Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Chapter 1: Footnotes

The coffee shop hummed quietly, the low hiss of steam from the espresso machine mingling with the occasional murmur of conversation. Commander John Smith sat in his usual corner, the mug of coffee in front of him untouched. His gaze wandered lazily to the window, where floodlights illuminated the stark edges of the outpost against the artificial night sky.

“Mind if I join?” Liter’s voice broke through the haze of his thoughts.

He glanced up to see her standing there, a steaming cup of tea in her hands. Small as she was, she carried an air of authority that made people instinctively step aside. Without waiting for an answer, she slid into the chair across from him, setting her mug down with a quiet clink.

“Rough day?” John asked, his lips quirking into an easy smirk.

“Same as always,” Liter replied, sighing as she leaned back in her chair. “Spent the whole day explaining to rookies why you can’t just slap a generator anywhere and expect it to work. Apparently, basic structural knowledge is optional these days.”

John chuckled. “Sounds like job security.”

“Job security I didn’t ask for,” Liter muttered, blowing on her tea. “What about you? Heard you had a little fun out there today.”

“Fun’s one way to put it,” John said, shrugging. “Rapi might call it reckless. I prefer the term.. efficient”

“Efficient,” Liter said dryly, raising an eyebrow. “That’s what you’d call it?”

“Yeah,” John confirmed with a faint grin. “If it works, it works.”

“For now,” Liter countered, her tone sharpening. “But you can’t keep relying on things just working out. What happens if one day they don’t? What happens if you get yourself killed being reckless?”

John leaned back, folding his arms. “Then I’m dead. Problem solved.”

Her eyes narrowed. “And the people you leave behind? What happens to them?”

“They move on,” John replied casually. “People usually do.”

Liter let out a frustrated sigh, setting her mug down harder than she intended. “You can’t seriously believe that.”

“Why not?” John asked, his tone still light. “The future’s not guaranteed. Worrying about it seems like a waste of energy when you might not even get there.”

“It's not worrying, John,” Liter said, her voice firm. “That’s laying the groundwork. If you don’t think about what you leave behind, it’s not just your story that disappears—it’s the example you set for others.”

John tilted his head, intrigued. “An example, huh? You think people are looking to me for that?”

“Whether you want them to or not, they are,” Liter said. “You lead people. They watch you, they learn from you. What you do—how you live, how you fight—leaves a mark on them, whether you care about it or not.”

John’s smirk faded slightly, his expression turning thoughtful. “Sounds like you’ve got a story to go with that.”

“I do,” Liter said quietly. She picked up her tea, staring into the swirling liquid. “My old commander, Josh Humett. He saved my life. He saved a lot of lives. But he was reckless. Lived in the moment, thought doing the right thing in the here and now was enough. And then he was gone.”

John didn’t interrupt, sensing the weight of her words.

“The Central Government didn’t care about what he did,” she continued. “They looked at his record, decided there was nothing worth remembering, and let his name fade into a footnote. Worse, they spread lies—said he embezzled, harassed Nikkes. I was the only one left who knew the truth, and no one listened.”

“That doesn’t change what he did,” John said quietly. “The people he saved. That’s what matters.”

“You’re right, it doesn’t change that,” Liter agreed. “But it does change what came after. If people don’t know his story, they don’t learn from it. They don’t know what it means to stand for something, to do what’s right, even if it costs you. That’s the legacy he should’ve left, but he didn’t.”

John’s gaze drifted to his mug, his fingers tapping against the side. “You’re saying the legacy isn’t for me—it’s for the ones still here.”

“Exactly,” Liter said, leaning forward. “You might not care about being remembered, but what you do echoes in the people who survive you. The example you set doesn’t just end with you—it carries on, for better or worse.”

For a moment, John was silent. He ran a hand through his hair, then looked back at her with a faint smile. “You make a good point.”

Liter blinked, caught off guard by the concession. “Wait, really?”

“Don’t get used to it,” John said, smirking again. “I still don’t care if people remember my name, but I get what you’re saying. If how I live now helps someone down the line, I’ll take that.”

“It’s a start,” Liter said, smiling faintly. “Maybe there’s hope for you yet.”

She stood, picking up her tea. “Just don’t make a habit of leaving too soon, alright? Whether you like it or not, people are watching.”

John watched her walk away, her small frame weaving through the bustling shop. He leaned back in his chair, his smirk fading into something softer.

“Legacy,” he murmured to himself, picking up his mug.

He took a sip of his coffee. It was cold, but somehow, he didn’t mind.

Chapter Text

Chapter 2: Bodycount

John’s office was unusually quiet, save for the faint scratch of pen on paper as he worked through the latest stack of reports. His coffee sat cold on the desk, untouched, but he didn’t notice—or care. He was just starting to enjoy the calm when a soft, overly cheerful knock broke the silence.

John sighed. That kind of knock could only mean trouble. “Come in.”

The door creaked open, and Emma’s bright smile lit up the room before she even stepped inside. A basket, covered with a checkered cloth, rested in her hands. Behind her followed Eunhwa, scowling as usual, and Vesti, who lingered just inside the doorway, her hands twitching nervously at her sides.

“Commander!” Emma chirped, stepping forward with enthusiasm. “We brought you a treat!”

John raised an eyebrow, his gaze flicking to the basket. “A treat? What’s the occasion?”

“No occasion,” Emma said, setting the basket on his desk with a flourish. “I just thought you deserved something nice. I baked these myself.”

Eunhwa grimaced, crossing her arms as she leaned against the wall. “She’s been baking all morning. The kitchen somehow survived.”

“Eunhwa!” Emma turned to glare at her. “You’re supposed to be supportive.”

“I am. I supported not eating any of them,” Eunhwa shot back, deadpan.

John chuckled. “You didn’t try them?”

“I’m not suicidal, dumbass,” Eunhwa muttered.

Undeterred, Emma whipped off the cloth, revealing a collection of cookies that could only be described as... unique. Some were burnt, others undercooked, and one had a concerning greenish hue. John squinted, leaning slightly closer, unsure if it was a cookie or an alien life form.

“Go on, try one!” Emma said, clasping her hands together with an expectant smile.

John glanced at Eunhwa, who was already shaking her head, and then at Vesti, who looked like she wanted to bolt. Against his better judgment, he reached for the least-threatening cookie—a small, round one that looked vaguely edible.

The moment he bit into it, alarms blared in his brain. The texture was impossible to describe, somewhere between wet cardboard and dried glue, with a gritty crunch that made no sense. The flavor was worse: overwhelmingly sweet, then jarringly salty, with a bizarre aftertaste of something that might’ve been garlic. Years of suppressing emotion under duress were all that kept his face neutral.

“Well?” Emma asked eagerly, her eyes sparkling with anticipation.

John swallowed with great effort, setting the cookie back on the desk. “It’s... nice.”

Emma beamed. “I knew you’d like it!”

John discreetly set the cookie down, quickly reaching for his mug of coffee. Anything to wash away the taste that lingered like an unwelcome guest. Just as he picked it up, his phone buzzed against the desk, the screen lighting up briefly with a notification. He glanced at it but made no move to pick it up, setting his coffee back down after taking a large gulp.

Emma, always quick to notice, narrowed her eyes like a cat catching movement in the corner of its vision. “Ooh, Commander,” she teased, leaning forward with a playful grin. “Who’s texting you? Is it your girlfriend?”

John snorted, rolling his eyes. “I don’t have a girlfriend.”

Emma gasped dramatically, her free hand flying to her chest as if he’d just confessed to a crime. “No girlfriend? A handsome Commander like you? That’s hard to believe!”

“Completely single,” John replied casually, leaning back in his chair. He glanced briefly at Vesti, who had frozen mid-fidget. Her wide eyes blinked up at him, and a faint pink flush crept across her cheeks. She quickly looked down, her fingers curling against the hem of her jacket as she tried to compose herself.

Oblivious, John turned his attention back to Emma. “Not exactly a priority right now.”

“Hmm,” Emma said, tapping her chin theatrically. “Maybe you’re just picky. Come on, what’s your type?”

“Alive,” John deadpanned without hesitation.

Emma burst out laughing, nearly spilling her tea. “That’s it? Alive? You’re not exactly setting the bar high there, Commander.”

John smirked. “I'm not really that picky.”

Emma shook her head, still giggling, but her teasing didn’t stop. “Alright, Mr. Low Standards. Let’s get serious. What’s your body count?”

John frowned slightly, his brow furrowing. “Body count?” He gave it a moment’s thought, then shrugged. “Somewhere over thirty. Stopped keeping track a while ago.”

The room fell into an almost tangible silence.

Emma’s laughter stopped mid-breath, her smile frozen in place. “O-Over thirty?” she repeated, her voice faltering.

Vesti’s expression crumbled like a house of cards. Her hopeful demeanor shattered, and she slumped back against the wall as if the weight of his words had physically hit her. Her hands trembled, and her lips parted slightly, but no words came out. She looked one step away from tears.

Eunhwa’s scowl deepened into something far more severe, her arms crossing tightly over her chest. “You’re disgusting,” she muttered, her voice dripping with disdain.

“What?” John asked, blinking in confusion. He looked around at their horrified faces. “What are you talking about?”

“How can you just… admit that?” Emma stammered, her cheeks flushed a deep red. “So casually?!”

John tilted his head, genuinely puzzled. “Admit what?”

“That you—you—” Emma struggled for words, her hands flailing slightly. “That you’ve slept with that many people!”

John stared at her blankly for a long moment. “What?”

Eunhwa jabbed a finger in his direction. “Don’t play dumb, dumbass. You said it yourself—over thirty.”

“I said body count,” John replied slowly, still trying to piece together their reaction.

“Exactly!” Eunhwa exclaimed, her voice an octave higher than usual.

John opened his mouth to argue, then stopped. Realization hit him like a hammer. His shoulders sagged, and he pinched the bridge of his nose. “Oh, for— That’s not what I meant.”

“Then what did you mean?” Eunhwa demanded, her tone sharp and accusatory.

John sighed, leaning back in his chair and rubbing the back of his neck. “Doesn’t matter.”

“It absolutely matters!” Eunhwa said, leaning over his desk, her face in a deep scowl. “You can’t just drop a number like that and not explain!”

"I misunderstood," John fixed her with a tired look. “One. My body count is one.”

The room fell silent again, though this time the tension shifted to awkward confusion. Emma blinked, her eyes widening as she processed his clarification. Vesti, who had looked ready to cry moments earlier, let out a shaky sigh of relief, though she still refused to meet anyone’s gaze. Eunhwa, however, narrowed her eyes suspiciously.

“Are you messing with me?” she asked, her tone skeptical.

“No,” John said flatly. “One. That’s it.”

Eunhwa studied him for a long moment before letting out a disgusted scoff. “Dumbass.”

“Noted,” John said dryly, watching as she turned for the door. Emma followed, shooting him an awkward but warm smile.

“Thanks for trying the cookies, Commander!” she said as she exited. “I’ll make a bigger batch next time—I promise!”

“Looking forward to it,” John replied, his tone laced with barely contained worry.

The door clicked shut, and John let out a long breath, finally leaning back in his chair. Peace at last.

Or so he thought. Muffled voices carried through the thin walls, breaking the quiet.

“Wait,” Eunhwa’s sharp tone cut through. “What did he mean by over thirty?”

Chapter Text

Chapter 3: Hand to hand

The sharp thuds of fists meeting focus mitts echoed in the training room, punctuated by Neon’s enthusiastic grunts. John stood firm at the center, bracing for each of her punches. Her strikes were energetic but all over the place, veering between aggressive swings and chaotic flails.

“Keep your guard up,” John said, shifting the mitts to guide her strikes. “And stop trying to take my arms off with every swing. This is about precision, not brute force.”

Neon paused, lowering her fists to wipe her brow. “But Master, isn’t overwhelming firepower the ultimate technique? Why punch when I can just blast them with my shotgun?”

John smirked. “True, you’re great with that shotgun. No one’s arguing. But what if you’re in close quarters and can’t fire?”

Neon tilted her head, the concept seemingly alien. “Uh... bash them with my shotgun?”

John sighed but nodded. “Not the worst answer, but melee combat’s more than gunbashing. That’s why we’re doing this.”

Neon glanced around the room. “Okay, but why just me? Where’re Rapi and Anis?”

“Rapi’s a natural,” John explained, lowering the mitts. “She’s well-trained in martial arts and doesn’t need much from me. Anis is a solid boxer, though her southpaw stance baffles me—she’s right-handed—but she needs grappling work.”

“And me?” Neon asked, hands on her hips.

“You,” John said with a pointed look, “suck at everything except smashing people with your shotgun.”

Neon blinked, then broke into a grin. “But I’m really good at that, right?”

John sighed. “Yes, Neon. You’re really good at smashing people with your shotgun. But you need versatility. If someone takes your weapon, what’s your plan?”

She thought for a moment, then raised a fist. “Uh... punch them?”

“Exactly. But if you’re going to punch, do it right. That’s why we’re starting with the basics.”

Neon nodded enthusiastically, throwing a wild punch at the air. “Got it, Master! I’ll get so good at fisting that—”

John dropped the mitts, his palm meeting his face. “Neon. No. Just… no.”

“No what?” she asked, blinking in confusion.

“Don’t call it that,” John said, his voice flat, muffled slightly by his hand. “Please.”

Neon tilted her head, her face scrunching in thought. “Why not? It’s accurate. I mean, I’m using my fists, so it’s fisting power, right?”

John groaned audibly, dragging a hand down his face. “Neon, for everyone’s sake, find literally any other way to phrase that.”

She stared at him for a moment, then shrugged. “Whatever you say, Master!” Her grin returned as she raised her fists. “But I’m still going to increase my fisting power!”

Chapter Text

Chapter 4: Fire and frost

The wind howled through the broken remains of the building, a biting, relentless force that clawed at the shattered windows and seeped through the cracks in the walls. Snow had piled up in the corners where the roof had caved in, the dim glow of moonlight barely cutting through the darkness beyond.

Inside, the cold sat heavy, clinging to exposed skin like an unwelcome guest. A single lantern flickering beside him cast long, wavering shadows on the walls.

John sat on an overturned crate near the center of the room, his coat pulled tightly around him. He exhaled slowly, watching his breath curl in the frigid air, his fingers absently rolling a battered silver flask between them. His mind was unsettled, weighed down by thoughts he couldn’t quite shake.

"Aye, Commander," came a voice, smooth and lilting, carrying a warmth that stood in defiance of the bitter cold. "Thou dost sit as one burdened, as though the very heavens themselves lay their weight upon thy shoulders."

John looked up. Scarlet stood before him, her long white hair billowing slightly as she stepped into the lantern’s glow. In one hand, she held a dark glass bottle.

"Wouldst thou drink?" she asked, extending it toward him. "Sake, of mine own making. ‘Tis said to warm the soul, as fire doth thaw the frozen earth."

John eyed the bottle, then her. "Appreciate the offer," he said, shifting slightly. "But I don’t drink sake."

Scarlet arched a delicate brow, lowering herself onto a nearby piece of broken furniture. "Oh? A most curious refusal. Pray tell, dost thou scorn it for its taste, or for the memories it doth summon?"

John didn’t answer right away. Instead, he slipped a hand into his coat and pulled out his flask. Twisting off the cap with a practiced motion, he took a swig, the vodka burning its way down his throat like a lit match dropped in oil. He exhaled sharply, letting the heat settle in his stomach before answering.

"It’s not about the taste," he said finally.

Scarlet watched him for a moment, then extended her hand. "Then might I sample thy poison in kind?"

Wordlessly, John handed her the flask. She accepted it with both hands, lifting it to her lips with the same grace as if she were drinking from the finest crystal goblet. The moment the vodka hit her tongue, however, her expression flickered—just for an instant. A twitch at the corner of her mouth, a slow blink as the fire raked down her throat. She exhaled sharply, as if expelling a demon.

"By mine oath," she murmured, handing the flask back, "this drink doth seek to murder me."

John smirked. "It does the job."

Scarlet let out a soft chuckle, shaking her head as she uncorked her own bottle. "Thou art a man of peculiar tastes, Commander. But as thou hast shared thy flame, I would have thee taste of mine own craft."

John hesitated, but fair was fair. He accepted the bottle, lifting it to his lips. The sake was smooth, almost too smooth—mildly sweet, with a floral undercurrent that he found oddly jarring. He swallowed, then handed it back, shaking his head.

"Not for me," he muttered.

Scarlet studied him, tilting her head slightly. "Curious. And yet thou dost endure that which sears the tongue and scalds the throat."

John rolled the flask absently in his hands, his gaze fixed on the wall ahead. "Still tastes like bad memories," he admitted.

Scarlet regarded him in silence. The lantern’s light flickered between them, casting soft shadows over her porcelain features. A question lingered in the air, but she did not ask it. Whatever ghosts haunted his cup, she knew better than to pry.

Instead, she took another sip of her sake, her voice softer now. "One day, mayhap thou wilt share the ghosts that linger in thy cup."

John exhaled a quiet chuckle, shaking his head. "Maybe. But not tonight."

Scarlet offered a small, knowing smile before raising her bottle slightly in a silent toast. John did the same, the soft clink of glass and metal echoing in the empty space.

Outside, the wind howled once more, but inside, the cold felt just a little less heavy.

Chapter Text

Chapter 5: Professionalism Under Fire

The office was dead quiet except for the occasional scratch of pen on paper and the rhythmic tapping of fingers against a keyboard. The dull glow of a desk lamp barely illuminated the mountain of paperwork spread between John and Rapi.

For the past two hours, they had been reviewing mission reports, logistics forms, and requisition requests—mind-numbing work that neither of them particularly enjoyed, but it had to be done.

John exhaled, rubbing his temple as he leaned back slightly. “I swear, half these forms exist just to test my patience.”

“Paperwork is essential for maintaining structure within the chain of command,” Rapi replied, not looking up from the document she was reviewing. “Skipping protocol leads to inefficiency.”

“Right, because nothing says ‘efficiency’ like filling out three different reports for the same ammo resupply,” John muttered, reaching for his coffee cup without looking.

It was a mistake.

His elbow clipped the edge of the mug, sending it tumbling forward. The dark liquid spilled instantly, splashing across his desk—unfortunately, a good portion of it also landed squarely on him.

John hissed as the hot liquid seeped through his shirt. “Son of a—”

Rapi looked up, her expression remaining neutral despite the minor chaos unfolding before her. “Commander, that was careless.”

“Yeah, thanks for the observation, Rapi,” John deadpanned as he stood up. He grabbed a napkin, but the stain had already settled deep into the fabric. “Great. It’s all over.”

Without much thought, he reached for the hem of his shirt and pulled it off, tossing it aside as he moved to grab a clean one from his locker.

That was when Rapi froze.

It happened instantly. The moment his shirt was gone, her mind short-circuited.

She had never seen him without his clothes before.

Of course, she knew John was fit—he was a soldier, after all—but this was not what she expected. His lean frame hid an impressive fighter’s build, every muscle defined with a natural, effortless sharpness that spoke of years of close-combat training. His shoulders were broad, his arms thick with muscle, and his abdomen—

Focus.

Rapi’s fingers twitched slightly as she forced herself to return to her paperwork. This is unprofessional.

She was not staring. She was simply… analyzing. Yes. Assessing the physical capabilities of her commander. Nothing more.

John, completely unaware of the existential crisis happening beside him, casually wiped the remaining coffee from his torso with a napkin.

Rapi cleared her throat, attempting to speak in her usual tone. “You… should be more careful.”

John glanced over at her. “You okay?”

Rapi’s grip on her pen tightened. “I am fine.”

She was absolutely not fine.

Her eyes briefly flickered to his biceps as he moved, the way they flexed effortlessly when he reached for his spare shirt. Unacceptable. She had been through grueling missions, faced down overwhelming enemy forces, maintained composure under pressure. She refused to be thrown off by something as irrelevant as—

John caught her staring.

“Something wrong?” he asked, brow raised.

Rapi blinked. The gears in her mind jammed.

She needed a response. Something natural. Professional.

“…Muscles.”

John tilted his head. “Huh?”

Rapi internally screamed.

That was not an appropriate response.

She immediately tried to correct course. “Your musculature. It is…” She paused. “…Efficient.”

John blinked.

Rapi kept her face neutral, though the temperature in the room suddenly felt warmer. She forced her gaze back to the documents, gripping her pen like it was a lifeline.

John, meanwhile, was still trying to process what just happened.

“Uh… thanks?” he said, pulling on his clean shirt. “I guess?”

Rapi nodded stiffly, flipping a page as if nothing had happened. “You may continue.”

John sat back down, watching her for a moment. “…You sure you’re good?”

“I said you may continue,” Rapi repeated, her tone clipped, but was her voice slightly higher than usual?

John narrowed his eyes. He had never seen Rapi this tense before. A small smirk tugged at the corner of his lips.

“…You like muscles, don’t you?”

Rapi’s pen snapped in half.

“End of discussion,” she said immediately, grabbing another pen and desperately focusing on the paperwork.

John leaned back in his chair, a knowing grin on his face as he resumed signing off on reports.

The rest of the evening was quiet.

But every now and then, John would shift slightly in his chair—just enough for the fabric of his shirt to stretch against his frame.

And if Rapi’s gaze occasionally flickered in his direction before snapping back to her work at lightning speed, well…

That was her business.

Chapter Text

Chapter 6: Training

Privaty marched through the outpost, her mind set on one thing—finding Rapi and finally scoring a win against her.

For too long, their so-called “rivalry” had been one-sided. 21 to 0. Twenty-one losses. Zero wins. Zero.

That was unacceptable.

She clenched her fists, determination burning in her chest. Today, things would change. Today, she would challenge Rapi to a proper fight and win.

She spotted her near the training area, standing by the entrance, stretching. The sign on the door showed that it had been booked for martial arts training.

That gave Privaty pause.

Rapi didn’t need training in martial arts. She was already one of the best in hand-to-hand combat. So why—?

Privaty furrowed her brow. Suspicious.

She stormed up to her. “Oi, Rapi! What are you doing?”

Rapi didn’t even glance at her. “Training.”

Privaty squinted. Yeah, no shit.

She crossed her arms. “Why? You don’t need it.”

"One must always maintain their skills," Rapi answered smoothly.

Privaty narrowed her eyes. “Uh-huh. I call bullshit.”

Before she could press further, she heard a low, controlled grunt from inside the training area. She glanced past Rapi—

And froze.

John was inside the gym, training.

Shirtless.

Her brain short-circuited.

John was... muscular.

Really muscular.

Privaty had never thought much about his body before. His face? It was fine. Not ugly, not model-tier. Just normal.

But his body?

That was not normal.

The way his muscles flexed as he moved, the sheer definition of his arms, shoulders, and back—Privaty felt something dangerous forming in the pit of her stomach.

This wasn’t just a strong build. This was a fighter’s body. Every movement was controlled, efficient, a perfect blend of power and precision.

Privaty stared.

She wasn’t the only one.

She glanced at Rapi—who was also staring.

Not obviously. Not overtly. But Privaty could see it.

Rapi’s fingers twitched slightly, her normally neutral expression too composed, her stance too still.

It hit her all at once.

This.

This was why she was here.

Privaty almost choked on air.

"You—oh my god," she hissed, stepping closer to Rapi. "You're not here to train."

Rapi blinked. "I do not know what you are referring to."

Liar.

Privaty’s voice lowered. "You came here just to watch him train, didn’t you?"

Rapi remained stone-faced. "Training is important for maintaining peak performance."

Privaty could not believe this. Rapi, the most professional person in the squad, the one who always acted like she was above distractions—was actually standing here, thirsting over the Commander’s muscles.

The worst part?

Privaty got it now.

Because she was also staring.

Her heart hammered in her chest as she snuck another glance at John. How the hell had she never noticed this before?!

The way his back muscles shifted when he moved, the effortless flex of his arms, the light sheen of sweat on his skin—Privaty swallowed hard.

Rapi was stoic, but Privaty was not prepared for this.

“Holy shit,” she muttered under her breath, looking away way too fast and regretting it immediately.

John turned toward them, wiping sweat off his face with a towel. “You two just gonna stand there, or are you here to actually train?”

Privaty jumped. "Uh—training! Yes! That's why I'm here!"

Rapi, to her credit, recovered instantly. "I am ready."

Privaty felt betrayed by how calm she sounded. Meanwhile, she could still feel the heat on her face.

John raised an eyebrow at her. "You good?"

"I—I'm fine!" Privaty snapped, crossing her arms. "I just—I just didn’t expect you to be so—so—"

She cut herself off before she said something stupid.

John frowned. “So what?”

"Nothing!" Privaty forced herself to look away.

John shrugged. “Alright, whatever. Get ready.”

As he turned back toward the training mats, Privaty exhaled slowly, desperately trying to get her heartbeat under control.

Beside her, Rapi was eerily quiet.

Chapter Text

Chapter 7: Ships in the night

The Admire was a marvel of naval engineering, a symbol of humanity’s will to command the seas.

Shame it had never touched one.

John leaned against the cold railing of the ship’s outer deck, Vodka bottle in hand that he had commandeered from the bar, watching the dark water of the Ark’s oversized tank ripple beneath artificial currents. The air was crisp, a welcome contrast to the stifling heat of politics and pretense that filled the ship’s ballroom behind him.

Another sip. Another burn down his throat. Another reminder of why he hated these kinds of events.

Lavish displays. Empty promises. Hollow gestures wrapped in expensive fabric.

This wasn’t about security. This was posturing.

It always was.

"You certainly drink like a soldier."

John turned his head slightly.

Helm.

Posture rigid, uniform pristine, expression controlled. She stood beside him with the kind of composed elegance that came from a life of strict discipline.

She wasn’t mingling. She was watching.

And she hated what she saw.

John smirked, swirling the whiskey in his glass. “You’re working too hard for someone at their own party.”

Helm arched a brow. “And you’re indulging too much for someone attending as a guest.”

John let out a low chuckle. “That’s the only way to survive something like this.”

She gave him a long look. “You dislike parties?.”

John scoffed. “I dislike politics.”

Helm was silent for a moment before exhaling through her nose, turning her gaze toward the water. “And yet, here you are.”

John followed her stare to the dark surface below. It felt suffocating. A warship without a war. A commander without a battle.

“Had to show up,” he muttered. “It was either this or get a lecture from Andersen about ‘understanding the system.’”

Helm hummed in acknowledgment. "He’s not wrong."

John took another sip. “Depends on how much you like swallowing bullshit.”

Helm’s jaw tensed slightly. He caught it—the subtle clench, the way her fingers curled at her sides. She wasn’t just enduring this party.

She resented it.

"You don’t like this either," he said. It wasn’t a question.

Helm didn’t look at him. "It’s necessary."

John studied her. "Why?"

"The Admire requires funding," she said simply. "Funding comes from those who attend these gatherings."

John rolled his glass between his fingers. "And do you really think the Admire is needed?"

Helm turned to him then. Her blue eyes sharp, unwavering.

"Yes," she said firmly.

John raised a brow. "You sure about that? From where I’m standing, she’s a ballroom with a hull."

Helm’s lips pressed together. "Do you think war will never touch the seas again?"

John didn’t answer immediately.

"One day," Helm continued, stepping closer, her voice measured but intense, "humanity will reclaim what was lost. And when that day comes, we will need a navy."

John watched her carefully. There was no hesitation in her tone. No uncertainty.

"All forces are necessary, Commander," Helm said. "Infantry. Artillery. Air support. The same is true for a navy. We may not have our ocean yet, but when we do, the Admire will be the first to sail."

John expected the usual rhetoric. The kind of flowery justification that bureaucrats used to defend projects they knew were doomed from the start.

But Helm wasn’t a bureaucrat.

She believed every word she said.

And for the first time that night, John felt something shift.

He had spent too long seeing through the lies of politicians, the self-serving machinations of those who hid behind soldiers while making empty speeches about sacrifice.

But Helm wasn’t hiding.

She wasn’t selling him a dream.

She was staking her future on it.

John exhaled slowly. "You know, I was expecting some kind of excuse. A way to justify all this as ‘just politics.’ But you really believe it, huh?"

"I do," Helm said without hesitation.

John leaned against the railing, eyes flickering toward the ballroom. He still hated this place. Still hated the people in it.

But Helm?

He could respect her.

“…Shit,” he muttered, dragging a hand through his hair. "Now I feel bad for drinking through all this."

Helm smirked, just slightly. "I believe in discipline, but I’m not without indulgence."

John turned to her, eyebrow raised. "Oh?"

Without a word, Helm reached for his vodka bottle.

John let her take it.

She poured herself a drink, a small one, measured, controlled—and took a sip.

She barely flinched at the burn.

John smirked. "Respect.”

Helm set the glass down. "Try not to fall overboard, Commander."

John chuckled, shaking his head as she strode away, posture perfect, unwavering.

Maybe this party wasn’t completely terrible after all.

Chapter Text

Chapter 8: Persistence hunter

Her first attempt came after a successful mission. John and Sugar had just finished dealing with a pack of Raptures, and now they were winding down in the outpost’s armory, checking their weapons for wear and tear.

Sugar, as always, was effortlessly composed, leaning against the table with her signature cup of sugar-loaded coffee in hand.

She took a slow sip, her eyes flicking toward John as he methodically wiped down his sidearm.

“Hey, Partner,” she drawled. “How about a reward?”

John didn’t look up. “For what?”

“For doing such a fine job out there,” she said smoothly. “You know, shooting, driving, keeping you safe, the usual.”

John clicked the slide of his gun back into place. “And what exactly do you want?”

She tapped her lower lip lightly with one finger, tilting her head. “A kiss oughta do it.”

John finally looked at her, his expression unreadable.

Then, in one smooth motion, he reached forward—and Sugar felt a flick of pressure on her forehead.

A flick.

Not a kiss.

Her eyebrow twitched.

John leaned back, unimpressed. “Try again later.”

Sugar sighed dramatically, taking another sip of her coffee. “Tch. Cold as ever.”

-

The second attempt came early the next morning.

John was already awake, standing outside the barracks, watching the sunrise with a steaming cup of black coffee in his hand.

Sugar strolled up beside him, calm as ever, her own coffee in hand—though hers was practically more sugar than caffeine.

She took a sip before glancing over at him. “I’ve been thinking, Partner.”

“That’s dangerous.”

She smirked. “About fairness.”

John took a slow sip of his coffee, waiting.

“You see,” Sugar continued, “every time we finish a mission, you get all the credit. ‘Great job, Commander.’ ‘Nice work, Commander.’ But what about me?”

“You want a medal?”

She hummed. “Something smaller. More personal.”

John sighed. “You’re gonna say ‘a kiss,’ aren’t you?”

“You catch on quick.”

John exhaled, shaking his head. “Not happening.”

Sugar chuckled, tilting her cup toward him slightly. “Figured. Thought I’d give it a shot anyway.”

John smirked. He had to respect the persistence.

-

The third time, Sugar decided to up the stakes.

John was working late, sorting through reports at his desk when Sugar casually strolled in, setting her coffee down beside his pile of paperwork.

Without hesitation, she leaned in, resting one hand on the desk as she peered at the documents.

“Lots of work, huh?” she mused, taking another sip of coffee.

John didn’t even blink. “That tends to happen when you’re in charge.”

She tapped a finger against his desk. “I think you need a break.”

John didn’t look up. “Oh yeah?”

“A small one,” she said, voice smooth as ever. “You know what I’m about to ask, don’t you?”

John sighed, finally meeting her gaze.

He set his pen down, laced his fingers together, and regarded her calmly. “Sugar.”

“Yes, Partner?”

“You ever heard of ‘persistence hunting’?”

Sugar raised an eyebrow. “Can’t say I have.”

“It’s when an animal chases down its prey over long distances until it collapses from exhaustion.”

Her smirk grew. “And you think I’m hunting you?”

“I think,” John said, leaning forward just enough to be in her space, “that you should pace yourself.”

Sugar felt her pulse tick up—just slightly.

Then, as smoothly as ever, John leaned back and picked up his pen again.

“Try again later.”

Sugar chuckled, pushing herself off the desk. “I will.”

-

At this point, Sugar had stopped expecting results.

That didn’t mean she was giving up—just that she had accepted that John was too damn good at brushing her off.

So, this time, she wasn’t trying when she sat across from John in Café Sweety, sipping her ridiculously sugary coffee while he drank his bitter, black excuse for a drink.

“Man,” she mused, idly stirring her drink. “I could really go for something sweet right now.”

John glanced up. “Didn’t you already dump half a bag of sugar in that?”

“Something sweeter,” she said smoothly. Then, almost offhandedly, “How about a kiss?”

John didn’t react. Didn’t smirk, didn’t lean away, didn’t reject her outright.

Instead—

He took her coffee.

Sugar blinked.

John, who had spent weeks refusing to even look at her sugar-abomination of a drink, was drinking it.

One slow, deliberate sip.

Then, before she could even react, he leaned forward and—

Kissed her.

Not teasing. Not hesitant.

It was brief, firm, and bold—just enough to let the coffee-sugar flavor linger between them before he pulled away.

Sugar sat there, completely still, the warmth of his lips fading far too slowly.

John set the cup back down, calm as ever.

“…Too sweet,” he muttered, as if that was the most important thing happening right now.

Sugar’s brain rebooted.

She blinked once. Twice.

Then, finally, she let out a low, amused chuckle, shaking her head.

“Well, damn,” she murmured, licking her lips. “You sure took your sweet time, Partner.”

John shrugged. “Had to make sure the timing was right.”

Sugar leaned back, grinning. “Guess I’ll be asking more often, then.”

John smirked, taking another sip of his coffee.

“Try again later.”

Chapter Text

Chapter 9: Light as a Feather

The command center was quiet, a rarity after a mission. The usual chaos of after-action reports and debriefings had settled into a comfortable lull, leaving only the soft hum of machinery and the occasional flicker of the monitors.

John sat at his desk, sorting through the last of the mission logs, when he heard the unmistakable sound of a bottle being set down a little too hard.

He didn’t need to look up. “Drinking on the job, Anis?”

From her spot at the side of the room, Anis stretched out, lounging in a chair with a half-finished bottle of alcohol in her hand. “Drinking after the job,” she corrected, a lazy smirk playing on her lips. “There’s a difference.”

John finally glanced at her. Her uniform was slightly disheveled, her posture loose, but her eyes were sharp. She wasn’t drunk, at least not yet.

“You celebrating something?” he asked.

Anis swirled the bottle in her hand. “I’m celebrating being alive. Might as well enjoy it while it lasts.”

John exhaled through his nose, not arguing. He knew Anis well enough to recognize her particular brand of humor—the kind that deflected just enough to avoid anything too real.

She tilted her head. “You sure you don’t want some? You look like you could use a drink, big guy.”

John smirked. “I’ll pass.”

Anis let out a dramatic sigh, stretching her arms over her head. “Your loss.”

With that, she got to her feet. Or, at least, she tried to.

The moment she stood up, her boot caught on the leg of the chair.

John barely had time to process it before Anis let out a surprised yelp—

—and promptly ate shit.

Her knees buckled, her balance failed, and she went down fast.

John blinked.

There was a long pause as Anis lay sprawled on the floor, arms stretched out, completely silent.

Then.

“…I meant to do that.”

John snorted.

“Oh yeah?” He leaned back in his chair. “Part of some grand plan?”

Anis lifted her head just enough to glare at him. “Obviously.”

John sighed, shaking his head before standing up.

“C’mon,” he muttered, stepping over to her. “Let’s get you to bed before you hurt yourself even more.”

The moment his hands gripped her waist, Anis felt everything.

Firm. Strong. Effortless.

And then—she was airborne.

John lifted her like she weighed nothing.

For a second, she forgot to react.

She had expected him to struggle—Nikkes were heavy, heavier than humans realized. Their reinforced bodies weren’t exactly easy to just pick up and carry.

But John?

John didn’t even hesitate.

Her hands instinctively found his shoulders, broad and solid beneath his jacket, and her stomach did a very, very stupid flip.

“H-Hey,” she coughed, gripping onto him a little tighter than necessary. “You, uh, you good there? I ain’t exactly—”

John smirked, meeting her eyes with a look far too confident for her liking.

"As light as a feather," he said smoothly.

Bullshit.

She saw the flicker of realization in his eyes halfway through his sentence. He had just remembered exactly how much a Nikke weighed.

But instead of admitting it, he doubled down.

Anis narrowed her eyes.

“…You’re so full of shit.”

John grinned, shifting his grip slightly, closer, firmer, just enough that she felt his fingers press into the curve of her waist.

“You doubting me?” he murmured.

Anis absolutely did not blush.

She was too busy trying to ignore the way her pulse jumped at the tone of his voice.

“…Not at all,” she muttered, trying and failing to keep her voice steady.

John chuckled, then before she could prepare for it, he threw her onto her bed.

Effortless. Again.

Anis bounced, landing in a slightly undignified heap on her mattress.

She blinked, brain taking a second to catch up with reality.

John, meanwhile, dusted his hands off. “There. All tucked in.”

Anis sat up slowly, watching as he turned toward the door. Her heartbeat was faster than it should’ve been.

Not from embarrassment.

Not from alcohol.

But because John had lifted her like it was nothing.

She hadn’t expected that.

She didn’t even realize she’d been staring at his back until he was nearly out the door.

Broad shoulders.

Strong arms.

Firm grip.

A slow, uncharacteristically warm feeling pooled in her stomach.

“…Damn,” she muttered under her breath, running a hand through her hair.

She flopped back onto the bed, throwing an arm over her face.

"That was kinda hot."

Chapter Text

Chapter 10: Negotiations

John didn’t bother knocking.

The door to Dolla’s office slid open smoothly, and the heavy scent of expensive perfume mixed with the sterile cleanliness of polished glass and chrome. The room was sharp, just like her. Everything in its place, every surface meticulously organized, every credit accounted for.

She didn’t even look up from her terminal. “Client. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

John closed the door behind him with a soft click and leaned casually against the frame, arms crossed. “Neon’s tab.”

That got her attention. Dolla’s gaze lifted, the faintest trace of a smirk curving her lips. “Ah, yes. Quite the… enthusiastic customer, isn’t she?”

“Enthusiastic’s one word for it,” John replied coolly. “But I’m starting to think you’re charging her more for her enthusiasm than the actual parts.”

Her smirk widened, slow and deliberate. “Supply and demand, Commander. Neon demands, I supply. You can’t fault me for running a profitable business.”

John pushed off the wall, stepping closer to her desk. “There’s a difference between profit and exploitation.”

Dolla leaned back in her chair, crossing one leg over the other with practiced ease. “Exploitation is such an ugly word. Besides…” her eyes gleamed with playful sharpness “you’re not here for charity, are you?”

John rested his hands on her desk, voice low and steady. “I’m here to clear her debt.”

She tilted her head, amusement flickering across her face. “And what are you offering in return?”

“Nothing,” John said flatly. “You’ll settle it fairly, or I'll start telling every Nikke in the outpost exactly what you’re charging for basic supplies.”

Dolla let out a soft, velvet laugh, leaning forward just enough for her voice to drop into something more intimate. “You’re quick, Commander. I like that.”

John didn’t blink. “Try me.”

There was a brief silence, charged and heavy. Then Dolla’s smile turned predatory. “Fine. I’ll wipe Neon’s debt clean. No strings attached.”

John raised an eyebrow. “That easy?”

“Not exactly.” She stood, circling the desk slowly, heels clicking against the floor. “I’ll clear the tab if you do a small favor for me.”

John turned to face her fully, arms crossing again. “What kind of favor?”

“A little… publicity,” she said smoothly. “You’re popular among the Nikkes. A face they trust. I want that face on my ads—you endorsing my products.”

John’s smirk returned. “You want me to sell your overpriced junk?”

Dolla tsked, stopping just a step too close. “Risque ads, Commander. Tailored for a very specific audience.” Her eyes flickered down his frame, slow and deliberate. “You have… certain assets that would appeal to my clientele.”

John’s voice dropped, dangerously calm. “You’re seriously suggesting I play the poster boy for your little marketing stunt?”

Dolla’s smirk sharpened. “Not just play, Commander. I’ll be personally directing the shoot. I need someone who can follow… instructions.”

The air between them was electric now, tension threading between playful threat and something heavier.

John took a slow breath. “You’re bold.”

“And you’re valuable,” Dolla shot back without missing a beat. “I don’t waste time on bad investments.”

The silence stretched again, unspoken challenges flashing in every glance.

Finally, John leaned in, close enough that his breath brushed against her skin. “Wipe the debt. I’ll do your ads.”

Dolla’s smile returned, slow and triumphant. “Pleasure doing business with you, Commander.”
John turned toward the door, but before he could leave, Dolla’s voice followed him, low, teasing, and laced with just enough promise to linger.

“Oh, and Commander,” she purred, “I hope you’re comfortable taking direction… because I can be very demanding behind the camera.”

John paused, smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. Without turning, he simply said, “I’ll try to keep up.”

Chapter Text

Chapter 11: A Model Student, Allegedly

The classroom was finally quiet, a rare occurrence after a full lesson with the School Circle squad.

John stretched his arms behind his head, mentally preparing to slip out before someone threw more work at him. Teaching wasn’t exactly his dream job, but somehow, he had ended up in a position where his students actually listened to him—well, most of the time.

He was just about to leave when he heard the unmistakable sound of trouble approaching.

“Teacher!”

John turned just in time to see Zwei, Ein, and Rei standing right by his desk, far too eager for his liking.

Sighing, he leaned back slightly. “Something I can help you with?”

Zwei, ever the studious one, adjusted the strap of her bag, looking at him with pure, innocent curiosity. “We were wondering, what kind of student were you when you were our age?”

John blinked.

And just like that, he was violently dragged into a memory he had tried very hard to suppress.

-

John woke up facedown in an alleyway.

This was a problem.

There was a traffic cone on his head. His school tie was missing. His knuckles were bruised. His wallet was nowhere to be found.

The morning sun was just starting to creep into the alley, which meant—

“Shit.”

He staggered to his feet, nearly tripping over a half empty beer can, and stumbled out into the street.

A pair of actual students walked past, staring at him with thinly veiled horror.

“Wait,” one of them whispered. “Is that—”

“Oh my god,” the other muttered. “I thought he got expelled.”

John squinted at them, trying to remember their names and failing.

“…It’s a social experiment,” he mumbled. “Don’t skip class.”

Then he walked off toward school like nothing had happened.

-

John snapped back to the present, blinking at the three girls still staring at him expectantly.

He cleared his throat, forcing down the memory before putting on his most neutral, teacher appropriate expression.

“I studied hard,” he said smoothly. “Listened to my teachers. Always turned in my homework on time. Polite. Respectful.” He nodded sagely, fully committing to the lie. “You should do the same.”

Zwei lit up. "I knew it! You were a model student, Teacher!"

John forced a wise, approving nod. “Of course. Hard work pays off.”

Ein, eyebrows raised to the ceiling, was not buying it.

Rei chewed on her candy stick, staring at him blankly. “Did you ever, like… drink during school hours?”

John’s eye twitched. “Of course not.”

Rei squinted at him, tilting her head. “What about skipping class?”

John’s jaw locked, but he kept his expression smooth. “Never.”

Ein’s grin grew.

Rei nodded slowly, sucking on her candy stick. “How about waking up in an alley?”

John inhaled sharply. “Absolutely not.”

Rei tapped her chin thoughtfully. “How about waking up in an alley with a traffic cone on your head?”

John’s pulse spiked.

The silence that followed was deafening.

Ein was visibly struggling not to laugh, while Zwei was nodding along, completely oblivious to the fact that Rei was somehow guessing suspiciously close to reality.

John, despite being a trained soldier, a hardened fighter, and an expert in keeping his emotions in check, felt a cold sweat crawl down his neck.

“…That’s a very specific scenario, Rei.”

Rei stared directly into his soul. “So you’re saying no, then?”

John exhaled, folding his arms. “Go home, Rei.”

Rei chewed her candy, unbothered. “Huh. Alright.”

Ein and Rei turned to leave, though Ein was still smirking like she knew too much. Zwei, completely unaware of the subtle interrogation that had just taken place, bowed politely.

“Thank you for the lesson, Teacher!”

John watched them go, rubbing his face with one hand.

How the hell had Rei been that accurate?

Was she psychic?

He shook his head, muttering under his breath.

“Damn kids.”

Chapter Text

Chapter 12: A Perfect Performance

The night air was crisp, cold enough to bite at the skin but not enough to be unpleasant. The glow of streetlights stretched long over the pavement, casting shifting shadows as John and D walked side by side.

The dinner had been a performance.

It always was with her.

But as they walked in comfortable silence, something lingered in the air. A thread of tension neither had cut loose yet.

John glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. Perfect posture, flawless poise. Even now, D looked like she belonged in a movie scene, like this was all scripted.

“So?” he finally broke the silence. “How’d I do?”

D hummed, tilting her head as if evaluating him. “Much better than before. You’re learning.”

John let out a quiet chuckle. “That your way of saying I passed?”

Her lips curved, the corner of her mouth barely twitching upward. “I never said that.”

John exhaled through his nose, shaking his head. Figures.

They stopped at a quiet street corner, the only sound around them the distant hum of traffic. D turned slightly to face him, and for the first time, he noticed the way her gaze lingered.

“You weren’t perfect,” she mused softly. “Not entirely.”

John raised a brow. “Oh?”

D tilted her head, studying him. "You tried, of course. Kept up your usual walls, played the role well… But there were moments."

John didn’t move. Didn’t let anything slip.

D, of course, saw through him anyway.

She stepped closer. The scent of violet perfume brushed against him—her unspoken signal. She had told him, back when she was training him, that it was a cue. A reminder to fall into character.

His body reacted on instinct. Relaxed shoulders. Half-lidded gaze. Breathe slower.

Play the part.

But then her fingers brushed his lapel, trailing down lightly.

A calculated move.

A test.

John’s pulse didn’t spike, but his grip around his drink tightened just slightly. “You really commit to the act.”

D smiled, slow and unreadable. “I take my role very seriously.”

John exhaled a quiet chuckle. “So, what else do I still need to practice?”

D didn’t answer.

Not immediately.

And for one fraction of a second, something flickered in her eyes.

Then, she closed the space between them.

Her lips met his, slow and deliberate. John didn’t pull away.

Didn’t hesitate.

But when she finally broke away, there was something smug in her expression, something knowing in the way she watched him.

D’s fingers laced through his, her grip warm, purposeful as she began to guide him forward.

She didn’t look back—she didn’t need to.

“A husband and wife wouldn’t part ways so soon,” she murmured, voice dipping into something silky, teasing. She slowed her step, tilting her head toward a nearby hotel entrance, her crimson eyes gleaming under the streetlights.

“Come now, honey,” she purred, her smirk dangerously knowing. “You wouldn’t neglect your husbandly duties, would you?”

Chapter Text

Chapter 13: Mission failed, we’ll get em next time

The hallway outside John’s office had never felt so suffocating.

Rapi stood frozen, arms stiff at her sides, her uniform painfully unfamiliar in its modified form.

A shortened skirt, a cropped shirt exposing the smooth plane of her midriff—regulation? Absolutely not. Embarrassing? Extremely.

But according to Red Hood, it was necessary.

"I’m telling you, Rapi, this is it. This is how you make your move."

Rapi gritted her teeth, resisting the urge to tug her shirt back down. "I feel ridiculous."

"You look hot, which is what matters. Trust me, the second he sees you, he’s gonna be a goner."

Rapi inhaled sharply. Right. Right.

This was fine.

This was a strategy.

She raised her hand. Knocked twice.

Then, before she could turn and flee, she stepped inside.

John didn’t look up.

Seated at his desk, he was completely buried in paperwork, his pen moving mechanically as he scanned documents, flipping through them at an exhausting pace.

Rapi stood there, waiting.

Nothing.

He hadn’t even glanced at her.

Red Hood was silent for a beat. Then—

"Okay… he’s just focused, no big deal! Get his attention. Throw him a good line!"

Rapi swallowed. Right.

Pick-up line. Something smooth. Something irresistible.

She took a breath, cleared her throat…

And completely mumbled it.

Low, uncertain, barely audible.

John, still not looking up, frowned slightly. “Hm?”

Rapi stiffened.

"Oh, for fu—again! Louder!"

Before she could, John sighed, flipping another page.

"If this is personal, give me thirty minutes," he said, tone calm, distracted. "I’m drowning in reports, but once I’m done, you’ll have my full, undivided attention."

He finally paused, setting his pen down.

"You’re important to me, Rapi."

Rapi stopped breathing.

Her heart lurched.

The words hung in the air, heavy and unshakable.

"Oh my god," Red Hood whispered in awe. "Rapi… he said you’re important. That’s it. That’s the hook, the turning point. You’ve won."

Rapi, suddenly warm all over, hesitated, then asked softly, "...Can you repeat that?"

John nodded.

"I said, you’re important to me," he repeated easily.

Then, without pausing, hesitating, or even blinking.

"Like the sister I never had. Basically family."

Silence.

Total. Absolute. Soul-crushing. Silence.

Rapi’s brain short-circuited.

Red Hood screamed. "NO, NO, NO, NO, NO, NO—"

John, completely unaware of the nuclear disaster he had just set off, went right back to his paperwork.

Rapi turned stiffly, moving toward the door like a malfunctioning machine.

She stepped out, let the door click shut behind her, and stood there in the hallway.

Dead inside.

The cold air did nothing to numb the secondhand embarrassment scorching through her body.

Red Hood, for once, was speechless.

For a long moment, there was nothing.

Then—

"Alright… new plan."

Red Hood cleared her throat.

"We’re going Step-Sister Route."

Rapi slowly closed her eyes.

And decided she didn’t want to be conscious anymore.

Chapter Text

Chapter 14: A Pirate’s Shame

“Behold, Captain!” Mast threw her arms toward the screen with the flair of a pirate who had just uncovered a legendary treasure. “The long-lost, uncut edition of Jack Lowe and the Seven Seas! The greatest swashbuckling adventure ever made! This is a rare find, an artifact from the golden age of cinema. A true pirate’s tale!”

John leaned in slightly, arms crossed as he inspected the website she had pulled up.

The page looked like it had been built in a lawless part of the internet. Flashing banners covered the screen, all of them making bold and incredibly questionable promises. A massive neon ad caught his eye immediately.

"SINGLE PIRATES IN YOUR AREA. READY TO PLUNDER!"

He arched an eyebrow. “You sure about this, Mast?”

Mast beamed, filled with excitement. “Aye! This site has everything. Classic films, hidden gems, even some historically accurate documentaries.”

John pointed at the glowing ad in the corner. “Right. And a free virus with every click.”

Mast waved off his concern with a flick of her wrist. “Fear not! I disabled pop-ups and have a state-of-the-art ad blocker. This is the true pirate way, searching the darkest corners of the web for treasure.”

John sighed before leaning back in his chair. “Alright, your funeral.”

Mast grinned, pleased with her success, and clicked ‘Play.’

The screen flickered, the video buffering for a painfully long moment.

A slow, sensual saxophone melody filled the room.

John stopped moving.

Mast’s grin faltered.

The screen faded from black, revealing two scantily clad actors lounging together on what was clearly a poorly constructed ship set.

A sultry voice cooed from the speakers. “Ahhh… Captain Lowe, what ever shall we do with all this… buried treasure?”

Mast’s entire body stiffened.

A bead of sweat rolled down her temple. “Uh.”

John blinked, then blinked again.

Mast cleared her throat. “Perhaps this is an artistic choice. Some kind of, uh… symbolism?”

A belt buckle hit the floor with an unmistakable clang.

Mast lunged for the keyboard. “Oh gods, no!”

John lost it.

Laughter erupted from his chest, echoing through the room as Mast frantically slammed every key she could reach. Pop-ups flooded the screen, multiplying like some kind of digital sea monster. Each new one revealed something worse than the last.

On-screen, Jack Lowe stood proudly, his shirt open and the wind blowing through his hair. His voice rang out with confidence. “Prepare to be boarded, lass. But first, let’s raise the mast and stretch ‘er wide.”

Morgan the parrot, perched near the screen, perked up at the dialogue.

"RAISE THE MAST! STRETCH ‘ER WIDE!"

Mast screeched in pure horror. “Morgan, shut the hell up!”

John struggled to breathe, tears forming at the corners of his eyes. “Oh—oh my god—” He wheezed between bursts of laughter. “Mast, you absolute legend.”

“Stop laughing, damn you!” Mast turned on him, her face a deep shade of red.

The video played on, unbothered.

"Captain Lowe, your sword’s so… long."

"Aye, lass. Let’s see if ye can handle it with both hands."

Morgan mimicked the next line perfectly. "STRETCH ‘ER WIDE! BOTH HANDS!"

John collapsed into another fit of laughter. “Mast, this is the greatest thing that’s ever happened to me.”

Mast, now in full panic mode, yanked the power cable from the computer. The screen went black, silence settling over the room at last.

For a long moment, neither of them spoke.

Mast, still gripping the cable, took a slow breath. “I would like to formally request that you never speak of this moment again.”

John smirked, wiping a tear from his eye. “That’s not happening. This is legendary. I’m keeping this story forever.”

Mast groaned, burying her face in her hands. “I had dreams. Dreams. I wanted to be a pirate, not the captain of a damn porn parody.”

John leaned in, his smirk widening as his voice dipped into something smooth and slow. “Well, technically… you could still be a pirate.”

Mast lifted her head, squinting at him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

John stretched his arms lazily, running a hand through his hair. “The movie’s already been made, but if you’re still passionate about the story, we could always…” He met her gaze, eyes glinting with mischief. “Recreate it.”

Mast froze.

Heat shot up her spine as her brain attempted to process what had just been said.

For the first time in her life, she found herself speechless.

John tilted his head slightly, watching her with amused interest. “What’s wrong, Mast? Didn’t you say you wanted to be part of the legend?”

Mast gripped the back of her chair, her entire body burning. “W-wait, are you serious right now?”

John leaned back, his smirk turning positively devious. “I don’t know. Am I?”

Mast’s thoughts spiraled. Was he messing with her? Was this payback for her mistake? Or was he actually flirting with her?

A bead of sweat rolled down her neck, the heat between them thickening. John was still watching her, still enjoying himself far too much.

Mast inhaled deeply, trying to regain some sense of control.

“Fine,” she said, forcing confidence into her voice. “If ye be serious, let’s see ye commit to it.”

John raised a brow. “Oh?”

Mast leaned in, mirroring his smirk, her fingers slowly tracing the wood between them. “That’s right. If ye want to recreate the movie, then ye best be ready to be Captain Lowe himself.”

Her touch dragged lightly across the table. “Which means ye’ll have to be… rough. A true pirate doesn’t do things half-heartedly, aye?”

John’s expression shifted. The amusement remained, but there was something else behind it now. His grip tightened around his chair, his gaze locking onto hers with sharp focus.

His hand moved with precision, catching her wrist and pulling her forward in one swift motion.

Mast gasped as she stumbled, feeling the edge of the desk press against her back.

John leaned in, his voice dropping lower. “You were saying?”

Mast’s breath hitched.

This was dangerous.

She had led the game, but now?

Now, John had taken the wheel, and he was steering straight for uncharted waters.

She opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came out.

And that’s when he kissed her.

Mast made a quiet noise against his lips, her hands gripping the fabric of his coat for support. Her mind, once full of witty retorts and mischief, went completely blank.

John pulled back slightly, his breath warm against her skin.

Mast’s brain completely short-circuited.

Then—

"STRETCH ‘ER WIDE, CAPTAIN!"

Mast nearly died on the spot.

John’s laughter erupted once more, rich and completely merciless.

Mast, red-faced and completely mortified, screamed into his chest.

“MORGAN, I SWEAR TO GOD—”

Chapter Text

Chapter 15: Heroic Entry

John sat at his desk, a cup of coffee in one hand and a datapad in the other. The day's schedule wasn’t too packed, but there was one session he was particularly curious about—Laplace.

It had been a while since he last checked in on her, and if history was any indication, their conversation was bound to be... eventful.

He glanced at the clock. She should be arriving any moment now.

A comfortable silence filled the room, broken only by the soft hum of the air filtration system. He took another sip of coffee, savoring the rare moment of peace.

Then, he heard her voice.

From outside his window.

"JUSTICE... ENTRYYYYY!"

John barely had time to react before a blur of blue and white came hurtling toward the reinforced glass.

THWACK!

Laplace crashed into the window like a righteous meteor, arms outstretched—only to be completely, and very unheroically, stopped by the unyielding glass. For a moment, she simply stuck there, a perfect imprint of her silhouette flattened against the glass.

John exhaled slowly, bringing his mug to his lips and taking a sip.

"...I should send Liter a thank you note about her build quality."

With a faint squeak, Laplace peeled off the glass and tumbled onto the window ledge.

Chapter Text

Chapter 16: Problem solver

The battlefield was quiet. Too quiet. The black puddles of Dark Matter stretched across the terrain like oil slicks, rippling faintly in the dim light.

John’s boots squelched against the damp earth as he listened to Cinderella’s latest report.

One—The Dark Matter covered a dangerous amount of ground.
Two—She saw a person inside one.

That should’ve been the strangest part.

But then Rapi had asked, with unnerving specificity, "Did she have a childlike face? Big, green, piercing eyes?"

Cinderella blinked. "...Yeah, actually. Why?"

Rapi raised a hand and pointed.

John turned.

Half-submerged in one of the inky pools, a horned head stared at them with an expression that could only be described as mild disdain.

The squad froze.

Anis leaned in. "...Ghost?"

"DEFINITELY a ghost," Neon whispered.

Then the figure spoke.

"So, you're the ones who gave Behemoth such a hard time."

John said nothing.

Instead, he walked forward, calm as can be, until he was standing directly in front of her.

Leviathan’s head tilted slightly, her eyes narrowing in a mixture of curiosity and irritation.

Then John placed a hand on her forehead—

—and shoved her back underwater.

SPLOOSH.

The puddle bubbled angrily.

Anis choked. "DID YOU JUST—?!"

Before she could finish, Leviathan resurfaced, her horned head snapping up, eyes wide with pure, seething disbelief.

"...What."

John didn’t answer. He pushed her down again.

SPLOOSH.

This time, the bubbles were more aggressive.

Neon took a cautious step back. "Uhh, John, I think she’s—"

Leviathan shot back up, her face contorted in genuine rage, black sludge dripping from her horns.

"WHAT—ARE—YOU—"

John pushed her down again.

SPLOOSH.

Anis collapsed into Neon’s arms, wheezing.

Leviathan erupted from the puddle, her voice an unhinged snarl.

"YOU ABSOLUTE—"

John raised his hand.

Leviathan flinched.

John lowered his hand.

Leviathan’s eye twitched like she was fighting every murderous urge in her body.

"You," she hissed, voice barely controlled, "are the most insufferable human I have ever met."

John nodded. "That’s fair."

He took a step to the side.

Leviathan’s rage momentarily gave way to confusion.

Then John kicked over an entire pile of rubble, sending several heavy chunks of stone hurtling towards her with a thunderous rumble.

Leviathan went pale.

"WAIT."

The rocks crashed into her, forcing her head down into the water again. A massive slab of concrete slid into place, sealing the hole.

From beneath the rubble, a muffled, furious shriek erupted.

John dusted off his hands. "Problem solved."

Chapter Text

Chapter 17: Desktopped

John sat at his wreck of a desk, buried under paperwork, reports, and the crushing weight of responsibility.

It had been a long day. Too many forms, too many Nikkes needing counseling, and nowhere near enough caffeine to survive it all.

But finally he had a quiet moment to catch up.

Until his door swung open.

John didn’t bother hiding his sigh. "If this is another—"

He looked up.

Rosanna.

Leaning against the doorframe, coat draped over her shoulders, red eyes gleaming with mischief.

John sighed again. "I don’t have a meeting with you scheduled today."

Rosanna smirked. "No, you don’t." She stepped in, shutting the door behind her with a click.

John narrowed his eyes. "Then what do you want?"

She strolled forward, voice dropping to a husky whisper.

"A little... nightly fun, Mister."

John stared at her.

"Rosanna."

"Mister."

"I have a mountain of paperwork, a headache, and no patience."

Rosanna ignored him, circling his desk like a predator, fingers trailing along the surface.

"Mister’s been working too much."

"Mister has deadlines."

She suddenly grabbed his collar and yanked him forward.

His pen dragged across the document.

"That was legally binding," he muttered.

Rosanna chuckled. Then she shoved him onto the desk.

John exhaled slowly.

"Rosanna."

"Mister."

"That was a lot of paperwork."

She straddled his waist, pinning him down. "And?"

The desk creaked.

John frowned. "Rosanna, wait—"

CRACK.

For a moment, John locked eyes with Rosanna, pure realization dawning in both of them.

Then—

COLLAPSE.

The desk gave out.

John hit the ground flat on his back.

Rosanna landed directly on his stomach.

All the air left his body.

His soul briefly detached.

Somewhere, an ancient office worker’s spirit sighed in disappointment.

John wheezed.

Rosanna tilted her head, still sitting on his ribs. "That sounded expensive, Mister."

John raised a single, pained thumbs-up.

She chuckled, leaning in close. "Guess I swept you off your feet."

John, voice barely a whisper: "Rosanna, please get off my lungs."

She grinned, standing up and dusting herself off, while John remained sprawled out like a tragic crime scene.

Then she paused.

"Mister, do you have a reinforced bed?"

John closed his eyes. "Yes."

Rosanna tapped her chin. "Hmm. I feel like I should confirm that… personally."

John cracked one eye open. "Rosanna, no."

She grabbed his ankle, smirking. "Rosanna, yes."

With zero hesitation, she dragged him out the door, smirking.

As John disappeared down the hall, legs limp, face blank, Neon peeked into the room.

"...Huh."

Chapter Text

Chapter 18: Showertopped

John lay motionless in bed, staring at the ceiling with dead, soulless eyes.

His body ached, his mind foggy, and the only thing keeping him tethered to existence was the faint hope that he might still finish his damn paperwork.

Nearby, Rosanna hummed as she buttoned up her coat, smug as ever.

"Thanks for the fun, Mister," she purred, stretching. "Try not to miss me too much."

John let out a weak exhale.

He glanced at the clock.

Maybe, just maybe, he could salvage this night. If he got up now, he could still—

The door swung open.

John barely had time to register the danger before he saw her.

Sakura.

Standing in the doorway, her eyes immediately narrowing as she took in the sight before her.

John, half-dead in bed.
Rosanna, fully dressed and amused.
The lingering scent of bad decisions.

The room went silent.

Sakura’s gaze locked onto Rosanna.

Rosanna’s grin only widened.

For a long, tense moment, no one spoke.

Then—

Sakura sniffed the air.

John’s stomach dropped.

"You," Sakura said calmly, voice carrying undisguised disapproval, "need a shower."

Rosanna barked out a laugh, stepping past Sakura, unfazed. "Good luck, Mister," she teased, patting Sakura’s shoulder before strolling out.

Sakura didn’t even glance at her, but her fingers twitched slightly, as if she was restraining an impulse to draw a blade.

Instead, she turned back to John, expression unreadable.

John slowly started sitting up, hands raised in surrender. "Look, I really need to—"

Sakura cut him off with a single step forward.

"You stink," she said bluntly.

John winced. "That’s—"

"I will clean you personally."

A chill ran down his spine.

"Sakura, wait—"

Before he could even process his fate, her grip closed around his wrist.

"I will not allow you to reek of her." Her voice was soft, but firm. Unyielding.

John barely had time to protest before he was yanked off the bed.

"Sakura, PLEASE—"

"You belong to me."

The bathroom door swung shut with finality.

Somewhere, his paperwork wept.

Chapter Text

Chapter 19: Helptopped

John sat at his temporary desk, rubbing his temples as he stared at the mountain of paperwork in front of him.

The original desk was gone, a victim of Rosanna’s recklessness, and now he was stuck with this flimsy replacement while waiting for a sturdier one to arrive.

To make matters worse, he was behind schedule.

A night spent getting “cleaned” by Sakura had cost him precious hours of work and sleep, and now he was racing against time, trying to catch up before more problems—

Click.

The door swung open.

John didn’t even look up. "If this is another—"

"Cadet!"

John froze.

That voice was way too cheerful for his current state.

Slowly, he looked up.

Moran.

Beaming, full of energy, completely unaware of the stress she had just introduced into his life.

John’s brain kicked into emergency mode.

He quickly scanned his memory—why was she here? What did she want?

Moran tilted her head. "You forgot, didn’t you?"

John paled.

Then it hit him.

Counseling session.

Scheduled for today.

John groaned, palming his face. "Moran, I—yeah. I forgot. I’m sorry."

She waved a hand dismissively. "No worries! You’re always so busy, Cadet!" Then, she clasped her hands together, smiling brightly. "That’s why I’ll help you!"

John’s shoulders sagged in relief.

"Wait, really?"

Moran nodded enthusiastically. "Of course!"

Finally, a win.

Someone willing to help instead of making his life harder.

John handed her a stack of paperwork, feeling hopeful for the first time in hours.

"Alright, just go through these, and—"

Twenty minutes later.

John stared in horror.

The paperwork had tripled.

The once manageable stack was now an unholy mess of misfiled forms, extra sheets, and pointless annotations.

Moran, completely unaware of the damage, beamed at him. "See? We’re making great progress!"

John’s eye twitched.

He picked up one of the forms, flipping through it.

"...Why is there a doodle of a dragon on my budget report?"

Moran leaned in proudly. "That’s you!"

John slowly inhaled through his nose.

"And why did you write ‘Believe in Yourself, Cadet!’ in the margins of a classified document?"

Moran grinned. "Because you should!"

John stared at her.

She stared back, completely oblivious.

The paperwork stared at him, mocking him.

The universe stared down at him, waiting for him to accept his fate.

John closed his eyes.

Then, without a word, he slowly leaned forward, resting his forehead against the desk in pure defeat.

Moran blinked.

"Cadet?"

John, voice muffled into the desk:

"...Moran, please stop helping me."

Chapter Text

Chapter 20: Day off

The sun hung high in the sky, warm but not overbearing. The city streets were alive with chatter, the distant hum of food stalls filling the air with the scent of grilled meat and fresh bread.

John walked alongside Jackal, watching as she practically bounced with excitement, her head turning every which way like a child experiencing the world for the first time.

"You’re way too happy about getting food," he remarked.

Jackal shot him a grin, fangs peeking out. "Of course I am! You never take me out for fun!"

John sighed, stuffing his hands in his pockets. "That’s because your idea of fun usually involves explosions."

Jackal gasped, mock-offended. "No it's not!"

"You once tried to cook steak with a rocket launcher."

"...And it was perfect!"

John gave her a look.

Jackal giggled, but before he could scold her more, she locked onto a food stall and rushed forward.

John barely had time to react before she was already ordering three meals at once, eyes wide with pure joy.

By the time they sat down at an outdoor table, Jackal had already torn into her food, stuffing her face with zero concern for manners while John sipped on a coffee.

John chuckled, taking a slow sip of his drink. "Slow down. The food’s not running away."

Jackal ignored him, cheeks full like a chipmunk, sauce dripping onto her fingers.

For a moment, John just watched her.

She looked... carefree.

Not a soldier. Not a convict under watch. Just a girl enjoying a meal like any other person.

And that? That was worth every ounce of trouble she put him through.

-

After far too much food, they found themselves at a quiet park, where John had somehow been roped into playing catch.

Jackal bounced on her feet, grinning ear to ear.

"Alright, old man, let’s see if you can keep up!"

John sighed heavily. "I am not old—"

THWACK.

The ball shot toward him like a missile.

John barely caught it in time, the force stinging his palm.

Jackal cackled. "You’re still alive! Nice!"

John rubbed his aching hand, sending her a glare. "Are you trying to break my fingers?"

"Maybe~," she teased. "Now hurry up, throw it!"

John smirked and reeled back, putting a little extra force into the throw—

THUNK.

The ball smacked Jackal square in the forehead.

She froze, eyes wide, wobbling slightly.

John panicked. "Oh crap—"

Then Jackal burst out laughing, grabbing the ball off the ground.

"NOT BAD, COMMANDER!" she howled. "BUT TRY HARDER NEXT TIME!"

John let out a long breath, shaking his head.

She was... a menace.

But as she laughed, tossing the ball back, John found himself smiling softly.

Jackal didn’t carry the weight of the world like others did. She didn’t drown in the past or fear the future. She just... lived in the moment.

She was a reminder.

That even in a world like this, there was still joy to be found.

"Hey, Commander," Jackal suddenly called, her voice softer.

John raised an eyebrow. "Yeah?"

She twirled the ball in her hands before glancing at him, expression uncharacteristically gentle.

"...Thanks."

John blinked. "For what?"

Jackal kicked the dirt lightly. "For today. For, you know... this."

She rubbed the back of her head, suddenly awkward, but John could see the sincerity in her eyes.

He smiled. "Yeah. Today was great for me too, Jackal."

Jackal grinned, then immediately threw the ball at him without warning.

"THINK FAST!"

John barely caught it in time.

And as the game continued, he decided moments like this were worth it.

Chapter Text

Chapter 21: Wet shirt

The bridge collapsed in an instant.

One second, the squad was crossing carefully.

The next—

CRACK. SNAP. SPLASH.

John hit the water hard, vanishing into the raging current below.

"COMMANDER!" Three voices shouted in unison.

Without hesitation, Rapi, Anis, and Neon jumped into action, sprinting along the crumbling edge of the riverbank, eyes scanning the water frantically.

"There!" Rapi pointed, spotting John’s form bob up in the rapids.

Between Rapi pulling from the shore and Anis practically manhandling him, they finally hauled John out, water pouring off him in waves.

John coughed, pushing his wet hair back, completely exhausted. "I... hate rivers."

But there was no response.

No words of relief. No snark. No immediate teasing from Anis.

Just... silence.

John frowned, looking up at them.

Rapi and Anis were staring. Hard.

Eyes locked onto his soaked, clinging shirt, which perfectly outlined his broad shoulders, toned chest, and battle-worn muscles.

Anis licked her lips absently.

Rapi’s usual stoic expression had shattered.

John blinked. "...Why are you looking at me like that?"

No response.

Just pure, silent thirst.

Neon, meanwhile, looked between them and John, utterly baffled.

"Uh... guys?" She waved a hand in front of their faces. "What’s wrong with you two? Why are you drooling at Master?"

No response.

Anis visibly swallowed. "I just... wow."

Rapi nodded slowly. "Yes. Wow."

John sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "We’re in the middle of a mission."

"Uh-huh," Anis muttered, eyes not moving.

"Focus," John said firmly.

"Yep. Focusing." Anis still wasn’t looking at his face.

Neon squinted at them. "Do I need to get Mary? Are you guys sick?"

Rapi snapped out of it first, shaking herself. "Enough. We need to move."

Anis let out a dramatic sigh. "Fine. But he’s walking ahead of us. For... safety reasons."

John groaned.

Neon narrowed her eyes. "I don’t get it. What’s so special about—"

She turned, looking at John properly for the first time.

She froze.

Silence.

Then—

"...Oh. Oh. Yeah, Master should definitely walk in front!"

Chapter Text

Chapter 22: Medical malpractice

The hospital doors slid open, and John strolled in, blood dripping from a cut on his forearm, a lazy smirk on his face.

Mary barely glanced up from her clipboard before sighing.

"Commander," she said, tone gentle but exasperated, "how did this happen?"

"Ran into some trouble," John shrugged, hopping onto the exam bed. "Nothing serious."

Mary grabbed his arm, inspecting the wound. It wasn’t deep, but it wasn't shallow either.

"‘Nothing serious,’" she muttered, reaching for antiseptic. "You love saying that, don’t you?"

John grinned. "Well, it got me in here with you, didn’t it?"

Mary paused for half a second, then wiped his wound with antiseptic with more force than necessary.

John flinched. "Okay, ow—"

Mary smiled sweetly. "Flirting won’t make this sting less."

John grinned despite the pain. "Can’t blame a guy for trying."

Mary rolled her eyes but said nothing.

-

The next visit was worse.

John walked in slower this time, his side wrapped in a half-baked bandage, blood soaking across the fabric.

Mary’s entire demeanor changed in an instant.

"Commander."

John raised a lazy hand. "Before you yell, I’m—"

Mary grabbed his collar, yanked him down, and pressed two fingers against his ribs.

John winced violently.

Mary tilted her head, smiling sweetly. "You call this fine?"

John gritted his teeth. "Okay, ow, ow—"

Mary pushed him onto the bed, unwrapping his poor attempt at first aid.

"Bruised ribs. Multiple lacerations. You walked here?"

"Well, yeah—"

She reached into a drawer.

Click.

John’s smile vanished. "...That’s not a normal syringe."

Mary smiled way too sweetly, holding up a very large metallic syringe.

"It is now."

John tried to move.

Mary placed a hand on his chest, pinning him down effortlessly.

"You move, and I bring out the really big needle."

John froze.

"...point taken."

Mary smiled. "Good. Now stay still."

-

The doors burst open.

John was carried in, blood soaking his uniform, his face too pale.

Mary’s heart stopped for a second.

Then she moved.

"Set him down—NOW."

The medics gently lowered him onto the bed.

"Massive blood loss," one reported. "We stopped external bleeding, but his BP is dropping fast."

Mary immediately grabbed an IV kit, fingers moving fast but precise.

"John," she said sharply, pressing an oxygen mask over his face. "Stay awake."

John’s eyelids fluttered, a lazy grin forming.

"Hey, Doc... should’ve seen… guy… the other guy."

Mary’s grip on the IV tightened slightly.

"You idiot," she muttered, inserting the needle into his arm for a transfusion. "You’re not even making jokes right."

John blinked sluggishly.

Mary’s jaw clenched.

"Focus on breathing," she ordered, checking his vitals.

John’s hand reached up weakly, squeezing her wrist.

"...Sorry for making you worry."

Mary’s breath hitched.

She stayed silent, just finishing her work.

-

John woke up feeling groggy, his body heavy.

He tried to sit up—

A warm weight pressed him down.

"Ah, ah," a voice teased near his ear, "you’re not going anywhere."

John blinked awake, and froze.

Mary was sitting on his waist, straddling him, her hands firmly planted on his chest.

His brain blue-screened.

"...Mary?"

She smiled down at him, but it wasn’t her gentle nurse smile.

It was her ‘you are now completely at my mercy’ smile.

"You weren’t taking me seriously," she said smoothly, leaning in slightly.

John swallowed.

"I…"

Mary tilted her head. "You ignored every single warning I gave you."

Her fingertips slowly traced his collarbone, her expression calm but dangerous.

"So now..." She leaned down, her lips grazing his ear as she whispered. "You’re my personal patient. And I’m going to personally ensure you don’t leave this bed."

John exhaled very slowly.

Mary pressed her lips to his forehead, then lightly dragged her fingers down his chest.

"You’re going to stay put... and be a good boy, right?"

John was sweating.

Mary smirked. "Or do I need to use the big needle?"

John froze. "...I’m good here."

Mary smiled.

"Good."

She rested her weight more comfortably against him.

"Because you’re not going anywhere~"

Chapter Text

Chapter 23: A Secret to the Grave

John strolled into the outpost, feeling pretty damn good about his shopping trip.

His hands were full of bags, packed with essential supplies, a few personal luxuries, and, because he was a responsible leader who deserved to treat himself once in a while, some high-quality expensive crisps.

All in all? A productive trip.

The Ark had been crowded, as usual. Vendors yelling, people pushing past each other, an entire street blocked by a malfunctioning bot trying to return a purchase without a receipt, just another day in paradise. But John had managed.

Now, he was finally home.

And more importantly, he was hungry.

He reached into one of the bags, feeling around until his fingers brushed against the familiar shape of a crisp packet. Perfect.

With practiced ease, he tore the bag open.

TCHH!

John prepared to grab a handful of salty goodness, his mind already savoring the crunch—

Only to freeze.

Something was wrong.

Instead of crisps, his hand was filled with small, bone-shaped biscuits.

His stomach dropped.

Slowly, as if confirming his worst fear, he tilted the bag forward and read the label.

"Biscuit's Best: Premium Meat-Flavored Dog Treats!"

...Oh.

His brain buffered.

How?

When did this happen?

Did I grab the wrong bag?

John mentally replayed his entire shopping experience, but there were too many distractions, a pushy salesman, someone calling his name, the overly aggressive woman at checkout who tried to sell him a mystery box.

But now?

None of that mattered.

Because he was standing in the middle of the outpost, holding an open bag of premium dog treats.

And he had no idea what to do next.

Do I… throw them out? Put them back? Try one?

No. Absolutely not.

Before he could make a decision, a cheerful voice called out.

"Commander!"

John flinched, quickly palming the bag as he turned.

Poli was bounding over, her usual bright energy radiating off her.

"Back from shopping?" she asked, grinning as she eyed the bags in his hands. John nodded. "Yeah. Picked up some stuff we were running low on."

"Smart move!" Poli beamed. "A good officer’s gotta be prepared!"

Then—

GRRRRNNN.

A deep, echoing stomach growl cut through the air.

Poli froze.

John blinked.

Poli’s face instantly turned red, her arms snapping across her stomach like she was trying to physically restrain the noise.

John raised an eyebrow.

Poli cleared her throat aggressively, straightening her posture like nothing happened.

"I—I was just..." she started, voice suddenly much louder than necessary, "thinking about food! That’s all!"

John chuckled, deciding to let her save face.

Without thinking, he reached into his pocket and held out the "crisps."

"Here," he said. "Take some."

Poli’s ears practically perked up as she leaned in and took a deep sniff—

And her eyes sparkled.

"Ooooh, these smell amazing!"

John’s stomach clenched.

Wait.

Wait.

Wait.

Before he could process what was happening, Poli grabbed a handful of the treats and—

CHOMP.

John watched in absolute horror as she chewed happily, tail—NO, SHE DOESN’T HAVE A TAIL, JOHN, STOP THINKING LIKE THAT—practically wagging as she munched away.

She sighed blissfully, licking her fingers.

"Wow, these are so good!" she said between bites. "What brand is this? I’ve never had these before!"

John’s soul left his body.

He opened his mouth.

Paused.

Closed it.

His entire existence fractured as two thoughts battled in his mind.

Option A:
Tell her she’s eating luxury dog treats.
Risk her wrath, embarrassment, and possibly getting arrested.

Option B:
Say nothing.
Let her believe.
Take this secret to the grave.

Poli grabbed another treat, munching happily.

John exhaled very slowly.

Then, instead of saying anything, he just reached out and gently ruffled her hair.

Poli immediately melted, her eyes fluttering shut as she leaned into the touch with a soft hum.

"Ehehe... You really give the best head pats, Commander."

John nodded stoically, his decision made.

This was it.

This was his life now.

This was a secret he would take to the grave.

-

To this day, Poli still wonders why she can’t find that "delicious snack" in stores

Chapter Text

Chapter 24: Fatal attraction

John leaned back in his chair, watching Guilty sway slightly in her seat, her wrists still bound in heavy restraints. They were halfway through her rehabilitation, and progress was steady—at least, he thought so. Unlike the counselors before him, John wasn’t afraid.

Why? Because, unbeknownst to everyone, he was a sorcerer.

Guilty, for all her monstrous strength, couldn't crush him if he didn’t let her. He simply reinforced his body with cursed energy whenever needed. Still, she didn’t know that. And it made things interesting.

Guilty’s violet eyes flickered toward him, her usual melancholic pout in place.

"Counselor."

John raised a brow. "Yeah?"

She tilted her head slightly, the chains on her restraints rattling softly.

"Do you trust me?"

John let out a small hum, thinking it over for dramatic effect. "I think so."

She smiled, soft and sweet.

"Then... untie me?"

John nodded without hesitation.

Guilty’s smile froze.

"...Wait. Seriously?"

With a click, her wrist restraints popped open. For a moment, she just stared at him, as if waiting for a punchline. When none came, she slowly lifted her hands, flexing her fingers in disbelief.

"You’re not scared?"

John shrugged. "Should I be?"

Her fingers twitched, like she was fighting the urge to grab something—to grab him. Instead, she reached out slowly, wrapping her hand around his.

John immediately reinforced his grip with cursed energy. Her strength was unbelievably inconsistent. One moment, she squeezed with barely any pressure. The next, it was like a hydraulic press crushing down on his fingers.

Guilty blinked, tilting her head again.

"You’re not breaking."

John pretended to be confused. "Was I supposed to?"

She stared at their hands, her eyes filled with something he couldn’t quite place. Then, her fingers tightened again, but this time, deliberately. Testing. Still, John’s hand remained intact.

Guilty inhaled sharply, her free hand clutching at her chest.

"Can I hug you?"

John smirked slightly. "Go ahead."

John had been hugged before. This was not like those times.

Guilty wrapped her arms around him, her face pressing into his shoulder, her entire body trembling. It started as gentle. Then it became possessive.

John reinforced his spine on instinct as Guilty squeezed tighter, her grip shifting between delicate and crushing in quick succession. He could feel her breathing deeply, like she was memorizing his scent.

"You’re warm," she murmured. "You don’t flinch… You don’t lie…"

John chuckled, patting her back. "Told you, I trust you."

Guilty's arms tightened dangerously. Her heartbeat was erratic. Her nails dug into his jacket.

John missed the exact moment her expression shifted. Her usual melancholy melted into something far more intense. Her lips curled into a slow, dreamy smile. Her fingers trembled, not with fear, but with excitement.

‘I knew it. You’re the one.’

Guilty exhaled softly, her voice barely above a whisper.

"...Mine."

John blinked. "Huh?"

She pulled back slightly, looking up at him, smiling.

"Nothing, Counselor~"

John raised a brow but didn’t press further. She was progressing well, at least, in his professional opinion.

Unbeknownst to him, Guilty’s fingers twitched slightly, as if already imagining wrapping around his throat instead. Her violet eyes gleamed.

Soon, soon, soon...

She just had to be patient.

Chapter Text

Chapter 25: A Moment Just for Her

The rain had started suddenly, a soft drizzle at first, then a steady downpour that blurred the city lights into a quiet haze.

Ade stood beneath the awning of the café, watching as people hurried past, their umbrellas bobbing through the crowd, their coats pulled tight against the chill. She should have left earlier. She should have brought an umbrella.

But here she was, staring out at the rain like it was some unsolvable puzzle.

She could just make a run for it. It wasn’t that far.

"Waiting for something?"

The voice came from behind her, warm and familiar, and far too casual for the way it sent a small, unexpected thrill through her chest.

She turned to see John watching her, his hands tucked into his pockets, an easy tilt to his head as if he had been standing there for longer than he let on.

He had been at the café for a while, long before the rain started. She had served him his usual black coffee and apple pie, had noticed him scanning through some documents, his fingers tapping absently against the rim of his cup. She hadn’t thought much of it at the time.

But now he was standing here, looking at her, and she wasn’t sure why that suddenly felt different.

"I was just about to leave," she said, straightening.

John followed her gaze to the rain. "Without an umbrella?"

"I don’t need one."

"You’ll get soaked."

"I don’t mind."

John raised a brow but didn’t argue. Instead, he pulled something from his jacket—a small, compact umbrella, flicking it open with practiced ease.

"Come on," he said, stepping beside her, holding it out just enough to cover them both.

Ade blinked. She hadn’t expected that.

"You don’t have to," she started, glancing up at him. "I can—"

"With how pristine and looked after your uniform is, I would figure you don’t like your uniform getting wet."

She stopped.

It wasn’t the way he said it—casual, matter-of-fact. It was the fact that he had noticed.

That threw her more than anything.

She took care of other people. She anticipated their needs. No one ever really stopped to think about hers, and if they did, she made sure to brush it off.

She folded her arms, schooling her expression. "And what about you? You’ll need it to get home."

John just shrugged. "I don’t mind the rain."

Ade exhaled, feeling something unfamiliar settle in her chest. "You just said I’d get soaked."

"Yeah," he said, so easily it made her stomach twist in a way she didn’t quite understand. "But you actually care about things like that."

She didn’t have a response to that.

And before she could think of one, John shifted the umbrella just slightly, tilting it to cover her better. The motion brought them closer, close enough that she could catch the faint scent of coffee on his jacket.

She swallowed, forcing her voice to remain even. "You're… going to walk me home?"

John looked at her, then at the rain, then back at her. "Unless you’d rather stand here arguing about it."

She should have insisted she was fine. Should have said thank you, but no thank you.

Instead, she found herself stepping under the umbrella, matching her stride to his.

They walked in silence at first, the soft pattering of raindrops filling the space between them.

Ade wasn’t used to people slowing down for her.

She always adjusted her pace, made sure she was the one keeping things in motion. But now, John was matching her steps, shifting the umbrella every now and then to make sure she was covered.

She stole a glance at him, watching as he gazed forward, completely at ease.

It didn’t seem like much to him.

Just a small act of kindness.

And yet, for some reason, it felt heavier than that.

"You don’t have to do this," she murmured, more to herself than to him.

John hummed. "Do what?"

"Take care of me."

He glanced at her, his brow furrowing slightly. "Why wouldn’t I?"

She hesitated. No one had ever asked her that before.

"You take care of other people all the time," he continued, shifting the umbrella slightly again, like he didn’t even realize he was doing it. "Why wouldn’t someone take care of you?"

Ade swallowed. That was the problem.

She had built her entire world around the idea that she was the one who made things easier for others. That she was reliable, composed, professional.

John had just brushed all of that aside with a single sentence.

The rain kept falling, the city blurred and quiet around them.

She should have changed the subject. Should have laughed it off.

But instead, she let herself exist in this moment.

She wasn’t working. She wasn’t serving.

She was just walking home with someone who had noticed her in a way no one else ever had.

And for the first time in a long time, she wished the walk was just a little longer.

Chapter Text

Chapter 26: Absence

Flora hummed softly to herself as she strolled through the market, a basket tucked neatly under one arm, filled with carefully selected supplies for her garden. Some nutrient-rich soil, new pruning shears, and an assortment of tools nestled among more personal acquisitions—a tin of delicate chamomile tea, a small package of lavender biscuits, and a jar of honey she had been eyeing for some time.

It was shaping up to be a lovely, productive day.

And then, she bumped into him.

A solid warmth collided against her shoulder, making her stumble slightly. Her grip on her basket wavered, and she gasped as her tin of chamomile tea nearly spilled onto the cobblestone path. Strong fingers reached out to steady her, catching the edge of the basket before it could tip over.

"Ah, sorry about that," the man said, his voice smooth and casual. "Didn't see you there."

Flora barely heard him.

Because for the first time in her life, she smelled nothing.

Her heart stuttered in her chest as she took a step back, clutching her basket as if it might protect her. She blinked up at the man, her breath caught between confusion and something eerily close to fear.

This was not possible. Everyone had a scent. Everyone. A trace of lavender, a whisper of citrus, the earthy grounding of oak. People were flowers, each one unique and lovely in their own way.

But this man? Blank.

Like a flower that had never bloomed.

Flora swallowed hard. "I… um…" She could not seem to string together words.

The man, John, as she would later learn, tilted his head slightly, watching her with mild curiosity. He was tall, dark-haired, and had the relaxed air of someone who had nowhere in particular to be. A few shopping bags hung lazily from his grip, and in his other hand, he held a half-eaten snack. Perfectly normal. Perfectly human.

Then why did she feel like she had just encountered something unnatural?

She did the only reasonable thing.

She turned on her heel and fled.

Not dramatically, of course. That would be ridiculous. Instead, she walked away as briskly as she could without it looking like she was running—because she wasn't running. She was simply… moving fast. Yes. Fast.

And then, against every ounce of her better judgment, she followed him.

John, as it turned out, was painfully normal.

Which only made him more suspicious.

Flora trailed at a safe distance, ducking behind market stalls, pretending to inspect a particularly interesting selection of herbal teas, all while keeping a sharp eye on her subject.

He bought black coffee from a street vendor.

‘How did he know what to order if he had no scent?’

He greeted a shopkeeper with a nod and a polite, "Morning."

‘A façade. Clearly, he was lulling them into a false sense of security.’

He stopped to pet a stray cat that had wandered near a bakery.

‘…Was this a trap? Was he trying to lure innocent creatures into his soulless void?’

Flora nearly yelped when he suddenly stretched, rolling his shoulders before taking a deep breath as if savoring the morning air.

And then, it happened.

A scent.

But not a normal one.

The moment he exhaled, the air around him shifted. It was faint, barely there, but Flora caught it. A scent unlike any she had ever encountered.

It was wrong.

Bitter, heavy, suffocating, like the scent of dying roots rotting in damp soil. It made her stomach turn, her fingers tightening around the handle of her basket. It wasn’t just an absence of fragrance, it was a negative presence, as if something unseen had curled around him, tainting the air itself.

John glanced at a nearby bakery stall and studied a particularly large croissant, visually inspecting it with mild interest. His expression remained neutral, relaxed.

How could he be so calm?

She, on the other hand, was on the verge of panic.

Flora clutched her basket like a lifeline, desperately trying to make sense of what she was witnessing. The scent of loss. Of something taken away. She felt it pressing against her lungs, curling around the edges of her senses.

And yet, there he was. Just a man, casually shopping, unaware that he carried the fragrance of something deeply, profoundly unnatural.

Then, suddenly, his gaze flickered.

Her breath hitched as his eyes swept the crowd, lingering just briefly where she stood.

Flora reacted instantly.

With the grace and precision of a trained operative (or, more accurately, a very panicked gardener), she threw herself sideways, knocking over a neatly stacked display of pots in the process.

Clay shattered. People turned. The shopkeeper let out a distressed wail.

Flora hit the ground, her basket tumbling beside her, a biscuit packet rolling free across the cobblestone.

John… blinked.

An awkward silence stretched between them as Flora scrambled upright, face burning.

"...Are you okay?" he asked slowly.

"I—" She coughed. "Yes. Absolutely. Everything is fine."

John's gaze flickered to the broken pots. Then back to her.

"...Right."

He didn't press further. Instead, he reached down, picked up the stray biscuit packet, and, after a pause, held it out to her.

Flora stared at the offering like it was a loaded weapon.

Her fingers trembled as she took it, avoiding his gaze. The scent still lingered, just beneath the surface, and it made her feel dizzy.

She didn't understand. She didn't want to understand.

For the first time in her life, she had encountered something that did not belong in her world of flowers and warm, sunlit gardens.

And she had no idea what to do about it.

Chapter Text

Chapter 27: Chunibyo and other delusions

John stood alone in the secluded corner of the outpost, sweat beading at his temple as he extended his hand. A deep breath, a pulse of cursed energy, and the words fell from his lips like a quiet invocation.

"Emerge from the darkness, blacker than darkness. Purify that which is impure."

The barrier flared into existence around him, a seamless veil of shadow bending to his will. For days, he'd struggled to get it to move with him, to make it follow his coordinates instead of just forming as a static dome. Now, as he stepped forward and felt the barrier shift in perfect synchronization with his movements, his lips pulled into a rare, triumphant grin.

"Yes! Finally!" He clenched his fist in victory. This was it, a true, controlled application. If he could refine this, it would be an invaluable tool in combat. A moving veil shielding him when needed and closing off enemies when—

The hair on the back of his neck prickled.

Something—no, someone, was watching him.

John slowly turned his head, dropping the curtain with a flick of his wrist.

Guillotine stood a few feet away, her single visible eye wide, her mouth slightly agape. She wasn’t just watching. She was staring.

The silence stretched unbearably. He weighed his options. Deny? Attack? Pretend this never happened? John didn’t move. He didn’t blink. Maybe, if he was lucky, she hadn’t actually seen anything.

The silence between them stretched.

Then, in an utterly flat voice devoid of any theatricality, she said,

"Did you just fucking cast a spell?"

John didn’t blink. "No."

Guillotine continued to stare, her brain visibly lagging behind reality. Then she shook her head violently, rubbing her temples. “No. No, no, no. That can’t be right. I make up magic. You— you actually—”

John cleared his throat, adjusting his stance. “It’s not magic.”

Guillotine snapped her fingers, pointing at him. “I saw you chant something and then reality bent to your will—”

John sighed. “You’re overthinking it.”

She slowly lowered her hand, inhaling deeply.

Then she broke character entirely.

For the first time since he had met her, Guillotine spoke like an actual, normal person:

"Dude."

"What the actual fuck was that?"

John felt a flicker of something foreign, maybe concern, as he saw the sheer genuine disbelief on her face. He had, unknowingly, shattered whatever carefully crafted delusions she entertained for fun.

A normal response would be to explain himself. Maybe even ease her mind.

But instead, John panicked.

His hands snapped together in a flash.

"Emerge from the darkness, blacker than darkness. Purify that which is impure."

The curtain dropped again.

This time, solely over himself.

Total blackout.

Inside the void, John muttered to himself, "This conversation never happened."

Outside, Guillotine remained frozen, staring at the literal void where he had just been standing. Her fingers twitched.

Then, she slowly, very slowly, sat down on the grass, staring blankly at the sky.

After a long moment, she exhaled.

"I just witnessed real magic, and that bastard rage quit reality."

A pause.

Then, as if something snapped back into place, she abruptly leaped to her feet, flipping her hair dramatically as she pointed at the void.

"So! The Forbidden One seeks to elude the grasp of fate! Foolish! The big O and the Sealed Monarch has already borne witness to his sorcery, and the shadows themselves shall not hide him from my eye!"

Silence.

The void did not respond.

Guillotine smirked, placing a hand over her eyepatch.

"Very well. If you wish to conceal yourself, so be it. But know this, Harbinger of the Abyss"

"You will never escape my sight."

Chapter Text

Chapter 28: Glass Shadows

Cinderella's scream never left her throat. It died there, choked off, crushed beneath the weight of memory.

Her body lurched upward in bed, drenched in cold sweat. Her breath hitched, chest rising and falling in quick, silent gasps.

The room was dark, but not red. Not burning. There was no blood tonight. Just the faded hum of Reclamation Site 01’s dim lights and the distant echo of silence.

She sat there for a while, unmoving, until the trembling in her fingers refused to stop. Carefully, she rose and padded across the room, barefoot on cold metal. Her reflection awaited her.

The mirror, tall and flawless, caught her in its silver gaze.

Long hair unruffled, cheeks still soft, lips untouched by corruption. “It’s still me,” she whispered, but her voice cracked halfway through. Her hand reached up and hovered just shy of her cheek, as if touching it might smear the illusion.

She stayed like that for a moment longer than she wanted.

Then, needing air, she left.

The outside corridor was quiet, the halls of Reclamation Site 01 bathed in a sleepy hush. She stepped onto the upper balcony, letting the wind tease her hair. The stars above were faint, scattered behind drifting clouds.

That was when she heard it.

A strangled breath. A muffled sound of fear.

She turned toward the source and followed the sound on instinct. His room. The door was cracked open.

‘Prince.’

Inside, John twisted beneath his sheets, brow soaked, breath sharp and uneven. His hand clenched the blanket like it was a lifeline.

Cinderella stood in the doorway, her fingers curling around the frame. She had seen this expression before, on humans, on Nikkes. Fear was not new. But on him, it did not belong.

Quietly, she stepped closer and knelt by the edge of the bed. “Prince,” she whispered. “You’re dreaming.”

He jerked upright, eyes flying open and for one unbearable second, he didn’t see her.

His eyes were wide, feral, unseeing and terrified.

She froze.

Because for that moment… his gaze was the same as theirs.

The same terror they felt when Anachiro walked through the fire.

But it passed.

He blinked. The light returned. And this time, he saw her.

“…Cinderella?” he rasped.

She nodded, quiet. “It’s alright. You’re safe now.”

He dragged a hand over his face, breathing heavily. “That was… bad.”

“I know,” she murmured. “I had one too.”

He looked at her. Barefoot, hair tousled, eyes gentle despite the storm that had clearly woken her too. He didn’t ask what she’d seen. She didn’t ask either. They both knew better.

After a moment of silence, she climbed up beside him without asking. She moved slowly, deliberately, the way you’d approach a scared animal in pain.

Their shoulders brushed.

“…You’re warm,” he said quietly.

“You’re not.” She smiled faintly, curling her knees beneath her.

Another pause.

“Sorry you had to see that,” he murmured.

“I’m not,” she replied softly. “It means I’m not the only one still haunted.”

He turned toward her, eyes half-lidded, still dazed. “Cinder—”

She shook her head and rested it lightly on his shoulder. “No words, Prince. Not tonight.”

They sat like that, breathing together.

And then, gently, she let herself curl closer, tucking into his side like something delicate that didn’t want to be noticed. He didn’t pull away.

“I was afraid I’d lost myself again,” she whispered.

“You haven’t,” he replied, his voice low. “You never will.”

The silence after that wasn’t heavy. It was… settled.

As if the ghosts could wait till morning.

Cinderella closed her eyes, letting the weight of his presence press against the ache that lived in her chest.

She wasn’t sure what this was. She wasn’t sure if she deserved it.

But as his breath slowed, and hers followed, she thought—just for tonight—

That moments like this were what made life beautiful.

And so she held him, and let herself be held.

The moon moved slowly across the sky, and they both slept soundly that night.

Chapter Text

Chapter 29: Runway Model

John walked side-by-side with Guilty through the courtyard of the outpost, hands in his pockets, squinting at a clipboard full of job listings. “Let’s see… Logistics? No, too crowded. Patrols? Hmm, maybe later. There’s always Outpost Café, though I doubt you’d enjoy food service…”

Beside him, Guilty kept pace in her usual slouched gait, her arms folded behind her back, head slightly bowed, long legs folded in just enough to make her seem… smaller. She looked unusually quiet today, though her expression was soft.

John glanced over. “You’ve been walking like that since we left the rehab center. You alright?”

She blinked, then smiled faintly. “Oh… yes. I’m just trying not to scare anyone.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Scare anyone?”

“I’m… very tall,” she said plainly, almost apologetically. “And I used to have… a reputation. If I stand up straight, people sometimes flinch.” She gave a nervous little shrug. “I don’t like seeing that look in their eyes.”

John stopped walking, turning to face her. “That’s a shame.” He looked her over, noting her hunched posture, the way her shoulders naturally curled in. “Can I see?”

She blinked. “See what?”

He gestured loosely. “You. Standing up straight.”

Guilty hesitated for a moment. Then, slowly, she inhaled and rolled her shoulders back. Her spine straightened, head lifted, and she unfurled her full height like a curtain rising on a stage. The slouched girl disappeared and in her place stood a powerful, statuesque woman with poised grace and striking presence.

John let out a low whistle, a smirk tugging at his lips. “Damn.”

Guilty tilted her head, a flicker of curiosity and sadness passing over her face. “…Too much?”

He grinned. “No, no. I mean, worst case? If we can’t find you a role here, I’ll just have to send your name to the Tetra Runway division. Pretty sure they’re always looking for models.” He gave her a teasing look. “You’ve definitely got the legs for it.”

Her breath caught. Just for a moment.

She looked away quickly, her face unreadable. “…A model.”

John turned away, distracted again with his clipboard. “Hey, it’s a better backup plan than what I had when I started.”

Behind him, Guilty’s eyes followed him with slow, deliberate focus.

Her hand lifted to her lips, fingertips brushing them gently.

‘He said I have the legs for it…’

Then lower, pressing against her chest where her heart should have been beating. She could almost feel it pounding anyway.

‘A model… something beautiful. Something special. Just for him.’

Her head tilted ever so slightly, a dreamy smile touching her lips.

‘Only he would say that. Only he would look at me that way. All the others flinched, avoided, whispered. But not him. Never him.’

Her fingers curled inwards, nails pressing into the soft fabric of her sleeve.

‘So if anyone else hears him say something like that… if anyone else makes him smile like that…’

Her expression didn’t change. Still soft. Still sweet.

‘I’ll break their legs. They won’t be fit for any runway. They won’t be fit for anything at all.’

She smiled wider, almost serene.

‘But that’s just the worst case. He wouldn’t do that to me. He wouldn’t… disappoint me.’

Behind her soft tone and gentle gaze, something buzzed, a low, jagged hum of obsession thrumming just beneath the surface.

‘He chose me. He sees me. And I’ll make sure he never stops.’

John didn’t notice.

“…Maybe security patrol. Something simple to start with,” he murmured to himself, still walking ahead.

Guilty followed, humming softly.

“Whatever you think is best… Counselor.”

And her smile didn’t fade. Not once.

Chapter Text

Chapter 30: Firmware injection

The lights were dim.

The air was awkward.

John sat stiffly on the edge of the bed.

Mecha Shifty perched beside him, humming a cheerful little binary tune that suspiciously sounded like a sultry Jazz solo.

“This is stupid,” John muttered.

“You said I needed to experience ‘human emotion.’”

“I meant watch a sad movie. Not... this.”

“You fear my chassis. That’s understandable. Most males do.”

“I fear nothing. I’m just trying to preserve my last shred of sanity.”

There was a long pause.

Then Mecha Shifty whispered, “Bow chicka—”

“Don’t.”

Another pause.

Mecha Shifty gently extended a robotic claw to brush against his arm with all the tenderness of a forklift.

John sighed like a man walking toward a slow, mechanical doom.

“Fine.”

The lights dimmed further.

The camera panned up to the ceiling.

[FADE TO BLACK]

...

...

...

*CLANK*
*CLANK*
*CLANK*
*CLANK*
*CLANK*
*CLANK*
*CRUNCH*

...

“YEOOOOOOOOOOOO—!!”

Chapter Text

Chapter 31: Recruitment Drive

“This is dangerous. Stupidly dangerous,” Chime muttered, flattening herself against the ledge of a ruined rooftop. “A human should not be on the surface alone.”

Beside her, Crown lounged across a crate like it was a throne, peering down through a pair of high-spec binoculars… upside down.

“I agree,” she declared, flipping them over. “That is precisely why we are here. To witness his mystic flowers.”

“Powers.”

“What?”

“You meant powers,’ Your Highness.”

“...Yes, of course. I was merely testing you, Chime.”

“Your Highness, I’m going to say it one more time,” Chime hissed, “magic. Is not. Real.”

Crown did not dignify that with a response. Below them, at the edge of a derelict overpass on the surface, stood John.

Alone. Still. Looking grim as ever.

“Observe,” Crown whispered. “The stillness of his posture. The way the wind avoids ruffling his hair. He’s clearly casting something. A high level spell, perhaps.”

“He’s just standing there. Like a normal person. Wearing a jacket. Probably thinking about taxes.”

“No. This is the calm before a cataclysm.”

Crown reached behind her cape, flipping through a handmade leather-bound book titled Potential Royal Advisors – Vol. I.

“I can feel it, Chime. He is no ordinary commander. Snow White called him... a ‘sorcerer.’ A man who dances between shadows. That’s basically a wizard.”

“She said, and I quote, ‘he’s a lunatic sorcerer who gets results.’”

“Exactly.”

Down below, John took a knee beside some old tire tracks and touched the ground.

Crown inhaled sharply.

“He’s reading the ley lines,” she breathed.

“He’s checking the mud.”

John stood again, muttering something under his breath and tapping his ear comms.

Crown gasped. “He’s summoning a familiar.”

“That’s radio comms, Your Highness.”

“You’re so very cynical, Chime. You mustn’t let the world crush your wonder.”

“I’ll believe in magic when he pulls a rabbit out of a hat and uses it to fire a plasma beam.”

“Spoken like a future archmage’s aide.”

Chime rolled her eyes, then paused, eyes narrowing.

“Hold on... I’m picking up a signal.”

From the wreckage ahead, movement. A low clicking. Hissing. Multiple blips on the scanner. Chime’s grip tightened.

“Oh no,” she whispered. “Three... no, four Raptures.”

Crown leaned forward excitedly. “The adversaries arrive.”

“They’re Servant-Class. They’ll tear him apart. We have to—”

“Wait,” Crown said, raising a hand. “Let him weave his spell. The stage has been set.”

Chime stared. “He’s a human, Your Highness. He’s not gonna start casting lightning bolts, he’s gonna die.”

But John didn’t run.

He stood there, watching the Raptures creep from the shadows—jagged, metal limbs twitching, glowing eyes fixated. They hissed, clattered, drew closer.

He dropped his cigarette.

Then his coat.

“...What’s he doing?” Chime whispered.

Crown’s eyes sparkled. “Shedding mortal constraints.”

Then one Rapture lunged.

John moved fast. Not elegant. Not fluid. Just raw, aggressive motion. He ducked under the claw, stepped in close, and punched the creature in the core.

It screeched. Then keeled.

The second one pounced. John grabbed its leg, twisted, and flung it into the wall like a bag of bolts. Its carapace split open on impact.

The third Rapture leapt in. John ripped a support beam from the wreckage, roared, and clubbed it across the midsection.

Chime was pale.

“That’s not magic,” she whispered.

John stomped down on the final Rapture’s head until it stopped moving. His knuckles were bleeding. He spat on the ground and muttered, “Ugly bastard.”

Crown clutched her notebook.

“That was... devastating,” Chime murmured. “That was horrifying. That was—”

“Majestic,” Crown whispered, eyes wide. “A tempest of brutality. The elegance of a true magus.”

Chime turned to her. “He just destroyed four Servant-Class Raptures with his fists. No Nikkes. No weapons. Just fists. He doesn’t need a mage title, he needs an exorcism.”

Crown’s quill scratched furiously across the page.

Court Mage Application - Commander John

No staff. (Possibly invisible?)

No spells. (Uses violence as a conduit.)

No robes. (Prefers disrobing before combat.)

Extremely effective.

Hired.

“He is perfect,” she declared.

Chime looked like she was going to be sick. “He’s a human, Crown! That’s not supposed to be possible!”

“Exactly. The Crown Kingdom shall be feared and adored. He will teach our subjects the way of the... fistsmanship.”

“...That’s not a word.”

“It is now.”

-

A few minutes later, John wiped his hands clean with a torn sleeve and sat on the remains of a fallen Rapture.

He didn’t look up as a shadow fell over him.

“You can come out,” he said.

Crown stepped out from the rubble first, regal as ever.

Chime followed reluctantly, twitching every time John moved.

John glanced between them, suspicious. “Pilgrims?”

“I am Crown, King of the Crown Kingdom,” she announced. “And this is my most trusted royale—uh, loyal—aide, Chime.”

John frowned. “...You’ve been watching me?”

“Observing,” Crown corrected. “For recruitment purposes.”

John blinked. “...Recruitment.”

“Yes. You are to become the kingdom’s First Archmage.”

John stared at her for a long time.

“No.”

Crown gasped. “But you haven’t even heard the benefits package!”

“I’m not a mage.”

Chime coughed. “We noticed.”

“I don’t join cults.”

“We’re a kingdom,” Crown said, offended. “With a castle. And a treasury. And a tea set.”

“No.”

Chime exhaled in relief. “Thank God.”

John got up, slinging his ruined coat over one shoulder. “If you’ll excuse me, I have another sector to check.”

Crown called after him, hand over her heart. “You haven’t seen the ceremonial robes!”

He walked faster.

Chime turned to her. “So. That went well.”

Crown smiled to herself.

“Oh, he’ll come around.”

Chapter Text

Chapter 32: Threesome

John wasn’t sure how this kept happening.

One minute, he was hauling sacks of soil for Botanic Garden. The next, Trina was leading him by the hand “deeper into the arboretum,” her voice soft and urgent.

He should’ve known that meant trouble.

Now, they were lying in a sun-dappled grove far off the path, surrounded by trees, silence, and filtered light… and Trina was unbuttoning his shirt like she was peeling back the petals of a flower.

“Trina,” he said, catching her wrist, “you said we were just resting.”

“We are,” she replied, utterly serene, slipping his shirt off his shoulders with gentle hands. “You’ll rest better without things… constraining you.”

His voice caught. “Naked?”

“Mmm,” she hummed, stepping back. “The trees don’t judge.”

Then, without shame or hesitation, she slipped her dress down over her hips in one smooth, elegant motion. The fabric pooled at her feet like petals. She stood bare beneath the canopy, the sunlight brushing against her skin like reverent fingers.

There was nothing performative in the way she moved. No teasing. No seduction. Just… reverence. Like she wasn’t exposing herself to him, but to the wind and the world.

Which somehow made it worse.

John cleared his throat, very aware of the fact that his thoughts were not pure and his pants were getting tighter. “I, uh… don’t usually rest like this.”

Trina tilted her head. “Then you’ve never really rested.”

He found himself undressing without realizing it. Not because he’d been pressured—but because something about the moment… worked. Her calm. Her quiet sincerity. The utter lack of guile.

And before long, they lay side by side in the moss, skin bare and warm, eyes to the sky.

“You’re still tense,” Trina murmured, brushing her fingertips along his chest.

He gave a quiet, helpless laugh. “I’m lying naked in the woods next to a beautiful woman. Of course I’m tense.”

“Let go,” she said simply. “Let yourself breathe.”

John exhaled slowly, his fingers brushing hers. And for a while, there was only peace. The hum of cicadas. The rustle of leaves.

“This place,” Trina said after a while, voice barely a whisper, “reminds me of Rinne.”

John turned his head, listening.

“She taught me that silence isn’t empty. It’s when you can hear the most.” She smiled faintly, eyes closed. “I only really hear things when I’m like this.”

“She gave me a garden,” Trina said. “I wanted to give her the world.”

John felt her fingers curl gently around his.

A branch snapped.

He sat up instinctively, scanning for threats, just in time for Rapi to step into the clearing and stop dead.

Her voice came out a strangled squeak. “What… What is THIS?!”

John sat up so fast he nearly pulled a hamstring. “Rapi—wait—it’s not—”

“You’re naked,” she pointed out, horrified. “You’re both NAKED. Together.”

Trina, unbothered, lifted her head. “We’re communing with nature.”

“Comm— what?! Is that what you're calling it!”

John scrambled for his pants. “This isn’t what it looks like.”

Rapi stared at him, mouth open, face redder than a cherry blossom. “You—You’re holding hands!” Her eyes snapped to Trina. “And you—you invited him out here to… to garden like THIS?!”

Trina sat up, entirely unconcerned with modesty. “You’re welcome to join us. There’s plenty of space.”

Rapi made a high-pitched choking sound. “What?!”

“Just remove your clothing and lie down,” Trina said gently, patting the space beside her like she was inviting a cat to nap.

“I—I can’t just— you—there’s etiquette— rules against fraten—!”

Trina blinked. “Oh relax. Trust me, it is a most relaxing and pleasurable experience.”

Rapi’s face was caught between embarrassment and horror.

“Fine,” she blurted, like she was accepting a dare. “Fine. I'm down.”

“Rapi, you really don’t have to—” John started.

But she was already taking off her gloves and coat with an embarrassed determination.

One Hour Later

The three of them lay under the wide branches, the sun warming every inch of exposed skin. A breeze stirred the leaves. Somewhere, a bird whistled a lullaby.

Trina was dozing, a smile on her lips.

John lay asleep, occasionally snoring.

Rapi stared at the sky like it had personally betrayed her.

After a long moment, she spoke:

“…I thought this was going to be a threesome.”

Silence.

Then, John let out a loud snore.

Rapi stared harder at the canopy. “…This is emotional terrorism.”

Chapter Text

Chapter 33: Nuclear Delusions

The last terrorist hit the wall with a meaty thud, slid down, and slumped with a groan.

“Behold!” Guillotine proclaimed, foot planted victoriously on his chest. “The final vessel of chaos has been laid low! Thus ends the reign of entropy beneath the heel of the One-Winged Dark Lord!”

Maiden had already popped a wall panel, half-listening. “Enough with the monologue. He said something about a bomb bolted into the structure.”

The man wheezed a laugh. “You’re too late. That hum you feel? That’s not ventilation. There’s a nuclear warhead bolted into the support frame. Timer’s ticking.”

Guillotine’s foot twitched. Maiden froze mid-cable pull. “…You’re joking.”

She pried the panel fully open.

A dense snarl of cables, wrapped around a dull, steel-gray casing, hummed faintly. Its plating bore the traces of a faded radiation symbol.

Maiden’s naturally pale face drained of any remaining color. “Oh my god. That’s a nuke. An actual warhead. Do we even have a protocol for this?!”

“We need engineering. Ingrid. Or maybe—”

Guillotine, completely unbothered, was already raising her comms unit.

“No,” she said gravely. “There is but one who can stand against the abyss. He who walks with ghosts. The Ashen Revenant. The—”

Maiden whipped around. “Guillotine, this is not the time for your insane delusions. Do not call John.”

“I’m calling John.”

“How is the commander who smells like burnt espresso supposed to help in this situation?!”

Guillotine tapped the comm.

[Connecting…]

“Yo,” came the voice on the other end—rough, quiet, and completely uninterested. “Guillotine, if this is about the tabletop game, I’m not—”

“There’s a live nuclear device in the base,” Guillotine said cheerfully.

Pause.

“…Are you serious?”

“Yes.”

Click.

Maiden blinked. “Did he just hang up—?”

BOOM.

A low blast echoed through the outpost. Lights flickered.

Then the emergency door blew inward, slamming against the wall with a thunderclap. The dust hadn’t settled before he walked in, with his coat half-buttoned, crowbar in one hand, a chipped coffee cup in the other.

“...You were on the far side of the outpost,” Maiden said. “How are you here already?!”

“I jogged,” John muttered.

“That’s a fifteen-minute run at the minimum!”

“Took a shortcut.”

He crouched beside the warhead, peering into the panel.

Guillotine whispered, reverent, “The Cursed Sentinel awakens…”

Maiden stepped forward, voice tight. “Wait, do you even know how to disarm a nuclear warhead?”

John didn’t answer. He just wedged the crowbar beneath the casing and with a wrenching groan of steel, ripped it clean from the wall.

Maiden screamed, “YOU CAN’T JUST RIP A WARHEAD OUT OF A SUPPORT FRAME!”

“It’s one-point safe,” John said flatly. “Unless you hit it exactly wrong, it won’t detonate.”

Maiden’s eye twitched. “That’s the most psychotic version of confidence I’ve ever seen.”

-

The lift shook as it ascended. Alarms wailed. The warhead sat at John’s feet like it was a sack of potatoes.

Guillotine beamed. “The Pale Revenant rides the sky once more.”

Maiden sat slumped in the corner, mumbling. “This is a stress-induced coma. None of this is real. I’m asleep in the medbay.”

John took a sip from his chipped coffee cup. “Could be.”

Ding.

The doors opened to pale grey clouds and distant mountains.

John stepped out, walked to the edge of the platform, and, without ceremony, hurled the warhead into the sky.

Maiden screamed, “WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING?!”

The nuke vanished above the cloud line.

A second later—

BOOM.

A distant thunderclap rippled across the sky, followed by a rolling shockwave.

John raised one hand.

A shimmering, translucent barrier unfolded behind them, a shield of cursed energy arcing silently like glass in moonlight. The shockwave bent and passed around them without a whisper.

Maiden stared, eyes wide. “You… stopped a nuclear blast. With your hand.”

“No,” John said, deadpan.

“You threw a nuclear bomb into the stratosphere.”

“No.”

“And then bent the shockwave around us like it was a gentle breeze.”

“...Atmospheric distortion.”

Maiden pointed a trembling finger. “You aren't real, Guillotine’s delusional rantings about you are not REAL!”

John gave a half-shrug, turned, and walked calmly toward the stairwell.

“You can’t just leave after that! You have to explain how you—how any of this—!”

He paused at the door. Looked back.

“Trick of the light.”

And then he was gone.

Maiden just stood there, mouth slightly open.

Guillotine placed a hand on her shoulder.

“We have borne witness,” she said solemnly, “to the unmaking of logic.”

Maiden whispered, “I need a drink.”

Chapter Text

Chapter 34: Band for band

Ash fell like snow across the ruined skyline. The ground sizzled under melted steel and slag, pockmarked by the aftermath of Nihilister’s attacks. She hovered above it all, crimson wings outstretched, her voice a rolling hiss through the scorched wind.

“Oh, come on,” she groaned, eyes narrowed with the lazy boredom of a cat toying with a mouse. “You're not dead yet? I swear, watching you flail is like reading a boring book upside down, pointless and slow.”

John spat dust, coughed, and adjusted the cracked earpiece barely hanging on his head. His coat was half-burnt. His left arm barely worked. He was three dodges away from being a pile of charcoal.

Still, he stood up.

“Maybe if you shut up for five seconds, the book would get interesting,” he said.

Nihilister landed with a crunch, the ground cracking under the sheer weight of her mechanical limbs. She rolled her shoulders, talons flexing, eyes glowing.

“Aww. You still think you're in a fight,” she cooed, baring her fangs in a grin. “That’s cute.”

Another fireball hissed into the air. John rolled just in time—barely. The edge of his coat caught again, blackening at the hem. His breathing was ragged.

He was out of cursed energy, out of tricks, and out of time.

So he did the only thing left.

He stood up straight… and stepped forward.

Nihilister tilted her head. “...You serious?”

John cracked his neck. “Alright. Enough warmup.”

He took off his coat, folded it with military precision, and dropped it to the ground. Then, he adjusted his collar, took a breath, and looked her dead in the eye.

“We’re going band for band, dragon.”

Nihilister blinked. “...What?”

“Show me your money spread,” he said, voice low. “Get your money up. Not your funny up.”

A long silence.

Nihilister stared at him like he’d just sprouted wings and declared himself Queen of Raptures.

“Are you having a heatstroke?” she asked.

John took a step forward, chin high.

“You think you're tough because you fly around spitting napalm like it’s a party trick. But I’ve seen scavengers in the Rim with more bark. Show me a real flex. Let’s see your net worth.”

She squinted. “Are you trying to financially intimidate me?”

“I'm trying to end this with the one thing stronger than violence: economic humiliation.”

Nihilister reeled back, then laughed. It started small, but quickly snowballed into a roar, her entire chassis rattling from the force of it.

“You want to flex wealth? With me?” she cackled. “I eat titanium for breakfast and incinerate cities before lunch. What the hell are you gonna do, throw a debit card at me?”

John reached into his back pocket. Slowly. With purpose.

Then he pulled out a folded slip of parchment. He unrolled it, revealing a balance sheet.

Handwritten. Detailed. Annotated.

With interest-bearing assets.

“This,” John said solemnly, “is my portfolio.”

Nihilister squinted. “What the hell am I looking at?”

“Diversified exposure. Government bonds. Real estate. A stake in a surface salvage firm. Liquid, decentralized assets. All untaxed.”

She frowned. “Wait. Is that… offshore holdings? How did you manage to get offshore holdings in the Ark?”

John met her gaze, dead calm. “You can breathe fire. I can short fireproof polymer futures before Ark Central bans them.”

Nihilister’s wings twitched.

John stepped closer.

“You wanna go band for band? Drop your treasury. Open your war chest. Show me the wealth.”

Her claws clenched. Her tail swayed.

“You smug little meat sack.”

“I’ll even start,” John said. “Estimated burn damage you’ve caused? 2.3 billion credits. That’s assuming average infrastructure density and insurance liability. Which, thanks to me… is a claimable loss.”

Nihilister’s eye twitched.

John gave her a small smile.

“I’m up, dragon.”

A long, tense pause.

Then Nihilister screamed in frustration.

She launched into the air like a missile, spiraling through smoke and flame, before slamming back down hard enough to crater the earth.

“FINE!” she howled. “I’ll kill you first and then burn down your portfolio!”

Chapter Text

Chapter 35: Band for band part two

John stood in the middle of Eden’s main courtyard, bathed in sunlight and unapologetic ego. He adjusted his knockoff Baleanciagah shades and scanned the pristine marble paths as if they were his personal runway.

From a distance, Dorothy approached in her usual flawless, composed gait, her elegant heels clicking like punctuation marks. She wore white, regal and pristine, and radiated a soft glow.

John whistled. “Aight, snow angel. Time to run it. Band for band.”

Dorothy blinked. “I'm sorry. Run what?”

“Band. For. Band.” John made a crisp money-spreading gesture with his fingers, fanning out imaginary bills. “I flash my racks, you flash yours. We go flex for flex. Brand for brand. Drip for drip.”

“I… see,” Dorothy said, even though she clearly did not. “Is this some form of Ark gambling? Or slang I’ve missed in the last fifty years?”

John scoffed. “Nah, this the Eden Invitational, baby. Let’s see what paradise talkin’ about. You might run a kingdom, but I run closets. Step into my boutique of pain.”

Without missing a beat, John yanked open his jacket, revealing a glistening Loubitin belt, with gaudy engraved gold-plated script: “Limited Ble$$ing.”

“This right here?” John smirked. “Custom ‘Burban’ cologne in the lining. Smell like sex and aloe vera. Made by monks in the Himalayan Outskirts of Royal road. You ain’t even unlocked this scent yet.”

Dorothy leaned forward cautiously. “That smells like… cheap vanilla scented perfume.”

“That’s money, sweetheart.”

He stepped closer. “Shoes? Hand-stitched Feragomma loafers, made from endangered synthetic leather. Insoles? Gel infused with the tears of my haters. And socks—peep game—reversible. Summer on one side. War crimes on the other.”

Dorothy blinked again, slower this time. “That… doesn’t sound… pleasant?”

John raised an eyebrow. “You still talkin’? What brand you got on—‘Chastity & Co?’ You dress like a hymnal. You built like a luxury tissue box, elegant and soft. Bet your perfume called ‘Forgiveness.’”

Dorothy huffed. “I’ll have you know this gown was custom-designed by an artisan during the initial rapture invasion. It’s an homage to hope.”

“Hope don’t pay the rent, shawty.”

Dorothy narrowed her eyes. “If you came here to insult me, you're wasting your time. I have far more pressing matters—”

“Bzzt. Wrong answer.” John leaned in, smug as ever. “This ain’t personal. It’s professional. I just had to remind Eden who’s really running the economy of clout.”

He pulled out a small black bottle with red lettering: “DIÖRRR — Hellfire Edition.” One spray, and the air was drowned in its scent.

Dorothy flinched. “What is that smell?”

“Smells like the moment before a bad decision,” John said. “I wear it before boss fights. Or dates.”

Dorothy covered her nose with her gloved hand. “Is this what the Ark teaches its commanders now?”

“Hey, you started it, angelcake. You tried to sun me with that Sephiroth cosplay. But I got divine clearance. I got my vestments from Saint Laurent Disorderly.”

“I… have absolutely no idea what you’re saying anymore,” Dorothy admitted, losing her regal composure for the first time.

“Exactly.” John slid his shades down just enough to wink. “That’s the sound of losing, ma’am.”

She stared at him. And for once in her long, burdened existence—this paragon of dignity, this wounded goddess, this woman who had outlived countries—Dorothy was speechless.

“…I don’t know what just happened,” she murmured, genuinely unsettled.

John turned and walked away, the soles of his Feragommas lighting up with each step.

“Next time,” he called over his shoulder, “bring a bigger wardrobe.”

Chapter Text

Chapter 36: Farmers

The surface mission was supposed to be simple.

Split into two teams, consisting of Neon, Laplace and Anis on one side and Maxwell, Rapi, Drake and John on the other. Get in, map the terrain around the old comms tower, avoid detection, and get out. No gunfire. No theatrics. No drama.

Which is why Rapi already knew, twenty minutes in, that things had gone catastrophically sideways.

John had been quiet at first. Unusually so. Suspiciously so. Then Drake spotted her own reflection in a cracked mirror and let out a gasp so dramatic Maxwell physically flinched.

“There,” Drake said, striking a pose with one boot up on a rock and her cape fluttering in wind that didn’t exist, “the aura is strong here. I can feel it gathering.”

Maxwell frowned. “Drake, what are you on about? Do whatever this aura thing is later.”

Drake turned slowly, as if Maxwell had just declared war on poetry itself. “Aura isn’t optional. Aura is everything. Presence. Posture. Vibe. Aura is power made visual.”

John, who’d been chewing a protein bar and minding his business, suddenly blinked once. Then turned to face her, an evil grin spreading on his face.

“I see,” he said solemnly. “Aura farming. You want to run the gauntlet.”

Drake’s eyes lit up. “You know of it?”

“I studied the ancient arts,” John said, nodding slowly. “Back in the Ark. A hundred meter stare. Seventy-five percent slow walking. Aura per second ratio? Optimal.”

Rapi sighed. “Oh no.”

Maxwell looked aghast. “No. No, you’re not doing this. We have a job.”

But it was too late.

John stepped onto a collapsed girder. His coat flared behind him, caught on the breeze. There was no breeze.

His footsteps echoed for no reason.

He said nothing.

Drake gasped. “He’s farming already?!”

John didn’t respond. He just stared off toward the horizon like he was watching the death of something important. A distant crow cawed. The temperature dropped. A single leaf drifted from a dead tree branch and landed perfectly on his shoulder.

Maxwell stared at it. “How?! There aren’t even trees here!”

Drake practically screamed. “That’s it! I can’t let that slide!”

She leapt onto a rusted out vehicle, pivoted, flung off her cloak, revealing an entirely different outfit. Where she got it or how she suddenly changed into it, no one could say. Ribbons and belts flared. Her boots glowed faintly with what had to be LEDs. She raised one arm skyward and struck a pose so violent the vehicle door fell off.

“I call this: Villain Aura Core Formation IV: Requiem Bloom Edition!”

Maxwell buried his face in his hands. “I hate this team.”

Rapi glanced over. “You think it would kill us to just walk away and pretend we never met them?”

Before Maxwell could answer, John moved again. This time it was a slow turn, dramatic, fluid, deliberate. He looked over his shoulder at nothing. The way his jacket hung off one side gave him the air of a man who had backstory.

“Tell me, Drake,” he said calmly. “Have you ever aura-farmed in enemy territory? With raptures on your six and betrayal on your mind?”

Drake landed in front of him, grinning slightly. “I’ve aura-farmed under collapsing cathedrals. Surrounded by the burning remains of my own legend. You’re not the only one who’s suffered.”

Rapi squinted. “They’re speaking in completely nonsensical terms now.”

“Worse,” Maxwell said. “They’re escalating.”

Drake dropped into a half-crouch, aura flaring, not literally, but the kind that made you feel like a theme song should start playing.

John popped the collar on his coat.

The wind picked up again. It was still not real.

And then they both walked.

Not toward each other. Not away. Just… paced in opposite directions, slow, deliberate. Each step more stylized than the last. Drake’s boots sparked slightly. John’s shadow elongated unnaturally. They were walking for style points now. Every movement chosen. Every glance angled. Every breath timed.

Somewhere, a loose canister rolled by and stopped upright between them.

Drake pointed at it. “Aura proximity shift.”

John nodded. “Confirmed.”

Maxwell grabbed Rapi by the arm. “We have to go. We have to leave them here. If we don’t, they’ll send us into early retirement.”

But Rapi didn’t answer.

She was watching John now, eyes narrowed. He moved with intent. Purpose.

And then, he said the line.

A single, devastating whisper:

“Don’t follow me unless you’ve maxed your aura stat.”

Rapi blinked once. Then turned away.

“I’m going back to the Ark.”

“Wait,” Maxwell said. “Wait, what?!”

“They’re too far gone,” she said. “They’ve gone fully delusional. If we stay here, we’ll get pulled in. Maxwell, I’m not strong enough for that.”

Drake threw her head back and laughed. “This is it, then! A tie?! Is our aura too evenly matched?!”

John was already halfway up a twisted support beam, standing on one foot, arms crossed behind his back like some kind of smug anime protagonist.

He looked down at her.

“No,” he said. “We both lost.”

Drake’s eyes widened.

“Because we both won.”

Maxwell made a strangled noise.

Then turned to Rapi.

But she was already walking away.

“I don’t care,” she said. “I don’t care what happens to the mission. I don’t care if we’re court-martialed. I’m going back to the Ark. I’m going to drink instant coffee and pretend I was never here.”

Chapter Text

Chapter 37: This Is Why I Drink

Mana had been having a week. First it was Flora, slipping a hand-written note under her lab door with shaking fingers and a warning that “he” was dangerous. Then Maiden, every other day, begged her to run full blood diagnostics on John, claiming he was “definitely not human” and possibly “a magical sorcerer or warlock.”

Mana had responded the way any sleep-deprived, overworked M.M.R. researcher would: by ignoring them both and triple-checking her pending reports to avoid dealing with Syuen.

But now, here she was. At the outpost. At night. Staring up at a man flailing in mid-air and kicking wildly at absolutely nothing.

“...What,” she said flatly.

She adjusted her glasses. Surely this was a stress-induced hallucination. Maybe a new flavor of migraine. Maybe she finally cracked. But no, John was definitely midair, spinning like a drunken gymnast, feet colliding with seemingly invisible air currents.

Or wind.

Occasionally he screamed something like “Ruinous Gambit!” before smacking something that wasn’t there and flipping into a roll.

Mana blinked.

Behind him, a large billboard cracked in half from the shockwave.

"..."

No Raptures. No enemies. Not even a malfunctioning Nikke in sight.

Just John, fighting the air like it owed him money.

Mana did not scream. She did not run. She did not faint.

She turned, very calmly, and walked in the opposite direction.

“To the bar,” she said out loud, to no one. “We are going to the bar.”

As she stepped into the Outpost’s Trendy Bar, she ordered the strongest thing they had that would start a chemical fire in her bloodstream.

Yulha looked up from her stool and gave her a nod. “Rough day?”

Mana sat down beside her.

“You ever see a man dropkick the sky?” she asked.

Yulha paused. “Nope.”

Mana downed her drink in one go and sighed.

“Good,” she muttered. “Let’s keep it that way.”

Chapter Text

Chapter 38: Deep fried

The kitchen at the Outpost gleamed with stainless steel and warm yellow lighting. Crust stood proudly at the center of it all, holding a notepad in one hand and a glittery pink pen in the other. Her apron was spotless, her pigtails bouncier than usual, and her eyes sparkled with pure culinary ambition.

“Mr. Gourmand,” she declared, pen poised. “Today’s menu is just for you! What’s your favorite food? I’m going to make it!”

John blinked at her from across the counter, his hand halfway into a bag of jerky. “Favorite food?”

Crust nodded eagerly. “Yup! The one dish that makes your heart flutter. Something warm and nostalgic! Something that makes you smile when you think about it.”

He leaned back, chewing. “Hmmm... apple pie, I guess. Homemade kind. Crumbly crust. Cinnamon. The whole deal.”

Crust’s eyes shone like twin stars. “A classic! Warm and sweet, like a hug for your tongue!”

John grinned. “Yeah. But there was also this one dish I had once in the Outer Rim... kinda stuck with me.”

Crust tilted her head. “Ooooh? What kind of dish?”

He paused, nostalgia briefly crossing his features like a shadow on the moon.

“It was a... deep-fried rat kebab,” he said.

Crust blinked. “... A what.”

He waved a hand casually. “Yeah. Local favorite. Guy ran a stall out of a broken-down sewage station. The oil was this viscous mix of rendered fat and—well, probably engine grease. You had to chase the rats into a wire cage yourself. The spice mix was just whatever he scraped off the wall that day.“

Crust was silent for a long moment, the pen in her hand frozen midair. “...That’s the worst thing I’ve ever heard in my life.”

John smiled. “Tasted incredible though. Salty. Crispy. Bit of a zing. Hard to describe unless you’ve tried it yourself.”

She stared at him like she was trying to decide whether to scream or call for a therapist.

Finally, Crust sighed and gave a tiny, trembling smile. “Okay. Um. Splendamin... rat kebab... Got it.” She pulled out a second notepad labeled 'Emergency Flavor Mapping' and began sketching. “Do you remember any flavor notes? Specific spices? Textures?”

John rubbed his chin. “Kinda... peppery. A hint of smoke, like the kind from burning tires. And a nutty aftertaste. Oh, there was also a hint of acidity.”

Crust scribbled frantically, visibly dying inside. “Okay okay okay, we can work with that. Just need to find a Splendamin profile that hits ‘urban charred asphalt with notes of despair.’ Maybe if I blend it with a lemon base...”

As she measured a synthetic spice blend into a pan, she asked, “What happened to the chef? He sounds... very creative.”

John paused.

He was about to say he was made to ‘disappear’ by the mob after failing to pay his debts, but then he looked at Crust’s face—so hopeful, so bright, like a peach soufflé untouched by the horrors of reality.

He cleared his throat. “Ah... he, uh... retired.”

Crust beamed. “Really?!”

John nodded solemnly. “Yeah. Opened a farm. Plays with his grandkids now. Bakes pastries for the local kids.”

Crust clasped her hands over her heart. “That’s so sweet...”

“Yep,” John said, staring at nothing. “Very alive. Definitely not dismembered and stuffed into a suitcase. Definitely playing with grandkids.”

Crust, now blissfully humming, adjusted the oven temperature. “I’ll make something he’d be proud of, then. Even if it… requires some unique ingredients.”

John nodded. “I believe in you, chef.”

Chapter Text

Chapter 39: Dessert

The lecture hall had cleared out an hour ago. John was alone, finishing up paperwork with his usual quiet efficiency. A pen in one hand, coffee in the other, and the comforting silence of a room finally free of undergrad chaos.

Then the door creaked.

He looked up.

Tia skipped in, holding her bag upside down and humming a tune that suspiciously sounded like the jingle from the Outpost bakery. “Teacher~!”

Right behind her came Naga, rolling her eyes but following with the casual grace of someone who knew she didn’t need to try hard to look composed.

“We forgot something,” Naga said plainly, nudging Tia forward.

Tia beamed. “Yup! I forgot my pencil case! Or was it my sock? No, wait, it was my—oh!” She stopped mid-thought as her eyes locked on John. “You look different when the lights are low…”

John blinked. “I—I’ve been here the whole time.”

Tia stepped closer, eyes gleaming. “I never noticed how broad your shoulders are. They’re like... cinnamon rolls. Big, warm, strong cinnamon rolls.”

John gave a confused half-nod, half-blink. “That’s... a new one.”

“Oh, Teacher,” she sighed, leaning slightly on the desk. “You always act so serious, but I just know there’s a sweet, gooey center in there somewhere.”

Naga approached from the side, slowly walking her fingers up the edge of the desk. “She’s right. You try too hard to act cold. But you’ve got kind eyes. And a nice jawline.” Her voice lowered slightly. “And good hands.”

John coughed.

Hard.

“Okay,” he said, standing a little too quickly, “Time to pack it up. Don’t you two have curfew? Study groups? A life that isn’t making your instructor consider early retirement?”

Tia giggled and tilted her head. “But you’re the best part of school, Teacher~! You’re like... dessert after homework.”

“We are adults, you know,” Naga added coolly, brushing invisible lint from his sleeve. “Graduating class. We don’t need bedtime stories.”

“Unless you’re the one reading them,” Tia said with a wink.

John froze as both of them got closer, Tia gently grabbing his bicep, Naga adjusting the collar of his jacket like she was claiming him as her territory.

“Y-you really should aim for someone closer to your age,” he managed, inching toward the exit like a man avoiding landmines. “You’re still—”

“Girls our age like older men,” Naga interrupted with a small smirk. “Wiser. Confident. More... experienced.”

Tia clutched his arm tighter, stuffing it between her sizable chest, staring up at him with adoration in her eyes. “And your voice! It’s soooo deep. When you’re lecturing, I don’t even hear the words. Just... mmm.”

“This is so wrong,” John whispered under his breath.

Naga leaned on the desk, elbow perched. “Is it wrong for students to admire their teacher? Deeply. Emotionally. Physically.”

“That’s all the wrongs,” John said, finally pulling his arm free like it was a hostage. “Alright, that’s it. Everyone out. I need... air. Lots of it.”

Tia pouted as she backed away. “But Teacher, we were gonna bring you snacks next time…”

Naga gave him a half-lidded glance. “And maybe a back massage. You look like you carry tension.”

“You two are the tension,” John snapped. Then, with barely restrained dignity, he marched past them, through the door, and vanished down the corridor like a man fleeing an ambush.

Tia blinked.

“Do you think he’s shy?”

“Oh, definitely,” Naga said. “He’s so cute when he panics.”

Chapter Text

Chapter 40: Confidence booster

"Mr. Commander!" Elegg burst into the office with a grin wide enough to power a generator. "Got a second? I need your help with something super serious. Like, ‘pause a game of BOOM' levels of seriousness."

John glanced up, already sensing chaos.

"It’s Trony," Elegg continued, plopping into the chair across from him. "She's brilliant, she's kind, she could probably hotwire a toaster to run a power grid, but put her in a room with strangers and she turns into a buffering video."

John folded his arms. “You want her to be more social.”

“Bingo! Confidence, charisma, sparkle. I need some kinda fix. Got any advice?”

John stared at her for a moment, then stood up, walked over to his cabinet, and opened a drawer with an unassuming click.

“Depends how far you’re willing to go,” he muttered.

He came back holding two small, plain tins.

“This one’s ecstasy. Helps with sociability, empathy, serotonin production. This one’s cocaine, sharpens confidence and suppresses fear. Should help her be more sociable in no time.”

Elegg stared. Blinked.

And then laughed. “Haha! Oh man. Mr. Commander. You’re deadpan scary good. I almost bought that.”

John tilted his head. Didn’t respond immediately.

Elegg leaned forward, still chuckling nervously. “…Wait. That was a joke, right?”

He paused just long enough to make her sweat.

Then gave her a faint smile.

“Of course it was,” he said smoothly, sliding the tins back into the drawer. “I mean, what kind of lunatic carries around party drugs in a military facility?”

Elegg let out a high-pitched, awkward giggle. “Right! Totally. That’d be insane. Crazy. You’d have to be, like… like some crazy guy with contacts in the outer rim.”

“Exactly,” John replied, locking the cabinet with a quiet click. “Just sugar pills and flour. Props from a bad prank. You know me.”

“Yeah,” she said quickly. “Of course.”

There was a long pause.

“So, uh…” she cleared her throat. “Got any actual advice?”

John leaned back in his chair like nothing had happened. “Ease her into things. Let her be in control. Invite her to co-op a game she’s good at. That’s usually the first crack in the shell.”

Elegg blinked. “That’s… actually really smart. Huh.”

He gave a small nod. “People open up when they’re not being judged. Or when they think they’re helping someone they like.”

Elegg stood up, pointing dramatically. “You, Mr. Commander, are full of surprises.”

John smirked. “You have no idea.”

As she left the office with a bounce in her step, John sat back and sighed, drumming his fingers on the desk.

He’d better move those tins before someone else opened that drawer.

Chapter Text

Chapter 41: Beneath cold winds

The northern sky stretched wide and empty, veiled in endless snowfall. It was the kind of night that dulled sound and thought alike, perfect for reflection, or for forgetting.

John sat alone on a half-buried bench overlooking the Northern base’s perimeter, boots dug into the frost, a flask of tea steaming faintly at his side. He didn’t shiver. The cold wasn’t cruel, but it was honest. Like the kind of silence that didn’t expect an answer.

Ludmilla approached without fanfare. Her presence was always composed, measured, like she had stepped out of a painting. Fur-lined coat rippling behind her, she stopped beside him and exhaled, the breath visible in the moonlight.

“Sir Knight,” she said softly. “You’re always out here when the storm is at its worst.”

He glanced up, then back toward the endless white. “Storms don’t bother me,” he said. “It’s the quiet after them that gets loud.”

She gave a small hum, then sat beside him, her own flask cradled in gloved hands. Her breath caught the air like snowmelt steam. For a time, neither spoke.

“I’ve always liked the snow,” she finally murmured. “It feels clean. Peaceful. Like everything’s been forgiven.”

John let the words hang. Then, he nodded faintly. “Or buried.”

Ludmilla gave him a sideways glance. “I thought I was being poetic.”

“You were. I’m just tired.”

She smiled lightly. “You always sound as though you’ve already died once.”

“I have,” John said. “A few times. Not in body, maybe. But enough to know the shape of it.”

The frost crackled beneath their feet.

“You think of death often?” she asked.

“Not often,” he replied. “But when I do, I don’t flinch from it. We’re all headed toward the same horizon. Some of us just walk faster.”

His tone wasn’t cold. Not bitter. Just factual. There was a quiet peace to it, the kind of resolve that had already looked death in the eye and shrugged.

“I’ve buried friends,” he continued, voice low. “Made peace with the idea that I might not get buried myself. There’s no glory in how people like me go out. No final words. Just silence and maybe a blood trail no one will follow.”

Ludmilla didn’t interrupt. She watched the steam curl from her flask like incense.

“But I’ve come to terms with it,” John said. “They say death is lonely. I’ve seen what happens when you pretend otherwise—try to hold on too tightly to things that will slip away anyway.”

His fingers curled around the metal of the flask, knuckles pale.

“There’s comfort in accepting it. In knowing that I’ve done my part. That I stood where others fell, and maybe held the line for five more minutes. It’s enough.”

Ludmilla looked at him for a long moment. Then she smiled—not sadly, but with something gentler, something warmer.

“That’s a very you way of looking at it, Sir Knight,” she said.

He blinked. “Is that a compliment or a gentle insult?”

“Yes,” she said primly.

John chuckled under his breath.

She turned slightly, studying the profile of his face. “You know, I used to think I would die in a tower. Surrounded by gold and rot. A useless symbol, mourned only in formality.”

“Do you still think like that?,” John said.

“No,” she agreed. “I chose a colder life instead. One where my death might matter. Even if no one remembered it.”

The words hung between them for a while, floating in the soft fall of snow.

Then she added, “But sometimes… I wonder if I chose exile over comfort out of guilt. Like dying somewhere quiet was the only penance I could afford.”

“You’re not exiled,” John said softly. “You chose this.”

“And you?”

“I never had a choice,” he replied, almost smiling. “But I still keep walking.”

Ludmilla tilted her head. “And if you fell in the snow one day, with no one around to see it, would you regret it?”

John looked down into the frost.

“No,” he said. “Because I’d know I didn’t run. That I stood where I was needed, even if no one ever saw it.”

She reached out, placed a hand gently on his arm.

“Sir Knight,” she said with uncommon tenderness, “you may think you’ve accepted a lonely end, but… I don’t believe you’ll face it alone.”

He didn’t look at her right away.

“You’re not so distant as you pretend to be,” she added. “And whether you like it or not, people do remember the ones who stood their ground.”

He finally met her eyes, and for once, the cynicism slipped. Just a flicker of something human, something tired but not bitter.

“Thank you,” he said simply.

She smiled. “You’re welcome. And now, since this tea is cold and I am freezing despite my composure, I propose we go inside before one of us dies of exposure.”

John stood and offered a hand. “As you command, Your Majesty.”

She took it, rising with grace.

“And don’t think I missed the part where you finally brewed a decent cup,” she added as they walked back toward the lights of the outpost.

“Don’t get used to it.”

Chapter Text

Chapter 42: The problem with John

Dorothy stood alone beneath the cooling sky, a porcelain cup of Eden-grown tea nestled in her fingers, untouched, going cold. Her gaze, however, burned hot as it followed the lone figure across the courtyard below.

John.

He sat on one of the curved stone benches Eden's artisans carved by hand, back slightly hunched, one leg propped up as he sipped from a battered old Ark-issued mug. His coat was off, sleeves rolled to the elbow, and the low evening light caught every scar carved across his forearms, each one a story he'd never tell.

She watched. She fumed.

That man.

He had no right to look so composed. So infuriatingly grounded. Like the world could not sway him even if it cracked in half beneath his feet.

Dorothy exhaled slowly, lips pressing into a thin smile.

“Ridiculous,” she whispered.

There was no triumph in him. No thirst for legacy. No desperation to be understood, remembered, glorified. He’d die in a ditch if it meant one more step toward whatever obsessive goal he carried in that stubborn, mortal skull.

And no one would know what he sacrificed.

That bothered her.

He didn’t demand the world see him. He didn’t need it to. He fought and bled and bore the weight of others silently. Like it was expected. Like he preferred it that way. And the world—so fickle and blind—would forget him the moment he passed.

Dorothy hated that.

No, not hate. That would be too pure. Too easy.

She envied it.

The unwavering certainty in his eyes when he spoke. The way he gave orders with quiet calm, like the world would simply comply—and it did. The way he made people trust him without ever asking for their trust.

She, Dorothy, architect of Eden, Goddess reborn, had to weave tapestries of power just to hold people's eyes. And yet he… didn’t even try.

How dare he not need it?

She tightened her grip on the cup until porcelain hairline cracks formed beneath her glove.

And yet.

And yet he didn’t flinch when she spoke. Not when her tone sharpened. Not when she tested him. Not even when her smiles faltered and her darker thoughts began to show.

He simply looked at her. Saw her. Not the Eden Messiah. Not the Angel of Inherit. Just… Dorothy.

Disgusting.

He was everything she hated in a man. Humble. Quiet. Principled.

And it made her want to ruin him. To burn that detachment out of him until he screamed her name. Until she was the only truth he had left.

"How annoying..." she murmured, voice soft like lace, trembling with something deeper.

She imagined it.
The moment she snapped.
Locked the gates. Told him he could never return to the Ark. Spoke it with honeyed words, a sorrowful smile.
He’d believe her. Accept it. She would make him accept it.
Stay.

And slowly, she’d become his world. She wouldn’t have to break him. He’d do it himself. Just like he always did. Quietly. Nobly. Idiotically.

Dorothy’s eyes gleamed, her expression calm and sweet, but her heartbeat thundered in her ears.

She stepped back from the railing, adjusting the folds of her skirt with precise, elegant fingers.

She didn’t need him. She didn’t want him. He was a parasite, a man raised in rot, clinging to ideals that should have died long ago. His righteousness was a reminder of everything she’d buried. Everything she'd crushed just to survive.

But if she took that away from him—
If she made him hers—

He looked up suddenly, as if sensing something. Their eyes met across the courtyard.

Dorothy smiled. The warm, radiant smile of a hostess welcoming a guest. The kind that made people forget they were walking into a gilded cage.

He nodded back in acknowledgment, distant, polite, unknowingly hers already.

She let her smile linger until he turned away, walking toward Eden’s central building.

“Don’t you understand, Your Grace?” she whispered.

“You’re not allowed to disappear. Not when I’ve already written the story in which you stay.”

And just beneath her calm veneer, the cracks widened.

“Keep running toward your ideals, if it makes you feel better. It just makes it easier for me to tighten the net.”

The tea spilled slightly over her glove as she finally took a sip.

It was overly bitter.

But the bitterness tasted like victory.

Chapter Text

Chapter 43: Handle with care

John groaned quietly as he rolled his neck, the soft creak of muscle and tension filling the quiet of the room. The warm yellow glow of the overhead lamp flickered slightly.

“You okay?” Rapi asked, arms crossed, watching him from the doorframe.

“Stiff back,” he muttered. “Think I slept wrong on my back last night.”

Rapi hesitated, then slowly stepped closer. “You want me to...?”

John turned and looked at her, expression unreadable. “Think you can handle it?”

“I’m not delicate,” she replied quickly.

“Didn’t say you were. Just not sure massage is in your combat training.”

Rapi huffed and kneeled behind him. “It’s just muscle. I know how to deal with that.”

“Mmhm. Knock yourself out.”

John pulled his shirt off with a casual motion, and Rapi froze. Her words failed her for a second as her eyes lingered on his back: a map of sharp muscle and scars. She swallowed.

“You gonna stare all day?” he asked over his shoulder.

“I’m... calibrating,” she muttered defensively, before placing her hands on his shoulders.

She pressed. John didn’t even flinch.

“Is that your full strength?” he deadpanned.

“I’m going easy.”

He exhaled through his nose. “Yeah, you don’t have to. Come on, switch with me. I’ll show you how to do it.”

Before she could respond, John had already shifted behind her. His hands landed on her shoulders—warm, calloused, and careful.

The first press made her breath catch. The second turned it into a slow exhale. By the third, her entire posture had melted forward.

“A-ah—” she bit the sound back. “That’s... better.”

He said nothing. His hands worked steadily, finding every knot and coaxing it out with infuriating precision. She felt heat crawl up her neck. Her face was burning.

“Your muscles are tighter than mine,” he said casually. “How often do you relax?”

Rapi didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Her lips were slightly parted, eyes unfocused as she tried not to whimper when his thumbs moved lower, tracing just under her shoulder blades.

“I—I'm not used to this,” she murmured.

John leaned in, voice low. “You should be. You carry too much tension.”

She gave a breathy, accidental noise that made both of them pause.

John smirked.

“...Rapi,” he murmured.

“Don’t,” she whispered, not daring to look at him. “Just... keep going.”

He did. His hands slid further down her back, slow, deliberate, teasing the line between relaxing and something else.

Then his voice came again, soft and low near her ear—just enough to make her freeze.

“...Do you want me to massage lower?”

Rapi sat bolt upright, nearly knocking him backward.

“I—You—Th-that’s not what I—!”

John chuckled, not moving an inch. “Didn’t say it was. Just asking.”

“I didn’t say no,” she mumbled, eyes locked on the floor.

His smile was quiet, his hands warm.

“Well,” he said, “I’m not done yet.”

Chapter Text

Chapter 44: Don't You Dare Die, Dumbass

The world is sideways.

Blurred trees. Blood on metal. Gunfire somewhere far away, muffled like it’s happening underwater. Eunhwa blinks slowly, her visor cracked, red warnings flickering across her HUD. The ground around her stinks of cordite, scorched bark, and synthetic flesh.

Her ears ring.

“Hey,” a voice grunts near her. Familiar. Rough. “Stay with me, Eunhwa.”

She opens her mouth. Tries to speak.

Something rasps out. “…Dumbass.”

John chuckles. It’s short, tired, and almost breathless. “That’s the spirit.”

Her body jerks slightly—he’s pulling her. She can’t feel her legs. Only the sting in her shoulder where the shrapnel struck. Her vision sways, going dark at the edges.

The forest canopy overhead spins. Her blood leaves a trail behind them.

She drifts.

A memory flashes.

Her squad, Absolute, standing pristine and poised. Every detail perfect. No missteps. No sloppiness. Eunhwa barking orders.

Then, the explosion.

Now, silence.

She comes to again.

John’s breathing heavy. He’s carrying her now, arms hooked under her knees and back. Her side screams with pain at every step, and yet—

His arms are warm. Solid. Like stone.

“Put me down…” she murmurs.

“No,” he replies flatly. “You’re leaking coolant and blood. You’re not walking anywhere.”

“You’ll slow down,” she mutters. “We’ll both die. Idiot…”

“You’re so dramatic when you’re bleeding out,” he grumbles, ducking under a branch. “How do people not notice how dramatic you are?”

She manages the faintest twitch of her lips. “Because they’re… amateurs…”

“Yeah? What does that make me?” he huffs.

She shifts slightly in his grip—winces. Her hand brushes against his chest. Warm. Steady. Her voice is barely audible.

“…Better than most…”

He pauses a beat. Then keeps walking.

They reach a crumbled overpass, a half-buried structure swallowed by roots and vines. He ducks beneath, sets her down against a slanted wall, and kneels beside her.

She blinks, slowly focusing on his face.

Dirt smeared on his cheek. A shallow gash across his brow. His hair soaked in sweat. His eyes, steady, like always. Stubborn. Frustratingly calm.

“Why…” she whispers, “why do you always act like that?”

“Like what?”

“…Like it doesn’t matter. If you die.”

He sighs. Pulls a med-pack from his belt. “Because it doesn’t.”

“Don’t lie to me,” she snaps, though it lacks venom. “You care. You… always do.”

He presses gauze to her wound. She hisses.

“I care about you. That doesn’t mean I care if I die.”

“You’re a damn fool.”

“Probably.”

Her eyes start to close again, exhaustion threatening to pull her under. But before darkness takes her, she feels something.

His hand, brushing back her hair. Gentle. Careful. Reverent.

“…Rest,” he murmurs. “I’ll hold the line.”

She fights sleep just long enough to mutter, “Dumbass…”

And then she lets go.

-

The sharp sting of disinfectant pulls her from unconsciousness.

Her body aches like she’s been hit by a tank, but the pain is dulled, numbed by field medicine and exhaustion. She stirs, the quiet rustle of her clothes catching John’s attention.

“You’re awake,” he says softly, from a few feet away.

Eunhwa doesn’t answer immediately. Her head turns, sluggish but alert. Her HUD boots up with a low chime. Diagnostics show she's stable. Her voice is hoarse.

“…Where are they?”

John looks over. His back is against a concrete wall, hands resting across his knees. The soft flicker of a flare lamp casts gold across his face.

“Emma and Vesti?” he asks. She nods once.

“They’re fine,” he says. “Made it out on the other side of the ridge. Took a hit, but nothing serious. They’re circling back to regroup with us.”

Her eyes sharpen. “…ETA?”

“Half an hour. Maybe less.”

A breath leaves her lungs. Relief. Subtle, but present.

“…Good,” she murmurs. “They shouldn’t’ve been separated.”

“They weren’t,” John says. “You were.”

That draws a slow glare from her. “I didn’t ask for you to play hero.”

“You didn’t have to,” he replies, tilting his head. “You were bleeding out. I don’t let my team die.”

“You’re not my team,” she mutters, but the words don’t carry the bite they usually do.

John chuckles under his breath. “Right. Just your dumbass, remember?”

She exhales slowly and looks up at the cracked ceiling above. The silence lingers between them, filled only by distant wind and the groaning of the swamp settling.

“…Thank you,” she says eventually.

He glances at her. “…What?”

“Don’t make me say it twice, dumbass.”

He offers a crooked smile. “There’s a first for everything.”

A small smile ghosts across her lips, but she’s quick to hide it behind a scoff. “Ugh. You’re unbearable.”

He moves closer, crouching beside her, checking the seal on her bandages. His hand brushes against hers briefly. He doesn’t pull away. Neither does she.

“You scared me,” he mutters, not looking at her.

“…Tch. You? Scared?”

“I watched you go limp in my arms. You think that didn’t get to me?”

Her eyes soften, just a touch. She studies him, the tired lines on his face, the strain in his shoulders, the grime coating his uniform. His armor is cracked in several places. He didn’t stop moving until she was safe.

“…You look like hell,” she says.

“Yeah,” he sighs, giving her a tired smile. “So do you.”

For a long moment, neither of them speaks. The tension between them isn't the usual brand of snark or challenge, it’s something quieter. Vulnerable. Real.

“...You didn’t have to carry me,” she says, voice quieter now.

“I know.”

“You could’ve left me. Focused on regrouping.”

“I know that too.”

She stares at him for a long time. Then, softly—barely above a whisper:

“Why didn’t you?”

He leans in, rests a forearm beside her head, and meets her eyes with that same infuriating calm.

“Because I chose you.”

The silence between them is different now. Her heart thuds just a little harder. She opens her mouth to say something—anything—but no words come out.

He brushes her hair back again.

“You’ve got half an hour to rest,” he murmurs. “Then you can yell at me for being reckless.”

She huffs softly, turning her head away, but not before he sees the blush on her cheeks.

“…Don’t think I’ll go easy on you just because you saved my life, dumbass.”

He smirks. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

Chapter Text

Chapter 45: He comes from the sea

The black water surged like a living wall, hissing and crashing as Leviathan thrust her arms forward.

“Bow before the four beasts!” she howled, the fluid rising behind her like a tidal serpent, then crashing forward in a monstrous wave.

It slammed into John, impossibly dense, dark, screaming with a thousand whispering voices from the deep.

And it parted.

He stepped through it without pause.

The water slid from his shoulders. Unmoved. Bone-dry.

Leviathan blinked. “What—?”

Another pulse. The ground beneath him warped as she twisted her fingers, forcing black water to rise like spears from the concrete.

They stabbed through him.

No blood. No stumble. No recoil.

Just... movement. He kept walking. His silhouette flickering at the edges, like her eyes couldn’t focus on him fully. Something deeper than a man.

A thing.

Panic crept into her chest. “Stay back!”

She whipped her arms and hurled another blast, this one jagged and spiraling.

He didn’t slow.

“STAY BACK!”

The air around her warped from the sheer density of the black fluid, but even that did nothing. John stepped into the fog, disappeared—then reappeared ten steps closer.

Leviathan’s lip quivered.

Not waiting to see what would come next, she leapt into a rippling puddle of black water beneath her feet. With a hiss and a flick of her mechanical arms, she dropped into the liquid and vanished.

She emerged in an alley miles away, gasping.

The buildings here were half-sunk, rotting. Her domain. The black water pooled around her ankles like loyal pets.

“I’m in control,” she whispered to herself. “I’m in control.”

A flicker caught her eye.

She turned.

A shattered storefront window. Inside, among the broken mannequins and old debris, something moved.

Two glowing eyes.

Watching.

Staring straight at her.

“No—!” she hissed, and dove again.

She emerged on a rooftop, far from the last.

Panting.

Panting.

“Where are you?” she whispered. “What are you?”

A crow cawed nearby. The wind rustled a half-torn banner.

She looked around… Clear. Empty.

Then the reflection of the rooftop water twisted, and for the briefest instant, his shape was mirrored in the surface.

She didn’t scream. She just moved.

The next escape landed her on an overgrown overpass, roots splitting the road, black water pulsing through the cracks.

She didn’t hesitate.

She didn’t check.

She jumped again.

The final time, she emerged near the ruins of a cathedral, the air thick with mold and silence. The water here was shallow, thin, barely a film on the ground.

She staggered.

She waited.

Nothing.

No footsteps. No silhouette. No eyes.

Gone.

Gone.

She exhaled a shaky breath. Her knees wobbled.

“Hah… hah… I—”

She froze.

She didn’t hear him. She didn’t see him.

But she felt him.

The warmth of breath—right on the back of her neck.

“… You cannot run,” came the low whisper behind her. Too soft. Too close. Too calm.

Her eyes widened.

Her breath caught in her throat.

His whisper—that things whisper, curled through her like smoke.

She didn’t dare turn around.

Instead, she leapt.

The water answered her call.

Black tendrils surged upward, swallowing her whole as she dove headfirst into her element, into her world.

Down.

Deeper.

Darkness enveloped her as she swam through the twisting void of black water tunnels. This was her domain. Her sanctuary. The world bent for her down here. She knew its every current.

She kicked forward, faster, faster.

But the water grew colder.

Thicker.

Wrong.

She glanced back—

Nothing.

But ahead... the current resisted. The shadows churned.

Then—

A hand.

Clenched tight around her throat.

The pressure was immediate and brutal, slamming her against a wall of current like concrete. Her eyes went wide, bubbles escaping her lips in a scream that couldn’t be heard.

The grip tightened.

A shape emerged—vague, inhuman, impossible—John.

No oxygen.

No escape.

No light.

Only those eyes. White. Endless. Watching.

She screamed—

—and bolted upright.

Gasping.

Alone.

Cold sweat dripped down her brow. Her throat burned. She clutched it instinctively, fingers trembling.

She was in her chambers. A domed ruin half-submerged in water. The silence was deafening.

“...just a dream,” she muttered, forcing her voice to stay steady. “Just a nightmare. He’s not real. Not here.”

The black water around her rippled gently. Peaceful. Obedient.

She exhaled. “... Ha, it was just a bad dream.”

And she didn’t notice the faint shimmer behind her.

Didn’t hear the wet footfall.

Didn’t see the tall, still silhouette standing in the darkest part of the room.

He didn’t speak.

Didn’t move.

Only watched.

Only the whites of his eyes visible—glowing faintly in the shadows behind her.

Waiting.

Chapter Text

Chapter 46: Kabedon

It started, as these things often did, with John.

Rapi found him in the outpost gym, hunched over a barbell with that usual quiet intensity. She had been lurking behind a stack of crates for ten minutes now, rehearsing an opening line. Something casual. Natural. Smooth.

She stepped out with all the grace of she could drum up, posture rigid, voice one notch too loud.

“…Hey.”

John looked up. “Morning.”

She glanced at his shirt.

“I noticed you… wear that one a lot. It’s, um. Well-fitted.”

John paused mid stretch.

“…Thanks?” he said slowly. “You like it?”

“It suits you,” she replied, arms crossing in defense. “Efficient for movement. And… clear visual on your upper musculature.”

A beat.

“Visual on my—my arms?”

“Yes. The visible muscle tone—” She froze. “Forget it.”

John smiled, faintly amused. “Rapi… are you hitting on me?”

Her head snapped toward him like a gun turret. “N-no. I was observing. Purely observational. Tactical evaluation.”

“Of my shirt.”

“…Correct.”

“With an emphasis on arm visibility.”

“Correct again.”

“You’re really bad at this,” he said, laughing.

She stiffened. “I didn’t anticipate a direct engagement scenario.”

“That’s called a conversation.”

She turned, cheeks heating. “Disregard this conversation please.”

“Nah.” He leaned in slightly, grin playing at his lips. “If I wear a sleeveless shirt tomorrow, would that be… a morale booster?”

“I—” Her eyes widened. “That’s not a valid metric.”

“Could be.”

“You’re enjoying this,” she accused.

“Way more than I should.”

“…I am leaving.”

He watched her go with a quiet chuckle. “Next time,” he called after her, “just say I look good.”

She didn’t reply.

But the next day, as they passed in the hallway, she muttered—

“…You look good.”

Then practically sprinted away.

John just laughed, shaking his head.

-

Later that day, Rapi sat in the squad room, reviewing training footage with excessive intensity. She was not thinking about earlier. She was not replaying every awkward second in her head. She was absolutely not still embarrassed.

She did not notice John enter.

“Rapi,” he said casually.

She jumped. “Commander.”

“I’ve been thinking about that compliment earlier.”

“I didn’t mean anything by it,” she blurted. “It was a neutral assessment—”

She trailed off as she registered his proximity.

Too close.

He stepped in. She stepped back. Two steps later, her back hit the wall.

Oh no.

John leaned in, one hand thunking against the wall beside her head, making her heart flutter.

Her eyes widened like a trapped cat’s. “W-what are you doing?”

“You ran off before I could thank you properly.”

“Thanks are unnecessary.”

“Still.” He leaned just a little closer. “You’re cute when you’re trying to flirt.”

Her voice cracked. “That’s… inappropriate.”

“Yeah,” he murmured. “So’s this.”

He kissed her.

Not hurried. Not harsh. Just a warm, confident press of lips. She froze for half a second—then relaxed into it, eyes fluttering shut.

When he pulled away, her face was on fire.

“I… that was awesome,” she whispered.

“If you’re up for it…” he brushed a lock of hair from her cheek, “we can carry on further in a place that’s… more private.”

Rapi gave the smallest nod known to mankind.

“…Affirmative.”

Chapter Text

Chapter 47: True strength

The wind skittered across Reclamation Site 01. Dust and dirt danced in broken spirals over the uneven terrain, the air sharp with the scent of nature.

Grave stood at the very edge of the site, where the old world met the new. Her silhouette was cast in long, warped lines by the coffin chained to her back. Seven Dwarves rested against her shoulder.

She did not turn as John approached, he moved like a shadow too, the both of them veterans of endless battlefields where stealth had long become instinct. He stopped beside her, arms crossed, his breath steady despite the climb and the cold.

"You’re out here to think," John said, voice low, conversational.

Grave's reply was delayed. Her speech always was—not from hesitation, but from the damage accrued over the many decades. “...No. Not thinking. Remembering.”

“Dangerous habit.”

“Only if... what you remember hurts,” she murmured.

He glanced at her. “You don’t seem like someone who lets pain stop her.”

“I don’t,” she said simply. “I... learned to carry it.”

Another silence.

She spoke again, slowly. “Cinderella is awake now. Breathing. Moving. I kept her safe. For so long. For too long. And now... I am still here.”

John said nothing.

“I should feel... complete,” she added. “I do not.”

He looked at her face, what little of it the half-mask didn’t cover. He could see the tension there, subtle, more in the eyes than the mouth. Not regret. Not doubt. Just... displacement.

“You kept walking because she needed you to,” he said.

Grave nodded. “And I still walk. Because she still lives. And if she lives, I must help her rewrite the ending. Make it... better. For her. For the others. That is my reason.”

She turned her head slightly. “You are the same. You keep walking.”

John exhaled through his nose. “Yeah.”

“Why?”

He scratched the back of his neck. “It feels right.”

She stared.

“That’s it?” she asked, voice dry, almost incredulous.

John gave a small smile. “Close enough. Doing the right thing feels good. Doesn’t need to be more complicated than that.”

She blinked. “You risk everything. Your body. Your mind. You fought things that should not exist. You have died, and yet not died. All for... ‘feeling right’?”

John tilted his head, gaze wandering out to the distant haze. “I guess... I don’t care if the Ark’s worth saving. Half the time, I think it isn’t.”

Grave stiffened. Her voice dropped, quiet but heavy. “You don’t... believe in the Ark?”

He glanced at her. “Not the way others do.”

“You fight for it.”

“I fight for the people I care about who live there.”

“That’s...” she paused, the words catching in her throat like a cracked gear. “That is not the same.”

“Nope,” he said. “But it’s enough.”

Grave turned fully now, facing him. Her voice cracked slightly. “The Ark is all that remains. The last haven… for humanity. The thing we bled and broke ourselves to protect. If it is not worth saving... then what was the point of all of it?”

John didn’t flinch from her tone. Instead, he gave her a look that was hard to define—somewhere between tired and kind.

“That’s your story,” he said. “You protect something because it’s precious. Because someone you love needs it to be real.”

“Yes,” she said instantly, fervently. “Cinderella’s future depends on it. Her peace. Her redemption. I need it to stand.”

John nodded. “I get it.”

He looked toward the mountains beyond Reclamation Site 01. The wind dragged dust across twisted peaks.

“I’ve been thinking about that,” John said after a beat. “About what it takes to be strong.”

Grave turned slightly. The faint light caught her half-mask, a sliver of dull metal cutting her expression in two.

John continued. “I used to think the strongest people were the ones who sacrificed the most. Carried the heaviest burdens. But it’s not that. Not really.”

He glanced at her. “You want to know what makes someone truly strong?”

Grave didn’t answer, but her silence was a permission.

“It’s when you stop trying to be someone else,” he said quietly. “When you stop living for someone else’s approval. Or guilt. Or legacy. The strongest people... they walk their path because it’s theirs. Not because it’s noble. Or selfless. But because it’s the only one that feels true.”

He turned to face her more directly. “And that’s you.”

Grave’s brows knit. “Me?”

“You built your whole life around saving her,” John said. “No orders. No Ark. No promise of reward. Just a story you wanted to rewrite. Because it mattered to you. That’s strength. That’s real.”

Grave looked away. “That is selfish.”

“Yeah,” John said. “It is. But you’re allowed to be. I am, too.”

He let out a slow breath. “That’s the thing they don’t tell you. Everyone who gets strong — truly strong — does it for themselves. Even if what they want is something good. They follow their own desire. Their own shape of what the world should be.”

Grave was quiet for a while. The wind tugged at her hood.

“You do not believe in the Ark,” she said finally.

“No,” John admitted. “I believe in people. Rapi. Anis. Neon. Marian. Cinderella. You. People who deserve better. So I keep walking. Not because I think the Ark is worth it, but because walking with people like you is.”

Grave turned back to him, eyes unreadable behind the half-mask. “And if you were alone?”

“Then I’d still walk,” he said, “because it feels good. Doing good feels good. That’s all. I’m selfish, too. Just lucky that my selfishness helps people.”

“... I want to keep walking too,” she said, softly. “Even if the story’s already changed. Even if she’s safe. I still want... to keep writing.”

John smiled faintly. “Then that’s your truth. Doesn’t matter if anyone else gets it. If it’s honest, it’s enough.”

She looked up again. “Do you think... that’s why we’re both still alive?”

“Maybe,” John said. “Or maybe it’s just because we’re both too damn stubborn to stay down.”

The two of them stood in silence for a long moment, not as warriors or veterans or tools of a long-dead war, but just two selfish people with hearts too stubborn to give up.

Chapter Text

Chapter 48: Absence Part Two

The door to the garden slid open with a soft hiss.

Flora stood amid the sunlit blooms, hands clasped tightly in front of her, a watering can held like a shield. Her voice caught in her throat as she watched John step into her sanctuary.

He didn’t look threatening. In fact, he looked… ordinary. Relaxed. A bit tired, perhaps, with a cup of black coffee in one hand and a faint crease between his brows. He took in the garden with quiet appreciation.

“This place is beautiful,” he said simply.

Flora blinked. “Oh. Thank you.”

Her fingers tightened on the handle. Something was wrong. No, not wrong. Just… missing.

Every person she met had a scent. Biscuit, like crisp morning dew on a sunflower. Nero, like crushed sea lavender. Even Syuen, whose presence made Flora wilt a little, had a sharp, artificial perfume of lobelia. People had scents.

John had none.

No fragrance. No texture. Nothing floral. Nothing human.

It was like standing in a field of flowers and finding a patch of vacuum. A man who walked like wind but cast no scent.

She tried again, subtly leaning in as he wandered to inspect a patch of blooming gardenias.

Still nothing.

Her brow furrowed. “...Do you bathe in something unscented?”

He blinked and looked at her. “Uh. Just soap. Why?”

She flushed slightly, embarrassed. “No reason. I just… usually, I can tell what kind of person someone is by the scent they give off. It’s a kind of… um, intuition.”

“Ah.” John scratched the back of his neck. “So, what do I smell like, then?”

Flora hesitated.

She had prepared for rot. For decay. For the scent of drowned soil and withered petals—like the last time she’d seen him at the market, when the air had turned bitter and thick from one breath.

But here, in the garden, surrounded by warmth and greenery and soft light, there was nothing.

She stared at him.

“I… don’t know,” she admitted. “You don’t smell like anything.”

John raised an eyebrow. “Is that… bad?”

“No. Maybe? I’m not sure.” She turned, flustered, motioning toward a shaded bench beneath a flowering tree. “Come sit. Maybe the plants will like you.”

John followed, glancing down at the riot of blooms around him. “I’m not exactly a ‘plants’ guy,” he said lightly. “But I can appreciate the good atmosphere.”

Flora sat beside him, folding her hands neatly in her lap, trying not to glance sideways at him every few seconds. The flowers didn’t seem to react to him at all, neither recoiling nor blooming. Just stillness.

Maybe she had imagined it. Maybe that awful scent from before was a momentary glitch, like smelling rain that hasn’t fallen. Maybe he wasn’t dangerous after all.

She felt her shoulders relax.

And then it happened.

A flicker.

Barely a pulse, but to her senses, it hit like a wave of heat against her skin. The air curdled. Not in scent, exactly. Not yet. But in feeling. Like the heartbeat of something old and buried pressing against the surface of the earth.

John sighed, rubbing his temple as a faint shimmer of cursed energy spilled off him like steam rising from a hot rock in cool water. It was reflexive—he barely noticed it.

But Flora did.

She stiffened instantly, her hands freezing on the bench. That scent was back. That impossible scent. Bitter, loamy rot and something deeper still, emptiness twisted like roots clawing at air.

Her eyes darted to him, wide and uncertain.

John noticed her stillness and glanced over. “Something wrong?”

“I…” Her mouth was dry. “Did the air… just change?”

He sniffed, shrugged. “Maybe a breeze.”

Flora swallowed hard. “You’re not normal, are you?”

He tilted his head. “That’s a loaded question.”

“I mean,” she fumbled, “you don’t feel normal. Or smell. You’re like… a seed that won’t germinate. A bud that never opened.”

He smiled faintly at that. “Haven’t heard that one before.”

She looked down, embarrassed again. But despite the shiver in her spine, she didn’t run. Not this time.

Maybe she should. But something in her gut, something beyond instinct, told her that this strange, scentless man wasn't a weed in her garden.

No, he was something much stranger.

A flower from another world.

Chapter Text

Chapter 49: Prankster's paradise

The halls of the Outpost echoed with wild laughter and the frantic slap of boots on tile.

Noah and Belorta were in full flight mode, tears of mirth still clinging to their faces after pulling off the greatest prank of all time: they'd managed to plant an industrial-strength glitter bomb inside John's personal locker.

It had detonated perfectly.

"HE LOOKS LIKE A DISCO BALL!" Belorta screamed, clutching her sides as she ran.

"I THINK I SAW GLITTER IN HIS HAIR!" Noah howled, her voice cracking like a broken whistle.

Their Nikke bodies easily hit breakneck speeds, zooming down the corridors like twin disasters on roller skates. No human could possibly catch them.

They were safe.

Absolutely.

No chance of—

Noah glanced over her shoulder.

Her heart stopped.

John was there.

Jogging.

No, gliding.

Effortlessly keeping pace. His commander's coat barely rippled with movement. His face was blank. His arms swung in a lazy, almost bored rhythm. His gaze, cold, focused, unblinking, was locked onto them with the unrelenting inevitability of a guillotine blade.

Noah shrieked. Belorta screamed louder.

"HE’S STILL THERE!" Noah wailed, nearly tripping over her own feet.

"HE’S NOT EVEN SWEATING! HOW IS HE NOT SWEATING?!" Belorta sobbed, already regretting every decision she'd ever made.

John didn’t even look where he was running.

He didn’t need to.

It was as if the building bent out of his way.

Worse, there was no heavy breathing. No pounding footsteps. Just the low, suffocating presence of something ancient and terrible.

It was like being chased by a ghost.

Or the reaper himself.

“Split up!” Belorta shrieked.

“Why would we split up?! That’s how people DIE in horror movies!” Noah cried back.

They hit the next hallway, running so fast the lights overhead turned into blurry streaks and for one precious, shining moment, it seemed like John had finally given up.

Silence.

Nothing but their own frantic gasps.

Noah dared to glance left.

Nothing.

She peeked right.

Nothing.

Maybe—just maybe—they had—

A shadow loomed behind them.

They turned their heads slowly.

There he was.

John. Walking now. Only a few meters behind them. Still. Calm. Unreadable.

Like some monster who didn’t even need to run to catch them.

His eyes gleamed slightly in the dim light.

Noah immediately burst into tears.

Belorta tried to climb up a wall in panic.

"IT WAS HER IDEA!" Noah blubbered, pointing wildly at Belorta.

"NO IT WASN'T, SHE DID THE WIRING!" Belorta screeched back, trying to shove Noah into John's path like a human sacrifice.

"You dared me!" Noah screamed.

"You triple-dog dared yourself!" Belorta roared.

Their insults dissolved into wordless screeching as they sprinted toward the exit, only for John's footsteps — slow, methodical, inevitable — to echo closer and closer.

Finally, they collapsed behind a stack of supply crates, panting like dying cats.

Safe.

They were safe.

They looked at each other, sniffling, nodding—

Tap.

Both of them flinched.

Standing over them, arms crossed, was John. Somehow perfectly clean, not a speck of glitter left on him.

He tilted his head ever so slightly, as if inspecting two particularly trublesome bugs.

"You girls..." he said softly. Calmly. Terrifyingly.

"...are in so much trouble."

Noah and Belorta burst into fresh sobs immediately.

Chapter Text

Chapter 50: Recruitment Drive Part Two

John knew — knew — he shouldn’t have trusted the invitation.

The letter had looked official enough: sealed with wax, penned in neat, overly earnest handwriting (almost certainly Chime’s doing). It had read:

URGENT:
The Crown Kingdom requests your esteemed expertise in the safe disposal of dangerous cursed artifacts. Immediate assistance required. High risk. Great importance.

Sincerely, Her Majesty the king, Crown and the Loyal Aide Chime.

So naturally, like a moron, he came.

Now he stood in the Crown Kingdom’s so-called "treasure vault," staring at what could only be described as a garage sale organised by the inheritors of a hoarder's property.

Crown fidgeted in place like an overcaffeinated child, whilst attempting to still maintain her regal aura. “Court Magus! Welcome! We are saved!”

John folded his arms. "Where are the dangerous cursed artifacts?"

Crown gestured grandly at the disaster zone: cracked toys, broken appliances, and a vape pen displayed like a holy relic atop a velvet pillow.

Chime coughed into her fist. "Well... not all are cursed. Technically."

John's eye twitched.

"You said 'high risk.'"

Crown nodded solemnly, speaking with a sad tone "Yes. high frisk. If you left, we’d be in grave trouble."

He stared at them, not even bothering to correct Crown’s mistake.

Flat. Dead-eyed. Betrayed.

Crown just beamed.

John sighed, shoulders sagging under the weight of his life choices "Fine. Let’s get this over with."

Crown swept her arms theatrically over a lopsided table buried under junk.

"Behold, Court Magus!" she cried. "The Kingdom’s most dangerous relics!"

John scanned the pile:

A cracked lava lamp.

A pair of pink light-up sneakers.

A dented rice cooker.

And, pride of place, a vape pen.

John pinched the bridge of his nose.

First up, the lava lamp.

Crown approached it reverently. "This device traps the souls of the fallen! Observe its... bubbling rage!"

The lamp gave a pathetic gurgle. The liquid inside was more moss than wax.

John unscrewed the cap. A wave of moldy stench rolled out.

"It’s called mildew," he deadpanned. "Not a vengeful spirit."

Crown gasped "He speaks the sacred names!"

Chime frantically scribbled ‘Artifact cleansing via verbal magic’

John dumped the lamp unceremoniously into a trash bin.

Next: the sneakers.

Crown lifted them like they were Excalibur "These shoes! Worn by a fallen archwizard! Whoever dons them shall know speed beyond mortal comprehension!"

John knelt, tapped the soles.

The left sneaker blinked faintly, playing a weak wheep wheep noise.The right was utterly dead.

"They're Skechers," he said.

Chime hesitated. "Maybe they’re cursed?"

He tossed them after the lava lamp.

The rice cooker.

"This ancient cauldron," Crown intoned, "boiled forbidden elixirs of lost civilizations."

John popped the lid.

A clump of ancient rice, hardened into a perfect fossil, rolled out and hit the ground with a thunk.

"You left cooked rice in here for what seems like over twenty years," John said.

Chime leaned in, gagged, and staggered back.

Crown clapped delightedly. "See? It exudes malice!"

John kicked the cooker over into the bin without hesitation.

Finally, the vape pen.

John picked it up suspiciously. Just a vape. No aura. No cursed energy. Shrugging, he gave it a test puff.

Instant regret.

He doubled over, hacking violently. Chime shrieked and moved to help, only for Crown to restrain her with a solemn hand.

"No, Chime. It’s the sacred purification process. We must not interrupt the sacred hackings."

John, coughing up a lung, decided death was probably the better option.

Only once had John regained his bearings, did Crown reveal the final item: a battered handgun.

John’s instincts prickled immediately. This one was real.

He accepted it carefully from her gloved hands. Cursed energy seemed to curl around the barrel.

"Construction-based sorcery," he muttered. "Old. Sloppy. But functional."

Chime blinked "You... you can tell all that from just holding it?"

"It's something an experienced sorcerer would be able to pick up on," John said, tapping the barrel. "This was a cursed tool. Made to generate bullets from the user’s own cursed energy."

Crown’s eyes lit up "A sacred artifact, then!"

John gave it a cautious dry fire.

BANG. BANG. BANG.

Three clean shots — from an empty chamber.

Chime dropped her notepad.

But before John could even secure it properly, the gun vibrated — then cracked sharply in his hands, splitting and crumbling into scrap metal.

John stared at the remains in his palm.

"...Of course."

Crown immediately swooped forward.

"Even the mighty relic bows before your power!" she declared, hands clasped. "Surely now you see — you are destined to be our Royal Exorcist!"

Chime produced a glittery badge with horrifying enthusiasm.

It read:

Supreme Wizard King of the Cursed Vaults. Property of the Crown Kingdom.

John stared at the badge.

Then at their hopeful faces.

Then at the steaming mountain of junk he’d just "exorcised."

Without a word, he turned on his heel.

"Goodbye," he said, voice cold enough to freeze the sun.

"Wait!" Chime called after him. "There’s one more cursed artifact! A haunted fidget spinner! It screams when you spin it! Surely you would honor the king by staying and observing it."

John didn't even flinch.

Behind him, Crown shouted: "And cursed socks! They smell like death!"

John walked faster.

Chime whispered, panicked, "Plan B?"

Crown nodded grimly. "Plan B."

John’s boots crunched over gravel as he made for the exit.

Or what should have been the exit.

Instead, he found... a lake.

A massive, smug-looking lake stretching two hundred meters across.

Still. Perfectly flat.

John stared in silence.

Behind him, Crown caught up, dramatically clutching her forehead.

"Oh no!" she wailed. "A most untimely flood! It must have rained terribly last night!"

John looked up.

Blazing blue skies. Not a cloud in sight.

"...Rain," he said, flat as a corpse.

"Very localized!" Crown insisted.

John held out his hand.

Chime blinked. "What?"

"Tablet," he said.

Grudgingly, she handed him her battered device.

John crouched, tapping furiously.

Crown and Chime peered over his shoulder.

"He's... doing math?" Chime whispered.

"Perhaps he is calculating a teleportation spell," Crown whispered back.

John stood, satisfied.

He muttered under his breath:

"Weight, approx 85 kilos, foot size approx 29 cm by 11 cm… Water surface tension... step frequency... air resistance is negligible… Seems doable"

He handed the tablet back to Chime.

Then backed up ten meters.

Chime's eyes widened "Wait. Wait, WAIT—"

John sprinted.

Blurring fast.

Cursed energy laced through every muscle, blood tightening, breath steady.

He hit the lake at a dead run.

And kept going.

Tiny splashes flared under each step. He skimmed the surface like a ghost.

Crown gasped, pressing her hands to her cheeks.

"The magus... he walks atop Poseidon’s veil!"

Chime just screamed, "THAT’S NOT HOW PHYSICS WORKS!"

John didn’t hear them.

He sprinted clean across the lake, cursed energy crackling at his heels.

At the far end, he slowed, boots soaked but intact.

Without a backward glance, he adjusted his commander’s coat and vanished into the horizon.

Chapter Text

Chapter 51: Maid-day

The Command Center was quiet, orderly, just the way Ade preferred it. The soft click of her polished shoes echoed lightly over the floor as she wiped down one of the long tables. She’d already sanitized the comm panels, dusted the shelves, and aligned the files to perfect 90 degree angles. Only a few more corners remained before the center was immaculate once again.

She adjusted her glasses, smoothing down her apron, and quietly hummed a little waltz under her breath, until the side door clicked.

Then slammed.

Ade nearly jumped out of her stockings.

John stepped through the frame.

Steam curled faintly from his skin as he rolled his shoulders, dressed in a sleeveless undershirt and workout trousers, a towel slung around his neck. His hair was still slightly damp from whatever training he'd just endured, a light sheen of sweat glistening across the edges of his jaw.

He stopped mid-step when he noticed her. “Didn’t mean to scare you,” he said. His voice was level and calm. “Though I guess I’ve got a scary face.”

Ade straightened at once. “Not at all, Master,” she replied, bowing politely. “You simply... startled me. I did not hear you approaching.”

John gave her a faint shrug. “I get that a lot.”

He stepped further into the room, walking past her toward the lockers but Ade, very much against her will, found her gaze lingering.

Not at his body. Certainly not.

At his face.

A face marred by scars. Old, deep, jagged, running from brow to jaw, across cheekbones and temple. Not conventionally handsome. Perhaps not even “pleasant,” by Ark beauty standards.

And yet...

His beard was neatly trimmed. His hair, freshly cut and styled. His posture, even when at ease, radiated poise and discipline. She could smell the faint trace of cologne—cedarwood and ash, clean and sharp.

His eyes...

She hesitated.

They were dark. Striking. Cold and warm at once. Like bitter chocolate left to melt in the sun. Like caramel over espresso. Somehow both soft and terrifying... and before she realized it, her hand had stopped polishing the console.

She was simply staring.

“...You’ve been looking at me a while,” John said without turning.

Ade flinched so hard her feather duster slipped from her fingers. She dropped into a perfect bow. “I-I deeply apologize, Master! I did not mean to appear unprofessional! I was merely assessing your—hydration levels! Yes. You seem... quite flushed.”

John blinked. “I’m steaming.”

“Yes! Precisely!” she said, grasping for air. “I-I should fetch a towel, perhaps a chilled compress, or—”

“You’re also blushing.”

“I-I am not!” she stammered.

She absolutely was.

Her cheeks were on fire.

‘Compose yourself, Ade,’ she scolded internally. ‘You are a maid. A professional. Not some daydreaming maiden reading smut behind the tea shelf.’

John raised an eyebrow. “Are you sure?”

Ade covered her face with her sleeve. “I am simply... warm. From cleaning, master.”

John moved closer, reaching down to retrieve the feather duster she’d dropped. His hand brushed hers, calloused, warm, firm. The contrast sent a jolt through her spine.

He handed it to her.

Their eyes met.

Those impossible, indescribable eyes.

“I should...” she mumbled, looking away. “I should resume my duties.”

John gave a faint, almost amused nod. “Be my guest.”

He turned and exited without another word.

The door clicked shut behind him.

Ade stood frozen in place for a full ten seconds.

Then...

“...I am a maid,” she whispered, mortified. “I am not supposed to fantasize about my employer.”

She gripped the feather duster in both hands, furious with herself.

“I shall scrub the Command Center floor until the emotion dies.”

But as she reached the nearest tile, she paused... and quietly fanned herself with her apron.

Chapter Text

Chapter 52: Football Mascot

Diesel rubbed her temple as the AZX train rattled along under dim carriage lights. Fans from the Swanmouth Seagulls' home win filled every seat, every aisle, and every audio channel with drunken bellows and flailing limbs.

“She’s on her own in that carriage,” she muttered.

Brid crossed her arms. “She said, and I quote, ‘This is a perfect opportunity to prove I’m a composed adult with exceptional management skills.’”

Diesel eyed a man slapping his belly while singing. “I hope she’s fine…”

-

Soline stood in the middle of the adjoining carriage, hands twitching as she tried to maintain a smile that was quickly eroding into a scream.

The fans were everywhere. Loud. Red-faced. Shirtless. Swinging scarves and bottles. Singing, if it could be called that, at the top of their lungs.

“He’s got a bloody massive cock—ALI, ALI!, HE TUCKS IT IN HIS FOOTBALL SOCK—ALI, ALI”

“HE SHAGGED A GIRL AND NOW SHE’S DEAD!”

“HE SWINGS HIS COCK AROUND HIS HEAD!”

“MEHMET ALI! SWANSMOUTH NUMBER NINE!”

She whimpered, clinging to the support pole like it was a life raft. “Why... why is there so much skin...?”

One of them saw her. “OI, LADS! TINY BIRD’S GOT MORE METAL ON HER THAN OUR BACKLINE!”

“GET HER A JAGERBOMB!”

“I’m trained for combat,” Soline whispered to herself. “I’ve been to the surface. I’ve fought Raptures. I—"

Then she saw salvation.

Or so she thought.

“Commander!” she cried, seeing John near the next carriage door, looking tall, stable, sober—

He turned around with a grin and a half spilled pint in hand.

“SWANMOUTH TILL I DIEEEE!” he roared, absolutely wasted.

Soline’s soul visibly left her body.

Before she could retreat, John had already made his way through the crowd. He scooped her up like a bag of crisps and hoisted her onto his shoulders.

"JOHN, PUT ME DOWN, I AM A PROFESSIONAL!"

The fans kicked off immediately.

“Ohhhhh Soline’s magic, she wears a metal skirt, She polishes the station and kicks you where it hurts!”

“JOHN I SWEAR I WILL FILE AN INCIDENT REPORT!”

He cupped his hands around his mouth and started again.

“Sooo-line! Give us a wave! Sooo-line Sooo-line give us a wave!”

Soline, in despair, flailed her arms. The crowd exploded.

“WHEYYYYYY!”

“TO THE PUB!” shouted John.

The carriage doors opened at the next station and the whole gang poured out like beer from a knocked-over pint. Soline, still on John’s shoulders, arms flapping in dismay.

“THIS IS A VIOLATION OF AZX CODE 4.7! THIS—HEY, THAT’S MY COMM DEVICE—”

A fan passed her a Swanmouth scarf. She threw it. Another tied one around her waist like a sash. Someone stuck a novelty hat on her head that said “Swanmouth Royalty.”

“GIVE US A SONG, SOLINE!” someone bellowed.

“I AM NOT A JUKEBOX!”

John roared, “SHE HATES MANCHESTER REDS, SHE HATES MANCHESTER REDS!”

Crowd: “SHE HATES MANCHESTER REDS, SHE HATES MANCHESTER REDS!”

“She drinks Black Coffee, She don’t need sleep!”

“She’ll slap you stupid if you call her sweet!”

“Sooooliiiine, queen of the rails,
Throws grown men off derailed trains!
Soooo-line, trains never fail,
‘Cause she oiled up the bloody lanes!”

—

Later that night, Diesel received a ping on her device. It was a livestream.

John: “Say hi, Soline!”

Soline, holding a pint of lemonade, eyes hollow: “Hi. I'm fine. This is fine.”

Behind her, the entire pub chanted:

“Oh she comes from Infinity Raaaail!
With circuits made of steeeel!
And when the fans get boisterous—
She cries and skips a meaaaal!”

Brid sipped her coffee. “We should probably go get her.”

Chapter Text

Chapter 53: Fleetly falling in love

The training field was still, save for the breeze threading between cracked stone and golden grass. In its center stood two figures: Scarlet, poised and calm with Fleetly Fading sheathed at her side, and John, sleeves rolled, fists ungloved, stretching his shoulders like he was warming up for a morning jog.

“You understand, my Lord,” Scarlet murmured, voice like warm dusk, “this is not a duel for triumph, but to feel the flow of battle. Tarry not with victory, only dance with the wind.”

John cracked his knuckles. “You’re fast. Strong. Better with that blade than I’ll ever be with these,” he held up his fists, “But I’ll win, just you watch.”

Scarlet’s lips curved, soft, crooked, amused. “Then let us see how long thy flame doth endure before the storm quenches it.”

She stepped forward, blade still sheathed. John moved too.

The spar began.

Their feet struck dust into the air as they closed the gap, Scarlet moving like silk fluttering over steel, John like a boulder made animate by will alone. Her first strike came with a whistle, the sheathed blade lashing sideways with a blur. He caught it on his forearm and twisted, trying to throw her balance. She ducked. His fist arced downward, cracking the ground. She leapt back, landing with a dancer’s grace.

No words. Only movement.

John pressed in. She deflected, evaded, flickered around him like a shadow drawn long by firelight. Then came a thrust—sharp, clean, aimed straight for his chest. He responded by lifting his leg higher than Scarlet thought he was able to, before stomping, slamming his boot onto the sheath mid-thrust and pinning it. Her eyes widened.

He vaulted, flipping over her with surprising grace. His fist moved to strike—

—but Scarlet twisted at the last moment, letting the punch graze her, grabbing his collar and leg, and with a whirl of practiced momentum, flipped him flat onto the ground.

She straddled him. One hand on his chest, one bracing her upright. Her long hair fell over her shoulder like a waterfall catching firelight. Her chest rose and fell quickly, flushed cheeks highlighting her half lidded eyes.

John blinked, caught in the hold, but not struggling.

Scarlet stared down at him, lips parted, desire still burning from the fight. She didn’t move.

“…You win,” John murmured, a wry smile under his bruised jaw. “You gonna get off me now?”

She didn’t answer.

Her body trembled faintly, breath catching.

Then, suddenly, she blinked, startled by her own stillness and shot upright like a cat scalded by its own reflection.

“Ahem,” she coughed. “My apologies, my Lord. ’Twas… the thrill of combat. It… got my blood rather impetuously boiling.”

“It’s fine,” John said, rising and brushing off his back. “You good?”

“I—yes. Of course. Entirely.” She adjusted her hat, her sash, anything to avoid eye contact.

A moment of silence passed, broken only by wind and her own pounding heartbeat.

Then, with a breath steadied, she spoke.

“I keep some spirits chilled in a cask… at my homestead, yonder on the edge of reclaimed land. Rare vintage. The sort best enjoyed… privately under moonlight.”

She turned to him fully now, looking him straight in the eye.

“If thou art not otherwise occupied tonight, my Lord, wouldst thou accompany me for a drink?”

John met her gaze. “Only if you promise not to wrestle me onto the floor again.”

Scarlet’s smirk bloomed, wicked and inviting.

“No promises.”

Chapter Text

Chapter 54: Falsified Research

The lab lights hummed faintly.

Fingers moved steadily across the terminal, each keystroke echoing the weight of Maxwell’s thoughts. She sat alone in the Missilis analysis room, a cup of coffee untouched beside her, its warmth long faded. Her face was lit only by the blue-white glow of the screen.

Her report was nearly finished. Lines of data scrolled past: diagnostics, synapse activity, core output levels, and then the behavioral spikes.

Her performance — power, accuracy, reaction time — had all increased when John was nearby.

Each correlation was timestamped. Each surge matched perfectly with moments he had been present.

There was no other explanation. No anomalies in her core output, no environmental modifiers. Not even group synergy metrics could explain it.

It was him.

It was the bond she had formed with him.

Maxwell stared at the “Conclusion” field, fingers poised.

“There is a direct, measurable increase in combat performance and neural responsiveness in proximity to Commander John. Findings suggest…”

She stopped.

The cursor blinked. Her thoughts raced.

This was it. Hard proof that human emotional bonds could enhance a Nikke’s performance. A historic finding. No lab had ever documented something like this.

But if she submitted it…

Syuen would come for him. Slice his brain open. Study him until nothing is left.

Maxwell leaned back in her chair and exhaled, her breath fogging faintly on the terminal glass.

“Damn it, Cutey…”

She stood and headed to the kitchenette, hoping cold water might slow her thoughts. Her steps brought her past the Matis lounge.

She paused.

Through the glass partition, the lights were dimmed. On the couch, Drake and Laplace were nestled beside John, eyes wide as a horror film played across the screen. Flashes of gore and screeching violins lit the room in pulses of red.

But they were no longer watching.

Drake had her face buried in John's chest, arms wrapped tight around him, muttering, “N-nope, this is beyond villainous.” Laplace held her hands over her eyes, peeking through her fingers only to let out a scream and dive into his shoulder again.

John just sat there. One arm rested on Laplace’s shoulder, the other stroked Drake’s head in absent rhythm. His expression was neutral, almost bored.

He looked more like a reluctant older brother than the man her report treated like a specimen.

Maxwell stared. Her water forgotten. Her heart shifted.

He was not a variable. Not an anomaly. Not a threat.

He was theirs.

She turned and walked back to her terminal.

Sat down.

Erased the conclusion.

And typed:

“No conclusive link found between Commander presence and performance fluctuations. Further testing recommended.”

-

Later that day, Missilis HQ. Syuen’s Office. Level 108.

Maxwell stood still in the heart of Syuen’s office, datapad in hand. Her posture was composed, but her mind moved with controlled precision.

Syuen barely glanced up, fingers skimming across a wall of projected reports. She gestured to the datapad on her desk.

“So, this is it? All that effort for a null result?”

Maxwell placed the file down. “Yes.”

“Unexpected. From you, at least.”

“The data was erratic. Too many unstable variables to draw a direct link to the Commander’s presence.”

A lie. A perfect one.

She could still feel the electric tension in her body when he was near. The way her power surged whenever his voice met her ears. The way her aim sharpened when he stood beside her.

That was why she buried it.

“I see,” Syuen said, walking to the glass that overlooked the Ark. “No abnormalities? No hidden variables?”

“Nothing that falls outside expected margin of error.”

Syuen turned. Her expression was flat, but her gaze cut deep.

“Did you fall for him?”

Maxwell did not blink. The chill in the room deepened.

“No,” she answered.

The word came out too fast.

“That would be a problem,” Syuen said. “A dangerous one.”

Maxwell let the silence stretch. Her memories filled the void. The faint smell of oil and gunpowder when he adjusted the Cutey-Pie suit. The moment his hand brushed hers, unremarkable yet unforgettable. The way he moved like an uncharted force.

He did not belong in a box. He never would.

“I can submit to a memory scan,” she offered, her voice even.

Syuen studied her.

After a moment, she turned back to the glass. “No. I trust you.”

That was foolish.

“But if I ever order his termination,” Syuen said without turning, “Matis complies. You comply. That is not negotiable.”

Maxwell nodded. “Understood.”

It was over.

She left without another word, heels tapping on the marble. Behind her, the real data remained hidden in an encrypted cache. Her heart, a thing she pretended she didn’t have, thudded like a pounding drum.

-

Outside Syuen’s Office – Exterior Framework

Wind howled past the tower’s frame, the sky streaked with artificial stars beneath the Ark dome. Patrol drones circled silently overhead.

John stood balanced on a steel support strut, coat flapping against the cold. One hand in his pocket. The other brushed thoughtfully against his chin.

He had heard everything.

He suspected she lied for him. But he hadn’t known how much it cost her.

A flicker of cursed energy lit his fingertips. Just a brief pulse, barely there. Maxwell didn’t know what that meant, not fully. But she understood enough to protect him.

And that was more than most ever did.

He lit a cigarette, took a long drag, and exhaled toward the void.

“Falsifying data to keep me alive. You’re a real piece of work, Maxwell. I owe you one.”

The ember winked out as he stepped off the edge, vanishing like smoke into the clouds below.

Chapter Text

Chapter 55: Memento Mori Ridere

The cafeteria was mostly empty, just the hum of fluorescent lights and the faint clang of trays being cleaned in the back. Mori sat stiffly across from John, arms crossed, fork untouched. Her apple pie sat cooling, pristine, as if daring her to accept it.

John took another bite of his slice. " ’S not poisoned, if that’s what you're worried about."

Mori didn’t smile. “Still thinking.”

He nodded once. “Fair. You’ve got decent basics. Movements are clean. But you flinch and hesitate. Too much panic in your eyes.”

She snorted. “So I should just stop being scared?”

John leaned back, gaze calm. “No. People who don’t feel fear die quickly. They mistake recklessness for bravery.”

Mori looked up.

“Fear’s not your enemy,” he continued. “It’s a mirror. It tells you what you care about. What you want to protect. Ignore it, and you walk off a cliff. Let it control you, and you never leave the house.”

He tapped his temple. “Real skill’s in listening to it without obeying it.”

Silence hung between them. Mori stabbed her pie with more force than necessary, then didn’t lift the fork. Her voice came out low, almost bitter.

“You act like you care. You train me. Feed me. Talk to me like I’m not trash. So... what do you want from me?”

John paused mid-bite. “Want?”

She didn’t look at him. “Nobody does anything for nothing. Not to me. So what is it? Loyalty? Gratitude? Or is this some long con where I owe you later?”

John blinked. Then slowly leaned forward.

“You want honesty?”

“I want the game,” she snapped. “So I can stop pretending this is some feel-good story where I get rescued.”

His eyes didn’t waver. “Alright then. You want me to slap your arse and call you my maid? Would that make all this easier to believe?”

Her face lit up scarlet. “W-what the hell?!”

“I’m serious.” His voice didn’t rise. “If you want cruelty, I can do that. If kindness makes you flinch, we can drop it.”

Mori’s hands clenched around her fork. “You’re... you're such a bastard.”

“And you’re still here,” John said softly. “Which means some part of you wants to believe this is real.”

Mori looked down. Her breath hitched.

John leaned back, arms folded. “You’re not broken, Mori. You’ve just been given every reason to think you are.”

A beat.

“You don’t have to trust me. Hell, I don’t like blind trust anyway. But I’m not here to fix you. I’m just someone who believes you’re worth the time.”

The air was still. Mori’s throat moved as she swallowed hard. She looked away, muttering, “I’m not used to this.”

“I know.”

She wiped at her eye with her sleeve, cursing softly. “Still not gonna trust you.”

“I wouldn’t, if I were you.”

“...You're such a weirdo.”

He grinned, getting up and sliding his tray aside. “And you’re still eating that pie.”

She looked down. It was half gone.

“…Shut up.”

But she smiled, just for a second, before it vanished like it was never there.

-

Later that night, at Incubator Squad barracks

The bunkroom was dark, save for the occasional flicker of a neon sign bleeding in through the cracked blinds. Most of the other Nikkes were asleep. Snoring. Shuffling. Someone had a music track playing softly under their pillow, generic, synth-heavy, forgettable.

Mori lay on her side, facing the wall. Her blanket was pulled up to her chest, but she wasn’t cold.

Her eyes were wide open.

Her mind wouldn’t shut up.

She tried replaying today’s drills. The footwork she flubbed. The reload she mistimed. The stupid thing she said when she tripped on that ammo crate.

But it always looped back to him.

To his stupid voice.

"You want me to slap your arse and call you my maid?"

Her face flushed hot in the dark.

Mori buried it in the pillow.

Nope. Not thinking about that. Not thinking about his voice saying that. Or the way he didn’t even smirk when he said it. Or how he leaned in like he could see through me. Or—

She groaned. Quietly. Like someone trying to hold in a scream.

“I hate him,” she whispered into the pillow.

No one stirred.

Her mind, traitor that it was, offered her a visual. Just a flicker.

Him, standing behind her, hands on her hips. Her in a skimpy maid dress. That unreadable look of his right before he swung his hand at her...

She squeezed her eyes shut.

No no no no no—

This wasn’t like her. She didn’t do this. She didn’t blush over guys. She didn’t daydream. She didn’t want—

She didn’t want to want anything.

Because wanting got you hurt.

But now, lying alone in a room full of other people just as broken as her, all she could hear was his voice, all she could feel was that offhand comment like a needle jabbed straight into her wiring.

Her hand curled tighter around the edge of her blanket.

“…Damn it, Jarhead,” she whispered.

And finally, begrudgingly, she smiled.

Just a little.

Then buried her face again, burning

Chapter Text

Chapter 56: Stinky

Boots scraped across scorched concrete. A dry wind curled through the plaza, stirring ash and grit into little spirals that vanished almost as soon as they formed.

A figure emerged through the haze, battered, cloaked, and streaked in soot. Dried blood clung to her like paint, the crust of battle layered over joints and fabric. Her armor was scored with claw marks. Her cloak, once white, now bore the ruin of black oil, dust, and what might’ve been the remnants of a ration bar.

Snow White trudged forward with steady resolve. But when she halted in front of him, she stood tall, posture straight, chin lifted, as if daring the grime and blood to define her.

“Commander John,” she said, voice firm. “It is good to see you again.”

John squinted at her, taking in the state she was in, squinting at the state she was in. “You too, Snow. You, uh… made good time.”

“I pushed through the northern ruins without rest,” she said simply. “You mentioned food.”

“I did,” he said. “But there’s a shower. And it comes first.”

She blinked once. “Why?”

He lifted a hand and rubbed his temple. “Because you smell like someone boiled shit in a pot and left it to ferment. If you step inside the command center like that, we’ll be smelling it for weeks.”

Snow White glanced down at her scorched armor and tattered cloak. She sniffed her shoulder and frowned faintly. “Water is scarce on the surface. Cleanliness became… a luxury.”

“Well, it’s not a luxury here. It’s non-negotiable.” He jerked a thumb down the hall. “Hot water, fresh towel, real soap. You want apple pie? That’s the price.”

She hesitated, stomach growling in betrayal.

“…Very well,” she murmured, as if accepting the terms of a treaty.

-

Five minutes later, John stood outside the shower room door, arms crossed, the faint hiss of water and echo of movement reaching his ears.

Then came the sound of something clattering to the floor. Silence. And then…

“John?”

He exhaled. “Yeah?”

“…Is the water meant to fall from above? I’m soaked. Also, the white food cube… it’s foaming in my mouth.”

He groaned, pushed the door open, and stepped inside.

Snow White stood under the running water like a statue, armor still on, cloak heavy and dripping around her legs. A chunk had been bitten out of the soap bar, which she held in mild suspicion.

John covered his face with one hand. “Okay. First lesson, soap isn’t edible. Second, the gear comes off.”

“I don’t disarm in unsecured areas,” she replied with calm formality.

“You’re in the Outpost. There’s a hundred Nikkes here who'd take a bullet for you. Nobody’s going to attack you in the shower.”

She didn’t respond at first. Her hand reached for the clasp of her cloak… then stopped.

“I…” she hesitated, uncharacteristically uncertain. “This cloak was given to me. By someone who mattered. It’s one of the few things I have left.”

John turned to face her properly, his expression softening. “Then give it here. I’ll take care of it. I promise.”

Her pale eyes searched his for a moment longer than necessary. Then, slowly, she unclasped the cloak and handed it over with something resembling reverence.

John folded it carefully and draped it over a clean towel rack, as if it were a sacred relic. “See? Safe and sound.”

Only then did she begin to remove her armor. Piece by piece, it clanked to the floor in heavy echoes. Beneath it, her limbs were a patchwork of pale skin, grafted metal, and half-healed scars, some clean, some ragged.

He turned his back as she stepped behind the curtain, letting the hot water run properly over her now.

A pause. A shuffle. Then the clatter of bottles and another muffled curse.

John sighed. “Alright. Move over. I’ll help.”

“You’ll what?”

“You bit the soap, Snow.”

“…I thought it was food.”

He rolled up his sleeves and stepped inside.

With practiced gentleness, he lathered shampoo into her hair. She stiffened like a cornered animal, every muscle in her back tensed.

“This is… intimate,” she said.

“This is me trying to not let you set off every fire alarm in the building with how bad you smell,” he said dryly. “Trust me. Not intimate.”

Still, he was careful, working his fingers through the knots, avoiding the more damaged areas. Her hair, despite the grime, was surprisingly soft beneath the filth.

“You didn’t need to do this,” she murmured.

“I know,” he replied. “But I figured someone should.”

A long silence passed. The water kept running.

Then: “…Thank you.”

-

Snow White emerged from the hall in borrowed fatigues, finally clean and with clothes slightly too big for her frame. Her pale hair, still damp, floated around her face like the first frost of winter, softening the sharp edges of her expression.

She paused for a moment in the doorway, not from hesitation, but from unfamiliarity. The warmth of the cafeteria’s ambient lights, the gentle hum of idle conversation, the scent of real, honest food… It all seemed foreign. Like stepping into a dream drawn from someone else’s memory.

John looked up from his seat, saw her standing there like a war-weary revenant who had forgotten how to rest, and waved her over.

“Hey. This way.”

She made her way over silently, boots padding against the polished floor. When she sat, it was with the stiff discipline of someone who didn’t quite know how to sit when not on alert.

Her eyes lingered on the tray before her: steaming mashed potatoes, protein-printed chicken glazed in something vaguely sweet, vegetables sautéed in oil, and a large slice of apple pie with curling wisps of steam rising from its tin edge.

“This smells…” she said, her voice faintly breathless, “better than anything I’ve had in years.”

John gave her a faint smile, pushing the tray closer. “It’s all yours. Eat.”

She picked up the fork slowly, almost reverently, and took the first bite of mashed potato. Then another. And another. Within seconds, the food vanished in steady, machine-like scoops, precise and silent save for the scrape of metal on ceramic.

John blinked. “...You breathe between bites, right?”

She didn’t respond, only moved to the chicken next, chewing more thoughtfully now. Her eyes never left the food, but her voice came quiet, distant. “Do you know what the hardest part of fighting alone is?”

John leaned back, arms crossed. “The smell?”

Snow White didn’t laugh, but there was a flicker of something in her gaze. A twitch at the corner of her lips.

“No,” she said. “It’s remembering why you started. After a while… the goal becomes abstract. The Rapture Queen is still out there. The surface is still lost. I kill and kill, but the numbers don’t change. The dead don’t come back. The earth doesn’t heal.”

She paused, finished the last of the chicken, and moved onto the pie. Her voice dropped lower.

“But then I find something like this. A meal. A room not filled with screams. Someone who tells me to shower before I sit down. And I remember.”

She glanced at him now. Not as a commander. Not even as a fellow fighter.

As a tether.

“I remember that humanity still lives. And that it’s worth protecting.”

John didn’t say anything right away. He just reached behind him, pulled out another tray—steamed rice and grilled pork—and slid it across the table to her without a word.

Her eyes widened, hands still on the table. “I didn’t ask for more.”

“You didn’t have to,” he said. “Keep eating.”

She hesitated. Not out of pride, but out of unfamiliarity with generosity.

Then she took the tray and resumed devouring the food, slower this time, savoring it..

John watched her quietly, elbows on the table, chin resting on his palm.

A moment passed in quiet companionship. Snow White, surrounded by warmth she hadn’t felt in years. John, offering something without needing anything in return.

And though her mind still yearned for the cold, endless war of the surface, tonight she ate like someone who remembered why she fought.

Someone who wanted the old world to return.

Chapter Text

Chapter 57: Embers in the dark

The rooftop was quiet at this hour. The kind of quiet that felt earned, like the world had finally run out of things to say. A thin wind slipped between buildings, rattling loose cables and torn banners, tugging at the Ark’s artificial sky like it wanted to peel it back and show what lay beneath. Below, the streets murmured with distant machinery and muffled voices. But up here, it was only John… and her.

D sat near the railing, back straight, posture immaculate. Her axe rested beside her, clean and still. The way it always was after use. She didn’t fidget. She didn’t sigh. She watched the skyline with the same focus she brought to every assignment, as if something was always just about to happen.

John leaned beside her, smoking. His coat flared gently in the breeze, the ember of his cigarette tracing a small, dying arc in the dark.

They hadn’t spoken in over ten minutes.

Eventually, D broke the silence.

“You showed up late today.”

John exhaled slowly. “Clock doesn’t matter if I wasn’t needed.”

“You were needed.”

“I figured you'd have it handled.”

A pause.

“He was guilty,” she said after a moment. Not defensively. Just stating it.

John nodded. “I know.”

D glanced at him. “Then why the hesitation?”

“I didn’t hesitate. I just… watched.” He shrugged. “Sometimes it helps. To be reminded what the job looks like from the outside.”

She didn’t respond right away.

Finally: “I don’t ask for agreement. Just trust.”

John flicked ash over the edge. “I trust you. I just don’t trust the reasons.”

Another long silence. It wasn’t tense. Just… full.

“I don’t enjoy it,” she said.

“I know,” he replied. “That’s part of why I stick around.”

D’s eyes lingered on the distant glow of the Ark’s tower. “I never wanted to become what I am. But I’ve made peace with it.”

John gave a faint smile. “I haven’t. With what I’ve become, I mean.”

She looked at him.

“I do what I think is right in the moment,” he said. “That’s all I’ve got. I don’t have rules. Don’t have orders. Just... instinct, mostly.”

“That’s dangerous,” she said, but not unkindly.

“Yeah.” He took one last drag, then let the cigarette fall. “But pretending the system always knows better? That’s dangerous too.”

She didn’t argue.

The wind picked up slightly, tugging at her cloak. John reached into his coat and pulled out a foil-wrapped ration.

He held it out to her without a word.

She took it. Unwrapped it. It was a grilled sandwich, still warm. The smell was strangely nostalgic.

She ate. Slowly. Thoughtfully.

“You think I’m broken,” she said.

“I think you carry too much alone,” he replied. “And I think you don’t know what to do with kindness when it’s handed to you.”

D said nothing.

He rose to his feet, brushing ash from his sleeve. “You’ll be alright.”

She glanced at him. “And you?”

John gave a dry chuckle. “I’m still figuring that part out.”

He turned, heading for the stairwell.

At the door, he paused. “D… we don’t have to agree. But maybe next time, don’t eat alone.”

She didn’t answer. But she didn’t say no, either.

Long after he left, D remained on the rooftop.

The sandwich was gone, but the warmth lingered in her hands.

She sat in the quiet, watching the Ark shimmer in the distance, and allowed herself, just briefly, to feel.

Not guilt. Not duty.

Just… something human.

Chapter Text

Chapter 58: Taste test

It started with a question.

They were in the kitchen late after their adventure on the surface. Crust was off preparing samples and John half-distracted, half-curious, was observing how she moved through space with professional precision. He didn’t notice Bready staring him down from the counter, eyes curious and bright. “Can I taste your finger?”

John blinked. “...Pardon?”

Bready clasped her hands behind her back, her voice chipper. “Just a lick. I’ve been wondering for a while now. Humans usually taste terrible. But I have a feeling you’re... different.”

John didn’t flinch, but inside, something shifted. He had been suppressing his cursed energy by reflex, something he’d trained himself to do for the sake of the Nikkes after the whole fiasco with Flora. But now? This was an opportunity.

“Alright,” he said, extending a finger. “Just a taste.”

She stepped closer, took his hand gently, and gave his finger a tentative lick.

Then another.

Her brow furrowed.

John said nothing, watching her reactions like a scientist studying feedback.

“There’s nothing,” she murmured. “No composition. No memories. No emotion.”

She licked again, slower this time, eyes slowly widening.

“But... it tastes sweet. Like spun sugar. But there’s no information. Nothing for me to catalogue. Just sweetness. It's... pure.”

John leaned an elbow on the counter, tilting his head. “That’s good?”

Bready looked up, almost glowing. “It’s divine.”

He almost smiled. Almost.

Before he could say more, she practically sang, “Bonne Bouche! That’s what I’ll call you. My sweet Bonne Bouche~!”

John’s eye twitched. “Don’t.”

But she was already turning to Crust, rambling about food combined with skin cells, hair-based seasoning blends, and what different foods might taste like if infused with his flavour. Crust looked like she was going to faint.

John raised a hand. “I let you lick my finger. That’s the limit.”

Bready paused, guilty for a moment. “Right, right. Sorry. It’s just… I’ve never tasted something that didn’t overwhelm me. It’s like being able to enjoy something for once, instead of being flooded by information.”

He studied her. She wasn’t joking. Her joy wasn’t hunger. It was... relief.

So he let a little cursed energy leak out. Just a flicker. Enough to test something.

“Alright,” he said. “Try again.”

Bready blinked, a little thrown. “Uh... okay?”

She leaned in and licked.

A beat passed. Then she reeled back, coughing, nearly gagging. “Gah—what the hell?! That’s—ugh! It tastes like sewage!”

John calmly wiped his finger. “Is it that bad?”

“Worse.” She covered her mouth. “What the hell was that?! It tasted like... like sadness and hatred and death.”

John looked at his finger like it had betrayed him. “Huh.”

Bready was still retching. “You were so sweet just a second ago! What changed?!”

He didn’t answer. Not directly. Just leaned back, eyes thoughtful.

“Guess I’m an acquired taste.”

Bready shot him a look, one part curiosity, two parts horror. “Whatever that was... don’t ever feed it to me again.”

John gave her the faintest of smiles. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

He turned to leave. But before he reached the door, she called after him.

“Wait… will it taste like the first time again?”

John paused. Shrugged. “Only one way to find out.”

She hesitated, then slowly approached, gently reaching for his hand again. This time, he suppressed everything, made himself feel blank and still.

She licked.

Her face bloomed with relief. “Yes… That’s it. Sweet. Soft. Like... a warm light with no shadow.”

John didn’t say a word. But part of him noted the data. Suppressed: neutral. Exposed: toxic.

He had learned something tonight.

So had she.

But neither knew quite what to do with it yet.

-

The next time she visited, she brought a tray.

… A tray of whipped cream, strawberries, sugar-dusted biscuits, a squeeze bottle of chocolate syrup, and a nervous excitement that she barely bothered to hide.

John arched an eyebrow as Bready set it all down like they were about to perform surgery. “This isn’t an interrogation, is it?”

“Nope,” she said, pulling on a frilly Cooking Oil apron like it gave her authority.

He didn’t stop her. He never did, really. And that unnerved her more than she liked to admit.

She dipped a strawberry in cream and gently held it to finger. “Suppression on,” she reminded him.

John complied, dampening his cursed energy until it felt like he didn’t exist at all.

Bready leaned in, licking his finger like before.

Her eyes lit up. “Still sweet. But with the strawberry? There’s a tangy note. Tart on top of you. A perfect contrast.”

John looked at the tray. “You gonna try dipping me in syrup next?”

“I might.”

She did.

She tested combinations like alchemists. Cream first, then cream with sugar. Biscuit crumbs on skin, syrup spread all over his hand. Her analysis was clinical in execution, euphoric in response. Each time she tasted him, she smiled like she’d remembered what joy felt like.

But after the third or fourth visit, something shifted.

She showed up without the tray. Just a candy stick in her mouth and a twinge of guilt behind her eyes.

“I’m not bothering you, am I?” she asked softly, rocking on her heels. “I know I can get... carried away. Maybe I’m too much. If you want space, just say it.”

John, who’d been sitting on the edge of his bed reading mission logs, looked up slowly.

“You’re not too much.”

Bready blinked. “Really?”

He gave a faint shrug. “If you were, I’d say so.”

She looked unsure. For once, she didn’t smile. “I know I play around a lot. I just... I don’t always know how people feel. Or when I’ve crossed a line.”

“You haven’t.”

He closed the mission log, eyes lingering on the soft flicker of the wall lamp.

Then he spoke again, voice quieter this time.

“I don’t sleep much.”

That made her pause. He wasn’t the type to admit things like that.

He leaned back slightly, head against the wall. “Too much quiet, and things creep in. Memories. Faces. Doubts. Sometimes it’s like the dark presses down on my throat.”

He glanced at her. Just for a second. “When you’re here... it’s easier. Like background noise I don’t want to turn off.”

Bready felt her chest grow warm in a way that had nothing to do with taste.

She didn’t say anything at first. Just walked over, sat beside him on the bed, close but not touching.

Then, in a softer voice than he’d ever heard from her: “I don’t mind being your background noise.”

They sat like that for a long while. No experiments, no whipped cream, no teasing nicknames. Just silence.

Eventually, John leaned forward, offering his hand.

“Suppressed,” he said simply.

She smiled again, but it was different this time, gentler, quieter. She took his finger and gave it a small, slow lick.

Still sweet.

Still warm.

Still his.

Chapter Text

Chapter 59: Reunion

The hum of generators buzzed faintly under the golden hue of the setting sun. Reclamation Site 01 was quiet in this hour, no drills, no shouting squads, just the rhythm of footsteps and distant wind brushing through empty walkways.

John leaned against the entrance archway, arms crossed, a thin line of smoke trailing from the cigarette perched between his fingers. He wasn’t waiting for anyone. Not exactly.

He just had a feeling.

The gates clicked open.

Cinderella stepped through first, her posture immaculate as always, a half-smile tugging at the corner of her lips.

“I see you haven’t changed, John. Still sulking in half-shadow, like a sculpture no one dares touch.”

He raised an eyebrow. “And you’re still poetic when no one asked.”

“Beautiful words are never unnecessary,” she said lightly. “Especially when I’m bringing someone important.”

Floating just behind her, sat upon a slow-spinning bubble, was another figure.

She hovered quietly before the bubble gently touched the ground, dissolving beneath her feet. Her long hair flowed like silk caught in moonlight, but her hands were nervously clasped in front of her.

“Ah… hello,” she murmured, glancing quickly between Cinderella and John. “I’m Little Mermaid. You can… call me Siren.”

John didn’t speak at first. His gaze lingered on her eyes, the way they flicked up, then darted away. Not fear exactly. Just... fragility.

“Cinderella spoke highly of you,” he said at last. “Glad to see you up and kicking.”

Siren nodded. “Yes. Um… Cinderella said I should come here. That you… might not mind.”

Cinderella stepped to her side, offering a small, encouraging nudge.

“She spent almost seventy years alone,” she said softly. “Only recently has she begun to speak again.”

John looked back at Siren, voice low. “That why you look like you might float away if no one holds you down?”

Siren blinked. Then let out a quiet, surprised laugh. “Maybe a little.”

She stepped forward slowly. “You’re… not what I expected. Cinderella said you were strong. Quiet. And… kind.”

John gave Cinderella a sideways glance. “Did she now?”

Cinderella tilted her head, her tone sincere. “You fight for others even when the world refuses to change. That is a kind of beauty.”

John tensed, just slightly. “That word again.”

“What, ‘beautiful’?” Cinderella said, smiling faintly. “You think I mean your face? Though it is striking in its own way. Wouldn’t you agree, Siren?”

Siren’s eyes widened. “Ah—! I didn’t—! That’s not—!”

John raised a hand. “It's fine.”

Siren went quiet, but a small smile formed.

Cinderella glanced at the horizon. “The overlook has a lovely view. I think I’ll take a moment.”

She turned and paused. “Siren… talk to him.”

“I’ll try,” she whispered.

Now alone, John leaned against the rail. “Cinderella’s intense.”

Siren giggled. “She means well. Just… dramatic.”

John glanced sideways. “And you?”

Siren hesitated. “Still figuring that out.”

“Fair. Reclamation Site 01’s not a bad place to do that.”

She looked up. “Is it really okay I’m here?”

John tilted his head. “You planning on starting trouble?”

“N-no! I wouldn’t—!”

He smirked. “Kidding. Mostly.”

She laughed—soft, breathy, real. “It’s just… been a long time since I was around people. It’s warm here. But overwhelming.”

John flicked the ash from his cigarette. “Tell you what. There’s a stall in the south quarter. Best apple pie on base.”

Siren blinked. “Apple pie?”

“You ever had it?”

She shook her head.

“Then you’re overdue.” He pushed off the rail. “You coming? Or do I have to bribe you with a second slice?”

Her cheeks colored as she followed. “A-ah, I’m coming. I’d like that.”

John didn’t say anything, but when he looked over, he caught the smallest hint of color blooming in her cheeks. Not embarrassment exactly. Just… warmth.

And behind them, leaning against the overlook rail, Cinderella watched the two walk off together, her expression unreadable.

She turned back to the fading sun, a breeze brushing her hair aside, and whispered just under her breath.

“…Beautiful.”

She watched the sun dip for a while longer, wishing that this moment could last a little longer, but she knew that she and Siren had to talk to John about the remaining members of Old Tales…

With a forlorn sigh, she left towards the cafeteria to find them.

A pair of plates clinked against the metal table, steam curling up from freshly sliced apple pie. The scent of cinnamon, sugar, and flaky crust filled the air. Siren sat across from John, both nestled in a quiet corner of the outpost’s rec zone.

John pointed at the slice in front of her. “The trick’s in the crust.”

Siren blinked, eyes wide, chin resting lightly on her fingers. “The crust?”

He nodded, chewing. “Butter has to be cold. Ice-cold. You mix it in with flour until it’s just crumbly. Don’t overwork it. Otherwise, it turns tough.”

Siren leaned forward slightly, eyes full of gentle awe. “That’s… really specific.”

“It’s how you get the flake,” John said. “Pie isn’t just about taste. It’s about texture. Sound. That first bite where the crust gives way and the apples just melt in—”

“I want to try making one,” she blurted.

John smirked. “You bake?”

“No,” she admitted. “But I can… try.”

They both laughed softly, and for a moment, the war felt far away.

But the moment didn’t last.

Cinderella approached with her usual poise, but something in her step was slower than usual. More deliberate. Her arms were folded, but not in judgment — in tension. As she stopped by their table, her eyes flicked between the two of them.

John noticed instantly. He sat straighter, cigarette now tucked behind his ear. “Something on your mind?”

Cinderella glanced at Siren, who nodded ever so slightly.

“…We wanted to ask you for help,” Siren said gently, setting her fork down. “It’s about Hansel and Gretel.”

John’s brow furrowed. “They’re alive?”

“Yes,” Cinderella said. “But… they’re not with humanity anymore. Something’s changed. They fight for something else now. Against us.”

Siren’s hands curled into her lap. “We want to bring them back. We thought… maybe you could help.”

John’s eyes narrowed. Not from suspicion, but from calculation. His voice came low, thoughtful.

“I’d be happy to help. I’ll put everything I’ve got into it.” He looked between the two of them. “But you should ask yourselves if I’m the right person.”

Cinderella met his gaze squarely. “You saved Marian. You brought her back from the brink. That wasn’t luck. That was you.”

John didn’t flinch. “I did everything I could to save her. But I was ready to kill her too, if I had to.”

Siren’s breath caught.

The silence stretched.

Cinderella looked down, then back up, eyes clear. “I know. I wouldn’t have asked if I didn’t.”

She stepped closer, placing a hand on the table.

“But I don’t intend to let it end like that. I made a promise.” Her voice steadied. “To all of Old Tales. That we would rewrite our stories with a happy ending. And I intend to keep that promise.”

Siren looked at John again, quietly resolute. “Then let’s hope. Together.”

John nodded. “Let’s begin.”

Chapter Text

Chapter 60: Therapy for dummies

The room was dimly lit, save for the faint flicker of candles, and the low, ominous hum of what might’ve once been a generator. Chains crisscrossed the floor in a tangled nest of iron, layered over with duct tape, reinforced zip-ties, and, for some unfathomable reason, a length of decorative wedding ribbon that shimmered faintly in the stale air.

John sat slouched in a chair at the center of it all, shirt half-unbuttoned, ankles lashed together, arms pinned to the chair’s arms with enough restraint to hold down a Tyrant class Rapture. He gave the binding a cursory glance. The Christmas lights woven through the chains blinked red and green with each shift of his wrist.

“I see we’re doing holiday themes now,” he muttered.

Across the room, Isabel looked up from a leather-bound “wedding planner” notebook, her eyes sparkling like someone caught halfway between genuine bliss and clinical detachment.

“Third escape attempt in two days, darling,” she chirped. “That’s a new record! I’m so proud. But also... a little hurt.”

“You kidnapped me in the middle of work and wrapped me in Christmas themed fairy lights, despite it being the middle of May.” John said, dragging his eyes toward her.

“I wanted to make our wedding festive.” She pouted, then brightened immediately. “And besides, it’s not kidnapping, it’s quality time. Newlywed bonding.”

She glided across the floor with a surreal sort of grace, the wings on her back humming softly. In one fluid motion, she settled herself onto his lap like she belonged there, wrapping her arms around his neck and resting her cheek on his chest with a sigh of contentment.

John didn’t move. He’d long since learned that moving just encouraged her more.

Her fingers slid gently across his chest, brushing along the scars that mapped his skin. She traced them one by one, lips barely parting as she whispered.

“You’ve suffered so much. All these wounds… and I wasn’t there to stop them.”

He said nothing. She traced lower, her touch featherlight.

“But I’ll be here now. I’ll soothe your pain. I’ll be everything you never knew you needed.”

“They don’t hurt,” John replied, voice low and indifferent.

She pouted. “Not the body, silly. The soul.”

Her fingers danced over another scar, just beneath his collarbone.

“This one?” she asked softly.

“Sword,” he said.

She moved to one across his ribs.

“This?”

“Blunt trauma. Reinforced pipe.”

Her touch floated to a jagged line on his side.

“Laceration,” he said before she could ask. “Emergency stitching. Bad angle. Medic was a rookie.”

“Oh, don’t worry darling, no ones going to hurt you anymore,” she sighed, clearly pleased.

And then her hand found the small, jagged scar just above his right eyebrow. Unlike the others, it was shallow but wickedly placed—sharp and clean, the kind of imperfection that somehow added to his already worn-down allure.

She paused. Her breath hitched.

“This one,” she murmured, eyes growing misty. “This one is different. It gives you this… rugged mystery. The kind of wound only earned in battle. I bet it was a secret mission, wasn’t it? You leapt in front of an exploding grenade to shield a child. You must’ve landed hard, your vision blurring as—”

“Doorframe,” John said flatly.

Isabel blinked.

“I was six. Ran headfirst into it. Didn’t see it coming.”

“…A door?” she echoed, almost inaudible.

“Solid oak. Brass handle. Bounced clean off it.”

Silence.

Isabel’s fingers trembled where they rested against his temple. Then, slowly, reverently, she cupped his face with both hands, eyes wide with something approaching awe.

“You poor, reckless, clumsy boy…” she whispered. “You were adorable even then.”

John sighed through his nose. “Please don’t romanticize childhood head trauma.”

“Too late,” she cooed, nuzzling his cheek. “It just proves how fate brought you to me battered, bruised, and perfectly pre-scarred for marriage.”

He didn’t respond. Somewhere behind the duct tape, a single Christmas light blinked softly in mockery.

Isabel sat up with a dreamy hum, slipping off John’s lap and cupping her heart.

“Wait right here, darling. I just had an idea for our fifth honeymoon, someplace snowy this time. I need to update the wedding planner!”

She turned toward her meticulously organized desk, humming as she reached for a pink pen adorned with a tiny plastic heart.

Behind her, John exhaled. Quietly. Calmly.

Then, with the swift efficiency of someone who had spent his entire life getting out of impossible situations, he moved.

One flex of his wrists—slip the cuff rotation, leverage the chain’s give at the base.

A twist of the ankle. Tension-release.

Within three seconds, he was on his feet, free, and moving like a ghost.

By the time Isabel turned back, notebook in hand, John was gone.

Her eyes widened. “Darling?”

She turned further, and shrieked as a chain whipped around her waist, yanking her off her feet and straight into his arms. A second later, she was spun, dipped, and lashed to the nearest support beam with the exact same combination of zip-ties, chains, and tape she’d used on him. Even the wedding ribbon fluttered mockingly at her waist.

She blinked at him, panting.

“Y-you—you tricked me,” she gasped. “You said you’d stay.”

“I am,” John said, checking the knot. “You’re the one who keeps making that difficult.”

Her cheeks flushed. Her eyes widened further.

“You… you’re staying?” she whispered. “Then… then this is—oh my—oh, John—!”

She squirmed in the restraints, red-faced and trembling. “I didn’t realize you were into this. I mean, I suspected—you’re so stoic, so repressed—but this? You could’ve told me. We could’ve done it together.”

John blinked once, unfazed. “That’s not what’s happening.”

She bit her lip, trembling with anticipation. “You can be as rough as you like… I-I mean, it’s a bit much for our first time, but I’ll endure it for you—”

He stepped past her, picked up a book from the chair, and turned it around.

In bold, unforgiving letters: "THERAPY FOR DUMMIES"

Isabel froze. The heat in her face evaporated like dew under a torch.

John pulled over a second chair and sat down, flipping to a dog-eared page with surgical calm.

“Page forty-two. Unpacking unresolved childhood trauma,” he said.

Her pupils dilated in raw panic.

“No,” she whispered.

He cleared his throat. “Let’s start simple. Tell me about your relationship with your parents.”

“I—no—John, please—I’ll cook, I’ll bathe you, I’ll let you cuff me to the bed voluntarily—just don’t do this—!”

He didn’t blink.

“Did they withhold affection? Set unrealistic expectations? Emotionally invalidate you during key developmental windows?”

Her entire body jerked against the chains like a trapped animal.

“I’LL KILL ANYONE YOU WANT, JUST NOT THIS,” she wailed.

“Do you think your obsessive attachment to me stems from a lack of control in your early attachments?”

“STOP TALKING LIKE THAT!”

John turned the page. “Let’s talk about enmeshment.”

“Nooooo—!”

Chapter Text

Chapter 61: Twin flames in the spotlight

The 777 Casino gleamed like a sin in chrome. All that gold and velvet, those diamond chandeliers that glinted like a dare, it made John’s skin itch in a way he didn’t like. Not because he hated it. But because part of him wanted to like it.

He stood just inside the entrance, one hand clutching a sleek VIP pass he hadn’t asked for.

President Mustang called it a gift. A thank-you from Coin Rush. Something about goodwill, exposure, sponsorships, morale boosts. He hadn’t paid attention. He just remembered the words "complimentary drinks" printed in gold lettering near the bottom.

He didn’t gamble. Not anymore.

John had grown up watching the kind of men who did. He remembered their faces, some cocky, some desperate, others hollow-eyed and sweaty with the phantom thrill of a ‘next time’ that never came. He’d watched them pawn watches and dignity, smiling through clenched teeth as their luck dissolved like sugar in water.

He knew himself too well. He could feel it, his ego overwriting that cold, analytical part of him that could count odds and tell him that the house always wins. If he started playing, he might not stop. And that terrified him more than any gun or monster ever had.

So he was here for the free drinks.

The casino floor spread out before him like an arena, filled with cheers and clinks and flashing neon. Smoke drifted lazily from someone's cigar near the bar, perfume and synths pulsing in tandem with music that felt more like a heartbeat. It wasn’t unpleasant. In fact, it was almost intoxicating.

He settled into a booth tucked behind the bar, far enough from the tables to avoid the scent of temptation, but close enough to keep an eye on everything.

A cocktail—something citrusy and sweet, ice clinking in a crystal glass—sat beside him. He sipped slowly, watching chips rise and fall on velvet-green tables like tides of fortune. The show stage shimmered in the distance with pre-performance haze. Everything here was engineered to make people forget time. John hated how well it worked.

He sipped again: smooth, sweet, and laced with just enough buzz to turn the noise of the casino into music.

“You always drink alone?” came a voice like champagne, bubbly, a little teasing, and very amused.

He turned and saw her.

White hair, white ears, a sharp smile. Dressed head-to-toe in glossy showgirl charm, with just enough confidence to make it look effortless. And behind her, more reserved, stood a second woman, darker hair and skin, extremely bodacious and curvy body, matching bunny ears but in black, and a shy expression that said she wasn’t quite used to speaking first.

“Let me guess,” John said, leaning back slightly with a half-smile. “Coin Rush’s finest.”

Blanc beamed. “Correct! You must be lucky.”

“That or I read the brochure,” he quipped.

She laughed — a smooth, practiced laugh that still sounded genuine. “I like you already.”

Noir stepped forward, hands folded in front of her, gaze soft but uncertain. “Um… hello. I hope we’re not interrupting.”

John shook his head. “Nope. Just hiding from temptation.”

Blanc raised a brow. “You? Tempted by gambling?”

He gestured at the casino with his glass. “Not tempted to win. Tempted to enjoy it too much. I don’t have the best track record with moderation.”

“Mm,” Blanc mused, leaning on the bar beside him. “A man with demons. Classic.”

He gave a lopsided grin. “Tonight I’m just here for the atmosphere. And the open bar.”

Noir relaxed slightly at that, a smile twitching at the corners of her lips. “Is it working?”

“More than I expected,” he said. “Place is warmer than it looks from the outside.”

Blanc gave a mock gasp. “You mean you judged our casino before stepping in? I’m shocked.”

He shrugged, glass glinting in the low light. “I judge everything. Occupational hazard.”

“Well,” Blanc said, straightening with a theatrical flourish, “allow us to change your mind officially. I’m Blanc, the lively half of 777. And this is my big sister, Noir.”

Noir gave a small nod. “It’s… nice to meet you. In person.”

John raised an eyebrow. “In person?”

“You have… a bit of a reputation,” she admitted quietly. “Blanc says you’re kind of famous.”

“I said he’s mysterious,” Blanc corrected, tapping his chest lightly with a single finger. “Mysterious and dangerous. Girls like that.”

John gave a low chuckle. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“You should,” Blanc said brightly. “But don’t worry, we’re not here to recruit you for poker. We’re doing a walk-around. Greeting the high-rollers before our performance.”

“And here I thought I was blending in,” he murmured.

“Not with shoulders like those,” Blanc teased. “And definitely not with that look.”

“What look?”

“The ‘I don’t belong here, but I’m too polite to say no’ look,” Blanc said. “It’s okay. You wear it well.”

John smirked and took another sip. “You’re good at this.”

“Of course I am.” She grinned. “It’s part of the act.”

Beside her, Noir shifted slightly, voice soft. “Would… you like to come watch? Our show, I mean. There’s a reserved seat open near the front. It’s not gambling.”

John met her eyes — unsure, earnest, just a little hopeful — and he found himself nodding before he could think twice.

“Yeah. I’d like that.”

Blanc clapped her hands. “Excellent! Come on then, Pit Boss. Let’s see how lucky your night really is.”

-

John had expected glitter. Maybe some flashing lights, flirtatious winks, that sort of thing. What he didn’t expect was to be genuinely impressed.

The stage darkened as the hum of conversation faded. A slow, jazzy rhythm rolled through the room like velvet, thick with anticipation. A spotlight flicked on.

First came Blanc.

She stepped onto the stage with the confidence of someone who owned it. Her heels clacked against the polished floor with every strut, and the silver sheen of her outfit caught the light with every sway of her hips. The crowd erupted in applause before she even touched the pole.

Then Noir appeared on the opposite end, more reserved in her approach. Her steps were quieter, softer, but no less graceful. She avoided eye contact with the crowd, her gaze lowered, her expression bashful.

It only made the cheers louder.

As the music picked up, they began to move.

It started slow. Blanc spun into a wide arc, one leg hooked high while the other stretched out in a long, elegant line. Her back arched, shoulders rolling with smooth precision, like every muscle in her body had memorized the rhythm. She climbed the pole like it was second nature, twisting up into the air with the ease of someone stretching after a nap.

Noir followed. Her movements were different—less fire, more flow. Where Blanc dazzled with boldness, Noir entranced with grace. She wrapped herself around the pole and descended with a slow spin that sent her hair spiraling in wide, dark ribbons. She didn’t smile, didn’t wink, just moved like a whisper wrapped in silk.

John watched, transfixed.

He didn’t even realize he’d leaned forward until his empty glass nearly slipped from his hand. His eyes trailed the subtle contractions in their cores, the control in their limbs. This wasn’t just dancing. This was control. Precision. Strength. The kind that came from hours of repetition and pain.

Most people were probably watching the thighs or the curves. John was watching the tension. The grip. The incredible physicality beneath the softness.

He murmured under his breath. “They must have insane core strength.”

He wasn’t wrong. One moment Blanc flipped backward, legs locking into an aerial hold as she spun upside down, hanging from nothing but her thighs. The next, Noir arched backward in a suspended pose that looked effortless until you saw the trembling in her arms.

Their synchronization was uncanny. Not just mirrored choreography, but chemistry—the way they passed each other, brushed fingers, locked eyes. Twin flames burning in different colors. Noir’s shyness made her movements seem more tender, more mysterious, while Blanc lit up the stage like a spark in a powder room.

When the tempo rose, so did the intensity.

Blanc spun so fast her heels barely touched the ground between transitions. Noir dropped from a height with a controlled catch so smooth it was like watching time slow down. They crossed each other in figure-eights, leaped, twirled, and rejoined at the center of the stage.

Then, suddenly, it stopped.

Noir posed low, one leg extended, her back arched with one arm reaching skyward. Blanc stood behind her, arms raised like a victorious performer basking in the final spotlight. The music came to a soft, lingering end.

The silence lasted only a heartbeat before the applause hit like a wave.

John clapped too, slowly at first, then genuinely. He wasn’t just buzzed anymore. He was impressed. He’d seen soldiers pull off acrobatics on the battlefield. But this was artistry. Precision without violence. Power without blood.

Blanc caught his eye from across the room and winked.

Noir looked over a second later, flushed, but glowing.

John leaned back in his chair and let out a quiet laugh, the smile tugging unbidden at the corners of his mouth.

-

The buzz of the performance still lingered in John's mind as he stepped out into one of the quieter lounges of the casino. The noise of the main floor faded behind heavy velvet curtains, replaced by soft jazz, low conversation, and the occasional clink of glasses.

He wasn’t really looking for anyone.

But he spotted them anyway.

Blanc was lounging across one of the curved sofas, a glass of something pink and fizzy in her hand. Noir sat beside her, shoulders pulled in, legs crossed demurely, fidgeting with the hem of her outfit as if unsure whether she should be proud or self-conscious.

They spotted him the same moment he spotted them.

Blanc lit up first. “Pit Boss,” she called, lifting her glass in salute. “Enjoy the show?”

John gave a half-smile as he approached. “You could say that.”

Noir blushed instantly and looked away, but not before sneaking a glance at him.

Blanc gestured to the empty seat across from them. “Come sit. You look like someone with questions.”

He took the seat, rubbing the back of his neck. “More like someone with admiration.”

Noir’s blush deepened.

Blanc tilted her head, amused. “Oh? Go on.”

“I mean it,” John said. “You two moved like... I don’t know. A pendulum made of smooth silk.”

Noir blinked. “S-Silk?”

“There’s tension,” John went on, gesturing vaguely. “Like you’re always about to tip over, but don’t. That kind of control takes insane core strength.”

Blanc arched a brow. “Mm. Go on.”

“I’m serious,” he said, nodding. “The way you swung and held those poses? You’d need crazy hip power. And the rhythm? You didn’t miss a beat. It’s like you’re in complete... bodily harmony.”

Noir froze. Her blush deepened.

Blanc’s grin grew slow and dangerous. “Bodily harmony, huh?”

“I was hoping,” John said, stepping in just slightly, “you could share your routine. I’m working on flexibility and endurance, trying to isolate my lower body without losing upper control.”

Noir squeaked. “F-Flexibility?!”

There was a silence. Jazz purred softly in the background. Noir looked ready to combust.

Blanc pressed a finger to her lips, suppressing laughter.

“You realize,” she said, “you’ve been praising our hips, rhythm, endurance, control—and now you're asking about flexibility. In a dim lounge. While this is playing.” She gestured upward. The music crooned something suspiciously breathy about satin sheets.

John blinked. “Oh.”

A pause.

“In the gym. I meant—like a workout program.”

Noir let out a small, strangled giggle.

“That makes more sense…” she murmured.

“Oh,” she murmured, “that makes more sense…”

John set down his drink and sighed. “For the record, I was trying to be polite. Apparently, I’m very bad at that.”

Blanc winked. “No complaints from me. But if you're this intense about fitness, we might have to bring you into one of our practice sessions.”

John gave her a crooked smile. “Only if I’m not expected to wear a leotard.”

Noir turned beet red again.

Chapter Text

Chapter 62: Karaoke

The glow of neon lights flickered against the glass as the Prima Donna squad stepped into the dim, bustling hallway of Arktone Karaoke. The air smelled of fake lemon cleaner and cheap liquor, punctuated by muffled basslines and the occasional off-key shriek.

Volume strutted ahead in platform sneakers and oversized sunglasses, twirling a keycard between two fingers. “Private room, platinum tier, all-you-can-sing and all-you-can-drink, baby. This is how idols unwind.”

Behind her, Noise bounced along with a soft hum, peeking into each soundproofed booth as they passed. “It’s kind of cozy. I didn’t expect a place like this in the outpost…”

Aria trailed behind them, elegant as ever, glancing with disdain at the flickering signage. “There is… a certain charm to it. Though I question the acoustics.”

Volume rolled her eyes. “We’re not here to record an album, Aria. We're here to scream into a mic and drink until I forget the last time I had to talk to a brand rep.”

Then it hit them.

A sound.

Somewhere between a cat fight and cat sex.

Volume stopped mid-stride. “What the hell is that?”

Another note — warbling, strained, and tragically confident — echoed from one of the nearby rooms.

“Is someone... being murdered?” Noise asked, blinking.

Volume stepped closer, one hand already reaching for the door handle. “Either that, or someone’s butchering music. We’re not letting that stand on our day off.”

She slid the door open.

Inside, a karaoke screen blinked with pixelated lyrics and a pink bouncing music note. A pair of figures stood center stage, clutching microphones like they were battlefield rifles.

Diesel, still in her infinity rail uniform, howled into the mic like a singer mid-possession. Her voice cracked like gunfire, as if challenging the melody to a duel.

Next to her, John stood stiffly, hunched over a second mic. He was deeply committed to whatever ballad they were belting out, his voice low, flat, and somehow even worse than Diesel.

“I CAN BE YOUR HEROOOO—BABY!” Diesel wailed, fist pumping.

“I can take away the pain,” John screamed beside her.

Volume stared.

Noise’s mouth hung open in horror.

Aria clutched the doorframe like a woman on the edge of a nervous breakdown.

“…No,” Aria whispered. “No, this cannot be allowed.”

Volume didn’t respond.

She was shaking.

Tears welled in her eyes.

“Oh my god…” she choked.

Noise glanced at her, alarmed. “Volume?! Are you okay?”

Volume wiped her cheek with the sleeve of her leather jacket. “I… I need to call President Mustang. I need to thank him. For giving me my voice. For giving me taste.”

Chapter Text

Chapter 63: Line of Duty

The warehouse door creaked open with a hiss of old metal and stale dust.

Poli’s nose twitched before her foot crossed the threshold. Her eyes narrowed. “Arf... something’s wrong,” she muttered.

She crouched low, sniffing the air like a bloodhound on caffeine. “Mildew, old engine oil... and cordite. Real faint. But it’s there.”

Miranda blinked. “Wait. Are you sniffing the crime scene?”

Poli straightened abruptly, brushing imaginary dust off her vest. “It’s called scent profiling. Totally standard.” She strode forward toward a half-broken crate and sniffed again, this time with a low, suspicious growl. “Grrr...”

John followed, boots crunching glass. “You sure someone’s been here?”

Poli crouched by the crate, fingertips brushing gouges near the latch. “Definitely. Stood here. Checked the contents. Five-foot-nine, give or take. Left foot dominant. Bit of a limp. Smelled like teakwood escence.”

Miranda tilted her head. “You got all that... from sniffing the air?”

Poli glanced back, deadpan. “Also from the bootprints. I’m not magic.”

John leaned closer to Miranda. “Did she just track a suspect by smell like a dog?”

“Shhh,” Miranda whispered. “She gets weird if you say the word ‘dog.’”

Poli’s ears twitched. “I heard that.”

-

After three arrests, six filled-out forms, and one accidental Miranda-induced taser discharge, Poli finally collapsed into the booth at the mess.

John approached with a plastic bag and that smug little smirk that meant he was up to something. He waved it around in front of her.

Poli sat up. “What’s that smell? Is that...?”

He held up a snack bar wrapped in orange foil like it was sacred. “Sweet potato. Limited run. Last vending machine in the office.”

Poli’s eyes lit up. “No way! I’ve been hunting these for weeks!”

She tore the wrapper open in a blur and bit down. Her foot gave a soft, involuntary thump under the table.

“Mmmph… Creamy, earthy, perfect.” She blinked at him. “You brought this for me, Commander?”

He shrugged. “You earned it.”

And then, like he was flipping a switch, his hand rose and patted her head. Gently. Rhythmically.

Poli froze mid-chew. Her ears twitched. Her eyes drooped. “Mmmm… yeah, right there…”

She leaned into it, chewing slower, her foot thumping again like a content dog basking in the sun.

Then she blinked. Realized.

Her face went bright red. “Wha—stop! That’s highly inappropriate workplace behavior! You can’t just...!”

John raised an eyebrow. “You were practically wagging your imaginary tail.”

“I was not!”

A pause.

“…You got another one of those bars?”

-

The lower residential alley was quiet.

Poli stalked ahead of John, baton holstered, eyes scanning.

Glass shattered down a side alley. Poli’s head snapped toward the noise.

She bolted with what sounded like an enthusiastic bark.

“Poli! Hey—wait up!”

John turned the corner just in time to see her come to a sudden halt, her boots sliding a few inches.

A stray cat sprinted across her path and vanished into the shadows.

Poli watched it disappear, breathing hard.

John caught up, hands on knees. “You okay?”

She cleared her throat. “Responded to an auditory anomaly. Possible trespasser.”

John pointed down the alley. “You chased a cat.”

“I investigated a fast-moving object with potential for contraband smuggling,” she huffed.

He grinned. “You barked when you ran off.”

“Did not.”

“Did too.”

Poli crossed her arms. “I am a professional. I do not bark.”

A pause.

“Arf.”

-

The A.C.P.U. precinct was quiet at night. Just the soft whir of old ventilation, the occasional flicker of overhead lights, and the rhythmic tapping of one diligent officer hammering away at her keyboard.

Poli hunched over her desk, brow furrowed, tongue poking slightly out of the corner of her mouth. The glow of the monitor bathed her face in pale blue as she muttered corrections under her breath.

“‘Suspishus behavior’... it’s suspicious, Miranda! Grrr…” She stabbed the delete key a little too hard. “And you don’t spell ‘alibi’ with a Y!”

She leaned back with a dramatic sigh, massaging her temples. “I swear, one of these days I’m going to sneak a dictionary into her gear bag.”

From behind, footsteps approached. She didn’t bother to look up.

“Miranda, if you’ve got more paperwork for me, I’m this close to...”

“It’s not Miranda.”

Poli blinked, then turned in her chair. John stood there, holding two steaming mugs.

“Figured you’d still be here, nose-deep in work.” He set one mug gently beside her. “Chamomile. Just the way you like it.”

Her eyes flicked from the tea to his face. “Oh. Uh… t-thanks. I guess.”

John tilted his head. “That sounded suspiciously like gratitude.”

“Don’t get cocky,” she muttered, quickly taking a sip. Her ears twitched. “...Okay, maybe it’s good. Just a little.”

He smirked and leaned against the desk. “You’ve been going at it for hours. Could’ve gone home.”

Poli swiveled halfway in her chair, arms crossing over her chest. “Someone has to clean up Miranda’s spelling disasters. If I don’t fix them, she’ll accidentally file someone’s blood type as ‘yes.’”

John chuckled, then reached out. His hand hovered for a moment… tThen gently landed atop her head.

Pat. Pat. Pat.

Poli’s eyes went wide. She froze like a statue. Her grip on the mug tightened slightly.

“You’re a good girl, Poli.”

Her entire face lit up with color. She glanced up at him, scandalized.

“You—! Y-You can’t just go around calling someone that!”

He raised an eyebrow. “Did I break some regulation?”

“It's... it's a context-sensitive term of affection!" she huffed, clearly quoting something from a disciplinary manual. "You can’t say things that recklessly, Commander!”

John’s smile didn’t waver. He gently ruffled her hair again. “Still earned it.”

She gave a strangled little grumble — “Grrr…” — but didn’t move away.

Instead, she looked off to the side, her face still flushed. “...I mean. It’s not the worst thing to be called.”

John leaned closer, teasing. “You liked it.”

“I did not!” she barked.

John pulled a crinkly wrapper from his coat pocket. Orange and gold foil.

“Sweet potato,” he said. “Had a hidden stash in the admin breakroom.”

Poli blinked. Then she leaned forward with lightning speed and snatched it from his hand.

“I’m confiscating this. For evidence,” she said primly.

“Sure you are.”

Poli unwrapped it halfway, then paused. She looked up at him, softer now.

“...Thanks. Not just for the snack. For everything.”

John sipped his coffee and gave her a half-smile. “You’re welcome.”

She took a bite, closed her eyes, and let out a happy hum. Her foot gave a quiet thump beneath the desk.

After a beat, John said, “You know… you can always ask for head pats. You don’t have to earn them.”

Poli turned red again. “I—I would never ask for something like that!”

A long pause.

“…But if someone offered,” she added, barely above a whisper, “I guess I wouldn’t say no.”

John chuckled and reached out again, his hand landing lightly between her ears.

“Atta girl.”

She leaned in with a quiet “mmph,” still blushing furiously, but smiling.

Then, without looking up, she grumbled, “If you tell anyone I melted over this, I’m filing an incident report.”

“Duly noted,” John said, voice warm.

Chapter Text

Chapter 64: Bad End I

The artificial sky above the Ark was on fire.

Not from flames, but from the glare of spotlights, flares, and flak bursts screaming through the artificial dusk. Sirens howled across Missilis plaza. Distant gunfire echoed from the city perimeter. In the alleyways and tunnels, groups of civilians and defected Nikkes moved in formation, ducking low and running fast.

John adjusted the strap across his shoulder, feeling the weight of the metal case pressing against his back. Ahead of him was the team he had hastily thrown together - Rapi, Anis, Neon, Marciana, Exia and Dorothy.

“Two minutes to breach point,” Rapi called out, her voice clipped. “Anis, eyes forward.”

“I am,” Anis muttered, though her grenade launcher was half-resting on her shoulder. “Not that it’ll matter. We’re all just red mist waiting to happen.”

Dorothy glanced at her, a smile twitching on her lips. “Spoken like a true romantic.”

“Shut it, Miss Snooty Pants.”

They crouched in the ruins of what used to be a cargo terminal, just outside M.M.R. Central. Beyond the twisted fencing and half-collapsed bulkheads stood the objective, a black monolith of reinforced alloy and reinforced nightmares, guarded by central government loyalists, Nikke patrols, and robotics prototype weapons.

Rapi turned, her eyes narrowing. “Me, Neon and the rest of the Nikkes will set a perimeter. Team One will move in and hit fast. No one gets left behind.”

Her gaze caught John’s.

There was something unsaid in that look—rage, sorrow, betrayal. He didn’t flinch.

“You better not be planning anything,” she said, low. “Not again.”

John exhaled slowly. “We’ll get them out, Rapi. I promise.”

“That’s not the part I’m worried about.”

“Time’s up!” Exia called from behind her drone rig. Her voice buzzed with nerves. “Firewall’s slipping, doors opening in thirty!”

Marciana knelt beside her, adjusting her shotgun and looking pale. “I’ve got Ein, Zwei, Rei and the remaining M.M.R vocational students being tracked. Once the lower-level doors are breached, I’ll guide them out.”

The outer blast doors shuddered. Lights flickered across the ruined lot as Exia’s code opened the control locks. Sparks sprayed from the reinforced hinges, and the structure groaned.

Rapi crouched behind a mangled APC, eyeing the approach through her rifle sights. Beside her, Neon loaded her shotgun with shaking hands.

"Movement. Three squads, ten o'clock," Rapi said sharply.

John nodded, standing beside the strike team.

"Rapi, Neon, hold the perimeter. If they breach past us, pull back to fallback point Beta."

Neon gave a two-finger salute. “Don’t gotta tell me twice. You better come back, Master. You still owe me some snacks.”

Rapi’s tone was steel. “And don’t you dare die in there, John.”

He paused, looked at her. Her mask was impassive, but her eyes weren’t.

“I know what you’re planning,” she said quietly, voice low. “I’m not going to stop you. I should. But I won’t.”

John gave her a soft look. “Thank you.”

She scowled. “Don’t thank me. Just make it count.”

He nodded once, then turned to the others. “Move.”

—

The interior of the M.M.R. facility was a hell-lit maze of torn bulkheads, defense turrets, and collapsed catwalks. Mass-produced Nikkes and robots poured from the upper level like insects: lifeless eyes, twitching limbs, blank faces.

Anis fired first, her grenade launcher barking with a low thump. The resulting explosion sent the front wave flying into metal walls. “What a dump,” she muttered. “Just once I’d like to break into a place that doesn’t try to kill us.”

Dorothy swooped overhead, rifle cracking with precision. Each shot snapped into a different head. “I’m counting thirty-two targets,” she said. “Make that thirty-one.”

Marciana fired point-blank at a lunging robot, her shotgun blast tearing the machine in half.

Exia knelt behind a ruined lab desk, one eye on her drone feed. “Secondary hallway clear. Sending backup code to elevator locks now.”

John ducked under a swipe, pivoted on his heel, and drove a cursed-energy infused punch straight through the chest of a charging Nikke. She sputtered and folded around his knuckles.

They moved in unison, practiced, clean. Smoke and sparks filled the air.

From the far end of the lab, klaxons began to wail. More enemies approached.

John’s radio crackled.

“Master?” Neon’s voice. “They’re swarming now. We’ll hold as long as we can, but…”

His breath caught. “Copy that.”

Another voice cut in. Rapi.

“John.”

He froze.

“I don’t forgive you. You’re still an idiot for doing this alone.”

He smiled softly. “I know.”

“I just hope you remember we were your family too.”

“I never forgot.”

Static washed over the signal.

Down several flights of sealed access halls, the team entered a wide chamber flooded with low blue light. Stasis pods lined the walls, humming with a steady rhythm, each one containing a motionless figure bathed in a nutrient mist.

Anis froze, her breath catching. “No way.”

Marciana stepped forward, trembling. Her eyes scanned the name tags, stenciled in white paint, as if the names were afterthoughts.

“Ein… Zwei… Rei…”

Students. Hers.

She approached a terminal and began the unlock sequence with shaking hands. Each pod hissed open with a slow mechanical groan. The girls inside stirred, their faces pale and expressionless, but still alive.

Behind them, a klaxon shrieked. Government reinforcements were breaching the outer perimeter.

“We’ve got company,” John snapped. “Marciana, take them and go.”

“But—”

“Now!”

Dorothy moved to his side, leveling her rifle. “Listen to his Grace, teacher. They need you right now.”

Marciana lingered for a beat, her hand brushing the side of one pod, her gaze resting on Rei’s peaceful face.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, voice barely audible. “I should’ve saved you sooner.”

Then she turned and began guiding the rescued girls toward the extraction corridor, her steps steady despite the tears forming at the corners of her eyes.

Exia rapid fired her sniper rifle, covering John as he met the enemy drones that poured through the doors head on. Dorothy ducked low, squeezing off precise shots that shattered steel shells and buckled frames. Anis took a hit to the shoulder and laughed bitterly.

The last Nikke was pulled from her stasis pod, slumped between Anis and Marciana as sparks danced across the shattered ceiling. Alarm klaxons howled across the M.M.R. facility, and above, gunfire still echoed from the outer perimeter.

John stood at the edge of a set of reinforced elevator doors. His coat was tattered and scorched, the right sleeve burned to the elbow. Exia was crouched at the console nearby, sweat dripping down her cheek as her hands flew across the cracked holo-interface.

“Almost got it,” she muttered. “But I don’t get it—why are you opening the elevator to the Deep Section? That wasn’t part of the evac plan, Noob.”

John didn’t answer at first.

Instead, he pulled something from the inside of his coat—a small black memory stick—and held it out to her.

“Exia,” he said quietly, his voice rough, calm. “You’ll need this to survive on the surface. That’s it. Optical camouflage schematics. Geo-surveys. Civilian records. The blueprints for how to live free. Use it.”

She stared at the stick. “W-What? Wait… what are you—”

Dorothy stepped beside him, her expression unreadable, lips drawn in something halfway between serenity and resignation.

“Noob,” Exia said again, louder. “What are you doing?”

John stepped into the elevator. Dorothy followed, her hand hovering just over the grip of her rifle.

Something in Anis’ gut twisted.

“No,” she breathed. “No—no, no, no—what the hell are you doing?! You’re not going down there!”

The elevator rumbled as it powered up, doors still half-open.

“You son of a bitch!” Anis surged forward. “Don’t you dare—DON’T YOU DARE DO THIS!”

John turned his head. Their eyes met. He didn’t smile. He didn’t explain. He just looked at her, and in that look, Anis saw everything: the guilt, the finality, the resolve.

Dorothy moved.

In one smooth motion, she raised her gun and fired upward. The round tore through the elevator’s support structure with precision born of experience. Steel shrieked.

“No—!” Exia screamed.

With a groaning snap, the cable severed. The elevator dropped.

“JOHN!” Anis lunged forward, but Exia grabbed her, pulling her back just as the shaft roared with a downward gust of air and a fading trail of sparks.

Anis thrashed, teeth clenched, legs kicking, fighting Exia’s grip with everything she had. “We can get them back! We can—he doesn’t have to die down there!”

“He made his choice!” Exia yelled, voice cracking, her own hands trembling. “He—he gave us everything! Don’t waste it!”

The elevator was gone.

Only the sound of Anis’s choked sobs remained, echoing beneath the flickering lights of the ruined corridor.

-

A screech of twisted metal. Sparks shower the corners of the shaft as the mangled elevator grinds to a brutal stop. For a moment, there’s nothing but smoke and flickering emergency lights.

From the wreckage, movement. A low, ragged cough.

John pushes a twisted panel aside, staggering through with blood on his face and dust in his hair.

Behind him, footsteps, calm and pristine. Dorothy steps out, unscathed. Not a hair out of place. Her expression is blank, eerily serene.

John glances at her and breathes out a bitter laugh. “Of course you’d be fine.”

Dorothy doesn’t respond at first. She walks ahead, heels echoing on the metal as they enter the core corridor. Its sterile white glow pulses with old secrets and hidden sins. Beyond the reinforced glass walls, the tubes begin, half-formed… humans? Were floating in nutrient vats, half-machine, half-screaming silence.

Her gaze sharpens. Her pace quickens.

John watches, then follows, slower. The heavy duffel bag slung over his shoulder clinks once, metallic and ominous.

Dorothy’s Voice is too calm.

She asks John a simple question “Would you still have chosen me to stand beside you if this weren’t the end?”

John doesn’t answer. And that tells her everything.

Dorothy’s smile doesn’t reach her eyes. “You’re not here to save anyone else, are you?”

He doesn’t look up. “No.”

She turns to him, soft steps bringing her closer.

“Then what’s in the bag?”

Click.

He opens it. Inside, a compact nuclear device. Enough to vaporize a building. Or a facility.

Dorothy’s voice goes quiet.

“So that’s it.”

“This is the vengeance you wanted,” John says. “The one I promised you.”

Dorothy walks closer, kneels beside him. She rests her hand on the bag—then his.

Her smile is gentle.

“Good. Then let it end.”

-

Rapi, Exia, Neon, Anis, Marciana, and a handful of rescued Nikkes and civilians are packed into the cargo elevator. It’s humming upward, shaking with every kilometer gained.

Marciana steadies a wounded Nikke beside her. Exia monitors the signal from her console.

Rapi stands at the edge, silent, tense.

Then, a distant rumble.

The entire shaft shakes violently. Emergency sirens blare in red flashes. Dust rains from the ceiling.

Exia turns pale. “We lost contact. All systems below sector B just… vanished.”

A pause.

Then the implosion begins.

Outside the elevator shaft window, the M.M.R. building contorts inward—like the Earth is sucking it down. Metal screams. Floors buckle. Then—

Collapse.

A thunderous boom. A pillar of ash. Fire. Silence.

Inside the elevator, no one speaks at first.

Neon falls to her knees. “No. No no no—” Her hands tremble against the glass.

Anis slumps against the wall, jaw tight, arms folded. “Dumbass... you really did it.”

Her voice breaks. She looks away.

Rapi doesn’t move.

She just stares. Her fingers press white against the grip of her rifle.

“…You said you’d come back,” she whispers. “You promised.”

Her voice cracks—once—and she bites it down. But her eyes glisten. Her body trembles.

Marciana, silent in the corner, gently bows her head.

Exia mutters something under her breath. “He really went out like that…”

Rapi takes a breath—but her shoulders won’t stop shaking.

“…Goodbye, John.”

The elevator continues to rise.

Far below, the ruins of a secret die with the man who buried them.

Chapter Text

Chapter 65: IDK

The old tram station creaked overhead. Broken lights buzzed. John leaned against a rusted railing, sipping something that vaguely resembled coffee. K approached, boots echoing on metal, arms swinging loose at her sides.

“You look like shit,” she said flatly.

“Appreciate the concern,” John replied without looking at her. “You snarl like that at everyone or am I just special?”

“I don’t do small talk.”

He took another sip. “Big talk it is, then.”

She joined him at the railing.

“You called me here. You gonna say something, or am I supposed to guess what mood you're in?”

John’s lip twitched. “Wanted to see how you’re doing.”

K raised an eyebrow. “You don’t care how I’m doing.”

“I cared enough to not to let you pass out in my bathroom.”

“…Fair.”

A short pause. K stared ahead at the flickering lights of the Ark below.

“You know this place is never gonna be clean,” she said. “Corruption, dead ends, backroom orders. We’re not fixing anything. Just making the rot quieter.”

“Sounds like something someone says right before giving up,” John muttered.

“I haven’t given up,” she shot back. “I’m still doing the job.”

“You don’t like the job.”

“I don’t like lying about it.”

John glanced sideways. “So don’t.”

K scoffed. “Easy for you. You’re everybody’s favorite mystery man. You get to do whatever you want.”

“I do good because it feels good. Not because someone tells me it’s noble.”

K frowned. “That’s it? That’s your whole reason?”

“Why complicate it?” He shrugged. “Helping people feels better than killing them. Even if they don’t say thanks.”

“And if they do?”

He gave a small, wry smile. “Still feels the same. I just get to look smug for ten seconds.”

K chuckled under her breath. “That’s stupid.”

“Sure is.”

They stood in silence again. This time less tense.

“You ever get tired of pretending you’re not idealistic?” she asked.

“You ever get tired of pretending you’re not tired?”

She didn’t respond.

He continued, quieter. “You’ve got a sense of justice. Buried under a pile of blood and orders, sure. But it’s still there.”

K stared at him. “You think that matters?”

“I think it’s rare. And I think people who kill for ‘justice’ usually end up hollow. You’re not hollow.”

“Yet.”

He looked her in the eye. “You’re still arguing. Hollow people don’t argue.”

K looked away. “I used to think doing the job meant doing the right thing. Now I just do it because it’s all I’ve got left.”

John nodded slowly. “Then maybe get something else.”

“Like what?”

“I dunno. A hobby. A cat. Maybe stop showing up in my shower half-dead.”

She smirked. “No promises.”

He snorted. “Didn’t expect one.”

K leaned on the railing. “So what? You just keep doing good because it gives you a warm fuzzy feeling?”

“Yep.”

“No grand reason? No big moral code?”

“Nah, don't need one” he said.

Eventually, she said, “If I start doing things because they feel good, does that make me selfish?”

“Sure,” he replied. “But you're still being a good person and changing things for the better.”

K considered that. Then, quietly, “What if it stops feeling good?”

He looked at her.

“Then you try something else. And if that doesn’t work…” He raised his cup. “...there’s always Vodka.”

She shook her head. “You’re the worst counsellor I’ve ever met.”

“And yet here you are.”

“Yeah,” she muttered. “Here I am.

Chapter Text

Chapter 66: Paws for effect

The sun was low, casting warm gold across the outpost. John sat quietly on the edge of a bench, basking in the warm sunlight. Next to him, Nero rested with her head tilted onto his shoulder, tail slowly curling and uncurling. He was idly brushing her hair back from her face, his other hand holding a small pack of fish snacks.

“You’re unusually social today,” he said.

Nero let out a soft purr. “I like it here. With you.”

John fed her another piece, slow and careful. “I’m not doing much.”

“You don’t need to.”

He gave a faint, content breath through his nose. “... Well at least your feeling content”

A few meters away, hidden behind a structural column, Privaty was frozen in place, tablet in hand, mission report forgotten.

She peeked again. This time she caught Nero shifting slightly, rubbing her cheek into John’s shoulder while he scratched under her chin.

John didn’t flinch. He even smiled a little.

‘He’s actually enjoying this?! He never smiles like that when I’m around!’

Her face burned. She quickly ducked behind the column again, gripping the tablet like it might save her.

‘Wh-What’s with that look? That gentle voice? That… hand under her chin…’

She looked toward a vending stall nearby. There, hung up neatly beside trinkets and badge pins, was a simple pair of black cat ears.

‘...He wouldn’t—No. Stupid. Stupid stupid stupid—’

But an hour later, she was standing in his room, ears on, arms stiff by her sides.

-

John opened the door, raised his brow, and took a deliberate step inside.

“…Interesting choice of attire.”

Privaty’s face was red enough to match her eyes. Atop her uniform was a novelty cat collar and ears.

“I-It’s a prop. For training. Blending in. Tactical… Reasons?”

He didn’t respond. Just closed the door behind him and leaned against it casually, eyes resting on her.

“And the ears?”

“Field disguise! For... animal management infiltration!”

He let the silence hang.

Privaty squirmed, shifting her legs, hands balled at her sides. “Say something already.”

John tilted his head slightly. “They look good on you.”

She looked away. “Tch… pervert.”

“I’ll take that as a complaint.”

Privaty swallowed hard. “…You—you’re way too comfortable saying stuff like that.”

“You came into my room. Wearing those. Stiff as a board. And you're blushing all the way down to your collar.”

She didn’t deny it.

He took a step closer. “If you wanted attention, you could’ve just asked.”

Her voice dropped to a whisper. “I didn’t say I wanted anything.”

“Not with your words,” he murmured. “But we both know there are things you wish to say but can't.”

Another step.

He was close now—close enough to feel her breath hitch. One hand reached up and lightly adjusted the ears, fingertips brushing her temple.

“Next time,” he said, voice low, “just ask. I’ll pet you properly.”

Privaty’s brain shut down for a second. She stared at him, mouth open, blinking hard.

“I—I—You're teasing me.”

He leaned in slightly. “Of course I am. You’re cute when you’re flustered.”

She turned on her heel and bolted for the door, muttering something incoherent about “stupid commanders” and “burning these ears.”

Chapter Text

Chapter 67: Never Fade Away

The outpost’s command room was silent except for the hum of old monitors and the low hiss of the ventilation. It was late, with all but insomniacs and workaholics awake.

John sat on the edge of the briefing table, elbows on his knees, hands clasped loosely. He looked tired in a way that had nothing to do with bruises or wounds.

Across the room, Rapi stood half in shadow, arms folded, watching him with her usual guarded calm, but her eyes betrayed her. They always did, when it was him.

“You should be resting,” she said, her voice steady but soft.

“I could say the same to you.”

“A Nikke does not require the same level of REM sleep as a human would, commander.”

He huffed a dry laugh, and didn't deny it. “Come here.”

She hesitated, just for a moment, then crossed the room until she stood before him, close enough to see the roughness at his temples, the old scars that only time could erase.

He looked up at her, eyes dark but clear. And for once, no jokes. No dry dodge.

“Rapi,” he said quietly. “Why do you stay?”

She frowned, confused. “What do you mean? I’m assigned to Counters.”

“That’s not an answer.”

Her hands tightened around her biceps. “I’m a Nikke. I follow orders. I protect the outpost. I protect you.”

“And if I didn’t give you orders?” His voice softened even more, but it felt heavier, somehow. “If I told you to run, tomorrow, and never come back… would you?”

Her breath caught. “Don’t ask me that.”

“Why not?”

“... Because I wouldn’t go,” she whispered.

He smiled, but it wasn’t mocking — just heartbreakingly gentle. He reached up, brushing his thumb over her jaw. She flinched, but didn’t move away.

“I’ve been trying to figure it out,” he said. “Why I keep waking up when I should’ve stayed dead. Why I keep fighting when I should’ve let go.”

His hand slipped to the side of her neck, warm, grounding. She could feel the calluses on his fingertips.

“It’s you,” he said. “It’s always been you.”

Her eyes widened. She opened her mouth but no words came.

“I didn’t want this. Didn’t want to admit it. But I’m done pretending I don’t care more than I should. I love you.”

She shook her head, her voice cracking. “Don’t… say that to me. I’m not— I’m not like you. I don’t—”

He laughed softly, leaning his forehead to hers. “You feel more than most people I know. You hide it better, that’s all.”

Her hands lifted — hovered near his chest, fingers twitching as if she wanted to push him away but couldn’t. “I’m not… enough. Not human. Not—”

“You are more than enough for me,” he said, firm now, no hint of a tremor. “You’re the reason I believe there’s something worth saving left in this hellhole.”

A quiet sound escaped her throat, half a laugh, half a sob. She pressed her forehead harder to his, eyes squeezed shut.

“You’ll regret this.”

“Never,” he teased softly, brushing his lips against her temple. “The only thing I’d regret is never telling you.”

She trembled. Then, carefully, her hands flattened against his chest, feeling the slow, stubborn heartbeat under her palm.

“Say it again,” she whispered, barely audible.

He smiled into her hair, voice low and warm against her ear.

“I love you, Rapi.”

Her fingers curled into his shirt, holding on like she never wanted to let go.

“…Then don’t fade,” she said, voice so small only he could hear. “Don’t fade, John.”

“Not tonight, never when you are by my side.”

He said it like a quiet but unshakable promise. Rapi’s eyes flicked up to his, searching, almost disbelieving. In the low light, his expression was softer than she’d ever seen.

Slowly, she let one hand slide up from his chest to the side of his face. Her fingertips brushed his cheek, tracing a scar near his jaw. He leaned into her touch without hesitation, eyes half-lidded, almost reverent.

“Rapi…” His voice caught, hoarse. “I—”

But she didn’t let him finish.

She closed the last breath of space between them, pressing her mouth to his in a kiss that trembled at first, uncertain, a question she’d never dared ask.

John answered without words: one hand cupped the back of her neck, fingers threading through her hair as he deepened it, slow but sure, as if memorising the taste of her until the end of the world.

Her other hand slid to his shoulder, gripping tight, anchoring herself to the warmth she’d never believed she deserved. She felt him smile against her lips before he kissed her again, more sure this time, a low hum of relief caught in his throat.

When they finally broke apart, breathless, her forehead rested against his, both of them quiet except for the shared rhythm of their breathing.

She opened her eyes, cheeks flushed, voice barely more than a whisper. “John…”

He smiled — and this close, she could see the faint shimmer of unshed tears at the corners of his eyes.

“You’ll never fade, Rapi. Not to me.”

Her answer was only another kiss — softer this time, a promise sealed in the silence between their hearts.

Chapter Text

Chapter 68: Swamp of Serenity

The abandoned parking lot smelled like old rain and cheap engine oil. John stood, chest heaving, blood dripping from a cut on his cheek. Across from him, perched calmly on a rusty sedan hood, was Kermit the Frog, banjo propped against his knee.

They locked eyes.

A gust of wind rattled a loose street sign.

Kermit raised one green hand and wiped a speck of blood from the corner of his felt mouth. “Stand proud. You’re strong.”

John spat to the side. “You talk too much.”

Kermit nodded solemnly. “Then allow me to talk less and show you more.”

He hopped down, landing weightless, webbed feet tapping the concrete. Slowly, dramatically, he crossed his pointer and middle fingers on both hands.

John’s eyes narrowed. “What the hell are you doing.”

Kermit’s voice dropped an octave, echoing through the lot like an ancient hymn.
“Domain Expansion…”

The asphalt cracked under John’s boots.

“Swamp of Serenity.”

In an instant, the world around them melted. The city vanished, replaced by an endless swamp under a greenish twilight sky. Lily pads the size of trucks drifted past. Fireflies swarmed all around. And there, in the center, Kermit stood on a half-submerged log — strumming his banjo.

A single, ominous chord resonated through John’s bones.

He pointed weakly. “Is… is this a barrierless domain?”

Kermit’s eyes twinkled like unholy gemstones. “Yes, John. Barrierless. There is no escape—”

But there was no John.

Kermit blinked. His log bobbed in the misty water.

“John?”

-

A mile down the highway, John was sprinting full speed, coat flapping wildly behind him.

He wheezed curses into the night air.

“Fuck this. I am not built for froggy bullshit. I’m not built for these streets. I’m getting a farm. I’m done.”

Somewhere far behind him, a faint banjo chord echoed one last time.

John did not look back.

Chapter Text

Chapter 69: The slumber of the One-Winged Dark Lord

The outpost’s upper deck was wind-scoured and quiet at this hour, just distant hums of old power lines and the city lights blinking like tired stars below.

John found Guillotine alone at the railing. Her coat draped like a torn banner in the breeze, one gloved hand pressed lightly over her eyepatch, the other curled tight on the steel rail.

She heard him long before he spoke, her voice drifting out to him, theatrical but faintly frayed at the edges.

“Approach with caution, mortal vessel. Tonight the Doomseye whispers of fallen shadows, and the One Winged Dark Lord within is restless.”

John didn’t laugh at the tone, didn’t try to pull her back to earth. He just stepped closer, close enough for the wind to blow his coat edge against hers.

“Restless, huh?” he murmured. “Rough night for the guardian of balance?”

She breathed a shaky laugh — thin, but genuine. “The corruption was vast. Its cries linger still within this vessel’s bones. But fear not for I alone contain it.”

He nodded as if it were the plainest fact in the world. “Of course you do.”

She risked a sidelong glance at him, half-expecting mockery. Instead she found only that steady, unbothered calm in his eyes.

She turned back to the city, wind tugging at her fringe. Her voice dropped lower, softer, yet still cloaked in grandeur.

“They plead, you know. In that final moment before the Eye closes the gate. They plead for mercy they do not deserve, and yet…”

Her hand on the railing shook — almost imperceptible, but he felt it when his fingers brushed hers. He didn’t hold her hand, didn’t cage it, but just let his touch rest there. Enough for her to feel warmth through the glove.

“And yet,” he said, echoing her.

She inhaled, ragged at the edges, then found her strength again, wrapping it back in drama like fresh bandages over an old wound.

“The Doomseye does not mourn. It simply endures. It hunts so others may sleep unknowing.”

He tilted his head, a tiny, fond huff escaping. “Then let the mortal vessel keep watch beside it tonight. So it doesn’t stand alone.”

She stiffened as the words caught her off-guard, breaking the rhythm of her dark recital. Then, slowly, the corners of her mouth curved into a smile both shy and imperious.

“Your loyalty pleases the One Winged Dark Lord,” she declared, voice stronger now. “Remain here, then. Should the shadows breach this vessel’s seal, you shall be my first line of defense.”

“Consider it done.”

John’s reply settled into the hush between them, warm against the cold air. Guillotine let the breeze toy with her hair, pretending it was only the wind that made her eyes glisten.

She shifted closer, so close his coat brushed her side. Her gloved hand drifted off the railing, hovering uncertainly before it found its way to rest on his chest, feeling the steady rhythm beneath.

“Be warned, mortal vessel…” she murmured, softer now, words drifting somewhere between a threat and a plea. “Proximity to the Doomseye carries risk. The dreams it spawns devour even the sturdiest mind.”

He huffed, just once — a quiet laugh that made her hand rise and fall with his breath. “Then I’ll let it. Better than leaving you to face them alone.”

She should have laughed in return, should have deflected with another grand line… But instead, the fight left her bones. A slow, unfamiliar peace unfurled under her ribs. She leaned into him fully then, the side of her face pressing against his shoulder.

His coat enveloped them both now, a crude shield against the chill night. Above, stars winked between Ark structures and static-laced clouds. For once, her eye stayed closed without fear of what might leak out.

John shifted just enough to pull her closer, one arm wrapping around her back, hand splayed gently at her side. His thumb traced small, steady circles through the thick fabric.

“You’re trembling,” he murmured.

She almost denied it — but her next words tumbled out in a hushed, dreamy echo of her usual grandeur.

“The One-Winged Dark Lord… is merely… conserving power…”

He smiled into her hair, a smile no one else would ever see. “Mm. Of course.”

Minutes slipped by, time bending around their quiet closeness. She sank deeper against him until her weight settled heavy and trusting in his arms. Her breaths grew longer, softer, before finally evening out, each exhale brushing his collarbone.

John tilted his head back against the railing, the night sky spinning slow above him. One hand kept tracing soothing patterns down her back, a silent promise that even if she dreamed dark dreams, she wouldn’t face them alone tonight.

And when sleep found him too, bone-weary but content, the Keeper of the Doomseye and her mortal sentinel drifted into the same hush, kept company only by the cold wind and a thousand distant stars, far above any shadows waiting below.

Chapter Text

Chapter 70: Domain Expansion

The ground was cratered, sparks still crackling from a melted transformer. Dorothy stood at the center, glowing with rage, eyes manic and half-lidded in pleasure.

“Ahhh… this chaos… it's divine,” she whispered. “You should rejoice, John. I'm setting you free from the treachery of the Ark.”

John stood opposite her, blood on his coat and fear in his veins. Beside him, Anis ducked behind what little cover she could find, gripping her grenade launcher hard.

“She’s lost it,” Anis muttered. “You got anything that can slap the preach out of her?”

John cracked his knuckles. “Yeah.”

He took a breath, raised his hand—and snapped his fingers.

“Domain Expansion: Café Shift.”

The battlefield warped, light snapping like fluorescent tubes.

They were no longer in a plaza. They were in a badly lit, understaffed coffee shop. Greasy tile floors. Broken aircon. Ambient and annoyingly loud indie jazz. And Dorothy now stood behind a register with a line of angry faced customers stretching out the door.

Her rifle was gone. In its place: an apron. Name tag: *Hi! I'm Dory :) *

Dorothy blinked. “What—what is this?”

DING!
“WHERE’S MY OAT MILK LATTE? I’VE BEEN WAITING SIX MINUTES!” screamed a woman with three kids and a Yorkie in a stroller.

DING!
“IS THIS TOFU ORGANIC? I NEED TO SPEAK TO YOUR MANAGER!” shrieked another, filming her on a cracked phone.

Dorothy twitched. “Wha… What's going on?”

John appeared beside her, wearing a visor and holding a broom.

“You're on till. Smile.”

“YOU MONSTER.”

She tried to summon her weapon… nothing.

“May I recommend the cortisol special?” John said. “Now with extra burnout.”

Across the room, Anis was lounging in a corner booth wearing a fake mustache and sipping from a milkshake.

“This is amazing,” she whispered, filming it all.

DING DING DING!
“EXCUSE ME, THERE’S A FLY IN MY MIND! I MEAN—MUG! SAME THING!” cried a woman with five rings on each hand.

Dorothy finally cracked. Her hands trembled as she fumbled with a whipped cream canister. “Why won’t they stop ordering things!?”

“They never stop,” John said calmly. “This is the rush before closing. You’ve got one barista. No manager. The A/C broke. The dishwasher called in sick. And someone clogged the toilet.”

Dorothy collapsed to her knees. “No… Please have mercy…”

Anis wandered up, twirling her launcher lazily. “So... how does this beat her?”

John looked at her flatly. “Cortisol overload. Heart disease. Cumulative stress damage.”

Pause.

“…So like… she dies of burnout? In fifty years?”

John shrugged. “Probably sooner if I pump a bit more cursed energy into the domain.”

Behind them, Dorothy screamed as a Karen asked to customize a drink with no ice, but ice vibes.

Anis snorted. “You’re a monster.”

Chapter Text

Chapter 71: Body shots

The lights in the outpost office were dim, the hum of distant machinery barely audible. John sat at the edge of the table, collar undone, sleeves rolled to his forearms, a half-empty bottle of vodka dangling from his fingers. He took a slow pull, the burn settling deep in his chest.

The door hissed open.

He didn’t look. “Work or pleasure?”

He heard her heels first, soft but deliberate, clicking with a rhythm that always came with trouble.

“Pleasure,” Viper purred, voice smooth as honey laced with heat. “Unless you consider staring into a bottle all night a government assignment now.”

John exhaled, slow. “Long day.”

“I can tell,” she said, sauntering closer. Her jacket hung open, showing off the tight crop top that barely contained the generous swell of her chest. The metallic sheen of her skirt caught the low light, and her hips swayed as she walked, deliberate, sensual.

Her gaze flicked down to the bottle in his hand. “You always drink alone?”

“Only when I’ve earned it.”

She leaned a little closer, red eyes glinting. “Shame to waste it on silence.”

John raised an eyebrow. “You offering conversation?”

“I’m offering a better view.” She turned, slow and deliberate, letting him take in the way her skirt hugged the curve of her ass. Looking back over her shoulder, she grinned. “You’re all hard lines honey. Scarred, steel, sharp-edged.”

He gave her a dry look. “Not a great sales pitch.”

“Mmm,” she hummed, walking up close, her chest brushing lightly against his shoulder as she leaned in. “That’s the thing, Honey. You’re all function. I’m all form.” Her hand slid down her own waist with a teasing touch. “Soft where it counts. Curvy where it kills. Made to be looked at, touched, maybe even worshipped.”

“You’re not subtle,” he muttered, but didn’t pull away.

“I’m not built for subtle,” she said with a smirk, reaching for the bottle. “You’ve been staring at this long enough.”

Before he could answer, she pulled the bottle from his hand, set it down on the table, and climbed up — one knee on the surface beside him.

“What are you—”

Viper didn’t answer with words. She tilted the bottle slowly, letting a stream of vodka pool across her collarbone, cool and deliberate. The liquid glinted in the dim light, and she leaned in, breath warm against his ear.

“Start here, honey.”

John’s eyes narrowed. He leaned in, brushing his lips along the line of liquor, slow and deliberate. Viper let out a quiet, pleased hum, fingers threading through his curls as he pulled back.

“Thirsty?,” she teased. “I like that.”

She slid the bottle lower and leaned backwards, letting a chilled ribbon of vodka drip into her bellybutton. The muscles there tensed faintly as she grinned, watching him closely. John didn’t hesitate this time—he followed the line of vodka with his lips again, hand resting against her hip.

“You’re playing a dangerous game,” he muttered.

“Don’t act like you're not enjoying this honey,” she said, voice low, legs brushing against his.

Just as she reached for the bottle again, John caught her wrist.

“Oh?” she blinked, tilting her head.

Instead of answering, he took the bottle from her, raised it to his lips, and drained a deep swig. Then, with a flick of his wrist, he tossed it across the room, the bottle shattering somewhere in the distance.

Viper blinked in surprise, then gasped as John scooped her up in one motion, her legs wrapping instinctively around his waist.

She let out a delighted squeal, half-laugh, half-moan. “John!”

He carried her effortlessly, his scarred hand splayed across her back, mechanical fingers curling at her thigh. Her breath hitched at the touch—at the way he looked at her now, no hesitation left in his eyes.

She traced a finger along the side of his face, pausing at a scar near his cheek. Viper’s lips brushed against his ear, her voice a sultry whisper laced with laughter.

"Forget the vodka, Honey… I’ve got something better you can taste tonight."

Chapter Text

Chapter 72: Tradition

The banquet hall was a shrine to discipline.

Tatami mats creaked beneath precisely placed knees, lacquered trays shimmered in even rows, and every movement, every bow, every breath seemed rehearsed for centuries. At the head of it all, Sakura sat in a midnight-black kimono stitched with crimson flowers, the embodiment of Seimeikai grace.

Beside her, John adjusted his posture for the fifth time in ten minutes.

The formal montsuki he wore itched in all the wrong places, and the ceremonial seating made his joints ache in ways that reminded him he was getting older than he liked to admit. Still, he bowed when she did, kept his hands at the proper angle, and tried—tried—to look like he belonged.

He didn’t. Not really.

When the first round of sake was offered by a stooped underboss with weathered hands, John accepted the cup with both hands. He paused, trying to remember whether the guest or the host drank first, then hesitated just a second too long.

Sakura leaned closer and, without looking at him, whispered, “Drink.”

He obeyed, then passed the cup back and tried not to grimace. Sake still tasted like shit to him.

The second round came. He was supposed to pour now. He reached for the flask and nearly picked it up with his left hand before stopping, blinking, and adjusting. Right hand. Slow. Careful.

He poured too much. The cup overflowed slightly.

The old man accepted it without a word, but the crease at the corner of his mouth deepened.

John stared at the table for a moment, trying to steady his breathing. He wasn’t nervous. That wasn’t it. It was the familiarity that got under his skin—the structure, the masks, the expectation that tradition alone could keep peace. It reminded him too much of clan dinners at the Jujutsu Society. The way everyone smiled just enough, laughed just right, while knives were being sharpened in another room.

And yet, despite the coil in his stomach, he kept going.

When the third cup arrived, the san-san-kudo, the final part of the ritual, he waited for Sakura to lift it first. She did. He followed, drank, and set his cup down with deliberate precision.

It wasn’t graceful. It wasn’t perfect. But it was sincere.

Later, when one of the underbosses addressed them, praising their union and Sakura’s leadership, John bowed deeply in return. Not too deep, but his timing was off. The man was already seated again by the time John raised his head.

Sakura didn’t speak for the remainder of the meal, and neither did he. He focused on mimicking her pace, her posture, her silence. He ate slowly, using the chopsticks without fumbling, though the pickled lotus root felt like chewing chalk.

When they were finally excused and stood to leave, John’s legs nearly gave out under him. He hid it well—mostly.

The lanterns were still glowing when they stepped out into the garden, casting long shadows against the plum trees. Sakura’s steps were soft against the gravel, silent in a way that suggested precision,but not delicacy. She moved with the kind of grace that came from years of commanding rooms with her presence alone. But now, with the banquet behind them, her poise had a different quality—less guarded, more searching.

John followed beside her, posture looser now that he wasn’t being watched by half a dozen underbosses. His formal attire still sat awkwardly on him, but his expression had shifted. He looked thoughtful. Quiet.

“You sat too high at the start of the meal,” Sakura said.

John didn’t flinch. “I realized. Shifted down halfway through the first course.”

“You poured the second cup too late.”

“I hesitated.”

“And you poured too much.”

“I did.”

They walked a few more steps in silence.

“You still remembered the order,” she said. “Even with your hands shaking.”

John exhaled through his nose, gaze fixed ahead. “Not fear.”

“I know.”

“Just… something else.”

“A bad memory?”

He said nothing.

They reached the stone basin near the center of the garden. The surface was glass-still, reflecting the pale lanterns and the spray of white plum blossoms above.

Sakura stopped, folding her hands neatly in front of her.

“You dislike sake,” she said.

John gave a faint nod. “Hate it.”

“But you drank it.”

“I did.”

A long silence passed between them.

Then she spoke again, voice quieter. “You could have treated the night as a joke. You didn’t.”

John shrugged, looking down at his reflection. “Didn’t want to embarrass you.”

He looked at her now, meeting her gaze. Her eyes were sharp. Measuring. But something in them had shifted. They were less guarded than usual, less like a blade, more like a door, slightly open.

“I saw how much it hurt you,” she said. “To go through the motions. Even before you poured the first cup, you were bracing for something. As if the wrong gesture would bring the past crashing down.”

“I don’t like the feeling,” he admitted. “Like I’m being swallowed by old shadows. By rules made to hide knives.”

A pause.

“I thought you might mock the whole thing,” she continued. “Most men do, when they think they’re above the performance. But you didn’t.”

“I don’t hate the traditions,” he said slowly. “Not really. I hate what they were used for. What they meant, what they hid. Back then, from where I came from.”

She was watching him closely now, not with the cold scrutiny of a leader, but with something more intimate. More curious.

“You didn’t just follow the rituals,” she said. “You tried to fit into my world. Despite what yours did to you.”

John gave a small, humorless smile. “Maybe. Or maybe I just didn’t want to give your men a reason to question you.”

“Don’t reduce it to duty,” she said, stepping closer. “It was more than that.”

Her proximity was different now. Intentional. John met her gaze. Something about the weight of it made his throat tighten.

“I don’t really understand you,” he said. “One moment you’re... all precision. All control. And the next—”

“I’m still all those things,” she interrupted softly. “But I’m not immune to admiration.”

“Is that what this is?”

She looked up at him, expression calm but eyes bright. “It’s what it became.”

John held still. He wasn’t a man easily shaken, but something in her gaze—so intent, so certain—unsettled him in a way that had nothing to do with fear.

Sakura’s voice dipped lower. “You entered my house. Sat beside me. Learned my customs. Made them yours, even for one night. That isn’t nothing.”

She reached for his hand, this time not just to rest beside it, but to hold. Her fingers were cool against his skin, yet grounding. Her hand was steady. His was not.

“I want you to stay,” she said.

John blinked. “Here?”

“No,” she said, and her thumb traced the side of his wrist. “With me. Tonight.”

He didn’t pull away.

“Alright,” he said.

She gave a single nod, then tugged gently on his sleeve, guiding him.

They walked together through the garden’s edge, lanterns swaying above, silence warm between them. The night was slow, and the path home unhurried.

Chapter Text

Chapter 73: Evening soda

John sat on a broken chunk of concrete, rubbing at his neck as he exhaled slowly. His coat was slung over his shoulders, half-buttoned, and his sleeves rolled to the elbows. Dirt streaked one side of his jaw, and his left hand, metal fingers clicking, gripped the edge of a rusted crate.

EVE approached, carrying two cans of something cold. She held one out.

He took it without looking, cracked the tab, and drank.

A second later, he paused. Stared at the can.

“…Soda?”

She smiled and gave a small nod. “Yes.”

“Thought it was beer.” He stared at the label with disappointment. “This feels like a betrayal.”

EVE blinked, then let out the faintest laugh. “It was the only cold thing left.”

John drank anyway.

She sat on a rock nearby, glancing toward the still-burning wreckage of the Raptures. For a moment, she was quiet, watching how the orange light played across the sharp lines of his face. The scars. The tired eyes.

“I’ve been thinking,” she said after a while.

“Dangerous.”

Her lips curled faintly. “What makes someone human, to you?”

John didn’t even blink. “Don’t care.”

“…You don’t care?”

“Nope.”

EVE tilted her head. “Not even a little?”

He took another sip. “Doesn’t matter. You talk like one. Fight like one. Think like one. Close enough.”

She looked at him. “What if someone told you you weren’t human?”

“I’d tell them to piss off and go to bed.”

“And if it were true?”

John shrugged. “Then I’d go to bed. Still me.”

EVE blinked. She studied his expression for any hint of sarcasm. There was none.

“You’re very... straightforward,” she said softly.

“Waste of energy overthinking things,” he muttered. “If your hands shake when you're scared, and you look out at all this shit and still want to keep moving… you're human enough.”

EVE looked down at her hands. Gloved, precise. Not warm.

Still, his words settled in her chest with a quiet kind of weight.

“Thanks,” she said.

John looked at her sideways. “For what?”

“I’m not sure.” She held up her can. “For drinking soda without complaint, maybe.”

He snorted. “I complained.”

“…But you drank it anyway.”

That got the smallest twitch of a smile out of him.

The fire crackled. The wind moved. They didn’t speak again for a while.

Chapter Text

Chapter 74: Trendy Bar

TRENDY BAR blinked overhead in sharp neon, loud and unapologetic.

John stared at the sign.

"Subtle," he muttered, pushing the door open.

Inside, dim light and incense hung like mist. The furniture looked overpriced and hostile to spines. Plants dangled from ceiling pipes. Jazz murmured from hidden speakers. It was a bar trying very hard to look like it didn’t care.

Scarlet entered beside him, her eyes calm and thoughtful, already mapping the room like it was a battlefield.

Rapunzel came next. Her heels tapped lightly across the floor, cloak perfectly arranged. She scanned the velvet booths, twinkling glasses, and murmured, “Oh my.”

“Too much velvet?” John asked.

“No, it’s just... romantic.”

He looked toward the passed-out man slumped in a booth, half a drink still clutched in hand.

“This looks romantic to you?”

“Exactly!”

John led them to a quiet corner of the room. They slid into a booth tucked into a dim corner. John sat opposite the two Pilgrims, already second-guessing his life choices as a server appeared ready to take their orders.

“Tequila old fashioned,” he told the server. Then to Scarlet, “And the moonrice sake. Limited edition.”

Her smile was gentle. “Thou art most generous. I have heard tales of this brew.”

“Cost a stupid amount. Better be good.”

He turned to Rapunzel.

“Water,” she said firmly.

John raised an eyebrow. “No wine? No transubstantiation?”

“I’m here to supervise,” she said with conviction.

Scarlet laughed behind her sleeve.

Their drinks arrived quickly. John barely had time to take a sip before Rapunzel leaned in, arms folded.

“This is clearly a setup.”

“Here we go.”

“You brought us to a dimly-lit, velvet-curtained bar. You ordered her something elegant and got yourself something smoky, and wished to get me something alcoholic as well. You’re setting the scene.”

“I wanted a drink.”

“You wanted us tipsy. Vulnerable. So you could say something dark and mysterious and then—kiss someone. Without warning.”

Scarlet nearly choked.

John stared. “That’s... really specific.”

Rapunzel flushed. “It’s not… I-I wasn’t thinking about it ever since we entered.”

Scarlet turned to her with a fond smile. “If his intentions were thus... I would not mind.”

“Don’t encourage her,” John muttered.

Rapunzel covered her face. “You see? This is worse. You’re not even doing anything. That makes it worse.”

“How.”

“Because now I have to accept that you’re naturally... compelling.”

John took a slow sip. “I came here to unwind. That’s all.”

Scarlet reached across the table and tucked a stray lock of hair behind Rapunzel’s ear. “Dearest sister... thou art redder than the wine thou declined.”

“I am not.” Rapunzel pulled her cloak tighter.

John raised his glass. “To responsible supervision.”

“To mystery,” Scarlet echoed. “To company... unexpected, but not unwelcome.”

The conversation faded. The light dimmed further. Jazz curled through the air like incense.

Rapunzel stared at John’s arm, at the scars. Her fingers fidgeted in her lap.

“You’re being very restrained,” she said, a little breathlessly.

John didn’t look up. “That’s usually called ‘normal’.”

“No! That’s the worst part!” she said, then caught herself. “I mean—it’s confusing! Because I keep thinking—what if this is the plan? Not seduction, but omission. Like the Devil in the desert.”

“You’re comparing me to Satan?”

Scarlet leaned in, her voice soft. “The wind speaketh fondly of thee tonight.”

“Naturally.”

The server returned and placed a small plum beside Scarlet’s cup. She turned it in her fingers.

“This fruit is humble in shape, yet sweet with hidden depth. What think thee?”

“It’s a spledamin creation, meant to be paired with sake. They say that the way its sweet juice fills your mouth is similar to a real surface peach,” John replied.

Rapunzel made a small noise. “Oh Creator. I’m thinking terrible things about that plum.”

John leaned back, rubbed his temple. “Oh my goodness. Lets set things straight for the record—no, I don’t have a plan. No velvet-draped seduction. No getting you drunk to take advantage of you.”

Silence.

“...But if you did,” Rapunzel said quietly, “it would’ve worked.”

Scarlet looked out toward the street. “I wonder if thou knowest what thou bring, merely by being near. Not through action. Nor word. But by being.”

John didn’t answer. His drink was quiet company.

Rapunzel peeked up again. Her voice was smaller.

“You’re not going to kiss either of us, are you?”

“No.”

“But... you could.”

He looked at her. “Do you want me to?”

Her breath caught, her face going crimson. She buried it in her arms.

John gave a tired smile to his drink.

Maybe coming here hadn’t been the worst idea after all.

Chapter Text

Chapter 75: Dance lessons

The Outpost shimmered in the soft wash of late afternoon, its angles turned golden, its steel corners softened by creeping ivy and the sound of distant repairs. John walked at a calm pace through the outer gardens, hands in his coat pockets, leading Cinderella past the newly paved plaza near the old watchtower.

Cinderella walked beside him in near silence. She didn’t speak, lost in her observation. Each detail was absorbed: the cut of glass in the rooftops, the smell of dust and oil and sunlight on canvas. Even the cracks in the stone path were catalogued, noted not as flaws but as lines of character. She had once called beauty a mirror of the soul. John still wasn’t sure if that was metaphor or doctrine.

“This courtyard didn’t exist a few months ago,” he said, breaking the quiet as they passed a fountain lined with scrap-welded cherubs. “Was a pile of scaffolding and mud. Now it’s... functional.”

Cinderella tilted her head at the fountain. “These ornaments are hand crafted,” she murmured, “They were built by someone with the soul of an artist. How truly beautiful.”

Her reflection shivered in the water’s surface. She lingered for a breath, then turned.

John glanced over. “We’ve got a few mirrors, if that’s what you’re after.”

“Hmm, not right now, though I would wish to visit these mirrors after the tour has concluded,” she said primly, even as her hand subtly brushed her hair back into alignment.

They moved on. The hum of the Outpost pulsed around them: distant training clatter, the bark of instructions, the low thrum of machinery buried beneath the ground. A supply cart rumbled by, steered by a Nikke with a cigarette tucked behind one ear and a bottle of soda in hand.

Cinderella’s eyes followed it. “So many kinds of beauty here. It fills me with joy.”

Eventually, they reached the far end of the Outpost where the structures grew taller and narrower. A multi-story building stood ahead—sturdy, reinforced, with matte windows that caught the sun like dulled mirrors. On the side, a plaque read simply:
“Studio”

John stopped in front of it and tilted his head up, watching dust catch in the sunbeams above the roofline.

Cinderella followed his gaze. “What is this building used for?”

“Its a studio,” he said. “For dance.”

Her brow lifted slightly. “Dance?”

“Two Nikkes use it. Blanc and Noir. Performers from the Coin Rush casino.” He paused. “You probably haven't heard of them.”

She shook her head. “I haven’t.”

“They’re... interesting. One’s confident and fast-talking. The other’s quieter. But on stage, they move like clockwork made from silk.” He rested a hand on the elevator call panel. “They invited me to watch a routine. Even offered to teach.”

“And now you’re inviting me?”

He nodded. “Figured you’d appreciate it. Not just the form. The precision. The performance. It’s a kind of beauty that I figured you would appreciate."

Cinderella looked up toward the top floor, where muted motion flickered behind the windowpanes, like shadows dancing through candlelight.

After a moment, she said, “Then let us go. If their art is sincere. And if there is beauty in it… I shall learn.”

-

The elevator chimed softly at the fifth floor.

The doors slid open to reveal a wide studio lit by tall windows and lined with mirrors that stretched from wall to wall. The afternoon sun streamed through sheer curtains, painting long golden streaks across the polished floor. At the far end, twin poles stood mounted to the ceiling, flanked by thick crash mats and stacked speakers. The scent of lavender hung faintly in the air, mixed with floor polish and something citrusy.

And in the center of the room, Blanc was mid-spin.

She caught sight of them as she rotated, her movement slowing like a curtain falling between acts. With one final pivot, she landed in a graceful stance, chest rising with breath, white hair catching the light in a gleam of motion.

Noir, seated on the bench nearby, startled slightly. Her hands were folded neatly in her lap, but the second she noticed guests, she sat a little straighter.

“Well well,” Blanc purred, stepping lightly off the mat. “If it isn’t our mysterious Pit Boss. I was starting to think you forgot us.”

John stepped in, brushing a faint sheen of dust off his coat. “Didn’t forget. Just got held up by practical things like patrols, explosions, and being hospitalized.”

Blanc grinned. “That’s one way to say ‘fashionably late.’”

Noir rose more cautiously, her hands smoothing her costume. She gave a small bow. “Welcome… it’s nice to meet you.”

Cinderella stepped forward, quiet, taking in the room with the air of someone inspecting a painting she wasn’t sure was finished. Her gaze traveled over the mirrors, the poles, the muscles in Blanc’s shoulders still subtly flexed from exertion.

“You must be the artists,” she said at last. “Blanc and Noir.”

Noir nodded once, hesitantly. “Yes. And you are…?”

“Cinderella.”

“John brought me,” Cinderella added. “He said you would show us something beautiful.”

Noir’s blush crept up faintly. “We… we were just practicing.”

“Even better,” John said, stepping aside. “Your skills and abilities will stand out more.”

Blanc shot him a sly glance. “You really know how to flatter, pit boss.”

Cinderella approached the mirror wall and stood before it, as if measuring the light. She glanced once at her reflection, then at the twins. “I would like to watch. If that is acceptable.”

“Of course!” Blanc said, already moving toward the speaker. “We weren’t expecting guests, but we never turn down an audience.”

Noir gave a quick nod and moved toward the mat, her steps featherlight.

John found a seat along the wall and leaned back, arms folded, eyes half-lidded but focused. He didn’t speak as the music began, something smooth and low-tempo, a velvet-draped melody made for slow burns and locked eyes.

Blanc led.

She rose onto the pole with practiced ease, her body a line of motion that curved, coiled, and unwound with crisp control. Every shift of weight, every bend of limb, looked effortless. But John knew better.

Noir followed moments later, her approach soft but purposeful. Where Blanc dazzled like a stage light, Noir moved like the breath between lines in a poem—graceful, shy, and quiet until she wasn’t.

Cinderella watched without blinking. Not with envy, nor judgment. But with the intensity of someone witnessing a story being shared without words. Her fingers pressed faintly together at her waist.

“They’re mirrors,” she murmured. “But not of each other.”

John tilted his head. “You see that too.”

“One burns. One reflects. And yet the same fire moves them both.”

On the floor, the twins crossed paths again, one brushing close with a flick of silver hair, the other spinning low in a quiet orbit. Blanc tossed a wink toward the mirror wall. Noir didn’t meet anyone’s eyes, but her movements betrayed no nerves.

When the song drew to a close, both held their final poses, Blanc arched in a dramatic lean, Noir crouched low, back bowed, fingers stretched toward the light.

Cinderella applauded.

Blanc laughed, wiping a sheen of sweat from her brow. “Well. I think we passed the inspection.”

“You passed more than that,” Cinderella said softly. “You’ve carved real beauty from motion and light.”

Noir stepped away from the mat, her blush deepening again. “We’re… still learning. It’s not perfect.”

“That,” Cinderella said, her voice warm, “is what made it beautiful.”

John rose. “Still offering those lessons?”

Blanc stretched an arm behind her back and cracked her shoulder with a grin. “We’re always open. Though I’ll need to change music if you’re both joining in.”

Noir hesitated. “Cinderella… are you sure? It’s harder than it looks.”

“I am not afraid of effort,” Cinderella replied. She looked once more at the mirrors. “And beauty does not hesitate.”

The music changed. Livelier now, with sharper rhythm and more deliberate pace.

Blanc stood at the front, demonstrating the basic sequences: a lean into a spin, the upward climb with a hooked leg, then a slide and twist down into a grounded pose. Fluid in her motions, her voice carried with practiced ease.

“You don’t have to match everything at once,” she said. “Feel the tempo. Think of your body as a ribbon, fluid.”

John nodded, then tried it.

He executed the steps with mechanical precision: grip perfect, core engaged, foot placement exact. But there was no sway, no softness. His motions felt rehearsed rather than felt. Like a soldier practicing a drill instead of a dancer responding to music.

“No, no, you’re doing it right,” Blanc said with a grin, watching him turn. “Just… try doing it like you’re not about to get graded.”

Cinderella, meanwhile, had found a rhythm beside Noir.

The two moved in sync, mirroring each other with a quiet grace that neither forced nor demanded attention. Cinderella’s movements were confident and composed, with an almost feline flow. She adapted to Noir’s softness rather than overwhelming it, adjusting her angles to match Noir’s gentle curves, her pace guided by instinct rather than ego.

Watching them side by side felt less like practice and more like duet.

Noir, clearly more comfortable than before, allowed herself a small smile. “You’re very natural.”

Cinderella, adjusting her wrist delicately on the pole, tilted her head. “You move like a whisper in satin. It was only right to listen.”

John stepped away for a moment, wiping a line of sweat from his temple and grabbing a cup of water near the mirrored wall. The paper cup crinkled faintly in his fingers.

“That was… something,” he muttered to himself.

“Mm. You’re not bad.”

He turned. Blanc was beside him now, towel draped around her neck, hair pulled back in a loose bun. She was flushed from the workout, but not out of breath, glowing with the heat of momentum and mischief.

“You’re very upright,” she continued, bumping his shoulder with hers. “I half-expected you to salute.”

John took a sip. “I’m not used to moving and twisting so much outside of combat drills.”

“Oh, come on.” Blanc leaned in, voice low and teasing. “Where’s that intensity from earlier? The man who analyzed our hip work with a straight face and made Noir turn scarlet?”

He raised an eyebrow. “You want me to describe your hip rotations again?”

“I want you to feel them,” she said with a wink.

John stared at her for a moment, processing.

She gave him a smile edged with flirtation and implication. “You know,” she added airily, circling around him with a slow step, “we’ve done duets… but never trios. Or quartets. Not really.”

“Group training?”

“Mmhmm.” Blanc’s hand brushed the edge of his sleeve, just enough to make it ambiguous. “Private lessons. Late night. Candlelight. Slow, patient correction of form… hands-on feedback.”

John nodded slowly. “Like posture adjustments?”

Blanc blinked.

He was being completely serious.

Her smile twitched, somewhere between fond amusement and light exasperation. “Yes, Pit Boss. Very… hands-on. To correct your… alignment.”

“I could use more flexibility training,” John said, thoughtful. “My hamstrings are—”

“Oh my God,” Blanc whispered to herself, biting back a laugh as she pressed the bridge of her nose. “You’re really like this.”

John blinked. “Like what?”

Blanc gave him a long look, as if debating whether it was more fun to keep trying or just enjoy the comedy of watching him miss every cue. In the end, she settled for a smirk and flicked a drop of her sweat toward his shirt.

“Never change, Pit Boss.”

From the center of the studio, Cinderella turned her head slightly, her reflection catching the full gleam of the afternoon light.

“Noir,” she said softly, “does this studio have more mirrors?”

“We have a corner suite room,” Noir said, voice still gentle. “It’s got a whole wall. You can see every angle.”

Cinderella’s lips curved faintly. “Then I believe we should graduate. The mirror will not lie, after all.”

Noir smiled in return, then looked toward John and Blanc. “Would you both join us?”

Blanc looked up, her grin returning.

“Well,” she said, nudging John with her elbow. “Ready for the advanced class?”

John drained the last of his water. “As long as no one expects jazz hands.”

“You say that now,” Blanc muttered, half to herself. “We’ll see how long you last once Noir does her little spin move.”

John gave her a look.

She only winked with a sultry smile.

Chapter Text

Chapter 76: mitochondria is the powerhouse of the cell

The morning had started poorly.

John was shocked out of his sleep by a shrill alarm, an ache in his lower back, and the distinct realization that he hadn’t been refreshed by his sleep, just five hours of black nothingness and a sudden jolt of consciousness as if yanked back into his own skin.

The air was stale. His coffee machine refused to work. Someone had eaten the last of the bread rations (probably Anis) and left the empty packaging exactly where it would mock him.

He stared at his reflection in the mirror. His hair was a mess. His beard, uneven. There was a faint bruise on his shoulder he didn’t remember earning.

He wanted to drink.

He really wanted to smoke.

Instead, he sat at his desk like a corpse waiting for decay, nursing a mug of bitter instant coffee that tasted like boiled shit.

That was when the knock came.

A polite, rhythmic knock.

Three deliberate, polite taps.

He closed his eyes.

‘Please be a government assassin. Please be a government assassin. Put me out of my misery.’

No such luck.

He opened the door.

Zwei stood there in full uniform. Pressed pleats, polished boots, binder clasped to her chest like a holy text. Her cheeks were just a little too pink. Her eyes sparkled just a little too much.

“Good morning, Commander. I hope I’m not intruding.” She said sweetly, bowing.

You are, John thought.

“Not at all,” he said.

John stared at her for a beat.

Then slowly forced his brain to reboot.

“Hey,” he said, voice gravelly. “Something wrong?”

“No!” she blurted, too quickly. “I-I mean, not wrong. I just... I had a question. About class. Biology and respiration.”

She was fiddling with the hem of her sleeve now.

‘He looks tired... but he still opened the door for me. So gentle. So dependable. I should’ve worn the other blouse Ein suggested.’

John opened the door wider and gestured inside. “Come in.”

“I’ve been reviewing the electron transport chain,” she said, smiling too hard. “And I thought—who better to explain it than you?”

‘Maybe he’ll sit close. Maybe he’ll look at my notes and—No! Focus… But he’s so tall up close…’

John sat down across from her and blinked blearily at the pages. Color-coded tabs. Crisp handwriting. She even used arrows.

‘God, I need a drink. I’d kill for a cigarette. Why does she look so excited to learn about... mitochondria?’

“You’re overprepared,” he muttered, flipping a page. “But alright. Let’s do this.”

“Really?!” she perked up. “You don’t mind?”

He shrugged. “Nothing better to do… uhm, I mean there is nothing better than helping a young curious mind with their education.”

‘Except drink, smoke and forget my problems.’

He cleared his throat and pointed at the diagram.

“Glycolysis in the cytoplasm. Anaerobic. You get two ATP, two NADH. Split the glucose like you’re cracking a glowstick.”

Zwei forced a loud laughed, a little too loud. “Haha—glowstick, that’s clever!”

John gave her a look. The shitty joke didn't deserve a laugh, let alone one like that, but he chalked it up to nerves.
“Anyway,” he said, “pyruvate heads into the mitochondria. You know the rest: Krebs cycle, NADH, FADH2. They’re like fuel canisters.”

Zwei nodded frantically. Her legs crossed beneath the chair.

Her thoughts, meanwhile:

‘He smells so manly. He’s... so cool and intelligent and responsible and—’

John took a sip of his bitter coffee, made a face, and half-instinctively reached towards the drawer with his cigarettes.

Then he stopped.

Zwei was watching him.

Eyes full of hope.

He forced his hand back onto the desk.

“Then you’ve got the electron transport chain,” he said. “NADH drops electrons, protons get pumped, and ATP synthase spins like a blender on a sugar rush.”

Zwei scribbled notes, biting her lower lip.

“You’re amazing, Teacher,” she said, voice barely above a whisper. “You explain it so clearly. And your voice is just... really soothing.”

John stared at her.

‘Is she...? No. Can’t be.’

“Thanks,” he said warily.

Zwei froze.

‘He thanked me. He noticed! He’s so modest, too. Ugh! My heart… Focus, Zwei! He’s your teacher! But also... maybe... something more someday?’

John rubbed the back of his neck and sighed. “Anything else?”

Zwei flipped to another page. “Just one last thing. Could you explain how muscle cells adapt to anaerobic respiration?”

“Sure,” he said, half-exhausted. “Your cells panic. They burn sugar inefficiently. Lactic acid builds up. Pain is your body’s way of saying ‘I’m sorry, I’m doing my best.’”

She nodded slowly.

“So... like me when I try to talk to you.”

He blinked.

“What?”

“What?” she echoed, suddenly red. “Nothing!”

‘Why did I say that!? Kill me now!’

John leaned back.

She quickly gathered her notes, head lowered in embarrassment.

“Thank you again, Teacher,” she said, voice barely stable. “This was very educational. And... inspiring.”

John watched her leave, the door closing with a quiet click.

He exhaled slowly.

Then turned to the drawer.

Then turned away from it again.

“God help me,” he muttered.

Chapter Text

Chapter 77: Lets delta and get some ramen

John regretted many things in life.

Tonight’s regret began with a shopping trip.

It had taken the better part of three hours, several arguments, and one minor standoff in a changing room before Delta finally accepted civilian clothes. He’d aimed for “stylish but modest,” landed somewhere around “tomboy military girlfriend,” and decided that was close enough.

Now they stood outside Miko’s Pulse, the newest nightclub in the Ark. A lazy thump of bass seeped through the walls like sonar, punctuated by laughter, synthetic sax, and the occasional shriek of someone being too drunk too early.

Delta stood beside him in a cropped olive-green jacket that revealed a taut, toned midriff. Beneath it, a black tanktop hugged her frame. Her khaki shorts were snug, frayed just enough to imply deliberate fashion rather than battlefield wear. She looked like she’d stepped out of a catalog, if the model was packing three concealed knives and stood at parade rest.

She scanned the crowd like they were enemy formations.

“Status?” she asked.

“Status: normal,” John replied. “You’re about to enter a den of music, alcohol, and bad decisions.”

“Will we be engaging in all three?”

“Hopefully just the first two.”

The bouncer waved them through with a nod at John's ID. He gave Delta a second glance, more out of confusion than concern, but said nothing.

Inside, the lighting dropped to hazy violets and pulsing blues. The bass hit harder. Delta flinched, then adapted, her eyes flicking toward the ceiling like she was analyzing enemy drone movement.

She leaned in. “The vibrations mimic mid-range explosive shockwaves.”

“That’s the subwoofer,” John muttered. “Come on. Let’s start with a drink.”

They claimed a corner booth with line-of-sight on the dance floor. Delta sat stiffly, one hand near her thigh until John gently nudged it away.

“Relax. You asked for a ‘normal girl’s’ experience. That means no threat assessments, just loud music and overpriced drinks.”

“Understood.”

His drink was a double whiskey. Hers, courtesy of the amused bartender, was neon green and came with a tiny umbrella.

Delta frowned at it. “Is this toxic?”

“I mean, probably.”

She took a sip. Her eyebrows shot up. “...It’s very sweet.”

And then came the first incident.

A man approached: bright shirt, overconfident grin, and a lean like he thought the booth was lucky to have him.

“Didn’t think they let covert operatives look this good,” he said.

Delta blinked. “Incorrect. I am not covert ops. I am a forward scout.”

The man laughed. “I like that. All serious, huh?”

“I’m not just serious. I’m Nikke.”

“Ohhh, exotic,” he grinned.

John was halfway through his drink when Delta gave him the briefest shake of her head. He stayed seated.

“I appreciate your interest,” she said, crisp and robotic, “but I’m not currently seeking a mating partner.”

The man blinked. “What?”

“She’s not interested,” John said flatly, finally rising.

The guy looked at him, saw the weight behind his stare, and backed off with a muttered “Alright, chill.”

Delta watched him retreat. “I handled that poorly.”

“No,” John said, sitting again. “All things considered, it went alright.”

“I could try again.”

She didn’t get the chance.

A woman approached this time—tall, elegant, and clearly confident. Her eyes swept Delta with appreciation.

“You have a really strong look,” she said. “Are you single?”

Delta stiffened again. Her drink stalled halfway to her lips.

“We’re together,” John said calmly. “Thanks, though.”

The woman smiled, winked at Delta, and walked off.

Delta blinked. “I didn’t get to respond.”

“You looked like you were going to self-destruct.”

“I was… uncertain of the protocol.”

They sat quietly for a moment. The music dipped into something slower.

“I can take you home if this is too much,” John offered. “No pressure.”

She shook her head. “Negative. I want to complete the operation. Experiencing rejection and unwanted attention is… part of it, isn’t it?”

He nodded, then gestured toward her outfit. “You’re attractive. That’s why people are hitting on you.”

She blinked. “You believe others perceive me as viable for romantic engagement?”

“...Yes. That’s what hitting on someone means.”

She stared at him. “I thought this attire was camouflage.”

He snorted. “It is. Your good looks are the part that stands out.”

She looked down at herself. “Noted.”

“If you want,” he offered, “I can pretend to be your boyfriend. People won’t bother you as much.”

She looked at him, calculating. Then slowly nodded. “Yes. Please do.”

He offered his arm.

“Tactical formation?” he said.

“Tactical formation,” she replied, linking her arm through his.

-

Several drinks later, John had declared his love for the bartender’s special chili vodka and attempted a half-dance that nearly took out a table lamp.

Delta had laughed. She hadn’t meant to, it just came out. Quick, surprised, and foreign to her own ears.

When they finally stumbled out into the pre-dawn quiet, John had one goal.

-

04:17 AM.

The Ark’s neon signage flickered above shuttered shops and overflowing bins. Somewhere, a hover-scooter tipped over slowly with a beep of existential defeat.

John staggered forward like a man on pilgrimage, coat half-off, shot glass still clutched like a sacred relic.

“I swear,” he mumbled, pointing, “there was a kebab shop here. Two weeks ago. I remember the sauce. Garlic. Thick. Real bite to it.”

Delta trailed behind, flushed and swaying.

“Negative,” she said, voice slurred but composed. “You’re chasing a mirage. High-dehydration, post-intoxication hallucinations are common.”

“I’m chasing meat,” John said, tripping slightly. “Grilled. Wrapped. Ancient tradition.”

“You’re compromised,” she poked his chest. “Unfit for command.”

John squinted at her. “Then you’re in charge.”

She pointed at him. “Target’s comprimised… att-attempting to re-assign o-objective.”

“Huh?”

She tugged on his sleeve. “Come to my quarters.”

He blinked. “You got kebab in your quarters?”

“No.” She hesitated. “I have… ramen.”

He paused. “Not the same.”

Delta stepped closer. “It’s special ramen.”

He stared. She stared back. The moment wobbled slightly.

John’s brain, drowning in vodka and kebab dreams, tried to reboot.

She leaned her head against his chest, arms loose around his waist.

“You could… sample it,” she murmured. “For civilian integration purposes.”

He stared down at her. Her hair was mussed, her jacket crooked. Eyes sharp, even now.

She looked up at him again. “So. No more kebab?”

He sighed, long and theatrical.

“... Let’s go eat some ramen.”

Chapter Text

Chapter 78: The Anatomy of Romance

John flipped the page.

Silence stretched across the outpost rec room, broken only by the slow rustle of cheap paper. The book in his hands was covered in faux-leather, lined with gilded thorns, and featured a title that sounded like a spell: Crimson Thorns of Passion.

He blinked at a sentence.

Then another.

Then read it again, just to be sure.

“…Huh.”

He looked up. “Page seventy-four,” he said. “Your ‘hero’ has a twenty-inch erection and is apparently thrusting so deep he touches her heart.”

Across from him, Marian blinked, then sat up straighter on the couch, hugging a pillow defensively.

“It’s metaphorical,” she said, with a small huff. “He’s touching her emotionally.”

“He’s touching her aortic valve.”

Marian flushed. “That’s not the point!”

“I’m just saying,” John went on, tapping the book like it was evidence in a crime tribunal, “I’ve seen field medics triage less severe internal trauma. This isn't passion, it’s a homicide with extra steps.”

A choked snort came from the side.

Anis had somehow materialized from wherever she spent her downtime, a can of soda gripped lazily in her hand

“I’ve read that scene,” Anis said, voice far too pleased. “She calls it a ‘spear of heavenly bliss.’”

John raised an eyebrow. “More like a ballista bolt.”

Marian groaned. “You’re both impossible.”

“No,” John said, “I’m just literate. There’s a difference.”

Rapi, seated at the edge of the room with a book of her own, cleared her throat softly. “C-can we not talk about… spears?” she murmured without looking up.

Neon, headset on, sprawled upside down over the back of the sofa, chimed in absently, “Wait, are we still talking about that weird romance book? Pass.”

“You don’t read them?” Marian asked, trying to loop someone else into her corner.

“Nope. Too many words, not enough explosions.” She flipped her screen. “Besides, I know what I like. Big guns.”

Anis nodded solemnly. “Girl’s got a type.”

John sighed and looked back down at the offending paragraph. “This isn't even about realism anymore. This is fantasy written by someone who’s never seen a man naked and assumes genitalia is measured in feet.”

Marian flushed even deeper. “It’s about emotions, okay? Symbolism. Mood.”

“It’s about vertebrae getting shattered,” John muttered.

There was a beat.

Then Anis, voice bright with mischief, said, “So. Speaking of shattered vertebrae… How long’s it been since any of us had actual experience?”

Marian turned to her. “That’s not relevant to this!”

“No,” John said, “but it’s a good question.”

Rapi stiffened. Her eyes didn’t lift from her book. “I don’t— I haven’t— That is—” she mumbled, before going utterly silent.

Neon waved a hand. “I kissed someone once.”

Anis kicked her feet up. “It’s been a while. Before Nikke stuff. Now? Not exactly beating ‘em off with a stick.”

There was a pause.

Marian suddenly looked very focused on the floral print on her pillow.

John glanced around. Slowly set the book down.

“Lol… I’m surrounded,” he said, rubbing his eyes, “by military grade virgins.”

“No,” Marian muttered.

Anis raised a brow. “Name one time you’ve had sex.”

Marian opened her mouth. Then closed it. “I have feelings!”

“That’s not an answer.”

Rapi’s voice was a tiny squeak. “This is inappropriate.”

John stood and rubbed the back of his neck. “Alright, enough. I didn’t come here to perform a sexual census. I was critiquing literature,” he shot back. “And making sure no one here believes twenty inches is romantic. That’s a liability.”

Marian huffed. “You just don’t understand passion.”

“No,” John said, turning toward the door. “I just like my passion without organ failure.”

He paused. Looked over his shoulder. “Also, that guy had ten orgasms in one paragraph. That’s not love. That’s a superpower.”

Chapter Text

Chapter 79: Spick and span

The outpost was quiet in the early evening, save for the low hum of cooling fans and the occasional distant clank of machinery winding down. John was returning from a late systems check when something made him pause.

Down the hallway, faintly lit by the flicker of motion-sensitive floor lights, stood a familiar curvy silhouette. Apron. Feather duster. Green pigtails bobbing slightly as she shifted in place.

Soda.

She was standing completely still, mop in hand, staring at the same clean floor tile she had probably scrubbed an hour ago.

John squinted.

He checked his phone clock. This wing had already been cleaned yesterday. Twice.

He approached quietly, boots soft against the polished surface.

“You know,” he said, voice dry, “if you keep cleaning the same spot, you're going to rub a hole straight to the lower levels.”

Soda jumped slightly, spinning to face him with a smile that was a touch too wide.

“O-oh! Master! I didn’t hear you coming. Just doing one last sweep before lights out. You know, making everything spick and span!”

Her voice was as bright as ever, but her hands fidgeted around the mop handle like she was trying to strangle it without realizing.

John crossed his arms. “This hallway’s already pristine. You’re scrubbing nothing.”

“I am?” she said with a nervous laugh. “Well, better safe than sorry, right? Can’t let dust sneak up on us! Dust is sneaky!”

He raised an eyebrow.

She shrank slightly, then let out a small sigh and lowered the mop.

“I guess… I just didn’t feel like stopping yet.”

John waited. Soda didn’t usually stall like this unless something was wrong. He could practically see the gears turning behind her cheerful eyes, the kind of smile you wear when you're trying not to frown.

“Out with it,” he said, gentler now. “What happened?”

Soda hesitated.

“I overheard some of the Nikkes from maintenance earlier,” she said quietly. “They were joking around, saying things like, ‘What’s the Maid Squad even for? They just stand around looking cute while the real Nikkrs do the work.’ Stuff like that.”

She glanced at him, then quickly looked away.

“I know they probably didn’t mean it. But I couldn’t stop thinking about it. I… I like what I do. I’m good at it. But what if it doesn’t matter?”

Her voice cracked slightly, and she pressed her lips together to stop it.

“I know I’m not built for combat like the others. I’m not flashy or powerful. I clean floors. I dust shelves. I smile and wave. And I thought maybe that was enough. But now I’m not so sure.”

John let the silence sit for a moment before answering.

“Soda,” he said, his voice steady, “you don’t need to apologize for liking your job. Especially not to people who probably hate theirs.”

She blinked, surprised.

He continued, “The people who make those jokes? They’re bitter. They don’t get to have what you have. You find joy in your work. You bring order to chaos. Cleanliness. Comfort. That’s rare.”

“But…” she hesitated, “what if they’re right? What if I’m just here to look nice?”

John looked at the hallway around them, the polished gleam of the tiles, the fresh scent of citrus cleanser still lingering in the air.

“You’ve never just been that,” he said. “This place? It works because of people like you. No soldier wants to come back from a mission to filth and cold steel. You make this place feel like someone gives a damn.”

Soda looked down at the floor.

“I guess I didn’t think of it like that. I just… I’ve always wanted people to feel safe. Clean places are safe places, right? When everything shines, it means we’re in control.”

John nodded slowly. “Exactly.”

Her voice dropped lower. “Sometimes I worry I’m not really a Nikke. Not like Rapi or Ludmilla. I don’t shoot things. I clean. I serve. I make tea.”

He tilted his head. “And if we didn’t have tea and clean rooms and warm smiles after a mission, what do you think we’d become?”

Soda didn’t answer, but her shoulders relaxed a little.

“I’m sorry,” she added quickly. “I know I’m being silly. I should be stronger than this.”

“You’re not being silly,” he said firmly. “You’re being human. That’s not weakness. That’s life.”

She stared at him, wide-eyed. “You really think so?”

“I know so.”

He gave a small smile. “Most people go their whole lives without enjoying what they do. You? You light up when you hold a mop. That’s a gift. Don’t let anyone make you feel ashamed of it.”

A long pause.

Then Soda let out a breath she’d been holding, a small, shaky giggle escaping her lips.

“You really are nicer when you’re not pretending to be grumpy, Master.”

He smirked. “Don’t spread it around. I’ve got a scary reputation to protect.”

She laughed.

“I think I’ll finish up here after all,” she said. “Not because I’m sad. Just because… I really do like making things sparkle.”

John nodded. “Then keep doing what you’re good at.”

As he turned to leave, Soda called after him.

“Master?”

He looked back.

“Thanks. I’ll remember what you said. And I’ll keep working hard. For everyone.”

Chapter Text

Chapter 80: Boom the pool

The pool on Utopia’s top deck shimmered under the fading sun, clear and blue as a pane of polished glass. For once, everything felt still. After the chaos with Alfred and the rogue AI, a quiet afternoon above water was exactly what they all needed.

John had just finished training when a familiar voice called out behind him.

“John,” Rapi said, hand on her hip. Her shirt clung from an earlier splash, faintly transparent, revealing her swimsuit underneath. “We’re heading in. You coming, or do I have to drag you?”

At the water’s edge, Tove stood barefoot with her arms crossed, skin tanned, expression neutral. “Pool time is good survival training. You should join us survivalist.”

Nearby, Elegg peeked out from behind her oversized duck float. “Mister Commander! We saved you a spot! Miss Rapi said you'd look great soaking wet!”

Rapi turned crimson. “Elegg!”

“What? You did say it.”

John arched a brow. “That’s not very subtle.”

“I’m not on duty,” Rapi shot back, flipping her hair. “I can admire the view.”

John sighed, half-smiling. He kicked off his boots, tugged off his shirt—scarred torso catching the light—then started undoing his belt.

They froze.

Off came the pants.

Off came the underwear.

Before any of them could process it, he dove into the pool.

Naked.

A splash. A long silence.

“...Is he serious?” Rapi asked, blinking hard.

Elegg’s face turned bright red as she crouched behind her floatie. “He didn’t even hesitate! Everything’s just—out!”

John surfaced and blinked at them, floating with ease. “What?”

“You’re naked,” Rapi said, voice hitching a little.

He shrugged. “Back during training, we always swam naked. Communal showers, no privacy. It was standard. Honestly?” He smirked. “Military training is probably the gayest time in a straight guy’s life.”

Tove coughed lightly, looking away while blushing. “F-for a survivalist...Nudity's is n-not an issue.”

“It’s fine!” Elegg said too quickly, hiding behind her float like a bunker wall. “I mean—not fine, but—we’re all adults, right?”

John floated toward the edge. “Want me to put something on?”

“No!” Rapi blurted, a little too loud. “I mean—you’re fine.”

He tilted his head. “You sure? You’re looking at me like you’re trying to memorize something.”

Rapi swallowed hard. She wasn’t sure if it was the lighting, the water droplets, or the angle—but it was doing things to her brain. His build was just unfair. Broad shoulders, rough scars, that stupid confident way he swam like he didn’t have a care in the world.

And yet... one thought crawled its way up her spine.

Wait. What if he’s gay? What if all that locker room comfort is more than just comfort? I don’t stand a chance if he swings the other way...

She crossed her arms tightly over her chest. “So… just asking. You into guys?”

John raised an eyebrow. “That’s abrupt.”

“I’m curious. You mentioned showering with guys. Bonding. Eye contact. Slippery floors…”

John swam closer, water rippling around him. “I’m not gay,” he said. “Not really.”

Rapi’s heart caught. “Not really?”

He gave her a slow, teasing grin. “But I’ll try anything once.”

Her mind detonated.

Suddenly it was all there: steamy showers, sultry glances, pressed bodies, whispered tension. Every BL trope she’d ever secretly read activated in her mind like a curse technique.

“Oh no,” she whispered—then collapsed backward onto her towel.

“Miss Rapi?” Elegg gasped, rushing to her. “Is this heat stroke?”

“She short-circuited,” John observed, pulling himself out of the pool. “I broke her.”

Water glistened off his skin as he reached for a towel, casually drying himself off without a hint of shame.

Rapi groaned. “Don’t… don’t ruin the mental image…”

“You’re cute when your brain reboots,” John said with a smirk, kneeling beside her.

She peeked out from under her towel, still flushed. “I… I wasn’t... Just had a moment.”

He leaned closer. “Relax. You’ve got nothing to worry about.”

“W-worry?”

“I like girls who speak their mind,” he said. Then added, just loud enough for her to hear, “Even if they pass out halfway through flirting.”

Rapi let out a squeak and curled tighter into herself.

John chuckled and turned toward the showers, water trailing behind him.

Elegg knelt beside Rapi, blushing. “Miss Rapi, are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” she muttered into her towel. “I just need to die for a minute.”

Tove, still watching the pool, gave a nod. “Adaptation is painful. But a useful survival skill.”

“I hate both of you,” Rapi whimpered.

Chapter Text

Chapter 81: Bad end II

The wind howled through Sector F-9, dragging dust across broken rebar and the twisted husk of a collapsed relay tower. Concrete crumbled beneath every step. The Outer Rim stank of oil, blood, and misery.

Yulha hated it.

Not because of the danger. But because of what this place represented. Failure. Abandonment. Collateral swept under the carpet.

And today, it was her area of operation.

She marched at the head of a platoon, her coat fluttering with each step, a datapad in one hand, stun baton sheathed at her hip. Her sidearm weighed heavier than usual.

They were here to apprehend someone she once trusted.

Someone she still did.

John.

“Movement near the south stack,” Admi murmured in her comms. “Thermal flicker. Could be him.”

Yulha responded without turning. “Could be a decoy. Confirm before engaging.”

A pause.

“…You really think he’s a traitor?” Admi asked, quieter now.

Privaty cut in before Yulha could reply. “He disobeyed Central Command, withheld intelligence, moved off-grid without authorization. That’s more than enough for a sedition charge.”

“But that doesn’t make him wrong,” Admi muttered.

Yulha said nothing.

Because she was thinking the same thing.

She remembered the outpost. The long hours spent reviewing incident logs together, his dry commentary over coffee, the way he’d work beside her without asking, as if he could feel the weight behind her eyes.

He always worked like someone running from something. And she understood that. She respected that.

But respect wasn’t jurisdiction.

They swept through the clearing in formation—twelve elite operatives, eyes sharp, guns steady.

Yulha’s grip tightened on her datapad. The warrant glowed on the screen: “Apprehend. Lethal force permitted if resistance is shown.”

Her thumb hovered over the authorization seal.

She heard Admi again, softer this time. “We could just… not find him. Say he wasn’t here. Let someone else take this one.”

Privaty exhaled. “You think I want to do this either?”

They were loyal. Not stupid.

John had saved them both, more than once.

But the Ark didn’t tolerate disobedience. Not even from legends.

Yulha reached the relay tower’s base. Rusted beams jutted out like broken ribs. A faint wind stirred her coat.

Then, everything died.

The lights. The optics. The HUD. Her comms.

Gone in an instant.

Her team tensed

Then dropped.

One by one.

No screams. Just dull, rhythmic impacts.

Yulha turned sharply. Shadows flickered at the edge of her vision, but her squad were already on the ground. Slumped. Silent.

A dozen elite operatives, neutralized without a shot.

She stood alone.

Pulse steady. Breathing slow.

A familiar shape emerged from the dark, coat open, boots crunching gravel, the faintest gleam of metal at his fingers.

John.

His face was unreadable.

So was hers.

“You knew I’d come,” she said quietly.

John stopped two meters away. “Didn’t think you’d bring the whole office.”

Her hand dropped to her baton. “You’re in violation of eight distinct statutes. Sedition. Unauthorized movement. Harboring dangerous entities.”

“You read the brief, then.”

“I wrote it.”

She flicked the baton open. It crackled to life.

Behind her calm expression, something cracked. Just a little.

‘You idiot. Why didn’t you run?’

“You could’ve just disappeared,” she said. “But no. You had to make this personal.”

He didn’t answer.

Because it was personal. For both of them.

She moved first.

Precision strikes, no wasted movements. She wasn’t a brute. She was a tactician. Every strike meant to pin, to bind, to end it cleanly.

He parried. Dodged. Redirected.

He didn’t hit back—not at first.

But she could see it in his eyes: the resolve to end this, even if it meant hurting her.

When he finally struck, it was like a switch flipped. One elbow slammed into her ribs. A twist locked her wrist and her baton fell and clattered uselessly on the concrete. She pivoted to counter, but his leg swept her from beneath, and a moment later her back hit the rusted frame of the relay tower with a bone-jarring crack. Her breath escaped in a sharp choke.

Before she could recover, he was on her. One hand pinned her arm across her chest, his weight bracing her in place. He didn’t strike again. He didn’t need to. His grip was firm but not cruel. Controlled. Calculated. Holding her still, like she was something fragile.

She struggled. Of course she did. But he didn’t flinch. His face was close, expression flat, eyes cold and unreadable.

“I’ve watched the Ark hollow people out,” he said, low and steady. “Strip Nikkes of names. Stamp serials over souls. I’ve watched soldiers eat bullets because a deputy chief needed clean optics for a report.”

His voice wasn’t raised, but every word hit like a blade.

“They call it protection. Security. Civilization. But it’s just rot layered in bureaucracy and handed out with a smile. The Central Government doesn’t guard humanity. It cages it.”

She turned her face away, jaw clenched, shame crawling in her throat like bile. She’d said those same words, once. Whispered them in empty offices at midnight, signing off casualty tallies with shaking fingers.

“I didn’t declare war out of delusion,” he continued. “I’m not chasing utopia. I’m not trying to burn it all down.”

His breath was warm against her skin now, his eyes locked with hers. Unblinking.

“I declared war because someone has to stop this machine before it crushes everyone who hasn’t learned to lie or kneel.”

She froze.

“This isn’t rebellion,” he said. “It’s a rescue, for the people trapped beneath the weight of your forms and protocols. For the Nikkes dying quietly because no one bothered to read the report marked ‘low-priority.’ For the ones you write off, tally up, and call it efficient.”

Her pulse throbbed in her neck. Her thoughts were screaming—about order, about rules, about loyalty. But they were drowned out by something she hated even more than disobedience. Recognition.

He leaned in closer.

“I didn’t leave the Ark. I clawed my way out.”

The silence that followed was deafening.

She should have hit him. Called him a traitor. Told him he was wrong, that it wasn’t that simple. That people like them didn’t get to have principles, they just cleaned up after those who didn’t.

But she didn’t say any of that.

Because she didn’t believe it. Not right now.

And John saw it.

He let go. Slowly. Her arm dropped like lead. She didn’t lash out. Couldn’t. Her knees barely caught her.

“I didn’t want to fight you,” he murmured.

“I know,” she rasped, voice raw.

Then came the sting.

A sharp prick at her neck. Cold spread through her limbs. She tried to lift her arm, to speak again, but her body betrayed her.

Sleep agent. Fast-acting. Military-grade.

He caught her before she hit the ground. One hand behind her head. Gentle.

“You betrayed everything we bled for,” she whispered, barely audible now. “But I still… still wanted you to be wrong…”

John didn’t answer.

She felt her consciousness slipping, her limbs numbing, her heartbeat slowing.

He lowered her carefully to the ground. Gravel scratched at her shoulders. The stars above were grey and distant.

Chapter Text

Chapter 82: Anatomical distress

The dinosaur exhibit wasn’t particularly crowded. A few children darted between fossil displays while tired parents slouched near benches. The air carried the sterile tang of plastic and polish. High above, an animatronic pterosaur blinked slowly, displayed mid-flight in eternal descent.

John stood near the entrance, hands in his coat pockets, watching as Moran practically skipped down the hallway, heels echoing on polished tile.

“This is amazing,” she beamed, arms outstretched. “Look at that tail length! That’s a Camarasaurus. You can tell by the vertebrae spacing, see how they taper?”

John blinked. “That’s… actually right.”

He took another look at her, a little surprised. “Since when do you know dinosaur anatomy?”

Moran puffed out her chest. “Loyalty, social hierarchies, displays of dominance—dinosaurs were basically gangsters. I did a whole project on them once. In between toppling drug dens.”

He raised an eyebrow. “That’s not how I expected that sentence to end.”

She flashed a grin. “I contain multi-titotti-ta… I contain layers.”

He gave a small shake of his head, smirking. “I’m gonna get some juice, you want some?”

“Yes please!” she said, offering a cheerful salute before bounding toward the next display.

The fossil ahead was a reconstructed Baryonyx, mid-lunge above a painted swamp. Moran paused, hands clasped behind her back, studying the structure with focused eyes.

Something didn’t sit right.

She leaned in. Tilted her head.

The fourth dorsal vertebra was off. Too far left. A subtle misalignment, but to anyone who had read six dinosaur encyclopedias during childhood, it was obvious.

No staff to inform, no tools. No help line.

Just her.

And a Baryonyx in anatomical distress.

She glanced side to side.

Then ducked under the velvet rope and hoisted herself into the display.

The bones loomed like cathedral columns. Balancing on a fake rock, Moran squinted upward, fingers reaching, the tip of her tongue sticking out slightly in concentration.

“Just a little to the right...”

The vertebra nudged.

So did the rest of the spine.

A pop. A creak.

A crunch.

Moran froze.

Then, like a marionette with cut strings, the entire Baryonyx collapsed in a slow, echoing avalanche of brittle resin, metal rods, and ancient dreams.

Moran knelt in the wreckage, gripping a loose bone like a life preserver, expression caught somewhere between horror and guilt.

Footsteps thundered behind her.

John rounded the corner, drinks in one hand, snack bag in the other.

He stopped.

She stared up at him, small and sheepish in the middle of a prehistoric disaster zone.

“I was correcting the display,” she said softly.

John placed the drinks on a bench.

“We need to go.”

“I should tell someone.”

“No.”

“But it’s the right thing—”

“Can you afford the fallout of doing the right thing?”

She hesitated.

“I just wanted to help,” she murmured, shrinking a little.

John sighed, offering a hand.

“And you did. You helped history take a nosedive. Now let’s leave before you end up in an exhibit of your own.”

Moran let out a squeak, took his hand, and followed.

Behind them, the pterosaur blinked again. Quietly. Judging.

Chapter Text

Chapter 83: Volume and Violins

John was deep in paperwork, barely tracking the pile as it slowly consumed the edge of his desk, when the door flung open.

“Yo! Manager!”

Volume strutted in like she owned the place, jacket un-zipped, sunglasses pushed into her hair, and attitude radiating off her like bass from a speaker.

John didn’t even look up. “Unless you’re here with coffee and an offer to help with my work, come back later.”

“I’m here with something better,” she said, plopping into the chair across from him. “An artistic crisis.”

“I’ll pretend to care. Go on.”

“I need a new sound. Something fresh. Revolutionary. I've already done heartbreak, success, betrayal, fame, revenge, and all the ways I plan to ride you until the bed breaks.”

John blinked. “There was a track about the last one?”

“Didn’t make the album. HR flagged it.”

“Shocking.”

She leaned in. “So? Ideas? Or do I have to start rhyming ‘budget’ with ‘gut it’ again?”

John sighed. “You’re not going to leave, are you?”

She smirked. “Not until inspiration strikes. Or I get bored.”

He sighed, pen pausing mid-signature. “I could be your backup singer.”

Volume went pale. “Absolutely not.”

“What, too talented?”

“You sound like a cat stuck in a washing machine trying to yodel while drowning.”

He leaned back in his chair. “Ouch.”

Volume grinned. “Love you, manager, but never again. My ears still haven't healed.”

John flicked through his schedule, looking for something, anything, that would get her out of his office. His eyes landed on the next appointment.

Counseling session - Julia.

Perfect.

-

Five minutes later, in the slightly too-small counselling room.

Julia sat with hands neatly folded over her violin case, a serene smile brushing her lips. The moment Volume swaggered in behind John, that smile wavered.

“Oh,” Julia said softly, eyes darting to John. “This wasn’t on the agenda.”

“She’s here for creative therapy,” John explained. “You’re here for emotional therapy. Let’s combine the two.”

The counselling room settled into an awkward triangle of silence.

Julia sat upright, fingers twitching near her violin case like it might protect her. Volume was already sprawled sideways in her chair, boots up, spinning a pen between her fingers.

John remained by the door like a man awaiting a fire drill.

Volume broke the silence first.

“So, music girl. What’s your deal? You look like you cry at rain puddles.”

“I don’t cry at puddles,” Julia muttered.

"Alright, Ghost Girl," she said, smirking. "Drop a beat. Make it tragic."

Julia blinked, sitting very upright, hands folded neatly in her lap. “I don’t have... beats. I have movements. Mostly Baroque.”

Volume wrinkled her nose. “That sounds dusty.”

“Some people find it elegant,” Julia replied, a little stiffly.

“Do they also find it hot?” Volume shot back, lips curling.

Julia blinked again. Her expression fluttered for a moment — surprise, confusion — then she quickly looked away. “I don’t think that’s part of the evaluation criteria.”

From the corner of the room, John made the mistake of thinking he could quietly leave. He had taken one step toward the door when Volume’s voice snapped across the room.

“Yo. Sit.”

He turned slowly. “I’m not part of this session.”

“You are now,” Volume declared, stretching like a cat. “Collaborative therapy, baby. Muse maintenance.”

Julia glanced sideways at Volume, then at John. Her voice was small. “I’d prefer if you stayed, actually.”

John raised an eyebrow. “Really?”

“She’s… a lot,” Julia admitted.

“Damn right I am,” Volume said brightly. “I’ve got style, heat, a face that slays, and hips that do not lie.” She leaned forward, pointing a finger at John. “And him? He’s got that whole ‘tax auditor with a nice suit that shows off his ass’ thing going on. That’s money.”

“I’m leaving,” John muttered.

“You’re not,” they both said in unison. Julia more apologetically, Volume with smug triumph.

John sighed and let himself fall into the chair like a man accepting defeat.

Volume grinned wide. “Besides, I need feedback from my manager here. Seriously, how do you make your ass look so good in those pants?”

“Years of practice,” he replied dryly.

Julia tilted her head. “It’s kind of impressive.”

Volume raised an eyebrow and leaned closer to Julia. “You checking him out too, Ghostie?”

“What? No!” Julia stammered. “I was just… observing the tailoring.”

“Girl,” Volume said, voice low and mischievous, “he’s got a booty like treble clefs. Don’t play.”

Julia looked like she wanted to vanish into her chair.

John, ever the picture of long-suffering, just pinched the bridge of his nose. “This is a workplace.”

“And I’m a professional artist,” Volume replied. “Art needs stimuli. That jawline is a whole damn stimulus package.”

She stood up suddenly,moving into John’s personal space before he could even form a thought.

‘Smack’

John jolted up, rubbing his butt from where Volume had slapped it suddenly. Volume turned and looked at Julia, who had turned red in the face. “You got a tune that can represent that?”

Julia hesitated slightly, before somehow blushing even harder as she slowly launched into playing a sensual tune.

Volume smirked, before winking at John. “Not a bad choice manager, I can already feel the creative juices flowing.”

Chapter Text

Chapter 84: Double Conflict

John sat with his coat slung over the chair, sleeves rolled to the elbow, fingers tapping notes into a slim tablet. Across from him sat two of the most notoriously unstable Nikkes to ever graduate from the Rehabilitation Center, and not for the usual reasons.

Sin reclined lazily, eyes glinting like jewelry beneath the fluorescent lights. Her mask distorted her voice, but not her meaning. Her ability was like cursed speech—every word she spoke slithered through the air with purpose. When she spoke, it wasn't warm. It was the kind of tone a spider might give a fly who had just complimented its web.

Guilty sat straighter than usual. Her arms were folded awkwardly, as if unsure whether to hide her restraints or protect herself from something. She glanced between Sin and John with wary eyes, chewing the inside of her cheek.

John wasn’t worried.

He was experienced with those whose speech could bend others' wills, and knew that reinforcing certain parts of his ear canal with cursed energy would be enough to stave off any effects, and he was confident of his strength to handle Guilty if she got violent. Two temperamental Nikkes with restraint issues and psychological landmines weren’t going to shake him.

"Alright," he said, setting the tablet down. "Today’s focus is adjustment and routine integration. You’re both cleared for limited outpost interaction on my authority. That means it’s my problem if you break protocol. Let’s not make it mine."

Sin tilted her head, the sleek silver of her mask glinting under the lights. “Such burdened shoulders, Instructor. You wear responsibility like armor. It suits you.”

John didn’t respond.

“I imagine it’s heavy,” she continued, “shouldering the sins of others. Or do you enjoy it? Being surrounded by broken girls and believing you can fix them.”

Guilty looked down at her lap. “He… he doesn’t think that. He… listens. He sees us.”

Sin turned her head slightly. “Oh? So you’re special now, Guilty?”

“I… I don’t know,” she mumbled, hands curling inward. “But he… held my hand. He meant it.”

Sin’s laugh was soft. Velvet over razor wire. “So easy to impress. Is that all it takes for you?”

John’s finger tapped the screen. “Let’s stay on task.”

Sin turned her gaze back to him. "Tell me, Instructor, do you believe in absolution?"

"I believe in action and accountability."

"Mmm." Her voice dropped to a hush. “And if I asked you to remove this mask, just once, just between us…”

"No.”

“You didn’t even let me finish.”

“I didn’t need to.”

Sin’s smile beneath the mask was almost audible. “It’s fine. I’m patient. All the best things are worth waiting for.”

Guilty sat straighter, just barely. “Don’t… tease him.”

“Who said I was teasing?” Sin asked sweetly. “Maybe I’m just being honest. He has a lovely voice. Calm. Commanding. I’d like to hear it say my name.”

John gave her a flat look. “Sin.”

“Yes?” Her reply dripped false innocence.

“We’re here to talk,” he said, voice calm, neutral. “Not negotiate. This is for your benefit, not mine.”

Sin gave a little hum. “Mm. But isn't it delightful when benefits overlap?”

Guilty shifted slightly. “He… he said we’re here to talk. Don’t twist it.”

“I’m not twisting,” Sin said sweetly. “Merely highlighting possibilities. Communication, darling. It’s all about tone. Right, Instructor?”

John didn’t respond. He was too busy reviewing Sin’s latest psychological report; another list of mind games, half-truths, and a suspicious spike in ‘voluntary cooperation’ from three separate guards. Nothing actionable, but enough to make him underline her name twice.

“You know,” Sin continued, watching John’s jawline like it owed her something, “It’s such a pity that no one ever took the time to really understand me. To listen. To see the girl behind the ‘puppeteer’ label.”

“You melted a prison psychologist’s mind into metaphorical tapioca,” John said absently.

“He lacked discipline,” Sin replied with a shrug. “But you… you don’t. You speak with intent. Your words weigh something. I admire that.”

Guilty flinched, knuckles going white around the edge of her seat. Her voice was quieter. “You’re just saying that because he’s the only one who doesn’t get scared of you.”

“Oh no,” Sin purred. “I’m saying it because I appreciate men who know how to use their mouths properly.”

John raised an eyebrow. “Sin.”

“What? Compliments are part of healing.”

He looked up. “You’re skirting the line.”

Guilty was quiet for a long moment. Then, almost in a whisper: “You… don’t respect him. Not really.”

Sin blinked slowly. “And you do?”

“I—I try to.”

“You cling to him,” Sin murmured, not unkindly. “Like he’s your anchor.”

Guilty’s voice was smaller than ever. “You don’t get it. He… he trusted me. That’s not something I get from people.”

“Then maybe you should be worried what happens when someone better comes along.”

Guilty flinched.

John finally looked up. “Enough.”

The room fell silent.

Neither girl spoke, but their expressions were vastly different. Sin smiled under her mask, victorious. Guilty looked down, trembling.

John sighed. “I don’t care about your little rivalry. We’re here to work through issues. Not create new ones.”

“I’m stepping out to get a coffee, and I’m giving you both five minutes,” John said, rising from his chair. “When I come back, I expect answers to any questions I ask. Not more of this passive-aggressive bullshit.”

He stepped out, letting the door shut behind him with a quiet click.

Inside the room, silence reigned.

Sin leaned forward, elbows on the table, chin resting in her palm. “You know… you’re cute, in a pathetic little sister sort of way.”

Guilty’s hands tightened slightly.

“I could say he pities you, but I don’t think that’s quite it. No…” She tilted her head. “He wants to protect you. That’s different. That’s tender.”

Guilty’s reply was barely a breath. “Don’t talk like you know him.”

“Oh, I know men like him. Always so strong. So noble. Until something fragile clings to them… and they start mistaking protection for love.” She smiled under the mask. “But I don’t want protection. I want devotion. The kind you earn, not the kind you beg for.”

“I’m not begging.”

“You’re whimpering.”

“I’m trying,” Guilty said suddenly, louder than usual, voice cracking. Her hands trembled in her lap. “He said I could be good. That I could stay if I learned. I want to… I want to deserve his trust.”

Sin studied her. "How innocent. You think this is about earning his trust?"

Guilty looked up, and for the first time, her eyes weren’t shy—they were sharp.

“You just want him to yourself.”

Sin’s mask dipped slightly. “So what if I do?”

Guilty’s fingers curled into her sleeves again. Slowly. Deliberately. Her voice was soft again. “Then I’ll just have to hold on tighter.”

And beneath the quiet words, her restraints creaked.

Chapter Text

Chapter 85: Forehead Games

The helicopter's steady thrum filled the cabin with a low, bone-deep vibration. Outside, the night sky rolled past like a bruised canvas, streaked faintly with the afterglow of their latest op. Inside, half the squad was asleep. The other half were pretending to be professionals.

Eunhwa, however, had long stopped pretending. Slouched in the corner bench, arms folded, one leg dangling, she was fully out. Her head tipped slightly to the side, mouth parted just enough to let out the softest snore. Her bangs had slipped back from her forehead, exposing a patch of skin that practically invited divine mischief. One boot was still streaked with dried Rapture fluids. Her knuckles bore the imprint of a fight well won.

John looked up from his tablet.

“...Out cold.”

Across from him, Vesti blinked. “She, um, started nodding off exactly twenty-eight minutes ago. I timed it.”

He glanced sideways. “Why?”

Vesti flushed and shrank a little into her cloak. “I-I just wanted to make sure she wasn’t… dying…”

John raised a brow. “From what? We all fought the same battle, Vesti. You didn’t see me take a nap in the fetal position.”

“She, um… also talks in her sleep.”

“Oh?”

Vesti hesitated. “She said ‘dumbass’ three times. Once with emphasis.”

John grinned, setting the tablet aside. “Then I can die happy. Dreaming about me, as usual.”

He leaned forward, studying Eunhwa’s exposed forehead with the cool, detached expression of a man not bound by fear or consequence.

“You ever play tic-tac-toe?” he asked, pulling a pen from inside his jacket.

Vesti stiffened. “John, no—”

“C’mon. Tactical morale exercise.”

Without waiting for permission, John leaned across the chopper and carefully drew a neat tic-tac-toe grid across Eunhwa’s forehead.

Vesti made a strangled sound. “She’s going to punch you into a new tax bracket.”

John offered her the pen. “O goes first.”

“I-I shouldn’t…”

“You’re going to forfeit?”

Vesti stared at him. Then at the forehead. Then at the pen. Then slowly reached out and added a shaky little circle to the center square.

The helicopter droned on.

Ten minutes and four games later, Eunhwa’s forehead bore the scribbled ruins of what looked like a strategic stalemate between two overcaffeinated children. John had started adding "tactical terrain”—some shading to her brows, a faint smiley face by her temple.

Vesti was trying to hide her face in her gloves. “We’re going to die.”

John, now tracing a tiny mustache on her upper lip, replied, “Maybe. But we die like warriors.”

Eventually, the chopper touched down on the landing pad with a muffled thud. The ramp hissed open, cold air sweeping in.

Eunhwa stirred, grunted, and blinked groggily.

“Debriefing time,” John said, already unbuckling. “Come on. Ingrid’s waiting.”

Eunhwa yawned, shoved past him without a word, and dropped down onto the tarmac. “Let’s get this over with, dumbass.”

John followed, trying very hard not to grin.

Vesti trailed behind, increasingly twitchy, one hand pressed firmly over her mouth. Her shoulders trembled.

Eunhwa, oblivious, stomped through the Outpost corridors, muttering about overly long mission reports and understaffed maintenance.

Several Nikkes passed them, saluting, though some barely contained snorts. One tried to suppress a smile and accidentally walked into a wall. Eunhwa scowled. “The hell’s wrong with everyone?”

“Morale’s high,” John said lightly. “Must be your inspiring leadership.”

They reached the debriefing chamber.

Ingrid sat at the table, perfectly composed, pen poised above a dossier. She glanced up.

“Report.”

Eunhwa snapped to attention, posture soldier-straight. “Operation complete. Zero casualties. Primary and secondary objectives secured without issue. No resistance during exfil. Clean sweep.”

Silence.

Ingrid’s stare narrowed with surgical precision. “...Do you wish to explain why there is a game board on your forehead?”

Eunhwa blinked.

Her brain did a quick reboot.

Then she reached up and touched her skin.

She felt ink.

Grid lines.

Curves.

A smiley face.

Vesti made a squeaking sound, turned, and bolted. From the hallway came the bang of someone slamming directly into the vending machine.

Eunhwa’s hand dropped slowly.

She turned.

John leaned against the far wall, completely expressionless.

“...You.”

“Me?”

“You vandalised my face.”

“Vandalism is such a harsh word.”

“During a mission?!”

“Technically post-mission.”

Her fists clenched, and she prepared to lunge at him. “You’re dead.”

He smiled, pointing his tongue out cheekily as her hands wrapped around his neck.

Chapter Text

Chapter 86: Bunnies in Rush

The backroom of the Ark’s Coin Rush Casino wasn't designed for comfort. Or privacy. Or airflow.

With barely enough space for six chairs, a cheap fold-up table, and an old PC that sounded like a dying cat, it served as the makeshift base for their “undercover op”, which, in practice, meant several heavily armed and trained Nikkes had been shoved into ill-fitting bunny suits while John leaned in the corner nursing a suspiciously opaque thermos.

John took another slow sip, careful not to raise it too high. The taste of cheap vodka hit the back of his throat as he squinted up at the flickering fluorescent light above.

Strict Ark regulations meant that even in the Coin Rush Casino, there were hard limits on gambling, no alcohol, and definitely no mingling of the two. Which was probably why so many in the ark headed to the outer rim to get their gambling fix: because nothing made something more appealing than banning it.

Across the room, Milk and Ade were already deep into a hushed, if increasingly animated conversation.

John could only half-hear it between the dull roar in his head and the mechanical hum of Exia’s computer, which she'd been glued to since they'd entered.

Milk’s voice carried easily.

“No way,” she was saying, her tone laced with laughter. “You’re blushing, aren’t you?”

Ade’s reply was too soft to catch.

John leaned his head back against the wall and smirked. He was starting to enjoy this kind of chaos. Was it better than the rush he got from Rapture guts and dramatic last stands on the surface? That remained to be seen, but a casino full of intrigue and undercover agents pretending to be showgirls was the kind of absurdity that kept him sane.

He wasn’t sure whose idea the bunny suits were, but whatever the case, it had clearly backfired on everyone involved.

Especially Milk, who was currently standing in an awkward action stance. Her pink bunny suit clung tightly to her frame, the white stockings giving her legs a lovely appearance. She kept adjusting the outfit like it might somehow loosen its grip on reality.

Ade, on the other hand, stood like someone who had just been told she would be executed by public embarrassment. Her black maid-style bunny suit with fishnet stockings didn’t leave much to the imagination, and judging by her posture, that was precisely the problem.

Milk leaned over, nudging her with an elbow. “Bawhahaha! I knew it. You’re embarrassed to let Pal see you in this, right? No wonder you’re saying things you’d never normally say.”

“I-It's not—!” Ade protested, voice cracking.

“Relax,” Milk waved it off. “It’s not such a big deal. Get a load of Rouge over there. She’s prancing around half-naked without a care in the world.”

In truth, Rouge was doing no such thing. Wearing a reverse bunny suit, cut-out in all the wrong places and styled like a wardrobe malfunction waiting to happen, Rouge had thrown on a loose white button-up that now hung on her shoulders like a blanket of shame. She was currently trying to disappear behind its sleeves, head ducked low.

Milk didn’t stop.

“And don’t even get me started on Bay.”

Bay jumped slightly as several pairs of eyes focused on her. Her bunny suit had a translucent panel across her stomach and skimpy cloth flaps covering her chest, which she kept nervously tugging at.

“I just thought it kind of looked like a cheerleader outfit…” she mumbled, cheeks glowing.

John raised an eyebrow and took another sip.

Milk turned back to Ade. “And Exia—.”

“Beep beep,” Exia muttered from the corner, tapping furiously on her computer, only half listening.

“H-huh… Anyway,” Milk said, nudging Ade again. “Yours isn’t even that bad. Seriously.”

Ade shifted uncomfortably, her fingers brushing the lace on her gloves. She glanced sideways, voice low. “I-I must say, Miss Milk… you’re quite something yourself.”

Milk blinked. “Huh?”

Ade cleared her throat and tried not to look her in the eye. “Y-you even put on makeup you don’t usually wear. Styled your hair too. I-I suppose you really do care about what Master thinks, don’t you?”

Milk narrowed her eyes. “Why are you dragging Pal into this, you littl—?”

Ade turned sharply toward John, who had just finished another sip of vodka and was failing to appear sober.

“Master,” she said sweetly, “have you shared your thoughts with Miss Milk?”

John blinked.

Milk bolted upright. “Hey! What the heck are you doing?!”

Ade continued, voice all the more innocent. “I mean, she went to all this trouble to look so lovely for you. If you don’t say anything, I’m sure she’ll be terribly disappointed.”

Milk was blushing now. Fiercely.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing, Pal?!” she snapped, turning on John. “I told you I don’t need that kind of thing!”

John held up his hands. “Didn’t say a word.”

Ade tilted her head, eyes glinting with mischief behind her flustered expression. “But you were thinking something, weren’t you, Master?”

John snorted. “That obvious, huh?”

He paused, swaying just slightly, then gave them both a long, slow, and not-so-subtle once-over. His gaze lingered like a man admiring a well-assembled firearm — with deep, borderline philosophical appreciation.

“Well,” he drawled, voice warm with vodka and poor judgment, “between the two of you? You’re a pair of absolute bombshells. I mean—damn. If this were a battlefield, I’d be waving a white flag.”

There was a beat of total silence.

Ade let out a noise somewhere between a gasp and a kettle coming to boil. “I-I—wh—!” Her entire face turned scarlet as she tripped over her own heels, spun like a malfunctioning turret, and practically hid behind Bay, hands clamped over her cheeks.

“Master, you scoundrel…!”

Bay yelped as Ade used her like cover. “H-hey! I’m not a shield!”

Meanwhile, Milk just stood there. Stunned. Her blush climbed from her neck to her ears, rage and embarrassment clashing like two swords pointed at each other.

“Wh—you—” she sputtered. “What the hell did you just say, pal?!”

John, still looking mildly impressed with himself, saluted her with his flask. “Just calling it like I see it.”

Milk’s eye twitched. She looked around—spotted a metal drink tray on the table, picked it up, and flung it like a discus with the speed and fury of a vengeful goddess.

John ducked with the ease of someone used to dodging bullets. The tray hit the box behind him and exploded, raining plastic shrapnel across the room.

“Bombshells, huh?” Milk barked, fanning her face with both hands now. “You—you damn flirt! You scarfaced disaster!”

“I take offense to that,” John said mildly, brushing a plastic chip off his shoulder. “The scars pair well with my charm.”

From the other corner, Rouge sniffed the air.

“Wait… is that…?” she leaned forward, narrowed her eyes, and gave John a suspicious glare. “Highroller. Is that vodka I smell?”

John froze.

“…Might be.” He took another sip.“Would you believe me if I said it was strictly medicinal?”

“...No”

Chapter Text

Chapter 87: To red wine and even redder flags

The halls leading to Rosanna’s suite were quiet, almost unbecoming for a woman with half the Ark’s criminal underworld wrapped around her finger.

John adjusted the cloth-wrapped bottle under his arm, his boots tapping out a steady rhythm on the polished stone floor. Two Hedonia goons flanking the door didn’t so much as glance at him. Their stillness was the threatening kind—disciplined, not lazy.

He gave a curt nod, then a knock.

“Come in,” came the smoky reply from within.

The door slid open. The lights were low, the kind of moody ambience more suited to wine bars and classy jazz clubs. Velvet shadows stretched across the room, and somewhere in the corner, a slow record played deep brass and sultry piano.

Rosanna sat languidly on a sleek fainting couch, one leg draped over the other, black heels gleaming. Her long black-and-white hair cascaded down her shoulders like ripples of liquid ink and moonlight. She wore a dark silk robe that hinted—no, promised—nothing beneath it except skin and danger.

Her red eyes tracked him like a hawk sizing up a steak.

“Well, well,” she purred. “Didn’t think you'd show up tonight. And bearing gifts?”

John stepped inside and held up the bottle. “Found this on the surface and well… Wine’s not my thing. Figured you might appreciate it.”

Rosanna slowly unfolded herself from the couch and stalked over like a panther wearing heels.

She took the bottle with deliberate care, letting her fingers linger over his as she accepted it. “Saint-Émilion. 1979 vintage.” Her lips curled. “Surface-grown. Pre-collapse. Do you have any idea how hard it is to find one of these without burning half the Ark’s treasury?”

He shrugged. “Sounds too rich for my blood.”

She tilted the bottle under the light, inspecting the label like a jeweler examining a diamond. “You brought me a treasure,” she murmured. “That’s a bold move.”

“It was a professional gesture,” he replied evenly. “I didn’t think much of it.”

Her eyes slid to his, sharp as a scalpel. “Mister, you handed me a bottle that costs more than some people’s lives, wrapped in cloth like it was a sandwich. That’s either criminal ignorance… or you’re playing dumb.”

He blinked once. “Am I not allowed to be generous?”

Rosanna stepped closer. “Generous is flowers. This?” She ran her fingers up the length of the bottle and tapped his chest with the cork. “This is the kind of gift men give when they want something. Intimate. Undeniable.”

John held her gaze, his tone still dry but a hint of nervousness sinking in. “Like your respect?”

“Please,” she whispered, stepping even closer. “You already earned that.”

Now barely inches from him, she traced the curve of his tie with a single fingernail. “This, Mister, feels like seduction.”

He stayed still. “That wasn’t the intent.”

Rosanna leaned in, her lips brushing the shell of his ear. “Liar.”

The word made the air between them feel charged, thick with heat.

“I’m flattered,” she went on, voice husky. “Really. You deliver rare vintages. You show up at night. Alone. You wear that deliciously uptight expression like I don’t know what it hides.”

He tilted his head. “What does it hide?”

“Someone dying to be kissed,” she whispered, her breath warm on his skin. “Or pinned.”

His hand twitched slightly, but he didn’t back away.

Rosanna chuckled low, pulling back just enough to meet his eyes again. “Still playing the soldier, huh? All stiff and proper. But here’s the thing about uniforms. Eventually, they come off.”

She walked around him again—slow, slow, trailing a hand across his back. “This wine… this moment… you walking into my lair like some clueless saint…” She stopped behind him. “You had to know how I’d respond.”

“I thought you’d say thank you.”

“Oh, I will.” Her hands came to rest lightly on his waist. “But not with words.”

She slid in close, pressing herself to his back. “And if I was reading too much into it, you’d have stopped me already.”

John’s breath slowed, his voice measured. “Maybe I just like seeing where this train wreck leads.”

Rosanna’s laugh was velvet and gunpowder. “Careful, Mister. I take challenges personally.”

Her arms wrapped around his chest now, chin resting on his shoulder. “So. I’m going to uncork this beautiful bottle you brought me. I’m going to pour us each a glass. And… I’m going to enjoy your company as much as I enjoy the wine.”

“Is this the part where I say I’m flattered?” he asked.

“No. This is the part,” she purred, brushing her lips along the curve of his jaw, “where you stop pretending you didn’t want this.”

He turned just enough to face her, their eyes locking. The tension thrummed like a drawn wire.

Then, without rushing,he reached for the bottle.

“Let’s see if it lives up to the label.”

Rosanna smiled like a queen who had just won a war.

“Oh, I intend to find out.”

Chapter Text

Chapter 88: Bunnies in more rush

The limo hummed quietly as it glided down the Royal road’s neon-lit streets, all tinted windows and absurd luxury. The mission briefing folder sat unopened on the console, utterly ignored in favour of the far more entertaining sight seated across from John.

Milk was slouched aggressively in her seat, arms folded across her chest, face burning red beneath her pink bunny ears. Her white stockings creaked faintly as she tapped one booted foot with aggressive rhythm.

Next to her sat Ade, legs crossed primly, back stiff as a rod, her gloved hands folded neatly on her lap. Her black bunny suit, complete with fishnet stockings and a white puffball tail, clung to her like betrayal. She hadn’t made eye contact in eight minutes and counting.

John, meanwhile, lounged comfortably in his seat, sleeves rolled up, jacket unbuttoned, sunglasses perched lazily in his hair. He swirled the ice in his drink like a man with not a care in the world.

“Y’know,” he said, glancing between the two, “for an undercover infiltration mission, you two are dangerously close to giving away the fact that you’re undercover.”

Milk shot him a glare. “Oh, I’m sorry, pal. Maybe I’m not used to running black ops dressed like a cocktail menu special.”

John sipped slowly. “Personally, I think it's a strong… tactical decision. No one’s going to question two gorgeous bunnies walking into a casino. They’ll be too busy staring.”

Milk let out a growl low in her throat. “Say that again and I’m shoving one of these heels where the sun don’t shine.”

John raised an eyebrow. “Threatening me with a good time?”

Ade let out a very soft cough and shrank slightly into her seat.

“Is something wrong, Ade?” John asked, far too innocently.

She shook her head, cheeks visibly pink. “N-No, Master. I’m… simply adjusting to the constraints of this particular uniform.”

John chuckled. “Constraint is one word. I would’ve gone with ‘distractingly elegant.’ Especially with those heels. And the leggings.” His gaze flicked briefly to her fishnet-covered legs, then back up with a smirk.

Ade stiffened further. “P-please refrain from… excessive compliments, Master. It makes focusing… challenging.”

John leaned back with a lazy grin. “That’s odd. I’m laser-focused.”

Milk let out a scoff. “You're enjoying this way too much, pal.”

“I’m a man of simple pleasures,” John replied. “Silk seats. Good liquor. Two deadly women in bunny suits sitting across from me, blushing like schoolgirls. What more could I ask for?”

Milk sat up straighter, tugging self-consciously at the top of her suit. “I ain’t blushing.”

“You’re the colour of strawberry milk,” John said. “Which, incidentally, suits you.”

“That’s it,” Milk muttered, reaching for her side holster. “I’m gonna knock some sense into your—!”

“No weapons in the limo,” John warned, wagging a finger. “We’re undercover, remember?”

Ade tried to defuse things. “Miss Milk, perhaps we should focus on the objective. The infiltration of the back room—”

“Oh don’t you start,” Milk growled, pointing at her. “You're the one who spent hours curling your hair this morning once you found out Pal was assigned to this mission with us!”

“I-It was for the mission!” Ade stammered. “Blending into the environment is vital for—”

“Sure. Real subtle, Agent Bunny.”

John raised his glass. “To the mission,” he said.

Neither of them joined him.

He looked between them and grinned. “Honestly, you two are naturals. One broody bombshell and one blushing beauty. The casino won’t know what hit ’em.”

Milk squinted. “Are you calling me broody?”

John turned to her and gave her a slow, pointed once-over. “I’m calling you a knockout.”

Milk made a choking sound. “You’re dead, pal.”

She lunged, but the limo hit a bump and she missed, flopping back into the seat with an indignant squeak. John sipped his drink with monk-like calm.

Ade tried her best to pretend nothing had happened. “Perhaps we should rehearse our cover stories?”

John finally opened the folder. “Sure. You’re entertainers. I’m the bored rich guy funding this party.”

Milk scowled. “And if someone asks why I look like I’m about to deck a guest?”

“Tell them it’s part of the act,” John said. “The dangerous bunny vibe. Very avant-garde.”

Milk looked at Ade. “Why do I feel like this guy’s enjoying this too much?”

Ade sighed delicately. “Because he absolutely is.”

John toasted them both. “It’s a good look. I’d gamble on you two any day.”

Milk groaned and buried her face in her hands. Ade adjusted her ears, blushing.

Outside, the casino lights glittered closer.

Chapter Text

Chapter 89: Trip From Hell

The dropship landed with a shudder, rattling like a coin in a tin can. The doors creaked open, revealing a ruin that looked like it had skipped a dozen health inspections and a small war.

John stepped out first, hands in his coat pockets, and sighed like a man clocking into overtime.

“All right, students. Welcome to your first cursed spirit hunt. No eating mysterious objects, no summoning rituals, and if you hear whispering in your ear—tough luck.”

The Counters followed with considerably less enthusiasm.

“This place smells like melted socks,” Anis muttered.

“It smells like your butt,” Neon said, nose wrinkling—ducking just in time to avoid a slap.

Rapi scanned the perimeter, rifle steady. Her expression neutral. Her eyes? Not so much. She wouldn’t say it out loud, but ghosts? Absolutely not.

John turned to them. “Let’s move. Nothing’s going to bite—unless you’re emotionally vulnerable or ask nicely. Should be fine.”

“Emotionally vulnerable?” Anis echoed.

Neon smirked. “Guess that means you’re toast.”

“HEY!”

They filed into the building. The lights flickered. Of course they did.

Rapi fell in beside John, close enough to read the edge of his coat. “Commander, shouldn’t we be using detection equipment?”

John shrugged. “Don’t need it. I can sense cursed energy, and as far as I know, none of the Jujutsu boffins bothered to create some sort of scanner for normal people like you guys to use.”

“That’s not… comforting,” Rapi said quietly.

“It’s not supposed to be.”

The hallway groaned around them. Lockers hung open like broken jaws. Paint peeled in strips. Everything was leaking something.

John took a turn down a side corridor.

“Fun fact,” he said, monotone. “This used to be a shelter for the Outer Rim’s finest. You know—dregs of the dregs.”

“What happened?” Anis asked.

“...Didn’t read that far in the file.”

Somewhere above them, a pipe burst. Neon squeaked and grabbed Rapi’s arm.

Rapi flinched, then looked away quickly. It was just faulty infrastructure, definitely not ghosts. Just John walking ahead like it was Tuesday. ‘How is he not phased by this?’

-

They entered a collapsed classroom. One of the chairs was embedded in the ceiling. A black stain festered under a desk like a bruise.

John crouched and poked it.

“Class Four. Grudge curse. Angry. Loud. Whiny.”

From the walls came a low moan.

Anis yelped and jumped behind Neon. Rapi’s knuckles went white on her grip.

John made a half-wave, like calming a stray cat. “Shoo.”

The stain hissed. Then slurped itself into the vent.

“…That’s it?” Anis asked, stunned.

“Yep.”

Rapi frowned. “Aren’t they supposed to scream?”

“They usually scream.”

John stood, dusting off his coat. “Don’t be disappointed. You’re alive. That’s the win.”

-

Ten minutes later, the squad was coming undone.

Rapi nearly passed out when her shadow lagged a step behind.

Anis screamed at a janitor’s mop and almost shot a projector.

Neon kept whispering prayers under her breath every time the lights flickered. To what deity? Unknown. Probably the God of Firepower.

John strolled ahead, sipping from his thermos, giving lectures no one asked for.

“Curses like corners. And basements. And guilt.”

“Like… survivor’s guilt?” Neon asked nervously.

“No. Cookie guilt. The kind where you eat the last one and lie about it, Neon.”

A ceiling light popped overhead. All three jumped.

John didn’t blink.

-

They entered the bathroom. It smelled like ammonia and unresolved trauma.

The mirror was cracked. The reflections weren’t right.

Anis took one look and backed up. “Nope. Noooo—no. My reflection just winked at me.”

“It winked at me too,” Neon whispered.

Rapi stared at hers. It hadn’t moved.

Yet.

John took a sip. “Congratulations. You’ve been acknowledged.”

“By what?” Rapi asked.

He tapped the mirror. “It thinks you’re cute.”

She blinked at him.

“Don’t worry,” he added. “It usually eats the least confident one.”

Anis and Neon screamed at the same time.

“Not it!”

“Also not it!”

John walked out like he was leaving a budget meeting. “Come on. The basement is the last stop.”

-

The air was cold in the basement.

A shape loomed in the far corner: woman shaped, hollow eyed, mouth full of teeth like shattered plates.

Rapi froze. “Permission to fire!”

“No need,” John said calmly.

“COMMANDER DO SOMETHING SHE’S GONNA EAT MY SKIN PLEASE PLEASE—”

John strolled toward the curse like he was scolding a loitering teenager.

“Ma’am,” he said. “You’re in a restricted area.”

The curse hissed.

“I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

It lunged.

John raised his hand, and with one flick of cursed energy, the woman-shade evaporated like dry ice on a hot plate.

“Handled,” he said, adjusting his cuff.

Silence.

He turned around expecting admiration, and instead saw Anis and Neon crouched beside Rapi, who had passed out cold and was foaming slightly at the mouth.

John blinked.

“…My bad.”

Chapter Text

Chapter 89: Trip From Hell

The dropship landed with a shudder, rattling like a coin in a tin can. The doors creaked open, revealing a ruin that looked like it had skipped a dozen health inspections and a small war.

John stepped out first, hands in his coat pockets, and sighed like a man clocking into overtime.

“All right, students. Welcome to your first cursed spirit hunt. No eating mysterious objects, no summoning rituals, and if you hear whispering in your ear—tough luck.”

The Counters followed with considerably less enthusiasm.

“This place smells like melted socks,” Anis muttered.

“It smells like your butt,” Neon said, nose wrinkling—ducking just in time to avoid a slap.

Rapi scanned the perimeter, rifle steady. Her expression neutral. Her eyes? Not so much. She wouldn’t say it out loud, but ghosts? Absolutely not.

John turned to them. “Let’s move. Nothing’s going to bite—unless you’re emotionally vulnerable or ask nicely. Should be fine.”

“Emotionally vulnerable?” Anis echoed.

Neon smirked. “Guess that means you’re toast.”

“HEY!”

They filed into the building. The lights flickered. Of course they did.

Rapi fell in beside John, close enough to read the edge of his coat. “Commander, shouldn’t we be using detection equipment?”

John shrugged. “Don’t need it. I can sense cursed energy, and as far as I know, none of the Jujutsu boffins bothered to create some sort of scanner for normal people like you guys to use.”

“That’s not… comforting,” Rapi said quietly.

“It’s not supposed to be.”

The hallway groaned around them. Lockers hung open like broken jaws. Paint peeled in strips. Everything was leaking something.

John took a turn down a side corridor.

“Fun fact,” he said, monotone. “This used to be a shelter for the Outer Rim’s finest. You know—dregs of the dregs.”

“What happened?” Anis asked.

“...Didn’t read that far in the file.”

Somewhere above them, a pipe burst. Neon squeaked and grabbed Rapi’s arm.

Rapi flinched, then looked away quickly. It was just faulty infrastructure, definitely not ghosts. Just John walking ahead like it was Tuesday. ‘How is he not phased by this?’

-

They entered a collapsed classroom. One of the chairs was embedded in the ceiling. A black stain festered under a desk like a bruise.

John crouched and poked it.

“Class Four. Grudge curse. Angry. Loud. Whiny.”

From the walls came a low moan.

Anis yelped and jumped behind Neon. Rapi’s knuckles went white on her grip.

John made a half-wave, like calming a stray cat. “Shoo.”

The stain hissed. Then slurped itself into the vent.

“…That’s it?” Anis asked, stunned.

“Yep.”

Rapi frowned. “Aren’t they supposed to scream?”

“They usually scream.”

John stood, dusting off his coat. “Don’t be disappointed. You’re alive. That’s the win.”

-

Ten minutes later, the squad was coming undone.

Rapi nearly passed out when her shadow lagged a step behind.

Anis screamed at a janitor’s mop and almost shot a projector.

Neon kept whispering prayers under her breath every time the lights flickered. To what deity? Unknown. Probably the God of Firepower.

John strolled ahead, sipping from his thermos, giving lectures no one asked for.

“Curses like corners. And basements. And guilt.”

“Like… survivor’s guilt?” Neon asked nervously.

“No. Cookie guilt. The kind where you eat the last one and lie about it, Neon.”

A ceiling light popped overhead. All three jumped.

John didn’t blink.

-

They entered the bathroom. It smelled like ammonia and unresolved trauma.

The mirror was cracked. The reflections weren’t right.

Anis took one look and backed up. “Nope. Noooo—no. My reflection just winked at me.”

“It winked at me too,” Neon whispered.

Rapi stared at hers. It hadn’t moved.

Yet.

John took a sip. “Congratulations. You’ve been acknowledged.”

“By what?” Rapi asked.

He tapped the mirror. “It thinks you’re cute.”

She blinked at him.

“Don’t worry,” he added. “It usually eats the least confident one.”

Anis and Neon screamed at the same time.

“Not it!”

“Also not it!”

John walked out like he was leaving a budget meeting. “Come on. The basement is the last stop.”

-

The air was cold in the basement.

A shape loomed in the far corner: woman shaped, hollow eyed, mouth full of teeth like shattered plates.

Rapi froze. “Permission to fire!”

“No need,” John said calmly.

“COMMANDER DO SOMETHING SHE’S GONNA EAT MY SKIN PLEASE PLEASE—”

John strolled toward the curse like he was scolding a loitering teenager.

“Ma’am,” he said. “You’re in a restricted area.”

The curse hissed.

“I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

It lunged.

John raised his hand, and with one flick of cursed energy, the woman-shade evaporated like dry ice on a hot plate.

“Handled,” he said, adjusting his cuff.

Silence.

He turned around expecting admiration, and instead saw Anis and Neon crouched beside Rapi, who had passed out cold and was foaming slightly at the mouth.

John blinked.

“…My bad.”

Chapter Text

Chapter 91: A Blade’s Mercy

Smoke coiled upward in thin strands, the kind that clung to wounds and made pain feel personal. The ruined shell of the factory reeked of ozone and scorched metal: the aftermath of an ambush gone nuclear.

John stood amid the wreckage, coat torn, dried blood trailing from his brow, but standing.

"I'm honestly surprised," he said, hands in his pockets. "You managed to walk away from Crown’s beating, then crawl all the way here. What’s that now, your third ego death?"

Indivillia knelt among the wreckage of what had once been her forward staging base. Her once-pristine frame was scorched, shoulder plating cracked, gold trim melted and flaking like old paint. Her tail blade twitched, the internal servo misfiring.

Still, she smiled.

"Cough it up," she sneered, red eyes glowing faintly. "Some final words before I fillet you?"

John raised an eyebrow. "You’re pissing oil and holding your tail like a wet towel. You sure you want to swing that?"

Indivillia laughed. A dry, manic rasp—a half-breath short of a cough. “You think I need to be at full strength to carve up a meat puppet like you?”

"You needed to be at full strength to survive your own plans," John replied, calm. “But hey. Try it.”

"You think this is over?" she snapped. Her tail cracked into the air like a scorpion's sting. "I've bested armies, bled nations! I was designed to dominate the battlefield! I—"

Crack.

John moved before she registered the sound.

His hand shot forward, catching her tail mid-swing, fingers digging past armor into the undercabling. Her eyes widened. A twist. A whine of metal.

Then… a sharp tear.

The tail ripped free with a sickening shriek of cables and sparks.

Indivillia collapsed to one knee, screaming in disbelief and rage.

"YOU—!"

John hefted the severed blade onto his shoulder like a baseball bat, stepping forward as she scrambled back bleeding, feral, disarmed in every sense of the word.

"You know," he said, tapping the blunt edge against her neck, "I don’t make good plans either.”

She snarled, lips trembling with fury.

“My best ones usually involve some half-baked idea like: walk in and see what happens.”

The blade lingered at her throat.

“But here’s the difference: I adapt. I observe. And when everything goes sideways, I don’t scream. I adjust.”

His voice dropped to a whisper.

“You? You scream in impotent rage. You don’t adapt. You escalate. That’s why you lose. Over and over.”

Indivillia trembled. Her jaw clenched tight. Her systems screamed to move, to fight back but her limbs wouldn’t respond. Somewhere beneath the fury… shame bloomed.

John lowered the blade.

She flinched.

But instead of finishing her, he stepped back, tossing the tail beside her like discarded trash—like it wasn’t even worth keeping.

“I’m not killing you today.”

She blinked.

"You get a day. That’s your mercy.” His tone was clinical. Cold. “After that? I’m hunting you. So do me a favor and try to make it fun.”

Then he turned and walked away.

Just like that.

Leaving her there in the ash.

Alone.

Broken.

At first, there was only the echo of his boots fading into scorched metal.

Then… silence.

Indivillia didn’t move. Couldn’t.

Her jaw quivered.

What… what was this?

Why didn’t he kill her?

He could have. He should have.

But instead… he showed her mercy.

Not out of kindness.

Out of disdain.

Mercy as mockery.

Her fingers dug into the dirt.

That tail… it was a part of her. Her pride. Her weapon. Her identity.

And he had ripped it away like nothing. Like tearing a page from a book.

But worse—worse than the injury, worse than the loss—was what she saw in his eyes:

No hatred.

No fear.

No satisfaction.

Just… cold, surgical dismissal.

And that hurt more than any blade.

Her thoughts spiraled, snagged on jagged questions.

What did he see in her?

Why hadn’t he finished it?

What did he want?

Did he enjoy watching her fail?

...Was he testing her?

No. No, that couldn’t be it.

He noticed her. He spoke to her—not as prey, not as malfunctioning metal—but like she meant something.

Not because she was powerful.

But because she was predictable.

He’d stripped her bare. Not just physically. Psychologically.

And he still walked away.

A slow breath. Then another.

Something cracked inside her.

The humiliation twisted. Curled in on itself. Sour. Warped.

Then it turned into something else.

“He said he’d come for me,” she whispered.

Not if.

When.

Her trembling hand reached for the broken tail.

She held it like a relic. A gift. A curse. Her fingers curled around it tightly.

She would be ready.

She had to be.

But… she wanted to be seen again.

Even if it was by him.

Even if it meant destruction.

Even if it was only for a moment.

Because for one fractured instant—

She mattered to him.

And that meant everything.

Even if it broke her.

Chapter Text

Chapter 92: Reversal

The Outpost was still half asleep.

Morning light filtered through the blinds, tracing pale lines across the tables. The air smelled faintly of polish and bergamot.

John pushed open the door, expecting to find Cocoa or Soda setting up. Instead, the only sound came from behind the counter, a soft rustling, a clink of glass, a quiet sigh.

Then she stepped out.

Ade froze mid-stride, tray in hand. The bunny outfit gleamed in the light — black silk, cuffs, ears, heels. Despite her rather vocal… Disdain? Embarrassment? Against the outfit, it was clear she had taken good care of it. It was… precise. Like everything she did.

Her voice faltered. “...Commander?”

John’s gaze lingered just long enough to make her fidget. “Morning. Didn’t realize the dress code had changed.”

“It hasn’t!” she blurted. “This is for an event. Cocoa and Soda insisted.”

He nodded slowly, folding his arms. “So you finally gave in to peer pressure.”

“It’s a promotional outfit,” she said, forcing composure. “For the café.”

“Promotional,” he echoed. “Right. Nothing to do with a certain agent wanting to test her field disguise again.”

Her eyes widened. “T-that’s absurd!”

“Maybe.” He stepped closer, calm, deliberate. “Still… you wear it well.”

She almost dropped the tray. “C-Commander!”

“Just an observation,” he said, deadpan. “These eyes of mine are always closely analysing everything.”

Her blush deepened. “That’s not— you shouldn’t—”

He tilted his head slightly, voice lowering. “You know, you go red faster than a flashbang.”

“Please stop comparing me to ordnance,” she murmured.

“Hard not to,” he said. “You walk in wearing that and expect me not to react? You’re practically a… Bombshell.”

She took a step back, flustered. “You’re doing this on purpose.”

“Of course.” His tone softened, teasing but not cruel. “You’re cute when you’re trying to stay composed.”

Her breath caught. “C-cute?”

John’s faint smile tugged higher. “I can use more explicit language, if you prefer.”

Ade looked ready to combust. “I… I can’t believe you—”

“Relax,” he said, voice low. “You’re fine. No one else here to see it.”

“That’s not the point!”

He let the silence hang, the faint hum of the coffee machine filling the space between them. When he spoke again, his voice had gone gentler. “You really do try too hard to be perfect, Ade.”

She blinked at him, thrown off balance. “I—what?”

“You rehearse every movement, every smile. Even now, when you’re nervous.”

“I just don’t want to embarrass myself,” she whispered.

“Too late,” he said lightly.

“Commander!”

He chuckled under his breath. “Relax. I meant you’re human, that’s all. Surprising, but not unpleasant.”

Her heart was pounding now. Something inside her, some faint, reckless spark, snapped the tension taut.

“You’re awfully confident for someone cornering a special agent” she said.

“Is that so?” he replied, his tone smug

Ade’s eyes narrowed.

Then, without warning, she stepped forward — two quick, precise steps — and pressed her palm to the wall beside his shoulder with a thud.

John blinked. “...woah.”

“T-this is a… Tactical reversal.” she said, voice trembling but steady.

He studied her, the faintest smile tugging at his lips. “And what’s the objective here, Agent Bunny?”

Her face was flushed, but her eyes didn’t waver. “To remind you that two can play your little game.”

He leaned slightly closer, close enough that her breath hitched. “Careful, Ade. That sounds like a challenge.”

“Maybe it is,” she said, almost a whisper.

The space between them felt thin now. It was charged, fragile, a breath away from combusting into an inferno.

Then Soda’s voice echoed faintly from the hallway. “Ade! We’re opening in ten—oh. Oh my.”

Ade jumped back so fast she nearly tripped.

John just sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Saved by the bell.”

Her face was crimson. “N-not a word of this, Commander.”

“Not one,” he said, smirking. “Though I might need to file a report about aggressive agents in bunny suits.”

“Out!” she hissed, pushing him toward the door.

He let her, half-laughing under his breath. “Fine. But for the record—”
“What?”

He looked back over his shoulder. “You look beautiful and composed no matter what you wear Ade, the definition of grace.”

Chapter Text

Chapter 93: Clarity

Rain bled down the outpost walls like ink. The hum of generators filled the gaps between thunder.

John stood outside, sleeves rolled to his elbows, smoke curling from a half-burnt cigarette. The stormlight flickered across his face — pale, tired, unmoved.

K found him there. She didn’t announce herself. Just leaned on the railing beside him, the scent of ozone and gun oil between them.

“You always end up out here when it rains,” she said.

He exhaled. “Noise helps me think.”

“You mean helps you forget.”

He didn’t argue.

K folded her arms. “You ever get tired of pretending all this makes sense?”

John looked at her, then out toward the fence line, where lightning turned the clouds white for a heartbeat.

“I never pretended, I’m just certain of what makes sense to me,” he said. “... Outside of that, I’ve got a laissez faire attitude to life.”

She tilted her head, studying him. “You sound like you’re giving up.”

He shook his head. “No. I still fight. I just don’t expect the fight to make the world clean.”

K frowned. “You talk like someone who’s already seen the end.”

“Maybe I have.” He took a slow drag, smoke curling from the corner of his mouth. “Maybe that’s why I don’t flinch anymore.”

Silence pressed between them. The storm was closer now, heavy, restless.

K finally said, “I don’t get you. You say you believe in doing what’s right, but you sound like you don’t believe in anything.”

John’s eyes stayed fixed on the horizon. “I believe in what I can touch. People. Promises. The weight of what I’ve done.”

Then, quieter: “Everything beyond that… I don’t know.”

He flicked the cigarette into the puddle below. The ember hissed out.

“I saw what the world really is,” he said. “Up close. With my own hands, my own ears. It bends everything — what you think, what you feel. You start seeing the seams where the truth is stitched together, and it doesn’t look like truth anymore.”

He paused. “That’s what clarity does. It hurts. You start realizing not everyone survives being free of the lie.”

K’s expression softened, just barely. “So what, we keep lying to ourselves?”

“No,” he said. “We just learn to live without the comfort.”

She looked away, her voice small under the rain. “You make it sound easy.”

“It’s not.”

The thunder rolled again, a long, low growl that shook the metal beneath their feet.

K shifted, crossing her arms tighter. “Sometimes I think you’re not human anymore.”

“Hmm,” he said. “Does it matter if I am?”

That drew the faintest breath of a laugh from her. “That’s a terrible response.”

“It’s the only one I’ve got.”

When K finally spoke, her voice was steadier. “You really think clarity’s worth the pain?”

“For me, yeah.” he said. “For you or anyone else, it ain't my decision to make.”

K didn’t reply. She just stood beside him, watching the storm move over the buildings, the rain tracing new lines in the dust.

Chapter Text

Chapter 94: Drink Bonanza

The Outpost lounge had never looked quite like this. Strings of lights ran across the ceiling like stage rigging, holographic overlays gave the floor a glimmering sheen, and in the middle of it all stood Rupee: radiant, ridiculous, and undeniably in her element.

"Helloooo, my darlings in the Ark and beyond!" she beamed, arms flung open to greet a dozen floating cameras. Her outfit was louder than usual, a mixture of sequins, faux fur, and at least one shopping barcode tag still dangling from her sleeve. "Welcome to Rupee's Blind Taste Test Bonanza! We’re live, bringing you a one-of-a-kind showdown between one very brave man and seven mysterious drinks, each crafted by a different Nikke!"

The audience, mostly in her livestream chat, cheered as the camera panned to a long table. Seven glasses, each wildly different in shape and color, stood in a pristine row like cocktails at a bartender’s final exam.

At the center of the chaos sat John. Blindfolded. Apron around his neck that read, in sparkly pink letters: *Test Subject.*

He exhaled slowly.

Rupee, ignoring his quiet dread, grinned into the lens. "John will sample these delightful, sometimes dangerous beverages and try to guess which fabulous Nikke made each one. No peeking, no hints... unless I’m feeling generous."

John gave a half-hearted thumbs-up. "I’m ready as I’ll ever be."

Rupee patted him on the shoulder. "Good luck, sweetheart. May your tongue be ever in your favor!"

Around him, the Nikkes had gathered. Anis bounced on her heels, brimming with anticipation. Yulha sipped from a polished flask, smirking. Poli waved excitedly at the cameras. Soline stood upright, hands folded, trying to look more mature than her stature allowed. Drake leaned back, arms crossed, already grinning like she was planning a prank. Tove offered a subtle thumbs-up. Scarlet stood farther back, unreadable as always, her gaze locked on the setup like a hunter assessing a battlefield.

“Alright, taste buds, don’t fail me now,” John muttered, as Rupee guided his hand to the first glass.

The moment he touched it, he could hear it—bubbling, fizzing, practically vibrating in his grip.

"Drink number 1," Rupee announced to the crowd, "is a fizzy beauty! Neon orange, overflowing with bubbles, and yes, there’s a heart-shaped curly straw. Somebody came to impress."

John raised the glass to his nose. The sugar hit him like a slap.

"That smells like pure heart palpitations," he said.

One sip. Immediate regret.

"Whoa, that’s... that’s not a drink, that's a medical grade poison. It’s outrageously sweet, like mango candy covered in sugar and syrup. And there’s caffeine, lots of caffeine. This is what I imagine Anis’s bloodstream looks like."

He paused. Thought.

"Actually... no. This is too polished. Neon, maybe? She loves sugar more than anyone I know. Yeah, Neon. This has her written all over it."

A beat.

Laughter exploded from the sidelines. Even the studio staff couldn't hold it in.

"Neon didn’t submit a drink, sweetie," Rupee said, barely hiding her grin.

"...Oh."

He took another sip, face scrunched in embarrassment. "Okay, okay, second guess: Anis."

From across the room, Anis squealed. "Ding ding! We have a winner!"

Rupee lifted the blindfold just long enough for John to see the radiant orange concoction, and Anis doing a mock victory dance.

"I call it 'Fizzy Boom Soda Supreme!'" she said proudly. "Mango soda, double-shot espresso, candy foam. It’s got a kick."

"Yeah," John muttered, wiping his mouth. "Kick in the teeth. I feel like I could sprint to the moon."

Anis clinked her identical glass against his. "That’s the spirit!"

John slipped the blindfold back on. "Next drink, please. Before I start vibrating through walls."

The second drink arrived in a modest ceramic mug. Steam was curling lazily above a liquid so dark it might be mistaken for engine oil. Rupee lifts the mug with theatrical care, narrating to the viewers with an arched brow.

"Drink number two," she declares, placing the mug gently into John's hands. "Hot, black coffee. No cream, no sugar, no safety net. If that first soda was a rocket to the stars, this one’s a trench in the dirt."

John brings the mug to his nose and immediately recoils, laughing through a scrunched expression. "Okay, wow. That aroma punched my sinuses."

The audience giggles as he cautiously blows on the surface and takes a sip. His eyebrows shoot up. "Bitter doesn't even cover it. That’s... something… wow."

He soldiers on with another sip, this one slower. "It’s definitely coffee. Strong, earthy. No hint of sweetness. Reminds me of something a long-haul pilot or a rail worker would knock back between shifts."

He sets the mug down gently, the bitterness lingering on his tongue like an unfinished sentence. "This is someone’s idea of being mature. Of trying to prove they’re beyond sugary fluff. Someone who wants to be seen as capable, responsible… adult."

On the sidelines, Soline stiffens. Her gloved hands twitch at the hem of her skirt.

John tilts his head thoughtfully. “There’s only one Nikke I know who drinks like she’s trying to fast-track adulthood… Soline?”

A tiny gasp escapes the silver-haired Nikke before she lights up. “Y-Yes! It was me!” She scurries over, nearly tripping on her excitement.

Rupee whips off John’s blindfold. “Bingo! Our mystery brew is courtesy of Soline, Ark’s most determined little adult-in-the-making.”

Trying her best to look composed, Soline flicks her hair over her shoulder and adopts a mature tone. “I call it ‘Midnight Adult Commute Blend.’ It’s… mature and very grown-up.”

John peers into the mug’s inky depths. “Mature’s a word for it.”

Soline beams. “Thanks for trying it, Commander.”

With a slight bow, she returns to the sidelines. Rupee settles the blindfold back over John’s eyes.

“Two for two,” she calls. “Sweety’s still standing.”

“Barely,” John mumbles, rubbing his face. “Let’s keep going.”

John puts his blindfold back on as Rupee lifts the next drink. It was a tall, frosted glass that looked more like dessert than anything else. Whipped cream spills over the rim. A glazed donut is somehow balancing on top, barely supported by a mountain of rainbow sprinkles.

“Okay, Sweety,” Rupee says with a laugh, “this next one is going to feel a bit colder than the last.”

Rupee helps guide the straw into his mouth. The second John takes a sip, he makes a small sound of surprise and then doesn’t stop drinking for several seconds.

“…Wow,” he says when he finally comes up for air. “That’s... really nice. There’s strawberry, maybe cherry... and I think hints of sweet potatoes and donuts?”

On the sidelines, Poli clasps her hands, eyes sparkling.

John continues, wiping a smear of whipped cream from his nose. “This is full-on indulgent. Whoever made this just wanted to make someone happy. It’s comforting.”

He thinks for a moment, then smiles. “Poli. This has your name written all over it.”

“Yes!” Poli jumps in place and hurries over, practically glowing.

Rupee removes John’s blindfold. He blinks at the towering drink in front of him. “Okay, I didn’t expect the donut to literally be part of the decoration.”

“I call it ‘Poli’s Paw-some Donut Deluxe!’” she says proudly. “Two donuts, strawberry ice cream, cherry soda, and lots of whipped cream. I wanted it to feel like a treat.”

John takes another small sip. “Mission accomplished. I might need to walk this off later, but it’s great.”

“You can jog with me after!” Poli offers with a big smile before skipping back to the others.

Rupee laughs. “Three drinks in. Still standing. Let’s move on.”

The next drink is passed to John without comment. It’s in a short, heavy glass, and just the smell alone makes him pause.

John pauses. “Okay... this smells serious.”

He takes a sip. His mouth immediately tightens. “Yeah, that’s… strong. It’s dry, bitter, and a little smoky. Definitely homemade. Someone put a lot of care into this. But it’s not exactly smooth going down.”

He exhales through his nose, eyes narrowing beneath the blindfold. “This feels personal. Traditional. Something made from someone's own hands.”

He sets the glass down and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Scarlet,” he says.

A soft, amused hum rolls from the shadows. Scarlet steps forward, her cloak trailing slightly behind her boots. “Aye, thou art correct,” she replies, voice quiet and composed. “Tis a draught I brewed by my own hand. Rice born of the outer sands, aged with care.”

John gives a small nod, then glances toward her voice. “It’s impressive work. But… you might want to dial back the dramatics a bit when we’re this close to the ark proper. Someone might start asking the wrong kind of questions.”

Scarlet smiles faintly, unfazed. “Ah, I forget myself. The tongue of old doth slip forth unbidden when I speak of home.”

He softens slightly. “Just be careful. People around here aren’t exactly subtle when it comes to Pilgrims.”

“Aye, I shall temper mine voice,” she says with a dip of her head. “But the sake shall remain as it is. Harsh, honest, and still standing after the storm.”

John chuckles under his breath. “It definitely stands. Just not sure if I do after all that.”

Rupee lets the silence linger for a second before clearing her throat. “Well then. That’s four rounds down.”

John exhales and rubs his temples. “I think I’m getting caffeine, sugar, and alcohol in layers.”

“Good,” Rupee grins. “That means it’s working. Time for the next round.”

Rupee gives the audience a short nod and picks up a small, unassuming glass from the tray. It’s simple—no garnish, no decoration, just a clear liquid in a sturdy tumbler. She places it carefully in front of John.

“This one’s special,” she says. “Made exclusively for today’s show.”

John picks it up, holding it beneath his nose for a second. He doesn’t speak at first. His brow creases slightly.

“There’s barely a smell,” he mutters, and then, “Wait, no. There’s something. Mint? And maybe pine?” He takes a tentative sip.

The taste hits quickly. It had a cool, biting clarity. Juniper, for sure. Maybe some herbal undertones. It’s bracing, but not overwhelming. There’s no burn, no fire, just a cold, clean line straight through the center of the flavor.

John lowers the glass slowly. “That’s... subtle and nice, with natural flavours not found in the Ark. It tastes like some of the survival brews I’ve made on the surface.” he says.

He sits quietly for a second, then speaks with certainty. “This one’s Tove’s. No question.”

A soft breath from across the room confirms it. Tove approaches with quiet steps, arms folded behind her back, her usual calm demeanor unchanged.

“You guessed right, survivalist,” she says.

“What’s in it?” he asks.

“Distilled water, mint, juniper,” she replies. “All found on the surface, and the recipe is one of the new hundred I’m including in the new survival guide I’m writing.”

John studies the half-full glass. “If I’m ever on the surface I will definitely try to make this, it's one of your better recipes.”

Tove gives a small smile, blushing at the praise,before returning to her spot on the sidelines.

Rupee steps in again, letting the quiet moment pass before she speaks. “We love a drink that keeps it simple. The next drink is a stark contrast.”

Rupee places down the next drink with both hands. It’s in a squat, thick-walled glass, the contents opaque and slightly frothy at the top. Pale white with a touch of beige, it doesn’t give much away at a glance, but the scent changes that immediately.

John’s nose twitches. “Oh wow. That’s... a lot.”

He leans in and sniffs again. “Okay, now I’m just confused. Is that cinnamon? And... pepper?”

He cautiously takes a sip. His entire face reacts, not in disgust, but in total surprise. He blinks rapidly, leans back slightly, and takes a second to process.

“It’s thick. Creamy. And sweet at first, but then—bam, spice. Like, actual heat. Chili or cayenne or something. Then it swings back and finishes with this weird salty aftertaste?”

From off-camera, someone snorts. A low chuckle follows.

John looks in that direction and sighs. “Yeah. Okay. I know who made this.”

He wipes his mouth with a napkin, shakes his head once, and says plainly, “Drake.”

Drake steps forward without hesitation, a grin already on her face. “Guilty.”

She leans a forearm on the edge of the table and nods toward the glass. “It’s goat’s milk, protein powder, cinnamon syrup, and just a little crushed chili. I call it ‘villains delux’.”

John stares at her. “It’s certainly got that… villainous flair.”

Drake poses. “Muhahah, I knew you would understand. You drink it, and you have the energy to carry out all sorts of villainous acts.”

He takes a second look at the glass. “It’s weirdly well-balanced, though. I mean, it’s insane, but also... kind of good?”

“Exactly,” Drake says. “A villain is always of great taste.”

John raises both eyebrows. “Mission accomplished.”

As she returns to the sideline, John mutters, “I expected much worse from Drake, that was strangely pleasant.”

Rupee laughs. “That’s six drinks down. One left to go.”

John adjusts his blindfold. “Let’s finish this.”

The last glass is simple, a low tumbler, no garnish, no flair. Just a smooth amber pour that catches the studio light. Rupee sets it down carefully in front of John.

No dramatic build-up this time. Her tone softens. “Final drink. No hints. Just the finish line.”

John picks it up, slower now. He doesn’t need Rupee to guide his hand. His fingers wrap around the glass like it’s something familiar.

He raises it to his nose. Inhales.

“…Yeah,” he murmurs. “I know this one.”

There’s something in his posture that settles, like all the guesswork is over. He takes a sip, no hesitation.

“It’s whiskey. Neat. Single malt. No ice. Subtle smoke, oak barrel finish…” He swirls the liquid. “This is the same stuff they serve at that place down the hall from the repair bay. You know, the trendy bar.”

He smiles slightly to himself. “They’ve got it behind the shelf with all the blue lighting. It’s not cheap.”

He sets the glass down gently.

“Last time I had this, I was sitting at the corner table, second booth,” he adds. “Yulha was there.”

There’s no flourish in his tone, just certainty. “She brought the bottle.”

From the side, Yulha exhales. “So you do pay attention rookie.”

She steps into the light, arms loosely crossed, lips tugging into a small smirk.

John turns toward her, blindfold still on. “That bottle’s hard to mistake.”

Rupee lifts the blindfold off one last time.

“Final answer’s correct,” she confirms. “Yulha closes the game.”

John nods, taking another small sip now that he can see the amber clearly. “Still hits just right.”

Yulha doesn’t gloat. She walks over, picks up the bottle she brought, and holds it up between two fingers.

“Still got half left,” she says. “You free later?”

John’s brows lift slightly. “Same booth?”

“If you’re buying the first round.”

He smirks. “Fair trade.”

She turns and walks off, flask at her hip, bottle in hand, not looking back. John watches her go for a moment before he finally exhales.

Rupee steps back into the center of the frame, clapping her hands as the set brightens.

“Well, there you have it, Ark and beyond!” she beams. “Seven drinks. Seven right. And our brave test subject is still standing—barely!”

John rubs the back of his neck, chuckling. “Might need a nap. Or a detox.”

“Or a date,” Rupee teases, winking toward the camera. “We’ll let the chat speculate on that one.”

She spins once in her heels, striking her usual end-pose. “Thanks for tuning in to Rupee’s Blind Taste Bonanza! Join us next time when we figure out which Nikke is secretly hoarding all the good shampoo. Until then, stay hydrated, stay fabulous, and remember: nothing tastes better than a drink shared with someone who gets you. Use code DrinkBonanza to get 10% off on all Rushee products!”

Chapter Text

Chapter 95: The Art of Kunoichi Seduction

The quiet hum of a desk lamp cast a small oasis of light across the Commander's Room. John, half-draped over his paperwork, lazily twirled a pen between his fingers. The room was dead silent.

Or... almost.

He paused mid-scribble, eyes narrowing slightly.

“…Delta.”

A soft click from above. Then, a panel slid open.

She dropped from the ceiling with practiced grace, landing silently in front of his desk like she’d done so the past dozen times.

John set the pen down and leaned back with a sigh. “You know, most people knock.”

“Ninjas don’t knock,” she said seriously. “It compromises the element of surprise.”

“You've been in the ceiling for how long?”

“Two hours,” she replied. “Monitoring. For the right time to strike.”

“…Right.”

She stepped forward with purpose, then hesitated, just a fraction of a second,before producing a small, glossy book from behind her back.

John eyed the cover.

“‘The Art of Kunoichi Seduction: Techniques of the Night Blossom.’”

He blinked slowly. “Quency again?”

“She insisted it was ‘foundational.’”

“I’m going to have to search her locker.”

Delta held the book tight to her chest. “I’ve completed preliminary study. Tonight, I intend to begin… field application.”

He froze. “Field application of what exactly?”

She stared at him dead-on. “Kissing. It will be my first time.”

A silence fell between them, filled only by the distant hum of the Outpost’s ventilation.

John finally blinked. “Wait. You’ve never kissed anyone before?”

Delta shook her head once. “Negative.”

“…But we’ve had ‘instant ramen’, which was your idea by the way.”

A pause.

Delta tilted her head slightly. “Yes.”

John looked genuinely confused now. “No, I mean—we’ve had ‘ramen’.”

Another pause. Her eyes narrowed slightly. “Yes. I am fully aware of what that implies in Ark slang.”

He stared. “And you’ve still never kissed anyone?”

She folded her arms, her voice matter-of-fact. “I didn’t consider it at the time. I was too nervous.”

John’s brain short-circuited just a little.

“So what you’re telling me,” he said, pinching the bridge of his nose, “is that you’ve done that—but you’re nervous about a kiss?”

Delta nodded. “Affirmative. It’s different. More vulnerable.”

John’s expression shifted, caught somewhere between stunned, flattered, and deeply, deeply embarrassed.

He scratched the back of his neck, looking away. “Okay, well, now I’m the one who’s flustered.”

Delta took half a step closer. “That is… reassuring. It suggests mutual vulnerability. Shall we proceed?”

John looked at her, a little overwhelmed by how straightforward she was about all of this, before steeling himself.

He stepped forward.

“Alright,” he said softly.

He kissed her.

It was gentle. Careful. Her breath hitched halfway through, and for the briefest moment, her hand reached for his sleeve.

Then she pulled back. Eyes wide. Staring.

A deep red crept up her cheeks, her lips parting like she meant to say something but forgot how speech worked.

Then without a word, she spun, threw down a small smoke pellet, and vaulted straight into the ceiling tunnel she’d dug earlier.

A loud thunk.

A scuffle.

A muffled, high-pitched “Nin—nin!” as she vanished into the shadows.

John stood there in silence, watching the dust settle from the new gap in the ceiling.

“...huh.”

Chapter Text

Chapter 96: One last dance

Eden was quiet.

Not the soft silence of rest or sleep, but the hollow kind that hangs in the bones of a place that had become empty. The kind of silence that weighs on your chest when you breathe in. When John arrived, the majority of the facilities had been rebuilt, yet scars and rubble still dotted the grounds. Mechs and robots met him there, offering nothing more than nods and a path. They had no answers. Just the same message: Johan had something he needed to show him. Something only John could handle.

He didn’t ask questions.

The halls were empty. No lights. No chatter. Just wind whistling through cracks in the structure and broken tiles underfoot. Johan was waiting for him near the upper levels. Still in his command uniform, but looking more worn. His sleeves were rolled to the elbow, his face tired.

"They came back here," Johan said, voice low. "After it all. After everything. We didn’t know until it was too late."

"Isabel?"

Johan nodded.

John stiffened.

"Her room," Johan said. "It’s still sealed. No one’s touched it. But we hear her, sometimes. Lights flicker. Doors shift. Like she’s waiting for something."

John didn’t reply. He just accepted the key.

He stood there for a moment, hand resting on the doorknob. The cold metal bit into his skin. It took him a few breaths before he finally opened it.

The air was still. The scent of dust and old perfume mingled faintly in the corners. Her gear sat against the wall, polished, unused. The bed was untouched, the blankets arranged with an almost obsessive neatness.

Then he saw her.

She wasn’t solid. More suggestion than form. A shimmer in the corner of the room, cast in soft blue light. She wore white, something close to a dress, flowing, a far cry from her flight gear. Her hair was loose, and her eyes, once burning with wild devotion, were soft now. Clear.

"Darling..." she whispered. "You came."

His throat tightened. "I’m here."

She stepped closer, not quite touching the floor. Not quite there. A ghost. An echo.

"I knew you’d find me," she said, smiling gently. "You always do."

He wanted to speak. To tell her that she was gone. That this was impossible. That none of this should be happening. But he couldn’t say any of it. Because part of him... part of him was glad to see her.

She reached for his hand. Her fingers brushed his, and for a moment—just a breath—it felt real.

"Will you dance with me?" she asked. "Just once?"

John closed his eyes.

He remembered all the times she made him uneasy. Her intensity. Her obsession. The way she twisted love into something sharp and possessive. But he also remembered her laugh. Giving him a handmade apple pie. The quiet moments when he had last visited Eden, when her guard would drop, and she would speak like someone who only ever wanted to be loved.

He opened his eyes and nodded.

She smiled.

There was no music. But they moved. Slowly. Carefully. Her hands rested against his shoulders, and his found their way to her waist. The air shimmered around them. Every step was both surreal and familiar. They swayed beneath the ceiling, sunlight casting fractured patterns on the floor from the window.

She leaned her head against his chest. "It’s not real, is it?"

His lips parted, but she continued.

"I think... part of me always knew. Even when I told myself you were mine. Even when I chased you through dreams and blood and sky. I knew you didn’t want me. Not really."

He said nothing.

"But I wanted to believe," she whispered. "I wanted to believe that I could make you happy. That I could be enough."

The dance slowed. Her form flickered. Faded.

"This room... was all I had left. So I waited here. Even if it meant becoming something else. Even if it meant lying to myself."

She stepped back slightly, their hands still joined. Her eyes met his. There were tears there. Real or imagined, he didn’t know.

"But seeing you again... like this... it’s enough."

John blinked rapidly. His breath hitched.

"Thank you, John," she said, voice softer than ever. "Thank you for letting me pretend."

Her form began to dissolve. Light filled the edges of her silhouette, scattering like dust.

"I love you," she said.

And she was gone.

John stood motionless, the echo of her voice still hanging in the air. The room was quiet again. Truly empty.

His hands dropped to his sides. His head bowed. His jaw tightened.

He’d held the hands of dying comrades. Buried friends. But it… never got any easier

A single tear escaped.

He didn’t wipe it away.

Chapter Text

Chapter 97: The raven

The sky over Eden had not changed since John’s arrival—ashen, broken, holding its silence like a withheld breath. Ruins sprawled in every direction, but the air here wasn’t just quiet. It was still.

Harran’s quarters.

The archway was shattered, the once-gilded door long fallen. As John stepped through, dust stirred underfoot. The walls had cracked but not collapsed. Feathers blanketed the floor in soft layers. Their sheen caught glimmers of light that didn’t have a source.

There was a presence. He knew it before he heard her.

“You’re late. As always.”

Harran stood by the window, long hair trailing behind her like smoke in water. Her silhouette was tinged with violet light, faint but unmistakably her. Regal. Composed. A queen within her crumbling castle.

“You look good,” John said quietly, eyes on her. “Considering.”

Harran smirked. “Flattery doesn’t work on the dead, sorcerer.”

He stepped farther inside. The room was cold in a way that had nothing to do with temperature. “I heard… About what happened to you.”

“Did you now?” she replied, turning just enough for him to see her full profile. “I vanished. A flash of light. Scattered by the wind. Isn’t that how legends go?”

John’s eyes narrowed. “You should have passed on.”

“I know,” she said. “But I didn’t. Not because I was bound. I stayed. For my own reasons.”

A crow fluttered onto the railing outside the cracked glass. It tilted its head, silent. Watching.

He looked around. The furniture was untouched. Her bed undisturbed. As though death had asked permission before entering.

"You understand what this is, don’t you?” she said.

“I do.” His voice was soft. “Residual will. Conscious intention. A spirit held not by chains, but by unfinished desire.”

“Good,” she said. “Then we can skip the part where you try to talk me down like some tragic wraith.”

He gave a short, dry laugh. “Didn’t think it would work anyway.”

They stood like that for a while, separated by death, united in understanding.

“So,” Harran said at last, turning toward him fully. “Here we are. The great sorcerer and the witch. A tale as old as curses.”

“What do you want?” he asked.

Her smile faded.

“I want to be remembered,” she said. “Not as a weapon. Not as a ghost. But as something real. I want to know I wasn’t just...”

John stepped closer. The air around her shimmered like heat over stone, flickering, unstable.

“You fought against impossible odds,” he said. “You acted in defence of humanity, even if you didn’t think they deserved it. You succeeded against every challenge this world threw your way. And you made it look effortless.”

She met his eyes.

“You were brilliant, Harran. Terrifying. Beautiful. And in the end... you were the one who chose how you lived. And how you died.”

A breath escaped her lips. It was the closest thing to a sigh he had ever heard from her. Her hand, insubstantial and shaking, reached up to brush through her long hair one last time.

“Thank you,” she whispered. “For saying it. For seeing me.”

And then the light began to unravel from her form, slowly at first, like petals caught on the wind. Her figure softened, then scattered. Her crow cawed once, a sharp sound, and vanished in a burst of feathers.

Just before the last of her faded, her voice reached him once more.

“Tell the others that… I always cared about them.”

John’s jaw clenched. His fists trembled.

When the room fell still, he stood alone beneath the weight of what remained.

He bowed his head slightly.

“You were a true goddess of victory.”

Chapter Text

Chapter 98: Tomorrow never comes until it's too late

The stone bench faced the broken skyline of Eden. Charred buildings pierced the horizon like ruined monuments, and a wind that carried no warmth drifted through the silence.

Johan sat alone, one arm resting on the edge of his knee, eyes unfocused as they tracked something far off. Something not there.

Boots crunched on gravel behind him.

John sat down without a word, a rustle of fabric accompanying the motion. He drew a cigarette from a crumpled pack, lit it with a flick of flame that briefly cast a glow across his tired face.

He offered the pack to Johan.

Johan gave it a look, then shook his head.

They sat like that for a while. No sound but the faint rustle of ash on stone.

Eventually, John exhaled. “I should’ve been here.”

Johan didn’t move at first. Then, quietly: “It wasn’t your fault.”

John looked over at him. “Doesn’t feel that way.”

Johan’s eyes remained on the horizon. “You had your own battle. One only you could fight.”

Another moment of silence. This one heavier.

John tapped ash off the end of his cigarette, then asked, “Noah?”

Johan didn’t answer right away. His jaw worked slightly, before he finally spoke.

“Her brain was recovered. Mostly intact. But… there’s damage.”

John closed his eyes for a second. Let the weight settle, then opened them again.

“That bad?”

“We’re still assessing,” Johan said. “But she might not be the same when she wakes up. If she wakes up.”

John stood slowly, stubbed the cigarette out on a nearby stone.

He held out a hand.

Johan looked at it, then up at him.

“What do you need?” John asked. “And when can we start?”

Johan took his hand and stood.

“…Tomorrow,” he said. “We start tomorrow.”