Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Regardless of how ridiculously accommodating that shoulder was, or how unreasonably safe those arms made Rosalind feel, it was neither her preferred way of falling asleep nor an ideal state to wake up to. Besides, she had clearly overslept. Again! Who would've thought that an attempt to slip out of bed could, after all, rouse that sleepyhead—even if for that their limbs had to virtually intertwine. The marine stirred and mumbled, tightening her embrace before cracking one eye open to regard the president with unmistakable discontent, as if last night's concessions hadn't absolved Myers of all real and imagined sins toward the girl.

This time, Rosalind took the hint to establish explicit boundaries. By her decree, they were to spend the day apart: the president confined to the study, and the sergeant free to pursue any entertainments that wouldn't involve her—on the sole condition that she abandon this foolish estrangement and return to the bedroom by nightfall.

Fully awake and unusually reticent, Valerie refrained from revisiting yesterday or challenging the plan for today—and eventually let her go, but not before sabotaging her intermediate attempt at getting out of bed with a leisurely morning sex. By the time Rosalind had finally wrestled herself out of that grip, before she risked lingering there till unbecoming noon, her retreat resembled a rout.

On her way to the study, Myers took a quick detour to her bedroom to wash off the weakness those hands and mouth had left. Now that she had put enough walls between her and the girl, the air itself felt lighter, undeterred by the gloomy sky above the cabin, heavy with the promise of snowfall. After a quick deliberation, she settled on a beige pullover with jeans in case she would aspire for a walk, then disposed of the second unclaimed pair of sleeping pills to mask her inability to keep track of her medication without the aide's help. Her failure to maintain the schedule was a lapse enough.

Having skipped yesterday's lunch and dinner, she still didn't feel hungry for the oatmeal, yet the hot coffee pot she picked out of the dumbwaiter deepened the welcome sense of onsetting serenity. Two hours late, perhaps, but she was the president, which meant she was on time. Locked in her study at last, she notified Hannah she was ready to go through the next week's agenda—and the barrage of ridicule for the entirely speculative cause of this delay.

Half an hour later, as the fax kept pouring out a fresh dosage of briefs and reports, the president observed the first timid snowflakes tear off the clouds and unhurriedly float down, only to be tossed around by the rising ground wind. Settled on the windowsill with that pile, she meticulously worked through each page, annotating margins with questions and resolutions to be sent back.

That had taken her till lunch, which she spent blissfully alone, unconcerned about the girl in the least. If Rosalind understood anything about her, the sergeant had already won over her detail and dined downstairs, indulging in more variety at that—her bodyguards were not subjected to her doctors' strict guidelines. She herself put up with those as long as they didn't make too much fuss about her smoking. On her return to the study, she lit up by the window, upholding the other end of that unspoken deal.

The snowfall only thickened, blurring the sharp edge of the dark pine woods against the grey sky. Tomorrow, she would need to leave for the Farm. Once sealed after the CIA's downfall, the facility had been covertly restored as training grounds and a dedicated command center she preferred to visit in person for principal briefings or ops that might require her immediate input. Whatever the next day held, for now she remained perfectly calm—right until her eyes caught a bright speck of color on that opening, between the transparent fence and the ravine by the woods.

Rosalind involuntarily pursed her lips at somebody in yellow plowing her cherished winter landscape on a hover snowmobile—she had no doubt who that might be. Despite having no chance of prior acquaintance with the vehicle, the sergeant deftly swerved all over the immaculate surface, laying waste in her wake. It perfectly encapsulated her effect on the president's sense of normalcy and routine.

Myers steadied herself with a deep drag, holding back the urge to get Reyes on the line and that mess out of her sight. She should cease allowing the girl that much sway over her emotions. By tomorrow, the fresh snow would erase every trace of the intrusion anyway. Not risking provoking her irritation further, Rosalind moved from the window and sank behind the desk, immersing herself in the freshly arrived batch of commentaries.

An hour later, Reyes called with the scheduled report, reaffirming the elevated threat level and relaying Sergeant Linder's request to see her—if possible, of course. The slight fluctuations in the tone conveyed over the intercom that the agent genuinely wished to stay out of their business but couldn't outright refuse the presidential guest's plea. Equally reluctant, the president consented and, within a minute, allowed the sergeant into the study.

"Soo…" the familiar voice tried to seize her attention. Myers lifted her eyes with undisguised disapproval—only to grimace at the orange t-shirt with an acid-green logo she wouldn't bother to decipher. Valerie offered a repentant smile in return. "Apologies for that. Janet tried to warn me, but I didn't hear 'til it was too late."

"Is this about your sense of style?" the president muttered, returning to her reading. "Not sure if Reyes would be much help, but any second opinion can't hurt at this point."

"Hey, that's my Sunday best!" The girl was quick to object and just as quick to lose the excessive confidence. "Talking 'bout fucking up your—"

"It's fine," Rosalind lied. She wasn't about to let this silly antic disturb her peace more than it had already. "Just make sure you listen next time. For all you know, it could be a minefield."

"I…," the sergeant trailed off. "Huh? Really?" She sounded genuinely perplexed. "They all gave me this look like I was about to leave this place in a casket. And not from tripping over some landmine—"

"I said it's fine, Valerie," the president insisted, raising both her voice and her gaze. The marine stubbornly held her stare.

"If ya say so," she conceded at last and changed the subject. "You had a bite?" Rosalind paid the girl a sharper look, wondering whether she had to fire her detail for warming up to the sergeant enough to loosen their tongues. In the end, she concluded that, if that were the case, Valerie would already know the answer.

"I had lunch," she replied, solely to preempt the usual round of unsolicited concern. "Anything else?"

"Listen," the sergeant glanced at the sofa remaining turned toward the fireplace, and cleared her throat. "Know ya asked to stay outta your hair, but maybe—"

"Fine," Myers agreed, not caring to listen to the whole clumsy request with an evident intent, and refocused on the papers. Perhaps, under her watch, the girl wouldn't cause more havoc. "But just for an hour."

"Aye aye, ma'am," the marine beamed and promptly left the study, only to return with yesterday's book.

From the corner of her eye, she saw the girl occupy the closest windowsill this time around, but the reminder of her spoiled view nudged the president to mind her own business. For quite some time, she did exactly that, oddly comforted by this presence, if not by the insufficiency of the updated report. She glanced at the sergeant, consumed by her reading, eyes flicking back and forth across the lines, and conceived a frivolous thought experiment.

"Supposedly, you need to track down Night Corp's activity," she began without missing a beat, as if they were mid-conversation. "A decade's worth of data at your fingertips. How'd you proceed?" The girl stared, startled, and remained silent for a few moments, likely replaying the question in her head since she hadn't been fully listening.

"Um, dunno the first thing 'bout crunching the data," she frowned as she grasped the meaning. "Hardly an analyst, y'know."

"Just… entertain me," Myers shrugged. She held no real expectations for this exchange.

"Heh, entertain, ya say. 'K, doable." Valerie plopped the book onto her lap and stared at the ceiling, brow furrowed in exaggerated concentration, then shot the president a goofy grin. "Don't laugh, but I'd prolly hunt down some conspiracy junkie—the crazier, the better—and get a feel for the rumor mill." Rosalind didn't laugh. In fact, she pierced the sergeant with her most absorbed look, but the girl didn't notice and went on, grinning, "Maybe even slip into their message boards. Tell 'em there's a new clan of outer space vampires turning chooms into ghouls and, uh, thralls. Then feed 'em some of that data. Bet they'll eat that shit up and cough up—" The marine lost the thread, finally picking up her expression. "Hey, why the look?" Rosalind shook it away.

"Some… novel approach, that," she remarked vaguely to cover for her reaction. The agency had been monitoring such boards, mainly to ensure everything stayed under wraps. She personally received reports if any theories edged too close to items on the watch list. Actually using conspirologists to track events and people—that kind of originality felt like a gulp of fresh air, and the girl was demonstrating it on the first attempt without even realizing its worth.

"Kinda asked for entertainment," the sergeant frowned in confusion. The president let out an indefinite hum in response. Perhaps she should've asked her FIA analysts for entertainment, too. "Ran into their lot before, is all. Those brains are just wired differently, sniffing out patterns where everyone else gets zilch. Interpretations, though, could use some work."

"Hm, think so?" Rosalind smiled at the girl's attempts to justify the idea, already brilliant regardless of whether it would work, and opted to test it without Valerie's knowledge, lest it went straight to that head. Keeping her humble was already getting difficult enough, however satisfying it was to watch her grow back into her former self.

"What, wanna confess you're a reptilian?" the sergeant flashed a cheeky smile.

"No sooner than you admit you're a werewolf," Myers scoffed, pretty well-versed in the basic conspiracy lore herself.

The wolfish grin she saw on that face now instantly reminded her of this morning, when pinned to the mattress by that hot body and the cool metal arm around her waist, she clenched at the pillows, fervent mouth on her back and slow fingers inside driving her dizzy and weak. Sensing the tingle of that weakness in her fingertips, she kept her breathing and expression calm.

"Rosalind…" The sergeant's voice was tinged with unmistakable suggestion.

"Absolutely not. Read your book," Myers firmly quelled those untimely flames of hope, glancing at the ashtray in search of her cigarettes—and recalled having tossed the empty pack in the bin. She tugged at the middle drawer to her left, yet another secret stash, but found it stuck. A stronger yank pried it open, its sparse contents rushing forward with a disproportionately loud clank.

"You all right there?" Valerie asked calmly. The president cast her an irritated glance: ignoring her recommendation, the sergeant kept tracking her every move, the book still resting on her lap.

"Peachy," Rosalind grunted and diverted her full attention back to the drawer, instantly spotting the needed pack and a small black box. She frowned, musing how something like that could've ended up here, and took a peek inside. "Huh, I guess it's yours." She pushed the box closer to the front edge of the desk. The sergeant gave her a puzzled look and hesitantly rose from the windowsill, setting the book aside. "You had no uniform back then. Now that you do, you still can't wear this. But it's yours," the president explained as the girl approached her table and picked up the box, the chrome of her hand clinking lightly against its plastic as she opened it.

"A service ribbon?" she asked, confusion etching her face as she failed to recognize the strip's pattern: light blue with five white stars. Most likely, she had never seen one up close during her time in service.

"A corresponding service ribbon," Myers corrected. The marine took a closer look, then lifted her eyes to the president, smirking. Knowing full well that the girl found the stars forming a narrow 'M' amusing, she answered the implied question: "I'm not that vain. That pattern predates me by far."

"Uh-huh, and this is—"

"A 'V' device. They're supposed to go together," Rosalind explained and watched the smirk grow only wider. She rolled her eyes. "'V' for 'valor,' but you're right—probably another sixteen-year-old came up with that." Valerie shook her head at the jab.

"Was in the boot when I got that figured out. You actually handed a fucking Medal of Honor to some dirty merc?" Her glance flicked up at the president unimpressed by this self-deprecating description, then returned to the box, smile fading into odd melancholy. "And Naval no less—I keep it stashed but definitely 'member the anchor."

"Must've found the Air and Space Forces version a bit ironic given I'd crushed my SFO at your doorstep," Rosalind said dryly. Whatever hidden meaning the girl was trying to dig out of that box, there was none. "Too bad I fell short of your wish, but official decorations tend to be more… tame. At least you can wear that Bronze Star."

"Really had this talk 'bout medals in that ward?" Valerie's quiet voice conveyed her uncertainty. Apparently, she hadn't just been playing coy with telling that reporter she remembered little.

"Mm-hmm," Rosalind retrieved a cigarette and lighted it at last. "Had no idea you were that high, though. Seemed coherent. Funny, even."

"Figure ya find pretty much anything 'bout me funny," the sergeant grumbled half-heartedly. "Can recall some snippets, but…" She paused, trying and failing to fight a sudden grin. "Can't trust 'em much. One moment we're talking, the next you're naked and I got two 'ganic hands." Startled by her own admission, Valerie blinked. "Wasn't fantasizing 'bout you on purpose, y'know," she tucked in quickly.

"Surely hope so, Sergeant Linder. It would've been utterly impudent, wouldn't it?" the president murmured, reclining in her chair and taking a long draw paired with an equally long assessing look at the girl. To her satisfaction, the marine grew increasingly self-conscious until a flush of red crept up her cheeks. Finally! She had started to miss it lately.

Embarrassed by the unfortunate slip, the girl lowered her gaze back to her hand—and squinted at something. Her finger hovered above the box in deliberation, then retreated back into a loose fist, never touching its contents. With a quiet thump, the box closed but stayed in her hand. Her eyes shot up with the same probing expression.

"You believe in fate?" she asked.

"Fate, huh?" Myers arched an eyebrow at the most stray topic and paused for another long draw. Perhaps it was her turn to entertain the sergeant. "I get why it may be so enticing when you're young, this idea that your life has a plot—that's essentially what fate means." The girl watched her closely, clearly intrigued. "Another decade or two in the ring, and you notice that storylines go nowhere all the time, few things get real closure, and character development sucks. But, once you achieve some prominence, your biographers are bound to dig out divine providence in that heap of horseshit and routine. Just because plotless books are a hard sell, I suppose. And just like that, you either become a story of predestined success—or a cautionary tale with all the telltale signs. So no, I don't believe in fate." Rosalind stubbed out the cigarette and cast a pensive glance at the sergeant. "But for what it's worth, I can almost believe your life has a plot."

Valerie slowly nodded in thought, then slipped the box into her sweatpants pocket, circled the table, and leaned in for a kiss, unceremoniously bracing her chair with her right hand on the top and left on the armrest. The president willingly entertained the marine for another minute, her hand gripping the garish t-shirt to keep the girl's lips where she wanted them before pushing away, but not too far, saving the chance to savor the signs of struggle on that face. Her own breathing barely affected, she caught Valerie's mouth in another kiss.

"Four hours. If you leave me alone," she promised, sacrificing her plans for a walk and a few deferrable memos to the plea in those grey eyes.

"Make it three." The girl was desperate enough to bargain. Rosalind glanced aside at the white-knuckled grip around her armrest. Lauding her restraint, she pecked the sergeant on the cheek before releasing her t-shirt.

"You've got yourself a deal."

*****

"Make sure it's out before you fall asleep," Myers murmured from the bed, drowsy yet alert to everything happening around.

Valerie looked back and smiled. Flat on her stomach with both hands tucked beneath the pillows, the woman had retreated so deep into her half of the bed that her bent knee nearly hung over the mattress's edge. The position seemed designed not only to maximize her comfort but also to minimize the risk of intrusion into her personal space. Having finished tending the fire, the marine slid the transparent screen blocking all sounds back into place. Still perplexed by the notion of a silent fireplace, she rose from the hearth and softly slipped into the bed.

The mattress barely giving way under her chrome elbow, she inched closer, relishing the familiar warmth and scent. The woman didn't acknowledge her presence until Valerie ran her organic fingers up her side. That elicited a faint hum of displeasure, as if she were a bothersome fly. Her grin only widened. A whole day of abstaining from Myers made it impossible to willingly surrender her to sleep this soon after sex.

It also made the sergeant adventurous enough to test how far she could push. Today, the president had been uncharacteristically lenient with her blunders, so, in a way, it was her fault. Valerie brushed a kiss against the shoulder blade exposed by the blanket's oversight. The stoic silence that followed only emboldened her to slide her fingers along that bare back, tugging the covers lower, to the woman's waist. The room was more than warm for that.

"I told you I need to sleep." Myers' voice had a forbearing quality to it, as if right now she were enduring torture.

"Need? Or want?" Valerie tried her luck.

"Being an adult is a foreign concept to you, I assume, but the latter rarely matters." the president couldn't resist mocking her, burrowing her hands even deeper under the pillow, as if trying to hide under them entirely.

"Uh-huh…" In the same non-combative yet persistent manner, the sergeant ignored the weary jab and kept tracing the curvature of that back by touch until her fingertips stumbled on a faint ridge of scar tissue. Old and barely visible in the flickering light—yet she didn't take kindly to these reminders of Myers' mortality. "Why keep 'em?" she asked quietly, placing her hand at the woman's waist. Her own body had once shed its past marks until she caught a splatter of fresh ones, losing her arm in the process. No doubt, the president had every means to shed hers.

"Mmm, them what? Scars?"Myers muttered, reluctantly conceding to her persistence. "My Chief of Staff would argue I'm too vain to bother being perfect." A tiny prick of envy aside, Valerie found the idea of someone freely poking fun at the president entertaining. That was the only type of interaction she remained eager to reciprocate, but not initiate on her own. The woman must've been truly relaxed to let this rare glimpse of personal commentary escape.

"That how ya wind up the prez? Outta vanity?" The sergeant tried her best at sounding innocent as she pried for more.

"How indeed," Myers mused, her knee inching higher. "Out of vanity, yes. And hubris. But mostly, to avoid public humiliation." Valerie blinked at the answer and pressed a kiss to her shoulder. For now, the approach worked.

"What sorta humiliation? Your mom's best friend's kid became the Pope, so ya figured Militech CEO just wasn't cutting it anymore?" she probed deeper and immediately set off alarm bells. The president lifted her head from the pillow briefly, only to drop it back.

"You're awful at this," she chuckled at those fishing efforts, too placated for a real rebuke. "Never go for a career in corporate espionage. And never change," she added seriously.

"Seems doable," Valerie promised, kissing the little bony bump where the shoulder blade met the collarbone. "Bet you're still itching to spill."

"Not much to spill, really." The woman's tone turned reflective and dry as she shifted slightly. "Almost got ousted by the board, so I had pretty much two options: either go down in flames or run for the hills. Chose to run for president. The hubris was thinking it wasn't another lost cause." Now, that pensive mood turned sour. The sergeant winced at the result of her own careless poking. Had she really expected this particular topic to produce a lighthearted anecdote?

"Why stick with Militech in the first place?" She lingered on the subject, waiting for an opening to swerve away. "Doesn't look like you liked 'em that much." An odd thing to have in common for its former CEO and a Badlands nomad. "They pay that well?"

"Please. I'm so old money I couldn't care less. I wanted to make a difference." The answer came off surprisingly intense. Myers lifted her head again, chin propped on the pillow. "When both Kress and Landee were finally out of the picture, it felt like the dawn of a new era. But I suppose you wouldn't remember that," she couldn't help slipping in a usual prod at her age.

"You bet I wouldn't." A cheeky smile lit Valerie's face as she realized that the joke could easily swing both ways. "Born the same year Kress called it quits."

"Oh fuck," the woman burrowed her face back into the pillow. "What am I even doing here?"

"Telling me 'bout the good ol' days," Valerie pivoted her from this unwarranted introspection. The last thing she needed was the president second-guessing the sergeant's stay in her bed.

"The good ol' days they were," Myers agreed. "Until I realized determination didn't hold a candle to spinelessness and greed." That quickly took an even grimmer turn. "Windham was about as helpful as a screen door on a submarine. So, I was left to butt heads with the board without any support system. When that failed, I stole his seat right from under his ass at the party convention and ran on a blind hope for a CEO I could work with. Ha. The much hungrier pup they replaced me with won't take a dump on his own will." She stirred as if cold, prompting Valerie to pull up the blanket and press into her back.

The woman didn't seem to mind her weight, but stayed quiet long enough that the marine began to wonder if she would continue. She did. "After four terms, you can't help realizing your first one has become the good ol' days too. Just because back then I could promise something I can't anymore. A hope. A next New Frontier, if you will. All I have to offer now is the old Oregon Trail. Either cholera and chemicals or a drinkable water tax—that's some quality reenactment." There was no amusement in that laugh. "When I took office, the NUS was the thirty-first world economy, now we're twentieth. There go sixteen years of my life and the American pipe dream," the president didn't bother hiding contempt. "When the dust settles, Texas can take us back into the top ten, but I'm not sure if it matters now."

"Whatcha even trying to do?" Valerie asked in a hushed voice, afraid to disturb the moment. It was probably the first time the woman had let her peek into her mind. Did she even have someone to talk to like this? Maybe that Chief of Staff.

"I…" Myers paused, taking a moment to find the right words. "You know, in my entire extended family—believe me, it's a very tall and sprawling tree—there were only two Medals of Honor."

"What, wanna get one for yourself?" Not giving her time to finish, the sergeant frowned at the absurdly shallow sentiment.

"No, I just don't want to see this country's highest military award treated like a trinket. Least of all by clueless mercs." Her inconsiderate interruption drew a harsh response. "Not a dig at you," the president's voice lost its strain, "God knows you've earned it and more, but…" She let the thought hang in the air.

"I think I get it," Valerie nodded and let her forehead rest against the woman's back.

For her, it had always been more than a trinket. For years, it had remained the last thread that tied her to Myers, even if it was never touched by her hand. In the pocket of her sweatpants draped over an armchair sat the box she hadn't received back then. Inside that box was a tiny 'V' device, with an even smaller fingerprint etched by time and patina in its bronze. Aware it would only invite offhand ridicule, she would never mention its existence to the president—yet that fingerprint alone meant more to her than any medal ever could. But it didn't inspire awe, only tenderness. Hardly the effect Myers hoped for.

"Don't take setbacks that well, do ya?" the sergeant tried to lighten the mood.

"Do you?" the woman scoffed.

"Never got much choice," Valerie shrugged. "Life's always on the lookout for new ways to humble me."

"Well, can't say the same," the president dismissed the very idea of such humility. "The Arvin Accord served me my first full-size humble pie, and I hated its stench."

It must've been an entirely different life experience, not having to face a real blow for most of it. When Valerie had no choice but to spring back to her feet over and over, another fall could knock her back to the starting point but would barely scathe her desensitized pride. For Myers, it might've been the exact opposite, even the smallest loss burning like hell. But too proud and ambitious to ever give up, the woman had an exact idea of what her world should look like. And the will to see her vision through. If only she could make everyone believe in it with the same conviction she did. A cold suspicion crept up Valerie's spine. She drew back and studied the president in the wavering light.

"Whatcha gonna do with Night Corp's tech, Rosalind?" she found the guts to ask—and felt the woman tense.

"No." Myers' left hand left its seclusion, clearly aimed at using those sleeping pills to finish this argument before it began. The sergeant's hand shot out, catching her forearm midair.

"Please, think 'bout it. Can't trust anyone in this fucking world with this sorta tech!" she pleaded, feeling the ribcage beneath her heave with barely restrained anger.

"Think I don't know that!?" That was the only warning before Myers tried to shake her hand off. Valerie held firm through the brief flare of temper, releasing her once she ceased those futile attempts. She pressed a kiss to the woman' neck in apology, knowing full well she had crossed the line—and immediately felt fingers slip into her hair, tight enough to convey outrage but reining in their full force.

Unable to bottle the mix of tenderness and frustration, she turned the president around, mouth instantly stung by a kiss. This time neither held back. Still braced on the metal elbow, she slammed into Myers, wedging knee between her thighs and grabbing her hip. Their lips never parting, the kiss soon left Valerie breathless, smothering thought as her eyes shut tight. Spurred on by the hands clawing at her head and back, she ground hard against the woman, swallowing all soundless moans, until Myers squeezed her shoulders, arching into her, and pushed her away.

The sergeant rolled over onto her back and opened her eyes, the pent-up silence in the room disrupted only by their heavy breathing. For a time, they stayed just like that, on their respective sides of the bed—naked and tense, the tangled mass of blankets between them.

"Think I can hand it over to the agency or Militech and still trust the thoughts in my head?" the president cut into the quiet, always the first to reclaim control over her body.

"Why couldn't ya just say that?" Valerie asked, exasperation bursting back to life.

"Because I don't tie my hands with pointless promises, and I sure as hell don't explain myself. You're not my fucking moral compass." Myers made no effort to soften the edge. But why would she? She was the fucking prez. "Keep pushing and your frustration will rot into resentment."

"Not gonna resent you," Valerie brushed the warning off. After all, she had already made that promise to herself. Turning her head to the right, she caught a bitter smile on the woman's lips.

"Of course not," Myers muttered, glancing back at her before tugging a corner of the blanket free. "You'd rather resent yourself. For letting me go down the same road. For having to sit and watch." Somehow, that sounded like a ridicule. "Whatever horseshit you'll wrap it into—it's not up to you." She enunciated every word and turned onto her stomach, back into her insulated status quo, leaving the sergeant to glare at the ceiling alone. Valerie did just that for a while before finally breathing out her knotted aggravation in one long, and a bit exaggerated exhale. Then she turned onto her side and looked at the woman.

"Case ya wanna go for a ride in a drop-top through Dallas? Do I sit and watch too?" she grumbled. A beat later, the president's back quivered with quiet laughter, taking her appeal to extremes for an excellent joke.

"Such an easy way out, dying on my victory lap, isn't it?" Myers mused, her tone almost wistful. "Alas, another cop-out's off the table." And this coming from the same woman who had accused her of suicidal ideation! Valerie shook her head but shifted closer to gently tuck her in. "I really need to sleep," the president sighed, as if doubting the purity of her intentions.

"Fine, I'll watch your back," the sergeant pressed a very restrained kiss to her shoulder blade.

"You'll be dead asleep faster than me. Hardly a guardian," the woman scoffed. That earned her a restrained bite. "But first, take care of the fireplace." The marine complied—she had already exhausted all goodwill for the day.

She promptly choked the embers before returning to bed, but unable to keep her distance, she still edged closer. Maybe she wouldn't stay awake guarding the president's back all night, but she could at least shield it from the cold. After a brief hesitation, she placed her hand back on that waist. A moment later, Myers' hand found her wrist and pulled it higher. Satisfied with that compromise and the pleasant weight in her palm, Valerie smiled and closed her eyes for the night.

*****

The AV doors opened only after the hatch above the underground landing pad sealed shut again, still giving her the disturbing impression of being swallowed by the earth. The president left her detail by the aircraft and entered the narrow private corridor reserved for her alone. There were things even her bodyguards weren't meant to witness. And if danger ever lurked down here, it would be far beyond anyone's ability to stop.

Wincing at the tasteless recycled air, she crossed the passage, her footsteps silenced by the acoustic flooring beneath her feet. The agency had learned enough from years of building underground facilities to know that in this unnatural confinement, almost mute save for the low hum of ventilators, the echo of routine sounds over prolonged time could gnaw on the personnel's nerves.

The president entered the briefing room, its rigid practicality barely softened by a few abstract paintings on the walls. Content to find everyone assembled and ready—including one face she didn't recognize—she sent all four back to their seats with a nod, then took her place at the head of the conference table, the overhead displays flickering through their usual cascade of stats.

"So, whaddaya have for me, Nader?" she asked the woman in the beige suit on her right, the one she had personally picked for the role of Mission Director. Sharp and composed, she carried herself with the quiet confidence of someone who had everything under control.

"Well, we've finished mapping all possible sectors across the city. Some look more promising, but for now only boots on the ground can give us more," Nader started the briefing. Her current assignment remained classified even from her former Station Director—for all he knew, she had been relegated to tracking orbital launches from Cape York. He had even filed a formal complaint about wasting her potential. Such accusations were entirely undeserved.

"And the issue why we hesitate?" Myers led her on.

"The issue is, we still don't know what makes our agents vulnerable, ma'am," the woman grimaced and switched all displays to a Night City map. "See those grey zones? That's where even our satellites are next to useless. For now, we've got to be smart about how we move, if we want at least a handful of agents left standing by next year." Rosalind paused, studying the map—or rather the infrastructure grid plan—some of those words hitting closer than she would like.

"Do we have their orbital net mapped?" she asked. If she had to play from behind, she'd rather drag them down as well.

"More or less," the woman had to grimace again. No wonder. The obstacles piling up at every turn must've started chipping away at her sense of control too. "We've tracked a few more subcontractors who might be lending their capacity to Night Corp and passed the intel to GI for a check, but—"

"Yeah, if we can trace them, that's not it," the president discarded the result.

"Exactly. So we want to try it backward," Nader said, glancing across the table at the young woman Myers hadn't placed. "We're finishing the calculations for an optimal net to counter both ESA's and ours and then we'll see where it takes us." Predicting placement might be more effective, indeed. "For now we treat any satellite we can't clear as a possible target."

"Good. What about Luna?" The scale of Night Corp's ambition went that far. At least, they weren't much interested in Mars—or so the agency believed.

"We've cut the channel with the Tycho cell for now. Even if it's still encrypted, just pinging it would expose the team. So we've worked up a fallback—a more… old-fashioned comms route." The woman once again had a solution ready at hand. "There are enough clippers running back and forth to slip through a message in a bottle, so to speak," she added with a brief smile. "We suggest using the shuttles going from the NCX Spaceport."

"Proceed," the president approved. Doing it right under Night Corp's nose was risky, but those shuttles certainly drew less scrutiny on the receiving end. "Circling back to operative security—the prototypes, they're holding up?" To her discontent, for now the implant couldn't shield from mind manipulation, it only detected fluctuations outside the norm. Yet with it, they could trust the incoming intel to some degree.

"All NC operatives have the implants now," this time Campbell spoke up. As Senior Operations Instructor, the agents were his domain. Rosalind shifted her focus to the man and his permanent frown. She didn't remember ever seeing him without it. "Some we had to pull out for upgrades, others were redirected to a reliable ripperdoc on-site. We've set up five synch points around the city to secure the data flow." Myers nodded, urging him on. She knew the principle. The implants were designed to upload through a secure channel whenever an agent passed close enough. "At the moment, no one's gone dark or sketchy. Or flagged." She knew the protocol in that case too: extraction when possible, elimination when not. "Our cell in Tycho, though," the man moved on, "we can't bring them back to Earth or send the implants up. Had to mark them all as potentially compromised." The Tycho team had drawn the shortest straw with that assignment, having to struggle against not only the weight of paranoia in their ranks but also the looming prospect of a harrowing reinstatement process on return.

"So, any ideas how we've lost two agents this month alone?" she asked Nader.

"A theory," she responded, but instead of elaborating herself, she passed the floor to the unknown young woman on the left side of the table. "Schaefer?" So, it was an initiation of sorts. The president reclined in her chair and gave the designated speaker a thorough look.

"Denise Schaefer, analyst, ma'am," she introduced herself and cleared her throat, but nervousness was more expected than the lack of it. "We've scooped some fresh data from NCPD archives to look for patterns," she began. Rosalind noted her tense facial muscles and dilated pupils—a sure sign of stimulant overuse, an occupational hazard. She also caught the impersonal 'we,' but if she was the one speaking now, the theory was hers alone. "The past few months show an unusual rise in informants and street dealers turning up dead or missing—but no decline in violent crime. We suspect that Night Corp got hold of Ophanim and tweaked it for their needs, highlighting… deviating behavior of a different kind."

"A sneakier one," Myers drew the obvious conclusion herself.

"Yes, ma'am," the analyst confirmed. Rosalind mulled it over. The implications were plenty. Ophanim was a surveillance algorithm Militech had developed for policing NUSA proper—a proprietary tech that had cut crime rates and generated the corporation too much revenue to enter the public domain in any form. Any resale was contractually prohibited, of course.

"What makes you think it's ours, not an independent development?" she asked.

"Night Corp barely reaches outside NC, and training such a system eats through the data like a forest fire through wood. One city can never be enough." The answer rang both simple and true. The president tapped her fingertips against the black non-reflective tabletop and gave the analyst a slow nod.

"Nader, did Militech's NC chapter raise any flags over the past few years?" She returned her gaze to the Mission Director at her right.

"No, ma'am. Their reports were mainly about Arasaka and, occasionally, Biotech—almost nothing on Night Corp aside from a contested construction site a few years back. We took a peek into their communications with the main headquarters. Nothing of substance either." Of course, she had taken care to check that. The woman produced the most reasonable follow-up, "Am I authorized to look into them?"

"You are," Rosalind sanctioned the investigation. It was a high-stakes gamble. If Militech Tower caught wind of it, that would raise a shitstorm of biblical proportions. But… with solid proof that their division had gone rogue, she would enjoy twisting their arms so thoroughly the crunch would keep all of Washington awake for months. "I take it we're already working on countering the algorithm?"

"We have a few options, but it'll take some time," Nader confirmed.

"Good. Locating the facility is still a priority. How do we do that with minimal groundwork?" Her Mission Director's calm expression indicated that she had an answer ready, and once again she deferred to her new analyst.

"First, we tried mapping logistics, as you know, ma'am, but that wasn't effective. No affiliated subcontractor would be used for that kind of work if they're not idiots. And I have a strong feeling they are not." Rosalind found the need for establishing a premise redundant at that point, but let Schaefer move on at her own pace. "So, there's another idea. We have the city's infrastructure grid and know which nodes can handle what load. If we can assess the facility's scale, it may drastically narrow our search."

"Yes, how do you propose we do that?" the president attempted to cut that long-windedness short. Everything made sense logically, yet the exact approach remained unclear.

"The good old money trail," Schaefer said plainly. The answer left Myers unimpressed. And here she had started to like the newcomer's thinking. "There won't be direct lines, sure, but if we can get their maintenance expenses—that we can play with." She narrowed her eyes in attention, a hope raising its head. "You can't run a facility without people. And people have basic needs. They eat, they drink, they use the toilet. We need just one item they forgot to disperse. And as we can guess the demand of the facilities we know—"

"So, you're suggesting we subtract what we know from the total and see what's left," Rosalind put the remaining two and two together. It was a gamble as well.

"Yes, ma'am," the analyst nodded enthusiastically. "But we'd need their general ledger—and that's their main data fortress."

"Breaking into it…" The idea was alluring, the hypothesis could indeed work, but it amounted to a frontal assault. Rosalind gave the temptation a slow shake of her head. "Too risky. It'll point straight back at us."

"We might have the right 'contractors' for the job." Nader intervened on her analyst's behalf. "There's a promising group of NC netrunners the firm has been working for years. Covered them from NetWatch a few times too." The president remained unconvinced but listened. "Led by one Sandra Dorsett." An FIA file on a young blond woman on the overhead displays accompanied her words. "A former NetWatch employee with a successful break‑in of their data fortress on her résumé. She was the first to tip us about their experiments. For now, she remains our sole contact in the group, so if anything goes sideways—"

"You'd fry her up before Night Corp comes asking and she'd remain just that—a former employee who flew too close to the sun," Myers muttered in deliberation and once again found herself drumming at the tabletop, the description stirring something at the back of her mind. She absently followed the hunch. "Does our contact also have an unfortunate run‑in with the Scavs on that résumé?"

"Well, yes. Just around four years ago. Why?" Nader looked startled.

"Must be a residual memory," Rosalind waved it off. "Assuming they come through, how can we make sure they've left no breadcrumb trail? We might be better off disposing of the contact afterward in any case." The suggestion stiffened the new analyst in the corner of her eye. Promising, but too green for real stakes.

"It's a valuable asset, ma'am. I suggest we keep them." Her Mission Director found it excessive too, and Rosalind had never doubted her risk assessment before. "They've proven useful on many occasions, and our 'runners are prepared to pick up the slack." Perhaps she had grown overly cautious. Besides, she could show some goodwill to a fellow damsel in distress from her merc's former life.

"Fine, let's make that happen," Rosalind agreed at last, watching their faces relax. No competent agent was light on betraying their assets.

"I'll be ready to present the plan for the operation in an hour, ma'am," Nader said with a confident nod. "Thank you, everyone." She dismissed the team, though she herself stayed behind. For certain topics, the circle of discussion grew even tighter. Rosalind left her seat and approached the nearest painting.

"How's the Blackwall?" she asked, once the door had closed behind the last man—the Senior Analyst, who, as she had certainly noticed, hadn't said a word.

"It's getting more… erratic." Once the conversation touched on less human matters, confidence drained from the woman's voice. Few could truly comprehend them with certainty. Alas, AIs didn't appear to have a mirroring weakness—or, rather, they seemed entirely unconcerned by their own imperfect grasp of human nature. "Keeps NetWatch looking the other way, but beyond that we—"

"From what, Nader?" Rosalind glanced at her, turning away from the fruitless attempt to breathe life into the room. "Looking the other way from what?" It certainly wasn't for the FIA's benefit.

"That we don't know, ma'am," she shook her head in response. At least, she didn't try to feign cool. "Neither does NetWatch, but they keep padding Mikoshi's defense. Not trusting Arasaka to handle their own mess at this point, looks like. We've located brief contacts with three more unaffiliated netrunners, but need more time to trace them outside the Net."

"Time, I don't think we've got much of that left," Rosalind grimaced but didn't press on. The urgency of the matter pushed everyone to their limits.

Songbird, Songbird… If the kid were here, she might've known exactly what to do. No one around shared the same understanding of the Blackwall's logic, but that overfamiliarity had come at a steep price. The president waved her hand, granting her Mission Director permission to leave for now. She would rather spend this hour alone.

"Ma'am," the woman left her chair but hesitated to leave. "There's one more matter."

"What is it?" Myers raised an eyebrow.

"A minor issue, but still. You might recall I oversaw the clean-up op after the SFO attack," Nader said. Off-topic, yet oddly tangential to her own thoughts. The president hummed in acknowledgment. "Had to go through countless camera feeds to make sure our… local asset was never exposed and wouldn't compromise us. About a week ago, I caught a video of one Sergeant Linder. Never met the NC asset, so I wouldn't know the face, but some mannerisms…" She trailed off, likely finding that she had said enough.

"Hm, I see." Rosalind confirmed as much. All Night City footage had her merc's face distorted. That was why she had only ensured that those who had seen the girl in person would fail to recognize her new face, not taking into account that a trained agent might even be aided by the absence of a standard visual anchor. A flaw, but she knew Nader well enough not to consider it critical. "Those observations, did you share them with anyone else?"

"No, ma'am. Just wanted to know if we could count on that asset going forward. Wouldn't mind having it on hand. I assume that's the source of our newest intel." Naturally, Nader wasn't privy to the sergeant's current whereabouts. She had only deduced that the president wouldn't have visited a random marine, the entire conclusion resting on the presumption that Myers remained rational as ever. She also had no idea how much the girl had changed—or she wouldn't have needed to ask.

"No, the asset's decommissioned," Rosalind denied the request, her tone and gaze firm. Perhaps it was for the better that the sergeant's present state had freed her from having to make this choice. "I trust I can count on your further discretion."

"Of course, ma'am," Nader offered a slightly disappointed nod before stepping toward the exit.

"Where did you find that girl?" The question caught up with her by the door.

"Denise? She's been on the Australia desk for the past three years. Came across one of her reports and gave her a try." The biggest fallacy of the agency becoming too bureaucratic was its tendency to overlook talent. Just like her former Station Director, Nader had a good eye for it.

"My advice—make her your Senior Analyst, if you haven't already." It was precisely advice, not an order.

"I knew you would approve, ma'am," her Mission Director said with a smile before leaving the briefing room.

*****

The coals and occasional sparks still cast a red glow around the soundproof marble hearth, but their dying light barely reached the bed. Instead of cozy sleepiness, that eerie silence fostered lingering unease. Ever since her return late in the evening, Myers had remained distant, making an effort to be half-present for sex and then retreating back inside her head. Valerie hugged her tighter. The woman didn't seem to notice, leaving her to track the steady beating of the heart beneath her ear, chest rising and falling deep enough to promise calmness, but way too frequent for that.

The marine frowned and pressed her lips to the warm skin an inch below the collarbone—and caught that breathing hitch, as if she had interrupted some heavy thoughts. She shifted her weight from the president's shoulder to her own elbow and looked her in the face. Myers didn't look at her, her unblinking stare absorbed by the ceiling, teal almost black in the fireplace afterglow.

"Whatcha not telling me, Rosalind?" she asked quietly. After a pause, the woman's lips stretched in a smirk.

"Pretty much everything. And I'd rather it stayed that way," she dismissed the question. "Sleep now, I need to leave at first light." Again. The sergeant forced down the selfish irritation at having to spend another day apart. She suspected this would be the pattern going forward, though with weeks, not hours, separating their nights, but wanted to dwell on that even less. One of them brooding in bed was more than enough.

"Uh-huh, if I learned anything from sharing my head with a heavy smoker, you're dying for a ciggie. And the reason's not good." The remark finally earned Valerie a sideways glance.

"Am I being interrogated in my own bed?" Myers scoffed, incredulous.

"Ya into that sorta stuff?" The sergeant tested whether a playful joke could smooth over the concern on that face.

"I am not," the president cooled down her cheekiness with sober tone. "But once you're already aware of my… urges, I see no point in keeping them to myself." Her hand fumbled toward the pack and lighter on the nightstand before she cast the covers aside and, slipping from Valerie's arms, left the bed cold and empty.

The marine sighed and rolled onto her back, watching her slide into her silky robe before reaching the window and parting the drapes halfway. This cigarette was unmistakably a nervous one. Valerie had little idea what she was supposed to do, so she let the bright orange speck in the smooth glass surface pulse a few times before getting up herself. She pulled on her sweatpants and t-shirt, then picked up the heavy ashtray. She set it gently on the windowsill beside the woman and wrapped her arms around her, pressing into her back. Myers' free hand covering hers and lacing their fingers was a solid hint her presence wasn't entirely unwanted. Another was that the president hadn't bothered to fetch that ashtray herself.

"Hey, what's eating ya?" Valerie whispered, aware this was the last attempt before her concern would feel like a nuisance. She fell silent, letting the woman decide if she had anything to share besides the quiet, both of them staring into the night, dark and still, now that the clouds had emptied their two-day reserves of snow but not dispersed. Even without the moonlight, the view remained striking, mountains climbing the starless sky, slopes of white now deep blue. She hoped it gave Myers some peace of mind her silly jokes couldn't provide. The orange light had died out in the ashtray before the woman finally gave up.

"I was going to lose. As surely as daylight. Me, Peralez, and anyone with half a brain in the country knew that." The sergeant quietly studied the obscure outline of that face reflected in the dark window and let her continue uninterrupted. "Then that speech the day I visited some silly marine with zero sense of self-preservation. Suddenly I'm likable again. And caring. An unpredictable wrinkle in probability for any algorithm, but very… human." Valerie caught a wry smile in the reflection and went still as the mountain ridge beyond the window, careful not to break the fragile trust. The woman carried on, "I don't believe in fate. But I do believe in luck. I also happen to know that luck is just a momentary crutch—it may save you from the fall once, but you'd better have a real plan to prop you up next time around." She sighed as she tapped a second cigarette against the high windowsill in deliberation. It ended up back in the pack. Myers rubbed her eyes and confessed, "Truth is, I barely have a plan."

The room wasn't cold enough to explain the shiver that grazed the sergeant's neck. The woman she knew had always had a plan—and another nested within it—never wavering to see even the grimmest and direst of them through. However horrific the results her determination could yield, her admission that she didn't know what to do was even more disturbing.

"That bad?" Valerie asked, bracing herself for the wall of silence or contempt but hoping the shift in their dynamic might count for something in the end. 

"Worse, because I'm not yet fully aware how bad it is. Been too blinded by Arasaka's fall and Texas on a platter to look twice." The president hesitated, closing her eyes in the reflection, frustration frozen into her features. The sergeant spotted her own worried frown in the glass. No wonder she would irk Myers all the time with that expression of a kicked dog. She dropped it before the woman would open her eyes. "We studied Peralez' every step as Mayor. If he's someone's puppet, that's his masters' string map. Local, at least," she clarified, as their national blueprint hadn't been revealed. "There was this one tiny thing that kept bugging me. Everything else followed the usual script. Some tipped their hand, most just chased populist points. But NetWatch pensions… cutting expenses—that I can understand, but halting that funding barely saved anything. Couldn't weaken NetWatch in NC either."

"Like… corpo bad blood or something?" Valerie tried to grasp her logic. To her, it all sounded like a usual power play.

"Mmm." She watched Myers avert her eyes, as if retracing the exact source of her discomfort. "Don't get me wrong, all big players have a score with NetWatch to settle. You just don't pull something this… petty."

"Meaning… what? A personal beef?" The sergeant remembered the president's—in her own words—pettiness with Militech and couldn't resist smiling.

"Exactly," the woman nodded to her through the glass. "Can an AI hold a grudge? What do you think?"

"Huh, I know they do." Valerie's smile only widened, even if that question puzzled her a bit. "I mean, Alt was damn cold, but even she—"

"Alt?" the president interrupted her recollection. "You traversed the Blackwall?" she asked in her least-surprised tone.

"Did a lotta stupid shit chasing that cure," the marine shrugged. It was her doing stupid shit that had crossed their paths, after all. "Wait—so you're saying it was the AI's call? Those NetWatch pensions?" The laid-out pieces finally clicked.

"Nothing else makes much sense," Myers simply confirmed.

Corporate thirst for power and influence was almost trivial. The use of AI tools was hardly novel, too. First, Soulkiller and that chip in her head, then the personality-altering tech with a much more restrained code name Valerie couldn't recall. Yet those words implied that not just Peralez, but all of Night Corp was a puppet, with that nameless AI pulling the strings. And maybe it hadn't been acting alone. Now, that shiver turned into the cold whips of terror, raising the hair at the nape of her neck.

"Rosalind, who promised So Mi help back then?" she asked, daring to hope her luck and this sincerity wouldn't run out. The woman lifted her chin, as if staring down the mountains barely outlined against the dark sky.

"The man you call Mr. Blue Eyes," she said at last.

"Fuck," Valerie breathed out, thoughts ricocheting inside her skull. Her run-ins with AIs had been hit-or-miss: sometimes unsettling but entertaining, like Delamain, sometimes only unsettling, like Alt. But she had never shied away from working with them, despite the barely veiled uncanny valley of their alien reasoning. Still, she had seen too much to dismiss the suspicion that whatever had spoken through Songbird wasn't all that different. It had merely cast the veil away. "Had this thought—don't laugh. 'S the Blackwall in on it?" Myers' reflection stayed silent, watching her talk. "All way too convenient. One fucker messes with her head and pokes her with a stick, the other dangles a carrot but also got a taste for twisting 'ganic brains," the sergeant rushed on before the impassiveness in those eyes turned to disappointment. "What if they were prepping her to host one of their own? Not Cerberus—that shithead just jumped the gun."

"Presuming you're right," the president narrowed her gaze, "why Songbird?" Why, indeed. If they cared that much about her access or position, they wouldn't have made her defect. So what had differentiated her from any other netrunner that came close enough to the Blackwall?

"Occam's razor—she's fucking borged," Valerie shrugged. "And her chrome's all neural, custom-built. Not your mass-market crap." That thought evoked a blurred idea that hadn't yet fully formed. "Getting rid of you was just a cherry on top. Really doubt Peralez woulda lost to anyone else."

"Occam's razor," Myers echoed. "If I didn't think a desk job would kill you, I'd make you an analyst tomorrow," she sighed, her tone and expression carrying neither confirmation nor dismissal. Valerie smiled, relieved she wasn't taken for a fool at least. Her grand theory of a global AI cabal plotting to enslave humanity would've made Garry the Prophet proud. As usual, her mind tried to shoo the worry with humor, but this time it stirred something in her memory instead.

"And Militech? They ever summon Lilith?" The question left her mouth before she had time to think it through.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Myers' immediate shift to a frown expressed her equal surprise.

"Listen," Valerie began and, too agitated to stand still, released her hold and hopped onto the windowsill to the president's right. "Told you I know a thing or two 'bout cyberpsychos. Had this gig, real nightmare fuel. Maelstrom, an NC gang—"

"I know what Maelstrom is. Go on." The impassiveness in the woman's voice calmed her down a bit.

"'K, so…" The sergeant sifted through the memory, recalling the scene. "Place looks like some fucked-up ritual. Blood everywhere, massacred bodies of those suckers around, and a fridge in the middle of a pentagram with this very borged and not-right-in-her-head girl inside. One still alive chrome freak mentions Lilith—I just gloss over it. Not even cracking top ten of the weirdest shit that night." She paused for a moment to get herself a cigarette. The president didn't mind, watching her with utmost attention. The marine took a quick drag and pushed on. "Later, I pick up another crumb. Was a smidge bored, so I took a local madman at his word. Promised me this secret meeting that'd prove all his batshit-crazy theories. Me a werewolf, you a reptilian—that sorta crap."

"Mm-hmm," Myers kept pace with her.

"So, I'm lying in wait on some empty construction site for fucking hours, like the biggest gonk in NC." Between puffs, Valerie's hands illustrated the size of a gonk she had felt. "And then this happens: two cars roll up. One's packed with Maelstromers, the other's just two Militech suits. They swap this weird-ass cryptic chatter about Lilith, throw in some Latin." She couldn't stifle a nervous giggle at how insane the story sounded. Was she really hoping the fucking president of the fucking NUSA would believe it? She found no answer on Myers' face, only patience. "Then the borged freaks hand over some shard to the corpos, and they all peel out. Curiosity my biggest sin, the chip comes into my possession." She preferred to omit how exactly. "I crack it only to find more cryptic shit inside. I crack that too, but it's a dead end. Just a command to kick off some project. Best I could guess, Militech was using borged freaks to lure a rogue AI they called Lilith. The conspiracy fluff added just for Maelstrom technomancers' vibes' sake. But now that I think 'bout it, that poor sucker who tipped me off got dragged away by blue-eyed suits before I could get back to him. And that description hits too close to Peralez' handler." She crushed the half-burned cigarette against the marble ashtray. "Long stretch, I know, but can't shake this itch it's all pieces of one big, stinking—"

"Valerie," the woman interjected softly, "is there a chance you saved that shard and whatever else happened to… spark your curiosity?"

"Yep," the sergeant enthusiastically nodded, baffled why she hadn't thought of it herself. "Dunno if it's any good, but worth a try. Can ya get me to Phoenix?" The president gave her an intent look.

"Instructions will be enough," she said at last, her voice uncharacteristically tight. "I don't need your involvement."

Valerie went quiet and stared down at her hands, one pale in the dim light, one pitch-black. She blinked. No Zetatech among those options. Of course. In just a few years, they had managed to make a breakthrough in ultra-compatible chrome and flood the market with it. On the surface, a positive development, but potentially more borged bodies ready-made for something else to creep inside. Myers' offhand slip about having a say in her cyberarm hadn't gone unnoticed. Was her insane hypothesis really that close?

The only unfinished business she had left behind—or rather, a whole tangle of riddles knotted into one mess—had a way of coming back to bite her in the ass. Whether that posed a threat to all of humanity was a negligible variable. She had never claimed to be a humanist. But it did threatened the woman before her, the only one she couldn't afford to lose. All while she kept sitting on her hands, one pale, one pitch-black.

The cruel irony was that she had to walk away now, when they were so close that with barely lifting a finger she could undo the loose knot of that robe instead, and be free to explore every inch of that body with her hands and mouth—the only language of affection Myers ever seemed willing to tolerate. As if sensing her internal struggle, the president lifted her chin and forced her to meet the inquisitive gaze that never failed to police her thoughts.

"Rosalind…" the marine stretched her lips in a flimsy excuse for a smile.

"Don't." Myers' voice was quiet but firm.

"Rosalind." This time around, Valerie adopted a more compelling tone.

"You won't go back," the woman stated plainly, already idly playing with the sergeant's hair as if the matter were resolved. Valerie caught her wrists, memory snapping back to the first time she had ever dared to do that—the unintentional audacity along with the following shock. She had never imagined back then that one day she could simply proceed with casually driving the president closer and gripping her by the waist.

"Kinda have to." This time the smile felt easy and true.

"I have an entire agency for that." Unimpressed with her cheekiness, Myers brushed her hands off and stepped away. "It's not your war."

"Not a war anyone gets to dodge. And definitely yours," the sergeant pointed out, staying put.

"You've tried to die on a few of those. I believe that's enough," the woman kept refuting her attempts at a dialogue. In her blue and gold robe, threads catching the last glow of the embers, she looked like she belonged to the room. The marine, in her sweatpants and yet another t-shirt—green tonight—did not. But there was somewhere else she did belong.

"It's my city. I got the chops, got rep there, know where to dig," she laid out, each fact meeting the same unfazed stare. So she went for the argument even the president couldn't deny. "I'm a fucking magnet for these sorta crap. You send agents who do everything their proper agenty way and get nada. I'll be back in a month and prolly trip over two side conspiracies along the way." If she thought that line of reasoning stood a chance, reality had other plans.

"You're too unserious." If anything, Myers sounded resigned. "We're not discussing this anymore." She moved toward the bed. Recognizing another prelude to those sleeping pills, Valerie hopped off the windowsill and slipped between her and the nightstand.

"Look, know you're hell-bent on this whole new idea of not using me, but it's getting stupid." She was at a loss why she was the only one here still thinking straight. "You're trying to bail a sinking boat with a rusty bucket when you've got a shiny water pump just sitting there."

"Well, that's because I've already found the perfect place for this… water pump." Myers' lips twitched, suppressing a smile, as her hands unhurriedly slipped beneath that out-of-place t-shirt. The sergeant did her best to escape the distraction—and felt the hard wood of the bed frame behind her. Now, she had successfully cornered herself. "Where it stays shiny and doesn't require spare parts." The woman stepped closer. "This analogy's getting out of hand," she murmured, warm breath brushing Valerie's ear and dissolving what remained of her resolve. "Stop trying to wriggle out of our agreement. What, not ambitious enough for you?" The dig nearly brought the marine back to her senses.

"Yeah, wanna check how many medals I can collect before thirty," she grumbled, her imagination already mapping slow kisses along that neck. As an act of unexpected mercy, the president clasped her shoulders and leaned away.

"And what if the next costs you a leg? Both? The second arm?" Valerie blinked at her. Were they talking literal spare parts?

"Not some Theseus's Paradox waiting to be solved," she let out an awkward laugh. "Still be me, I guess. Unless I lose my head too," she tucked in an attempt at a joke.

"You really think so?" For some reason, Myers didn't sound amused. "Think you haven't changed?"

"Maturing's a thing, y'know," Valerie parried, absolutely not thrilled to examine the topic.

"Oh, that's not happening for sure," the woman sighed, then shoved her onto the bed. Quite literally taken aback, the sergeant shook her head and tried to get on her feet just as Myers nonchalantly stood between her knees, cutting off the last getaway.

"Rosalind… you're not gonna fuck this outta my head," Valerie warned, though her hands were already drawing the woman even closer, now only a thin layer of fabric between those nipples and her lips.

"Watch me," the president scoffed, undoing the knot and letting the robe slide away. It took the bewildered marine every ounce of her will to hold still.

She shot a pleading look upward a moment before the woman lowered to her ear. One restrained, yet voiced moan was all it took to shatter that will. It was fake on every single level, yet her stupid body betrayed her outraged common sense. Teasing laughter sealed her defeat as Valerie hauled them both onto the bed and flipped Myers beneath her. With four hands competing to drag that t-shirt off her back, her only consolation was that, for the moment, the president's attention was all hers.

*****

Rosalind stepped out of the AV and started toward the cabin, her security detail close at her heels. She didn't blame a mid-twentieth-century architect for failing to predict an aircraft less intrusive than a chopper, but shoving the helipad a mile away from the nuclear shelter just to ward off the noise—that was a baffling choice. This time, she waved off Reyes' offer of a ride. After twenty-four hours of the Farm's fake windows and sterile air, she welcomed the stretch, the breeze—and a rare spike of high spirits that had nothing to do with New Year's Eve.

Just yesterday, she wouldn't have wagered on a positive outcome. Over the years, she had overseen her share of black ops with varying stakes, but to this day she had never supervised a corporate espionage operation so mundane in premise turn that nail-biting in execution. What had been meant as a smooth data heist ran into a series of obstacles that tripled its ETC and pushed her to the brink of aborting the mission. Yet, for once, all the wild risks and caffeine had paid off, Night Corp's general ledger their sole prize. Just as the FIA had suggested, the small things did betray the bigger picture. The paper towel expenses becoming that tell made for a fine anecdote.

Having tallied the numbers, the agency came to the definitive conclusion that the elusive compound was at least as big as Night Corp's headquarters, which, in turn, narrowed the field to just three locations. Two, naturally, were underground, as corporations tended to take root in the most literal sense. A well-timed investment in the Maglev restoration project could've easily cloaked a construction site of the right size.

The third candidate, lifted from conspirologists' message boards, was the boldest: underwater, beneath Del Coronado Bay. It wouldn't touch the city grid at all, but with the right engineering such a facility could moonlight as a cooling sink for a data fortress and even for a nuclear plant to power it. Either way, she finally knew where to dig—a neat cliffhanger for the coming year.

The packed snow of the pathway lightly crunched beneath her feet. She smiled, imagining the sergeant stoically trudging all this way in her slippery all-season boots. She'd had no way to inform her of the delay and now wondered what the girl had been keeping herself occupied with: the book, the gym, the desecration of her view—Rosalind was fine with any option unless it involved nurturing that silly idea of running away to Night City. As she passed the guest house, repurposed for her detail and med team, the president came to the conclusion she was even willing to forgive Valerie a single worried look.

Once she finally reached the cabin, Myers immediately shook off her coat along with her bodyguards and went upstairs, torn between the allure of a hot shower and the urge to check on the marine. In the end, her confused priorities nudged her left. She entered the guest room and, with a prick of disappointment, found it empty. The book on the bedside table confirmed that the girl had spent the night here, but evidently even she couldn't have slept in past noon, however tempting it would've been to dive under the covers and wake that sleepyhead.

Rosalind shook off the sudden craving just like her coat. Her body, high on long-earned dopamine, seemed to toss other concerns into the mix. Resolute on teaching it a lesson in restraint, the president set her course for her own bedroom, postponing everything else until after the shower and a proper cup of coffee. Inside, she left her rings on the nightstand and moved toward the bathroom, only to be swept off her feet midway.

"You're back. Finally. I tried not to run," breathed out the yellow hurricane, squeezing her tighter and giving her body too much sway over her mind. Rosalind smiled at the commentary, picturing the innocuous manner in which the girl must've excused herself to slip upstairs. Back on the ground, she burrowed deeper into that ridiculously bright parka to breathe her in: the same silly cucumber mixed with another scent—sharp, metallic, and reminiscent of her merc.

"Motor oil?" Surprised, she pushed those shoulders away to have a good look at the girl. "Are you cheating on me with a bot?"

"Yeah, ya know how I am. Hands got real itchy." With a laugh, Valerie pulled her back for a kiss. The president didn't object—neither to the kiss nor, for once, to the foolish sentiment that broke it. "Missed you so bad."

"We're back in DC in two days," she reminded, nonetheless. "Better start getting that 'missing' part under control. I trust you realize I can't see you this often, normally."

"Had a taste of your 'normally,'" the sergeant grimaced. "Still got two days." She went for another kiss, which Rosalind had to dodge this time. She caught Valerie's chin and enjoyed it following every whim of her hand as she scanned that face for disturbing signs of discontent. There were none. The girl was watching her patiently, eyes soft with an affection she had long made no attempt to hide. It was impossible that anyone could see it and remain unaware of Sergeant Linder's… excessive admiration, but it would only become a problem if the president herself wore that expression. That was impossible too. You wouldn't look that way at a part of yourself, like your hand. Startled by the instantly unsettling idea, she narrowed her eyes. "What?" The marine frowned in return.

"Nothing." That came off a little hasty. "Just… nothing." Myers took a step back from that embrace, claiming a sliver of space and time to collect her thoughts.

The analogy struck her as painfully apt: the sergeant did feel like a part of her, and worryingly vital. What had she expected, letting the girl cling to her all the time? That she somehow would be exempt from hazardous brain-chemistry spills? She might've thought Valerie was simply growing on her, when in truth, she was growing into. The subject of her musings gave her no chance to conjure an excuse to send her away.

"Know this look," she sighed with a reproachful smile. "Gotta delta before ya kick me off."

"When did you get so wise?" The president's mouth curved into an appreciative smile.

Having learned not to answer rhetorical questions, the girl only reminded, "Don't take too long. Just two days left."

Rosalind watched the yellow parka disappear in the doorway. Just like the sun sinking past the skyline, this departure rendered the room still and cold.

*****

She returned to the garage still smiling. After a full day of anxious waiting, she was relieved to find the president safe and unexpectedly lighthearted. The swift dismissal couldn't sour that. Maybe in broad daylight, things didn't look as grim as under the moonless sky—but more likely, the FIA's efforts had finally delivered a breakthrough. And if she was patient, Myers might even share details later that evening. For now, Valerie had her work cut out for her.

Yesterday, one sled had misfired too much for her liking. Now, stripped down and suspended midair, it obediently awaited its fate. Howell—the agent left in charge of the compound's security—had voiced his doubts before begrudgingly letting her tinker with it. She hadn't met that level of skepticism since her MOS maintenance instructor, when she had claimed mechanical skills her callusless, after three years of hospitals, palms couldn't back up. The sergeant took off her parka to keep it clean and resumed work. However little she knew about snowmobiles, she had fiddled with enough motorbikes in her life to know the drill. Acquaintance with hover propulsion tech came from her panzer days.

With his watch over, Howell came back to offer unobtrusive company and now watched her work from the nearest roll cab. She didn't mind the attention, enjoying another newly discovered perk of her chrome hand: hardly needing any tools for clips and screws made the process much faster than she had anticipated. In her nomad days, she would've been more frugal, taking extra time to isolate the faulty piece. Here, she swapped all four injectors wastefully, just to be certain. One look at the available tools and resources had told her there was no reason to skimp on laughable costs. Valerie carefully primed the fuel system, bleeding trapped air before starting the engine and checking for leaks.

Pleased with the clean job and the steady roar of the motor—too loud without the airbox—she nearly missed another pair of footsteps echoing against the bare concrete walls. She glanced back, recognizing Janet's red parka before her face. The agent must have finished checking the security systems upon arrival and moved on to a perfunctory patrol. The marine greeted her with a nod and killed the engine before the final stage of reassembly.

"Reyes," Howell acknowledged the senior agent in the following silence, hopping off the roll cab.

"All's good here?" Valerie heard Janet's question and offered her explanation first.

"Yep, caught this sled choking," she grunted, mounting the airbox. "Couldn't leave it like that."

"Had my reservations, but the sarge here seems to know what she's doing," the guy commented lightheartedly. 'The sarge' cast him a sidelong glance while reattaching the panels, but kept quiet. It amused her how much the presidential detail's mood seemed to hinge on Myers: as soon as she was back and in good spirits, everyone around slightly eased the sticks up their asses. All the better that she had managed to avoid another strain on the president's patience and taken her cue to leave.

"She's a nomad, what did you expect, Howell?" Janet mocked his concern and, for a change, stopped discussing her in the third person. "You ever need a job, let me know, panzer girl." Of course, the offer wasn't serious, but Valerie imagined Myers' face if she ever applied for a job in the White House motor pool maintenance and bit back a laugh, her back conveniently shielding her face from both agents.

"Will do," she nodded, switching the snowmobile into transportation mode, and gradually lowered its supports until it hovered on its own just a few inches above the floor, the engine purring smooth and soft. The sergeant thoroughly scrubbed the motor oil off her hands, well aware that the residual trace would cling for at least a few more hours, and shrugged back into her parka. Janet returned to the house, but Howell, to her surprise, grabbed his green coat off the roll cab and followed outside as she gently steered the sled out of the garage.

Back on the snow, she mounted the vehicle and stole a quick glance through the wing mirror. Expecting her test lap, the guy froze just beyond the faint swirl of snow kicked up by the rear turbine. Valerie shook her head in reproach—only a greenhorn nomad would've made this mistake. She wrestled with the temptation but ultimately gave in and drag-launched from a standstill, propelling a cloud of snow straight into the unsuspecting agent's face. Maybe the president's mood had rubbed off on her, too.

The sergeant laughed at the helpless 'Hey!' chasing her back—as far as she was concerned, he should be glad it wasn't sand. Then something firmer than a shout landed squarely between her shoulder blades. Now that the guy had switched to long-range weapons, she hurriedly searched for new tactics: in the fenced backyard, she couldn't possibly give him a wide enough berth, and zigzagging alone was way too predictable.

Another white projectile zipped past her ear, confirming that much. Were it a grenade, it could kill by sheer blunt force before any explosion, but a snowball merely threatened to send her sprawling like a sack of bricks. The marine was in dire need of cover—and a retreat. She veered hard right and skidded to a stop, ducking behind the snowmobile shielding her from Howell.

Mindful of his squeaky footsteps, Valerie kept low, avoiding easy headshots, and focused on gathering her own ammo. Her first attempts crumpled under excessive force when she tried to pack the fluffy snow, cold stinging her organic hand. She should've grabbed her gloves from the garage. Yet, necessity proving the best teacher, four precious projectiles finally found their way into the open back rack of the sled. Another snowball thudded near her knee, its trajectory warning her that the agent was almost done circling.

Immediately, she hopped back on the snowmobile, once again covering her retreat in another snowstorm—and heard the man laugh at the repeated lesson. No nomad would've made this mistake twice! She grinned and dedicated her cold-proof right hand to counterattacking Howell. Escaping the second volley of snow, he dodged right, only to catch her snowball with his face. The sergeant shook her head once again. And these were the people she had to entrust with the president's safety. She quickly emptied her reserves, none of the subsequent throws matching the success of the first.

Having circled around the house, she barred the pathway to the main entrance with the sled and braced for the last stand at the sight of the quickly approaching green parka. At least, Valerie found herself satisfied with the presidential detail's stamina: Howell was showing neither signs of slowing nor shortness of breath as he scooped up another handful of snow on the run and flung it, leaving himself out of ammo again.

Breaking from cover, she hurled two rapid shots his way. He escaped both only by plunging behind the corner. The next time the agent emerged from it, he successfully baited a misfire but failed to capitalize on it. Instead, he glanced behind her—and turned professional comically fast, the snowball slipping from his hand.

"Ma'am," Howell uttered, the last traces of snow melting off his instantly brick-walled face.

Valerie spun around, stifling the quiet 'fuck' in her throat, and faced Myers standing in the doorway. Well aware of the woman's distaste for loud colors, she wasn't surprised to see her parka in white camo with a fur-lined hood. Assisted by the scarf and high collar, it hid her face almost entirely, yet no one present could fail to recognize those eyes, now steely-grey. The president did not look impressed with Valerie's review of her detail's performance. Neither did Janet, stationed at her side. The sergeant nearly groaned. Little could tell Myers more about her maturity than taunting her detail into a snowball fight.

"I'm taking the east route, Reyes," Myers resumed the conversation they had started inside the house, her impassive gaze sliding past the marine as she stepped off the porch.

"Of course, ma'am. Ready as you are." Janet shadowed her, three more colorful agents behind them.

"No need to. Sergeant Linder will suffice," the woman declined the entourage and acknowledged Valerie's presence in the same breath.

"Ma'am," the senior agent's voice grew sterner, "you know that's not possible. I've got explicit protocols."

"Then pick who you'd rather disappoint, Reyes—Lloyd or me." The president nonchalantly circled around the snowmobile Valerie had no time to move. Unsure what to expect, the sergeant trailed the rejected squad.

"Two drones," she heard Janet announce her bottom line for these negotiations. "Then my death will be quick, at least."

"At thirty feet. I want to hear my thoughts," Myers adjusted the terms and set off toward the forest rolling off the mountain ridge, alone and light on her feet. Valerie shot Janet an apologetic glance but held her tongue and hurried after the president. Judging by the agent's face, she was stuck between the devil and the deep blue sea.

As they walked away, two drones humming above their heads as per agreement, the sergeant glanced back and noted the snowmobiles being arranged in a waiting line, all facing their direction. She was at a loss: neither the voice she had heard during the short exchange nor the back she observed now betrayed any intent or emotion, but Myers could hardly have kept her mood intact after witnessing that mess.

Valerie shoved her hands into her pockets, her organic palm painfully prickling from the cold, and fell into step beside the president's right shoulder, their shadows aligned on the snow trail ahead. Another minute of silence later, she risked a quick peek under that hood. The woman immediately caught the attempt and cast her a reproachful glance.

"I'm fine, Valerie," she said, only minor irritation edging her voice.

"And Janet? She in trouble?" the sergeant carefully probed. She didn't want anyone else catching heat for her antics.

"Only if I die here." Myers shrugged, with the same exasperating tendency to discuss her own death with offhand dark humor. "That Commission hearing will be a mess."

"Uh-huh, and the way ya talked like I'm not there—"

"That's how we interact in public. Unless it's a PR stunt." The woman still refused to admit to any annoyance, but the interruption was a tell of its own.

"So, anyone's watching, you hardly know me," Valerie played along. "But if they got a camera, you like me just fine?"

"You've got the gist." The president's tone shed the last trace of irritation.

"How'm I s'posed to act, then?" the marine requested further instructions, emboldened by easy success.

"You shall like me at all times, obviously," Myers replied, her voice tinged with a smile. "It's not like you have another face."

Valerie frowned at the implication that her expression might be betraying a secret not entirely her own. She couldn't be that transparent, could she? Even her blush had become a rare visitor, so she allowed herself the humble hope that her ability to mask emotions was improving too. The president, for her part, seemed unperturbed by this observation, just amused. The sergeant stayed quiet a minute longer, until they reached the first sparse trees.

"Can this hurt ya?" she couldn't refrain from asking, the outside world getting closer by the day.

"By 'this,' you mean possible rumors of a baby marine in my bed?" As per her usual, the woman was acerbic and blunt. "Hmm. Inconclusive. Can hurt. Can help."

"Help? How?" Valerie blinked, startled by both the answer and the numb resistance of her frozen forehead when her brow tried to shoot up. She pulled her hood on.

"Public opinion's unpredictable, but the optics aren't that bad." The president took the right turn at the first fork. Valerie followed suit, the woman's voice slightly muffled by the yellow fabric warming her ears. "I'm single. Far as I know, you are too. No broken vows. No children to drag through a potential divorce. That leaves pretty much just two narratives: a juicy scandal or a hopeless romance. If I let Newcomb spin a soppy tale of the president falling for a hero marine in the dying days of the war, that might just win me another reelection. Once everyone conveniently forgets your age."

"You've gotta be kidding me!" the sergeant burst out laughing.

"I wish," Myers muttered. Valerie didn't need to see her face to picture that eye roll. "Though I'd rather die than sit through that interview." The image alone drew another short laugh from the sergeant's lips.

She shot a quick glance at the woman, but the white hood still guarded that face. Seemingly lost in thought, Myers didn't share in her mirth. The woods and snowdrifts along the path thickened, their shadows now hopping between the dark trunks and branches to their left. The marine was still unaware of where they were headed, but it hardly mattered. Two days left—and then long weeks apart—left little room for worry and even less time to stockpile memories against the wait.

"And now?" she asked abruptly, interrupting whatever thoughts were bothering the woman. "This public, or—"

"Given the drones have cameras, I have no choice but to like you in either case." Myers' response was quick. Perhaps she welcomed that interruption. "But don't even think of shooting snowballs in my direction."

"You're arming me with all the wrong ideas, Madam President." The sergeant quietly weighed the risk of doing exactly that. Not a potential memory she had in mind, but…

"I'm serious, Valerie," the woman's firm voice dropped her playfulness down a notch. "There's a non-zero chance the drones' algorithm will flag it as an attack. And I like you alive."

"Oh." The marine shot a quick glance up at the war machines drifting lazily overhead and fell silent. Another fork ahead—she wondered idly which way they would turn.

"Did Reyes show you the forester's house?" Myers finally revealed their destination. "It's cozy. Just a mile into the woods."

"I took to rejecting other women's invitations to cozy little spots." Valerie was mildly intrigued. The house must be unoccupied at the moment—hardly could introducing her to a forester have been the president's plan all along. But surely they could find themselves a couch there. Or a table. Or a floor. She felt extremely indiscriminate toward any surface right now.

"How prudent," the president remarked, oblivious to the not-so-prudent images in her head, and took the left turn. Once again, the sun sent their shadows gliding ahead of them.

"Can I, uh, hold your hand?" the sergeant dared to ask.

"Valerie, I know you're young, but you're not five," the woman mocked her request.

"You're impossible!" Valerie shook her head and struck that from her mental checklist. She should've known better.

"I suppose that makes two of us." The signature scoff made her smile. 

Here, on a sunlit snowy trail, enjoying their usual back-and-forth, it was effortless to pretend they were real, with a hint of a future ahead. Stuck living one day at a time for too long, that planning muscle had become redundant—all the more surprising was to stumble on these thoughts. Like her hand tucked in the pocket, that long-frozen life wish began to thaw, prickling her chest with longing for more.

"You ever wanna run away and get a normal life?" she said, having no idea what a normal life looked like—once a dying merc, then a crippled soldier, both plagued by the most absurd twists of fate.

"Run away?" Myers' response carried the familiar sarcasm. "I'm starting to suspect you are a mind-controlled plant. Why bother killing me if you can just persuade me to take off and never look back? Cunning, even." The sergeant shot her a reproachful glance for the dig at her past paranoia. The hood remained unconcerned. "Alas, I'm too old for eloping," the woman sighed. Valerie tried to chuckle, but a creeping unease settled in. She shook the feeling off—it was simply a sign of the growing regret that she couldn't freeze this moment in time.

"And after this mess done, and you wanna retire? In, say, ten years, we're gonna look the same age—hardly a scandal." The woman laughed at her words, but refrained from comment. The marine hastily overtook the president, walking backward right in front of her like a second shadow. The distress gnawed at her, yet she still couldn't pinpoint its source. "Rosalind, I'm serious," she pressed, as if her life depended on the answer.

"Serious? About what?" Myers looked her straight in the eye, slowing her pace with every question. "If I want to retire? If I want to retire and live with you? Are you fucking out of your mind?" She came to a halt, anger narrowing her eyes.

The ridicule and that unwavering gaze forced Valerie to face her own inadequacy. How would that look, indeed? Did she envision them together drifting across the Badlands in a nomad caravan? Delusional. Had she accepted Myers' West Point offer, in ten years she might've emerged a decorated officer, well-mannered and well-spoken. That officer could've had the slimmest chance at a future by the former president's side. Instead, she had opted to become a toy soldier, designed only for short-lived entertainment, like all cheap toys. No wonder the woman mocked her at every turn.

Unable to endure that glare, the sergeant looked away—and spotted a white glitch against the black bark of pines, hidden by the snow before. The half-buried fear of something in her head wrestling for control twisted her gut. She tugged the hood off her head and stared up at the sky above them, its blue exposing the gathering snowstorm of noise in her kiroshis. And two drones, frozen at a distance far beyond what had been agreed.

"Rosalind, something—"

"Hey, look at me." Myers grabbed her head to force her to refocus on her face. "What's going on?" Valerie saw her eyes—no anger now, only concern—and blinked. Instead of responding, she squinted at the main building, barely visible through the trees, and picked out dark dots racing through the snow. She instinctively stepped forward to shield the woman, and in an instant heard, "I see. Must be some proper shitstorm to trigger Red Protocol." The president's voice was… serene. "It's all right, Valerie." A hand gripped her shoulder in reassurance. "What you're feeling, it's just an EMP pulse jamming all bots and unregistered chrome. Should've whitelisted yours," the voice carried on softly. Now she was almost sure one of the dark dots' riders wore Janet's red parka, another Howell's green. "Close your eyes, or your head's gonna hurt. You can't protect me from bad news, anyway." Of course, she disobeyed and strained through the white flurry to keep the closing snowmobiles in her line of sight, powerless to do anything—except one last stupid thing.

"Sooo… wanna rethink running away with me? FYI, I'm in long johns," Valerie said with the biggest, goofiest smile, as if she weren't scared shitless for the woman she was in desperate need to protect. Myers responded with genuine laughter, as if needing no protection at all—and briefly squeezed her hand. With a lump in her throat, the sergeant put it back on her mental list and ticked it off. And then, Janet reached them and took the president away.

*****

When she returned to her study, her Chief of Staff was already mid-surgery, along with the two bodyguards who had survived the blast. Rosalind spent five hours on the phone, demanding answers and fending off Lloyd's nagging insistence that she burrow into the bunker. If the attackers had the capacity to reach her here, they wouldn't have wasted time bombing a parking garage in DC.

News channels were quick to pin the assassination attempt on a Texas sympathizer. The FIA's preliminary report sketched a scenario the president knew all too well. A blue-collar loner from Clarke County, VA, had shown no interest in Texas prior to a week before the election, when he began parroting his newly acquired political talking points mid-shift. The continued erratic behavior cost him his job and severed his last connections to society, but never deterred him from obtaining C-4, expertise in suicide vests, and the White House Chief of Staff's personal schedule—an unforgivable security lapse.

Fortunately for Hannah, her detail and bulletproof Emperor bore the brunt of the blast. Her fresh second heart implant handled the rest. Always attuned to her gut instinct, she must've had it installed alongside that kneecap. For now, a proper medical blood pump kept her company until a spare organic heart could make its speedy journey across the pond.

With a grimace of disgust, Myers emptied the full ashtray into the bin. A cigarette or two was fine, but an entire pack downed in a few hours betrayed the compulsive nervousness she didn't like to admit. Were it a lucky guess that triggered it or a solid fingerprint left on their ICE during the breach—the plan had been set in motion months ago and waited for just one final provocation. And she had given them exactly that. Any pretense that she and Night Corp weren't in the open phase of the conflict had died tonight, and unlike her, they seemed confident enough to deliver a direct blow—purposefully personal, to provoke her most knee-jerk reaction.

She meant to lie low instead, publicly playing along with the Texas sympathizer story. Her speechwriters had already begun their overnight vigil, drafting a resolute diatribe for tomorrow's press circus. Delivered convincingly, it would cost the Texas delegation every concession her righteous fury could wring out. And, if Night Corp were only suspicious of the FIA's involvement in their data fortress raid, it would also buy her precious time. If they were confident, though…

She also should've trusted her gut and insisted on disposing of the outsourced netrunner right after the heist, but, just as she had feared, her subconscious inclination to appease the girl had begun to infect her judgement. Dismissing her detail for a walk had been yet another stupid instance of that. Now the inevitable internal investigation might cost a perfectly competent agent her career for failing to control the protectee. With the coming months unlikely to leave much room for seeing the sergeant, the quarantine should clear her head. Otherwise, she would be forced to admit defeat and cut her losses.

The president left her chair and stepped into the hall. Gone were the brief days of security that had granted her a semblance of privacy. Now, four agents flanked her for a fifteen-foot walk across the hall—but at least the FIA had lifted Red Protocol. As if they hadn't swept the house at least twice already, the detail cleared her into her bedroom only after a full scan. It was empty.

She shot Reyes a silent question, unconcerned with hiding her expectation of finding someone inside—Sergeant Linder would have to forgive her current indifference to preserving her good name. The agent looked unusually stern and repentant for her prior leniency, but surely they hadn't left the marine stranded on the forest trail, nor detained her on Lloyd's orders without consulting her first.

"In her room, ma'am," Reyes clarified curtly. Myers endured their presence for another short walk, but as soon as they reached the destination and she sensed the intent to repeat the scan, she decided she was done with this pointless ritual. Tightened security was fine—but not to a suffocating degree.

"Enough," her tone stopped the agents. "Wait here. On my responsibility." Everything around was on her fucking responsibility. This one was lighter than a feather. She swiftly shut the door behind her, cutting off needless arguments, and immediately breathed easier at the sight of the girl. Perched on the bed in the glow of the single bedside lamp, elbows against knees, the marine flashed a relieved smile that, for a fleeting moment, masked the same guilty conscience Myers had just observed on Reyes' face.

For a fleeting moment deceived, Rosalind returned the smile—then let it fade, eyes dropping to the familiar black box in the sergeant's hands, then to the duffle bag, zipped and ready for departure, at her feet. Plenty of plausible explanations existed—the president's vacation coming to an abrupt end was self-evident to anyone with half a brain. Yet she knew the real cause at once.

"Not today," she asked, wearily rubbing her eyes.

"I can't, Rosalind," she heard the voice she had grown so used to, and forced herself to look straight at the girl. "If not today, I'll see ya next in a year. Or maybe never. And I like you alive too."

"Of all the people, you think it's up to you to keep me alive? You?" The president was fed up with these delusions. The sergeant flinched but kept looking at her with those ridiculous eyes, still refusing to accept the simple truth. "You're not the same, Valerie. Your reflexes are gone. You can't trust your body the same way, and if you do, you're a fucking idiot. Half an inch off and you're dead. You're in a state to miss by a foot," Myers spelled it out, prying into the same breach she once had been relieved to see healing. Instead of reflection, her words sparked anger, bitter and raw.

"Not the same for a while, sure," Valerie shot back, pushing herself to her feet, left hand clutching the stupid box that had probably kicked off this thirst for heroics. "But just like ya said—when my arm got crushed and my guts got torn by my own ribs, I still outmaneuvered that barrage and took down more than a few units. All that on diet chrome. You can't make me feel less." Silly girl. Of course she could. With just a few sentences, she could reduce her to a shadow riddled with self-doubt, but… how could she.

She had played it all wrong, provoking in the sergeant only the burning desire to prove her worth. And now, if she were to cut her off entirely, that chip on her shoulder would drive the girl straight into the death trap without any life support. For a moment, the president considered simply walking out, back under the choking oversight of her detail—but that clenched jaw spoke of firm determination to follow it through this time. And she wanted this mess to become a spectacle for a select audience even less. Rosalind hit a dead end.

"I want you here," she said, reluctant and flat. Not at all how it should've come off.

"Yeah. For now," Valerie shrugged, anger turning her cold. "But I figure you need me there more. Grown-up shit, to do what's needed, ain't it?"

That was precisely why last-resort measures were never meant to be used. If deployed and proved ineffective, you had nothing left. The president walked past the marine to the window. To most, this view, with a sweep of mountain ridge and forested slopes, was indeed worthy of its own postcard. Yet her spine tingled with half-defeated anxiety each time she took a glimpse. During the renovation, she had even considered moving her bedroom to the west side to avoid seeing it altogether, but that would've left her half-defeated too.

"You have a fear? An irrational one, one you cannot control?" she said, shifting to at ease. After all those years in the Corps, that posture came so naturally she would barely register it.

"Uh, deep water, I guess," came the uncertain reply. "Why?"

"As a kid, I'd always sneak off to that room that's now my study," Rosalind smiled at the faint impressions in her mind, then grimaced. "Hated the tobacco stench there, but every time I saw the mountains from this side, I got scared of an avalanche. A ridiculous phobia. Can't even remember how it started. But the primal fear… that memory sticks. Can be a coward and try to outrun it. Can be a hero and face it. It doesn't care. Now I feel like that avalanche's finally coming for me."

"Rosalind—"

"I'll wake you up at 0500," the president cut the pleading notes in that voice off. If the girl wished to become her paper shield, so be it. Having skipped a week's worth of sleeping pills, she expected them to hit like a freight train. "We'll go over the details. On my terms."

"Can ya… stay for tonight?" Myers glanced back. By the look on that pale face, the girl already knew the answer.

"No, Valerie. I don't sleep with my assets." The decision was effortless now. Rosalind gave the snowy peaks a final look. A very picturesque view, indeed. She turned her back to the window and, uninterrupted, walked out of the room.