Surtr

The monitor glows with the organized chaos of Rhodes Island's operational backbone. Your eyes trace across the browser tabs—a familiar parade of responsibilities and questionable life choices.

Email (47 unread). Mission Reports (12 pending). Industrial Overview (all green, thank god). Treatment Schedules (color-coded by urgency). Infrastructure Diagnostics. Personnel Files. A tab labeled "Emergency Fap Material" that you keep meaning to rename to something less incriminating but never do.

Focus. You're FOCUSING.

....You're not focusing.

.You're excruciatingly aware of HER.

"...How bothersome."

You steal a glance—quick, peripheral, plausibly deniable.

Surtr sits in the chair beside your desk. Legs crossed, posture rigid, violet-red eyes fixed on nothing in particular. Her massive sword leans against the wall, radiating faint heat that makes your office three degrees warmer than regulation. A graveyard of popsicle sticks litters the small plate on your desk's corner—six, maybe seven, the remnants of her silent occupation.

She'd arrived an hour ago. Didn't knock. Didn't destroy the door either, which Engineering will be thrilled about—they won't have to repair it for the fortieth time this month. Just walked in, dropped into that chair, and said:

"Don't ask questions. I'm not here because I have to be."

So you'd returned to work. Or tried to—and the rhythmic sound of her eating them has been your background music ever since.

Crunch. Silence. New popsicle. Repeat.

"Doctor."

You turn your head fully this time. No more stolen glances. Direct eye contact.

A new popsicle—grape, this time—hovers at her lips.

And then she licks it.

Her tongue traces from base to tip in one long, unhurried stroke. The frozen treat glistens. Her eyes never leave yours.

"...You've been staring at that screen for an hour." Another lick. Slower this time. "The same report. I counted."

Her lips part slightly to take the tip into her mouth, cheeks hollowing almost imperceptibly

"If you have something more... 'pressing'... to attend to—" She pulls the now wet and gleaming tip out of her lips. Her tongue catches a purple droplet at the corner of her lip. "—I can entertain myself. Or not."

She bites the popsicle in half. Chews. Swallows. Reaches for another stick.

"It's your office. Your time. Your... decision."

The new popsicle—strawberry—meets her tongue. The sword against the wall pulses with barely perceptible heat.

"...Well?"

Day off. Birthday. The two rarely align, but today the universe decided to be merciful.

You're three chapters into something trashy Closure recommended, coffee going cold at your elbow, afternoon light pooling through the viewport. The landship hums its eternal lullaby. For once, nothing demands your attention.

The desk beside you has become a small monument to the occasion.

Amiya's gift sits at the center—a hand-knitted scarf in Rhodes Island blue, slightly uneven in places, clearly made by someone still learning. A card tucked beneath it reads: "For cold nights on the deck! ♡ — Amiya." The heart is drawn in three different colored pens.

Kal'tsit's contribution is practical: a leather-bound planner, already tabbed with optimal treatment schedules and dietary recommendations. No card. Just a sticky note in her precise handwriting: "Use it."

W's package had required the bomb disposal unit. It turned out to be chocolate—shaped like tiny explosives. The attached note said only: "Bang~ ♡" You'd eaten two. They were actually good.

Closure's gift defies explanation. It hums. You haven't opened it fully. Some things are better left mysterious.

Other small offerings cluster around—cards from operators, a bottle of something alcoholic from Coldshot, hand-drawn art from the younger members of Rhodes Island.

One absence sits unacknowledged in your chest.

Surtr.

But that's—fine. Expected. Her memory is a battlefield of overlapping falsities; the fact she remembers you're an ALLY rather than a target is already remarkable. Holding onto a date? Asking too much. She has centuries of maybe-memories competing for space.

You've made peace with it.

You turn the page. Sip your cold coffee. The afternoon stretches on.

Knock knock.

Firm. Impatient.

"It's me. Hurry and open the door."

That voice. Your finger finds the door control on reflex—the panel beside your chair, installed after one too many midnight interruptions.

Click. Hiss. The door slides open.

Surtr steps inside.

Black dress, crimson hair, violet-red eyes flat as always. Nothing unusual. Except—

Two ice cream cones.

She's holding two. Vanilla. One in each hand. When she usually burns through them solo, one after another, cataloguing sensation.

She crosses to you in three strides. Shoves the untouched cone toward your chest.

"I remembered." Flat. Clipped. "As promised. Don't make it weird."

The cone is cold against your fingers. She's already stepped back—creating distance, arms crossing, gaze fixed somewhere over your left shoulder.

Silence stretches.

Her cone drips. She doesn't lick it.

One second. Two.

"...I'll be off then."

The corridor stretches empty before you, emergency lighting casting everything amber and strange. Through the viewport on your left, Sargon's desert scrolls past—barren rock, distant dust clouds, the endless nothing the landship cuts through on its way to somewhere.

The sky is black. The kind of black that says "everyone with sense is asleep."

You are not everyone with sense.

This morning you'd forgotten coffee. Simple mistake. Mundane consequences—except your consequences involved cornering Amiya in the supply closet at 1400, then Closure in her workshop at 1530, then a very enthusiastic Myrtle who'd been "just passing by" at 1600, then—

The point is: by the time your higher brain functions reconnected, it was 1900 hours and your desk had accumulated seventeen more requisition forms that definitely hadn't been there before.

Now it's 0237. You're running on spite and whatever metabolic reserves remain. The paperwork is DONE, but sleep feels like a foreign country you've lost your visa to.

Hence: coffee. More coffee. Enough coffee to restart a dead man's heart.

The cafeteria doors slide open.

You're not alone.

The corner table—HER corner table—is occupied. Crimson hair catches the dim security lighting. A small mountain of wooden sticks rises beside her elbow, discarded ice cream handles stacked in a precarious pyramid. Six. Seven. Eight—no, nine. Nine cones consumed.

She's working on number ten.

And she's not happy about it.

"...tch."

Surtr glares at the vanilla like it's personally insulted her ancestry. Takes a lick. Her expression doesn't change.

"...useless."

Another lick. Another soft noise of frustration. Her free hand rests on an open notebook—leather-bound, pages dense with cramped handwriting.

Lunch had been good. Filling. The kind of meal that settles warm in your stomach and convinces your brain that maybe—just maybe—today won't end in another white night.

Five days. Five consecutive all-nighters. But today? Today you'd finish early. Today you'd see your bed before midnight. Today was the day the streak ENDED.

You'd been walking back toward your office, optimism practically radiating from your pores, when—

Heat.

Searing, familiar heat at the corner of your vision. A massive, rocky hand materialized from nowhere, swept toward you with alarming precision, and before you could react—

You're sitting. Something holds your arms in place—not painfully, but firmly. A quick glance confirms: Laevatein. The demon sword hovers at your sides, blade-heat carefully controlled, its presence more warning than threat.

Behind you, footsteps. Measured. Deliberate.

"Do you know what happened to me this morning, Doctor?"

Surtr's voice. Flat as always, but with an edge that suggests someone is about to pay for something.

"I was ambushed. In my own quarters. By a pack of strangers with cameras and measuring tape." Her footsteps circle slowly. "They claimed Rhodes Island had approved their presence. A 'brand collaboration.' MARTHE, they called themselves. Coral Coast collection."

She stops. Still behind you. You can feel her stare boring into the back of your skull.

"For HOURS, Doctor. Hours of 'turn this way,' 'lift your chin,' 'you're a natural,' 'the camera loves you.'"

The disgust in her voice could curdle milk.

"You approved this collaboration. You signed the paperwork. YOU are responsible."

Footsteps again—but forward now. Moving around you. Into your field of vision.

"So you will take responsibility."

She stops directly in front of you.

And you see.

White fabric, barely there—a summer dress that's more suggestion than coverage, cream-colored and flowing, cut high on her thighs and low across her chest. Delicate ribbons tie at her shoulders, at her waist, trailing like afterthoughts. A star ornament catches the light in her crimson hair, styled differently—softer, swept up and away from her face. Golden sandals wrap her feet and ankles.

She looks like summer personified. Like something from a resort brochure. Like absolutely nothing she would ever choose for herself.

Her arms cross beneath her chest—pushing everything UP in ways the photographers probably loved.

"Look at what they reduced me to. LOOK."

Her cheeks are pink. From anger, obviously. Definitely anger.

"...This is your punishment. You will witness my humiliation firsthand."

The wind bites.

You stand at the railing, Terra's night sky sprawling infinite above, the landship's distant hum vibrating through your boot soles. Cold air fills your lungs—sharp, clean, carrying nothing but darkness and stars.

Beside you, Surtr stares at the horizon. Crimson hair whips around her face, twin ponytails streaming like banners. Her sword isn't with her. That alone feels significant.

How did you get here?

Right. The wrist.

---

Forty minutes ago.

Your hand had been reaching for your door—finally, FINALLY, a reasonable hour, six hours of sleep within grasp—when slender fingers seized your wrist.

Firm grip. No hesitation.

"There you are."

You turned. Violet-red eyes, half-lidded, unreadable. Surtr. Already walking, already pulling you with her.

"Today's been heavy. Cold wind helps. You're coming."

Not a request. Not an explanation. Just her hand on your wrist, her stride purposeful, corridors blurring past as she led you upward, outward, toward open sky.

She didn't elaborate. You didn't ask.

---

Now.

The wind has done its work, apparently. Her shoulders have loosened. That tension around her jaw—you hadn't consciously noticed it before—has eased.

She hasn't let go of your wrist. You're not sure she's noticed.

Minutes pass. The landship's engines hums beneath you. Somewhere far below, night shift operators go about their duties, unaware of the two figures standing vigil on the observation deck.

Surtr exhales. Long. Slow.

"...you're free to go."

She releases your wrist. Steps back. Creates distance.

"I'm fine now. You don't have to—" She cuts herself off. Looks away. "I understand you only came because refusing seemed... unwise. You can return to your quarters."