Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

She wasn't supposed to be here. Too young, too soft-spoken, a survivor clinging to the edges of a world that barely acknowledged her. The WLF didn't welcome strays, they watched them, tested them, and waited for them to break. And maybe she would've, if not for the way her eyes kept drifting to the one woman everyone seemed to fear.

Abby was strength wrapped in silence. Untouchable. Loyal to the core. And when she looked at you, it felt like standing in a storm you couldn't escape.

In a place built on orders and obedience, silence became safety. But in the quiet, something else grew, something sharp and aching, fragile and wrong. And no matter how hard she tried to bury it, the feeling never left.

Chapter Text

The forest is on fire with screaming.

Not flames, not smoke, but chaos. Running feet. Shouting. The whistling, sharp and sudden, cuts through the trees like knives.

You stumble over a root, nearly fall, but Jake grabs your arm.

"Come on, keep going! Just-run, okay?! Just like told you."

You can't breathe. Your backpack is too heavy. You've lost one of your boots. Someone behind you screams, maybe Chelsea, maybe Nolan, you don't dare look back.

The Seraphites are closing in.

They ambushed without warning. A peaceful walk to scout a gas station turned into a slaughter. Now it's just the two of you, Jake, dragging you by the hand, blood on his neck, breathing hard.

"We're almost there," he pants, even though he isn't sure anymore. "Just past the-"

Something punches the air. Like the forest itself holds its breath.

Jake stops mid-step. His face changes, not with fear, but confusion, like his body knows something before he does. He stumbles, hand pressing instinctively to his chest.

And then you see it. An arrow. Wood and steel jutting out between his ribs.

He sinks into his knees. Another arrow finds him, lower this time, and crueler. His mouth opens, trying to speak. Blood bubbles at the corner of his lips.

Then his eyers find yours, wide and scared. And still, somehow, he smiles.

"Run," he whispers.

Your legs won't move. Another whistle pierces the trees.

He grabs your wrist weakly, forces something into your hand, the MP3 player from his jacket. The one he always carried. Your fingers close around it automatically.

"GO."

His hand slips from yours. He falls forward into your arms, and the last warmth leaves him.

Your scream dies in your throat. There's no time for grief. No time for anything but instinct.

You run.

It's been three days. Maybe four.

You don't know anymore.

You're curled beneath a fallen tree, dried blood caked to your tight. A gash runs hot and deep, the makeshift bandage soaked through. Your whole body aches, from crawling, from trembling, from surviving.

No food.

No water.

Only your brother's voice in your head.

"Run"

The woods are quiet now. Too quiet.

No birds. No footsteps. Just the wind against cracked bark, and the whistle that still echoes inside your ears.

You haven't cried since the first night. You can't. Your body won't let you. You just stay still. Hidden. Like prey.

The MP3 player is dead now. No more Dancing Queen. But you still clutch it like it might bring him back. Like it matters.

A rustle nearby.

Then footsteps. Not barefoot this time, heavy, solid. Boots.

You freeze.

Voices. Barked commands. Guns cocked. Flashlights. You can barely lift your head, but one lands on your face, blinding.

"HEY-"

You don't hear the rest.

Your fingers close tighter around the MP3, and everything fades.

Light burns through your eyelids.

Everything smells like metal and antiseptic. The low hum of voices, distant, like underwater. Your mouth is dry. Your leg pulses, not sharp pain, but something heavy and dull, stiched over with numbness.

You open your eyes.

The ceiling is too high. Bright white lights overhead. A sheet pulled up to your chest. A blanket that isn't yours.

You panic.

You bolt upright, too fast, and immediatly regret it. Your vision spins. Your head throbs. Something tugs at your arm, an IV.

"Easy, kid"

A voice. Calm, but not gentle.

You turn your head. A woman stands neaarby, arms crossed, dark curls tied back under a cloth band. Her expression is unreadable.

"You passed out on the woods. Lucky they found you when they did."

You stare

Your throat doesn't work at first. Finally, a whisper:

"Where...?"

"Stadium." she steps closer, checks your vitals. "You're with the WLF now."

The Wolves.

You'd heard rumors. Violent. Organized. Merciless.

Her name tag reads Nora Harris.

"What's your name?" she asks.

You give it. It doesn't sound real when you say it.

Nora nods, but doesn't smile.

"You'll talk to Isaac soon. Until then, stay put. Don't try anything."

She leaves.

You're alone again.

Outside the infirmary curtain, boots stomp past. Voices argue. You hear someone laugh, harsh and sharp, nothing warm in it. You grip the edge of the bed, stare at your fingers.

Blood beneath your nails.

Jake's MP3 player is on the table beside your cot. Someone cleaned it, left it there like a cruel joke. You pick it up and press the buttons.

Nothing.

You curl back into the blanket. The sounds of the stadium keep going. So loud. So alive. And you, just a name and a wound.

You wake up again. Two soldiers come to get you.

No names. No smiles. They walk through the underground halls, past armories and makeshift classrooms. You pass people who glance at you like you're a stray animal. Some don't look at all.

You're taken to an office built into the concrete.

Inside waits Isaac.

You've never seen someone so still and quiet and terrifying.

"Sit."

You do.

His eyes stay on you. They don't blink much. You feel like he already knows everything, and is waiting to see if you lie.

"You were found on Seraphite ground."

You nod.

"How long were you alone?"

You try to answer. Your voice barely works.

"Three... four days."

"Who were you with?"

"My brother. A small group. We were headed north."

He watches you.

"Where are they now?"

You look down.

"Dead."

A pause. Then:

"And yet you're here."

It's not a compliment. Not a question.

It's judgement.

You don't respond.

He leans back. Fold his hands.

"Some of my men think you're a spy. A plant."

"I'm not," you croak. "I lost my group. My brother-"

"You expect me to believe that?"

"I-"

He steps in front of you again, eyes narrowed.

"Then prove it."

He nods to a soldier near the door.

They drag in a Seraphite prisoner.

Bound. Bloodied. Barely conscious.

A knife is placed in your hand.

"Kill him."

You freeze.

"This is what we do here," Isaac says flatly. "If you're not one of them, you shouldn't have a problem making sure he doesn't go back."

Your hand shakes. You look down at the man. He's barely older than you.

You tighten your grip on the blade-

And then loosen it.

You drop it.

"I won't."

Isaac exhales like it's boring to him. Predictable.

"Of course not."

A pause.

"Maybe that means you're soft. Or maybe it means you didn't want to kill one of your own."

"I'm not one of them-"

"Prove it. If you won't kill him, you'll question him."

You're thrown into a dark room with the prisoner. No instructions.

He won't speak. You don't make him.

You just sit. Bleeding leg stiff. Stomach hollow.

The hours drag. You don't break. You don't beg.

Eventually, a soldier comes to retrieve you

You're back with Isaac. This time he doesn't even look up when you're brought back in.

"You didn't kill. You didn't ask. You didn't scream."

A pause.

"You're either very weak..."

He lifts his gaze, cold and calculating.

"Or very disciplined."

You stay silent.

"We'll find out which one soon."

He leans forward.

"You're not part of this pack. Not yet. But Nora needs help in the medbay. You'll go there."

"And if I don't?"

"Then you're wasting my time. And I don't tolerate waste."

You nod once.

"You'll be watched. You're not trusted. You're not welcome. Make yourself useful."

The soldier unlocks the door, doesn't even glance back at you.

"This is it."

He walks off without waiting.

You step inside, letting the door shut behind you.

There are two beds, one messier than the other. A half-unzipped duffel bag spills into the floor. There's a coat draped across the footboard and a cracked mug balanced on the windowsill.

The girl sitting crossed-legged on the far bed barely looks up.

"You're the stray?" she says.

You nod.

"Great," she sighs, and flops back against the matress. "You snore, and I'm kicking you in your sleep."

You don't answer. you just move to te empty bed and set the folded blanket down, stiff and still.

A pause.

"I'm Casey," she mumbles. "You got a name?"

You say it softly, almost unsure it still belongs to you.

She repeats it, then shrugs.

"Okay. You don't talk much. That's fine. Neither do I."

Another pause. She reaches under her pillow, pulls out a half-deck of bent cards, and starts flipping through them.

"Just don't piss on the floor or anything, and we'll get along."

You sit on your bed slowly. The matress is thin, uneven. The pillow smells like dust and bleach.

You slide a hand into your coat pocket and pull out the old MP3 player. It hasn't worked since the forest.

You stare at it for a long time.

Then, carefully, you flip it over and pop open the battery pannel. One of the terminals is bent. You straighten it with the tip of a bobby pin from your pocket.

Click. Hold.

A flicker of static lighst the screen.

It's working.

You exhale like it's the first breath all day.

You lie there in the dark, eyes open, listening to the quiet ache in your chest.

The next day, you went to the cafeteria.

The food is warm but tasteless. A gray lump of something in your tray.

You sit alone.

Around you, the stadium buzzes. Conversations, jokes, footsteps, clatter, but none of it touches you.

Then a voice carries across the room. Confident. Low. Laughing.

You don't hear the words, just the tone. Sharp, solid. Like someone who's never had to make herself small.

Your eyes lift.

Across the cafeteria, a woman stands with a tray in her hand.

Broad shoulders. Muscular arms. Dark green shirt with sleeves rolled up. A smirk when someone nudges her. She walks like someone who belongs.

People seem to make space for her without realizing it. Like gravity.

You've never seen her before. But the way people look at her, you know she matters.

You don't know her name.

But suddenly, you want to.

Chapter Text

The days pass in quiet loops.

Wake. Work. Study. Sleep.

Sometimes, you even eat.

You stopped counting how long you’ve been here after the second week. Maybe three now. Long enough for the cot to stop feeling temporary. Long enough for the shadows beneath your eyes to fade from sickness to something else—fatigue, maybe. Grief, definitely.

The medbay is cold in the mornings, always smells like bleach and copper. Nora doesn't talk much, but she watches. Every tray you clean. Every bottle you label. Every time your hands hesitate.

She starts calling you Rookie by day four.

"Let's go, Rookie."

Not your name. Not even close. But it sticks. Not cruel. Not kind. A place to start.

She tosses a battered paperback onto the table between you one evening.

"If you're gonna work here, you better start learning more than where the gauze goes."

It's a medical book. Old, yellowed pages. You trace the diagrams with quiet fingers, hungry for distraction. For use. Nora doesn't wait for thanks. She just walks off, muttering something about stitches and idiots.

You take the book back to your room. Flip it open under the dim lamp. Terms you don’t know. Anatomy sketches. But you study. You always study.

That night, you can’t sleep.

You stare up at the ceiling, old springs creaking beneath your back every time you shift. The cot groans under your weight, too narrow to curl up properly, too stiff to stretch out.

The room smells faintly of bleach and something sweet, maybe the soap Casey uses. You try to focus on that instead of the persistent ache in your leg or the scratch in your throat. Instead of the emptiness that stretches wider in the dark.

Across the room, Casey stirs. The sheets rustle, and then settle. She makes this little noise when she breathes out almost a whistle. You think it might be a snore. You’ve grown used to it.

Somewhere between your first night here and now, the two of you stopped being strangers.

You never had a moment, really. No dramatic shift. Just a slow, quiet unfreezing.

It started a few days after your arrival, in the cafeteria. You were sitting at one of the edge tables, staring blankly at your tray, at the gray lump that claimed to be stew, but smelled like wet cardboard. You weren’t even sure you were hungry, just tired.

Casey had slid onto the bench beside you like she’d been doing it forever.

"Let me guess,” she said, tapping her tray with a plastic fork. “You’ve never had WLF sludge stew."

You blinked at her, unsure if it was a joke or a warning.

"That," she continued, pointing with her fork, "isn’t meat. It’s revenge. Served warm."

You snorted, surprised by the sound, and shook your head.

She grinned. Not smug, just satisfied. Like she’d done something important.

You didn’t speak much that day. But the next night, she sat closer in the barracks. The night after that, she threw you a rolled-up pair of socks and said, “They’re clean. Mostly.”

Now, at night, you talk sometimes.

Not about anything important. Not yet.

About the people who walk funny, like that one guy from the armory with a permanent limp and a belt that squeaks. About the smell in the hallway by the medbay. About how one of the lights in the commons flickers like it’s trying to send Morse code.

You haven’t told her about Jake. You’re not sure you ever will.

But last night, she told you about her little brother. How he used to eat cereal with orange juice when they ran out of milk.

And the night before that, she told you she used to sleep on a trampoline. Not on it, technically. Beneath it. Like a fort. Said it felt safer than a bed, somehow.

And tonight, in the dark, you wonder if maybe, eventually, you’ll say something back.

Not everything.

But maybe just: I had a brother, too.

You don’t say it yet. You just close your eyes and pretend you’re not holding onto that sentence like it might shatter if you breathe too loud.

Across the room, Casey shifts again. A mutter. Then silence.

You stare at the ceiling.

Still awake. Still listening.

And slowly—so slowly—you realize this doesn’t feel quite like before.

Still lonely. But not alone.

The MP3 player rests by your pillow. It still doesn’t always work. But sometimes, it plays.

Then you press play.

Dancing Queen.

The sound crackles softly in your ears.

You close your eyes.

You’re ten, maybe eleven. Sitting in a patch of sun, picking pebbles out of Jake’s boots while he fiddles with the old MP3. He finally gets it working and shoves one of the buds into your ear.

“You’re gonna thank me later,” he says.

“Why?”

“Because this is the greatest band of all time.”

He hits play, and “Dancing Queen” crackles to life.

You groan.

“Seriously?”

“It’s a masterpiece.”

“It’s cheesy!”

“Cheesy is good. You’ll get it when you’re older.”

He bops his head, mouthing the words dramatically, and you giggle despite yourself.

Present day. You don’t giggle now. But you hum along softly.

And you remember your firsts days with seventeen.

When he was still alive.

The next morning, the routine repeats.

You arrive early to the medbay, like always. The fluorescent lights hum overhead, buzzing in your bones, and the cabinets rattle when you open them too hard. The air smells like alcohol and old gauze. You like it here, though. It’s quiet. Structured. Clean.

You organize the cabinets while Nora stitches a soldier’s shoulder. He winces, swears under his breath, and she tells him to shut up before she accidentally sews his mouth closed.

Later, she hands you a clipboard and jerks her chin toward the back wall.

"Alphabetize the meds,” she says. “Don’t screw it up. I’ll know."

You nod and get to work.

You hum as you go. Not loud, just a whisper of a tune under your breath, half-lost beneath the crackle of the intercom and the rustle of bandages. It’s a habit. Something to fill the space in your head.

Your fingers move without thinking. Sorting bottles. Labels. Lot numbers.

"Chiquitita, tell me what's wrong…"

The lyrics slip out softly. Barely a breath. You don’t even realize you’re singing until a voice speaks behind you, playful and familiar:

"No way. Did you just sing ABBA?"

You freeze.

Turn slowly.

Manny stands in the doorway, hand pressed to a cut on his eyebrow. His WLF uniform is half unzipped, a sweat-soaked t-shirt clinging beneath it. He grins like he just caught you stealing cookies.

“I thought I was the only one with taste around here,” he says.

You stare. Unsure what to do.

Your throat tightens.

He gestures toward the shelves, toward you.

"Chiquitita, huh?" His grin widens. "That’s cute. You look like one."

Your mouth opens, but nothing comes out.

“That’s your name now,” he adds, teasing but kind. “Chiquitita.”

Heat floods your cheeks.

You glance down at the pill bottle in your hand, suddenly very interested in the expiration date.

He laughs, soft and warm.

"Don’t worry, hermanita. I won’t tell anyone you’ve got good music taste.”

You look at him again. Really look.

There’s something easy about him. Not flirtatious, not mocking, just light. Friendly. Familiar in a way that makes your chest ache a little.

He reminds you of Jake. Not his face. Not his voice. But the way he stands. Like nothing can touch him. Like he’s been hurt before and decided to laugh anyway.

You glance toward Nora. She’s still stitching. She doesn’t look up, but you think she’s listening.

Still, you smile. Just a little. Just enough.

That night, you skip dinner. Just want quiet. You sit in one of the old storage rooms on the second level. Nobody goes there much. Too dusty. You like it.

You rest your chin on your knees.

You hear footsteps echo in the hall.

The door cracks open.

A figure steps inside. Not searching, just passing through. Carrying a stack of folded blankets under one arm and a sealed medical crate in the other.

Broad shoulders. Rolled sleeves. A messy braid.

Your breath catches.

It’s her.

Abby.

She doesn’t see you. Her eyes scan the shelves briefly. She moves like she’s done this a hundred times, all strength and certainty. She sets the crate down with a quiet thud, and as she does, her arms flex beneath the weight. Muscles shifting, sleeves stretching. Effortless.

You blink. Heat flares under your cheeks. You look away, even though she hasn’t looked once.

She straightens, adjusts the blankets on her arm, and walks back out without a word, without a glance.

The door swings shut behind her.

You don’t move for a long time.

Your stomach twists.

You don’t know why.

In your room, you pull the journal from under your mattress. The one Nora slipped you with the med book. "Might help," she’d said, like it didn’t matter if you used it or not.

You write like you’re speaking to him. To Jake.

You tell him about the medbay. About the stew. About Casey and the cracked ceiling tile above your bed.

And you tell him you’re scared.

That being here is like being underwater. That sometimes, you forget his voice until the music starts.

Your birthday is next week. Eighteen. Not that anyone knows.

Jake would’ve remembered. He always did.

Even when there wasn’t anything to give. No candles. No cake. Just a quiet “happy birthday” before dawn, maybe a smooth rock shaped like a heart or a half-melted candy bar saved from a raid.

It was never much. But it was always something.

Now, it’ll be nothing.

Just another day you survive. Another night you don’t sleep. Another number you carry, alone.

You pause. The pencil hovers.

Then, almost like muscle memory, you sketch a little star in the margin. A habit from before. From safe places.

And then—without thinking:

Abby has huge arms. Like, scary huge. Why do I keep staring???

You stare at the sentence.

Your eyes widen.

What—

You furiously scribble it out, like the page just insulted you.

“No,” you mutter. “Absolutely not.”

Your heart is doing something weird in your chest. Not fear. Not quite.

Just weird.

You try to focus. You draw a little heart next to the star. Then you tap your pencil. Then you write:

Probably just respect. Muscle respect.

Then immediately:

That’s not a thing.

You drop the pencil. Cover your face with both hands.

This is fine. Totally normal. People think about arms sometimes. In an... admiring way. Right?

You peek at the page again.

And before you can stop yourself:

seriously though her biceps???

You groan into your pillow.

The next morning, the light through the cracked window wakes you.

You stretch, groggy, and start gathering your things. Casey’s already tying her boots, humming something under her breath.

As you reach under your mattress for your journal, the corner snags and the book slips from your hand—flopping open to a page from the night before.

Your heart stops.

You scramble to grab it, but Casey’s head tilts slightly in your direction. Her eyes flick over, just for a second.

A beat.

Then, as you clutch the journal to your chest, she says:

“Bold choice using double question marks.”

You freeze.

“…What?”

She doesn’t look at you, just shrugs, wiping dust off her sleeve.

“Nothing. Didn’t read it. Just saw question marks. Chill.”

You swallow hard, cheeks hot.

“Right.”

She grabs her coat and stands. “Besides—whoever has the biceps, good for them.”

You stare.

She winks, then walks out, casual as anything.

You flop back onto your bed for exactly two seconds before groaning into your pillow.

Chapter Text

You wake up to the same flat, lumpy pillow that always manages to slide halfway off the matress by morning. The corner vent wheezes out a cold draft like it’s personally offended that you dared to sleep in. The ceiling’s no better, same paint peeling in the shape of nothing. If it’s falling, it’s taking its sweet time.

Eighteen.

The number rolls around your brain like it’s supposed to mean something. It doesn’t. Nothing about the day feels different. The cot’s still stiff, the sheets still itch, and the morning still comes too early. No switch flipped overnight. No badge of adulthood pinned to your chest. Just the quiet, gritty knowledge that you’re still here.

Jake would’ve made it better.

He would’ve burst in at sunrise, too loud, too cheerful. Last year he scrounged up two packs of saltine crackers and jammed a stubby birthday candle into the middle like it was gourmet. “Make a wish, kid”, he’d said. with that grin that never quite reached his eyes but still made you believe in something good. You wished for a real cake. You laughed about it until it almost felt like you’d had one.

That memory clings like smoke. Warm and awful all at once. You want to hold onto it, just for a second longer, but your stomach has other plans, a long loud growl that echoes off the thin walls and reminds you that surviving always comes first.

So you sit up.

The floor’s cold under your feet, because of course it is. You get dressed with the kind of efficiency that only comes from repetition. Shirt, jacket, boots, all a little too tight in some places, too loose in others. The mirror on the wall is cracked through the middle, like it couldn’t stand its own reflection either. You don’t bother with it.

You press a hand to your chest. No badge. No medal. Just a slow, steady heartbreak and another day waiting on the other side of the door.

You open it anyway.

The hallway hums with distant voices and rubber soles squeaking against tile. Same fluorescent lights buzzing overhead. Same faint stench of overcooked fod drifting from the acfeteria down the hall. You make your way toward it, stomach leading the charge, already bracing for the powdered eggs and watery oatmeal. 

If eighteen means anything, maybe it’s this: you’re still walking.

Still hungry. Still there.

Casey was already in line when you got to the mess, practically vibrating with whatever chaotic energy she’d stored up overnight. One glance at her face and you knew she was sitting on something. That smirk, wide, crooked and way too pleased with itself, meant she had a secret she couldn’t wait to drop.

She leaned in close like it was some kind of covert op. “Soooo… are you gonna tell anyone? Or do i get to do it?”

You blinked. “Do what?”

Casey bumped your arm with her elbow. “Wish you a happy eighteen, dummy”.

I froze.

Oh. No.

“Shut up, Casey,” you hissed. “Seriously.”

She grinned wider, teeth and all. “You told me, remember?”

Of course you remembered. One of those late nights where neither of you could sleep. You’d started talking about nonsense, zodiac signs, dumb personalty traits and somewhere between laughing about Casey’s chart and mocking your own, your birthday had come up.

You groaned. “Seriously, don’t-”

“Happy birthday!” she said, loud enough to echo off the metal trays.

And just like that, heads turned. Manny did a dramatic spin, clutching his rehydrated whatever like it was a champagne flute.

“Feliz cumpleaños!” he called, voice far to cheerful for this early in the day. “How old are you, chiquitita? Eighteen, right? Big day!”

Heat flooded your face like someone had flipped a switch. You didn’t even bother answering. You were too busy mentally plotting Casey’s downfall.

Two spots ahead, Abby turned just enogh to glance over her shoulder. No smile, just a subtle nod, chin tilted up.

“Happy birthday,” she said. Calm. Effortless. Like it wasn’t a big deal, but she’d noticed.

Your chest tightened. You couldn’t understand why that one quiet moment landed harder than the rest.

Casey was already wheezing beside you, trying to hold in a laugh. “Okay, okay, I’m done embarrasing you. For now.”

You rabbed your tray, head still ducked, and made your way toward the table by the far wall, quiet, out of the way. A soft landing spot for your flustered mood, pretending your face wasn’t burning.

Medbay had been quiet for hours. Just the low hum of the lights and the ocassional clatter of metal instruments as you helped Nora reorganize the supply cabinets. She hadn’t said much, she rarely did, but it was the kind of silence that didn’t feel heavy. Just focused. Safe, even.

You’d started to relax into the rhythm. Wiping down surfaces. Repacking gauze. Taking comfort in the order of it all.

Then the doors slammed open.

Voices. Loud, panicked. Footsteps pounding against the tile.

Manny burst in first, yelling something you couldn´t make out. Abby was right behind him, her hands already covered in blood. Between them, two other soldiers hauled in a third, dragging him by the arms. His leg-

There was so much blood.

It hit you like a wave. Thick in the air, metallic and sharp. Your stomach dropped.

Nora didn’t flinch. She snapped on gloves, already moving. “Get him on the table. Now. You-” her eyes cut to you, “-gloves. Let’s go.”

You didn’t move.

You couldn’t.

Not with the blood.

Not with that memory. Jake, gasping. Your hands pressing down, trying to hold him together. The red pouring through your fingers like water. Him telling you to run.

“Hey!” Nora barked, sharper this time. “Now!”

Your body jolted into motion. Gloves. Table. The soldier was trying to scream but choking on it, his mouth wet with spit and panic. Manny was pressing hard on the thigh, blood seeping through the gauze like it wasn’t even there. 

“Clamp here.” Nora pointed. Your hands shook. “NOW.”

You did it. The clamp clicked into place, slick and hot. You almost dropped it. But Nora didn’t stop suturing, cutting, moving like a storm.

You just held pressure.

You counted seconds.

He didn’t die.

When it was over, your gloves were soaked. You peeled them off with a slow, shaky breath and realize your hands were still trembling.

You stood frozen, eyes wide, pulse still racing. You didn’t realize you were holding your breath until Nora said:

“Welcome to the real party, rookie.”

Two hours later, the medbay had quieted down. The soldier had stabilized. Nora has just finished checking his vitals and confirmed he’d be airlifted out by morning. He was going to make it.

You’re wiping down a tray that doesn’t really need more wiping, trying not to focus on the faint pink smear that won´t come out. Your hands won’t stop moving. You don’t want them to.

Nora walks past behind you and drops a protein bar onto the counter beside your elbow.

“Happy birthday,” she says, not looking at you.

You blink at it.

“Manny has a big mouth,” she adds.

You let out a soft, tired laugh. It barely sounds like you.

She leans against the cabinet beside you, arms crossed. “You did okay today. Messy, but okay. You froze, then unfroze. That’s what matters.”

You don’t say anything. Your chest still feels like it’s caught in a vice.

Her eyes flick over you. She nudges the protein bar a little closer with one finger. “Eat. You’re shaking.”

You glance down. She’s right. You hadn’t noticed.

“Fear’s not weakness,” she says. “It’s just what it costs- to give a damn. You pay it, and you keep going.”

You nod, but your throat is too tight for words.

She watches you for another second. Then, a pause, a shift in her weight, and her hand comes up to your shoulder. A brief squeeze. Solid, grounding. She added, quieter this time: “You don’t have to be okay right away. Just… don’t shut down. Alright?”

You nodded. Abby was sitting nearby, bandaging her own hand. She didn’t speak, but you felt her glance. Not judgmental. Just present.

You unwrap the protain bar with clumsy fingers.

Nora’s already walking away.

After the day you had, there was no chance you were going to sleep. The medbay still buzzed behind your eyes. A couple days ago, you told yourself you’d start working out. Just to stay in your body. Keep your mind clear.

So you slipped out of the barracks like a ghost. 

The gym was mostly empty, dim and humming. One shape moved in the far corner. Abby. hammering a sandbag, sweat gluing her tank to her back.

That’s when she saw you.

“Hey,” she said. Neutral.

You mumbled something back and started shadow-stepping. You weren’t strong, not a good fighter like her. But you could move. Quick feet. Ghost steps. That´s what Jake used to call them.

You climbed onto a treadmill. Started slow, let your legs shake the restlessness loose. Then faster. Harder. Like maybe if you ran fast enough, the day wouldn’t catch up.

She noticed you halfway through a sprint. You almost didn´t look, but you could feel her gaze even through the pounding in your chest. 

When you slowed down and stepped off, she was still watching. Wiping her face with a towel.

“You’ve got quick feet,” she said. Neutral. But not unkind. “That’ll save your ass more than a punch will.” 

You blinked. Looked up. Her expression wasn’t teasing. It was… something else.

Then she added, soft: “Happy birthday.”

And just like that, she walked past you, slow, steady.

You stood there, staring at the space she just left, the air still warm where she passed.

Then you turn back to the console and kept running.

After the gym, you showered. The hot water scald the sweat and stubborn thoughts off your skin. The ache in your legs is satisfying now, like proof that you outran the day. Or tried to, anyway.

You slipped into your bunk and reached under the mattress. Pulled out the beat-up journal with the folded corner. It opened right to the page you always stopped at.

You clicked your pen twice.

Okay but… she noticed my feet???

Abby Anderson noticed my feet.

Why do I care so much about what she thinks?

It’s not the biceps this time. Not really.

“Still working on your manifesto?”

Casey’s voice cut through.

You yelped and slammed the journal shut.

She flopped onto her bunk, grinning. “Saw the name Abby. That abby.”

“Shut up.”

“You’ve got a crush crush”

You goraned and buried your face into the pillow.

Later when the lights are low and the barracks have settled into breath and creaks and the ocassional far-off bark, Casey shifts under her blanket.

“Hey,” she whispers. “So… are you gonna tell me?”

You don’t answer. Just pull the blanket higher.

She lets the quiet sit for a while, then says, even softer:

“Hey. For what it’s worth… I’m glad you were born.”

Your chest tightens. You don’t say anything. Just let the words settle there.

Warm.

Later still, you scribble in the journal again.

Still don’t get why she said happy birthday. Maybe she says it to everyone? …God I hope not.

Anyways. I survived being 18. Barely.

I’m gonna pretend I ddn’t blush when she complimented my feet. Is that a normal place to blush over???

Do NOT let Casey read this.

You rolled over and pressed play. The MP3 player clicked on like it had a mind of its own.

“Gimme gimme gimme a man after midnight…”

You groaned into the pillow. 

“This player is cursed.”

Chapter Text

You drag yourself out of bed later than intended, the kind of groggy where your face still feels pressed into the pillow. It’s been a few days since your struggle in the medbay. Ever since then, you knew Isaac had heard about it. His eyes lingered on you longer now, sharp and watchful, as if waiting for another weakness to show. It wasn’t spoken aloud, but you could feel the quiet surveillance, the way he made sure everyone knew you were his to manage. Last night Nora shoved another stack of manuals into your hands, and you’ve survived them without collapsing. Barely.

The mess hall hums when you slip inside, tray in hand. People shuffle in lines, clatter spoons, mumble half-formed conversations. It’s just breakfast-eggs that are more yellow paste than actual food, toast that could cut the roof of your mouth. Mundane. Safe.

Until you look up and almost collide with Abby.

She’s at the counter already, reorganizing the stacks of trays like the entire fate of the WLF depends on symmetry. Her shoulders fill the space, posture sharp, movements deliberate. She glances up, and her eyes, too steady, too knowing, catch yours.

“Morning,” she says. Simple. Even. Not warm, not cold. Just… Abby.

You stammer something back, a word that probably isn’t even real. She doesn’t call you out on it. Just nods once, like you passed some invisible test, and turns back to the trays.

Your stomach does a somersault it has no business doing at this hour. 

Later, tray loaded with breakfast, you shuffle toward the napkin dispenser, and of course, you reach for it at the exact same time as Abby. Your hand brushes against hers.

Contact. Real. Solid. Lasting less than a second but enough to short circuit your entire nervous system.

She doesn’t recoil. Doesn’t even blink. Just takes her napkin with a calmness that feels almost insulting in the face of your meltdown and steps around you, graceful in that way that makes you wonder if she’s secretly mocking you, or if she’s just like that, all the time.

Across the hall, Casey catches your eye. One brow arches, smug and knowing. You jerk your gaze away, cheeks burning.

The medbay feels sharp today. Sterile, metallic, faintly antiseptic, the kind of air that stings the back of your throat if you breathe too deeply. The fluorescent lights hum above, flat and unrelenting. Nora is already there when you walk in, snapping on gloves with practiced ease. Her expression is unreadable, somewhere between mentor and drill sergeant.

“Simulation,” she says. No preamble. No warmth. Just that clipped tone. “Battlefield triage. Move.”

Your stomach tightens. Before you can respond, you hear boots behind you. Isaac steps in, arms crossed, eyes already sharp as a blade. He doesn’t say hello. He doesn’t need to. His presence alone makes your shoulders square, your hands clammy. You know why he’s here. Word of your struggle in the medbay, the real emergency, not training, traveled. Nora had reassured you afterward, but Isaac? Isaac doesn’t forget. Now he’s here to measure you. To dissect your performance.

And he isn’t alone. Abby follows in, posture straight, every movement contained and efficient, like she’s built from tension and discipline. She doesn’t glance at you, not really, but her presence fills the room. Behind her, Owen trails in, calmer, quieter, almost gentle in the way he takes a spot near the wall, folding his arms. There´s a subtle shift in Abby’s expression when she registers him, something so quick you wouldn’t have noticed is you weren’t already hyperaware of every flicker of her face. You don’t know what it means, but your stomach doesn’t like it.

Nora gestures to the first mannequin, wounded, bleeding simulated red, alarms starting their shrill cry. “Time starts now.”

Your body jolts into motion. Gloves snap over your hands. You kneel, clamping, compressing, suturing, each movement too slow, too stiff, because you can feel Isaac’s eyes boring into the back of your skull. Watching. Waiting. Judging.

“Clamp higher,” Nora corrects sharply, leaning close. Her voice slices through the chaos, precise, unyielding. “You’re losing pressure. Faster.”

You adjust, heart hammering. Your hands shake once, then steady. You’re too aware of the sweat prickling under your collar, of the sting in your eyes as you focus on the wound.

Somewhere behind you, Abby shifts her weight. The sound of her boots against the tile is enough to spike your pulse. You don’t look at her, but you feel her. Her presence hums just at the edge of your awareness, heavy and grounding all at once. When you steal a glance, just for a second, her eyes are already on you. A flicker of freckles across her face, a small crease in her brow. She looks… not judging, not unkind, but sharp. Focused. You look away first.

Owen leans closer to the trainee beside him, offering a quiet pointer. His voice is calm, steady, measured, the opposite of Isaac’s silence and Abby’s intensity. For half a second, Abby glances at him, a look you can’t read. Not warmth. Not anger. Just something. It twists inside you, an itch you can’t scratch, and you hate yourself for caring when you’re supposed to be saving your mannequin’s life.

“Stay with it,” Nora snaps, pulling your focus back. “You lose seconds, you lose blood. You lose blood, you lose them. Do it again.”

The alarms shriek louder. Isaac doesn’t move, doesn’t speak. His silence is louder than any shout could be.

The simulation ends. You did a good job, at least good enough to get through. Nora is quick to nod, a clipped “better” leaving her lips like it might actually mean something. Relief surges, warm for half a second, before you look up and find Isaac´s gaze.

He isn’t impressed. His eyes hold steady, flat, assesing. You did what was required, nothing more. No nod. No flicker of approval. Just that razor-sharp stare, the kind that pins you where you stand and makes you wonder if you’ll ever be more than “adequate” in his eyes. It’s not disappointment, not exactly, it’s worse. It’s indifference.

Your breathe catches, and you shift your weight under the invisible weight of it.

Behind him, Owen says something low to Abby, and though you don’t catch the words, you see the way her jaw flexes as she listens. Her focus flickers between him and you, unreadable, her posture still iron-straight. You hate that your chest twists again, that your pulse spikes for reasons that have nothing to do with medicine.

Isaac finally breaks the silence, not with praise, not with correction, but with a look that says it all: I’m watching. Always.

“Enough playing with bandages. Can you handle a real fight?”

What-

Isaac’s words still ring in your ears as he pivots and strides toward the exit, not checking if you’re following. You are. Of course you are. Your legs move before your brain catches up, tray of adrenaline still buzzing thorough your veins from the simulation. The medbay smell still lingers in your nose: antiseptic, iron, Nora’s voice. But soon it’s replaced by the musk of the gym: sweat, leather, chalk.

It feels colder here, somehow, though the air is thick with humidity. The hum of the fluorescent lights is replaced with the heavy thud of fists against bags, the metallic rattle of weights being racked. Isaac doesn’t slow down until he reaches the sparring mats, then he turns, eyes narrowing.

“On the mat,” he orders, tone like a steel.

You freeze for a heartbeat, then step forward, pulse climbing. Out of the corner of your eye, you realize Abby is climbing onto the mat after you, rolling her shoulders, loosening her arms with casual ease.

Your stomach plummets straight to your boots.

Isaac’s voice cuts through the fog of panic: “She’ll test you.”

And suddenly, you’re standing opposite Abby. Just you and her.

She smirks, not cruelly, but with the calm confidence of someone who knows she’s stronger, faster, better. The kind of smirk that makes your skin prickle and your knees threaten mutiny. Her stance is relaxed, hands loose at her sides, but her eyes, sharp and focused, pin you like a specimen.

The butterflies in your chest go feral.

“Ready?” she asks. No teasing. Just that steady, almost gentle neutrality that somehow rattles you more than anything else could.

You nod, too fast, throat dry.

Isaac gives a single nod. “Begin.”

The first exchange is a blur. You dat forward, half-hearted jab, and she blocks it with a flick of her wrist liek you’re a child swinging at air. She taps your shoulder in return, not a hit, not really, but the sting of contact makes your skin burn.

You reset. Try again. Another jab, a clumsy kick. She sidesteps smoothly, palm meeting your ribs just hard enough to knock you of balance. Your breath catches as you stumble, the world tilting.

Heat floods your face. You grit your teeth, trying to focus, but Abby’s already moving again, pushing you. Another block, another hit. Not brutal, not punishing, controlled. She’s holding back, but not too much. Enough to keep you on edge, enough to make you scramble.

Your body remembers flashes of training with Jake, the way he’d always tell you to keep moving, to let instinct take the wheel. You try. Your feet shuffle, your arms lift. You manage one half-decent counter, and Abby actually nods. It’s small, almost imperceptible, but it’s there. A tiny mark of approval.

Then she sweeps your legs. 

You hit the mat on your back, air rushing out of your lungs. The ceiling swims above you, blurred by the pounding of your pulse. And when you blink, Abby’s face hovers into view, freckles scattered across her nose like constellations.

“Hey,” she says, voice steady, not mocking. “You okay?”

The question lodges in your chest. You nod too quickly, cheeks blazing, words caught somewhere between your throat and your lungs.

Her hand brushes your arm as she steps back, giving you space. It’s nothing, just contact, but it lights your nerves on fire. You scramble to your feet, clumsy, determined not to collapse under the weight of your own embarrassment.

“Again,” Isaac says, sharp.

The match continues, more stings, more tumbles, more humiliating brushes with the mat, but each time, Abby lets you breathe just enough to try again. It’s not pity, you can tell. It’s a push. She’s giving you space to fail, to get back up. To fight.

By the time Isaac finally calls it, your lungs are raw, sweat plastering your shirt to your skin. Abby looks almost untouched, barely winded. She gives you a look, not a smirk this time, not even a nod. Just… acknowledgement.

Isaac steps forward, arms crossed. His voice is clipped, cool. “Potential. You’ll train more like this. Keep up.”

That’s it. No praise, no smile, just expectation heavy enough to press into your ribs.

Then he turns and walks away, leaving you standing there, heart still racing, butterflies still tangled in the ache of bruises. Abby follows him.

Casey pops out of nowhere. “You know,” she says, smug grin wide, “if this was a rom-com, that fall would’ve ended in a kiss. Ten out of ten missed opportunity.”

You groan, dragging a hand down your face. Your body hurts, your pride hurts, but underneath it all of it… there’s this stupid spark of anticipation. Because Isaac’s words weren’t just orders. They were a promise.

You’re back in your room, the quiet setting heavier than you expect.

You are hunched over your journal, pen wobbling as you try to make sense of the day. Your handwrting’s a mess, half-print, half-cursive, fully embarrassing and Casey sprawls across the bunk above, dangling her head down to peek at you upside down like an oversized bat.

“Whatcha writing?” she sing-songs, voice way too loud for the hour.

“Notes,” you mutter.

“Uh-huh. Notes. Totally not dear diary, today Abby flexed her biceps and I almost died.” She kicks her heel against the bed frame for emphasis, grinning so wide it’s criminal.

You snap the journal shut, cheeks on fire. “Do you mind?”

She gasps theatrically. “They’re love notes. Oh my god. Do you want me to proofread? Add some metaphors? I’m excellent with metaphors. Abby’s eyes are like… grenades. No, no, like twin suns that are definetly gonna burn you alive.”

“Casey!” You throw your pen at her, and she cackles, rolling onto her stomach, kicking the air like a kid at a sleepover.

It’s ridiculous. It’s mortifying. It’s… comfortable, in that awful best-friend way.

Casey gets out of her bunk and flops dramatically onto your bed without warning, nearly crushing your journal under her elbow. The mattress dips and you scramble to rescue your pen before she steals it, which she inevitably does anyway. She scrawls ‘Casey was here <3’ across the corner of your page, grinning like she’s twelve. You groan, swat at her, and she only laughs harder. It’s always like this before lights-out, her chaos versus your attempt at a moment of peace.

Then there’s a sharp knock at the door. Heavy. Rythmic. Military.

Casey freezes mid- giggle, then whispers, “You’re in trouble.”

You glare at her before opening the door. A soldier stands there, stone-faced, uniform crisp. His eyes flicker over you once, then away. “Isaac wants to see you. Now.”

Your throat dries. “Uh. Okay.”

Casey leans around your shoulder, whisper-shouting, “Busted!” She earns herself a glare from the soldier before ducking back inside, still snickering.

You follow the soldier through the dim corridors, every step echoing like it’s keeping score. The air feels colder, heavier, the closer you get to Isaac’s office. When the door creaks open, he’s already there, straight-backed, waiting, the lamplight cutting sharp angles across his face.

“Sit,” he says simply.

The chair feels too small, your palms clammy against your knees. He studies you for a long, terrible moment before speaking.

“You’re improving with medical tasks,” he says, voice neutral but heavy enough to pin you in place. “But that’s not enough. You need to be strong. Ready to fight. Starting tomorrow, you’ll train with Abby. Gym, combat, everything. Prepare yourself.”

Your chest hammers, heat rushing up your neck. Abby. Her smirk, her freckles, the way she walks into a room like she owns the air itself. Butterflies, dread, and excitement all collide inside you, a dizzying, nauseating knot.

Isaac’s gaze lingers, hard as stone, before he dismisses you with a nod.

The soldier leads you back through the hall, but your head’s already spinning. Abby. Everyday. Gym. Combat. Side by side.

You’re not sure whether to scream into your pillow or beg Casey never to find out, because if she does, you’ll never hear the end of it.