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Chapter Text

It started with a Covert Operation.

Of course it started with a Covert Operation. Daisuke was used to these sorts of missions. New recruit to XCOM, old veteran of the Reapers: Daisuke was, regrettably, the Reaper sent to work for this Resistance. He'd been there for about two months, had gone on four missions, and could not wait to either retire and live out his final days in Alaska or, shit, maybe just get killed young. John Bradford? Sucked. Enmoor Eim? Sucked, Skirmisher style. Yvonne Rivera? The next time Daisuke heard her doing her weird fucking prayers at the asscrack of dawn, he would cram her flashy purple blades down her throat.

Oh, but Daisuke, you must be sighing. You get to meet O' Holy Commander, which makes everything better. Yeah, reader, Daisuke got to meet the fucking Commander. He was obnoxious. Insisted on giving everyone nicknames based on 80's bands. Daisuke "Bad Company" Nakamura. Yvonne "Syrinx" Rivera. Some of them weren't even cool. Daisuke liked his-- Bad Company? That kicked ass. The best Specialist in XCOM? "Mr. Roboto." What. The. Fuck. 

The worst part was the other recruits. To Daisuke's complete and total shock, the other Faction soldiers weren't as bad as regular XCOM soldiers. He'd admit that Rivera's swords were pretty cool; Eim was antisocial, which meant he never bothered Daisuke. The usual soldiers were children--some of them in the literal sense. One of the Grenadiers was sixteen years old. Sixteen! She should've been slowly succumbing to the horrors of puberty, not handling deadly weapons. It was insanity.

Not to mention the number of times Daisuke had spewed chunks thanks to Central's dogshit flying. Or Richard Tygan's awful bedside etiquette. Or Shen letting the rookies test out the new weaponry. Hell, even with all the respect he held for the Commander, the dude was fucking annoying. He was a tactical genius, and he had the worst sense of humor Daisuke had ever seen.

Covert Operations were Daisuke's only relief from the horrors of the Avenger. The Commander's saving grace was that he knew how claustrophobic Daisuke was and sent him on Coverts as often as possible. For that, he'd always be grateful. It gave him a break and, when under the command of the Reapers, a nice vacation home. He liked the stealth of it all; he liked going out into the cities and collecting intel on ADVENT. It came naturally to him, more naturally than the actual missions he went on now.

This one was simple, and Daisuke had been the perfect fit. A scientist was sending out some encrypted code, a distress signal, and the Commander was eager to see what this person was made of.

Daisuke, regrettably, could not go on this mission alone.

He sat in the dropship, flying to some Lost city, and cleaned his gun. There was another person. Daisuke always preferred to go alone, but the Commander insisted he had a bodyguard on this one. His bodyguard didn't seem very thrilled to join him on this mission, either.

Currently, Daisuke was sitting cross-legged on the ground, laying out his equipment and loading cartridges. It was muscle memory to him: after fourteen years serving the Reapers, cleaning his rifle was like flipping a coin. Well, as of now, a pretty shaky coin. They were hitting turbulence, making his bullets rattle and roll across the floor; Daisuke sighed and plucked them back up.

"Hey."

Daisuke looked up at his bodyguard.

The guy was huge. A Grenadier--his nickname was T.N.T., but Daisuke didn't know his actual name. He must've been six feet tall, maybe more, and he had orange armor. He had a gun about the same size as Daisuke resting in his lap, a grenade launcher strapped to his back, and he kept rapping his fingers on his weapon. He had ochre skin, dreadlocks, and woeful brown eyes. He was large and sad. And twitchy, Daisuke noticed--he didn't stop fidgeting for a moment.

"Hey," said Daisuke, hoping that this man wasn't about to start a conversation. Daisuke would push him out of the bay door if he asked about the weather.

"Um." Oh, god. Daisuke already hated him. "Can I ask you a favor?"

He snickered, leaning back to stretch his legs. "Not a good idea, to trade favors with a Reaper," he said, resting his weight behind him on his palm. The man swallowed thickly, his dark brow furrowing in a way that almost made Daisuke feel bad. "And we're in a plane. There's not much I can do for you right now."

"No, no, it's--it's, er," T.N.T. pointed at Daisuke's equipment with a thick finger. He couldn't tell if it shook from the rumbling engine or obviously unmedicated anxiety. "Could you do that stuff a bit quieter? I don't like the rattling."

He didn't like the rattling. Daisuke tilted his head, a little amused. "Really," he said, which T.N.T. didn't like at all. The man's spine went ramrod straight and his knee bouncing became frantic. Daisuke wondered if he did enough to seem approachable these days; he decided to give this poor man a break and tried to make his smile a little less 'evil-looking,' as the rookies called it. "And what about it don't you like?"

T.N.T. sputtered. Daisuke didn't quite know what to do with that.

The man managed, after a moment, "It's just--I'm trying to relax and the sound isn't helping." He took a deep breath and, shoulders hunched, rested his elbows on his gun. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry, I don't mean to be intrusive or bossy--"

"Okay," Daisuke interrupted. "Okay. I'll stop." When the man looked at him like he'd just grown three heads and started speaking backward, Daisuke shrugged. "We probably won't need it, anyway."

T.N.T. took a deep, shaky breath. "Yeah, you're right. We won't need it." He kept fidgeting with one of the switches on his huge, glowy gun. It made Daisuke a little wary. "I'm sorry, I'm just nervous. I don't like these kinds of missions. I'd prefer to have more--more people." He looked at Daisuke, and he must've mistaken Daisuke's disinterest for offense, because he shot up and held his hands out in front of him like he couldn't take Daisuke and break him over his knee like a dry twig. "No offense!" he cried. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean it like--what I meant was, I'd prefer if there was, er… more people. Nothing against you. I'm sure you're lovely."

Daisuke stared at him. "Dude. What."

"What's your name," T.N.T. tried, seemingly giving up explaining his OCD symptoms to Daisuke. "You're a Reaper, right? What's your name?"

Daisuke laughed, which seemed to terrify the enormous man with a gun in his lap. "Nakamura," he said. "Nakamura Daisuke. Bad Company."

"Oh," said T.N.T. intelligently. "That's a pretty name. I mean--a nice name. I. You know what? Nevermind." He took a deep breath, stopped bouncing his knee, and calmly rested his hands on his weapon. “My name is Carlos Díaz. Accent over the I. T.N.T."

"Cool." Daisuke began to strap his loaded cartridges onto his belt. "I know Nakamura's a mouthful, so you can call me Bad. You're Díaz to me."

Díaz gave Daisuke one of those tight-lipped smiles you only did when you were really feeling awkward. "Okay," he said. "I'm alright with that. Do you… are you excited for this? You're gonna be doing some hacking, I think."

"Oh, Díaz, I'm always excited to get away from the Avenger." Daisuke clipped his claymore to his waist, stood up, and sat down in the chair opposite Díaz. He pulled out some calories and began eating. "How about you? You seem… jittery."

"Yeah, um, I didn't really… want to come." Díaz peered at Daisuke's food curiously, though warily. "What are you eating? It looks… interesting."

"Ahh," Daisuke sighed, leaning back and observing his colorless slop, "good ol' standard issue calorie packet. Felt fancy, so I put it in a travel bowl." He held it out, along with the spoon. "It's a Reaper thing. Want some?"

He knew Díaz wouldn't refuse; the guy seemed obsessed with being polite. "Okay," he said with no enthusiasm. He took a small scoop of the stuff, sniffed it, then slowly ate it.

Daisuke watched his face, amused. It went on a journey: first morbid curiosity, which turned to shock, which turned to disgust, which turned to a very blank, controlled expression. He put the spoon back in the bowl, smacked his lips, and said, "That's terrible. That's really bad. What is that?"

Daisuke cackled at that. "It's a bunch of scrap food," he said. "We put anything we don't eat into a pile, which gets blended up, sanitized, and pumped full of flour to kill the flavor." He crossed his legs, continuing to eat. "So really, I don't know what it is. Only thing guaranteed to be in there is flour."

Díaz became a bit green around the gills.

"We don't like to be wasteful." Daisuke was used to the flavor at this point; if he focused on it, he could say that it did taste horrendous, but it also tasted a bit like home to him. "We are self-aware enough to not call it food, though. It's just calories."

Daisuke was amused by the way Díaz cleared his throat. His twitching began to kick up again. Maybe he wouldn't hate this man after all.

Ha! Ha!

Daisuke fucking hated Díaz.

The mission was easy, and Díaz would not stop worrying about it. The Lost city, somewhere in midwest North America, was quiet. Díaz iconically said, "It's too quiet," and then proceeded to jump at every sound made. Daisuke farted and it made Díaz flinch like he'd been slapped.

The city smelled like Lost, as in, not good. It was a unique smell: the otherworldly hint of alien remained, but it clashed with the scent of a decaying supercity. Plantlife, weird and mutated, crawled up the walls of old wrecked buildings; rats scuttled about and scratched at cans of food that hadn't been touched by humanity in two decades. Bodies, petrified human corpses, still stood like dead plants in the streets. Some were victims stuck in time, thrown backward by a crashed pod, covered in sticky, stringy green slime with their hands covering their faces. Daisuke was used to this sight, Díaz, not so much.

Daisuke's mask was probably doing more for him than Díaz's bandana. The mask of a Reaper was crafted to block the radioactivity that hissed out of the fog pods. This allowed Reapers to permanently stay in Lost cities without succumbing to sickness. You could traverse these parts without a mask; you just couldn't stick around for long before growing bumps and hives all along your hands and joints. Masks also helped to block the stench. Bandanas were… acceptable, sort of.

"Bad," whined Díaz, "are we almost there?"

"We're getting close," Daisuke said, trudging through the streets. "Keep it down, Díaz. Lost like noise."

"Sorry."

They were going after a data tap that the scientist had put here a few weeks ago. It wasn't anything that required a full team, just Daisuke's hacking abilities and a bodyguard. It had all of the information that XCOM would need to find them, and it had specifically been built in a Lost city so ADVENT wouldn't waste any resources trying to find it first.

The building was, according to Central, an 'old Waffle House.' Daisuke didn't know what that meant. Díaz suggested it might be a pre-war thing; Daisuke wasn't sure. Central said there'd be a sign out front that said Waffle House, so they kept an eye out for that. All else failed; they'd use a sort-of-accurate tracker to find the access point.

From there, it'd just be a small amount of trickery on Daisuke's end, a nice little USB, and an extraction from the city. Easy.

They walked a bit further, and then Díaz nudged Daisuke and said, "Hey, do you think that's it?"

Daisuke looked. 

There was, indeed, a big ugly building a few blocks away that had a yellow trim with eroded, falling-off letters that read, "WAF L HO SE." What wasn't yellow was red, with big windows around the building. They were cracked and covered in muck. It matched the description.

"Yup." Daisuke sighed, relieved--his feet were beginning to hurt. It was a big city. Shockingly enough, a few lights were still on in the building (had Central joked about that to the Commander?), and Daisuke began to make a beeline toward it. "Come on. I don't wanna stay here any more than you do."

The Waffle House was surprisingly intact compared to the other buildings in the city. Dusty, sure, but not bad for a place untouched for twenty years. Daisuke opened the doors and, grinning, walked up to one of the booths.

The table had a closed laptop resting atop it. An expensive piece of equipment to just leave out in the city. When Daisuke sat down and opened it, the keyboard lit up and the screen began puking out a big series of code. Daisuke pulled off his gloves, cracked his knuckles, and got to work.

Hacking was not his favorite thing, but it came easily to him. While he usually followed the golden rule: "Never be good at something you don't like doing," Daisuke knew that this skill made him an asset to the Resistance, and assets did not die as often as non-assets did. Daisuke did enjoy living sometimes, so he practiced coding with Shen and the Specialists.

Díaz, upon Daisuke's request, stood guard. He looked outside, peering about for any Lost that the click-click-click of the keyboard might draw. He seemed a little weird about it. He took it way too seriously, as if a couple of Lost were going to kill them both. Evac was just a press of a button away, and Daisuke was having a pretty easy time with the code. It was meant to be broken, after all. It would only be a few more minutes before they'd have the information.

"Hey, Bad."

Daisuke ignored his bodyguard saying his name the first few times before he said, "Nakamura," which caught his attention. He looked up at Díaz, frowning.

"What," he hissed. "I'm almost done, what do you want?"

"Something's off," whispered Díaz. "It's gotten--it's gotten really quiet, Bad, I don't think we're alone out here--"

"We're fine," Daisuke snapped. "I'd know if something were wrong. Reapers always know."

Reapers, as it turned out, didn't always know. If Díaz hadn't yelped, grabbed Daisuke around the waist, and yanked him away from the laptop, the bullet would've ripped through Daisuke's internal organs like a knife through wet paper. Instead it struck his thigh.

Flesh tore. Bone broke. Daisuke sucked in a breath through his teeth, Díaz yelped, and a voice rang out through the air:

"You know, not many have dodged one of my bullets."

Daisuke knew that voice.

"Oh, no," Díaz said.

Daisuke shrieked, "Kuso!" as he clutched his thigh, his hand quickly becoming warm and wet with blood. He continued to curse as Díaz pulled him away from the window, propping him up behind the counter and taking rapid breaths. Díaz seemed more worried about the wound than Daisuke was.

"Kuso, kuso, kuso!" Daisuke writhed as Díaz added pressure to the wound, the pain growing unbearable as the man's much stronger hand squeezed the bloody hole in his thigh.

"What are you saying?!" Díaz cried. "Is that Japanese? What does that mean?!"

In an agonized and panicked haze, Daisuke grabbed Díaz's chubby face with one hand. They stared at each other for a moment, Daisuke's eyes brimming with tears and Díaz's lips puckered out by Daisuke's grip.

"FUCK," Daisuke said.

"Fuck," Díaz agreed.

"Get me the damn laptop," said Daisuke. "I want you to lay out some covering fire; once I get the USB, I'm calling evac."

"You're gonna hack while you're-- like this?"

"YES!" Daisuke shoved Díaz away. "Get the laptop! Covering fire! Now!"

Díaz didn't need more encouragement than that. He ran over to the booth with shocking speed for someone his size and grabbed the laptop. Then, shocking Daisuke further, he stuck his middle finger up toward where the bullet had come from, ran back to Daisuke, and gave him the laptop.

Daisuke's hands were trembling and his fingertips were slick with blood, but he kept trying to break the code. When the rat-tat-tat of Díaz's MSC began, focusing got a hell of a lot harder.

Another shot rang out, the distinct SHRAK of the Hunter's rifle. Daisuke couldn't help but peek over the top of the laptop's screen; he sighed in relief when he saw that Díaz was still standing unscathed. He looked back down, tried to continue, and froze.

He tapped the K key over and over. It didn't respond. Daisuke peered at it closely and seriously debated killing himself when he saw that his own damn blood had soaked beneath the key and probably rendered it useless.

Daisuke clenched his hands into fists, said, "Oh, fuck it," and snapped the laptop shut. "Díaz!" He began to stand up, slowly and shakily, with the computer tucked under his arm. "We're leaving!"

The gunfire stopped. Díaz ran forward as Daisuke leaned into his radio and shouted, "We need immediate evac; we've got the Hunter on our tails!" As Díaz tried to help him up, he snapped, "I can walk on my own," stuck his wounded leg under himself, and fell over upon trying to put pressure on it.

"People with their femurs visible do not walk on their own!" Díaz's voice had taken on a whiny, worried tone, and he put away his MSC, grabbed Daisuke, and tossed him over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. "When's evac?! You called it in, right?"

"Yes, I called in fucking evac!" Daisuke was barely keeping his grip on the laptop as Díaz began running unfairly fast for someone with a whole person on their shoulders. "It's gonna be here soon!"

"I'm coming as fast as I can," Firebrand said over Daisuke's radio, sounding calm because she was in a plane and didn't have a hole in her thigh and wasn't running for her life. "Setting down nearby. Setting up a flare for you boys. Having fun?"

"NO!" Daisuke shrieked. "No! We are not having fun!" He looked up, saw the blue of Firebrand's flares, and pointed furiously. "Díaz! Over there!"

Now, Daisuke may not have liked how anxious Díaz was all the time, or the orange of his armor, or basically anything about him. But he had to give the guy credit: when he ran, he fucking legged it. Díaz flew like a bat out of hell from the Waffle House, so fast it made Daisuke a bit sick. He had a hell of a time keeping ahold of the laptop with the way he bounced on Díaz's shoulders, let alone how much his leg hurt and the sheer amount of blood it leaked onto Díaz's armor. That was probably gonna stain.

By some miracle, Díaz outsped the Hunter. By 'miracle,' Daisuke meant 'adrenaline and a wounded man on his shoulders cursing at him.' They both staggered into the Skyranger, laptop somehow in tow, and laid down.

"Okay," Díaz wheezed. He was gasping for air. "Okay. Okay. That sucked."

"Cool, yeah," Daisuke sat up, groaning, and took his thigh in his hand, "tourniquette, please." When Díaz looked at him, confused, he pointed at his wounded leg and said again, "Tourniquette, please."

"Oh!" Díaz sat up, coughed into his elbow. "Oh, right, hang on--" He stood up, wiped his brow, and got the medkit. He sat down in front of Daisuke, looked at the wound, and said, "Yeah, this is gonna take a while."

Daisuke sat in silence for a moment. Then he said, "Díaz?"

Díaz looked up at him. "Uh… yeah?"

"Sorry."

He puked on Díaz, who went still as soon as he did. Daisuke snorted snot back up his nose and turned to spit on the ground. Then, he looked back at Díaz, who was still petrified, and laughed. "Dude," he said. "Gross, calorie packet puke."

Díaz made a loud squeaky sound that was not any word in any language.

Daisuke now knew that they would be very, very good friends.

Chapter Text

They made it back to the Avenger safely. An actual doctor (literally, it was Tygan, who had legal doctorates in chemistry and pharmacology) fixed up Daisuke's thigh, Díaz skittered off somewhere to have a panic attack, and Daisuke hit the showers.

Daisuke "Bad Company" Nakamura was a Reaper for fourteen years before his leader Volk sent him to join XCOM. He'd been serving Volk for as long as he could remember, and when the Commander stuck olive branches in each Faction leaders' hands and forced them to trade, they each sent one soldier to serve under XCOM's flag.

Daisuke was the Reaper. Reapers liked the shadows. They were stealth units: soft shoes and whispery dark clothing allowed them to duck past aliens without a sound. If you dragged them into the light--a rare and difficult feat to accomplish--they were a bit less valuable, but they carried rifles and explosives for a reason.

Daisuke was a wiry man: at the old age of twenty-three, he was already gathering more stress lines than most people in the city centers would have throughout their lives. He had sandy tan skin and a crop of poorly-kept black hair atop his head, only grown out so the rookies would stop making bald jokes about him. He had a nick across his pointy nose and a pretty gnarly scar up his jaw. Plain brown eyes, plain black hair. A (consensual) scar ran over his chest, horizontal, and his knobbly joints ached with every move he made.

He walked into the showers and heard the awful cacophony of voices that came with a bunch of healthy, bored soldiers who hadn't been on a mission in a week. There were about a dozen, some actually cleaning up, some just hanging around because the showers were the only place you could go without a shirt. A group of three were whipping each other with their towels; Daisuke stepped past them and sat down on the bench to unwrap the gauze around his leg.

When he dropped the towel and went into the showers, he saw the source of the operatic singing echoing through the whole room: Yvonne "Syrinx" Rivera, the Templar.

Templars were, in Daisuke's opinion, crazy people. Obsessed with Psionics to the point of literally pumping the shit into themselves with an IV, Templars were the only group of people that Daisuke could say legitimately terrified him. Psionics were insanely powerful, and Templars could channel theirs in ways that almost rivaled the most powerful of the aliens.

Rivera was… pleasant enough. She was tall, her long hair whitened from Psionics, and lithe with muscle. She was friendly, outgoing, and had plenty of friends on the Avenger. She was also responsible for the bane of Daisuke's existence: telenovela night. She had a huge box of VCRs, origins dubious, of hit telenovela Rosa Salvaje, which Rivera insisted on playing in the bunks on Sunday nights. She was also one of the cruelest people Daisuke had ever met: she had the highest kill count of anyone on the Avenger and enjoyed dissecting aliens with Tygan. She was insane.

Daisuke stepped into the shower, trying to keep his distance from Rivera. She didn't seem to notice him, too busy singing in--Spanish? Italian? Something, Rivera was far too proud of her education in opera--to catch the stealth of a Reaper. Daisuke was careful not to let running water hit the stitches and he didn't let soap touch the wound. He massaged soap into his hair, scrubbing until the suds ran white instead of brown, then washed the sweat and grime from his body.

He didn't stay in long; he never did--Daisuke had never known what his books described as a 'hot shower.' The water here was low-pressure and lukewarm. Shen was trying to devise a way to use the Avenger's reactor to heat the water without pumping it full of carcinogens, and Daisuke was kind of excited about it. As he walked past Rivera, currently vocalizing so hard that she placed her hand on her chest and stood on her toes like the music was something physical inside of her trying to burst from her chest, she noticed.

"Shit," Daisuke muttered as Rivera turned to look at him.

"Ohh, Daisuke!" She waved at him, as if they weren't only five feet apart. "Hey, Daisuke!"

Daisuke took a deep breath and without turning said, "How many times do I have to tell you not to call me that? It's Nakamura to you."

"If you can call me Yvonne, I can call you Daisuke."

This made Daisuke look at her, frustrated as always. "I never call you Yvonne," he snapped. "I call you Rivera. You call me Nakamura. Got it?"

Rivera turned her nose up at him with a rather arrogant hmph. Then, as if seeming to remember something, she looked back at him. "Daisuke," she said scoldingly, and Daisuke barely held himself back from strangling her. "Didn't Tygan tell you not to shower until your stitches came out?"

"No," Daisuke said. "He said I could shower with them. Mind your business."

Rivera's purple irises flashed, psionically. Daisuke rolled his eyes and walked away, ignoring her shouting after him, "You can't lie to me, Nakamura! I'm psychic!"

He dried himself off, gentle with the stitches, and tugged on a pair of boxers. He hated these public showers; if you stayed naked long enough, other soldiers saw fit to make comments about your genitals. Then he took out the bandages and antibiotics that Tygan had given him and began to fix up.

Out of the corner of Daisuke's eye, he saw Enmoor "Reckoner" Eim. XCOM's Skirmisher. The Skirmishers were a strange bunch, but Daisuke--unlike his fellow Reapers--respected them. Rogue ADVENT, Skirmishers were vicious, armed to the teeth, and weird-looking. Eim's skin was a rosy and weird pinkish hue. He had screws permanently stuck in the corner of his jaw and chin and huge, weird amber eyes, scars etched into his hairless, weird head. He had a flat and small nose and a weird anxious mouth. He did not like to talk to anyone except his rowdy friend Robertson.

Eim sat with the towel around his waist, warily staring at the showers. He did not like to shower with other people with him. His hands were like huge talons, rough and thick with dense nails like claws. He was ferocious on the battlefield. Now he sat with his shoulders hunched and a scar on the back of his neck, like he expected someone to strike him at any moment.

When Daisuke was done with his bandages, he stood up, cracked his back, and got smacked with a towel.

He furiously whipped around, ready to kick someone’s testicles back into their body, and realized he hadn’t been the intended target.

Laurie “Mr. Roboto” Hall and Caleb “Tom Sawyer” Hayes beat each other with their towels. Such as life goes. Hall was a Specialist: her genius was on par with Tygan’s, aided by a flying drone that accompanied her wherever she went. She was the team’s medic--Daisuke couldn’t count how many times she’d sewed him back together. She was blonde, hair cropped short in the back and left long in the front, and she was quite short. Daisuke liked her: an unlikely feat.

Hayes was a Sharpshooter. He was a callous asshole and Daisuke loved it. Nothing was funnier to Daisuke than quiet Caleb Hayes deciding to verbally end someone’s life at the dinner table. He had dark mahogany skin and cropped black hair he always kept shaved down. Long, thin limbs, not a scar on him, and a vicious sense of humor. Daisuke still laughed when he thought of the Depressed Wally Cleaver Lookin’-Ass Rant of 2033. He’d make a great Reaper.

“Oh, shit, my bad, Bad,” Hayes said, moments before Hall snapped her towel forward and came inches from rendering him sterile. “Laurie, I hit Bad! At least let me apologize.”

Hayes always referred to Daisuke by either ‘Nakamura’ or ‘Bad.’ He was the only one who did this without complaining or tripping over his words. Daisuke couldn’t tell you how much he appreciated that.

Hall didn’t let up, spurring Hayes to growl, “Alright, that’s it, c’mere!” Daisuke sighed and turned away, tugging up his slacks and wrestling a shirt on over his head. He pretended not to hear Hall pleading for him to help her as he trudged over to his locker. He grabbed his toothbrush and toothpaste, walking over to the sink.

He waited patiently for Denise “Night” Robertson to get done with washing her hands--one of the only Rangers that had survived the job for longer than two months. She was loud. Daisuke respected her talents, but God, she was loud. After living more than half of his life in the near-silent camps of the Reapers, the noise Robertson made was… a lot to handle. Only God knew why Eim decided she was best friend material. She wasn’t unfriendly, but she minded her own--loud--business. It was almost painful for Daisuke. She was, however, the only one coming even close to beating Rivera’s kill count, and her shotgun had a nick in it for every alien she killed--some kind of personal thing that Daisuke left the fuck alone--and he thought that kicked ass. The sword was the same.

When she was done, she turned around, wiped her mouth for no discernable reason, and looked Daisuke up and down. Then she said, loudly, “You should share your toothpaste. Not fair you’re the only one with minty breath.”

Daisuke flinched at every other syllable, because her mouth sounding out consonants was like bullets being ejected from their shells. He looked at his ADVENT brand toothpaste. He’d snagged it on a mission in the act of petty theft while darting through an apartment complex. Big difference between XCOM toothpaste and ADVENT toothpaste: XCOM toothpaste tasted like water that had a slab of pork soaking in it for a few hours. ADVENT toothpaste tasted like mint. Daisuke did not share.

“Get your own,” Daisuke said. “It’s not hard. We hit convenience stores all the time.”

Robertson snickered, clapping a hand on Daisuke’s shoulder. “I like the way you think,” she said, stepping around him. When she saw the towel fight, she shouted, “Oh, hell, Caleb, you’re gonna kill her!” and ran off.

Daisuke didn’t pay attention. He got a bit of toothpaste onto his brush and ran it under water. As he walked to the toilet stall, he began brushing his teeth. His gums had a bad habit of bleeding when he didn’t do it for a while, and he’d been off on a Covert Op, so it was likely he would spit up more blood than toothpaste. He did his business, getting the backs of his teeth as he did, and went back to the sink.

The towel fighting had stopped, likely due to Robertson’s intervention. Hayes was patting aftershave onto his face--another highly coveted luxury that Hayes practically defended with his life--and Hall was trimming her toenails. Daisuke spat out the expected blood, washed his mouth out, and put his things back in his locker. Rivera had disappeared, likely back to the bunks, and Eim had skittered into her place, currently speeding through a shower like staying in for more than five minutes would magically kill him. Daisuke rolled his eyes, put on some deodorant, and left the restrooms, probably to go down to the mess hall and put something more than calorie mush in his stomach.

He picked furiously at a hangnail as he waited for the access lift, trying not to make it bleed. When the doors opened, he heard a very familiar voice peep: “Oh!”

Daisuke looked up. The rickety doors had opened to reveal none other than Carlos “T.N.T.” Díaz, XCOM’s not-so-finest Grenadier.

Grenadiers were… well, you already knew a bit about them. The tanks of XCOM’s forces. They carried machine guns that hurt Daisuke’s back to lift and a healthy supply of grenades. Some were meant to be heavy hitters--like Díaz was--and others were meant to be huge human sponges soaking up damage while the rest of the team hit back. Either way, they still had the thickest armor and the biggest guns in XCOM, so they could do a bit of both no matter what they specialized in. Daisuke honestly didn’t know much about Díaz, other than the fact that he had, like, sixteen different anxiety disorders and got away with flipping off a Chosen. So far, he liked Díaz.

“Bad!” Daisuke’s opinion of Díaz got a bit more favorable when Díaz unquestioningly called him ‘Bad’ instead of ‘Daisuke.’ It then returned to normal when he followed that up with, “I haven’t gotten a chance to apologize to you yet!”

Daisuke stepped into the access lift next to Díaz because while he wasn’t entirely in the mood to listen to his new friend tell him all about how sorry he was, stairs were a big no-no right now. He continued picking at his hangnail as Díaz went on and on: “I mean, you put me on watch, and I completely screwed that up. I mean, maybe I’m not giving myself enough credit; I did pull you away… well. Anyway, I just want you to know that I’m sorry I got you shot.”

“Uh huh,” Daisuke said, not really listening. The hangnail was being a little bitch and he just trimmed his nails yesterday; he couldn’t get a good grip on it. “It’s, uh…” He frowned, peering closer at his fingertip. “Fine…”

“Oh, good.” Díaz tipped his head, sniffing the air. “Did you… shower? Didn’t you just get your wound stitched up?”

“Yeah,” Daisuke said. “Whatever.”

Díaz blinked. “Whatever?” he echoed, seeming confused. “Are you… sure, that’s something to just ‘whatever’ about?”

“Yep.” Daisuke muttered furiously under his breath as he scraped and scraped at the awful piece of skin. “Dude, come on…”

“I mean, should you even be walking on that?”

“Maybe. Tygan let me leave the Infirmary on my own, so… probably.”

Daisuke had grown tired of the hangnail. Furiously, he brought it up to his teeth, bit down, and ripped it out. It hurt and it bled, but Daisuke had a hole in his thigh and this really wasn’t much at all. He huffed, allowing himself the small win, and spat out the skin.

The lift shuddered to a stop and the rickety doors opened with an awful shreeeeek. Daisuke stepped out, Díaz on his tail--he was usually a fast walker, but the stitches slowed him down to Díaz’s pace. “I’m going to the mess hall,” he offered after a moment of silence. He didn’t say anything else; asking people to the cafeteria was weird.

“Oh,” Díaz said, and in an epitome of politeness: “Would you mind if I joined you? I’m a little hungry myself.”

“Whatever you want, Díaz,” Daisuke sighed. “I don’t care.” This sounded rude but was a ringing endorsement from Daisuke: usually when people asked him to the mess hall, a good response was a ‘no’ and a bad response was a ‘fuck off, no.’ Daisuke was in an okay mood, though, so Díaz got to accompany him through the halls.

Not quite to the cafeteria, though. Just when Daisuke was about to congratulate himself for walking this far without any sudden stinging pains, the comms crackled to life, and Central’s bored, tobacco-worn voice said, “Daisuke Nakamura, you’re wanted in the Infirmary. Daisuke Nakamura to the Infirmary.”

Daisuke stopped in his tracks, clapped his hands over his face, and dragged them down his cheeks as he groaned at the ceiling. “God fucking dammit,” he said. “Rivera told on me, I fucking know she told on me.”

Díaz looked at him funny. Fair enough. “For…?”

“UGHHH. SHOWERING.”

“Which you weren’t--”

“Which I wasn’t supposed to do,” Daisuke said mockingly, “yeah, I get it.” He turned around, closed his eyes--first random stinging pain of the wound--and walked back to the elevator. Díaz seemed to somehow notice his moment of despair, skittering back to his side.

“Hey, hey.” He placed a hand on Daisuke’s shoulder, and when Daisuke shied away from the touch, he didn’t force it. Another tally in the Things Díaz Did That I Appreciate book. “Are you okay? Do you need help up to the Infirmary?”

“No,” Daisuke said through gritted teeth. “I’m fine.”

Díaz seemed to squirm with indecision. He blurted after a moment, “Are you sure? You look like you’re in a lot of pain all of a sudden.”

He wasn’t wrong. Almost as if Central’s voice had summoned it, pain began to pulse through Daisuke’s leg, becoming more vicious by the moment. Daisuke chewed on his lip; torn between not wanting to show his belly and… well, agony. Finally he firmly said, “Walk me there,” as if saying it harshly enough would make it a demand and not a plea.

Díaz nodded, remaining wordless. Daisuke hated every fucking second of the walk, even though Díaz really was being quite pleasant about it, not saying anything and keeping his hands off Daisuke. He was fully prepared to throttle Díaz if he said anything condescending about how a Reaper like Daisuke let his guard down, stitches or no stitches.

But Díaz was quiet. He walked next to Daisuke, paused when Daisuke paused, and in the lift, the lack of movement seemed to calm down Daisuke's overdramatic nerve endings. From there, it was a short walk. Before the doors of the Infirmary, where Daisuke was sure to get lectured by Tygan for straining himself too much, Díaz nodded to Daisuke and said, “Get better soon.” And: “Do you want some food? I’m going to the cafeteria anyway.”

Daisuke laughed an airy laugh. “You mean it?”

“Sure.” Díaz shrugged. He seemed to have calmed down significantly since the mission, though he still wiggled his fingers and idly picked under his nails and at his dreadlocks. They were damn well-kept. “What do you want?”

“Whatever they have that’s easy on the stomach.” Daisuke turned, waving over his shoulder. “Meet me in the bunks. Thanks.”

The Infirmary was… well, the doctor’s office of XCOM. The person who worked there, named Jan Weber (the J was pronounced like a Y because the English language was fucking bullshit), was someone Daisuke hated with a passion. He was a snooty, arrogant man who didn’t know what personal space was--Daisuke hated to be touched, and when he snapped at Weber for being too handsy, Weber told him that he was just being sensitive. Sensitive. If it weren’t for the laws of the Avenger, Daisuke would’ve pinned Weber to a gurney and torn the throat from Weber’s neck with his teeth.

The Commander probably wouldn’t like that, so Daisuke settled for sprinkling Chryssalid poison in Weber’s food the next day. Not enough to kill, but enough to give him some pretty nasty cysts.

Weber was tending to someone else, leaving Daisuke at the tender, merciful hands of Chief Scientific Officer Richard Tygan. Tygan was a lanky man; he had dark skin and anxious brown eyes hidden behind a pair of thick square glasses, and he was… Skirmisher-adjacent. According to Central, he’d ripped out his own implant: took a scalpel and hacked up the back of his head, dug his fingers into the mess, and pulled out the fat, ugly chip ADVENT had put in him. When Daisuke asked, Tygan described the process as ‘traumatic and stringy.’ Stringy? Daisuke was not a squeamish man, but he didn’t like the mental image that put into his head.

The man was currently hunched over some paperwork on the far desk, frantically itching the back of his neck. Daisuke had always wondered about that habit. He sat down on one of the gurneys and cleared his throat to get Tygan’s attention.

Tygan’s gaze was disapproving to say the least. He sighed, pushed his glasses up, and walked over to Daisuke with his hands neatly folded behind his back. “Nakamura,” he said. “Yvonne says you were showering.”

“Did she?” Daisuke tilted his head. “I don’t remember showering.”

Daisuke had long since stopped trying to lie to Tygan, with his psychic assistant on standby to pull the truth from his head. Tygan sighed, massaging his temples with one hand. “Do you have an excuse?”

Daisuke frowned, crossing his arms. “Okay, I know I wasn’t supposed to, but I just came off a week-long Covert Op that ended with me puking on myself. I was stinky. Cut me some slack.”

Tygan sat down across from Daisuke in one of those uncomfortable metal office chairs. He clasped his hands considerately, then said, “I understand that. If I had known how much you needed a shower, I’m sure Weber would’ve been happy to aid you.”

“Fat chance,” Daisuke snapped. “I can shower on my own. I didn’t let soap touch it, I didn’t let the stream hit the wound. It’s fine.”

“And what happened last time you took a shower immediately after you had a wound stitched up? Tell me what you contracted.”

Daisuke was quiet for a moment. Then he mumbled, “Sepsis.”

With steepled fingers, Tygan continued, “And what did I have to do?”

“Give me the sepsis shot.”

“And how much did you like the sepsis shot--”

“I fucking hated the sepsis shot,” Daisuke said. “Okay. I get it. I’m sorry I showered, but honestly, if you want people to stop showering after they get surgery? Get someone who doesn’t give awkward impromptu back massages. It’s weird.” And, after a moment: “And find some other way to cure sepsis. That shot feels like the wrath of God.”

Tygan sighed. “I know. I know. But we have limited resources.” He leaned forward, closing his eyes. “Alright. I will let this one instance slide, if only because keeping hygienic is important for a wound to heal.” He stood up, sighing. “You’re dismissed. Make sure you’re eating and resting properly.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Daisuke stood up, cracking his back. “Tell Yvonne to start minding her own business.”

“I have tried.”

Daisuke was halfway out the door when Tygan called after him, “Oh! The Commander wants you. Go to the Geoscape.”

He sighed heavily, rubbing his face. “Awesome,” he muttered. “Just fucking awesome.”

So he went up to the Geoscape--the beating heart and pulsing brain of XCOM. He liked it up there: it was always quiet, but not silent, the sound of keyboards and quiet muttering and machines slowly beeping making for some good white noise. The light was blue from the giant holographic globe projected in the center--hence the name ‘Geoscape’--that had all sorts of little markers on it. The Commander spent most of his time up there, as did Central.

At the very top of the Avenger, a specific button in the lifts led to the Geoscape and the Commander’s and Central’s quarters--though nobody went there but their respective owners. If the Geoscape was the heart and brain of XCOM, then Central and the Commander were XCOM’s guiding hands. They put everything together, worked hard to make things click, molded the impossible into the possible.

Daisuke stepped out of the lift and into the Geoscape. His two bosses were currently minding their business, and as he watched, Central, contemplating a computer, said, “Commander, the aliens continue to make progress on the Avatar Project--”

The Commander threw an empty mug at him. Deftly, without flinching, Central caught it an inch away from his face and continued, “If we want to slow them down, we’ll have to move fast.” Then he looked at the mug, tilting his head. “Do you want some more coffee? You’ve been awake for a while.”

“Hm.” The Commander, staring at the Geoscape, turned to Central. “Yes, that’d be nice. Make it interesting for me.”

The scariest thing about Central and the Commander was how average they looked. If you wiped the big scar from Central’s face and returned the Commander to his pre-Psionic state, they looked like people you’d expect to see shooting the shit and going to football games. Daisuke knew better. According to the Commander, Central once beat a Muton to death with a fire extinguisher, and the Commander himself was such a tactical genius that the aliens were practically shitting themselves trying to get him back to their clutches.

Daisuke had heard the story a million times. Twenty years ago, at the start of the war, XCOM was in its infancy. The aliens were slaughtering millions, indiscriminate. Nuclear weaponry had been proven useless against them: no matter how many were killed, more of them came back in their place. XCOM was Earth’s only hope against the aliens, and they came close to winning once and for all. The Commander had mastered psionics, as did a few soldiers, and that was proving to be the only effective weapon against the aliens.

Then the old base was attacked. The Commander’s memories of the assault were hazy, and Central only told his part of the story in bits and pieces. Long story short: XCOM fell. Central came an inch away from death, the old head scientist disappeared, and they got the Commander.

XCOM died that day.

Central, for an unspecified number of years, spiraled. Fair enough. From the bits and pieces he’d heard, Daisuke thought that spiraling was a perfectly reasonable reaction to the situation. Losing his closest friends, losing his base, watching authoritarian aliens take over the planet? Daisuke would’ve done the same thing. Hope seemed lost to Central.

Then resistance cells started popping up. When he was out hunting, Konstantin Volikov’s parents were killed by ADVENT: the Reapers were born. A mysterious figure named Geist mastered psionics in a way that nobody had ever heard of, and the Templars came to be. An ADVENT Commander’s chip malfunctioned, Betos saw her world for the first time, and the first Skirmisher got really pissed off. Volk found Central bleeding and puking in a ditch, brought him in, and suddenly, seeing all of the people willing to fight the aliens, something relit.

The man began to gather forces. Lily Shen, an old friend’s daughter with a knack for robotics. Richard Tygan, a rogue ADVENT scientist who had seen the horrors the aliens wrought on the world. Jane Kelly, a bitingly vicious teenager who wanted the aliens gone at any cost. A few hardy soldiers like Kelly and the Reapers--the force Central gathered over the years was nothing to sneeze at.

Then something happened--something huge. A Skirmisher, newly freed, had a piece of vital information about a certain… facility in New Toronto. She gave it to the Reapers, who sent notoriously sneaky Elena “Outrider” Dragunova to check it out, and lo and behold: they found the Commander. It was the first time the Skirmishers and Reapers had even come close to working together.

Central, according to Shen, was like a rabid dog on a worn leash with the way he wanted the Commander out of ADVENT’s clutches. Apparently, they’d been using the poor guy’s mind for their own soldiers: put a chip the size of Daisuke’s hand into his brain and kept him locked up, mind-controlled, in a hazmat suit for twenty years. Central gathered up his toughest, meanest forces and broke into the Commander’s holding place.

It wasn’t without casualties. People got killed and wounded assaulting the facility. But Central, with three bullets in his gut, busted down a door and found a big vat full of bubbling thick liquid. Floating in that liquid, unconscious for twenty years, was the Commander.

Central broke open the container and--Daisuke will remind you of the three gunshot wounds--carried the Commander to the Skyranger. They packed up and got the absolute fuck out of dodge.

Tygan then, under the most intense pressure Daisuke thought any man on the planet had ever withstood, took the chip out of the Commander’s skull. The fact that the Commander survived was proof that there was a God, and it was merciful.

The Commander’s return wasn’t instantaneous. He had to work his way up from once-a-day Reaper calorie packets, which he could barely digest, to actual meals. Physical therapy was a must: Tygan said that his muscles were almost entirely atrophied, to the point where he couldn’t stand up for twenty seconds without collapsing. And, of course, mental recovery. Daisuke probably didn’t need to tell you how necessary that was.

And once the Commander was back to full strength, XCOM was, too.

Daisuke leaned up against one of the terminals, watching Central go over to the coffee machine with the same mug that had almost given him a black eye. He was in charge of all the small stuff required to keep the Resistance moving--the boring stuff. He talked to people, handled the paperwork, got the Commander coffee, and ‘made it special’ (put booze in it). He was pretty old, too, especially for someone in the Resistance. At 55, he was the world’s most justified alcoholic. PTSD? Check. Overworked? Check. Only one person whose jokes he actually laughed at? Check. Daisuke felt bad for the guy.

Physically, though (besides his liver), he wasn’t that bad, considering his age and occupation. He was tall and broad, muscular. He had a short crop of brown hair and a nasty scar up his cheek that he never liked to talk about the origins of. He wore a simple green uniform, though he always lamented that it wasn’t as comfortable as his old sweater. Daisuke didn’t know what that meant.

The Commander turned to face Daisuke. The man behind it all. He was in charge of doing important things: leading missions from the Avenger using his psionic capability and ordering what got built and researched. He made the big decisions. He was also responsible for getting the Factions to stop killing each other, which Daisuke would admit was good.

His hair was white, his eyes were purple, and he was a little thinner than one might think, but he was otherwise an utterly ordinary-looking person. He was of average height, had average brown skin, and a big nose. It was easy to underestimate him, just like Daisuke had. However, the Commander was not only a battlefield expert, but he was psionically sensitive. His capability was average when he’d been captured, but he’d gone from just sensitive to insanely talented after his twenty-year dormancy. Tygan estimated that his psionic capability was equal to that of an Elder’s, who were pretty fucking psionically capable. 

“Nakamura,” the Commander said with a smile. “Hello!”

“Commander,” Daisuke said. “What do you need me for? Another Covert Op?”

“Oh, no, nothing like that.” The Commander stepped down from the Geoscape, folding his arms neatly behind his back. He was unfairly friendly for someone with so much power. “I just wanted you to know that Shen was able to fix up the laptop you recovered.”

“Cool.” Daisuke peered over the Commander’s shoulder, watching Central take out an unknown substance in a shady bottle and dump a shot’s worth of it into the Commander’s coffee. “And?”

“And we have the scientist here.” The Commander turned to the side and spread his arm like he was showing Daisuke something fancy. It was just a woman, tall and black-haired, who was fiddling with a tablet. “She wanted to thank you.”

Oh, great. Daisuke looked at the scientist, who perked up when she saw him. He remained quiet as she rushed up to him, sticking out her hand.

“You must be Daisuke,” she said. Daisuke sighed, too tired to correct her. “Thank you for recovering the laptop I left for you. I heard you took a bullet to the thigh during the mission, and I’d like to extend my sincerest apologies. I didn’t realize you’d be in that much danger on that mission.”

Daisuke shrugged. “Nobody did.”

“Well. Thank you.” The lady retracted her hand after Daisuke didn’t take up her offer on the handshake. “That’s all I wanted.” She looked at the Commander. “I’m going to report to the laboratory, if that’s alright?”

“That’s what you’re here for,” said the Commander. “Go ahead.”

Once she was gone and the Commander had his coffee, Daisuke was subject to two piercing, disapproving gazes. He scowled at both the Commander and Central. “What?”

“At least be nice,” Central grumbled. “It’s the least you could do.”

“I was nice.”

“Nakamura,” the Commander said gently, “next time, just… shake the hand that’s offered, okay?”

Daisuke scoffed, rolling his eyes. “I don’t like to be touched,” he snapped. “Leave me alone about it, okay? I was nice enough.”

The Commander and Central exchanged looks. Daisuke didn’t like that; it felt like he was being berated by his parents. “Bad Company,” the Commander sighed eventually. “I guess I did have a reason for giving you that name. Why don’t you go rest up that leg?”

Daisuke sighed, turning and leaving. He hated to deal with those two. Daisuke thought old people should all be shot.

He went back down to the bunks, finally, after all that background introspection he had to give you. He took the lift one floor down and got to the living quarters, his home at the Avenger.

There were a couple of rooms, each consisting of six bunks, a few couches, and a table in the center. Daisuke was the inhabitant of Bunk 4 in Room 2. He liked it there: it was a bottom bunk, and the curtain he could pull over his little hole in the wall was just about the greatest thing that had ever happened to him. He had all of his stuff shoved under his bunk (he needed to clean that out sometime, something in there was starting to smell pretty bad) except his books, his cassettes, and his Walkman. Those were his fucking treasures, and he’d never put them where they could be damaged or stolen.

Díaz apparently hadn’t gotten food yet, or he didn’t know where Daisuke bunked. Either was a reasonable assumption. Daisuke decided to actually take the whole ‘get some rest’ thing to heart: he got out his Walkman and the latest book he’d ‘legally acquired.’ It was called 1984, and it was, like, super banned. Central’s eyes had bugged out of his head when he’d seen that Daisuke found a copy of it. He said that even before ADVENT, 1984 was testy in a lot of places, but when the authoritarian aliens found out about the book, banned turned into burned turned into illegal. Seeing how completely fucking criminal it was to even talk about 1984 in public, it had become coveted outside of city centers, and Daisuke just so happened to… find a copy in a Resistance camp.

Daisuke was what some called a ‘bookworm.’ He was not a bookworm by choice. Options for entertaining himself around the Avenger were slim, and Daisuke did not always enjoy partaking in most of these options. These included but were not limited to: talking to his comrades, getting freaky with his comrades, watching VCR (that always tended to turn into a group thing anyway), and doing busywork around the Avenger. You could also train, which Daisuke did enjoy, but you could only train for so long before you needed to rest.

Reading was the best choice for Daisuke. It was a solo activity, it was quiet, and he could do it for however long he liked. The best part was that he could tuck himself into his bunk, close the curtain, and flick on the overhead light. Reading was escaping from this world--both the terrors of the circumstances he lived in and the people around him. Nobody bothered Daisuke when he was reading.

He also had his Walkman. It was, according to Central, an ancient piece of technology, and that was apparently a good thing: it required fewer repairs, and when it did need fixing up, it was usually something Shen could do in about five minutes. Along with it was a pair of headphones that rendered the outside world completely null when paired with a book. Daisuke had a pretty solid collection of cassettes, too, and Central (when he was feeling generous) let Daisuke borrow some of his.

Most of Daisuke’s tapes were albums. He had a total of thirteen, and only one was custom. His favorite (besides the custom one) was probably the one by the Sex Pistols. 

Daisuke didn’t feel like that one, though. He felt like the custom cassette: it was plain black, and the wheels were a bit worn from how much Daisuke had fiddled with it before he got his Walkman. In fading black pen, Shitty Little Daisuke was written on the white part. He grabbed his book and his music, closed the locker, and climbed into his bunk.

Settling down, he put the tape in, put the headphones on, and leaned back, closing his eyes. The start of the cassette was always his favorite.

“おーい、大くん！ このミックステープを楽しんでもらえたらと思います. 早く家に帰れるようになりたいです. あなたは素晴らしいから、それを絶対に忘れないでね.”

The voice faded. The cassette whirred. Nights in White Satin started up.

Daisuke didn’t sing along, but he tapped his finger against the back of his neck as he opened his book. He got ready to read, and almost as if God stuck its middle finger up at him, the curtain was ripped open. He was used to it at this point: he closed his eyes, shut his book, and set it aside. Then he turned to look at who had opened up his curtain.

Oh! His favorite person. Leticia “Echoes” Flores. The sarcasm was real: Flores and Daisuke had a shaky, shaky peace between them, and when that inevitably broke, it would all go to hell.

The unease had been present ever since Flores had called Daisuke an edgelord when they first met. Daisuke was, admittedly, a huge edgelord, and a bit of a douche at that, but he didn’t like the way Flores had said it, so he’d whacked her on the shoulder. This, of course, escalated to a full-on, hair-pulling, bite-marking fight, which Central had to break up.

Then, when Daisuke was about ready to forgive Flores, she’d made up a story about how Daisuke once ate a human baby, which was… obviously untrue. Also: a dickish thing to say to a Reaper. Also: it pissed Daisuke off really badly. He confronted her in the mess hall, she once again called him some names, this time more… offensive, and once again they fought. 

And finally, the last, last, last straw, the straw that broke Daisuke’s composure, was when she stole his custom cassette and hid it from him for two weeks. In case you couldn’t tell, Daisuke was very fond of that cassette, and when he’d gone to his locker one day and found it gone, he’d been devastated. He wasn’t sure if Flores actually knew that he’d be so upset, but he was, and it fueled his hate for her.

Rivera had been the one to find it. Well, not find it, per se, but she poked around in some brains and discovered a pretty shifty memory of Flores’. She then searched Flores’ locker and, lo and behold, found Daisuke’s tape.

The Commander (and maybe Rivera, if she’d paid close enough attention to Daisuke’s brain) knew why Daisuke loved the tape so much, so he gave Flores a month’s worth of dish duty for stealing it. Daisuke was not satisfied. He was so furious that she would stoop this low, to take something she knew was precious to Daisuke, that he fought her: this time with a knife.

In hindsight, while she deserved it, a more subtle measure was probably the better idea. She was stronger than him, but he was faster, so he ended up putting a pretty ugly scar on her face before Central wrestled the knife out of his hands and held him down until he cooled off. In short, to say Daisuke was angry was the understatement of a lifetime.

But enough of that. The tape incident had been a few weeks ago, and Flores seemed to at least feel bad about it, so he didn’t take it any further. He glared up at her, frustrated, and said, “What.”

Flores didn’t respond. Instead she turned to look behind her and said, “Yeah, this is his little hidey-hole.” Daisuke loathed 'hidey-hole'. “Don’t let him hurt you.”

“Uh, I don’t think he will.” When Flores stepped aside, she revealed Díaz, holding a tray of food and a bowl on the side. “Hey, Bad.”

“Oh. Hey.” Daisuke swung his legs over the side of the bed, standing up. Flores walked away (thank God), and Díaz rubbed the back of his neck, looking bashful. “What did you bring me?”

Díaz, looking quite embarrassed, held out the bowl he was carrying. Daisuke took it, peered into it, and saw…

“Dude,” he said. “Peas? That’s it?”

“The kitchen staff didn’t believe me when I said I was getting food for you!” The way Díaz held his tray reminded Daisuke of a schoolkid who didn’t know where to sit: embarrassed and shy. “I tried really hard to convince them, I swear, but they just gave me a bowl of peas and told me to come up with a better lie.” He added after a moment: “And called me a fatass.”

Daisuke looked at the peas. He didn’t hate the way they tasted, but he’d always thought they looked like a little bunch of tumors you’d see growing on a Lost.

He tightened his grip on the bowl, physically feeling his mood getting worse, and walked past Díaz toward the door. When the man didn’t follow, he paused, looked over his shoulder, and said, “Well?” as he gestured toward the halls. “I’m getting my food. C’mon.”

Díaz blinked, seeming disbelieving, before he set his tray aside and skittered after Daisuke as he made his way down to the mess hall.

Chapter Text

Daisuke never ate his meals in the cafeteria for a few reasons.

The other soldiers were the main reason. Daisuke didn't like to be watched while he ate, and he liked making conversation while he ate even less. Food fights were common, and Daisuke always got caught in the crossfire, which meant laundry day. He always sat by himself, making him feel lonely, though he never wanted to sit with anyone.

The cooks were also complete bitches. Daisuke didn't know why they were like that, but they were. They liked to call you too fat or skinny and call you a pussy for not eating certain foods. Daisuke fucking hated the taste and texture of egg whites, but not the yolks, and they always called him wasteful and rude for it. Assholes.

He trudged into the mess halls, Díaz becoming more anxiety than person, and saw the stupid prick who had probably been the one to refuse Díaz more food.

There were two options Daisuke could've taken at that moment. The first was being a reasonable, kind person: he could easily have just walked up to the counter and demanded an apology. The other was to be an unreasonable douche and do something rash.

What did you take Daisuke for? He grabbed the baked potato off of someone's plate and chucked it as hard as he could at the lunch lady. It smacked her in the head and exploded. The person whose food just became weaponry yelped, the lady yelped louder, and Daisuke stormed up to her and grabbed her by the collar.

"Are you fucking serious?!" he shouted. "Everyone knows I got shot on that Covert Op! Everyone! It is perfectly reasonable for someone to get food for me!"

The woman hadn't entirely processed what Daisuke had thrown at her, or that Daisuke had thrown something in the first place. Blinking, she stared down at him and said, "What?"

"You heard what I said," Daisuke snarled, even though he knew there was a good chance she hadn't actually heard what he said. It just felt good to say. "Get me something more than peas."

In shock, the woman complied. She had a bunch of potato on her face, which Daisuke was starting to feel bad about. Maybe there was a grain of truth in Central saying he needed to work on his anger issues. Daisuke huffed, folded his arms, and leaned up against the table.

Someone peeped, "What the fuck… my potato," and Díaz said something back to them that Daisuke couldn't quite catch. Probably an apology. This prompted him to turn to look at Díaz.

He immediately felt terrible. He should've left Díaz upstairs to eat his own food; he hadn't seemed too bothered. His face was now a bright red color, he was violently chewing his lip, and his obsessive twitching started up again. He was hooking his thumbs into his belt loops, then unhooking, and hooking again. Tapping his foot, staring wildly about. In hindsight, this was not a great place to drop Díaz and his anxiety into, and making such a scene was probably even worse.

He sighed, deciding that Central was definitely right to suggest Daisuke go to anger management.

"Sorry," Daisuke said.

"What?"

They'd left the cafeteria. Daisuke had gotten his food and made the lunch lady apologize to Díaz for calling him a fatass, and they'd both stormed off. Well, Daisuke stormed off. Díaz skittered.

They were sitting at the table in Daisuke's room, eating their food. Daisuke had decided to pipe up after the silence had extended far beyond normal, comfortable quiet.

"I said I'm sorry," he muttered, picking at his own, unsplattered baked potato. "I didn't think I'd get so mad. I'm sorry I made a scene."

"Oh." Díaz blinked. "Uh… it's fine, I guess." He stirred his peas. "I don't know. It was stressful, but I'll live." Then he looked back up at Daisuke, a look on his face that Daisuke couldn't decipher, though it made him squirm nonetheless. "I didn't really expect you to make the woman apologize for insulting me, though. That was nice."

Daisuke's insides turned suddenly to stone. He rolled his eyes and said, "Don't think about it," even though he knew he would be thinking about it for a very long time. "You got me food. I made her apologize. Fair trade, right?"

Díaz smiled. "Guess it is."

Unsure of what to do with that, Daisuke turned back to his food and kept eating. Díaz gave him a funny look for it.

Apparently unfinished torturing Daisuke with small-talk, Díaz said, "Did Tygan get really mad at you?"

Daisuke shrugged. "No," he sighed, "but he did give vague threats about the sepsis shot."

Díaz seemed familiar with the dreaded sepsis shot, tensing and giving Daisuke a pitying look. "Sheesh. That's almost worse than him being mad at you, huh?"

"Almost?" Daisuke scoffed. "No, that's for sure worse than him being mad. I'll assume you've had it."

"Twice." Díaz grinned as Daisuke gave him an impressed look. "Doesn't get any better the second time around, I'll tell you that." He nodded, seeming to think. "Yeah, I got sent out on a mission once, and some unlucky shots got me stuck in a Viper cloud. Commander told me to get out of there so I'd stop breathing the stuff in, and right when I thought I was safe--boom! A Chryssalid jumped out from the ground and cut me up."

Daisuke noticed that Díaz had a very slight, near-unnoticeable accent. He wouldn't have caught it if the man hadn't pronounced the first syllable of Chryssalid so oddly. Díaz rolled his Rs and hung on the I a bit longer than usual. Daisuke wondered where that came from--he'd spent years masking his own accent so people would quit making remarks about it. Maybe Díaz had done the same.

Daisuke felt like that'd be a weird thing to bring up in everyday conversation, so instead, he said, "That sucks. I got my sepsis shot after I got my tetanus shot."

"Tetanus?" Fuck, Díaz really did have an accent. Daisuke would never unhear it.

"Yep," Daisuke said, popping the P. "Fucking sucked."

"I can imagine." Díaz was eating ravenously. Daisuke wondered if he'd gotten food after the Covert Operation; he tore through the chicken like he'd been starved for days. With his mouth still full (gross), he continued, "Yeah, Tygan says it's so painful because it's a really big needle and a lot of fluid. He wants to develop a better cure for it, but the Commander is putting a bunch of work on him and he can't focus on that." Díaz thought for a moment. "I wonder why so many of us get sepsis. Central says it was rare in the old world."

"Dunno."

"I bet it's because we're all in such poor health," Díaz said, pointing with his fork. "Underfed, worked too hard. You know; Resistance soldiers and all that."

"Probably."

Díaz was quiet for too long. Daisuke finally looked up at him and found himself subject to the most piercingly mopey eyes he'd ever seen. It felt like Díaz was physically pinning Daisuke with his eyeballs. After two of the most uncomfortable seconds of Daisuke's life, he forced out, "Dude, what? Quit staring."

"You don't talk." Díaz leaned in closer. Daisuke leaned back as he did. "Like, at all."

"I'm not talkative," he retorted quickly. "Anyone can tell you that."

"Are you…" Díaz's gaze became remarkably glum. "Are you listening to me?"

Daisuke scoffed. "Yeah, of course I'm listening. You were telling me about, like," he put on an impression of Díaz he knew was terrible, "Ohh, yes, we all get sepsis because, like, all of us are one moment from dying of scurvy." He dropped the voice and said, "I'm listening, Díaz."

"Don't do that impression of me," Díaz said. "That stung."

Daisuke snickered, hiding his smile behind his hand. "Sorry," he said, not sorry at all. "You know it's never my intention to offend."

Díaz pouted, which made Daisuke feel a little bad. He scoffed, rolled his eyes, and said, "Alright, alright. Maybe it was a bit rude of me." He gave Díaz a side-eyed look. "But I tried with the accent."

"Accent…?" Díaz blinked, a liar's blush climbing up his neck. "I don't, uh… fuck. Okay, how did you know?"

"You say 'Chryssalid' funny." Daisuke sat back. "What is it? Sounds like Spanish."

"Italian," Díaz said, sheepish. "It's my first language." Suddenly, giving Daisuke a bit of a shock, he let go of the American mask and said, in an accent so thick it could've popped out of a Jello mold, "I got tired of people asking me to say mozzarella."

"Huh." Daisuke chuckled. "Well, I got tired of people mocking me. East Asian accents are really easy prey." He stabbed his baked potato with much more force than probably necessary. "It took me fucking years to figure it out. At least your second language has all the consonants English has. Japanese doesn't have, like, half of them."

"Really?" Díaz tipped his head, curious. Daisuke thought Díaz acted like a very large fawn. "Does Japanese not have English consonants?"

"No Ls, no Fs." Daisuke ate a bit of his potato. He wasn't hungry, but he didn't like letting the food go to waste. "I also had to practice ending words on consonants. But that's a problem with Italian, too. Right?"

"Right. I'm always tempted to put an A between some words." Díaz sighed. "What was wrong with my Chryssalid pronunciation?"

Daisuke helped Díaz out with pronouncing Chryssalid, told him to practice, and excused himself to bed. He felt like he deserved it, after all that small-talk.

Daisuke had been asleep for three hours. As a Reaper, he was a light sleeper, and he woke up in fright in the middle of the night. He checked the time on his tablet. Ten o'clock at night.

He peeked out of his curtain. Nobody was there. He wondered what woke him up--maybe his wound? But it didn't hurt.

Daisuke sighed and curled back up in his bed, closing his eyes. There he sat, for a pretty good chunk of time, flowing in and out of a light doze.

Then he heard it. Squeak squeak squeak squeak.

Oh, damn.

Daisuke was used to it at this point. The dirty humor. The inexplicable ass-swatting. The eyes the other soldiers made at each other. Didn't mean he liked it. He would've had anyone who decided to get nasty in the bunks executed by a firing squad if he could've. It would've solved so many problems, given Daisuke back so many hours of sleep.

But no. Central, when Daisuke suggested it, had said, "Something something, we can't exercise the death penalty when we have, like, 14 soldiers on deck," which was admittedly a fair point, but it still pissed Daisuke off. Then the Commander said, "It's good for morale," which made Daisuke nauseous and Central turn a furious red color.

He wouldn't have cared if people did it in private. It was their choice, and as long as Daisuke was in no way a part of it, he didn't care. But by doing it in the same room as him, while he was sleeping? He was involved.

So he got fucking involved.

Daisuke pulled the pocket revolver out from his pillowcase and silently stepped into the center of the room. He held his pistol up to the ceiling and shot twice into the other three holes that he'd made before.

The squeaking stopped.

"Stop fucking when I'm sleeping," Daisuke snarled.

Then he retreated into his bunk and slept like a baby for the rest of the night.

He spent the rest of the week recovering from the gunshot wound (and getting yelled at by Central for putting another two holes into the bunk's ceiling). He spent that time finishing up 1984. Daisuke liked to read, but he was by no means a good reader. It often took him a month to finish reading a book and a few more reads to understand what had happened.

Daisuke hadn't received a formal education, and the English script was difficult to decipher. One of the Reapers had taught it to him when he first joined, but at no point did he learn how to actually analyze text.

Rivera, being a Templar, was well-educated, and she liked to talk to Daisuke about his books. This was the only time he would tolerate conversation with her. She agreed to borrow Daisuke's novels in exchange for her… talking to him about it. As in, giving him her analysis of it, which usually blew his mind with how good it was. She liked to hear his thoughts about the books, too, though he didn't like to give them. He'd like to say it was for a good reason, but really, he just felt like an idiot when she gave him a vocal essay about the themes and messages of the book and he responded with, 'Uh, I thought this character was cool and I liked the way this scene was written'. 

(Once, he'd actually impressed her, and he was very ashamed of how prideful the subsequent praise made him feel. He'd walked around the ship with his chest pumped up and a smile on his face for the rest of the week. It was not because he genuinely admired Rivera's intellect.)

When he finally turned the book's final page, feeling very sad about it, he decided to read a happier novel. So he went to Rivera with his options, and after poring over them for a moment, she exclaimed, "Oh! You have a copy of Sunshine! That's a wonderful book!"

Unfortunately, by the time Daisuke actually had time to read a book, he was back on the roster, and the Commander sent him out on a mission.

The roster consisted of six, including Daisuke. Eim, the Skirmisher, and Flores, the Grenadier, to hit the aliens hard. (Daisuke wished it was Díaz and not Flores.) Hayes, the Sniper, and Rivera, the Templar, to provide support. Daisuke to scout, and Hall and her drone to hack the objective.

Bet you can't guess how well the mission went.

"I don't think they saw me," Daisuke said.

The mission had started horribly. The Skyranger dropped them off atop a building, and upon jumping off the edge to approach a group of ADVENT Hayes had spotted, Hall spooked a bunch of civilians. ADVENT heard them squeaking and shouting, saw Hall, and went on red alert.

One big, ugly red MEC had done its awful watch stance, poised like a cobra and waiting for someone to make a wrong move so it could blast them to pieces. The Captain ducked behind a car whose engine would probably be very easy to blow up. The Lancer ran into a building and hid in a corner.

With his beautiful red rifle, Hayes put a bullet into the MEC. It sputtered, stepped backward, and paused, code rushing to control the damage. The way was safe: Daisuke dashed forward, hugged the corner of a building, and peeked out from behind it. He had a pretty good shot at the car's engine.

Daisuke sent a Psionic message to the Commander. This was how the man took care of the field: a small Psionic connection to each soldier. It allowed him to issue quick orders and respond to requests efficiently. At first, it'd creeped him out to have someone talking in his head, but he quickly got used to it and learned to appreciate it.

The Commander gave him the go-to. Daisuke stuck his hunting rifle out from the corner of the building, peered through the scope, and took a deep breath to stabilize.

The cars ADVENT made were pretty poorly designed. They had a little pipe that made the whole car explode if you hit it just right. Daisuke liked to take advantage of this: he pulled the trigger, the bullet found the pipe, and the Captain got a face full of shrapnel as the engine blew up.

Daisuke uttered the fateful words: "I don't think they saw me."

He watched Rivera charge up to the wounded Captain and spear it through with her purple blades. Flores took a shot at the Lancer, and Daisuke (quite understandably) thought that the dozens of bullets tore it to bits. Eim grappled up to a nearby building and filled the MEC with lead; it fell over, unmoving. Hall moved up, and Daisuke moved with her.

God stuck its middle finger up at him. The Lancer, somehow still alive, intercepted him halfway through, and he barely got the chance to yelp, "Oh, fuck, they saw me!" before the sword was out, crackling with energy.

The Lancer stabbed forward and Daisuke dodged to the left. It slashed down at him and he tucked into a roll. He skittered to stand up and oh, fuck, he misstepped.

Being evil for absolutely no reason, his stitches suddenly decided it was time to start hurting. The moment he flinched from the pain, he just sort of accepted his fate and hoped that it wouldn't hurt too badly.

But it was a Stun Lancer, and Stun Lancers liked to make your life miserable, so when the shock lance jabbed his chest, it really did feel like the woe of the Elders. It wasn't the sword itself that hurt, it was the electricity that crackled along the length of it. With a yelp that kind of sounded like 'REGUGH,' Daisuke's muscles all spasmed at once, a giant's huge hand took his heart and held it still, and he fell on his ass.

His vision went white, then black, then white again. His chest felt like someone had pressed a hot iron to it for minutes. His heart didn't feel like it was beating anymore--or, wait, was it beating anymore? Daisuke genuinely couldn't tell, but he wouldn't be surprised if it wasn't.

Through the ringing in his ears, the Commander's voice said, "Hall! Get to Bad, the Lancer's alive. Bad, talk to me."

Daisuke said, "Urk."

"Keep talking. Or making noises. Just keep conscious; we can't afford to leave you behind." Gunfire rang out all around him and he just twitched on the ground, his rifle dropped to his left. It took him a second, but finally, he got his diaphragm to respond to his commands and his lungs snapped open. He didn't like it, and it hurt pretty bad, but he thought it was better than suffocating to death.

The world, previously a muddy grey color with tiny sparks of color sometimes making their appearances, became more colorful when Hall leaned over him.

"I think they saw you," she said.

Daisuke gasped in a breath, held it for a moment, and in a spluttery exhale: "Fuggoff."

Once Hall gave him a little jolt from her bot and a bit of restorative mist, Daisuke got back up on his feet, not feeling super good but slipping back into the shadows. He didn't do much else in the mission; the Commander didn't want him to get any more hurt than he already was.

Of course, nobody else even got close to injury. Just Daisuke. Totally not embarrassing or anything. Not like that hurt his ego at all. 

Then Hall made him peel off his jacket to show her the wound, and everyone in the plane winced, and no longer did he feel embarrassed. The mark actually looked kind of cool. From the initial jab, an awful yellow blister just right of his breastbone, came odd, swirling, almost plant-looking burns tracing down each rib and edging up to his collarbone. Like, it fucking hurt and Daisuke wished it didn't happen, but it was… honestly kind of interesting.

Then Hall gave them a friendly little poke, Daisuke yelped at the sudden pain, and Hayes, the asshole he was, laughed at him. If he weren't completely fucked up, Daisuke would've gone over and wrecked Hayes' shit. He decided instead to flick him off and maybe poison him later.

"Oh, Jesus," Hall muttered. "You got hit bad."

"No." Daisuke gave her the most indignant look he could manage. "Not like I wasn't on the ground making fucking--caveman noises for a minute and a half. Not like I have fucking--" he gestured vaguely-- "fern scars all over me--"

"Bad," Hall said, remarkably calm. "Shut up."

"You shut up--"

"Nakamura." Hall held a stern finger up, and against all odds, Daisuke kept his mouth shut. "I'm not asking you to be quiet because you're annoying me. You are annoying me, but you also need to quit breathing so hard. Deep breaths."

Daisuke, face hot, huffed and held still.

Finally, tucked neatly into the safety of leather and cloth, Daisuke skittered off the Skyranger and into the Infirmary.

Which left him at the mercy of Jan Weber, who was the worst. Weber's hands were too cold, and he kept them on Daisuke for too long, and his voice was really creepy, too. He kept shushing Daisuke and patting his arm as he dabbed antibiotics on his burns. Daisuke hated that. Daisuke hated Weber.

Mercy came to him in the form of dozing off after Weber finished. Mercy left him in the form of someone poking his arm until he stirred and looked over.

Central looked at him. Last person he expected; he'd honestly been thinking it was Díaz, considering how Díaz… acted. But he found himself mildly disappointed to see the old fart. Daisuke could never decipher the look on Central's face; it was too resting-bitchy. He always looked one bad day away from launching himself out of the airlock.

"Bad Company," Central said, voice toneless, "the Commander would like to apologize for your injury." And, a bit more normal, "And I would, too. Didn't see the Lancer."

"Whatever," Daisuke croaked. "Didn't die. Wanna know how you can apologize?"

Central's mood visibly soured. "How."

"Lemme borrow your Aerosmith: Greatest Hits cassette."

"Fuck. Fine."

Central left for a few minutes, then brought back Daisuke's Walkman and a tape without its title card. Daisuke tried not to look smug so Central didn't clobber him. He got his cassette, curled up in bed, and put on his headphones, trying yet again to go to sleep.

And, once again, he woke up. This time to the feeling of someone watching him. This time, when Daisuke rolled over and pulled off his headphones, it was Rivera. Fuck.

"Daisuke," she said all sing-songy, "how are you? Hall said you were here."

Daisuke huffed, folding his arms. "I'm fine," he mumbled. "Why did Hall tell you where I was?" And: "Please don't call me that."

"Because I want to visit you, silly!" Rivera's smile was dazzlingly white and straight. She flossed religiously. "We're friends, and we never got to talk about 1984."

"We're not friends," Daisuke said. They were probably friends.

Rivera rolled her eyes. "Okay, Daisuke, whatever you say." She leaned forward, smiling like Daisuke was a very old friend and not someone she'd only met two months ago. Daisuke had killed a Templar, and he had no doubt that Rivera had killed a Reaper or two. Or, fuck, probably a million. She was unreasonably nice. "What did you think of the book?"

"Fuckin' sad." Daisuke picked at his nails, not meeting Rivera's eyes. "It was awful. But I can definitely see why it was banned." He laughed dryly. "Probably wasn't meant to be a relatable book. But here we are."

"Excellent," Rivera said. Daisuke had no idea why she insisted on trying to teach him literature analysis, but against all odds, he couldn't say that he minded. She actually made him feel smart, and while he usually found Rivera obnoxious, these conversations were, honestly, a treat. "Are you excited for Sunshine?"

Daisuke scoffed. "As long as it's not that fucking depressing. And easier to read."

"Sunshine is a lot easier to read than 1984," Rivera confirmed. "Something tells me you want to go to bed now, hm?"

"Stop reading my fucking mind."

Rivera left. Daisuke took a deep breath, snuggled back into his blankets, and tucked them up to his chin with his hands. "Doctor!"

Weber turned and looked at him with a rather frightened look.

"Turn on my night light."

Chapter Text

Central and the Commander had a system of jokes. Central didn't laugh at other peoples' jokes, but something about the Commander made him crack up.

They'd been friends for a while. Daisuke was unsure for how long. Long enough to be comfortable bunking with each other, which Daisuke wasn't sure he'd ever be comfortable doing with anyone. They were a generation before ADVENT and had a sense of humor to match.

Daisuke was minding his own business in the Geoscape, filling out an AAR on his shock lance burn when he overheard the Commander and Central talking. "Wanna know what I miss?"

"What do you miss, Central?"

Central sighed. Daisuke looked over his shoulder at the old geezer, watching him gulp down coffee like it'd kill him if he didn't. "I miss the Chiefs." He placed a hand on his hip, observing the Geoscape. "I miss football."

"God, same." The Commander twirled his pencil, staring at the big blue globe with the same wistful eyes Central did. "Remember when we went and saw the Chiefs in '04?"

They looked at each other for a moment. Then, for no reason that Daisuke could tell, a laugh bubbled up in the Commander's chest. Central's giggle sounded frat boy-ish. Eventually, for some indiscernible reason, they were both bent over with laughter.

The Chiefs were an old 'football team.' Daisuke did not know what football was, but Central and the Commander talked about it a lot, like a widow would talk about her dead husband. They frequently talked about how the Chiefs would've won the championships if the aliens hadn't come in and how they would die specifically because they stopped the whole season. That was the stupidest thing Daisuke had ever heard.

He wished he had his Walkman. He turned from Central and the Commander, losing it over the summer of '04, and back to his AAR.

After-Action Reports, or AARs, were just about the most boring things known to humankind. You wrote down what happened in the mission, noting anything unique, and if you sustained injuries, what caused them. Daisuke was almost done with his, talking about how this shock lance was much worse than last time's. He had to fill out a certain amount of words, too--500 in total--so he put in a lot of bullshit and fillers.

Central and the Commander were finally cooling off when Daisuke left the bridge. He was trudging back to his bunk to grab his painkillers when that telltale "Oh!" went off behind him. He sighed, slouched a bit, and tried to be friendly as he turned to Díaz.

"Hey," he said, trying to sound more enthusiastic than he was.

Díaz skittered to Daisuke's side and, mercifully, continued walking. Daisuke much preferred to walk and talk. It kept his brain busy. "I heard about your injury. What happened?"

Daisuke gestured to his stiff-muscled chest. "Stun Lancer," he said. "Thought Flores killed it. She didn't. It ran out, saw me, gave me a nice little jab." 

"That sucks." Díaz stepped into the elevator. "Still stuck in here, huh?"

"Yep." Daisuke placed his hand on the railings, catching his breath. "Was a few days away from using the stairs. My old stitches also ripped, which made me stagger, which… y'know." He sighed. "Now I've got three weeks in this rickety old hunk of shit. If I die in this elevator I'm haunting Shen."

Díaz laughed. It'd been a while since someone had found Daisuke's jokes funny. He could get used to it.

"Where are you going?" Daisuke asked, only to fill the silence.

Díaz lit up. Almost literally--he went from normal, a bit amused, to smiling and sparkly-eyed in less than a second. "To the phones," he chirped, "to call my family."

"Oh." The elevator's doors shrieked open; Daisuke stepped out, eager to escape the death trap. "That's cool."

"Yeah." Daisuke followed Díaz. He didn't have much else better to do. "My nonnina--" the Italian accent leaped when Díaz said the word-- "and my little cousin Gianna."

Daisuke blinked. "Uh. Define nonnina."

"My grandma." Díaz smiled. "She's so lovely. I think she'd like you."

Daisuke's face grew warm at that. "That's cool."

Díaz continued, "And my little cousin lives with her." His face grew a bit sadder. "My ma and pa, and my cousin's ma, they, uh… aren't with us anymore." He sighed, crossing his arms. "But, what's happened, happened. I'll live with who I've got."

"Sucks about your parents."

"What about you?" Díaz asked, wheeling the conversation around on Daisuke. "Do you have anyone with the Reapers? Or in the camps?"

They walked into the cafeteria--the phones were all there, tucked into the corner away from the tables. You could only speak for five minutes for safety's sake, but those five minutes were precious to some people.

"I can't use the phones," said Daisuke. "Reapers don't take transmissions unless they're critical to our operations."

"Oh." Díaz looked sad about that. Daisuke didn't know why. "I'm sorry. Don't you ever miss your friends?"

"I didn't have a lot of friends in the Reapers."

"Family?" Díaz was pressing very hard, and Daisuke would smack him silly for it. "You have to have someone, right?"

Finally, Daisuke blurted, "I have a sister."

Díaz seemed satisfied with that. He asked, "She's a Reaper?" When Daisuke nodded, he continued, "What's her name?"

"Sayaka." Daisuke was squirming with discomfort. "Older. She--uh, she's older by seven years." When Díaz opened his mouth, Daisuke rushed to interrupt, "I don't have parents. I don't have aunts or uncles or grandparents. Just my sister."

Díaz frowned. "What happened to your parents? And all your family?"

"I didn't know them," Daisuke said with a shrug. "My sister said they were real pieces of shit. We ran away when she was fourteen and I was seven. We've, uh, been stuck at the hip ever since. Then I got sent off to XCOM." He folded his arms, rapped his fingers on the fabric of his jacket, and: "The tape Flores stole was from her."

"Oh." Díaz seemed normal about it for a moment, then his eyes widened. "Ohh! That's why you lost your shit about it, huh?"

"Yeah."

"Dude, I had no idea it was your sister's."

"And nobody else should." Daisuke stuck a finger up at Díaz. "Don't fucking tell anyone."

"I wouldn't. Promise."

The line moved up. Whoever had been talking on the phone got done, hung up, and walked off to get food. Díaz smiled, said, "Your sister sounds great," and grabbed the phone.

Not knowing what to do with that, Daisuke turned on his heel and walked off. He shouldn't have said so much.

Three weeks passed. Holy shit, you would not believe how much it sucked to sit around doing buttfuck nothing for three weeks straight.

Finally, fucking finally, after sitting around, talking to Díaz, arguing with Flores, reading, reading some more, considering pushing Bradford out the airlock for the fun of it, he got assigned another mission.

The Commander selected him and Caleb Hayes to gather some loot from an old building. It was a Covert Op, because the last actual mission went so fucking well. Daisuke was excited. He liked Hayes.

All excitement faded when he was told the Operation was in a city center. Daisuke had never been to a city center unless he was on a mission, and he thought they were boring, minimalist, and overall just the worst. The Commander said they were better than old cities because of the walking space. Daisuke decided he hated cities overall.

Central forged them a couple hundred credits to make it through the three-day trip and recommended they find some better clothes. Daisuke had no idea where he would find 'better clothes.' He thought his civvies were fine.

Hayes had other opinions on Daisuke's civvies, though. When he brought it up, Hayes said they made Daisuke look suspicious. Daisuke figured that the XCOM insignia on one of his shirts probably wasn't helping his case.

Because he was actually intelligent, the Commander recommended Daisuke and Hayes go outside to the Resistance camp they were settled in and ask if there was any spare clothing. Daisuke did not enjoy it, but he obeyed. He wished he could just wear his cloak without sticking out like a sore thumb.

Hayes gave him one rule when he went out to pick out his clothes: don't look like a Reaper. Daisuke did not like the rule, so he broke it.

There was an old, patched-up black jean jacket that one of the citizen's brothers used to wear that Daisuke took, swearing to return it in one piece. The patches were old as hell, the stitches were beginning to wear out, and some were covering up holes, but Daisuke liked it. He found a few plain black t-shirts, one with a cartoonish skull. Some ripped-up black jeans. Black boots. Are you sensing a pattern?

Upon Daisuke returning with no color except a red patch on the back of the jacket, Hayes stormed back to the camp and grabbed him a yellow shirt. Daisuke liked yellow, so he supposed it was okay.

Then the Skyranger dropped them off in a Resistance camp, who lent them a nice car and gave them directions to the city they'd been assigned to.

They wouldn't be caught. Central, who had illegally lived in a city center for years, knew how to forge their identity cards and wire them some totally-legitimate money. But Daisuke was still nervous. He'd never--for lack of a better term, he'd never really been a civilian. He didn't know how to act.

Hayes did, though. Hayes was a crazy motherfucker before he joined XCOM. The dude had been a race car driver and had done some insane things with the car before he drove off into the distance and decided he liked guns better than cars. 'Insane things' included vehicular manslaughter. He'd since gotten plastic surgery to hide his identity.

"This sucks," Daisuke grumbled as they drove into the city. He was curled up in the passenger seat--he couldn't remember the last time he'd been in a car. He had liked the jean jacket; it was cozy and a nice semblance of his old cloak back on the Avenger. He kicked his feet up onto the dashboard. "I didn't realize it'd be in a city center."

"Alright, first, feet off the dash." Daisuke took his feet off the dash. Hayes continued, "Second, it'll be good for you. If this war ends and you're alive, we can't just drop you into civilization without conditioning you to it first. It's like letting two cats sniff at each other through a door."

"Fuck off, it's too loud already and we're not even at the checkpoint." Daisuke pulled at the sleeves of the jacket. Hayes had made him wear the yellow shirt, which was bothering him. Too tight in the shoulders. "And what kind of fucking cats do you have that sniff each other through the door?"

"Oh, right, you Reapers eat cats, don't you?" When Daisuke smacked him for the comment, Hayes laughed. "I'm just fucking with you, calm down. We're almost there."

"What are we gonna do when we get there?" Daisuke leaned his head against the window, looking out at the landscape. It was all foresty and quiet, greener than gemstones. Brown in places, too, but mostly that twinkly veridian. The road was well-paved, though they'd only passed a few other cars along the way. Daisuke really liked this part. He hoped against all hope that he'd like the city center as much.

"I'm gonna take a leak, first of all," Hayes said. "Jesus, I've gotta pee. Then we're gonna check into our hotel. Officially, this is a tourism trip." He gestured to the map Daisuke had been obsessively reading the whole two hours he'd been sitting still. "If you look at the map, you can probably find the museum Central bought us tickets for. Unfortunately, we will have to go to said museum, which is ADVENT-run, which means it's just a building full of propaganda."

"Awesome," Daisuke sighed. "So cool."

"Right?" Hayes rolled his eyes. "God, I like you, you know? You're such a bitch. It's amazing."

Daisuke smiled.

For the first month he'd been with XCOM, Hayes had been the closest thing he'd had to a friend. And Daisuke, loathing to admit it, had been quite lonely at the time.

God, Daisuke didn't like to think about it, and he didn't think he'd ever say it out loud for fear of just saying fuck it and committing ritualistic Reaper-style suicide for it. But, horribly and against his will, he'd been very attracted to Hayes. 

To be fair, Daisuke was pretty sure everyone was attracted to Hayes. He was clean-cut and smelled nice, the only man on the Avenger to maintain both things at once. He had weirdly elegant features for someone so crude: a diamond-shaped face, smooth features, and a deep voice. He had a grace to his actions, like the whole world was fighting to move and he was the only exception; he was funny and smart and a hell of a shot. He was also the nicest douchebag Daisuke had ever met. He'd once called Daisuke by his first name, and when Daisuke told him not to, he just… didn't do it again. He sided with Daisuke when he got upset with Flores for taking his cassette. He respected basic boundaries.

Daisuke wasn't, like, in love with him. God, no, Daisuke wasn't sure he could feel romantic love; he'd never once felt anything like it, not like his books or his sister described it. He just thought Hayes was hot. There was never anything more.

When Daisuke actually settled in, it'd faded a bit. It didn't go away, but it wasn't as strong. No longer did he wear his mask around the base so he could look at Hayes without anyone seeing where his eyes were pointed. When Hayes spoke to him, his heart didn't spaz out in his chest. He didn't have to skip the romantic songs on his tapes so he wouldn't think about Hayes. But--still there.

Which was why he smiled when Hayes said he enjoyed his bitching. "Yeah, well," Daisuke folded his arms, completely unable to sit still, "what can I say? Reapers don't hide opinions."

"I should've been a Reaper." Hayes turned to him, a twinkle in his narrow amber eyes. "Any way you can, like, indoctrinate me? Honorarily?"

Daisuke snorted. "Maybe. Do anything honorarily lately?"

"Huh." Hayes actually thought about it. Oh, God, was Daisuke really gonna have to figure out if he could make someone an honorary Reaper? "Saved a few civvies in an ADVENT retaliation." A pause. "Let Rivera talk Shakespeare to me all night long."

"That's…" Daisuke gave Hayes a look. "Did you have to say it like that?"

"Yep," Hayes said, popping the P. "Whatever. That's the most honorable thing anyone's ever done since Central didn't strangle a rookie after she called him a DILF."

"Ew, what?"

"Yeah. I'll tell you later, we're almost at the checkpoint." Hayes turned back to the road. "Let me do all the talking. I have experience with ADVENT officers, I know what to say. If they ask, I'll say you don't speak English and that you're my very nice, pleasant friend." He side-eyed Daisuke. "And lose the jacket."

"What?" Daisuke pulled it closer. "No. It's comfortable."

"Don't care." Hayes leaned over and began to pull at it; Daisuke fought back. "Come on, you little fucker, it's suspicious. You can put it back on later, just not at this checkpoint."

Daisuke resisted for a bit longer before Hayes gave him a glare that could've liquefied steel. Then he took it off and sat on it.

When they reached the checkpoint, a gate just outside city limits, Hayes put the car in park, rolled down the window, and waited. Then an ADVENT Trooper came up and started to talk--its language was weird and vaguely English, but not easy to understand. According to Hayes, it was a mix of the region's primary language and the aliens' language, and you had to learn the alien bits, or you were SOL. Hayes spoke back, handed over some documents, and gestured to Daisuke.

It was weird to see a Trooper look at him without any aggression. It felt like a weirdly normal interaction: it peered in through the window, tilted its head in some semblance of curiosity, and… just looked. It didn't raise its weapon or begin to shout. The way it looked at Daisuke made him squirm.

Eventually, it stood up straight again and made a gesture with its hand. Daisuke tried not to make a face as Hayes waved politely. The bar keeping them from driving into the city unapproved lifted, and Hayes slowly drove through, the car's wheels going thump-thump as they went over the bump.

As soon as they were out of sight of the Troopers, Daisuke asked, "Why didn't they search us? Isn't that what they do?"

"No, not usually," said Hayes. "Especially not if we have our totally legal citizenships. We're just two guys passing between cities. We took the highway, too."

"Shit." Daisuke looked out the window. "That works for me."

Hayes wasn't driving as fast now, and it gave Daisuke time to look around: they were going through some kind of suburban area; lots of houses. The landscape, of course, became less and less green the further they went. Little hut-looking things made of glass were scattered around, and Daisuke watched, curious, as a huge, rectangular vehicle stopped at one of the huts. The people waiting there climbed in, and a few left, too. When Daisuke asked Hayes about it, he said it was a 'bus stop.' Public transportation.

What caught Daisuke's attention was the way the place was laid out. In Rivera's telenovelas, many beat-up roads went every which way. Here they were sparse, though smooth, and replaced with grass: yards for homes, sidewalks leading through the greenery. And there were people out there: well-fed, happy, healthy people with kids, smiling and playing with each other. No scars. No injuries. It reminded Daisuke of the Reaper camps, except staying around fog pods for too long made you infertile, and the people here weren't spindly or bony or ripped-up. Even the cooking reminded Daisuke of his camps. One woman tended to a grill, and people she didn't even seem to recognize were gathering. She was handing the food over happily.

Something about the sight made Daisuke deeply sad.

Then Hayes drove past, and the people all disappeared behind a tall wooden house. Daisuke found himself tipping his head to try and catch sight of the people once more.

"You like it here?" Hayes asked. "It's nice, ain't it?"

"Yeah." Daisuke settled back down into his seat. "Reminds me of the Reapers."

Hayes gave him a sideways glance. "Does it? Seems a bit cheery to be a Reaper thing. Thought you were all fucked-up."

"No, we aren't." Daisuke picked at his nails. "We… well, Reapers don't really survive on our own. We survive through numbers and stealth, and when you have numbers, you have community." Daisuke sighed. "We used to have campfires."

"Campfires," Hayes echoed, amused. "Really? Did you roast marshmallows?"

Daisuke wrinkled his nose. "I don't know what that means. Probably not." When Hayes rolled his eyes, Daisuke said, "We had Chryssalid. Chryssalid's really tasty when you eat it with butter."

Hayes made a gagging sound; Daisuke shot up in his seat, indignant. "Seriously! It's a fucking delicacy with the Reapers! When we get a Chryssalid, it's fine dining."

"They're deadly. They kill people." 

"And," Daisuke pointed at Hayes, "they're tasty as fuck." He glared at his shitty driver. "You haven't even tried it."

"Whatever."

Hayes pulled into a big building. It took Daisuke a minute to realize what it was: a parking garage. It was cramped, claustrophobic, and Daisuke hated every second of it. Every time Hayes made a turn, he expected the car to go scrape and alarms to go off. Daisuke knew he would've done that if it were him driving.

Then Hayes and his titanium balls looked at a horribly tight parking space, said, "Think I can make that?" and didn't bother waiting for a response before jerking the wheel and pulling in. Daisuke's heart leaped into his throat, but the car fit like a glove.

"Alright!" Hayes pushed on the funny knob in the center and took the keys out of their socket. The engine and its noisy humming went quiet. "We're here. Follow me, I think I know where our hotel is. Grab your stuff, too."

Daisuke grabbed his jacket and tugged it on. He squeezed out of the car--Hayes had parked in literally the tightest spot possible, great--and slung his totally-not-suspicious black duffel bag over his shoulder. In it were all manners of pistols, hacking materials, a crowbar, and some yummy, yummy calorie cans. Cans, this time, which Hayes was probably going to call him disgusting for. He was still pissed about the Chryssalid conversation.

They walked for a few blocks (Daisuke caught a few weird looks for his bag and jacket) until they checked into a sorta-nice hotel. Hayes wanted to 'save his money,' so they shared one room. It was awful, but they did get to buy dinner from the local diner. Daisuke avoided meat like the plague.

That night, Daisuke found himself unable to sleep for several reasons.

One: the beds were too soft. The sheets were unreasonably tight and smooth. There were two pillows. It was a big bed, and Daisuke couldn't decide where he wanted to settle in.

Two: Hayes was snoring. He snored like the wrath of God; it sounded like a fucking buzzsaw. Daisuke's crush on him evaporated.

Three: Daisuke couldn't stop thinking about how he was right in the middle of enemy territory. They'd gotten in without an issue, and they hadn't once been questioned, but it was unnerving.

Four: he could not stop thinking about the scene he'd seen driving into the city. The grill. It reminded him too much of home, of the people there. Of sitting with his comrades, watching the fire crackle, helping the older Reapers with bad wrists mush up flour paste for the calorie packets.

The bedsheets were too hot. Daisuke sat with one arm hooked behind his head and one over his chest, staring up at the dark ceiling. The air conditioning pumped frigid, dry air into the room, scorching his nostrils and eyes. Idle sounds came from outside, car horns and dogs barking. Hayes snored to the left, horrifically loud; footsteps came from outside, and light peeked in from the cracks in the door.

Daisuke, wide awake, thought about his Walkman and his sister.

Hayes was pissed off that Daisuke didn't sleep at all but didn't end up caring. The museum tickets were that day, and neither Daisuke nor Hayes wanted to go.

They walked there. The city was tranquil: it was nine in the morning, and there were a lot of pedestrians and buses, but no cars. Hayes looked generic with his khakis and Hawaiian shirt draped over a black shirt. Daisuke looked like an asshole with his ripped blue jeans and skull tee and jacket.

The museum was about a half hour's walk away. Hayes talked about getting food afterward or hitting a corner store and picking up some instant meals. Daisuke didn't care--he was a Reaper; he'd gone for days at a time without eating and would be fine without food. Hayes didn't like that idea. He decided they'd go to a store afterward.

The museum was a big bland building full of propaganda. It was about how pathetic humans were before ADVENT took over, and while some of it was true, they didn't go over anything but the bad stuff. The Commander talked a lot about political corruption, but also about activism and friendship and intelligent people making cool things. Central often spoke about how most people were just trying to get by, oppressed by oligarchs and politicians. This museum made the average human being out to be monstrous before the aliens.

Daisuke stuck to Hayes' side as the clump of tourists and the dead-eyed tour guide walked through the place, gesturing to artifacts and making broad blanket statements like, "Humanity created the atom bomb, and everyone was ready to use it," or "All of humanity contributed to global warming."

To be absolutely, one-hundred percent fair, ADVENT was doing a better job than old human politicians seemed to be doing. They were cohesive and, while corrupt, did not actually show it to the public. They appeared, on the outside, to care about humanity and Earth.

But, Daisuke also found it pretty ironic that ADVENT had a whole museum on how bad humans were for the environment when Daisuke lived in cities with dark, dry clouds hanging over them all day, every day, filled with zombies. And the Chryssalid problem: the creatures' rapid evolution to wiggle out from under the Elder's thumb and use Earth as their new breeding ground. Both were introduced by the Elders, which were all-powerful, corrupt, and…

Daisuke had a lot of opinions about people in power.

The museum sucked overall. Daisuke was glad to leave and planned on blowing it up eventually. Hayes had them stop at a corner store and pick up some godawful microwave meals. Daisuke was furious that the shop didn't sell cigarettes, but he did pick up some weird craft brews. He didn't trust them or their ingredient list, but he needed at least something to take the edge off. Hayes wanted them, too.

They went back to the shitty hotel. Daisuke sprawled out over his unmade bed as Hayes started to make whatever awful shit he picked up at the grocery. The moment he hit the bed, he inhaled, held it, and let it out in a long, loud sigh. "That," he said, "sucked."

"Can't disagree." Hayes leaned up on the counter with his arms crossed. The microwave hummed. "We still have two days to do whatever, plus the rest of today. I think we should plan them out now."

"Good idea." Daisuke rolled onto his back and propped his head upon the too-soft pillow to look up at Hayes. "Central's intel says the stuff's gonna be in a warehouse near the museum. I saw it on the way back here; we should check that out."

"I saw it, too," Hayes opened the microwave as it beeped and pulled out some weird-smelling stuff, "and I think you're right. We should do that today, we've still got plenty of time left."

Daisuke stood up, walking over to the table as Hayes set the two plastic trays in front of each of the two chairs. He wasn't going to complain about any type of food; sometimes, if food got scarce with the Reapers, they'd scrape bark off trees to keep the kids and the elderly from starving. This was nowhere close to bark, though in a way it looked less appetizing. It had a lump of pale meat lying in a puddle of strange, viscous beige liquid, a pile of bleached corn the liquid was seeping into, and an unidentifiable white slop sitting in the corner.

"Huh," he said, taking the little plastic fork that had come with it and giving it a quick poke to check for anything living. When nothing popped out, he began to eat.

Hayes watched him with the same curiosity you'd watch a coyote kill a bird: 99% contempt, 1% disgust. Daisuke didn't really care; he'd learned that if you didn't like a food, you never ate it slow--you ate it as fast as possible. The meat was dry, and the yellow stuff had a strong taste that Daisuke despised, but it was food and you never, ever wasted food.

Daisuke dove into the deep end. Hayes tip-toed. He picked suspiciously at the potatoes. He dabbed his fork in the liquid and tasted it. He ate one single kernel of corn. Daisuke was done with his by the time Hayes had gathered the strength to take a full bite of the meat; he tossed the container in the trash and curled up in his bed.

"I'm gonna rest up for later," he mumbled. "Don't chew loudly. I have calorie cans in my bag if you don't want this stuff. Help yourself."

"Thanks, Bad," said Hayes over his shoulder. "Sticking me between a rock and a hard place."

Daisuke slept for a while. After food, he found that rest came much faster to him, though it was still sparse and poor. Hayes managed to stomach the microwave meal, rested with Daisuke, and in the evening, they left the hotel, making their way to the warehouse.

Both of them brought black bandanas, hats, and gloves. Daisuke wore his jeans and a plain black long-sleeved shirt, the bandana almost up over his eyes and his hat tipped down to cover his face. Hayes was dressed the exact same. They kept to whatever alleys there were, avoiding security towers and Troopers. They looked incredibly suspicious, but they kept quiet and out of sight with Daisuke's direction.

When they came upon the warehouse, they threw a blanket stolen from the hotel over the barbed wire fence and climbed into the courtyard.

The building looked like a giant cinder block. It was less inviting than a corpse. There were no windows and only a few doors; the grey was like gravestones, scrubbed of any imperfections. Only one thing took away from the rectangular prism-ness of it all: the big disc sitting atop, picking up and sending transmissions.

"Let's try some entrances," Daisuke whispered, standing on his toes to say the words in Hayes' ear. "I'd like to know what this place is like."

They wouldn't be able to pick up the loot now: it would be shipped to the warehouse in two days. Now was their time to scout and do some planning, tomorrow to… probably do some more planning, and the day after tomorrow was the assault. Daisuke approached the door, pulled from his pocket a flattened hex key and a piece of metal Shen had bent into shape for him, and crouched.

"Be quiet," he said. "Keep watch."

Hayes obeyed without question. Daisuke leaned his head against the door, closed his eyes, and began to pick the lock.

Daisuke had experience with this. Usually, he did it in Lost cities to lockers and safes full of food, sometimes for Shen if someone brought back some loot stuck in a box. Once he did it to Rivera's locker because she stole one of his books. It wasn't as hard as it seemed--well, not when the lock was so complex. This one would be tough: there were lots of little pins, and little pins usually didn't make much noise when you sprung them. Additionally, there were, well, lots of them--Daisuke estimated seven--and the more there were, the harder it was.

It took him about five minutes. Hayes, bless his heart, didn't breathe down Daisuke's neck or ask him to hurry it up. Eventually he heard a very satisfying ping, and when he twisted the hex hey, the handle turned. Quickly he stood up, opened the door, and beckoned to Hayes.

Their dark clothing kept them out of sight of the cameras. They crept through the facility, scouting out places of importance.

The warehouse held ADVENT weapons in big fat crates, each labeled in a language neither Daisuke nor Hayes understood. A suitcase would come through, filled to the brim with priceless alien alloys and Elerium to power the weapons. You only needed an ounce of each material to make something indestructible with its own miniature reactor inside, and even if a briefcase didn't seem like much, that much was worth millions. 

The first place Daisuke and Hayes took note of was the generator. Hayes said he'd take care of that if Daisuke got the suitcase. Killing the power would make the people panic, and panic made people unreliable.

There was the storage part of the facility, and tucked into the very corner was a staircase leading up to a tiny, very cramped office. Daisuke assumed that was where the suitcase would go. The door had no lock--likely because nobody thought there would be a reason for a lock. The mission was shaping up to be relatively simple.

With the warehouse and all three of its rooms scouted out, they left.

The next day, they sat in front of the warehouse in regular attire. There was a bench on a walkway out front situated in the grass and trees. Daisuke brought a book, and Hayes leaned up against the bench's back and pretended to sleep.

They scouted out ADVENT patrols. Intel didn't clarify when the suitcase would arrive, so they couldn't plan around any patrols, but they could know what they were up against. They sat there the whole afternoon, and Daisuke marked down the times and numbers of every group of Troopers that went by. They were always predictable, which was ADVENT's weakness.

When the clock struck seven and the horizon turned to gold, they left. The sunlight was always brightest at sunset, Daisuke thought. Hayes said he'd rather kill himself than eat another microwave meal, so they turned to the next best thing.

ADVENT Burger.

If he found out, Central would have them both tossed into the ocean with boulders tied to their arms. But Tygan spoke of ADVENT Burger like it was the blessing of God. He said that leaving behind the 5-Credit Combo was the worst part of joining XCOM. So they went, and they each got a 5-Credit Combo.

They went back to their hotel just as daylight faded. Hayes' mouth was watering. The food genuinely smelled delicious. They set their food on the table, cracked their weird-smelling beers, and toasted: to the fall of ADVENT, and to the rise of ADVENT Burger.

In the 5-Credit Combo was a 'Cowboy Burger Diggyup,' whose name reminded Daisuke of Central, a large drink, and a box of fries. This was appetizing as fuck. Daisuke thought of Tygan as he picked up his burger. Stuffed generously between two soft pieces of bread was a big leaf of lettuce, tomato, and a thick slice of cheese. The meat was some sort of thinly-cut fatty pork squished between the tomato and cheese and two grilled pieces of ground beef below the rest of the ingredients.

Fuck. Fuck. Daisuke swore to God he'd never be loyal to the Elders, but it was genuinely one of the most appealing things he'd ever seen. Previously just an organ sitting in his gut, his stomach became a dog, yowling and whimpering in his belly, begging for scraps.

"God Almighty," Hayes whispered. "Oh, how I missed you."

Daisuke went through the burger like he'd been starved to death. He ate the fries with similar rigor. Hayes went ballistic. It may have genuinely been the best meal Daisuke had ever had.

Then he got to the drink. It was big, in a plastic cup with a straw sticking out of the top. Daisuke had only ever used straws if he was so severely incapacitated that he couldn't lift his hands to hold the cup, so he popped the lid off and drank from the side.

He paused. It was sugary, and it--

"Why does that hurt my mouth?" he asked, taking another sip of the drink.

"It's carbonated."

Daisuke drank some more. He wrinkled his nose and asked, more frantic this time, "Why does that hurt my mouth?"

Hayes laughed and opened his mouth to answer. Daisuke walked over to the window, opened it, and threw the cup out. Hayes' laughter became hysterical.

"Dude!" Hayes was bellowing with laughter. "We paid for that! What the fuck?!"

The cup hit the ground with a whap and the awful mouth-hurting shit went everywhere. Daisuke was grateful that no one had been down there when he'd thrown it. That'd be pretty bad.

"It tasted bad." Daisuke went over to his bed, stomach satisfied, and laid down. "Anyway. ADVENT Burger? Very tasty."

Once Hayes got his laughter under control, he said, "I grew up in a City Center and lemme tell you, man. It doesn't get any better." He gestured with one of his fries. "Pretty sure they literally created a spice to perfectly match the human palate. I have never met a single person who doesn't like ADVENT Burger."

"Central?"

"He hasn't tried it." Hayes dipped his fry in the red sauce that came with the meal. Daisuke usually wasn't a fan of sauce, so Hayes took his. "Guarantee that Central would understand if he ate one of the chicken burgers."

Daisuke sighed. "I'm forever gonna be chasing a high," he said. "Nothing's gonna top this."

Hayes laughed.

Daisuke slept like a baby the second night. He didn't know if it was because he was getting used to the bed or if it was the ADVENT Burger. Probably both.

Then he and Hayes got the car.

Daisuke had his duffel bag slung over his shoulder. Hayes handed him his laser pistol. They pulled over on the side of the curb, got ready, and waited.

Exactly one hour passed. A big ADVENT van pulled into the parking lot. They watched a woman with short hair and a pantsuit step out of the vehicle, holding the briefcase. Troopers escorted her into the building; some stayed out front, others retreated into the building with the woman. Hayes and Daisuke got out of the car.

The Troopers were out front. Daisuke and Hayes broke into the back door. It was easier to pick the lock the second time, and they walked into the warehouse.

"What should I do to the generator?" Hayes asked casually.

"Oh." Daisuke slung the bag off his shoulder and rooted around in it. He pulled out the crowbar, handed it to Hayes without a word, and walked up the stairs.

The lights all went out. Daisuke opened the door to the office. Two Troopers and the woman looked at him.

The Troopers were fast. Daisuke was faster. He pulled the pistol from its holster, already loaded, and shot one Trooper in the head. It fell over, unmoving, and Daisuke swung the gun over to the other Trooper.

It fumbled with its gun. Daisuke pulled the trigger.

Both Troopers were dead. Daisuke turned to the woman. She had pulled out her own handgun, a traditional revolver, which she was shakily pointing at Daisuke. Daisuke was not afraid.

"I'll shoot," she said. Her voice was trembling, but her finger was tightening on the trigger. "I'll fucking shoot, you… you--"

"Put it down," said Daisuke.

The woman set her pistol on the desk and held her hands up over her head.

Daisuke continued, "Where's the alloys? The Elerium?" When the woman was quiet, Daisuke stepped forward, gesturing with the pistol. "Come on. I really don't want to do this."

"It's--" The woman bent over, picked up the briefcase from behind the desk, and set it down. "It's here. Don't shoot. I have--I have a family, please don't shoot--"

"Calm down; I wasn't going to." Daisuke took the briefcase and slid his pistol back into its holster. Auxiliary power kicked in and alarms began blaring, the room lighting up red as they did. "You've got guts. Anyway, uh, that's my cue to leave."

Daisuke said no more. He sprinted from the office, leaped down the stairs with the briefcase, and bolted to the entrance they'd come in through. Hayes, ever-polite, held the door open for Daisuke, and they ran out into the sunlight and toward the car.

Hayes ran around to get in the driver's seat. Daisuke ripped off his bandana, tossed it in through the window, and got in.

Casually, while Hayes was turning the key, Daisuke popped open the case. Inside was row after row of precious alien material. Smiling, he shut it and looked over at Hayes, asking, "Think Central will be mad we tripped the alarm?"

The engine hummed to life. Hayes said, "No, probably not." He took the knob in the center, pulled on it, and stepped on the gas pedal.

The car roared. The tires screamed against the pavement. Daisuke lurched backward in his seat as the car shot off. Hayes got an evil look on his face, a grin pulling on his lips which was all-too broad, and he stepped on the brake, pulled on the wheel, and Daisuke found himself facing the Troopers and the Captain that had escorted the woman into the warehouse.

Hayes looked like he would add a few more digits to his fourteen counts of vehicular manslaughter. Daisuke grabbed the pistol and loaded it as he rolled down the window; he leaned out and aimed as Hayes drove forward.

The Captain, being the only one in the squad with any sense of self-preservation, dove out of the way. The Troopers all took wild pot-shots at Daisuke, all of which missed horribly. Daisuke clasped both hands around the pistol's grip and aimed as best as he could.

Hayes hit the group of Troopers. They went ca-thunk a-thunk under the wheels, jostling the car, and Daisuke's hands slipped on the gun. He missed by a long shot, swore, and retook aim as the Captain ran behind cover.

This time, he got the Captain's ankle. Not where he was aiming, but he supposed it was better than nothing. Hayes tugged him back into the car, slammed the brakes again, and jerked on the stick again. This time, he leaned over the back of his seat to stare out the rear window, and when he stepped on the pedal, the car began going in reverse.

Hayes ran over the Troopers once again, probably finishing off any that had survived. Ca-thunk a-thunk. As they returned to the main street, Hayes steered with a straight arm and open palm. The car swung into place, facing the wrong way on a one-way street. Hayes didn't care. He put the car back in drive and floored it.

Daisuke couldn't tell you how thrilling the drive back to the camp had been. Hayes was a crazy driver, a race car driver, and it showed. He blazed through the streets like they were runways, hiking up on curbs and nailing a few stop signs. Once, Hayes stopped for an old woman crossing the street, who he'd waved and smiled at, then continued to break traffic laws. Daisuke bet Hayes broke traffic laws that he didn't even know existed. 

And Hayes, the whole time, looked giddy as a child. Daisuke didn't think he'd ever see anyone look so overjoyed. He looked like a mother greeting her long-lost child, like someone on the run finally returning home. The look on his face said you have no idea how much I've missed you.

Daisuke wondered if he'd ever been so happy to do anything.

Chapter Text

When Hayes and Daisuke returned to base, Daisuke was eager to sleep in his own bed and eat his own food. As much as he had loved the ADVENT Burger, it was a lot for his senses to take in at once, and he preferred the tasteless calorie packets. It was less greasy and didn't make his stomach ache.

Hayes' entire appearance was all ruffled up from the joyride. So was his personality. He was all bubbly and tingly for a few days afterward, as if the adrenaline was long-lasting. Daisuke was different: he was eager to return to a quiet routine.

And, shocking himself, he wasn't dreading to see Díaz again. It'd been a while since he hadn't minded someone's company. Díaz was all sorts of weird, but he wasn't weird-weird, like Rivera or anyone else who tried to talk to him. He was content to fill the silence with his own chatter, and Daisuke was content to listen. Never were his stories boring; never did he make Daisuke talk.

That wasn't to say Daisuke liked Díaz. There was a difference between not hating someone and liking them. Daisuke hated Rivera and how much she wanted him to talk. Daisuke hated Central and his goofy Midwestern accent. Daisuke hated most of the other recruits. Definitely.

Díaz wasn't terrible. Daisuke was fine sitting next to him. He didn't like how fine he was sitting next to this awful man. He was picky about what he did, he had these weird habits, and by all means, Daisuke should've wanted to clobber him.

But, no. Daisuke was fine with Díaz. So much for the whole lone wolf act the Reapers were supposed to keep up.

It was Sunday, which was telenovela night. Daisuke didn't like the telenovelas, and he liked the company even less. Everyone crowded into his room--and Daisuke meant everyone--and watched Rosa Salvaje. It was the worst.

Daisuke tried to sleep. He really did. But everyone was oohing and aahing at the shitty old brick of a TV, and Daisuke couldn't stop hearing the Spanish from the speakers. He grumbled, finished folding his pillow over his ears in a futile attempt to stifle the noise, and opened the curtain to his bunk. He rolled out of bed, a few heads turning to look at him. Díaz waved. Daisuke made eye contact, felt like he held it too long, and didn't end up waving back. He just got his Walkman out of his locker and crawled back into his bunk, closing his eyes.

His Court of the Crimson King tape was already loaded up. He rewound it, waiting for the cassette to quit spinning, and pressed play.

Nothing happened. Daisuke frowned and pressed play again. Once again, nothing happened; Daisuke didn't know what he was expecting. Frustrated, he sat up and turned on his overhead light, prying open the battery case.

They weren't dislodged. Daisuke picked them out, blew on each end, and scrubbed the inputs. He tried it again. Nothing.

"Fuck," he grumbled. "Fuck!"

He then remembered that just about everyone he knew was sitting outside. Then he said again, quieter, "Fuck."

He settled for putting the headphones on over his ears. It was more comfortable than holding a pillow over his head. Sleep would find him eventually.

The next day, after telenovela night, Daisuke went to Chief Engineering Officer An-Yi "Lily" Shen.

Shen was tolerable. Daisuke liked her sometimes. Out of all of the base staff--Central, the Commander, Tygan--she was the best. She was a huge fucking nerd and her only friend was her pet drone ROV-R, but she had this weird beef with Tygan that Daisuke loved to listen in on. She was also brilliant and let Daisuke test out the new equipment when she was in a good mood.

The greatest thing she ever did for Daisuke was repairing his Walkman. Being a piece of equipment about the same age as Central, it was prone to stopping, scratching, dying, et cetera. Since it was old, though, Shen had no issue finding parts or time fixing it up.

When Daisuke stepped into Engineering, he found Rivera and her completely platonic 'best friend,' Laurie "Mr. Roboto" Hall.

Hall was a very small woman. She clocked in at a solid four-foot nine, weighed ninety pounds, and was genuinely one of the most terrifying people Daisuke had ever met. Though she made even Daisuke look like a fucking giant, she was a genius, and whenever she went on a mission, she held the whole squad's lives in her hands. 

Hall was practicing her hacking--Daisuke immediately regretted walking in, knowing that he'd be roped into it--and Rivera was watching. She basically had heart-eyes. Daisuke knew that Rivera had a huge, awful crush on Hall, and Hall seemed to feel the same way, but no matter what he said, Rivera wouldn't believe him. Daisuke didn't have an ounce of Psionics in him, and he could always hear Hall thinking about how pretty Rivera was. Shen was nowhere to be seen.

"Hey, Daisuke!" Rivera called as he walked in. Daisuke grumbled in response. "What brings you here?"

"Walkman broke." Daisuke arched an eyebrow at her, trying not to look smug so Rivera wouldn't knock the look off his face. "And what brings you here?"

Hall looked up from her laptop. "What's broken about it?" she asked, voice toneless. She always did that: she said the most insane things with a flat voice and a flatter face.

"That's a question for Shen," Rivera said, smiling at Hall. The gooey look on her face made Daisuke want to shoot himself.

There was a crash, then a bang, then a yelp. "Oh, damn," someone snapped. Daisuke watched Lily Shen scramble around the corner, looking frantic. "What do you need? Who needs me? I can help."

Upon laying eyes on Daisuke, she relaxed. Daisuke held up his Walkman. "Broke."

"What's wrong with it?" Shen walked over, taking the broken piece of junk out of his hands. "Looks fine."

"Not the batteries. I replaced them a week ago and the last ones gave me a year's worth of charge." Daisuke folded his arms. "The tape rewound when I pressed the rewind button, but it didn't play when I pressed play."

"Huh…" Shen peered at the Walkman. "You don't mind if I pop it open, right?"

"Go ahead. I don't care."

Shen looked at the Walkman like it was an old piece of archaeology, which, to be fair, it kind of was. Daisuke sighed as she skittered off to her workbench with it, sitting at the same table Hall and Rivera were at and slumping his head into his elbows.

"Don't mope," Rivera said.

"Who asked."

Rivera huffed, strutting over to him. He looked up, and as he did, she placed one long finger on his forehead. "You did," she teased. "You think very loudly."

"Then tune it out." Daisuke moved his head away from her hand, scowling. "Nobody's forcing you to listen in, asshole."

"Please," Hall mumbled, laser-focused on her laptop, "be quiet."

Rivera seemed torn between bothering Daisuke and obeying Hall's every word. Finally, she settled for both: she sat down next to Daisuke and, in a softer voice, "You are not subtle, Daisuke. I'd like to tune you out, but you really are one of the loudest thinkers on the Avenger. It'd be like… like tuning out the sound of someone screaming."

"So?" Daisuke mushed his head back into his arms. "Leave me alone." After a moment: "And for the last time, quit calling me Daisuke."

Sighing, Rivera patted the top of Daisuke's head. It was meant to look like a comforting gesture, but Daisuke knew better: touching someone allowed Psi users a much clearer read into their thoughts, especially touching their head. Rivera was trying to get into his brain.

And she proved this theory by saying, "Sorry we kept you up all night with the telenovela. I tried to get everyone to be quiet or move to a different room, but they all wanted to stay."

"Whatever," Daisuke mumbled. "Would've been better if I had my Walkman."

"Shen will fix it up for you." Rivera looked over to Hall, pointed at Daisuke, and ruined his day by saying, "Why don't you show him what you found at the Resistance Camp last night?"

Hall actually perked up at this. Usually, she hated to deal with Daisuke's foot-dragging and grumpy attitude, but now she seemed genuinely excited. "Sitting in a pile of junk," she said. "I still can't believe someone would throw away something like that! Once I figure out how to use it, things around here are gonna change."

Now Daisuke was curious. He watched Hall stand up, and Rivera stood up, too. The height difference was insane: Rivera was six feet even and Hall barely went up to her chest. It was kind of funny, if not strange, to think about. They walked over to a big crate, thankfully not one of the crates Shen had knocked over in her mad dash to greet Daisuke, and together they lifted it. Hall cracked it open like it contained bars of gold.

From it, rather anticlimactically, she pulled a black box of plastic. It wasn't anything special: a foot long and a half-foot wide, about two inches tall. It had a weird blue symbol on its flat and what looked like a vent all along its sides, a few buttons and slots that Daisuke assumed wires were supposed to fit into.

"Uh," Daisuke tilted his head, "that's gonna make things change?"

"Once I find games for it!" Hall placed it on the table and turned it to face Daisuke. "The controllers are in the box."

"Controllers," Daisuke echoed.

Rivera looked at him like a crazy person. "Daisuke," she said, infuriatingly, "do you not know what this is?"

"Looks like a hunk of shit."

Rivera gasped. She seemed genuinely horrified that Daisuke would say such a thing. "Bad," she said, "it's a PlayStation 2!"

Just the words made Rivera and Hall both squirm with anticipation. Daisuke folded his arms and leaned back, kicking his legs up on the table. "Doesn't ring any bells," he said. "What's it do? Is it supposed to be special or something?"

Hall pushed up her glasses. They flashed cartoonishly in the light. Daisuke rolled his eyes and mentally braced himself for one of her long lectures about technology.

"The PlayStation 2 was, in its prime, very, very special," she said, toneless and analytical. "It revolutionized gaming, and, until the release of the original Xbox, it was the best console to play on. Its capacity allowed games like Street Fighter, Grand Theft Auto and Resident Evil to see sequels. I loved Street Fighter when I was a kid."

"Awesome," Daisuke said. "We'll waste time on video games. Great."

"I think if I can get it working," Hall gave Daisuke a dirty look, "it could be a great way to relieve stress on the Avenger. Lord knows we all need it."

Daisuke huffed, crossing his arms. "Whatever, Hall," he grumbled. "If I see any games for it, I'll be sure to throw them out the fucking airlock."

"You're an asshole."

"You know, Hall, you should go on and get a degree! Since you're so observant."

Rivera and Hall both glared daggers at him. He was unfazed. He yawned, leaned back in his chair, and closed his eyes. "Yeah, Hall, you work on that… game thing. I need some shut-eye. So… uh…"

Once Daisuke's eyes were shut, he couldn't open them again. He listened to Rivera and Hall talk. He'd admit that they'd be good for each other: Rivera was all bubbly and social, Hall was quiet and monotone, and while Daisuke personally loathed how tall Rivera was, Hall didn't seem to mind. Which was gross, disgusting, and kind of sweet.

Hall walked over. He could tell it was Hall by how quiet and short the steps were.

Then she grabbed the back of his chair and yanked it back. Daisuke yelped, flailed for a second to try and keep balance, and failed miserably, falling flat on the floor on his back.

He glared up at Hall. She glared back down, placing her hands on her hips.

"Fuck you," she said.

"What?!" Daisuke rolled off the chair, stood up, and threw out his arms. "Alright, I get it, I suck! No need to risk giving me a motherfucking concussion!"

Hall pointed at Lily Shen, holding his Walkman. "She's been saying your name," Hall snapped, "for thirty seconds."

Daisuke blinked at Shen. She smiled meekly and said, "Yeah, I was."

"Oh." Daisuke tried his best to relax. "Uh, yeah. How, uh? How's my Walkman?"

"Your precious baby is just fine." Shen handed him his 'precious baby,' which he despised, but was true. "It just had a frayed wire. Easy fix." Daisuke observed it as Shen continued, "You should take as much care of your equipment as you do your Walkman. The stuff that actually takes effort to repair."

"Yeah, yeah." Daisuke stuffed his Walkman into his coat pocket. "What do you want as payment?"

Shen hummed thoughtfully. Then she said, "I want you to practice your hacking with Laurie."

If he had a little less dignity in him, Daisuke would've flopped down on the floor and screamed at the top of his lungs. Instead, he groaned and rolled his eyes. "Seriously? Hall just pushed me on the floor, and you want me to practice hacking with her?"

"Fixed your Walkman!" Shen said, sing-song, as she walked off. She waved her wrench over her shoulder, and Daisuke mopishly turned to Hall. "Have fun!"

"It's not that bad." Hall pushed her laptop in his direction. "Don't be so dramatic."

Daisuke didn't actually hate Hall. As much as he tried to, she was genuinely a good teacher, and similar to Rivera, he always preened when she complimented him on a good job. He had less trouble admitting that she was smart, seeing as that was her whole deal, and he was able to space off a bit when she taught him how to use the keyboard. She was a hell of a lot better than his old teachers.

Hacking was kind of a Reaper thing, so Daisuke picked it up quickly. He'd been doing small stuff since he was a kid--he'd joined the Reapers at the ripe old age of nine, and sometimes the bigger kids would give him puzzles to solve just to get him to be quiet and focus on something.

Daisuke was, according to his sister Sayaka, an annoying little kid. Really, really annoying. He poked at the big kids until they snapped at him, then was small enough to wriggle his way out of trouble. The adults liked his eagerness to help them with food, loading cartridges--especially the older people whose joints were bad or whose fingers were no longer dextrous enough to do ordinary things. He could talk for hours about nothing when he was a kid. He blabbered all of the big kids' secrets until nobody trusted him to keep his mouth shut.

This had, of course, led to some pretty bad situations for Daisuke. He had a bald patch near the vertex of his skull from where one kid had pinned him to the ground and pulled out clumps and clumps of hair for telling her mom she was dating a boy. He had no feeling at all in the flesh of his knees because of how much he'd skinned them running away from bullies. His knuckles had been near-constantly bruised from fights, most of which he'd lost.

It had taught him to be scrappy, though. It'd taught him to use his nails and teeth if he didn't have any actual weapons on him. It'd taught him to puke on-demand to freak out the bullies and get them to leave him alone. Most importantly, it'd heightened his pain tolerance to where he could walk on broken bones if he gritted his teeth hard enough.

Sayaka never did that to him. He missed her--ever since he'd left for XCOM, he hadn't stopped thinking about her. She listened to him talk and never told him to shut up. When he was little, he bounced from interest to interest, delving deep into them for a few months before losing interest entirely and diving into the next. Sayaka loved to listen to him talk about these interests--or, at least, she didn't tell him to shut up, and that had been the same thing as love when Daisuke was little.

Daisuke's most vivid childhood memory of her was after he'd accidentally broken one of the big kids' guns trying to fix it. The punishment was drawn-out and painful. Hunks of gravel and mud, big and small, were stuck in his scraped-up hands. The scabs on his knees had been reopened, and blood and pus from the wounds rolled down his shins in big streaks of yellow and red. Ugly purple bruises formed on his face and neck; his right eye was swollen and would probably be a fleshy grey color by the following day.

She'd come into the tent. Reapers weren't classy enough for rooms but too classy for nothing. Daisuke's tent was one of the smaller ones because he was one of the smaller kids. He sniffled, wiped his eyes, and said, in his high-pitched, squeaky little flute of a voice: "Go away."

"Hey." She'd figured out that Daisuke telling someone to go away roughly translated to a plea for help. He'd like to say this was untrue now. He'd sure like to. "What happened?"

There was a difference between Daisuke then and Daisuke now. Daisuke now would lie and say that nothing had happened and stay on that hill until he died there. Daisuke then opened his mouth, and everything came out: the stolen gun, the missing screw, the screaming match, and finally, the fight. Daisuke lost horribly, and now all his barely-healed scabs from the last scrabble were spread out on the pavement of a parking lot, drying in the sun. 

And Sayaka, the angel she was, listened. Then she held his hand, opened up the medkit she'd brought with her to his tent, and treated his wounds as he cried.

After all that, to make him feel better, she pulled a can of pears to share from her pocket. Daisuke had an affinity for the canned pears they'd sometimes find in abandoned groceries. They weren't as tooth-achingly sweet as some of the desserts they'd share. They weren't an assault on his senses. 

As he ate, Daisuke told Sayaka about his latest endeavor: he'd found a thick book that he could press flowers in, and whenever he found a flower, no matter the color or size, he'd pick it. Then he'd go around and ask everyone what kind of flower it was, and he didn't stop until he was happy. He talked until the sweetness of the pears lulled him to sleep, and she tucked him in, leaving him to rest and recover.

Lots of things had changed since then.

Hall continued to be a huge nerd, even after Daisuke was finished smacking out hundreds of words worth of code. She had him practice JavaScript until his fingers went flat against the keyboard, until his joints physically creaked against the sockets. It was two hours.

Rivera left after the first hour, citing that she needed to fill out an AAR, but it was probably because Daisuke's thoughts toward Hall were getting more violent by the second, and she didn't want to be anywhere near it. JavaScript was pretty good practice, and it was what was used by ADVENT--after all these years, they still couldn't find anything better than JavaScript--so Daisuke sat and bore it until Hall finally leaned back, pushed up her glasses, and smiled her controlled smile.

"I think we're done here," she said. "You've gotten a hell of a lot better than when we first met, Daisuke."

Daisuke glared at her. "You think just because you complimented me means you get to call me Daisuke?"

"Yep." She popped the P. "Because I know for a fact that you're gonna be strutting through the Avenger like a rockstar for the next three days." When Daisuke opened his mouth to disagree, she continued, "You really need to admit you like Rivera and I. It'd solve so many problems."

"I don't." Yeah, he probably did, but now that he was on this hill, he planned on dying on it. "No, fuck off, I really don't."

"God, Reapers." Hall rolled her eyes. "You all play so high and mighty."

Daisuke sat up, curling his hands into fists. "And what the fuck is that supposed to mean," he snarled.

"Oh," Hall sighed, sarcasm thick in her voice, "you know."

"You are such an asshole." Daisuke stood up, cracking his back and rolling his neck. "Whatever, I'm gonna go fill out my AAR. And not use JavaScript for it."

"After-Action?" Hall thought for a moment. When she finally realized, Daisuke could practically see the lightbulb go ding over her head. "Oh! How was that? I never asked, I'm sorry. I just get so distracted."

Daisuke looked at the pile of paperwork and textbooks she practically lived in. "Uh-huh." He sighed, a smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. "It was actually a lot of fun. I think the property damage Hayes caused is gonna cost more to replace than the alloys or the Elerium."

Hall smiled, picking up a bit of her paperwork and stacking it haphazardly on top of another, bigger stack of paperwork. "That's Hayes for you. He likes you."

Daisuke's heart twitched off-beat in his chest. "Whatever. It's just because he's not a prick."

"And I'm the biggest prick of them all." She shooed him away, pulling another pen out of the pile of paperwork and clicking it a few times. Daisuke thought about reminding her about the pen on her ear; he decided not to. "Go fill out your report."

Daisuke was happy to leave. 

Daisuke heard it. "Oh!"

That was their greeting. Maybe it was the way Díaz greeted everyone, but he was the only person to get Daisuke's attention, in the same way, every time: squeaking out an 'oh!' to catch his ear.

And it worked. Daisuke was a bit ashamed to say he was happy to see Díaz. He was as big and anxious as ever, though he wore a du bag over his hair and held a mug full of steaming black coffee. "Hey, Bad," he said, lumbering up to Daisuke. He looked and sounded very sleepy; his voice was raspy, and his eyes were all watery. Most obviously was his clothing: usually pristine, Díaz was wearing a wrinkly orange shirt, a pair of sweatpants, and no socks or shoes.

Daisuke was starting to notice patterns--as a Reaper, he was prone to noticing patterns. Even in his half-awake state, he kept tapping the handle of his mug. It was always four taps. Never one more, never one less. He felt it wasn't something he was supposed to ask about, so he didn't. "Díaz," he said. "Did you just wake up?"

He yawned. It was a little endearing. "Yeah." Díaz wiped his eyes, smacked his lips. "Couldn't sleep for a while last night. Stayed up with Leticia testing the new gas grenades for Shen."

Daisuke wrinkled his nose. "Flores? Really?" When Díaz nodded, he sighed, continuing his walk. "Well, at least you were having fun."

"What are you doing?" Díaz asked, following Daisuke up the stairs. Daisuke had missed stairs. His muscles were still stiff from the weeks in the elevator, but the trips up and down and the light jogging he sometimes felt like doing were starting to help. "You look like you're on a mission."

"Had to practice hacking with Hall," Daisuke grumbled. "It really sucked. My fingers are sore." Díaz's legs were longer than Daisuke's. He skipped steps, and Daisuke had to skitter to keep up. "Now I'm filling out the AAR for the Covert Op Hayes and I went on."

"How was that, by the way? I never actually got around to asking."

Nobody ever really got around to asking, Daisuke was beginning to think. Not that he minded at all; not talking was always a blessing.

"For a mission in the middle of a city, it was actually a lot of fun." Daisuke shrugged. "I got a nice jacket out of it. Hayes went on a joyride and flattened a lot of traffic signs." He peered about, looking and listening for any eavesdroppers, and then stood on his toes to whisper into Díaz's ear, "We got ADVENT Burger and it was fucking delicious, don't tell anyone."

Díaz gave him a teasing look. "I think I can keep that a secret. Will you put it in your AAR?"

Daisuke snickered, hiding the smile behind his hand. "I think that would kind of violate the secret thing," he said. "Might be important, though. Tygan could give me money to describe the experience to him; he's desperate enough to."

They shared a laugh. Daisuke had honestly forgotten how nice it was to laugh with someone; he hadn't since he'd been with the Reapers.

When they got up to the Geoscape, it finally occurred to Daisuke to actually return the question in the act of actual politeness: "And, uh, what are you doing up here? Paperwork, or…?"

"Oh." Díaz looked at his coffee. "I, uh, actually was gonna get some creamer. The coffee machine downstairs is out."

Daisuke scoffed. "I don't know how you can stand to drink that crap."

"Central says coffee hasn't tasted good in decades," Díaz said. "I honestly just drink it because I get headaches when I don't." He swirled the mug, stepping into the Geoscape alongside Daisuke. "Are, uh, are caffeine withdrawals a thing?"

"Yep."

"Oh, God." Díaz looked at his coffee. "Am I having withdrawals? Thought that would never happen to me." He sighed, walking over to the coffee machine. Daisuke, not exactly thrilled to do his AAR, followed him. "Well, anyway, I don't really like it. I can't drink it without creamer--well, I can, I just really don't like to." Díaz looked back at Daisuke. "They also keep the sugar up here, which soldier's aren't, er, technically allowed to use. But Central likes me."

He grabbed a little ceramic pot, sticking out like a sore thumb in an otherwise wholly metallic environment. On its grey glaze were about a million sticky notes, labels, and otherwise cautionary notes that read, in multiple languages, OFF LIMITS!!! Daisuke had been the one to write the one in Japanese.

Díaz, ignoring all of these warnings, gingerly took the lid off the pot. There was a silver spoon whose delicate handle Díaz gently took; he spooned a bit of the teeny-tiny white crystals into his coffee and very carefully stirred. Daisuke had never actually had raw sugar, and he was pretty sure this stuff was only Central's and the Commander's. And, apparently, Díaz's.

The creamer wasn't any liquid stuff, either. It was powdered and, in Daisuke's opinion, made everything worse. Díaz poured some into his coffee, though, and seemed content to drink the awful acidic stuff now; Daisuke would never understand.

"Hey, hey, hey." The slow, distinctive drawl was impossible not to recognize, though it spoke in a tone of voice Daisuke had never heard from it: respect. He and Díaz both turned to look at Central, who was crossing his arms with a scolding look. "What do you think you're doing with that?"

Díaz, ever-charming, rubbed the back of his neck. "Nothing," he mumbled, the perfect picture of a giant puppy. "I thought you said I could have some?"

God, he was pathetic. Daisuke wondered if that was actually more effective for someone's image than being cool was. "I suppose I did," Central sighed, turning back to the Geoscape. "Just don't tell anyone. Sugar comes at a premium." He gave a piercing look to Daisuke. "You keep a lid on it, too."

"I'm a Reaper," Daisuke snapped. "It's my whole thing, Bradford."

"Yeah, Bradford." The Commander never missed a chance to shit on Central. It was, in Daisuke's opinion, very funny. "It's his whole thing."

Daisuke did a lousy job controlling the smug look on his face; Central groaned, smeared his hand down his face. "Why do I even try with you," he grumbled, perhaps to Daisuke, perhaps to the Commander. Perhaps to himself, honestly. "Commander, do you want a million recruits up in the Geoscape shoveling the sugar into their mouths? Snorting it like coke? Honest question here."

"You know, Central, just last night I caught you listening to Creep by Radiohead."

"How does that have anything to do with--"

They bickered. Daisuke wondered if the real secret to being lifelong friends was to bicker at each other nonstop. If that were the case, Daisuke had a lot of those.

He filled out his AAR. He didn't tell Díaz to go away because it didn't seem like Díaz really wanted to go away, and who was Daisuke to deny him? He let the big human puppy dog stay at his side, watching him type out his AAR and occasionally asking about things. Yes, Daisuke did eat a pale piece of unidentified meat. Daisuke did spare a woman's life; no, that wasn't a very Reaper-y thing to do. No, getting ADVENT Burger with Hayes wasn't a fucking date! Daisuke nearly smacked Díaz for implying that.

The AAR took about an hour to fill out, a little longer than usual because he had to answer all of Díaz's incessant questions. When he got done, Díaz said he was going down to the showers, which ruined Daisuke's plans: he was also going to shower, but he didn't want to say, 'Hey, buddy, we should shower together,' because that would be weird. So instead, he went and sat in his bed, reading Sunshine and picking at a calorie packet. Now that his Walkman was working again, he was free to listen to his King Crimson tape--it was his second favorite. Epitaph was the best on the album.

The music was loud enough to rupture his eardrums, which was why Daisuke didn't hear the tapping on his bedframe until Rivera pulled the curtains aside and grabbed his Walkman, pushing pause. He furiously ripped his headphones off, glowering at her.

She did not return the look. In fact, she looked… endeared? Compassionate?

"Daisuke," she squeaked, "I didn't realize you and Carlos were friends!"

"Carlos?" Daisuke tilted his head, wracking his brain. "You mean Díaz?"

Crossing every boundary Daisuke had ever set, Rivera crawled into his bunk, smiling and shutting the curtain. Daisuke did not like any part of it--he didn't like the sudden closeness, he didn't like the claustrophobia, he didn't like the way Rivera looked at him. He pushed himself into the corner and seethed.

"We have to talk about it!" she said, sotto voce. "He was talking about you and, oh, Daisuke, he really likes you!" Daisuke said nothing, because he neither wanted to speak nor knew what to say. Rivera filled the silence: "I know you like him, too."

"Rivera," Daisuke said, calm as he could manage with the sudden lack of air to breathe, "if you don't stop reading my mind, I'm going to start thinking some evil things."

Rivera whined, leaning forward and leaning her chin in her hands, looking at him with her big, weird purple eyes. God, why were all of Daisuke's comrades so fucking weird and pathetic? "Daisuke--"

"Quit calling me that--"

"--it's not my fault. I really, really try hard not to listen." She gave him an empathetic look. It was terrible. "But part of it is you. You keep all of your thoughts in your head, and by doing that, you make them extremely loud. Impossible to tune out. I can hear you through walls of steel." 

Daisuke crossed his arms, scowling--he was not pouting, he was scowling. There was a difference. "Well, I just--I just don't want to talk a lot." He looked up at her. "Did you want something? Or did you just come here to make fun of me?"

"I'm not making fun!" Rivera sighed, slumping down with a frown. "Well, actually, yes, I do have news. Since you were blasting out your poor little eardrums, you couldn't hear Central calling you. You have a mission to go on."

"Oh. Like, a mission-mission?"

"A mission-mission." Rivera opened up the curtain and stepped out, looking dejected. Daisuke tried really fucking hard not to feel bad, and tried was definitely the proper word. "Central says it's gonna be special. I think Enmoor and Denise are going to be there."

Enmoor and Denise. The antisocial Skirmisher and his loud Ranger friend. How wonderful. Daisuke stood up along with Rivera and, feeling a little bad about how he treated her, gave her a little nudge with his elbow before walking off. It might've come off as a dick move to anyone else, but Rivera knew what he meant.

Denise Robertson and Enmoor Eim were already in the Armory. It was Daisuke's favorite place on the ship--it doubled as a hangar because of how small the Avenger was, and that was the best part. The engine, humming and roaring, warmed up the whole place. Crates of ammo and armor sat in the corner; a trophy case held taxidermied alien busts, not dissimilar to Volk's back at the Reapers' base. Both his comrades were there--Eim was all decked out in his red armor, Denise in her purple. Daisuke was still in his civvies.

Neither Enmoor Eim nor Daisuke Nakamura was the first Skirmisher nor Reaper sent to serve XCOM. At first, it'd been Elena "Outrider" Dragunova and Pratal Mox--two killer soldiers, the best either faction had to offer. Then a pretty nasty mission left one leg off of each in some European forest, plus Mox's right arm, and that was the end of their fighting days. Daisuke wasn't sure why he was the second choice, there were a hundred Reapers better than him, but Volk had him carted off to replace Outrider in XCOM's forces. He wondered if Eim felt the same way.

"Uh…" Daisuke rubbed the back of his neck, a bit sheepish. "I was listening to music. Sorry."

"It's fine." Robertson gave him her crooked, lazy smile. Everything about her was crooked and lazy: her hair was a choppy blonde bob, she always cut it herself, and her armor was all scuffed, the paint chipping off in big purple flakes. The only things she ever put effort into were talking loudly and keeping up with her sword-nicking habit. "Just the three of us. You excited, boys?"

Daisuke looked at Eim. Eim looked at Daisuke.

"Yes," said Eim, sounding entirely unsure of himself. "I… am. So excited."

Robertson laughed her unabashed, loud laugh, clapping Eim on the back. He didn't care; he was six foot six even and outweighed Robertson by a hundred pounds. "That's the spirit!" She walked over to one of the ammo crates, and she didn't sit on it more than she did slam her ass onto it. It almost bent. "Go get ready, Bad! Central should be down here any time--he'll tell us why the fuck there's only three of us."

Daisuke went and put on his plated armor and coat and mask. Already he despised this mission.

Chapter Text

"So, Central." Robertson placed her hand on her hip. "Mind telling us why we're the Three Musketeers? And not the much safer Six Musketeers?"

Central sighed. Daisuke got the feeling he'd been answering that question all day. "Because," he pulled a data tablet from his belt, tapping on it a few times, "we need to keep things precise and surgical. This mission puts you within five minutes of three different ADVENT barracks, and intel suggests that if more than three of you are at the site of the mission, you'll be swarmed."

"So?" Daisuke crossed his arms, tilting his head. Central's disapproving gaze was tinted green through his mask. "Why us? What's so surgical about us?"

It was then that the Commander walked into the room, clean-kept as usual. He had his cane with him--when he needed to traverse the base rather than just the Geoscape, he used a tall, carved wooden cane to lean on. Something about a bad leg? Daisuke thought it made the Commander look like a wizard. He said, "Nakamura, you'll be there to scout; guide your comrades through the site. Eim and Robertson, you're the meat of the operation."

"What is our objective?" asked Eim, professional as always. "Do you know what kind of enemies will be on the battlefield?"

Central offered the Commander the data pad he'd been holding onto. The Commander took it, leaned his shoulder on his cane, and held it out for the three of them to see. "You're looking to destroy a relay. Blow it up, pop out its wiring, fill it with holes--it doesn't really matter. Once they catch wind that you've arrived, you'll be on a time crunch before they cut it off remotely."

"Since there's three of us," Robertson said, "will there be the same amount of aliens? Or less… or more."

"Less." The Commander swiped on the tablet; it went from a blurry image of the relay to what looked like heat signatures around the area. "They will be less powerful, too. Leave the worrying to me, soldiers; are you ready for the mission?"

"Basically ready," Robertson said with a crooked smile on her face. "The boys are ready, too. When do we head out?"

"If you're all ready," Central peered over his shoulder at the Skyranger, "now would be good."

"Wait." Daisuke fixed his gaze on Central. "Can we talk alone? I have a question."

Central seemed confused, but he said, "Alright," and ushered everyone out. The Commander already knew what was on Daisuke's mind because nobody's thoughts were private on this damn ship. Eim and Robertson climbed into the Skyranger, the Commander wobbled back off to the Geoscape to rest his leg, and Central and Daisuke were left alone.

"What is it?" Central asked. "Is this about the mission?"

"Not at all." Daisuke crossed his arms. "Thought you were supposed to be big, bad, unfeeling Central. Why do you let Díaz have the sugar?"

Central laughed, which was incredible. It was a quiet, husky sound, so rare that for a moment Daisuke thought he imagined it. "What can I say? He's a good kid. Also," Central smiled a wistful smile, "we landed near his family's camp once, and his grandma made me and the Commander pasta. Best thing I've eaten in years."

"Huh. Would you let me try some one of these days? I've never actually had raw sugar."

Central pointed at him, suddenly stern. "Do well on this mission and I might," he said. "Is that all?"

"Yep."

"Then get on the Skyranger." Central walked off, grumbling, "Great, now I'm hungry," as he did. Daisuke sighed, pulled up his hood, and got into the ship.

Eim and Robertson were chatting. Well, more like Robertson was talking at Eim, and he was sort of listening. Daisuke had yet to figure out why the timid, nervous, all-around very poorly-versed in human etiquette Skirmisher and the bold, brash, smarmy Ranger got along so well.

He thought it was the touch. Daisuke could not wrap his brain around why anyone would want to have hands laid upon them with good intentions or bad, but Eim seemed to love it. Daisuke had met a grand total of two Skirmishers, Enmoor Eim and Pratal Mox, and both seemed to enjoy, or at least tolerate, physical contact. Was it a social thing, like Reapers and their quiet nature, or a physical thing built into their bodies by the aliens?

Daisuke couldn't tell you for sure. All he knew was when Robertson touched Eim, he always returned it--a hand on the shoulder would become a near-embrace, a subtle brush of fingers would become a grand gesture of hand-holding and physical contact. It wasn't romantic at all; Daisuke shuddered to imagine what kind of shit he'd see them doing if it was. They just liked to lean up on each other.

But conversation? Definitely a one-way thing. Robertson didn't seem to mind, though--she talked and talked and talked about the most idiotic and irrelevant things: the bong rip that changed her life forever, how she once sent herself to the hospital drinking water from the previously mentioned bong… kind of a repetitive story. 

Daisuke looked at Eim, and briefly, they made eye contact. Robertson was so close to him that her nose touched his face, almost drunkenly--oh, shit, was she drunk?--and talking into his ear about her favorite type of whale (it was the sperm whale and Daisuke bet you couldn't guess why). Eim's big, weird amber eyes were entirely disinterested; his face was altogether unimpressed and a bit contemptuous, if Daisuke was reading it right.

The eye contact was awkward and probably a plea for help on Eim's end. Daisuke was just amused by Robertson's explanation of why the sperm whale was the best animal ever (he still bet you couldn't guess why she thought that was). He pulled a couple of bullets and their empty cartridges from his bag, sat on the floor, and laid them out.

They rattled when the Skyranger hit turbulence. Eim and Robertson didn't care.

The Commander failed to mention one very, very important fucking thing.

They were on the field. They had set up a damn good ambush with Daisuke's help--a well-placed Claymore, set off by a well-thrown grenade, had shredded through a Trooper and a Captain like they were nothing. Robertson ran up to the surviving MEC, pointed the barrel of her shotgun at its beat-up head, and blew it to pieces.

Daisuke was climbing up a pipe to scout from atop a tall building when pain flared in the sides of his skull. He was no stranger to pressure headaches, the feeling of a clamp around his head, but not this. Not something so sudden.

This was a bad sign. Daisuke leaned into his radio and said, "Bad Company speaking; anyone else feeling the headache?"

It was quiet for a moment. Then, Robertson said, "Yeah, uh, Night speaking: ohh, shit."

Pressure headaches throughout the entire squad only meant one thing. Daisuke's suspicions were confirmed when his radio made an awful, shrieking static noise; he rushed to turn it off before it drew too much attention.

That didn't stop the Chosen Warlock from hissing into Daisuke's brain, "You have been judged… and I am your punishment."

"Oh, Jesus," Daisuke muttered. Not this guy.

So far, the Warlock hadn't been much of a threat. The dictionary definition of all bark and no bite. He liked to wail into Daisuke's ear about how his mommies and daddies were so strong and all-powerful and how tough he was. Then, when push came to shove, he only really sent a few psychic zombies after XCOM and, if he was feeling energetic, knocked a few soldiers into a daze before getting his ass handed to him.

The worst he did was insult Daisuke's ego. Sheesh, some of the stuff he had to say was genuinely hurtful, especially toward Daisuke and the other Faction soldiers. Daisuke didn't actually care, he had thick skin, but the Commander always got weirdly offended on his behalf. As if Daisuke couldn't get revenge himself.

The other Chosen were worse. In Daisuke's opinion, the chattier a Chosen was, the less dangerous it was. The Warlock talked a whole lot but wasn't too strong. The Assassin didn't talk at all, and she was the deadliest of the Chosen. The Hunter was in the middle--Daisuke was grateful it wasn't him.

"Hey Commander?" Daisuke probably sounded like a crazy person talking to himself, but the Commander could hear him. "Did it occur to you to tell us this was in the middle of Chosen territory?!"

 The Commander's response was verbal this time: a rare occurrence. He said, "I noticed--keep your heads down and stay together. Bad, I want you to return to Eim and Night, now."

"On the move," Daisuke whispered, frustrated and desperate to get out of range. He'd never heard the Commander sounding so irritated--usually, he was so calm and collected. He supposed the Warlock had that effect on everyone.

Daisuke slid back down the pipe, scuttled over to the corner of the building, and peered out for anyone looking. Seeing Eim and Robertson, unaware of his presence, he darted up behind them and said, "Guys, Commander confirmed it's the Warlock--"

"Jesus!" Robertson cried, jumping away from him and looking at him like he was a pile of shit that had grown legs and learned to walk. "Dude, don't sneak up on me!" Then she looked at Eim and said, "Act scared."

Eim blinked. "Oh," he said tonelessly. "You startled me."

"Atta boy." Robertson patted his shoulder. Daisuke never got any less surprised to see Eim wordlessly and readily return the touch. "But seriously. It's him? It's for sure him?"

"We have confirmed that the Chosen Warlock is on the field," the Commander said into their brains. Daisuke fucking hated that, by the way. He hated that. "Listen, you three. Usually, I wouldn't be worried, but… intel suggests he's gotten stronger since we last faced him, and there's only three of you." The Commander held his breath for a moment, then sighed and said, "Call in evac."

"What?" Robertson smiled her bold and lazy smile. "Come on. We can take him."

Daisuke disagreed strongly. Not wanting to get the shit smacked out of him by a lady with a sword, he chose his words carefully: "Robertson, it's him, and the rest of the enemies on the map. Are you sure you think we can take this mission on?"

"Listen, little man." Daisuke despised 'little man.' "You Reapers survive 'cause you run away from fights. Rangers, Skirmishers?" Robertson pulled her sword from her back. "We survive 'cause we run into them."

"Are you sure?" The Commander seemed to feel the same way Daisuke did. "This is going to be hugely dangerous. If you don't evac, I can't guarantee that any of you survive--"

Robertson scoffed, rolled her eyes, and turned off her radio. "Bad, scout ahead of us."

Desperate, Daisuke looked to Eim. He looked back, shrugged, and said, "You heard her. We will cover your six, Bad Company."

He huffed and rolled his eyes, knowing that his mask covered up the gesture but doing it anyway. Then he cracked his neck and ran out ahead of them, skittering behind a car and peeking out.

Visibility in his mask was both worse and better. It was a fine piece of technology--though it did tinge everything in his vision a weird lime green and showed everything through little horizontal lines, like viewing the world on an old television screen, it also had heat tracking and a zoom function. It hid the bright spot that Daisuke's face would make in the shadows, served as a gas mask, and looked pretty damn cool.

The heat tracking spotted a few reddish spots. Daisuke refused to stray too far from Eim and Robertson, so he beckoned them forward. The aliens were on high alert now, so Daisuke knew there was no way he could get the two of them any closer than they were without being spotted. He said, "Listen, you two: you've got… uh," he squinted, "two Vipers and a Spectre just up ahead."

"Space out to avoid poison," the Commander said. He wasn't this verbal most of the time; he must've really been worried. "Kill the Spectre first. I think you can figure out why."

Daisuke could, in fact, figure out why. Spectres were thousands and thousands of tiny nanomachines clustered together, and they could spare a few to knock a soldier out, make a copy--or Shadow--of that soldier, and keep that soldier down until either the Shadow or the Spectre itself was killed. This was, as you could probably imagine, a terrifying ability.

And it was even worse now. There were only three soldiers here instead of the usual six, and Daisuke himself had to stick to the shadows to stay safe from the Warlock. That meant if the Spectre attacked, there'd only be one attacking soldier--and while both Eim and Robertson were both vicious sons of bitches, it only took one pull from a Viper to render them both unable to attack and force Daisuke to break concealment.

Daisuke wasn't frail, but he couldn't take a hit like Robertson or Eim could. Their armor was thick and plated; Daisuke's was thin and flexible. It'd only take a lucky shot from a Viper to put him out of commission for weeks, and it only took a really lucky shot from a Viper to kill him.

So Eim and Robertson were on their own. They, however, were a vicious duo. Robertson sprinted forward, doing exactly the opposite of what Daisuke would do, immediately alerting the Vipers and Spectre. He honestly thought the whole mission was over until Eim grappled up onto the top of the same building Daisuke had been trying to climb up onto, skidded behind the ledge, and aimed his Kal-15.

The Spectre didn't even know what hit it. Eim released one terrific round of bullets into it; then he fired again as it tried to scatter.

It shuddered, nanomachines trying to bring themselves together, and then it fell apart, losing form and disintegrating onto the ground. Robertson pulled the sword from her back, bolted up to one of the Vipers, and cut down. It dodged to the left; Robertson used the momentum from her previous swing to bring the blade up and into the Viper's side--she cut through thin armor, through scales, and into flesh.

One Viper hit the ground dead. The other hissed and tried to reposition.

Eim ran to the corner of the building, propelled himself off the side, and dropped twenty feet--it was like an earthquake when he hit the ground. He aimed his grappling hook, fired, and latched onto the Viper's armor. Then he closed the distance, hook pulling him close, and shot the Viper in the face.

His bullets shredded its brain matter; it fell with an awful, gurgling hiss. Eim and Robertson exchanged smug, triumphant looks. Daisuke ran forward.

Big, big mistake.

He spotted the objective--the relay was stuck inside a building, big and yellow and pulsing with light. He got ready to lean into his radio and give the coordinates to Eim and Robertson, and:

"Hello, Reaper."

The next thing he knew, there was something foreign poking around in his brain. It was not like the Commander--the Commander was careful to only relay messages; he never did anything more. It was not like Rivera, who felt more like an annoyance than a probe. This was an ice pick ready to lobotomize him. This was a splinter. This was not supposed to be there.

Daisuke, naturally, resisted. He pushed back. This didn't work--it was an outside force in his mind and he was trying to pull it out with his hands tied. He made a sound he wasn't proud of, keeled over, and clutched his head.

Suddenly Daisuke became dizzy, staggering to the left as all the pressure in his ears popped loose. He heard some worried-sounding voices over the radio, but it felt like he had cotton swabs stuck in his head, and he couldn't make them out. It was like a hand in his mind, searching.

The hand pushed past something important, like knocking a wire out of place; Daisuke stumbled forward and leaned against the bench he had been trying to hide behind. The spinning in his head made him feel extraordinarily sick. 

There was a dull satisfaction--not his--like finding something you'd been looking for. Daisuke had a moment to be afraid, and then the hand grabbed something.

A moment passed where Daisuke thought he was about to puke, or die, or both.

A muffler fell over everything. Daisuke's higher knowledge was smothered. Daisuke's sense of self was smothered. All that was left was a bleating, bucking animal, wild-eyed and stupid.

Get them.

Daisuke turned, saw two alarmed faces, and fell into the arms of the shadows, disappearing from the human eye.

They all yelped. Daisuke ran to the side of the building, swinging to a stop and crawling up the same pipe as he had before. His radio screeched and wailed; he pulled it off his chest and threw it on the ground. Silently he reached the rooftop, darting to the side and peering out from behind a ledge.

Eim and Robertson were looking about frantically, backs to each other, as if they could find a Reaper just by looking. Daisuke loaded a new cartridge into his Vektor rifle, aimed out from behind the ledge, and made his mark.

The Skirmisher--gods, he hated Skirmishers--was the bigger threat. Daisuke aimed for the heart and pulled the trigger.

The bullet hit true. If Daisuke were himself, he'd have been able to shift right back into hiding--but he wasn't himself, and Eim turned, saw him, and snarled. He really and truly snarled, like something animal, and he raised his grappling hook.

Duck, Reaper!

Daisuke did his best to duck, but the hook hit his shoulder like the talon of a bird of prey and clutched tight. It bit through his jacket and into his skin--oh, he'd make Eim pay for putting holes in his coat--and Daisuke tried to run from it.

Honestly, it was unfair how hard Eim could pull. Daisuke lost his footing, fell backward, and almost bent in half when he hit the ledge of the building. The rifle flew from Daisuke's hands, his mask fell from his face, and Eim yanked him off the edge of the building and down to the ground.

Daisuke snarled, unarmed except for his hunting knife, his switchblade, and his own two hands. He pulled the former from his belt and went for Eim's throat with it. Eim, a foot taller and a hundred-fifty pounds heavier, grabbed his wrist with one hand and wrestled the knife from him with the other.

Daisuke ripped his hand back, hood falling from his head as he did, and skittered out of the way when Eim tried once more to grab him. It pissed Daisuke off to see Eim looking more frustrated than hurt; Eim lunged at him once more and he feinted left, dodged right, and kicked Eim in the shin as hard as he could.

Eim swore, clutching his ankle. Daisuke used the precious few moments he had to turn to rustle through his bag for his switchblade, and--

And Robertson came in from the side. She tackled Daisuke right to the floor and the breath punched out of his chest like it had never been there in the first place. He was pinned face-down like a criminal on the cement, his right hand behind his back and a knee keeping him pressed down. He growled against the pavement; he writhed.

But with his left hand, he reached for the bag on his side. Slowly, stealthily, he pulled the switchblade from his bag, and only too late did Robertson hear the sharp metal sound of the knife's extension.

Blindly he stabbed backward, and he hit something hard--probably armor. Robertson had no choice but to let him go, and he rolled over and scrambled back up to his feet.

There was a moment when Daisuke and his foes regarded each other, unsure what to do.

Daisuke glanced over his shoulder. There were three more enemies on the field, and he took a deep breath to call them over.

Eim rushed him as soon as he saw Daisuke breathing. He had no chance to cry for help; he was crushed in a brutal semblance of a hug and lifted off the ground, legs kicking. Eim pressed a bare hand against Daisuke's mouth; Daisuke writhed, kicked, then, having exhausted all other options, bit Eim's hand as hard as he could.

That usually worked. Not this time. Eim, with his inhuman (literally inhuman) pain tolerance, did not remove the hand from over Daisuke's mouth. His grip grew firmer, even as Daisuke bit harder, harder, and, finally, took a chunk out of Eim's hand.

Eim took it unflinchingly, which was just ridiculous. Daisuke now had a hunk of flesh in his mouth, with no progress made, and--

And Daisuke had a dismembered hunk of Enmoor Eim's flesh in his fucking mouth! He began to shout against the palm pressed against his entire face; his ribs felt like they were each cracking with the way Eim was holding him in place. His eyes darted over to Robertson, who was regarding him with a disdainful gaze. He tried his best to vocalize what the fuck?! against Eim's palm.

"Bad?" Robertson walked over and waved her hand in front of his face. "Are you still rabid?"

"MMGH," Daisuke said. It was supposed to be 'no.'

Eim's voice was right next to Daisuke's ear, and it made him flinch: "Should I let him go? He is no longer fighting… as hard."

Daisuke, eager to be free, had been kicking. He quickly stopped when he realized it was making him look bad. "Mmph?" said Daisuke, desperate. If he didn't like being normal hugged, he really hated being bear hugged--and by a Skirmisher, no less. "Mmph?!"

"Yeah, I think he's fine." Robertson made a hand motion. "Drop him."

Eim dropped Daisuke, and as he did, he shook out his bleeding hand. Daisuke, first thing, stepped back, placed his hands on his hips, and bent down to puke. He spat, trying to rid his mouth both of excess stomach acid and Skirmisher flesh, and turned back to Eim and Robertson.

"You," Eim peered at the gnarled mess of orange blood and flesh where Daisuke had bitten, "are a little brute."

"Sorry," Daisuke muttered, pulling up his hood to hide his face. "I… that sucked."

"Sucked for us, too!" Robertson laughed. "If you had a bigger gun, Eim and I would've been toast."

Daisuke frowned at Robertson--not because he was upset, but because he felt awful. "I'm sorry," he said, the words coming out a bit slurred. "I can't… er, I can't hear what you're saying."

"The Warlock," Eim said quietly, perhaps to avoid startling Daisuke, "invaded and took control of your mind. This is bound to have disorienting effects."

Robertson stepped forward, offering a hand. "I didn't think about that, Bad," she said. Her voice was so loud. "Are you still okay with continuing the mission? We can evac out--"

"No," Daisuke blurted. He meant for the word to sound smoother, cooler, but it came out too quick and too gurgly. "No, no. Just give me a moment, I'll be fine."

Eim took Daisuke's arm quickly. He didn't realize he'd been so close to falling right over until Eim caught him; his stomach churned once more with the slight change in altitude, and Eim released him as he fell down to the ground and began to dry heave.

"Oh, boy," whispered Robertson, bending over and patting his back. Nothing came up except the saliva filling up his mouth, but his body was upset, and Daisuke was upset, so he gagged. "Yeah, Bad, you're gonna sit this one out. Would've let you join us before, but…" Daisuke spasmed; Robertson winced. "You look like you're turning into a fucking werewolf right now, dude."

Daisuke wanted to say, 'No, no, let me help, I can help.' When he tried speaking, it came out as, "Ghauch." Didn't help his case much.

So Eim and Robertson left him with his mask and his rifle, sitting at a table. If he didn't feel like such shit, he'd find it hilarious--the table was outside of a coffee shop, and here Daisuke was, muscular and decked out in black kevlar and robes, looking about ready to turn himself inside out, at a café.

Bored and trying to distract himself, he looked inside. When he did, he saw a woman cowering under the counter, peeking up at him with barely-veiled curiosity. When she saw him looking, she ducked back down.

Daisuke waited. After a few minutes, he was rewarded for his patience--the woman peered back up again. In a genuine act of bravery, this time she didn't hide. Daisuke got an idea.

He waved her over. She looked at him, blue eyes bugging out of her head, pale brows so high they almost touched her hairline. "Come on," he called. Hopefully, she spoke English; he didn't quite know where they were, somewhere in Europe. How to seem approachable…

The woman stood up very, very slowly. It felt like trying to pet a feral cat, with the way he had to make himself quiet and small.

There was a BOOM in the distance. Daisuke's radio said, "Good work. The transmitter is history."

This scared the lady, but, impressing Daisuke, she continued forward. She was in a simple getup--a nice white shirt and black jeans, with a stained blue apron. She had her hands up (Daisuke wasn't that intimidating, was he?).

"Hi," Daisuke said. "Would it be weird to order something to drink?"

The woman, understandably, looked at him like he was crazy. She stuttered out, "B-but, you, you're--you're with… the Resistance--I can't be seen serving the Resistance--"

"I'm not with the Resistance," Daisuke corrected. "I'm with the Reapers."

The woman's face became whiter than a sheet. She opened her mouth, then closed it. Then she opened it again and squeaked: "R-Reapers?!"

"Yep." He popped the P. "Listen. If you don't want your reputation tarnished, just say I held you at gunpoint." Daisuke took off his mask, which seemed to relieve some of the tension in the woman's shoulders. "I just got mind controlled by the Elders' favorite blueberry. I puked my guts out." He cracked his neck. The tension in her shoulders returned. "What's your name?"

"Uh--uh…!" The woman began to tremble. "Mary."

"Mary," Daisuke said, "could you get me a cup of mint tea? My stomach hurts."

Mary stared at Daisuke for a few moments. Then she began to giggle. Then she began to cackle. She went into hysterics. "Oh, oh my--" She turned her face to the sky and bellowed with laughter. "This is absurd! This is insane; this is--I'm serving tea to a Reaper! Coming right up, mister… uh. Mister…?"

"Nakamura."

Mary frolicked off. Daisuke sighed, smiling after her. Civilians were so funny--first the woman with the alloys who decided to hold him at gunpoint, now this waitress who probably thought reality was playing a cruel joke on her. Mary. She was pretty.

And she got him tea in a nice, ceramic white mug. He drank it gladly--not only did he like Mary, but the tea was genuinely soothing against his mouth and throat, in his stomach. Mary sat down next to him, seeming to have finally gotten over her jitters and hysteria, and she began to talk. Daisuke, amused, listened. He'd have told her to shut up and leave if this were anyone else, but she was genuinely charming and led a simple life. Daisuke never understood the 'simple life' thing; being a Reaper, such a thing was… out of reach.

But she talked about the most ordinary things like they were life-changing. She explained that her Corgi--a dog--shit on her nice rug a day ago. One of her coworkers kept taking too many shifts off, and she had to cover for him every time. Daisuke actually found himself enjoying the company of this random civvie who suddenly decided he was the perfect person to whine to. He enjoyed it a lot.

After a few minutes, a split-second agonizing headache, and a purple blast from a nearby building, Eim and Robertson returned. They introduced themselves to a still-disbelieving Mary and asked for coffee.

The Warlock hadn't proved too difficult, especially not for two of the hardest hitters in XCOM. They talked for a moment. Then Eim removed his helmet, revealing his scarred, strange features, and Mary stared for a moment.

Then she went limp, and her head went whack against the table.

"Uh oh," Robertson muttered, turning Mary's face over. She looked fine, except for a small bleeding nick near the beginning of her left brow.

Eim's features were as indecipherable as they always were, but somehow, he looked a little sad. "Robertson," he said, "am I ugly?"

"No, Eim, you're beautiful just the way you are."

"You're a little ugly."

"Daisuke, shut up, you're gonna make him insecure!"

"It's charming. Like one of those squish-faced little dogs." Daisuke snapped his fingers in thought. "What are they called… bulldogs?"

"Pugs," Eim said, not looking nearly as offended or insecure as Robertson seemed to think he would. "This is not a productive conversation. We need to think about what we are going to do about… Mary, here."

"Leave her." Daisuke shrugged. "Not like she's gonna care. Come on, let's gather up the corpses and get the hell out of here. I need to fucking shower."

Except for the shallow wound Daisuke left in Eim's chest and the chunk Daisuke took out of his hand, the mission was a flawless success. At least, that was the technicality--in Daisuke's mind lingered the feeling of an intrusion, like a little finger digging around in his brain matter and crooking up to take control.

The memories were spotty. Daisuke remembered it being over, not knowing what to think except to get away from Eim and the crushing embrace. Adrenaline kept him from processing the situation for a few hours. It started to settle in on the trip back, and Daisuke smoked a few cigarettes, which kept it all at bay for a while longer.

But he couldn't smoke forever, and the adrenaline faded. Daisuke showered when he got back, and that ended up being the place where it really and truly hit him: mind control. Was there any use in resisting the Warlock? You could keep safe from Sectoids and Priests. Could you lock the Warlock out of your head? Was it useless to try?

Questions plagued him, and he stayed under the stream of water until someone finally tapped his shoulder and said, "Bad?"

It made him jump and whip around, furious for a moment. Hayes stood there (Daisuke desperately ignored a distinct lack of clothing) and looked down at Daisuke, worried. Daisuke felt conflicted about that. On the one hand: mind control, ugh; he smoked again, which, if he found out, Volk would kill him for. On the other hand: Hayes, in the nude. Tough situation.

"What?" he snapped. "I'm showering here."

"You've been standing here buckass naked for an hour." Hayes put his hands on his hips. Daisuke did not look. He didn't. "You don't even stay in here for five minutes, usually."

Why the fuck did Hayes know that? "Sorry. Sorry, I had a rough mission."

"Okay, well, get out and tell me about it." Hayes walked out of the shower. Daisuke only watched a little bit--a slight indulgence in a horrible day. Hayes' legs were just astonishing. "And quit wasting all the hot water. Didn't really enjoy my cold shower there, Bad."

Daisuke couldn't argue. He scrubbed away the crusted old sweat in the crooks of his body, the black lint that had gathered in those same crooks from the fabric of his clothes. Then he got out, toweled off, and sat across from Hayes, who was applying his aftershave. Clothes had been reapplied, though all images would live in Daisuke's mind forever. Honestly, he'd just been too fucked-up to make the most of that situation.

"What happened?" Hayes asked.

Daisuke said, "The Warlock showed up and mind controlled me. Tried my best to kill Eim and I couldn't even do that effectively. Only took out a chunk of his hand."

"That sucks." Hayes clasped his hands. "Have you eaten since? I heard that mind control causes nausea, and I know how well you always take nausea."

"Okay, well, first off?" Daisuke stuck his finger out at Hayes. "Fuck you. Second off, no, I haven't. Honestly, I'm just afraid of what'll happen if I eat too much." He shrugged. "I can hold off. Doesn't hurt me too bad."

"Yeah, okay, Bad." Hayes stood up. "Come on. Mess hall time. I'm meeting your bestie Díaz there, too, so it's a win-win for you."

Fuck. It kind of was a win-win for Daisuke.

He got up and followed Hayes to the mess hall.

Chapter Text

Daisuke mopishly followed Hayes to the cafeteria. He supposed it was good to eat, and he knew never to say no to food. Plus, he enjoyed Hayes' company, and Díaz would be there. His social life needed a bump in the right direction.

"I didn't realize you and Díaz were friends," he said. "That's cool."

Hayes smiled. "We only started hanging out after he asked you about the Covert Op we went on," he said, a teasing tone to his voice. "Said you spoke pretty highly of me."

Daisuke, too tired to actually have a good response to that, punched Hayes' arm. Hayes laughed a hyena's laugh, folding his arms and smiling. Daisuke hated how smug he looked. "Oh, come on, no need to be embarrassed! I know I'm the coolest."

"Shoot yourself."

"But seriously." Hayes completely disregarded Daisuke's words. "Díaz is… funny, in the head, but he's nice. Glad you two are friends. God knows you need one."

Daisuke grumbled. He didn't have the energy to do much more.

They got to the cafeteria, and Díaz was there already. Daisuke could tell he was bored because he was dipping one prong of his fork in sauce and using it to draw a smiley face on his tray. He was so entranced by this task that he didn't notice Daisuke and Hayes approaching; Hayes purposely snuck up on Díaz so he could raise his hands and slam them down onto the table.

Díaz leaped from his seat with a genuinely terrified yelp. Hayes cackled as he did, slipping smoothly into the chair across from a now-hyperventilating Díaz. Daisuke thought that was cruel; he walked over to Díaz and sat next to him, placing his hand on one meaty shoulder.

"Sorry," Hayes said, not sounding like he actually was. "Couldn't help it."

Díaz looked at Daisuke, then at Hayes. "It's fine," squeaked out Díaz, laughing nervously. It was honestly just very sad; Daisuke got the urge to bitch at Hayes about it. "Just startled me." Seeming to want to distract from the topic, he looked down at Daisuke. "I didn't realize you were coming along. Did Caleb invite you?"

Caleb. What a weirdly normal name. "Yeah. Had a bad mission, puked a lot. Got mind controlled. The fucking usual."

"Mind-controlled?" Díaz echoed the words worriedly. "That's never fun. Are you okay?" He smiled a little. "Was everyone else okay?"

Was that a compliment about Daisuke's ability? He thought it was a compliment about his ability. That made him feel a little better. "Yeah," he said, "Reapers kinda work in packs. I bit a chunk off of Eim's hand, though."

"Oh. That's gross."

Hayes butted in: "You're a Reaper, don't you put ADVENT in your mouth all the time?"

Daisuke groaned. "Well, first of all, don't word it like that." Hayes laughed; Daisuke kicked him under the table for it. "Second of all, ADVENT soldier meat is really tough, and that, like, borders on cannibalism. Some of us do it when we're desperate. It's not that good." Hayes opened his mouth, likely to say something vulgar and whorish, and Daisuke interrupted him: "Well, anyway, that's all I ended up doing. It's good that I didn't hurt anyone, but also a little disappointing." He sighed, standing up. "I'm gonna go get some food. If I puke, it's not my fault."

"Ooh." Hayes leaned over his seat after him. "Heard Bradford's gonna be doing some flying today!" And, after a moment, "Can you get me some food, too?"

Daisuke tipped his head back and groaned at the ceiling. "Oh, Jesus," he said. "I think I'm just gonna have a calorie packet. No way am I eating something that'll come up messy."

Díaz made a face for a moment, probably thinking about Daisuke puking. Then he turned to Hayes and asked, "Where are we flying? I didn't realize we were leaving."

Daisuke listened in on Hayes' response as he picked out a baked potato and scraped a couple of eggs onto one plate and, as a last-minute thought, grabbed a smaller bowl and put some eggs in there for himself. Scrambled eggs were the only things the chefs could consistently make taste good--though Daisuke couldn't stand them over easy. "Think we're going to Sicily. There's a pretty big Resistance camp there."

"Sicily? Are you sure?" The tone of Díaz's voice made Daisuke a little curious. He sounded suddenly excited.

"I'm pretty sure, yeah. You could probably confirm with Central. Why? What's up?"

Daisuke came back to the table, placing Hayes' plate in front of him and beginning to sullenly pick at his scrambled eggs. He didn't want to be wasteful, but eggs, while good, were not something he was ever excited to eat--especially if he would be forcefully ejecting them from his digestive tract in a few hours. "Yeah," he said, trying not to think about it. "Are you from there? You're Italian."

"Yeah! My family's in the Sicilian camp." Díaz smiled a broad and joyous smile. Daisuke didn't think he'd ever seen someone so overjoyed to be traveling. "I really hope we're actually going. I'd love to see them."

Daisuke thought for a moment. "Your grandma and cousin, right?"

"Yep." Díaz was squirming with excitement. Daisuke didn't like that he felt a little excited for Díaz. "Oh, I can't wait to see Gianna again. It's been a few months now. Wonder if she's lost any teeth…"

"Jesus," Daisuke said. "Your little cousin's losing teeth? How many fights is she getting into?"

This, for some reason, sent Hayes into hysterics. He pounded the table and cackled at the ceiling. Daisuke didn't know what he was laughing about; Díaz neatly and calmly explained, "Bad, she isn't losing teeth in fights. She's six years old--they're baby teeth."

"Oh." Daisuke's face felt warm. "Well, now I feel stupid."

"You look stupid!" Hayes was always so over-the-top. He was so lucky he was pretty. He took on a mocking tone and blabbered, "Ohh, the six-year-old is kicking major ass."

"I will pay you to kill yourself. Quit ruining Díaz's special moment." He stood up, thoroughly done with Hayes, and went to get some water. "Díaz, tell us more about your family. I feel like I know nothing about you."

"Since you've been so forthcoming." Daisuke did not like the tone of voice Díaz took but compared to Hayes, it wasn't so bad. Díaz continued, "Well, anyway. My grandma, she's on my dad's side. She was sixty when the invasion first came, so she's eighty-two now… my grandpa submitted to the aliens pretty quickly, but she didn't." Daisuke returned to his seat to see Díaz's fond smile. "She stayed at home for my dad; cooked and cleaned. Now she's in the Sicilian camp, and she still cooks, but she no longer cleans. She hated cleaning."

"Huh. Central said something about your grandma making him pasta."

"She loves to cook." Díaz looked at his hands. "I can tell you: not a hereditary skill. I once set my whole tent on fire trying to boil water. But!" He stuck up a finger, obviously trying to distract from his embarrassment. "My nonnina's pasta is the best. Nothing you can really do to dissuade me from that."

Then the intercom crackled to life and said, This is Central. At 3 PM, we will be departing to the Resistance camp in Sicily. Winds are expected to be mild; it's daytime--flight should be smooth.

Díaz shot up from his seat with a gasp. "I know!" he said, running over to the phones. "I've gotta call! Oh, nonnina's gonna be so excited--" He began speaking a different language, Daisuke assumed Italian, as he began to dial. He watched, amused, as he held the phone up to his ear, giddy as a child.

Hayes had a look on his face that promised nothing but evil. Díaz began speaking Italian; Hayes nudged Daisuke, gesturing at the phone. Daisuke didn't quite know what he meant, but he genuinely thought that if Hayes screwed this up for Díaz, there'd be hell to pay.

Then Díaz said, "Buongiorno, nonnina!" and Hayes walked over behind Díaz, beckoning Daisuke.

Feeling guilty, but curious, Daisuke followed. Hayes leaned over Díaz's shoulder, made an obscene sound--likely for the phone to hear--and said, "Come back to bed!"

Díaz did not look as horrified as Daisuke imagined, though he did swat Hayes' shoulder. He said, "Un momento," and held the phone away from his mouth. "Idiot," he snapped, which surprised Daisuke. "She doesn't speak English. Way to make an ass of yourself."

Then he turned back to the phone and said, in the sweetest, most darling voice, "Mi dispiace per quello," and kept talking. Daisuke crossed his arms, smiling as Hayes turned back to him, utterly defeated.

"You really did make an ass of yourself," he said. "And for what?" Before Hayes could respond, Daisuke kicked him in the shin.

"Ow!" Hayes clutched his ankle, knee to his chest. "You suck! What is the matter with you?!"

Daisuke didn't respond. He kicked Hayes' other shin, and the man yowled, sitting down and glaring up at Daisuke. "That," Daisuke said, "is for both the times you were a dick to Díaz."

"Oh, you are such a little prick." Hayes groaned, rubbing his ankles. "Thought Reapers were supposed to have little weenie stick legs."

"We're fine with muscle. It's the bones we worry about."

Díaz hung up the phone, saving Daisuke the explanation. "My nonnina's gonna make food!" he said, smiling. His little twitchy tics had gone away for once--God, he really must've been excited. "Tomatoes are in season; they just got their hands on some pasta…" He sat down next to Hayes, seeming to have completely forgotten about the previous insults. "Gianna's so excited. Could barely understand her."

"That's nice," said Daisuke. He still didn't fully understand how family dynamics were supposed to work--he had his sister, and that was it. Were you supposed to hate your siblings or love them? Parents? He'd never understand. "I've never seen you so excited."

Hayes poked Díaz's shoulder, looking genuinely curious. "He's right. Look at that happy little smile."

Díaz did, in fact, have a bit of a goofy smile on his face. Not a bit of worry in his features, nothing but pure, unfiltered happiness. Daisuke didn't think he'd ever actually seen that on someone's face, and he sure didn't expect to see it on Díaz's--the guy was about 90% anxiety and 10%... more anxiety. He didn't look worried at all. Whenever Daisuke would go see Sayaka, he'd be terrified that something would be wrong or that she'd suddenly hate him.

"Oh, shut up, Caleb!" Díaz sighed happily, leaning back and folding his arms. He looked contemplative now. "I need to get something for Gianna. She's a little menace, I bet she'd…" He looked at Daisuke. "Sorry if this is a totally stereotypical thing to ask of you, but do you have any, like, trophies off of an alien? Gianna loves those."

Daisuke wrinkled his nose, amused. "No, no. Not stereotypical if it's true. I've got a wing off an Archon; think she'd like that?"

"Dude, a wing off an Archon?" Hayes leaned forward. "When'd you get that? And why?"

With a shrug, Daisuke said, "It was coming off anyway. Never had something from an Archon."

Hayes and Díaz both looked at him funny. Daisuke knew exactly what he was about to be asked, because the answer was yes. 

"Did you…" Díaz leaned forward, looking morbidly curious. "Did you eat it?"

Daisuke smiled, folding his arms and leaning back in his chair. "Went great with paprika," he said, and Hayes and Díaz both made sounds of complete and utter disgust, practically throwing themselves off their chairs to get away from Daisuke. "Oh, you just have to know how to cook meat--you sear it on both sides to keep the--" Daisuke took a breath in to put emphasis on the next word-- "juices in, and--"

"JUICES!" Hayes cried. "Juices! Do not say juices!"

"And then you," Daisuke tried to control his laughter, "you cook it, mmm, it tasted great."

"What I hate most about that," Díaz said, "is that it doesn't actually sound too bad. Where did you get paprika?"

"Spices don't expire." Daisuke shrugged. "I mean, Reapers will eat just about anything, but we're actually gonna make it taste good first." He scraped the rest of the eggs into his mouth. "I actually did a lot of cooking back with the Reapers. Mostly because I hated the way everyone else cooked. Sensitive palette and all that."

Hayes laughed. "Oh, I see how it is. Bad Company, so scary and badass, really just wants to put a little chef's hat on and make tasty food. Maybe you and Díaz's grandma can trade secrets."

"Probably not," said Díaz. "She's a big fan of fresh food, and I don't think she'd eat anything alien if it would mean the death of ADVENT." He side-eyed Daisuke. "Though I think she's gonna force-feed you. She hates seeing people skinny."

Daisuke threw his hands up. "I'm not that skinny! And it's not my fault, why don't you try growing up in a city full of degenerative chemicals?!"

"I'm not insulting you!" Díaz held his hands up innocently. "I'm not saying--okay, I see how that sounded insulting, but I didn't mean it that way. I promise."

"Sure, Díaz." Daisuke sighed, sitting up. "Well, it's 2:30; I'm gonna retire to the bathrooms and probably stay there until we land. I'll get your Archon wing, c'mon. Follow me."

Díaz stood up and jogged after Daisuke as he stormed off. There were a few minutes of semi-awkward silence before Daisuke sighed, not wanting to make Díaz feel like he didn't want to talk to him, and said, "Why do you hang out with Hayes? He treats you like shit."

"Oh." Díaz folded his arms, rubbing his shoulders. "Well… if I tell you, you can't make fun of me."

"No guarantees at all. You called me skinny."

Díaz sighed. "Alright, alright, fair enough." He looked at his feet, tapping his fingers against his arm, and mumbled, "He's cute."

Daisuke gasped, grabbing Díaz's forearm. "Me too!" he said. "It's not just me?!"

"It's not!" Díaz stared at Daisuke with wide eyes. "Oh, man, I thought it was just me, too! He's mean, but it's like--"

"It's hot!"

"Yeah!" Díaz wiggled his fingers, seeming to search for thought. "Oh, man. Can I tell you something super embarrassing?"

"Always. Hit me."

Díaz looked about cautiously, then leaned down to Daisuke in a fashion that made Daisuke feel like he was being told nuclear launch codes. Perhaps it really was that important to Díaz. "I've been trying to hang out with him when he works out," he whispered, "because, like, oh my God? The legs, Bad. The legs."

"Oh, Díaz, I'm so happy I'm not the only one." He patted Díaz's shoulder. "Damn. You ever walk behind him on the stairs?"

"Yeah. Yeah."

Daisuke whistled through his teeth, grinning. "Díaz," he said, "I'm so happy I can count on you to have good takes on men."

"God, I just hope…" Díaz peered at Daisuke, seeming a little concerned--for what, Daisuke didn't know. "Do you mind if I tell you something sort of personal?"

"We just got done talking about how hot our friend is. Come on."

Díaz bit his lip. "I really hope my nonnina doesn't try to get Matteo to come greet me," he muttered. "That'd be really awkward. Been kind of avoiding that."

Daisuke, curiosity piqued, asked, "Who's Matteo?"

"My ex," mumbled Díaz, which brought the nosy out in Daisuke. "We broke up a month ago. He didn't want to keep up a long-distance relationship, and I never, uh, I never wanted to tell my nonnina because she really, really liked him. So hopefully, like, he told her, or she got the message when I told her, like, six times that I didn't want to talk about him." He looked down at Daisuke. "You won't tell anyone, right?"

"Yeah, yeah. Was he hot?"

Díaz turned a color Daisuke wasn't sure he'd ever seen before. "Bad!"

Trying very hard to keep his poker face up, Daisuke said, "What? It's an innocent question. Don't take it the wrong way."

"Bad," he said, sounding shockingly hostile, "Matteo was…"

Díaz trailed off, frowned in a manner that Daisuke couldn't entirely dissect, and then turned away and muttered, "Nevermind," which made Daisuke a little worried.

"Hey, hey. I'm just fooling around, are you okay?" Daisuke arched an eyebrow. "Hey. If he was shitty, I'll kill him. Cannibalize him if you want me to."

Díaz laughed a little. "No, no. I was actually gonna say he was really great." He sighed a great, big sigh, deflating a bit. "He was the one who broke up with me. I really liked him, and I still do. Guess I'm still a little possessive."

"Possessive," Daisuke echoed, a little surprised. "Didn't think you were the jealous type." He opened the door to the bunks--walking and talking took a lot of the edge off. "Well, anyway, if you don't want to talk about it, you don't have to. Sorry I made that comment." He walked over to his bunk and lifted the curtain to peek beneath it. The stench was real --he shouldn't have left the Archon wing under there without properly sterilizing it first. Kept telling himself he'd get around to it, and he never did.

"No, it's okay. You didn't know." Díaz took the Archon wing that was offered, wrinkling his nose. "Jeez, Bad, has this been rotting under here? How long has it been?"

"Uh…" Daisuke thought back. "I think a month and a half?"

Díaz held up the intricate gold arch. It was heavy, made of real gold--though that wasn't too valuable these days, considering how common Archons were becoming and how impractical it was. The fuel keeping Archons afloat was much more useful. "Bad," he said, "that's really gross. No wonder it smells so bad in here."

"Well, your little cousin wants it. Keep it, I don't care." He sat down on the bed, groaning. "Oh, I'm really not excited for the flight…"

Díaz perked up. "I'll hang out with you in the bathroom," he said. "I need to clean up. Nonnina is a freak about hygiene."

"Well, prepare to be grossed out. It's gonna be a rough few hours." He got up, stretched, and rolled his tongue in his mouth a few times. "Drives me crazy, you know? Feel like I'm gonna tear myself apart every time I puke. It's the worst feeling."

They began to walk to the showers and, by extension, the bathrooms. Daisuke brought a dirty towel to cushion his knees, knowing he'd be curled up over the toilet for hours. On the way, Díaz asked him, "So, do you have anyone back with the Reapers? I spilled my guts; you have to spill yours."

"Oh." Daisuke supposed that was fair. "Well… no, not really. I've never really been into relationships, at least, not with anyone I knew back there." He sighed. "I mean, I had relationships, but they were mostly just… y'know, one-and-dones. Nothing special."

"Why?" Díaz held his hands up. "I mean, if you're okay with me asking. Is it just, not your thing, or…?"

"I guess," Daisuke said. "I dunno. I think it'd be nice to have something long-term, but I've never actually tried it." He sighed and continued, "I mean, all I really ever asked for is someone with a nice face and emotional maturity. Doesn't seem like much to ask for, but…"

"But?"

"It is when you're a lonely teenager." He shrugged. "Couldn't have both when I was back home. Hot people were dickheads, and mature people had osteoperosis." They walked into the bathrooms; it was already humid. Someone must've been showering. "I dunno."

Díaz gently patted Daisuke's shoulder; the touch was light enough that Daisuke didn't flinch away from it, but not so light that he didn't notice. Weird. "It's okay, Bad," said Díaz with complete sincerity. "I'm sure you'll find true love."

True love. What kind of cheesy shit was that? Daisuke scoffed and rolled his eyes, going over to the big stall and tossing his dirty towel down in front of the toilet. 

When Daisuke turned around to grab his toothbrush--Lord knew he would need it--he watched as Díaz pulled off his shirt, and his jaw dropped.

All across Díaz's upper shoulders, in black ink, were tattoos. They were gorgeous: a large hawk with its wings spread covered the whole middle; it clutched large clumps of wildflowers in its beak and talons. The petals fell in a line down Díaz's spine, down to the tailbone. A banner with an inscription in Latin rolled over the ochre of his skin, starting at the base of his neck and running behind the hawk to spiral over his left arm to his wrist. The other arm had a forearm tattoo--Díaz never wore short sleeves, but Daisuke still found it amazing he'd missed it this whole time. The one on his right wrist was an arrow surrounded by more flowers, maybe forget-me-nots? And over the insides of his wrists were two names: Guila Díaz on the right, and Luca Díaz on the left.

Daisuke stared for a moment. Then he thought, Hot damn.

"I didn't realize you had tattoos," he said, always the conversationalist. "Those are cool."

Díaz seemed surprised that Daisuke noticed, as if it wasn't an enormous series of tattoos that must've taken hours to complete. "Oh!" He observed the one on his arm, looking a little bashful. "I got them after my parents passed away. You really think they're cool?"

"Uh, yeah?" Daisuke rolled his eyes. "Dude, you don't give yourself enough credit. That's some of the coolest ink I've ever seen--were they your first ones?"

"Yep. Should've started small, but… kind of an emotional time for me." He shrugged, and the muscle of his arms moved under his skin. Daisuke tried not to watch; failed. "Felt good to have something to remember them by that wasn't an epitaph."

Jesus, that was depressing. Daisuke never thought he'd be grateful for the sound of the ship's engines roaring to life and the distant sound of the bay door closing, but here he was, so thankful. Daisuke was notoriously terrible at consoling people through their grief. 

Díaz gave Daisuke an amused look as he turned to the toilet, groaning. He took out the tie keeping his long dreadlocks away from his face and shook them out, peering in the mirror and beginning to sort them into little sections.

The ship lurched. Daisuke's stomach made its first awful noise; Díaz turned and looked at Daisuke. "That didn't sound good," he said. "You okay?"

"Get me a soapy towel," Daisuke groaned. "It's starting."

Díaz did so quietly. The ship was taking off--always the thing that sparked nausea in the first place. Daisuke would've thought that he'd have gotten used to it with his four months on the Avenger. He hadn't, though. Díaz handed him the towel; he used it to wipe the toilet seat so he could lean his face on it.

Díaz said, "I'm gonna shower. Tell me if you need anything."

"I think I'm gonna fucking die."

The muscles in Daisuke's stomach gave out from beneath it as Díaz gave a teasing little laugh. "Oh, I doubt it's that bad--"

Saliva pooled beneath Daisuke's tongue and his eyes suddenly became independent of each other; his shoulders fell into each other and the blood rushed from his face. He aimed for the toilet and retched.

Díaz shut up pretty damn quick. The process was easier than usual because Daisuke hadn't eaten much, but easier didn't mean pleasant. It was all acid and a bit of egg. When he finished up, he just ended up coughing some more. Díaz slowly patted his back.

"Alright," he said quietly, "I take it back. It is that bad."

Daisuke, unfinished coughing, flicked off Díaz over his shoulder. Díaz, seeming unable to respond to that particular gesture, said, "Well, uh… have fun."

He did not have fun. Díaz stayed in the shower for an ungodly amount of time--though Daisuke supposed that if he was going to see someone he loved for the first time in months, he'd want to look and smell nice, too. It took him, like, an hour, though.

But, he had been singing the whole time. Daisuke found it annoying at first because Díaz was just completely tone-deaf, but it was distracting from the motion sickness.

At some point, Díaz had left, and Daisuke's stomach stopped reacting so poorly. He got stuck in the limbo of discomfort--he was dizzy and nauseous, and his hands were all clammy. He closed the toilet seat and folded his arms over it, leaning his head against it and closing his eyes. That always helped a bit.

God, it would've been at least nice to get some rest between the mission and this. He was exhausted.

He ended up dozing off like that, kneeling in front of the toilet with his head in his arms. He probably looked like a wreck to anyone who came walking through, but he felt like a wreck, so he didn't really care. It would only be a few more hours--it'd go by eventually.

"Sorry I left."

Daisuke turned back to look at Díaz, walking through the door. He honestly looked very nice--now that Daisuke knew they were there, it was impossible to miss the slivers of ink peeking out from beneath his collar and sleeves. His dreads were tied up in a knot that was somehow both messy and fancy. Most were tied up, neat and orderly, but a few framed his face; those few had gold clips in them, some plain rings, some broad with lace-like designs. He'd shaved, and now he wore what counted as fancy when you were a member of the Resistance: black pants, a black shirt, and an… interesting orange knitted cardigan.

Comparatively, they probably looked like if you took a very nice, well-mannered housecat and put it next to a raccoon you fished out of the dumpster.

Daisuke didn't like the way that made him feel, so instead he thought about what Díaz was holding in his hands. If he wasn't just hallucinating, he had…

"I got you water," Díaz said, "and I found one of your calorie packets." He came over to Daisuke and knelt in front of him, giving him the glass and the pack. "Didn't want you to be all alone puking out your guts, but you look like you're doing better…?"

"Better's a word." Daisuke took the calorie packet, but his hands were shaking and he didn't trust himself to hold up a glass without losing his grip. Díaz set it on the floor next to him. "My stomach's settled down. Now I'm dealing with the other motion sickness symptoms. Still nauseous, by the way. Just not puking right now."

"I'm sorry." Díaz was kind of smothering Daisuke--it was a small stall, and Díaz was a big guy. He felt a little trapped, but honestly, Daisuke was just so woozy that he couldn't bring himself to care. "I'm surprised nobody ever comes and checks on you. Doesn't anyone?"

Daisuke grumbled under his breath, wiping his face. "Rivera, sometimes," he mumbled. "But she either needs to take care of Hall, who also gets motion sick, or she's motion sick herself." Not wanting to be pitied any more than he already was, Daisuke looked Díaz up and down. "Nice, uh. Nice sweater, Díaz."

Díaz's cheeks turned a nice scarlet color. "Bad," he said, "my nonnina made this for me. She'd go ballistic if I didn't wear it for her."

Snickering, Daisuke pulled at one sleeve. "It's not terrible," said Daisuke teasingly. "It's charming, Díaz. Don't let me kill your vibe. You look like a… like a very nice college student."

The red on Díaz's face got even darker in color. He chuckled, holding up the water. "You say such kind words to me all the day long," he said. "Come on, you should drink some water. You just put a bunch of it down the toilet."

Daisuke scoffed, and he drank.

After the Avenger landed, Daisuke felt much better. Knowing there was a good chance Díaz was going to introduce him to the whole extended family, Daisuke tried to clean himself up a bit: he wetted a comb and, for once in his goddamn life, got his hair to lie flat and look nice for it; he brushed and flossed his teeth until the gums bled. He put on a clean shirt and clean pants (though both were wrinkled from being shoved under his bed for so long). He looked in the mirror.

Despite all efforts, Daisuke still looked like a guy who'd been puking for a few hours straight. He sighed. At least his hair looked nice.

Díaz had spent the whole time either making sure Daisuke was hydrated or making sure he looked presentable. Daisuke was becoming a bit afraid of his grandmother--Díaz seemed ecstatic to see her again, but he was pulling out all the tricks to make himself look nice for her.

Then something occurred to him.

"Hey, Díaz," he said, squirting some calorie mush into his mouth. "Why are you trying to look nice?"

Díaz, patting the aftershave Hayes let him borrow onto his face (which he'd shaved again twice now, citing that he'd seen spots he'd missed that Daisuke magically couldn't see), turned and looked at Daisuke. "Uh, my nonnina," he said. "I told you already."

Inquisitive, Daisuke walked around Díaz. This seemed to make him feel even more nervous than he already was. "Nobody else? None at all?"

"Well, Gianna always likes to see me dressed up… oh, maybe my friend Patricia, too--"

"Nobody," Daisuke emphasized the word, staring up at Díaz. Díaz stared back down at him.

Then it seemed to click for him, too. His eyes went big, and his brows shot up. His lips parted ever-so-slightly. "Bad," he whispered after a moment. "If you say what I think you're about to say… I will be very upset."

Daisuke and Díaz stared at each other for a moment.

"Is it for Matteo--"

"It is not for Matteo!" Díaz screamed. "It's not! It's not for--for that ass of a man. It's not, and I would tell you if it was, and why would I put any effort into looking nice for him when he never put any effort into doing anything nice for me--"

Oh, God. He was totally doing it for his ex.

"--and it is just ridiculous, I mean, why would you even--" Díaz gasped, really gasped for breath. "Why would you even imply that, I haven't even--haven't even…"

Díaz trailed off. Then he sat down on one of the benches, all mopey and soggy all of a sudden, and said, "I really miss him."

Daisuke sighed, sitting down next to Díaz, who had visibly and emotionally deflated. Now he was a sad little orange balloon, airless on the floor, fiddling with one of the strings of his cardigan. "Sorry," he muttered. "I… I was joking. I didn't think you actually were."

"No, no, it's not your fault." Díaz held his face in his hands. "I just need to move on. I need to talk to him, and--and I mean, Bad, if you saw him, if you met him… if you'd been partners for two and a half years with, just, the guy of your dreams? And then one moment, everything was fine and the next you had nothing?" Díaz looked up at Daisuke, seeming particularly soppy. "I don't know what I'm gonna do."

Daisuke sighed. "Look. I won't pretend I have experience in this sort of thing. I won't even try." He nudged Díaz in the side with his elbow. "But I'll help however I can. We're friends."

Eyes all watery and shiny, Díaz looked up at Daisuke. His voice was so, so wobbly when he said, "Really?"

"Yeah. Now c'mon. Central's gonna announce over the intercom when it's safe to go outside." Daisuke stood up and cracked his back, beckoning Díaz along with him. "Now, I'm gonna go find my earrings; they're somewhere under my bed and I think if I push hard enough I can reopen my piercings."

Díaz soggily stood up and followed.

Daisuke's earrings were extremely difficult to find, but his piercings hadn't closed up, even after all this time. Díaz seemed to feel a little better now: Daisuke figured out that the trick was to ask him about his family instead of his ex. Which, in hindsight, was probably the right idea, but Daisuke wasn't socially adept at all and had no experience in this whatsoever.

About fifteen minutes passed. Daisuke had his earrings in--two in each lobe and a helix in the right--after a few minutes of dabbing beads of blood from the upper left. Daisuke and Díaz were waiting by the door next to a few newer recruits.

Central's voice said, "You're all clear. Bay doors can open."

A huge crack like a giant beer can being opened. The hinges shuddered, and bright daylight peeked in.

When the doors touched the ground, creating a ramp, Daisuke saw a multitude of people with a multitude of cultures to them. He didn't get time to appreciate it, though, because Díaz ran out with his arms wide to two people in particular.

There was a fossil of a woman standing to the left, balancing all her weight on a cane. She had thick aviator eyeglasses and curly white hair like a cloud above her head; liver spots like polka dots were smattered across her face and hands and her mouth was more wrinkle than lip. Wearing old person attire; a cardigan not dissimilar in design to Díaz's, and a pair of fluffy brown boots. She was hunched over that plain wood cane, shaking in place. Daisuke thought that a strong wind could knock that little old lady over--it was rare to see someone so ancient in a Resistance camp.

The other person was on the other end of the age spectrum--a girl who must've only been about five or six years old. She had dark skin like Díaz's, a fair bit lighter in tone, and her smile was just about the sweetest thing Daisuke had ever seen. Her hair was not as curly as the grandma's, but still curly. She had a bright purple shirt and bright pink shorts, but no shoes or socks. She was covered in what looked like yellow paint--it was pulled through her hair and smeared on her face and fingers. She was the one Díaz seemed to be running toward.

And just like that, suddenly he'd swept the little girl off her feet, holding her up in the air by her underarms and laughing. She was smiling a big, unfiltered smile of only a few teeth and giggling like he was. Díaz spun her around a few times before hugging her, burying his face in her tiny shoulder.

Daisuke Nakamura was a Reaper. He was tough and mean and liked to get his hands dirty. He didn't like kids, he didn't like being mushy or any of that stuff. But goddamn, if that wasn't the cutest thing he'd ever seen in his life, he didn't know what was. He'd never seen Díaz so happy.

He began to speak in Italian to the girl, who said back in what might've been Italian if it hadn't been so rushed. The older woman--the nonnina--wobbled on up to Díaz, a slight smile pulling her thin lips up. He greeted her by kissing her cheek, then kissed the girl's cheek. Then he scolded her because she pulled one of the clips from his hair.

Díaz and his family talked; he seemed to have forgotten entirely about his scorching-hot ex in favor of his little cousin who, oh, dear, was chewing on one of his lovely dreadlocks. Not wanting to interrupt, Daisuke stayed back, leaning against one of the crates and smiling. He didn't notice; he was too busy talking to his grandma. Daisuke could've helped, but he decided not to--Díaz seemed to be having such a good time, and Daisuke didn't want to ruin it with his overall edginess.

Except--oh, boy. Díaz was looking at him, making specific eye contact and gesturing. Daisuke, unsure what to do, stood in place, glancing about to check for any other person, any other person, that Díaz might've been waving over.

Then Díaz called, "Bad, come on!" and sealed his fate. Daisuke liked to pretend he was all cool and badass and suave, but in reality, he knew he was just awkward and shy. And these were Díaz's family members, who he'd been freaking out about for the whole time they'd been in flight. Daisuke tensed up, hoping Díaz would correctly assume he was too shy to come over.

But he didn't let up. He put the hand he wasn't using to hold his cousin up on his hip, giving Daisuke a pouty little frown, and he was compelled. He pushed off the crate, folded his arms to make himself smaller, and went to the grandma and the girl.

The girl was staring at him with big amber eyes, still drooling on one of Díaz's dreads, and the older woman might've been staring if her eyes weren't so squinty that Daisuke couldn't see what color they were. Díaz smiled, held his hand out toward Daisuke, and said something in Italian. He caught his name in there somewhere, and the words' Bad Company,' and the girl was looking at him like he was the most exciting thing to have ever graced the camp. Daisuke stared back, getting a little invested in the staring contest before the older woman held out one blistered, trembling hand. He took it, being careful not to shake it too hard for fear of breaking the woman's arm.

"Bad," Díaz said, "this is my grandma and cousin, Penina and Gianna." Then, sotto voce: "Introduce yourself."

"Oh, uh." Daisuke thought they didn't speak English! "Hi." Hi?! Jesus Christ, he was so bad at this-- "My name is, uh, Daisuke Nakamura. Díaz-- uhh, Carlos? Calls me Bad. It's part of my nickname."

Díaz looked like he was holding in laughter. Daisuke did not make eye contact with anyone.

The little girl--Gianna--said something Daisuke didn't understand. Díaz (would it be easier to call him Carlos for the time they were here? Ugh, but that would be weird) looked at Gianna and said something. Daisuke didn't know exactly what he said, but he could guess based on the tone of voice: it was like he was telling her a ghost story, over-excited and conveying mystery. The word 'Reaper' popped up, and Díaz did an ooh, wiggling his fingers like he was describing a wraith and not some dude who was standing right there. 

Gianna, though, seemed ecstatic--she gasped, looking at Daisuke, and reached out toward him with one messy finger. Daisuke couldn't help but flinch back, which probably looked rude as hell, but he was exhausted, and things were suddenly getting really, really loud. He was suddenly under scrutiny after coming off a mission only, what, five hours ago? And puking his guts out.

The grandma said something in a teasing tone of voice. Díaz scoffed, rolled his eyes, and said, "No." Ooh, a word Daisuke understood!

It all went back to Italian eventually, and Daisuke was left standing there, twiddling his fingers like the awkward mess he was. Gianna did not stop looking at Daisuke for a moment. Her eyes were just enormous, so shiny. Díaz still hadn't noticed her new chew toy; he was too busy conversing quickly with his grandmother. She looked like she didn't quite know what to do with Daisuke. But, to be fair to her, Daisuke didn't know what to do with Daisuke, so no blame there.

He was so busy thinking about what to do with himself--go back inside? Look around? Tell Díaz about his cousin's new favorite sensory toy?--that he didn't notice Díaz gesturing toward him until it was too late, and suddenly Grandma Penina had her hands on Daisuke's shoulders, and ohh God, that was a lot.

She leaned in so, so close, abandoning her cane. Daisuke could smell her breath as she peered at him, eyes finally widening enough that Daisuke could see that they were just like Díaz's. They searched his face, darting about as her hands lifted from his shoulders to run over his cheek. The touch was unexpected and Daisuke flinched so hard it startled Gianna; his chin was tipped left, then right. The scar on his jaw was touched, then the scar on his chin. Daisuke found himself quickly shrinking into himself, squeezing his eyes shut and tensing up all over in the hope that if his muscles were all tense, he'd feel that instead of the touches on his face.

It was over after what felt like a hundred million years but was probably all of ten seconds. Díaz said something worried in Italian; Penina snapped back. Daisuke found himself the subject of a quick argument before Grandma Penina went hobbling off, beckoning Gianna with her. Daisuke finally relaxed as they went; Díaz stood next to Daisuke, crossing his arms and sighing contentedly.

"Sorry she got so touchy," he said in English. "She does that sometimes. I should've warned you." He shot a teasing look at Daisuke, a little joking grin growing on his face. "I didn't think you'd be so anxious! It's just a little old lady."

Daisuke went hot in the face. "Listen," he snapped. "I don't do well with sudden social situations. And you seemed terrified of her!"

Díaz laughed. "I suppose that's true." He sighed. "Well, I told her that you're a little, uh, a little tired, so she's gonna make you pasta."

Blinking, Daisuke said, "Uh, what? Why?"

"Because she's very doting on the people I like," said Díaz, "and she likes to impress people. Don't worry, I told her to make it mild."

Unused to being appreciated or 'doted on,' Daisuke sighed. "Don't even start," he mumbled. "Oh, and, uh… sorry I didn't say anything before, but," he reached out and gently took the chewed-up dreadlock, pulling it out from behind Díaz's head and laying it over his shoulder. When Díaz saw the damage--and boy, there was damage--he gasped, shooting up straight and glaring after Gianna.

"Oh, that little--" He looked at the loc, then at Gianna, then at the loc, then at Gianna. "Oh, she's so lucky she's cute," he growled. The hair was all slobbery, fraying out of place; Daisuke didn't know much about dreadlocks, but he got the feeling that wouldn't be an easy fix. "It's okay you didn't say anything, I know you were intimidated, but…"

"No, no, none of that shit." Daisuke poked Díaz in the side with his elbow. "Quit being such a doormat."

"Sorry."

"No sorry." Daisuke looked out at the camp. "Your family seems nice. Is your grandma really gonna make me pasta?"

Díaz smiled, looking to be over his dreadlock-turned-chew toy. "Yeah," he said. "She really likes you, Bad. I've talked about you before--I hope that's okay--" he talked about Daisuke?-- "and she's been wanting to meet you." Díaz beckoned. "C'mon. I want you to meet someone; I think you'll like her."

"Oh." Daisuke followed after Díaz, who was walking off. "It's a lady, so it's not Matteo… you said something about someone. Pa… Pamela?"

"Patricia." Díaz glared at Daisuke. "Tell me why you think I would introduce you to my ex when I've made it pretty clear that I don't want anything to do with him."

Daisuke opened his mouth.

"Don't actually." Díaz seemed to be on edge now that his family was gone. "I get the feeling you have some pretty mean words to say and I don't want to hear them."

Fair enough. Daisuke said, "Well, anyway. What about this Patricia lady? Why are we meeting her?"

Díaz shrugged. "I don't think you'll like Patricia," he said. "She's pretty loud, and I know you don't like loud. You might think she's cool?"

"Whatever. I need to be on your six." Daisuke glanced about. "Wanna tell me what this Matteo guy actually looks like? I am not letting you see him again. You need to have a good time here and I wanna know if this guy is actually worth not getting over."

With a small, sad laugh, Díaz folded his arms. "Listen," he said. "If he wants to talk, we can talk." He did not sound sure of himself. "I won't be that bad! You don't have to worry about me, Bad. And I'll get over him… eventually."

"You are so pathetic, dude."

"No need to throw around insults!"

They bickered a bit as they continued to watch, though Díaz seemed distracted: he stared around, looking as if at any moment he could collapse like a building with its foundations knocked out. Daisuke didn't want him to see Matteo and, like, fall over on the floor crying. He had no doubt that a guy who unironically used the phrase 'true love' would do such a thing.

It was a bit of a walk. Daisuke didn't know much about the Resistance camps in Europe--he was most familiar with the ones in Asia--but the Sicilian camp was famous for being one of the safest out there. Sicily had been one of the places that ADVENT just couldn't keep its hold on; the heel of Italy was home to the Otranto camp, which double-teamed with Sicily to keep ADVENT away. That meant that refugees found Sicily and Otranto very appealing; each camp was huge.

(By Resistance standards, anyway. 'Huge' meant 700 people; most camps only had about a hundred.)

They walked for about five minutes. All was well; they stopped bickering and only spoke when Daisuke asked a question about something he saw. It was quiet--bustling, but quiet. Daisuke liked being out in the sunshine.

Then, without any warning, Díaz gasped, grabbed Daisuke around the waist, and pulled them both behind a tent.

Daisuke, furious, kicked and thrashed against Díaz's grip. "Dude, what the hell?!" he hissed. "Let go!"

Díaz did not let go. He squeezed Daisuke tighter, like a human teddy bear, and squeaked out, "It's Matteo."

Immediately Daisuke froze mid-squirm. He held entirely still; Díaz's breath was hot on his ear, and yeah, it was uncomfortable, but Daisuke didn't think they'd actually see him. Slowly, seeing that Daisuke was done fighting the hug, Díaz put him down. They looked at each other, Díaz's eyes bugging out of his head, and his twitching tics returned. Four times he tapped his foot and four times he tapped the tent behind him and four times he clicked his tongue.

Daisuke peeked out from behind the tent and found himself staring at just about the hottest guy he'd ever seen in his entire life.

Like, oh my God? There was no other man around, so unless Díaz was seeing things (which was honestly not out of the picture), this statue of a man was Matteo.

And if he was, Daisuke immediately felt terrible for ever doubting Díaz and his emotional ability because this guy was just insanely gorgeous. He was tall and muscular, but not so muscular it was strange--his sleeves and pants were filled out, and his shirt was tight enough that Daisuke could see the outline of abs (the outline of abs). He had a strong jaw and a crop of shiny black hair, well-combed and proper. Beneath his beautiful, perfect brow was a pair of green eyes framed by long and thick lashes; his hands were huge and callused, nails trimmed short and fingers steady. His skin was a perfect and clear bronze, and he was carrying around a large unmarked crate, eyes forward, posture perfect. His mouth, open with exertion, revealed perfectly straight white teeth. A grace of stubble added a bit of imperfection to it all, which just made him all the more charming.

"Holy--" Daisuke looked at Díaz, looked back at Matteo, and looked at Díaz again. "Dude. Dude."

"It's him," Díaz gasped. "Oh God. Oh, God, it's him, Bad, what am I gonna do? He's--he's out there, oh God, he's gonna want to talk to me and--and how do I even talk to him without losing my mind--"

"He's hot."

"I know," whined Díaz, "and that's the problem!" He took Daisuke's shoulders, gaze piercing. "I told you, Bad. Guy of my dreams."

"God, Díaz, he's the guy of my dreams!" Daisuke treated himself to another peek at Matteo. "You fucked that guy?!"

Díaz made a sound like a sputtering car engine. His face was like a big, mortified pomegranate in shade and color; he made sounds that were not words in any language known to man. "BAD,"  he whisper-shrieked after a few moments of just sitting there and stammering. "Bad, oh my GOD, why would you even say that?!"

"Well, you did, right?"

Díaz turned from an old car failing to start into a broken pipe screaming out gas. He was horrified. His face was so red that Daisuke worried he'd drained all of his vital organs of blood and would soon drop dead of embarrassment. Part of him felt bad; part of him thought it was fucking hilarious.

After wheezing for a solid two minutes, Díaz finally seemed to get his bearings back; he no longer resembled an overripe plum but rather, a tomato. "Bad," he gasped, "do not ever talk about that again. That is not a topic you will ever discuss with me again."

"Well, sorry." Daisuke peeked out again. Matteo was not gone: he was now talking to a woman about the stuff in the crate. "Listen. You're gonna go around him and I'm gonna give you a distraction. I'll give you however long I can and you're gonna meet me…" Daisuke looked for a landmark. "You're gonna meet me behind those big bushes, okay?"

He pointed at a long row of giant, overgrown gooseberry bushes. They were far enough away that they'd be out of sight of Matteo. "Okay," Díaz said. "I'm ready whenever you are, asshole."

"Okay. When I get his attention I want you to make a break for it."

Díaz nodded. Daisuke cracked his neck, messed up his combed hair, and stepped out from behind the tent to go talk to Díaz's sexy ex.

The man noticed him walking over. Daisuke did his best to look confused as he approached; he stepped to the side of Matteo to give Díaz a chance to run to the side. Then, in Japanese, he said, "I don't know where I'm going."

Matteo blinked at him. In a voice just as deep and smooth as Daisuke expected it to be, he said, "I'm sorry, I don't speak that language. Do you speak English?"

Oh, Daisuke had been here before. He brought back all of the awkwardness of his nine-year-old self, trying to get around the Reaper camps without knowing a hint of English. "No English," he said, bringing out the accent. "No English."

"Oh, jeez." Matteo scratched the back of his neck. "Uh. Oh, boy."

"Tell me where I can find the Avenger," Daisuke said, taking a bit of pleasure in the confused look on Matteo's face. "I need to get back to the Avenger. A-ven-ger."

"Avenger!" Matteo came to the realization. "The Avenger--" he pointed west-- "it's over there! Do you live there?"

Daisuke frowned, doing his best to upset this guy. He hadn't forgotten the way Díaz had described the end of the relationship--everything and then nothing. This was subtle revenge for his friend. "No, I don't want to go to the Avenger," he said. He didn't need to be coherent; he just needed to distract this guy. "I want to know who was on the Avenger. A-ven-ger."

Matteo looked extremely upset. "I don't speak Japanese!" he cried. "Uh, uhm--" He then dropped the ball, big time. Daisuke knew what he was trying to say when he pointed at him, then swept both arms back and forth in a 'no' gesture. But that could be willingly misinterpreted.

"Oh, I see!" Daisuke scowled, joyfully watching Matteo turn horrified. "You don't want me here?! I'll show you--"

Then, to balance Matteo's fumble, the universe had someone else fumble just as horribly: someone to the right of Daisuke shouted, "Oh, Carlos! Over here!" and Matteo turned quickly to look.

Díaz was frozen in place, and for a moment, he and Matteo made eye contact.

Matteo took in a breath to speak.

Daisuke panicked. He grabbed Matteo by the shoulder, turned him around, and socked him in the teeth.

Matteo fell to the ground with a yelp. Daisuke turned the momentum from the punch into a sprint, running at Díaz and grabbing his wrist to drag him along. "Come on!" he cried, clapping his hand over his mouth. "Oh, Central's gonna fucking kill me," he said into his hand. "He's gonna be so pissed!"

Daisuke and Díaz ran. Eventually it became more Díaz leading Daisuke than the other way around, considering he knew the camp better than Daisuke did.

Finally, after a few minutes of just sprinting, Díaz began slowing down, gasping for air and clutching his knees. Daisuke laid down on the ground and shook out his hand with what energy he had. Matteo had a tough fucking jaw.

Someone approached. Daisuke might've looked, except he'd done nothing but run and puke and act like a fucking idiot all day, so he just continued to shake his hand.

"Díaz," the person said. "What an entrance!"

Daisuke looked. It was a woman, older than Díaz but not too old. She had an undercut of black hair, glasses balanced on her angular nose, and very high cheekbones. As she turned her head to look at Daisuke, she revealed an awful (and extremely badass) burn scar across her entire face, so bad it showed bone in places. Daisuke was about to feel respect for her, and then she said, "And who's this?" and walked over to squeeze his cheeks.

He should've just stayed in his bunk and slept.

Chapter Text

The woman with the burn scar ended up being the Patricia that Díaz was talking about. He hadn't been wrong: Daisuke didn't like her. She had a couple of friends, none of which Daisuke really paid attention to. He was getting hungry, and the hunger and the exhaustion were both kinda double-teaming him to kill his attention span. A bed in the corner of the tent looked extremely appealing to Daisuke.

Apparently, the conversation had turned to him because Díaz nudged him and began talking. It took Daisuke's brain a moment to catch up: "Yeah, he punched Matteo, like, right after we made eye contact."

"Dude!" Patricia looked down at Daisuke with buggy eyes. "Why? He's so sweet."

Daisuke blinked slowly. "I panicked," he said after a moment. "Uh… long day. Why?"

Díaz was glaring at Daisuke, which was unfair because Daisuke punched Matteo for his sake. "Because we were going to talk!" he cried, which--how the fuck was Daisuke supposed to know that? "And now he's gonna see me talking to you and think, oh, damn, that's the little jerk who hit me, and he's gonna be pissed." Díaz held his face in his hands. "Oh, God. I'm ruined."

Daisuke resisted the joke that came to mind. Instead, he said, "Well, think of all the things you hated about him."

"I loved everything!"

"No way." Daisuke kicked his feet up. Patricia observed it, then copied him, which was fucking weird. "I mean, not a single thing that at least irritated you? Did he snore? Did he make bad jokes during sexy time?"

"STOP TALKING ABOUT THAT!"

"Does his breath stink?" Daisuke pointed at Díaz, who was a furious red color. "Come on. Something."

"Maybe," said Díaz, voice trembling with barely-restrained rage, "if you stop discussing," he paused to take a stabilizing breath, raised his hands, and made quotes with his fingers, "sexy time, I'll start."

"Sure."

"Say it like you mean it!"

Daisuke scoffed, rolling his eyes. "I will stop discussing," he mockingly raised his fingers and did those same quotes, "sexy time. Tell me something you fucking hated about that guy."

Huffing, Díaz sat back against his chair, folding his arms and scowling. "Well… I guess I wasn't a huge fan of the way he treated my grandma. He never thought she could do anything on her own; just because she's old doesn't mean she's helpless."

"Good, good." Daisuke whipped out his pocket pen and grabbed a crumpled piece of paper from off the floor. He wrote it down. "Next."

Pouting, Díaz continued, "I guess it was pretty annoying that he always wanted me to do all of our chores. I only got him to help clean up our clothes when I started blistering up from the soap…"

Daisuke raised an eyebrow. "Perfect dude," he muttered, writing that down, too. "Tell me what your biggest argument was about."

That seemed to poke a sore spot in Díaz. He scowled, folding his arms, and snapped, "That still pisses me off to this day. About a year into our relationship my nonnina decided that she didn't want to cook for us anymore--I mean, she likes cooking for family, but she got tired of only cooking for Matteo and I, and asked us to go somewhere else." Díaz stuck out his finger. "Now, mind you, she was exhausted. She just lost her kid--" oh, God, WHAT-- "and she was taking care of me, and I mean, I was just inconsolable--" oh, God, WHAT-- "and I think I was really nice about it!" He threw up his hands. "I told him and he lost his mind over it; I mean, I didn't even do anything wrong!"

Daisuke, shocked, leaned forward conspiratorially. "So, wait. How long before this was your parents, uh, kicking the bucket?"

"Bad. You can't judge him too hard for this."

Daisuke was going to judge Matteo very hard based on his answer. "No, of course not."

"...two weeks."

"TWO WEEKS?!" Daisuke stood up, throwing his arms out. "That guy bitched you out for a reasonable request two weeks after your fucking parents died?!" He made a very sweeping and quick hand gesture that likely did not make any sense. For a moment, he sputtered, and then he shrieked, "And you kept dating him?!"

Patricia, previously quiet, piped up: "That's how you know it's good, if he stayed for that." This prompted Díaz to sigh dreamily. It made Daisuke want to puke.

"Yeah…" Díaz held his face in a curled hand, playing with one of his dreadlocks. He resembled a naive little schoolgirl; Daisuke hated it. "Oh, yeah, besides that, he was just the greatest. So romantic…"

Daisuke groaned; pretended to gag. "Oh, god," he said, "that's fucking gross. Don't talk about that around me."

Teasingly Díaz poked Daisuke's arm; Daisuke flinched back. "Oh, I see how it is," he said. "You can talk all you want about sex, but when I wanna talk about love, you go--" he put on an impression of Daisuke that Daisuke loathed-- "ohh, gross, I have the maturity of a teenager who still hasn't processed the idea of finding people pretty."

Patricia laughed. "I bet it's because he's cripplingly lonely!"

Patricia and Díaz looked at Daisuke. Daisuke tossed his arms up over his head. "What did I do," said Daisuke, "that warranted that."

"You punched Díaz's ex," said Patricia.

"And she's right." Díaz folded his arms and grinned a bit. "Now that she brings it up, Bad, I'm starting to think you're just easy to fluster because you've never had anything long-term."

Daisuke was at least grateful that Patricia's friends weren't listening at all--and if they were, they weren't showing it. "Well, sorry," Daisuke said, "that I'm twenty-three years old and don't have a full catalogue of two-year relationships. Gotta say--not really something I could control!"

"He's defensive." Patricia had leaned in to 'whisper' the words into Díaz's ear; she was doing an abysmal job at actually keeping her voice low. "I bet you're totally right. He's got the vibe."

"I can hear you." Mopey because of how hard he'd been read, Daisuke melted down onto the table. He didn't bother using his elbows or arms as cushions; he just smushed his face against the hard surface and stuck his arms out. He'd kill for some hot food and a bed. "Díaz, when's your meemaw or whatever gonna have food ready?"

Thoughtfully, Díaz hummed, checking his watch. Daisuke peeked up--he hadn't seen that Díaz had a watch--and made very pouty and sad eye contact with Díaz. "We could start walking over now," he said. "It's about four-thirty; she said she'd have it ready at five. She likes company when she cooks."

"HA!" Patricia pointed at Daisuke. "Company!"

The switchblade in Daisuke's pocket felt very heavy. Delirious, he almost reached for it before Díaz seemed to read the murderous thoughts on Daisuke's mind and offered his hand. "Come on," said Díaz. "She's gonna spoil you rotten."

Daisuke did not hate the idea of being spoiled rotten right now; he would ordinarily make gagging noises at the notion, but he'd been awake for fourteen hours. He'd thrown up twice for two different reasons. Jet lag. He hadn't slept since that mission that was, what, a million years ago? Except, no, it'd only been a few hours since he'd gotten back.

So he got up and lumbered after Díaz, rubbing his eyes and yawning. The sunshine was so bright and warm against Daisuke's skin; he took off his jacket and tied it around his waist to let it touch his upper arms and neck. Díaz looked at him funny for it--Daisuke, mumbling a bit, explained that Reapers didn't get a lot of sun, and it was nice when it happened. Then Díaz's look got a lot softer.

Daisuke's nose picked up the food before his mouth did. That was what Reapers did--they often smelled their food before they actually ate it. It savored the meal. This was something Daisuke had never smelled: lots of garlic, lots of basil, peppery and savory and buttery. He swore he smelled nutmeg.

They came up on an old food truck. This one had been painted over a sea green and had a bunch of gas canisters outside. A large tarp hung over one side, shielding from the weather a few lawn chairs and a table; the other side featured a large tent hung with sun-bleached woven textiles. A big plume of white emerged from a pipe atop the truck. Daisuke knew what food trucks looked like, not because he'd ever been to one officially, but because they were ubiquitous in Resistance camps: basic cooking utensils and stoves, sinks, they were a Resistance dream.

Díaz peeked in through the truck's door, saying some quiet words in Italian. Daisuke walked over to one of the lawn chairs in the sun and sat down with a content sigh. When was the last time he'd sat in the sun?

Next to him, Díaz sank into a chair with a heavy huff, spreading his arms against the rests. It was peaceful and quiet for a moment. Then Díaz said, "I've never seen you look so happy before."

"Mm." Daisuke turned to Díaz and peeled open one eye, a bit of a smile quirking at his lips. "Tygan says it's my vitamin D deficiency."

Laughing, Díaz scooted closer and, almost shyly, leaned forward. Daisuke might've flinched away if he weren't so tired--or maybe he really was just soaking up the nutrients he needed after living in the dark for so long, and it was good for his mental state. "Nonnina says food will be ready in a minute," he said quietly, as if he didn't want to startle Daisuke. "She even made pie, Bad. You're living the good life."

He sat up a bit, curious. "I've never had pie," he mumbled, rubbing his eyes. "What kind is it?"

"You've really never had pie?" When Daisuke nodded, Díaz sat back a bit, giving Daisuke more space. "Well, it's not normal pie, it's little-old-lady pie, and that's always the best. She puts nutmeg in it--it's apple and cranberry."

"Apple and cranberry pie," Daisuke echoed, holding his face in his hands. "And nutmeg." He smiled. "Never had anything like that. What's, like, actual dinner?"

"Actual dinner is chicken alfredo with penne and a side of garlic bread, plus some chicken broth if you're interested." Daisuke was very interested; he was starving, and he had been since the first time he'd puked that day. "Eat all you want. She made it with you in mind; it's pretty mild."

As if Díaz's voice had summoned her, the sweet little fossil of a woman peered out from inside the food cart and looked with those squinty wrinkled eyes at Daisuke. She said something he didn't understand in Italian, beckoning and holding out a bowl to him. Daisuke may not have understood exactly what she meant, but he got the gist.

The food cart smelled like a million delicious things all at once. It was cramped but not suffocating; the light was warm and orange, and the stoves made the whole place warm. The walls were the same pretty seafoam green as the outside of the truck, though painted a little more haphazardly. The window was open, letting in a breeze to combat the heat from the stoves, and through it, one could see a sliver of green from the outside. She had little baubles dangling from the frame and a little flower box dangling from the sill.

The stoves were still warm, at a simmer. One pan held red sauce, faintly bubbling around the edges. Another had a creamier sauce; this pan was more rusty and beat-up. They smelled like heaven--the scarlet one, the thicker one, had a heavy scent of basil and onion. The other, the one with the creamier sauce, smelled of chicken and garlic. A big pot held the chicken broth, and the biggest had the penne lisce. Daisuke's salivary glands made themselves known.

Grandma Penina touched Díaz's shoulders and said something to him, gesturing to Daisuke as she did. Díaz, seeming to act like a translator, told Daisuke, "She wants you to know that you can help yourself. No pie until you've eaten pasta, though."

He supposed that was fair. The pies were sitting on the windowsill, steaming hot with pretty lattice dough doing a poor job concealing the pinks and reds of the fruit inside.

Daisuke dished himself up, unsure what he was supposed to do with both the red sauce and the alfredo. If he was right and he was hungry enough, he'd try both. Then he went back outside, sat in the sun, and ate.

The food was, to be frank, incredible. Daisuke had gone for the alfredo first, and God above, it was delicious. Nothing like he'd ever had with the Reapers, where sauces tended to be suspicious at best--this was buttery and full of garlic; the chicken held all the flavor and more. Daisuke didn't even notice Díaz watching him; he was too busy wolfing down the pasta.

It took him a bit of courage to get seconds--seconds were a rare luxury with the Reapers--but eventually, he did, and then he got thirds, then fourths. He started slowing down then, but not enough for Grandma Penina to hobble up to him and offer him a plate of the pie he'd seen resting on the windowsill.

Daisuke took it and the fork. It was a generous slice. He'd never really had sweets like this; pastries were a rarity he only knew about through books and older Reapers dangling them over his nose to taunt him. The pears he and his sister used to share were the closest thing he'd had to this, and that was years ago, back when he was a teenager.

"Man, Bad," Díaz said teasingly, still picking a bit at his second bowl of alfredo. "Are you some kind of bottomless pit?"

"I'm a Reaper," said Daisuke, "that's close enough."

He didn't quite know how to approach the pie. The crust and the fillings both looked enticing: sugary fruit spilled from between delicate, flakey pastry. It was more than apple and cranberry, Daisuke noticed--something else was adding weight to it, but he couldn't tell what. The crust was a perfect light gold, darker at the edges, with little speckles of what Daisuke assumed was the previously mentioned nutmeg. He tilted his head, picked up the fork, and went with a mix of both.

With his palette usually limiting his food choices, Daisuke had never been one for sweetness. Even the sugar in the pears made his teeth ache; when he was offered things like packaged chocolate, he always refused on the notion that the mixture of odd chocolate and over-sweet caramel made him feel ill.

This was different. This was sweetness and sugar Daisuke had never imagined. Never fathomed. The filling was melty on his tongue, sinking into his taste buds like they were lovers sinking into each other's arms. The crust absorbed the taste and eased it, soaking in some of the achy sugar before it could begin to hurt Daisuke's mouth. The flavor jumped when Daisuke bit down on a cranberry, and it was somehow both delicately sweet and sharply sour.

Daisuke had never eaten anything like it, and he'd eaten a lot of things. He finished the slice, then begged Díaz to ask Grandma Penina to get him another piece.

And she was happy to let him dig through, quite literally, an entire pie. It was delicious and he regretted nothing except the way Díaz looked at him, which was somewhere between fondness and sympathy. When he finished scraping the last crumbs from his bowl and the pie plate he'd been offered, Daisuke sank down into his chair, happily mumbling. His stomach was full, and he was warm to his toes. He was sleepy.

It was about six o'clock now, and the sun was beginning to touch the horizon. Díaz slowly came over to Daisuke, like how you'd approach someone who was focusing very hard. "Hey, Bad," he muttered. "Are you going to bed?"

“Mmgh,” said Daisuke. “Mghn…”

"That's a yes." Díaz offered out a hand. "Come on, if you don't wanna stand up, let's at least get you to sleep in a bed."

Daisuke had never heard something more appealing. He took Díaz's hand, allowing his friend to pull him to his feet. With the momentum, he stumbled a bit; Díaz placed a light hand on his shoulder to stabilize him. 

He was led into the tent tied up by the food truck. Exhausted from a long day and a nice meal, he let Díaz lead him to a large, well-made bed. Grandma Penina came in after Díaz, looking over his shoulder at Daisuke, and Daisuke, mustering up all the energy he had left, called, "Thank you!"

She thought for a moment. Then she said, in the heaviest accent Daisuke thought he'd ever heard: "I love you."

Díaz looked mortified. "Sorry, sorry, she doesn't speak English," he was saying, but Daisuke didn't mind. He was too tired to really care, and it was very nice to think about.

He crawled into bed, curling up in the quilts. He processed the feeling of Díaz patting his shoulder and saying, very, very quietly, "Goodnight." Then he fell into a deep, deep sleep, too tired to think too hard about the last time he'd been shown this much attention.

He woke up in the middle of the night with hair in his mouth. It was decidedly not his own.

The lighting was very dim. Daisuke peeked his head up from his blankets and saw a little stove burning in the corner, illuminating the pretty red inside of the tent. It wasn't like a Reaper's, which was minimal in decorations and usually only consisted of a sleeping bag and your things. This one was more… permanent. There were rugs laid out over the ground; there was actually room to get up and move around. You could probably walk in a full circle with the space.

A dresser sat nestled in the corner, with all sorts of trinkets and baubles laid atop it. A picture of what might've been a younger Díaz stood out most; Daisuke would have to get a closer look at that in the morning. A small desk with a few papers was tucked into another corner. A spice rack, a small loveseat--this place genuinely felt homelike.

It took a moment for Daisuke to realize: he'd totally just stolen Grandma Penina's bed from her. It was a big bed, though, so…

Daisuke stopped moving for a moment. Then he slowly turned to look over his shoulder.

He sighed, suspicions confirmed: Díaz and his grandmother were packed into the bed next to him. The hair that had woken him up was Díaz's; the man's arm was pinning Daisuke's pillow. Daisuke was at the end, Díaz was in the middle, and the old lady was at the other end. She had her head resting so delicately on Díaz's shoulder--she might've been the oldest person Daisuke had ever met. Most Reapers withered away to dust by the time they turned seventy.

Daisuke figured he'd shared beds with worse people, and shared beds with those people for worse reasons, so he decided to just go back to sleep. He tried to wrangle his pillow out from under Díaz's arm; he failed.

Stirring, Díaz mumbled. He patted around toward Daisuke; he touched Daisuke's face twice. Then he planted his foot on Daisuke's ass and kicked him out of bed. Daisuke landed on the floor with a very sad whump. 

He sat there for a moment, staring up at the ceiling. He was colder now that he was out of blankets; honestly, he felt a little sad. He sat up, huffing, and decided that he wanted his Walkman. He'd use the loveseat when he came back.

So Daisuke grabbed his flashlight and left the tent. He'd climbed into bed fully dressed, so no worries there--except for Grandma Penina's muddy bedsheets.

It was quiet outside. It must've been one or two in the morning: it was pitch black, only illuminated by the occasional lantern and Daisuke's own LED flashlight. A couple of stragglers were left awake, gathered by campfires with big assault rifles resting in the laps, but that was it in terms of other humans. Crickets called, fires crackled, and an owl cooed somewhere nearby. Somewhere, faintly, Daisuke could hear the sound of old-fashioned music.

Resistance camps were not anywhere close to actual cities. Trailers and tents sat in abandoned lots or sparse forests or fields, overgrown with grass, rust crawling on any surface that was metal. Maybe the camp had gathered around a building housing the den's leaders, but they mostly looked like big homeless camps. Which they kind of were.

The Avenger towered over the rest of the camp to the east. It was enormous; Daisuke never really took time to appreciate how fuck-off big the airship was. It looked more akin to a skyscraper than a ship. It made Daisuke sick to even look at.

He made his way inside to the bunks. He wondered what the Commander and Central were up to--probably pondering the Geoscape or drinking. Or both. Then his thoughts wandered to Volk; he wondered what Volk was up to. Wrangling some mouthy Reapers under control, eating questionable meats. Probably also drinking. Alcohol came at a premium these days.

He wondered about his sister, too. 

Daisuke arrived at the bunks. They were pretty sparse, though Hayes' light was on; everyone must've been out in the camps. He opened his locker, rummaging around in it before realizing two things: his Walkman was gone, and his Bad Company - Best Of tape was gone with it.

Scowling, Daisuke peered over his shoulder at Hayes' lit-up bunk. He stood up, went over, and knocked at the frame.

This seemed to give Hayes a bit of a start. He made a sound like a muffled yelp, shuffled around a bit, and opened the curtain just enough to peek out at Daisuke. "Dude, what do you want," he snapped. "I'm a little busy."

That should've been the only thing Hayes said in hindsight, but Daisuke was notoriously awful at taking hints or reading social cues, so he continued: "Yeah, whatever, Hayes. Have you seen my Walkman anywhere? Or the Bad Company tape that goes with it?"

"Yeah. I have it. Piss off."

Daisuke arched one eyebrow as Hayes shut the curtain, muttering. He knocked again.

Hayes groaned like a child. Again, he pulled the curtain open a little ways, glaring at Daisuke. "Man, I already told you I was busy. Scram."

“I want my Walkman,” Daisuke said. "Hand it over and I'll leave you alone."

"Fuck off!" Hayes was obviously making rude gestures behind his curtain, not seeming to understand that Daisuke couldn't see it. "Dude, can't you take a hint? I'm busy. I have your Bad Company tape. Just leave me alone, okay? I'll give it back tomorrow."

Hayes snapped the curtain shut, but Daisuke was nothing if not persistent. He could even hear the sound of the music playing.

Daisuke grabbed the curtain and pulled it open. Daisuke beheld. Daisuke closed the curtain.

For a moment, it was very quiet. Then Daisuke said quietly, "You could've just said, you know."

Hayes sounded very embarrassed when he said, "Yeah, I'll have your Walkman back to you by tomorrow morning. And, uh… don't tell anyone, yeah?"

"Hayes," said Daisuke, "I don't even know what the fuck I would say."

Daisuke slept pretty damn well that night. Turns out he would need it.

Central called him and five other soldiers, Díaz included, to the hangar. The Commander was there, looking particularly hard at Daisuke, which he didn't like at all. 

The six of them--Hall, Díaz, Daisuke, Rivera, Eim, and Robertson--were all sitting around. Daisuke was bitching to Díaz about how he'd pushed him out of bed the previous night; Díaz was apologizing profusely. Robertson was talking to Eim, Rivera was making goo-goo eyes at Hall. Such as life goes. Central then cleared up the general cheery atmosphere with one of his classic depressed sighs, drawing attention to himself and the Commander.

"Guys," the Commander said, leaning heavily on his cane, "you're on a mission. And we picked the best of the best."

Díaz looked at Daisuke. Daisuke looked at Díaz.

"Intel suggests we are facing a new… well, newer threat." Central pulled up that same data tab. "This is a mission from the Templars. They need our help--some of their operatives got stuck in a City Center, and we need to reach them before they can be found. This should be an easy mission, but…" Central glanced at Daisuke. "We need your expertise on a topic that you may not want to give it in."

Arching an eyebrow, Daisuke folded his arms. "Expertise," he echoed, dubious. "Wanna elaborate?"

The Commander and Central exchanged wary, worried glances. Daisuke didn't like where this was going.

With infinite gentleness that Daisuke found both a little comforting and a little creepy, the Commander said to Daisuke, "This mission will put us directly in the middle of a Chosen's territory. The Chosen Hunter."

Ah.

The Chosen Hunter was someone Daisuke was deeply familiar with. Central and the Commander were right to ask his opinion--not that he was happy with it.

"Nakamura," said Central, "if you don't want to come on this mission, nobody will blame you. It's optional. The Commander and I will find a replacement--"

Fed up with all the worried-looking glances coming his way, Daisuke snapped, "No. I'm going. It's fine." He shrugged when the two old men stared at him like he was crazy. "I can handle it. We've faced the Hunter in battle before, and it was one-sided."

"Okay," the Commander said, "but don't get on our cases if shit hits the fan."

They explained the mission a bit further--they gave intel on the location, on the people they were going to rescue, and on the aliens holding the fort. Daisuke sure would've liked to say he wasn't nervous. Oh, he sure would've liked to say that.

Everyone looked at him when they got all suited up and on the plane. Central had told Daisuke to give facts about the Hunter, so here he was, in all his public-speaking glory.

"Well." Daisuke rapped his fingers on his knees. The plated armor was on and the claymore was strapped to his belt. He had plenty of ammo--nothing wrong with his attire. His gun sat at his side, and he itched to pick it up and hold it like a teddy bear. "Uh. Yeah, we have expertise on the Hunter. He's kind of, uh, our biggest issue at the moment, besides osteoporosis and hunger."

Rivera was looking at him like she was trying very, very hard not to read his thoughts. He was grateful for that, but not for the effort she seemed to be putting into it. "Daisuke," she said quietly, "do you… do you, in particular, have, er, experiences with the Hunter?"

Too nervous to even realize she had said his first name and too busy trying to keep up a calm facade to correct her, Daisuke scoffed. "I'm a Reaper," he said. "It's basically right of passage to be horrifically traumatized by the Hunter."

"She didn't say horrifically traumatized," Hall muttered.

"No. She didn't." Daisuke huffed, folding his arms and leaning back against his seat. "He's a sniper with an insanely good aim. We've been dealing with him for about five years now, and in those five years, he's become our number one cause of death. All of ADVENT, against one mouthy fucking dickhead with a gun."

They all stared at Daisuke. Daisuke didn't meet any of their gazes.

"Uh, yeah. He's got a sniper rifle and a pistol. Both weapons don't give a shit about your armor." Daisuke patted his chest, where the plate resided. "You'd need to be wearing six-inch-thick steel to stop one of his bullets. He's very slow with his shots, though, and if he can't see you, then he can't shoot you." 

He pulled out one of his own bullets and held it up--it was about the size of his finger and made of brass. It went in his Vektor rifle. "This," he said, "is a .375 H&H bullet. It was used to hunt elephants before the war. The Hunter uses a bullet five times the size of this, with ten times the power." He slotted the bullet back into place in one of his cartridges. "If he hits you and you miraculously survive, you'll begin to bleed worse than you ever have in your life."

"How does he use a bullet so large?" Robertson asked, sounding more like she wanted to meet the Hunter than kill him. "What kind of gun?"

"His gun is alien," said Daisuke, "and he can use it because he's a Chosen. Physically, he's the smallest and weakest of his siblings, and he's seven and a half feet tall. His gun is as big as he is."

"Jesus," Hall muttered.

Daisuke huffed a big sigh, placing his hands on his lap. "Don't underestimate me or my mental capacity," he said quietly. "This is hard for me, and I can admit that freely. The Hunter terrorizes my people and kills us indiscriminately. I've lost my closest friends at his hands." He looked up at them. "Don't die. That's all I'm asking."

Rivera looked at him with big, watery eyes. "Okay," she whispered. Jeez, Daisuke didn't think he'd drive her to tears. Or, fuck, maybe she was in his head, reading all of his bad memories. "We'll stay so safe, Daisuke. So safe."

He rolled his eyes and scoffed.

And his bad luck continued.

Chapter Text

The Skyranger's engines roared as it took off. Daisuke's boots hit the ground. Five other soldiers surrounded him, and Daisuke, the scouting unit, would soon depart from their reach.

Once Daisuke said that Templars were the only group of people that legitimately terrified him. He'd been lying: the Chosen, the three living superweapons that the Elders had sent after the Factions, made Daisuke's skin crawl and his stomach turn in his gut. He was afraid; he was deathly afraid. 

The Hunter was the Chosen sent after the Reapers--that he'd mentioned. He hadn't mentioned the… the fights, the exhaustion that came with trying to kill the unkillable. The hopelessness of looking over mass graves, of dragging the corpses of your close friends into those graves. The Reapers were, for a long time, at the top of the food chain. The Hunter rectified that situation pretty damn quick.

The worst part was the trophies. Daisuke knew that the Hunter didn't care to take corpses--he didn't clean up after himself, so to speak. What he did take were masks. Each Reaper's mask was fitted to their face, unique, with their name, region, and blood type scrawled on the inside. They were ways to remember fallen comrades, and the Hunter loved to pluck them off of bodies and take them with him. God only knew where he put them or what he did with them. It was awful to think about and even worse to experience in real time.

The Hunter knew every trick in the Reapers' book--but maybe not in XCOM's. Here were his allies, with bigger guns than the Reapers', with different tactics. Would they fare better?

Daisuke really hoped they would.

XCOM had come in hot: ADVENT knew they were there. They didn't know about the Reaper on the field, though. They'd landed on the roof of a squat building, and Daisuke, mask over his face, walked to the ledge, peered down, and jumped.

Daisuke took it slower than usual; he tried to convince himself it was because he was being cautious for his comrades, but he found himself peering over his shoulder to make sure his friends were still there, were still following. This was because he was concerned for their safety. This was because he was concerned for their safety.

Daisuke faintly recognized that he was trembling. So many times before, he'd looked over his shoulder and seen nothing. So many times, he'd seen corpses.

"Nakamura," the Commander said in his brain, "deep breaths. I can hear you."

The Commander's voice gave him some sense of security. Someone was telling him what to do. Someone was in charge; Daisuke had people to take care of him. He obeyed, albeit a bit shakily, and took deep breaths.

Daisuke spotted the first clump of soldiers. They hadn't seen the rest of Daisuke's comrades just yet; he capitalized on that by leaning into his radio and whispering, "We've got a squad of… yeesh, two Vipers and a Berserker. They haven't seen you guys."

"Understood." Flores' voice was so scratchy against the radio--usually, Daisuke disliked her, but now he was grateful to have such a hardy person on the team. "Don't freak out, dude. We haven't even seen any signs of a Chosen."

"Always such a ray of sunshine," muttered Daisuke. "Putting down a Claymore. One of you with the grenades wanna blow it up?"

"I've got more." The cracking of Flores' neck was audible over the radio. "Tell me where to put it, Nakamura."

Daisuke judged the angle. The aliens and his comrades were separated by a large building, though it wasn't very tall--though it was pretty broad. Daisuke was peeking out from behind the building; a large piece of metal was atop the roof, maybe a vent, parallel to the aliens.

"Okay," he whispered. "That vent on top--I want you to fire a grenade left of it." He pulled his claymore from his belt, arming it with a twist of a knob. "Ready?"

"Ready."

Quickly, Daisuke slid the claymore across the concrete. It skittered, bounced a few times, and stopped in the middle of the group of aliens. "Now," Daisuke whispered.

The Berserker was so busy contemplating the new beeping toy that had landed at its feet that it didn't notice the grenade bounce off the roof's ledge, clatter onto the floor, and roll right next to the claymore until it was far too late. The resulting explosion sent a blast of hot air Daisuke's way; he was sure he'd have been singed if it weren't for his armor and mask.

In his brain, the Commander suggested he climb atop the building he was taking cover by and gave him a gentle mental nudge toward the tall drainpipe he'd be able to scale. Daisuke complied readily, eager to get the high ground.

The rest of his comrades had charged through, guns blazing. One Viper was dead; the other had made a horrible hissing sound and darted behind cover. The Berserker, impossible to kill with just a couple of measly explosions, roared and charged forward.

Daisuke didn't see what happened next; he was too busy rushing to hide behind the vent. The adrenaline and anxiety, building up the whole ride there, eagerly swam through his veins and seeped into his bones; the quivering turned to shock, turned to energy. He checked for clearance, then ran to crouch behind the roof's ledge.

A moment passed.

For a brief moment, something very bright flashed in his vision, very red, like someone shining a light in his eyes to check for a concussion. He froze for a moment.

Then he realized, and he dodged to the left. The familiar shrak of an alien weapon being fired--if Daisuke hadn't ducked sideways, the bullet would've found his heart and exploded out the back.

It hit his arm, which honestly was a worse fate. It blew through the meat of his bicep like a shovel through watery mud; blood went everywhere and his Reaper insignia, sewn haphazardly on his shoulder, came right off. He choked out a cry, grabbed the wound, and staggered backward--this couldn't be happening, not again, not again--

His radio crackled. The transmission was hacked.

"Oh! You've dodged twice now, Reaper. You lot are so crafty."

Fuck, oh, fuck. Daisuke gasped in a breath and didn't get even a moment of reprise before the Viper followed the sound of screaming and the scent of fresh blood. Its awful yellow eyes locked with his for just a moment, and Daisuke literally couldn't have imagined a worse situation. 

The tongue flew out of the Viper's mouth. Maybe Daisuke would have dodged if he wasn't frozen in terror. Maybe he'd have dodged if a good chunk of his right arm wasn't on the concrete behind him.

The tongue wrapped around his neck, under his left arm, and tightened. Then the Viper pulled on him, and if Daisuke had a nickel for every time he got yanked off a roof and then put in a chokehold while a Chosen was messing with his mind, he'd have two nickels: not a lot, but weird that it happened twice.

There was no time to think, no time to process. In some way, it was a blessing that he didn't have to wonder about the Hunter and all of the awful things he brought to mind.

The Viper smelled like rot and scales. Daisuke skidded to the ground next to it, and it released the bruising grip around his torso. This 'bruising grip' was only a precursor to the real fun: Daisuke, shaking and just barely sitting up, was quickly swept up in its reptilian form; it coiled and twisted around his body, poised its hooded head above his face, and hissed.

Without warning, the body of lithe muscle tensed, and the grip grew tight, crushing, un-fucking-bearable. Daisuke's breath was squeezed from his chest and he thrashed, arms pinned to his sides, legs stuck together.

Something went pop in his chest and Daisuke wheezed out all of his breath. His face grew hot with exertion and his eyes watered from the asphyxiation. The Viper shrieked as gunfire--nothing fucking hitting-- flew around it in sharp whizzes, glaring over its shoulder at whoever had taken a shot. It coiled tighter; Daisuke's vision went white as more probably-very-important things in his chest crackled and broke. He couldn't breathe at all.

Desperately he fumbled with his bad arm--the blood pouring out of it made the grip on it very slick, and by some miracle, he got to his bag.

His fingers found the familiar weight of his switchblade and with no hesitation at all Daisuke pushed the button. It shwipped out of its sheath, and he stabbed at the Viper's coiled, scaled body.

And it let go. Daisuke gasped in a breath; he regretted it. The Viper was having trouble balancing its weight on any part of its tail, and Daisuke took full advantage of that: he stuck his gloved hand into its mouth for grip, kept a hold on its lower jaw, and slashed its throat. It shrieked and made awful noises, blood bubbling from its neck; Daisuke stabbed it twice more before it finally fell.

And then someone said over the radio, "Bad, you're in trouble," and he turned and saw the Berserker charging at him.

Did Daisuke do something in a past life to deserve this? What gave him such bad luck?

He had a moment to think. Well, a moment to lament his wretched excuse for fortune, and then a moment to think.

Almost on instinct, he reached down for the corpse of the Viper. With his switchblade, he quickly carved open its mouth, praying this wasn't a fatal mistake and that his knife had missed what he was looking for.

Here was his good luck: the big, horrible green organ resting just behind the Viper's eye was intact and still pulsing. He plucked it out--it was squishy and just awful to be holding in his hand, but he had an idea that might've been insane and might've been brilliant. He looked at the Berserker, judging its approach: it was made of muscle; no skin was stretched over its big red body, nothing except steel gauntlets on its fists.

Daisuke waited, muttering, "Come on, come on," as he secured his mask tightly over his face.

The Berserker came close enough. Daisuke threw the venom sac on the ground and it exploded into a greenish-blue cloud of poison, obscuring Daisuke's vision. His body wasn't picked up and bisected by the Berserker, which he took as a good sign.

He fumbled in the fog for his rifle and, when he found it, stepped out of the poison. He could taste the stench from behind his mask, both the poison and the Berserker's sweat. He saw the huge mass of muscle, fumbling and roaring and clawing at its own face--it was taking in big gulps of the poison in the air, and it was suffering for it. Daisuke raised his rifle, took in a breath of clean oxygen, and fired.

The Berserker, for a moment, writhed. Then it fell.

Daisuke, once he was sure the creature was dead, slumped over. His comrades ran over to him, some looking horrified, some looking impressed.

"Nakamura," the Commander spoke into his brain, "that was crazy, and you are crazy. That has got to be the dumbest thing I've ever seen anyone pull off on the field."

Oh, the Commander said such kind words to Daisuke all day long. He groaned, touching his ruined arm, and the shock of the broken ribs caught up to him, too.

The radio crackled to life once more. "Alright, everyone, fantastic work--mostly Nakamura, to be honest." The Commander was so sweet and complimentary. Daisuke felt sick; maybe the mask hadn't done as perfect a job keeping the poison out as Daisuke thought it would. "Nakamura, how are you holding up?"

"Ribs," Daisuke wheezed. "Hurts to breathe. Shoulder, hurts to hold my gun."

"Okay. Hall, do your thing--Nakamura, I want you to stay in concealment for the rest of the mission. Don't move from your position, don't do anything of the sort." The Commander cleared his throat. "The rest of you: find the objective. And most of all, be careful. I'm not going to let that snarky bastard hurt any of you."

Hall sloppily patched up Daisuke's arm: she shot him with a nice needle full of plasma, which made him feel a lot better, and sprayed the medikit's coagulant on the wound. He'd need to get Volk to send him another patch, which sort of pissed him off--at least, to whatever extent he could be pissed off.

Daisuke followed his comrades for a bit longer before they decided his coughing and wheezing were too much. Díaz helped him up a ladder and let him rest on top of the roof, leaning weakly against a pipe. Díaz asked, "Are you gonna be okay up here?"

And Daisuke jinxed himself by saying, "Yeah, I'll be fine. Just go."

So Díaz left. For a few minutes, Daisuke just sat there, holding his broken ribs and trying not to breathe so hard that it hurt.

Then, nearly silently, there was a little shick, the whirring of a grapple, and the thump of boots landing on the roof.

Daisuke's insides turned to ice. He stopped breathing.

"Found you."

Daisuke didn't even fucking look. He leaped up, pain suddenly becoming an afterthought, and sent himself into a sprint. He grabbed his radio and screamed, "Help!"

The Chosen Hunter said, "Oh, no, that won't do at all." Daisuke turned, saw him approaching, and damn near fainted from the sheer terror. The Hunter was here. His luminescent purple eyes glared out from a dark hood; his long, lithe legs carried him to Daisuke with one pace. He stepped over the pipe, and his tall frame felt like it was suffocating Daisuke to even look at; he gulped in another breath of air, ribs like dots of fire in his chest, and decided if he was going to die here, he'd go out swinging.

He took a breath to steady himself. Then he raised his rifle and fired.

The Hunter sidestepped it like it was nothing. The bullet went ping into the pipe behind him, and the gas inside hissed out, obscuring the Hunter's tall frame. Daisuke darted away, his radio starting to go crazy, and did as best a sprint as he could with his broken ribs as he leaned into his radio and shouted, "I've got the Hunter right here, right fucking here--" he gasped for breath-- "please, please help, I don't wanna fucking die--"

There was a hand on his shoulder. Daisuke's head became light and his knees buckled. He turned, screamed, and shot at the Hunter again without thinking. This time the bullet hit its mark and made a big hole in the Hunter's chest, and all he did was flinch. Daisuke's higher thought retreated, and he didn't say anything in any language as his whole body tensed and he just howled. 

"Please stop with the theatrics, it's really quite annoying--"

Daisuke didn't stop with the theatrics for a moment. Instinct took the wheel; Daisuke tucked into a roll and ran like a bat out of Hell from the Hunter. As he did, he fumbled in his pack for a claymore--Daisuke found one, thank God he found one. He armed it, turned, and threw it to the ground in front of the Hunter.

The Hunter scoffed at it. Daisuke shot it and it blew up beneath him; shrapnel flew everywhere. A piece of it hit Daisuke's knee and the pain barely registered. Then he fired again, wildly, and again: he emptied his clip into the cloud of smoke. Daisuke was no longer afraid; he was just desperate.

And yet, despite the explosion and shots, the Hunter seemed almost entirely unfazed. Daisuke hissed, dropped his rifle, and traded it for the revolver at his side. He stepped back, held the grip as tight as he could, and took a few shots.

The Hunter finally seemed to be taking Daisuke seriously: he dodged to the left, ducked another shot, and took a bullet to the shoulder. He hissed as blood dripped from the wounds on his body but did not stop for a moment. He held his hands up, observed his injuries, and looked at Daisuke.

Daisuke didn't say a fucking word. He kept the pistol steady, he looked the Hunter in the eyes, and he didn't lose any ground.

"You," the Hunter said, "have got to have a vendetta. I like what you did with the Berserker--clever."

“Shut up,” Daisuke snarled. "Shut the fuck up. Stop talking."

The Hunter didn't respond to Daisuke's witty banter. Instead he sprinted forward, movements like a blur, and got inches from Daisuke without a second passing. He fired, fearless, at the Hunter, dodging to the left and narrowly avoiding a fatal shot from the Hunter's own pistol.

The Hunter gently swatted at Daisuke's hand and nearly broke Daisuke's fingers; the weapon fell from his hands at supernatural speeds and fired as it hit the ground. The Hunter planted his hand flat on Daisuke's chest and pushed him to the ground, easy as could be.

For a moment Daisuke struggled. Then the Hunter sat, knees to either side of Daisuke's chest, and placed his hands on Daisuke's throat.

Then he squeezed.

Almost instantly Daisuke's vision went white. His lungs expanded and thrashed in his chest like animals instead of organs, and Daisuke couldn't even get in a wheeze of air. He'd been stuck in chokeholds before: never like this. The Hunter's hands were just as strong as the rest of him, cold and unnaturally bony, and if he pressed any harder Daisuke was sure his trachea would collapse and he'd die on the spot.

Desperate, with consciousness fading fast, Daisuke struck at the Hunter's wrists. No luck. He dug his nails in; he punched and kicked. The hands only got tighter and tighter--Daisuke's head was beginning to grow light; his ears were starting to ring and his pulse was rising louder and louder.

He reached up to the Hunter's face. He could barely see it through his watering and blackened vision. The eyes. Daisuke could only see the eyes.

He touched the Hunter's cheek. He touched the eye. With his target marked, Daisuke tensed up entirely and got his fingernail under the delicate tissue of the lower eyelid; he hooked down, and he pulled.

The Hunter screamed. The grip on Daisuke's throat was released. He gasped for breath, clutching his throat, as he watched the Hunter stand up, furious, and swear.

Daisuke thought he'd warded off the Hunter. But the damage was stitching itself together as Daisuke watched, and then the Hunter was back on him, and he struck Daisuke three times in the face. It might've been a punch, it might've been a slap; at some point, the hand traveled so fast that it didn't really matter.

Floored, Daisuke observed the pretty little dots of color dancing in his vision, curling up into a sad little ball. The Hunter kicked him in the broken ribs for good measure.

And that was all she wrote. Daisuke was entirely out of it; his mind was spinning and pain was the only thing he really felt. He didn't register the cold concrete beneath his cheek. He didn't realize that his mask and hood had flown off his face in the struggle. He didn't take anything in; only the spots in his black vision and the pain pulsing through his body with each breath he took made sense.

But, coughing, he managed to get onto his hands and knees. He didn't know what kept him going. He spat on the ground--a fair bit of it was blood--and snorted up the blood dripping from his nose. He looked up at the Hunter, who was observing him curiously.

Daisuke said, "Is that all you've got?"

And the Hunter said, "No."

All the pressure in Daisuke's ears popped loose. If he was disoriented before, this knocked him into a complete daze--liquid started to roll hot down his neck, and he gasped, joints buckling beneath him.

The pain wasn't temporary this time. It spread from his ears down to his jaw, caressing his mandible. Daisuke whimpered, touching his mouth as it turned to his molars; then it went into his eyes and things suddenly felt a lot more real than just pain.

For a moment he was laid on his side, one eyeball rolling out of his head while one, still connected, was slowly dripped into boiling water. This was where Daisuke began to scream. The flash faded, and Daisuke found himself curled up in that same fetal position, clutching his face.

He watched as the skin on his hands began to peel away, like a Lost, cancers bubbling and flesh turning grey and falling off his hands, revealing nothing but bone. Daisuke howled. Daisuke scraped his wrists on the ground, feeling every single second, every single movement, every single nerve screaming and dying. He stared at his fingers and watched as it happened: dermis flaked away, revealing pink epidermis; that sloughed off his hands in colorless chunks. The fat oozed away in big sizzling globs and the muscles popped clean off the bones--Daisuke might've been bleeding if there were veins, if each cell wasn't drying up into ash and gumming off his bones.

The world was grey. Daisuke was grey.

The Commander's voice was in his head.

"Bad. Bad, talk to me."

The scene changed. Suddenly his hands weren't his biggest problem. His sleeves were rolled up and there was a great big razor; silvery-green hands took his motionless wrist. He screamed, "No, no, no, stop it," and then the razor was digging into his flesh and he felt it clear as day.

"Oh, God. Oh, Bad, this is terrible. Bad, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

There was something besides the Commander in his head. A probe. Daisuke had felt it before, from the Warlock, but this was different. This was searching, explicitly searching. It wanted something. It was going through his brain like you'd go through a messy file cabinet, plucking and sending screaming pain down his spinal cord in awful zigzags of red-hot fire.

The flesh was scraped off his ulna. Daisuke tried his best to rip his arm away and it was like it wasn't even his own: it didn't respond to anything he wanted. His brain was powerless. He was powerless.

The bone was white for a moment. Then dark blood covered it up and pooled on the gurney Daisuke found himself laid upon and dripped onto the floor. The big muscle in his forearm, the one that jutted out most, was disconnected from the tendon. Daisuke might've reacted if he wasn't so busy shrieking and crying.

That faded, too. Daisuke rolled onto his back and bleated helplessly at the sky.

"None of this is your fault. None of it, okay? If I'm correct, none of it is even real. It's going to be okay. It's okay."

If Daisuke wasn't screaming he might've been able to respond.

There was a hand over his head. Daisuke thought he saw purple, the same psionic energy coming from it that would come from dear Rivera's hands. This wasn't her. She'd never do this to Daisuke.

The reprise from torture did not last long. Suddenly he was tied down, laid out in front of the Hunter, and his left leg was propped up on a tall box, extended with only open air beneath it. For a moment Daisuke was confused. Then the Hunter hefted up a big sledgehammer, peering gleefully at Daisuke's knee.

The terror was almost worse than when the hammer actually came down. There was a crunch and Daisuke's knee bent backward--his spine snapped into an arch and he wasn't even screaming; he was just sobbing and wailing.

"Oh, Bad. Bad, they're trying to get to you… none of this is worth it. It's so cruel, the things they do to you. You're young, Bad Company. You're so young--don't let this man kill you."

The Hunter saw fit to keep this situation around a little longer than usual. Daisuke would've questioned its authenticity if it didn't feel so goddamn real. He sat there, keening, and clutched his leg, big wet tears rolling down the sides of his face.

The probe snatched something and began to pull. Something like spite and something like loyalty kept Daisuke gripping it. He knew that if he just let go, that if he just took his hold off of it and let the Hunter win the tug-of-war, it'd all be over and he wouldn't be screaming and shitting on the roof of a building anymore. If he just went limp or passed out like he was sorely tempted to, or just dropped the fucking rope it'd go away. 

"Bad… Daisuke. Daisuke Nakamura, I am your Commander and you will heed my words: let him have what he wants."

And the more it pulled, the harder it got to hold on, and the more painful the probe became.

"Bad Company, give him what he wants!"

It turned into its own kind of torture: a searing headache, whole body tense, teeth gritted so hard they were beginning to chip. 

"Daisuke, can you hear me?"

Daisuke could not hear the Commander.

He dug his heels in. He gripped until his fingers felt like they were physically going to blister and burn. He took in a deep breath, and the connection yanked, and he screamed through his teeth. There was a tangible pop, like the snap of a rubber band stretched too far or a joint finally dislocating.

Everything fucking stopped . Daisuke gulped in air as the world became suddenly clear; color registered in his vision, and he felt the concrete beneath him.

The Hunter crouched over him, a look of awestruck wonder on his face. His radio was taking in so many transmissions at once that he couldn't make out any specific voices or words. The moment of clarity gave Daisuke enough time to roll over into a puddle of puke he must've made without thinking and retch.

"Oh," purred the Hunter, "but I have hurt your heart."

Daisuke froze on the floor.

Burning anger curled in his belly. "I didn't realize you have a sister--oh! Pardon me. Had a sister. Sorry about that." Daisuke, fetal on the ground, reached for his switchblade. "Big, strong Daisuke. You lasted longer than a lot of other Reapers did… but I'm always happy to add another mask to the trophy case. Maybe I'll put yours… next to hers."

Daisuke lunged, switchblade out, and went for the Hunter's eyes. His movements were slow and sloppy from pain, but he came only an inch from the target before the Hunter caught his wrist and held him there, eyes lighting up with delight.

"Oh, you are crafty!" Daisuke snarled and put all of his weight and more onto the knife. He used both his hands and tried to push it into the Hunter's face--to no avail. "Quick, too. You won't be doing that again for a very long time."

The Hunter took Daisuke's right arm in his hand. With a gentle twitch he broke Daisuke's wrist; snapped it cleanly like you would a big stick.

Daisuke just stared.

Then he gave up on screaming. He gave up on fighting. He wept like a child. The torture, the red-hot, agonizing torture, returned, and the universe, punishing Daisuke for some sin he'd never committed, had him collapsing in the thin lap of the Chosen Hunter, helpless to struggle away.

"Oh," the Hunter cooed. "How sweet. I suppose humans will try to find comfort anywhere they can."

In a cruel mockery of tenderness, the Hunter ran his cold, long fingers through Daisuke's hair; he toyed with it as the pain returned. He was face-down in water, held by the too-gentle digits petting and stroking his hair. He breathed in and it was all water: water in his eyes, in his lungs, his pulsing and thrashing lungs struggling and kicking in his chest. His screams turned into sad little bubbles tickling his cheeks and brow as they danced to the surface; his coughing was useless and his hands were pounding on the tub's sides, independent of any other limb.

Then the water disappeared and was replaced by a red-hot stovetop. The muffled cries turned to squeals, like a stuck pig. Rings and rings of metal seared Daisuke's face, horrifically close to his eye, and he grabbed the hand stuck in his hair--

Except, no, he didn't. Touch just wasn't fucking registering anymore. Daisuke was beyond pain. Daisuke had entered a whole new state of being where he just waited for it all to be over, waited for the searing to stop.

The next scene wasn't even shocking. Daisuke should've been horrified and screaming that his guts were spilling from a wound in his belly. He watched his insides become outsides and didn't feel a damn thing; he just sat there in the Hunter's lap, being touched, being tortured, and choked up silent, awful sobs.

And then the connection severed. The lap disappeared from under Daisuke's head and he hit his temple on the ground. When he realized it was all over, that his patience had been rewarded, he scrambled and tucked himself into a nearby corner, shivering and shaking.

He looked up.

And there stood Daisuke's guardian angel. Daisuke watched, almost awestruck, as Díaz turned the Hunter around, wound up, and punched him so hard he slammed back into the ground. 

The Hunter tried to sit up, groaning, and Díaz planted his foot on the Hunter's chest and shoved him back down. For a split second, Daisuke saw it: the look on Díaz's face. He was pissed. He was vengeful. His condition was dreamlike as he thought, That's for me, and then Díaz's MSG was whirring.

The bullets turned the Chosen Hunter's head to mush. For a moment all Daisuke saw was orange-gold brain matter splattering on the concrete, magnetic light flashing before his eyes, and then there was an explosion of purple and the Chosen Hunter, Banewalker, the creature who had just tortured Daisuke within an inch of his life, was gone.

Díaz ran to Daisuke, crouching in front of him and speaking. "Oh, Bad, Bad--"

He wrapped Daisuke up in a hug. Daisuke fought the embrace like he'd fought Hunter. His ribs hurt, he was in shock, and without thinking, he screamed, "Don't touch me!"

Díaz quickly pulled away, staring at Daisuke with a confused, worried look. The silence stretched. Daisuke didn't know what to do. He pulled his hood up like a frightened child, hiding beneath it and curling his knees up to his burning chest. His voice was hoarse from screaming, and his whole body trembled. He was moments from… from dying? Passing out? Both?

Not seeming to know what to do, Díaz slung his pack from under his side and pulled out a water canteen. Barely a second after he held it out for Daisuke to take, Daisuke was taking long, drawn-out pulls of water and it soothed his churning stomach. Díaz moved as Daisuke continued to drink, finding something and picking it up off the ground.

Daisuke finished the water. Díaz was facing away from him, waving toward the ground. He turned back to Daisuke when he threw the metal canteen onto the ground, and in his hand, he had…

"Your mask," Díaz said quietly, crouching in front of Daisuke and offering it to him. Daisuke took it and put it on. The comfort was unbelievable. "I'm so sorry for what happened. He summoned Stun Lancers and they kept us busy for a while… we got the objective, though."

Daisuke wasn't interested in the mission, and he did not want to hear about it, but it was better than nothing. "Hall's on her way. She'll take good care of you."

Speak of the devil. Hall scrambled up the pipe and onto the roof, fearless eyes quickly assessing the situation. Within moments she seemed to know exactly what to do. "Díaz, give the poor guy some space. Daisuke, I'm gonna need you to stop making all that noise."

It was only then that Daisuke realized he was still screaming.

"You haven't lost as much blood as I thought… Díaz, you saw him first. What's up?"

"His nose is bleeding really bad and he's got a broken wrist. But… Hall, he's in shock. He hasn't processed a single thing I've said, and when I tried to get close, he damn near bit my fingers off."

"Okay." Hall approached, confident but gentle. "Hey, Bad. You're gonna need to let me see those injuries if you want any help at all." She knelt in front of him and he cowered in the corner, terrified. "I know. I know. Just…"

Hall huffed and turned back to Díaz. "Tell Rivera, respectfully, to piss off. He needs space, not three people crowding him when he's already dealing with so much."

Daisuke found him surprised that he'd prefer Rivera over Hall right now. He mumbled a bit, and Hall came in a bit too close for comfort, but Daisuke was afraid of her, and he didn't fight back. He winced as she pulled off his mask and let it fall to the ground next to him. Protective, he took it and held it, refusing to let go.

"Bad," she muttered. "I can't help you if you don't show me what's wrong." She tapped his right shoulder. "How about showing me this broken wrist? I should put it in a splint, you know."

"Stop," Daisuke gasped. "Get away from me."

At least, that's what he wanted to say. He wasn't sure if that was actually what came out of his mouth. Hall retracted her hand, pursing her lips before sighing, "I can't operate on him like this; he needs to go to sleep. Díaz, get Rivera for me."

Daisuke tipped his head back against the pipe as space was finally given to him. He just needed fresh air to breathe.

And then it was Rivera. Rivera and her light, feathery presence. She had her Templar helmet off, long white hair dancing in the wind like cold rushing water. Her face melted into sympathy, her worried purple eyes meeting Daisuke's. She was the final person to run the gauntlet of crouching in front of Daisuke.

"Oh, Bad," she whispered, her voice like sunshine. "It's all over. It's okay." She held out her hands, palms up. "We're gonna put you to rest, okay? It'll be quick and you won't even feel a thing. I just have to touch your hand. Is that alright? You'll be asleep before you know it."

Daisuke mumbled, "Good dreams," and held out his fingertips to touch Rivera's.

She smiled and laughed a bit. "I'll give you plenty of good dreams."

The Hunter had pressed into Daisuke's mind like a knife into pulsing flesh. Rivera sank into Daisuke's mind like cold water into sun-scorched sand. Her cool presence soothed all of the sore spots as it soaked into each fold of Daisuke's brain, from front to back, down and down. Faintly, Daisuke felt himself slumping sideways.

Someone caught his head before it could hit the concrete again--the size and roughness of the hand made Daisuke think of Díaz. The psionic energy trickled down from his fried frontal lobe down to his amygdala, and from there, everything began to shut down, like turning out the lights after a long shift at work.

For a moment, Díaz cradled Daisuke's cheek in one hot, careful palm. 

Then Díaz did the kindest thing anyone had ever done for Daisuke: he set his head down gently on the concrete and pulled away.

He whispered, "Thanks," and drifted off.

Chapter Text

Through shuttered eyelids, Daisuke peeked up at the world. It was red-tinted, rumbling. An arm was wrapped securely around his waist. He was sitting, legs spread out before his eyes, motionless at his commands. The warm pulse of blood rushed through his head and down his spine. He felt like a man full of artificial plasma.

Breathing was hell. He tried it out and produced a sound like a death rattle. Slowly, with the strength you'd use to haul a corpse, Daisuke shifted his drooping head to the right. His chin was heavy against his chest, but it rolled easy enough.

His jacket had been removed. His left arm, the broken one, was propped up on someone's large thigh. Laurie Hall had her surgical tools out, and she appeared to have opened up his wrist. The white of his bone had a pretty distinct crack. Daisuke hated how it looked, so he gurgled and twitched against the arm holding him tight.

Hall looked up at him with her pretty blue eyes. Someone else ducked in front of him, long white hair spilling in his lap. Fingers, thin and gentle, ran down his jawline. "No, no, no. Go back to sleep."

Daisuke obeyed helplessly.

Sayaka was there, somehow. She stood next to him, and he found himself standing next to her. Brown skin and dark eyes. He was the spitting image of her, and she was the spitting image of him. Two peas in a tight, tiny, stunted pod.

They had no masks on. This made Daisuke very, very sad.

When Daisuke woke up next, he was lying on a gurney.

This time he felt a bit more lucid. He preferred drowsy. Daisuke felt like one big bruise. He felt like you'd turned him into a baseball and he'd been subject to a stunning home run.

Or, in less dramatic words, he felt like shit.

His left forearm was in a white cast, tucked against his chest in a sling. The other had an IV stuck in the wrist and about a full pound of tape and dressing wrapped around the bicep. Despite what he'd seen and felt, his hand was fine, albeit a bit dinged-up. When he moved his jaw, he felt the familiar ache of a bruised-to-hell bone in his mandible and the even more familiar ache of a fractured bone in his cheek. 

The inside of his mouth was no better. His throat was raw. It felt like he'd bitten his tongue and cheeks to mincemeat. Daisuke was in pitiable condition.

With great effort, Daisuke sat up. He was in a gurney, wearing one of those gross spotted blue hospital gowns (he loathed to think how that got onto him). A couple of machines and tubes were hooked up to him, all to his left arm. On the bedside was the standard bottle of water with a nice bendy straw, and a bit of the unstandard.

The last time Daisuke had been this badly injured with the Reapers, he'd woken up and proceeded not to have contact with anyone but the doctors for three weeks straight. He was unused to the prospect of someone leaving him gifts for when he woke up.

Three things: a daisy chain, a pie with a post-it stuck to the pan, and a bright orange pill bottle with a note tucked beneath it. Daisuke had no idea who the pills came from or what they were. Mostly, he was surprised that Tygan hadn't confiscated them before Daisuke could get his hands on them. The flowers and food were easy guesses, though.

The notes were his first priority. With the hand that had all of the IVs, he took the card atop the pie, settled back, and closed his eyes. He rested a bit before opening it up and reading it.

"Bad-

"My nonnina wanted me to leave you the pie. I think she's more worried about you than the doctors are. I hope you're doing okay. Sorry I couldn't reach you before things got bad. (BAD! Sorry.) Also sorry I went in for the hug. I should've known you wouldn't like it.

"I really do hope you're doing okay. I stayed as long as I could, but Tygan kicked me out. I don't think he likes me very much. I understand if you want some space, and I totally understand if you're mad at me for grabbing you. I wouldn't blame you at all and you are absolutely allowed to be pissed. Flores would also like to say sorry but I'm not really sure how to write it in a 'really pitying bitchy sort of way,' so just imagine it. I'm sure you can!

"Your friend Carlos :)"

Daisuke really needed to tell Díaz to stop acting like such a fucking patsy. He probably wouldn't be able to stomach the pie, but he was still grateful for it being there. It was a nice decoration.

Next, he grabbed the bottle. It had been assigned to someone, but the sticker had been ripped off (quite messily; the gum of the glue was still all over the plastic). The pills inside were plain white, a bit oblong, and about the size of the nail on Daisuke's index finger. The note underneath it was much more plain: the post-it had a floral pattern around the borders and dotted lines for you to write on. This was the oversized, torn-off corner of a document, with many words still visible on the edges.

When Daisuke unfolded it, he found a much less eloquent letter. A phallic shape was doodled on the back, complete with veins and ball hair.

"Sorry you got your ass kicked on that mission. The guy who had my dick in his hand last night A friend of mine does a lot of trading in the Black Market and through trades which I'm sure you don't want to imagine I got my hands on some ultra strong painkillers. Planned on using them for my own fun times but figured you'd like them better.

"C.H. -"

Hayes was right. Daisuke did not want to imagine the means by which he got his hands on painkillers. Nevertheless, he popped open the bottle, struggling to do so with just one hand, and poured two into his hand. He took them with the water sitting at his bedside.

"Nakamura."

Oh, damn. Daisuke tucked the pills beneath his ugly hospital gown and turned to Jan Weber, approaching with the characteristic creepy smile on his face. "Good to see you're finally awake," he purred, sitting in the metal chair next to Daisuke's gurney. "How are you feeling?"

"Like ass," Daisuke said. He didn't want to be dealing with this guy right now.

Weber leaned forward and touched Daisuke's right arm. Even through the cast, the touch made him sick; he tugged it away and glared at Weber. This was the worst part of being injured. He did not like how vulnerable he was. "Leave me alone," snapped Daisuke. "I'm trying to sleep."

Ignoring the request and ignoring personal space, Weber scooted the chair forward and again placed his hand on Daisuke's cast. There was nowhere to run, and Daisuke didn't feel up to bitching the guy out, and if he did, he'd just get yelled at again. So he sat there, closed his eyes, and tried his best not to say anything.

"I understand that your recent trauma has been very difficult for you to deal with," said Weber quietly. He sounded like he was trying to be comforting, but the tone of voice made the hairs on the back of Daisuke's neck stand on end. "And it may make you more hostile toward the people around you that are trying to help you. I just want to make sure you're doing okay, Nakamura. Can I call you Daisuke?"

"No."

With an all-too-tight smile, Weber said, "That's okay. I'm going to do some vitals now. You just relax and take it slow."

Daisuke was going to take it slow no matter what he did. You didn't do anything very quickly when your ribs were broken. Weber placed a hand on the small of Daisuke's back--anxiety curled in his belly; bad memories rushed into his head, and Daisuke swallowed them down--to help him sit up. This was something Daisuke could appreciate: sitting up on his own did not feel good. The helping hand was necessary, and therefore, he'd allow it.

The stethoscope landed on his back. "Take as deep a breath as you can," Weber said, far too close to Daisuke's ear for comfort. He tried to take a deep breath and hissed it out with a wheezing cough; Weber stroked his back and Daisuke was beginning to really, really not like it. The sound of his own cough, the feeling of it, the hand on his shoulders--

"Let's try again," said Weber. "Slower this time."

Daisuke just wanted to get it over with. He let Weber press the stethoscope to his back again, and this time he managed not to let it end in a coughing fit. It came pretty damn close, though.

Things only got worse when Weber moved to his chest. Daisuke didn't like to have his chest touched at all: previous feelings of discomfort joined the nerve endings that healed wrong post-surgery to make one hell of an awful experience, and Weber didn't seem to give a damn when Daisuke flinched at the stethoscope pressing against his sternum. "Deep breath," purred Weber into Daisuke's ear. His breath was hot and humid and Daisuke wanted this over, now, so he took in a long, shuddering gulp of air and practically spat it out.

Then Weber placed a piece of straw on the camel's back, and it broke.

He pulled away from Daisuke, smiled his big creepy smile, and petted Daisuke's hair, and he said something that Daisuke didn't catch because his fantastic job of not fucking thinking about it fell apart instantly. The rush of adrenaline came back with the memories--the Hunter pulling his cold, bony fingers through Daisuke's hair, the pain, the screaming, Sayaka--and Daisuke didn't know what else to do. He tore away from the touch, scrambled out of bed in his ugly blue-spotted robe, and screamed, "Don't fucking touch me!" 

Then he grabbed the gurney and shoved it and, consequently, a whole tray of surgical tools at Weber. Things flew everywhere; a terrible clatter only made Daisuke's ears ring louder. He shouted again, "Do not touch me," and then he tore off the tape holding tubes to his arm, ripped out the IVs, and ran off.

The phantom feeling of fingers in his hair did not fade for a moment. Daisuke stopped in the hallway, whining and grabbing fistfuls of it and pulling to make the feeling go away. He felt strands go pop-pop-pop, and yet it wasn't enough. Daisuke, hyperventilating, ran down to the showers.

Nobody was there, thank God, and he didn't run into anyone in the halls, thank God some more. Daisuke saw himself in the mirror and really realized what he looked like: pale and clammy, sweat gathering at his hairline. He was trembling, and the purple under his eyes was starting to turn black. One arm in a cast, one arm bruised-up and wrapped in tape--Daisuke was in a sorry sort of state, and the way he was acting, sporadic and gasping, was not helping.

He scrambled to the sinks and reached underneath to one of the drawers, pulling out the standard-issue electric clipper. He dropped it on the counter when he meant to set it down; he grabbed the attachment that would give him the shortest hair and, with fumbling, shaking hands, snapped it to the head of the clippers.

When he pressed the button and it didn't turn on, Daisuke damn near started to scream. He pushed it again and again before he realized that he'd forgotten to plug it in.

Then it started, and Daisuke looked at himself in the mirror. 

Fuck, he was crying; his face was getting all shiny and hot from the tear streaks.

His hair wasn't very nice. He didn't have any of the hair products that Rivera or Díaz did and he could never get it to lie flat without making himself look like a fucking idiot. It was rough and patchy and a hassle and Daisuke lowered his face, staring at the crown of his head in the mirror, and dragged the clippers over his scalp.

It was a messy job. Clumps of black hair tumbled over his face and onto his ugly gown and his feet. The heavy shunk, shunk of hair being shorn off was like music to Daisuke's ears, and the feeling of running his hands over a clean buzzed head was like nothing he'd ever felt before. It was gone. Nobody could touch it anymore.

Not knowing what to do with himself anymore, having cried it out for the first time in years and shaving his hair, he limped back to the barracks. This time he passed people, and those people looked at him, barefoot and covered in his own hair clippings and dressed in nothing but a hospital gown, and gave him a wide berth. Daisuke enjoyed this immensely. He thought that if anyone touched him in the next twenty-four hours, he'd just have to kill them.

When he got to the barracks, he did the first and only thing that came to mind. He walked over to his bunk, crawled into it, and fell asleep.

The upside to being fucked-up to hell and back meant that usually you slept like a rock. Daisuke woke up two hours later feeling a little better than he had when he woke up, though someone had thought to place a pillow under his head and a blanket over the rest of him. He wondered who had decided to do that, and then he wondered why he'd left his curtain open in the first place.

Daisuke wasn't sure what had woken him up. Might've been the broken ribs. Might've been the discomfort of the robe--it was open in the back; thankfully his ass wasn't out.

"Bad?"

Or it might've been Carlos Díaz, crouching to give him a worried look. Daisuke immediately sat up, pulling the blanket over the thin hospital gown and running his hand through--no, over his scalp. His hair was gathered in big clumps on the shower floor. Jeez, he felt bad for the janitors; he should've cleaned up after himself.

"They've been calling you to the Infirmary for a while now." Díaz peeked about. "Want me to walk you down?"

Daisuke snapped, "No. I'm not going back down there."

This seemed to get Díaz's attention. He tilted his head, moving from standing up to crouching by Daisuke's bed. He gave Daisuke a good three feet of space and only looked Daisuke in the eye. "So… I take it things didn't go well in there when you woke up. Just assuming based on the, uh, the fact that you fled and you seem to have lost your head of hair."

"I cut it off," Daisuke mumbled, not quite knowing what else to say. "And it didn't, no. Weber pushed my buttons, and it…" He rubbed the back of his neck, hunched over and feeling pretty sorry for himself. "He touched my hair, and it just… reminded me of the Hunter. You saw what happened."

Díaz's eyes widened. He seemed shocked, like he had come to a revelation. "Oh," he said, sotto voce. "Oh, that's--oh!" He pointed at Daisuke. "Oh, that's why Weber's in trouble!"

Daisuke tilted his head, a little confused. "Weber's in trouble?"

"The Commander's pissed." Díaz leaned forward like he was telling Daisuke a close secret. "He called Weber up to the Geoscape and he's been chewing him out ever since. Nobody knew why; everyone thought it might be because of you, but I--I mean… he's so mad. I've never seen the Commander that angry."

Daisuke…

Daisuke didn't know what to make of that.

"And--oh, that couldn't have been it. I mean, if you're comfortable telling me, what else did he do? Was he like, a huge ass?"

Daisuke hadn't processed anything that had happened in the past twenty-four hours, so instead of focusing on someone finally, for once in his damn life, sticking up for him, Daisuke responded to Díaz. "Well, uh. I've never been on good terms with Weber, and the Commander knows that. He's really bad at… respecting my boundaries, and I mean, you know. You know I don't like to be touched." Daisuke made a vague gesture. "Weber knows, and he doesn't really… care?" He sighed. "First he, uh, kinda dismissed me not liking to be touched. He said it was just me being bitchy because of what happened."

Díaz's brow knitted together. He looked worried.

"Then he touched my arm even though I, like, very clearly pulled away the first time he touched it. And I glared at him for touching me." Daisuke pulled his knees up to his chest, making sure the blanket covered his legs before he did. "And, uh, kinda sparked me even further when he touched the old surgery scars."

"Surgery scars?"

"Top surgery," Daisuke clarified. "Kind of a fucked-up job, but it served its purpose, so I don't really care. The nerve endings are all weird and funny-feeling there--they never healed right--so, like, if it's a soft touch, I'll feel it in a totally different area, but if you press on it too hard it hurts a million times worse." He slumped his shoulders. "Plus I'm just… not a big fan of being touched there without being asked first. And my sternum's cracked. And he totally just--" Daisuke mimed a whack-- "smacked the stethoscope on, which stung like a bitch, and, big shocker, he didn't even ask first."

"And then he touched your hair," Díaz finished quietly.

"Yep."

Díaz sighed, leaning his elbows on the side of Daisuke's bunk. "That fucking sucks," he said, which was impressive for the number of fucks Daisuke had heard coming out of Díaz's mouth. "I'm sorry. I never realized that Weber was such a bad person. He's usually so nice to me…"

"He's a creep." Daisuke tucked his chin beneath his knees. "I mean… I think I can say what's creepy and what's not, seeing as I was tortured while lying in someone's lap being petted like a cat. But yeah, uh… real creepy." He forced a smile. "I'm fine, though. Not as bad as the Hunter was."

"I'm so sorry." Díaz leaned forward a bit, not too close. "I'm sorry. That was the worst thing I've ever heard in my life, and--and I was following orders not to get closer. I should've just not obeyed the Commander and ran up there before he, uh, before things got bad, and--"

Daisuke began to laugh, slow and raspy and full of aches and pains. Díaz stopped talking, instead opting to stare at Daisuke like he was a crazy person.

"What's so funny?"

Wiping his eyes of the crusties that had gathered there after shaving, Daisuke sighed, "You saved my life. You know that, right?"

Díaz stared.

"I mean--" Daisuke cleared his throat, laughter thoroughly wiping out any energy he might've gathered from the nap. "Do you know what happens when you get that close to the Hunter? If you hadn't gone up there and blown his brains out, I'd be… I'd be in pieces, or gutted on that roof, or with him right now; that's a worse fate." He looked up at Díaz with the first genuine smile he'd given since… the last time he spoke to Díaz, which was weird. "I'm saying thank you. For the life-saving."

"Oh." Díaz rubbed the back of his neck, looking a little bashful. "Well, I did let my temper get the best of me this time, but I'm glad it worked out in the end."

Daisuke didn't know what to say to that; he didn't want to say something completely cheesy and ruin the moment entirely. Instead, he cleared his throat and said, "Uh… can I ask you a question? That might sound totally stupid?"

Díaz leaned forward with an entirely too sympathetic look on his face. "Of course. Always."

Daisuke tipped his head down, running his hands over his temples and into his coarse, shaven scalp. "How's my hair? I cut it when I was crying and I'm not sure it's very good."

This took dear Díaz by surprise. He said, "Er…" and leaned in closer to get a better look at Daisuke's head. "Well. I, uh…" He seemed to be scrambling for a way to say it nicely. Daisuke knew how it looked; he just wanted a distraction from the downright heartwarming conversation Díaz had seemed to be leading him into. "It looks like you were crying while you cut it. One-handed, I think."

The cast did go over his thumb, like a bad pair of fingerless mittens. Daisuke wouldn't be using it for a long time. "There's patches I didn't get?"

"Ah… a few."

"There's a ton of spots I missed, isn't there?"

"Yeah." Díaz sighed. "You're gonna want to go over that again once you're better. Or have someone else do it, but something tells me you'd like to do it yourself."

Díaz was so intelligent. "That's true."

Conversation fell away. Daisuke was left with Díaz looking at him, which was… weird, because he didn't really hate Díaz being there. Being injured made Daisuke weak and vulnerable, and when he felt weak and vulnerable, he also felt very, very antisocial, but it was Díaz. The squirming anxiety in his stomach that kicked up when Jan Weber looked at Daisuke was nowhere to be found. Just a bit of small, warm contentment.

Daisuke did not know what to do with that. Instead, he curled up a bit tighter, pulling the blanket over his shoulders, and asked quietly, "Do you know where my clothes went? Specifically my jacket?"

"Oh." Díaz sheepishly rubbed his arms like he was trying to comfort himself. "You, uh… puked on it. I put it in the washers and it's air-drying right now. I hope that's okay?"

"Sure." Daisuke shrugged. His ribs gave him a harsh reminder that they were broken. "How's the hole on the arm?" Then, "Oh, remind me sometime to ask the Commander about getting a new patch. The Hunter blew my old Reaper one clean off."

Sitting up, Díaz said, "I noticed! That's so disappointing, it was really cool." He paused; he seemed to remember the question. "Oh, and the hole is… a hole. I could patch it up for you if you want."

Curiously, Daisuke smiled. "You can sew?"

"Well, yeah!" Díaz flailed a bit. "My nonnina made me learn."

"Sure. Patch it up; I don't care." He began the long, horrible shuffle forward to crouch beneath his bed. "I need to change. Move it, you're in the way."

"Oh! Sorry."

Díaz scooted over so Daisuke could slide miserably off the bed, pressing his cast to his side as he almost folded himself in half to not bend at the waist. He kept his back straight as he peered beneath it; slowly, agonizingly, he grabbed a pair of black slacks and one of his really old shirts; one with a big hole. Then he slowly, ever-so-slowly lifted himself back into bed, aching all over.

"Ow," he said. "Guard the door, Díaz. I'm gonna change and it's gonna fucking suck."

"Oh." Díaz opened his mouth, then closed it; he opened it again and said, "Do you--oh, nevermind. Nevermind!"

He walked over to the door, not meeting Daisuke's gaze, and leaned against the frame, folding his arms and glaring out in the hall. Daisuke had a pretty good idea of what Díaz was going to say, and he was horrified that the answer wasn't actually going to be a hard no. 

Instead of thinking that terrifying thought, Daisuke found the ties keeping the gown tight on his chest. He loosened it, struggling to do it with only one hand, and shrugged off the stinky, ugly piece of fabric,

And Jesus Christ, his body looked even worse than his face. Mostly his ribs: they were red, swollen, and bruised all over. If you looked closely, you could see each individual coil of the Viper's tail and where it had dug in. In one spot, the tender place where abdominal armor went away, Daisuke saw the imprint of scales in spotty red marks. It matched the red line on his neck where the tongue had yanked.

Daisuke at least tried to appreciate himself. He always found that touching the muscles in his calves and forearms, and sometimes his chest, helped a bit with his overall self-image--not that it was ever poor, but Daisuke could say that there were points in his life that he didn't like to look or touch. Not now, though. He sat down with a heavy groan and laid his hand over his arm, then his calf and stomach.

It felt good.

Daisuke rolled some socks over his feet--he needed to trim his toenails, but like fuck was he gonna do it now--and tugged on some boxers. Then he tried his very best to tug up his slacks one-handed. This was awful and took him much longer than he'd have liked, but eventually, he got it. Then he got stuck on the pants' button, and no matter what he did, he couldn't change the fact that they were old and he'd gained some much-needed weight since he'd gotten them.

Damn.

Instead of trying to fix it or asking Díaz for some awkward help, Daisuke moved on to the shirt. He picked it up one-handed and wrestled it over his head.

Feeling better about himself (a little better, at least; the button was pissing him off) Daisuke called to Díaz, "Come on back, I'm dressed." Díaz did obediently, a bit of embarrassed pep in his step. "Feelin' like shit. Kinda wanna go see Weber get yelled at."

Díaz laughed. "Well, if you really want to, come on." He beckoned. "I'll come with."

"You'll be my walking LifeAlert," Daisuke muttered, sighing as he stood up. He felt old. Old like Reapers who cracked beers and talked about football games. Yeesh: old like Central.

"Most degrading thing I've ever laughed at." Díaz waited for Daisuke; then with endless patience said, "You didn't button your pants, Bad."

"Damn," he muttered. "Hoped it wouldn't be noticeable."

Díaz gave Daisuke a look that was somehow shocked, amused, and contemptuous. "You thought nobody would notice," he said after a moment. "I thought you of all people would realize how that would look, right?"

He thought about that for a moment. Then he said, "Please don't make me laugh. It will be agonizing."

"Just saying!" Díaz folded his big arms, slumping over a little. "It's true and you know it. Rumors spread here like wildfire."

"I know." Daisuke began fiddling with the bad tape on his cast. He didn't know what to do; like hell was he going to let Díaz button his pants--or was he--and he couldn't just go around the ship like this. But he also felt like shit and didn't want to remove and put on another pair of pants. He wished he had some of Hayes' classic sweatpants. "I genuinely can't do it myself. If I had more than one arm to work with, I could do it, but these are old and they cinch tight at the waist. I, uh, I gained weight when I joined XCOM and these make that pretty clear."

Díaz gave Daisuke a look. 

Sighing, Daisuke snapped, "Dude, just do it. Dignity's a fucking stranger to me these days."

The walk was awkward because of it, but you know what? It was fine. It was fine! Daisuke didn't meet Díaz's eyes and Díaz didn't meet Daisuke's eyes; words weren't spoken, but the pants got buttoned and that was what mattered.

Right?

They stepped into the lift. Daisuke leaned against the railings with a great sigh, which hurt. The pain made him gasp, and that hurt worse. Daisuke hated this. Daisuke hated having broken ribs. 

Díaz said into the terribly embarrassing quiet, "So. I, uh, talked to Matteo while you were out."

"Jesus, Díaz, nice conversation topic!"

Gesturing wildly, Díaz whined, "It was awkward!"

"What was awkward?" Daisuke jabbed his finger into Díaz's meaty chest. "This elevator ride? Or you begging your salacious ex to take you back?"

"First off," Díaz stepped away from Daisuke's hand, "do not ever say salacious again. Gross." He sighed. "Second off, it wasn't that bad; he just wanted to apologize for ending it the way he did, and I mean, that made me feel like I had about a million little maggots eating me alive. But it's okay." Then he glared at Daisuke, a bit sour. "Third off--I saved your life, remember? I'll ask that the first favor you return is to, oh, how do they say it…" Díaz tapped his chin in mock thought. "Oh! Get off my dick."

Daisuke regarded Díaz. "I never realized you had it in you to be sassy." When Díaz took in a breath, likely to snap something back, Daisuke said, "It's cool. Keep it up."

Before he could elaborate on that--were those painkillers starting to kick in? What was he saying?--the elevator doors opened with their telltale, awful shreeeek and revealed the Geoscape.

It was a sight to behold.

The Commander was bitching out Jan Weber. Daisuke knew that, but he didn't realize that Weber would be standing there with his arms pinned to his side, eyes glued to the wall, as the Commander shouted him down--and he didn't mean that the Commander was talking loudly. He meant that the Commander was bellowing at Weber like a terrible gale wind.

Everyone in the Geoscape--even Central--stared closely at their computers and business, even if nothing was happening. They all seemed to either have evacuated or decided to only pay attention to their work.

Except Weber, and except the Commander.

"--is not normal," the Commander shouted. "A patient has a right to their body. All patients, no matter their mental capacity. They decide what happens to them and they decide what they want you to do with them." He gasped; continued, "If he refused a checkup, you have no right to give him one, and if you continued with the checkup you clearly violated his--his insanely basic request! It is not hard to refrain from doing that. It really is not hard, and yet you still did!"

Jan Weber was trembling in place. With a long sigh, Daisuke sat in an empty chair, crossed his legs, and settled in for the long run. Díaz stood next to him, looking nervous.

"Sir," said Weber quietly. His voice cracked; he swallowed thickly and tried again: "Sir, my service toward Daisuke--"

The Commander stepped forward, leaning on his cane, and hissed, "You call him Nakamura, or you call him Bad Company." He stared at Weber down his nose with a level of contempt Daisuke had never seen. "Very telling of you, to use the name he hates when you don't think he's around to hear you."

Weber cleared his throat quietly. "Excuse me. My service toward Nakamura--" he spat out the name like it tasted funny-- "was what I was asked of by Tygan. Now, the Reaper and I have had our differences, but I didn't realize his reaction to my treatment would be so…"

"Weber," the Commander said, "the fact that you're trying to lie to the most psionically adept human on the planet is astoundingly stupid." He paused, made eye contact with Daisuke, and his white brow raised just a fraction. "Do you think Bad's gonna tell me the story of a kind doctor who wanted what's best?"

"With all due respect--" Daisuke always loved to hear that phrase when it referred to him; usually this 'due respect' wasn't very much-- "I am just a doctor trying to treat a man who struggles with intense mental issues. We can both agree on that."

Daisuke would've bitched about that if it wasn't true.

"Giving aid to patients who have these sorts of problems can be difficult." Weber's voice had taken on that grimy, sickly-sweet tone that Daisuke hated so much. "Nakamura struggles with unchecked anger issues and anxiety, trauma, and depression that have gone untreated for years." Daisuke really wished Weber wouldn't just, like, say that in front of everyone. Díaz was giving Daisuke a weird look now; that would be awkward. "Unfortunately, treating these kinds of patients can prove difficult, and I failed as a medical professional. Truly, from the bottom of my heart," Daisuke hated how Weber sounded when he talked, "I apologize that I believed a firmer hand was necessary."

"Cool," said Daisuke from his seat. Weber whipped around to stare, the fear of God crossing his face. "I mean, yeah, you know best. Clearly I don't know what's good for me. I'm only an adult man who happened to be having a really rough day, who also happened to be entirely lucid and able to process his own emotions." He looked up at Díaz. "I mean, my dear friend here can account for just how unable to take care of myself I was, right?"

He nudged Díaz in the side, hoping that some of the sassiness from earlier was still kicking somewhere in him.

Díaz had never once failed Daisuke. He said, "Oh, no, Weber. He only dressed himself completely and recounted everything that you did to him with perfect clarity. You had to take a firmer hand."

Weber sputtered, glancing between the Commander and Daisuke. "I-- I --"

"Central," the Commander turned back to the Geoscape, graceful as could be, "please escort Dr. Jan Weber off of my ship. And make it clear he isn't to come back."

Central finally took his eyes off his computer, seeming relieved that the bitching-out was done, and walked to Weber. The walking, talking pile of shit was attempting to convince the Commander that nothing had been wrong. Central grabbed Weber by the upper arm and began to pull him.

"Actually." The Commander turned back to look at Daisuke. "I'm feeling generous. Give him a biff in the chin, Bad."

"Really?" Daisuke sat up. "You mean it?"

Weber got a laugh out of that. "Nakamura wouldn't do that," he said. "We're friends, he--"

Daisuke stood up, walked over to him, and punched him in the mouth with his good hand. Weber didn't move with the punch, and it hurt Daisuke's arm and knuckles, but goddamn, did it feel good. He didn't pride himself on his hard-hitting strikes, but he didn't think Weber prided himself on his ability to take whacks to the teeth.

With a sound like a whimper, Weber fell back against Central's grip. He stared at Daisuke with shiny, wounded eyes. If he weren't so focused on not proving Weber right about his mental state, Daisuke would've spat at his feet and kicked him in the balls. Instead, he flipped off Weber with his good hand and stalked back over to the seat, sitting down and shaking out his hand.

Doctor Jan Weber was steered out of the Avenger. Daisuke would've ripped off his right arm to never see that smarmy fucker again.

From his position standing by Daisuke, Díaz whispered, "Was that what you wanted?"

"You channeled the bitchiness perfectly," Daisuke said, tapping his cast against Díaz's wrist. "Thanks for that."

Díaz, completely unable to keep up a cranky attitude for more than five minutes, beamed with pride. Despite it all, his big smile was incredibly contagious, and Daisuke hoped that his pleased look wasn't as big and bright as Díaz's.

"Well." The Commander sighed, rubbing his eyes with one bony hand. "I guess I just fired the best doctor in the Resistance, huh?" He turned to look at Daisuke. "Thank you for notifying me of Weber's malpractice. Now that I'm actually aware of it, there's bad experiences rattling around in a lot of different people's heads… even my own. Sheesh."

"Uh." Daisuke blinked, a bit confused. "I never notified you?"

With a gentle, nearly-humorless laugh, the Commander leaned against a console and rested his long, gaunt hands and wrists on the handle of his cane. "You didn't directly notify me, no," he closed his bright purple eyes, "but panic attacks are astonishingly noisy, especially from a mind that's usually so dispassionate. You startled me."

"Oh." Daisuke shrunk into himself. "Uh… sorry."

"Don't be." The Commander stood up with a heaving sigh. "Nakamura, it's good you came up here. I'd like to speak with you in private."

Daisuke's heart shriveled up and died in his chest. Díaz gave him a look somewhere between compassion and pity. "Why?" Daisuke asked slowly. "Did something happen?"

"Yes, and no." The Commander looked over his shoulder. "Come on, now."

Daisuke wasn't afraid of the Commander. Daisuke came from the Reapers, from Volk's leadership: when Daisuke said, "Oh, Central's gonna kill me," that meant Central was going to be upset with him. When Daisuke said, "Oh, Volk's gonna kill me," that meant that his life was in active danger, and he needed to either start running or start fighting.

The Commander's leadership was much softer and somehow inspired the same loyalty. You obeyed Volk because he always had you on a leash; you obeyed the Commander because you didn't want to let him down… and maybe the mandatory Psionic leash in your brain. Daisuke wasn't a conspiracy theorist like his fellow Reapers, and he didn't like to jump to conclusions like they did, either. But he thought about it sometimes.

What was so similar about the two? Volk was six feet tall and, in his forty years, had only ever lost one fight. The Commander was a spindly man--was he losing weight?--whose hands were soft and delicate from disuse, whose entire life now was the result of one big failure.

Daisuke was being led to the Commander's and Central's quarters. He'd never been there; no soldier had. Daisuke must've been in sorry shape if the Commander was going to bring him there. The Commander liked to keep his room a refuge from fighting and only let its inhabitants in.

It was a long hallway off the Geoscape that grew a bit darker as the blue glow of the hologlobe faded. The idle sounds faded behind steel walls; the only sounds left were the Commander's footsteps and the sound of his cane tapping the floor. Daisuke liked it. It helped clear his mind.

They approached a door with a big scanner next to it. The door looked like it might've been made of six-inch steel, and the scanner was blue, about eight inches by eight inches. The Commander paused, leaning his weight onto his cane, and lifted one small, trembling hand to rest atop the screen. It beeped a bit, flashed, and the door cracked open with a heavy metallic whunk. The Commander pushed it open with his shoulder and held it, gesturing with one hand. "Come in," he said quietly. "I'd have cleaned if I knew I'd be having company." He snickered to himself as Daisuke walked in. "Company."

Daisuke really liked the Commander, but he stuck by his statement that all old people should be shot. He also felt a bit jealous of the Commander's cane--his ribs were starting to hurt from the strain and the pressure headache was beginning to kill him.

Daisuke's nose began to tingle in little alarm bells of allergies. He narrowed his eyes, glaring about.

"Oh, you have to swear not to tell anyone." The Commander tottered around the room. It wasn't that bad, all things considered--it was a smaller room than the barracks, but there were only two bunks, both of which were neatly made. A table sat in the middle; a desk was tucked into the corner, each covered in papers and pens. A banner hung on the wall, and there was a bookshelf, too: the flag had a downright ancient XCOM insignia in regal red and orange, and the bookshelf held a few novels Daisuke didn't recognize and three framed photos. The lighting was yellow and dim--none of that interested Daisuke. More important was the big, odd pole, about two feet tall and wrapped in rope by the desk, the weird-looking plastic box full of tiny rocks, and the two bowls of water and kibble by the box.

Daisuke's sinuses hurt just thinking about it. The Commander bent at the waist and lowered his hand to the ground, making kissy sounds as he rubbed his fingertips together. This summoned a great white fluffball that Daisuke hated to even look at. It had prissy little paws and a tail like a feather duster; a tiny, harmless face framed by a big creamy collar of fuzz. Its enormous ears came back as it stretched its paws out in front of it with a yawn. When it approached the Commander's hand, it butted its tiny face into his fingers and arched its back into the scratches.

"Commander," Daisuke said, voice already choking up, "that is not a fucking cat."

"Oh, come on, now. She's sweet." The awful feline leaped onto the table and sat with its tail curled around its paws, a rumbling purr kicking up in its chest. "Her name's Moira, after an old friend. She's my confidante."

Daisuke was about to ask why the fuck a cat was the Commander's confidante when its eyes turned to him and answered the question.

Striking him like a lightning bolt were two slit-pupiled, purple eyes. Daisuke didn't know much about cats, but he was pretty sure their eyes weren't usually any shade of violet or magenta. Was the white fur natural? Or--

"The mental voices of the Avenger are pretty loud." The Commander sat at the table and petted Moira gently, stroking her cheeks. "I use dear Moira to aide my sleep. If I can get into her little mind," he scratched the top of her head, and she squeaked out a meow for it, "it helps a lot. She's got a quiet brain." The Commander looked up at Daisuke with a melancholy smile. "Before you say anything, no, that doesn't hurt her. Tygan says the physical changes are the most that'll happen to her. She likes Central and me."

"Oh." Daisuke wiped his eyes. "I'm pretty allergic to animals. I'm sure she's great, though."

The Commander laughed quietly and picked Moira up, setting her on the floor. "That's alright," he said. "She's well-trained. Central keeps her combed very nicely; it helps with the shedding."

Then he walked over to the lower bunk of the bed and sat down, patting the spot next to him. "Come on, Bad," he said. "Talk to me."

Daisuke complied. He sat down on the bed next to the Commander and waited.

They were both reticent for a moment. The Commander twined his long fingers together, contemplated the wall, then said, "Did you know that your Commander, the man in charge of leading the Resistance, in charge of saving the world, still wets the bed?"

Which was a weird way to start any conversation. Daisuke looked up at the Commander, a bit startled and more than a bit wary of the bed he was sitting on. The Commander just laughed that same quiet, very sad laugh. "Yes, it's embarrassing, I know. If you think you hate that fact, imagine how much I hate it."

"...awesome," said Daisuke. "What prompted you to say that?"

With a great sigh, the Commander said, "It's not something I like to admit. And it's a symptom of a much greater, much scarier illness I have found myself succumbing to." He turned to Daisuke. "Your Central Officer has his own quarters that he is free to use. He stays with me, though, because he needs to ensure that should I need his assistance, he'll be there to provide it."

"Assistance?"

"With great Psionic power," the Commander untwined his fingers, "comes great risks. Tygan believes it is due to some parts of the brain imbibing so many calories and nutrients that the rest of the body--and other lobes in the brain--are starved. This results in many physical problems. My weight loss, a low appetite, muscular atrophy. And… seizures. Severe, life-threatening seizures."

Daisuke blinked. The unbreakable Commander suddenly looked much frailer and older than before.

"He also believes it is partly due to the rushed extraction of the Psionic implant the Elders put in my mind… and the unnatural amount of information that implant had been pumping into my brain for twenty years straight." The Commander tapped the back of his skull. Usually, his long white hair kept the scars covered up, but with the hair swept over his shoulder, the blistery old wounds were clear as day. "I have brain damage, Nakamura. It is causing issues I cannot clearly describe to you."

"I… what kinds of issues?" He leaned forward. "How bad are the seizures?"

"The seizures are terrible," said the Commander, "and the issues are worse." That deeply ingrained sense of melancholy returned to the Commander. "They accompany nightmares. Tygan believes I have post-traumatic stress that causes these nightmares. They scare me, and I feel helpless. Central will hear me thrashing and either wake me up or call Tygan up here as fast as he can. Then the seizure will start. Always, without change, they are focal to bilateral tonic-clonic seizures." He sighed. "Losing control of all your muscles at once while being almost entirely unconscious usually results in the evacuation of the bladder."

"Jesus," said Daisuke, because what else was he supposed to say?

"Fortunately, they are not common. They occur once every few months, usually." He kept unfolding and refolding his fingers together as if he was unsure what to do with his hands. "Sometimes there are… bursts, in which I will have a few events in one week. These are rare, and only occur after a long period of stress."

"Uh." Daisuke always had such a way with words. "That sucks."

The Commander laughed and tapped his thigh with his fingers. "It really does suck," he mumbled. "But… that's not the worst it gets."

"Oh."

"Yes." He touched his temples, like even discussing the issues gave him a headache. Fuck, maybe it did. "Nakamura, I have been having… difficulties with my memory. Central said I was forgetful even before the brain damage, but…" He stood up with joints that seemed like they'd give out at any moment and walked over to one of the framed photos. "According to Central, these were my best friends." 

He came back and handed the picture to Daisuke. It showed an older man who bore a strong resemblance to Lily Shen, a woman in a white lab coat that Daisuke didn't trust to even look at, and two people who must've been Central and the Commander, but his mind didn't make the click--these two were so young and lively-looking. Central had a goofy green sweater and a goofy, stuck-up look on his smooth and youthful face. The Commander's hair and eyes were both still brown, and he was taller, more muscular. It was a time capsule, in a way.

"I don't remember them at all," said the Commander. "I remember Bradford, because he's there, all the time. My memory's always refreshed. But Raymond Shen and Moira Vahlen are… things of the past." He touched their paper faces and hummed quietly. "I'm sure that if Central and these pictures didn't remind me of them, I wouldn't have them at all." He wrung his fingers and bit his lip. "My best friends, Nakamura. I don't even remember my best friends."

Daisuke looked at the Commander. Within ten minutes, he transformed from an unshakeable force to a very sad old man. Daisuke was not a hugger, but he felt that if this continued, he'd be compelled.

"And--" The Commander stood up again, taking the photo back and returning it to its place. Then he pulled from the lower shelves a few boxes that you'd see printer paper come in and brought them over, painstakingly and with trembling muscles, to Daisuke. He refused help.

Then he opened them up like cracking a safe full of gold. Maybe that's what it was to him. They were filled, each about halfway, with little knick-knacks: pictures, pens, post-its, and documents. One was filled with much more than the other. The Commander explained, "These are Vahlen and Doctor Shen's things. Not--not their things, but the things I have that remind me of them." He began to sift through the sparser box. "This one is Shen's… Central had less physical stuff about him but more stories."

He turned to the box that must've been Vahlen's and hesitated.

"He tells me less about her," muttered the Commander. "I think I know why." He began to pick through the papers and found one beautifully handwritten note in blue ink. Daisuke peeked at it, but he was pretty sure it was in German--he couldn't read a word on it. "There's more physical stuff. She kept a lot of journals and physical documents. And this, which has me flummoxed." He shook the paper in the air a few times like he was airing it out. "I won't go into it, but it's confusing, and dear Central refuses to elaborate. It's a long story, I suppose."

The Commander placed the papers back in the boxes and, this time, allowed Daisuke to help him carry them back to the shelves and tuck them back into their places.

"And, finally…" The Commander took the three other boxes, each filled to the brim, and allowed Daisuke to aid him in carrying them back to the bed. Each of these was almost overflowing. "These are Bradford's boxes."

That made sense. The Commander opened them--one was labeled 'old,' and the other two were labeled 'new.' Daisuke imagined the one for old things was for 20-years-ago Central, and the new ones were for this Central. He wondered…

"Why do you keep things from Central that you just got now?" he asked.

The Commander paused. Then he laughed quietly, took the 'old' box, and rustled through it a bit.

Then he took out a piece of thin, plasticy paper. It had a name, Joseph Abraham, and was red in some places. There was an arrowhead design above the rest of the writing, with two letters in the middle. KC.

"This," the Commander said, "is my memory of the Chiefs game we went to in '04. It's the only reason I have any recollection of it at all." He looked at Daisuke. "I keep these things because we live in a war, Nakamura. Every day, there's a chance that I die in my sleep, or the ship crashes and Central does something stupid, or, hell, maybe his liver'll just fail." He looked back at the ticket with tears in his wise violet eyes. "Every damn day, Nakamura, there's a chance I'm going to lose my best friend. And I'm not going to forget him like I did the other two."

The Commander looked at Daisuke. Daisuke looked at the Commander.

"You aren't much of a talker," he muttered with a smile.

"Sorry."

"Oh, no, you aren't." The Commander sighed. "Well, all of this insane rambling was leading up to a point. Nakamura, do you know what the most human emotion is?" When Daisuke didn't respond, the Commander turned his gaze back to the ticket. "It's not love. It's not joy."

"What is it?"

"It's grief." The Commander, so melancholy and exhausted, ran his long thumb up and down the ticket. "It's always been grief. It's recognizing that something or someone was there, and that you loved that thing or person, and understanding in full that you will no longer be able to see that thing or touch that person. It's knowing that no matter how many times you call them, they're never going to pick up the phone." He looked up at Daisuke. "Nakamura, if I'm allowed to grieve a man who's not even dead, you're allowed to grieve your sister."

Daisuke froze. Slowly, he asked, "How the hell did you know that?"

"I've known since you first came here." The Commander placed the ticket back in the box and began the slow process of moving them back to their place. "It was in your file."

"I--" Daisuke sputtered for a moment. "I thought I redacted that."

The Commander chuckled a bit. "Funny thing about that," he said. "Redacting something on a document and scribbling it out with a black marker are two very different things." He slid the box back into its shelf and sighed heavily, standing up. "Your digital document, though, had some very real-looking redactions, so I might've excused it as Reaper informality."

"So why didn't you?"

"Because," the Commander held up a finger to Daisuke, looking amused in a somber way, "Elena Dragunova did the same exact thing with her documents when she arrived, regarding her ghosts. You Reapers are very secretive."

Daisuke sat there, gawking.

"I sent Volk a request for new documents, and he gave them to me unedited. I knew that you were likely very sensitive about the things you redacted, as was Outrider toward hers, so I didn't mention them. I did keep them in mind, though, when I decided simple things." He placed the second box back into place. "Who you were to room with, what missions you went on. I tried to take your trauma into account when I did those sorts of things--I hope I did a good job."

Daisuke stuttered out, "I--I guess you did."

Sighing, the Commander continued, "I'm sorry about your sister. I am aware that you dislike talking about her, and I believe you have every right to dislike that. But I do want you to know that I'm sorry." When he finally put away the third box, the Commander walked back to the bed and resumed his place next to Daisuke. "There's something else you should know."

Great. "What's that?"

"When the Chosen Hunter attacked your brain, it was… extremely, extremely loud. Yes, you were screaming, and that's a part of it. But it was, Psionically speaking, earsplitting. I was back at the Avenger with barely a probe in your head, and I heard and saw everything that happened to you--both the hallucinations and the memories."

"Huh," said Daisuke, not liking where this was going.

"It was a long and unbroken explosion of Psionics," the Commander continued. "What I'm saying is that anyone with even a smidgen of Psionic potential within a radius of… I'd say one mile, give or take a few hundred feet, heard that. Loud and clear."

"Which means--"

"Which means Yvonne Rivera is aware of your sister's passing," the Commander confirmed, "and anything else your mind revealed in that moment."

Daisuke was quiet for a moment. Then he said, "Shit."

"I have already spoken with her." The Commander gave Daisuke a reassuring look. "I know you believe her completely incapable of maintaining your privacy, but she has promised to keep quiet about it unless you specifically want to speak with her about it. And if she doesn't, she'll be facing me."

Against all odds, Daisuke found himself believing the Commander's words. "Okay," he mumbled, rubbing his casted arm. "Good to know."

Sighing, the Commander said, "Now for the technical things. This is the stuff I'd usually brief you on through documents, but I don't want to waste the paper, so…" The Commander placed his hands in his lap. "Daisuke Nakamura, I am placing you on medical leave for six weeks."

"Six weeks?!"

"Six weeks," the Commander confirmed. "The amount of physical strain that was placed on your body is enough to put you out for four of those weeks, Nakamura. The other two are for your mental recovery."

"I--I can't do six weeks," Daisuke sputtered. "That's ridiculous. Six weeks, that's forty-two days! What am I going to do?!"

With the same infinite patience he always had, the Commander said, "Recover, Nakamura. You're going to recover from your physical injuries, get back into shape, and for God's sake, if I can find you a mental health professional, you will see them."

"But--"

"Nakamura," the Commander said firmly, "I am your Commander. You will do as I say."

Daisuke stuttered for a moment. Then he sank, defeated, and folded his arms. "Yes, sir," he grumbled. "This is bullshit."

"You know, I think you're the only person on this ship who'd complain about six weeks of leave." The Commander laughed. "Pick up some hobbies, Bad. Read all those books you've been collecting. You can borrow mine if you want. Do some cooking; make something down there that's actually tolerable. You're a Reaper, I know you can."

Daisuke's tired brain refused to process any of what had just happened. The Commander's brain was mushy or something; all his friends were dead, and he forgot them. Central was literally the Commander's walking LifeAlert! Daisuke was going to be on medical leave for six weeks. Six weeks. Daisuke thought that by the end of it, he would be twitching and dying of boredom.

Instead of any of these things, Daisuke said, "But…" and trailed off. This felt sad.

"Nakamura." The Commander's voice softened again. "I think you are vastly underestimating the people on this ship and how much they'll do for you."

"What?"

"You're thinking. You're lonely." The Commander slowly, carefully, and giving Daisuke plenty of time to pull away, rested his hand on Daisuke's shoulder. He didn't hate the feeling and knew that the Commander was aware. "Will you listen to me if I tell you about this?"

"Yes," Daisuke said. He wasn't sure if he was physically able to space out in the presence of the Commander.

"Did you know," whispered the Commander, almost secretively, "that Leticia Flores is the one who made that daisy chain for you? It wasn't Rivera like you thought it was. Flores is worried for you."

Daisuke said, "Bullshit."

"Ask Rivera about it," the Commander said. "She'll have no idea."

Before Daisuke could say anything else, the Commander continued, "Yvonne Rivera herself is worried sick for you. Literally. She was so upset when she heard your panic attack that she got nauseous and almost threw up. Now she's in the process of--I believe she's washing your sheets and bargaining for a nice blanket in the camps."

"Oh," said Daisuke.

"The reason you woke up alone and untouched in your bunk," the Commander gave Daisuke a look he couldn't decipher, "is because Caleb Hayes saw you stagger in and fall asleep. He put a blanket and a pillow over you. Then he planted himself in front of the door for two hours straight so you could sleep undisturbed."

Daisuke had no idea what to say to that.

"And don't get me started on Díaz," laughed the Commander. "I think you already know that Carlos Díaz is always ready to drop everything and help you. Right now he's hungry as hell, but he's waiting outside the hallway to make sure you have someone to walk you back down to your bunk." The Commander squeezed Daisuke's shoulder, which he didn't actually hate. "Nakamura, you have friends here. I know it's hard to be vulnerable, especially if you've spent your life with walls up. I'm not asking you to knock them all down right away. I'm just saying…" He stood up and took his cane. "This is a place in which you are safe to do so."

Daisuke had no idea what he'd say to that, if anything. So he stood up, mumbled a thanks, and followed the Commander into the hall.

Chapter Text

Daisuke Nakamura was a twitchy man. He'd known that since he was a kid--he wasn't energetic, per se, but restless. He had to be doing something all the time. And now he had.

SIX WEEKS.

Of doing NOTHING.

Daisuke enjoyed downtime. Daisuke liked to have moments to himself to read or eat or sleep without pressure on his shoulders. But he preferred them in, like, three-day bursts. Not in, oh, you know, forty-two-day bursts.

Tygan was strict with his rules: due to the firing and expulsion of Jan Weber, he and Hall were splitting the duties in the Infirmary, with Daisuke being their key patient. It only took two days for Daisuke to go stir crazy. These days were spent sitting in bed doing nothing after Tygan, running off of one single cup of coffee, told Daisuke, "Stay in your bed." Daisuke, remembering the sepsis shot, obeyed.

Dear reader, have you ever unwillingly sat in bed doing nothing for forty-eight hours straight? It was the worst. Either you had nothing to do, or someone was talking to you and there were no excuses you could make to get out of the conversation.

This came to fruition with Rivera, who sat there for four hours and talked to Daisuke. For most of the time, she told Daisuke all about Mary Shelley's Frankenstein, which was admittedly a little interesting but still incredibly dull when it came out of Rivera's mouth. She apologized to Daisuke, too, for not being there fast enough.

As if she hadn't practically saved Daisuke's sanity by putting him to sleep after what happened with the Hunter. He didn't say that, though he knew she probably heard it in his head.

Daisuke's days were plagued by people. Daisuke's nights were plagued by dreams.

He used to have to take pills to get himself to sleep. After… everything with Sayaka, he'd found himself completely unable to fall into anything but a light doze because he was so afraid of the nightmares. Eventually, Elena Dragunova took pity on a sixteen-year-old Daisuke: she broke a few of her pills in half and gave them to him, as long as he promised not to get attached to them.

This helped intensely, and Daisuke didn't need them anymore when he turned seventeen.

But now… now he missed those little broken tablets.

Daisuke never made it clear to you that she was dead, nor did he make it clear to you that she was alive. He was a master of the art of not-thinking-about-it. His sister was his first actual practice: there was no way he'd get through that without either very, very strong drugs or memory repression. He'd gone with repression, though he did pick up a smoking habit.

Volk didn't like Daisuke's affinity for cigarettes at all. As soon as he realized it wasn't just a here-and-there thing like Daisuke made it out to be, he'd torn through Daisuke's tent in a fury and confiscated every tobacco product he could find. Then he told Daisuke that if he smoked again, he'd regret it. Daisuke would call it 'tough love,' but there was nothing about Konstantin Volikov that really screamed love. The withdrawals were terrible.

Then Outrider came home in pieces, and Volk sent Daisuke off for some goddamn reason. Despite the dozens of Reapers who were faster, stronger, and smarter than him--many all at once--Volk came to Daisuke's tent and told him to pack up.

Daisuke's brain felt mushier than usual.

Daisuke's dreams were pretty bad. The first nightmare was less of a nightmare and more of a flashback. 

Never did it come back as one joined memory. It always was some string of events, out of order, blurry at the edges with all the small details missing. Sometimes it was just one scene on loop like a bad DVD, over and over, until Daisuke finally woke himself up with his screaming and thrashing. Then it'd just be embarrassing.

He didn't think anything of it the first time he slept. He just closed his eyes. Someone--he hardly remembered who--had come and visited him and told him to get some good rest. He'd taken their words to heart, laying his head on the pillow and letting the painkillers take their course.

At first, he didn't realize it was a dream. He just thought he'd woken up at her side--that was natural, after all. After a long day, they'd usually crash in the same tent, taking comfort in the presence of a sibling.

But this was not a tent; this was a battlefield. This was a well-worn path in Daisuke's brain.

It played out as it always did. Daisuke and Sayaka stumbled onto an ocean shore, cornered. She told him it'd be okay. She failed to take the Chosen Hunter's presence into account, she did something stupid, and then she fell into Daisuke's lap, already dead.

Details were fuzzy these days. He was pretty sure he'd genuinely repressed the finer details. Of course, he knew what happened--you had to know what happened if you wanted to put it out of your mind--but he never dreamt of the actual event.

But he still held Sayaka's dead corpse in his lap. Her brains were blown out the back of her skull and her wide lifeless eyes were locked onto his.

Daisuke didn't even know when he woke up. That blurred, too. One moment, he was staring at his sister's decrepit corpse, and the next, he was in bed, screaming at the top of his lungs and clutching his chest with his good hand.

When you wake up from a nightmare like that, you process one thing at a time. First, Daisuke saw Díaz, who seemed to have been sitting at his bedside before he'd woken up. Then he felt Díaz's hands gripping his shoulders, and for a moment, he was pissed that Díaz was touching him after all those lame apologies about hugging him.

The next big thing that his brain took in was the pain. Daisuke was in terrible pain, mostly in his wrists and hands. He looked down at them and realized why Díaz was holding his arms still: he'd been trying to tear the cast from his right arm with his left and had succeeded in tearing the IVs from his left arm with his right. The cast was all bent out of shape and at an awkward angle on his arm. He was still pissed at Díaz because he was pissed at everything.

Next was Tygan. Tygan was by the bed, and he had also grabbed Daisuke. He had Daisuke's left wrist in his hand--his grip was much lighter than Díaz's--and was pressing a white cloth to his wrist. The IVs were on the floor and dripping fluids everywhere.

“Let go,” Daisuke hissed. Or, at least, that's what he thought he did. The words came out slurred, and he didn't really hiss; it was more like a terrible gasp and Daisuke choked on his own tongue.

"Hey, hey, Bad. Bad." Díaz was looking at him and Daisuke cringed away from it on instinct. "It's okay. I'm sorry I'm holding on so tight-- stop struggling, please, you're hurting yourself." Daisuke jerked around like a fish on the hook, but he was a stunted, small Reaper and Díaz was so much stronger. He didn't even make a dent in Díaz's grip. "Bad, it's gonna be okay. Well--oh, God, it'd be more okay if you'd stop freaking out so badly."

Daisuke's heart was a bird in a cage, thrashing against the bars and screaming. He didn't stop shrieking for a moment. Hell, he was that caged bird.

Another thing hit Daisuke's conscience and he immediately shriveled and died inside. He was crying. Big wet tears were rolling down his cheeks. His frantic breaths came in through clumps of snot. Spit was hot on his chin. Christ, what was he doing?

Daisuke stopped struggling against Díaz's grip, and immediately it lessened to something not squeezing, but ready. He channeled all of that energy into one long, full-body shriek. Poor Díaz must've been bleeding from the ears; Daisuke had a scream like a banshee.

Then he calmed down. Well, he didn't really 'calm down,' he just stopped kicking and shouting like a crazy person. He instead managed to reduce himself to barely-repressed crying, if only because it seemed to make Díaz feel better. He'd brought his big hands down from Daisuke's shoulders to his elbows, cupping the knobbly joints in his palms. Tygan, seeing Daisuke calm down a bit, removed the towel from Daisuke's wrist.

Daisuke's right arm began to pulse louder and louder. He started to quiver in place for no reason at all. He tried by sheer force to suck the tears back into their ducts and failed miserably; the pain screaming from the broken bone, stuck at an awkward angle with the cast's dislodging, kept them squeezing out of his eyes steadily.

Tygan was giving Díaz instructions. Daisuke would've thought this was fine, but then Díaz stood up and left, and this made everything worse. Daisuke didn't know why. He gurgled out, "Come back," or something like that. 

"Díaz will return with Ms. Hall," said Tygan distantly, through cotton. "It'd be kind of you to remain calm. To yourself, and to me."

Daisuke, famous for his kindness and good spirit, said, "My arm hurts."

"Nakamura, in all seriousness," Tygan gave him a glance out of the corner of his eye, "you did that to yourself. Now." Tygan took Daisuke's wrist and stuck in a new IV. It hurt like a bitch. "This will help you calm down."

Daisuke was about to call bullshit--how in God's name was a needle in his arm going to make him calmer-- when it hit.

He slumped back down onto the pillow, the calm-down chemical really putting in the work. Almost immediately, his heart rate slowed, and the tears stopped flowing. His arm still hurt but wasn't sharp anymore; it was more like a dull ache. The world turned from stinging carbonated water to slow and sticky molasses. It didn't feel good, but it sure as hell felt better.

This time when he tried to talk, it really did come out as nothing but mumbles. He said, "Gogh," when he meant to say, "This feels weird." He supposed that proved his point.

"Is that better?" asked Tygan. He paused for a moment, then looked down at Daisuke. "After asking that, I realized you won't be able to respond." He picked the other IVs up off the floor, wiping up the mess they made and setting aside the rag. "Try to consciously relax, muscle group by muscle group. When Ms. Hall returns, she'll fix your cast and its underlying splint."

Daisuke wanted to ask about Díaz but found his mouth just hanging open. He supposed that if he couldn't do that, he could try and follow Tygan's advice.

The one horrendous time she'd roped him into meditating with her, Rivera taught him to do the whole relaxation thing with his muscles. When he repeated these motions (or anti-motions) here, he felt everything in the world grow mushy and distant.

It was by some fantastic miracle that Daisuke was still awake when Díaz returned with Hall in tow. He gurgled as a means of greeting.

Díaz sat by Daisuke's bed and said quietly, "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

It took everything Daisuke had to turn his head to face Díaz.

His heart slowly sank into his stomach, and then into his intestines. Díaz was crying. At least, he had been crying. He had shiny streaks of tears from his eyes to his chin, and his nose was all red.

He didn't understand why, at least, for a moment. His tongue was too heavy in his mouth to make any coherent words, so he looked at Díaz and thought very hard, Why are you crying?

Hall sawed open his cast. He didn't feel it.

Daisuke only stayed awake for a few minutes after that.

When Daisuke woke up next--feeling marginally better than the last time he woke up--Díaz was still there. This shocked Daisuke. He was asleep, though, with his elbows on Daisuke's gurney and his chin tucked into his arms. He was a mess. He had all sorts of nasty snot streaks on the wrists of his shirt; his hair was a complete wreck. He probably made Daisuke look like he was doing A-okay.

Daisuke was much more lucid this time around. He was able to raise his casted hand--the wrappings had been reapplied, and this time it went beyond his wrist and didn't cover his hand--and nudged Díaz gently on the shoulder.

Díaz made a hushed sound in the back of his throat. His brown eyes met Daisuke's. Then he shot upright with a gasp, mouth wide open, and stared.

"Bad," he whispered.

Daisuke asked the first and only question that came to mind. "Why were you crying earlier?"

Díaz had taken in a breath, probably to go on some spiel about how sorry he was about Daisuke's mental state. When he heard the question, he froze in place, losing the breath from his lungs.

They regarded each other for a moment. Daisuke held eye contact for a few moments. Then, feeling like he was doing it wrong, he looked at Díaz's chin. Then he looked at his own hands, resting in his lap, and then he just closed his eyes.

"I was worried about you," said Díaz quietly, which was the opposite of what Daisuke wanted to hear. "I… I've never seen you so upset out of nowhere. It was hard to watch."

Daisuke squeezed his eyes shut harder. "God," he muttered. "God fucking damn."

"It's okay." The words went in one ear and out the other. "Bad, don't be hard on yourself, please. It's not your fault, I--I didn't mean it like that. I meant that… oh, Bad. Please don't be ashamed or anything. Please."

Daisuke looked up at Díaz. He wasn't crying, but his hands were beginning to shake. "Díaz," he said, "I'm sorry I'm a bad friend."

"No!" Díaz sputtered for a moment, reaching out and retracting his hands over and over, which only made Daisuke feel worse. "Bad, you're a great friend, I--"

"Great friends don't make people cry." Daisuke picked at the cast. The tips of his ears were too warm, and Daisuke was humiliated for it. He couldn't make himself look at Díaz. "You know that you're the first person since my sister to have shown me compassion, right? To have looked at me and decided that I deserve respect? The very first person." He peeled off a long line of blue tape. "And what do I do? I lose my shit and make you cry."

Daisuke bit the delicate, raw flesh of his cheek until it bled again. He picked at the thin layers of meat with his canines.

"I mean, everyone's nice. But nobody respects. Nobody keeps their hands off, everyone calls me Daisuke. My things are all communal and my feelings are all public." He turned his head to Díaz but did not look at his face. "You treat me like a human being and I punch a guy you want to talk to. You look after me when I'm not feeling well and I can't even bring myself to stomach a hug. I'm sorry. I am sorry."

Silence stretched. Daisuke sank with every passing moment and waited for Díaz to get up and leave, to take his words to heart and never talk to him again.

Díaz said, "Bad… do you want a hug?"

It felt like someone jolted Daisuke with lightning. He met Díaz's eyes, and they weren't hateful or pitying. They were worried. They were kind.

"Don't feel pressured," Díaz continued, gently holding his hands up in an innocent gesture. "It doesn't make you a bad friend to refuse a hug. I'm just… I think you could use one, and I could provide one."

Daisuke stared at him.

"Okay," he mumbled. "I'll take a hug."

"I--" Díaz stopped himself, blinking at Daisuke. "Wait, really? I didn't think--you really want a hug? You're not just saying that to make me feel better?"

Daisuke felt like if he had to give his honest answer to that question, he'd collapse into himself and turn to wet, hot slime. So he didn't answer the question; instead, he opened his arms and told Díaz, "Um… bring it in, or whatever they say. Just don't squeeze."

Díaz said, sounding amused, "I would be gentle even if your sternum wasn't broken in three places."

Then he snaked his arms under Daisuke's shoulders and pulled him in close. It was warm. It didn't hurt, and it wasn't uncomfortable, not even when Díaz placed his chin on his shoulder. It didn't make Daisuke turn to dust nor make Daisuke's guts explode out of their cavity; it didn't even feel like it would. It was just Díaz being close. And it was okay for Díaz to be close. 

When was the last time Daisuke got a hug when he wanted one? Daisuke knew there were points at which he would've killed for this, even with his aversion to touch. Sleepless nights of staring at the tarp of his tent, wishing someone would come by and say hello. Alone at a fire, snapping that nobody could sit next to him and then feeling sad that people didn't come over. He'd spent so much time hyper-focused on keeping his grief controlled that when he'd looked up at the world and seen that it'd moved on, he hadn't known what to do with himself.

Daisuke placed his hands around Díaz's shoulders and, without thinking, pressed his forehead to the crook of Díaz's neck. He sighed. Díaz was right: Daisuke had been in desperate need of a hug.

He wasn't sure how long you were supposed to hold a hug, so he just took it in and waited for his body and mind to reject this unfamiliar process. It took a moment. Then the novelty wore off, and Daisuke pulled away his arms and tucked them into each other. Díaz let go.

"Bad," he said quietly, not finished making Daisuke feel way too many emotions all at once. "You're not a bad friend. Not at all. We all make mistakes, and mistakes make rifts. We punch weird exes--" Daisuke huffed out a bit of a laugh at that-- "and we freak out over little things. But just because I'm a giant chicken sometimes doesn't mean I can't handle people fucking up. It's not difficult."

"Okay," mumbled Daisuke. He probably sounded like a grouchy teenager.

"If I didn't want to be your friend," Díaz raised his eyebrows, "I wouldn't hang around you so often. Also." The suddenly strict tone Díaz took on made Daisuke look up. "Don't apologize to me about any of the other stuff, either, Bad."

Daisuke had too many emotions rattling around in his body to form a proper sentence. Instead, he said, true to form, "Whatever. I'm still sorry you cried."

"God, you're stubborn." Díaz sighed, looking at least a little amused. "Well, besides all of that. Did Tygan tell you when you're going to get out of bed? I hope it's soon. Rivera told me that you got to listen to her tell you about the intricacies of Frankenstein yesterday."

Daisuke groaned, and Díaz laughed at him for it. "God, yeah, she never shuts up about fucking literature, dude. It's my fault, too. She wasn't gonna say anything more, but then I said something like, 'I didn't realize the doctor was Frankenstein and not the zombie,' and that opened up the floodgates." He raised his left hand to rub the crust out of his eyes. "I don't know, man. Rivera's great, but holy shit, can she be talkative."

"I'm glad it's at least been… interesting, in here."

This was the end of Daisuke. Frustrated, dramatic, and annoyed, he tossed his hands over his head in a broad gesticulation. This quickly became one of the worst things he'd ever done: the pain shot from his arms and into his broken ribs in zig-zags, down each splinter of bone. He gasped sharply; this made it worse.

Díaz called in Tygan. At least it wasn't as bad as last time.

Daisuke's recovery was a little faster than Tygan had predicted. Of course, it was slow, not aided by Daisuke's constant nightmares, frustrated outbursts, and other general freak-outs. But the time went by.

About a week in, Daisuke could finally stand for more than a few minutes at a time without needing to lie back down and was tentatively released from the Infirmary. He'd chanced some trips to the cafeteria with Díaz before then, all of which went in varying degrees of 'poorly.' Díaz was the only person who didn't unequivocally piss Daisuke off when he was around; Rivera was noisy, and Hayes was… well, give Daisuke a moment and he'd tell you, and Tygan and Hall both were doctors, so they, of course, really pissed him off. Not as much as Weber, though. Punching Weber was the greatest.

Hayes.

Hayes was fine, honestly; he just made his way onto Daisuke's shit-list when he returned his Walkman with a brand-new scratch on its side, which pissed Daisuke off. Then, when Daisuke turned it on, his Bad Company cassette whirred and began to play Feel Like Makin' Love. This called to mind horrifying mental images, and Daisuke put another new scratch on the damn thing by hucking it at Hayes as hard as he could.

Daisuke's life was not going well.

He ate his calorie packets and the vitamins that Tygan told him to choke down daily. The cafeteria food made his stomach churn. He didn't know what it was, but his digestive system refused to be normal about the meals served there. Daisuke was lucky he didn't throw up once during his recovery. It felt out of character.

When he finally got up and walking again, it was with Rivera at his side. Rivera was the most annoying person he'd ever met, but Daisuke did appreciate her here. It felt weird to put all his weight on Díaz (Daisuke would never rescind his position as the Master of Not Thinking About It, case in point), and Rivera was very sleepy--too sleepy to pull any brain-twisters. She took him on a walk to the bunks.

Daisuke's leg hurt. He and Tygan decided that since the time was rolling around, the best time for a testosterone injection would be when he was asleep and unable to complain about it. Daisuke didn't have any abnormal fear or disgust toward needles; he liked them as much as the next guy, which was to say, not very much. He'd been bitching to Tygan and Shen both, asking them to figure out how to make it into a spray like they did for the medikits. Tygan mumbled absently that he'd get right on it; Shen said she'd see about it if she had free time.

The leg pain was okay, all things considered. He'd finally gotten into some nice, real clothes since his release: some loose sweats and a hideous mustard-yellow crewneck Díaz let him borrow--the baggy sleeves went over the cast and bandages without any issue, even if the hem ended over his thighs.

The walk to the barracks knocked all of his energy away. He felt like an hour-old fawn, all sleepy and wobbly-legged. When they arrived at Daisuke's bunk, it was already dark, empty, and very clean. He got the feeling that this was not an accident, especially when Rivera opened her arms like she was showing off a presentation and said, "Welcome back, Bad."

Wasting no time, she scuttled over to his bunk and opened the curtain. This revealed something Daisuke hadn't seen since he'd first arrived at the Avenger: his bed was made. The sheets were tucked in and the pillow was all fluffed-up; he was sure Rivera had washed the sheets, too. A new blanket was laid across the top, brown with a squared pattern sewn into the fuzzy fabric. Rivera took both cover and sheet and opened them up, folding them into a neat little triangle over themselves. This revealed both his Walkman--he'd been wondering where it disappeared to--and a new book.

"Rivera," he mumbled. "You didn't have to do this…"

"Please!" She walked back over and helped him to his bed. "Don't be silly. You spent a week in the Infirmary and I do not need mind powers to know how much you hate spending time in the Infirmary." She picked up the book and held it out to him as he sat. "This is The Bazaar of Bad Dreams by Stephen King. It was published just before the invasion. You'll adore it!"

Daisuke observed it. The cover was unsettling, and the title was on-the-nose, but he couldn't lie: it did look like something he'd enjoy. He said after a moment, "I've heard of this guy. I thought he did movies, though."

"A lot of his books were made into movies. Central has this one by him--on VHS; God, Bad, I cried my eyes out." Daisuke didn't think much of that. Rivera always cried her eyes out at movies. "But I found this and gave it a quick skim, and I knew you'd love it. It's actually a collection of shorter stories, so don't be intimidated by the length."

Daisuke turned his back from the low-hanging fruit. Instead, he told her, "This actually looks interesting. Thank you, Rivera."

"I like it when you're too high on painkillers to be mean to me." She twirled around, hair spinning in the air as she did, and wiggled her fingers at him over her shoulder. "Get some rest, alright? And tell me how the book is!"

Daisuke looked down at his new series of stories as Rivera left. Then, unable to keep it in, he said, "Don't be intimidated by the length," and giggled a bit.

God, Daisuke really was doped-up.

To be fair, this was actually the largest book he'd ever owned. Even if it was a collection of stories, it was bigger than all of his others, and the weight was pretty crazy, too.

Well, he supposed it was useless to just sit there and look at it. He got out his Court of the Crimson King tape, started it up, and closed the curtain. With his overhead light flipped on and blankets pulled up to the waist (and, if he wasn't hallucinating, a brand-new pillow), he began to read his new book.

Daisuke adored The Bazaar of Bad Dreams. Rivera was absolutely right: he had no idea how horror would work as words on paper, but he found himself enjoying the fuck out of it either way. It'd been a long time since he'd devoured a book like he did this one.

But, of course, nothing in the world could keep Daisuke's vegetable-like attention span for too long. He set it down after a few days of reading; his brain had decided it needed a breather.

He scoured for a task to keep him occupied for an hour straight. Daisuke pestered his comrades and his superiors. When he asked the Commander about it, he stroked his chin thoughtfully. "I could've sworn I had a great idea for you earlier," he mumbled, "but it's not coming to mind now. Oh, well--I'm sure I'll figure it out." He turned back to the Hologlobe, humming thoughtfully. "Central was right. I do need to start writing things down…"

Daisuke left his dementia-ridden Commander in search of something to do. This was, for a while, a fruitless endeavor: he spent the better part of an hour hunting the ship for something, anything to keep busy with. Finally, all other options exhausted, he went to the cafeteria to see if he could hork something down without feeling like puking.

When he got down there, it was completely empty except for one chef sitting on the counter and reading a magazine. She was the only chef Daisuke liked, at least, as a person. Her food was pretty terrible.

When she saw him--she had a name, that Daisuke couldn't remember--she lifted her free hand in a half-hearted wave. She looked tired.

"Food's cold," she said. "Could warm some up for you if you want."

Daisuke shrugged. "Dunno." He walked over, peeking into each metal container and wrinkling his nose at everything she'd made. He liked this girl… her cooking was questionable, though.

Something by the garbage cans caught his eye. It was a big burlap sack, lumpy like it was stuffed with potatoes or something similar. Having never really kicked the dumpster-diving ways of the Reaper, Daisuke was compelled to check it out: he went over, sniffed it to make sure it was safe to handle, and opened it.

It was stuffed to the brim with onions--red and white, all about the size of a fist, give or take a few ounces. He took one and observed it, up and down. There wasn't anything wrong with it.

"Why are you throwing away these onions?" he asked over his shoulder. "Did they go bad?"

"No," said the girl on the counter, "I just hate onions."

Daisuke turned around and looked at her. There was no real difference between how he looked at her and how he'd look at a large and unsightly cockroach. With his lip curled, he said, "You don't like onions, so you're throwing them all away?"

"Yop."

Daisuke looked at the onions. He looked back up at the girl.

Suddenly, in his head, the Commander chirped, "I remember! Make some food, Bad. Just don't put anything alien in it. Maybe a soup?"

He and the girl held eye contact.

"Get out," he told her.

By the Almighty Commander's request, Daisuke made soup.

He really didn't have anything better to do. He dragged the onions back into the kitchen, all still perfectly good except for a few bruises here and there, and began to scour the place for ingredients while he heated up the stoves.

Daisuke Nakamura was a very picky eater, and that was putting it lightly. He wouldn't eat seafood or touch tomatoes when he was a kid. He often found desserts too sweet for his liking, and there was one strange, brown-shelled fruit with a white inside he'd retched after trying. Eggs--or, more specifically, egg whites--were untouchable. He was alright with dairy products but horrendously lactose intolerant; cold foods made his teeth ache. This limited palette caused… disagreements when he was younger, leading to Daisuke making his own food.

He didn't consider himself a master chef. Not even close. He could make something tolerable on his own tongue, though, so as he looked around the kitchen--in all those little cabinets and refrigerators, where they hid the flour and the butter--he made a plan.

Daisuke had a few recipes rattling around in his head. He decided on two things, one of which would take much longer than the other and would probably require outside assistance.

He began to gather bowls and cutting boards and measuring cups. Some people came into the cafeteria and, upon seeing Daisuke the Reaper behind the counter, turned on their heels and left. Daisuke wouldn't be using illicit meats in these recipes, though he hated to be spoken to while he cooked, so he was glad they stuck to their hurtful stereotypes.

He melted some butter at the bottom of the biggest pot he could find. Thank God they had butter and garlic in the kitchen; his soup would be pretty terrible if there wasn't any. He threw some thyme in there for good measure, then some more garlic because he didn't like the thyme-to-garlic ratio. He'd found a big bucket of leftover beef stock in the fridge that didn't smell or taste like it was expired while waiting for the garlic to brown.

When Daisuke went to chop the onions, he couldn't find a knife whose heft or sharpness he liked, so he pulled out his own hunting dagger. It was only a little rusty. That could add flavor.

He got distracted and ended up cutting way more onions than he actually needed, so he hucked another glob of fat into the pan with some more garlic. This was much more soup than he intended and he'd probably have to spread it between pots.

After pouring the onions into the pot, lidding them, and tossing in a bay leaf for good measure, Daisuke made the mistake of wiping his tired eyes after cutting onions. This was a tactic that the Hunter could've used to torture Daisuke. He scrambled to run his face under water, peeling open his lower eyelid with his fingers to get the most onion juice out as he could. 

Someone came in. One of the B-Sides, as the Commander called them. Troops who were backup for other, better soldiers who went on missions more frequently. Daisuke didn't remember their name, either--nothing much except that they corrected him when he said 'she.' They didn't seem to hold it against him, at least, not that Daisuke could tell. They were watching him, though, as he cooked, which made him feel weird. He was stirring the onions, waiting for them to get soft enough that he could leave them alone, and their brown eyes were locked onto the half-made soup.

Daisuke decided the onions were tender enough to be left alone--the butter soaked into them and made them floppy; he set a timer for forty minutes as he began to mix up some dough--when a woman arrived. Another B-side. She sat down next to the other person and also watched Daisuke. She seemed less shy: she called, "That smells really good."

Daisuke ignored her. He was making bread dough. He probably should've made this before the soup… then again, the onions took twice the amount of time they usually did to get soft, so maybe he'd have time to let the dough rise.

Dough made, Daisuke placed it in an oiled bowl, laid a towel over it, and set it next to the oven to rise. Then he turned to the rest of the cafeteria and realized he'd amassed a bit of a crowd. Hayes was there, watching with an amused look as Daisuke shook his aching hands. It was a miracle that he hadn't ripped the stitches in his left arm and even greater a miracle that Hall hadn't placed the cast over his hand this time. He'd need to have help kneading the dough.

Someone came up to him that Daisuke didn't recognize. An engineer, perhaps--he didn't look much like a soldier. He folded his arms, arched an eyebrow, and asked, "What are you making, Reaper?"

"Onion soup," said Daisuke. "With bread."

"No aliens?"

"Bold fucking words to say to a guy who's cranky and holding a knife."

The engineer wrinkled his nose. Daisuke couldn't tell if he was disgusted or amused: either way, he looked at Daisuke funny, which he didn't like. "Anyway," said Daisuke as the timer went off, "you know a guy named Díaz? Carlos Díaz?"

"Oh. Sure, I know him."

"Go get him for me. Take your time, I don't care."

The engineer nodded and walked off. Daisuke, unable to keep still with so many eyes on him, washed the dishes while he waited for Díaz to show up.

When he did, lumbering in deliriously like he'd been woken up from a long nap, Daisuke waved him over from the kitchen. Díaz looked shocked when he stepped behind the counter, staring at the giant pot on the stove and the bread dough rising in the corner.

"Bad, what are you making?" He walked over to the soup on the stove--the pot was big enough to fit over Daisuke's head, and probably his shoulders if he squeezed in a bit. He got the feeling he'd need to make more bread and probably more soup if the crowd he was amassing was any indication. "It smells delicious. Reaper cuisine?"

"Why does everyone think I'm making alien stuff?" Daisuke walked over to his onions and opened the lid. Steam swirled into the air in hot puffs; Díaz waved his hand over the pot and peered inside. "No, it's just onion soup. Chefs were gonna toss a whole bunch of perfectly good onions and I wasn't gonna just let them. No aliens were harmed in the making of this food."

Díaz placed the lid back on, looking genuinely impressed. "I didn't realize you cooked," he said. "I mean, I knew you cooked! I just didn't know you were this good at it."

"Thanks." Daisuke opened up the towel over the dough. The instant yeast was ADVENT brand, so it didn't take as long to rise, and they'd be able to put it in the oven right after Díaz was done. He peeled it out of its oiled bowl, set it on the pre-floured counter, and pointed at it. "Knead this for me," he told Díaz. "Please."

To his shock, Díaz did not argue. He just rolled up his sleeves--the tattoo was even more incredible up close--and began without question. He only said, "You sound like my grandma," as he started.

Daisuke didn't know if he was flattered or offended at the comparison.

Díaz ended up being a good bread-maker precisely because of the aforementioned grandmother, though: he kneaded the dough to perfection and shaped it pretty well, too. After placing it in the oven following a good five minutes of roll-and-press wrist torture, Díaz said to Daisuke, "I could help a bit more if you'd like. We might need more bread."

Daisuke observed the soup. He'd just added the beef stock, and boy was there a lot of it. Díaz was right. Daisuke said, "Yeah, I'll make up some more dough."

He made three batches, set them aside to rise. Then he went to the fridge, got out the Worcestershire sauce (fuck the English language, fuck the English language), and added a generous dump of it to the soup. Then he fished out the bay leaf; it took about five minutes to find it and an additional two to pluck it up with his aching fingers. Finally, he popped the bread out of the oven--it was a nice crispy gold color--and called to the crowd who had come to see him cook, "It's ready." After a moment of thought, he added, "There's no alien in it."

The last comment prompted about two dozen people to approach the counter. This was the most people Daisuke had ever talked to in this span of time. He ladled out soup to everyone who held out their bowls and placed a slice of bread in their hands if they asked nicely. The bread was gone after the first ten people.

Díaz said, "I think you found your new hobby for these next few weeks."

Daisuke hated that he agreed.

Daisuke dedicated four days out of every week to cooking. It actually helped a bit with his arm strength to stir so much bread and his leg strength to stand and walk for about eight hours a day. What time he didn't spend cooking, he spent reading, talking to Díaz and Rivera, and, on one shockingly not-terrible night, watching Rosa Salvaje on telenovela night.

The soups got easier to make once Daisuke figured out the routine. Making dough for the bread was the first thing he'd do: he found that the pacing got much easier if he did that first. He got Díaz to help him on some days; Hayes kneaded dough on others. The beef stock ran out fast, though, and Daisuke had to cook his own alien-meat stock. This made some people excited, and other people sick. He reckoned it was pretty good; it was mostly Chryssalid shell and a bit of Muton, which was honestly pretty tame for alien food. He could've put Viper in it, or Trooper, which would've had people curled up over the porcelain throne.

Daisuke finished Bazaar of Bad Dreams and had about a million words to say to Rivera. He was pretty sure the heavy-duty painkillers Hayes gave him were smothering his dignity and shame. He said more words to her in two hours than he did to everyone he spoke to in the entire week. She was so, so right. Daisuke adored it. He adored the horror aspect the most, and she said that next time she got him a book, she'd have to find him more Stephen King.

He hated how well she was starting to know him.

Daisuke made the grave mistake of thinking to himself one night, Man, I'm actually enjoying these days off.

The second nasty flashback happened that night. It was quiet: everyone was fast asleep, and Daisuke had just finished physical therapy for his arm. The cast had just come off, so he could sleep on his right side instead of his left like he usually did.

Maybe it was because he slept on the wrong side.

This nightmare was something Daisuke didn't remember all too clearly--the most he got out of it was the sound of the Chosen Hunter's voice and a whole lot of blood making his hands slick and hot to the touch. All tactile, he supposed: the condensed and complete feeling of claustrophobia; a wet and warm breath against the back of his ear; a hand carding through the hair he'd cleaved off only a few weeks ago.

He woke up with spit dripping down the corners of his mouth, and the insides of his cheeks ripped to shreds. Hayes stood over him and shook him quite harshly, looking more panicked than charming and suave Caleb Hayes ever did. He was shouting, "Bad, c'mon, you're scaring the shit out of me!" as he jostled Daisuke by the shoulders.

Now that Daisuke knew to expect nightmares--he'd had a few; not as bad as this--he could keep them under control, keep himself under control. He quickly sat up, swatting Hayes' hands away as he did, and held his breath. He found hyperventilating was pretty hard when he didn't even regular -ventilate, so he gulped in a long breath of air and kept it in.

"Oh, Jesus Christ," sighed Hayes, flopping down onto his ass and rubbing his face. "Don't do that, man. Thought you were dying in your sleep."

"Fuck," Daisuke said, always flaunting his mastery of words. "Oh, fuck this, oh, Christ."

Hayes sat up quickly, seeming to realize Daisuke was in legitimate pain. "Shit--are you okay, Bad? Do you--oh, damn, um… do you want water?"

Daisuke did not care, and he did not want water. He sputtered out his breath in an awful exhale. He said some choice words in Japanese; then, he turned to Hayes and muttered, "What did I do this time?"

"Sounded like you were either having a seizure or--" Hayes paused, considered his words, and said, "It sounded like you were having a seizure."

"Thanks for not saying that other thing." Daisuke sat back down, trying through sheer will to slow his heart rate. He wiped his mouth with his sleeve and closed his eyes, taking a long, deep breath like his sister had taught him. "Damn. Sorry I woke you up."

Hayes leaned his elbows on the edge of Daisuke's bunk. "Nah, I was awake before you started jerking around and mumbling." He looked up as Daisuke turned on his overhead light--he wouldn't be sleeping again tonight. He looked good in the low lighting. (Daisuke quickly banished that thought from his head.) "Wanna talk about whatever you were dreaming about?"

"Hell, no."

"Dunno what I was expecting." Hayes sighed and stretched his long arms out over Daisuke's lap. This made Daisuke feel things that he did not want to be feeling. "Well, anything I can do to help?"

Daisuke's brain made a suggestion. Daisuke stomped this suggestion to pieces.

Instead, he said, "Well, I could stand to go on a walk. Wanna come with?"

"Sure."

Daisuke went on a walk with Caleb Hayes and felt weird things the whole time. When they got back, Daisuke tucked himself into his bunk, flicked off the overhead light, and pretended to be asleep so Hayes would leave him alone.

It wasn't that he disliked Hayes paying attention to him. It was that he liked it too much.

The weeks went by shockingly quickly. Daisuke found himself relaxing more as they went by. This was amazing: Daisuke hadn't slept for ten hours straight in years. It felt so weird to sleep for that long.

But that always meant Daisuke's life was about to come crashing down. You know how it went: he was pretty average before that fateful it-all-started Covert Operation with Díaz; he was having a good time with the Díaz family before… the stuff with the Hunter happened. There was nothing in Daisuke's life that could stay calm forever.

He and Díaz got called to the Resistance Ring a week before Daisuke's return to action. Daisuke felt perfectly fine physically, so he was using this time to build his muscles before the Commander inevitably sent him back into the field.

Maybe he should've acted sick and gotten an extra week off. He didn't feel like listening to the Commander right now.

But, no. Daisuke mopishly trailed Díaz to the Ring, rubbing his arms the whole time.

When they arrived, the Commander was already there, staring at the maps and screens while playing with the corner of a rather official-looking document. Daisuke cleared his throat to announce their arrival; the Commander turned and looked at them with bright but tired eyes.

"Nakamura," he said with a nod. "Díaz. Come here."

Daisuke obeyed. He carefully moved the Commander's tall cane to the left so he could stand next to him, and Díaz, who towered over the both of them, peered from over their shoulders.

The Commander placed one long, bony finger on the map. He was pointing to a peninsula: nestled in the crook of the Bratsk Reservoir and Angara River, by the Lost ruins of Bratsk itself, was a little carved figurine of a Reaper. It was the big camp. The one where the top dogs made their nests--Konstantin Volikov and Elena Dragunova were the first to come to mind. They oversaw the peninsula from the city and guarded from atop the large dam keeping the Angara River out of the reservoir. 

"You're familiar with this place, right, Nakamura?" The Commander looked over his shoulder to see Daisuke nod. "I'm thinking this will be our next base for a Covert Op. Have you ever been here, Nakamura?"

"Once," said Daisuke. "I visited the surgeons there."

"And Outrider? You were close with her, yes?"

Daisuke shrugged. "As close as anyone could be with Outrider. She actually looked after me when I was recovering… again, as best as Elena Dragunova can look after someone."

"I think she and I went on a mission once," Díaz offered without prompting. "Not sure if she liked me."

Daisuke looked up from behind the Commander's shoulder. "Did she make any plans that involved using you as a meat shield?" He pointed at Díaz. "Or did she use you as a meat shield? Or did she offer herself as a meat shield?"

"I don't know?" He scratched the back of his neck, seeming to think for a moment. "She didn't really say anything about meat shields. She shot a Trooper before it could kill me, so maybe that's an… anti -meat shield."

"Enough," snapped the Commander, "about meat shields." He beckoned again, and the two of them peered over his shoulder. "I like the chemistry you two have. You're great on the battlefield and--Díaz, I think you're the only person on the Avenger Nakamura hasn't either tried to kill or sterilize."

Díaz said, not at all calmly, "Oh-ho, uh, sterilize?"

"Sterilize," chirped the Commander. "Anyway, you two have a fantastic dynamic, and I'd like to assign you to this camp here in one week."

Daisuke met eyes with Díaz, who shrugged wordlessly. Unsure what to do with that, Daisuke asked, "Why? Is something gonna happen?"

"As a matter of fact…" The Commander stood up with a great sigh, folding his fingers and stretching them out in front of him. "Yes. Something very big is going to happen--at least, that's what I'm hoping." He looked at Daisuke with a smile that was somehow both coy and tired. "Bad Company. I did some communication with Volk, and he gave me a lot of information on the Chosen Hunter."

Daisuke's stomach sank to his toes. "Oh."

"Don't sound so disappointed. This is good news." The Commander took his cane and leaned on it, sighing heavily as he did. "I've also been doing some communication with Betos and Geist. Through a shocking amount of ear-pulling and promises, I managed to get the three of them to talk for… maybe five minutes. Then Volk said some choice words to Betos, and she said some choice words to Volk, and it all kind of… fell apart, oh, what am I telling you boys for?"

Daisuke could imagine the 'choice words' Volk said to Betos.

"Well, anyway. Before that happened, I got some good information on the Chosen. Did you know," the Commander stuck a pen up in Daisuke's face, "that the Chosen all need four days to rest and recover after being eliminated on the battlefield? That's how Betos and Pratal Mox managed to flee from the Assassin, and how they coordinated their efforts to free other soldiers."

"That's true," said Daisuke. "What does that have to do with anything?"

"It has so much to do with everything," said the Commander. "Because of the prejudices other Factions hold toward Skirmishers," the Commander kicked Daisuke under the table, and Daisuke, not entirely innocent, grumbled about it, "nobody realized that this was a universal thing. So here's my question: why not?"

Daisuke blinked. Díaz looked similarly confused. "Er, Commander… what do you mean?"

"If the Chosen are these immortal, unkillable beings--then why do they have a recovery period?" The Commander jabbed his pen into the map, chewing on the corner of his lips in thought. "They can't come back without a few days to recover. Why not? Why can't they just teleport back into the world after dying? And, more importantly…"

The Commander looked up at Daisuke and Díaz with a desperate look on his face, as if he was genuinely begging for an answer when he asked them, "Where do they go when they die?"

This… was actually an excellent question. Daisuke had never thought about it--he just assumed the Elders fixed up their Chosen with crazy Elder magic, but he didn't know much about the four-day recovery period, and he certainly hadn't considered that they were going somewhere to heal.

His brain connected the dots faster than Daisuke could think. He jumped suddenly, pointing at the Commander, and blurted, "Do you--do we-- attack when--"

"While they recover," said the Commander, "we may be able to do more permanent damage. And, if we're very, very lucky…"

The Commander steepled his fingers with a long and solemn sigh. "In the call, each Faction described mass graves. That is one of the only things these three admitted they had in common, because each of them were just so frustrated by it. Betos and Geist connected about it first--Betos burns corpses en masse to prevent disease from ravaging her soldiers. Geist puts them in the ocean. Volk, after a few moments, said that he dumps his Reapers into pits." The Commander looked at Díaz, then at Daisuke. "It's mass slaughter and they are helpless to it."

Daisuke knew the story. He'd been victim to it so many times already.

"So. You two, I don't want you telling anyone this, but…" The Commander took a deep, stabilizing breath and said, "we are going to try and end this. We’re going to find a way to kill the Chosen Hunter."

Chapter Text

Daisuke worked out in preparation for the Covert Operation. It sucked, but there was a mildly rational reason behind it.

He spent hours and hours in the GTS, doing pull-ups until he felt like he was gonna puke from the strain. Once, he had puked from the strain, and then he’d wiped his mouth, drank some water, and ran a mile on the treadmills. He planned on exercising for six of the seven days he had, giving himself a day's rest, and hoping the lactic acid squeezed itself out of his muscles by the time he got to the camps.

Being physically fit was a baseline requirement if you were spending your free time trying to kill aliens, though it was less about how big your muscles were and more about how long you could walk and how much you could carry before you fell over under the weight. Of course, these things mostly went hand-in-hand. Carlos Díaz had biceps the size of Daisuke’s head because he needed to be able to climb twenty feet’s worth of ladder in eight seconds while carrying a sixty-pound gun, a grenade launcher, and ammunition for these weapons on his back. Yvonne Rivera’s pectorals stood out against her chest because she swung glowing purple swords at aliens twice her size on the regular. Daisuke Nakamura’s legs were hard with muscle because if he couldn’t run one hundred meters in twelve seconds, he couldn’t be a Reaper.

So, simply put, the soldiers serving XCOM and the other Factions were all pretty stacked. Daisuke had always been one of the skinnier Reapers--high metabolism and low ranking did that to a guy--so he was compelled to at least prove that the weight he gained with XCOM was because he was actually getting three meals a day. He was so going to rub that in the other Reapers’ faces if they gave him shit about it.

Once, Díaz actually came in and offered to exercise with him. He’d never seen Díaz work out, though he did assume it happened, considering the previously-mentioned arms that could rival Daisuke’s entire skull in size. Well, that was an exaggeration. They could crush Daisuke’s skull; how about that?

Díaz did, in fact, exercise. This was when nobody was around: he didn’t like to go shirtless when people could see him, though he did so in front of Daisuke, which was an entirely undeserved extension of trust. Daisuke didn’t complain; the tattoo was just insane. Daisuke wondered if it’d be weird if he asked to see it up close. It wouldn't, probably. Maybe the mentality of Hayes was starting to rub off on Daisuke.

As it turned out, working out with Díaz was not a complete pain in the ass. Daisuke usually hated it when someone sat there and critiqued Daisuke’s push-ups, which were not incorrect--everyone else was doing them wrong. Díaz mostly minded his own business. He joined Daisuke in whatever thing he was doing at the moment; sometimes he stood on Daisuke’s toes for sit-ups, and sometimes he spotted Daisuke for weighted squats. Daisuke returned the favor without question.

When they got on the treadmills, Díaz turned his up to a steady three miles per hour. Daisuke went for a not-so-chill ten. Díaz was enjoying a meandering jog, and Daisuke was running red-faced next to him like a little goblin. He was getting a weird look out of the corner of Díaz’s eye, which was fine with him--it didn’t matter much if Díaz was judging him.

After keeping up a near-sprint for forty-five minutes straight, Daisuke turned off the treadmill, let his wobbly legs carry him to the yoga mat in the middle of the room, and flopped belly-down on it.

“Mmghdíaz.” Daisuke peeked his mouth up from the floor so he could pronounce words. “Get my water?”

Díaz obeyed dutifully, laughing at Daisuke’s wiped-out state as he gulped down half his bottle in one go. “Why are you pushing so hard? You’re gonna be beat to shit before we even land in the camps.”

“Gotta be all toughened-up before I get there,” said Daisuke. That was a half-truth, but he didn’t know how to say, ‘I think if I had done this before the big mission, I might have avoided having a nice cuddle with my actual worst nightmare,’ without really killing the overall cheery mood they had going on. “Need to make sure the others know their places.”

“Oh.” Díaz sat with his legs crossed next to Daisuke--his tattoos were showing, and Daisuke tried really hard to look at them without making it obvious. “I’m not going to have to put people in their places, right? What’s being a Reaper like?”

“You?” Daisuke looked Díaz up and down, which made Díaz shrivel a bit. “No, probably not. I get a lot of shit because I’m a pretty little guy, and for a while, I wasn’t even a guy to them.” He stretched his aching arms out; the soreness was soaking into his bones. “I’ve got something to prove so I’m gonna exercise until I’m shitting myself.”

“Huh.” Díaz turned to Daisuke. “Is it weird if I ask about that?”

“You can ask if I can get a better look at those tattoos of yours.”

“Fair trade.” Díaz sat back, leaning his weight on his hands behind him. “So, like, are the Reapers… accepting, of you? Do they care?”

“Díaz,” said Daisuke, “I’ve eaten, like, actual people. Human flesh. With other people sitting around me, telling me how well I seasoned the human flesh, in which I ate.” He sat up after a while of just sitting down, doing nothing. His abdominals got pretty upset with that action. “When you want to augment your body--whether it be for comfort, or for upgrades, or for any other reason you can think of--you go to the Reapers. Either that, or you can have, like, the full-on shebang if you go to the Clinics.”

Díaz stole Daisuke’s water bottle, which he’d definitely bitch about if there wasn’t a sink about two feet away. After he drained the rest of it, he told Daisuke, “I never knew that. No offense, but I thought the Reapers would be a bit more judgemental, considering how they treat the Skirmishers.”

“You kidding?” Daisuke laughed--his abs got upset for that, too--and leaned over his legs to stretch his hamstrings. “You know, when Pratal Mox showed up as the Skirmisher ambassador in the big camp, everyone hated him for, like… two weeks. Then they got used to him and he just became another weird guy living in the camps. Granted, he’s about two feet taller and two hundred pounds heavier than all of us, but that’s just a hybrid thing.” He shrugged. “Prejudice falls apart under the scrutiny of reality, I guess.”

“Well, that’s cool. I’m glad you’re happy--”

“Alright, alright, enough of the mushy stuff.” Daisuke shuffled behind Díaz and looked at his back. “I gotta see these things…”

Díaz said nothing more, hunching over a bit so Daisuke could get a better look at them. It was a beautiful series of ink: the artist must’ve been insanely talented and patient. This sort of tattoo would’ve taken days to complete, and seeing it up close showed off the crazy, crazy detail that was etched into every square inch of Díaz’s skin.

The hawk on his shoulders, with its wings spread wide enough to touch Díaz’s deltoid, was surrounded by branches of the same wildflowers it clutched in its talons. The way the flowers' petals fell from the hawk's claws and down Díaz’s spine to the tailbone reminded Daisuke a bit of a tramp stamp (he didn’t say that out loud, though, for fear of being tenderized like steak). Around the branches and the bird was that same rolling banner with the Latin inscription.

“What does this mean?” Daisuke asked. 

Then, upon laying his fingertips across the words, Díaz jolted upright so hard that he whacked Daisuke in the forehead with the back of his own head. This graceful and overall well-thought-out maneuver ended in Daisuke lying on his back again, holding his face, while Díaz apologized profusely over him through very poorly-hidden laughter.

“Oh, Bad, I’m sorry!” He covered his mouth, probably trying to hide a smile. “I didn’t expect you to touch me and your hands are freezing. I’m so sorry.”

“What do they mean,” hissed Daisuke from the floor. “Just tell me.”

Díaz didn’t hold back his laugh this time. He patted Daisuke’s shoulder and said, “It’s actually from a few different things. My mom had this book of Latin poetry, and I took a lot of quotes from there. A lot of it is from ‘Catullus’s Farewell to his Brother,’ but my favorite part is--” He stretched a bit to touch one part of the scroll. “Right here. It’s from an uncredited poet from, like, Mesopotamia. It says, I wonder how your limbs can contain so much fury. Such a silly little form, bellowing with the weight of its rage. My mom always said that quote reminded her of me.”

Daisuke finally sat up, finished moping, and looked at the spot Díaz was pointing at. “Do you have a lot of anger inside you?” asked Daisuke. “Why did that remind her of you?”

“I was a snappy little kid,” Díaz admitted. “Sorry I don’t have much to say about them… I can count on one hand how many people have gotten to see my tattoos up close, and one of those people is the girl who did them.”

“Who else?”

“Well…” Díaz chewed his lip, looking bashful. “Uh, Matteo, and--” he jumped right past his ex, like he was hoping that if he said it fast enough, Daisuke wouldn’t hear-- “Rivera. She saw them in the showers, and when I told her the writing was poetry in Latin…” Díaz gave Daisuke a knowing look. “Well, I mean, she’s Yvonne Rivera. What do you think happened?”

“Huh. Fair enough.” Daisuke started to do some half-hearted crunches; Díaz half-heartedly held down his feet. “Way to jump over Matteo, dude.”

“Oh, sorry.” Díaz glared at Daisuke, seeming to find a massive well of energy all of a sudden--and solely used it for pettiness. Was it always in there, just deep down in his belly? “Didn’t realize ex-partners were supposed to be open subjects.”

Then he scoffed and rolled his eyes. When he stood up and stretched his arms over his head, fingers twined together, Daisuke suddenly had a thought.

I want to bite his tattoos.

Daisuke observed that thought. Then he took that thought, and he placed it in a box. Then he put that box in a big lead safe, wrapped the safe in chains, and stuck about a million locks on and around them. For good measure, he set it on fire for a few minutes and dropped it into a volcano. He put it out of his mind. He would no longer think that thought.

He missed the next few things Díaz said, spaced out, thinking about his non-thought. Then he snapped back to reality when Díaz said, “Uh, Bad?” and Daisuke responded with just about the most fantastic series of words: “What? Sorry, I--what? Okay. Sure, Díaz.”

Díaz said, “Really? You think I could do a hundred more chin-ups?”

“Psh, no.” Daisuke looked up at Díaz, grinning. “What are you, British? ‘Chin-ups.’ That’s stupid.”

“That’s what they’re called.”

“Pull- ups.”

Daisuke was thrilled that the thought in his brain took the backseat. If it ever came to light--through Rivera means, through Commander means, hell, if the Chosen Hunter decided to yank the information out of his head like a somehow-worse interrogation--Daisuke might have to commit Reaper-style suicide.

That night, Daisuke was walking to the bathrooms when once again he crossed paths with Carlos Díaz.

This time he was a bit… different. He looked overall disheveled, which was extremely out of character for Díaz. His shoulders were a bit droopy, and his hair was all in a ruffle. He had a rather goofy smile plastered on his face, dimples pressed into the pudge of his cheeks.

“Heeey,” said Díaz, which was the first red flag. No shot in hell that Carlos Díaz would ever greet Daisuke with a slow, half-awake heeey. “Bad. Hey.”

Something was deathly, deathly wrong. Daisuke took a cautious step back: usually, when someone with the Reapers acted like this, they were either very, very intoxicated or sick with something contagious. Slowly, Daisuke said, “Díaz. What’s up?”

“Hi.” Díaz ambled toward Daisuke. He was only wearing socks, so the tottering and tipping weren’t anywhere close to excusable. He slipped a bit; recovered with a frat-boy-ish giggle. “Bad, hey, Bad. Hi.” He burped: the second red flag. Díaz was never unclean and always shunned Daisuke and Hayes during inevitable belch contests. He mumbled a very quiet ‘excuse me’ before ambling up to Daisuke and just kind of… standing there, menacingly.

“Hi,” repeated Díaz. “Bad.”

Daisuke observed Díaz. He leaned in a little closer to his face and sniffed his breath. This confirmed his suspicions, but he felt it was polite to ask first:

“Are you drunk?”

“Noo.” Díaz melodramatically tossed his head back, waving his hand dismissively. “I don’t like alcohol. I don’t like the way it burns my throat. I don’t like alcohol.”

Daisuke arched an eyebrow. This pulled from Díaz a very whiny, “Okay, fine, maybe I had a bit.” When Daisuke crossed his arms, disbelieving, it was like he personally tugged the information out of Díaz. “Okay, a lot. More than usual, but it was a nice gift from Hayes and I actually really liked the taste of it for once and it tasted really nice with this bag of pretzels I had lying around and…” He took in a long gulp of air; continued, “I got a little carried away and I’m sorry. Hi, Bad.”

Daisuke stared at Díaz.

“Hello, Díaz,” he said. “Come on. If you wander around the Avenger like this, someone’s gonna get awesome blackmail on you.”

“Okay,” mumbled Díaz, “but you have to take me to my bed. And you can’t tell my nonnina.”

“I wouldn’t tell your nonnina either way.”

Díaz followed Daisuke back to the bunks like a big puppy dog or a shadow that so happened to teeter and topple. Daisuke once had to catch Díaz by the arm because he slipped on a smooth piece of metal, which Díaz wept for, apologizing profusely over what was literally nothing.

Then, with tears in his huge brown eyes, Díaz asked Daisuke, “Why don’t you ever call me by my first name?”

Daisuke turned to him, something like curiosity and extreme pity sitting neatly in his belly. “What, Carlos?” When Díaz nodded depressedly, Daisuke shrugged and said, “I don’t know. I guess it’s a Reaper thing; we don’t really use first names unless we’re, like, super close. Even then, it’s mostly behind closed doors.”

“Aren’t we super close?”

Daisuke looked at Díaz, incredulous. “I don’t even know your middle name, Díaz. Why would I call you by your first name?”

“It’s Samuel,” he told Daisuke. “What’s your middle name?”

“I don’t have one.”

Díaz leaned in very, very close, with those same shining, nearly-horrified eyes. He looked like at any moment he could burst into tears. “Okay,” he whimpered. He looked like Daisuke had just informed him of the death of a beloved childhood pet. “Now will you call me Carlos?”

Stuck between a rock and a hard place, Daisuke sat there and squirmed. He was worried that if he said no, Díaz would begin to shriek and wail and plead, and then he’d never be forgiven if he continued to refuse. So he said, with a great and suffering sigh, “Fine. Fine, I’ll call you Carlos.”

With his bottom lip wobbling, Díaz--or Carlos--stuttered, “Even when I’m stone-cold sober?”

Shit, that was Daisuke’s one plan to get out of this. He chewed on his lip, and eventually, he gave up and said, “Yes. Even when you’re stone-cold sober, I will call you Carlos. But don’t get on my ass if I fuck up about it, okay?”

Díaz, no, Carlos did a full-on, joyous jump. Upon landing, he slipped and fell on his ass. Daisuke did feel a little bad for laughing, and he helped Carlos up onto his feet.

They stared at each other for a moment.

“Bad,” said Carlos, “you’re really pretty.”

Daisuke felt like his entire existence got stuck into shrink-wrap.

“That’s okay if I call you that, right?”

Clearing his throat and making up a long series of excuses for any sort of red face in his head, Daisuke choked out, “Uh, sure. Don’t think anyone’s ever called me pretty since I was really little, though. “

Carlos really was drunk, wasn’t he? Daisuke once talked to his sister about alcohol when she’d found a bottle of it in his bag, and, worried for his safety, she’d told him: Drunk words are sober thoughts. When he was a kid, he thought nothing of it.

But now, here he was. Daisuke was going to kill himself.

“You have nice eyes,” Carlos chattered, a pep in his step as they walked to the bunks. “They fit your face. And nice cheekbones. They fit your face, too, and your… face, fits your face. Am I pretty, Bad? Do my eyes fit my face?”

“Jesus Christ-- sure, dude. Sure, they do.” Daisuke suddenly felt a deep and genuine sympathy with all the asthmatics in the world. “Okay. Cool. We’re at your bunk.”

Carlos smiled that lilty, dimpled smile and lumbered on over to his bed. He got in, fully clothed, and pulled his sheets up to his chin.

“Bad,” he mumbled, “would you stay until I’m asleep?”

“Yeah, sure. Just give me a few minutes.”

Daisuke fled the room. A tactical retreat! He went and got Carlos a big bowl from the kitchen to puke into when he inevitably turned inside-out like a sea star; when he brought it back, he couldn’t tell if Carlos had fallen asleep or was just lying there, unmoving.

He placed the bowl by the bed, which made Carlos stir. “Bad,” he mumbled. “You came back.”

“You’ve come back for me about a million times.” Daisuke gestured toward the bowl vaguely. “This is for when you throw up. Or--I’m sorry, I’m supposed to be comforting right now. This is for if you throw up.”

“I’ll probably puke.” Carlos pressed his face into his pillow, already looking a bit green around the gills. “I’m a lightweight…”

Daisuke sighed and sat by the bowl, trying to make himself comfortable on the floor. “Well, maybe you can sleep it off,” he said. “I could get you some food or water. See if that’d help.”

“No, thank you.” Carlos peeked out from his pillow. “Sorry I called you pretty…”

Wrinkling his nose, Daisuke said, “No, don’t apologize. I’m, er, I’m flattered. Really, I am.”

“Do you prefer ‘handsome’? I can call you handsome.”

“Go to sleep.”

Carlos, the next day, woke up looking like he had seen the faces of the Elders and been scarred by their divinity. Or, in a less dramatic figure of speech: Carlos woke up looking like a man with the worst hangover of his life.

He seemed to get the idea that he’d said some embarrassing things the night before. Daisuke might’ve told him, except he was so mortified to have the thoughts even living in his head that he couldn’t get them out of his mouth without feeling like someone had stomped on him. Apparently, Carlos had been a little too drunk for his memory to record things correctly, so he got by on asking Daisuke questions and, if Daisuke wasn’t fooling himself, genuine prayers to God.

It was a miracle that Daisuke could even get through one conversation with Carlos after being called both pretty and handsome in one night. He should’ve been dead. He should’ve been face-down on the floor with his brains leaking out of his ears. This had nothing to do with any untoward emotions toward his good friend Carlos, which he was not repressing and putting in the back of his head never to ever come to light again.

Shut up.

Daisuke and Carlos were talking, just shooting the shit in the cafeteria, when Daisuke said something like, “Yadda yadda, I really haven’t ever had a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, Jesus, Carlos,” and, upon his name being said, Carlos shot water out of his nose. He proceeded to cough into his elbow for a solid thirty seconds before looking up at Daisuke.

“You called me by my first name,” he wheezed out. His voice was still raspy from choking. “Why’d you--why?”

“You made me promise!” Daisuke scoffed and rolled his eyes, sitting back in his chair. He propped his foot up at the table's edge and began to rock himself back and forth. “You were all soggy and gross and stuff--”

“Not literally, right?!”

“Not literally,” hissed a peeved Daisuke, “I mean that you were acting all sad and mopey. You made me promise, and I did because you looked like if I didn’t, you’d literally turn into a puddle and I'd have to wipe you up with a towel. Wring you out into a sink.”

“That’s rude.”

“Fine. Into a bucket, so we can still be friends.”

“Oh, better.” Carlos rubbed his red face, looking about as embarrassed as Daisuke felt. “Oh, Bad, I’m sorry I made you promise. You really don’t have to.”

“Nope!” Daisuke let his chair land on all fours again, pointing at Carlos with his fork. “You committed. I promised to you.”

They were quiet for a moment. Daisuke ate some suspicious green stuff on his plate.

“Would you really put me in a bucket?” asked Carlos. “If I turned to liquid, you’d wouldn’t dump me in the sink?”

“No, I wouldn’t dump you in a sink! We shoot our sewage out of an airlock, dude. I’m better than that.” Daisuke slurped up some more peas. “I’d put you in one of those buckets with the handles and carry you around.”

Carlos looked at Daisuke with a funny grin on his face. “That’s the weirdest way anyone’s ever told me they appreciate my presence. Thank you, Bad.”

“Shut up.” Finished with his tray, Daisuke slid it out of sight for someone else to take care of later. He began to run his fingers over his hair. Now that the memories were more distant than before, Daisuke was growing tolerant of how a hand running over it felt. “I’m thinking of asking Rivera to cut my hair back to the way it was, but I’m not sure if she’s gonna be weird about it. Thoughts?”

Carlos hummed thoughtfully. He leaned his chin against his wrist and said, “Well, I don’t think she’ll be any weirder than usual. I’m no good with hair… I tried to cut Gianna’s once and she didn’t talk to me for, like, a week after; it was so bad.”

“Oh.” Daisuke used his nails to pick between his teeth at this one pea shell that got stuck there. “Well, then I guess I’ll ask Rivera, then. She’s not as bad as Weber.”

Carlos shrugged. “Sure. I’m sure it’ll be fine.”

“And I think that Hamlet had Horatio and Ophelia both stuck under his thumb,” chattered Rivera behind Daisuke, “and used his fake mental illness to manipulate pity and fear out of them.”

Daisuke hated every second of this. Rivera had been delighted it was haircut time--she usually cut his hair for him--and the moment Daisuke sat down, she started up on some old Shakespeare book that Daisuke literally could not care less about. “So awesome, Rivera,” he mumbled. Her hands were cool against his head and dextrous enough to give him a decent haircut. “I… love hearing about this.”

“I mean, I saw it acted out once!” Rivera gestured widely with the scissors; Daisuke feared she’d snip out his eyes if she got too excited. “And, oh, you should’ve seen the way they acted about it! Oh, it was beautiful. And Claudius--oh, Claudius’ actor was so fantastic for the role… oh, Daisuke, your hair is awful! What do you use in it?”

“Thanks,” said Daisuke. “Just soap.”

Rivera observed Daisuke’s hair, tipping his head back and forth with her fingertips with a disapproving frown. 

The two of them each stared into the mirror: Daisuke sat in a folding steel chair with a towel haphazardly wrapped around his neck and draped over his chest, while Rivera stood behind him with a pair of scissors in one hand and the electric clippers in the other. A spray bottle of water sat on the counter along with about a million different clips for the razor, plus some sort of horrific green drink in a clear water bottle that Rivera occasionally sipped at. He tried a little bit of it and it tasted like all the awful things in the world at once.

Rivera had promised to keep the hair-touching at a minimum. When she brushed it, she used a thin metal comb instead of her fingers, which helped. Then she started talking about her books, and Daisuke, with half his hair looking nice and the other half still a grown-out mess of knots, was obliged to listen. Or pretend like he was listening.

“Daisuke, you need to start washing it out less,” she chastised. “It’s so coarse and dry. Use conditioner.”

Loathing to admit he didn’t know what ‘conditioner’ was, Daisuke scoffed and rolled his eyes. The arm-crossing wasn’t as effective a motion when it was done under a towel, but he hoped she got the message.

Rivera continued to blabber on about Shakespeare as she cut off more and more of his hair. It was marginally better a haircut than last time: her hands were steady and slow, methodical. She managed to not get too excited about Hamlet that she took out his eye with the blades of the scissors--though there was a close call when Daisuke finally asked her why she was so fanatical about Ophelia. It at least made it interesting.

See, Daisuke had never… really cut his hair after that first time he buzzed it all off. It’d been growing out, so eventually, he just decided that you couldn’t really tell there were places he’d missed. It looked pretty bad: the sides being the same length as the top made for some awful cowlicks when he would first roll out of bed in the morning. Unwilling to cut it himself, Daisuke took the issue to Rivera. She’d done it a few times for him in times like these, and this wasn’t so bad of a conversation topic.

Rivera had yet to mention Sayaka. Daisuke was waiting for it to happen.

“So Ophelia is actually crazy,” sighed Daisuke, a little tired of the topic. She’d been ranting about Ophelia for the whole back side of his head. “And the dudes treat her like shit, and nobody helps her? What, does she not have any friends? That’s sad.”

“Ophelia’s suicide is what I believe truly makes Hamlet a tragedy,” Rivera said, entirely serious and solemn. “Other characters… they were complicit. Ophelia was powerless! Well, not powerless, per se, but on a whole different playing field.” She snipped a big clump of hair, and it fell to Daisuke’s shoulder. “These other characters were princes and kings, and Ophelia--she was a woman in Shakespearean times! And not even in a place of power that’d have allowed her to exert some control over her life with a fallback plan…”

Daisuke might’ve bitten his own arm until it fell off. To make this enjoyable.

The next day, with their things all stuffed in a duffel bag, Carlos and Daisuke got into the Skyranger.

It reminded Daisuke a bit of the first Covert Operation they went on together. The scar was still all red and numb, though it didn’t stand out among the others mottling his legs. He was more concerned about the stitches on his arm, pulling together such a tremendous gap that it made a dip in his flesh. Or, simply put: Daisuke had been through worse.

Carlos was somehow more nervous than Daisuke. This should not have been possible. Daisuke loathed to see anyone at the camps again and abhorred the idea of going from three mediocre meals a day to one shitty meal a day, if he was lucky. He’d probably fork over his food to Carlos if he had to: Daisuke could handle a day without eating. He wasn’t so sure about Carlos.

The ride would take about four hours. Daisuke was planning on sleeping through these hours. He’d brought along the thick brown blanket Rivera had gotten for him, which he tucked up against the wall.

He pressed his head to it and closed his eyes.

“Bad,” said Carlos, “are we going to see your sister there?”

Daisuke peeled open an eye to peer at Carlos. “No,” he said, “she’s at a different camp and won’t be able to make it.”

A half-truth.

“Oh, that’s sad.” Really, it was. “I hope I get to meet her sometime; you always say nice things about her.” Jesus, it was so sad. “Any good friends we’ll be seeing that I could be safe around? In case I can’t find you?”

Daisuke thought for a moment. “Well, Outrider and Volk are gonna both be there. If you get lost, just head to their place and I’ll probably turn up. I’m not from this camp, though; I’m from further east.”

Carlos made a sorrowful sound in the back of his throat. “How’s Outrider?” he said. “Her arm?”

“Well, I assume that if she were in top condition, I’d be back at the camps and she’d be serving with XCOM again.” Daisuke shrugged. “I mean, she’s Outrider. Volk’s probably just trying to convince her to finally retire by not letting her do anything interesting.”

“Why’s Volk trying to convince her to retire?”

Daisuke scoffed. “Dude. Okay, so you know how, like, the two of us are fucked-up? Trauma-wise?”

This made Carlos wrinkle his nose. “Er… sure?”

“Outrider’s worse than both of us, combined.” Daisuke folded the blanket into his lap, giving up on a nap until the conversation was over. “She lost her parents at the beginning of the war. They were some of the first to die by alien hands.”

“God, that’s terrible.” Carlos tipped his head like a rather confused puppy would. “How do you know all this? Did she tell you? Are you guys close?”

With a shrug, Daisuke said, “No. She and my sister were friends, I think, before my sister left the camps. There was a chunk of time where I lived in her and Volk’s place, but that was mostly because I was, uh, going through a bit of stuff. My sister wasn’t there to take care of me then.” He leaned forward and lowered his voice. “Don’t tell anyone, but when I was about seventeen, I hacked into a big information file for shits and giggles and ended up reading a ton of shit about Outrider and Volk. Now I know, like, their tragic backstories.”

Carlos mimicked Daisuke's motions, hunching so their faces were closer. There was no real point in this--they were the only people there, besides the pilot, who was in a separate compartment of the plane. “This is going to sound terrible,” said Carlos, unaware that Daisuke loved sentences that started with that exact phrase, “but I’ve always been really curious about her. She was so broody, but also kind of loving at the same time?”

“She’s like that for a reason.” Daisuke felt a little bad for saying so much, but he needed to tell someone. “Apparently, after she lost her parents, she found these two dudes that she was friends with. She was really close with them for a few years. One was this vet whose name I stole--”

“You stole his name?”

Daisuke explained, “His name was Daisuke. Different last name, obviously--I just thought it was cool and Outrider said it was cool.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah. And the other guy was her age; a newbie named Tomko who grew up alongside her that ended up being kind of a powerhouse.” Daisuke paused, thinking. “I think it was when I was fifteen… sixteen, maybe?

“So, the aliens used to do these routine sweeps of Faction camps before they made the Chosen to do it for them. They weren’t as bad as the Chosen and a lot easier to defend against, but there were still some pretty brutal fights going on. The last big push the aliens did before the Hunter came along was the worst one. Outrider’s friends got caught in the crossfire.”

Carlos visibly drooped, seeming to know where the story was going.

“The Reapers survived the attack, but they found her… oh, she must’ve been nineteen or twenty. She was trapped by this fallen tree, and both her friends--”

“Stop, stop, stop,” blurted Carlos. “Is this gonna make me really sad?”

“Oh, yeah.”

“Don’t tell me,” he pleaded. “I want to be able to see Outrider again without getting all depressed about it, okay? She hated it when I was depressed.”

Daisuke observed Carlos; Carlos observed Daisuke. Finally, he said, “Two words, dude. Brain gravy.”

Carlos made a sound like a sad animal, slouching and holding his face in his hands. “Bad,” he moaned, “why would you say that?!”

“Simple, big guy.” He leaned forward to pat Carlos’ big shoulder. “I want to nap and you’re keeping me up.” He got back into his seat and readjusted the pillow. “Have fun with whatever images the phrase brain gravy calls to mind. Goodnight.”

“No--no, no.” Carlos made some rather noisy sounds as Daisuke closed his eyes. “You don’t get to just freak me out like that and then go to sleep. No, I’m gonna--do something. I’ll keep you up.”

Daisuke ignored him.

“Don’t ignore me!” Daisuke heard the telltale click of an undone safety belt and heavy footsteps on steel, coming dunk-dunk-dunk toward him. Carlos slumped down in the seat next to Daisuke. “I can keep you awake. You thought I was annoying when I don’t mean to be. I can totally be the worst.”

Daisuke opened his eyes. Carlos was now an uncomfortable three inches away, leaning in so close that Daisuke could feel his breath on his neck.

“You’re not annoying,” said Daisuke after a moment. “Not super annoying, anyway.”

This brought dimples to Carlos’ cheeks. Daisuke rolled his eyes and groaned, placing his hand on Carlos’ face and pushing it away. “Seriously, dude, let me sleep. I don’t wanna sit through a full four-hour flight, okay?” He curled further up into his blanket, considering using the duffel as a pillow and throwing the blanket over himself. “Leave me be.”

“You ever consider that I don’t want to sit through a four-hour flight, either?” Carlos sighed, standing back up. The flight had stabilized so they could stand up, which Carlos did for all of two seconds before sitting down, this time on the floor. “I’m sorry, Bad. I’m just bored. I wanna do something interesting before we show up.”

Daisuke fisted his hands into the blanket, searching for that twist between comfort and push and failing miserably. He turned his attention to Carlos, picking at his boot laces on the floor.

“Let me tell you about Volk,” he said.

The flight to the camps was long, but it felt a bit shorter with Carlos' company.

When the pilot announced they were close, Daisuke loosened his collar. Then he went over to Carlos and ruffled his appearance up: he was distraught at first and resisted all attempts, but when Daisuke started talking about the Reapers, he shut up pretty damn fast.

“Either you look like a stuck-up jerk and get loosened up by some douche who’s gonna be a lot less gentle than I am,” said Daisuke as he picked a few chips of orange paint off the breastplate of Carlos’ armor, “or I do it for you and people leave you alone. Well… maybe they won’t leave you alone.”

“Oh, hoh-hoh, um.” Daisuke tried not to wince as Carlos looked down at him with a look that promised nothing but bad things once they showed up at the camp. “What do you mean, they won’t leave me alone? Am I that bad?”

“Oh, uh, not a bad thing… well, maybe for you, it is.” Daisuke stepped back and observed his work. Carlos’ usually-spotless armor was all smudged now; his dreadlocks were as messy as Daisuke could’ve made them without Carlos pulling his fingers from his palms. “I think once, you and I had a talk about why I never get into relationships. I think I said, pretty accurately, that all the hot people are assholes and all the nice people’s bones break when you shake their hands too hard?”

Carlos had gone still as soon as Daisuke said ‘relationships.’ 

“So, uh.” Daisuke patted Carlos’ shoulder in preemptive sympathy. “Sorry. In advance. You can borrow my mace if you want?”

He didn’t even need to get a response. As the pilot said over the intercom, “Opening bay doors in thirty seconds,” Daisuke unclipped his pepper spray from his belt and pressed it into Carlos’ clammy, trembling palm. He took it and pocketed it without a word.

The dropship’s engines roared as the pilot came around; the doors cracked and let in a sudden gust of musty wind.

“Oh, shit, uh--” Daisuke slung the duffel bag from around his shoulder, going through it and pulling out the mask he’d brought for Carlos. “Wear this. Designed by Reapers, for living in the Lost cities. Wear it whenever you can. When you sleep, keep it on--it sucks, but you’ll regret it if you don’t. Hives.”

“Thanks.” It was the half-mask variety made more for the older people or medics who didn’t fight--no night vision goggles for poor Carlos. He fitted the loops around his head, over his ears. It was snug against his face; his voice was muffled when he said, “Do I say anything?”

Daisuke, putting on his own green-goggled mask, said, “This one of those rare times where it’s best that I do all the talking.”

The bay doors hit the ground, and the shuttle went whunk. The ramp was open.

The Bratsk camp was the capital of the Reaper empire--if you could call it a capital, or an empire. Tucked into the Lost city of Bratsk, nestled in the curve of the Angara river, were what looked like a few campfires made by stragglers from the war. The Reapers were like termites: you’d peer over them at first, but you see them as soon as you start digging a bit deeper.

Firebrand set them in the middle of the bunch. Reapers all around--hidden in nooks like birds in trees--peeked out of their cracks to watch the jet drop the two of them off. The buildings were caked with dust and crawling with moss; fog pods nobody bothered to clean up sat and glowed in the streets. Their numbers: seven hundred fighters and two hundred civilians. Retired Reapers, children--sparse as they were--and medics. The nine hundred survivors formed the largest camp in the Resistance.

The Angara River curved to make a north-facing peninsula; a dam in disuse flooded the river and made a large reservoir out of the crescent. The city was closer to where the river flowed toward the dam, while the peninsula held more of a rural region. Some Reapers--city slickers--preferred the tall, abandoned buildings; others liked the fields and the forests. Daisuke didn’t care either way, though when he’d stayed here for about six months, he been with Volk.

Volk and Outrider lived together in the old museum. Furniture was nicer there, apparently, and with Volk having car privileges, he drove along the old highway to the suburbs. Daisuke didn’t know much about Mox’s living condition--they didn’t get much time to interact before Daisuke was sent off to XCOM--but he assumed it was the same as Outrider. Daisuke had been offered the little theatre to sleep in when he'd been living with Outrider. He’d pitched his tent outside so they wouldn’t snoop too much, though.

To say the other Reapers stared at Daisuke and Carlos would be like saying the ocean was kind of big. It was mostly Carlos. He stuck out like a sore thumb and was pretty self-aware of it, too. He kept his arms tucked in and his shoulders hunched, but it didn’t matter, because he was six feet tall, which kept him towering over most of the locals.

A lot of them were sitting around, shooting the shit. They were tucked into buildings and under tarps, behind cars; one group even sat cross-legged in an overturned dumpster, forming a circle around a pile of beat-up cards. They drank suspicious liquids from brown bottles, they ate suspicious foods off chipped porcelain, but most of all, they stared at the little Reaper and his big orange friend trudging through town.

“Bad,” whispered Carlos, “everyone’s looking at me, I feel like a grade schooler.”

“Then stop walking like your stomach hurts and start walking like you belong here.” Daisuke gestured to himself, his tall posture and long steps. “Come on, it’s a mile’s walk. It isn’t getting any less crowded.”

Someone called his way, “Hey, Nakamura, is that you?” and Daisuke immediately contemplated death. “Hey, I think that’s Nakamura!”

“You’ve got the wrong guy,” said Daisuke in a last-ditch attempt to not fucking talk to anybody here. This was futile: a tall, gangly man with a blue-eyed mask, this one with tubes, came around Daisuke’s side from the front and leaned down. “Seriously. Leave me alone.”

“Who’s the big guy?” said Ilya Kozlov, just about the most annoying fucker known to mankind. “I knew it was you. I’d recognize that slouch anywhere.”

“I’m not slouching.”

Ever since Daisuke was a kid, his biggest tormentor was Kozlov. He’d be minding his own business and the stick-figure-adjacent, stinking pile of douchebag would come to ruin his day. His food would be stolen, his radio would be all fucked-with so it didn’t pick up the right frequencies, his mask would be hidden for days and he’d get the worst hives--and it’d always stay that way until he indulged Kozlov. In a game of poker or mancala, or talking about the girl Kozlov liked. Kozlov didn’t have a lot of friends.

Carlos said quietly, “Bad, who’s this?”

“Bad? Is that your new name? That’s so stupid.” Kozlov bent at the waist so he could peer at Daisuke’s mask. Daisuke didn’t indulge him in eye contact. “I’m Ilya. Ilya Kozlov. Nakamura and I were friends when we were kids. Oh, sorry--what’s the name? Bad?”

“We weren’t friends, and it’s just Nakamura to you.” Daisuke pulled the duffel bag closer to his shoulder, knowing that Kozlov would rob him and Carlos blind if he could. “I’m here on XCOM business. This is my escort, Díaz. Leave me alone, would you?”

“Hi,” mumbled Carlos. “Kozlov?”

Kozlov took a step toward Carlos and Carlos took a step away from Kozlov. “You can call me Ilya.” Daisuke hated the way Kozlov said that. “See, unlike your friend Nakamura here, I actually learned to pull the stick outta my ass before I tried socializing with other people.” He nudged Daisuke; it took everything he had not to rip the arm from Kozlov’s socket. “Just an escort? Or did he manage to actually make an acquaintance without fucking it up for once?”

Daisuke didn’t think Carlos would actually suck it up and stand up straighter, which--Kozlov was taller than Daisuke, but Carlos still had a few inches on him. He scowled and said, “I just so happen to enjoy his presence.”

In typical Kozlov fashion, he ignored Carlos and turned his attention back to Daisuke. “So, official XCOM business? Do anything interesting while you’re there?”

Daisuke could’ve said, Well, since you want to know, I got tortured within an inch of my life and I’m ready to do the same goddamn thing to you if you say another word, but he decided that was too harsh. Instead he grumbled, “No,” and kept walking. “Come on, Carlos.”

“Ooh, first names already?” Daisuke was developing a twitch in his left eye. “So, what, you’re not a virgin anymore?”

“Please.” Daisuke turned on his heel; he placed one hand on his hip and used the other to pull off his mask just so Kozlov could see the full level of contempt on Daisuke’s face. “With your sister in these camps? Nobody’s a fucking virgin.” Kozlov took a breath to answer; Daisuke interjected: “Or--oh, damn, was it your mother? Ah, who cares. Nobody can tell ‘em apart from behind, anyway.”

He turned, grabbed Carlos’ arm, and stormed off. His eyelid was still twitching, and Carlos was coughing pretty hard, which might’ve been from horror and might’ve been from delight. Daisuke wasn’t sure, so he kept walking, picking up the pace to get away from Kozlov before the smarmy bastard could recover and decide to catch up.

“Jesus, dude,” said Carlos when he got done coughing. “Oh, that was the weirdest thing. Is it gonna be like that this whole time?”

“You know it.” Daisuke let go of Carlos’ wrist; they fell into a much slower pace. “I know a few people around here, and not all of those people are very… pleasant, to be around. But once we get to Volk and Outrider’s place, you’ll get more comfortable.”

Carlos nodded, peering about like he expected any of the Reapers around to suddenly pop out, grab him, and accuse him and Daisuke of obscenities again. “Besides that… super awesome conversation we had with Kozlov. I heard Mox is in this camp?”

“Yeah, he sure is. Sticks out like a sore thumb, I’ll tell you that.” Daisuke had only ever met Pratal Mox twice, and conversation had been sparse. “He’s probably the first person Outrider has been normal to in years, if that makes any sense. She--I mean, I told you about her. You can probably guess she’s got some… well, does it count as abandonment issues if they died instead of left?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

Daisuke waved his hand dismissively. “Whatever. Mox has done two self-sacrificial things for her, which she hates. He got captured by the Assassin to get her to the extraction point on the first mission they ever went on, and then he dove in front of a grenade for her on the last mission they ever went on.”

“I was there,” said Carlos, as if this was not a pleasant memory for him.

“Yeah. So, getting to the point: that grenade would’ve turned Outrider into a fine red mist, but Mox knocked her--partially--out of the way. Now they’re both using some pretty advanced prosthetics.” Daisuke couldn’t remember what kind they were, so he skimmed over that part. “Outrider’s left arm; Mox’s right arm and right leg. He’s got a bit of a hobble to him, but he’s also, like, actually eight feet tall. So nobody gives him shit.”

Carlos stepped gingerly over what might’ve been a large bird at one point and waved the flies buzzing around it away from his face. “So Outrider hates him? Why? I thought that’d be really flattering.”

“Hell, no!” Daisuke had a pretty good laugh at that. “Dude, do you not remember the brain gravy guys? Mox doesn’t do it maliciously; he said it’s a Skirmisher thing. She still hates it! They’ll sometimes just beat the shit out of each other and call it a day. It’s impressive, and horrifying.”

“Oh.”

“Well, I’m getting sidetracked. The point is--” Daisuke pointed up at Carlos-- “Because Mox’s amputation was at the hip, he’s a pretty clumsy runner. That wouldn’t be such a big deal, except he’s a soldier, and it’d be like shooting a fish in a barrel to kill him with the way he hobbles.”

Someone began to call Daisuke’s name. Daisuke, so not in the mood, focused on the conversation with Carlos: “So Outrider wanted him to come with her to the big camp as the ambassador, right? Because they knew each other, and she could vouch for him, unlike other Skirmishers. And, I mean, if he said ‘no,’ I think she would’ve just kidnapped him anyway. But he decided he wanted to see new things, so he went with her.”

“Well, that’s cool.”

The rest of the walk was pretty awkward. The person trying to get Daisuke’s attention had let up, but Kozlov’s weird virgin comment was still stuck in his head.

When they got to the museum, there was no fanfare or anything. His old tent was still up, tacked into the side of the wall; a small staircase came up to the entrance. It was a smaller place, nothing too incredible--white walls with windows out front. The Russian script, painted red against a yellow background, was beginning to chip away in big flakes. The sparse rain, freezing weather, and overall radioactivity did that to paint.

Volk and Outrider must’ve been inside or out on business. The only activity was a woman on the steps: her mask was tied by the chin to the collar of her oversized black jacket and dangling, unattached to her face. Her hood was up, though, obscuring a lot of her features. She looked like any other Reaper--short and thin, stunted by malnutrition and the fog pods. She slurped at a can of beans with one hand and held a thin magazine with the other.

She turned pale blue eyes up to Daisuke and Carlos as they approached. Shockingly, this was a person Daisuke recognized that did not make him want to blow out his own brains. She suddenly tugged down her hood, revealing a thin and greasy pile of blonde hair, and stood up with a twisted look on her face.

“Nakamura,” she said with an ounce of excitement in her voice. This was one ounce more than usual. “You return.”

Daisuke turned to Carlos and hooked a thumb at the woman. “Molly. Molly Jenson.” He looked at Molly. “Here on a mission from XCOM. My escort, Carlos.”

“First name?” Daisuke was sick of that question. “Just for you?”

“For both of us.”

Molly looked at Carlos like she was either imagining him dead or imagining him naked. It was difficult to tell with her. “You good at anything?” she asked, which meant that she hadn’t already read Carlos like a book, which was unusual to say the least. “Big gun you’ve got.”

“Oh.” Carlos had his MSC strapped to his back, though it wasn’t warmed up and ready to use. “Yeah. I’m a Grenadier.”

“Loud.” Molly sucked up the rest of her beans and stuffed the can into her bag. “Anything more you have to say about me, Nakamura? Or you, Carlos?” She looked at Daisuke with that piercing blue-gray gaze. “I’m focusing on you.”

Daisuke knew why. “I’ll be here for a week. Might come visit you if you promise you’ll be nice.”

“Can’t make that promise. You know me.”

Daisuke shrugged. “Sure.”

Molly cracked her neck, used her nail to pick out a bean shell that had found its way between her teeth, and then walked up to Daisuke. She put her hand on his shoulder and told him lowly, “It’s good to see you again. I’m in the same tent as usual.” Then she walked off, pulling up her hood and putting her mask on again.

Daisuke watched her go for what was probably a little longer than necessary. Then he turned to Carlos and said, “She’s nice.”

Carlos looked suspicious. Fair. “Are you and her friends?” he asked.

“That’s a word,” said Daisuke, not making a very good case for himself. “She’s one of the only people in this camp that actually acts normal.” He glanced over his shoulder at her small, thin frame. “Even if she can be kind of a dick.”

This didn’t alleviate the judgy look on Carlos’ face nor make Daisuke feel any better about his case. Instead of focusing on that, Daisuke beckoned and said, “Come on. If we don’t see Volk or Outrider inside, we can at least get you set up in one of the rooms. Maybe I can snag some food to share.”

Carlos shrugged and followed Daisuke up the stairs and into the museum.

It wasn’t a massive museum, not by any means--at least, that’s what Volk said. Daisuke had never been into any other, at least, not any pre-war ones. It held a variety of histories: natural, cultural, and, most importantly, wartime. It was decrepit and only lit by a group of lanterns, though light fixtures hung over their heads, crawling with spiders and laced with cobwebs and dust. It was dark, cold, and smelled faintly of alcohol.

Outrider and Volk both situated themselves in what had been a replica bedroom from the 1800s, and was now a real bedroom. This was because it had an actual mattress and a bed frame to go with it. A duvet, even. They apparently alternated who got the bed and who slept on the floor--and yet, even the floor was nicer than the outside, considering that you wouldn’t wake up covered in bug bites and your tent wouldn’t suddenly blow over with a big gust of wind. Daisuke preferred outside: he didn’t like the idea of something suddenly falling down on top of him and killing him if anything too bad happened.

Daisuke got a little lost in the museum trying to find Volk and Outrider’s room, but when he finally got to their room and opened the door, he damn near sighed with relief.

Elena Dragunova, callsign Outrider, was a woman built from scrapyard material. In some places, this was a literal statement. She was pale and small and thin. Her hair and eyes were the same colorless dark grey, and even though she wasn’t even a decade older than Daisuke, exhaustion had carved lines into her face that made her look ancient. The taught muscle in her limbs was like long thick ropes wrapped around bones of wire and her joints were knots in the line; it was all held together by nails and spite. In classic Outrider fashion, she was taking her pills with hard liquor, reading a report off a tablet.

When she saw Daisuke and Carlos walk into the room, Outrider sat up. This revealed the rolled-up sleeve of her leather duster and the metal arm beneath it. Now, Daisuke didn’t know all the yucky details about her arm, but he knew it was much more advanced than any pre-war prosthetic. It looked to begin toward the middle of her bicep, but that was just a metal casing to keep it steady and attached to her flesh. It served as skin to the bone and muscle beneath--the real thing began beneath her humerus. Wires plugged into and wrapped around the original nerves, giving her sensation and control like any other hand would have. It was fashioned of scuffed alien alloy that matched the strength and flexibility of her other arm perfectly, through some techno bullshit Daisuke didn’t understand nor care about.

“Nakamura,” she said. With a small smile that nobody would notice if they weren’t looking too hard, she stood up and pressed his forehead to hers. “It’s good to see you.”

Daisuke had only ever done the Reaper-style forehead touch with his sister and, after a bullet made his sister’s forehead cave in, Outrider. It was common with the others, but Daisuke didn’t like to be touched. They were the only two people who were allowed to.

And even though Daisuke disliked the feeling, he allowed Outrider to place her hand on the back of his neck to get him closer; he did this because he really did like Outrider. If Molly was tolerable, then Outrider was just great. She’d been the one to take care of him after what happened with Sayaka, and while she didn’t make everything better right away, Daisuke did not know where he would be without her guidance.

So Daisuke let Outrider pull him close.

“I’m glad to be back,” said Daisuke honestly. “I brought a friend.”

Outrider peered over his shoulder at Carlos, who looked like he’d either stepped on a tack or had thought Outrider was going to kiss Daisuke. “He’s… familiar.”

“Carlos Díaz, Grenadier.” Daisuke patted Carlos on the shoulder. “My escort for the mission. And I am-- tired, of answering the question, so. Díaz actually prefers his first name, Carlos, and he’s a decent person, so I’m obliged.”

Outrider side-eyed Daisuke and Carlos. Then she finished off her glass of whiskey and stuffed her orange pill bottle back into her pocket. “Alright. Volk is out whipping some boneheads outside into shape but I don’t doubt he’ll be back within the hour.”

“Cool.” Daisuke sat down across from her, and Carlos sat to her left. “How’s he been? How’ve you been?”

Outrider sighed. In his six months of living with the two of them, Daisuke had gotten to know that sigh: Volk and Outrider were having a fight.

“He’s been trying to ‘lighten the workload’ for me,” explained Outrider. When she said ‘lighten the workload,’ it was in the same way you’d say ‘take a shit on my bed’--as in, with hostility. “It’s obvious he thinks I can’t do anything anymore. All of this--” she gestured to her metal arm and the burn scar that peeked out from beneath her collar-- “is a great excuse to get me to quit working so hard.”

Daisuke did not mention that she looked like she’d lost too much weight since they’d last seen each other. He did not comment on the purple under her eyes, nor did he say anything about the lack of color in her face. Instead, he said, “Wow, that sucks.”

This prompted a dry laugh from Outrider. Then she reached under the table and pulled out a bottle of whiskey. “Enough about me,” she said, dimpling. “Tell me about your time on the Avenger. I’d like to know.”

Outrider fetched Daisuke and Carlos each a glass and poured only a bit of booze into each glass--not enough to make them stupid, but enough to make them relaxed. Daisuke told her about his experiences in XCOM: getting shot in the leg, getting mind controlled, dealing with Rivera, punching a shitty doctor in the mouth. Carlos sometimes chimed in, but mostly he listened with a look on his face that Daisuke could not for the life of him decipher. Outrider seemed amused; she finished off her glass within the first thirty seconds of Daisuke talking, but she seemed to be at least interested. Daisuke did not talk about his run-in with the Hunter.

Then, as Daisuke was about to describe Caleb Hayes in a normal, platonic way, there was a commotion in the next room. The sound of a man running into a table because his vision was clouded with frustration; the sound of metal things clattering onto the floor; the sound of that frustrated man swearing in Russian, grumbling in Russian, and opening the door.

Konstantin Volikov was a depressed old man. Well, not old. Old for a Reaper. Old for a Resistance soldier. Most people died by the time they turned 30 from something preventable and easy to cure if only you had the right resources--that, or with their guts outside their body. Volk was not an easy man to kill. Only once had he lost a fight. He was about a decade and a half younger than the Commander, but he looked just as old. Fatter, though, than the other Reapers. It gathered under his arms and around his belly, because Volk was the leader, and leaders got to eat however much they wanted.

His beard came in thick brown curls peppered with white; his hair wasn’t as coarse nor as curly and came down to his shoulders in an uncombed, uncut mess. He kept it out of his face with a similarly unwashed bandana--and what a face he had. He and Outrider weren’t related, but they looked similar: brown eyes, brown hair, high cheekbones--but most of all was the exhaustedly hateful look on their faces. Furrowed brow, mouth terse, eyes narrowed to dangerous, angry slits. It didn’t go away much, not on either of them.

It did go away, though, for just one moment on Volk’s face when he saw Daisuke. The mouth turned up into what might’ve been a smile if Volk ever smiled at all.

He said, “Daisuke,” and patted Daisuke’s shoulder much harder than Daisuke preferred. “Don’t say a word or move a muscle.”

Daisuke obeyed.

“You.” Volk pointed at Carlos, who reacted to Volk’s finger the same way you’d react to a loaded pistol. “You and Daisuke, you’re friends?”

Carlos sputtered.

“What, are you stupid?” Volk placed both his hands on the table in front of Carlos. “You’re friends. Daisuke doesn’t go on trips with people he doesn’t like, and even if he does, he doesn’t usually end those trips with a good mood. You’re close. Right?”

“Why--yes. Yes, I think we’re friends.” Carlos began to wring his fingers together tightly, tapping his foot four times. “He hasn’t tried to kill or sterilize me. That’s something!”

Carlos finished off this stupid schpiel with a nervous giggle. Volk responded to this with a similarly faked laugh.

“Cool!” Volk’s feigned cheer fell away just as suddenly and frighteningly as it’d appeared. “So you know him well. Has he been using any tobacco at all?”

Oh, shit, thought Daisuke, knowing exactly where this was going. He shifted and opened his mouth to kick Carlos and tell him to say ‘no,’ but Volk whipped to stare at Daisuke and punched the table and shouted, “I am cutting off the next appendage you move, Nakamura,” which scared him to stillness.

He liked the Commander more than he’d realized.

“Oh, um…” Carlos genuinely seemed to think, the son of a bitch, tapping his chin with his eyes up in the air. “Like, just cigarettes? Is beer okay?”

“Beer is not tobacco. It’s fine.”

Carlos ho-hummed, tipping his head back and forth. Then he said, “I actually saw him refuse a cigarette once. Our friend Hayes had a pack and he offered one. Got a pretty firm no as response.”

Daisuke ransacked his memory, and here’s the thing: he sharply remembered smoking two cigarettes in front of Carlos, and he had no recollection of ever refusing one, especially not if it was Caleb Hayes offering. 

Holy shit. Carlos was lying to Volk.

Volk tilted his head, narrowing his eyes. “Jesus, you’re a nervous bastard,” he muttered after a few moments. “Well, I believe you. Good on you, Daisuke.”

Holy shit. Carlos got away with lying to Volk.

Daisuke, for reasons that should be obvious to you, acted natural. He asked the most natural question that came to mind: “Jesus, Volk, what would you have done to me if I had? You wouldn’t hurt me too bad before a mission. I know that.”

Volk smiled. This smile was not genuine: it was the angry smile that Volk had perfected, the smile that didn’t go to his eyes. “Course I wouldn’t.” He patted Daisuke’s shoulder again, not gentle with the bruise already forming from the last time he patted Daisuke’s shoulder. “It was a choose your own punishment situation. I have a jump rope, you see.” Volk smiled, almost happily, which terrified Daisuke. “I also have either a half-gallon of milk, or a laxative pill. Whichever suited your mood.”

Daisuke groaned and shoved away Volk’s hand. “God, wouldn’t you just hit people? There’s no need to be creative about it.”

“You’re going on a mission. I’ve got to be creative.”

“I hate when you’re creative,” grumbled Outrider.

“Um,” piped up Carlos, always the savior of an awkward conversation. “So I know we’re supposed to be menacing and cool right now, but… nobody actually told me anything about the mission, so if you want me to be useful?”

Volk glared at Daisuke, which he thought was entirely undeserved. “You didn’t tell him?”

Daisuke shrugged. “Nobody told me. Was I supposed to know? Thought briefing was gonna be here.”

“Did--” Volk did that thing he sometimes did where he looked up at the ceiling trying to recount what he’d done that morning. Living around the fog pods for twenty years did that to a person’s memory. “Oh, dammit, I think I…” And then Volk did another thing he sometimes did, mostly when he made a mistake and didn’t want to admit it: he sat down and folded his fingers together, looking both Daisuke and Carlos in the eye.

“Before I tell you the mission,” said Volk, “I’d like to know what your new callsign is. The Commander and I talked a few days ago, and he was being… the Commander.” Daisuke knew exactly what Volk meant. Outrider, seeming tired of this conversation and Volk’s overall existence, poured herself another glass of whiskey. “Told me to ask you. Seemed pretty damn proud of himself… what is it?”

Daisuke shrugged. “He was proud of it, too. It went with the whole theme he had going on with classic rock bands--it’s Bad Company.”

Outrider shot whiskey out of her nose. Volk turned a sickly shade of lavender-white. Daisuke sat there, impressed with himself.

Outrider’s coughs were becoming violent. Volk opened his mouth to say something, and then he closed it; he leaned his jaw on his fist and stared at the table. Carlos and Daisuke looked at each other, each as clueless as the other.

“So,” Daisuke said, “is it a good nickname?” He was pretty sure he already knew the answer, but maybe it was just such an astonishingly good fit that--

“No,” said Outrider. Daisuke couldn’t tell if her voice was wobbly from the coughing or if she was in genuine distress. “No, it’s terrible! The Commander was proud of that?”

“Extremely,” Volk muttered. “Oh, Jesus Christ.”

Daisuke suddenly felt very insecure about this name. Carlos seemed to take notice: he leaned against the table curiously and asked, “Uh, is there any reason you guys are being so… are freaking out so badly over it? Do you have an aversion to the band?”

Volk and Outrider looked at each other. Volk had not regained any color in his cheeks and Outrider’s eyes were red and watering. She spasmed in one final cough, finished off her whiskey in one big swig, and said, “It’s… certainly clever,” as if she was trying to convince herself not to hijack the Avenger herself and kill the Commander. 

“I would like to say,” warned Volk, “that I had no part in that. I didn’t suggest it, I--”

“Alright,” snapped Daisuke, “if you two are done having your--your insano-style reaction to my fucking nickname, I’d like to know why you’re being so weird about it! Please?”

Volk and Outrider gave each other that weird look from before.

“Well,” said Volk, “it’s, uh… you know the guy whose name you took? First name.”

“Oh.” Daisuke was familiar. Daisuke Matsuoka, an old (and super dead) friend of Volk and Outrider’s. She’d suggested the name herself; Daisuke had only learned about the other guy a few months after. “The guy who, uh…” 

He tried to figure out a way to say it that wouldn’t be cut off by Outrider leaning over the table to strangle him to death. Eventually he gave up on verbalizing it; instead, he mimicked a skull getting squished with his hand and made a wet sound with his mouth. He realized this was probably worse than saying it out loud when Outrider went just as lily-white as Volk. “That guy?”

Volk grumbled tiredly, “Yes, Daisuke. That guy.” He scooted his chair closer to Outrider’s, which was the closest he’d ever get to comforting anyone, ever. “Well, his name was… also Bad Company. I think the Commander thought… Daisuke, Bad Company--” He seemed to have lost track of his mouth, too busy connecting dots in his brain to keep a leash on his words.

“Shit,” Daisuke said. “That sucks.”

“I’m not calling you that,” snapped Outrider suddenly. “I don’t care how much you like it. You’re--you’re not him. You’re Nakamura, okay?” She pointed at Carlos, who seemed rather sick of people pointing at him. “You, too. Call him Nakamura.”

“Okay,” said Carlos.

“Hey, I don’t care.” Daisuke shrugged. “I’m fine either way. Sorry, uh…” He put his head in his hand. “I’m sorry I brought it up.”

Outrider sighed. Then, instead of saying anything, she brought up the bottle of whiskey she’d been drinking from, popped off the cap, and drank. She stood up and left.

Volk sighed, watching her go. “Shit,” he muttered, basically putting Daisuke’s feelings into verbal form. “It’s not your fault, Nakamura. No way you could’ve known. Do you want to do the mission brief now? While the mood’s still… so nice.”

“Sure.”

It was halfway through the schpiel--there was a Lost city up north that the Chosen Hunter liked to crawl through more than the others, and they’d see if it was a gate to his base--that Pratal Mox made his appearance.

He came in with a bang--literally. Mox usually wore his helmet around the bases because the doors were far too small for him: half the time, he didn’t duck, which meant either he put another ding on his helmet or got a goose egg on his forehead.

That being said: Mox was huge. Mox was fuck-you huge. He was the XL sort of hybrid: according to Eim, they were each based on one body--clones of just one. Each came in half-foot variables, from six to eight feet. Eim was one of the smaller varieties, a Trooper--he was ‘a very common clone,’ in his words. Mox was built to be a Captain, an Elite Captain. So, eight feet in height, three-hundred fifty pounds.

Enmoor Eim’s skin was darker than Mox’s, but not by much. His scars were different, too, because scars with Skirmishers were like masks with Reapers: unique identifiers. Daisuke wasn’t told this by anyone, but he got the feeling it was also, like, the first part of finding yourself. A first choice.

Mox was unaffected by the deterioration of the fog pods or the hunger: he needed less food, and his genes had been manipulated to resist the radiation. He fit in pretty damn well. When Mox came into the room, Carlos’ eyes bugged out of his head--probably not used to someone actually being taller than him. He said, “I will return. Outrider requested my presence.”

Daisuke could think of a few reasons why.

“That’s fine,” said Volk, waving his hand over his shoulder as a means of dismissal. Mox’s metallic leg went whunk whunk whunk as he walked away: it was the same type as Outrider’s, as was his right arm. Mox’s artificial limbs, though, stopped much higher up--his right leg was alloy up to the hip, and his arm was the same. Mox didn’t have as easy of a time adjusting as Outrider did.

“Alright,” said Volk with a long-suffering sigh. “I think that’s enough for you two. We’ll work out strategies when we’re all together. For now, you two can go get settled in.”

“Works for me,” Daisuke said with a shrug. He beckoned to Carlos, who stood up quickly with a look on his face that only promised a weird talk the moment they were out in the halls.

Sure enough, when Carlos seemed sure they were out of Volk’s earshot, he leaned down and whispered, “Dude, I didn’t realize Mox was that tall. I’ve never seen someone so… so?” Carlos made an emphatic motion with his hands. “Huge!”

Daisuke could’ve made a joke there, but he didn’t, because the moment it left his mouth, Carlos would make Daisuke’s insides his outsides. Instead, he said, “Did you lie to Volk? About me smoking?”

“He looked like he would’ve actually killed you.” Carlos was correct. Volk would’ve killed Daisuke if it didn’t mean he’d be short a soldier on the next mission. “I mean… is that an issue for you? Do you need… no, nevermind. You don’t have to answer that.”

Who was Daisuke to refuse such a generous offer? He shrugged. “Thanks. And thank you, a million times, for covering my ass.”

“You would’ve done the same for me.”

Daisuke wasn’t sure how true of a statement that was, but he was flattered Carlos had so much trust for him. “Well, anyway,” he walked outside to his tent, “you should probably set up in the theatre inside. It’s more comfortable and overall safer. I’ll join you; I just have a tent out here that I left some stuff in that I’ve been meaning to pick up for, like, actual years now.”

“Huh.” Carlos followed Daisuke like a puppy to the tent he had tacked to the side of the building all those years ago--or had it been Volk? Daisuke didn’t remember; the memories from back then were pretty fuzzy. “Do you think we could radio your sister from here?”

“No.” Daisuke turned back to Carlos with an eyebrow arched. He was actually beginning to feel bad about lying to Carlos, which he didn’t want to think about too hard, but he couldn’t imagine telling anyone--especially not a guy who’d probably cry harder than Daisuke had at the news. “The camp she’s in can't receive transmissions.”

Carlos deflated. “Well, do you at least have a picture of her I could look at? Or funny stories?”

“That’s actually what I’m out here for,” said Daisuke, opening up the shitty tent. It was as Outrider had promised him over the radio: untouched for years. A layer of dust had settled over everything, including the shitty backpack lying in the corner. “I got transferred here for only a few months, and when I got sent back to my original camp, it was such a rushed thing that I didn’t have time to come back here. It’s been… two years, I think.”

“Sheesh.” Carlos politely stepped in, looking around. It was barely big enough for two people to sit comfortably, let alone two standing people. “It’s… cozy.”

What a euphemism. Daisuke laughed and crouched down to roll up his old sleeping bag. “You can say it’s shitty,” he said teasingly. “I won’t be offended.”

“Well, it was your home for a while! I’m not going to call it shitty.” Carlos went over to Daisuke’s bag and said, “Do you want me to grab this for you?”

“Sure. Just don’t peek inside; I don’t remember what I last put in there and I was doing some weird shit when I was a teenager.”

Carlos gave Daisuke a weird look, but complied; he slung the backpack over his shoulder and said nothing more. Daisuke finished packing up his things (or, rather, his pillow and sleeping bag) from his old tent and beckoned Carlos inside.

They went through Daisuke’s old things, but not before Daisuke did a cursory check and hid a few select items that, if seen, would’ve made conversation between himself and his good buddy Carlos awkward for a few days. Then he pulled out a big photo album and let Carlos leaf through it.

If Carlos noticed that the dates scrawled in the white spaces of the Polaroids abruptly ended somewhere around October of 2028, he didn’t say anything. He was unreadable. But he said something like, “Oh, you look so cute and young,” while pointing at a picture of Daisuke when he was thirteen, so Daisuke nearly killed him for that--so maybe he was so focused on pre-T Daisuke (and the baby face that came along with it) that he didn’t notice anything.

He talked about Sayaka a bit, because Carlos was being a pest about it. Carlos liked Sayaka, just from the pictures, which was horrifically depressing. They looked like clones of each other when Daisuke was younger, save for her long hair and minimal punk-ish makeup. She never was very good with it, despite her colossal ego saying otherwise. Carlos kept going on and on, saying stupid things like, “When we meet, I’m gonna ask her about such-and-such,” and, “I’d like to know what she thought of that thing you did,” as if this wasn’t insanely bleak for Daisuke to hear.

“Sure, Carlos,” muttered Daisuke under his breath, feeling marginally worse than how he did when he first got out the album. Carlos looked up at Daisuke, back down at the photos, and then back up at Daisuke.

“Are you okay?” Carlos asked quietly. When Daisuke shrugged, Carlos carefully, slowly wrapped his arm around Daisuke’s shoulder. He allowed it, if only because he didn’t feel like fighting it too hard right now.

He managed, “I’m fine,” in an extremely persuasive, voice-cracking manner. Carlos sighed and looked back down at the album.

“You miss her, don’t you?”

It was truer than Carlos could’ve ever imagined.

Volk called them back and discussed the plan.

Mox and Outrider would actually be joining them. This was a fucking relief. Daisuke didn’t know how he’d do with anyone else: most Reapers were cocky edgelords (Daisuke included) that would die to go on the mission solely to have a moment of maybe-glory, either killing the Hunter or getting killed by the Hunter. Outrider and Daisuke shared a completely rational phobia of the Chosen Hunter, and Mox was a no-nonsense Skirmisher who actually had some height on the Banewalker. Carlos was… there.

On the plane ride there, they sorted themselves out. Daisuke, loading cartridges on the floor, got whined at by Carlos to pick up the bullets because honestly, did Daisuke have to let the damn things rattle so much?

Here’s an unrelated fact. Did you know that Daisuke used to have chickens? Not very good ones; not the nice kinds you see in kids’ books where they let you pick them up. They were mean and pecked at Daisuke’s little feet. Three hens. They were way back when Daisuke was still with his parents. Before Sayaka decided it was all bullshit.

When he was seven, he was fascinated by the difference between the hens’ eggs and the eggs they’d bought from the store. The ones that came in cartons, the yolks were paler and runnier.

He’d always liked the color yellow; not the fluffy cream-yellow of butter, but the bright gold of a buttercup, or the inside of the egg he’d pluck from the chickens’ nests.

Gold. Like ichor. Like the blood of a demigod.

Can you tell where this is going?

Chapter Text

Yakutsk was a big city. It'd been a port town before it got attacked by the aliens; its population was about 300,000 before the bombings. It had a mammoth museum, which Daisuke would've liked to see on any other day. Now, though, he was kind of just writhing with anxiety. You know, because the last time he went on a mission with the Chosen Hunter on the field went so well.

At least now he was more confident about his chances. It'd be a simple sweep of the area with some heat and psionic-seeking devices. Mox and Carlos were only there in case things went south—Volk didn't sugarcoat it; if the Chosen Hunter showed up, it'd get rough.

But Carlos did have a Chosen kill. Mox had about a dozen. Daisuke was the only one out of the four that had never killed a Chosen—wow! How comforting.

About thirty minutes before the drop, Carlos piped up: "Did I ever tell you about what Tygan gave me in preparation for the trip?"

"No," said Daisuke, "but I'm a little offended he didn't give me anything."

Carlos rustled around in his little fanny pack-looking satchel. "I was actually supposed to give one of them to you," he said apologetically, "but I forgot. He said we should only use them as a last resort, but…"

He held out two syringes. Fat, industrial needles full of an absurd amount of yellow liquid; the caps over the actual needles were still stuck on tight. Carlos held them the same way you'd hold a loaded gun, that is if you'd never held a loaded gun before.

"It's called Overdrive Serum," explained Carlos. "Tygan said it was derived from Berserker hormones."

Outrider reached out and plucked one out of Carlos' hand. She observed it, tipping it back and forth to watch the thick yellow liquid slide around in the tube. "Berserker hormones," she echoed dubiously. "Are you supposed to use it on yourself? What does it do?"

"The Commander said they used Central to test them," said Carlos, "and that they're steroids. Insanely strong steroids." He looked at Daisuke, looking half-sorry, half-amused. "Tygan said you should take a half-dose, though. He said it could literally make one of the valves in your heart pop."

"Huh." When Daisuke died, he wanted it to be quick. He wasn't sure how fast an exploded organ would see him out the door. "You know, why don't you give that other one to Mox?"

Mox tilted his head curiously. "Do you mind if I ask your reasoning?"

"Well, Outrider and I are gonna be there for recon, right?" He shrugged. "I figure that if you guys are gonna be our muscle, you should be the ones to have the crazy fatal heart injury juice. You'd put it to better use."

Carlos and Mox exchanged looks. "You want it?" Carlos offered, holding out one of the syringes. "It's not difficult to use. You just stick yourself in the thigh."

Mox took it. "Nakamura is correct," he said, which did shameful and obscene things to Daisuke's pride. "Díaz and I will take the Overdrive Serum. I do not wish to see a person die of…" He looked at Daisuke and returned his ego to its usual size when he said, "a 'crazy fatal heart injury'."

Outrider snickered. Daisuke whacked her on the shoulder.

Russia and the United States were the countries that took the most brutal beatings during the invasion, seeing that they were the most willing to pump money into the military effort. The aliens quickly focused their efforts on the metropolises, and refugees were without funding. Every dollar had been spent on advanced weapons, all proving useless against the aliens. Both countries spiraled into debt.

The Lena River dripped from the west side of the Baikal Mountains and gurgled its way north. Its delta, feeding into the Arctic Ocean, had been a national park before Russia got torn to shreds by ADVENT. It carved up mountains and housed more animals than Daisuke could count. It was also home to dozens of port cities.

Yakutsk was one such town. It was a beautiful place—or, it had been a beautiful place. It'd been a big red bullseye in Eastern Russia for the aliens to strike, being densely populated in an area otherwise ruled by rural farmland and animals. Now the fog pods numbered in the hundreds, killing the wildlife and making the flora bubble and twist with cancers. Not even the water was uncontaminated: it was covered by a stinking mass of sludge, with the water beneath it stained green and carrying chemicals out of the city, far north. 

Or, putting it in less dramatic words, it was a big scar in the otherwise untouched landscape. It'd be a perfect place for the Chosen Hunter to set down his roots: almost nobody willingly entered the city and plenty of animals lived away from the buildings, so the Hunter could do to them whatever sick and twisted shit he did to entertain himself. It was a good start.

When the dropship's doors opened and the four of them leaped out, it was utterly silent. Nothing moved. A dry, fetid wind crept through the streets, but not even that made any noise. It was like the buildings, decrepit and towering, opened their mouths and swallowed up every vibration in the air. Daisuke was unsettled to say the least.

They all did a radio check. Once it was established that everyone's was up and working, they split between blocks: Mox and Carlos took one, and Outrider and Daisuke took the other. They would scout down each block and scan with the psionic sensor every hundred feet—half the sensor's range—until there were literally no other places to look. Fortunately, a gate as potent and significant as the Commander and Tygan estimated would radiate enough psychic purple spores that the trackers would pick up the residue from a mile away. Then they'd just need to follow the scent.

And yet, after hours of scouring the city, block-by-block, nothing came up. Daisuke was feeling that sort of terror you only felt when you were waiting too long for something to happen: you sure as hell didn't want whatever was going to happen, happening, but at some point, the time started dragging by so goddamn slow that you just wanted to rip the bandaid off and get it over with.

Daisuke found himself falling into Outrider's long stride, closer and closer. Soon he was barely an inch from her, cowering in her shadow and walking just a half-step behind her. She either didn't notice or didn't care. 

Mox and Carlos hadn't gotten anything so far, and the whole city had been scoured. It took five hours of walking and sticking the sensors up in the air for Outrider and Mox to decide that nothing would happen. Outrider said into her radio, "It's useless to stay here any longer; I don't want to startle any Lost." That's when Daisuke should've known.

The Lost howled in the distance almost as if on cue: long, keening cries strummed from cancerous vocal cords. These sad excuses for voices bounced off the buildings and created just about the eeriest auditory illusion known to man. It sounded like they were coming from every direction. The hairs on the back of Daisuke's neck prickled; a bead of sweat rolled through the dip of his temple.

He was rusty from all the time in XCOM, and he still wasn't sure why Outrider hadn't decided to book it then. Lost did not startle without reason.

"Come on," whispered Outrider, eyes locked on an emergency fire exit leading about twenty feet in the air. It'd give them a good vantage point. "We need to find a way out of here."

Daisuke couldn't disagree. They skittered over to the rusty stairs, telling Carlos and Mox to stay put, and climbed.

Halfway up the steps, a horrific cacophony erupted from Daisuke's belt. He hissed in through his teeth and grabbed the psionic tracker Outrider had given him—suddenly, it was going crazy, chittering and squealing as the number Daisuke didn't understand suddenly went up, up, up. He silenced it.

Outrider grabbed Daisuke's arm and tugged him closer to the wall. They crouched low; Outrider became so dark and still that she was practically invisible, even when she took her radio. "Mox, Carlos. Get into cover and stay low—now."

Mox was quick to respond: "Affirmative." Then the radio went silent.

They cowered against the wall for well over a minute before, waltzing down the street, was…

Daisuke remembered the last time he came face-to-face with the Banewalker, with the Chosen Hunter. He remembered it well. Every cell in Daisuke's body—his blood, bones, brain—shrieked. It felt like all the liquid got sucked from his face. Outrider looked at him, curling up like he'd been punched in the gut, and seemed to realize that Daisuke was having a bit of an overreaction.

Silent as ever, she linked his arm and hers, tugging him close to her side as she turned on her radio. "This is Outrider. Nakamura and I have a confirmed sighting of the Chosen Hunter."

Mox took a terrifying five seconds to respond.

"Shall we engage?"

Outrider hesitated. This was so out-of-character that it frightened Daisuke—Outrider was always the first to decide, and her quick thinking had saved countless Reapers countless times. This momentary pause, her whole-body stillness, made Daisuke lose what little hope he had.

Then she took her rifle and loaded it, still utterly quiet, and rested the barrel against the railing of the stairs. It was aimed at the Chosen Hunter.

The Banewalker ambled through the streets, casually as a tourist in a new city. He was trailed by two Captains that seemed just as confused as Daisuke felt. He looked up and about, fluorescent eyes wide with what might've been wonder if Daisuke thought that the Chosen could experience such emotion.

Outrider leaned into her radio and said, "Yes. Let's make this quick."

The Chosen Hunter suddenly paused. Then he pulled from his side a beat-up walkie and, on Outrider and Daisuke's frequency, whispered, "What are we hoping to make quick, Outrider?"

Daisuke's heart stopped beating in his chest.

Outrider took in a breath, and then she pulled the trigger.

The bullet lodged itself in the Hunter's chest. Suddenly, a long grapple flew out from the rooms beneath them, latched to a Captain's chest, and ripped it backward. Mox leaped out of the second story of their building and met the Captain halfway; Carlos' MSC whirred and cracked as he laid down suppressing fire.

It happened so damn quick. Daisuke barely got time to think before Outrider braced herself against the wall, and then—then she leaped, from twenty feet in the air, and tucked into a roll at the last second.

When Outrider unfolded, it was to throw herself headlong into the Hunter's space. The Banewalker and the Reapers were not so dissimilar in how they fought—from a distance, for safety. Outrider, to put it simply, was fine either way. Leather straps held a pair of knuckle knives to the outsides of her thighs; she was more resilient to pain than even Daisuke; she could go hand-to-hand with Pratal Mox, who was nearly three feet taller than her, and come out unscathed. Elena Dragunova was not a person who acted from long-range.

She looped her fingers into one of the knuckle knives and ripped the blade from its sheath. She used this hand to balance her rifle—the other held the trigger, barrel stuck up in the Hunter's face.

When Outrider fired a second time, it flipped a switch in Daisuke's brain. He suddenly sat up, feeling utterly useless, and took aim at the second Captain—the one Mox wasn't grinding up and paving the sidewalk with. Carlos' bullets were keeping it tucked into cover, and this cover didn't do much from twenty feet in the air: Daisuke aimed through his scope, lined up the crosshairs, and pulled the trigger.

The Captain spun limply with the impact, backward and to the ground. Daisuke looked down, then looked up at the sky and whimpered, "Oh, shit." Then he got as close to the wall behind him as he could, tracing the mortar with his fingertips, and took a long, deep breath.

Daisuke ran forward, vaulted over the edge of the railing, and with all the grace of a very old and pathetic cat, made the twenty-foot jump. The landing wasn't as bad as Daisuke thought it'd be—he managed to roll like Outrider had, though much less dexterously, with an awful bruise likely already forming on his ass. When he stumbled with the momentum, up to his feet, he saw the Hunter and Outrider squaring off.

It was a fair fight, which was fucking insane. The Chosen Hunter looked and sounded human from a distance, but the closer you got, the more you sensed the alien. His forearms were much longer than his biceps, as were his shins to his thighs. His torso stretched too much below his ribs. His neck was nearly too long for his head. These elongations were uncanny and thin, as if you'd pulled the human body like dough.

The Chosen Hunter himself seemed unused to this himself. The other Chosen were not like him: the Assassin was an agile fighter, perfectly filled into her body, catlike in her precision and threat; the Warlock was thick with muscle and strong, even though half the time he barely used that strength. The Hunter fought from afar because he was clumsy. He could run fine and throw a nasty punch—Daisuke personally could vouch for that. But it was like he expected to be shorter, weaker, slower. Often he stumbled when he ran, though this seemed to be improving. Once, a Reaper witnessed the Hunter punch himself in the nose while attempting to reload his rifle. This Reaper was killed almost immediately after spreading the news—by the Chosen Hunter; who else?

When you saw the Hunter really close, though, all those thoughts left your head, because all you focused on was the Hunter's face.

What was weird about it was that it hardly was weird at all. The other Chosen had the same faces you'd see on bronze statues stationed in museums—the Assassin sported a face of sunken, dark allure and the Warlock looked like an age-old emperor. One would think the Hunter would follow this trend.

He didn't. His face was oddly soft, feminine. The bright, intelligent eyes, undulled by the Elders, were catlike and narrow. His jaw was slim, and his cheekbones were high. His wide mouth had an unusual dip in the philtrum and the corners of his lips curled up, with twin symmetrical wrinkles from the cartilage of his nostrils to the ends of his mouth, like he had spent a lot of time smiling.

Daisuke didn't need to be a genius to know that these imperfections implied awful things.

The Hunter was barely holding Outrider off. She was hitting him like a hurricane, ramming her shoulder into his midsection to knock him up against a sharp curb; with his stumble, she stepped out of his range and shot him again. There were three big holes in his armor now, and from his chin fell big rolling drops of golden blood.

That wasn't to say Outrider was in good shape. With every move she made, the Hunter made two more: he righted himself quickly, drew his pistol, and shot at Outrider. She barely dodged, and when she did, the Hunter stepped forward, stuck out his leg, and tripped her. Something in his grin made Daisuke's skin crawl—he looked like a person torturing an animal; he looked at Outrider the way the old bullies had looked at Daisuke when he was very young. It was creepy. 

Daisuke raised his rifle, unnoticed by the Hunter, and took a shot that whistled just over Outrider's shoulder and lodged its way beneath the Hunter's clavicle.

And when the Banewalker looked up at Daisuke, everything in his body turned to ice. He was suddenly back on that rooftop, with the pipe nearby hissing out steam, with his face bloody and the whole world reduced to his own damn pain. Daisuke still had nightmares about it, nightmares nobody—not even you—knew about. Daisuke's toes curled in his boots.

"You again," said the Hunter, and Daisuke's lungs squeezed shut. Outrider gave Daisuke a very familiar what the hell did you decide not to tell me sort of look. "How many times have I failed to kill you? Twice now, right?"

Daisuke shot back his best line: "What the fuck? Kill yourself!"

Outrider growled, hefted her gun up, and shot at the Hunter—let's be honest, probably to save Daisuke from the embarrassment of what he just said.

There was a moment that Daisuke thought they'd be fine; a foolish, foolish moment. Outrider had that effect on people. But there was no denying it: even with the two of them, hell, even if all four of them piled onto the Hunter, there wasn't any way to avoid loss. The Hunter, probably deciding to tackle his biggest problem first, lunged at Outrider.

Even if he had gangly, unwieldy limbs, the Hunter outweighed both of them by at least a hundred pounds. He stood two feet taller than them. When he slammed into Outrider, she made a sound high up in her throat, like all the breath had evacuated from her lungs—they hit the ground in a horrific tangle of limbs. Outrider flailed uselessly and Daisuke ran to try and untie the knot of legs and arms.

Hand-to-hand combat eliminated the usage of guns, both for yourself and your enemy. No longer did things depend on whose rifle was bigger. It came down to who could throw the harder punch, or who had the hidden knife, or, most importantly, who didn't piss themselves when they got whacked in the temple.

It could also possibly depend on an armed assailant. Daisuke pulled out his switchblade, schwipped it open, and grabbed the Hunter by the collar of his armor. Those hundreds and hundreds of pull-ups called: he yanked the Hunter clean off Outrider, furious, and turned him around. Then he put the switchblade in the Hunter's chest: it sank with a thunk into the gap between his abdominal and pectoral armor.

The Hunter grunted. Then he whacked Daisuke in the temple.

To Daisuke's credit, he didn't wet himself. It was a close one, though. He hardly realized he landed right on his ass, on that newly-formed bruise. The pressure building up in his skull felt like every soft tissue in there was attempting to escape. He gasped in a shuddering, loud breath, remembered that there was a non-zero chance he was about to get his brains blown out, and rolled onto his stomach to push himself to his feet.

Mox and Carlos finally seemed done baking that cake or whatever the fuck they were doing that took so long. Carlos pulled Outrider out from under the Hunter while Mox grabbed the Hunter's rifle and threw it far away.

The fight had turned to a one-on-four. This should've been great news, but the Hunter was a pain in the ass, so it stayed about the same.

Mox charged like a bull. His run was lopsided but not slow at all, and unlike Daisuke and Outrider, he had the physical advantage over the Hunter: when Mox slammed full-throttle into the Banewalker, he wrapped his arms around the slender waist, picked him up, and threw him back into the ground. The Hunter skidded across five feet of concrete, limbs flailing like a ragdoll, as Mox followed; the only thing that prevented the Hunter from being turned to pavement paint was his long legs, kicked out and into Mox's reckless body. Mox failed to stop—he was vaulted over the Hunter's prone form and into the ground behind him.

Despite the ten feet of distance suddenly placed between Daisuke and the Hunter, Daisuke stepped away, pressing his shoulders against a lamppost as he took aim from a nice, comfortable few meters back.

The Chosen Hunter's feline eyes glanced over Outrider's shoulder and right into the barrel of Daisuke's rifle. He jolted to the right; the first bullet Daisuke fired took out a chunk of concrete from the road. He tried again, but the Hunter kicked up to his feet in one fluid, graceful movement, and the next shot whizzed past him and into the buildings behind.

Outrider, probably noticing Daisuke's overall incompetence and inability to do basically anything right, ran in front of him and to the left, slinging her own rifle from around her shoulder. Mox had recovered quickly—he'd already engaged again with the Hunter, ripjack flashing silver in the light as he swung—and Outrider aimed through her rifle at the writhing mass of Skirmisher and Chosen.

If Daisuke were in her shoes, he'd have freaked out and run off already; but she was Outrider, and Outrider had years and years of experience. She lined up her shot and fired into the ball of limbs.

The Chosen Hunter was the only one to make a sound. He quickly tried to detach himself from Mox, who wasn't having it at all—the moment the Hunter began to wriggle away from Mox's arms, Mox grabbed him by the knees like a wrestler and stabbed down with his blades.

If Daisuke felt useless, though, he couldn't imagine how Carlos felt. His magnetic support cannon was amazing for long engagements of several enemies, but not for quick bouts of close combat: the spray of bullets was too broad and inaccurate for any sort of 'magnetic supporting' to happen.

Carlos, though, had the advantage of being really damn big. He stuck his cannon to his back and ran over to Mox and the Hunter sprawled on the ground, biting and scratching each other, and joined the fray.

The Hunter went from outsized to outmatched. Mox kept one of his arms wrapped around the Banewalker's knees, holding them together. Carlos took this opportunity to skid around the Hunter's front, wind up, and kick him in the head. Daisuke couldn't imagine the colors the Hunter was seeing, but he supposed they were probably vivid and dancing.

The Hunter coughed. The Hunter choked. Then, he arched up to the sky, and in a pillar of purple light, he disappeared.

Then he reappeared, fully armed, in the second story of a nearby building. Daisuke barely got time to shout, "Oh, shit!" before the Hunter raised his rifle, narrowed his violet eyes, and fired.

The rifle went SHRAK as it shot a bullet right through the center of Mox's chest, front to back. Orange blood splattered on the pavement behind Mox as he staggered backward, clutching the wound.

"Little turncoats!" hissed the Banewalker. "How I hate Skirmishers!"

Mox fell to his side with a long, agonized sound. Outrider looked at him, looked at the Hunter; looked back at Mox. Daisuke didn't give her time to think—he ran, grabbed her by the arm, and yanked her into cover, away from the Hunter. They crouched behind a car, and—

The sound of alien weaponry sang off the buildings once more. Daisuke felt like his insides turned to ice and fire at the exact same time. He peeked out from behind the car, terrified he was going to see Carlos with his brains painting the pavement, and with no little relief, saw Carlos with his back pressed to a dead tree, unscathed, brains whole.

Outrider clung to Daisuke this time. She was panting in big, juddering breaths, clutching his wrist like she'd blow away if she let go. Daisuke, in the same position as he'd been all those years ago when Sayaka kicked the can, didn't mind that she was trying to stay in cover.

Carlos, though, didn't have insane Chosen trauma, so he popped his neck, cracked his fingers, and reached for the big, clunky weapon strapped to his hip.

Grenadiers were called Grenadiers for a reason, Daisuke supposed. Carlos unclipped a grenade from his belt, stuck it in the launcher, and stepped out from behind the tree. Daisuke quickly aimed over the car to provide covering fire as Carlos judged the distance with one eye squeezed shut, hefted up his launcher, and, with a metallic shunk, shot the explosive right into the Chosen Hunter's sniper nest.

Daisuke heard, "Oh, bitch." Then the grenade blew the floor out from the Hunter's feet, sending him toppling two stories down. Daisuke ran toward him, gun blazing, and Carlos followed his lead.

The Hunter didn't have a chance to even stand before Carlos hit him like an animal. Quite literally: Carlos took a running jump as the Hunter staggered to his feet and grappled onto his back, legs around the waist and arms over the shoulders.

As Daisuke bolted toward them, Carlos clambered over the Chosen Hunter's shoulders, pushing his head out of the way with one open palm on the cheek while the other hand scrambled down for the grey-and-gold pistol. "I—I can't!" grunted Carlos as the Hunter fought to rip him off his shoulders. "It's like wrestling a bear !"

Daisuke pulled his revolver from his belt and his hunting knife from his pack as the Hunter flung Carlos forward and to the ground. Carlos landed on his back with a squeaky wheeze, pistol clattering to the floor next to him, as Daisuke propped his gun wrist on the fist clutching the knife.

The first shot was deafening—Daisuke didn't have the advantage of a silencer with his revolver like he did with his rifle. The sound of the bullet being ejected from its shell made the whole room shudder, though his aim was true. Yellow blood splattered onto the wall behind the Hunter, so hot it steamed, as metal tore through deltoid. The Hunter hissed, clutching his shoulder and glowering down at Daisuke. "Oh, you really get on my nerves, you know that?"

"Ain't the first time I've heard that," spat Daisuke. "Be more—creative."

Before the Hunter could say anything about Daisuke's voice cracking halfway through his sentence, Daisuke lunged with his knife. (This is always a reasonable course of action to take when someone's about to comment on your voice cracking, especially if you are sensitive about the masculinity of your voice.) The Hunter could hardly dodge the first slash Daisuke sent his way, and he wasn't fast enough for the second one: Daisuke cut a long line up the Chosen Hunter's exposed bicep, digging into the bullet hole he'd put there only seconds ago and tearing up the flesh.

The Hunter hissed his displeasure—he grabbed Daisuke's switchblade, still stuck in his abdomen, and ripped it out. The knife seemed so tiny in his huge, bony hands, like a scalpel. This he used to knock away the next jab Daisuke made at him, the metal striking with a sound like a scream. Daisuke leaped back, out of range of the knife, and took a shot with his revolver.

Adrenaline was steadying his fingers or something—Daisuke had never been this straight of a shooter. The bullet lodged itself near the switchblade wound, a bit to the left, and did not exit through the other side.

The Chosen Hunter was beginning to pant. He looked a little worse for wear—unlike the other Chosen, he was known to regenerate torn flesh and heal after a few moments, but this supernatural talent was nowhere to be found now. A long gash on his face was struggling to sew shut: it feebly stitched itself at the edges, held for a moment, and then fell apart again. Nothing else seemed to be healing itself.

Daisuke took as much advantage of that as he could.

With his left hand, he fired his revolver again, this time into the Chosen Hunter's hip; with the other, he twirled his offhand so he held the blade, used the kick of the pistol to propel his right side forward, and threw the knife into the meat of the Hunter's pectoral. It struck bone and didn't get in very far.

But Daisuke fixed that pretty damn quick. He ran over, lifted his leg so high it hurt his hamstrings, and kicked the blade's pommel so it dug in to the hilt.

This pulled an awful scream from the Chosen Hunter's throat. Daisuke could feel the bone go pop-crunch under the tip of his knife; he tucked his leg back down and got into a fighting stance, ready to dodge whatever the Banewalker threw his way.

Or so he thought.

Daisuke was unprepared for the continued strength of the Hunter—he'd thought that the wounds were slowing him down, but it was either a facade, or he just sent the Hunter's instincts into overdrive by breaking bone. He was expecting a feeble punch or a swing with the knife, but the Hunter kicked Daisuke in the knee, and he was genuinely shocked it didn't fold backward. Then the Hunter punched Daisuke in the stomach, then in the mouth, and then he swung Daisuke's switchblade at him.

If Daisuke were even a moment slower, his own knife would've slashed him from his left carotid to his right, bisecting his trachea along the way. Instead, the knife's serrated edge caught him by the collarbone and cut so deep that Daisuke later would discover it scarred his bone. The moment he flinched, Daisuke lost this skirmish.

In the few precious seconds he was given, the Chosen Hunter feinted left and, when Daisuke lunged, dodged right, ducked beneath him, and did to Daisuke the most humiliating thing that had ever been done to him in his life.

Have you ever been shot in the ass? By anything, really. Airsoft, paintballs, maybe even a Nerf gun if you've got siblings. It's horrifically embarrassing. Daisuke for real said, "Yeowch!" when, with a little thunk, the Hunter stuck him in the right cheek. It wasn't a bullet, which Daisuke refused to be grateful for, but it still hurt.

The Chosen Hunter was laughing at him, which only fueled Daisuke's burning hatred for the Banewalker. Furious, he fumbled behind himself before grabbing the thing sticking out of his gluteus maximus and tugging it out.

When he held it to his face, he was horrified for many reasons. Yes, he was alarmed that it was a needle which had presumably emptied its contents into Daisuke's body. He was more upset that he'd just gotten cartoon-style poked in the butt.

"What," he hissed, turning around, "did you just shoot me with?"

Through his douchey giggles, the Hunter said, "Modified horse tranquilizer."

Oh, you've gotta be fucking kidding, thought Daisuke, but suddenly his tongue refused to move in his mouth, and his knees suddenly decided that now was a great time to stop working. It reminded him of when he let Molly convince him to have a rip off her bong. He hoped it wouldn't end the same way.

Weakly, Daisuke stuck his middle finger up at the Hunter. The Chosen responded by putting his fingertips to Daisuke's chest and knocking him over like a domino.

Daisuke helplessly fell on his aching ass. Then he slumped over, muscles refusing any and all commands.

"We'll have fun later," said the Hunter. "Now for your orange friend—"

Daisuke's orange friend had different ideas. Like an animal, Carlos slammed into the Chosen Hunter from the left so hard it knocked them both five, ten feet back before they fell to the ground in a tangle of limbs. Carlos, knees to either side of the Hunter's waist, raised both fists over his head and brought them down onto the chest beneath him, so ruthlessly Daisuke could hear ribs crack.

Carlos' eyes bulged from his head in red-faced fury. From his lips and teeth flew spittle as he screamed; the veins in his neck and temples stood out—Carlos, usually so put-together, acting like a rabid dog was a bit out of character. Not that Daisuke minded.

The Hunter took another Hulk-style smash before snatching Carlos' wrists and throwing him to the side, on his back. This prompted Carlos' clenched fist to open, and from it fell an empty syringe, clattering to the ground from shaking fingers.

"Oh." The Hunter recoiled from the needle. "Someone once told me not to take a drug if it came from a needle. Suppose this is why."

Daisuke hated the Chosen Hunter's banter. Thankfully, so did Carlos, who had presumably just stuck himself with Berserker steroids, as opposed to Daisuke and his assful of tranq juice. At least someone had the power to do something about their situation.

And do something he did. Carlos Díaz flung himself at the Chosen Hunter like a storm at a city. Hell, he only had his own two hands and Daisuke knew for a fact that Carlos had never gotten into a fistfight, but he was doing pretty fucking well, all things considered. He swung wild haymakers, leaving himself open for all sorts of nasty gut shots if only the Hunter could keep up. It was like Carlos was immune to the effects of time: he threw a punch a second, and they weren't light taps either. He was putting his whole body behind every blow.

Carlos clobbered the Banewalker across the jaw and his whole face moved with the shot. Carlos drove his other fist into the soft meat of the belly with hardly a second's recovery.

The Chosen Hunter didn't get even a word in edgewise. It was hard to talk, Daisuke supposed, when the air was being knocked from your chest, over and over, with hardly any time to breathe. Carlos kicked him in the shin, then in the knee; then Carlos charged forward and lifted the Chosen up onto his shoulder—the moment of the Hunter being airborne lasted forever—and then slammed him back down onto the ground.

Carlos was relentless and the Hunter was paying for it. Daisuke didn't even want to know what this fight would look like if Carlos had his gun. He kicked the Hunter thrice in the ribs, raised his foot, and stomped on the first knife wound, and then the second.

From his limp and melty spot on the floor, Daisuke watched Carlos Díaz become unhinged with a feeling he didn't want to ever decipher.

By this point, Carlos' hair was completely free of its tie; his dreads flew wildly through the air as he moved in an adrenaline-fueled rage, something Daisuke had never seen before and never thought he would see. Daisuke knew that if Carlos didn't chew his nails short, he'd be using them, and if he weren't paranoid of alien diseases, he'd be biting the Chosen Hunter until the blood beaded beneath his teeth. It was a sight to behold. 

Then, out of nowhere, it happened again: the Hunter's pillar of light exploded into existence and whirled him away, to outside the building—again with his rifle.

The Banewalker raised that weapon and, as Carlos turned around, shot him in the stomach. Daisuke seemed to care a lot more about that than Carlos did. From his position of tetraplegia, Daisuke couldn't do or say much, but inside he was panicking: the blood Carlos was about to lose might send him into a coma or kill him.

Carlos, though, only seemed to have killing, death, and murder on his mind. He charged the Hunter's position, looking ready to use rocks to bash in the Hunter's skull if he really needed to, and leaped straight through the window.

The Chosen Hunter caught him by the throat. Carlos' legs, suddenly forced to a stop mid-jump, slammed against the wall beneath the window with a sound that said that didn't feel good. Carlos similarly seemed to dislike being choked: he struck the Hunter's wrists so hard that they should've broken, but all that did was force the Hunter to toss him back into the building like a ragdoll; the Hunter stepped in through the window, one long leg after another, and approached Carlos.

No, thought Daisuke, very, very hard. No, no, no.

Carlos seemed to be losing his mojo. He was panting hard, taking in quick gulps of air as sweat rolled down his temples and neck. He rolled onto his stomach with something that could only be described as a long and wet snarl, curling his hands into fists against the ground.

"You," said the Banewalker as he approached. "You killed me before, didn't you? To protect your little friend?"

Carlos said, "AUUUCH," for the English language seemed to have fled his brain.

The Chosen Hunter didn't seem to know what to do with that beautiful piece of poetry, nor did he really seem to care. Carlos was alone and weakening fast, and the Hunter aimed to take full advantage.

He grabbed a bundle of Carlos' beautiful dreadlocks with one hand; with the other, he took Carlos' shoulder. He raised his prey and, like an otter cracking a mussel on a rock, smashed Carlos' head and chest onto the concrete, once, twice. The sounds were crackling and horrific. From his place on the ground, Daisuke only saw blood and felt terror. When the Hunter lifted Carlos' face from the ground, Daisuke saw that his big nose had found a brand new direction to turn in, and a lot of Carlos' skin had taken up residence on the floor beneath him. When the Hunter removed his hands from Carlos, a clutch of dreads he'd ripped from Carlos' scalp came with him, discarded.

Daisuke could say and do nothing. If he could, he would've gotten to his feet, screamed something cool like, "You're going into orbit, you stupid shit," and kicked the Chosen Hunter so hard in the balls he'd need a month's recovery. But here he was, useless, ass-shotten, and tranquilized.

Daisuke wouldn't call himself tranquil.

Carlos, officially beaten, laid down on the ground and wheezed. He wasn't dead. All that Daisuke cared about at that moment was Carlos being alive.

The Chosen Hunter stood up and gave Daisuke something different to care about: "Outrider. My last target."

He'd completely forgotten about her. That was easy to do when you got into fights—especially when the person you forgot about had completely ghosted you. Where was Outrider? Daisuke hadn't seen her since Carlos had bombed the Hunter. She was sneaky, Daisuke knew that, but she wouldn't leave—Daisuke really knew that. There was no way in hell Elena Dragunova would ever run from a fight.

It took a minute. The Hunter was beginning to grow impatient; Daisuke could tell. Just as Daisuke was starting to think she might've actually fled, the Banewalker stood up and—

Daisuke really hated being paralyzed the way he was. The Chosen Hunter approached and grabbed him by the hair; he was hauled upright, and a knife was pressed to his throat. "I'm growing bored, Outrider," called the Hunter. "Come out, or I'll show you what Nakamura's guts look like."

Daisuke really didn't doubt the validity of that claim.

It took another few moments. Daisuke began to seriously worry that he'd soon be turned inside out like a sock when, quite literally out of nowhere, Outrider exploded into action.

Daisuke didn't see where or how she came out of hiding. She practically apparated in the middle of the room with her rifle lowered toward the Chosen Hunter's head, poised to blow his brains out.

The shot she took only buried itself in the floor left of Daisuke. The Hunter had gotten more than enough time to heal between bouts of conflict—Daisuke doubted he even felt his knife wounds anymore. He dodged over Daisuke's body, tucking into a roll before skittering to his feet with a look on his face that Daisuke could only describe as joy.

"Finally," he breathed, "we face each other."

"Be quiet," said Outrider. "I'll give you ten seconds to leave before I put your face to a curb and stomp until not even your gods can fix you."

The Chosen Hunter stared at Outrider, blinking. Then he began to laugh a shocked and morbidly curious laugh: "Oh, Outrider! You make me blush—"

Outrider shot him in the throat.

The words died in the Hunter's trachea, because the Hunter's trachea died. The bullet tore through his vocal cords, thank God, and came out the other side.

Daisuke thought foolishly that'd be the end of it. Instead, this sent the Chosen Hunter into action: fearing no sort of death and likely already healing as Daisuke watched, the Hunter ran to Outrider, a grin upon his face that made Daisuke uncomfortable to be in the same room as.

They collided. The Hunter was much more eager about this than Outrider. The Banewalker was famous for his childlike attitude toward fights—the sort of gleeful recklessness that had a person charging into battle, adrenaline pumping, that got them killed. Except death wasn't a thing the Hunter had to worry about, was it? No matter what Outrider did to him, no matter how badly it hurt, he'd always come back eventually, unscathed. War indeed had no meaning to the Chosen Hunter, which was why fighting him was so deadly.

Daisuke watched Outrider smoothly dodge the two haymakers he sent her way. Her form was perfect: her elbows were close to her side, chin tucked behind her rifle in a defensive stance. When the Hunter pulled away, she raised her weapon, finger on the trigger.

He dodged the first shot she took and knocked the barrel out of the way on the second. Then he did a whole entire spin-kick and sent her rifle clattering several feet away.

Outrider snarled, furious and disarmed. She raised her fists and glowered at the Chosen Hunter from between her arms. Then she scrambled backward, pointedly in the opposite direction as Daisuke.

And, of course, the Banewalker wasted no time at all getting to her. He practically skipped over, gleeful as a child. He ducked right through each defense Outrider put up, from her arms to her stance to her overall murderous demeanor. He got close to her side, slung his arm around her neck in a headlock, and slugged her.

Daisuke practically saw the teeth rattling around in Outrider's jaws. The loose muscle and fat in her face moved with the Hunter's fist and her eyes crossed; saliva and blood flew from between her lips. Then he punched her in the temple and her eyes really went all over the place, rolling around in her skull. She had a loose grip on his forearm and elbow that didn't seem to be doing much and was growing weaker every time he struck her.

When the Hunter used his headlock to throw Outrider away from him, she staggered backward, wiping her bleeding mouth and chin with the sleeve of her jacket. She looked at the blood, and then she looked at the Hunter, a glint in her eyes so vicious and hateful it scared Daisuke. Then she cracked her neck and the knuckles of her human hand, and charged.

Watching the Hunter and Outrider fighting hand-to-hand was, putting it simply, fucking crazy. Outrider kicked and punched; the Hunter met every swing with bred perfection. She didn't hold back; he did. She was fighting for her life; he was playing a game.

Outrider managed to maneuver them outside just as Daisuke began to regain control over the muscle in his fingertips. They twitched when he asked them to, though that was the most they did for him. He could, expending tremendous effort, turn his head to watch the continued fight.

The Chosen Hunter was growing tired, Daisuke could tell. His movements were becoming sluggish, and Outrider was taking full advantage—that was the drawback of being immortal, Daisuke supposed. Outrider had the will to keep living. If all else failed her, Elena Dragunova had something the Chosen Hunter did not, and that was the clawing animal inside begging to survive; the primal fear of death. The Hunter didn't have any reason to fight beside the Elders (whose opinion he didn't seem to value much in the first place) and whatever sick satisfaction he got from pummeling Outrider until her teeth all lay scattered on the ground.

She caught him with a left hook in the jaw and used the momentum to duck to the ground, pick up a discarded brick from the grenade's detonation, and swing it with both hands into the Hunter's jaw. He jolted and staggered backward; Outrider dropped the brick and lunged. She drove her shoulder into his stomach, sending him back even further.

Then Outrider, fooled by his sounds of pain, leaned back a bit to catch her breath. This was her mistake. The Hunter pounced: he kneed her in the gut to knock the wind out of her, leaned forward, and grabbed her by the throat.

Through the stranglehold, Outrider made an awful, wet sound. She bared her teeth and hissed out clumps of spittle in her attempts to breathe.

"Are you finished?" asked the Hunter, panting as he spoke. "I'd hate to go home empty-handed." He lifted her by the throat. She kicked and fought as her feet left the ground. "I'd say we could just hang out, but I'll be honest—the Elders would claw you to bits. You'd be a prize and a half to them."

Outrider squeezed her eyes shut, obviously hating every word that the Hunter's lips sounded out. She tensed her whole body; then, she wound back with her leg and kicked the Chosen Hunter right in the nuts.

He dropped her immediately, curling over the pain like a pillbug. Outrider landed on her feet, gulped in a breath of air, and undercutted the Hunter's dick so hard it ought to have launched him into space. Then she reached up to his face and placed her hands behind his head, lacing her fingers together over his parietal bone. She took a long breath—then she brought his chin down onto her knee with a CRACK.

The Chosen Hunter lost six teeth to Outrider's kneecap just then. Each fell from his mouth as he staggered backward, eyes spinning independently in his head as he tottered and slumped down onto his ass.

Daisuke, watching, had just regained a weak and fumbling control of his arms. He placed them underneath his chest and pushed up to sit. Just as he did, the Chosen Hunter's weighted hood fell back.

This revealed, to Daisuke's shock and eventual horror, a crop of short black hair. It was ordinary and out-of-place, like the wide mouth, like the dip in the philtrum.

Outrider scrambled toward her discarded gun, only a few feet away, and picked it up. She ran back over to the Hunter, placed her foot on his chest, and put the barrel only an inch away from his nose.

Daisuke sighed in no little relief. The Chosen Hunter looked up at her, seeming almost a little hurt.

When Outrider pulled the trigger, though, there was no bullet to be found. Outrider's brow furrowed and her eyes widened in barely-suppressed shock and fury. She pulled the trigger, again and again; doing this, though, did not magically load her gun with fresh ammo, no matter how much she apparently wanted it to.

Outrider's face finally twisted into a complete and violent rage: she hefted the gun up, held it by the middle of the stock, and, with a howl, threw it like a javelin right toward the Hunter's face.

He barely managed to roll out of the way. Instead of popping through his eye socket and into his brain, the barrel of the gun buried itself a few inches into the soft, gravelly soil beneath, so deep it stood straight up against gravity. 

The Hunter shoved Outrider's foot off his chest and, for good measure, kicked her in the stomach from his prone position. When he scrambled to his feet, the Banewalker grabbed Outrider around her shoulder, arms on her back, and propped his leg up under her stomach. Then he dropped, pushing her down and onto his knee. Outrider coughed up a sound like a gag, and the Hunter, furious, grabbed her by the back of her neck and pushed her to the ground.

She landed on her stomach with a groan. Daisuke's legs began working, but not enough to get his body to her—they weren't yet strong enough to walk, only to aid a bit in crawling. He dragged himself to the window.

Every ounce of him soon wished he was on the floor still, clueless to what he was about to witness.

The Chosen Hunter, with an air of casualness Daisuke could hardly stand, planted his boot on the small of Outrider's back. With a catlike curiosity, he reached down to Outrider's left arm, the prosthetic, and gently lifted it from her side. He touched the alloy, entranced.

"Where did you get this?" he asked—a genuine question, Daisuke thought. "Resistance camps don't have access to this sort of technology."

Outrider didn't respond to his question, for she was already thinking ahead: "No. Stop. Please, don't, it's connected—"

The Chosen Hunter grinned that blood-boiling grin. "You won't mind if I take it for a closer examination, right?"

He didn't wait for a response. He used the foot on her back to prop himself up. Then he took her hand, twisted it behind her back, and pulled.

It felt like it took hours for that damn arm to come off, but it likely only took ten seconds. Outrider always had her sleeve rolled and buttoned up to the end of the metal and the beginning of her flesh, so Daisuke got a full view when the prosthetic, hooked into her bicep to keep it from slipping, began to tear.

The meat ripped, and Outrider began to whimper. The Hunter rolled his neck and pulled harder.

Alloy dragged cleanly through muscle, and Outrider's whole body jolted with the pain. The humerus was becoming visible as the prosthetic dragged further and further down her arm; eventually, with a terrible pop and a grunt from Outrider, the whole thing came off her body.

But, in the cup of the alloy, where shaved bone plugged in and the stump neatly fit, three tight wires sat, not yet disconnected.

When the Hunter began pulling on these, it earned the first official shrieks from Outrider. Her whole body snapped tight like a bowstring suddenly drawn; her head jerked up to the sky and the taut tendons pulled her jaw open. The arm yanked, and, like elastic, the wires came with it. 

As they came to light, it was easy to see where the alloy met the original nerve: the organic part was yellow and stretchy and just kept coming out of her body like a worm while the Hunter pulled, and the mechanical part curled around the nerve a few times before they meshed together in a beautiful blend of flesh and alloy. The wire, though, wasn't stretching, and it kept pulling more and more of the nerve out of her body.

Outrider screamed like a whistle when the first nerve snapped. It was the most awful thing Daisuke had heard in his life. The second nerve gave out and Outrider, quite possibly for the first time in years, had tears streaming down her face. When the third and largest nerve finally came apart and the arm ripped all the way off, Outrider gurgled up a mouthful of bile, lying prone on the ground as the Hunter staggered backward, observing her now-lifeless arm.

Then, after barely a moment's examination, he dropped it to the ground. "Not as interesting as I thought," he said with a self-satisfied grin. Then, he made the biggest mistake of his life: he assumed Outrider was down for the count and turned on his heel, completely exposing himself.

Daisuke could only see Outrider's eyes and brow. Everything from her nose down was buried in the crook of her remaining elbow.

Do you remember what Daisuke said about instinct kicking in to keep you alive?

Outrider's reddened eyes were wild and wide; her brow was furrowed in hate. The pain had ripped away everything except the thrashing animal desperate for life—Daisuke could practically smell the adrenaline rolling through her with every beat of her heart; it crashed down like waves.

Daisuke bet you also forgot about Outrider's knuckle knives.

As the Hunter walked away, Elena Dragunova ripped a blade from the strap on her thigh with hardly a sound. She rolled onto her back, lunged forward, and sank the knife, from tip to hilt, into the inside of the Chosen Hunter's upper thigh.

To say the Banewalker screamed would be the understatement of a century. Outrider left the knife there and allowed the Hunter to fall to his knees. With this time, she clambered across the pavement, picked up her prosthetic, and—get this—whacked the Chosen Hunter over the head with her own dismembered arm, so hard it cleanly sent him to the floor. She crawled over him and hit him once more, this time across the nose.

Outrider's screams had given Daisuke enough adrenaline to get to his feet, albeit weakly. He had no hope of shooting either of them from this distance, but the Hunter didn't do well from the ground—Daisuke clipped his rifle to his belt and stumbled over to a nearby drain pipe.

In the time it took to do this, the Chosen Hunter and Outrider had traded a few shaky, pain-stricken blows. The Hunter had Outrider on her stomach again, though he seemed frustrated with his prey: he was holding her by the hair and pointing toward her prosthetic. "Your arm is—" he sputtered, seeming to struggle to find the words— "OVER THERE! Freak out! Go get it! Quit fighting!"

Outrider half-screamed, half-puked. Fair.

She rolled onto her back again and punched the Hunter in the face, less to inflict damage and more to get him off her. She staggered to her feet, turned weakly, and made to kick the Hunter in the jaw.

But she was weakening, just like Carlos had weakened when the juice wore off. Her kick became more of a stumble. The Hunter easily dodged; he came to his feet like a feline and pulled the knife from his thigh.

What sent Daisuke scrambling up the pipe, and what made Pratal Mox, bleeding out on the street, sit up, and what got Carlos Díaz's attention even though he was artificially exhausted, was not the arm coming off. Though it was terrible in every way imaginable, it would not kill her.

The Chosen Hunter took the knife and sank it deep into Outrider's lower back, to the left of her spine. Outrider didn't even make a sound. Her eyes widened, and her mouth opened, but all that left her body was a long, defeated wheeze. The Hunter leaned over her shoulder like he was telling her a secret, observing her face as he jerked the knife about. Her arm fell to her side, which seemed enough for the Hunter.

"Outrider," called Mox weakly from the ground, the same place he'd been immobilized so early on. Daisuke wondered what this would've been like if he'd dodged the shot.

Mox reached toward his Kal-15, grabbed it, and aimed toward the Hunter.

The Banewalker ripped the knife from Outrider's back. Then he shoved her to the ground.

Mox fired. The five bullets his gun let out each found their way deep into the Hunter's side, and he staggered away from the shots, gasping—it seemed as if he'd forgotten about Mox.

"You're alive," he hissed. "You hideous sack of—"

The Hunter was cut off by the grenade that clattered at his feet, ticking, unclipped. He jumped, shocked, and kicked it like a soccer ball.

Right underneath the gas tank of a car.

The explosion sent black smoke billowing into the air. In the not-so-distant distance, the Lost howled and shrieked, loving the sounds of the fight. The Chosen Hunter, wounds stitching and characteristic smile returning, turned to Carlos Díaz. He wiped the blood, now sourceless, from his face and said, "A grenade? In a Lost City?"

"Better than you," growled Carlos, which was the meanest thing Daisuke thought he'd ever said in his whole life.

Carlos caught Daisuke's eye, very subtly, bless his fucking soul. He seemed to know exactly what to do, just from Daisuke grabbing the pipe and glancing at the balcony it led up to.

Then Carlos said some words in Italian. It was a great distraction for Daisuke to clamber up the drainpipe onto the balcony.

Carlos, already in hot water, didn't put up much of a fight. The Hunter put him on the floor, and as Daisuke crawled onto the balcony, smoke billowing and faintly obscuring the Hunter from his view, Carlos made a verbal fuck-up that Daisuke, much later, would be eternally grateful for.

"B-Bad!" Daisuke peered through his scope at the Hunter, pinning Carlos to the ground by the chest. "Daisuke!"

Daisuke, for exactly one second, was pissed about the usage of his first name.

Nonetheless, he shouted down at the Hunter, "You think that any of this is right? You think we're the bad guys? You know, you turned out to be a real monster!"

What happened next was something Daisuke would never, ever forget.

The Chosen Hunter didn't say anything in return, which was not at all what Daisuke expected. Through the black smoke, Daisuke watched the Banewalker's hazy form turn to him; the luminescent eyes narrowed and the head tilted.

The Banewalker got one of two words out: a disbelieving, awe-stricken, "You're…"

Then his eyes flashed magenta. Not violet like amethyst but red like tourmaline. It was an awful color, and it glowed so brightly in his eyes that it made spots in Daisuke's vision when he looked at it long enough.

This was the beginning of the end. With a soft, pained sound, the Chosen Hunter clutched his head. The smoke cleared a bit, and Daisuke saw that, from nowhere, there was blood dripping from his nostrils. It made no sign of stopping—as Daisuke watched, the stream only got heavier, until it fell over his lips and chin like a fountain.

The Hunter got out his second word. This was a meek, shy whimper from a voice Daisuke had never expected or wanted to hear from the Chosen Hunter's mouth. He said, "Outrider?" Then he fell to his side.

The blood was coming out of his ears now. He was whining and holding onto his temples like a child with a migraine.

He rolled onto his back. Carlos scrambled away from him, getting to his feet and running back to hide in the building. Daisuke watched with morbid curiosity as the Hunter's eyes began to bleed: it rolled out from behind the sockets every time he blinked, coating the irises and pupils thickly. His eyelids could not mask the glowing red of his irises—it shone through even when he placed his fingers over his face.

Daisuke flinched back as the Chosen Hunter loosed from his throat the most horrific sound Daisuke had ever heard; worse than Outrider's scream, worse than his sister's body hitting the sand. Human vocal cords, even alien ones, should not have been capable of such a terrible sound.

Then, with no prompting to speak of, the Hunter's spine broke upward, so hard the sound cracked against the buildings and his armor ripped. His shriek petered off with a quiet wheeze, the oxygen thoroughly expelled from his lungs.

Then, with the soft, wet pop of an eggshell cracking, the Banewalker's entire skull fell apart at the seams. The jaw sagged open; the eyeballs fell inward; the skin and hair, the ears and nose liquefied. This revealed a steaming, golden, melted yolk of a brain, slopping about, broken, on the pavement.

Daisuke sat and watched. Carlos, below him, made a noise of disgust.

Then, with the sound a garbage bag full of pudding would make if it hit concrete after falling quite a ways, the Chosen Hunter exploded. Chunks flew. Organs spiraled through the air. Bones stuck into walls.

The mass of the Hunter's body disappeared in a pillar of purple light, and that was the end of it.

"Medics," said Carlos into his radio. "We don't need backup, we need medics. Everyone's wounded—Outrider and Mox are on clocks and myself and B—pardon, Nakamura, both have substances in our systems that need—no, no, you're not listening! Medics! Bring us medics!"

Daisuke's head was spinning. Whether from the tranq shot or from watching his worst nightmare explode into goop with no warning—well, it was anyone's guess.

Mox and Outrider were stabilizing but not even close to out of the woods yet. No matter what they told Carlos, he assumed the worst and radioed evac with a lot—a lot—of requests for medics sprinkled in there for good measure.

"No. No. The Hunter… yes, the Hunter exploded, we didn't make him explode or anything, he just. Did… what do you mean, he gravied?"

Outrider was, understandably, not doing too hot. She held her face in her hands—well, hand, which was one of the reasons she was doing so terribly. Every time she moved the upper left side of her body, she flinched like she'd been slapped. Mox was in bad shape, too: the bullet had broken through a few different ribs and when he breathed, he made a sound like a balloon slowly losing air. They leaned on each other, both wrecked to shit, both miserable, and closed their eyes. Daisuke nudged the both of them with his foot occasionally, just to make sure they were still, you know, alive.

Carlos had a hole in his stomach, but apparently, the Crazy Fatal Heart Injury Juice had, what… stopped the bullet? Prevented long-term damage from setting in? Temporarily gave Carlos an 8-pack that miraculously caught the shot and spat it out? When Daisuke suggested the latter, Carlos rolled his eyes so hard that Daisuke was surprised they didn't fall back into his head. Therefore, it was the theory Daisuke settled on.

"You have a term, for when the Chosen Hunter explodes unprompted. And you didn't tell us. Why? Why didn't you? And, more importantly, when do the medics show up?"

They stuck both Outrider and Mox with Crazy Fatal Heart Injury Juice—Mox hadn't used his, and the steroids helped a lot with the pain. They split the stuff; a quarter of it went to Outrider, and the rest went to Mox, because Mox was enormous and Outrider was kind of tiny. Carlos, after his bout of CFHIJ (pronounced SEE-fidge; you could call it 'Overdrive Serum' but if you do, you're a pussy), became enormously exhausted to the point where a Chosen couldn't knock him out of it. Mox and Outrider had liked the idea of being tired.

"Fifteen minutes… fine. Sure. And they're good ones, right? They'll fix us. They're not, like, the 'make you more comfortable while you die' type…? Okay. Okay. Well, fucking sorry, I'll try to be less anxious the next time I get hit in the face by the small intestine of the Chosen Hunter!"

They'd hunkered down in a nearby building so the Lost couldn't find them, in the top story with all the doors shut and shutters over the windows. Carlos relayed their location, apologized about five separate times for his rude remarks, and then walked over and sat next to Daisuke with a long huff.

"Outrider," he said, "I know you're resting, but is 'gravied' really the term for what happened?"

Outrider nodded weakly against Mox's shoulder. "I'll explain later. I don't want to talk about it."

Carlos didn't push. Instead, he slumped over and sighed, rubbing his face in his hands. Daisuke reached out and gently patted his shoulder. "It's okay," he said quietly, the words only coming out because he'd been recently drugged. "You did what you could. Now we just wait."

"Did… anything good come out of that," asked Outrider, because she was in a pessimistic mood. "We went and got our asses kicked for nothing."

"Well…"

Then Carlos, from his side, pulled out the Chosen Hunter's revolver. The Darkclaw.

Outrider shot up. She paid dearly for shooting up, but she did so anyway. Mox's eyes widened. Daisuke stared at the one-of-a-kind alien weaponry Carlos was casually holding. "I got this," he said, very meekly, like this wasn't the kind of loot people would for-real kill to get their hands on. "He probably has a million, though…"

"Carlos," said Daisuke after a moment, "that is not true. Like, objectively. There is only one of those."

Carlos held up the pistol with a rather stupid look upon his pudgy, sad face. "Really?"

Outrider crawled over to Carlos and grabbed the pistol. She held it; tested its weight. "Why in the world," said Outrider, "didn't it go back with him?"

"Is it supposed to?"

"Yes!" Outrider seemed to share Daisuke's opinion of the expression on Carlos' face. "It is an incredible feat of alien technology; do you think that if there were a million, we wouldn't be using them?"

Carlos genuinely thought about this. "I just assumed," he said, "that it was the same way as ADVENT guns. You can't use them without, I dunno, melting or something."

Trying to save Carlos from the wrath of Outrider, Daisuke said, "It's a rational course of thought. I mean, have you seen what ADVENT guns do to you when you use 'em? It's horrific. Happened to a friend of mine—"

"We have our first lead," said Mox.

The three turned to the only person in the room with a functioning brain. He sat up, pressing a hand against his chest as he did, and repeated, "We have our first lead. If it is a one-of-a-kind pistol, that is supposed to be connected to the Chosen Hunter's body…" Mox shrugged. "There are a variety of things we could do with that. All thanks to you."

Mox, Daisuke, and Outrider looked at Carlos.

Carlos, seeming uncomfortable with all the eyes on him, said, "Wow.

"I think Grandma will be proud."

Chapter Text

The plane ride home was the most painfully exhausting thing Daisuke had ever lived through. Each of his bones creaked when he moved. Mox’s wheezing was getting really old, really fast. Outrider kept making cranky, bitchy comments, interjected in every conversation Daisuke and Carlos had, and the next time she did it, Daisuke was gonna whack her stub so hard she puked.

Carlos himself was just about ready to drop. He was nodding off, even though he knew he was Daisuke’s only source of entertainment. The CFHIJ had kicked him into high gear, burnt up all his gas, and left him a smoking husk. He kept falling asleep midway through their conversations, and Daisuke had to kick him in the shin to wake him up. Was it probably kind of dickish to keep Carlos up when he really needed to sleep? Definitely. But did Daisuke physically feel like he’d die of boredom if he didn’t have Carlos’ attention? Yes.

At least Carlos was humoring him. Daisuke knew he was fighting to stay awake, and he was weirdly flattered that Carlos kept it up.

You might be thinking, ‘Well, where are those medics Carlos requested?’ Nowhere to be found. Carlos used the last of his energy to nearly pop a blood vessel when the pilot revealed that she had been told to come alone. After this last bit of fuel burned out his tank, he collapsed on the floor and moaned miserably for a few minutes. Then Daisuke sat on his back to shut him up.

Mox was fast asleep. Outrider was only staying awake to take douchey digs at Daisuke. Carlos was pretending to listen to Daisuke, and Daisuke, who couldn’t sit because he had a bruise the size of his hand forming on his right asscheek, was pestering Carlos.

“The salmon population in the Pacific Northwest took a major turn south when fishing wheels were introduced,” said Daisuke to Carlos, who seemed tiredly interested. “The King Salmon, or the Chinook—named after an indigenous population off the Columbia—took a major turn for the worst. Silver salmon—coho—were fished heavily, too. The Columbia became a huge hotspot for salmon fishing, and before there were any restrictions, fishers would haul in salmon by the hundreds every year.”

“Mhmm,” said Carlos to Daisuke, eyes barely staying open.

“When the population noticeably took a dip, the government made a pretty huge mistake. Instead of regulating the fishing, they opened hatcheries. So they’d just put a bunch of artificial—not very good—fish into the environment. They only put regulations in after the population didn’t right itself after the introduction of hatcheries—which, by the way, the hatcheries sucked.”

“How do you know all this?” Carlos asked. Daisuke was not socially adept enough to notice that Carlos was absolutely begging him to talk about something else.

Daisuke responded, thinking it was an honest question: “There was an ecoterrorist that blew up dams. Lived with the Reapers. Anyway, about the hatcheries. So, before we understood how salmon worked, we really raised them shittily, so they didn’t survive; because they didn’t survive, they didn’t help wild numbers…”

Carlos fell asleep listening to Daisuke talk. Daisuke couldn’t wake him up, which scared him a bit until Carlos grabbed the hand Daisuke was poking him with and mumbled, “I’m napping.” Then Daisuke let up.

Daisuke, for a bit, looked at Carlos’ face. He rested sitting up, with his chin tucked against his chest. His nose was broken and he had tissues stuck up his nostrils; his right eye was swollen and beginning to bruise in a circle. He had dark marks curling around his throat, ending in crescent welts, and the dreadlocks that fell over his shoulders were ragged and dust-covered. A few ended in ripped-up coils of hair, where the Hunter had tugged them out. He looked awful.

Slowly, he relaxed from a curled-up state to a more relaxed one. Carlos’ breathing evened out, and the furrow in his brow went away.

He slumped over, little by little. Daisuke’s entire body jolted when Carlos’ head landed limp and heavy on his shoulder. His fingers fell against Daisuke’s thigh, similarly loose.

Displeased with his new position as a glorified neck pillow, Daisuke glowered down at Carlos. Carlos, whose eyes were closed and whose mouth was open, trickling drool, didn’t care. He simply sat there, snoring a little, and used Daisuke as a headrest.

He picked up Carlos’ hand with his fingertips, the same way you’d pick up a rather turgid dead thing, and moved it away from his leg.

Outrider caught his eye. She had been in the same position for about an hour. Mox, next to her, had been fighting to make any sort of contact with Outrider for a long time. She kept pushing him off, and he kept reattaching himself, like a leech or a mosquito. Skirmishers, thought Daisuke. And, apparently, Grenadiers.

She looked amused, if not tired. Daisuke said, quietly so he didn’t wake Carlos or Mox, “It’s a shit life.”

Despite it all, Outrider’s mouth curved into a smile. She rolled her eyes, laughed, and crossed her arms; she leaned back against her chair and closed her eyes, leaving Daisuke wholly ignored by everyone on the ship. Unless you count Carlos. Daisuke wished he was being ignored by Carlos.

When they returned to camp, the medics that Carlos failed to summon finally showed up. They put Outrider on oodles and doodles of painkillers and carted her off to the tents; they peeled off Mox’s undersuit and revealed the messiest entry and exit wounds Daisuke had ever seen; they tweezed the bullet out of Carlos’ stomach.

Daisuke’s inspection happened in private. They might’ve laughed at the story if Daisuke’s ass didn’t have a bruise six inches across and the color of a plum stretched across it. One of the medics prodded it, which hurt so bad that Daisuke nearly clobbered her in the mouth. Eventually, they decided it was superficial and told him to let it heal. They gave him an ice pack that melted after five minutes.

After that, they stitched up his collarbone, put some antiseptics on the welts the Chosen Hunter had put on his chin and temple, and sent him on his way. The first thing Daisuke did was try and check up on Outrider.

On his way to the tent, he met up with Volk by chance. Volk looked exhausted and had a cigarette hanging out of his mouth like he’d been woken up from the first long sleep he would get in weeks. When he saw Daisuke, though, he sagged with visible relief; he took a long pull from his cig, dropped it to the ground, and put it out with his heel.

“Volk,” said Daisuke with a respectful nod. “It didn’t go so well.”

“So I heard,” Volk sighed. “What the hell happened out there? Nobody’s awake, except for your friend Carlos, but he’s so damn tired I can’t get shit out of him.”

Daisuke shrugged. “Hunter showed up. He took Mox out of the equation real quick; Carlos and I fought him for a bit before he hit me with a tranquilizer. Carlos stayed up for a while longer because he had, like, bull steroids. But those wore off and took out all his energy… Outrider fought him after that.”

Volk’s brow furrowed with uncharacteristic worry. He glanced toward the tent where Outrider was getting surgery, both for her arm and the knife wound. “And that happened.”

“Yeah.” Daisuke eyed the stub on the ground. “You wouldn’t happen to have any extras laying around?”

Volk raised an eyebrow at Daisuke. Then he took one out, and Daisuke got excited for a moment—then Volk lit it, looked Daisuke in the eye, and took a long, long pull from it. Daisuke waited for Volk to pass it over like a dog under a table waiting for scraps.

He didn’t get any, though. Volk turned and walked off; Daisuke followed.

“C’mon!” Volk was pretty good at ignoring Daisuke, but Daisuke, a younger sibling, was pretty good at being unignorable. “Please? I got shot in the ass. Had to get it inspected and everything. Spare a fag.”

Volk glared at Daisuke. “There’s a joke in there somewhere,” he said, which offended Daisuke a little. “No. I remember when you used to go through a pack a day. You coughed like a rocket going off.”

“Shot. In. The. Ass.”

The sigh that Volk unleashed should’ve thrown his lungs from his chest. He asked with incredible disdain, “Are you ever going to leave me alone if I don’t give you one?”

“Probably not,” said Daisuke, trying not to seem smug. Victory was on the horizon.

Volk rolled his eyes. Then he reached into his bag and pulled one out, muttering, “Sorry about the joke,” as Daisuke snatched it like a piece of food after days of starving. “Outrider getting hurt isn’t something I’ve ever took well.”

Daisuke, who always carried a lighter in case he found a pack of fags lying around (or, you know, if he needed a campfire), quickly lit it up. “Don’t blame you,” he said before taking the most splendid pull off a cigarette he’d ever had in his life.

He didn’t mean to undercut a crucial emotional scene. He really didn’t. But Daisuke had to tell you that he just fucking loved smoking. Smoking felt amazing. Toe-curlingly, ecstatically wonderful. The smoke curled in his chest and throat, cooled off, and came out of his mouth and nose in a big puff of grey euphoria. It sent him straight to Heaven with an escort of sexy naked angels singing his anticipated arrival.

“Jesus Christ, you’re pathetic,” said Volk under his breath, which was true, but Daisuke was not paying attention at all. He tipped his head up to the sky and closed his eyes, savoring this feeling. All the bad feelings came out of him with the smoke he exhaled. “Don’t think I’ve ever seen you so happy.”

“No, you haven’t,” Daisuke said as he took another pull. “Tell me more about Outrider. C’mon.”

Volk stomped pretty damn hard on Daisuke’s toes, which might’ve bothered him if he weren’t riding his first nicotine high in months. “Outrider’s just…” Volk’s nose twitched, likely a side effect from trying to show emotions. “She’s been through the ringer. Doesn’t deserve any of this.”

The cigarette softened Daisuke up; he bumped his upper arm against Volk’s in a completely unrestrained act of touch. Volk quirked an eyebrow up at him, and Daisuke shrugged. “I’m sorry she got hurt,” he said. “The whole mission was rough, but she got the worst of it. It’s good that we’re focusing our efforts on getting rid of the Hunter forever, huh?”

Volk gave Daisuke a look that was somewhere between worried and proud. “Right,” he sighed after a moment, patting Daisuke’s shoulder. “Once you finish that we’ll go inside, okay? Make sure she’s doing okay.”

Daisuke looked down at the cigarette resting between his curled fingers. He was a little uncomfortable with how good he felt—Outrider nearly died, and Carlos’ nose was broken; Mox came inches from getting his heart shredded like paper. He’d just gone hand-to-hand with his worst nightmare. Daisuke should not have felt great, and yet here he was, beyond great.

He narrowed his eyes. Then, probably for the best, he let it fall to the ground and snubbed it with his toe. “Let’s just go now,” he muttered, mood suddenly ruined.

Volk placed a firm hand on the small of Daisuke’s back and used it to guide him into Outrider’s tent. The rush wore off, and Daisuke tried—failed—to hide the sudden bout of coughing that came over him.

Outrider was going to be okay. She’d be returning to the Avenger for about a week to get her arm refitted by Tygan.

The knife had pierced just left of her spine and, by some fucking miracle, missed any nerves. It stopped when it hit her hipbone. Nerve damage in her arm would be fixed—or at least aided—by the prosthetic reattachment, and from there, she’d recover. The end of her arm was wrapped in clean white bandages. She stayed in bed, shithoused on painkillers, while Daisuke and Volk asked her dumb questions to see if they could get her to say something funny.

In typical Outrider fashion, she resisted, and eventually fell asleep. The whole time they talked, Volk held her gaunt, lithe hand in his. When he got noticeably emotional, he told Daisuke with nothing short of hostility, “You’re dismissed.” Daisuke, who didn’t want to get pulled like pork, hustled out.

Dusk fell. Daisuke was letting Carlos sleep with minimal pestering—he had a nest of blankets in two seats of the theatre, seats with the armrest torn from between them so one could lie down comfortably. Well, one who wasn’t six feet tall could lay down comfortably: Carlos had to curl up like a pillbug.

Carlos was sleeping like a baby, though. Who could blame him? Daisuke watched him wobble on over to the makeshift bed and fall asleep before he’d even hit the cushions, curling up around his shitty, beat-up pillow and going to sleep.

Daisuke, immediately bored, started going through his old things. He disassembled the tent he’d been in for the six months, gave it back to Volk. He pulled all his stuff out of the old bag and sorted it out—a little time capsule of a thing, mostly of garbage and bugs. He emptied out the wrappers and beetles and put them aside; he sniffed the old weed to see if it was still good (it wasn’t) and put away the bottles, ringed belts, and other colorful objects. Teenage Daisuke was a nightmare of a person, and Adult Daisuke loathed going through his shitty things again. It was a callback to worse times.

He found a few old things that he kept—an old comic book, a Rubik’s cube, a few colorful objects that weren’t too weird-smelling—and tossed the rest. Garbage tended to be a place for communal things, anyway.

Eventually, he ended up curling up in his own bed and sleeping. The heinous smells of the city lulled him into a quiet, mildly fretful rest; Daisuke dreamt a bit about his sister and their times. He woke up hurting all over.

When Daisuke sat up, his back, despite telling him that it desperately needed popping, did not pop even a little when Daisuke stretched. He stood on aching feet, walked with aching joints, and ate with an aching jaw. The calorie mush slid down his throat with an awful texture, made him feel green about the gills, and hit his empty stomach like a pile of soil.

Cigarettes did that to Daisuke. That was the biggest reason he quit—he loved the feeling of smoking, sure, and he enjoyed the overall idea, but Daisuke, when he smoked for the first time in a while, didn’t do too hot after. He called it a tobacco hangover, and it was miserable.

Water helped. Daisuke drank his entire bottle and thought about making Carlos fork his over, too. He did a couple dozen push-ups to get the blood flowing, stretched his hamstrings, and went to Carlos’ nest of blankets in the theatre.

Carlos was fast asleep. He looked stupid. His dreadlocks were out of their tie and running wild, falling over his face and shoulders; one of his eyes was half-open, as was his mouth, and he was drooling as he snored. Daisuke stood over him for a few minutes, trying to figure out how he was bending his body to fit in the two chairs, looking at his big nose—now stuck in a splint with dried blood crusting his nostrils—and the bled-through gauze plastered on his face. He looked like hot shit.

After realizing that staring at a sleeping person was, in fact, more than a little creepy, Daisuke walked off. He didn’t know what to do—there was so little to be done in the camps, especially now that Carlos and Outrider, his two primary sources of entertainment, were fast asleep. Mox might’ve been awake, but Daisuke always found that you’d get the same results trying to maintain a two-way conversation with Pratal Mox as you would with a brick wall. Volk might’ve been fine if Daisuke wasn’t genuinely terrified of him most of the time. Daisuke, the traitor he was, decided he liked the Commander better than Volk.

Daisuke decided to do some reading. He’d brought along a new book and his Walkman, so he curled up into a small ball, put in his sister’s custom mixtape, and listened as he read.

This went on for a little over two hours; Daisuke had learned to keep track of time through his cassettes rather than a clock when he read. He might’ve been the only man on Planet Earth that could’ve taken over two hours to knock through only thirty pages of a book—it wasn’t like they were long by any means. Daisuke was a slow reader. He reread pages a lot; he got confused when the narrators changed. Sometimes he had to guess the meaning of words. It was more than a little pathetic, and when he thought about it too hard, something like shame would heat his face and force his body into a curve. Rivera once poked a very lighthearted sort of fun at him for it and, for the first and only time, felt really hurt by the words she’d said.

It ended when there was a soft nudge of a foot against his shin. Daisuke blinked, suddenly knocked out of his reading trance, and pulled off his headphones frantically to look up at Outrider.

“Jesus,” said Daisuke. “Thought you were gonna be in bed for a few more days!”

Outrider heavily sighed and sat down next to Daisuke a little awkwardly. Her stump still moved like she was expecting there to be a forearm at the end of it. “I am,” she said, voice strained, “but I don’t like to sit for long. Are you reading a book?”

Daisuke observed his book. Beloved by Toni Morrison. “Yeah. Not much better to do right now.”

A non-assuming noise. Outrider put her elbow on her knee and closed her eyes, breathing long and slow. “I didn’t realize you read,” she said after a while of silence. She was in pain, Daisuke thought. “I need to talk to you about the fight.”

The way Outrider said the words made it clear there was no way to escape the conversation. Daisuke grumbled and folded the page of his book to keep his place. “Alright. Hit me.”

“I accessed all your AARs,” said Outrider, which made Daisuke nearly shit his pants, “and, of course, the outlier was the one you did not write yourself.”

Daisuke scowled and rolled over to show her his back.

“Daisuke, you could’ve told me,” she said quietly. Outrider using his first name felt like a needle in his heart. “You could’ve, and you should’ve.”

Daisuke muttered, “It’s hard to talk about.”

“Fine. I understand.” She prodded him with her foot. “You should’ve had your big friend tell me, then. Carlos.” Daisuke opened his mouth to talk and Outrider quickly interrupted him: “It’s a terrible thing you went through. Reapers interrogated only speak of misery. It wouldn’t have drawn pity from me; I would’ve taken things a little more seriously, though, and for God’s sakes, I would’ve armed myself better.”

“Sure sounds like pity,” said Daisuke, for he was still a grumpy teenager at heart.

Outrider, to her credit, only laughed a little. Then they were quiet for a while.

There was always a shared understanding between the two of them. Daisuke thought it was because they were both close with Sayaka. Sayaka got along with everyone, but according to Sayaka, Outrider had really needed a friend when they’d come along. She always had a good impact on everyone, and Outrider was no outlier. He’d only gotten to stay with the big guns for as long as he had because they’d both liked Sayaka, and both knew that Daisuke had taken her death much harder than anyone else.

Outrider sure knew what kind of toll grief took on a person.

So they looked after him, at least, for a few months while Daisuke recovered. Daisuke couldn’t have been any more grateful.

“I need to give you something,” said Outrider after about half an hour of silence. “Don’t know why I kept it to myself for so long. I think you’re ready.”

This caught Daisuke’s ear. He rolled over curiously to look.

With a long, aching groan, Outrider pushed herself to sit. She let the pack slide off her shoulder and onto the floor; from there, she opened it and awkwardly pulled a long strip of red-stained leather and black cloth.

A coat.

Sayaka’s coat.

“I held onto this after she died,” said Outrider as she gave it to Daisuke. When he put his hands on it, goosebumps rose along his arms and neck—it’d been so long since he’d held something so important. “I planned on giving it to you when you were ready, or maybe if you needed your spirits lifted… then you left so suddenly, and I never got the chance.”

Daisuke did the first thing that came to mind: he pressed the fabric to his face and took a long breath in. The smell of Sayaka filled his nose and mouth and lungs to the brim. Tears wetted his eyes in moments—the soft scent of tea and campfire from her daily life, the cheap perfume she used to bathe herself in every morning, and the underlying smell of the soap used to scrub the blood and brains out of the leather and cotton.

Was it odd to hug a jacket? Daisuke folded himself around it and didn’t let go for a long while. Everything came bubbling up to the surface suddenly. Not thinking about something worked great until you were holding the thing you were thinking about; until you wanted to think about the thing you’d put years of effort into holding back. And, of course, Outrider had seen Daisuke when he was sixteen. She’d seen the worst he had to offer—the kicking, the shrieking, the grief—and still respected him, so he didn’t feel too bad when his chest shivered a sob so huge it made his legs shake. She watched, and she probably thought about five years ago, and she probably thought about trying to hug Daisuke.

Daisuke had only liked it when Sayaka hugged him. And he’d taken it for granted, the way he could so openly accept touch: this he was acutely aware of as he clutched the coat, wishing for just one more fucking hug.

Outrider watched Daisuke cry. The coat had peeled off a scab, and now Daisuke was bleeding all over the place. Then, once Daisuke seemed okay, Outrider hit him with the gutpunch: “She would be proud of you.” Then Daisuke said, “Oh, shit,” and began to weep again. This lasted a little longer.

Finally, Daisuke felt normal again—a little refreshed, even. He took off his ragged old jacket, folded it, and put it in his bag. Outrider watched him with a sad smile as he put on Sayaka’s red-and-black jacket. It was a little narrow in the shoulders and fell nearly to his heels, unlike his coat, which had ended mid-calf. The leather was all dyed a dark crimson and the cloth was black- black. It matched the ‘aesthetic’ Sayaka had so loved before she died. Daisuke was honored to wear her coat.

Some medic hunted down Outrider while she and Daisuke were talking about Sayaka. This medic had such a distinct handprint on their face that Daisuke thought a palm reader could tell the slapper’s fortune from it. They whined-slash-sputtered at Outrider, “Volk’s been looking everywhere for you, he slapped me in the face, I can’t believe you would just skip the scene like this, why did you leave,” because they seemed to be nothing more than a giant bitch.

Outrider left. Daisuke zipped up the jacket and pretended like Sayaka was there with him.

Eventually, he got up and went to the theatre again, more than aware of the fabric draped over his shoulders and back and chest. It was heavier than Daisuke was used to, but he didn’t mind too much. He couldn’t chase the scent of tea from his nose.

Carlos was finally awake—it seemed like he’d also figured there was nothing much to do. He was doing some light exercise and humming to himself in that off-key tone he always sang in. Daisuke usually hated lousy singing, but listening to Carlos was a different beast. He did suck, though. He could not sing for shit.

When Carlos noticed Daisuke, he stopped singing. He was in the worst mood Daisuke had ever seen him in—at least, that’s what Daisuke supposed, based on the shitty look on his face and the fact that he was exercising alone instead of coming to bother Daisuke like usual. He looked a little embarrassed, a blush growing beneath the pounds of gauze taped to his face. “Hi, Bad,” he mumbled, and went back to his crunches in a way that, to any person on Earth except Daisuke Nakamura, plainly asked for peace.

Daisuke, though, did not know what ‘social cues’ were, so he went over to Carlos and stood over him. If looks could kill, Daisuke would’ve been so dead his existence would’ve been completely erased from the universe. Of course, such a look was open to misinterpretation: Daisuke, for some fucking reason, thought Carlos was just in a bad mood. He said, “What’s up?”

“Didn’t sleep at all,” said Carlos, whose voice had become even more nasally than usual. “Terribly.”

“How’s your nose?”

Carlos let out a weighty sigh. Then he asked scathingly, “Why do you think I didn’t sleep at all?”

“Alright, alright. Fair enough, no need to grill me over it.” Daisuke sat down next to Carlos, trying to subtly show off the collar of Sayaka’s jacket so he might be asked about it. This was the most prolonged bad mood Daisuke had ever caught Carlos in, and he kind of—no, he really hated it. He put his chin in his palms and looked at Carlos, right in the eye, trying to figure out just from expressions if he could make Carlos feel better at all.

You’re probably thinking, this is unusual—since when was Daisuke so thoughtful? Cigarettes also did that to Daisuke. Even one drag yesterday would’ve improved his mood for the entire week. Daisuke felt good all the way down to his toes. So he just stared at Carlos for a while; watched him do sit-up after sit-up, until Daisuke was sure he’d get stuck midway and stay curled up like a spider for the rest of his life.

“Doesn’t that hurt?” asked Daisuke after a while. “With your bullet wound.”

“Yeah,” grunted Carlos. He started doing crunches again.

Daisuke frowned. “Then don’t do them.”

Carlos gave Daisuke a look that made Daisuke shrivel. “Don’t tell me what to do,” he snapped suddenly. “Why are you here?”

Defensive, Daisuke said, “Well, I just—I’m bored and I wanna hang out with you. Is that such a fucking sin?”

Carlos opened his mouth, and then he shut it just as fast. He took a long, slow breath in and out through his mouth. Then he said, “Sorry. You’re right. I’m in kind of a bad mood. It’s not your fault.”

This soothed Daisuke, just a little.

“Okay, well…” Daisuke hedged onto the topic very slowly, not wanting to aggravate his friend. “I’ll leave you alone. I’ve just got something to show you.”

“Your new jacket?”

Daisuke brightened. “Glad you noticed,” he said, trying not to get excited over it. “It was my sister’s.”

Slip of the tongue. Nicotine had made Daisuke loose-lipped, loosey-goosey. Carlos suddenly paused mid-crunch, blinking, and looked at Daisuke curiously. “Is she in the camp?” he asked, and Daisuke knew he’d been caught.

He knew it would at least make Carlos soften up a little bit, at least in front of him. Daisuke shrunk into himself, played with one of the strings coming loose off the sleeve, and said, “No. She’s…” Daisuke thought of Outrider; what she would say. “Sorry. I need to tell you something and it might make you kind of mad.”

Carlos looked at Daisuke. He did not say, Oh, Bad, you can tell me anything, right? He did not say, Tell me, tell me, I’d love to know. He did not even say, What’s up? He stared at Daisuke, and he did not say even one word in that sweetly gentle way Carlos usually said words to Daisuke. 

He noticed Daisuke waiting. Then he said, "Well?" and Daisuke suddenly got the feeling he shouldn't be trying to do this.

“Sorry. Nevermind.” Daisuke stood up quickly, suddenly finding that his fingers needed intense wringing and the insides of his cheeks needed to be chewed to pulp. “I’ll tell you later. Keep doing what you were doing.”

When Daisuke tried walking away, nervous out of nowhere, Carlos suddenly came to his feet. It was right then that Daisuke’s brain suddenly followed a path it usually followed with everyone except Carlos— could I take him in a fight? Probably. Daisuke was in better shape; he knew where Carlos was hurt, and he was probably much faster, and Daisuke really hated that this was something he had to think about.

“Bad,” said Carlos. The way he said it made Daisuke squirm. “Tell me.”

“She’s—” Daisuke did not want to tell Carlos anymore. The words caught in his throat, and then they spilled out from his mouth like a blockage or vomit: “She’s dead, Carlos.”

Carlos stilled. The tension in the air felt like it would make every object crumple; it felt like Daisuke would unravel if he had to stand here any longer, and yet he felt like he had to stay still, like Carlos was a predator who’d eat him alive if he so much as twitched.

Eventually, after a few suffocating moments of silence, Carlos whispered, “Bad.” And: “She’s dead?”

Daisuke swallowed thickly. He nodded.

Carlos took a deep breath. He looked at the jacket Daisuke was wearing. And he said, “So you lied?”

These words took Daisuke’s heart into their hands—it was already so sad and small, bruised-up and bleeding. They took Daisuke’s heart and put a long, fat needle through one of its chambers and out the other.

“I— what?” Daisuke, who was still in disbelief for some reason, sputtered. “Carlos, I—”

“She’s not in another camp. She’s not—she didn’t get transferred. Jesus, Bad, you lied!” Carlos put his fingers to his face. If Daisuke were thinking straight, he’d worry that Carlos would make his nose heal wrong. “I cannot believe that.”

“Carlos, I didn’t mean—”

“I don’t care!” Daisuke had never been yelled at by Carlos. He decided very quickly that he did not like it. He didn’t like that Carlos’ voice got hoarse; he didn’t like that Carlos was angry; he didn’t want any of this. “You can’t just do that! I don’t care what you meant by it. You lied to me. A lot.”

Daisuke opened his mouth. Nothing came out.

“Trust is a two-way street.” Carlos wasn’t shouting anymore, but this deadly whisper was no improvement. “If you were—if you misled me about this, what else haven’t you been telling me the truth about?”

The fear wore off. Daisuke suddenly felt something very small, and very hot, curl in his belly.

“And—”

“No,” said Daisuke suddenly, over Carlos. “You’re right,” he dragged his eyes off the floor and onto Carlos’, “Díaz.”

Daisuke didn’t really care how low a blow he’d just thrown. If it was about fairness, that went out the window when Carlos raised his voice, didn’t it? Carlos recoiled, quite obviously hurt—as if he had the right.

“Trust does go two ways,” continued Daisuke, taking a step toward Carlos. He did not hit Carlos because he was tremendously angry and was afraid that if he threw one punch, he’d have to keep going, maybe forever. “I’m, of course, a complete fucking liar, and you make my sister’s death about yourself.”

Maybe this kick to the dick was what woke Carlos up from his haze of frustration—but, of course, the damage was done. No taking it back now. Daisuke scoffed, shaking his head, and sighed, “Fuck off, dude,” before turning on his heel and storming off.

Daisuke did what he was best at.

He walked out of the theatre like nothing had happened. He put the argument out of his mind. He took a deep breath, and he didn’t think about it.

Daisuke went around the camps for a while, wandering, mask on. His legs felt weak and he blamed it on the Hunter. His hands shook and, well, it was because he smoked yesterday. A lot of things he could blame on the smoking, and not on the words exchanged.

The city was beautiful, in its own weird, decrepit way. It was a mummy in a casket—like, damn dude, what happened to you? But Daisuke, when he was very young, had been obsessed with the idea that he was looking at something that was alive at some point. That the veins had blood pumping through them at some point. What did the mummy think about? What did the mummy like to do? Did the mummy love? He’d been entranced.

Building after building towered over Daisuke, created by someone, at some point. He wondered if architects and construction workers would cry to see all their work go to waste. Several were missing big chunks from the corners; wires crawled out of the concrete like the thin little bones in Daisuke’s hands. They were stark grey—radioactivity and weather stripped the paint from the stone in big flakes that gathered in the streets. Like leaves, they spun in the air and crunched beneath Daisuke’s feet.

Nothing happened above the buildings. There was inky blackness hanging in the air, choking and thick. Light still came through the unmoving, unspilling, cancerous clouds, but they were colorless, alien. Daisuke once had a nightmare that they would come down in thin, misty fingers and spill into his lungs and choke him to death. He’d never felt safe in a Lost City again.

Cannibals made up the population of the city. This was true for both human and animal. Reapers bit through the muscle of traitors, and a few blocks away, crows pulled the tendons from the bodies of their fallen. Daisuke had more in common with a corvid than with most of the people at XCOM.

Suddenly catching himself in the middle of that edgy fucking thought, Daisuke shook himself and decided to go find something to do.

Daisuke spent a few hours dicking around with some Reapers he knew vaguely. He got himself two packs of jerky and a bruised rib or two winning poker; he caught up with a couple old acquaintances; he did some busywork for Volk, delivering USBs to some egghead techie who looked at him like he either had something in his teeth or had just got done brutally killing someone. The whole time, Daisuke kept things out of his mind. Perfectly so.

Eventually, he got a little tired of this. He ate some food, he drank some water, and he begged Volk to use the private bathtub hauled out of one of the museum’s display cases and stuffed in a janitor’s closet. Outrider was the one who used it most—they’d started using it after her arm came off; they needed to keep her clean while keeping her arm out of water—and eventually, after a full hour of pestering, Volk permitted Daisuke to use it, too.

Daisuke boiled water for this—he took it seriously. He put bucket after bucket of hot water into the porcelain tub and got out the sticky bar of soap he’d brought in his bag. When the tub was about half full, Daisuke peeled the clothes from his body and lowered himself in.

Why people did this for fun, Daisuke would truly never understand. It was like the world’s most uncomfortable hug. Everything was hot except his arms, chest, and knees, which were freezing. The lint from his socks drifted out from between his toes and coasted in the water. Hairs came out of his scalp and floated on the surface like sea scum. It was gross, and Daisuke hated it, but there was no such thing as a shower here.

In that scummy, gross water, Daisuke sudsed up the soap until he got a nice lather in his hands, and he stuck that lather under his arms and between his toes and all over his legs. He did this twice over and pulled some of the suds through his hair, too. He always washed until the soap came out white instead of brown or red.

When the stitches started to tear open, Daisuke got out of the tub and toweled off with his own shirt. Then he put on his nicest clothes, fixed his posture, and walked past the theatre Carlos was sitting in, not making eye contact—and he walked outside.

From there, Daisuke walked two blocks down, took a left, and then a right, to an old, fucked-up office building. Inside that building was the tent of Molly Jenson.

He rapped on the tarp with his fingers, as was customary. She rustled around inside for a moment, muttering to herself, before unzipping the tent just a bit and peeking out at him.

“Oh,” she said. “Nakamura. You visited.”

Daisuke tipped his head to the side with a smile he hoped was coy instead of cocky. “Just thought I’d come say hello.”

“Doubtful. Come in.”

Molly let him squeeze into her small tent. It smelled like bleach and only bleach, because Molly had to clean up the other smells. She had a pack in the corner, a bedroll sitting next to it—perfect, neutral, like its owner.

Daisuke Nakamura and Molly Jenson had gotten to know each other when Daisuke first came to Bratsk. She was a painfully blunt teenager; he was a horrifically lonely, painfully blunt teenager. Could he make it more obvious? They talked, they ragged on each other, and they got along. Daisuke had needed someone to get along with desperately when he met Molly.

Then Daisuke came to the camps again, when he was older, to have surgeries and get hormones and all the exciting Transgender Stuff he had to do. He got top surgery, a full hysterectomy; he started a high dose of testosterone. He should not have done all of these at once. His body went haywire for a while: he had mood swings, insomnia, and infections at his top surgery site. Nothing that killed him, but charging headlong into all of these huge changes was, in hindsight, not his finest moment—but, in the end, he was intensely satisfied.

The issue was not with any insomnia, soreness, or odd yellow pus from the scar tissue on his chest. Of course, these were issues—the pus ended up being a nasty infection for which he’d needed days of antibiotics. But the biggest issue was the fact that testosterone was turning him—to be crass—into a giant fucking horndog, and suddenly having a sex drive while he was still coping with being antisocial and touch-averse… was challenging, to say the least. His body was asking too much of his brain; that wasn’t even mentioning Daisuke was an awkward teenager who was laughably underequipped with the words he needed to describe how he felt. 

Of course, frustrations manifested themselves as an unwieldy crush on Molly, for which Daisuke felt an enormous, inexplicably crushing guilt. In the present, Daisuke could say, like, ‘something something, very new and complicated feelings about everything because I was very abruptly growing comfortable living in my own body and mind; also my testosterone dose was and continues to be too high, but so what.’ In the past, though, this guilt was justified and excusable—though if you’d have asked Daisuke to explain these excuses and justifications, he’d very quickly fumble over his words and eventually tell you to shut up and leave him alone. He was miserable with his feelings.

For a while, he ignored Molly. Daisuke figured that if he just ran away from the problem, it’d disappear—and it did. But so did one of the only friendships he’d ever had.

Then Molly, evenhanded and brusque Molly Jenson, came to him and told him that if he was going to treat her like she was invisible, he might as well tell her why. Daisuke, loose-lipped with loneliness, said to her that he was afraid of hurting her because she was very attractive and Daisuke was losing his head over it, and she told him plainly that he couldn’t hurt her if he tried. This was true, of course, because Molly had an understanding of the human body that was downright frightening and could dissect Daisuke like a frog if she wanted to.

And things didn’t change between them. That was what Daisuke liked best. She was still his lame friend Molly, and he was still her lame friend Daisuke. They still did pot together when they were bored; they still read comic books just to shit on the characters. That, and other things.

Molly let him sit cross-legged at the end of her bedroll; she sat by the pillow. Her bored, overall disinterested features had taken on a priggish glee. “Why are you here?” she asked, observing her nails with a purposeful inattentiveness. “Thought you and yours would’ve left by now.”

“Still got a few days.” Daisuke sat back, putting his weight on the heels of his palms behind him. “I’ve visited everyone except you. Felt a little bad.”

She looked amused, to some extent. With pure skepticism, she said, “Really,” and reached over to her bag. “Even Kozlov? I’m wounded.”

“Jesus Christ, not Kozlov.” Daisuke was genuinely hurt that she thought he’d visit Ilya Kozlov before her. “What do you take me for? I think I’d actually rather kill myself, thanks.”

Molly laughed her systematic laugh. “I’ve maced that spindly bastard twice now,” she said, and Daisuke didn’t doubt her for a moment. Mockingly she continued, “Molly, Molly. Please play Scrabble with me—you kick my ass every time and I always cry best two out of three. Molly, Molly. Let me tell you all about my day to try and distract you while I snag your dinner. Oof, ouch, Molly. You put chili pepper in my eyes and then punched my liver.” Molly pulled from her backpack a beaker bong with yellow flowers painted in detail on the side, a pack of weed, and a glass bowl. “I cleaned it pretty good yesterday. I don’t have ice. Hope you can handle that.”

Daisuke, who had smoked a pack a day at sixteen, said, “I’m fine.” He helped her get everything ready, as much as she would let him. He didn’t expect to smoke with her, but he didn’t mind.

In the most remarkable display of affection Molly Jenson would ever give anyone, she let Daisuke take the first hit. He had to hunch over because Molly didn’t trust him not to drop the bong if he held it up; he put his lighter to the bowl and breathed in the smoke.

The first time Daisuke ever took a rip off Molly’s bong, everything he’d eaten that day and a little bit of what he ate the day before ended up on the ground, in a puddle outside Molly’s tent. He was better at not puking now, though he did cough a little into his elbow. Molly put her hand on his foot, maybe comforting him, maybe to rip it off if Daisuke accidentally tipped over and broke her bong. Daisuke cleared his throat and took a few long gulps of water to soothe his throat.

Then he watched with great interest as Molly took the bong from him. She lit the rest of the bowl and put her mouth to the end; Daisuke observed this with an attentiveness he’d never put into anything else. She breathed in, held it for a moment, and then lifted her head and exhaled, very slowly, very deliberately.

Her eyes caught Daisuke’s. She said, “Daisuke, if you don’t stop looking at me like that, I don’t know what I’ll do to you.”

Feigning a feigned innocence, Daisuke blinked a few times. “Like what?”

Molly, who hated Daisuke when he flirted, rolled her eyes; she hooked her index finger under the collar of his shirt to guide him over her, flat on the bedroll. She put aside the bong and, into his ear: “If your legs go out midway through again, I’m going to bite off whatever appendage is nearest.”

“Yours went out too; it was bad weed,” muttered Daisuke, and he kissed her.

Daisuke woke up in the early hours of the morning. It was completely dark, the kind of dark where you could close your eyes and see no difference when you opened them. It was warm, too.

Molly was curled in the circle of his arms. Her thin, greasy hair tickled his nose, and her breath was hot and humid against the dip of his throat; her head was resting on Daisuke’s bicep, giving him a bad case of pins and needles in his hand. His other hand had found the soft part of her side, where her ribcage dipped into the fold of fat before her hip. Molly’s arm was over his shoulder, squishing his ear as it lay flat over the side of his head. Her fingers, curled in the small gap between them, rested against his breastbone. Daisuke, for the moment, rescinded his claim to hate touch. He liked holding Molly.

Daisuke did not fall asleep again that night, though he closed his eyes and listened to Molly breathing very slowly, very steadily. He couldn’t see her face in the dark, but he imagined her pale eyelashes touching the dark skin beneath her eyes, the furrow between her brow loose in her sleep. The expansion and contraction of her ribs when she breathed. He could feel it in time with the hot puffs of air on his neck. Daisuke was not in love with Molly, but he didn’t know if he liked anything more than Molly curling up in his arms.

Eventually, Daisuke needed to pee, and he liked Molly, but nature did call. He slowly detached her from his midsection and sat up. When he put his back into a curve, his whole spine popped from top to bottom, and his muscles sang their delight. Each stretch felt like a wonderful extension instead of an awful pull. When he touched his toes, everything from his hips to his feet tingled pleasantly.

He pulled on his pants and shirt and jacket, popped his neck one side and the other, and got out his pocket torch to write Molly a short note. Daisuke didn’t want to leave her all cold and alone, but she always liked it better that way, citing Daisuke’s morning breath. She preferred a message, though, which Daisuke scrawled and placed by her bag before heading out into the darkness, his flashlight illuminating his path home.

When Daisuke got to the museum and walked to the bedroom, he did not turn and look into the theatre, though he caught out of the corner of his eye the shape of Carlos, curled up and fitfully asleep. Instead, he went all the way to the bed, and was not surprised to find Outrider curled up under the comforter instead of in the medical tent. Either she hadn’t been asleep, or Daisuke had woken her up—she quickly got upright, squinting against Daisuke’s light.

“Jesus,” she muttered. “Turn that thing off.”

Daisuke whispered, “Sorry,” as Outrider switched on her bedside lantern. It was a warm, orange light that illuminated the whole room. She looked like she hadn’t been getting a wink of sleep. “How’s your arm?”

“Well. It got pulled off by a crazy immortal demigod.” Outrider patted the bed next to her, probably sensing with her crazy Outrider intuition that Daisuke wanted to talk. He sat down. “Need I say any more?”

“No.” Daisuke curled his feet up to his chest. “Sorry.”

The room Volk and Outrider roomed in was lovely. If you didn’t know any better, you’d think it was a real-life bedroom with curtains, carpet, flowery wallpaper, and a bed made of a frame and mattress. They could even sometimes bring in a space heater, which would make the whole room feel like home; like the room of Daisuke’s father and mother, whom he scarcely remembered.

“Don’t apologize,” said Outrider—not in a friendly way. “You went to Molly’s?”

He shrugged, looking at his feet.

“Wash your clothes sometime.” Just like that, Outrider’s voice had become soft and teasing. “You could get a whole ‘nother hit out of your jacket right now. Terrible.”

She didn’t ask Daisuke any of the questions Volk might’ve asked him—are you still high, why did you do it, what else did you do—and for that, Daisuke loved Outrider forever. He smiled, just a little, and looked up at Outrider. “Thanks,” said Daisuke, very dryly. “And, by the way, Molly’s doing alright and I had a nice time. Thanks for asking.”

Outrider punched Daisuke’s shoulder. There very nearly were two amputees on the bed instead of just one. Offended, Daisuke rubbed the new bruise forming on his bicep, frowning—Outrider just looked down at him, endeared.

“What happened?” asked she, because Outrider was nothing if not nosy. “Between you and the orange man.”

“You know?”

She rolled her eyes as if this was the stupidest question she’d ever been asked. “Yes, Daisuke.” He didn’t mind when she said his first name. It rolled nicely off her tongue, and she always said it with a fondness that she perhaps didn’t feel toward Daisuke. He’d take what he could get, though. “I heard him shouting—not nicely—and then you stormed out of here with that idiot look upon your face.”

Beyond wounded, Daisuke echoed, “Idiot look??”

She did an impression of Daisuke that was so accurate he could kill her. She placed her curled-up fist on her hip and danced back and forth; she deepened her voice significantly, which Daisuke liked. “Hur dur,” she said, which made him slouch. “My name is Daisuke Nakamura and nothing has ever bothered me, except that the universe just ripped me a new one, but don’t worry. I’m handling it fine. Scoff, sneer, et cetera.”

“That,” said Daisuke, “was hurtful.”

“It’s true.”

It was true. Daisuke rolled his eyes and pointedly did not put his curled-up fist on his hips or dance back and forth; instead, he looked at his feet and said, “I think I made him mad. And I’m also, like, really mad.”

“What happened?”

Daisuke shrugged and did not meet her eyes when he mumbled, “I told him about Sayaka. I didn’t tell him what happened before, and he got mad that I didn’t, and… we had a fight.”

She was quiet. The room swayed and rocked with the wind. It was deafeningly silent.

“Did you not tell him,” asked Outrider eventually, “or did you lie to him?”

Caught. “Lied. Told him she was in another camp. But—I started when we weren’t really that close, and, I mean… you know how much it sucks to talk about.”

The sigh she unleashed could’ve knocked all the windows out if only it were a little more explosive. “Yes, I do know,” she said, lowering her head and massaging the bridge of her nose. “Liar caught in their trap… I see.”

“Was that a dick move?”

“How long have you been lying?”

Daisuke thought about that one, though it made him feel like he had maggots in his guts. “I think… well, since I first met him. Ten months.”

“Yeah. Dick move.”

Daisuke, hot and angry, nearly put his balled-up hands on his hips and told Outrider to fuck herself—but quickly she raised her hands, defensive— “No, Daisuke, I don’t think you were being a dick. I think that the actions you took weren’t the best… of course I know it’s hard to talk about something like that, especially to someone you might not know so well. But lying over and over… he has a right to be upset. Even if you didn’t have malicious intentions.”

Managing to restrain himself to a scoff, Daisuke folded his arms. “Well. I don’t think it was that bad.”

“That’s because you don’t have social skills. Either way, just because it wasn’t a good decision doesn’t mean you deserved to be yelled at. You’re right.” She punched his shoulder, this time in a friendly manner that did not nearly kill him. “Your sister died. You have a right to be guarded about that information, and—finally—he didn’t have a right to shout you down. Maybe, I don’t know, talk about it later…”

She trailed off like she had personally gotten angry, which was both exactly what Daisuke wanted and what he did not want at all. He said, “It’s not like we fight all the time, either. This is the first time I’ve seen him really mad.”

Outrider looked genuinely impressed. “The very first.”

“Mhmm.” Daisuke put his chin in his hand. “I mean, maybe he’s just been tolerating me this whole time. It’s not like I’m the patron saint of, I don’t fucking know, baby angels and kindness or whatever.” Daisuke did not know what ‘patron saint’ meant. “But it’s not like I ever tried to hurt his feelings or anything. I just do it sometimes.”

They were both quiet for a while. This often happened when they talked. Outrider and Daisuke sometimes took very long breaks to gather their thoughts—it was what Sayaka did, and everyone liked Sayaka for it; the replication of this habit was why Daisuke and Outrider never fought. He preferred it that way.

Outrider broke the silence. “How have you handled it when you’ve made him angry before? Even just a little angry.”

After a moment of thought, Daisuke said, “Sometimes I apologized. Sometimes we just pretended nothing ever happened.”

“You will not pretend nothing ever happened.” Outrider cracked her neck like she was getting ready to physically wrangle the problem. Daisuke would’ve preferred that, actually. “What kind of apologies did you give? Real ones, I hope. Not the, I did something wrong and apologies are a formality, type.”

“I meant the apologies. I really did.” Leaning his cheek on his knee, Daisuke looked at Outrider’s strong, sure fingers. She always looked unbreakable, from her hands to her eyes to her posture. Daisuke wondered how in the hell she always kept that up. “I… do you think he was always mad at me? And this was just the breaking point?”

“Daisuke, you know I can’t answer that question.”

“Try.”

Outrider rolled her eyes so hard that it was a miracle they didn’t roll all the way back into her brain. “I do need background information. What’s the meanest thing you’ve ever done to him? Hands-down.”

Like an idiot, Daisuke took the time to come up with an answer. “Well… I’ve probably called him stupid once or twice. Definitely brought up sex when he didn’t want to talk about it.” Outrider’s face did something funny. Not realizing what that might have sounded like or why Outrider suddenly looked like she’d eaten something very sour, Daisuke suddenly found his shred of information and blurted it quickly: “Oh! I one time punched his ex!”

Not at all realizing how his words could be completely misinterpreted, Daisuke felt satisfied. Outrider blinked slowly. She took a deep breath. She put her hand on her knee and muttered, to nobody in particular, “Oh, he was a saint for putting up with us, wasn’t he?” Then she finally faced Daisuke and said, “Okay. That adds layers.”

“Layers? How does ex-punching add—”

Daisuke realized.

“—oh, fuck, okay. No, no, not… oh, shit.”

“You don’t have to deny it,” said Outrider, because Daisuke did have a track record of denying to her that he was involved with people—you know, with the whole ‘repressed teenager’ thing. The way she said it quite clearly indicated she didn’t want to hear about any romantic exploits Daisuke had, Carlos-related or not. “Just… nevermind. Nevermind. At least you’ve gotten close with people at the Avenger…”

Offended but somewhat reassured that Outrider wouldn’t ask any invasive questions he’d either have to deny or bullshit answers to, Daisuke slouched. “I’m not that bad. And his ex kind of sucked, I guess… I don’t know. He didn’t want to talk to the dude, and I panicked. I was tired. Long fucking day.”

She at least seemed to understand, nodding. “I suppose that’s fair, and he wasn’t upset with you.” Outrider sighed very deeply once more. Daisuke didn’t know what to do. “You should apologize to him, though. I know it’s awful to apologize when you think you’re in the right, but if you want to maintain your relationship—” ugh; relationship— “then you need to.”

More of that comfortable silence. Daisuke slowly bumped himself into her shoulder, and she didn’t say anything; she just put her hand on his head. She didn’t run her fingers through his hair.

“Outrider?”

“Yes?”

“How do you know if you’re in love?”

She laughed. It didn’t feel malicious, but it didn’t feel very kind, either. “And why the hell do you think I know that?”

Daisuke shrugged. Their shoulders bumped together awkwardly when he did. She audibly rolled her eyes—a move only Elena Dragunova could pull off—and said, “I’m not sure.”

“Have you ever been in love?”

There was silence while she pondered this. Outside, in the blackness beyond the windows, the wind shrieked against their shelter, furious that they wouldn’t let it in. Eventually, very quietly: “Once, I think. I’m not sure anymore… I don’t know if I loved him, or if he was the only other kid my age. He was kind of the worst sometimes.”

“Really?”

“Yup. Terrible. I remember, I told Bad Company—the one whose names you’ve stolen… original album?—that I liked him, and he…” There was a fondness in Outrider’s voice that Daisuke had never once heard. It warmed her up; she talked from her chest instead of her throat and he could hear the smile in her tenor. “Oh, Daisuke. He legitimately took my hands and asked me if I was okay. It was terrible.”

He laughed into her shoulder: “Oh, no. Were you okay?”

“Oh, God, no,” she chuckled, and Daisuke grinned. “His name was Tomko. Absolute wet napkin of a guy. Pretty tall, black hair. Polish, if I remember correctly… we met when I was still all edgy and mean—”

“You’ve been more mean and edgy than just this?”

“Oh, believe it, Daisuke. I was an asshole, so I suppose I deserved some of the shit he gave me, but he was a teenage boy. You know how teenage boys are.”

Daisuke did know how teenage boys were. He’d been subject to the will of adolescents—Outrider had been one of the people to patch up black eyes and skinned palms and once pull a nail out of his calf. He wrinkled his nose and grumbled, “He wasn’t like the kids who used to pick on me, right?”

“Come on. Those kids would give you a flushie and he’d be two stalls over, doing the Vegas apple-bob. Wet napkin, Daisuke!”

The words Outrider used did not match her voice. Her diction indicated a scraggly rat of a person; her tone indicated her best friend. And what was so incredible was that, despite how bad Daisuke was at reading a situation and how Outrider could never put any emotion into her voice, they figured it out. They knew.

“Sorry you have shit taste in men,” said Daisuke, genuinely. He knew the feeling.

“Oh, it’s alright.” She sighed and patted Daisuke’s shoulder, rather saintly. “He got better, anyway, when he stopped being such a… a teenager. And it’s not like I didn’t enjoy his company, either. He was just… very annoying, sometimes.” She paused. “Alright, most of the time. But it just became what I expected from him, you know? A part of life.”

She became very quiet all of a sudden. It didn’t take a genius to know why.

Trying to salvage a probably-unsalvageable situation, Daisuke quickly blurted, “So—what was the other Bad Company like? Uh, what’d you call him…”

“Original album,” said Outrider, as if she were unsure of the nickname. “Daisuke Matsuoka. I usually just called him ‘Bad,’ though…” She looked at Daisuke—fully turned her head to meet him eye-to-eye. She was smiling so big that dimples pressed into her cheeks. “You’d have loved him. And I think he’d have loved you. Big, big guy; he was kind of shaped like that cartoon character Johnny Bravo because he always skipped leg day—but every day was arm day to him, so his arms were like,” Outrider made a very broad gesticulation, “this big.”

“Do you have a picture of him?”

“Huh. I think I do. Get my bag.”

Daisuke, who didn’t want to say no to a woman who’d just had her arm ripped off, got up and got Outrider’s hefty black bag. It went schlumph onto the bed and made the whole thing creak sideways. He didn’t know what Outrider put in that fucking thing, but it was too much.

She zipped it open and pulled out a thick, leather-bound book. It had all sorts of colored tags and papers sticking out from between the pages, and they rustled like feathers when she opened it up.

Inside were enough handwritten words to rival the Holy Bible. Some were scrawled so quickly and faintly that they were near-illegible; some were pressed deeply into the page so it left an imprint on the paper behind it. Pen and pencil; highlighting; tape and post-its and annotations. It wasn’t in a language Daisuke was familiar with, but whatever it was sprawled from cover to cover.

When Daisuke read, sometimes there’d be a scene he’d like to reread—either it was well-written or Daisuke hadn’t understood it entirely—and he’d open to it so much to it that the spine would bend, and whenever Daisuke tried and flip through the book, that page he’d land on. Outrider let the book fall open on its own, and it parted to reveal two taped-in photos surrounded on all sides by frantic writing.

If he didn’t know any better, Daisuke would’ve assumed this was the mad scribbling of a clinically insane person. Both photos were of separate people—the first featured what looked like a teenage boy Daisuke was pretty sure he’d met once; he was striking some sort of dorky pose, with an open hand to one side of his face and the other hand flat with the fingers beneath his chin, elbows everywhere, hips jutting, spine curved. He was thin: nothing clung to his bones except clumps of muscle sticking out from his forearms and neck. He looked like a dumbass. The other was an older man—probably not older by much—thick with strength (though, apparently, only in his upper body). He had his chin in his palm, smiling up to his eyes at something that wasn’t in the picture; it was the sort of face that was probably followed by a frown and the words, “Did you just take a picture of me?” He had a full mouth and a few moles speckled his pale face; his hair was buzzed to the scalp.

The pictures were covered in red pen marks. Some things were circled—the teenager’s mouth and hands, the older man’s muscular build and the arc of his spine. Arrows indicated practically every body part they had, even the moles on the second one’s face; they sprouted from annotations, hundreds of words worth of them, in that hard-pressed scarlet ink.

Outrider pretended this was completely normal, which Daisuke respected. When she pointed to the picture of the bigger one, she didn’t at all mention the scribbles surrounding him, the frantic circles drawn around the question marks. Daisuke was intensely curious, but Outrider said in a voice he could barely hear over the wind, “I really miss these two,” and Daisuke kept his mouth shut. “This is Bad Company, um… first album. Jesus. Uh, yeah. He was really good. He’s looking at his kid in the picture here—he always wanted to take pictures with Takehiko.”

“His kid? He was a father?”

“Yeah.” Outrider flipped to a separate page—the Polaroid taped into this one featured the same man, a little younger. He was standing, bent at the waist so he could hold steady the hands of a toddling little child. The child looked absolutely delighted, and so did the father. “He loved Takehiko more than anything. This is when he was first learning to walk… Bad was so proud. He cried his eyes out when Takehiko called him ‘dad’ for the first time.”

Daisuke frowned, looking up at Outrider. “I never met a kid named Takehiko. What ever happened to him?”

Outrider looked at Daisuke. Her fingers curled up into a ball and she quickly became very sullen.

“I’d rather not talk about it,” she said eventually, turning away from Daisuke.

The wind shrieked and rattled outside. Rain had started to come down; it gathered on the windows and rolled in big, undrinkable streaks down to the ground. The drops went tip-tip-tip-tip against the walls and glass. In the midst of it all, Daisuke scooted closer to Outrider, and she put her head on his shoulder, the book still open in her lap.

Daisuke had already slept some that night but couldn’t help indulging in some more. It always felt good to close his eyes and shut off his brain for even just thirty minutes. Or six hours.

When Daisuke woke up, it was horizontally, face-down, pillowless and blanketless on the end of Outrider’s bed. She was lying in bed like a normal person would, curled up in the tiniest ball, whole arm beneath her with the elbow cradling the crown of her head. He was living a sedentary life, he supposed. 

The rain had stopped, but the wind hadn’t. It was still dark out, but that was because it was always dark out; a glance at his watch said it was one in the afternoon. He got up and wiped his eyes free of crusties—and, shocker, suddenly got the urge to smoke. Smoking also did that to Daisuke. At least being on the Avenger would keep him away from cigarettes until the desire took the backseat, or as much of a backseat as it could.

Outrider still slept, and Daisuke didn’t want to bother her, so he got up and left as quietly as possible.

He was adjusting the collar of his jacket—he was still so unused to the weight and material—instead of keeping his eyes up. Not watching his surroundings, Daisuke didn’t see any imminent dangers or awkward conversations.

“Oh!”

Shit, thought Daisuke, because he’d just woken up and he wasn’t at all prepared to face Carlos right now. He froze in place, hoping maybe it was a different person, but that little squeak of a greeting was unmistakable—Carlos was peeking out from the theatre, looking… well, doing something with his face that was really scary, scarier than anger. He looked like he wanted to talk. “Bad,” said Carlos, the voice returning to the gentle tenor he usually used. Daisuke didn’t know what made him angry about that, but something did. “I—can we go on a walk? I want to—”

“Jesus, there you are,” said Konstantin Volikov out of fucking nowhere, giving Daisuke a fright and making Carlos flinch back. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere. Did you leave last night?” When Daisuke opened his mouth to respond, Volk waved his hand: “No, I don’t actually want to know. Listen, I wanna talk to you. Come with me.”

Volk walked off, giving no room for argument. Daisuke stared after him, and then stared at Carlos. Carlos had this look on his face that Daisuke hated; one of his hands was outstretched, but then he tucked it back in, but then he reached out again. Daisuke looked at the fingers, and then at the worried eyes, the eyes that said sorry before the mouth did.

He turned and skittered off after Volk. It was only half because he didn’t want to talk to Carlos—it was true that if Daisuke tried to stay and have a word with Carlos, Volk would just come back and drag him by the ear to wherever he wanted to go. He didn’t have a choice.

Probably.

“Sorry to drag you away from your conversation,” said Volk when Daisuke caught up with him, sounding like he wasn’t really all that sorry. “The Commander wants to have a word and, Daisuke, I’ll be honest. I can hardly stand him and I need a buffer so I don’t start saying words that make Central start drinking again.”

“And I’m the buffer.”

“Better than your last mission.” Volk ‘nudged’ Daisuke in the side. One of Volk’s ‘friendly nudges’ could break your ribs if you weren’t careful. “It won’t be that bad. You’ll do some speaking if I get tired of doing some speaking. Which will probably happen. Ah, fuck it, you’ll probably be taking the lead in the conversation. I’ll tell you what to say, don’t worry.”

“Thanks,” said Daisuke, forcing the resentment out of his voice so Volk didn’t put him on the floor. “What will you be talking about?”

“The pistol your big guy picked up.”

Volk led Daisuke into a big room full of wires, motherboards, and blinking lights. The cords plugged into and branched out of walls; the blinking lights came in every color of the rainbow; the motherboards hid beneath shells of matte black metal. Everything was labelled—in Russian, because this was Volk’s place—and there were instructions for everything lying around. Two days after Daisuke’s sister died, Volk had made him translate the Japanese printer instructions to “give him something to do”. Even back then, Daisuke knew it was just because Volk was frustrated with the damn thing and was coming close to killing someone over it.

In the center of the room sat a ten-by-fifteen conglomeration of computer monitors, flatscreen televisions, and one Nintendo 3DS with the screens all pressed together to make one giant projection of the Commander. It gave the illusion of a person hiding behind the walls, like Daisuke was seeing him through window frames. One camera stared down at Volk and Daisuke, the lens like a tremendous eyeball capturing all their movements.

“Commander,” greeted Volk, a sudden veil of professionality coming over his alcoholism jokes and overall dickish demeanor. “Before we begin. Seriously? You named him Bad Company? Have some taste.”

The Commander, who was sitting at a table with his fingers clasped neatly before him, smiled. It looked beyond forced. Daisuke suddenly got the feeling that the resentment went both ways. “Volk, good to see you,” he said warmly. “I’d like to remind you of our last communication. And I chose the name because I quite like the band.”

“Anyway,” said Volk very loudly, “to the topic.”

“Yes, please.” The Commander, through the screen, glared at Daisuke. He supposed that was at least a little deserved. “The pistol Díaz recovered. It doesn’t melt people. That is a development.”

“It sure is.” From his pistol holster, Volk produced the giant weapon. It was big enough to be a small rifle, but Volk seemed to have no problem keeping his fingers around the grip or on the trigger. He hardly even let it droop—he held it like a standard revolver. “I haven’t fired it, both because I don’t trust it and because I don’t know how to reload it. I’d like to send it back with Nakamura and Díaz so Tygan can have a look at it.”

“Oh, believe me. Tygan would also like to see the weapon. Your reports on it are remarkable—it weighs only two pounds, and for that large of a weapon? Why did it not disappear with the Hunter, and yet the rifle did, despite not being attached to his body? Does it have anything to do with the phenomenon your Reapers call ‘gravying’?” The Commander grinned slyly, touching the tips of his thumbs together. “I’d be lying if I told you I wasn’t also very curious. This is perhaps the biggest piece of intel we’ve gotten on a Chosen yet.”

“Perhaps? It is.” Volk folded his arms. “When your egghead is done putting it under the microscope, I want the information ASAP. I want it before you get it. This is my peoples’ issue, and I’ll be damned if I don’t know how to help them. Each piece of intel helps.”

Raising his hands nonthreateningly, the Commander said, “I understand. You’ll get the intel as soon as we have it. I’ll set up a comm channel between myself, Tygan, and you. He’ll give us updates as soon as he gets them.”

Volk gave Daisuke a kick in the shin. “Nakamura, I want you to tell the Commander about the ‘gravy’ phenomenon.”

Daisuke, who barely knew anything about the ‘gravy’ phenomenon—he hardly knew why it was called the ‘gravy phenomenon’—coughed to clear his throat, looked at Volk, and then looked up at the screens that made up the massive portrait of the Commander.

“Uh,” said Daisuke eloquently. “Well. Sometimes the Chosen Hunter… he explodes. It’s been documented a few times, only in him; not the other Chosen. Nobody really knows why, either… there’s no real connection between each one. We think we have the process down… first his ears rupture, and then—this part is theory, we don’t actually know—a bunch of veins and arteries in his eye sockets pop so he can’t see through the blood. Then his spine snaps. A lot of people estimate it’s in just the right place to make his diaphragm go out so he can’t breathe or talk. Then his head falls apart, and his brains kind of… melt? And then he pops. It’s a super rare thing to see; it happens all on its own, too. I didn’t think I’d ever see it.”

“Fascinating,” said the Commander, like a normal person does when they hear about someone’s head and brains melting into bubbles. “I can’t believe we’ve never heard of this, Volk.”

Volk, who looked like the Commander had just forced rotten fish into his mouth, muttered, “Nakamura. Continue your lecture on the gravy phenomenon. What caused it?”

Daisuke tipped his head. “Well… it was kind of intense, and I was also super-doped on what the Hunter called modified horse tranquilizers. So my recount might not be perfect… but I think—I think— he looked at… me.”

Grey and purple eyes found Daisuke. He stood still and looked between his two leaders; hating the stares they were giving him, he folded his arms, hunched over, and snapped, “What?”

“He saw you,” said Volk slowly, a control in his voice that clearly said he was doing his best not to hit Daisuke in front of the Commander, “and the sight of you made him gravy? Nobody else was around?”

“Yeah! Not like it’s a big deal or anything. It was kind of hazy because a car blew up and it was choking up a bunch of smoke. I don’t think he could see me too clearly. He said, like, ‘ ough, you’re, ’ and then he called for Outrider and then he blew up. I put all of this in my report! Did neither of you read it?”

Volk and the Commander exchanged uneasy, knowing looks. Daisuke waited patiently for them to clue him in; they never did.

“Nakamura,” said Volk without looking at him, “give us a moment, will you?”

There was no way Daisuke could’ve run out of that room faster. The tension felt like it would seep into the sponge of his lungs and choke him to death.

And, out of the frying pan and into the shit. Daisuke bolted right out into the museum lobby, where Carlos was sitting, twiddling his thumbs. He tried to backtrack, but Carlos saw him too quickly and called, “Bad, I’m sorry,” and that caught his attention. He stopped midway through trying to do a donut with his feet and, very slowly, turned to face Carlos. The big man was looking at him with his fingers twisted into knots and a worried look on his pudgy face. Oh, fuck. How was Daisuke supposed to stay mad when Carlos looked like a kicked puppy?

“I’m sorry,” repeated Carlos, tense all the way to his toes. “That’s all I want to say. I’m sorry for what I said to you.”

Daisuke opened his mouth to respond but couldn’t find the right words for his emotions. Eventually, after a few moments of gaping at Carlos, he dropped his high-strung shoulders and sighed, “Yeah. So am I. I shouldn’t have lied to you.”

“No!” Seeming to understand that it wouldn’t make Daisuke flee, Carlos approached on tappy, nervous feet. “No, you had every right to not tell me. And I’m sorry I pressed you for information all those times, and for fuck’s sake, I’m sorry I threw a fit when you told me what happened. That was maybe the douchiest thing to ever do. And I’m sorry.”

Daisuke looked at him, trying to figure out what to say.

“Yeah,” he told Carlos after a moment of quiet. “It was the douchiest thing ever to do.”

“I know.” He sounded weird and earnest and Daisuke kind of hated it. He hated that he was getting a good apology. “I know and I’m sorry about it. I really am. And I understand if you don’t want to—to be friends, anymore. Because—I’ll say it again—that was really fucking awful of me.”

He said it like he was really giving Daisuke a choice in the matter. Daisuke blinked up at him, not sure what to say.

Carlos, again, took this as Daisuke being impatient or upset. He sighed softly, and then he got close and whispered, “And I’m so, so sorry about your sister. I know how it feels. You can talk to me anytime… if you want! You don’t have to.”

“Yeah. I know.”

Carlos blinked those big, shiny brown eyes down at Daisuke.

“Fine. Fine, fine, yes.” Daisuke threw his hands up. “I’ll say to you the kindest words anyone has said to anyone, ever.” He glared at Carlos from below his brow. “I forgive you. Genuinely. I’m mad—really, I’m beyond pissed at you. That was just about the meanest thing any human person has ever done to me. But.” He held out his arms and closed his eyes: “I can probably guess you were tired. And got your nose broken. I can’t say I’d be too pleased with anyone if that happened to me.”

Carlos misinterpreted. Of course he did. Daisuke, whose arms were wide-open in a gesture that usually meant ‘hugtime,’ was suddenly swept up in two huge arms so violently that he came off the ground. Unlike the last time Carlos hugged him, he squeezed , squeezed all the air out of Daisuke’s chest in one big hoick, all up against Carlos’ everything, arms stuck to his sides and legs dangling, toes hardly touching the ground. He didn’t shriek, “PUT ME DOWN,” though he was sorely tempted to.

When Carlos finally let Daisuke drop back to the ground after about fifteen seconds of nasty, nasty affection, Daisuke felt like he had to shake himself off like a dog coming out of water. He very nearly did—but Carlos was having his own little moment of, “Oh, Bad, I don’t deserve this, thank you, thank you for forgiving me, blah blah blah nice words, et cetera,” and Daisuke didn’t want to ruin it. Instead, he held his hands out, fingers so tense they trembled, and threw up a bit in his mouth. It could’ve been from the feeling of the hug. It could’ve also been that Carlos literally squeezed the bile from his stomach.

He was happy that Carlos was happy, though. And he did forgive Carlos. He’d thought he would’ve been the one to profusely barf up remorse, but if Carlos forgave Daisuke for lying, then Daisuke forgave Carlos for being a dickhead.

Then Carlos decided that, since he already had Daisuke’s attention for so long, he may as well take it for a little longer. They walked around outside together for a long time.

Daisuke didn’t mind. When he looked up at the big, pudgy face, blathering on about everything and nothing both at once, he smiled, just a little. Shit. He’d missed this.

The next day, three people got onto a big, hideous plane. Daisuke sat down on the first seat so he could watch the city, the grey-beige-green-black city, move on. Carlos sat beside him, chin in his palm, watching over his shoulder. Outrider sat closer to the back, talking to the pilot, pointedly not looking at the three people who had come to see them off.

Pratal Mox and Konstantin Volikov stood together. Mox was watching the plane with interest but not doing much else. Volk was jumping and shouting and waving, trying to tell Daisuke something, probably. Daisuke wasn’t looking. His eyes were on Molly Jenson, who was standing apart from Volk and Mox, and who was smiling. She hardly ever smiled. 

Molly raised her fingers to wave. Daisuke waved back. She said something, and Daisuke of course didn’t hear it over the engine’s howling, but he was pretty good at reading her lips: “See you soon.”

Daisuke didn’t get to mouth anything back to her. The shuttle doors made an awful sound as they closed, a screeeeee-whunk sound, and the city disappeared beneath metal and wires. The engines screamed, and the little safety harness sign came on; Daisuke sat up straight in his seat and pulled the metal bars over his torso.

The ship shivered minutely, tipped down, and blazed a searing path home.

Chapter Text

Arriving back at the Avenger was… interesting.

Roles reversed: Outrider clung to Daisuke instead of the other way around. She hated it here and Daisuke really couldn’t blame her—like, yeah, you get a few meals a day instead of just one and you could take a shower if you wanted to, but it was bright and noisy and nothing like any of the camps. Announcements came over loudspeakers. The walls were tight around you, like a prison. Yvonne Rivera existed. It was  exhausting.

Outrider followed him all the way to his bunks. He put away his things and decided to wash his clothes; he led her to the bunk she’d be staying at, which she put her backpack next to. She unzipped it and pulled out her entire arm, the one that got yanked off—it still had those three nerves dangling out of the cup of metal, which was pretty fucking gross. Daisuke didn’t make comment, but he did meet Carlos in the cafeteria so they could put some food in their bellies before they went to Tygan’s labs. In a characteristically thoughtful move, Carlos left the huge pistol on the table for everyone to see. 

Midway through a long drink of the broth the cafeteria was serving, two large hands landed on either side of Daisuke’s face from behind, and someone leaned over his entire body. Daisuke did not put his fork through the palm of either of these hands, but it was a very near thing.

“What is  that  beautiful creature?” crooned Caleb Hayes from over Daisuke’s shoulder. The fingers curled over Daisuke’s jaw and the nimble chest pressed up against his back and neck apparently all belonged to Hayes, which could’ve annihilated Daisuke’s corporeal form, really. “The gun, I mean. None of you.”

“Hayes,” Daisuke choked out, “if you don’t take your hands off me, I will poison you.”

The hands disappeared from Daisuke’s face. His skin felt very cold in their absence, which Daisuke did not want to think about. Caleb Hayes peacocked his way to the seat next to Outrider; he fell into it and put his feet up on the table. Daisuke seethed at his own feelings.

Outrider looked unimpressed. She scooted her chair away from Hayes and curled her lip at him. “Hello,” she said, though it sounded more like a threat than a greeting. “And who are you?”

Genuinely afraid Outrider would knock the pearly white teeth from Hayes’ mouth, Daisuke quickly butted in: “Outrider, this is Caleb Hayes. Disregard the overconfidence.”

“We’ve met,” said Hayes. “I was still a rookie back then, though.”

While she didn’t stop looking at Hayes like he was nauseating, Outrider no longer looked like she wanted to wrench the guts out of his belly—an absolute win. “Interesting,” she said after a moment of awful silence. “And, to answer your question, it’s strictly confidential; you’ll know if your executive science officer decides to tell you.”

Daisuke quickly interjected: “Well, you’ll probably know soon. No need to get that…  look,  on your face.”

The  look  on Hayes’ face was childishly inquisitive; he looked delighted and intrigued. Hayes liked to investigate things he should not investigate. “Oh, c’mon. Now I have to go with you to the labs, you know that? Not because I really want to, but because you told me I couldn’t.”

Fingers curling on the table, Outrider closed her eyes and said, “I don’t get paid. I really don’t get paid.”

“Caleb,” Carlos abruptly blurted, “I’m gonna go hang out with my family. Do you want to come? They’ll feed you.”

“Your efforts to dissuade me are valiant, but in vain. I want to shoot the cool gun.”

This was an incredibly compelling argument that Daisuke couldn’t ever hope to counter. He sighed, downed the rest of his soup, and stood up—he made sure to snag the pistol on his way so Hayes didn’t get any bright ideas. “Fine, fine,” he grumbled. “Outrider, he’s a Sharpshooter anyway. He’d probably know more about pistols than either of us… we should let him come with us.” And, to make sure Hayes didn’t get too stuffy: “Hell. We can make him the target. He’s coming with us, after all.”

Just to play it safe, he also stepped on Hayes’ toes. Outrider seemed to think this was enough: she sighed, stood up, and followed Daisuke and Hayes as they walked to the labs. He tried to get Carlos to come with—he couldn’t handle Caleb Hayes alone!—but he wanted to go see his  nonnina.  Daisuke wondered when they’d leave Sicily.

Stepping into Dr. Tygan’s labs was like stepping through a portal and into another world. Fluorescent lights seared Daisuke’s eyes; beakers, papers, tablets, wires, microscopes lay scattered across the stainless steel counters. Across the room was the autopsy table—Daisuke could smell the bleach from twenty feet away—and the body tanks that held the best-preserved alien cadaver from each species XCOM had obtained. Watching over it all, pulsing greenly, was the titanic alien generator. It was barred off with railings so you couldn’t reach out and touch it—pawing at it was safe, kind of, but it was a stupid idea nonetheless. Daisuke wouldn’t lay a finger on it if you paid him.

Tygan was hunched over a microscope—what was new? He was fiddling with the knobs with one hand and itching the jagged scars on the back of his head with the other. Unlike quite possibly everyone else on the Avenger, Daisuke didn’t find it suspicious: nerve damage was not a force to be reckoned with. Scratching a bad scar was like digging your nail into a mosquito bite. You  shouldn’t,  but holy fuck, was it a fantastic sensation.

“Ritchie!” shouted Hayes, specifically because Tygan hated to be called ‘Ritchie’ and Hayes was obnoxious like that. “We brought you a toy.”

Outrider, a respectable human being, added: “I also need to have my arm looked at.”

With a sigh of herculean proportions, Tygan turned to look at Daisuke, Outrider, and the imp that had tagged along with them. “Good morning,” he said, pushing his glasses up with his knuckle. “Nakamura, Dragunova. Other parties. It is good to see you; I’ve heard about each of your queries. I’ll have a look at the weapon you brought me before I examine your arm.”

Daisuke didn’t know enough about anything going on to argue with Tygan, though he got the itch to make Tygan take care of Outrider’s arm first thing.

The pistol did not make Tygan’s arm droop. He held it nearly perfectly—which was weird, considering Tygan quite clearly never got into fights, especially not the sort of fights in which guns were involved. He tested its weight, curling his thin arm up and down. The six-shooter went without resistance.

You could practically see Tygan’s vision tunneling. His eyes focused on the barrel, and he kept bobbing it up and down, fooling with the weight. Before anyone could say anything, he’d already started muttering under his breath; he took the pistol on over to a scale, or something, and whipped out his pocket-ruler and pocket-pen and pocket-notepad. “Give me a few minutes,” he said distractedly over his shoulder. “Stay here. And—and don’t touch anything.”

Daisuke puffed out a breath, walking over to one of the stools and sitting down. They were all lined up in front of a stainless steel counter, with an assortment of microscopes perched in front of them: Daisuke reckoned it made the place look more like a bar than a laboratory. That the stools were, well,  bar  stools before they’d been repurposed did not help things. Hayes sat to his right and Outrider sat to his left. Almost immediately, Hayes put his eyes to the microscope, violating the ‘no-touchy’ rule. 

“Interesting,” he mused. “There’s nothing here.”

Indifferent, Daisuke leaned his elbows back on the counter. He entertained himself by thinking about Tygan getting shoved in a locker and getting his lunch money stolen. This daydream had been making the rounds since Daisuke dreamt it up after his incident with the Hunter and Jan Weber. It was a testament to how fucking boring things got around the Avenger sometimes—it wasn’t like Daisuke detested Tygan, not in any way. There was just nothing to do, nothing to think about.

He watched Tygan mumble and whisper about the pistol, measuring it and photographing it, watching it like it might sprout little metal legs if he stared at it long enough. Hell—it was the Hunter’s six-gun. It very well  could  sprout little metal legs and run right back off to its master.

“Remarkable,”  said Tygan eventually. “This is an—an incredible feat of engineering.” He looked back at the trio, all sitting kind of funny in the barstools. Hayes had his feet up on the counter; Daisuke had his knees curled up to his chin; Outrider had one heel propped up while the other leg dangled. “Hayes, feet off the counter—I won’t talk your ears off, though it is tempting. Later… Hayes, I will request your help.”

Hayes pumped his fist.

“For now, though, I’d like you and Nakamura to leave.” Tygan nodded respectfully toward Outrider. “You brought your arm? The prosthetic.”

“Yes.”

“Good. Now—Hayes, Nakamura. Return to what you were doing.”

Daisuke hadn’t really been doing much before, so he just left, waving to Outrider over his shoulder. The only hand she had was holding onto her other, unattached hand, so she nodded politely. He and Hayes left, taking the lift up to the bunks.

“How was the mission?” asked Hayes after a quiet moment. “Did she get her arm ripped off?”

“Yup. Pretty much the worst thing I’ve ever witnessed. Chosen Hunter pulled it off her like a LEGO piece.”

It wasn’t  the  worst thing Daisuke had ever witnessed, but it was up there. Hayes whistled through his teeth, folding his arms. “That’s awful. I’m sorry, Bad. Wish I could’ve been there, huh?”

“No, you do  not. ”

The elevator lurched to a stop one floor too early. Daisuke scowled and pressed the button to close the door, but of course it didn’t do anything. The doors screeched open to reveal—

Yvonne “Syrinx” Rivera saw Daisuke and  squealed . She really went,  “Eee!”  Then she pranced into the elevator, stuck out her arms, and wrapped Daisuke in a sweet, feathery, cutesy hug that he despised more than anything. “Daisuke! It’s been so long since we saw each other! How have you  been;  I heard about your mission; is Outrider really back!!!”

She added the two extra exclamation points by raising her voice three octaves. It was incredible, really. “Yeah. She’s back. For, like, a week.”

“Yay!!” 

“Hey, now.” Hayes opened his arms, looking expectant. “And, uh, where’s  my  joyous embrace?”

Daisuke rolled his eyes so hard it hurt as Rivera grabbed Hayes around the midsection and hugged him. She lifted him off his feet for a moment; Hayes was grinning so widely over her shoulder that his eyes pinched shut. Disgusting. Kind of sweet. Daisuke hated it.

When Rivera put Hayes back down on his feet, she said, “I’m just grabbing some stuff from my bunk real quick; Carlos and I are gonna hang out with his family. His grandma’s gonna make pasta—I’m so excited.” The elevator doors howled open, and Hayes popped his neck before walking out. Daisuke pretended not to notice Rivera leering after him. “I’ve already met little Gianna! She’s such a sweetheart. Wanted to tell me everything about everything.”

The only memory Daisuke had of Gianna was the mauling of one of Carlos’ dreadlocks. She was… small? That was what Daisuke knew.

“You should hang out with us,” crooned Rivera, for which Daisuke could’ve honestly hit her over the head. “I’m sure they’d  love  to have you…”

“No, thank you.” The ‘thank you’ part was hastily tacked on after Daisuke remembered about politeness. “I have… uh, plans. Things to do.” He popped his knuckles in front of him, fingers folded. “Intense stuff.”

Hayes said, over his shoulder, “So you’re locking yourself in the bunks and doing private, intense stuff?”

Daisuke whipped around, stuck his finger out, and in a beautiful articulation of words:  “I am so fucking mad at you right now.  Explode.”

This did nothing to intimidate Hayes. It did make Rivera laugh, though, which pissed Daisuke off. “Alright, sorry. Didn’t realize it was such a sensitive topic,” said Hayes with a pretty white smile. It disarmed Daisuke a little. “But seriously, I want you to stay here. I need to talk to you about something.”

“Oh.” Daisuke, remembering the last time he had a  talk  with someone, shied a little bit away from that. “What about?”

“Just  stuff.”  Hayes said the word ‘stuff’ like it was supposed to embarrass Daisuke. Daisuke, who had never understood a social cue in his life and wasn’t planning on starting anytime soon, didn’t get the idea. “We can hang out. Have our own little party up here.”

Rivera cut in: “Fine, fine, I get it. You two have awesome plans or whatever. I won’t save any pasta for you.”

“That’s fine.” Daisuke waved distractedly over his shoulder. “Bye, Rivera.”

She left without saying anything else. Totally prepared (not at all prepared) for a conversation with Caleb Hayes, Daisuke turned and said, “Okay. What did I do? Was it the jokes I made? They weren’t that bad.”

“What? No.” Hayes sat on one of the couches and produced a magazine and a bottle of beer; from where, Daisuke did not know. “I just said it because you looked like you didn’t want to go. Rivera doesn’t touch my mind, so she doesn’t know I was lying. I got you out of a social situation—hurray. Do whatever you were going to do before.”

Astonished, Daisuke stood there, mouth hanging open. “You—you  lied  to her? For me?”

“Sure. What are friends for?” Hayes whistled through his teeth, gesturing for Daisuke to sit beside him. “You have to see this. C’mere.”

Daisuke didn’t know what else to do. He walked over to Hayes, sat down, and looked over his arm at the magazine he was reading. “Says here that killer whales had a social trend where they bit the heads off salmon and put them on their noses. Wonder if those things are still around.”

“I once saw an orca eat a moose.”

“Shut up, no you didn’t.”

“I did! It was in Alaska; this moose was trying to cross between islands and an orca came over and just fucking ruined it. I was, like, thirteen. Trauma for  life. ”

They split the beer—Hayes got one swig, Daisuke took the next. It wasn’t very good; beer never was with the Resistance. Always either too old, ADVENT-brand IPAs, or brewed in someone’s crusty old bathtub. But it wasn’t about the taste.

After the beer was finished, Daisuke retreated into his bunk with  Beloved  in hand. He stuck his nose between the pages, the taste of hops still sickly-sweet on his tongue, and read for a while. He was intensely disturbed by and therefore quite enjoyed the book—though he didn’t know much about American history, and was sure he’d understand everything a little better if he did. It wasn’t unsettling like  The Bazaar of Bad Dreams , because  The Bazaar of Bad Dreams  talked about the supernatural.  Beloved  was realistic. Daisuke knew it was realistic.

At some point, Hayes left. Daisuke only knew he left because he could hear the soft, graceful footsteps leading out. The door shut with the soft  thump-click  of a handle turned early to stop noise. The quiet turned to silence. Hayes took with him the even breathing, the rustle of turned pages, the idle sound of living. At that point, Daisuke just put on his headphones and kept reading.

He knocked out fifty whole pages. This was a new record. Invigorated by the mission, Daisuke went into a frenzy of slow, methodical, page-turning. It was an amazing book. Daisuke really didn’t think he’d ever read anything better.

Outrider came looking for Daisuke about an hour later, arm reattached to her shoulder. Her feet dragged on the floor, eyes slow to blink. She looked like a hot mess, but with her fourth limb popped back on, it wasn’t as bad. Daisuke raised his hand to her in greeting. “How’s your arm? Looks… great.”

“That’s right.” She went over to his bed and wiggled her fingers. It was a horrifying action; they all moved out of order and reminded Daisuke of a rather large metal spider. “The nerves just need time to resettle.”

Daisuke hummed in response. She said, “Play lookout,” and curled up on his bed. Daisuke might’ve protested if she didn’t fall asleep nigh-instantly.

He sighed, and he played lookout.

The next day, Caleb Hayes was practically skipping about the base. A grin showed off his shiny white teeth and crinkled his brown eyes. He woke up Daisuke. He woke up Carlos. He woke up Rivera. With his troupe in tow, Hayes skittered on down to the firing range.

If Daisuke weren’t so busy plotting Hayes’ horrific death as punishment for waking him up, he’d have noticed Richard Tygan first thing, holding the Darkclaw. Daisuke didn’t have very great opinions on the weapon—God only knew how many Reapers’ last sight was the barrel of that gun—but he could admit, begrudgingly, that it was a beautiful piece of engineering. The gold and red contrasted nicely with the deep grey alloy. That didn’t stop it from unsettling Daisuke.

Hayes had different opinions. When Tygan held the pistol toward Hayes, grip-first, Hayes swiped it and leered down at it, the same way you’d stare at a nice meal or a beautiful person. Daisuke chewed on the insides of his cheeks as Hayes tested the weight in his hands.

They each put on a large pair of headphones; the microphones allowed them to speak. Daisuke absolutely loathed the feeling. 

Tygan procured his pocket-notepad and pocket-pen, using the end to push up his glasses before turning to Hayes and saying, “Shen, as she studied this weapon, discovered that it does not take special ammunition. You will be able to reload it with standard .38 rounds. It currently holds three XCOM bullets and three of the Chosen Hunter’s own special bullets. It is semi-automatic. Your first three shots will use XCOM bullets, and your last three will use the Hunter’s. Please,” Tygan gestured to the targets, “begin.”

Hayes did not hesitate. He opened the cylinder, just to peek, and then he snapped it shut, lifted it, and fired. The first shot made Tygan jump a bit. These three shots sounded just like any other revolver.

And the last three sounded like the Hunter was right there. Against his will, all the hairs on the back of Daisuke’s neck stood on end, and he dug his nails into his forearms to keep himself from shivering. He saw Carlos giving him a worried look out of the corner of his eye. He did not look back.

His arm went right, right, right, right, right, right, until each target had a hole right in their bullseyes. Daisuke took off his headphones on the last shot, hanging them around his neck while Hayes jumped and whooped with joy, whipping to stare at his troupe and pointing at the bullseyes. “Look at that!” he cried, that same grin growing on his face. “Look at those shots! I’ve never shot so well—that’s  crazy !” He turned to Tygan. “Oh, shit. Oh, you’re never getting this thing back.”

It was a little endearing, how happy Hayes was. Daisuke did not think about that one much further, sending it to the back of his head to stand in the corner like a misbehaving child while Tygan furiously scrawled on his notepad. That pen was going faster than light.

“Fascinating,” he muttered under his breath. Daisuke was beginning to develop an aversion to the word ‘fascinating.’ “Hayes, how is your aim normally?”

“Good,” said Hayes, always humble, “but never  that  good.”

“Can you give me an estimate?”

Hayes shrugged. “No, probably not. I don’t usually make all six bullseyes with a revolver. Is that scientific enough?”

Tygan pursed his lips, doing something with his fingers that probably suggested mental math. He counted under his breath, then said, “No. Please retrieve your standard pistol. We will do testing.”

“Oh.” Daisuke leaned down and snagged his six-shooter from his boot, holding it out to a nonplussed Hayes. “Just use this one.”

Hayes looked at the gun, then up at Daisuke. “You carry a gun. At all times.”

“Shut up.”

With a shrug, Hayes checked the cylinder once more—fully loaded; safety on—before snapping it back in and beginning that same round of fire. He went slower this time, taking a moment to line up his shots. Only two bullets came close to the previous holes in the targets; the rest were what the Commander would call ‘satisfactory.’

“Okay.” Tygan made a little swirly motion with his pen, the tip scratching on the paper. “We’ll do some more testing with these two weapons—with your permission of course, Nakamura.” When Daisuke shrugged, indifferent, Tygan continued, “We will continue with these two weapons until we can figure out how the…  Darkclaw , enhances aim.”

As if on cue, the shipwide intercom crackled, beeping and hissing—Daisuke was happy he still had those headphones on over his ears.

Silence.

Then,

“ I want that back. ”

It was horrible, to hear the voice of the Chosen Hunter all around him. A shudder tensed its way up Daisuke’s spine, shoulders tensing and stomach turning over. How had the Hunter hacked their intercom?

The Commander said, voice made staticy by the radio, “Wanna bargain? World peace, and it’s all yours.”

A soft, rumbling laugh. The five down in the shooting range gathered together in a tight-knit cluster of fear. Carlos stood between Daisuke and the door.

“ Maybe for my rifle. Not the pistol. ” The Hunter hummed, seeming contemplative. “ I don’t have much to trade with you… not much that you’d like, anyway .” His voice suddenly grew cold, like a sudden drop in temperature before a sleetstorm. “I’m  going to get it back, you know .”

The Commander said, “Mhmm,” with just about the most contempt Daisuke had ever heard from him. “Well, we’ll take good care of it.”

“ At least tell me you’re not loading it with those hideous brass rounds. ” Tygan went rigid. Daisuke might’ve laughed if he wasn’t so terrified. “That’s  like using ketchup on wagyu. ”

“Disturbing, that you know what that means,” said the Commander genuinely. “Now get off my comms; you’re scaring the children.”

“ Children? You have children on the ship? Now, that’s disturbing— ”

The connection severed. Daisuke stood there, trembling, for a few moments, before the Commander said, meekly, over the intercoms, “Sorry, everyone.”

Daisuke pawned a cassette off to one of the rookies for a pack of cigs. He sat outside, on the ramp, and smoked. Took his mind off things.

Carlos came and found him after a while. After Volk’s talk about Daisuke’s smoking, he was sure Carlos would say something when he sat down only a foot away, close enough that Daisuke could hear his breath.

And he did. “You shouldn’t do that,” he muttered, and Daisuke looked away, fiddling with the cigarette. “I know it’s none of my business. But I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

With a sigh, Daisuke flicked the ash off the fag. “You’re right. Just tense.”

“About the Hunter.”

“Yeah.” Daisuke put his chin on his knees. “About the Hunter.”

Carlos was quiet. Then, he scooted once, twice, thrice, and sat so close to Daisuke that their arms brushed. Daisuke held out the cigarette. “Wanna share?”

Wordlessly, Carlos took it and put it to his mouth. Daisuke watched for a moment, lost in some horrendous thoughts, but then Carlos began to cough, choking up the smoke, and Daisuke laughed quietly, taking it back. “You’ve never smoked.”

“No,” wheezed Carlos before turning to hack into his elbow. Daisuke smiled as he took one of the last pulls off the cigarette.

“I didn’t smoke that many.” Daisuke opened the box and counted. “Only four. That’s a new record.” He closed it, considered, and then handed it over to his coughing friend. “Hang onto these, alright? Give me, like, one a day. No matter how hard I beg.” Daisuke knew he’d regret the words eventually—not as much as he’d regret trading his  Fire of Unknown Origin  cassette, but still there. “Well. Maybe if I beg  enough .”

Clearing his throat, Carlos asked, “Are you sure?” He took the pack nonetheless.

“Yeah,” he sighed. “Unfortunately. Plus, I know you won’t smoke ’em.”

“Okay,” said Carlos slowly, pocketing the cigarettes. “Well, as long as you promise not to get too mad at me. I’ve recently discovered that I don’t like it when you’re mad at me.”

Daisuke didn’t want to have an opinion on that.

Outrider left. 

Daisuke was homesick.

Research regarding the Darkclaw was, apparently, going well. Hayes was down in the firing range nearly every day—Daisuke, knowing what the gun sounded like now that Shen was beginning to copy the Hunter’s rounds, never watched. Knowing that the Hunter could hack the intercom, could whisper horrid things to Daisuke at night now, was terrifying. The Reaper’s vigilance washed over him, and he began losing sleep again.

Everyone noticed. Daisuke did not like it. The bags under his eyes had vacated for all of one week before they made their dreary return, once again turning him into a shitty-looking, yawn-infested edgelord. His body immediately adapted, as if it knew how temporary this peace was. Exhaustion was normalcy.

Rivera especially took note of the gathering bruise-purple skin beneath his reddened eyes. Daisuke could always tell when she was scheming, trying to find a way to make Daisuke feel better. He hated it every time. 

(At least—that’s what he told himself.)

He noticed that Carlos’ nose splint came off too early. Daisuke had gotten his nose broken more times than he could count—half his childhood was spent itching at tape on his face—and he knew it was still far too tender for the bandages to have come off. He didn’t like it, especially not when Carlos made too expressive of a face and jolted like he’d been slapped. Daisuke scowled to himself in his bunk, and then he got up and went out into the camps.

He took a few tomatoes from a few vines, having never shaken the ‘all things are communal; bite my dick’ mentality of the Reapers. He hoped nobody would be too mad as he went skittering off with an armful of tomatoes.

Daisuke went back down to the kitchens for this one. The chefs scattered when they saw him, quite clearly terrified of what sort of terrors a Reaper would cook. Daisuke had no such intentions—at least, not today. Today he diced tomatoes, again with his hefty, sharp hunting knife, and roasted them with quite a lot of garlic, hoping it would appeal to Carlos’ taste.

He made soup again. This time, it was thick, herb-filled tomato soup. Daisuke still didn’t know what kind of food Carlos liked—he got a bit hot in the face when he realized that thought process—so he hoped it was at least alright.

When Daisuke tried to find Carlos, though, the fucker was proving to be more elusive than Outrider having a bad day (the soup was kept safe by a note that read, ‘DON’T TOUCH - NOT TOMATOES’ with his signature). He went just about everywhere on the Avenger trying to find his big friend, but not only was  he  nowhere to be seen, Rivera, his one chance at finding Carlos, was similarly scarce. With a furious huff, Daisuke returned to the kitchens, shooed away the engineers daring each other to stick their fingers in the red mush, and decided to try and radio Carlos. Daisuke never used his radio in the base—he thought that everyone being able to hear what he was talking about was a little creepy—but this time, he sat on the counter, knees to his chest, and tuned the radio to the frequency he knew was Carlos’.

“Hey. Big man. Where’d you go?”

It took a second. Then the radio crackled and said, “I’m outside with Yvonne. Are you okay? You never radio.”

“Just—I made you—” Daisuke bit down on the words. He did not know why. “Listen, would you just swing by the kitchens sometime soon?”

He could hear the smile in Carlos’ voice when he said, “Yeah. Actually—bring it up to the bunks. Clear them out.” Before Daisuke could even ask, he was cut off: “Just trust me, Bad. Okay?”

Daisuke chewed on his lips. “Okay.”

He brought the large, steaming pot of soup to the barracks where Carlos stayed. He was a little suspicious of Carlos’ intention and thus didn’t get anywhere near his bed. Instead, he strutted into the room, sat down, and popped the lid off his vat of steaming, red-orange liquid. Two people, Leticia Flores and another person he did not recognize, watched in horror as he took the ladle and slurped at it as loudly as he could. They evacuated the room pretty damn fast.

Daisuke should’ve known something was deathly wrong the moment Carlos stuck his head into the room, grinning wide. “Hey, Bad,” he whispered, “guess what?”

Oh, Christ. Daisuke’s hand found his switchblade as he said cautiously, “Chicken butt?”

Carlos’ smile somehow got even bigger. Then, he stepped aside, and Yvonne Rivera and Gianna Díaz came exploding in, sparkling handbags wielded like weapons, pillows and blankets like bombs and fortresses, popcorn like shrapnel. Daisuke’s hair all stood on end.

“Oh, hell,” he grumbled. “Hey, guys.”

“Slumber party!” cried Rivera.

“ No !”

Daisuke was helpless to their will. They swarmed in like hornets, hornets dressed in their PJs and carrying awful, enormous bottles of mascara. It’d been years since Daisuke had seen someone wearing mascara, that was, if Central’s luscious lashes really were as natural as he claimed. Carlos said he wasn’t allowed to leave because Gianna would cry, and Daisuke had done quite a lot of awful shit in his adult life, but he couldn’t make a kid cry. He sat down on the bunks and watched Rivera, Gianna, and Carlos set up a… ‘ slumber party .’

Horrible stuff, really. Daisuke abhorred the idea. He wouldn’t leave, but he sure as hell wouldn’t  aid  with the setup of this horrible get-together. Instead, he sat down, eyeing Carlos until the big guy came over to see what he wanted.

“Hey.” Daisuke gestured with his foot toward the big pot. “For you.”

As Carlos leaned forward to look at the pot, Daisuke suddenly realized the sticky note was still there. He quickly darted forward and snatched the paper, yanking it back before Carlos could see it and consequently turn greener than slime. He earned a funny look for his antics, but then Carlos leaned forward, removed the glass lid, and took a long, slow breath.

“Oh,  wow ,” he whispered. “Tomato soup?”

Daisuke nodded. “’Cause, you know, can’t have you moving your face too much.” He made a vague gesture, splaying his fingers in a swirling motion around Carlos’ face. Mostly it was to block the downright heartwarming look he was getting. “So, you’re welcome.”

Carlos ducked around the hand to smile at Daisuke. Oh, he was not happy with how he felt toward that toothy grin. “Thank you,” said Carlos. “Very much.”

Daisuke grumbled and rolled his eyes. “Shut up.”

Rivera eventually procured her tapes of  Rosa Salvaje,  much to Gianna’s delight, and stuck one in the VHS player. Daisuke excused himself for a bit— promising  to return, on his honor as a Reaper—and he went and snagged (stole) some of the good liquor from the bar. Daisuke brought it up alongside three glasses. Carlos disapproved—in front of my  little cousin , Bad, you’re such a terrible influence—but when Daisuke pulled out the Kahlua, he shut up pretty quick. Only Daisuke knew the bar had such stores.

He made the three of them some White Russians, to start. Gianna got a glass of water, which she hated, but quickly this all became irrelevant: Rivera pulled out the nail polish. Daisuke tossed back his liquor and watched the telenovela as Gianna, excited as could be, began painting Rivera’s nails a color that Daisuke had never seen before. It was purple, he thought. If purple was specifically engineered to give you migraines.

Daisuke was halfway through pouring himself some more Kahlua—honestly, why even bother with the vodka—when Carlos sat down in front of him, black nail polish in hand, and said, “Give me your hand.”

Daisuke yanked his fingers and their untouched, plain nails away from the polish. “Hell, no,” he snapped. “I like them the way they are.”

“C’mon!” Carlos was already unscrewing the cap. Knowing he probably wasn’t gonna get out of this, Daisuke quickly began making himself another drink. “It’s a slumber party, Bad. What’s a slumber party without some painted nails?”

“I never consented to a  slumber party , big guy.”

But—as soon as he was stirring the cream into the rest of the drink, Daisuke held his hand out toward Carlos. He refused to meet Carlos’ gaze.

Big hands slid under Daisuke’s fingers, holding them just so. Daisuke choked down some more booze, trying desperately to get drunk enough that his emotions stopped, well,  doing  that. The pungent stench of chemicals stung his nose as his nails were bedazzled; he could at least be grateful that it was a respectable color and not whatever fluorescent glow-in-the-dark stuff Gianna was slathering indiscriminately over Rivera’s fingertips. 

The universe must’ve heard Daisuke thinking about his one gratitude for the day. Gianna came hustling over, having thoroughly demolished Rivera’s nails and also, probably, her pride. She had in her hands a bright, glittery pink bottle that hurt Daisuke’s eyes. He said, very quickly, “No way, dude. I like black.”

Carlos translated. Daisuke tried to ward Gianna off with a glare, but she just blew a raspberry at him, which honestly hurt him a bit. She then said something very biting and rude—Daisuke, with his years in the Reapers, had learned to detect hostility in any language—to which Carlos scoffed, rolling his eyes and giving her a slight nudge. “She’s mad you didn’t get her anything to drink,” he said, looking out of the corner of his eye at Daisuke. “Real mad.”

She  looked  real mad. There was the righteous anger of a seven-year-old plastered all over her tiny, pudgy face, one that threatened to turn into tears if Daisuke didn’t play his cards right, and he scowled for a moment before grumbling, “Fine. What can I do to make it up to her?”

Gianna said something fast, very fast and excited, to Carlos. Carlos scolded her (again, Daisuke could hear scolding in any language), giving her a very small push on the shoulder before gesturing to Daisuke’s hands. She nodded enthusiastically. Daisuke sighed, resigning himself to his fate.

“She wants to finish your nails in pink,” said Carlos, sounding much too amused for Daisuke’s liking. “And she wants a sip of your drink, but I vetoed.”

Daisuke kicked his feet back. “Two sips of the drink. No nail polish.”

“ Bad Company !” Carlos cuffed Daisuke’s shoulder, which earned him nothing more than an entertained snicker. “Do not offer my cousin liquor!”

Daisuke did not respond, but he held the glass out to Gianna. Carlos wheezed out a refusal, but neither of them listened. She took the cool drink as Daisuke leaned to Carlos and said, “Just watch.” She took a sip, and then her whole face squeezed up like she’d bitten down into a lemon, and then she gave the White Russian back to Daisuke. “How’d you like it?”

Gianna squelched.

He ended up letting Gianna paint the rest of his nails anyway. Three were black and well-done—Carlos’ work. Seven were pink and colored far outside the lines. Carlos observed them over Daisuke’s shoulder.

“They’re…” Daisuke looked up at Carlos. “Unique.”

Carlos quite obviously held back a laugh, patting Daisuke’s shoulder with mock sympathy. Gianna preened under their apparent praise.

She fell asleep only a few minutes later, curled up on the couch with what must’ve been a stuffed animal, looking quite chilly under the one thin blanket she’d brought with her. Daisuke scowled for a moment, and then, with his barely-dry nails, found another blanket off an unused bunk and tossed it down over Gianna. If either Rivera or Carlos had thoughts about that, they didn’t share. Daisuke sat down and drank enough Kahlua to probably get himself killed by Central tomorrow.

Rivera was the next to go. Daisuke, who did know a little bit about sleepover etiquette, whipped out a Sharpie and drew a penis square on her forehead while Carlos looked on in shame. At that point, Daisuke turned off the telenovela, letting the room fall into a comfortable silence, only interrupted by Gianna’s soft, quiet breathing. Daisuke had no idea how to interact with kids anymore.

“If I fall asleep,” asked Carlos into the quiet, “will you vandalize my face?”

“Eh. Probably not.” Daisuke pulled his arms up over his head, stretching his sore, tense muscles. “It’s supposed to be, like, first person asleep gets drawn on, right?” He bent down to touch his toes. “I’m not gonna draw on Gianna, though. Not gonna doodle a weiner on a seven-year-old. That’s asking for disaster.”

“And yet,” Carlos sat down in his bunk, “you’ll let her drink booze.”

Daisuke laughed. “I’ll let her drink a White Russian. Make her think all alcohol tastes like hand sanitizer. It’s prevention, Carlos.”

With a shrug, Carlos curled up in his bed. He looked too big for the little niche of a bunk, too tall for the sheets provided. His toes stuck out from beneath the blanket. “I guess that’s fair.” A gargantuan yawn. “You can take one of the vacant bunks, if you want. I don’t think anyone’ll mind.”

Daisuke shook his head. “No, no, that’s fine. I’m gonna go back to my bunk and go to sleep there. I snore.”

“Okay.” Carlos turned over, pulling the sheet up to his ears and closing his eyes. “Goodnight, Bad. See you in the morning.” When Daisuke stood up to leave, he heard, quietly, “And thanks for the soup.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Daisuke waved over his shoulder with his bedazzled pink nails. “Night.”

Progress with the Darkclaw was slow. It took alien rounds that Shen could copy with relative ease, and it boosted the accuracy of the weapon bearer by obscene amounts, but Mox’s idea of tracking the Hunter with his pistol was looking to be a little… well, useless. Hayes appreciated a new toy, of course, but that was about the extent of the information they had.

Tygan was frustrated. So was Daisuke. He was hoping it wouldn’t be this hopeless, that this one weapon could give them some sort of skeleton key that would lead to the freedom of the Reapers, but he supposed that was just asking for too much in this forsaken war. Daisuke got one cigarette from Carlos and smoked it with vigor. It kept him sane.

Once Carlos’ giant nose stopped resembling a plum glued to the center of his face (at least, not more than usual), he was cleared for active duty. Just in time, too—ADVENT was leading a raid on a Resistance camp, killing everything that moved. Carlos bade a horrifically tearful goodbye to his family, and Daisuke, who was going to go on the mission, assumed his place in front of the toilet. After he threw up all his guts thanks to Central’s dogshit flying, he’d take these weird chalky medicinal candies to keep his stomach settled enough for a mission. He wasn’t excited.

Carlos got him water and some calories. Daisuke could get used to that.