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SPEAKER ANNOUNCEMENT
Broadcast over speakers onboard, Doss speaks:
This is a CODE RED ALERT and all hands are required.
Earlier this evening, Bone intercepted a directive from the Architects to initiate a Sterilisation Event in Xitang, China on 01/29/2026 at 1600. There's no information about what is triggering this, but we have a unique chance to save 50,000 souls from eradication.
Evacuation is our primary goal here. We know the blast radius is 15.5 miles (25 km for our non-Americans). We need to get as many people as possible out of the radius as quickly and as efficiently as we can. St James has a suggested approach here. Espionage, consult with your chain of command for assignments.
Ground Forces will be on site getting as many people to safety as possible. Your primary directive is evacuation. Utilize any resources at your disposal.
These people are Veiled. This makes things easier and trickier at the same time. We won't have widespread panic: you're fighting against complacency.
Pilots, your primary directive is drone destruction You're the hail Mary: as long as the drones are targeting you, they can't execute their orders. We need to give people on the ground as much time as we can. You'll be against the big boys, not just the standard drones. They're powerful, but they're slow. Take advantage of your maneuverability.
Strategists, you'll be manning Command with Science. Let them run point on ground communication and stick to what you know best: how to keep our pilots alive.
Remember the mission. Let's go be big damn heroes.
Pre-Deployment Minis
Maryle & Dom
Dom's circled the Dome four times already, unrelated dossier clutched in increasingly sweaty hands. If he doesn't get this over with soon he'll have to hand Bishop papers that look more like a Rorschach test than reports.
He turns into the Science wing before he can talk himself out of it, down the hall and toward their bay of bright monitors and flashing lights, pausing only long enough to grab an empty wheeled chair that he drags over to Maryle's side. Dom's only saving grace is that years of acting Veiled make it easy for him to school his face into something neutral and pleasant, which he does as he takes a seat and drops the dossier on her desk.
"Dr. Bone, I presume."
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"Ah, Rear Admiral Flores Romero, nice of you to join me," Maryle replies without moving her eyes from the screen in front of her, though a smile ticks at the corner of her mouth.
In fact, she refuses to shift her gaze. She reaches for the dossier without looking at it either, which leads to a little bit of fumbling before she gets her hand properly on it and pulls it in front of her.
"This isn't the latte I asked for."
"The only beans the Mess had left were kidney," he lies when he yanks the dossier back like he doesn't trust her anywhere near it, mostly because he doesn't trust her anywhere near it, despite his bringing it near her. The dossier is released without a fight, and Maryle laughs brightly at the silent implication against her trustworthiness (Dom's probably right).
He's not here to delay things any more than he already has — he is, in theory, over with hiding headaches and hand tremors and done with pretending lapses in short-term memory were simply absentmindedness. His desire to keep up the pretense that he was removed from the field for no good reason has long since been declared dead. But he hasn't had to explain his situation to anyone except Singh and Bishop and that went... rather poorly.
He steels himself against the worst possibility (she uses her stapler on his face and then never talks to him again) and, straightening the papers in the folder on his lap, begins his confession: "Are you busy this evening?" (Well, he tried.)
Finally, Maryle turns fully to look at Dom, tilting her head in the process. Something feels off, though she can't quite put her finger on it, and it settles uncomfortably in the back of her throat. The answer to his question is a lopsided shrug.
"I mean, I can't run off into the sunset with you this moment, but I'm just monitoring the Harmony Lights scan, which pretty much always amounts to nothing. Shouldn't be too long before I'm finished. We getting a kidney bean latte after?"
Mouth suddenly run dry, Dom licks his lips and considers how odd of a reaction that is. Why transfer moisture outside of one's mouth? Isn't it a futile effort? Shouldn't he instead–
Instead, he should be handling matters at hand. Confessions — or more accurately, the prelude to.
"I don't think you'll want to," he admits, fists tensing around the dossier's edge. "There's something I need to discuss with you and you... won't be pleased. With me." And before she can say anything, as if it will help at all to state the obvious, he tacks on: "I know you prefer not to be blindsided by unpleasant things."
Maryle's smile, which was already beginning to wane, completely disappears and the lump in her throat solidifies. Something is wrong. The twisting of Dom's hands only makes her more nervous, and her eyes flit between them and his face before finally holding his gaze. She hears the computer next to her chirp, the start of the Harmony Lights, something that always puts her a little extra on edge too.
"Yeah, I don't think anyone likes that. What did you do?"
The computer makes another noise. Translating, demanding her attention, but for just this moment she ignores it.
"It's a rather long story." Maryle's frown is only a taste of things to come (awful things) and the shame's already started to settle around his shoulders like a shroud. "And not one befitting the incessant beeping from your machine."
Maryle considers just turning off the sound on the computer and making him explain. Surely it can't be that bad, right? Even though she can see the discomfort settling into his frame, and even though he says she'll be upset, it must just be a little thing. A stupid thing.
Unfortunately, she knows should do her job and she lets out a huff of irritation at all three of them (her, him, the computer) before turning to look at the monitor. A quick scan of the message there makes her breath catch, and every thought about Dom's impending admission flees her mind.
"Fuck."
Maryle's plethora of Fucks is just another language Dom's fluent in — and this one's among the worst of her variations.
He wheels to close the distance between them and squints at the screen. If she'd typed 'Fuck fuck, fuck! FUCK! FUCKFUCKFUCK fuck!' he'd probably know exactly what it was about, but this looks like nonsense to his untrained eye. Still, he adjusts his glasses like that will do anything at all. "What is it?"
Automatically, Maryle scoots over to allow Dom a better view before she types a few things, clicks a few things, tries to make sure that this is the actual message. That it hasn't been improperly decoded.
It hasn't.
More prominently on the screen now is a series of numbers (clearly coordinates), a few other numbers, and some letters, the final of which her finger comes to rest under on the screen. Dom's proximity does little to comfort her, and her face is pale as she turns to him and explains.
"A message embedded in the Lights. There's a date and time. Tomorrow, 1600 hours. And these letters mean Sterilization protocol."
"Fuck."
Eli & Griff | The Hangars
Right now, he was more interested in finding an older pilot with a history of —
“Gotcha,” he muttered, arm reaching out to snag Griff’s bicep before the other man could brush by him in the stream of people readying the ships.
It shouldn't have surprised him, and yet Griffin still had to swallow down the yelp of surprise, telling his already racing heart that this wasn’t danger but — a quick glance confirmed his suspicions — a well meaning check in. He fought the urge to shrug Eli off and —
What, exactly? Hightail it to the plane? The very place he didn't want to be?
The smile on his face couldn’t be less convincing, but he tried anyway. “Hey, E. I’m just looking for Fox, you seen him?”
Eli frowned at his roommate, the unimpressed look in his eyes slightly more weighted than usual. While most people would consider the question fair for a dual-seater pilot to ask, Griffin had been snagged by someone who didn’t easily play along.
“No,” he answered truthfully. His foster brother could have done the foxtrot as he slipped by him for all he knew, but his focus had been solely focused on finding his other brother by circumstance. “Where’s your head at?”
He winced; Eli was nothing if not straight forward, which he appreciated on days not today. “It’ll be better in the air,” he deflected. The answer would fly with just about anyone else, but he knew his roommate and headed off the next question with: “I don’t have a choice, Eli. Head’s gonna be a mess whether I’m here or out there, and at least out there I can do something.”
Save other people from what he had had to live with ever since coming out of the Veil.
Clapping a hand on his roommate’s shoulder, he added, “I ain’t going to do anything dumb out there. Promise.”
Eli’s scowl only deepened, but they both knew their hands were tied. They had to deploy to take down the drones no matter what baggage they carried because saving humanity was more important than giving in to the nightmares and memories.
Or something like that, but right now Eli felt more concern for his friend than for the masses. Selfish, sure, but he could live with that realization.
“Don’t be stupid and play the hero either,” the younger man finally said, squeezing Griff’s shoulder with a warning look, “I don’t want another roommate.”
Griff widened his eyes, the picture of innocence. “I can’t promise not to play hero, especially if we’re anywhere near 1. Fox hasn’t said anything but I think he’s got a Thing for Philip.” Which was sweet, and immensely easier to think about than getting in his seat and flying out to play chicken.
Because that’s what this mission was: call the drones to them to buy time and hope none of them got shot out the sky.
“Philip has a brand new pilot he needs to be more concerned about,” Eli countered, deep lines framing his brows.
“No heroics,” Griff echoed back at the younger man. “I know where you sleep.”
“An unfortunate side effect of being roommates,” came the beleaguered sigh, but just for a moment a hint of a smile ghosted across his lips. He gave his friend’s shoulder another squeeze before releasing it, unable to stop himself from quickly memorizing the man’s face — death a very real side effect of their job.
Something they were both aware of. Griffin pulled him in for a quick hug, arms tight around Eli for the full beat of a heart before letting him go.
He took a deep breath. This would be fine. They would be fine, and they'd save the day and no one else would have to die. That was the mantra that he had to believe in right now or he'd fall apart from memories and fear.
“I'm taking out more than you today. Get ready to owe me one social event, McLeod.” There was no waver in his voice, just bravado he desperately wanted to feel.
They both needed this moment of levity, of putting on a brave face when they knew what awaited them on the other side of the hangar door, so Eli took a step back, both hands rising to shoot the other man the bird.
“Choke on my exhaust, Loon.”
Griff grinned and blew him a kiss. “I'm adding a cuddle to the pot. You look like you need a post-mission cuddle.” But he was already stepping away, eyes searching for his partner.
Jax & Philip
"Flip!" he called out when he saw that familiar head of hair up ahead, and jogged over to meet his roommate.
Without a break in his stride, Philip turned himself just enough to keep Jax well within his line of sight. His usual smile cut across his expression in a rakish angle, but Jax knew him well enough to notice the flatness of his gaze. "St James," he returned. "Ready for boots on the ground?"
Thankfully, long legs made it easy to keep up. "You know I am. You rendez-vous with your squad yet?"
"At the hangar." A quick up-down, as if to reassure himself that Jax was indeed hale and in fighting form. "They know the last one there wins the gift of two hundred pushups when we get back."
Jax huffed a terse laugh. "Someone's gonna be into that one day. Before you–" He snagged Philip's forearm as they rounded a corner and stood in front of his friend, who came to a sharp stop. "You kick drone ass and take names, but you come on back or I'll make sure you never rest in peace."
Philip, cinching a tight grip across Jax's wrist, reached up with his other hand to run his fingers in a rough scrape over the back of the man's neck. "And you – you don't make any unnecessary heroic decisions."
The immediate retort should not have been But necessary is alright?, and looking into Philip's eyes, Jax wished he was capable of making that promise. He fisted a hand into the younger man's shirt, let out a shaky exhale. "I'll do my best, Flip."
Do better wouldn't have been helpful on the swiftly narrowing run-up to an oversized mission, so Philip just nodded, echoing Jax with a slow exhale of his own. "Yeah, I know," he simply said, pulling his hand from Jax's nape to his face, briefly cupping his cheek before, with a gentle pat, Philip released him. "See you when we get back."
The heat of the touch lingered on Jax's cheek, and he nodded, ensuring one last graze of his fingertips along the inside of Philip's wrist as he headed down the other corridor, determination in every footfall.
Lola & Rio.
Seven seconds from A5-B's door to A5-P. Two sharp knocks, and she pulls her knee up to tighten her left boot as she waits for an answer.
The door opens on Lola already in motion, one arm through her jacket, the other reaching back to snag the door before it can slide all the way open. Her hair is swept into a messy ponytail, her face bare of the usual bold lip.
“Well,” she says dryly, glancing past Rio at the screaming lights and alarms, “this is certainly one way to spice up the evening.”
Despite the sarcasm, she is clearly locked in: all of her flirtatious joie de vivre replaced by a cool professionalism as she slides a gun into a thigh holster. Then, briskly, “This doesn’t make sense.”
“What,” Rio intones, not that she’s seriously expecting an answer that paints any of the Architects’ actions into shapes approaching rationality. As Lola’s gun nestles into its holster, she lifts a hand, only to point her forefinger down in the direction of the floor and draw a tight circle in the air: turn.
Lola obeys the silent instruction without comment, still talking as she tries in vain to wrestle her ponytail into something more secure. “This never fucking happens. There’ve been, what — two sterilization events since the Fall? If this is retaliation for Finland…”
It doesn’t make sense is left unspoken. There is no point in repeating herself, especially when no part of the Architects’ plans ever makes sense. But saying it outloud — especially to Rio — helps her organize the noise in her head.
"If it's retaliation, that makes them…" A pause, lips pursed as Rio rises on her toes and deftly begins to loosen Lola's sad attempt at a ponytail. "Petty." With the elastic now hanging around two fingers, she begins to scrape Lola's hair back, smoothing flyaways before twisting the mass of dark locks tight into a low bun. "I can deal with petty." Then: "There. I had visions of you getting scalped because a droid managed to grab all of this. Now you can go."
For one brief moment, Lola just stands there and lets herself be fussed over. The world narrows — to the warm pressure at the back of her head, to Rio’s steadying presence — even as the klaxons continue to howl. She turns when Rio’s hands withdraw, composure already back in place, and hooks two fingers into the other woman’s belt loops, pulling her forward until they’re flush.
“Aw, you’re having visions of me? That’s cute, ma chatte.”
She steals a kiss — brief, chaste, entirely unsatisfying and punctuated by a sigh from Rio, soft and disgruntled — and when she pulls back, there’s a wicked upturn in the corners of her mouth. “Now we can go,” she says firmly, jerking chin toward the door.
For a brief moment, there's annoyance (why now?) (why are the alarms still going off? it's not like everyone on the ship hasn't already heard the damn things) (she had a perfectly adequate day planned, so why now?), before it disappears, a look of grim amusement slamming down across Rio's face. "I'm having visions of you eating my dust," comes as she sets off. "Keep up."
Demarcus & Delilah
And, okay, she's also thinking about where the hell is her hair tie and why isn't it on her wrist like it should be—
She stops dead in her tracks. Standing before her is a boy around her age who she's never seen before— and she's very good at locating fellow youths in order to try to win them over through aggressive friendliness. "Wait, hi, wow, you're so tall, are you new?"
A normal way to greet a stranger.
The tall, dark stranger of a million futures foretold looks up from his phone, slightly startled at the question and any chance of recovery to seem in control is just as futile as he registers the cute blonde that was asking said question.
"Oh yeah. You know, genes or something…" Demarcus says, trying to play it cool and laugh it off but failing utterly.
There's a short pause before he remembers to introduce himself and he runs his hand through his hair (hopefully impressively), "I'm Demarcus Rojo. Hi."
"Congrats on being genetically blessed!" she answers, bright and bubbly. Now is really not the time to stop and chat with her new handsome coworker— she has a mission to prep for— but well. She is easily distracted by a pretty face. "Delilah!" She wiggles her fingers in a wave. "Welcome to Mnemosyne! I hope you aren't claustrophobic."
Delilah, Demarcus repeats to himself. He is going to remember that.
“Um, thanks.“ he starts and frowns, waving a hand around, "Are you late for something? Is everyone late for something?" Because he hasn't failed to notice all the people rushing around in such a state.
"Oh wow, so you're like brand new brand new." Is that rude to point out? Hopefully not. "Most of us are headed out to evacuate a town before the Architects can destroy it and everyone in it. They picked a hell of a day to onboard you." Delilah fishes through her pocket and— aha, a scrunchie. "Promise, we're not running from you." She smiles sweetly as she smooths her hair and ties it into a ponytail. "What cell are you with?"
"Dreamscape," he admits, with just a hint of pride. There are only four of them up here, he'd read. That meant he's real impressive (or so he hopes). "Maybe they really need me here, for whatever comes next, yeah?"
"Ohhhh, impressive!" Delilah exclaims, as if reading his mind. She doesn't fully understand the technology, but she assumes anyone involved in that field must be incredibly smart. "That's above my paygrade, but they must have really wanted you asap!" Or someone forgot to reschedule his start date once they found out about the sterilization plan, but she is choosing to believe it wasn't an oversight.
"I need to get going, but if I catch you later, I can show you around."
"Oh—" You're leaving. Of course, Delilah had somewhere to be. Just like everyone else.
Demarcus cleared his throat and smiled, flashing his sparkly whites, "I'll take you up on that then."
And then as an afterthought, he added, "Good luck."
Jamie & Kit
His eyes alight on a familiar silhouette, “hey!” he calls out just as Kit is about to walk past him. Kit immediately stops and turns to face him. “I’m glad I found you,” Jamie tries to offer a genuine smile, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. The nerves he’s been trying to stave off are quickly rooting into his body.
"Yeah? Here to give me a token so I can carry you with me while I go off to battle?" Kit teases because it's easier to laugh and pretend that this is a simple mission with no risks involved. It's easier to joke than to acknowledge the anxiety in Jamie's eyes.
Kit has been doing this for long enough to trust in his own abilities— and Jamie's— and he isn't terrified at the prospect of putting his life on the line. But that doesn't mean he isn't concerned for what could happen to Jamie on the ground.
His smile softens. "Glad I caught you too."
“How’d you know?”
"It's the thing to do, isn't it? Place a photo in the cockpit or carry a trinket in your pocket." Nevermind that this is usually reserved for soldiers carrying mementos of their family.
Jamie appreciates the ease with which Kit lightens the mood. He wishes he did have something to give Kit even if it was just to bring a smile to his face while he was doing the dangerous part of today. He makes a mental note to have something on hand next time.
They were going to get through today, not based on previous data he could reference, but because they had to be okay. His brain wasn’t allowing him to come to any other conclusion.
“Wouldn’t have felt right to not say bye. And good luck, of course” Jamie replies.
"Goodbye makes it sound so final," Kit points out, his expression turning serious. He never knows how to feel about goodbyes. Part of him worries that too many will jinx things, that it will impact his confidence, that it'll trick his brain into going in expecting defeat. But then, a part of him knows that if one of his friends didn't come back from a mission, he'd regret not saying goodbye beforehand. "We'll be together again in no time."
“It does and I didn’t mean it that way. I don’t know,” Jamie shrugs. “I know we shouldn’t be nervous, this is run of the mill stuff, but I just get worried about everyone staying safe.” He did not want to bring the mood down and yet he knew he needed to get that off his chest. Kit would understand where he was coming from, he hopes. “You’re right though we’ll all be back here soon,” he tries again to smile but again struggles to do so. “You’re going to do great out there,” Jamie adds as he moves a hand to clasp Kit’s shoulder.
Kit's first instinct generally is to refuse any kind of compliment or praise but this is different. He will do great— he has no other choice. "I'll make you proud," he pledges. His smile comes easier than Jamie's— he's better at faking it, he assumes. "You'll do great too. It's normal to be nervous but we've trained hard, we're experienced— we've got this."
A laugh escapes Jamie’s mouth, genuine this time, “yes please do. I hate to be disappointed.” Jamie isn’t certain what has him so nervous, he trusts himself, his team, and everyone else. He just can’t seem to shake it. Maybe next time, his emotions would be better prepared. “You’re right,” he sighs. “I think once I’m down there I’ll feel better. The anticipation is just terrible.”
"Waiting is the worst," Kit agrees. He spent the night before envisioning all the things that could go wrong and it had been exhausting and draining and led to fitful sleep. He's been here for years, but he isn't sure it ever really gets easier. "In the field though, training and instinct kick in. It'll be okay." Kit is no optimist but he wants to believe that's true, for all their sakes.
“I mean, that’s what we do all of the training for, right?” He shrugs, attempting to downplay his feelings. “And we have a great team. I believe in every single one of us,” this was the thought that got him through a lot of the stress. No matter what obstacles they face, everyone is committed to the cause and doing what it takes to help people. It’s a good feeling.
"I believe in us too. When we're back, we'll get a drink and you can tell me all about what it was like on the ground."
Jamie nods enthusiastically, “please. I think we both are going to need it. If you had a picture of me in your plane, you could just pretend I was there with you and talk me through everything,” he jokes. “It’ll be better hearing it in person though.”
Kit makes an imaginary camera with his hands. "Click. Now you'll be with me." It's cheesy and he swears he can feel his skin redden. But he also imagines it will make Jamie laugh again, which would make the mild embarrassment worth it.
“You didn’t even let me pose! What if that picture came out bad?” Jamie can’t hold back laughter at this point. Bumping into Kit is exactly what he needed today.
A mission accomplished. Kit's smile turns fond. "Jamie, you're gorgeous, the photo turned out fine." Or would have, if he really had a camera. "I'll still tell you in person though."
“Thank you, I look forward to it. We can drink in my room if you want? I don’t think Carl will mind some company.”
Kit nods. "Sounds like a plan. Good luck out there, yeah? Not that you'll need it."
Jamie smiles, finding comfort in Kit’s confidence. “You too, stay safe,” he pulls Kit in for a quick hug before he can stop himself. “Kick some drone ass out there or something,” he says into the other man’s ear before stepping back from the hug.
Mission Minis
Cal & Eva
“Did you see the snacks in there?”
“No.” It was both a denial of seeing the alleged snacks and a refusal to go back, but Eva knew better than to look at her partner as she gave a wave to the little boy looking back through the rearview window before checking her watch. “But I know you’ve done an inventory of them.”
“Staff room was full of them,” He continued, immediately proving her point, and taking a few tentative steps back towards the building. “Please? We've got time.”
For a moment, she reconsidered his request.
Transportation: she had that, a car with a tank full of gas, keys safely in her pocket.
Time: she also had that. Forty minutes until they were potentially vaporized in the pursuit of snacks that didn’t come with a lot of imagining they were something better. Was it the best use of their time? Likely not, but if there were stragglers, this gave an opportunity to retrieve them on their way to safety.
Guilt: not currently, but she would if she left him here.
“Dios mio,” she muttered, spinning on her heel and striding past him. “Five minutes only.”
Cal grinned, his long strides catching up to hers quickly.
“Stop smiling.”
“You know I can be quick,” he teased, grabbing the door and holding it open for her. “Second door on the left.”
“I’ve been cursed with you as a partner,” she grumbled, listening for any other footfalls as she located a bag in the corner to use for their absconding of all that was worth taking. “I’m calling dibs on anything resembling a peanut butter cup.”
“I thought we didn't have time,” Cal pointed out, opening the fridge door and letting out a low whistle.
“And we will especially not have time if we’re trying to carry everything out in our hands,” she called back, sweeping the tray of favors indiscriminately into the bag.
“Jackpot,” he declared, removing (most of) a retirement cake.
She glanced up, thumb pressing into her temple. “You can’t be serious. How are we going to transport that?”
“Are you saying you don't want it?” he asked, wiggling the tray towards her.
“You are that boy from that movie,” she sighed, opening a random drawer in search of something that would prevent a loose cake from ending up on the dashboard of the car should they come to an abrupt stop.
She had no luck, but that was not of her concern.
“The one with the mean teacher and the cake she makes him eat.”
Cal watched her as he considered her reference. Eventually, it clicked. “Matilda? That was what you got out of Matilda?”
“We don’t have time to break down a children’s movie,” she pointed out, heaving the bag up onto her shoulder and checking her watch once again. “Are you holding it or not?”
He looked down at the cake, debating how he would not only drive with it, but also explain it away for their lift home. Reluctantly, he grabbed a mug and scooped up as much cake as would fit. “I thought it would be good for Luis to try it.”
“He can’t be denied the chance to,” she agreed. With a sigh, Eva ripped off a bit of a paper towel, covering the mug and using a rubber band to secure it. An elbow jabbed at his side as she freed the keys from her pocket, pointing towards the door with them. “Now vamos.”
“Yes ma'am,” Cal agreed, turning towards her as he walked backwards down the hallway. “Can I drive?”
“I don’t know— can you?” she returned, flicking her hair over her shoulder.
He rolled his eyes, holding his free hand out with a “gimme” gesture. “May I drive, princess?”
“Of course.” The keys arced towards him. “As long as you realize I will be overly critical of your driving later.”
“You'd be overly critical of my sitting in the passenger seat if you could be,” he teased, catching the keys and spinning them around his finger.
“I could figure it out,” she assured, waiting for the tell-tale beep to open her door.
“Let's go, we're gonna be late.”
“Oh, now you listen,” she huffed, buckling her seatbelt for what she hoped wasn’t going to be a bumpy ride. “Ready when you are.”
Bobby & Ara
This isn't the first time that they've had to evacuate a community, but as with all emergencies in a Pres City, there is an odd sense of wrongness in crowds that don't know what panic is. It makes their jobs easier because calm people don't cause problems and are easier to herd but it also creates a false sense of security that is in direct contrast with the looming threat of localized genocide overhead.
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This isn't the first time that they've had to evacuate a community, but as with all emergencies in a Pres City, there is an odd sense of wrongness in crowds that don't know what panic is. It makes their jobs easier because calm people don't cause problems and are easier to herd but it also creates a false sense of security that is in direct contrast with the looming threat of localized genocide overhead.
For this reason, Ara keeps her metaphorical trigger finger at the ready. Her role in this mission is essentially traffic warden, but even so the idea of growing complacent and being unprepared makes her skin crawl.
Bobby, too, is on high alert despite the relative ease of directing the flow of the evacuation. There’s a time crunch, and making people who can’t feel a sense of urgency meet that deadline requires everything to run as smoothly as possible.
And so it’s surprising when he stops suddenly, holding a finger to his mouth to indicate that Ara stays silent too while he tries to figure out if he really had heard something unexpected.
Ara's gaze immediately sharpens and sweeps the area, checking the crowd and the area for whatever has caught Bobby's attention. She doesn't hear it at first, too intent on a visual sweep of each person passing by, but then she nods at her partner and moves toward him and a small store front several feet down the road.
Bobby moves closer to the store as quietly as he can manage, helped by the general hubbub of the evacuees. He cups his hands around his eyes to lean on the window and peers in, waiting for Ara to look too.
She weaves through the crowd before settling next to her partner, unholstering and extending her baton as she does so. On its own, the sounds of scratching and things being moved around aren't alarming or noteworthy, but under the circumstances, it is at the very least suspicious.
"A looter," she speculates in a whisper.
“Unveiled then,” Bobby whispers back, an obvious statement since the veiled would have no reason to loot. “We still need to get them out.”
Ara's little grunt is a wordless approval and she moves towards the entrance. Locked—as expected—but the door, just like everything else in this town, is old. After a brief moment to assess, Ara backs up and kicks the door in, throwing caution to the wind. They were on a time crunch and they had to get everyone out, Veiled or Unveiled.
The door flying open startles the looter, Bobby quickly moving to block the door in case they try to make a run for it. “It’s alright,” he says, voice calm and even, despite his hand resting on his gun, just in case. “We’re with the resistance, we’re not going to turn you in. But you need to get out of town.”
Ara stays on Bobby's six, blocking the doorway as a few of the Veiled pause at the commotion, still without any sense of self-preservation despite the radioed evacuation order.
"You're used to blending in, yeah? Well, now's your time to blend and get the fuck out of here before you become dust." Ara commands, playing the bad cop to Bobby's good, and gestures towards the street. "Supplies are no good to you and yours if you're dead."
“Keep what you’ve already got,” Bobby suggests, his own time on the run influencing his approach despite the ticking time. “But they’re going to flatten this town and they won’t care if you’re in it or not. Understand?”
The looter nods, and Bobby glances sideways to Ara, trying to silently communicate if they should step away from the door and let them join the crowds, or if they’re still too much of a risk.
Her eyes slide over to the looter, taking in their carefully blank expression and the scared panic that was only noticeable because she was looking for it. She's been in their shoes. Any other day, their mask would probably be perfect but it was harder to hide when something terrible was happening.
"You can follow us for a bit, no one who's not one of us is going to look at you if you're in our shadow." she suggests and heads out, trusting Bobby to lead them out while she gently ushers the rest of the crowd forward to make a little space.
Bobby sticks close to the unveiled looter when they move, shoulder to shoulder as they join the crowd. There’s many questions he wants to ask, thoughts of seeing if they want to join the resistance, asking if they’re from an outlander community, but they can’t stand out amongst the veiled crowd so he keeps his mouth shut and continues to make sure all those around them are moving towards the buses.
At some point, the looter slips away and they can do little else without abandoning their initial task. They would be someone else's problem now, maybe even Recruitment's if the agents from that cell can find them again.
Jamie & Jax
Jamie fought his way through the crowd before closing his hand on Jax’s shoulder. “Jax,” he said again, quieter this time. “This is our last load of people to evacuate. Get on the ship.” He was afraid that if he wasn’t firm, he might be ignored.
It was tempting. There had been a siren going off in Jax all day, howling at him to save as many as possible. To make up for those he couldn't save, had watched die, during the Fall. An apology to them, a promise of a future to these people. This was already so many lives protected.
He clamped a hand around Jamie’s wrist and realized he was shaking. "Okay. Yeah," he whispered, sounding as tired as he felt.
A wave of relief flooded Jamie, Jax wasn’t going to fight him over this. “Good,” he didn’t offer any other words while they moved back to the ship. Jamie could feel the hand around his wrist shaking and knew they needed to get back and sit.
Once the remaining civilians had boarded the ship, Jamie returned to the spot he told Jax to stay while Jamie was finishing up. “You did great,” he said plopping down on the floor next to him, he was exhausted. “We got a lot of people out and they’re going to be okay. You should be proud.” His eyes met Jax’s, hoping to convey sincerity.
The eyes that met his gaze were less bright now that they were against a wall, all of Jax's weight slumped back into it. He had kept all of this emotion bottled up for hours, and they weren't out of the danger zone yet, but next to Jamie, he felt safe enough to let his absolute exhaustion take over. Ishaan had told him to keep it together for everyone. To the best of his ability, he had.
He nodded in understanding, and fisted his hands against his abdomen in an effort to still the tremors. "Wasn't just me," he pointed out.
Jamie took a deep breath and released it, hoping some of the tension in his body would escape with it. It didn’t, it would take longer for his brain to catch up that they were out of immediate danger. That they were going to be safe. For now.
“No, it wasn’t just you. But that doesn’t take away from your part in this. And I wanted you to hear it out loud,” he reaches a hand out and puts it over one of Jax’s fists, trying to still them. “It’s okay to relax a little bit now.” Jamie adds, leaning his head against the wall.
A part of Jax wished it was appropriate to unfurl his hand and take Jamie’s. Instead, he shifted closer and rested his head on the younger man's shoulder. "Jus' a little bit," he mumbled, stubborn. "Wings aren't even up yet."
“I’m not asking you to pretend we’re sitting on a beach somewhere right now. But maybe dial it down from a 10 to a 9,” Jamie suggested, knowing it might be a fruitless attempt to encourage calm. “I should’ve asked earlier, but you’re okay, right? Physically I mean. Didn’t get hurt down here?” He hadn’t been able to detect anything with a quick glance earlier, that didn’t mean something wasn’t hiding out of sight.
"M'okay." Jax adjusted his head ever so slightly, strands of dark hair brushing under Jamie’s jaw. "You?"
“Okay,” he let his chin rest gently on Jax’s head. “You’d tell me if you weren’t?” Jamie paused for a second, enjoying the quiet of the moment, before responding to Jax. “I’m fine,” he said. Even though he wasn’t sure if mentally that was true.
"Okay," was Jax's murmur in turn. "And I'd tell you." He took in a shuddery exhale that felt good to expel, the weight of the day dispersing somewhat with the breath. "Your smile, by the way. That's your best feature."
“You better,” it was a toothless threat with no energy behind it. Hearing Jax’s sigh allowed Jamie to settle a little more. “Hmmm,” he hummed, considering this. “I’m surprised it’s not the glasses, honestly. You seem fond of them too.”
A hand drew up expectantly. "Them, too."
“Now?” his voice was edged with disbelief. With a roll of his eyes, Jamie removed his glasses and put them in Jax’s hand. “Here.”
With some difficulty, the glasses were slid onto Jax’s face. It was strange how it'd become a source of silly comfort over the years. Less silly was how Jamie had become that as well, for him. He sighed once more. "If I fall asleep, wake me up."
Jamie grinned down at Jax, who at that point was a little blurry, “I hate to say they don’t look bad on you”. He would need the glasses back at some point but right now Jax wearing them served as a reminder of lighter days than today. “I promise I’ll wake you up,” Jamie agreed with no intention of following through on his promise — his friend could use the sleep.
Post-Mission Minis
Eva & Eli
She wondered if it was the simplicity or the people that had made up her life that she missed.
The thought was shaken from her head as she re-shouldered the bag of treats, an aggravating set of shoulders promptly blocking her exit.
“I see your injuries didn’t render you incapacitated,” she chirped, stepping to the side to go around him.
The aforementioned set of shoulders didn’t even tense as he glanced askance at her, helmet tucked under his arm as the pilot he had been talking to made themselves scarce. The captain could have moved more to make it easier for the ground force agent to navigate, but he simply watched as she flattened herself against the wall and slid around him.
“Sorry to disappoint,” he said evenly as his lips ticked briefly upwards before smoothing, shifting his stance minutely to avoid getting his other leg bruised.
“I’m used to it, cangrejo,” she said without bite, adjusting her load so nothing was crushed. She could deal with any number of things, but not the pout of her partner’s son should his favorite of whatever was inside was damaged. “And we both know you aren’t apologetic.”
He grunted in reply, gaze drifting down to the bag she was hauling now that she was in his line of sight — a bag that looked out of place among the warship.
“Do I want to know?” he asked, nodding towards her new cargo as if his meaning wasn’t clear.
“You asking leads me to believe you do,” she countered instantly, peeking in at the frankly insane amount of candies, snack cakes and candles she had swept into the bag. “It’s Cal’s fault.”
“Normally is,” Eli neutrally observed.
She huffed out a breath, the sound close enough to a laugh to pass as one.
“Is it alive, flammable, or a potential biohazard?” he asked wearily, his eyebrow briefly quirking as he tried to fight a glimmer of amusement before his full attention settled on the brunette in front of him.
“No; one thing is intentionally set aflame; and it depends on your opinion of shelf-stable goods,” she replied, giving an inch and opening the bag just enough to be peered into.
He saw the flash of a wrapper and —
He blinked to clear his eyes, trying to rationalize the mishmash of items he had seen.
“Please tell me he didn’t raid someone’s birthday party for the candy,” he slowly said, green eyes flicking up to hers to see if he was really seeing candles and party favors.
“Of course not.” A beat as she adjusted her grip on the bag, impatiently gesturing for him to get a move on before anyone else decided to sneak a glance. “It was a retirement party.”
Eli stared at her as she cinched the bag shut, fingers curling around the edge of his helmet. He knew, technically, that he should point out the risk of delaying an evacuation for candy, but he was too wiped from playing chicken with the drones to find it in him to care.
Especially not when he was often a recipient of the secret stash.
“Tell him he owes me the peanut butter,” he said after a moment, shaking his head as he took a step into the hallway.
A dark set of brows arched, and she did not remotely try to keep the bag pinned to her side as she let it whack him in the leg. “Tell him yourself,” she called over her shoulder, brisk steps leading her away from him. “I’m not your messenger.”
Eli lifted his helmet in a mock salute behind her back, trying not to give her the satisfaction of wincing as yet another bruise formed on his leg courtesy of Eva Aldana Gutiérrez.
“I’m not your target practice,” he called back, already turning to head back to his room to shower.
“Then stop volunteering,” she suggested, brown eyes catching on green when she half-turned to face him. “You make it too easy.”
For a brief moment, perhaps a trick of the light, interest sparked in his gaze at the challenge in her voice.
“Noted,” he said, tucking his helmet back under his arm and walking backwards to keep her in his line of sight for just a moment longer as she gave him a thumb’s up. He nodded once before turning, his turn to add over his shoulder, “would hate for you to get bored.”
Nishad & Maryle
It would be ridiculous if Nishad were to avoid his room simply because his roommate’s bragging is irritating his ego. That would be the actions of a sore loser, which he isn’t. The important thing — truly, even if he’s struggling to remember it in the face of Az’s delight — is that they saved thousands upon thousands of veiled from being poofed out of existence.
A feat that does, whether she likes it or not, make Maryle’s discovery particularly heroic. So Nishad is not avoiding his roommate, he’s seeking Maryle out to see if she’s in better spirits now that the mission’s been a success.
Openly exhausted as he drops down into the chair nearest Maryle’s in the common area, he offers a grin. “Still the reluctant hero or have you warmed up to the title yet?”
READ MORE
Though she's valiantly attempting to read a book, Maryle is too keyed up and was failing at the exercise even before Nishad arrived and spoiled the quiet. She lets out an overly dramatic, put out sigh as she closes the book over her finger to mark her place, but as she looks over at him she checks for any signs of injury (none, good). Which means she can make a face at him without feeling any guilt.
"Wow, you're so annoying. Shouldn't you be off crowing about how cool you are? Or, like, sleeping again?"
Entirely undeterred by the face she makes or the words coming out of her, his smile simply widens. “I feel as though I couldn’t sleep if I tried and as though I may fall asleep right here and now, but I can’t make any promises that I’ll fall asleep and leave you to your book in peace.” A beat. “But I am taking that as you noticing how cool I am. Thank you.”
Maryle's lips shift into a smile, but one that's more patronizing than anything else. She's still feeling a bit off thanks to the mission and her impending chat with Dom, but that's never stopped her from picking on her friends.
"Just because you'd be saying it doesn't make it true, Nish." She slides a shred of paper into the book as a bookmark before she twists a little in her seat to ball herself up and face her companion more fully.
"And I don't believe that you can't fall asleep, regardless of whatever adrenaline you still have going on. How was it?"
“Exhilarating. Exhausting. The new recruits did well.” As for what happened on the ground, those on the Mnemo would know as well as he would by now. “I could sleep anywhere at anytime, but—“ A hesitation before he shrugs. “—I wouldn’t want to extinguish my roommate’s high with my own inability to keep my eyes open. Once you’re done putting up with me, I’ll likely find my way to my office.”
"Awww, Nish, does it suck to have to deal with someone as up their own ass as you?"
Book now abandoned on the back of her chair, Maryle sets her arms down folded so she can rest her chin on them. She's glad they did well. She's maybe even looking forward to asking Sloane about the experience. But, that's for later. She'll take this distraction now.
"You're really going to let him keep you out of your room? Do you need me to go yell at him for you?"
“Would you?” He jokes, with no hint of a desire for actual follow through. “I can think of nothing I would enjoy more than seeing you fight my battles, but the only fight here is to not be a spoilsport about Az’s high spirits. He deserves to celebrate. Maybe I’ll even rally.”
Maryle scoffs quietly — honestly, she's kind of in the mood to cause trouble, so if Nishad did genuinely want her to harass an adult man, she'd probably do it. But he doesn't, and maybe it's not best to be acting out anyways.
"You know what a pain in the ass I can be. But, that's surprisingly mature for you. Being the bigger person. Never thought I'd see the day." She hums as she ponders if she wants to be a good friend or continue in her current state of half-moping. Settling on the former, she sighs.
"So, why are you so annoyed, hm?"
“Oh. No. I won’t be telling you that,” Nishad objects, aware that Maryle’s ignorance of the why is, in fact, a blessing that he shouldn’t sneeze at. “You’ve never needed ammunition to start firing, it doesn’t seem wise to offer it freely.”
"Did he call you 'kid'? Steal some kills? Get in your way? Do you actually have no patience for people being proud of themselves?" Maryle rattles off, as though she herself wouldn't be annoyed by a self-satisfied pilot taking up space in her room.
"...Sloane's not going to be like that, is she?"
“One of the above.” That’s enough of a confession, likely. Her question, however, results in a soft laugh. “I can’t tell if she’s going to be less obnoxious than the rest of us or if she’s just easing into letting herself be obnoxious in front of us.”
Maryle groans at the denial of an answer, tilting her head back for a moment dramatically. She hates the hero moniker, but she's one to use everything at her disposal.
"Is this really how you treat a hero? Withholding information? And I'm fairly convinced she'll be ok, but I figured you might've gotten some extra intel on her in the field."
“Too early to tell when it comes to Sloane.” A beat. “And I’m afraid we’re on the other side of things now,” he comments, watching her with amusement. “You’re not the only hero in the room.” Here, he gestures to himself. (He’s not the only person in the room that’s just returned to the Mnemo, either, but there might as well be no one else in the room. The ability to pretend that there’s more privacy than there really is is paramount to not losing one’s mind on the ship.) “But I’ll tell you if you can promise restraint in mocking me.”
"Like you didn't just come in here ready to poke me about being a hero," Maryle grumbles, but her attitude is fairly mild. Especially since she's apparently going to get what she wants if she plays nice for the moment.
Sitting up a little straighter, her smile turns deceptively sweet.
"Oh, I can definitely control myself. Cross my heart and all that."
That draws a soft laugh of disbelief. “Liar.”
"Never. Now, out with the goods. What's making poor Nishad so unhappy?"
“Well,” Nishad starts, despite his full confidence that Maryle is, in fact, a liar, “poor Nishad’s roommate happens to be top of the kill board. But with so many new, eager recruits thriving on kill sniping, poor Nishad’s got the honor of being bottom of the board. It’s made Az’s revelry a bit of an inconvenience for him.”
The third person had begun as a joke, but it turns out to be easier to admit it when there’s a level of detachment from the words. “But there is a promise of body shots, should I rally.”
Maryle, her expression schooled into seriousness, manages to keep a smile from appearing even at the ridiculous mention of body shots. They really are all going insane up here.
"My god, poor Nishad. That has got to sting, especially since, were their roles reversed, he certainly wouldn't behave like his roommate."
She gives a very serious nod. "Body shots after failure are generally the medical advice."
He’s opened his mouth to agree that he would never behave the same way (knowing full well that it’s a lie) when the second half of what she’s said registers. “There was no failure,” Nishad objects, eyebrows raising. “The lot of them are all kill snipers.”
"Uh-huh." Maryle sounds painfully unconvinced as she settles back down onto her arms, her bottom lip jutting out in a feigned pout. Ok, she is actually glad he sought her out.
"Poor wittle Nishad, all the other kids stealing his toys. Maybe next time you'll have better luck, hm? Or you could murder Az I guess."
Sinking down into the chair, Nishad sighs. “Remember when you said you would be able to show restraint? It’s not that I believed you, but I had hope for at least two minutes of you pretending,” he grumbles, acting more put out than he actually feels by her teasing. “You haven’t even offered to be an accomplice.”
Maryle laughs unapologetically, offering Nishad a little shrug and a self-satisfied smile.
"We both know you'd be a nightmare if you were top of that board, so I figure this is only fair. And I don't think Az is worth being my first kill. I need to, like, really connect with the victim, you know? And not through body shots."
“Yeah?” Nishad considers for a moment. “I think you’d make a phenomenal black widow.”
"Oh, I think I could be very successful. But that'll have to wait for someone that's not your roommate."
“I was going to say I’d miss Az in his untimely demise, but then I remembered that I’d have the room to myself.” A beat. “Once the novelty of it wore off, perhaps. But I wouldn’t wish you on him, even so.”
Maryle scoffs.
"You've already got an office to run away to at least. You definitely don't deserve your own room; I'd move Sloane in with you."
And now it’s Nishad’s turn to scoff. “Sloane’s my pilot, she’s certainly not welcome to share a room with me. You, however… no, I don’t know that I would survive the close quarters.”
"You can move into your office, I'll stay in my room, and Sloane will take yours. Everyone wins, and no one gets murdered. Except for Az, I guess."
Nishad pretends to consider for a moment. “No, sorry, that would be ridiculous. I can’t sleep in a hammock every night, Maryle. You’ll just have to keep Sloane with you.”
With a loud sigh, Maryle's head tilts to the side in her arms.
"It'd all be a lot of work, I guess. We can leave things the way they are. Now," she extricates one hand to wave it dismissively at Nishad.
"Go be an adult and take back your portion of the room."
Reluctant to do as instructed, Nishad counters: “There were threats of sexiling me. He may be following through on those. Best I stay here a little while longer.”
"Oh, well, if he does that then let me know who he brought home. I can add it to my chart if it's new information."
Again, she shoos Nishad with her hand, more to be obnoxious than anything else at this point.
“You know, I think most people would be more understanding that I’d rather talk to a beautiful woman than deal with an inflated ego,” he comments as he pushes himself to standing, “but I suppose I should figure out if I’ve been locked out yet.”
Maryle renews her earlier, falsely sweet smile as Nashid stands. Somewhere in the expression, though, he can probably tell that she's appreciative of him.
"Everyone always wants to talk to me," she lies, because she's definitely not the easiest person. "And seriously, don't be a baby. Sleep in your own room, if you're not sexiled."
“I’m not being—” But the argument is interrupted by a yawn that can’t be stifled. “Yeah, alright.” A beat. “Night, Maryle.”
The hand that had earlier shooed now gives a little finger waggle wave.
"Night, Nish. And, don't let this go to your head, good job. Even if you bottomed out that scoreboard."
He wrinkles his nose and holds his hands up in a ‘what the fuck’ gesture as he steps away, though he looks pleased despite it. “You know, you could have left the last bit off.”
"Could have, yeah," she agrees. "But that's no fun."
QUESTIONS/COMMENTS.