#duo maxwell

~*~

Mark Bronson’s mansion rose like a monument to excess at the edge of the Dome District, designed like a sprawling French-chateau estate of pale stone and dark slate roofs, every window glowing warm, golden light. Ornate balconies curled outward like decorative crowns, and the wrought-iron gates stood open just enough to suggest invitation without ever offering comfort.

A circular cobblestone drive swept toward the entrance, centered around a marble foundation whose water caught the morning light in shimmering arcs. Manicured gardens framed the path, trimmed with the kind of precision only wealth could maintain. Lanterns perched atop stone pillars cast soft halos across the courtyard, illuminating the sleek black luxury car parked near the front steps.

The mansion’s facade was stately and imposing, designed not merely to impress, but to remind visitors of Bronson’s power. Even at dawn, the structure seemed to glow from within, a warm and opulent contrast to the sky waking above.

Bronson stood before the windows, hands clasped behind his back, posture straight and regal. The sunlight sharpened the angles of his face, turning his smile into something colder, something carved. There was no warmth in it. Only the steady, patient, and hungry ambition.

It had been three days since Edgar Valmonde’s death.

Three days of chaos.

Three days of political tremors.

Three days of watching the Federation scramble while he remained untouched.

He always did like the mornings.

They made the city look clean.

Predictable.

His.

The soft click of the office door opening made his blue eyes narrow. He didn’t turn immediately; he let the sound settle, let the tension build. Finally, he glanced over his shoulder.

His lieutenant stood in the doorway, hand still on the handle, posture stiff before snapping into a salute.

“Sir,” he said, voice steady. “I bring an update.”

Bronson turned fully now, the sunlight catching in his eyes like a glint of steel.

”It has been confirmed that Mr. Vassal, Mr. Kestrel, and Mr. Valmonde have all been murdered. Mr. Vassal and Mr. Kestrel’s deaths appear to be confirmed murders by a group known as Lazarus. Currently, Preventer is investigating all three murders.”

The lieutenant hesitated, then added, “Sir… with the investigation expanding, the funds for your project may draw attention. We may need to reconsider the timeline.”

Bronson scoffed, a sharp and humorless sound.

He stepped away from the window and crossed to the bar cart beside his desk. Crystal decanters gleamed in the morning light. He selected one filled with Louis XIII cognac, the kind of drink only men who believed they were untouchable ever poured before noon.

He filled a glass, the amber liquid catching the sun, then lifted it with a casual elegance that made the lieutenant’s worry look small.

”Minor inconveniences,” Bronson said, swirling the cognac. “That’s all their deaths are.”

The lieutenant swallowed. “Sir, Preventer—“

”Preventer,” Bronson cut him off, amused. “Let them chase their ghosts. Let them panic over a few minor political murders. Let them waste their time and energy on this ‘Lazarus.’”

He took a slow sip, savoring it.

”Our plans,” Bronson said, voice smooth and absolute, “will continue exactly as scheduled.”

The lieutenant straightened, tension still in his shoulders but obedience in his posture. “Yes, sir.”

“Before you go…” Bronson lifted the glass, watching the cognac catch the morning light. His reflection stared back at him. And for a moment, his mind drifted.

He remembered that afternoon in his office.

Elizabeth standing before him in her tight velvet dress that easily lifted past modest limits.

Her voice, her breath, the way she trembled against him.

The taste of her skin and the softness of her lips.

The memory wasn’t warm… it was possessive.

A reminder of what he believed he had earned.

What he believed he could reclaim.

His smile deepened, cold and certain.

He turned back to the lieutenant. “Inform the housekeeper,” Bronson said, tone shifting into command. “The East Wing needs to be prepared.”

The man in the doorway blinked. “Prepared, sir?”

Bronson’s smile deepened.

”The living quarters must be brought up to aristocratic standards. I expect perfection.”

The lieutenant tensed, shifting uneasily at the request as it wasn’t his place. But he bowed his head and again said, “Yes, sir.”

Bronson turned back to the window, watching the Dome District blaze with the morning light. He was already imagining Elizabeth walking those halls beside him again, as if the past were something he could simply rebuild.

“Elizabeth,” he murmured to himself, savoring the name like a promise. “You were always destined to stand at my side. Some things were never yours to choose.”

~*~

Morning light filtered through the blinds of the white hospital room, cutting soft stripes across the floor and the sheets. The monitors beside the bed beeped in a steady rhythm, calm and indifferent. The room was large, accommodating, the kind reserved for high-priority personnel. Even so, it felt too quiet.

In the center of the room lay Duo, his braid disheveled, his chest rising and falling in a slow, steady pattern. He had been unconscious since the night Valmonde’s security found him collapsed in the hallway. Three days lost to a chemical cocktail still working its way out of his system.

Hilde sat beside him, tablet in hand, her tired cornflower-blue eyes shifting from word to word as she read. She barely slept. The faint shadows beneath her eyes made her look older, worn thin by worry and the constant stream of updates from the Federation and Preventer alike.

Every few minutes, she glanced at Duo’s face, searching for any sign of movement. Any twitch of recognition. Any hint that he might wake.

But the room remained still. Only the monitors spoke. Only the morning light moved.

And Hilde kept herself preoccupied with reading, because it was the only thing she could do to keep herself from breaking.

Then… a sound.

A low groan, rough and strained.

Hilde’s head snapped up.

Duo’s brow tightened, his eyelids fluttering before cracking open just a sliver. The light hit him like a blade. His eyes slammed shut again, breath hitching as pain throbbed behind his temples. His hand lifted shakily, pressing against his forehead as if he could hold the ache in place.

Another pulse of pain radiated down the right side of his neck. He grimaced, confused, unaware of the injection site.

His stirring broke the stillness.

Hilde’s tablet was forgotten instantly. She pushed up from her chair, moving to his side with a speed born of fear and relief tangled together.

“Hey—“ she breathed, reaching out to gently pull his hand away from his head. “Take it easy…”

Her voice trembled, but her touch was steady.

”You’ve been asleep for a few days.”

Duo’s breathing hitched again. He forced his eyes open, blinking against the brightness until Hilde leaned forward and shielded some of the light with her body.

”H…Hilde…?” His voice rasped, barely audible.

”I’m right here,” she said, brushing his bangs away from his face with a tenderness she didn’t bother hiding. “Just breathe. Don’t push yourself.”

He swallowed, throat dry, wincing at the soreness in his neck again. “What… happened…?”

Hilde hesitated, just for a heartbeat, before her expression softened into something protective.

“We’ll talk about that,” she murmured. “But not yet. You need to wake up first.”

She squeezed his hand, grounding him.

And Duo, still fighting the fog in his mind, clung to the sound of her voice like it was the only steady thing in the room. Hilde stayed close, her hand wrapped around his, her thumb brushing lightly over his knuckles as Duo tried to steady his breathing. His eyelids fluttered again, slower this time, as if he were testing the world in increments.

“Ugh…” he muttered, voice rough and slurred. “I feel like… someone took a bat to my head…”

Hilde took in a deep breath before exhaling slowly. Her eyes softened, but her mouth pressed into a thin line.

“Yeah,” she murmured. “That’s what happens when you let someone drug you, genius.”

Duo blinked up at her, still dazed.

“Drug… me?” His brow creased, confusion tightening his features. “What? … I was… drugged?”

He tried to sit up, instinct kicking in, but pain shot down his neck and he collapsed back against the pillow with a hiss.

Hilde’s hand was on his chest instantly, firm but gentle. “Hey. Stop. Don’t do that.”

He swallowed hard, throat dry, his free hand drifting shakily back to his forehead as if he could press the pain into stillness.

“I don’t— I don’t remember that,” he whispered, voice cracking.

“Just relax,” Hilde said softly, leaning closer so her shadow shielded the harsh morning light. “The doctors have been trying to piece together what you were given. You really don’t remember anything?”

Duo’s eyes drifted, unfocused, searching the ceiling as if the memory might be written there.

“No… last thing I remember is…” He paused, wincing as the headache pulsed again. “Valmonde telling me to… ‘stay’ in my seat. While he went to go… get something… upstairs? I think. It’s… really fuzzy.”

His breathing hitched again, frustration bleeding through the fog.

”I don’t… I don’t like not remembering,” he murmured, voice small in a way Hilde hadn’t heard in a long time. The words trembled out of him, thin and frightened, and something in her chest tightened at the sound.

For a moment, she thought she was only remembering Lanigreene, the wary little boy who never believed he mattered to anyone. But the memory that hit her wasn’t gentle or distant or softened by time.

It struck like a blow.

A sun‑bleached yard.

Dust kicking up around a motorcycle’s tires.

Maxwell swinging his leg over the seat, jaw tight, eyes already turned away.

And Duo, tiny and sharp‑eyed, standing beside him with that stubborn, desperate hope.

“You my old man?”

“Hell no!”

The words cracked through her like they were happening again. She saw herself inside the orphanage, standing just behind the cracked door, watching the scene unfold outside. Duo was so small then, sharp‑eyed and tense, staring up at Maxwell with that fragile, stubborn hope. Maxwell swung a leg over the motorcycle, already half turned away, and when Duo asked if he was his father’s, Maxwell’s voice cut through the yard with brutal finality.

She remembered the way Duo Jr had flinched, his face shuttering as he swallowed hard and pretended it didn’t hurt. She remembered gripping the edge of the door, frozen and unable to breathe, unable to understand why the moment felt like it was tearing something out of her.

The memory surged up, jagged and unwelcome.

Hilde inhaled sharply.

And shoved it down.

Hard.

She squeezed Duo’s hand gently, pulling herself back into the hospital room, back into the present, back into the boy lying in front of her — the boy she’d raised, protected, scolded, loved without ever knowing why it felt so fierce.

“I know,” she whispered, leaning closer so her voice stayed steady for him. “But you’re safe. You’re still here. And I’m not going anywhere.”

His fingers curled around hers, barely, but enough.

Hilde opened her mouth to say something more, to steady Duo before his breathing slipped into panic again, when the door to the room slid open with a soft hiss.

She turned.

Maxwell stepped inside, shoulders heavy with three days of exhaustion. He carried two protein shake bottles in one hand, the plastic tapping together as he walked. His hair was disheveled, strands falling around his face, and the violet‑blue of his eyes looked darker than usual, shadowed by sleepless nights.

He didn’t see Duo at first.

He didn’t expect to.

He closed the door quietly, gaze still lowered, already lifting one of the bottles toward Hilde in a small, automatic gesture he had repeated every morning since Duo was found knocked out in Valmonde’s hallway.

Then he noticed movement.

Duo’s hand, trembling against his forehead.

The wince.

The shallow breath.

Maxwell froze mid‑step.

His eyes lifted slowly, disbelief flickering across his face before exhaustion cracked open into something raw and startled.

“…Kid?”

The word left him in a whisper, barely formed, as if he were afraid speaking too loudly might undo the moment.

For the first time in three days, Maxwell wasn’t looking at an unconscious body.

He was looking at Duo.

Awake.

Hurting.

Alive.

Maxwell released a breath that almost sounded like a laugh, the corners of his mouth lifting into a slow, shaky curve as he stepped toward Duo’s bed. Relief softened his posture, but only for a heartbeat before he pulled the familiar armor of humor around himself.

”Jeez, kid… scared the hell out of us.”

He dragged the chair closer, the legs scraping lightly against the floor, and dropped into it with the stiff heaviness of someone who hadn’t slept well in days. He cracked open one of the protein shakes, took a quick swallow, then wiped his mouth on his sleeve like he couldn’t be bothered with anything more refined.

”Next time you decide to have a slumber party at a target’s place,” he said, voice dry and edged with that irreverent bite, “maybe send a memo. Preferably one that doesn’t involve me sprinting through a hallway like I’m twenty again.”

Duo snorted softly, lowering his hand to cover his eyes. It was the kind of sound a sixteen-year-old makes when he is overwhelmed, irritated, and still trying to figure out what happened while his father figure is cracking jokes like everything is normal.

”God, Crapswell… don’t joke right now,” he muttered, voice muffled under his palm. “My head can’t handle the cringe right now.”

Maxwell’s grin softened, the humor slipping just enough to show the relief underneath.

”Hey, if you’re complaining, you’re alive,” he said, leaning back in the chair with a sigh that carried three days of fear. “I’ll take it.”

Duo let his hand fall from his face, blinking up at the ceiling as if it might offer answers. His breathing steadied, but the fog in his eyes hadn’t cleared. He swallowed, winced, and then looked between Hilde and Maxwell with a slow, confused squint.

”…Okay,” he muttered, voice rough. “Seriously. What happened?”

Hilde’s thumb paused over his knuckles.

Maxwell’s grin faded into something more neutral, the humor settling back into the corners of his expression.

Duo shifted slightly, grimacing at the ache in his neck. “How long was I out? Because you,” he pointed weakly at Maxwell, “look like roadkill. And if you look like roadkill, something bad happened.”

Maxwell huffed, leaning back in the chair. “Wow. Love you too, kid.”

Duo didn’t smile. He just stared at him, waiting.

Maxwell’s posture straightened a little. The joking dropped another notch.

Hilde glanced at Maxwell, then back to Duo. “Three days,” she said softly. “You were found in Valmonde’s hallway, unconscious against the wall. His security found you.”

Duo blinked, the number hitting him harder than the throbbing pain. “Three days…”

Maxwell nodded once. “Yeah, that’s right. The doctor said you were hit with a compound drug that included a sedative. Hence… three days.”

“And Valmonde?” Duo asked quickly.

”Valmonde was found in his office,” Hilde said, her voice steady but heavy. “Dead. Several deep lacerations across his chest and neck.”

Duo froze.

His eyes locked on Hilde, wide and unfocused, the word dead echoing through the fog in his mind like a dropped weight.

”I was right there…” he murmured, frustration boiling up in his chest. “I was right there and I couldn’t even help him.”

His jaw tightened. He stared at the ceiling, breath uneven. “Was there a message like last time with Kestrel?”

Maxwell rubbed the back of his neck, leaning forward slightly. “Yeah. Lazarus is watching.”

The words landed like a punch.

Duo’s breath hitched. His fingers twitched in Hilde’s grasp. His eyes darted between them, trying to make sense of the pieces that didn’t fit.

“Watching…” he repeated, realization threading through the fog. “Lazarus was right there. I had to ‘ave seen them—that’s why I was drugged. That’s why I can’t remember anything. That gotta be it.”

His voice sharpened, urgency rising.

“They were in the house. They were in the hallway. They were close enough to kill Valmonde and leave a message. I had to ‘ave seen somethin’. I had to.”

Maxwell watched him carefully, “Possibly. And whatever compound drug you were hit with did something to your memory.”

”Is there a drug that can really do that?” Duo asked, looking at his father.

Maxwell shrugged, humorless. “If something like the Perfect Peace Program or the Vampire Virus could be created for specific purposes, I wouldn’t put it past the black market to make something that could delete your memories…”

Duo growled under his breath. “Damn it… ain’t that just convenient for ‘em.”

~*~

Night had settled over the pearl of the Federation, Elysium, turning glass towers into dark silhouettes against the red Martian sky. Inside the old mobile suit hangar that now served as Wisteria Coreworks’ headquarters, Rey stood hunched over her cluttered office desk, hands planted on the surface as if bracing herself against a storm only she could feel.

The hangar loomed beyond her open doorway, a cavernous space of repurposed gantries and old crane arms that once lifted mobile suit armor. Now it held pallets of scrap, stacks of refined alloys, and the constant hum of machinery working through the night. The faint metallic scent drifted into her office, mixing with the paper dust and recycled air blowing in from the vents.

Her desk was a mess of reports, invoices, and data requests. Boxes lined the walls, half-sorted, half-ignored. She had been working nonstop since Valmonde’s assassination, chasing every thread she could find, trying to determine whether Bronson was still receiving funds, whether the mining project was still accelerating, whether AIA had missed something critical.

All day long, she had been feeling lightheaded and losing her balance.

All day long she had ignored every single signal that she was running on fumes.

And her body was paying the price.

Her vision blurred, the numbers on the page smearing into gray streaks. She blinked hard, shaking her head minutely, trying to force them back into clarity. Her knees felt weak, her breath shallow, her entire body heavy in a way she couldn’t ignore anymore.

She tried to remember if she had taken her medication that morning.

She couldn’t recall.

She gripped the edge of the desk, knuckles white, refusing to sit, refusing to stop, refusing to let exhaustion win.

A soft knock tapped against the doorframe behind her.

Roger filled the space.

He stood there like a wall, broad-shouldered and immovable, blocking out almost all the warehouse light. He wore a tight black shirt stretched tight across muscle built from decades of service. His beard was trimmed but rugged, streaked with gray that only made him look more formidable. Camouflage cargo pants and worn combat boots completed the look. He was a man who looked like he could walk straight into a battle field and come out untouched.

“All right,” he said, voice low and warm. “Need anythin’ else from me, kiddo? Otherwise, I’m gonna head to bed.”

Rey didn’t answer.

She didn’t move.

Her body stayed rigid, her hands still braced on the desk, her breathing shallow and uneven. He glanced down and saw her right hand tremble for a moment before going still.

Roger’s brow furrowed. He stepped a foot into the room, his body leaning forward, already prepared to reach for her. ”Rey? You all right?”

She tried to turn toward him.

She didn’t make it.

Her knees buckled, the strength in her legs vanishing all at once. The room tilted, the papers on her desk blurring into streaks of white and gray. She felt herself falling, but her body didn’t respond, didn’t catch itself, didn’t even flinch.

Roger moved and caught her before her head could hit the floor.

He dropped to his knees, arms sweeping under her just in time, her head rolling against his arm as he lifted her up. He cradled her limp frame, adjusting her weight with practiced care, his jaw tightening as he looked down at her pale face.

”Damn it…” he muttered, pulling her closer. “Not again, Lizzie.”

He gathered her into his arms, lifting her as if she weighed nothing, and stood with a quiet, steady resolve. The office lights flickered overhead, casting long shadows across the mess she had been drowning in.

“You always push yourself too damn hard…”

Roger shifted her weight in his arms, settling her against his chest as he stepped out of the office and into the vast hangar. The overhead lamps cast long shadows across the floor, stretching past the old gantries and crane arms that once lifted mobile suits.

He walked through the hangar with steady, deliberate steps, boots thudding softly against the concrete. Rey’s head rested against his shoulder, her platinum hair brushing the fabric of his shirt with each movement. She didn’t stir. Her breathing stayed shallow, her body limp, her exhaustion finally claiming what she had been fighting all day.

The hangar side door slid open with a low groan, letting in the cool Martian night. The air outside was crisp, the fog had already flowed into the harbor and settled over the land like a dense blanket. Beyond the warehouse, the bunkhouse sat in the shadow of the old hangar, its windows glowing with a soft amber warmth.

Roger adjusted his grip and started down the gravel path toward it. The stones crunched under his boots, the night wind tugging at the hem of his shirt.

”Baby-girl,” he muttered low, pressing his cheek onto the top of her head, “you need to stop running yourself into the ground.”

He nudged the front door of the bunkhouse open with his foot, stepping inside as warm air washed over them, carrying the scent of old wood and clean linens.

He carried her down the short hallway, past the noisy rooms where the crew remained awake and talking, until he reached the last room where no one stayed.

Well, except for Rey on nights like this.

He lowered her gently onto the mattress, brushing a stray strand of hair from her forehead as he settled her in place. He stood there for a long moment, watching her chest rise and fall, his expression carved with worry and something older, something protective.

For a moment, the bunkhouse blurred around him, replaced by a much smaller room, one lit by a single lamp and cluttered with books and toys she never played with unless he was nearby.

He wasn’t looking at the exhausted young woman on the mattress. He was seeing a tiny girl with wide eyes and sun-bright laughter.

He remembered her at five years old.

She had been so soft back then. Round cheeks, messy curls, a smile that came easily and lit up whatever room she wandered into. She laughed at everything: at the way Roger’s boots thudded on the floor, at the fights between the Chef and Housekeeper, at the way he pretended not to know she was hiding behind the couch.

He remembered one night in particular.

She had padded into his bedroom in her little socks, clutching a blanket to her chest, eyes sleepy but warm. She didn’t say anything at first. She just stood there, swaying slightly, waiting for him to notice her.

”C’mere, kiddo,” he’d said, voice low.

She crossed the room in tiny steps, climbed into his lap without hesitation, and curled against him like she belonged there. Her small fingers clung to his shirt. Her cheek pressed to his chest. And when she whispered “Night, Daddy…” in that soft, hopeful voice, something inside of him cracked and settled permanently into place.

He would always be there for her.

No matter what would happen, he’d be the steady presence at her side.

Roger exhaled slowly, pulling a blanket over her and pressed it gently around her.

“¿Otra vez…?” Came a voice from the doorway behind him. Roger turned to look back only minutely, knowing exactly who it was who followed them back to this room.

”Evenin’ Marquez.” Roger straightened his back to turn back and look at her fully now.

Marquez leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, her silhouette outlined by the dim hallway light. Her short brown bob was a mess from the long shift, freckles scattered across her nose and cheeks. Tan skin, strong shoulders, forearms corded with muscle from years of electrical work and hauling equipment. Her brown eyes softened as she took in the sight of Rey tucked into bed.

“She burn herself out ’gain?” she asked, her English thick with her Spanish accent. “Ay Dios… what we do wit’ her, jefe?”

Roger began to walk toward the exit of the room, letting Rey rest in the quiet.

“Yeah,” he muttered. “She don’t know when to stop.”

He paused in the doorway, glancing back at Rey once more.

“But she ain’t doin’ it alone. Not while I’m here.”

Marquez shifted her weight as he passed, arms still crossed, freckles catching the hallway light as her eyes followed him.

“You spoil her too much, Roger,” she said, giving him that pointed side‑eye. “Déjala. I handle it. Bosslady gonna learn to stop movin’, even if I gotta throw a shoe at her.”

Roger snorted, stopping at the door to the twins’ bunkroom.

“If you throw a shoe at her,” he muttered, “she’ll hurl a wrench at your head.”

Marquez barked a laugh, shaking her head.

“Ay, sí,” she said, grinning. “Girl’s aim is merciless. Like—boom—straight to the forehead. No miss.”

She flicked her wrist, mimicking the motion of a tool sailing across the room.

Roger huffed, the corner of his mouth lifting just a fraction. “That’s why you ain’t throwin’ anything.”

Marquez shrugged, still smiling. “Eh… maybe. But one day, jefe… one day I’m gonna chuck somethin’ at her. And she gonna deserve it.”

Roger gave her a look that said he agreed more than he’d ever admit, then glanced down at his hand resting on the doorknob.

Marquez’s smile softened.

“She work too hard,” she murmured. “But… she ours. So we keep her upright, no?”

Roger nodded once, quiet and certain.

“Yeah,” he said, turning the knob to open the door to the twins’ newest chaos. “We do.”

~*~

Thank you for reading!

Comments and kudos are the emotional equivalent of giving me caffeine and telling me to write faster.

The first stood tall, wearing a dark, close-fitting suit of segmented black armor that clung to her body like a second skin. Matte plates covered the torso and shoulders, designed to absorb impact without sacrificing mobility. A cloak hung over her left shoulder, its tattered edges shifting with the faint breeze. The hood concealed most of her face, but a pair of lavender eyes glimmered beneath the shadowed brim. Their color was striking even in the low light, narrowed and intense, focused on the mansion below with a precision that made the air feel sharper.

A compact harness wrapped around her hips, fitted with two grappling units and a pair of sheathed blades, one at each side, angled for a fast draw. The metal housings of the grapples were sleek and angular, built for rapid deployment. Thin cables coiled inside each device, ready to fire. Small thrusters lined the sides of the harness, quiet and dormant, waiting for activation.

The second figure crouched near the ledge. Their armor was heavy and predatory, shaped for force rather than finesse. Reinforced plating wrapped the chest and arms, giving the silhouette an unnatural solidity in the dark.

A metal gauntlet encased their right hand. Long, curved claws extended from each finger and caught the city’s glow in jagged reflections. The slow flex of those blades looked more like instinct than preparation.

Smoke drifted from the vents along the lower half of the mask. It curled upward in thin, pale ribbons, giving the impression of breath that did not belong to anything human. The mask’s eye lenses glowed faintly, two cold points of red light watching the mansion below with a stillness that felt predatory.

The figure looked less like a person and more like something the night had shaped for killing.

Neither spoke.

The breeze tugged at the cloaked figure’s tattered edges.

They didn’t move.

Below them, the mansion’s windows gleamed like polished mirrors, reflecting the neon veins of Elysium’s skyline. The district was quiet, the kind of quiet that made every distant sound feel amplified.

Metal claws scraped softly against the rooftop as the crouched figure shifted.

The cloaked one didn’t look over.

She didn’t need to.

”What do you see, Cain?”

Cain’s gaze stayed locked on a single window across the estate, where a man moved behind the glass, unaware of the two shadows perched above him.

The crouched figure finally spoke, voice low and gravelly.

“Alone…”

Rey exhaled once, slow and controlled. Her lavender eyes narrowed as she lifted her mask from where it rested against her collar. The device clicked softly as she locked it into place. Two white lights flared to life behind the lenses, glowing with a cold, steady intensity that erased any trace of her human expression.

The breeze shifted.

Their grappling units fired with a sharp metallic crack, cables streaking across the night. Thrusters ignited along their hips in brief flashes of blue-white light, propelling them forward.

~*~

A few moments earlier…

~*~

The fire crackled gently in the hearth, casting an ambient warmth through the room. Shadows danced across the walls and ceiling, shifting with every flicker of the flames.

Duo had not left Valmonde’s side all day. The manor was large and quiet, its polished floors and high ceilings swallowing sound until the place felt hollow. Most of the security detail had already trickled down to a handful of men patrolling the exterior, their footsteps faint beyond the windows.

Inside, the silence pressed in.

Duo leaned back in his chair and stared at the shadows drifting across the ceiling. His Preventer jacket hung loosely over the armrest, and his legs were stretched out in front of him. He looked like a person waiting for something to happen, and growing more irritated by the minute that nothing did.

He was bored.

Painfully bored.

Valmonde sat at a small table near the hearth, reading a book with deliberate calm. He lifted his teacup every so often, sipping from it without looking up. One of his servants hand brought it in earlier, and the faint scent of mint still lingered in the air.

Duo watched the steam rise from the cup and wondered how a man could be so relaxed when someone was carving messages into walls and killing politicians.

He tapped his fingers against the armrest before grumbling softly to himself. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a worn deck of cards, the edges softened from years of use. The faint shuffle of paper was enough to draw Valmonde’s eyes up from his book.

Duo ignored the stare.

He thumbed through the deck with practiced ease, letting the cards glide between his fingers. One slipped free, then another, then a third, each motion smooth and quiet. He flicked a card into the air, caught it between two fingers, and spun it across his knuckles before sending it back into the deck without looking.

A moment later, a card appeared in his other hand as if it had always been there.

Valmonde watched him carefully, his book now forgotten.

Duo continued, letting muscle memory take over. He fanned the cards, snapping the deck closed, then made a single card vanish with a subtle twist of his wrist. It reappeared tucked behind his thumb, then vanished again when he flicked his fingers.

Valmonde watched the card vanish and reappear, his brows lifting slightly.

“That is … unexpectedly skillful.”

Duo paused mid-shuffle, one card balanced between his fingers. He glanced at Valmonde, expression flat but eyes faintly amused.

Valmonde’s gaze lingered on Duo’s hands, his voice soft but edged.

“Curious. I would not have expected the President’s son to learn something as cheap as parlor tricks.”

Duo spun the card again across his knuckles, the corner catching the firelight.

”And yet… you can’t stop watching, can ya, old man?”

Valmonde huffed in response, lifting his book to resume reading. His glasses slid lower on his nose as he pretended not to look again.

Duo smirked, eyes narrowing. He stood, sent the deck from one hand to the other, then slapped it back together before pulling a chair up and sitting directly across from Valmonde.

“Had to keep myself entertained when my dad was out being popular. Learned a few tricks.”

Valmonde turned a page, voice mild but edged with that familiar aristocratic bite.

”Entertained… or overlooked? I suppose even a President’s son must find ways to occupy himself when the spotlight isn’t pointed his way.”

Duo’s jaw tightened for half a second, just long enough to show the hit landed. He flicked the card once between his fingers, then leaned back in the chair with a slow, deliberate exhale.

His smirk returned, sharper this time.

”Funny you’d bring up spotlights.” He spun another card across his knuckles, eyes narrowing. “Considering you’ve got one pointed at you right now for that little off-world account you keep pretending doesn’t exist.”

Duo let the card vanish between his fingers, the motion smooth and practiced.

”At least my cheap tricks don’t get people killed.”

Valmonde's fingers froze at the edge of his page. For a moment, the firelight caught the lenses of his glasses, turning them opaque. He didn’t look up, but Duo could see the slight shift in his posture, the kind that meant the jab had landed.

When Valmonde finally spoke, his tone was calm, almost gentle.

”As I’ve said previously, young Maxwell, off-world investments are hardly unusual. It is far less dramatic than you seem to believe.”

He turned the page with deliberate care, as if the conversation were nothing more than a mild distraction.

Duo leaned forward, voice sharp.

“It’s Duo—and it’s unusual when the owner of the account is under an Omega-class encryption. That means someone is hiding something. That means whatever you’re investing in, you don’t want people to know.”

Valmonde exhaled softly through his nose, the kind of restrained sigh reserved for tedious committee hearings.

“Omega-class encryptions are applied automatically to certain categories of diplomatic intersector or transaction. They are not inherently suspicious.”

He removed his glasses, rubbing his eyes with his index and thumb before tiredly looking at Duo.

”You are young. You see shadows where there truly are none. And you assume intent where there is only bureaucracy.”

He lifted his teacup again, posture composed, voice smooth. “I assure you, Duo… the matter is far less interesting than you wish it to be.”

Duo’s eyes narrowed, “it’s certainly interesting to people who leave messages in blood saying they’re watchin’. Or sniping a man from across the city through the head… two of which are also tied into the account you're sending money to.”

Valmonde’s teacup paused halfway to setting it down on the table.

For a moment, the firelight caught the faint tension in his jaw. It wasn’t fear, no guilt, but irritation at being cornered. He set the cup down with deliberate care, fingers resting lightly on the porcelain as he regarded Duo with a tired, almost patronizing patience.

”Duo,” he began, voice smooth, “violence has a way of attaching itself to whatever the narrative is convenient. People see patterns where none exist.”

He folded his glasses and placed them beside the book, rubbing the bridge of his nose briefly as though the conversation itself were a tedious formality.

”A murder here, a threat there… and suddenly every transaction becomes a conspiracy.”

He leaned back, posture composed.

”But if it comforts you to imagine a villain, I suppose I cannot stop you.”

Duo’s jaw tightened fully now. He sat forward, elbows on his knees, voice low and cutting.

“Comfort’s got nothing to do with it.”

Valmonde’s eyes flicked up… barely.

Duo didn’t give him space to breathe. “Messages carved in blood, Valmonde. A sniper who knew exactly where Vassal would be standing and calculated the speed and resistance for the bullet on Mars. Two dead men tied to the same encrypted account you keep pretending is ‘procedural.’”

Valmonde’s fingers curled slightly against the armrest, but Duo pressed harder.

“You keep dodging like this is some committee hearing. But people are dying, Valmonde. People connected to you.”

A faint twitch crossed the older man’s jaw.

Duo’s voice dropped an octave, lips curling into a smile that resembled a crescent moon.

“So tell me again how I’m imagining shadows.”

Silence.

Valmonde’s gaze sharpened, the first real crack in his composure. He stared at Duo, unblinking, irritation simmering beneath the surface.

Duo held the stare, unflinching.

The older man finally grabbed his glasses and placed them back on. He stood, straightened his vest with a slow, deliberate tug, and clicked open his pocket watch to look at the time. The gesture was neat, controlled, but the stiffness in his shoulders betrayed him.

His voice was calm, but the edge was unmistakable.

”You will wait here.”

He turned toward the doorway, posture stiff, the firelight catching the polished buttons of his vest as he moved.

“If you insist on continuing this conversation, I will require brandy.”

He didn’t wait for Duo to respond or offer clarification.

Valmonde simply left the drawing room, footsteps measured as he crossed the hall and began ascending the stairs. The one place in his manor where he could regain his composure, recalibrate his mask, and decide how much of Duo’s accusation he was willing to entertain.

Valmonde disappeared behind a wall at the top of the staircase and Duo could hear a door clicking shut.

Duo sat back in his chair, the firelight catching the faint tension still coiled in his shoulders. He flicked the deck once between his hands, but the cards didn’t move with the same easy rhythm as before. His jaw worked, a slow grind of irritation he didn’t bother hiding now that Valmonde was gone.

He let out an annoyed breath through his nose.

“Yeah. Run upstairs. Go get your drink.” He muttered it under his breath, not loud enough to carry, but loud enough for the room to hear.

The silence pressed in around him. The grandfather clock continued to tick in the corner. The fire crackled as a log broke apart.

Duo leaned forward, elbows on his knees, staring at the staircase as if he could still see the older man standing there.

”Bureaucracy, my ass. If he thinks I’m dropping this, he’s outta his mind.”

He shoved the deck of cards back into his pocket. His fingers drummed once against his knee, restless, and very much done with being talked down to. He shifted in his seat, leaning forward again with his elbows on his knees, staring at the floor now instead of the staircase.

His thoughts churned.

Valmonde’s lying.

He wasn’t just lying, he was dodging.

Omega-class encryption didn’t just happen to accounts. Someone had to request it. Someone had to justify it. Someone had to hide something worth burying under layers of diplomatic red tape.

His jaw tightened.

Kestrel had been tied to that account. He had been tracking the deposits and withdrawals in his notebook.

Vassal had been tied to that account as well.

Now, both men were dead… and both violently.

Now there was Valmonde who was polished, smug, dismissive. He was sending money into the same black hole they were.

Duo exhaled slowly, eyes narrowing at the floorboards.

He’s definitely involved.

Maybe not directly, maybe not the trigger-pulling type, but Valmonde knew something, and he was part of that something. He was going to make him talk, brandy or no brandy, committee-hearing tone or no committee-hearing tone. He rubbed his thumb along the edge of his pocketed deck, grounding himself as the irritation settled into something colder and more focused, already thinking through the connections between Valmonde, Kestrel, and Vassal. Already deciding he wasn’t letting the older man slip away behind polished excuses and bureaucratic fog again.

He stared at the floor for a long moment, letting the fire crackle and the clock tick, letting the irritation settle into something sharper, colder, and more focused.

Then…

A loud thud from upstairs.

Duo’s head snapped up to look at the ceiling, all other thoughts drowning away.

Another thud. Heavier.

Then a sharp and startled scream, cut off almost immediately.

Followed by more thuds.

It was chaotic and wrong.

Duo bolted the moment he heard Valmonde’s scream, chair scraping back as he surged to his feet, hands empty but ready. His instinct taking over long before thought could catch up.

He took the stairs two at a time, hand skimming the banister not for the balance but for the speed, his breath sharp in his chest.

Another thud. Heavier this time, muffled. Somewhere to his left.

Duo’s pulse kicked.

He reached the landing, boots sliding slightly on the polished floor as he pivoted toward the corridor leading to Valmonde’s office. The air felt colder here, like the manor itself was holding its breath.

”Valmonde!” His voice echoed down the hallway, swallowed by the thick wood and old plaster.

No answer.

He moved faster.

His hip clipped a side table, sending a porcelain vase wobbling, but he didn’t stop to steady it. His focus tunneled on the closed door at the end of the hall, the one Valmonde had disappeared behind minutes ago.

Duo reached it, breath tight, adrenaline sharp. He grabbed the handle and yanked the door open, stumbling a half-step into the room.

And then froze.

A tall, cloaked figure stood framed in the window, its silhouette carved out by the glow of the city beyond. Bladed claws hung at its side, dripping slow, deliberate rivulets of blood that pattered softly onto the floor. Thin trails of smoke drifted from the mask, curling into the cool air, while two red orbs turned toward Duo with an unnatural, steady focus.

The room itself felt wrong. It was too still, too cold, as if the air had been sucked out. A lamp on the desk flickered weakly, its light catching on overturned papers and a chair knocked askew, small signs of struggle that made Duo’s stomach twist.

He felt the air punch out of his lungs. His gaze dropped, just once, to the floor where Valmonde lay crumpled. He had to wrench his eyes away immediately, bile rising sharp in his throat.

Valmonde wasn’t recognizable any longer.

And just ten minutes ago, Duo had been needling him for information.

Now his chance is gone. Violently, irrevocably gone.

His eyes snapped up to the figure in the window, who had not moved or flinched, watching Duo with a still patience. The red orbs didn’t shift. They simply waited, as if studying him, measuring him.

“What the hell—“ Duo began, voice cracking through the tension.

A shift in the dark to his right, low and fast, the kind of motion his eyes almost dismissed as a trick of the flickering lamp. But his body understood before his mind did, some old wartime instinct screaming that the shape in the window wasn’t the only thing in the room.

He turned his head, too slow, too late.

A second figure was already closing the distance, moving with none of the other’s heavy, deliberate stillness. This one was fast. Silent. Low to the ground, closing the gap between the far wall and Duo before he’d even finished the turn, boots barely seeming to touch the floor.

He caught only fragments. A dark hood. The gleam of something pale and white flashing beneath it. A cloak, tattered at the edges, snapping once behind her like something alive.

His mind screamed at him to move.

His body didn’t.

He’d spent the last several seconds locked onto the figure in the window, on the dripping claws, on the wrongness of that mask, and his instincts trained as they were, had aimed themselves at the wrong target. The threat he could see. Not the one already inside his reach.

By the time his brain caught up to what his eyes had registered, she was already there.

Something slammed into his neck, a sharp, precise sting. A needle. Heat bloomed instantly beneath his skin, spreading like wildfire. His hand shot out for anything nearby, fingers scraping the edge of the doorframe as his knees buckled.

His vision blurred.

The room tilted.

The masked figure in the window fractured into streaks of red and black.

His head throbbed, heavy and distant, like it was being pulled underwater.

And then… it all turned black.

~*~

Rey registered Duo’s collapse before she consciously processed it. Her mask fed her information in a cascade of clean, clinical overlays. Vital signs flickered across the lower corner of her vision, each metric shifting from stable green to warning yellow. A profile populated beside it, sliding into place with practiced efficiency. Duo Maxwell II. Preventer operative. Son of President Maxwell. Combat history. Mobile Suit pilot. Psychological markers. Risk assessments.

The mask’s HUD highlighted Valmonde’s body behind her in a stark red outline. A recommendation pulsed at the edge of her vision, urging relocation of the unconscious Preventer to avoid misinterpretation. Another line of text followed, cool and precise. Evidence contamination risk. Clear the scene. Relocate witness.

”Dammit,” she muttered, the voice modulator twisting the word into something metallic and low.

She knelt beside Duo, sliding her arms beneath his shoulders. His weight sagged heavily against her, the sedative already dragging him under. Heat radiated from his skin, a chemical bloom that her HUD tracked with steady, pulsing lines. She braced her stance and hauled him upward, armor plates shifting with the strain.

Behind her, Cain remained at the window. He did not speak. He did not move. Smoke drifted from the vents of his mask in slow ribbons, claws dripping onto the floor in soft, slowing taps. His presence was a shadow carved out of the night, patient and predatory.

Rey ignored him.

She dragged Duo backward, pulling him out into the hallway. His boots scraped across the polished floor, leaving faint streaks behind. She kept her movements controlled and efficient, refusing to let the ruined body in the room remain in his line of sight. The HUD continued to pulse warnings, estimating security response times and marking the safest extraction routes in faint blue lines along the edges of her vision.

She propped him against the wall just outside the office. His head lolled, breath shallow but steady enough to keep her moving. The mask fed her another quiet assessment. High probability of political escalation. High probability of misattributed involvement. Immediate relocation recommended.

Cain stepped away from the window at last. He crossed the room with silent, heavy steps, the glow of his lenses steady and unreadable.

”Saint,” he growled, voice low.

She did not look at him.

“Clean the room,” she ordered quietly. “Leave the message.”

Cain’s gaze flicked once toward Duo, then toward the ruined body in the room. Smoke drifted from his mask again, curling upward like breath that did not belong to anything human. He nodded once.

Rey tightened her grip on Duo’s arm long enough to ensure he wouldn’t slump sideways. The HUD continued to pulse warnings, each one sharper than the last. She could feel the seconds slipping away.

She leaned in close to Duo, her voice modulator softening just enough to sound almost human.

“I’ll make sure you don’t go down for this, kiddo…”

The mask marked the narrowing window for clearing evidence in a faint, pulsing line. Rey exhaled once, steady and controlled, letting the cold data settle into her awareness. The hallway behind her was quiet except for Duo’s uneven breathing, the sedative still dragging him further under.

She turned back toward the office.

Cain was already moving.

Not fast or frantic, but with that heavy, deliberate precision that made every motion feel inevitable. Her HUD tracked him automatically, marking each step with faint blue telemetry. He crossed the room in slow, controlled strides, boots leaving shallow impressions in the blood on the floor. He paused near the wall, claws flexing once, the metal catching the flicker of the lamp.

For a moment, Rey watched the way his shoulders rose and fell, the way the smoke curled from his mask in steady ribbons. He wasn’t rushing. He was finishing.

Only when the last claw stroke carved clean through plaster did he step back.

The message was stark and deliberate, each letter gouged deep into the wall.

Lazarus is watching.

Cain’s silhouette loomed beside it, still and predatory, as if the words themselves were an extension of him.

Rey’s HUD pulsed again, marking the completed task and updating the countdown.

She stepped carefully toward the window, using Mars’ lower gravity and the faint hum of her thrusters to guide her past the blood on the floor. She landed on the windowsill with practiced ease, cloak settling around her in a soft ripple.

“Cain,” she said, voice low. “Let’s move.”

~*~

Night had fallen hours ago, but Maxwell was still in his office, hunched under the lamplight, fingers threaded through his hair like he was trying to keep his skull from splitting open.

He hadn’t moved in a long time.

The reports on his desk blurred together into a sea of white. Preventer briefings, ballistic analyses, diplomatic cables, all of it stacked so high it felt like the weight alone might crush him. He stared at the papers without really seeing them, jaw tight, breath shallow.

He had spent the entire day drowning in the fallout of T&E’s Deputy Secretary Adrian Kestrel’s murder. The message carved above him, written in blood. The way the body had slumped against the wall like someone had just switched him off.

Lazarus is watching.

The hell did that mean?

He dragged a hand down his face, exhaling shakily.

And then there was Vassal.

A completely different crime scene. No message, no theatrics, just a clean shot from a distant skyscraper. The kind of shot only someone trained could make. Ex military. Likely former Alliance. Someone who knew exactly what they were doing and exactly who they were killing.

Maxwell leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling like it might offer answers.

“Damn it all…”

He wasn’t built for this. He wasn’t built for politics, for assassinations, for diplomatic fallout, for being the one everyone looked at when bodies started dropping. He had only been president for one year and already he felt like he was drowning.

And Dorothy Catalonia wasn’t making it any easier. Now the ESUN President, she had been messaging him nonstop from Earth, each transmission wrapped in that deceptively polite coyness she used when she wanted answers without ever admitting she wanted answers. Her phrasing was all soft inquiries and graceful turns of language, requests for clarifications, context, and any developments Mars might be willing to share.

But Maxwell knew exactly what she meant beneath the velvet.

Why was an ESUN Appropriations Committee representative murdered on your soil, and how fast can you convince me Mars isn’t falling apart under your leadership?

He couldn’t blame her. He would have done the same.

But every message felt like another weight on his chest.

He flicked his thumb against the inside of his index finger, a nervous habit he had carried since childhood, and tried to steady his breathing.

Kestrel dead.

Vassal dead.

Both tied to the same encrypted account Duo had been digging into.

Both murdered within forty eight hours.

And now Valmonde was the only remaining person alive who could provide answers. Every request Maxwell sent to him had been dodged or deflected, Valmonde insisting he was far too busy while offering empty condolences to the families affected.

Maxwell’s stomach twisted.

He didn’t know what was happening. He didn’t know who Lazarus was. He didn’t know why people were dying.

But he knew one thing with absolute certainty.

Something was coming.

Something big.

He fell back against his office chair, head tilted as he stared at the ceiling again. The lamplight made everything feel smaller, tighter, like the room itself was closing in on him.

He considered leaning on his Councilors now. Unfortunately, that meant Councilor Bronson, who oversaw Defense and Security, would be the first name on his list. Maybe even Councilor Tesh, to talk infrastructure and prevention measures, because clearly Mars needed both. And inevitably, that would drag Councilor Wisteria back into his office, and he really didn’t have the stamina to get railed about the bleeding budget again.

She would probably begrudgingly agree with Bronson that security needed to be tightened overall. Hell, Maxwell himself had slipped through the cracks back when he was a teenager, trying to get as far away from Hilde as she had demanded him to. He had stowed away on a sweeper shuttle heading for Mars, no clearance, no oversight, no one noticing until he was already halfway there.

Now here he was, having to put together plans to make sure no one ever did what he had done.

He exhaled loudly and let his forehead meet the top of his desk with a soft thump. He could go for a glass of Wild Turkey right about now. Maybe two.

His phone buzzed in his pocket.

He sluggishly pulled it free, thumb dragging across the screen as he answered without looking. His voice came out rough.

“What?”

Hilde was on the line.

Her tone wasn’t panicked, but it wasn’t calm either. It was the kind of voice she used when she was holding herself together by sheer force of will.

“Hey,” she said softly, “Valmonde is dead.”

He froze.

She continued before he could speak.

“And Duo… Duo was found drugged. Right outside Valmonde’s room.”

Maxwell didn’t speak at first. Hilde’s words hung in the air, heavy and unreal, and for a moment he simply stared at the far wall of his office as if the meaning might rearrange itself into something less catastrophic.

Duo had been found drugged.

Right outside Valmonde’s room.

His breath stalled halfway in his chest. His hand tightened around the phone until his knuckles whitened, and the only sound in the room was the faint hum of the desk lamp. He didn’t stand or shout or drop the phone. He just sat there, frozen, as the words sank in.

His voice finally broke through the silence, rough and barely shaped into a word. “Drugged?”

“Yeah,” she responded. “Security arrived on the scene and found him. Then they found Valmonde. He’s being transported to Elysium General now.”

Hilde explained everything, her tone steady but strained. Maxwell heard pieces of it, fragments that didn’t connect. Security. Hallway. Unconscious. Medical team. His pulse roared in his ears, drowning out the rest.

He pushed back from the desk so abruptly the chair skidded across the floor. He stood too fast, vision blurring for a moment, one hand braced against the table to steady himself.

“Hilde,” he said, and his voice cracked. “Is he breathin’?”

She answered, but he didn’t hear the words. He only remembered the tone.

That was when he moved.

He grabbed his jacket off the back of the chair, nearly dropping his phone as he fumbled with the sleeve. His hands shook so badly he had to switch the phone to his other hand. He was already heading for the door, already halfway through the threshold before he realized he hadn’t even locked his office.

“Hilde, keep talkin’,” he muttered, breath uneven. “Tell me everything. I’m on my way to the hospital now.”

~*~

Thank you so much for reading!!

Comments feed my brain