The building behind them was half-collapsed, its roof torn open by time and scavengers. John stepped out first, brushing dust from his coat as the wind kicked grit into his eyes. Crow followed, her boots crunching over broken glass and scorched plasteel.
Another contact. Another dead end.
John unfolded the weathered paper in his hand and calmly crossed out another name with a flick of his pen. The ink bled into the parchment slightly, the name vanishing into the growing sea of red slashes.
Crow leaned over just enough to glance at the list. "That's, what, the fifth one?"
"Sixth," John said.
She frowned. "You know this list is garbage, right?"
John arched a brow.
Crow tapped one name in particular. "Half these people are either dead, holed up, or disappeared months ago. Some of these people have been ghosts for over a year. And in the Rim, anything older than a few weeks might as well be fiction."
He didn't argue. "I know."
"So why chase ghosts?"
"Because ghosts remember things. Sometimes more than the living."
Crow narrowed her eyes. "They don't do you much good if they're decomposing in a pit."
John turned away from the wreckage, dusting his hands. "Still worth checking."
She followed him, gaze lingering on the list. "These aren't Ark-affiliated names either. These are old-school Rim fixers, black market peddlers, mercenaries that won't have made it into any registries."
John said nothing.
Crow studied him for a beat longer, then sighed. "Whatever. It's your wild goose chase."
He tapped his earpiece. "Exia. You online?"
A crackle. Then: "Barely. Connection's sketchy this far out. What do you need, Noob?"
"I need a read on someone. Razo. Used to run with Dusthook Scavs. Might've been sighted near Crater Ridge."
A moment passed, filled only by the low howl of wind rolling through skeletal buildings.
"I'll check movement logs," Exia replied. "Crater Ridge's pretty thin on eyes, but I might catch a backtrace from the nearby utility towers. Gimme five."
John lowered his hand, squinting out at the horizon. It was flat and rust-colored, as if the land itself had been scorched bare by the sheer weight of history.
Crow leaned against a rusted support beam, arms crossed. "So if this Razo guy's another missing person, what then?"
"We head to Supply Drop Zeta Seven. There's a trader there."
She raised a brow. "That glorified pop-up stall by the old dam?"
"That's the one."
Crow snorted. "You must be real desperate if you're willing to talk to one of those fringe dealers."
John shrugged. "Better than nothing."
Her eyes lingered on him a second longer. "You're not exactly acting like a commander. You sure this isn't just an excuse to get back into the dirt?"
Before he could reply, his earpiece crackled again.
"Found something," Exia reported. "Checkpoint ping forty hours ago. Power spike near Ridge's northeast corner. Could be a comm relay or motion trip. Not conclusive, but it's the best I've got."
"That's enough," John said.
Crow adjusted her collar. "Then we follow the signal. And if it's another empty house?"
"Then we head to the dam."
He looked over his shoulder at her, tone flat.
"Nothing survives out here unless it's willing to crawl through shit."
Crow smirked faintly. "You're starting to sound like one of us."
They moved through the broken outskirts towards Crater Ridge in silence, boots crunching against gravel and ash. The ruins loomed in the distance, fractured buildings and half-sunken supply posts gutted by years of skirmishes.
John walked ahead, posture loose, one hand resting casually at his side.
Too casual.
Crow followed a few paces behind, eyes narrowed just slightly. Watching. Not the landscape. Him.
At first glance, he looked like any other Ark-bred operative playing tourist in the Rim. But then there were the eyes. They didn't rest. Every few seconds, they darted, fast, sharp, and precise. Over rooftops. Beneath broken rails. Behind old support beams warped from past fires and time.
Not just paranoia.
Not just training.
Instinct.
He scanned the exact places you'd check if you'd spent years surviving this kind of ground. He moved like someone who'd mapped this kind of chaos into his blood.
Crow's gaze lingered a second longer before she turned away, playing disinterested. She reached into her coat for a cigarette, lighting it. Smoke curled into the dry wind.
She hadn't seen it, not fully, back during their first mission. Too much noise. Too much misdirection. She'd chalked his survival up to stubbornness, some cockroach instinct all Ark dogs seemed to have.
But now? She wasn't so sure.
'You're not just someone who survived the Rim, are you?'
The thought lingered as they passed a collapsed water rig, its broken valves still dripping rust into the dirt. Crow said nothing. She didn't need to. Watching was enough.
If he noticed her scrutiny, he didn't show it. He kept walking, shoulders loose, coat flaring in the breeze, like none of this mattered. But his eyes, those damned eyes, kept moving, always checking, always knowing.
It made her grin.
Maybe she could use it. Maybe she'd just watch it unravel. Either way, she had time.
She flicked the ash off her cigarette and picked up her pace to match his.
Ahead, the dark silhouette of Crater Ridge loomed larger, jagged and half-swallowed by dust. Somewhere in that ruin, there might still be someone left alive. Or maybe just another name for John to cross off.
Didn't matter.
Crow didn't believe in ghosts.
But she believed in patterns.
And John was starting to show his.
The inside of the trading post was a rust-colored sprawl of half-repaired equipment, power tools, and salvaged drone parts stacked haphazardly on shelves that looked ready to collapse. The hum of a fusion converter filled the air, blending with the occasional sizzle of welding work from deeper inside.
Crow stepped through the door with a glance around, hands tucked into her jacket pockets. John entered right behind her, silent as a shadow.
Near the back, hunched over a disassembled energy coil, sat a stocky man in a dusty mechanic's vest. Greying stubble. Oil-streaked gloves. His back was turned, goggles pulled down over his eyes. A younger man, armed and nervous, stood to the side, clearly meant to be the guard, though he stiffened immediately on seeing them enter.
The kid's mouth opened slightly.
He saw her first.
Crow.
And then his gaze landed on John.
His lips tried to form a word, but nothing came out.
Before he could gather his senses, the man at the bench called out without looking up, voice casual, almost cheerful.
"Take a seat if you want. Just finishing up a capacitor cycle, won't take long—"
Then John spoke.
"Razo."
The mechanic froze mid-turn. The spanner in his hand slipped, clanking against the worktable.
He turned sharply, eyes going wide behind the smeared goggles. "A-Ana—"
John was already moving.
One step. Then two. Then suddenly he was there, in Razo's personal space, his hand gripping the older man's shoulder with alarming speed and precision. His voice was low. Calm. Not a whisper, not a threat. But it carried weight.
"Back room. Now."
Razo nodded so fast his goggles nearly fell off. He didn't speak again.
John glanced over his shoulder. "Crow. Watch the door."
Crow gave a lazy shrug, leaning against the nearest wall. "Sure. I'll knock if something happens."
As John guided Razo toward the back room, the guard stayed frozen near the entrance, clutching his weapon but making no move. His eyes darted between the two figures—one the leader of Exotic, the other a man who shouldn't exist.
Crow turned toward him, smirking just enough to show teeth. "Boo."
The guard whimpered.
Then silence.
The door to the back room clicked shut, leaving Crow alone with the terrified sentry and the quiet hum of dying light bulbs.
She rolled her shoulders and let out a long, slow sigh.
"God, I hate errands."
The office door clicked shut behind them, muffling Crow's presence and the terrified silence outside.
It was a cramped room, barely wide enough for a filing cabinet, an ancient desk layered with papers, and a battered terminal that blinked at them like it was running on borrowed time. The air smelled of copper wiring and stale sweat.
Razo moved carefully, his hands raised slightly in that half-surrender stance, eyes darting to every corner like he expected an executioner's blade to fall at any moment.
"I didn't know, man," he said quickly. "Whatever this is, I had nothing to do with it. If this is about the warehouse—about what happened that night—I swear I wasn't involved. I thought you were dead, Anam—"
John held up a hand. Calm. Measured. "Stop. I'm not here for that."
Razo blinked, caught off guard by how… even his tone was. There was no tension in John's stance. No accusation. Just a stillness that somehow made it worse.
"I don't blame you," John added, softer now. "And I'm not here to tie up loose ends. I know you didn't have anything to do with the explosion."
The older man exhaled, a hand dragging across his face. "Then why the hell are you here?"
John leaned against the desk, folding his arms. "I need information. I'm looking into something called Vapaus. It's important."
Razo stared at him. "Vapaus?"
"You've heard of it?"
"No. I mean—" He shook his head, turning toward the terminal. "Hold on. If it's been sold, traded, mentioned in the last six months in any formal channels, I might have something."
He started typing, fingers tapping on keys that were more rust than anything else. The screen flickered. Text scrolled sluggishly across the display. "My system scrapes scavenger logs, black-market manifests, dead drop records… give me a second."
While the terminal worked, Razo moved to the filing cabinet, yanked open the top drawer, and started flipping through folders with jittery hands. "Never heard of a substance by that name. Is it a Rapture byproduct? Some kinda new Missilis blacksite export?"
"I don't know," John said. "That's the problem."
Razo snorted, muttering under his breath. "You show up from the dead and drop that kinda mystery on me. Typical."
He didn't see John's faint smile.
The terminal pinged.
"Got something?"
Razo leaned closer, squinting. "Hang on. Could be nothing… but there's a flagged shipment note. Came through Supply Drop Zeta Seven last month. The manifest was scrubbed, but someone listed a placeholder tag in the old archive format."
He tapped a few keys, brought up a string of garbled letters and symbols.
"'VX-2P0-ΔUs.' Doesn't mean anything to me, but it could be shorthand or an encrypted tag. You said the word was Vapaus?"
John nodded slowly.
"Could be a coincidence, could be someone trying to obscure what it really was." Razo scratched his head. "You planning to check it out?"
"I was already heading that direction anyways."
Razo paused, then glanced over at him, more curious than afraid now. "You're really not dead, huh?"
John looked at him with a neutral expression. "Not today."
"Shit," Razo muttered. "No wonder that guard looked ready to piss himself."
John stepped back from the desk, his tone once again even. "You didn't see me. You don't know I'm alive. And if anyone comes asking about me, you definitely don't know where I'm going."
Razo raised both hands again. "Say no more."
John moved toward the door, pausing with his hand on the knob and dropping a couple of credits on his work table. "Thanks, Razo. You helped more than you know."
And then he stepped out, back into the open, where Crow leaned against the wall, still grinning, clearly amused by the guard's continued paralysis.
"Have fun?" she asked.
John ignored her.
Dust blew in lazy spirals across the cracked concrete as John and Crow stepped through the perimeter gate of Zeta Seven.
The air here smelled like rust and old oil, tinged with faint smoke from nearby campfires. Makeshift market stalls and trade booths lined the path, their tarpaulin roofs fluttering in the wind. Stacked crates, mismatched solar panels, and ancient Rapture scrap served as both wares and barricades. Traders called out prices, haggled over parts, and barked into old comms—but the moment Crow came into view, the noise dulled like someone had hit a mute button.
Eyes turned.
Voices dropped.
More than a few people backed away.
John didn't blame them. Crow wasn't exactly known for her warm smile and conflict resolution skills. And with her coat pulled tight and her boots thudding heavy across the ground, she looked like she was halfway between executing someone and lighting the place on fire just for fun.
Still, some of the older traders didn't look away fast enough.
They stared at John. Not with recognition exactly, but with pause. Like seeing a ghost they couldn't quite name.
Crow noticed. She didn't say anything, but she noticed.
"They're looking at you," she muttered, almost offhandedly.
"Must be the coat," John replied dryly, pulling the collar higher.
They passed a mechanic tuning an old land skiff who suddenly found something very interesting to focus on. John caught one of the nearby scavengers flinch and subtly nudge his friend away from their path.
He stepped up to a vendor manning a shack built out of bus doors and scavenged turret panels.
"I'm looking for the man in charge here," John said, voice calm but firm. "Old man Gidion. Where can I find him?"
The trader looked between him and Crow with the hesitation of someone weighing risk versus profit.
Finally, the man cleared his throat and jerked his thumb toward a slope behind the dam's cracked reservoir tower. "Gidion's got the shed overlooking the ridge. Keeps to himself mostly. Likes to pretend he's retired."
John gave him a small nod and stepped back.
Crow adjusted the strap of her rifle. "Old men and sheds. Classic."
John looked toward the ridge. "Let's see if he's the kind that talks."
They walked toward the slope, the wind picking up and the supply yard slowly shrinking behind them. But those older traders? They kept watching.
And one of them whispered to another:
"I thought he died in that explosion down south... Guess ghosts really do walk the Rim."
The shed creaked as they stepped inside. It was barely more than a box of rusted metal and plywood perched on the ridge, overlooking the broken reservoir and the sprawling patchwork of Zeta Seven below. Inside, it smelled like pipe smoke, old coffee, and damp cloth.
Old Man Gidion sat behind a dented metal desk, sleeves rolled up, glasses perched low on his nose. He didn't bother standing as John and Crow entered—just glanced at them once, sighed, and returned to whatever ledger he was squinting at.
"I'm not buying or selling today," he said flatly, not looking up.
"We're not here to trade," John replied.
"Then I definitely don't care."
Crow crossed her arms, clearly amused. John, undeterred, stepped closer.
"Takumi can vouch for me."
That made Gidion pause. Just for a second.
His eyes finally lifted, squinting hard at John, as if trying to pull apart truth from bullshit with a stare alone.
"Takumi, huh?" he muttered. "Haven't heard that name in a while."
Gidion leaned back in his chair, arms folding.
"That so? Well, if he sent you, I'll hear you out. Doesn't mean I'll like it."
John nodded, keeping his tone level. "I'm looking for two things. First—Vapaus. Ever heard of it?"
Gidion grunted. "Sounds like a made-up pharmaceutical. I haven't touched anything in biotech since I lost three fingers to some experimental drug."
"Fair," John said. "Second—shipment ID VX-2P0-ΔUs. Should've passed through somewhere between two and three months ago. Classified as cargo from aboveground facilities, no standard route."
Gidion's face hardened.
"You don't ask about shipments here, son. Doesn't matter if you've got a name or a badge or a bloody halo over your head. I don't disclose shipment manifests. That's how people get dead."
John didn't move. "This one's different."
"They're all 'different.' Every crate has a story. Some of 'em end in bullets."
John tried again, voice low. "Look, I'm not trying to cause trouble. You don't have to give me names, just tell me if anything about that shipment stuck out. Anything at all."
"No."
Simple. Final.
John's eyes narrowed slightly. "Gidion—"
"I said no," the old man snapped. "You don't get to haggle me like this is some busted rifle scope. This shed's stayed standing because I don't talk. That doesn't change just because someone dropped Takumi's name."
Crow raised an eyebrow and tilted her head toward John. "Want me to loosen his tongue?"
He held up a hand.
"Crow."
She straightened, ready.
"I need you to wait outside."
There was a beat of silence.
She blinked.
Then blinked again.
"You're not asking me to interrogate the old bastard?"
"No."
"You want me to stand guard while you play nice?"
"Yes."
She stared at him for a long moment. Then snorted.
"Fine. Your funeral."
As she turned to leave, Crow passed close to Gidion's desk and gave the old man a glance that somehow managed to feel both entirely disinterested and vaguely threatening.
He didn't flinch—but he didn't meet her eyes either.
The door creaked shut behind her.
And now it was just the two of them.
John pulled up a chair and sat, folding his hands on the desk.
"Okay, Gidion," he said quietly. "Now that we're alone—how about we stop wasting each other's time?"
John's voice stayed even, cold.
"Let me rephrase. I'm not asking. You'll tell me what you know about the shipment, or I'll start pulling apart this shack until something useful falls out."
Gidion's eyes narrowed behind his glasses.
"Big words, kid. Especially from someone who walks like his bones are made of glass."
John tilted his head slightly. "Try me."
For a moment, it was quiet—then Gidion moved.
Fast.
One moment he was sitting back in his chair, and the next he lunged across the desk like a spring uncoiled, one hand reaching for John's throat, the other low and poised like a trained brawler ready to follow up.
John didn't flinch.
He moved.
In one motion, he pivoted his arm, caught Gidion's wrist mid-swing, and redirected the old man's momentum just enough to send him slamming shoulder-first into the nearby cabinet.
The desk groaned, papers scattering.
Gidion snarled, spinning on his heel to throw another strike—only to stop dead as he felt John's fingers pressed gently against his ribs.
They stood there, breathing hard.
John didn't look angry. Just… focused.
"I was wondering," he muttered, almost to himself. "The way you watched me. Not just some backwater survivor. You were measuring something."
He stepped back.
"I felt it the second I walked in. Weak, but present. Residual traces, thinned by time. You've used cursed energy before."
Gidion stiffened.
John studied him, eyes sharp. "Speed, reflexes. You're sitting somewhere between grade three and grade two. Barely flaring that aura, using just enough to survive. Smart. Keeps you off the radar."
"…Didn't think anyone still recognized the feeling out here," Gidion muttered, rubbing his shoulder.
"Most wouldn't." John holstered the pistol. "Most don't even know it exists. Not in this world."
Gidion slumped into his chair with a grunt. "I never joined a clan. Never got found by any of those big families. No training, no system. Just instinct. And I used it when I had to. Fought off raiders, kept myself breathing."
John nodded slowly. "That explains your age. Most people who live this long in the Rim are either ghosts or monsters."
"I'm somewhere in the middle," Gidion said, coughing once. "And if you're here throwing around terms like 'grade three,' then you're no ordinary bastard either."
John's gaze didn't waver.
"I'm not."
They sat in silence a moment longer.
Then Gidion exhaled. "Still not gonna hand you the manifest. But… maybe I remember something odd. Around two and a half months ago, a dead zone came through. No comms, no scanners. A shipment rolled in under full blackout. Can't confirm if it's what you're looking for, but the timing matches."
John leaned forward. "Where?"
"Near the Rust highway. South-east ridge, between the broken solar array and the dried-up spillway. You didn't hear it from me."
John gave a slow nod. "Appreciate it."
Gidion waved a hand. "Just don't bring more of your business here. My bones aren't what they used to be."
John rose from the chair. "Don't worry. I'll make this my last visit."
As he turned for the door, Gidion called after him.
"Hey."
John paused.
"You ever wonder how many of us slipped through the cracks? Born with it. Never taught. Never found."
John's voice was quiet.
"Does it matter?"
He opened the door. Crow turned toward him with a raised brow.
"Done already?" she asked.
"Yeah," John said, stepping out. "Let's move."
As the door swung shut behind them, Gidion stared at the desk for a long while, then reached under it and pulled out a cigarette, lighting it with a shaking hand.
"Damn sorcerers," he muttered.
The cold wind had died down for now, giving the team a chance to catch their breath near the edge of a rocky outcrop. Snow crunched faintly as the Counters shifted to settle in.
Anis and Rapi sat close by, huddled under a shared thermal blanket.
"Seriously, Rapi," Anis whined, her voice muffled by her scarf, "if I get frostbite, I'm blaming you."
"You'll survive," Rapi replied flatly, though the way she adjusted the blanket around Anis said otherwise.
Anis chuckled. "See? That's almost affection. I'm rubbing off on you."
Marian had wandered a little ways off, back propped against a snow-dusted rock. She held an old book wrapped in a cloth sleeve just below her coat line. A faint giggle escaped her lips as she flipped a page, her cheeks flushed from something that had nothing to do with the cold.
Neon, by contrast, stood off to the side, arms folded tightly across her chest as she watched the soft plumes of her breath in the frigid air.
Commander Hana approached quietly, her boots muffled in the powdery snow. She stopped beside Neon without a word at first, just standing with her for a few heartbeats.
Finally, Hana spoke, "Something on your mind?"
Neon blinked, then gave a tight smile. "Not really. Just… you know. Thinking."
Hana raised a brow but didn't press. "Hm."
A pause passed before Neon continued, softer now, "It's just… sometimes I feel like I'm the odd one out."
Hana turned her head, curious.
"Rapi and Anis have been partners forever. They've got their rhythm. Marian's got her… uh, books." Neon gave a dry laugh. "And John, he's got this whole mysterious backstory going on. There's so much history with all of them. And me? I just shoot stuff and keep things light. Sometimes it feels like I'm just… background noise."
Hana was quiet for a moment before replying. "I don't think any of us would see you that way."
Neon gave her a doubtful look.
"Seriously," Hana said. "Anis lights up every time she trades jabs with you. It's half her fuel. And Rapi, she watches over everyone, but I've seen how she looks out for you, in particular. Quietly, like she does. She makes sure you stay close in a firefight. Keeps you in her line of sight."
Neon looked down at her boots.
"And Marian, she might not say it, but she laughs at your jokes. Even when they're bad," Hana added with a faint smile. "Which is often."
That got a real laugh out of Neon, brief and surprised. "Hey, my jokes are gold."
"You're not the odd one out, Neon. You're the spark. You keep things from getting too heavy. In a team like ours, that matters more than you know."
The words sat between them for a few seconds, warm against the chill.
But Neon didn't say anything more. Her smile faded just a little as she glanced back at the others, a flicker of uncertainty still in her eyes.
"…Thanks," she said softly.
Hana nodded. "Anytime."
As the two of them turned back toward the squad, the snow began to fall again, light at first, but steady.
They walked in silence.
Hana glanced back at the others. "Break's nearly up. Let's get moving soon."
The wind picked up again as the squad gathered their gear. Their short break had passed, and now the northern base shimmered faintly in the distance, half-buried in snowdrifts, its outer defenses cloaked in frost and shadow.
"We'll be there before sundown if we move now," Hana said, tightening her gloves and nodding toward the ridge.
The howling wind cut against their coats as the squad reached the top of the final ridge.
Below them, nestled between frozen cliffs and buried bunkers, rose the silhouette of the Northern Base, a mechanical citadel of steel and ice. Massive cannons jutted outward in every direction like the quills of a beast at rest. It looked less like a fortress and more like a war machine halfway buried in the snow. The structure pulsed with a faint hum, steam venting in controlled bursts from thick ventilation shafts. Lights flickered across defensive walls, tracking every movement with clinical precision.
"Remind me," Anis muttered, nudging Neon with her elbow, "It's not going to stand up again and attack us, right?"
Neon didn't answer, hugging her shotgun a little closer.
They moved down the slope, boots crunching in the snow. At the base of the outer perimeter, a high-speed drone scanned them, then a voice crackled through a speaker embedded in a pylon.
"Identify: Squad Counter, clearance code?"
"Commander Hana, clearance code Z32 Compass." she replied, stepping forward and giving the authorization string. "We're here to meet with Ludmilla and Alice."
There was a pause, then the massive outer gates groaned open like the jaws of some dormant titan.
Inside the fortified mouth of the complex, the lighting dimmed to a cold, bluish hue, reflecting off the frost-glazed floor. Automated turrets rotated briefly in their direction before powering down.
Then she appeared, skipping through the inner corridor with all the grace of a snowflake caught on a breeze.
"Aaaah! Visitors!"
Alice came into view, her long silver hair flowing behind her like a cape, her headset tipped with tiny rabbit ears bouncing slightly with each step. She wore her signature skin-tight cooling suit, its bright pink sheen a sharp contrast to the metallic greys around her. A wide smile spread across her face as she waved excitedly.
"Rapi! Anis! Neon!" She called out each name like reciting the cast of her favorite bedtime story. Then her expression faltered for a second as she looked around.
"But… where's Sir Knight?" she asked softly.
Rapi stepped forward. "He's... on another mission."
Alice's shoulders dropped a little, but she recovered quickly, hands behind her back, still smiling. "Oh, that's okay. I know he's out there. Fighting dragons, windmills or evil queens."
Anis gave a quiet chuckle. "Classic Sir Knight."
Then Alice turned her gaze to Hana.
"And you!" she said, voice brightening again. "You must be the Rabbity!"
"…The what?" Hana blinked.
"She means you," Rapi explained. "She has a whole… wonderland theme going on."
Hana glanced around for backup. Anis gave her a small nod. Neon was smiling faintly too, despite herself.
"Right," Hana said slowly. "Sure. I'm… Rabbity."
Alice clapped, delighted. "Wonderful! Then let me take you to the Queen! Queen Ludmilla is in the inner chamber, where it's warm, and there's hot cocoa!"
The warmth of her joy was contagious in the steel and frost of the base, and without another word, she turned and skipped down the corridor, beckoning them forward.
The door to the Exotic Squad's safehouse groaned open, the rusted hinges resisting the cold wind that blew through the Outer Rim like a vulture circling a dying beast. John stepped inside first, his breath fogging in the chill air, followed by Crow, her hands casually tucked into her coat pockets, eyes scanning the perimeter out of habit rather than worry.
The moment the door sealed shut, John leaned against the wall, exhaling slowly. His shoulders slackened, and Crow tilted her head slightly, noting the subtle wince he tried to mask.
"Be careful you don't burn yourself out," she said flatly, stepping past him toward the central room.
John didn't answer. Instead, he reached into the inner pocket of his coat and pulled out a small notepad, flipping it open and scribbling something down.
Destination: Rust highway. Southeast ridge, between the broken solar array and the dried-up spillway. Depart at dawn.
He shut the notebook with a muted snap and walked over to the terminal in the corner of the room. A basic, hastily assembled unit with more patched cables than an Ark substation, it whined as he powered it up.
Jackal's head popped up from behind a pile of scavenged parts near the old generator, pink eyes blinking curiously.
"Whatcha doin', Commander?"
John paused, glancing over his shoulder. "Counselling session."
Jackal tilted her head. "Counsel… what?"
"Counselling," he repeated, finishing a few keystrokes as the screen lit up. "It's like… talking to someone about their problems. Helping them process things. Emotional support."
Jackal blinked. "So it's like when you pat someone's head after they cry?"
"Sort of, yeah. But… with words. And you listen."
"Blegh," she said, sticking out her tongue. "That sounds boring."
"It helps."
Jackal stared for a moment longer, clearly unconvinced. "You talkin' to anyone I know?"
"Probably not."
"Okay." She stood up, stretching dramatically with a yawn. "Well, you do your talky thing. I'm gonna go blow something up before I lose my edge."
"You say that like it's not already gone."
Jackal cackled, flipping him the peace sign before bouncing out the back door with her rocket launcher slung over one shoulder, humming a tune that vaguely resembled an old showtune.
The door slammed shut again, leaving John alone in the soft hum of the terminal. The screen flickered to life, displaying a call queue and several status bars.
He adjusted his headset and leaned forward, eyes shadowed by exhaustion and pain, but still steady.
The screen flickered, stabilizing on a slightly blurry feed of Signal, who was already anxiously adjusting her headset. Behind her was a dim room stacked with old holo-discs, plushies, and a framed still from a telenovela.
John adjusted his mic and leaned back in the chair. "Signal. You're up."
"I-I am? I mean—yes! I got the signal! That is... I received the signal to start… the thing… that you said…"
"…The counseling session?"
Signal nodded so fast her headset jostled. "Y-yes. That. C-counseling." She leaned forward, whispering like she was being spied on. "Is this where you analyze my childhood trauma and tell me to hug a tree?"
"…What?"
"I read about it in Loving with Lasers! Episode 19. The Nikke with the dark past had to hug a tree to unlock her emotions and then she fell in love with the therapist, who was secretly a prince."
John blinked. "We're not doing that. Just a normal talk. About how you're feeling. Any problems you want to discuss."
"O-oh." Signal immediately flushed. "Right. Feelings. S-strong ones. Like… maybe a… signal… of l-love…"
John stared.
Signal squeaked. "I MEAN… signal of life! L-life! Not love. I would never—I mean, I haven't—have you ever—uh, I like your haircut!"
John ran a hand through his very much unstyled hair. "...Thanks?"
Signal was practically vibrating in her chair now, fingers fidgeting with her headset wire. "S-sorry! I just… um… I've never really done this kind of thing before. Counseling. Or, um… talking to boys. At all."
"It's not a date, Signal."
Her pupils dilated like someone had shot her with a stun round. "I—wait—it could be! I mean, it's one-on-one, we're emotionally vulnerable, and there's a computer screen separating us like in Binary Love Protocols! That's basically the whole third act!"
John pinched the bridge of his nose.
"Okay," he said, tone calm. "Let's try grounding ourselves. Can you name three things you see around you right now?"
Signal spun in her chair, speaking fast.
"Stuffed bunny, old radio, um—your eyes—NO WAIT, NOT YOUR EYES, I meant the terminal screen—NO I MEAN—uh—!"
She knocked over her mug of peach tea. The splash missed the keyboard by an inch.
"I'm fine," she said, giving a very shaky thumbs-up.
"…You sure?"
Signal suddenly turned serious, cheeks still red but expression soft. "Actually… I am kind of glad you're doing this, Commander. Not everyone would. After everything that's happened, I… it's nice. To have someone listening."
John nodded, voice quiet now. "You're not alone. And you don't have to carry everything by yourself."
There was a pause.
"…Do you think," Signal asked, "people in love feel like this all the time?"
"Signal."
"Right. Therapy. Feelings. Totally not projecting."