Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Part One - Paintball

1.1 - Paintball-istics

1.2 - Vent-turing Below

Part Two - Consequences

2.1 - The One Behind the Splatter

2.2 - Mission: Unavoidable

2.3 - How to Train Your Introvert

2.4 - Achievement Unlocked: Backstory

Part Three - Bodyguard

3.1 - Wheels off the Bus

3.2 - Reflections May Vary

3.3 - Ascend in Fizz

3.4 - Matt-nificent

3.5 - Impromptu Conductor of Events

3.6 - Blood, Sweat, and Paint

3.7 - Cache Me if You Can

Part Four - Revelations

4.1 - Haunted By Association

4.2 - Red-handed

4.3 - The Quinncident

4.4 - A Fair Way to Spend A Day

Part Five - Sabotage

5.1 - Sabotage

5.2 - Freedom

Cover sketch I did for fun and practice:

If inserting doesn't work:

https://imgur.com/a/7yjgR3L

DISCLAIMER:

Welcome!
This story began as a fanfic experiment to help me learn longform writing. The characters from Eddsworld are being used as stand-ins while I develop an original plot and voice. They don't shape the ending — just give me a familiar team dynamic to work with as I iron things out.

The story currently spans over 73k words, with five main arcs. Parts 1–5 are complete. Feedback is welcome — this is my first major project, and your comments really help shape the final version!

Character Personalities:

Edd is the leader of the group that makes puns and gets them into a lot of shenanigans. He loves to draw and loves Cola. Loud and exuberant.

Tom is the bored and cynical observer with a drink in hand that bounces between genius and idiocy. Loves guns, hates Christmas.

Matt is the clueless one who's poor judgment causes trouble. Obsessed with his looks and confident bordering on childish. Loud and exuberant.

Tord is the previous member of the group and left years ago to make it in the big city (though apparently, not really). He is happiest with a gun in his hand, is insanely smart (inventor) and combative.

MC WIP: Quinn is the newcomer. He is withdrawn at first, observant. He has a dry commentary running in his head all the time and enjoys documentaries.Bit of a health nut. Hates breaking the law.

Chapter Text

Part 1 - Paintball

When I moved to a mid-rise in the 'big city', I thought I was finally leaving the madness behind. No more small-town weirdness, no more late-night howling in the woods or "unexplained phenomena" in the local paper. Just me, a skyline view, and the occasional zombie siren or mad scientist on the news.

It seemed like a fair trade.

Somewhere between the sixth box and eighth regret, I convince myself this was the right call. The place wasn't bad—affordable, close to a grocer, and just enough room for my essentials plus a bit of stretch. The only real downside was how far up it was. One power cut would turn me into a stairwell hermit. Still, I could deal with that. A temporary setback in the end.

Looking back, I suppose I should've counted the neighbours as a downside, too.

I meet the loudest ones over the next few weeks—mostly in passing. We'd nod, occasionally make brief eye contact, but never actually spoke. In a way I was glad for this - I swear these guys are manic energy incarnate. That takes a certain sort of mindset to deal with, not one which I am usually in.

The tall one in the green hoodie - Edd, who lives right next door - apparently has a fizzy drink addiction, if the bags of cans he hauls to the rubbish chute are anything to go by. He also watches an obscene number of zombie films (loudly) with his mates who live across the hall. His redheaded friend, dressed in a green and purple outfit as loud as his voice, is the reason I know Edd's name at all. He says hi every so often, but beyond the kind, happy vibes, I don't know much else about him.

Edd's third friend in blue with tall spiky hair is the quietest of the lot (which isn't that high a bar in comparison) and for some reason wears black contacts all the time. Maybe he's goth? Or they're some sort of custom sunglasses for light sensitivity? Anyway, I keep my distance.

One Saturday night while I'm rotting on the sofa watching shows after a long shift, there's a knock at my door. Odd. This building doesn't allow soliciting, and I don't know anyone round here. I shuffle over and crack it open as far as the chain allows.

The guy in blue from across the hall immediately starts talking.

"Matt won some paintball tickets and we need a fourth for the tournament. Wanna go?"

Intrigued, I undo the chain and open the door further, nodding my head. I open my mouth to ask about the details when he shoves a ticket in my hand.

"Great, we're off tomorrow at 1. See you then, stranger." He spins on his heel and makes his way into what I now know is Matt's flat.

... Alright then. Guess I'm playing paintball on my day off. That's cool. I slide the ticket into my wallet and head to bed, hoping tomorrow won't be too weird.

When I step out the door the next afternoon, the one in blue is locking his own door.

"Oh hey, you're ready. I was worried you'd pull a Matt and make us wait an hour." We both glance at Matt's door from behind which you could hear frantic footsteps. Edd steps out of his flat at that moment.

"Hey Tom! Hey... uh, stranger. Are you the one Tom got as a fourth player?" Edd asks.

I nod and take a step forward, hand halfway out to introduce myself when BANG!

Matt slams his door open. "LET'S DO THIS!" he shouts into the hall like a war cry.

I flinch slightly, and Tom, noticing my reaction, mutters, "He and Edd have a bet going. Just... don't question it."

Matt finally notices me and gasps. "A new friend! I hope you're ready to help me crush Edd's record!"

Edd rolls his eyes. "In your dreams. I'm a paintball champion for a reason."

Tom steps in before they start scrapping in the corridor. "Yeah, yeah, save it for the battlefield. Let's move."

We cram into the lift, and Matt turns to me again. "So, what's your name, new guy?" he asks jovially.

Tomcuts in before I can answer. "It's Quinn."

I whirl around to see him looking in my wallet. I snatch it back instantly. How did he... I wore cargo trousers with Velcro seal pockets for a reason. Not exactly the Tower of London, but they should've made noise at least. How did he get in without me noticing?

Tom just smirks and taps the side of his temple. "Nimble fingers. Stay sharp, Quinn."

Matt leans in, wide-eyed. "Ooooh, the ol' sleight of hand trick? Where'd you learn that, Tom? From a magician? A spy? A magician spy??"

"He's a video editor, Matt. Not a secret agent," Edd deadpans, stepping out of the lift as the doors opened.

"That's what he wants you to think," Matt nods solemnly, as if that somehow confirmed a long-held theory.

I sigh and tuck my wallet deeper into my pocket. I had a feeling I'd need to keep both eyes on these three.

The journey to Edd's car and the drive to the paintball competition is filled with banter between them. I kinda revel in it. It had been a long time since I'd been surrounded by energetic people and it's slowly rubbing off on me. I know if these guys keep this up on the field, we won't stand a chance. But honestly? Might be worth it for the entertainment.

---

After flashing our tickets to the bored-looking guard stationed outside the paintball armoury, we're directed to the Lime Green section to gear up. The trio sprint in like it's a Black Friday sale, hooting and hollering. I offer the guard a sheepish smile and follow at a more civilised pace.

The armoury itself is surprisingly impressive. Plastic armour, shields, and weapon mimicries line the walls like props from a low-budget action movie. I could see Edd had acquired four bandoliers of paint grenades and was strapping them on with the focus of someone arming a bomb.

I start taking stock of my options, walking between all the isles first. What sort of place is this? Paint canister morning stars, paint filled bo staffs, and a dozen more mimicries I could barely identify. Was this really just for paintball? I decide to stick with what I know and make my way to the faux hunting gear section, dodging Matt as he legged it past chased by Tom brandishing an empty paint bat.

After a quick think, I settle on a ghillie-suit-style set of light body armour (plus a little something from home), a long-range paint pellet rifle with matching plant camo, and two small pistols. Should suit me. I'm not much of a sprinter, but I've got a steady aim.

Tucking extra magazines in my cargo pockets, I wander over to Tom who is finishing up what looks like an 'average build' – AK-47 mimic, thick chest armour with utility pockets, and a helmet somehow precariously balanced on top of his gravity-defying spiky hair. Yeah, he'll lose that fast. Here's hoping nobody starts taking headshots. The giant cylindrical bag on his back catches my attention. Did this venue have paint bazookas? Claymores? Foldable riot shields?

Tom smirks at me when I round the corner. "Ski goggles? Really? Did you bring those yourself?"

Yes. Yes, I did. I do not fancy paint in my eyes (perfume was a bad enough experience) and these ones are breathable, anti-glare, and best of all non-reflective. Just as I am about to explain my genius, Matt clunks into view.

"Alright, gentlemen! Let's get our war paint on!" he declares proudly.

I take stock of his outfit. It seems he went straight for every piece of heavy armour and only has two pistols on him with no extra magazines. If it weren't for the fact we were the only ones in this section I wouldn't have known the tank player was him.

"Matt," Tom starts, barely suppressing laughter, "what are you doing?"

"Well, I can't let any of that paint get near my beautiful face or perfect hair! And I still have Edd's record to beat. This way, I will surely outlast him!" I assume he's beaming proudly behind that helmet, though he could just as easily be scowling for all I could see. Thankfully, I know him well enough by now to know his personality rarely allows a scowl to grace his 'beautiful face'. To be fair, I doubt his face can scowl.

Edd makes his way to us. "Alright men, let's come up with a battle plan. Tom, wreak havoc like you do best." The man in question grins and cracks his knuckles. "Quinn, hang back and cover us. Try to keep up if we move. Matt, you... do you. Try not to get flattened." Matt's body language shows his offense to that remark.

"And you'll be causing paint-y chaos somewhere else, I assume?" Tom ribs.

"Yep! Try to keep up!" Edd shoots back, already jogging in place like he's psyching himself up.

It strikes me as more than a little counter-intuitive - entering in a team competition while also competing against each other - but since I didn't know what Matt and Edd's bet was, I keep my mouth shut. I'm just the filler after all.

The timer above the door to the battle field finally hits zero and it's our turn to charge out. Lime Green's exit is the closest one to the main exit, so we've a bit of a trek to reach the other teams. The rules are simple this game mode – if one of the targets on your chest piece or helmet is covered in paint, you're out. Targets vary in size and amount depending on the armour type, with heavier kit meaning few but large targets. The judges in blue roaming the field could tag you early if they deemed you sufficiently soaked.

Seeing the large pink paint splatter arcing up a tree makes me doubly glad I brought my goggles. That is some massive firepower. Paint-power? The venue's goggles wouldn't have stood a chance against that kind of splash damage. Now that I think about it the paint may ruin my goggles... too late now. Is this paint eco-friendly?

"Is this paint eco-friendly?" Matt voices. Seems we're on the same wavelength.

"Ah, who cares? Let's just have fun instead of being eco-warriors." Tom shrugs, pumping air into his rifle as distant pops echo through the trees.

"Are you READY?!" He suddenly bellows.

"Yeah!" Matt calls.

"Yeah!" Edd cheers.

"I said ARE! YOU! READY?!"

"YEAH!"

"YEAH!!"

"THEN LET'S DO THIS!" Tom roars into the forest and runs full tilt into the fray, Edd weaving to the side with grenades in hand. Matt clunks after Tom like a happy refrigerator. Seems they forgot me then. That's fine. I can work with that. The other teams will see them and assume the trio are all that's left of our team... right up until they get sniped from the treeline.

I jog to where I could hear more pops and bangs. Taking note of approaching footsteps, I quickly slide my legs into a bush and hold still. Two players in pink accented light armour jog past, chatting and almost stepping on me. Hopefully the camo pattern on my trousers would blend in enough, this ghillie suit's leg coverage was sorely lacking.

As soon as they pass, I seize the moment and quietly draw my pistol. I'm not great with handguns, but these air-powered ones don't have much kick. Two quick shots, and I mark the large targets on the backs of their helmets bloom lime green.

The players screech in indignation and whirl around, but I had already stashed my pistol in my suit and stilled once more. They frantically look around for their assailant only to see trees, shrubbery and a wandering judge.

"Alright, you two. You're out. Head to the main building and wait for the game to be over." The judge instructs as he slaps red tape on their helmets. We watch as the players sulk away. "That was a good shot, kid." He gruffly whispers and walks off before I can respond.

Shrugging, I head toward the chaos, slipping into another bush just shy of the main clearing. I can barely contain my laughter at what I see. Tom had situated himself on a short pallet stack in the middle of the field and was blasting paint from a mini-gun at any who dared come near while laughing manically. Matt is unintentionally running interference, catching most of the paint being shot at Tom like a moon intercepting meteors. He's running about in panicked loops, arms flailing. Edd's nowhere to be seen, but from the muffled bangs and startled yelling to my left, I could hazard a guess.

Keeping an ear out for movement behind me, I start picking off anyone who pops out of cover when Tom's back is turned. Through my scope I see the first two paintballs slam into their faces – ew, that won't taste good - but after that, I start adjusting for the drop. By the fifth shot, I'm basically playing whack-a-mole. The clear targets on their helmets help, and thankfully, few have gone the tank route like Matt.

The splatter from my shots hit clean, bright, and obvious. The wind is dead still and the forest gives me just enough cover. I feel myself fall into a rare laser-focused mindset with a twinge of glee.

We last a few minutes until Tom's paint runs dry. I can just make out his complaints. The survivors of the onslaught take this chance to burst from cover, slipping and sliding on the paint slick grass trying to get to my teammates. Said teammates absolutely book it to the opposite side of the glade in a surprising show of athleticism, especially on Matt's part. I spot Edd sprinting the perimeter like a demolitionist on a timer and decide to move out, too.

Reloading, I crouch-run between trees and bushes, ducking as stray shots whip past me. One neon orange round cracks against my shoulder with a sharp sting.

I wince. Apparently, a desk job isn't great prep for this kind of exercise.

Between cover dashes, I glance toward the chaos in the centre field - just enough distraction from the fire in my thighs.

Some of these people clearly have combat training. And someone's taking this way too seriously; who knows how to use nun-chucks nowadays?

I catch a multicoloured flash through the trees and jog over to my teammates standing on a small grassy rise. Matt's armour was splattered with most of the palette used this round, but somehow his main targets are fairly untouched. Tom had abandoned the mini-gun and was using the hem of his hoodie to wipe paint off his goggles - helmet long gone, as predicted. Edd was relieved of most of his grenades and splattered with a few shots of other colours but otherwise was decorated with a light spray of lime green. He grins when he sees me.

"Hey, it's our fourth! You've been busy, haven't you? How many people did you knock out? I saw five walk past with our colour on their helmets. I took out like, twenty. They were fuming! Guess they didn't read the fine splatter. Matt?"

Matt crosses his arms the best he can. "Zero, but I'll get my chance now that you're out of grenades! And the bet was who can last the longest, not who gets the most kills."

Tom interjects with a laugh, "I wish I had known about this place sooner. I drenched so many people in paint they blended in with the ground!"

We grin at each other—or at least, I assume Matt is. Just as I open my mouth to share my tally, the ground beneath Matt gives a suspicious creak... and collapses. His horrified scream echoes as he vanishes down a metal chute, leaving a rainbow streak behind him. His faint voice echoes up the duct as we peer in.

"Hey guys, come take a look at this!"

Edd and Tom exchange surprised looks before Edd shrugs and leaps in, Tom following whooping like a kid on a water slide. I sigh and look around for a stick, daubing it in lime green paint from a pellet I pop out from my pistol. If we get stuck, maybe a judge will notice it and come rescue us.

I sit on the edge of the vent, silently thanking Edd and Tom for wiping away most of the paint from Matt's fall.

I'm not sure whether I'm being clever or just following idiots into a trap.

Either way, too late to back out now.

I slide into the dark.

Chapter Text

Thankfully, the vent doesn't lead to a straight drop. Instead, it curves gently and spits me out about a foot above the cold concrete floor. Not exactly a five-star landing, but better than face-planting from the ceiling. I pull myself up in a room lit only by dim red emergency lights and the beams from the others' phone torches. I pull out mine and angle it toward the ceiling, diffusing the beam as best I could.

The place looks like a cross between a server farm and a bomb shelter. A bank of outdated computer servers and some screens line the wall to my left; shelves full of sealed boxes fill the right. A single doorway opened out into a pitch-black corridor that practically screams 'you will die here'. Lovely. Great ambience. Love what they've done with the existential dread. I suppose the emergency lights further in must've blown.

I can't help but wonder who in their right mind builds a paintball field on top of a secret bunker. Feels a bit... much, doesn't it? Maybe it was already here when they converted the site. Didn't seem dusty—must've been sealed up properly when it was abandoned.

"Whoa," Edd breathes, pushing his way around Matt who was struggling to get his helmet off. "What do you think this place is, guys?"

"It's obviously a bunker, Edd," Tom says, frowning thoughtfully. "Question is, what for?"

I leave them to their theorizing and follow my nose down the dark hall. Bunkers would usually have smelly backup diesel generators and some would even have a breaker panel you could use to restore power from the grid for day-to-day operations. With any luck, they'd be tucked into the same room. Huh, never thought I'd be grateful I watched a documentary series on bunkers.

Bathroom, nope. Janitor cupboard, nope. And behind door number three... bingo. I wince as the smell hits me and yank my sleeve over my nose, the stench of spoiled diesel punching me in the face. My light sweeps over a rusting generator and coiled cabling running up to a breaker box. I take a moment to appreciate how tidy the wires are before getting to work. I hope it was as simple as flipping a switch and I wouldn't have to improvise with electricity. Jury-rigging a fuse with foil apparently works, but I'm not exactly interested in playing 'Am I Flammable?'

Fortunately, it was as simple as a conveniently labelled switch. I hum in satisfaction as the lights in the bunker flicker to life and mentally salute the electrician that wired this place. My moment of peace is shattered by my startled yelp when I see Tom silently loitering in the doorway.

"Holy skunk in a sauna, this room stinks." He mutters, taking a swig from a flask. "No wonder you found it so fast. C'mon, let's go see what we can loot."

And just like that, he saunters off to fill his pockets with what is probably government property. Oh. Oh no. If this is a government bunker, we are so screwed. I sprint back to the others to stop them from committing what was probably a felony or doing something that would put us on a watchlist.

I come to a stop in the main room, taking stock of the situation. Tom is over at the shelves stuffing MREs and clothing into a duffle bag like we were in a post-apocalyptic clearance sale. Edd and Matt are hunched over the computers, locked in a battle of wits with the login screen.

"I don't think 1234 is working," Matt helpfully comments to Edd.

I slide over to Tom, hoping he'd help me talk some sense into the others, but pause when he holds a trench coat up to my shoulders.

"What's up, man? Get spooked?" Nodding in satisfaction, he unceremoniously stuffs the coat into the straining duffel and zips it shut. So much for voice of reason. I had found the voice of opportunistic looting.

Before I could warn him, a klaxon shrieks. The lights deepen to a hellish red. Our heads snap to the computer screens which flash with blocky text: 'Too many password attempts. Prepare to die.' A gun turret drops from the ceiling with a hiss and spins to point at Edd and Matt, whofreeze in fear. I'mfrozen, too. 

The turret clicks. The barrel spins to life.

Am I about to see someone get gunned down?

A screen above them explodes in a shower of sparks. We scream in unison. Tom leaps in as the hero of the day and paint explodes across the turret's lens.

He jolts us out of our funk with a shrill, "RUN!"

Edd and Matt scramble for the vent as the turret starts spinning and firing blind. They're up and out in seconds, followed quickly by Tom and his duffel. I dive into the vent headfirst and try to climb out, but my ghillie suit snags. My shoes slip uselessly against the metal. A bullet embeds itself in the rim of the vent. I'm running out of time!

"Quinn! Grab my hands!"

I look up to see Edd hanging upside down in the vent with both hands extended. I strain and grab on with a white-knuckled grip. With a mighty heave from above, we fly out of the vent onto the grassy not-hill.

"Let's get out of here!" Edd yells and dashes away. I grab the stick I used as a marker and sprint full speed with the others into the bush, leaving no trace behind (or so I thought).

---

We crash through the trees under the scream of klaxons, ducking as a group of judges dash past on the main trail toward the alarms. Breathless and jittery with adrenaline, we stumble onto a dirt side-road that winds back toward the venue.

Tom hoists his duffel with a wheeze. "I'm... gonna... go put... this in the car." He breathes. "You guys head back. I'll... meet you there."

I hunch over, hands on my shaking knees. That was the fastest I've run in a while. I need to jog more.

"Matt, where's your helmet?" Edd asks his friend.

Said friend does a full body pat down and spins to look at his surroundings. "Huh," he muses. "Must've left it at the bunker."

Edd and I facepalm in perfect sync. I decide to not wait around and start walking away. The sooner we get out of here, the better. Hopefully whoever owns the bunker will understand that we didn't mean to break in. Or that it wasn't our fault it was designed so poorly that we had to rescue someone that fell in. Or that my teammates are idiots and tripped the probably illegal security system. No, calling them idiots is a bit harsh. I'm sure they have their moments to shine. This just wasn't one of them.

Tom rejoins us at the doors to the awards area. A handful of judges wander over with clipboards as we walk (and clunk) in.

"Just in time!" a woman calls. "The tournament is ending in a few minutes. If you stand still, we can start grading your performance. Please answer our questions as well as you can."

A judge assigns themselves to each of us, muttering and making marks on their tablets. I look to mine with slight smile which she returns.

"May I have your gun and any cartridges? Depending on your accuracy, you could win bonus points!" She informs me.

I smile wider and pass her the rifle slung over my back. Spotting a table a few feet away, I walk over and start unloading the full and spent cartridges for my rifle and pistol. I eject the pistol mag and place it on the table last. The judge walks over and places the rifle on the table, taking stock of my stash.

"Two rifle cartridges spent, twenty rounds almost empty. One pistol cartridge missing three shots. Thirteen recorded shots to the head with lime green paint. I suppose that was your doing? All the other knockouts with your colour on them were from grenade explosions or that minigun your friend had." She asks in a neutral tone.

I nod at her, getting the feeling she was deep in work mode now. Must be some sort of war game enthusiast, which is the best kind of person to have working at this kind of venue in my opinion. She spins me around to take a look at the orange stain on my shoulder before making a mark on her tablet.

"Alright, your points are tallied up. Please place your gear on the table and head to the awards room for refreshments. Thank you for playing!" With a quick spin on her heel, she moves on to the next participant.

With some difficulty I haul the ghillie suit armour over my head, taking my helmet with it in one go. I slip my ski goggles into a bag in one of my pockets, and toss the mouth and throat protector on the table.

I sidle over to the refreshment area. It was standard fare like water, tea, coffee, fizzy drinks, and biscuits, but it was nice touch. Grabbing water and a chocolate biscuit I slump on a battered old sofa and try to relax. My nerves are fraying. The venue had to know about the bunker within their game boundaries, right? Maybe there was an agreement? Still stupidly risky. I should probably look up the legal consequences of accidentally trespassing on government property.

Edd strides in, freckles of paint still dotting his face. "That," he declares, flopping down beside me, "was a brilliant match. We definitely placed first."

He glances around. "Ooh, snacks! They got any Cola?"

He leans around me and sighs in disappointment at the sight of Cola's competitor drink among the other non-Cola options.

"I take it back, this place sucks." He slumps back with a scowl.

I snap my biscuit in half and pass him the other piece which he takes with a grumble.

Matt and Tom wander in, laughing.

"I wish I had taken a picture of your judge's face! You totally made a new record here, Matt. Most hit with least killed!"

Matt just laughs along, not really getting that that wasn't really a good thing in a war game simulation. They wander over to us and Tom perches on the arm of the sofa beside Edd, Matt pulling up a chair.

"So, when's this thing kicking off?" he asks. I just shrug and pull out my phone, finishing the last of my biscuit. Matt gasps and runs to the snack table, coming back with a handful of sweets. Tom reaches out for one but Matt turns to the side.

"Back off, snack thief! These are mine!"

Tom... rolls his eyes, I think, and scooches back further to lean against the wall.

We sit in comfortable silence for a few minutes, the low hum of other conversations filling the background. It was a nice change of pace, but really felt like a calm before the storm.

A mic's squeal bringsour attention to the stage.

"Aaallll right, everyone! The awards ceremony is about to begin! Ready?" A chipper lady in faux military get-up marches onto the stage on the other side of the room. About half the room cheers. "Perfect! The judges have handed in their verdicts for the top five teams! We'll hand out the individual awards with the team awards so everyone can have a chance for the spotlight!

"In last, but not the least place, we have Light Blue! Most were knocked out early, but they gave it their best shot! Let's give them a hand!"

The room was mostly quiet with a smattering of applause. I think I catch her eye twitch.

"In fourth, we have Bright Yellow! They thrived in the skirmish part of the battle but were unfortunately knocked out during the big free for all in the main clearing! Let's hear it for their teamwork!"

Slightly louder applause with the Yellow members acting as their own cheering squad.

"In third place, we have Hot Pink! Along with the third-place prize, they also get the 'Split Up and Search for Clues' award, which is granted when a group in the top 3 splits up to coordinate attacks!" A projector kicks on, showing an aerial shot of about half the Pink team in pairs of a shielder and a gunner surrounding a pod from the Light Blue team. "They racked up a total of 25 knockouts before their last man standing was taken down in a shower of paint! Please give them a round of applause!" The room lit up with cheers and claps, the pink team jumping and congratulating each other.

"In second place, we have our smallest and most ferocious team, Lime Green! They decimated a large portion of the field, each playing to their strengths! Let's have a look!" The projector switches to a split screen. The left half shows Edd tossing paint grenades with amazing accuracy, ducking behind tree trunks at the last second. The other half shows an elevated view of the main clearing with Tom and Matt in the centre-frame. Figures on the sides try to reach the middle only to fall in a flash of green as I take them out from off camera.

"This team racked up five awards, which has only happened twice before!" A ripple goes through the room. She continues, beaming. "Firstly, the 'Achievement Hunter' prize, which is rewarded when every team member earns something!" The room fills with claps and a few cheers, but mostly people just turn to stare at us in the back.

"The 'Demolitionist' award goes to Edd, who fulfilled both requirements of taking out the most enemies only using paint grenades and not being knocked out by his own explosions! The 'Stalwart Shield' award goes to Matt, who shielded his friend from harm while having no knockouts. How selfless!" Matt cheers the loudest for himself.

"The 'One-Man Artillery' Award goes to Tom! He achieved the highest paint to individual ratio with his minigun. Let's give him a round of applause!" Boos echo through the room. Tom just proudly grins.

"Finally, the 'Covert Operator' award goes to their last teammate, Quinn! Staying hidden in plain sight, he picked off enemies sneaking up on his team, making it to the end of the match with 13 confirmed knockouts! With his rifle, that's an impressive 70% accuracy ratio!" The players in the room make sounds of appreciation.

My eyebrows raise. I know real sniper ratios and paintball sniper ratios were way different in many ways (like range, firepower, the works), but it still sounds impressive. Edd nudges my ribs with a smile that I return.

"In total, Lime Green took out just over 30% of the players before running off to let the last team have the spotlight. Let's hear it for Lime Green!" The crowd gave a decent attempt before quieting down.

The lights dimmed as a montage started playing behind her. "In first place," she says in a quiet tone, "We have Neon Orange. Using sophisticated coordination, they swiftly took down all the remaining players while only losing a quarter of their squad! Let's take a look at their exploits, shall we?"

The montage shows a genuinely impressive show of teamwork, with some people dragging their fallen members behind the barriers during Tom's frenzy. They start firing together once Tom runs out of paint and fan out meet the other teams in the middle of the field. I glance at them in the crowd. Some of the buffer ones did give military vibes, or at the very least were experienced in paintball. Maybe they had an ex-military or vet directing the newbies.

The montage ends with nun-chuck guy collapsing from a self-hit, going down cartoon style. The room erupts in laughter and I see him blushing up a storm.

With a laugh, the announcer took control of the room's attention again. "Along with the first-place prize, they also get the 'Teamwork is Dreamwork' award! This is given when the team shows considerable coordination and tactics! Give them a proper cheer!" I clap along with the crowd, Edd and Matt adding in their own celebratory whoops.

The announcer taps her mic. "And that's all for today, folks! Thank you for joining us at Radical Extreme Derby! Please stay a bit to have some snacks and socialize! There're friends to be made all over. Make sure to pick up your awards before you leave. As a side note, if anyone fancies a job in sport and recreation, we could always use more judges and gear techs! Make your way to the main office if you're interested. Goodbye!" With a jaunt in her step, she hops off the stage to mingle with the crowd.

Edd gets to his feet with a groan. "Alright, let's head back then. Last one to the car's in the back seat."

"NOT IT!" Matt shrieks, already legging it to the counter to grab his prize. The rest of us follow at a more reasonable pace.

The man at the counter greets us with a smile. "Hello Lime Green! Got your rewards ready and waiting. Thank you for playing!"

The main rewards are exactly what I expected: cheap plastic trophies with 2nd Place stamped on the front, vouchers to the next tourney, and a pack of gum thrown in the cup for good measure. The individual awards aren't any fancier, but these ones have custom plaques with our individual achievements inscribed. These come with tickets to the upcoming Annual Battle Royale and pizza coupons.

I turn mine over in my hands. It's daft. It's silly. But also... not the worst way to earn a trophy.

The part where I got shot at for the first time in my life? That's still lurking in the back of my head - like a dog barking behind a fence you hope stays closed. But it's fading. Mostly.

We walk out to Edd's car, arms stacked with plastic glory. Matt bolts ahead with a victorious cry of "Shotgun!"

I slide into the spot behind Matt and Tom slips into the driver's seat with a mischievous grin.

"Let's use these coupons and get pizza!" he announces, fiddling with the seat until it fits him. The car peels out of the car park at our assent, mine mostly drowned out under their cheers. As we barrel down the country road, I pop a stick of gum in my mouth and lean forward, resting my chin on the shoulder of Matt's seat.

"So, is your bet a draw?" I ask – my first words to them all day.

Matt squawks in surprise and Edd gasps theatrically, "He speaks!"

Tom chuckles and glances at me. "Yeah, guess it is a draw, huh?"

Matt twists around to look at me as I lean back. "I thought you couldn't talk! How have you stayed so quiet?"

I snicker at his reaction. "What's there to say when surrounded by those that say everything?" I ask. "I was more than happy to watch the chaos happen. Don't worry about it."

"You seriously thought he was mute?" Tom asks. "He screamed like a banshee in the bunker, remember?"

The bunker.

My mood dipped. The little digging I'd done on trespassing laws wasn't exactly reassuring. Accident or not, if anyone found out, there would be consequences. I held my tongue for the rest of the afternoon, not keen to drag the others' mood down with me. I'll say something when we get back to the tower block. Or maybe in the morning.

We make it home just as the sun starts dipping below the horizon. Tom pops the boot and hoists his bag of stolen loot on his shoulder. I stare in disapproval. I had forgotten about that. Pinching something from a government facility is a fair bit worse than basic trespass. Surely he realises that?

The ride to our floor is sprinkled with yawns and low chatter. It'd been a tiring day, and a belly full of carbs after an intense workout would make anyone sleepy.

"Well, I'm off. See you guys tomorrow. Quinn - if you're up for more of this kind of nonsense, give me a shout." Edd flashes a thumbs-up before disappearing into his apartment. Tom chucks a silvery package through the door before it closes.

Matt yawns and stretches. "I think I'm gonna turn in too. Get my beauty sleep. Nice meeting you, Quinn! Bye!" He vanishes through his door, and I catch a glimpse of wall-to-wall mirrors before it clicks shut.

Tom is ruffling in his new duffel. "Yeah, I'm calling it, too. Here."

He tosses a mass of fabric at me, nearly knocking the trophies out of my hands. "A souvenir. Don't say I never gave you anything." With that, he drags the bag over his threshold and shuts the door behind him.

I'm left in the hall, mildly bewildered but amused. So that's why he held it to my shoulders. That was... unexpectedly thoughtful.

Back in my flat, I set the trophies on a shelf and hold the trench coat up to the fading sunlight. It really is a nice coat. Thick royal blue wool, deep pockets, warm without being too bulky. It felt expensive. God, I hope it was just some guy's jacket he forgot in the bunker and not part of some sort of government issue uniform. I resolve myself to do some research when I get back from work tomorrow.

I yawn as I head to bed, a seed of anxiety in my gut.

PART 1 END

Chapter Text

Part 2 - Consequences

I'll never get used to waking up at six in the morning. The crack of dawn, or whatever. My custom alarm (aka obnoxious ringtone I downloaded) releases its cacophony into the peace of my sanctuary. With a laboured groan, I drag myself to my dresser to turn it off. Every muscle in my body protests with that distinct post-workout ache. I make a mental note to find time to work out this evening. Maybe jog halfway home and pretend I'm saving on bus fare.

Going through the monotony of my mundane Monday morning ritual helped bring me into my usual work mindset – that is, total dread. I had to find a new job soon; this is getting ridiculous.

Dressed for a 'productive' day, I step into the living room and subsequently scream.

A stranger is in my flat. Scratch that, make it three strangers. Standing tall and proud with – oh my gosh – very real guns were two tall, imposing, grizzled-looking men, their postures screaming trained military. They stand on each end of my sofa, flanking the third man who sits with such a confident and relaxed posture I couldn't help but feel a flicker of rage. How dare he look so comfortable in my home?

The morning light filtering through the window just barely outlines the figure lounging on my sofa. A long dark coat paired with a spiked helmet adds to the mysterious aura, punctuated by an unlit cigar dangling loosely from his right hand. I just barely make out a grin on his face as he leans back and throws both arms over the top.

"Hello... Intruder."

My heart drops and brain scrambles. Call me an intruder? In my own home?... Oh. This must be the government guy that runs the bunker under the paintball field. He and his lackeys must be here to arrest us or something. My eyes flicker to my front door. Would they shoot me if I ran? Would I have time to warn the others or have they already been taken?

"Oh, don't worry about the others." The man on my couch says in a light accent I can't quite place. "I'm here to talk to you."

I take a breath to try to steady myself. It doesn't work.

"Are you here about the bunker?" I say in a weaker voice than I wanted. Dammit man, man up!

The couch person laughs. "How astute! Paul, lights."

One of the armed men reaches and turns on my lamp, allowing me to see who broke in in full clarity. Eugh. Ok, I know it's rude, but damn. I wish he hadn't.

The leader of the intrusion to my privacy stands up and closes the gap between us in a few unhurried strides, bringing the mottled red and silver scars on the right side of his face into sharp focus. I grimace before I can stop myself. He frowns. Crap. Damage control, uh, improv time.

I school my expression into neutrality. "Didn't realize I was getting a house call," I say, keeping my tone level. "If I'd known, I'd at least put the kettle on."

A pause. His gaze lingers on me, assessing. Then, a dry chuckle.

"You looked at me like I was a monster," he says, measured, "but speak like we're old friends. Which one is it?"

Christ. Saw right through me.

My face burns with embarrassment. "Well, apologies for being startled. I mean no offense; I wasn't expecting an armed visit before breakfast."

He smirks. "We'll have to work on that then. You are wondering who I am, correct?"

I nod my head, some rising instinct telling me something was wrong. He looks casual, but there was an edge that told me he was one stubbed toe away from an explosion.

"I am the owner of the bunker you found, as you surmised. I am also the Leader of the Red Army. You must have heard of us?"

My heart drops into my stomach this time. The Red Army. I'd seen the name around - half-whispers in fringe forums, stories that shift depending on who's telling them. A dangerous paramilitary group skirting the borders of legality. Sometimes painted as vigilantes on the news, sometimes as philanthropists funding questionable research. They were a red flag wrapped in mystery, and no sane person would openly associate with them without fully knowing they could go on a watchlist. Very much not the government.

The Red Leader watches my reaction like he's savoring it. Of course he is. He's not just here to talk - he's here to watch me squirm.

"May I ask," I say, trying to keep my voice steady, "why the Red Leader is in my home?"

His smirk sharpens, his presence making the room feel smaller.

"I could answer that," he says. "But let's make it more interesting. Tell me: why do you think a secret bunker was hidden beneath a paintball field?"

I stare at him. He doesn't blink.

The question seems innocent enough, but it was bait. He already knew the answer. He was testing me.

My mind scrambles through the details I'd brushed aside in my curiosity and later, fear. Paint weapons that mimic the real thing too well. The human sized vent that safely dropped us close to the ground. The obvious power on switch. The fresh supplies. No mold, no dust. And the biggest hole of all, the turret shooting the computer screens above Matt and Edd instead of their heads.

My breath catches. It wasn't some forgotten relic.

"It's a training bunker," I say slowly. "It was meant to be found and powered back on. You're working with the derby people to train yours!"

Leader's smirk widens into a smile like I just passed the first test.

"Warms my heart when someone actually thinks." He chuckles darkly. "Still, you missed a detail. I'll give you a hint. Acronyms."

I frown; my morning fatigue worn away even more by the puzzle presented to me. Acronyms?

Oh, come on.

"The Radical Extreme Derby. R. E. D. Red," I rub my face. "It's not a cheesy outdated name. You built it."

"Of course I did," he said, laughing. "I own the bunker. I own the Derby. I own the land, the buildings, and everything inside."

He stepped closer again, close enough for me to smell cigar smoke and something faintly metallic.

"Now that you understand what you've stepped into," he says softly, "can you guess why I'm here, in your living room?"

I swallow hard. My instincts are screaming run, but it was far too late for that.

"You're recruiting," I hazard a guess. "That's part of the point of the whole thing, isn't it? You fish for talent among the civilians and try to draw them in. Look for who shows promise."

"And it seems," he murmurs, "you made quite the impression. Imagine my surprise when one of my cousins almost gets a passing grade in a test he never signed up for."

Something in my mind bluescreens. Cousin? No way. No. Absolutely not. That's too much. My life cannot be folding itself into overblown tropes. I refuse to be a cliché.

The Red Leader was obviously enjoying the look of confusion and horror on my face. He extends a hand like we're at a family reunion. "Greetings, cousin. A pleasure to bring you into the fold. Welcome to the Red Army!"

I back into the wall behind me, trying to pass it off as a casual lean and not me using the wall to stay standing.

"And what makes you think I want to join?" I ask.

In one smooth motion, he draws a handgun and points it directly at my head.

My skull thuds against the wall when I flinch.

His face is cold now - devoid of charm, stripped of flair. Just a blank slate with a weapon.

"I wasn't asking," he says.

The silence between us stretches thin, crackling with static tension. My heart's somewhere in my throat, beating like it wants out. And then -

He smiles. Holsters the gun like he didn't just threaten me with it.

"Come, come," he pats my shoulder. "Sit down and let's talk."

He takes a seat on my couch again and I perch on the edge of my desk chair, ready to bolt or vomit - whichever feels more achievable. His two guards still haven't moved.

"So," he spreads his arms like this is a business pitch. "As part of the Red Army, of course you will have to be trained and go on missions. I already have a perfect mission for you that is close to home, isn't that nice?

I don't respond. My brain is still trying to reboot after the gun.

He continues, unbothered. "I have already submitted your resignation for you, and I expect you to report for training every morning like it's your job. And don't worry about your pay, it's already lined up. We have taken the liberty to buy your flat as a sign-on bonus. As long as you commit to the cause, you will have nothing to worry about."

He says it all like he's offering me a free gym membership.

Still rattled, I raise a hand, hoping to slow the avalanche of insanity.

"Red Leader, I-"

"Tord."

"...Sorry?"

'Tord' shrugs. "My name is Tord. I see no reason for titles when alone with family."

Family. Right. My eyes flick to the two guards. Still motionless. Either more so-called relatives, or Tord just considers them props. Either way, they're doing a bang-up job of not existing. One of them might actually be asleep on his feet.

"Okay then, Tord." I fold my arms, trying to look more confident than I feel. "I suppose I can't convince you to just... not recruit me?"

The cheeky smile I get in response answers that question.

"Brilliant," I sigh. "So, what exactly was the test I supposedly passed? And what are your expectations, then?"

I let the cousin bit lie for now. No point arguing it—I've got so many cousins I've lost track. Couldn't name more than ten, if I'm honest. And it's not like I can ring up a few aunts and go, 'Hey, any of you give birth to a kid with megalomaniac tendencies and a Scandinavian accent?'

Tord nods, apparently pleased to get down to business. "As you deduced, the bunker was a test. Not for civilians, mind you, but for trainees getting experience in infiltration and data retrieval. Act normal, last long enough in the tournament to find the bunker and break in, get the information and slip back into the fight like nothing happened."

He spreads his hands in exaggerated disbelief. "Imagine my shock when my old friends break in with a civilian in tow! To be exact, a civilian that shares the same great-grandfather as me. After reviewing your performance, I simply had to bring you in."

Well, that answered the cousin bit and made a bit of sense. He must be descended from the great-granddad that had, what, twenty kids? My grandfather being part of that lot. That makes us like... second or third cousins? So, not close enough for reunions, but close enough for blackmail. Great.

"What about your expectations?" I repeat. I skip over the 'old friends' part for now, though it explains why the venue staff knew our names. "You mentioned a mission close to home?"

"Ah, yes. The mission." His expression shifts to something more serious. "Seeing my old friends stumble upon my top-secret bunker was... concerning. It reminded me how they have the habit of sticking their noses where they don't belong, and how annoyingly good they are at finding things they shouldn't. They sniff out anomalies better than some of my specialists. So..."

He pauses for dramatic effect, "From now on you are to be my undercover asset, telling me everything the other three do."

He chuckles at the confusion once again gracing my face. "Oh, you don't have to do much - just direct them away from my operations and report anything weird you see. It will be easy!"

I stare, dumbfounded.

He rises, making a gesture to his soldiers. The one I thought was asleep jolts into action and holds a black backpack out to me. I stand to gingerly take it.

"In the bag," Tord says, "you will find what you need to get started. Report to the address listed for your evaluation today at one p.m. sharp. Training begins tomorrow at oh-eight-hundred. We'll need to fast-track you, of course."

He's already turning to the window when he spins back, as if remembering one last flourish.

I look up in time to see a flash of metal arc through the air. I drop the bag and fumble to catch the handgun, cradling it awkwardly in my palms.

"See you soon!" The Red Leader throws me a mocking two-fingered salute and rolls backwards out the open window, his guards swiftly following. I don't bother checking for their splatters on the ground below. That's probably how they got in, so of course it's how they'd leave. No one looks up if they don't have to.

I lower myself into my chair with a shaky breath, adrenaline ebbing away. Well. At least I don't have to go back to that crap job.

Chapter Text

I gently place the gun on my desk and pull the backpack closer. If they were confident enough to leave a handgun in the possession of someone without a firearm license, they would be confident enough to leave other illegal bits too. Could I go to the police with this? Would I even get that far?

The backpack's fairly unremarkable, but sturdy. The exterior feels thick and unyielding, making me wonder if it could also serve as a bullet catcher in a pinch. The first thing I see when I open it is a small plastic bag with wallet-sized ID cards. Ah, there's the firearms licence, alongside a few more. I suppose I'll be getting training to back that up soon enough. I slide the cards in my wallet. Congratulations to me - I now work for Redline Security. Tord really likes the colour red, doesn't he? Kudos for sticking to a theme.

Stuck in the laptop pouch in the back of the main compartment were books and pamphlets with the swooping Red Army logo stamped on the front. I actually recognise some of these. Not too long ago some survivalist accounts online were raving about how "even an idiot can survive" using them. The tagline's even printed under the titles.

I flip through the ones I didn't recognise. These were definitely not meant for the general public. Tactical diagrams. Firearm manuals. Step-by-step guides on how to fight dirty and win - maybe even kill. One book covers proper uniform conduct - Red Army etiquette, I guess. I flip a few pages and shut it fast. Enough of that.

The final paper item is a tourist map with a bunch of red Xs scribbled on it. Clipped to the corner with a paperclip is a note.

'Go to the location marked with the biggest X. Smile for the cameras!'

While the note itself was innocent, I had to assume that meant my flat is bugged. Wouldn't be a huge leap of logic. Tord said he paid it off right? Or took over the payments? Whatever, same difference. Brill, there goes my chance of warning the police. At this point, I'd look complicit.

With a huff, I toss the map on the desk and pull out the next items. My hands wrap around tactical-looking black belt holsters, instructions on how to wear them dangling from a string. One already holds a short, black-handled knife; the others presumably meant for the gun Tord lobbed at me. Was I expected to go in wearing these? God, I hope I'm reading this right.

In the bottom of the backpack were two bits of clothing. The first one I pull out is a strange black tank top. It looks like athletic wear, but the dense and stiff weave of the fibers tells me there's more to it than meets the eye. I suppose I'll need to change into it. I needed to change before leaving anyway, it wouldn't do to go in to work wearing the wrong uniform.

I briefly consider burning my old uniform before turning back to the final item resting in the bag.

A neatly folded blue trench coat. The same kind Tom nicked from the bunker—or rather, the one missing from my coat rack. The same coat the judges wore. The same coat as the soldiers flanking Tord. Hell.

I suck in a breath through my nose, trying not to scream. In hindsight, it's all so obvious. I had let my guard down.

I sit back, coat wrinkling in my clenched hand, staring at the items now strewn across my desk.

What do I have to gain from this?

To lose?

Well. Obviously, I'd lose my flat, which would suck. Then there's my safety, privacy, and probably the luxury of a normal life.

A flicker of childish excitement bubbles up - what kid didn't imagine being some sort of super spy at some point? That feeling is quickly quashed by a cocktail of anxiety and fear. I've had a gun pointed at me twice in less than 24 hours. If I had a nickel, or whatever the saying is. And now, there was a gun on my desk. And I was expected to wear it on me, use it.

Funny how childhood dreams forget to factor in the consequences.

So. Cons: Homeless, on a watch list, maybe bundled into witness protection if I'm lucky. Bye bye family. And probably England.

Pros: an interesting job. Good pay. A clear mission – for now. Specialised training.

The training might be a con, depending on what it was.

Regarding the kit on my desk again, I sigh. I don't see a way out of this. Maybe after this 'close to home' mission is over I can negotiate for a desk post. Data entry sounds positively thrilling now.

I gently place the coat on a table and started getting ready for the day. Again. A hearty breakfast sounds good, too.

On my way back to the living room, gun and knife handles resting uncomfortably on my gut, I notice a new addition to my walls. Hung above the telly is a smooth and elegant Browning X-Bolt, identical to the one my grandfather would let me use on our hunting trips with the other grandkids. Another tick in the 'probably my cousin' column, I suppose.

I grab a step stool and carefully bring it down. No, wait, it's not identical. At first glance, yeah, it looks like your standard hunting rifle, even with one of those deactivation certificates tucked just behind the mount. Upon closer inspection though, extra seams and clips are evident, with small vents that reminded me of a semi-automatic. Swallowing thickly, I put it back just as carefully. I'll need to wipe it down for fingerprints later. Just in case.

Looking at the time, I figure there's no harm in arriving early. Staying in the good graces of such a dangerous employer is important after all. I shove my new belongings in the backpack, grab my lunch from the fridge, and head out to start what would, as it turns out, be the most dangerous segment of my life.

---

I take the bus to the location on the map. I had to appreciate the subtlety – it made me look like a simple tourist.

My ride drops me at an old square lined with stacked-up shops and flats, with my destination being one of the businesses tucked among them. The name 'Redline Security' glows a soft red, standing out to me but drowned out by the flashier shop signs across the way. As I get closer, signs in the front window saying things like 'Certified Guards' and '24-Hour Response' come into focus. It looks like a standard security firm, which I suppose is the point.

Right then. Into the lion's den.

The scene inside isn't much to look at. The front desk is occupied by a man in a regular security outfit accented by a red tie with the company initials. He looks up from his newspaper.

"Hey, there. Are you Quinn?"

Of course he knew I'd be coming. I nod in confirmation.

The man stands up in a swift motion, tossing the paper in the bin. "You're early, that's good. I'll take you to orientation then. Follow me."

I jog to keep up with his long swift strides, heart starting to pound. I had no idea what to expect and that terrified me. Would it be a regular job orientation? A written exam on Red Army propaganda? Or would this go completely off the rails into ambush territory? If it was the last one, I had no clue what I would do. I start mentally drafting my obituary - just in case.

We step into a lift and he taps a fob to a scanner on the panel, followed by his thumb being pressed to another scanner. With a smooth whirr the box hums to life, taking us not up, but down.

Mercifully, it's a short ride, sparing us any awkward silence. But the second the doors slide open; I see his right arm twitch - just enough for me to see the flash of a knife slipping into his palm. I bolt. A squeal tears out of me as I lunge through the doors, just barely avoiding the blade as it scratches across my backpack. So, it was the third option. Great! What did I do to you, universe? Why screw me now?

I fumble with my knife draw. I had armour on my torso and a backpack I could use as a shield, but if he grabs it, I'm toast. He's taller, faster, and has training - I have Red Army pamphlets and zero experience.

He strides after me like a panther stalking prey.

I shoulder my bag onto my left arm and duck under a wide swing. I jam my knife at his gut but it slides right off, tearing the fabric of his shirt. Right! Body armour, probably better than what I was wearing. He grabs a fistful of my hair, yanking hard. My groan echoes down the hallway as he flings me into the wall. I barely have a chance to get my bearings before I'm pulling my bag up to block another blow.

Quick! What's unarmoured and painful?

I jab the blade into his thigh, making sure to avoid the big artery in there. My assailant cries out in pain and I jump away, fiddling with my gun holster. I sling my backpack at him to buy more time. He punches it out of the way and pulls my knife from his flesh the same time I figure out how to turn the safety off. The click echoes in the hall, the sound of our breathing left.

"You wouldn't," He smirks, goading.

I aim for the floor and fire. The sound nearly bursts my eardrums. We both recoil, hands to ears.

When I open my eyes, I see that I missed his injured leg by a foot.

"I would," I say, levelling the barrel at his chest. "Wanna see?"

We freeze, locked in a standoff, until a door swings open at the end of the hall.

"Alright, that's enough. Playtime's over boys." A stern voice calls out. We turn to a sharply dressed woman walking towards us, her heels clicking on the tile.

"Mr Lewis, get your leg sorted." She orders. "You, put that gun away."

Lewis hobbles over to pass my knife back, and shuffles down the hall. I put the safety back on the gun and struggle to get it back in the holster while keeping the bloody knife away from my clothes.

She watches with cool detachment and turns with a curt "Follow me" just as I grab my bag.

As we walk to the door she came through, she starts talking. "Don't get cocky with your win. If Mr Lewis was actually trying, you'd be on the floor."

I wrap the bloody knife in tissue from my pocket and nod in agreement. "I could tell." And leave it at that.

I'm led to a changing room attached to what looks like an average medical exam room that smells like antiseptic and disappointment. Classic.

Fluorescent lights buzz overhead as I sit on a paper-covered table in a room that looks like it was decorated by someone who hates colour and human emotion. A doctor and a nurse circle me like they're prepping a lab rat, not a person. Neither of them has said more than five words to me since I walked in.

Vitals. Reflexes. Pupils. Blood draw. Tap, test, check, scribble. Their hands move like they've done this on ten people before me and will do it on fifty more after. I try not to yawn.

There's no attempt at bedside manner, no chit-chat. No "how are you feeling". Just sanitized efficiency and a clipboard with my name on it.

The nurse shines a light in my eyes. Left first. Then right. She pauses and taps the side of the scanner and tries again.

"Hmm," she says. First noise I've heard from her. A moment later, she leaves. The doctor doesn't look up and just continues typing.

More poking. More measuring. Height, weight, motion range, balance. He tests my grip strength like he's judging a claw machine.

The nurse returns and hands him a tablet. The doctor scrolls, squints, and finally speaks to me.

"Right eye's under spec. Negative two. Mild astigmatism. Would compromise tracking in field ops."

He says it like he's reading a weather report.

"Recommended correction: ocular implant. Version eight-seventeen."

I blink.

"Wait, sorry. Hold on. Implant?" I repeat, instantly upright.

He doesn't look up. "It's a standard correction protocol. Subdermal and painless. Takes under ten minutes."

"Absolutely not."

He finally looks up at me in mild surprise, maybe annoyance. "Pardon?"

"You're not putting anything in my eye. End of."

The nurse tuts under her breath. The doctor sighs. "Not ideal. The implant gives full-spectrum telemetry, heat mapping, IR scan—"

"Still no. If you push this, I will run bare-assed through the hallway in a hospital gown."

He watches me for a second, then swipes something on the tablet.

"Alternative: contact overlay. Limited functionality. Minor delay in scan processing. Minimal telemetry."

I nod. "That. I'll take that, if I must take anything."

He makes the note and doesn't look at me again.

The rest of the exam carries on without a word. I zone out and focus on the ceiling tile directly above me. One had a wad of gum in the corner. Probably from a bored tech who also didn't want to be here.

When the exam is over, a new nurse appears with a case the size of a mint tin. Inside is a sleek, high-tech contact lens—shimmery, faintly red around the rim. It hums slightly as she shows me how to apply it, remove it, clean it. Easy enough, once I stop blinking like it's going to eat my eye.

As it settles into place, the shimmer of red test tags on the far wall flicker in the corner of my vision - painted in something most people wouldn't see without the right filter.

I look at myself in the mirror and revel at the difference in my vision. It wasn't much, but I suppose it was like that moment when you didn't know what you were missing. No more misjudging distances or bumping into door frames! A faint red ring glows around my right pupil now, echoing the HUD-style overlay blooming in my vision. It's subtle, but unmistakable. Ha, I looked like I was starring in a dystopia.

No time to dwell. I'm herded down the hall, still in the drafty gown, and sat in a room that smells like sterile shampoo and expensive hand lotion.

Stylists descend like vultures in designer black. Someone clucks their tongue. Someone else mutters something about "good bone structure under all that chaos," which feels like a generous interpretation. I flinch as hands go for my hair.

"Is this a prank?" I ask, inching away. "Do I look like I care about 'hair layers'?"

"You do now," one of them replies smoothly, already separating strands of my hair with a comb like I'm not part of this equation. "Mandatory grooming standards. Most grunts get a buzz and uniform. You have to blend in. Consider it... field-readiness prep."

They work around me like I'm a head on a swivel stand.

The thick fringe that normally hides my thoughts gets pushed up, styled back from the part in a dramatic wave. The ends flick upward in a large pointy swoop - a double-edged flourish somewhere between boy band revival and low-key villain. The back is kept long, brushing my shoulders, but layered now, cleaner. It's like my head finally got a blueprint.

There's light conversation about my skin tone, eye shape, the "pleasing angles" of my face – words that sound rehearsed, like they've said this a hundred times before. I tune most of it out. There's nothing more surreal than hearing yourself described like a department store mannequin while three people coordinate around your head like a pit crew. Someone starts messing with my eyelashes.

When they're done, I'm handed a mirror again. The person staring back looks familiar, but not quite. Brighter-eyed. Hair with bounce instead of dead weight. Somehow friendlier, like I might know where to find the best coffee in town. I hated it.

I'm about to comment on the absurdity of it all when one of them reappears with a small black box.

"Earpiece," she says. "Right side. It's a two-way mic and radio scanner. You'll be monitored, so don't get cute."

Inside is a sleek silver stud that's just enough to pass for an accessory.

"Your ear's closed. We'll have to re-pierce it."

I don't get a say.

There's a sharp pinch. No countdown.

I don't scream. But I do hiss like a kettle and quietly add this to my growing mental list of grievances.



Sketches I did of Quinn:

Before and after:

Chapter Text

Finally relieved from the clutches of the stylists, I’m taken back to the room I had changed in to be told to get into uniform. The coat was out of my bag already, as well as the book on Red Army uniform standards. Subtle. I take the hint and start kitting up, shoving my outer civvies into the bag. Oh, there’s more clothing in there now along with some trainers. Must be a workout outfit.

I use the manual to guide my wardrobe. Armoured undershirt, holsters, red roll-neck, black trousers, blue coat. I catch a look at myself in the mirror and feel a distinct pang of… dread? Wearing the uniform make this official. I’m a soldier.

Just as I finish lacing my new comfy boots, the stern woman from before walks in without knocking. I stand and smooth out my heavy coat, not sure if I need to salute or not so I just stand there like a lemon while she gives me the once-over.

“Follow me,” she orders, and I grab my backpack and scurry behind like a good little conscript.

She leads me to an office that is even colder than the corridor. I was glad for that; this uniform’s properly insulated. She sits down at the desk and starts sifting through a folder full of papers. No chair for me. Even if there were I’m not sure if she has to order me to sit or something. Guess I’ll just stand here and contemplate mortality.

A minute in and I almost ask if she wants me to do a backflip or something.

After three full minutes (according to the clock on the wall), she finally looks at me. “Based on your pre-assigned mission,” she begins, “along with your evaluations from the examination, derby, and ambush, we’re proceeding with a protection and espionage-heavy regimen. You’ll be fast-tracked through courses focused on asset protection and bodyguard detail, with later modules on topics like misdirection and assassination.”

Assassination!? I wasn’t going to kill anybody! Like sure make sure they’re down but anything but that!

She continues without acknowledging my panic. “We will also focus on strength and endurance skills unless you can prove you’re meant for speed.”

She looks at me expectantly.

“Oh, er, yes ma’am.” I fumble.

She hands over a printed timetable. “Here is your schedule. After lunch, you will undergo a physical assessment to establish a new baseline now that your vision is corrected. The real work starts tomorrow. You are dismissed.”

I start to turn but pause when I see her eyebrow raise. “Oh, um… am I supposed to salute or something?”

Her expression dips from neutral to disappointed with barely a motion. “I take it you haven’t read your etiquette manual yet? Do so over lunch. I will extend leeway this one time, Mr McLeod. Dismissed.”

I mutter a thank you and skedaddle, bag over my shoulder. A soldier is waiting for me outside.

“All right, mate. I’m here to take you to the mess hall. This way!” His pleasant tone is a welcome change from the coldness I had been surrounded by for the last while. Despite that, I can’t bring myself to fill the air with small talk.

When we get to the crowded mess hall, he points out a table laden with meals. “Just grab what sounds good and sit where you like. I’ll come find you in half an hour. Name’s Wyatt, by the way.”

I shake his hand with a small smile. “Quinn. Cheers for the help, Wyatt.”

I opt for a simple cold cut sandwich; I couldn’t recognize the names of the other options on the table. I sit and crack open the etiquette manual while eating. About halfway through, I come to a realization with a choke. The uniforms were eerily reminiscent of a historical Prussian infantry uniform. No way, who designed these? I could walk onto the set of the documentary I watched and no one would bat an eye!

My silent laughter is interrupted by someone sitting opposite me. He regards me with a nod. “All right, Thirteen?”

I furrow my brows. “Thirteen?”

The guy swallows his bite. “Yeah, from the paintball tourney yesterday. Didn’t expect to see you recruited this fast. You took my mate out with a face shot.”

I wince. “Yeah, I didn’t mean to do that. It took me a few tries to get used to the drop. He all right?”

“Oh, no worries!” he says with a grin. “I was happy a civilian took him down a few pegs. Man was gettin’ unbearable. Did my group a bit of a favour.”

I smile and go back flipping through my manual, with him taking another bite of food. Once done, he leaves with a quick, “Later, Thirteen!”

That was… actually quite nice. Maybe there are a few decent people in this military after all. Still not loving the whole Thirteen moniker, though. It was like a prison number but with flair.

The physical testing is less exciting than watching paint dry, except the paint is my own sweat. Now that I’ve got working vision, they’re putting me through the wringer. I lift. I do push-ups. I run. I nearly pass out at 1.5-kilometer mark, which earns me a barked “Keep moving!” from a drill instructor and and some pitying looks. I would’ve blamed the heavy boots and coat, but that excuse doesn’t fly when wearing a thin pair of runners and a basic workout kit.

I get home in my civvies with a backpack full of basic supplies and reading material, utterly spent. This is why I never joined the military, well, the real one. I just wasn’t meant for it.

I set the oven to warm up and settle in for a bit of light reading.

---

The next day rolls around and I change into my training kit for roll call. Now that I’ve skimmed the etiquette manual, I can at least navigate the military-esque and unspoken rules around interacting with drill instructors. Morning stretches and the run go about as well as I’d expected. I try to tune out the motivational chants (in my opinion: conditioning) and once again bow out at a kilometre and a half, finishing the rest alternating between jogging and gasping for air like I’m dying in a Nike advert.

The clock finally hits 0900 and most of the trainees are herded into a warehouse-like space. How the hell did they build such a big complex under the city? I mean, sure, we’re on the outskirts but this is comic book villain territory.

An instructor pulls me and a few others aside. “You are all in the bodyguard and asset protection track. Today, I will be evaluating your progress while giving our new addition a chance to see you in action.” I see the others glance at me from the corner of my eye. “We will begin on the gun range.”

Fair play - the gun range is easily the coolest bit of the base. It was high-tech, detailed, and had a full armoury to boot. I’m shown how to field strip, clean, and reassemble some standard issue firearms which is a tad familiar to me. Cheers, grandad. Among the lineup is the handgun they’d assigned to me: a SIG Sauer P365XL. Bit of a mouthful. Turns out it was the go-to for their concealed operatives.

The fact they have concealed operatives at all is concerning to me. Very much not legal.

I’m under no illusions anymore - this job’s not going to stay above board for long. And that sits about as well with me as a stone in my shoe.

Nearing the end of range time, I’m given the chance to fire a few shots down the range so my instructor can gauge my accuracy. As I’m lining up the rifle, the guy in the booth the next booth erupts with a shout of frustration and empties his entire clip into the target.

“No need to go ballistic,” I comment without thinking.

He stops, blinks, then laughs like I’ve just said the funniest thing he’s ever heard. Dude must be in a rough spot in his life.

Mixed martial arts are next. I watch the others spar as the instructor explains what he’s going to be teaching me. Apparently the ‘mixed’ part involves handheld weapons training too. The instructor goes a round with me to see what I’ve got. The answer is: not a lot. I’ve seen more effective flailing from an inflatable tube man. I end up on the ground more times than I’d like to count. 

By the time it’s edging towards midday (honestly, why train entirely underground—what about circadian rhythms?), my chest aches and my hands are stinging. I’ve been handed blunted weapons and mock-ups from so many cultures and fighting styles I’ve completely lost track. When the instructor’s finally had enough of watching me flail around in a spear stance (why spears it was so impractical nowadays), I hear a slow clap behind me. I turn to see Tord walking in with an appraising eye. Oh, joy.

“Red Leader!” the instructor calls, and everyone freezes and snaps to attention. “What can I do for you, sir?”

“Oh, nothing much,” he drawls. “Just watching the progress of the recruits. I was thinking, how about I test the new one? Get a bit of a workout myself.”

Oh, no, Tord, don’t single me out. I know you're a manipulative arse, but for the love of God, leave me out of it. He ignores my silent protest and shrugs his coat off.

“Come on, then.” He tosses his coat to a guard. Huh, same guys as yesterday. “Let me see what you have to offer us.”

I trudge to the sparring mats and barely catch the dull knives he tosses my way before he attacks. In a frenzy of slashes, missed parries, swings I only half-deflect, Tord lands a painful blow down on my wrist and sends a knife skittering. I retaliate with a wild backhand and clip his wrist, almost knocking a knife from his gloved grip. I lunge into the gap to take him down – and run straight into a fist. It connects with my forehead like a sledgehammer and everything flashes white. I hit the ground like a sack of potatoes, groaning and clutching my head while stars do laps in my vision. Tord steps past without sparing me a glance.

“Clumsy but instinctive flow, targeting the wrist and throat without being told. Not fast, but a power-striker. Yes, I think Systema should be his focus for now.” He addresses the instructor. “Break the bad habits or forge them into something useful. Run the standard drills, basic forms, and get him comfortable in close-quarters before transitioning him to Silat. Knives and bracers, specifically. I will check on his progress soon.”

There’s the swish of a coat and the sharp clack of boots on concrete as he walks off.

The instructor crouches beside me and presses an ice pack into my hand. “You did well,” he placates. “Red Leader is one of our best knife fighters, among other styles. It’s odd he would evaluate you himself, but he came to the same conclusion I was leaning towards. Go to the nurse’s station to get checked for a concussion, and remember to do some reading on Systema and Silat tonight.”

I just nod with a groan, cursing Tord within the depths of my rattled mind.

---

Concussion free and sent off with paracetamol, I shower and get dressed to go to lunch with the bodyguard group. When we split off, I start becoming aware of the stares. Was it really that unusual for Tord to evaluate someone himself while observing drills?

Apparently so.

A trio of meatheads flank my table. The leader slaps a heavy hand down hard enough to rattle my tray.

“So, you’re the twig Red Leader took an interest in?” he sneers. “I don’t see anything special. Do you, lads? I’ve been here six months and never got so much as a nod. What makes you different?”

One of his lackeys gives a half-laugh, more awkward than amused. “Not a thing. Maybe you should show him what a real soldier looks like, Dick.”

Dick (what an appropriate name, at least his parents had foresight) leans down close enough for me to smell the smoke on his breath. He plants a hand on my shoulder. “Yeah,” he says, voice low. “Why don’t we give you a little remedial coaching? Just us. Off the record. We’ll teach you what it really takes to wear red.”

Oh my god gross. “Go screw yourself to a wall,” I mutter around a mouthful of food before choking on it. Dick snarls and hoists me out of my seat by the front of my shirt. Some rational part of my mind I have left tells me I just picked a whole bucket of whoopie-daises.

“What does it matter what you see?” I croak out. “The only opinion that matters is Red Leaders!”

Hopefully that will sound loyal enough to get some eyes off me, but the words almost hurt leaving my mouth.

Dick grits his teeth and holds me up one handed, the veins in his wrist bulging. I grab on to his arm and try to swing my legs at his gut. Just as he pulls back his other hand to swing, a whistle cuts through the air. An instructor storms over.

“That’s enough, Chase!” She barks. “The Red Army will not tolerate this behaviour! You are on thin ice! I will be doubling your drills tomorrow, and you will be reassigned to latrine duty and anger management for your extracurriculars for the next month! Move!”

He drops me. I collapse back into my chair and grimace, trying to straighten out my rumpled shirt. The room goes back to idle chatter, but it’s quieter and more subdued. I definitely notice more looks now and catch a few whispered ‘Thirteen’s.

Fantastic, not even half a day and my rep is in the toilet. Thanks, Tord.

---

The lessons after lunch were much more interesting. And some more so disturbing. As I was on a fast-track, I get one-on-one instruction until I’ve caught up with the others. An overview shows my afternoons are to be filled with basic security and bodyguard courses and exams until I’m certified. Once done, it then moves on to a more sinister and less-than-legal syllabus on psychology and infiltration, misdirection, assassination, and other related topics. I’m not thrilled at the prospect of being taught to kill, but I figure I can repurpose it so I know exactly how not to kill. That excuse holds until I spot the interrogation section further down the page. Not fun.

As the day draws closer to the end, my introduction to psychology is traded for Norwegian. What? Why am I learning a new language when I have to be fast tracked through so many other topics?

I voice my concerns to the teacher who scowls at my insolence. “Many recruits speak or learn Germanic and Slavic languages. It is also used for encoded messages. You vill learn it or fall behind.”

Right, then. That’s me told.

The next two hours are a blur of vowels, pronunciation, tone, and simple words that the teacher pounds into my brain like nails. I walk back to the locker room with homework in my hands and a backpack full of books, feeling like I was back in secondary school. Thankfully my other teachers hadn’t assigned homework (yet) so I wouldn’t have to stay late in one of the study rooms with the boarders. It made sense to have those; I couldn’t exactly whip out a worksheet detailing how to effectively get someone to spill the beans anywhere other than the training base.

I’m pulled aside before the locker room to have my uniform and holsters altered. I stare at the tiny karambits I’m being fitted for, spinning one around a finger and into my palm, watching the curved blade glint. The instructor says I won’t be using them properly for a while - just learning how to carry them, how not to drop one mid-move or cut my own thigh sheathing it. Well, whatever Silat is, I am equal parts fascinated and disturbed.

I walk home with a sheathed karambit pressing into my hip.

---

It isn’t until I start filling out my first daily report on the slim laptop I had been given that the name of the meathead from the mess hall clicks.

Dick Chase.

No way.

I bust up in peals of laughter, thanking the universe for this small alignment.

----

Quinn McLeod

Daily Report

Submitted 21:17

- Norwegian homework completed.

- Security course started.

- No mission updates.

---

Items Equipped

Loadout:

SIG Sauer P365XL

Fallkniven F1

Karambit

Kevlar Undershirt

Torso/hip rig

Bulletproof backpack

Chapter Text

While eating lunch a few days later, a note is slid across the table to me.

‘Report to Red Leaders office ASAP’

Brilliant. What does he want now? To rub in the fact I’m becoming a cog in his machine? Lordy I was not looking forward to this.

As I pack up, my thoughts drift back to everything I’ve picked up about the Red Army over the last few days. It was concerning, but also… not? For all the shady undertones, they did keep their own people safe. Training was serious, resources were decent, and no one got left behind unless they really earned it. If nothing else, the system works. Competent people climb the ranks, and if you do your bit, you’re left alone. That kind of clarity’s not exactly common. And weirdly enough, a lot of the people here were misfits or washouts from elsewhere—yet under Red Leader, some of them actually seemed to thrive.

The Red Leader’s style is very boots-to-the-ground, giving a slight air of humility. Having one of his main offices in the training base with the most boarders meant he was seen by the recruits at least once a week. Sometimes he reassigns people to places they’ll thrive. Sometimes he shows up to morale events, and even participates.

I can see what he’s doing – he’s creating a work culture where people don’t see him as unreachable. They follow him because they respect him. And—at least on the surface—the respect goes both ways. Sure, it was still a paramilitary with an illegal black ops section, but the agents were trusted (to an extent) with freedom to train and move about how they liked when not on a job or mission.

That freedom, though, isn’t given lightly. They’re watching, but not hovering. Well—once you ‘graduate’. The lens in my eye and the mic in my ear are proof enough of how short the leash is for trainees. You’re either loyal by the end… or in too deep to crawl back out.

It still struck me as dodgy. I’ve got a theory as to the Red Army’s ethos – control through trust. Just my own conjecture, but it fits. Backing this up were a few bits I had overheard - not only were agents being assigned to infiltrate offices of power, but some were even going a full political route. Paired with the subtle dictator cues from Tord, and I get the suspicion his goals are not as altruistic as he tries to come across.

To others, I mean. He’s certainly not doing me any favours.

I knock on the door to his office and one of the guards (Paul?) lets me in. I stand in front of Red Leader’s desk and salute.

“Trainee Quinn McLeod reporting, sir.” I drone, flat as a pancake, face fixed somewhere between boredom and total disinterest.

He flashes me a grin and waves a hand at his guards. “All is good here, men. Leave us to talk.”

I stay at attention while they file out, eyes flicking around the room. It looks like a war room that couldn’t decide which century it belonged to. Antique rifles hang beside labelled grenade replicas, while faded recruitment posters from both world wars plaster the walls like trophies. I don’t know what I expected -maybe something less on the nose. By the window, I spot Tord’s spiked helmet resting on a velvet pillow.

That’s when it hits me - this is the first time I’ve seen him without it. What even is that hairstyle? A pompadour? Horns? Cat ears?

“At ease, Quinn. Sit, sit. Let us talk about your progress.” Tord pulls out a cigar and lights it, turning a computer monitor toward him. Fortunately, the air exchange system’s blowing the smoke in the opposite direction; if I’d caught it full force, I’d be retching already. I lower myself into a plush chair, still keeping my expression firmly in ‘could not give less of a toss’ territory.

Not even thirty seconds in and I already wanted to throw myself off a cliff.

After a beat, he looks back at me. “You’re adjusting better than I thought you would. Ah, what am I saying. This sort of thing is in our blood! Of course you would thrive just like I and so many of our cousins did.”

That comment makes my skin crawl. Sure, most of the men and a lot of the women in my family are military vets, but I’ve never wanted that life. Or felt suited for it. He’s playing me, and we both know it. I stay silent, though a small frown slips through my façade.

Tord carries on. “At this rate you should meet the projected benchmarks for your training on time. I’ll be adding sparring between us to your timetable every Friday before lunch. Bit of bonding time, like the hunting trips with your grandpa.”

I narrow my eyes. Here’s my opening. “Didn’t know you were on those. I also don’t know who your grandpa is. Mind elaborating?”

My ‘cousin’ grins. “Still doubting me? That’s good. Never let your guard down, Quinn. But to answer your question - technically, I’m from the generation before yours. Your grandfather was the youngest; mine was one of the older ones. That is why we never crossed paths. I think I will leave the rest of this puzzle up to you to solve.”

You-! I seethed in indignant rage. What a creative way around the question. Talking to Tord is like talking to a genie - every answer’s technically correct but utterly useless. I don’t even remember the names of most of Granddad’s siblings. How the hell am I supposed to work out which one spawned this lunatic?

The man snickers at my frustration. “Moving on, I would like to talk about your mission.”

“Joy of joys, let me put on my happy face.”

“…Your face is blank.”

“Like I said, my happy face.”

Tord blinks and tries to put on his own happy face. “You noticed how you don’t have anything scheduled for weekends?” I nod. “This is to facilitate your mission. You will technically be ‘on-call’ for training purposes-“ My mind flashes back to the ’24-Hour Response’ sign in the office window, “- and also to justify being armed all the time.”

A convenient lie. I know damn well you can’t legally conceal carry off-duty in Britain unless you’re police or some kind of MI5, and even they have to swim through a lake of red tape. So either they’re faking paperwork behind my back, or this is a test. Keep it hidden, stay sharp, don’t get caught. And if I screw it up, I can’t prove they ever told me to in the first place.

“You are to use the weekends to study and interact with Edd and his friends. Get to know them in your own way so they bring you on more adventures. If you don’t, you may be assigned remedial classes instead.”

So go make friends or do work. What a lovely ultimatum. Somewhere in the back of my mind, the theme song to a kids’ show about friendship starts playing, mocking me. I give a noncommittal nod. “I’ll do what I can.”

Tord puffs on his cigar, clearly pleased with himself, and stubs it out in a tray. “Good, good. How about you head home for the day, work on your certifications? I remember Edd likes to host movie nights on Fridays. Maybe offer to let him use your VCR while you work.”

His accent clips through his words a bit. I make a note to myself to ask where he’s from during a future meeting.

On another note, of course he knows about my vintage tech. What hasn’t he dig into at this point. He has a point though; it would be a subtle way in. I could pull that zombie flick I have out of storage. I only kept it because it was so atrocious I thought it could be a collector's piece some day. Maybe Edd would get a kick out of it.

Seeing my pensive face, Tord claps his hands. “Well, that was a productive meeting! See you next Friday, cousin! And remember, not a word to anybody about this.” A quiet threat, barely veiled.

“My lips are tighter than a fat man’s waistband,” I quip. For a moment Tord looks unsure whether to laugh or act stern over what I just said, and seems to compromise by pulling an expression that made him look vaguely constipated. I take that as my cue to go.

“So, uh, yeah. Cheers, Tord.” I stand up and freeze. “Do I salute before leaving or is it still casual time?”

Tord waves a hand flippantly and turns back to his screens.

---

I stop by a bakery on my way home to stock up on breakfast bagels. They’re great for something quick in the morning.

Unpacking them, I realize an extra’s fallen in the bag. Lemon and poppyseed, not exactly my favourite. I don’t want to toss it… maybe one of the guys would eat it? Food is a gateway to friendship, sometimes. Works on me.

I gently knock on Edd’s door, hoping he’s in. He seems like the best one to start with. Tom is a bit too prickly (not a dig at his hair) and I think Matt already considers me a buddy, at least.

Edd opens the door, eyebrows shooting up in surprise. “Quinn! What can I do for you?”

I hold out the bagel, now tucked a plastic zip bag. “Eat this bagel.” I say solemnly. “That is, if you like lemon and poppyseed. The bakery added an extra to my order by mistake.”

Edd smiles, taking the bagel. “I don’t mind it. Hey, actually - can you help me with something? Some stuff on top the fridge fell behind and I need someone with smaller shoulders to get them.”

A literal in! Take it. “Sure, I can help. Lead the way.”

I shut the door behind me and follow Edd to his kitchen, quickly clocking the layout: green walls, photos and drawings, red sofa, and a telly. Fairly standard.

“Can I ask what happened to your hair?” Edd ventures. “It looks more… bouncy.”

“I don’t style my hair on days I have to wear a helmet. Waste of product.” I hope he doesn’t remember the few times he saw me before the tournament. “So, what fell?”

Edd starts shuffling the fridge from the wall. “Just some bits and bobs. I can’t pull it out anymore without the plug coming out,” he explains. “And if the plug comes out, I can’t get it back in.”

I leap onto the counter like a penguin onto a slope and stick my upper body down the back, my legs kicking in the air. Edd leaps forward and wraps an arm around my shins as I start to slide down like a sack of laundry down a chute.

Grunting from my gun pressing into my ribcage, I start passing him the items buried among the dust bunnies. Don’t sneeze don’t sneeze don’t sneeze, I chant internally while sneaking a look at the papers. Cookbook, grocery list, fly trap, drawings, photos?

My blood rushes to my head as I twist to check for anything else and I try to pull myself back up without tearing the condenser off the back. Edd takes the hint, grabs the back of my hoodie, and hauls me out, making me choke for a second.

I slide off the counter and immediately let out a colossal sneeze, making Edd jump. I rinse the dust off my hands in the sink. “Why were there photos behind the fridge?” I casually ask.

I turn to see Edd’s conflicted expression. “Oh, uh, they’re of an old… friend the others aren’t exactly keen on.”

I take a glance at them and see a photo of Edd with a smiling, unscarred Tord in a bright red hoodie just like the one he wore in his office today. This must be from before he left, I guess. Some of the drawings seem to be of Edd and his friends in past adventures, Tord’s illustration right in the thick of it, sometimes the main focus.

“I took this a little while ago.” Edd says, shattering my theory. “I thought Tord was back to stay and it could be like old times but… it didn’t work out. After the house blew up, I tried to recreate some of the stuff we lost. I didn’t want to upset the others keeping his stuff up though.”

Blew up? Okay, pull back. “You don’t have to tell me anything.” I say softly, a bit of me dying inside from manipulating a man who’s clearly grieving the loss of an old friendship. “Though I am wondering if he’s alright. You look… sad.”

Edd shoots me a wistful smile. “That’s okay. He’s probably fine, too. It’d take a lot more than falling out of the sky in a giant robot to take him down.”

My face tightens. Wait. Was that the robot? The one shot down over a residential block a while back? The timelines would add up. No wonder the others don’t like Tord.

Edd shakes the dust off the cookbook into a bin. “Well, thanks for helping me out. Appreciate it.”

Ah, time to go. Gotta throw one last little hook first. “Before I go - you like zombie movies, yeah?”

Edd looks at me in surprise. “Yeah, how’d you know?”

I point to the large zombie movie poster on the wall by the door.

“Oh, right…”

I continue. “I found an old one on tape while I was moving in. If you want to borrow it, I can grab it now.”

Edd grins, then falters. “I’d love to, but I don’t have a video player anymore.”

I shrug. “Then borrow mine. I don’t think your telly’s compatible, but we can cross that bridge when we get there.” There - no pressure, just an option.

Edd nods and claps my shoulder. Ow. “That sounds awesome. Actually, we were already doing a movie night tonight. Want to bring it then?”

I just barely skive my way out of watching it with them. I hunker down to work on my kitchen floor, headphones blasting music to drown out the gross sound effects and sounds of cheering in my living room. Success?

---

Quinn McLeod

Daily Report

Submitted 22:26

- Norwegian homework completed.

- Security course module 1 completed.

- Mission update: Contact made with Asset 1. Trust established. Watched a movie.

                - Asset 1 is sad over recent loss of friendship with old friend.

---

Items Equipped

Loadout:

SIG Sauer P365XL

Fallkniven F1

Karambit

Torso/hip rig

Kevlar Undershirt

PART 2 END

Chapter Text

After nearly getting clocked with the butt of a rifle for the third time this morning, I’m granted a whole five minutes to myself. I spend three of them making sure my ribs still work and the other two fumbling with my phone.

It lights up with two things: a fresh bruise on my cheek reflected in the screen, and a notification for a new group chat. I had been added to a conversation with the numbers of my favourite neighbours.

Tom: guess what i bought

Edd: common sense

Tom: we both know i have the most of it out of all of us

Tom: and maybe quinn

Tom: ANYWAY

Tom: i bought this

An image of a rusted vintage red double decker bus in a gravel clearing beside a field pops up.

Edd: I take back my guess

Tom: HEY

Matt: Well, it’s certainly… something. What do you plan to do with it?

Tom: fix it obviously

Tom: imagine how cool it’d be to drive around in this

Tom: put in plush seats and a bar

Quinn: I think u have to have a special license to drive a bus. And have a limo bar

Tom: oh he lives

Matt: Hi!

Tom: its not a limo bar, it’s a bus bar

Tom: anyway i need the manpower help me fix this thing and ill let you have a go driving

‘I’m probably the only one out of us that actually knows how to drive anything bigger than a car’ I think to myself.

I give my assent and make a note to pick up a road safety manual for Tom before he tries to drive us all into an early grave.

That afternoon, we trickle in to the location Tom texted. My cab pulls up beside Edd’s car and a bike, the bus in the distance. Paying the fare, I lug the cleaning supplies on my shoulders and trudge through the long grass to the camping table set up near the bonnet.

Tom hops out the opening at the back.

“’Bout time!” He shouts. “Matt got here a half hour ago and he biked!”

Matt sticks his head out a window on the second level. “Ahoy down there! What a fine evening for some repairs, isn’t it?”

I spot Edd waddling back from the small river beside the lot carrying a sopping bucket of water and call back to Matt. “I think ahoy is for ships only, but I get the spirit! How’s the view?”

Matt doesn’t reply, but I can faintly see him carefully making his way down the steep steps of the bus through the clouded glass.

“Alright, men. It’s time for a game plan. Huddle time!” Tom announces like he’s coaching a team in the World Cup.

Before I can escape, I’m dragged into a messy knot of limbs and damp sleeves.

It’s less of a huddle and more a schoolyard scrum—all elbows, damp trainers, and the vague scent of crisps. My arms strain to reach their shoulders at the angle required, but I go with it. Resistance wouldn’t be wise. Futile, even. Ha.

“Why are we huddling?” Edd whispers.

“Shh! I’m assigning roles.” Tom says, dead serious. “Edd, you’re on the exterior ‘cause you brought most of the cleaning supplies. Matt, you clean the interior. Quinn… I don’t really know what you can do yet, so stick with me.”

“And you’ll be doing what, exactly?” I ask.

“Fixing the engine, obviously! Are you ready?!”

The others cheer like players on a field and break formation. Matt charges inside brandishing a bottle of window cleaner like its holy water. Edd runs off with a sponge in hand like it’s a weapon.

I follow Tom to the front, eyeing the rust creeping up the sides like it’s mold.

“What about the undercarriage?” I ask. “It’s probably more hole than metal by now.”

“Nah,” Tom scoffs. “These things were made to last. Good ol’ British make!”

He plants a hand confidently on the latch and pops the hood.

“Now let’s get this baby running!”

He flips it open to reveal a mess of oil, frayed wires, and what might be a mouse condominium.

We stare at it in silence.

“That’s not a baby.” I say at last. “That’s a war crime.”

A beat.

“Also, I don’t know how to do this.”

Tom turns to me with an incredulous face. “Seriously? I saw your bookshelf; Mr General Knowledge can’t fix an engine?”

I huff. “Watching a few episodes of Low Gear does not equal an automotive engineering degree.”

Tom reaches in and yanks out a nest. “Fine. You’re my gopher now. Go get me a wrench and a head torch.”

He’s elbow-deep in the wreck by the time I turn to look at the supply pile.

---

The next few afternoons are much the same.

Tom curses at fuses. Edd somehow gets more rust on himself than off the bus. Matt blasts music from a half-working speaker while scrubbing windows like it’s an Olympic sport. I graduate from tool-fetching to actual repairs and cleaning - mostly because there’s not much else for me to do.

One evening, while I’m scraping fossilised chewing gum off a seat, Tom calls me over.

He waves me to the front of the bus and gestures at the open hood like a magician presenting a corpse.

“Alright, apprentice,” he says, wiping his hands on a rag that only spreads the grime around. “You hold that hose steady while I crank the engine. If it starts, we check the flow. If it doesn’t... we curse a lot and pretend we meant to do that.”

“Sounds professional,” I mutter, but do as told.

He disappears into the bus, and a moment later the engine sputters to life with all the grace of a dying lawnmower. There’s a groan, a rattle - then a sharp hiss.

Before I can react, something explodes past my ear.

POP!

A small metal cap rockets off the radiator like it’s breaking out of orbit, spiraling through the air and disappearing into the bushes at the edge of the lot.

I duck instinctively. “Crap!”

Tom’s head pops out from the window, grinning. “That means it’s working!”

Edd and Matt jog over from opposite ends of the bus.

“What was that?!” Edd asks, breathless.

I gesture wildly at the sky. “It flew!”

“What flew?”

“A cap just rocketed off at Mach Jesus to the moon!”

Matt blinks. “Is that... supposed to happen?”

Tom shrugs. “Depends. Did it hit anyone?”

“No.”

“Then yes.”

After that fiasco, I successfully shove Edd into the role of Tom’s apprentice and take over the interior cleaning for Matt, who swaps to the exterior. He’d done an amazing job with the windows - they shone like new. Even the grime in the seams was gone.

Grabbing a mop and bucket, I get to work on the floors and try not to gag.

It gets me thinking, though… this might be the most ordinary string of afternoons I’ve had in a long time. I don’t love the grime, but I’m grateful - for the routine, the noise, the chance to just be without pretending. It almost feels like a sitcom montage. The thought makes me laugh.

A sharp whistle cuts through the air, and a water bottle arcs through an open window. I just barely catch it, the soft chill seeping into my hands.

The corners of my mouth twitch upward.

Yeah. This is fine.

---

Eventually, the bus repair situation turns into less of a “fix-it” and more of an oh god why won’t it stop breaking situation. We’re slumped in camping chairs taking a break, stuffing our faces with pizza that had gone cold because the delivery guy couldn’t find us.

“So, what’s next?” Edd asks while reaching for a second slice. “The engine is sort of working and you gutted those original parts from the scrapyard, so its just cleaning then?”

Tom swallows a bite and shakes his head. “Nah, still need to sort the undercarriage. And swap the tyres. I found a guy that’s willing to give me some. I’ll use your car to get them tomorrow.”

Watching their dynamic is fascinating - and makes me a tad jealous. They work together seamlessly and borrow each others stuff like it was a given. I know they all lived in the same house at some point, and had been friends for over a decade at the minimum. It felt wrong, though, inserting myself like this. Sure, I was invited to paintball and now this garage project, but only as extra manpower. Useful, not… included. Then again, that made my mission easier. If I was helpful, I had a reason to stick around.

Still. I wish I could either really be their friend or just disappear entirely.

My musing is interrupted when Matt shoves his phone in my face to show me a blurry photo of a cat wearing sunglasses.

---

The bus finally gets finished. Or at least, it’s finally road-worthy enough to carry passengers. We stand outside, admiring the Frankenstein’s monster of faded paint now plastered with Edd’s bright illustrations and Matt’s many painted renditions of his own face. The windows gleam, the new-old tyres and hubcaps shine, and the name “Double Decker-dence” is proudly sprayed in bold yellow across the side.

We had already each taken turns doing a short test drive in a circle around the lot. It was unstable, but moved, which was a win in our books.

Tom stands beside us proudly, hands on his hips, practically glowing.

“Well, it’s been quite a ride getting her in shape. I think it’s time to take her for a spin, eh? But first…” He turns to rummage in the cooler, emerging with a clinking pack of cold beers. “… We celebrate!”

We clamber aboard and settle on the lower level. Matt turns up some music while they crack open their drinks. I abstain, citing the need for a designated driver (not to mention, I can’t stand beer). I stretch my legs across the aisle, perfectly content with my water.

Tom downs a beer in one go. “To the bus! Wherever it takes us!” He cheers.

“To the bus!” The others echo.

I listen to Edd and Matt as they brainstorm ideas about retrofitting the interior. They don’t seem too worried about the price. I add in my own tidbits and sounds of agreement when it feels natural, not wanting to jump in the conversation too much.

I should’ve noticed Tom being quiet for so long.

The bus starts with a thrum and a rattle. My head snaps to where Tom was sitting. Three empty bottles start to roll to the floor. With a lurch, the bus starts to move and pick up speed.

“TOM!” Edd yells to the front. “WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!”

I faintly hear singing from the front of the bus. “The wheels on the bus go round and round!”

I look through the windscreen to see the bridge over the river fast approaching. To the side. We’re gonna miss it!

“BRACE!” I shout, hooking a leg over a seat back and grabbing the nearest pole with a tight underhand grip, elbow flexed. One of the first things drilled into me: brace smart, don’t faceplant.

Edd and Matt scramble to mimic me, barely latching onto their own poles before we were airborne. The front wheels took flight and the laws of physics briefly filed a complaint. I felt a rush of thrill and mortal fear in that moment of weightlessness—then the bus touches down. The back tyres chose death and slam into the opposing bank, shearing off entirely and sending the whole frame veering sideways. With a teeth-rattling bang, the bus tips onto its side in a slow, groaning arc of metal and gravity’s revenge. We come to a sliding stop in the grass.

I gently lower myself onto the cracked window beneath me, shaken but unharmed. Edd drops from his like a monkey bar, a bruise starting to bloom on his chin. He goes to help a shocked Matt safely to the ground.

I march over to Tom, who is still strapped in the driver’s seat. He rubs his head with a groan like that’ll massage the brain cells back in place. The others join me with identical scowls.

“Tom,” Edd says grimly, “you’re an idiot.”

Tom groans again. “That should not be news to you. What happened? Did the bridge give out?”

“I wish it was news. Let’s go guys.” Edd turns to find a safe exit, Matt following complaining about bruises having new friends.

I regard Tom, who is struggling to get out of the seatbelt, cursing. “Can you help me out here?” He snaps.

I let him wriggle for a moment more. “No.” I decide. “You thought it’d be funny and now you have to live with the consequences.”

I climb out and we drive off, leaving the stunned drunkard behind.

The ride back is silent for a bit, until Edd pipes up. “I hope you’re not too angry, Quinn.” He says sounding sheepish. “I don’t know what made Tom do that other than the beer. He’s been pretty sober for the last few years after… an incident, but he used to be able to put a lot more away, no problem. I don’t know…”

My mind flashes to a medical documentary I once watched on cirrhosis. “Sometimes when a recovering alcoholic drinks in excess again, his tolerance has regressed or even gone down further. It’s possible he didn’t even notice.”

I see Edd and Matt exchange pensive looks before I turn my eyes back to the road. The rest of the ride passes in silence.

We don’t see Tom until the next afternoon. He calls a meeting at his flat through the group chat. We file in one by one, carrying expressions that range from irritated to indifferent. Tom stands awkwardly in front of us, a deep purple bruise blooming on the shoulder that hit the window when the bus tipped.

“So, um…” he starts, rubbing the back of his neck. “I know you’re angry with me. I don’t know how I got drunk so fast. I used to be able to drink that much and barely feel it. Anyway… I’m gonna fix this the classic way.”

Classic way?

Before I can even make sense of that, Tom launches into a strange, disjointed and cursed blend of the chicken dance and macarena while reciting flat, droning apology like a bad school presentation.

I slap a hand over my mouth, trying and failing not to laugh. I get lightheaded from the effort.

Edd and Matt don’t even hesitate. They lunge forward and hug him like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Tom catches my eye, cheeks flushed scarlet with embarrassment. I grin and give him a thumbs up with a nod, still half-choking on laughter.

I guess this was tradition with them to own your screw ups by looking ridiculous. Somehow, it made sense. It’s honest. You know someone’s sincere when they’re willing to humiliate themselves for your forgiveness.

And it felt… good. Being included in that. I’m not part of the group. Not really.

But I’m here.

And no one’s asked me to leave yet.

---

Quinn McLeod

Daily Report

Submitted 21:47

- Norwegian homework completed.

- Security course module 2 completed.

- Mission update: Asset 2 reconciled with Asset 1, Asset 3, and Operative.

                - Status of the “Double Decker-dence” bus is unknown.

---

Items Equipped

Loadout:

SIG Sauer P365XL (IWB left crossdraw, high rib)

Fallkniven F1 (IWB right hip)

Karambit x2 (IWB Uniform left forearm sleeve, IWB left hip)

Modular elastic/kevlar torso/hip rig (wraparound, low-profile)

Kevlar Undershirt

Chapter Text

The carnival lights are bright, the atmosphere electric, and the happy screams of people on the rides pierce the air. I weave through the crowd, trying to keep an eye on Matts distinctive hair while guarding my candy floss like its gold. A carnival had set up shop in the nearby fairgrounds, and I’d quickly inserted myself into the boys’ plans by challenging Tom to a prize-collecting contest. He took it with a grin and somehow wiped the floor with me, even on the rigged games. Oh, I made it close on a few like the ring toss and water guns, but Toms knack for these games really is astounding.

Matt pulls up to the House of Mirrors and finally lets go of his iron grip on the others’ hands.

“Here we are!” he exclaims.

Tom rubs his wrist. “Right, well, you have fun. I’ll be over at the rides.”

Matt wraps an arm around Tom’s shoulders. “Absolutely not! A place like this is meant to be enjoyed with friends! Think of all the funny faces we can do.”

I pull up beside Edd, my face deep in the fluffy candy. Before getting my corrective contact, I’d have sat this one out, but now I’m curious how different the experience might be. Plus, it’s a good excuse to keep the group together a bit longer tonight. I head up the steps.

“See?” Matt points. “Quinn gets it!”

The House of Mirrors is a stroke of genius on Matt’s part. I find myself in a silly face-off with Edd while the other two bantered and roast each others exaggerated reflections. I let them have fun in the mirror maze though. Turns out depth perception isn’t the only factor of my intolerance. If anyone went in there with a penchant for migraines, the flashing lights would make them come out with their skull splitting.

As I wait at the exit for my companions to crash bang their way out, I take note of a room cordoned off by a curtain. Was that a different section? It wasn’t labelled. Edd and Tom stumble out of the exit holding on to each other for balance and Matt strides out unfazed. Happy they were within my sight again; I quickly take a peek through the curtain and freeze.

“Hey, what’ve you got there, Quinn?” Matt comes up behind me and pushes the curtain back more. “Whoa…”

The room is filled with dusty antique mirrors of every shape and size. Ornate and simple frames hold reflective glass and metal, some dull, others blindingly reflective. The whole thing looks haphazard, but there’s a weird kind of order to it at the same time.

Matt and Edd squeeze past me as I sneeze. “This must be an antique mirror room!” Edd observes brightly. “I bet they have more mirrors in here than in Matt’s entire collection. Heh, someone’s finally out-mirrored you. Must be a pane-ful loss.”

“Not bloody likely,” Matt immediately protests. “Or, well, actually, very likely. But I’ll beat this room some day!”

I start wandering, admiring some of the frames. A few are truly stunning, almost museum-worthy. One in particular catches my eye - a large oval piece with a simple silver trim. It doesn’t shine like the others. The surface seems slightly... matte? No, not matte, just off. The way it catches the light is wrong, like it’s absorbing more than it should.

I step closer, drawn in despite myself. As I peer into the glass, I frown.

The reflection stares back - but not quite right. My stance is the same, but something’s off about the posture. The head tilt is wrong. And the hair looks longer. I blink. So does the reflection, a beat too late.

A chill crawls up my neck.

Matt’s back collides with mine, jolting me forward with a squeak. I throw my hands out to catch myself, bracing for impact with the glass when—

—I pass straight through.

I trip over the frame as I pass over it, my arms still extended.

“Guys?” Tom probes. “Are you seeing this?”

“Seeing,” Edd responds. “Still working on believing.”

I slowly straighten, my body feeling off balance. My hair shifts across my shoulder. Wait. My hair isn’t this long. I slowly turn to a mirror on my right.

A horrified woman stares back, long hair swept over her shoulder. My shoulder? Her face wasn’t much different than mine, other than a bit slimmer. My head snaps over to the boys who were staring at me, wide-eyed.

“I wanna try!” Matt shouts, and pushes past me, dragging Edd with him. They emerge half a second after, completely transformed, even their clothes. Tom just shrugs and walks through, emerging as a girl with a spiked-up ponytail and an eyebrow piercing.

“Look at us, we’re gorgeous! Especially me,” Matt gushes. “Oh, we should have girl names! I’ll be Matilda!”

She points at Edd. “You can be Elly!”

“Just Ell.” She replies, turning to get a better look in a different mirror.

Matilda points at Tom. “And you can be… Tom… Tam… Tamara!”

Tamara just takes a sip from a flask in response.

She finally points at me. “And you can be… um… what’s a girl name that starts with Q?”

Tamara interjects. “Just keep it as Quinn. I think it’s a gender-neutral name anyway.”

I start inspecting my clothes while they chatter. Tord’s words about his 'old friends' finding anomalies so easily flit through my mind. Was it contagious?

Not much is different, other than my chromosomes. Unless this was some sort of illusion? Ugh, I did not expect to run into magic this early. I need to determine exactly what happened. My clothes are the same other than the size, but my holsters stayed in their same arrangement which wasn’t very comfortable. I pull my arms in my hoodie to discreetly adjust my weapons and the new sports bra compressing my chest. The threads with women complaining about bras made a little more sense to me now.

“Let’s explore the fair like this!” I tune back in to hear Ell cheerfully suggest something inane. “We could see the world from a girl’s point of view, maybe what we learn will help us get girlfriends!”

“Oh, absolutely not.” I interject. I pause for a moment to contemplate my new voice; it’s a bit higher and softer, but still me. Interesting.

“We don’t know what sort of mirror this is.” I continue. “Could be cursed, could be a portal, could even become permanent after some time for all we know. Don’t touch anything else, go back through, and we leave. Got it?”

Ell pouts at me. Tamara carefully shifts the mirror and takes a peek behind. “Oh hey, a note.”

She starts reading it out loud.

‘See the world through altered eyes,

Wander forth in borrowed guise.

Glimpse a fate both strange and fair,

But tread with care what waits you there.

One full day, the spell holds tight -

Beyond that mark, no wrong makes right.’

Silence permeates the room. I take a peek at the time on my phone. Just after 10pm… a little time like this wouldn’t be the end all. The carnival is open until 3AM and since it was a work day tomorrow, we had plans to leave by midnight. Mm, glad the mirrors cut off isn’t midnight, fairy tale style.

A glance at the magic mirror shows a snapshot of my male face with the same pensive look I bore.

Ell shoots me a hopeful look, and I sigh. “Alright, fine, but only for an hour! I’ll be timing you.”

They all cheer and run out of the room with a flap of the curtain.

This is either gonna be a disaster, totally fine, or utterly hilarious.

The next hour goes surprisingly well. I make sure to stick to my charges like gum on a sneaker. Matilda gets chatted up at least twice making her stammer and blush (yeah, now you know what that’s like), Tamara complains how the straps for the rides dig uncomfortably into her chest (I point out how safety standards are designed with men in mind) and Ell has the unfortunate moment of needing to use the washroom due to the two Colas she downed earlier.

“Ok, let’s go back now.” She said with a squirm. “Or I’ll be the one to pop next.”

I wholeheartedly agree. I might be glad the straps were adjustable, but my holsters are still digging in, and I’ve just discovered my armoured undershirt hasn’t had the same modifications as the rest of my gear. Tight doesn’t even begin to cover it.

“Wait wait wait!” Matilda cries. “We HAVE to get a group picture first! C’mere!”

I volunteer to take it for them. Matilda looks a bit disappointed but doesn’t argue. There were a few reasons why I don’t want to be in the photo, and I also don’t need to be in it to remember this event. Not only is it seared in my memory forever, but I had also spent some time discretely taking pictures and recording our voices. For documentation purposes.

We weave around the crowds, playing an impromptu game of tag. The giggles of my companions come to an abrupt stop at the door to the House of Mirrors. Paramedics are rolling someone covered in glass shards into an ambulance. I duck under Ell’s arm to get a better look at what’s going on and my heart drops.

‘Closed for maintenance until further notice.’ Reads a sign taped to the door. A standing sign below says ‘Hope to reflect you soon!’

I pull the group to the side as Matilda starts to hyperventilate. I figured the rest of us looked sufficiently shell-shocked to set her off.

“What are we going TO DO?!” she wails.

“Well, first you can calm down- “ Tamara begins, only to be cut off by a dramatic shriek from Matilda. “Thats an option, too.”

“Hey, hey, it’s alright,” Ell tries to placate. “The curse becomes permanent tomorrow night; we have plenty of time to make it back here. And if it’s still closed, we can just break in!”

Tempting, honestly. I was stuck between a rock and a hard place. On one hand, I could probably break in tonight and switch us back, but I hadn’t been taught how to disable security systems yet. And I was already skirting the law by the skin of my teeth; I didn’t want to cross that line and actually break it. On the other hand, I could call in a favour and have a senior operative meet us with the mirror later. Buuut that would blow my cover wide open and get me reassigned. Probably to a kill squad or a remote surveillance post in the Arctic. Ell was on the right track; the only realistic option was to wait until tomorrow.

I have training tomorrow. I’ll be the laughing stock of the base and no one will let me live it down. It was rare for field operatives to find magical objects, and rarer still for them to be cursed by one.

I wondered again if the anomaly attracting ability was contagious.

Quiet and dejected, the… girls and I walk home. I’d been doing my best not to get caught up in the whole gender side of this. It’s not that I had anything against it, I just didn’t have the mental space to unpack all that right now. It was easier to treat it like we were playing roles, like actors in some weird improv show. Temporary. Reversible. That’s what I kept telling myself. Because if it wasn’t?

…Well, that was a much bigger can of worms than I’m ready to open.

---

The next morning, I do my best to get through the morning with no lights on. Based on the mirrors curse, this was likely a body swap with my alternate self from a universe where genders are flipped. It made sense, sort of. She was wearing most of the same stuff I was. Well, except the bra but I was grateful for that so I didn’t question it. It did beg the question though; where were her weapons and armour? My holsters and undershirt are still the same size. Either she has a different mission or she’s dodged a bullet I caught head-on.

Shoving my armour in my backpack along with my homework, I hop on the bus and pull up my hood with my long hair tucked inside. Hopefully none of the regular riders or the driver would recognize me. Curses were rare enough that it wouldn’t be the first thing that pops into someone’s mind.

Before I can commandeer a private changing room to get in my drill uniform, an aide pulls me aside and drags me straight to Tord’s office. I figured he already knew. All I can do is hope he won’t make a big fuss over this.

I stand before him in my civvies and hood, trying not to fidget. Definitely not casual time. A cluster of lab-coat types are loitering off to the side, staring like I’m a particularly strange bug under glass.

“Trainee McLeod,” Red Leader says. “Take off your hood.”

I slowly slide it down, tugging my hair out and over my shoulder. The lab people start whispering among themselves. The urge to scream ‘don’t perceive me!’ grows stronger.

“I take it this is why you did not submit an update to your daily mission logs? Is it not part of your job to report things like this?” He asks coldly.

Shoot, I did forget. I did debate on whether I should include the location of the mirror in the report on the walk back, but in the end, I was so off-kilter by the House of Mirrors closing for the night it totally slipped my mind.

“My apologies, Red Leader.” I tell him. “I was taken off guard and forgot. This is my first time getting cursed. After I go back to the site and return to normal, I’ll tag the item and notify the Anomaly team.”

There, that should cover it. Maybe. Oh, he’s not happy with that answer. Crap.

Red Leader scowls. “That is not sufficient. As punishment, when we are done talking, you will be taken to the evaluation centre to help them gather data. And you will do every. Single. Test. Without question. Got it?”

I gulp and nod. I’m fitter than I used to be, it’ll be fine. Right? Right. Who am I kidding, they’ll probably crank the difficulty.

“Leave us.” He motions at the doctors to leave and they hurriedly file out. Tord watches me for a long moment… then cracks up.

“How hilarious! Cursed on one of your first real missions! I knew assigning someone to them was the right call. You’re really earning that nickname, Thirteen!”

I look away in embarrassment. “I hate that nickname. I wanna throttle whoever started it. It’s not that big a deal, Tord. There’s barely a difference. I get turned back tonight and we can all pretend this never happened.”

Tord sombers slightly. “No, no. I’m not making fun of you. Though it is funny – I just mean its amazing you ran into a magic item so early! Was it a mirror? This isn’t the first time we’ve discovered a gender swapping mirror.”

I slowly sit down. “I don’t think its swap-the-gender, per-se.” I confirm his words. “More like a body swap with an alternate self. From a world that mirrors this one, or something.”

He tilts his head. “How do you mean?”

I show him a picture of the poem on the mirror’s back. “It’s a ‘guise.’ I think I literally swapped with another me. Her outfit became mine, and vice versa. The things that stayed the same were my holsters and armour, which may mean she wasn’t recruited by you.”

He nods thoughtfully. “So, a world of opposites. Yes, that aligns with what we have learned. I will let you be the tagger for this artefact. Make sure you and the others get to it before your time runs out. For now…”

He presses a button and one of the doctors walk in again.

“Let’s do some tests.”

---

They keep me busy for a few hours.

I’d forgotten that evaluation involves a medical workup too. Thankfully, there’s less poking and more scanning this time. They slot me into a machine that looks like a cryogenic tube mashed with an MRI scanner. It hums and whirs forever and makes threatening mechanical groans like it’s judging me.

The second part’s a physical baseline, which was actually easier. I feel good about it, stretching through the new form like I’m test driving a new car model, though my high ponytail makes my head feel oddly heavy. That confidence takes a nosedive when they tell me I’ll need to do it again tomorrow. Of course. Because one cursed performance review wasn’t humiliating enough.

By the end of it I’m panting, buzzed from the exercise high, when Red Leader reappears with a tablet in hand.

“Very good, Trainee. The teams are going to love this data.” I give him a shaky thumbs up. “There is one more thing I’d like to see.”

I look up to see him in a workout kit.

“I’d like to see how well you’ve adapted in a spar.”

My hand falls. Joy of joys.

---

Sweat starts to run down my face as Tord takes another swing at me. I’ve got better at hand-to-hand, sure, but he still has to slow himself down for me to even keep up.

I slap his metal hand aside (ow) and throw my weight behind a punch, overswinging. Momentum pulls me too far forward—my shoulders pivot ahead of my hips, throwing off my centre. I try to compensate, stepping into a roll to pop back up and redirect.

But I drop too fast.

Weight shifts too early.

My torso twists mid-air, one side collapsing faster than the other. I snap my right hand out to break the fall—fingers spread wide instead of braced. Wrong instinct.

My hand lands just past the sparring mats.

My wrist bends the wrong way.

Crack.

White-hot pain blooms and shoots up my forearm like I’ve jammed it in a plug socket.

I curl in on myself, hissing and biting my tongue.

The sparring room freezes. A doctor runs over with a sleek metal-looking cast that’s already unfolding out of some compact kit. He slots my arm into it like he’s done this ten times today.

“Hairline fracture of the distal radius,” someone mutters after a quick scan. “Clean break. She’s lucky it wasn’t displaced.”

Lucky. Right. I try not to throw up from the throbbing.

A nurse runs over with a sleek metal case. A coiled brace expands and snakes around my arm, locking with a soft hiss. I flinch as tiny motors nudge my wrist back into line. The interior warms and the pain dulls as something seeps through my skin.

“Localized analgesic and microstim for bone regrowth,” The nurse explains. “Keep it on for seventy-two hours. Don’t punch anything stupid.”

A soft whir kicks in. The telemetry pings to my contact lens—green bar, stable alignment, 18% healing forecasted in first 24 hours.

“Welcome to Red Army healthcare,” Tord says dryly.

I gently hold my arm in the air as I get off the floor, tuning out the chatter between Tord and the scientists behind me. This would be the second time I had a hairline fracture, the other being when I flew off my bike several years ago. Note to self: to do some more digging into what sort of medical research the army was funding and apparently keeping secret. Why wasn’t something like this more widespread?

“Trainee!” A voice jolts me out of my thoughts.

“Go shower and continue with your regular schedule.” A doctor orders me. “Come back tomorrow for another scan. We’ll skip the physical for now.”

I salute and shuffle off, grateful the eval area has private change rooms and showers. I dump a heap of soap on my head and let the water rinse it all down, my eyes shut. As curious as I am – like yeah, it technically was my body - I also knew Mirror Quinn had had different experiences, made different choices. She was someone else. I owed her privacy, and I hoped she’d respect mine.

Not being able to use one hand is infuriating. The brace is sleek enough to not catch on my sleeves, but it’s a constant reminder I’ve taken my mobility for granted.

Hair slung over my shoulder of my loose uniform, I fake a confident march to the mess hall. Hopefully some sandwiches were left over from the lunch rush.

Surprisingly, I don’t get a lot of stares from the ones also having a late lunch, just glances.

A girl stops by my table. “Hey, I kinda recognize you. Thirteen, right? Did you get reshuffled to a different timeline? You’d be surprised how many times that’s happened.”

Wait, seriously? That was actually a thing? I wiggle my good hand in a so-so motion and keep eating. She smiles back at me.

“Well, if you need any help figuring anything in this world out, just come to me. I’m Marissa, also known as Slice. See ya!” She glides away with a hum. Slice… hang on. That Slice? The slasher prodigy? She’s nicer than I expected. Maybe I would try to talk to her later.

I barely get through twenty minutes of actual studying in an empty room – a rare peace – when I’m interrupted by a man in a black I recognize as a stylist. He sits across from me with a sketchbook and makeup kit, staring expectantly.

I raise an eyebrow over my laptop, waiting for him to pop the question. He gets the hint.

“Hi, I’m Jack, and I’d like to have you as my model for my new study.” He blurts out.

I stare flatly at him and wait.

“I want to study the differences in makeup techniques on a male and female face of the same person. The last swap got reversed before I joined and I want to take advantage of this opportunity. Will you help me? I already got permission to push back your schedule a bit.”

I flip a tab over to my schedule and yep, big ??? during the timeslot for now. I sigh and close the screen.

“Might as well.” I agree.

Jack chatters between explaining his thesis and methods. One of his main philosophies is that as one of the oldest and most versatile methods of self expression, make-up is one of the few things that transcends the bounds of gender - a paintbrush for the soul, or something like that. He’s also been cataloguing techniques he’s learned in an effort to be come the best make-up artist in the world. Fair play to him. The commitment’s impressive.

As he’s carefully explaining and tracing out a wing on the corner of my eye for the third make-up style, I get a text.

Tom: get over here matts having a crisis we need to change back now

I jump on the chance to leave and turn back to Jack. “Session’s over. I need to attend my mission.”

Jack is taken aback by my abrupt switch from resigned calm to brusque efficiency. “Alright! Thanks for sitting through this much. How about we meet up here tomorrow, same time?”

I nod and sweep my work into my arms, jogging back to the change rooms. I manage not to get makeup all over my uniform, but forgo my zip hoodie and tie it around my waist, making sure it covers my gear.

I push through the glances and stares I get on the bus, and half-run to the lift. Ell is waiting for me outside Matilda’s door and ushers me in. Tamara is standing just inside and gestures to me like: fix it.

Inside, Matilda’s sitting on the floor surrounded by mirrors, scattered brushes, open compacts, and war crimes against blush application.

“I look weird,” she hisses. “I feel weird. This face has weird angles. My symmetry’s off. I can’t find my natural line. Nothing blends. NOTHING POPS.”

“You’re having a crisis over bone structure?” I ask.

“I’m having a crisis over injustice,” she snaps. “I’m supposed to be the best-looking person I know. Now I look like my cousin who peaked in community theatre.”

She flings her hands in my direction. “Then you walk in here looking like you’ve just stepped out of a casual-wear magazine!”

There’s a long beat.

“…I’m going to pretend I know what any of that means,” I say, crouching beside her. “But I sat through a lot of verbal noise today, so I might have picked up a few tips.”

I grab a cotton pad and gently blot under her eye. “My coworker did my makeup,” I clarify. “He said you’ve got to start with symmetry, not color, or something. Like… your cheekbones shifted. The mirror swapped just enough that you’re not used to the proportions.”

Matilda watches, very still, as I do the absolute bare minimum: lift here, blend there, a little contour, fix a brow. Nothing heavy.

She turns her head slowly, blinking. “...Okay, but why does this slap?”

“I don’t know. Magic? Blind luck? The ghost of Jack?”

“This is better than my attempt,” she says, staring into the mirror. “I’m reinvented. I’m a phoenix. Call me Matilda 2.0.”

Ell and Tamara exchange wary glances.

“Well, with that crisis out of the way, can we try getting to the carnival early?” Tamara pushes. “I’ve barely had a drink all day to avoid needing to the loo.”

Ell nods in solidarity.

Matilda pouts. “Alright, but can I have some time for a photoshoot? I want to capture Quinn’s contribution to my radiance.”

I reach for the makeup remover and cotton pads to scrub this crap off my face. I was this close to sticking my head under a tap to wash it off, the layers were unbearable. Matilda grabs my hands before I can do anything.

“Oh no you don’t,” she grins. “You’re going to be part of this, too.”

I suffer through numerous selfies (how much room does her phone have left at this point?) and manage to pull away a few minutes later to destroy Jack’s handiwork. Somewhere in the background, a printer starts up.

“So, what happened to your wrist?” Ell asks. Oh, someone finally noticed. It’s not like the splint’s obvious or anything, what with the lack of my usual long sleeves.

“Slipped at work and landed wrong.” I explain, wiping the gloss off my lips. The taste was foul. “Doctor said not to punch anything for a few weeks or whatever.”

I don’t actually remember how long I’m meant to keep the splint on. I’ll have to check at the follow-up tomorrow.

Before we leave, I duck into my flat to drop off my bag and empty my pockets of everything but the essentials. My wallet and its contents had stayed the same in the swap, along with my mobile, and I was still wearing my stud and contact. I figure the magic only applies to organics and clothes, but I still didn’t want to risk Mirror Quinn getting anything of mine. I do feel a bit bad for swapping back with a barely healed fractured wrist. Hopefully the painkiller would last long enough for her to get to A&E.

The carnival lights are starting to flicker on as the sun begins to sink. We make a beeline to the House of Mirrors, trying to look casual and stay out of sight. The universe seemed to have mercy on us and the place was open, a small queue forming. We join the line doing our best not to look nervous. Or at least, I do. I gently pull Ell’s fingers from her mouth.

I walk through the door with the butterfly in my gut starting to settle. Home stretch. There’s no talking as we wander, pretending to take in the sights. I spot the curtain, look around for witnesses, and motion to the others to follow me. My footsteps are silent on the concrete floor. We file in and the curtain closes.

Once again, the room of antique mirrors greets us, this time with dust floating in motes of light filtering in from a window above. The extra light helps me spot the mirror, that cursed mirror, still in the same spot as before.

We walk up to it, our male reflections staring back. Ell and Edd give a wave.

“I wish we could meet them.” Matt says, wistful. “I hope Matilda likes the pictures I’m sending her.”

I take a peek at Matt’s bulging pockets and stay quiet, not wanting to burst his bubble. With a breath of dusty air, I take a leap through the frame. The others catch me as I stumble out. One by one they follow suit.

I take inventory of myself and take a moment to readjust my holsters. They were much too tight now. Oh hey, my wrist is still braced? How?

Matt lets out a delighted gasp. “She did! She got my photos! Look at this, they had so much fun as us. She made me look good.”

The others gather round to see the photos while I try to work out what’s poking me in the pocket. I pull out a laminated picture with writing on the back.

‘Hey there, Quinn! Sorry about the wrist. The doctor at the A&E gave me a new type of brace that should have it healed in a few days, but don’t punch anything for at least two weeks. Hope you enjoy the picture I took of all of us. It goes Matilda, Tamara, me, and Ell from left to right.

Cheers! – Quinn.’

I flip the picture over to see a photo print of myself smiling with the others, the carnival lights bathing everyone in a warm glow. Matt peers over my shoulder and beams.

“She got the picture you stepped out of! I want a copy of that. Can I have a closer look?”

I hand it over without a word, tuning out their chatter about the note and Matt’s suspiciously accurate naming skills.

I suppose she really was free, wasn’t she?

I look down at the brace, the shape contoured perfectly to my thicker wrist, and decide not to dwell on the logic of magic.

“What are you doing?” Tom asks as I start shuffling the mirror out of sight.

“Making sure nobody else goes through that nightmare, that’s what.” I reply. I get the mirror to the back of the room, hidden by cobwebs, dust, and other old junk. Then I pull a tab from my wallet and stick it to the back, activating the homing signal. The Anomaly team will collect it in a few hours.

With one last glance at the empty glass, I turn away and rejoin the others.

I take the photo from Matt and head for the exit - back to the world where it all went wrong.

---

Quinn McLeod

Daily Report

Submitted 20:05

- Norwegian homework completed.

- Security course module 4 completed.

- Mission update: Successful tagging of magic mirror asset.

                - Curse lifted from Operative and Asset 1, Asset 2, Asset 3

---

Items Equipped

Loadout:

SIG Sauer P365XL (IWB left crossdraw, high rib)

Fallkniven F1 (IWB right hip)

Karambit x2 (IWB Uniform left forearm sleeve, IWB left hip)

Modular elastic/kevlar torso/hip rig (wraparound, low-profile)

Medical Wrist Brace (Right)

Chapter Text

One good thing about my unfortunate circumstances is the free lunch. Today, I was trying the Swedish meatball dish. They’re decent, better than the one time I had it in a food court that was trying far to hard to be posh. I sat at the table beside the two people I had managed to befriend, Wyatt and Marissa. Over our food, Wyatt and I go over our Norwegian assignments due this afternoon. Marissa’s just here enjoying my suffering.

“Okay, so it'd be han viset meg, right?” I ask.

“Viset? No, mate—han viste meg. It's weak, not a vowel-shifter.”

“Why is that weak? It sounds strong.”

“Because Norwegian hates us.”

“...Ugh.”

I shovel some mashed potatoes in my mouth and try to scribble out another word with my braced hand. This was just as bad as the ‘is it a male or female word’ thing in French. Marissa giggles around her spoon.

“I’m so glad I know Dutch already. I can’t imagine being thrown into Norwegian with no background.”

I shoot her a look. “Du er et peanøttmuseum.”

Wyatt chokes on his water. “Did you just call her a peanut museum?”

“No, it’s like, the annoying people in the back, heckling?”

“You mean ‘peanut gallery’?”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah, no one says that. Try kommentarfeltet next time. It hits harder.”

“You know what? Forget it. I’m switching back to Unolingo Crow. He never mocks me.”

Wyatt’s comeback is cut off by my ringtone. Seeing Tom’s name pop up makes me briefly worry he’s bought another bus, but that thought gets shoved aside the second concern kicks in. He never rings, only texts.

I accept the call and barely get out a “hi” before I’m cut off.

“Dude get to the old Cola factory Edd was just kidnapped!” Tom blurts, panting heavily. I can hear his footsteps hammering the ground in the background.

I snap upright. “Kidn- by who? Tom-“

“THERE NO TIME GET TO THE FACTORY MATT AND I WILL MEET YOU THERE!” He hangs up.

I stare at the Call Ended screen for a beat before shovelling a few more bites of food in my mouth while packing.

“One of my assets just got nicked, I gotta go, Wyatt please tell the teacher I’ll need an extension,” I explain, shoving the rest of my food at him. He happily takes the last of the meatballs. Marissa stands with me, flashing a knife from God knows where.

“Ooo, can I come? I can help kill who took them!” she gleefully offers.

“Wha- no, no killing. You’d blow my cover. I got this, its fine, I gotta go bye.”

I sprint to the locker room and chuck my stuff in. I swap my turtleneck for a red t-shirt and grab my grey hoodie. No time to change out of my uniform trousers or boots, but thankfully they were plain enough to hopefully not get a second glance. I had a feeling I may be able to use the steel toes today. I strip the rigid supports out of my wrist brace; I technically didn’t need it anymore, but it’s part of my cover and doubles as a extra armour.

The cabbie looks thoroughly perplexed when I tell him to take me to the old industrial district. The area had been abandoned after it had been partially levelled by a supervillain a few years ago. Apparently it was mildly radioactive as a result. Nothing immediate, but enough to make a Geiger counter twitch. I make a note on my phone to grab some iodine tablets to slip to the others later, just in case.

Tom is pacing outside the safety cordon when I arrive, Matt watching him wear a line in the pavement.

“What happened? Who took him?” I ask when I get closer.

“Cola Cultists.” He succinctly says, like that’s a perfectly ordinary phrase to drop mid-afternoon.

I bluescreen for a moment and shake my head to clear the error messages. “What?”

Matt jumps in with a jittery voice. “They’ve been trying to recruit Edd for a while now. Mostly it’s just mail or the occasional cultist handing him a can, but they’ve never done something this blatant before!”

I fix my eyes on Tom. “I need you to be clearer. What. Happened.”

Tom sighs like it’s a big task to explain. “Edd and I were walking to the grocer’s when a red van reeking of bacon and Cola pulls up and some guys in red robes jump out and grab Edd. They were gone before I could react.” He points at the dilapidated factory. “And we need to get him out of there.”

I peer through the fence. The factory is partially intact, the exterior charred by the fire that ended its operations. I could faintly make out fresh tyre tracks in the mud and the unmistakable smell of bacon, cola, and ash. I shudder internally. I’ve never been big on fizzy drinks. The idea of a fizzy drink cult is genuinely upsetting.

I yank Tom down from the fence. “Don’t climb it in the most obvious spot!” I scold. “If we want to save Edd, we need to be stealthy. They’ve likely already seen us, so we need to walk away and circle round. Let’s cross over at the old fabric factory, we can avoid line of sight that way.”

I start walking away with my hand in my pockets, keeping a steady pace. The other two follow.

“So, uh… what’s with the boots?” Matt asks. “They’re very… stompy.”

Ah crap he noticed. “They’re my work boots.” I simply answer. “I kinda ran out from work. My boss will understand though.”

“What sort of job do you have?” Tom asks as I scan the fence for a decent entry point. “Don’t think you ever told us.”

“Well, I don’t know what you lot do for work either, ‘cept you apparently being a video editor.” I find a spot in the chain-link that isn’t attached to the ground and haul it up a foot. “I’m a security guard, for the record. Now get under.”

They slide under the fence without complaint, holding it up for me to slide under too. Guess I’m willing to break the law to save someone. Hopefully it won’t be a common occurrence.

We start running to the fabric factory, hugging close to the crumbling wall. I motion for the group to pause as I take out my phone, using the camera to zoom on the openings in the brick of the factory before us. I could just barely make out movement near a side door, but nothing at the loading bay.

“A security guard, huh? Guess that’s how you know how to sneak about?” Tom scoffs.

“Yes, actually,” I shoot back. “Part of my training was identifying blind spots intruders could take advantage of. Follow my lead, we’ll use the stacks to block our approach.”

It’s a smart call. One I’d make in a training op. But my mouth is dry and my boots are too loud on the ash. Every step feels like a countdown to the worst-case scenario. Why did I take point? I’m supposed to be the spectator, only care about the job.

“I think it’s cool.” Matt pipes up as we sprint. “Like that mall cop movie but more Live Hard.”

Tom snorts. “You’ve never even seen that movie, it’s not even close.”

“Focus,” I hiss. “Final stretch. We get in, stay hidden, and grab Edd. I can be a distraction if needed, I’ve got some basic martial arts training.”

Wasn’t that an understatement.

The others nod, game faces on. Staying low, we bolt across the ashy loading bay, vaulting up the lip of an open dock door. Matt is able to hoist himself with little difficulty and offers a hand to help haul Tom and I up. We duck inside, strafing to the left to hide behind some barrels. We slowly creep forward as we hear voices ahead.

The factory is open to the sky; the roof having given way during the fire. Or maybe from the supervillain’s blast? The rubble had been cleared away and strange markings were painted on the floor in red. The air is thick with the cloying stench of synthetic syrup. It was a little sickening, honestly. My soles stick a bit to the floor.  

In the centre of the room, surrounded by the markings and tied to a chair, is Edd. The kidnappers had modified a beer hat to hold Cola cans and Edd was happily sipping with the serenity of a blissed-out soda monk in Cola-nirvana. I feel like I should get him a blood sugar test kit, I can’t have one of my charges suddenly go into a diabetic crisis. Or maybe he’s just got superhuman tolerance. (Cola-man!)

Two cultists in red robes start circling the markings and making corrections to it. One was messing about with an altar made from soda cans and topped with a bowl. Whatever this is, it was definitely ritualistic —and absolutely not HSE-approved. We’re too far away to hear more than a low murmur and there was no cover to get closer. We crouch behind the barrels.

“So, what’s the plan?” I whisper.

They blink at me like deer in cultist headlights.

“I don’t know, I thought you had a plan!” Tom whispers back.

“Wha- this was your idea to break in, are you saying you were just gonna blitz in with no prep?”

“Well, it’s worked before! Practically tradition!” He hisses. “You’re the one who wanted to sneak around - what happened to that plan?”

I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Tradition doesn’t keep you from getting sacrificed to the soda gods.”

Matt pipes up. “Hey, guys? That fizzing bowl over there?” He points between the barrels. “Pretty sure that’s limited-edition Bacon Cola. That stuff was banned for making people hallucinate rainstorms inside their lungs or something.”

We both stare at him.

“What? I read labels.”

Tom peeks over, squinting at the bowl. “...Oh yeah, that does look like the one with the pig mascot.”

I rub my forehead with a hand, thinking out loud. “Right. So, let’s continue to use the barrels as cover. Someone needs to start taking pictures and call the police… wait, no, we’d get done for trespass too. Maybe find a maintenance room and some wrenches? We could knock over a few barrels for a distraction, grab Edd, and bolt. That won’t deal with the root problem but cultists usually can’t be negotiated with. How does that sound?”

Tom looks a tad surprised at my uncharacteristic ramble (oh if only he knew what my inner ramble was like) and Matt nods with a serious expression. He’s about to say something when another voice cuts him off.

“Oh, I don’t know, I think we can be quite reasonable.”

We scramble back as hooded figures in robes start surrounding us from the sides, weaving around the barrels. The one that spoke straightens from his leaning position on our cover.

“Guys, run!” I shout, driving a kick into the nearest cultist’s gut. It’s a gamble, but if I can stall them - even for a second - it might be enough for the others to escape. I’d take my chances against a crowd of probably untrained, caffeinated civilians over a bunch of half-trained recruits.

Tom and Matt heed my warning and vault off the loading dock. I shove another robed figure into the barrels and try to follow, running face first into a brick wall. Scratch that, a living wall. Arms like steel bands snap around me, pinning mine to my sides in a crushing bear hug. I fumble for the karambit hidden in my brace, but the angle’s all wrong. My ribs creak from the pressure. Can’t breathe. Darkness starts leaking into the edges of my vision.

My spyware should’ve already triggered an alert - vital signs dropping fast.

I just hope backup arrives before Edd and I are gone.

A voice cuts through the pounding in my skull, low and distorted. The pressure vanishes and I crumple. Hands lift me as I take in ragged breaths. This is bad, but I’m still alive. Gotta make the most of it. My head hurts.

Awareness starts to come back to me as I feel something being hooked to my back. I’m kneeling on the slightly sticky floor, hands bound behind me. A ringed hand lifts my chin.

“I’m surprised at the quality of your weapons. I didn’t expect the Pure One to have a bodyguard, if a bit inadequate. You can show your devotion to him with your sacrifice. We’ll catch his friends later.” She lets my head drop.

Oh no.

The hook on the zipline harness I’d been put in tightens and I’m slowly pulled into the air, the straps putting pressure on my sore chest. I try to swing a few kicks at the lady as my feet pass chest height.

Right, think. Assess. Ignore the headache. What do I have? My hands are crossed with rope. If I can get the karambit out I can try to cut it, then the harness. Where’s Edd? Still in the circle. He’s not drinking anymore but they’ve draped him in a Cola logo flag. Two by the altar, four now at the circle. The sunlight stabs my eyes. Where is everyone?

“EDD!” I call out, ceasing the movements of my hands for a moment. “EDD, SNAP OUT OF IT!”

Edd finally looks up at me with a contented look on his face. “Oh, hey Quinn! Why’re you up there?”

The lady that last spoke to me walks to the circle’s edge. “He shall be the sacrifice to fuel your ascension, Pure One. This heretic, this non-Cola drinker, shall be bathed in sacred syrup!”

Our looks of horror mirror each other and I hasten my attempt to escape. Edd finally starts panicking.

“That’s crazy! He’s my friend! You never said anything about a sacrifice! I thought this was just like a weird roleplay thing where I got free Cola, not the real deal!” Edd strains against his restraints. “When did these get here?”

Why won’t these ropes break?! Sure, my blade is small but this is too slow! If I’m not careful I’ll slash my unarmoured wrist and then I’d have another problem. The crane starts moving, dragging me over an open vat of syrup and lowering me closer. Time’s running out. Can I swing out of the way? No, they’d just shove me in manually. Have to escape and fight. My gun should be enough to take down the living wall, assuming they don’t have firearms of their own.

Where was my backup?!

The cultists surround the markings drawn on the floor, chanting something that sounds like ingredients over Edd’s protests. The syrup is close now. Even if I try to swim, the fluid is too thick, there’s no floating in that. My heart starts to pound like a jackhammer and I try to get some momentum to swing.

Whoever is manning the crane sees my legs moving and drops me the remaining metre. My feet plunge into the sun-warmed syrup, the impact stealing my breath for the third time today and sending the harness digging into my thighs. I can’t help my next breath from fuelling my disgusted cry of “EW!” as I feel the vile liquid invade my boots.

“My brethren!” shouts a new cultist in red and white. “Bear witness to the fizzy awakening of the Purest Cola Devotee! With the heretic’s essence, the runes shall ignite, and his soul shall bubble to the infinite! Praise the Fizz!”

“Praise the Fizz!” the other addicts echo. The syrup slithers over my hands and waist as I start to slip a hand free. Oh this feels so gross, it’s clinging to everything. I can’t help but start to hyperventilate as my attempts to wriggle out of the stupid rope barely make progress. This is a horrific way to go.

“HEY!” A familiar voice calls from a catwalk. We all look up to see Tom standing there, flanked by several barrels of syrup.

“Drink THIS!” he cries, toppling them over.

Sticky syrup explodes everywhere, splashing and spraying the cultists and the altars. With a click and a whirr, several industrial fans roar to life at maximum power.

The drenched cultists wail in frustration as their robes harden and their shoes glue to the floor, syrup crusting up under the strong wind. Matt darts across the sticky expanse from the fans, plastic bags tied over his shoes, and grabs Edd - chair and all - dragging him toward the nearest exit. One cultist lunges, bellyflopping onto the ground in a desperate attempt to stop them. Tom appears on the catwalk beside me, crowbar in hand, and hooks the lowering chain to pull me closer. My relief is palpable. The syrup had gone up to my chin by that point, and I had only managed to slip one hand free.

With a heave, he lifts me from the syrup and steadies me as I stumble upright. We run as fast as we can, him using the harness to drag me along. We meet Matt and an untied Edd at one of the intact fire exits and make our escape.

We duck inside the fabric factory to untie my other hand. I’m absolutely soaked through and shuddering at the sensation. I’ll have to take dish soap to the ends of my hair, and I’ve no clue if my gear is even salvageable. I hide the karambit in my fist as Tom loosens the ropes with his fingertips.

He makes his own sound of disgust as the syrup-slick cord slops to the ground. “Eugh. I dunno how you can drink this stuff, Edd.” Tom wipes his hands on the man’s green hoodie.

Edd just shrugs. “I obviously don’t drink the pure syrup stuff straight. Though they did let me try it! Speaking of which…” He turns to me as I fiddle with my sodden wrist brace. “How are you doing, Quinn? That was a closer call than usual.”

I let the harness flop off me and shlep the two steps over to him. I reach up to run my sticky hands through his hair, then slap them to his cheeks to pull him closer.

“I will be randomly testing your blood sugar for the next month.” I stipulate, locking my wide eyes with his jittery, caffeine-blasted stare. “If it’s over a certain level, you have to chug two bottles of water. What the hell is your life, honestly?!”

Edd pulls away, hair standing on end thanks to my five-star salon service. “Yeah, that’s fair. I don’t know what to tell you. I am a mess and my friends have every front-row seat.”

I do a Tom and start wiping my hands on his hoodie, trying not to show how much they’re shaking. I felt as useless as a screen door on a submarine during that mess. If it had been a test, I would have failed. And needing help? That was its own kind of failure. Getting caught, nearly drowning in liquid sugar… yeah, I’d be asking my instructors for lessons on how to escape holds like that. And maybe a chest x-ray. Pretty sure something’s cracked.

As we head for the loose bit of the fence, I finally register the low chatter in my ear - just in time to spot the neat line of black cars and vans along the block.

Ah. Maybe that was already on the docket for tomorrow. At least the problem behind us would be dealt with.

Getting home was… an affair. We end up bundling me in rubbish bags to avoid getting any syrup on the seats of the cab. I don’t think the cabbie bought our story of a prank gone wrong.

Once home, I thank Tom and Matt for the rescue and squelch inside, leaving a trail of dried sugar flakes behind me. I hop straight in the shower; clothes, boots, and all. As the syrup starts to melt under the hot water, I start peeling everything off. Boots are ruined, trousers are done for, goo drips from the nozzle of my SIG, and my wallet’s been well and truly slimed. Worst of all, I don’t think I can salvage my favourite zip hoodie. Even if I washed it a hundred times, the smell of Cola would be baked into it—a permanent reminder of my first close call.

Hair finally soft again, I shuffle into my living room in hopes of catching the start of a new documentary while I carry on with my homework. A jolt of vibrant colour cuts through the dim lighting, and I freeze.

On the sofa sits a pile of clothes folded with surgical precision. A note lies on top. I shakily step over and pick it up.

‘Replacements for your uniform and a little something to help you blend in.’

I don't bother looking at the rest. My fingers are already lifting the item before I fully register what I’m doing. The soft fabric boasts a cheerful colour. I lift the orange hoodie to chest height, feeling a brick settle in my chest with the weight of the true message.

That smug, manipulative piece of work. Always leaving just enough to remind me who's really in charge.

---

Quinn McLeod

Daily Report

Submitted 19:57

- Norwegian assignment completed.

- Bodyguard course module 1 started.

- Mission update: Asset 1 kidnapped and successfully recovered.

---

Items Equipped

Loadout:

SIG Sauer P365XL (IWB left crossdraw, high rib) – in need of repair

Fallkniven F1 (IWB Right Hip) – in need of cleaning

Karambit x2 (IWB Right Brace, IWB Left Hip) – in need of cleaning

Kevlar undershirt – Replaced

Modular Hip/Torso rig - Replaced

Armoured Wrist Brace (Right) – in need of replacement

Sketch of updated look:

Chapter Text

My head snaps to the door of Tom’s flat as it smashes open. I’m halfway out of my chair before I even register the sound, hand flying to where my knife usually sits before I catch myself. Matt stands in the doorway, beaming like he’s won the lottery and waving a glossy poster over his head.

“Guys! I know just the thing for our next adventure. Help me win a beauty pageant!” He declares proudly.

I exhale hard through my nose, forcing my hand to unclench and flopping back down.

“Huh?” Tom drawls, dropping his pen.

I drop my own only a beat behind, grateful for the break, a moment to stop the buzz of adrenaline under my skin. We’d been helping Edd catch up on inking commissions for hours. Why we were doing so in Toms kitchen, I haven’t a clue.

Matt sweeps into the room, practically bouncing as he slaps the poster down on the table.

“A beauty pageant?” Edd asks. “How can we help you win that?”

“I’m so glad you asked, my good man,” Matt says. “See, if you three enter alongside me, we increase the odds of me taking the crown! With Quinn’s updated look and your above-average appeal, we could knock a few weaker entries right out of the running!”

He flashes a wink like this was the most obvious strategy in the world.

Updated look, right. Matt had been delighted I was wearing more colour lately. Said the orange made me look ‘vibrant and inviting,’ which - naturally - reflected well on his own cheerfulness. I couldn’t really argue. That was probably the whole point.

Edd takes the poster from under his friend’s hand. “’The Föhnomenal Beauty Contest’. You really want us to enter, too?”

I found myself leaning closer — not out of excitement, but out of trained habit.

Gather intel. Evaluate. Assess threat levels.

I gently slide the poster out of Edd’s hand as Matt continues to explain his reasoning. Tom scooches over to get a better look.

The poster was very… eye-catching (more like gaudy). A cheap graphic of a runway glitters under blocky neon text. ‘The Föhnomenal Beauty Contest! Style your way to the prize!’. The grand prize apparently being a year’s supply of hair spray. My thumb drifts down to the date under the tagline ‘Get judged. Get glossy. Get Föhnomenal.’

“It’s in two days.” I say, looking up.

Tom snatches the poster from me with a squawk.

“Two days? Matt, even if the sign-ups are still open, how are we going to get the costumes on time? What sort of look do they even want?”

“Don’t worry about that!” Matt assures, waving a hand dismissively. “I already called ahead and signed us up! Even if you decline, that’s still less people competing!”

He really wants that hairspray, huh. I take another look at the poster while Tom gets progressively louder about being press-ganged into a beauty contest. Theme… ah, there. Anything goes. Well, that’s broad. But it does make things easier. I’m sure I could whip up something, maybe borrow some stuff from the Costume Department…  

I start doing my job. “I think it’s a neat idea.” I pipe up.

The boys pause and blink at me like I’ve grown a second head.

“Seriously?” Tom asks. “You’re usually the one that just goes along with everything despite not wanting to. Where’s this coming from?”

“Way to make me sound like a pushover, dude. No, but think, this is a lot safer than some of the stuff you told me you’ve done before,” it was like they had main character syndrome or something, “and it’d be a good opportunity to just goof off while helping Matt out. He made a sound argument.”

Matt puffs up. “See, I knew my fashion buddy would help me out-”

“Don’t call me that.”

“-and if the slim chance of any of you winning happens, I’ll swap the prize for a favour!”

Edd and Tom exchange devious looks that set off alarm bells in my head. I caught myself tensing - readying for something - before forcing my shoulders to drop again. They go and huddle by the fridge, whispering furiously.

I bend over the table and pretend to go back to inking. I really don’t want to do this. But it’s better than letting them stumble into danger unsupervised. Better to control the field we play on - even if it was something this stupid.

Edd and Tom come back, straightened like they were announcing a business deal.

“Alright, Matt. We have decided to help.” Edd says diplomatically. “In exchange for the grand prize, you have to do one favour of the individuals choosing at a time of their choosing.”

“Sold!” Matt cheers. “You’re not gonna regret this! I already have so many ideas on how to dress you up for a spot in the top 3! Excluding first place, of course.”

I shake my head as they start arguing over outfits. They totally missed the point they got nothing if they didn’t win.

I drop my gaze back to the table, running a mental checklist automatically. A soft exhale escapes me - not quite a laugh.

Two days. Crowded venue. Minimal prep time. Unknown security layout.

Normally, that kind of thing would've set off warning bells. Today, it just sounded like a quieter battlefield.

Yeah, rigging a beauty contest for hairspray was way saner than getting caught in crossfire. Small blessings.

Still…

My hand twitches over the sketch in front of me. Not from creativity, but from an ingrained urge to move. To scan. To prepare.

Because somewhere, deep down, I already knew:

No matter how many silly contests we entered, no matter how normal I tried to act... normal isn't something I could just choose anymore.

---

The next day at work I pop down to the Costume Department to find Jack. I had been talking to him from time to time since the mirror fiasco and somehow he had weaseled his way with the higher ups into being my official disguise tutor. Hopefully he would have some ideas on how to make me stand out just enough.

He perks up when he sees me.

“Hey Quinn! It’s not disguise time, so is this visit mission related? Or are you just here to see me?” He teases.

I jump right into it. “Hey, Jack. Unfortunately, I’ve been roped into a beauty contest to help one of my charges. I have to make top three but not win. Any suggestions on a theme? I got some 80’s bits I kinda wanna work with.”

His perfectly curved eyebrows raise in interest. “Beauty contest? Is it that hairspray one? I was considering entering, it’s a good high-end brand.”

I nod, not surprised he knows about it, and dump a pile of clothes on his workstation. “I was thinking of using the boots from my uniform to tie it together and hitting a charity shop for anything else.”

The artist starts sifting through my loot. I had managed to find my dad’s old motorcycle vest and a few old band t-shirts and tank tops. I figured he wouldn’t mind me reusing some of it.

Jack nods thoughtfully and wanders off toward a shelf, grabbing a photo album and a couple boxes of hair dye. I just stand there, letting him mutter through a brainstorm about band styles and accessories. His energy fills the space easily, giving me a moment to not think so hard.

He flips open the album, holds a few photos up to my face like a human mood board, and finally grins.

"I got some ideas," he says, eyes twinkling in that ‘you’ve unleashed something dangerous’ way. "Let’s get styling, yeah?"

---

I fidget with my hat as we stand in line the evening of the pageant, backpack pulling my shoulders down. I had made a point to avoid the trio until now to avoid spoiling my costume. If I’m being dragged into this circus, I at least wanted the satisfaction of a good dramatic reveal. Apparently, the venue has some props and costume items contestants could borrow, so I did overprepare. But not nearly as much as Matt. His bag is nearly twice the size of mine. I know exactly what he’d be dressing as, and I’ve dubbed it the ‘Dapper Disasterpiece’. Well, in my head.

I start surveying the competition with Matt, our priorities couldn’t be more different. He was sizing up rivals. I was going through the standard bodyguard checklist: exits, threats, crowd movement, and keeping track of my team. I have to shake myself out of security mode when we’re ushered backstage.

“Wow,” Edd says as we step behind the curtain, looking around at the chaotic sprawl of people and costumes. “This is a full-on stitchuation.”

I snort at the joke despite myself and silently agree.

There had to be at least forty people milling around backstage, all in varying states of pre-show panic or preening. Some looked like they’d wandered off a movie set. Others looked like they'd been mugged by a clearance rack. It was glorious, in a weird way.

“I kinda wish we still had access to the mirror.” Matt muses aloud, smoothing his jacket, “I’m perfect as I am, but the masses do tend to like girls more in this sort of thing.”

Tom snorts and yanks a frilly pink dress off a rack. “We can dress you in drag.”

That cracks the group up. Even a few nearby contestants chuckle.

I tried my best not to, but the ridiculousness of the mental image pushed me off kilter. I lost it, a quick sharp bark of a laugh before clapping a hand over my mouth. The release was dizzying, a brief lurch sideways out of my own head.

Woo, okay, breathe. Assess.

Two emergency exits. I lean back, pretending to stretch, and catch sight of a roof access ladder tucked behind the curtain. A casual scan shows catwalk stairs on the far side. About two hours left for prep and scoping.

Time to plan exit routes-

No. Stop that. This isn’t a training op. I shake my head like a wet dog and shove my hands in my pockets.

This was for fun. Remember fun?

But even as I tried to play along, some part of me stayed coiled, wound tight and humming just under my skin.

I heft my bag and say my temporary goodbyes to the guys, heading off to find a locker and changing room. I slip into one that had just been freed, dump my bag, and hoist myself into the ceiling. Monkey-barring around the roof of the stage, I keep hidden among the spotlights and shadows. Dangling by my knees, I start using my contact lens to zoom in on the workers’ faces. No record. Drink-driving. Nothing serious... she’s safe. So far, so good. Even if this is supposed to be fun, I can’t let my guard down. Who knows what could pop up next?

I drop back into the changing room and pull off my hat. My hair - streaked with angry slashes of orange - flops into my eyes, still stiff from the cheap spray I blitzed on an hour ago.

Why orange, Jack? How is that on theme?

I rake it back and tear into the costume we’d thrown together: my dads torn-up leather vest, torn up along the seams like he had fought his way through a mosh pit (he had, actually); a black tank printed with a bleeding white skull; and cling-tight ripped grey skinnies that feel more like a bad idea every time I move.

Buckles, belts, and chains clatter as I get dressed. The look isn’t comfortable, but it sure as hell makes a statement. Tonight, I’m just punk. I’m bad news in glam. And that fit just fine.

I strut out toward the lockers, my boots slamming on the tile like hammer blows. The extra inches in the heels making me tower – not by much, but enough to be noticed. My hair, usually a lazy swoop, had been teased and sprayed into vicious upward spikes in the front. The back is left shaggy and feral in a classic feathered mullet, like a lost Motley Crew backup dancer who’d seen one too many brawls. I had been tempted to go full Davie Bowdie on the makeup, but I was trying to stand out a little bit, not a lot.

People in half-done and extravagant outfits clear the way. I clench a hand, feeling the rings weighing down my knuckles clattering against each other. I couldn’t have my usual gear on me tonight, so hopefully having the equivalent of brass knuckles would work in a pinch.

I stride up to Edd and Tom, who take a moment to notice me. Or maybe recognise me. The heavy black eyeliner and contours do change the shape of my face at a glance, which could come in handy at another time.

“Heeeyy,” Tom complains. “I thought I was supposed to be the rock star!”

I raised a darkened eyebrow, appraising his checkered and leather-patched theme. “And how was I supposed to know that? You never said anything.”

He gives me a once-over before meeting my eyes, which are finally level with his thanks to my uniform boots. “May the best rocker win then,” and holds out the hand not clutching the prop guitar. I slap my own hand, decked in identical black nail polish, into his and match his competitive grin.

“The 90s called. They want their angst back,” Edd deadpans.

I take a moment to assess his getup. He had gone full early 2000’s skater boy, complete with the shutter shades. Where did he even find those? The messy green zip hoodie with ripped elbows and his bandaged knees were a nice touch, but I didn’t foresee him getting far.

Edd rolls a skateboard under one foot. “Well, Matt probably won’t be done until the competition is about to start, so I’m off for a wander.” He rolls away with a bit of wobble but a lot of confidence. Tom follows with his guitar slung over his shoulder like a bat.

I linger, surveying the contestants again. Some of them are definitely top-three contenders I’ll have to keep an eye on. Jack had given me a sabotage kit to experiment with, but could I really do that? It felt… underhanded. Sure, I’m already participating in Matt’s plan to rig the competition, but it’s not like there’s any guarantee we’ll win.

My qualms get thrown out the window upon hearing a snooty laugh. A Gatsby-wannabe strides in through the backstage entrance, swinging a white-tipped cane like he thinks he’s about to headline the party of the century. A pristine packaged suit is delicately carried over one shoulder. He curls his lip at the rest of us.

“Oh, look at this rabble, my dear.” He sneers to the woman clinging to his arm. “What a garish display.”

The woman titters and twirls the end of her feathered boa. “I totally agree with you, my love. This is the perfect occasion to show the little people what true class looks like.”

Ah, I recognise this guy. He’s the son of some washed-up B-list actor with one claim to fame that burned out faster than a one-hit wonder. His offspring kept trying to ride those short coattails and make a name for themselves. I guess they took the saying that ‘all attention is good attention’ too seriously.

The guy I now dub Snooty McSnooterface turns his grimace on me. “Ugh, how vulgar. Let’s see if we can talk to the judges, my dear.”

Yup, he’s dead. Well, figuratively. I think there’s a seam ripper with his name on it.

It’s only later that I realise how deep I’d slipped into the saboteur mindset. I blame my instructors and Jack for giving me the idea in the first place. Definitely Jack for enabling me. A rip here, a sprinkle of neutralizer here, pop the sole, hide a bag… I generally cause chaos unnoticed for the next 90 minutes.

My mobile buzzes as I’m perched up high again, tracking a contestant with a domestic violence charge.

Matt: Come one, come all, to see the Magnificent Matt!

Looks like he finally finished. Maybe I should take a moment to touch up my eyeliner.

I giggle to myself as I make my way to the floor. Matt’s gonna have a conniption seeing his kind, rule-following ‘fashion buddy’ dressed like some sort of rude delinquent.

I spot him and the others talking near the entrance of the changing area. It was hard not to. What the hell did he do.

I sneak up behind his glittering back and spin him around, trying not to touch his sleeve. Matt looks down at me in surprise and then regret.

“What… is that hair dye?” he asks. I squint at his teeth. Was that edible glitter?

“Quinn!” He whines, breaking my sparkle-stunned trance. “We were supposed to match! I sent you a picture of my outfit for a reason! We could’ve been the Dapper Duo!”

Oops. I totally missed that. I shrug to try and brush it off. “Sorry, Matt. I don’t have a suit ‘dapper’ enough for this. Besides, the more theme varieties we have, the more chances one of us makes it through. At least Tom and I are different enough.”

Tom’s likely rude comeback is cut off by a booming voice over the speakers.

“Welcome, contestants, to the Föhnomenal Beauty Contest! Please make your way to the signs to get your number to walk the runway!”

We make our way to the signs, Edd hooking a finger on my vest to be dragged along on his skateboard.

“So,” he asks, “what’ve you been up to this whole time?”

“Being the embodiment of confusion.” I answer flatly. Not technically wrong.

Edd just chuckles and drifts over to a venue employee.

I get my number. Twenty-six. Bruh, not a multiple of thirteen. Is this a curse? Should I get checked for a curse?

Matt sees my grimace.

“Nervous?” he asks.

“…Yes.”

“Is this your first time?”

“No, I’ve been nervous lots of times.”

Matt snickers. “No, like, on stage. I can tell this isn’t really your scene. Still, thanks for giving it a go.”

I look away, lips twitching into a reluctant smile as I scan the crowd for potential threats to my mission assets.

A lady with a clipboard walks over to us. “Right, I’ll need your names and the names of your looks.”

Matt twirls the fedora off his head and dips into a flourished bow. “The Magnificent Matt, Gentleman Extraordinaire. At your service, m’lady.”

She jots down something distinctly shorter and glances at me. “And… you? What are you wearing?”

I’m wearing thin on patience, that’s what. “I pulled some of my dad’s old stuff out of storage. He had a glam punk phase. Just put ‘late 80’s backup dancer’, or something.”

Her eyebrows raise slightly, but she jots down something short down again. “Alright, just wait for your number and be ready to perform. Sound booth’s over there if you want to pick your music. Good luck!”

Matt runs off to choose his soundtrack. Did I want one? I’m not fussed. Also can’t be bothered elbowing through the crowd with these spikes. Whatever.

The event starts with fanfare. And my efforts to thin the herd? Totally worth it.

The best-looking contestants start to suffer wardrobe malfunctions left and right. A sole pops off one guy’s boot. Someone loses all their buttons. Another contestant’s shiny shirt rips straight up the back the second he flexes his arms.

And to top it off, my masterpiece, Snooty and his feathery girlfriend.

Right as they glide onto the runway, his pristine suit splits down both sides like tissue paper, and one of her heels snaps clean off. They stumble, trying to keep their balance, like two drunken swans in a ballroom disaster.

There’s only room for one dapper dude in this competition, and he ate glitter. Seriously.

Edd, the ‘Skater Boi’ cruises down the stage to the tune of a censored ‘Teenagers’. He doesn’t really pull off a convincing teen (unless puberty hit them like a truck) but he’s having fun with his backwards cap and scruffy look.

As number 25 gets to the end of the stage, I feel a tap on my shoulder. I turn around to see a woman in a shimmery red tango dress hold up her phone.

“Hey, Thirteen! Smile!”

She doesn’t wait and snaps a shot of my shocked, angered face, spinning off into the crowd. I hear a stagehand call for number 26.

My stomach twists, cold and hard. I step into the wings, scanning, but she’s long gone. Her words cling to me like wet paint.

Thirteen. No one here should know that nickname.

I try to shove it down. Just get through this. Focus.

The lights blast out over the stage, harsh and hot.

The first low growls of Deaf Leppard’s Personal Jesus cover shakes the floor under my boots, rattling up through my chest.

Good choice, sound guy. Wish I could enjoy it.

I step out, scowling without meaning to, fists half-clenched, shoulders locked stiff. My boots thud with the beat, loud and heavy. Chains rattle at my hips. Every step sounds like it wants to pick a fight, like someone daring me to flinch first. I don’t even have to fake the energy. It drips off me.

The judges sit up straighter, eyes on me like I’m edible glitter. Of course they like it - the slouch, the glare, the "I'd rather be anywhere else" posture.

It wasn’t supposed to fit this well. I’m not even sure I'm acting anymore.

I go through the poses Jack and I practised, though stiff and mechanical. Chin up, half-turn, dead-eyed stare.

One of the judges leans to the side and says something low. The others laugh.

Great. I’m punk now.

I hope Matt appreciates this.

I storm off the stage and veer to the side to take some calming breaths. It isn’t working. Matt and Edd make their way over to me.

“You looked so in character out there, totally a Punk Prince!” Matt said, practically bouncing with excitement. Punk Prince? Is that how they introduced me? I’d say the look is more glam leaning but whatever.

“Thanks,” I manage through grit teeth. “I was actually being stalked.”

“Well, whatever it was, it was awesome! You’ll definitely make top three.”

“Don’t count your glitter before it’s thrown,” Edd interjects. “Tom still has to go. He’s actually going to play the guitar on the way up.”

I nod. That tracks. Tom is very protective of his banged-up bass guitar, it figures he has some musical talent.

“What number are you, Matt?” I change the subject. Anything to get my mind off the fact I was being watched.

“Oh, second to last,” he waves, carefree. “I feel sorry for whoever’s going after me, the judges aren’t going to be able to focus on them after my performance!”

An unknown song accompanied by the thrums of a live electric guitar echo around the stage.

“Oh, Tom’s on!” Edd exclaims as he sees his friend start stalking toward the curtain. “Let’s go watch.”

We huddle around the gap in the curtain, stacked like cartoon characters. I placed my palms on a crouching Edd’s shoulders as Matt breathes over my shoulder. He’d better not be getting glitter on my dad’s vest.

‘Rockstar Chaos’ shreds down the stage, looking like a ska rocker making his debut at a professional concert. The judges are into it—right until the end when he smashes the guitar. The crack echoes through the speakers. Well, if there were points for attitude, he got all of them.

Edd and Matt congratulate him on his riveting performance when he gets backstage, but he’s quickly pulled to the side by a scowling venue organizer. I had a feeling his wallet was about to get a few hundred pounds lighter.

Matt’s turn comes up fast. “Well, chaps, it’s time for the Magnificent Matt to grace the stage. Wish me luck!”

I lean over to Edd. “Doesn’t ‘Magnificent Matt’ sound like he pulls rabbits out of hats?” I whisper, making Edd snicker. “Also, did he get any glitter on me?”

Edd wipes some off my shoulder with his sleeve. “You’re good. I like the look; you look like a time traveller.”

I grin for the first time that evening and lean back to the curtain, Edd taking up his crouching position again.

A low beat starts up as Matt struts to the stage, bursting through the curtain when the brass instruments pick up. I recognise this! It’s some sort of electro swing piece. I had to hand it to Matt; he knew how to make an entrance. I feel a weight on my shoulder again as Tom takes Matt’s abandoned spot.

The ‘Dapper Glitterman’ struts up the stage, twirling a cane like he owns the place. Halfway down the runway, he breaks into some solo Charleston footwork - all glitter and jazz hands - like it’s the roaring twenties again. Somehow, he doesn’t eat it.

The judges jump to their feet, and half the crowd with them, cheers raining down like confetti. He removes his glittery fedora with a deep bow and vanishes behind the curtain with the same confident strut.

I hang back as Edd and Tom join the crowd surrounding Matt. Guy was right – the judges would not be able to focus on the last person with a performance like that.

I scan the room for the tango lady. I didn’t see her go before or after me, so unless she was one of the first to traverse the catwalk, she was not a contestant. Why would she be here? Were her assets here? Or was she here to observe me?

A voice calling my name jolts me from my troubled thoughts. “It’s almost time for the winner announcement!” Edd waves me over. “Get over here!”

Costumes and fabric swish and rustle as people murmur to themselves. The curtains part, revealing the full line-up of contestants to the crowd. A three-spot podium had been placed at the end of the catwalk. The blinding lights made anxiety slosh in my gut. The audience is a blur of featureless shadows. How could I see anyone like this?

The announcer struts across the stage, looking like a walking cologne ad dressed to the nines in a sharp suit, hair perfectly coiffed. “Hello, hello, all you fashion lovers out there!” he greets into the mic, smiling with teeth too white to be real. “I’m your host, Bruno Volumetti, one of the fine judges and representative of Föhnomenal Hair Inc.! Thank you for attending the Föhnomenal Beauty Contest. Now let’s get to it!”

The lights dim and a spotlight locks onto him. “First off, as thanks for attending, each audience member will get a half-off coupon for a Föhnomenal product of their choice!” The crowd roars. I’m surprised how many people actually showed up.

“Secondly, every contestant will get a coupon for one free product from Föhnomenal’s haircare line, no matter where you placed! It’s our way of saying cheers for taking part.” Polite clapping smatters through the venue. I guess I’ll give mine to Jack as thanks for his help. Edd and Tom’s would probably end up in Matt’s glittery paws.

Bruno throws a hand in the air like he’s about to launch into a power ballad. “Now for the real prizes! The judges scored you all based on several categories, plus a hidden one!”

The crowd oohs. “That’s right! They carefully considered each contestants outfits, theme, stage presence, and the secret category: their hair! Because of course a contest hosted by a hair care company would consider that!”

I hear murmurs behind me. Edd musses the tuft of hair sticking out the hole in his cap. Yeah, no points there apparently. I’m starting to suspect Jack styled my hair the way he did on purpose.

“In 5^th place, we have ‘Rockstar Chaos’, Tom!” A spotlight illuminates him and I tug Matt out of the beam. “He got in by the skin of his teeth. Or rather, the spikes of his hair!”

Bruno hands a surprised Tom a small goodie bag and moves on to the 4^th place winner, a lady in a dress suited for a cocktail party. My pulse kicks up. What if I came ahead of Matt? What if I didn’t place? Would my work be for nothing?

Bruno grins, ambling toward the edge of the stage. “And now the top 3! Get ready to be wowed all over again!”

The spotlight hits me square in the face. “In third place, it’s our second rocker - he’s got the attitude, the eyeliner, and a feathered mullet to die for, the Punk Prince! Come and take your place on the stage!”

I dodge Matt’s glittery congratulatory shoulder pat and saunter up the stage to the tune of ‘We Will Rock You’, adjusting my mesh glove. Bit off-era, but it gets the point across.

“He shot into the top 3 with his killer presentation and styling!” Bruno continues. “Let’s hear it for him!”

I hop on the third-place podium and strike a pose with an arm in the air and flash the crowd the ‘rock on’ hand for good measure.

I stand with my hands loosely in my pockets as Bruno chooses the second-place contestant. Shock buzzes through me. Third place? Honestly a best-case scenario, any higher and I’d be dealing with fallout from Matt. And myself. And Jack.

A woman in an honest-to-God ballgown and rigid curled hair floats to the podium to the sounds of a waltz. Wow. How did I miss her? She must’ve been a late arrival.

I tune back to the announcer.

“And finally,” says Bruno, with a drumroll in his voice, “our first-place winner, the one to take home the prize of a year’s worth of hairspray, please cheer for Matt, the Dapper Glitterman! He shot to the top with his wonderful and well curated performance, topped with perfectly coiffed hair!”

He won! Success! It wasn’t a Disasterpiece in the end!

I clap politely with the ballgown woman, trying to keep my cool. Matt joins us with a glittering leap, the podium making him tower more than usual.

Bruno hands the woman and I large gift bags filled with products. I peek past the tissue paper. I don’t see anything I’d use… I’ll let Matt and Jack take their pick. Maybe send a pic to Marissa first, to see if she wants anything.

A curtain swishes around the curve of the runway and the stage lights cut out. Tom and Edd rush over as we hop down, narrowly avoiding a full-body collision with Matt.

“You did it! The plan wor-mphf” I slap a hand to Edd’s mouth, hissing a shush. Dude, don’t blab we rigged it.

Matt puffs out his chest. “I did win! And you all placed so high!” He sniffs and wipes a glittery tear away. “I’m so proud of you guys.”

Edd shrugs. “Well, I didn’t place, but I had a fun time trying. I guess you could say I wiped out with style.”

He finger-guns like that was the best skateboarding pun in history.

Bruno swaggers over with a grin. “Congratulations, Matt. We at Föhnomenal are proud to present you with your prize - a year’s worth of hairspray… and a job offer!” He hands Matt a large bag and a business card.

Our jaws drop, making Bruno laugh. “Yes, a job! You have the potential to be a great model, Matt! How about it?”

Before I can stop him, Matt seizes Bruno’s hand and shakes it like a maraca. “Oh, yes, please! This is like a dream come true!”

I catch the brief flicker where Bruno’s eyes stop matching his smile and step in.

“Alright, that’s incredible, Matt!” I start to redirect. “How about we go celebrate and talk about it more, yeah?”

Tom catches on and ghosts his arm over his friend’s shoulders. “Brilliant idea. Let’s get our champ outta here.”

We trundle an awestruck Glitterman off the stage and toward the changerooms.

Back in the change room, I wrestle with the hundred buckles holding this getup together when my phone buzzes.

Marissa: Love your new look!

Attached is a screenshot of me standing on the podium. Noooo. Was this live streamed?! Right, that’s it. Life over, bury me now.

I open a rain of unread texts from Jack reacting to the contest and the awards ceremony.

Jack: Amazing work, man! That runway routine paired with the attitude was perfect. I already sent it to our handlers!

Jackie boy, you done messed up. Now we’ll have extra work on top of our usual. I am not a dress up doll!

A final unread text from an unknown number is left. I open it to see a close-up photo of my shocked face.

Unknown: Great performance, Thirteen. Our boss will love to see this.

That answers the question about the tango lady.

Dammit, Tord.

I clomp out of the change room in my orange hoodie and comfy cargo trousers, relieved to be out of those jeans. I leave my hair and makeup alone. No getting that spray and dye out until I’m home, and I had forgotten makeup remover anyway. I approach the trio with a mascara smudge under my left eye.

Tom raises an eyebrow. “Going goth now?” He jokes.

I deadpan and turn to a still-sparkling Matt, who’s pouting. “What’s wrong?”

He throws his hands in the air. “They lied to me! They said it’d be a year’s worth of hairspray, but its only five cans! I go through way more than that!”

I can’t stop myself from chuckling and share an amused look with the others. “I think it’s based on statistics.” I explain. “That’s usually how these prizes work. You’re just… above average, Matt.”

That makes him pause and grin. “Yeah, I am above average! I won! Take that, snooty guy!”

We push out the back doors into the night air, cool against my overheated skin.

I follow them out, smiling.

But the energy that carried me through the contest is already draining fast, and somewhere under the laughter, my morals crack just a bit more.

---

Quinn McLeod

Daily Report

Submitted 19:11

- Norwegian assignment completed.

- Bodyguard course module 3 started.

- Special Ed 1 reading completed.

- Mission update: Assisted Asset 3 in winning a contest. Further trust established.

---

Items Equipped

Loadout:

Fallkniven F1 (IWB Right Hip)

Karambit x1 (IWB Left Hip)

Hip rig

Crappy sketch I did while planning (just for fun):

Chapter Text

“Breaking news!”

The sound of a news segment cuts through the squelch of zombie guts from the old zombie movie Edd and the others were watching on my VCR. I peel myself off my yoga mat in the kitchen and wander into the living room, confused. Since when can a news segments interrupt a tape?

“A well-known celebrity and ghost hunter has gone missing in the abandoned trainyard at the edge of the city!” the anchor cheerfully says. “Let’s go live to Chris on scene.”

They huddle around the telly, eyes glued to the screen.

A terrified looking man with a microphone clutched tightly in his hands appears in front of a menacing backdrop. “T-Thanks Vicky. Tonight, I’m at Ruxton Sidings covering the investigation into the m-mysterious disappearance of well-known celebrity and ghost hunter, Victor Penkmen and his crew, who were following rumours of a ghost train. I’m j-joined by the Chief of Police, James Gorman. Chief, what do you think about this case?”

The Chief leans into the microphone, moustache twitching. “I fink it’s all one big publicity stunt, innit! Nuffink down ‘ere but rust an’ ghost stories. I’d bet me hat they show up next week wiv some daft tale fer the cameras.” With that, the man grumps away.

A horrible shriek of metal on metal is caught by the news anchors mic and he squeals in fright. “A-a-and there you have it! Real stakes or just a stunt? Only time will tell!”

The camera switches to the anchor lady. “Penkmen’s studio is currently offering a monetary reward for any credible information on the crew’s whereabouts. Onto other news-…”

Edd mutes the telly and turns to us with a grin. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

Matt bluescreens and Tom groans. I can, I want to say. Edd was obviously thinking about going to the trainyard to nose about and chase the reward money. I stay quiet to let him think he wasn’t as predictable as he really was sometimes.

“Go-“ Tom starts, but Edd jumps in, brimming with energy. “We should investigate the trainyard ourselves! Imagine what we could do with the reward money!”

I stare at him.

He grins wider.

“Really?” I ask, voice flat. “That’s the only reason?”

“I like trains,” he adds, unbothered.

I resist the urge to bash my head against the coffee table, instead settling for a sigh laced grief and internal screaming. What was I do to with these thrill-chasers? Why couldn’t they make my job easier and stay home instead of chasing adventures?

---

I clamber out of Edd’s car with trepidation. Cloudy night, no moon, and only some battery powered flashlights and handheld radios to work with. Way to check off all the cliches, Edd.

I had apprised them of the trainyards history on the way over. Ruxton Sidings—also known as Rust Town Sidings by those nearby—was made just before the Blitz as a munitions handling yard and eventually served as a logistics point. It was absorbed into British Rail in the 50’s and used to store old engines, redundant freight, military surplus, and outmoded passenger trains. It was later mothballed and sold off in the 90’s and was supposed to be cleared… but never was. Now it’s a capsule of 70 years of rust, weeds, and history.

If anything, those tidbits just made them more excited to explore.

The summer heat had eased off tonight. I’m tempted to take my hoodie off to end enjoy the breeze, but it’s the only thing between me and every tetanus-ridden sharp out here so I suffer and keep it on.

We stand before the rusted gates, torches on and radios ready. I do a quick sweep of the area for any special tags, making sure the guys couldn’t see the red ring in my eye from the active contact. I had checked the marked-up tourist map for any nearby bases before we left—there was a flagged base nearby, but whether it was in the trainyard proper or the derelict factory next door, the symbol wasn’t clear. Either way, I’m on high alert from here on out.

“Alright, troops.” Edd marches in front of us holding his torch like a very short musket. A glance at the others just gets me shrugs. “Tonight, we venture into perilous territory to find lost souls. Vigilance is the key lest we become lost souls ourselves!”

“Please don’t say that,” Matt whispers.

“Tom!” Edd points his light at the man, blinding him. “Choose your partner for this expedition!”

Tom huffs and holds a hand to his face, blinking stars from his eyes. I guess his sunglass contacts don’t help with direct lights. Wait, why is he wearing those now? Can he even see? If he walks into a signal post, I’d feel about 10% responsible.

“Not it,” Matt beats me to the punch. Dang it. I suppose I’ll be taking the half-blind guy. Wait, no, going with any of them has perks of keeping them from doing anything stupid, so…

“Why split up?” I ask. “This place is dangerous and large. Sticking together may be slower, but safer.”

Edd takes a breath to defend his idea but I butt in again. “Also splitting up invites like every horror thriller death flag. You know I sit those movies out for a reason.”

That makes Edd close his mouth. He knows I don’t like horror or related genres, but that didn’t mean I can’t recognise clichés. Or bad ideas.

“I’m with Quinn on this one,” Matt pipes up. “Splitting up just seems like it’ll invite bad things. Remember the ruins in the backyard?”

That make Tom suck in a breath through his teeth. “Yeaaah, I’m not keen on going solo with Edd again. Matt, you take him.”

I facepalm as Matt protests. They must be referring to the rigged and haunted so-called ‘Egyptian ruins’ they somehow found in their back garden when Tord lived with them. I’d gotten a summary from him and Edd on separate occasions, but it still baffles me they found even a replica one in suburban England.

Not my problem. Focus.

I pat the two on the shoulders. “Let’s just stick together.” I say, looking at Edd. “If anything goes wrong, there will be two people to stay with whoever gets hurt while someone runs for help.”

Edd rolls his eyes. “Fiiiine. It’ll take forever though.”

Matt settles slightly. Good. One less outright terrified person among us. Edd, I’m blaming you if I get nightmares.

We duck under the police tape cordon, shoes crunching on the gravel spreading from the old tracks. It really is a large depot; I had counted at least 11 tracks filled with decrepit train cars and engines with satellite view on my phone’s map. I double check my pockets to try and ease my nerves. My fingers curl around the silver and iron metal knuckles. I’m taking no chances, who knew what sort of creatures or spooks were attracted here over the decades? Better safe than sorry. I did feel a bit better knowing the others were experienced zombie fighters, but I doubted there were any here.

Metal creaks and pings as it lets out the built-up heat from the summer sun into the cool night air. Our torchlight dances across skeletal frames and shattered windows. The smell of rust and scorched engine oil permeates the air.

“So, does anyone know where exactly the film crew went missing?” Tom speaks up.

“I figured we can just find the spot the police were investigating and go from there.” Edd answers.

“Oh, so no plan. Good.”

I nudged Matt’s arm as the two bicker and raise an eyebrow at him. “You alright?” I whisper.

“Yea. I think so. Not as scary as being stuck in the tube with a horde of zombies, at least.” He whispers back.

I can’t help but chuckle. Fair.

“Over there!” Tom whisper-yells, and darting towards to a passenger carriage. We sprint after him.

He kneels to pick up a camera lens cap.

“A clue!” Matt cheers. I quickly shush him.

“And the door here’s got barely any rust, doesn’t it boys?” Tom grins. “I think we have a lead.”

We move deeper into the yard, weaving around rusted cars. I’m kept busy corralling them away from pits and crawlspaces. The longer we stay, the more I thought I’d acclimate. Not that I’d let my guard down and say something like ‘Nothing bad’s happened yet.’ I’m not that dumb. But I figured the creep factor would dull with time.

It doesn’t.

The fog thickens, muting even the usual wildlife. All that’s left is the creak of old metal and the soft crunch of gravel beneath our boots. My nerves stay razor-edged.

When we pass the engine cabin of one of the newer trains, I pause. The place is a time capsule—wood panelling, cracked leather seats, and rusted dials. I lean in, squinting at a board nailed to the wall. The date on the log sheet didn’t match when the yard supposedly shut down. That couldn’t be right.

A loud slam jolts me - Tom again, probably kicking something open. I turn to join the boys outside and-

Nothing.

“Guys?” I call, poking my head outside.

Fog. Nothing but fog. No voices. No movement. This can’t be happening.

I lean out more, scanning for human shapes along the tracks and pull out my radio to signal them.

“Guys,” I intone, “leaving me behind is neither funny nor wise.”

The radio crackles with static. “..nn? Wh… you?”

Oh, brilliant. It’s glitching.

“The car you just left, dummy. Get back here.”

Edd’s voice filters through the fuzz. “Explo- own. Meet at- later, ‘kay?”

“Meet at the car?” I clarify.

“Ye-“

A burst of static swallows the rest.

What could be causing this interference? Were these radios just that bad over distances? Or was this place built to eat signals? Nothing to do about that ‘cept complain, I suppose.

I don’t think they meant to leave me behind.

Probably figured I was right behind them, same as I figured they wouldn’t get too far. We'd been sticking together pretty well since we got here, but all it takes is one bad assumption or one moment of “I’ll just check this out real quick,” or “He’ll catch up.”

That’s all it ever takes. Shouldn’t’ve gotten distracted.

I hop out of the cabin, jittery and ears peeled for any sounds of life. Or un-life, I guess. The fog is almost unnaturally thick, as dense as the moors. I didn’t know it could condense this much so close to the city.

Now which way would they have gone?

With a spin on my heel, I trudge into the damp, ready to ream them out for their carelessness.

---

I trace a wary path around a rusted engine, my torch’s beam sweeping across its silhouette. Like hell I’d do more than this - this place is tetanus ground zero. We never should have been going in the cars in the first place.

A whisper brushes too close to my ear. “Thirteen…”

I whirl around, eyes frantically searching the shadows for something that wasn’t there. Nothing - just the thud of my pulse, the hollowed ribcage of a train car, and… wait. My contact flickers.

A ghostly silhouette in a tattered Red Army uniform stands in a cracked window, grinning and one eye glowing red. My reflection gives a mocking salute and vanishes in a blink. All that remains is the telltale red shimmer of a red army tag and the sharp chemical sting of antiseptic floating in the air.

My gut twists. The realisation hits me about as gentle as a freight train. The base wasn’t in the factories. This isn’t an ordinary trainyard, it is the base. And judging by the smell, the camera crew is already long gone. I have to get the others out – now – before they trigger something we can’t walk away from.

I bolt, one hand squeezing the radio like a stress ball, the other trying in vain to steady my light.

“Guys! Where are you?!”

I only get static in return.

I duck in a gap between cars and into an open area, catching myself as I trip on a rail, coming to a stop in the middle of a track. Long lines of old first-class and sleeper cars flank the tracks to the sides.

I flick my torch across the gutted shell of what was once an opulent train car, but the beam only gets swallowed by the swirling fog. Gravel crunches under my boots, the uneven stones giving a dull, shifting sound - almost like breathing.

Focus, I scold myself. Get the idiots, get out.

Somewhere behind, a metal door creaks open, then slams shut with a clang that rattles my spine. My heart jackhammers into my ribs.

I whip around - nothing there.

Just shadows and the endless whistle of the wind through the abandoned yard.

The air shifts. It smells sharp. Oily. Like... burnt wires.

I take a step back and my torch stutters, flickering wildly before cutting out completely.

I'm plunged into darkness so thick I can feel it clawing at the edges of my mind.

A shrill, distant train horn bellows through the fog.

The ground beneath me rumbles faintly, gravel shivering underfoot.

I freeze.

No trains have run through here in decades. I know that. I know that-

Another low rumble.

A glowing light, faint and sickly, blooms far down the tracks — like a headlamp cutting through the mist.

"Nope," I whisper, trying not to hyperventilate.

And then - movement.

Figures, half-formed, drifting in and out of the light: long coats, blurred faces, the glint of brass buttons.

A dining car flickers into view beside them, candlelit tables laid out under rotten silk banners.

Ghostly passengers lift transparent glasses in a silent toast, faces stretched into too-wide grins.

I stumble back-

-and blink.

They're gone.

Just rusted steel and smashed glass.

I'm losing it. I'm losing it.

Another whisper brushes my ear. Too close.

I spin, pulling my gun from under my hoodie in one shaking hand, the other fumbling to stow my radio.

The shadows shift - no, approach - one peeling away from the others, gliding toward me with something clutched in its hand.

I aim, teeth grit-

"Whoa, whoa! Don't shoot, dummy!"

The voice is jarringly grounded enough to freeze my trigger finger. The figure yanks off their helmet, revealing a grinning, sweaty face under a matte black uniform.

"Quinn?! Man, you're jumpy," Wyatt says, slapping my arm down. "Thought you might stumble in here. Welcome to the Field Ops Centre for the Spook Squad."

I stare, chest heaving, brain trying to reboot.

Wyatt laughs at my face. "Relax. It's all tech, man! Holograms, sound tricks, fog. Bet we almost got you to wet yourself, huh?"

I holster my weapon with shaky hands, still half convinced I'm dreaming.

He thumps my shoulder. "You look like hell. Want a hand getting your civvie pals outta here before they find something they shouldn't?"

I wet my lips. “Wh… Why are you here, Wyatt? I thought you were with the administrative division.”

Wyatt shrugs. “I was getting bored so I signed up for a department rotation. I think I’ll stick to the Spook Squad; it’s a lot of fun! Hey, you wanna take turns scaring your buddies?”

I reach out and bat his head several times. “Why. Would. You. Test. This. Out. On. Me?! You had to have known I wasn’t a civvie!”

Wyatt laughs and dances away. “You would’ve had to come out here eventually, just think of it as your test being moved up.”

I shake my head and take another calming breath. “Just tell me what to expect and how to navigate this place and I’ll drag them out. And… stand by, please.”

“Yeah, sure, it’s your mission. I’ll find them for you. My partner is currently practising his ambience tech on them, hold on a mo.”

Wyatt raises a hand to his ear and fires off some rapid-fire questions in Norwegian. I place my hands on my knees and start a box breathing cycle: in for four, hold, out for four, hold. Reset the brain. Reset the nerves. I really need to get a grip - why did I draw? I know better than that. God, what if it had been Edd? Or Matt or Tom? I’m supposed to protect them, not point a weapon at shadows. This is why I avoid horror. It’s like my upper brain function throws reason out the window and goes full stupid.

Wyatt pats my back, dragging me out of my spiral. “Okay, so the civvies are about a kilometre or so that way. I’ll take you to where my partner is hiding and you can rejoin them. Wanna hear about the neat stuff we get to play with in here?”

“Hell yes. Tell me what to avoid! I hate this kind of stuff.” I blurt out, lightheaded now that the adrenaline’s bailing. Or maybe my blood pressure lowering?

My now spooky homework buddy barks out a laugh and motions for me to follow.

Wyatt chats as we walk, like he didn’t just scare the soul out of me. Turns out Ruxton Sidings was bought by the Red Army under the table about five years ago from the company that had just let it rot. Keeping the original trains and buildings, they outfitted the place with all sorts of security technology to test on trainees and the civilians that occasionally wander in. Spring trapped doors, fog machines, holograms… it’s a horror directors paradise.

Wyatt leads me into a maintenance pit between some tracks.

“Tyr!” he hisses to the man crouched inside. “Can you calibrate his contact to pick up on the traps and tech here? He’s gonna lead the civvies out.”

Tyr stands up and makes a grabby gesture at me. I kneel on a wooden slat between the tracks and he presses a gadget to my eye.

“Please get them out of here.” Tyr murmurs as we wait. “Your guys are weird.”

I huff a laugh. “And I got front row tickets to everything. I’ve found like 5 anomalies so far. Well, they did, I just tagged them. My first was a genderswapping mirror.”

Tyr and Wyatt snicker. “Yeah,” Tyr pulls the gadget away from my face, “it was not exactly a secret, especially after you walked around base with hair down to your butt.”

I reach over and flick his helmet. “What was I gonna do, chop it off? Anyway, what did you do to my contact?”

Tyr points to a nearby carriage. “Everything of ours is either shimmer tagged or holo-tagged. I just tuned you into the holo-tag network.” I squint at a dim red outline on the ground near a wheel. “That’s an infrasound speaker there. Just take a look for those outlines and don’t trigger the traps.”

Tyr turns and points to the tracks behind him. “There’s holo-tags leading out. We didn’t shimmer tag it because most trainees have the same contact as you or the implant and that’d ruin their training run. Best of luck.”

I get to my feet as Tyr fades into the pit. Wyatt perches on the edge. “We’ll hang out here. Just ping if you need me to step in. Your guys are almost here, just follow the lines. Hey, did you finish your homework yet?”

I shove him in the pit and walk away, hands curled in my hoodie pockets. Moved my test up, hmph. Yet another one I failed then, even if it was informal.

I hear a chorus of screams followed by footsteps scrambling on gravel. The wayward trio scrambles around a corner and straight into me, taking us down in a tangle of limbs.

“Oh, hey Quinn! Guys, I found him!” Matt says from beside me. I groan as the gravel digs into my shoulder blades and shove Tom off me and onto Matt.

“We are leaving.” I inform them. “I’m terrified, tired, and very done with this.”

Edd holds out his hands to help haul us up. “Aw, c’mon, the night’s still young! Other than you getting separated, this has been pretty fun!”

“Your sweaty hand tells me otherwise.” I wipe mine on his hoodie. It still smells like Cola.

Matt flaps his hands. “He’s right, Edd. All we’ve found is that lens cap and some old junk. I’d like to get my beauty sleep.”

Edd throws back his head with a sigh. “Fine. But I reserve the right to check out anything weird I see on the way!”

So, everything then. “Where’s your sense of self-preservation?” I ask through grit teeth at the third ‘suspicious thing’. Keeping them on the marked path was going fine, but still…

Not even a minute later, Edd spots an old conductor’s cabin. “Oh, look! The gravel is messed up there! Bet they’re hiding inside!”

My head swivels over and my eyes widen. The entire structure’s lit up red like a bloody crime scene. I grab a handful of Edd’s hoodie with one hand and Tom’s with the other, digging my heels into the gravel to stop them.  

“Don’t you dare!” I hiss, letting my panic and fear from earlier leak through. “That’s enough!”

Edd turns to me with a glare. Tom just takes a swig from his flask with an intrigued look.

“Why don’t you just head back to the car yourself!? You keep on stopping us from exploring neat places! Why?” Edd shouts.

I stand on my tiptoes to get closer to his face. “Because if I didn’t, who would? I don’t want to see you get injured! And my instincts are telling me that cabin is bad news! I’m not doing this to hurt you, I’m trying to protect you!” I yell back.

There. It was out. Mostly. Edd is taken aback by my uncharacteristic outburst and Matt places a hand on my shoulder. Edd glances back at the cabin.

“I’ll peek in the window. I won’t go in.” He hops out of range of my lunge. He’s gonna trigger it-

A voice speaks up in my ear. “Trenger du hjelp?”

To our right, some torch lights slice through the fog. The sound of dogs barking reaches us.

I lie through my teeth: “It’s the police!” But it works. The others snap to attention.

“Run away!” Edd shouts, and we bolt after him.

Lights, apparitions, sounds - Tyr and Wyatt throw the whole arsenal at us to guide us out. I didn’t even need to fake fear. It was genuinely horrifying. If I were a horror buff, I’d give them five stars. But I’m not, so they’ll just have to settle for negative five stars.

We bolt out of the yard, Tom snapping the tape cordon as he barrels through. We dive into Edd’s car and take off, doors still swinging.

I pull up my hood and sink against the door I managed to pull shut. Silence rides with us all the way home.

We end up piling into Edd’s flat. Why, I don’t know. Maybe some subconscious need to not be alone just yet?

I slump onto the sofa next to Matt and pass out before I can think twice. Unplanned, unbidden, but honestly overdue.

I wake with the sun in my eyes and a crick in my neck, disoriented and hungry. The night comes back to me in a rush. What a crapshow. Really hope that outburst didn’t damage the whole ‘integration’ thing. No one wants a mum friend.

I hear light breathing beside me. Matt had also passed out on the couch last night. Tom is splayed across the recliner, and I can hear soft snores from the bedroom. I am, in a way, grateful for the company. No nightmares reached me. I wasn’t grateful for the stinging in my eye. I gently remove my contact and try to blink some moisture in.

Pulling out my phone to check the time, I see some messages and a low battery notification. Uh oh, better sort that out. I tiptoe to the door and slip out, closing it as gently as possible.

Finally in my room, I plug the phone in and open my messages. Edd and Wyatt?

I massage my dry eye and check Wyatt’s first. A slew of images from the trainyard loads in, all showing either my terrified face or the trios. The final few shows all four of us booking it down the tracks, mid-escape. I feel a twinge of anger. Yeah, thanks man, not like I can use these for anything. Glad someone’s enjoying my misery.

Edd’s message starts with a video. I turn up my sound and hit play.

The first thing I hear are voices whispering and giggling. Then a loud snore. The camera focuses on a dark fuzzy figure which comes into focus and I see myself sleeping on Edd’s sofa. Another loud snore comes out of the speakers, in time with my breathing. Edd and Tom giggle again.

“It’s like being yelled at by someone’s nose!” Edd whispers.

I pause the video and sigh, trying not to giggle. Of course they filmed that. My own fault for letting my guard down that much.

The next message was much better.

Edd: Tom and i talked it over and yeah, i get why you do what you do. We can jump into things without thinking. It’s just been a while since someone was looking out for us other than us.

Edd: So… thanks.

Me: *thumbs up* just don’t want anyone getting hurt is all.

Me: not tring to be a pain or anthing

My morning routine starts a little earlier than usual, but that’s ok. I flick on the telly to catch the morning news over a cup of coffee and a bagel.

“Breaking news!” The anchor exclaims.

The camera switches to the missing ghost hunting team, much to my surprise. Oh, yeah, I forgot to ask Wyatt about them. “Early this morning, the missing ghost hunters turned themselves in to the police and announced their retirement!”

I blink as Penkman steps up to the mic. “The show is over, effective immediately,” he says, woodenly. “Thank you all for your support.”

He walks away from the clamouring reporters. Just before the camera cuts, I see someone passing behind him.

A man in a long, royal blue trench coat.

My blood runs cold and my mug feels too hot. Something tells me they’re not retiring of their own volition. If that even was the real Penkman.

I take a sip of my drink. Whatever. Not my problem.

---

Quinn McLeod

Daily Report

Submitted 9 hours ago

- Bodyguard course module 3 completed.

- Mission update: Operative is joining Assets in a search and rescue adventure for a celebrity.

---

Items Equipped

Loadout:

SIG Sauer P365XL (IWB left crossdraw, high rib)

Fallkniven F1 (IWB Right hip)

Karambit x2 (IWB Right Sleeve, IWB Left Hip)

Modular Hip/Torso rig

Kevlar undershirt

Chapter Text

As my neighbours belt out some frankly bizarre song as we speed down the motorway, I reflect on how the next three days have turned into a hellhole. At first, I thought that participating in the Radical Extreme Derby’s Annual Battle Royale (what a mouthful) for training purposes was fine in theory, but being told to do it while leading the three people I had been assigned to spy on? Not so much.

---

Coming home yesterday to find Tom standing on a chair reaching for my paintball trophies was a surprise. I knew I’d locked my door this morning, I’d had to unlock it just to retrieve my lanyard from where it was jammed between the door and the frame. So that left him breaking in. I hoped he didn’t snoop through my stuff too much yet.

I crossed my arms, leaving the door open. “Dude.”

Tom’s head flicked between me and the door. He slowly lowered the arm that had grabbed my achievement trophy.

“Ah… hiiiii, Quinn. What are you doing back so early?”

I wasn’t early, but sure. I simply raised an eyebrow.

“You left your door open.”

I frowned.

Tom grimaced. “You’re really good at the disappointed face. I’m getting childhood flashbacks.”

I tapped my foot.

He held up both hands, jumping to the floor. “Alright, alright. I picked the lock. Happy? I just wanted to grab your ticket.”

I walked forward and plucked the trophy from his hand. “Ticket? For the Battle Royale thing?”

Tom snapped his fingers. “I knew you’d remember! Pack your bags, because its gonna be a fun long weekend!”

Oh no.

“What if I already had plans?” I tried, weakly. Truth was, I was already participating, no ticket required. I had already teamed up with the Spook Squad, though Marissa did her best to try to get me to join her ‘Femme Fatale’ group.

“You get knife lessons from Red Leader himself! And you were a girl for a day; you’d fit right in!” She had whinged.

Tom clapped a hand to my shoulder. “No, you don’t. You just read or binge-watch stuff all weekend. C’mon, it’ll be fun! Just the four of us, out in the woods, absolutely decimating enemy teams for three days straight!”

A tone played in my ear, followed by a voice. “Take the offer, trainee. That’s an order.”

I sighed and shook my head. Orders are orders. I should be a lot more shaken that they’re listening, but all I felt was defeat.

“Fine,” I said. “I’ll pack. Do you know the rules or like, any actual information?”

---

I pull out my phone and pull up my camping checklist again, ignoring the boys bickering over a map. I had grabbed a bunch of the stuff from my own camping trips, including a field guide to edible plants. I thought about the bag of mini croissants squished in a side pocket. I really didn’t want to run out of food or clean water. Once, I had to live off a bag of bread for two days because some genius counselor forgot teenagers eat a lot. Part of keeping my cushy assignment is keeping the group alive, and doing that in the woods instead of the usual concrete jungle would be an even taller order.

What else… compass on belt, mint tin fishing kit in left cargo pocket, whistle on necklace. Uh… there’s the sewing kit and mouthwash vial on the right… a look over my shoulder shows the red med kit I had tied to my backpack. Should probably cover that up. My jingling pockets would be enough to alert an attentive sentry, I don’t need colours to give me away, too.

I glance at my dark grey zip hoodie, a replacement I bought for my old one. It was nice not wearing such bright colours for once, though I had compromised with an orange t-shirt underneath. Blending in to the forest should be simple enough paired with my usual olive trousers. I would have to convince Edd to wear a darker colour once in the woods, his favourite shade of green isn’t that common among dense foliage. Matt will just have to just wear a t-shirt or keep his jacket closed to contain the royal purple of his hoodie, but then heatstroke would be a risk. Tom… he’ll be fine, dark blue is good enough.

I wonder how they’ll take the idea to do natural camo. I could probably sell it to Matt as a mud mask...

His voice cuts through my mental list.

“You missed the turn!” Matt scolds.

“No, I didn’t, the map says to go straight until the third turn! Stop being a backseat driver!” Tom snaps back.

I don’t chime in. Honestly, I’d be perfectly fine with missing the start and got disqualified. I could go home and cool off in front of my rattling fans, training manuals and a juice in hand.

Tom takes a sharp turn to the right, throwing us to the left. I end up getting squished to the door by Matt. I keep my face plastered to the cool window after he pulls away, taking in the familiar yet unfamiliar sights of the forest.

The Battle Royale is a big event for both civilians and trainees alike. Even full army members sometimes participate alone just for the challenge. Tord told me a few years ago he lasted until the morning of the third day before someone landed a lucky shot to his back. The whole thing kinda reminds me of the water gun battles my cousins and I would have during cabin week with my granddad.

As we pull up the dirt road to the estate’s main cabin, I check my phone for a signal. One bar. Great. Other than the EMS, I won’t be able to call anyone this weekend.

The estate lodge car park is already packed; there’s even an idling coach emblazoned with a bright red logo. Groups of teams and stragglers are dragging backpacks and camping gear to an assembly area with log benches.

I slide out of the car and slowly turn, taking in the vivid green surroundings and fresh air. It was warm in the sun, but not unbearable and the forecast for the long weekend was favourable. I heft my bag from the boot, taking a moment to wrap the med-kit in a spare black t-shirt. I take a glance at the bags the boys brought. Tom seems to be actually prepared with a decent hiking backpack and boots. Edd’s regular bag, however, sags oddly, and he groans lifting it. I hear the telltale clank and slosh of cans. He brought Cola. Of course he did. Matt’s backpack looks stuffed to bursting. I pray it’s not just hair products and spare outfits. Sure, I could make a makeshift flamethrower if I had to, but I doubt there’ll be a safe opportunity.

We make our way to the assembly area and claim a free bench in a back corner. I drop my bag on it and start running through some stretches, casually observing the attendees. It was a big turnout. About half the place was filled with people from the training base, some dressed like civilians and some in near-military survivalist clothing they brought themselves. This time, the venue is only providing weapons, ammo, and a tent if you applied for one. Otherwise, survival relied entirely on your wits and skills.

Two small arms wrap around my midsection from behind, hands overlapped in a fist, and slam into my stomach in an improvised Heimlich maneuver. I wheeze at the impact and double over, dragging my assailant partway up my back.

Marissa giggles from her position. “I’ll give you 24-hour leeway.” She says into my spine. “After that you’re fair game. Can’t wait to see you covered in paint!”

Her arms slide away and I turn, rubbing my stomach, to catch her skipping back toward a group of honestly terrifying looking ladies with sharp eyes and the kind of posture that says they know how to break your arm. One catches me staring and blows a kiss.

“The hell was that?” Tom asks.

I roll my eyes and straighten. “Friend from work. We get lunch at the same place sometimes and started talking.” Technically true.

“Some friend. Look at the turnout though! This is gonna be epic.” Tom says, proudly surveying the crowd with his hands on his hips like a general about to go to war.

I eye our remaining team members. Edd is drawing lines on his cheeks with a sports marker, and Matt is digging through his bag. Keeping these guys in the game against several organized paramilitary trained groups would be tough, but I had a bit of confidence. They’ve survived this long in spite of everything thrown at them.

My ears prick up as I catch conversation between two men from the group beside us. They’re speaking Danish—which kinda sounds like Norwegian with marbles in your mouth—so I can’t follow everything, but I catch the important bits.

“Look at them, three civilians led by … . Knock… them out … should be … .” One says. “I … we split and shoot them first, then rejoin the … .”

The other man laughs. “I like … that. I’m in.”

Crap, they’re planning an ambush right out the figurative gates. Not good. I turn and tug my teammates closer. “We have a problem,” I inform them. “Some guys from the team beside us are planning to ambush us right when the tournament starts. We gotta be ready to book it and hide.”

Edd’s eyes shift to watch the laughing men. “How do you know that? They’re not speaking English.”

I barely stop my eyes from widening too far. Dammit, said too much. They don’t know I’m learning Norwegian!

“No, well – I picked up a bit. I used to dabble in European languages for fun. Danish is like… Norwegian with a head cold with a lot of borrowed words, it’s neat. I didn’t get all of it, but basically, they want to knock us out first.”

Tom crosses his arms. “What exactly did they say? You sure you’re not just misunderstanding?”

I pause. His voice isn’t suspicious, exactly—more cautious. Testing me.

“Uh… ‘look,’ ‘knock,’ ‘out’… ‘split’… ‘them’ is easy… then the other one said ‘I like that’ and ‘I’m in.’ And he kept glancing over at us, so… context helps.”

Matt hums. “That’s pretty neat! Why did you start learning?”

There were more important things to worry about at the moment, but thank you for giving me a nerdy out that actually happened, though not to the extent I can lead them to assume. “Ever heard of Proto-Indo-European? It’s like the base for Indo-European languages which became Germanic, Celtic, Slavic, and even Iranian. I wanted to know the differences between the Germanic ones ‘cus it influenced a lot of English. But that’s off topic, we need to plan how to get away. Any ideas?”

Edd places a hand on his chin. “We could just run, but they’d follow. Getting lost in the crowd would work, but we’d just get taken out by someone else. Maybe we could use the lodge as cover?”

I knock my fist into my palm. “Maybe there’s some room in the dumpster shed! It’d stink, but hide us long enough to make them give up.”

Matt wrinkles his nose. “I’d like to stay away from any dumpsters, thank you very much. Doesn’t exactly go well with my image.”

“We all know you’re a dumpster fire, Matt.” Tom snorts. “Why don’t we just shoot them first?”

I shake my head. “Then their whole squad will come after us. I think it’s just them planning the ambush.”

A megaphone blares, cutting off our discussion.

 “Welcome to the Annual Battle Royale! Could everyone please make their way to the benches?” An announcer in a ranger-style outfit asks, standing on a picnic table to be seen.

He waits until the crowd settles down.

“For the next three days,” He picks up again, “You derby winners and achievement hunters from the last year will be hunting each other across nearly 400 acres. Bring what you can. Use what you find. Survive. The last team standing wins.”

Two organizers hop on the table and hold a large sheet of paper between them. “Use the dirt roads, trails, and forest. Stay off gravel with your guns – it’s melee only in those zones.” I drag my foot through the gravel beneath it. That’s good to know.

I start committing the thicker lines on the map to memory.

“Judges will sweep the areas for knockouts. If you want to leave or get spotted covered in enough paint, you’ll be escorted back to the lodge for a wash and a bite to eat.”

The ones with the map jump down and the announcer continues his military-like briefing. “The lodge is strictly off-limits! The moment you touch the stairs before the end, you are disqualified.

“There are caches of weapons and ammo stashed throughout the woods. The best ones are well hidden. You may also come across a tent or two out there.

“No stealing. If it’s not yours, leave it. If you’re caught — disqualified. Simple. If you do take a bag, hand it to a judge or leave it on the side of the road for collection. If something of yours goes missing, tell us and we’ll check the trail cams.”

Two pickup trucks reverse onto the gravel and the two organizers from before drop the tailgates, revealing a jumble of paintball gear and bags.

“The game starts now! Best of luck!”

Wait, what?! Just like that, Starving Games style?

The crowd erupts into chaos. Some dive at the trucks, others scramble for the woods. I see our soon-to-be hunters making a beeline for the centre and swing my bag up.

“Let’s go!” I shout, grabbing Matt by the sleeve and running.

“What?! What about the weapons?” Tom yells.

I flick a glance behind and catch a glimpse of one of the men’s hats. “Melee on gravel only! Hide for an hour, then get in the woods! Trust me!”

We turn the corner around the lodge and come up on the open dumpster shed. The lids were up and the it didn’t smell as rank as I thought it’d be. A quick glance inside one showed only a few rubbish bags. I start to climb in. Matt squeezes himself behind my dumpster and shed wall and Tom hops in the other one. Edd drags the door closer and I help him in. We shut the lid and I kick the bags to the far corner, covering my nose.

“Oskar! Where … go?” I hear a voice yell.

“You … forest! I’ll … cabin.” The other yells back.

I crouch in the bin and try to breathe as lightly as possible as I hear gravel crunching underfoot.

“Maybe in … trash? Would … do that? The kid is … sneaky … .” I faintly hear him talk to himself.

I shift toward the lid, ready to jump him. It’s not paintball melee, sure - but no rule said I couldn’t throw a punch.

The shed door scrapes open. I hear the hiss of a paint gun being primed to fire. This is it, time to break a nose.

“Hey!” An unknown voice calls out in English. “There’s no caches in there! Get in the woods!”

Oskar curses and jogs away. Edd taps my shoulder.

“What happened? What was he saying before?” he whispers.

“Uh, they split up, one guy went to the forest. We should stay in here for a bit more.”

I hear a muffled curse from Tom. “It reeks in mine! Let’s just run now!” Matt whispers his own agreement.

I pick up on some footsteps and shush them.

“Anything?” The other man.

“Nothing. Judge stopped me from checking, … also stopped. Forget it. Which way did Dima … team?”

Oskar and his teammate chatter as they walk away.

I take a peek outside. “Right, now we go.”

As Edd and I lift the lid and Matt starts to wiggle out, a judge comes around the door.

“You’re smart, but that was silly.” He says, ignoring our startled sounds. “My own fault for not locking the shed. Go on and get out of here.”

Tom vaults out of the second dumpster with a cough, and we all make a break for the significantly less foul-smelling woods. I’m grateful for the judge’s leeway. Is it leeway if we technically didn’t break any stated rules?

“So, what’s the verdict from our polyglot? Anything we have to worry about?” Tom asks as we jog along a game trail. “Also, I hate that you made me hide in a stinking dumpster.”

I slow to walk and deadpan. “Not… not a polyglot. I think we’re good for now - the guy said ‘forget it’. Still need to keep sharp, though.”

I yank Matt and Edd back by their backpack handles from a patch of pointy plants. “And maybe educate you on what not to touch. Like stinging nettles.”

Edd winces. “We also need to get some weapons. Don’t bring a stick to a gun fight, or something. And a tent or two wouldn’t go amiss.”

Matt stops dead, eyes following something off to the side.

“Matt, come on.” Edd urges.

He waves a hand dismissively and crouches beside a log. “Hang on, there’s something shiny…”

He pries at the log to free something and holds it up with a grin. “It’s a bag!”

“Oh my God,” Tom mutters. “You would stumble onto a tent.”

“It’s not stumbling,” Matt says proudly. “It’s fate.”

“Tick off the checklist, we got a tent!” Edd exclaims. “Now we just need weapons.”

We trudge through the woods, trying not to rustle any bushes. Birds chirp and bugs drone, the sunlight rippling through the canopy. It’s nice, but it’d be better if it was just a simple nature walk and not a hunter vs hunter situation.

As we pass beneath a large oak, Tom glances up mid-step and startles. Without a word, he drops his bag and jumps, yanking a paint rifle from a tangle of cords overhead.

“Got a weapon,” he states the obvious while giving it a once-over. “Finder’s keepers.”

I roll my eyes as the others protest. It’d been about two hours since we entered the woods and lunch is well overdue. I suppose this is a good spot as any to rest and keep a lookout.

I let my backpack slide to the ground, but slow at the feeling of unease pooling in my gut. A moment ago, the woods buzzed with birdsong – blue tits bickering in the branches, a pigeon cooing deeper in the trees. Then it all just… stopped. A silence so sharp it pricks at my skin.

Edd freezes, his head turned to the north. Matt and Tom continued to bicker as I drop into a crouch.

“Guys, shut it. Something’s up,” Edd hisses.

The boys pause at his order.

The leaves rustle as a soft wind blows through… A woodpecker drills in the distance. And then—click-clack, hiss—the telltale sounds of air-powered weaponry.

I’m moving before I even register it, shrugging my bag back on. I leap for a low-hanging branch, using the trunk for a boost to make up for the weight of my bag. Bark scraps my palms as I haul myself up into the thick green foliage of the tree’s crown, backpack thudding softly against my spine.

“What is it?” Matt hisses up at me.

“People,” I reply, extending a hand. “Pass me your bags.”

We work in a quiet and efficient unison to climb the tree, the old sturdy branches and dense green hiding us.  

I reach down and grab Matt’s hood in my fist. “Take this off, purple doesn’t grow in oaks.”

Matt balks and quickly shucks his hoodie off and shoves it in his bag, leaving him in a black t-shirt and green overcoat.

Tom straddles and lays on a branch that starts to bend under his weight, peering through the scope of the rifle. “I think I see them. Pink headband… at least five. I can’t get a clear shot from here; the leaves are too dense.”

“So, we just hide out here then, right? Let them pass by.” Matt proposes.

“But then we’d miss out on any loot in the area,” Edd counters. “Or anything we can loot from them.”

Tom turns to us. “As much as I want to take them out, we’ve only got this one rifle. Nothing that’ll take out five at once.”

We sit among the leaves, contemplating. What do we have? One paint gun, a tent, our bags with clothes and food, and the high ground… Wait.

“I have an idea.” I whisper to them. They turn to me with inquisitive faces.

I unzip a pouch on my bag and pull out a plastic bag of bright red powder. “How about we appeal to human nature?”

“Human nature?” Tom raises a brow. “How’s that gonna help us?”

“Ever heard a scream in the woods?” I grin.

---

I curl tighter on the forest floor and squeeze my eyes shut, choking on a gasp. Blood seeps through fabric and coats my hands as I clutch my leg like I’m holding something in. A girl in a pink headband sprints to the base of the tree, horror etched on her face.

“Oh my God! Your leg! I’ll help you; I know first aid-“

She’s cut off by a spray of blue paint from above. Edd and Matt drop down, snatching paint guns and knocking people over like dominos.

The girl wipes the paint from her face and stares at me with wide eyes. I just grin and stand up, the thick dark red liquid dribbling from the pouch in my shorts.

“You… what? You’re not hurt?!” she exclaims.

Matt kicks aside the thick dry stick he snapped and passes me a pack of tissues to clean up my leg.

“That was brilliant! That scream sent shivers up my spine!” He compliments.

“Totally bone-chilling,” Edd adds.

I crouch in front of my would-be helper. “Sorry ‘bout that, but had to do it. Mind if we take the gear you got?”

---

A minute earlier…

“What even is that?” Edd squints at the packet.

“Dehydrated tomato and pepper soup. Was supposed to be my dinner this evening, but I’ll sacrifice it for an advantage.” I dig back into my bag and pull out a small container of instant coffee. “If I mix these together with a splash of water, I can make a decent fake blood pack.”

I hand the ingredients to Matt and pull out some black shorts.

“Blood? How are you going to convince them it’s real?” He asks.

“Like I said, a scream in the woods.” I said while precariously balancing on my branch to change into the shorts. “I’ll throw one of those dry sticks up and scream after you crack it.”

Edd rubs his hands together with an excited giggle and grabs my supplies. “I’m liking the sound of this. Lemme mix it.”

“Just a bit of water and coffee,” I direct. “Gotta have it look dark and thick.”

Fake blood pack in one hand and my backpack on the other, I stand on the lowest branch of the tree. Tom uses one hand to count down and I jump when he hits zero. Matt slams the dry branch had I tossed up. It snaps with a bone-deep crack - perfect. I let out the shrillest scream I could, popping the seal on the bag under my thigh.

I hide my grin under a mask of fake pain as I hear people running through the woods to me.

---

Now fully kitted out, we trudge to where I remember a river is from the glimpse of the grounds map we got earlier. I can’t wait to tell Wyatt about my successful scare; he’d get a kick out of the story for sure. All that ‘tactical misdirection’ improv we did paid off.

I ignore my rumbling stomach; we had run as soon as we took the paintball gear from the blueberry scented good Samaritans. The paint’s edible, apparently, made from potato starch, water, and dyes made from fruits and veggies. I snicker at the thought of eating the ammo as backup food. I had packed more than enough soups, but getting to the river would be priority.

Maybe I’d dare Tom to eat a pellet.

Matt clutches his stomach as it grumbles audibly. “I’m starving. Can we stop for lunch?” He asks.

Edd places a hand on his stomach as well. “Yeah, same here. I think this is a good point to stop. The river’s not going anywhere.”

I sigh, shaking my head with a smile. Gotta feed the team. “Alright, help me find an area that wont catch fire and I’ll get the stove out.”

“Stove?” Matt asks, baffled, but I’m already walking away.

We find a small spot under a beech tree that is fairly clear of flora and settle down for a rest. Matt watches in fascination as I get my compact burner set up.

“Have you done this before, Quinn?” he asks.

I nod, pulling out a small pot. “My granddad was a bit of a prepper and survivalist. Every summer he’d take a rotating queue of grandkids and great whatevers to teach us the basics for a week. Kept that up for nearly forty years.”

Tom raises an eyebrow. “Was he the one who gave you that hunting rifle above your telly?”

I don’t let the bubble of panic at that question show and continue to smoothly prep my meal. One of my instructors said the trick to lying well was to do something else with your hands, keep the rest of you busy while your face sells the story.

“No, one of my cousins did. Matt, are you just having a sandwich?” I redirect to him.

The man pauses mid-bite. “Yeah?”

I look at Tom and Edd who were both shaking up MREs. “What other food did you bring?”

He swallows his bite. “Just more sandwiches. And some apples and granola bars. Nothing fancy like you guys.”

I lean to the side and grab a handful of wood sorrel. “I guess soup over a burner is kinda glamping. Those MRE’s from the bunker, Tom?

He grins at me. “Yup. Good thing I grabbed them, eh?”

I shake my head as I hear Edd crack open a warm can of cola. I rinse the leaves and add them to my soup. “Well, don’t eat it all at once, those things are meant to be a day’s rations. What flavour did you get?”

We quietly chat for the next half hour, enjoying the calm of the verdant forest. I’m surprised we haven’t run into anyone else but I’m not about to look a gift horse in the mouth, or whatever the proper saying is.

---

After a few hours of decent hiking and the occasional sarcastic comment, we finally find the river as the sun starts to approach the treetops. At the riverbank, I take a moment to drink in the scene: the water drifts by slow and heavy, glinting gold beneath the branches of ancient oaks leaning out like old watchmen.

“This is a great spot to camp.” I declare. “Pitch the tent a ways back so its not visible and we’re mint.”

I start to climb an oak as the boys unravel the tent.

“Uh… Quinn?” Edd calls up. “We have a problem.”

I lean over and look at Tom and Matt holding a dark blue tent up. “Yeah? Is there a hole?”

“It’s too small.” Tom calls up. “No way we’re all fitting in this.”

I look at the sling I had started to set up. “Well, that’s not a problem for me. Have fun sharing.”

Tom scoffs. “What’s that supposed to mean? What’re you even doing?”

I pull at a loose corner of fabric. “Setting up my sling.”

“A sling? You’re gonna sleep in the tree? Is that safe?” Matt asks.

I just shrug and continue my setup. It’d be cold, sure, but that’s what the tarp I brought is for. From my perch halfway up the oak, I occasionally down at Matt and Tom spinning the tent like a confused pair of IKEA customers missing a page. I’d already tied the last corners of my tarp and tested the tension on my sling by the time they start arguing over which way was north.

Washing my hands in the river, something catches my eye - a glimmer of red off to the side. Checking to see if the boys were still occupied with tying down their tent, I trudge over to the suspicious tree. While one eye sees a simple knot hole, the other sees the red overlay of a holo-tag. I’m still in the network! I guess Tyr never revoked my access. Or he needs to use that gadget again? I’m sure not going to say anything. Knowing where the trail cams are might come in handy.

We huddle around the small pit containing my stove, eating a bit more food and playing a few rounds of Duo with the deck I brought. Night creeps in, and we decide on a watch schedule. Since I was the most accustomed to waking early, I’d take last watch and wake the others up. I can’t help but be amused at their tent predicament and do not envy them.

I curl up in my sling under the nylon tarp, drifting off to the sounds of the river, crickets, and owls.

At some point, I’m stirred by low angered muttering. A glance down treats me to a view of Edd trying to fight off a deer trying to drag off his bag. That’s one brave deer. Or stupid. Sometimes those go hand in hand. I roll over and go back to sleep.

I’m abruptly woken by the sounds of air rifle fire and shouting. An ambush! I pop my contact back in and draw the dual pistols I had taken from the group we tricked. Leaning over the side of my sling, I see Edd using a stick to parry the paint-bat his assailant is swinging. I take a few shots, sliming enemy heads with starchy paint.

“Tree!” one of them yells, and I withdraw as they fire at my sling. I hope that doesn’t stain, I’ve had this sling for years.

I hear Matt yell in frustration and the sound of two bodies colliding and falling in the river. I sit up and land a careful hit on the back of the one Matt is fighting, barely dodging a pellet whizzing past my face.

“Let’s go!” someone shouts, and four shadowy figures flee into the forest.

I climb down with my tarp as Matt sloshes out of the river, teeth chattering.

“What happened? Anyone hurt?” I ask. Edd and Tom shake their heads. I pass the tarp to Matt who wraps it around himself with a grateful look.

“They just ran in and started firing,” Tom says and holds up a sleeve. I can just barely make out the patches of paint darkening the fabric. “I barely dodged. Stepped on your stove, sorry.”

I turn to the base of the tree and wince at the dented gas canister. That’s not safe to use anymore.

Matt throws his hands up. “Ugh! They took my bag! I’ve got nothing left!”

Oh dear.

The next few minutes are spent taking inventory. Looks like robbing us was half the point, as all three backpacks on the ground were gone. They had also snapped some of the tent poles and taken a knife to it at some point in the skirmish. Nothing says ‘win’ like screwing us over first.

How to solve this? I stand and observe the changing colours of the sunrise peeking over the trees. “Well. I don’t have enough food for all of us, so how about I teach you wilderness survival, a la my granddad?”

The boys blink at me in confusion.

“Are we gonna forage or something?” Edd pipes up. “I don’t know how long that’ll last, they took all our water and I don’t want to drink straight from the river.”

I grin. “You won’t have to. Go fetch a load of dry sticks and I’ll show you.”

I get my bags and sling down, eager to get started. I know I should feel worse about the guys losing their bags, but someone had to keep the mood up. And what better way than learning something useful?

They observe with curiosity as I use my small shovel and a stick to expand my stove hole into a stealth pit and fill it with sticks.

“How are we going to light it?” Edd asks. “Do you have matches?”

“Yes. But I’ve also got something more fun.” I reach into my shirt and pull out my bead-chain necklace, revealing the items jingling on it. “Who wants to try using flint and steel?”

After a quick demonstration, Tom and Matt have fun trying to out-spark each other. I leave them to it and head down to the river with Edd.

“Do you always carry flint and steel with you?” He asks.

I chuckle and hand him the mint tin from my pocket. “No, just a camping thing. It’s safer than matches or lighter fluid. You ever fished before?”

“Sure, I’m reel good at it. But are the fish here safe to eat? What about parasites?”

I wiggle my hand. “I’ll just nuke them near the coals, don’t worry. Okay, so, see that shaded area near that floating log?”

Edd has fun fishing up our breakfast and catches two medium trout quicker than expected. By this time Matt had started to dry out near the fire and was munching on some blackberries I had spotted a ways down the river and sent Tom off to harvest.

“We’re seriously doing this?” Matt asks. “Eating fish from the river?”

I take a look at the red-hot coals in the fire pit. “Well, its this or minimal rations. And, like, who doesn’t want to know how to prep a fish?”

He raises his hand.

“Oh. Anyway.”

The other two watch attentively as I gut, scale, and clean the fish with my knife (it’s technically a hunting knife, so this is fine. Ignoring it was assigned to me for, uh, defense). I stuff the fillets with the wood sorrel I had stashed yesterday and sprinkle on a few packets of salt. Wrapping the meat in tinfoil (never go camping without it!), I shove the bundles in the coals.

“And now a bit of soup and…” I pull out the squished bag of bread. “We have brunch!”

Matt claps at the reveal of the bread – fair enough, it was the only dry thing we had.

“Brunch?” asks Edd. “It’s like, seven in the morning.”

“Rations~” I sing-song. “Have to make this stretch. You do want to stay the whole 3 days, right? Otherwise, let’s head to the main road and flag a judge.”

Tom swipes his hands in the air. “Hell no, we are staying. Just tell us what to do, McGyver.”

That one stops me for a second. What was I doing? I think I got too into showing off. It was too similar to showing my little cousins how to survive during cabin week. Was I showing my hand too much? No, it’s fine. Nothing too odd about this.

The fish is flaky, hot, and the seasonings pair well. The rehydrated potato and leek soup uses up the last of our water, but it’s worth it. The meal is like some sort of improvised fisherman’s pie.

“So,” Edd says between mouthfuls, “how are you gonna solve the water problem? Got a magic water bottle in that bag?”

I snort. “Nah, just the next best thing. Gather round for the next lesson – charcoal filters.”

---

We watch the slow drip of water.

“This will take forever,” Tom grumbles. “I can’t believe you know how to make a charcoal filter but not fix an engine.”

“Well, we’re not exactly going anywhere, are we?” Edd asks. “Other than that one team, it’s been pretty quiet.”

“Oh God, you said the Q word, we’re gonna die.” I deadpan. I continued scrubbing the foil in the river so I can reuse it.

He’s right though; it wouldn’t be safe to move out. We were down half our weapons and had no extra ammo except a spare clip in my pocket. Paired with next to no water, we had a recipe for heatstroke in this summer heat.

“Well, unless we recover your bags from a judge - which we don’t even know if they’ll allow – I’d say we’re stuck.” I chime in, half-listening to the boy’s discussion.

Matt points at me. “That’s a brilliant idea! We could go to the main road and ask, at the very least. Maybe they haven’t been picked up yet!”

I shouldn’t have said anything.

---

We set out once we had filtered and boiled enough water to fill a bottle (it took longer than I remembered, but at least it doesn’t taste like foot). As we trudge through the forest searching for the road, Edd groans.

“They took all my Cola… my precious Cola… I need Cola.”

“You need Cola like a fish needs fresh air,” I retort.

Matt snorts, and the two of them fall into dramatic mourning over their lost modern comforts. Before we’d left, Matt had complained about his missing products.

“I don’t suppose you got anything in your bag? No, wait, your hair is still floppy. Never mind,” He had said. Dude.

As soon as the side of the road is in sight, a wall of paint comes flying at us. I hit the dirt and behind me an unfortunate Tom gets slimed. He falls to the ground in a dramatic mock faint.

“Quinn! Avenge me!” He calls, tossing his rifle my way.

It’s all for naught. The moment I spin around-

WHAM.

Orange explodes across my face like a point-blank fruit grenade. The impact jerks my head back as the goop floods my nose and mouth.

I gag instantly. The stench is overwhelming - citrus and starch, like someone force-fed me a rotten smoothie. My vision whites out. My throat clamps shut. I stagger, choking, as it oozes down my throat like glue.

If I breathe, I choke. If I don’t, I pass out and choke.

I hack and splutter, trying to suck in air through nostrils that feel stuffed with jelly. My eyes burn. It mats my lashes, invades my ears, and trickles down my neck like hot syrup.

I drop to my knees and crumple sideways, retching.

“Ha!” someone laughs, deep and smug. “How’s that for payback, Thirteen?”

I can’t answer. I can barely see. I go still, lips parted, trying to suck air through the muck. It cakes my nostrils. My tongue feels thick.

More pellets burst pepper my shoulder, my chest. The thuds barely register - I’m too busy trying not to puke.

Someone yanks the rifle from my grip with a laugh and the ambush ends with the other team whooping in triumph. My limbs buzz from adrenaline and my chest hitches in fear.

I lay there in the midday sun, sticky and stinging, the forest floor pressing cold against my side. My lashes are clumped and glued together. My nose whistles weakly with each breath. I hear soft groans from the left. No one’s rushing to get up.

The crunch of twigs announces the arrival of an electric cart. The judge parks and gives a long whistle.

“Damn, kids, you got blasted. C’mon, let’s you to the showers.”

His boots crunch closer, then quicken. “Whoa - kid, you alright?” he asks, crouching by my head. “That’s a whole lotta orange. Lemme help.”

I hear Matt wheeze about his face as Edd gets up and Tom rolls upright with a groan. I hunch over in a kneel, spitting, trying to clear more if the vile citrus mess from my mouth.

“That was hell,” Tom comments as the judge helps wipe my eyes with a damp tissue. “Where did they even come from?”

“Yeah, some years we get road campers.” The judge replies. “They take out anyone who tries to retrieve their stuff or cross. Imma be havin’ words with the one that shot this’un. He could’ve choked out on all that paint.”

I crack open an eye to see the face of an instructor I recognise from the training base. The gunslinger winks and hauls me up by an arm. “I want a nurse to take a look up that shnozz of yours, make sure you won’t get an infection.” He informs me.

“Joy of joys.” I mutter.

We pile on the golf cart, my bag in the front passenger seat. I sit behind the driver, Tom at my side. Matt and Edd, as the least ‘injured’ hang on to the rear-facing bench on the back.

Tom passes me more tissues. “Not exactly an ideal method of face painting, is it?” He jokes. I huff out a raspy laugh and clear the last of the paint from my eyes.

“What was that thing that guy yelled? Thirteen? Why would he call you that?”

That cursed nickname. Of course it comes back to haunt me at the worst time.

“R-remember,” I rattle out a cough, trying to clear my throat. “Remember my score in the first tournament? Thirteen headshots. He must be one of the guys I accidentally got in the face.”

Matt turns around and picks a bit of drying paint from my hair. “But that was months ago now. Long time to hold a grudge.”

I just shrug and use my pinky to dig some guck from of my ear.

---

Saline flushes are so unpleasant. Like, I already had stuff shoved up my nose and in my ears, and you want to add more? But I have to admit, I feel better afterwards. My sinuses still sting and my throat still feels sticky, but it’s a marked improvement.

I step into the shower stall, soap from my recovered bag in hand. Thankfully nothing was missing, as far as I could tell. Small blessings. The trio jokes and laughs, flinging water over the stalls. I just scrub in silence.

Normally, showers help you think. Not this time. Right now, it just making everything louder. The pressure in my head, the echo of whatever just happened, it all churns under the noise of water hitting tile. The water’s hot, but my skin still crawls. Every droplet sounds like static. I close my eyes and see a red lens blinking back at me. It’s not relaxing. Not for me. It’s just the rasp of my breathing, the impact replaying behind my eyes, over and over.

I towel dry, changing into some shorts and a t-shirt I brought in with me and pad onto the wet tile in my bare feet. Matt stands at a mirror with a towel around his waist, fussing over his hair with precision.

I claim my own spot and use the hair dryer on the wall to start my styling. Matt watches in interest while dabbing lotions under his eyes as I shape my now-signature wave. Tom and Edd run by, snapping at each other with rolled-up wet towels.

“No running on wet tile,” I call out, applying a thin line of eyeliner. Jack had a point about making my eyes pop, back when I agreed to help with the second part of his thesis the day after the mirror incident. Not hard to do when they’re the colour of dishwater in the right light.

Teeth brushed and now dry and clean, we head to the main lobby of the lodge where a few people covered in paint make their way in. One of the judges walks over to us.

“Hey there!” She chirps. “Thank you for participating. If you want to see footage of your match, send us an email in a week and we’ll forward it to you! Feel free to refill your water and grab some snacks before heading out.”

She hands us some business cards and walks away to greet the next lot. Matt scoffs.

“So that’s it then? Not even a participation badge or something?”

Edd slings his arm over his friend’s shoulder. “Ah, don’t worry about it, Matt. It’s not about the winning, it’s about the memories!”

We shuffle down the lodge steps and into the car park. Tom stretches his arms to the sky with a groan. “I’m satisfied. I shot like 5 rabbits last night. And maybe a fox. I think that makes up for the loss.”

I pull a face and cringe; mouth slightly open at his confession – hopefully he wouldn’t be getting any calls from game wardens.

Tom notices my reaction. “Oh, don’t get all uppity, its edible, they’re fine. You were.”

I stick my tongue out at his back.

In the car, Matt passes us each a sandwich and an apple. Mine is peanut butter.

It sticks to the roof of my mouth like orange paint.

---

Quinn McLeod

Daily Report

Submitted 20:50

- Bodyguard course module 4 completed.

- Mission update: Operative and Assets eliminated from tournament. Time elapsed: 28 hours.

---

Items Equipped

Loadout:

Fallkniven F1 (IWB Right Hip)

Karambit x1 (IWB Left Hip)

Hip Rig

Kevlar undershirt

Chapter Text

Of all the stupid things I could’ve done, suggesting an adventure was top-tier dumb.

But it felt fair, right? The guys had dragged me along on plenty of theirs - some planned, most not. Why not try for a safe, fun time on my own terms for once?

While sorting through a container I had forgotten about one evening, I come across a small wooden box with some cheap trinkets inside. My Geocache! I hadn’t played that since secondary school. Sitting back, I redownload the app and check the area.

‘There’s a surprising amount of activity,’ I comment to myself. Scrolling the map over to a nearby dead shopping centre covered in markers, I feel a spark of glee. Someone had set up a scavenger hunt in it at some point. Maybe a last-ditch effort to get people to go inside and check out the shops? It wasn’t an official event cache, but could still be a fun, normal time.

That night as I pull my experimental handmade lasagne out of the oven, I pitch the idea to the three hungry men sitting at my table.

“So, I had an idea for an adventure,” I venture as I cut the portions.

“Really?! That’s like, the first time you’ve ever suggested anything. Let’s do it!” Edd exclaims, grabbing a cheesy slab.

I chuckle. “Not even gonna hear me out? Just agree? Alright then. We’re going Geocaching tomorrow. Bring a load of random trinkets to exchange.”

“What’s Geocaching?” Matt asks around a mouth full of pasta.

Tom knocks Matt on the back of the head for talking with his mouth full and responds with his own mouth full of food. “It’s like a scavenger hunt game. You find hidden boxes using clues and leave a gift in the box. You can take one too, if you like it.”

He pauses to chew. “Didn’t know it was still a thing, though. This is pretty good, by the way.” He gestures with his fork at the lasagne.

I nod. “Same here—figured it had died out, but the community’s still active. I thought it’d be a fun way to spend an afternoon. There’s an unofficial event set up in the old mall nearby. We could even make it a team thing.”

As I settle in and take my first bite, the guys launch into a debate over what weird stuff they might find in the caches and what kind of silly items they should leave.

I chew with delight, letting the flavours melt on my tongue. I had finally nailed that spice mix, and it wasn’t nearly as greasy as last time.

It hits me then how rare a normal day’s become. No training, no anomalies, just dumb fun in a mall. And according to my base map, the mall’s well outside Red Army territory. For once, I wouldn’t have to worry about secret bunkers or surveillance.

In hindsight, I think that’s when I jinxed it.

---

The mall smells like nostalgia, if that has a definitive smell. The fountain at the entrance burbles, the rusted coins at the bottom leaving orange stains on the tile. Signs and adverts line the hall in front of us, illuminated by fading LEDs and dusty shafts of sun from the skylights.

“Oh, damn, I haven’t seen a C+A storefront since I was a kid,” Tom comments. “This place really is dead.”

Matt rubs his chin. “Ah, I remember the outfits my mother and I would make there. I daresay I was the best dressed kid in our school.”

“You were definitely noticeable, that’s for sure.” Edd says and looks at me. “Okay, we’ve got the app set up, so how are we gonna do this?”

I pull out my phone. “Right, so, we can do this individually or as a team. I’m fine with whatever, it’s up to you guys.”

Edd holds out a fist. “Rock paper scissors, best of three for teams. Whoever loses first has to pair up.”

“Ooo, classic. Let’s go!” Matt says eagerly.

He’s not so eager upon losing his first round to Edd. “Betrayed by stationary!” he cries as Edd’s finger scissors nips at Matt’s finger paper.

Edd turns to Tom making snipping motions. “Ready?”

Tom doesn’t flinch. It’s a decisive defeat.

“You were a beat late!” Edd protests.

Tom just throws up a peace sign. “It’s called strategy. Let’s get going, Quinn.”

“Wait wait wait!” Matt stops us. “You two didn’t do a round!”

I’m about to point out those weren’t the rules agreed upon, but Tom turns to me with a sly grin. “He’s right. Get ready to lose.”

We square up like it’s a western standoff, fists out. Edd stands between us like a referee.

“Rock, paper, scissors, GO!” He declares.

Tom and I make our choices and freeze.

“What?” Matt asks the room.

“I don’t know what wins,” I say, eyeing our gestures. “I think we’re at a stalemate.”

Tom gestures at my Vulcan salute with his finger gun. “I don’t know, I think Spock would lose to a gun.”

I scoff. “He’s too smart to be out-gunned. He’d disarm you.”

“He’s also died, like, twice. This counts as lizard.”

“Blasphemy. This is clearly psychic paper.”

We stare each other down, then crack up. Edd and Matt join in, our laughter bouncing off the hollow walls.

“Okay. Okay. For real this time.” Tom says with a lingering chuckle. “Rock…”

We both pull paper. Then rock. Then paper again.

“How are you doing this?” Matt exclaims.

“Guess we’re both predictable,” I grin.

“Or equally unpredictable,” Tom shoots back.

I lose the next round, then win the one after.

Matt lifts an imaginary mic. “Gather round, folks, for the tie breaker of the season! Blue vs Orange, who will win!”

Edd holds up a hand. “Aaannd- GO!” He slashes it down.

I stare at Tom’s rock. He stares at my scissors.

Edd and Matt hold up Tom’s arms like he’s just won a boxing match. “And we have a winner!” They cheer, their voices echoing down the empty hall. I rush to shush them, not even bothering to hide my smile.

Edd points at Tom and I. “We’re gonna find the most caches, just you wait. Matt and I are the perfect combo!”

“Like toothpaste and orange juice,” I pipe up. “Or pineapple on pizza!”

Matt’s face screws up in disgust and Tom cackles from beside me. Edd shoots me a playful glare over his shoulder before strolling off with a wave.

We split in opposite directions, off to find the best loot. Tom peers at the map on my phone. “So, what’s the first clue?”

I expand the closest marker. “Small one with a low difficulty. ‘Which way to people not normally look?’. Oh, that’s simple, up. So it’s above us five metres ahead.”

“Aw, I knew I should’ve brought my grappling hook,” Tom quips.

I snicker and walk over to a fake palm tree. It’s seen better days. Dusty, faded plastic fronds sag like they’re tired of pretending. Dangling among them is a small black box.

“Huh,” Tom says, rubbing his chin. “How’re we gonna get that?”

I scan the area. Nothing useful—just some dusty stands and a bolt pattern on the floor where a bench used to be. I nudge Tom’s arm and point down.

He heaves a long-suffering sigh. “Alright, I got this.”

Before I can stop him, he jumps at the trunk, shimmying up like a monkey on a mission. I laugh breathlessly as he stretches for the box. I hope no security guards are watching the feeds.

“Catch!” he calls, and tosses the box down.

I fumble to catch it with one hand and he drops down beside me with a thud.

I open the dusty box. Stuffed inside is a blast from the recent past and a crumpled log book. We dump the contents on the tiled floor.  

“It’s like a tween time capsule,” Tom comments while picking up a Professor Y charm.

I skim the log book, reading the messages with a faint smile.

‘Left badge, took pen. Thx :)’

‘Team RebelRaccoons, 12/06/13 – found a spider inside too! Gross.’

‘hello ppl of the future – owen c.’

Tom slides an old loom band on his wrist. “Okay, what now? We leave something behind?”

I nod and take out my trinket box. “And a note, if we want.”

Tom tosses a small checkered pendant in the pile and scribbles something in the log. I pocket a “Keep Calm and Carry On” keyring that was still in good condition – I always wanted one of those. I drop in an astronaut minifigure and start scooping the items back into the cache, taking the log from Tom.

‘T and Q, better than you’

I deadpan. “Tom…”

“What?” He shrugs, getting to his feet. “I’m the one who climbed the damn tree. Don’t think any of them did that.”

I shake my head and add my own little message underneath.

‘no offence, but T has to climb the tree again and he’s not happy - Q’.

I stuff the papers in the box and clip it shut.

“What did you add?” Tom asks. I just shoot him a cheeky grin and hand him the box.

“Get climbing, Mr. Monkey. This is a race.”

---

I feel rejuvenated. This was the perfect activity to suggest. An afternoon of harmless fun and competition.

As we’re running along the second floor, I glance down to see Matt and Edd crowding around a cluster of sweet dispensers. I skid to a stop and lean over the metal railing.

“Don’t you dare!” I shout, slightly breathless. “Those things are probably older than we are, and the nozzle’s basically a petri dish for every toddler sneeze and grubby coin since 1998.”

Matt squeals in disgust and wipes his hands on his jacket. Edd turns to look up at me with a grin.

“Hey!” he calls. “How many have you found?”

“Enough to make you nervous!” I taunt back. It was a total bluff, the last one was completely empty.

Edd barks a laugh as I take off again, sprinting to get my mobile back from Tom. Moments like this - loud, dumb, and unguarded - are becoming dangerously addictive.

---

As Tom and I finish packing up our fourth cache, a mechanical clunk echoes through the mall, low and deliberate, followed by the shriek of metal grinding in its tracks. One by one, the skylights overhead began to shutter - thick steel plates screeching shut like angry eyelids. The daylight vanishes in a line, slicing the floor into narrowing strips of grey until even those disappeared. The sheets crash down over the windows and doors with the force of a guillotine, slamming into place hard enough to rattle the floor beneath our shoes. Dust coughs from the seams.

Somewhere deep in the walls, something old and long-neglected whines to life. It feels like the building had just taken a breath and sealed it in.

Tom and I stand frozen, unsure of what happened.

Then, with a low crackle, my earpiece buzzes to life. I instinctively turn my head away from Tom as the red overlay flickers into view across my vision. Distant markers light up. Team leaders. A raid? A raid? What the hell was a Red Army op doing here?

A voice funnels into my ear, clipped and demanding. “Operative! What are you doing in there?! Get to an exit!”

I flinch and rub my eye, trying to turn the overlay off. Tom glances at me in confusion.

He opens his mouth to ask something, but I grab his sleeve. “We need to find the others and an exit,” I say urgently. “Call one of them-”

FZZT!

A laser scorches the air between us.

I yank him down. We stare at each other like deer in headlights.

“So… the place is booby-trapped?” He asks no one.

I tune out the chatter in my ear. My mind shifts, calm within the adrenaline storm. What’s left is focus, stripped and wired tight. Just like the agility gauntlet at base – well, close enough. But how to get through without Tom getting fried?

I pull him in. “Follow my every movement.”

He regards me with a glare. “I’m not helpless, you know.” He growls indignantly.

I gesture down the corridor. “Then by all means, ignore the certified guard trying to help. Not like I’ve had training or anything.”

He hesitates. “…You really think you can dodge lasers?”

I shrug, stepping in front of him. “Can’t be too different from foam bullets.”

Muscle memory takes the wheel. We dance around the traps inlaid in the building’s architecture. Traps spring to life around us. Lasers flash, spikes snap up from cracked tiles, blades spin down from the roof like angry ceiling fans. There’s even a swarm of robotic pests that we manage to stomp like cockroaches.

Tom kicks the last one into a wall. “What the hell is this? Who booby-traps a mall?!”

My earpiece crackles: one of the team leads is trying to bore through a wall, bypassing the doors entirely. We need to get to the ground floor, now.

I notice a lumpy shape near the railing. Leaning over, I see the top of the tree with the first cache. I hiss Tom’s name and wave him over, throwing a leg over the side.

“Whoa, wait, you want to land on the tree?” he asks. “What if it’s trapped too?”

My head snaps up. “Did it look trapped? Anything weird?” I ask.

Tom’s hesitation is enough of an answer for me. The fronds cushion my fall with a dusty whuff as I grab the trunk and rappel down, scraping my hands on fake bark. Tom swiftly follows.

He pulls out his mobile as my sneeze echoes down the dark halls. “Well, if I can’t call them, your allergy is a loud enough signal.” He teases.

I blow my nose into some tissue, muttering an insult back, and shine my phone light around. So far, the traps seem dormant, but they could be totally different to the ones on the second floor.

Tom huffs and tucks his phone away. “No signal, I think there’s a jammer. Quick, sneeze again.”

My glare is interrupted by a loud pop, followed by a distant shout and a yelp from the direction of the food court. We exchange a look and sprint down the hall, zigzagging through the dark, fast enough to throw off the targeting systems lagging just half a second behind.

I skid to a halt at the edge of the food court’s glowing checkered floor. Behind us, one of the traps I tripped sears past, hissing through the air. Tom drops and slides beneath it, landing hard at my side.

Matt and Edd are stranded on the other side of the court, surrounded by red tiles providing the only light in the room. Edd is frozen mid-step, one foot on a blinking yellow tile, the other on a red one. Another tile to their right is missing, jagged chunks of ceramic strewn across the space.

“Guys!” He yells. “The tiles activate explosives! It’s a minefield!”

What kind of target turns a barren food court into a minefield? No wonder they were on the raid list.

I scan the room, my light reflecting off the surfaces of the old restaurant signs and tangle of tables and chairs in one corner. My eyes light up with an idea.

“The service corridors!” I shout. “If we can get there, we can get out a side access!”

“And how’re we supposed to get there without blowing off a leg?!” Matt demands.

My eyes lock on the pattern of the floor.

Red-white-red-white. Eight-by-eight grid.

A thought hits. I yank out my phone and search: checkers rules.

Tom glances at me, incredulous. “You’re looking up board games right now?”

“Just - just hold on,” I mutter. “Only diagonal moves. Dark squares only. That’s... red, in this case. If they only step diagonally on red...”

“You’re guessing.”

“I’m strategising.”

Across the court, Matt shrieks, “What are you talking about?!”

I cup my hands around my mouth. “Move diagonally on the red tiles - one at a time. No skipping! Stay light on your feet and don’t touch the white ones!”

“That’s the stupidest plan I’ve ever—”

Edd cuts him off. “I’ll go first!”

He shifts his foot from the yellow tile and onto the next red tile, angled forward-right, like he’s hopping on a giant kid’s game mat. No blinking. No boom. He grins and gestures for Matt to follow.

“Okay,” Matt mutters, wobbling forward. “This is either gonna be genius or we’re gonna we’re about to become part of the decor.”

Tom snorts. “Guess that makes Quinn the Grandmaster.”

“I prefer ‘strategic genius,’” I say, pretending I’m not still frantically checking the rulebook like a nervous law student. “If one of you makes it to the end, you’re officially a king.”

Matt groans. “This is nothing like being a king, and I’ve been one.”

Edd laughs. “Just don’t mess up or you’re getting jumped straight to A&E.”

The next minute is tense. The tiles are large and as the two tallest they have no issues making the jumps with their long strides, but it’s still nerve-wracking.

Matt lands beside me with a dramatic exhale. “I want to have stern words with the madman that designed this place!” He exclaims angrily.

Edd takes the final leap and lands a few metres away from us. “And that’s checkmate! Okay, what now? You said something about service corridors?”

I scoot past him and shine my light on the faded Burger Queen sign - the only chain still clinging to life in this desolate mausoleum of outdated charm. “The worker seems to have fled. We could follow them through here.” I inform them.

“And maybe a snack to go, I’m getting hungry.” Tom comments as he slides over the counter.

“No, no stealing,” I chide, as the others start chatting about lunch options. Seriously, how could they think of getting lunch while essentially fleeing for their lives?

Well, thinking back to the battle royale, I shouldn’t be too surprised.

Edd peeks out the back door before I can take point. “It’s dark but looks clear,” He whispers, waving his light up and down the hall.

The service corridors are quiet and long. I felt like we had been dumped in a Stanley Fable side level. All we needed was a smug narrator telling us we’ve made a terrible mistake. Oh wait, that’s me.

The ground shakes again and I quickly check my overlay under the guise of rubbing my eye. The chatter over the coms confirms it: Team Leader 09 has managed to breach the roof. I could see their icon quickly descending in the distance. Gotta pick up the pace.

“Look, an exit sign! We can get out through there!” Matt points out, jogging to the end of the hall. I’m grateful there haven’t been any traps so far, but I can’t let them just charge ahead.

I catch up just as Matt opens the door to the loading bay and pauses.

“Matt?” Tom asks. “Why’d you stop?

Matt turns to us with wide eyes, his face paler than usual. I shove past, one hand ready to draw a weapon. I shouldn’t - not unless I wanted to answer questions I couldn’t afford - but it’s not like they care about gun laws; I found Tom’s shotgun under his sofa a bit ago. Still, pulling mine would change everything.

Aside from the yellow caution lines on the concrete floor, the room doesn’t resemble any loading dock I’ve ever seen. The walls are lined with shelves and worktables cluttered with tools, boxes, and unidentifiable doo-dads. What little wall space remained is so reinforced with steel it's impossible to tell where the bay doors even are. Overhead, sleek ductwork hummed with the low, expensive-sounding whir of a high-efficiency air system. And in the centre of the room, a large metal globe.

We funnel in, looking in wonder at the technological mess of a secret workshop. My curiosity itches to pour over the blueprints, not that I’d know what I’m looking at. But instead, I’m focused on the globe.

It’s not a perfect sphere - lumpy, uneven, and layered with rough sheets of metal. The exterior is bumpy and pockmarked from manual shaping, with nodes and cylinders jutting from the armour in seemingly random places. Eerie red underlighting spills from the seams. Circling around to the back, I see a laser gun battery attached to a timer.

5:42… 5:41… 5:40

Okay, it’s a bomb. That’s not good. My brain kicks into panic-recall mode, dragging up a conversation I’d overheard back on base. A few months ago, a scientist had gone rogue and stolen a large amount of explosive material along with several plans for the items he had been developing. Why he would do that was anyone’s guess, but he’s the reason every field agent and trainee has to take a bomb defusing class, just in case. I had barely scraped through.

I jump slightly when someone brushes my back. A look over my shoulder shows Edd staring at the timer with a terrified look on his face.

“Is that a bomb?” he asks, voice hollow.

Tom drops the gadget he’d been fiddling with. Matt stumbles backwards into a stool.

“Wait, bomb? As in... explosion bomb?!” Matt squeaks, voice jumping an octave.

The three start panicking, trying to figure out what to do. I start looking over the device as they scramble for a solution.

"We’ll never figure out how to switch this thing off!” Matt complains near a panel of buttons. “I can’t have an open casket funeral if I’m blown up!”

“I bet it’s dead easy.” Edd says, squinting at the labels.

“Not everyone labels their bombs with an obvious on off button.” Tom interjects.

“No, ‘cus that’s dumb. You put a trap on the obvious one and then label the actual button with something stupid, like ‘release fire ants’.”

"Remind me to never let you become an evil overlord. You’d be way too good at it.”

Snickering at the mental image, I pry up a panel with my fingertips. The red internal lighting helps me see the delicate wires leading from the laser gun battery port into the timer - and only the timer. Surely it’s not that simple. Then again, it’s this or trying to outrun a bomb powerful enough to level a few kilometres. I’ll take my chances with the wires.

I heft a large spanner and line it up with the battery, holding it like a katana from an anime. The welds are weak, thin and goopy. It should break off rather easily. Four minutes left. No time for hesitation.

Edd notices what I’m doing when I lift the spanner above my head and yells for me to stop. Too late. My downstroke slams into the reinforced casing of the battery and snaps it off. The battery smashes into the ground, broken wires sparking. The timer winks out and the lights fade from the sphere.

I let out a slightly hysterical laugh. “What kind of mad scientist can’t weld?” I ask myself.

Hands yank me by the hoodie and spin me around. “WHAT THE HELL WERE YOU THINKING?!” Tom yells as he shakes me.

I flail and push him away. “Hey, calm it. I stopped it, didn’t I? Look!” I grab the ends of the wires at the battery port. “It was obviously a rush job. I turned off the timer. No timer, no countdown, no boom. Don’t question an easy button win.”

The only mechanically inclined of the group sticks his face near the port, trying to look inside the dark casing. I look up and fake a casual eye rub to activate my contact. Two team leads are inside the mall, 50 metres and closing. I look around. The rogue scientist had to have escaped somehow. My eyes travel to a ladder leading to the furnace supplying the air exchange system. Maybe a vent…?

With the mental image of Jim McCane in a vent, I scramble up the ladder, hoping that at least a bird’s eye view would give me a better idea of the layout. The rumbling furnace drowns out the talking below, only the clangs of the boys trying to pry metal from the hollow sounding spot on the wall reaching me. I inspect the furnace and ductwork with a frown. Yup, open grate. It feels smart and stupid all at once. Genius types overlook simple stuff, sure, but maybe we just expect that, and it becomes a self-fulfilling prophecy.  Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth, I guess.

I shout and gesture them over. Edd hangs on the ladder as the other two crowd around me.

“Vents? Seriously? Is this guy a fan of spy flicks or something?” Tom criticizes.

I gesture between us. “That’s what I was thinking! Like Live Hard mixed with The Boulder!”

Matt groans. “More dust to wade through. I’m going to need a long bath after this!”

Tom shoves Matt in and I follow. Edd takes up the end of the line. We shuffle along, tracking the broken dust trail to what is hopefully an exit.

“Y’know,” Edd pipes up. “You seemed a lot more concerned with Matt almost sitting on an ant nest than you were when looking at a bomb.”

“Yeah, get your priorities straight, man.” Tom ribs. “Also, if any of you fart, you’re dead.”

Chuckles echo through the vent, theirs masking my own uncomfortable ones. They had a point. I need to mask better. Or act better, whichever fits.

“A light!” Matt calls and picks up the pace. He pushes open the vent grate, blinding us with daylight. He manages to turn around in the tight space, slipping his feet out the wall and dropping on the metal lid of a dumpster bin.

One by one we slide out, Edd getting snagged for a moment and pulling some threads from his hoodie. I glance down the alley, catching a glimpse of black vehicles parked at each end. Can’t go that way. We hit the ground running. I bolt for the fence across the alley and vault into some stranger’s back garden, the others hot on my heels. I fling the side gate open and we spill onto the road, panting.

As we walk down the road, the chatter from the raid fades from my ear. What a mess. How could a perfectly normal day spiral into that? And what kind of mad scientist mods a mall like that, it’s so inefficient!

Edd groans. “Anyone know the way to the car?”

We groan in chorus. Of course we have to go back. Hopefully the raid’s mostly wrapped by now.

I don’t see the way Tom lingers behind, brow furrowed, watching me.

---

The next day, I’m called into the raid office. The director glares at me.

“And what were you doing in a raid site, trainee? Thought you’d play hero and grab the target for yourself?”

I balk. “No! No sir, I didn’t know there was a raid, I was just hanging out with my… assets, continuing observation.” I protest, trying to sound professional.

He gives me the stink eye. “And the bomb? That your handiwork, too?”

Breathe, don’t clam up. I saved lives by deactivating it, including my own.

“Yes sir,” I confirm. “It would’ve gone off before the teams found it and I had to protect my assets.”

The director hums and pulls up something on his tablet. “You’re still getting a formal reprimand for failing to check the mission board. You could’ve compromised the whole op. You will attend a briefing. If your story adds up, it’ll be lowered to a write up. Dismissed.”

I walk out of the raid office, face burning with embarrassment. Another screw up on my record. Nothing like getting a written up for trying to have a bit of downtime.

I can’t afford this. Not here. Not now.

I’m a trainee dangling by a thread, embedded with three civilians, pretending I know what I’m doing. If command thinks I’m a liability, they’ll reassign me - or worse, decide I know too much.

---

Quinn McLeod

Daily Report

Submitted 21:17

- Special Ed module completed

- Mission update: Operative participated in trust exercise with Assets.

---

Items Equipped

Loadout:

SIG Sauer P365XL (IWB left crossdraw, high rib)

Fallkniven F1 (IWB Right hip)

Karambit x2 (IWB Right Sleeve, IWB Left Hip)

Modular Hip/Torso rig

Kevlar undershirt

END PART 3

Chapter Text

PART 4 – REVELATIONS

“Detective’s log, tape one: The intrepid and ever-so-brave Detective Edd is officially on the case.” Edd raises a chunky cassette deck to his mouth, speaking into it in hushed tones. “Location: abandoned manor on the edge of London. Mission: Uncover the truth of spectral activity in the area.”

He pops up his trench coat collar and dips his head beneath the brim of his bowler hat. Tonight, it’s just us and Edd’s latest fixation. Bit my fault, honestly. I’d introduced him to Welcome to Dusk Town to wean him off the zombie film obsession. Instead, he got the bright idea to start a podcast of his own, Super-unnatural style.

Now, we’re stood in front of a derelict Victorian-era manor, the light of the full moon illuminating the ivy-choked façade. The disrepair makes me a bit sad to see, it must’ve been a beauty in its heyday.

Matt scratches his head with the pencil he’d tucked behind his ear, muttering about alibis and timelines. I can’t help but shake my head. He’s taking the role of detective’s assistant very seriously, dressed up in a pressed white shirt with suspenders and a tie. The jeans kinda break up the image though, like a time traveller who gave up halfway.

A cold breeze whips past, and I turtle further into my hoodie. Autumn had started to set in. If it were any closer to Halloween, I might’ve faked sick and stayed home. If I could, that is.

I glance over at Tom, who’s doing pull ups on a tree branch to pass the time. We had been roped into this as extras. The story for ‘DetectEdd’ is that Detective Edd, his trusty assistant Matt, and Edd’s talking cat Ringo investigate supernatural happenings in the London area, solving mysteries and cold cases. Ringo isn’t here of course; she would be added in post. Tom and I have the glamorous job of being the ambience, Ringo, and whatever or whoever else the scenes may need.

Detective Edd and Assistant Matt stride up the stone steps to the wooden porch, the ancient wood creaking ominously beneath their weight. I follow just behind as Tom drops to the ground.

“The door is a dark red, the paint flaking off in strips,” Edd narrates. “The handsome detective reaches out to ring the bell, hoping to be seen as a guest by any spirits—"

He’s cut off as my left foot goes through the porch with a dry, crumbing crack. Jagged wood scrapes my thigh. I barely bite back a yelp – not in pain, just surprise – and slap my hands on the decking to keep from falling further. Tom and Matt startle, rushing to help pull me out.

Edd, flustered, fumbles to recover the bit. “Uh… careful there, Ringo! Don’t want to get injured!”

I fix Edd with a flat look as Tom wraps his arms under mine and heaves. “Meow.”

I sink back down a tad as my rescuers silently crack up, muffling their snickers so they don’t ruin the recording. Edd chews on his lips in an effort to stay composed and turns to twist the ringer for the doorbell.

A real bell rings through the house at each turn, the clapper hammering dully on the old metal. Judging by his expression, even Edd didn’t expect it to work. Behind him, we finally free my leg from the biting wood shards, Matt and I tugging the last bit of fabric from the splinters. I don’t think I’m cut, but I’d need to check for sure later. Thankfully, my trousers aren’t ripped. Small mercies.

Matt scurries after Edd, who’s crossing the threshold of the manor. Tom and I pull out our torches to light the way for the main characters. I start scanning for weak spots, though I’m not too confident in my ability to clock them all now. The spot I fell through seemed sturdy enough, but it’s evident the rotten wood can’t handle a person’s full weight.

“The lady of the house still haunts her home to this day,” Edd continues into the dictaphone. “Records show the killer also took the life of the gardener and scullery maid, leaving no trace behind.”

Tom starts making deliberate steps, heel toe, heel toe, trying to mimic the sound of heeled shoes on hardwood. It doesn’t really work, but Edd presses on regardless.

“The sir of the house, Mr. Pendelton, was acquitted of all charges upon the discovery of his alibi, a night out with his mistress. Theory goes that he made it all up, and it’s my job to prove it.” Edd creeps into the empty parlour, Matt softly jogging ahead to snap a picture. I pull Tom out of frame and dart around the dividing wall to meet them at the entrance to what was once an opulent dining room. Really glad I took an antihistamine before this adventure. Last thing Edd’s story needs is a ghost with allergies.

Edd continues to narrate, Matt mechanically reading his lines from the small notebook he carries. Tom and I race ahead, setting up props and playing spooky sound effects from our phones. It’s going pretty well, truth be told. There will have to be a lot of editing in post, but at least Edd is having fun.

Eventually, we make our way up to the second floor. Tom and I tiptoe up the winding staircase, sticking close to the edge of the wall to avoid the worst creaks. The stars of the show stomp upstairs, talking about how the eyes of the portraits seem to be following them. I shudder in spite of myself. If there actually were any paintings on the walls, I’d be mega creeped out by now.

While Tom plays some more eerie noise, I run down the hall to scout for the right type of room for the next scene. The size of these bedrooms makes me jealous. I’m already mentally moving in.

I find the perfect one at the end of the hall: the master bedroom. Large bay windows overlook the garden, looming oaks in the illuminated by moonlight. The tips of their skeletal branches tap gently against the glass. Ratty curtains hang from the ceiling, held back by fraying ropes. The crumpled remains of a poster bed frame lie in the middle of the room, flanked by moulded dressers on each side.

A chill runs up my back, invoking a full-body shudder. Goosebumps rise on my skin. Whoa. What was that? A reaction to the immaculate vibes?

With the feeling of being watched, I quietly shut the door, dropping into a crouch on the side. I motion to Edd, who wanders over. I gently scratch the bottom of the door with my nails, century old dirt accumulating under my nails.

“What have you got there, Ringo?” Edd asks the air.

“This room smells weird, meow!” He responds to himself in a falsetto. I barely keep from snorting.

“Ah, the room where the first murder happened!” Edd announces, pushing the door open. “Good catch, my ever-so-reliable buddy!”

“I thought I was your ever-so-reliable buddy,” Matt mutters.

The boys file into the room, Tom holding out his phone softly playing a creepy symphony. I step inside last, lingering by the door.

Edd starts narrating the room now, hamming up the creep factor. Matt squints at his notes, trying to make out the words in the dim light. The hardwood sags slightly under their shoes.

“On a night just like this, the first life was taken,” Edd whispers. “With the swing of a hatchet, Lady Pendelton lost her head, doomed to haunt the grounds until her killer is brought to justice!”

Just as Edd takes a step towards the bed frame, the floor groans underfoot. A horrible crack resonates through the building, and with the sound of a tree falling, the ground gives out beneath him.

Tom and Matt plummet with him, their screams knifing the air.

The floor beneath my toes vanishes and I pitch forward—too fast to catch myself, not fast enough to panic. I twist mid-air, tucking my shoulder, and let gravity hurl me into a roll. My feet hit first, knees bent, then the world flips as I hit the ground in a soft spiral, absorbing the shock across my palms, knees, and spine. I end up crouched, silent, heart pounding. Nothing broken, nothing bruised.

I survey the room, flickering gaslight from wall sconces throwing off a soft amber glow. Bookshelves line the walls, stuffed to the brim with loose papers and leather-bound novels. There’s not a speck of dust, everything perfectly arranged, untouched, as if the owners had just stepped out. Heavy curtains conceal the windows, and a fire burns merrily in the hearth. My head snaps up, seeing immaculate dark green wood panels making up the ceiling instead of what should be a gaping hole.

The trio groan from a tangled heap in the centre of the room. I bolt over, hands hovering over Edd’s shoulders.

“Edd, are you alri…” I trail off as his shoulders stiffen.

This isn’t my voice.

Edd’s head snaps around, face furious. He shoves me away from him.

“What are you doing here, Tord? What did you do?” He hisses.

I shuffle back, scrambling to my feet as he does the same. I hold out my hands in a placating gesture. “What are you on about? Why…”

Red bleeds into the edges of my vision. I raise my arms to my face, taking in the slim calloused hands poking out of bright red sleeves. I take a step back, reeling. My daze snaps to a full-length mirror standing by a wall.

The reflection shifts and overlaps, a kaleidoscope of orange and red. In my right eye, I see myself, a tad dusty by no worse for wear. In my left, I see someone taller, sharper-jawed, unscarred. The past of someone I see every week.

Tord.

The others have gotten up by now, and their faces twist with rage. I take another step back.

“Wait, wait! It’s-” I wince at the sound of Tord’s voice. “It’s an illusion! I think this place is actually haunted!”

“Bull!” Tom barks. “What are you pulling this time, Tord? Another stunt to drive us apart?!”

Edd raises a candelabra like a bat. “Stay back!”

“Guys, listen to me! It’s this place—it’s tricking us!” I keep my hands up like a surrender, trying not to panic. “I can see it, okay? I can see through it. This isn’t real!”

Tom growls and lunges. I dip under the punch and guide his forearm past me, redirecting his momentum into the air behind. “Liar!” he barks, swinging again. “You think we’d fall for this?!”

I meet his normally black eyes as he rushes forward. His are clouded, almost a smoky grey. I dodge him and Edd’s swing with the candelabra in one motion, using the opening to yank Edd’s coat and spin him off-balance. I see the same smoky look overtaking his eyes, and a glance at a circling Matt confirms the same.

“Snap out of it!” I yell. “It’s all fake! I’m not Tord, I’m Quinn!”

“How dare you impersonate him! You’re not even wearing the same colour!” Matt cries, charging.

I’m not going to be able to get out of this, am I? Whatever effect this room has, it’s thoroughly hypnotized them. The only way to break the illusion is to either beat it or get out of the affected area, at least in media. I don’t know if the illusion is tied to an object, but I can figure out what it does.

I shove a chair in front of Tom and spin around a desk to put it between us. What does this illusion want? What does it do? I whip a book at Matt who throws up his hands yelling, “Not the face!”

Fear. That’s likely it. Or hate. Something primal. In some way, we all fear or hate Tord. The boys, obviously, because he blew up their house. Myself, because he took my freedom, my choices away. I could see what he had been doing for a while now – he’s using me as a stand-in for himself in the group. Training me to fight like him, learning his language, assigning me a colour so close to his…

Matt lunges at my legs, and I reflexively drive a knee into his stomach. “Sorry, Matt-!” His breath explodes from his lungs and he crumples, gasping. The room freezes. I shove him to the side and step clear.

I’m shaking. Not from fear, but from what I’m about to do.

They weren’t going to listen. Not like this.

I straighten slowly, forcing a grin to my face. Cold. Confident. Familiar. And so, so wrong.

“Oh dear,” I say, switching my voice just slightly—rounder vowels, heavier consonants. The Norwegian lilt slides into place like a weapon unsheathed. “Looks like Matt had an accident.”

Edd’s eyes widen in horror.

“Hello, Edd. Tom.” I flash a sharper grin. “How have been things?”

Tom screams in fury and rushes me. I sidestep, catch Edd’s wrist mid-arc, and fold it sharply. He cries out and drops as something pops, the candelabra clattering to the floor. I want to throw up, but I can't stop. Not now. I pivot and drive my elbow into Tom’s chest as he closes in, letting his momentum do the work. Hooking his arm under mine, I yank him sideways into a bookshelf. The wood groans and books shake loose.

Unfortunately, Tom isn’t fazed. He launches at me again, this time landing a brutal knee into my side. I twist with it, absorbing the blow, but it still knocks the wind out of me.

“You’ve got some nerve showing your face again!” he shouts, driving his fist toward my throat. I block and stumble back, almost tripping on the candelabra.

“I missed your charming hospitality,” I banter back, my tone sharpened to the calm but cutthroat edge I’d hear on the sparring mats.

Tom snarls. “You think you’re clever? You think you can just walk in and talk your way out of everything? You don’t get to joke anymore, commie!”

“Still clinging to that old nickname?” I drawl, hoping the line is accurate.

He swings again. I dodge, just barely, dropping low to sweep his leg, buying a second’s space. It slows him down, but not by much.

“I don’t have time for this,” I say, low and sharp. “If you’d just calm down—”

“Calm down?!” His voice cracks. “You blew up our house! You killed people! You used us! WHY?”

I grit my teeth. “That wasn’t-”

“Don’t lie to me again!” he shouts, slamming into me. We crash into the edge of the hearth.

I recover first, shoving him back. A phrase slips out, too easy, too automatic.

“Still asking questions you don’t want answers to? Just like in the lab-” I snap without thinking—

—and Tom stops cold.

I see his face fracture—fear, shock, hurt, grief—then it hardens into rage.

I realize too late what I’ve said. The lab. A memory Quinn shouldn’t have, a grudge that isn’t mine. Something the real Tord complained about during our talks, something he would say with a sneer, something he would only ever use to wound.

Tom’s face contorts further.

“You’re bringing that up now?!” he roars, voice cracking with betrayal.

I see his eyes—smoky, clouded. The illusion clings to him, whispering fury.

He tackles me again and we hit the floor. He lands a punch square to my jaw. Another to my side.

“After everything - you dare-!”

“I’m not-!” I try to yell, but it comes out in his voice. Tord’s voice. Useless. Worse than useless.

Tom rears back for another blow—

I grab the front of his hoodie and yank him down, slamming my forehead into his nose. He recoils with a strangled grunt. I twist beneath him, throwing his weight sideways and riding the momentum, flipping Tom onto his chest. He lashes out wildly, but I place a knee on his spine, wrenching an arm up and behind. He gasps and tries to roll free.

I press down harder, grab a fistful of his hair—

—and slam his head into the floor.

Everything stops.

Tom lies still, chest heaving, red gushing from his nose.

And I’m left shaking, his figurative blood on my hands. His and mine.

Panting, bruised, I straighten and look them over. Hurt. Bleeding. Confused. And it’s my fault. I feel something splinter inside me.

Still smiling, I mock-bow.

“Always lovely to see you, my old friends! Let’s do this again sometime.”

I turn, suppressing every urge to bolt, and saunter towards the exit.

The moment I cross the threshold into the hall; something shatters behind me with a sound like glass crying.

The illusion lifts.

I shut the door and lean against the peeling wallpaper, heart thudding in my chest. A glance a mirror atop a carved oak hall stand shows a familiar silhouette. I pull out my phone to be sure. Orange sleeves. I heave a shaky sigh of relief, still horrified at what happen in the room. What had I done?

Quietly, I cross to another door, open it, then slam it shut for effect. I jog over to the library, making sure to step on the spots most likely to creak.

I peek inside and shine my light in, taking in the destruction.

With the illusion gone, I can finally see the true face of the room. The gaping hole in the ceiling allows moonlight from the bay windows above to filter in, casting everything in a soft blue glow. Rubble and rotten timber are scattered across the room, old furniture covered in moth-eaten drapes crushed under the weight of broken beams and flooring.

“Oh my God!” I blurt, not having to fake my shock. How did we land without getting impaled? An effect of the illusion?

I rush over to Edd, who is cradling his wrist to his chest. “Edd! Are you- no, you’re not alright. What else is hurt?”

Edd cracks open teary brown eyes and squints at me. “Quinn? Where were you?”

“Trying to get down here without falling in,” I fib. “Took me a bit to find the right room. Lemme see your wrist.”

I gently ease up his sleeve, careful not to brush the skin. The swelling is picking up, a mottled bruise forming underneath. I don’t know what I did, but Edd’s wrist is not in good shape. I can’t help but feel a wave of guilt; it’s his writing hand. His art hand. An integral part of his job. And now, because I didn’t hold back enough, he’s going to lose income for who knows how long it’ll take to heal.

Matt staggers past, clutching his stomach, and drops to his knees beside Tom, who is finally stirring. I jump over the rubble and roll him to his back, hand under his neck. He groans.

Hissing through my teeth, I dig some tissues from a pocket and wad them up, trying to stem the bleeding from his nose. Hopefully it’s just broken cartilage.

God’s sake, this is a nightmare.

I glance over at Matt. “You good to help me get him out of here? He might have a concussion. Might as well get him checked out when we take Edd to the hospital.”

Matt looks up at me with the most broken look on his face and nods, slipping his arms under Tom’s shoulders to help him sit up. I gently wipe some of the blood from around his mouth and hand Tom the rest of the tissues when he swats at me.

We make our way out of the library, Matt half-carrying his friend, myself keeping a guiding hand on Edd’s shoulder as I light the way. We bundle the two into the backseat, Matt taking the wheel. I grab a water bottle and wet another tissue, passing it back to them. Flexing my jaw, I feel the sting where Tom had landed a hit. I don’t know how I’m going to explain that. I draw up my hood, burrowing into the warm fabric.

We pile into the A&E, Tom throwing a hand over his eyes to protect them from the blinding white lights. Edd checks them both in while I grab a blue mask from a box on the counter.

“Why’re you taking one of those?” Matt asks. “You’re not sick.”

“Could get, though.” I reply, hooking the strings around my ears. “Any idea how many things are airborne in places like this?”

Matt balks and snatches his own. Really, I was just trying to cover the bruise on my jaw, but not getting sick from a floating germ is a nice bonus.

We slump onto uncomfortable plastic chairs in the waiting room, drifting between dozing and zoning out. I keep glancing at my sleeves; the orange having become reassuring.

Two hours crawl by before Edd trudges back out with Tom, who looks marginally more alive.

Matt shoots to his feet. “So? What’s wrong? Anything bad?”

Shifting his coat and hoodie to the crook of his left arm, Edd holds up his right to display the splint wrapping around the wrist. “It’s just a bad sprain. I’ll live. Tom’s got a cracked nose and a headache the size of France. He’ll be sleeping at my place tonight so I can keep an eye on him.”

I look over to the swaying man, his black eyes half lidded from fatigue and dizziness. I haul myself upright and take a spot at his side, placing a steadying hand on his shoulder. He barely reacts, just letting out a small huff.

Matt drives us home, Edd in the front this time. I pull my mask down slightly, making sure it still covers my throbbing chin. I just feel… numb. The horror had passed, I played the concerned friend well, there’s nothing left to do but go home.

It feels like a pyrrhic victory. They’re alive. I got them out of danger. Again. But it’s hard to feel good about any of it when the method involved hurting them with my own hands.

My hands still tremble. Not from fear, but from the memory. How easy it had been to slip into that mindset, to let go, hit harder, dig in. It was simply survival. I did what I had to do.

But it didn’t feel like winning. It felt like I had taken a huge step back, like I betrayed them personally. Just like Tord had.

And now I’m sitting here like it doesn’t matter. Like I hadn’t just crossed a major line I swore I wouldn’t.

The car jostles as we pull into the tower block car park.

I wave the three of them off as they slip into Edd’s flat. I enter my own, flinging my orange hoodie to the floor and collapsing onto the sofa.

I don’t think I’ll be sleeping well tonight.

---

Quinn McLeod

Daily Report

Submitted 4 hours ago

- Special Ed module completed

- Mission update: Operative is helping assets with podcast project.

---

Items Equipped

Loadout:

SIG Sauer P365XL (IWB left crossdraw, high rib)

Fallkniven F1 (IWB Right hip)

Karambit x2 (IWB Right Sleeve, IWB Left Hip)

Modular Hip/Torso rig

Kevlar undershirt

Chapter Text

Edd flexes his fingers experimentally, grimacing when his wrist twinges. The urgent care nurse had said it isn’t broken, just badly sprained. As clouded as his mind was at the time, he couldn’t forget the sound it made when getting twisted back, the motion sending him to the floor.

Tom sits with him at his kitchen table, a bag of frozen peas resting on the man’s forehead. Matt just lies on the floor, hands over his stomach and staring at the light on the ceiling.

“So,” Tom says at last, in a tone far too casual. “That... wasn’t Quinn. Right?”

Matt sits up, eyes wide. “Oh, thank God, someone said it. That was Tord, right? He looked like him. Sounded like him.”

“Only for part of it,” Edd murmurs, “At first, he tried to say it was an illusion. That he was Quinn. Then he… changed.”

“Yeah,” Tom growls. “Because he was changing. His voice, his attitude, the way he fought… It was Tord, all the way through, with that smug grin and stupid accent. He even called us—what was it— ‘my old friends’?” Tom practically spits the quote out.

“He also sprained your wrist,” Matt adds helpfully.

Edd gives him a sideways glare. “Thanks, Matt.”

They lapse into silence for a while. The hum of the fridge grows loud in the background.

“So then… what was he? Who was he?” Edd asks the room. “Was he just a hallucination and we only got hurt because of the fall?”

More silence. Matt lies back down and exhales slowly. He didn’t like this. Not the silence, not the confusion, and definitely not his friends getting hurt while he couldn’t do anything.

Tom straightens suddenly. “What about the tape? Was it still recording?”

Edd sighs and pulls the cracked dictaphone from his hoodie pocket.

“I think I landed on it in the fall,” he says, sliding it to the middle of the table. “I hope Quinn won’t be too angry. I think he said it was his mum’s.”

Matt joins them at the table, carefully picking up the cassette recorder and peering through the spiderwebbed track door. “D’you think the tape will still play? It looks intact.”

Edd sighs again and shrugs. “Might as well give it a go.”

Tom leans forward in interest as the tape begins to spin, a grinding whirr accompanying the sounds of them prepping to record the podcast.

“Try fast forwarding,” He urges. “Let’s get to the fight.”

Edd snaps out a hand to stop Matt’s. “That could break it, the thing is barely holding on. It’s not that long a wait anyway. Let’s just listen.”

The three sit back, their low voices playing back in all the glory of mid-80s sound quality.

“Okay, ready?” Edd’s voice fuzzes in, overlaid with a faint hiss and the clack of plastic. “I’m—khht—starting in three… two… one…”

They sit through the jittery playback, laughing as Quinn and Edd’s porch improv skips and stutters, smirking at the wonky sound effects, and shaking their heads at Matt’s stilted delivery. Well, Edd and Tom do. Matt maintains he gave a perfectly decent performance.

Eventually, the tape reaches the climb to the second floor.

“Ah, the room where the first mu—kkkrrt—happened!” A door creaks open, the sound warbled and thin. The trio lean in closer.

Edd’s narration cuts off with the crunch of splintering wood, followed by a jumbled mess of garbled shrieks—warped, distorted, barely human. A sharp CRACK bursts from the speaker, then a screech of static breaks through the silence.

The boys sit frozen, the air taut. From the fragmented buzz, a few broken words claw their way through.

“Edd—u alri—sssshhk—…”

“…doing here, Tord? Wh—did you do?”

Muffled shuffling. Then—

“Wha—on ab—kkkhh… why… wai—wait! It’s—bzzzzzzzt—illusion! I—hhnnk—haunted!”

With a mechanical click and an ear-grating grind, the tape sputters to a stop. The magnetic strip whines as it spools into the cavity of the recorder. The gears wheeze, then seize to a halt.

Silence falls, heavy and absolute.

“...He was already in the room,” Tom says, voice low.

Edd blinks. “What?”

“That last bit,” Tom says, pointing at the recorder. “‘Wait, wait! It’s an illusion! It’s haunted!’ That was Quinn, right? His voice?”

“Yeah,” Matt says slowly. “Pretty sure.”

Tom leans forward, the cold peas sliding off his forehead. “Then he lied. He told us he was still looking for the room when we were fighting.”

Edd frowns, rubbing his wrist. “Maybe the illusion messed with his head? I mean, it made us see him as Tord. It could’ve warped his memory.”

“Except he knew what was happening,” Tom presses. “Said it was an illusion. Said we were haunted. And that’s before the switch. And that’s not all.”

He pauses. “He knew about the lab under the house. I never told him about that. Did you?”

Edd blinks. “No… I didn’t. You sure?”

“I was hypnotized, not unconscious. Still had some critical thinking.”

“Could’ve been the ghost,” Matt offers. “Maybe he was possessed? Or it read our minds? Or maybe he’s actually a ghost and the real Quinn died in the fall—”

“Matt,” Tom says.

“Just brainstorming!” Matt raises his hands. “Could also be Tord’s clone. Or twin. I’m open-minded.”

“He’s not Tord,” Edd cuts in, tired. “Tord wouldn’t go that far to pretend he’s someone else. He wouldn’t care that much.”

“Then why’d he fight like him?” Tom snaps. “In the room, when he turned on us — that wasn’t some flailing idiot. He knew exactly what he was doing. Like, real close-quarters stuff.

Edd tilts his head. “Maybe it’s just basic self-defence stuff? He is a security guard.”

Tom shakes his head. “He knew how to redirect. Disarm. That’s not some basic rent-a-cop crash course.”

They sit on that for a moment, gears turning.

Matt rubs his face. “So, what, he is Tord, he’s not Tord,” he finally says. “I don’t get it. They don’t even look alike. I think it was all the ghost.”

“We don’t know,” Edd says. “And until we do—”

“We keep our guard up,” Tom finishes, wobbling to his feet. “And I’ll find out what he’s hiding.”

Edd sits forward. “How are you going to do that?”

Tom holds up a set of keys in answer. “I’ll break in while he’s out at work tomorrow. If he is who he says he is, he won’t mind me poking around.”

“And if he’s not?” Matt asks nervously.

Tom stops at the edge of the living room, shoulders drawn tight.

“Then we’ve got bigger problems than a sprained wrist.”

---

Tom doesn’t like snooping. Not because it was wrong; no, moral high ground had never really been his thing. He doesn’t like it because if he’s right, if all these little red flags aren’t coincidences, then they were screwed. Again.

Tom jimmies the lock, popping it open with the same ease he had before. Quinn had never bothered to change the lock after Tom’s first break in.

The door opens with a soft creak. Inside, Quinn’s place is exactly what you'd expect: spartan, tidy, like someone read a brochure about living alone and followed it to the letter. Sparse but functional furniture. A tropical plant that's somehow still alive. A faint whiff of something floral—maybe laundry powder or those incense sticks hippies love.

Tom steps in and locks the door behind him.

He passes the kitchen without more than a glance. The fridge has a chore list pinned to it, all in Quinn’s handwriting. A pan handle sticks out of the sink. Normal. The living room is next, and that’s where Tom stops cold.

Above the TV, hung like a proud centrepiece, is a rifle.

The showpiece is zip-tied to a wall rack, a plastic tag dangling from the mount. Tom knew what it said and hadn’t looked twice: Deactivated, non-firing. Certificate No. 141518-19119. But Tom’s eyes don’t stick to the label this time, they go straight to the hardware.

At first glance, it looks like an average Browning X-Bolt—clean, smooth metal and a shiny, wood-polished stock. But now that he’s paying attention, even from across the room, he can tell the silhouette is off. Tom had picked up the gun nerd slack after Tord disappeared; he knew the difference between decorative and deadly.

He steps closer, neck craning up.

The seams are wrong. Stock attachments don’t come with those kinds of fast-release clasps. He spots the subtle outline of a secondary barrel mod tucked beneath the rail. No serial numbers, just smooth polished metal. The venting pattern, which shouldn’t even be there, is military-style, indicating a potential for semi-automatic conversion. And to top it off, the firing pin looks perfectly intact.

Not a hunter’s rifle. Not even a showpiece. This thing has been gutted and rebuilt from the inside out.

He sucks in a slow breath.

Strike one. Quinn is always the one who nags them about laws and regulations. Mr Rules himself.

Tom heads for the bedroom next. It’s neat, bordering on compulsive. He opens the wardrobe and starts flipping through the shirts. There are mostly neutrals, like black and grey, but too many shades of red. A lot of reds. Maroon, crimson, cherry, tomato. The only outliers are a navy and a teal shirt, both buried in the back.

Nothing criminal about colour preference, but the ratio just feels wrong.

Still... not damning. Just off. Half a strike?

He checks under the bed. Nothing. Drawers are full of socks and other underclothes, all neatly rolled. The nightstand holds a torch, a watch, and a book about cold-weather survival. Nothing flashy or obvious.

Heading back into the main room, Tom opens the coat cupboard.

Two jackets hanging inside, both grey.

No blue trench coat.

He frowns. It was supposed to be a joke—him tossing it to Quinn like a trophy after Tom’s bunker raid. A memento of the chaos. He’d been almost proud of it.

But it’s not here now. Not even shoved in the back.

Quinn might’ve ditched it because it smelled like diesel. Or maybe he didn’t want the reminder. But… Something had clicked not long after the first paintball tourney, and Tom had been watching those paintball “judges” and some of the teams more closely during the battle royale. Military-like movement. Tactical communication. Red Army, hiding in plain sight.

Maybe Quinn just liked the coat.

Maybe.

Half a strike.

Tom’s eyes drift across the room to the bookcase.

Quinn reads a lot, that’s no secret. Titles on survival, anatomy, sci-fi, a dog-eared copy of The Art of War, typical paranoid guy stuff. But one book stands out. An old atlas with a faux-leather cover that had moved multiple times since Tom first visited, lying flat on its side on the top shelf. The kind of decorative piece you pick up at a flea market to look smart.

He plucks it from the shelf. It’s lighter than it should be. Hollow. Of course. He flips it open.

Inside are pamphlets and books, the Red Army insignia stamped on the covers. A thick manual titled Urban Survival and Subversion. A folded guide with diagrams of escape tunnels and rudimentary bunkers. A field ration index printed in cramped Norwegian columns. And a folded tourist map, creased and marked with red Xs dotting several areas across London, including the trainyard.

Tom’s stomach roils. His eyes narrow, a cold fury rising in his chest seeing the unmistakable stylized “R” staring back at him, burned into his mind like a brand. A confirmation he didn’t want, but couldn’t deny.

Strike three.

“Gotcha,” he mutters, setting the atlas down with a soft thump.

Tom clenches his jaw, seething. Maybe he’s wrong. Maybe Quinn isn’t like Tord.

But he's close enough.

He pockets the map. Not to keep—just to have something to ask about. Because Quinn has answers, and Tom is done playing dumb.

---

They meet at Edd’s car, piling in and heading off to a nearby park.

They claim a bench under a pagoda, the area clear of any potential eavesdroppers.

The morning sun shines brightly, the air crisp and cool. Birds chirp overhead as if nothing’s wrong. Sunlight filters cleanly through the lattice of the pagoda’s roof, drawing gentle lines across the table where they sit in silence.

Edd stares at the serene scene, unsettled by how normal everything looks. The contrast feels surreal, like the world didn’t get the memo that something had cracked open beneath their feet.

Matt is hunched forward; his usual cartoonish flair dulled by nerves. He fiddles with the edge of his sleeve, stomach tight. It wasn’t just nerves. It was dread. He didn’t like secrets, especially when they involved people who acted like a friend but fought like a stranger.

Tom paces in a tight line, fists shoved in his pockets to shield them from the biting cold. Edd watches him, anxious for what he might say next.

“Well?” Edd finally asks. “Did you find anything?”

Tom doesn’t say anything at first. He pulls the hollow atlas from his bag and drops it onto the table with a soft thud. Confused, Edd grabs the faux-leather cover and pulls it up, face morphing in surprise at the hollowed-out centre. His breath catches. Something about finding evidence—actual, physical proof—makes it all real in a way nothing else had. He didn’t want to believe it. Not Quinn. Not again. He carefully takes out the items stored inside, spreading them on the table.

Matt leans over, squinting. “Is that… propaganda?”

“Red Army survival manuals,” Tom said grimly. “And that’s just the start.”

Edd flips through the booklets with growing alarm, his jaw tightening as he skims. “These are detailed. Like, training-level detailed.”

“I should’ve known the rifle was off,” Tom continues. “It's not just a Browning. It’s heavily modified, illegal as hell, and Quinn’s got it on display like a trophy. And the coat I gave him? Gone. Nowhere in the closet.”

He shakes his head. “You know what really sets me off? That flip. He caught me mid-swing, turned it into a pin—knee on my back, arm twisted up so much my fingers went numb. Tord used to pull that exact move. Same rhythm, same pressure points. It’s not something you learn in a scuffle, I’d know. Took me weeks to stop tapping out to that bastard.”

“That was the illusion, though—”

“I doubt an illusion would know exactly where to place a concealed carry,” Tom snaps. His eyes harden. “When I tackled him, I felt something on his left side. Something hard. Like a belt or a holster. Gun maybe. I didn’t imagine that.”

That lands. Edd and Matt exchange looks. Edd’s gut twists. He wants to argue harder, but part of him remembers that split second of déjà vu—when Quinn moved like someone they used to trust. Someone they lost.

“So… he’s ex-military, maybe? That’d explain a few things.” Edd ventures.

“He took lead after that weird cult took you,” Matt recalls. “Helped us sneak in and came up with a plan. Like it was… training.”

Matt shifts uncomfortably. He’d thought Quinn was just a fun type of weird. A bit quiet, a little intense, a wicked sense of humour under a squeamish and protective personality. But there was something about the way spoke sometimes that came out too sharp, too certain, like he expected to be listened to and obeyed.

“And in the mall,” Edd chimes in. “That bomb in the workshop? He defused it in, like, ten seconds. Said something about weak welds like it was… normal.”

He remembers Quinn’s laugh—a high-pitched giggle, high-strung and amused all at once. Nervous, sure, but not panicked.

“And the traps,” Matt continues. “He led us through them. Called out the gimmick. Who does that?”

“Someone who’s done it before,” Tom mutters. “In a place like that.”

“There’s more,” he adds, looking up. “At the mall, when the place locked down. For a second, just as the lights were going out, his eye lit up with a red ring just as he turned his head. I thought it was a trick of the light, but he kept doing it.”

They all sit with that for a beat. A long one.

Matt furrows his brow, gaze fixing on the familiar red symbol on the books. “So, what you’re saying is he’s… Red Army? Like Tord is?”

“I don’t think,” Tom says. “I know. You remember the info I dumped on you after Tord torched the house. This fits.”

They sit in silence for a long moment, the cold creeping in around their ankles.

Edd finally breaks it. “Then who was in the room with us?”

Tom stares at him. “Exactly.”

Matt’s voice drops to a whisper. “I thought he was trying to convince us he wasn’t Tord. But… what if he really is Tord pretending to be Quinn after all?”

“No,” Edd says slowly. “He didn’t feel like Tord. Not fully. The way he fought, yeah… that was him. But the way he hesitated. The way he looked at me when he grabbed my wrist. That wasn’t Tord.”

Matt frowns. “So, what—Quinn’s his decoy? A spy?”

“No,” Tom cuts in, smacking a fist into his palm in realization. “Well, yes, probably, but worse. Remember during the battle royale who he said gave him the rifle? The very much working rifle?”

They exchange a grim look.

“His cousin,” Edd says quietly.

Tom nods, eyes locked on his.

“And based on everything we know, that could only be…?”

Edd puts his head on the table, arms wrapping over his ears. Matt instinctively reaches out, rubbing his back, expression pale and shaken. He wasn’t the best at comfort, but they’d been through enough for gestures to speak where words failed. Edd draws in a slow, deep breath, steadying himself, and sits back up.

“Doesn’t matter,” Edd stands with a wince. “We don’t confront him yet, not until we’re sure. But we watch.”

Tom nods. “And if he is who we think he is?”

Edd looks toward the street, toward the silhouette of their building in the distance. “Then we stop him before he becomes something worse.”

Chapter Text

I wobble slightly as I walk over an uneven part of the kerb, distracted by the animated voices ahead of me. The trio take up the width of the pavement, laughing about the ridiculous deaths from the film we had just seen. I’m glad things are starting to settle back to normal with them. The past month’s been... off. Well, off in the sense that they’ve barely gone out at all, apart from the yearly zombie culling. I don’t want to participate in that ever again; it was disgusting. I still don’t get how those things keep happening. But I suppose a small cull’s better than a full outbreak.

I skirt around a postbox, noting the fresh black tag dripping down its side. The gangs were starting to get louder round here. As far as I know this spot’s still safe, but it looks like someone’s starting to push in. Not my problem, but worth staying alert.

A sharp burst of laughter carries back to me.

“And then his spine came out like a slinky!” Matt recounts with a cackle.

“More like a PEZ dispenser,” Tom grins.

I shake my head with a faint smile. Idiots. But it’s good hearing them like this again.

We take a turn down a service alley, the same one we had used to get to the cinema. The cars that had been parked along the walls were gone now, the shops all shut up for the night. It’s dark, barely lit, but the main road’s only a minute away.

As we hit the middle of the alley, two men in dark clothes walking from the far end pause in front of us.

“Oi, any of you lot got a light?” one calls.

I slide between them and my charges as they shake their heads. My gut tightens. Go on then, let’s see your hands…

Behind us, tyres screech as a car comes flying round the corner and bounces over the kerb into the alley, lurching to a stop. The headlights flare, pinning the pair in front as more pile out of the car. Four door slams, engine still running. Four behind, two in front, three to secure.

The second man in front flashes a grin. “Then you better hand over your stuff or get gut,” he threatens, pulling a short knife from his belt and extending his arm out, tip levelled. Linear – good.

I step into his range, my right hand whipping out to slap the knife hand up and away. At the same time, my left drives upward.  Chin, not throat. Whiplash over manslaughter. His head jerks back hard enough his skull almost impacts his spine and he drops like a stone. I pivot low into a stance and fire a rising kick, driving power from my hips and knee. My toes ram up into the other man’s nuts like a piston. He crumples with a silent scream.

Two down, four advancing behind.

I spin and dart around the trio. Two with knives, two with bats. Knives first.

My hands flick, spinning the karambit from my hip into my left while my right draws the Fallkniven on the other side. I rush for the first knife-wielder, knocking his blade upward with the hooked claw jutting from the bottom of my fist. My other blade flashes a shallow swipe across his chest. He stumbles back with a curse and runs back to the car.

The second swings wildly up at my face before I can pull back from the swing. Steel bites along the curve of my jaw. Sloppy, both on his part and mine. I ignore the sting and flick his arm aside, my karambit tracing a thin line of red along the soft flesh of his inner forearm. He recoils with a hiss. Distracted by the pain and surprise, he doesn’t see my incoming fist until it’s too late and falls upon impact.

I turn to the commotion to the side, taking a half second to assess. The boys were thankfully holding their own, as I expected. Edd is locked in a two-handed tug-of-war, trying to wrestle the bat away from one assailant. Tom is playing keep away with the other batter, dodging swings and flinging insults and snack wrappers between each pass. Matt is flitting between the two groups, laughing maniacally as he blinds the muggers with his camera's too-bright flash.

I move in.

A sweep kick drops the first to the ground, allowing Edd to finally yank the bat free. The assailant hisses as his elbows scrape on the gritty pavement. Before he can recover, I drive a sharp light kick into the side of his head, stunning him for the moment. I’ll let Edd monitor him.

I slide low under a wild angry swing of the last batter, slipping round to their right. As the arm arcs overhead, I catch their wrist, blade angling up into their palm. The bat clatters down as they gasp in pain. My other arm pins the elbow and I push their wrist back in a twist. Their spine arches as they try to orient with their straining shoulder. With their arm securely in a lock, I yank it towards me, using it as a lever to drag their torso closer in a classic knee strike.

With them off balance and winded, I turn and drag them around my body and onto the ground, their wrist still firmly in my grasp. They wheeze, face taut, arm tightly held in a twist above their head, blood dripping from their sliced palm.

“Stay down,” I warn, releasing them from my grip. I hear them wheeze a faint, “’Kay” as I stand and sheath my primary blade, but leave the karambit hanging loose from my finger as I scan the alley.

As I turn, I hear a chorus of shouts ring out and feel an impact on my stomach, the force ramming me into the alley’s brick wall. The back of my head cracks off the surface as a hand clamps hard on my shoulder.

“Alright!” someone barks.

Vision swimming, I blink, catching the smoker standing in front of me, looking over his shoulder. “Hand over your stuff or I rip your boy’s guts out! I’m not playing!”

I glance down. My heart stutters.

A knife juts from my hoodie, the blade so deep the handle’s nearly flush with the fabric. The others are fumbling for their wallets, trying to defuse the situation, but I tune it all out. My hands move carefully, keeping clear of the bastard’s grip and slipping under the hoodie to feel.

Serrated near the base. Rubberised grip, black guard… Glock FM 81. Military issue.

Damn. Not a fan of this one. Serration snags too easily, like it wants to stay in the dummy if your angle’s off. And the grip’s useless if your hands are wet.

I probe deeper. My fingers brush something unexpected.

My eyes widen.

Well then. That changes things.

The moment the mugger adjusts his grip on my shoulder, it’s over.

I clamp down on his hand and twist off the wall, keeping the blade pinned to me. As he stumbles, my right hand grabs a fistful of his jacket and hauls him sideways.

He hits the bricks back-first and I drive my elbow into his sternum, just under the clavicle. Disrupt the breathing. Stun the core.

My left hand is locked down his wrist; the karambit biting against his skin but leaving me no angle to threaten him directly. My right hand is mostly free — what would give me better leverage, better control?

As he struggles for a breath, I keep the pressure steady and reach down to the tear in my hoodie. One tug widens the hole across the blade’s base. My SIG clears the holster in a clean draw.

I shove harder with my elbow, forcing him upright, and ram the muzzle beneath his chin, pressing up on the soft flesh.

Movement comes to a standstill.

He looks down in abject fear, unable to see the weapon—only feel the cold press of steel. My face remains impassive; eyes locked on his.

His throat bobs as he swallows and raises his free hand in surrender.

“What are you?” he whispers, jaw tight.

This makes me grin, my eyes crinkling in amusement. A new wave of warm liquid slides down my cheek and gets soaked up by the stained fabric below.

“I’m supposed to be respectful and kind,” I say lightly. “But sometimes I change my mind about that.”

In the harsh wash of headlights from the car idling beside us, his pupils shrink. His breath hitches, fast and shallow. His grip loosens on the knife and I twist outward, digging my thumb into the tendons. The karambit still looped on my index finger scrapes his skin.

“So,” I murmur, voice low and level, “how about a deal? You and your mates walk away, and we pretend none of this happened. Oh—and leave the knife holster. I’ll be keeping that. At least I know how to use it.”

He nods, barely, just enough to jiggle my aim. Carefully, he tugs the holster from his belt and lets it clatter to the ground.

I ease my hold a fraction, letting him fully release the blade.

He edges sideways along the wall. I let go and back away in sync, muzzle still trained between his eyes.

With a ragged “GO! GO!” he breaks into a run. The others, barely recovered, scramble after him, piling in the car over each other. A bat flips through the air and cracks the windscreen as the car jerks into reverse and tears off into the night.

I huff, unimpressed. New gang, clearly, why else were they so inexperienced?

I sheath the karambit and shift my SIG into my left hand, gripping the barrel, and bend down to retrieve the holster.

“WAIT!” a voice yells, panicked.

I freeze mid-stoop and curse internally. They just saw everything, didn’t they.

I straighten slowly, turning to face the ones behind me. Edd’s good hand is thrown out; his face twisted with terror and concern. Matt hands are held to his mouth, eyes betraying the horror on his face. Tom stands beside them with a shocked expression, hands clenching and unclenching with indecisiveness.

“Quinn, just… don’t move.” Edd warns, taking a few steps forward. “We have to call an ambulance, and – and-“

“Oh. Oh, no, I’m fine.” I shove the pistol grip-first in my armpit and pull the hole wider. “It’s just stuck, see?”

Edd and Matt lean closer as I wiggle the blade, the serrated edge tugging at the Kevlar fibres of my holster. The tip scrapes over the armoured fabric on my side as I gently prise it free. Keeping the tip of the blade down, I quickly slide my SIG back into its holster through the hole. No point hiding it now.

“So, you’re armed. You’re armed and armoured and you didn’t tell us. Was the security guard thing a lie, too?” Tom’s furious voice cuts low and harsh in my ears.

I take a deep breath, mentally preparing to lie even more. Well, white lie with half-truths sprinkled in. God, I hate this.

“Not really,” I reply. “I am in private protection, just not the mall-cop kind. High risk cases and the like. I’m not supposed to carry off-duty, but when you’ve had a gun or a knife - or several - pointed at you before, you stop playing fair. The vest and gun are part of my work kit. I was just... still wearing it.”

I turn to fully face him, free hand on a cocked hip. “And it’s not like you have room to talk. I found that shotgun under your sofa.”

Tom’s face flushes and I turn to pick up the holster, sliding the FM 81 inside and shoving it in a cargo pocket. Maybe I’ll give it to Marissa for her birthday.

“But… why?” Matt asks. “What’s so dangerous that you feel you have to wear that stuff?”

I spin back around, not bothering to hide my annoyance. “Are you joking? With all the stuff you told me about your past adventures? This gear and my training have saved our butts more than once.”

Tom scoffs. “Oh, yeah, like you’re solely responsible for our safety. We handled ourselves just fine before you came along!”

I throw my hands up in the air. “Oh, then excuse me for protecting my own interests then. Thought you’d be okay with essentially having a bodyguard for free. By all means, I’d stop if I could. But that won’t happen, will it?”

Edd steps between us and breaks our line of sight. “Alright, that’s enough. Let’s just get out of here.” he says, trying to placate. “Quinn needs to get his chin patched.”

He turns to address me. “I guess I don’t really get it, but… thanks. You really did save our butts this time. You sure you’re not hurt anywhere else?”

My shoulders relax and I raise a hand to my stinging jaw, fingers pressing lightly to sticky blood. “Yeah. I’m good. Just want to get home. Let’s go.”

I start walking briskly, a knot of mixed emotions churning inside me. Embarrassment? Shame? Anxiety over being discovered, at least partially. The whole private protection thing is true, and my official legal job description for the books, but… I shouldn’t have jumped in like that. Or should I? That was textbook close-quarters protection work. Still… what now? Will they trust me less? Keep their distance? I can’t afford either.

Lost in my thoughts, I don’t register the frantic whispering behind me.

---

I turn my key in my door, more than ready to do something about the throbbing sting along my jaw. Where did I put the medkit, under the kitchen or bathroom sink? Or should I just pop over to base and let the nurses sort it? The cut doesn’t feel that de—

A white-hot spike lances into my back.

It’s not pain at first. It’s detonation. My spine locks up like a steel rod, arms snapping tight to my sides, knees buckling as invisible claws dig deep into every muscle fiber. Nerves go haywire, every limb feels like it’s being yanked by electric strings. I don’t fall—I slam shoulder-first into the frame before dropping sideways onto the floor, my head smacking on the door.

My mic screeches in my ear, a shrill burst of feedback like a tuning fork rammed through my skull. The contact lens flares behind my eyelid, searing warmth blooming across the cornea like a fresh burn. All sight on that side fizzles out behind a red static haze, the world cut in half.

I think I hear someone shouting my name, but it’s warped, distant, just noise.

Hands grab me, lift me, drag me.

I feel it, but can’t stop it. Not because I don’t want to, but because my body just won’t. Muscles twitch, useless. My right side’s blind, my ears ring, my jaw wants to protest but my mouth doesn’t get the memo.

My mind dazed, body unresponsive. I try to calm myself, but my chest jerks like a faulty piston, diaphragm hitching. Ride it out. Don’t panic. Let it pass. Let it pass.

---

Tom glares at Quinn’s back, his own thoughts drowning out the whispered exchange between his friends.

Private security, yeah right. More like private military. Who the hell just “forgets” to take their kit off after work? That’s not normal. Not casual. That’s deliberate. Either he’s lying or he’s working for some joke of a company — and neither option makes Tom feel better. No, there’s more to this. A stinkin’ red target right on Quinn’s back.

On the ride up in the lift, Tom makes his decision. No more hesitating. They find out the truth tonight.

They split off to their respective doors, the jingle of keys filling the hall. He throws his door open to snatch the rectangular device from the cluttered side table drawer. Flicking the cover off with a practiced snap, he turns on his heel and charges at the man’s turned back.

Tom slams the prongs into the thick orange fabric between the shoulder blades and pulls the trigger.

Snap—CRACK.

A dry pop echoes down the corridor.

Quinn's back jolts into a perfect arc, limbs rigid. He lets out a tight, clipped grunt—then silence, his jaw clenching hard as every muscle locks.

Before Tom can catch him, Quinn drops forward, his shoulder catching the edge of the doorframe with a bone-jarring smack. He hits the floor, eyes clenched shut, the impact with his head swinging his door wide open.

“TOM!” Edd’s voice cracks like a whip. His heart punches his ribs—what the hell just happened? The sight of Quinn crumpled on the ground floods Edd with guilt, even though he wasn’t the one holding the stun gun.

He shoves past Tom, dropping to his knees and calling his injured friend’s name.

Matt stares frozen from across the way.

Did Tom just— His thoughts catch in his throat, panic smothering them. He moves only when Edd calls for help, like a switch flipped. He bolts over and drops to his knees with a strangled noise, his fingers fumbling over Quinn’s limp wrist like he’s trying to find a pulse but doesn’t know how.

Together, they try to lift their friend, but Quinn doesn’t respond, his head flopping back unsupported and his face contorted in pain. Soft shallow breaths escape from grit teeth. They see him try to clench his fingers, but they twitch and spasm instead—only curling halfway before shaking open again, like his hands forgot how to be fists.

Edd’s breath hitches. What if we just ruined everything? He’s not just some guy—he’s our friend. Was. Maybe.

“The hell were you thinking, Tom?” Edd growls, low and furious. “He saves us and this is how you thank him?”

“Yeah, using Red Army tactics!” Tom shoots back. “This is the perfect chance to interrogate him!”

Tom steps over a twitching leg and flicks the lights on, crouching beside Matt.

“Go get your first aid kit,” he orders. “You’re on nurse duty. Edd and I will truss him up.”

Matt hesitates again, eyes flicking between the three of them. He only moves when Edd gives him a curt nod.

The redhead gently easing Quinn’s shoulder down and dashes from the entry, flying through his own door with a bang. He couldn’t have left faster if the place were on fire.

Tom slides down to the knees, wrapping and arm over and under Quinn’s legs. Edd takes the spot at Quinn’s head, hooking his arms under the armpits and guiding the man’s head to his chest. The two awkwardly shuffle in and around the new recliner, placing him across the sofa. Edd runs to the kitchen as Tom gets to work, moving the mugger’s knife from Quinn’s cargo pocket to the coffee table and lifting the orange hoodie and red shirt to start disarming his not-so-harmless neighbour.

A low whistle escapes him as Matt returns and kneels near Quinn’s head. “Take a look at this. I was right on the money.”

Edd leans past Matt to prop Quinn’s head to the side, shoving some kitchen roll underneath and using an unstained part of the hood to wipe the drizzle of blood making its way to Quinn’s ear. His stomach tightens—not at the blood, but at how wrong this all feels.

“How so,” he asks, voice flat. He hated agreeing with Tom on principle, but the gear did look suspicious. Maybe… maybe they were right to be cautious.

Tom unclips the gun holster, holding it up with a finger. “T.REX holster with a SIG. Knew I felt a gun when we fought.”

Tom removes the gun from the holster, popping the mag and tossing it across the room without a second thought. One less danger for Quinn to grab if he goes feral upon waking up. He checks the chamber for a loaded round before setting the pistol on the coffee table with a solid thunk. “He’s got a wicked rig, too. Something – Enigma chassis. I don’t know much, but this is all one system, totally not casual carry.”

Edd watches Tom’s gleaming face and feels a knot in his chest. You’re not proving Quinn is guilty, he thinks to himself, you’re just proving how ready you were to see him as the enemy.

Quinn shifts and scrunches his nose in discomfort. Matt flinches, then resumes dabbing the cut with an antiseptic wipe. Sorry, sorry, he whispers with each soft touch.

Tom hastens, not wanting the man to wake up before being fully disarmed. He reaches for the blades on the hips, popping them out of the holsters with a soft click.

“Isn’t that the knife he used to gut those fish?” Edd asks, looking pointedly at the short black handled knife.

Tom turns it in his hand. “Oh shoot, yeah, it is! Can’t believe I didn’t catch that; it’s way too long to be a legal carry. The UK’s got like, a three-inch rule or something.” He passes it to Edd and holds up the curved blade, light glinting off the elegant edge. “No clue what this is, but it sure looks nasty. And check out the holsters!”

Tom pulls one halfway up past Quinn’s waistband, thumb tapping the faint label on the side. “Tek-Lok sheaths! These things aren’t something a weekend cosplayer can get a hold of, this is proper professional-grade kit!”

He slams the weird curved blade on the table and looks triumphantly between his friends, elation clear on his face. “Don’t you see? He’s not some rando, and he’s way past bodyguard level. This is covert op loadout, full-on.”

Edd just rocks on his heels, conflicted, turning the blade over in his fingers.

Tom holds out a hand as Quinn weakly tries to bat Matt’s away. “Matt, pass me the gauze.”

Confused, Matt snips the last bit from the roll and tosses it over, turning to apply it to the laceration he’s treating.

Edd places the utility knife on the table and steps around Tom to catch Quinn as he tries to roll off the sofa. “Oh, geez, Matt, get the burn cream. His earring’s fried.”

Tom looks up from the unravelled roll and leans closer. “What? Lemme see.”

Edd kneels on the floor, propping the limp man up on his left shoulder to give Tom access to Quinn’s right ear. Tom gently probes the area and ignores Quinn’s pained grunt, examining the cooling warped metal of the silver stud he wore. He gently removes the backing and slides the pin from the lobe, hissing under his breath at the damage. The skin around Quinn’s piercing site is red and puffy, the area swollen like someone slapped it with a curling iron. Right where the metal stud enters the skin, there’s a tiny scorched ring - dark, angry-looking, and slightly blistered.

Matt winces and opens the tube. “That isn’t just a burn. That thing cooked him.”

Tom slides the warm earring into his pocket and climbs on the sofa, pulling Quinns hands behind his back and wrapping the gauze around, looping and crossing before tying it off. He jumps when Matt gasps and recoils from their captive’s head.

“Guys, he’s going Ex-Terminator!”

Edd flinches and shoves Quinn off him as Tom flies off the cushions. The man flops heavily into the back of the seat with a grunt, his eyes cracked open in a glare.

The trio freeze.

His right glows in a soft red wash, a clear bright ring encircling the pupil. He blinks rapidly and shakes his head, trying to move his arms and pausing when he can’t.

“Seriously?” he mumbles, shifting to sit properly on the cushions. “What is this, an intervention? Who tasered me?”

Tom stands on the other side of the coffee table, arms crossed, his glare fixed on his captive audience member. Edd and Matt flank his sides, trying their best to look intimidating.

“I did,” Tom admits, “and with good reason. We’re going to ask some questions — don’t you dare think about lying again.”

“Again? I haven’t lied. Technically, I do work security—“

“No, I meant when you lied about being in that room. The recording was still running.”

Quinn’s eyes widen slightly, flicking toward the window for the briefest moment before refocusing. He works his jaw back and forth, feeling the gauze and plaster stuck to his face. “How much did you hear? I thought Edd fell on it and broke it.”

“Enough to know you knew it was a haunted illusion. But I remember everything else you did. Let’s talk about the lab, shall we?”

Quinn’s brow furrows. “Lab?”

Tom slaps a palm against the table, leaning forward over the weapons. “Don’t play dumb! You knew about the lab, something only people who were there know about! Which, news flash, you weren’t. We never told you. So, that leaves one explanation.”

Quinn’s face tightens in thought, his right eye fully closing and the red glow disappearing behind the lid.

“I don’t remember much,” he mutters, brow furrowing, “Aside from being scared. You guys were… violent. I didn’t want to hurt you. I figured out the room was feeding on fear and hate. You didn’t see me, you saw… whoever you hate the most. I was scared if I fought back, I’d make it worse. Then I was in the hall.”

He glances at each of them in turn, pain flickering in his one visible eye. “I lied because… I was terrified that I’d done something I couldn’t take back. I don’t know what happened, but your injuries… they were like ones made by someone trained. And I’m the only one of us who’s trained. So… yeah. I panicked.”

His gaze lingers on Edd, his eye tightening almost imperceptibly before locking back on Tom.

Tom snorts derisively. “And I think you’re lying again.”

He storms over to the bookshelf, knocking hardcovers aside as he yanks out the atlas. He slams it down and flips it open, holding up a pamphlet — the Red Army logo clear as day.

They pause, Quinn’s visible eye meeting Tom’s dark voids. Then he lets out a huff and shifts his gaze to the ceiling fan above.

“I understand how finding out someone you hang out with is basically a commando is scary, but those pamphlets? Total red herring. Ha, red. So, you attacked me because you think I’m Red Army?”

Edd cuts in. “Well, you have to admit it looks pretty suspicious. You fight like… well, y’know. Then there’s the hollow book, the hidden gear... It’s not exactly a stretch.”

Quinn rolls his eye. “They’ve got decent tips so I kept them, sue me. If you’d bothered looking properly at the shelf, you’d see it’s all prepper stuff. I filed them in the hollow book so I can keep the set together and so the thinner ones wouldn’t get crumpled.”

Edd glares at Tom who has the decency to look sheepish. Matt eyes the shelf with mild scepticism, rubbing his chin.

“You do own like, thirty survival books.” He says. “That’s not evil, just a bit sad.”

He turns to an unimpressed Quinn, hoping that it’s just all nerdy overkill.

With a deep breath, he finally joins the Q&A.

“But what’s with the weapons? Tom said it was like… covert op gear. The proper stuff.”

“Uh, because it is covert op gear,” Quinn drawls. “There’s more to the private protection scene than just bouncers and bodyguards. I deal with dangerous people. I have to be worse than them.”

He shifts his bound arms, trying to get comfortable as he crosses one leg over the other. “If you got any more questions, fire away. The sooner I get out of this tie the better, my fingers are going numb.”

The three pause, unsure what to do next. Edd bites his lip, caught between concern and guilt. Matt wrings his hands, still unsure how everything spiralled this badly. Tom frowns. He didn’t think his plan would deviate this much, wasn’t even sure what to think. Was he forgetting something? There was something else…

Matt kicks off round two of questioning, pointing at Quinn’s face. “So, uh… why’s your eye doing that?”

Quinn shakes his head, blinking rapidly again. “Stupid thing is overheating, that’s why. It’s an electronic contact. Experimental. I get paid to test it ‘cause my vision is a bit rubbish in my right. The current must’ve fried it—feels like a red-hot penny’ jammed under my lid.”

Edd’s eyebrows go up, startled. That sounds awful.

Matt flaps his hands. “Do you need help getting it out, is it hurting you?” he asks frantically.

Quinn shakes his head, slower this time. “No, just… just wrap this up, please.”

His voice is low, quiet. Matt glances at Edd, suddenly unsure if they’re pushing too far. Edd meets his gaze and gives the smallest shake of his head. Something about Quinn’s tone had shifted—tired more than angry.

Tom takes over again, backing up and pointing over his shoulder. “Let’s talk about the rifle, then.”

“Yeah? What about it?”

“Stop pretending you don’t know, you of all people should know it’s illegal. It’s been modded to hell and back and still has the firing pin!”

“What the hell?” Quinn straightens in shock, eyes darting to the fake showpiece. “I knew it was off but it says deactivated! I just hung it up and left it. Christ, yeah, thanks for noticing. I’ll dismantle it tonight and dispose of it.”

Tom scoffs in disbelief. “Like you already didn’t know. You’re a secret agent! You know guns better than me!”

“Not when I got it!” Quinn retorts. “And I’m not a secret agent, I’m just a bodyguard!”

Edd jumps in, his hands making lowering gestures. “Alright, alright, lower your voices. Shouting’s not going to help.”

He turns to his friend on the sofa, who’s now staring toward the foyer. “You said your cousin gave you the gun. What was his name?”

Quinn’s face sinks as he turns back to them, fatigue leaking through the agitation. “I don’t bloody know.”

The others blink in surprise. Edd’s brows knit in confusion—how do you not know the names of your family?

“I’ve got so many that pop out of the woodwork I only know the names of maybe, like, 10.” Quinn answers the unasked question. “When someone says ‘Hi, I’m your cousin lovely to meet you I brought presents!’ and vanishes for the nth time it kinda blurs together. Sorry.”

Tom presses harder. “He show up in any photos? Got a phone number? You got anything at all?”

“No, sorry. This was one of the weirder ones to show up. I didn’t interact much.” He stares at the floor beneath the coffee table, a bitter smile curling at his mouth. “Maybe I should’ve taken that as a sign to be more careful, huh?”

Tom groans, turning his face to the ceiling. Everything’s being shot down! He knows he’s starting to look like a major arse now. How can he recover this? His grip on the situation is slipping fast.

No. He’s still got this. There has to be something.

…But what if Quinn is telling the truth?

Matt, now more hesitant, reaches into the papers in the atlas, pulling out the Norwegian ration index. “What is this? I thought you only messed about with other languages.”

Tom grins triumphantly. Ha, talk your way out of that!

Quinn shrugs and looks at his bookshelf. “Just ‘cause I own something in another language doesn’t mean I can read it. Yoogle Translate exists.”

Tom’s grin falls. Drat. That’s… very believable. But that does remind him of something.

“Hold the questions, guys.” He raises a finger. “There’s one more thing I want to ask about.”

He rushes out and into his own flat, grabbing the slightly crumpled map from his desk. Running back, he unfurls it over the table, uncaring if the blades touch the paper.

“What about this? It was in the atlas, and there’s all these red Xs over it, including the trainyard. Care to explain that?”

Quinns head flops back with a sigh, his elevated foot thumping to the floor. “Not everything’s a red herring, Tom. It’s a tourist map a coworker marked up for me when I first moved here. It goes in with all the other thin paper stuff. Not that hard to figure out. We done?”

Edd studies his friend’s face. There’s no guile there—just exhaustion. Matt frowns at the map again, then quietly nods to himself. Maybe they are being too harsh.

The trio glance between each other, a silent exchange of uncertainty and retreat. Tom huffs and looks away. Matt hesitates, then reaches for the weird curved knife, his earlier scepticism softening into something closer to trust. He gestures for Quinn to turn around, shooting him a soft smile. Just as he starts breaking the first layer of gauze, Edd speaks up.

“Wait,” he says softly. “Actually, just one more thing”

They all freeze. Quinn looks up, grey-brown eyes meeting chocolate brown.

“Are you… military? At all? Did you serve?”

Quinn doesn’t answer right away. He gestures for Matt to keep going, then stares past Edd at nothing in particular.

“No, but my family is. Was.”

His voice is steady now, but cold. Distant.

“My dad died in Afghanistan when I was ten. That’s why I spent every summer with my grandad. He was WW2 and Vietnam. Tough old bastard. Taught me a lot.”

A pause. “I didn’t expect it to lead to this.”

The mood plummets with that admission. The words hang heavy in the air.

Edd stares at him, a pang hitting somewhere deep in his chest. He hadn’t expected that. He watches the tight set of Quinn’s jaw, the stiffness in his posture—it’s not just pain. It’s history.

Matt finishes cutting through the last bit of gauze. Quinn shakes his hands out, stretching out his fingers and flexing them experimentally before carefully peeling the fading red contact from his eye.

He breaks the looming silence. “So. Convinced I’m not some evil militant?”

The trio hesitate, fully aware that if they push any more, they were falling steadily into arsehole territory.

Tom looks down, hands stuffed in his hoodie pocket and foot scuffing the floor. “Yeah. We’re good. Sorry for freaking out, man.”

“And I’m sorry I couldn’t stop him.” Edd adds. “We were planning to talk with you about everything at some point, just not with a taser.”

Quinn nods, his gaze flicking to the bookshelf again. “Thanks. One thing though.”

Quinn carefully plucks the curved blade from Matt’s hands, stopping him from twirling it by the hole in the handle. Standing, he sheathes it in one smooth motion and adjusts the straps before striding over to Tom, who looks uneasy and extremely certain this is where he gets punched.

But the bodyguard just stares his attacker down, cold eyes level.

“Give the taser to someone else,” he orders softly. “Someone that can be trusted to use it responsibly.”

Tom balks at the insinuation, ready to voice his offence before pausing, the words dying in his throat. Not the time, he decides. He can just steal it back later, maybe.

With a sigh, he pulls it from his pocket, noting how Quinn tenses. He holds it out to the side towards Edd, maintaining eye contact with the wounded man before him until Edd plucks it from his hand.

Matt hisses under his breath behind them, shaking the hand he’d just nicked on the black handled blade left on the table. Quinn turns and sighs, stepping towards to the guilty-looking redhead.

Edd sidles over to Tom. He lingers for a moment, replaying Quinn’s words in his head. None of that sounded rehearsed. Just… worn out.

“Well,” he finally says with a sideways glance. “You really bungled that up.”

Tom sighs through his nose. “Yeah, I know. You don’t need to rub it in. I’m heading out.”

With a spin on his heel, he stalks out of the building, leaving his friends to mend fences.

---

Tom shoves the pub door open with a jingle of the bell above, barely glancing at the quiet crowd before stalking toward the bar.

“Smirnoff. Shot.” He grumbles, sliding onto a stool with a wince.

The bartender grabs the bottle without comment as Tom digs into the pocket of his jeans, fishing around for whatever’s been jabbing him in the thigh. As the small glass fills, his fingers brush metal and he pulls out the small warped stud he’d removed from Quinn’s burnt ear.

He turns it by the pin, holding it up to the bar’s low light. He barely registers the shot glass slide across the counter as he focuses on a strange detail. The stud itself is unremarkable, a dull silver cylinder about the width of a drawing pin. As it spins, he notices the top cap had started to peel back like a tin lid, revealing something dark and burnt underneath.

Probably just the plastic core popping out, he thinks to himself, prying at the lip with his nail. The panel pops off with a soft click.

Something cold runs through his blood, and it’s not the shot warming on the counter in front of him. He takes out his phone and opens the camera, snapping a photo. The flash draws a few annoyed looks from the other punters, but Tom doesn’t care. He opens the picture and zooms in.

Inside wasn’t the usual metal or plastic filling, but something scorched and unfamiliar. One half looks like a sliver of green plastic traced with gold—like the inside of a circuit board. The other side holds a tiny cloudy crystal, cracked clean down the middle, embedded in dark glue or resin.

He doesn’t know much about tech, but he works with mics often enough to recognise the internals.

That’s why Quinn never answered yes or no to being Red Army. That’s why he kept redirecting, misdirecting, looking around his flat shiftily. That’s why he used the dead dad bombshell to shut them up. He literally couldn’t say it.

His throat tightens as the pieces settle.

The bell above the door rings again, the shot sitting forgotten on the counter.

---

I let out a breath I didn’t realise I was holding as the door shuts behind Tom. I really bungled this, didn’t I.

I crumple the wrapper for the plaster I’d handed Matt and toss it on the table where my gear had been dumped after they disarmed me. Tom hadn’t found my mini-fang, as I had dubbed it, hidden in the wrist band on my arm. Thank God he didn’t - that would’ve been a whole new can of worms.

Why was it so hot in here? Did I forget to turn the thermostat down before I left? Or was that just a side effect of getting electrocuted? Well, shocked. Electrocuted is when you die. Felt like it for a moment though.

I tug my ruined hoodie over my head, breathing a sigh of relief as the cooler air hits my arms. The movement makes me wince, a fresh reminder of the sting where the prongs had hit my back. I’ll need to get that checked tomorrow.

As the orange fabric clears my line of sight, I see expectant faces staring at me. I simply stare back, unsure of what they wanted.

“Sooooo…” Matt ventures, “this private protection stuff. Like… who do you actually protect?”

I deadpan to him, unsure how to answer. Why can’t you be happy with what I’ve already told you? Can’t exactly say, ‘Oh well actually my mission is to protect you three’, no, and I don’t want to lie because I’ve actually never been on a real op other than this one. It’s all been training at the base, here, and on my laptop.

“Uh… people other people have a vested interest in. I haven’t done any high-high profile jobs, just little ones. They’re still important though. Oh, and items.”

Matt leans forward, captivated. “Like what? A whistleblower? A tech CEO? A palette of gold?”

Oh, I wish. Reckon at least one of those would be safer than some of the stuff I’ve dragged you from.

“Ah ha ha, no. It’s not that complicated. But even if it was, I still can’t talk about it.”

Their faces droop in unison, turning on the sad puppy-dog eyes.

I wave it off with a light laugh.

“Guys, I mean it! I’m already skirting policy by letting you see half this junk.” I gesture to the gun on the table. “I do anything in front of a civilian, especially in peacetime, I’m fried. It’s NDAs and lawsuits waiting to happen. So, yeah. Please keep this off the group chat.”

Edd turns away, rubbing his neck with a sheepish expression, and Matt flushes slightly and pulls back. I reach for my gear on the table, confused at the empty clip. Where did—? I spot the mag in the corner of the room near my desk. Tom must’ve tossed it. That’s very irresponsible, you never throw live ammo unless you can help it. Maybe I’ll make him sit through a firearms safety lecture as punishment for this whole fiasco. The blood sugar tests I randomly did on Edd as retribution for the whole cola cult thing seemed to have worked; he’s far more aware of the health risks now.

Matt finishes packing up his med kit with a yawn, stuffing the ruined gauze into a tight ball and shoving it into a pocket for disposal. This triggers Edd to yawn, which makes me yawn, too. We share bemused looks and chuckle.

“Alright,” Edd says as Matt gets up with a groan. “We’ll head out. Sorry again about Tom. We’ll make sure he properly apologises.”

My mind flashes back to the odd song-and-dance Tom had done after the bus incident and waved it off. “Don’t worry about that,” I placate, “Just let him know I want to take him to a firearms safety refresher. Tossing a loaded mag was not a good idea. That can be his penance.”

Also, I would absolutely lose it if I had to watch that dance again…

Edd smiles mischievously. “You got it. Night. C’mon, Matt.”

I stand and catch Matt’s sleeve before he gets out of range. He looks at me quizzically.

“Thanks for the first aid.” I say with a smile. “Appreciate it.”

Matt beams back at me and pats my shoulder. “No problem! Take care, yeah?”

The two walk out, a slight jaunt in their slow steps.

As soon as the door shuts, my smile drops. My shoulders sag and I fall into the cushions like they’re the only thing that can hold me upright.

The moment I flop back, I wince. Every muscle feels like it’s been wrung out—shoulders twitch, legs still buzzing like I’ve got phantom current dancing up the nerves. The impact with the sofa steals the air from my lungs with a soft whoomph as I start a box breathing cycle, trying to steady the thudding in my chest.

My hands won’t stop shaking. Not much—just enough to notice when I try to thread my fingers together. A low ache builds behind my eyes, creeping toward a full-on headache. My spine feels like it’s holding tension that won’t let go.

I close my eyes. That was… not ideal. At all. And what the hell was that taser? It was way stronger than the one I got stuck with during training at the base.

My ringtone breaks the silence in the room and jolts me awake. I scramble for my pocket, the loud guitars making my head ring. I swipe to accept the call without even looking at who it was, flinching when the screen makes contact with my right ear. I pull it back, confused, seeing the smear of ointment on the screen as I put the call on speaker.

“Nice save,” my handler says flatly. “But next time, don’t let it get that far. You’re on thin ice, Quinn. One more slip and you’re off this op—permanently. Report back to base, now, and get to the infirmary. Maybe bring a change of clothes, you’ll be staying overnight for monitoring.”

The call cuts off, leaving me staring at the too-bright screen. Well, that confirms it for sure. Flat’s bugged. I feel a faint surge of vindication knowing my instincts from when I was first pulled into this mess were accurate. While I didn’t know where the bugs were, does it even matter? Still tempting to turn this place inside out. Maybe I’d find my stud mic while I’m at it. It must’ve been blown off by the current and lost to that void where small things disappear to. Whatever. If it blew off hard enough to burn my ear, it’s definitely dead.

With a sigh, I haul myself to my feet, wandering to the corner and grabbing the discarded mag, shoving it back in my SIG with a firm click.

Do the buses even run this late?

---

Edd sighs as his phone buzzes, his eyelids heavy with the need for sleep. A high-octane film followed by a high-stakes fight and then an impromptu interrogation would drain anyone of the last dregs of their energy.

Toothbrush hanging from his mouth, he checks the new notifications in the group chat Quinn wasn’t in. Tom had better not be calling for a lift from the pub.

tom-skabadebadobop: meet me at the car, it’s urgent

tom-skabadebadobop: i mean it it really is i think hes in danger

mattthecrustacean: You’re the danger. Btw he’s going to make you take a gun safety course as ‘penance’.

eddomatic: Im not picking you up from the pub.

tom-skabadebadobop: im not at the pub you absolute turnips get out here now

Edd sighs again, deeper this time, not wanting to deal with more of Tom’s paranoia. If he hadn’t stormed off to break his mostly-sober streak, he wouldn’t be pulling them away from their soft, warm, inviting beds.

Finishing up his nightly routine, Edd pulls a jacket on and slides his bare feet into a pair of boots. His trainers hadn’t exactly been up to the job on the walk back from the cinema. Maybe he’d sink some of his birthday money into some proper thick socks.

The thought makes him pause at the door.

Well, that’s it. He’s officially an old man if he’s excited about socks.

With a shake of his head, he walks out, meeting Matt at the lift.

His friend blinks at him with tired, confused eyes.

“What do you think he’s going on about now?” Matt mumbles.

Edd can’t help but roll his eyes. “As long as it doesn’t involve attacking our friend again, I don’t care.”

The step out of the warm building into the chilly air, hands shoved in their pockets. Tom paces outside the car, arms folded tightly across his chest.

“About time. Hurry and unlock the car, I’m freezing.”

The doors unlock with a click and they pile in, Tom taking the passenger seat while Edd slides behind the wheel. Matt clambers in the back, leaning on the console to see up front.

“So, what is it now, Tom?” Edd asks dryly. “Who’s he in danger from? Aliens?”

Matt snorts in his ear.

In response, Tom holds out his phone, the screen showing an image of something metallic and scorched.

Matt squints at it, blinking his eyes to try and adjust to the brightness. “And that’s supposed to be…?”

Tom holds up a small object between two fingers. “It’s what’s inside Quinn’s earring. What does that look like to you?”

Matt plucks the stud from his friend’s hand and Edd takes the phone. He zooms in on the photo, looking at the green and gold interior.

“A circuit board?” he offers.

Tom smacks Matt’s hand into the ceiling to stop him from turning on the overhead light, eliciting a small ‘ow’ from him. “And a crystal. It’s a mic and receiver. Or, well, was. I thought he was being shady when he kept looking around, that’s why I kept pushing so hard.”

He hesitates. “But now… I think he was trying tip us off. He couldn’t say anything.”

Edd lowers the phone, staring blankly at the signs across the road.

“What was he trying to say, then?” Matt asks. “Everything sounded fine. We even talked a bit more after you left. He just protects people, what’s shady about that?”

Tom shakes his head. “I didn’t realise until after I left, but he never actually answered my question about being Red Army. He kept deflecting and redirecting our focus like he’s some sort of chess master.” He pauses for a moment. “I suppose my grandmaster joke in the shopping centre wasn’t too far off.”

Edd frowns, finally joining the conversation. “If he couldn’t answer… if someone was listening… maybe all the dodging was him trying to protect us. Or himself.”

A heavy silence falls.

Outside, a cab pulls into the car park, idling by the side door. Light pours from the building as the door opens and a familiar figure rushes out, black backpack thrown over a grey clad shoulder. They watch in further silence as Quinn hops in the back of the cab and it peels away.

Tom finally breaks the quiet. “If he’s not allowed to tell us, but still tried to warn us anyway…”

Edd and Matt exchange a glance.

“Then maybe he’s still on our side,” Edd finishes.

Tom meets their gazes and nods.

“We’ve got to get him somewhere else,” he mutters, leaning back into the seat. “Somewhere safe. Somewhere we know isn’t bugged, where he can’t be overheard.”

They don’t say anything more. The plan’s not formed yet. But the intent is there, a silent agreement hanging in the air.

They’ll figure it out.

Chapter Text

I look up at the signs on the walls as I walk in the building, a small twinge of happiness budding in my chest. It had been a long time since I had been to any sort of science exhibition. They always seemed to run on weekends I had to work or was too far away from a city to make the drive.

This is part of Tom’s self-imposed penance, apparently. I had signed him up for a firearms safety refresher; he’d reserved all of us tickets to the exhibition in return. I thought it was nice, in a few ways. One, because it showed I had pulled the strings- eugh, no, bad wording – concealed enough information during the interrogation last week to rekindle their trust in me. Two, because it meant I wasn’t going to get burnt as an operative. I don’t know what’ll happen if I ‘flunk out’ of this mission, but I wouldn’t rule out elimination as off the table for my handlers.

Whatever. Today is a fun day, a bit of R&R. Not rest and relaxation, but relaxation and reconciliation.

Can’t go worse than as the last ‘fun’ day we had. I checked the schedule this time.

We show our tickets to the door guard and saunter inside, taking in the wondrous sights; sculptures hanging from the ceiling, light shows and small stands lining the main hall, a booming voice narrating something from one of the side rooms. It’s glorious.

Tom pulls us to one side.

“Right,” he yells over the din. “Quinn gets first pick of the exhibits, then we get a go if there’s one we haven’t seen yet. Edd goes after the first three, then Matt, then me. Got it?”

We all nod, eager to get going. I pull up the expo map on my phone. What first? Maybe the wind tunnel?

---

Matt sits in the safety zone behind the glass, filming with glee as Edd and I get blasted into the back wall like bugs on a windscreen. Tom tries to tough it out mid-gust, arms out, only to get flattened and slide into us like a bowling ball. Our yelps and laughter vanish into the roar of the tunnel.

Wow, I haven’t laughed like that in… a while.

---

Edd stomps about the exosuit demonstration, miming kicking down buildings like a kaiju from a budget kids show. I try to do jumping jacks in mine, the heavy feet clomping on the ground like cement shoes. No, bad analogy, not applicable. Uh, like rental ski boots two sizes too big. Yeah, that’s better. Anyway…

I wander over laughing to Matt and Tom, who are stuck at an impasse in an impromptu arm-wrestling match. I join the crowd of other people in the demo, egging them on.

---

I think the biomedical science section is my favourite. Not only is it fascinating, but it had what had to be the best booth in the expo. I smile in pure bliss as I snuggle an elderly beagle and hear the happy barks and yips of the puppies rescued from animal testing labs. It’s nice to be reminded of the simpler things in life, like the unconditional love from such a cute creature.

---

We pile into the seats around a nice wide table we’d snagged for lunch. So far, so good. I’d had fun with what I wanted to see, and Edd had taken us to this neat display on old film techniques. It’s a shame the original prisms for the sodium lights were lost, I think it’d be really neat to bring back the old way of doing greenscreen. More affordable for small budgets, at least. Just film, splice, and go.

I dig into my mediocre burger, mindful of the plaster still on my cheek. It’d been a week now, so the cut was closed, but I still needed something to keep it covered to prevent infection. No high-tech solution from the infirmary this time, just good old-fashioned healing.

Matt takes a sip from his large tea. “So, what’s next, Edd? Any more animation stuff?”

Edd shakes his head, leaning over his phone and scrolling while shoving some chips in his mouth.

“I’d like to—" he clears his throat and washes the bite down with cola, “—I’d like to check out some of the tech exhibits. There’s a neat one that supposedly makes it impossible to place a call. I think that’d be neat to check out.”

My eyebrows raise in mild interest. Probably a Faraday box you can shove your phone in while it’s dialling. Fun little gimmick, shouldn’t take too long. I stuff another bite in my mouth, grunting in surprise as sauce spills over my fingers. Great.

---

We weave around the crowds, trying to navigate through tech area. It was the easily the busiest of all the sections so far, and for good reason. The wind tunnel we had tested was part of the main attraction, but the smaller displays we pass by in the back areas were brilliant. Light splitters making holograms (a shy facsimile to the stuff Wyatt gets to play with), animatronics of all sorts performing tasks and songs (I speed away from those - uncanny valley nightmare fuel), and even a micro surgery demonstration on a grape. I feel like they chose a grape on purpose.

Eventually, we reach the target exhibit. It’s tucked away at the very back of the tech section—a large metal box beside a control panel with a small “Out to lunch!” sign, surrounded by posters explaining the tech in big bold fonts and bright colours. I don’t bother reading them. From the shape and the mesh-lined window, it’s definitely a Faraday cage. Didn’t expect it to be police-box sized, though. Well, a bit bigger.

I circle it while the others chat over the info on the signs. The room is a simple five by five, seven feet high, with a narrow door and a wired glass panel on one face. What was the point of having one this big?

Edd grabs my sleeve as I come back around to the front. “Quinn! Let’s test this! Let’s go inside and call out, c’mon!”

He drags me into the room, ready to experiment with having no phone signal. What a high-tech way of simulating being away from a cell tower.

As I step inside and the door shuts behind us with a click, the outside noise fades to a soft hush. Almost total silence. Peaceful, in a strange way.

A faint squeal and beep pings in my left ear.

Right, my new mic. I’d had to get a new piercing there as the earlobe on my right was too scarred to have another piercing, at least for a few years. Being reminded of that makes my mind flash to the cut under the plaster on my jawline. I gained two scars that night; one from protecting my assets, the other from my assets.

Edd hums with glee, already poking at his phone.

"There really is no signal! Thats so cool. Let’s try calling each other."

No signal?

Another soft beep in my ear.

No connection.

Edd notices me go stiff.

"Quinn? What’s wrong?" He glances out the viewing window where Matt and Tom are visibly panicking over a tea-soaked control panel.

No connection. No ears. No feed.

Now.

My torso moves before my head, my neck stiff, like I’m one of the animatronics we walked by. My head slowly turns and my wide eyes stare into Edd’s, my pulse hammering.

"Tord conscripted me into his army after the bunker incident and is making me spy on you three and tag the anomalies you find and if I don’t perform well he'll assign me to an assassin team or kill me ‘cause I know too much."

Edd stares, frozen in shock from the sudden rush of words.

Then he exhales slowly and eases his posture.

"There it is. We figured you couldn’t say anything, especially after Tom took apart your earring. That’s why we brought you here.”

He lifts his phone again.

“Don’t worry, we'll figure something out. In the meantime, let’s try calling each other."

He dials my number like nothing happened. Like I hadn’t just confessed to being an embedded spy.

I pull out my phone on autopilot, blankly staring at the screen.

They knew.

They knew, and they found a way to help me say it. They had planned this, not to trap me, but to free me.

Some part of me unclenches — a pressure I hadn’t even realized I’d been carrying. It drains out slowly, replaced by something I can’t quite name.

The door unlocks with a click. Bright light filters in from the hall, warm and noisy and vibrant.

Matt’s voice drifts through the opening. “I’m so sorry, sir, it was an accident! I’ll buy a new panel if I have to! Or a mop! Or a new exhibit!”

I step out in time to see Tom drag Matt away by his hood, doing his best to put distance between them and the fuming attendant. Edd and I jog to catch up.

“What happened?” Edd asks. “Did Matt break the exhibit?”

Tom lets go of Matt’s hood with a roll of his head, which I’ve learned is his version of rolling his eyes. “Spilt his tea all over the controls. Did you hear what he said? ‘Buy a new exhibit’, like it’s casually not something that costs a hundred grand.”

He ignores Matt’s shriek of “WHAT?!” and spins to face us, walking backwards through the crowd.

“So? It work or not?”

Edd grins. “Yup! Couldn’t even call each other inside! How cool is that!”

I just smile and pat Matt on the back, joining his mourning over his lost tea. A classic British tragedy.

I resolve myself to enjoy the rest of the day and not worry about anything else. The boys knew, and they were working on a solution.

…I think I know what the new feeling is.

Hope.

PART 4 END

Chapter Text

PART 5 – SABOTAGE

I jolt awake as my bed launches me up, my head brushing the ceiling. Wait, what?

My surroundings rumble over something bumpy again, the soft vibrations of an engine humming in my chest.

A car boot?

Groggily, I start taking stock of my situation. I’m in my socks and pyjamas, no eye contact, no earring mic. No weapons or tools. I’m wrapped in… blankets. A quick assessment finds me rolled in at least three duvets of varying thicknesses, tied loosely at the feet, waist, and chest. Well, that’s not right, I only own one duvet. Who brings duvets to an abduction?

I faintly hear voices from the seats in front of me, someone berating another for taking a wrong turn?

Waitaminute.

I pull the blankets closer to my face, taking a deep breath in. Strong unknown soaps, my fabric softener… Matt’s cologne?

A whiff of the cola-scented air in the confined space confirms it — this is the boot of Edd’s car. But why would they stuff me in here? This can’t be their solution to the whole spy thing. They’re not that heartless. I thought everything was going well.

I go over what happened in my head. Why didn’t I wake up? When did they slip me something? We went for some late-night sledging for a few hours, grabbed some pizza, I headed inside and… oh. Congrats, boys, you figured out my off-switch: a few hours of heavy cardio and a load of carbs.

I wiggle a hand out of my soft, warm bindings, feeling around in the dark looking for something to use in self-defence if needed. I wouldn’t get far without shoes, but maybe I could hijack Edd’s car and clear out my essentials before they get home.

My fingers brush over hard rubber. I grab on to the item and feel its contour, the laces. Oh, my boots.

…Why would they bring my boots if they were going to kill me.

My brow furrows as I press an ear to the seat back, trying to catch a wisp of conversation, but I’m out of luck — all I hear is silence. I’m so confused. Is this a prank?

Now that I think about it, it probably is.

Another blind sweep of the boot helps me find my coat, a snowbrush, and nothing else. No shovels, no bags, tarps, ropes, lime, or anything else you’d need to hide a body. Most likely a prank, then.

I settle back down, tucking my loose arm back into the warm blankets and laying my head on the rumbling floor of the boot, the blankets acting as a thin pillow. If my hunch is right, I’ll be fine. If it’s wrong… well, I fought them off before.

The question is: how long do I wait to reveal I’m awake?

The car finally comes to a stop and lightly bounces on the shocks as they get out, shutting the doors as quietly as possible. I burrow my head into the blankets, letting all the tension out of my face. I’m glad I do that, as the burst of truly chilly air when the boot opens makes my expression take on the classic ‘it’s cold and my sinuses are freezing’ scrunch. Branches rustle as wind blows through and the faint scent of pines reaches me.

I hear a snicker and one of the duvet corners gets pulled over my face.

“I can’t believe he’s not awake yet,” Matt comments.

Edd lets out a grunt of effort when he picks my burrito roll up and the air gets knocked out of me as he hoists me over his shoulder.

“Well, if I wasn’t before, I am now,” I announce my return to the land of wakefulness. “This better be a prank and not some ploy to kill me and dump my body in the woods.”

Edd freezes under me, silence hanging thick.

“Oh my God you aren’t actually—”

“Nonononono!” comes Edd’s protest. “It’s a prank, I assure you! We even brought your boots and coat! So, could you please just… pretend to go back to sleep?”

I purposefully pause, enjoying the sounds of them shifting uncomfortably.

“Alright,” I say at last. “I’ll play along. But this position is super uncomfortable.”

I hear a soft hiss of “Yes!” from Edd as he flips me around into a bridal carry like that was any better. The motion moves the blankets from my face and I catch a glimpse of him happily grinning down at me before someone pulls the fabric back up.

I lay in relative comfort as they whisper vague instructions to each other and grab my stuff along with whatever prank items they’ve brought. It better not be the inflatable bed on a lake prank. The water may not be fully frozen, but I’m not in the mood for a polar dip tonight.

The trio start walking into the forest, snow crunching beneath their feet. I rub my toes together as some cold air sneaks through where the blankets shifted. Where the hell even are we?

“You do realise how suspicious this looks, right?” I suddenly ask. “Three men carrying a person length roll into the woods?”

Edd’s footing slips on the snow at my voice. “Hey! Go back to sleep! It’s fine, there’s no one out here.”

“Oh, like that makes me feel much better. Matt, tell me the truth: are you guys doing something stupid or something murderous?”

“Uhhhh…” Matt trails off in thought. “Definitely stupid. It was Edd’s idea, so you can be sure of that.”

Edd shifts his grip as I shake in silent laughter. Gotta love Matt’s honesty. “Alright, okay, shutting up now.”

If it weren’t for being carried, this kinda reminds me of the times I did winter camping. Not my favourite activity, but there’s something soothing about being bundled under the stars with only nature and wildlife around. Maybe I should take a trip to Norway and catch the northern lights for the first time. I speak the language pretty well now, so it should be easy.

Tom’s voice breaks into my vacation planning. “I think it’s here. Start clearing the snow away. Agh, not with your feet, use the brush, c’mon.”

Edd shifts me again, his arms starting to shake. “Please hurry,” he urges them, “I’ve been lugging like fourteen stone for the past five minutes, I’m not sure how much longer I can keep him above the snow.”

I scoff in offense. “I weigh, like, eleven and a half, max. It’s all the duvets you wrapped me in, guaranteed.”

I hear an odd sound like bristles over metal accompanied by a soft cheer of success. With a grunt, Tom pulls something metallic up and falls back into the snow with a whoomph. Matt laughs at his misfortune and Edd carefully shuffles forward.

“Okay, help me angle his feet,” Edd instructs, shifting me into a near-sitting position as hands latch onto the rope at my feet. “On my mark, three, two…”

I yell in surprise as they let go, the light from their torches fading behind me as I slide into the dark.

---

The vent spits me out onto the cold floor once again. I barely have a moment to get my bearings before a torch tumbles down and someone calls, “Look out below!”

I alligator roll my burrito prison out of the way as Matt flies out of the opening, followed by a grocery bag. In the dim light I see my belongings skitter deeper into the room. The final two slide down with a whoop, sending snow everywhere.

“That was just as fun as the first time,” Edd laughs, switching on his torch. “You good, Quinn?”

He pivots the light into my face — my furious, indignant face.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?!” I snap, breath fogging in the frigid air. “The bunker?! How is this a prank?!”

Tom wanders to the dark lumps on the floor further inside the server room and tosses my boots and coat onto my lap. “We’re not pranking you, dummy,” he drawls, “We’re pranking Tord.”

That statement makes me freeze mid action, goosebumps rising on the skin of my exposed arm.

“I can say with certainty that’s ill-advised.” I say as I finish putting on my coat and sliding further out of the blankets. “The last time someone tried to prank the upper brass… it didn’t end well for them.”

Tom just shrugs and turns to the corridor behind. “Well, it’s a good thing we aren’t beholden to any ‘upper brass’.”

I finish shoving my feet into my frozen boots. “But I AM!” I call down to him, my voice echoing off the concrete. “I don’t think you’ve fully thought this through! This is just a training bunker! We trip anything, I’m done! They know you know, I’m done! What exactly is thought process behind this?!”

I rip my duvet from the bundle on the floor and tug it over my head as the lights come on. Edd turns off his torch and takes a seat at the server bank keyboard.

“Relax, I got this. The last time we were here I saw an option for an admin account. If it is what I think it is, we’re golden. If not… well, you train somewhere, right?” He reaches to turn on the computers.

Shaking my head, I take a spot behind him with Matt. “Oh yeah, let me just casually break us into a secure facility with a minimum of a hundred boarder recruits. That’ll go well.”

Edd just shrugs and pulls up the admin account login as Tom wanders back in. “We’ll deal with that when we get there, just relax.”

Relax? Really? You expect me to relax when my livelihood— my life —is on the line? Give me a big fat break.

With a flourish, Edd smacks the Enter key and crosses his arms when the desktop pops up.

“Heh,” He chuckles smugly. “He still hasn’t changed his password. Let’s get to work!”

I watch in awe as Edd opens the file explorer and navigates to the main server cloud. I did not expect the security here to be this lax. It had to be some sort of oversight. Or maybe just the Golden Trio dumb luck effect coming into play?

I pull the blanket tighter around my face as Tom helps Edd navigate to the personnel files and my heart starts to thunder when the mouse hovers over the correct one.

Quinn Erik McLeod.

Select.

Delete.

Empty trash.

And just like that, the records they have of me are gone.

My legs shake with a mixture of fear and relief. What if there were backups? What if they notice before I can clear out? Do I need to clear out? What—

My turmoil is put on pause as I see Tom tug the keyboard and mouse to him.

“And with that done, it’s time for me to have a little fun~!”

With a click and a drag, he selects a mound of folders and moves them to the trash bin, emptying it with a flourish.

“I’ll find the security logs for this place next and delete that before deleting the system. I’m gonna brick this bank!” He crows in delight.

Suddenly, all the screens go black except for one. An enraged face fills it, a voice booming through the speakers at full volume.

“WHAT DO YOU THINK YOU ARE DOING?!”

Tom frantically keyboard smashes and clicks the mouse as control is stripped away, the desktop locking down.

“I should have known you three would cause trouble for me again. Quinn!” His sharp voice makes me jolt. “I know that is you in the blanket. What do you think you are doing?”

Edd looks up and stares directly into the webcam above the screen. “Don’t pull him into this, Tord. This was all us, he had nothing to do with this. Just like how he had nothing to do with what happened before. You could’ve just left him alone and we could’ve continued ignoring each other.”

Tom pipes up. “Yeah, making your cousin spy on us is a creepy move, even for you. Good going, commie.”

“And making your cousin fight for you is diabolical!” Matt chimes in. “That’s not how family works!”

Tord’s face twists into something furious. “He would not have followed if I had not told him we were family! And he has enough damn cousins to believe it!”

We all pause. Tord looks taken aback by his sudden admission, the rage on his face flattening into something akin to smug disinterest. “Seems I had forgotten how you can get under my skin. Yes, fine, he is not my cousin. It does not matter. He is no longer of any use to me.”

His gaze flicks to me as I drop the blanket. “At least, not in his current mission.” He continues. “You knew what the consequences were if you exposed your cover. Say goodbye to them, Quinn. You will be moving on base tomorrow.”

The trio erupt with sound, shocked voices overlapping. Tom cuts through, sharp and incredulous.

“You lied about being his family? Just to use him?”

Matt jumps in almost over him. “Who does that? Seriously, that’s messed up!”

I feel the rage building inside me, ready to explode. A string of Norwegian curses bubbles to my lips—half of them things I probably shouldn’t even know. But I bite them back. I can’t, I can’t let loose as much as I want to. But he used my family against me! He used everything I was raised to value — connection, loyalty, service — and twisted it.

My eyes snap to the screen, cold and steady, locking onto the Red Leader’s steel grey. My sharp voice cuts through the din, sharp and venomous.

“No wonder some people think you’re a forbanna jævel.”

His head jerks back slightly, a flicker of surprise appearing before changing into a look like he was genuinely contemplating homicide. “How dare you speak to me in this way! I am your Leader! I hold the cards, not you, and you will obey me!”

“Or what?!” I fire back. “You’ll kill me? I’ve been expecting that from day one! It’s not anything new. Du er ikke verdt frykten.”

I force my words steady, fully aware it’s a total bluff. My chest feels tight, my head is spinning, but I have to hold firm.

Red Leader laughs mirthlessly. “Do not test me on this, or you will see precisely why death is a mercy that I will not afford you! Do you really think I would give you the chance to die, din dumme dukke? No, I will ensure you rot in a maximum-security prison for the rest of your years. All I must do is place an anonymous call to have the authorities breaking down your door and finding your weapons. I will even tell them where you hid that rifle I gave you! That is at least 20 years, if they do not add insurrectionist charges on top.”

My body shakes as my hands clench open and closed.

It’s true. He’s got all the cards, pulls all the strings. What am I doing, I can’t fight back. I-

Edd slowly stands and I sidestep as he gently pushes the chair away. “Edd…?”

The man takes a deep breath before looking up at the screen again. “Tord… if you don’t leave all of us alone for good, I will personally hunt you down. I will form my own rebellion and put an end to your Red Army. Do not test me. You know what I can do.”

His eyes flash a toxic green, reflected in the black screens.

Tom steps up on Edd’s left, arms crossed. Matt drifts in on the right, fists balled and jaw tight. The three of them form a line — a silent, unified wall. And they’re standing for me.

Tord actually recoils, startled by the shift in tone — and by who it’s coming from. His eyes flicker off-screen for a split second, as if checking for backup.

I’m just as shocked as Leader. Since when did Edd have powers? The files said nothing beyond his above-average strength. Did they know and hide it from me? Or did he hide it even from them? How much do I really know about any of them?

“Quinn McLeod.”

The Leader’s stern voice breaks through my thoughts.

“As of this moment, you are no longer a part of the Red Army. As your apartment was paid off as part of your signing bonus, we have begun the process of selling it. You have twenty-four hours to move your belongings out. Leave everything we gave you behind. Your certifications still stand.”

His sharp gaze bores into me.

“I do not believe I need to elaborate on what will happen if you tell anyone about this.”

All I can do is nod.

Red Leader turns to Tom. “By the way, Tom — the servers are always backed up with a double redundancy. I do not know how you three managed to gain access to the admin account, but that flaw will be corrected momentarily. Use the main door to leave.”

The screen cuts to black and the computers power off with a click.

For a moment, there is only silence, soft breaths misting in the bright light.

I exhale sharply — hadn’t realised I’d been holding my breath. My chest feels hollow. I lower myself into the discarded office chair, whole body shaking as the stress leaves in one go, draining the last dregs of my energy with it.

Matt throws his hands above his head.

“We did it!” he cheers. “He’s free!”

He looks around, taking in our expressions. “What’s wrong? Why is no one happy?”

“I am happy, Matt,” I say softly. “I’m so, so happy and grateful you helped me get away. But… I have to move away, now.”

Tom grabs the keyboard and snaps it in two over his knee, storming down the hall.

Matt tilts his head in confusion. “Move away? Why not just buy the apartment again? Or another one nearby? It’s not the end of the world.”

Edd pats Matt on the shoulder and goes to join Tom, sending me a small, sad smile. I sigh and stand up.

“Come on, let’s grab the blankets and help the others. Door’s probably frozen shut.”

I stoop and roll my duvet into a ball. I’ll have to go to the laundrette later and send it through the wringer.

A blast of cold air and snow particles comes down the hall. “C’mon!” Tom shouts. “I’m freezing, let’s get to the car before any of Tord’s cronies show up!”

Matt barrels past me with the remaining duvets slung over his shoulder and I match his pace. The door to the bunker — apparently the proper way of leaving the training simulation — is buried deep in the snow in a drainage culvert near the main road. I look up and make out the faint outline of a chain link fence along the ridge above. This would’ve been a much easier means of escape the first time. I still have no idea how the three of them managed to scale the vent so fast.

We trudge in an uncomfortable silence, the snow falling faster now. I wrap my blanket over my head and body again, shivering when the cold breeze cuts right through my thin trousers.

“So,” I break the silence, “since when did you have powers, Edd?”

He laughs. “I don’t, not really. I used up the last bit of juice with that little light show. It worked though, so it was worth it.”

He turns and shoots me a grin. “Don’t worry about moving. Our plan cost you your place, so we’ll help with whatever you need until you’ve got another.”

Tom snorts and shoves his hair in his hood. “Your plan, you mean. I was all for storming a base and nicking a tank, just like old times. Well, minus Tord.”

Edd claps a hand on Tom’s shoulder and squeezes, his expression tight. “We will help you move,” he reiterates. “It’s the least we can do.”

Matt bounces towards the car. “And I can help you look for places! I’m sure we’ll find the perfect new home for you, close enough we can still hang out.”

He shoves his blankets into the boot and hops in the backseat, leaning over to push the opposite door open for me. I slide into the rear passenger seat, hands tucked in the duvet in my lap.

The other two climb in the front. Edd turns the key, the engine sputtering from the abrupt cold start and Tom cranks the heat, sinking into his seat with a sigh.

We drive in silence for a few minutes, the blowers gradually chasing away the chill. The warmth helps me relax enough to voice my decision.

“I’m leaving England.”

The car wobbles as the three jolt in shock. Edd pulls over onto the verge, hazards flashing. He and Tom spin around to look at me, the pulsing amber light casting their shock and disappointment clear enough to make me curl in shame.

“I don’t feel safe here anymore,” I explain. “Tord is doing something… big. I don’t know what, but it’s not good. He’s got feelers in every EU country. I’d feel safer across the pond. Canada’s still Commonwealth, but it’s a world away from this.”

I meet their eyes, letting my sorrow show. “I’m worried about you guys, too. He could retaliate and I won’t be able to protect you; however useless my efforts may be. I don’t want to leave, but… I feel I have to. For all our sakes.”

Edd opens his mouth slightly, then closes it. After a moment, he smiles, small and wistful.

“Alright then,” he says softly. “Just promise to keep in touch, yeah?”

He turns forward again and flicks the hazards off, driving further into the storm. 

Chapter Text

I pick up the last box from the kitchen counter, taking one last look at what I’m leaving behind. A SIG Sauer P365XL, a Fallkniven F1, two custom karambits – I’m going to miss my mini-fang, it was fun to spin on my finger – four holsters on a Phlster Enigma chassis. Two small boxes holding my contact and earring. A thin Kevlar weave undershirt, neatly folded on a vibrant orange hoodie. Several red shirts, also neatly folded. A Kevlar weave backpack full of learning materials and tech. A disassembled modified Browning X-bolt, carefully wiped down for fingerprints, just like everything else.

And finally, a small pile of letters, each addressed to my friends on base, a Glock FM 81 knife taped to one of the envelopes.

It all could’ve gone so differently. A few wrong steps, a few more months, and I might never have escaped.

With a wistful look, I slide the key to the flat from my pocket and onto the counter, leaving the place I called home for almost a year.

Stepping out the front door of the building for the last time, I walk to the back of the open shipping container on the flatbed lorry, courtesy of the international mover I found. It was a small mercy I’d managed to book it on such short notice. It won’t leave for a week, but that doesn’t matter. I just need it off my hands.

My former neighbours wait for me patiently by the doors. With a deep breath, I stand in front of Edd and hold the final box to him.

“This is for you guys,” I tell him, “It’s your Christmas presents. Just small things, but I think you’ll like them.”

Edd’s face morphs into one of shock as he takes the box. Matt flaps his hands in excitement.

“We got you something too! It’s in the truck already. Don’t open it until Christmas, you hear me! I want you to let us know what you think when you do!”

I chuckle at his enthusiasm, a nice shift from the near melancholic mood. I could tell he was forcing himself to be jolly, but it was still a welcome effort. “Alright, well, when you get a message from a new number, don’t ignore it.”

“You’re changing your number?” Tom asks.

“And my phone,” I add with a nod. “Can’t risk taking any bugs with me. They already cleared out everything, but I don’t want to take any risks.”

It had been a shock to find my flat’s door open and my belongings in disarray when we got back. It looked like the squad that rigged my living quarters in the first place took glee in making a mess of things without actually breaking anything. Cleaning that up did not help the countdown on my move, but with the help of the trio, we packed and cleaned everything efficiently, any perishables from my pantry being split among them.

I take in one last look of them; bleary-eyed, tired, and trying not to let the sadness show. I can’t find any more words to say.

After a moment of hesitation, Edd places the box on the lip of the container and pulls me into a hug with no warning, no time to react.

“Don’t be a stranger, alright?” he says, voice low.

Matt joins in a second later, looping an arm around both of us like it’s the most natural thing.

Tom rolls his head and steps in, muttering something about “not doing this again.”

…I don’t hug back. Not really. But I don’t pull away either. That’s close enough.

We break apart after a moment, a small smile on my face. Edd grabs the package again as I reach for a door, Tom pushing the other one shut. They lock tight with a clang.

Turning around, I shoot them one last smile, genuine and large.

“Thank you,” I say. “For everything. I’ll be in touch.”

They nod as I walk around to the cab and climb in, the lorry rumbling to life.

I take one last look at my friends in the mirror as I drive away. I never said it aloud. Maybe I should have. But I think they knew. It felt good to finally mean it, but also horrible that I had to leave them so soon.

I let myself think properly about what I’ve set in motion. The ETA paperwork I’d pre-filled was filed before dawn. It’ll take weeks to process, but I don’t plan on waiting around. I’ll apply for a work permit once I’m on Canadian soil.

None of my credentials are usable. The job I had on paper was a front, and the real one would get me arrested — or worse — if I tried to use it as a reference. Still, the Canadian security license isn’t hard. Forty hours of training. I could pass with my eyes closed.

I consider all the other skills I’ve picked up — ones I can’t exactly keep sharp vs the ones I can. I’ll probably finish that bilingual certification in Norwegian. No sense letting all that pain and aggravation go to waste. Systema and Silat aren’t exactly mainstream, but maybe I can find someone to train under, round out what I started. They were… fun, in a weird way.

Or I could just drive lorries. I wouldn’t even know how to handle this thing if it weren’t for the pursuit training.

I narrow my eyes at the road ahead. Yeah, there’s a lot I’ll have to keep under wraps. But that’s fine.

As I turn off the motorway and down the road to the port, I catch my reflection in the rearview mirror — and for a moment, I almost don’t recognize myself.

Clothing devoid of the bright oranges and reds I’d grown used to; just quiet colours that don’t say anything for me. Un-styled hair. A scar on my jaw. No earring. No forced enthusiasm, just a quiet, resigned contentment I thought was lost to me the day I was recruited.

A new look, a mix of both my pasts. A bit traumatized, paranoid, but more experienced in the end. And that’s just fine.

I don’t know who I’ll be now.

But at least it’ll be my choice.

STORY END

Chapter Text

Thank you for reading V1 of Observer’s Paradox!

I'm so happy it's done, can't barely believe I wrote all this in about 9 weeks.

This story means a lot to me, and while this version wraps up Quinn’s arc in a satisfying way, it’s really only the beginning. Below is a sneak peek at my notes, development plans, and what’s next as I begin turning this fanfic into a fully original work. It may take… a while, to plan and write everything, but I am very passionate about this project and really think it has potential.

V2 W.I.P Synopsis

Observer’s Paradox is a speculative military-political thriller with elements of spycraft, satire, and metafictional twists.

Set in a world where narratives shape reality, it follows a young man caught between loyalty and survival as he navigates the cutthroat ambitions of his employer — a rising authoritarian who has discovered he’s fated to become the villain of the story.

Character Translation:

When planning this, I knew I wanted a golden trio type of dynamic with a villain/antagonist they knew in their youth, with each embodying a personality archetype. Then I get back into Eddsworld after almost 6 years and realise "Oh. Maybe these guys can help me plan." Not having to worry about fleshing out my sides past the basic personalities before writing the main plot points really helped me narrow down what I needed them to be. So:

Edd becomes the Soul: Danesh "Dan" Maan, a happy and trusting mechanical engineer. (No superpowers, that was an Eddsworld specific nod that will be stripped along with other Eddsworld stuff.)

Soul Archetype: Glue of a group, focus on group dynamics/relationships and mediation. Charismatic, impulsive, emotionally intelligent, passion-fueled leader. Primary focus: Purpose. Inner Drive: Unity. Social Role: Mediator, anchor.

Tom becomes the Mind: Joshua "Josh" Carter-Yang, an observant yet reckless marketing manager.

Mind Archetype: The thinkers (has different subsets). Level-headed, pattern-noticer, problem solver, skeptical, occasionally cynical. Primary focus: Understanding. Inner drive: Observation. Social Role: Strategist, analyst.

Matt becomes the Heart: Brittany "Britt" Townsend, an energetic and spontaneous aspiring actress.

Heart Archetype: The empathetic ones, focus on interpersonal relationships and moods. Heart on their sleeve type. Emotionally driven, expressive, friendly, trusting to the point of naivety. Primary focus: People. Inner drive: Connection. Social Role: Cheerleader, comfort.

Tord becomes the Body: Anton Onrik, the trio's estranged friend who left to work in NATO and later... becomes someone much more dangerous. 

Body Archetype: The fighters, protective and supportive. Tend to be more volatile. Confrontational, strategic. Primary focus: Action. Inner drive: Protection. Social Role: Fighter, enforcer.

These aren't the final versions, but it gets the point across. Fun fact, Wyatt, Jack, and Marissa are meant to be Quinn's own trio, in a way. Wyatt being the Soul, Jack the Heart, Marissa the Body, and Quinn the Mind. The friends he made naturally.

Main Character Info:

Quinn Erik McLeod

Nationality: British/Swedish

Ethnicity: British - Swedish (or just white, i guess)

Gender: Male

Birthday: July 4, 1993 (the story takes place in 2018 making him 25/26)

Personality: Observant, quiet, dry wit. Squeamish. Loves documentaries. Hates breaking he law (unless the situation really calls for it). Likes to people watch. Talent in mimicry of accents and body language. Likes teaching bush craft.

Vice: situational compliance/self preservation instincts, explosive temper (aware of it, makes effort to reign it in but sometimes snaps)

Trait: loyal, protective, truth seeking/honest, efficient

Description: Light brown hair, light brown eyes with grey centre, bit thin, has angular jaw. 5'8. generally soft spoken/low voice.

Archetype: Morally Grey Protagonist / Anti-Hero, Heart-Mind Personality Archetype (temporary/imposed Body Archetype)

Sig Colour: Teal or Olive green at first (tbd), later orange after recruitment

Fav Food: Dark Chocolate

PART 5 – ALTERNATE ENDING TEASER: Leverage and Obligation

So… what if Quinn didn’t run?

When I finished writing the first outline for Part 5, I couldn’t shake the feeling that Quinn had more story left in him — more choices to make, and more conflict to face. That’s when I realized: I don’t have to stop here. The fanfic version needed a clean end, but the original can keep going. That realization unlocked a whole new layer of ideas and themes I want to explore.

This led to four branching possibilities for Quinn’s fate — three centering around what happens if he stays, as a follow up to a thought he had in 2.2 about negotiating for a desk job. Each one explores a different balance between freedom, coercion, and usefulness.

Here they are, polished into three variations:

Alt Ending 1: Voluntary Return

Quinn leaves but comes back on his own terms. He negotiates for a hybrid role: desk-bound administrative work by default, but with clearance to act as an emergency enforcer when needed. Eventually, however, this freedom erodes, and his handlers begin assigning him more fieldwork — training him back into the reluctant assassin role he never wanted.

Alt Ending 2: Blackmail + Desk Job + On-Call

He’s told he can’t leave. He knows too much. And, as they so kindly remind him, “Do you know how much it costs to train someone like you?”

Threatened with prison (or worse), Quinn negotiates a desperate compromise: a permanent desk job, with the caveat that he’s on-call for high-risk missions. It's a practical arrangement — why let good muscle go to waste? In this version, he stays close to the trio (at least part-time), guarding them whenever needed when he's invited on an outing.

Alt Ending 3: Drifting + Return Offer

He disappears — tries to make it on his own. But drifting takes its toll and it's hard to break out of a mindset you've been in for almost a year. Eventually, the they find him offer a ‘promotion’ back into operations:

"You’re already in the know. Come back. We need more people like you."

He accepts, opting for stability over isolation. With that comes the offer to resume his training — this time with hazard pay and optional fieldwork.

Notes:

Alt 2 is the strongest structurally, but elements of 1 and 3 may be combined with it.

End Part 5 Alternate

The Expanded Universe

Observer’s Paradox is the main story, but I’ve also mapped out a prequel, side story, and sequel (which may be split into two parts). I’m planning on naming them after methodological research terms to keep with the theme. Fun fact: this book’s name was a total fluke? I just wanted something cool and contradicting sounding and it turns out it’s a real issue among a lot of research fields! Just had to keep it.

The prequel (Controlled Condition) is meant to be read after the main story. It will be a short book, introducing the antagonist, Anton, in more detail and showing his backstory and motivations. How and why he broke ties with his friends and family (which may not even be how it pans out, I'm still writing him), how he became the owner of a paramilitary group (which I’m probably naming Greybooks), how he built it up, and outlining his end goal. I’m being very meticulous in my planning to avoid any more similarities to Tord other than the leader of an army thing. I’m planning on making Anton be very… I guess you could call it meta-aware? And have him avoid as many outright dictator/regime flags as possible so people don’t catch on until it’s too late. Pretty scary, right?

The sequel (Part 1 – Normalization Process, Part 2 – Double-Blind) will show Quinn’s new role and how it evolves, how he reacts, and what he does with it. Greybooks is moving on to the next phase of Anton's plans, with phase 2 already in progress when the book starts. Part 2 of the sequel will introduce Phase 3 of the plan and the pushback from resistance groups and governments.

The side story (Participant Effect) takes place between the sequel’s two parts, and will introduce a collection of short stories focusing on outside perspectives — resistance members, civilians, governments — showing wider societal impacts.

So, yeah! While the version you just read is the "free will" ending… it’s far from the only one I considered. The story continues, just not in the way Quinn hoped.

These are my plans going forward. Fingers crossed I finish it. I really want to. I’ll chip away at it while working on my first actual Eddsworld fanfic, Ctrl+C, Ctrl+Me.

If you’ve read this far — thank you again. Seriously. Writing this was difficult, exhilarating, cathartic, and a little chaotic, and I’m so grateful anyone took the time to read it.

If you wouldn’t mind, please leave answers to these questions in a comment:

1) On a scale of one to ten, how much did you enjoy reading this?

2) If fully complete, fleshed out, and totally original, would you still read this story now that you have a feel of what I’m going for?

3) Do you have anything you liked in particular?

4) Do you have any suggestions or criticisms?

Thank you for your time! And stay tuned.

~ Cosmic Quill