The Other Side of the Glass: Part 7

by HyperFocusedCloneShipper

Summary:

While it’s useful to have a champion or two among Management's members, it is never a good thing to have Management’s full attention.

Notes:

Not sure if you read the previous chapter? Click here for a summary of Chapter 92: The Other Side of the Glass: Part 6

• The chapter opens with Artie visiting Redgar (the iteration of Mustardseed) for consolidation treatments. The surreal and sterile environment, and the realization of how long it has been since Redgar last saw him causes Artie to break down into hysterical laughter and near tears
• Redgar offers comfort, but Artie initially recoils, viewing him as the traitor Mustardseed. However, Artie ultimately acknowledges to himself that Redgar was just trying to survive and had been reeling from learning about his aneurysm, leading Artie to apologize for how Base treated him
• Artie reveals to Redgar that Cal will be his principal asset and that he is being trained for Management. Redgar deduces that the compound is elevating Cal to an employee and that Orange is training Artie in order to protect Cal from Base and other external threats
• During the session, Redgar monitors Artie's vitals and explains that he has successfully negotiated full employment status for himself. He offers to help Artie navigate his own compound contracts, and the two establish a fragile trust both of them expressing forgiveness for the other
• Artie is sent on a field mission to Riga to kill Mike or Michael. Artie is overwhelmed by nostalgic memories and guilt. When confronted with Michael he's overcome by a sense of inevitability and dread. Instead of drawing his weapon, Artie tearfully apologizes and allows Michael to shoot him
• Three months later, Orange furiously confronts Redgar over Artie's lack of progress, revealing Artie hasn't even been able to draw his weapon during his continuous field missions. Redgar firmly defends his methods, insisting that the delicate consolidation treatments require more time
• Orange threatens Redgar, emphasizing that Artie must succeed in order to protect the Support Department. Redgar smoothly placates Orange and manages to use the situation to negotiate visitation privileges so the isolated Artie can visit him and Seafoam
• Redgar uses his new privileges to visit Artie's quarters, but Artie is defensive, lashing out and assuming Redgar is acting as a handler. Artie brings up the death of Redgar's husband, only to be struck by the realization of how many years Redgar has actually been trapped at the compound
• Artie breaks down and confesses his true fear: the consolidations aren't working and they never will. Unlike the subjects he previously learned to execute he doesn't believe he will ever be able to overcome this hurdle meaning, he, Red, and Cal will never achieve any sort of freedom and it will all be his fault and his weakness. Redgar reassures Artie that he will help him succeed
• Weeks later, Artie is sent to an Agattu Island where he coldly executes Alaska Mikey. When confronted by Mike and Michael, Artie shoots Mike in the shoulder, intentionally delivering a flesh wound and Michael immediately guns Artie down in response
• Artie wakes up in a private compound transport room where an ecstatic Orange congratulates him on his "breakthrough." Deeply traumatized by what he has just forced himself to do, Artie escapes to Redgar's apartment
• The chapter ends with Artie completely breaking down, sobbing into Redgar's shoulder and begging not to lose him. Redgar gently comforts him, taking off his shoes and offering him dinner and a movie, as Artie finally accepts the care, calling him "Red"

A Little Over Ten Months Since Infiltrating the Compound

Success looked terrible on him.

Seafoam seemed to agree.

"According to Orange, you haven't seen me in months, and yet you’re wearing the exact same tracksuit bottoms and ratty old white t-shirt I last saw you in," Seafoam observed, crossing his arms and raising a brow in disapproval.

Leaning against the back of the couch, Artie looked down at himself. Not having put much thought into what he had put on that morning, he had no real memory of what he was wearing.

Looking back up at Seafoam, he said, "They’re joggers."

Exhaling sharply through his nose, Seafoam tutted before crossing to the dining table to pluck up the tablet resting atop it. "How have you been doing with Cal?" he asked as he tapped at the screen.

Artie had pushed off the back of the couch to follow Seafoam toward the kitchenette, but the question brought him up short. "What?"

Attention still on the tablet, Seafoam clarified, "Lie detection. Last time I was here, you were saying you felt our sessions questioning the Mike Walters subjects weren't doing much to help you better parse truth from lies when it came to Cal."

"Oh," Artie mumbled. He scratched at his overgrown beard, then crossed the room to sit at the dining table.

It had been months since he’d last focused on lie detection.

"I mean, Orange had me focused on other stuff the past few months, so without you here, I’ve just kind of been watching whatever surveillance plays."

A small furrow appeared between Seafoam’s brows as he glanced up at Artie. "What do you mean, 'whatever surveillance plays'?"

"The surveillance that plays whenever I’m alone in here," Artie stated flatly. What else could Seafoam think he meant?

Slowly lowering the tablet to the dining table, Seafoam tilted his head, turning it slightly as if he thought he hadn’t heard correctly. He and Artie stared at one another.

After several long seconds, Seafoam closed his eyes and massaged the space between his brows with the tips of his ring and middle fingers. "Sorry, when you say 'plays whenever you’re alone in here'—"

Feeling increasingly like he was being gaslit, Artie muttered, "Whenever I’m alone in my quarters, surveillance automatically plays. I figured you picked it."

Seafoam just continued to stare at him, his eyes widening a fraction. He cleared his throat and looked away, staring into space as he ran a hand across his brow. "For fuck’s sake," he murmured.

"You didn’t know surveillance was being piped in day and night?" Artie asked slowly.

That had Seafoam’s attention snapping back to Artie. "Day and night?" he demanded in a breathy, high-pitched squeak. "What do you mean, day and night?"

"Well," Artie hesitated, his gaze pulled toward the massive TV that took up most of the wall in the living room area. "I mean—it’s pretty straightforward, man. If I’m alone, the surveillance kicks on. If I have a visitor, it stops and I can turn it off. Otherwise it just—" He gave a helpless little shrug as he gestured at the TV. "Plays."

"Christ on a bike," Seafoam murmured faintly. Staring wide-eyed at Artie, he let out a weak little laugh. "Well, this—" he made an all-encompassing sweeping gesture at Artie, "—makes more sense now. I can’t imagine you’re sleeping well." After another moment, Seafoam shook his head and mumbled, "Christ."

"Are you—wait, so you don’t send me surveillance?" Artie asked skeptically, watching Seafoam closely.

Another weak laugh escaped Seafoam, and he pressed his hand to his forehead, squeezing his eyes closed. "I do, but—I sorted them into different queues with specific themes, and I assumed you were reviewing them in your own time. I wrote up notes to go with them to give you context, and—” Seafoam shook his head in disbelief as he threw up his hands. “—and Orange has just been dumping them all into one queue and playing them non-stop!" Seafoam was really laughing hard now, his eyes watering. "Had I known—well, I wouldn’t have recommended this!"

When Seafoam’s laughter continued, turning a little wild, Artie wasn’t sure what to do.

Finally, he got to his feet and moved around the table to stand before Seafoam. After a moment’s hesitation, Artie gave Seafoam’s shoulder an awkward little pat.

"Oh Jesus," Seafoam wheezed, pinching at the bridge of his nose. He took a few deep breaths. "I really need to get a grip. Sorry," he croaked.

"You good?" Artie asked flatly, absolutely sure that he wasn’t.

Seafoam nodded and took a deep breath, his chest shuddering a little at the last gasps of laughter, before giving himself a little shake and grabbing the tablet again.

"Well," Seafoam quavered with a sniff, wiping at the corner of one eye with the heel of his hand before tapping at the tablet’s touchscreen. "How has that been going?" he asked, his voice saturated with sarcasm.

"I dunno," Artie muttered. "It’s been a lot more of Cal interacting with his team and different Tys than the actual subjects lately."

"Tys?" Seafoam asked, looking up from the tablet and frowning at him. "I didn’t send any surveillance of him interacting with Tys."

Artie shrugged helplessly.

After a moment, Seafoam turned back to the tablet, appearing baffled and frustrated. "What the hell is Orange doing?" he muttered under his breath. "Who else does he have working on this?"

"If it’s not you, it’s probably just Orange," Artie replied. He wasn’t sure why Seafoam was so upset by it all. It was weird and fucked up, sure, but Orange was just trying to cram as much training as possible into the time they had. Ever since they’d begun this whole training endeavor, Orange had made it clear that he’d managed to secure resources for a specific stretch of time in the past. They had to get it done in that timeframe, or things would become more complicated than they already were.

"Artie, Orange is one of the most powerful people on Management’s board," Seafoam explained irritably as he tapped hard on the tablet. "Orange doesn’t do that sort of thing himself. He delegates. I doubt he even picks out his own socks in the morning. He explains what he wants to other people and expects them to deliver."

"Oh," Artie replied dumbly. "But—but he doesn’t want people to know—"

"Yes, so he limits whom he delegates to," Seafoam interrupted impatiently.

Artie didn’t know enough people within the compound to even form an opinion about who else might’ve been brought in to curate the surveillance that played in his quarters. He knew a decent amount about the members of Management’s board, but Orange specifically wanted to keep Artie’s existence a secret from all of them, so it didn’t seem likely that he’d bring any of them in at this point.

"Well. The surveillance of Cal dealing with other compound employees was sort of helpful," Artie admitted, rubbing at the back of his neck.

"How so?" Seafoam asked briskly, not looking up from the tablet. He began to walk in the direction of the living room area, and Artie trailed behind.

He mulled it over before offering, "I dunno. It wasn’t just Tys. It was other compound employees. Felix. Emergency Medical staff. The Head of Security. They like him. They all seem—they’re respectful of him. People in security called him 'Mr. Walters’ for fuck’s sake. I didn’t realize—"

Artie just shook his head, not sure how to explain that despite his own training and elevation being set in motion specifically to make Cal an employee, he hadn’t grasped that, by and large, the people who worked at the compound seemed to already view Cal as an equal.

Seafoam looked up at Artie as he took a seat on the couch, thoughtful.

Artie threw himself down on the opposite end of the couch, not sure what else to say.

Seafoam considered him for a moment, then nodded to himself. "Most people who work at the compound don’t really know that Cal is a contractual worker, or they don't fully understand the distinction. Some do—his friends and some department heads, for example—but Cal has been Viridian’s right-hand man for years, even before he established the Support Department. Cal’s role has always required him to network across departments. He’s extremely well known and visible throughout the compound."

Artie snorted. "Yeah, but—I mean, his job is fucking iterations. Even if people don’t know that he’s a contractual worker rather than a full employee—"

A laugh exploded from Seafoam, the force of it causing him to fold at the waist, sagging forward a little before straightening up again.

"My apologies," he chortled with an apologetic smile. "I forget sometimes that you haven’t experienced what it’s like for the average employee at the compound."

"Not a lot of opportunities to socialize," Artie muttered, but he allowed his lips to playfully quirk to one side in a small half-smile.

Seafoam tilted his head at Artie in acknowledgement. "A number of people might be aware that support workers live with subjects while on assignment. But in addition to being Deputy Head of Operations Support under Viridian, Cal is Head of the Subject Support Department. What most actually see is him holding meetings, advising project leads, and reviewing proposals for new areas of research. There are, naturally, a select few who realize that sex work is a part of the role—mostly a handful of the department heads in Research and Development and a few members of the security team. But given employees are strictly prohibited from sexual contact with subjects, and how little anyone understands what it means to be a 'contractual worker' as opposed to permanent staff—most tend to assume Support Workers are simply handlers who manage subjects when they aren’t actively participating in experiments—which isn't far off the mark."

It did explain the way other compound employees tended to interact with Cal. But if what Seafoam said was true, Cal was ferociously protective of his department in a way that struck Artie as odd.

"Sometimes," Artie began slowly, the words taking their time to surface, "you say most people respect Cal, but sometimes when Cal gets hurt—" Artie sagged back against the couch and shook his head, struggling to explain the dynamic he’d witnessed.

Seafoam was watching him closely, fingers drumming across the edge of the tablet, waiting.

"There’s this Ty that tends to show up and—they seem to have a good rapport, but the way they disagree—" he hesitated, then said, "Cal comes across as almost territorial, or—or defensive."

Aside from when Cal was begging someone off-screen to spare a violent subject, it was the arguments with that specific Ty where Cal seemed the least composed. There seemed to be an unfiltered honesty in those interactions in which Cal didn’t bother with flattery or charm. He was direct, sometimes outright confrontational.

Pursing his lips, Seafoam considered Artie. He seemed to debate with himself about something. Finally, Seafoam said, "While I doubt anyone treats Cal differently because he’s a contractual worker or because he’s worked direct support, there are some people—especially in the Medical Research Department—who tend to think of Mike Walters iterations as little better than cattle. And so—" Seafoam paused, eyes going distant as he thought for a moment before refocusing on Artie. "Cal did have to overcome some initial—some assumptions when he first joined Viridian's department. Viridian—the Ty you are likely referring to—is Cal’s manager. He’s mentored Cal for quite a few years now. They’re very good friends outside of work, and as a result, they speak rather frankly with one another when it’s just the two of them. He understands why Cal is so protective of his position. And Cal knows—he likely knows that Viridian will listen to his professional concerns and take them seriously."

Seafoam’s fingers continued their lazy drumming across the edge of the tablet propped up on his lap.

Turning a little to lean back against the arm of the couch to better face Seafoam, Artie tried not to stare at those strumming fingers. The slow movement felt oddly performative—a display of unconcern.

Employees are strictly prohibited from sexual contact with subjects.

"Technically speaking—contractual workers—are we still definitionally considered subjects?" Artie asked, keeping his voice flat.

Something—recognition—flickered in Seafoam’s eyes. After a beat, Seafoam offered him an approving smile, the picture of an instructor who is simply pleased with their student for demonstrating their understanding. "No, but both subjects and contractual workers are considered compulsory residents. Many of the same rules and restrictions apply to both."

Compulsory residents.

 

Artie snickered at that before pulling on an expression of professional curiosity once more to match Seafoam’s polite approval.

Given the way Seafoam was dancing around Cal and this Viridian Ty, Artie got the sense that asking about them head-on would not lead anywhere useful.

So instead, he said, "Orange said you might’ve been flirting with me."

Seafoam’s brows snapped up, lips twitching with amused surprise. "Oh, did he?"

"He also said you have a boyfriend."

Letting out a little exhale of mirth, Seafoam observed, "Sounds like you and Orange had quite the gossip about me."

Artie shook his head. "No, it was more—I hadn’t seen you in weeks, and I thought—I asked Orange if you were sent to Storage the weeks when you aren’t working with me, and we just got to talking.”

The amusement on Seafoam’s face dimmed, a small furrow appearing between his brows. His eyes searched Artie’s, asking a silent question.

Eyes dropping to his lap, heat prickled up the back of Artie’s neck. "There was—I tweaked my back a couple months back," he explained hoarsely as he picked at some lint on the knee of his joggers. "And Orange told me there was no point in me suffering in silence."

"He has a point," Seafoam muttered dryly, arching a brow.

Wrinkling his nose, Artie gave a small, sharp shake of his head. "He transported in this massage therapist—iterated her and transported one of the iterations into my quarters."

In his periphery, Seafoam went perfectly still.

"Afterwards... she won’t be let out of Storage and consolidated with her other iteration until after I’m on Management’s board."

It felt like admitting to something shameful.

As the silence stretched on, the heat that spidered along his neck and down his spine intensified. It was becoming unbearable, snapping and crackling against skin that felt as though it might slough off at the slightest touch.

Finally, Seafoam cleared his throat. "I’m not sent to Storage when I’m not needed here," he reassured softly.

Artie nodded and pretended to pick another bit of lint off his pants as the uncomfortable heat spread around his neck and up his cheeks.

"I mean it, Arctos," Seafoam reiterated. He set down the tablet and draped one arm along the back of the couch as he turned toward Artie, tucking one of his long legs underneath himself. "I spend a couple of weeks async in this time period preparing your training materials and working with you directly. At the end of those two or three weeks, I go home and spend the evening with my boyfriend. And I am still working my regular job as well."

Relief rushed in with dizzying speed. He hadn’t realized how badly he’d needed to have confirmation from Seafoam himself that he hadn’t been sent to Storage in between his time with Artie. Orange had told him as much, but it wasn’t until now that he’d believed it.

While Seafoam’s routine of fitting a few weeks of asynchronous existence into a single day sounded overwhelming, it at least sounded as if he’d worked out the particulars with Orange.

"And I haven’t been flirting with you, you ass," Seafoam scoffed lightly, and he leaned forward, giving the side of Artie’s head a playful little slap. Having not expected such a friendly, intimate touch, Artie startled a little, his cheeks flushing—pleasantly this time. "But if it’ll cheer you up, I will."

Artie snorted and shook his head, a smile twitching at his lips. "Don’t be stupid," he mumbled.

"Oh, yes, I’m the stupid one," Seafoam teased.

Still unable to look up and meet Seafoam’s gaze, Artie muttered, "Sorry I kicked you out last time you were here. It must be—it's gotta be rough. Working async like that so often and having to hide it from everyone."

At first, Seafoam didn’t answer, but then he said, "I wish I’d realized it was going to be so long between now and the last time you saw me. I might’ve insisted on keeping you company."

Artie gave another shake of his head, dismissive this time. "I wasn’t in a great headspace."

"Mm, yes, I can see that your mood has greatly improved in the intervening months," Seafoam quipped. But there was a shade of concern blending with the dry humor.

It got a small huff of something close to laughter out of Artie. The tightness in his chest loosened. He hadn’t realized how tight it had felt until the tension was no longer there. Feeling a little weak with relief now that he was sure he wasn’t causing the friendly Ty Betteridge iteration to be sent to Storage whenever they weren’t working together, he finally glanced up.

Seafoam offered him a more genuine smile, wry and knowing.

"So, Emerald, huh?" Artie prompted, and, feeling a little daring, he stretched his leg out across the couch cushions to nudge at Seafoam’s knee with his foot.

Chuckling, Seafoam shrugged a shoulder and leaned sideways to pick up the tablet off the coffee table, his other hand grasping the back of the couch to steady himself. "Does it shock you?"

"I mean, kind of," Artie admitted. "Not—I didn’t think a Ty Betteridge would be—I thought you all might disapprove of that kind of thing. Being with an iteration of yourself," he clarified.

Seafoam tutted and tilted his head in acknowledgement. "There certainly are some Ty Betteridges who do disapprove. Most don’t really care one way or another. Emerald and I aren’t the only couple made up of a pair of duplicates, though we’re probably the most public."

"Is Orange one of the Tys who disapproves, or is he more in the 'doesn’t really care' camp?" Artie asked, fairly sure he already knew the answer.

Attention on the tablet in front of him, Seafoam tilted his head from side to side. "I don’t think he cares all that much about duplicates being in relationships with one another. Orange’s concerns are focused on the compound running smoothly and maintaining our control of certain technologies. Knowing him, he's probably run differentials on how inter-iteration sexual interactions correspond to productivity."

Artie snorted but  he had to agree. Orange seemed fairly ambivalent about relationships between iterations generally. He’d even teased Artie about being closed-minded when he’d first revealed Seafoam’s relationship. From what Orange had said, keeping Emerald happy at the compound had a strong influence on just how lenient Orange was about Seafoam’s "lack of professional ambition."

Not sure how to bring up his actual concern, and knowing that anything they said could be reviewed by Orange or whoever he had working for him, Artie asked, "Emerald’s kind of a big deal in the compound?"

Looking up from the tablet, Seafoam’s brows raised in mild curiosity. When Artie didn’t say anything more, he admitted, "His work is highly valued. He’s head of Resource Management. He works rather closely with Viridian, actually—Cal’s boss," he reminded. "Anyone wanting to run a study needs to go through the two of them."

"I bet Orange wants him kept happy," Artie replied with a careful nonchalance.

Seafoam’s expression sharpened for only a moment before it relaxed once more into a friendly smile. "I’m sure he does. Emerald is responsible for all subject procurement and their ongoing maintenance. His department decides just how big a study is allowed to be, the resources that will be put towards it, etc."

Unsure of how else to warn Seafoam, Artie just nodded as he gnawed on his lower lip.

With a small cough, Seafoam settled back against the couch and tapped at the tablet before giving his brows a playful upward flick. "Speaking of efficiency, let’s review a few surveillance clips, shall we? The ones I have prepared for today are more of Cal working with subjects, I’m afraid, but hopefully we can use them to compare to what you’ve been seeing in the surveillance you’ve been watching on your own the past several weeks."

Pulling a video up on the big screen, Seafoam gave Artie the smallest of nods, so small and quick that Artie worried he’d imagined it. He hoped it meant that Seafoam understood Artie was trying to warn him.

"Since you mentioned you found the surveillance of Cal interacting with Viridian and other staff members useful, I’ll be sure to begin including that sort of footage moving forward," Seafoam told him conversationally.

As the two of them turned their attention to the TV and settled back against the couch to watch Cal talk yet another subject down from a panic attack, the mood in the room felt dangerously comfortable. There was an easy friendliness between the two of them as they each took turns pausing the video to discuss what was happening or to point out something they had noticed.

"He’s going to suggest asking if security is available to escort them so they can take a walk," Artie muttered under his breath, throwing a glance toward Seafoam, whose eyes were alight with puckish delight.

The subject, who’d been moping on the couch, hadn’t taken the bait when Cal had plopped down next to him and draped an arm across the back of the couch, his hand resting on the subject’s far shoulder.

Seafoam chuckled as they watched Cal cross to the intercom by the entrance to the quarters and ask if a security detail was available. "You really have been watching these day and night," he teased lightly.

Artie let out a short bark of rueful laughter. "It’s inescapable," he sighed.

Seafoam offered him a sympathetic grimace and reached out, giving his arm a small squeeze. Without meaning to, Artie leaned into the contact.

"I’m sorry," Seafoam murmured. "It’s not what I had intended."

Artie scrunched up his face and shrugged. "It’s fine," he lied. Then, less sure if it was true or not, he admitted, "I do think it’s weirdly helpful in getting a deeper sense of Cal’s tendencies. Like immersion."

"I’m sure," Seafoam agreed, looking very much like he wasn’t.

Artie could feel his body relaxing throughout the day, so grateful for the effortless conversation. It wasn’t superficial, either. Seafoam seemed to genuinely consider Artie’s opinions, building off of his theories and adding his own perspectives.

At one point, a few hours after lunch, Seafoam got up and grabbed them each a whiskey. When he retook his seat, he sat more squarely in the middle of the couch, close enough that Artie could feel his body heat.

But as they continued to watch Cal and the subjects he supported move across the screen, Artie couldn’t escape the unwelcome reminder that everyone in the footage was here because they had been abandoned. That Seafoam was only safe from Orange’s interference because he kept his more powerful boyfriend happy. That Artie himself was not made to be a subject so long as he helped control the golden boy iteration.

The camaraderie of the day was a delicate, ephemeral thing, and he dared not clutch at it too tightly. Doing so would be like trying to hold a snowflake—the contact alone causing it to melt away before he even had a chance to enjoy its beauty.

So he tempered his enthusiasm for Seafoam’s company until it appeared only lukewarm. Hours later, when the opportunity came to invite Seafoam to stay for dinner, he did not take it. Nor did he message Red to see if he was available.

Instead, he waited for the TV to flicker back on before sitting down with his dinner. As he watched, G was once again getting ready for bed. He’d seen several variations of this already. Cal would show up claiming he wanted to check in with G about the team or discuss adjustments to the Support role that might be needed. He always ended up staying the night. From what Artie had seen, it was all fairly chaste, the two of them cuddling in bed or spooning. Never anything more. Each morning, Cal would say something about how he hadn’t intended to stay and apologize for imposing, and G would always wave off his worries and invite him to stay for breakfast. Cal always refused, insisting he needed to run back to change for the day.

Right on cue, Cal knocked on the front door as G was putting away his toothbrush. G’s face broke into an excited grin at the sound, and he hurried across the apartment to open the door.

"Hey," G said softly, standing back to let Cal in.

The first discordant note was Cal’s hesitation. His body lurched forward even as his feet remained planted before the threshold.

"You okay?" G asked, brows lifting in mild concern.

Cal just nodded and then—after another moment’s hesitation—entered the apartment, hands shoved deep into his pockets.

"Want anything to drink?" G asked, leading Cal further into the apartment, heading in the direction of the kitchen.

"I, um," Cal began, before clamming up, stopping after only a few steps inside.

G turned to face him, still smiling, not seeming to fully grasp that something was very wrong with Cal. After months of watching surveillance, Artie was certain that Cal’s muscles were rigid with anxiety. His jaw was definitely clenched. His shoulders were a little hunched.

"I can’t do this," Cal announced, his voice tight. "Anymore," he added weakly.

Slowly, G’s expression solidified into a scowl of frustration. "Cal—"

"It’s not appropriate," Cal hurried to say, giving a helpless little shrug as if to emphasize that it was out of his hands.

G shook his head and let out a tired sigh as he rubbed at the side of his face. "Cal, we’ve been over this. We’re okay. We both know what this is and what it isn’t. You don’t have to worry—"

"If anyone found out—" Cal tried to interrupt, his face a mask of blank calm.

"Find out what?" G demanded, incredulous, frustration flickering across his face. "That we—what? Hold each other sometimes? Can anyone really blame you?"

"Yes," Cal replied firmly, chin lifting.

"All they have to do is look at the surveillance to know nothing has ever happened between us," G argued, gesturing off to one side in an agitated movement.

"Hasn’t it?" Cal asked softly, his eyes dropping to the floor directly before him.

"You’re being ridiculous," G muttered. He let out a heavy exhale, crossed back to Cal, and took Cal’s hands in his own. "You’re still shaken up from Ollie losing his first subject. You always get jumpy when—"

At the mention of Ollie, Cal abruptly yanked his hands from G’s.

"Look, I just came to tell you because I didn’t want you to wonder. I can’t—"

"Is this because Mal and I are thinking about asking if we can move in with one another?" G demanded, brows knitting together with a worry that tempered his earlier antagonism.

Cal’s gaze lifted to G’s face, and he blinked in surprise. After a beat, he admitted, "I didn’t realize you were."

Relaxing a little, G’s lips twitched up into a rueful half-smile. "Well, it’s nice to have confirmation that you really don’t watch surveillance of us in our apartments."

Cal blanched, and G shook his head, holding out his hands in reassurance. "I never thought you did, it’s just—you know how it is in here. It can be hard to trust your instincts sometimes."

Taking a shuddering breath, Cal nodded, looking crestfallen. "Yeah. Yeah, I know what you mean. G, that’s exactly why I can’t keep coming around like this. I can’t give you reasons to doubt—for anyone to think that I would want—or worse, would demand—"

"No one thinks that!" G exclaimed exasperatedly, throwing up his hands.

"Maybe not actively," Cal allowed, his eyes imploring G to listen to him. "But think about what you just said. You may not think I would really watch surveillance of you in your private quarters, not really. But the doubt—" Cal shook his head. "I’m contributing to that by showing up like this. And not just you, but the others—"

"They don’t know!" G exploded. "I’ve never told the others and I never will! It’s not their business!"

Cal shook his head, his eyes back on the floor.

"You’re a fucking coward," G accused. A tear rushed down his cheek, and G ignored it.

Cal just nodded, offering no defense.

G inhaled sharply through his nose and closed his eyes as he pressed his hands together as if in prayer. "I don’t understand. Why are you so determined to push me away when things have been so good? If it’s not about me and Mal—"

"It’s not," Cal croaked weakly, still refusing to look at him.

"Then what happened? Did someone find out? Are you being reprimanded, or—"

"No," Cal mumbled. "I just—you deserve better from me."

At that, G surged forward and shoved hard at Cal’s chest.

"Fuck you," he growled in Cal’s face. Cal turned his face away, refusing to meet G’s desperate gaze. G gave him another shove, hard enough that Cal stumbled back a few steps. "You are pushing me away for nothing. You’re going to deprive us both of something we both want. Again."

Cal nodded, expressionless. "I’m sorry," he whispered tremulously.

"You know this is just going to hurt us both," G insisted, getting in Cal’s face so that Cal had to lean back to keep them from making contact. "Last time you tried this, you were miserable for weeks."

There were mere centimeters between them; their chests nearly brushed one another with every shaking breath. When Cal opened his mouth, G cut in. "Don’t try to lie and pretend like you weren’t. I know you were."

Cal shook his head, a tear slipping from the corner of his eye. "I wasn’t going to."

"Then why? Why put us through this all over again?" G demanded.

Cal swallowed hard, then straightened his spine a little like he was collecting himself. The effect was ruined by the fact that he continued to avoid G’s glare. "If you’d prefer, I can—I can probably figure out a way to correct myself from visiting you over the past few months. I know someone in R&D who might let me use their—"

"Get out," G hissed, his face contorting with horrified disbelief.

Cal nodded. "I’m sor—"

"GET OUT!" G roared at him, giving him another hard shove, his eyes shining with unshed tears.

"Of course," Cal quavered. He stumbled back before turning and hurrying out.

The next clip began to play even before the door had fully closed.

Artie ate his dinner, barely tasting his food as he picked up the tablet and skipped back to the beginning of the clip to watch it all again.

Ten and a Half Months Since Infiltrating the Compound

Artie’s mouth watered at the rich scent wafting through the air. Meaty and buttery, he’d known what was on the menu the moment he’d arrived. It carried with it visceral sense memories of soft hands on his skin, lips on his, gentle words murmured in his ear.

It left him with an uncomfortable pressure building in his upper chest, an inch or two just below the hollow of his throat.

"I’m sorry I haven’t been more available the past couple weeks," Red apologized as he glided back into the room holding two glasses of whiskey and wearing a tired smile.

"It’s fine," Artie told him gruffly, sagging back against the couch and closing his eyes. "I really shouldn’t even be here."

"Why’s that?" Red asked, his voice moving closer.

Rubbing at his closed lids with the heels of his palms, Artie grumbled, "According to Orange, I’ve got a month and a half to master the whole 'lie detector' thing."

Red hummed in understanding, the sound directly in front of Artie. Letting his hands drop to his lap, he found Red sitting on the edge of the coffee table before him, smiling in sympathy.

"You look exhausted," Red murmured as he handed Artie his whiskey.

The glass, while sturdy enough, was not as heavy or as elegant as the ones that had been provided to him in his own quarters. But they were familiar. They reminded him of the lowball glasses in Base’s kitchen cabinets. He supposed it made sense. Edgar—Base Edgar—had purchased those glasses a few months after they’d established Base. It was in Red and Base Edgar’s shared past. Apparently, getting sent to the compound hadn’t changed Red’s taste in glassware.

He drained his whiskey in one swift gulp, then winced and sucked in air through his teeth at the prickling golden heat that flooded his mouth, rapidly spreading down his throat and up to sting his sinuses. Handing the empty glass back to Red, he admitted, "I haven’t been sleeping great."

Brows flattening in blatant disapproval, Red frowned down at the large cube of ice that had barely begun to melt before setting Artie's glass down beside himself on the coffee table. Taking a small sip from his own glass, Red turned his attention back to Artie and considered him.

"What?" Artie muttered irritably, waiting for the inevitable judgement.

He found he was disappointed when Red’s expression softened. "I know you’re worried that Orange will disapprove, but I really don’t think he’d care one way or another if you spent the night here," he insisted softly, worry lining his face. "It can’t be easy to fall or stay asleep when surveillance never stops playing."

Artie grimaced, wrinkling his nose as he shook his head. "I’m used to it."

Red raised a skeptical brow, appearing unimpressed. He probably assumed Artie’s dismissiveness was bravado. "Oh? Then what’s keeping you from your sleep?"

He didn’t really want to talk about the dreams in which he watched the life slowly leave Michael’s eyes or listened to the choked, gurgling sounds Mike made as he tried and failed to scream.

He wished he hadn’t handed his glass back to Red. Empty or not, the weight of it was steadying. The condensation-slick surface would be pleasantly cold against his warm palms.

"The sofa is a pullout," Red reminded blandly.

They’d already had this argument, and he really did not want to have it again.

But against his will, his eyes were drawn to his right and across the room to the front door of Red’s apartment. Anytime Artie visited, a guard was stationed on the other side of it. Just in case.

"It’s fine," Red maintained. "I sorted it all out with Orange when I renegotiated your current contract. No one is concerned about you going missing."

Going missing.

What Red really meant was no one was worried he’d run.

The worst part was they were right not to worry.

It was here that he could actually do something—be useful to the people he cared about.

Running meant no position of power within the compound. No ability to ferret information out to OI. No cure for Base Edgar. No freedom for Red. Or Cal.

"I keep thinking I’m getting closer to figuring it out," Artie said. He’d thought he was evading the topic of his lack of sleep, but as the words left his mouth, they didn’t feel like a non sequitur. "The lie detection stuff."

A small furrow appeared between Red’s brows, and he sat up a little straighter. After a moment he opened his mouth, but before he could speak, a timer let out a high-pitched beep-beep-beep from the kitchen. Letting out a sharp exhale, Red glanced over the back of the couch toward the entryway to the kitchen before reluctantly getting to his feet.

"I’ll be right back," he assured, setting down his whiskey and patting Artie’s knee as he stood.

Artie remained completely still as he waited for Red to return, his gaze fixed on the mostly full glass of whiskey that Red had left on the coffee table in front of him. A large drop of condensation slid down the glass and onto the hardwood.

It seemed unlike Red to not have coasters.

But pale rings dotted the surface, evidence that when it came to his wooden furniture, Red was far more devil-may-care than Base Edgar was.

Another bead of condensation slipped down the glass.

The golden sting of his own whiskey still danced lightly across his tongue, becoming fainter with every second.

It would feel good in his hand—

Before the thought had fully transpired, he kicked out with his foot, sending the full glass of whiskey skidding across the coffee table and over the edge. The subsequent thud and crack of glass against the plush rug wasn’t nearly as satisfying as it would have been if it had shattered on hardwood or tile.

Red hurried back into the living room, two low bowls in his hands, his eyes wide with alarm.

"Sorry, I—" Artie muttered, pulling his foot off the coffee table. "I went to put my feet up and forgot about the glasses."

His body and facial muscles relaxing, Red let out a shaky, relieved laugh.

"Don’t worry about it," he reassured, setting the plates down on the coffee table.

Just as he thought: biscuits and gravy.

Artie pushed himself up off the couch, hurried into the kitchen, and grabbed a couple of dish towels.

Red was already kneeling before the mess.

"Don’t touch it," Artie chastised exasperatedly, a sudden wave of guilt surging through him at the idea of Red cutting himself on glass that Artie had broken. "You’ll cut yourself on it just like you did when we first started dating."

It was years ago now, for both of them. Base hadn't even been established yet. Edgar had dropped a glass, still hot from the dishwasher, and cut his palm on the broken pieces when he went to pick it up.

Red looked up at him, brows raised in muted surprise. Artie refused to acknowledge the question there.

Instead, he nudged at Red’s hip with his foot, not hard enough to move him but to signal his desire for him to get out of the way. Silently, Red obliged and watched as Artie crouched down. The glass was mostly intact, the tufted rug having cushioned its fall, but there was a sizable crack down one side and a chip at the lip. Using one of the dishtowels, he picked it up and dug the small chip of glass from the fibers of the rug. Then he threw the second dishtowel down to absorb the whiskey before returning to the kitchen to toss the broken glass in the trash.

When he returned, Red was sitting down on the couch, waiting for him with a patient smile.

The pressure on his gullet increased as he took his seat beside Red.

"You don’t have to subject yourself to this for me," he told Red flatly, gesturing to the two plates.

Red’s smile stretched wide as he said, "Go on and take a bite and tell me how it is."

The fatty richness of the meal flooded his senses as he obediently used his fork to carefully cut off a slathered piece of biscuit. It did not disappoint. Tender and flaky biscuit with a thick, hearty gravy danced across his tongue. It all came together in one perfect bite.

"It’s incredible," he admitted, his skin tingling as if an electric current were snapping and crackling across his skin. He could no longer determine if it were a pleasant or unwelcome sensation.

The throbbing pressure just below his breastbone, however, was making it difficult for him to enjoy Red’s culinary triumph. He took another defiant bite.

"I made it with gluten-free flour," Red revealed, giving a playful upward flick to his brows.

Blinking down at his meal, Artie couldn’t quite believe it. Base Edgar had been fiddling with a gluten-free recipe for ages now. The last time Base Edgar had made it, it had been alright. Nothing like Red’s, though.

He didn’t quite know how to feel about that. Red seemed full of surprises.

He should probably further express his delight and appreciation, but he couldn’t summon the words. Instead, he hummed appreciatively around his food.

This seemed to be good enough for Red, who beamed back at him.

"You were saying that you felt like you might be making some progress with Cal," Red prompted after swallowing a bite of his own biscuits and gravy.

With a sharp exhale, he stabbed at the split biscuit in his bowl. "No, I said I keep thinking I’m making progress, but—" He shook his head and shoveled some food into his mouth, pointedly ignoring the flood of sense memories that danced along his skin as he chewed.

"But?" Red prompted, nudging Artie’s ribs with his elbow.

Artie mulled it over as he forced another large, enthusiastic bite past his lips. Swallowing past the pressure at the base of his throat was almost painful, and his gullet gave a small lurch in response, but he passed it off as a burp.

“When I watch him with other compound employees or some of his direct reports—I am so sure I can see when he’s telling the truth and when he’s not. But then I watch him with the subjects he supports—“ he shook his head, huffing in frustration, staring vacantly down at his meal.

The peppery scent of the gravy seeped into his skin, his clothes. Even passively, it was becoming a part of him. Inescapable.

He shoveled more of the tender, crumbly biscuit into his mouth. It was perfect.

Red studied him, his lips quirked to one side in thought.

Slowly, he lowered his fork and set it down, adjusting it until the end of the fork’s handle was perfectly in line with the lower edge of the bowl. Pressing his palms against his thighs, he straightened his spine as he turned, his left knee lightly pressing against the side of Artie’s right thigh. The posture and pose were such a familiar sight, but there was a calculated glint in his eyes that Artie was unused to having directed at him. It was appraising, like Red was trying to come to a decision as to whether Artie could be trusted or not.

The pressure at the base of his throat increased, as if his body were determined to shout out a warning, to tell Red that he was dangerous. A caged and collared lion, but still wild. Still deadly.

But whatever Red saw, it was not the beast before him. With the abbreviated nod of someone who’d come to a decision, Red got up and crossed the living room before disappearing into the bedroom. When he returned, he was tapping away at a tablet.

"I’m messaging Orange and Seafoam to see if they can send me a few files. More than likely, Orange can submit an async request so that it’ll—" he broke off with an amused-sounding huff as he made his way back to the sofa.

As he retook his seat, he frowned down at the tablet, occasionally tapping and swiping at it. "Cal and I are good friends," he began.

"I know," Artie grunted, sharper than he’d intended.

Red let out a small, exasperated sigh.

"There is nothing romantic between us," Red clarified distractedly.

"Sure," Artie muttered, not sure why he was making such a thing about it. So what if there was something romantic between the two? Red and Cal had both been rendered extraneous. What they did or did not do together—romantic or otherwise—was not his place to judge. There would be no disloyalty in it.

"You are distracting me from my point," Red scolded, finally glancing up at Artie, a rueful sort of amusement dancing in his eyes.

Unable to help himself, Artie began to argue, "I just think you’re fooling yourself if you think—"

"Cal’s interests lie elsewhere," Red cut in dryly.

Elsewhere. The lack of specifics felt pointed.

"Where is elsewhere?" Artie demanded.

Red turned back to the tablet without answering.

"My point is that we look out for one another," Red continued breezily.

Artie snorted as he turned back to his food and poked at it. "And?" he encouraged, indicating his willingness to move on.

"And I feel," Red pursed his lips as his eyes went vacant. Then he shook his head and sighed. "I feel conflicted about advising you on this specific skill given how personal it is. But—"

"But it means his freedom and yours if I succeed?" Artie supplied.

"And yours," Red reminded, forehead furrowing slightly. "You benefit too."

Freedom.

Or something that looked like it, anyway.

He wasn’t sure real freedom was available to him no matter what happened. He wasn’t sure what he’d even do with it if he ever gained such an elusive and illusory thing.

He’d have to slip the grasp of not one but three different time travel organizations.

A bitterness spread rapidly across his tongue as that number seeped in.

"Sure," he muttered.

Red’s face clouded over. "I know it’s different for you, joining Management," he murmured.

Artie tilted his head from side to side, stretching out his neck, not willing to discuss the particulars of what joining Management had already demanded of him. Arguably Red knew the worst of it—had helped to facilitate the worst of it.

"Orange sent you the files you requested?" he prompted.

With a soft tsk, Red turned back to the tablet and gave it a tap. "Yes," he confirmed. "As I was saying, Cal and I are close friends. And, given our history, we’ve had many difficult conversations over the years."

As he spoke, he continued to peer at his tablet, tapping and swapping occasionally.

"Seafoam’s friends with Cal too," Artie muttered, poking at his food.

He and Red had only vaguely talked about Cal. Looking back, Artie realized that Red had rarely allowed conversations about Cal to go anywhere productive.

"Yes," Red agreed as he reviewed the files he’d received. "But Seafoam didn’t attempt to dissolve Base or lie to Cal about his iterative origins."

Scowling in surprise, Artie looked up from his plate at Red. He was well aware of Mustardseed’s attempt to dissolve Base. What he hadn’t realized was that Red had tried to hide his history from Cal, and he couldn’t help but feel strangely offended on Cal’s behalf.

"Back then, it wasn’t common knowledge how I ended up here," Red told him wryly, not looking up from the tablet but still managing to pick up on Artie’s displeasure. "Upon agreeing to take 'Mustardseed’ off Base’s hands, the compound made many iterations who were then distributed through time to be used in various studies and put to various uses. So I—this iteration of me—'arrived' at the compound long before Base and the compound discovered and apprehended 'Mustardseed'. My origins were not disclosed. It wasn’t until I caught up with those events that the compound rumor mill correctly determined my identity."

"How’d he find out?" Artie asked, hoping the question would lead to what he was actually curious about: how Cal took the news.

It hadn’t occurred to Artie that some of the subjects—maybe most of them—wouldn’t know about Mustardseed or his identity. But then again, why would they? He hoped impersonating an iteration that had been part of Medical’s attempt at a department-specific support program gave him enough cover when it came to knowing more than he should. Surely those iterations were more informed than the average subject. At the very least, Red never seemed surprised that Artie knew his origins.

With a final tap at the tablet screen, Red winked at Artie. "Watch and see for yourself."

On the TV, Red was pacing the length of his living room.

His back was to the front door of the apartment when a knock sounded out, pulling him up short. He looked over his shoulder at the door, the muscles in his face visibly tight. Another knock sounded out followed by a, "Edgar?"

Eyes closed and chest puffing up with a deep inhale, Red didn’t immediately reply. Slowly he exhaled, his chest deflating like a balloon, his shoulders loosening as they dropped a little, the tension in his face relaxing. Finally, he opened his eyes.

There was another confused-sounding "Edgar?"

"Coming!" he called out in response.

As expected, Cal was on the other side of the door, worry lining his face. "Is everything okay?" he asked as he and Red embraced. "Your message made it sound serious."

Red lingered in the hug, his arms giving Cal an extra squeeze before stepping back and gesturing him further inside.

"Yes," Red agreed, closing the door behind him. "It is serious."

"What can I do to help?" Cal asked. "If it’s about Cobalt, I don’t want you to worry. He’s a blowhard but—"

Red shook his head, a tense smile on his face. "All I need is for you to listen."

"Of course," Cal murmured, his brows knitting together, eyes searching Red for clues.

Red let out a shaky exhale and nodded to himself as he stared at Cal. His gaze went distant for a moment, but then he took another tremulous breath and said, "Did you ever learn the identity of Mustardseed?"

Confusion blended with the concern on Cal’s face, and he started to shake his head, but then stilled.

Red nodded faintly and laced his fingers together before him. He almost looked like he was praying.

Cal opened his mouth to speak, but Red said, "I wasn’t sure if I was going to tell you."

It was so slight that it was difficult to see, but Cal gave a barely-there shake of his head, the confusion on his face solidifying into denial.

"No," he murmured.

"I wanted us to be free," Red explained with a resigned sort of determination. "As you know, I wanted to run, but it was impossible. I could make iterations but—" he shrugged helplessly. "That never meant freedom for me."

"Why?" Cal breathed, the denial transforming until he was gaping at Red in open horror.

"Look at what it does to us," Red encouraged softly. He gestured around them. "Look at where we are, Cal. And we’re the lucky ones."

"You betrayed our people, you betrayed Base," Cal hissed, anger beginning to bubble up through the horror as furious realization broke out across his face. He stilled and held a hand out in a halting gesture. "You—wait—what—"

He turned his head slightly, wincing away from Red. Just above a whisper, he asked, "What audio files did you send to the Hunters?"

Red just stared at him, an apology in his eyes.

"I—" Cal started, but whatever it was he intended to say was abandoned as he abruptly turned his back on Red. He squeezed his eyes closed, folding his hands together and pressing the knuckles hard against his lips.

"I know this is difficult to hear," Red acknowledged, a little wooden. But for all he sounded stilted and impassive, his eyes were wide and desperate. The fear that he was about to lose his friendship with Cal was written all over his face. Not that Cal could see that with his back to Red. "I wanted you to hear it from me instead of from some gossip—"

Cal suddenly straightened up, his hands dropping to his sides, his chin lifting. He gave a little sniff of irritation and rolled his shoulders. "It’s—it’s not a big deal."

It was only then that Artie remembered why it was Red had chosen to share this painful moment with him. Watching Cal say those words while his entire body roiled with agony and betrayal had Artie automatically reaching out to snatch the tablet from Red.

"Sorry," he muttered as he hit the button to take them back 30 seconds. "I need to see that again."

Red, seated beside him, hummed his acquiescence around a mouthful of food. After swallowing, he murmured, "This is a good conversation for your studies. There are several more moments in this conversation—much more subtle than this one—that I think will be a useful foundation for helping you better understand when and why Cal will use misdirection. I’ll pause occasionally so we can discuss and compare."

Artie nodded, eyes never leaving the screen. He slid the tablet back across the coffee table to Red.

On the screen, Red appeared near tears as Cal told him this news didn’t actually change anything. And before Artie even opened his mouth, Red was already pausing the video to point out the way Cal’s accent became slightly more pronounced, his expression more serene. Like he was channeling Ty Fucking Betteridge.

The electrical current that had been snapping across his skin earlier seemed to flare to life once more, this time flooding his body and waking up all his cells. As he watched the screen, he began to devour his dinner with a sudden gusto he hadn’t felt earlier.

The pressure at the base of his throat was gone.

Eleven Months Since Infiltrating the Compound

"I’ve already messaged Seafoam," Red reminded gently, setting a mug of coffee down in front of him. "There’s no reason to rush, it’s not even eight yet. We have time to eat."

He placed a hand lightly on Artie’s back as he crossed back to the kitchen counter. The touch was unpleasant with how his tank top stuck to his skin. Even moisture-wicking fabric had a limit.

"I need to shower and change," Artie reminded him in return. With sweat cooling on his skin, he felt increasingly unclean.

While his meetings with László had been paused so that he could work full time with Seafoam, he still met with Alma first thing each morning, and he always sweat through his clothes during those sessions.

"Seafoam always shows up at nine on the dot," he stressed, his leg jiggling under the table.

"Then it’s a good thing your breakfast is ready and you have over an hour to eat, shower, and dress," Red replied easily, returning with a plate of eggs and toast in one hand and a bowl of yogurt with fresh fruit and granola in the other.

No matter how many times he stayed the night, he never felt right about it. It didn’t help that sleeping on the pullout for the past two weeks had left him with a constant kink in his shoulder. His overhead presses had been agony that morning.

The first time he’d stayed the night, it had been an accident. Artie had dozed off on the couch while discussing Cal’s management style, only to wake up to the smell of freshly brewed coffee and Red gently rubbing his shoulder as he murmured, "I believe you’ll be transported to your personal training appointment in fifteen minutes, so I thought I’d wake you."

He’d nearly knocked the mug of coffee out of Red’s hands in his panic to scramble to his feet. It turned out he did not need to return to his quarters for his daily scheduled transport to the compound gym. He’d arrived in the locker room to find a set of clean gym clothes folded on the bench before him.

Even more surprising was that afterwards he’d been transported back to Red’s, where breakfast had been waiting for him. At first, he’d thought there’d been some mistake, but Red explained he’d messaged Orange for an override of Artie’s programmed transport so that they could eat together before they both left for work for the day.

Upon being transported back to his quarters for his training with Seafoam, he’d told himself he wouldn’t stay the night again. But Red offered such a nuanced look into Cal that seemed to complement the conversations he had with Seafoam. It wasn’t that Seafoam’s insight wasn’t useful—it was. Especially now that Artie was beginning to request footage of specific meetings and types of interactions.

Red was able to offer different insight by showing Artie surveillance of Red’s own interactions with Cal, meaning Red was able to explain how he’d experienced them, even when those interactions painted Red in an unflattering light. Red and Cal’s conversations were candid, often referencing events or meetings that Artie could then ask Seafoam to get him footage of to compare to Cal’s description of them. It helped to illuminate the ways in which Cal talked about things differently depending on whom he was talking to. And it shed light on the ways Cal concealed things.

Still. It didn’t mean he had to stay the night at Red's. But he kept allowing himself to be talked into staying again and again.

He always woke up feeling like a teen who’d accidentally stayed out after curfew. And he found he missed falling asleep to the sound of Cal’s voice drifting over him.

Still. He was sleeping longer and deeper than he had in months. It felt like resurfacing after a long submersion; everything was sharper and clearer. His thoughts were no longer tangled snarls. Even his sense of taste seemed to be able to detect more complex flavors all of a sudden. Everything was waking up.

"You’re going to choke on your food," Red chuckled as Artie took a massive bite of toast piled with eggs.

"I’m starving," Artie countered around a full mouth. "Alma had me running suicides."

When Red blanched, Artie choked down the large bite and coughed. "It’s a type of sprint, not—Alma just—with her it’s all just lifting weights and cardio and close-combat training."

Despite Artie’s reassurance, the tension in Red’s face didn’t fade. Rather it shifted slightly, threads of grief and regret weaving into the general anxiety.

He wanted to tell Red that everything he’d done to contribute to Artie’s training was helping him reach his goals. He wanted to tell Red that it was okay. That he was okay.

But Red had been so transparent with him, had shared deeply personal moments—interactions with Cal that deserved to be kept private. He’d allowed Artie to see him being defensive and snarky with Cal, and had not allowed his own pride or his desire to befriend Artie to stand in the way of helping him.

He didn’t want to thank Red by lying to him. So instead, he said nothing.

They each ate their breakfasts in silence for a couple of minutes before Red brightened and sat up a little straighter. He set down his coffee mug as he prompted, "Seafoam was saying you two are planning to do dinner again tonight."

Taking another massive bite of his eggs and toast, Artie frowned at Red in mild confusion. Seafoam often had to spend his async evenings tracking down useful footage for him and Artie to review together, so he wasn’t always available, but they managed to hang out a couple of nights a week. While he knew Seafoam and Red were friends, the idea of the two discussing him in any capacity left him feeling oddly exposed.

"You two talking about how to manage me?" Artie asked, his gaze darting to his food so he didn’t have to see Red’s reaction.

Red chuckled.

"No, he messaged me asking for help recalling when a specific study with Timeline Recall happened. He was trying to track down some footage of meetings that occurred around that same time."

"Okay," Artie muttered, not feeling particularly reassured.

"You two hanging out tonight came up because I offered to show you some footage of me and Cal from around the time of that study to complement whatever he’s putting together for you. That’s all," Red insisted gently. When Artie didn’t respond, Red emphasized, "We aren’t handling you. You have requested specific types of footage to review, and we are collaborating to give you what you’ve asked for."

After a small beat of silence in which Artie continued to stare determinedly down at his plate, Red asked, "Do you plan to request transport to mine after Seafoam heads out tonight?"

Artie just nodded and took another bite, the crunch overly loud in the silence. It seemed a stupid question. Artie hadn’t slept in his quarters once in the past two weeks, regardless of whether he’d hung out with Seafoam in the evening or not. He kept a spare toothbrush in Red’s bathroom. Red even kept cans of tuna stocked in his kitchen cupboard for Artie, knowing he snacked on it for the extra protein.

Releasing a heavy sigh, Red stood up, the scrape of his chair against the floor grating on Artie’s ears. He didn’t wince but instead focused his attention on it, listening for hard variations in the screech and scrape of the noise. When Red perched on the edge of the table right by Artie, Artie shifted a little away, refusing to look up.

"What’s wrong?" Red demanded softly, a hand coming to rest on Artie’s clammy bare shoulder. The skin-on-skin contact caused him to startle.

He gave a small, dismissive shrug of his shoulders.

"Artie," Red pushed.

He didn’t know what to say, exactly. Red had done nothing but make time for him and try to help. What sort of monster would punish someone for that kind of generosity and care?

"Will you please talk to me?" Red implored. "You’re upset."

He shook his head. "I’m—"

"Please don’t lie to me," Red interrupted, firm but kind.

The delivery of this demand was so familiar that it left the hair on the back of Artie’s neck standing on end.

He hurried to shovel another bite his toast and eggs into his mouth and began to get to his feet. Red stood with him, frowning.

"Are you angry with me?" Red asked, sounding hurt and baffled.

"No," he replied, the word hard and flat.

"You are," Red insisted, his own voice hardening.

"Sucks to be lied to, huh?" Artie snapped.

The air around them felt charged, as if one false move might set off a detonation.

"Artie," Red murmured, his hands reaching out to rest on Artie’s chest. Artie turned his head, his eyes directed downward, barely seeing the room around him. "Look at me," Red demanded quietly.

When Artie refused, Red lifted one hand off Artie’s chest and brought it to his cheek. He gently turned Artie’s head to face him, but Artie refused to lift his gaze.

"What's bothering you, Bear?"

He felt like an ember that had suddenly been doused in lighter fluid. His gaze snapping up to Red in furious irritation, he growled, "The people I trust the most right now are a younger iteration of Ty Fucking Betteridge and an iteration of Mustardseed. How the fuck do you think that feels, Red?"

Hurt rippled across Red’s face and, bastard that he was, Artie felt a curl of bitter satisfaction at the sight.

He gestured in the direction of the entryway to the living room. "We’ve been watching hours of footage of Cal and his team propping up crumbling Mikeys. How the fuck am I supposed to look at that and not wonder if you and Seafoam are essentially doing the same thing?"

Blinking in offended outrage, Red scoffed, his head shaking faintly, his hands still at Artie’s chest and face. "Well, for one thing, neither Seafoam nor I are trained in that sort of thing. I think if we attempted to actually do what Cal and his team does, we’d fail miserably," he pointed out, a sharp impatience to his voice.

Artie tried to look away, but Red pulled his face forward once more. His brows knitting together into a concerned scowl, Red said, "Artie, I care about you."

Artie let out a bitter laugh. "We’re all your Mikey Bear, right? Me and Cal and—"

His jaw flexing, Red stated, "Artie, I am not the same person who said that—"

"For all I know," Artie broke in, a snarling desperation practically flinging the words from his mouth, "you used those consolidation treatments to soften me up for you."

The scowl on Red’s face evaporated, leaving behind a horrified shock, his mouth dropping open a little, his eyes widening. Suddenly, Red pulled his hands back and took a step backwards.

"I would never do that to you," Red breathed.

"I’m sure," Artie snapped.

Shining eyes blinking rapidly, Red shook his head faintly. He took a few shaky breaths and closed his eyes while Artie glared at him. Finally, Red drew himself up and opened his eyes. His brow upturned, Red said, "I know this is awful—all of it. But I am not—I care about you. You are my priority."

"Because you need me to succeed," Artie reminded him.

"No," Red objected firmly. "I am helping you because I care about you as a person, Artie. I have gotten to know you. This you. And I can see how being alone has affected you."

"Sure," Artie scoffed.

To Artie’s relief, an iciness began to spread across Red’s features, something hard and cold and bitter.

"To be frank, at this point Orange does not need me. Seafoam is more than capable. My work on this project is complete. And Orange? Orange will make sure you succeed. But you're right. I do have an ulterior motive. My only goal isn't to ensure you succeed, it's to make sure you continue to want to."

He winced at Red’s implication. They both knew that Artie not wanting to succeed was suicide.

"And," Red hesitated, uncertainty flickering across his face and his features softening and warming. He stepped close once more and cupped Artie’s cheek. To Artie’s shame, this time he didn’t pull away. With a surprising, raw vulnerability, Red said, "And I hope we’re friends."

Artie swallowed hard.

Friends.

Marta’s kind face hovered in the periphery of his thoughts. Something cinched in his throat, pulling downward into his chest, everything around it contracting tighter as it passed.

Orange’s lectures on Cal’s ingrained sense of responsibility played at the back of Artie's mind. Any care Cal might eventually feel for him was a trap, ready to snap shut around them both the second Cal took the bait.

"You—you go to work, right? When I leave you in the morning, you go to work?" Artie asked tremulously, ducking his head.

Sounding perplexed, Red said, "Yes, of course."

After a beat of tense silence, Red asked, "Where else would I go, Artie?"

He couldn’t make himself say the word. He felt silly. Paranoid.

One hand still cupping Artie’s face, Red began to stroke the bristles of Artie’s beard with his thumb, encouraging him to speak.

With a hard gulp he croaked, "Storage."

The thumb brushing lightly against Artie’s bristles paused. "Oh. Oh, Artie—No. No, nothing like that—"

Artie gently pulled back from Red’s hand, finally sitting back down at the table to return to his food. As he picked up another piece of toast, he muttered, "I just had to be sure."

***

“There’s coffee and pastries if you’re feeling peckish."

The Ty on screen pulled up short upon realizing who was waiting for him in the small conference room.

“Where are Felix and Viridian?” the Ty asked as he crossed to the sideboard laden with danishes and muffins. He picked up the carafe of coffee and poured himself a mug.

Cal offered him an apologetic smile. “Felix was already double-booked, and we knew you didn’t want to postpone this meeting any further," Cal explained genially.

Standing at the sideboard with his back to Cal, the Ty’s brow furrowed a little. He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing, then he picked up a second mug and poured coffee into it.

"Milk, two sugars?" the Ty asked over his shoulder.

Cal blinked, seeming surprised by the offer.

"Yes, thank you," Cal agreed cheerfully.

Setting both mugs down on the table, the Ty finally took his seat opposite Cal, letting out a small exhale of irritation, but he offered Cal a small embarrassed smile. “I apologize. I know you’re perfectly capable—“

Cal waved off his apologies, “Not at all, not at all. You’re used to dealing directly with Viridian. Unfortunately, the ongoing expansion of R&D is straining Felix’s ability to mediate the meetings between Tys. Viridian and I are going to be divvying up departments to make sure everyone is looked after, and it’s easier if I handle the department heads who happen to be Tys. It frees up Felix and allows our department to be more efficient, giving us more room to be proactive instead of reactive.”

Brows lifting in mild surprise, Ty seemed to consider that for a moment. "So going forward, you’ll be the one advising my department," he concluded.

Cal winced good-naturedly. "I hope it’s not too much of a disappointment."

Ty chuckled and shook his head. "A surprise, not a disappointment," he assured, relaxing back in his chair and loosely clasping his hands in his lap.

"I’m glad to hear it," Cal replied, beaming. "I’m excited to work more with you and your team."

"As am I," Ty admitted. "Your advice has kept Management from breathing down our necks. At the risk of sounding insubordinate, while it’s useful to have a champion or two among Management's members, it is never a good thing to have Management’s full attention."

"I’d say that’s pragmatic, not insubordinate," Cal replied lightly. "Viridian and I aim to work with project leads and department heads as they begin to plan out new studies to help them get off on the right foot, so Management need not enter the conversation. We are not interested in coming in after the fact to slash and burn."

"Edgar said you had vision," Ty acknowledged, appearing impressed with Cal’s delicate reply. "I know you worked closely with both him and Ruby recently, and their reports have nothing but high praise for you. I thought perhaps—well, I know you two are close—"

When Cal’s brows lifted in muted polite interest, the Ty hurried to add, "Edgar is highly valued in my department. I didn’t mean to imply—just—you two are—are friends. It is only natural he would praise your work."

A warm smile returning to his lips, Cal folded his hands before him on the table and leaned forward a bit. The effect was immediate, the Ty visibly relaxing, leaning forward a bit in his own chair, mirroring Cal's body language.

"You’re right, of course. Edgar and I are good friends," Cal admitted with a playful smile. "But rest assured, he is not one to fill my head with false praise."

Letting out a little huff of laughter, Ty said, "Well, I won’t deny it, I was a tad anxious when you said you’d be taking over, but I can see we have a good partner in you. You said you were taking over all the departments run by Ty Betteridges?"

"Most," Cal corrected. "Viridian is keeping Medical Research for now."

"Oh?"

The Ty appeared surprised by this news, his brows knitting together and drawing upwards, his head tilting.

"It’s a rather large department and there are a lot of moving parts," Cal replied easily, the fingers of his clasped hands lifting a bit in a small, dismissive movement.

"Hm," Ty hummed thoughtfully. "I would’ve thought Viridian would be eager to hand Medical over to you given—" the Ty paused and seemed to waffle, eyeing Cal for a moment.

Cal laughed a little. Unclasping his hands, he turned them so they rested on the table palm-up, inviting Ty to continue. "You can be candid with me. Whatever it is will stay between us."

Appearing amused, Ty pursed his lips as he openly considered Cal. "It’s not exactly a secret, though it is gossip."

Cal raised a brow in intrigue. Something about this moment felt charged, the two of them deciding just how much they trusted the other and what sort of working relationship they would have going forward.

Finally, Ty leaned in further, tilting his head slightly toward Cal in a conspiratorial pose. "You didn’t hear this from me, but as I understand it, Cobalt despises Viridian. The rumor is that Viridian refused to approve some study that was of great interest to Cobalt, and just like that—" Ty lifted a hand and snapped his fingers.

Cal raised his brows in surprise. "Really?"

Ty nodded. "Viridian’s too much the professional to let it show, but I suspect the bad feelings are mutual."

Cal smirked a little, clearly seeing the question that Ty wasn’t asking. He shook his head, his lips quirking to one side. "As far as I’m aware, Viridian has no issues with Cobalt. Or at least, if he does, he has not allowed it to show. But then again, Viridian’s a champion of diplomacy. It’s vital that he and I are able to work productively with everyone at the compound."

"Pause it," Artie muttered.

Cal and the Ty iteration froze on the screen.

"Could you go back fifteen seconds?" he asked, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees.

Seafoam tapped at the tablet.

The two of them were seated on the couch together, reviewing some footage from a day that Artie had specifically requested. It was from earlier in Cal’s time at the compound, from at least a year before he’d started the Support Department.

Over the past few weeks, at Artie’s request, Seafoam had been tracking down footage of Cal in various meetings with compound employees. More recently, his requests were based on meetings that had been mentioned in conversations between Red and Cal.

It felt a little bit like following a blood trail. A conversation between Cal and Red would lead Artie and Seafoam to footage of Cal in a meeting with Legal, or some department head, or a member of the Support Team. Depending on how that meeting went, it might spur Artie on to ask for footage of Cal in other related meetings. It allowed him to see how Cal spoke about one idea to different people—how he convinced and cajoled some and used logic and statistics with others.

One of the clips Seafoam had reviewed with Artie two days ago had been a meeting with Cal’s boss, Viridian. In that meeting, Viridian had explained that he wouldn’t be putting Cal in charge of advising Medical—something Cal took extremely poorly. The argument had gotten heated, with Cal accusing Viridian of not trusting him to handle more difficult department heads. In that disagreement, Viridian had made many disparaging comments about Cobalt. His disdain had been plain, and he had done nothing to hide or soften it in front of Cal.

Cal was well aware of Viridian’s dislike.

Artie got up and crossed the room to stand directly in front of the massive television.

"Ready?" Seafoam asked.

He nodded, and the video began playing once more. It was very, very slight, but Cal’s eyes widened for the briefest of moments.

"Play it again?" he requested, then belatedly added a slightly embarrassed, "please."

Seafoam snorted and teased, "Remembered you’re speaking to a person?"

"Sorry," he muttered.

Seafoam was a good sport, though, and just chuckled as he replayed it once more.

Cal’s shoulders shifted during that lie, relaxing down and back. Like he was deliberately forcing himself to appear relaxed and unconcerned.

"Okay, can we go back to the beginning of the meeting?" Artie asked.

"Certainly," Seafoam chirped, and quickly scrubbed back to the start of the clip.

They both watched the awkwardness play out, the Ty’s clear uncertainty at Viridian and Felix’s absence.

"Milk, two sugars?" the Ty asked.

Once again, Cal replied, "Yes, thank you."

And he shifted his shoulders, relaxing them.

"He’s—" Artie broke off, his brows knitting together. "Play that again for me."

"Which?" Seafoam asked, sounding a little confused.

"Ty offering him coffee and Cal’s response," he said, his gaze fixed on the screen.

As it replayed, Artie slowly backed away, feeling a little lightheaded. A small, breathy laugh escaped his chest, and he shook his head. Then more laughter shook through him.

"What is it?" Seafoam asked, sounding a bit too innocent to be genuine.

"He’s lying about how he takes his coffee," Artie scoffed, finally turning away from the TV to face Seafoam. The fucker was smirking up at him, one brow cocked. "Isn’t he?"

"Very well done," Seafoam praised. "Cal prefers one sugar in his coffee," he confirmed.

Artie laughed and rubbed at his face, the heels of his palms pressing hard against his eyes.

"I think you’ve cracked it," Seafoam told him.

Letting his hands drop to his sides, Artie collapsed back onto the couch beside Seafoam, his incredulous laughter beginning to subside. Heaving a sigh, he let his head fall back against the couch. "It’s definitely easier now."

"We should celebrate," Seafoam said, tossing the tablet onto the coffee table and slapping Artie’s knee. He launched himself off the couch and crossed to the kitchenette. "You've done marvelously today—caught lies I didn't even spot at first."

In a bit of a daze, Artie got up and followed him.

Seafoam pulled the vodka out of the freezer, then snatched up the bottle of whiskey from the counter and set them both down on the table before retrieving a couple of glasses.

"I’ve got a good mix of surveillance for us to go through tomorrow that I think will confirm that you’re locked in now. If that’s the case, we’ll spend the next week alternating between Cal, the Support Team, and the subjects to make sure you can context switch between them all," Seafoam told him, first pouring a whiskey for Artie and then a vodka for himself.

Artie nodded as he mulled over the surveillance they’d been watching over the past couple of weeks, trying to identify commonalities between them all. The victorious levity was beginning to deflate, a heaviness settling in his chest.

"Come on now, that’s all for tomorrow," Seafoam chided, pressing a glass into Artie’s hands. "Don’t think about the work ahead. You’ve got this, and it’s time we celebrate. And we’re getting pudding when we order takeaway tonight. For now, though, a toast."

Artie blinked, surprised to find Seafoam right in front of him, grinning. He pulled on a smile and nodded, trying to shake off the weight that was settling over him.

"To your success," Seafoam cheered, lifting his own glass and clinking it with Artie’s.

Artie let out a weak laugh and nodded. "To you not giving up on me."

With a jovial grin, Seafoam slung an arm across Artie’s shoulders and gave him a squeeze. "To you, me, and Edgar, and our collective brilliance."

Leaning into Seafoam’s side, Artie threw back his whiskey and allowed the sharp warmth to soothe the growing ache in his chest.

"You're right," Artie agreed, fighting the instinct to push Seafoam away. "We should celebrate. This is your success too, after all."

***

Lurching to his feet, Artie stumbled from the couch back into the kitchenette area where they’d left the tablet after ordering dinner.

They'd gone all out and order from some Argentinian steakhouse that Seafoam had recommended.  

Seafoam had stayed until nearly one in the morning, regaling Artie with stories of his early days at the compound before he and Emerald got together. Eventually, Seafoam had requested an old Dreamcast and a copy of Sonic Adventure 2 and badgered Artie into playing with him.

When he had finally left, Seafoam had given him a drunken hug and, embarrassing both of them a little, told him he was proud of Artie. It’d been nice. Weird, but nice.

But Seafoam seemed to have taken all the joyous sense of victory with him. Artie's pulse was beginning to thunder beneath the thin skin of his wrists and throat.

His hip crashed into one of the dining chairs as he reached the table. He slapped a hand down on the surface to steady himself as he scrabbled around with his other hand for the tablet.

Slumping down in a dining chair, he planted an elbow on the table and rested his face against his palm to support the weight of his head. He tapped at the tablet and shot off a message.

Edgar—Red—would be wondering where he was. He’d need to message him in a minute.

The only warning he got of the new arrival in his quarters was a soft clearing of a throat.

Blearily, he looked over his shoulder as he swayed in his seat.

Orange smiled at him in open amusement. "You and Seafoam get up to some mischief?" he asked, cocking a brow.

Artie grunted and heaved himself to his feet.

"Seafoam messaged to say he thinks you’re ready," Orange continued, not bothering to wait for a reply. He took his time crossing to stand before Artie. Despite the late hour, he seemed sharp and fresh.

The words Artie needed to say refused to leave him. They remained curled up tight beneath his breastbone, like a trembling puppy terrified of an ongoing fireworks display.

"I’m thrilled," Orange told him, resting a hand on Artie’s shoulder. "We’ll still give you the remaining two weeks to practice and boost your confidence. But if Seafoam says you’re ready, I am inclined to believe him." He studied Artie, and Artie did not hide his dread. "Unless you have additional concerns."

He started to shake his head but paused when that caused the world to spin. "No, but—"

His stomach lurched a little, and he brought a fist to his lips to smother the belch. "Sorry," he muttered, then squeezed his eyes shut. "He’s easier to read when he’s upset—unsettled."

There was a long beat of silence.

"Go on," Orange encouraged lightly. He did not sound surprised.

"After he’s had an argument with his manager, or had to mop up one of his Support Workers, or—" he shook his head, disgusted with himself. "If there’s something we need to know for certain, if there’s a situation where it’s a high priority we get honest information from him—"

He couldn’t seem to pry the last words out from within himself.

Orange waited, but when nothing more came, he let out a small huff of amusement. "Very well," he murmured, sounding almost reassuring. "I understand."

Finally opening watering eyes, Artie nodded and took a shuddering breath.

"Come now," Orange soothed. "This is good news. We always planned to demonstrate your commitment to the compound. This information changes very little. We will proceed as planned. Alright?"

Artie nodded again, but his eyes were burning and it was difficult to take a deep breath.

"Excellent," Orange replied, straightening up. "Now, should I send you on to Red Edgar’s? I’m sure he expected you hours ago."

Trembling all over, he managed to nod once more.

Within minutes he was wobbling on very unsteady feet, nearly crashing to the ground but for Red’s steady hands. Only the string lights were turned on, giving the living room a soft glow.

"I’ve got you," Red murmured. He chuckled, "You look as if you and Seafoam have been celebrating. A productive day, then?"

"Oh god," Artie wailed, a sobs ripping its way out of his chest as he sagged against Red and cried against his shoulder.

And as he allowed himself to be guided to the couch he howled, "I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. But I won’t lose you too. I won’t let you go."

About Four Months Prior — The Day after Artie’s First Consolidation Treatments to Condition Him to Neutralize Mike and Michael

"I’m sorry to have kept you waiting," Orange said as he took his seat.

Edgar offered him a cold, tight smile and subtly pressed his folded hands harder against the top of the conference table.

Leaning back in his chair and swinging an ankle up to rest on the opposite knee, Orange asked, "Now, what was it you wanted to discuss? I’ve already sent your employment contract over to Legal. I’ve been assured they won’t hold things up. They just need to review your requested changes. Once that’s done, you’ll meet with them, and so long as you have no objections or additional requests, it’ll be sent to the board for approval. I’ll need to push them a bit, but I’ll get them there. Andrea owes me a favor after supporting her initiatives last quarter—"

Eyes glittering with fury, Edgar cleared his throat, and Orange broke off and lifted his brows in polite surprise.

"I did not request this meeting to ask for an update on the status of my new contract," Edgar told him tightly.

"No?" Orange asked.

"No."

Orange frowned for a moment before his expression smoothed out with sudden understanding. "Ah. So he’s finally told you. That took far longer than I expected. Between Arctos and Seafoam, I must say I am delighted to find I have such discreet individuals working on this pro—"

"Management?" Edgar bit out.

Orange nodded, smiling brightly. "You have to admit, he’ll do well. I wasn’t sure he’d have it in him, but after everything he’s accomplished in the past several months—"

"He said his area of focus will be Cal and his team," Edgar interrupted, having no patience for Orange’s tangents.

He felt reckless, as if the world around him was suddenly unsteady. It reminded him of his first few days in the compound, scrabbling for any small ounce of control he could latch onto.

"Yes, the Support Department has proven to be integral to our success. For the past year, studies that historically would have taken half a year to complete have been done in two or three months. Given that, we need to begin treating the Support Department more like our other first-class departments. Protections must be put in place, and we need someone in Management who can both advocate for policies that allow Support to flourish and keep our assets safe."

"What exactly will that look like for Artie and Cal?" Edgar demanded. "Cal is about to become an employee, and Artie tells me he’s to ensure no outside interference, which tells me you’re worried about Cal being poached."

Orange smirked. "I didn’t think there was anything between you and Cal."

"There isn’t," Edgar replied dryly, not that it was Orange’s business.

"And you and Arctos?" Orange asked, a predatory glint in his eyes.

"If you’re implying that I will distract Arctos from his training—"

Palm still resting lazily on his thigh, Orange lifted his fingers in a small dismissive gesture. "Please, I wouldn’t dream of doubting your work ethic. Especially since your promotion to permanent staff is dependent on Arctos’s success."

"You have not answered my question," Edgar replied, ignoring the implicit threat.

"Edgar, I have a great respect for you and your work," Orange placated smoothly, his features sharpening, leaving Edgar feeling like he was in the presence of a shark. "But with all due respect, this is not your concern. I would have thought you'd be thrilled to learn that you, Arctos, and Cal are all to be elevated to permanent staff—and enjoy all the benefits that entails."

"Cal is very dear to me," Edgar replied crisply.

Orange offered him a patronizing smile. "Is that all, then?"

For a moment, Edgar didn’t answer, too many lines of thought to follow as they fell into something shaped like a plan. "Actually, I’d like to discuss Artie’s existing contract. As a contractual worker, I think it’s ridiculous that he isn’t allowed visitation privileges."

Orange’s brows shot up at that, but then he cocked his head. "Who exactly is there for him to visit? I can’t have him wandering around the compound, especially in the time period he’s—"

"He should at least be allowed to visit me and Seafoam. He’s falling apart, isolated the way he is," Edgar argued, his mind still whirling, illuminating the way, plans rapidly taking shape in his mind. "I am happy to make myself available to him. We can use the same protocol for when members of the Support Team visit me. Simply post a guard outside my front door for the duration of Artie’s visits. You can tell them it's Sage or Mal visiting with me."

Orange pursed his lips in thought and tilted his head from side to side in indecision.

"If he tries to run, there’s a good chance all my efforts at hiding him—"

"I’ll tell him if he tries, it’ll be my life," Edgar interrupted.

Orange shot him an irritated look. "The repeated interruptions are getting tiresome," he warned. "And Red Ty would never allow you to sign something to that effect."

Edgar scoffed. "I didn’t say I would agree to those conditions. I just said it’s what I would tell Artie. I am not above lying to him to help him achieve a better quality of life." And if it meant protecting Cal—and Artie for that matter—he was willing to do quite a bit more. "Especially as you pointed out that mine and Cal’s freedom depends on his success. To that effect I would also like access to surveillance footage. I believe Artie would benefit from having more than one perspective on Cal and how he operates."

A slow smile spread across Orange’s face at Edgar’s admission, and he considered him, tilting his head as he seemed to reevaluate just whom it was that sat before him.

"Very well," Orange replied. "I'll update your permissions so that you can access the same pool of surveillance that Seafoam's been granted and arrange for a remote directory where you can drop any relevant footage. I can weave it in with what Seafoam's selected. And I’ll arrange for Arctos to have visitation privileges to your place. Seafoam too, though only while he’s working async. And I have thoughts on how to inform Arctos of his new visitation privileges and I will require you assistance."

Crackling with icy-hot fury, Edgar beamed at him. "Wonderful. I look forward to our continued cooperation on this project."

Notes:

Hooray?

In other news, check out this commission by the incredibly talented froget-me-nots:

Aren't they perfect? 🥹

I'm so in love with how eli captured Cal and Artie. The way they're both sneaking a look at one another, the yawning space between them, the way Cal can't quite help from reaching out, the grim resignation on Artie's face. Ugh I just love them. Viridian trying to be professional but unable to totally hide his affection. Orange hold Artie's neck like he's a dog about to be entered a fight.

We're going to be returning to the present with our boys pretty soon. And Cal knows so little of Artie's history.

Chapter 100 is on the horizon and I gotta start thinking about doing something special to celebrate it. If you got ideas feel free to leave them in the comments. 💛

Series this work belongs to:

• Part 93 of Love in the Time of Iterations and Retrocausal Pockets