Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It is said that you would need to kill a parent in order to pry a child from their arms.

Now, such a claim tends to vary, depending on the quality of parent. But in the case of Loid and Anya Forger, it proved true.

At 6:10 PM, one November night when the streets of Berlint were dusted with the first snowfall of the season and a new moon hung in the sky like a closed eye, unable to witness the oncoming tragedy, a father and daughter found themselves helping a friendly young man with his groceries.

At 6:17, the man disappeared into the back of a van carrying the gagged daughter, leaving the father slumped in an alley, a bullet wound in his head.

But despite the wound, and despite the story described above, he clung to life…

—

“Know anything about apples?”

“What?”
“PAPAA!!”

Anya's scream rang through his head louder than the gunshots, and Twilight wanted to beat himself for his stupidity. How had he let guard down so much that an assailant was able to get close to him? How did he miss the van? The gun?! And even then, the gunman was sloppy, he should’ve been able to incapacitate him before the second shot had taken him in the head.

He’d fired from the hip for god’s sake!!

I must be losing my edge, then, being sloppy like that. He muses softly. Sloppy spies are dead spies and I , a drop of blood from the gunshot wound curves into his eye, stinging it and turning half of his vision red, ...am most certainly dying .

It figured, really. The brutal realities of spycraft often meant a relatively short operational lifespan, and if they were particularly unlucky or unskilled, a short lifespan period, maybe twenty years at most. Twilight had been a spy since eighteen, and he was…thirty…something? Maybe, maybe, mid thirties? Early thirties? 

The details were getting fuzzy.

Everything was getting fuzzy, really. It was getting hard to think and his head was throbbing with pain but why-

Oh, right, I’ve been shot , and I’m trying to keep my mind off of it. 

Heh, mind, headshot.

The first shot got my jacket, but didn’t hit me. I had Anya in my arms, so I twisted my body to cover while I reached for my blackjack-

And then it had felt like he’d been punched in the neck, and then he was on the ground and then-

“PAPAA!”

Anya. She’d screamed, and she’d been covered in blood, and it was his blood and it felt like a bullet tearing through his heart to match the one now lodged in his head.

And then she was gone. And he couldn’t do anything about it because he’d been shot and he couldn’t move.

He still couldn’t move, which probably meant a spinal injury which meant he couldn't go after Anya and whoever had taken her.

But who would take her? Someone seeking ransom for an Eden Academy student? Someone who’d found out about Operation Strix? 

“Know anything about apples?”

Wait, wasn’t Bond involved with an apple…something?

It hurt to think, his head was throbbing and he could barely move but it was something. He willed his arm to move and by some stroke of luck it obeyed him. Fingers brushed against the streaks of iron scented heat running down his face and when they came away crimson he remembered they were his.

With concerted effort he managed to draw “Bond” and “Aple” with the crimson beside him. The spelling was off and the d was wobbly but his head hurt and it was hard to move.

WISE would know what to do with it, when Loid Forger turned up dead in an alley with his daughter missing. They’d track her down, get her back to Yor…and Bond…

But he’d be gone, and Anya would have to live with watching her father die in front of her and he’d have to die with his last glimpse of his daughter was her screaming and covered in blood and he’d never get to see her again and he’d never get to see Yor again and…

Things were getting fuzzy...

...He was dying then...

…

...

He didn’t want to die.

…

…

“LOID!”

Someone was calling his name. 

No, they were screaming it, like how Anya had screamed papa, raw, anguished and primal as if their heart was being torn from their chest.

Mom?

No, no they were calling for Loid Forger. He was Twilight, but his mother didn’t know that. The name his mother knew had died with his childhood friends.

A fluffy presence settled by his side, and it was nudging him like Bond would whenever he was hungry. He wanted to pet him, tell him to wait, but it was hard to move and his head was throbbing.

An angel entered his sight, her face contorted in anguish as puffy crimson eyes met his.

Oh, he must be dead then.

Chapter Text

Yor Forger was many things: A city worker, a fledgling member of the Lady Patriot’s society, the deadliest assassin in Ostania, quite possibly the world, ambiguously superhuman, and above all a woman dedicated to her family, with all its quirks and idiosyncrasies.

What she wasn’t, however, was a fan of winter. Especially not Ostanian winters, brutally cold affairs that in earlier, leaner times when it was just her and Yuri often meant her going hungry in order to make sure her little brother was fed, alongside brutally cold nights spent huddling under blankets when their power was cut because she couldn’t pay.

Those days still haunted her, phantoms of stabbing stomach pains, bone numbing cold and the dreadful uncertainty permeating it all that brushed across her mind even as she prepared dinner in a warm, well lit, safe apartment.

The consistent chunk of the knife against the cutting board beat a satisfying pattern for Yor to listen to in the otherwise empty apartment. Loid had needed to fetch some last minute ingredients for their dinner and Anya, who was always uneasy around a new moon (Was she scared of the dark? Was this common? Was it a reverse werewolf situation?...Okay it probably wasn’t the last one) had elected to go with him. 

It made sense, going with her real father, but it still stung a little, staying in that empty apartment. So she’d thrown herself into making dinner. Despite her dismal cooking skills (She was improving!...slowly) a long history with knives made meal prep a simple matter. She stepped back, nodding in satisfaction at her handiwork. The ingredients were measured and cut, tea was on the kettle, coffee was brewed and bubbling on the pot, now all she needed was the company

She looked at the clock.

6:13.

They’d be home soon.

Bond, however, did not share her simple contentment. The loyal pooch had been ill at ease ever since Loid and Anya had left, wearing a path in the rug where he’d paced the length of the apartment. Once or twice he’d interrupted her work, tugging on her leg and earning both a scolding and small piece of meat to appease him, only for him to return. Had she spoiled him too much?

Once again he returned to her, insistently butting his head into her thigh as he held his leash in his mouth.

“Bond, you’ve already had your walk,” she chuckled softly, patting his head. Bond turned away, loping to the door and beginning to paw at it before turning towards her with big, sad eyes.

Cheater, “You’re puppy eyes…will not…work this time,” she insisted, crossing her arms and ripping her gaze away, “You’ve been fed, walked, and you have a toilet, there’s no need for you to go outside!” what had gotten into him? Did he miss Anya and Loid? She did too, but they’d be home soon so he needed to be patient and wait!

And then he started barking. Not the woofs and borfs he usually greeted them with but actual barks, loud explosions of noise that sent her ears ringing and seemed to rattle the dishes on the table.

“Okay, okay, I give up! You win!” she pouted in defeat, “I’ll walk you!”

And like a switch Bond’s whole demeanour flipped, his tongue lolling as his tail brushed the floor. She shot him as rotten a look as she could muster before tossing the food in the fridge and pouring the coffee and tea into a thermos. As she scribbled a note explaining their absence on the counter, she stared up at the clock.

6:16 stared back at her.

She pursed her lips, donning the new pink coat Loid had insisted on buying her and setting off with Bond’s leash in hand, quietly hoping that the dog would be content with a simple trip around the block.

But when they left, Bond shot off like a bullet, nearly ripping Yor off her feet with the unexpected motion.

“Bond! Slow down! What’s gotten into you?!” She yelled, trying to wrest him under control. Bond didn’t react, continuing to pull her along the streets of Berlint with all his might as she tried to curtail him. 

Curse this slippery snow, preventing her from gaining traction! This is why I don’t like winter!

“Ooh, bad dog Bond! You’re being a very bad dog!” She shouted at him, but he ignored her still, whipping around a corner and making a dead sprint for traffic-

OhnoBond’sgoingtoberunoverbyacarandit’sallmyfault!

With a yell she yanked the leash upwards, pulling the dog off his feet and depositing him in her arms. 

But the inertia carried them into traffic, right into the path of a van whose brakes squealed as it noticed her, the noise almost drowned out by Yor’s panicked scream as she shot a hand out to brace herself against the vehicle.

They connected, both van and woman sliding to a stop. Yor opened her eyes, wincing at the gouges her fingers had torn into the front panel. Loid would not be excited to hear that she’d manually dented a car…again.

But her thoughts were cut off when the driver leaned out the window.

“Yor?! That you?”

“Franky!” She beamed, prior embarrassment set to the side, “Bond was being naughty and I made the mistake of walking him, could you give us a ride home?”

Franky thankfully either didn’t notice or was too gracious to mention the damage caused by her one woman fender bender, simply throwing open the passenger door and telling her to hop in.

She thanked him, setting Bond in the back with a wagging finger. She buckled in, but no sooner were they off when Bond vaulted over seat, landing in Yor’s lap and trying to pull at the steering wheel.

“Hey! Hey! Hey!” Franky yelled frantically, splitting his attention between the road and the white mountain of fluff trying to steer him into traffic, “What’s the big idea ya mutt?!”

“I’m sorry! I don’t know what’s gotten into him!” she apologized as Bond continued to squirm in her lap, “I think he just really misses Anya,”

Bond once again tried to nudge Franky’s arm, causing the man to huff, “You wanna see your people, dontcha?”

“Worf!”

“...Do you want to guide us to ‘em?”

“Worf!” Bond agreed, pointing his snout in a direction. Franky and Yor traded a look, then with a shrug of “fair enough” they were off following the dog’s guidance. (She knew dogs had good senses of smell but it couldn’t be this effective, could it? Was it some sort of Dog intuition? Dog-tuition?)

Bond’s directions brought them through a district undergoing renovation and had been mostly abandoned as a result.

This, this was on the way to the grocery store , she realized, and a feeling of dark foreboding settled into her gut without notice. 

6:21 glared at her from the van’s dashboard.

They drove past an alley, and once more Bond exploded into the same loud barking, forcing them to cover their ears.

“What is up with him today?” Franky grumbled, and Yor gave him an apologetic look.

“I don't know!” Yor insisted frantically, following the path of Bond’s gaze, “He’s usually so…”

She saw a flash of green poking through the dusting of snowfall covering the alley, the same green of Loid’s favourite suit, connected to a lump that Yor knew instinctively to be a human body, the same body that was staining the surrounding alley red with…

She ripped the door open and tore the seatbelt off of her, Bond shooting off her lap as she followed in his wake, frantically arguing with dread in her gut that there was a reasonable explanation for this. Maybe he’d passed playing snow angels and gotten a nosebleed, maybe he’d spilled ketchup on himself and fainted out of embarrassment, maybe it wasn’t Loid, it couldn't possibly be Loid, Loid was with Anya, at home, reading her note and starting on dinner…

But as she got closer and Bond reached the body, the green and red parted to reveal Loid’s face, blood spreading over it like whenever she’d driven a thorn through a target’s-

Someone was screaming, screaming Loid’s name, raw and anguished and it was her wasn’t it she was screaming because her husband was dead and wait where was Anya-

She dropped beside him, the world blurring as tears fell like rain drops to ripple in the bloody mask his face had become, a single eye meeting hers and an open mouth curving into the beginnings of a smile before both seemed to stop.

No, no, he couldn’t be dead, Loid Forger could not die in a back alley as blood seeped into the ground below him. With shaking hands she went to cup his face, regardless of the blood that stained him, and winced.

He was cold. He was so, so , cold.

But a pulse beat beneath her fingers, and his cold chest rose and fell in shallow motions.

The world blurred harder.

He was alive.

There was a bullet in his forehead and no sign of Anya but he was alive.

Chapter Text

The van rocketed through the streets of Berlint, traffic laws forgotten as horns beeped in its wake and every turn jostled the inhabitants in the back, Yor biting back a rare curse as she tried to brace her husband’s body and keep from exacerbating his injuries.

She’d been frantic, screaming and demanding to the shocked Franky that no, Loid was alive and they needed to get him to the hospital now . He’d been oddly hesitant, but her face brokered no argument and his eyes kept flickering to the dent in his van, and had finally agreed. Thankfully, the back of his van contained a box of medical equipment, including a neck brace she now struggled to put on him.

Reason finally ran down her panic, only to pass it a baton and urge it onward when she realized he almost certainly had a neck injury, and she had almost certainly aggravated it in her rush to do something and stupid Yor, stupid!

She fumbled with the neck brace, trying and failing to pull it snug but her hands kept shaking. But that didn’t make sense, she dealt in matters of life and death with steady hands almost daily, why were they shaking now? Admittedly, she certainly focused more on the death side of matters, but knew how to do this! She’d been treating Yuri’s injuries since they were children, and a major part of the Garden’s training had been the self diagnosis and triage of wounds, why couldn’t she do this!?

Finally her hands proved cooperative enough for her to pull the brace snug, her hands pulling away and leaving a final smear of blood to decorate the device. She stared at them, shaking and blood covered.

She-she still needed to analyze the wound, but it was stained lack red with blood both fresh and dried, and his forehead seemed to have begun bruising and swelling but she wasn’t sure if that was real, or her mind playing tricks between his blood and her tears, but such  thoughts still sent her mind down a rabbit hole of fractured skulls and swelling brains.

But then the van jolted to a stop, the doors slamming open and the air was full of medical staff shouting and pulling Loid away from her. She wanted to resist, guard him like she was a dragon and him her treasure, to keep anyone from touching him. But she didn’t, instead following along in a daze while Franky, thankfully, talked to them. 

She wasn’t sure she could speak, anyhow. it was like she was underwater, weightless and swaying at the whim of invisible currents, distorting sights and sounds and rendering them blurry and distant to her senses. Vaguely, she heard someone mention something about sitting down.

Something solid bumped against her shaky legs, nearly bowling her over. She looked down to see Bond, sadly chuffing at her as his leash trailed behind him. In a second she had latched onto his thick scruff, fisting at the soft hair and hoping he’d provide the sense of stability she found herself desperately seeking.

Bond obliged, gently guiding her to a chair just as her legs finally gave out, a wave of pure exhaustion washing over her as she collapsed into it. Reluctantly she released her grip on him, and Bond settled at her feet, head swiveling in a protective watch.

A patch of red stuck out from the mountain of white fur, and Yor belatedly realized that it was blood. Loid’s blood. The same blood that was coating her hands as she had cradled the red mask his face had become. It, it must have stained when she grabbed him.

Her hands were red and shaking, but she didn’t understand. Unless it was her own, it had never bothered her, it hadn’t for years. Bloody hands were simply a fact of life for her, the sign of a job well done. The only problem it presented was making sure that Loid didn’t-

Loid. That was it, wasn’t it? It was Loid’s blood that stained her shaking hands, it was Loid’s blood whose iron scent filled her nose, and it was Loid’s blood that she had smeared on Bond, and Loid’s neck brace, and had soaked into the pink woolen coat Loid had bought her after she had pointed out that it was the same shade of Anya’s hair.

Anya.

ANYA!!

In the day’s chaos she’d forgotten all about Anya, her absence lost beneath bloody hands and the cold of the alley.

She truly was a horrible mother, she thought as the realization forced another sob from her throat. Loid wouldn’t have forgotten, if their positions were reversed.

He’d noticed if Anya had run off.

But…Anya wouldn’t have left Loid’s side, would she? She was forever the Papa’s girl, a limpet of a child who’d never leave her father’s side if she decided to stay.

But what if she hadn’t had any say in it?

The realization hit her like a winter gale, icy fingers of dread piercing her bone marrow. There was always the possibility she had run, or was at home, scared and alone, or almost as heartbreakingly, wandering the cold streets of Berlint, bloody and traumatized.

But she was missing, and her father had been shot. Yor knew she could be very oblivious in matters not related to killing, but the evidence pointed to one obvious conclusion.

Someone had taken Anya

Someone had taken Anya.

Someone had taken Anya and shot her husband .

Heat bloomed in her chest, melting the ice that coated her bones banishing the winter cold from her core. But it was not the gentle warmth her family kindled in her heart, but instead a white hot, phosphorescent rage whose heat threatened to melt through her ribcage and ignite the world around her with its intensity.

She could see the scene unfolding behind her eyelids. Her family’s attacker, nameless and faceless yet at her mercy regardless, pleading and begging as she forewent the deftness and skill of her usual judgements in favour of making their death as slow, painful, and humiliating as possible. 

She looked back to her hands, and in her mind’s eye the blood was no longer her husband’s, but instead his attackers’.

And in an instant, they were still.

Chapter Text

“Franky Franklin” was, before anything else, a survivor. Someone who knew where the wind was blowing, and could adjust his sails accordingly. Someone who could be called spineless, a coward, a suck up. He wouldn’t begrudge the labels, but he considered himself to possess a few foundational convictions that put him a cut above the rest. Hatred of the Ostanian government, a (mostly) thorough loyalty to his clients and connections, and as foolhardy as such feelings might be in their world lies and skulduggery, genuine loyalty to the man the world knew as Twilight.

He liked to consider the two of them friendly, if not actual friends. He doubted Twilight felt the same, but a man could dream, couldn’t he? Still, they had history, the two of them knew each other’s tells, they had come to trust each other as much as they both allowed it. They had come to rely on each other, more or less.

And Yor could rely on him too. So after explaining the situation to the paramedics, and a quick trip to park his van, in a secret WISE rendezvous point where some of the more questionable contraband in his van was removed, (Trust or not, he needed to have his bases covered) he’d returned to Yor’s side just as the police had arrived for an interview.

He sat beside her, trying to provide a soothing presence as her hand fisted in his sleeve. He’d offer her his hand, but he needed it and honestly didn’t trust Yor not to break it. She looked terrible, face tear streaked and downturned as she answered the officer’s questions in a short, curt monotone. He answered the questions directed to him with more clarity, if not more enthusiasm, and soon enough the officer had dismissed himself with a smile of distant concern and faux reassurance, saying that they’d notify her if any news on a suspect or Anya’s whereabouts turned up.

The resulting silence was an awkward one, Franky with no idea what to say as Yor continued to keep her head down, her eyes lost under the shadows of her hair and her expression disturbingly vacant. 

Finally, the silence got to him, “I’m going to get something from the vending machine, want me to get you something?” she shook her head, but Franky resolved to get her something as he slipped out of his coat (She wasn’t letting go, and Franky wasn’t sure he could make her, emotionally or physically) and surreptitiously wandered the hospital in search of one Fiona Frost.

He found her soon enough, and he had picked up enough from his long standing partnership with Twilight to instantly know she was shaken. Truly shaken, beyond even the facade of the worried coworker she wore. He sidled up to her, his demeanor a balancing act of casual and suspicious.

“I have this friend Loid Forger, you know him?”

“Yes, I work with him fairly closely,”

“Yeah, I figured that.  His daughter’s missing and his wife’s in shambles. I just wanted to ask-,” he rubbed his face before surreptitiously handing her a wad of cash and a carton of cigarettes. “Keep an eye on her for me, will ya? And maybe get that dog, Bond, an apple if ya could?”

He winked twice at the words he’d seen scrawled in blood on brick. Hardly the most careful or thorough deception, but his meaning seemed to carry, as Fiona nodded incrementally, the spent shell casing he’d found at the edge of the alleyway rattling in the otherwise empty cigarette carton as she walked off.

He allowed himself a tired sigh, pulling off his glasses and rubbing at fatigued eyes. Everything about this was shit. 

But Franky Franklin was a survivor, and that meant having your head on a swivel, picking up any trick that might be useful, and looking out for those you could rely on.

---

The clock read 00:15, mocking Sylvia Sherwood with the reminder that it had only been five hours since the news had come in, not the lifetime she felt she had lived since hearing it. Twilight had been shot, bullet to the forehead, he was still in surgery, and there was no sign of the daughter, leaving her fate a disturbingly blank space in this entire clusterfuck of a situation.

There was always chaos when a spy was incapacitated, and it was only magnified by the sheer importance of the mission, the sheer usefulness of the agent, and sheer…randomness of it all. They had to determine whether Operation: Strix had compromised, and if not, determine why and how the attack had occurred, all while having to maintain cover, which often meant interfering with the police’s own investigations, kneecapping the entire process and slowing it to a crawl.

There were at least enough WISE resources embedded in the Ostanian police and Berlint General to give her a relatively clear picture of what might have happened.

There was the bullet casing found by investigators in the alley way, alongside the casing Franky had retrieved at the edge of the alley, both recently fired. There had been two shots, then. 

Both small caliber, neither from the same gun. Two gunmen, then.

But Twilight had only been shot once, and while logic dictated that the closer shooter had landed the shot, why had they risked a headshot instead of aiming center mass? Something didn’t add up.

Then a catalogue of Twilight’s belongings had come in, revealing a bullet hole in his jacket, alongside trace amounts of gunpowder residue. The closer gunman had missed then, and the distant one had landed the headshot. It suggested sloppiness, amateurs and incidentally not an Ostanian hit squad or SSS agents.

That made sense. Most people thought that a headshot was an automatic death sentence. An amateur wouldn’t have checked to make sure, nor would they have thought to collect bullet casings. A headshot could be explained by skill in shooting but a lack of practical experience, or even just plain luck.

There were no reports of gunshots in the area, which may have been explained by the presence of silencers, though that was a reach. But a silencer combined with the small caliber might indicate a better prognosis for Twilight’s health…

No, no. She needed facts, not emotions.

So, two gunmen, one in the alley, one outside, each armed with a small caliber weapon, each firing one shot, with only the outsider hitting. Sloppy, at least one of them lacking in marksmanship skills…

Something didn’t add up.

No, a lot of things didn’t add up here. There was the absence of the daughter, of course, but even beyond that, how had he ended up in that alley in the first place? 

Had he been lured there? He’d been trained to spot a tail, to spot suspicious behaviour. An alley was prime territory for an ambush, he would have avoided goning down one unless absolutely necessary.

Threats to Anya, then?

Or had Anya run off, and he had chased her, only to run into two nervous gunmen? It fit in with what Twilight had previously described of her...

No, surprise or not he should’ve been able to win such an encounter. 

But maybe Sylvia was underestimating the gunmen. Or overestimating Twilight.

She sighed, rubbing at tired eyes. Things weren’t adding up, she was frazzled and exhausted, and still had no idea whether this was related to Operation: Strix.

The only thing she had left was the bloody message scrawled across the alley, mentioned by both Franky and the official investigation. Bond was the name of the Forger’s pet dog, and both Twilight and the terrorists he had been rescued from had mentioned purchasing him from something called Project: Apple.

It wasn’t much, but it was a start.

Chapter Text

He was floating. An endless black sea surrounded him spanning in all directions before bleeding into an ink colored sky. A distant light shone overhead, piercing the void as if poking through a blanket, a lighthouse beacon signalling…something.

He’d never given much thought to an afterlife. Life had rendered the prospect of a benevolent god tepid at best, and as such he’d never given much credit to notions of an eternal existence determined by oversimplified concepts of morality. 

He’d known hell, and whatever this place was it needed to try harder. And if it was heaven he wanted a refund. So, purgatory then? Or a waiting room, as whatever powers governed the universe decided his fate?

Regardless of where he was, or what it was, he wanted out of there. He wanted to escape, to swim through this black void until he found land. But his body refused to cooperate, both real yet false, leaving him as motionless as he was in that alley, and just as helpless.

All he could do was think, reminisce, and above all, hope. Hope that somehow, Anya was safe, that all her resourcefulness had gotten her away, that she was safe, at home, with Yor. He hoped Yor was okay too, that she had Anya safe in hand, that she had all the details he'd prepared in case he passed…

He choked back a bitter laugh. In case . Loid Forger had been born to die, a temporary mask whose ultimate fate was to be discarded once its purpose was served. That was always the plan, and Twilight had been prepared to do so, as he had so many times before. 

But then Anya had arrived, and Yor shortly after. After that, it had simply been a matter of time, their presence in his life heralding change as slow but inevitable as a glacier. It was a poison, at once sublime and insidious, melting away the divide between Twilight and Loid Forger, and fusing mask to man and creating something, no, someone, who was at once neither of them and both.

And he’d been blind to see that, until one they had gone to the park, Bond and Anya running wildly while he and Yor had chatted mildly about their work gossip. Anya had returned to him, panting, and he had laughed and handed her a peanut, and had turned back to see Yor smiling at him, when it struck him that he couldn’t live without this. 

Without them. 

Without Loid Forger.

He had panicked, and lacking any other outlet he had put his thoughts to paper. Thus he had filled an entire sketchbook of rambling thoughts where, with dawning horror, realized that the warm feeling that filled his chest whenever Anya leapt into his arms, or the way his chest tightened whenever Yor’s eyes sparkled, or the almost giddy smile that overtook him whenever he stumbled upon Bond and Anya curled up together, was love.

And the guilt had come crashing down, once he realized that this was temporary and he would have to leave it all behind. His rambunctious daughter, his amazing wife, his goofy dog and the feeling of domesticity he found himself craving as if it was a drug.

Thus, the Note was born. A rambling, written and rewritten, and ultimately incomplete notebook for his wife and daughter that violated all of his training as a spy, laying out the truth of the matter. His mission, his adoption of Anya, his reasons for lying, how much he regretted lying, how much he loved them, how much he wanted to stay, how much of a coward he was for leaving. How he hoped they knew how much they meant to him, despite everything. How he wished them the best. How he wished he could have told them the truth beforehand. How he wished, how he wished, how he wished…

He had no eyes and yet he cried, wishing fervently into the void that he could hold them close, one more time.

Chapter Text

Lucky. That was the word the doctors kept using, and it lodged like a splinter under Yor’s skin, niggling but incapable of removal. 

“Your husband was very lucky…”

“Pure, dumb, luck…”

“If his luck holds…”

Lucky. Lucky. Lucky.

It was infuriating. How Loid was supposed to be lucky that the bullet had struck him in a thick part of the frontal bone, and lucky that the bullet had lodged there instead of continuing onward into his brain. How luckily his fractured skull had absorbed the brunt of the impact, how luckily he might have actually suffered more from the fall and resulting concussion. How luckily he had relatively minor brain swelling and spinal trauma, or how luckily her husband might escape with little more than a stiff neck , vision problems and minor to moderate amnesia .

Yor wanted to scream. To shout at them that no, nothing about this was lucky . Her husband had a bullet in his forehead and her daughter was missing. What about this situation, if anything, signalled good fortune !?

But she didn’t. She had never been a confrontational person unless she had a weapon in her hand, and she was of the understanding that donning her thorns in a hospital waiting room would present a serious social faux pas, on top of the questions it would raise.

No, Thorn Princess couldn’t help her here. She’d have to remain Yor Forger, city worker and grief stricken wife and mother, unable to do anything more than wait impotently for answers. 

The detective wasn’t helping matters, using too many words to say that they knew nothing, all while punctuating any mentions of Anya with the word step-daughter, each use of the adjective driving a stake deeper and deeper into her heart.

She needed to get out of there. She wanted to stay with Loid but she couldn’t stand remaining in the hospital and its clinical blankness, and so after reassurance that they’d be informed if anything changed, Franky had hailed them a cab and directed it back to her apartment.

“Don’t worry,” Franky reassured her as she gently stroked Bond’s fur, deliberately avoiding the crusty brown patch her soiled hands had left. “Berlint General is one of the best in the nation, and the Docs say that everything that could’ve gone right for him did. With any luck he’ll be right as rain…eventually,”

Yor could have sworn she heard a small snap “Does getting shot and your daughter kidnapped count as ‘things going right’?” she whispered icily, the uncharacteristic resentment sour on her tongue.

“Well…no,” Franky admitted, sheepishly scratching his head.

“I’m sorry Franky,” she whimpered, “I just, don’t want to go home,” she admitted, though ‘home’ felt wrong. All that awaited her was a dark, empty apartment with only her dog and the cold remnants of a half made dinner to accompany her. Home was the man lying in hospital and a girl whose current status was a horrifying unknown.

“Where do you want to go?” Franky prompted gently, his voice little more than a quiet whisper.

For a moment she was quiet, the dark storm of emotions in her chest roiling in hopes of providing an answer.

“Could you please take us to the Berlint Gardening Club?” she prompted the taxi driver.

“Are you sure? I’m pretty sure it’s closed this time of night,”

“Yes, I’m sure,” Frankly looked at her strangely, but said nothing.

The taxi drew up to the curb, and as Yor stepped out Franky finally called after her.

“Are you sure about this?”

“I am,”

“And you’re sure you don’t need me?”

“Not here,” she confirmed, before thinking for a moment, “But could you bring Bond back to the apartment and wait in case the doctor calls?”

He nodded, and the taxi pulled away. Yor looked up, facing the wrought iron fence with a shaky sigh, before clearing it one in a single bound.

She knew the path to the Shopkeeper’s little cottage by heart, bypassing the paltry few traps hidden within the foliage.

He was still awake, humming a soft tune as he buried flower bulbs.

“Hello, Thorn Princess,” he greeted calmly, standing to greet her, his tranquil smile shifting into a small frown as she took in her bloody coat, “None of that is yours, I hope?”

“N-no, it’s my husband’s,” she whimpered, thoughts of its source racking her body with an involuntary shudder. “H-he was shot,”

The Shopkeeper hummed, “And you are shaking. I was worried about this,”

Yor sniffled, “Thank you for your concern, but the doctor’s say-,”

“No, I am concerned about his effect on you,”

“...What do you mean?”

The Shopkeeper looked at her critically, “There is a reason assassins do not partake in family, and a reason I cautioned you against your marriage when it first occurred. Your husband has become a weakness,”

Cold shock battled hot rage at the words, and Yor felt her fists clench so hard her nails began to cut into the meat of her palm, “My family is a weakness?” she whispered, the hoarseness of her voice twisting it into a growl.

How dare he. How DARE he! Family was the entire reason she’d joined the Garden, and how dare he insult it so!

The Shopkeeper raised a placating hand, “Forgive me, perhaps I spoke too harshly. They are a vulnerability, I will maintain that, but vulnerabilities can be accounted for. Now, I presume you want my help?”

Yor nodded wordlessly.

“Then tell me what you know,”

And so she recounted the day’s events, from Bond’s discomfort to her theories of Anya’s fate. “Please,” she whimpered, “I need to find her, and to track down whoever did this, I-I need to do something !”

The Shopkeeper hummed thoughtfully, “I would advise you to wait,”

“Wait?!” She yelled, her outrage finally too much to contain, “I can’t wait! I need to do something!”

“An arrow fired without aim is at best useless and at worst prone to backfire. Your talents are immense, Thorn Princess, but used improperly, they could cause untold chaos,”

“But I can’t !” Yor growled, shaking her head as the tide of resentment she’d been holding back finally overflowed, the result spilling out of her mouth in the beginnings of an enraged diatribe, “Everyone’s been telling me to ‘Wait, wait, wait,’ and I can’t stand it anymore !”

“And that is why you must,” The Shopkeeper nodded serenely, unaffected by her rant, “Impulsiveness will only create more problems then it will solve. I do not begrudge your desire for action, as any organization that would stoop to abducting children from the arms of their parents must be ripped out root and stem,” the elder assassin’s gloves creaked around his ever present shears. 

“I shall reach out to my…less savoury contacts, see what they can dig up. I would advise you to talk to Director McMahon tomorrow, if you are capable of working,”

“And until then?” she asked, still unable to banish the venom from her voice.

“Take solace in your remaining loved ones, cry for your loss, pray if the mood strikes you. But above all, you must steel yourself, reign in the uncontrollable firestorm in your heart and forge it into a knife to aim at your enemies,”

Yor just nodded, still unsatisfied. His words made sense, but the anger in her chest burnt beyond any ability for reason to quench it.

She decided against calling a cab, reasoning the blood that still marred her coat might cause undue stress, and hoping the chilly walk home would serve to cool her temper.

---

The apartment seemed to be in stasis, frozen on the precipice of tragedy. Long cold tea and coffee rested on the counter, a snapshot of domesticity that seemed a lifetime ago.

Franky hated it.

The answering machine was silent, leaving Franky alone with Bond and the nagging worry.

How the hell had someone taken out Twilight!? He was the most dangerous person Franky knew, and certainly the most determined. And the man could have lied as convincingly and vehemently as he wanted to, but he cared for Anya as deeply and ferociously as any father should. The idea that he could be ambushed, defeated, and separated from her just…didn’t make any sense.

The idea set his teeth on edge and he needed to do something, but Bond seemed entirely unwilling to take another walk. But a tuft of brown, crusty fur stuck out of his coat like a sore thumb, giving him an idea.

Twilight had mentioned something about hiding Bond’s special dog shampoo in a locked safe because Anya kept trying to make an army of bubble men. And since Twilight used locks that were very hard to pick (he knew from experience) Franky found himself scrounging Twilight’s room in search of a key. At least the looming fear of the man kicking his ass for snooping distracted him from the looming spectre of his possible death.

“False panel…false panel…false pan-HA! Bingo!” he smiled triumphantly as the false bottom of the nightstand popped out, revealing…a notebook. Franky grumbled incoherently as his excitement deflated, and he began to turn away….

Only for the word ‘Twilight’ to catch his eye. He leaned back in, and despite better judgement, and common decency screaming at him not to, picked it up and began to read.

And as he flipped through pages of scribbled out words and crossed out sentences, his eyes grew wide and his jaw dropped away.

It was the truth. About everything. About Strix, about Anya, about Twilight.

And it was addressed to Yor.

Oh.

Oh.

This was a love confession.

The fact that the phrase I love you only properly appeared once hardly meant anything. Those words, even as sacred as some held them, were still just words, easily falsified by a man of negotiable truth like Twilight.

No, the love screamed from between bumbled admissions, shaky, inconsistent handwriting, and the sheer level of honesty coming from the man who didn’t even seem to have a real name .

But it seemed like he’d found one in Loid Forger.

The front door clicked open, and Franky froze.

“Franky?” Yor called out, her entrance heralded by Bond’s padding footfalls. He frantically closed the nightstand, damning notebook still in hand.

“In Loid’s room,” he responded, making a split second decision to toss it in the nightstand’s top drawer. He’d leave it to the hands of fate. If it stayed hidden, then so be it. But if Yor found it…

Then so be it.

Yor popped her head through the door, and Franky decided to be truthful for once, “I wanted to give Bond a both, was lookin’ for the key for the soap safe,”

Yor gave a watery chuckle, “I’m the one with the key. And the safe,”

“Ah, I feel like a bit of an idiot then,”

“I’ll get it,” Yor said, stepping into her room. Franky entered the hallway, meandering to the dinner table as he waited for Yor to emerge, remembering something Twilight had said to him seemingly a lifetime ago.

“People like you and I can't afford to have feelings for other people,”

If only you knew, Mr. Super Spy. If only you knew.

“Even if we could pursue relationships, they’d only end badly,”

 His face fell at what now seemed to be an unintentional prophecy.

Minutes passed, and Franky had just decided to see if Yor needed help when she finally emerged, carrying a box that sounded of…tinkling metal? 

“That…doesn’t look like a safe,” Franky commented, entirely unsure what was happening. Yor didn’t respond, simply depositing the box on the tablecloth with a thud and more tinkling.

“Franky…” she spoke softly, “I need you to keep a secret. Can you do that?”

“Yor?” he couldn’t stop the shiver that went down his spine at her tone.

“I’m serious Franky,” Yor’s voice was flat like tarmac and as grave as a funeral home, “Can. You. Do. That?” 

“Yes. for you, my lips are sealed,” he answered as seriously as her, pantomiming his mouth as a closing zipper.

“Thank you,” she whispered, opening the box and pulling out a pair of foot long blades.

Chapter Text

“Is she still crying?” Cinq asked through a breath of cigarette smoke, the nicotine still failing to calm his jumbled nerves.

“No, she finally passed out,” Vier couldn’t hide the relief in his voice, “Thank god, I couldn’t stand the sound of her crying,”

“Oh you couldn’t stand it could you?” he sardonically replied, “At least you didn’t have to be the one to actually pry her out of her pop’s hands. Least I didn’t have to actually shoot the guy,” he mumbled.

“Here’s to shaky nerves,” his brother replied jokingly, though it fell flat.

“Yes, compliment the guy too incompetant to shoot a man at point blank range,” a snide voice cut in, punctuating it with a beat of sarcastic clapping. 

The duo turned towards the door to the laboratory, and Cinq felt himself tense at the new arrivals.

“Now now 003, they were still able to recover our errant 007, weren’t they?” an aged yet amused voice replied, its owner, a bald man who would’ve been tall if not for the way his back bent with age, turning to the pretty yet unbearably smug looking red headed woman beside him.

Then he turned back, the voice turning harsh, “Even if you did leave behind valuable evidence and fail to ensure the man’s death,”

“I shot him in the head,” Vier mumbled, nervously adjusting his glasses, and Cinq had half a mind to Push him to not be embarrassed, for all the good it would do, “Thought there wasn’t a need,”

“Thoroughness is always necessary 004, but you mustn't worry, 005 is also guilty of such negligence,” the man’s accusing gaze shifted to Cinq, who couldn’t help but shrink from it.

“Listen Doc-,”

“Doctor Selmoa. I am a professional, you shall not insult me with any of your banal nicknames,”

Cinq growled, feeling himself scratching the juncture where his stubble met his acne in annoyance, “-Fine, Doctor Selmoa. I was the guy responsible for luring those two in, shooting the dad and getting the girl, all while making sure no one saw and while Pushing him to make sure they didn’t run off. You know how hard that is? Cut me some slack okay?”

Selma gave a long suffering sigh, “And once again, your self sabotaging nature rears its ugly head. Were you not trained to handle such tasks? Were you not trained to will other people to do what you commanded them?”

“Yeah well, the guy had a will of iron, I could feel him resisting my push. Nearly got a nosebleed just trying to keep him in the dark,”

“Cin-I mean 005 is right,. I nearly crashed the van trying to dull him and keep them from noticing me,” Vier spoke up, and Cinq felt the knot in his gut unwind the tiniest bit.

But 003 scoffed at that, and Selmoa looked down his nose at them, before reprimanding, “It is a shoddy workman who blames shoddy work on shoddy tools,” 

Cinq gritted his teeth at his words, “If we’re such shoddy workmen, then why not send in someone else?”

“Who? 003 was busy, you know that very well. Would you have tasked 002, with two hands between the two of them? Or me, with my bad back and my bum knee?”

That was unfair and Cinq knew it. The formerly conjoined twins collectively known as 002 were expert combatants, even on par with members of the shadowy Garden, and 003, Trinity, was just as skilled.

“Didn’t you say you had friends in the SSS?”

“Yes, but as reliable as Sten is, using the SSS to gun down someone who by all appearances is a loyal Ostanian citizen would still make too many waves. Besides, I thought the task would be more than simple enough for two of this humble projects' successful subjects to carry out. A shame I was wrong,"

For once in your life could you quit it with the patronizing act? He Pushed, his will reaching out in an attempt to override the doctor’s own.

But Selmoa smiled coyly, revealing a single golden tooth, “Ahh, I know that face! You’re trying to manipulate me aren’t you? Silly 005, you know better than to try that on a knowing target,”

Cinq shrunk back at the mocking tone, exchanging a nervous glance with Vier.

“Now, onto business, how is 007?”

Vier answered, “Unconscious, but she seemed rightly upset about the whole, ‘abduction and murder’ thing,”

Selmoa clicked his tongue, “As expected. Well, no matter, her return is a boon for our cause regardless,”

Cinq groaned, “Why’d we even bother with getting her back? Why not just, y'know, make a new one,”

“Because doing so takes time and money, and when that fool Desmond got power his lackeys pulled the plug on our funding!” the doctor sneered, “Now we must work with scraps and small minded independent investors. Not that working with Desmond would be any more pleasant, mind you. Paranoid fool would probably insist we give him mind reading abilities, despite the fact it doesn’t work like that…” he trailed off grumbling, before cheering back up. 

“Now then, towards discovery, and towards peace!”

---

Anya regarded the sterile walls of her room with a mirroring blankness.

Her nightmares had come true. The bad doctors had found her, and Papa couldn’t stop them.

And they had hurt him. Hurt him bad and ‘cause to her e-clip-sing she couldn’t hear if he was okay. 

Stupid, stupid moon!

She still couldn’t hear anything, but she wasn’t sure if it was the moon because she didn’t know how long it had been since the man who shot papa had pinched her to stop her from screaming and she’d gone to sleep.

And then she’d woken up here, in this room, and then the bad doctor’s voice had come in through the radio telling her she was home and she’d known .

They’d found her, and she couldn’t do anything about it. She felt so helpless she’d cried, even though she was trying to be a big girl, and cried and cried until she fell asleep.

And now she was awake, staring vacantly at the wall.

She missed Papa.

She missed Mama.

She missed Bond.

She missed her friend Becky.

She even missed Sy-on boy and Mr Scruffy!

She missed home.

She wanted to go home.

Chapter Text

“...And that’s why I decided to join a volleyball team,” Yor finished, cringing in mixed embarrassment and trepidation as her story ended, beginning as an explanation of her ‘other job’, before reviewing her reasons for doing so and why she still did it, before veering into an explanation of her reasons for marrying Loid and finally trailing off on a recounting of the last year of her life. “Are…are you okay with that?”

Franky was frozen, a deer in the headlights who seemed equally liable to run, burst into tears, or keel over from sheer panic. 

“Franky?”

Franky’s words left him in a pained wheeze, “...Loid thought you were a prostitute…” 

“A WHAT ?!” Yor reared back, scandalized by the accusation. How could Franky say that?! How could Loid think that!? How could she be mistaken as such-

“That wasn’t a bad thing!” Franky yelled out, waving his hands wildly, “Let me make it clear that being a prostitute is in no way a bad thing! I didn’t say it like that, I didn’t think it like that, Loid definitely didn’t think it like that-,”

“But why would he even think that I was a, uh,” her tongue stumbled over the word.

“...Lady of negotiable affection?” Franky offered.

“Yes, that,”

Franky looked at her like she might kill him if he answered wrong, “Uh, he didn’t talk much about it, but he mentioned something about private massages for high powered men?”

“That…was cover for assassinations,” she admitted bashfully.

“Yeah, usually that’s cover for a, err, ‘happy ending’, so to say,”

“Oh! Those jobs all had happy endings! Just…not for them,”

“I got that,” Franky wheezed out again.

“Still, Loid thought that…and he didn’t mind?”

Franky shook his head, “No, if anything he thought it was…noble, for doing that to take care of your brother,”

Yor opened her mouth, but no sound left it. She wasn’t sure what to say. Yor was of the understanding that…ladies of negotiable affection…were looked down on in polite society. But Loid thought that…and he hadn’t cared. He thought that she was admirable, he thought that she was noble for doing so, thought that she was worthy of being a mother!

He hadn’t even tried to take advantage of her, hadn’t even broached the subject of physical intimacy other than to say that it wasn’t necessary if she wasn’t comfortable with it.

What did she do to deserve someone like him?

“I wasn’t lying when I said I did this for my family, you have to understand that right?” she spoke finally, the words feeling like pitiful self justification on her lips.

But Franky seemed to accept that, “I do, and I believe you. A-and I won’t tell anyone about this if you don’t want me to,” he nodded, the sincerity in his voice nearly causing her to erupt in tears again.

“Thank you, Franky. You’re a good friend,”

Strangely, he seemed guilty at those words, “...Yeah, thanks Yor. Now if you’ll excuse me, it’s late, we’ve both had a long day, so why don’t I scream into a pillow and we both go to sleep? And before you ask, I’m fine with the couch,”

Yor couldn’t help the giggle that escaped her, “Tell me if you need anything,” the burgeoning hostess that had slowly been developing inside her wanted to object, to offer better accommodations, but the rest of her just wanted to sleep and try and forget today ever happened. A fantasy, but one she desperately wanted to escape to.

She changed into her sleepwear to the soundtrack of Franky’s muffled screams and thumps that reminded Yor of Loid’s percussive therapy. But despite the exhaustion that now ran bone deep, her bed looked unappealing.

She snuck a peek into the living room, where Franky lay passed out on the couch. And with the sense she was disturbing forbidden ground, entered Loid’s room, crawling into the bed and under covers that still smelled like him. Bond joined her, but began sniffing at the partially open nightstand.

She eyed him, recalling how he’d seem to have just…known that Anya and Loid were in trouble. Part of her wanted to take advantage of that interest, wondering if she’d just paid attention to him the first time this entire tragedy could’ve been prevented.

But the other part of her was just so tired , her soul drowned in sorrow and burnt away by her rage. So she closed the drawer, resolving to take care of it tomorrow, and settled into the bed, Bond taking his place beside her, ever the loyal anchor.

Mercifully, she slept dreamlessly that night.

---

Yor’s awakening was a flip to consciousness, punctuated by a heavy inhale that smelled of Loid and Bond. She lay there, stroking the large dog, pointedly ignoring the still soiled fur as yesterday’s events replayed themselves in the theatre of her mind, reaffirming that it was not , in fact, a nightmare.

Eventually, she found herself remembering happier times, reminiscing about the way she had grown to love them. 

She’d fallen for Anya at first, the adorable little girl who’d instantly called her “mama” despite the falseness of it all. But then it had become all so… real . She’d protected her, she’d taught her to protect herself, she’d listened to worries and problems and assuaged her fears. They’d bonded, they’d played, they’d laughed and they had cried. The whole situation had reminded her of Yuri at first, but it had morphed into an entirely separate beast, just as precious and nearly as consuming. Anya was her daughter, her world, her heart and it tore at her very being that she hadn’t been there to protect her and Loid.

And then there was Loid. Loid, her false husband, father of her child and her…well, she wasn’t sure, anymore. Their relationship reminded her of a car crash, really, the world slowing to a crawl with the realization that lives were about to change inexorably. Their marriage began as nothing more than an arrangement, a farce to get Yuri off her back and allow Anya an unrivaled education. She’d admired him then, his dedication to his daughter, and awed by the way he reciprocated it, (Last night’s revelations only increased that awe). He’d been respectful, kind, and gentle with her, and the affection that she’d developed had been genuine. And apparently returned.

And slowly, carefully, a courtship had developed, their false marriage edging into something painfully real. Stolen gazes, lingering touches, shared smiles at Anya’s antics that fed into a loop when they noticed the expression on the other’s faces, and the long, quiet, heartfelt conversations where they had carefully peeled away the layers of secrecy and walls they had put up. 

And at some point, the affection had changed, morphing into a bone deep desire that left her heart fluttering whenever he’d smiled at her.

That was love, she realized. She loved him.

A love further cemented when a surprise visit from Yuri had forced them into sharing Loid’s bed, and she had woken up in his arms. It had been an…enlightening experience that had ended with Loid’s lips ghosting against Yor’s knuckles and had sent her running, face flaming, back to her room.

Now she wished she’d worked up the courage to ask him if they could share their beds again.

There was a knock at the door. Reluctantly, Yor extricated herself from the bed and entered the living room…only to see Franky frantically trying to lift her box of equipment.

Oh, she silently panicked, I should hide that shouldn’t I?

“Ah, coming!” she stammered, before grabbing the box and running it back to her room, throwing it into the corner of her room with a clatter. 

She cringed at the noise, but ran to answer the door nonetheless.

Yuri awaited on the other side, a bouquet of roses in hand and a frantic expression on his face.

“Why didn’t you tell me about this?” he asked, handing her the roses. She opened her mouth in apology, but froze as she took hold of them, the crimson petals that had once been her favourite color suddenly serving as a stark reminder of the blood that coated her hands yesterday, and whose remnants still clung to Bond.

She really needed to wash him.

Yor stepped aside, eyes still fixed on the roses as Yuri stepped in, and froze upon laying his eyes on Franky.

“ What’s he doing here?” Yuri’s accusation escaped him in a sneer that made Yor’s heart clench. She loved Yuri, but she didn’t need this.

“Moral support,” he stated.

“He was with me when I found Loid,” she murmured simultaneously, “He hasn’t left my side since,” she broke her gaze from the flowers just enough to shoot him an appreciative smile.

“But why didn’t you call me?” he asked again, quieter but still hurt.

“I didn’t get the chance,” she murmured. In truth, she’d simply…forgotten. It was an odd and unpleasant realization, forgetting the little brother she’d dedicated so much of her life to, but in the chaos of yesterday he’d simply been…lost in a shuffle.

Guilt settled on her shoulders, heavy and itchy like an ill made woolen blanket.

“How’d you even find out?” Franky questioned, a sharp edge in his voice. It earned the man another glare from Yuri.

“It was in the news,” he ground out, tossing the morning edition of the OST Daily on the table. Yor had snatched it and began to read before she’d even registered moving.

It’s not on the first page, but turning to the second revealed the words “Man Shot, Daughter Missing, Thought Abducted” printed out in stark block letters. Below it lay a picture of Anya, the same one she’d reluctantly allowed the detective to take. She was resplendent in her Eden Academy uniform as a wide, open mouthed grin nearly split her face in half. Loid had taken that picture, she remembered, and he’d told her to say ‘pasteurized dairy’ and she’d responded with ‘pastor-eyed day ray’.

Paper crinkled under her fingers and the world began to mist before she blinked away the tears.

“Not even the first page?” Franky murmured from over her shoulder, “What the hell, she’s an Eden kid, this should be on the frontpage with like, a dozen exclamation points surrounding it!” He sounded outraged, and the dark thing that had taken residence in her ribcage churned in agreement.

“She’s not from one of the big families, probably doesn’t get priority,” Yuri replied, his answer laced with a flippantness that set Yor on edge. She knew Yuri didn’t like Loid, and Loid had accepted that they’d never be friends, but Anya is a different matter entirely.

Franky seemed to agree, “Hey, could it kill you to actually pretend to care for them for once? I know, I know, Loid ‘stole your sister’, but that doesn’t mean you can go around acting like an asshole about it,”

Yuri scoffed, rising to the jibe, and Yor felt her shoulders tense, “What makes you think you know me, Scruffy?”

“ Don’t, call me scruffy,” Franky seethed, sounding half a step from violence, “There’s only one person who gets to call me that and she’s who-knows-where while her pop’s still fighting for his life!” he was halfway to shouting by the end of the tirade, before the volume dropped back to a grinding whisper, “The pops who told me about you , by the way,”

“And I’m sure he had nothing glowing reviews,” Yuri said mockingly. The paper in Yor’s hands began to tear.

“Yeah, he told me you could be a real dick, but he also told me you cared for your sister,” Franky responded, “But I’m beginning to think he was reachin’,”

“ That’s it you little-! ”

Yor caught her brother’s hand without turning, the mangled newspaper fluttering to her feet as blood thundered in her ears.

“Franky,” she asked calmly, refusing to let the storm brewing her chest escape. “Could you go to city hall and talk to Director McMahon for me? I’ll write you a note,”

“Course, Yor,” Franky agreed solemnly.

“Yeah,” Yuri agreed vindictively, “Run along errand boy, my sister doesn’t need-,” 

“You should leave too, Yuri,” she stated firmly, hand still wrapped around his wrist as she turned to look at him. Eyes the color of frozen blood looked at her like a kicked puppy.

“Yor, what are you saying?”

“I can’t,” a gale of frustration escaped her, prelude to a hurricane “Deal with you, right now,” it hurt, treating her brother like that, but she knew if he stayed he might begin insulting Loid and the idea sickened her.

“What? Yor, I-I can’t just leave you alone,”

“I’m not some porcelain doll, Yuri, I can take care of myself. Besides, I have Bond,” the loyal pet borfed in recognition.

“Like Loi-Loi did?” Yuri’s jaw snapped shut with an audible click, that heralds a stunned silence. He obviously regretted the jab, but it was already too late, the words as uncompromising and permanent as a bullet leaving its chamber.

Yor froze, ice crystallizing in her veins as the bullet entered her heart and ricocheted through her ribcage, tearing her insides to shreds. There was a small crash behind her, but its sound was lost under the war drum pulse beating in her ears.

How dare he.

How FUCKING dare he.

“Get out,” Yor snapped as her inner storm released a lightning bolt, quick and flat and brokering no argument.

Yuri stuttered, ineffectively grasping at air in a vain attempt take his words back, “Y-Yor I didn’t mean-,”

“Yuri.” she hissed, her grip on his wrist tightening into a vice. The cold air of last night’s walk escaped her in a frozen blast, freezing Yuri where he stood, “ Get. Out. ”

“What am I supposed to do?” Her brother whispered.

“Go to your job,”

“I-I called off of work today,”

“Then go home. Spend time with your friends. Pray if the mood strikes you,” she offered, even as the unconscious echo of the Shopkeeper’s words struck her with a sense of grim irony, “But you need to leave.”

She relinquished her grip on him. For a moment he stood there, seemingly uncomprehending.

And then he was gone, retreating out the door in a manner that reminded Yor of Bond when he’d gotten into the pantry. She wondered if that’s what she looked like last night.

The door slammed shut, the sound deflating the now stifling tension like a popped balloon. 

“Yor-,”

“Franky. Please.” She insisted, rage vacating her as exhausted grief took its place. 

Franky said nothing, simply taking the note she offered him and heading to her work without another word, leaving her in the stifling silence of the empty husk of her home.

She needed to give Bond a bath.

Chapter Text

Born Industries was exactly as Twilight had described it in his report, and it seemed that any improved security was focused around the laboratories, not the archives that Nightfall slipped into with a wig, one of Twilight’s masks (She’d thank him if when he woke up), a file full of empty papers and a domineering attitude.

“ You want to look like a legitimate visitor until the very last minute. If you can't look legitimate, confused works almost as well,” Twilight’s lessons on infiltration echoed in her head, and she tried to focus on that image of him, the strong, wise, handsome teacher who’d captured her heart, instead of the stricken, bloodied man in the hospital bed who looked far too much like a corpse for her liking.

In this case, ‘legitimate visitor’ meant underpaid and overworked secretary fed up with her bullshit boss and the files he was making her come in late to sort. The identity had been lifted from WISE’s previous observations of the lab, a pre-prepared cover kept just in case things went FUBAR, like today.

She approached the file room, identifying her next obstacle: A fingerprint scanner, a new device that had recently been popping up in more and more secure areas, and had proved the doom of more than one attempted infiltration. Twilight’s advice hadn’t covered something as specific as this, but a good spy was nothing if not resourceful.

With deft motions she donned a glove hidden within her skirts, pressing it to the scanner. It glowed a cheery green, and the door opened with a pneumatic hiss, which provided great cover as Nightfall released the breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding.

“Nobody wipes off a fingerprint scanner after they use it. So what's left on the scanner nine times out of ten is the fingerprint,” she smiled to herself, crafting the advice in her head. Maybe, if when Twilight recovered, she could share it with him.

She quickly found the “A” section, and a quick spin using the lockpicks in her pencil case later, her deft fingers were carding through files. 

As, Ap, Ap…Apple! Yes! She noted victoriously, before reigning her temper under the cool professionalism Twilight had drilled into her.

Sleight of hand transferred half the sheath of papers in her folder into the File, it’s original contents shuffled into her three point binder, and took her leave.

It was half way out the complex when things went off script. The skeleton crew responsible for the complex were clustered in front of the door, shocked whispers emanating from the knot of people as the blue lights of Police cars cast long, sharp shadows across the lobby.

Great. Just what she needed.

“What’s happening?” she asked, playing the part of gossip hungry archive clerk.

“Apparently there was a murder in the Treadstone Hotel,” one voice stated.

“I heard it was a triple murder,” another whispered.

“It was apparently a bloodbath,” someone added queasily.

“I heard the dead guys were all heavily armed,” another murmured.

Welp, time to do her part, “Do you think it was the ‘you know who’ did it?” she whispered with a grimace, eyes flickering, wary of unseen eyes and ears. This inspired a new wave of whispers, and having added her kindling into the fires of rumour, she waved goodbye and made her escape without issue.

There was a line around the hotel, holding back a tide of curious people as Police waved them away. She skirted across the back of the crowd, scanning it.

From the edge of her eye, she caught sight of a handyman and a man in a black suit breaking away in the direction of Born Industries.

Noteworthy, but she had more pressing matters to attend to.

---

“So,” Lady Gladiolus purred, the brunette assassin lounging back into the luxurious bed as her eyes scanned her favoured weapons, short bladed and flower pommeled gladii, “Either of you know why the Shopkeeper called us here?”

“The Shopkeeper wanted us to keep an eye on the nearby warehouse,” Forget-Me-Not informed them, the largest and senior most Garden operative of the trio crossing his arms as he continued, “Ongoing business that the Shopkeeper’s involved with. This mission is extremely vital, so I want both of you to keep your heads on a swivel,”

“Of course sir,” Shadow Fern nodded from the other bed, the least experienced assassin in the room carefully checking his topiary themed kusarigama for chinks or defects. 

“If it’s so important, why not put the Thorn Princess on this?” Gladiolus asked, genuinely curious, “Berlint’s her usual stomping ground, and she's certainly the best of us,” she turned to Shadow Fern, humour and interest sparkling in her eyes, “Unless you rattled her in your last training bout, Shadow Fern,”

“I doubt that, she’s a monster,” Shadow Fern answered with a shudder, “What you’re calling a bout was more a slaughter. Couldn’t even keep track of her,”

“Why’d she even want to fight you again?”

“She had trouble with an opponent using a chain weapon during the Princess Lorelei affair, wanted to brush up on counters,” Forget Me Not explained, “the both of you could stand to learn from her diligence,”

Gladiolus sighed, “I don’t know how she can even afford to do that, especially with her new husband and kid,”

“Me too,” Shadow Fern agreed, “Doesn’t that seem a little irresponsible to you?”

“Maybe she’s retiring?”

“Whatever the reason,” Forget Me Not cut through the burgeoning gossip, “We’re here for a job, not to discuss our coworkers personal lives,”

“Right,”

“Agreed,”

Then there was a knock at the door. The assassins froze, the room silent save for the nervous voice that drifted through the door, “R-room service,”

“Okay, which one of you jokers ordered that?” Forget Me Not demanded quietly, shooting sharp glares at his companions.

“Don’t look at me,” Gladiolus shrugged. Fern shook his head.

The room went tense as the realization washed over them. There was a blanket placed under the door to prevent shadows from giving away their presence, but otherwise their rendezvous point was horribly insecure.

“I’ll check it,” Forget-Me-Not said, his large frame moving to the door with cat-like grace. He looked through the peephole, taking in the sight of a tall, bald and thin faced bellhop who was nervously holding a serving tray with a steak atop it.

Forget Me Not sighed, “Think he just got the wrong roo-,” the bellboy’s head cocked to the side and the assassin’s head snapped back as a bullet ripped through it.

“What the-!” Gladiolus’ shout was cut off as the door imploded and the bellhop burst through. The assassins struck like lightning, Shadow Fern’s kusarigama shooting forward to rip into the bellhop’s right hand, only for it to fall away. A thin blade flashed, parrying one of Gladiolus’ shortswords as he caught the other, before burying itself in the assassin’s heart and being dragged through her lungs. 

The kusarigama snapped back, but the bellhop snatched the dying Gladiolus’ dagger and used it to deflect the chain, sparks flying as he dragged it along in his approach.

Shadow Fern leapt back, but the bellhop was already upon him, a trio of punch-like stabs running down his left side, puncturing his lungs and piercing his heart. 

Didn’t even see him , Shadow Fern thought, blood hemorrhaging and filling his lungs, the speed strangely reminiscent of his bout with the infamous Thorn Princess. 

Then steel bit into his spinal cord, and he knew nothing more.

---

The bellhop stood among the trio of corpses, surveying his work with a nod as he cleaned the thin blade on the robe of one of the assassins. He pried the false hand from the kusarigama, clucking at the damage the blade had wrought on it. 

The door to the opposite room opened, revealing a handyman, identical in appearance to the bellhop save for his right hand, this one of flesh and blood and carrying a black satchel, fit for carrying tools, such as the screwdriver used to remove the room’s peephole, or the gun fired through the impromptu opening.

In perfect synchronicity, the two men stepped into the hall, greeting each other with a nod before proceeding, with single minded purpose, towards the staircase.

---

There was a burst of static.

“Hello 002, how goes the theft?”

“Problem,” two voices stated as one.

“What kind of problem?”

“We were delayed,” one voice stated.

“By the Garden,” the second, nearly identical to the first finished.

“ Fuck! How?”

“Forget Me Not,”

“-A contact informed us-,”

“-That he seemed to be watching the lab-,”

“-And there were two others with him-,”

“-So we followed them-,”

“And eliminated them,”

There was a sigh, “...Let it never be said you aren’t a go-getter. At least that’s three less Garden agents we’ll have to deal with later. But the Garden’s presence alone is…disturbing. Did you at least get the files?”

“No,”

“Someone got there before us-,”

“-And took them,”

There was a grumble. “Shit,”

“What do we need to do?”

“There are too many loose ends here, and a clever enough mind might recognize the name of the ever reliable Sten. We can’t have that. Kill him,”

“Yes,”

“-Of course,”

“It will be done,”

Chapter Text

Yuri had messed up. Badly. He had enough self awareness to recognize that as shame nipped at his heels while he stomped down the streets of Berlint. He’d wanted to make Yor feel better, but instead he’d said the worst thing at the wrong time and now his precious sister was even more upset than ever. Again. 

He wasn’t sure what it was about the whole Forger situation that brought out the worst in him. The fact his darling sister was married? No, he’d wanted her to get into a stable relationship. The fact he felt he couldn’t repay her for all the things she’d done for him, how hard she’d worked and how much she’d sacrificed? No, he’d long since resigned herself to never being able to repay a debt of such magnitude.

Maybe, maybe it was the fact she hadn’t told him she was married? That she’d hid a husband, and more gallingly, a child , from him for over a year? The fact that he’d blinked and seemingly missed an entire portion of her life?

Maybe. But he couldn't be sure, and it frustrated him.

He’d never been good with his emotions. They’d always end up tangling into a ball of thorns in his chest, fermenting like an untreated wound before bursting forth at the worst time in a tide of vitriol and nonsense. Trying to keep calm became flippant disregard, and sentiments like ‘I’m surprised there’s someone else in your apartment’ and ‘I really don’t think you should be alone right now’ were sent tumbling through the emotion ball to become gems ‘what’s he doing here?’ and especially ‘like Loi-Loi did?’or even shit like saying he was serious about marrying her. 

Okay, he had been as a child, but not now .

He hated it. He was an agent of the SSS for god’s sake, he’d been trained to read and manipulate feelings, to keep his cool, and to approach conversation with a silver tongue. But it all went out the window when his sister was involved. 

It was a problem and he hated it. He just wanted to be normal for once and not end up saying everything the absolute worst way.

He twisted his hands in his pockets, and his wrist twinged in discomfort, sending him into involuntary shudders as he recalled the way it had creaked in her grip. Not that he didn’t deserve it, of course, but Yor had almost never hurt him before. Besides her cooking, the only things had been the “rib incident” that he’d been too young to remember, and the one time when he was nine and the hunger pangs had turned him into enough of a little pissant for her to go over the edge and slap him so hard that she’d broken his cheek bone. She’d cried when she realized what she’d done, her full bodied sobs crystal clear through the pain and confusion. 

He’d sworn in his half dazed state to never hurt her like that again.

Instead he’d hurt her worse.

“Really, not even a ‘How can I help? Or a ‘I’m worried for the chihuahua child too?’”

“Yuri Briar?” A business like voice broke him from his mutterings, and looked to see a stocky man with a police badge in hand and a serious expression on a mustached face.

“You here about my niece?” He asked gruffly.

“Yes, and I wanted to ask you a few questions-”

“What a coincidence,” Yuri cut him off, the storm in his chest having found a sufficient target, “So do I. For example, why the fuck isn’t this headline news? She’s an Eden kid for god’s sake, how the fuck do you guys not have the city on lockdown?”

The detective bristled, “Apologies,” he stated, and Yuri was skilled enough at reading people to know he was genuine, “If it were up to me the entire force would be on this,” a note of genuine frustration appeared, his voice shifting into something resembling a growl, “But for whatever reason, my superior’s decided to bury the lede on this,”

“ What? ” Yuri found himself demanding in quiet outrage. The detective mirrored his anger, his jaw moving from side to side.

Suddenly, a horrible thought took hold.

“The SSS,” he whispered, “They’re the only ones who have that kind of pull,”

The detective’s expression turned wary, “What makes you think that?”

For a moment, Yuri was quiet, considering his next move. Then he flipped out his badge, professionalism lost under his need to stop feeling helpless and actually do something. “Cause I’m SSS, and I’m going to get some fucking answers.”

—

But as much as he wanted to, he couldn’t just barge into the headquarters of the SSS and start demanding answers. No, rising star of the SSS or not, doing so would earn him a demerit at the very best, but was much more likely to get him a bullet behind the ear. No, charging into his death was useless, and it would hurt Yor worse than he already had.

He’d have to settle for his field office then. He entered, a dark storm trailing him like a roiling fog, snapping off an icy greeting to the surprised duty officer before heading to the top floor bullpen.

He had barely stepped out of the elevator before coming face to face with Isaac Bursche, his mentor, partner, and to an extant, friend.

“Hey pup, didn’t you call off today?” the older man asked jovially, before he caught Yuri’s half murderous expression and his own fell, “Something didn’t happen to your sister, didn’t it?”

“Her husband got shot and their kid got nabbed,” Yuri growled.

“God. Yuri that’s horrific, I’m so sorry,”

He snorted, waving the second issue of OST he’d bought, “What’s horrific is the lack of attention the case is getting. Eden student gets nabbed and it’s not headline news?”

“Well, there was a triple murder at the Treadstone last night,” Bursche pointed out, before continuing in a conspiratorial tone, “They’re saying someone jumped a trio of those Garden freaks and wiped them out. News has everyone on edge, especially Vorsta. Wants us to bury this thing,”

The mention of his immediate commander sent another flash of anger through his mind, “That reminds me, I need to talk to him,” he pushed away from the conversation, his attention focused on the Commandant’s office, and the metal placard stamped with the name of the biggest weasel in the SSS.

He didn’t bother knocking, taking hold of the doorknob and pushing. It was unlocked, and the measly chain lock snapped under his strength.

The wiry, weasel like man behind it jumped in his door.

“Briar! What is the meaning-,”

The newspaper hit the desk with a thud, “I talked to the detective investigating my sister’s case,” he began without preamble, “He says his superior got orders to make sure this case wasn’t solved.”

“And does that have to do with-?”

“Correct me if I’m wrong, but aren’t we the only people in this city who can make that happen?” he questioned sardonically, “Of course, it could always be someone else, but I can’t imagine that such a thing bodes well,”

“We are and it wouldn’t, but I don’t see the relevance,”

“Really?” he asked in falsified shock, “That’s news to me, coming from the man who once bragged that he had enough blackmail material to take down Donovan Desmond if he wanted to,”

“How do you know-?!” Vorsta started, before his jaw slammed shut. It was too late though, he’d over played his hand and it was Yuri’s turn to capitalize.

A smug expression overtook Yuri’s face, “You just confirmed it,” he answered playfully.

For a moment, Vorsta was quiet, “What do you want Briar?”

He leaned forward, looming over Stern, palms flat on the desk as he channeled the mixed personal and professional disgust at the man in front of him into an expression that could be charitably described as a sharp toothed grin, “Who buried the Forger shooting, Stern?”

A bloody glare bore into eyes the color of gravel, silent and demanding. The older man flinched, his gaze flickering from from Yuri to a spot under the desk that the younger man knew contained at least some of his blackmail material.

“You’ll-” Vorsta gulped nervously, “You’ll never get away with this,”

Yuri withdrew, slowly and evenly, “Good talking with you,” he nodded, before taking his leave, not bothering to close the door on the way in.

The enraged brother in him had wanted to continue of course, to rearrange the man’s facial features until he started talking. But the trained interrogator knew that leaving a suspect to wait and stew was the most tortourous tool on the rack. 

Either way, he’d have his answers.

Chapter Text

“Mother fucker ,”

Nightfall glanced up at Handler, the gesture the only indication of her genuine shock at the older woman’s hiss. Not that she blamed her. The documents she’d rescued from Born Industries seemed engineered to inspire such reactions.

They at once said all too little and all too much, photocopies of heavily redacted originals that revealed few things they didn’t already know. Initiated by the previous Ostanian government, designed to create super smart animals, officially disbanded in the early days of the Desmond chancellorship, things like that. But these files revealed three glaring holes in that info:

One: They had not been disbanded.

Two: They had been successful, not just in creating intelligent animals, but awakening psychic powers.

Three: The human experiments.

“Monsters. Bastards. Child torturing sons of bitches the lot of them,” the Handler’s tirade continued, not as a shout but as a statement of inexorable facts delivered with a growling edge that was somehow scarier. She slammed the sheet onto her desk with a force to leave the rest slightly scattered. “Just when I think Ostania’s powers-that-be have hit rock bottom with their atrocities, they pry a shovel from a dying orphan and start digging,”

The process was relatively straightforward. The sequential alteration of increasingly complex and human-like brains to access various ‘enhanced mental abilities’ as the paper stated, finally ending with the, for lack of a better word, ‘creation’ of children with these powers. The final successes were given a three digit numeral code. Evidently, there had been seven ‘successes’, and one still in animal testing.

No mention was made of the failures.

The file for 001 was heavily redacted, not even a picture to go off, evidently a test run to ensure the initial process was feasible. 007, with the stated power of telepathy was in a similar state, the only other useful information being an F in the sex category and a birthdate that would place the girl at around 5 years old as of present. 006’s file was absent completely.

Which left the two women mulling over the files of Subjects 002 through 005, as the eyes of children stared back at them.

002 was in fact a pair, identical male twins no older than eight regarding the camera with identical bland expressions, literally joined at the arm. Their abilities had been redacted.

003 was similar, revealing nothing about the abilities of the six year old auburn haired girl attempting to burn a hole in the camera with mismatched hazel & black eyes.

004 was two years younger than the girl, no older than twenty today if the dates were correct. He looked like a nervous schoolboy, smiling at the camera as a strand of raven hair jutting from a widow’s peak fell over square glasses and blue-black eyes.

005 by contrast looked like he was sucking on a lemon, lime green eyes peeking from a freckled face and a mess of brown curls to regard the camera with suspicion. His ability caught her eye.

“Ability: Subject can impart mental commands on selected targets. That could explain the lack of struggle in the alley,”

Handler pursed her lips in consideration, “True, but four’s ‘suppression of situational awareness’ is equally as probable. Plus there’s the issue of 005’s age. I’m not about to suggest Apple has standards but-,”

“But from a practical perspective-,” Fiona picked up the train of thought, “Sixteen years only means less experienced, but he probably received the same physical training as the others. Plus there’s the fact that there were likely two gunmen,”

“And the fact we don’t know two or three’s abilities,” Handler finished with a sigh, and for a second she slumped, the weight of this situation being the straw that broke a back carrying a career nearly thirty years in length,  “What about 008?”

Nightfall shuffled through the papers until she found the right file, “At last record they were moving onto testing dogs,”

“Anything concerning possible powers?”

There was more shuffling, “No,” Nightfall answered, unable to hide the disappointment in her voice.

“It feels we’ve taken a step forward but we're misreading the compass,” Handler groaned. “Go see Twilight’s contact, he might have something for us,”

Nightfall nodded, and took her leave, pulling Handler’s office door behind her.

The last thing she saw was the Handler, slumping into her chair, shoulders still sagging in defeat.

---

The weird thing about personal tragedy, in Franky’s opinion, was the way the world kept turning in spite of it. It was jarring and humbling, the way someone’s life could be upended but that it often meant little to the wider world. Trains still ran, people still headed off to work, children kept growing, the motions of life continued, leaving those caught in the tragedy, who were left behind as they either hit pause, were stuck in a loop, or shut down completely.

Case in point, while Yor languished in her empty apartment, Berlint’s City Hall still buzzed with activity, the necessities of municipal governance ignorant of one family’s misfortune.

“I was wondering if I could speak to Director McMahon?” he asked the lady at the front desk. She was cute, and under normal circumstances he’d try to put some patented Franky moves™ on her, but between the absolute clusterfuck of the last day and the fact she was regarding him like he was pond scum on the heel of her shoe, he decided against it.

“Do you have an appointment?” she demanded. Franky opened his mouth to offer up an excuse, but there wasn’t a need.

“No need,” McMahon stepped in, nodding at him, “She called ahead,” the two of them into the man’s office, and he locked the door behind them in a cascading series of clicks. Franky couldn’t suppress a gulp at the noise.

“I assume, by the queasy expression on your face, that you know ,” there was no need for the man to specify what he meant. Franky tried to recall Twilight’s advice on masking emotions, but they fled him in the face of the man who supervised both Yor Forger…and Thorn Princess.

“She told me to give you this,” he handed McMahon the note Yor had given him, one he didn’t dare look at. The man opened it, eyes flickering over its contents, before sighing.

“Husband gets shot, kid goes missing and she’s considerate enough to be worried about a reprimand for showing up late for work,” he sighed again, meandering over to his desk before falling back into it with a whump that weirdly enough reminded Franky of Bond.

Logically, Franky knew that there was no better time than now to ask permission to leave, but the sheer exhaustion written across the older man’s face concerned him, “Dalc for your thoughts?”

Eyes snapped upwards, “I assume you can keep a secret?” 

He nodded, “Course sir,”

He harrumphed with humour, “Good to know at least one info broker in this city has integrity,”

Shit! “What are you talking about?” he lied smoothly, managing to reign in his expression despite the way his mind was screaming in terror.

“Don’t play ignorant kid, I’ve been around long enough to know an enterprising confidence man when I see one. Old timer in a field where men die young and all that,” 

“Pleasedon’tkillme!” he whimpered, hands raised appeasingly.

“Don’t worry, no one’s decided you're a tall enough poppy to warrant the Garden’s attention,” McMahon smirked, before his expression fell and the exhaustion returned, “You hear about the mess at the Treadstone last night?”

“Not really, I was too busy losing my shit over the whole ‘my friend is actually a trained killer’ thing,” he smiled weakly, attempting to lighten the mood.

“The Shopkeeper sent out a few feelers to help Yor, came up with something called Project: Apple, connected to Born Industries,”

Is that where she went last night? Franky asked himself as MacMahon continued.

“A team of three was sent out to survey the site, but apparently we weren’t the only ones interested,”

Franky followed the train of thought to its next station, “They were ambushed?”

McMahon nodded gravely, “A reliable assassin, a promising rookie, and an old friend are gone. Three of the Garden’s prized flowers, wiped out. We were outmaneuvered and our organizations a little bit smaller now, whatever you wanna call it,”

“I’m…sorry?” Franky offered, unsure whether or not to feel sympathy for the killers who had claimed more than one associate of his in the past.

“Save the condolences for the sons of bitches responsible for this when we find them,” he responded resolutely, and Franky winced at the implication.

“Now, tell Yor that she doesn’t have to worry, I’ll make sure to handle things here,”

Franky thanked him, taking his leave as relief washed over him and he was struck by the sudden urge to use the washroom.

---

The two of them met on the steps to the Forger’s apartment block.

“Hey, Pretty Lady!”

“Franklin,” Nightfall nodded, and Franky couldn’t help as his gaze settled on the dark bags hanging beneath her eyes.

“When’s the last time you slept? You look terrible?”

“So was the ‘Pretty Lady’ line a lie or do you just have terrible taste?”

Franky scoffed, “I’ll have you know I have wonderful taste. I wasn’t lying about you being pretty either,” he added with a wink.

“Where were you?”

He shifted uncomfortably, “Yor needed a friend. By the way, you got news on Loid?”

Nightfall shook her head, not bothering to hide her shame, “Sorry, I spent most of the night working,” 

That certainly explains the eyebags , Franky thought, “When’s the last time you slept?”

“I took a nap,” she answered, and Franky furrowed his eyebrows.

“Listen, I know you have an errand for me, but I need to see Yor first,”

Nightfall nodded again, and surprisingly enough, fell in behind him as he made his way to the apartment.

“Yor? I’m back,” he said as he opened the apartment. An eerie silence greeted them, and Franky couldn’t suppress the feeling of worry that ran through him.

Then Bond was there, whimpering and pulling him further into the apartment, and the worry bloomed into panic.

“Yor? You okay?” he said louder, and then Nightfall at his side, readied for action.

“Franky?” Yor stepped into the hallway, and Franky’s panic refused to abate as he took in her disturbingly vacant expression…and the notebook with Loid’s confession in her hand.

Right. She was an assassin, he was a foreign spy. Shit. Fuck. Shit.

“What do you know about this?”

Chapter Text

The hours had ticked on, and Vier’s trepidation had only grown, a gnawing feeling in the pit of his stomach that had begun to slowly expand, entering his bloodstream like a virus and circulating with every heartbeat, and infecting every capillary.

He’d been told that 007’s retrieval was necessary for their goals. That it needed to be accomplished no matter the cost. That the results would justify whatever actions they took.

But it didn’t feel right. Nothing about this did.

“004,” Something snapped, and Vier realized he’d been lost in his own head. He turned to Trinity, his sister, the Subject he’d been the closest with growing up. 

But not anymore.

“Sorry, you were saying something?”

“You’re spacing off again, aren’t you?” she asked dismissively, “You know Selmoa thinks your ignorance is unacceptable, right?”

He flushed, ducking his head away in embarrassment, “I know.”

“Just making sure. He has a job for you by the way,” she handed him a manila folder, “He needs someone dead and he thinks the Twins need help,”

Vier started in surprise, “Why does he think the Twins need help?”

Trinity shrugged, “Something about the Garden getting their noses out of the flowerbed and sticking it in our business,” she rolled her eyes, “Personally, I think last night’s display shows those two can handle any of those flowery bastards, but I’m not the one giving orders,”

Vier gulped at the prospect of him and Cinq working with the eldest and most dangerous of his brothers, but he knew better than to refuse. “Right, I’ll get Cinq and-,”

“Cinq’s not going,”

Vier froze. “Why?”

Trinity shrugged, “Selmoa’s orders. You’re to go it alone,”

Vier stammered. He couldn’t do this alone! He wanted to refuse, to put his foot down and tell Trinity, Selmoa even, that he couldn’t , no, wouldn’t work without his little brother.

Instead, he asked, “Why can’t you do it? We have the same power, don’t we?”

Trinity gave him a crooked smile, “Because I am needed here, and my superior mastery of my powers is exactly why. This whole operation needs something keeping away prying eyes, and I don’t really think you’re up to snuff little brother,”

“...Fine, I’ll go,”

“Good,” she chirped, turning away and leaving Vier to stew in his helplessness.

---

“Hello 007, how are you doing today?” Selmoa entered the room with the air of grandfatherly benevolence, the Fibonacci Sequence and its various equations spinning in his head as a defense against his youngest Subject’s mental intrusions.

Anya regarded the man with an angry expression that failed to completely hide the fear had gripped at the sight of the man who’d hurt her and that she’d escaped. Peeking into his mind hurt, thoughts whizzing by like Papa but it was all math which left her dizzy.

“My name’s not 007, it’s Anya!” she huffed, fixing him with her best copy of Mama’s scary face.

“Oh really?” Selmoa asked in faux shock, “Because I didn’t give it to you, Dr. Alora didn’t give it to you, and Dr. Janus, the old scamp, certainly didn’t give it to you,” he leaned in with a conspiratorial smile, “Did 001 give it to you? Or one of the bad men?”

Anya reeled back in offended shock. Did he not know?! “ You’re one of the bad men!” she stated, the shock at his stupidity mixing with the anger and fear.

“Why, what makes you think that?”

Anya’s eyes began to burn and she shook her head, “You hurt me, you hurt my Papa, you kid-nabbed me from my family!”

Selmoa looked hurt by her accusation, “But 007, we are your family, don’t you remember? You were born here, we raised you and you were taken away from us. Wouldn’t that make this ‘Papa’ fellow the bad man? ”

Anya shook her head again, his words were confusing and his head was buzzing and hers kept hurting, “No, no, no! Family doesn’t hurt people, and if they do they’re supposed to apologize afterwards!”

“Then allow me to apologize then. I’m sorry, 007, for making you feel like we hurt you without reason. We only had the best intentions,”

Liar, Anya thought. Blood slipped from her nose and tasted gross and sour on her lip. He was still hurting her. “ Why are you hurting me?”

Selmoa looked taken off balance, and the spinning froze just long enough to catch a stray thought.

Stupid, clever, child.

He smiled, “Why, peace my dear girl,”

Anya’s face twisted like the time she’d eaten a lemon, “You don’t hurt people for peace,”

At this, his face changed , dropping the fake-grandpa look for a cold stare that made Anya feel like a flea,  “Then you know nothing of the world, 007. People hurt people for causes like peace all the time. WISE hurts people to preserve the East-West Pact, the SSS hurts people to preserve the regime, and even the Garden, those self righteous fools, kill people for the sake of preserving Ostania’s ‘peace’,” he rolled his eyes, “Though I doubt you would understand those terms,”

“...Some of them,” she whimpered, torn between vindicating her parents and keeping their secrets.

“ Liar ,” Selmoa hissed, causing Anya to flinch, “Your father is a snitch for the West and your mother is a whore,” and just as quickly as the anger appeared, it was gone.

He sighed, “Apologies, 007, but today has been long and you have strained my patience. We shall speak later when you are in a more cooperative mood,”

And he swept out the door, shutting it with a heavy thunk.

The spinning was gone, but Anya’s head hurt and her nose was bleeding. Her legs collapsed under her, and thought about his words.

They were icky, but Anya knew that both Papa and Mama hurt people. For peace, their thoughts always said.

But they didn’t hurt children. They’d never hurt children and they’d be very angry with the bad doctor when they came to find her.

She just needed to wait.

---

“Bursche, I’m stepping back out for a moment, could you keep an eye on Vorsta for me?”

His partner nodded, “Speaking of Vorsta, what did you even say to him? Never seen the man so freaked out,”

Yuri smiled thinly, “Just persuaded him to keep an open mind. Just make sure to bust down the door if you smell smoke,”

Bursche opened his mouth to ask follow-up questions, but Yuri had already taken his leave. He left the building, embarking on a meandering path to meet the detective, a man named Loccow, at their agreed upon rendezvous point.

“So?” 

“He’s definitely hiding something,” Yuri growled.

“Care to inform me who ‘he’ is? I’m not exactly keyed into the intricacies of SSS office politics,”

He sighed, “Sten Vorsta, my CO. He’s a weasel and a blackmailer,” he explained, launching into an explanation of his interactions with the man.

“So, what’s the game plan?”

“He’s definitely gonna try and get rid of me,” 

“Oh, doubtlessly,”

Yuri glared at him, “Can I finish my thought?”

Loccow shrugged, “You’re the boss here,”

“Good. I’m going to go back, see if he’s cracked. Meet me at the second rendezvous point at 7 sharp, if i’m not there in five minutes, leave,”

“And until then, talk to my sister about this, Sten, the SSS. She needs closure, and bad news is better than no news for her. She can deal with bad news,”

Loccow nodded, “You can count on me,”

“Oh, and before you go, I need you to know Vorsta’s office is on the third floor,”

The man cocked an eyebrow, “Why’d I need to know that?”

Yuri chuckled grimly, “Just in case I suffer a three story spill, someone will know what happened,”

Chapter Text

“There you go, nice and clean,” Yor cooed as she dried Bond with a blanket almost as fluffy as him. The large dog finished the job with a shake that sprayed her with water droplets and managed to extract a laugh from her, giving a grateful chuff and a soft headbutt.

“You’re welcome,” she laughed. Bond turned away from her, making his way to Anya’s room, staring at the door before looking at her with a forlorn expression.

“I’m sorry Bond, Anya’s not home right now,” Yor admitted in a small voice, a fresh wave of grief washing over her at the sight, “But with any luck, she’ll be back soon!” she insisted, forcing her voice not to wobble.

She stepped into the living room, head bobbing above the ocean of grief as she sought another distraction. Something flashed in the corner of her eye and she turned to see the blinking red light of the answering machine. She stared at it, blinking back.

She should probably answer that, it might be important. Like updates on Loid’s condition, or a lead on Anya from that Detective Loccow man.

But yet she hesitated, her mind consumed by phantom echoes of the news that her husband had died and her daughter’s body had been found.

But the idea of answers called to her like a siren song. So, slowly, hesitatingly, she crossed the divide between her and the machine, pressing the button with shaking fingers.

The first message played.

“Hello, Mrs. Forger? This is Doctor Hertzler, calling to inform you that Dr. Forger is out of surgery and is in stable condition. We’ve done all we could, all that’s left to do is wait and see,”

Yor released a stuttering breath, sheer relief at the news mixing with frustration that she was still reduced to more waiting.

The second message played, Detective Loccow’s low tones resonating through the apartment. “Yor Forger? I was calling to see if you had any information regarding Anya’s adoption? I have a copy of your records, and I’ve got leads on a past adoption as Anya Williams, but I can’t find anything on the Forger adoption. Call me if you find anything,”

The machine beeped empty, but Yor paid no heed to it.

Anya had been adopted? No, no that couldn’t be right, Loid had mentioned a previous wife, Anya’s mother-

She froze, realizing that in all their time spent together, the previous Mrs. Forger hadn’t come up once. That had partially been her own hesitance, knowing that hearing anything about the woman might send her into a spiral of self loathing, but other than general statements regarding how good a job Yor was doing, nothing. No pictures, no stories, she didn’t even know the woman’s name.

There was always the answer that Anya’s mother had died while the girl was too young to remember, or the idea that she hadn’t been a good mother or partner (which, somehow, Yor found even more disturbing). 

At that moment, she realized just how little she knew about Loid Forger

Then she remembered the notebook. At the same time, Bond perked his head up, running into Loid's room and hiding behind the bed. Yor looked on in confusion, but shook her head. She needed answers.

But once again, the hesitance plagued her as she took hold of the nightstand. This was a huge invasion of privacy. But the need for answers overtook her once more, and pulled it open, revealing the notebook, the words “In the Event of My Death” written in Loid’s immaculate scrawl. Her heart clenched painfully, the words proving a vice.

She opened it, and froze.

Time seemed to stop as she took in the journal's contents. It seemed to be written by two separate people, Loid’s shaky handwriting coexisting with another, different and clinical, yet somehow familiar script. It was shaky, frantic, half of it was crossed out yet still legible and parts of it warped by tearmarks. 

And then there was the attempted message.

— Dear, I’m sorry, My lo- Yor, —

— Before everything, I want need to know that I lied. To you, to Anya, to myself. I’m not My name’s not Loid Forger. —

— You have no idea how much I want to be —

— My name is I’m called Twilight, Agent of Westalis Intelligence —

No.

Nononono.

She'd heard stories about Twilight, WISE's rumoured man of a thousand faces, a cold and cunning agent seemingly impossible to catch or kill. Some said he was a ghost, others a shapeshifting supersoldier, others still said he was a falsehood in and of itself, a further smokescreen provided for WISE, attributing the actions of its network to a single agent.

To the Desmond Chancellorship he was their single greatest enemy, to the Shopkeeper & and the Garden he was a person of interest, not a foe yet by no means a friend. To the Thorn Princess, he was a hypothetical target, another face in her metaphorical crosshairs should he be identified and judged the former.

But to Yor, he was her husband.

She wanted to cry, to scream that the journal was lying, her husband wasn't some agent for a foreign power, her husband was a doctor! He healed people not spy on them. Instead she stood, petrified and shaking as this quiet, lovely part of her world fell down around her, the signs of its falsehood never more noticeable, unable to tear her eyes away from the parchment responsible.

— My mission the reason I lied to you was to infiltrate the inner circle of Donovan Desmond, and find out his plans for Ostania and Westalis. Nothing more than that. No chaos, no unseating the government or anything else, you have to believe me. —

— You don’t have to, I have no claim to your heart trust anymore. —

— In order to do this, I needed to infiltrate Eden Academy. In order to do that, I needed a wife and child. —

— That’s where you two came in. —

— Anya isn’t my child by blood, isn’t really my child at all. That’s another lie, she’s my child but Loid Forger is her Papa, not Twilight. Ironically, I wasn’t lying when I said I needed your help to enroll her in Eden, that’s true. The only lie there is the reason why and the name on the certificate. I’m not your husband, that’s Loid Forger and never have I been more jealous. —

It was cold comfort, knowing that the lie of their marriage was the most truthful he had been that day.

— There wasn’t a previous Mrs. Forger. You’re the only Mama Anya’s ever had, and I Loid has been the only Papa. She thinks you hung the moon, I understand why. You’re amazing, and that I Loid painted the stars. —

— It’s called Operation: STRIX, and when if it’s accomplished, I have to leave you Loid Forger has to die. If you’re reading this, Yor, then that’s probably what happened. Probably. Maybe. Or maybe not, maybe I fail and leave you two behind for nothing and end up dying in an alley somewhere for nothing. —

Yor shivered at the prediction.

— So that’s it, that’s the truth. I used you, I used Anya, and I’m sorry then I went and wrote about. That makes me a pretty serious failure of a spy, doesn’t it? —

— I still failed you two worse —

— When I became Twilight, I set out to make a world where children wouldn’t need to cry. I dedicated myself to that goal, that mission, and to WISE because they allowed me to pursue it.

— In retrospect I might’ve lost sight of that goal. —

— Strix was supposed to be another mission. But then I found Anya. And then I found you. And then I married you. —

— And then I fell in love with you both. —

— I love you, Yor. —

— And I love Anya. —

— That’s not a lie, I swear to God it’s not a lie. I know I don’t deserve you but it’s the truth. —

Yor made a wounded sound at that, as the stranger she'd married and that she loved or that she thought she did poured his heart out. From what she'd come understand, love was made from mutual respect and trust.

But Loid, Twilight, whoever he was, had lied to her, and now she didn't know if the man she loved was even ever real.

— I don’t know what to say now. —

— I’m sorry, Yor. It’s not enough but I’m sorry. —

— I was selfish- —

— I was cruel- —

— I wanted to make sure children would never have to cry but however this ends I know that I’m going to fail. —

— I tried to keep my distance, but I can’t, I couldn’t. —

— I’m sorry I never got to tell you how I really feel. —

— I wish I held you two closer. —

— I wish it was real. —

— I wish it was all real. —

— The love was real. —

— I wish I could be Anya’s father. —

— I wish I could be your husband. —

— I wish I could be the man you thought I was. —

— You don’t deserve my lies. You deserve better. You deserve Loid Forger. —

— You still made me a better man. —

— I want you. I don’t deserve you. —

— I want it to be real. —

— I hate this. I hate myself. I hate Twilight. —

— I want to be Loid Forger. —

— Maybe You’re better off without me. —

— I’ll make sure you’re taken care of. Please, please take care of Anya. what you have is real. She needs a family, she deserves one, she deserves you, she deserves better than me. Tell her I’m sorry. —

— Leaving’s the worst best only thing —

— I don’t want to go. —

— You made me whole and in return I have to leave you two shattered. It’s unfair. —

— Everything about this is unfair. —

— I’msorryi’msorryi’msorry —

—IhatethisIhatethis—

—I’m scared—

— I don’t know how to explain this to Anya. I don’t want to think about it. I can't ask this of you. —

— I won’t forget you. I can't. But I hope you forget me. I don’t deserve to be remembered. —

— Don’t forgive me, either. I don’t deserve that. Please, I can't ask you to do this, find a way to move on.—

— Goodbye —

— Loid, Twilight, Your husband, The man who loves you. —

If the ramblings continued, Yor didn't see them, as her eyes went blurry, the paper wrinkling in her hands as silent tears fell like rain to further distort the paper.

A single sob escaped her. Then another. And then another, followed by an odd keening noise.

And then her legs collapsed from under her and she was kneeling on the floor, notebook clutched against her chest as she tried curled into a ball. The storm in her chest resolved into a flood that left her in as series of sobs, screams, and hair raising wails as the tragedy and the lies and the worry and the hurt finally consumed her.

And then Bond, her ever loyal anchor, was beside her. She wrapped him in a hug, crying and screaming into his fur as her body was racked with tremors.

It wasn't fair. None of this was fair.

It wasn't fair Anya was gone.

It wasn't fair her husband was a lie, and the liar responsible was in the hospital.

It wasn't fair her brother couldn't deal with him.

It's not fair! It's not fair! It's not fair!

Eventually, the deluge subsided, and she was left hollowed out, face in Bond's fur as her body was racked by the occasional hiccup in aftershock.

She lay there, for the while mulling over the lies and the man who told them. She didn't know what to think.

She wanted Loid. But he was a lie.

She found that she didn't care. She'd take the falsehood of her husband over the reality of the empty apartment. She wanted the lie, craved it.

The front door creaked open, and then Bond moved under her, obviously seeking release. She didn't want to let him go, but for once in her life her strength failed her, the large hound wiggling free and leaving her to rise on shaking legs.

"Yor? You okay?"

Deliberately, she put one foot in front of the other, calling upon all her training to keep her from toppling over.

She saw Franky and Loid's/Twilight's/Whoever's coworker, Fiona.

She held up the notebook.

"What do you know about this?"

Chapter Text

“What do you know about this?” Yor said tearfully, holding Twilight’s notebook. The notebook that confessed both his feelings and his identity as a spy. The notebook that Franky had placed in easy reach, before he knew Yor was an assassin who might’ve had a bad reaction to finding out her husband had lied about…a lot.

And he’d brought the only other person who knew about the whole spy thing, and would react just as badly.

Welp, they were dead and it was all his fault.

“Uum,” he stammered, searching for the right combination of words that would delay his inevitable death.

Unfortunately, Nightfall had already taken the time to squint and apparently identify the word Twilight. “What the fuck,” she whispered, flat and harsh and as cold as her chosen surname. “Franklin what the fuck?”
“Well, you see, it’s, and this is a funny story…”

He heard a sniffle, and looked to see Yor face shadowed by her hair, but not enough to hide the shiny tracks making their way down her cheeks. “Please, Franky.” she pleaded, an odd phlegmy quality to her voice, “I just ,” her voice broke, “Want some answers. I want the truth.”

…

Fuck.

He forced his eyes to the ground, “It’s…exactly what it looks like,”

“Franklin.” Nightfall demanded, and he could feel her gaze boring into his side and demanding his silence.

“She’s already read the letter, Fiona.”

“You knew about this and you didn’t do something!?” she hissed incredulously.

He held up his hands, “I didn’t get the chance!”

“You were going to hide this from me?” Yor demanded, her sadness mixing with something…worrying. 

Franky could already hear the tolling of funeral bells. No matter how he answered, it was going to leave at least one of the two very lethal women next to him upset. Possibly murderously so.

It was just a matter of deciding on his manner of death.

He was saved that choice by the sounds of a throat clearing and a knock on the still open front door. Three heads turned to see a man wearing a Police Officer’s uniform. “I’m not interrupting anything, am I?”

Something brushed past Franky’s shoulder, and Yor had suddenly appeared between them, hands on the man’s lapels. “Detective Loccow? Do you have an update on Anya?” she asked frantically.

Franky heard Nightfall whisper beside him, “...Didn’t even see her move…”

“I actually came to tell you that your brother-,”

Yor pulled away from the man, a sound of tearing fabric following her, “What’s Yuri done now?”

Loccow glanced between his new lapel-less coat and the corresponding pieces of cloth clutched in Yor’s grasp. “...He said you were angry at him, but I don’t think I understood just how much.”

He shook his head, “Nevermind, I called earlier to say I was coming, guess you must’ve missed it.” 

Four heads turned to see the blinking light of the answering machine. “Oh, I was…busy.” Franky heard the sound of paper crinkling. “I didn’t hear it.”

She stepped towards the machine, and Loccow closed the door behind him. Franky cringed as his foremost escape route disappeared with a click.

---

*BEEP*

“Yor Forger? This is Martha Mason, the Blackbell’s chauffeur. Mistress Becky has been completely out of sorts since she heard the news, and I can’t imagine you’re doing any better. I’ve only had brief opportunities to meet with both Mistress Anya and your husband, but they’re both wonderful people, and I sincerely hope they are returned to you unharmed. Please, feel free to call if you need anything."

*BEEP*

“Esteemed Mrs. Forger, this is Henry Henderson, calling on behalf of Eden Academy. We were shocked and appalled once we heard news of the tragedy, and our hearts go out to you in what must be a horrendously stressful situation. If you require any sort of assistance, you need only call us. We wish you the best, and pray for Anya’s safe return and a quick and elegant recovery for your husband.”

*BEEP*

“Yor? This is Dominic, Camilla’s fiancé. I just got the news and I’m so sorry. I can’t imagine what you’re going through, I couldn’t imagine losing Camilla like that. That doesn’t mean they’re dead mind you! Please, just call us if you need anything.”

*BEEP*

“Mrs. Yor Forger? This is Commandant Ernest of the Berlint Police Department. I’m very sorry to inform you of this, but we haven’t had any leads concerning your daughter’s abduction. Our best hope is your husband, call us when he wakes up.”

*BEEP*

“Mrs. Forger, this is Detective Loccow. I have some information regarding the case that I feel is best discussed in person. I’ll be over in an hour.

*BEEP* 

"Yor, this is McMahon. Your friend gave me your note, and I’m calling to tell you not to worry. You’ve been given the week off, and I’m trying to keep a lid on gossip for privacy’s sake. I also talked to my friend in the Gardening Club, he’s whipping up a bouquet for you, but unfortunately the Ferns, Gladiolus flowers and Forget-Me-Nots seem to be wilted. Stay strong, Yor, and feel free to talk with my friend from the Gardening Club, he’s got good advice.”

*BEEP*

“Yor? Oh my god, Yor I’m so sorry about calling you this late but I spent the whole day practicing my serve and I didn’t get the news until afterwards and I’m so sorry. Are you okay? Who am I kidding of course who wouldn’t be! Who would be in this situation?! I’m sorry that was insensitive. But seriously, Yor, I’ll be over tonight with a gift basket from the Lady Patriots Society and a shoulder to cry on if necessary. I’d be there sooner but I’m at the villa at the moment, but I’ll still be there!

And one more thing, I know I can’t ask you this, but don’t cut yourself off, Yor. There are people who care for you, and want to help. Don’t shut them out. Whatever happens, we can get through this together. Hugs & kisses. Oh, I almost forgot to mention that this is Melinda but you probably got that by now.”

*BEEP*

---

The machine clicked empty, and Yor was trembling. It reminded Franky of an improperly set tripwire bomb, the bombs too far apart and the wire pulled so taught in seemed an errant change in air pressure could set the whole thing off.

And Detective Loccow, who seemed to lack a functional survival instinct, went and stepped on it.

“Mrs. Forger? I know that this is a lot to process-,”

“What did you want to tell me?” she said tonelessly, and the part of Franky's brain that had gotten him out of more than a few scrapes began screaming.

Loccow shot Franky and Nightfall a look, “I think it’s better we discussed this in private-,”

And then Yor was in front of him, shirt balled in a single hand as his feet dangled and kicked in the air, “Whatever you’re going to say, say it,” she growled, the sound so animalistic and inhuman that for a moment Franky thought that Bond was the one making it.

He noticed Nightfall’s hand begin to move, and he clamped a hand on her wrist. Nightfall shot him a look and he shook his head vigorously. Trying to fight would only ensure certain, messy, painful deaths for everyone.

Loccow writhed in Yor’s grip, but getting nowhere he began to spill, “Okay, Okay! Someone in the SSS wanted your case buried!”

Time seemed to freeze, and the room went so quiet that the whisper of glacially cold hatred which escaped Yor’s lips was deafening.

“ What. ”

Loccow sensed the bloodlust too, and began to spill everything in a deceptively calm tone. “His name is Stern, Stern Vorsta. He’s the section leader of the local district office. His office is on the third floor. Your brother-,”

Yor dropped him, “Thank you, Detective Loccow, for the information,” she looked at the three of them.

And then she smiled .

“Now, everyone into Anya’s room!”

Oh, they were so dead.

Fuck.

---

To their credit, Franky and the kindly Detective Loccow went without protest, bundling into the small room which Bond already occupied. Ms Frost seemed tempted to protest, so she grabbed the woman by the scruff and threw her in.

“Yor don’t be stupid!” Franky yelled, putting all weight on the door which was now barricaded with the couch, “We need to talk about this!”

“I’m done talking!” she replied saccharinely. She knew that most people would find such a tone concerning given her circumstances, but Yor was beyond caring. 

“This is outrageous! You will let us out now!”

“Nope!”

“Mrs. Forger, you need to know-,”

“Thank you, Detective Loccow, but you’ve told me everything I need to know!”

“Please, just wait and cool off a little!”

“It’s chilly enough outside and I’m done waiting!”

Talking, waiting, hoping. She’d spent the last day doing almost nothing but those things and she was done. Counter to the Shopkeeper’s advice, she had stewed, the black ball of emotions growing ever stronger and ever closer to the surface, eating away at her from the inside out as the hours had ticked on.

But the note changed that. It had hollowed her out, washing away most of the extraneous emotion and leaving her a blade as wicked as any of her thorns, seeking only a direction in which to point it.

Franky’s knowledge had polished that blade, while the various well wishes and messages that sharpened it to a razor’s edge. And now Loccow had given it a direction.

She paused, leaning against the furniture piled against the doorway.

“Franky?”

The sensation of resistance stopped, “Yeah?”

Yor closed her eyes, the notebook still clutched in her hands. “Be honest with me here. His note… how much of it is true?”

For a moment, he was silent. “Every word.”

She sniffled and thanked him, clutching the notebook to her chest, before silently going over the words one last time and crystallizing them in her memory.

Yor forger closed her eyes.

And a beast opened them. It was not the loving family woman Yor Forger. No, it was something darker, a being of single minded reason and a singular lack of mercy. But nor was it the ruthless but efficient assassin Thorn Princess. Thorn Princess did not derive pleasure from her killing, only a sense of satisfaction that she’d made the world a better place via her target’s presence in it, mixed with a sense of professional pride. 

No, the being that wore Yor’s skin wanted to hurt someone. To hear cries of anguish and mercy as bones snapped wetly under her care and warm, tacky blood coated her hands.

The beast tore Loid/Twilight’s note from its binding, sliding it through the crack in Anya’s door. The rest of the notebook found its way into the busted box of Thorn Princess’ implements, which she donned, followed by her dress. Finally, she donned the pink coat, still liberally crusted with brown, dried blood.

“Forge it into a knife to aim at your enemies,” “An arrow fired without aim is at best useless and at worst prone to backfire,”

The words echoed in her head, and she had followed them. And now the arrow was loose, racing towards the heart of Stern Vorsta and the SSS. She would get her family, and she would get her vengeance.

But for now, she would get her answers.

Chapter Text

Vier drummed his fingers against the wheel as the getaway car sat tucked in an alley across from the squat, brutalist frame of the SSS field office, hidden in the shadows cast by winter’s early nightfall. He was undeniably nervous, the prospect of shielding both the car and the Twins’ potential slaughter an unpleasant one. At least Sten had been dumb enough to actually ask them there, under the pretense of getting rid of a nosy subordinate. One of the Twins was already there, his handyman guise allowing him the chance to cut the power and allow his other half to plug the leaks in the ensuing chaos.

A hand smacked against his head, knocking him from his reverie and drawing his attention to the Twin still in the car, who pointed towards the building. A woman was approaching the building, and Vier squinted in order to identify her.

“Is that-that’s the mother!” he hissed, and the Twin simply nodded.

The woman disappeared into the building, and less than a minute later the Twin exited the car, a slender blade flashing within their otherwise empty right sleeve. 

Vier began to dull, only to run face first into a feeling of pure...hatred that sent him reeling back. He smelled iron, and part of him wanted to start the car and get out there. 

But that would leave him at the mercy of the Twins.

So he pushed back, hoping beyond hope that the Twins could extinguish the source of that hatred before his powers gave out.

---

The door to Vorsta’s office opened, and the man’s head peaked out, “Briar, I want to talk to you.”

“Sounds like he’s unhappy. Didja get another promotion?” Bursche teased, and Yuri rolled his eyes.

“Shove off Bursche. Remember what I told you?”

“If you hear shouting, bust down the door, got it,” he repeated, “But I have one, teeny, tiny question. Why?”

“‘I’ll tell you later,” Yuri said over his shoulder, silently hoping he could keep that promise. Success was a razor’s edge here, Sten a cornered animal with all the danger and unpredictability contained therein.

He stepped into the office. Sten was sweating, nervous, but Yuri had no way of knowing what he was nervous of. His secrets getting out? Yuri himself? The trap he was undoubtedly trying to lure Yuri into?

Maybe it had to do with the heavy, locked suitcase chained to his left hand with two pairs of manacles.

“Paranoid much?

“With you, it’s less paranoia, more reasonable precaution,” he scoffed, before the nervousness returned, “We can’t do this in office,”

“My thoughts exactly,” Yuri allowed himself a grin, “That’s why we’re going on a little walk to meet a friend of mine,”

“Unacceptable,” Sten snapped.

“I don’t care,” Yuri snapped back, “You’re going to come with me or I start tattling,”

“You have nothing on me Briar,”

“I have perfectly reasonable insinuations,”

Sten opened his mouth to respond, maybe to offer a cutting retort-

But then the lights cut out.

An uproar leaked in from the main bullpen, but it wasn’t loud enough to cover the sound of rustling fabric. On instinct Yuri lashed out, grabbing hold of Sten’s wrist and slamming it into the desk. There was a grunt of pain and a clatter. A gun maybe?

He hooked a hand around what he assumed was the man’s head, introducing it to the desk with a heavy thud. There was a groan of pain, and Yuri pulled both the man’s hands behind his back.

“Shoulda opened with the suitcase motherfucker,” he whispered under his breath, adrenaline pumping as Sten began to wriggle.

And then he heard the screams.

---

Nightfall was muttering, the sound a maddening soundtrack to her pacing, which in itself made the already small room an even tighter fit. 

Didn’t help that Bond, the big mutt, had hogged the bed, only for that Loccow guy to somehow coax him into sharing. The sheer lack of loyalty! 

“Can you just stop?” he demanded, his patience with Nightfall’s freakout finally at end.

“None of this makes sense,” she growled, “How did this ‘Yor Briar’ uncover his identity?”

Franky snorted derisively, “You read the note. You know exactly why,”

The note in question lay on Anya’s writing desk, its presence deceptively innocuous yet as threatening as a loaded gun.

Nightfall shook her head vigorously, “No, it’s a forgery. I’m sure of it. I’m sure that this ‘Garden’ trained its agents in falsifying a target’s signatures,” Franky cringed at that. He hadn’t wanted to spill the beans on Yor’s true identity, but Nightfall had wanted answers and he liked his kneecaps exactly where they were, thank you very much.

“Her surprise certainly seemed genuine,” Loccow mused, and Franky found himself appreciating the man for a change.

Nightfall wheeled on the man, “You. Know. Nothing,”

“Well, I know Yor’s an assassin, Mr Forger’s a foreign spy, and you two are most definitely his associates.”

Franky cringed again, “Ooh, right. I gotta hand it to ya, you’re taking this surprisingly well, all things considered.”

Loccow shrugged, “I read the note. I didn’t vote for Desmond, and while I’ll admit the concept of foreign spies is paranoia inducing, but I fought in the war. Any man who wants to return to ‘the glory days’ of the last thirty years is someone that needs to be watched.”

“Huh,” Well, at least they were trapped in a room with who seemed to be world’s most understanding Ostanian cop.

Nightfall growled, “We need to get out of here and warn WISE about Thorn Princess. She’s probably halfway to the hospital already,”

Loccow snorted, “Now look who knows nothing. She saw how she reacted when I told her about the SSS. I know where she’s headed. Western District Field Office, third floor, commandant’s office. I told her myself.”

“Shit, she’s gonna get herself killed!” 

At that moment there was the sound of moving furniture, and the door opened halfway, revealing the confused face of Director McMahon. “Mind telling me what’s going on here?”

“Yor snapped, locked us in here, and now she’s about to take on an entire office of SSS agents,” Franky explained hurriedly, eyeing the bouquet set where the dining table used to be.

“Shit. Okay, I need to make some calls-,”

Loccow coughed politely, throwing off the elder assassin’s train of thought, “Would this be a bad time to mention that Mrs. Forger’s brother is an SSS officer there, also intent on getting answers?”

For a moment, a horrible silence descended as Franky, Nightfall & McMahon digested the news.

Then, a three part chorus.

“ Shit! ”

---

The demon wearing Yor Forger’s skin stepped into the Western Field Office of the SSS and made a beeline for the front desk.

“May I help you ma’am?” the desk officer asked, and the demon gave him a grateful, doll-like smile.

“I need to speak to Sten Vorsta.” She said kindly, “I understand he’s on the third floor, correct?”

The desk officer looked thrown off balance, “Uh, sure…Do you have an appointment?”

“Nope!” she stated cheerily, placing emphasis on the p. 

The officer looked nonplussed, “Then I’m sorry Ma’am, but I can’t let you see him,”

“I just need to ask him a question and then I’ll be out of your hair!” she eyed an elevator and sidestepped the front desk, only for the officer to grab her by the arm of her coat.

“Ma’am, I’m going to have to ask you to leave,” he insisted louder, drawing the attention of nearby officers. Her face froze, and ever so slowly, the mask fell. The coat clinked and crunched in his grasp.

“Um, is this bloo-,”

The lights went out, plunging the room into darkness, and whatever flimsy walls that held the demon at bay dissipated. A Thorn slid out of her sleeve and into the officer’s neck, piercing throat and trachea to disconnect the spinal column. The thorn retracted, blood arcing to splatter her coat but somehow missing her face entirely.

A twinge of sadness pulled at the corner of her mind as she realized her pink coat was beyond salvation at this point. She began to take it off.

Emergency lights flicked on, highlighting her, one arm still in a blood splattered coat, thorn clutched in the other as crimson lights dyed her face all red. A dozen guns leveled in her direction as demands were shouted for her to raise her hands and drop the knife.

Every eye followed her thorn as she raised both hands. The coat slipped from her other hand, and the throwing knife clutched between her fingers was flicked out with unnatural strength, shattering the emergency light and leaving the room consumed in darkness once more.

Contrary to what the few people who’d seen her in action and survived could believe, she could not, in fact, move faster than bullets. Luckily, she didn’t have to be, only faster than the men holding the guns, a job made much easier when they couldn’t see anything. She dropped low, bullets whizzing above her and screams sounding as the unintentional friendly fire hit their marks. She burst towards the nearest officers, her knives flashing. She tore through the assembled men like a chainsaw, blood arcing as her thorns tore through throats and flesh and pierced organs and skulls, all set to a soundtrack of blood-curdling screams and panicked gunfire.

She ripped a thorn from one man’s chest, dodging a shot fired at almost point blank range and sinking her blades into his side and neck. There were approaching footsteps and she spun, knives blooming from her hands to tear into the heads of the approaching attackers, before pivoting back to rip the knives from the still collapsing victim. The elevator dinged open (It must be working off a separate power supply, her brain offered) and her thorn was in motion, piercing the head of its sole occupant before the doors had fully opened.

The man slumped backwards, and for a moment she stood there, in the light of the elevator, her face all red as she surveyed the crimson canvas she had painted.

She stepped into the elevator, and pressed the third floor button.

---

As the demon left, the man with the sword for an arm entered. He surveyed the damage with muted surprise, mirrored by the man with identical features who had stationed himself in the one stairwell they had left unblocked. 

This was an interesting development, but otherwise, things were going well. The power was cut, the exits were cut off, the building’s occupants were panicking and 004 was doing his job, dulling their minds and preventing them from properly responding whilst keeping others from noticing.

After a moment, the two reached silent consensus, the man with the sword turned to join the man in the stairwell, who himself donned a compact but fearsome spiked mace over the stump of his left arm. He withdrew a compact machine gun from his duffel bag, while the man with the sword pulled a silenced pistol from the depths of his coat.

The woman had been so kind as to do half their job for them.

So they would repay the favour.

It was only polite, after all.

---

Every gun on the third floor was trained on the elevator, every eye in the room regarding it as a herald of the apocalypse, rising from the depths of hell itself to disengorge a tide of demons to kill them all.

Fortunately, the elevator contained only one demon therein. 

Unfortunately, one was more than enough.

The elevator pinged open, and a dozen fingers tightened on a dozen triggers, only for an audible exhalation of relief to sound throughout the room as it appeared empty, save for a stricken body.

A trio of men nodded and approached, two entering as the third stayed on the outside. Hearts pounding, each man reported that the elevator was empty, that no demons were coming from below to drag them into the depths of hell.

Instead, the demoness fell from above, releasing her hold on the top of the car and descending like a bird of prey. A knife ripped through one man’s head as the other sheared through the second man’s wrists before plunging into his stomach on the return trip. She pivoted, disemboweling the second man as she bore down on the third, her knife pinning his mouth shut as it impaled his lower jaw and embedded itself in his brain. She ripped it out and kicked him into the knot of men before she burst out of the elevator.

From there she was a pinball of death, dodging erratically to throw off her attackers aim as she shattered lights with throwing knives and tore through knots of men unfortunate to fall in the path of her thorns. Blood flew in jets and spurts, painting every surface a dark red that stunk like iron. It covered her, coating her hands, tacky and warm and so unlike the blood in that alley coating the man she knew as her husband. Her hands did not shake, maintaining a firm grip on her thorns as she kicked a desk into one man, toppling him over and allowing her to plunge a blade into his head, before leaping over the corpse and disarming another man with a falling axe kick and opening his throat in a spray of blood.

There was a triple crack of gunfire and a hot pain lanced across her bicep as one bullet scored a glancing hit. The back office. She whipped a thorn at the doorway, the figure leaping out of the way only for her to kick a desk through the office window, shattering glass as she followed in its wake. The figure spun, gun firing but she caught it in her hand and whipped her knife in towards their neck.

The blade cut through the fabric of the coat, then shirt, pricking the skin before finally stopping, poised to slice through jugular, carotid, and trachea.

Crimson met crimson and both figures froze as their eyes widened in horrified recognition. 

“Yor?” Yuri asked, childlike, disbelieving, and above all terrified .

“Yuri?” she gasped in return. The demon retreated, its bloodlust sated and rage spent and leaving only Yor Forger, staring at the baby brother she spent her childhood protecting, looking up at her as she stood poised to cut his throat, blood already welling under the tip of her blade. 

She jerked it away as if she’d been burnt, staring at her hands, shaking and coated in blood. The gun in Yuri’s hand clattered to the floor, and she belatedly realized that perhaps she was squeezing his wrist too hard.

The siblings Briar stared at each other, the room quiet save for the occasional horrific gasp of a dying man.

“What are you doing here!?” they demanded in a horrified chorus.

Yor spoke first, “D-Detective Loccow told me the SSS might have something to do with Anya’s kidnapping, I-I just wanted answers, he told me a man named Sten Vorsta might have them. Yuri, do you know anything about this?”

Yuri flinched and Yor’s heart wilted at the gesture, “What! N-no! After you kicked me out I wanted my own answers. I ran into Loccow, we talked and realized that the SSS might have done something so I went to talk with my boss Sten-,”

“Wait.” Yor cut him off, and he flinched again, “Sten is your boss? Yuri, do you, do you work here? In the SSS?”

Her little brother deflated, and for a moment he was the little boy who’d accidentally broken something they couldn’t afford to replace, “I didn’t, I didn’t want you to know. I just wanted to protect you, try and repay everything you did for me.”

“Yuri, I can protect myself,” she said breathlessly.

Yuri made an odd, wounded noise as his eyes flickered to the carnage she had wrought, “I-I get that. I get that,” he sniffled, and began shaking, hugging himself and shivering like he was cold, his breaths coming rapid and shallow, “How?” he whimpered.

Yor stared at him, finally noticing the unconscious man with the briefcase that she assumed was this ‘Sten’ character. She reached for him, heart tightening when he flinched away. “Yuri, I-”

There was the wet sound of feet in blood and the refined danger sense that had kept her alive for over a decade screamed.

“Get down!” She tackled her brother to the floor as gunfire sprayed overhead. She dragged them into a sitting position, checking him for injuries before wiping her thorn and holding it overhead in order to view her assailant.

In the dim light of the office she hadn’t been able to smash, two men stood. They wore identical faces, different clothing, differing guns and one had a sword in place of his right arm, while the other had a mace attached to the stump of his left.

In identical voices, they spoke:

“Are we interrupting something?”

Chapter Text

The hatred had mostly dissipated, and Vier could not be more grateful for it. The taste of iron leaked into his mouth and he wiped away the stream of blood spouting from his nose with a shaking hand.

The hand returned to its place besides its twin on the wheel, clutching it in a white knuckled grip as his focus returned to the building. Maybe…half the minds within had been extinguished? No matter, that just meant fewer he had to dull. The Twins were blank spots in the field, as immune to his powers as all his siblings were to each other’s, but another resisted his dull almost subconsciously. 

It reminded him of the…father of…007…was it the mother? That…that made a sort of sense…but…she was…she was just a civilian..right?

He was woozy, too woozy to notice the police car screaming up to the steps.

—

“May I ask your names?” Yor asked politely, ushering Yuri behind the desk. She needed to buy time, to come up with a plan.

“Our names are unimportant-”

“As is our cause-”

“Only what we seek would be of interest to you,” the two men chorused. Yor risked a peak over the desk. The two men hadn’t moved since their arrival, side to side amongst the carnage, their guns trained on the broken window. They were obviously professionals, and their speech patterns suggested incredible synergy.

“What do you seek?” she asked, gaze tracking her other thorn. It was embedded halfway into the wall. No use retrieving it. She still had its twin, and her earrings could still function as throwing daggers. Other than that, she had only the metal plates knit into her dress for protection. 

She felt uncomfortably exposed.

The men answered her:

“The men with you-”

“The answers they hold-”

“And their elimination.” Yor’s blood ran cold at the statement’s implication, eyes flicking to Yuri, who seemed to have caught on and was hovering near Sten. 

She met his eyes, mouthing the words, ‘Sten, briefcase, go for gun’. He nodded, and Yor weighed her options. The machine gun was the biggest threat, she needed to disable that first. There was a safe, the commandant’s desk, and the desk she’d thrown through the window.

She could work with this.

“Any more questions?” the two men asked, and Yor wet her lips as she tensed her legs and braced herself against heavy wooden desk, one foot hooking around the cubicle as she prepared to both push and kick overhead.

“Just one,” she replied, muscles coiled like a cat about to pounce.

“May I have the honor of taking your lives?”

---

“Franklin, stay in the car.” Nightfall ordered, and Franky made no move to protest as she Loccow, and McMahon emerged from the car, the detective tossing Nightfall an extra pistol as McMahon produced one of his own.

“Do you bring that everywhere?” Loccow asked.

“Pays to be prepared,” the older man responded.

The detective shook his head as the other two ran towards the building, and turned to Franky, “Get in the driver’s seat. If things go sideways we’re going to need a quick exit and a running car to do so,” he said before running after them.

“Still don’t see why I couldn’t stay in the apartment,” Franky grumbled to the man’s retreating back. Despite this, he didn’t hesitate in getting out from the backseat, hesitantly peeking over the top of the car at the building beyond. He glanced about, searching for watching eyes, only for his gaze to fall on a car, nearly hidden within the shadows of the buildings opposite the office.

There was a man slumped in the front seat.

---

The first floor was a vision of hell. A dozen SSS officers lay twisted in their death throes, their bodies opened and their life blood painting every surface a horrid, iron scented crimson tinted black by flickering lights.

“Dear lord ,” Loccow’s horrified voice sounded out from behind them, and Nightfall found herself in agreement. She bit down on her tongue, hoping to distract herself from the bile rising in the back of her throat.

“Who could do this?” The question escaped her before she could tamp it down. Loccow retched behind her. 

“Yor.” MacMahon promptly responded, “Sloppier than her usual handiwork but it’s her. No question.”

“How, how could one woman do all…that?” Loccow sounded queasy. 

McMahon had the gall to smirk, “She’s the best Garden has for a reason,”

The staccato rat-tat-tat of machine gun fire sounded from above them, “That was the third floor,” Nightfall identified.

“Staircase?”

“Staircase.” the trio advanced, searching for a way upwards. It proved surprisingly difficult, as most of the exits appeared to have been blocked off, either by strategically placed splints or sticky substances shoved in locked doors to force them closed.

Realization struck like a thunderbolt. This assault had been premeditated .

“More of ‘the Garden’s best’ in action?” she asked sardonically as one door finally gave way to a stairwell. The sounds of gunfire and combat echoed from above them, and they advanced up the stairs, Loccow surprisingly taking point.

McMahon shook his head, face drawn in grave concern, “Whoever did that, isn’t one of us,”.

That was… concerning .

“There are people on the second floor, I think they were locked in!” shouted from the second floor, before turning to the door, “Berlint Police! Stand back! I’m shooting out the lock!”

Three bullets ripped through the door, and it whipped open to reveal a dozen panicked faces, one wielding an assault rifle.

“What happened?” Loccow asked, McMahon and Nightfall lingering on the stairwell to the third floor.

The officer with the rifle shook his head, “We don’t know. The lights went out, the door was locked and then the screaming started.” 

More crashes sounded from above, gunshots sounding in its wake.

“Could we borrow the rifle?”

The officer shoved it into Loccow’s hands, joining the other occupants of the second floor in fleeing the sounds of violence.

Nightfall, McMahon and Loccow went the opposite direction, ascending into another ring of hell.

---

Yor met the twins in a whirlwind of violence as they danced around the charnel pit the third floor had become, catching a wide swing from the mace twin’s arm, only for the man to duck and the thin silver blade flash as it raced towards her. She parried the blade with her thorn, only for the mace twin to drive a fist into her side and rip his hand from her grasp. She hopped back, lashing out with her thorn only for a silver blade to turn it away and the silenced pistol to be shoved into her gut. A desperate knee knocked it aside, sending the shot wide to strike dangerously close to Yuri, making a stressfully slow escape for the door with Sten and briefcase in hand.

But things weren’t going well, and Yor was faced with the galling realization that she was losing this fight. Her opening gambit had been successful, distracting them enough to disable the machine gun with a well thrown earring, and the follow up safe had given her enough cover to engage them at close range. But that had left her with a single thorn and impromptu punch dagger against two assassins who were nearly as strong and fast as her . The coordination she had clocked as excellent turned out to be unnatural, two bodies of one mind working in perfect concert to cover any openings and keep her on the defensive. Additionally, her previous assault had been tiring, both mentally and physically, and she now had the unenviable task of pressing both of them, keeping their attention from her brother and his stricken cargo. Part of her wanted to tell him to run, to save himself, but that would render this entire mission moot, leaving her without any clue about Anya…

Anya. She was doing this for Anya, a voice within her roared, flooding her fatigued limbs with renewed strength that she carried into a bull rush that slammed into the sword twin. A jab from the mace scraped her back, but she shook off the blow and hit the sword twin with a palm strike that sent him flying. She somersaulted above mace twin’s pivoting leg sweep, something skittering under her as she honed in sword twin, catching a clumsy slash in the ring of her thorn. 

She heard behind her and turned to see mace twin grab a gun and pivot towards Yuri, but a fist slammed into her throat. She reared back, choking and gasping, the Twin beneath her surging upwards and attempting to pin her, but Yor carried the momentum into a throw that sent him hurtling towards his twin. The mace twin sidestepped, grabbing his brother by the arm and pivoting into a spin that left the mace twin surging towards Yuri as the sword twin drew a bead on her with the reclaimed pistol. 

Yor was already in motion, managing to juke two bullets before leaping off a desk and launching herself across the room. She landed behind Yuri, pulling him into a roll just in time to avoid a floor shattering (and presumably skull shattering) down punch from mace twin. Then the sword twin was there, using his brother as a springboard to jump and empty her clip. Yor threw Yuri behind a desk as she ducked behind another one, dragging Sten’s body and the briefcase along with her.

The sword fell like a guillotine, and Yor grabbed the cubicle, intercepting him on the upswing and catching the blade as it tore into the metal. The mace twin was suddenly beside them and she lashed out with a kick, knocking away the mace and dragging Sten further under her. A hot line of pain opened up across her back and she realized that she’d lost her thorn when she’d tossed the other twin away. 

She twisted, managing to grab both of her assailant’s hands and beginning a desperate grapple, one of his knees digging painfully into her hip and keeping her from gaining any leverage. Frantically she sought Yuri, only for her eyes to widen in horror as she watched him struggle fruitlessly against the other twin, his sword arm detached as the other held him against the wall in a chokehold. Sten’s body shifted underneath her, and her mind raced as she sought some solution to get him out of there, to get them out of there.

But she was tired and frazzled and her prodigious strength finally seemed to be failing her-

“Yor!”

The door burst open, and the twins sprung away just in time to avoid a hail of gunfire. Yor wasted no time, springing into a roll and hefting Sten over one shoulder, crouching to take hold of her fallen brother. She rose, smiling at the sight of McMahon (No, The Duke of Shears, that was his field name) alongside Detective Loccow and Fiona of all people at the entrance to the bullpen, guns in hand. He nodded at her.

“You go ahead. We’ll handle them for you,” she nodded back, grabbing the mini safe (that had landed near there, fortunately enough) and tossing it through the nearest window, following in its wake.

---

“She’s...certainly something,” Loccow noted aghast, but Nightfall was too stunned to reply, surveying the carnage of the third floor.

Had, had Yor Briar done all of this? No, no she couldn’t have, could she?

A crack of gunshots and a strangled cry ripped her from her thoughts as Loccow stumbled back, shirt staining red. A one armed man had risen wielding a fallen man’s gun, whilst the other had ducked back behind what little cover remained. She grabbed the stricken detective’s rifle and returned fire alongside McMahon, the amputee rolling away as the other emerged with his own pilfered gun, a bullet whizzing by her head and pulling a curse from McMahon.

“Pull back!” he ordered, and she refused to argue, sending a spray of gunfire into the bullpen as she dragged Loccow back to the stairs. The amputee fired back, but the other burst into the dash and threw himself out the same window Yor had.

The two of them dashed for the stairwell, Nightfall pulling Loccow over her shoulder as she began to descend. A roar sounded above her and she glanced back just in time to watch the amputee bull rush McMahon, throwing him into the wall before tossing over the stairs. The older man bounced off the wall in front of her, staggering and dazed. She hissed, taking aim with the rifle and praying it wasn’t empty.

“Run!” she snapped, forcing the amputee back with a spray of gunfire as McMahon regained his bearings just long enough to scramble down the stairs. The two of them burst into the front hall, slipping on blood as they rushed for the door.

“Hey guys!” Franky yelled from a vehicle that was certainly not Loccow’s cruiser.

“Franklin! The fuck!?”

“Stole it from the man in the alley,”

Nightfall didn’t question it, simply throwing herself and Loccow into the backseat, McMahon following in her wake.

---

“Sorry guy,” Franky apologized to the young man now slumped against the alley, “But I need this car more than you.” He wasn’t sure what had urged him to approach the car, other than the faintest suspicion that it was fishy.

Still, it had paid off. People were flooding into the parking lot, including more than a few SSS officers who might question the very obvious civilian in the very obvious Berlint Police car, and a key broken off in the ignition would hamper any attempts at pursuit. He’d pulled to the opposite end of the parking lot.

Then a safe rocketed through the window, bouncing off the ground and tearing into the trunk of his pilfered car. He screamed in terror, only to catch sight of Yor, with a man in each arm, following it out the window, slamming into and denting the closed dumpster below. She leapt from the dumpster, landing on the parking lot and dashing away.

Franky started the car and began to drive to her, only to watch as a man emerged from the same window, making the same landing and then dashing off in pursuit. And he was gaining, Yor weighed down by two bodies and looked to be a briefcase.

This wouldn’t do.

Franky put the pedal to the medal, headed on an intercept course. He undershot, but pulled into a tight turn, the back of his car catching the man and sending him flying into another so hard as to cave the roof in.

“Yor!” he yelled out the window. Yor responded with an immaculate on the dime turn, kicking open the damaged back door and jumping in.

And out of the corner of his eye, Franky watched in horror as the man pulled himself from the totaled car, bleeding but seemingly unharmed.

---

A man pulled himself from the wreckage of a car, sporting a half a dozen wounds that on anyone not named Yor Forger might have earned them a hospital trip. The worst wound, however, had been to his pride, an indignant rage shared by the one armed man who burst through the back exit.

That had been 004’s car. 

A quick search revealed 004, still slumped in the alley with his face covered in blood that smacked of overuse of his powers.

He was alive at least. Although that wasn’t much of a positive.

One of the men broke the alley wall with an enraged punch, brick and stucco cracking under the force of the mace attached to it. The other man, sharing his rage, pulled a radio from the depths of his coat with his remaining hand.

He needed to report this development, and its possible consequences. 

Twin stiletto knives jangled in his coat.

Chapter Text

The adrenaline had worn off and her hands were shaking. Her hands were shaking and bloody and someone had been shot and the car was racing through the streets and Yuri was-

“Where are we going?” Someone, (Franky, maybe?) was speaking from the front seat. She honed in on the sound, a life ring to keep above the waves of horrified realization crashing down around her. 

“WISE safehouse?”

“Not immediately,” McMahon, that was Mcmahon. He sounded winded, hurt. “Loccow’s a public figure, he can't just disappear,”

“Hospital then?”

“No.” That was Fiona. “The SSS is going to be all over this. We need to get underground, now .”

“You four need to.” Four? Fiona, Franky, Yuri? 

And her.

The assassin.

And her brother. The SSS officer.

A hundred scenarios ran through her mind in an instant, and none of them ended well.

She needed to get out of there. Now. 

The Shopkeeper…the Shopkeeper could help her.

She grabbed Yuri, and kicked out the door.

---

“What the fuck!” Franky screamed, watching as Yor tumbled out the door and dashed off without breaking stride, her unconscious brother in hand. “Where’s she going?!”

“I have an idea,” McMahon exclaimed from the passenger seat, “But first you need to drop me and Loccow off at the hospital. Once that’s done do whatever spy skulduggery you need to then get back to the apartment. I’ll call you back then,”

“We can’t just let her leave!” Nightfall shouted, and Franky found himself agreeing, even if they probably meant two completely different things by it.

“Kid, you saw what she did back there, you know what state we’re in, d’you think there’s any chance we could stop her if she didn’t want to stop?”

The car was silent, its occupants in a reluctant agreement as Yor Forger fled into the night.

---

Yor wondered if the Shopkeeper ever slept, as he was wide awake, almost expectant, when she finally limped into his garden, Yuri unconscious in her arms. The adrenaline had worn off completely by this time, and every part of her ached, except for the burning of her glancing knife and gunshot wounds, and the throbbing of her sternum where the twin had landed a heavy punch.

“Two nights in a row, the Thorn Princess stumbles into my garden.” the Shopkeeper smiled benevolently, “And this time you bring a guest. May I ask why you’ve brought Yuri?” 

Yor swallowed, sending another jolt of pain from her aching throat, and began to explain. Franky. Yuri. The note. The voicemails. The knot of emotions, the need for answers, and the resultant downward spiral that sent her into the bowels of an SSS office thorns in hand, and the identical men she had fought within. The Shopkeeper was not idle, helping Yor tuck the passed out Yuri into bed before beginning to treat her back wound.

“...And that’s everything,” she finished quietly, finally allowing the full scope of her actions to envelop her, the realization that she had nearly lost Yuri, nearly killed him, a numbing one.

“Are you disappointed in me?” she whimpered. The pull of stitches on her skin abated, then continued.

“Disappointed is inadequate. I am enraged ,” he growled, but the stitches kept their steady pace, personal feelings not leaking into professional work. Unlike her, she thought bitterly.

“I cannot enunciate the depths of your failure tonight. I once told you that your emotions would be your undoing, and that has proven true in horrific fashion. In less than a day you have violated every code our organization holds sacred. You revealed your identity to multiple outsiders, attacked a target without authorization, attacked an SSS building, publicly , you lost track of your weapons and every life you took cannot be dismissed as an assassination. What you committed is mass murder , Thorn Princess. I will gladly admit that your interference saved your brother’s life, and you may have gained answers concerning your daughter, but that does not erase or excuse your recklessness.”

Yor hung her head, the stitches pulling uncomfortably as she checked pure, overwhelming shame to the list of emotions she’d felt over the last 24 hours.

“I will accept any punishment visited upon me,” she murmured, part of her no longer caring. Why should she? She had already failed. She had failed to protect her family, to fulfill the singular goal that had driven her to pick up a knife and become the Thorn Princess. If she couldn’t do that, then her job, and the title that came with it were useless to her.

The Shopkeeper sighed, “Under normal circumstances, I would have you expelled for this, and if not for your family and your skill might have you censured to ensure our secrecy. But we are short handed, and given your description of your assailants…”

Through the depressed haze, Yor managed a realization, “McMahon said that three assassins were recently murdered, you don’t think…”

“If they were able to match you in combat, then I could not think of more fitting culprits.”

“What happens now?” 

The Shopkeeper was silent for a moment, before letting out a sigh that seemed to resonate exhaustion and shook her bones.

“Go home, Yor.” her heart clenched at the use of her real name, an ever subtle sign that her days as the Thorn Princess were over, dead and buried the moment she had entered that field office, desperate and murderous. “Or visit your husband. Wait until McMahon or me or someone speaking on our authority contacts you, but do not act until then. I presume you have a change of clothing?”

She nodded, before shooting questioning eyes at Yuri. The guilt still remained, but it mixed with the lingering anger over his words that morning (One day. It had been one day since her family has been shattered but it felt like an eternity) the ever present protectiveness and the barest hint of resentment at his lies (She was tired of all the lying and the secrecy. So, so tired) which only fueled more guilt. 

She didn’t want him in her apartment. And she had the lingering feeling he wouldn’t appreciate her presence either.

The Shopkeeper seemed to read her mind. “I will watch him, and…explain things when he wakes up,” Yor nodded in a meagre display of gratitude, sliding off the table and ducking to retrieve the set of civilian clothes that all Garden agents kept around the Berlint Gardening Club. She kept several, owing to her family.

And for the second night in the row, she stalked the streets of Berlint, tracing the path to an almost empty apartment. Last time she had been a pressure cooker, rage simmering to boil despite the cold, but now there was only despair, the frozen air cutting through her thin coat and freezing her tears to her cheeks.

She truly hated winter.

---

So, Twilight had married an assassin. And not just an assassin, but none other than the fucking crown jewel of the fucking Garden-trained boogeymen known as the fucking Thorn Princess. And he didn’t even know it.

And then, of course, he’d gone and fallen in love with her, alongside growing genuine parental instinct for the child he’d adopted. And then he’d had an identity crisis, alongside a possible mental breakdown to accompany the almost certain emotional breakdown. 

And then he’d gone and blabbed about it.

I’m getting too old for this shit, Sylvia sighed to herself as she stared down at Twilight’s ultimate failure as a spy, a goddamn love confession provided by Nightfall.

The agent had been vehement that it was a forgery, and the informant, Franky, had been equally adamant that it wasn’t, forcing her to play the very reluctant tiebreaker.

It was Twilight alright. She’d trained him, worked with him for longer and with greater consistency than either of them. If anyone in the world knew the truth behind Twilight, she was definitely the closest. And this note? It was 100% un-fucking-diluted Twilight, screaming his identity and mission to the world.

Love really was the death of duty, wasn’t it?

“Our next course of action, Ma’am?” Nightfall asked, and Sylvia ripped her gaze from the note to stare at her second best asset and second biggest headache (Which one was which shifted from moment to moment)

“Any idea where Yor went?” 

Nightfall seemed to realize something, “The Berlint Gardening Club. McMahon mentioned it in his voicemail. We need to send a tactical-”

“No, Nightfall, we don’t. Berlint’s been swarming with SSS officers since this evening’s little stunt.”

“Not searching for us, I hope?” Franky piped up hopefully.

“Thankfully not. Seems you were right to trust Loccow and McMahon,” from what she’d gleaned from police and hospital moles, the two men had spun a tale of being shot and abducted by twin men (who reminded her of the blank eyed twins staring at her from the 002 files) who emerged from the building, alongside a third driver whose face they hadn’t seen.

“I ask again: What is our plan of-” Nightfall’s question was suddenly interrupted by a jaw cracking yawn that surprised all three of them.

“Nightfall, your mission, which you must accept, is to get some actual sleep. As for you-,” she pointed to Franky, “Go back to the Forger’s apartment and see if Yor’s returned there and wait for McMahon’s call.”

“And you?”

She glanced at the WISE agents fussing over the briefcase and safe retrieved from the car. The car itself had been driven out of the city and left a burning husk, while Sten was now in their discreet and less then legal custody, his absence explained away as Loccow & McMahon’s fellow abductee.

“Tomorrow, I’m going to pay a visit to the Gardening Club,”

The game was afoot, and WISE, the Garden, and Project APPLE had emerged as its principal players. Tonight’s particular brand of clusterfuck had launched it into a new stage, APPLE’s rooks in play as Garden’s queen (or Princess, she should say) disappeared from the board, while Sylvia’s knight was still in traction.

Maybe it was time for a meeting of kings.

---

As Yor ascended the steps to her apartment, a voice broke her from her melancholy.

“Yor!” 

“Melinda?” she asked, flabbergasted. Melinda’s car sat idling in front of 128 Park Avenue, hours after she said she’d be by. “I-I’m sorry I wasn’t there, I left a note.”

“I saw it, but I wanted to wait and see if you’d be back.” the older woman offered a basket of treats, “They’re a bit stale, but the Lady Patriots send their love,”

A thousand thoughts shot through her head, and a thousand accompanying feelings through her heart. Gratitude. Inadequacy. Sadness. Even the tiniest bit of resentment, that Melinda was here instead of with her own little boy.

But above all, there was the realization that she wasn’t alone.

She wrapped Melinda in a hug, and Melinda hugged her back, a hand moving through her hair as Yor sobbed.

Chapter Text

“You failed?!” Selma bellowed and Cinq flinched despite not being the target of his wrath. Spittle flew from the man’s mouth, veins bulging as his skin turned an awful shade of red,“I give you a simple task and you fail again?”

Part of Cinq just wanted Selmoa to stop screaming, to reach into his mind and just get him to calm down or he his heart was gonna give out. But…that wasn’t exactly a bad thing, was it? 

Plus he knew Selmoa was on to him, and with Trinity in the same room…

No, he wouldn’t risk it.

One of the Twins’ voices crackled through the radio “There was interference-”

“-From the mother,”

Selma’s mind was a rictus of anger, and for a single, horrible moment that stretched for eternity he was quiet, the silence of a timebomb caught in the millisecond between zero and detonation.

“You mean to tell me,” he said, icily calm, “That you were kept from your goal by a HOUSEWIFE!?”

“Not just a housewife-,”

“-She’s an assassin-,”

“-Good one, too,”

There was a moment of shocked silence, “How good are you talking about?” Selmoa asked derisively.

“Slaughtered an entire building-,” oh shit.

“-Then fought us to a standstill afterwards-,” oh shit .

“-And escaped after receiving backup,” 

Selmoa ground his teeth, “And you didn’t pursue?”

“Too much heat-,”

“-Plus 004 got carjacked,”

Trinity snorted, “Of course it was 004,” 

Cinq felt his hackles rise defensively, “Think you could have done better?”

“I know I could,”

“Then why weren’t you out there?”

“QUIET! Both of you!” Selmoa snapped, before returning to the radio, “You better have salvaged something from this affair, 002,”

“The mother was using knives-,”

“-She lost both of them-,”

“-We retrieved them,”

Selmoa sighed long sufferingly, “Well it seems that will have to do. Get back here immediately,”

“But the mother?”

“-Will be taken care of.” Selmoa discarded the radio, and regarded the two Subjects with a derisive gaze that Cinq couldn’t help but wilt under. “It seems you two shall have to take over the search,”

Trinity froze beside him, and for once a hint of pity broke through her usual distaste.

“S-sir-,”

“Doctor.”

“Right. Doctor Selmoa, a-are you sure that’s necessary?”

“Of course it is. We need to strike while the iron’s hot but I’m afraid 002 & 004 would draw too much attention at this point. The two of you shall go to 128 Park Avenue and wait to see if she returns.”

Cinq cocked an eyebrow, “And if she doesn’t?”

Selmoa’s voice was hard, “Then I shall motivate 006 to give us an answer.”

---

Anya was jolted awake by the bad doctor’s mind exploding into rage and a bunch of words she wasn’t supposed to know. The thoughts scared her, everything about him did, but she peaked into one and gasped.

Mama. Mama had interfered in his evil plans! Was she on the way to rescue Anya?

Suddenly the thoughts began spinning again, and then turned in her direction, the anger only darkening as it closer. 

Anya gulped, but ‘stealed’ herself. She wouldn’t cry this time, she wouldn’t let his words ‘boom-boozle’ her.

The door opened, “007, have you been spying on me?”

Did he have mind reading powers too? “Uh, no?”

His smile immediately soured, “Lying will only make things worse for you,”

Anya gave him her fiercest stink eye, but that seemed to only anger him more. “I presume you know Yor Briar is a killer?”

“Mama’s an ass-ass-in and she’s coming for me! And you’ll be sorry then!”

“That woman you claim as your ‘mother’ is a bad person. I’m sorry I have to tell you this but it’s true,”

There he went! Trying to boom-boozle her! “She only kills people who harm others!” Like you , she thought, “And she does it to protect her family!”

“So she’s decided the lives of less than a handful of people are more important than the thirty men she killed today? Men with families of their own? What about everyone else she’s killed?” he shook his head, clicking his tongue, “And what about you? I can’t imagine she knew of your abilities. She would have turned you into a weapon otherwise, or handed you over to someone else. Tell me, have you heard of the Garden?”

Of course she did, but he didn’t need to know that.

“They are an order of self righteous ‘peacekeepers’ who decided they knew what’s best for Ostania,”

Anya tried to copy Papa’s ‘skep-tea-cal’ face, “And you do?”

The fake smile was back, and his thoughts became clear:

That’s what we’re trying to achieve.

“007, would you like to meet some of your fellow subjects?”

---

Yor was gone when Yuri finally woke, and for once he was grateful. 

Though the owl eyed groundskeeper watching him sleep still seemed like a downgrade.

“So you’re awake. I was beginning to grow concerned,”

“Where’s..gah,” speaking hurt, his throat still bruised and voice hoarse from the one handed swordsman’s chokehold. He gulped, trying to swallow the pain, “Where’s Yor?”

“She went back home, but she seemed…unwilling to bring you along,”

“I…I get that. To be honest, I-I think I need some space too,”

The groundskeeper seemed surprised, “Oh really? From how she described, I was under the impression you’d be more…attached,”

 The statement shocked him too, it had shocked him the second he voiced it, but it was true. He couldn’t deny it.

“I’m…I think I’m scared of her.” That sentence seemed even more foreign on his tongue, but try as he might, he could not banish the sight of her, face stained red with the blood of coworkers and acquaintances, and the feel of her dagger pricking his neck.

The groundskeeper nodded sympathetically, “Tonight’s tragedy was avoidable. On a professional level, what she did was unforgivable, and on a personal level…” he eyed Yuri warily, and suddenly Yuri’s vision was overtaken by the memory of Bursche’s lifeless body, his throat opened in a wide, crimson maw to match his expression, eternally frozen in a moment of shock and disbelief. 

He made a small whimpering noise, “I just wanted to protect her,” the non-sequitur sounded weak and feeble in his ears. 

The groundskeeper hummed, “Really? Even beyond her training, I would’ve assumed you knew she could protect herself,”

“Y-yeah, I know that. I know she’s strong, I know she can protect herself. I’d be an idiot not to. She protected us my entire life, and I just wanted to protect her for a change. That’s why I even joined the SSS in the first place,”

The last statement seemed to pique the groundskeeper’s interest, “Oh really? You are motivated by family, not any ideals espoused by the SSS?”

Yuri shifted uncomfortably. The assessment was…startlingly accurate, and his suspicion finally caught up to the rest of him. This man already had knowledge of Yor’s activities as an assassin, so he was obviously a comrade of hers…and something tugged at the back of his mind…

“Loi-Loi’s one of you, isn’t he? An assassin, I mean.”

“What gave you such an idea?”

“It explains why Yor hid it from me. One of your other guys needed a civilian cover, and Yor volunteered.”

For a moment, the man was silent, “It seems you are more astute than I gave you credit for. Viceroy is an agent of incredible skill, and a long time partner of Yor. When he came into possession of Anya, Yor was more than happy to help raise the girl,”

A smile pulled at Yuri’s lips. Yor always was a natural born caregiver.

"That certainly sounds like her."

"So," the Shopkeeper began, "What do you currently intend to do?"

"The SSS is going to looking for me, isn't it?"

"Undoubtedly,"

Yuri, "I'll...go back, tell them those twin freaks were after Sten, that he knocked me out before the whole 'bloodbath' thing, guess he decided I could be a useful bargaining chip, but they dumped me somewhere," he put his head in his hands, trying to knead ideas from the ether, "I...I'll figure it out. I'm...gonna get out of your hair."

He stood and began to leave, the groundskeeper watching stoically. When he made it to the door, the older man spoke.

"Yor is a forgiving woman. It will require effort but I do not doubt you can make up."

"Thanks."

---

Sylvia entered the Berlint Garden Club armed with nothing but hunches and the damned note.

First hunch, the man McMahon was talking about was a low level worker. Garden’s MO seemed to stress hiding in plain sight, cover jobs so, for lack of a better term, low level, as to escape notice. 

The Groundskeeper then.

Hunch the second, the code word. Just confronting a man if they knew Yor Forger was a fool’s errand, so code words were key. And given Yor’s codename as the Thorn Princess…

She approached the groundskeeper, “Hello! I was wondering if I could find a dozen thorny roses this time of year?”

The man cocked an eyebrow, “A friend of the Forgers I presume?”

“A concerned co-worker,”

“...Let us talk more privately,”

“Your discretion is greatly appreciated,”

“My discretion is fully warranted. And for the purposes of that discretion, if you see Mrs. Forger’s brother you are Lady Salvia, another agent of the Garden,”

She cocked an eyebrow.

“Long story.”

---

Being so candid felt like pulling teeth, decades of training betrayed as she revealed details of her mission to someone who, in just about any other circumstance, she would have designated as a threat, DO NOT ENGAGE stamped over an all too thin dossier. But it was an investment, gaining a local ally of convenience in order to deal with an unknown who'd indirectly harmed both of them. Her only other options here were going it alone (Yor's presence made that just as risky) or joining with the SSS (Better the devil she didn't know in this circumstance).

So. All cards on the table. At least the Shopkeeper seemed to be doing her the same courtesy.

His eyes passed over the note once. And then again. And then a third time. And then, ever so gently, he placed the note face down upon the table they sat at, his hands placed flat at its sides, his only reaction a concerned hum.

She had to admit, the man had one hell of a poker face.

"Under different circumstances, I would almost call this comedic."

Sylvia burst into laughter. A genuine, almost good natured laughter only lightly tinged with hysteria. "I know, right?"

"True. But it seems that circumstance has forced our hands, in the form of a common enemy,"

Sylvia nodded, "APPLE. We didn't get too much from Born Industries but what we did paints an...unpleasant picture."

"At least my flowers' deaths weren't completely in vain,"

"My condolences. If it helps, if your assailants were the same that attacked Yor, then you should know that they were APPLE experiments. Ex-conjoined twins, collectively called 002."

"And you say you have the briefcase, and the informant?"

"Both safe in WISE custody, as much as that reassures you."

"I'll admit I'm still wary of your intentions,"

"Good, I'd be even more suspicious if you didn't."

"May I suggest a liason?"

"Who would you volunteer?"

"The only agent of the Garden with a stable working relationship in your organization,"

One name sprang to mind, "Thorn Princess?" It made sense, but she still seemed like too much of a wild card, "You know where she is?"

"I told her to go home, but if she isn't I would amenable to suggesting a replacement."

"No, it's fine."

"So, do we have an alliance?"

It was investment, but like all investments, it was a risk.

"For now. But once this whole APPLE situation is done, where would that leave us?"

And all investments required foresight.

The Shopkeeper pursed his lips, "Our goals are not contradictory, at least at the moment. We both want Ostania to remain peaceful, and both of us are weary of Desmond's regime. It is not much, but it shall have to do for now,"

Sylvia grimaced, the reasoning still flimsy in her mind, but it was the best she was going to get. "We have an agreement then."

The Shopkeeper cracked a smile, "Good. I'll admit this situation has one upside..."

"Oh?"

"I won't have to watch Loid Forger for his loyalties to Donovan Desmond,"

Chapter Text

“ Oh prince of mine,”

He was underwater, swimming through a wine dark sea, but yet he refused to drown.

A beacon shone above him, tendrils of light piercing the inky water and revealing brief slices of his body where he passed through it. The light seemed to be singing.

“ Drift to sleep ,” an ethereal chorus called out, serenading him in twin voices.

Where was he going again? Home? 

Crimson eyes, pink hair and a mountain of fur flashed through his eyes.

The darkness glowed where the light pierced it, creating a black sheen that made him ache with longing. 

“ Oh sweet prince of mine ,”

His fingers passed through one of the beams, but he felt nothing.

He wanted to follow it, but didn’t know where. Follow it back to its source, or plunge further into the dark waters. 

He picked a direction and swam.

“ Beneath thy silver shine ,”

—-

Consciousness was a slow, disjointed, confusing process, nothing like what happened in that Berlint in Love show that Becky had gotten Yor addicted to. He’d never been more appreciative of Anya’s addiction to Bondman.

Wait. 

Yor. 

Anya.

PAPAA!

The sound of gunshots rattled his ears.

Right.

Abduction and shooting.

…

…Another dissimilarity to Berlint in Love, he’d woken up alone. No Yor splayed dramatically at his bedside. It hurt, but it was probably for the best. His memories of that dark sea still remained, clinging to the skin of whoever had emerged from that great unknown, both Loid and Twilight and yet neither of them, a collection of lies and half truths that could barely be called a person

What did you expect? That with one taste of family you’d turn into a real boy?

Well, at least the bullet had left his cynicism intact. Hooray.

Still, the thought forced a chuckle from him. Pinocchio would’ve made a horrible spy. A nose that grew when you lied made for a terrible poker face. His mother had always told him his own nose would grow if he lied, but he had long suspected that was just to keep him honest. 

Even now he could still recall her tales, faded like a sun stained picture but still present. Her favorite lullaby still rang in his ears, her voice mixing with another, this one newer, yet no less beautiful.

“Nice recovery time,” a weathered voice stated, bringing the world into focus as he realized he was no longer alone. A face entered his field of vision, limited by an industrial strength neck brace. Recognition pierced through the omnipotent fog permeating his mind, the man above him one Matthew McMahon, Yor’s boss at City Hall. He’d met him at a mixer once. He was injured, his head bandaged with an arm in a sling, holding himself in a stiff manner that suggested at least bruised ribs or a thrown out back.

“...H o w…” his throat was raw and dry from disuse, the act of speaking a struggle, “How long was I out?”

The man hummed, “A little over a day. Like I said, nice recovery time,”

“Where’s Anya..?”

“We’re looking for her, we’ll find her,”

A single tear escaped him, gratitude mixing with devastation and sheer parental terror to pierce his crumbling emotional barriers.

WISE would be searching for her, at least. They had to be. Anya was important to him, important to the Forgers, important to Operation: Strix. 

The lullaby rang in his head, “...And Yor?”

The man sighed, exhaustion aging him a decade in a second, and Loid’s heart was clutched by a sense of panic, “She isn’t taking it well, even with the brave face she’s trying to put on. I kinda lost track of her in the chaos, but your friend Franklin should be at the apartment with her,”

The panic receded, but the vice on his heart remained as tight as ever. He knew what that was like, having your family ripped away in an instant, a rug torn out from under your feet and sending you sprawling, unprotected, into a harsh new reality.

At least she had Bond. and Franky. And Yuri, as much as he disliked the man. And Melinda Desmond, and Director McMahon, apparently.

“..Can I, can I see her?”

McMahon’s face shifted into an…odd expression, “Of course. But before you do, you need to know that a lot’s happened since you’ve been out.”

An inkling of trepidation formed within him, his earlier panic threatening to make a reappearance, “How so?”

“...It’s…not my place to tell,”

---

Awakening left Yor in a limbo-like sense of deja vu, sleeping in Loid’s bed as Bond curled into her side. 

Wait, how’d she get there?

Oh, right. She’d cried so hard she passed out in Melinda’s arms. She’d must have had her driver put her in bed. She’d have to both thank and apologize to her later.

She picked her head off the pillow, just enough to peek above a mountain of Bond and spy a bouquet of flowers and a cookie tin with a note on it perched on her nightstand. Her head fell back against the pillow, and she retreated into her mind.

She thought about the note, the man who wrote it, and her marriage.

Their relationship was built on a series of lies. She had known that going in, with her pretending to be just plain old Yor Briar, definitely not an assassin, definitely not using the marriage to keep the SSS off her back. And both of them had been lying through their teeth about their marriage to just about everyone. Yuri. Camilla. Eden Academy.

It was almost funny, the fact that he’d been lying too. It made sense. He’d always been better at it than her. It felt fair, in a way, a karmic retribution for misleading them. Harbour secrets from this wonderful man and his child? Turns out he’s harbouring even bigger secrets, including the fact that the child wasn’t even his!

She winced as soon as the thought crossed her mind. That wasn’t fair, just the part of her completely fed up with the falsehoods and the secrets, free from its reins and lashing out wildly. He’d been so good to Anya, been so good to her, he’d much more for them was necessary to maintain a facade. Or had he?

And then there was the doubt. That was far and away the worst part, the fact that she couldn’t be sure , about anything . Loid Forger was a lie, the man she loved a falsehood worn by someone more mas than man. Did that mean everything was false, the looks they had shared, the errant touches, the phantom sensation of lips on her knuckles? They had shared so much in the last year, made so many memories, gotten so close. But was that true, or just calculated experiences and reactions filtered through a disguise?

He cast her mind back to the note, frantic and tear stained, and remembered Franky’s words on the subject:

Every word.

Did he know about Twilight? It seemed likely, given how he’d acted around Fiona yesterday, but that cast doubt on his assessment. Was he lying?

He didn’t know. Her head hurt from the circles she thought in and her heart hurt from the doubt itself.

She heard a faint knocking at the door.

Good. She needed a distraction from her thoughts.

“Hey Yor. I was hoping you’d be here,” Franky greeted her awkwardly, immediately dashing her hopes.

“Hello, Franky.”

“...May I come in?” Yor stepped aside, allowing the man to enter. She closed the door and made her way over to the sofa, returned to its initial resting place, Franky trailing in her wake.

She collapsed onto the sofa, and Franky sat beside her.

Neither of them spoke, an awkward silence stretching between them to encompass the entirety of the apartment, broken only by the ticking of a clock. What was there to say? All at once too much and nothing at all.

Finally, Franky shattered the quiet, “So…where’s Yuri?”

“I…left him somewhere safe. I love him, and want to protect him but…” He lied to me . “...I’m still not over what he said yesterday. Where have you been?”

“Uh, taking care of Sten and the briefcase. Don’t worry, they’re both safe!”

“With WISE?” her tone was cutting, and Franky flinched violently.

“Yeah. Listen…i’m,” he stopped, unable to finish the sentence. He didn’t have to, the implication was obvious, it was just that a simple sorry didn’t seem to do the situation any sort of justice.

“Franky?”

“Yeah?” 

“Yesterday, when you said that every word of Lo-Twilight’s note was true, how did you know that?”

Franky scratched at his hair, “Well, I guess you could say I knew him before he was Twilight,”

She jolted in shock, looking at him wide eyed as he continued.

“I mean, I wouldn’t say know , but we met back during the war. On the opposite sides, no less,” he chuckled at the memory, “Ran into him after I’d gone AWOL from the Ostanian military. He nearly killed me, I pleaded for my life, we shared cigarettes, had a surprisingly deep talk ‘bout propaganda and stuff, he tried to kill me again, then he got shot…in the…,” Yor’s nails dug into the couch, and Franky gulped before continuing, “Doesn’t…doesn’t seem as funny now.

“Anyways, the war ended, I became an info broker, ended up working with WISE a lot, and one day who else shows up at my door than the random Westalian guy who nearly shot me twice inside an hour!” he threw up his hands, “We’ve worked together for a long time. He’s good at lying, but call me crazy but I know when he’s lying, especially to himself. And he lies to himself a lot, let me tell you that. But…he wasn’t lying then. And I mean, he’s a great spy, and no spy worth his salt would just leave a document containing a literal confession about being a spy , unless he felt he had no other choice.”

Yor couldn’t help but be confused by the sentiment. “But what could make him so desperate?”

Franky looked at her, startled that she didn’t seem to already know, “You. You and Anya, both of you. He loves you, everything about that note literally screams it.”

Yor drew in a breath, and released a shaky, half sobbed exhale. 

So it was true then. All of it.

But there was still doubt.

Oh god .

Bond padded into the room, pawing at Yor’s leg before making his way to the phone. 

After a second, it rang.

“If I didn’t know better, I’d swear the pooch knew the future,” Franky joked, and Yor felt her lips curl into the barest hint of a smile. She got up, walking to the phone and bringing it to her ear.

“Hello?”

“Yor,” McMahon stated, an uncharacteristically tense edge present in his voice.

“He’s awake.”

The receiver clattered against the table.

---

The lab Anya was being kept in reminded her of the hospital Papa worked in, but, colder , somehow. And not just in a, a, fizz-ick-al sense, like Professor Henderson once said. No, Papa’s hospital helped people, healed boo boos and such. But Anya didn’t think any boo boos got healed here. Instead, this place was built to hurt people. 

Like Anya.

She was being escorted by two men in dark clothing, Selmoa walking ahead of her. He’d told her that trying to read their minds wouldn’t work, that they were too trained, but that had been a lie, she read them easily and they didn’t even seem to notice. Not that she wanted to, really, because these men didn’t see anything wrong with hurting kids.

Bullies, all of them.

Selmoa stopped in front of a door identical to hers, but with an O-O-6 painted on the front. He inserted a key, tapping on a bunch of buttons ( Ooh , it must be a code!) part of her wanted to read his mind, but he probably had those numbers spinning in his head, so Anya decided against it.

Selma sighed, “007, your attempts at exercising your powers are admirable, but useless,” Anya jumped slightly, but not for the reason Selmoa thought.

So he was lying! He couldn’t tell that she was reading his mind unless she reacted!

Selmoa beckoned her into the room, and Anya, reluctantly, followed him.

“007, meet 006.” O-O-6 was a boy, with brown skin and dark hair that was stringy and matted. He seemed tired, his cheeks hollow and his eyes had dark blotches underneath them. He kinda reminded her of Papa after a long day of spy-chiatry and just regular spy stuff.

Selmoa clapped his hands together “Why don’t you two get acquainted while I wait for 002 and 004 to arrive?”

The boy didn’t respond.

The door thunked closed, leaving her and the boy in a blank room identical to hers.

“Hi, I’m Anya!” she greeted him as happily as she could. 

The boy shook his head, “No you’re not,”

Anya reeled back, “Of course I am!”

“No, you’re 007. Didn’t you hear Doctor Selmoa? He doesn’t like us calling ourselves anything else.”

Anya whipped her head around the room. No obvious cameras or creepy crawlies, but the bad doctor was clever, so they might be hidden. She strained, reaching out to read as many minds as possible, trying to see if anyone was listening. It was loud, and the wave of thoughts crashed her mind, making her brain feel like that time when she’d scraped her nose. But everything seemed quiet, but now she felt…woozy…and her legs felt…wobbly…

“Hey!” suddenly the boy was in front of her, catching her as blood plopped onto his shirt. Then he shoved her away, leaving her to collapse against the floor.

Ow.

“What are you doing?”

“Making sure…no one…was peaking,” she uttered.

“Using your powers? Those don’t work here,”

Anya managed to push herself onto her elbows, “What makes you say that?”

The boy shook his head, “Doctor Selmoa said so,”

“Doctor buttface is a liar. He can’t even tell when I’m reading his mind! He’s-” Anya tried to remember the word Papa used, “-Bloofing us,”

The boy seemed shocked by this, and Anya staggered to her feet on her own, “Do you have a name?”

“...006?”

“No, something other than what Doctor Buttface calls you,”

For a moment, he was quiet, “005 sometimes calls me…” he shook his head. 

“Zeb. My name is Zeb,”

Anya grinned. Ally secured.

Chapter Text

Anya spent the hours talking with Zeb, telling about all the lies Doctor Buttface was spewing and all the cool stuff about the world beyond his room.

“...And he can see the future!” She finished telling him about Bond, re-a-shuring him (Papa would be so proud of all the big words she was using!) that they could have a life outside of here, they just needed to wait for Anya’s mama to come! 

A small voice that sounded a lot like Papa said to be careful with what she was saying, to always be on guard. But just the idea of using her powers again sent her stomach into a flop and sent her glancing at the red stain on her gown. Plus Zeb was finally starting to smile!

Then the door clicked, and started to open. Her powers kicked in re-flecks-ively, and she went still at the thought that brushed against her mind:

I have been remiss.

“006, 007. Did you know that your powers can’t work on any of your fellow human subjects? It’s an odd little phenomena, one that we never really figured out in the initial trials, and we are far from our glory days. But getting to the point, 003 was watching you, after I dropped you off. She told me everything you said to 006 about me. Or should I say, ‘Zeb’ and ‘Dr Buttface’?”

No.

Zeb, who’d been at her side, scrambled away as if she’d burst into flames, “S-she tricked me! It’s all her fault!” Anya whirled to face him, unable to hide the betrayal on her face. His eyes were wild and fearful, she was briefly reminded of the orphanage. Honestly, why did she expect anything different here?

Selmoa kept talking, “006, we will discuss your punishment later, but you’ll be needed shortly,” a dark gaze turned to her, “Obviously, I have underestimated you. I was working on faulty information, and you have proven more cunning than I was willing to give you credit for. From now on, you may read my mind as you please,” he spread his arms invitingly, but Anya made no move to activate her powers. She didn’t want to read his mind, ‘cause she was scared of what she was gonna find.

“No? Very well then. Allow me to tell you a few things.” he turned back to the door, “002, bring in 004 will you?”

Two men who looked pretty much the same save for each having a different stumpy arm entered, dragging a bloodied and utterly beaten third man between them, who flopped to the floor when they dropped him.

“Vi-four,” Zeb squeaked, and Anya silently wondered how he knew. His face looked like a grape. The two men had bloodied knuckles, like when Papa came home after a session of ‘percussive therapy’.

“Tempting you with a carrot was always going to be a longshot, but still I tried. Well no more. This,” he pointed a gnarled finger at the crumpled form behind him, “Is what’s in store for you if you refuse to do what I say,”

One of the men was suddenly behind her (He was almost as fast as Mama) fist curled into her hair and pulling hard. She let out a shriek of pain, one mirrored by Zeb as the other twin forced him into a kneeling position. 

“002, make her watch.”

Another man in dark clothing was in the door, and Anya felt her tummy drop as she recognized the knives and the bloody coat in his hands.

Those…those were Mama’s.

“006’s power is psychometry, a unique ability, even by the standards of this project. He has the odd ability to read objects, and to pick up knowledge of those who ‘bonded’ with them. Using your ‘mother’s’ clothing and weaponry, who knows what we’ll find out about her. But you don’t need to see that yet,” he jerked his chin towards the man holding Zeb, who dragged him out of the room, the dark clothed man following.

The clicked shut, cutting off Zeb’s panicked screams and leaving the room silent except for Anya’s heartbeat thudding in her ears and the faint groans coming from the beaten man. Blood was soaking into her hair.

“I am going to tell you what is going to happen. Your mother is looking for you. Your father is alive. They both have allies. We are going to kill them. After we have killed them, this lab will be scuttled and we will be moving to Westalis on behalf of our new benefactor. No one will come for you afterwards. Afterwards, there will be no reason to keep you alive. Your autopsy and dissection may prove much more fruitful for our work than you have been. You are still going to be tested. You will cooperate. If you refuse, you will be beaten. If you refuse after that, your neck will be wrung like a chicken’s, and your remains, along with our research, will be used to create a new 007. Do you understand? 002, let her go so she can nod.”

The hold on her hair released, leaving it sticky with blood as her legs gave out from under her. She hit the floor sobbing, unable to stop the flood of tears. A foot brushed against her side and she flinched violently, a terrified scream tearing out of her.

“Do. You. Understand?”

Anya nodded frantically, sniffling as bloody snot and tears covered her face. 

What else could she do?

Selmoa nodded, satisfied, “Good. 002, take her for testing.”

The hand was back, taking hold of her by the back of her gown and ripping her to her feet.

The door opened, and Anya was dragged out of the room.

And the door locked.

Chapter Text

006 hated his powers. He hated the way he couldn’t control them, he hated how they bombarded his mind with thoughts and feelings like a fire hose, and he hated that Dr Selmoa liked them. He said 006’s powers were his favourite, the most useful of all his siblings. He used to take pride in that, in being the best, the most useful.

Now he just wished they’d go away.

He was in the testing chamber, electrodes attached to his head as one of the of the researchers whose names 006 had never learned stood behind a pane of thick glass, speaking lowly into a recorder. ‘Documentation for posterity’, Selmoa had called it, making sure they had a thorough accounting of 006’s abilities. Half of 002 stood in the chamber with him, staring at him stonily as he held the knives, cleaned of blood and viscera as the coat he was also supposed to test was draped over a chair.

“Okay, 006, you may begin testing the knives,” the scientist said, and 006 was glad for Selmoa’s absence. The older man wouldn’t have been so polite. Gingerly he reached toward the knives offered handle first, slipping a finger into each ring, waiting until the last moment to actually touch them. He closed his eyes and drew in a breath, bracing for the deluge.

The knives were filled with violence and justice, seas of blood played to a soundtrack of the cries of the wicked. 006 curled in on himself, fighting to stem the bile rising in his throat as the sight of a war criminal crying out as a dagger was driven through his eyeball and into his brain. He wanted to cry, he wanted to scream, he wanted to puke, but those only made Selmoa angrier. He had to focus.

“006, what do you see?”

He saw justice, he saw violence, he saw the rage against the scum of the world, he saw condemnation of the guilty and protection of the innocent. He saw the hand that passed the sentence.

He saw someone capable of fighting 002.

“...T-Thorn…Prin-cess…” he eked out.

“What else?”

“Assassin tools…in…separate bedroom…at the end of the hall…Base in...in...Berlint Gardening Club!” his tongue stilled in his throat, the scent of iron increasing as blood began to leak from his nostrils.

“Okay, that’s all we need with the daggers. Let’s move on to the coat,” 006 half sobbed in relief as the daggers were tugged away. But the coat was next, and 006 cringed, both at the idea of using his powers again and the garment itself, caked in dried blood that had turned a nominally pink coat a disgusting shade of brown. Hesitantly, he touched his finger to the cloth, waiting for the vision to hit.

What he saw was…different.

There was a man, and 007-no, Anya. Her, her name was Anya. An outing. The dress in the window. An errant comment. A surprise gift hours later. Surprise, appreciation. An intense, almost overwhelming feeling of fondness that tangled in his chest.

Was this what love felt like?

It felt so comfy…and and warm and…

Tears joined the blood.

He was ripped from the vision by the faint, but distinct, sound of a bloodcurdling scream.

Anya must have angered the Doctor.

She’d told him that there was a life beyond these walls. He…hadn’t really believed that. It was a fairytale, or a delusion. Even the visions now burnt into his mind it seemed unreal.

But it was better than anything around here.

There, there wasn’t much 00-Zeb, his name was Zeb, could do. But he could at least hope.

That would have to do for now.

---

128 Park Avenue was under near constant surveillance. It was a simple necessity, even as WISE was forced to balance security with subtlety to avoid drawing attention from the SSS, most notably the brother-in-law of its occupying agent.

In the days since Twilight’s assault and Anya Forger’s abduction, it had slowly increased, even as WISE assets began to strain under the weight of investigation, alongside the regular duties left unattended with Twilight’s absence. And once Yor Forger had been confirmed as the Thorn Princess, the surveillance had more than doubled by the following morning.

But in the face of Trinity’s power, it was all for nought, and the car containing two of APPLE’s subjects went unnoticed and undocumented as they received last minute orders from HQ.

“Second bedroom. End of hallway. Acknowledged. Over,” Trinity snapped, terse and uncomfortable in the face of the world outside Selmoa’s personal playground. She thought of the place as home, but Cinq was a lot less keen on Selmoa’s little playground.

“In a hurry much?” he couldn’t help but snark. Trinity turned to him with a glare, making a vague motion towards the gun in the glove compartment.

“I could just shoot you and say you tripped up and pissed off the SSS, you know that right? Doctor Selmoa wouldn’t even doubt me.”

Cinq rolled his eyes at the threat, even though he knew it was as genuine as it was petty. He pulled the car up to 007’s hiding place. The one inhabited by an undoubtedly very angry assassin, and probably bugged to the gills by WISE.

His trepidation must have shown on his face, as Trinity snorted, “Don’t be a child. She won’t even see us coming. We shoot her and that little dog too, dig up any WISE listening devices, then call in a home invasion. If not, we get the bugs and the assassin tools and leave a tip to the SSS. Simple.”
He grumbled something about confidence as he stepped out of the car, the gun in his hoodie like a leaden weight attached to his stomach as he approached the door, which he now realized was already open, with a note attached to it.

“Out at hospital, please come back later!?” Trinity hissed, apparently offended by the sheer nerve of their target not to follow a strict schedule. “You know what, nevermind. Door’s open, let’s get our evidence.”

The two psychics crept through the apartment, taking in the finery and mementos. Surprisingly thorough for a sham family, might’ve actually convinced the poor kid this entire deal was real , telepathy be damned.

He stopped to look at a picture, this one depicting the spy-guy and 007 in a candid pose as the apparently successful 008 experiment licked 007, the spy crouching over them with a damned convincing smile on his face, as if h didn’t see 007 as just another way to appease a tyrant. 

To think he’d been guilty about shooting the man.

“Stop dawdling and check the father’s bedroom,” Trinity snapped, before turning a burning glare to the picture. She mumbled something the Cinq couldn’t hear, making a beeline for the Thorn Princess’s room. But Cinq lingered behind, quietly opening another door  to reveal a child sized bed with a large stuffed penguin perched atop it.

What was the point here? All of these toys, all of these momentos, all this shit. It made sense to keep up appearances, but didn’t 007 see she was being used? She could read their goddamn minds for god’s sake!

Had Selmoa screwed her up so much that she didn’t care about the bloodthirsty killer and the godforsaken foreign spy?

Then Trinity cursed, storming out of the room. “The assassin’s toolbox is gone!”

“Whaddya mean gone?”

“What I mean, idiot, is that I can’t find the Thorn Princesses tools anywhere !”

“So what do we do now?”

Trinity growled. “The best place to check is the hospital. With any luck we can get rid of Thorn Princess and finish what we started with Twilight in one fell swoop,”

Chapter Text

The Shopkeeper hummed as he made his rounds through the Gardening Club, a pleasant enough smile hiding the thoughts swirling in his head. Something about the name Project APPLE tugged at his mind. 

Maybe related to the Orchard..?

No, no. Down that road lay madness. They were gone, and it was better to let the dead lay, their bones left to nourish the soil of the future.

There was a knock at the fence, and the Shopkeeper stilled. In calm, fluid motions he turned to the fence, approaching silently, eyes peering through the peepholes hidden within the moss covered stone.

No one was there. Only a box. 

Playing the part of elderly groundskeeper, he opened the fence. The street was empty, though a fleet footed man might have already turned a corner. A cursory glance revealed no indication of traps, poison, or explosives, so he grabbed the box, locking the door behind him.

Within the box lay his former prized flower’s tools.

Curious.

And concerning.

---

The ride to the hospital stretched on for eternity and was over in an instant all at once, and now the tile floor of the ICU clicked sharply under her shoes, her muscles stiff as her wounds pulled and throbbed in tune, but the pain seemed secondary, distant.

Click clack click clack .

She felt like a condemned woman marching to the gallows, halfway expecting a hooded man with an axe lying in wait within Loi-Twi-She still wasn’t sure’s room.

She shook her head. No, no, that was ridiculous.

“Something wrong Yor?” Franky asked. It was kind of a ridiculous question, she was still so far from okay that the concept seemed almost alien, but the concern was clear.

“I don’t know what to say,” she admitted weakly. Accusations? Demands to know if anything was real? How was she even supposed to even broach the Twilight subject.

Franky seemed to be reading her mind, “His code phrase is ‘Good morning, or should I say good evening, Twilight’ say that and he’ll start singing like a canary.”

“Thank you,” she whispered. “I can’t thank you enough for being here for me these last few days,”

“Ehh, it’s nothing for my best customer and his family!” he responded flippantly, but Yor could see the shining tears behind his glasses.

They made it to his room, watching as a doctor and Fiona Frost talked in low tones, only for the doctor to turn his attention to her as they approached.

“Yor Forger, I presume?”

“Yes,” Yor responded nervously, trying but failing to don a pleasant smile. “May I see him?”

“Of course! He’s been asking for you,”

Fiona piped up, “And again, I must insist you not allow her! We need to keep him-”

Yor shoved past her, and without further preamble, entered the room.

Whatever the truth was, she needed to hear it from his mouth.

---

Consciousness was..overrated. 

Severely overrated.

He wasn’t in pain anymore, but the drugs kept his body too numb for him to actually be comfortable, and his head was annoyingly foggy, but yet it was still not enough to banish the sense of gnawing panic and despair at the fact that Anya was gone , taken, and neither Loid or Twilight had been able to stop them.

Anya. His daughter. His little girl, who’d walked into his life and changed it, changed him, beyond recognition. She’d given him ulcers, frustration, and more scares than he would have imagined, but that paled in the sense of domesticity, of stability, of joy he’d gained in the past year. He wouldn’t have met Yor without her, he wouldn’t have adopted Bond, he wouldn’t have been able to grasp the idea of a life outside of WISE without her. 

Nearly everything truly good in his life traced back to Anya, and he had been helpless as she’d been ripped from his arms.

Useless, Twilight, useless!

The failure tore at him, taunting his worth as a father and skill as a spy. Anya was his heart daughter he was supposed to protect her! How was he supposed to look Yor in the eye and tell her he failed!

…And Operation Strix, it, it couldn’t continue without her, of course.

He’d truly failed in every way, hadn’t he?

He stayed there, unmoving as a prickling sensation built up behind his eyes, slowly stewing the pot of guilt and self loathing his hospital bed had become.

“Loid?” a voice asked, as familiar and reassuring in its presence as it was worrying in its blankness.

“Yor?” he squeaked through a dry mouth and chapped lips, unable to hide the naked relief he felt at her presence. “M-my neck’s in a brace, I can’t see you, could you…?”

Yor obliged his unspoken request, stepping into view and causing his heart to break all over again. She looked about as terrible as he felt, eyes red and puffy and framed by dark bags while strands of her usually immaculate hair stuck out wildly, part of it flattened like she’d slept on it. She’d drawn in on herself, the fur collar of her winter coat eclipsing her mouth as she nervously tugged on the cuffs.

Unconscious for a day and he’d still caused her so much pain. 

“Good morning,” she greeted him, a nervous reluctance in her voice laced with an unknowable tension that filled him with a slow, sinking feeling. She shifted from one foot to the other. 

“Or should I say good evening, Twilight,”

The sink turned into a plummet.

“You know.” he whispered, a statement not a question, nearly lost under the sound of the shattering facade he had slowly begun to wish was reality. He didn’t know what he expected, really. Operation Strix was just another mission, at the end of it all, he had to live it convincingly without being consumed by it, and he had been consumed by it so much he’d been foolish enough to believe that he could continue. Continue being Loid Forger, Psych.D, father to a rambunctious six year old and husband to a dynamo of a woman.

Served him right, honestly, thinking such things.

“Was any of it true?” Yor whispered, fragile and heartbroken. Loid, no no, Twilight, he had to remind himself of that…honestly hadn’t expected that. He’d expected anger, betrayal, outrage, a declaration of hatred and possibly a little screaming, though with Yor it was more likely to be delivered in a low icy tone that vibrated with hatred. Even demands for answers were to be delivered in tones of reproachful anger, not a plea.

“I care for Anya,” even though I used her to get closer to my target. “She…she’s not my daughter by blood, but I, Loid, I mean, adopted her,” And failed to protect her. “I used to take my coffee black, but then I got ulcers and I had to switch to decaf. I’m a good cook, a…surprisingly good cartoonist, I like watching Spy Wars and I-,”

I wish it was all real.

I wish I could be the man you thought I was.

I fell in love-

“I really care for you, Yor,”

She stared at him, quietly reproachful, “That’s Loid , Twilight, not you,”

“It is, Yor, it really is,” he pleaded as the prickling pushed itself forward and hot tears began to spill out, melting away what little of the increasingly fragile facades of both Loid Forger and Agent Twilight of Westalia remained. Every undercover agent, even the best of them, ended up putting a little bit of themselves into a fake identity as long running as his, and usually ended up picking up something in return. A hobby, a skill, and most dangerously, identifiable character tics. 

But he had put so much of Twilight into Loid Forger, and had found so much enjoyment in Loid that he wanted to bring back to Twilight. 

“I…i’m not sure if Twilight…or, or Loid…” he sucked in a breath, tasting salt as his mouth flapped uselessly, his silver tongue finally stumbling, “I’m not sure where one begins as a person the the other ends anymore,” the admission shocked him, but…he couldn’t deny it, could he? One was a shell, the other a real person…but he didn’t know which was which anymore.

Yor seemed flustered by that, “What….what’s your name? The one you were born with, I mean,”

Man who was neither Loid nor Twilight open his mouth and…froze, eyes wide, “I-I can’t remember,”

Yor seemed as shocked as he was, “You can’t!? L-Loid, I mean whoever you are, y-you can’t be serious, can you?”

He strained, forcing his bruised mind into overdrive as he delved into his deepest, most personal memories.

“[REDACTED], come down for dinner!” called his mother.

“[REDACTED], only fools seek conflict,” declared his father, instilling one of his core beliefs.

“Roland? But your name’s [REDACTED]?” Asked his friend, in the almost liminal space between their reunion and permanent parting.

“[REDACTED], I love you,” His mother had made a habit of saying that daily, during the early stages of the war. He couldn’t remember he’d responded the day he’d gone fishing.

He couldn’t remember. He’d buried it so deep it had rotted from disuse, and the bullet seemed to have banished any further mention of it from his mind. 

And now it was gone. Forever.

“I can’t,” he confirmed, shellshocked and horrified as the tears flowed freely, “I used a fake name to join the war, the last people who called me it died in the Roberts campaign, when I joined I WISE I was told to discard but I always thought…” he trailed off. He needed to get his mind off of this.

“Yor, if you need to know the truth, no, you DESERVE the truth, so I’ll tell you the truest thing I know about myself. I lost everything as a child. My home, my mother, my childhood friends…and even my name apparently. I don’t want anyone to share that pain. That’s why I became a spy, to make a better world, where no one has to lose what I did, so no child has to go through what I did.

“So that the world wouldn’t need Agent Twilight. Where…Loid Forger was the only person I needed to be.”

And I failed .

“For Anya?”

With that, he burst into tears, a strangled, half moaned sob escaping him.

“Loid!?”

“I’m sorry, Yor. I’m so so sorry, I just wanted to keep her safe and I failed. She’s gone and it’s all my fault-”

“No, no it isn't,” Yor said quietly, “You didn’t choose to get shot in the head, and you didn’t choose to let go of Anya. I know-I know that Loid wouldn’t allow that,”

“Twilight wouldn’t either,” he emitted quietly, the tears slowing back into a trickle.

Yor was quiet, and the man who wanted to be Loid Forger took that as a sign to continue, “Listen, when you get Anya back-,” because her return was a matter of when , not if, “If you never want to see me again I won’t fight it. I tricked you, I used you, and I failed-,”

“Loid,” she cut him off, quiet yet insistent, and his breath caught in his throat at the use of the name, “I don’t want that,”

“Oh,” he whimpered, the relief bringing the tears back with even greater force.

“I…I haven’t been honest with you, either,” she admitted.

“You don’t have to tell me,” he insisted. “Ask and I’ll forget it,”

“But you deserve the truth,”

“No I don’t,”

“Yes you do,”

“No I don’t.”

“YES YOU DO!” Yor yelled, surprising him, “You do, Loid, and even if you didn’t it’s still my choice to tell you! You got that?!”

“...Franky’s rubbing off on you,” the non sequitur escaped him with a chuckle, and Yor turned red and covered her mouth, but genuine laughter seeped through the hand.

But an insistent rapping cut through the diffused tension, and Franky himself spoke up, “Yor, we got something, it’s urgent,” before apparently rushing away before Yor could respond.

Yor, just nodded, taking in a deep breath as her entire stature shifted , the demure office worker and grieving family woman suddenly giving way to an entirely different being. She leaned back over him, a hand cupping his face and possible spinal injury be damned he wanted more than anything to lean into it.

“I’ll get our Anya back, Loid, I swear. I…I’m not sure I know you anymore but…” she leaned in, and she kissed his cheek, the edge of her lips ghosting against his, “I want to learn about you,” 

The next words caused the heart monitor to skip a beat.

“And I want to fall in love with you again,”

And then she was gone.

Chapter Text

Sylvia Sherwood left the Berlint Gardening Club armed with all of the accouterments of the Thorn Princess, apparently delivered to the Shopkeeper’s door by actors unknown and released into her custody as a token of trust.

There was a lot about that situation that needed unpacking, but for now Sylvia needed to focus on getting back to the safehouse without drawing the attention of the SSS as a known Westalian citizen, even if she was “a simple embassy worker”.

At least she had Roscoe as cover. One of Bond’s fellow ex-test subjects, she’d taken a liking to the business-like Ostanian Shepherd, even as slow to trust as he’d (rightly) been. It might have been foolish, taking in a subject of a mission, but he was good company, had a sharp ear for danger and a woman walking a fierce-looking dog was much less likely to be approached.

Shame, really. He’d come to love being scratched behind the ears.

Her pager beeped, and she pulled it out of her belt.

‘Unusual activity at 128 Park Avenue’ said the message within the message. 

‘ You don’t say ,’ she mentally complained, shooting a glance at the bag containing Thorn Princess’s tools of the trade.

Two more messages flashed across the screen, and she bit back her shock.

‘Twilight’s awake’

‘Dog got out’ 

Well then. She needed to get back to HQ, now .

But then Roscoe stopped, hackles raised as a low growl ripped its way up from his chest.

“What’s wrong boy?” she asked, playing the concerned pet owner as she surreptitiously scanned the street. 

Nothing seemed amiss. 

But her mind went back to the notes for Project: APPLE, and the ‘suppression of situational awareness’ in 004’s file forced its way to the forefront of her mind.

She shivered, the ever present paranoia ratcheting into overdrive as she surveyed the street once more.

Nothing. Or at least, nothing she could perceive.

And then, it seemed to pass, Roscoe calming down nearly as quickly as he’d been put on edge.

She scratched him between the ears, and instantly he leaned back into her touch.

She decided to take the longer route to HQ, and sent a dispatch for Nightfall to be on guard.

---

“...Where Loid Forger was the only man I needed to be,”

The words ripped through Nightfall’s heart like a gunshot, proving the final blow that saw her fleeing from Twilight’s door.

She couldn’t believe it. She didn’t want to believe it. The idea that her teacher, her idol, the spy she loved, could be so irrevocably compromised…

Once upon a time she would’ve thought the idea inconceivable, but the evidence was there, delivered to her ears in an unbelievably vulnerable voice.

Twilight was a consummate professional, his inner thought known to no one, but she’d spent enough time with him to recognize his tells. His despair, his regret, his… want for the assassin he’d unknowingly shared a roof with, it was all real. Part of her wanted to believe he was acting again, putting on the performance of a lifetime, but even with WISE training he was simply too woozy from his injuries and the treatment to lie so well, so Occam’s Razor suggested he was telling the truth.

Fuck.

Her legs had carried her to some random corridor, Twilight’s words echoing in her ears. If those words were real then that note might be real, and if that note was real then that meant…

She felt something small break inside her chest, and she suddenly felt unbearably fragile. Suddenly, someone bumped into her, nearly knocking her off balance to shatter upon the floor.

“Clumsy much?” a woman whispered under her breath as she brushed past her, and she and Nightfall briefly locked eyes. They were heterochromatic, one a striking hazel while the other seemed to be black as pitch. Nightfall’s gaze slid away, almost disregarding the fact. But then she remembered the picture of 003. She cast a surreptitious glance in where she thought the woman might be (it was disturbingly hard to track her) and noticed she was accompanied by a young man who seemed to match the description of 005.

They seemed to be headed in the same direction she had fled from.

Towards Twilight’s room.

Shit.

Chapter Text

McMahon had decided to step out after exchanging a brief few words with Yor and that Franklin fellow, have a smoke, try and banish the unsettling thoughts that traipsed through his mind, their source unidentifiable.

That, of course was when Yor’s dog (What was his name again? Bond?) approached him, huffing and puffing like he’d run a marathon, and given the distance between the Forger’s place and the hospital, that was undoubtedly the case.

“You miss your folks?” he asked, and the big dog seemed to huff in an attempted response, before shaking his head and taking off as quick as he’d arrived. McMahon tried to chase after him, but his body promptly reminded him of the wringer he’d been through yesterday.

Instead, he made his way back to the front of the building, ducking through the door and heading to the room, he needed to tell Yor that-

They had a lead, but they needed to act fast, so Yor needed to know now.

They had a lead, but they needed to act fast, so Yor needed to know now.

It was a simple enough matter to find Franklin and inform him of the fact.

“Really?” the younger man whisper shouted, “What lead?!”

McMahon opened his mouth to reply, but froze.

What, what was he talking about?

But if Franklin had noticed the hesitance, he said nothing about it, instead dashing off in the direction of Twilight’s room, leaving McMahon standing there, the unease beating double time.

He had a bad feeling about this.

---

Cinq had a bad feeling about this. Even as the elder Garden assassin the Twins described entered the hospital, his message working his way through the unsuspecting man’s mind, a seed of doubt rooted itself in his own.

“You sure about this?” he asked, uncaring of the baleful glare he received in return, “I don’t know about you, but walking into a hospital containing the person who could fend off the Twins doesn’t seem like the best idea,”

“I hate to admit it but you have a point, so that’s why we’re luring her away from her husband, killing him, and then in the chaos we can pick her off. All I need you to do is stay close and repeat what I want you to repeat. Got it?”

Cinq nodded with a grumble, unwilling to dignify her (admittedly reasonable) plan with a response. They slipped through a side entrance, Trinity brushing past a nurse with one of her petty cruelties and continuing towards the room, whose location he had covertly extracted from a nurse. It felt overcomplicated, but Trinity was worried for the new fangled CCTV that had been installed in the front lobby.

Still, it was teeth grindingly close, the mother and her friend with the afro only stepping out once they’d neared the room. Still, they only needed to wait and-

A radio crackled, so close that either of them could’ve reached out and touched the security guard it belonged to.

“Be on the lookout for two suspicious individuals, one man and one woman…” the voice on the other side droned on, but it might as well have been static as Cinq realized the descriptions were their own. His eye met Trinity’s, as shocked as he was, trembling as her fear of attention began to make its way to the forefront of her mind. She looked so afraid he was tempted to try and comfort her.

‘This is all your fault,’ he mouthed instead. 

The nurse that Trinity had insulted, she must have somehow noticed them, somehow shaken off Trinity’s power.

The thought had only sprung into his mind when the nurse in question was there, a twisting crescent kick catching Trinity’s ribs and sending her crashing into the wall. Cinq burst into a run, gunshots sounding behind him as he ducked into Twilight’s room.

“What the Hell’s happening!?” the agent in the bed asked frantically, and Cinq felt his ire rise at the sight of another man using the Subjects as tools for their own ends.

“Hey, Twilight, remember me?” he asked coldly, drawing a bead with his own gun, trying to ignore the way they shook as he embarked on his second attempt to kill the man in three days.

He wouldn’t miss this time.

“...What did you do with Anya?” Twilight demanded, the cold anger blindsiding him.

“Are you serious?” he asked incredulously, “There’s a guy with a gun aimed at your head and all you’re worried about is where your fuckin’ puppet is?!”

“ Don’t call her a puppet!” Twilight growled, seemingly uncaring of the fact he couldn’t even move his neck, much less fight. “Where is she!?”

“None of your business spy ,” Cinq spat, trying to cover his rising trepidation with more righteous anger, “Like you’d even care. You were using her.”

“Things changed,” Twilight responded, an undertone of despair finally making its way through the anger. Cinq’s gun, drawn level with Twilight’s face, dropped minutely.

“Bull shit ,” he shook his head with a hiss, “ Tell the truth!” his power laced into his words, but even then he expected the same resistance he’d seen in the alley.

But that was not what he found.

“That is the truth!” Twilight sobbed, the despair now on full, appalling display, “She’s my little girl and every second I don’t know what happened to her hurts worse than any torture I’ve ever been through. Please, just tell me what you’re doing with her,” he begged.

The gun faltered.

---

“Who told you this?” Yor asked, her voice and posture pulled as taught as a bowstring.

“McMahon,” Franky explained, literally hopping ahead of her, “He said got some news and you needed to know immediately. I kinda…got too excited and left before he could explain,” he admitted.

“That’s okay, I’d probably run ahead too,” Yor reassured him, her attention split between him and a security guard’s radio describing a pair of suspicious individuals.

So, heterochromia meant differently colored eyes? How interesting.

There was a crash, and Yor’s head snapped to see a woman crashing into the wall before recovering and pulling a gun in one fluid motion.

She was running towards it before she could even think.

---

Nightfall watched as 003 slammed into the wall, her gaze unwavering. It was a risky gambit, focusing completely on her and not 005, but if her ability was anything like 004’s, she couldn’t afford to split her attention, so she hoped the security guards were up to the task.

So she had full view as 003 pulled out a gun and drew a bead on her.

Only for Yor’s foot to rip it out of her hand with a snap kick, and for once Nightfall found herself grateful for the woman’s presence.

Which then shifted into shock as the follow up strike cracked the wall next to 003’s head. The other woman ducked to the side, and Yor’s head shifted in confusion.

She can’t see her, Nightfall realized, barely managing to keep track of the woman herself as she recovered and unsheathed a knife.

“Behind you!” Nightfall yelled, and Yor lashed out with a kick that 003 barely avoided, the shockwave rippling her shirt. Nightfall shook her head at the display (never breaking her gaze on the wannabe hitwoman) and ran in.

Her opening punch was parried, and she narrowly dodged a knife strike that would have carved out her eye. She was unable to avoid the follow up strike, which slammed into her gut like a train, forcing the air from her lungs as 003 took initiative, lunging forward as Nightfall grappled for the knife.

But Yor once again proved her salvation, tagging her with a relatively subdued snap kick that sent her spinning away. She growled, ducking under a clumsy blow from a security guard and retaliating with a brutal palm strike to the throat that sent the man to the floor gagging.

“Why can’t I keep track of her?” Yor commented as she fell in beside her.

“She’s a scientific experiment. I think she can deflect attention away from herself,” Nightfall responded, “I seem to have too much of a lock for her to shake me off,”

Yor grunted in acknowledgement. “You guide, I fight,”

The two of them lunged, meeting 003 in a fast paced if clumsy melee, Nightfall struggling to avoid the faster and stronger woman’s strikes, but making sure to keep her attention on her to allow Yor a consistent target. Still, Nightfall had to dance around close calls and near misses that rippled her clothing and hair with the wind, and making sure her impromptu partner wasn’t gutted.

She was forced to lean away from a punch that would’ve shattered her cheekbone and 003 seized the opportunity, locking her ankles and sending her to the floor as 003 followed, pinning Nightfall with knife raised to strike.

Following the rapidly appearing pattern, she was once again spared as Yor flew in with a knee strike that might’ve caved in a skull had 003 not caught it with her free hand, the force still sending her flying away.

She hit the ground with a grunt and a roll, her hand lashing out and grabbing…

“She’s got a gun!” Nightfall yelled, and Yor braced to dodge.

But 003 turned away from them, instead making a break for Twilight’s room. Nightfall’s heart plummeted like a stone at the realization, unable to muster more than a pointing figure that sent Yor shooting forward like a hunting hound.

But 003 ducked into the room, and gunshots rang out.

Chapter Text

Everything hurt. 

Her head hurt from the helmet Dr Selmoa had strapped to it, it hurt from using her powers so much on the tests, it hurt so much from the yelling. Her body hurt too, from the en-courage-mints, which weren’t mints but sticky, wiry things that hurt like when she’d stuck her tongue in the tv socket but worse. And then there’d been the one time she’d made Dr. Selmoa so angry he’d had the stumpy armed man…

…Papa and Mama would say it was impolite to call him stumpy, Sy-On Boy would’ve called her stumpy, and Becky….and Bond…and Uncle Scruffy…and Weird Uncle Yuri…

But they weren’t here anymore, and Selmoa said they were all going to die. 

…But they were strong though, they could take care of themselves!

…But they were still in danger because of her. He’d said that to her, in that cold voice that was worse than the screaming. 

Maybe she shouldn’t have left. Maybe she should have just stayed and then Papa could’ve gotten a normal six-year-old and he’d have completed Operation Sticks and achieved world peace already, and he wouldn’t have gotten shot.

“Anya,” someone whispered to her, and she realized she’d been returned to the room she shared with O-O-6. 

“What do you want?” she retorted, still stinging from him selling her out.

“Are you okay?” he whispered again, his hand ghosting over her arms and sending a bolt of pain shooting through her. She whimpered, curling over and whimpering further as even more pain hit her.

“...Did they…hit you?” he asked hesitantly, lifting up her sleeve to reveal almost comically mottled dark red skin that had already begun to swell.

“I…it’ll be okay, y-your mama will help us,” he stammered, and Anya looked at him, teary-eyed and doubtful.

“How do you know?”

He looked around, hoping that the invisible ears weren’t listening, “I saw her with my powers, she could fight the Twins, she could beat them and save us!” he whispered giddily.

Anya didn’t share his enthusiasm, “‘s not that simple,” she murmured sullenly, “And she shouldn’t even try,”

O-O-6 reeled back as if he’d been struck by the stumpy armed man, “But why? T-they love you,”

“You get that from the knives?”

“N-no, the coat,”

Anya turned away from him, “Doesn’t matter, they shouldn't," she shook her head.

She loved Mama and Papa, and she missed them. They were a good Mama and Papa, who'd given her everything, and what had she given them?

Stress.

Panic.

All-cers.

And now Selmoa.

"Mama's sad and it’s my fault."  she whispered, barely audible, "Papa’s hurt and it’s my fault, Selmoa wants to kill them and it’s all my fault.”

O-O-6 didn’t have an answer for that, and Anya turned away, trying keep her sobs quiet and cringing as her sobbing wracked her body in pain.

***********************************

---

The gun was shaking. He could tie up these loose ends right here, right now and the damn gun was shaking .

No, no, this was stupid. He had a job to do, and Twilight was probably lying to him somehow. He just needed to pull the trigger and be done with it.

But his finger still hovered above the trigger, refusing to move, his heartbeat thundering in his ears alongside the muted sounds of combat as 003 fought the mother and that damn nurse who’d someone seen through their cover.

Fuck her, fuck Trinity for getting them caught, fuck Selmoa for sending him on this goddamn task, fuck Vier for shooting Twilight fuck Twilight for surviving, fuck the gun for shaking, fuck himself for not being able to pull the trigger-

His internal tirade was interrupted as he was tackled, the air leaving him as he slammed into. He flailed trying to push his assailant off him, maybe try and shoot him, but a hand caught his wrist in a death grip before a fist slammed into his face, the gun spinning away. Shit.

“Get off motherfucker!” he screamed, his assailant’s grip lessening just enough for Cinq to force him away and scramble for the gun, only for the other man to rip his legs out from under him and tackle him as he reached for the gun, resuming their frantic grapple. They rolled along the floor, Cinq pinning his attacker under him and pulling the gun closer to him-

And then Trinity ducked into the room, crouching with gun in hand. Time seemed to slow as they locked eyes with each other, a thousand thoughts flashing between. An unknowable expression set on her face, and her gun jerked up.

“I could just shoot you and say you tripped up…Doctor Selmoa wouldn’t even doubt me.”

So that’s how it was gonna be, huh?

With a strength he didn’t know he had, Cinq jerked the gun forward, and by some miracle of providence pulled the trigger first. He had a millisecond to enjoy Trinity’s shocked expression as his shot traced a disappointingly glancing path through her arm before his shoulder jolted back, fire dancing along his nerves as the bullet shattered it.

---

Gunshots rang out, followed by a hoarse shriek of pain and Yor’s heart froze in her chest, one thought racing through her mind.

Nonono not again! Not again!

She ran, ignoring the way the motion pulled at her stitches, throwing herself into a leap that carried her to the doorframe with enough force to crack the stucco beneath her, sending spiderwebs racing across the door as she rebounded off, shifting in midair to land upon the railing at the side of Loid/Twilight’s bed, eyes sweeping across the room like a hawk.

Three people. Two at the far side of the room, lying on top of each other, one hunched against the doorway. One gun at each location. Her gaze flicked to the door but her focus seemed to slide off them and towards the other two. The man on top of the pile had a bullet wound in his shoulder. He was either unconscious or in shock. Frankie’s distinctive afro peeked out from under him. Was he hurt? She hoped not.

Her eyes flicked back to the door, but her gaze seemed to slide over the figure in question before she could finally focus on her. Nightfall had said she was an experiment, right?

“Yor?”

Her attention snapped to her husband, exactly where she’d left him, dried out tears shimmering on his cheeks as he looked at her with an expression of shock. A ragged breath escaped as she realized that he was alive, that he hadn’t been shot again, that she wasn’t back in that alley-

The press of a silencer against her temple hacked her relief off at the knees.

“Finally,” a voice trembling in murderous rage hissed, followed by the quietly deafening click of a depressing trigger.

Yor’s hand lashed out blindly, jerking the gun away from her head, her ears ringing from the gunshot as she lashed out with a rib cracking palm strike, sending the woman flying as her gun was ripped out of her grasp.

She stared at the weapon in her hand, and with a growl she crushed it, the barrel crumpling in her grasp before taking hold of the grip and rending the pistol in half.

“...Yor?” there was an odd note to the voice of the man who’d married her, and Yor felt her face warm self consciously as leapt to the floor.

“T-there’s a-a perfectly reasonable explanation for this!” she stammered, mentally scrambling for an excuse. 

But Fiona Frost preempted her. “Your wife’s a seasoned combatant,” she said almost off-handedly, strolling into the room with a sap and a couple of scalpels in hand.

Yor turned to her with an absolutely murderous glare, a growl emerging from her throat as anger at the intrusion boiled in her chest. How dare she!?

Fiona met her gaze stoically, “I said nothing especially specific, simply general information to help grease the wheels. Everything else is yours to tell,” she said flatly, holding out the scalpels to her in what Yor supposed was a peace offering.

“You still don’t owe me anything,” he quietly reassured her, the exhaustion and simple relief at her presence obvious.

But she knew better. She took in a deep breath through her nose, made an about face and leaned over Loid, her heart breaking at the sight of his red eyes and face still half racked in grief.

“What do you know about the Garden?”

---

Nightfall released a steady breath, relief flooding her as Thorn Princess’ mind numbingly terrifying gaze turned elsewhere. 

003 had unfortunately taken the opportunity to disappear, which left her guarding Twilight as he had a heart to heart with his fake assassin wife.

How fortunate.

Her attention quickly shifted to 005, who was now unconscious and bleeding from a shoulder wound as lay atop…was that Franklin?

He wasn’t moving.

A sudden chill ran down her spine as she realized he was laying underneath a gunshot victim and he wasn’t moving.

“Franklin!” she hissed quietly, moving to his side and shucking the would-be assassin off him. Something in her heart clenched uncomfortably at the sight of his suspenders and shirt covered in blood. His chest rose and fell evenly, so he seemed to be fine, but he was still too unconscious for her taste.

So she slapped him, and to her odd relief he shot up with a choked breath, eyes frantically scanning the room.

“Any nice dreams?” she drawled flatly, and Franklin breathed out a sigh of relief.

“Is it over?” he asked shakily.

“Not even close. But the assassination was foiled.”

“Y’know, for a nurse you could really stand to improve your bedside manner,” he snarked back.

“What happened Franky?”

Franklin let out a shaky breath, running a hand through his hair only recoil in disgust and his hand brushed against matted blood.

“I dunno. You and Yor started fighting some lady I couldn’t really focus on, a-and then a saw the kid with so of course I tackled him, and then we were wrestling but he got the gun and then he fired and somethin’ struck me in the chin and I kinda guess I got shot-,”

“And then you passed out,” Nightfall cut across the informant’s recounting before it could devolve into a panic attack. Seeing as it wasn’t working, she continued, “I’ll admit that you probably saved Twilight’s life. So good job.”

Any further encouragement was interrupted as medical and security personnel finally flooded into the room, but before the medics rushed to Franklin’s side, he asked her one last question, his eyes flashing to 005’s unconscious form.

“What are we doin’ with him?”

---

Her explanation was rushed and frustratingly short and got next to nothing out that she actually wanted to say, but through increasingly unsteady breaths Yor explained the basics of her profession, her reasons for marrying him, why she’d made all those weird excuses for her skillset.

“And that’s it,” Yor finished meekly, unable to meet Loid’s eyes, shame for her lies dragging her gaze downward. It felt sort of foolish, given that he’d also lied to her, but that was part of it. Remnants of the dark wave of shock, betrayal and despondent anger that had washed over her when she’d read his note still clung to her heart, even with the reassurance she’d taken in his straightforwardness. She was guilty of the same deception, so it would only make sense that he shared that anger.

“Well, I feel kinda dumb now,” he admitted with a chuckle, cutting off the apologies on the tip of Yor’s tongue. Thankfully, her shock at the reaction kept her frayed nerves from sparking off at the sensation of a hand landing on her shoulder and gutting the security guard behind her.

“Ma’am, I’m gonna have to ask you to drop the scalpels and step away from the bed,” oh, right, she still had the scalpels. They dropped to the floor with a clatter, and the guard tried to pull her away, but instead she shrugged him off, stepping closer to Loid. like hell was she going to leave him again. The guard opened his mouth to protest, but her husband spoke up.

“Please don’t make her leave,” he asked, “We’ve both just had a very traumatic couple of days, we’d prefer to stay together if it pleases you.”

The guard stepped away, allowing the doctors to make their own attempts to pry Yor from her husband’s bedside, but she ignored them, her focus entirely on Loid.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered desperately.

“I forgive you. You just wanted to keep yourself safe. I don’t blame you for that, even if I could I don’t think I have a place to talk.”

She could’ve wept at his understanding, but she was once again interrupted as Fiona’s voice assaulted her ears. 

“Dr. Forger needs to be moved, and the police are going to need our statements, so we should probably leave,”

Yor bit down on the tide of insults and reproachful remarks as she reluctantly realized that the other woman might have a point.

Loid seemed to realize it too. “Do what you need to do, I’ll be here when to get back,”

“A-are you sure? I might be gone awhile,”

His next words left him in a whisper, “I’m yours for as long as you’ll have me.” 

Oh. “Thank you,” she stuttered, as if he hadn’t just flipped her world upside down for the third time in as many days. She stepped back, allowing the doctors to wheel him away from her.

“You’re a lucky woman, Mrs. Forger,” a nurse said, and Yor couldn’t help but shiver at the word. Once again, there was little about this situation that deserved the term lucky. Her daughter was still missing, her job as the Thorn Princess was probably over, and she still needed to sit down and talk things out with...a lot of people, at this stage.

But her heart still fluttered at Loid’s words. 

A small mercy, all things considered.

But a mercy nonetheless.

“I am, aren’t I?”

Chapter Text

Something was scratching at the garden door, and the Shopkeeper supposed that the surprises of the day were wont to continue.

And opening the door only confirmed those suspicions. The dog belonging to the Thorn Princess’ household stared up at him, panting in exhaustion before butting the Shopkeeper’s thigh with his head. Taking this as a request for entry, the Shopkeeper stepped aside, allowing the large dog to brush past him, into the garden.

“What brings you here?” he asked the dog, who simply collapsed with a tired chuff. But his eyes remained trained on the Shopkeeper, seemingly searching for something before his gaze swiveled elsewhere. It reminded him of a watchdog or a meerkat, constantly on the lookout for danger.

Something about his behaviour unsettled the Shopkeeper, as did his mere presence. He doubted Yor would have left the dog to his own devices, which meant he had probably escaped of his own devices. But why was he here?

It was a question the dog was unlikely to answer, Yor was most likely out of the apartment, and he couldn’t be sure who would pick up at the hospital.

Which left a communique with his newfound ally as the most obvious course of action.

As he dialed the number for the Embassy, it dawned on him just how tiring these surprises were getting.

---

Sylvia was very tired of surprises. 

At least the first one was somewhat pleasant, at least. Sten had woken up, tried to crack open a cyanide tooth, only to find out it had been removed during his beauty sleep.

The second surprise was less so. Turns out the suitcase was booby trapped. Open it at all and it would spontaneously change from a locked suitcase to a shrapnel, spontaneously changing anyone in the blast radius into aerosolized gore as a side effect. Mercifully, no one had been injured, thank god for the modern x-ray installed within the embassy for security purposes, but it was a rude awakening to the man’s dedication to keeping his secrets. At least the safe seemed to be untampered.

And third, the goddamn hospital had been attacked by two of the Subjects, including a woman with seemingly the same powers as 004. 003 then? At least they had an idea of what to look for now.

Admittedly, more good had probably emerged from that clusterfuck than bad. Twilight was unharmed, as were Yor and Nightfall, and 005 was in custody.

But he was in SSS custody, and 003 was back in the wind. And between their abilities and the SSS’ presumed lack of awareness of those abilities, escape seemed more like a matter of when than if . Plus, Nightfall, Yor, and possibly Franklin were all probably in questioning. She had no doubt in Nightfall’s abilities, and Franklin had proved himself reliable, but what she’d heard about the Thorn Princess’ lying skills painted a… dismal picture.

Then again, she’d pulled the wool over Twilight’s eyes, but after reading the Goddamned Note she was far from ruling out personal feelings in that particular deception.

Well then, no use dawdling. An APB had already been declared on the wayward 003, and 005 was beyond WISE’s reach for the moment, which meant getting Twilight to a safehouse was her highest priority, followed by rendezvousing with Nightfall and (hopefully) Yor, and enlisting their help on extracting the truth on all of Project Apple’s dirty little secrets.

Then her secretary hit her with the curveball.

“I just got a call from the Berlint Gardening Club about your order. He just found a couple of Dogwood seedlings.”

What the hell was Bond doing with the Shopkeeper?!

She was very, very tired of surprises.

---

Yor silently ticked off another reason to thank Loccow, as even though the man was still unconscious, the mention of his name had won both her and Fiona a degree of clemency from the interrogating detectives, allowing the two of them to remain together as they were questioned and allowing Fiona to patch up the weak and more suspicious parts of her own story.

Even the SSS officers had been nice to her, not even questioning them in favour of paying attention to her husband’s attacker.

Did Yuri have something to do with that?

Her mind snapped back to the present as jolting forced her back into the seat and eliciting a wince of pain. The adrenaline rush had long since left her, leaving her with a drained, hollow limbed sensation and an acute awareness that she had, in fact, reopened her stitches, which the motion of the car only agitated.

Fiona had seemed oddly insistent that Yor come with her, insisting that she would have her answers. She had protested, wanting to talk with her husband, she had been bluntly informed that Loid was being moved to a safer location, which Dr. Hertzel had kindly confirmed.

She was still worried about Franky, but Fiona had seemed confident he’d be fine.

“Where are we going again?” she asked, drawing an irritated huff from the other woman.

“We’re taking an indirect route to a rendezvous with Handler. WISE is working with the Garden on this one, and apparently , as you’ve had the greatest amount of contact with our organization-,” she growled, “-You’re the designated go between. Don’t screw this up.”

Yor opened her mouth to promise that she’d do her best, only for a sudden turn to send her wound shifting against the seat, turning the promise into a whimper of pain.

“Now what?” Fiona snapped.

“N-nothing. Sorry.” she apologized.

But Fiona decided to push the issue. “No, if there’s something you need to say, say it.”

“I-I don't mean to bother you but, I-I may have reopened a back wound during the fight with that woman.” she admitted meekly, unable to look at spy.

Fiona huffed another annoyed sigh, and turned into a side alley.

“We’re treating this now.”

“W-what?”

Fiona shot her a baleful glare. “Your wound’s only going to get worse if it’s not addressed, so it’s best we take care of this now. But of course, you’re free to be stubborn and leave it untreated.” 

Yor winced at the scathing condescension in her voice, but the spy once again had a point.

She was beginning to hate that about Fiona.

She got out of the car, stepping into the back as Fiona laid out a blanket for her to bleed onto. She shucked off her coat and lifted her shirt, wincing as her wound caught against the fabric.

Fiona, to her credit, was at the very least a capable nurse, calmly and methodically unwrapping the dressing before for some reason whistling at her wound.

“How’d you get that?”

“O-one of the assassins I fought yesterday had a blade in place of his right arm. The funny thing is that the other one actually had a mace on his left hand. That's not to say there was really anything funny about yesterday, but I guess you could say it’s funny how the two of them kinda looked like twins, except for the arms thing.”

Fiona mumbled something under her breath that sounded like ‘Hilarious’, but Yor thought better of asking about it. She probably wouldn’t appreciate the question.

For a while, the car was quiet, save for Fiona’s methodical treatment and an occasional hiss of pain from Yor.

Halfway through redressing the wound, Fiona broke the silence in a quivering voice.

“Do you really love him?”

There was no doubt who she meant.

That…was a deceptively complicated question seeking a dreadfully simple answer.

She loved Loid Forger, of that there was no doubt. But Loid Forger was a mask, a falsehood constructed by the mythical Agent Twilight of Westalis. But…Twilight was also the one that loved her, even after she’d told him about Thorn Princess.

Had…had he already known about that part of her life?

No, he didn’t seem to. His note made no mention of it, and both Fiona and Franky seemed surprised when she’d talked about it, and if he was a good spy he’d probably tell them things like that.

And once again, it was Twilight, not Loid, who loved her. Who loved Anya. Who’d violated the boundaries of spy and family man and now seemed trapped between the two. 

His last words to her flashed through her mind.

“I’m yours, as long as you’ll have me.”

She wanted to find out how much Twilight and Loid overlapped.

“Yes.” She answered resolutely, surprising herself with the sudden steel in her voice.

Something wet dripped onto her back, drawing a yelp that was cut off as Fiona tied off the dressing and pulled her shirt back down.

“Come on. We have a rendezvous to get to,” she said hoarsely.

They made the rest of the drive in silence.

Chapter Text

It felt like she’d gone three rounds with both the Twins at once. Her arm throbbed, her ribs throbbed, moving hurt, driving hurt, hell, even breathing hurt. At least the madwoman’s strikes hadn’t broken anything. That, plus the fact Trinity wasn’t in handcuffs were probably the only good things about this entire clusterfuck of a situation.

A clusterfuck she was entirely responsible for, a voice like Selmoa mocked her. She’d taken things a step too far, same as always, and they’d been found out. No one to blame but herself. 

Not that she had a scapegoat. Cinq was alive but in captivity, another thing she’d be faulted for. She hadn’t totally been lying when she’d said Selmoa wouldn’t care. Oh, he’d care, but only because it would represent the loss of a resource valuable to Project: APPLE. But she could’ve pinned the failure on him, and framed her killing of him as severing a loose end.

But instead he was alive, which meant he could talk, which meant more loose ends, and a witness to her personal failings on top of that. His retrieval would undoubtedly become a priority, and unlike Twilight or the still absent Sten, his survival would be the favourable outcome.

A growl of frustration escaped her at the thought of Sten. Unlike Vier and Cinq’s failure to kill Twilight, or her own fuckup in the hospital, the Twins’ failure to kill the rat and any solid lead on APPLE with him had simply been the result of them being outplayed, pure and simple.

None of this would have happened if Selmoa had simply kept his head down and waited for the confirmation from Westalis. But no, they were after the mind reader, so 007 had to be retrieved.

And now they were on a sinking ship, taking on water from a growing series of leaks that had so far proved resistant to plugging.

So, forget suppression. They needed their own source, beyond what 006 and 007 were telling them. They’d been informed that the Garden was based, appropriately enough, in the Berlint Gardening Club.

But the dog had beaten her there. She’d heard Selmoa’s almost nostalgic recountings of his attempts to create a functional precog. The Forger dog had supposedly been part of those attempts.

She was beginning to think they’d succeeded.

Of course, that wasn’t the only possible explanation for the dog sniffing the wind as a leathery old man scanned the road with the eyes of a hawk, but it was the one that sprang to mind.

Damn it. He was aware, and if he was anything like his agents at the hospital, she had no fighting chance in that state.

Which left the brother, probably back in the loving embrace of the SSS, or the afro haired man who’d taken down Cinq.

Both options were probably a risk, especially with the APB that had gone out over police broadbands.

She drummed the wheel as she turned off the street, her other hand thumbing at the somehow still unbroken walkie talkie.

Not yet, she decided. She needed to get some results first. She shuddered at the thought of what might await her if she came back empty handed.

---

He’d known that consciousness could arrive in waves, or in fits and starts, but never once had he imagined that it could come in a throb.

It was the sort of fact that he could’ve probably gone his whole life without knowing, but alas, life seemed intent on etching that kernel of knowledge into his skull.

But besides the throbbing, everything seemed…numb. Except for his face, which itched and pulled uncomfortably as he tried to open it.

“I think he’s awake,” a voice in front of him announced.

No I’m not , he thought back on instinct, but his words were dulled by a cloudy sensation in his head and his command faltered against a sturdy mental barrier.

“Are you sure?” another voice questioned, proving that his attempt hadn’t been a complete waste.

But the first man was resolute. “Yes, I am.”

A stinging slap forced everything into focus, and Cinq quickly realized how fucked he was.

The itching sensation was the expanse of masking tape covering his mouth and now stinging cheek, one of his arms was covered by a sling and thick bandages, while the arm tRinity hadn’t shot was now handcuffed to a hospital bed. A hospital bed that was currently surrounded by SSS officers.

Fuck.

A blonde officer whose eye was accented by a pair of scars leaned over him.

“Have any nice dreams lately?” he quipped, and Cinq tried to fold in on himself at the tease, only for daggers of fire to shoot from his bullet wound, forcing him to flinch back as a whine of pain escaped him.

Officer Scarface continued, “You think we’re about to horribly torture you, don’t you?”

Cinq tried to give a defiant stare, only for Scarface’s arm to shoot out and slam into his arm and force him back into the bed. 

The world went white with pain as he let out a muffled scream, his arm throbbing in time with his rapidly beating heart.

“Easy question kid, nod for yes, shake for no,”

Cinq nodded frantically, tears streaming down his face to wet the tape.

“Now wasn’t that easy?” Scarface grinned, thin and cruel as a blade, “But don’t worry, no one’s gonna hurt you. At least, not yet.”

Cinq’s eyes widened in shock at the declaration, and Scarface took that as a sign to continue, “That isn’t to say you’re off the hook, what with you nearly killing a noted psychiatrist, and the obvious connection to the incident that put him in the hospital missing a daughter. And beyond that, you have the suppression of the case by a rat of an SSS officer, who disappeared yesterday following the slaughter of his office, which killed several old friends of mine and nearly killed my former partner, who incidentally is the missing girl’s uncle. An oddly convenient series of events, wouldn’t you say?”

Cinq said nothing, his jaw moving uselessly under the tape as he panicked over where this conversation was headed.

“Normally, given the circumstances, I’d lock you in a dark cell until you were screaming answers through the food slot, but today’s your lucky day.”

Cinq very much doubted that, a doubt only reinforced when Scarface’s expression suddenly turned flinty.

“You have people in very high places in your corner. We’re actually going to meet them soon. I suggest not pissing them off.”

---

As one of the younger subjects, Zeb wasn’t allowed as much free reign over the lab like the Twins, or to a lesser extent the other older Subjects. But still, he was allowed a bit of free time if he’d performed the experiments well, and Selmoa seemed too distracted by Anya to object.

So he decided to visit Vier, still laid up in the infirmary.

“Vier?” Zeb whispered in his ear, and slowly and stiffly the older man turned to face him. He looked terrible, even as the swelling around his face had gone down, leaving it covered in sickly purplish bruises, accompanied by the still swollen black eye and the bandages where his face had been cut open.

“Wha?” Vier slurred out, a single bloodshot eye focusing on Zeb’s face.

“Do you think you could use your power on me?” he whispered. “I think I can trick Selmoa,”

Vier’s head rose from the pillow in shock, “Y’know that’s against the rules,” he pointed out, “And ‘sides, Selma ‘ll know,”

Zeb shook his head wildly, “No he doesn’t!” he whispered excitedly, “He’s bluffing, he doesn’t know when we’re using them, he’s just good at guessing. If you use it on me he’ll never expect it.”

“’M gonna tell Selmoa about this,” Vier threatened lamely, his understandable hesitance laid bare.

But Zed knew better. “And watch me get punished? You don’t like the idea of us getting hurt, I know that.”

Vier offered no retort, simply watching him with a wary stare.

Zeb took that as a signal to continue, “When you’re better, be there when they take me or An-007 for testing,”

“e’re gonna be movin’ soon,” Vier pointed out.

“That’s why I need your help as soon as possible,”

Admittedly, what he had in mind was much less a plan as it was a wrench thrown within the gears of Apple’s ever spinning machinations, but it could buy them time for Anya’s mama to arrive.

Chapter Text

It should have been a celebration, the untapped treasure trove of Ostanian secrets at their fingertips unlocked and vulnerable to pillaging.

Instead, it reminded Sylvia of a horror story. An ancient vault of things man was not meant to know, full of secrets best left unspoken, a pandora’s box capable of unleashing despair and madness.

And WISE, the professional busybodies they were, had gone and opened the damned thing.

If there was one upside to the truncated files Nightfall retrieved, it was that the full extent of whatever atrocities remained mercifully (If annoyingly) hidden.

But the files now held in shaking hands laid each atrocity depicted within in stark, clinical language. Abductions, procedures, experiments, autopsies…

Part of her knew she had seen worse, experienced worse, that even as rattling as these were, she could handle them. 

But these were babies .

And then there was the identity of Subject 007.

So that’s why they were after her , she thought lamely.

“Ma’am?” A voice, nearly as shell shocked as she felt, asked, snapped her out of her trance, “Nightfall and Thorn Princess have arrived.”

Thorn Princess. Oh God.

Sylvia released a shaky breath. “Good.” She turned, surreptitiously wiping away the moisture that beaded in her eyes.

---

Nightfall looked no better then she felt, drained with her shoulders slumped as an aura of resigned melancholy clung to her. Her sources at the hospital had reported no further attempts on Twilight or Franklin’s lives, which meant something had probably happened on the drive over.

She would have reflected on it further, had her attention not shifted to Yor, who looked just as tired, but buzzing with anticipation.

“Nightfall, Thorn Princess.” she greeted them, hiding her shaken nerves beneath sheer cordiality. “You made it here without incident, I hope?”

“Nothing of concern,” Nightfall replied hoarsely, like she was trying not to cry. Curious, but once again her attention diverted to Yor.

“H-hello.” she stammered, leaning in front of Nightfall to get Sylvia’s attention, “The Handler, I presume?”

Sylvia donned a wry grin, “Indeed I am, Mrs. Forger, or would you prefer Thorn Princess?”

“I’d prefer Yor, though if we are working together in a professional way like Fiona told me, I suppose you should call me Thorn Princess, i-if that’s alright.”

Sylvia couldn’t help but chuckle at the nervous earnestness. “It’s alright. And I see Ms. Frost has informed you of WISE and Garden’s new arrangement.”

A shade of desperation suddenly flitted across her face, and Sylvia felt her gut curdle with dread for what was to come.

“She also told me you had answers, a-about what happened to Anya?”

Her grin fell, “We…have ideas,” and they might break your heart , she finished silently.

Yor seemed confused at the hesitation, and Nightfall took the opportunity to step forward. “I assume those ideas have something to do with the files you have?”

“You’d be correct, Agent Nightfall,” Sylvia admitted, holding out the folder. Yor eyes widened, her body tensing at the sight as if she was holding a bomb. Nightfall had no such reservation, taking the proffered file and flipping it open, Yor reading over her shoulder, holding her breath.

For a moment, all was quiet as the two women skimmed over the contents of 007’s file, eyes growing increasingly wide. 

Sylvia held her breath in horrible anticipation.

Then they got to the picture.

Nightfall’s eyes shot open, the motion accompanied by a single sharp breath. On its own it was subdued, but considering Nightfall’s usual stone face, even amongst the professional stoics of WISE, it was the equivalent of a yelling fit.

But Yor…Yor’s reaction was uncomfortably familiar, reminding Sylvia of a time she’d fought long and hard to come to terms with, nevermind get over.

“Anya?” Yor whimpered, her voice small and her pupils pinholes as her hands dug into Nightfall’s sleeve. “No, no, there has to be some mistake! T-that can’t-this says she’d be five, we celebrated her seventh-she can’t read minds!”

“Yor,” Sylvia said sympathetically, surprised at the shakiness of her own voice. 

One of Yor’s hands clapped over her mouth, her other hand digging further into the frozen Nightfall’s shirt for support as she suddenly struggled to stand on shaking and unsteady legs. She heaved silently , whether to cry or vomit Sylvia couldn’t be sure.

“...My baby…” she whimpered, her voice a high pitched keening thing that rattled Sylvia’s heart like glass and threatened to drown her under a tide of memories. 

“Ex-excuse m-me,” she gasped out, beginning to hyperventilate, “I-I n-need a bathr-room. D-do y-?” her question petered out into a series of harsh, body wracking sobs.

And then Sylvia at her side, leading her away to a private room. She shot one last look over shoulder, to where Nightfall still stood, open mouthed in shock, and gave her a silent the go-ahead to continue further into the safehouse.

---

They made it to a broom closet before Yor’s legs gave out and she collapsed, still crying, into Sylvia’s arms. So Sylvia sat there, cradling the heartbroken assassin, running fingers through Yor’s hair as she sobbed into Sylvia’s shoulder, finding herself hard pressed not to join her.

Eventually, the sobs petered out a little.

“I’ve been where you are, once upon a time,” Sylvia began, for once unable to completely hide the hitch of emotion concerning her daughter.

Yor sniffled, “You’re a mother?”

“I was ,” she admitted, voice quivering, “And that’s why I’m going to make sure you get Anya back, so you don’t end up like me.”

For a moment, the room was silent, save for Yor’s sniffling.

“Anya can read minds.”

“Yes, that’s what the files say,”

“Which means she knows we lied!” Yor sobbed, “Which means she knows about my job, which means she knows I killed -,”

“And she still loves you.” Sylvia stated firmly, cutting off the other woman before the spiral took hold.

Yor slumped further into her embrace. “Nothing’s going to be the same anymore,” she mumbled.

Sylvia had no response to that.

“What would you do if you found the person who took your daughter?’

Sylvia froze, an inexplicable chill running down her spine at sudden flatness in Yor’s voice.

And then she had an idea. 

“You know…we have someone who worked with your daughter’s abductors in our custody,”

“I see.” Yor leaned back, allowing Sylvia to see the serious, inscrutable expression on her face. “May I speak with him?”

Sylvia suppressed a smile. Her plan was manipulative, a little selfish, and was almost certainly a crime. But Sten’s resistance and needling threats had gotten on her nerves, and the idea of vicarious vengeance held a…certain appeal.

“Only if you promise not to kill him.”

Chapter Text

Nightfall walked through the safehouse in a daze, the day’s revelations pinging through her head.

She wasn’t quite sure what to feel at the moment, her emotional filing system experiencing severe whiplash and overflow, but for the meantime, she decided to settle on shock. 

Shock at this entire…situation. At the fact that Twilight and Thorn Princess actually lo-liked each other, at the contents of the file, and shock at the Handler’s expression of absolute… heartbreak as she’d led Thorn Princess away. 

That …had disturbed her almost as much as the files. She glanced back down at the files, their contents dancing across her mind, and she shuddered.

Almost.

And all of that was on top of the fact that Twilight’s kid was a telepath who’d presumably known about Operation Strix the moment he’d entered the room, and then lied about her age and presumably her capabilities to get Twilight into taking her home. 

That…made a lot of sense. By getting into Twilight’s good graces, she secured a trained combatant as a caretaker to ensure that Project Apple couldn’t retake her, even if that meant involving herself in a possibly dangerous situation. Evidently, she thought it was worth the risk.

And if the files were accurate, then she was right.

The Thorn Princess was simply an additional (albeit more formidable) layer of security. By getting into Eden she secured prestige that would ensure any attempts would invite retaliation, and she could use her mind reading to succeed in school.

Clever plan for a four year old.

…She didn’t think four year olds should have to be that clever.

The safe was buzzing with a silent tension that threatened to spill over into gossip as the professionalism of the few agents present struggled with the spy's natural inclination to find out more.

But then again, it could have just been more shock.

And then she made it to their prisoner, held within a back room, separated from the rest of the world by little more than a window with curtains on both sides. She peeked through the curtain on her side, watching as the man screamed muffled protests through the bag stuffed over his head.

Sten Vorsta. Officer of the SSS. Notorious blackmailer. All around weasel.

And if their files were to be believed, the officer responsible for overseeing the operations and shutdown of Project APPLE.

Evidently, he’d been remiss, and managed to somehow sink lower than the average SSS officer .

The contents of Anya’s file flashed through her mind again, and a snarl of disgust escaped her at the atrocities he’d abided by.

“Enjoying the view?” Handler drawled, and Nightfall spun to face her and Thorn Princess.

Handler was more disheveled than usual, which was to say that she was disheveled at all. While her expression had returned itself to its usual stony countenance, her coat was crumpled and her shoulder was soaked in tears. 

But if the Handler was unsettlingly disheveled, the Thorn Princess by contrast was unsettlingly…calm. Not in the sense that she was at peace, though that would be its own brand of disturbing. No, it instead reminded her of yesterday, when the seemingly unending events of the day had finally pushed her over the edge that left a field office of SSS dead. The still silence of a jungle before a predator made its move.

There was still evidence of her crying, her face all red and her eyes bloodshot, but now it was a mask of iron, worthy of a member of WISE, save for eyes that blazed with an unholy fire.

It was…nerve wracking…to say the least.

“Handler,” she greeted her superior neutrally, deciding to ignore the ticking time bomb next to her lest she agitate it, “Our next move?” she asked.

“We’re going to let Mrs. Forger and Mr. Vorsta have a little chat. I trust you can keep quiet on this?”

She was going to watch someone die today, wasn’t she?

“Of course, Ma’am,” was all she said, stepping aside and holding the door open for them, suppressing a shudder as a wave of bloodlust washed over her.

She stepped in behind them, locking the door as Handler pulled off Sten’s bag.

“Hello Mr. Vorsta,” she greeted him with a false sweetness.

“I’ll see you shot for this bitch!” Vorsta growled, “But WISE will burn first and I’ll make sure you’re alive to see it!”

“Of course,” Handler sardonically brushed off the threat, “But first you’re going to answer some questions posed by the lovely Mrs. Forger here,” she gestured to the Thorn Princess, gaze burning a hole through Vorsta’s head.

Vorsta, in a display that belied his utter lack of survival instinct, scoffed. “Dressing up your newest would be interrogator as a housewife? I’m almost disappointed,”

Fiona could hear an undercurrent of unsettling glee seep into Handler’s voice, “This ‘housewife’ is the mother of one Anya Forger, though you may know her as Subject 007,”

He seemed to pale at that, “Trying to gain my sympathy?”

“No, I think we’re all a little short on that nowadays. Yor?”

Thorn Princess stepped forward, shoving her hand into the man’s face.

Then she sunk her thumb into his lacrimal puncta, and in one smooth motion ripped out his eyeball.

Blood spurted, Vorsta screamed, and Fiona’s mouth dropped open.

She heard a thud from behind the door.

…There was a gap in the curtain, wasn’t there?

---

Franky had thought he was in the clear when the police had released him and the SSS had proved more interested in the other guy, leaving him free to go home in borrowed lost and found clothing and drink himself into unconsciousness.

But of course, that was when Yuri decided to show up.

“There’s no need to worry about me, officer,” he said politely, through gritted teeth, “I can find my own way home,”

“Nonsense,” Yuri responded through the corner of his mouth, eyes attempting to skewer him, “You’ve had a traumatic experience, it would be irresponsible to leave you unattended,”

“Chivalrous, but isn't that sorta treatment reserved for ladies?”

“Well, this is hardly an exception.”

Why you little…

Their verbal sparring match unfortunately came to an unfavourable end as they arrived at his cigarette stand.

“Welp,” he said cheerily, “That was an experience, hope we never do this again!”

Yuri simply turned to him with narrow eyes, “I’m watching you, Franklin,”

He made an about turn, Franky’s eyes following him until he left his sight.

“Prick,” Franky grumbled under his breath, closing his stand’s door with a huff.

“Agreed,” a feminine voice whispered in his ear, and he felt the tell-tale cold prick of a blade pressing against his throat.

“Scream and I slit your throat,” She spoke lowly, “And I don’t mean some piddly little shaving accident, I mean properly, shoved through the jugular and ripped out the front.”

Franky gulped at the image, but managed to gather his nerves just enough to squeak out a question, “Are you the broad who tried to knock off my friends at the hospital?”

“Call me Trinity,” She responded condescendingly, “And I assume you’re the guy either brave or foolish enough to tackle my partner?”

Part of him wanted to lie, but that idea was vetoed by cold, prickling sensation on his neck, “Guilty as charged. You come to kill me?”

“Well, I did try to shoot the guy, so I’ll consider us even.”

Franky tried not to exhale too hard at that revelation. “So, here to tie up loose ends?”

Trinity snorted, “Too late for that. Today was our best shot to do so and we failed.”

That was, reassuring? “Then why are you here?”

“You know, I’ve actually been wondering about that. Of course, my first plan was to nab someone and put the screws to ‘em, find out exactly just how compromised we are. But then I realized that no amount of counter-intel’s gonna save us, just prolong the inevitable. There are too many leaks, and APPLE’s a sinking ship cause of it. So, I decided to just do my part and put this thing out of its misery.”

Okay. What!?

“Here,” she slipped a folded piece of stationary between his fingers, “The location of our base and a list of important personnel. That should give you a nice head start, shouldn’t it?”

“Wh…why are you doing this?”

He heard a rustle of fabric. A shrug.

“I’m looking out for number one. Ship’s sinking, so I’m making like a rat and fleeing. I figured I needed to keep your attention elsewhere, give myself time to make for the south and whatnot.”

The knife left his throat, and Franky took in a grateful gulp of air, still not turning.

But Trinity wasn’t done.

“One last thing. Whatever you’re planning, I’d be quick about it. Boss just secured new funding, so he’s packing up and making for Westalis.”

Westalis? , he mouthed, turning to see…nothing.

He was alone.

…Well, fuck.

Chapter Text

One of the things people tended to forget about life was how it never truly stopped, circumstances be damned. A person could go to bed one night and wake up in an entirely unrecognizable world, forcing them to play catch up.

In retrospect it seemed obvious, too obvious to forget. 

And too obvious to register. That was probably why people forgot it, they never knew until it reared up and bit them in the ass.

“And that’s it?” Sylvia asked, biting down the urge to sigh. She was tired, in the beginning stages of a headache, cursing life as the news came in. 

“Yes Ma’am,” the agent finished, ending his retelling of Franky’s close encounter with a traitorous Subject and her subsequent…defection? Leak? 

She was too tired for this. She was losing her terminology.

But still, they had coordinates, they had a series of infuriatingly unlabeled passcodes and a mysterious date, and they had a series of names, including one Schuyler Selmoa.

It seemed that 003 was intent on giving WISE just enough to draw their attention away from her, but every scrap could prove valuable.

If they could back it up, that is.

“That’ll be all,” She dismissed the agent, turning to Nightfall. “How does it compare to what we got from Vorsta?”

The man in question had proven more than cooperative following Yor’s initial…display, and once they’d staunched the bleeding he’d informed them of APPLE’s goals, their subject, their main actors, and most importantly, their base.

“The coordinates match his description,” Nightfall confirmed, “Project APPLE is based from Mayheit Castle. It’s a few hours outside of Berlint, relatively well hidden, and was donated to a private investor following the decline of the Ostalian aristocracy fifty years ago-,”

“And now it’s the base of a supervillain straight out of last year’s ‘Loidman’ fiasco.” she finished, not even attempting to hide her exhaustion this time. “What about the doctors?”

“Jan Janus, Astrid Alora, and leader of the project, one Schuyler Selmoa. All wunderkind researchers concerning the human mind and body.”

“And if we’re to believe Vorsta, then manipulative, amoral, borderline-to-outright eugenicists to a man.”

“Indeed. Information is sparse, but we know for certain that Dr. Alora is currently employed on the other side of the country, while Dr. Janus apparently defected to Westalis , and has spent the last few years keeping to himself, kept on a long leash by our domestic counterparts.”

Damn. “...Which means that 003 probably wasn’t talking out of her ass when she said Apple had Westali connections…”

“...And that they are preparing to relocate, meaning the deadline she gave us is accurate as well,” Nightfall surmised.

“Possibly, or she could be lying about the date. Or the date is inaccurate because they got spooked by our recent activities and decided to move it up.” Sylvia pointed out. “What about this Selmoa character?”

“The current ringleader. Following APPLE’s official shuttering he apparently became a recluse, retreating to his hometown in the hinterlands,”

“If only that were true,” Sylvia growled. Absolutely nothing of what they’d heard about the man had been flattering. If Vorsta was to be believed, he was a domineering man with delusions of grandeur that regrettably, was at least partially backed up by a brilliant mind, heavily manipulative tendencies, and a galling lack of any sort of ethics.

And now he was free to exercise all of those on a five-year-old girl.

“Thorn Princess won’t react well to this,” Nightfall murmured, “We both saw what she did back there,”

Sylvia couldn’t help but cringe, “Right. I was a bit too zealous about putting her in a room with him. I’m not sure what I was expecting but it sure as hell wasn’t an impromptu eye removal.”

Nightfall seemed to pale slightly at the memory of their interrogation. “Yes. That was…a display. I was informed the rookie had the misfortune of seeing it through the blinds.”

“Is he okay?”

“Last I heard he was lying down in a dark room and thinking things over,”

“Ah.”

“Speaking of Thorn Princess…” Fiona began after a pause, “Where is she?”

Sylvia sighed “I sent her off with an escort to Twilight’s location, I figured she could use the comfort,”

“Do you think she’ll tell Twilight about…” Nightfall gestured towards the pile of assorted information on Project APPLE, “...Anya?”

“Honestly, I hope she does,” Sylvia admitted, “The news might go over better if she’s the one telling it to him.”

Nightfall accepted the explanation with a nod, but a shade of hesitation flitted across her face, “What will happen to the Forger family once this is over?”

Sylvia paused, before answering with a sigh, “Let’s…let’s just make sure that there’s still a Forger Family by the end of this.”

“Of course, Ma’am.” Nightfall affirmed with a surprising lack of hesitance.

Well, onto other matters then.

Such as a nap.

---

The safehouse he’d been stashed in was dark and the bed he’d been transferred to wasn’t really fit for two people, but that hadn’t dissuaded Yor, curled into his side and a welcome source of warmth as she watched him with puffy eyes as he digested the news about their daughter.

“So…” he gulped, trying to keep his voice even, “...Anya’s a telepath?”

“Yes,” Yor confirmed, “That’s what your co-workers said, and that Handler woman seemed trustworthy…for a spy,”

Her voice was small, unbearably so, but the words were deafening.

“In retrospect…that would explain some things,” he admitted shakily, even as something in him seemed to die .

Anya, a telepath. It sounded like a joke, but an appropriate one, what with her odd behaviour, always trying to please him and befriend the younger Desmond, or the way she seemed to know what he was thinking, and she seemed to look through him at times.

She must’ve read his thoughts when she first saw him.

Which meant she probably, no, definitely knew all about Operation: STRIX.

Which meant she knew that the Forgers were supposed to be temporary, that eventually he would have to leave her. Just like the Roches, and the Williams, and the Levskis, and the Kleins.

No wonder she was so eager to please.

“ Fuck, ” he growled through the lump in his throat, pressure building behind his eyes. He brought his arm up in an attempt to wipe his tears, but the lingering anesthetic made doing so without wacking Yor or himself in the face too much of an ordeal.

Yor, thankfully, caught his flailing meat cudgel and returned to his side, brushing his face with her knuckles before returning to its position beneath his collar, fiddling with his hospital gown.

“You’re worried about what she knows about our jobs, aren’t you?”

“Fuck.” He offered in place of a definitive answer, the pressure escalating to moisture welling at the corner of his eyes.

“I’m worried too,” she admitted, taking it as confirmation. 

“She knew…she knew I was using her,” he gasped, warmth dripping down his cheeks. “She knew I was going to leave and- fuck !” he squeezed his eyes shut, forcing out the rest of his tears as his emotions fled him in a heavy pant.

For a moment, Yor was quiet.

“I’m angry,” she admitted. “I’m angry you started this, knowing you’d leave. I’m angry that you dragged Anya into this, knowing you’d have to leave her . I’m angry you never told me, even if you had a reason.”

She paused, allowing the admission to sink in, and Loid felt the all too familiar tide of self loathing begin to consume him in earnest.

“I’ve decided, when we get back home, you’re sleeping on the couch,”

The non sequitur ripped Loid from his spiral, and only his neck brace kept him from turning to stare at her “Don’t…don’t we have seperate bedrooms?”

“I’ve been sleeping in your bedroom. It’s mine now.”

His heart fluttered at the admission. “But, still…”

“From what my coworkers have said, I understand that’s the protocol for when you’re angry at your partner,”

“Yor, I know I don’t have any room to judge, but sometimes I think your co-workers are bad influences,”

Yor let out a small giggle that sent his heart into a backflip. God, sometimes he couldn’t believe the power this woman held over him.

“But…,” he asked, voice hesitant, “You…you still want me around?”

Her hold on him tightened, “If the past two days have taught me anything, it’s that I don’t want to lose either of you,” she paused.

“I don’t want you to leave,”

“I don’t want to leave,” he admitted.

“Then don’t,” She half pleaded, and Loid felt his heart break all over again. He wanted to reassure her that he would never, ever, leave her or Anya. But there was no guarantee of that, there never had been and especially not now, and he never wanted to lie to her again.

So, the truth, then.

Grunting, he rolled onto his side and looked her in the eye.

“Nothing’s ever going to be the same again,” it wasn’t a question. 

Yor was silent, only shaking her head in response.

“It’s not going to be easy,” he cautioned.

“Do you want this?” Yor asked meekly.

“I do.” He said, the admission coming without hesitation. “I want this. I want you. I want Anya, I want our baby back in our arms and safe. I want to be Loid Forger.”

“Do you think…do you think you can be him?”

“I think,” he swallowed, “I think I’ve been Loid  for a while now,”

The world fell away, as did the lies, leaving the two of them in silence.

Then slowly, deliberately, Yor’s hand came to caress his jaw, carefully navigating his collar as her head leaned in.

Franky had once described true love’s kiss as fireworks going off and the earth moving under him.

Instead, it was a fumbled, awkward affair, where her lips were soft, his were chapped, the collar was forcing them into an awkward position and neither of them had brushed their teeth in a while. But still, a fire sparked where his lips met hers and her teeth accidentally knocked into his, and exploded across his nervous system, and he felt like he was floating.

His life was a mess, teetering on the knife's edge of disaster while any possible future was uncertain at best and life shatteringly horrible at worst.

But for a moment, he was in heaven, and he allowed himself to relax and surrender to the sensation of Yor’s lips on his and the feeling of home it provided.

Chapter Text

The kiss ended far too soon in Loid’s opinion, the sensation tingling on his lips even after Yor pulled away, a goofy smile on her face that if the ache in his cheeks was any indication he was mirroring.

She giggled, and he felt his heart flutter, heat rushing to his face, reminding him of what Franky had mentioned about normal teenagers.

Yor ducked her head, tucking it into his collar, the conversation drifting to a lull. 

“Do you…,” Yor began hesitantly, “Do you think we still would’ve met if we’d led normal lives? And still would have had Anya?”

Loid turned the question over in his head. Logically, the Twilight part of him supplied that the odds of such a thing were thin at best, if not astronomical, and there’d be no guarantee that Anya would even be born but-

But what were the odds of Anya ending up in the exact orphanage he’d visited first? Or the odds of Yor running into the exact same tailor shop they were at?

Twilight had never given much thought to concepts of divine intervention or fate, but Loid was surely willing to believe in convenient chance.

“I hope so,” he quietly answered, “I’m not sure I can picture life without you anymore,”

“ Loid!” Yor whined, her blush almost luminescent in the darkness as she buried her face in her hands.

“It’s true though!” he laughed, the sound echoing through the room.

“But, really?” she asked, as if the possibility was too good, too fantastical, to be true.

“Really,” he responded, breathless but resolute.

But Yor’s face screamed apprehension, “But what about STRIX? What’s going to happen when this ends?” she whispered. “And that’s even if we get Anya back from those…”

“Yor,” he pleaded, “We’ll get her back. It seems illogical but I know we will.” 

Because it might kill me if we won’t went unsaid.

“But what then?”

“I…i’m not going to lie,” Not again. Not to you. “I don’t know. We’re both severely compromised on both personal and professional fronts. Any agreement WISE and Garden have is going to be tenuous at best, and with the slaughter of the SSS, security is undoubtedly going to get worse…,”

His mouth slammed shut with a clack, but the words had already left him, and Yor’s face was a mask of guilt.

“I’m sorry,” She whimpered, “I wasn’t thinking at the time, I’d just found out you were Twilight and Detective Loccow had told me what Vorsta man did, and I ruined the coat you bought me-,”

“I understand,” he interrupted, “If the situation was switched, I probably would have done something similarly reckless,”

Yor looked away, biting her lip.

There was a lot more to say here, a dozen conversions worth of material to unpack.

But not now. 

“How long can you stay?”

Yor shrugged against him, “Not long, I’d imagine. Miss Sherwood says she’s putting together a raid, and she said I’m joining in. Why?”

“I want to start from the beginning. Explain…,” he paused, wetting his lips as he reached for an explanation. “...Explain who I am, beyond the names.”

Yor’s grip on his gown tightened. “A-are you sure?”

He managed to shuffle the arm pinned beneath him under Yor, before swinging the other one and managing to place it at her waist.

“I was born in the town of Luwen, near the border…”

---

As soon as Anya entered the room, Zeb’s gut curdled at the realization that something was wrong . Her face was blank, unnaturally blank, the same concerning blankness that always appeared when Selmoa had finally wormed his way into the crevices of your brain and he no longer had to be in the room for his voice to begin whispering in your ear.

“What happened?” he asked hesitantly. Anya stilled in the middle of the room, not looking at him.

Then she fell and without bracing herself, hitting the floor with a painful sounding smack.

“An-0007!” he yelped, scrambling off the bed and to her side, eyes sliding over the gauzy bandage that peeked from the left sleeve of her gown. “Are-are you okay?”

What kind of question is that? Of course she’s not you idiot! Selmoa’s voice whispered in his ear, but he shook his head to dispel it.

Anya turned her head to face him, her face smeared with blood from either the fall or what experiments she’d just returned from.

“Dr. Selmoa told me I killed 001,” she said, quietly despondent.

Oh.

001, the first of them, whose mention Selmoa had forbidden on the pain of increased intensity and pace of experimentation.

“Well, if-if Selmoa said so then it might not be true, right?” he proposed nervously. “I mean, you-you said he was a liar, after all.”

Anya shook her head, “I read his mind. He’s not lying. She got killed because she took me.”

That…made sense from what Zeb knew of her. He didn’t remember a lot about 001, save weirdly familiar green eyes backlit with a steely defiance that the other Subjects that never managed to replicate.

Apparently that defiance had gotten her killed.

“I-i’m sorry you had to see that,” he apologized.

Anya didn’t seem to hear him, simply recounting Selmoa’s words in a crude imitation of the Doctor’s voice, “He told me she took me during the de-come-ish-ining, escaped her handcuffs, grabbed me and ran. She brought me to an orphanage but made me look dead so they wouldn’t look for me. And then the men found her, but she wouldn’t go and she had a gun, and, and…”

The monotone broke into a hitching, breathy sob as she curled in on her.

“Y-you didn’t kill her,” he mumbled, “001 obviously cared about you,” like your Mama and Papa , a small, bitter voice reminded him, “So she wanted to get you out,” and only you , it popped up again.

He shook his head, trying to dispel the intrusive thoughts.

But it was too late, as Anya shot him a burning glare, “Don’t pretend you wanna help me,” she spat, before turning away from him, “You just wanna escape an’ leave me behind,”

And there it was, the paranoia and the in-fighting Selmoa wielded with surgical precision too prevent that the Subjects never held more loyalty to each other than they did Selmoa.

I’ll get us both out , he silently promised.

If Anya heard, she gave no indication.

Chapter Text

She stayed as long as she could, listening to the story of the now nameless boy who’d grown into Twilight, and how Agent Twilight had slowly transitioned into her Loid.

The story was a shockingly familiar one, the childhood ended by war, the causes both personal and professional they had dedicated themselves to, and the normal lives they’d given up in its pursuit. 

But her time was limited, and eventually she’d left his side with a kiss and another promise to get Anya back. Both acts tingled on her lips as she was escorted back to the warehouse, where her equipment was waiting, delivered alongside Bond on the behest of the Shopkeeper.

“So,” Sylvia dropped in beside Yor as she scratched at Bond’s ruff, the large dog leaning into her touch with a series of contented noises. “How’d it go?”

The scratching slowed as Yor considered the question.

It still hadn’t settled everything. She had been more than reassured of his genuine love for her and Anya, and his desire to stay with them. But the fact that he had used them…

It still hurt, a wound that no amount of cold logic could soothe. Maybe it was the fact that she was seemingly the only one who hadn’t. Loid, Franky, Fiona, possibly even Anya had all held onto this information for over a year, keeping her out of the loop. She’d done the same, but…it felt like her co-workers all over again. It felt illogical, but emotion so often did.

She decided to keep this tidbit close to her chest for now, instead focusing on the positives.

“We kissed,” she admitted, giddiness creeping up her spine and curling her lips into a smile, fingers ghosting over them as the memory buzzed through her being.

Sylvia seemed amused by that, “I’m glad,”

“Really?” Yor asked, drawing a surprised glance from the older woman, “I would have thought-,”

“That I’d be cursing you for ‘infecting’ my best agent?” she interrupted with a laugh, “Listen if I’m cursing anyone here, it’s Twilight for being such a stubborn bastard and not admitting he’d been compromised months ago. The lack of bugs should’ve been an indication,”

Yor’s mind flashed with shock and the beginnings of outrage, “You bugged my apartment!?”

“Now, that’s the thing. We didn’t ,” Sylvia explained, tapping her nose in a gesture that Yor didn’t even begin to understand, “It made our job a lot tougher, but he decided your privacy was worth the overtime,”

And there it was. The little gestures, the tiny intrusions not made and the roads not taken that reminded her that it wasn’t completely false.

“I didn’t realize-,”

“Good, at least he hasn’t lost his edge completely,” Sylvia snorted, before grimacing, “Sorry.”

The phrase It’s okay nearly escaped Yor’s lips before she knew it, but she knew it wasn’t. “What do you mean by that?”

Sylvia stared at her assessingly. “You’ve changed him, you know? You and Anya both. He’s become a worse spy, but, he’s genuinely happy with you two,”

A worse spy, huh? Yor thought, immediately struck by sympathy. 

She could relate.

“You think so?” she asked, knowing the answer, but still disbelieving that Loid’s boss felt the same.

“I’ve known Twilight for fifteen years, Yor. I taught him nearly everything he knows. I know his tells,”

Yor raised an eyebrow, “You trained him? But you’re so young!”

Sylvia laughed graciously, “I’m flattered, but would it shock you to learn I’m nearly 50?”

Yor couldn’t help but reel in shock. “You can’t be serious! You…you look…your skin is so smooth!”

“Again with the flattery? You're good at it, that’s for certain. As for your age question, old friends used to joke I got so good at lying that I convinced my own body it stopped aging at 30. Newer ones just joke that my skincare technique is WISE’s greatest secret,”

Yor giggled, before a nagging thought finally struck her and froze the laughter in her throat.

“You said you were a mother once?”

Sylvia’s face froze, and Yor had the sudden feeling she was trodding upon unwelcome ground and poking at unhealed wounds.

“I was. A bit young for one, but I think I did a good job while it lasted.” Sylvia tried to keep her voice light, but the quiver of her lip was unmistakable, “She’d be a little older than your brother, actually.”

The sudden shocking idea of losing Yuri when he was Anya’s age cut through her ribs and drowned her gut in icy water, “I’m sorry for bringing this up,”

Sylvia sniffled, wiping at her eyes, “Don’t be. I’m the one who revealed the information earlier, you just remembered it,” she gave a watery smile, “I have to commend you on that. Ever considered a career in intelligence? You’re certainly good enough at getting people to open up.”

Yor felt heat rise in her cheeks at the compliment, “Thank you, but I don’t think I’m a good enough liar for it.”

Sylvia just gave a short hum in response, “Come on, I have your gear and our plan in the other room.”

Yor nodded resolutely, an anxious energy coursing through her veins and setting her nerves abuzz.

Anya needed her, and nothing would get in her way.

---

“Briar,” Lieutenant Gunter Lowe greeted, the scars crossing one eye lending a piercing air to his incredulous gaze, “Why are you chained to a pillar?”

“Apparently,” Yuri seethed through clenched teeth, “The upper rank thinks I’m still a little too eager to pursue the Forger case.”

“...You are a little close for impartiality,” Lowe countered, one eyebrow expertly cocked.

“I still think I have something to contribute here,” Yuri responded, each word the growl of a mad dog.

Lowe sighed, considering the young man before him, still struggling against his bonds. Yuri was a dedicated and intelligent officer to be sure, with one of the best success rates in Berlint and a loyalty to the State capable of being used as a benchmark amongst agents of the SSS.

He was a good lapdog, but that in itself made him a worrying figure amongst the more…self serving members of the agency. And while Lowe wouldn’t exactly call himself self serving, his purpose for being in this office wasn’t to the immediate benefit of the current ruling party, which itself could prove grounds for treason if you were spiteful and inventive enough about it.

Fucking politics.

“What brings you here Lowe?” the Overcommandant’s almost casual question inviting Lowe’s silent scorn as he turned to stare into the man’s shades.

“Marching orders,” he stated, handing over a file.

“Aw, already?” the Overcommandant scanned the pages with an insultingly unprofessional informality. “They really want to be quick about this,”

“Source says they’ll be on the move soon, we need to strike before that happens,” 

Then Yuri piped up from the pillar. “Strike? What strike?”

Lowe turned back to face him, barely holding back a hypocritical statement of curiosity killing cats, but the Overcommandant cut him off.

“It’s your lucky day Briar, we found a lead on the folks who shot up the hospital. They’re based out of Mayheit Castle, a few hours from the city. Upper ranks want it knocked over, and if you’re willing to behave yourself, I’d be willing to let you in on the raid.”

Yuri attempted a salute, but the chains binding him ensured that the attempt ended in a rattling failure. “I won’t disappoint sir!”

The Overcommandant smiled easily, “I know you won’t kid, just be careful,” he gestured for someone to untie him and stepped away.

Lowe followed him. “Are you about this?” He whispered harshly, “Briar’s been a mad dog about this entire case. Letting him in now would be an egregious mistake.”

“And not letting him in will only make him worse,” the Overcommandant countered, “It might be best to just let the mad dog off his leash and aim it at the unlucky bastards we want out of way.”

“We want them out of the way, not dead!”

The Overcommandant simply shot him an ever so slightly condescending smile, and turned away.

He had a bad feeling about this.

---

“It’s been too long,” Selmoa commented, and Vier forced himself not to shiver. Whether from the man himself or the implication of his words he couldn’t be sure.

Trinity and Cinq hadn’t checked in, which meant they were either dead, captured, or jumping ship and either option was objectively pretty fucking bad for APPLE.

It also meant he was probably never going to see them again, but he doubted Selmoa was actually concerned about that.

“Prepare your belongings,” Selma snapped, “We’ll be leaving shortly.”

Vier nodded, but Selmoa had already turned away.

Vier shot a glance into the corner of the room, where Zeb stood cloaked by shadows and Vier’s powers.

Vier nodded again, and Zeb returned it. They needed to act fast and watch out for the Twins.

A metal container of drain cleaner glinted in the young boy’s grasp.

Chapter Text

Mayheit Castle lay within a patch of woodland south of Berlint, built atop a hillock that jutted into another like puzzle pieces. It was old, but well built, well maintained and refurbished, and well situated, with clear sightlines of the surrounding valley curved by the narrow, winding river that encircled the fortress on three sides, limiting entrance to a single road without any cover to hide an approach, and a back road that ended nowhere.

Unless one were to notice the well covered bridge over said river, strategically placed to almost always be hidden within the shadows cast by the castle or the forest.

“How was that Trinity woman able to hide an entire castle?” Yor asked from within those shadows, the creeping fingers of early dusk hiding her and Nightfall as they approached from the forest, having spent the day scouting the fortress from the treeline.

“She probably just focused on the road, made sure people missed the turn off.” Nightfall answered, surprised by the candidness of her response. It was the nerves, she reasoned, the product of having to infiltrate a veritable fortress with only a single (admittedly extremely skilled) assassin by her side, with the only hope of reinforcements being a double edged sword.

“Do you think the SSS will be here soon?” Yor asked, mind obviously concerned with her brother’s possible involvement, and Nightfall considered the notion. They’d been informed about an uptick of SSS activity, and combined with their custody of 005 led to one obvious conclusion, reinforced by a report the duo had received enroute of a series of vehicles leaving the city and following them.

“Soon, depending on their reaction to our treatment of Sten,” she mused, staring down the iron sights of her rifle. It wasn’t optimal, but scopes could catch the light and alert the pair of guards across the bridge, standing guard over a door nestled into the side of the hill.

A radio squawked, and one the guards began to speak, the sound echoing through the valley, dim and distorted, but Yor strained to listen.

“They just checked in,” Yor managed to make out.

Nightfall nodded, “Then let’s go,”

Yor sprang forth, an arrow loosed from a bow, bounding across the dark expense of snow like a hare, crossing the bridge with a leap and charging the guards before either had a chance to react. She ducked, rolling past the first guard and rose into a kick, her foot whipping into the radioman’s throat with a sound like a gunshot, leaving the man to stagger backwards, desperately scrabbling at his collapsed trachea. She spun, knife in hand, driving it through the second man’s eye and dropping him soundlessly. The radioman dropped to his knees, squeaking as he tried to force breath through his ruined airway, and Yor silenced him with a thorn through his temple.

Nightfall caught up, eyes widened in shock at the utterly one sided altercation, and Yor couldn’t help but feel a little self conscious. But any comment was cut off as the door clicked unlocked.

‘Shift change’ Nightfall mouthed, and Yor nodded, slipping through the gap to slaughter the detachment as quickly and as quietly as the first. Nightfall followed, taking notice of the pair of guards at the other end of the tunnel. Her rifle cracked twice, dropping both men before they could draw beads.

“Great shot!” yor cheered as her final opponent died, the genuine compliment and cheerful smile offset by the blood splattered across her cheek and staining her blades and winter clothing. 

“Thank you,” Nightfall responded, shaking off the unsettling contrast, “You’ve memorized the layout?”

“And I’ve got a map for backup,” Yor confirmed, discarding her coat in favor of one of her black dresses. Nightfall couldn’t help but stare, and Yor rushed to explain, “I need the mobility!” she squawked.

Nightfall opened her mouth to respond, only for a pained groan to interrupt her. They turned, watching the guard that Nightfall had apparently only injured pull himself up, reaching for something. Yor’s knife suddenly bloomed next to his face, freezing the man in place as they approached him.

Nightfall trained the rifle on his face. “Care to open that door for us?” 

“Don’t know how,” he grunted.

“Thorn Princess, start with his achilles tendon,”

“You’ll need this,” the man produced a cheat sheet of passcodes, “It’s substitution cypher, three to the left. My dead partner was responsible for the keys.”

“Much appreciated,” Nightfall nodded, stepping aside and allowing Yor to dispatch him quickly.

The keys jangled as she inserted one, and her fingers hovered over the keypad, “Are you ready?”

Yor nodded, “I’m going to get my baby back,” she promised, low and threatening, her entire being a far cry from the unassuming, nervous woman she’d first met, “Even if I have to tear down this entire castle down brick by brick to do that,”

The door clicked open.

---

The good news was that they’d found Sten, and the better news was that the man was dead, his corpse splayed in the snow, missing an eye and executed by a holdout pistol, probably the same one that Yuri knew the man kept as a last resort. The bad news was that his discovery had stalled their convoy’s progress, and Lowe was attempting to leverage the situation to cut Yuri out of this, add him to the detachment split off to take care of his frozen remains.

Yuri had found his own ability to object strangled by the sight of the dead man, and his knowledge on the truth of the matter.

The Garden was undoubtedly responsible for this, which meant the Garden had already gone ahead of them, which meant his sister was undoubtedly at their head, possibly already at the castle.

Something in his gut churned at the thought.

“Briar!” The commander shouted, apparently tired of his argument with Lowe, “Lowe thinks you’ll be better off here. What do you say?”

“I think,” Yuri said, forcing himself to come across as reasonable, “That if these people are connected to my niece’s abduction, and she is at that castle, then I think she might benefit from a friendly face,”

“That’s a lot of ‘ifs’ Briar,”

“I understand, sir,”

The commander nodded with a grunt. “Don’t make me regret this.” He pounded on the side of the van, and shouted for them to be quick about it, catch up to the part of their forces going to surround the castle and draw in the noose.

Lowe shot Yuri a look, but Yuri ignored it, too busy thinking over his next actions.

And how he’d have to disguise his inevitable treason if he came across his sister or Chihuahua Girl, of course.

---

“Problem.” One half of 002 stated tonelessly, and Selmoa felt his blood pressure begin to rise.

“Is 007 being troublesome again?” he snapped, already tense over the inevitable delay this would undoubtedly cause.

“No. We have a breach. Took advantage of the reduced guard near the bridge.”

Selmoa froze, processing the news. “What.” he asked, voice glacial, stepping towards his oldest living Subject.

002 flinched, shrinking under his glare, “Thorn Princess,” he reported, “And one other, coming through the back tunnel.”

Selmoa growled. That at least explained the fates of the missing 003 and 005, “And why did the security office not deign to inform me?”

002 seemed unsettled. “Someone poisoned the guards. Drain fluid in their coffee. They’re not the only ones either. A few scientists, some of the off coming guard shift, they’re coming down with something too.”

Something clicked in Selmoa’s mind. “Where’s 006? Or 004?”

002 looked caught off guard. “I-we don’t know,”

Selmoa growled. “Nevermind, i’ll find our wayward Subjects. You and your other half take care of our unwelcome guests,” 

002 nodded, turning away to do his bidding, and Selmoa growled, getting to the PA system. 

“All hands, a pair of unwelcome visitors have infiltrated the southern tower, and subjects 004, 006, and 007 have gone rogue. The latter are to be detained, the former are to be shot on sight. Speed up evacuation procedures, gather only the essentials, torch everything else. Over,”

No sooner had he clicked off the PA when his radio squawked. He sighed, wondering what disaster this would herald.

The voice on the other end seemed close to panic, “This is Watchdog 1! We have SSS vehicles approaching on the road! I repeat! We have SSS vehicles approaching!”

Selmoa nearly dropped the radio. The SSS? Working with the Garden?! 

“INCONCEIVABLE!” He screamed to the empty hallway, before descending into a series of unintelligible screams

For a moment, he just stood there, his voice ringing in his ears while he shook with rage. Then with a growl, he began his march towards his personal office.

They couldn’t survive this, Selmoa knew that much. Even if they repelled all borders, their cover was undoubtedly blown and any hope of slipping across the border without scrutiny had gone up in smoke.

He wanted to sob. APPLE, his life's work, was beginning to burn around him, enemies knocking at his door, hoping to steal his secrets.

Well, if APPLE was going up in smoke, then he at least needed to ensure the blaze was thorough.

---

Any-007 (she hated that she needed to refer to herself like that, but the consequences of doing otherwise were outright painful) couldn’t suppress the bolt of panic that shot through her at Dr. Selmoa’s words.

Gone rogue?! But she’d followed all his orders! 

Had she not been good enough!? 

Had, had she ex-house-ted her use?

Her powers were no help, as the minds around her were a sea of confused and panicked voices and she quickly got dizzy.

But over the din, she heard Dr. Selmoa’s screams of rage.

The door to her cell suddenly clicked unlocked, and she jumped in fear, images of Selmoa or one of the stumpy men on the other side.

But it was 006 who poked his head through. “Anya! Are you alright?”

“What’s happening? Everyone’s panicky, and Selmoa’s screaming-”

“We have a plan to get you out of here!” he announced with a wide grin, “I mean, not all of this was our plan, but we still have one!”

007 couldn’t suppress the hope that sparked in her chest, but doubt still clouded it. “We?”

The door opened further, revealing another figure, and the hope suddenly died. 

His body was still covered in gross looking bruises, but she could recognize the man anywhere. It was one of the men who’d shot Papa, who’d taken her.

It suddenly dawned on her that this was a trap. 

She opened her mouth to scream, only for the man to force his hand over her mouth.

“Don’t scream,” the man said calmly, taking hold of her, “We’re going to get out of here, all of us,”

Liar! She wanted to scream, You just want to take me to Selmoa like you did the first time!

She bit down, unwilling to go without a fight, and a gross coppery taste began to fill her mouth.

The man simply grunted, and turned to Zeb, “Did Selmoa already get to her?”

Zeb nodded forlornly, “We need to get out of here now , Vier,”

“No need to tell me that,” Vier adjusted his hold, ignoring her struggling but letting go of her mouth. She opened her mouth to scream again, but Zeb pre-empted her.

“If you scream, Dr. Selmoa’s gonna know where we are,”

She gritted her teeth but stopped struggling, and the three took their leave, Zeb leading while Vier pulled out a gun.

Her eyes refused to leave the slumped forms of the dead guards that had been outside her door.

Chapter Text

Mayheit Castle was the result of one last hail mary to preserve the nucleus of Project: APPLE’s efforts following the official defunding and the subsequent downswing the project had taken. Besides Selmoa and the subjects, the castle housed less than a dozen other researchers, alongside two score of guards, all of whom pulled double if not triple duty as maintenance and service staff.

Its main defenses were the artificial obscurity of its already unremarkable access road, alongside the secondary escape tunnel that cut under and through the surrounding forest. Unfortunately, these measures had been discovered and accounted for, leaving the defence in hands of the security detail and the steel pneumatic roll door which had taken the place of a medieval gate.

Unfortunately, the vehicle spearheading the SSS assault had a reinforced body and a modified cowcatcher.

The gate gave way with the agonized screech of metal, and the carnage began.

The outer ring of the castle was mostly empty space, the main laboratories located below the courtyard and the innermost buildings, while the higher towers were turned into a series of sniper’s nests that allowed the guards to rain down gunfire on anyone in the courtyard. The SSS would have to break down the reinforced doors to the castle under said gunfire to neutralize said snipers, during which their assailants were free to reposition and greet them inside.

Yuri was beginning to have regrets about not staying with Sten. 

A bullet whizzed past his ear and he cursed, hugging the side of his van as Lowe’s rifle rattled off staccato gunfire.

There was certainly less chance of getting sniped.

Someone shouted something and a clacking noise caught his ear, and he turned just in time to watch a grenade skitter from under the van, stopping between his feet.

Motherfuckingsunovaforgershitbag .

“Grenade!” he screamed, punting it away from the line of vans and crouching. The explosion rippled through the courtyard, shouts and screams ringing out as shrapnel found unfortunate victims.

He spared a glance to the epicenter, and his eye caught the edges of a disturbed grate, knocked loose by the detonation.

He pulled out his copy of the rough underground blueprints, and elbowed the reloading Lowe.

“What!” Lowe shouted over the din of gunfire and screaming. Yuri pointed between the grate and his map.

“Think we have a few bombs to spare?”

Lowe instantly got what he was saying. “Your plan’s got a severe lack of cover kid!”

Suddenly there was colorful commotion up the line, gunfire ripping through a squad of advancing officers as a sortie of guards burst from a hidden walkway, and a bundle of stick like grenades slid under one of the vans ahead of theirs.

Yuri and Lowe were halfway through the obligatory cursing when they detonated. 

The eruption blinded them, tearing through the assembled guards as the force lifted the van off the ground. It landed with a thunk, portions of its axle miraculously intact enough to send it slowly rolling down the courtyard’s gentle incline…towards the grate.

Yuri and Lowe exchanged a look, and Lowe got the attention of their attached demolition man.

As their ad hoc squadron began their mad dash towards the grate, a shield wall escorting a battering ram began pounding at the front of the sniper’s nest.

---

Nightfall cursed as Selmoa’s voice crackled through the PA announcing the arrival of her, Yor, and the SSS. If only he’d been considerate enough to make that announcement before they’d split up.

When discussing their plan, she had been content to stay in the assassin’s shadow in her inexorable advance towards the ‘Subject Dormitories’, but Handler had shot down that suggestion, positing that she was more than capable enough to handle the castle’s security, and Nightfall was to split off to achieve her own objectives.

Nightfall hadn’t been worried about Yor with that comment, but she had acquiesced.

She traced her way through the thankfully empty tunnels in search of the door she was looking for. She turned a corner, only to duck back as a door was thrown open, a pair of armed guards heading in her direction. They turned down the opposite end of her corridor, allowing her to dispatch both men with a well placed shot to the head before continuing.

She ducked through the still open door, sweeping the room to find only boxes of files and a panicking researcher who didn't notice her presence, mumbling something about ‘countermeasures’.

“Countermeasures?” she asked, and the researcher froze like a deer in headlights, turning to face her, gaze specifically focused on the silenced pistol being held in her general direction. She began to tremble, then stammer, then cry.

Goddamnit. 

“I’ll say this again: countermeasures?”

“Please don’t kill me,” the younger woman whimpered.

Nightfall sighed, “There are many fates worse than death, child. If you don’t explain what these 'countermeasures' are, than I’d be more than willing to introduce you to them,”

The girl paled, “They-they were countermeasures against the-the Subject’s powers, 007’s, specifically. Sp-specialized earplugs, certain frequencies, drug formulas, blueprints, that sort of thing. The file was supposed to be here b-but it’s not!”

“What else is here?”

“E-everything!” the researcher explained, “I-I mean this is the records office,”

“Would there be anything not here?”

“A-anything that wasn’t already duplicated would be on it’s way-”

As if on cue, the interrogation was interrupted by the squeaking of wheels, and Nightfall flattened herself against the wall as a cart burst through. The researcher driving it opened his mouth, only for Nightfall to clothesline the man and pull him into a chokehold, putting a bullet through the head of the guard following in his wake.

She hissed into her newest hostage’s ear, “One nod for yes, two nods for no. Is this everything?”

Both scientists nodded once. She loosened her hold on his throat, and he sucked in a gasp of air.

“What about duplicates?”

“Here or burning in the furnace,”

Nightfall kicked the door closed. “Good. I’m going to let you go, you two are going to help me locate a few files, and then we are going to burn everything,”

Both scientists, realizing that their fates were solely in the hands of one terrifying, armed, and questionably mentally stable woman, gave their verbal assent.

---

Yor swept through the compound like a whirlwind, the few guards unfortunate enough to cross her path falling to her blades before they could even fire a shot.

For a moment she paused, gathering her thoughts and trying to remember the path to the Subjects’ barracks. Was she supposed to take a left now, or had that been the last junction? She had a map, but she couldn’t see any landmarks to draw reference from. Was Anya even still at the barracks? The voice over the PA said she escaped, so would finding the barracks even help find her?

Was she lost? No, no, she couldn’t be lost! Anya was here! Anya needed her! She was so close!

Suddenly, the squeaking noise of a trolley pulled her out of the worried spiral, and she snapped to attention as a shadow cast by one of the fluorescent lights. She froze, judging distance and speed, then burst into motion, leaping at the opposite wall and rebounding off it. She hit the man with the trolley and kicked out, pinning him against the wall to the sound of snapping bone as several of his ribs gave way under her foot. 

She seized the man’s jaw and forced it shut, the resulting agonized scream instead escaping as a pathetic whimper.

“Where is Anya?” she growled, her thorn exerting a feather soft pressure on the man’s throat.

The man looked at her in confusion, tears of pain flowing down his cheeks.

“My daughter. She has pink hair and green eyes.” she loosened her grip on the man’s jaw.

His voice a moan of pain, “Y-you mean Subject 00-?”

Yor slammed his jaw shut again, producing another shriek.

“ Call her a subject and I rip off your jaw, ” she growled, blood welling under the tip of her thorn, “ Where is Anya? ”

“I-I-I dnt know!” the man slurred, his mouth bloody from here his teeth had caught and severed the edge of his tongue. “Buh, buh ya can’ do ths!”

Her blade pushed in further a single milimeter, “Why not?”

The man’s eyes flashed behind her.

Right, she realized, she was emotional and sloppy.

Quicker than a man could blink her arm lashed out like a bullwhip, an arc of blood trailing her thorn up until it left her hand. 

The guard who’d been lining up a shot collapsed bonelessly, her thorn protruding from his forehead, glinting in the caustic light. 

“Now then,” she continued in a deceptively sweet voice, her eyes having never left the scientist, “You were saying?”

The man shook his head, a thin line of blood beginning to leak from where she’d cut him, the smell of urine becoming prominent. “Becuth what we’re doing here’th nethethary!”

Her grip on his jaw tightened, the bone beginning to creak, “Necessary? You think torturing little girls is necessary ?”

“Hithtory will vindicate-!”

“History will forget you,” she cut him off coldly, the storm between her ribs whipped into a typhoon.

She released the researcher, who slumped to the floor, but still mumbled defiance, “You’re too late anywayth, he called the Twinth,”

“Thank you for the cooperation,” she replied sweetly, “I’ll let you die with eyes intact. Too late for the tongue though,”

He died before he had a chance to scream.

She continued, a newer, bloodier plan forming in her mind. She’d call out for her in her mind, let her know Mama was here. Meanwhile, she’d listen to the storm in her chest whose winds howled for blood, slaughtering anyone in her way, even if that meant killing everyone in this castle who wasn’t Anya or Nightfall. 

Their lives were already forfeit, anyhow.

She took a left down another juncture, only for a door on the other side of the passage to fly open, a blur bouncing off the opposite wall and shooting towards her in a reversal of her earlier ambush.

She parried a stab with her blade and raised her arm to block a double footed kick to her throat, and for a millisecond her attacker achieved equilibrium, swinging a mace towards her head. She knocked it away with another swipe of her blade and the Twin threw himself into a handspring and leapt back to face her, one of the blades she’d lost in the SSS office in his single hand.

They stilled, searching for weaknesses, the Twin at the threshold of the passageway, which Yor belatedly noted only had one exit on the opposite end.

Then she heard a click from behind, and the Twin ducked behind the door as his counterpart opened fire with a machine gun.

Chapter Text

Yor was in motion, stepping aside as her knife left her hand in the milisecond between the one armed man pulling the trigger of the assault rifle steaded upon his sword arm and the spray of bullets that ripped towards her.

But try as fast as she was, the bullets were faster, even if only by a hair. Pain bloomed in her right leg as a single bullet found its mark. Luck once again made its presence known as the only bullet to hit her ripped cleanly through flesh, her own knife tearing its way through the stock and ending the shooting gallery before it could do any more damage.

But her luck ended there. The Mace Twin pounced, mace aimed at her head. It missed, cracking the wall beneath it, and he lashed out with his knife, sparking off of Yor’s as she retreated, the action hampered by her injury. Her attempt to break the blade lock was interrupted by another swing of the mace that she was forced to catch with her other hand, leaving her arms crossed, an opportunity once again seized by Mace as he pushed off the wall and forced her backwards, lest her weak leg buckle beneath her.

A single distant gunshot rang out and Yor glanced to see ‘Sword’ rushing in, swinging his blade at her back. She lashed out with her weak leg, hooking him behind the neck with her ankle and driving him into the ground. She used the change in stability to uncross her arms and flip into the air, Mace’s strength steadying her move before the momentum pulled him off his feet after her. She managed to get him under her as they landed, purloined knife retreived, knee driven into his back, but an attempt to plunge her knife into him was interrupted by Sword lunging for her blade first. She toppled off of her would-be victim, flailing as they grappled and rolled across the floor. She pushed him off and threw him away, rising to a crouch as Sword mirrored her and Mace flipped into his own, pulling out her other missing knife in the process.

The next gunshot rang out like a starting pistol. She lunged forward on her strong leg, and Sword a moment later. His blade flashed as it raced towards her, only to pass through the golden ring of her thorn before she yanked it away and further closed the distance. Sword’s hand caught her knife, and Yor threw herself into a flip, catching the head of the also lunging Mace, sending both men into the wall. She leapt back, but stumbled as her injured leg failed her, allowing Sword, arm still tangled in her blade, to lunge, Mace following after.

The next few seconds were a confusing exchange of blows, the Twins leveraging their supernatural coordination to attack Yor on two fronts, boxing her in within the confines of the corridor, exploiting her injured leg to maintain their dominance over the fight. She dodged Mace’s stab and caught the stiletto’s blade with her ring and wrenching, throwing both out of the way.

She grappled with Sword, blade still locked in her stiletto’s ring, leaning back to dodge and catch the mace under her armpit, but Mace’s foot slammed into her bullet wound. Her leg buckled, and the Twins dragged her to her knees, Mace wrapping an arm around her throat and squeezing.

Yor’s teeth gnashed as she struggled in their hold, but try as she might she could not escape, her strength finding itself wanting for the second time in less than a week.

She was close to her daughter, so close she could feel it…

But she couldn’t summon the strength to take that final step.

What a failure she was.

Her vision began to swim, and she found herself mentally apologizing, hoping that Anya was close enough to hear it.

I’m sorry Anya…I love you so much.

Suddenly, a gunshot rang out.

---

Things were going well. At least, Zeb was reasonably sure things were going well. His plan had worked, meaning there were less guards between them and the door. Selmoa knew they were free, but the remaining guards were distracted, which meant they weren’t focusing on them. And they hadn’t seen any signs of the Twins, which was always a bonus. 

Now they just needed to escape from the firefight raging aboveground, and find a way back to Berlint.

…So things were going well so far, but they still had a lot to go.

He was pulled from his thoughts by the frantic squeaking of wheels.

“Hit the wall!” Vier hissed, and they did so as a panicking researcher skidded past them, nearly toppling over the boxes of files contained within their cart. Between their panic and Vier’s powers, they went unnoticed, but stayed there a moment longer, holding their breath and hugging the wall.

All three of them sighed in relief.

“Where’s he going?” Zeb asked, hand over his heart as he tried to abide the panic.

“Incinerator,” Vier answered as they resumed their rush, which was looking more and more like a blind rush.

“Then where are we going?” he asked.

“Away from the gunfire,” Vier said, not slowing.

“Alright,” Zeb panted. He wasn’t used to all this running, “Anya, how are you doing?”

Anya was stubbornly silent, twisting in Vier’s grip.

“Come on kid,” Vier complained, “Let’s not do this song and dance again, shall we?”

“You hurt my Papa,” she growled, “I hate you,” 

Zeb winced at the accusatory tone. He knew that she was right, and Vier had messed up, but she just needed time to get to know him.

Maybe Zeb could take their minds off things.

“What’s Berlint like?” he asked, and Vier slowed as they traversed down another tunnel, both him and Anya thinking about how to answer him.

But rapid gunfire sounded from somewhere in front of them, the harsh rattle echoing off the walls, and they decided to duck down the nearest corridor.

Another gunshot ripped through the air, a deafening thunderclap of sound and fury that rang his ears like an alarm.

Anya tumbled into him, knocking him into the ground. He recovered easily enough, scrabbling to help up a confused Anya, “Are you okay!?”

She stood and froze, eyes like pinpricks.

“Not again…” she whimpered, and something hit the wall behind him, and Zeb turned to glance at it.

…And he froze at the sight of Vier slumping against the wall, throat tightening and stomach bottoming out as his older brother stared dazedly at the red stain spreading across his clothing.

“Subjects,” the voice of his nightmares greeted them calmly, voice raised to be heard over the ring, and Zeb slowly turned to face it, hoping beyond hope he wouldn’t see its owner.

But he had no such luck, and Selmoa stood at the other end of the corridor, smoking gun pointed straight at them, contrasted by the stern but disturbingly calm look on his face. “I hope you’ve had your fun, because it ends here and now,”

“He’s going to kill us,” Anya revealed in a horrified whisper, and Zeb’s blood froze in his veins.

They needed to run, now.

He moved to run, to escape and bring Anya with him, but the gun roared again and something ruffled his hair.

“I wouldn’t if I were you. I used to be a champion sharpshooter in my youth,” Selmoa commented idly, before turning his focus onto Anya, “Now, 007, here’s what you’re going to do. You’re going to step into my office, and if you refuse, I am going to shoot 006, and make you watch as he dies because of you, just like 001 died because of you. Am I understood?”

Anya sniffled, but nodded, and Zeb felt a sinking feeling overcome him.

Selmoa seemed satisfied, “Good, come along now,” he stepped aside as gestured with his gun, inviting them into his office. Anya whimpered again but stepped forward, and Zeb, fearing the punishment should he attempt escape again, followed.

---

None of them noticed as Vier dragged himself away, silently cursing his failure to end Selmoa and this entire nightmare with him. He grappled with his now blood slicked gun, pulling it from its holster, and dragged himself towards the sounds of fighting.

Maybe…maybe he could find help.

Chapter Text

The necessary files had been requisitioned and the rest lay thoroughly covered in accelerant and burning, the door locked as Nightfall escorted the two lab assistants through the twisting bowels of the lab.

These two presented a problem, a loose end they needed to tie up. There needed to be as little evidence of their presence as possible, while they had not seen her beneath the coat and balaclava she had donned as a disguise, they were still witnesses to her work, knew her objectives, heard her voice. It would have been more practical just to shoot them where they stood. But it was clear that APPLE’s influence still reached beyond this castle, and any information that could help them was welcomed.

And the threat of leaving them to the mercy of the SSS was more than enough to keep them in line. If only it was enough to keep one of them from making justification for their rampant human rights abuses.

“You don’t understand!” he whispered frantically, and Nightfall almost rolled her eyes at the cliché, “Could you imagine the understanding we could achieve with 007’s powers? No more lies, no more broken promises, no deception! If the human race woke up tomorrow with her telepathy we’d achieve world peace in less than a decade,”

Another almost eye roll from her, alongside an audible scoff. Not just delusional then, but a delusional, naive, idealist. Truly the most dangerous combination. She wanted to point out the chaos, paranoia, and almost certain bloodshed that would result from the sudden revelations of everyone’s dirty secrets. Ignorance was a sin, Twilight was right on that account, but there was a security that came with lies, a precarious yet effective barrier that needed to be undone carefully, not ripped away as the man in her sights was suggesting. 

But that might have gone over his head, so Nightfall pointed out another flaw in his dream.

“You mean the powers unable to effect other human telepaths?” he froze at that, facing forward as his cheeks colored and he grumbled as they came upon a corner.

Then the wall exploded in front of them. 

The tunnel the wall belonged to focused and channeled sound, turning the muted thud of modified breaching charges into an echoing thunderclap, concrete reduced to shrapnel and a cloud of ash and dust that flooded through the passage. Nightfall threw herself back behind the wall, dragging the less chatty of her captives with her and catching the idiot by his lapel and throwing him behind her as SSS agents began storming through the hole.

But the idiot seemed to have been struck nonsensical by the blast, as it took him only a moment to shoot her a look and decide that double crossing her was a good idea. 

She should have just killed him. Before she could rectify her mistake, the idiot managed to burst back into the tunnel arms flailing. 

“She has a gun! She has a-,” the sound of gunshots silenced him as a bullet ripped through his brain, proving that, contrary to Nightfall’s own impression, he possessed one.

The body hit the ground and Nightfall cursed virulently, dragging her shell shocked captive along as she scrambled to her feet. An armored form turned the corner and Nightfall fired, dropping the man with a bullet to the chest and shoulder, allowing her just enough time to slip away.

She ran, leaving the Secret Police to tend to their downed man, gaining enough distance to feel comfortable holstering her pistol and pulling out her map.

This is what finally prompted her captive to speak. “W-where did you get that?”

Nightfall answered with a question of her own, “Do you think that’s your greatest concern at the moment?”

She whimpered in fear, but wisely kept quiet.

---

“Briar!” Lowe shouted and downed young man, “You alive?”

“Don’t worry,” Yuri gasped out, holding up a shaky thumb, “The armour caught the bullets,”

“Briar’s right, for all that’s worth,” another man answered, “Small caliber gun. Didn’t pierce the padding on his chest, but his ribs are probably still cracked,”

“Alright then,” Lowe grumbled, patting Yuri on the shoulder, “You’re on the bench from now on Briar,”

Yuri would’ve been enraged had the morphine not promptly taken effect.

---

A gunshot rang out, and blood splattered across Yor’s face. 

Sword’s blood, to be specific. 

The stricken man stumbled, and both men loosened their holds, Yor taking advantage to suck in a measured breath.

It was only a moment, but it was all she needed.

She tilted backwards, her leg striking Sword and pushing out of the grapple. Her free elbow slammed into Mace’s liver, before pushing free and lashing out with a snap kick that sent him sprawling backwards.

Sword gathered himself and rushed back in, blade still tangled in her thorn’s ring, the thorn itself still in her hand. She wrenched the knife, directing the charge’s inertia downwards and driving the blade across the floor, and she stomped. The blade snapped and skittered away, and in one motion she retrieved it while unleashing an athletic kick that knocked Sword off his feet.

She swung her leg into a charge towards the recovering Mace, swiveling and sending a knee into the man’s head and driving it into the wall with enough force to shatter it. Normally this would’ve ended the fight, but Mace recovered with a roar and a mace swing that forced her back. She ducked into a crouch and caught him under the chin with a crescent kick that sent him crashing to the floor dazed and she rolled upright just as Sword charged back in, one of her discarded knives in hand.

It was a simple matter of catching the knife with her own and twisting across his body, leaving him open for her to slide the long, thin blade between his ribs and through his heart and lungs, the metal flashing in the low light.

He fell, and Yor met his collapse with a final rising slash to open his throat and ensure his death.

Mace roared, a sound of rage and loss and despair distorted into something animalistic by the damage to his jaw, and charged. She stabbed, but he intercepted it with his hand, pushing his hand down the blade and wrapping it around her hand. Yor started, and paid for it as the man’s mace slid past her defences and smashed into her chest, pain washing over her as several ribs broke.

She took hold of the offending arm and bent it the exact wrong way, the wet snapping of bone accompanied by his pained scream. A palm strike to the throat turned the scream into an odd gagging noise, and she took hold of his head, finally silencing him with a violent motion that left his head dangling unnaturally.

The body slumped, and she stood upright, regaining her breath even as each motion sent another bolt of pain lancing through her chest. She cast her gaze towards the end of the corridor, and limped her way towards her saviour.

The man was young, no older than Yuri, and bleeding from a gunshot wound in his chest. She knew at a glance he wasn’t long for this world, as the blood had turned most of his clothing a ruddy crimson, and a trail stretched out behind him. She knelt to greet him, ignoring how the movement stretched her burning leg and stabbing ribs.

“Thank you,” she smiled at the young man.

“Anya,” he coughed out, blood flecking his lips as he did so, and Yor froze.

“How do you know that name?”

“Guessed you’re here for her,” he managed, before a coughing fit sent another spray of blood past his lips.

“Where is she?” Yor asked, unable to suppress the tearful quiver in her voice.

“Follow…follow the blood trail…and down the turn off…there’s an office…the doc has a gun,”

Yor nodded resolutely, taking his hand and squeezing it, “Thank you, Mr…,”

“Vier,” he gasped out weakly, “Name’s Vier,”

“That’s a nice name,” she complimented him, and a smile twitched at the dying man’s lips.

“Thank you…I came up with it…my…” he trailed off into an almost relieved gasp, and his grip slackened.

A profound wave of sadness passed over Yor, and she gently closed his eyes before standing and retrieving her weapons, a sense of urgency settling over her as he remembered Vier’s mention of a gun.

I love you, Anya, she thought as she followed the blood trail, And I’m coming to get you.

She just hoped she’d get to her in time.

—-

Anya, I’m sorry…I love you so much

Mama’s words rang in Anya’s head, louder and clearer than the din around it.

She was here. Mama was actually here! And she was close!

But, she sounded hurt, and if the doctor knew that she was here, he’d hurt 006, like he had 004.

She doubled over, clutching at her head, the voices that screamed and died at the edge of mind proving too much. “It hurts,” she whimpered, nose once again beginning to bleed.

“Oh, shut up and climb the staircase,” Selmoa snapped, eyeing her with utter disdain. 

“What staircase?” Zeb interjected nervously, looking at the slumped over bodies of the other doctors, a red pool spreading out from their unmoving forms.

Selmoa scoffed, approaching a bookshelf while keeping his gun trained on them. There was a horrible wet noise as he walked through the pool of blood, but he paid it no mind, instead tracing over a book and pressing a hidden panel beneath it.

The shelf receded and slid away, revealing a spiral staircase, just like in Bondman. She wanted to be excited, but any excitement was overshadowed by the thoughts beginning to rise in Selmoa’s mind, thoughts of her and 006’s heads exploding into mists of red, red, red…

“Now, up the staircase, both of you,” Selmoa snapped, jerking his gun between them and the exit. 006 obeyed, edging around the puddle of blood and beginning to ascend, but Anya stayed where she was, feet glued to the floor.

Selmoa snarled, “007, up the staircase, now, ”

Anya instead cowered. She was going to die here, she was going to die and-

Suddenly her world was blinding pain, and she hit the ground like a ragdoll, hand splashing as it fell into the blood.

Had he shot her. No, no, she didn’t think so, it was like when she’d angered someone during a test and Selmoa had told the stumpy armed man to ‘encourage’ her. He'd hit her, then.

Selmoa made an unintelligible growling noise, seizing her arm in a death grip and hauling her to her feet and manually carrying her to the staircase.

The world was beginning to feel foggy, but before it faded away entirely, she heard one thought rise above the din, as sharp and clear as a bell:

I love you, Anya, a nd I’m coming to get you.

Chapter Text

Nightfall traced a path through thankfully empty hallways, the only signs of former life being a trail of corpses bearing the marks of the Thorn’s Princess’ attention.

“Who did this?” her captive whimpered, and Nightfall urged her forward with the press of a pistol to her back.

“My backup,” Nightfall answered flatly, “You might recognize her, as ‘007’s’ mother,”

The captive stammered, “B-but 001’s dead! I-i read the autopsy report!”

Nightfall filed that particular conformation to one of her own theories for later, “Adoptive mother, you imbecile,”

The captive said nothing more, until they turned into a corridor occupied by a trio of corpses, and she began hyperventilating.

“The-the Twins, Vi-Vier, h-how?” she managed between rapid, shallow breaths, eyes laser focused on the strewn bodies of the two one armed assassins she’d seen at the SSS office, another body that Nightfall recognized as an older version of the boy depicted in 004’s file cooling at the edge of the tunnel.

“You really shouldn’t kidnap children. Even setting the ethics aside, you never know who the parents might be.”

Another whimper, which Nightfall ignored in favour of noting the bloody trail that stretched behind him.

At least Yor and the dead man had been kind enough to leave a trail to follow.

---

They’d been brought to a landing, and Zeb felt like he couldn’t breathe. 

Selmoa was going to kill him, Selmoa was going to kill both of them, they were going to.

The reality of the situation seemed to be hitting Anya too, as she was slowly coming back to consciousness, becoming more and more frantic as she did so, head on a swivel as if she was listening for something.

“Keep moving,” Selmoa muttered, “You’re going to die anyway, it’s best you do so with a bit of dignity,”

Blind panic flashed through him at the man’s confirmation of his intentions, followed by a crumpling sorrow.

He didn’t want to die.

And neither did Anya.

“But why?” she quietly demanded, voice quivering but resolute.

Selmoa stopped short at that, genuinely baffled at her question. 

Anya continued, voice unsteady from the fear or Selmoa’s blow, “What about restarting the Apple Project?”

“Didn’t I tell you I didn’t need you?” he blustered.

Anya cocked her head towards the heavily muffled sound of gunfire. “Don’t you need us now?”

He gaped, before turning a startling red, “There is no coming back from this!” he raged, shoving his gun into Anya’s face, Zeb gasping at the action, “It is because of YOU that we are even in this situation. You’re the mind reader, 007, so tell me, WHAT makes you think I am willing to have ANYTHING to do with you other than BLOW YOUR LITTLE BRAINS OUT!?”

“It’s your fault,” the words slipped out Zeb’s mouth before he realized what he was doing.

Selmoa’s head turned so fast Zeb swore he heard a crack, “What did you say,”

Oh no, “I-I didn’t say-,”

“Oh no,” he growled, turning the gun towards him, “Finish your thought 006, or I’ll make 007 read it,”

He stammered, “This-All of this could’ve been avoided if you’d left Anya alone. You-you’ve got no one to blame for this but yourself,”

Selmoa went quiet at that, face turning increasingly red as his gun began to shake in his grasp. Anya suddenly looked very scared.

“Both of you. Outside. Now,” he said, unlocking and pushing open the door, revealing a snowy hill bathed in twilight. “NOW!!” he roared, and the two of them followed his direction.

He wasn’t dressed for this, snow soaking through his shoes and socks as a howling wind cut through his thin clothing. He heard Anya’s teeth chattering, and his feet and fingers were rapidly becoming numb.

The gun cocked.

“Goodbye you ungrateful little abominations,”

---

Yor followed Vier’s directions at an unacceptably slow pace, hampered by her injured leg and bruised and cracked ribs.

But adrenaline subdued the pain, and soon enough she was at the juncture he’d mentioned, the blood trail ending at the mouth of a short hallway that led to a steel door.

Injuries and possible blood loss or no, the door crumpled inward under a single kick. On the other side lay an astute looking office dominated by books and bodies, but no sign of her daughter. Her gaze frantically swept over the room, searching for anything that might’ve revealed something about her daughter’s whereabouts. 

She had begun to consider that Vier had lied when she saw the footprints, bloody and disappearing behind a bookcase. The hidden exit’s door was well built, and between that and her injuries it took her far too long to bust through it. She rocketed up the staircase, breath coming in painful gasps but she muscled through the pain, coming to the door that led to the snowy hill outside. 

There was a man on the other side, and she threw a thorn. The man died without ceremony, hitting the snow with a muted thud.

“Mama?” a tiny voice said, and her racing heart froze, the cold of the outside ripping through her in an instant.

Anya was there, after what felt like months Anya was standing there before her in the November snow. She was bruised and shivering and miserable but she was there, and she was alive.

“Anya,” she said, astonished, almost unsure, as if the girl before her was a dream and if she spoke too loud or moved too fast or even blinked the dream would end, and another heartbreaking reality of the sort she’d become so horribly acquainted with over these last few days would assert itself.

Anya seemed equally unsure, eyeing her warily, as if Yor was some sort of deception or threat and her heart clenched at the sight.

“Anya,” she whimpered again, staggering towards her, faster and faster until she was on her knees and Anya was in her arms and she was too cold but she was alive and hugging her back and-

“Anya,” she sobbed, the everpresent maelstrom in her chest finally breaking a releasing one final flooding downpour, “Anya, Anya, Anya ,” she repeated her baby’s name like a prayer, rocking the little girl back and forth as she wept, heaving sobs wracking her body in odd stuttering motions that drew protest from her abused ribs, but she ignored them as Anya buried her face into her dress and heave silent sobs of her own.

She wasn’t sure how long she stayed there, kneeling in the snow, holding her child, her baby, until the sound of shifting caught her attention.

There was a boy, maybe a few years older than Anya, standing in the snow.

She suddenly felt very self conscious.

“Who are you?”

The boy opened his mouth to answer, only for Nightfall to emerge from the door, holding a very distressed looking woman at gunpoint.

“You found her,” the woman said, an odd tone breaking through her normally monotone voice.

“How did you find me?” was all that Yor could think to ask.

“We followed your trail of carnage,” she nodded down the stairs, and Yor felt her cheeks burn self consciously.

Her gaze turned towards the woman in Nightfall’s grasp, “Who is she?”

“Information,” Nightfall supplied, before turning her attention to the boy. “Who's he?”

The boy spoke, “I-I’m Zeb, Subject 006,” 

A burst of gunfire caught their attention.

“Let’s save introductions for later,” Nightfall suggested, and Yor agreed. She stood on shaky legs, the adrenaline gone and her injuries registering renewed and insistent protests.

But she stood nonetheless, Anya safe in her arms. Zeb needed no urging to join them, and together the five of them left.

---

Lowe emerged from the compound, grateful for the fresh air. Several fires had been set in the labyrinth below, and he for once had considered himself fortunate that he’d stumbled upon the path of blood and bodies. 

It paid off too, as he found Schuyler Selmoa, facedown and dead in the snow, blood pooling around a puncture wound in his skull, melting the ice in a macabre parody of a snow angel.

There were also the bloody tracks, trailing behind the small group making their way to the treeline. He fumbled for binoculars, and managed to catch a figure in black slipping past the trees.

And between the black and the familiar shape of the wound, he was fairly sure that the figure was one Yor Forger.

His radio crackled, asking for his status.

There’d be a snowstorm tomorrow, one that would erase any trace of footprints.

He fired off a burst of gunfire into the back of Selmoa’s skull.

“This is Lowe. Found Selmoa, ended up putting him down. Nothing else of note. Over.”

Chapter Text

The pager buzzed.

Eight words came through, but Sylvia was captivated by the first two.

Mission Accomplished. Heading back now. Two extra guests.

Sylvia released a shuddering breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. She stood there for a moment, allowing herself to revel in the joyous, soul destroying relief those two little words meant.

And then she once again donned the mask of the Fullmetal Lady, and went to meet Twilight. He’d been going insane with worry, asking for updates that wouldn’t be coming, so she had decided to take his mind off of it by discussing something else.

More specifically, what would become of Operation: STRIX.

And what would become of Loid Forger.

—

Loid felt like screaming. His daughter was still missing, his wife was rushing into who knows what to get her back, Handler wouldn’t tell him anything and he was still trapped in the damn bed!

Well, not trapped, per say, but still too unwell to move without assistance, which left him bedridden and only capable of sitting up or reclining.

At least he had Bond for company.

He’d been attempting to read (though the neck brace was proving troublesome) when Sylvia graced him with her presence, her countenance an unreadable steel mask.

“Good day, or should I say good evening, Twilight?”

“Any news?”

Sylvia shook her head. “Not yet. I wanted to talk to you.”

Trepidation curdled in his gut, “About what?”

“About the future of Operation: STRIX,” Sylvia intoned, pulling a chair to the side of his bed and taking a seat.

The trepidation soured into dread. “I understand there have been complications-,”

“Complications are an understatement Agent Twilight,” Handler’s voice cut through his like a knife, hard and sharp edged. “I’d be willing to forgive the oversight on the initial OPSEC, but really Twilight, a love letter?”

“I have no excuses,” he admitted, ears burning, “But to be honest, I had no idea what to do.” hands fisted at his bedsheets, “I realized I’d been severely emotionally compromised,”

“You fell in love with them,” Handler translated, and Loid cursed the neck brace that kept him from nodding.

“I did. I am. And I know I was never supposed to,” he paused, gathering his thoughts, “Personal feelings are a detriment in this line of work. It’s a risk to my mission, to my job as a spy. I etched those words into my soul, but Yor and Anya…living with them has forced me to rethink who I am as a person, rethink those words, rethink feelings. And even if I were to accept those feelings, then by their very nature I could not express it without either lying to them and feeling guilty about it or blowing my cover. The only way I could stay was by denying I had those feelings, or compartmentalize them completely. Once they became too much to ignore or deny, the only way I could think to cope was to write everything out and hide it. I planned to burn it, but I kept putting it off…”

His hands splayed upon the sheets, grasping at nothing. “...I don’t think that it would have helped.” The feelings were too big to contain on a piece of paper anyway.

Handler stared at him, her gaze unraveling his bared soul with surgical precision.

He wondered what she saw. A spy? A father? A boy? A failure? Regardless of what she saw, she held his life in her hands like the strings of fate, scissors poised with full authority to cut if she found it lacking.

“Twilight, had this incident with Project: APPLE not occured, could you have left them?”

Could he? With what he knew about Anya and Yor now, his clever and apparently mind-reading daughter wouldn’t have let him, and she would have somehow finangled Yor into a rescue mission/kidnapping, consequences be damned.

But that wasn’t the question.

They would have survived his passing, they were too loving not to, too used to loss to let their grief destroy them.

But that wasn’t the question.

“I would have because I was ordered to, but I would have lost something in the process,” he raised his hand to his face, as if seeing it for the first time, “...Loid Forger’s grown too much, his roots are too deep for Twilight to discard him and escape unscathed.”

Sylvia nodded. “What about Twilight? If I were to offer you the chance to walk away from WISE, to walk away from Twilight, with no strings attached, would you take it?”

Loid couldn’t help but chuckle, “I doubt WISE would allow that,”

“Consider it a thought exercise,”

Loid’s mirth subsided, and he regarded his hands once again.

Could he leave? WISE had been his everything for fifteen years, and Twilight his name for nearly as long. He’d made it his life’s mission to make a world without war, a world where little boys didn’t pick up guns with hearts full of hate and little girls didn’t have to grow up and assume an adult's responsibility, a world where men like him didn’t have to exist.

How optimistic he had been when he’d made that promise. He had long since realized that his goals were…unrealistic, a Sisyphean task that would take the rest of his probably shorter than average existence to even come close to achieving. But he’d done it anyway, dedicated himself to a thankless, exhausting, and never ending job of conflict avoidance and prevention, and he'd been content.

But now there was Yor, and Anya, and Bond, and the sweet poison of domesticity. He’d begun to suffer delusions of a future, of birthdays and anniversaries and a life actually lived.

…

There was so much more he could do as Twilight.

...

His mind filled with smiles and laughter and fond looks the colour of ruby and emerald.

...

But Loid Forger wanted a chance to live.

“I'd leave and never look back,” he answered.

Was that so wrong? Couldn’t he be selfish, just this once? Hadn't he done enough to earn that much?

He caught the smile that had creeped its way across her face a millisecond before it disappeared. “Good to know, Loid,”

It seemed he’d answered right. “What happens now?”

Sylvia’s expression turned serious once more “I’m keeping WISE in the dark about Anya. Only Nightfall and I know the specifics about the files we found in Vorsta’s office, and the truncated versions retrieved would be useless for identification. The files on 007 and everything after that never existed, and the home office won’t miss it if they decide it’s worth the potential security breach to smuggle it back instead of just burying it over the ‘Westalis Connection’ alone.”

Loid released a shaky breath, pressure building behind his eyes, “Thank you, Handler. I can’t repay you for this.”

“That won’t be necessary,”

Another shaky breath, “In that case, I have a plan.”

Handler cocked an eyebrow. “What a coincidence, so did I,”

Chapter Text

The drive back was made in absolute silence, save for the occasional teary sniffle. Their purloined scientist was too even try the door, much less speak, and Zeb had fallen asleep, knocked unconscious by the sheer weight of what had occurred. Nightfall, ever taciturn, wasn’t about to break the quiet, and Yor found her voice failing her, too many emotions, too many things to say, the words tripping over each other and clogging in her vocal chords.

So she thought them instead, bombarding her daughter with thoughts of relief and warmth and love as she tended at the girl’s wounds, her heart twisting at each bruise and mark she found and trying not to focus on the bruise developing at her brow, apparently split by the butt of the gun. She treated that first, and moved on.

Anya, if she was listening, didn’t respond, her eyes cast downward, a pale and shell-shocked slip in her lap, and she hated it. A part of her, one she tried desperately not to linger on, one she didn’t want Anya to hear, wished the girl would keep crying. 

Tears were preferable to this silence.

But she banished the thought quickly as it arrived, soothed by the reassurance that they’d have time to untangle all these difficult emotions.

…At least that was what she hoped.

The car pulled into a nondescript alley, and Nightfall broke the silence, “This is your stop,” she nodded to a seemingly locked door.

Loid was on the other side of that.

“Thank you,” she said shakily, earnestly, “Thank you for helping me get Anya back,”

She didn’t wait for the other woman to respond (Though admittedly, Yor doubted she would) taking Anya in her arms and stepping to the alley.

“We’ll be seeing Papa soon,” she whispered into Anya’s ear, stroking her hair, “He’ll be so happy to see you,”

Anya just sniffled, burying her face into Yor’s shoulder, and Yor felt her heart begin to drop. 

Something was wrong, very wrong, for Anya not to be excited about reuniting with Loid.

But whatever it was, they would face it together, as a family.

She entered the building, footsteps clacking through empty hallways as she traced her way to Loid’s room.

The nondescript door loomed before her, holding behind it an uncertain and honestly frightening future.

Nonetheless, her hand reached towards the handle, but was preempted as the door opened before her.

Loid stood behind it, bandaged and pale and leaning on an excited Bond but alive.

“Loid…” she gasped, but he paid no heed, his eyes glued on Anya.

“Anya…” he whispered, silent and disbelieving, and suddenly they were in each other’s arms, Anya held between them, slumped upon the floor as Bond excitedly licked their faces as Yor burst into another round of tears and Loid muttered a continuous stream of “My baby…my baby…” into the little girl’s hair.

Anya kept silent. But eventually, as the tears and the mania petered away, she spoke for the first time in hours:

“Anya’s sorry for getting you hurt, Papa,” the apology was slow, small, and delivered in a tone that expected punishment.

It was simply too much, and Loid burst into tears. Body wracking, gut wrenching sobs as he fully took Anya into his arms, pressing sloppy kisses to her hair as he desperately tried to reassure her that no, this wasn’t her fault, she’d done nothing wrong, he was just so happy she was back in his arms.

“I love you,” he managed between shuddering, teary breaths, “I love you so much and I’m sorry I never said it before,”

Anya’s face twisted miserably, but still she did not cry, and Yor realized through her own tears that she was actively suppressing the notion, refusing to break down as she was expected and more than justified to do.

Her heart, torn apart and stitched together so many times in the past few days, broke a little once more.

“Anya,” she stuttered between tears, pressing her forehead against her daughter’s back and the hand draped across it, “You can cry. It’s okay, we’ll be here to hold you,”

And with that the floodgates broke, and Anya began to sniffle, then sob, then wail as tears finally began to fall in a deluge, the pent up emotions escaping her all at once.

Loid hugged her tighter, another arm wrapping them around Yor, and Yor wrapped them both in an almost rib crushing embrace, desperate to savour the feeling of two of her family, in her arms once more.

---

Loid wasn’t sure how long they sat there, only stopping once Anya’s emotions finally emptied for the meantime, sleep claiming her in short order. They had piled back into his hospital bed, the lack of space notwithstanding (It’s not if he wanted to be apart from them anyways).

Now he and Yor faced each other, faces puffy from crying, Anya squished between them and curled across their legs.

He wanted to stay like this forever.

But there were still matters to attend to.

“What happens now?” Yor asked, because there was still so much they needed to talk about. “Do we just…go back to how we were?”

Loid considered her words. Returning to “normal” was an automatic no. Too much had happened, too much had been said to go back. He’d bared his soul to her, something he’d done before, and she had…

She hadn’t accepted him, not really. She’d heard his story, she’d reassured him she wanted to stay, but she’d said nothing about his true profession other than her quiet anger at his use of them for his mission.

“You’re still upset,” he said, “About me using you,”

“We used each other,” Yor replied, “We both saw each other as cover, at least at first. We were both just thinking about ourselves,”

“That doesn’t mean you can’t be upset,”

For a moment, Yor was quiet. “I am upset, but…not really about the lying but, what it means. I knew you as Loid Forger, single father and psychiatrist, I…I fell in love with Loid Forger. I didn’t know who you really were, and I think I still need time to learn who you are. A-and I’m upset you took advantage of Anya for your mission, even if you were ordered to.”

A barb of pain shot through at her words, each one true.

“But…I’ve been talking to your co-workers, and between them and your…note, it seems like you’re still figuring it too, even if you say that you want to be Loid,”

Loid found himself chuckling, “At this point, I think you have a better handle on my identity than I do at the moment,” he humour left him, “You’re right though, I’m still figuring it out, even if I have a good idea of who…no, not who, what I want to be,”

Yor leaned her head in close, scrutinizing him, “And that is?”

“Anya’s father, your husband if you'll have me, just…someone with a future beyond the next mission. I still want to make a world where the tragedies that made me, made us, no longer happen, but Anya takes precedence with that. No more, ‘For The Mission’ when it comes to her, at least if Sylvia pulls through,”

Yor’s hand found his, “That’s a lovely goal Loid,” she brought his hand to her face, pressing a kiss to the knuckles, “Can I help you with it?”

Loid’s ears burned at the affection, “I’d love nothing more,”

“You seem to be blushing, Mr. Forger,” Yor giggled, the sound sending a shiver of pleasure down his spine.

“How could I not, Mrs. Forger? I have a beautiful woman offering to help me with discovering my identity,” he responded, reveling in the blush stained grin that bloomed on her face at the praise.

He silently promised to extract as many of those smiles and those blushes as humanly possible.

And given the mischievous glint in her eyes, it seemed Yor intended to return the favour.

He couldn’t wait.

Anya shifted in her sleep, and Loid pulled her up between the two of them.

“I love her,” he whispered, the words finally unbidden on tongue, a relieving shortcut through the whirling, fast paced and long winded motions of his mind.

He turned his gaze back to Yor, staring at their little girl like she was the most precious thing in the world.

He had to agree.

“And I love you,”

She squeaked at the admission, and Loid felt a nearly unmatched relief as he finally said the words he’d been wanting to say so badly for the past few days.

Whatever the future held, at least he’d face it without leaving his feelings unsaid.

Chapter Text

Eventually, the families’ embrace was ended as it became clear that Yor and Anya both needed attention for their injuries, and the little family was absconded back to Berlint General.

But if the SSS knew that Anya was in the castle (which sources had informed her they didn’t) and hadn’t found her, questions would be raised about the girl’s sudden reappearance.

And so Sylvia got to work with the cover story, with the help of McMahon and Loccow.

Officially, Anya had never been in that castle. Anya had been abducted by suspected human traffickers, held in an abandoned house at the outskirts of Berlint alongside the boy now known as Zeb until they were left behind following the slaughter of the SSS precinct, her captors fearing clampdown from the law. They had escaped and in a stroke of luck stumbled upon Loccow, released from the hospital and investigating the case off the clock, who was now interviewing the family.

Consequently, the slaughter of the SSS and the ensuing raid was officially a completely unconnected event, perpetrated by anti-government agitators loyal to a disgruntled scientist. Sten Vorsta’s previous connection to Selmoa painted him as the obvious scapegoat, and his execution painted as a way of tying up loose ends. Loccow and McMahon were unfortunate enough to be caught in the crossfire, and the incident at the hospital was an attempt to silence them, with the break-in at the Forgers an attempt to target Yuri’s family. 

The ‘Bond+aple’ picture was quietly dismissed as the nonsense of a dying man, and Loccow’s superiors, afraid of the flak they could catch for their connection to Vorsta, went along with the story without complaint.

But there were still too many loose ends in Sylvia’s opinion. 003 and 005 were still in the wind, they now had this Zeb boy whose presence they had to account for, a new informant, an impromptu treaty with Garden, and she had to figure out how to explain all of this to HQ.

And still no one had figured out how Yor’s equipment had appeared at the Shopkeeper’s doorstep!

…

She just needed to approach this one thread at a time.

---

“Any details on our captive, Nightfall?”

“Name: Hayden Hill. 23 years old, has two sisters and a brother, grew up in northern Berlint, studied neuroscience at Berlint University and was introduced to Project: APPLE through an older colleague, now presumably deceased, under the impression she was entering a ‘one of a kind’, research project. And before you ask, she provided all of this information willingly, under no threat of duress, and we are in the process of confirming that.”

“...Well then,” Sylvia confirmed after a moment of shock, “That was easy. Now onto the hard part.”

“Figuring out what to do with her?”

Sylvia nodded, “Normally I’d just send her back to Westalis, but there’s the issue of possible clampdowns…”

“...And you’re concerned about sending her to HQ, as she could reveal potentially compromising information about the truth of Anya Forger’s involvement in Project: APPLE,” Nightfall finished.

Well, it seemed like she was learning, “She does seem to possess a loose pair of lips,” Sylvia pointed out. 

Nightfall just nodded. “So, what do we do with her? Witness protection?

“...Possibly,” Sylvia considered, “But that would still involve informing WISE, and if Twilight, or worse yet, Thorn Princess found out we were protecting her, the results would be…ugly,”

"Agreed," Nightfall grimaced.

The room descended into silence save for the clacking of Sylvia’s fingernails against her desk.

"Handler," Nightfall began, "I feel I must apologize. If I hadn't taken her along we wouldn't be facing this problem,"

"True," Sylvia nodded, "But she might have otherwise ended up in the SSS' care, but we'd have a much bigger problem,"

Still, if I had just..." Nightfall paused, thinking about what he was going to say.

Sylvia finished the thought for her, "...Disposed of her when you had the chance? Maybe, but don't necessarily blame yourself for that. I mean, we're not exactly..."

She trailed off, a flash of inspiration striking her like a lightning bolt, and she couldn’t help the wry grin that overtook her features.

“...Handler?” Nightfall asked, nervousness tinging her voice.

“Do you think the Gardening Club is open?”

---

“You would have us take custody of this ‘Hayden Hill?’” the Shopkeeper asked, his face neutral, save for a single eyebrow arched in interest.

“I would,” Sylvia responded, just as neutral.

“And why would you consider leaving your captive in our custody? The Garden does not tolerate the sort of crimes she is guilty of,”

“Consider it an olive branch, a cementing of our new alliance by entrusting our witness to your judgment,”

“We are not babysitters,”

“But you do have experience in protecting people. Does the Grey family from the Princess Lorelei ring any bells?”

The eyebrow arched higher, “You assume The Garden was involved in such an incident?”

“Twilight was on that cruise too, by coincidence if you’d be willing to believe it. He was kind enough to pass along a copy of the passenger manifest.” she replied, arching an eyebrow of her own.

The Shopkeeper considered this, “You have a point, but there were...extenuating circumstances.”

“Would you be willing to elaborate on that? Because I would call our current circumstances pretty damn extenuating,”

The Shopkeeper paused, “...There was a child who needed protection,”

“There’s a child in need of protection now,” she responded, holding out her hands, “Allow me to level with you. I’m unwilling to reveal the full circumstances of Anya’s role in this matter, and we both know that our governments would be willing to sacrifice one childhood to gain any sort of advantage. I have superiors I need to report to, superiors who might be compromised.”

“And you are so firm in that belief you would trust a foreign entity of which you have no knowledge?”

“I know about you,” she countered, preparing to take a risk, “I know about McMahon, and your connections to City Hall and the Gardening Club, and I know that you’re most likely not fond of the SSS, as I’d seriously doubt your top agent would go to the length of slaughtering an entire precinct worth of officers otherwise.”

The Shopkeeper did not respond, fixing her with a cool glare, “What are you implying?”

“What I’m implying is that you have just as much incentive to keep Ms. Hill quiet, and a lot more leeway. If I frame this as a demand for your cooperation, then I can, and I mean no disrespect with this, pawn her off on you, my superiors would be willing to forgive me in exchange for the benefits an alliance between us might provide,”

The Shopkeeper hummed, eyes narrowing as he considered her offer. “Fine, but there are still the terms of the alliance which we must discuss,”

“We both want peace, don’t we?”

“We do, but we differ in the means of this peace. I have been aware of WISE’s presence, if though their exact operations, and have come to the conclusion that you have a… concerning tolerance for the filth you keep,”

“A tool’s a tool, just because it’s a little grimy doesn’t mean we just throw it out,” Sylvia countered, “In fact that’s often what we’re looking for. The more blackmail we have on someone, the more cooperative they tend to be. As long as they’re of use we abide them, but we’re not holding hands with human traffickers as you’d be inclined to believe.”

“And so you leave the rot to fester,”

“We can’t all be paragons of virtue,” Says the professional killer, she finished mentally as she smiled at her counterpart, “But I can see we’re at an impasse, so allow me to move on. First off, I would propose an exchange of information. Possible targets and threats to peace, SSS communications, a heads up in case one of us ends up compromised, with the caveat that the receiver is given authority on how to proceed,”

“And if I refuse?”

“Then we cease all contact and allow ourselves to blunder through this incredibly fragile situation with a massive blindspot,” she pointed out.

The Shopkeeper nodded, “How would you suggest going about this?”

“Our top agents are married to each other,” she again pointed out. "I would suggest making them the main point of contact,"

“True, but I have reservations about that plan.”

“How so?”

“The last few days have shown us that both of them have grown weaker because of their marriage, if such an Achilles’ heel was exploited-,”

“Who says I’m not already exploiting it?” Sylvia interrupted, seizing the initiative, “Those two are thoroughly besotted with each other, and if we forced them to choose between job and family we could easily lose. So, by allowing them to remain together, by giving them a personal stake in our alliance, we retain their services. And who knows? They might prove to be an incredible power couple,”

The Shopkeeper’s eyes narrowed, the first notes of hostility edging into his voice, “Your ‘top agent’ is currently recovering from an injury that could easily leave him…less effective,”

“And yours,” she rebuked, “Is a loose cannon who racked up a double digit body count and nearly compromised your organization. You have to admit, a love letter might be just as destructive in our line of work, but it’s a hell of a lot easier to cover up,”

The Shopkeeper looked like he was sucking on a sour lemon, “And if I refuse?”

“Then I will happily accept the defection of Yor Forger to Westalis,” that was a bluff, plain and simple, especially since that would require the end of Operation STRIX and the torrent of questions that would lead to.

But The Shopkeeper didn’t need to know that.

And it seemed he didn’t, if the almost palpable wave of killing intent that slammed into her was any indication.

“And if I don’t give you the chance?”

Sylvia didn’t react. Yor was honestly scarier, “Then the several agents I informed about my location tip off the SSS about McMahon, City Hall, this place, you, ”

The hostility faded, but the Shopkeeper still looked displeased, “And what of her brother in the SSS?”

A random set of dots suddenly connected, “So that’s what the Lady Salvia business was about, he thinks we’re Garden, Twilight included,” she allowed the Shopkeeper the satisfaction of a second’s pause, a supposed moment of shock.

“You do know that boy’s… attached to his sister. If she decided to defect, he wouldn’t be happy, but do you really think he’d endanger her like that?”

“Point…taken,” the Shopkeeper sighed, “I agree to your terms, and shall arrange a pickup for miss Hill through McMahon and his contact to your organization,”

Franklin then .

She smiled, “Good to hear that. I hope this partnership proves beneficial for both our organizations,”

The Shopkeeper grinned wryly, “I cannot help but feel that I lost this particular negotiation,”

Sylvia huffed in amusement, “You wouldn’t be the first to say that.”

A thought suddenly niggled at the back of her mind, “Did you ever figure out how Thorn Princess’ tools ended up at your doorstep?”

The Shopkeeper just shrugged.

---

In the end, she managed to soothe the Shopkeeper’s temper with a breakdown of Operation STRIX and Thorn Princess’ role in it, now expanded with her burgeoning friendship with Melinda Desmond, and they leave with a begrudging respect for each other.

The final report she sends back west…smooths things over, erases specifics and goes with the SSS’ cover story, framing the raid on Mayheit as a ‘test run’ for further alliances with Garden.

There are still loose ends, mostly concerned with Subjects missing and present, but Sylvia could not help the sense of finality, of relief, that washed over her.

A dangerous feeling, knowing that complacence bred ignorance and her work was never truly done.

But a welcome one, nonetheless.

Chapter Text

“You have to admit,” the man chuckled, wiping his mouth with a serviette before continuing, “Sherwood’s report is nearly airtight,”

“Airtight?” his dinner companion stammered, “All due respect Mr. Director, there are several glaring absences-,”

“-That you’d only notice if you knew the whole story like we did,” the man explained with a tone suggest he was gently correcting a mistaken child, “Honestly Mr. Janus, I would’ve thought you’d have learned something in the time we’ve spent together,”

Jan Janus scoffed, attempting to hide his embarrassment, “We can’t all be intelligence agents, can we?”

“Obviously,” Hadley Jagger, Director of WISE, replied with a false smile, before turning back to his dinner.

But Dr. Janus wasn’t finished, which was a shame, because the soup was to die for.

“Well? Aren’t you going to do something?”

“Do what?”

“Retrieve 007 of course!”

“So soon after she’s been returned to the loving arms of her parents? I’d never dream of it.”

“But you promised-!”

Jagger interrupted him with a demanding finger, holding the man in suspense as he finished another spoonful of soup.

“I promised you the continuation of Project: APPLE on the condition that I had Schuyler’s work and the subjects in hand.”

“I still have the initial research-,”

“But you promised me Schuyler’s infrastructure, and with that infrastructure literally up in smoke, I’m not inclined to allow your work to continue,”

Janus was beginning to seethe at this point, teeth bared and shining in the low light, “Do you not realize the significance of our work-,”

Jagger tuned him out with a subtle role of the eyes. What was it with Project: APPLE that left its researchers prone to dramatic monologues insisting that their experiments were absolutely, positively, monumentally world changing, and needed to be treated with the utmost urgency?

Vaguely, he registered Janus insisting that Sherwood, Twilight and 007 be dragged back West for their interference.

“Janus,” he barked, the word echoing like a thunderclap and halting the doctor’s tirade, “Between your tendency for bluster and your disturbing resemblance to one Leonardo Hapoon, I am severely tempted to just shoot you and get you out of my rapidly thinning hairline. So I suggest you stop talking,”

The man’s mouth clacked shut, and he sank back into his chair appropriately cowed.

Jagger nodded, “Good. Now, allow me to educate you on one of the premier virtues of spycraft. Patience,”

He paused, allowing his point to hang in the air for a moment before continuing, “By being patient, I retain the services of Agents Sherwood & Twilight, two otherwise perfectly loyal and damn effective assets, allow them to show their hands and allow myself to more effectively divine their intentions than dragging them back in demand of an explanation would, which also preserves STRIX, a mission whose importance utterly dwarfs APPLE’s despite your insistence to the contrary. The same goes for Anya, actually.”

Janus scoffed, further lowering Jagger’s opinion of the man, “How so?”

“Because, if her powers are as good as advertised, then she knows all about Operation STRIX, and she’s decided to help. And in the end, isn’t that what you promised us, an asset capable of reading minds and divining the intentions of our enemies? For peace, right?”

Janus looked outraged, face turning red and teeth gnashing as he scrambled for a retort.

Evidently, he found none.

Good. That left him to move onto other concerns, including a silent thought spared for his agents' newfound hidden agendas. He had an idea for Sherwood's motive, given her...sentimentality regarding children, but Twilight?

Either he had become compromised in his own right, or there was something much more concerning afoot.

Still, Jagger smiled magnanimously, “Besides, I’m much more interested in the countermeasures you've spoken of,”

---

The grave was humble, tucked into a corner of the small graveyard near the Westalis Embassy. Zeb had insisted on it, saying that his fellow subjects, his ‘siblings’ were victims too.

Una Adamson

Trinity Adamson

Vier Adamson 

Cinq Adamson

Lost Children, Beloved Siblings

~ Every New Beginning Comes From Some Beginning’s End ~

The four names lay stacked on top of each other, fake birthdays appropriate for their approximate ages and a death date that technically only applied to one of them scrawled underneath. To the unknowing observer, it looked like the result of a horrific accident.

That wasn't too far from the truth in Sylvia's opinion.

Una was the outlier, 001’s name given posthumously, her death backdated two years, and the Twins’ absence glared against the polished stone.

Sylvia observed from a distance as Zeb and a disguised Nightfall stood in front of the grave, silently musing over the odd duo, the young boy having latched onto her, for her presence at his rescue if nothing else.

“If I may,” she heard Nightfall ask, awkward and stiff, “Why did you choose Adamson?”

Sylvia didn’t hear the boy’s response, his already quiet voice lost beneath the November winds, but between the boy’s own name and the project’s whole apple motif, she had to imagine it was biblical.

The sound of snow crunching under boots cut through her idle musings. 

“Secretary Sherwood, I presume?”

“You presume right, Detective Loccow,” she turned to face the man, “Your help in this matter is unexpected, but appreciated nonetheless,”

The man shrugged as the two made their way to the grave, “Eh, the house has been too empty for too long, and taking’ in the kid is probably gonna spare me the trouble of trying to be a leak for you lot,”

Sylvia snorted at the subtle insinuation that parenting was any easier than spywork.

“Though, if I knew I was reporting to you I might have given the prospect greater consideration,”

Sylvia turned to face him with a flat expression and a single infinitesimally raised eyebrow, “Is this your attempt at flirting with me Mr. Loccow,”

“Only if it’s reciprocated,”

Logically, she knew it was best to nip this in the bud and turn him down here and now.

But to be honest, she was tired and could use a little distraction.

“I think you should know I could snap your neck with my thighs,”

“Is that a threat or a promise?”

The eyebrow arched higher, “You seem like a man predisposed to dangerous endeavours, Mr. Loccow,”

“Only when it comes to a worthy cause. But say the word and I’ll stop,”

Sylvia’s eyes scanned the man before her, and she hummed in interest, “I won’t stop you, but I have to tell you you’re unlikely to get very far. I doubt the SSS would look kindly upon a police officer entangling himself with a suspected Westalian spy,”

“Darn Cold War,” the bemoaned good naturedly.

“It’s for the best, I doubt you could handle me,”

“Once again, you are not sounding as dissuasive as you probably intend to be,”

“Trust me Mr. Loccow, you have not yet seen my dissuasive side,”

“Miss, why are you covering my ears?” Zeb asked, cutting through their flirting, and the two of them turned to see that, indeed, Nightfall had clamped her gloved hands over the boy’s ears, her face twisted into a look of mild horror as she did so.

“Hello kid, nice to see you again, ” Loccow said, kneeling to the boy’s level and holding out a hand, “I don’t think we got a proper intro at the hospital. My name is Duncan Loccow,”

The boy looked at the pro-offered hand and reluctantly took it, his grip becoming more confident as whatever cruel fate he expected didn’t befall him. “You’re going to be my caretaker, aren’t you?”

“That I am, if it’s alright with you,”

“It is,” The boy nodded eagerly, before his expression darkened, “But, a-are you sure about my powers?”

“There might be a bit of an adjustment period, but yeah, I’m sure,”

There was an iron certainty to his words, one that Sylvia couldn’t help but admire, especially since in reaction at the hospital, where he’d been exposed to powers that anyone within their little world would have killed to control or deny, and apparently already had.

Sylvia and Nightfall stepped aside to allow the two to get acquainted, and Nightfall tapped out a message on a nearby grave.

‘Handler, may I ask the significance of your…’ she paused for the words, ‘...Flirtation?’

‘Nightfall,’ Sylvia tapped out in response, ‘After the chaos of the last few days, the attention of a handsome man is welcomed. The fact that he’s respectful about it is just a bonus,’

---

“And that’s all I know,” the man (boy, really) she knew as Cinq told her, shifting uncomfortably in the wrought iron chair, wincing as the motion agitated his bullet wound.

“Thank you, Cinq, your help has been invaluable. That would be all for now, feel free to return to your room,”

The young man stood and bowed, “Thank you, Mrs. Desmond,”

“Please,” she smiled, “Call me Melinda,”

Cinq stammered an apology and retreated in short order, leaving Melinda Desmond to the solitude of her tea and garden.

“What do you make of him, Mr. Lowe?”

The scarred man stepped out of the shadows, an unimpressed look on his face, "The boy’s a terrible liar,”

The assessment was blunt yet accurate, and Melinda sighed in agreement, “I’ll add that to the list of ways that utter hack Selmoa had failed his Subjects. Honestly, what did he expect from a spy who couldn’t lie for shit?”

“I think he was hoping the power would carry all the effort,” Lowe scoffed, taking Cinq’s seat, “I’m still unsure why you're only asking about the Thorn Princess when he’s probably got info related to WISE and the whole of Garden,”

“Ever heard of the Goose That Laid The Golden Eggs?”

“One of Grimm’s stories?”

“No, one of Aesop’s. The Brothers Grimm tale was simply called the Golden Goose. But the point is we need to go about this slowly, patiently, make him see that he’s worth more to us in the long run, beyond just what blackmail worthy info he might possess.”

“Let’s just hope he doesn’t forget,” the man grumbled, obviously still disapproving.

Melinda understood, but recruiting someone with his power set made it all worth it in her opinion. “Cheer up, Gunter. Who knows, that young man may yet turn out to be the best counterintelligence agent of his generation!”

Lowe rolled his eyes with a grimace, “You make him sound like the Briar I have to deal with,”

“That reminds me! How is Yuri? Recovering well? I heard he got a commendation for leading that sortie into the bowels of Mayheit,”

Lowe blinked at her, obviously questioning the scope of her influence, but his expression settled into one of mild disgruntlement. “Yes, he did get a commendation for that, and sussing out Vorsta in the meanwhile,”

“You seemed perturbed,” 

“I have…mixed feelings,” he offered without further clarification. “What about your Briar?”

She chuckled at the unintended pun and Lowe’s reaction when he realized, “Tickled pink that my new friend happens to be the Garden’s legendary Thorn Princess! I mean, what are the chances?”

“Are you sure it was just chance?” 

“Lowe, she called my husband’s political party the National Unity Thingie. I’m not worried about her being a spy. I was surprised enough when I found her tools in her own bedroom.”

“What inspired the connection to the Gardening Club?”

Melinda shrugged, “Honestly? A hunch, one that the elderly caretaker confirmed when he picked them up, and you seconded when you saw her fleeing Mayheit, daughter in hand.”

"And her husband? How does he fit into this?"

"Uncertain, though I'm sure Cinq will provide those answers for us in due time," she waved his concern away.

"Be grateful I'm not secretly a mole for the Director, he'd be pissed if he knew you were sitting on this info,"

"How fortuitous then that you're my mole in the SSS,"

"What do we do with all of this in the meantime?"

"Keep it in our back pocket, Gunter. It'll be of use to us sooner or later,"

---

Hugaria was nice. Of course, anywhere was nice on the criteria that it wasn’t that lab, but it was nice nonetheless.

And some pick-pocketed cash made it all the better.

“May I have a name?” the desk clerk asked. The hotel wasn’t necessarily luxurious, but the rooms were clean and the view was nice, so she was content for the time being.

Three days out of Ostania and she was already living a better life than the one she’d left behind. 

And a new life required a new name.

“Isolde Bellamy,”

Chapter Text

It felt like months since he’d been in their apartment, and the sight undid a knot of tension between his shoulder blades he didn’t know he was holding.

“I’m glad we’re home too, Papa,” Anya smiled, some of her old enthusiasm returning, her smile managing to distract from the mottled green of her healing bruises.

He smiled back, more reserved but no less genuine, even as he felt the odd pull of his new, still healing forehead scar from the expression.

“Thank you for helping us Franky,” Yor followed them into the apartment with Bond on a leash, moving stiffly from her own bullet wound and still healing ribs.

“No- hrrk -problem!” Franky grunted as he hauled the chest containing Yor’s weaponry behind him, dragging it into the living room before collapsing beside it.

“Do you," he took a gasping breath, "-Want this anywhere specific?” the man eked out, panting heavily, but Yor shook her head.

“That’ll be fine for tonight!”

“Thank you, Franky,” Loid added, and Franky gave them a thumbs up before pulling himself to his feet and brushing himself off.

“I’ll be off. If you need anything else, just call, and DON’T just come barging in, I'm gettin' tired of random drop ins,”

Loid nodded, “We will,”

“Have a good evening Franky,”

“Bye Uncle Scruffy!” Anya waved cheerily to the departing man.

The instant the door shut, Yor crossed the distance, pulling Loid into a hug and peppering Anya’s face with kisses. Loid returned the embrace, careful of his wife’s still tender ribs, reveling in the way Anya giggled at her mother’s affection before planting a kiss of his own in Yor’s hair.

Anya screeched in delight, and Yor’s face promptly turned a shade of red that matched her sweater.

“L-Loid!” she stammered as her hug briefly became a crushing grip.

“Mama, don’t crush Papa!”

“Sorry!”

“It’s ok,” Loid wheezed, ignoring his now aching ribs to pull Yor closer, “I just wanted to kiss you,”

“Mama and Papa are flirting!” Anya giggled, genuine wonder and elation replacing the usual mischief in her voice, and Loid basked in the sound, and he and Yor blushed, for once not denying the accusation.

“I suppose we are,” Loid murmured, shooting a furtive gaze to his blushing wife. His eyes met hers, and bashful but warm smiles crossed both their faces.

“But we sh-should talk,” Yor stammered.

And what things they have to talk about, Loid thought as Anya turned solemn. They have to talk about their family. They have to talk about being honest with each other. They have to talk about Yuri. They have to talk t o Yuri. They have to talk about Eden. They have to talk about their jobs, their bosses, and their apparent new partnership. They have to talk about the shape of Operation STRIX going forward.

They have to talk about them .

But Anya took priority.

“We should, but how about we clean ourselves up first?”

---

They shared Loid’s bed that night, pillows set up to accommodate their various injuries, Bond at his feet, Yor tucked into his side and Anya splayed across his chest in a matter that reminds him of pictures of parents with babies.

And they talked, Anya slowly, hesitantly, but steadfastly recounting Operation STRIX from her perspective, her little fist clenched around one of their fingers at all times as another cards through her hair or provides a warm presence on her back.

And as she spoke, Loid couldn’t help but find himself horrified by the lengths with which she got involved with both their professions. Befriending Damian Desmond, the bomb threat that netted them Bond, the mess of the Princess Lorelei, which was worse than he could even imagine.

Compared to the sheer familiarity she had with the gruesomeness of their lives of work, the tragedies and the traumas, the fact that Bond could apparently see the future seemed like a minor shock.

To be fair, Bond was also a Subject of Project: APPLE, so that made…a sort of sense.

But a bolt of sadness carved its way through him at the realization that she had not only been exposed to, but acclimated to such horrors at five years old, and hot shame trailed in its wake as it struck him just how badly he’d failed at keeping her safe.

A glance towards the trembling and teary-eyed Yor suggested she felt the same.

Fu-frick they’re terrible.

“No!” Anya protested, reminding them that yes, she can read minds. Experiencing it in person is a different matter altogether from just hearing about it. 

It seemed like such a wonderful and terrible thing.

“You’re the best parents! A perfect 100 points!” tears were welling at the corners of her eyes and both of them moved to comfort her.

“Oh, Anya,” Yor sniffled, rubbing her back, “We just want to protect you, and it’s scary knowing we didn’t,”

Anya sniffled, “You don’t have to worry, Anya’s brave,”

“You shouldn’t have to be,” the words slipped from Loid’s slips before he even finished thinking them, his hand pinning Yor’s to Anya’s back, his thumb stroking the space between her shoulder blades, anchoring himself with the feel of his wife's hand and the body heat of his daughter. “Not like this.”

Not at her age. Loid was a cynic, and knew that exposure to the darker, crueler sides of life was more often a matter of when than if .

But not at Anya’s age. First graders shouldn’t have that bravery, shouldn’t know such cruelty, they should be safe under the protection of their parents.

But Anya had known such cruelties, developed such courage before she’d even injected herself into Twilight’s mission.

He couldn’t protect her back then, hell, he couldn’t even protect her a few days ago.

That needed to change.

“Anya, going forward, please tell us if you know something’s amiss,”

“I think that should apply to all of us,” Yor added, “No lies, no keeping secrets until someone gets hurt. We don’t want you in danger again,”

Anya’s lip wobbled, “I’m sorry,”

Yor smiled, “Don’t be, it’s done now, and I know you helped us in the past,”

“I might have died if you hadn’t written that warning,” Loid admitted, pulling Anya up his chest until she could bury her face in his shoulder and Yor could press kisses into her hair.

“We love you Anya,” Yor whispered, “Let us keep you safe like how you kept us safe,”

“And the mish-un?”

Another bolt of guilt, “Don’t worry about that Anya, just focus on having fun, making friends, being a kid. You deserve that,”

He felt Anya nod into his shoulder, and he carded his fingers through her hair.

“You’re not gonna leave Anya right?” the question was so quiet, and Anya's voice so tiny, that Loid nearly missed it, but it rang as loud as a gunshot in the silence of their bedroom, and Loid felt his heart break.

Yor made a wounded noise, “No baby, never,”

Loid wanted to echo that promise but it was then that the sheer precarious nature of their new dynamic struck him like a sledgehammer.

And so he made another, “I love you too much to leave. I’ll stay with you for as long as possible.” 

He just hoped that meant the rest of a long, well spent life.

~ FIN ~