#aitcm2026

A hand roughly grabbed his hair, forcing him to look up into his eyes, cold and empty with that lovesick smile on his face. That face he'd once admired, counted every freckle as the morning sun illuminated the bedroom, loved the dimples in his cheeks when he smiled. Wishing so dearly that he could see it all the time, those moments of affection, almost seeming genuine-

A sharp sting across his cheek disrupted his thoughts. "Some fucking acknowledgement would be nice. What, am I not worth your attention?" Lukas' face now was twisted, lips curled into a sneer, staring down at him with something akin to hatred. Kieran blinked, a pitiful whine escaping his throat. He couldn't do much else. But it was enough. Lukas' gaze softened. "You are beautiful like this," he murmured, trailing his thumb down Kieran's face where tear tracks used to be. "We need to find something that makes you cry again. Then you'd be perfect." His fingers traced his jawline, deceptively gentle, almost tender in their touch. But when Kieran averted his eyes, shame crawling up his flesh their grip tightened, not by much but enough, a warning. Kieran looked back, and the monster smiled once more. Ran his touch across the ball gag like it was a marvel, and Kieran didn't need to know Lukas to know what he was thinking.

"Are you tired of it, angel?" Lukas murmured, in that voice that always struck fear into his heart. "I think it's been long enough. Clean up and come upstairs; I've prepared something nice for you."

It should have been a relief when the gag was removed, but the pain flared stronger as Kieran worked his stiff jaw, wincing as the rope scratched his raw wrists before it fell to the floor. The flimsy plastic cup of water had been sitting on the stand for a couple of days but Kieran drank it greedily, and it tasted of dust and the damp in the warm air, and in that moment he didn't care. He didn't care often these days.

"Twenty minutes," Lukas said from where he stood on the stairs. "While I finish up. Don't be late."

Fuck you, Kieran wanted to say. Fuck you and fuck your stupid fantasy and your stupid act and your fucking face and-

He bowed his head, trembling all over. Carefully placed the empty cup back on the stand, clenched his fists tightly at his sides. Breathed in. Breathed out. Don't do anything stupid. He can always make it worse.

That was motivation enough. He had no survive this, no matter what.

When he came to, he found his wrists tied behind the chair he sat on, and the bright beam of a desk lamp in his face. One minute, he had been huddling in front of the TV in the dark, the next, he was here. What happened in the time that had lapsed in between? His memory was failing him again, ever since that night they had—

From his peripheral view, he noticed a flicker of a shadow, but couldn’t make out the details due to the harsh glare of the light. However, it didn’t take long for him to connect the dots. There was only one reason for him to have an uninvited guest in this stage of his life. He swallowed nervously, but remained resolute. 

“You don’t have to hide,” he began. “I’ve been expectin’ you. I know what’s comin’ for me, lil’ miss.”

“Officer Calhoun… Long time no see.”

Wynter came into focus before him, her tone even and cold. His eyes adjusted to her features, hardly changed since the last time he’d seen her. She’d cut her hair short, and had a jaded grittiness to her that he wondered what she’d been through over the past decades. Yet her icy gaze was the same one she’d given him the night he’d pulled over by her uncle’s car, now coupled with a whetted knife in her hand. 

In turn, she scrutinized his wizened appearance, and the scraggly white strands hanging limply from the crown of his head. He had a sickly pallor, and his skin was mottled with liver spots and deep wrinkles. In him, she recognized a body that was rapidly deteriorating, even more so than a man of his age.

“Jus’ call me Bernard.” There was a tremor in his voice as he spoke. It was hoarse and raspy, as if his throat had been scratched. “Have you been to the house?”

There was an ugly laugh. “This ain’t a courtesy visit. The minute I got into this goddamn town, I could tell you were involved. Your traces are everywhere.”

“Look, I know it’s hard, but you really should head up there.”

The cool bevel of the blade was pressed flat against his neck. He could feel its edge nicking his papery skin, and the trickle of sanguine adding another blot to his grimy undershirt. “You’re gonna make me bleed, ain’t ya, girlie?”

“I’m gonna make you talk,” she countered, her expression hardening as she brought her face close to his level. “And I know plenty of ways to do so.”

“You’re a lot like him, ya know that? The perfect imprint of a coin.” Wynter watched as the man dropped his head and sighed. There was a weariness to him, as if resigned to his fate. “An’ stubborn. So goddamn stubborn,” he added, emphasizing each syllable.

“Now, I dunno what you lot truly are, but I have my guesses. There were men, all mafia-like, comin’ into the picture. I warned him, your uncle, but he said he had it under control. Then, these fellas… They made me work for them, to keep an eye on your family. I dunno how. Jus’ felt like I had to, like my whole life depended on it. An’ there are things I keep forgettin’. Black holes in my memory. Gone. Whoosh.” Bernard coughed and wheezed, his chest heaving, exhausted by his retelling.

Lowering the knife, Wynter stared at him intensely, trying to get a read on his intentions, to find any hint of insincerity, but he had nothing to hide. Mafia-like. The word echoed in her ears. That could only mean one thing: An inside job. Her Family. The Giovanni.

After catching his breath, Bernard continued, “That night, they dragged him kickin’ and screamin’ into the back of a trunk. I jus’ remember your name being thrown around an’ he went batshit crazy. Completely lost his mind, before they took him. The next thing I knew, I was standin’ outside the Chartres Mansion lit up in flames.”

“My parents…” Wynter trailed off as the image of three body bags flashed across her eyes. 

Three. But Bernard mentioned that Lucien hadn’t died there. So, who was the third? His broken apologies snapped her out of her reverie.

“I’m so sorry, girlie, I really am. I—”

“It was you, wasn’t it?” she hissed, pointing the knife at him. “You started the goddamn fire!”

At this, tears breached past his waterline, falling softly into his lap. “I think so. If only I could— I dunno how—” he faltered, unable to finish his sentence.

“Why did they leave you behind? You’re nothing but a loose end. Why didn’t they kill you instead?” she shot in rapid spitfire.

He shook his head in confusion. “I dunno, maybe they didn’t care no more. Maybe they left me as a message for you. Or this is jus’ my punishment, ’cause they figured you’d finish the job. I’ve racked my brains over it, and it still baffles me.”

As Wynter looked on at the frail and haggard shell of a man that Bernard had become, she both pitied and hated him. He was no saint, but she knew what it was like to be in the wrong place at the wrong time, and to pick up the pieces without ever understanding what you had turned into. This was no way to live.

“Wynter, please, tell me why am I like this?” he pleaded, lost as a lamb.

When she didn’t respond, he chuckled sardonically at his rotten luck. “Don’t matter, I know I hafta go. I’ve made my peace with it. ’Bout time, to be honest. Jus’ if I may… please, make it quick.”

Did he deserve that? she pondered. Cutting the rope that bound him, she brought over a glass of what appeared unsuspectingly like water. It had been laced with fentanyl, his imminent death made to look like a suicidal overdose. Bernard took it unwaveringly from her into his hands.

“Their blood did this to you,” she offered, and at the same time, internally questioned what possessed her to say it. “They must’ve forced you to drink it at some point, and had the power to make you forget. It changes you, both when you receive it, and when it leaves.”

Bernard nodded somberly, letting the realization sink in. Then, he spoke. “Even after you skipped town, your uncle always talked about how proud he was of you. At every opportunity. He loved you, Wynter, I’m sure you know that. He loved you, and only you.”

There was a twitch in her jaw. Her eyes burned. She was choking and drowning against the weight of it all. Yet she remained silent, observing him like a hawk.

“An’ I meant what I said earlier. Go back to the house if you can. Maybe you’ll find what you’re lookin’ for there.” 

Without further ado, Bernard raised his glass and toasted, “Bottoms up!”

Giving Wynter a wry smile, he downed its contents in one gulp. 

And darkness claimed him.

Now that he’s put some distance in between himself and the cause for such a gash, Alan takes the time to lean himself against the wall and rest for a bit. Is this a bad idea? Probably, since he’ll be losing his momentum, but he can’t afford to keep running around with a bleeding wound either.

And bleed it has, Alan’s suit now sporting a secondary shade of red that isn’t his baldric. He sucks in a breath at the sight. Alan isn’t squeamish, no, being in this line of work doesn’t afford for such a thing. However, most of, if not all the injuries he attends to are those of strangers, and never for long. Emergency responders are usually there to take those in need of medical attention once he’s brought them to safety, and his brothers never let him tend to their own injuries.

But it’s different when he’s the one who is hurt, feeling the way his hand becomes slick and shiny with his own blood, feels the wetness of his gloves against the raw edges of his injury as he presses down to maintain pressure against it. He rolls his head back as a shuddering breath of pain escapes him, followed by a scrunching of his face.

It doesn’t feel good, duh, but even more than that, it’s uncomfortable. Foreign. It reminds him that no matter how much he insists to his brothers that he can take on missions, no matter how many incredible feats he achieves for someone his age, he’s still fragile. A fragile person made of soft skin and flesh.

Okay, wow. Really slipping into dangerous mental territory now. He doesn’t have the energy to reprimand himself for it, though, especially when he knows part of the reason he’s thinking this way is because of the pain making him slightly delirious. Delirious and strangely introspective, he guesses. Oh no, is he dying? Don’t people get all introspective and philosophical when they die slow deaths?

Scott is seriously going to kill him.

A loud bang followed by various other noises echoing through the abandoned halls of the moon base has Alan jolting in place, pushing off of the wall he was slipping down. Right, evil space pirates chasing him. He should get a move on.

Except he barely makes it to the end of the hall when he hears a door slide opened, followed by a voice.

“Alan?”

He freezes. For a moment, he worries his probably slowly dying brain is playing tricks on him, that the sound of John calling his name is nothing more than a hallucination. However, a slow turn reveals to him no such thing.

John’s here. He’s here, the orange of his uniform interrupted by the yellow of his repaired and improved Exosuit. The others’ face tightens at the sight of Alan’s midsection, his bright aquamarine eyes flashing with worry.

Alan doesn’t care about any of that, though. How can he when, all of a sudden, he feels an immense weight come off of his shoulders? Without warning, a small sob escapes him.

“John!...”

He does his best to run to the other. It’s not a very good attempt, about as much as a hobble as his walking has been, but thankfully John is there to meet him halfway. The other throws his arms around Alan the second he’s close enough, to which Alan does the same. However, unlike John, he does not loosen his hold when John begins moving him to lay down on the floor.

“Alan, you’re hurt, lay down and don’t–”

“H-How’d you find me?” He asks, unable to keep the waver out of his voice.

John’s frown is light in return, silent for only a second as he debates answering.

“You weren’t exactly hard to track,” John answers quietly, glancing to the ground. Alan’s eyes follow his gaze.

Oh, huh. Yeah, he supposes it’d be pretty hard to miss the path of red droplets he’s been leaving behind.

“Heh… Heheh…”

Alan chuckles at the absurdity of it all. Of leaving behind a breadcrumb trail of his own blood for his rescuer to follow, of having encountered good space pirates before bad ones in his lifetime, of being here on the moon.