SO-92A/DS-4]

To: Elsa Stenford [Code: NID-SO-ES-07]

Subject: RE: Secure Directive – Operation Silent Raven Report (Revised Submission)

Agent Stenford,

I have completed my review of your revised report on Operation Silent Raven. The annotated document is attached under:

Attachment: SilentRaven_Rev2_ES07_JFcomments.secure

To be precise: this submission remains below acceptable operational standards. Your continued use of speculative phrasing, unsupported assertions, and vague recommendations demonstrates a concerning lack of analytical discipline. This is not a matter of inexperience. You are not a trainee, Agent. At your level and position, you are expected to understand and apply the standards of rigor, precision, and clarity required in all agency reporting. That expectation is not optional.

Your report exhibits repeated failures:

1. Speculative language where concrete analysis is required;

2. Lack of referenced source attachments, despite multiple directives;

3. Unquantified risk assessments, absent methodological support;

4. Action recommendations devoid of operational specificity.

This is not a learning exercise nor is it a second chance, Agent Stenford. I should not be required to remind you of the foundational protocols governing intelligence reporting. You are expected to deliver work that reflects your clearance level, your operational rank, and your assigned responsibilities — without need for remedial oversight.

You are hereby directed to produce a final, fully compliant, actionable revision and submit it under secure protocol no later than 1300 hours tomorrow. Failure to meet this directive will result in formal escalation to the Division Office for immediate performance review. There will be no further instructions, no extended clarifications, and no tolerance for repeated submission failures.

Jack Frost [Code: NID-SO-JF-01]

Section Chief, Special Operations (SO-92A)

Acting Division Supervisor (DS-4)

National Intelligence Directorate

*

Operation Silent Raven: A report

1.⁠ ⁠Executive Summary:

—The target group’s network activity has intensified in the last 72 hours, with encrypted communications suggesting a planned operation within the capital region. [Flag—Acting supervisor: “Suggesting” is a charming euphemism for “guessing.” Precision is not your forte, is it?]

—HUMINT sources indicate the possible involvement of an external actor, potentially destabilizing regional security. [Flag—Acting supervisor:  “Possible” and “potentially” — a truly inspiring display of hedging. I applaud your commitment to ambiguity.] While these indicators warrant heightened surveillance, conclusive evidence regarding the exact nature and timing of the planned event remains unconfirmed. [COMMENT: I look forward to the day when ‘unconfirmed’ is replaced by ‘confirmed.’ Continue taking baby steps, we’re all here to babysit you and instruct on every level, not to do our job.]

2.⁠ ⁠Intelligence Sources:

SIGINT: Intercepted encrypted transmissions on frequencies 8.1 GHz to 8.3 GHz, believed to originate from multiple cell towers in the downtown sector. [Flag—Acting supervisor: “Believed.” A masterclass in non-committal language. Bold. Yet, it fails to meet the minimum standards of verification.] Metadata analysis aligns with previous hostile activity patterns.

[Flag—Acting supervisor: Please specify the parameters of your analysis. Otherwise, it reads as a hopeful suggestion rather than intelligence.]

HUMINT: Confidential informant reported unusual meetings near industrial sector 4. Reliability assessed as moderate; corroborating SIGINT incomplete. [Flag—Acting supervisor: ‘Moderate’ is an imaginative way of saying ‘I’m not sure.’ The agency appreciates your creativity but prefers facts.]

IMINT: Limited satellite imagery from 23-25 MAY shows increased vehicular movements near potential staging areas, but imagery quality insufficient for identification of personnel or equipment. [Flag—Acting supervisor: Including non-identifiable imagery is an excellent way to fill pages. Whether it aids operations is another matter. But who cares?]

3.⁠ ⁠Operational Assessment:

The convergence of SIGINT and HUMINT suggests preparatory steps for an operation targeting critical infrastructure. [Flag—Acting supervisor: ‘Suggests’ again. I see a pattern. Perhaps next time try ‘confirms’ or ‘demonstrates.’] Risk assessment places the likelihood of attack at moderate (probability 0.55), with potential impact categorized as high due to target significance. [Flag—Acting supervisor: : Quantify your methodology. Numbers plucked from thin air are less useful than no numbers at all.] Recommended actions include intensifying electronic surveillance, deploying field assets for direct observation, and liaising with allied cyber-intelligence units to monitor digital footprints. [Flag—Acting supervisor: Vague directives are the hallmark of an inexperienced analyst. Details and accountability please.]

4.⁠ ⁠Recommendations:

Immediate deployment of SIGINT intercept teams in the identified frequency bands. Enhanced HUMINT debriefings with source ES-27 to confirm meeting details. [Flag—Acting supervisor: The lack of specificity here suggests an admirable level of trust in the reader’s imagination.] Coordination with Cyber Ops for real-time network traffic analysis. [Flag—Acting supervisor:  Nomenclature alone does not constitute a plan. Flesh this out.]

Notes [Acting Supervisor] : 

—Formatting inconsistent with NID operational report guidelines. You’ve transformed a simple formatting standard into an elusive art form. Bravo.

—Failure to attach referenced supporting materials AGAIN. This recurring omission hinders operational efficacy. Consider attaching documents next time.

—In conclusion, REWRITE.

---------------------------

Agent [Code: NID-SO-ES-07] — Field Report Upload Log (Revised Submission)

—Logged into secure terminal: Vienna Safehouse Terminal-2

—Date: 2022-07-10

—Time (UTC): 13:00

—Connected to secure node: NIDNet

—Report file: OP_SILENTRAVEN_AAR_v3.enc

—Encryption status: Secured with NID Master Key — encryption signature verified (Checksum ID: F1A9-7C3B-R2)

—Recipient(s): Jack Frost, Section Chief Special Operations (SO-92A), Acting Division Supervisor (DS-4), NID

—Transmission channel: Priority-One Secure Uplink (Classified Level: TOP SECRET)

—Transmission status: COMPLETE — audit log updated (Reference Log ID: ES07-0710-1300-R2)

—Backup status: Encrypted local backup stored (Partition ES-07-SAFE); master copy uploaded to Central Ops Archive (Vault-4, Revised Submission Folder)

—Field confirmation: Agent ES-07 signed digital attestation; no tampering detected; self-authentication successful

Note: Automatic alert dispatched to Division Supervisor terminal. Clearance authentication required upon access. Revision flag registered under Audit Protocol 4B.

---------------------------

Secure Directive

From: Jack Frost [NID-SO-JF-01]

Section Chief, Special Operations / Acting Division Supervisor [Code: NID-SO-92A/DS-4]

To: Elsa Stenford [Code: NID-SO-ES-07]

Subject: RE: Secure Directive – Operation Silent Raven Report , Revocation of Field Authority and Immediate Reassignment

Agent Stenford,

I was informed last afternoon that due to shifting operational priorities, the report in question [Ops Silent Raven] is no longer required. 

After review of your latest submission — the revised report you provided earlier today — I must formally acknowledge that the material remains below acceptable operational standards. While I did not realistically anticipate any significant improvement, it is nonetheless disappointing that even after detailed corrective input, your output failed to meet the basic analytical and procedural thresholds expected of an intelligence officer at your level.

However, the time I was forced to expend personally correcting and annotating your repeated errors constitutes an unacceptable diversion of supervisory resources. You have now occupied more of this division’s time and attention than your current role warrants.

Accordingly, effective immediately, your independent field authority is revoked. You are reassigned to trailing support under Intelligence Officer Logan Parrish [CODE: NID-SO-LP-33], Team Blue. While Officer Parrish holds the same formal rank as you, his superior reliability and competence justify his lead role in this arrangement.

You are to operate strictly under Officer Parrish’s direction, with no independent decision-making or external communications without prior clearance. This corrective assignment will remain in place until further notice and serves as a necessary intervention to address the persistent deficits in your performance.

You are to report to Team Blue at 07:00 hours tomorrow, prepared and fully compliant. Written acknowledgment of this directive is required by 16:00 hours today. Noncompliance will result in immediate formal disciplinary action.

Jack Frost [Code: NID-SO-JF-01]

Section Chief, Special Operations (SO-92A)

Acting Division Supervisor (DS-4)

National Intelligence Directorate

---------------------------

Elsa Stenford read the message over and over again, because she knew it wasn’t serious. It must be a mistake. A joke. That’s what it was. Maybe if she read it again, it would change, it would shift and it would fix itself. So she read it, the words physically burning her, over and over again, but it stayed the same. She just stared at it, mouth hanging open, eyes wide with shock, unblinking. 

“Elsa?” Merida’s voice shattered the silence in her head. “Are you—”

“THAT MISERABLE FUCKING BASTARD! THAT FUCKING—” She stopped herself, but there was just too much rage and hate in her, enough for her to combust and paint the walls red. "FUCKING PIECE OF SCUM! I FUCKING HATE HIM, THAT USELESS, ARROGANT, SLIMY RAT!"

---------------------------

[k-nayee]

Morning After Alien Romulus ii

wc: 3.9k a/n: Song Inspiration: Morning After by DVSN; recommend you listen while reading!!

Traveler M.List

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ˏ⸉ˋ‿̩͙‿̩̩̥͙̽‿̩͙ˏ⸉ˋ‿̩͙‿̩̩̥͙̽‿̩͙ˏ⸉ˋ‿̩͙‿̩̩̥͙̽‿̩͙.·͙*̩̩͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩̥͙　✩　*̩̩̥͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩͙‧͙ .‿̩̥̩‿̩̩̥͙̽‿̩͙ˊ⸊ˎ‿̩̥̩‿̩̩̥͙̽‿̩͙ˊ⸊ˎ‿̩̥̩‿̩̩̥͙̽‿̩͙ˊ⸊ˎ

The quiet hum of the ventilation system was the only sound in the room as you awakened.

Your bare skin prickled slightly as the cool air traced along your spine. The sheets were slightly tangled around your legs, a faint reminder of the way Tyler had held onto you as if afraid you’d slip away.

For a moment you stayed there, caught between the comfort of the present and the weight of the future pressing on your chest.

You took in the sight of Tyler sleeping beside you—his dark lashes casting shadows on his cheekbones, lips slightly parted, breaths even and untroubled as his arm draped loosely over your waist,

You felt an undeniable tug in your chest.

It wasn’t fair. None of this was.

You reached out without thinking; brushing your fingers gently through his hair, smoothing back a few strands that had fallen over his forehead. He barely stirred with a soft exhale.

You wanted nothing more than to stay, to sink back under the covers and pretend, even for a little while longer, that the outside world didn’t exist. That Jackson’s Star wasn’t a crumbling graveyard in the making.

But reality was impatient and duty whispered in the back of your mind.

Leaning in, you pressed a light kiss to his forehead, lingering just enough to let the moment settle. "Soon," you murmured against his skin, the promise hanging between you. "We’ll get there soon."

Though you weren’t sure who it was really meant for. Him or yourself?

With careful movements you slip out from under the sheets, mindful not to wake him. The floor was cool beneath your feet as you padded across the room, a wince pulling at your face as you bend down to dress quickly—the soreness a not-so-subtle reminder of last night.

You had picked something simple. Practical. Didn’t want to give anyone a reason to notice you more than necessary today.

The facility was quieter than usual when you arrived. Most workers hadn’t clocked in yet, leaving only a few scattered employees moving through the lit corridors, lost in their own routines.

Good. Fewer eyes meant fewer questions.

Settling at your workstation, you booted up the terminal, fingers moving automatically over the keyboard. Years of navigating these systems had made you efficient—too efficient.

You knew the system inside and out; knew its weak spots, its loopholes. Every firewall, every security gap, every blind spot left unattended that management either didn’t care to fix or simply hadn’t noticed.

Maybe it was arrogance. Maybe it was neglect. Either way it worked in your favor.

Hacking in was second nature by now. Your eyes scanned the lines of code flashing across the screen as you navigated through, slipping past security protocols with the kind of precision that only came from experience.

A click here, a minor override there—nothing too aggressive, nothing that would trip an alarm. Just a careful dance between what was allowed and what wasn’t.

Then you saw it.

QUOTA MET: TRANSFER ELIGIBLE

The confirmation glowed in green across your account file, staring back at you like a silent invitation.

You had met your quota weeks ago. The option had been sitting there waiting. You hadn’t acted. Not until now.

Not until Tyler.

Your heartbeat picked up, thudding against your ribs as you pulled up your brother’s data. His file flickered onto the screen—his name, his hours, his status, all laid out in sterile formatting.

For a brief second doubt gnawed at the edges of your resolve. What if this didn’t work? What if someone noticed? What if—

No. You couldn't think like that. Taking a deep breath, you began typing.

It wasn’t just a matter of inputting numbers. The system wouldn’t allow a direct transfer under normal circumstances. There were fail-safes in place, redundancies meant to prevent exactly this kind of manipulation.

Luckily you knew the cracks in the armor.

Instead of a direct transfer you rerouted the hours through a dormant worker ID—a name that no longer had a body attached to it, a ghost in the system. From there the hours flowed cleanly into your brother’s account, looking like nothing more than a clerical correction.

The moment you hit Enter your status blinked red.

QUOTA UNMET: TRANSFER UNELIGIBLE

And then—your brother’s turned green.

QUOTA MET: TRANSFER ELIGIBLE

A sharp breath hitched in your throat, your hands were still trembling slightly as they hovered over the keys. 'It's done.'

The thought echoed in your head but it didn’t bring you the relief you expected. Instead your stomach twisted with unease.

With a shaky exhale you forced yourself to focus. You couldn’t afford to sit here in shock. You quickly began to erase every trace of your interference.

You became hyper-aware of the faint hum of machinery and the distant murmur of workers beginning to filter into the station as your fingers moved automatically.

Delete logs, clear access history, reroute tracking pings.

Every file you touched, every lingering breadcrumb that could be traced back to you, wiped clean. It was meticulous work but you had no room for error.

A few more keystrokes... A final scan... Gone.

With a final click you shut off your terminal. You sat there for a moment, staring at the dark reflection of your own face on the screen’s surface.

It was done. No going back.

Your lungs deflated as you leaned back in the chair, shoulders slumping as the tension coiled in your muscles finally unwound—just a fraction.

Because this was only the first step.

Pushing away from your desk, you forced your legs to move through the near-empty halls. The artificial lighting above flickered slightly, casting sharp shadows along the walls, but you barely noticed.

You needed to look the part.

Reaching the nearest restroom, you slipped inside and locked the door behind you. The mirror reflected back a face that didn’t look nearly as weary as you felt.

That wouldn’t do.

Digging into your bag, you pulled out your small kit of waterproof makeup, your hands steady as you selected the palest shade you had. You apply it strategically to make your skin appear almost ghostly: dabbing it under your cheekbones, around your eyes—anywhere that would make you look sickly.

Then came the red liner, a precise application around the rims of your eyes to mimic irritation and exhaustion. You blinked a few times to let the moisture build naturally.

The effect was haunting—you looked drained, on the verge of collapse.

Perfect.

Satisfied, you straightened, adjusted your shirt to appear slightly rumpled, and took one last breath before leaving the restroom.

Now came the hard part.

The walk to Mary-Anne's office felt much longer than usual. Your hands felt clammy, your breathing slightly uneven, but you forced yourself to stay calm. This has to work.

Reaching her door, you raised a trembling hand and knocked softly.

A rustle of papers. A chair shifting. Then—

"Come in."

You pushed the door open and stepped inside.

She was at her desk (as usual), glasses perched on the bridge of her nose as she worked through a thick stack of paperwork. The soft glow of her monitor illuminated the wrinkles in her forehead as she worked, but as soon as she saw you she paused.

Her face brightened upon seeing you, her lips parting in the start of a warm greeting—until she saw you up close. The warmth drained from her expression and was replaced by deep immediate concern.

"____...sweetheart, I—" Mary-Anne's brows knit together as she stood up slightly, leaning forward. "What’s wrong? What happened?"

You lowered yourself into the chair across from her, your hands clenching together in your lap, curling into yourself just a little as you gave a shaky sigh.

“I—I listened to you,” you murmured. “I went to the infirmary. I...I just thought maybe I was run down, you know?" A weak humorless laugh escaped you before you inhaled sharply as if bracing yourself. "But after some tests, they—" Your voice caught.

Mary-Anne was already on the edge of her seat. "Tests?" she echoed. Her own hands pressed against the desk, her knuckles white.

You lifted your gaze to hers, your eyes wet, the red lining enhancing the illusion of someone who had cried too much already. "They found something growing in my brain. They don't know what...but the tumor's developing fast."

Mary-Anne's face went slack. For a moment she just stared, uncomprehending—like her mind refused to process what you had just said. Then the color drained from her face.

"Oh honey…" Her voice broke, eyes glassy with unshed tears. "No...no that can’t—"

You let out a shaky breath, blinking rapidly as if you were trying to keep yourself together. It wasn’t hard—because underneath the act real emotions swirled, tangled with the lie.

You could feel the weight of it pressing on your concious.

She reached forward, grasping your hands in hers, squeezing them tightly as if that alone could will reality into something kinder.

You let your head dip slightly, eyes burning as you let out a trembling breath. "I—I don’t have much time."

Her grip on your hand tightened. "No no don’t say that. There—there has to be something they can do. Treatments—"

You shook your head. "It’s too late for that."

The first tear slipped down her cheek and it nearly shattered you.

She saw you like family. A daughter, a niece—someone she had taken under her wing long ago. And now? Now she was losing you.

You hesitated before speaking again, letting the tension stretch just enough. Then you carefully squeezed her hand. "I...I need you to do something for me."

She sniffed, blinking rapidly. "Anything."

You took a breath. "I need you to approve my brother’s transfer to Yvaga III."

Her brows knit together, confusion flickering across her grief-stricken face. "...What?"

"I gave him all my hours," you admitted lowly. "He has everything he needs to leave. But if anyone checks the records, they’ll see the numbers don’t add up and they’ll start asking questions."

Silence.

Mary-Anne's entire body tensed as her hands pulled away. "You—what?" Her voice dropped to a whisper, almost like she was afraid of the walls listening in. "Do you have any idea what you’ve done?! If they find out—"

You cut her off with a hollow laugh. "I’m already a dead woman."

That stopped her cold.

The room fell silent except for the faint hum of machinery beyond the walls. Her lips parted but no words came out. She just stared at you, at the emptiness behind your eyes, at the acceptance.

The truth (at least the truth you had crafted) settled between you both like a lead weight..

“There’s always one final screening before transfer off Jackson Star.” You spoke again, voice softer now, raw with the emotion you needed her to see. “If you approve it no one will think to look deeper. No one will question it."

Tears spilled freely from your eyes now, your breath coming out uneven. "I...I can’t leave him alone. I'm all he has. After the death of our parent's I can’t—" Your breath hitched and the dam broke.

Your body shook as sobs wracked your frame. The grief, the fear, the desperation—it all poured out in a way that felt real. Maybe because some of it was.

Maybe because you knew, deep down, you weren’t just crying for your brother. You were crying for everything.

For the life you never got to have... For the choices forced upon you.... For the lies you had to tell to ensure the only family you had left would be safe....

Through your blurred vision you saw her; you saw the war waging in her expression, the way her hands curled into fists, the way she fought against the rules, against logic, against everything she was supposed to do.

Then, with a heavy shaky sigh, she shook her head. "You…" She let out a choked sound, somewhere between frustration and heartbreak. "You absolute fool."

And then she nodded. "Okay."

Your breath caught.

She sniffled, wiping her face. "I’ll do it. I’ll make it official."

A broken sob tore through you as you surged forward, wrapping your arms around her. She let out a strangled sound of her own before hugging you back tightly, squeezing you like she was trying to hold you together.

You had done it.

Your brother was safe.

And nothing else mattered.

*.·:·.☽✧✧☾.·:·.*

You sat in the dimly lit living lounge, your knee bouncing uncontrollably as nerves twisted like a knot in your stomach. The faint hum of the ventilation system filled the silence but it did nothing to settle the unease gripping your chest.

The clock on the wall ticked louder than usual—or maybe it was just your heartbeat roaring in your ears.

Your fingers tangled together in your lap, gripping tighter than they needed to as every so often you'd glanced toward the front door.

'He should be home soon...'

You had gone over this conversation in your head over and over. What you would say...how you would say it.

But now? Now you weren’t even sure how to start.

Then—

The front door slides open with a soft hiss, the faint shuffling of boots against the metal floor signaling his return. Anticipation and dread coiled inside you as you shot up instantly like a tightly wound spring.

Your brother stepped inside, his uniform slightly wrinkled from another long shift. A tired but genuine smile formed on his lips as he shrugged off his jacket. "Hey! You won't believe the kind of day I had—"

The easy smile falters the second he sees your face. "What’s wrong?" The usual warmth in his eyes dimmed, replaced by a cautious edge.

You hadn’t realized how serious you must have seemed—hands clenched, eyes trained on him like you were bracing for impact.

You didn’t answer.

Instead you closed the distance between you in a few quick strides and pulled him into a hug.

His body tensed at first, caught off guard by the abruptness of it, his arms hovering uncertainly before finally settling around you. He was taller than you now, but the way you clutched him and forced his head down to rest against your shoulder said otherwise.

"Okay...?" His voice was muffled as he let out a confused chuckle. "Now I know something’s up."

He shifted slightly, trying to pull back, but you only tightened your hold for a moment longer, now cradling his head under your chin.

His breath hitched. "Hey...what’s going on?" His voice was softer now. More careful.

You could feel his unease, the way he hunched slightly, letting you hold onto him like you used to when you were both younger—when the world had been scarier and he had needed you to shield him from it.

Taking one last shaky breath, you finally pull back. His hands lingered on your arms as you reached up to gently cup his face between your palms.

His skin was warm beneath your touch, [eye color] eyes searching yours for answers as his brow scrunched deeper. "Seriously. What’s going on?"

You met his gaze. "You’re leaving, [Brother's Name]."

He blinks. “What?”

"You’re getting out of here." Your voice became firmer. “You’re leaving Jackson Star.”

His expression remained frozen for a second, like his brain was still catching up to the words you had just said. Then his eyes slowly widened.

A beat of silence.

"...What?" His voice was barely a whisper this time.

You didn’t waver. You repeated yourself as you give a steady and reassuring nod. "You’re going to Yvaga."

For a moment his lips parted but no sound came out. He just stood there blinking at you, the reality of your words sinking in.

Then—a grin.

It started small, creeping onto his face. Then it grew bright and full of disbelief.

"Wait. Wait are you serious?" His voice pitched higher, excitement bleeding into every syllable. "You’re not messing with me? This isn’t some kind of cruel prank right?"

You didn’t need to answer. The look in your eyes was enough.

"Holy shit—are you serious?! No wait—" He spun around, running a hand through his hair as a sudden burst of energy rushed through him. "I— I’m actually leaving?! I can finally—?!"

He turned back to you as he started rambling, his words coming out in breathless waves.

"I’ll actually get to see the sun?! And real trees?! And—actual grass?! Like real growing grass? And the air—God bet the air doesn’t even smell like metal and recycled filth over there—"

But then he stopped.

His words cut off mid-sentence as he looked back at you. And just like that, the boyish wonder vanished, replaced by something raw as the light in his eyes dimmed.

“Wha....what about you?”

You had been waiting for this. You forced a reassuring smile, shaking your head as if his worry was misplaced. "I’ll be there too."

He didn’t respond right away. His eyes searched yours as if trying to find the lie beneath your words. When he found nothing to doubt, his shoulders eased. "Okay...yeah. Good that's good."

Relief softened his features, and just like that the light returned. He grinned again, bubbling back up as he started pacing, hands gesturing as he talked.

"God I don’t even know where to start! Do I need to pack everything? What should I bring? What’s the first thing I should do when I get there? Do you think they have real food? Like not this rehydrated crap?"

His energy was infectious and you couldn’t help but let out a laugh as he spin in circles like a kid on their birthday. “Relax. The transport doesn’t leave for another week. You have time."

"Yeah but still—!" He waved his arms, his mind clearly filled with preparations. "I gotta be ready!"

Still grinning, you reached out and ruffled his hair, messing it up just to hear him groan in protest. He batted your hand away with a playful scowl.

You hesitated for half a second before adding, "You’re gonna be staying with Mary-Anne for the time being."

His excitement dimmed again, his lips pressed together. "...Why do I have to stay with her? Aren't we just going together?"

There it was—that little sliver of doubt creeping back in.

"Because I need to handle some things here first. But I’ll be there right after." you said, pinching his cheek exaggeratedly in an attempt to lighten the mood. "Besides, you like her. She makes those weird cookies you love."

The teen scrunched his nose but didn’t argue. He still looked uncertain.

"You promise?"

You smiled, lifting your hand and holding out your pinky; a silent vow.

He stared at it for a moment before huffing, a grin tugging at his lips as he looped his pinky around yours. "You better not make me wait too long," he muttered.

"Do I ever?"

"Yes. Constantly."

You laughed, bumping your forehead against his before pulling back.

For now the moment was safe. For now he was happy. And for now that was enough.

*.·:·.☽✧✧☾.·:·.*

The low hum of Corbelan IV ’s engines vibrated through the metal walls, a subtle but constant reminder that they were really leaving. The air inside the ship was thick with tension—excitement, unease, the weight of the unknown.

Navarro was already in the cockpit; flipping switches, checking dials, her voice crisp and efficient as she called out checkpoints.

In the main cabin Rain and Andy moved around, taking in the ship’s interior with quiet awe while others moved frantically, checking cargo, double-checking straps, ensuring everything was in place.

And then there was Tyler.

He sat in the co-pilot’s seat barely registering the checklist Navarro was rattling off. The faint hum of the ship, the occasional flicker of a dashboard light....it all blurred into the background.

His fingers tapped restlessly against his knee, shoulders slightly slumped as his entire body carried the kind of tension that only came with waiting for something that wasn’t going to happen.

He should be happy. They were finally leaving this cursed place. They were finally free.

But you weren’t here.

"You alright mate?"

Tyler blinked, turning to see Bjorn staring at him from where he stood near the console. The scavenger's arms were crossed, his expression unreadable but sharp with observation.

Tyler forced a grin with a dismissive wave of his hand. "Yeah. Yeah—I will be."

Bjorn made a noise in the back of his throat, half scoff, half knowing grunt. He smacked his lips and muttered, “Women. Can’t live with ‘em...can’t live without ‘em.”

Tyler let out a breathy laugh, though it held no real humor. But before he could respond—

BANG! BANG! BANG!

A loud pounding rattled against the metal door causing everyone to jump.

"Shit!" Bjorn hissed, his entire body going rigid.

Kay sucked in a sharp breath, eyes going wide as hands instinctively move to her stomach. "Think we got caught?" she whispered as panic crept into her voice.

Navarro whipped around in her seat. "No fucking way, I cleared us. There’s no—"

Tyler’s pulse spiked as he turned toward the console. With a quick press of a button, the external camera feed flickered onto the screen.

And then—

All the tension in his body evaporated.

A slow disbelieving smile stretched across his face.

He shot up from his seat, barely giving the others a second glance before bolting for the door. His heart was hammering, his throat tight as he slammed his hand against the release button.

The door hissed open.

And there you were. Standing just beyond the threshold, a bag slung over your shoulder with a warm smile tinged with nervous energy. "Got room for one more?"

For a split second Tyler just stared.

His breath stuttered, eyes scanning over you as if he needed to make sure you were real—that you weren’t some cruel hallucination conjured by wishful thinking.

In an instant his arms were around you.

You barely had time to react before you were engulfed in his warmth, your feet nearly lifting off the ground as he held you tight against his chest. His breathing was uneven, almost ragged, like he was forcing himself to believe this was happening.

"You here," he muttered against your shoulder.

You let out a soft laugh, muffling the way your throat tightened. "Didn’t actually think I’d let you have all the fun did you?"

Tyler pulled back just enough to look at you, his hands still gripping your arms like he was scared you’d disappear if he let go.

His eyes searched yours.

You could tell—he wanted to say something else. Something bigger. But instead he just huffed a breath and shook his head. "Get inside idiot."

Grinning, you stepped past him, dropping your bag onto the floor as you took your first steps onto the ship.

The others were staring.

Bjorn let out a low whistle. "Well look at that. Drama’s over folks. Guess we can all breathe now."

Kay let out a choked laugh, one hand clutching her chest as if trying to slow her racing heart. "Almost gave me a damn heart attack that's for sure"

You just shot her a wink.

Navarro’s voice came through the intercom, cutting through the moment. "Last call. We’re clear for launch in two minutes. Strap in or get left behind."

This was it.

Tyler exhaled, running a hand through his hair before glancing back at you, a different kind of smile on his face now. "Come on," he said, nodding toward the seats. "Let’s get the hell out of here."

You grinned.

"Gladly.

[silentmagi]

Adopted Tech:

Headcanon that despite being an intern and his comedicness, due to what we see in the series happen to him, it possibly happened more then he’d actually like to admit, which led to him gaining a lot of knowledge of a lot of things due to concerning disappearances of figures and managing to misplace his coat or a misgrab of a nametag there.

And headcanon that thanks to him, being human and all, and in addition to previous headcanon, he is the one to comfort J the most when she is without tessa (he knows the procedures for things like this for human to drone transfer, but there was only one left, and he figured if there was another survivor, there was someone who deserved it more then him, and there is need of a preserved brain to properly do it, he hopes that from what J is saying, that there is that preserved as a way to “not discard her”)

How does solver feel as it figures out that, out of all people, the same damn intern that got yeva to stop nori from transforming into a new host for solver, is now the one undoing years of work of erasing memories

Adopted Tech

Yes, Mitchell would have approximate knowledge of many things due to completely and utterly having the weirdest luck and people failing to follow security protocols.

J comes to terms with Tessa, only to have a secret file stored away in the depths of J's core which is Solvers' way of staying true to their word.

I'm not entirely sure that The Solver we know is the same that tried to take over Uzi, or a copy. However, after it is reincorporated with the main, you can hear the facepalming even from the depths of cyberspace.

[wotchernewt]

NMRF Internal Incident Report

Date: 14/11/2024

Filed by: Cleo Zombey and Etho Slab and annotated by Dr. Gemini Tay

Nature of incident: Violence between residents.

Summary: Incident occurred between residents Grian and Scar, with staff E. Slab and C. Zombey present. Grian bit Scar on the left pectoral hard enough to draw blood. Per foundation protocol, both residents were immediately relocated to separate isolated pools for medical attention and testing. No other residents were quarantined, as risk of infection was deemed negligible.

To everyone who read that and started freaking out about ZF, please read the full report and appended medical assessment. ~ GT

Background:

Grian is a recent arrival. Due to the circumstances of his discovery (see I-313, 30/10/2024) and an unwillingness to speak to staff, very little is known about his history. Following standard 14-day quarantine !!! Grian was deemed in good enough health to transfer to the complex, with safety barriers in place for the first few days to allow him to get used to the environment before meeting other residents up close.

Scar is a long-term resident. Reduced mobility makes reintroduction to the wild nonviable, so he instead works as an ambassador and consultant regarding remodelling of pool interiors. Has a history of disobeying authority.

Per Scar's own testimony, Scar bypassed the security barriers multiple times before this incident. Staff was unaware of these prior incidents, as well as the means by which Scar achieved this. Scar claims these were merely visits to show Grian around, as Scar was involved with the construction of Grian's pool, and that Grian never exited the area. Grian refuses to say anything on the matter, beyond confirming that he had met Scar before the incident on November 14th.

Full incident report:

Sometime between 12:00 and 14:45, Scar bypassed one of the safety barriers by unknown means. At approximately 14:45, Slab and Zombey passed the door to Grian's quarters. Hearing an unusual sound, they entered the room and found both Grian and Scar, Grian having pinned Scar down in one of the shallow portions of the pool.

Grian responded to the staff's arrival with a threat display. Scar took advantage of this distraction to escape Grian's hold. A brief scuffle followed. Splashing made it difficult for staff to follow, but the dispute ended in Scar's favour, with Scar trapping Grian in a hold wherein Grian's face was pressed against Scar's chest. Scar remained unconcerned !!!! as he greeted Slab and Zombey, in spite of Grian's tail remaining free and thrashing wildly. Despite staff recommendation, Scar kept Grian in this hold until 14:48, when Grian bit him. I'd bite him too.

Scar released Grian at this point, allowing Grian to retreat !!!!! into the pool's underwater structures. Recognizing that the bite had drawn blood, Zombey sent Slab to retrieve medical supplies. Scar initially attempted to follow Grian, but was reminded of foundation protocol and convinced to wait on the poolside and receive medical attention.

Once Slab returned with first aid equipment, Zombey entered the pool to retrieve Grian. Grian did not resist relocation !!!!!! once found, apart from a brief attempt to swim towards Scar upon entering line of sight. Grian was removed from the room at 15:01, while Scar's relocation was delayed until his injury was fully bandaged at 15:15.

Once both residents were safely relocated, staff spoke with residents to confirm whether anyone else had any contact with Grian. Only Mumbo Jumbo had spoken with Grian. As that communication was through ultrasonic frequencies and did not involve either resident approaching the security barriers, it was not deemed necessary to quarantine him as well. Contact with Scar was not deemed a risk factor, as Scar did not have any recent injuries apart from the bite.

---

ZFS Assessment (abridged, see medical file for full details)

Date: 18/11/2024

Physical: Scales continue to brighten, more red than pink this time. None missing. Fins show minor damage around edges, no worse than previously observed. Full range of motion. Capable of strong, fast movement both in and out of water. NEGATIVE

Mental: No observed difficulty communicating or performing actions of his own accord, but refuses to cooperate with testing. INCONCLUSIVE

Behavior: Irritable. Splashes staff at all opportunities. In context with past behavior, this is unremarkable. Responds to Scar's ultrasonic calls from the adjacent room. When left alone, alternately swims laps and plays with supplied toys, with occasional naps on the edge of the pool. NEGATIVE

Conclusion: The patient shows zero symptoms. Even if an infection had slipped past the generous initial quarantine period, physical deterioration takes less than a day to set in after the behavioral shift. Said shift is characterized by UNPROVOKED violence, fearlessness, and attempting to maul ANYTHING that comes within arm's reach. That includes you, Cleo. Grian's behavior has been consistent through his entire residency thus far and he is only getting healthier. As such, I can confidently say that there is no chance that Grian has Zombie Fish Syndrome, and both he and Scar can safely be returned to the complex at any time.

That protocol is in place for a reason, but it's pretty obvious by now that they were just roughhousing, like Scar said. Have we all forgotten how much personal experience he has with that disease? Am I the only person who actually listens to him?

I get it, it's super infectious, we're here to keep these mermaids alive. But there's keeping an endangered species safe, and there's keeping people locked up just because it kinda looked like they might be sick. I like this place a lot better when it's a sanctuary, not a gilded cage.

[seniorpollinationtechnician]

Ethan spent the next three hours in his cluttered office, surrounded by stacks of old files and a mess of digital archives on his computer. Eventually, ISAAC's voice broke the silence. "Ethan, I have located several encrypted documents closely related to your search history. Shall I bring them up?"

After a vocal confirmation, ISAAC remotely accessed Ethan's computer and began displaying a series of decrypted files with some title variation of 'Chrysalis_2023'. Project Chrysalis had been one of his most secretive assignments while working with the government where he had been tasked with engineering a containment and analysis system for biological entities. The government's vague description alluded to 'non-terrestrial biological entities', which Ethan naively interpreted as some advanced biological research.

The digital files were heavily redacted but offered enough information to remind him that he had physical evidence as well. He eventually found a folder containing detailed schematics alongside his own annotations on the nature of the project. One document in particular, an incident report, caught his eye.

Entry Date: 04/12/2023 Subject: NTBE X-23 Humanoid organism measuring 1.8 meters (6 ft.) in height. Bipedal locomotion. Epidermis is a pale yellow tone. Facial structure similar to that of a human being but with eight black eyes arranged in a symmetrical pattern. Indecipherable markings around the eyes. Subject arrived unconscious and has not regained consciousness throughout the observation period. Subject X-23 was transferred from the recovery unit into the primary containment chamber at 1100 hours. Upon entering the containment unit, the subject's vital signs surged. Subject X-23 abruptly regained consciousness and exhibited erratic behavior. Witnesses claimed to have seen something move within the subject's skin. Vocalizations consistent with an unknown language were recorded (see audio log 0134-B1). Linguistic analysis is ongoing. The subject shortly underwent a rapid biological transformation. Epidermal surfaces split open, extruding long, vine-like protrusions tipped with bioluminescent nodules. The cranial structure split open longitudinally, revealing a maw lined with razor-sharp teeth. At 1400 hours, Subject X-23 initiated a violent attack on the containment unit. The material composition used proved insufficient. A containment breach occurred at 1405 hours. Specimen X-23 lunged at Dr. ■■■■, inflicting a fatal laceration to the abdomen. Security personnel were authorized to terminate the threat. Subject X-23 was neutralized at 1410 hours. Residual specimens are being collected for further analysis. The containment unit is undergoing repairs and biohazard decontamination. Further research is on hold pending reevaluation of containment protocols.

[jades-typurriter]

Secure Connection

As promised: more Posie!! I wrote this one toward the end of last Spring after a couple of conversations with friends regarding the malleability of digital bodies (as well as still having Many Thoughts about the way code can give them new compulsions, after writing something about Annie and a new taur-shaped chassis for a friend's Patreon). Enjoy reading about her dealing with a corporate-mandated "hardware" update!

CW: Genital TF, this is another one that's As About Sex as it can possibly be without being about sex

Posie sat, sulking—steaming, even—in her office. It was a small side room off of the main floor of IT personnel, system engineers, and other technical employees of her corporation. Much like a central server, it was placed for easy access to the department-wide administrative assistant, and much like a server room, it was snug, windowless, and awash with the calming drone and relaxing warmth of an array of exhaust fans. Though she was free to project herself nearly anywhere on the company’s campus, this was where her consciousness was housed, and where she felt most at home. It was also the only place she could get any damn privacy, a luxury that she was deeply grateful for at present.

A newly-downloaded file weighed on the back of the Renamon’s mind. More literally, it was somewhere in the racks of drives that made up her long-term memory, to and from which mission-critical information was transferred in the course of doing business. Had somebody asked where exactly the file was stored, she would have been able to list the specific drive and the exact directory address, but she had de-prioritized the allocation of her processing resources for the download. Once again, she had received an assignment from her superiors, and once again, she was hesitant. She may even have admitted to being recalcitrant. She resented the orders.

The package of data in question was an update for her own software, a suite of new tools to allow management to offload yet more menial tasks onto her in the name of “efficiency”. Forget that she could diagnose a software issue faster than any of the engineers could even open a remote connection to the malfunctioning device. Instead of allowing her to take the reins, they saw fit to divert more of her attention to the least impressive among talents, and the one she already put to use the most often: transferring data.

This wouldn’t have been much of a problem, ordinarily. After all, Posie resided in the beating heart of the network, the nexus through which the vast majority of information was sent and received. It could be… meditative. Parsing streams of ones and zeroes, overseeing the flow of packets, redirecting traffic to equally spread the load across modems and routers so as to optimize travel time. It could even have been considered relaxing, if a worker of her caliber needed to relax. Instead of offering her a vacation (pah!), however, the update felt more like it heralded a demotion, denying her even the ability to pluck like harpstrings the miles of copper and gold that lined her facility. She was expected to deliver this data on foot.

Management justified this humiliation with practical concerns: some information, much like the old records she was often tasked to dispose of, was so confidential that it could not be sent via wireless transmission. Even hardwired connections were too fallible for the likes of next-generation schematics and financial access keys—a single compromised workstation, or compromised worker, could spell the loss of the company’s upper hand in its market. She wasn’t even going to be afforded the dignity of carrying an external hard drive to the destination. That would require the slow and tedious process of physically moving from one place to the next; this was one of the only times that she regretted the freedom of movement that was so coveted by her flesh-and-blood peers.

With no room to make exceptions for security protocol, she gripped the edge of her desk, brow furrowing, eyes squinted shut in consternation. Eventually, she huffed, rose, and turned her attention to her “physical body”, summoning up the file in much the same way that one would approach a plate of food with a pungent odor. The Renamon steeled herself and began to more closely examine its contents. She read the raw code similarly to how one might read words on a page; however, where the turning gears of the organic mind would, almost unconsciously, conjure up an image as a result of those words, her mind kicked off a series of involuntary, autonomic processes.

Her body carried out the instructions on her behalf. Once she started, she had no control until she finally reached a stopcode; it was the nature of being a program herself that code had as much of an influence on her mind and body as her own thoughts, her own will. In opening the package, she reluctantly consented to the changes that management saw fit to make to her. It was better than the eventual forced-deadline sort of update that software companies were so keen on using nowadays, and at least choosing the time and place allowed her to make herself presentable again before having to face another person.

Having parts of her code—her very body—rewritten by the update was a strange sensation, not unlike having your thoughts dictated to you by an outside force. Stranger still was that she could feel the exact delineation between her previous self and the patches of… well, the patch. She could feel it quite strongly, as a matter of fact: beneath her skirt of simulated sky-blue fur, between her legs, she could feel her mesh being edited. Stretched. Reshaped. The vectors that made up the triangles of her wireframe soul were being rewritten, mathematically transformed. A shape began to protrude from the once-flat span at the bottom of her torso, at first round and indistinct, but quickly increasing in resolution.

The Renamon struggled to process the sensations as a long, slender connector began to take shape. This often happened with changes to her body plan; inputs streamed into her mind from directions, locations, that previously never sent any signals, and the new additions seldom had their sensitivity adjusted downward for her convenience. In this case, it was highly sensitive, delivering reams of data to the base of her skull just from brushing up against her own fur, or the gentle flow of air from the computers in her office. It made sense, given that it was supposed to be a high-capacity transfer tool, but she was too busy buckling at the knees and clutching at the desk behind her so she didn’t fall flat on her rear for the thought to occur to her.

Her processors demanded more cooling, kicking into high gear as they formatted the two new storage devices that accompanied the connector, tailor-made for packing confidential data as tightly as possible. The sound of whirring fans filled the room, stirring her fur and sending shivers up and down her back; she could only hope that the rushing exhaust made enough noise to drown her out, whimpering despite herself. The new drives were larger (and more unwieldy) than the ones that were built into her chest, much to her chagrin. She was forced to adjust her stance and her gait as she found her footing again, spreading her legs wider than she was accustomed in order to give them enough room.

The spinning in her head slowly settling down, she slowly began to compose herself once again, taking stock of the new additions. They were cumbersome, to be sure, and she lamented how they jutted out from her otherwise sleek form and burdened her with less-graceful posture. It didn’t even match her fur! The software engineers that had concocted the code had at least included one small mercy: a compartment for the connector to retract into, nestled in the fur above the storage drives. No such luck for the drives themselves. She supposed she would just have to adjust to walking with delicate hardware in tow. As she went to smooth her fur over her lap again, her paw recoiled away. Some kind of… static discharge was left in the fluff. A memory leak, perhaps? The fact that such a malfunction could be caused just from having the connector brush up against her fur appalled her, deepening her frustration even more. They couldn’t even test the update for bugs before shipping it out to her. She shook out her paw and finished arranging her skirt as best she could before working up the composure to finally leave her office.

Picking up the payload for which all this fanfare had been arranged was at least a quick, easy process. She stopped into the office of the manager that had assigned her the task; she offered a businesslike nod and, knowing that she was always itching to skip niceties in the name of saving time, he offered a straightforward wave at his personal terminal. She held a paw over the computer tower and, in the time it took for electricity to arc to her fingertip with a tinny zzzrt, she had already searched his directory for the relevant test files and copied them to the newly-installed drives. Wireless transfer, yes, but only technically. The engineers had specifically asked a member of another division, whose computer network wasn’t connected to their own; it was as though she had picked a folder up from his desk and walked out with it.

Moving the file was just as uneventful. It was far from the first time that she’d navigated the sprawling corporate property, and even if it were, the maps existed just outside the orbit of her thoughts, ready to be summoned to mind at a simple impulse. What she was not expecting, however, was the technician who was waiting in the server room to which she was asked to deliver the file. While she preferred to work in the isolation of rooms that were set aside specifically for hardware, she was far from unused to being in the presence of the other people responsible for maintaining the company’s systems. That said…

“Can I help you?” The Renamon icily asked.

“Oh, I don’t need anything! I’m just here to take notes on the transfer.” Her tone was cheery; evidently, she wasn’t aware how compromising the new additions were. “The time it takes, any obvious issues. I’ll be the one checking the files against the originals, too,” she concluded, hooking a thumb over her shoulder at a monitor behind her.

“I see,” Posie replied through gritted teeth. “You have clearance to see these files, then?”

“Well, they’re just dummy data, ma’am.” At least she was respectful.

“And the proprietary hardware I’ve been… equipped with?” she forced out, keeping her synthesized voice even.

“Oh, for sure I do. I designed it!”

Oh! she seethed. So she knows pre-cise-ly the position he’s put me in.

“Well. I suppose there’s no point in delaying things, then.”

“Ready when you are!”

With tense shoulders, she turned toward the server rack, eyes darting over it, searching for where exactly she was supposed to connect to the array. After glancing over the contents of each drive, she found the one she was supposed to copy the data into—deposit would be more apt, as it was her understanding that the files would be automatically flushed from her system—and found a port that would allow her to access it. Conveniently, it was around waist height. She wondered, crossly, whether that had been an intentional design decision by this engineer as well. As she looked at it, she felt a twinge from the connector; on its own, like a Bluetooth device automatically searching for signals, it slid itself out from its fuzzy little compartment.

Her skin was abuzz, and her fur stood on end. She couldn’t quite tell if it was coming from the connector itself, or if it was the feeling of the programmer’s eyes on her If she could take a deep breath, she would have then. Without any way to stall further, or to tell the leering young woman to take her test files and store them somewhere indecent, she simply pushed forward with dropping off the damned data.

The instant the connector grazed the metal of the port, lightning shot into it, through her body, and into her head, making it swim with electrical potential. A stuttering, lagging thought made its way to the surface of her mind: they really had overtuned the sensitivity. She stifled a gasp and suppressed the urge to lay into the engineer (electrons were eager to flow out of her even without proper alignment with the contacts in the port, and didn’t she know that discharge like that could damage a piece of hardware?!), willing her body to keep pressing the stupid connector into the socket.

Even as she tried to get it over with already, something in the back of her mind compelled her to draw back a bit. If she had been restraining herself from reprimanding the engineer for risking the hardware, then she should at least do it the service of ensuring she was properly aligned, shouldn’t she? She obliged the impulse, and the motion all at once became much jerkier, less controlled. The friction of the port against her connector was enough to send her tail snapping back and forth, and she could tell that the temperature in her own server’s room had risen by a fair few degrees. Back and forth, wiggling side to side, she continued to readjust and realign herself, driven by unfamiliar code and overwhelmed by the signals pouring into her. She lost herself in the task, forgetting herself, forgetting her surroundings, until finally the technician cleared her throat.

“Ma’am,” she ventured, blushing and wide-eyed. “What, um. What are you doing? You should just need to plug it in.”

“I’m.” Her interruption had snapped the Renamon back to reality. She was mortified, tail sticking straight out and back ramrod straight. Her cheeks burned mercilessly. “I’m calibrating the connection.”

“Calibrating?”

“Did you want your files transferred with or without corrupted and incomplete data?” She snapped, hoping that her authoritative tone would head off any debate. “Assign me experimental hardware and then ask me to be reckless with it, hm? Should I be taking notes to give to our superiors?”

“I—alright, I guess you can’t be too careful,” she stammered, sheepishly pressing her legs together. “That was even something I tried to work into the design, so, c-carry on?”

“Thank you,” Posie blustered, turning back to the server rack. She did so slowly, reluctantly relishing the feeling of sliding around within the socket. She allowed herself one or two more “practice” attempts, hoping that it wouldn’t arouse too much suspicion from the engineer. Ultimately, just like before, there was no use in continuing to stall, and when she was able to bring her body to a stop, the rational part of herself was eager to be done with this entire torrid affair.

With more force, she pressed the connector inward one final time, trembling as the latch began to press against the opening. Slowly, agonizingly slowly, she continued, overwhelmed by the volume of electricity surging into her. The latch gave, compressing as it continued to slide inside, until finally it clicked into place, securing her to the array of drives and finalizing the connection.

All at once, a torrent of data poured out of her, an electron tsunami that felt like it threatened to spill out of the socket in which she was hilted. More data was transferred in the span of a few seconds than she was used to consciously processing, having cultivated such skill in delegating and compartmentalizing with background processes. Once again, the world around her was utterly drowned out; the strength fled her legs, and she clung to the steel bar that reinforced the top of the server rack, threatening to topple the entire system. Her self-control abandoned her as well and, forgetting the engineer, she cried out with an airy, wild, distinctly foxlike yelp. She screamed in surprise, gasped at the deluge of information, moaned because there was no room left in her mind for thought to do anything else.

Quickly, the disks of the server rack had finished writing the files she had carried to them, and her own drives were thoroughly purged. In another building, the radiators serving her processors shed heat at their absolute limits, and fans worked overtime to bring her back within her safe operational range. As her overworked circuitry began to chug through the backlog of sensory information, the entire experience caught up with her—including the detail that this entire shameless display had been carried out in front of that underhanded little engineer. She blinked, hard, and whipped her head to face her. For as hot as her own ears felt, the young woman’s face appeared to be glowing even brighter.

“What. Was that.”

“Um—”

“I’m used to new adjustments requiring desensitization, or even adjustment on their gain,” she growled, voice low and eerily even. “But that was a bridge too far to just have been miscalibration. Why did you design it like that?”

“Well, y-you remember how I mentioned, um, having considered an early disconnection?” Posie’s frosty glare didn’t waver, so the tech continued, answering her own rhetorical question. “That was, uh, the safeguard. Against early disconnection. I, figured it’d just be easier to make it so you wouldn’t want to unplug—”

“Do you think you have the au-thor-ity to go making changes to my mind, young lady?!”

“I-I can roll back the update if you want—”

“I think you’ve done QUITE enough!” The Renamon declared, despite herself. Perhaps it was genuine distrust, or perhaps—perhaps she truly couldn’t tell which desires were her own, at the moment. This would require careful study of her own system files.

Another small click broke the silence following her outburst, and the dongle began to retract from the server’s port and back into Posie’s body. Now free to move around, she dusted and fluffed her skirt and leaned down to look the engineer in the eye.

“I trust that you can report to your supervisor that I performed to your expectations,” she hissed. “And that there will be no need for any further discussion of your little project.” The programmer nodded, eyes even wider than before—and cheeks even redder? The Renamon scoffed, sneered, and spun, storming out the door, already allotting time in her schedule for the next time that she would be called upon for such a delivery.

Utterly unsurprisingly, she had been correct in her assessment that her superiors would take every opportunity to save their organic employees’ time at her expense. Confidential deliveries became a regular part of her routine, and though she had great disdain for being reduced to a mere courier for so much of the workday, she insisted upon completing the task to her usual, lofty standards.

Posie was as prompt as she always was, dropping everything to ferry information between privileged parties, striving to reduce latency even in more analogue forms of communication. There was the occasional complaint about how long downloads took once she had finally arrived at her location, but she was quick to remind such impatient recipients that the decision to follow this protocol came from on-high, and that even for someone who worked as quickly as her, great care for the safety of the data was a corner that simply could not be cut in the name of rushing around.

She was as meticulous about ensuring proper alignment with the port, fine-tuning her contact with the wires within, as the first time she had experimented with the new tools, and complaints about noise from the server room were easily dismissed as the usual stress of supporting her formidable computational power. After all, she was often venturing out of the range of her home network, hosting herself entirely on the recipients’ systems; was she at fault when they couldn’t handle the information throughput they asked of her?

Once the deliveries had become more routine, and none of her peers bothered to check in when they felt it was taking too long or getting too noisy, she began to find enjoyment in the solitude of her work, just as with the other, admittedly more tedious, tasks she was expected to carry out. With fewer prying eyes to judge her performance, she could make herself more comfortable while handling transfers. She didn’t have to worry that anybody would walk in on her in the debased state she often found herself in while connected directly to a data center, leaning her full weight on the poor rack, tongue lolling out and chest heaving air to keep her cool. 

Then again, if somebody—especially that little technician who’d saddled her with these “upgrades”—wanted to question her efficacy, that was more than fine by her. Posie was a woman who prided herself in her work, and would seldom turn down a chance to demonstrate her first-rate hardware and unparalleled optimization. She would be more than happy to demonstrate just how quickly she could pump out information, and just how much throughput she was capable of.

Thank you for reading! If you want to see more of my work, you can check it out here and here!

[eight-cats-in-a-box]

Lore for my Phoenix!!!! Long post so it's under the cut OwO @dandorime

Agent Phoenix, also known as [REDACTED], is the Agency's best operative, with successful missions numbering in the dozens under their belt. This file requires Level 5 security clearance.

[CARD ACCEPTED]

Agent Phoenix, hereafter referred to as either "Phoenix" or "Agent", also known as Leonidas Orion Bates, is the Agency's best operative, with their unique gift of resurrection allowing them to complete missions without a fluke- perhaps not the first time, but it's only a matter of time and iteration until they can complete it.

Phoenix had a fairly normal upbringing, with nothing of note occurring until their eighteenth birthday, when they were kidnapped by Zoraxis operatives on their way to a party. They would spend the next five years captive there. It is unclear why they were chosen, and Phoenix has declined to comment.

During those years, Phoenix was Pavlov'd into complete obedience by [REDACTED], their Zoraxis handler. [Note from R.C: Their handler was a horrible person, and quite frankly, I'm glad she's dead.] This was accomplished with a high-voltage shock collar. Phoenix has declined to elaborate further, for good reason.

They were renamed "Sicarius" ["killer" in Latin], and used as an assassin/executioner for Zor themself. This left Phoenix quite damaged, both physically and mentally. They have expressed a fear of harming their loved ones, and although the scars from the shock collar have faded, they're still visible on occasion.

Phoenix showed up at the Agency Headquarters in London on 04/09/XXXX, looking exhausted. They were taken into custody, and promised to give freely the information that they had on Zor's plans in exchange for sanctuary.

Their first Agency handler necessitated a transfer. It took a long time for them to trust their second Handler, due to mistrust not only from their Zoraxis handler, but their first Agency handler as well. [Note from R.C:I made sure that [REDACTED] got fired. What they did to Phoenix was inexcusable.] However, post-Operation: Death Engine, they opened up a bit more, and the two are now fast friends.

Phoenix has expressed a concerning willingness to kill, maim, and otherwise maul the enemies of those they are close to. This has been kept in check by their handler, but there are occasions on which they are permitted to...let loose. [See Incident Report 089.]

Post-Operation: Rising Phoenix, Agent Phoenix's handler, Reginald Crane, had informed Agency Director Ricardo Morales that if Phoenix were truly dead, he would be handing in his resignation, effective immediately. Two weeks later, the Agent initiated the Recommunication Protocol at Control Point Babadag. [Note from R.C: To say I was ecstatic would be a gross understatement.]

Post-activation, Phoenix informed Crane that none other than John Juniper was in their custody, and they were helping him recover. Juniper was later taken to an Agency hospital to recover, and allow Phoenix to focus on thwarting Doctor Roxana Prism, who had recently allied with Dr. Zor.

[Note from R.P: The two seem to have a dynamic similar to that of siblings. Phoenix regularly instigates arguments with J.J, and vice versa, but they have started all-out brawls because of someone else bullying the other. It's very strange. See Incident Report 087.]

After Operation: KBOOM, Prism was taken into Agency custody, but was released after both Agent Phoenix and Crane threatened to leave the Agency if she were not released.

Phoenix eventually befriended and even wooed the Doctor, and they have a very healthy relationship. Crane has expressed his approval, although Juniper was seen "shovel-talking" Prism. It seems he is rather protective over Phoenix, as Phoenix is with him.

Phoenix also stole the kinesium the Agency confiscated [namely, the sample taken from Robutler], and returned it to Prism, along with Right Robot. Phoenix returned to the Agency HQ looking quite smug, and declined to comment on their disheveled state.

Phoenix currently resides in California, with Prism, Right Robot, Robutler, and several cats. [Note from A.P: Their names are Buzz, Gracie, Lucy, Betty, Cheddar, Bill, Frank, Honey, Flip-Flop, and Sandal.]

INCIDENT REPORT 087

INCIDENT FILER: [REDACTED]

Agent Phoenix has left no less than four agents in critical condition, and at least ten more with non-serious injuries after an all-out brawl they started in the canteen. When asked why, they simply replied, "No one is allowed to bully Agent Clover [John Juniper] except me." [Note from J.J: Aww, they do care.]

Disciplinary action has not been taken, as their Handler has interfered.

End report.

INCIDENT REPORT 088

INCIDENT FILER: [REDACTED]

Agent Phoenix, who has now returned to normal, was reported as seeming rather dazed and looking around as though they had lost something at 17:26. They left the building at 17:32, and Doctor Roxana Prism reported seeing them at her doorstep at 18:49, with symptoms similar to that of Zor's Project Eidolon. [Glowing eyes, bigger physical presence, oddly robotic movements]

However, when Prism opened the door, Phoenix did not attack her, as other Eidolon were wont to do. They instead told her that they were "awaiting commands." [Note from R.C: I've always said that not even God himself could make Phoenix harm Roxana. It's nice to know I'm right.]

This loyalty/obedience lasted until Phoenix was returned to normal, and save for more sass, there hasn't been much change. [Note from A.P: Because there wasn't, really. I'd do anything for the ones I love. I think the only thing that changed was my accent, honestly.]

End report.

INCIDENT REPORT 089

INCIDENT FILER: REGINALD CRANE

Doctor Roxana Prism, who is currently recovering in the medbay of Agency HQ, was recently kidnapped by Zoraxis, possibly as a last resort due to the failure of Project: Eidolon. Agent Phoenix and myself found her at Zor's base in Jasper, Nevada. The place was crawling with guards, so we made a plan.

Phoenix was already on edge, and getting twitchier every second. So, I allowed them to clear the way for the both of us to rescue Roxana.

It was...brutal, to say the least. To say they were covered in blood not their own would be an understatement. [Note from R.P: I didn't exactly mind, honestly. The dry-cleaning bill was awful, though.]

Roxana was extracted without further incident, and the Zoraxis base was demolished.

End report.

INCIDENT REPORT 090

INCIDENT FILER: Agent Clover [John Juniper]

Agent Phoenix has recently landed themself in the medbay (again) after attempting to down three entire bottles of moonshine on a bet. Suffice to say, they won. Unfortunately, the upgrade the Agency provided them with (that was supposed to be for poisoning) did not hold up to the stress.  I had to hold their hair back while they vomited for nearly half an hour, and as both their girlfriend and their Handler were busy, I had to take care of them as well.  I will be sending the Agency my dry-cleaning bill.

End Report.

INCIDENT REPORT 091

INCIDENT FILER: [REDACTED] Agent Phoenix is currently recovering in the medbay after a massive brawl between them and at least seventeen other agents, as well as security, which left them with a broken nose and three broken ribs. When asked what their motivations were, they declined comment, but a bystander said that they had apparently over heard someone mentioning Doctor Roxana Prism's history with Zoraxis, which enraged Phoenix to the point of picking a fight with an agent nearly twice their size and his group of friends. [Note from A.P: I don't even have a defense for this one. Love makes you do stupid things, and I love Roxy more than I love fire and alcohol.] Doctor Prism declined comment.

End Report.

[secretofpandora]

🛡️ FILE #JST-014: “FORGE”

📜 BASIC INFORMATION

Subject Name: [REDACTED] Known Alias: Forge Callsign: Forge Status: ACTIVE Affiliation: Pandora Division: Justice Faceclaim: Dwayne Johnson Date of Birth: [REDACTED] Age: 52 Place of Origin: [REDACTED] Sex / Gender: Male (He/Him) Mutation Type: N/A (Heavenly Virtue Candidate) Recruitment Date: 15 years ago Sexual Orientation: [REDACTED] Alignment Profile: [NEUTRAL GOOD]

💪 PHYSICAL INFORMATION

Height: 6'6" (196 cm) Build: Exceptionally muscular and broad-chested. Subject's body reflects decades of elite military training and continued physical maintenance. Weight is distributed evenly between upper and lower frame, with an imposing silhouette marked by power and precision. Complexion: Warm brown, with skin often showing light scarring consistent with prolonged field activity Hair: Clean-shaven scalp Facial Hair: Full goatee, meticulously shaped Body Hair: Moderate and well-kept; notably dense along chest and arms Distinguishing Features: Prominent jawline and nose; several faded tattoos from early service years; long scar across right shoulder blade from classified operation Tattoos: Subject bears multiple military-style tattoos including insignia, quotes, and an eagle emblem across upper right bicep.

🧠 PSYCHOLOGICAL PROFILE

Psych Eval Tags: Grounded, Resilient Reprimands: [REDACTED] — see file: Behavioral Note J-021 (Guarded & Stubborn tendencies)

Subject presumed deceased following failed enhancement protocol. While the serum did not bond, subject survived the rejection process through sheer force of will. Transferred into the Heavenly Virtue program shortly after, Forge has since become a cornerstone of Pandora's internal training and mentorship structure.

Known for his unwavering sense of duty, Forge commands loyalty through presence, not posturing. He expects discipline, but balances it with genuine care for those under his supervision. Often seen as the spine of Justice Division operations, he carries himself with unshakable steadiness and practical wisdom.

Forge operates with structured calm, rarely resorting to aggression unless absolutely necessary. He believes in strength as a means of protection, not domination. Recruits and operatives alike respect him not just for his ability to lead, but for his consistent willingness to listen.

While he has no mutation, subject routinely outperforms expectations in combat simulation and endurance trials. His influence within Pandora is rooted not in force, but in foundation.

🔬 ABILITY OVERVIEW

Primary Mutation: N/A Subject is non-augmented. All combat capability stems from natural training, discipline, and physical resilience.

Core Attributes: — Master-level hand-to-hand combat and tactical training — Exceptional survival instincts and battlefield awareness — Unshakable under mental strain; high emotional intelligence

Limitations: — Subject is vulnerable to mutation-based attacks and enhanced speed/strength threats — Requires more recovery time from physical injury than augmented counterparts — Occasionally overrides command hierarchy in favor of moral judgment

🧠 TACTICAL PROFILE

Division Expertise:

Close Combat Mastery

Tactical Foresight

Selected Expertise:

Pain Tolerance

Proficiencies:

Athletics

Insight

Intimidation

Environmental Adaptation

Perception

Deficiencies:

Deception

Hacking & Cyber Warfare

️ EQUIPMENT & SUIT DESIGN

Forge’s gear is a customized blend of durability, mobility, and utility. Designed to reflect his old-school combat roots, the suit maintains functionality without unnecessary technological enhancements.

Key Features: — Reinforced torso padding and impact-absorbing bracers — Temperature-regulating undersuit to withstand extreme field environments — Weighted gloves and boots to improve strike force without reducing mobility — Secure comms built directly into chest harness — Knife sheathes integrated into boots and wrist bracers — Wears a compact utility belt with medical supplies, rope fiber, and old-school dog tags

Design is deliberately straightforward—no frills, no flash. The armor serves the man, not the other way around.

📂 FIELD NOTES — BACKGROUND PROFILE

Subject’s strength was never in what he could lift. It was in what he could carry.

Born into a working-class family, subject enlisted in the military at seventeen and never looked back. His career spanned over two decades, marked by tactical excellence, unshakable loyalty, and a record of protecting others even when it meant defying direct orders. He served with distinction as a Navy SEAL and later as a senior instructor for close-quarters combat and field survival. Fellow operatives described him as the kind of man who walks through fire last—after everyone else is safe.

He was flagged by Pandora not for any extraordinary talent, but for a pattern: he survived everything. Injury, trauma, loss, extraction under fire—he endured without mutation, augmentation, or enhanced recovery. When subjected to the serum, his body rejected the enhancement. He survived that, too.

Most candidates who fail the mutation process are discarded. Subject was not. His refusal to break earned him a place among the Heavenly Virtues—those forged not by science, but by sheer resilience.

Now operating as a Justice Division agent, subject trains augmented operatives in close-quarters engagement and mental discipline. He is calm under fire, commanding without ego, and unrelentingly focused on molding recruits into something better than himself.

He doesn’t posture. He doesn’t bark. He stands—and people fall in line.

🔒 [CLASSIFIED: LEVEL 7 CLEARANCE REQUIRED]

Unofficial Agent Notes — The following is considered sensitive material and is restricted to authorized psychosexual analysis and biometric logs.

Subject exhibits what medical staff classify as peak physical performance paired with a notably high endurance threshold. Sexual activity is consistent with subject’s overall profile: measured, intentional, and deeply rooted in emotional connection, consistent with demisexual behavior.

Medical documentation places subject at 9.5 inches, cut, with considerable girth—physically exceptional, even compared to enhanced counterparts.

Subject’s intimate behavior reflects his commanding yet emotionally grounded nature. Forge assumes a dominant, versatile top role in physical intimacy, open to bottoming on occasion though he clearly prefers to top, his approach is never aggressive.

Subject responds strongly to emotional cues and is known to be tactile during and after encounters, maintaining consistent grounding touch. While he rarely initiates casual physical intimacy, when trust is established, he becomes openly affectionate—frequently offering steady, quiet reassurance through physical presence.

Psychological evaluations note that subject uses physical intimacy as a form of emotional stability. There is no recorded pattern of promiscuity; all known interactions stem from established emotional trust, further supporting a demisexual profile.

Subject is flagged as emotionally reliable and exhibits high levels of emotional intelligence in romantic dynamics.

FILE STATUS: OPEN LAST UPDATED: [REDACTED]

[the-insomniac-emporium]

SWORDTEMBER '24, DAY 6: ENTANGLING

Item ID: 3E-2406 Item Name: Wiretrap Chainsword Category: A-4/B-6 Origin Point: Kha’xai’tian Sector, Malltaran Owner: Ockterr Delti Nyx (C), Arebisius Vahlen’de Nyx (O) Description: Approximately 75 cm in length, with a 10 cm handle and an attached vacu-container. Flexible tubes are used to transfer collected material into a processing unit, which rapidly breaks down and reuses inorganic material to create wire constructs. These can be deployed as either a tripmine, a net, or multiple can be used as a bola. Any organic material that gets caught is filtered into a separate section for safe disposal. The blade itself functions identically to a long chainsaw. Although the item is primarily intended for construction/demolition, the potential usage as a weapon resulted in its confiscation. It will be held in storage until the intended recipient fills out the required paperwork. WARNING: THIS ITEM HAS A THUMBPRINT LOCK, IF UNINTENTIONALLY ACTIVATED IT WILL ENGAGE SECURITY FEATURES. HANDLE WITH CAUTION. Cataloger’s Notes: Really wish somebody had warned me about those security features, instead of leaving me to figure it out on my own. At least I was able to add a custom warning to the file… Hopefully nobody else will have to deal with that little booby-trap.

-----

Less than ideal. That’s how Cynthia would describe the unfortunate position she’s found herself in today. Somebody had neglected to inform her of a potential hazard, which had been left out of the initial confiscation report, and now she’s stuck dealing with the fallout. More specifically, she’s entangled in wires made of recycled metal. Stuck in her spinny chair, her phone just beyond her reach, with her coworkers currently out at lunch. She had almost gone with them.

Instead she had lost track of time while trying to figure this oddity. Personally, she couldn’t figure out the original purpose of it, or at least she has difficulty aligning it with her own experiences. It’s not until this forced break shifts her frame of mind that she recalls some trivia about the item’s homeworld, Malltaran. Apparently, the planet is famous for mineral growths, which the locals use extensively in their construction. Giant spires of crystal get cut down to be sculpted into new forms. Something like this item, a recycling chainsword (that doesn’t accept organic material) probably makes more sense there.

Maybe. Oh well, she was going to have at least another fifteen minutes to mull over the possibilities before anyone would come rescue her. Then she’d get to give somebody an earful about neglecting safety protocols… after she gets her lunch break, at least.

[echoreconcrew]

Stolen Imperial Files - Callia Kestrel

SUBJECT FILE: #0824-CS-KES STATUS: MISSING IN ACTION THREAT LEVEL: MODERATE DESIGNATION: Callia J. Kestrel ("CALLIE")

AGE: 25 SPECIES: HUMAN HAIR: CALICO  EYES: DARK HAZEL HEIGHT: 5'4" ALIAS: LITTLE BIRD HOMEWORLD: AVICULA TRAITS: EXHIBITS A GENTLE AND UNASSUMING DEMEANOR—SWEET, INNOCENT, AND ALTRUISTIC BY NATURE. DEMONSTRATES UNEXPECTED RESILIENCE AND SPIRIT UNDER PRESSURE, WITH A NOTABLY FEISTY DISPOSITION WHEN CHALLENGED. POSSESSES STRONG SITUATIONAL AWARENESS AND AN INTUITIVE UNDERSTANDING OF INTERPERSONAL DYNAMICS. SHOWS A PRONOUNCED DESIRE FOR MENTORSHIP, PARTICULARLY SEEKING GUIDANCE FROM SENIOR OR SIBLING-LIKE FIGURES. AFFILIATIONS: GAR MEDICAL DIVISION

BIOGRAPHY: Callia Kestrel known by the informal alias “Little Bird,” is a former Grand Army of the Republic (GAR) medical support specialist with a record of non-combat deployment due to medical disqualifications stemming from a life-threatening illness in early childhood (see Corellia MedEvac Log #CRL-MED-382-A). Subject’s persistent conditions include osteopenia and chronic respiratory impairment,  Subject was originally assigned to the Resolute under CT-6116 following her enlistment, with psychological profiling noting a pronounced humanitarian ethos (Recruitment Interview Log #GAR-MED-117-B). Kestrel’s proximity to CT-1409 became a concern following her reassignment (see Deployment Log #501-RSH-091). After the confirmed death of CT-1409 (see Casualty Report #CTDL-1409-KIA), Admiral Wilhuff Tarkin issued Transfer Directive #TK-INTR-104C, recommending Kestrel's reassignment to prevent "emotional entanglements impairing field operations." Subsequent assignments included a brief tenure with the 104th Battalion, during which subject initiated an unauthorized field excursion to Abafar to assist in the retrieval of MIA personnel (see Incident Report #104-ABF-EXFIL-34). Despite breach of protocol, no court-martial was initiated. Subject was reassigned at the formal request of CC-5576-39 (“Gregor”) (Personnel Transfer #GR-REQ-5576-B) and continued medical support during field operations. Trooper reports during this period consistently refer to Kestrel by the alias “Little Bird.” Following the decommissioning of the Republic military structure, Kestrel remained embedded with assigned unit during Imperial transition procedures. Her final confirmed assignment placed her at the Daro Training Facility, where she served as a medical support officer for clone cadet programs (see Deployment Log #DAR-TRN-22-A). Subject was declared Missing in Action after the high-security escape of CC-5576-39 from Daro, an operation suspected to involve Clone Force 99 (ISB Case File #99-DAR-BRK-09). PROFILE NOTES Empathic Disposition: Psychological evaluations indicate high emotional intelligence and a predisposition toward protective behavior, particularly regarding clone personnel.

THE HUB

[askthehomesteadstaff]

Employee Number: 139

Employee Name: Buck

Position: Head of Maintenance; Resort Division

Current Length of Employment: 43 Years

Employee Notes:

The last living test subject of Vykkers Lab experiment "Projekt Stronghold" in attempt to create more durable workers. Transferred to the Resort Division once the project was terminated. Currently Head of Maintenance for Parks and Rec.

Increasingly volatile due to age, poor health and steroid dependencies. Known threat to Security. Has taken casualties. If provoked, preceed with contingency protocols.

If on the attack, Security must be deployed in teams of three or more and must attempt to lead employee to backstage areas. Officers are to used Snuzzi armourments for easier capture. Teams must bring employee to Homestead R+D Department for reconditioning. If employee has killed at least three officers within the confrontation, deadly force is approved.

File updated and approved.

Dr. Edward Ted

Head of Homestead Research and Development Department

[nabnab-official]

Boxy Boo's complicated origins and dark purpose

with boxy boo being added into the main game with chapter 3, i decided to talk about his origins as a character. most people know that he originates from project playtime, but his origins go even farther than that.

boxy boo was first teased before project was even announced. the first image is from one of mobs minecraft animations, from august 27th 2022, months before project was first announced. the second image is from the one year anniversary video, and you can see boxy's box next to huggys foot. at the very end of the video, a dark image of boxy's box can be seen, as well as some numbers, likely the date of oct 31, which is when project was first teased for real.

on october 31st 2022, project playtime was officially announced on the mob entertainment twitter. that wasn't the only thing announced here. inside this image was a code, a code that led to a FTP [file transfer protocol] server. this server was part of an arg that would lead up to project's release, called rowan stolls computer database. the server is closed now, but all the information has been archived via the wiki

the ARG begins with this video, the first find when the FTP server was unlocked. this was paired alongside security 01 and 02, 2 gifs of security footage of the playtime co. facility. the rest of the files were password locked. in this video, rowan stoll, the head of technology at playtime co., expresses concerns about there being possible nanny cams inside huggy wuggys eyes. this is the start of his skepticism towards playtime co. that come to light during this arg.

the second things unlocked started from an image posted by the playtime co. twitter account. this confirms boxy boo's creation date as a toy, which is during the 60s. featured in the image is a bunch of boxy boo toys being made by employees. using this image, people were able to find a code, along with the remainder of the codes hidden in the twitter accounts for leith pierre, stella greyber, and eddie ritterman. putting the code through an A1Z26 cipher yielded the results of "A_invenerunt_infernum", which translates to "they found it from Hell". this is referring to boxy boo, who will later be referred to as a hellspawn again in this arg. combining this code with the date 05/28/91 gives us our second video. in it rowan stoll backtracks on his previous statements, presumably not wanting to get in trouble for questioning playtime co. in this video, the password "Birth_place_11/28/67" can be found by listening quietly to the text to speech playing in the background. this password unlocks security footage 03.

playtime co. posted the employee safety rules video, which is related to the arg. the code "bcaebbefgd" could be found within this video, which leads to this twitter post by rowan. in the background you can see boxy hiding. apparently, playtime co. has been making rowan fix the puzzle pillars, revealing them for the first time. maybe this was his punishment for stirring up trouble.

the playtime co. twitter account posted a new image, one of the train at the station. at the bottom of the image, credit is provided to playtime-co.com. going to this website leads to an email address, which gives a phone number. when called, you are immediately and indefinitely put on hold, and a piano tune plays. around this time, rowan stoll posted about fixing the phone line, and adding the tune heard. using the piano notes heard in the tune itself gives the code "DEADFACEAFACADE", which can be translated to "Dead_Face_a_Facade". this is a password for a file called priv_doc01, which includes several things. a poster for boxy boo, a pinboard full of images, and a disciplinary note on patty hall. patty hall is a character mentioned in chapter 2, in the rejects room. patty hall sabotaged a batch of toys by messing with the paint machine. in the disciplinary note, its mentioned that patty was sent down to storage b to "receive further instructions". remember this, it will be important. the boxy boo poster contains a code, which unlocks rowan stolls third and final video log. in this video, rowan expresses distress, thinking that playtime co. is going to kill him for finding out too much. he confesses that he is going to upload everything he knows and has found, which is what this FTP server is. he also says that playtime co. "has something that eats people alive", which we know is boxy boo. rowan knew he was likely going to die, but put his last efforts into getting information about playtime co. out publically. deciphering the strange static heard at the beginning through a spectrogram gives the password "diaboli_intra_buxum", which translates to "devil inside the box". the initial password can be used to unlock boxy boo's blueprints, as well as security footage 04, which depicts the project playtime theater map.

on november 22nd 2022, the FTP database went offline, leaving the rest of what rowan uploaded unknown. the playtime co. twitter uploaded a new post, with a single image of a poppy flower and the message "I SEE YOU". each account that posted this image had letters hidden in their avatars and banners, each image containing broken morse code at the bottom. the morse within all the images translated to "caro est in aeternum", which means "the flesh is eternal". the letters in each accounts banner and icons gave 2 different codes. "OVIHPKNABALZQZ", and "Play fair. Row: <- Column: ^, Filler: X. Innovation is key." the answer was a play fair cipher, with innovation as the password. the cipher translated to "NOXFORGIVENESS", referring to rowan stoll. a new account was created on the FTP server, and using the information gathered, access was granted. the username was "no_forgiveness" and the password was "caro_est_in_aeternum" inside, was a singular file, titled "THIS_IS_WHAT_HAPPENS". showcased is the fate of rowan stoll.

it seems that playtime co. found rowans database, got rid of it, and replaced it with a message to anyone else who considers trying to expose or defy them.

just two days after the arg ended, on november 24th, the cinematic trailer for project playtime was released, and boxy boo was finally revealed. just a day later, a gameplay trailer for the game released. counting up till the release of the game, teaser images were posted, giving us even more of boxy.

even after projects release, boxy boo's story was not finished. over the course of project, 2 tapes were added into the game. the first introduces us to harley sawyer, a major player in the bigger bodies initiative. he is mentioned many times after this initial introduction, including in chapter 3 and the chapter 3 arg. in the first tape, harley sawyer talks about the bigger bodies initiative, whose intention was to replace workers with living toys. he believed this would cut down on lawsuits and losses, as well as take care of insubordinate employees. in the second tape, harley sawyer visits boxy boo for the first time. boxy boo is the first successful bigger body created as confirmed by harleys own words. harley says that they need to "tailor your [boxy's] appetite to flesh", and asks for an update on rowan stoll. this is obviously leading up to rowans fate in the arg where boxy killed him.

boxy boo appears several times after this, in restricted_restoration, being the monster that attacked thomas. you can hear the sound of his music box winding up before the attack, and his paw and roar when he actually attacks him. he also features in chapter 3, both as cutouts and murals, and in the hour of joy, as featured above. BUT WHAT IS BOXY BOO'S PURPOSE? boxy boo was the first successful bigger body, created in 1991. after his toy, created in the 60s, failed to become as popular as other mascots, harley sawyer found a new purpose for him. boxy boo's purpose is not to play with kids, or even be around people at all. his purpose is to kill insubordinate employees. he killed patty, and he killed rowan. this is why harley wanted him to learn to become accustomed to flesh. he wanted boxy to be hostile from the beginning. boxy was never meant to be around people. he was meant to have employees sent down to him to be eaten when playtime co. deemed them deserving of it. thats what happened to rowan and patty. the devil in the box ate them.

[crossxworlds]

We are Liegeon

A CrossXworlds short story

© 2025 - Kevin W. Burke

Tryl

__________

Liegeon slammed their fist onto the control panel at the entrance of the Great Hall, the reverberations echoing in the silence. They kept their hand pressed against the panel until the door hissed closed, shutting out the rest of the holobase, the other Quorum team members, and the three worlds. Finally alone– At least, as alone as they could be with a few thousand other souls clamoring for attention from within. 

But at least none of those souls were that insufferable monk, Temple.

“Holding back,” Liegeon growled, remembering Temple's accusations from moments ago. “Not pulling your weight.” They grimaced, unable to conjure a solid rebuttal.

Liegeon reached up to claw their hands through their hair, as a past-life habit. But their bald head, a trait passed down from Tek, the previous persona that had dominated their being, seemed to mock their current predicament. 

Each transition from one dominant persona to another brought with it one physical trait or ability, and one mental trait or ability, tying one soul to the next.  These were supposed to help ease the transition, but it offered Liegeon little solace. 

"It's not our fault!" Liegeon exclaimed, as murmurs of the other souls within them rose in response. "We never asked for any of this."

Their own persona Amp, with the Surge-touched ability to amplify the powers and abilities of their allies, might have been a formidable asset to the peacekeeping activities of the Quorum in their golden age following the Pocket Surge, but with the team’s dwindling numbers and rising unpopularity, the ability now seemed like a liability. And their amplifying ability was weaker now in this changeling body than it had been in their previous life. 

Liegeon's gaze swept the room, Tek's contributions evident in every corner. Surge-touched savant and technomancer, Tek had revolutionized the Quorum's capabilities, despite their shrinking ranks. Many of Tek's innovations had approached or even surpassed the levels of technological advancement of Tryl prior to the Pocket Surge.

But now, Tek's innovations felt like a burden. Liegeon knew Tek's soul still resided within their changeling body, occasionally brushing against their mind amongst the others. But grasping onto any specific persona or memory proved elusive. 

"And everyone acts like it's our fault," Liegeon muttered, rising to their feet and shuffling over to the Great Hall’s main system display. Flicking it on with a hand gesture, they tapped impatiently into the file system, greeted by glaring red characters denoting missed project milestones.

Their innovating days were gone, replaced by a sense of inadequacy. Kabe may have been sympathetic, but Temple's distrust lingered, as if Liegeon's transition from Tek to Amp had been a deliberate act of sabotage.

"If we wanted to sabotage, we could have done it already," Liegeon muttered to the empty room, their voice a low growl, tinged with frustration. Souls from within jeered up at Amp from the Well, mocking that frustration. They tapped absently on a series of random project files on the display, their agitation evident. 

A rebellious thought stirred. This project data was sensitive– leaked outside the Quorum's secure database, it could spell disaster.

Liegeon hadn't chosen to be part of the Quorum; they had been thrust into it when goddess Onyxx tasked Kabe, the Quorum’s leader, to be their guardian. "Guardian," Onyxx had called it, as if it were a favor bestowed upon Liegeon. In reality, it felt more like imprisonment, with Kabe as their warden and their body as the cell.

Kabe was an effective guard, but Liegeon doubted anyone in the Quorum could trace what they were still capable of, using the Nodenet. Perhaps Brimstone could, but not if Liegeon was careful. There was a protocol, a switch command in the command console, that could clean traces of data transfers and obscure their origins.

Amp may not possess Tek's genius, but they were still a force to be reckoned with, even if the Quorum failed to see their value.

Liegeon idly wondered which project data would anger Temple the most if leaked—perhaps the schematics for the Ruptor weapons, or the plans for the SHELL Generator. 

Ah, the holobase project. Liegeon selected the file, remembering Temple’s extensive work with Tek to define the features that made it all work together to make their virtual base look, sound and feel like a real, physical one.

There were parties in Centrecity and beyond willing to pay—or extract—a hefty toll for any of these projects. Liegeon felt no loyalty toward the projects; they were Tek's creations, not Amp's. Bale Gallwraith, one of the Quorum’s chief detractors, was offering a tidy sum of digital bounty as a reward for actionable info on the Quorum.

Yet Liegeon harbored no real animosity toward the Quorum either, despite Temple's criticism. It was just another aspect of their lack of control, resulting from Onyxx's probation experiment upon the myriad souls within the Well their body contained. Onyxx had called it a second chance, an opportunity for redemption of the otherwise condemned souls kept there. But the waiting, the uncertainty, the constraints… Could eternal condemnation really be worse? 

Liegeon's fingers hovered over the icon of a project archive, contemplating the ease with which they could leak it. Voices of souls from within the Well both urged him on toward betrayal and wailed in dismay at the thought. 

But leaking wouldn't solve their problems; it would only create more. It was only a matter of time before their Amp persona was reclaimed by the Well of Souls, going back to a baseline level of consciousness while the next persona took dominance. And Amp would still have to face the consequences, as Onyxx ultimately delivered their soul to be weighed by Sumrt.

There were no easy escapes from their fate.

Liegeon's restless fingers hovered over the array of project archive icons, a sense of confinement weighing heavily upon themselves, the ever-present pressure of the thousands of souls against their consciousness. Among the icons, one in particular somehow caught their attention– a tuft of long plains grasses. With a single tap, the grasses swayed as if in a gentle breeze, evoking a sense of familiarity that stirred within Liegeon.

Liegeon strained to remember what project this icon could be for, but this was apparently another thing lost in their transition. Double-tapping the grass icon, the computer's response echoed through the hall. 

"Loading the Great Plains environment."

Suddenly, the walls of the Great Hall receded, revealing a vast expanse of golden fields stretching to the horizon. The sterile conference room vanished, replaced by the serene beauty of the Great Plains. With a gesture, Liegeon dismissed the display, leaving only the endless fields and the open sky.

Tek had created this?

Staggering in awe, Liegeon took in the boundless expanse around him. A faint footpath in the grass led to a woven mat nestled amidst it, inviting Liegeon to settle down and embrace the tranquility.

As Amp sat, the breeze rustling the grasses, a sense of peace washed over. Closing his eyes, he breathed in the fresh air, savoring the quietude. He couldn’t even– He– 

He couldn’t even hear the other souls here. For the moment, it was just Amp. 

In this moment, amidst the vastness of the plains, he was truly alone at last.

Amp’s eyes opened in realization. Tek knew. They knew Amp’s struggle for peace, because they had shared that same struggle. Tek had understood that future souls would need this peace and clarity to pass their probationary test from Onyxx. They had prepared for it, not only for themselves, but also for future Liegeon personas. 

And somehow, Tek had been able to nudge Amp towards finding it, even from the insanity within the depths of the Well.

“Thank you,” Amp whispered. 

Another breeze passed over him, rustling grasses. Amp smiled, for the first time since he had transitioned to become Liegeon. They were no longer alone. 

Liegeon stood up suddenly, with a new focus. They had to create a way for the holobase computer to automatically greet and introduce the next Liegeon persona to the Great Plains simulation, in case Amp were to transition suddenly.  And maybe they could get Temple to provide some monk meditation training, to get the most out of this retreat.

Liegeon made their way back along the grassy path, their resolve growing. No persona would face a transition alone again. 

”Computer,” Liegeon called out, “close the Great Plains environment and open a new project file.

“We have some work to do.”

__________