#covert operation

The road back is darker.

Not because the countryside changed — the same skeletal trees line the highways, the same distant farm lights blink in patient isolation — but because the work is done. There is no more forward motion to hide inside.

Olly drives.

The van they borrowed from Anrir feels larger now that it is empty. Lighter. The absence in the back is almost as tangible as the weight had been. No labored breathing. No restrained shift of ceramite against steel. No reminder of what they were transporting.

Headlights carve clean tunnels through the rural dark.

Turn signal.

Brake.

Check the mirror.

Merge.

Perfect adherence.

His movements are precise, economical. The wheel turns exactly as much as needed. Speed never strays above limit. Every intersection is approached with mechanical patience. In the passenger seat, Nanael watches the road without truly seeing it.

The countryside hums past. Engine vibration travels through reinforced plating and into bone. For several miles, neither speaks. Finally Nanael moves a bit. He looks at Olly for a moment before looking back out the window.

“I meant to kill him,” Nanael says quietly.

Not a question. Olly’s hands do not tighten on the wheel. His posture does not shift. “Yes.”

The word is level. Unjudging. Another stretch of road hums beneath them. Wind brushes against the van’s frame. A truck passes in the opposite direction, headlights flaring briefly through the cab before vanishing. There is silence again.

“And you stopped me,” Nanael states.

“Yes.” Olly agrees, voice calm and level, as he wonders where Nanael is going with this.

A pause. A moment where neither of them speak as the van rumbles as they continue to move in a thoughtful silence.

“I do not regret that restraint,” Nanael continues. “But I wanted it.”

There is no shame in his voice. Only clarity. No defensiveness. No apology. Just the truth. Olly signals, changes lanes, returns. The indicator clicks in a steady rhythm before falling silent again. He considers his next words with the same care he uses to approach an intersection.

“That is why I answered,” he says at last. “Not because you required permission. Because you required acknowledgement.”

Nanael turns that over in his mind. His gaze drifts to Olly’s profile. “You believed I needed sanction.”

“Yes.” Olly responds, not quite sure where this is going. The wind shifts. A faint tremor moves through the vehicle as they cross uneven asphalt.

Nanael breathes in slowly. “I did.”

The admission is soft. Again, silence fills the air- Olly hadn’t once turned on the radio to listen to- worried about the additional noise distracting him while on such a delicate juncture of the mission.

After a moment, he asks, “Do you regret it?”

Olly knows which part he means. The hand at Faroh’s throat. The pulse under his fingers. The crate. Felix’s smile.

“…No,” he answers.

The word comes without hesitation. Then, after a measured breath: “I regret the necessity.”

The distinction matters. Nanael exhales faintly — not quite agreement, not quite relief. Something steadier than either.

“He will not surface again,” Nanael says.

Olly’s eyes remain forward. “He must not.”

There is something under that. A seam pulled tight. A tension not fully eased by distance.

Nanael studies him for a long moment. “You fear what he knows.”

“Yes.” Olly’s hands squeeze the wheel for a brief, unguarded second before he consciously loosens them. Breath in. Breath out. Of all of them, he remembers the most. The fractured pieces. The gaps. The blacked-out corridors of memory. And the things Faroh could have named.

“It could change much,” Olly says quietly. “And invite worse.”

“And what he might say,” Nanael adds softly.

Olly’s jaw shifts almost imperceptibly. “Yes.”

He does not say Lullaby’s name. He does not say Primaris. He does not say the missing memories. The engineered alterations. The truths that could fracture trust or provoke fear. He does not say Hura. But the silence fills with all of it. Nanael nods once.

“Then we have done what was required.”

Olly does not answer. He drives. The safe location is quiet when they arrive. Not silent — never silent. There is always the hum of internal systems, distant pipes ticking as temperature shifts, the low breath of airflow through vents.

But quiet in the way that suggests waiting. Olly cuts the engine. For half a second, he remains seated, hands still resting against the wheel. Then he opens the door. Gravel crunches underfoot. Nanael steps out behind him.

Inside, they find them exactly where they were left. Jophiel is on his feet before the door has fully shut behind Olly. Jophiel does not pace now. He stands still. Coiled. Wings partially unfurled as though he never truly allowed himself to relax.

Lullaby is beside him, one hand caught loosely in the fabric at his sleeve. Their eyes go first to Olly’s hands. Empty. Then to his face. Searching. Nanael steps in fully, helm retracting with a soft mechanical sigh that breaks the tension like a snapped thread.

“Mission success,” he says simply.

The room exhales. Not explosively. Just enough. Jophiel releases a breath that almost becomes a laugh and then doesn’t. His wings twitch once, feathers rippling in an unconscious adjustment.

“Is it done?” he asks.

“It is contained,” Olly answers.

That word again. Contained. Lullaby watches him more closely than the others. They see it. The slight tightness around his eyes. The way his posture is just a fraction too straight. The composure that has been pulled tight like a freshly sutured seam.

They do not call it out.

“Well?” Lullaby prompts lightly. “Did our resident bat behave?”

Nanael’s mouth curves faintly. “Khopesh sends his affection.” 

Lullaby brightens immediately. “He better.”

“He also requests that Jophiel refrain from plucking himself bald in distress.” Olly adds teasingly.

Jophiel stiffens. “I did not—”

“You were contemplating it,” Lullaby says dryly.

“I was not,” Jophiel insists, wings flaring slightly in offended dignity.

Nanael inclines his head solemnly. “We will ensure your feathers remain intact.”

That earns a soft huff from Olly is brief, genuine. Lullaby’s gaze flicks to him immediately.

“There it is,” they murmur.

Olly blinks. “What is what?”

“That one-sided smirk you do when you’re pretending everything is fine.” 

He stills. For a heartbeat too long. Then he steps closer, resting a hand lightly against the side of Lullaby’s head. Not possessive. Not restraining. Grounding. He cares for them- so much. They are good friends with him- and others. They are someone he wants to keep safe. To watch as they grow stronger and more sure of themself.

“It is resolved,” he says quietly.

They search his eyes. “You’re sure?”

A pause. He could lie. He doesn’t like to lie. Lies require maintenance. They fracture under pressure. They harm the wrong people when they finally break. “It is as resolved as it can be.”

Not perfect. Not clean. But done. Jophiel steps closer, folding one wing partially around both of them. Not enclosing. Just be present. Warm.

“We are safe?” he asks.

Olly meets his gaze. “Yes.”

That answer is absolute. Lullaby exhales slowly, shoulders easing for the first time since the door opened.

“So… what, did you dump him in a cornfield? Or is this more of a ‘swamp with no dental records’ situation?”

Nanael looks faintly offended. “I found it efficient.”

“That is not remotely reassuring.” Jophiel looked a little horrified. The amount of evidence and sheer waste to do that was appalling.

Olly, dry and immediate,  “We do not utilize swamps in that manner.”

Jophiel makes a strangled noise of disbelief. Olly’s hand remains steady against Lullaby’s temple. Efficient. Necessary. Contained. He does not think about the crate. He does not think about Felix’s smile. He does not think about what might be happening now in some distant, lightless place. 

Instead, he focuses on this room. On wings not plucked. On breathing that is steady. On hands that are warm. No one was taken tonight. For now— That is enough. Jophiel lowers his wing slowly, feathers settling with a soft whisper of displaced air.

“I do not wish to know what efficient entails,” he says carefully.

Nanael considers that. “That is wise.”

Lullaby squints at him. “That was not comforting.”

“It was not meant to be.” Nanael and Olly respond almost in unison

Olly’s thumb shifts slightly where his hand rests against Lullaby’s temple. A grounding motion. Small. Unconscious.

“It is contained,” he repeats, quieter this time. Not for them. For himself.

Jophiel studies him.

“You would tell us,” Jophiel says softly. Not a demand. A statement of trust. “If it were otherwise.”

“Yes.” Olly responds honestly. That answer comes without hesitation.

Because if the threat still existed — if there were even a fraction of a chance Faroh could resurface — Olly would already be moving. Lullaby watches the micro-tightening in his jaw. The way he holds himself just a touch too rigid. They don’t press.

“Well,” they say, with forced casualness that isn’t entirely forced, “next time we’re threatened by a morally compromised super-soldier with blackmail issues, can we at least pick a less dramatic drop-off location? Cornfields are cliché.”

“We did not utilize a cornfield,” Olly replies automatically.

“That is not the point.” Lullaby responds, a half smile on their face.

Nanael’s mouth curves faintly again. “It was structurally reinforced.”

Jophiel closes his eyes briefly. “That is somehow worse.”

A quiet beat passes. The room hums softly — ventilation, distant infrastructure, life continuing in its ordinary rhythm. Olly becomes aware of something then. Silence without tension. No pacing. No frantic scanning. No shallow breathing.Jophiel’s wings are relaxed. Lullaby’s pulse is steady. Nanael’s posture is no longer coiled to strike. He releases a breath he had not consciously acknowledged holding. No one was taken tonight. The truth sits there. Heavy. Earned. Jophiel steps forward fully now, folding both wings just enough to encompass the group in a loose crescent of warmth.

“Come,” he says gently. “We will sit. We will breathe. And then perhaps we will never speak of swamps again.”

“I maintain it was hypothetical,” Lullaby mutters.

“It was not,” Nanael answers.

Olly exhales through his nose — a sound that is almost, almost a laugh. He does not think about the crate. He does not think about the countryside. He does not think about the faint crack beneath his composure.

He thinks about this:

Hands warm beneath him.

Feathers intact.

Voices steady.