My muse is my whumper

Leader signed the paper with shaking, numb hands, bruises painting their thinned and pale hands. They stood as their joints cracked. They couldn't go on anymore. Not after everything. Their team deserved someone that can carry them through.

"We are willing to wait for you to recover." Chief said. They sounded... upset.

"We both know," Leader returned. They kept their voice hollow. There was no need for sentimentality. Leader was a dead weight both to their team and the agency. Leader was never going to recover. Not when it was torn apart from them.

"You are more than that." Chief tried, as if reading Leader's mind. They walked over and placed a hand on Leader's back, helping Leader to stay upright.

"I can't keep up with anyone anymore. I want to believe I've earned this... retirement," Leader looked the other side. They couldn't be talked into going back. Chief was a good negotiator, and Leader could see an attempt coming.

"You did. But you know we can't do that. You..."

"Have seen too much? Perhaps. But I'm not going back," Leader cut. They had tried to act like they were just injured in a mission rather than gone for three years. They tried to move on and heal and they failed. There was no going back.

They were tired.

"I won't place you on house arrest. You don't deserve it."

Leader put one step ahead, their knees aching. Chief offered their arm, but Leader waved them off. Too broken, they had said. Leader could at least pretend they had something left in them. Slowly, they started walking. Wobbling and unsteady, but at least on their own feet.

Chief trailed after Leader, slow as if not to spook them. Leader just scoffed.

“Your quarters are still intact,” Chief offered, careful, almost soft. “I thought you might want to see them.”

A laugh escaped before Leader could catch themselves, closer to a cough. “Intact? You make it sound like a shrine.” They shifted closer to the wall as their pace faltered, their hand brushing the wall for balance. “It was never mine. It was… functional.”

Chief didn’t answer, only opened the door when they reached it. The room was exactly what Leader expected: stripped down, impersonal, a bed that looked untouched, desk cleared of any trace of life. The air smelled faintly of dust.

Leader stumbled forward, getting to their bookshelf. It was full of documents and files. But towards the middle, a tiny gap was barely noticeable between papers. Leader dove their hand into and drew out a small compass. Their fingers trembled as they pulled it out. They gathered it to their palm clutching it until their knuckles whitened.

Chief simply watched. “That’s all you want?”

“It’s all I have,” Leader whispered. Their throat ached. This was the most they had talked ever since they were saved.

“You don’t have to walk away like this.” Chief’s voice carried weight now, a low rumble in the room. “You could stay. Recover. You’re still valuable to us.”

Leader closed the drawer with a sharp push. “No. I’m not.”

“You are. If not in the field, then here. Your knowledge, your experience—”

“Knowledge makes me a liability. You know that.” Their voice cracked. “If I stay, you’ll keep me under lock and key. You’ll call it protection, but it’ll be a decorated prison. I won’t do it.”

Chief stepped closer, hand resting heavy on the back of the chair.  “I'm sorry, my friend. But you don't have a choice.”

Leader swallowed. They should have already guessed. The command was to do this by the only way they knew. Leader smiled bitterly.

"Don't look at me like that. People who have been gone that long raise questions. Coming back after being gone even more. We can't answer without drawing attention. We can't have loose ends."

"Loose ends," Leader echoed. "So I am a loose end."

"Not for me, and to some more," Chief sighed. The look that followed was complicated, though Leader had grown distant from reading people. "But to most of them, yes."

"I want out," Leader almost pleaded. "I don't want to be housed or watched. I want to leave."

"Leave where?"

"Anywhere," Leader simply said.

Chief studied them. For a long breath neither of them pretended to be other things. The agency rotated through its own rituals. It amputated and it healed on paper. People survived because someone wrote them that way.

"You know the trouble with letting you go," Chief said finally. "You are someone they will talk about. If you leave on your own, rumors will swell. Someone might try to use you. Or..."

Leader pressed their palm harder over the compass. The metal bit into their skin. "Let them talk." The words sounded like a surrender and like an accusation at the same time. They didn't know which was true. "Let someone try."

Chief stood. Their hands had a small collection of scars Leader knew by sight. "Silencing is not our style," they said. "Not usually. But you know what the options are."

Leader closed their eyes, the thought sending a chill down their spine. "No," they whispered. "Not that."

"I have another option," Chief said. Leader wanted to believe they sounded sincere. "A remote safehouse. Quiet, but under watch, naturally. To keep you safe. We will retire you on paper and the press will accept a statement about medical. You get a house, some staff, a doctor on call. Company if you want it. Distance if you do not. I will make sure no one disturbs you."

Leader frowned. "It's an exile."

Her net never came back empty. It was her blessing and the curse, for it fed her and forced her to shore. This time was no different, she wished as she slowly drew the line out. She didn’t hope, for hope never helped her out. Supporting herself from the hull, she pulled out the net fully. It fell down with a thud, louder than fish was supposed to make. Perfect, she muttered as she freed her catch. Silver bodies flailed and scattered as she let go of the net. A rusted box was waiting to be claimed. Another trinket.

Elen grabbed the box, heavier than she had expected. She set it down on top of crates and went back to tidying the net. If she wanted to get back to the closest port before sunset she had to move. She got inside the bridge, sitting. It had been a long week surrounded by endless sea and abrasive waves. She itched for an undisturbed night’s sleep. Starting the engine and grabbing the helm, Elen breathed out. Closest shore was about five hours away. She could make it without taking a nap.

And she did, sort of. She found herself dozing off on her feet or spacing out. Her only cure was dunking her head on icy cold water and trying to pry the box open with bare hands. She could simply pry the pins out with a knife or the back of a hammer, but it would be too easy. And if it had to be opened by anyone, or was thrown in the ocean to be lost with the currency, it wouldn’t be shut.

When she had first took over the boat, her biggest problem wasn’t how she was going to make the time pass. But after two years of self-inflicted solitude, she had severely underestimated it. Her life was an art of patience now, and she was not an artist. But she was stubborn, and she could handle boredom until some point. Boredom wasn’t the evil. In any day, she would take being bored as a gift. It was safe. It meant she was safe.

Perhaps she could find a bookstore at the shore. A good way to keep her mind busy and not think about anything else.

The port crept into her view slowly, putting an end to her torment. She checked the lines, untying everything and tying from scratch. She docked without a problem and checked the lines again. She threw the other end of the ropes to the deck and jumped out, tying that end and checking it twice too. Better to be safe than sorry.

The dock was old and creaky. Creaky enough for her to hear, even. It was comforting, in a sense. It let her to turn her back to the port on completely focus on tying, and still be aware of someone stepping onto the planks. She straightened immediately, turning to the noise.

A man approached, tense. His steps rushed yet hesitant. He carried himself well regardless, facing her with a smile. She returned a simple nod. She was out of luck.

“Need help with the crates?” He chirped. She could never understand how people found energy to be so annoyingly lively. “I can carry, help gutting, or mend nets-“

“I’m not hiring,” she cut. She didn’t want to deal with anyone for a single moment, let alone on a daily basis. “I can’t pay anyway.”

Which was the truth. She barely made enough to keep herself fed and the boat running. She couldn’t afford another mouth to feed. If she could, she would adopt a dog. At least it wouldn’t talk with her.

“Payment can be arranged. A passage to mainland, perhaps.”

“Do you have a death sentence on your head?” She scoffed.

“No,” he shot back, frowning. “Why would I?”

“Then my answer is still no,” She got back to the boat.

“Pretty please?”

Elen rolled her eyes. She ignored him and started unloading the fish crates, putting the box she found on top of all. She had been on this island once or twice, and the fishmonger didn’t mind ungutted fish. She was glad that she wasn’t going to spend any time simply sitting and putting her knife to a use.

With a breath, she climbed back up and lifted the tower she made with most of the crates. She kept the ship to her right, as well as the man. She sighed exaggeratedly when he picked up rest of the crates and started to follow her. She tried to keep him to her right but the stubborn man was set on walking directly behind her. Without constant waves and a man following her, she struggled to walk without thinking her steps. The crates got heavier on her arms with time, and by the time she kicked the door of the fishmonger all she wanted to do was drop the crates.

She was getting out of practice.

Gently setting down the crates in spite of her aching arms, she realised she missed the greetings of the fishmonger. She nodded just in case, closing the distance a little.

“You know I can’t pay you too much,” the fishmonger sighed, barely loud enough for her to hear. “What’s with the box?”

“Found it roughly six hours off the shore. Is it yours?” She didn’t flinch when the man put the crates down with a thud. She didn’t look back, but the fishmonger turned, then looked at Elen with a look.

“He followed me ever since I docked,” she explained.

The fishmonger sighed. “Orlando, we talked about this. Don’t harass people. Make enough money before the ferry comes to take people again.”

Like a scolded child, Orlando bowed his head.

“He’s fine. I’m happy I didn’t have to return to the boat for the other crates,” Elen felt a need to add. She didn’t want the man to be too upset just because he was stuck between two rude people. She pitied him, in a sense. This town was dying. It was hard enough to witness, she couldn’t imagine living in it. She didn’t need to add to people’s misery. But she also couldn’t just take in people. She didn’t know when she will need to step on land again. Or what may happen in boat. She didn’t mind powering through a storm, but she couldn’t take that risk if there was someone else on board.

Orlando perked up, eyeing the fishmonger with a daring smile.

“Don’t get your hopes up. I’m not paying you or taking you with me,” Elen glared at the man for a moment before turning back to fishmonger. “But I will be paid for the fish. And the box, if anyone wants it.”

“I can’t buy if I don’t know what’s inside,” Fishmonger pointed at the box.

Elen grabbed the box and set it on top of the counter, taking out her knife. She pried the pins open with the teethed side. Luckily, the first thing that greeted her was plastic stuffed inside. She pulled the plastic out gently. Good, it was a bag. And whatever inside was spared from the wet fate its box had. She cut it open and revealed papers. Photos stared back at her. She shook the bag again and a chain fell to the counter.

“Isn’t that the lighthouse keeper? She looks so young!” Orlando peeked over her shoulder, on tiptoes. “We should take these to her, it’s not like anyone would buy photos anyway. And chain looks like made from brass. Not worth much.”

“Then one of you can return it,” she shrugged.

“I’m not going to leave my shop and she doesn’t like Orlando. She’s like, well, you.”

“Wishing some peace isn’t wrong,” Elen defended a person she didn’t even know. But if one wanted people away, she understood.

“Careful now, I could get offended.” Orlando faked a pout. Elen just waved, putting the photos and the chain back to the plastic bag. She knocked the counter and the fishmonger dropped some money on it. It was a lot less than she deserved, but it was better than nothing. Orlando smiled before continuing. “I can take you to the lighthouse, It’s probably the only thing open after sunset anyway.”

“Fine,” she forced out. She didn’t want to be out more than she needed to, but she wouldn’t lose much from a quick detour. And maybe she could shake Orlando off before she got back to her boat.

Orlando bounced ahead, holding the door. She stepped out and waited for him to move. Keeping him to her right, she trailed after. She focused on putting a step ahead of the other, trying not to look at closed shops scattered around. It would make her pity him more.

“—is only open at Fridays if you want to repair your net or buy a new one. Hey, are you listening?”

“Yes,” she lied. She didn’t catch when he started to talk.

“You’re bad at lying,” he chuckled.

She stopped and waited until he looked. “I’m a ten meters tall polar bear with four heads,” she breathed out with a serious face, without a mimic moving. He stared at her, stunned.

“Okay, you’re good. I take it back. But you still lied about listening. I’m telling you what is open when, if you happen to dock here again and if the people are still here. It may be useful.”

“Orlando,” she sighed.

“Orlo. Orlando is for paperwork. Orlo is less mouthful and warmer.”

“Noted,” she said dully.

He laughed, either not catching her tone or pretending not to. “You’ll warm up to it.” He started walking again, slowing down purposefully to walk side by side with her. She tried to stay a step behind. It was only proper. Not for Orlo, apparently. But if he was stubborn, so was she.

The road curved uphill, stones slick from years of salt air and neglect. Houses leaned as if they were tired of holding themselves up. Windows stared blank and dark, some covered with boards, others left bare to the elements. The smell of brine and rotting wood thickened with each step. Elen stayed quiet. She’d learned that silence was more efficient than telling someone to stop talking. Eventually most people tired themselves out.

But not Orlo.

“There used to be a market here,” he said, pointing to a square so empty it looked abandoned for decades. “You’d smell fish stew halfway down the street. My mum used to drag me by the ear ‘cause I’d wander off. Every stall gave me a piece of bread just to keep me from stealing one.” He smiled at the memory. It was hard to tell if it was fondness or stubbornness that kept him from seeing what was gone.

By the time the lighthouse came into view, the sun was swallowed by clouds. Its stone walls stood against the sea like a last defense. The door was sturdy, though the paint peeled in strips.

Orlo knocked, humming to himself.

The woman who opened the door was smaller than Elen expected, her back bent but her eyes sharp as glass. She squinted at the two of them, then at the bundle in Elen’s hand.

“What is it?” she asked, her voice as weathered as the wood.

“Something that should’ve reached you long ago,” Elen said simply, holding out the photos and chain.

The keeper took them without a word. She moved slow but careful, like someone used to fragile things. Her thumb brushed over one of the pictures, and for a moment she forgot they were standing there. She cleared her throat.

“You’d best come in. Rain’s about to break.”

They stepped inside. The place smelled of oil and seaweed, but it was warmer than the road. The keeper lit a lamp, setting the photos on a table. “Never thought I’d see these again,” she said softly. “Mail boat went down. Thought they were lost with it.” She didn’t smile, but there was a softening in her face, like the tide pulling back. “Thank you.”

Elen only nodded.

They didn’t linger. The air outside had grown heavier, and when they started back down the path the first drops hit. By the time they reached the square, the rain had thickened into sheets. The street turned to streams, water rushing downhill toward the docks.

“Perfect,” Elen muttered.

The dock was half under, waves breaking hard against the posts. Ropes strained against the current. Her boat was holding steady, but stepping onto it now would mean a night with no sleep, fending off the tide and praying nothing snapped.

“You can’t row through that,” Orlo said, raising his voice over the downpour. “Stay at my place. Dry roof, bed, no risk of drowning.”

She hesitated.

“You’ll get no rest on the boat. Not tonight,” he pressed. “And you look like you need it.”

Her jaw tightened. He wasn’t wrong.

“Fine,” she muttered.

Orlo’s place was a small room above the tavern, walls thin enough that laughter from below crept through. He laid out a blanket on the bed like a host showing off a guest room, though it was obvious he didn’t have much else to offer.

“Make yourself at home. Not much here, but it’s dry.”

Elen sat on the edge of the bed, silent. He kept talking, filling the space with stories about the town, about ferries that came too rarely, about how one day he’d leave and see more than this stretch of sea. His voice rose and fell like waves, steady, impossible to shut out.

At some point her exhaustion won. She slumped against the wall, eyes closing before she could tell him to stop. Sleep came in fractured pieces. She woke more than once with her heart racing, convinced she’d felt the tilt of her ship or heard the snap of a rope. But there was only the room, the storm outside, and Orlo snoring softly on the floor.

When morning light crept in, she found him sprawled out, breathing easy, as if nothing in the world could trouble him. She sat up, rubbing her eyes.

“You plan to sleep like that once you’re on board?” she asked, voice rough from unuse.

Voices scraped along the edges of awareness. Cold and sharp, hurting their ears. They remembered...

The team. The team was close. No. Leader couldn't—

“Too unstable. Even with the overrides, it's decaying.”

“We’ve invested too much. We either salvage or start over from scratch.”

“You say that as if there’s anything left to salvage.”

“It's still capable. And I can't extract experience as data. We have to try.”

The shadows loomed closer. The voice above grew muffled.  Leader was malfunctioning. They could barely make out the shape of the shadows, masks big enough to hide features. But Leader couldn't care. The team had been on the mission with them.

But Leader had sent them away. Yes. Leader did. Their team was safe. Their purpose was done.

More voices came.

"Vitals dropping. What's wrong?"

"We can't put them into circulation tank. They're too disfigured."

"We just need to keep them breathing."

“This one was  never meant to heal, only to endure. Hardware is faulty, but we need it functioning again, or we won't have the other subjects' obedience.”

-•-

Leader gasped.

The ceiling above them wasn’t surgical white . It was warped wooden beams, too close together. The weight on their chest wasn’t panic. It was their own body. Too heavy. Too stiff. Everything pulsed. No. Everything throbbed. Their head hurt, a dull pain behind their eyes, and when they tried to move, the aches blinded them.

For a moment, they didn’t remember where they were.

They remembered rain, rain and Right Hand's voice. Something heavy and warm around their shoulders.

They would flinch when they heard movement if their body wasn't so heavy. Then they heard again. A chair was being scraped back. There was someone else.

Leader blinked until their eyes burned.

Youngest.

Sitting cross-legged on the chair with a half-empty plate in their lap, Youngest was flipping through a paperback, absently chewing on a biscuit as if nothing in the world was wrong.

It took too long for Leader to place the wrongness.

Youngest was always the loudest to worry. The first to cry. The one who held Leader’s sleeve after every mission like a lifeline. Because they grew up with many layers of protection between them and the facility. They were almost untouched if modifications before decantinf didn't count.This uncharacteristic stillness was just so loud that Leader could hear it ringing. Youngest was supposed to be on their side, asking what happened with teary eyes like every time someone from the team got hurt.

Leader swallowed. It scraped down like glass.

"...Youngest?" they croaked. Their voice barely passed their own lips. They tried again, louder. “Youngest.”

The younger soldier didn’t look up immediately. Just flipped a page.

“I was wondering when you’d wake,” they said eventually, tone flat.

Leader blinked, trying to shake the haze from their eyes. Why was Youngest so cold? “Where’s… Right Hand?”

“Sleeping. Unlike some people, they rest when they should.”

Leader tried to sit up, but the pain flared fast. Their arms trembled under their weight. The room tilted. They felt too warm and too weak, slumping to the couch as they tried to keep their eyes open. They managed to stit up barely, half propped up. They rubbed their forehead. “You’re angry,” they said, more to themselves.

Youngest’s eyes met with theirs, cold. “What gave it away?”

“I thought... Right Hand must’ve explained,” Leader rasped. “About the booster. The pain. Why I—why I collapsed. I... don't understand.”

“They did,” Youngest said, snapping the book shut. “But I’m not mad about that.”

Leader was confused. They reached to pressure their head, their headache getting worse. This all felt just wrong, but they didn't understand what the problem was. Their thoughts were slipping sideways. “Then…?” 

“You left us.”

What?

Youngest leaned forward, brows furrowing. “You ran, Leader. You were gone. Do you even remember that?”

“I didn’t—”

“Do you?” Youngest pressed, jaw clenched.

“I was… discharged. I got on the bus.” Leader's voice faltered. “I remember the seat. I remember... being there. But I—”

They paused. Their hand clenched the blanket. They were swaying, they realised. They couldn't  have done that. Because they remembered... they didn't remember.

No order. No packing. No goodbyes.

Just the bus and after it.

“I don’t…” Leader croaked.

Youngest’s expression twisted. Bitterness lined every word. “We thought something happened, Leader. You left and we waited and waited. No comms. Not a word. Nothing. Right Hand was ready to search the whole continent.”

Leader swayed again, eyes blinking too slow. Their stomach twisted. They couldn't have done that. It must have been a mistake.

But Leader didn't remember.

“I wouldn’t have left. I wouldn’t— I didn’t— I wouldn’t—” The words stumbled , falling out without their permission. They couldn't breathe. “I didn’t leave. I didn’t… I wouldn’t…”

Youngest stepped back, their face closing off.

Right Hand’s voice broke through their ringing ears. “Enough.”

Leader barely registered them stepping in. The sound of boots, the door creaking. But suddenly, Youngest was being pulled aside, and Right Hand was crouched beside the bed, fingers pressed to Leader’s wrist, counting the pulse.

“Interrogating them right now? Really?” Right Hand snapped, glaring at Youngest. “They barely woke up.”

“I just wanted to know why, Right Hand—”

“And you can ask later.”

Leader’s lips moved. They needed Right Handto knoe too. But they couldn't breathe. They clung to Right Hand keeping them up and tried.

“Didn’t leave. Didn’t leave. I wouldn’t. Not the team. Not—”

“Shh,” Right Hand whispered, cupping the side of their face. “I know.”

“I… don’t remember. I can’t—” Leader’s voice cracked. “I’d never leave. I wouldn't…”

“You didn’t,” Right Hand repeated. Firmer. Slower. “Something happened. That’s all. We’ll figure it out.”

Leader blinked rapidly, eyes unfocused. Their body trembled. Cold sweats did nothing to help them butning inside out.

“We’ll figure it out,” Right Hand said again, gentler this time. “But not now. I need tou to breathe. You can't break on me. Leader, we need you intact.”

Leader nodded, even if only not to worry Right Hand more. They were slowly set back down to the couch, Rigt Hand's cold hand pressed against thir cheek. Leader glanced Youngest just behind Rught Hand, face conflicted.

"They really didn?"

"How can you even think that? Right Hand almost snapped. "They did everything for us. I suggest you think. Not everyone is out to get you. Not your team, at least."

Youngest bowed their head.

"S okay," Leader breathed out. They just had to focus on breathing. They would mend. Whatever had happened.

"No," Right Hand scoffed. "It's not. But I know you hate arguing so I'll drop it. Youngest, please bring a cold compress."

With that, Youngest disappeared from the view.

"Close your eyes back."

Leader didn't argue. And it didn't take long for them to fall back asleep, only to be waken up with thunder. They lifted up their head to look, only to meet with Youngest curled up in their arms. They turned to the opposite way, and Right Hand was there, hugging them from behind. The fireplace was snuffed out, wind coming through the chimney making a mess with the ashes.

Right Hand stirred behind them. "Leader?" They murmured sleepily.

"Why are we all on the floor?" Leader asked, sinking as the arms wrapped around them tightened.

"You were too warm, and room too cold because we didn't want to risk carbon monoxide  poisoning."

"Mmm."

Anyway, it seemed to work. Leader wasn't feeling too warm anymore.

Leader closed their eyes back again, but a beeping sound didn't let them sleep. Right Hand got up with curses, coming back with a small rectangle device. It had a small screen with text passing, but Leader couldn't read it from their place.

"What is it?" Leader asked.

“Trail on Medic," Right Hand answered quietly.

Leader’s breath caught. "They'll have us on it, right?"

Right Hand slid back into the covers and  smoothed the blanket down. “They're going to send a boat to pick us up. Though I doubt they'll get here before a week..”

“A week,” Leader yawned.

Right Hand nodded. “So sleep. We’ll be ready by then.”