Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Isabeau can't breathe.

He just can’t, even though he tries. His chest is too tight. He can't feel his hands or feet. His vision blurs. His eyes burn.

Siffrin says something with the pitch and quirk of a question, their voice distant in his ears. Isabeau doesn't quite register that he's being spoken to. It’s just noise. Nonsense syllables smothered under a growing roar of static. All of his focus narrows down to the bandages over Siffrin's eye—or rather, where their eye should be. Used to be.

The scientists took it out. They took out his eye. Their whole eye. Not knowing if it would regenerate, and seeming not to care when it didn’t.

They must have taken out other things too, other things that did, apparently, grow back. From where? Which organs? Isabeau's eyes drop briefly to Siffrin's abdomen. There must be bandages under their gown that he can’t see.

"—sa? Hel—?” There's Siffrin's voice again. Concerned and far, far away. He can barely hear them.

Who cleared these procedures? When was the idea even raised? What was the point? Why, why, why?

How is any of this fair?

(But then, when has it ever been fair?)

"Isabeau!"

He startles. The roaring in his ears recedes. His awareness expands back outward—back to Siffrin, who watches him nervously, eye wide and scared.

"I'm sorry," Siffrin says. Wait—why is he apologizing? "I didn't mean to upset you! Please—please don't be mad. I'm sorry."

"Siffrin." Isabeau's voice shakes. His throat feels thick. He notices, finally, that his face is wet. He doesn’t understand why they would think he was mad at them. He could never understand. "You did nothing wrong."

Siffrin's face pinches. "But... But I made you upset."

"You didn't. It's not your fault."

"...Isn't it?"

That's too much. Siffrin, abused and mutilated, can only think to blame themself for Isabeau's reaction.

That's... It's...

"It's not. It never has been and it never will be."

Siffrin shrinks down into himself. "But—"

"Sif. Siffrin. Listen." Isabeau resists the urge to shake them by their shoulders, desperate to get through to them about this. "Nothing you could ever do would justify what they're doing to you. You don't deserve to be here, having your insides removed for—for—crab, I don’t know, the reason doesn’t matter! They shouldn’t be doing that to you. They shouldn’t—you never should have been trapped here in the first place."

Their eye widens. "Then why...?"

"Sometimes the world is horrible and cruel. That doesn't make it right."

Their brows scrunch, mouth an unhappy line. They look down at their knees.

After a few long moments of internal debate, wherein Isabeau studies the hunch of their shoulders and considers how cruel it would be to ask for more details, his concerned, desperate need to know more prevails and he asks, "What else did they take out?"

"Um... I'm not sure. I don't remember it very well."

Isabeau immediately regrets asking. Of course they don’t remember it well. That must have been incredibly traumatic to go through. Their brain must not have been able to process what happened to them.

A horrible thought crosses his mind. He can’t believe he’s even entertaining the idea, but after the events of the past three days, he has to make sure—because there’s the real, terrifying possibility that he’s correct. “They at least put you under, right?”

“…Put me under?”

Isabeau’s stomach drops. “Anesthesia. Make you go to sleep so that you don’t see or feel what they’re doing to you.”

"Oh, I mean… They gave me some stuff, but I don’t think it worked. I was awake the whole time, I think? It’s a bit fuzzy.”

Isabeau's eyes might fall out of his head, they're bugging so hard. It’s one thing to think it; it’s another thing to hear it spoken aloud. "They cut you open and took out your organs and they didn't even check to make sure that the anesthesia worked?”

"No, it’s—it’s fine!” Siffrin holds out his hands in a placating gesture. “Really, I’m fine. It’s really not that bad. I’m—I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—" Once again, they apologize for something completely out of their control, shattering Isabeau’s heart impossibly further— “To freak you out. I just… kind of checked out while they did it, I guess. I’m used to doing that. It’s really not a big deal.” They trace anxious shapes on one of their legs. “It's hard to remember, that’s all. When I try to think about what happened, it’s like… bits and pieces. Kind of muddy. Dream-like. And it’s… it’s hard to think about. Does weird stuff to me. So, I just don’t think about it. And I’m fine. It’s fine.

“In fact,” he continues, tone shifting to that of clearly forced levity, “I’m…!” He pauses, looking up and attempting a wry grin—utterly unaware that the dried tear stains on his face ruin the effect. “All-right.” They point to their remaining eye and wait for the joke to land.

It doesn’t.

Ice floods Isabeau's veins. So, he was right. They dissected Siffrin like a frog and took out his insides and he felt all of it. All of it. Because, Isabeau realizes with horror, they don't respond to whatever drugs they’re injected with for trials, so why would they respond to anesthetic?

Or maybe they didn't feel it. Maybe they were too dissociated. Too deep in shock.

In practical terms, that second option is probably the better one; that would mean their brain protected them from the brunt of the trauma. But, at the same time, to Isabeau’s heart, that's also worse. That would mean the pain was so bad that his brain had to go into survival mode to protect him, and the fact that that was necessary at all is so much worse.

…Siffrin is going to die here, isn't he? If they stay? This isn't the end of it. The scientists keep pushing for more, more, more, and at some point Siffrin simply won’t make it out of the other end alive. Isabeau will have blood on his hands if he doesn't do anything to stop them.

He needs to get them out of here. It doesn't matter if it's impossible. It doesn't matter if he dies trying. If he doesn’t act, they’ll kill Siffrin, and it'll be his fault.

"Isa, are you—"

"I'm fine. It's going to be fine." I'm getting you out of here if it's the last thing I do.

Isabeau leaves the cell shortly after. Not by choice. Whoever’s up above—Dr. Odile or someone else, if the others have arrived by this point—sends the elevator down for him, and that's his cue to leave. He knows he'll be back later in the day, but the devastated look on Siffrin's face as he pulls away from them stomps his heart into the ground.

When he emerges from the elevator, he finds the observation room much more populated—the usual fare of scientists and guards. Dr. Odile is still here, unable to look him in the face.

"Isabeau, can we speak in private?" she asks when he approaches. She speaks softly, without any of her usual confidence or dryness.

He wants to be angry at her. He wants to blame all of this on her. He knows that’s an irrational desire, but in his heartbreak, he can’t help but see all of this as her fault. These past few months, she hasn’t helped Siffrin at all—

Well, no. She’s been pushing back against the others in her own way, he supposes.

(Not enough. She hasn’t pushed back enough. She hasn’t cared enough. Only cared about the stupid trials and only considered Siffrin her precious, valuable specimen, not, not—and now, Siffrin is—)

He needs to answer her. He’s been glowering, lost in his own head, for a little too long. “Of course,” he says.

She leads him out of the room and across the base, up to her office. They don’t speak a word during the whole trek there. Isabeau stares daggers into the back of her skull as they walk, contemplating what he’s going to say to her when they have the privacy of her office, but nothing sounds quite right. Too angry, not angry enough, all with far too much information. What can he really say to her in a place like this, where the walls have ears and everyone is spitting distance from a locked and loaded gun?

Not much, really. Not much of anything.

As soon as Isabeau closes the office door behind them, he turns to her and asks, simply, “There was really nothing you could do?”

It comes out more accusatory than he intends. It was supposed to be a genuine question, but the words bite as they come out of his mouth.

For a moment, she doesn’t answer, drifting over to a bookshelf on the wall to their left. He watches her profile, her face carefully schooled into a hard, neutral expression. Her fingers graze over the spines of the books.

“Odile.” He can’t believe she’s ignoring him. Now, of all times. After asking to speak privately!

Finally, she stills. Her lips press together.

“Absolutely nothing,” she answers. Equally simple, and yet shaking, just a little. Her tone is almost completely even, and yet he can hear the strain, her bright-knuckled grip to keep it together.

The weight of her reply settles over the room, curls into Isabeau through the spaces between his ribs and settles behind his sternum, heavy, burdensome.

“…How much did you see?” he asks.

She pulls a book from the shelf. Scans its cover. Holds it to her chest. Breathes.

“All of it,” she says.

“All of it?”

“Within minutes of clocking in, they asked me which organs to take out next, and then made me watch as they cut him open.”

Isabeau recoils. “That’s—!”

“Nothing compared to what Siffrin went through, I’m sure,” she cuts in. Her eyes narrow into slits. Her grip on her book tightens. “The others got a real kick out of it. I could see it in their faces. They’ve probably wanted to do something like this for a while. And for what? To watch Siffrin suffer? To put me in my place? They must get a sick kind of pleasure from it.” And there it is—bitterness. Contempt. Disgust. “I can’t think of any other reason for experiments like these. Not when they run counter to the project’s goals.”

He's never been told what those goals were—never had the clearance—but considering Siffrin’s Craft power and its possible military uses, he can take a guess.

“So,” he says, “the eye…”

“I thought maybe they could regenerate it. They’ve taken on animal forms with more than two eyes. And there’s precedent for other body parts. He can Craft extra fingers either for animal purposes or simply for fun. Extra limbs, even. I thought…”

“You thought you could spare him, somehow.”

“Along those lines,” she mutters. “But, of course, I was wrong. We still don’t understand what their limits are for Body Craft, and, unfortunately, my gamble, educated as it was, didn’t pan out. It’s entirely possible that his body simply couldn’t keep up with all of the vivisection and ran out of energy to grow things back. Regardless—there was only so much I could do.” She sighs. “At least, when it didn’t grow back, the other scientists finally listened to me. I had told them it was a bad idea, but, well… They were insistent on learning the hard way.”

“And do you think they learned?”

“For now.”

That’s not good enough. That means they’ll try something like this again in the future. They’ll get greedy again. They’ll get greedy and Siffrin might not survive that.

Dr. Odile turns and strides over to Isabeau. She opens the book she plucked from the shelf, only for Isabeau to find the pages hollowed out. Inside is a USB stick and a three-by-five notecard, which she retrieves from inside and holds out for Isabeau to take.

He raises a brow at her. She sighs again, long and tired, and gestures with a hand for him to come closer.

As he leans in, she explains, just above a whisper: “We obviously need to talk more about this, but we can’t here; we need some way to communicate privately. There’s software on the stick for you to download. Don’t use your main computer for it. Some kind of backup device you can discard easily. Turn off location data before installing and keep it off. The card has a password to decrypt the stick. Further instructions are stored on the stick as well. Burn the card when you’re done.”

“Wouldn’t this be, like… one of the least secure ways for us to talk?” he asks, equally quiet. She must mean some kind of messaging software—and while he’s not a tech guy, he knows that form of communication is highly prone to surveillance.

“Yes, but I trust this program. The stick will have details on its security measures. We will only be using it to coordinate meetings so that we can talk somewhere face-to-face. Nothing important will be in writing.”

Isabeau eyes the stick and card warily. “And why should I trust you?”

“You shouldn’t.”

“Then why should I do this?”

“Because I’m telling you to as your superior. And because…” She looks off to the side. “We share more goals in common than you think.”

He considers her offerings. He shouldn’t trust her, but he should do it anyway because… they have similar goals? How would she know that? What does she want to tell him?

More importantly: what does she want him to tell her?

Agreeing would be a terrible idea. Yet… If nothing else, he could always do as she says, meet up with her, and get more information without revealing too much of his own hand. If she doesn’t have proof that he wants to break Siffrin out of here, it’s her word against his—and while that’s still a major risk considering their ranks, it’s a risk he’s willing to take. This information could be valuable. He won’t be foolish enough to hope that she wants to help, isn’t sure he’d want that from her anyway, but… she could be useful to him, still.

With that thought, he takes the stick and card from her and slips them into his pocket. An implicit agreement. Possibly the biggest mistake of his life.

He refuses to have any expectations. He doesn’t have that luxury anymore.

When the work day is over, Isabeau is, not for the first time, completely and utterly drained.

Not in terms of energy—he’s absurdly wired, hyper-alert of his surroundings. But emotionally? Emotionally, he's a wreck. In his efforts to suppress tears for the remainder of the day, he develops a simultaneous desperation to cry and inability to do so by the time he clocks out.

Today's enrichment period didn't help matters. Siffrin clung to Isabeau's side, always touching in some way. Hand on his sleeve, shoulder to shoulder, knees touching as they sat, they found every excuse to brush against him. His need to be close was a big fat reminder of how severely he’d been harmed over the past three days; not that contact is out of the ordinary for him, especially in moments of fear, but he’s not touchy—that is, not until today. Today, he was attached by the hip. Isabeau fought tooth and nail to keep it together, hyper-aware of his expressions and posture, struggling to keep it all neutral. Normal. Not wanting Siffrin to think he was still upset with them—already horrified that they thought he ever was in the first place.

And all of that around the other scientists? He could feel the judgement radiating off of them. He normally wouldn't care, doesn't value their opinions, and he still doesn't, but he's all too cognizant of how his closeness to Siffrin paints a target on his back. He needs to be careful—they can't know his plans.

("Plans" might be too generous of a descriptor for what’s currently just feelings and a vague goal, but he’s giving himself some grace on that front for the rest of the day—he’s too spent to strategize.)

By the time Isabeau slots his key into his apartment door, he feels just a bit like he might evaporate into a bloody, tearful mist if someone so much as breathes wrong around him. He needs quiet. He needs calm. He needs—

"Za! Za's here!"

—to not have a preteen rocket into him the moment he opens the door. But, that's exactly what happens.

Of course, Bonnie is much smaller than him, so he doesn't budge even from the force of their tackle. His arms wrap around them on reflex.

"Za, you won't believe the day I had! Nille had to pick me up from school early because one of my friends shoved a pea up my nose, and the doctor said—" They pause when Isabeau finally looks down at them. The bright smile on their face melts away. "...Za?"

"Bon," Nille warns from further inside. Isabeau looks up to find Mirabelle on the couch and Nille close by, near the border between the living room and the kitchen. Nille crosses her arms. "What did we talk about?"

"...That 'Za probably had a bad day today."

"And?"

They slip out of Isabeau's hold and sulk back inside. "And that he might not be feeling good when he gets back, so we should be nice and give him space and stuff."

Nille walks over and slips their hat off, ruffling their hair. "Yep. So, let's chill for a bit, yeah?"

Isabeau finally enters and closes the door behind him. He drops his bag onto the floor, slips out of his shoes, deposits his keys and wallet on the small table near the door, and then stands there, not sure what to do next.

He teeters on the edge of crying. Nope, not good. Not when there's company over.

"Isabeau, you should go rest for a bit," Mirabelle says. "Come out whenever you’re up for it. Nille and Bonnie are still working on dinner, so no rush."

"We’re making your favorite!" Bonnie cheers. "So, go do your thing so that you can eat with us later, okay?"

“And it’s okay if you don’t end up coming out,” Mirabelle continues, much to Bonnie’s dismay—Nille quietly swats them when they give a small aw, what? “We’ll bring you some food if that happens. Just focus on you.”

Isabeau nods silently, unable to speak without bursting into tears, and, numb and mechanical, stalks away to his room, carefully clicking the door shut behind him.

He pads over to his bed and flops down onto the mattress, face first.

And he bawls.

Siffrin. Oh, Siffrin. At first, he doesn't even have any coherent thoughts about them. He just hurts, bone deep and aching in his soul. And then, as he gasps into his pillow, the thoughts clarify from raw feelings into something comprehensible, rapid fire and ripping bullet holes into his chest:

Siffrin could have died while he was gone. For all he knows, he almost did. And now they’re still there, alone in that horrible cell. He wants them far, far away from anyone who would dare raise a finger against them. He wants him here. Home. Here in his room, in the dark and quiet, safe from the sharp edges of the world. He wants them here so that he can hold them. Curl around them. Protect them. Comfort them.

He sobs, strangled. He's not sure he can even save Siffrin. That's the worst part. He's going to try, but there's a high chance he’ll fail. And... what would they do to Siffrin then? Would the scientists punish him? What despicable things would they do to him? Would they survive? Or would he—

No. He hiccups and tries to breathe. No, that train of thought isn't helpful. He's getting ahead of himself. One step at a time. He needs to take all of this one step at a time, or he'll be stuck in place, and that won't help anyone.

He needs to be brave about this. He can’t be brave if he thinks about all of the things that freeze him with fear.

Slowly but surely, his crying softens. He focuses on the grain of the sheets under him. Soft. Smooth. Breathes in the scent of his pillow, of the plum laundry detergent he borrowed from Mirabelle last week because he ran out of his own soap.

Finally, the tears stop. His breath evens. He shifts, sitting up. Wipes his face with a sleeve. Sniffles. Reaches blindly for the tissue box on his nightstand. Cleans himself up—dries his face properly, blows his nose, straightens his clothes. Considers, then decides to change into pajamas. Sure, he has guests over, but Nille and Bonnie won’t care.

When he emerges from his bedroom, the smell hits him: rich, meaty, lots of onions and garlic, some rosemary. It scents the whole apartment, stronger as he comes down the hall to the others. Despite himself, his stomach grumbles.

He finds Mirabelle and Nille chatting idly on the couch and Bonnie very obviously watching for his return, perched on one of the couch’s armrests.

"Your face is puffy," they state matter-of-factly when Isabeau approaches. They hop off the armrest and march to the kitchen. "Follow me."

Isabeau does exactly that. They lead him a few short paces to the kitchen. On the stovetop is a large, deep sheet filled to the brim with—

"Is that Shepard's pie?"

"Yep!" Bonnie says proudly. They grab a bowl from a stack already set out on the counter and shoves it into his hands. "Eat a lot of it and feel better," they command.

Somehow, even though today has been utterly miserable, Isabeau can’t help but salivate, warm in his chest, desperate for a nice meal with friends.

As he nabs a large spoon from a nearby drawer and serves himself, Bonnie calls out, "Guys! Dinner time!"

"Sick!" Nille yells. Isabeau hears her stampede over and feels her presence as she looks over his shoulder. "What, not gonna save any for the rest of us?"

He filled his bowl all the way to the top. Bonnie gave him a bowl from one of the bigger sets, too. "Oh, uh…"

She laughs heartily, smacking Isabeau on the back hard enough to make him stumble. "Just messin’ with ya! Glad to see you’ve still got an appetite.” The unspoken after today doesn’t sit as heavily as Isabeau expects. “Betcha ten bucks I’ll beat you to seconds. Now move over, I wanna get in on that action."

Isabeau does as he’s bid, heading for the fold-out table and finding that Mirabelle has already pulled out the extra chairs. Mirabelle passes him by on the way there, and she offers him a small smile. "If you need a moment, let us know," she says.

"Thanks, Mira," Isabeau says. Mirabelle, always so attentive and kind. After a long day of cold and despair, it’s nice to have her sunshine warmth protecting him.

Once they all settle at the table, for a while, Isabeau feels a transient, unicorn peace. Mirabelle, once again, attempts to talk Nille into reading the Cursing of Château Castle, just as she does every visit. She goes so far as to pull out her phone and show her the trailer for the new television adaptation that’s coming out, which seems to finally pique Nille’s interest. Meanwhile, Bonnie regales Isabeau with the arduous tale of the Pea Incident. It’s all so painfully normal and easy.

And then, so caught up in the comfort of the scene that he waits a little too long to eat, his stomach gurgles, and he finally takes his first bite of Shepard’s pie.

He’s hit with the strong, simple desire for Siffrin to try some, as well.

What would they think? This would be so much tastier than what he’s given back at the lab. Does Siffrin like potatoes? Beef? Carrots? He seems like a meat kind of fella. Maybe they’d like something fried…

Isabeau has only been around for a few of their meals, but of what he’s seen, all of their food looks profoundly unappetizing. Siffrin always complains—but never too much. Just a remark or two, maybe a tongue stuck out in disgust, but they eat their disgusting, mushy, nutrient-optimized food like a good lab rat, and Isabeau can’t help but think that maybe, a long time ago, Siffrin pushed their luck too much complaining and got punished.

His eyes burn again, all too familiar.

“Za? Za, what’s wrong?”

“Huh? What?” No, no, he’s crying again. All eyes turn to him. He frantically wipes his eyes and offers what he hopes is—but knows isn’t—a convincing smile. “No, I’m fine! Just—Just stressed about work, still, that’s all.”

"Isabeau." He startles at the firmness of Nille's voice. "This isn't just a fun hangout. Bon and I came over for you. Come on; you can talk to us."

"But it's—" too risky to tell you, I can't rope you and Bonbon into this either— "It's a lot."

"That'sh wha’ friendsh are fffor!" Bonnie cries with a mouth full of potatoes. Nille glares at them. They pout, chew, swallow, and continue: "For all the heavy stuff! C'mon, Za, talk to us!"

He sends a desperate look to Mirabelle. I can't tell them, he pleads with his eyes. Make them understand.

Mirabelle can’t read minds, he’s sure, but she’s smart; she has to know what explaining the situation would mean for Bonnie and Nille. She must be on the same page, because she says, “You don’t have to give us any details.” However, she follows up with, “Just… How can we help? What’s wrong?”

And that’s still too much. What is there to say without spilling the big secret? Once they know—

"Is it dangerous?" Bonnie asks.

All eyes whip to them.

"Dangerous?" Nille parrots in disbelief.

"You didn’t say much about it earlier, Belle, but you did say his job was scary. And then you wouldn’t say anything else even though Nille and I really, really wanted to know more. If you can’t say anything about his job, and he can't tell us about what’s wrong, then that must mean something bad will happen if he does, right?"

For a moment, everyone stares at Bonnie in shocked silence. They simply stare back, daring anyone to dismiss their observation when they’ve laid the logic out so plainly.

Everyone looks to Isabeau, then, and he sees the out for what it is. "Yeah, Bonbon. It's something dangerous. If I tell you guys anything more than that, then you could be put in danger, too."

"So... Is there anything that you can talk about?" Nille asks.

"I guess..." Isabeau stares down at his bowl. "I'm just worried about someone. I have a friend that got really hurt while I was gone, and—I don't know what to do. It’s just gonna get worse if I don’t do anything."

He looks up and meets Mirabelle's eyes from across the table. He can see the fear flash across her face, the recognition of who exactly got hurt and how badly for Isabeau to have gotten this upset. Her mouth sets, and he knows: they’re absolutely talking about this later when they’re alone.

Dread settles in his stomach at the thought. Irrationally, of course—there’s no danger in telling her about what happened. In fact, he needs to tell her. She's in this with him, after all. He's going to need her help. But he just… isn’t looking forward it. At all.

"Oh," Bonnie says. Frowns. "That sucks! And… and you’re sure we really can’t help?”

Isabeau shakes his head.

“Well… they have you, so they’ll be okay! Right?”

Nille barks out a laugh, startling Isabeau. “Of course! Beau’s tough. They're lucky to have him looking out for them.” She grins at him, then, big and crooked. "You'll figure it out, man. I know you will. You can do it."

"You've got this!" Mirabelle chimes in. "So... In the meantime, let us give you some space from all that, okay? You need a distraction."

"We should play team checkers later!" Bonnie cheers.

Yeah... That would be nice.

They settle back into a comfortable rhythm around the table. As they eat, despite everyone’s comforting words, Isabeau finds that he’s lost his appetite.

He doesn’t sleep that night. This isn’t unusual, but it’s unwelcome regardless. After three hours of lying in the darkness, staring at nothing, mind racing, he gives up and pads out into the living room with his old, spare, barely-working laptop, the battery permanently removed due to ballooning dangerously after a decade of use. He turns on a lamp after stupidly fumbling in the dark to plug in his computer, settles on the couch, and plugs in the stick he received from Dr. Odile.

The stick, when decrypted, has a single executable and a text file. Obviously, he reads the text file first. Not that he thinks she would give him malware, but she did say there were further instructions on the stick, and he absolutely does not want to mess this up. The stakes are just too high.

The file, a simple notepad text file, is divided helpfully into sections. He skips over the instructions at the top to read the about section for the software.

It’s a modified instance of open-source software that Isabeau doesn’t recognize. The description of how it works confuses him. He mostly understands the explanation of end-to-end encryption, but onion-routing, nodes, stripping metadata, swarms… most of these mechanisms are completely foreign to him. He pops open a web browser to look them up and ends up on the website for the original program, which has an in-depth FAQ page about how the service keeps messages and identities private. The fact that the original software can simply be downloaded off the internet for free raises red flags, but he reads on anyway.

Lots of jargon, but most of it is coherent enough for a layperson to read. He still doesn’t quite understand the explanations, but he chalks that up to being bad with computers. At the very least, it all looks legit and thorough. Lots of mechanisms in place to maintain privacy and anonymity. It’s still a massive risk, but it’s about as secure as digital communication can get.

He goes back to the text file. Reads it in its entirety. This custom instance of the software has extra measures to further anonymize and secure message traffic. Whoever coded it is a mystery, but he has no choice but to trust that whoever did it knew what they were doing.

Honestly, he’s still not sure about using this thing, but what other choice does he have? There are probably other ways for him and Dr. Odile to communicate, but considering he’s never had to do something like this before, he has no specific ideas for how, and no real way to brainstorm with her about it. Plus, he doubts having a digital record of looking up ways to communicate under surveillance would spell good things for his future if anyone caught wind of his plan. Crab—even looking up the things he already did might have been dangerous.

Well, guess he’s downloading this program, then. He runs the executable on administrator and follows the instructions on the text file.

Good news: not malware. Not that he can tell, at least. He ends up with a functioning messaging app. Strangely relieved and nervous all at once, he sets up an ID, memorizes his recovery phrase, and follows the instructions on the text file to set up one-on-one messaging with Dr. Odile, using the ID provided on the stick to start a private conversation. He sends a quick greeting and asks for confirmation that they’re connected properly before shutting down his computer for the night. Considering it’s—he checks the time on the microwave over in the kitchen—three in the morning, he’s not expecting her to reply anytime soon.

The blue light from his screen absolutely hurt his insomnia, but he might as well be an adult and do things that are good for sleep hygiene now that he’s done. Setting his computer aside, he stands, stretching his arms over his head with a yawn, and meanders into the kitchen. He fills the electric kettle, clicks it on, and browses his and Mirabelle’s collection of herbal teas before deciding on chamomile—thinking all the while of what Dr. Odile could possibly want to tell him without the government overhearing them. Once he pours the hot water over the tea bag in his mug, he returns to the couch and lounges across it sideways. His brain putters aimlessly while he waits for his tea to steep and cool.

Oddly enough, his first thought upon taking a sip is to wonder whether Dr. Odile likes herbal tea or if she prefers only the caffeinated kinds. Weird. Why should he care?

He doesn’t, he decides, taking another sip. He doesn’t care at all.

Isabeau wakes up to a wall of messages.

He doesn't see them until after breakfast—rather, after an early afternoon brunch, as he fell asleep late and woke up even later, which he refuses to categorize as anything other than breakfast out of sheer spite against his borked sleep schedule. As Mirabelle sits on the opposite end of the couch, futzing around with a cross-stitching project, Isabeau finally opens his laptop and finds, instead of any kind of hello, detailed instructions on where to meet up, ending with a series of days and times that work best for her.

Notably, she gives him instructions on how to shake his biggest fan on his way over. Helpful, considering that they've been following his every move outside of the government facility since his first day on the base. A roach he could never quite kill. He just hopes that her guidance works.

He shoots her a quick message confirming that this Sunday evening would work just fine. Anything I need to bring? he asks as an afterthought.

He gets a reply almost immediately: Don't bring your phone.

Well, of course not. He’s not stupid.

"Why are you on your spare computer?” Mirabelle asks. “Something wrong with your other one?"

Isabeau jumps in his seat. Mirabelle hasn't looked up from her project, squinting as she threads a dark shade through the circular board.

"Uh," Isabeau says eloquently. He’s not even trying to hide anything, and yet he’s at a loss for words out of the sheer fact of being taken off guard. That, and he knows if he explains what he’s doing, she’s going to ask about Friday and Siffrin, and he’s just—he’s just not ready.

When he fails to say anything else, Mirabelle sets her cross-stitching down in her lap, sending Isabeau an inquisitive look. "What's wrong?" And then, eyes narrowed, "Are you nervous? Is that what's happening right now?"

"What? No!" Isabeau slaps the laptop shut. "Why would I be—"

Mirabelle purses her lips.

Isabeau deflates. "Okay, yeah—I’m not nervous, but... It's just...” Might as well rip the band aid off. “It's Dr. Odile."

Her eyes widen. "Did she ask you to do something?"

"Uh, kinda? She wants to meet up and talk about something."

Mirabelle moves her cross-stitch and thread to the coffee table and turns to face him, eyes big and round and focused solely on him. He sweats under her attention.

"Is this about Siffrin? About what happened? Does..." She pauses to swallow. "Does she want you to do something behind the government's back?"

"Well, meeting up like this is going to be that, yeah, but aside from that, I don't... actually know? She just said she wants to talk privately."

“Without the government knowing.”

A beat. “Yes.”

“So… It’s gotta be about Siffrin, right?”

Isabeau grimaces before he can hide it.

"It is! It is related!" She scoots forward. Isabeau attempts to scoot away but bumps into the couch’s armrest instead, unable to get any more distance. "We haven’t had a chance to talk about it. What happened?"

"Mira, I—” Finally faced with the imminent task of verbalizing it all, his throat constricts, especially with her being so pushy about it. “I can't. Please."

“But you were a wreck yesterday! Something big happened! I need to know!”

“It did and—” Crab, he can’t do this— "I need time, so could I get some space?”

"You—Oh." She pauses, seeming to realize their position. Then, she leans back, biting her lip, looking away. "No, I'm—Sorry, Isabeau. Sorry.”

Awkward silence falls between them. Her hands anxiously smooth over her skirt.

Isabeau can’t help but feel guilty. Even if she was being disrespectful, he gets it. “I… I do want to tell you,” he says, “but…”

“No, that… It must have been awful. No, of course it was awful. It’s okay if you need more time. And… I don’t know, I guess maybe I don’t need to know every detail, if that helps?" She finds a loose thread and tugs lightly on it. "So, you want to wait a bit before we talk it out?"

Well... She needs to know eventually. He's going to need her help getting Siffrin out of there.

But... But he just... It's just too much still, to talk about it. He needs to process it more first. Needs to see what Dr. Odile wants to tell him about it.

And, yeah, she doesn’t need every detail. He doesn’t have it in him to give them all.

"Yeah," he says. "Sorry."

"No, it's—it’s fine, really."  She scoots back. Offers him a small, apologetic smile. "Take all the time you need. Just... Know you're not alone, okay?"

"I know," Isabeau says.

She returns to her cross-stitch, and Isabeau considers, watching as she threads different shades through the board, the fact that it feels like, prior to dinner last night, it had been forever since they'd talked about anything fun. Anything that's not how much their jobs suck or how stressed out they are. Anything that's not Siffrin or Odile.

He wants to tell her. He really does. But she's not just an emotional support. She's a friend. When was the last time they did something together as friends? Just the two of them?

Instead of discussing any of that, he rises from the couch and retreats to his room, ill after their conversation.

Sunday: Isabeau follows Dr. Odile's instructions to a T. His shadow trails behind him the moment he leaves his apartment complex, of course, but he has a real method for shaking them off now.

First, drive opposite of the direction of his and Odile’s rendezvous point. Go all the way to the densest part of the city, where traffic is almost permanently bumper to bumper.

Next, ditch the car. Park somewhere with no spaces nearby—make it difficult to keep the trail hot. Isabeau finds a particularly hellish street spot with no nearby openings for many, many blocks. He eases into the spot. Vacates his car. Pays for a few hours at a nearby meter well before the person following him can find a spot of their own. Crosses the street to walk the opposite direction so that they can’t easily turn around and follow him, stuck as they are in near-standstill traffic.

Then, fade into the crowd. This part of the city has near perpetually crowded sidewalks. He easily slips into a sea of faces and lets the flow of the crowd drift him far away from where he parked (of course, not before taking a careful note of the intersection near his current parking spot.)

Finally: bus the rest of the way there. He checked a few different bus routes before leaving the apartment today and, keeping an eye out as the crowd carries him and thins, finds a stop with a route he could use. This one has a few transfers, but that’s unavoidable—they all do. He’ll live. He has a piece of paper in his pocket with written routing instructions since he doesn't have his phone.

The last stretch of the journey involves a fair amount of walking, giving Isabeau ample time to triple check that he lost the person tailing him. He hasn’t seen a trace of them since parking, and he knows because he’s paid careful attention to his surroundings as he walked and bussed—no singular person or car kept near him. Now that he’s in the emptier part of Jouvente’s industrial district, he’s the only soul as far as he can see.

The destination: an abandoned warehouse surrounded by battered chain-link fencing. Cliché, but Dr. Odile said that this location would afford them a good deal of privacy. Most of the surrounding buildings are similarly out of commission.

There's the hole in the fencing that she told him about—considerably large, though it’s a tight fit. He slips through, a bit of broken chain poking out and snagging on his shirt in the process, but he disentangles himself with little fanfare and only minimal cursing.

He counts the doors and windows before he finds what he's looking for: the fifth door to the right of the hole in the fence. A well-rusted padlock lays shattered on the ground nearby. The door creaks high and loud as he pushes it open, the hinges clearly unhappy about being used.

Inside, the only lighting comes in through large, clouded windows across the walls high up, dust floating and twirling in the beams of light that come through. Isabeau’s shirt clings to his back as he struggles a little to breathe the hot, dense, musty air. A little mildew scents the space. He doesn’t spot a single soul in the whole of the spacious, empty interior—aside from Dr. Odile.

She stands at a fold-out table, pulled from who knows where, in the center of the room, a briefcase in hand. A large beam of light conveniently falls over where she and the table are stationed. As he nears, he notes the harsh shadows the light casts across her face, her eyes shadowed by her hair.

"You're late," she says in lieu of greeting when Isabeau is close enough for them to speak comfortably. Always so pressed about the crabbing time.

"Traffic," he replies unapologetically. "We're really safe here?"

"You weren't followed?"

"Lost my guy a while ago. You?"

"Not a trace." She unceremoniously plops the briefcase down on the table, upsetting a large cloud of dust and sending Isabeau into a coughing fit.

"Do you—” He cuts himself off to cough some more. “Do you really have to slam stuff down like that all the time?"

"I don't know what you mean."

Both times she's ever called him to her office, real or otherwise, she always drops items—thick and loud—in front of him. What is this if not a glorified office visit? But it would be pointless to argue about that right now.

He watches curiously as she opens the briefcase and pulls out a manilla folder. Wordlessly, she holds the folder out to him.

After a moment of hesitation, he takes it from her and flips it open.

A portrait of Siffrin stares back at him.

Wait—

No, this portrait is different from the other one. Same photo, sure—he’d know with how many times he’s seen it, reviewing what few files have been available for his level of clearance on numerous occasions—but it must have been doctored. No dark circles under his eyes, no obscene hand gesture, and what looks like a normal tee across his front as opposed to that accursed hospital gown.

The portrait sits near the top of some kind of form, already filled out. His eyes are drawn to the first line, written in Ka Buan, which he can only read from the little of the language he learned for a few elective classes in college:

Last name: Yamamoto. First name: Siffrin.

Hold on—

He scans the rest of the paper, then the other pages inside. His Ka Buan is incredibly basic, not to mention atrophied from years of not being used, but he’s able to get the gist. These are—

"Citizenship documents," Isabeau breathes. "What—How—When did—"

"Friend of a cousin back in Ka Bue works in the Nationality Administration. These are quite old; if I wanted to submit them to be processed, I would need to redo most of the paperwork. Additionally, I would need to check that this friend still works there and has the appropriate connections. But... Yes, those are citizenship papers."

"Why... Why do you have these?"

"You've got a brain. You can figure it out."

He can. Easily. But he’s not sure he believes it.

"Did you..." Isabeau looks up to find an unreadable expression on her face. "Try to get them out, before?"

“Only a monster wouldn’t.”

“And you’re not a monster?”

Her mouth thins.

“What changed, then? Why show your hand?”

“Why do you think?”

Isabeau flinches. The silent Are you stupid? hangs between them.

"This attempt was maybe a decade ago," she starts. "Ten years into my tenure with Sculpta. Nine on the project. But really, it all started when I first met Siffrin, that first day on the base.

“When we met, they hesitated to even give me a name. He was shocked I spoke to him at all. They looked so… so thin. So small. So confused at the basic courtesy of being treated like a person. And I just—I just couldn’t accept that. I knew what it meant for them to react that way. To be stripped of all autonomy, sequestered away from the world.

“I was like you, back then. I felt nothing but anger when I saw them down there. Saw the state of things. Saw how vulnerable he was. Saw their acceptance of their situation. I knew. I just knew I had to get him out. It just wasn't right.

“But, I kept a cool head about it. I had a plan. I would work my way up the ranks, make connections. I would help him escape, and I would be careful about it.”

Isabeau bristles at her implications—that he’s not being careful or keeping a cool head—before he realizes that he hasn’t told her about his plans.

That flash of emotion must have shown on his face, because she smirks. “No need to look so offended.” The smirk falls. “For what it’s worth—it’s easy to get lost in your anger. I almost did. It took a lot of effort to keep myself level. It’s so easy, with Siffrin. So easy to lose your balance at the sheer injustice.”

Isabeau surprises himself when he replies, “It is.” Agrees as easily as breathing. Not surprised by the sentiment—but by how easily he can relate with her. He never thought he’d see the day. “Tell me more about your plan,” he continues, painfully curious.

"It was simple: I would work within the system as much as I could. Get promoted as high as possible and carve out a way for Siffrin to leave. I could never do so entirely legitimately—but I wanted as many people in my corner as I could get, and I thought the best way to get that was to have as much authority as possible. Then, I thought that if I could slip Siffrin out and make my way to Ka Bue, we could live out there safely. I have dual citizenship, you see. Not to mention, Ka Bue and Vaugarde haven’t been in a good geopolitical position for conflict in a long time. Once we made it there, Siffrin couldn't be disappeared the way they were here. Not without consequences. I just needed to get him there.

“And it was going almost perfectly. Year after year, things slowly came together. I climbed up the ladder. I learned how to talk the talk around my teammates and still build trust with Siffrin. I made allies. Eventually, nine years in, I finally sorted out the paperwork. I engineered an opening into Siffrin’s schedule. I had a day picked and everything.”

Isabeau’s stomach turns. He knows what happens next.  “And then something went wrong.”

"Siffrin must have sensed something in the air. I never told them my plan. Had no way of doing so safely, not when they're always in that cell. But, he's a good read. He could see something about me was different. I don't know what, but—it gave him ideas."

"You don't mean…"

"Siffrin tried to break out on their own. Emphasis on tried. And they almost succeeded, too. But they didn’t, and… Gems, Isabeau, those monsters ripped into him. Gleeful to punish them. He almost died."

Isabeau stares, horrified. "No…"

"By all accounts, they should have made it, too. They turned into a great, raging beast during their attempt. Destroyed half of the base. It was beautiful…” A wistful look crosses her face. Then, she shakes her head. “But, it took too much energy. By the time they made it out of the fences, they passed out. If only they could have made it just a bit farther… but no. It simply wasn’t in the cards. I knew then that it was too dangerous to go through with my plan.”

Isabeau blinks. "But—” He steps forward— “But you were never found out. Why did you—"

"And what could I do that Siffrin couldn't?” Isabeau freezes, shocked at her volume, the frustration in her voice. “I'm only human, after all. I have no powers. My authority is meaningless, conditional. Every time I pushed for improvements to Siffrin’s living conditions, I got met with resistance. My allyships were terse and unstable. My connections within the base could only offer me so much. I was threatened with termination multiple times. When the papers came through, I knew I had to act while I still had the pitiful gains I’d gotten over the years. Knew I wouldn’t have them for much longer if I didn’t change my tune for the worse. If he couldn’t escape, there was little else I could do for him but just... keep things from deteriorating. Keep the others from getting too greedy. Fulfill my role as a scientist at their expense and be content with reducing harm."

She laughs then, completely mirthless. "Funny, and I couldn't even do that. They went behind my back anyway. I’m useless to him."

Heavy silence follows. For the first time Isabeau can ever remember, Dr. Odile's eyes are wet. Genuinely wet.

"So, what now?" Isabeau asks. "Are you warning me not to try it myself?"

"I'm telling you that I don't care anymore. We have nothing to lose. If they're going to kill Siffrin anyway, then we might as well try and get him out, right?"

Isabeau can't believe his ears. "You want to try again."

"I know you've been thinking the same thing.” She grins, shark-toothed. “You're obvious, Isabeau. And you're the only one on this project that I can trust to help me."

Perfect. Perfect. He has help from inside, now. From Dr. Odile, no less. Isn't this wonderful? Isn't this exactly what he needed?

“I don’t want your help,” he says.

She gapes at him. “Pardon?”

“I. Don’t. Want. Your. Help.”

She continues to stare, flabberghasted, before anger—genuine, white-hot anger—twists her face, and she snarls. “Why not? What makes you think you have more of a chance on your own? What, you have something better in mind? A better plan? Do you even have a plan?”

Yes, it’s illogical. It seems like Dr. Odile makes all sense of logic and reason leave Isabeau’s body. However, this time he feels a little justified for one simple reason:

“You gave up on him.” His hands close into tight fists at his sides. “You had everything set up. You spent nine years on your plan. And yet, as soon as things went awry, you gave up on him. Why would I want help from a coward?”

Her eyes flare wide. “Coward? I’m sorry, did you hear the part about how they tried to break out and almost died? How they couldn’t make it even as a giant monster? Or anything else I just told you?”

“What’s stopping you from giving up again? The conditions are even worse now. You’ll probably die trying.”

“I don’t care.”

“That’s not good enough.”

“Oh, not good enough? Not caring about my own safety isn’t good enough? Then how about this?” She rounds the table and steps into his space with frightening speed. Isabeau falls back a step, but she follows. Face-to-face, Isabeau can see every year on her face, the wear and lines of age, the slant of decades of stress. “Isabeau Rochefort, you are not courageous. You are not a hero. You are a mortal, a sack of meat piloted by hormones and electrical impulse, and if you think you’re above your own hardwired survival responses, then you’re worse than an idiot.”

“But—”

“You’re letting your emotions rule over you, and know what that will do? That will kill Siffrin.”

Isabeau sucks in a sharp breath through his teeth. ­“You—"

“Am I wrong? I know you know it. You’re useless to him if you can’t get your head out of the dirt and see the facts for what they are. You’re a far lower rank than me, with far less trust from your colleagues, and you don’t know that Gems­-forsaken base like I do. On top of it all, you don’t even have a plan. I know you don’t. This isn’t bravery. This is a pointless game of self-righteousness, and in this kind of game, the only ones that win are the enemy. And for the record—I’m not your enemy. I never have been, and I never will be unless you give me a reason to be one, and right now, you’re giving me lots of reasons.”

She pulls back, then, adjusting the lapels of her cardigan and the glasses perched on her nose with slow, careful precision, both of which had gone slightly askew. She sighs, long, slow, composing. “You can hate me,” she says, much calmer. “I don’t care. We don’t need to be friends. If we succeed in helping Siffrin escape and get them somewhere safe, then we can go on and never speak to each other again. But, for now, we need to work together to save him.” Despite her cool demeanor, her eyes still burn holes into him as she stares him in the face. “Are you willing to listen to reason now?”

“I…”

She raises a brow.

Isabeau groans and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Fine. Fine! Let’s work together. Not like either of us have a choice if we want to live.” His hand drops. “However, I have one condition.”

“And that is?”

“I have a friend on the outside. She knows about Siffrin. She’s going to help, too.”

“Only if I can bring in another person, myself.”

What? “I thought you said I was the only one on the team you trusted.”

“I never said they were on the team.”

“And I should trust them because?”

“I should ask you the same thing.”

Okay, she has a point.

“Well?” she prompts.

“…Who are they?”

“A colleague from a different department. She’s an explosives specialist.” She grins. “She also despises the military. The two of you would get along swimmingly.”

“Explosives? So—”

“We’ll have the whole base after us if we don’t stop them from following. What better way than blowing the whole place up on the way out?”

Isabeau’s jaw drops. “You want to bomb the whole base?”

“Oh, no, I don’t just want to. It’s an integral part of our little scheme. We’re doing that whether you want to or not.”

“But… but the people inside—”

“Will have ample time to evacuate, but not without abandoning all their artillery, supplies, documents, and vehicles. Ever wanted to see a tank fly? This colleague of mine has dreams about it.”

Isabeau can’t seem to muster up any words. His jaw moves, but all he can do is stutter—until, finally, the sounds form into words and he says, “You’re insane.”

“I have to be to go against the military. Surely, you understand.”

Terrifyingly, he does.

“Do you accept my conditions, then?” she asks.

“…Do you accept mine?”

“Do I have a choice?”

“No.”

“Then, yes, it’s a deal.” She holds a hand out to shake.

He takes it, wondering whether, this time, he really is making the worst mistake of his life.

That evening, before bed, as Isabeau checks his phone one last time, curled tight on himself under his duvet, he receives an email from work.

Human Resources.

Notice of Layoff to Isabeau Rochefort.

What?

What?

He shoots upright in bed as he taps on the notification. The letter is brief—a few short paragraphs explaining that the Lab Assistant II position—his title and rank—is being eliminated and that he has two more weeks of employment before being bumped to layoff status.

He can only get the general idea as he reads; his hands are shaking so hard, it’s a little difficult to keep his eyes on the screen.

Two weeks. He only has two weeks to get Siffrin out of there.

He hasn’t even gotten to discuss the full plan with Dr. Odile yet! Mirabelle doesn’t even know! Not the plan and not even what happened! How will they get everything prepared in time? How will—

His regular texting app is already open before he can think twice about it, with his message to Dr. Odile shot off only a moment later. I was just laid off. I have two weeks.

He waits long, agonizing minutes simply staring, waiting for a response. He shouldn’t bother. She might already be asleep. But he’s too anxious to care.

After what feels like an eternity, the little thinking bubble that indicates she’s typing pops up. She answers promptly: As was I. Same time frame.

No. No, no, no!

Crab, Isabeau thinks, panicking. He knew the timeline was tight, if only for the sake of Siffrin’s safety, but now—

They don’t have time.

Two weeks.

We’re cooked, he thinks. We’re so cooked.