Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

So, you were born in a lab. Not in a cool, sci-fi chosen one way, more in a “Congratulations! You’re a failed science project!” kinda way. Your mother didn’t want you, your body barely functions, and the government keeps you around like an old iPhone that still kinda works if you smack it hard enough.

You sleep too much, you eat too little, and you’re so pale that if you stood next to a ghost, people would start asking them if they’re feeling okay. Your body temperature is set to corpse, and the first time Donald walked into your room and saw you lying there, stiff and cold, he almost called a priest.

And yet despite all of this, people still either want you dead, or... in their bed. Cecil drags you around like a personal guard dog that might collapse at any moment, the Guardians don’t know whether to be scared of you or babysit you, and Atom Eve keeps looking at you like you’re some kind of tragic art piece and Rex Splode keeps staring at you like he’s trying to solve a math equation but just keeps getting “hot?” as the answer.

And Omni-Man? Yeah, apparently, you’re part of the grand plan to stop him. You’re not sure how. You’re not sure why. You’re just here because someone in charge decided you were useful, and honestly, that’s been the theme of your whole life.

You’d really rather just be eating chocolate right now.

Chapter Text

The air in Cecil’s office was heavy. Not just with the usual scent of old paper, cold coffee, and whatever brand of stress kept the man going but with something raw. It settled thick on your skin, pressing into your already-exhausted body as you laid across the worn-out couch, eyes half-lidded, unmoving.

The door shut with a dull thud, followed by the measured sound of footsteps that are slow, deliberate, heavier than usual. You didn’t have to look to know who it was. The energy in the room had already shifted, laced with something volatile, something that made your fingers twitch at your sides.

Cecil was back.

Your eyes barely cracked open, catching a glimpse of him through the dim light. He stood there, shoulders hunched, running a hand down his face. It was subtle, but you felt it. His frustration, exhaustion, something dangerously close to grief. You had been waiting for him to return, though you weren’t sure why. Maybe it was habit. Maybe it was something else.

He exhaled, long and slow, before finally speaking. “They’re dead.” His voice was rough, almost distant. “All of ‘em.”

You blinked. Shifted just slightly. You didn’t ask who. You didn’t have to. Cecil lifted his gaze, eyes narrowing like he already knew what was coming. He did.

“Don’t even think about it,” he snapped.

Your lips pressed into a thin line. He was blocking you out. Not just verbally, but mentally. You could feel it how his thoughts were locked down, how he was deliberately forcing himself not to think about what happened. You could tear through that wall if you really wanted to. Dig through the static and pull the truth from his skull like picking at old stitches. But you didn’t. Not because of his words, but because of the way he said them.

Cecil stepped forward, and you tilted your head slightly, watching as he stopped in front of the couch. His tired gaze flickered over you, taking in your usual blank expression, before something in him seemed to twist. Then, before you could react, he reached out.

For a second, you thought he was going to rip your face off. Wipe whatever expression you had straight off your skin with the same frustration he handled everything else with. But instead, he hesitated. With a sharp sigh, he nudged your head to the side before lowering himself onto the couch, shifting you until your head rested against his lap.

You blinked up at him, and for a moment, neither of you said anything. Cecil just stared down at you, fingers idly brushing against his knee. He looked exhausted. He looked old. And sad, and tired. Too tired. For once, you didn’t know what to say.

Cecil let out another sigh, deeper this time, running a hand down his face before resting it on your head. His fingers dug slightly into your scalp, not unkindly, but with the weight of everything pressing down on him. You didn’t move, didn’t react. Just blinked up at him, wide-eyed, eerily still, like you were waiting for him to make the next move.

He hated that. Hated how used to this you are. Lying still, waiting for orders, waiting for him to tell you what mattered and what didn’t. He wasn’t in the mood to deal with that right now. Not after what he just saw.

His thumb brushed over your temple absentmindedly. Cold. As usual. He’d gotten used to it, but right now, it made something uncomfortable settle in his chest. “The Guardians are dead.” He finally said it. Stating it plain, as if he were just reporting the weather. But you knew him better than that. You could feel it in the way his fingers twitched against your skin, in the way his jaw stayed clenched after the words left his mouth.

You blinked again. Slow. Unphased. “Who killed them?”

Cecil’s lips pressed into a thin line. He should’ve known you'd ask. You always did. And God, if you had any idea what was in his head right now, you'd be halfway to throwing yourself into something you had no business touching.

“I said, don’t think about it.” His voice was firm, gravelly, that edge creeping in again. But you didn’t move. Didn’t look away. He was getting tired of that look.

“What’s the point of thinking about it if you won’t let me act?” Your tone was flat, barely curious. Just a statement of fact.

Cecil exhaled sharply through his nose, tilting his head back, staring at the ceiling like he could find the patience he needed up there. “You don’t get it.” He muttered, rubbing his thumb over their temple again, slow, thoughtful. “This ain’t something you can fix.”

You closed Your eyes at that. Letting the words settle. “I wasn’t made to fix things. But I could help things.” There was a twitch in Cecil’s fingers where they rested against your scalp. You knew that he knew what you were thinking. "I could make you relax, feel bett—"

"No." The word leaves his mouth too fast, too sharp. As if he’s afraid he might consider it.

"You don't meant that." you murmured, sitting up from the couch slowly. The dizziness came more gently that way.

"Nine." Cecil pressed your name, firm and final. He sighed through his nose, slouching back into the couch and rubbing a rough hand down his face. His arm fell over his eyes, as if shutting you and everything else out. "Nine... Sweetheart." His voice softer now, but he's tense. Legs stretching out further with the growing bulge straining his pants. 

Your eyes lingers below, feeling his discomfort radiating from him. You make a move, crawling on top of him before he could push you off, before he could told you otherwise. He winces yet hold you by your hips and thighs, securing you on his lap. He pressed his thumb into the swell of your hips, it was almost fooling how much he's affected even without being under your control.

"You're breaking, Cecil." You said flat in your tone.

"Shut up." He closes in, wrapping his arms around your waist, feeling the tight space between you his tension. "Shut up, shut up... I need this, I did everything I already could." He's careful with his grip, frustated that he needs to, because the entire he just want to pushed you off from him and bends you over the coffee table. The thought made him grimaced, he loosened his grip more. "Use it on me." 

"You don't need it,  I could—”

"You're not! And when I said not, I mean never." His grip tightened just for a second. Just enough to make his point. "Never not use your power on me. When I said use it, use it." He guided your hand to his forehead. You hesitated. Cecil wasn’t looking at you, but you could tell. He never asked for this. Never wanted it. But now? Now, he was desperate.

Your fingertips made contact with his skin, slipping past the surface of his mind like a whisper through static. You reached into the network of his nervous system, sending precise signals, chemical prompts designed to soothe, to relieve tension, to force his body into unwinding. It was uncomfortable. Artificial. You hated using this method.

The last time you did, Cecil lost his shit. Not because it didn’t work, no, it worked too well. And now he’d felt it happen, felt his own body betray him, and he's glad to cut the entire plan short that time.

It wasn’t supposed to happen. It was a mission and you were using your abilities on a high-value target, bending your nervous system to induce euphoria, forcing them to surrender information. It was a flawless strategy. That is until Cecil noticed the faintest hint of pink on your face. It took him a second to register what was happening. Then another second to fully lose his mind.

"Oh, HELL no." He cut the mission immediately. Dragged you out of there, grabbed you by the shoulders. " What the fuck was that?"

"What?" you asked, completely neutral, as if the affect from your own power hadn’t just visibly reacted to yourself.

"You— You—" Cecil ran a hand down his face, utterly disturbed. "Forget it. We are NEVER using that trick again."

You didn’t argue. You never did. But from then on, Cecil never let you use your powers in any scenario that could even remotely lead to that.

But now the ironicy speaks for itself. He have you by his lap, clutching on your thighs with trembling hands. Rough sighs and groans falls to your ears while you kept him close. Your hands barely holding him, hovering over the small of his back. He's close, you hear it from his labored breathings, also the already damp spot spreading at his lap. Cecil had this thing about him. Apologizing when he lost control. Like he owed you something, like it wasn’t supposed to happen, even when it clearly was. "Dammit—shit, I’m sorry... I—ah, fuck—" He mutters, voice rough and strained, barely holding himself together. "Didn’t mean—nnh—" His grip tightens for a second before he exhales sharply, tension leaving him in shuddering waves.

You had placed your hand on his waist, some sort of comfortation you noticed humans does it. If only you knew this was a wrong time for it. Cecil brought your palm against his tense bulge. You could felt how it hurts. He pressed against your palm, his grip guiding the movement, each broken sound slipping past his bitten lip despite his efforts to hold them back. It didn’t take long. His back was damp with sweat, despite the ever-present chill of the AC running nonstop. You couldn’t see it, but you could feel it, felt his body tensing, the sharp hitch in his breath, and the warmth seeping through the strained fabric of his pants.

Chapter Text

The rain falls in sheets, drumming against the earth as the last Guardians are lowered into their graves. You stand behind Cecil, shielded from the downpour by the umbrella he holds steady above you. And he failed to make it seems like he's holding it for himself when it's tilted towards you more. You'd say stuff like you wouln't need the protection, but he'd keep you covered anyway.

The others don’t seem to notice you, or maybe they’re too absorbed in their grief to care. A woman collapses onto the muddy ground, crying out in agony. You recognized her. One of the heroes now buried beneath her knees. Donald moved quickly to calm her, his voice steady but quiet. Another woman soon approached, covering her with an embrace. Mark’s mother.

Cecil, standing beside you, barely reacts. His expression remains impassive, unreadable as he observes the scene. Then, his voice cuts through the rain, low and deliberate. "That's grieving," he mutters.

You don’t look at him. Your eyes remain fixed on the mourning figures before you. You understand grief in theory, but the weight of it, the twisting, hollow ache that humans seem to feel so deeply is something that eludes you.

Cecil shifts, his gaze settling on your face now. He studies you, searching for something. A crack in your mask, an involuntary flicker of emotion. Just anything. "People die, and you have to take this all together." His tone sharpens. "If you can't feel, then act like it."

The order is clear. Even if you don’t understand, you must at least pretend to. The next few minutes stretched in silence, save for the rain and the occasional murmur of conversation. The air was heavy. Cecil stood close, you had realized he's using your warmness for his comfort. The moment the ceremony ended, and people began dispersing, something else caught your attention. Not a person. A presence.

If anything, the cold grows worse as the procession ends and he finally steps away from the graves. He doesn’t let you linger. Cecil nudged you toward the car before you could focus on it fully. “Get in,” he ordered, voice curt. He turned to Donald. “Check their temperature. Heart rate. Everything.”

You’re ushered into the car first, barely given a moment to process before Donald is already pulling out equipment to check anything that might be off. You let him do it, though your attention remains elsewhere. Through the rain-speckled window, you watch as Cecil speaks to someone. A robot.

"Cecil’s talking to someone," you say, your eyes locked on the metallic figure.

He pauses mid-check. "Oh—oh, that's Robot." His response is quick, rushed, as if afraid you might grow irritated by the interruption. Robot. A robot called Robot.

Cecil gestures toward the car, toward you. The robot turns its head slightly toward you. His conversation continuing as Robot listens. A moment later, it nods, and Cecil strides back, his expression unreadable. Cecil walks back toward the car, but instead of taking the front seat like usual, he opens the door next to you, forcing you to scoot over as he slides in with a sigh.

You stare at him. He gives you a look. "What?" His voice is edged with exhaustion. "You're warm. Don't get any other ideas."

"I won’t."

Cecil didn’t say much when he left you with Robot, just a brief glance, a nod, and the ever-present expectation that you’d listen. You had no reason not to.

The entrance sign read United States Pentagon, Parking in Rear. You’d been here before, though the purpose always varied. This time, it was different. Cecil was making you interact with heroes again. Observe, adapt, and understand how they functioned. Watch, learn, and if necessary, imitate. That was what he told you. What he meant was another thing entirely.

Familiar faces lingered in the hall. Some you’d seen before, others were new, fresh candidates, all gathered under the same objective. To become part of something larger. To prove themselves. The emotions varied, determination, arrogance, excitement, even a flicker of fear in some. You skimmed through the surface of their thoughts without diving in. Cecil had advised against it. “Not proper,” he said. But he never said don’t do it at all.

Robot led you near the entryway, then gestured toward a stack of supply crates. “Wait here.”

You complied, settling onto one without a word. It wasn’t an order, but it was easier to listen. The next thing you knew, he was holding out a chocolate bar.

“I heard you enjoy these,” he said matter-of-factly.

You took it.

The room carried tension, subtle but thick enough that you could feel it. You weren’t supposed to be part of this, not as a participant, just an observer. A foreign presence among candidates eager to prove themselves. Robot’s attention returned to the candidates as they filed in one by one. A few shot wary glances in your direction. You have something else to focus with, peeling the wrapper open and breaking off a piece. The floor was easier to focus on than their stares.

The trials began. You didn’t move from your spot, barely shifting as you listened. It was a slow process from introductions, assessments, combat evaluations. You sifted through the thoughts trickling into your head, their emotions pressing against you like a thick fog. Some were sharp, filled with confidence and ego. Others were hesitant, uncertain.

The most distinct of them all came from the loudest person in the room. Rex Splode.

You didn’t even need to lift your gaze to know it was him. His voice carried, full of irritation as he bickered with one of the smaller candidates, Monster Girl.

“She broke my damn ribs last time, man!” Rex argued.

“And you’ll be fine this time,” Robot replied evenly.

The argument spiraled. Rex’s mind burned with indignation, while Amanda’s crackled with frustration. The exchange wasn’t particularly remarkable, but you listened anyway. You always listened. Until your body decided it was enough for today.

A slow wave of exhaustion settled over you. Your vision blurred, the sounds around you stretching and warping. You barely noticed when your shoulders slumped, your breathing slowing as your body forced itself into rest mode.

You weren’t sure how long you were out. When awareness returned, the trials had ended. The room was quieter. Footsteps approached, steady and controlled. You exhaled slowly. The movement must have caught their attention. “Oh, I’m sorry. I thought you were—”

“Dead?” Your voice cut in flatly. You finally lifted your head, eyes locking onto Robot.

A pause. Not awkward, but not comfortable either. "How did you stay still that long?" he asked. "Through—"

"The tantrum from Rex and Amanda?" you finished for him. You hadn’t seen it, but you didn’t have to. You heard it. Felt it in the way their emotions flared and settled again. “I was aware the entire time. It resolved itself, didn’t it?”

Robot didn’t answer immediately. You could sense something, not quite unease, but something adjacent to it. The feeling wasn’t his, though. It felt like it came from somewhere else, something deeper than the mechanical frame in front of you. You blinked, refocusing. “I apologize. What I meant to say is that I’m used to my condition.” You lowered your head in a small bow, an ingrained habit. Cecil once told you to fix your expression when speaking to others, stop looking so off. Bowing helped. It made people think you understood.

Robot took a moment before responding. "Oh—no need to apologize. I didn’t mean to make it… strange. It’s just impressive to see someone remain so composed despite being unconscious."

You didn’t see the reason for the praise. "It wasn’t unconsciousness. Just stillness. There is nothing impressive about that." You stood up, handing him the empty chocolate wrapper. “I finished it.”

Robot took it, looking down at the crumpled foil in his hand. There was a beat of silence. “That is… very nice,” he said finally. You weren’t sure why, but it sounded like he had just changed his entire opinion of you.

Chapter Text

Robot had waited until after the trials, after the shouting, bruises, and bruised egos, before addressing you. You didn't participated, not in the way the other candidates had, anyway. You weren’t a contender for the team, but Cecil had made it clear you would be involved. In what way? That remained unclear.

You stood at the edge of the testing area, your posture eerily still. Robot had been observing you for a while now, and that in itself was an anomaly because despite all his scans, all his surveillance, he couldn’t get a read on you. No biological data, no real-time vitals, nothing he could store for analysis. It was as if you existed outside of his systems. And that was unacceptable.

Cecil’s orders were simple. "See how they function in a controlled combat environment."

Robot turned to the assembled Guardians. A test subject would be needed.

“Rock, paper, scissors,” Rex declared, already holding out a fist.

Amanda rolled her eyes but humored him. A few rounds later, Rex groaned in defeat.

“Dammit.” He pointed at you. “Alright, freakshow, let’s dance.”

The walk to the testing area was quiet. Or, at least, your side of it was. Rex, unfortunately, had the mouth of someone who never learned the meaning of silence.

"Man, why the hell do I gotta do this?" Rex groaned, walking ahead of you but making sure to throw his complaints over his shoulder. "We already know I'm a badass—why not let someone else be the punching bag?"

"You lost the game," Robot answered, his tone neutral, as if this was the most obvious thing in the world.

"Yeah, well, fuck that game," Rex shot back.

You tilted your head slightly. "What game?"

"Rock, paper, scissors," Rex said, still annoyed. "And I swear Monster Girl was cheating. She kept getting paper, like, every time."

"Statistically unlikely, but not impossible," Robot commented.

"You’re not helping."

The three of you stepped into the training facility, and immediately, you could tell something was off. It was too... controlled. You knew tests when you saw them. Cecil put you through them daily. This was no different. Robot had been given permission to evaluate you. It was his turn to see what you were capable of.

Your eyes flickered to him, reading the faint shifts in his stance, the calculated way he observed you. He wanted data. But he wouldn’t get much from you. You were not an open book.

"Your contribution to the team is still under evaluation," Robot finally spoke, confirming what you already suspected. "I need to ensure you are capable of handling combat situations effectively."

You stared at him. "You could just ask Cecil."

"I prefer firsthand results."

A pause. The tension between you two settled like a thin, invisible wire. "Right," you muttered. "Of course."

Robot gestured to Rex. "He will assist in a demonstration."

"Assist?" Rex scoffed. "Dude, just say I'm about to get my ass kicked."

That was... probably true. But it wasn’t your problem. You exhaled slowly and stepped forward. "Fine," you murmured, though there was no real enthusiasm behind it.

You followed him down to the testing platform, though following was a generous term. You walked at your own pace, detached, only stopping when Robot spoke. “For the purpose of analysis, engage in simulated combat. No lethal force.”

You blinked slowly. Rex cracked his knuckles. “Hey, tin can, you sure about this? This, uhm—” he gestured at you“—looks like they’ll fold if I sneeze on ‘em.”

Robot ignored him. “Begin.”

Rex sighed and swung first, aiming low, just a simple jab to test their reflexes. You didn’t dodge. Didn’t flinch. Rex’s fist stopped just short of making contact, like an invisible force held him back. A second passed. His fingers twitched.

“What the—” His arm dropped. Not because he chose to lower it, but because his muscles gave out entirely, like his own body had betrayed him.

“Oh, fuck no,” Rex swore, shaking his arm. “What’d you do?”

You didn’t answer. Didn’t even acknowledge his question. Robot, however, was analyzing. He saw the momentary lapse in Rex’s muscle control, the way his nervous system reacted in real time. It was subtle, almost imperceptible, but it was there, You had done something.

Robot pressed forward. “Continue.”

You turned to him. “There’s no need.”

“That wasn’t a request.” Something in the air shifted. So subtle, the others might not have noticed. Robot did. A pressure, a weight. You weren't refusing. You were challenging him. The way you stood, barely moving, exuded something that made Robot pause. It wasn’t defiance. It wasn’t arrogance. It was a simple, quiet certainty.

You weren’t going to follow orders. Not unless You wanted to. And if Robot wanted results, he was going to have to work for them. For the first time in a long time, Robot felt something close to irritation.

Chapter Text

Despite the silence that filled the room, the stares from each of the team. Their thoughts flooded you, it isn't something you could control. The in and out of everyone's thoughts through your brain. It overwhelms your system. The underground training facility hums with artificial light, sterile and cold. Robot stands at the control panel, his expression unreadable, but you can feel the way he studies you. It’s different from the others.

It's not something he want to hide, his curiousity within you. Disguised as calling it a training. Someone with a brain and pair of eyes would catch up on it easily. You’re not stupid. If he’s this insistent on testing you, it means he sees you as a potential problem. Which you considered fair enough.

"You're afraid of me." It’s not an accusation. Just an observation. If he insistent on this then you might as well be open for it. It’s unsettling, the way you can almost hear his thoughts warring with his words.

The silence stretches. The other Guardians glance between the two of you, uncertain. Some already catches up to what's going on and what will goes on. While Robot doesn’t react, not outwardly. But you notice it. The millisecond lag before his next words.

"I do not experience fear," he states, clinical as ever. "I simply recognize the necessity of understanding your capabilities." 

You let the words sit in the room for a moment, letting the implications sink in. It’s a lie. His data has already scanned you from every angle, biologically, neurologically, thermally. He just screams you’re still an anomaly, still unreadable. Something about you slips through his grasp, and that drives him insane. "Then why keep pushing? What does it feel like, not knowing?"

A sharp silence follows. That gets to him.  Even if he won’t admit it. You might have need to reassemble your words carefully next time. “Enough talking,” Robot says finally, signaling Rex. “Continue.”

Rex scoffs. “About damn time.”

But you don’t break eye contact with Robot. As Rex steps forward, you’re aware of the way the others shift, the way they all feel it now. The tension, the electricity in the air. It’s more than training. It’s a test. And whether Robot admits it or not, he’s already failed it.

Rex moves fast, closing the distance in seconds, hands glowing, kinetic energy crackling around his knuckles. The adrenaline torches through his blood pumps from his heart and to the tips of his fingers. It signals the sparks growing through his palms, arm just below his elbow. You wonder if that is his limits. He slid of the explosive discs, one by one into his palm but before he could charge it on you, right the moment he steps into your range, he falters.

You don’t move. didn't need to. Rex staggers mid-stride, hands twitching. You feel the panic floods his systems as his breathing stutters. He chokes, as if his own body is turning against him. He's five feet far from you, falls to his knees with his hand over his neck.

He panics. “The—fuck?!” His hands spark wildly, but his own muscles refuse to obey. The very clothes designed for him and his power burns just beneath the palm of his over his throat. It backfires, literally, now you knew that it wasn't his very limits after all. Also his designer suck ass.

The others shift uneasily. They don’t understand what’s happening, but Robot does. He watches, you made sure he does. Your influence is subtle. Not choking him, not holding him down, just adjusting. Suppressing voluntary control. A simple tweak, and his body forgets how to move the way it should.

"That’s enough." Robot’s voice cuts through the room, sharp.

You blink, releasing him. Rex stumbles back, gasping for air. It was quick, almost too quick. He charge in, putting his entire body into the attack. "You little—!" he snarls, lunging at you. It’s sloppy, a mess of frustration. His punch is weak, practically a joke, but it still makes you trip, landing hard with him on top of you.

You leans over your elbows, supporting yourself despite the heavier weight on top of you. While his weight on top of you is nothing compared to the chaos inside his head. Blood trickles from your nose, and your head’s still spinning from the hit, but it’s not the physical pain that gets to you, it’s his breath, warm and erratic against your skin.

Though when you shift slightly, Rex pushes you back down hard. You only realized the damage you've done over his throat in this position. His zipper half down, the fabric masking his face barely putting on with the area of his throat red from his own kinetic energy.

The way his fingers press against the vulnerable pulse at your neck, his breathing erratic. The power, the control he’s trying to reclaim it, but you’re not sure if that’s what he wants. You could feel the pulse of his energy, vibrating againts your skin. It’s like an irritating hum, like the sting of a fly buzzing too close to your ear. You don’t respond to it the way most would. No reaction. It’s a small thing, but it’s the only part of this interaction that stands out.

"Please, mov—"

"How did you do that?" Rex growls, his hand coming down to choke you again, this time harder, desperate. "Why wouldn't you do it again this time?"  

You blink, still feeling dizzy, your body light and numb like you’re floating above all this. His anger is loud now, a heat that radiates off him.

Why do they always react like this?

You feel it, though. The pressure of his hand around your throat, his chest heaving, his frustration dripping from his every word. He’s pissed, and it’s obvious. You can feel it. The power and the need for control. It’s not the first time someone’s tried to claim it from you. But Rex? Rex is different. He wants to know how you did it, why you did it, but he doesn’t get it. 

“You’re not getting it, Rex,” you say, your voice flat. “The point was never about you. I don’t do things based on your expectations. I do things when I need to.” You don’t get the whole wanting thing, not really. But you can feel it in his hands, his frustration, his desperation to take control again. It’s almost... almost endearing.

Rex's fingers tighten around your throat, a mix of desperation and confusion flickering in his eyes. He’s not used to being weak, not used to being on the receiving end of control, especially not from someone like you. His breathing is shallow, erratic, like he’s trying to regain the upper hand but can't quite reach it.

“You think this is a game?” he hisses, his voice low and dangerous. "You think you can just fuck with me like this?" There's a crack in his tone, a slip in his usual cocky demeanor, a hint of panic under the bravado. He leans down closer, face inches from yours, his chest rising and falling rapidly as if the power you’ve taken from him is somehow making him feel... exposed.

"But you don’t get it, do you?" Rex growls, his grip tightening. "You don’t get what happens when you push me this far." It's the first crack in his calm, the first real acknowledgment that this isn't just physical. This is about power, control, and the twisted way it's shifting between the two of you.

You felt his presence before he could make it known. The shift thorugh his teleportion and the air he brings. "That’s enough." Cecil’s voice is casual, but the weight behind it is unmistakable. He walks in, hands in his pockets, like he’s just stepped in to check on things. But you straighten, quick to get Rex off of you just when Cecil shot you a look.

Robot noticed this, your hear rate shown up on his monitor suddenly as if your control over hiding it flawed just a few second before Cecil made himself known. The Robot turns to him. “We were evaluating Nine’s combat ability.”

“Yeah, I saw.” Cecil made his way beside you, glancing up at the others on the higher floor. “Looked more like you were trying to pull ‘em apart like a science project.”

Robot doesn’t respond immediately. Cecil exhales, shaking his head. “You’re not gonna break ‘em down into numbers, Robot. They ain’t like the rest of your little test subjects.”

And that, that lands like a brick. Robot doesn’t argue, but you can feel the calculations running behind his expressionless face. He already set suspicion on the both of you. Cecil protecting someone like this? Keeping you under wraps? That means you’re valuable. But why?

A low groan rumbles from behind you, pulling your attention. It’s Rex. His posture is stiff, rigid in a way that wasn’t there before. His hand clutches at his throat, as if trying to stifle something he can’t control. He coughs, weak and forced, and you can feel the sharp, erratic pulse of his panic. His emotions, a chaotic mix of frustration and fear, swirl around you clashing against each other like an uncontrollable storm.

The desperation was palpable. You could feel it creeping through the air, swirling between the two of you.

You’d let it happen, though. You hadn’t acted immediately when he’d touched you. There had been something almost compelling about it. Was it the strange pull of being out of control for a moment? That fleeting feeling of relinquishing the reins, of letting someone else think they held the power? Or was it simply the shock of his sudden charge that left you disoriented for that second longer than you cared to admit? The more you thought about it, the less certain you were. But in the end, you hadn’t stopped him.

Was this what it felt like? Being wanted? Or even desired?

Was it the strange feeling of losing control? The fleeting rush of it, the uncertainty that comes with it? Or was it something else, something deeper, something unspoken? Maybe you wanted him to believe he was in charge, even if only for a moment. Wanted to see how far he’d go.

It's so relevent anymore. What you did know was that it was messy. Too aggressive. Rex’s breath was hot on your skin, frantic, desperate, and in his eyes, you saw something break, just for a moment. Something raw and unguarded.

But then, there was the blood.

It begins to trickle from your nose, the red liquid staining the cold, gray floor beneath you. The sharp sting burns in your nostrils, clawing at your lungs, your brain. The metallic taste floods your mouth, and for a moment, it feels like the world is spinning too fast. The blood comes in a rush, as if your body had been holding it back and finally, it couldn’t anymore. The red streaks across the floor, painting it in a hue that feels almost too vivid, too alive for something that should be so mundane.

It’s too much, and you feel it, the exhaustion creeping into your limbs. Your legs buckle, the weight of it all dragging you down as if your body is finally giving out. You didn’t even do anything today, not really. And yet, it’s as if your body is punishing you for the strain you’ve put on it.

Footsteps rush toward you, hurried and frantic. You barely register them, too consumed by the ringing in your ears. Then you glance up, barely able to focus, and Rex’s eyes widen in slow realization. The intensity in his gaze sharpens, but this time, it’s not anger it’s panic.

His hand falls away from his throat, and in the next instant, he’s leaping toward you. His movements are clumsy, fueled by the rush of concern.

From behind you, you hear Cecil’s voice, loud and panicked, calling your name. The urgency in his tone sends a ripple of tension through the room. The others, too, are frozen in place, unsure of what to do, but the panic spreading among them is palpable.

You feel it in your legs first, the way they can’t seem to hold you up anymore. Your vision blurs, the world tilting sideways as you sink toward the ground, unable to catch yourself. You had forced yourself too much today, hadn’t you?

Chapter Text

The rhythmic beeping of the heart monitor thrums through the sterile air, a steady pulse that anchors you to consciousness. The weight of the oxygen mask presses against your face, the cool flow of air forcing its way into your failing lungs. You hear their voices overlapping, hurried yet practiced, the sharp clatter of metal instruments against trays. The sting of antiseptic lingers in the air.

You feel them working. Gloved hands move with precision, their touch impersonal yet deliberate as they cut through the layers of your chest. Something cold slides beneath your ribs, tubing, most likely. You don't flinch. The sensation is distant, disconnected from what others might call pain. You register pressure, movement, intrusion, but nothing sharp, nothing unbearable. It is simply happening.

Predictably, your lungs collapsed and ruptured under the force of Rex’s blow, the violent compression of your chest sealing your fate the moment his fist met your face. The erratic, quick breathing that followed only made things worse, the fragile tissue of your respiratory system tearing further with each struggling inhale. You don't remember stopping. Only that your vision just dimmed.

And then there is your brain being overworked, overstimulated, deteriorating under the weight of its own abilities. The neural strain from prolonged exertion is something you are all too familiar with, but this time, it is worse. You can feel it, not pain, but wrongness. A slow, creeping dissolution, as if your thoughts are being unraveled thread by thread. The synaptic overload burns away at the edges of your cognition, reducing it to static.

Your regenerative functions have done little to counteract the damage. You are aware of the irony. Your body, a scientific marvel, holding within it the potential key to superhuman restoration, yet utterly incapable of saving itself. A cruel joke. One you have long since stopped finding amusing.

You know better than to push yourself further. There is nothing more to be done. So, as the anesthesia seeps into your veins, dragging you toward unconsciousness, you do not resist. You simply let it take you.

How long has it been this time? Two weeks? A month? No, that can’t be right. Cecil wouldn’t let you stay dead for more than two days without personally dragging you back. Probably out of spite.

And sure enough, $200,000 of government funding later, here you are, wired up like a discount Frankenstein. Tubes snake from your arms, your neck, even the delicate nerves they so carefully punctured. The steady hum of machines surrounds you, each one monitoring some failing part of your body. Yeah. Cecil really did bring you back from what was, essentially, the most expensive nosebleed in U.S. history.

The room feels the same. Probably is the same. The very same place he first tried to resurrect you from your vegetative state all those years ago. There are some modifications here and there, new equipment, reinforced walls, more security cameras (paranoid much, Cecil?). But the essence of it remains: Your designated death-and-revival chamber.

With a slow, deliberate movement, you start plucking the tubes from your skin, ignoring the way your body jerks slightly from the nerve connections being severed. Next comes the helmet, its job was to keep your brain inside your skull, which, to be fair, is an important function. You toss it aside. The floor beneath your bare feet is cold, but when isn’t it? The hospital gown they put you in is laughably loose, draping over you like a bedsheet some nurse half-heartedly threw on.

With a press of the card button, the door slides open with a sharp hiss. A gust of sterilizing mist rolls out, creeping just past your knees like you’re stepping into some kind of futuristic evil villain origin scene. Too bad this is just Tuesday for you.

Honestly, the whole experience is like waking up from a freeze-dried fridge. Except, unfortunately, you don’t look nearly as snack-like.

You expected to be greeted by the eerie silence of the facility. Dim, flickering lights, the echo of your own footsteps in a building far too large for one person. The usual. Just another lonely night in your government-funded crypt.

Instead, there’s… snoring?

Your gaze drops to the side of the door you just slipped out of, and there he is, Rex, passed out in the least comfortable position imaginable. One arm is awkwardly folded under his head as a makeshift pillow, while the other dangles off the side of the cold, unforgiving steel bench like he just lost consciousness mid-fall. His legs are bent at an angle that looks medically concerning.

Your eyes widen. Well, they would if you weren’t still recovering from being hooked up to a glorified life-support blender. You shouldn't even think about using your powers right now, not after your nervous system just got a full reset. So instead, you're left staring, confused, very aware of your own inability to process why he’s here.

Why did he stay? Was this Cecil’s idea? A forced punishment for almost atomizing your skull? A half-hearted attempt at guard duty? It’s not like Rex could afford a hospital bill if he actually cared to check in on you.

So, naturally, the next best thing?

Sleeping outside the room like a broke college student waiting for office hours.

You inch closer, lowering yourself into a crouch until you're at eye level with him, hugging your knees as you observe the mess that is Rex Splode. He looks just as wrecked as you expected, bandages wrapped around his throat, a few stray bandaids clumsily slapped over his fingers. The aftermath of Robot’s so-called training session.

Maybe you pushed him a little too hard. But hey, it’s nice knowing someone actually has potential.

Your gaze drifts down. He’s out of uniform, swapped into something more casual ripped jeans, some faded old shirt. And really? Jeans? To sleep in?

Then, he shifts. You barely have time to process it before his outstretched hand brushes against your face. He flinches. Hard. Like he just accidentally touched a ghost. His eyes flutter open, dazed, pupils struggling to focus until. Oh. There you are.

For a second, neither of you move.

Then again, maybe he’s still trying to decide if he just woke up to a sleep paralysis demon.

"Shit—!"

Rex practically launches himself backward, scrambling upright so fast that he slams his head against the wall with a loud THUNK. He winces, clutching the back of his skull before snapping his gaze back to you, eyes wide, pupils blown.

"Y-you—you're—Wait, weren't you just—" His words trip over themselves as he whirls around to check the observation window.

Empty.

The medical bed? Deserted.

The tubes and wires? Scattered lifelessly across the floor like they were abandoned mid-procedure.

Rex turns back to you so fast it’s a miracle he doesn’t get whiplash. He grabs you by the shoulders, shaking you like he’s trying to reset a malfunctioning robot. "You can't be out here! I saw your blood! Y-your insides! Your BRAIN!"

Then, just as suddenly, he yanks his hands away from you like you’re made of hot coal. Or worse. A frozen steak. You’re not sure if it’s because he just realized how freezing your skin is or if he finally got a grip, but honestly? It’s probably neither.

"I—I'm sorry, I was—Just, ugh." He groans, running a hand down his face before gripping his forehead like that’ll somehow help reboot his brain. "You got me messed up, man." He mutters. "I thought I messed up! Cecil had me in a damn chokehold the whole way here, and—And I thought I just killed somebody!"

"If you’re referring to that 'somebody' as me, then you didn’t." Silence. Rex just stares at you like you personally offended him by being alive.

“Duh—ugh…” Rex groans, rubbing his face like he’s trying to physically wipe the exhaustion off. He shifts back onto the steel bench, letting his elbows rest on his knees while his palm covers his face. "Man," he mutters, voice muffled, "I didn’t even know it was possible to be this fragile and this—" His voice dips, almost like he didn’t mean to say the next word out loud. "—scary."

Even without using your power, you can feel the unease rolling off him.

"You think I’m scary, Rex?"

His head snaps up, eyes widening slightly, like he just now realized what came out of his mouth. "N-no! Well, I’m not saying I’m scared of you, but—ya know—"

"I don’t know," you deadpan. "Enlighten me."

His expression twists. "No! No, I’m not gonna explain shit to you!" He throws his hands up before jabbing a finger in your direction. "Don’t you get it? Half the team doesn’t even wanna look at you after this. What makes you think I do?!"

He takes a step forward. Then another. His shoulders tense as he looms over you, words sharp and unfiltered.

"What even are you?" His voice drops lower, harsher. "Some kind of lab-made freak like Eve? You pop outta nowhere, and suddenly Cecil’s bending over backwards to shove you onto the team?! Do you have any idea how confusing that is for us?!"

His hands slam against the wall behind you, caging you in. A sharp crack echoes through the space as kinetic energy ripples through the impact. The wall shudders under his strength, dust and debris trickling down like tiny avalanches. The air around you feels charged, unstable like one wrong move could set off an explosion.

And yet, all you can really focus on is the spiderweb crack directly above your head.

Unfortunate.

Rex was pissed. Frustrated. Probably running on two hours of sleep and the last brain cell keeping him from committing a felony. His chest rose and fell unevenly, the aftershocks of his yelling still vibrating in the air. His hands clenched at his sides like he was this close to blowing something up just to get his emotions out.

His forehead pressed against yours, the difference in temperature stark. You were ice-cold, as always. He was running hot, his skin practically burning from either anger or exhaustion, maybe both. For a second, he stayed like that, his breathing ragged, his pulse hammering so loudly you could almost hear it.

Then, quietly, "No." The word barely left your lips. "I... I don’t know."

He let out a long, slow exhale, shutting his eyes like he was trying to center himself before he said something he’d regret. "Of course, you don’t," he muttered. "You don’t know anything about us."

His hand moved before his brain could catch up, fingers tilting your chin up, forcing you to meet his eyes. The grip wasn’t rough, but it wasn’t gentle either like he wasn’t sure if he wanted to shake some sense into you or just... hold you there.

"About me, about Robot, about Monster Girl, that dude—hell, you probably don’t even know that show-off asshole, or—" His fingers twitched. His grip faltered. "Or Eve." The moment her name left his mouth, his whole posture wavered. Like his own words had sucker-punched him harder than any hit he’d taken today.

Rex is still fuming, still too close, and his fingers are gripping your jaw like he’s trying to shake some fucking humanity into you. But your blank stare doesn’t change, doesn’t give him anything and it makes his chest tighten in the worst way.

He’s exhausted. He’s confused. He’s overwhelmed. And before he even registers what he’s doing, his lips crash against yours.

It’s not a gentle, romantic moment. It’s desperate, messy, nothing like the movies. His fingers dig into your skin like he’s trying to pull something out of you, like he’s searching for something human beneath your cold exterior. It’s a moment of pure impulse, the kind of decision made by a man who hasn’t slept, who’s been running on adrenaline and guilt and a hundred emotions he doesn’t know how to name. Maybe he wants to feel alive, maybe he wants you to react, maybe-maybe he just isn’t thinking at all. 

But the second it happens, the realization slams into him. His whole body stiffens mid-kiss, eyes flying open. Oh, fuck.

He jerks back so fast he nearly chokes on air, staring at you like he just short-circuited his own brain. "I—wait. Hold on. That—"

You, completely unfazed. "That was an illogical action. What was that supposed to accomplish?"

"I—" He opens his mouth, then closes it, visibly short-circuiting. His hands hover uselessly in the air. "FUCK, I don’t know!" And then the exhaustion hits. The adrenaline, the stress, the emotional rollercoaster, his body just gives up. His knees buckle like a puppet with cut strings, and before he can even process it, he’s falling.

You catches him effortlessly. Just holds him there, arms locked around his torso like it’s the easiest thing in the world. Rex groans, face smushed into your shoulder. "Goddammit. This is humiliating."

"It is."

"Shut up."

"You're heavy." you state.

"Don’t—" He lifts his head weakly, glaring at you with whatever dignity he has left. "Don’t fucking say that right now."

"Would you like me to drop you?"

"NO." He sighs deeply, his head tipping forward again. "Just... give me a minute. Let me process the fact that I just ruined my own life."

"Your life isn't ruined. You are still breathing."

"THAT’S NOT WHAT I MEANT—"

You simply hold him there, silent as he spirals into whatever crisis he’s having. He’s warm against you, too warm like a fire burning too hot, too fast. You don’t really understand what just happened, but you recognize the way his hands shake, the way his body trembles from something more than just exhaustion.

After a moment, you say, "You need rest."

"I need a fucking brain reset is what I need," he mutters, shifting slightly in your grasp. "Jesus Christ, I kissed a goddamn corpse."

"That's incorrect," you say. "I'm not dead."

"Well, I will." he grumbles. Then, after a beat, "You’re not gonna tell Cecil about this, right?"

You tilt your head. "Do you want me to?"

"NO!"

"Then I will not."

He exhales, relieved. "...Cool. Cool, cool, cool."

There’s a pause. "Still, they may be seeing this in real time from the CCTV," you say suddenly.

Rex visibly glitches. "You—oh, shit." His head drops against your shoulder, his entire body sagging like his soul just left him. He’s seriously contemplating his life choices now whether he should quit being a superhero altogether or just take his chances with Cecil’s wrath.

"Do you think he’ll slap me?" he mumbles against you.

"Yes."

"You’re not even gonna pretend to reassure me?"

"No."

The hallway is dead silent, save for the soft tap, tap, tap of your bare feet against the cold tile. The air is sterile, thick with the faint scent of disinfectant, and the flickering lights overhead do nothing to make the place seem less like a haunted, abandoned hospital.

Rex follows close behind, grumbling under his breath. He had insisted, and by insisted, you mean dramatically thrown his jacket at your face that you wear something over your hospital gown. "Dude, put something on," he had muttered, looking away like a dumb flustered teenager.

It didn’t help much. The jacket barely did anything against the cold air, but he was the one shivering.

You glance at him, watching as he rubs his arms for warmth. Rex, clearly feeling the eeriness, shifts a little closer to you. Then, the moment he gets within your radius, he freezes. His shivering stops. His shoulders drop slightly. He exhales. So without thinking, he instinctively moves closer. Then closer. And when he finally notices that the air is weirdly comfortable around you, he squints in suspicion. "Why is it warm all of a sudden?"

You hold out his jacket. "You need this more than I do."

He looks at the jacket. Looks at you. Then back at the jacket. His face contorts into something between mild offense and why do I feel like I just got played? before he snatches it back. "Thanks, I guess," he grumbles, pulling it on dramatically.

"We’re almost at the exit," you say.

"Great. Unless Cecil is already there waiting to—" he makes finger guns at his own head, "—end me."

"He probably is."

"Fucking fantastic."

You turn slightly, watching as he glances around suspiciously. "Do you want me to remove this event from your memory?" you ask suddenly.

"Wait, what?" Rex stops dead in his tracks. "Can you actually do that?"

"No."

"Then WHY the hell—" He lets out the most frustrated groan known to man, dragging a hand down his face. "I hate you."

"That is expected."

"I need a drink."

"You are underage."

"I need a juice box," he corrects bitterly. "And a nap. Preferably forever."

"Understandable."

"STOP SAYING IT LIKE THAT!"

Chapter Text

“You’re not going to bed,” Your voice is as flat as the glass you’re pressed against. No lilt, no weight. Just a statement that floats into the office like a ghost of concern. Or maybe just routine.

Your fingertips rest against the window, where the city below glows like a dying organism. The rain smears down the glass, but wherever your fingers had touched, the fog clears just enough for a glimpse. Lights. Movement. People who don’t know you exist. Lucky them.

You peel your hand away and the view snaps back into clarity, as if even the rain wants you to stop interrupting its aesthetic. Behind you, Cecil is a tired silhouette drowning in folders and dim light. He's hunched like a man married to misery. You hear the scrape of pen on paper, the buzz of the overhead fluorescents doing their best impression of your heartbeat: irregular, weak, and irritating.

“I have work,” he says, finally, without looking up. A sigh follows, classic Cecil. You’ve catalogued his sighs. That one is ‘I hate everything but can’t afford therapy’ with a touch of ‘I drank five cups of coffee and still want to die.’ He rubs at his temple like he's trying to press his brain into quitting. His other hand is still flipping through a file you know he’s already read twice.

“You’ll fall asleep on the desk again,” you say, not unkindly. “You drool sometimes.”

That gets a reaction. Barely. A grunt. You shift slightly, not turning around. You rarely do. Facing people feels performative, and you’re too tired to perform. You tilt your head just enough to see the outline of his arm moving. He’s tense tonight.

He glances at you again. Your face is a faint blur in the window’s reflection. No breath fogs the glass. Your stillness feels... wrong. Like a mannequin someone forgot to animate all the way. “Come here,” he says, quietly.

It’s not a request. It never is. And that’s fine. You obey instantly. Not out of understanding, but because that’s what you’re built to do. What you’ve always done. Your footsteps make no sound on the floor. You’re barefoot again. Probably forgot your shoes. Again.

He shifts in his chair, turning slightly to face you. His knees part, just enough to point to the space between them. His hand gestures downward. You sit immediately, legs folding neatly beneath you as you rest on your calves. Like it’s natural. Like you do this every day. Because sometimes… you do.

He leans back in his chair, exhales like the act of breathing costs too much, and scrubs a hand through his graying hair. He doesn’t look at you. Won’t. Not yet. “Why do you do that?” he asks, voice low, frayed at the edges. “Just… come when I call you like that. Like it doesn’t even matter what I say.”

Your head tilts slightly, confused. “It doesn’t,” you reply simply.

That hits him hard. A bitter laugh pushes past his lips, dry and humorless. He doesn’t look at you, not really. Just stares past your shoulder like if he focuses on the wall long enough, maybe the weight in his chest will dissolve. "That's not something you should admit out loud," he mutters. "You need to stop saying things like that." But he doesn’t move. Doesn’t push you away. Doesn’t even shift.

You tilt your head, puzzled. There’s no shame in your voice. Just a soft hum of confusion, like trying to understand a foreign language. “You said it was okay. That I could. That you wanted—”

"Yeah, I said that," he snaps. Too fast. Like he regrets it the second it leaves his mouth. He exhales through his nose, scrubbing his hand through his hair again like it might clear out the static in his brain. He looks tired. Worn down to the bone. The kind of tired that coffee can’t fix and sleep doesn’t touch. You watch him patiently. You always do.

“Then why are you mad?”

His eyes find yours. Not like a soldier. Not like some twisted little experiment he’s supposed to keep hidden from the world. Not like a broken child or a weapon wrapped in skin. Just… like someone he’s failing to protect. “Because you don’t get it,” he says.

You blink. That same stillness. That same blank calm. A body that forgot how to flinch. A mind that doesn’t measure danger the way other people do. “But you want it.”

The room goes quiet again. So quiet that the hum of the fluorescent lights starts to feel like it’s drilling into his skull. The rain taps weakly at the window. His jaw tightens. God, you say it like it’s nothing. Like offering yourself, your presence, your warmth, your time, your body is the same as handing someone a pen. Like you don’t know the weight of it. Like you weren’t made to be given away.

He doesn't answer at first. His fingers reach up, slow, cautious like approaching a wild animal or a memory too fragile to hold. They hover near your jaw before settling, palm cradling your face. Not rough. Just... searching. Like he's looking for something in you that might make sense of this. His thumb brushes your cheek. You don’t lean into it. You don’t flinch or move away. You just stay still. Letting him. “You’re not supposed to give like this,” he says. Voice quiet, thick. “Not like you’re offering me medicine.”

The words don’t hit you the way he wants them to. You don’t flinch at the guilt in them, the desperation barely stitched beneath.

Cecil leans back with a sigh that sounds like surrender. His hand drags over his face. The chair creaks beneath him, old like everything in this office. Worn down by years of decisions no one should have to make. He hadn’t realized how close you were. Kneeling right at his feet like something summoned. Always quiet. Always waiting. Always warm with him. Always. Even with skin that runs cold to others, like a body halfway to death. With him, you’re warm. A subconscious shift. A response tailored just for him.

He noticed that early on. The way your body, usually so cold it made Donald panic the first time, instinctively shifted when Cecil was near. A strange mercy from something that didn’t understand mercy. Whether you meant to do it or not didn’t matter. He never asked. He never had to.

Sometimes it pisses him off. The way you just give. The way you mold to his words, adapt to his rhythms like you were made for them. Like you were made for him. It’s infuriating. Because it makes him want you. And he’s not supposed to want this.

You raise a hand. It floats up between you two and gently rests against his cheek. Not with affection, just… interest. Like you’re studying a new object, a new command. “You want me to help,” you say, as though stating a diagnosis.

Cecil catches your wrist mid-air. Not rough. But firm. Final. “Don’t offer things you don’t understand,” he says through gritted teeth.

Your head tilts a little, eyes flicking down to where his fingers hold your wrist. His touch doesn’t hurt. It doesn’t even register as threatening. You’re used to him holding you this way, grounded not restrained. “But I do understand,” you say. Like it’s obvious. Like you’ve read his file and memorized all the footnotes no one else ever looked at.

His eyes snap to yours. And something burns there, the guilt, want, grief, all packed into a stare that could level a man. “No,” he says, sharper now. “You don’t.”

A pause. The kind that stretches too long. Not awkward. Just… heavy. Like the air thickened between you. Your eyes lower, not in shame, but in thought. Calculating. Your hand moves without hesitation. It settles on his thigh like it belongs there. Like it’s always been there and he just hadn’t noticed until now.

“You touch me when you’re stressed,” you say, voice flat. Like you’re listing symptoms. “You let me sit close. You give me chocolate when I don’t ask.” You look back up. And damn it, your eyes. Wide. Pale. Glassy with something almost human.

Puppy eyes, he thinks, before immediately regretting it. No. No, it’s not that. That’s just what his brain wants to see. What would make this easier to understand. Softer.  “If that’s what it means,” you continue, “then it means you want me. So I’m giving you what you want.”

He should say something. Should argue. Deny it. But he doesn’t. Because the worst part is you’re right. He does want you. Not in the way people are supposed to want someone. Not tender, not romantic. He wants the stillness. The way you never ask for more. The way you stay, no matter how sharp his words or how long the silence stretches. You’re a constant. A loyal, breathing contradiction.

But this? This isn’t love. This is need. This is grief that learned how to stand upright. He loosens his grip on your wrist. Not a word. Just that subtle shift. Like letting go is all he has left. You move slowly, watching him the way prey watches a predator before realizing the predator’s already tired. Your fingers brush his belt, then tug the zip down. Not tentative. Not teasing. Just… efficient. A task.

Cecil’s hand covers his mouth. His other grips the armrest like it’s the only thing anchoring him here. His brows knit together. Jaw tight enough to crack something inside it. He should stop you. He should. But then your breath fans against his stomach and he places a hand on the back of your head like it’s the most natural thing in the world. He doesn’t push. Doesn’t guide. Just keeps his hand there. Steady. 

You don’t understand. Not the way he wants you to. Not when he leans in, when his mouth finds yours with a hesitation that feels like an apology, and you don’t resist. His lips are warm. His breath tastes like coffee and quiet desperation. It’s not urgent, it’s gentle. Too gentle. Like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he touches you too hard. When he lays you down, careful like he’s setting fragile glass on the edge of a table, you blink up at him. He hovers, eyes scanning your face like it might reveal something, just anything that makes this feel okay.

His voice trembles. You feel it more than you hear it. Right there by your ear. “If you don’t want this… say so. Please—just say something.” But you don’t. Not because you’re scared, or shy. Because in your mind, you already said yes the moment he looked at you and didn’t turn away. So you stay quiet. Because you thought that’s what he needed. Because you thought this is what help looked like.

The scientists said it was possible, theoretically at least. Your body could handle it. Reproduction, procreation. Whatever word made it sound less clinical. It wasn’t likely, but it wasn’t impossible either.

And it’s the first thing that crossed your mind the moment he touched you. You'd lost count of how many times now. He was always stressed, always carrying the weight of the world on his back, and this was the only time he let any of it go. Sometimes, the thought crept in and made your pulse spike. The idea of carrying something inside you. Something alive. Something more than just you.

He never and by that, never ever went unprotected. His hands would scatter the papers on his desk, yanking open drawers in a rush, searching for any leftover condoms. He’d apologize, mutter something about ruining the mood, make a joke but it was always the same. He was never prepared with you. Always off guard, like he hadn’t spent every waking second thinking about you.

You shook your head. Told him it was okay. Told him to keep going. That it’d be fine. And for a second, he almost believed you.

He knew you were thinking too hard about what the scientists said, wondering if it could actually work. Or if it didn’t, he knew you were still replaceable. Still producible. With the samples he had, your DNA, he could make an exact replica of you. So what was stopping him from just making a better version? One that was healthier, more human, more perfect?

He shifts your leg, tugging at your ankle to open you up a little more. He usually toys with you. Touches meant to tease, to get a reaction, even though you’re terrible at faking anything. Still, you let him. You always do. So he goes with what works instead. Things that actually affect you, physically. He slips the condom on without a word.

He wrapped his hand around your throat, cutting off just enough air to make your lungs ache while the other held your hips down, keeping you in place with him buried deep inside. His release wasn’t the goal, it rarely was.

Sometimes it felt like he just wanted to see how much you could take, how far he could push you before something cracked. The eye contact was heavy, near unbearable, but his grip made it harder to hold. You were seated on his lap, legs spread wide and draped over the armrests of his spinning chair, your back pressed against his desk.

His other hand stayed firm on your waist, guiding you back and forth with slow, deliberate movements. He twitched inside you with barely any friction, like that lack of pace was the entire point. He’d loosen his grip just enough to feel you tighten around him, but never long enough for you to settle into it. Then the pressure would return, right as he came. Controlled, quiet, but intense.

It was never the kind of sex that involved frantic movement or dripping sweat. He was older and stamina wasn’t really in the picture. But it wasn’t soft either, not the kind of tender, handsy affection people might expect. It sat somewhere in between restrained, calculated, and entirely his.

A Very Normal Healing Session (not really). The room was quiet, save for the occasional click of Cecil’s tongue. You sat on his lap, your wrist held up in his firm grip as he studied the bruises blooming across your pale skin. His thumb brushed over them, pausing when he found the deeper ones. His face barely changed, but you caught the small shift in his jaw.

He knew which ones were his doing. And which ones weren’t. His grip tightened but not enough to hurt, but enough to say something. He didn’t ask. Didn’t need to. He just sighed, dragging his fingers up to your elbow, tilting your arm slightly to inspect the faint shape of a handprint, one that definitely wasn’t his. Then his brows furrowed.

"You look worse than usual," he muttered. "That's an achievement."

You tilted your head slightly, watching from the corner of your eye. He lingered longer than usual. Not because he was struggling to patch you up. No, he was faster than the nurses at this point but because he was thinking.

You expected a question. Maybe a comment. Nothing came. Instead, after he was done, Cecil just leaned forward, resting his head against your shoulder. His breath warmed your neck as his lips barely ghosted over your skin. His teeth scraped lightly against the nape of your neck. Nothing deep, nothing visible. Just a quiet claim.

"Robot still up your ass?" he muttered, voice muffled against your collar.

You blinked. Mentally paused. "...Not quite."

Cecil exhaled sharply, a small, amused huff. His lips curved against your skin, but he didn’t laugh. "Good. I don’t share." he muttured. Quiet. "And it's about time he dropped it," he said louder, his fingers trailing up your sides before wrapping his arms around you. The hold was easy, effortless, even. Like it had always been second nature. "Had fun with the new Guardians?" he asked. At this point, you knew he was just stalling. Just buying time to keep you where you were.

You hummed, gaze dropping to his sleeve. His watch. The ticking hands. Another stretch of silence. Nothing but the steady rhythm of time passing, his breath against your shoulder, the warmth of his grip. The first time he did this, you wondered why. Now, it had become a thing, something regular, expected. You still wondered, but at least you were used to it.

Then, out of nowhere, you decided to mention it. "There was someone else in the building."

You felt the faint shift in his posture. His head lifted slightly, but not enough to actually look at you. "You mentioned?" His voice dripped with sarcasm before he sighed, clearly indulging you. "...Who?"

Cecil was not one to take you seriously. Especially after your previous, very important observations. The last time you made a so-called "announcement," it was about a woman's chest being biologically suspicious, loudly declaring that her boobs were so unrealistically huge they looked like an asset rip from a badly modded video game. To her face.

So, naturally, he had developed a policy of ignoring you whenever you started talking like that. But this time? This time, you were pretty sure he’d want to hear you out.

"The Viltrumite." Cecil stiffened. Like, visibly. The kind of tension that only happened when shit hit the fan and he didn’t have a contingency plan.

You could see it in the way his jaw clenched, how his fingers twitched mid-thought. He never mentioned Omni-Man to you, not after the massacre. Not once. That was the first thing that hit him.

"You knew him?" His voice was too steady. Too careful. Like he was bracing for impact. Now, he finally lifted his head to look at you, searching your face for something, answers, maybe. A reason to not immediately freak the fuck out. "Did you meet him?" His grip tightened, as if holding your hand was the only thing keeping him grounded. "When? Did he—did he say anything?"

The last part slipped out too fast, too rushed. His unease practically radiated off him now, sharp enough that even you could feel it. You tilted your head. "No, Mark mentioned—" Well. Not exactly mentioned. You had just heard his thoughts spiral when Robot asked him to join the Guardians. But that wasn’t really the issue here. "—about his father."

Cecil's eyes narrowed, suspicion creeping in fast. "He mentioned his father is a Viltrumite? To you? First meeting?" Aw, shucks. He caught on.

"...No." You blinked. Innocent. Expression blank. Yeah, no, he wasn't buying that shit.

Cecil let out a long, slow sigh. The kind that made it painfully obvious he was not in the mood for this shit. Before you could process it, he immediately lifted you off his lap and deposited you onto the couch like an inconveniently placed throw pillow. You blinked. Damn, okay.

He straightened up, adjusting his suit with sharp, mechanical movements. The stress was palpable. Then, a quick glance at his watch. "Don't get in close proximity. Never. Unless I confirm it's safe for you." Notice how he said you. Not us. Not himself. That alone told you everything you needed to know. "We don’t have enough resources for the big shot yet. Donald’s in charge while I’m gone—" His eyes flicked down at you, narrowing slightly.

"Don't make him look stupid." A pause. "Hear that?"

You nodded, wordlessly sinking into the couch, letting your eyes close for a moment. No need to argue. He'd just stress himself out even more. Cecil watched the entire time. Like he was memorizing your expression before he left. Then, another sigh, this one even heavier than before as he spun his watch. In an instant, he was gone.

Chapter Text

He kept you close. Arm draped over your shoulder whenever you walked beside him, leaning into you like you were holding him up or like he just didn’t want to stop touching you. He’d joke about it, of course. Say dumb stuff like, “Hey, did you grow an inch or somethin’? What’s Cecil been feeding you, huh? Super-steroids?” Or, “Man, your skin’s freezing. Kinda nice, though. Like my own personal A/C.”

He was more handsy lately. More lingering. A brush of fingers at your waist, a palm steadying your back when you weren’t even off-balance. And you? You barely reacted. No flinching, no pulling away and just letting him.

It messed with his head. Made him start thinking maybe it wasn’t him pulling you in.Maybe it was you keeping him around.

He mentioned it once, real casual. “You don’t yell at me. You don’t throw shit at my head. You don’t make me feel like a total asshole 24/7. You’re just… easier.” Then the snap of a chocolate bar cut through the air. He looked over, squinting. “YOU DIDN’T LISTEN, DID YOU, ASSHOLE?!”

But you just broke the bar in half and held one piece out toward him. He stared, scoffed, and let out a sigh as he took it, tossing it into his mouth with zero fanfare.

And another time when he, mid-rant, after dragging your out of some near-death situation, covered in blood, still trying to light a cigarette he dropped in a puddle. “Look, I dunno what this is, alright? But you're easy to be around. No screaming, no drama, no ‘I can fix him’ speeches. You're just there, quiet... creepy quiet, but like kinda peaceful? It’s different from Eve. With her it was all fireworks and crying and saving the world and telling me I’m immature- which I’m not, by the way but you… you don’t ask for anything. You just sit there and stare at me like I’m some puzzle you’re trying to solve with your brain powers or whatever.”

Then an awkward silence, you just keep blinking slowly like a cat “I’m not saying I like you or anything. I’m just saying I’m sleeping better when you’re around. That’s weird, right? That’s gotta be some psychological shit. You’re probably, like, messing with my neurons or something.”

Then a pauses, sighs, throws cigarette away. “...Whatever. Just don’t leave yet, alright? Feels less like the world’s about to explode when you’re around. Even if you look like you just walked out of a damn morgue.” Another Pause. "Hey, wanna... crash at my place sometimes? Maybe right now?"

Now here you are with him still as close as he can get. His hand draped lazily over your waist, fingertips curling like he owns the spot. He leans in, trying to get your attention, though he doesn’t need to. You hear everything, even the edges of his thoughts just from how close he always is.

He cracks a joke. You stare. You don’t get it. He laughs loud anyway, then frowns, already realizing he’s probably gotta explain it again. Typical.

It started with a simple touch. An arm slung over your shoulder, a tug at your wrist to pull you along faster. Then it turned into him just holding your hand like it was normal. Like you wouldn't question it, so why not?

Now? Now he’s manhandling you into doing shit. “Come on, this way,” “Don’t touch that,” “Here, take this,” chocolates, mostly. And slowly, gradually, his hand found your waist. Not just once. Not just for show. Every time he gets the chance.

He used to keep it private, only when no one was looking. But now he’s getting bolder. Doesn’t pull away so fast. Doesn’t care if someone sees. Like somehow, somewhere along the way, you just became his. And he’s not about to explain why that feels right.

It wasn't unpleasant. It confused you. There were times you needed to follow Cecil, well, since when did you ever stop?

At first, Rex didn’t care. He just shrugged and went on with his day. Said stuff like, “Cool, have fun with Grandpa Scarface,” and left it at that. But lately, it started changing. He’d insist on coming with. Said he’d just watch or stay outta the way, like it wasn’t a big deal. Sometimes he’d try to act chill, pretend he didn’t care, but the moment you started walking off, he was already grabbing his jacket.

On the days he didn’t have the balls to fight Cecil on it. Which, honestly, was most of the time. He’d just sulk. Let you go. Wait around like a kicked dog, then act like he didn’t miss you when you came back.

Now here you are, both of you, making an entrance into the GDA training area. He’s rambling like usual, arm draped over your shoulder, talking about something that probably didn’t happen the way he said it did. He always has a lot to say. A new story every time.

You’ve started picking up on when he’s lying, usually when he’s trying a little too hard to impress you. Today’s about some alien bar fight, apparently. You’re not even sure if aliens drink. Still, you make a sound. It isn’t a laugh, not really. More like a soft breath through your nose. Barely anything. But Rex glances at you like he heard a laugh. Like it meant something. His voice falters just for a second before picking back up again and louder now like he’s chasing that sound again.

"Damn, you're cold as hell, Nine. What, you think you're tough now?” He leans in closer, peering into your face like he’s trying to catch you blinking, smirking as if you’re gonna suddenly talk back this time.

You don’t. You never do when it’s not a real question. Just brush past him, making space to move without shoving him. He lets you, trailing behind without missing a beat. Then you see her. Eve across the room. Jaw tight, arms crossed. That usual calm edge to her face, like nothing’s wrong. But her thoughts are too loud for you to ignore, spinning sharp and fast just above her head.

"Again? He's still doing this shit?"

"He knows better. He’s just trying to push it."

"I swear to God, if he touches them one more time—"

You didn’t turn to her. It’d make things weird, and you already felt weird enough. But the curiosity ticks at you anyway. They were together. You finally piece it together, like a puzzle you weren’t even trying to solve. That explains the crackle in the air whenever he looks at her like he still owns something he lost. You file the thought away.

When Rex finally lets go, his hand slips down just to catch yours. A quick squeeze. Nothing dramatic. Then he’s tossing out some catchy goodbye, voice a little louder than necessary, followed by a wink and a lazy wave as he walks off like nothing ever sticks to him.

You feel her come up behind you a moment later. At first, you think she’s going to hit you, nothing brutal just one of those light punches people do in the movies when someone’s being dumb. You’ve seen it enough while watching Donald watch his movies. You figured it’s for messing with Rex. Even if, really, it’s more Rex messing with you.

But then she just asks, “Are you okay?” Soft. No anger. No sharp edges. Just that.

A few seconds of silence stretch before you give her a nod. You don’t look at her. Just turn away and head toward the snack container. She follows without a word. It feels like the first time you met. Awkward, quiet but this time, she’s the one breaking the silence.

Just as you reach for the last remaining chocolate bar, her hand beats you to it. “He doesn’t get to touch you like that,” she says. That’s when you finally turn to her. Maybe because of the bar. You watch as she lifts it in her hand, floats it just a little, then changes it. A different wrapper. New brand. “This is my favorite,” she says, opening the packaging and handing it to you.

You lift your hand, palm open, waiting. Just to be sure she’s really giving it to you. She places the bar gently in your hand. "Does anyone?” you ask. Not unkind, just curious and genuinely wondering what kind of answer she'd give.

She looks at you for a second, like she’s trying to figure out if you’re messing with her. But then she softens. “Only if you want them to.”

You take a bite. It’s good. She’s got fair taste.

And just like that, the heat in her chest sharpens. Simmering with something she’s not voicing. You don’t have to guess what it is. You knew now that she hates seeing you like that. To her, you’re this pitiful, wounded kitten that's too quiet to even meow, clinging to whatever keeps you warm, whatever gets you by. But she hates what that does to her too. How it makes her feel. How it makes her care.

Later, when Rex finally leaves you alone, he tells you he’s heading out with some new friends he just met. You don’t ask where. You nod, say “okay,” like you always do. His grin gets bigger, like your response meant something more than it did, like he just got approval from his mom. He grabs both of your hands, leans in, and kisses across your knuckles with a smug little “I’ll be back by midnight.”

It doesn’t matter if he comes back earlier. Or later. It didn’t the first time, and it won’t now. But you complied either way.

You find her standing there before you even reach the door. She doesn’t look surprised to see you, like she’s been waiting. She asks if you can help her sleep. Says her thoughts are too loud again. That’s the excuse, anyway.

She sits beside you on the bed, cross-legged, hair loose around her shoulders, her exhaustion practically dripping onto the floor. “Just a little,” she mumbles, not quite meeting your eyes. “Don’t mess with anything else.”

You turn to her, slow, measured. Your hand lifts and your finger brushes against her temple. Her breath catches soft, barely a sound but you feel it. Inside, you’re careful. You don’t force your way in like you’ve done with enemies or strangers. This is different. You ease in, a gentle nudge here, a careful push there, like you’re making space. Like clearing a cluttered room without knocking anything over. Like pulling tension out by the root, like rubbing slow circles into a bruise. 

It happens later. After she’s dozed off in your lap, half-draped over your legs, her breaths shallow and slow, her thoughts finally quiet.

You don’t move. You just sit there, hand still hovering near her temple, not sure if you should keep the connection or let it fade. You weren’t expecting her to touch you like that, like you were safe. Like you weren’t some eerie thing stitched together in a lab. You watch the way her fingers twitch slightly, like she’s dreaming. Like something in her head is still reaching for you.

Then her eyes flutter open. Just barely. And she shifts, her body warmer now from being so close. Her leg slides over yours, her thigh brushing your hip, and her palm presses against your chest like it’s nothing. As if she belongs there. You don’t speak. Neither does she.

She just looks up at you again the same way before but softer this time, her lips parted and flushed. There’s no permission in her eyes. No request. Just an invitation. She leans up first. Not all the way, just enough that you feel her breath on your neck. Her hand, the one on your chest, moves up slowly. Her fingers curl around the side of your throat, not tight, just feeling the cold there. Just learning you.

“You’re still doing it,” she whispers, but not like a complaint.

Your eyes meet hers. You don’t answer. She’s the one who kisses you first.

It’s not gentle. Not careful. It’s all warmth and desperation, the kind that simmers under skin too long and finally spills over. Her lips part against yours, her fingers digging slightly into your shoulder like she needs to anchor herself. You don’t flinch. You don’t stop her.

She climbs into your lap without hesitation, straddling you with a kind of urgency that surprises you. Her breath catches against your mouth. You feel her hips press down, seeking friction like it’s instinct. “You’re still doing that thing,” she says again, breathless. “Inside my head.”

You exhale a gasp. “You said only a little.”

She doesn’t answer, well not with words. Instead, her hands slide beneath your shirt, palms skimming over the ribs you’ve never quite filled out, learning every inch of you like she’s memorizing a secret. Her touch is reverent and trembling at once. Like she’s afraid you’ll vanish. 

You feel her pulse against your mouth as she kisses you again, deeper now, the soft grind of her hips sending sparks up your spine. It overwhelms you, her weight, her heat, the way she whimpers quietly every time you respond just a little. When your hands finally land on her waist, she shivers and leans harder into you, dragging your name from her lips like she’s never said anything more sacred.

This isn’t about dominance. Not power. Not control. This is about being wanted.  And you, a thing that wasn’t supposed to want anything suddenly want her more than the silence you’ve always clung to. You realized she's actually making you feel something.

You whisper her name once. Just to make sure she’s really here. Just to say it. Her answer is a breath against your throat, a promise in the way she rolls her hips again, in the way she presses her forehead to yours and says, “Don’t stop.”

Not when she’s this messy and whiny, not when she’s looking at you like she needs you to do something. Your hand keeps her pressed close, guiding her down onto your bed. Your lips never leave hers, only deepening the kiss as you fumble with your belt. She lets out a cheeky giggle when she notices you struggling, then casually reaches down and disintegrates it with her power. You make a mental note to pick up a few more belts if this keeps happening.

She pulls you into another kiss, her hand trailing down to press the bulge and palms it. Your knees weak against the mattress. “You’re so sensitive here.” Her lips brush your jaw, voice warm and low. “Does anyone else know how easy it is to make you melt?”

"Eve..." you breathes out, your arms trembles, hips trying to meet more of her touch. "You'll break me,"

She chuckles, light and teasing before finally pulling it free from your pants. With a flick of her fingers, she makes a quick makeshift rubber and pushes you back. You fall against the mattress, head a little dizzy, legs sprawled out. She climbs on top of you, and you watch the whole time, eyes flicking between her face, her body, then down to where you're slowly being joined together.

She lets out a hiss as she sinks down onto you fully, and you grip her hips, unsure what to do with your hands beyond just holding on.

She looks content. Her face, her body, even the subtle rhythm of her movements all telling the same story. You prop yourself up on one elbow, letting her take what she wants from you, your other hand resting lightly on her hip. But before it can wander, she grabs it, pinning it to your side as she leans in for a kiss one that's messy and distracted, all her focus drawn to the heat between her thighs.

You can feel it, how deep you reach each time she sinks down, the way her body tightens around you, chasing that perfect spot over and over again.

Her eyes squeeze shut as she lies against you, grinding down with desperate rhythm. Her voice is a soft whine against your ear, breathy and broken as she tries her best not to wake whoever might be in the next room. Though at this point, the creaking bed frame has already given you both away.

Your so-called stamina doesn’t hold up well, not with her like this. Your jaw clenches every time she sinks down and takes you in full, the friction too much, overwhelming from both sides.

Her skirt rides up to her back as her movements grow rougher, more desperate. The rhythm shifts, and soon you're pressed against the headboard, your back meeting the cool wood with a dull thud. She braces herself there, hands gripping for better leverage, riding you harder now like she’s chasing something deep and fast.

Even with her top still on, her tits bounce with each motion, practically teasing you. It’s too much to ignore. One hand finds its way up, sliding beneath her shirt to palm and knead the soft weight of her chest. You feel her tense slightly, hips stuttering before picking up again. Your other arm wraps around her waist, steadying both of you as the bed creaks beneath the rhythm.

You hold on, dizzy from the pace, overwhelmed by how much she clearly needs this. How much you want to give her exactly that.

She’s close, you can feel it in the way her rhythm falters, in how her hips no longer bounce with precision but grind messily down against you, slow and needy. Every movement draws a shiver through your body, the way she sinks and presses deep, clinging to every inch of you.

Then she reaches for your hand. Fingers laced with yours, she guides you between her legs, guiding your fingers to where she needs them most. Her voice is breathless, a soft whine muffled against your neck as her thighs tremble, her body tensing around you like a vice. You feel her walls clamp down over and over, pulsing, desperate, riding out every wave as her body finally gives in.

She goes quiet. Limp. Her system slowly relaxing as she collapses onto you, chest to chest, heart pounding so loud you can feel it echo in your own. She stays like that for a moment, soft and warm, breath brushing your collarbone.

Eventually, she lifts her hips just enough to ease off of you, your length slipping free as she exhales in a long, satisfied sigh. Still trembling, still draped over you like she has nowhere else she’d rather be.

Her hair brushes against your face, soft and damp, carrying the faint scent of floral shampoo, something sweet and subtle that lingers in your nose, grounding you in the warmth of her. She shifts slightly, and when she looks up at you, her eyes are half-lidded, heavy with exhaustion and bliss. Strands of hair cling to her cheeks and temple, slick with sweat. Her lips plump, kiss-bitten, and still a little parted are impossible not to stare at.

She blinks once, then leans in for another. This one’s slower. Lazier. Her lips move over yours in a kiss that lingers, less about hunger, more about staying close, savoring. When she finally pulls back, she doesn’t go far. Just close enough to stay in your space, breath mingling with yours as she rests her forehead against you.

You catch the way her pupils dilate, the calm in her face softening into something warmer, something quieter and a little closer. Her cheeks tint pink, just enough to notice. There’s a pause. “…Was that bad?” she asks. Not nervous. Just uncertain.

You shake your head. “Not... bad. Just unexpected.”

And she laughs, soft and surprised even at herself. Then rest her head back on your chest. “Don’t tell anyone.”

You don’t say anything. But the next time Rex puts his hands on you again, something sticks. You remember. The way her eyes lingered after. Like maybe you weren’t his to toss around. Like maybe you weren’t hers either. But you could be.

You’re sitting still again. Cecil had told you to practice your durability, pushing the widest range you could go, as far as possible. See when it stretches too thin. Where it cracks. How long it sticks before it snaps back. Maybe one day, he said, you could cover the whole city. Keep tabs on civilians with a thought. Not for control, well, not really but to move them fast. Get them safe before the sky falls. Efficient, he called it.

Per usual, you’ve taken the spot closest to the exit, even though you’re not the one who’s supposed to leave first. Maybe it’s because it sits right in the middle of the building, equidistant from everything. Footsteps of every kind echo from the floors above and below. Heavy boots, hurried shoes, tired dragging soles. Faint when you reach too far, but still there.

Conversations, too. Soft ones. Loud ones. Someone’s laughing about something dumb in the east wing. Donald is pouring himself a cup of water, hand tapping twice against the dispenser out of habit. Unfortunately, you hear other things too. Coughs. Flushes. The occasional fart someone thought was silent. You try not to focus there. That part isn’t helpful.

Your eyes open slowly. The floor beneath you starts to blur, almost invisible as faint outlines of figures move beneath it, each of them layered like ghosts, walking, pacing, living. You blink once, slow. The dense flooring is still there, but your mind overlays the movement on top of it like instinct. This is new. This is further. This is a new limit.

The footsteps approach louder than the rest, but light in their intent. It couldn’t be anyone else. Only her. Eve moves like she’s sneaking up on you, like she’s trying not to startle a stray cat. Maybe she’s even hovering, barely touching the ground, but to you, she’s still thunder in a hallway.

You heard her thoughts before she even entered the floor.

There you are.
I knew it.
"Nine?" Her voice is quiet, careful. Probably thinks you’re asleep.

"Here," you say, calm, without looking.

"Oh— I thought— Nevermind," she laughs softly, a little embarrassed at herself. Then she lowers herself next to you, pulling her knees up and hugging them close, shoulder nearly touching yours. “Were you waiting for Cecil? Robot?” Her voice is light, teasing, head tilting toward you like she’s trying to catch your gaze. Her chin rests on her knees.

You blink once, slow. “I was waiting for you.” It’s not exactly a lie. You were going to find her eventually after last time. She just got here first.

She lifts her head a little, blinking at you. “Me? Oh, well I’m here now?” Her voice is light but uncertain, like she isn’t sure what she’s supposed to do with that answer.

“Yeah. Yes, you’re here now.” You say it flat, just the truth.

Silence drapes over again. She rests her chin back on her knees, eyes still on you. Watching. You don’t return the stare. Her thoughts are swirling like smoke over a fire visible, rising, and loud in a way she doesn’t mean to be. It’s like when someone’s gossiping near you on purpose, not looking your way but raising their voice just enough to make sure you catch it. She’s not trying to be loud. It just slips.

It’s uncontrolled. But you don’t shut her out. It’s easier now. Less backlash. Less pain. Maybe she’s learning how to be softer near you. Or maybe you’re just letting her stay.

You’re still watching the faint outlines beneath the floor, eyes half-lidded like you’re seconds from sleep. The figures below shuffle, shift, move in that faint haze you’ve come to recognize as real, well it's real enough.

Then her voice cuts in, soft but clear. "Hey. Why Nine? Like, is that your hero name or something?” her tone is casual. Curiousity picks out from her. She probably think it’s like Invincible or Dupli-kate, just another weird identity for show. It’s not the first time someone’s asked, but it always lands the same way in your stomach.

You turn slightly, imitating the same posture as she. Chin on your knees, tilted your head just enough to acknowledge the question. “Name?” 

“Yeah, Nine. Doesn’t exactly roll off the tongue, right?”

A pause.

You consider the space between you and her. Not physically but emotionally. Intellectually. What would be easier for her to hear? Is this something that needs to be softened? You look at her face. Her bright, expectant little smile. No. There’s no point in lying.

So you say, voice flat. “Project.”

She doesn’t say anything right away. You hear the shift in her thoughts before you see it on her face like glass creaking under pressure. The smile fades, not entirely, but enough that it’s no longer sitting comfortably. You don’t look at her.

You continue, slow and methodical. “O… Nine. Project-Zero-Nine. 09. Therefore, Nine.”

Another beat. Your eyes drift downward, still watching the floor, the faint figures below it. Easier that way. Less complicated. “There were others.” You don’t say how many. You don’t say what happened to them. You don’t say why you’re still here.

The silence stretches a little too long. You feel it in her, nerves creeping in slow, like a chill under the skin. Her gaze lingers, posture faintly rigid, the way she shifts not quite as easy as before. “Jesus,” she mutter under her breath. “That’s… actually your name?”

“Yes, It was easier. For them. Numbers are cleaner than people.” Then, with a tilt of your head, you try to clarify. You didn’t mean to upset her. “You can call me Nine. That’s okay.” You say it simply. Like you’re offering her something precious, even though it doesn’t sound like much.

She doesn’t respond right away. You turn more to her, unsure if she’s still listening and you freeze when you see her expression. You're surprise the emotion hits harder after. Her lips are slightly parted. Eyebrows drawn together. There’s something cloudy in her eyes like pity, but heavier. She’s not recoiling, like others do. She just looks… sad.

“That’s not a name,” she says quietly.

This conversation again. You don't understand the problem. You’ve heard that phrase before, that’s not a name but it never made sense. If people call you by it, isn’t it a name?

“It’s the only one I have,” you murmur, more defensively than you mean to. Your fingers twitch against your knees.

She softens, immediately. “Sorry. I didn’t mean it like that,” Eve says. “I just… I guess I wanted to know if it was something you chose.”

Your mouth opens. Then closes. No one’s ever asked that before. Did you choose it? No. But you accepted it. Isn’t that enough? “Cecil called me Nine. Everyone else followed.” You say it slowly, sorting it out as you go. “If I had… another name, I’d probably forget to answer to it. I don’t think it would feel like mine.”

She’s quiet again. Then, gently, “Do you want one?”

The question lingers in the air, a strange weight that presses down on you, more than you expected. It’s not harsh, but it feels like something soft trying to push into a place you didn’t ask for it to go. You glance down, avoiding Eve’s eyes. She doesn’t understand. You don’t want to explain, but she’s waiting for an answer, so you give her something.

“I don’t need one.”

Chapter Text

EXPERIMENTAL RECORD #00492 - PROJECT: HOPE
Recorder: Dr. K. Eisler
Clearance Level: A
Location: Sector 9-G - BioIsolation Maternity Unit
Objective: Monitor gestational progress of Hybrid Subject C-427, assess compatibility between Subject and Prototype Fetus-09 (Codename: “Nine”).

BASIC DATA – SUBJECT C-427
Age: 28
Occupation Prior to Transfer: Molecular Biologist (Defected)
Genetic Compatibility Score: 89.2%
Body Temperature: 37.9°C (elevated)
Heart Rate: 128 bpm (resting)
Blood Pressure: 158/94
White Blood Cell Count: 18.2 x10⁹/L (elevated)
Cortisol Level: Critical.
Nervous System Scan: Hyperreactive, fragmented neural patterns emerging.
Uterine Feedback Loop: Distorted; abnormal interference detected from fetal origin.
Sleep Frequency: 2.5 hours/day average (nonconsecutive)
Appetite: Suppressed. Subject requests to "not eat unless the child needs it."

PHYSIOLOGICAL OBSERVATIONS – FETUS-09
Cellular Regeneration Rate: 512% baseline
Neural Network Density: 162% of typical human fetal stage.
Brainwave Activity: Continuous (no REM or inactive states logged).
Pulse Detected at Week 5.
Auditory Reflexes Present by Week 8.
Thermoregulation: Non-standard; fetus emits minimal heat.

Notes: Subject reports fetus “does not feel alive” despite stable vitals.

LOG TIMESTAMPS – PSYCHOLOGICAL & BEHAVIORAL RECORD

[Day 12, 09:14]
Subject displays elevated dopamine levels after confirmation of pregnancy. Emotional response classified as euphoric. Vocalized statements include:

"This child will change everything."

Initial belief: Subject unaware of true nature of Project: HOPE.

[Day 47, 14:22]
Subject begins showing signs of dissociation. Repeatedly requests access to “development files” and fetal scans. Medical denial issued. Fetal growth shows abnormal neural surges corresponding to Subject’s REM cycle. Possible parasitic feedback loop forming.

Quote (verbatim):

"When I sleep, I see things I’ve never known. It’s showing me things."

Subject placed under light sedation. Sleep logs corrupted by electromagnetic pulses radiating from uterine region.

[Day 92, 03:55]
Elevated cortisol and norepinephrine. Subject suffers tremors, sleep deprivation, minor hemorrhaging from nostrils. Requests for communication with external family denied. Fetal vital signs remain stable. Subject vocalizes resistance:

“This thing inside me—it doesn’t blink. It just watches.”

Security notified. Subject restrained. Memory interference protocol activated (partial erasure successful).

[Day 129, 17:48]
Fetus classified as “self-aware.” Detected heartbeat irregularities in Subject when fetal brainwave spiked during ultrasonic pulse test. Subject’s vitals temporarily halted (9.4 seconds).

Quote, whispered post-revival:

“It’s not mine anymore.”

Note: This phrase repeated during sedation in subsequent days (x7). Tone inconsistent, documented once with laughter.

[Day 161, 10:33]
Subject requested fetal extraction. Denied. Psychological profile flagged for emotional instability. Subject behavior alternates between affection and revulsion. Unknown whether this is induced by the fetus or emotional deterioration.

Subject began referring to fetus as:

“My little ghost”
“My salvation”
“My mistake”
“My incubator.” (Note: context ambiguous)

[Day 189, 02:10]
Emergency procedure executed. Uterine rupture detected. Fetus extraction initiated. No anesthetic, subject already unconscious.
Blood loss: 68% of total volume.

SUBJECT C-427 declared dead at 02:38.

CHILD STATUS – “PROJECT-09”
Physical signs: Alive, unresponsive.
Initial skin temperature: 22.4°C
Auditory Reflex: Present (but unresponsive to ambient voices)
Crying reflex: Absent.
Eye movement: Immediate, tracking; fixated on lead surgeon for 43 seconds without blinking.

Comment (non-scientific, unsanctioned):
“He looked like he knew what she gave up for him.”

Notes: SUBJECT C-427's final expression noted as calm. Arms had been curled protectively around abdomen.

ADDITIONAL NOTES
Two data folders created postmortem:

Folder A (Surface Report): Archived for Subject Nine’s future access.
Details: SUBJECT C-427 expressed repulsion toward fetus, requested termination, viewed child as abomination.

Folder B (Restricted - Level A+ Only):
Contents include:
Audio logs of SUBJECT C-427 singing lullabies recorded over 2 hours (File: Hope.wav)
17 handwritten notes addressed “To my little hope”
Attempted to alter memory wipe protocols to retain fetal consciousness.
Request (denied) for child to be spared experimental conditioning.

Final journal entry:

“Even if you're not human, you’re still mine. I hope you never forget that.”

PROTOCOL STATUS
Folder B is sealed.
Probability of SUBJECT 0-9 discovering real file: 2.18%
Suggested protocol: Maintain deception for psychological stability.

(Postmortem Addendum: Subject Nine has later been documented referring to SUBJECT C-427 as “my incubator.” Origin of phrase presumed to stem from falsified logs provided post-birth.)

[End Log - File Sealed - Project Hope: REDACTED]

Chapter Text

The room is dim, its shadows stretching long across the walls like the ribs of something dead. The only light comes from the flickering screen in front of you, where Mark Grayson’s latest failure plays in deliberate, mocking slow motion. The footage casts a pale glow across your face, bathing you in the artificial light of someone else's struggle.

You sit beside Cecil, silent and unmoving, your posture precise and unnatural in its stillness. The hum of the equipment is steady, mechanical, and more familiar to you than any heartbeat. Your eyes follow the figure on the screen without blinking. There is no awe. No concern. Only analysis.

The footage loops again. Mark’s form crashes through concrete, limbs flailing with misplaced confidence. His bright suit tears like tissue paper against the asphalt, his body folding with a softness that betrays the weight of his heritage. His blood smears across the pavement in a lazy arc. It glistens briefly before fading into shadow.

You observe the scene without feeling. A boy engineered for power, but still human enough to be clumsy. He is loud. Reckless. Predictable. Beneath all that noise and intention, he is just another creature of instinct, throwing himself forward without understanding the consequences. There is no strategy in his movements. Only reflex. Only desperation.

Cecil leans forward slightly, his gaze fixed on the screen. You can hear the subtle shift in his breathing, the way his body unconsciously tenses during impact. He is reacting as if this moment holds new meaning. As if something important might emerge from the repetition.

You do not correct him. There is no point. Humans cling to patterns as if understanding them might grant control over chaos. You were not made to indulge such illusions.

"Seventeen years old. Male. Confirmed Viltrumite descent. Response times delayed. Impulse-driven. Suboptimal instincts." Your voice is soft and without weight, spoken more for the sake of record than communication. You do not look at Cecil when you speak. Your attention remains fixed on the subject. On the fractures in Mark’s form, the dissonance between his potential and performance.

Onscreen, Mark drags himself upright, blood running from his mouth, muscles trembling beneath torn fabric. His breathing is ragged, each inhale louder than it should be. You notice the hitch in his right leg, the imbalance in his stance. A mistake. One that will repeat.

The footage resets again. The same fall. The same scream. The same red smear.

Cecil does not seem to notice the loop. His focus remains locked, eyes narrowed in thought. To him, this is study. To you, it is something else entirely.

This is not observation. It is mourning disguised as learning. A ritual of helplessness wrapped in the illusion of control. Humans convince themselves they are growing from pain, when all they are doing is watching it over and over, hoping the next time will hurt less.

You sit beside him without blinking, and the light flickers again across your skin like frost.

The footage loops again. Mark crawling, bleeding, clutching at his chest like the pain was something he could hold shut with fingers alone. You don't blink. You're counting. Not punches, not fractures. Seconds. How long he took to rise. How long he hesitated before committing to the next blow. It's like watching an ape try to do ballet. You’re told to respect it because it’s trying.

“Charming,” you say finally, voice low. “But inefficient. He wastes so much time trying to appear human.”

Cecil doesn’t comment. He never does when you say things like that. He just scratches his chin and replays the footage again. “You really don’t like him, huh?”

You glance his way, briefly. “I don’t dislike him. He’s just... loud.”

The glow from the screen stings faintly as it resets again, a smear of red and motion. You do not flinch, but your eyes take a fraction of a second longer to refocus. A human would have blinked. Your correction is minute, almost mechanical.

Then the door hisses.

It is not surprising. Of course not. You timed it internally the moment Cecil adjusted his sleeve, a nervous tell when guests are en route.

Mark Grayson walks in like someone pretending not to be watched. His gait is casual but deliberate, each step calculated to appear natural. He scans the room in a half-second sweep, eyes bouncing off corners and exits before settling on the center. The curiosity in his expression is restrained, softened for civility, but his posture betrays him. Tension lives just beneath the skin.

Cecil greets him with that careful tone he saves for unpredictable subjects. Not quite warmth. Not quite manipulation. It’s a voice designed for someone the room hasn’t fully decided to kill yet.

Your introduction is short, antiseptic. A name, a role. Not a warning, but close. Just enough for Mark to categorize you as something functional. Something stored under "ally" until proven otherwise. His instincts are clawing at him already, but he’s young, and he’s still pretending he can reason his way out of danger. That’s adorable.

Cecil calls it an "observation room." You hear the word and almost smile. You know better. This is not for observation. This is a chamber of conclusions. Every angle of the space is built for calibration, kill angles, restraint timing, escape window predictions. You've spent enough hours watching Cecil study life like a problem he’s waiting to erase. The chairs, the screens, the reflections on the glass, it’s all part of a trap dressed as curiosity.

And now Mark Grayson is standing exactly where his own death was replaying on loop ten seconds ago.

He doesn't know that yet. But he feels it. That’s why he looks over his shoulder more than once. That’s why his smile doesn’t quite reach the corners of his eyes. Some part of him understands. Something in his bones itches when you’re in the same room. His instincts are fighting to scream, and you almost respect that.

He steps closer and extends a hand. You mimic the gesture. The contact is brief, but not brief enough. You know your skin runs colder than it should. Not corpse-cold, but close enough to confuse the body before the brain catches up. A sensory warning. Your fingers press just a bit too uniformly, no flex, no softness. Your grip is perfect, sterile. There is no human friction, no warmth shared.

He flinches.

It’s small, almost imperceptible, but not to you. You catalog it like the others: a micro-spasm along the deltoid, a hitch in his breath, the subtle recoil of a hand that wants to leave yours before it does. You do not judge him for it. Fear is rational. Especially when it comes from the body, unfiltered.

“You always wait for them to get back up. It’s sentimental. It slows you down.” You don’t say it to help him. You say it like you're noting a lab result out loud, something faulty in a machine that shouldn’t be there. He blinks once, maybe out of reflex, but you’ve already stepped closer not enough to break protocol, but enough to observe.

You tilt your head in that slight, off-center angle you do when processing something alive. Mark is tall, solid, defiant even when still, but now his spine straightens more than necessary. The air changes. He doesn’t realize it yet, but he's trying not to breathe through his nose.

Mark doesn’t answer. You’re still holding eye contact when the silence stretches, and in it, something shifts. He frowns barely, but it's there because now he's close enough to notice something that wasn’t obvious when he walked in. You're not breathing. Not in the way people do. Not even in the subtle, unconscious way supers do. Your chest doesn’t rise. Your shoulders don’t shift. It’s not calmness. It’s absence.

He takes a step back, instinct flickering in the movement, maybe just adjusting his footing, or maybe reacting to how the air around you feels wrong. Stale. Like a room sealed too long.

There is no warmth to you. Not in skin, not in presence. Not even in the shallow inhale you take just to mimic breathing. You blink again, slower this time, deliberate, and Mark notices something that doesn't belong. Not the chill of your hand, he expected that. It’s the sound you make when you move, the faint shift of fabric over something too thin, too light, like your clothes aren’t fitted to muscle or weight but just hung over structure. Like you're made of wire and glass and everything that should not bend but still somehow functions.

Your eyes don’t meet his, not exactly. They hover too low, too direct, staring at the hollow just above his sternum. It isn't a mistake. You are measuring something. He knows it. You nod once as if a calculation has been confirmed and murmur something that isn’t meant for him to hear, just low enough that he feels the presence of speech without catching the shape of the words.

You lift your hand slightly. A small twitch of movement that never fully forms into a gesture, like a mimic of a wave, like you’re testing how many social signals you can condense into one economical motion. Then your gaze finally meets his, dead on, and what Mark sees isn’t malice, isn’t threat, isn’t even intent.

It’s vacancy dressed in skin.

He has faced creatures that wanted to kill him. He has been inches from death with hands wrapped around his throat and bones cracked under gravity. But he has never before felt so certain that the person in front of him could gut him mid-conversation without any more meaning than erasing a typo.

You lean back just slightly, returning to your previous posture, arms folded too neatly across your coat, spine too rigid, like your body learned stillness from a diagram instead of instinct. The silence stretches. Not awkward, not heavy but sterile.

He looks away first. You don’t watch him go. You’ve already stopped seeing him the moment he broke eye contact.

He’s not a subject anymore. He’s a result. You wonder how long it will take before he stops thinking this is a meeting and starts realizing it’s a test he was never meant to pass.

Ever since that day, Mark has carried something behind his eyes that strains his expressions when you enter the room. The first time it happened, you thought he might speak, but instead, he just looked through you like his brain needed to confirm you were still tethered to the floor and not suddenly behind him. You’ve seen that look before. It’s the same one humans give dying machines when they don't trust the wires are as dead as the screen. It’s a hesitation draped in calculation.

You can hear him even when he’s silent. His thoughts are a tangled, frantic hiss that presses against the inside of your skull like a living parasite, uninvited but impossible to ignore. Loud, persistent, irrational. Unlike the others, Mark thinks in colors and memory. His voice is soaked in dread and resistance. He builds scenarios in his mind that don’t even happen, rehearses anger, runs through arguments he’s never said aloud. You think it might be the Viltrumite heritage. Or maybe he's just incapable of letting go. You haven’t found enough consistency in his patterns to confirm either theory, but the noise is unbearable.

It doesn’t offend you. You’re not bothered by his aversion. You’ve been hated before, but Mark wears it like a badge, like it makes him good. He keeps his loathing barely veiled beneath civility, but his pulse always spikes when you’re near. That’s how you know it's real.

Then came the mission. Not his. Yours. He was sent to Mars, drowning in sand and overgrown instincts while you were assigned to Earth. The Guardians had already failed to contain the subject. You were supposed to watch. Observe from the perimeter. Step in only if it became unmanageable. That was the word Cecil used, unmanageable but he never explained what the threshold was. You kept asking yourself what counted. The number of bodies? The pitch of the screaming? The velocity of blood loss per second?

By the time you decide to act, it’s too late to ask.

You find yourself pressed between the side of a concrete structure and the living furnace of panic clutching at your coat. The child is trembling so violently her teeth click against each other with every breath. She clings to the seam of your shirt like it's the only solid thing in a burning building. Her small hands bruise against your ribs. You feel her heartbeat against your side, too fast, too soft, like something that won’t last long if left unmonitored.

The creature in front of you doesn’t speak words so much as it sprays them. Its mouth is too wide, and its teeth don’t line up correctly. There are too many. Its eyes blink sideways. It stinks of raw meat and bile and something acidic you can’t identify. It lunges, and before it even finishes the motion, you raise your hand, not both, just one, just enough to satisfy the requirement for precision.

The detonation is immediate. Its head becomes pulp before its shadow even finishes catching up to the wall behind it. The body drops like it doesn’t know it’s dead, twitching violently on the ground with all the confused momentum of something that’s lost direction but not energy. One of its legs kicks against a trash bin and flops in a grotesque circle. Its tail coils and uncoils, spasming like it’s trying to form a thought.

You do not watch it finish.

You kneel beside the child, her breath hitched in staccato gasps as she squeezes her eyes shut. Her hair has stuck to your coat with sweat. You reach up and press your fingers gently over her eyelids, forcing them shut as if the memory will stop forming if the visual input is cut off in time. She doesn’t resist. She collapses into you like structure has abandoned her body. You lift her. You are not gentle. You are not rough. You are efficient.

The warmth bleeding into your uniform is not all hers. You’re leaking again.

Blood drips from your chin in long, thin lines that stain her collar. More crawls out of your ears in lazy trails, soaking into the side of your neck. The pressure in your head feels like a misplaced heartbeat, one that lives in your jaw and pulses into your teeth. You cough once, loud and wet, and spray your sleeve red with something that smells like copper and static. It lands on her arm. You don’t apologize.

“This wasn’t meant for you,” you say gently. “You weren’t in the pattern.”

She doesn’t understand. They never do.

You whisper something close to comfort. You say it because it has been said to you before, and your memory replays the cadence correctly even if the meaning escapes you.

She doesn’t respond. Her body is curled into your chest, limbs drawn in, shaking so violently you start to wonder if some part of her still thinks you’re the monster.

And for once, you wonder if she might be right.

The ground shifts under your feet, not from panic, not from adrenaline, but from the impact of several tons of steel carving through stone. The front of the bus doesn’t stop when it hits the building. It keeps going, chewing through brick and steel, collapsing the corner like soft bone, coughing out a rain of rubble that screams on the way down. Somewhere inside the static noise of tearing metal, a child’s voice shreds through, too high-pitched, too sharp. You track it before you process it.

You see the mother first. She’s in the open, her upper body still braced against the pavement like she hasn’t caught up to what’s missing. From the waist down there’s nothing but pulp, flattened beneath a slab of the building’s spine. You calculate quickly. Three seconds at most before the child reaches her. Less before she realizes what she’s looking at. She yanks free from your grasp before you lock her down fully and your hand closes on air, knuckles twitching in reflex.

You step forward, movement staggered by the jolt of weight slamming into you from the side. Something catches your shoulder. You don’t look, you don’t react. The grip steadies you. Rex’s voice chews its way into your skull, fractured by the static in your ears. Your vision flickers in red. It’s not emotion. It’s hemorrhage. The beat behind you is not your heart, it’s the creature repositioning.

You see his arm. The disc launches. He yells something, the shape of his mouth proud, teeth bared like this is a game he thinks he’s winning. The disc hits the thing’s face. Smoke. Heat. Nothing more than a curtain. The beast peels it away with one paw, so slow it’s like watching someone wake up in a bad mood. Then it lunges, not messy, not wild just focused, calculated, like it knows who’s weaker.

You don’t ask if Rex is ready. You don’t check the surroundings. You don’t shout a warning.

You raise your hand and point. Not your whole arm. Not both hands. Just a single digit extended like a quiet accusation. Your fingertip locks onto the space between its eyes, your head ticks to the side, neck stiff like something rusted. The result is immediate. The second monster’s skull shatters from the inside, collapsing into slurry before the rest of its body understands. Flesh detonates outward, bone shards skipping off the pavement, something soft slaps against your cheek. You feel Rex flinch beside you. He still thinks this is over.

You’re already on your knees, ribs compressing as your lungs hiccup into a burst of wet choking. You slam your fist twice into your sternum, not out of pain, but to realign your breathing. You can feel the tissue stretching thin beneath your skin. The blood comes fast, not sprayed, but poured in thick lines from your mouth. You don’t wipe it away.

Rex touches your shoulder again, something in his face almost relieved. You slap his hand off with more strength than needed, not for drama, but because pressure irritates the internal bruising.

"The girl," you say, not pleading, not urgent. It’s an instruction. "Behind."

You force your vision forward, blinking through thick red that veils everything. Your nose is stuffed, clogged with clotted blood that pushes out every exhale. It’s coming from your ears again too. It trails down both sides of your neck, slow like sweat, too warm to ignore. Every part of your head feels heavy, pulsing with that delayed heartbeat that always follows after you use your power beyond the safe line.

When your vision sharpens enough to track motion, you see the child, or what’s left of her path. The woman is still collapsed, no longer twitching. Near her, too small to register at first, is the girl’s arm. Just the arm. Tiny fingers curled slightly, smeared in ash. Nothing else.

You don’t speak. You don’t scream. You don’t reach for her. You stare, long enough to memorize the shape, the angle of the wrist, the way the cloth caught around the elbow like it had been trying to hold the body together even after it gave out.

There is no pain. There is no failure. Only the imprint of data being stored, so the next time, you know what not to waste time on.

Your body collapses sideways, not because you’re tired, not because you’re overwhelmed. Just because the engine inside you flickered out and something in your spine gave up holding the rest. You don’t brace the fall. The side of your face hits the pavement hard. You feel another tooth shift loose. Your mouth tastes like pennies and oil. You keep your eyes open.

You don’t blink.

The oxygen mask keeps your breathing steady not because you need it but because the nurses keep returning to check the machines, adjusting tubes, tapping screens, pretending this matters. You let them. It’s easier than explaining that you’ve already re-regulated your lung pressure on your own. You’ve been sitting upright since the moment they wheeled you in, spine crooked against the headboard, one leg pulled under the other, hospital gown sticking to your body like wet paper. You haven’t moved except to blink or breathe, and both are done now on deliberate timers.

Your skin is pale from blood loss but colder from restraint. You’ve stopped regulating your temperature for comfort. There is no reason to keep pretending you're uncomfortable when you're not. You want to see how long it takes before they treat you like a corpse. So far, only one nurse hesitated before placing her stethoscope against your chest. She looked at your face and recoiled before she realized she was still holding her breath. You didn’t flinch. You wanted to watch the realization crawl up her throat when she couldn’t tell if you were breathing.

Cecil stopped by earlier. He didn’t speak much, didn’t stay long. Dropped something on the bed beside you like a weightless corpse, didn’t even look at it himself. His eyes were already somewhere else. His footsteps were the loudest thing in the room. You didn’t say anything. Not because you were being respectful or reflective. You were listening. His heartbeat was louder than it should’ve been. Something agitated it. Something about you.

He thinks you’ve cracked. That’s what he keeps circling in his mind. Not the word itself but the shape of it, like a fractured tooth hidden behind a smile. He thinks you’re mourning. He’s afraid of it. Afraid of what sentiment could do to you. You’ve never laughed so hard, internally, in your life. He thinks you cared about the child. That you grieved. That you held onto that bracelet because it hurt.

The bracelet is still in your hand. Not for comfort. For observation. It has fifteen beads. You’ve counted them eighty-six times since they gave it to you. Eight of them are animal shapes. Three are translucent. One is broken and sliced the skin of your palm when you clenched it the first time. You haven’t cleaned the blood off it because now it sticks to your hand when you squeeze it, and the pain gives you a reliable pulse when your own slows. You’re not mourning the girl. You’re measuring how easily her death can be used.

She wasn’t supposed to die. That’s the truth. Not because you wanted to protect her but because she could’ve been the right trigger. The right kind of disaster. The kind that proves you right. The kind that validates everything you’ve said about the fragility of flesh, the myth of peace, the wasted experiments they call civilization. You were watching. You were waiting to see if her death would be public enough, cruel enough, raw enough to change protocol. But it wasn’t. She died in a corner. She died in a whisper. She died in a place no camera caught.

You grind the bracelet harder into your palm and this time the blood runs fresh again. It doesn’t hurt the way pain usually registers. It just confirms that you’re still soft in places that matter. That bothers you. You need to correct that.

They think you’re recovering. You’re not. You’re rethinking the next plan. You’re recalibrating which disaster needs to come first. The Martians were too slow. The monster attack wasn’t loud enough. The loss of a single child didn’t make the headlines last more than four hours. You watched it. You timed it. You know exactly how long public empathy lasts. You’re going to need a school next time. Or a hospital. Or a city block. Something with skin and screams and sirens. Something no one can sweep into a number on the news.

Humans are addicted to loss but allergic to pattern recognition. You’ve tested it enough. You know what scale will finally snap it.

The bracelet is in your mouth now. Not the whole thing, just one of the beads. You want to feel how easily it breaks between your teeth. It takes less pressure than you expected. The shard slices your tongue open before you even apply your jaw fully. You don’t spit it out. You swallow it whole. You want to see if it passes through you unbroken. You want to know what a small death tastes like.

You can’t stop thinking about how much simpler things would be if the nuclear option had succeeded. Not metaphorical warheads. Real ones. Real fire. Real ash. No resurrections. No messy feelings. No cost-benefit equations wrapped in skin. Just silence. Perfect, wide, final silence. No more protocols. No more rules. Just the cold weight of correctness crushing every soft hope out of the human species until only the strong and efficient were left.

The mask hisses again. You bite the inside of your cheek and taste metal. Not because you're angry. Because you're hungry for a cleaner failure.

The screen glitches every few seconds from the constant playback, each press of the button forcing the moment to restart. The footage doesn’t degrade but somehow feels worse every time. The girl's scream doesn’t shorten. The tear doesn’t soften. The alien doesn’t hesitate. Limbs still go flying. Red still paints the same corner of the pavement.

Donald sits stiff, then shifts again, then shifts again, like his body can’t figure out where to rest without guilt. His fingers drum once on his leg, then stop. He keeps stealing glances at you like you might snap. Like you might fold. Like you're something fragile caught in a loop, wearing yourself thin on a memory you can't let go of.

You’re not watching anymore. You’ve already broken the clip down frame by frame. You already know what second the body separates from the scream. You already mapped the impact radius. You already counted how many people stood still instead of running. Your eyes are on the floor because you’re listening to the screams not for emotion, but for interference. You’ve been trying to isolate if any sound within them matched patterns from known sonic weapons. They didn’t. It was just a child.

“I remember her voice,” you say, not because you’re lamenting it, but because it’s true. “But not her name.”

You say it like a fact. Like a weather update. Something neutral. Something stable. The name wasn’t important. The scream was. You’ve cataloged it, filed it, marked it as a threshold. You want to see if the next one will be louder. You’re building data.

Donald hears something else. You can tell by the way his shoulder drops a few inches, like someone let the air out of his spine. He thinks you’re mourning. He thinks you’re haunted. He thinks this is trauma.

You don’t correct him. Let him think whatever soft thing he needs to survive being in the same room as you. Let him build the story that helps him offer kindness, helps him stay seated while the screen keeps flashing the moment a little girl was split like fabric. Let him think the milk is for comfort. He places it beside you, gentle like you might break.

You stare at the glass. You do like chocolate milk. That’s true. It’s the only thing they bring you that isn’t laced with vitamins, suppressants, stabilizers. You take it sometimes because it’s one of the few variables you can track without a chart.

Donald murmurs something. It’s too quiet to register fully, but it doesn’t matter. He’s apologizing for something he didn’t do. Humans do that. They apologize to the nearest witness like it clears the blood from the floor.

You don’t answer. Not out of sorrow. You’re still watching the screen through the reflection on the wall. You're watching how long it takes the camera to glitch after the scream. You're wondering if, under different weather conditions, the feed would’ve held longer. You’re wondering how long it’ll take before someone realizes a scream is only useful if someone answers it.

You sip the milk. Not because it soothes you. Because it reminds you you're not fixed to one role. Today you played the ghost. Tomorrow, maybe something louder.

You walked into Guardians HQ and nobody stopped you. The security system blinked but didn’t alarm. There was still blood on the floors from someone who mattered more to the government than to you. The hallway smelled like smoke, sweat, and burned rubber from a fried suit. A few voices echoed from the other room. Someone was yelling. Someone else was bleeding.

The screen was still playing the same footage. The crash. The civilians. The part where no one moved fast enough. You watched the bus hit again. You watched them watch it. You remember this part now. They were close enough to act. They didn’t. They stood and watched it fold in half like a paper toy and turned their heads when people stopped screaming.

You walked into the room and no one noticed at first. Rex was mouthing off. Bulletproof was pacing. Dupli-Kate stared at the wall like it might give her answers. Then Black Samson saw you. He didn’t hesitate.

"You," he snapped, voice like gravel under weight. He pointed. Whole arm, not just a finger. His shoulders squared like he wanted you to move first so he could swing. "I see you slinking around this team like some parasite, always in the corners, never where you’re supposed to be. And now I see this."

He jabbed a finger at the screen. The footage looped again. Your hand raised. The moment the skull split. That part. The one no one could explain. The blood that sprayed onto Rex. The piece of bone that lodged into your cheek and stayed there for ten seconds before you blinked it out like dust.

“You let us think you were broken,” he said. “You let us carry your dead weight. You had that kind of firepower, and you sat on it?” He took another step. His voice dropped, heavier now. "You let people die." He kept coming. You didn’t move. His hands curled into fists like that changed the odds. “Little freak from the lab. That’s what they call you, right?” he asked. His voice dipped, low and loaded. “You’ve been letting us die while you watched.”

You didn’t answer. Not because of guilt. There was nothing to feel sorry for. It would’ve been inefficient to correct him. You weren’t hiding. You were observing. They got loud. They got violent. They postured like that would solve anything. The screen looped again, and no one asked why the bus was left untouched for so long. No one acknowledged the body count. They were too focused on the footage of your hand. Not the girl being torn apart. Not the man choking on dust before the building collapsed on him.

Your hand. That’s what made them upset. That’s what mattered. No one asked how many you saved. They asked why you didn’t save them. They wanted to believe you were helpless. That made them feel braver. You watched them all burn energy fighting a version of you they made up to feel safe. The air smelled like sweat, metal, and judgment. Someone was crying. You weren’t sure who.

“You think I was hiding something.” You don’t pose it like a question. It’s just noise, dragged out of your mouth so they can hear themselves reflected back. Black Samson doesn’t reply. His knee hits the floor first, then his hand, then the other, his balance gone. Blood leaks from his nose like the edge of a broken pipe. His eyes twitch, unfocused. His body doesn’t understand what’s happening, but his brain does. Somewhere under the failing rhythm of his nerves, it knows it's shutting down.

He’s not screaming yet. That happens next. The others watch, but none of them move. Not one step. Not even toward him. You didn’t raise your hand. You didn’t change your stance. You just looked at him. And still, he folds like wet cardboard. It’s not showmanship. It’s not anger. You’re not proving a point. You’re reacting like anyone would to something foul on their shoe. Automatic. Necessary.

The Guardians keep staring. Their muscles tense. Their eyes dart. You can smell adrenaline in the air, sour and thin. Someone clenches a fist. Someone else forgets to breathe. They’re calculating distance. Not to save Samson. To survive you.

“You built your own lie,” you say. Your voice is steady. Not cruel. Not calm. Just present. Like static humming through a wall socket. “You saw something sick and fragile and made it comfortable for yourselves. Something easy to ignore. You don’t like being wrong. That’s all this is.”

Samson’s voice finally comes out, but it's nothing useful. Broken syllables. Vomit. Maybe a prayer. The floor drinks all of it in. The projection behind you plays again. The same moment. The skull rupture. The moment everything changed. You don’t turn to watch it. You’ve memorized it. The shock on their faces wasn’t horror. It was embarrassment.

Rex finally speaks. His voice doesn’t break, but it sounds like it wants to. “Cut it out, Nine.” He steps forward. Like that’s supposed to mean something. His body leans into the motion like a man pulling off a coat he’s not sure fits anymore. His arms are half-ready, but his jaw’s too tight, his footing too careful. He wants to look brave. But he’s only moving because no one else will. “Let him go.”

You blink once. The sound cuts off. Black Samson collapses like the strings holding him upright were yanked from the inside. His head hits first. Not a thud. A crack. You can hear the enamel chip. His fingers curl around nothing, grasping the air like it might explain what just happened. It doesn’t.

The blood follows. Thicker than it should be. Dark. Like oil leaking from a cracked engine block. It runs past his cheekbone, seeps into the collar of his suit, soaks into the concrete like it belongs there. His body twitches. Involuntary. Violent. Then stills.

Your nose starts bleeding. Again. The red rolls down your face slow, unbothered. Some of them react like it’s a sign you’re in danger. Others flinch like it means they are. Neither group is correct. It’s just the cost.

You speak only when the silence fails to collapse. “He’s not dead.” You look at Rex. You look at the rest. “If I wanted him dead, he wouldn’t be twitching.” Then you glance at the screen. The footage loops. The child again. Her scream. The split-second before her body tore apart. Your eyes follow it like a clock hand ticking through someone else’s mistake. “I could’ve let him keep screaming. Would’ve taken seconds longer before the brainstem collapsed.” You tilt your head slightly. “I stopped it. You’re welcome.”

Nobody breathes. “You only recognize force when it imitates you. When it looks like fists. When it shouts. That’s the limit of your understanding. That’s why people die around you.” You don’t raise your voice. “Not because they’re weak. But because you are.” Something shifts behind you. Metal creaks. Fabric rustles. Someone scratches at the skin near their collarbone. You ignore it. “I was told to observe. So I did. I measured your reactions. I measured your inaction. The delay between seeing and doing. It averaged four-point-seven seconds.”

You step forward. Not much. Just enough that none of them can pretend it’s not personal. “She didn’t wait. She saw it and ran toward it. She didn’t have powers. She didn’t have armor. She was seven. She still moved faster than all of you.” Your tone doesn’t sharpen. It stays level. That’s what makes it worse. “I could’ve stopped it sooner. I didn’t. Because I thought you would.” You look at each of them. One by one. You don’t blink. You don’t shift. “You didn’t.”

Someone swallows behind gritted teeth. It’s loud in the room. “So ask yourselves,” you say. “Should I have let more of them die? Would that make your ego easier to manage?” No one answers. “Don’t make this about me.” You nod toward Black Samson. He hasn’t moved. His breath sounds like sandpaper tearing through a wet throat. “You didn’t fail because I was hiding something. You failed because none of you moved until it was already over.” You take one more look around the room. Not long. Just long enough to make sure they’re hearing it. “That’s not a strategy. That’s rot.”

Then you stop. Nothing else to say. You turn. You would’ve left. But Rex steps in front of you, tossing something, a napkin, maybe. It brushes your shoulder, then falls to the floor. “You’re bleeding,” he mutters. You don’t respond. You don’t pick it up. You don’t look at it.

He sighs. “Alright. That’s enough,” he says, more to the room than to you. “Everyone take a breath.”

You walk past him like he isn’t there. Like none of them are. Because to you, in that moment, they aren’t. They’re just background noise in a timeline that should’ve ended with a warhead. And they keep proving why.