Name: Saint, Age: 36, Minors: LEAVE.

You can only watch in silence, peering out from behind your diplomatic mask with unspoken worry as your Lord begins to upend the factory for no discernable reason.

You try to take your abrupt banishment from the workshop in stride. You initially assume he just needs some time alone to gather his thoughts. Decompress from his travels a little. Maybe address his very obvious state of exhaustion by getting a bit of rest. 

So as much as it pains you to do so, you pull back. You cut him a wide berth and wait obediently for clearance to return to the workshop.

It never comes. 

Instead, he starts four new projects within two days of his return, throwing himself into the work with an intensity that’s frightening, even for him.

Each project entails major, disruptive upheavals: a new production wing (producing what exactly, no one is quite sure yet, and no one’s brave enough to ask), robotic upgrades to the small army of soldats still allowed to operate above-ground, a complete overhaul of the basement laboratory for reasons that are as yet unclear, and finally, a rigorous reassessment of maintenance protocol, complete with random inspections.

All four projects are initiated within the span of about twelve hours. This immediately puts everyone on edge, because surely these must be the machinations of a Lord preparing for battle.

The factory holds its collective breath, waiting on tenterhooks for an announcement, a declaration of war. Something official, formal and decisive. 

It never comes.

He never says the words. He doesn't sound the alarms. Soldat sentry presence at the perimeter - robotic upgrades notwithstanding - remains as it was prior to the Lord's return.

Gradually, it becomes clear: an actual war isn’t on the horizon. All is quiet on the home front. All except for Lord Heisenberg himself, who just seems particularly hellbent on burning a warpath all on his own. 

And as far as anyone can reasonably tell, his vendetta seems to be against the factory itself, his very own domain, rather than the other Lords and their respective territories.

You watch all of this play out before your eyes like a trainwreck in slow-motion. Your poker face is second to none, a cordial vault door to any curious onlookers - but inside, you're a tangled mess of nerves and speculation, same as anyone else.

Given how your last encounter with him in the workshop played out, you're expecting some form of retribution.

In your mind it's not a matter of if, but rather when, he'll turn that directionless ire on you.

You’ve been in a similar position before, of waiting for a similar axe to fall. 

Several, in fact.

Not here at the factory or even in this village, of course, but back in -

You come back to yourself with a jolt, jerking your mind's hand away from the unwanted memory like a hot stove.

Huh. That's not good.

It's not like you to let yourself dwell on your past. You left in the past for a reason, after all. 

Several, in fact.

... Anyway.

So you quietly brace for the impact of that trainwreck, assuming you’re tied to the proverbial railroad tracks and that it’s only a matter of time before the chaos plows straight through you.

It never comes.

As a matter of fact, your Lord seems to be in no particular hurry to be around you ... at all. 

You look up at the giant clock on the far wall of the compound you’re currently in.

The face of it is shattered beyond repair. It's been that way for a few days now. Your Lord hurled his hammer at it earlier that week. You weren’t around to see it happen, but you heard about the incident secondhand.

No one knows what prompted it, and Lord Heisenberg didn’t give any warning beforehand or any explanation afterwards. He just silently scattered the debris out of the path of oncoming foot traffic and then left the building without another word.

You glance towards the horizon, visible through the open compound doors. 

You’re running out of busywork, the various assortment of tasks you find to do around the factory grounds in lieu of any real assignments your Lord might have for you. Nightfall is approaching fast. 

And it’s when night falls that one particular issue presents itself: 

Your Lord won’t sleep with you. Not in any sense of the word.

It doesn’t matter that he positively reeks of the same exhaustion you observed on his first day back. He refuses to succumb to it. 

For about two weeks straight, you don’t catch him taking so much as a nap. The man you've come to know is now a chaotic, angry blur, whirling rapidly from one thing to another as he tears through the endless corridors of his domain. You barely even see him sitting down, let alone sleeping. 

And if he is somehow sleeping, it certainly isn’t with you. No matter how late you come to bed, he's never around.

What could it mean? Does he have business elsewhere? Is he avoiding you specifically? Does he want you to sleep somewhere else? Why doesn't he just say so?

Of all the bizarre changes and upheavals, your sleeping arrangements might be the worst of them all. Purely for the fact that they affect you so intimately and directly, yet tell you so little as to the reason why.

The more solitary nights pass, the less and less you want to be in that room. Surrounded by evidence of him, knowing he's there, knowing he's home - and still not being able to have him. 

You consider sleeping elsewhere. If not down in the bunkers, then somewhere in the village. The only reason you even moved into his room in the first place was because he demanded it, after all.

You remember how he reacted the last time you tried to change your sleeping quarters without his say-so. Your face heats at the memory of his fingers in your mouth. 

Once you wouldn’t have dared to step out. Now, you doubt he’ll even notice.

Or care.

You leave the compound along with the second shift crew, exiting the cramped, foggy warmth for the crisp chill of the adjacent courtyard. Zipping your coat against the cold, you drift towards the bridge that leads out into the village, pausing right at the gate.

There's one village inn in particular that suits you. Run by a ghostly-looking pair of elderly twins, the establishment has the distinction of being one of the few public places to pass your extrasensory sniff test with flying colors. The place is kept obsessively clean, and the air is scented with burning bundles of herbs like rosemary and pine.

There are worse places to lay your head. You know this from experience, having laid your head in your fair share of those places.

With a sigh, you jam your hands into your pockets and wander away from the gate. Seems you’ve decided to stay put.

Another night, you decide. One. I'll give it one more night.

────────────────────────────

It's late. You're fast asleep in your Lord's bed.

And for once, you're not alone. Not that you'd have any way of knowing that. Being asleep and whatnot.

You're dreaming.

It's a familiar dream. You've had it - or some permutation of it - many times before.

You're a koala clinging to a tree branch, indolently chewing leaves. 

And that's it.

That's the entirety of the dream. 

You hesitate to even call it a dream, really, no matter how many times you have it. Dreams are supposed to have some kind of narrative to them, even if it is nonsensical.

There's no real plot to speak of in this one. You just cling to your branch and chew your leaves.

Sometimes it's different. You're not always a koala on a branch. Other times you're a rabbit sitting in a woven basket, chewing on leafy greens and carrots. 

On rare, unsettling occasions, you're a snake caught in the tangled vines of a pitch-black swamp. 

Tonight, you're a koala.

… But it's strange. Something isn’t quite right.

The branch you're clinging to feels less like the limb of a tree and more like a heavy, muscular arm. 

The leaves you're chewing on feel an awful lot like fabric.

And the tree seems to be speaking to you ever so gently. Whispering so softly you can't quite parse what it's saying. It has a voice that's low, gravelly. And achingly familiar, though the recognition is muddled by the black void of deep REM.

You cling tighter. You like this tree. This tree feels right. This tree feels perfect. This tree -

All at once the branch is yanked out from under you, and you plummet to the ground. Your mouth opens, but nothing comes out in the dream because you don't know what koalas sound like.

You come to lying on your back in your Lord’s bed, the momentum of your "fall" jerking you rudely into consciousness with an inelegant snort. 

You lift your head up to see your Lord standing over you, fully dressed and lit only by the bedside lamp you accidentally left on before passing out for the night. 

His hair is in disarray. His face is curiously flushed, and a hint of sweat dampens his hairline.

 “… Is it morning already?” you mumble, still somewhat disoriented.

He doesn’t respond. He just keeps staring down at you like he got caught with his hand in the cookie jar - a detail you don’t immediately register in your bewildered state.

You glance past your Lord to see the pitch-black of night in the gap between the half-drawn curtains.

Another glance at the clock confirms what you suspected: it’s still the middle of the night, hours away from the start of the day.

“What are you ... ? 

Before you can say another word, your Lord leans down and starts grabbing you.

All over.

Palming and patting you in a way that’s somehow both business-like and entirely inappropriate, given the setting. 

What the hell?

“Hold still,” he commands by way of explanation, continuing to grasp and hold you places he definitely shouldn't. “I have to frisk you.”

You blink up at him, bleary-eyed and incredulous.

The words Ain't no way in hell are right on the tip of your tongue, but you force them back with an effort that's practically superhuman for you at this time of night.

“... I’m ... sorry," you mutter, rubbing one of your eyes with the back of your fist. "Could you repeat that, my Lord?”

He swats your hand aside and pins your wrist firmly to the covers with a scowl.

“I could. But I won’t. Because you heard me the first fucking time,” he snaps.

You open your mouth again, fully intending to protest in some way, but then his hands reach your hips. All that comes out of you is a squeak.  

He pauses at the sound, staring down at you with a strangely harried look, like he’s running out of time to do … whatever he thinks he’s doing.

“I’m not going to hurt you. Alright? Not if you cooperate,” he clarifies.

"But ... what are you ... ?" The question trails off into nothing.

“Hush. Not another word," he demands. "And for fuck's sake, stop giving me that look."

"What look?" you ask, your expression - whatever it is - unchanged.

He glares down at you, sending a very unhelpful jolt straight to your crotch in the process. 

"Like I just put the fucking tip in," he snarls. "It's distracting. Now, hold still."

His hands begin to run over you once again, the pressure firm and insistent. You blink up at the ceiling to avoid giving him any other objectionable looks and try to make sense of the situation. 

How could this possibly be happening right now? 

Surely, it's not. You're still asleep. You must be. Your recurring koala dream just took a wrong turn at Albuquerque, derailing at some weird Heisenberg cul-de-sac. There’s an air of unreality to the moment, a dreamlike absurdity that makes your brain stall out a bit, lagging a few steps behind.

Eventually, though, the wheels do begin to turn again.

What does he think he’s going to find? 

All you’re wearing is a pair of thrifted flannel boxers, another one of your Lord’s shirts and an old satin kerchief tied around your hair. You’re not even wearing socks, for god’s sake. 

The search - if you can call it that - is haphazard and intimate. And clearly distressing … just not to you. Not really. He was talking so big and bad just a minute ago, but even that felt a bit half-hearted. 

It isn’t just his words or his tone that’s off, either.

He’s ... shivering. Shaking, almost. The shakes of a drunk that's gone too long since his last drink. His movements are jerky, his hands not lingering too long in any one spot. 

And then you realize something.

He's wearing gloves.

You seem to step outside of your body for a moment, watching in blank detachment as your Lord continues to touch you.

All at once, you’re not only fully awake, you’re on high alert, flooded not with fear or arousal, but with a strange recognition.

Lord Heisenberg is wearing his gloves. He's fully dressed for the work day even though it's the middle of the night. Even his shirt, usually left defiantly open at the collar, is buttoned up to his throat.

All these puzzle pieces fall into place at once. Not enough of them for you to see the entire picture, but enough to propel you to take action. 

Your Lord hovers over you, studiously avoiding your gaze even as the two of you come nearly face-to-face with each other. 

Determined to test your hypothesis, you raise one of your hands.

You lay the back of your fingers on his cheek, instinctively seeking out the only bit of bare skin you can reach with as little movement as possible.

For several seconds that last an eternity, you feel him freeze, your touch turning him to stone like a Gorgon. You feel almost powerful for a moment as all that frenetic energy comes to an abrupt stop because of your touch.

He jerks away from you, breathing heavily. 

"You - !"

He stumbles to a halt and makes a sound with his mouth that's unmistakable, a wet hiss like he's trying not to drool.

You sit upright and stare at him.

Well, then. That answers that. Now what?

You make the mistake of glancing down. He's hard. 

Very hard. 

But if the rest of his demeanor is anything to go by, he's not the least bit inclined to do anything about that. In fact, he's staring at you with a tense and vaguely awestruck look. 

He lifts his own hand towards his cheek - the same one you touched just a second ago - but catches himself before he can lay his gloved fingers in the same spot you did.

"Alright," he says stiffly, backing even further away. "As you were."

Before you can even process the dismissal, the light at your bedside goes out abruptly, plunging the room into darkness. 

There's no way.

There's simply no way in hell he expects you to be able to sleep after all that.

Nevertheless, you tuck yourself back under the sheets without further comment, your heartrate returning to normal even as your mind begins to race.

A minute passes. Then another. Then another several.

Karl hasn't left the room.

He's still in the fucking room. 

Why isn't he leaving? 

You can hear him breathing in the dark. 

Is ... Is he just going to stand there and watch me sleep?

Another few minutes go by. He’s still there. You decide to say something.

You’re not sure why. Maybe it’s the peculiar knowledge you now seem to possess. Maybe you’re still riding the slight high you got from being so direct with him a moment ago.

"... I don't suppose I could trouble you for a bedtime story?" you ask the darkness. “You know. Since you’re here and all.”

A long pause. So long you wonder if he's just going to ignore you or if he's figuring out something to say.

Then you hear him clear his throat. 

You wait with anticipation. Is he actually going to say something?

The silence stretches on a little while longer.

Then you hear the sound of his heavy footsteps shuffling out the door. 

It takes maybe another hour of racing thoughts and pounding heartbeats before you finally fall back into a light, fitful sleep. 

────────────────────────────

You wake back up at the crack of dawn, alone and woefully unmolested. 

The first thing you hear is your Lord's voice in the distance, already barking orders into the frigid morning air over the factory intercom.

If last night hadn't happened, you would immediately be scrambling into a too-brief shower and charging into the chaotic fray of another shift.

Instead you lie there and stare up at the ceiling, turning over last night's events in your mind. Your Lord's behavior. Your impudence. And the revelation that might give you a foothold in this mess.

Skin contact.

You lift your hand and stare at your knuckles, vividly recalling the way that tiny bit of Karl's skin had felt to the touch.

He was trying to limit the possibility of skin contact. 

You hold this knowledge tight, determined not to let it slip away, not to trick or confuse yourself by complicating things more than necessary.

You know what you saw. You know what you felt. You know what it means.

Well, perhaps not entirely what it means. Because surely, if he didn’t want to risk being skin-to-skin with you, he wouldn’t have yanked you out of bed and started groping - sorry, frisking - you for no real reason.

Right?

A bone-deep shudder passes through you at the recollection of his gloved hands running over your body. 

You have so many questions.

Why did he climb into bed with you? Why last night, of all nights? The last night you were willing to spend here alone? Why was he talking to you in your sleep? What was he saying? 

If he wanted to be left alone, why did he seek you out?

It’s almost like … he wanted to touch you ... without touching you.

So many questions, and not a single answer in sight beyond what you've surmised already.

It seems you've been granted access to a lot of pertinent details, yet the big picture - if there even is one - still eludes you.

What does the man want?

Does he even know?

You sit up. You walk into the bathroom. You start the shower, letting the steam build to warm the cold space around you.

Ordinarily, you would be rushing right now, eager to get down to business. 

Instead, your movements are slow. Deliberate. Perhaps even a little defiant.

You try to temper your expectations, to not let excitement carry you away. It's difficult. It's been a long time since you've permitted yourself to color outside the lines. 

The cobweb-covered gears of mischief in your brain begin to turn in earnest. Nevertheless, you rein yourself in. You can’t be sloppy about this. Whatever you do - no matter how daring you intend to get - must be done carefully. 

Last night was a deviation from the pattern. He's not likely to get that close to you again. Not right away, anyway. Not until whatever roadblock between the two of you is removed. Not until he decides ...

No.

Your Lord won't be deciding anything. It isn't up to him. It hasn't been for quite some time, it seems.