Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“She told me to give all this up. She did tell me. Many times,” Nick admitted quietly, the words scraping out like confession.

Lawrence’s eyes flicked up, heavy with a strange sadness. “You should’ve listened to her.”

Something in his tone — mournful yet deliberate, like a warning wrapped in resignation — unsettled Nick. Did Lawrence know more than he was letting on? Lawrence's gaze shifted to the briefcase resting beside him, and an awful suspicion crawled into Nick’s mind.

“You’ll probably make history,” Lawrence continued, his voice low, measured. “The most daring escape ever made out of Gilead. Don’t waste tears on my offering. Leave — for your daughter. Whatever you do, you do it for her. That’s what it means to be a parent. You don’t belong in the ashes.”

The warmth of Holly’s memory surged through him — the tiny weight of her in his arms, the quiet pulse of her breathing. That warmth overpowered the sting of betrayal, the hopelessness, even June’s rejection. Instinct surged: survive. Not for himself. For Holly. His first born, his girl, his bloodline, the child of love.

And then another image surfaced — his mother. Decades since she’d left him, but never forgotten. Despite the violence, the poverty, the hardship, she had taught him integrity, responsibility, principle, and order—not as abstract virtues but as living habits. Integrity meant telling the truth even when silence was easier. Responsibility meant carrying the weight of his choices without complaint. Principle was the compass that kept him from drifting, and order was the discipline that turned good intentions into steady action. She had left to escape a life of abuse, and he had let her go, even though it meant abandonment. He wanted her safe, even if it meant pain for him. His mother was her own agent — independent, unbreakable — and he had learned that truth too early, too young.

What greater love is there for a parent to his child? June could choose not to love him. But he could never choose not to love his daughter.

There was only one way out of this death trap. A parachute. This could be his only chance.

Nick rose abruptly, moving toward the emergency exit with single-minded determination. Commander Wharton blinked, baffled.

“What’s going on, son?” Wharton asked, his voice thick with condescension.

Nick’s jaw tightened. He had worn the mask of obedience for years, smiled when ordered, bowed when expected. But here, at the edge of life and death, the mask shattered. The punch came fast, hard, and satisfying — a street fighter’s blow that cracked against Wharton’s jaw. Wharton reeled backward, stunned, blood staining his teeth. Nick’s muscles remembered the alleys, the hunger, the need to survive without anyone watching over him. He’d fought for scraps, for dignity, for family — and he was fighting again now.

The guardians froze, wide-eyed. Two commanders brawling was nowhere in their handbook. They didn’t know whose orders to obey, whose side to take. That hesitation was all Nick needed.

He snatched the parachute, strapping it across his shoulders. It felt impossibly heavy, like a burden meant for someone else. No time for doubt.

The emergency door groaned open, and the world rushed in — a wall of freezing wind, the shriek of engines, the roar of darkness itself. His body trembled under the force, legs nearly swept from beneath him.

Not today. Not death. Not yet.

He looked once into the void, whispered a prayer he barely remembered how to say, and leapt.

The night swallowed him whole. Wind tore at his face, his body spinning between earth and sky. The world could shatter him into broken pieces… or grant him rebirth.

After what felt like an eternity waiting for his death sentence, the explosion roared behind him, rattling every bone and igniting panic in his chest. Nick’s breath caught as fire licked the sky and consumed the wreckage of the plane.

The landing came hard. His body slammed into the earth with brutal force, pain tearing through his right arm, shoulder, and ribs. His leg screamed with agony. Fire had kissed his skin, leaving cloth melted cruelly into flesh. Dust and debris clung to him like a second skin. He tried to rise, but the world was blurred, fragmented, dissolving into darkness. The last thing he saw before slipping under was fire raining from the sky.

When he awoke, the night was still broken by flames. The air reeked of smoke and charred earth. He had survived, but barely. Every breath scalded his lungs; every inch of him throbbed with pain. The shriek of sirens carried through the night. The Eyes were closing in. He had to move.

A familiar vehicle pulled through the haze. The door opened, and Adam stepped out. Nick knew him at once—an old ally, the man who had once tried, and failed, to help June escape. Over the years, Adam had become one of his “friendlies,” part of the shadow network Nick had cultivated in secret.

“Sir, are you okay?” Adam’s voice cracked with urgency.

Nick’s throat burned, his lungs raw from the blast. Words refused him, but he managed a blink, a signal of life.

“I stayed behind after the plane lifted off,” Adam explained quickly, hurrying to him. “I saw it get bombed. It’s a miracle you made it out. Thank God.”

Adam cut away the ruined parachute, threw the remains to the fire, his hands steady despite the chaos. Lifting Nick into his arms, he carried him to the car. Every jolt sent agony shooting through Nick’s battered frame. He clenched his teeth, praying nothing vital had broken.

“Sir, where to?” Adam asked once Nick was settled in the backseat.

The sirens grew louder. The Eyes were hunting.

And then came the thought—the one that froze him: Rose. Rose and the unborn child she carried. His son.

His chest tightened. Was it selfish to run? Cowardly? Could he abandon them to Gilead’s suffocating grip? But Lawrence’s words echoed in his mind: You should’ve listened to her.

How did a father choose between two children? Between Holly and his unborn son? The thought was unbearable. God Himself could not demand such cruelty, and yet here it was, laid at his feet.

He thought of June—her torment, her impossible choice. Hannah or Holly? How many nights had she sat in Canada, knowing Hannah still rotted in Gilead, while guilt hollowed her out like a slow poison? That guilt had consumed her, made her sharp, vengeful, manipulative, reckless. It had destroyed what humanity she had left.
And now, he was in the same place.

The truth cut him deeply: he had never loved Rose. She had been duty, convenience, and survival. Romantic love was something he gave only once, wholly, and he could not fuse it with obligation. His loyalty was too fierce, too consuming, engraved into him like DNA. Rose could never be happy with him, because his heart belonged to someone else. Continuing their marriage would only make them both suffer—her, him, and their child. Life was too precious to waste on suffering, a simple truth he had nearly died to realize.

But she would be safe. A widow to a commander, a daughter of a commander, carrying His Divine Light in her womb—no one would dare touch her. The child would be protected.

He could not protect anyone if he himself was broken, hunted, dead. To be a responsible parent, he first had to survive.

Nick made his choice—quickly, coldly, but with the clarity he had always relied on. The long game. The silent strategy. It was the only way forward.

“Alert all the friendlies. To No Man’s Land, Adam,” he ordered hoarsely.

Adam glanced at him through the rearview mirror, eyes wet with relief. “Yes, sir. Glad you finally chose to leave this hell.”

The car roared to life, carrying them into the night. Nick closed his eyes, every nerve afire, every memory a weight. He would heal first—body, mind, soul. Only then could he rebuild something from ashes. First, he would rise. First, he would reclaim himself.

For now, he lived.

Chapter Text

“Mother’s hands, worn but full of care,
Shape a home with love everywhere.
Seasons change, flowers fade away,
Yet memories of love will always stay.”
— Song: “Lupin Flower”

Nick drifted in and out of sleep. As tempting as it was to stay alert on the road, years of living in constant fear had worn his body down until it finally rebelled, demanding rest. His mind, however, refused to obey.

In the fog of half-dreams, Nick heard his mother’s voice. She was humming an old song in Chinese, one she used to sing at bedtime. She had come to the U.S. young, chasing the American Dream in the mid-80s, but she never let her children forget where they came from. Family is everything, she used to say. Those words had been wired into him since childhood.

Nick tried to hum along, but his throat felt tight, his voice barely more than a whisper.

“Nicky, are you okay?” His mother’s voice came soft and caring. They were at their cabin on Mackinac Island in summertime. After he finished playing in the lake, she would always ask him the same question.

His heart melted. He wanted to be a brave boy, never a source of worry for his dear mama. In his dream, he lifted a hand to caress her face and kissed her cheek. Nick had never been ashamed of showing love to his mom. Touch was his language, a way to communicate more deeply than words ever could.

Then came another voice. “Always a mommy’s boy, huh?” Joshua—sharp-tongued as ever, cutting through tenderness with sarcasm. His older brother had never known how to give affection straight, but beneath the teasing was that protective streak. Whenever their father’s rage flared, Josh had tried to shield Nick, even if it came out rough.

And then—another voice, commanding. “God, you two boys.” His father. The sound alone made Nick’s body tense.

They were all there with him, in their cabin at their favorite vacation spot. These fractured echoes of family.

He wanted to crawl back into that small, unstable fortress, pretending he knew nothing about the hardship of growing up or the unbearable powerlessness he later carried into adulthood. Shame twisted in him. Shame at the thought of his family seeing what he had become. He should have made them proud, but his downfall was perhaps the worst of them all.

Then another image broke through. The Waterford house. Haunted ground. And yet, in the middle of that cursed living room, a crib. Holly lay there, bubbling, her eyes wide with innocent curiosity.

Nick moved before he even realized, pulled toward her like gravity. Holly’s presence was stronger than any trauma or shame. He broke down, his face wet with tears he could not control. If only June were there. This would be heaven. If only.

The explosion shattered the night like the scream of a dying world. June pressed against the wind and heat, ears ringing, lungs seared with smoke.

Lawrence had chosen redemption in fire. All those evil bastards met their demise in the most deserving end. It was a triumph for the cause—all Boston commanders dead.

But Nick...

His name burned on her tongue. She could not erase it.

Luke and Moira had called him a traitor, a coward, a man who had survived at any cost while others fought and died. Maybe they were right. He had carried sins from the beginning, sins desperation could not excuse.

And yet… he had loved her. Protected her. Loved Holly. How could one man embody so many contradictions—redeemer, protector, lover, coward, traitor, survivor—all at once?

June’s mind twisted around the puzzle, but the answer never came. He was gone. Gone without explanation, without closure. His life had ended without a full circle. Not even ashes remained.

Her chest tightened with rage, and her hands curled into fists. Whatever else he had been, death had spared him from fear, pain, and suffering. A quick death was better than the long torment of Gilead’s shadow.

But she was left behind with unfinished business. With Hannah still trapped. With America broken. With memories of Nick, sweet, bitter, incomplete, burning like embers in her chest.

Nick had chosen not to survive with her. She would have to carry on without him.

The night sky closed in, and June disappeared into the shadows, vengeance sharpening her mind while grief hollowed her heart. Nothing could fill that void. Nothing could repair it.

Chapter Text

Not sure how many hours had passed, Nick’s life was entirely at the mercy of Adam and the friendlies. He heard the steady rush of the river nearby; the car engine had fallen silent, replaced by the crack of fractured branches. They must be close to water. That was a small mercy, they wouldn’t die of dehydration. Leaving had been so abrupt they hadn’t brought any food. Nick loathed anything unplanned and chaotic, but he had learned to adapt.

He tried shifting his weight, and a sharp, searing pain radiated through his side and arm. Burns, the kind that would scar no matter what. He bit back a groan. He was certain now he wasn’t lying in the backseat of his own car; they must have carried him out. The acrid smell of smoke clung to his skin, mingled with the faint copper scent of blood.

Given his condition, he could only hope Adam and the others knew what they were doing. If they still trusted him after Jezebels, after all the compromises and silences. Truth had become cheap, worthless, really. People didn’t want truth anymore, only the stories that let them blame someone else, the stories that helped them breathe a little easier in this hell. Nick had understood that long ago, growing up in scarcity, where poverty was a sentence in itself.

Villains and heroes. The lines are drawn and redrawn depending on who told the tale. It was futile to explain. Futile to beg for understanding.

They were in a secluded corner of No Man’s Land, a small riverside hideout far from patrols and the watchful eyes of any organized resistance. The gentle rush of the river provided cover and a steady source of water, while thick undergrowth and scattered rocks concealed their temporary camp. A lean-to constructed from salvaged tarps and driftwood offered minimal shelter, enough for treatment and brief respite.

Adrianna moved with precision, her hands steady as she assessed Nick’s injuries. The burns from the explosion ran across his arms, chest, and neck-severe, but mercifully not full-thickness over vital areas.

“Broken legs, but given his overall condition, it’s a miracle he survived. No head injury, praised fucking be,” she said, voice sharp but calm. “If we don’t tend to these burns properly, infection will get him before anything else.” Adrianna’s voice carried both steel and warmth.

She had been a surgical doctor before being forced into the life of a Martha. Nick first met Adrianna in Chicago, where he helped her escape to a UN refugee camp during a temporary ceasefire. Since then, she had roamed No Man’s Land, offering her skills wherever they were needed most, never settling, never leaving a trail. Her professionalism granted her nearly unrestricted access, and her skill gave her leverage above others even in Mayday. Adrianna was smart enough to maneuver herself between camps, noting carefully which were potential assets.

Nick had recognized early what an asset she was.

Wherever people planned to escape, Nick informed her, passing along whatever medical supplies he could smuggle out of Gilead. In return, she gave him invaluable insights: the wellbeing of resistance fighters, how many were still physically capable, morale on the ground, distribution of camps, and the structure of their leadership.

Adrianna knelt beside him, her hands moving with precise care, cleaning and dressing wounds with supplies Paul had arranged nearby. Paul, her assistant and trusted aide, moved quietly, organizing bandages and sterile water, keeping the perimeter secure. Though not a fighter like Adam, Paul’s presence meant Adrianna could focus entirely on her patient without fear of interruption.

“Keep him stable,” Adrianna instructed Paul, her tone brooking no argument. “He must not move until I finish the first layer of dressing.”

Adam stayed close to Nick, a silent shield. His presence steadied Nick, a constant reminder he wasn’t alone, even here, isolated in the wild. Nick felt the small weight of care pressing at the edges of his consciousness.

Adrianna moved methodically, her hands steady despite grime and urgency. She cleaned Nick’s burns with antiseptic, fingers gentle but firm. The sting of alcohol and iodine filled the air, but Nick barely flinched. Pain was no stranger, and survival had taught endurance.

“This will be painful,” Adrianna warned. Paul handed her fresh sterile gauze and bandages with quiet efficiency, every movement honed by months working alongside her.

“Should we sedate him?” Paul asked softly.

“No,” Adrianna shook her head. “He needs to stay conscious for now. I can’t risk complications. He’s stable, and I need him to respond if there’s a problem.”

Nick kept his eyes closed, letting the river’s murmur and their voices ground him before Adrianna went to work. Adam sat nearby, ready to intervene if danger arose, though the camp’s seclusion made intrusion unlikely.

“I know you can do this. You’ve proven yourself strong, mentally and physically, in Gilead’s oppression. You survived a bomb in the air; you’ll survive this too. Hang in there,” Adam soothed him, like a father to a son.

The next hours were the most agonizing of Nick’s life. It felt like his skin was being peeled away. Unlike his usual stoicism, Nick cried out in agony, a sight that scared him just as much. He hadn’t been so emotional in years but somehow felt human again, ironically. He had numbed himself far too long and now allowed himself to feel the fragility of survival. The pain was sharp, but each careful dressing reminded him he wasn’t alone.

Layer by layer, Adrianna cleaned and dressed each burn. She spoke little, issuing terse instructions to Paul and murmuring occasional words of reassurance to Nick. Each touch, each bandage wrapped tightly but not constricting, conveyed care beyond words.

As night deepened, Adrianna finished the last layer of gauze and bandages. She gave instructions for limited movement and hygiene, then rose, nodding at Adam and Paul.

“He stays here. No unnecessary risks. Check every hour.”

Nick exhaled, muscles trembling but gradually relaxing. “Thank you… all of you,” his voice rasped.

“Don’t thank us yet,” Paul replied with a faint smile. “You’ve got a lot of living to do before thanks come into play.”

Though Nick’s injuries weren’t fatal, they still needed the best medical care available. Sick men meant one leg in a coffin in No Man’s Land, and they needed Nick back in action if they were to survive. Adrianna needed an environment like an ICU. The most practical option: reach out to Mayday or flee to Canada claiming asylum.

“I can’t risk exposure. Not to anyone, not even Mayday. And I don’t want to go to Canada,” Nick said, part of his reluctance rooted in shame, he feared being branded a traitor and might as well be killed by people in Mayday. Trust didn’t come easily.

Paul, standing nearby, added, “We can’t take you to a camp hospital. Your identity… your past… it’s too risky.”

Adrianna’s eyes met his. “Exactly. We just need to improvise and need a controlled environment, something we can monitor around the clock. A hidden ICU right here, if we can. No one can know you’re here, not Mayday, not any other camp. It's too dangerous to reach out without any concrete plans. You’ll be under constant observation; we’ll manage every stage of your recovery.”

From the shadows, a voice cut through the quiet. “Let me handle making a makeshift ICU.”

Clara had been an urban planner before the coup, skilled in logistics, architecture, and strategic design. Nick had met her in Chicago, where she helped him navigate collapsed city streets and improvised safe routes. She mentally mapped routes for secret resistance acts. Since then, she had been key in planning hideouts, supply chains, and safe passages.

“I’ve cleared a route for med supplies. Roads are quiet, patrols won’t notice. We need to be perfect. One mistake, and everything falls apart,” said Steve, a former intelligence analyst before the coup, skilled in surveillance and risk assessment. He had a near-photographic memory for maps, codes, and patrol patterns and was quick to adapt when things went wrong. Nick met Steve in DC after the coup; they shared similar upbringings, exchanging intelligence discreetly. After the explosion, Adam informed Steve, allowing him to escape and regroup, ensuring Nick wouldn’t face the aftermath alone.

Elias, taller and imposing, said calmly, “I’ll handle interruptions. No one gets through without my say-so. You focus on recovery, Nick. That’s all.”

Elias was a military engineer experienced in field operations and improvised defenses. Stationed in Chicago when Gilead took over, he quickly learned to navigate a world built on fear and rigid control. His sharp instincts and refusal to conform made him reliable, qualities Nick recognized early on.

Adam, silent until now, spoke. “Once Nick’s stable, we decide next steps. Whether deeper into No Man’s Land or start planning. Staying idle is just another form of living Gilead, passive waiting for death.”

Fortunately, the makeshift ICU worked, though Nick had no idea how they managed. He disliked being micromanaged and wasn’t capable of details now. Medical supplies and necessities were handled by them. Nick silently thanked fate for such allies in his darkest time.

During recovery, Nick thought of June. Did she know? What was she doing? Would she mourn his so-called death? They might be estranged lovers, but he was still Holly’s father. And what of Holly, did she know her father had survived? Perhaps not, that was a small mercy. Grandma Holly would take care of her; she would be okay in Alaska. Losing him wasn’t a big deal. Nick hated more than anything to see June and Holly suffer.

He wasn’t sure how much being a father still weighed in June’s mind. Had he ever truly been fatherly, even compared to Luke? They had been a family once bound by time, history, the illusion of safety, something Nick never felt with June and Holly. In his darkest moments, he believed he was nothing more than a tool used in a desperate chapter of June’s life. A necessity. And now that utility was gone, so was her care.

His thoughts flickered to Rose. How would she receive the tragedy? To lose a husband and father to their unborn child, surely it would shatter her. He could only hope she remained strong for the baby.

Chapter Text

Mayday people smiled at June as though she were their leader, their beacon of resistance. They whispered her name with reverence, as if she had already been carved into the mythology of Mayday itself. No civilian had ever come this far, least of all someone who began as a handmaid with a baby.

The rebel handmaid commander was now being promoted. June was the Commander.

“They were dead from the bombing,” June told them when she returned to the base, as reported in the Boston Globe.

A cheer erupted from the crowd.

They lifted Lawrence as a symbol, a redeemer whose sacrifice finalized the act. Lawrence was rebranded in their memory, propaganda for their cause. Just as Baby Nichole had been twisted into Gilead’s symbol, now Lawrence’s redemption became theirs. The leaders of Mayday didn’t miss a chance to exploit it, broadcasting it across resistance networks to boost morale both on the ground and abroad.

Luke had risen to prominence almost overnight. With Moira at his side, he became a strategist, a voice, a leader. Funny… once they could hardly stand each other, stumbling through No Man’s Land and relying on Canadian mercy as refugees waiting for loved ones who never showed up. Now they moved in tandem, as if forged for this moment.

June could see Luke enjoying it. Away from years of purposelessness, no longer the man in the shadow of his wife, no longer living for scraps of hope. Now he burned with purpose. He wasn’t just surviving anymore. He was seen, respected, needed.

Rita found her sister, and they decided to live together. Being older than most meant she had to prioritize what she had now and make the most of every moment, but she would still help with the logistics of the resistance.

June had no objection. Rita had sacrificed much, just as others had, and she had saved June from the gallows. June couldn’t ask for more.

No one spoke of Nick. What was there to say? He hadn’t been a big player in Mayday, had never done anything significant enough for them to register his name, nor had he risen to a higher rank. He had been complicit in Gilead. Pity him? It wasn’t practical. The plan to kill all the Boston commanders would proceed with or without him. His death, unlike Lawrence’s, was neither heroic nor redemptive. He had simply been there and stepped into it, fortunately or unfortunately. It didn’t matter anymore.

Rita had been saddened by the bombing, by Lawrence’s end, and even by Nick. The boy had once been charming, reserved, molded by cruelty, blinded by power. She regretted his death, but she knew, as did the rest, that Nick had chosen his own path. His death alone could not stop the resistance. The show had to go on.

Romeo and Juliet could only exist in Shakespeare’s world; in reality, rivals weren’t supposed to fall in love. Nick could only ever be the commander who killed and raped, and June, the victim who survived to bring justice to one of her rapists.

Gilead had taken their lives, and with freedom and liberation, people’s hatred and trauma seemed to fade. June could allow her mind a measure of peace as she watched the signs of America restored on the streets of Boston.

But even as she felt that fleeting calm, she couldn’t erase the shadows. The memory of blood and fire, the screams, the endless fear, they lingered. She had survived, but at what cost? How many more ghosts would she carry before the world felt truly free?

Only death could bring peace. That was how simply and finitely people interpreted life.

June wondered if it was enough. Was survival alone truly victory, or was she chasing a fleeting illusion of meaning in a world rebuilt on sacrifice? The question hung in the air, probably never to be answered.

Everyone had their place. Everyone was finding their own purpose.

Nick woke to the muted sound of the river and the faint scent of antiseptic. The makeshift ICU was quiet. Adam and Paul moving silently in the shadows, Clara out scouting the area, and Elias taking his shift at watch. The burns still throbbed, but the sharpest agony had dulled. Each breath reminded him that he was alive.

“Looking good so far. Your body’s physically well, so your burns are healing faster. Though it’ll take months to a year, you’re out of danger,” Adrianna said, a very rough estimate.

“How long until we can move?” Nick asked. The longer he stayed, the more it felt like drifting. He hated it. But he didn’t know what to do next. June had left him, Mayday loathed him, and Holly would probably be better off thinking her traitor father was dead. He was of no use to anyone. He could only hope Rose and the baby were safe. But the truth? He didn’t want to be a “real” family with Rose. How fucked up was that? He had never had the chance to make his own choices.

“I think it’s entirely up to you. Burns will heal, but you need to reconnect, body and mind, if you know what I mean.” Since when had Adrianna become a psychiatrist? Years in Gilead seemed to make everyone either more self-aware or completely crazy, swaying between extremes. Like Serena. Like Aunt Lydia.

Sensing she’d touched a sensitive nerve, Adrianna shifted the subject. “Also you probably need cosmetic surgery if you ever get out and make it to the civilized world.” Adrianna joked, though with a thread of seriousness.

Funny, the way she contrasted it with Gilead, where all progressive medical treatments were banned and cosmetic surgery was condemned as a sign of human sin.

Nick gave a faint, wry smile. “Yeah, sure. As if I care. I’m officially dead, remember?”

“You know, when I worked in those big hospitals, your face would’ve been a hit with the plastic surgeons,” Adrianna teased, unable to resist stretching the joke. “You could even make a commission from it. No hard work required. Imagine it: a former commander of Gilead, a double spy, torn between love and duties… that’s a great story for entertainment agents. There’s probably a job in it.”

“Thanks, I’ll definitely keep that in mind,” Nick muttered. Yet something in her last words struck a chord. Pryce had said almost the same thing to him a decade ago. Job. Money.

Nick thought he’d left those worries behind once he became a commander. But here he was, back to square one. No, not square one. Square negative. No family history worth mentioning. No fancy parents, education, or house. No relationship that had worked. Nothing now but a traitor’s name.

From nobody, to perhaps somebody, and back to nobody again. Great job, Nicholas Blaine.

Nick laughed bitterly at himself.

He had been a nobody, growing up in Detroit, a city once the manufacturing powerhouse of the U.S. economy, before it crumbled into a ghost town. Everyone worked in labor, and Nick had been trained to be handy from a young age. Life was simple then. Honest, unsophisticated, pragmatic. Qualities he had grown up with and still believed in. They said as long as you worked hard and did good, you’d be rewarded regardless of your background.

He missed that time. Even though Gilead twisted so-called traditional values for evil, even his abusive father had once found meaning in work. But when the steel mill closed, his father’s purpose crumbled, and he drowned himself in alcohol. Josh was just like him, repeating the same escape.

Nick was like their mother. “Try to find value in your work and enjoy it,” she always said. She loved serving others, loved seeing people happy in her diner. Nick always admired the radiance in her confidence, especially at work. As an immigrant, she found dignity in labor, and others respected her for it. That was at least one thing Nick carried with him, even in Gilead. Being a workaholic was a convenient way to avoid a fake family and a loveless marriage.

Despite everything he had endured, Nick was proud of his working-class roots. But still, how does one find value in what they do? How does one even find what they love in the first place?

Burying himself in thought, he was interrupted by Paul’s voice. “It’s time for rehab. Let me help you up.”

Nick’s legs needed rehabilitation, and it wasn’t safe for him to attempt it alone.

The work was slow and grueling without significant progress made. His legs, weak and stiff from burns and injuries, resisted every movement. Lifting his knees, stretching his calves, trying to stand for even a few seconds. All of it felt like climbing mountains. Pain flared with each shift of weight, every joint screaming against the fragile strength clawing its way back. His own body fought him, betrayed him. Life is just awesome.

Paul stood close, steadying him as he took tentative steps across the uneven ground of the hideout. “Focus on balance, not speed,” Paul instructed, his hand firm but never intrusive. Every stumble reminded Nick how fragile he was, how easily life could slip into permanent damage.

Paul helped with more than rehab. Sometimes he assisted with cleansing, leaving Nick embarrassed at his own frailty.

“Don’t force yourself. Try to connect with your body, it’ll tell you what it needs,” Paul said evenly.

Nick thought of June. She had been the only one who could connect to his body. Every touch between them had felt natural, as though they were twins moving in unison.
He would never have that kind of unity again. What remained was his broken body and broken life.

Nick’s face hardened. “What the hell does that mean?” he snapped, frustration thick in his voice.

Paul didn’t flinch. “It means stop treating it like an enemy. Your body isn’t betraying you, it’s just hurt. If you fight it, you’ll lose. But if you listen, the pull in your muscles, the strain in your breath, you’ll understand how far you can go without breaking.”

For so long, survival had meant ignoring pain, pushing through weakness, never letting his body have a say. But now, step by step, he realized Paul was right. His body wasn’t just a vessel, it was the only ally he couldn’t afford to abandon.

He inhaled, shifted his weight, and this time moved with intention. His foot landed more steadily.

Paul noticed. He gave a small nod. “That’s it. You’re listening now. You’re a talented student, many of my wounded patients never understand that, even when their bodies heal.”

Nick exhaled, surprised by the faint sense of control returning. Not victory, not yet, but not surrender either.

“Why do you know this?” His suspicion broke through before he could stop it. “I thought you were just a medical aide.”

“My whole family is in healing,” Paul said as he steadied him. “Some doctors, some herbalists, some whatever people needed. I grew up watching all of them. Science, faith, stubbornness, it didn’t matter. The goal was always the same: keep people alive.”

“Isn’t that heresy? I bet Gilead can’t understand it.” The frankness surprised Nick. He thought years of stoicism had stripped him of such openness.

Paul chuckled. “Of course it’s heresy. Anything outside their scripture is. But healing isn’t about them, it’s about love for the living. You think someone bleeding out cares whether you pray, stitch, or chant while you do it?”

Love.

"At least someone will remember me. At least someone will care when I’m gone. That’s something."

June’s words echoed from the Waterfords’ kitchen, when he had tried to push her away. She would live and die for love. That was her purpose. Stupid and true, and she had proved it with her recklessness, again and again.

Nick had loved ones too.

Paul’s voice broke through his thoughts, quieter now. “Gilead took plenty from us. But not everything. Some things stay in the blood, passed down whether they approve or not.”

“And do you find purpose in what you do?” Nick asked before he could stop himself. “Do you love it?”

Paul adjusted Nick’s stance before answering. His smile was tired, but steady. “It’s not as noble as it sounds. I don’t wake up thinking I’m saving the world. I wake up thinking somebody might live through the night if I show up. That’s enough. Who knows what life is giving us?”

“And Adrianna? She thinks that too?” This conversation was unlike any Nick had had in years, personal, unguarded, free of Gilead’s twisted words.

“She’s a surgeon, but she knows there are things stronger than science. People’s will is powerful. Patients who want to live, who value their lives, heal better. We feel that connection with them,” Paul said with quiet certainty.

Nick thought of June telling him about Janine’s daughter. Charlotte had been brought back from near-death by her mother’s love. That was magic. June had believed it, and so did he.

“Would you even save a Commander?” Nick asked, bracing for the ugly truth.

Paul hesitated. Nick could see the careful weighing of his words.

“What do you want from me after all this? Do you have someone to save in Gilead?”

Nick was tired. His life had been built on exchanges, favors traded, debts owed. Value was messy, never simple. And he was sick of it.

Paul finally spoke. “Put it this way. My job, like Adrianna’s, is like a gardener’s. A gardener cannot change the seasons. They can only help flowers bloom a little more beautifully within them. Likewise, a doctor cannot alter birth, aging, sickness, or death. We only help people live a little more gracefully through them. That’s the truth of life. If you realize it, you can face life and death with a humble heart. That’s what I’ve learned working alongside Adrianna.”

Death. Nick had seen so much of it. His parents. Josh. The congressman he shot. Trevor at the Capitol with him guarding a door. First Offred. Pryce. Eden. Isaac. Beth. The Marthas underground. Men who died with him in Chicago. Fred. The Guardian at the waterpark. Lawrence. Wharton.

He had never let them go. He only pretended to. They were etched into his body, carried with him always.

Love, hate, sadness, pride, regret. Good men, bad men…all equal in death. All waiting their turn to be called.

Nick looked at Paul, unable to respond. They hadn’t known each other long, but strangely, he found himself enjoying this conversation. Un-Gilead, but meaningful.

“I’m not as experienced as Adrianna,” Paul said at last. “She’s a professor too. She’ll tell you more if you’re curious. For now, let’s continue with your rehab.”

The river outside whispered encouragement, or a cruel reminder of the freedom beyond No Man’s Land, a world he could not yet reach. Even so, layer by layer, step by step, he felt himself being rebuilt: not just the muscles in his legs, but the softer angles he had dulled long ago.

Learning to listen to his body, he was beginning, quietly, to hear other things too: things he had avoided and the choices he would soon have to make.

Chapter Text

Nick could now walk with a cane, and Paul’s advice had really helped. It was a time when he was learning new things about his body and how to live with it peacefully. No more drinking, smoking, or staying up late, otherwise his body would fight back.

He had been generally good at almost every subject in school, but he had a real talent in PE. Though he was the youngest in his class, he could take down the older guys and pick up skills faster than most with plenty of practice. Working harder than others had always been his way of proving himself, and that habit carried on to this day.

Every time he was wounded or worn out, he always bounced back quickly, often stronger than before. That resilience gave him one of the few confidences he carried in life. June enjoyed that about him in bed. He could always respond to her sexual needs, timely and effortlessly, even when her drive was overwhelming, he would gladly take on the challenge and never disappoint her. And she never disappointed him either. They made each other better, never bored, always discovering something new.

Through each other, they reconnected and rose higher together. They were so compatible: sometimes she led, and he followed; sometimes he led, and she followed. Just like yin and yang, as his mother once described: opposites yet complementary, interacting, supporting, and perpetuating one another. The whole was greater than its parts, and both were essential to its balance.

Rose, on the other hand, was the complete opposite of June. Carrying an innate disability, she had always felt ashamed of her body. Nick was certain he would never develop romantic feelings for Ros, that was partly why he chose her. She was far from what he truly wanted. He believed he couldn’t have good things, except for June, who was the only one fit to occupy the sacred place in both his body and his soul.

Whether that was good or bad from a husband’s perspective, he wasn’t sure. He never saw Rose’s naked body, and they only lay together during her ovulation days. He also knew she had used prohibited prenatal drugs to get pregnant. Maybe wanting a baby was her way of proving she wasn’t disabled.

While Nick’s body slowly healed and adjusted, the group around him grew close too. They would sit by the fire, cracking jokes to lighten their circumstances. Sometimes they shared resistance stories or memories of their past lives. Nick never joined in, but he listened. It felt good just to have people around, keeping the silence at bay and the ghosts of the past from hovering.

“My family was poor, and I needed money urgently. Being in an econofamily during a war meant food went to commanders and Guardians first,” Elias said. In his early twenties, he still carried a youthful hot-headedness, despite having lived through Gilead.

“My hometown was close to famine. No joke. They were desperate for young men, and with the war, the whole administration was a mess. When I got my first post as a driver, I didn’t even have a license. Didn’t even know how to start the damn thing. I think they might have done it deliberately, just to fill a box on the commanders’ paperwork.”

Nick approached the group, cane tapping softly, a rare sight to see.

“Come and sit by me,” Adam said warmly. He was always the first to notice Nick’s movements, though Nick never found it bothersome or controlling. There was no hierarchy between them anymore. Adam was like an old neighbor, a grandfather figure who looked after him when his parents were gone.

The group waited for Nick to settle before continuing.

“So one day I had to take my commander to a council meeting,” Elias said. “I just lost it and told him straight: ‘I don’t know how to drive.’”

Clara leaned forward, curious. “And he didn’t put you on the Wall for lying?”

Elias grinned like he had cheated fate. “Nope. The commander just stared at me and said, ‘So what, I’m your chauffeur now?’”

The group chuckled.

“My commander actually drove me himself. Told me to sit in the back like I was the boss. After the meeting, he even dropped me at Jezebel’s, told me to head in first while he parked the car.”

Adam burst out laughing. Clara shook her head, smiling. “What happened to him?”

“He died in the war,” Elias said, still laughing. “Sometimes he drove me around, showing off projects, brainwashing me into believing they were saving the environment. After he was killed, I was dismissed, barely touched the steering wheel.”

“What about now? Do you have a driver’s license?” Paul asked.

“Of course not! What would a piece of paper do? stop a bullet?” Elias rolled his eyes.

“But I saw you drive military trucks in Chicago,” Nick pressed. His cautious instinct kicked in.

“Yeah?” Elias puffed his chest, grinning. “I’m Gilead’s Van Diesel. Fast & Furious, econokid edition.”

The group roared. Even Nick cracked a smile.

“At least he didn’t put you on the Wall, or you wouldn’t be here with us, kiddo,” Adam said.

“Yeah, I guess being young gave me some leverage. And I wouldn’t be here helping out if he had.”

A silence lingered.

“Where’s your family now?” Nick asked. Elias was so young, with a whole life ahead of him. Nick hated the thought of another kid going through the same hell he had.

“I thought if I had a paycheck, they might be okay… but when the war went bad, American or Gileadean soldiers, or whoever, raided our town. Food was gone. My family scattered. Some got out, some died. And some…well, my cousin volunteered to be a Jezebel. A fat old commander offered her a slice of bread and a pack of expired salad just to fuck her. She couldn’t even say thank you afterward because her mouth was too full, choked.”

“Do you have contact with her?” Clara asked gently. “Maybe we could try to get her out.”

“I tried… you know what she said? She said she’s too ashamed. Told me to forget her, pretend she’s dead.” A tear slipped down Elias’s cheek though it was clear he’d already cried plenty.

Adam patted his shoulder. “Not everyone wants to be a hero. That’s fine. Every life has its own course. Respect her wishes, but love her still, kiddo.”

She hesitated, then shared: “When I was a young surgeon, I volunteered abroad. I had a patient, a woman in her fifties, with pulmonary arterial hypertension. Never married. Her only kin was a nephew, a professor. The only treatment option was a lung transplant, but organs were scarce. She signed a DNR, said if the time came, to let her go peacefully.

“When her condition worsened, her nephew panicked. He threatened to sue us if we didn’t put her on machines. Under pressure, we complied. We saved her, but she woke up tied to a bed, intubated, furious. She pounded on the bed in rage. She only lived another half month. If the sedatives had been lighter, she would’ve woken again, angry. That image stays with me. So when you hear surgeons boast that no one has ever died under their watch? It’s bullshit. They just haven’t had enough patients.” She smiled faintly.

Nick looked at Paul and finally understood where his wisdom came from. “We all have our stuff,” he said quietly, glancing at Elias and Adrianna with sympathy.

“Thank you, guys,” Elias said, wiping his tears quickly. “Anyway, that’s my story. Maybe not the end of it. There’s always change, as long as we live. Now, tell me something more interesting than mine!” His grin was naive, but hopeful, one of youth’s saving graces.

Clara yawned, exhausted from scouting. “Maybe next time for me. I’m going to bed to study the stars a little first.” Astronomy was her hobby; she could even navigate by them.

One by one, the group drifted off to their own tasks or to sleep, leaving Nick and Adam by the fire.

Chapter Text

Boston smelled different now, no longer of rot and gasoline, but of smoke and fresh paint. The flags came down first, then the walls, brick by brick, until the city looked less like Gilead’s fortress and more like the ghost of what it once was.

June stood at the edge of what used to be the checkpoint near Back Bay. It had once been home, the place she shared with Luke and Hannah before the world broke apart, before her life shrank into survival. Their cozy apartment, once filled with housewife ordinary happiness, couldn’t contain her anymore. Not because the place looked different, but because the people who used to live there were. That kind of life couldn’t be retrieved; her life had moved on already.

When Gilead took over the city, they assigned the lower class poor families, widows, the obedient to the empty houses of former American officials or those who had fled. It was a buyout of loyalty, a form of control disguised as mercy. Gilead didn’t care about rich or poor. Capitalism was a tumor. What mattered was submission. You followed the rules, and God would keep you safe.

Now she watched volunteers scrub the red symbols from the concrete. “Freedom,” one of them said, as if the word itself could disinfect blood.

Aunt Lydia once said that there is more than one kind of freedom. Freedom to and freedom from. In the days of anarchy, it was freedom to. Now you are being given freedom from. Don't underrate it.

But June knew better. Freedom didn’t come clean. 

Aunt Lydia had gone with the remnants of Gilead’s leadership. June didn’t know how the old woman would survive, but she suspected Lydia wouldn’t die easily. She knew too many dirty secrets, and she always found a way to weaponize guilt into redemption.

She was grateful that Janine was safe and reunited with Charlotte at last. That was all June had ever wanted for her, for both of them: peace, normalcy, something unremarkable. They’d settle in Boston and try to reclaim the years they’d lost. To be just an ordinary mother and daughter and that was the rarest kind of blessing now.

Mayday had moved above ground now or half of it had. What used to be whispers in warehouses had become meetings in open air, half-sanctioned by the new American administration, half-tolerated by the fractured Gilead command. The Americans called it collaboration. June called it containment.
The U.S. government had never cared much for the people before Gilead, and nothing about its return convinced her otherwise. Still, instead of quarreling with officials, she stayed with Mayday. They were adaptable, unscripted, and most importantly, free of political posturing.

She threw herself into work, humanitarian aid by day, information sorting by night.
Typing reports, editing briefings, it all gave her the illusion of control. Every scrap of intel she processed fed the same quiet obsession: the Mackenzies were still unreachable. Hannah was still there. Every report came layered with “maybes” and “no confirmations.” Every “no confirmation” felt like a verdict.

Luke was at one of those Mayday meetings, standing under the flickering lights, smiling that warm, tender smile she used to love, the one that made people believe he had a plan.
She watched from the doorway, unseen, as he spoke of “unity” and “rebuilding trust.” His voice filled the hall, but it had no weight. The old Mayday fighters shifted uneasily, men and women trained for ambushes, not speeches. The rookies listened politely, already evaluating their new leader.

Luke was good at comforting people, not leading them. That was fine. June didn’t want to lead beside him, or against him. He had his path, she had hers. As long as both led toward Hannah, that was enough.

Luke had always been built for stability, urban planning, office hours, and predictability. He believed in systems, in routines, in things that worked if everyone just followed the rules. Order, instructions, obedience, the quiet scaffolding of his old life. But Gilead had smashed that world, and pretending it could be rebuilt was just another lie. Luke thought himself progressive, educated, liberal, “not like those men.” But Gilead proved that believing in equality wasn’t the same as fighting for it. He’d always assumed fairness was permanent, like gravity. He never understood it only existed because someone kept holding it up.

They had loved each other once. Now, they were just two dear friends traveling parallel lines. Not all companions are meant to last a lifetime; even the closest ones are only passersby. Their separation was quiet, almost tender. No grudges, no theatrics, just the soft acknowledgment that they’d tried, and it didn’t work.

Later, when the meeting ended, Luke found her sitting on the steps outside, a cigarette half-burned between her fingers.

“Hey,” he said softly, careful, like she was still a grenade.
“Hey.”
“You didn’t come inside.”
“I didn’t need to.”

A silence stretched between them.
Then Luke asked, “You think I’m doing the wrong thing?”
She looked at him, the same look that once cut him open and made him feel seen. Now it only reflected back everything he wasn’t.
“I think you’re doing your thing,” she said flatly. “That’s different.”
He nodded.

They spoke a little longer about Mayday’s structure, the Americans’ clumsy attempts to “reintegrate” captured Guardians, the shortages creeping in again. But it was all logistics, and both of them knew it.

When he left for another mission, she didn’t follow. She wished him well, and he told her to keep recording her story and to thank the people who’d helped her survive, including Nick.

Some nights, she couldn’t sleep. That was when Nick came back in fragments. His boyish smile, his quiet eyes, the gentle way he’d say her name as if it were sacred.
She told herself he was dead. She told herself he had to be.
Because if he wasn’t, what would she do? What would she tell Nichole when she grew older and asked about her first daddy?

Her life had always been defined by absences.
Her father died when she was in high school.

Her mother was always absent for work or rally.
She thought Luke was dead once, but she never saw it.
She thought her mother was gone in the colonies,  but she never saw it.
She thought Moira died on the escape, but she never saw that either.
Everyone she loved disappeared off-screen. Except Nick. Except Lawrence.
Those deaths she could feel. And that hurt worse.

So she rewrote it. Maybe consciously, maybe not.
She told herself Nick had made his choice when he joined the Sons of Jacob that he’d built his own ruin, and now he was reaping what he sowed. That story was easier to live with than longing.
It kept her in control.
And control was everything, the only way she could keep going, keep fighting for Hannah. She couldn’t afford to need anyone again.

But control had cracks.
Sometimes, when the nights were too quiet, softer memories crept through, his hand on hers, his low voice saying her name. She hated him for haunting her. She hated herself for letting him.

“If Nick ever had a choice,” Serena had said before leaving for the UN refugee camp, “he’d have chosen you.”

Those words echoed in the dark sometimes, uninvited.

June had forgiven Serena not out of grace, but exhaustion. Serena’s empire was gone, her husband dead, her country turned to dust. She was just another woman with a child, the same as June. There was no point clinging to a war already over.

When Nick once asked her to run away to Paris, it had been a fleeting fantasy, the kind lovers whisper about after sex, half-asleep in a small room above a garage. He remembered it; she’d forgotten. He always remembered. He’d do what she wanted because he wanted to, but beyond that, he remained a mystery.

At least Boston was safe enough now for Holly to return with her mother.
Canada had never felt like home. June wanted her daughter to grow up with roots, to know where she came from, even if that soil was still scarred.
Holly would stay with Grandma Holly. June would tell their story, and Holly would inherit what freedom remained.

“I’m very proud of you, June. You have become what I always wish for you to be independent, confident, determined on your own path without relying on others,” her mother said after she arrived in Boston with Holly.

June smiled, warmth in her chest, but beneath it, the familiar tug of expectation lingered, a reminder that control could come from more than just the outside world. She had become what her mother always wanted her to be, strong, independent, unflinching.

That night, June sat in her old prayer room, Holly asleep in her arms, the candlelight trembling on the walls.

“When you’re older,” she whispered,
“you’ll hear about what happened here.
About the men who said God told them to hurt us.
About the women who survived anyway.
You’ll hear about love that was dangerous, and kindness that was punished.
But you’ll also hear that we fought not because we were brave,
but because we couldn’t live without trying.
I hope, when that day comes, you know I never stopped loving you.
Not for one second.”

Afterward, she began to record her story with a voice recorder. Her voice steady, her hands trembling.It wasn’t for fame or forgiveness. It was for memory.

Each word she spoke was a piece of herself stitched back together.
Each confession a small act of defiance.

Paul had just finished cleaning Nick’s body. Even in repose, he radiated a quiet strength. His face, still marked with faint bruises and traces of sweat, carried a boyish yet manly stubbornness that had once disarmed so many, strong jawline, enticing brows and eyes, slightly tousled dark hair clinging to his forehead, lips that hinted at both warmth and tense. His chest rose and fell with measured breaths, the faint curve of his muscles visible beneath the thin, damp fabric. His forearms bore the scars of recent violence, yet the sinew beneath hinted at enduring strength. Even bruised and battered, there was a vitality in the lean lines of his body, a subtle tension of someone always ready to act, to protect, to endure. Nick looked like a man who had been through hell and carried it with quiet, magnetic grace.

Adam walked in. Nick could immediately sense something from him, but did not force it on Adam.
The silence stretched long enough that Adam finally decided to break it.

“How do you feel?”

“Getting better. It’s more bearable,” Nick said, referring to the pains.

“That’s good. Wounds heal eventually; it just takes time.”

“I have news from Boston.” 

“What is it?” Anxiety crept in, he had been losing track of news and messages. Another old habit dying hard.

“Boston is now America again. Apparently your doomed flight was the last contributor for that to happen. American army took the advantage with Mayday’s aid, Boston surrendered without much casualties."

“That’s good. Without any commanders, it created a window of opportunity for them.”

“Yeah. Family and friends can reunite. It’s what we all pray for.”

Nick paused, eyes lingering.

“Any news on June and Holly?” His first instinct went to them. Their safety was always the priority.

“I know you’d ask for them, my friends in Mayday told me she was with them. With Boston safe, she can’t be exposed to too much danger. Your daughter is safe too, actually safer than anytime before.”

Nick let out a relieved sigh. June would be proud of this liberation. Boston was her home, after all, and making her own choices. He grinned at the thought, anything that pleased June pleased him too.

“And do your Mayday friends …”

While Nick is finding a proper question to Adam, Adam quickly understands Nick’s inquiry. 

“Caution is always preferred, I didn’t expose my network, not even within Mayday.” 

“You’re very careful, thank you for taking care of it while I’m unable to. ”

“I’m old and being old means things came easier. You’re always a cautious man, that’s a rare characteristic for a young man like you, and I know how you want things to be. You can only be cautious to protect people you care for.”

“Thank you Adam, that’s very comforting to hear.” Nick knows Adam is competent, but competency or being outright smart isn’t enough to beat Gilead, they even get you killed faster, social intelligence is crucial.

"You know… when I first met you, it was June asking if you were coming with her at the Boston Globe.”

“She does?” Nick dismissed the small detail.

“Yeah. I was about to drive her away, and she stopped at the gate asking about you.”

“To have someone to pine for is always a risk, especially for a pregnant handmaid. But I could see the care and tenderness in her blue eyes. A woman in that condition must hate all the men… and I know you’re not one of them.”

June always brought out something good in Nick, that was why he loved her, with his life, until his last breath.

“Yeah… perhaps it was the case once. But maybe not anymore… not after Jezebels.” Nick never openly discussed it; June’s condemnation still stung.

“I never thought of you as either a good man or a bad man, lad. It’s not how life works, and it’s not my place to judge. That kind of moral judgment doesn’t extend life expectancy,” Adam said with a laugh.

“Yeah, particularly if you live in Gilead,” Nick replied dryly.

“But I do know we are driven by something in every act. You’re not a Jezebel’s guy, that trait was unpopular among commanders, and they treated you with verbal bullying.”

Boy Scouts loser, as Bell had commented.

“Despite that, you still went to Jezebel that night, meaning you must have had a motivation you couldn’t refuse,” Adam continued, carefully close, but without the wired dominance of Lawrence or others.

“What’s the motivation?”

“I think you know better than I do. That’s what makes you a resistance guy. You don’t need to be a macho superhero to prove allegiance or conscience. Not everyone is built for that. America used to be the strongest power in the world, but that is gone. Being strong isn’t enough. You survived under Gilead’s radar for so long, smuggled your loved ones out, rose through the ranks, managed to navigate a loveless marriage, built a small network of resistance trustees, survived the bombing, and healed faster than expected. That shows something in you. You’re resilient, a survivalist. We need as many people alive as possible if we want our country back. We don’t have time for inner dog fights.”

Nick listened quietly, letting Adam’s words settle like dust in the dim light.
He didn’t know what to say. Compliments always made him uncomfortable, they sounded too much like hope.

“I did what I had to,” Nick said at last, his voice low. “You call it survival. I call it guilt management.”

Adam gave a half-smile. “We all live with ghosts. Difference is, you make yours useful.”

Nick looked down at his hands, steady now, though the tremor still lingered somewhere beneath the skin. “You ever wonder if we’re just rebuilding another version of the same thing? Different slogans, same rot underneath?”

“All the time,” Adam said, leaning back in the chair. “But that’s why we need people who remember what it felt like to lose everything. People like you don’t worship power anymore. You just know what it costs.”

Nick’s jaw tightened. “Doesn’t make me noble.”

“No,” Adam said softly. “Just human. That’s rarer.”

The silence returned, heavy but not hostile. Outside, the night hummed with generators and the faint crackle of a radio somewhere down the hall, a world slowly piecing itself back together.

After a long pause, Nick exhaled. “What do you think comes next?”

Adam looked toward the window, where the faint glow of the horizon hinted at a new morning. “Depends who lives long enough to tell the story.”

Nick gave a dry, quiet laugh. “Guess I better start recording mine down then.”

Adam studied him for a moment. Then he took a voice recorder out of his pocket. “My only grandchild likes to record every rally she went to, she said ‘you learned so much about yourself after you hear them, it’s like a mirror’ I think you can make it useful too, maybe it could be the only thing your children may get to know about you and your love for them. Don’t let anyone steal your story, you need to own it, to mark your existence in this tiny fuck-up world of ours.”

Nick nodded, a small, reluctant smile touching his bruised lips.
“Yeah,” he murmured, “sounds like an idea.”

Nick was never a writer, nor an orator. June used to press him for more,  more words, more openness, but he never knew how. He wasn’t built for confession. Everything he felt, he carried inward, locking it somewhere even he couldn’t reach. Words were too fragile, too easily twisted. He trusted actions more, the quiet kind that didn’t need witnesses.

But as the room fell still again, he wondered if silence could preserve anything at all.
Memories faded. Promises blurred. Even love, if left unsaid long enough, began to sound like a rumor.

He closed his eyes, the ache in his ribs pulsing softly, like the echo of a heartbeat that wasn’t entirely his own. June’s face came to him real, breathing, alive. The kind of image you protect by never speaking of it.

Chapter Text

Rain streaked down the cracked windows as the conference line buzzed to life.

Mark Tuello sat at the head of a long table, surrounded by stacks of reports and intelligence briefs. The faces of Deputy Secretary Miller, Colonel Hughes, and Special Envoy Ramirez flickered on the monitor, their images distorted by static.

Mark began briefing updates on the Boston situation.
“Given we managed to control casualties, we expect more humanitarian aid to come in. Mayday will likely shift their operations elsewhere, they’ll use this opportunity to incite resistance in other zones. Fortunately, our allies haven’t abandoned us. Groups from the UK, Canada, Germany, France, Japan…etc, they’re all volunteering to help. I see no reason to object as long as they’re properly vetted.”

“Right,” Miller said. “We need their support politically and materially. I don’t see a problem with that.”
Hughes and Ramirez nodded in agreement.

Miller continued, voice firm and bureaucratic.

“Well, let’s move to the next issue. Without intelligence and logistics, we can’t strike what’s left of Gilead’s core. How’s reintegration progressing on your end?”

Tuello adjusted his tie, scanning a field report marked with red annotations.
“We’re vetting and reassigning former Guardians and Eyes into reconstruction and security roles. Mayday disagrees. They want public trials for every one of them.”

Colonel Hughes frowned. “That’s impractical. We need inside men. And frankly, we’ve already lost our assets in the plane bombing Mayday orchestrated. I’d call it a minor victory if we weren’t bleeding from it too.”

“I understand, and I’m sorry for the losses,” Tuello replied evenly. “But Mayday can’t see it that way. They think reassigning these men means recycling Gilead’s system under a new flag. They’re made up of refugees, families who want justice, not long-term strategy.”

Ramirez leaned closer to the camera. “They’re not wrong to be angry. We just have to find a way to pacify them without derailing reconstruction.”

Tuello’s voice stayed steady. “If we remove every one of them, we lose the only people who know the terrain, the routes, the supply chains, the internal hierarchy. The question isn’t moral. It’s operational.”

Miller exhaled. “The country can’t run on black-and-white justice. Keep your channels open with Mayday, but the directive stands. We can’t let Gilead laugh at us. It hurts our image and morale.”

The call ended with a low click.
Tuello removed his earpiece and exhaled slowly, staring at the map of the Safe Zone. The red lines bled into the gray paper, frontlines turned to fault lines.
Two factions rebuilding one country, each convinced they were saving it.

A knock at the door pulled him from his thoughts. He’d been expecting someone, a guest, or maybe a friend. “Come in.”

June walked past what used to be the Red Center, the place that had once been her cage. Now the Aunts and Handmaids were gone, replaced by former Eyes and Guardians abandoned by Gilead’s leadership.

Their weapons were confiscated. They slept on makeshift beds, the same kind once forced on Handmaids. Now they were the ones being watched, interrogated, documented.

Some looked horrified. Others, simply numb.  Some refused to speak at all.
Now they knew how it felt to be locked up, humiliated, stripped of freedom while a woman like June, the one they’d despised, could walk freely past them.
She thought it quietly and a small part of her felt good.

But she also knew not all of them were here. The government had kept some for its own purposes. 

She stopped that line of thought and stepped into the office.

Mark Tuello looked older than she remembered. His collar hung loose, his tie crooked halfway down his chest. Not the image of victory.

“You wanted to see me?” she asked.

“Well…” he began quietly. “First, I’m glad you’re reunited with your mom and daughter. I know what it’s like  being with family again after separation.”

“Thanks,” June said flatly. “But I don’t think you called me here just for pleasantries.”

Mark nodded slightly. “You’re right. I have something for you. It’s about Rose Blaine.”

June’s expression barely shifted, but her pulse quickened.
“She’s alive?”

“Yes. Barely.” His tone was careful. “She escaped with a group of displaced families near the old Cambridge line. She’s in a field hospital north of the Safe Zone, complications with her pregnancy. Limited supplies. Only a Guardian with her.”

June frowned. “Why isn’t she with the rest of the Gilead men?”

“Gilead only values the capable ones,” Mark said, tone clipped. “A disabled widow with an unstable pregnancy isn't an asset anymore. She’s a liability.”

“An unstable pregnancy? What happened?”

“From our intel, she was hospitalized after attending Serena’s wedding, something to do with the food. ”

Rita’s cake. June remembered seeing Rose eat it without worry. 

A page of guilt cut through her. She hadn’t paid much attention to Nick’s wife, only noticed she was quiet, gentle, fragile, and somehow naive. Nick had seemed kind to her, more than he’d been with Eden. June wasn’t sure what she felt then. It wasn’t just jealousy. When Annie had confronted her once, she’d felt guilty, like a thief caught with someone else's heart. Annie had every right to be angry. But with Nick, she’d never felt that, never once doubting her place in Nick’s heart. Their connection existed outside vows or laws. It just was. The thought scared her now, how natural it felt to claim him still. 

“I’m sorry,” she murmured. 

Mark hesitated. He met June’s eyes. “She’s been asking to see you.”

June stared at him, her jaw tightening. “Me? Why?” 

Does she know? Does she want revenge? Be angry at her about influencing her husband? 

“She won’t say,” Mark replied. "She’s physically and emotionally traumatized. She doesn’t trust the medics or our people. She refuses any federal contact.”

June looked away, watching the rain streak across the window. “No family?”

“None that we can find. I was only passing the message. What you do with it is up to you.”

June stood slowly. “And what will you do about her?”

“She can swear allegiance to us,” Mark said. “She hasn’t wronged the U.S. government directly. She’ll walk free, with her baby, if she chooses to.”

“I see.” June nodded once. “I’ll think about it.”

A long pause stretched between them. June’s face looked like she was weighing whether to say more. Finally, she did. 

“What are you planning to do with those former Eyes and Guardians?”

“I can’t disclose that, unfortunately. All I can say is we have a plan. They won’t be out there hurting anyone else.”

“You have your agenda, Mark. I’m tired of your government language. We didn't fight and bleed  just to watch them resume their work. There got to be some justice.” June demonstrated her stubbornness as usual.

“It’s not that simple June. We need them if we want to understand Gilead to strike harder next time.” 

“And how can you trust them?”

“That’s what we’re figuring it out. If you want to get Hannah back, we need them.”

June stopped. Mark was right, Mackenzie's was still free. No one knew where they were. Without insiders she could trust, they were just chasing shadows. Mayday had people to save, missions to run, and no time or resources to waste. Without intel, they wouldn’t make it far. 

“I understand it sounds unfair and cruel,” Mark said softly. “But this game isn’t just about hard power. It’s about smart power. Sometimes we need to let one fish go to catch the pond. You know I’m trying to help you even if it’s not the way you’d prefer.” 

Lawrence had told her the same thing once. The circle kept repeating itself, as long as Gilead existed. 

“But how will you answer to the people who suffered so badly?” June asked quietly.  “They don’t deserve this, none of us do.”

“We’ll filter out the hardliners,” Mark said, though his tone faltered. “The unredeemable ones...”

“And do you ever wonder how this all started? Why does our country become hell?” 

Mark hesitated. A question too large for a bureaucrat's answer.
“I’m sorry June. The decision’s made. We carry it out or we don’t, and let Gilead win.”

June realized it was pointless to push further. She turned to go angry.

Mark reached for a folder. “One more thing… I’m sorry about Commander Blaine. Apart from everything else, he was a capable man and a protective father.”

June paused at the doorway, hand on the frame.
“Thanks for your condolences,” she said evenly, and walked out. Her boots echoed down the empty hall.

Mark stayed seated for a long while before opening the folder on his desk. Inside lay a classified file - his contract with Commander Nicholas Blaine: classified past cooperation, not confirmation of current survival.

Outside, the rain hadn’t stopped.

Chapter Text

At first, Nick found it quite shocking to use the voice recorder. He wasn’t used to it.  Talking into it felt like talking to himself, and he was unsettled by the echo of his own voice, how strange it was that something so fundamentally him could feel so alien. How had he grown so comfortable listening to a day-long Council meeting full of evil, yet become so estranged from his own voice? Paul and Adam clearly saw this disconnection, but not him. How did he always allow others to understand him better than he understood himself?

Adam had told him to let go of those restrictions, to have no expectations or structure. Just talk. Treat it like a diary, a private map of thoughts that didn’t have to make sense to anyone but him.

“Nick?”

Nick startled, fumbling to hide the recorder. Adrianna stood behind him, her voice dry. He looked like a kid caught doing something secretive.

He exhaled, offering a half-smile of embarrassment. They decided to walk, Nick relying on his cane until they stopped near the river. The water moved lazily under the gray light, nothing remarkable, except that after nearly dying, even ordinary nature looked like mercy.

“Well?” he asked. “Any luck?”

“Not really,” Adrianna sighed, running a hand through her hair. “Every supply source has been stripped clean. The black market’s been completely exploited. What’s left gets stolen by Gilead stragglers or diverted to resistance caches.”

“That’s unfortunate,” Nick said. “Did you tell them you’re a surgeon on a mission?”

“Everyone says that,” she muttered.

“What do they want instead?”

“Money, of course. Some surgeons are charging insane prices to operate. We’re supposed to be doing humanitarian work.”

Nick gave a small, dry chuckle. “People are greedy. I know what it’s like to scrape by, to owe favors you can’t pay back.”

“Sorry to dump all this on you,” Adrianna said, softening. “We can’t make long-term plans if we run out of supplies.” She paused. “Rumor has it the American government’s opening up to allied countries for humanitarian support. Dealing with foreigners won’t expose us since they don’t know much,” she said with a half-smile. “All our old sources are gone. We need to scout new ones before someone else beats me to them. I’ll leave soon, and it’s safer to travel in pairs, so I’ll need someone to come with me.”

“Let Paul go instead,” Nick suggested. “He can travel with Elias for safety. They can look out for each other. You rest and don’t take it all on yourself.”

Adrianna smirked faintly. “Right… a surgeon can’t get sick before the patient does.”

Nick sat alone by the river. Adrianna had gone to break the news to Paul and Elias somewhere down the trail. The air smelled of wet earth and rust. He took the recorder from his pocket. Across from him, the river moved with quiet persistence, not rushing, not still, just existing. It flowed every day, unstoppable, unquestioned. Yet every stream carried an invisible weight, slowly carving the stone beneath it. It reminded him of memory: relentless, reshaping everything it touched, until even pain felt smoothed over by time.

It wasn’t anything like the lakes in Michigan. He missed Michigan, though he doubted he’d ever go back. He recalled the early days of Gilead when all he had to do was drive, control the wheel, and reach the destination. It was an easy job, one that didn’t require much thought. When no one sat in the passenger seat, he’d turn on the radio and relax. It was the only time he was alone between his part-time job and family duties.

Most men his age drank or danced in bars after work, spending their paychecks as soon as they earned them. Not him. He was always an introvert, an observer, not the spotlight. His first concern was always his family, and spending without budgeting or "just for fun" felt like a sin.

He found relaxation in small, simple things: driving without a destination, tuning into music or podcasts. If he spotted a beautiful view, he’d stop to take it in. He even tried to save enough for a camper RV to go wherever he wanted instead of being tied to a house full of responsibility. But of course, all the money he saved went to help Joshua with his addiction. Joshua once laughed, saying if Nick got paid just to brew, he’d make a fortune.

To Nick, brewing was active, a kind of mental recharge from duty to others. He wished he could do that with June and Holly one day: drive them around, let Holly see the world, let June taste the freedom she long deserved. It was the only job in the world he’d ever want.

But ordinary is what you get used to. This may not seem ordinary to you now, but after a time, it will. It will become ordinary. They used to say that in Guardian training. The Aunts, Guardians, Commanders, Eyes -  all received the same standard guidebook, just with different lies. Nick guessed that being desperate for so long made even a hint of stability feel permanent. But no one could stay permanent, not even the powerful. He’d learned that the hard way.

He thought maybe he could start by recording his thoughts. Most of them were painful, yes — but not all. There were good parts, too. Moments that still felt like light when he closed his eyes.

He pressed the button. The faint click echoed against the water.

(softly)
“My name is Nick Blaine,” he began, his voice almost hesitant. “And I’m from Michigan. I grew up in a family…”

The river kept flowing, carrying pieces of the past away, one ripple at a time.

Dr. Maddox was awake long after the room had gone quiet. Her granddaughter Holly had drifted into sleep on the sagging couch, tucked under a blanket that still smelled faintly of smoke and lavender, the one that used to belong to Moira. The lamp cast a tired halo; outside, rain struck the windows in a steady, impatient rhythm.

“You’re late,” Dr. Maddox said without looking up from her crossword puzzle.

June exhaled and shut the door softly behind her. “Had a meeting with Mark Tuello.”

“A government dog,” Dr. Maddox muttered, the words soft but edged. “Got chained to a ladder. What did he want?”

“He told me about someone.” June hesitated. “Rose Blaine. Nick’s wife.”

Dr. Maddox didn’t look surprised, just tired in a deeper, quieter way. “And what does a wife have to do with you?” Her tone wasn’t accusatory, just a question that had nowhere to land.

Silence filled the room like fog. Holly’s breath rose and fell; the blanket creaked as she turned.

June said finally, her voice flat. “She's somewhere near the Safe Zone. Complications with her pregnancy. There’s little medicine, and she’s refusing help. She… asked for me.”

For a moment, Dr. Maddox only stared at the newspaper spread across her lap, the crossword half-finished, as if the black print had suddenly become too small to read. Then she let out a sound that was half-sigh, half-laugh, heavy with the weight of someone who’d practiced disappointment all her life.

“You sure this isn’t about women fighting over men?”

June gave a short, humorless laugh. “It’s not about Nick.” But she blinked too many times to sound convincing.

“Isn’t it?” Her mother’s question landed like a pebble in still water. She set the pen down, fingers resting on the crossword grid.

“She was a Wife. Pro-Gilead. Her husband and father died because of what we did. Those high-ranking women were pawns. They think their worth is in children and obedience. They make other women miserable to win favor. You almost killed her chances at a life that made sense. You think she’s going to thank you? Chat about motherhood and compare notes on sharing the same man?”

June’s jaw tightened. A flare of heat rose under her ribs, part anger, part shame. “Of course not. She’s just a woman with a child, Mom. Whatever she believes, she doesn’t deserve to die on some dirt floor with her baby.”

Dr. Maddox’s gaze softened, but her voice stayed sharp. “You can’t do that because you aren’t the lenient type who doesn’t mind her man having another woman? Huh? Or are you doing it to prove something to her, to him, to yourself? Trying to be the moral one, the merciful one, the better woman for Nick?”

The words cut closer than June expected. She bristled, then felt foolish for bristling like her mother’s bluntness had cracked open a thought she’d been too afraid to look at. Her hands were cold; she rubbed them together.

“I did this before,” June said quietly. “I helped Serena deliver Noah even after everything she did to me. And I forgave her.”

Dr. Maddox exhaled and rubbed the bridge of her nose. “Rose isn’t Serena. I just don’t want you confused. I get maternal instinct, guilt, whatever you want to call it. But you carry everyone’s burden, and it’s eating you alive. You can’t fix what’s already broken, and you can’t save people who don’t want saving. Don’t claim their redemption as your own.”

June swallowed hard, then let the words fall. “She’s dying because of me.”

The confession landed heavy, a truth she’d been holding like a splinter. “She was hospitalized after she ate Rita’s cake at Serena’s wedding. I didn’t know her. She didn’t wrong me. But she was there and… I felt bad because of her condition.”

The room folded inward. Rain tapped the glass like a clock counting down.

Dr. Maddox turned first, moving to the kettle. She filled it the same way she’d once filled bottles for protests, for stitches, for late-night bandages. The familiar rhythm made June feel like a child again, chastened, held, and seen too clearly.

When she turned back, the lines around her eyes seemed deeper.

“Sweetheart, you know…” she began slowly, voice low. “I felt ashamed that I didn’t take a harder blow when it mattered. I spent my whole life preaching rebellion, but at the colony I just… waited. I let myself be rescued by the same government I used to curse.

She gave a small, bitter laugh. “I wanted to live long enough to see you again. That was my rebellion: survival. And I hated myself for it. So when I tell you not to get lost between who you’re supposed to be and who you really are, it’s because I did. I lost half my life to that mistake. Don’t repeat it, darling.”

The kettle whistled softly. Neither of them moved to pour.

June pressed the heel of her palm against her eyes, but the tears came anyway, hot, sudden, humiliating. They stung because they didn’t feel earned. She’d told herself she was past this, that she’d metabolized all the ways her mother had failed her. But here it was again - the ache of that girl who had waited by the window for someone who never came home.

She drew in a shaky breath. “You know what’s funny?” she said, half to herself. “I thought I grew up. I got married. I had kids. I survived Gilead. But sometimes I still feel like I’m trying to prove something to you.”

Dr. Maddox looked at her, eyes tired but not dismissive. “To me?”

June nodded. “When I married Luke, I knew. I knew it wasn’t simple. He had a wife, a history. I told myself I didn’t care, that I was being bold, independent, making my own choices. But I think it was just me saying fuck you to you. You left to save the world. I stayed to build one. I thought that made me stronger.”

Her voice cracked. “And then Hannah happened. I failed her. So I tried to make up for it by saving every other child I could find, every woman, every goddamn person who reminded me of her. And people died because of that. Women. Men. Innocents.”

Dr. Maddox didn’t interrupt; she just listened, her hands folded in her lap.

“I became you,” June whispered. “The woman who sacrifices family for ideals. The one who tells herself it’s all for something greater. You fought with words and protests, I fought with guns and schemes, but it’s the same thing. I keep telling myself I’m doing it for Hannah, but it’s just me trying to be the kind of woman you always said you wanted me to be. Brave. Unbreakable. And I hate it. Because it’s not making me happy. It’s not getting Hannah back, and other people I care about left me. How is that a win for me?”

The rain outside had softened to a murmur, a steady heartbeat against the glass.

Holly stirred on the couch, her small hand twitching under the blanket. June watched her daughter for a long moment, her throat tightening again. “I barely see Holly. I’m supposed to be free now, but I keep disappearing. Always off to help someone, always halfway gone. I’m doing the same thing you did, Mom. I’m leaving her for something that won’t ever love me back.”

Dr. Maddox rose from her chair slowly, the movement deliberate, old bones remembering their limits. She went to her daughter and crouched beside her. “Maybe every life has its own course, all we have to do is choose to survive.”

For a while, neither of them spoke. The kettle began to hum, a low sound that filled the silence without breaking it.

Then June said softly, “I don’t know who I’m supposed to be anymore. The rebel? The mother? The wife? Every version hurts someone.”

Dr. Maddox squeezed her hand. “Maybe… you’re all of those things. You just have to keep looking, keep digging. You may never find a perfect version of yourself, and that’s alright. I’m sorry for the expectations I put on you. And thank you for telling me all this.”

She paused, studying her daughter’s face, then said quietly, “If you want to help Rose, then go. But do it for the right reason. Don’t go to prove anything to her, to Nick, or to me. Go because you choose to, not because guilt is pushing you.”

June’s tears slowed. The air smelled faintly of metal and steam. Her mother’s words didn’t mend the ache, but they gave it shape, something she could finally hold without breaking.

After a long silence, June said, “I just want to help Rose and her baby. Doesn’t matter what reason it is. Maybe that’s reason enough.”

Dr. Maddox gave a small nod, almost like a benediction. “Then let’s do it.” She straightened, voice firmer now. “I’m still an OB/GYN, remember? You shouldn’t go alone.”

June looked up, startled. Her eyes were still red, but steadier now. “You’d come with me?”

Her mother gave a faint smile. “You’re not the only one who needs to stop hiding behind her old life.”

For the first time in a long while, June felt something close to peace not because everything was fixed, but because she wasn’t carrying it alone.

That night, as she sang a lullaby to Holly, the rain outside turned to sleet. Somewhere across the Safe Zone, another plan was already beginning to move.

Chapter Text

The checkpoint lights buzzed faintly in the fog. Beyond the razor wire, the wasteland stretched toward No Man’s Land, filled with burnt trees and hollow houses.

Clara adjusted her scarf, half to hide her face, half to keep out the cold. A figure emerged through the mist, limping slightly, his coat heavy with dust and rain. It was Miles.

“Nice to see you,” she said, voice low.

“Me too.” He glanced around before stepping closer. “Had to take the long way before Mayday or the Americans got a full grasp of those routes.”

Clara gave a dry half-smile. “I’m sure they’re working very hard on that, but not as smart as I imagined.”

They stood in silence for a moment, the wind tugging at their sleeves. Miles looked down at her satchel. “Yeah, they aren’t trained like we were in the Sons of Jacob.”

“I agree, unfortunately. How’s everything?”

He exhaled, the sound rough, almost like a laugh. “They’re rounding up the former Eyes and Guardians. Claim it’s for reintegration, screening, reassignment to strike Gilead harder next time. Obviously, they want more victories, and they’ll need us to do that. Mayday doesn’t accept it, but what choice do they have? The military funds them. Without that, they’re just another orphaned cause.” He gave a small, bitter smile. “Stakeholder management is as important as operations.”

Clara looked up sharply. “I can’t say I disagree. What are you going to do about it?”

“Play both sides,” Miles said, shrugging as though it were a philosophy rather than a tactic. “Act neutral. Keep the channels open. Make yourself a force they can’t afford to lose.” His voice thinned. “Nick taught me that. God rest his soul.”

For a moment, neither spoke. The fog thickened, muting the edges of the world. Clara’s voice was quieter when she finally spoke. “And the bombing… Do you know anything about it?”

“Mayday gave the bomb to Lawrence,” Miles said, his jaw tightening. “That hypocritical coward wanted to die a martyr instead of rotting on the Wall for his New Bethlehem idea. I told Nick it was naïve, an illusion dressed as salvation.” He hesitated, eyes distant. “Those professors think that because they read more than most of us, they’re smarter. Lawrence was just another egocentric theorist, thinking the world is an experiment for his ideas. He was never one of us. He never lived a day of misery. What does he know about the real-world anyway? But Nick… he was always too willing to believe in hope, even when it was hollow.”

The name hung there, half-prayer, half-regret.

“Anyway, I’ve been in touch with Eddy,” Miles said at last. His eyes flicked toward the horizon where gray sky met darker ground. “Rose was abandoned by Gilead near Cambridge. Barely alive. Complications with her pregnancy, and they deemed her a liability. She refuses to talk to the U.S. or Mayday. If Nick were alive…” His voice faltered. “He’d want them to be safe.”

Clara’s expression softened. The wind picked up again, carrying the smell of rain and ash. “Yes,” she murmured. “That’s Nick. Always looking out for others, always cutting himself open so someone else could breathe.” She lowered her gaze. “Thank you for telling me this. I’ll see what I can do.”

Miles nodded once, his eyes unreadable. “Take care, Clara. It’s good to see you. I hope next time, it’s with better news.”

He stepped back into the shadows, his limp more pronounced, each footstep quieter until the fog swallowed him whole. 

Clara came back covered in road dust, her jacket ripped at the shoulder. She knocked on the door despite the late hour.

“Yes?” Nick answered within seconds, his voice thick from sleep but edged with a soldier’s reflex.

“Nick, I have news for you,” Clara said. She never liked pleasantries, not even when waking someone in the middle of the night.

“Could you please go get Adam and Adrianna?” Nick reached for his cane and shirt.

“Of course.” Clara left for less than ten minutes and returned with Adam and Adrianna.

“What news do you have?” Adam asked.

“I met Miles,” Clara said, her tone dropping low. “He told me about Rose.”

The room stilled. Nick’s breath caught.

“They’re on the outskirts of Boston, near the Safe Zone,” she continued. “Rose hasn’t given birth yet. She’s been left on her own, only Eddy is with her.”

Adrianna glanced at Nick, her expression tense. “How did you find out?”

“I got in touch with Miles,” Clara said. “He passed me the news about Rose.”

Nick frowned, the tension in his jaw tightening.

“Gilead ran with its tail between its legs. Most of the meds are gone. Rose, in her condition, became a liability,” Clara added.

“That explains why my medical sources are depleted,” Adrianna said quietly.

Anger flared in Nick’s chest. Even pregnancy and status could not survive when survival itself became currency. It had never been about children. It was always about power. Any illusion of humanity left in Gilead had burned away.

“Most of the Eyes and Guardians were left behind. The Americans are trying to reintegrate them for their experience,” Clara said, brushing dust off her sleeve. “Mayday sees it as a threat. The government sees an opportunity.”

Nick leaned forward, shadows cutting across his face. “Not a surprise. The government never truly knows its people. That’s how Gilead rose to power. Mayday is made up of civilians and refugees. They think differently, act differently. Integration means leverage, but it also means erasing accountability.”

“Exactly,” Clara said. “Mayday believes every man who served Gilead should be tried.”

“What about Miles?” Adam asked. Miles had once been Nick’s closest friend in the early Sons of Jacob days, before disillusionment turned them both into quiet rebels.

“Miles will play both sides, pretending neutrality,” Nick said. He knew the man too well.

“That’s right. And he doesn’t know you’re alive,” Clara reminded. Everyone in the group understood that no one could know Nick’s status.

“Let me help Rose and the baby,” Adrianna said without hesitation. “I’m not an OB/GYN, but I’ll try my best.”

“I’ll stay with Nick,” Adam said. Adrianna nodded without objection.

“So does that mean Miles and Eddy can know you’re alive?” Clara asked carefully.

“I trust Miles to act accordingly,” Nick said. “He can help us by staying close to them and gathering intel. Eddy’s young and inexperienced. He’ll need guidance to keep from doing something stupid. Let Miles watch over him.”

Clara frowned. “What if Miles doesn’t believe us when we tell him you’re alive?”

“Tell him I once risked my life to help him,” Nick replied calmly. “Just say ‘absence from duty.’ He’ll understand.”

“And what about Rose?” Clara’s tone softened but she didn’t back down.

“She can’t know. It’s too dangerous for her, for the baby, and for us,” Nick said quietly. He hated how easily the words came. A small, guilty part of him didn’t want Rose to be connected to him anymore. He wasn’t sure how much longer he could pretend to be the husband fate had forced him to become. Yet the guilt of abandoning her twisted in him like a blade. He had failed her and their unborn child. Why was he always torn between impossible choices? Everything he ever wanted had slipped through his hands, and the things he had were never what he truly desired.

“Understood,” Clara said. “I’ll reach out to Miles, see what he can do to bring us closer to Eddy.”

The room fell into silence. The rain outside began again, slow and relentless, like time itself refusing to stop.

The border fog rolled in thick, muting the hum of distant engines. Clara adjusted the strap of her satchel, scanning the shadows for movement. Adrianna walked beside her, hood up, boots sinking into the mud. They had crossed two checkpoints with forged IDs.

Miles appeared out of the haze the way ghosts do, quietly, as if the fog had shaped itself into a man.

"Clara." His voice was low but steady. "You brought company."

"Meet Adrianna," Clara said. "She’s a medic. Here for Rose."

Miles’s eyes flicked between them, searching for intent. "I always knew you were resourceful."

"Yeah," Clara said, holding his gaze. "We’re here because Nick wanted us to come. He’s alive."

The words hung in the air like a fault line opening beneath them. For a long second, Miles didn’t move. The fog seemed to thicken, swallowing sound.

Then something in his face changed. A flicker of disbelief, followed by something that looked almost like pain. He took a step back, as if the ground had shifted under him.

"That’s not possible," he said finally, his voice cracking under the weight of the words. "I saw the reports. The flight went down. No one survived."

Clara’s voice softened. "He’s alive. He’s in hiding, but safe. He wanted us to find Rose and make sure she’s protected."

"I’m no fool. Your statement is weak without proof."

"Okay, I get that," Clara said. "Nick told us to mention something. He once helped you, risked his life during training. ‘Absence from duty.’ Does that mean anything to you?"

Miles exhaled sharply, a tremor running through him. His eyes darted to the ground, then back to Clara. "That son of a bitch," he whispered, almost with awe. "He saved my life that day. I should have been executed." He dragged a hand across his face, the fog beading on his skin. "How did he manage to escape that doomed flight?"

"Listen, we don’t have much time," Clara said. "I’ll tell you the rest later. Nick’s safe, and he trusts you. We need your help to reach Eddy and Rose."

Miles nodded slowly, still somewhere between shock and gratitude. "For that, I also have news. Rose asked to see June. She agreed, and she’s bringing her mother, apparently an OB/GYN. We’ll need to find a way for them to take you too." He turned to Adrianna.

Clara and Adrianna exchanged a look. It couldn’t be good. Two women meeting under these circumstances never was.

"Let’s hope June’s mother won’t mind me helping," Adrianna said quietly. She knew she would have to gain their trust, and fast.

Miles gave a faint smile. "Alright. I’ll pull some strings to get you in with the Americans. I’m sure they won’t refuse help from a former Eye they’re trying to reintegrate."

Chapter Text

Adrianna adjusted her borrowed badge as she entered the Boston Globe. The papers Miles had arranged for her were just convincing enough - a field medic. The Americans were easier to convince than they had expected. Lack of meds made it easy.

Clara was with Maydays to collect info, and she also got Adam's Mayday contacts so they'd slowly infiltrate Mayday and transmit the intel back to Adam. 

Miles agreed to do interviews with the government, acting like a repentant Eye trying to save his ass from the trial. Miles can also set an example to others, which works favorably for the government's interests. Who’d refuse a good deal like that?

They were a good team, specializing in their tasks while co-working. Though Nick was very capable and had an admirable working ethic under pressure, he couldn’t know everything, and he couldn’t always be someone else’s man. Eventually, he’d need to know how to pick the right men for the job. Gladly, he was smart enough to understand who to pick and what job to take, except when it comes to June. The force of love is just too powerful for mortal flesh.

Adrianna had been here for days. “Let people come to you,” Nick said. Because it shows what they really want and are self-motivated, and by exposing their desires, you know who they are, and you can draft your tactics afterwards. The highest form of control is no control at all - a Tao of Nick Blaine.  

Adrianna was checking a list of supplies when Dr. Maddox found her. The older woman had a way of standing, shoulders squared, hands steady, that marked her as someone used to command. Beside her was a toddler, with curly blonde hair turning dark and blue eyes, bubbling with left-hand fingers in her mouth, and gripping a pink doll in her right hand. This toddler was  instantly one of the cutest babies Adrianna had ever seen, and she must have loved that doll fondly because it was worn.

“Seen you for days, what did you do?” 

Adrianna looked up from the supply list, her glasses slipping slightly down her nose. Dr. Maddox's expression was polite but guarded, the kind of look built from years of seeing both patients and politics.

“I am Adrianna,” she replied carefully, offering a faint, professional smile.  “Field medic. Mr. Tuello sent me, and said they might need an extra pair of hands.”

At the mention of Mark, Dr. Maddox’s brow furrowed slightly, but she nodded. “We’re short-staffed, that’s true. You’ve been cleared by the government?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Adrianna said smoothly, handing over a folded clearance note. Dr. Maddox scanned it, then tucked it into her coat pocket. “Alright then. We could use the help. You better prove yourself here. Having a license doesn’t mean you’re capable in such difficult circumstances. You can’t have any ego, nor be self-seeking. They are traumatized internally. You copy?”

“Yes, ma’am.” 

“Call me Holly. We have had enough hierarchy.” 

“Yes, Holly, looking forward to working with you,” Adrianna offered her right hand, and Dr. Maddox shook it. 

“Ho..ho…” the toddler tried to make sounds, as she doesn’t like being ignored apparently.

The toddler blinked at Adrianna, then hid behind Dr. Maddox’s leg, clutching the doll tighter.

Dr. Maddox’s tone softened. “That’s Holly. My granddaughter.”

Adrianna smiled faintly. “She’s beautiful.”

“She’s curious,” Dr. Maddox corrected, though there was affection under the word.

So she must be the famous Baby Nichole, Nick’s precious daughter, whom he sacrificed so much for her safety. Adrianna instantly loved Holly. 

Your daddy is safe, and he loves you dearly. Adrianna conveyed the message in her mind, hoping the little Holly would be able to sense it. All babies have that talent, right?

Just then, footsteps echoed down the hall. June appeared in the doorway, her hair tied back, the familiar weight of purpose in her eyes. Little Holly ran to her mother and offered her hands, asking for a hug.

June instantly picked up her daughter and gave her kisses on the cheeks, making little Holly burst into happy giggles. 

She froze when she saw Adrianna, assessing, calculating, not unkind but wary.

“My daughter, June Osborne,” Dr. Maddox said, introducing her. “This is Adrianna, a field medic. She is here to help.”

The rebel handmaid commander. Nick’s love of life. She isn’t a beauty at first glance, she can be if she dresses up, but definitely not supermodel types. Having experienced two labors and years in Gilead wore her down, with heavy dark circles and eye bags and a rather puffed body. Nick said she’s beautiful, guess beauty is in the eye of the beholder, and it must be her spirit that marked the death of Nick.

“Nice meeting you, Ms. Osborne.” Adrianna feigned a calm, neutral tone, in which June was a bit surprised by her calmness. Everyone in Mayday would have heard of June Osborne or whatever names she used. She can’t act like a fangirl if she wants to gain her trust, and trust comes from impartiality. Giving your admiration easily would expose weakness for others to manipulate you, and June Osborne is an expert in manipulation via vulnerability. A consensus that she, Clara, and Miles quickly reached.

June nodded, her expression unreadable. “You’ve worked in the field before?”

“Yes,” Adrianna replied. “Been here for days, Mr. Tuello sent me here.”

June nodded, setting little Holly down gently on the table beside a basket of gauze and half-open packs of saline. “Mark sends people all the time,” she said, watching Adrianna closely. “Most don’t last long.”

Adrianna met her gaze evenly. “I don’t quit easy.”

That seemed to please Dr. Maddox, who turned to recheck a box of medical kits. “Good,” she said briskly. “Because these people need consistency, not promises. We’ve lost enough of those.”

June’s eyes flicked to her mother, then back to Adrianna. “You from the Canadian side?”

“Yes,” Adrianna answered quickly, keeping her tone light. “Worked in a clinic up north before the border tightened. When Mayday started sending patients here, I volunteered.”

“Volunteered?” June echoed, her tone just slightly skeptical. “That’s brave.”

“Not brave,” Adrianna said softly. “Just doing my job.”

It was a rehearsed line. Playing the hero won’t work for June, who always regards herself as the savior. Try to humble yourself so June could sympathize, and she will give you more than the other way around. A consensus that she, Clara, and Miles also reached. 

Not sure if Nick’ll like having June being manipulated by her. But he isn’t here, and he wouldn’t be in hiding if he allowed himself to outmaneuver June in the first place. He can, but he won’t.

It worked. Adrianna saw June’s eyes soften just slightly. Dr. Maddox picked up a clipboard. “You’ll help with the fever ward. The antibiotics are low, and rationing’s tight. We’re not running a miracle factory here.”

“Yes, Holly,” Adrianna said with a quick nod, grateful for the chance to shift focus.

She rolled up her sleeves, and stepped into the dim light of the ward.

Since Adrianna had met June and Dr. Maddox, it was better for Clara to remain unseen. They needed one contact, not two. Too many faces raised suspicion. So Adrianna stayed embedded while Clara worked silently behind the curtain.

They learned that June did humanitarian aid by day, information sorting by night. What truly revealed her is the information sorting, and her frustration was obvious every time she finished the sorting. Her face changed at night. What remained was a woman searching for something she couldn’t name aloud.It doesn’t take a genius to know she is looking for something for someone or for answers about someone. Miles had joked - half teasing, half sharp - maybe that’s why Nick likes her; she burns so much that it balances him out.

Adrianna once caught Dr. Maddox lingering by the door, watching June’s restless hands shuffle papers, her brow furrowed in growing frustration.

Little Holly seemed immune to the complex emotions circling her mother and grandmother. While June and Dr. Maddox spoke in clipped sentences and tired sighs, Holly sat on the floor beside a pile of bandages, humming softly as she made the gauze dance like paper dolls.

Adrianna watched her out of the corner of her eye. Most children mirrored the emotions around them, but not this one. Holly had a stillness that wasn’t learned, it was inherited. She seemed to know when to smile, when to hide behind her mother’s leg, and when to stare straight into an adult’s eyes as if measuring their worth.

She’s wise, Adrianna thought. Not just clever, but wise. As wise as Nick.

When June’s patience ran thin or Dr. Maddox was busy with patients, Holly barely flinched. She’d blink, tilt her head, then continue her little rituals - folding, stacking, humming - as if she were the only one who understood how to bring peace to this heavy place.

Adrianna found herself quietly fascinated. She had seen children broken by war and trauma, their spirits dulled by fear. But Holly seemed untouchable, protected by some invisible grace. Maybe it was Nick’s blood running through her veins, or maybe it was the way June’s love held her steady.

“Da… D…” Little Holly held up her pink dolly to Adrianna, eyes wide with expectation.

Adrianna crouched down so they were at eye level. “Dolly?” she guessed gently.

Holly nodded eagerly, curls bouncing. “Da!” she repeated, pressing the toy into Adrianna’s hands as if entrusting her with something sacred. The doll’s fabric was worn thin, its stitched smile slightly faded. 

“She wants you to see her dolly,” June said from across the room, her tone soft but distracted as she packed medical files into a satchel. “She calls it Daisy, sometimes just ‘Da.’”

Adrianna smiled faintly, brushing her thumb across the doll’s frayed dress. “Daisy’s beautiful,” she said, handing it back carefully.

Little Holly hugged the doll tight, beaming. “From Dada,” she said matter-of-factly.

That word - dada - hit Adrianna like a stone. She swallowed the lump rising in her throat. If only Holly knew how much her dada had done, how many her dada had bled, just to make that word possible for her.

“Yes,” Adrianna said quietly. “Dada.”

Dr. Maddox zipped her medical bag, glancing over. She noted with that half-proud, half-clinical tone only a grandmother-doctor could have. “Curious, observant. Never stop asking questions.”

“She listens more than she speaks,” June added, looking down at her daughter with a softened expression. “She knows when something’s off. Always has.”

Adrianna studied them, the little family that Nick had risked everything for.

“I can tell she’s smart,” Adrianna said finally. “Smarter than most adults I know.”

June gave a small, proud laugh. “She gets that from her dad,” she said without thinking, so confident. 

Adrianna’s breath caught, just for a second, before she forced a small nod.

“Then she must’ve gotten the good parts,” she murmured.

The room went still for a beat, quiet except for the rain tapping the window.

Then Dr. Maddox broke the silence briskly. “Alright, we should get moving before the next patrol shift. Adrianna, you’re coming with us. You’ve handled children before, yes?”

“Yes, Holly,” Adrianna said, her voice steady again.

“Good. This pregnancy has complications. We’ll need all the help we can get.”

Adrianna turned toward the door, but not before glancing one last time at Holly, who was watching her, head tilted, as if she already knew Adrianna’s secret. She needs to get a message to Nick before they depart. 

Adri leaves with Maddox and Osborne to help Rose. Child due soon. Will report back. Holly is safe, and she remembers N. 

Nick read the message twice, it was tucked inside a ration wrapper. He leaned back slowly, the paper trembling slightly between his fingers.

He blinked hard, trying to steady his breath, but the tears came anyway - hot, uninvited, unstoppable. He wasn’t even sure which part broke him more: that Holly was safe, or that she remembered him.

He pressed the message against his chest, as if the faint warmth of his heartbeat could anchor it there, keep it real. The world around him blurred, but those words cut through it all. 

He imagined Holly’s little face, the way she’d held up that pink dolly, murmuring her half-formed words. “Da… D…” That sound had stayed with him more than he’d ever admitted, haunting him through the long, sleepless nights.

Then came June. He couldn’t help but see her face too, the way she’d look at Rose, and how she would know from Rose.

And Rose. The weight of her loss, the guilt of his survival, pressed hard against his chest until he could barely breathe.

Nick sat there for a long time. The candle beside him had burned low, its flame shrinking into a trembling blue wick.

He could go after them, part of him said - whatever ‘them’ constituted of. The plan he indulged himself in most, besides getting Hannah out, was their way to Paris or Maui. 

But he knew what that would mean: exposure, risk, and the collapse of everything they’d built so far.

He folded the paper with care, as if it were sacred, and held it to the candle’s flame.

Fire had nearly consumed his life before, but this time felt different.

Hope, stubborn and relentless, burned within him as fiercely as the fire that licked the edges of the paper.

There were moments when duty and love tore at him from opposite sides, and this was one of them.

He had once chosen to live for her, for Holly and his family. That choice had not wavered.

Chapter Text

The shelter smelled faintly of old wood and damp wool. A single candle fizzed overhead, throwing pale light across the cot where Rose sat. Her hands rested on her swollen belly, half asleep, half haunted by the nightmare of that night when the two men who shaped her life died.

June, Dr. Maddox, and Adrianna had gotten out of the car about two kilometers from the shelter. Before stepping into the rain, Mark Tuello said, “This is the nearest we can get. Her guardian, Eddy, is with her. He’s unarmed, but still be careful. We’ll be here waiting.”

“Thanks for the ride,” June replied, giving Mark a short nod.

She was nervous, fidgeting with her fingers as they walked. Words felt pointless in the face of what was about to happen. What should have been a fifteen-minute walk stretched into thirty. Dr. Maddox understood the source of her anxiety: the weight of facing the woman who had been, technically, the wife of the man her daughter loved. Even a seasoned rebel who had seen bloodshed and loss could still feel nervous.

Adrianna observed silently. Cheesy, predictable, but human, she thought. No matter how cruel June had been trained as a “handmaid rebel commander,” she was still a woman. Her motherly instincts never left her. And no woman wants to share a man with another - especially when that woman is carrying his child. Biology may have evolved over time, but instincts were stubborn.

Eddy had been informed of their arrival, so Adrianna would likely be safe without exposing her identity. Espionage required layers. Nick had told her that once, and they had demonstrated the tactic beautifully.

A figure stood by the doorway when they arrived. Rain blurred his outline at first, but as they approached, June saw a young man - tall, freckled, his face still soft with youth. His posture was alert but unsure. He couldn’t have been more than eighteen or twenty. His uniform looked too big on him, edges worn and patched. He had yet to carry the hardened air of a seasoned Guardian.

June hesitated at the threshold, rain dripping from her coat.

“Blessed be the fruit,” Eddy greeted stiffly, as if reciting the phrase could bring Gilead back to Boston and save them, forgetting it was Gilead who had abandoned them. Clearly, this young man did not possess critical thinking.

When the three women didn’t return the greeting, Eddy shifted, offended by their “rudeness.” He felt out of place.

He looked at the youngest woman, voice wavering. “You’re June Osborne?”

June nodded politely. “I am. We’re here to see Rose. This is my mother, Dr. Maddox, and her assistant, Adrianna. We brought some supplies, just in case.”

Dr. Maddox stood firm, alert. Adrianna nodded neutrally; her job here was to help and record, not stir unnecessary attention. Miles had said Eddy was a young Guardian tied to Commander Wharton, not Nick - a reminder of Wharton’s dominance over Nick’s household. He couldn’t be trusted, and he clearly didn’t know he was being played.

Eddy’s eyes narrowed slightly. “You’ll address her as Mrs. Blaine. She didn’t ask for help.”

Dr. Maddox responded sharply. “You may thank me later for being here.”

Eddy bristled; he’d never been overruled by a woman, much less an older one.

June stepped in gently. “You’re Eddy, right? The young Guardian?”

He blinked at her kindness. He had heard stories about June Osborne - twisted, obscene tales from training: that she was a siren, immoral, mentally unstable. A threat to the Republic. Mrs. Blaine, in contrast, was the model Wife: high status, humble, obedient, pious, gentle, beloved.

He didn’t understand why Mrs. Blaine wanted to see June Osborne, but he would honor her wishes. At last, he stepped aside.

“Mrs. Blaine is inside.”

The shelter was smaller than it looked from the outside: one cot, one chair, one cracked window letting in rain-scented air. A candle flickered dimly. Rose sat wrapped tightly in a blanket.

Her face was pale, thinner, exhaustion clinging to her bones. Her cane lay on the floor, and her teal dress was worn thin at the edges from weeks of washing in cold river water. Still, she held a certain grace, something the world could not strip away.

Her hands rested protectively on her stomach.

For a moment, no one spoke. It should have been easy for Rose to start. She was the daughter of a high commander, trained in every standard of Wives’ etiquette. Eden had been a teenager, never truly “Mrs. Blaine” whereas Rose was the perfect Gileadean Wife. 

June was immune to Gilead’s nonsense now. “Mrs. Blaine” felt underserved and created a hierarchy she refused. 

Nick said she’ll like Rose. She most certainly didn’t. Men always presumed they knew more about women than women knew about themselves. June thought. 

“Rose,” June said, sticking to first names, like with Eden and Serena. 

“Blessed be the fruit,” Rose replied. “Mrs. Bankole. I see you brought company.” 

Rose didn’t know June’s full story until after Nick punched Lawrence. Her father’s revelations about June’s “adultery” shocked and angered her. 

“She brings Dr. Maddox, and her assistant, Adrianna, with supplies too.” Eddy added dutifully. 

Rose didn’t look at him. Her eyes stayed on June. “I didn’t ask for supplies. Or company.”

June met her gaze, arms crossed, tone level. “You can call me Ms. Osborne or just June.”

Rose stiffened. The insistence on maiden names struck her as shamelessly heretical. 

“Would your mother and assistant excuse us?” Rose asked. 

Adrianna exchanged a glance with Dr. Maddox; even the air felt tense. Dr. Maddox and Adrianna both understood the environment was terrible for a baby. Rose couldn’t deliver her child here, and June had to convince her to take proper care.  

“Okay,” June said. Dr. Maddox and Adrianna stepped out. 

“Eddy, you may leave us as well,” Rose added.

He hesitated, then nodded. “Yes ma’am. I’ll be right outside.” He shot June a warning look as he closed the door. 

With the room empty, Rose shifted, wincing, hand on her belly. June’s eyes followed - guilt, jealousy, and fear tangling inside her. 

“If it weren’t for you,” Rose whispered, her voice thin, “I’d be in a proper hospital. Or at home. Expecting my child with Nick by my side.”

The image stabbed June: Nick steadying Rose, sitting at her bedside, living a life he never had with June.

“I never meant to hurt you,” June said quietly. “But I did. And I owe you an apology.” A breath. “I’m sincerely sorry. My mom can help you. This isn’t a safe place to give birth.”

Rose stiffened. “Please don’t lecture me on what is safe and what is dangerous, if you’re truly sorry for what you did.” 

June’s patience thinned. “Then why ask to see me? Do you want me to hurt myself to pay for what I did?”

Rose’s gaze wavered, then firmed. 

“I want to know the truth,” she said quietly. 

Rose hesitated, then spoke again.

“Nick was a dutiful, kind husband. Sometimes I couldn’t believe he chose me - a homeschooled, plain, disabled woman. I was grateful. I wanted to give him a child. It was my duty.”

Jealously twisted in June. She had never seen Nick tender with Rose, except that one moment at Serena’s wedding when he gently helped her to her seat. A moment June wished she could erase from existence.

“Getting pregnant wasn’t easy,” Rose continued. “A man and wife should lie together only for procreation. Nick didn’t want a handmaid, so I took those drugs. It was my responsibility.”

June fought the urge to scoff. Fertility, duty, sanctity of pregnancy - she had lived the nightmare herself. Natural pregnancy rates were abysmal. She and Luke had tried for years to conceive Hannah. Yet getting pregnant by Nick was relatively easy and Holly had formed smoothly, stubbornly, miraculously, surviving everything.

“It must’ve been difficult,” June said. “Being so pious for you to take drugs.” 

Poor Nick, June thought bitterly, forced to navigate an adult Eden - only worse.

“And it looks like your effort paid off.” June gestured to her belly, tone slipping more sarcastic than intended. 

“Praised be,” Rose murmured, stroking her stomach with soft, reverent devotion. “He made me disabled, but He blessed me with fertility. Nick said the Waterfords abused you terribly. They didn’t respect a holy vessel. They didn’t deserve to be parents. Any honorable man would want to help you.”

Very Gilead, very Nick. June thought. Twisting their lies with their own scripture. 

“My father said men have lovers,” Rose continued, in a tone that suggested she truly believed she was imparting wisdom. “It’s youthful lust, nothing more. They settle after marriage, take up responsibility. Men regard wives differently. If you’re tolerant, you’ll secure your husband’s heart.”

June’s eyes rolled, sharp and involuntary. Like father, like daughter. How deeply patriarchal that sounded.

“But you lingered more than you should have,” Rose pressed. “When Nick came home with blood on his face, after publicly executing Commander Putnam for raping an unassigned property…”

“Unassigned property?”

“A Handmaid who was supposed to be Ofwarren.” Rose shook her head. “Nick said he wanted to make the world safer for our baby. But I knew it wasn’t just righteousness. It was… your shadow.”

“It had nothing to do with me,” June replied flatly. “And he was right. The world is better without Putnam. He was a lying fuck.”

Rose flinched at the crude word, shock and confusion mingling across her face.

How could June understand Nick’s motivations so instantly? How could she speak of him with such certainty, even when his actions were violent, terrifying? Rose had lived with Nick, prayed with Nick, been married to Nick, and yet June spoke like someone who had been inside his mind.

“Really?” Rose challenged, voice trembling. “Then what about when Nick attacked Commander Lawrence publicly and was jailed? Was Lawrence a bad guy too?”

June’s head snapped up.

“He was put in jail for hitting Joseph?”

No one told her. Not Joseph. Not Nick. He could’ve been on the Wall for that.

“You didn’t know?” Rose’s smile twitched with small, poisonous pride. “Nick didn’t tell you?”

June clenched her jaw.
“Tell me what?”
Fuck you, Nick. Always hiding something.

“He was gone the night before Commander Lawrence’s wedding,” Rose said. “When he returned, he looked like a stranger. He accused Commander Lawrence of trying to kill ‘her.’ He could only have meant you.”

June froze.

That night.
The hospital.
The border crossing.
Nick furious, terrified, yet finally agreeing to spy for the Americans. 

The image of Nick punching Joseph, of him snapping in front of high commanders, was suddenly, disturbingly intoxicating.

A sad, proud smile ghosted over her lips.
“Oh, he told me he had to. I was hit by a truck. Injured.”

Rose went silent, really silent, as the truth carved itself into her mind.
Her dutiful husband, the man she believed God had chosen for her, had crossed a border illegally, abandoned his home, and risked his life… for the other woman.

“It was then,” Rose whispered, voice cracking, “I realized he never loved me. Not once. All our good times… they were lies. He loved you. He was obsessed with you. Despite me being pregnant. Despite us having a promising future.”
Her eyes filled with something raw and wild.
“What did you do to him that he’d give everything up?”

“…love,” June answered simply, without thinking.

Rose’s face twisted.
“Your love ruins everyone. Nick could’ve been killed if my father hadn’t intervened. And when you poisoned my child, I had enough. You threatened my family. When you were on that gallows, I told Nick to end you. At the hospital. I told him to go on the flight to DC, show up like a true commander, and protect our family like any real man. That’s who Nick is! All this nonsense has to stop. You have to stop distracting him if you love him at all!”

June rose slowly, like something ancient and dangerous uncoiling.

“What did you just say?”

Rose recoiled, terrified. June’s presence was overwhelming, commanding, and lethal.

“You told Nick,” June repeated, stepping closer, “to go on that flight?”

Rose swallowed, unable to speak, face filled with guilt. “If it weren’t you…none of this would happen.”

That was it.

June was struck with a revelation that hit like a physical blow, one that rattled her down to the bone.

June felt the floor tilt under her feet. All the sleepless nights, all the spiraling doubts, all the memories of Nick walking toward that airplane - it all roared back with brutal clarity.
The weight of gaslighting, of believing maybe he chose not to fight for me and our Holly, cracked open like a long-held dam.

All the anger, all the grievances, all the hatred that Gilead had carved into her bones surged through June like wildfire -sharp, cleansing, blinding.
She felt it ready to tear out of her, to scorch the world, to finally burn through years of silence and swallowed rage.

But something else broke too.

A sudden splash hit the concrete floor.

June’s breath stilled.

Rose gasped, one hand flying to her belly, the other clinging to the cot to keep herself upright. Her knees buckled beneath her.

“My waters…” Her voice trembled, shock and pain merging. “It’s… it’s happening…”

Chapter Text

A sudden chill ran through the small shelter, mixing with the scent of rain seeping through the cracked window. June’s heart hammered as she saw Rose clutch her belly, the first true wave of labor rolling through her. The dim candlelight flickered across the blankets, casting trembling shadows that seemed to echo Rose’s panic. For a moment, the world narrowed, leaving only the fragile, trembling figure of the woman who had carried Nick’s child, and now, the moment of reckoning had arrived.

For one suspended second, June couldn’t move. The world shrank to the widening puddle at Rose’s feet, the tremor in her fingers, the raw panic climbing into her throat.

Then everything snapped into motion.

Her voice came out steadier than she felt. “Deep breaths. You’re okay.”

But Rose wasn’t okay.

Her face had gone chalk-white, her body was trembling, and a low moan tore from her throat as a contraction seized her

“Mom!” June shouted. “Mom, get in here now!”

The door flew open. Dr. Maddox was already rolling up her sleeves before she crossed the threshold, Adrianna right behind her.

One look at the floor, at Rose, at June’s expression, Dr. Maddox and Adrianna instantly understood everything.

“No, this can’t be good. This is not the best place for a birth. Adrianna, boil water and bring towels. Eddy…where the hell is that boy?”

“Outside,” Adrianna said. “I’ll get him.”

Rose clung to June’s arm, nails digging into her sleeve.

“He loved only you, and he could choose a healthy wife, why me?”

“I…I don’t know. He never told much about you. Rose, look at me,” June said, cupping her face. “Listen. You’re in labor. It’s happening now. Focus on breathing.”

“She was yours,” Rose whispered.

“Who?”

“Agnes…Agn..,” Rose cried. 

The name twisted like a blade in June’s chest.

“Do you mean my Hannah? How do you know she is my daughter? Who---?” Rose didn’t know a lot of things, and Hannah was certainly not an exception. Nick and Joseph wouldn’t risk it.

“She is Mrs. Mackenzie’s daughter…”

“You know the Mackenzies? What do you know about them?”

Dr. Maddox knelt at the foot of the cot. “June, stop. We need to get her out of this dress. Make sure she lives so she can answer your questions,” she said, knowing too well that her daughter lost her sanity hearing anything about Hannah.

Rose whimpered as June and Dr. Maddox helped her shift, pulled the soaked teal fabric upward, helping her shift. Her legs trembled so violently June had to hold her steady again.

Another contraction hit. Rose screamed, folding forward, gripping June’s shirt with desperate strength.

Dr. Maddox worked quickly, professionally. “Pressure’s increasing. Support her back. Keep her upright. She doesn’t have enough strength.”

June slid behind Rose, letting her lean against her chest. Rose’s hair smelled faintly of rain and fear. June wrapped her arms around her, holding her steady as the next contraction tore through her.

Rose sobbed into June’s shoulder.
“It hurts - it hurts - ”

“I know,” June whispered. “I know it does. But you can do this.”

Adrianna rushed back in with steaming water, clothes, and blankets.

“The rain’s getting worse, it's likely to be a storm,” she said breathlessly.

“Never mind that. Focus.” Dr. Maddox commanded.

“Mrs. Blaine?! Are you okay?” Eddy’s voice trembled. He stopped at the doorway, too young for the scene before him. He prayed silently, feeling helpless.

Another contraction. Another scream. Rose’s entire body jolted with pain, her hand clutching June’s as if it were the only solid thing left in the world.

June felt the tremor run through her own bones.

She remembered Holly.

She remembered Hannah.

She remembered Noah.

She remembered birth and terror and helplessness. But they are all healthy babies.

She remembered the rage in Rose’s voice minutes ago, and the truth that sealed Nick’s fate. 

“She has DDH,” Dr. Maddox said to Adrianna, voice firm but calm, eyes on Rose’s hip. “Performing an epidural is too risky,” answered Adrianna. 

Rose screamed - not just from pain, but from her body signaling something fundamentally wrong.

June steadied Rose’s shoulders as the contraction tore through her.

“Her pelvis isn’t expanding. This baby can’t pass,” Dr. Maddox said sharply.

June’s stomach twisted. She’d heard of it before: some women’s hips never formed properly, and without proper prenatal care, the stress of labor could fracture them.

If it weren’t for me, she wouldn’t be here. My fault…Rose’s accusation hit June like a fist. 

Rose gasped, her face draining of color. “I can’t - ” Her breath shuddered. “Something snapped. I can’t move my legs - ”

Dr. Maddox barely had time to position her hands when Rose’s entire body seized.

A sound tore out of her: raw, primal, nothing like the earlier screams. June felt it vibrate through her own ribs.

Then came the second sound.
Not from Rose’s throat.
From inside her.

A sharp, sickening crack.

Rose froze. Her eyes flew wide open, too wide, her breath caught halfway in her chest as if the air had been punched out of her.

“Jesus,” Adrianna whispered. “That was…”

“Her pelvis,” Dr. Maddox said, voice gone tight but controlled. “The acetabulum just gave out. The head of the femur’s dislocated.”

Rose’s mouth opened in a silent scream before sound returned, high and thin and broken.

“I can’t - my hip - my leg -” Her hands flailed, grabbing at nothing, then clutching June’s arms with crushing desperation. June held her tighter. “Rose, stay with me. Stay with me. Look at me.”

Rose shook violently, the pain overwhelming her, her breath becoming quick, shallow gasps that bordered on shock.

Another contraction slammed into her merciless, unstoppable.

Rose arched as far as her broken pelvis would allow, then collapsed against June, trembling so hard June thought her bones might rattle apart too.

Dr. Maddox worked fast, checking the angle of Rose’s hips. Her jaw tightened.
“The fracture’s severe. The pelvic ring isn’t holding. This baby cannot descend. If we don’t operate right now, she’ll hemorrhage.”

Rose whimpered, eyes unfocused. “I can’t feel…my leg…I can’t…”

“That’s the nerve compression,” Adrianna said softly. 

June smoothed Rose’s hair back from her sweat-soaked forehead.

Dr. Maddox met Adrianna’s eyes.
“This is catastrophic. We start the C-section now.”

“Eddy!” Dr. Maddox called. “Move your ass here. Find something stable and flat to place your mistress.”

“What…?” Eddy stammered, still frozen by shock. 

“NOW!”

“Yes…yes ma’am.”

They lifted Rose onto the table - a reinforced wooden surface padded with whatever blankets they had. Her legs were limp, the injury already making movement impossible. The subtle shift of her broken pelvis was unmistakable, a jagged, sickening reminder of the danger they faced.

Dr. Maddox’s hands moved with precision, Adrianna assisting silently, tension coiling in every motion. June held her arms around Rose, keeping her steady as best she could.

“We can’t use epidural, Holly, someone must hold her down steady,” said Adrianna.

“June,” Dr. Maddox said, “Can you do that? Hold her down from the above? Adrianna and I will be able to assist down there.”

June’s breath caught in her throat. The shelter seemed to shrink around her, the air too close, too heavy. 

What does she do to deserve this? Serena pinned her back in that bedroom and her fingers dug into her skin and Fred’s shadow fell over her. Her stomach turned, a tremor running through her arms.

“Shall we ask Eddy to do it?” Adrianna asked softly, noticing the shift in June’s face. It felt cruel to demand this of her.

“No,” Dr. Maddox snapped, not unkindly, but with urgency. She looked up at her daughter, eyes fierce. “June, you’re not a handmaid anymore. Get your shit together. We need you.”

June forced herself to look at Rose who was terrified, bleeding, panting for breath.
This wasn’t Gilead.
This wasn’t a Ceremony.
This wasn't a violation.

But she was still something Gilead made. So was Rose. Two women carved open in different ways by the same regime. And if June was ever going to bury those ghosts, she’d have to face the things Gilead twisted and reclaim them on her own terms.

June leaned in close, holding Rose’s hand. “Look at me. Breathe with me. Breath.” It was what Aunt Lydia had taught her. 

Dr. Maddox grabbed the scalpel. The first incision was made along the lower abdomen, cutting through skin, fat, and tissue with precision. Blood welled immediately, dark and sticky, soaking into the blankets beneath her. Rose screamed, her voice raw, half fear, half agony, as the pain from her fractured pelvis radiated through her entire body.

“Keep her breathing!” Dr. Maddox commanded. “Adrianna, retract carefully!”

The uterus was exposed. Blood spurted from torn vessels; the pelvic fracture had shredded nearby tissue. Dr. Maddox worked fast, forcing the tiny, resistant body out. Each movement pressed agony through Rose’s broken pelvis.

Eddy gagged, swallowing hard as he turned away, one hand braced on the wall. The metallic tang of blood thickened the air, coating the back of his throat. His face had gone gray.

June couldn’t bear to look. She closed her eyes, tightening her grip around Rose’s shoulders, feeling her tremble, feeling the life draining out of her in hot pulses against her palms. She focused on Rose’s breath instead: shallow, ragged, slipping.

“Almost there!” Dr. Maddox shouted over Rose’s screams. Another gush of blood soaked June’s sleeves as she pressed a cloth to Rose’s side.

The baby emerged suddenly, limp, red, and malformed - an unrecognizable shape.

June’s stomach dropped. She could feel the heat of Rose’s blood on her hands, her body trembling against hers. The baby didn’t cry. There was no flutter of life. Dr. Maddox quickly assessed: severe skeletal deformation, head malformed, body twisted unnaturally. There was nothing they could do.

How can she ever tell Nick? Adrianna thought sorrowly. Although Adrianna is seasoned with deaths, the most difficult part was always informing the families of the sad news. Their efforts had been in vain. This baby’s fate had been sealed before it even left the womb.

June knew how hard it is to have a healthy baby, only 1 in 5 babies were born healthy. But she had never seen a birth so tragic and bloody like this. Immediately, she thanked God for making Hannah and Holly healthy. They were really blessed. 

Dr. Maddox pressed her hands to Rose’s abdomen, trying to control the hemorrhage. “We’re losing her fast. Epinephrine, compressions, now!”

Rose’s hands clawed weakly at June’s arms. “No…No…my baby…let me hold him.” Her voice trailed off, fading.

Adrianna wrapped the stillborn, deformed infant in a blood-stained blanket, shielding it from the horror around them. Dr. Maddox stepped back, exhausted, face pale and set. The blood loss, the fracture, the malformed baby - it had all been catastrophic, unavoidable in the conditions they had.

Rose held her baby tightly, “Nick…he lied to me,” Rose sounded with extreme resentment. 

“What lie?” June asked, gripping her tighter, voice trembling.

Rose’s eyes fluttered open, glassy and unfocused. Her lips barely moved. “The Mackenzies…Agnes…he married me for you. You ruined everything, you’re the tumor.” Her words dissolved into a pained sigh, a whisper drowned in the storm of her own failing body.

Blood loss had already taken its toll. Her skin was pale and cold, her pulse weak and fluttering dangerously. Every shallow breath was a battle. Each contraction left her body more exhausted, more broken.

June’s hands shook as she pressed them to Rose’s shoulders. ‘Rose…Tell me about Hannah…please.”

Rose’s head lolled slightly to the side. Her breath came in shallow, uneven gasps. Her body twitched once, then again, smaller, weaker, until it no longer responded.

Dr. Maddox checked her vitals, her face hardening with grim confirmation. “She’s gone,” she said quietly, almost as if saying it louder would shatter the room further.

Eddy’s sobs tore through the room. The storm outside raged on, echoing the grief inside.

Adrianna gently placed the blood-stained blanket holding the stillborn beside them. Two lives had ended before their time - one stillborn, one broken beyond repair - and June was left grappling with the aftermath.

The storm outside had not abated, but inside, the world had fallen silent.

“Tell me anything you know about Rose and the Mackenzies!” It was not a request, it was a demand, one that left no room for refusal. June pressed on Mark. 

“As someone as high up as the Mackenzies and Whartons, their intel was quite limited, and even less so after the failed rescue operation in Colorado Springs. Even if we have something, I’m not sure I have enough clearance to access those files,” Mark answered frustratedly upon June’s stubbornness.  

“I don’t care! Rose knew the Mackenzies. You’re a commander, use your clearance. This is critical!” June’s words carried the weight of her resolve, pushing past politeness and persuasion.

“Well…” He scratched at the stubble that had grown from the endless nights of work. “Let me see what I can do. But I can’t promise anything. The government is making a lot of unnoticed changes.”

“Okay, I’ll tell Luke and Moira.” June walked out of Mark’s office. Outside, she activated her burner phone to call Luke, who sounded exhausted, his voice raw from days of little sleep. Somewhere in the forested reaches of New York State, Luke listened briefly, their connection fragile over the unstable satellite network. Despite the conditions, she sensed relief in him, he was eager for any lead on Hannah. 

On her way back to the Globe, June passed what used to be the Red Center. Since his mistress had died, Eddy had nowhere else to go. Mark had taken him in, keeping him with the rest of the former Eyes and Guardians, either for trial or reintegration.

June didn’t care about what happened to Eddy afterward, he was minor, too young to matter in the larger scheme. But he had been loyal to Rose, and if he knew anything about the Mackenzies…It was worth a shot. June’s pace quickened as she entered the building.  

She didn’t know anyone here, so she moved cautiously, scanning the surroundings.  A man emerged - short, sandy-brown hair, a trimmed beard, soft brown eyes. 

“Hi. I’m looking for Eddy.”

“Eddy who?”

“He was transported here just a few days ago.” 

“Eddy Shepards?”

“That could be him.”

“I know him, what’s your name?”

“June Osborne.”

“The June Osborne?”

“Well you know another woman with the same name? Unlikely, June isn’t that common.” 

“Wow… you look…you look different.” 

“What? Why?” June’s alertness spiked.

“Oh, please, no harm. Eddy told me about you.”

“What did he say?”

“He said you’re something else.”

“Like I have two heads and three legs?”

“You're funny, aren’t you? He didn’t tell me you can make jokes. What’s your purpose here?”

“I am here to ask him some questions.”

“Right… you’re not his first visitor. New intakes always attract strangers for verification.  Come on, I’ll take you to him.”

“Thanks, and you are?”

“Miles.”

He extended a hand; June shook it. A small act of normalcy in a place designed to strip it away. 

They walked through the dim hallway: concrete walls, flickering bulbs, the faint stench of too many men kept too long. The quiet was heavier than June expected, quiet as in anticipation, of people waiting to discover what remained of their lives.

Miles glanced at her, amused, curious. “Eddy said you were intense.”

June snorted. “Better than calling me a pain in the ass.”

“Oh, I’m sure he said that too,” Miles said with a small smile. “In his scarce Gileadean vocabulary, one thing they weren’t creative at: swearing. They might be innovative with methods of particicution, but swearing? Not so much.”

June laughed at his dark humor. They turned a corner. Voices echoed from behind reinforced doors, muffled chatter, occasional barked orders. Miles led her past, toward a smaller holding wing.

“He wasn’t close to many people,” Miles continued. “Commander Wharton scared the shit out of him. That kid didn’t know how to navigate that house.”

“Whartons? Wasn’t he posted at Commander Blaine’s household?”

“Physically, yes. Mentally, he answered to Wharton.”

“How do you know this?” June’s suspicion pricked.

Before he could answer, they passed a checkpoint where a bored officer scanned Miles’ badge. Down another hall, past narrow rooms, some open, some locked, Miles stopped at a door halfway down.

“This is him.” He knocked twice on the metal frame. “Eddy? You’ve got a visitor.”

A rustle inside, scraping feet. Eddy sat on the lower bunk, hunched, hands clasped loosely. Without his uniform, he looked smaller. His eyes flicked up at her.

“What… what do you want?” His voice cracked.

June closed the door behind her. “I need to ask you a few things.”

Eddy swallowed hard, straightening a little. “I… I can’t help you.”

“You don’t need to do anything. Just answer my questions, okay? I promise no harm.” Her voice softened, like she would with a skittish animal or a boy raised in cages.

Eddy hesitated. Then he lifted his eyes wide, uncertain, very young.

“I’m not with the government, or some crazy rebel, or whatever you think I might be,” June said. “I’m here because of Rose. She wanted the truth before she died. If you help me, you help her. I know you cared for her. May God rest her soul. I think she trusted you.”

Eddy’s hands twitched. “She did… she trusted me. She was very kind.”

June leaned forward, elbows on her knees. “That’s why you can help me. I’m not here to hurt you. I just need to understand what Rose knew.”

Eddy’s breath wheezed out in a shaky, resigned sigh. “What…what do you need to know?”

June chose her words carefully. “Rose was Commander Wharton’s daughter, right?”

“Yes.”

“And have you ever heard of Commander Mackenzies?”

Eddy’s brows knit, and his fingers tightened around each other. “Yes,” he said cautiously. “Everyone in our circle knew the Mackenzies. They were… important.”

June leaned in just slightly. “Did Rose ever visit them? Or talk about them? Anything she said, anything at all is important.”

Eddy shifted uneasily on the bunk, eyes darting toward the door as if someone might be listening.

“Mrs. Blaine wasn’t supposed to talk about Commander’s businesses,” he murmured. “Commander Wharton didn’t like her doing that. He said it wasn’t a woman’s place to discuss… high-level matters.”

June’s jaw tightened. “But you know about the Mackenzies, yes?”

Eddy’s gaze dropped immediately - a tell.

“I…” His voice cracked. “I’m not supposed to…”

June cut in, voice calm but unyielding. “Eddy. I’m not asking for state secrets. If you know anything, anything at all, you have to tell me.”

His breath shuddered, shoulders trembling with the weight of something he clearly wasn’t built to hold.

After a long, shaky silence, Eddy whispered: “The Mackenzies were… good friends of her father. Old allies. She said her father trusted them more than any other family. They visited often, for dinners, meetings, and closed doors.”

June’s jaw tightened. Her mind raced. The Mackenzies weren’t just some superior families, they were intertwined with Nick’s world. Her pulse quickened; every detail brought her closer to understanding the man she thought she knew.

“And… did she ever say anything about their child?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Have you met the child?”

“Of course not. I was just a guardian on duty.”

“And how do you know Commander Wharton and Rose?”

“I was an orphan. Mrs. Blaine visited orphanages. When I came of age, Commander Wharton put me in Guardian training. When Mrs. Blaine married Commander Blaine, Commander Wharton asked me to protect her.”

“And to answer back to him about Commander Blaine’s household?” June asked, recalling Miles’ earlier words.

“No. Commander Blaine was a fine man. He grew from the bottom to a seasoned field commander. He fought the real battles and earned Mackenzie’s respect in Chicago.”

June’s breath caught. Chicago… the stakes, the battles, the trust. She pictured Nick: methodical, brave, always thinking three steps ahead. The realization struck her with warmth and sorrow: he had always been strategic, always protecting, always one move ahead.

“Tell me more about Commander Blaine,” she whispered, almost to herself. “How did he earn Mackenzie’s respect?”

“Excellent military record, excelled in training, strong character. He was loyal to his fellow patriots. Chicago was a lost cause, but he always put himself in danger first. Mackenzie respected that. Mrs. Blaine needed someone like him for protection, and Commander Wharton said I could learn a lot from him.”

June closed her eyes. That was Nick - exactly him. Resilient, daring, protective, trying everything, even if it meant failure. Her chest tightened; tears slipped down her cheeks. She could still feel his presence guiding her, steady and strategic, even in death.

“Did Commander Blaine ever tell you anything before… he died?”

“Unfortunately no. But he was a great man, honorable to his core. God rest his soul.”

“Yes… God rest his soul.”

Eddy glanced at her, tentative. “Ms. Osborne… are you okay?”

“I am,” she said softly. “Commander Blaine was a good man. And you… you’re good too. Thank you for helping me. You’re still very young; don’t waste your life here. There’s a lot of good in the world. You should see it.”

“Miles told me to think about what I want in life too. But I’ve never had a family.”

“What are you good for?”

“I don’t know… Guardian training, mostly.”

“You grew up in an orphanage, are you good with children?”

“I suppose.”

“I know someone who might help you. Nothing dangerous. Just caring for women and children, mostly civilians and refugees. Interested?”

“Not dangerous?”

“No. Janine is kind, like Mrs. Blaine. Taking care of women and children is holy work. God would like that. Some of them may be orphans like you.”

She would need Miles to fill in more gaps, but he was nowhere to be seen. She would need Mark to help locate him, make arrangements for Eddy, and pull up Nick’s file.  Apparently Nick had done far more than she had ever understood.

A hollow stillness settled inside her, the kind that comes only after truth detonates.

The realization left her swaying.

Nick met the Mackenzies in Chicago. The Whartons were used as leverage disguised in marriage for convenience. All to get to Hannah.

He lied to Rose, for June. For Hannah.

June felt her throat tighten. She pressed her palm to her sternum as though she could hold her heart still. Nick had carried every burden silently. He had shielded her, protected her, crossed lines that should’ve broken him, and he never once asked her to look back.

And now he was dead.

The fact should have come like a strike of lightning, but instead it spread through her slowly, like ice, like something creeping into her bones. She would live with her rest of life dealing with whatever remnants Nick had left. 

“Better never means better for everyone,” June whispered, barely recognizing her own voice. “It always means worse for some.”

She had used those words once to explain the world. Now they tasted different. Bitter. Personal.

Because in this case, Nick’s death wasn’t just worse for someone.

It was worse for her.

And now the world felt colder, emptier, and infinitely more real.