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Chapter Text

The man in the flickering hologram above the terminal gave Monica a parting wave as she completed the delivery of his package. She gave him a quick nod before he disappeared. Though the container was rusted and slightly dented, the contents remained untouched and preserved. A crisp breeze swept through the shelter’s entrance, brushing past her.  Monica hesitated for a moment, her breath fogging in the air, before turning to begin the long trek home. Her porter boots echoed against the metal floor with each step before stepping into the dirt.

Outside, the sky hung low, a dull, depressing ash-gray. Monica adjusted the straps of her weathered pack, the timefall resistant material of her porter suit still holding up, though the seams told the story of too many repairs. In the distance, an inverted rainbow arched above the horizon, a spectral warning etched by the presence of BTs. It was beautiful…in a way and unmistakably ominous.

Monica’s boots stirred dry dust with every step as she navigated a desolate landscape, scarred by explosions brought on by the dead.  It was quiet…broken. To her left stretched a barren valley, littered with stones and silence. To her right, stood a steep cliff that rose above her, its shadow stretching long across the broken earth.  

She kept moving. She always did.

A sudden crack, a rock tumbling down the cliffside, snapped her attention upward. Her heart kicked against her ribs, a reflex born from too many close calls. Her gaze lifted.

That’s when she saw him.

A lone figure etched against the broken skyline. A golden skull mask caught the last rays of dying daylight, gleaming with a quiet, malevolent grace. He wore an Egyptian inspired black cloak that shifted in the wind, and beneath it, a dark green tactical suit. On his chest a BB Pod, and grenades clipped to a belt. A silent threat.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t say a single word. Just stared down at her, as if he’d been waiting.

Monica’s breath hitched. She heard of the man in the golden mask but had never been face to face with him.

He slowly lifted his hand in a silent gesture, almost casual, and pointed skyward. A crack of thunder jolted Monica before raindrops began to fall. Not the clean, life-giving kind, but the corrosive sting of timefall, accelerating time with each drop it touches.

Her gloved hand reaches up to tuck a dark strand of hair back into the protection of her hood. Her skin was pale beneath a layer of sweat and grime. She wasn’t striking. Not in the way people used to be, back when beauty meant something. But there was a kind of gravity to her. Her eyes were a muted gray-green. They held the weight of someone who’d seen too much and kept going anyway.

She stared up at the masked man on the cliff, timefall dripping from her hood as her breath released a cloud of mist with every exhale. Her heart was now steady but her mind raced. She knew he was dangerous. And she did not know why he was here. Except to cause trouble. He was the leader of a terrorist group. The architect of chaos. The man who was the cause of several voidouts across America. And now he loomed over her.

Monica’s boots shifted in the dirt as the wind tugged on her suit hood.  She narrowed her eyes against the fading light, the man still motionless atop the rocky cliff. Still as a statue. Hand still pointing to the sky.

Her voice cut through the silence. “You just gonna stand there, or are you gonna finish what you started?”

The words echoed, swallowed by the valley’s emptiness before they reached him. He didn’t move. Not at first. Then he slowly tilted his head, the golden mask catching the last sliver of daylight like a signal flare. It wasn’t acknowledgement. It was something much colder.

Monica’s fingers twitched closer to her single grenade she had tucked into a pouch on her hip. She didn’t know what he wanted but she knew what he was capable of.

And then…just like that. He was gone.

Monica blinked once…twice, trying to reconcile the emptiness where he’d stood. The cliff was bare now, except for the faint shimmer of golden chiralium dust drifting in the wind. She stepped forward, boots crunching over brittle stone, eyes scanning the cliff’s edge for any sign. Any clue. But there was nothing.

Her hand fell away from the grenade. Not because she felt safe. But because she knew it wouldn’t have mattered.

By the time Monica had arrived to her shelter perched up on the little hill, the timefall had stopped. She paused at the entrance, turned around to scan her surroundings before the airlock door lowered into the dirt with mechanical groan. Entering into her shelter, she pulled open the inner door before slipping through and pushing it closed with a faded hiss.

Standing in the silence for a moment, Monica fell back against the door, taking her first deep breath for what felt like hours. The hum of generators, the soft flicker of low hanging lights, the familiar sounds that felt almost sacred after the open desolation outside. She rested her head back against the cool metal behind her, eyes closed before she heard the delicate purr and the whisper of paws on metal.  

A small black cat emerged from the shadows, tail high, blue eyes sparkling in the light. It wrapped around Monica’s leg in figure eights before she bent down and ran her gloved hand along its back. “Hello, Salem.” It’s fur was soft. A sharp contrast to everything in her life. “You missed me?” she murmured.

She stood up and reached over her shoulder and grabbed the only package left on her pack. “I brought you food.” The cat followed her with quiet purpose, tail flicking as it padded beside her into the main room of the shelter. The space was small but functional. Cozy.

On the floor sat a shallow dish. Monica knelt beside it and pulled out a small bag of dry cat food.  The feline sniffed once, then began to eat.

Monica lingered for a moment, her gaze resting on Salem as he ate, a quiet smile tugging at her lips. She stood up again with a soft exhale and began the slow process of shedding her uniform.

Her locker stood beside to the entrance door, its surface scuffed and worn from years of use.  She opened it with a metallic click. She hung up her uniform first before reaching for the rest of her gear. Her weapons were carefully placed on the top shelf. Next, were her boots which she unlaced and kicked off before setting them neatly at the bottom of the locker.

Finally, she stood in the dim lighting. Her thoughts drifted back to the man in the golden mask.  She wrapped her arms around her torso, not from the cold, but from the sudden ache of memory. The golden mask shimmered in her mind’s eye, not merely an object but a presence…an omen.

Monica slowly made her way to her full-size bed, tucked away against one wall. Sitting on the edge, Salem jumped up beside her, his purring a low, steady rhythm that filled the silence. Monica reached out absentmindedly, fingers brushing through his fur, her mind elsewhere.

The masked man hadn’t killed her.

He could  have…easily. That much was clear. He had the high ground, the weapons, the motive. And yet… he vanished. Like smoke. Like a warning.

Why didn’t he kill me?

The question echoed in her mind, louder than the hum of the generators. It wasn’t mercy. She knew that. Mercy didn’t exist in the world they lived in. Not from men like him.

It was something else.

A message, maybe. Or a test.

She stood and crossed the room, reaching for the small terminal embedded in the wall. Its screen flickered to life, casting a pale glow across her face. She tapped through her logs, scanning for any unusual transmissions, any signs of movement in the region. Nothing. Just static and silence.

She turned away, the screen dimming behind her, and walked back to the bed. Salem stirred, then settled again as she lay beside him, one arm draped across her chest.

Outside, the wind howled across the valley, carrying with it the scent of rust and timefall rain. And somewhere out there, beyond the cliffs and the broken roads, the man in the golden mask was waiting.

Not for her death.

But for the next encounter.

And Monica knew, with a quiet certainty that settled deep in her bones…

This was only the beginning.

Chapter Text

A Couple Days Later…

Monica bolted upright, startled by the shelter alarm. The red glow pulsed like a heartbeat, casting frantic shadows across the metal walls as the terminal alerted a breach. Her breath caught in her throat as she glanced over the room as she threw herself out of the bed and sprinted to the console, checking for any signs of movement in or around the shelter.

Nothing.

Monica paused, heart pounding in her ears, loud enough to drown out thought.

And then the sound of the airlock groaned and hissed on the other side of the shelter door. Monica’s eyes grew wide as another sound followed. The soft scrape of boots on metal flooring. Then a shuffle. Then…a knock. Slow. Deliberate.

Monica’s breath hitched before she ran to her locker, yanked it open and grabbed her handgun. Her hands shook as she leveled it at the door, knuckles pale and jaw clinched.

She crept forward, gun pointed as she unlocked the hatch and pushed the heavy door open with a grunt. A cool breeze blew through the black and white strands of Monica’s hair as she sees the airlock door down and in the dirt. The terminal stood active as if it were recently activated. No doubt someone had been there.

Gun still raised, Monica stepped out. The landscape was empty. The sky hung low, bruised and colorless. She scanned the perimeter, her breath shallow and jagged. No new footprints. Just the faded impressions of her own boots.

Then she saw it. A note. Folded neatly, resting on the ground near the bunker door.

Monica knelt, fingers trembling as she picked it up and unfolded it.

LOOKING FOR ME

No signature. No clue. Just the words…taunting and intimate. The ink looked fresh and was written in capital letters.

Monica’s gaze darted across the terrain, searching for any sign. A shadow. A figure. More notes. Anything…

Then her eyes caught something written on the side of her shelter.

Scrawled across the side of her shelter in bold black paint.

HIGGS WAS HERE

Her pulse spiked. “Higgs?’ she whispered, voice barely audible.

Panic bloomed in her chest. She spun in circles, gun raised, eyes wide but there was no one. The silence pressed in, thick and suffocating. The wind had died. Even the dust seemed to hold its breath.

And then —darkness.

Monica gasped awake. The shelter was quiet. The alarm silent. The doors sealed. No note. No graffiti.

Just her breath. Just her bed. Just the soft purring of Salem curled beside her.

Just the echo of a name.

“Higgs…”

Monica sat up slowly. The nightmare clinging to her skin like static. Her gaze drifted to the door…untouched. Then she remembered. The man. The golden skull mask. She’d seen him a couple of days ago. He hadn’t spoken a word, but his presence was carved into her bones.

He wasn’t just a memory. He was a warning.

Monica opened her eyes to black sand and the sound of gentle waves splashing against a shore. Above her, the sky stretched in a dull smear of grey, neither day nor night.

She sat up slowly, her loose braid falling against her shoulder in a swirl of black and white. She brushed away black sand from her palms as she stood up. The air was still, heavy with salt and static. In the distance stood a single house on the shoreline, its silhouette warped by mist. It looked abandoned. Or waiting.

The sound of slow soft footsteps pressing into the sand startled her but she didn’t move. Then a voice…muffled by a mask and close to her ear whispered huskily.

“So…you do have DOOMS.”

She turned her head slightly, heart thudding.

He appeared slowly, circling around her right to stand in front of her. The same figure from that day. High up on that cliff.

He was here. On her beach.

“Who are you?” she demanded, though she already knew.

“The names Higgs,” he answered with a slow, lazy bow. His golden mask glinted faintly in the grey light as his head tilted, looking her up and down as if he were examining her. His black and gold cloak drifted lightly in the breeze as he shifted closer.

Monica’s breath caught. Her beach wasn’t supposed to have visitors.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” she said, voice low.

He tilted his head and gestured with a gloved hand, casual and amused. “Neither are you, but here we are.”

“What do you want?”

He stepped closer, his tall frame looming as he bent closer to her face. He pointed, “Well, let’s see now.”  then began his pacing in slow, deliberate circles around her as she stood nervously.

“To talk. To offer you a future. A purpose.”  He paused between each line and nodded his head.

Monica narrowed her eyes up at him. “I have a purpose.”

Higgs smiled beneath the mask. “Do you? Or are you just survivin’?”

She didn’t answer. Just watched him silently, her body tense, her mind racing.

He continued to circle her slowly, like a predator with time to kill. “Mm. You could be so much more than some fuckin’ porter.”

Higgs tried to reach out and run his hand along her cheek, but she knocked it away instead. “Don’t fucking touch me.”  

He tsked and shook his head. “You ain’t gonna be easy, are ya?”

Monica narrowed her brows as she wrapped her arms around herself.

“I ain’t your enemy,” he said, voice low. “But…I could be.” His finger pointed as he gave her a nod.

She took a step as she watched him, her expression twisted into disgust as she wondered why he was even here.

A low chuckle low and deep as he reached up to remove his mask along with the leather gas mask underneath.

Monica looked up into his eyes and her breath hitched. His face was sharp and angular, with high cheek bones and a smug ass grin. He was beautiful in a way and to Monica that felt wrong. His eyes lined with ancient Egyptian styled eyeliner sparkled an icy blue and in place of brows were fresh tattoos. Monica tried to focus her eyes to get a better look. They were…equations. Tattooed onto his forehead like a reminder of who or what he was.

She looked away.

“Please, just stop.”

Higgs tilted his head. “Stop what? Hm?”

“You’re trying to manipulate me,” she murmured.

He leaned down closer to her ear. “Not tryin’,” he whispered. “Just planting seeds.”

Monica turned her head away and closed her eyes tightly. “Leave me alone.”

Higgs shook his head and smiled, slow and knowing. “Damn shame, Monica. Don’t think I give up that easily.”

Monica opened back her eyes and looked at him before he leaned in again. “Catch you later, sweetheart.”

And just like that, he vanished.

No sound. No trace. Just absence.

Monica let out a gasp, her body jolting. And before she knew it, she was back again in her bed.

Chapter Text

Monica lay motionless beneath the fluffy blanket as she stared up at the metal ceiling. The light from the hologram skylight shimmered pale blue light across the floor of the shelter. Her mind drifted back to the masked man that appeared on her beach. Higgs. Now unmasked, she remembered every detail of his face. Those intense blue eyes. That shit-eating grin. The way he watched and circled around her, almost admiring.

She rolled onto her side, swinging her legs over the edge of the bed. The metal was cold on the bottom of her feet. Monica padded into the kitchen, yanked open one of the cupboards and grabbed a glass to fill with water. She lifted the glass to her lips, the water was cool and sharp while she let it clear the last traces of thoughts of Higgs from her morning thoughts.

Salem appeared at her ankles. Rubbing insistently against her shins, purring.

“Morning, handsome,” she murmured, scratching between his ears. “How about some breakfast?” She poured out a cup of food into his small bowl, then paused to watch him eat.

After breakfast for them both were done, she sauntered to the bathroom. She undid her braid and let her hair tumble free. Long black wavy strands threaded with silver spilled over her shoulders. Monica turned on the shower and waited for the hiss of water.

Slipping out of her plain black clothes, she lets them fall into a pile at her feet. Steam curled around her before she stepped in and let the first streams hit her pale skin. She inhaled, letting the warmth seep into her sore muscles and with it, the memory of Higgs. His crooked grin. The way his husky voice had promised danger and thrill in the same breath. Monica shook her head, a silver strand flowing over her collarbone as she nudged those thoughts to the back of her mind.

The sound of rocks crackled under Monica’s boots as she walked the path to her destination. She carried two containers full of heavy cargo on her back. She looked up at the sky and noticed clouds rolling in. The sky was darkening and etched in the sky was an inverted rainbow.

“Shit.” Monica muttered under her breath.

The last thing she needed was to be caught in a timefall rainstorm. And near BT territory at that.

A mist rose around the crumbling ruins ahead. Fine beads of timefall began to hiss as they hit her uniform, prompting Monica to pull up her hood and tuck in her braid. She tightened her pack straps and prepared to face the inevitable.

Monica paused at the threshold of the territory. She could feel her DOOMS kicking in. Her heart started pounding and she could feel them. They were close. Every instinct screamed to turn back, but she took a step forward, inhaling before crossing into the zone. Every breath she breathed produced a cloud of mist.  Ghostly silhouettes drifted in and out of her sight, their forms stretching and folding into the air. Their mouths opened and closed in silent wails. Her skin crawled, every nerve ending ignited by dread.

She halted when a BT drifted too close, a bloated human shape hovered above her. Her heartbeat thumped loud. She pressed her palm over her mouth, and held her breath, making sure she didn’t make a sound. She moved and ducked out of the way, each step painstakingly slow. The containers on her pack began to rust.

And then another one. Monica held her breath again. Moving slow and steady as the ghost moaned out searching for someone...anyone.  Her lungs screamed for air until it sailed past like a shadow in motion. But then her boot caught on a rock, and she lost her balance, falling into the mud with a wet thud, her cargo smacking into gravel.

A screech ripped through the fog as the nearest BT froze before it turned and moved closer to the sound. A hot spike of panic flared in Monica’s chest and whimper slipped through her lips. And then the timefall paused. The BT shuddered, then faded into gray mist and silence.

Monica lay panting, mud covering her uniform, closing her eyes as the relief washed over her.

She picked herself up and packed up the cargo containers before moving on.

Just outside the BT zone, stood the mouth of a shallow cave. Monica ducked inside and dropped her pack, setting it down in the cold dirt floor of the cave. She sat, gingerly withdrawing a protein bar, and tore away the wrapper.

Just as she took her first bite, a voice slithered through the darkness.

“There you are…”

Monica jumped up and turned towards the voice. He materialized in the cave’s gloom, cloak tails swirling like storm clouds. He was here. Mask on, cloak hood up.

Her chest tightened. “What the fuck do you want, Higgs?”

He stepped closer, slow and steady and shook his head. “I told ya…I don’t give up that easy.”

Monica backed herself up against the side of the cave wall, trying to put some distance between herself and him. But he closed the gap in two smooth strides.

He continued. “I ain’t here to kill ya,” he breathed. “but I do want you on my side.” Higgs paused, moving in inches from Monica’s face, invading her space.

“I don’t care what you want,” she spat. Monica jumped up and tried to run but Higgs stopped her by blocking her, placing a hand against the stone wall. 

“Ah, ah, ah, baby doll.” He shook his gloved finger, making the metal clink.

Monica swallowed as she watched him remove his masks again, shoving his hood back and revealing his face once more. He leaned in so close she could feel his breath and catch his scent. Metallic, earthy. Intoxicating.

“Leave me alone.”

He tilted his head, amused. “You always say that. But you don’t mean it.”

She met his gaze, then sharp and defiant. “I mean it every time.”

Higgs let out a soft chuckle. “You’re out here wasting yourself, making fucking deliveries, running from ghosts. You could be more.”

 Monica’s jaw tightened. “More like you? A fucking terrorist?” She smacked his chest with her fists and shoved him back. 

He just smirked and laughed. Taking the hit like it didn’t bother him a bit. “Oh, Monica…”

She hated how her pulse quickened when he murmured her name. Hated how his voice curled around in her thoughts like smoke, how her body betrayed her with heat even as her mind screamed no. There was something magnetic about him. He was dangerous, yes, but there was something familiar. Like she knew him in a passed life.

Higgs backed away, holding up both hands like a scale. “Which one is it gonna be, hm? You can either trust me. Or. I can come back and get into that little head of yours.”

Monica didn’t say anything. Just stared, brows furrowed and ready to fight.

He stepped closer again and leaned in, voice dropping to a whisper. “You want me, I know ya do, I can smell it on you. I make your panties wet and all you gotta do is join me.”

Before she could respond, he was gone again. 

Monica sat frozen, the cave suddenly colder, her body ached. And he was right. A part of her wanted him. And that disgusted her.

She sat back down, and took another bite, chewing slowly, eyes on the cave mouth. She hated him. She hated how he made her feel. But part of her feared that one day, she might not.

Chapter Text

Monica sat in bed, knees drawn up beneath the thick fluffy blanket, back against the headboard. She tried to disappear into the book cradled in her hands but the words blurred, eyes tired and dry, but she kept turning the pages anyway. From the corner, a soft melody plays, a nameless but familiar song. She turns another page, hoping the words might swallow her whole after yesterday’s brutal delivery route.

Salem curled in a black ball at her feet. His rumbling purr weaved between notes of the song and the hollow moan of wind against metal walls of the shelter entrance above. Monica’s eyes scanned the same line of text for the third time, the words refusing to stick.

Her mind kept wandering. To the beach. In that cave. To the man whose presence had twisted itself into every corner of her thoughts.

She flipped another page. And wondered when she would stop hearing his voice, even in her sleep.

A sudden, sharp crack of static fractured the air and then the sound of combat boots landing on metal flooring, left Monica’s nerves on edge. She sat up straight, setting the book to the side. Salem’s fur rises. Her eyes darted to one of the corners of the shelter where a shimmer of gold dust sparkled in the light.

Monica leaned over and snatched the handgun from her nightstand before she could even think. She stood to her feet, legs braced, and the gun leveled at the source of the sound.

He stood in the middle, no mask, no hood, just his sharp-cut face and that lazy smile that wanted to be a threat. Higgs raised both hands. “Careful now, Monica. I ain’t here to hurt ya.”

Salem stood, sniffed the air and eased towards the man.

Monica stood ready, gun pointed but inside her pulse ran like a runaway train. “Get out of my goddamn shelter!”

Higgs glanced at the cat, then to Monica. He smiled, entertained by her defiance. “Now, that’s a fine welcome. Relax.” He stepped forward, hands still up as she tracked his movements. Monica’s breath snagged in her throat as Higgs bent to pick up the cat, scratching him behind the ears.

“Well look at that. Little guy likes me.” He cradled the cat, who purred traitorously and butted his head into Higgs’ gloved palm. “Guess that makes one of ya.”

He sat Salem back onto the bed, slow and deliberate, as if demonstrating the absence of threat. His gaze flicked to Monica’s finger on the trigger and stepped forward, towering over her. The gun dug into his chest. Higgs’ voice dropped to a velvet whisper. “You ain’t gonna pull that trigger, Monica.”

Her jaw locked as she pushed harder into his chest. “I will.”

Higgs laughed, a warm throaty sound that made her skin crawl and flush at the same time. “Oh, you are fun.” He paused, pushing his chest into Monica’s gun. He met her eyes with unblinking blue “Do it.”

Even if she did pull the trigger, Higgs’ bulletproof vest would stop the bullet. And then what?

Monica’s fingers tighten, then slacken on the trigger. Her heart hammered so loudly she’s certain he could hear it.

Her fingers stayed limp on the trigger. She couldn’t do it.

The next moment, her whole body sagged. She dropped the gun to her side and crumpled to the edge of the bed, head in her hands.

Higgs stood tall over her. Taking his gloved hand, he reached down and lifted her chin up to look at him. Monica didn’t fight it, but she put a hand out and pushed against him gently.

“Join me.” He whispered.

She swallowed as she shook her head, eyes still on his. “I can’t. I won’t.” He brushed a lock of hair behind her ear with the back of his knuckle. It was almost gentle, which confused her.

Higgs let go of her chin and stepped back. He backed up and sat in a chair opposite her bed, sprawling with lazy comfort of someone who knew he wasn’t going to leave anytime soon.

“What are you doing?” she muttered, voice muffled by the blanket of exhaustion.

“Getting comfortable.”

Monica pushed herself up off the bed and pointed towards the door. “Get out!”

She wanted to yell, throw something, make him go. But he looked at her with a kind of amused patience, as if waiting for her tantrum to wind itself out.

Higgs shifted in the chair and shook his head slowly. “Nah, I think I’ll stay.”

Monica swallowed in frustration and huffed. Finally, she questioned his motives. “Why do you want me to join you? What do you need me for? Don’t you have a whole terrorist group already at your beck and call?”

He nodded. “Oh yeah…I do.” He stood up and looked down at Monica once more.

“Moni, I know you…” he whispered huskily. His head shook before he continued. “But you don’t know me.”

Monica’s heart fluttered at the sound of her nickname, There was only one person who would call her that, but she couldn’t remember. Their name or their face. They were gone now.

Higgs stepped closer to Monica. His face was right above hers now, shadowed and beautiful and terrible. She looked up at him, staring into those beautiful blue eyes. Those eyes made her feel things she was unable to decipher.

“You could be great,” he breathed. “With me.”

She didn’t say anything, just looked down a moment before bringing her eyes back on him while shaking her head.

Higgs reached down with his gloved hand and cradled Monica’s cheek, his thumb stroking her jaw. Her face burned.She leaned into it a bit, drawn by the gravity of his touch.

He reached down into a pocket of his tactical jumpsuit and pulled out a glistening gold object. “I actually came here to give ya this.” He murmured.

She stared at his hands, alert for any sudden move. But all he produced was a necklace: a chain of dull gold, from which hung an Egyptian pharaoh’s head—resembling the VOID OUT logo on the shoulder of Higgs’ cloak. It glittered in the low light as he let it dangle in front of her face.

He took her hand and dropped the necklace into her palm, closing her fingers around it. He cradled the side of her head using both hands. “If you jump, this’ll lead ya back to me, wherever I am.”

Monica looked up at him still confused but shook her head. “Higgs, I can barely do that. It’s hard for me.”

“Just promise me this, if you’re in danger, you jump.” He begged.

She shook her head, unable to process anything he is was saying. “You’re completely fucked, you know that?”

Higgs laughed. “Sweetheart, in this world? Who isn’t?”

She watched him, her head spinned with adrenaline and a heat she couldn’t name. The two of them regard each other in silence for a long, drawn out moment.

Finally, she spoke, “I’m still not joining you.”

Higgs grinned and then suddenly with predatory speed he grabbed her by the jaw. Not rough, but not gentle either. He slowly backed Monica up and pinned her against the wall. The air between them tightened, a coil ready to snap.

He brought his face so close she could feel the heat of his breath. His gloved hand slid down her throat, fingers pressing lightly along her pulse. Monica’s breath shuddered.

His hand slid down, pausing at the hollow of her collarbone, then further, until his palm pressed flat against her chest. Monica’s heart beat so fast it felt like it might bruise itself against her ribs. He slid his hand further, fingers slipping beneath the hem of her shirt, he moved slow enough for her to stop him if she really wanted to. She didn’t.

He finally reached the waistband of her shorts where his fingers slipped inside. Monica’s body reacted. Already wet, already wanting. Higgs ran his fingers along her folds, gathering slick and rubbing along her clit. Her hips twitched against his hand. Then, he withdrew his hand, two gloved fingers glistening in the low light, then deliberately he brought them to his mouth. His tongue traced their length as his gaze held hers captive, a silent challenge hanging between them.

Monica hated herself for it, but she almost moaned.

Higgs grinned “You keep tellin’ yourself that, sweetheart.”

In a snap of static, he’s gone—vanished from her room, the air crackling where he stood.

She slumped back onto the mattress, skin electric, hands trembling. Salem creeped up beside her, eyes wide. Monica clutched the golden pharaoh in her palm, then pressed it to her lips, unsure if she wanted to throw it across the room or swallow it whole.

Her body was alive with hunger and shame, and her mind was an echo chamber of his laughter and the aftertaste of his touch.

She pulled Salem close, burying her face in his fur. She knew, deep down, that it was only a matter of time before she would let herself fall.

Chapter Text

She crouched behind a rock looking down at the ruined building below her, less a structure than the suggestion of one, rebar ribs jutting from broken concrete. The terrorists—the Homo Demens—had built one of their camps into the corpse of what once might have been a research outpost. It was ugly efficient and crawling with men in similar armor as their leader. Black, sickly green and gold that caught any stray light like a knife blade.

They circled in pairs, rifles in their hands ready for anything threat. Monica counted three, then five, then eight as they snaked through the camp’s perimeter.

Monica pulled herself closer to the ground and moved closer for a better view. The Homo Demens were a parade of ugly efficiency, every gesture in sync, every glance over the shoulder trained for intrusion. She knew how they worked. They were a plague: methodical, proud, and hungry for spectacle. She’d crossed their paths before but never like this. Never on purpose.

The central tent loomed over the rest, massive and dominating, the black fabric walls rippling in the wind. On the sides were stamped a golden pharaoh’s head. The words VOID OUT gleamed beneath in chiralium gold. Two men stood statue-still at the entrance, their assault rifles in hand.

Higgs. Only a man like that would mark his den with a god’s face.

Monica licked her lips, jaw tight, and inched forward. She needed to see. She needed to know what the fuck he was up to.

Then there was a flicker of movement at the mouth of the tent. The guards shifted. The flap opened and out stepped Higgs, gold mask gleaming like a second sun even in the ashen afternoon. He was taller than she remembered. The black and gold cloak swirled around him, and the way it moved with his every step gave him an aura of regal divinity, as if he were God himself.

And then, right behind him, a girl.

A girl, no older than twenty, stumbled after him. Mud caked her torn green cargo pants and a plain black hood hung limply off one shoulder. Her wrists were bound behind her with rough cord while her head hung so that a sheet of dirty blonde hair curtained her face. She shuffled with the hesitance of someone who knew, absolutely, that no one here would help her.

Higgs gave her a gentle nudge with his boot. The girl stumbled and dropped to her knees in the mud. He crouched beside her, his mask tilting close to her ear and said something Monica couldn’t hear. The girl's whole body tensed. Then, in a single, precise movement, he cut her bonds with a golden hooked blade and pressed the blade’s flat to her cheek in a mock caress.

A hollow pit opened in Monica's stomach. The girl's dirty hair, the way Higgs touched her face with the blade—it all twisted inside Monica like barbed wire. Her fingers dug into the dirt beneath her, nails breaking against stone. Was this churning nausea fear for what might happen to her too, or something darker—jealousy.

Higgs stood. He said something more, louder this time, and the guards nodded. He booted the girl in the back, not hard enough to break anything, just enough to knock her face into the mud. The girl clawed her way up, desperate and filthy, and staggered toward the edge of camp.

She barely made it ten meters before Higgs pulled out a pistol and shot the girl in the back of the head. The sound of the shot cracked the stale air.

The girl collapsed in a heap, face-first. Blood spread black and sticky in the wet. Monica’s breath stuttered. For a moment, the whole camp paused, the only motion the ripple of fabric in the wind. Then one of the guards shouldered his rifle and walked over to the body, rolling it with his foot.

Higgs looked up and looked straight at Monica. He smiled, even with the mask on. It was in the tilt of his head, the way his body went loose and easy, like a cat that’d cornered its prey.

Monica’s hands twitched. She rolled back from the rock, boots scraping, and darted behind a large boulder, heart slamming against her ribs. She pressed herself flat against the rock, breath shallow. She looked all around and tried to plan her route out, but she waited too long.

When she got up and ran, she slammed chest-first into a wall of muscle and armor. Higgs’ mask was inches from her face, blue eyes narrowed to slits behind the slats. He smelled like ozone, salt, and the faintest metallic edge.

"Sorry 'bout that, sugar. Didn't know you were 'round to see that." he drawled, voice muffled but unmistakable.

Higgs clicked his tongue and gave his boys a signal. Monica lashed out, elbow connecting with someone’s helmet before another man grabbed her arms, wrenching them behind her, and for a second, she thought her shoulder would snap from the torque. She kicked, twisting, but a boot in the back of her knee dropped her to the mud.

"You fuckers! Get the fuck off of me!"

Higgs crouched low as he cocked his head. “Stop fighting, sugar,”

Monica spat at him, the glob landing on his mask and sliding down the gold cheekbone.

He sighed, almost theatrically. “Always gotta make it difficult, don’t ya?”

She cried. "What the fuck is wrong with you, cut me loose."

Higgs stood up and gave the Demens a nod of the head.

The guards hauled Monica upright, one on each arm. She thrashed, but their grip was iron. Her heart hammered and her legs were jelly, yet she refused to give them the satisfaction of a scream.

Higgs studied her a moment, then brushed the spit off his mask with the back of his gloved hand. He looked her up and down, eyes pausing at the streak of silver in her hair, the dirt on her jaw, the torn knee of her porter suit. He then produced a syringe from a pouch at his belt—clear, viscous liquid, needle glinting. Monica’s pulse spiked.

"Shh, shh, shh. This will only hurt for a sec."

Monica twisted, but the guards’ hands clamped her still. Unzipping, her porter suit, Higgs pulled her arm out its sleeve. She felt the bite of the needle, cold and hot at once, and her world began to tilt.

Higgs’ voice echoed as everything grew blurry. “Just relax, Moni. I’ll take good care of ya.”

The last thing Monica saw was his golden mask before the black took her.

It was the scent that woke her first. Charred incense and something sharp, metallic, a bitter undercurrent of sweat and chiralium. Monica’s eyes flickered in the half-light, a haze of black silk swimming above her, cool against her cheek.

She shifted, startled to find herself on a mattress—an actual mattress—plush and heavy beneath the slippery sheets. The world came into focus slowly: the interior of a tent, the darkness lit only by narrow strips of daylight seeping through the seams and two battery lamps on either side. The air was so thick with him she could almost taste it. She dragged herself upright, the sheet clinging to her thighs, and took inventory.

Her wrists were free, but her hands felt numb, tingling with the ghost of whatever had knocked her out. She wore only her tank top and shorts, both sweat-soaked and clinging to her body; her suit hung on a hook across the tent, boots lined up beneath like obedient dogs. Her hair, usually contained in a loose braid, now splayed loose across her shoulders.

She scanned her surroundings of the tent. A desk, with a battered old data tablet, the screen blank. A rack of custom handguns. Against the opposite wall stood a gun safe…open, a row of custom assault rifles and high-capacity mags. And then, face down on a battered chair, a book. The cover was a cracked gold foil, the title lost but the shape unmistakable—something about Egyptians and the end of the world.

Monica sucked in a shaky breath. This was Higgs lair.

She pulled the silk sheet to her nose, the urge involuntary. It smelled like him. Dark, electric, the echo of something animal. She hated how it made her heart twist.

A crack of static drew her gaze. Higgs sat in the battered chair, mask off, boots up on the side table, and arms spread along the armrests as if he’d been waiting for her to wake. Most of his armor was gone; the tactical suit hung unzipped around his waist, leaving his chest and arms exposed. She looked down at his body. He was slender but muscular. Down his chest, stomach and arms were the same inky black equations that marked his forehead. His face was sharper in the tent’s shadow, eyes icy and rimmed in that same Egyptian styled liner. Was it permanent? His lips were drawn in a lazy smile and his short dark hair was a mess.

“Like what you see, darlin’?” he said, voice husky with sleep or laughter.

Monica’s gut spasmed. The memory of the murdered girl flashed behind her eyes, and for a moment she saw herself in the same position, face down in the mud, blood pooling. She yanked the sheet higher, then stood, feet steadying on the ground.

“You murderer,” she spat, voice raw.

Higgs vanished in a flash. The next moment he stood on the other side of the bed, hand planted on the mattress, blue eyes boring through her.

"Now let's calm down, Moni. I can explain."

She turns around and searches for anything near she could throw but the only thing is too far out of reach. "I don't care what you have to say, Higgs, you killed that innocent girl!"

At this point Monica knees buckled as she began to cry, scared for her life, was he going to kill her too? Was that her fate? She sinks to the ground and Higgs vanishes again only to reappear right behind her. He wrapped his long arms around her and pulled Monica to his bare chest.

"Ssh, ssh, ssh...don't be afraid. I'm not gonna hurt ya."

Monica pushed against him only to give up quickly as she sobbed into his chest. Higgs retreated to the chair, drawing her with him until she curled in his lap and wept. He didn’t shush her again, just rocked her gently, humming a tune she’d never heard. The warmth of him, the steady rise and fall of his chest, the way he fit her against him—it made her skin crawl and her blood race. His fingers combed through her hair, damp tendrils clinging to his knuckles as he swept them from her temples. When her breathing finally steadied, she lifted her gaze to meet his…those blue eyes watching her with calculated patience.

She curled into herself, tucking in her arms, and stared at the ground. “Why are you like this?” she whispered.

“If I told ya, we’d be here all night,” Higgs replied, the smile fading from his voice.

For a moment, their eyes met, staring at each other before Higgs placed his hand on her cheek. He moved in closer, mere inches from her lips before she turned away.

"I can't do this."

Higgs released her and sat back, jaw clenching. For a moment, he was silent. Then he stood and paced the room, hands behind his back, head bowed.

Monica watched, afraid and exhilarated. She wanted to bolt. She wanted to stay. That one struck a nerve within him. He slowly walked towards Monica until her legs hit the bed.

“Okay, then. My turn.”

Higgs raised his hands and the air in the tent became thick and cold. Black tar oozed up from the ground, pooling around Monica’s ankles, then shot up in slick tendrils, wrapping her calves, then her thighs, then her wrists, pinning her to the silk sheets. She screamed, bucking, but the tar was strong as iron and cold as ice. The sensation was electric…terrifying, then exhilarating, then humiliating as it pressed her down, splaying her out on the mattress for him.

"What the fuck are you doing? Please stop." Monica cried.

He didn’t answer. He just stared, devouring her with his eyes.

She thrashed, but the tar only tightened, spreading her open. The silk sheets bunched under her body, and her hair fanned around her face, damp with sweat and tears.

“Please, stop,” Monica pleaded, voice cracking. “Higgs, I’m sorry—”

He silenced her with a single finger to his lips. "Let me show ya a little bit of what you're missin'."

Then, he backed away and sat in the chair, planting his boots wide, elbows on his knees, eyes locked on her.

Monica watched in horror as he sat back and slid his hand down, fingers slowly working the bulge in his jumpsuit. He didn’t bother to hide it. He wanted her to watch.

At first, she tried to look away, but the black tendrils snaked up and forced her head to face him. A loan groan escaped Higgs lips as she watched as his bulge grew bigger through those pants. Was he really going to do this right now?

“Fuck, Moni,” he said, his voice gone gravelly. “You make me so hard, and you haven't even touched me."

Monica’s eyes grew wider as she watched him finally free himself, his cock thick and hard.

She whimpered, squeezing her thighs together. The tar wouldn’t let her. It held her wide, exposed. He knew what he was doing.

Monica watched as he slowly stroked himself as a bead of precum dribbled down his fingers. His eyes never left hers. His pace began to quicken and she could feel the wetness between her legs. Monica squeezed her eyes shut, but that made it worse. She could hear the sound of him, hand pumping, the catch in his breath. She felt the heat rising in her own belly, pooling lower, a pulse of need she’d never known before. Why was her body doing this?

She tried to deny it, but the tar knew. Higgs knew. She hated herself for it, hated him for how her body reacted to him.

"I could fuck you s'good, Monica" he murmured.

She pulled more on the inky restraints, but they wouldn’t budge.

She ached. She wanted him. She couldn’t deny it anymore. She had never been with anyone before, but she began to realize that he was what she needed.

"Tell me, Moni. Tell me you need me." he growled, pace quickening.

Monica whimpered. “Higgs, please.” Tears streamed down her face. She couldn’t do it anymore, couldn’t resist.

He stroked harder, breath ragged, jaw clenched. “Tell me, baby. Make me cum.”

She sobbed, but the sound was cut off by a moan, involuntary and humiliating. She was soaked; the silk stuck to her ass and thighs. She bucked against the tar, hating how empty she felt.

“Please,” she whispered. She didn’t know what she was begging for.

Higgs’ eyes flashed, bright and feral. “C’mon baby.”

She wanted to die. She wanted to feel him.

“Higgs, please, I can’t do this anymore. I need you.” Monica cried.

The words tipped him over the edge. He let out a guttural sound, deep in his throat, and came, the ground in front of him now slick with it. He watched her the whole time, the blue of his eyes wild, hungry, satisfied.

He stood, walking over to the bed. Monica arched up, desperate for him to kiss her. She needed him to kiss her.

Instead, he hovered over her, breathing hard, then placed a hand on her cheek and pressed her face away.

“I can’t do this,” he said, echoing her own fucking words.

Higgs tucked himself back in, wiped his hand on a towel, and vanished in a shimmer of black and gold.

“Higgs?” Monica screamed, the sound muffled by the emptiness of the tent. “Higgs, don’t leave me here like this!” She was alone, splayed out, desperate for him, hating herself for every last drop of need.

Chapter Text

Monica had fallen asleep still restrained by the tar that Higgs had summoned. When she awoke, the restraints were gone. Her wrists and ankles bore the faint ache of chiral tar, but the rest of her body was unencumbered, stretched out in a careless sprawl across the black silk sheets. The air was thick with the residue of chiralium, and beneath it, the scorched ozone left by Higgs’ presence. Outside, the occasional gust rattled the gold-stitched tent wall, but inside, the quiet was absolute.

She shifted. Something pulled at her calf…a crease of silk, not tar. She rolled onto her side and scanned the tent.

He wasn’t there.

The flaps of the tent open and in walks two of Higgs’ men. Both encased head-to-toe in the standard Homo Demens armor.

“Get dressed,” said the taller one, voice muffled by a gas mask under an odd looking helmet. “We are to escort you back to your shelter.”

She sat up, clutching the sheet around her. “Where’s Higgs?” Her tongue stuck, cottony from dehydration.

The second man turned, helmet tracking her face. “Busy with Sam.”

Monica stared, willing her brain to piece together the name, the context, anything. Nothing came. “Who’s Sam?” she asked, voice barely more than a hush.

The two Demens remained silent as they turned and exited the tent.

She listened for the fading crunch of their boots outside, then released her grip on the sheet and slid off the mattress. The cold of the dirt floor shocked her into alertness. Higgs’ tent was a cathedral of meticulous violence. She traced her fingers along the guns lined in a row on racks, a long workbench strewn with tools, half-assembled bombs and detonators, and ammo.

Half-hidden under a pile of tactical webbing, she spotted a shirt. Plain black, synthetic blend, the kind he wore under his armor. She pulled it out and bunched it in her fists, holding it to her face. The scent was overwhelming, the memories with it. She remembered his hands on her, the impossible strength in them, the way he had made her admit what she wanted, as if the wanting alone could reshape her.

She exhaled, long and slow, then pressed the shirt to her chest and let herself miss him. Just for a second. She didn’t realize how much until the ache made her eyes sting.

As Monica pulled her porter suit over each leg and up over her waist, something slid out of the inner pocket and landed with a faint metallic thud.

Monica looked down. The pharaoh pendant where she’d hidden it after Higgs had pressed it into her hand after she pulled a gun on him. She bent, picked it up, and for a moment, let the smooth gold catch the gray light from the door flap. It was heavier than it looked.

She slipped it over her neck and let it rest just above her sternum.

When Monica’s ducked though the tent flap, she was met with her escorts waiting by a truck. One of the Homo Demens models, matte black with gold stripes and Higgs’ VOID OUT logo in gold paint on the sides.

One of the men gestured toward the truck and extended a gloved hand. Monica hesitated. The urge to run was muscle memory, but she knew better. She took his hand and climbed into the back, settling on the hard bench with her pack between her boots.

The truck lurched into motion.

The bench beneath her was unyielding metal, vibrating with the engine's idle. Across from her, the second Demen rested his assault rifle across his knees.

"When can I see Higgs?" The words escaped before she could stop them.

The man spoke, his voice muffled from his mask and helmet. "That's for him to decide."

Monica's fingers found the pendant at her chest, tracing its edges as the landscape blurred past in silence. She didn't speak for the rest of the trip.

The days passed and Monica hadn't heard from Higgs. She slept more than she meant to. Each time consciousness clawed her back, her eyes would snap to the corner of the shelter where the shadows gathered thickest. Her breath would catch, heart stumbling against her ribs, as she half-expected—no, almost yearned—to find Higgs materialized there, golden skull mask gleaming in the dim light, his pharaoh cloak rippling around his lean frame like liquid darkness, and that voice, that terrible honeyed voice, curling out of the dark like smoke from a gun barrel.

But the shelter stayed empty, and so did her emails.

She told herself it was a relief…this was how it should be, a clean break, a return to the rhythm of deliveries and maintenance and carefully rationed solitude.

But every so often, Monica caught herself clutching the pharaoh pendant at her sternum, warm now from three days of constant wear. She thought about jumping to him, but it would take every bit of energy in her to do it.

Sometimes, when the wind howled just right, Monica thought she could hear his voice in it—low and unhurried, drawing her name out like a dare.

Three days turned into five, before her boredom curdled into restlessness.

She considered leaving the shelter. She could take a recon mission, no cargo, just a walk to see how far she could go without thinking of Higgs.

Cross-legged on the bed, Monica let the book rest open on her lap, Salem's warm weight pressed against her thigh, when her terminal screen lit up with a harsh blue glow.

Monica froze. The adrenaline hit her like a punch to the ribs. She let the book fall to the mattress and lunged for the terminal, the hope so sharp it nearly cut her.

Maybe it was him. But he had never contacted her this way before, what were the chances?

It wasn’t.

The order was urgent. Emergency retrieval, location pinged just outside the cordon of a known terrorist camp. Not Higgs’ camp but another camp of his terrorists. Monica’s skin prickled. They wouldn't know anything about her. That Higgs has been trying to recruit her for over a week now. The job was a death sentence for most porters, but the pay was triple, and the customer had tagged her by name.

She stared at the map coordinates for a long time.

Salem leapt onto the desk and blinked at her with ocean-blue eyes. He nuzzled her elbow, then headbutted her hand until she scratched behind his ears.

“Don’t know if I should do this order, Salem,” she said. She reached down and picked him up, kissing him on the forehead.  “Got no choice, though.”

Monica’s Odradeck scanned the landscape as she crouched behind some ruins just outside the terrorist camp. Timefall drummed hard against her porter suit. She studied the terrorist encampment…a ramshackle collection of modified BRIDGES trucks and canvas tents.

The precious cargo sat tantalizingly exposed at the perimeter, barely guarded but impossibly distant across open ground. She'd need to ghost her way through their perimeter, grab the package, and vanish before they could react. Her eyes narrowed, counting guards, memorizing patrol patterns.

Eight terrorists, possibly nine. Two guarding within the camp, both with assault rifles, one walking a lazy patrol while the other sat on an ammo crate and fiddled at something in his lap. Three in one of their trucks guarding the perimeter.  The others drifted between tents, half-hidden by rain and canvas flaps.

She sketched a path with her index finger, eyes following the rhythm of the patrol. The terrorists with the truck would sweep the perimeter, then retreat—a cycle repeating roughly every few minutes, opening brief windows of opportunity.

Monica slithered low to the ground. She moved in time with the patrol’s pass, stilling in the tall grass whenever headlights swept near. By the fourth cycle, she'd closed to within twenty feet of the package. She tensed, waited for the truck to begin its turn, then launched into a crouching sprint toward the cargo.

The sudden shriek of a whistle cut through the drumming rain as brakes squealed and the truck lurched back in her direction.

“Fuck.” Monica murmured under her breath as she slid and snatched the crago, cradling it to her chest.

The perimeter terrorists in the truck leveled their rifles. She heard a warning shot hit the ground less than a meter from her boot. Her heart hammered against the cargo as she hurled herself into a desperate sprint, each footfall jarring her teeth, lungs burning like she'd swallowed fire.

Behind her, the camp erupted… boots pounding mud, voices shrieking orders, bullets slicing rain. Monica zigzagged for the cover of a tall pile of scattered boulders, dragging the cargo with one arm, the other hand fumbling for her non-lethal sidearm. The air split open as rounds cracked against stone, sending sharp fragments flying past her face as she vaulted between them and hitting the ground hard on the other side.

Another shot ripped through the air. This one found her, smacking her Odradeck with a sickening CRACK.

The impact was enough to make Monica stumble forward, landing into the muddy gravel. She tried to crawl, but her leg screamed at her. Was she hit? She didn’t know.

The terrorists were close now. Their shouts grew distinct, the words hot and ugly. "GOT THE BITCH!" one of them screamed. Monica tried to stand and failed, collapsing onto her forearms in the slurry of mud and gravel.

Monica's hand flew to her chest, fingers clawing desperately for the pharaoh pendant. Her palm met only the slick material of her porter suit.

It wasn’t there.

Cold gripped her harder than the pain in her leg. "No!" The word tore from her throat, raw with terror. Without that pendant, she had no escape, no path back to him, no salvation from the bullets about to find her skull.

A fresh volley of shots hit the ground inches from her head before she flattened herself, cheek mashed to the dirt, and forced herself to scan the ground. Ten feet away, half submerged in a puddle of water, something gleamed.

A gold flash, a speck in the muck.

The nearest terrorist was almost on her, boots thundering the ground. Monica dug her fingers into the mud, dragging her leg behind her. Each movement set her vision swimming, but she kept the pendant in sight, wanting it to stay just out of reach rather than disappear forever.

Finally, Monica got her hand around the pendant, pulled it free from the mud, and closed her fist so hard the metal cut into her palm.

She pressed it to her lips.

She thought of Higgs, the way his blue eyes drilled into hers, the raw hunger in them, the promise of annihilation or salvation or both. She channeled everything left in her body into that memory, let it flood her until her skin hummed and the world trembled at the edges.

The air around her thickened, the pressure rising so fast that her eardrums popped.

She thought of one thing. His name: Higgs

Weightlessness claimed her. Monica's eyes fluttered open to find herself suspended under an ocean. Time slowed down for a moment as she floated. Massive creatures glided past her. Whales and schools of fish as she reached toward them with her fingers.

Then came the flash.

Her body slammed against solid ground.

Monica let herself collapse, all the breath rushing out of her at once. She rolled onto her back, staring up at something concrete. A bridge perhaps.

At the edge of vision, figures moved. Two of Higgs’ men, heads tilted in wary confusion, weapons half-raised. She wondered how she must look, half-dead and covered in mud, sprawled in the middle of wherever the fuck she was.

“That’s her, ain’t it?” a man asked, voice distorted by a mask. “Higgs’ girl?”

Higgs’ girl. If Monica had the strength to roll her eyes, she would have. She was nobody’s girl.

A second voice, closer, spoke “Yeah. She don’t look so good.” He bent down and placed his hand on her not long before she heard his voice.

“Don’t touch her.”

Silence, then a little shuffle as the men retreated. Monica pried one eyelid open. At first, everything was a smear of gold and black, but then the colors bled apart and she saw him: hood up, mask off, the lines of his jaw dark against the gray sky. He crouched down, eyes scanning her body as if checking for any damage.

She tried to speak, got as far as “Higgs,” before her lips numbed again.

He knelt, the motion deliberate. “I got you, baby,” he murmured, softer than she’d ever heard him.

Then his arms were under her, one cradling her knees and the other braced behind her shoulders. She felt herself lifted, as light and awkward as a sack of feathers. Her head lolled to one side, the world tipping sickeningly, but Higgs’ chest was a solid anchor, the beating of his heart a seismic rhythm she clung to.

He carried her through a curtain of cold air, the men parting before him without a word. “Ya’ll take care of this bullshit, I’m jumpin’ her back to camp.”

There was a ripple of assent, two or three “Yes, sirs,” before everything compressed into a point: the world contracted, sound vanished, light pooled in her skull, and then…

They were somewhere else.

She felt herself being lowered onto something soft. Black silk, familiar scent. Higgs’ bed. He had jumped them to his tent. It was so easy for him. Monica opened her eyes just enough to see Higgs removing his cloak, then his gear and then unzipping his tactical jumpsuit, leaving it hanging at his hips. He followed by pulling his black shirt off.

She stared at him. It was easier than talking. But she had to ask. “Higgs?’ she murmured.

He tossed the shirt onto the old chair, revealing the math scriptures of tattoos across his chest, then turned to face her. He knelt on one knee next to the bed. ‘Yeah?”

“Was I shot?” she asked. Her voice was quiet.

He scanned her up and down quickly before shaking his head. “No, I don’t think so,”

Monica exhaled, shaky. She raised her hand, just barely, but enough to point at the tent wall, where the rain hammered in arrhythmic bursts. “Your terrorists. They attacked me.”

Higgs’ jaw twitched, a micro-expression that almost slipped past her. He nodded once. “Don’t you worry ‘bout them I’ll take care of it,” he drawed. “Ain’t nobody gonna lay hands on you but me.”

There was a silence. Monica tried to read his eyes—icy, far away, but softened at the edges by fatigue.

He stood as if to go, but Monica’s hand shot out, weaker than she wanted but insistent, catching his wrist.

“Don’t go,” she said, surprised by her own need.

Higgs paused, and then sat back down, cradling her hand between both of his. “I ain’t leavin’ but you need your rest. That jump really took a lot out of ya.”

He leaned over the side table, retrieved something, and held it out in front of her. A cryptobiote, wriggling faintly between his thumb and forefinger.

She took it, tossed it into her mouth, and shuddered at the mix of salt and bitterness.

She opened her eyes to find him staring at her, his blue irises gone wide and glassy in the lamplight.

“You sleep now,” he said, voice husky. “I’ll be right here.”

The last thing Monica remembered was the rumble of his voice and the scent of him before she drifted off.

Monica’s eyes fluttered open and noticed the daylight had gone. She wondered, not for the first time, how he managed to peel her out of her suit without waking her. Maybe he just liked the challenge.

Her head turned to see Higgs asleep next to her, on his back, breathing slow and deep. His hand rested against his stomach, two fingers twitching in a dream.

Monica sat up to study him.

He looked almost peaceful like this. His sharp features, the dark stubble along his jaw, the way the light reflected off his cheekbones just right. The equations tattooed across his forehead glistened, the lines raised and angry as if he’d had them inked yesterday. On his right shoulder, the same VOID OUT logo tattoo in place where it laid on his cloak.

Her eyes drifted down his chest, over the same tattoos he wore on his face, and caught on to something strange. Metallic, small, glinting in the lamplight.

Nipple rings? This sick bastard had his nipples pierced. Monica stared, transfixed. She wondered if it hurt, if it was for show or for sensation, if it ever got caught on his armor or the shirts he wore underneath. Maybe that was the point. Maybe he liked pain, or the memory of it.

She lingered for a long time, counting the slow rise and fall of his chest.

How could someone so beautiful be so evil? Or maybe it was the other way around.

A tangle of questions curled in her brain, none of them quite reaching the surface.

On a whim, Monica reached over and ran her hand through the short, dark hair at his temple. It was soft, softer than she expected, and she let her fingers drift down to his jaw.

But Higgs’ eyes snapped open, blue and bottomless, pupils so blown out she couldn’t tell where the darkness ended.

He caught her wrist in one hand, not roughly, but with the kind of certainty that made escape impossible.

They stared at each other.

Monica’s breath stuttered. Her hand went limp, but Higgs held it anyway, thumb stroking a lazy circle over the knuckles.

He didn’t say a word.

With a slow, deliberate motion, he pulled her up and over him, so she was straddling his waist, thighs bracketing his hips. His mouth was a crooked grin, silent and wolfish.

She felt him hardening beneath her. She tried to shift away, but it only made him move her hips in tighter.

His hands worked up her thighs, then her hips, fingers digging in just enough to remind her that he could break her if he wanted. Instead, he just held her there, letting the weight of the moment soak in.

His hands continued to explore as he moved one between her legs, rubbing her through the fabric of her shorts.

Monica’s breath hitched as she pulled away shyly.

“What?” he finally speaks, his voice so low it vibrated through her ribs.

Monica looked down at herself, then at him, then shrugged, helpless.

“I’m…I’ve…never done anything before.” she admitted, the words thin and reedy in the big empty space of the tent.

Higgs’ grin stretched wider. “First time for everything,” he said.

He shifted beneath her, rolling his hips so his cock pressed right against the seam of her shorts.

“You want me, right?” he asked.

Monica didn’t answer. She shrugged her shoulders instead.

He flipped her, fast as a trap, and pinned her to the mattress. She barely had time to react before both of her wrists were caught in one of his hands, slammed over her head and trapped there.

“Now, sweetheart, Imma need you to speak up so I can hear ya.” Higgs purred, his breath hot in her ear. “Tell me you need me.”

Monica stared up into his eyes, blue as frost, wide and hungry.

She swallowed. “I need you, Higgs,” she said, voice so small she hardly believed it.

“There’s my good girl,” he said, then bent down and hovered his lips over hers before going in. It was rough, desperate, nothing like the tender moments from before. He bit at her lip, tongue searching, and Monica moaned into his mouth without meaning to.

“You need me?” he asked again, between bites.

She nodded.

“Need me to ruin ya?” he whispered.

The words burned her skin.

She nodded again, not trusting her voice.

He let her wrists go, just for a second, but she didn’t move.

He pushed to his knees and took of what little remained of her clothing. Her panties peeled off in a single, practiced motion, left her bare and open under the gold lamp light.

Monica’s heart stuttered. She wanted this, wanted him, but this new feeling made her want to panic.

Higgs must have seen the hesitation.

He slid down her body, mouth grazing a path along her belly, and stopped just above her pelvis. He looked up at her, eyes dark, wild.

“You just relax. Daddy’s gonna take real good care of ya.”

He pushed her legs apart, gently at first, then with more force when she resisted.

“Don’t be nervous,” he murmured. Then he ran his nose along her thigh, inhaled deeply, and let out a rumble of pleasure that was nearly a growl.

“You smell so fuckin’ good,” he said. “I’m gonna ruin you.”

Monica let out a nervous moan. “Higgs, please.”

He dove in.

Monica arched off the bed. The sensation was so sudden, so electric, she almost bucked him off, but he held her hips down, unyielding.

His tongue found her clit and circled it, soft at first, then rougher, alternating rhythms until she couldn’t tell if she was breathing or dying. She felt his lips curve into a smile against her flesh. “Need this pretty little pussy ready for me.”

As he lapped at her, Higgs took his middle finger and ran along her entrance, probing her a little.

Monica gasped. “That hurts,” she whimpered.

“I know, baby girl,” he said, not stopping for a second. “But you’re so wet for me.”

He alternated between teasing her entrance and lapping at her clit, sometimes prying her open with one hand, sometimes just holding her still while his mouth devoured her. The combination was merciless.

“Goddamn, you taste so fuckin’ good,” he said, voice muffled.

Monica’s legs began to shake. She didn’t know if it was fear or arousal, but it didn’t matter—she was on the edge of something, and Higgs wasn’t letting her go until she fell.

“Please,” she begged, finally. She needed him. Needed to feel him enter her. To feel how it felt to be filled with him. “Higgs, please, just fuck me.”

He laughed, a soft, sinister sound. “So eager…”

He leaned back on his knees and tugged his jumpsuit down past his hips, revealing a dark line of hair that disappeared beneath the fabric. With another pull, his cock sprung free. It bounced heavily as Monica’s eyes widened at the sight.

It was so....large.

Higgs caught her wide-eyed stare and his lips curled into a grin. "Oh, don't worry, baby. I'll be gentle with ya. At first." He kicked off the rest of his suit. "How do you want it? Back? Front? Side?" he asks.

Monica's throat went dry. She couldn't find words, just offered a helpless shrug.

A low chuckle rumbled in his chest as he prowled over her, capturing her wrists again, and pinning them above her head. His lips brushed against hers before he whispered hot against her ear, "Last chance to back out, sweetheart."

Propping himself on one elbow, Higgs reached down between them. Monica felt the head of him rub between her folds making her breath hitch.  "Lock those pretty legs around me, baby." he murmured.

Monica doesn't hesitate and wraps them around his waist like he asks. Higgs grins and then slowly pushes in…inch by excruciating inch—making Monica cry out, her back arching off the mattress, fingernails digging half-moons into his shoulders.

"Ssh, ssh, ssh, ain't gonna hurt for long." he whispered, his drawl thick with desire.

He started to move, slow at first, giving her body time to adjust to how thick he was. Monica’s grip on reality faded; all that mattered was the rhythm, the sense of being split in half, the strange, sweet ache of his cock inside her.

“I’ve wanted to fuck you for years,” Higgs whispered in her ear.

She blinked, confused. “What?”

He slammed in harder, made her forget the question.

“Don’t worry ‘bout it,” he growled. “Goddamn, you feel so fuckin’ good around me.”

He picked up speed. The pain ebbed, replaced by something raw and glorious. Monica found herself moving to meet him, hips bucking, desperate for more.

"Is this what you wanted baby, wanted me to fuck ya so good?"

He moved a hand from her wrists to her throat, not squeezing, just holding, making her look up at him. “Look at me while I fuck ya,” he said, and Monica obeyed, locking eyes with him as the world spun away.

She felt it building, the pressure, the need, the total surrender to sensation.

Higgs grunted, his face dark and beautiful above her.

"I want you to cum on my cock, Moni, you gonna do that for me?"

Monica moaned, a sound that started deep in her chest and broke into fragments as it escaped her lips as she nodded. Her fingers dug into his shoulders as she arched beneath him. Her hips rose to meet his with each brutal thrust, and the wet, obscene sound of skin against slick skin echoed through the canvas walls.

Her body starts to stiffen, a wave of tension building from her toes to her fingertips, every muscle tightening as he continues to fuck into her. The pressure builds like electricity gathering before a storm, her breath coming in short, desperate gasps that match his rhythm.

"Cum for me, sweetheart," he growls and it’s enough to push Monica over the edge. The wave crashes through her, pulsing from her core outward as she climaxes around him, her inner walls gripping him in rhythmic spasms. Her back arches off the bed as she calls out his name, the sound torn from somewhere deep inside her. "Higgs!"

With one final deep thrust, she felt him go tense. Then heat filled her as she felt him cum inside. He exhaled a single, guttural word through clenched teeth: "Fuck."

She blinked up at him, lips parted in shock as she realized what he had just done.

“Fuck, Higgs. Get off me.”

He let go of her throat, hands bracing on either side of her head, but didn’t move.

She pushed at him, finally making him slip out.

“You just fucking came inside me, you asshole,” she said, voice ragged.

Higgs grinned, wolfish. “Sorry, babydoll, your cunt just felt way too fuckin’ good gripped around me.”

Monica rolled away from him, sat up on the edge of the bed, and glared. “I’m not on fucking birth control, you idiot.”

She looked down, saw the mixture of her blood and his cum dripping out of her and running down her legs. She reached over to grab the sheet to wipe it away.

Higgs watched, amused. “Well ain’t that just a sight.”

“What the fuck, Higgs? Who cums this much. There’s something wrong with you.”

She threw the sheet at him, but he caught it in one hand and used it to pull her back into bed.

They lay there for a while, quiet except for the sound of rain and their uneven breathing.

Monica didn’t know if she wanted to kill him or kiss him again. Maybe both.

Maybe it didn’t matter.

Maybe, for once, she could just let herself want.

Chapter Text

Timefall drummed against the canvas in an endless rhythm, compressing the inside of the tent into a humid chamber of sweat, sex, and ozone. Black silk sheets clung to their limbs while Higgs was sprawled on his back, one arm tucked beneath his head with casual menace, the other lazily stirring through the ink-and-ash strands of Monica’s hair as she lay across his chest.

She traced the equation tattoos on his stomach with an idle fingertip, chin propped on her crossed forearms. Above her, his throat gleamed with sweat.

"What did you mean?” she murmured, “When you said you wanted to fuck me for years." Her words came out muffled, like she was talking through cloth.

Higgs kept his eyes fixed on the tent ceiling, shrugging his shoulder as his fingers wound through her hair, capturing a strand and letting it unspool like silk from a spindle. "Always diggin' for some deeper truth, ain’t ya?" The question suspended between them like the humid air.

She angled her head up. “You’ve been watching me that long?” Her tongue tasted the salt on her own lip.

He shrugged again, a ripple of muscle under her. “Somethin’ like that,” he murmured. "Been keepin' tabs for longer than you'd like to know." His fingers stilled in her hair. "Folks like me don't waste our attention on anyone unless there's a damn good reason, Moni."

The admission hit like the thud of a boot on loose earth. Monica lifted herself to her elbows, eyes flickering over his face for any sign of sarcasm. Nothing. Just those cold blue eyes, watching the tent’s peak with patient disinterest. "Why me?” she asked, voice tight. "You've got an army that treats you like a god. People ready to bleed or murder at a nod. Anyone you point at would fall into your bed. So why the fixation on me?"

He grinned, slow and sickly. "Oh, they have," he murmured, His fingers combed her hair with a gentleness. "But after enough flesh, it all becomes the same. Yours, though,” his eyes finally met hers, "yours I can still feel under my skin.”

She swallowed the lump of jealousy before it could form a sound. She tried for bravado instead. “How’d you lose your virginity?”

The question startled even her. A part of her didn't even want to know the answer. Higgs' lips curled into a smile that didn't reach his eyes, then vanished like smoke. His eyes retreated to a place she couldn’t follow, something old and unfriendly. She let him drift there, but when the silence stretched, Monica pressed. “Higgs.”

His gaze returned, sudden and sharp. “Yeah?”

She watched him, waiting for him to elaborate, but he only arched a tatted brow as if daring her to demand more. She looked away, inhaling the musky air. “You’re so mysterious.”

In one fluid motion, he flipped their positions, pinning her beneath him with such unexpected swiftness that Monica couldn't help but gasp. Her back pressed into the mattress, his weight over her, one hand planted beside her head, the other splayed casually around her throat. “Not that mysterious,” he said, almost tender, then dipped to ghost his mouth over hers.

Monica’s body tensed as she hissed through her teeth at the pain in her leg that pulled at her when she shifted under him. He drew back, eyes drifting down, and then he noticed.

“Fuck, Moni” he whispered, a real flicker of something like concern. His hand traced the constellations of black-and-blue that speckled down her leg. “Do they hurt?”

She hesitated. “A little.”

He hooked a hand under her knee and drew her leg up, so he could kiss the largest mark. “Y’know,” he said against her skin, “if you just joined me, my men wouldn’t touch you.” His words vibrated through her, dull and ugly. “Be easier all around.”

Monica's throat tightens as she swallows. She turns her face away, feeling the heat of his skin against hers even as she recoils from what he represents. Her body might crave him, but something deeper, something essential…refuses to bend. "The answer is still no." Her fingers curl into the damp sheets. "I can want this, want you, without wanting what you are."

He slammed a fist into the mattress, the shockwave rattling her bones. “Goddamn it, Monica. What do you want, then?” He rests his forehead against hers.

She didn’t answer but instead turned her head away and looked at the tent wall. “Where did you disappear to the other night? When you left me here.”

He was silent for a beat, then: “Central Knot City.”

The name thudded in her like a dropped box. “Why?”

“You know why.” He grinned again, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

She shifted onto her side, staring at him. “Who’s Sam?” She spat the name like it tasted foul.

Higgs barked a laugh, bitter and low. “The bastard won’t die.”

She bit the inside of her cheek, refusing to look away. “What did you do to Central Knot, Higgs?”

He only laughed louder, then clapped his hands together and mimed an explosion. “Boom. Gone.”

It took a few seconds for the words to land. When they did, Monica shoved off the bed, grabbing the sheet in an attempt to wrap it around herself, but her knees buckled. She collapsed onto the ground, and began to cry. Central Knot. Gone. And she'd been writhing beneath its destroyer, tangled in his sheets, her body still humming from his touch. The realization sank through her like poison, pooling in her stomach, burning everything it touched.

“Monica,” he said, from somewhere above. She ignored him. He came behind her, pulled her back into his chest. She struggled, flailing her fists into his arms, but he only held on tighter. Her cheek pressed to the crook of his arm, she glared sideways at the tent’s seam.

He turned her around, shook her gently, until her eyes met his. “Goddamn it, listen to me.”

“You. Are. A. Fucking. Monster,” she hissed, trying to spit the words into his face.

His chest heaved, but then he kissed her, all at once, his tongue invading her mouth before she could refuse it. She twisted in his grip, but he only used her momentum to drag her back to the bed, hoisting her up by her legs and splaying her across the silk sheets. He let go long enough for her to draw in a breath, but then he was on her again, body covering hers, hands pinning her wrists to the mattress.

“Turn around,” he commanded.

Monica’s vision tunneled, the roar in her ears louder than the rain. She obeyed, rolling over so her stomach pressed to the bed. Higgs gathered her wrists in one fist, pulled her ass flush against his hips, and forced her head down so she tasted the salt of the sheets.

He nipped at her ear, then dragged his mouth along her spine, teeth and tongue alternating. “Still think I’m a monster?” he whispered. “Let’s find out.”

She felt his fingers between her legs, ghosting over her clit, then deeper. He was rough, but precise, as if determined to prove a point. “Oh, sweetheart. Guess what? You’re wet.” he said, smug. She whimpered, wanting to deny it, but her body was treacherous.

He put his mouth on her, tongue probing where his fingers had been. The rasp of his stubble against her skin left a bright, stinging burn. She tried to wrench her hands free, but his grip tightened. “Fuck,” she moaned, the sound humiliatingly loud.

He laughed into her, the vibration turning her insides to liquid. “Ya know how much I wanna call this pussy mine, Moni?” He let the question linger, then: “Join me. Be mine.”

“No,” she gasped, shutting her eyes. “Never.”

He kept going, relentless, and when she started to tremble he eased a pair of fingers inside, curling them just so. “Please.” he whispered against her skin, the word almost lost in the sound of her breathing.

She remained silent.

His tongue traced deliberate patterns while his fingers worked deeper, finding a rhythm that made her grip the sheets until her knuckles whitened.

Monica lets out another whimper. “Don’t stop.” And he doesn’t.

He pace quickens as he pumps his fingers in and out of her quickly. “You gonna cum, babydoll?” he murmured, as if speaking to a child.

She answered with a half-scream, as her orgasm tears through her so violently her hips bucked wildly against his grip as he pinned her in place, When his name escaped her lips, it sounded like surrender. He kept his rhythm steady, coaxing her through each aftershock until she finally went limp against the sheets. The evidence of her release glistened on his fingers as he whispered, "Yeah...just like that, baby."

He gave her one final, lingering kiss between her thighs, then rose to his full height and released her wrists. "Good girl," he murmured, his voice a dark velvet.

His voice dropped to a command. "Up. Face me."

She rose on unsteady legs and turned. The height difference hit her anew as his shadow fell across her bare skin. His thumb traced her jawline, tilting her face toward his.  “You’re so fucking beautiful, ya know that?”

No one had ever said it like it mattered. “So are you,” she whispered, and his eyes went wide for a beat before he smirked.

You ain’t gotta say that, that ain’t true.” he said, shaking his head, confused.

Monica reached up and placed her hands on both sides of Higgs’ face. “You are beautiful.”

Her fingers found his jaw, guiding his mouth to hers. The kiss bloomed gentle, then deepened into something primal as the salt-copper tang of her own arousal mingled with his breath.

His hands gripped beneath her thighs, lifting her in one fluid motion to the center of the mattress before he positioned himself between her knees. never breaking their lips. Their mouths remained locked together, breath mingling hot between them. When he finally pulled away, his eyes were dark pools as he pressed her thighs apart with an urgency that made her pulse quicken.  “Open those legs, babygirl.”

Higgs positioned himself between her thighs, his breath quickening as he wet his palm with saliva. He traced the slick dampness along her entrance, then he took a hold of his hard cock and slapped the tip against her clit a couple times making her cry out before he drove forward in one fluid motion, sheathing himself completely. His eyes closed, and he exhaled a single word, so soft she nearly missed it. "Fuck."

He pounded into her, hands braced on her hips, forcing her to take him to the hilt. “You know how good this cunt feels gripping my cock, hm?” He punctuated it with another thrust, brutal and perfect.

Monica clawed at his arms, desperate for something to anchor her. He bent her legs up, pressed them to his shoulders, so he was deep enough to knock the air out of her. She wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him down so she could bite his shoulder, needing to mark him back.

He fucked her like it was a dare, like he was trying to fuck the resistance out of her. “Goddamn, you’re perfect,” he muttered in her ear. “Ya look so good like this. Under me. Mine.”

She wanted to curse him, but all she could do was moan his name.

In a blur, everything changed—the rain went silent, the air grew heavy and warm, and she felt herself land on something soft. Her bed, she realized, the familiar white sheets and fluffy pillow. He had jumped them both to her shelter. Higgs straddled her, still inside her, grinning like the devil.

“H… how did you do that?” she stuttered, shaking all over.

He just laughed. “Always wanted to try it mid-fuck. Neat trick, huh?”

In the corner, Salem crouched with eyes wide, ears back, tail bottle-brushed, utterly baffled by the teleportation.

The absurdity of it broke her, and she started to laugh even as she rocked against him, chasing the last bit of release. She hooked her legs around his waist, digging in, and whispered, “Higgs, I’m close.”

He grinned. “You gonna cream on this cock, baby?”

She nodded, barely coherent, and when she came it felt like an out-of-body event, light and heat and shame all rolled into one. Her nails left tracks down his back, which only made him fuck her harder.

“Now my turn,” he said, voice hoarse, and he pulled out at the last second, jerking himself until he spattered her stomach with rope after impossible rope. The wetness was obscene, slicking her all the way to her chest. He looked at his handiwork, whistled low. “Goddamn, Monica. Look what ya made me do.”

She gaped at the mess. “Why is it— Why do you cum so much?”

He flopped beside her, panting. “DOOMS.”

“Your DOOMS makes you do this?” she asks, confused. “How?”

He shrugs a shoulder and shakes his head. “Never used to happen until my DOOMS went off the charts. Some sort of symptom. Bizarre fuckin’ side effect. I don’t really fuckin’ know.”

They both stare down at his mess on her stomach which is everywhere. “It’s hot though, right?”

He looks over at Monica and smirks. She just laughs and shakes her head before they lay in silence, just catching their breath. She swung her legs off the bed and stood up before she padded to the bathroom, glancing once at Salem, who’d slunk back to his usual sleeping spot, feigning disinterest.

When Monica returned, skin scrubbed raw and hair damp, Higgs was already half-dressed, the black armor materializing on him piece by piece. There was no way he’d left gear here; he must have brought it across with the jump, or willed it into being. She watched him lace up and tie his boots, then pulled on his gloves and then his cloak.

She watched him, arms crossed over her bare chest. “Leaving so soon?”

“Yeah…I gotta teach these fuckers not to mess with my girl.” He bent down and pressed his lips to her forehead with unexpected tenderness.

“Don’t,” she said, voice cracking.

He turned. “Don’t what?”

She hesitated. “Don’t call me that.”

He crossed the space in two strides, took her face in both hands, thumbs rough on her cheekbones. “You will join me,” he said, a threat and a promise both. “You will be mine. Eventually.”

He pressed his lips to hers before he pulled on his black mask and then clicking the golden skull mask in place over it. Slowly, he backed up, pulled the hood of his cloak over his head, and vanished in the familiar cloud of chiralium dust.

His presence settled over the room. Monica stood there, trembling, the echo of his touch pulsing in her like a dying star. Salem, sensing the silence, leapt from his spot and purred at her feet with the desperate intensity of something trying to anchor her to the world.

Monica let herself fall into the bed, naked, sticky, and empty. She stared at the ceiling, counting the seconds until the timefall started again.