#so he is a pile of data and coding

[hei3355]

too deep in delusions abt his younger versions to the point when i actually draw the canon spamton next to them.... they dont look like the same person!??

[plusultraetc]

the way I just realized star wars au erasermic are very wait for me from hadestown but then again when aren’t they

[iydiamartinx]

THIS MEANS WAR IV

Dick Grayson x Reader x Jason Todd

divider by: @cafekitsune & @thecutestgrotto word count: 4.5k synopsis: Gotham’s youngest neuroscience lecturer never planned to get tangled up with two of its most eligible bachelors. Both are determined to win her over—without revealing they know each other… or that they’re vigilantes. But when the Joker takes an interest in her, things get a whole lot more complicated. a/n: Y'all do you know how hard it was to flirt using science and the topic of joker toxin?! I think I rewrote this chapter over ten times. I hope the subtext makes sense because I think my brain melted during this process. Also I'm still fairly new to posting on tumblr so I hope I'm doing the taglist correctly :) warnings: sexual innuendos, Jason being a low key stalker

BAT CAVE

Jason stepped deeper into the cave, the heavy echo of his boots bouncing off the stone walls. The cavern smelled faintly of earth, cleaning supplies, and the ever-present sting of coffee left too long to cool—unsurprising, given the miniature landfill of empty cups piled near Tim’s workstation.

“Jesus, Tim,” he muttered, eyeing the carnage. “Have you gotten any sleep?”

Tim didn’t look up. His voice was flat, gravel-edged with exhaustion. “I’ll sleep when I find our ghost.”

Jason arched a brow. “I’m pretty sure you said that yesterday.”

“And the day before that,” Tim murmured, squinting at lines of code bleeding across the massive screen. “I’m aware.”

Jason crossed his arms, stepping closer, gaze flicking over the data. “Any updates?”

Tim let out a hard sigh, slumping back in his chair. He dragged both hands down his face as if trying to wipe away the frustration before answering. “Just dead ends. No facial matches. No fingerprints. No aliases that last longer than a day. Whoever this guy is, he’s good. Really good.”

“Something doesn’t add up,” Jason said quietly. “No usual runner is this off the grid.”

“Exactly. And get this—Gordon pulled a small vial off Mancini and handed it off to B.” Tim’s brows furrowed. “Mancini was right. It’s a hybrid. Joker’s original strain—but there’s chemical coding in it that matches Scarecrow’s second-gen fear compound. It’s clean work. Scarily precise. Way beyond Joker’s usual brand of chaos. Even Crane’s compounds weren’t this sophisticated.”

Jason frowned, unease tightening in his gut. “So, what are you saying? That the bastard we’re chasing didn’t just steal the formula…”

Tim looked up, expression grim. “He probably helped make it.”

The words landed with a sickening weight.

Jason exhaled, low and sharp. “Shit.”

Tim turned back to the monitor, fingers already flying across the keyboard. “And Joker’s tearing through the underworld trying to find him. That’s why it’s gone quiet—people are either hiding… or dying. Fast.”

Jason exhaled slowly. “Then we need to move. Fast. If Joker gets his hands on the formula—”

“We’ll have a city-wide crisis on our hands,” Tim finished for him.

Jason’s jaw clenched. “Then we need an antidote. Even if it’s just a prototype.”

Tim shook his head. “We don’t have enough of the compound. No base, no ratios, no synthesis pattern. Without the exact formula, we’d be guessing in the dark.”

Jason slammed a fist lightly against the desk. “Then how the hell did a rat like Mancini get his hands on it?”

Tim shrugged. “Best guess? He stole it from Sionis. Would explain why he was looking over his shoulder every five seconds.”

“Idiot,” Jason muttered. His anger began to cool as he glanced over, noticing the dark circles etched beneath Tim’s eyes. The kid looked wired and worn thin. His voice softened. “You need sleep.”

“I can’t,” Tim’s fingers resumed their frantic pace across the keyboard. “What if I miss something? What if that formula shows up and we’re not ready?”

Jason stepped closer, lowering his voice. “Tim. You’ll miss something anyway if your brain crashes mid-keystroke. You’ve been staring at code for three days straight. You’re running on caffeine and spite.”

Tim didn’t stop typing. “It’s worked so far.”

Jason reached out pulled Tim away from the bat computer and forcing Tim to turn around and meet his eyes. “You’re not gonna outsmart this thing if you’re fried. You’ll be sharper after a break. Babs is still digging on her end. We’ve got the patrols. Get four hours. Hell, even two.”

Tim slumped in defeat, rubbing at his eyes as the tension finally bled from his shoulders. “Fine. A nap. But if I wake up and Gotham’s on fire—”

“Then it’s a normal day in this shit hole city,” Jason deadpanned.

A faint smile tugged at Tim’s lips, and he stood with a stretch that earned several cracks from his spine.

“I’ll keep digging until you’re up.” Jason promised, clapping a hand to Tim’s shoulder. “Go.”

Tim didn’t argue. He staggered toward the elevator, muttering about caffeine withdrawal and setting six alarms.

Jason waited until the lift closed behind him before turning back to the monitor. He should’ve jumped straight into the search—he’d been the loudest about stopping Joker’s next move— instead, his mind drifted. Not to Gotham. Not to toxins or their ghost. But to you.

It had been days since the bookstore, and he still couldn’t stop thinking about you.

“God, I can’t believe I’m actually becoming a stalker,” he muttered, dragging a hand down his face.

Seeing you at the bookstore had been pure coincidence. But now? he could feel his curiosity getting the better of him, he wanted to see you again and with that the thought there, it was too tempting to ignore the resources at his disposal. 

A quick cross-reference of the store’s invoice system, and he’d found the record of your purchase. From there, it wasn’t hard to trace it to a name. A professional profile. A series of academic papers and lecture videos.

Doctor Y/N L/N. Neuroscientist. Lecturer and researcher at Gotham U.

He skimmed your credentials, the corner of his mouth twitching. You were sharp. Accomplished. Brilliant, even. Probably the kind of person who would’ve been Tim’s rival if he ever left the cave long enough to interact with actual humans.

“Damn,” Jason whistled low, scrolling through your faculty page. “You’re not just a pretty face.”

“Who is this?”

Jason nearly leapt out of the chair. “Jesus, Damian!”

Damian raised a brow, unimpressed, before glancing at the glowing monitor, gaze narrowing at the screen. “Who is she?”

Jason shifted awkwardly. “She’s, uh… potential lead. On the toxin thing.” Total lie. No way in hell he was confessing to stalking his own crush to demon spawn.

Damian frowned, clearly unconvinced. He glanced back at the screen. “She doesn’t look like an evil mastermind.”

Jason snorted. “Trust me. She’s smart enough to become one if she wanted.”

He clicked out of the window, not willing to risk further questions, and turned to face the youngest Wayne fully. “Shouldn’t you be at school?”

“I finished this week’s syllabus yesterday,” Damian said with a dismissive wave. “To make me attend that pit of idiocy is a waste of my time.”

Jason raised a brow. “Pretty sure Bruce expects you to show up regardless.”

“Father expects results, not attendance,” Damian replied coolly.

Jason leaned back in the chair, folding his arms. “If I call him right now and tell him his little prodigy’s playing hooky and creeping around the Batcave instead of sitting through trig, how fast do you think he’d be down here?”

Damian’s eyes narrowed into slits. “You wouldn’t dare.”

“Oh, I would love to,” Jason said, smirking as he slowly pulled his comm from his belt. “And I’ll tell Alfred to lock up your katanas until your attendance record’s squeaky clean.”

Damian looked murderous. “You are insufferable.”

“And you’re going to be late.”

With a muttered curse in Arabic, Damian spun on his heel and stormed toward the elevator like a tiny, furious emperor exiled from his marble court.

“This is why no one respects you,” he tossed over his shoulder.

Jason just smirked. “You’ll thank me one day.”

“I sincerely doubt it.”

Jason chuckled as the elevator doors closed. The cave was quiet again but this time, he left the file closed. He wasn’t risking another one of his siblings catching him mid-obsession.

But even as the lines of data loaded, he couldn’t stop the image of your smirk from flashing in his mind.

Damn it.

He was so screwed.

GOTHAM UNIVERSITY 

The weekend had vanished in a blink—gone before you had the chance to properly catch some rest. And now it was Tuesday morning, and you were once again standing in front of your lecture hall with a marker in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other—woefully undersized for the hour.

You weren’t even sure how you’d survived Monday. And Tuesday? Tuesday was dragging its feet like a teenager being forced out of bed.

Maybe it was the sleep deprivation. Maybe the mounting stack of papers needed to be graded. Or maybe—just maybe—it had something to do with the fact that Dick hadn’t texted since the weekend.

Aside from one polite message—Had a great time, can’t wait to see you again—there had been radio silence.

Maybe he was busy.

Maybe he was being polite.

Maybe he decided that he wasn’t actually interested.

You bit back a sigh and turned back to the board, scrawling across the surface with just a touch more pressure than necessary. Whatever.  Who needed a man when you had a lecture hall full of sleep deprived students a terminal caffeine addiction, and a job that kept your brain so busy it barely had time to spiral?

Still… you checked your phone. Just once. Just in case.

Nothing.

Figures.

You exhaled through your nose, smoothed down your blouse, and turned back toward your students with the kind of smile worn only by women who had absolutely chosen the strong, independent path at seven in the godforsaken morning.

Because, despite everything—despite the early hours, the endless grading, and the fact that your bloodstream was 80% espresso—you loved this.

You loved teaching.

You loved the subject. The research and chaos. The spark that came when something clicked in a student’s eyes.

Teaching neuroscience was more than a paycheck; it was a passion. You just wished passion came with later start times. And a universally accepted pyjama policy.

You took a long sip of coffee, rolled your shoulders back, and turned toward your students, who were only just starting to blink the sleep from their eyes.

“Alright,” you said, clicking the projector to life. “Let’s talk about chemical warfare. And clowns.”

That earned a few raised brows of interest and handful of tired chuckles.

“True to my word,” you went on, as the screen behind you flickered to life, “we’re diving into Joker venom today. Specifically, the various known strains, their molecular architecture, and the neurological impacts they cause upon exposure.”

The first image flickered onscreen: a chart showing the original base compound. Beside it was a grainy field photo of a bright green liquid. The photo looked like it had been pulled from the bottom of a GCPD evidence locker.

“This,” you said, pointing with your marker, “was the earliest recorded version—crude, volatile, and grotesquely effective. Victims experienced intense euphoria, followed by uncontrollable laughter, vivid hallucinations, progressive paralysis, and ultimately… cardiac arrest.”

You paused, letting the weight of that settle in.

“But here’s where it gets interesting,” you said, clicking to the next slide. “The formula has evolved. It’s gotten cleaner. More efficient. Some of the newer strains show a disturbing level of sophistication. Less residue. More targeted dopamine flooding. In a few cases—nearly undetectable until it’s too late.”

A hand went up from the front row.

“Is there any known antidote?” the student asked.

You hesitated—just for a beat. “There are a few neutralizing agents that can be effective if administered immediately,” you said. “But a true, universal antidote? Not yet. Especially not for the more recent iterations. Most of our current strategies are reactive, not preventative.”

You paused.

“In short?” Your lips quirked in something that wasn’t quite a smile. “Don’t get exposed.”

A ripple of nervous laughter followed.

And then—

A new voice spoke up.

“Is it the toxin that kills them… or the effects it triggers first?”

You froze for half a second—not enough for anyone else to notice.

Your eyes scanned the lecture hall—and there he was. In the back row, half-slouched like the seat belonged to him. Leather jacket. Boots kicked up against the chair in front. Arms folded, expression far too smug for someone who had no damn business being here.

The last thing you’d expected was to see him here.

“Interesting point,” you replied, crisp and professional, like he was another one of your students. You refused to give him the satisfaction of seeing you flustered. “The toxin is the cause, yes—but it’s the chain reaction that actually kills. The laughter, the convulsions, the paralysis… the body shuts down before most people even realize what’s happening.”

Jason tilted his head slightly. “So the damage isn’t in the delivery. It’s in what it sets off.”

You clicked to the next slide. “Exactly. The moment it hits, your body stops being yours. It rewires everything—how you feel, how you think. You can’t reason your way out of it.”

He nodded slowly, like he already knew that and just wanted to hear you say it. “Some people get hit harder than others, though, right?”

You arched a brow. “Depends on the target.”

“Some look fine. At first,” he said. “They act normal. But the toxin’s already working underneath.”

The look he gave you made the implication clear.

You smiled tightly. “Some strains are less effective than they look. Easy to handle if caught early.”

“Wait—” a girl near the middle row piped up, frowning. “I thought there was no cure for Joker venom?”

You cleared your throat, ignoring the flush creeping along your neck. “For the newer variants, yes. They’re more chemically advanced and difficult to reverse. But with some of the older versions—If the symptoms are identified early enough—intervention is possible.”

Jason leaned forward in his seat, resting his chin on his hand, grin playing at the corners of his mouth. “But what if someone lets it run its course anyway?”

You didn’t look at him.

You just smiled for the class. “Then some people are clearly very stupid.”

A few students laughed in confusion, but no one actually picked up on the double meaning of the conversation. You turned back toward the board.

“Now then,” you said briskly, “back to the chemistry before anyone else gets the idea this is interactive.”

You didn’t even make it halfway through the next slide before his voice cut in again—calm, amused, and very much on purpose.

“So how much exposure does it take before the effects become permanent?”

You inhaled through your nose and closed your eyes for half a beat.

Some of the students nodded—taking the bait. A girl in the second row had already scribbled the question into her notes.

But you knew exactly what he was doing.

You turned, voice level, gaze sharper. “Depends on the dosage. And the subject. Repeated exposure can cause cumulative neurological damage, but again—some people are more susceptible than others.”

Jason stood. Hands in his jacket pockets, he walked down the aisle like he had all the time in the world. Like none of this was strange or inappropriate.

“Say someone’s exposed to a small dose,” he went on, “but it happens a few times. Do they build immunity? Or will the damage be done?”

He stopped just short of the first row—just shy of your space. Close enough that your skin prickled with heat. You were painfully aware of the eyes of your students on you now.

Your jaw clenched.

“Well,” you said, eyes narrowed, “whoever’s insane enough to try that should probably check themselves into Arkham.”

He stepped closer, just slightly. Just enough that only you could hear him when he murmured, low and maddening:

“Why do that… when there’s a cure standing right here?”

“Funny,” you said, lips curling into something that might’ve passed for a smile if not for the fire in your eyes. “Because the only thing I see right now is a recurring symptom.”

Behind him, someone cleared their throat—a student, probably wondering whether they were still attending a lecture or some avant-garde performance piece. 

You exhaled sharply and stepped toward him, your expression still pleasant for the room, but your voice dropped to a hiss meant for his ears alone.

“What the hell are you doing? This is a lecture. You’re not cute.”

He smirked, unbothered. “Didn’t say I was. Just here to learn about toxins… and their reactions.” 

You gritted your teeth. “You’re disrupting my job.”

“I’ll stop if you go out with me.”

“Not a damn chance.” You scoff.

Then, as if this was his stage now, he turned slightly toward the class, raising his voice with faux curiosity. “Actually, that reminds me. Has anyone considered how different outcomes might vary depending on emotional state during exposure? Say, for example, if someone was already—”

“I swear to God—”

“Look,” he said, still in that maddeningly calm tone as he turned back to her, “one hour. That’s all I’m asking. If it sucks, you can forget I exist.”

You narrowed your eyes. “If I still say no?”

Jason shrugged, entirely too relaxed. “I’ll keep showing up. Keep asking questions. Might even bring snacks next time. We’ll see how interactive this gets.”

You stared at him. He stared right back.

God, he was smug.

God, he was gorgeous.

God, you hated this.

“…Fine,” you muttered. “One hour,” you said through gritted teeth. “And if you speak once during the rest of this lecture, I will report you for harassment and ban you from this campus.”

His grin was shameless. “Understood, Professor.”

He backed up, hands raised, retreating like the smug menace he was—but this time with a victory in his step.

He turned and walked back up the aisle, dropping back into his seat like this was the plan all along.

You turned back to the board, face burning, students utterly unaware that their professor had just been emotionallystrong-armed into a date by a six-foot leather-wrapped problem with a smirk. 

Jason, to his credit, didn’t speak again. Not once.

But he didn’t need to.

Because for the next forty-five minutes, you couldn’t stop thinking about him.

Surprisingly, Jason actually found himself listening as you spoke. He learned what actually happened inside someone exposed to Joker venom—what went wrong in their brain. He’d never thought to ask before. That was always Bruce’s domain, or Tim’s. The analysis. The endless case files with chemical structures and psych profiles and margin notes scribbled in too-small handwriting. Jason had always preferred the fighting portion of vigilantism. 

But hearing it from you…

Maybe it was the way your voice shifted—calm but impassioned—or how you didn’t shy away from the brutality of it. You didn’t sensationalize it, either. You explained it like a surgeon would describe an autopsy—clinical, controlled, but with a quiet thread of empathy running through every word.

Jason had seen what Joker venom did to people.

He’d dealt the aftermath.

He’d watched the light go out in someone’s eyes while they laughed themselves into oblivion.

But he’d never truly understood it. Not like this.

The way you spoke about neurotransmitter chaos—how dopamine floods rewired fear into joy, how serotonin short-circuited pain into pleasure, how laughter wasn’t just a reaction, but a seizure disguised as euphoria. The complete collapse of inhibition, followed by motor control, then respiratory function—it was horrifying. And fascinating.

You made him want to know more.

And then, in a moment that startled him, he wondered what you’d make of him.

Of the Lazarus Pit. Of what it did to the brain when it brought someone back from the dead. Of the rage. The episodes. The memory gaps. Of the madness that still affected him.

Would you call it neurological trauma? A chemical imbalance? Would you look at him like a subject—or something broken to fix?

He leaned back in his chair, arms loose, fingers tapping idly against his knee. You were pacing now, marker in hand, drawing a new diagram with quick, practiced ease. Sharp lines, fluid motion. You were alive up there—animated and fierce in your element. And he couldn’t help but watch. Not just your words. But you.

The way your voice sharpened when a student asked a half-formed question. The gleam in your eye when someone got it. The small, unconscious smile when the pieces clicked.

You cared. Genuinely.

About the material. About the kids in this room. About what this information could mean outside of it.

“Alright,” you said finally, capping the marker with a soft snap and stepping back. “That’s it for today. You’re free to go—unless you’re dying to ask more questions about the joys of chemically induced insanity.”

Laughter stirred through the room. Chairs scraped back. A few students filtered out with lingering glances and whispered praise. Others loitered to gather notes or quietly debate the finer points of dopamine regulation.

Jason didn’t move.He waited—calm, steady—watching you sort your materials, stack your folders, and close your laptop shut.

When you finally turned toward him, arms crossing over your chest and one brow raised in challenge, he rose from his seat like a man who had all the time in the world and nothing to prove.

“Ready, Professor?” he asked, voice low, smug as ever.

You rolled your eyes, gathering your bag. “You’re lucky I’m a woman of my word.”

Jason smirked. “Some might say that’s an admirable quality.”

You shot him a look over your shoulder. “Some might say it’s a flaw.”

THE GOLDEN CUP

Jason—as you’d recently learned his name was—took you to The Golden Cup, one of Gotham’s most aggressively popular coffee chains.

On the walk over, you’d checked your phone—more out of habit than hope—and found, unsurprisingly, that there was still no message from Dick.

And that was when you decided.

You weren’t going to wait up for him. You’d had one date. No promises. No exclusivity. Just a good night that clearly hadn’t meant the same thing to both of you.

So fine.

You were going to give Jason a chance.

No matter how infuriating, arrogant, or absolutely insufferable he was—he was persistent. And maybe, just maybe, that counted for something.

Even if he made you want to strangle him half the time.

Especially then.

You forced a polite smile as he held the door open for you. The place had a sleek, modern interior, all brushed steel and pale wood, the kind of aesthetic that screamed corporate chic. Chalkboards lined the walls, scrawled with endless customizable drink options in cheery handwriting, as if sugar and soy milk could compensate for the fact that the coffee tasted like watered-down burnt beans. 

You bit back a grimace. The air buzzed with the frantic energy of sleep-deprived students and frazzled office workers. 

“The Golden Cup?” you asked, more out of disbelief than curiosity.

Jason shrugged, as if the choice had been perfectly logical. “Figured this was your kind of place.”

You mirrored the gesture, masking your annoyance. After how hard he’d worked to get this hour with you, the last thing you wanted was to admit you actually despised it here. “The girls on my gymnastics team used to love this place,” you offered instead.

That made him pause. “Wait—you did gymnastics?”

You nodded. “Bars. Tumbling. The works.”

“Huh.” He tilted his head slightly, eyes skimming over you like he was trying to reconcile that image with the one in front of him.

Your eyes narrowed. “What?”

“Nothing,” he said quickly, a little too quickly. “You just don’t seem like the type.”

You stiffened. “And what type is that?”

“I didn’t mean it like that,” he chuckled, the sound light but strained.

But the damage was done. The words echoed louder than they should have—because you wanted this to go well. You’d told yourself you were being open, trying not to let old scars taint something new. Like Milo kept encouraging. But there it was again—another man slotting you into a tidy box. 

Jake used to do the same thing.

“So how did you mean it?” you asked, voice calm but tight.

Jason looked like he wished he’d said nothing at all. “I just meant… never mind, okay?”

The line moved forward. He stepped up to the counter, clearly flustered, and ordered without turning to you. Two hot coffees. Black.

You stared at the back of his head in disbelief. He didn’t even ask.

When he reached for his wallet, you turned on your heel and walked out.

The bell above the door jingled as you stepped into the Gotham air, crisp and biting against your cheeks. You exhaled hard, realizing only then how tense your jaw had become.

You didn’t make it far before the door slammed open again. Footsteps pounded after you.

“Hey! Wait up!” Jason called.

You kept walking until his hand lightly caught your arm.

“Where are you going?”

You turned, met his eyes. “I just don’t think this is going to work.”

Confusion flashed across his face. “What? It’s barely been ten minutes.”

“And that’s all I needed.”

He stared at you, disbelief written in every line of his face. “Come on, that’s not fair.”

“Ever since we met,” you said, keeping your tone level, “you’ve done nothing but make assumptions. You act as if you know me based on a glance and a guess.”

“That’s not true,” he snapped. “I—what assumptions?”

“The book recommendation, the coffee shop itself. You didn’t even ask what I wanted to drink,” you pointed out. “You just ordered hot coffee.”

“Everyone loves hot coffee!”

“I don’t.”

His mouth opened, then closed.

“And then there was the gymnastics thing.”

He winced. “Okay, maybe that came out wrong—”

“It’s not just that. It’s how you said it. Like I didn’t look the part. What—because I’m a doctor?”

“What? No!” he said quickly, like the idea shocked him. “That’s not what I meant at all!”

“You don’t know me, and you clearly don’t care to.” you said, stepping back. “You saw me in the bookstore and figured I looked easy. The kind of girl you could charm in five minutes with a smirk and some half-assed lines.”

He opened his mouth, but you cut him off before he could try to spin it.

“I said no,” you reminded him. “So now I’m a challenge. That’s all this is to you—a game you don’t want to lose.”

His expression shifted. Defensive. 

“But let’s get one thing straight,” you continued, voice like ice. “Whatever bad boy charm you think you’ve got going for you? It doesn’t work on me. I’ve seen it before. You’re not new.”

Jason scoffed, tension bleeding into sarcasm. “Guess I should’ve worn a suit and talked about Nietzsche.”

You shook your head, a hollow laugh escaping. “God, this is exactly why I’m walking away.”

“Oh, right,” he said, stepping forward. “Because you’re uptight and judgmental? Hate to break it to you, sweetheart, but you’re not exactly a ray of sunshine either.”

You stiffened, heat rising in your chest. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me.” His voice was sharp now, stripped of its earlier charm. “You walked in here with your mind already made up. You want to lecture me on assumptions? Take a good look in the mirror. You’re no better, Princess.”

The words hit like a slap— For a second, neither of you said anything. You just stared at him, breathing hard, your pride wounded, your heart thudding against your ribs with something that felt too much like anger… and something else you didn’t want to name.

You were done. Whatever thread of tolerance you’d held onto had snapped clean through. “You know what? I’m not doing this. Let’s just call it a night.”

“Oh, can we?” he muttered, hands flung out to the side. “Please.”

“Good night,” you snapped, already turning.

“Sayonara.”

“Have fun with yourself.”

“Ciao, sweetheart. Tell the HOA at Pretentious Pointe I said hi.”

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[orellazalonia]

Echoes of a Nobody

Summary: The Avengers discover you may now be working with a hostile organization, sparking confusion, guilt, and questions about whether you were taken or left by choice.

Word Count: 2.1k+

Main Masterlist | The One You Don’t See Masterlist

The Tower still functioned. The lights still came on at sunrise, the coffee still brewed automatically, and the world, predictably, still needed saving.

But it wasn’t the same. Not really. They didn’t talk about you anymore. Not in meetings. Not in the break room. Not even in the way people usually mention someone who left like “I wonder how they’re doing,” or “Remember how they used to do this?”

Your name hadn’t been spoken in weeks and no one looked at the desk the same way. Even with the new intern, no one admitted they noticed the difference in the reports. The missing efficiency. The absence of quiet competence. You’d made things easy for them, too easy. Because you hadn’t needed praise. You hadn’t asked questions when the assignments piled too high. You never made a scene when someone else took credit.

You were just… reliable. Invisible.

And now, you were gone. Not fallen in battle. Not reassigned. You left on your own terms. And somehow, that made it worse. Because the truth was, they’d all gotten used to you being around without ever really seeing you.

Sam noticed first. He didn’t say anything out loud, but every time he found an old file tagged with your formatting or caught a smart line of code the intern didn’t recognize, his jaw would clench just a little.

Clint complained more. “Why is everything in the wrong place?” He muttered once, staring at a disorganized gear locker that used to run like clockwork under your watch.

Bruce rubbed his temples during mission debriefs now. Things were falling through. Small details, easily fixable mistakes, but they stacked up. Quietly. Subtly.

As for Bucky, he still didn’t say anything either. He still trained. Still showed up. Still leaned into quiet corners with that girl he was so drawn to, the one with the bright laugh and easy smile. They were exactly what they were meant to be: Happy. Whole. Seen.

Yet still, something in Bucky’s expression occasionally flickered. Like when he asked the intern for last quarter’s field logs, the kind you used to prepare without being asked. The intern blinked had. “Wait, were we supposed to keep those updated?”

He didn’t respond. Didn’t scold. Just nodded tightly and walked away.

He hadn’t really known you. Not the way he knew her. But maybe he knew enough now to feel the edges of your absence even if he didn’t understand it. Because no one really understood what you did until you weren’t there to do it anymore.

And now, the Tower moved on like it always does. Your desk still sat there, empty. No one had claimed it really. And when the lights dimmed and the late night silence crept in, the air around your space felt heavier. Like the room knew something had been lost.

Not loudly. Just quietly. Like everything you ever did.

Therefore, what came next was a surprise to them all. It was Bruce who discovered it first, he didn’t mean to find it.

It was late that day, late enough that the Tower was more shadows than light, more quiet hums of distant servers than footsteps in the halls. His coffee had gone cold an hour ago and he wasn’t even sure why he was still at his desk. The mission reports were dull, mostly cleanup work from intel they’d intercepted last week from an anti-shield faction operating out of the Balkans.

He was skimming out of obligation, not curiosity until he opened the fifth folder.

The file tree wasn’t remarkable at first. Standard formatting. But the subfolders were ordered a little too neatly. The names weren’t generic; they were contextual, smart. Predictive.

Then came the layouts. His eyes narrowed.

Line after line of data filtered across the screen, and his breath caught, not because of the content, but because of the structure.

The headers. The symbols. The little quirks in spacing that most people wouldn’t notice.

But Bruce did. Because he remembered seeing it for years. Quietly, reliably, every week formatted the exact same way. You used to send summaries with this layout. It wasn’t a style. It wasn’t even a system. It was… you. Distinct. Efficient. Invisible to anyone who wasn’t looking for it.

Bruce sat up straighter, heart tapping a little faster. He clicked deeper. Opened a timestamped diagnostic from a surveillance relay taken offline days before an attack. Whoever wrote the analysis had restructured the data logs to show energy signatures layered over civilian heat maps. It was clean. Elegant.

Too elegant.

“Wait,” He muttered, leaning closer.

There were redundancies in the formula. Little backups, hidden verification lines built into the metadata. He’d seen them before. He remembered once asking about them, years ago, why you'd included them when no one else did.

You had shrugged. “Because systems fail. People forget. I don’t.”

Bruce’s fingers paused over the keyboard. He sat back slowly, eyes still fixed on the screen. The quiet hum of the tower seemed suddenly louder, more isolating.

He didn’t want to jump to conclusions. Didn’t want to assume something that wasn’t possible. Except… it was. And no matter how much he told himself it couldn’t be you, that this was probably just someone who used your old files, or mimicked your workflow, he felt the truth in his gut.

This wasn’t mimicry. This was your work. Your habits. Your voice, written in lines of code like a ghost.

He didn’t say anything to the others at first. Not yet. Because if he was right… It meant you weren’t just gone. You were working for them now. And there was a high chance, you weren’t coming back.

-

Bruce spent most of the night reviewing the files again, hoping he’d find something, anything that would disprove his gut.

He didn’t.

So when the team gathered for the morning briefing, he stood silently near the edge of the table, clutching his tablet like a lifeline. Steve was mid-sentence about a possible weapons facility when Bruce finally spoke.

“I think she’s working with them.”

The room shifted. It was subtle, but sharp. Natasha looked up. Clint stopped halfway through unwrapping a protein bar. Sam’s brows dipped in confusion. Steve frowned.

“What?” Steve asked.

Bruce tapped his tablet and cast the projection into the center of the room and said your name. The file structure lit up in pale blue: neat, layered, and efficient.

“She designed this,” Bruce said. “The data formatting, the way it parses real-time risk indicators, and the multi-tier flagging structure. This isn’t like hers. This is hers.”

Bucky, who’d been leaning against the wall near the back, arms folded, finally looked over.

“You’re saying she’s helping them now?” He asked, voice low. More like a statement than a question.

“I’m saying I don’t know,” Bruce admitted. “But this level of detail? It’s not someone copying her style. It’s her work. I’d bet everything on it.”

Sam squinted at the file, then crossed his arms. “So, what? She was a mole this whole time? Just embedded with us, waiting?”

“No.” Bruce’s tone sharpened. “No way. She didn’t have access to anything sensitive until the last year, and even then she didn’t take advantage of it. This is recent.”

“So she was taken?” Natasha asked. “Maybe they’re forcing her to work for them.”

“Could be,” Steve said quietly. “We’ve seen that happen before.”

Bruce hesitated, his thumb brushing over the edge of his tablet. “If that’s true, then why does this read like she cares? There’s attention to detail in this. Clean backups. This isn't bare minimum compliance. It’s-“

“Deliberate,” Bucky finished.

Everyone turned to him. He didn’t look at anyone. Just kept his arms folded, eyes fixed on the holoscreen, jaw tight.

“She used to keep my files color-coded,” He said after a pause. “Even though I never asked her to. Wouldn’t even have thought to.”

“She did that for you?” Clint muttered. “She never even looked me in the eye.”

“She barely talked,” Sam added.

“Because none of us ever really gave her a reason to,” Natasha said, voice quiet.

Steve’s mouth tightened. “She was reliable. Smart. I just thought she preferred to be behind the scenes.”

Bruce looked down. “Well, if they’re treating her better… if she’s found a place where she feels like she belongs…”

“…Then maybe she didn’t need to be forced,” Natasha finished.

There was a long silence that sank into the walls like fog.

Sam glanced at Steve. “So what do we do?”

No one answered. Because deep down, they were all wondering the same thing: If you chose to leave, if you found people who valued you in ways they never did…

Do they even have the right to go after you? And worse, would you even want to come back?

The holoscreen was still glowing when she walked in, heels soft against the floor, a cup of something warm in her hand.

She smiled easily, the kind of smile that made people look up even when they didn’t mean to. Bucky did. His posture eased just slightly, eyes flicking toward her like muscle memory. The one he loved brushed his arm with the back of her hand as she passed him and made her way to the table.

“Hey,” She said with a curious tilt of her head. “What’s all this?”

Steve didn’t answer immediately. Neither did Bruce. The tension still hung from earlier like humidity in the air.

“We think one of our old administrators might be working with the group we’re tracking,” Steve finally said, tone careful.

She blinked. “Oh?” Her eyes flicked to the display, then back. “Who?”

Bruce hesitated. “She left a few months ago. Used to run most of our comm scrubs and data threads.”

A small pause before her mouth curved. “Ohhh. You mean the quiet one? I think I remember her.”

She said it gently, like trying to recall the name of someone she might’ve sat next to in a lecture hall years ago.

“She didn’t talk much, did she?” She continued, sipping her drink. “I always thought she seemed sweet, but kind of… you know. Overwhelmed?”

Bucky didn’t respond. Natasha’s expression sharpened subtly, but the woman either didn’t notice or didn’t mind.

“She left,” Bruce said, steady but not unkind, “Because we made her feel invisible.”

Her brow rose slightly, as if surprised by the weight of the statement. “Oh. I didn’t realize she felt that way.”

“She might’ve been taken,” Steve said. “Or maybe she joined them willingly. We’re still piecing it together.”

The woman tilted her head. “And you think she’s helping those guys now?”

“We have signs of her system work embedded in their infrastructure,” Bruce confirmed. “The designs match her exactly.”

A thoughtful hum. She leaned lightly against the table. “That’s kind of impressive, actually. I mean… good for her?”

There was a pause.

She blinked. “I just mean, it sounds like she found a place where she fits, you know? I always thought she looked like she didn’t want to be here most of the time.”

“She probably wanted to be useful,” Natasha added.

“Sure, but maybe she is now,” The woman replied, light and certain. “I mean, I don’t want to sound harsh or anything, but if she didn’t have much clearance, how dangerous can it really be?”

Bruce stiffened. “She knew more than anyone realized. She was just never loud about it.”

“Right.” A gentle nod, like she understood. “Still… maybe it’s not worth making this a whole mission. I mean, do we really want to drag her back into this if she’s finally found her place?”

No one answered, not right away.

“She might be compromised,” Steve said firmly. “Or being manipulated.”

“Of course. But if she’s doing it by choice?” She gave a soft, almost sympathetic smile. “It just doesn’t seem worth disrupting everything over someone who didn’t even seem to like being here.”

“Maybe she didn’t like how she was treated,” Bucky muttered.

She blinked again, this time with a little laugh. “Oh… well, we were all busy. I’m sure nobody meant anything by it.”

Sam and Natasha exchanged a look.

She gave Bucky’s arm a soft squeeze. “I just think you all have bigger things to worry about than chasing down someone who’s probably better off without us. But… I know you’ll do what you think is right.”

She offered them all one last sweet smile and drifted out the way she came, calm and weightless as a breeze. Only when she was gone did anyone breathe again.

Bucky’s gaze turned back to holoscreen.

He didn’t know what unsettled him more: her gentle way of brushing it all aside, or the fact that he’d once agreed with her without even thinking twice.

He wasn’t sure what was right anymore.

Taglist: @herejustforbuckybarnes @iyskgd @torntaltos @julesandgems @maesmayhem @w-h0re @pookalicious-hq @parkerslivia @whisperingwillowxox @stell404 @wingstoyourdreams @seventeen-x @mahimagi @viktor-enjoyer @vicmc624 @msbyjackal

[sugar-phoenix]

cowboy, you have a hard time wrapping things up neatly. ✦

synopsis: Boothill doesn't do things quietly. He's loud, and messy, and he likes doing things his way. Even though these all annoy you somewhat, the cowboy starts growing on you. And then one day, he does something unexpected. tags: f!reader, f/m, no smut, fluff, light angst, mentions of Boothill's past a/n: 2.5k words, this was a lot of fun to write. hope you guys enjoy it!

ao3 link here!

Your heels clacked as you walked down the halls, the ground littered with bodies and empty bullet shells. You sighed. Unlike Boothill, who left the remains of IPC soldiers and his mark everywhere in the form of bullet holes dotting the walls, you preferred to do your work neater, quieter. His loud whoops and hollers echoed down the corridor from ahead, making you cringe.

There were many things Boothill was in excess of. Too fierce. Too exposed. Too gleeful. Too loud.

You were not fond of loud.

“I got the place cleared for you, ma’am.” Boothill’s voice rang out like a bell.

“I noticed,” you responded, turning into the server room. In front of you, server towers loomed overhead, blinking with a million eyes. “You’re not very subtle, cowboy.”

“Subtle? Why would I wanna be subtle when I could strike fear into the heart of the IPC?” Boothill chuckled.

“Being subtle can be pretty scary,” you mused, going to the main terminal and typing the code you were given. “What could instigate more fear than an invisible threat you can’t see?”

“I dunno. I like to think that knowin’ who your enemy is and knowin’ that nothing can stop him is way more scary, lady.”

Boothill sank his pistol into his holster, then strode over to where you were standing, the sound of his body moving like oiled machinery.

“After all, ain’t knowin’ how you’ll die the most terrifyin’ thing of all?”

“Touché,” you conceded, scanning the database for the folder you wanted. Boothill waited at your side, and you felt a little shock that the man who was, only minutes ago a whirlwind of gunmetal and gleaming sharp teeth, could now stand so still.

Finally, you found the folder you were looking for, and you loaded it into a drive you inserted into the terminal. Boothill had offered the use of his own ports as a way to store the data, but you had refused. Data was no good to you if you could not parse through it with your own eyes.

“Alright, we’re done here,” you said as the download finished. “Let’s get out of this place.”

The cowboy at your side said nothing but smiled, flashing his razor teeth. You both stepped out into the hallway, only to be met with a new squadron of IPC guards.

“Looks like they sent the calvalry,” you remarked.

“Yeah? Well, if you know anythin’ about cowboys, you’ll know that we don’t take kindly to calvalry.”

And with that, he was off, shooting and hollering and kicking. You ducked back into the server room, letting the cowboy have his fun, and shook your head. When the sound of gunfire had stopped, Boothill leaned around the corner.

“‘S all clear! I took care of ‘em.”

You stepped out to find a pile of bodies and more bullet holes in the walls. Well, I guess this time it couldn’t be helped.

“What’s wrong? You don’t like my handiwork?” Boothill commented at your slightly dismayed expression.

“Cowboy,” you sighed, “you have a hard time wrapping things up neatly.”

He only laughed, a rough raucous sound that reverberated down the hallway as the two of you made your exit.

✦✦✦

You stood in the middle of the ballroom in a shape-hugging red gown, fanning yourself with a paper hand fan. Eyes searching the surrounding crowd, you looked for the familiar cowboy hat. You found Boothill standing against the back of the room, looking absolutely miserable in his suit. A smile creeped up your lips. It took a lot of hemming and hawing to get him to wear that suit.

“I need my body bare, otherwise I’ll overheat,” he’d said.

“Boothill, darling, it’ll just be for the night. You’re going to cause an uproar if you just walk in with that sorry excuse for a jacket. It would be absolutely scandalous. We need to be subtle tonight.” You had adopted the pet name after a few missions with him. The two of you were slowly becoming fond of each other.

“What’s wrong with a little ruckus?” Boothill had asked. “I like ruckus.”

“I know you do, but just this once we could do without it. Come on. You get to cause ruckus every other mission we’ve had so far. You can live without making noise just this once.”

To your surprise, he conceded, taking the suit from your hands and walking to a room, muttering and cursing under his breath.

Now you felt a little sorry as you watched him. He looked like a dog that had been forced into a humiliating outfit just for its owner’s enjoyment.

Your eyes met, and you flashed your fan over your face. The signal. You had gotten what you came here for. Relief flashed over Boothill’s face, and he made his way through the crowd to you as you started walking towards the exit.

You stopped abruptly when you saw the exit.

“What’s wrong, darlin’?” Boothill asked, then, “oh,” as he saw what caused you to pause.

The archways were lined with more security guards than either of you had remembered when you first came in.

“They know we’re here,” you whispered. “They’re waiting to catch us on the way out.”

Boothill said nothing. You saw the calculations happen in his crosshair eyes. Slowly, he smiled, revealing his shark teeth in a devilish grin.

“Oh Boothill. No.” You said with dread.

“Oh but we don’t have much o’ a choice, do we?” he whispered. “Just let me do what I do best, darlin’.”

You looked at him, and he caught the worry in your eyes.

“Don’t worry ‘bout me. I always get out, don’t I?”

You sighed.

“Fine.”

Boothill smiled wider than he had the entire night, and stepped away from you, making his way back into the crowd. You reached under the slit in your dress, hand on the dagger strapped to your thigh. The feeling of the hilt under your hand grounded you. It wasn’t long until you heard three deafening gunshots, and glass raining down from above. Chaos and panic erupted, and over all of them, the familiar laugh you’d grown to love. You watched as the archways were flooded, and the guards rushed towards the cause of the ruckus.

Taking the chance, you merged in with the panicked crowd streaming outside the ballroom, as more gunshots echoed behind you. Once you were out, you rushed to your sports car, and got into the driver’s seat. It roared to life as you turned the ignition, and you took it out of the car park and drove it to wait in front of the entrance. Panicked partygoers ran around your car, but your eyes were focused on the entrance. The way you white-knuckled the steering wheel would definitely leave imprints.

“Come on, come on,” you muttered. “Come on, cowboy.”

A beat passed, then two, then ten, and Boothill was nowhere to be seen. You got anxious, watching the large golden arches that led into the ballroom with the giant crystal chandelier that hung above them outside.

Just when you were about to accept that Boothill had been captured, or worse, dead, he emerged from the entrance, a crazed grin on his face, his expensive suit torn in shreds. You sighed in relief. Just before he reached the car, he turned around, aiming upwards, and pulled his trigger. Five bullets flew through the air, severing the chains of the giant chandelier. The guards chasing Boothill were trapped in the ballroom as the light fixture fell to the ground in front of them, shattered glass scattering everywhere. Boothill cackled, then leapt over the hood, taking his seat in the passenger side. You wasted no time flooring the gas pedal, the car screeching away from the ballroom.

“Should teach those muddlefudgers not to waste money on showin’ off,” Boothill laughed.

You rolled your eyes, smiling.

“Hard time wrapping things up neatly,” you said.

“That’s just my trademark, darlin.’”

The two of you glanced at each other, grinning wildly, as your car sped into the night.

✦✦✦

You gazed out the windows of the Astral Express. The endless expanse of space unrolled before you, a landscape of endless opportunities.

Boothill had been called to the Astral Express for a favor, and he thought you should tag along.

“They’re a pretty cool bunch, you should come meet ‘em. Who knows, they might come in handy for ya in the future.”

You didn’t need the cowboy’s persuasion to come and meet the famed Nameless. You were more than happy for a chance to come face to face with these trailblazers, to converse with them and see how they operated.

The Astral Express crew surprised you at first. They were less of an organized team and more like a ragtag family of people from all different walks of life. Pom Pom, the little conductor of the express, scrutinized you for a bit until they sniffed (disapprovingly or approvingly you couldn’t tell), and announced, “Pom Pom welcomes you aboard the Express.”

Soon after, you got to meet the rest of the Express crew. There was March 7th, the cheerful girl with bubblegum-pink hair. There was Dan Heng, the quiet, reserved young man who often kept to himself in the Astral Express' database archives. There was Stelle, the mysterious gray-haired girl who was apparently a repository for a Stellaron. She kept quiet at first, but soon you learned she had a joke for every occasion and didn't hesitate to crack one even at the most inopportune moments, to the chagrin of her companions. Then to the two stewards of the Express: Himeko, the red-haired, confident navigator, and Welt, deep in thought and with a walking stick he kept close to himself at all times.

 Boothill seemed to fit right in. He was the one who introduced you excitedly to Dan Heng, cackling and talking about how they were “best buds.” Despite Dan Heng’s embarassment at first, you could tell he enjoyed the presence of the cowboy. In that way, you felt a sort of kinship with him.

 The two of you hung out on the Express for a few days, as Boothill helped them with one of their trips. They were currently orbiting a planet named Jarilo VI. Boothill had encouraged you to stay aboard the Express and take a break, but today, Himeko saw you watching the window.

"If you want, you can go down with the rest of them," she said.

"I think I might,” you responded. “Forget what Boothill said about taking a break, I'm at my happiest when I'm working on something anyway."

She smiled knowingly.

It wasn't long before you landed on the cold planet, and it was an even shorter time before you found the crew. Stelle, March, Dan Heng, and Boothill were in a clinic, accompanied by a small child with bright yellow hair and a doctor who wore a large apron. You'd soon come to know that these two were Hook and Natasha, respectively.

Boothill made a show of being upset that you weren't on the Express, but you could tell that he was very happy you had decided to join them after all.

Apparently the crew had been on a wild goose chase, and to your mild disappointment they were finished with the whole affair. Stelle, March 7th, and Boothill all attempted to explain the situation to you, and Dan Heng kept sighing and correcting them every five sentences, so in the end you understood very little.

As the four of you walked out of the clinic, Hook caught up to Boothill and tugged at his pants.

"You aren't leaving, mister, are you?"

Boothill turned around, and in a manner you'd previously thought uncharacteristic, he crouched down and ruffled the young girl's hair.

"I am, sweetheart," he replied.

 "But, but, you're a member of the Moles now! You have to stay with us."

"Oh, and I'm only an *honorary* member?" Stelle asked, in mock anger. Hook giggled mischievously, then turned back to the cowboy.

"Also, I need your help with something," she added.

"Oh? What's that?" Boothill asked. Hook produced a strange trinket from one of her pockets.

"I wanna give this to my daddy, but I dunno how to wrap it up."

Boothill chuckled, ruffling her hair again.  “Your daddy sure is lucky to have a little girl like you.”

Then he did something that was so unexpected, the action of it was seared into your memory forever.

Slowly, he took off the bandana from around his neck, and laid it flat on the ground. Then, he took the trinket from Hook's hands and put it on top of the bandana, in the center. Deftly, and with a gentleness you'd seen from him very rarely, Boothill wrapped up the object with careful folding and gentle knots, then presented the object to Hook.

"There you go. And once your daddy opens it, you can wrap the bandana around your own neck, and I'll be there with ya and the Moles in spirit."

Tears sprung to Hook's eyes and she surged forward, hugging his neck and wailing loudly. Boothill chuckled, patting her back tenderly.

✦✦✦

The crisis with Jarilo VI solved, you and Boothill bade the Astral Express crew goodbye and went on your way. In the small spaceship you sat in, you gave Boothill a look.

What Hook and the Astral Express Crew didn't know was that the bandana he wore around his neck was very dear to him. A remnant of his past, a past that he had talked very little about with you, even though the two of you had gotten very close with each other.

Boothill sighed, feeling your gaze on him. "You wanna ask me about what happened with the girl, I can tell."

"Well, I mean, if you don't want to talk about it, I guess that's fine with me--" you started.

"No, no it's fine. It's somethin' I should've told ya long before. It's just painful for me is all."

You wanted to tell him that it was okay for him not to tell you, but you couldn't bring yourself to speak.

"What I never told you before, darlin’, was that I used to have a little girl of my own."

You raised a hand to your mouth. Never in your life would you have thought that the man in front of you—loud, brash and reckless—was ever a father.

"Before I was a Galaxy Ranger, before I got this metal body that I have now, I used to be just a cowboy. And one day I found myself with a daughter. Precious thing, loved her to death." He paused, taking in a deep breath, then let it out. "The IPC, they came to our planet... and they took her away from me. Took her and my whole family away from me. Razed everything I had to the ground.

 “That bandana I wore, well. It was my only reminder of her."

"Oh," you said, understanding why he was so guarded about it in the past. There was a long pause as you waited for Boothill to talk again.

 "But that girl, Hook," he started again, "she… reminded me of my daughter." Boothill took a shuddering breath. He had lost his ability to cry a long time ago, and you knew this, but sometimes he did things that told you he was weeping, invisibly. Until now you hadn't known what about.

"They would have been friends," he said softly.

"I'm sure they would have," you agreed.

You thought about the way he wrapped the gift for Hook.

"Where'd you learn to do that?" you asked.

"Do what?" he replied.

"What you did with the gift. How you folded it."

"Oh, that," he chuckled. "Some things you pick up being a dad."

There was another pause before you decided to speak again. "Well, I'll admit I was wrong about you then."

 "Wrong about what?" he asked, and you chuckled a little before answering.

"Turns out, cowboy, you do know how to wrap things up neatly."

Boothill laughed then, a soft, light sound, and you smiled.

comments are also very appreciated!

dividers by @cafekitsune

[superbat-lmao]

The Justice League, on their way back from a deep space mission that was incredibly successful, received a distress signal from a galaxy they’re passing through.

As they investigate, they learn that a colony of a planet has been wiped out. Completely.

Slowly they piece together that there is some being out there that had been terrorizing planets, starting with colonies and then eventually going after larger settlements and home planets.

The League also learns they are not the first people to learn of this foe, or try to come up with a solution to stop them.

The colony they are inspecting has researchers on it that had fled or escaped from other planets where they piled together all they knew about their enemy, and in an attempt to sift through the mountains of data they had collected, created a device.

If a person was connected to the device, they would mentally experience the number of years required to process the data and come up with an attack plan in seconds. What the researchers had needed was time, so they created it.

As the League pieces this together, Superman sees that there is a being approaching the remnants of the colony and the defense system alerts the “remaining colonists” of the imminent threat. Their failsafe boots up and takes the nearest person, in this case, Batman, who had been studying some of its programming, and activates.

The rest of the team didn’t have a chance to react before Batman blinks and is in motion, setting up machines and dictating code without lifting a finger.

There is no fight, because after the two seconds Bruce was in the machine he was a flurry of motion and the enemy was contained.

They ask him how long had passed for him in the machine. It takes him a full minute to respond.

“150 years.”

[le-chevalier-au-lion]

rosquez 20 + 12 for the weirdest premise

rosquez: 12 (bodyswap) + 20 (cyborgs/androids)

Everything’s off, ten centimeters to the right, and Valentino can’t quite parse through the flood of data, bones in his right shoulder shot to shit and aching, his vision program and the actual hardware in his eyes mismatched.

Marc’s the new generation, fourteen years too fresh, parts taken off and replaced in an ugly Frankenstein freakshow.

The leaden software of Valentino’s self doesn’t run smoothly, jumps in lurches, breaks the room into blocks of color and sensation into little hisses, too much, Jesus Christ, fuck.

“All good?” Marc asks, takes off his hand—Valentino’s hand that he’s using, parasite-like—from his cock.

This wretched noise rips out of him in stutters, damp into the mattress, his face turned to the side. And Marc himself sounds—mocking, maybe. It could be Valentino’s own voice twisting his tone around. Marc very rarely sounds like anything other than manicured, perfectly insincere and calculated.

At least like this, Valentino can be offended.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” He spits out, no clarification needed.

Marc huffs. “You tell me.”

Things hurt in Marc’s body, more than they do in Valentino’s. Things also—he jerks when Marc runs the tip of a finger on the sensitive strip of skin around his hole.

His sensors have to be broken. The feeling shoots through him like live wires brushing against each other, electric, painful, sweet. His cock is heavy on his stomach, leaking.

Marc smiles, close-mouthed, tense, his limbs twitching and spasming. He doesn’t say this is your fault, which it is, uncaring as fucking always in his suit of armor—just squeezes his balls and starts pumping his cock again, that tidal flood of sensation that Valentino learned he loved.

Valentino grits his teeth against the please sticking to his teeth like poison. His lashes flutter. The bugs pile up, missing parts, missing drivers, coding string errors, so Valentino doesn’t have to translate the white-hot flinch slicing through him like a serrated knife.

He’d been thawing, methodic, on the clock, like it’d been written into his code.

But Marc wouldn’t—wouldn’t remind him again, seemed content to shake his hand on the podium and not rub salt into the wound.

So Valentino took care of it for them.

Clung to the razor edges in the stewards’ room, we’ll have to look over your data, double meaning in stark faces which had ended up with their motherboards mixed up.

Here too, with Marc inside his fucking skin, Marc crumbling forward to breathe quick and shallow in the crook of his neck, pulsing cockhead bumping against the knob of his hipbone.

They have sixteen hours to get to the medical center and undo this. It is Misano. Valentino can’t be stuck in this haunted house of a body in Misano.

Marc climbs onto his thighs, reaches for the lube.

In a minute, they will. In a minute, Valentino won't forget anymore, Marc insidious and infectious, crawling inside him.

[dronebiscuitbat]

Oil is Thicker Then Blood (Part 98)

N was first, climbing down into a small hole in the ceiling, using night vision to make sure the room was safe.

There was flesh piled in the corner, crawling up the wall to reach nearly the ceiling, black tendrils lie dormant all across the floor like living tripwires. One wrong touch and…

Uzi's head poked from the ceiling.

“Can I come down or what?”

N scanned the rest of the room, the control room screens were still online by some miracle, though several of them were busted and several more were tangled in a web of eldritch goo however, let's hope that wouldn't be an issue.

“H-hang on, if you touch the floor we'll trigger a reaction.” He flew up to come face to face with her, “Let me carry you.”

She reached out for him, landing into his hold as her tail lit up the room in a purple glow, taking in the room.

“Damn. This place will be gone in a couple days. We better get out of here fast.” She pointed out, eyelights training on the faintly glowing console. “Bring me over yeah?”

He nodded, hovering over to where she could leap onto the control panel without touching the floor.

[SYSTEM LOCKDOWN : ENTER PASSKEY]

Read the slightly cracked, incredibly dusty monitor and Uzi sighed, mumbling under her breath. “Yeah of course it's on lockdown…”

She pressed a few buttons, getting an error noise on each touch- the entire control panel was completely unresponsive.

“I'm going to have to plug in. Make sure my body doesn't fall.” She turned back to her boyfriend, who ceased his paranoid looking around to meet her eyes; worry creased his frame.

“Uzi this computer has been out here for ages… who knows what sort of virus it has. Plus…” He gestured to the black, slimy tendrils snaking up some of the monitors. “Who knows what this stuff does to computers.”

She nodded. “Yeah.”

“But the keyboards locked up, and we need the data off this old thing. What other choice do we have?”

“I-I could-”

“No.” Uzi interupted him. “If these things trigger you're the only one that can burn it away. We'd both be sitting ducks.”

He sighed heavily, the knowledge that she was right didn't help his nerves any, his core yanked painfully in protest.

No it's dangerous.

She could get hurt, the kit could be hurt.

Don’t let her go.

“Hey. I got this. You trust me?” She asked, cocking her head with a confident smirk, God, how long had it been since he'd seen that? It's been so much exhaustion and doubt lately…

“Of course I do.” He replies, hovering close just to give her a quick kiss on the lips before parting. “Just be careful, okay?”

She nods. “Duh.” And she reaches for the port above her core, forcing the hatch open, “Ow! Agh… that's not meant to come open without prep I guess.” She hissed under her breath, and fished around in her pocket for a linking cable. “There you are.”

She plugged one end into herself before hunting for an interface port on the console, taking a moment to find it.

She does, it's next to a big red button that was currently pulsing red- she made a mental note to avoid touching it.

“Wish me luck.” Was the last thing she said before she plugged herself into the control panel, body locking up as code crashed into her firewall. Her body winced. She barely felt N keep her steady as she was hit with a flood of errors.

Plugged into another drone, the experience was euphoric, you were connected to another conscious, a soul. But this computer wasn't sentient; and what little AI it possessed was broken beyond the point of functioning. So all the sensation she felt was just her own- and the faint screaming of a dying AI.

ERROR- MEMORY FAILING

ERROR- DATA BACKUP FAILED

ERROR- HARDWARE FAILURE

“Yeah, no shit.” She mumbled, feeling her mouth move as she refocused. Okay, the information had to be in here somewhere…

She began to push through the ocean of errored code, feeling the system push back hard against her firewall. N was right, this thing probably had a thousand viruses it was itching to share with her, let's just hope her firewall held up.

She felt her consciousness leave the confines of her physical body, leaving it behind as she searched through poorly organized files; some were completely corrupted, others were fine, just not useful.

Time lost meaning, the system of the console was incredibly vast, and it quickly became clear she was searching for a needle in a haystack, a dot of purple among a sea of white.

She began to worry, perhaps the information they were looking for had already been corrupted?

That is, until she ran into an encrypted wall of cascading code, denser then the scattering of loose data she'd been able to access thus far.

She pushed against it, purple meeting default white, as strings of encryption appeared on her visor, N watching over her diligently.

[ENTER PASSKEY]

She sighed- or whatever passed for an entirely digital equivalent, beginning to work through the encryption with her own hardware, the solver aiding in her speed.

1s and 0s turned to scrambled letters and white space made to make any unwanted guest have trouble finding the passkey, but a mixture of determination and robotic advantage let Uzi make quick work of it.

P-A-S-S-W

“Oh for- the password is password, I could've just guessed it!” Her body suddenly shouted, startling N and then making him laugh. “Pfft-haha!”

Refocusing, she was able to push her code through the systems firewall, it wasn't entirely painless but she got through.

There was only a single file.

Transmission- Classified [TITANUM-28]

The file was an audio recording, with a set of coordinates attached. She played it, beginning a download into her own system.

“This is Doctor Rosemont, Transmitting from Lab 18. Something… happened.” There was screaming in the background- and a colossal roar.

“The genetic experiments have been a success, modifications to our old C.R.I.S.P.R technology has allowed us a greater range of genetic wiggle room…” There's a crash, and the sound of rapid- panicked gunfire.

“U-Unfortunatly, Subject 5 has uh… escaped.”

There's the sound of shattering glass, and low, feral growling. “If you receive this message, know that Titanium-28 is compromised! I repeat! Titanium-28 is-” The transmission ends with a blood curdling scream and a roar.

The coordinates to the planet are attached labeled very clearly with [QUARANTINED]

A single image is also attached, a satellite view of a planet covered in red and green trees and a canopy so thick you couldn't even see through it from orbit, like images she'd seen of earth, a good portion of the planet was covered in water.

She felt N start to shake her, his voice muffled from the distance her code was from her body.

“UZI! WE GOTTA MOVE!”

Next ->

[mariacallous]

In July 2020, a 72-year-old attorney posing as a delivery person rang the doorbell at US district judge Esther Salas’ house in North Brunswick, New Jersey. When the door opened, the attorney fired a gun, wounding the judge’s husband—and killing her only child, 20-year-old Daniel Mark Anderl.

The murderer, Salas said, had found her address online and was outraged because she hadn’t handled a case of his client fast enough. In her despair, Salas publicly pleaded, “We can make it hard for those who target us to track us down … We can't just sit back and wait for another tragedy to strike.”

She wanted judges to be able to keep their home addresses private. New Jersey lawmakers delivered. Months after the murder, they unanimously enacted Daniel’s Law. Today, current and former judges, cops, prosecutors, and others working in criminal justice can have their household’s address and phone numbers withheld from government records in the state. They also can demand that the data be removed from any website, including popular tools for researching people such as Whitepages, Spokeo, Equifax, and RocketReach.

Companies that don’t comply within 10 business days have to pay a penalty of at least $1,000. This makes New Jersey’s law the only privacy statute in the US that guarantees people a court payout when requests to keep information private are ignored.

That provision is being put to a consequential test.

In a pile of lawsuits in New Jersey—drummed up by a 41-year-old serial entrepreneur named Matt Adkisson and five law firms, including two of the nation’s most prominent—about 20,000 workers, retirees, and their relatives are suing 150 companies and counting for allegedly failing to honor requests to have their personal information removed under Daniel’s Law.

These companies, which Adkisson estimates generate $150 billion annually in sales, may now be on the hook for $8 billion in penalties. But what’s more important to him is the hope that this narrow New Jersey law could act as a wedge to force data brokers to stop publishing sensitive data about people of all professions nationwide. He’s hoping that this multibillion-dollar pursuit, with its army of union cop households, may be a catalyst for better personal privacy for us all.

If he doesn’t win, the oft-derided data broker industry would have proved that it has a right under the First Amendment to publish people’s contact information. Websites could avoid further regulation, and no one in the US may ever be guaranteed by law to become less googleable. “I never thought we would have such a hard time, that it would turn into such a battle,” Adkisson says. “Just home address, phone number, remove it. One state. Twenty-thousand people.”

This is the first definitive account of how the fate of one of the country’s most intriguing privacy laws came to rest on the shoulders of Adkisson’s latest tech startup, Atlas.

Matt Adkisson is almost your prototypical lifelong entrepreneur. He quit high school at 16 to code video games and small-business websites. His parents insisted, though, that he audit classes across the street from their home, at the US Naval War College in Rhode Island. So he began learning about national security. One lesson he picked up: When judges live in fear and can’t rule impartially, democracies can wither.

But saving democracy wasn't his passion. Making money was. He headed off to the Massachusetts Institute of Technology with designs on becoming a consultant or investment banker, but dropped out before senior year. Like so many other young people in the midst of the Web 2.0 frenzy, he had an entrepreneurial itch. Without telling them, Adkisson cashed out his parents’ tuition payment, and in 2006, he and a friend slept under office desks for a month before founding a company called FreeCause with Adkisson’s brother to develop marketing tools for Facebook games. Adkisson later bought shares of the nascent social media startup. Both bets paid millions. In 2009, FreeCause sold for about $30 million.

Adkisson upgraded to nights on a friend’s couch in San Francisco, where he used his wealth to invest in or start dozens of other software companies. As they sold, he became a comfortable multimillionaire. It was his last big deal, in 2018, that set him down the path of privacy crusader. He had sold Safer, which developed a Google Chrome competitor called Secure Browser, to antivirus maker Avast for about $10 million.

Adkisson and a cofounder recall that during a meeting over lakeside beers near offices in Friedrichshafen, Germany, after the deal closed, an Avast executive demanded they feed search activity from Secure Browser’s millions of users to Jumpshot, a sibling unit that was selling antivirus users’ browsing history to companies wanting to study consumer trends.

Adkisson stood to make millions of dollars in bonuses from the proposed integration. He refused. It was too intrusive to share that intimate data, he says, and a violation of trust. (Avast declined to comment on the episode. It shuttered Jumpshot, and this year agreed to pay $16.5 million to settle US government charges over the service’s allegedly deceptive data usage.)

Adkisson left Avast in December 2020 thinking he would keep adding to his portfolio of over 300 startup investments or pursue something in AI, like automating brushstrokes to create on-demand oil paintings. But he couldn’t shake the Friedrichshafen incident. For his web browsing, he started to use VPNs and the privacy-focused search engine DuckDuckGo. He tried to get websites to remove his new East Coast home address. Those efforts mostly failed; companies had no obligation to comply.

These websites that sell addresses or phone numbers typically get that data by buying voter or property records from governments, and user account details from companies willing to deal. The easy access to data enabled by the aggregators can be vital to services like identity verification or targeted advertising. But the customers also can include people who are looking for an old friend. Or investigating a crime. Or someone with a grudge against, say, a judge.

As Adkisson dug into the data broker industry in 2021, he read about how a law that went into effect the year before had given Californians a right to demand companies delete their personal information. So Adkisson and two cofounders launched a service they called RoundRobin, to help Californians do just that for a fee. Services like DeleteMe and Optery were already selling deletion assistance, but Adkisson felt they were more marketing spin than serious tech.

RoundRobin joined the well-known startup accelerator Y Combinator in April 2021 and began developing software to simplify making requests. But the startup had no way to enforce the takedowns it wanted to charge customers for; only California’s attorney general could sue for violations of the nascent law. Data websites ignored RoundRobin.

Given Adkisson’s pedigree, investors held out hope. California privacy activist Tom Kemp, Lightspeed Venture Partners, and others invested about $2 million in RoundRobin that August. But the struggle continued. The cofounders renamed the company to the more serious-sounding Atlas Data Privacy in January 2022. It didn’t help. But then, a break. Just as Adkisson was considering giving up and his initial cofounders were pulling out, a relative of his in California who had worked in law enforcement mentioned Daniel Anderl’s murder—and the law it inspired in New Jersey. “Fate delivered the Garden State,” Adkisson says.

He soon reached out to law enforcement experts, including a former Boston police commissioner and a retired Navy rear admiral. The two told Adkisson stories about cops who were attacked in their homes. They urged him to press on.

The first organization to return Adkisson’s cold calls was the New Jersey State Policemen's Benevolent Association, the state’s largest police union. They said a few of the organization’s 31,000 members needed help containing some inadvertently leaked contact information. Adkisson and a cofounder, J.P. Carlucci, took a stab. Despite limited success, union members were excited by Adkisson’s moxy. In July 2022, a union leadership group voted unanimously to offer Atlas’ service as a benefit to members with the intention of using Daniel’s Law to demand websites remove phone numbers and addresses. The cost, spread across all members paying for the union’s legal protection plan, was hundreds of thousands of dollars annually, Adkisson says.

In August 2022, with the deal signed and thousands of members soon enrolled, Atlas established headquarters in Jersey City, New Jersey, and set out to prove it could deliver better results than back in California. For that, it needed litigation power.

The first six law firms Adkisson called refused to take up the New Jersey cases. They worried about their financial return and the likelihood of success. Judges had discretion over the $1,000 payouts, plaintiffs had to prove physical harm, and to even bring a case, attorneys had to mobilize each plaintiff individually. It wasn’t a good equation.

Over seafood in San Francisco on the waterfront, one attorney sketched out for Adkisson revisions to Daniel’s Law that could make Atlas’ job easier. Adkisson took those suggestions back to the police union, which in turn used its weight in Trenton to push lawmakers to enact the changes. By December 2022, legislators introduced amendments requiring judges to impose financial penalties on websites that failed to honor removal requests, allowing those covered by the law to sue more liberally, and enabling attorneys to more easily bring big cases. In July 2023, just after the third anniversary of Daniel’s murder, the governor signed these amendments into law.

Atlas stayed focused on recruiting more users, from the police union and beyond. Newly hired staff—the company grew to a total of eight people—learned the lingo, like don’t refer to state troopers as “officers.” Adkisson let clients call him directly 24/7 for technical support. He drove his Jeep Cherokee more than 50,000 miles to every corner of the state. The Atlas team spent 18 hours on back-to-back days at a correctional facility to catch every shift, plying union guards with Crumbl Cookies and Shake Shack. “Word started to spread, like, ‘Who the hell are these people?’” Adkisson says. “That brought us credibility.”

Days before last Christmas, Atlas finished the software for users to select the companies to which they wanted to send emailed data removal requests. The tired team gathered over Zoom watching a tally rise as the emails landed in data brokers’ inboxes. Altogether, Atlas would deliver 40 million emails to 1,000 websites on behalf of roughly 20,000 people over the next five months.

Helping users with only the easy targets—the ad-supported websites that tend to pop up when googling someone’s name—“would have been a band-aid on a wound that needed much deeper treatment,” Adkisson says. To provide what it viewed as comprehensive support and more than what competitors offer, Atlas also was facilitating takedown requests to mainstream services such as Zillow and Twilio. They tend to supply data through fee-supported advanced tools that don't pop up on a standard Google query.

Twilio denies that it provides data subject to Daniel’s Law. Zillow didn’t respond to WIRED’s requests for comment. Atlas, Adkisson says, spent about $1.3 million in labor and fees to verify websites it targeted were actually providing home addresses and phone numbers.

The startup got its first response on December 26. Red Violet, whose Forewarn data dossiers help real estate agents vet potential clients, was demanding Atlas cease and desist, erroneously claiming that Daniel’s Law applied only to government agencies and not private companies. Adkisson had expected the legal teeth of the updated Daniel's Law to inspire widespread compliance. This was a rough start. “Demoralizing,” Adkisson says.

Other companies responded with demands to see ID cards of Atlas clients, apparently suspicious that the startup was making up its customers or people demanding takedowns were pretending to work in law enforcement just to be covered by the law. Adkisson told one company they could call requestors to authenticate demands. After all, it had their numbers. Another company suggested that if Atlas clients wanted anonymity, they should have used an LLC to buy property instead of their own names.

Akisson says the most retaliatory response came from LexisNexis, which lets police and businesses search for people's contact information and life history, typically for investigations and background checks. He alleges that instead of removing Atlas clients’ phone numbers and addresses from view, LexisNexis needlessly froze their entire files in its system, impeding credit checks some were undergoing for loan applications.

LexisNexis spokesperson Paul Eckloff disputes that freezing was an overreach. The company deemed that step as necessary to honor the requests submitted by Atlas users to not disclose their data. “This company couldn’t be more dedicated to supporting law enforcement,” he says. “We would support common sense protections.” But he described Daniel’s Law as overly punitive.

To Adkisson, the people being punished were the cops, judges, and other government workers he had met on his Jeep excursions through New Jersey. Among them were police officers Justyna Maloney, 38, and her husband, Sergeant Scott Maloney, 46, who work in Rahway, a tiny city along the border with New York City.

In April 2023, Justyna was filmed by a YouTuber who runs the channel Long Island Audit, which has over 842,000 subscribers. He often films himself trying to goad police into misbehavior, and Justyna asking him to leave a government office became his newest viral hit. Followers inundated the Rahway Police’s Facebook page with about 6,500 comments, including death threats, slurs, and links to the Maloneys’ address and phone numbers on SearchPeopleFREE.com and Whitepages. Scott says Facebook wouldn’t remove the comments linking to the contact information. Neither would the police department, citing First Amendment concerns. Tensions boiled.

In August 2023, Scott received texts demanding $3,000 or “your family will be responsible for paying me in blood.” The texts listed his sister’s name and address. An hour later, the same number sent a video of two ski-masked individuals bearing guns inside an unknown location. Atlas wasn’t up and running yet, so Scott, determined to delete all his family’s contact data online, sat on his lagoonside deck every evening for weeks, crushing Michelob Ultras to stay calm as he navigated takedown forms. He put in so many requests to Whitepages for his family that it barred him from making more.

The Facebook comments linking to the Maloneys’ address only came down after they sued their bosses last November for violating Daniel’s Law. This past January, a state judge ruled that the risk to the couple “far outweighs” potential harm to the police department from censorship complaints.

As Adkisson looked to sue noncompliant data websites, he had no trouble signing up the Maloneys as plaintiffs. And because Daniel’s law now made it possible, thanks to Atlas and the police union’s lobbying, to collect guaranteed penalties from data websites, Adkisson had been able to secure five law firms, including prominent national firms Boies Schiller Flexner and Morgan & Morgan, and some attorneys who personally knew the Daniel of “Daniel’s Law.”

On February 6, Atlas and the legal team began filing lawsuits, naming the Maloneys and about 20,000 other clients as plaintiffs. In state court, 110 cases remain unresolved across five different counties. Thirty-six lawsuits are being contested in federal court before Judge Harvey Bartle III, who is based in Philadelphia but commutes across the Delaware River to Camden, New Jersey, because judges based in the state were conflicted out by virtue of being eligible for Daniel’s Law protections.

Eight defendants quickly filed motions to dismiss in state court, but they were all denied. At the federal level, most companies are arguing together that the New Jersey statute violates their First Amendment right to freedom of speech. It’s an argument that’s allowed personal information to stay online before. Federal courts have given leeway to publication of lawmakers’ contact information and actors’ birthdates, leaving doubts over whether cops and judges and their homes and phones would fare any better.

Defendants have told Bartle to consider a US Supreme Court decision in 2011 that found a law in Vermont that protected doctors’ privacy unreasonably singled out data use by drugmakers. Atlas’ foes view Daniel’s Law as similarly arbitrary because it holds New Jersey agencies to different standards than their companies when it comes to keeping data private. They also say it’s unfair that they must remove numbers that cops still list on personal websites.

Some companies fighting the lawsuits note that the $1,000 penalty that the law guarantees may lead to companies acting out of fear and removing more data than needed, or honoring requests that are actually invalid. What’s more, these defendants say that Atlas’ true motivation is money. They claim that instead of trying to quickly protect those already signed up when last year’s amendments passed, Atlas sought out more users to run up the potential monetary judgment and duped them into paying for protections they could exercise for free themselves.

Adkisson disputes the accusations. He says Atlas needed time to finish its platform and ensure it was able to properly log usage, so that judges wouldn’t dismiss cases based on technicalities like takedown requests ending up in spam folders. The startup also won’t be profiting from the lawsuit, he says. Two-thirds of any proceeds will go to the users represented; anything he and Atlas are left with after covering the costs of bringing the lawsuits would be donated to law enforcement charities and privacy advocacy groups through Atlas’ nonprofit arm, Coalition for Data Privacy and Security. Privacy is “a very real, tactical, and visceral need,” Adkisson says.

He was reminded of that this past May when he took WIRED in his Jeep to meet with Peter Andreyev, a cop in Point Pleasant Beach, New Jersey, and president of the statewide Policemen's Benevolent Association. Around dusk that day, Adkisson handed Andreyev a search result for his name on DataTree.com, a website that sells property records. Andreyev slipped on his black-rimmed glasses and brought his linebacker figure toward a conference table to review the page. It took him just two seconds to tense up. “Oh shit,” he said.

He stared at a street-view image of his home, and a birds-eye shot with his address overlaid. The square footage was in there too, for good measure. His head visibly rattling and legs restless, Andreyev pounded the table. “I—I’m pretty infuriated by this.”

Like many law enforcement officers, the 51-year-old rarely goes a day without nightmares about some known thug or detractor attacking him and his family. The DataTree printout reinforced for him that it would take just a few clicks for anyone to target him in the vulnerability of his own home. WIRED pulled up Andreyev’s report from DataTree with just a free trial.

As Andreyev continued to study the page, Adkisson pointed out something he viewed as particularly galling. In February, Atlas had sued First American, the $6 billion title insurance company that operates DataTree, for allegedly not complying with removal requests. Andreyev had been listed as one of the lead plaintiffs, alongside the Maloneys. In the following weeks, DataTree removed Andreyev’s address from one section of the search result for his name but left it up on the map that Andreyev was now staring at. “That’s no way compliant,” Andreyev said. “Fuck, it pisses me off.” First American declined to comment. As the legal battle plays out, Andreyev says he's left to continue looking over his shoulder—even at home.

The antidote of making officers more difficult to find could require greater creativity from those investigating or advertising to them, says Neil Richards, a Washington University School of Law professor and author of Why Privacy Matters. But it doesn’t make the work impossible. Richards, who isn’t involved in the Atlas litigation, says courts need to recognize that “privacy protections are a fundamental First Amendment concern, and one that's even more important than a company's ability to make money trafficking in phone numbers and home addresses.”

In the coming months, Judge Bartle will decide whether cops and judges living in fear imperils public safety. If so, he’ll have to settle whether Daniel’s Law is the least onerous solution. A loss for Atlas and its clients would effectively be treating “anything done with information” as free expression, Richards says, and stymie further attempts to regulate the digital world.

On the other hand, a victory for Atlas could be a boon for its business. Adkisson says tens of thousands of people across the country have joined the company’s waiting list: prison nurses, paramedics, teachers. All of them, he adds, anticipating someday gaining the same removal power as New Jerseyans. Since the beginning of 2023, at least seven states have passed similar measures to Daniel’s Law. None of those, however, include the monetary penalty that gets lawyers interested in pursuing enforcement. “Step one is, win here,” Adkisson says, referring to New Jersey.

After the dispiriting start, he thinks momentum is swinging in Atlas’ favor. In August, the startup raised its first funding since 2021, about $8.5 million in litigation financing and equity investment.

Adkisson says compliance with more recent removal requests is increasing, and a few defendants are settling. In September, a state judge approved the first deal, in which NJParcels.com owner Areaplot admitted to 28,230 violations of Daniel’s Law and accepted five years of oversight. PogoData, a revenue-less website that had made property owners’ names searchable, settled this month. Bill Wetzel, its 79-year-old hobbyist owner, would owe $20 million for breaching the deal but he says he supports removing names of officers in harm’s way.

Then again, against the better-funded defendants with more at stake and unpredictable courts, Adkisson recognizes that a broader victory for privacy and Atlas is uncertain. In telling his story, he wants to ensure there’s opportunity for people to learn from any missteps if Atlas fails. But his advisers, including former boss Steve Avalone, don’t expect Adkisson to give up easy. They describe him as the ultimate gadfly—unorthodox, tenacious, and wealthy. “There’s few people with that horsepower and that charisma,” Avalone says.

For his part, Adkisson says he’s driven by a sad truth. The tragedies, fueled in part by contact information online, that judge Salas wanted to bring an end to after her son’s murder haven’t stopped. Last October, a man allegedly shot to death Andrew Wilkinson, a Maryland state judge, who hours earlier had denied the man custody of his child. The National Center for State Courts said it was the third targeted shooting of a state judge in as many years.

Maryland investigators say they believe the now-deceased assailant found Wilkinson’s address online, though they never recovered definitive evidence beyond a search query for the judge’s name. When he heard about the murder the day it happened, Adkisson immediately googled Wilkinson. His address was right there.

[crosshairs-dumb-pimp-gf]

Disgrace Chapter 4 : Crosshair x F!OC

How does one ignore the inevitable? You already know it's useless to try to avoid it, but how do you ignore its presence at your peripherals? The way it taunts you. There is absolutely nothing challenging about being stuck together on an isolated moon completely alone and cut off from the outside universe for an undisclosed amount of time. There should be plenty of wholesome ways to distract oneself... right?

Chapter Specific Warnings: Nudity, Unprotected Piv, brief angst

Authors Notes: Crosshair and Tah'Nyem are like those cats who hiss and yowl at each other through a glass door but have no idea what to do once it's been opened. They chat a little about Tahny's life, love lives, and the things they refuse to talk about. Paging Medic Crosshair.

Word Count: 6700

Dynamic: Princess x Guard, Speed running Co-dependancy, A Mangy Cat and his Aggressive little Chihuahua. She's a damsel, she's in distress- she can handle it.

<-Previous Chapter - Read On Ao3 {START HERE}

Music Inspo- Aliens Tawk by Taw Listen on Spotify - Listen on Youtube

Chapter 4 : Aliens Talk

Unbelievable.

I looked into my empty pack and the giant tear along one of its seams. 

This was designer…

I huffed and slouched back into the co-pilot chair. 

So this means everything but the inner pocket of credits was lost in the factory. Fantastic.

We had already made the jump to hyperspace, though we weren't headed straight to Ga’hah. 

Crosshair had taken a data device from a pouch and popped it into the navigation with a click. An encrypted code set a scrambled coordinate, a safe house, possibly a moon. We won't know till we get there. 

Our ship wasn't making for an extravagant trip, the partially stripped vehicle lacked any food stores and we had limited water. There were cleaning rags piled in the corners. Some crusty, tattered jackets, and a dusty pair of knee boots in the door less storage closet. The life support system was fine, but once again, freezing. 

Still. 

I got up and searched a pile of rags, picking one out that had the least amount of stains, and headed to the small sink. I wet the cloth conservatively and wiped at the dust on my face and arms, hissing as the rag passed over the scrape on my jaw where the intruder's boot had broken skin. I pulled the cloth away to eye the dark bruise that had come in. Seemed like that happened weeks ago now but it had only been about half a day. 

No medical supplies. I'll just have to tough it a while. 

The damp cloth left me more vulnerable to the cold and I would kill for a hot shower. 

And a snack. 

We had avoided saying anything for a bit now. Hunger was making us both snippy and it was safer to just avoid pushing each other's buttons in the small space. Though, I may be blaming hunger where withdrawal was a likely culprit; felt very alone with my thoughts suddenly…

I ran a little more water and rinsed my face, catching eyes watching me in the mirror when I looked up again. 

“What is it?”

I turned at his puzzled expression.

“Is that ink too?”

He gestures at the red markings and shadows around my eyes. I guess he expected it to fade like my arms. 

“A more permanent variety, yes, tattoos but it's cultural. Means I'm of age.”

He paused, but not at the insinuation.

“You have tattoos on your eyes?”

I looked at him for a moment. I admit the tats were subtle, the lines much finer than what used to be traditional. Most just assumed it was dramatic makeup. 

“...as do you?”

The air was awkward now, and I sighed. We need some food. I hope the safe house is fully stocked. 

And has running, hot water. 

I eased myself back into the co-pilot chair across from him, careful with the torn split of the tattered gown and my manifesto of growing aches and pains. I was physically active but not ‘running around blowing up factories,’ active and the extra wear and tear was catching up to me despite my conditioning. There was no spice to dull the aches and throbs and stings that plagued me. 

“Sorry.”

“Hmm.”

I looked up. 

“For what?”

“I should have let you change.”

He was eyeing my bare, scratched up thigh, though that might have been to avoid staring at the stiffened peaks beneath the thin fabric over my chest. It was always so cold on these ships.

“You're right… You should have.”

I shifted, lifting my knee to rest my foot on the cushion of the chair, letting the skirt fall away exposing the curve of my ass against the seat. 

He cleared his throat and turned back to the racing field of hyperspace, shifting in his chair uncomfortably. 

Serves you right.

It was only fair he lived with the consequences. I looked over at him, pristine besides the streaks of dust here and there and contemplated getting my own set of armor. 

And I'd never leave home without it. 

The thought was glib, and mostly an attempt at amusing myself. My mind drifted to other ways to torment my captive audience. An empty can, hurtling through space. Nothing but two chairs, us, and time to kill.

… I'm just hungry. And bored. Behave. 

“So… spice?”

He broke the silence, seemingly desperate for something else to think about besides my shivering, exposed form.  

“I'm not an authority but… what about it?”

“You, uh, like it?”

“Oh, Yeah, can't deny that… it feels nice,”

“You do it a lot?”

“Not that often, The burnout is no joke, but ‘you can't run the underworld in broad daylight without knowing how to do things safely.’... so, it's fine… I know what I'm doing,”

I put on a mock tone of my father for a bit that seemed to amuse the man across from me. 

“Is that what you're doing? Cleaning up the underworld?”

“It's what my Vah’hadarr says he's doing, cleaning up the dirty side of dirty business,”

There was a little venom in that last part as I thought about the recording and the possibilities of my willful ignorance.

“It's his show…I just manage some of the actual business, It’s club and hotel and theater all in one, and it's a chore making sure it all stays legal and without political incidents,”

“Just that, huh?”

“It's a complicated trade! Mostly flimsiwork honestly, but the workers can be absolute divas when they get in a mood,”

I was on a roll now, the irritability of an empty stomach and an unhealthy amount of disassociation had me focused on the mundane topic. 

“they think because they own shares they can petition me to let them drink away all the booze and blow our spice, And Kahtzi needs to learn to not abuse her authority! The shyte she gets me into, Kriffen workplace relationships…You know, it's actually refreshing having a new set of people trying to kill me!”

I threw my hands up before resting on an arm and rubbing my forehead. 

“Who's Kahtzi?”

I was brought out of the foray into my everyday life and back to the bare cockpit.

I thought for a moment, trying to quantify Kahtzi.

“Mm, Assistant, best friend, on and off lover,”

That would have to do, it was more nuanced than that but hard to summarize. 

He made a noise that I couldn't really interpret, eventually asking:

“On?...or off?”

“Currently?”

…

“Guess I simplified too much. We're never really a… couple, Just… two people who take care of each other? There's not really an ‘on’ or ‘off’, we love each other but don’t really work like that… together, long term,”

A beat of silence and him patting his belt, looking for something and then giving up.

“Why not?”

I smirked a little, shooting him a look. 

“Missing the right parts,”

“There's tools for that you know,”

“Oh but those don't satisfy like flesh and blood,”

He smirked back and we fell silent again. 

“How bout you, tough guy?”

“Me what?”

“Ever been in love?”

A pause as he chewed on that…

“I thought so… maybe, once or twice,”

He finally admitted. 

Cute. 

“Not at one of our houses, right? The girls can be convincing but they are paid to act like that,”

He chuckled. 

“And the boys?”

“Less convincing, that… more your thing?”

“Ah… uh, not really,”

“‘Not really’, what's that supposed to mean? Just like to look?”

“Sort of, just… some clones seem to, I just… haven't,” 

“Fascinating,”

I held my hand like it was holding a holo recorder,

“The courtship rituals of clones seems to be one of varied taste and values, furthering evidence of their individuality,”

He looked at me sideways and I felt like maybe I had gone too far.

“Sorry… I had a professor who did field studies, it's kind of a running joke between Kahtzi and I,”

I had let my guard down, and that was probably a little insensitive. I’m not too sure about clone… culture?

“Don’t be… just, seemed familiar,”

The mood had passed though and I leaned back, letting my eyes flutter shut. 

“I hope we get there soon… it's too cold to relax,”

The quiet air hung around us, thicker than before. 

~~~

I woke up, having dozed off eventually, curled up uncomfortably in the large chair. A tarp or drop cloth of some sort had been draped over me as a makeshift blanket. 

My stomach growled and a pang hit me as the acid started to flow. 

I eased my sore legs down, stretching them carefully; glad to see the fatigue hadn't grown into full on pain, and cast about for my unlikely companion.

He was bent over the console where our encryption chip was plugged in, now projecting data and instructions for our arrival. 

I padded over, my slippered feet not making much noise on the metal flooring. My hand slid to the small of his back, signaling I was there, and I leaned to look around him to the projection. 

Stifling a jump, he shifted so I could see.

We were headed to a red sun system, uninhabited. There were warnings about how much tech we used outside of the bunker, apparently any signals picked up by passerby's would be suspect. Keep the beacon on us, but abandon the ship till it's needed again. 

“So just… sit and wait?”

“Mm,”

“This seems a waste of your talents,”

“It is,”

“I once again ask…Why send you?”

“An impeccable record of self control,”

I laughed at that,

“What's so funny?”

I wasn't sure, that just seemed… wildly inaccurate. No reason to think so though, he had in fact been quiet in control of himself. 

“Is it really all that important? It can't be real that you were ordered not to sleep with me, literally…”

He shrugged giving me a look like he wasn't sure what else could be said about it.  

I scoffed at that, irritated at the confusing perimeters of the situation. 

“and to think, if they stuck me with a Reg it wouldn't have been an issue,”

“What do you mean by that?”

The question wasn't accusing, just a hint perplexed at my wording.

… Maybe I said too much. 

I sobered and straightened, trying to think of a way to side step the topic. 

“I tease, I flirt, but it's all an act… it's my job in fact, to seem available but not be, but I don't push things very far… usually, my actual cravings are…”

An enigma? Rare? A reflection of my inflated ego? Either way this is different…

I trailed off, once again too close to the truth, and retreated slightly. He was raising an eyebrow, waiting for me to finish the explanation and not realizing how dangerous it made him look to me, or perhaps, maybe he did. I deflected,

“Isn't it annoying, to have to follow such petty commands?”

Turning, I wandered back towards him, lifting my arms to rest against his chest plate and leaned in close, remembering the darkness that swirled in him, in me…

How much did he see?

“You were in here, what do you think?”

He seemed to know where my mind had went, but my question appeared to bother him more than intended. There's definitely something hiding in there.  

“I think ignoring direct orders has never been an issue for you… what changed?”

We can't keep this up, without any eyes on us it seemed idiotic to keep denying ourselves. I continued, pressed to him as I was, I had to look up to catch his eyes. 

“Is the Empire really such a loving mistress?”

“...I need to be trusted,”

It was the truth, but vague enough to not answer anything. He did something… I saw it, and he's been in that swirling storm ever since. 

Was it worth it?

There was a harsh beep from the encryption chip warning that we would be dropping out of warp. 

I snapped out of the spell that had begun to fall over us and went back to sit in my chair, strapping in.  He followed shortly.

~~~

The moon under the red sun was eerily quiet. Most of the surface was water besides a few flat islands covered with coniferous pines and ferns. All that could be heard was a gentle lap of water, there were no animals, no insects… no breeze.  

The sky was a deep purple and my skin looked red under the dark filter of the alien sun. Everything else was black. The trees, the ground, the beach of smooth flat stones. 

We had been walking a while, having set down on the opposite side of the designated island as instructed, and were making our way to the bunker that should be waiting for us. Our footsteps made small shuffles and clatters as we moved down the beach, Crosshair holding the beacon out as it flashed quicker and quicker as we found our way. 

I held my tattered slippers in my hand as we picked our way along. The moon was temperate. The sun, large in the sky, cast a moderate amount of heat making the stones comfortably warm beneath my feet. 

“I wonder if it's safe to swim…”

“Should be, but I wouldn't trust it,”

I looked over the smooth expanse of water to our left. The waves were so gentle the horizon looked flat and reflective, the red ring of the sun reflecting in the inky sea. 

The beacon chirped as we came even to a path cut into the ferns and turned to follow it, eventually coming to a large metal alcove jutting from the ground. Crosshair tapped the device to a panel on the door triggering a loud mechanical whine that cracked the otherwise pristine soundscape, and the door was opening. 

The first chamber was dark, the walls thick and insulating. We walked a ramp downward, about twenty paces, before coming to another barrier. 

This door clicked and a blue light illuminated the space, scanning us from floor to ceiling. 

“Welcome. Tah’nyem Ra. And. Companion.”

There was a loud swish and we were let into a small, furnished apartment. The kitchenette and living area were equipped with the usual amenities. Thick ventilation and a bank of carbon scrubbers were recessed by the door, explaining the thickness of the walls.

How well can that actually scrub all the emissions? Where do they go?

With a small electric hum, the lights came on warm and low, and a screen flashed over the couch projecting a feed of the surface. It was all rather lush, despite its size, fine fabric and intricate metal work everywhere you looked. 

A low whistle came from beside me and I turned to look at the soldier, not seeming too out of place against the black tones and shadowy aesthetic of the safe house furnishings.

“This’ll do,”

I dropped my tattered bag to the floor where it hit with a clunk, the credits and old boots from the shuttle landing hard on the tile, and made for the kitchen. 

Please please please

Popping the pantry I laughed in relief as I took in the rows of food stores. Nothing too fancy but it was more than enough for two people to live fat and happy for a while. 

I grabbed two packages and headed to the rehydrator tucked on the wall, catching Crosshair's profile still standing awkwardly by the couch. 

“Relax, Commander, Mission accomplished,”

“Not yet, we still have to get you home,”

He looked at the data stick in his hand, now quiet and dark. It would blink again once new arrangements have been made for me. Which, if my parents left the same day using civilian travel plans…

“We could have days before Vah’hadarr lands on Ga’hah,”

And who knows how long he wants me underground…

“Go on, take a shower or something, you earned it… and probably need it,”

Turning back to prepping food, I popped the packages open and tossed them into the machine, hitting the appropriate buttons so that it started humming softly. 

Crosshair hadn't made much progress, now casting his eyes about the clean, black living room and down to his guns and armor dusted in brilliant red sand. I rolled my eyes, wondering what had him so… of kilter.

“Just put it by the door, someone will probably clean and restock this place later,”

He jerked into motion and started stacking his things by the door frame, pieces of armor plating coming off in loud clacks against the hum of the cooking food. 

I leaned against the counter and eyed the sleek under suit that was emerging from beneath the plates. 

Doesn't take much imagination from there does it…

He moved to remove the belt and codpiece and I turned swiftly to look at the humming rehydrator instead. 

Well that was unlike me…

What is this? Blossoming respect?

Ugh, gotta get rid of that…

Out of the corner of my eye I traced his movements as he crossed my peripheral and into the back room of the bunker. 

I checked the timer on the food and followed, waiting a moment to hear the water start in the fresher before leaning against the door. 

“Hey, pass me your body suit, I'm sure there's a washer in here,”

There wasn't a reply but it wasn't because he didn't hear me.

“It's okay, I'll find a robe or something while you wash,”

A few seconds and the door opened, him in a towel, avoiding my gaze and holding out the black suit.

I took it and the door zipped shut again, quickly. 

There was a closet next to the refresher door and I clicked it open. More towels. Next cabinet had two robes hung inside and I grabbed them both turning back to the fresher and hung one on a hook near the frame, taking the other for myself as I padded back into the short hall. 

There were two bunks opposite the door to the room and another thin door. I opened it to find the expected utilities, tossing the body suit in. Listening to make sure the shower was still running I stripped out of my tattered nightgown and tossed it in as well. 

Wishing I hadn't let him go first, I slipped the robe on, committed to filling my belly anyways. Which,

A beep could be heard from the kitchenette and I wandered back to retrieve my much needed calories, taking the two rolls from the machine and finding a plate to leave one out for Crosshair. I took a bite out of mine and savored the protein and grains, though they could use a bit more seasoning, I was starving. I eyed Cross’s portion and grabbed two more packs from the cupboard. 

That is not gonna be enough.

The faint sound of running water stopped and I scarfed down the rest of my food, eager to shower myself. 

My pace towards the bedroom faltered as the door opened and the tall clone hesitantly emerged, the gray waffle knit doing about as much to hide his frame as the tight black under suit. 

I glanced down at his exposed calves and marveled at their definition for a moment.

“Uh, there's food on the table, more cooking if you're still hungry,”

I pushed past him into the room, wedging him out and shut the door. 

Days shut in alone together and I'm supposed to behave myself. Be’llahl, what did I do to deserve this?

I knew what I did. 

I looked through the rest of the storage and found some silk button ups and trousers. Nothing my size. I checked a few more drawers, but the only female clothing I found were skimpy lingerie pieces. Sighing, I grabbed one of the large shirts and made for the fresher. 

Kriffs sake Vah'hadarr, you sure you don't want me shacking up with soldiers?

Be'llahl or not, I wanted nothing to do with thoughts on why my father's safe house was stocked with such sundries.

The water was already warm, and I stepped into the spray with a relieved groan.

My scrapes and scratches stung as the water flowed over them and I liberally coated myself with soap, feeling like the dust and sweat might never come off. 

At least it's decent stuff. 

My mind drifted as the creamy suds rinsed off of me. Mostly to the brief flash of Crosshair, framed in the door in nothing but a towel. I hadn't really processed the visual but now that I was clean and undistracted by hunger it came back in a vivid assault. 

Two days?... At least. Does today count?

I turned the handle, cutting off the warm stream and stood in the stall, letting the water bead and run down my skin, enjoying the feeling of it a moment before reaching for the towel. 

Finally dry, I carefully slipped on the black dress shirt. It was the style my father wore, the slim cut almost framing my torso, and fell to about mid thigh, reminding me how short I was compared to most Ga’haiians. I thought about rolling up the sleeves but the material fought me on it so they stayed long.

I hung my towel next to the other damp cloth already drying next to the door and stepped back out into the bedroom, catching my reflection in the mirror. 

I'd say the look was seductive, if it wasn't for the bruises and scratches that patterned my exposed legs, the oversized article hanging off my hips in a way that complimented my slim build.

Well, better than lingerie…

Wandering out to the living area I found Cross at the counter on one of the stools, halfway through the third roll and cleaning the smaller of his guns. 

He looked up from his task, eyes traveling from exposed knees to my dripping hair as he took another bite.  

What the kriff now?

I rocked from heel to toe a few times in the awkward seconds, but he was pushing away the cloth his work was organized on and tapped the stool closest to him before finishing the rest of his food. 

Closing the distance at an unsure pace, I slid onto the bar stool indicated and he pulled over another box. He had found the medical kit, popping it open now to retrieve a canister of bacta spray. 

“Oh, I can do that myse-”

He shot me a look and I shut up as he cupped my chin to examine the bruised abrasion on my jawline. 

A warm sensation spread over the wound as he carefully applied the slimy substance. 

“How did you manage to take such a beating…”

The wonder came under his breath as he moved the fabric from my shoulder, pinching a gash together and applying more spray. 

“I can handle a little pain… enjoy it even-” 

I winced, letting free a small whimper as he lifted my sore leg and assessed the damage there. 

“That I can believe,”

A sigh, more spray. 

“Some escort I turned out to be…”

“Don't sweat it, I'm breathing, even have both arms still in the sockets…”

Our eyes met briefly before he finished and set my leg back onto the foot rest of the stool. 

“Those should be healed by morning,”

“Well, thanks doc, what would I do without you,”

He snorted dryly and pulled his gun back, patting at his waist, making a face like he forgot he was in a bathrobe. 

Oh!

I got up and started opening drawers in the kitchen. Finding a little box by the cutlery marked in Ga'haiian.

I triumphantly pulled out a couple travel vials of toothpicks, and rolled them across the counter where he was still perched. They were gratefully snatched up, one quickly finding its way between his teeth. He leaned into his work with more enthusiasm now that he could concentrate and I slipped a few more vials into my bag's inner pocket, moving it from where it was still discarded on the floor.

Wonder when he managed to lose them.

At least he was keeping himself busy; it was my turn to figure out how to spend the time now that my creature comforts had been met. Well, most of them.

Finally free to really roam about the space I realized there wasn't a lot to look at. The living area was made up of a low, deep couch made of a soft black leather, a console with speakers beneath the false window, and another screen housing facing the couch. The kitchenette was barely a hallway, separated from the rest of the space by the thin island counter Crosshair was leaning over. Then the short passage with bunks and utilities to one side and the proper room with the refresher on the other. 

The bunker had no access to the outside holonet, its system self contained and concealed from any scans or probing. This meant all entertainment was limited to whatever was preloaded into the base's memory. 

I scrolled through the holopad, reading through the meager selection of games, films, and music. There… wasn't much. 

Wonderful, we can spend our time playing cards.

I selected an old Diva Shaliqua track and the hypnotic tones of the Theelin’s voice poured from the speakers, making the space more familiar and inviting. 

I turned to Crosshair gesturing to the speakers, and he nodded approval. 

“You a fan of the Divas?” 

“Not really a fan of anything,”

“Mm… Kahtzi’s related you know, not that that's saying much, I think all Theelin are related at this point,”

Kahtzi was a human Theelin hybrid, and would have been rather difficult to meet if I hadn't attended such a prestigious university. There were only about a million or so left in the galaxy. 

There were nested cabinets all around the room and I popped them open systematically, checking their contents. Most were empty, but one contained a few soft knit blankets. I carried one back to the couch and sank into it, pulling the knit tight around me. 

Exhaustion was catching up to me quickly, the nap on the tiny shuttle didn't do much in the way of rest. The warm living room and soft music were lulling me into a state of true relaxation.

It wasn't long till my eyes grew too heavy to keep open, and I fell into a deep sleep. 

~~~

Where's that cultural dress I had made for the meeting, Tah’nyem? 

…

No it's not revealing

…

That's the style, li’ha, the clients appreciate the care we pay to their customs.

… 

Wear. It. 

…

It was dark when I opened my eyes again, the stereo and most of the lights turned off. 

I couldn't see Crosshair, but I could hear his breathing in the direction of the bunks. It didn't take long for me to figure that that was what woke me. The breathing was labored, almost panting, irregular. I got up with my blanket and tip-toed over to the hall to check on him. 

As suspected, his eyelids were twitching rapidly and a sheen of sweat glinted in the remaining light spilling over from the kitchen. I thought about waking him, but the brown eyes fluttered open on their own. He looked disoriented for a moment, but quickly refocused on me standing near the foot of the bunk. 

“What are you doing?”

I sat next to his knees. 

“Just seeing what the fuss is about, you remember what you were dreaming?”

He was quiet for a while. 

“No,”

It was a lie. 

“You know, if you were to talk about the shadows that swim behind those eyes… who would be safer than someone you'll know so briefly?”

That didn't seem to placate him, but he forced himself into something resembling ease. 

“It’s… I'm fine,”

I reached over and took his hand, turning it to massage the palm as I had on the transport only a day or so ago and the ease seeped into him, becoming real. 

“You want to go back to sleep?”

“No,”

Genuine this time. 

“Me neither…”

I cast my eyes about the space, now feeling stiflingly small. 

“Come on,”

I tugged his arm, getting up from the bunk and letting my blanket fall to the floor. 

“Where, exactly?”

“Let's get some fresh air,”

“Prince-... Tah’Nyem, we have to stay within the walls,”

It was the first time he had used my name rather than the more derogatory form of endearment and it sounded wrong in its formality. 

“Tahny,”

“What?”

“Call me Tahny… my full honorific feels… too heavy on your lips,”

No one really called me that anymore other than my mother, but…

“We have to stay inside… Tahny,”

My heart fluttered. The childhood nickname sounded different, colored by his voice, and it only spurred my resolve. 

“Anything a scanner can pick up has to stay down here, empty your pockets and it'll be fine,”

He still resisted. 

“They can scan for life forms…”

“The trees will throw them off,”

I turned, still holding his hand, to be even with him sitting up on the bunk. 

“Please, Crosshair?”

Since we're on a first name basis now…

A little tremor went through him and he sighed, moving to get up but pulling his hand from mine to close the robe that had come undone while he slept. 

Together, we left the mechanical hums and whines of the bunker doors, making our way back out into the dark, red stained landscape. 

The sun was positioned differently, but nothing else had changed since we had passed through hours ago. The rocks were warm on my bare feet, and the water lapped softly against the surreal, black backdrop of stones and trees. 

I could feel his wary presence, calm but untrusting, scanning the horizon. He had grabbed his rifle, and now held it lazily to his side while he took in the alien moon. 

Turning back to the sea, I breathed deeply, expecting to smell salt, but all that came to me was the vaguely green scent of ferns. How good it felt to be outside. 

“I've never seen a world like this, have you?”

“Red suns I've seen, but like this? Not… exactly,”

“New for both of us then?”

A noise of affirmation. 

I stood a moment, taking it in, breathing the fresh air and toying with the buttons of the shirt I was draped in. 

“I wonder what else we have in common…”

I didn't need to use much imagination, having been forcibly dragged through each other's minds. We're both filled with dark, swirling thoughts of people not their own. An ever growing resentment for being perceived, thoughts racing in an ever tightening circle of how to be free of… well, everything.

Death wish?

It seemed like an accurate label, and its hold was on both of us. We flirt with danger in different ways… but we were just begging for one instance, one moment, where maybe the danger will win. End the torture, the loneliness. Give us our freedom. All it took was once. Was one bad decision really better than another?

“Put your gun down.”

“No,”

A pause of consideration,

“Why?”

“You won't need it.”

A moment passed as he fought with abandoning his physical sense of security. Eventually, I heard him put the stock on the ground, apparently leaning it against one of the trees at the edge of the narrow beach. 

With a deft hand, I worked the buttons down my shirt free of their clasps and let the fabric fall with a slither onto the warm stones. 

“Tahny!”

Alarm in his voice. 

“Quiet.”

The command made him rock back from whatever action he meant to take to end this. 

I turned to look over my shoulder. He was only a few paces away, transfixed in a sort of befuddled way. 

“Why do we give them everything?”

“W-what?”

“Everyone else. Those who control us, own us as you will, just… accepting that if they decide to change our lives, abandon us, use us, it's in their power to do so, and yet- what do they let us have for ourselves? What do they think of us?… they don't even see us,”

He didn't answer, I didn't need him to. 

“Listen… you can walk away, go inside, forget this and me the moment we part ways,”

A long moment of nothing but the lap of water…

“..or?”

It was so quiet. I turned and slowly closed the distance, pressing against him, feeling how tense he suddenly was. 

“You can help me remember this beautiful night in a way that would always be ours,”

His breath was carefully even. 

I looked into his eyes, pleading. 

“How many times will you throw yourself at death till it finally snags you? Would you really go off to die without having me? Never knowing…”

He still teetered on the edge of duty and reason but had run out of excuses. His eyes darkened as I reminded him of our grim realities, stoking an anger that reflected what was burning through my core. I kept pushing,

“I don't know how you work but for me… it would be torture to never know you,”

I had my answer when his arms snaked around me, crushing me to him as his mouth found mine, clamping to me with a sudden, desperate hunger; Ravenous to take, to have, to fight back in a way that would bring a smile to Be'llahl.

Hands running over his chest in return, I slipped the robe from his shoulders helping him to catch up to my nudity. 

His fingers roved down my hips, giving my ass a firm squeeze before he carefully lowered himself to the ground pulling me into his lap, never breaking the kiss that was slowly consuming us in flames of lust and hidden rage. 

I moaned into his mouth in need as I felt his cock stiffening against my thighs. Taking him in hand, I felt the weight of him, the length against my wrist as I gripped the base. I couldn't wait much longer. 

“Please, Crosshair…”

My flesh was on fire, his hands on me sending waves of tingles to my brain churning me into a sensitive mess. He stroked his fingers up my spine and I arched against him with a gasp. Using my free hand to cup his neck, thumb caressing the edge of the ragged scar over his ear, he took the opportunity to bite at a nipple that had come in range. 

This earned him another pitiful moan and I stroked his length wanting it inside of me. 

With a low growl he gathered my arms and held them behind my back easily with one hand. The other slid over my hip and down between my legs, gently caressing the tender petals he found there making me tremble as he coaxed the slickness of my arousal to drip onto his waiting member. 

He moaned low, the same need consuming him, and he guided himself to my entrance. There was no resistance as he lowered me down to take him fully, pulling me into him till he was sheathed in me, grinding against my slick and swollen lips. 

We both sighed in relief before our mouths met again, less frantic now. Taking the time to explore the sensation of us, pulling back only to look at each other, bodies now interlocked. He was beautiful beneath me, naked and drenched in red light…

I squeezed my thighs. Rocking myself on his lap, desperate for some friction, he tightened his grip on my wrists. His other arm wrapped around me firmly but he was letting me take the lead. Cross’s lips gently brushed my forehead creating a strange juxtaposition with the rough, dominant hold around my bucking hips. 

The stones under my knees shifted with me as I rode him, his hands guiding my bouncing body. He was trembling, but focused, not wanting this to end too soon. I could feel the pleasure shifting into something more wild as I reached the first threshold. He pulled me down onto him suddenly, slamming into me, driving me over the waiting edge. 

The climax took me quickly, days of tension making me easy quarry, and my knees squeezed his hips as I let out a strangled cry, any other thoughts forcibly scrubbed from my brain as I shook in his hold. My desire was only deepening. I was starting to fear the physical contact wasn't going to be enough any more. I wanted him in my mind again, clawing against my soul. 

“Look at me,”

My eyes fluttered open, not realizing I had closed them. I drank in his face, the rapture in it, the red sun reflected in his eyes. 

This will have to do…

He let go of my arms, letting his left hand drift to my hip while his right trailed up to my neck, holding it gently as he laid back onto the stones. He thrusted up, increasing the power from below. 

The scoop of my hips became violent as I met each of his strokes, arms now free to use his chest  for balance. I dug my fingertips into the firm pecs as pleasure pushed the sense from me; It escaped in wispy moans that carried across the rippling water. It didn't take long for another orgasm to rip through me, harder this time. My muscles clamped down on him threatening to push him free as I cried out, echoing into the quiet, alien night.

I didn't dare look away. With him holding my neck, I couldn't if I wanted to. It was all intensity rolling off of him and a rumbling through his breastbone, pleased with my writhing form holding his eyes so desperately.

“Oh Cross… li’nen, you feel so good,”

The world was spinning, he shifted us, skillfully flipping to be on top of me. My back pressed into the warm stones and I adjusted, wrapping my legs around his hips as he continued with careful, measured humping. 

No… that's not right.

“Don't, ah! hold back,”

His rhythm faltered but he didn't change pace. 

“I don't want to, ha-hurt you,”

“It's okay… I can take it, just… I want it all Cross-hah, give me everything,”

He took a deep, shaking breath… then roughly thrust into me. His chest pinned me as he scooped forward in a full bodied motion taking up a slower, harder rhythm.

I hadn't realized how much he had been restraining himself and I groaned at the new force. It took a moment to acclimate before becoming comfortable. I remembered what was said about his enhanced strength…

I'll have more bruises tomorrow for sure,

The thought was wiped clean as my body shuddered with each hammering thrust, any jolt of pain becoming pleasure as it was lost in the labyrinth of my quivering nerves. All I could do was wrap my arms and legs tighter about him. 

I was getting close again. Listening to his soft grunts as he ravaged me was just as erotic as the physical sensation. It felt like I was floating, eyes glazed, no longer capable of much sound at all. I clung to him, his breath, his heartbeat, the only thing that was real anymore. 

A gasp finally escaped me as everything became brighter. I claimed his lips again as I came, nails biting into his back and legs locking about his hips as my muscles flexed against him wanting him as deep as possible.

It was finally too much for him and his breath caught as he lost the battle with his own pleasure. He pressed back against me, letting my knees pull him deeper as he twitched inside, wracked in his own orgasm, a soft groan against my lips,

“Tahny…”

Before he collapsed over me. The hormones fled, leaving him spent and panting. 

I stroked his back as he rested his forehead against mine and we breathed heavily… together, reduced to our most vulnerable forms. 

Two frightened children, lost and adrift on the edge of the galaxy, grasping for a friend in the dark. 

Shhh... *ushers you away*

[thelongestway]

So, vignette time! To write this chapter, I actually went back through the entire text and wrote up a lot of the conversations that were had over stimulants in ART's lounge. I will probably find a way to publish them eventually, because they are fun! But for now, I want to know if this works without them. (Because fitting 73 coded pages into two pages of write up is a challenge!)

So, excitedly and without further ado:

Chapter 26: Nightmare

If anyone had told me when we set off for Trellin that me, Thiago, and a human-based HubSystem would be sitting in ART's crew lounge in the middle of a human rest period, staring at a pile of half-tagged data, and having emotional reactions that went between "what the actual fuck" to "is that what that was" through "that's actually hilarious" and "this is fucking terrifying", and that it wouldn't be half as horrible as this description sounds, I would have wrangled that human into ART's medsystem and made them stay there until it ran every single one of its tests that confirmed whether a human was maintaining a realistic perception of reality. Because that human obviously wasn't.

But it happened.

The analysis process was an incredibly human-coded mess. Our fucking tags were all over the place. Half the time they devolved into conversations about what actually happened in the commentary.

("No, no, these are analytical notes", Aspen said after one particularly long exchange, and Thiago laughed so loudly he probably would have woken someone on the crew if ART hadn't put up a privacy barrier.)

All of us had something we wanted to filter from at least one other person involved in the conversation, but we all still needed to understand the general picture, so only two analysts tagged those segments and just let the third one see the tags. (I filtered my name from Thiago.)

I learned a lot of new words, including one that I immediately saved to my permanent storage. ("Platonically." Which meant I could tell people to fuck themselves without implying sex. It was now my favorite word.)

We spent about half of our time actually working on the data. The rest of it was spent staring at walls because we were processing some horrible realization, or laughing hysterically because some (platonically) fucking thing made sense now and was incredibly stupid.

("That's how this usually goes," Thiago said, wiping tears of laughter from his face for what had to be the fourth or fifth time that night, as he clipped the node ships' initial understanding of what I was and put it into our feed.)

(For the record, it was "tiny, very strange, inexplicably mobile node". Which Thiago found very funny, and I found fucking horrifying. So I got to stare at a wall while he got to laugh.)

(I got to laugh at Aspen realizing just how much of their "annoying friendly AI mode" was inherited from Amy.)

(Aspen told me that a) their old AI was named Amy, b) there were two whole people in the world who mourned for Amy dying: me and the dead tech.)

(Tal. Ke got to keep kes name after that.)

Several hours--and several cycles of coding--later, ART gave us its big display screen so we could keep track of our notes, comments, points of contention and other results in a way that was a little easier on Thiago. (Because delaying a rest period makes humans even worse at working in-feed than they usually were.) And we finally had our results.

According to our analysis, Aspen and I got under each other's skin on multiple levels. (Which was obvious.) What hadn't been immediately obvious before the analysis, and the requisite log-checking it led us to, was that one of these levels turned out to be a protocol mismatch that neither of us realized was happening. Specifically, between the organic parts of our protocols, which neither of us even considered checking before, because we (being constructs) weren't completely conscious of them, even though they were doing a lot of heavy lifting

(This was actually ART's idea. And it was incredibly smug that it figured that out before either Aspen or Thiago.)

Which meant that the protocols which let me (a construct) communicate with (fully mechanical) HubSystems and SecSystems wound up plugged into Aspen's (construct) protocols that let them a) interface with other node ships, b) feel their body. And neither of us noticed, because the feed-mediated, but still organic-to-organic, connection was clean enough not to throw too many errors, and the ones it did throw were way too easily explained by us not liking each other.

(And trying to be polite about it. While the mismatch drove us both up the fucking walls.)

(And I, at least, had ART's walls to climb. Aspen only had their own.)

I could fucking kick myself. The communication between Dandelion and Preservation Station started with a protocol mismatch, why the fuck didn't I realize this could have been a simple glitch? Why didn't anyone, until we nearly tried to kill each other?

Aspen shrugged in the feed, "Because neither side had experience in interfacing between Rim constructs and node ships before? This sort of thing just happens sometimes in research."

"That's wrong. I interfaced with Dandelion for literal months."

"You mean the one ship in the fleet whose preference for most organic contact consists of 'no, thank you, not interested?' Who is very good at keeping her distance, and did so even before she was a ship?"

Thiago raised an eyebrow.

"Just how much of an outlier is Dr. Tenacious?"

"Enough that she might not have been counted if we were studying contact preference," Aspen said, laughing. "And before you ask, her current crew's gender ratio is also an outlier when compared to her earlier crews. She doesn't have a weird preference for brennan crew."

"You people are a statistician's nightmare," Thiago flopped onto the table and waved his cup of stimulant in the air. (One of ART's little service drones took it to bring him a refill.)

"Yeah. About nightmares," I said, pulling up the second half of our results. "What the fuck do we do about this part?"

All three of us fell quiet, staring at the screen. This was going to be the hard part. Because the protocol mismatch was only part of our conflict. The other part of it was how our minds processed the mismatch.

(Which our very normal organic minds did in an absolutely normal way.)

(Both Thiago and Aspen were weirdly excited about encountering the word "normal" in our logs. They insisted that that whenever the word "normal" came up in a natural conversation, that meant something was going to be either a) important, b) fucked up, or both. So yeah. Our brains and their processing were pretty normal by that metric.)

My organics were molded to work with a SecSystem, which in turn usually worked under a HubSystem. Which meant I sent a lot of data upstream, data that Aspen perceived as a constant stream of consciously-made noise, like I was constantly poking them to get their attention.

In hindsight, I was surprised they hadn't thrown me out an airlock. (I would have if someone pinged me that much). But apparently, and in full opposite to Dandelion, Aspen had a much higher-than-average tolerance for organic contact. Which meant they were actually pretty happy to accommodate (rather than filter) me, because they were chatty, and most people got tired of them quicker than Aspen got tired of people.

What Aspen wasn't fine with, though, was the content of my requests.

I was a SecUnit. Before I hacked my governor module, I was part of a surveillance system. A literal Panopticon. (It hit us all, mid-analysis, that I was the equivalent of one of those creepy little tendrils Aspen used. That was one of the longest wall-staring sessions we had.) The requests I sent to Aspen, both conscious and unconscious, fit that mold. Video was fine--they were informed of my preference for cameras and drones well in advance--but I wanted locations, databases, names, social markers; information that the Trellians considered private and not anyone's business.

Information that Aspen themselves couldn't help getting, because they were a trained sociologist and they weren't blind.

But from a long-term risk perspective, they couldn't let themselves have that information.

"For most of my tenure as the Courageous, I had more than enough on my plate for this not to be a problem," Aspen said, "I had to learn to be a ship, learn to be a station, learn to be a generation ship again, teach new ships, write laws and regulations and help enact them… It was a lot. But as all of this happened, my automatic analytics were slowly accumulating data and integrating it into my systems, which really became visible once we got to Trellin. I'd already been a station two times, and the switch was familiar, so the setup was mostly routine. I found myself with processing power to spare… And realized far too late that I was Big Data'ing myself into a nightmare. That I was beginning to have trouble seeing people as people, and not as confluences of all too well-studied external circumstances. And the closer I knew them, the worse it became. Which was when I realized I needed to do whatever it took not to become… That. And started looking for a replacement."

"What sort of solution did you find?" Thiago said quietly. He looked pale and nauseous.

"Well, dying is always an option," Aspen said indifferently. "But we decided to try to get most of me out of the Courageous and onto a fresh synnerve system, and see if that helps first. We can always kill me later if it doesn't work. Anyway, I was trying to give myself the best possible chances when this whole Caldera situation happened, and your automatic responses started activating, SecUnit. And they slotted into those analytics like a harpoon goes with a net."

"You should have just cut me off," I said.

"I was initially hoping your involvement would let me offload some of that processing, actually. You have an exceptional track record, and we do have an actual security breach in progress."

"Which is why you gave me SecSystem level access."

Even saying that made me shudder a bit. Because I wasn't a SecSystem. I was a SecUnit. To my organics, this meant I was given more access and more decision power than I was supposed to. But--for a double whammy--the Trellians' policies on privacy and surveillance prevented me from taking what I actually needed as a SecSystem to do my job.

In a vacuum, I was treated better than I'd ever been with regards to access. In context, I felt like I was given a ton of responsibility and absolutely no tools to handle it.

And when my starving systems asked for more, Aspen gave them more, as much as they could, because they thought they could help us both at the same time. And made the problem worse, because my threat assessment absolutely flipped out.

(Aspen's performance reliability dropped about 12 percent when they realized that. They needed actual minutes to get back to work.)

(They really fucking hated making things worse.)

"Yes. As much as I could. But you wanted more, and you wanted what I couldn't give you, because then I would be fucking up a lot of long-term risks that this kind of surveillance involves. And I wasn't going to let that happen."

(I still didn't entirely understand that part of Trellian policy. But we agreed to backburner it. And weirdly, it didn't feel as important anymore. Maybe because I no longer felt like I was being made into a SecSystem while not being one.)

Aspen continued, sounding disgusted with themselves: "Worse still, I thought this was your conscious choice. That you wanted to be the surveillance nightmare I was trying not to be. And I treated you accordingly."

"I still might be," I said. "We have a lot of differences in how we think we should handle operations. And we've still got one coming up, which we need to decide how to handle."

"True," they allowed. "But they aren't really as important if we manage to stick to our lanes. A harpoon and a net still complement one another, and it would be pretty good for your people and mine to go forward with this together. If we can find some way to let you handle the short-term risks without accidentally digging up the seeds we're sowing right now, I'll consider that a good outcome for the current situation. And then we can figure out our next steps afterwards."

"Yeah, but how?" I said. "We don't have time to rewrite our entire fucking protocols. A ship touching base with a station is one thing; a HubSystem and its components are a lot more closely integrated. The best we can do before your transfer is probably some kind of shoddy filter for our automatic triggers."

"Hmm," and I head a weird little smile in the Courageous' voice. "Actually, some kind of shoddy filter might be exactly what we need. Can I try something, SecUnit?"

"Go ahead."

Aspen pulled out a process they'd been working on in the background and activated it in our joint feed space.

And suddenly there was a dark-skinned human sitting at our table.

They had coarse salt-and-pepper hair and a smile that reminded me of Ratthi's.

"Hi," Aspen said, throwing a quick glance at me and then looking away as they fixed their colorful Arborean wrap. "Is this better?"

[n1nchawrites]

Quarter

“They are to be granted quarter!” Shir’var demanded, gesturing wildly to the blown out Imperial bunker which sat nestled within a trench swamped in mud, blood, and death. The war had been raging for months now, and Shoal, the Shas’ui and leader of their Fire Warrior strike team, shook his head,

“You do not know Gue’la as I know them, they will take a hand offered in peace and use it to pull you onto a concealed blade treachery.”

Shir’var blustered, shocked at his leader’s callous and jaded regard towards humanity, “Shas’ui, how can you say that? The T’au’va serves to unite us all, not divide us! The men and women in that bunker need to be shown that we are not as barbaric as the Imperium makes us out to be! Shas’el J’Kaara has that we are to spare those who throw down their arms, or have you forgotten your oath sworn on the Code of Fire?”

Shoal visibly twitched, “You watch your tone, youngling. I have faced the Gue’la, the horrors of the Startide Nexus are fresh in my mind - fetid, unyielding G’el… And before them, Mu’gulath Bay. Do you know how bloody that conflict was? Do you know the means through which the gue’la had torn into us? We won, but at a cost so dire it set us back immensely - the Fourth Sphere of Expansion had to be entirely reworked; the Gue would carve off their own arm if it meant that the T’au would fall into oblivion.” “And what of the Gue’vesa that seek to join and spread the T’au’va? How do they factor into this logic of yours?” “They are the anomaly in the set of empirical data before us. Nem’sha’shi’vre against the N’lan’vash.”

Kais’yon looked down into the trench, half-sunken corpses of rotting Imperial Gue’la bobbed in the stagnant waters of the furrow. She poked one with her pulse rifle, then turned them over to reveal their sunken, torn features. Their sex was indeterminate, at least to the eyes of the Fire Warrior: both out of a mixture of unfamiliarity with the species of the Gue, and because of the state of disrepair they were in; the boggy water had preserved their features fairly well, though there was little left to preserve in the first place - the majority of their features were scorched away by a lancing plasma burst from a T’au weapon,

“Looks like they haven’t even had the time to bury their dead - this kill isn’t fresh enough to be from the last engagement.” “These ones don’t bury their dead,” Another Fire Warrior - M’Lath’Kir’Quath - commented, “They put them around emplacements and heavy weapon positions. They take the heads, usually, seemingly as a show of respect. I’ve seen these Gue’la carry the skulls of their comrades on their belts.”

Everyone was silent for a moment, Kais’yon looked over at Shir’var,

“Do you want to spare these G’el?”

Shir’var was quiet. Now that it had been pointed out, he could see various clusters of bodies piled up against fortifications, their necks ending in rough stumps where their heads had been sawn or hacked off with dull equipment. He shuddered. Not even the Kroot’la’vesa had displayed such tasteless traditions: yes, they would devour the fallen, but that held a practical purpose alongside a cultural one; this was just wrong,

“I… The T’au’va states that we must embrace all that come to us seeking union or alms. I will not let a cultural difference get in the way of our Tam’ya’vash!”

Shoal sighed, “Enough! Shir’var, M’lath, take the bunker. Kais’yon, with me. We’ll hang back and make sure these two breach and secure the Gue’la without a problem, then retrace our steps to find Shi’Na’San’Tel’s body.” 

The T’au all nodded in agreement, with Shir’var and M’lath moving into position, opening the steel bulkhead door from behind cover as M’lath spoke out in fluent High Gothic, “Be not alarmed, for we come in peace. Rejoice, your message was intercepted by one of our communication specialists, and we have come to extract you.” Shir’var turned the corner, followed by M’lath. The interior of the bunker was lined with shelves carved into the ferrocrete, packed with skulls hollowed out and loaded with candles or incense sticks. The emplacement reeked of holy oils and gunpowder, and the source of these scents could be traced either to the skulls or the bowls skirting the points where the floor met the walls: they were filled with petals, oils and powders, and all of them were formed from the caps of the same repurposed skulls of the soldiers’ former brothers in arms.

Shir’var raised his pulse carbine instinctively, fighting to keep it lowered and minimise his presence as a threat. M’lath did not do the same, keeping his carbine raised as he scanned the room. There was a small huddle of haggard looking Gue’la in the corner, some of whom looked uncannily young, and could have been mistaken for children if the dirt and blood caking their faces had been wiped away.

Shir’var carefully approached the cluster of grizzled and shell-shocked deserters, extending a hand to the one nearest to him, who had initially recoiled out of fear. They murmured something, and he leaned in closer,

“Pardon?”

“For the Emperor,”

It was then that he saw the grenade in her hand.

There was a thunderous crack, followed by a deathly silence. Kais’yon was the first to react, sprinting inside of the bunker, only to be met with dust and the sound of bone cracking beneath her hooves. There were hundreds - maybe thousands - of fragments of skull littered throughout the shelter, crunching with every step. There was a red smear in the corner of the room, with smoking piles of gore exploding away from it. All that was left of Shir’var was his lower half. A leg twitched as it sent a nerve impulse to a spine which simply wasn’t there, and the sight twisted Kais’yon’s stomach into a dreadful knot of grief and horror. 

M’lath lay a few paces away from him. He was alive, but badly wounded; fragments of shrapnel and bone littered his form, and a gaping wound cracked through his nano-crystalline carapace. She moved to patch his wound and stabilise him with a concoction of chemical stimulants in her medkit, injecting them directly into his bloodstream with a syringe. 

Shoal followed closely behind, his gait faltering as he made his way into the chamber and saw the remains of Shir’var. He had hoped this wouldn’t happen, but knew deep down that it would: for after years of diligent service in the Fire Caste, he knew that this was the result of giving animals quarter.

[quibble-auk]

Transformer OC lore!

Previous

@thebrokenmechanicalpencil I’m so sorry. I was gonna make more fluff but… yeah.

I actually don’t have a reason for writing this. But I had fun, got to write some angst instead of working on the next part of the Pre-war plot. And since I still can’t decide on what time I’m going to focus on I’m just going over parts I already have lol.

This would probably be more impactful if I waited until later… but I wrote it now so enjoy.

Forget Me Not’s are such a small flower, huh?

—

WARNINGS!!!: there is a lot of angst. Loss of self? Girlie is literally getting torn soft? It’s not very visually descriptive tho.

—

Sunrazor felt herself tearing apart at the seams. Everything burned.

Her processors screamed, suffocating under raw, unsorted data. It was everywhere, all at once, eating away at her thoughts. Her pain receptors burned like a wildfire. Restraints dug into her plating, leaving her at the mercy of the figures that loomed above. New directives and foreign coding pressed upon the edges of her processor, suffocating her.

Machines forced her breath steady.

Her systems buzzed erratically, fighting against the invasive code that tried to rewrite everything she had known. Protection, loyalty, and service had been directives hardcoded into her core. They had never faltered before, they were steadfast and unwavering—until now. Now, those bonds were being twisted, restructured, manipulated into something foreign, hostile, and wrong.

The mental strain was unbearable. Every thought was hazy and distorted. Sunrazor struggled to process everything, all of the data being thrust upon her along with the assault on her processor. Had it not been for the large fans basting cold air on her from above there was no doubt she would have overheated from stress by now.

Torrent’s commands seeped in like poison, twisting her thoughts until she couldn’t tell where she ended and the code began. It was maddening. She should know what was her and what was not. Sunrazor couldn’t fight back without the risk of damaging herself even more.

I protect.

The phrase burned in her mind, a mantra that had once been her foundation. Protect her charge. Protect Valkyrie. Protect the others. Protect. Protect. But there was a new command—no, a new truth—whispering louder with each passing moment.

Obey.

She recoiled internally, her processor screaming in protest as the word burrowed deeper into her subconscious. It fought to override her instincts, forcing her to abandon everything she had been built to believe in. What little was left of her plating shuttered and pressed against herself. A whine died in her throat as her systems reminded her that her vocalizer had been disabled.

Every flicker of a memory, every familiar thread of her past, was being systematically erased, overwritten by the cold, calculating order of compliance. All of the soft and gentle moments of before seemed to crackle and fade, empty static replacing them.

Evenings spent surrounded by the others—Powercase, Blight, Torque, Rapidstrike, Viliglox, Brimstone—all piling on top of eachother to recharge or watch a film. Watching the gardeners tend to the plants. Learning to dance with Valkyrie. All of it threatened to disappear like they had never mattered in the first place.

Sunrazor wanted to scream.

She didn’t want to forget. They could take her body and her mind and repurpose it for whatever they wanted. She didn’t care if they tore her apart only to rebuild her a thousand times over. But she didn’t want to forget. Not them. Anything but that. She wanted to beg that they leave the memories it tact, to let her remember.

Torrent’s onslaught of coding remained merciless and unwavering. His mental assault became even more focused once it had discovered the weakness. It attacked the very thing her fraying mind was struggling to latch onto. The more he reprogrammed her, the harder it became to remember why she fought in the first place.

Valkyrie.

Her mind screamed the name, the image of her conjunx flaring in her thoughts like a bright light trying to pierce through the fog. Her Conjunx, her world. She was everything. It was a lifeline, something to hold onto, a thread of who she had been. She had to fight for her. Valkyrie needed her. She needed Sunrazor to protect her.

But the moment the image formed, it was shattered by a cascade of new instructions. Forget her. She is irrelevant. You are mine.

Pain seared through her processor and body alike. It threatened to melt her plating and make her paint blister and peel. Sunrazor was open and exposed. They were touching and tearing and ripping her. They did not leave a single part of her unscathed, mentally or physically. It hurt. She wanted them to stop. Why wouldn’t they stop? Could they not hear her—

She needed to stay focused on not forgetting, not losing. Her body didn’t matter, they could have it. They could use it for whatever they needed it for. What mattered was the memories, Valkyrie.

FORGET HER.

OBEY.

Sunrazor’s processor burned with the conflicting commands. Forget—Remember—Obey—Fight. The harder she fought to hold onto the memories, the more they slipped away. They wilted and shriveled under her iron grip like delicate flowers.

Each time she clung to them, something inside her screamed in protest. Every time she let go of the memories something else screeched and recoiled. There was no winning. Conflicting orders tore at her mind in a constant maddening game of tug-of-war.

Forget, but don’t forget.

The new directives pressed against her thoughts like an unrelenting weight. She wasn’t sure how much longer she could hold it before she finally gave out. Her memories of Valkyrie and the others flickered and twisted, turning into nothing more than ghosts of a life she could no longer grasp.

Was it even her life to begin with? Were these Sunrazor’s memories or were they just fantasies her mind had created? Did these people actually exist? Or had her mind bore them into existence just to give her something to hold onto? Did the memories belong to Torrent?

No, he was trying to erase them. They couldn’t be his. They belonged to Sunrazor, they were from before. The memories were of real people. People she cared about. Valkyrie was real, she had to be. She was real and Sunrazor loved her more than anything. And Valkyrie was counting on her to come back to…

What was it she was meant to do?

Protect.

Yes, that’s what it was. Sunrazor was a guardian. She was built to protect. Valkyrie was counting on her to protect her. She had to protect—

No, Obey.

That was right. She needed to obey. To listen—

No. That was Torrent. Not Sunrazor. She didn’t have to listen, she didn’t have to obey, Valkyrie had shown her that. There was more to life than just serving. She was worth something, something more than just her body and labor. She could be more.

Torrent was helping her become more. She should listen to Torrent. He had promised to help Sunrazor become enough. He was going to make her become more so she could… she could… Protect. That's it. So she could protect Valkyrie.

So, why was he trying to make Sunrazor forget?

Every memory was tainted, every instinct questioned. Her very being was under siege. Sunrazor was designed to be loyal, to be unshakable. But loyal to who? Who was she meant to listen to when they both demanded different things? How was she expected to obey when Valkyrie and Torrent couldn’t agree on what she was meant to do?

Sunrazor was loyal to her conjunx—the word seemed to sting within her processor—not to Torrent. She needed to remember, not to forget. She didn’t want to forget, she wanted to remember. She had to remember who Sunrazor was.

Sunrazor was a guardian, she worked in towers as a sentry. She had a family of six other guardians, they were safe, they were her home. She couldn’t remember their names. She had a Conjunx, her name was Valkyrie. Sunrazor liked the rain and the stars. She liked it when her post was in the gardens so she could… She didn’t remember why the gardens were important. Sunrazor wanted to board a starship and explore the countless worlds that lay beyond. She wanted to because… because… Why did she want to see them again?

It was becoming difficult to recall who she had been before.

The person she had been, the protector, the loyal guardian—was she gone already? Could she even fight this anymore? She had lost track of what was hers and what belonged to them. She wasn’t sure how much longer she could resist what Torrent was shoving into her processor. It hurt to fight it, everything hurts.

She couldn’t move or scream and Sunrazor just wanted them to stop. There was too much. The pain, the data her sensors were picking up, the invasive coding, the harsh lights. The sensations of them tearing her apart—rearranging her—to become something she’s not. It hurt.

Primus, it hurt.

In the midst of the agony, there was a moment of clarity. For a second the damaged and jumbled coding that was her processor seemed to make sense. A brief flicker of what she had been. Valkyrie’s face. The warmth of her presence. The promise to protect her, to stand by her side no matter the cost.

A surge. More than obedience—defiance. The final embers of who she was.

I protect.

The directive that they had implemented tried to smother it. Their commands tried to extinguish it before it was able to settle. But for a moment, just a moment, Sunrazor was able to cling to it. She fought against the torrent of control that was being forced into her mind. Her internal systems shook, her frame shuddering with the strain, but she resisted.

She lay trapped on the cold table, tied down, voice stolen, her mind carved apart like she was nothing. Sunrazor might have no control of what was happening or what she was becoming. She may have been at their mercy. The assaulting programming might have been overwhelming and she may have been losing. But she wasn’t gone yet.

Not completely.

But even as the last threads of her identity flickered and fought, she could feel the inevitable coming. How much longer could she hold out before the reprogramming overwhelmed her entirely? How much longer before there was nothing left of Sunrazor, the protector, and only the obedient shell remained?

She didn’t know. But she would keep fighting, keep trying, holding onto what she had been. Even if it was hopeless. Even if there was nothing left.

Sunrazor would keep fighting for her. She wouldn’t give up yet, not when she needed her.

Sunrazor just wished she could remember what her name was.

[dialpforpomni]

Case 2: Contracted Abstraction

Part 4: The Data Dump

PREVIOUS°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°Next

The stench of stagnant code and digital decay clung heavy in the air, a nauseating aroma experienced only in the depths of the Data Dump. Seams of slick, corrupt data slithered across the virtual landscape, like spoiled vines choking life from desolate servers. This wasn't your typical digital back street; it was where New DigiYork rid itself of its unwanted children, the glitched descendants of an outdated digital age.

"Augh, I still don't understand, why we came here," griped Gangle, her usual wit sharpness faltering with an ominous threat. Her virtual ribbon, always knotted in a cheerful bow, drooped along with her. "Max could have been experiencing hallucinations. Abstraction gets to you, Pomni."

"Maybe," I conceded, folding my coat tighter over me. The Data Dump was colder than any DigiYork blizzard could hope to be. "But Max was sure. He saw something, Gangle. A shadow. And he told me it was there."

We proceeded, our steps ringing out in the cavernous room. Gangle, God love her, tried to muster a brave smile, but I could see the unease written on her usually expressive countenance. The Data Dump was a hotbed of computer illnesses, rampaging viruses that could potentially sully your very existence. One misstep, a careless touch of the hand, and you'd find yourself glitching into oblivion.

We were digging through a particularly thick pile of discarded code – a knot of pixelated textures and old algorithms – when I saw it. A shimmering, rainbow-colored sphere, floating inches above the electronic detritus.

"What in the." Gangle trailed off, her ribbon tangling into a knot of anger.

The sphere pulsed with a soft, inner light, materializing into an indistinctly human shape. It was. a bubble. A literal, hovering bubble, filled with a spinning rainbow of colors. And it was speaking.

"Hi! I'm Bubble!" the bubble singsonged, its voice strangely high and cheerful.

I arched an eyebrow. My instinct was screaming "red flag." Nothing good ever began with things that went about greeting themselves with excessive perkiness in places like these.

"Who are you?" I spat, bypassing introductions. "And what is the meaning of your presence in the Data Dump?"

Bubble shook a bit, as if stunned. "Oh! Ah, well, I work for Caine! He's… well, he's the inventor! And I'm his aide!"

Caine. The mere mention of the name sent shivers down my spine. He was the enigmatic figure behind the building of New DigiYork itself, rumored to be a reclusive digital designer who never bothered to appear in public, preferring to go through layers of agents and code.

"Caine sent you here?" asked Gangle, her voice disbelieving. "To the Data Dump? Why?"

Scroll down for the continuation of the story.

Bubble seemed to lose air ever so slightly. "Oh, uh. well, it's complicated. He told me to. uh. go get something? But. but it's just so scary here! And Caine gets angry if I don't follow him! And. and."

The bubble started to quiver, its colors careening around in smaller and smaller circles. I knew it was on the verge of a total meltdown.

"Hey, hey, relax," I told it, attempting to calm it down. "Just tell us what you know. What did Caine ask you to uncover?"

Bubble drew a deep, glittering breath. "He asked me to discover… a code! A secret code! But… but I can't say! Caine would be extremely, extremely angry!"

"Listen, Bubble," I told him, my voice firm but gentle. "People are getting hurt. People are getting sick. We think this program might be connected. If you do know something, you have to let us know."

The bubble trembled again, its light on the inside dimming. It seemed to be struggling inside. Finally, it burst out with, "I can't! I just can't! I have to go!"

And with that, Bubble took off, disappearing into the maze-like space of the Data Dump. But as it left, something dropped to the ground – a small, crumpled piece of code.

I picked it up, my heart pounding. The code was in shambles, riddled with glitches and corruptions. But in the center of the chaos, a name was just legible, broken and twisted:

B-N- P--T--R

I frowned. "B-N- P--T--R… What in the name of all things unholy is that?"

Gangle leaned over my shoulder, her single eye screwed up in determination. "It's… it's glitched out really, really badly. Maybe we can run it through a decryption program?"

"Maybe," I said, my tone dubious. "But I think this is more than a coding error. This is. deliberate."

We worked the next few hours at trying to break the code, peppering it with all the decryption programs we could find. But nothing produced results. The name continued to be obstinately disjointed, an infuriating glimpse at something that we couldn't manage to grasp.

"B-N- P--T--R," Gangle read aloud, running a hand through her digital tresses. "Ben… Peter? Banton… Potter? Nothing fits."

"It's a dead end," I growled, getting frustrated and letting it into my voice. "We're wasting our time."

I was abruptly cut off by my comm springing to life. It was Chief Gummigoo.

"Pomni, Gangle, to my office immediately." he bellowed. "We have a problem."

We looked at each other. Whatever it was, it wasn't going to be good.

Gummigoo's office was a storm of paperwork and half-eaten digital doughnuts. The Chief himself strode back and forth, his gelatinous body quivering with rage.

"We have another abstraction," he said without prelude. "A bad one. Officer Chad. He was found in his apartment, completely unresponsive. The medics are saying his code is pretty much all corrupted."

My stomach dropped. Chad was a good guy. Loyal, committed, and always happy to break out a bad joke.

"What happened?" I breathed, my voice so quiet that I wasn't even sure if anyone else heard me.

"We don't know," Gummigoo massaged his virtual temples. "His flat was locked from the inside. No forced entry. But. there was something else. He was muttering something before he went completely offline. Something about a shadow. and a name."

He breathed in deeply. "He was repeating the name, over and over again. It was broken, corrupted. but it sounded something like B-N- P--T--R."

The blood drained from my face. It hadn't been an accident. It couldn't have.

"Chief," I breathed, my voice trembling. "We need to find out who – or what – B-N- P--T--R is. I think we're losing time."

Gummigoo stopped pacing and looked at me, his gelatinous face more serious than I'd ever seen. "Do what you must, Pomni. Find this… B-N- P--T--R. Before it's too late."

Back in the Data Dump, I stared at the smashed code, a new flood of determination coursing through my veins. We had a name, an address, and an increasing sense of urgency. The dark skeletal man was out there, and we were the only thing standing in his way.

"Okay, Gangle," I stated, my voice firm. "Let's do something different. Forget decryption programs. Forget thinking. Let's just… feel it out."

I closed my eyes, attempting to feel the feeling code provided me – fear, corruption, something ancient and wicked. I allowed the feeling to guide me, winnowing through the incongruous letters, reconfiguring them, until it fit.

My eyes snapped open.

"Bingo," I whispered.

I spoke the name aloud, slowly, carefully, allowing the syllables to resonate on my tongue.

"B-N- P--T--R… Bone Pastor?"

Gangle gasped.  Bone Pastor?! But. that's merely an old urban legend! A tale parents tell their children to frighten them away from playing in the old coding districts!"

"Maybe," I said, my mind reeling. "But legends are based on reality. And this legend. it's appropriate. A skeleton man, lurking in the dark, spreading filth to the virtual world. The type of individual you do not want to find in the Data Rumps."

"But how do we find him?" Gangle asked, her voice trembling. "He's just a legend!"

"We track the corruption. We track the abstractions. And we find this. Bone Pastor. Before he abstracts New DigiYork into oblivion."

[keischreiber]

Me just thinking of the before and after of how Reiner and Kristina interact with one another as they got to know each other better…

∘ Before: First few weeks of being… friends? Acquaintances? They didn't know. ∘

Kristina is working late because she has documents that needed to be reviewed for tomorrow's war council meeting with the brass. Reiner who also stayed behind because he had his own share of work to finish notices that the lights were on inside the room which Commander Magath shares with his officers. So, he knocks before carefully pushing the door that was already ajar to begin with, open. Reiner: Is anyone still— Kristina whose ears twitches at the sound of the familiar voice looks up from her pile of documents with a dirty look. Kristina: What do you want? Reiner: O-oh, I, uh— Kristina: Spit it out Eldian, otherwise, get out. Reiner: I— sorry to bother you. He leaves. Somehow, he felt a little disappointed, because they thought they had put a dent in their relationship as strangers. But that didn't seem to be the case. The next morning, Reiner finds a sorry note written in code, tucked away inside a map that was to be used for that day's meeting. The map was with him because he'll be discussing routes and logistics later. The sender? Kristina. It explained that there were listening devices inside the room, which was why she acted the way that she did. Somehow, Reiner found himself stunned. He simply shook his head, a defeated smile barely tugging at the corner of his lips. Reiner thought to himself: She really didn't need to apologize and explain herself.

∘ After: Almost a year and a half of being friends ∘

Kristina usually finds herself staying late at the Warrior's HQ. With the Warrior Candidates training being sped up because of the current war that Marley had with the Mid-East Alliance… there's always a lot of data about the children that need to be filtered, reviewed, and evaluated. At this point, Reiner would know that it was her who had stayed behind if the door was kept ajar. Regardless, he can't just take his chances, so he still knocks before entering. Reiner: This is the third night you're working late, Instructor Qual. The instructor doesn't even look from her pile, a look of disinterest was hanging over her features though. Kristina: Data doesn't collect itself. Why are you even here, Braun? Your War Chief already left hours ago, the other warriors, an hour ago, and the warrior candidates even earlier. Go home. Reiner: You're right, it doesn't. That's why the Commander handed this. Happened to be on the field when he did. Looks like he needs you to look at this too. He hands her an envelope with the words CONFIDENTIAL stamped on in. Kristina: If that's all, you can leave. Reiner: Here. She still doesn't look up, but sees him sliding a ration packet, and a small thermos. Raising a brow, she finally lifts her head from her papers only to look at the Vice Chief. Kristina: What's this? Reiner: Used to eat this a whole lot during missions back when we infiltrated Paradis. Downed it with some tea, when we could. She looks at it again. Kristina: I didn't ask for a sob story. Reiner: I know. Just thought you might need it. Kristina: Who'd want to eat or drink something that came from you monsters… Shaking his head, it was then that Reiner made gentle taps on the desk, too soft for any hearing device to pick up. It caught Kristina's attention for a moment, only to realize that he had already turned and began walking away. He raised a hand as if to say goodbye and then 'click', the door was closed, and the instructor was now alone inside the quiet office. Kristina: I feel like a jerk… he even shared something about his past… When she remembers how he really tapped, "I understand" on her desk, she sighed. For now, she placed her pen down and reached for the thermos. Pouring its contents in cup, she found the warmth comforting on such a cold night. She sighed and took a drink. She could only really think to herself at that point. Kristina: Where the hell did he learn to make such a good cup of tea? It was warm. The tea, and most likely, her face.

tagging: @mobolanz Not entirely a story but, it is an example of how they interact. @sandosa Hi, this is erudianokabe. I remember you asked to be tagged too if I ever made content for Reiner and Kristina. xD

[skylarkking]

"One In The Same"

A TFA Blitzwing x Mech!reader

Word Count:1k

Chapter 11: A Con's Choice

"Decepticons! Fall back!" Megatron had ordered, sending them into a retreat. The Allspark was shattered, saved from being abused by Megatron.

Some of us, however, were not as lucky, and now I was chained to the stone walls of the Decepticons' new hide out deep inside a mine, and Professor Sumdac was their captive. In terms of condition, however, I was far worse off than he was.

It took everything in my power to stay functioning, even with Blitzwing being extremely gentle whenever he would check on me. It was a struggle just to vent properly, and I felt extremely ill, almost as if i had one of those infections organic lifeforms would get.

"You don't look too good." Blitzwing said as he gently patted my forehelm with a damp cold cloth. It hissed with steam when it made contact with the metal, a small cloud of white jumping off of me. "Primus, you're burning up."

"Why do you dote on that pathetic autobot?" Blitzwing asked.

"IT ISN'T DOTING YOU OVERGROWN SLAG PILE!" Blitzwing's Hothead persona barked.  "ZIS AUTOBOT IS IMPORTANT AND YOU KNOW IT!"

"HES USELESS WITHOUT THE ALLSPARK!" Lugnut snapped. "AND ANYONE WHO IS USELESS TO OUR MASTER SHOULD BE TERMINATED!"

"YOU LAY A SINGLE CIRCIUT ON HIM AND ILL POUND YOU TO SHEET METAL!"

"Will both of you SHUT IT!" Megatron snapped as he stormed over. "We aren't terminating Enigma. Not yet."

"But master, why would you keep such a useless thing?" Lugnut asked.

"Because he knows too much." Megatron said as he grabbed my helm and forced me to look up at him. "Far too much."

"I... I don't know what you're... talking about." I rasped weakly.

"You may not be fully aware of it in your current condition." Megatron growled. "But you contain a millennia's worth of data, battle tactics, and so much more."

"Lord Megatron," the Icy persona of Blitzwing asked. "Vhat, do you mean by zat?"

"Enigma wasn't just designed to be a weapon." Megatron growled as he released my helm, a whimper of pain leaving me as it dropped down to a limp. "He was a prototype for the perfect Decepticon until Starscream attempted to manipulate his coding for his own purposes."

"And... Do you plan on extracting that information?" Blitzwing asked with a nervous twitch of his wings.

"Precisely. His body is of no use to me anymore. Once I've contacted our... asset on Cybertron, I will have him extract the information."

"But... that would hill him, wouldn't it?" Professor Sumdac piped up.

"WHO SAID YOU COULD SPEAK TO OUR MASTER!?" Lugnut snapped.

"I-i didn't mean offense!" Sumdac cowered.

"Lugnut, that's enough." Megatron growled, his crimson optics shifting over to the terrified human. Sumdac shrunk back and stared up at him with fear. "To answer your question, dear professor, it will kill him. Slowly. Painfully. A fate that all traitors deserve."

"Please..." I quietly begged, catching the Decepticons' attention. "I... I dont... want to die."

"But you must, Enigma." Megatron sneered. "You have no choice."

"There has to be another way!" Professor Sumdac said.

"Zere might be." Blitzwing said.

"Do you know something Blitzwing?" Megatron asked suspiciously.

"Ze autobot medic knows his processor inside and out, vouldnt he be able to extract the data?"

"Blitzy...." I whispered. "Please... don't... don't bring Ratchet into... into this..."

"The medic is useless in this regard." Megatron said. "Our inside bot will have to do."

---

"His condition is worsening." Professor sumdac said as he and Blitzwing looked me over while Megatron and Lugnut were elsewhere. "And I know nothing about Cybertronian processors or illnesses."

"So you don't know how to help him?" Blitzwing asked.

"I'm... afraid not." Sumdac said. "If he were missing an arm or something, I could. But this is illness since his internal repairs seem to have healed most of his injuries."

"Dammit." Blitzwing muttered. He then heard Megatron and Lugnut returning, and he quickly scooped up the Professor and returned him to the workstation before they noticed.

As the pair spoke to the professor about something, Blitzwing knelt down by my side  with a somber and apologetic look.

"I'm so sorry, Y/D." Blitzwing whispered.

"It... it's okay." I rasped.

"No... it isn't." He said as he gently touched the side of my face. "You're sick. Really sick. And... I can't do anything about it."

"Megatron... can only control... you with... with fear for so long." I whispered. "I won't tell you... what action to take... that is not... not my place. I... I'll understand no matter what." My internal systems blared with alarms as my internal temperatures began to rise again, the cool damp air causing a light amount of steam to radiate off of me.

Blitzwing paused as he became deep in thought, eventually coming to a decision. While Megatron and Lugnut were distracted, Blitzwing released me from my bindings and carefully scooped me up, his strong arms holding me close to his chassis and almost perfectly concealing my small frame.

Silently, he snuck out of the mines and made a beeline run for the city.

-with the Autobots and Elite Guard-

"we did a sweep of the entire planet," Sentinel huffed at the repair crew. "Not one trace of decepticon energy -"

A loud beep from a nearby console startled the mech, all bots that were present turning to look at the monitor.

"You were saying, Sentinel?" Optimus said with narrowing optics.

"Jazz, bring up the location of that signal." Ultra Magnus ordered.

"Yes, sir." Jazz said, the cyberninja tapping away and then freezing somewhat. "Uh, it's right outside."

"What?!" Sentinel barked.

"Bring up the external surveillance feed." Ultra Magnus said. Jazz complied and brought up a video feed of Blitzwing standing tall, his Hothead persona glaring directly into the camera.

"I KNOW YOU ARE IN THERE AUTOBOTS!" He yelled. "BRING ZAT MEDIC OUT HERE BEFORE I DRAG HIM OUT!"

"What is he on about?" Ratchet said.

"Hang on, he's holding something." Jazz said.

"Zoom in." Ultra Magnus said. Jazz complied, and the video feed juttered a little as it focused on the triple changers' arms, Ratchet's optics widening in a mixture of shock, fear, relief, and grief.

"Who's that?" Sentinel asked.

"Kid...

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