Billy'smelon

First Aid

✦ ── This sweet medibot has seen some things as of late, and he's got three hundred and thirty-two logs of pure inspiration on how to show someone a world of hurt.

✦ ── Unfortunately, he has to stick to imagining beating the slag out of whoever insulted you. If he did act on his impulses, he'd also be the one fixing them, and that sounded unappealing.

✦ ── But he will fire back at them verbally and show you that you're worth defending with his words. How someone can look down on you, such a talented human who fits right in with the team, is beyond him.

✦ ── When that bot next enters the medibay for treatment, he is ready for his less...ethical payback. Oh, did that hurt? It's only a pinch; no need to be dramatic about it (he totally made it hurt).

✦ ── May or may not have sneakily switched their F.I.M. chip so next time they go for a drink, they don't feel the effects of it. Petty, but at least they'll waste one night and a few shanix on nothing. It's an easy fix, anyhow.

"You didn't!"

You were giggling beside his keyboard, laughing as he slipped his mischievous deed to you.

"That sounds like a gross instance of medical malpractice, Aid." Despite the teasing tone, you were still grinning wide.

He leaned his helm in closer, optics looking around in a mock attempt to ensure the area was clear before he whispered.

"Keep it between us. I'll flip his chip back when he returns."

It was worth it, seeing you smile after you'd been so down about the bot's comment.

Rodimus

✦ ── Critique him for being captain all you want; he can laugh it off or rage about it alone where no one can know it affected him in the first place. But insult you?

✦ ── Immediately at Magnus levels of upset. Yeah, calling you any variety of names or doubting you should be punishable by several cycles in the brig. Of course he can't, no matter how much he wants to.

✦ ── But he is the king of smack talking. He is on them about every little insecurity they do or should have. What's that? Want to speak up about his favourite little human? Could have sworn he heard the same mech that nearly pissed himself last mission saying something about you.

✦ ── They earn themselves a spot at the top of his shit list. Left out of more fun missions, forced into the nasty ones, whatever makes him feel better. He won't tell you, but he'll make sure you find out all the funny details that paint them in a bad light.

✦ ── Is he going too far? In his humble opinion, it isn't far enough. But this will just have to do. Whatever sets the precedent on how to treat his human right, then so be it.

"—aint is all scratched, and it's going to take hours to buff! I hate these stupid missions." The seething bot walking past you and Rodimus barely spared you a glance.

Their paint was scratched clean off with several deeper lacerations. They seemed to be returning with a group of other bots who'd gone to the planet below to handle a skirmish.

At least this time they hadn't said anything rude about you.

"Can't believe they were that damaged from such a simple mission. Should have sent someone who knows what they're doing, huh? Bet you could have done a better job." Rodmus grinned, tilting his head towards where you sat on his shoulder.

"You're just saying that to flatter me." Your hands came up to playfully smack the part of his helm getting too close for comfort.

"Is it working?"

Shockwave

✦ ── Insults were not unusual. Any human amongst the Decepticons could brush them off. Nicknames that painted you in a dehumanizing light weren't much of a threat, anyhow. You'd learned to accept them.

✦ ── Shockwave never seemed troubled by them, either. Not that you expected him to. You were capable of handling yourself; he'd picked you as his lab assistant for a reason.

✦ ── It is one comment from Knockout that stirs a reaction out of the scientist, though you'd tuned it out. It was hard to ignore the aftermath of Shockwave practically slamming what he was holding down.

✦ ── Not the kind to outright attack, but his ability to intimidate is next only to Megatron himself. No one wants to be on the bitter end of his malice.

✦ ── And malice it is indeed. For what little Shockwave expresses of himself, he is clear and concise when it comes to your importance to his research. By extension, importance to him.

"You would be of far better use to me if you knew when to withhold your unnecessary comments, doctor." The scientist had turned towards Knockout, taking one heavy step in his direction.

You watched in awe.

"Right, yes, of course. I just thought a Cybertronian might be of more help." Knockout's hands were waving in front of him, trying to defuse the situation.

"You have not only thought wrong but also insulted my choice-making. My assistant is most valuable to our cause and has the highest projected success rate."

Knockout stood frozen.

"You are dismissed, Knockout."

Soundwave

✦ ── Fortunately for you, your acceptance by Soundwave meant very little was said about your human qualities. The Vehicons weren't troubled by your presence, and Megatron had better things to do than complain about the organic who'd done more for him than Starscream.

✦ ── But that was exactly the issue. You'd earned more respect as a fleshling than Starscream did as the second in command. Anytime he saw you on your own, he'd manage to slip a hurtful comment to you.

✦ ── It'd be stupid to bring it up to Soundwave. The third in command was busy. But Soundwave captures all, and the first time he catches one of those comments? Well, he would hate to break command, so instead he's going to make the SIC's life a living hell.

✦ ── Recommending Megatron send him for missions Soundwave knows the mech would hate. Sending portals in just a bit too late, so the mech gets a few more hits from the bots. Being far less lenient to Starscream's demands of him.

✦ ── And if Soundwave is anything, he is persistent. He will not let up until Starscream is begging for him to stop. Lord knows Screamer takes forever to get over his own ego, too, so it lasts a damn long time.

"Apologize to the human!? Have you lost your damned mind?" Starscream was seething, sharp nail pointing at you as if he wanted to skewer you.

Soundwave nodded his helm once, replaying the audio recording of his insult to you.

When the TIC refused to back down, Starscream grumbled before crouching closer to you.

"Human... I am sorry you felt bad about what I said—" He scrambled away when Soundwave's tendril shot toward him in threat, a squeal escaping him.

"I'm sorry, okay! I'm sorry!"

Vortex

✦ ── If it's one of the guys making a comment about you that he doesn't like? They're breaking out into a semi-serious fistfight that has no clear victor.

✦ ── The Combaticons do respect you more than they would any human, hence the kinder beating. Usually it's Brawl making the comments. Vortex has no idea Brawl apologizes to you in private and is only doing it for the fight.

✦ ── If it is literally anyone else, some no-name con or, god forbid, a bot? Fucking hell. They are in for a world of pain. Vortex needs an excuse to fight, and this just gave him one.

✦ ── You have to watch. He is doing this for you, so sit back and enjoy. Whatever bot just insulted you is getting sliced, thrown, and beaten till they're on the brink of death.

✦ ── Would go further, but he kind of wants them to live in fear of you. Yes. Spread the word that any comments about his lovely little human will result in great bodily harm. It gets his engines revving and his rotor blades perked up.

"Did you see that? Cracked his visor right into his optics! Medics 'll be picking little fragments out of there for hours." Vortex was carrying you in energon-stained servos.

He was in surprisingly good shape considering the size of the bot he just took down. You were certain he took some of those hits on purpose, for the thrill of the pain.

"Thank you, 'Tex."

"Huh?" His lips finally stopped moving, gleaming red visor tilting down to get a good look at you.

"For defending me. Thank you."

"Well, someone's gotta."

Starscream

— Star, at first, revels in your affections once he gets used to it. At first. He may have the ego of the Nemesis but confidence? Its in the gutters of the Pits. He needs this BADLY. Its like reassurance to him. It makes him feel wanted, needed. Cared for even. It touches him deeper than he wants to admit.

He may not reciprocate despite enjoying it but it fills him with a sense of pride, he looks very smug as you cling on to his servo, even if loving touch is very alien to him. It took him a considerably long time to get used to have a servo embrace him instead of slap him across the room. Its a little pathetic but the fact that he can trust one person aboard this forsaken ship to not bad-mouth him behind his back is a blessing. But these feelings are when the two of you are alone.

The moment you start getting comfortable doing this in public is the moment Screamer starts to draw a line because... well, he doesn't react to positive responses very well and... you're humiliating him in front of the troops!

In public, Starscream gets very flustered. His vocalize may sputter for a moment until he throws a hissy fit about it. He turns into a full on tsundere when the image he's carefully constructed for himself is in jeopardy. Full on pouting and scolding you for daring to attempt such a thing with the Decepticon Air Commander but you, for the life of you, can't take him seriously at all. He just looks even more cute and you point it out which makes him even more flustered and then... cue an infinite feedback loop.

Sometimes, you end up touching his more sensitive areas. Like caressing his smaller pair of wings which makes him shudder or yelp. Starscream has no idea whether you do this accidentally or on purpose (def on purpose if you're a seeker build too). Are you teasing him and playing dumb? Or were you merely that curious? He will never know. He just lets out an aggravated sigh when you sheepishly apologize after you hear a mouthful from him.

He has his limits, bear in mind. So he might lash out at you if he's in a foul mood and you're trying to cling onto him, his wings are flaring up. A mech needs to be left alone sometimes! Instant regret once you leave though...

Because the moment he notices that you're not there to "humiliate" him anymore, he gets concerned... and ends up missing your attention which leads to him searching you out to see if something happened to you. he looks kind of like a lost puppy when he realizes you've left him alone for longer than usual. Its pathetic, he knows it is but despite his consistent denial, he loves your praise and affections. Looks like he'll have to apologize and explain himself.

He thinks he has you whipped but the truth is, it goes both ways. Disgustingly loving couple in private. The Vehicons don't think that someone like Starscream deserves half of what you give him and think that you can do way better.

Shockwave

— Now, Shockwave... He doesn't have a lot of "feelings" on the matter. Surprisingly though, he enjoys you clinging onto him. A lot. As long as you don't interfere with his work.

Shockwave himself was surprised with how accepting he was of your affections. Your servos wrapping around his waist as he works in his lab is not... unpleasant even if it does restrict his mobility. He never imagined he'd be so drawn to your warmth.

The scientist had been stranded on a deserted Cybertron, a wasteland for vorns now. Shockwave in the end of the day, is still a mech and is honestly, quite touch starved. He may not say it but he found a part of him even missing you when he was gone. And he's sure that your sudden burst of affections is because you've missed him just as much.

Some of his core emotional perceptrons within his brain module might be more functional than he thought, is one daunting conclusion he has drawn. He did not like that at all.

Does he reciprocate your touches? ...No. He just awkwardly stands there but don't misunderstand him, he enjoys it a LOT. Shockwave just isn't accustomed to having anyone feel so strongly for him. Funnily enough, he'll never shoo you away like Starscream would. He finds comfort in the thrum of your systems and the warmth of your EM field.

Shockwave might, to sate his need to experiment, try to see your reaction if he tried giving you his attention as you give him yours— Not very easy given his lack of an intake and having a cannon for an arm. So he just... rubs his helm against the top of yours and stares into your optics for a reaction while you look utterly confused. Looks like he might have to be bolder. You better appreciate it though cause he's a busy mech.

Plus, you being around him all day means he gets a lab assistant too.

He likes being spoiled by you like this, neutral about it but definitely prefers being spoiled than left alone. His antenna perk up and everything when you do. And he's very direct about how much he enjoys it, only if you ask him though. You can try to tease him saying how he's enjoying this too much but he'll only ever admit it, not registering it as teasing.

When you're not around to spoil him, he feels this odd sense of... Shockwave always struggles to put whatever little emotions he has left into words but the best way to describe it might be 'lonely'. Its almost similar to how he felt during his isolation.

But he has an easy fix for this, just comm you. Say he needs you here for 'work' even if he knows otherwise. And if you are busy, Shockwave is patient enough to wait. Though, he may be slightly more irritable.

If you touch some where sensitive, he just freezes for a split second, says nothing, doesn't dwell on it and continues tinkering in his lab. Wouldn't mind being touched there again but will not ask for it.

Does he mind it in public? Absolutely not. Shockwave gives 0 scraps about what others think of him. They know what he's capable of and he's well aware of that. It is illogical to deny himself of something he enjoys without a logical reason (such as work). You can smother up to him as much as you want. But don't expect it to be returned. Its kind of funny to watch cause you're dotting all over him and he's just standing there quietly.

They’d immediately answer: “He’s lying.”

Because Ratchet doesn’t love loudly.

He loves practically.

Once you realize that, he becomes absolutely devastating in the romantic sense.

The Grump

He’s the mech patching everyone up while complaining about how they got hurt in the first place.

He’s the one muttering about idiots while staying awake for three cycles to save them.

He’s seen too much. Lost too much.

And because of that, he doesn’t open up easily.

Realization

Ratchet’s first reaction? Denial.

Absolutely denial.

Ratchet: “I’m concerned because they’re reckless.”

Bumblebee: “You checked on them six times.”

Ratchet: “Because they ignore medical advice.”

He’s furious about it.

Not because of you but because attachment means vulnerability. Vulnerability means pain.

Ratchet knows exactly what it feels like to lose friends to war. So he tries to convince himself that this is just a professional concern. That this isn’t personal.

Flirting Is Complaining

I’m not kidding.

Ratchet’s early affection sounds like he’s constantly scolding you.

“You’re limping.”

“I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not.”

“You noticed?”

“Of course I noticed. Now sit down before I make you sit down.”

Or

“Have you eaten?”

“Not yet.”

“Unbelievable.”

“Were you asking because you care?”

“I was asking because low energon makes you stupid.”

“…”

“…Eat.”

Good news though! If Ratchet is fussing over you, you’re already halfway there.

Acts of Service

This is Ratchet’s love language. No notes!

He remembers your medications.

Adjusts recharge schedules.

Keeps spare supplies specifically for you.

Fixes things before they break.

Stays up late researching solutions to problems you casually mentioned.

He’ll never frame it romantically.

Because to him? Taking care of others is what you do when they matter.

Compliments

Rare. Extremely rare.

Which makes them hit like a truck.

Most of his praise comes disguised as criticism.

“You handled that better than I expected.”

“Was that a compliment?”

“Don’t let it go to your head.”

Then one day he’ll mention that he’s proud of you with a completely serious tone. Suddenly you’re trying not to cry.

Because Ratchet doesn’t hand out empty words.

Physical Affection

Ratchet is comfortable with practical touch.

Medical examinations. Checking injuries. Adjusting armor. He doesn’t think twice about those. He’s a medic after all.

Romantic touch? Different story.

He freezes. Overthinks.

Becomes painfully aware of it.

The first time you hug him? He goes rigid.

Then very carefully hugs you back.

And after that? He starts seeking it out.

Quietly.

A hand resting on your shoulder.

Leaning against you when he’s exhausted.

Pressing his forehead to yours after a difficult day.

Private moments that are just for you two. Never for an audience.

Jealousy

Ratchet isn’t dramatic.

He won’t challenge rivals.

He won’t sulk.

But he does become….prickly.

Someone offers to help you with something and then Ratchet is staring at them like a human middle school teacher like, “Can you?”

He’ll make it obvious he has zero faith in them.

However he’s not possessive. He’s just protective.

He just trusts very few mechs to take proper care of someone he loves.

Including that someone. Especially if that someone is reckless.

Arguments

Let’s be honest, Ratchet does have a temper.

He gets frustrated. Snaps when exhausted. Says things more sharply than intended.

He always regrets it.

He comes back. He apologizes.

Awkwardly but sincerely.

Because he hates hurting people he cares about.

He knows words can leave scars.

And he’s spent his life trying to heal scars.

Not create them.

The Caregiver Problem

Ratchet is so used to being the one everyone leans on that he forgets he deserves care too.

He’ll run himself into the ground. Ignore his own injuries. Dismiss his own grief.

Because other people need him more.

So the first time you say:

“Sit down.”

“What?”

“You’re exhausted.”

“I’m fine.”

“Ratchet.”

“…”

“Let me take care of you this time.”

He doesn’t know what to do with that.

Falling in Love

He doesn’t become sweeter overnight.

He’s still grumpy. Still sarcastic. Still muttering about everyone’s incompetence.

But now:

He saves the last energon treat for you.

He remembers stories you told him months ago.

He checks that you got back safely.

He makes room beside him during recharge.

He lets you see when he’s tired.

When he’s scared.

When the weight of the years he’s lived catch up with him.

Because trust, for Ratchet, is as intimate as touch.

Why Fall for Ratchet

Because beneath all the grumbling is extraordinary tenderness.

Ratchet makes you feel cared for. Not in a grand, sweeping way. In the small ways that sustain a life.

He notices when your hands shake.

Remembers how you like your energon.

Scolds you for skipping maintenance.

Waits up until you’re home.

Acts like it’s all a terrible inconvenience.

Ratchet has spent so much of his life putting everyone else back together. So when he loves someone, it’s not because he thinks they need fixing.

It’s because, somewhere along the way, they became one of the few people who remind him that he doesn’t have to carry everything alone.

And if you catch him half asleep in the medbay, leaning into your touch while grumbling,

“Don’t make a habit of spoiling me.”

What he really means is:

“Please don’t stop.”

Because this old medic has been taking care of everyone for so long that being loved back feels like the greatest relief of all.

SHOCKWAVE

Shockwave is one of my favorite Decepticons to analyze romantically because realistically the answer should be that he doesn’t flirt, he can not love.

End of discussion.

Except, I will argue that’s actually not true.

Because the question isn’t whether Shockwave is capable of attachment.

It’s what attachment looks like when filtered through a mech who has devoted himself to logic above all else. And the answer is somehow both deeply unsettling and weirdly romantic.

Emotions Are Inefficient

Shockwave tends to embody:

Extreme rationality

Emotional restraint

Patience

Precision

Pragmatism

Intimidating competence

A willingness to make difficult choices without sentiment interfering.

He does not waste energy. He does not indulge impulses. He certainly does not daydream about romance.

Feelings to him complicate decision making.

Therefore: Feelings are inefficient.

Case closed. Right?

The Problem

The issue is that emotions don’t actually care about whether they’re logical.

Shockwave can analyze them.

Categorize them.

Attempt to suppress them.

However attachment isn’t something he can simply decide not to experience.

At first, it manifests as anomalies.

He notices you more often.

He allocates more processing power to your wellbeing.

Your absence causes a measurable decrease in efficiency.

He attempts to identify the cause.

His conclusion?

“Unacceptable.”

Internal Analysis

Observation: Subject’s safety has become a recurring concern.

Observation: Subject’s approval influences decision satisfaction.

Observation: Continued proximity is preferred.

Conclusion: Data contamination.

Secondary Conclusion: Reevaluate.

Final Conclusion:

“Concerning.”

He hates it.

Not because you’re unpleasant but mainly because he cannot file you neatly away anymore.

Problem Solving Is Flirting

Shockwave doesn’t know how to flirt.

Traditional courtship rituals are inefficient to him.

So his affection comes out sideways.

You mention a problem. The problem is now solved.

You need access to information. The information appears.

You lack proper equipment. An upgrade materializes.

He never frames these things romantically.

From his perspective: “The optimal outcome was achieved.”

Everyone else is staring at him in horror because Shockwave voluntarily invested resources in another mech.

Compliments

Prepare yourself.

Shockwave complimenting you? You may never recover. This is coming from a mech that even Megatron has concerns about.

Compliments are clinical. Precise. Horrifyingly sincere.

“Your judgment is consistently reliable.”

“You adapt to unforeseen variables effectively.”

“Your presence improves mission outcomes.”

And then one day: “I value your perspective.”

Excuse me, do you understand how monumental that is?

Shockwave doesn’t assign value carelessly.

If he values your opinion, he has already placed extraordinary trust in you.

Physical Affection

Shockwave is not naturally tactile.

Touch has purpose.

Function. Meaning.

He won’t casually lean against you. He won’t instinctively reach for your hand.

At least, not initially.

He’ll hesitate.

Analyze. Observe your reactions.

But if a relationship develops?

Every touch becomes deliberate.

A hand resting against yours while reviewing data.

Adjusting damaged armor with meticulous care.

Standing close enough to reassure without comment.

The intimacy isn’t frequency. It’s intentionality.

Jealousy

Shockwave doesn’t perform jealousy in recognizable ways.

He won’t scowl. He won’t interrupt. He won’t become possessive.

Instead….he gathers information.

Should they be concerned he wants to review every mission they’ve ever been a part of? Yes. Yes, they should be.

The terrifying part?

Shockwave doesn’t even identify it as jealousy at first. He simply believes he’s conducting an objective assessment.

He is not.

Whoever is flirting with you is going to become one of his data points.

Vulnerability

This is perhaps the rarest thing Shockwave can offer.

Being logical is his armor. It protects him. Provides certainty. Control.

To lower that armor? Even slightly?

Requires enormous trust.

He won’t suddenly become emotionally expressive.

He won’t pour out his spark.

Instead, vulnerability appears in fragments.

He asks for your opinion.

He admits uncertainty.

He confesses limitations.

Very quietly.

Very carefully.

“I do not possess sufficient data.”

For Shockwave, that sentence is almost intimate.

The Confession

Oh. Oh, this poor mech.

Because by the time Shockwave acknowledges romantic attachment….he’s already lost.

He’s run the calculations. Reviewed the evidence. Tested alternative explanations.

None hold up.

Eventually, he approaches you with complete seriousness.

No theatrics. No hesitation.

Simply:

“I have reached a conclusion.”

“Okay?”

“Your continued presence has become preferable.”

“…”

“I believe the organic equivalent is referred to as affection.”

“Shockwave, are you trying to tell me you love me?”

Long pause.

“.…Affirmative.”

And somehow that robotic little confirmation is devastating. As you know exactly how much thought it took for him to say it.

When Shockwave Loves

He doesn’t become softer.

Not externally.

He’s still logical. Still pragmatic. Still frighteningly intelligent.

But he starts accounting for you in everything.

Your preferences.

Your safety.

Your future.

He creates contingencies.

Backup plans.

Protections.

He prepares.

Because love, to Shockwave, isn’t an emotion that sweeps him away.

It’s a commitment.

A variable he chooses to preserve.

Why Fall for Shockwave

Because beneath the logic lies extraordinary consistency.

Shockwave makes you feel important.

Not in a grand, dramatic sense.

But in the quiet realization that one of the most rational beings in the galaxy examined every possible outcome….

Considered the inefficiencies.

Calculated the risks.

Acknowledged the vulnerabilities.

And still arrived at the same conclusion.

You are worth it.

He could have dismissed the anomaly. He could have ignored the data.

Instead, he rewrote his understanding of himself to accommodate a truth he never expected to encounter.

And perhaps that’s the most romantic thing about Shockwave. For a mech who believes logic governs all things, loving someone isn’t losing a battle against emotion.

It’s looking directly at the evidence and deciding that, against all probability and inconvenience, keeping you by his side remains the most logical choice of all.

The episode comes without warning. One moment, Dante is pacing the narrow floor as usual, silent in his restlessness; the next, his stride falters. His hand braces against the bulkhead, fingers splaying hard enough that the metal creaks. A sharp breath escapes him, ragged, controlled only by force of will. She looks up from her work instantly, setting the satchel aside. The color has drained from his face, skin pulled taut over bone, and his eyes, when they meet hers, burn too bright, gold threaded with a dark hunger he cannot mask.

“Dante.” It isn’t a question, only his name, firm enough to ground.

He shakes his head, jaw clenched. “It passes.” The words are gritted, as if speaking them might make them true.

But it doesn’t pass. His breath grows heavier, shoulders hunched as though fighting something within. He drags himself down to the bunk rather than fall, one hand still braced against the wall as if it alone held him upright.

She kneels before him without hesitation. Not touching yet, but close. “This is not nothing. Tell me what it is.”

For a long moment he says nothing, only breathing like a man drowning on air. Then, rough and low, “Blood. My kind… endures it. But without it, the thirst carves its way deeper. I will not break—” His teeth clench, a shudder rippling through him. “—but it takes its toll.”

Her breath stills, not in fear but in comprehension. She has seen hunger hollow men before, but this is something older, etched in his very making. Gently, carefully, she sets her hand over his. His skin is freezing cold.

“You have held worse,” she says softly, certain. “But you do not need to hold it alone.”

He stares at her, eyes too bright, too raw. For once, he can’t hide. His hand tightens around hers, not crushing, but with the desperation of someone anchoring against the tide. When the worst of the spasm passes, he exhales slowly, the breath shuddering like the sigh of a broken bellows. He does not release her hand. His grip on her hand holds like a lifeline, but his body still trembles with the force of what claws at him from within. His breath rasps, guttural, the sound of restraint fraying.

She doesn’t pull away. Instead, she eases closer, her other hand brushing the sweat from his temple. “Breathe with me. Not against it. With it.”

Her voice is steady, rhythmic, the kind used to coax fevered children through the worst of a night. From her satchel, she pulls a vial, unsealing it with one hand. The bitter smell of her brew, ground root, clotting stem, and ironleaf. fills the cramped quarters. She tips it carefully against his lips.

He resists at first, pride or discipline taut in every line of him, but the hunger wracks him too hard to refuse. He swallows, the liquid dark against his teeth, and a faint shiver runs through him. Still, the pain doesn’t ease enough. His breath hitches, eyes unfocused, golden irises flashing like embers caught on a storm wind. She feels the strain in him, not just in the body but in something deeper, a pressure that thrums against the edges of her own mind.

Quietly, she lets the old part of herself stir. Not fully, never fully, but just enough. Her hand, still presses to his temple, steadies, and she breathes out with intent. A pulse, soft as a whisper, flows from her into him. Not command, not force, but a thread of calm woven into the storm.

His jaw unclenches. The wild light in his eyes flickers, dimming to something less jagged. His shoulders ease a fraction, as though an invisible weight has shifted off them. For a long moment he says nothing, simply breathing, and she holds herself utterly still, afraid that to break the silence might undo the fragile balance.

Finally, his gaze sharpens, focusing back on her. His voice is low, hoarse but certain: “You did something.”

She doesn’t deny it. Her thumb brushes over his knuckles, once, before stilling. “I eased the pain. Nothing more.”

His eyes search hers, fierce but not accusing. A soldier’s suspicion, tempered now by something else, something closer to gratitude than he might ever name. He bows his head slightly, breath still rough, but steadier.

“Then…” he says after a long pause, “…thank you.”

She only inclines her head, as though the words are a fragile thing best not pressed further. But when he finally releases her hand, it is with reluctance, and when she pulls the blanket over him once more, he doesn’t protest. She doesn’t move far once the episode has passed. Even after his breathing steadies and the wild light ebbs from his eyes, she remains seated at the edge of the bunk, one hand resting lightly against his shoulder. Not restraint, not even comfort, just presence.

The Ashwing hums around them, bulkheads shuddering faintly with the push of the drives. The ship’s noise masks the silence in their quarters, but neither speaks. He closes his eyes, the hard lines of his face slowly softening, and she watches. Not with curiosity, but with the quiet vigilance of one who knows how fragile reprieve can be.

When at last he drifts into sleep, she draws the blanket higher across him. Her fingers linger longer than necessary at the fold near his chest before slipping away. Only then does she ease back, settling against the bulkhead with her satchel cradled in her lap. Sleep comes reluctantly, but it comes, haunted less by her own past than by the memory of his gratitude, raw and unguarded.

Dawn doesn’t exist in the void, only the shift of shipboard cycles. The light-strip above their quarters brightens with a harsh buzz, and with it comes the return of distance. She is already awake, satchel open on her knees, sorting dried herbs into neat bundles. He sits opposite, working on his armor with careful precision. His movements are slow, deliberate, as though testing each one, reassuring himself that the storm within hasn’t returned.

He breaks it first, his voice low but steady. “What you did.”

Her hands pause, then resume their work. “I told you, it was only easing.”

His gaze lingers, heavy. “Easing with more than roots and tinctures.”

A beat passes. She doesn’t deny it. Only says, softly, “Some burdens are heavier than flesh can carry alone.”

The Ashwing’s corridors narrow the world to rust-painted steel and the smell of recycled air. Every turn scrapes Dante’s pauldrons against bulkhead or piping, the ship seeming built for men far smaller than him. Whispers follow in his wake, crew ducking their eyes, muttering at the sight of him. Some spit prayers, others spit distrust. None linger long beneath his gaze. Rais himself stays distant, but Dante feels the weight of his watch from every corner of the vessel.

By the time they reach the cabin allotted to them, the air feels heavier than the steel itself. The door rasps closed, and the quiet settled like a held breath. The space is barely large enough for a bunk and a bolted chest, the ceiling low enough that Dante has to keep his head bowed. Kneeling by the bunk, she sets her pack aside, fingers lingering on the worn strap as though grounding herself.

“They look at you like you’re a storm,” she murmurs, not quite meeting his eye. “And storms are good coin to men like Rais. He’ll want to measure how far he can ride it before it breaks.”

Dante leans against the wall, arms folded across his chest, the metal groaning faintly under his weight. For a long moment, he says nothing, the rasp of his breath filling the narrow cabin. Then, softer: “Storms pass. Men like him will not be standing when it does.”

She looks up at that, searching his face, half reassurance, half warning, wholly unshaken. “Maybe. But until then, we tread his deck. Best to remember he’ll be looking for the slip.”

Silence stretches between them, the low hum of the ship’s drives threading through it. For the first time since they’ve boarded, there is no one watching, no whispers clinging to their heels. Only the press of steel walls and the closeness of survival shared. Her hand brushes the edge of his vambrace as she passes him, not quite deliberate, not quite accidental, before she settles onto the narrow bunk. The moment holds, fragile as glass, before the ship lurches slightly with a shift in course.

Neither of them speak of the brief touch. The hum of the Ashwing’s engines soon become the pulse of their days, low, steady, inescapable. In their narrow quarters, time takes on a different weight. The walls press close, the bunk barely wide enough for one, the air thick with the recycled tang of a vessel too long in service.

Dante moves like a caged predator in that space. Even stripped of armor, every shift of his frame seems too large, his presence filling the cabin until the metal seems to bow around him. He paces sometimes, slow steps that make the deck plates creak, but always stops before his restlessness becomes noise that might carry. She, more used to tight places and the patience of waiting, adapts first. Her hands find quiet work, mending a tear in her cloak, sorting the small stock of herbs she’s carried this far, setting them in careful order on the bolted chest. She speaks little, but her presence is an anchor, a counterweight to his looming silence.

Now and then their eyes meet, the closeness making every glance sharper, more deliberate. He’ll find her watching him, gauging the furrow in his brow, the way his hands flex as though missing the heft of a weapon. She catches him noticing the steadiness with which she claims her half of the space, unafraid to share its confines with him.

Nights are the hardest. The bunk is hers by right of size, though she offers more than once to trade. Dante refuses each time, taking the floor without complaint, back presses against the bulkhead. Yet the space between them is never wider than the reach of an arm. When the ship shudders with turbulence, when whispers carry through the corridor outside, her breathing steadies him more than he would ever admit.

One night, as the ship drifts into the long dark between stars, she breaks the silence. “When we reach Baal,” she says softly, “you’ll have your kin again. Your place. You won’t need to share rooms like this or hide behind another’s story.”

His eyes open, catching the faint glint of her silhouette in the dim. “And you?” he asks.

She hesitates, then shrugs, though he can hear the faint smile in her voice. “I go where I’m needed. That’s never the same place twice.”

He lays awake long after she has settled, the hum of the drives weaving with the rhythm of her breathing. In the stillness, he finds no comfort in the promise of reunion, only in the fragile truth of the moment, that they are alive, together, for as long as the stars allow.

The days blur, measured less by the clocks on the Ashwing and more by the rhythm of each other’s movements. There is no hiding in their quarters; every shift of breath, every murmur in sleep, every unguarded look is laid bare. Dante grows accustomed to the sound of her hands at work, thread pulling through cloth, mortar grinding leaf and root, the soft click of her satchel buckles. It is the music of purpose, unbroken by doubt. He even begins to sit on the edge of the bunk when she works, watching as her hands move with quiet precision over a fraying stitch. She lets him watch, unbothered by the intensity of his gaze, as though she trusts he will see not just her tasks but the steadiness behind them. She, in turn, grows used to the way he paces before settling, as if testing the walls for weakness, before folding himself down with a soldier’s discipline.

At first, they speak little. Words seem dangerous in so close a space. But soon, questions creep in at the edges. He asks about the herbs she carries, the ones she tucks carefully into sealed cloth pouches. She asks, with a quiet curiosity, about the scars on his hands, how some looked seared, others cut, others ragged. He doesn’t name battles, but speaks instead of duty, and she doesn’t name ailments, but speaks instead of survival. The meanings, unspoken, fill the space between them.

It is in the smallest moments the change showed most. Once, when turbulence jolted the ship, her satchel slips from the chest. His hand is already there, catching it before it strikes the floor, but he holds it a moment longer than needed before returning it. Their eyes meet, and for once, neither look away. Another night, when the recycled air bit cold, he wakes to find the blanket from the bunk half-draped over him. She doesn’t mention it the next morning, and he doesn’t thank her, but the silence between them holds a different weight.

Meals become a ritual. A scrap of ration divided, water poured with unspoken fairness. Once, she pressed half of her portion into his hand before he could argue, her expression daring him to waste breath refusing. He held her eyes, then ate it in silence. It wasn’t victory for either, but a truce.

In the nights, the floor has grown less of a barrier. When the ship shudders in a gravity shift, she reaches down without thinking, her hand brushing his shoulder to steady him. He catches it in his, rough fingers closing around hers before either can think to pull away. They don’t speak of it, but after that, her hand sometimes lingers when she passes something to him, an extra heartbeat, no more, but enough.

There are moments, fleeting and fragile, when he allows himself to soften. When she dozes against the bulkhead mid-task, her satchel still clutched to her chest, he eases the bundle from her arms and sets it aside with a care that belied his strength. When she stirs and finds the cloak drawn over her shoulders, she doesn’t ask how it got there.

Gradually, their movements begin to sync. She shifts her work when he paces; he stills his restlessness when she leans to light the small lumen by the bunk. One evening, as she works a stubborn knot from a torn cloak, her fingers falter. Without thinking, he reaches to steady the fabric. His hands dwarf hers, scarred and calloused, but the motion is gentle. She lets him hold the cloth as she threads the needle, their fingers brushing with each pass. Neither speak, but the silence seems full.

               A smile lingers on Rai’s face, but thinner now, stretched over unease. “I bargain with everyone,” he says lightly, though the edge beneath it shows. “That is how survival works. Even the highborn must—”

The lamp above them sways once, catching the faint gilt of Dante’s armor where the coat falls aside. Stepping forward, and the motion carries a pressure with it, not noise, not even speed, but inevitability.

“You mistake me,” Dante says, voice stripped of pretense. “I am not here to haggle like a market-stall cur. I do not tithe from my Chapter. And she—” he glances once to the healer, then back, eyes burning now with the weight of centuries, “—is not yours to use.”

The air in the cabin seems to thin. Rais’s jaw works once, the smug veneer cracking at the edges. Dante leans one gauntleted hand against the table, the metal groaning faintly under the pressure.

His voice drops to a growl that carries through the stale air like thunder trapped in steel. “You will grant us passage. You will keep your crew silent. And you will name no price that shames your tongue again.”

For a moment Rais says nothing. He stares at Dante, at the immovable shadow towering over him, at the eyes that have measured battlefields far older than this station. The smile returns, brittle now, more mask than charm.

“Of course,” Rais says softly. “I meant only courtesy. You’ll find my ship most… accommodating.”

Dante straightens, the pressure easing, but his gaze never wavers. The healer finally eases her hand off the satchel strap. She watches Rais carefully, the way his fingers drum once against the table before going still. It isn’t surrender, she thinks to herself.

As Rais rises from the table, it is with an easy smile pasted back across his face, all teeth, no warmth. “Dock Six. Final prep in two hours. Don’t be late,” he says, sweeping up a dataslate as though the negotiation had been no more consequential than a dice game.

Without waiting for reply, he slips past them, boots ringing quick against the grating as he vanishes into the corridor’s dim light. The bay’s silence deepens in his absence. Only the buzz of the lamp remains, swinging faintly overhead. The healer reaches out, catching Dante’s wrist before he can move to follow. Her fingers curl briefly against the cold ridges of his gauntlet. She doesn’t look at him directly, only angling her face enough that her words will carry to him alone as she keeps an eye on the door.

“He won’t let this stand,” she murmurs. “Not the way you pressed him. Men like Rais smile when they lose ground, but they don’t forget. And they don’t forgive.”

Dante’s gaze stays fixed on the door Rais had vanished through. “Then let him remember,” he says quietly, the weight in his voice like iron sunk in deep water.

Her hand lingers a heartbeat longer before withdrawing. “Be ready. It won’t come at the table. It will come when he thinks you’ve relaxed.”

He turns to her then, just enough for his eyes to meet her’s through the half-light. “I do not relax.”

No further words pass between them. Together they leave the bay, merging back into the arteries of the transit station, their silence sharper than any oath. Making their way to Dock Six where it resides at the station’s far flank, its bulkhead doors patched and re-patched with welded plates. The air smells of burnt coolant and the sea-salt tang of void-seals tested to their limits. Beyond the threshold, Rais’s vessel waits, a lean smugglers’s cutter bristling with jury-rigged augur arrays and half-disguised weapon housings. Its hull bears no clear sigil, only a scrawled strip of paint along the prow: Ashwing.

A gang of deckhands move about it, rough-clothed and armed with shock-batons tucked carelessly at their hips. They eye Dante and the healer as the pair approach; curiosity mingled with wariness. No questions, no greetings, only the weight of watching eyes.

Rais appears at the top of the loading ramp, arms wide in mock welcome. “My honored passengers,” he calls, his tone easy, as though the tension of the bay had been nothing more than a test of character. “Step aboard the Ashwing. She isn’t pretty, but she’ll fly.”

The healer glances once at Dante before ascending the ramp, her shoulders straight despite the lingering unease of the situation. Dante follows, every step deliberate, every line of his frame radiating silent promise. The uneasy truce holds. For now. Beneath them the ramp shudders with each step, the vibration of cycling engines running through its plates like a pulse. The interior air smells of the tang of oil, recycled breath, and something faintly metallic, a ship that has flown too many runs without a full refit.

Inside, the corridors press close. Bulkheads scabbed with mismatched plating; wiring looping like veins along the ceiling. The light is thin, jaundiced from strips that hummed overhead. Space aboard the Ashwing wasn’t meant for comfort; it is meant for cargo and survival.

Crews move around them in groups of twos and threes, some carrying crates, other tools, all of them quick to glance and quicker to look away. Their whispers follow in the wake of Dante’s broad shadow, voices low but not low enough to escape an Astartes’ ears.

“Too big for a plague walker.”

“…look at the way he moves—”

“…what’s Rais brought aboard this time?”

The healer keeps her stride steady, cloak brushing the narrow walls, her hand never far from the satchel at her side. She doesn’t look at them, doesn’t break pace. But her presence seems to push a small path open nonetheless, as though the air itself bends a fraction around her. Dante walks behind, each step an exercise in restraint. The corridor barely contains his height and breadth; his covered shoulder plates graze the pipes once, leaving a faint echo of metal against metal. The crew hushes at that sound.

At the junction ahead, Rais leans casually against the wall, a datapad cradled in his hand. He isn’t looking at them, not directly, scrolling through manifests, lips quirking at some private amusement. When they draw close, he speaks without lifting his gaze.

“Quarters are aft. Small, but private. You’ll find bunks, filtration masks, and locks that work, most of the time.” He finally looks up, his smile sharp in the dim light. “Settle in. We lift when the slot opens. Until then… enjoy my hospitality.”

               The walk back to the accommodation she’s arranged for them is silent. The market has thinned; its noise dulled to a murmur under the hum of the station’s circulators. Rusted shutters clang shut one by one, and the air takes on that empty, echoing quality of hours when no one trusts their neighbors.

Dante’s stride is measured, but each step has weight. He doesn’t speak until they are inside the narrow compartment they have claimed, a room barely wide enough for the two of them and their gear. The door shuts with a heavy seal.

“He will sell us the moment it profits him more,” Dante says.

The healer eases her satchel onto the cot. Her hands linger on the straps. “I know. That’s why we give him only what we must.”

Dante stands with his back to the wall, arms crossed, watching her as she begins sorting what little they can carry. A packet of ration bars. A coiled med-line. The vial case, now one short. She places each with deliberate care, as though order might anchor the storm building in her chest. The silence stretches. Somewhere beyond the walls a vent coughs, the sound is like a dying animal.

She breaks it first. “If it comes to it, if he turns,” Her voice catches, and she steadies it. “Can you kill him before he speaks it?”

Dante’s gaze sharpens. “Yes.”

No more words pass for a time. Only the muted rhythm of preparation, the rasp of cloth, the click of buckles, the metallic whisper as Dante checks the weight of his blade under the cloak he wears to pass as something less than what he is. When the healer finally sits, her shoulders slump against the cold wall, she closes her eyes and breathes deep. Not in rest, but in the way a soldier steels themselves before the march. Two hours. Every second stretches taut, the station around them creaking and whispering like a leviathan holding its breath.

               When the chime finally sounds through the berth, a dull, two-tone note that marks the shift of station hours, Dante is already standing. He hasn’t slept. The healer rises more slowly, gathering her satchel with hands that have steadied countless wounds but trembles now at the thought of betrayal wrapped in a trader’s smile possibly endangering one of her patients. Neither speaks. There is nothing left to say.

The walk to Dock Six winds through corridors that grows emptier the further they go. Here, the lamps burn weaker, light seeping in thin washes that leave long gaps of shadow. The walls weep rust; the air smells of coolant and stale oil. At the final turn, the bay doors loom wide. Beyond them, Dock Six yawns like a hollow mouth, its gantries rising in angular tiers.

There she is, Rais’s vessel. The ship squats against the berth like a carrion bird, its hull patched with plating from half a dozen sources, none of them uniform. Scars of old weapon strikes webbed across its flank. Glowstrips bleed pale light across loading arms and fuel lines that coil like veins into the deck.

Figures move about the vessel, crew, perhaps mercenaries, shadowed shapes hauling crates, checking seals, and watching. Always watching. Dante’s jaw sets as his eyes track the hull, noting gun emplacements disguised as salvage scars, the unnatural way the ship seems to wait. The healer’s breath draws shallow. She can feel the weight of the vessel before them, not just its steel, but the truth of what it represents. Their lives now hinge on the promises of a man who thrives on knives hidden in smiles. Rais will be waiting inside.

               Beneath their boots the ramp clangs, hollow metal swallowing the sound into the ship’s bones. The air inside is cooler, tinged with the tang of recycled scrubbers and old blood that had seeped too deep into the plating to be washed away. Two of Rais’s men wait just inside the hold, scarred, broad, their hands resting close to their weapons but not yet drawn. They say nothing, only exchange a look before gesturing them forward.

Dante walks first. His presence fills the narrow space, and though the guards flinch from it, they don’t bar his way. The healer follows, her satchel pressed tight against her side. Every step rings with the sense of being watched, measured, weighed. The passage opens into a chamber that might once have been a cargo bay but now serves as something else. A table of alloy sheets have been set up near the center, strewn with datapads, ration tins, and a half-finished bottle of amasec. Rais sits behind it.

“Ah,” Rais said, rising with a sweep of his arms as though greeting old friends. “The knight who bleeds gold, and the witch who tends him. Dock Six feels richer already.”

Dante doesn’t move closer to the table. His shadow falls long across the deck, his silence answering in place of words.

Her voice is steady. “We’re here. You said you had terms to renegotiate.”

Rais’s smile widens, baring teeth. “Oh, I do. Terms generous enough to ferry even gods and ghosts across the stars, if they are willing to pay the price.”

The guards shift behind them, the scrape of boots on deck steel. The chamber seems to narrow, the walls pressing close. The game has begun. Rais brushes his fingers along the neck of the bottle as though toying with the thought of offering it. His eyes, however, never leave them.

“Passage is no small thing,” he begins smoothly, the words rolling like well-worn coin. “Fuel, food, the little matter of keeping my crew from wondering why we are carrying passengers rather than cargo. But for you…” He spreads his hands, the picture of magnanimity. “…there are accommodations I can make. Favors, if you will. A man of your stature, Lord Dante, deserves no less.”

The title is deliberate, half respect, half trap. Dante’s shoulders tense slightly, but he remains silent.

Rais goes on, his tone dipping into false candor. “So here are the terms. A modest cut, nothing unreasonable, of whatever resources your Chapter has stockpiled. A token, a tithe, to assure my crew this venture profits us all. And…” His gaze slides toward the healer, sharp as a blade’s edge. “…her talents. A skilled medic, present in the holds, tending to my men when need arises. To keep us all hale until your shining Imperium welcomes you home.”

Each word laced in honey, framed as practical, even fair. A share of wealth, a doctor on hand. Nothing outrageous, at least not at first blush. But beneath it lays teeth, ownership implied, obligations bound, her labor taken for his gain.

Dante’s voice breaks the silence at last, low and heavy as a warhammer dropped to stone. “You speak as though we are yours to bargain with.”

After securing entry to the transit authority’s concourse, they head in. It smells faintly of scorched dust and the acrid tang of engine fuel. Wide-bellied cargo haulers and lean passenger cutters line the docking tiers beyond the glassy hab-walls, their hulls heat-streaked from recent descents. The crowd is a shifting tide of traders, pilgrims, militia, and off-world envoys, voices layering in dozens of accents under the drone of the loudhailers announcing departure slots.

She walks with purpose, Dante’s heavier stride a quiet shadow at her back. His gaze keeps flicking over the crowd, assessing, measuring, but he doesn’t speak. Not yet. They find the contact where she had said he would be leaning against a rust-patched console kiosk at the far edge of the registry hall, watching the bustle with the idleness of someone who isn’t as idle as he looks. The man is wiry, sun-darkened, with a data-slate dangling from one hand and the faintly smug air of someone who knows the value of his network.

“Rais,” she greets, voice pitched low.

He glances at her, then over her shoulder to Dante. His expression shifts, the practiced neutrality of a trader seeing something dangerous he isn’t sure he wants to touch.

“You came back,” he says slowly. “And brought… company.”

“I need information,” she says, stepping in close enough that the noise of the concourse swallows their words. “And maybe a way off-world. Baal.”

Rais arches a brow. “Expensive.”

“I can pay,” she replies, and though her tone is even, Dante catches the smallest flicker of strain under it.

She reaches into her satchel, fingers brushing over the wrapped bundle of medicae tinctures and scavenged relic components she intends to offer. Rais studies her for a long breath before his gaze slides again to Dante.

“And if I say yes,” he asks softly, “who exactly am I helping? The Lady Healer of the Red Wastes… and her towering guardian? Or something the Authority might prefer I look the other way from?”

Dante’s weight shifts almost imperceptibly, the faintest tightening in his jaw, but he stays silent, letting her handle it.

“That’s not your concern,” she says, steady. “What matters is the trade.”

The man’s smile is slow and not entirely kind. “Everything’s my concern, when the Administratum’s eyes are this close. You want passage to Baal? I can find it. But you’ll owe me. More than credits.”

For the first time, Dante speaks, his voice low and edged, carrying a weight that cuts through the crowd’s commotion. “Then name it.”

Rais’s gaze flicks between them, calculating. “I will,” he said at last, “but not here. Follow me. Somewhere quieter.”

He doesn’t wait to see if they will follow. Turning and slipping into the current of bodies moving toward the side corridors, not looking back. The healer gives Dante the smallest nod and follows behind, her movements precise enough to thread the crowd without touching anyone.

They pass under a flickering lumen strip into a narrower passage where the noise of the concourse dulls to a muted hum. Cargo crates sit stacked against the walls, each marked with faded sigils. Rais leads them to a half-sealed service bay door, its paint blistered, and its locking panel bypassed by a mess of exposed wires. With a quick glance up and down the hall, he slips inside.

The bay beyond is dim, lit by a single hanging strip-lamp that swayed faintly with the vibration of the station’s engines. The smell of lubricants and old smoke clung to the air. A few scavenged chairs ring a dented worktable littered with data slates and half-assembled augmetics.

Rais drops into one of the chairs, gesturing for them to take the others. “Here,” he says, leaning forward, “we can speak without the Administratum’s ears twitching.”

The healer remains standing, her satchel still at her side. “Then speak.”

He taps the table once. “Passage to Baal is… complicated. Since the war, anything headed into the system gets checked twice, and half the ships vanish in the process. But there are ways, if you know who to pay, and how much noise you’re willing to leave behind.”

Dante’s eyes narrow. “And the price?”

Rais’s smile is thin. “Price is twofold. First, payment. Not just coin. I want medicae-grade chems. The kind you don’t sell in markets. Second, I want a name from the Angels’ own lips. Someone in Baal’s orbit who will remember me when I call.”

The healer’s gaze sharpens. “You’re asking for protection.”

“I’m asking for survival,” Rais says evenly. “And don’t insult me by pretending you don’t know what it’s worth out here.”

For the first time, Dante steps closer to the table, the lamplight catching the faint gilt edge of his armor under the coat. “And if we refuse?”

Rais shrugs, but there is no ease in the motion. “Then you’ll be walking the long road north to find your own way off-world. And I promise you, that road is much less forgiving than I am.”

The silence that follows is taut, heavy enough to press against the walls. The healer’s hand drifts over the satchel flap, but she doesn’t open it.

“This deal,” Dante says finally, “you give your word we will reach Baal.”

Rais’s expression doesn’t change, but his voice softens just enough to sound almost sincere. “If I say you’ll get there, you will.”

               The lamp above them sways again, its light sliding over Rais’s face, sharpening the lines around his mouth. He leans back, letting the chair creak. “So. Do we have an understanding, or should I find someone else who wants Baal badly enough to pay for it?”

The healer doesn’t answer at once. Her eyes fixed on the rust-stained tabletop, then on the exposed wiring in the wall behind him, as if calculating exits. The faint rattle of station machinery fills the gap between breaths.

Dante shifts his weight, the subtle rasp of armored plates under his coat betraying the movement. “Your terms are steep.”

“They’re fair,” Rais counters, too quickly. “You think there’s a cleaner path? Try it. I’ll watch from here.”

The healer’s hand brushes the edge of her satchel again, this time lingering. “And if I give you the name, you don’t use it unless you must. No games, Rais.”

His eyes flickers with something, amusement, maybe, or the flash of a man who has already decided how he will spend what she offered. “If I say it’s for survival, I mean it.”

Dante’s gaze meet hers across the table. She can see the question in it, unspoken but clear: Do you trust him enough to risk this?

Her reply is equally silent, a faint narrowing of her eyes, the smallest shake of her head. But after a long pause, she unbuckles the satchel and lays a single sealed vial of pale-blue chem on the table. The fluid catches the lamplight like trapped lightning.

Rais’s smirk returns, slow and knowing. “And the name?”

Dante’s voice is low, deliberate. “You’ll have it when we’re en route. Not before.”

Morning comes soft and dim, pale light filtering through half-collapsed stone arches and broken glass. The sanctuary had held through the night. Its ruined bones still offering a kind of hush that neither of them broke for a long while.

The woman moves first. She stirs from where she’d been seated near the threshold, wrapping her shawl tighter as she rises. Her silhouette passing through dusted light. Dante, already awake, tracking her movement with quiet eyes. She doesn’t speak, not at first. She just looks back toward the fractured altar, the cold brazier, the scorched murals. The place where she had once knelt in silence before a war that never ends.

He stands slowly. There is stiffness in his body, but less than there had been days ago. Less pain. Less haze.

 The scarred remnants of his armor creak faintly as he crosses to where she stands, his voice low. “That place… the ruin you spoke of. You remembered.”

She doesn’t look at him, not quite. “It wasn’t always broken,” she says. “There were voices once. Light. I remember hymns.”

Dante follows her gaze across the shattered nave.

“You brought me here,” he says quietly. “Even now… you still guide the lost.”

That makes her pause. Her mouth tugs into something between a breath and a smile, fragile, worn. “Not all of them make it,” she says. “You weren’t the first I tried to save.”

There is weight behind that. A history unsaid. He doesn’t press it. Instead, he reaches out, not a warrior’s grasp, but a steadying one, two fingers brushing her wrist in acknowledgment. She exhales slowly.

Outside, wind brushes the dead grass. The sky is murky but calm, and the long path that leads out of the sanctuary lay open. They leave the sanctuary without ceremony.

The woman wraps her satchel in the folds of her cloak, slipping vials and cloth-wrapped tools into hidden pockets. Dante adjusts the salvaged plates along his arms and side, not yet whole, but armored enough to give pause to any who might challenge them on the road. His haloed helm remains hooked on his hip, not yet worn. Not here.

They walk side by side for a time without speaking. The land stretches in waves of ash-blown scrub and bleached stone, the air dry but cool. Here and there, hunched structures dot the horizon, ruins more recent than the one they’ve just left, scavenged shells with nothing left to give. Overhead, the sky shifts behind high, torn clouds. The sun is distant and watery.

Eventually, she breaks the silence. “There’s a settlement half a day east. Small. They trade medicine for fresh water or meat. You’ll have to wait outside its edge, at least until I speak to the watch.”

Dante nods. “They fear outsiders?”

She gives a dry smile. “They fear strangers who are as tall as giants.”

He says nothing, but his pace slows slightly.

After a while, she glances toward him, softened. “I’ve passed through before. If the same elder still runs the gates, he’ll remember me. We’ll manage.”

His gaze stays forward. “If it becomes a burden for you, I can remain behind.”

That stops her, she turns to fully face him.

“No.”

One word, flat and final. It surprises even her.

She adjusts her grip on the satchel strap. “We don’t leave the wounded behind. That was the oath.”

He meets her eyes then, and something in him stills. A distant shape emerges over the next rise: spiked fencing, watchtowers, the broken ribs of old vehicles turned to wall. Smoke from cookfires twists faintly into the air. The settlement.

Shifting her footing and glances at him. “If anyone asks, you’re my charge. A penitent. Took the vow of silence after the Red Plague.”

Dante tilts his head slightly.

“They’ll whisper. They’ll avert their eyes. No one wants to catch madness, even secondhand.” She shrugs. “It won’t hold up to a customs scan, but it’ll do for roadside talk.”

He nods once.

“You shouldn’t speak,” she says again, glancing up at him. “Not until I say.”

He makes a low sound of agreement. Then, after a moment, adds “Understood.”

She raises a brow but lets it pass. The wind carries grit and faint voices on the edge of hearing. The scent of smoke. Behind them, somewhere deep beneath the ruin, the sealed silence of what they had left behind.

The settlement has no name she cares to speak aloud. None that survives on signs, either, only a string of shattered tiles across the main gate, and those too faded to read. It is the kind of place that clings to the edge of use, neither fully dead nor truly alive. Trade comes through twice a month, and the locals scrape by on salvage, fungus-gut wine, and whatever water could be skimmed from cracked filtration tanks deep beneath the street.

Pulling her wrap tighter and slows her pace as they reach the outer edge. Eyes following them. Dante’s shadow stretches long behind him, unnatural in its symmetry. Despite the dust-laden coat she’d wrapped him in, he still walks like something built to conquer. He says nothing. She feels the weight of his silence behind her, an anchor and a warning both. A child runs past them barefoot, trailing ribbons of solar-fused plastic. Then a whistle from an open window, three sharp and short notes. A signal, not a greeting. They are expected now.

She turns to him slightly and murmurs, “Stay two steps behind. Don’t look at anyone too long.”

He obeys. Not out of deference, she thinks, but because he understands the cost of being noticed. The inner market is a shallow bowl ringed by once-white stone. Half the stalls are boarded up. The others lean into one another like drunkards huddling for warmth. Faded canvas, rusted steel, and the wet stink of boiled root and oil. A cluster of merchants fall quiet as they pass.

“Penitent,” she says, bowing her head slightly toward a hunched woman with eyes like burned glass. “Plague vow. I have tinctures if you need them.”

The old woman spits sideways and makes a warding sign. But she doesn’t shout, doesn’t stop them. That is enough. Moving deeper into the bowl, toward the old train terminal at its heart, now a clinic, a trade-hub, and a gossip sink all in one.

A voice calls out from above, “You’ve brought something with weight behind it, Flame.”

She stops but doesn’t turn. “You always know when I’m near.”

A figure leans from the upper gantry, a man this time, bare-armed and bald, with circuitry along the side of his jaw like vines choking brick. “Hard not to, with the way the dust curls around your steps. Come for trade or trouble?”

“Information. Then I’ll be gone.”

The man’s eyes flick to Dante, narrowing, then dismissing him with a grunt. “Keep that one leashed. I’ve seen plague-walkers tear a man’s throat out over dried fruit.”

The healer says nothing, simply continues walking on. Inside, the terminal is cooler. Lights flicker from high above, solar-fed, barely alive. The walls still bear the scars of old lettering: BAAL TRANSIT AUTHORITY.

Stopping near a rusty ticket counter. Dante comes to stand behind her, a statue in shadow. She turns, finally, to face him. Quiet. Careful.

“They’ll ask questions. I’ll answer most. But if I fall, or if I give a signal…” she hesitates, then adds, “...don’t let them take you.”