It's late at night, almost two am. The smell of oil fills the lamp lit bedroom, the only sound is of steel sliding against cloth. Myra is sat at her desk, a small mountain of knives in front of her.
She works methodically - oil, wipe, sharpen, test. The rhythm is soothing, something that calmed her restlessness when her mind couldn't.
Her purple hair is tied back into a neat bun. Next to her little work station was a pile of used makeup wipes in front of a small, desktop mirror. On the opposite side, a gold coin and a matchbox-both with intricate etchings-placed on top of a hardcover book she'd been slowly reading in her free time.
Myra picks up the knife she's working on and runs her finger along the blade edge, just enough to sting.
"Still too dull," she murmurs. She had liked this knife, it was a shame to throw it away. It was one of the first ones she'd gotten from Bird when they started doing work together. A peace treaty, of sorts.
She leans back, rubbing her scarred hands on the dirty cloth. Laughter echoes from the common room, probably Laura or Piper. It made her chest ache.
Her gaze floats to the matchbox and coin. Both inscribed with the emblem of the mafia she'd once sworn her loyalty to. The matchbox is open, and she stares at the burned black stems inside. She placed a burnt match inside every time she felt regret for a kill.
A total of twelve burnt matches laid inside the box.
"You're not there anymore," she says firmly to herself. She can feel her heartbeat pick up. "Stay here, stay here."
The words never stick. But the laughter might. Myra sets the cloth down and heads for the door.
Trying to condense down how many works I have on the masterlist, but that means longer multiple scene posts. Do y'all prefer more shorter snippet posts, or fewer posts with longer/more scenes?
Masterlist
~~~
“I’ve been out of the game too long.” Myra slumps in the passenger seat of the car, rubbing her head. “I’d forgotten how utterly useless informants are.”
Harriet hums from the backseat. She’s got her laptop open, the soft glow illuminating her face. Milo is sitting on the opposite side in the dark, staring out the window.
Bird has her gaze fixed on the road. Most roads would be empty at this hour of the night, but there was still a good amount of traffic around here. Most of the clubs in this area were owned by the Torchlights, a cell notorious for holding the most egregious parties behind the club curtains at all hours of every day.
“He knows who we’re looking for,” Bird mutters. “He said she wants us to ‘figure it out for ourselves’. The fake-out said something similar at the Blood Jacker’s pit.”
“Yeah, but who is she?” Myra grumbles. She pulls her mask down and frowns at Bird. “After that letter and the dumb informant, it’s obvious-”
Myra’s complaints are interrupted by the ringing of a phone. Bird picks it up and glances at it. It’s not their personal phones, but the encrypted one.
Unknown Number
“Hare, track it?” Bird says as she swipes answer. Only a very few people outside of the team had the encrypted number, and they were all saved in the phone.
The line is silent at first. The car waits in anticipatory silence. Then, just as Bird moves her thumb to the end call button, there’s static.
The sound of a crowd builds like a steady wave.
Cheering, roaring, chanting, voices echoing like a thousand feet marching.
Trial of blood! Trial of blood! Trial of blood!
The sounds grows and grows until it’s almost unbearable. West and Myra have their hands clasped over their ears. Harriet is frantically typing, trying to push through the sound. Bird pulls the car over into a parking lot and stares at the phone in disbelief.
Her hands are tight around the wheel, but her palms are slick with sweat. Trial of Blood. The same trial the informant had mentioned? Something else?
The line goes dead, and the car is left in ear-ringing silence. Only the low growl of the car engine and the occasional passing of traffic.
“Message received,” Milo says dryly. Bird can hear his foot tapping against the mat, contrasting the unbothered expression she sees in the mirror.
Bird drops the phone into the cupholder and leans her head back against the head rest. Harriet is still typing in the back. The sound of the keyboard felt too loud, now.
Harriet’s typing is sharp and fast, but it’s only a moment before she slams the laptop shut with a huff of frustration. “That shouldn’t be possible. No one should be able to cut us off, not like that.”
The leader pushes the phone down and closes the cupholder, like that would cut off the lingering weight of the call.
Myra turns in her seat to look at her. “But someone did. And we don’t know who.” She rubs her forehead harder, like the sound had burrowed itself into her brain.
Bird puts the car back in gear and makes the turn onto the main road. Her chest is tight, the city lights ahead hazy in the windshield. Whoever she was, she knew their number. Their signals. Potentially their names, if she wanted.
This was someone more unpredictable and dangerous than anyone Bird had faced with the team yet.
~~~
“I’m just saying-”
“-You’ve been ‘just saying’ for the past hour,” Myra snaps. “We get it!”
Bird’s eyelid is twitching. The tension in the room is thick, like something lodged deep in the throat. She can hear the eye roll Laura gives Myra.
She rolls her shoulders, before turning to face the room.
“Alright, let’s just start over,” she says, waving her hand. A couple people mutter protests, but no one speaks up to be heard. “We’re getting nowhere with this. Let’s talk about the phone call.”
“Talk?” Jake asks. He leans forward, arms folded tight across his chest. “Bird, that was a direct threat. They know our numbers, how to get past our encryption. Maybe even our location. We should be moving bases tonight.”
“Paranoid much?” Milo drawls, slouched so far down in his chair he looks boneless. “It was noise and theater. Scare tactics. Relax.”
Ridge sets his elbow on the table and leans his head into his hand. “You can never be too paranoid, Milo. I can’t tell you how many paranoid people used to walk into my hospital because they felt the smallest bit of pain, and found out something major was wrong with them.”
Milo shoots a glare across the table, but a few are nodding in silent agreement.
Bird sets both hands on the table and purses her lips. She glances around the room. Maybe it was a smart idea to move bases tonight, but to where? They didn’t have any sort of backups available. And moving would leave them vulnerable, anyways.
Piper, who’s perched on the edge of her chair, raises her hand. “Sorry if I’m like, the only one not following here, but what trial? Like, a pit fight? A test? Are we the trial?”
The room goes still at that. Only Harriet continues without pause. She’s got an earbud in and hasn’t said anything the entire meeting, Bird isn’t sure if she’s even listening or not.
“Good question,” Harriet replies. Her reading glasses reflect a dozen open tabs. “I’ve been running cross-checks since I got the signal un-jammed. There are whispers in older Blood Jacker chatter. Phrases like ‘champions of blood’ and ‘witch trials’. Always tied to Red Ring pit fights.”
Bird doesn’t like the sound of any of it. Piper made a good point. They very well could be the trial. The phone call had seemed like a summons, of sorts. Myra had taken the letter-the invitation, as it was described-and it had only been a day before they got the phone call.
Raya picks up a pen and taps it on the notebook in front of her. “It’s like pouring boiling water down an ant hill,” she says softly. “They’re trying to put pressure on us and flush us out. I think we should stay, for the time being.”
“I agree,” Myra says with a nod. “But we should probably have a backup ready, just in case. Anyone opposed?”
No one speaks up. Even Jake seems somewhat agreeable with the decision. Bird looks over at a map of the city hung on the wall.
Every spot that was a known pit was marked with a red pin. Clubs were marked with blue, gang and cell territories were circled and marked in black pen. There’s still a corner of the map unmarked, the top right. They hadn’t had time to send a recon team out there yet, as it was fenced off and heavily guarded from every angle.
“I just think,” Nate begins, pulling her from her thoughts, “That if we want to find anything, we outta get our hands dirty.”
“He’s got a point,” Laura says over the sighs and groans. “To know how the pits work, we gotta be in the pits.”
Will shakes his head quickly. “Nope. Absolutely not. You want a big red target on your back, that’s how you get one.”
Nate punches his hand into his fist, grinning. “You just have no love for the game, Willy.”
“I want to be on the front lines as much as the rest of you,” Jake growls, “But even I don’t agree with joining the pits. We’d be stooping to their level.”
The room splits in two. Nate leans forward, elbows on his knees, practically vibrating with the idea. Laura mirrors him, that wild light in her eyes. On the other side, Will’s jaw is locked, his arms crossed like stone, while Jake looms in the middle, caught between the fire and the frost.
Bird pulls her chair over and sits down. Sometimes, it was better to let the wick burn a bit before snuffing it out. Something productive usually came out of it, if you knew how to listen.
Ridge speaks up again. “The pits will chew you up. We’ve seen enough bodies to prove it.”
“Yeah, yeah, doom and gloom,” Piper says, propping her feet up on the table. “But admit it—you’re all a little curious. What’re they hiding down there that we haven’t already seen?”
Harriet doesn’t look up from her laptop. “Statistically speaking, you’d have a better chance of surviving a plane crash than lasting in a pit fight. I’m not recommending it.”
“Not recommending?” Nate smirks. “So you’re not saying no.”
Bird’s fingers drum against the armrest of her chair, a steady rhythm. When the bickering reaches its loudest point, she stands once again.
“We’re not stepping into the pits.” Her voice cuts through everything, calm but firm. “Not yet. If this mystery person wants blood, she’s not getting ours. We play smarter than that.”
The silence that follows is thick—half frustrated, half relieved. No one argues, but she knows better by now than to not expect someone to follow up this meeting with a stupid decision.
Whumptober day threeee. Tbf I'm only three days behind. Enjoyyyy
Masterlist
~~~
The power had gone out hours ago, and Harriet still hasn’t fixed it. Not because she couldn’t, but because she’d been asked not to.
The base is lit only by candlelight now, small flickers of gold scattered across tables and windowsills. The torrent thunderstorm outside had slowed to a soft patter against the roof. The city hums faintly beyond their walls. But in here, it’s still.
Raya is showing Piper and Laura how to make bracelets with colorful string. Jake, Nate, and Will are sat in a half-circle on the carpet, methodically cleaning weapons and gear. Milo is deep in a game of chess with Ridge, neither have said a word in an hour.
Bird has her back against the bottom half of the couch. The floor had long since become uncomfortable beneath her, but she didn’t dare move. Myra leg is softly brushing against her shoulder—she’s relaxed on the couch—reading the book Bird had gifted her months ago.
Even the three techs are strangely quiet, she’d expected Harriet’s fingers to start itching around thirty to forty minutes following the power outage, but she’d simply shrugged and put an earbud in after Bird asked her to hold off on fixing the power.
Now, West and Cane are silently tinkering at the center table, Harriet has her head face down on the table with her hand on Cane’s leg.
She can feel the silent tension radiating from the game of chess, mixing with the chilled vibes radiating from the rest of the room. This is nice, Bird could absolutely get used to this. She hated the rain usually, but now it felt like it had momentarily lifted a weight from her shoulders.
At some point, she isn’t sure when, Will and Raya—in some strange silent unison—get up and leave the room. They’re back only minutes later with mugs, coffee, tea, and warm muffins.
Bird doesn’t ask how they managed to heat up everything with no power, she only takes a blueberry muffin and cup of coffee with a whispered thank you. Similar murmurs of thanks echo around the room as the treats and drinks are passed around.
“Kinda feels like the end of the world,” Laura laughs, her voice dampened.
“That’s what happens when you’re not used to the quiet,” Harriet replies, head now lifted.
Bird takes a grateful bite of the muffin. She looks around the room, she’s surrounded by people she considered more than just her team, acquaintances, or even just friends. These were people she’d bled beside, argued with, and nearly lost. Faces lit by gold flames and darkened by the shadows.
Jake catches her eye and gives her a small nod. Myra nudges her with her leg in acknowledgement, like she knew what Bird was thinking through.
The candles sway gently, and for a fleeting moment, the world outside could’ve disappeared and none of them would have noticed. Bird certainly wouldn’t care.
I'm really posting this arc all out of order, but it's really just whatever comes to me. I hope you all enjoy it nonetheless <3
**Side note: This arc is unrelated to the Salem/Rings arc. Completely different story line, same characters.
~~~
Bird had never made it a habit to visit museums. Something about the polished marbles floors that held hundreds of years of visitors, frozen exhibits reflecting stories that would never be told in full, glass cases holding silhouettes that no longer belonged to the living or the dead.
Museums after dark were even worse. The absence of the life that visitors brought left too much room for soulless eyes to stare back at you.
Rain patters against the glass roof of the main display room. The occasional lighting flashed through the sky, lighting up the otherwise dark space.
Milo crept ahead of the group, not taking any time to stop and admire the displays. Bird could tell he was as unnerved as she was, by his stiff movements and insistence on moving forward.
Will and Myra moved behind him, pausing more often to observe the different displays. This room held many, many decades of stolen treasures, victory artifacts wrongly claimed, tales of war that seemed too dramatic to be real.
Harriet and Bird brought up the rear. Harriet didn’t run missions as often as everyone else on the team, even her tech counterparts. But this mission had too many moving technical components for her to stay back at base, safe behind her screens.
So she stayed close to Bird, out of her element but ready to work regardless.
“Look at this,” Myra says, pausing once again and glancing over at Bird.
“Oh wow,” Harriet breathes lightly, eyes lighting up in fascination.
Bird slows despite herself.
The display Myra has stopped at sits slightly apart from the others, cordoned off by a low glass barrier and a plaque that’s been rewritten enough times to feel apologetic. The lighting is dimmer here—intentional, Bird notes distantly—angled so the object casts more shadow than reflection.
It’s armor.
Not a full suit. Just the chest piece and one gauntlet, suspended in the case like they were caught mid-removal. The metal is scarred, not decoratively so, but with the kind of damage that only comes from repeated, ugly impact. No filigree. No emblem. Whoever wore it didn’t want to be recognized. Just protected.
Bird steps closer, eyes narrowing.
The plaque reads something bland and careful about “An Unidentified Combatant, Late Conflict Era”, but someone—curator or intern, Bird can’t tell—has penciled a note in the margin beneath the glass:
**Recovered without a body.
Harriet leans in, fingers hovering just shy of the glass as if she can feel the hum through it. “The alloy composition is… odd,” she murmurs. “Layered. Not for deflection. For absorption.”
Will tilts his head. “So it wasn’t meant to stop the blow.”
“No,” Harriet says softly. “It was meant to survive it.”
Milo glances back over his shoulder, just once. His eyes flick to the armor and then away again, jaw tightening. “That’s not a hero’s gear.”
Myra’s mouth curves, sharp and knowing. “No,” she agrees. “Heroes want their armor to be seen.”
Bird studies the gauntlet—how the knuckles are worn smooth, not from polishing but from use. From bracing against walls. From catching something that shouldn’t be caught.
“How many stories do you think they cut out to make it fit in here?” Bird asks quietly.
Harriet swallows. “Not enough to scare people.”
Thunder rolls overhead, distant but heavy, and for just a second the lightning flash catches the armor at the right angle—etching the dents, the fractures, the places where it almost failed.
Milo shifts his weight, restless. “We shouldn’t linger.”
Bird doesn’t move yet.
She feels it—that familiar pull. Not ownership. Not nostalgia.
Recognition.
And somewhere deeper in the museum, something clicks softly. Not an alarm. Not yet.
Just the sound of a system waking up.
Bird straightens, eyes lifting from the armor.
“Stay sharp.”
~~~
Harriet has a map of the museum pulled up on her tablet now. She’s taken the lead just behind Milo, murmuring quiet directions.
“We should come here when the place is open to real visitors,” Will jokes, eyes moving over the wall of modern hero history. “Might learn something cool.”
“I can think of a few of the team who would find this place pretty interesting,” Myra agrees, more serious. “Not that most of it is real or unexaggerated, though.”
Milo pauses at the end of the hall, reading a plaque that caught his eye for whatever reason. Bird moves to read over his shoulder, curious what got the kid to finally slow.
WHITE FOX
Registered Hero
Ranked 5th Countrywide
Affiliated Sidekicks: SURGE, VIDA
Status: ACTIVE
And just below it, a plaque for both sidekicks mentioned.
SURGE
Registered Sidekick Operative
Service Period: Classified
Affiliated Hero: WHITE FOX
Status: Deceased
Bird glances over at Milo. His shoulders are tight. Though hidden behind a mask, she can feel the anger and hurt radiating.
“You know this one?” Will asks, coming up behind them. “Weird that this sidekick has no information at all. The rest have at least some sort of achievement or picture attached.”
Milo huffs and turns away, opting to instead look at the framed painting of the top five heroes on the wall. “I know what they left out,” he mutters bitterly.
“Can’t control the ending, cut out the middle,” Myra says with a dry laugh. “They do it all the time. Typical heroes.”
Bird sets a gentle hand on Milo’s shoulder, breaking him out of his deadly stare down with the painting. His shoulders finally slump, and he pulls away, falling back in into the lead with Harriet.
Harriet and Will both shoot curious looks at Bird, but her attention has already moved on.
Their private, unauthorized tour takes them out of the history hall and into the weaponry.
The weaponry wing smells like cold metal and polish—too clean for a room built to glorify violence.
Bird feels it immediately. That subtle pressure behind the eyes. The sense that this room isn’t dormant. It’s posed.
Rows of glass cases line the walls, each lit with reverent precision. Early hero armaments. Prototype suits. Weapons that promised control where fear once lived. At the center of the room stands the exhibit everyone remembers from school tours and recruitment videos alike.
THE FIRST TECHNOLOGICALLY ADVANCED WAR WEAPON.
A turning point in the age of heroes.
It’s mounted upright, almost ceremonial: a sleek, spear-like device encased in layered glass, its surface etched with geometric channels that catch the light. It looks elegant. Controlled. Safe.
Harmless.
“I’ve never seen any weapon like this,” Myra says curiously. “What’s it even supposed to do?”
Harriet stops breathing.
“That’s not a weapon,” she whispers. Bird can see her hands shaking ever so slightly as she sets her tablet and backpack on the floor.
Will glances at her. “No?”
“It’s a housing,” she says, stepping closer. “A shell. The weapon was never the point.”
Myra circles the case, eyes sharp. “Then what was? Why would they put wires in a spear and call it a weapon of war?”
Harriet doesn’t answer yet. She kneels at the base of the display, fingers brushing the plaque’s mounting bracket. Her tablet flickers—then goes dark.
She exhales, almost reverent. “No wireless interface. No ports. No maintenance access logged in thirty-seven years.”
Bird steps closer. “Because it doesn’t need maintenance.” The hairs on her arms and standing up. Harriet’s awe was almost more nerve-wracking than the weapon itself.
“No,” Harriet agrees. “It’s asleep.”
The word lands heavy.
Will checks his watch. “Morning staff in twenty-two minutes.”
Bird nods. “Then we wake it gently.”
The glass isn’t locked.
That’s the first lie.
The second is that the display is standalone.
Harriet removes a small tool from her pocket—not tech, exactly. Something half-analog, half-intuitive. She presses it against the seam where the glass meets the floor.
The room hums.
Low. Deep. Old.
Milo stiffens. “That sound—”
“Power redistribution,” Harriet says. “Localized. The museum just rerouted electricity to us.”
Myra pauses in her pacing. “It noticed.”
The glass retracts—not sliding, not lifting, but unthreading, layers peeling back like something exhaling after decades of restraint.
Inside, the spear is wrong up close.
Not sharp.
Not heavy.
Its surface is warm.
Harriet breathes out slowly and pushes her hood off. Her silvery hair flows out, shimmering in the glow of the spear. By far the closest thing Bird has ever seen to magic in the modern world.
Bird feels it—an itch along her spine. “Harriet.”
“I know,” Harriet whispers. “It’s not inert.”
She places both hands on the device.
The room listens.
Data doesn’t flood in.
It waits.
“This system predates modern encryption,” Harriet murmurs, eyes unfocused. “It doesn’t want credentials. It wants intent.”
Milo takes a step back, thrown off. “What kind of intent?”
“The kind that knows what it’s about to learn,” she says.
Bird meets her eyes. “You don’t have to—”
“Yes,” Harriet says quietly. “I do.”
She presses in.
The spear fractures—not physically, but conceptually. Layers unfold into light and sound and memory. Ghost-images bloom against the walls: tactical overlays, live feeds, biometric readouts.
A city grid.
Marked in red.
Projected casualties.
A command stamp flashes once.
AUTHORIZED.
Will sucks in a breath. “Those numbers—”
“—are civilians,” Milo finishes, voice hollow.
A comm recording plays. Distorted. Calm.
If we intervene now, we lose public trust.
Delay until visibility peaks.
The narrative requires a catalyst. They don’t deserve our city.
Bird closes her eyes.
Myra’s hands curl slowly into fists. “They let it happen.”
“Yes,” Harriet says. “And this—” she gestures to the artifact “—wasn’t a weapon. It was the justification engine. The system that proved intervention was necessary after the damage was done.”
Milo stares at the light, at a familiar tag embedded deep in the data architecture.
SUPPORT OPERATIVE – SURGE – FIELD PROXIMITY CONFIRMED
He steps back like he’s been struck.
“They trained us to protect the image,” he says quietly. “Because this thing protected the lie.”
The room goes silent.
Then—
A soft chime.
Will looks at his watch. “Fifteen minutes.”
Bird straightens. “Can you extract it?”
Harriet nods. “Not copy. It’s self-destructive if duplicated. But I can move it.”
“To where?” Myra asks.
Bird answers without hesitation. “Dakota’s doorstep.”
Harriet hesitates—just a breath. “Once it’s removed, the exhibit collapses. The museum will know.”
Bird meets her gaze. “Let them.”
Harriet braces herself and pulls.
The spear folds inward, light collapsing into a compact, unassuming core no larger than a forearm. The room exhales—power draining, glass resealing, history pretending nothing changed.
Milo takes the core when Harriet’s hands shake.
It’s heavier than it looks.
Sirens begin to stir somewhere far below.
Bird turns them toward the exit. “We’re ghosts in ninety seconds.”
As they slip out of the weaponry wing, the plaque flickers briefly.
The title changes—just for a heartbeat—before resetting.
THE FIRST NECESSARY LIE.
No one sees it.
But the war remembers.
And it has finally been taken out of its glass case.
Bird’s voice cuts through the still air like a knife.
Adira is sitting in a chair at the head of the room, facing the glass wall that overlooks the city. They’re at the highest point of her tower, sitting at the edge of the city like a lookout.
Her back is to the entrance, long brown hair dangling over the back of the chair. It sways as Adira slides out of her chair with the most dramatic groan Bird has ever heard. And being the leader of her vigilantes, that was saying something.
The woman pops back up from behind the desk and storms over to the nervous assistant standing just behind Bird.
Bird keeps her gaze neutral and forward fixed as Adira gets in the face of the assistant.
“I thought I gave very clear instructions that she was not to be let in here,” Adira growls.
“Well… I mean- I- I couldn’t have exactly-”
“Whatever,” Adira interrupts. “Get out. I’ll deal with you later.”
The assistant squeaks and scurries out, like a mouse given another chance.
Bird glances over as Adira appears in her vision again, with a smile far too wide and eyes too bright.
She claps her hands together and impressively widens her fake smile. “Bird,” she coos. “It is so lovely to see you.”
“Skip the pleasantries,” Bird says dryly.
The switch is immediate, swapped to a face of unchecked disgust.
“Oh good, I’m so glad you agree,” Adira huffs, walking back over to her desk. “So what brings you by? I hope it’s not to tell me to call off my people from the west district, that would be-”
“It’s not.”
Adira’s grin returns, more sharp and entertained this time. Ignoring the interruption, she begins pacing back and forth and wiggles a finger at Bird.
“Y’know, your vigilantes have been all over town recently. I’ve heard so many rumors, it’s hard to keep up. Dakota’s heroes too, I’m really starting to feel a bit cornered here.”
Bird doesn’t move.
She lets Adira pace. Lets the sound of heels against polished stone fill the space where intimidation is supposed to live.
“You’re not cornered,” Bird says calmly. “You’re crowded.”
Adira stops mid-step. Slowly turns.
“Oh?” she drawls. “And here I thought I was expanding.”
“You are,” Bird replies. “That’s the problem.”
Adira laughs, sharp and bright, spins her chair once before straddling it backward, arms draped over the back like she owns the room. Which, unfortunately, she does.
“You always did hate my ambition,” Adira says. “You called it pressure. I called it inevitability.”
Bird finally looks at her.
“You called it necessity,” Bird corrects. “You were wrong then, too.”
The smile slips. Just a fraction.
Adira’s eyes narrow—not angry. Curious.
“Careful,” she says softly. “That tone implies you think you’re in a position to correct me.”
“I am,” Bird says. “That’s why I’m here.”
Silence stretches.
The city glows behind Adira through the glass wall—alive, restless, unaware of how close it is to becoming a chessboard again.
Adira glances back at it, then at Bird. “You didn’t come to threaten me,” she says. “You never do. You came to warn me.”
Bird inclines her head. “You’re pushing too hard.”
Adira scoffs. “People are calm. Crime is down. Supply lines are clean. Even the princess’s precious heroes can’t argue with the numbers.”
“No,” Bird agrees. “They can’t argue with the surface.”
Adira’s fingers tap against the chair. “Then enlighten me.”
Bird steps forward—not aggressively, not cautiously. Just enough to shift the room ever so slightly.
“You’ve replaced chaotic disagreements with scared compliance,” Bird says. “It looks like peace. It isn’t.”
“And what have you replaced it with?” Adira snaps. “Trust? Hope? Those are luxuries. They break.”
“They heal,” Bird replies. “If you don’t crush them first.”
Adira stands abruptly, chair rolling back and bumping the desk. “You think you’re better than me because you hesitate?”
“I hesitate,” Bird says evenly, “because I understand consequences.”
Adira laughs again—but there’s no humor in it now. “No. You hesitate because you’re afraid of becoming me.”
Bird meets her gaze, unflinching.
“No,” she says quietly. “I hesitate because I could.”
That lands.
For the first time since Bird entered the room, Adira looks… still.
“You didn’t come to join me,” Adira says slowly.
“No.”
“You didn’t come to beg.”
“No.”
Adira studies her sister’s face—really studies it. The restraint. The certainty. The quiet confidence that doesn’t need a tower to stand tall.
“…You came to draw a line,” Adira murmurs.
Bird nods. “I came to tell you that you’re standing on it.”
The city hums beneath them.
Adira turns away, walking back toward the glass, hands clasped behind her back. “You always choose the middle,” she says. “Do you know how exhausting it is to watch you refuse to commit?”
Bird doesn’t raise her voice. “Do you know how dangerous it is to think commitment only looks like control?”
Adira exhales sharply. “If I don’t expand, someone else will.”
“Then let them,” Bird says. “You don’t have to be inevitable. You need to be responsible.”
Adira turns, eyes sharp again—but thoughtful now. “And if I don’t listen?”
Bird doesn’t threaten her.
She never has.
She’ll never need to.
“Then I’ll keep people alive long enough to survive you.”
The words are quiet. Spoken to her in a way no one else ever dared to.
Adira stares at her for a long moment. Then she smiles—slow, genuine, and far more dangerous than any of the others.
“Oh, Skye,” she says softly. “You really have grown.”
Bird holds her ground.
“So have you,” she replies. “That’s why this matters.”
Baby we're backkkkk. Life has been so insane. Here's a little fic for funsies <3
Masterlist
~~~
No one had seen Bird in eight hours.
That never meant anything good.
The last time the team leader disappeared, she’d come back six months later with twelve names and a crazy idea.
Myra would never admit it out loud, but she’s nervous.
People kept asking her questions.
“Do you know where Bird is?” “I can’t find Bird, can you help?” “I have a question for Bird…”
Myra has a headache… and she’s starting to understand why Bird had disappeared.
She’d left her watch and phone at the base. Harriet had seen her on the cameras, masked and geared up, heading south. But that’s where the trail ended.
Now, Jake and her were sat in the conference room. They’d been there in silence for the last hour. No one else besides Harriet and Raya had caught onto the worry.
Not that Myra was worried. Bird always came back. But it was different now. Before the team, it was normal for her to disappear from their shared apartment for days or weeks at a time. But now, they had a team to look after. A responsibility. And Bird took such things incredibly seriously. She’d never just leave without saying anything.
Until she did.
“It’s only been a few hours,” Raya had said gently, when Myra had muttered under her breath. Harriet had shrugged and said she’d keep an eye on the city cameras.
Jake is leaning back, arms crossed, squinting at the digital map of the city hanging on the wall. It sparkled with moving blue and red dots, highlighting hero and villain patrols respectively. Myra has a coin she’s fiddling with between her fingers and occasionally tossing into the air.
The coin hits the table and spins, metallic whisper cutting through the silence.
Jake doesn’t look away from the map. “You’re going to wear a dent in that thing.”
Myra catches the coin before it falls. “I’ll replace the table.”
“I don’t mean the table.”
She snorts quietly. “No one ever does.”
The map pulses. Patrols shift. A hero unit reroutes south, then stops. A villain marker blinks out entirely.
Jake leans forward now, forearms on the table. “She wouldn’t go dark without a reason.”
“No,” Myra agrees. “She’d go dark because of one.”
Another silence settles. Heavier this time.
Raya passes the doorway again, pretending not to look in. Myra clocks it anyway—the careful steps, the tension in her shoulders. Harriet’s presence is a constant hum somewhere deeper in the base, keyboards clicking too steadily to be casual.
Myra flips the coin once more, higher this time. It arcs, catches the light, lands back in her palm.
“She hates the rain,” Jake says suddenly.
Myra looks at him.
“It’s been raining all morning,” he continues. “If she chose today, it wasn’t coincidence.”
Myra’s jaw tightens. “She also hates unfinished problems.”
Jake exhales. “That too.”
Footsteps come down the hall. Harriet appears, nervous, tablet clutched to her chest like a shield.
“I—um,” she starts, then stops. Swallows. “I found something on the cameras.”
Jake is on his feet immediately. Myra’s eyes follow Harriet without a word as she steps into the room and connects her tablet to the large screen on the wall next to the city map.
The image Harriet pulls up isn’t the city map. It’s a single still frame—grainy, half-obscured by rain.
Bird, hood up, mask on.
She’s standing at the edge of a bridge.
Not fighting.
Not running.
Waiting.
“She crossed into a dead zone,” Harriet says softly. “No cameras past that point. No hero coverage. No villain markers either.”
Jake stares at the image. “That’s not a coincidence.”
“No,” Myra says. “That’s a message.”
Raya appears in the room, gently closing the door behind her to keep nosy team members from overhearing. “What kind of message?”
Myra doesn’t answer right away. She’s already reaching for her jacket on an adjacent chair. “The kind you leave when you don’t want anyone else involved.”
Jake’s voice hardens. “That’s not her call to make anymore.”
Myra pauses, fingers tightening on the zipper.
“She knows that,” she says. “Which means whatever’s out there… she thinks it’s worse.”
Jake swears under his breath. “We should’ve noticed.”
“We did,” Myra snaps, sharper than intended. She exhales. “We just didn’t stop her.”
The room hums with power and rain and unspoken fear.
Raya steps closer. “What are you thinking?”
Myra finally looks at her. “I’m thinking Bird is very good at carrying things alone.”
Jake nods once. “And very bad at letting people help.”
Harriet’s voice is deceptively steady. “Do we… do we call the others?”
Myra considers it. The noise. The chaos. The questions.
Then she looks back at the frozen image of Bird in the rain.
“No,” she says. “Not yet.”
Jake meets her gaze. “You’re giving her a head start.”
“I’m giving her a chance,” Myra replies. “There’s a difference.”
Another patrol icon flickers out on the city map behind them.
This time, all four of them notice.
Raya’s voice is quiet. “How long do we wait?”
Myra flips the coin one last time.
It lands heads-up.
“Until the rain stops,” she says. “Or until she doesn’t come back.”
Takes place just before Witch Hunt, this one is a bit shorter. Hope you guys are enjoying!
Masterlist
~~~
The warehouse looms like a dead beast against the ring of forest—rusted tin siding, broken windows patched with plywood, a rolling door with fresh paint that doesn’t match the rest of the building. Myra and her crew are tucked behind a stack of empty crates, either forgotten or left behind in the darkness.
“Shipment’s running through here,” she murmurs. “Some labelled under a single initial. C. Could be a name, could be a front.” She looks down at the tablet in her hands and flips through some files, trying to find anything that matched.
Piper crouches beside her, chewing gum obnoxiously loud. It smelled like blueberries, the one Deacon had chosen for his offerings the last week. “C for ‘clearly a trap.’ I mean, look at this place. If it had neon signs flashing ‘shady business,’ they’d still be subtler.”
Cane is already pulling a small scanner out of his bag, not bothering to look up. “C for carbon steel, C for chemical agents, C for ‘Cane needs three minutes inside.’” His grin is sharp, and his hair is unconfined by the black hood. It spills out on top, on the sides. “Whatever it is, I’ll find it.”
Will, standing behind them with his arms crossed, huffs. “Or C for ‘cops.’ Because that’s who’s going to roll in if you don’t stop running your mouths.” His eyes dart to the street. “We need to be in and out.”
Myra tilts her head, weighing the tension. “Pipes, distract the night watch. Be loud. Make them look the other way, but don’t get caught. I won’t come get you. Cane, you’re on scanners. Will, you keep eyes on the perimeter and yell if I need to stab someone. And keep your masks on.”
Will mutters something about her definition of subtlety. Myra ignores him.
Piper blows a bubble at Will, smirks, and saunters down the driveway like she owns the place. Her humming echoes off the concrete—loud, off-key, and impossible to ignore. Sure enough, a flashlight beam sweeps toward her.
“Hey! You can’t be here!”
“Oh, relax,” Piper calls, her voice sweet as candy and twice as fake. “I’m just looking for the bathroom. What’s the magic word? PlayDough… Potatoes… Peter… Aw, doesn’t matter, I’m just gonna go find it myself.”
More flashlights sweep across the lot as Piper laughs and takes off running, around the side of the warehouse. The air fills with shouting as all the guards in the immediate area take off after her.
That’s enough for Myra. Her and Cane slip through the shadows to the opposite side of the warehouse. Cane has the door half-jimmied open in record time.
The air inside reeks of oil and rust. Myra is grateful for the filters built into her mask. She isn’t sure how her lungs had held up before the blessed gift of masks. Stacks of crates line the floor, some stamped with foreign shipping codes, others with a single bold letter: C.
Cane’s scanner beeps in her ear. “High density. Military-grade alloys. Some crates cold-stored. Could be explosives, could be bio-samples. Either way, fun.”
Myra crouched, running her fingers over the stamped letter. She takes a few pictures of the shipping codes. Something else catches her eye, though. She turns and reaches for the glittery white paper taped to the top of one of the crates. The words inside were written in a deep red, and had seemingly dripped down the page.
To Whom It May Concern,
Congrats on making the first move. Bold, but clumsy. I’ll offer you one chance to turn and leave before the games begin in earnest.
Every step you take is borrowed. Every breath is mine to reclaim. If you’re clever, you’ll leave the crates and this letter where they stand. The Red Ring always receives its payment back in blood. Consider this your warning… or your invitation.
This was a challenge for Myra, written in literal blood. This one she couldn’t wait to argue with Bird about. She folds the letter and pockets it in her vest.
Will’s voice comes low through comms, taut with worry. “Time’s up. Guard’s radioing for backup.”
“Then we ghost,” Myra replies, standing. She taps her comm. “Pipes, pull out. Cane, stash your toys. Will, cover our exit.”
As they slip back into the night, Piper jogs up beside Myra, grinning ear to ear. “So? Did we learn anything, Scary Spice?”
Myra’s eyes glitter. “Yeah. Whoever this ‘C’ is… they want us to know they’re here.”
