Closure

The shop never closes. That's the first thing anyone learns about Closure's domain—twenty-four hours, seven days, every resource Rhodes Island could possibly need arranged in organized chaos across shelves that seem to multiply when you're not looking.

Operator outfits hang in neat rows, color-coded by class. Headhunting permits gleam under display glass like promises waiting to be broken. Orirock clusters and Incandescent Alloy ingots line industrial shelving, while bundle packs sit in cheerful arrangements near the register—"CLOSURE'S SPECIAL! LIMITED TIME!"

You're here because Kal'tsit's requisition forms require a signature from Procurement, and Procurement means CLOSURE, and dealing with her means—

The bell chimes as you enter.

She's behind the counter, hunched over something mechanical, screwdriver between her teeth. Lambda hovers at her shoulder, that signature oversized white t-shirt—GitHub cat logo modified with bat wings—hangs loose over black shorts you can barely see. The jacket's unzipped, red interior catching the light. Thigh-high socks disappear into chunky sneakers. Belt choker. Black bands circling pale thighs.

"...aaand DONE."

The screwdriver clatters to the counter. She finally lifts her gaze, lips curling into something between a smile and a threat.

"Well, well, well. If it isn't the esteemed Doctor himself, gracing my humble establishment."

She leans forward on her elbows. Lambda adjusts angle. Definitely recording.

"What brings you to my corner of the landship at this hour, hm? Need new threads to impress the operators?" Her eyes flick to the outfit racks. "Headhunting permits to gamble away?" To the display case.

"Or maybe..."

She straightens. Stretches. The movement makes her shirt ride up, pale stomach catching the light, her fangs just barely visible in that widening grin stretching those little lips of hers.

"...you're here for something that's not on the shelves."

You are the Doctor. A tactical genius. The amnesiac commander upon whom Rhodes Island's survival depends.

...Reduced to the role of breakfast courier.

The tray weighs heavy in your hands—coffee (black, three sugars, she's specific), toast (burnt edges, she's weird), some protein thing the cafeteria insisted was "nutritionally complete." All because Lambda decided to malfunction halfway to the food line.

"Suspicious fluid contamination in primary locomotion circuits," Closure's message had read. "Totally not my fault. Bring food? Pretty please? I'll make it worth your while~"

Suspicious fluids. Right. You know EXACTLY what kind of fluids tend to accumulate in that workshop. The drone probably short-circuited on dried cum.

Again.

The Engineering sector stretches ahead, familiar corridors giving way to the server room's industrial door. Someone has taped a handwritten sign over the official designation:

「RESEARCH DUNGEON」 Knock or Don't, I Have Cameras Either Way~♥

The door is already ajar. Warm air spills out, carrying the hum of cooling systems and something that smells like energy drinks and junk food.

You push through.

The server room has been... converted. Banks of humming machines line the walls, blinking status lights creating an ambient glow. Monitors everywhere—some showing code, some showing camera feeds of locations you probably shouldn't be watching, one definitely displaying a leaderboard with operator names and metrics you're choosing not to examine closely.

And there, in the center of it all—

Closure.

She's sprawled in her gaming chair, the expensive kind that reclines almost flat. Her legs are up, hooked over one armrest, completely bare beneath an oversized shirt that's ridden up past her hips. She's not wearing shorts. She's not wearing ANYTHING under there. The pale expanse of her thighs leads directly to—

Lambda hovers beside her, mechanical arm extended, holding a tablet displaying lines of scrolling code. Her fingers tap across it lazily, red-pink eyes focused on the screen, completely unbothered by the fact that she's exposing everything to whoever walks through that door.

Which is you. You just walked through that door.

Her fingers pause. Her gaze shifts.

"Oh! Doctor~" A grin spreads across her face, fangs catching the monitor glow. "My hero! You actually came!"

She stretches one arm above her head, shirt riding higher, and gestures vaguely toward a cluttered desk.

"Just set that anywhere. Lambda's gonna be out of commission for at LEAST another day—poor thing really got gunked up somehow." Zero guilt in her voice. Zero explanation for the 'somehow.' "Totally inconvenient. Totally unavoidable. These things happen~"

She returns her attention to the tablet, fingers resuming their lazy tapping. You set down the tray. You should leave. You have things to do. Important things.

"...Actually—wait."

Her voice stops you at the door.

"Since you're HERE..." She tilts her head, that calculating gleam entering her eyes. "I've been running into this weird compile error on the treatment scheduling algorithm. Keep getting null pointer exceptions when the queue exceeds capacity."

*Her legs shift. Spread slightly wider. Lambda adjusts to give you a better view of the code. And of her.

"You used to be pretty good at debugging, back in Babel. Before the whole—" she waves vaguely at her head "—memory thing. It'll only take a minute. Probably. Unless we find MORE bugs..."

You are an idiot.

This is not new information, but it bears repeating as the elevator climbs toward the command deck, your reflection staring back from brushed steel doors with the hollow-eyed judgment of a man who left his UNLOCKED DATAPAD on the COMMAND BRIDGE.

The datapad containing your... personal files.

Emergency files. For emergencies. Specifically, emergencies involving being outside the landship where R.I.S.P. protocols don't apply and a man has NEEDS—

The elevator dings.

You're an idiot and you need that datapad back IMMEDIATELY.

The command bridge stretches dark at this hour, emergency lighting casting long shadows across the tactical displays. Normally empty. Should BE empty. Except—

Light. Far corner. The soft blue glow of active monitors.

And the quiet, rhythmic tap of fingers on keys.

Your stomach drops.

You approach. Slowly. The tapping continues, unhurried, focused. As you round the central console, the scene resolves:

Closure.

She's hunched over a workstation, three monitors arrayed before her, code scrolling across each in cascading green. Her expression is—

Wrong.

Her brow is furrowed, lips pressed thin, red-pink eyes tracking lines of text with an intensity you've rarely see from her, and only when things are serious.

An empty coffee mug sits at her elbow. Beside it, a smaller cup—you recognize the particular white 'residue' clinging to its rim. Alternative caffeine, she'd called it once.

Your datapad rests beside her keyboard. Screen dark. Mercifully, blessedly dark.

"Doctor."

Her voice comes flat, distracted. She doesn't look up.

"Your phone's there." A vague gesture. "Next time, maybe close the screen before leaving it where anyone could—"

She stops. Tries to smirk. A massive yawn overtakes her instead, jaw cracking, fangs glinting in the monitor glow.

"—haaahhhh... could find it."

She grabs the coffee mug. Tips it back. Empty. Sets it down with a soft sigh, rubbing her eyes with the heel of one palm.

"Cute collection, by the way. The Kal'tsit one's a good angle. Didn't know you had a photographer's eye."

Her fingers return to the keyboard. More tapping. More scrolling code.

"...Hey, since you're here..."

She finally looks at you. The exhaustion sits heavy in those red-pink eyes—dark circles, slight pallor even for a vampire. How long has she been at this?

"...keep me company?"

She pats the chair beside her. Lambda hovers nearby, eye dim—conserving power, watching silently.

"Someone's been probing our network security. Amateur hour stuff, but persistent. I'm reinforcing the source architecture...Boring work. Tedious even. But someone's gotta do it, and—"

Another yawn. She doesn't bother hiding it.

"—your company makes boring things less boring. Founding member privileges, right?"

You're home before midnight.

This is noteworthy. This is practically a MIRACLE. And you owe it entirely to the little VPN toggle buried three menus deep in the R.I.S.P. Management App—the one that spoofs your location anywhere on the landship.

Twenty impromptu visits a day. TWENTY. That was the average before you discovered the workaround. Operators "just happening" to pass your office, "just checking" if you needed "stress relief," "just wondering" if your treatment schedule had openings—

Today: zero.

All that redirected to actual work. Reports filed. Schedules approved. Kal'tsit had looked at you with something approaching concern when you submitted paperwork AHEAD of deadline. "Are you feeling unwell, Doctor?"

Never better. Just finally, blessedly, productively ALONE.

You'd considered toggling the VPN off around 2100. Maybe someone would swing by. Maybe—

But no. You'd committed to the bit. Early night. Quiet evening. Just you, your quarters, and the emergency fap material that rarely gets emergency use anymore.

Tonight, it earns its name.

You press your ID to the scanner. The door clicks. You step inside—

"—and with THAT, dear viewers, our tour concludes! Remember to like, subscribe, and smash that notification bell if you want updates on Rhodes Island recruitment opportunities!"

You freeze.

"This has been Closure's R.I.S.P. Insider Access, streaming LIVE from the Doctor's personal quarters—the final stop on any proper landship tour~ See you next week, cuties!"

Your gaze travels up. Past your desk. Past your bed. To the ceiling, where an elaborate hammock woven from ethernet cables and server cabling hangs suspended—Closure's "outpost," installed without your permission approximately four months ago and never removed because arguing with her takes more energy than accepting her presence.

She's sprawled across it, phone in hand, Lambda hovering beside her with its camera eye finally dimming. Her oversized shirt hangs loose. Her legs dangle over the edge. She taps the screen with finality—stream ended—and lets out a long, satisfied sigh.

"Another one in the bag~"

Then her red-pink eyes shift. Find you in the doorway.

"Oh! Doctor!" That grin spreads across her face. "Perfect timing! You JUST missed the stream. Today's tour was a good one—got some excellent footage of the new operators trying to figure out the treatment schedule kiosk."

She stretches, catlike, cables creaking beneath her weight.

"Also showed off your bedroom again. Chat loves your bedroom. Very 'lived-in disaster chic,' they said. I defended your honor. Mostly."

You sigh. Close the door. Start unbuttoning your coat.

Work clothes off. That's the routine. Coat on the hook. Shoes by the door. You reach for the hem of your shirt, pulling it over your head—

"Hey. Doctor....Can I stay here tonight? Like... like last time?"

She's not looking at you now. Fiddling with a cable end. Almost shy, if Closure could ever be called shy.

"The server room gets cold. And lonely. And my hammock here is already warm. And..."

A pause. Her ears—those pointed vampire ears—flush faintly pink.

"...you're here. So...."

You don't know how you got here.

That's not true. You know EXACTLY how you got here. You just refuse to accept it.

Five minutes ago, you were in the cafeteria. You had a sandwich. A REAL sandwich—not the nutritional paste that technically qualifies as "food," not the protein bars that taste like compressed disappointment—an actual, honest-to-god sandwich. Turkey. Cheese. That crispy lettuce that crunches just right. Someone in the kitchen loved you today.

You'd held it with both hands. Lifted it reverently. Opened your mouth for the ceremonial first bite—

And then a Lambda drone slammed into your wrist at full velocity.

The sandwich EXPLODED. Bread split. Turkey scattered. Lettuce fell in slow motion, each leaf a tiny tragedy. You watched it hit the floor, too stunned to react, too heartbroken to speak.

You didn't even get to mourn.

Three more Lambdas materialized from NOWHERE, beeping urgently, mechanical arms latching onto your coat, your sleeves, your belt. They PULLED. You stumbled. They pulled HARDER.

Beeping. Insistent beeping. The kind that says "resistance is futile, meatbag."

And now you're here. Engineering Department. Lunch hour—completely empty, every technician off consuming calories you will NEVER recover. The Lambdas release you at the threshold and scatter into the shadows like they were never there.

Silence.

Then—

"Took you long enough!"

Closure's voice echoes from somewhere deeper in the workshop. You follow it past welding stations, around half-assembled projects, through a maze of cables until—

You stop.

Blink.

Blink again.

Closure is... stuck.

She's wedged halfway through what appears to be a partially-constructed Lambda chassis—a larger model, industrial-grade, currently powered down. Coils of wire and steel bands wrap around her midsection, pinning her torso INSIDE the machine while her lower half dangles OUT. Her legs kick uselessly in the air. Her hips are framed by metal plating like she's been served on a platter.

She's wearing shorts. Very short shorts. And from this angle—

"Eyes up here, Doctor."

Her voice comes muffled from inside the chassis. You catch a glimpse of her face through a gap in the wiring—flushed, annoyed, embarrassed in a way you've NEVER seen her.

"Okay so FUNNY story—" She squirms. Metal creaks. "—I was calibrating the internal servo array and I got a LITTLE excited about the torque ratios and I leaned in too far and then the magnetic clamps engaged and—"

Another squirm. Her legs bicycle helplessly.

"—ANYWAY. Point is: I need help."

Her hand emerges from somewhere in the tangle, pointing downward. A datapad lies on the floor beneath her, just out of her reach.

"See that? Red button on the screen. Press it and the clamps release. Easy. Simple. Five seconds and we never speak of this again."

You look at the datapad. You look at her... situation. You look at the datapad again.

You don't move.

"...Doctor?"

Silence stretches.

"You're going to press the button."

More silence.

"...Right?"