They start writing it immediately.
—
They always do.
—
Containment breach.
Hostile incursion.
Crossfire event.
Localized anomaly.
—
The words line up nicely.
Clean.
Ordered.
—
None of them are wrong.
—
None of them are right either.
—
Control Room B is quieter now.
Not calm.
Just… tired.
—
One of the technicians scrolls through the recorded feed again.
Stops.
Rewinds.
Plays it forward.
—
“…it doesn’t show it.”
—
No one asks what “it” is.
—
They all know.
—
Because they all saw it.
—
And none of it made it into the data.
—
Dr. Gears stands behind them.
Hands folded.
Still.
—
Watching.
—
“…we are not measuring the correct variables.”
—
That’s the only comment he makes.
—
No frustration.
No urgency.
—
Which, somehow, is worse.
—
He steps closer to the display.
Pauses.
—
“…log everything that doesn’t align.”
—
The technician hesitates.
“…sir, that’s—”
—
“…most of it.”
—
Gears nods once.
—
“…yes.”
—
Maintenance teams move through the corridor.
Careful.
Slower than usual.
—
They fix what they can.
—
Panels back into place.
Damaged sections replaced.
Weapons collected.
Bodies removed.
—
Standard procedure.
—
But—
—
one of them stops.
Looks down.
—
“…this line was straight, right?”
—
The seam along the floor.
—
It isn’t anymore.
Not quite.
—
Another worker crouches.
Runs a finger along it.
—
“…it’s within tolerance.”
—
They both stare at it.
—
It doesn’t feel within tolerance.
—
Neither of them says that out loud.
—
They move on.
—
Behind them—
—
the line does not correct itself.
—
Badger stands in the corridor.
Hands on his hips.
Looking around like he’s trying to decide if he’s impressed or annoyed.
—
<blockquote>
“…I’m gonna go ahead and say we don’t shoot random doors anymore.”
</blockquote>
—
Grouse doesn’t look at him.
—
“…it wasn’t the door.”
—
Badger:
<blockquote>
“…yeah, I figured that part out.”
</blockquote>
—
He glances toward the far end of the corridor.
Where things still don’t quite line up.
—
<blockquote>
“…still counts.”
</blockquote>
—
HeavenlyFather exhales quietly.
—
<blockquote>
“We file this as unresolved.”
</blockquote>
—
Badger snorts.
—
<blockquote>
“We file this as ‘never doing that again.’”
</blockquote>
—
No one argues.
—
They leave without ceremony.
—
Like they were never really part of it.
—
Later—
—
when it’s empty—
—
the corridor sits in silence.
—
Lights steady.
Air still.
—
Normal.
—
Almost.
—
A loose tool left behind on the floor shifts.
—
Not much.
Just a few millimeters.
—
No sound.
—
No visible cause.
—
It settles.
—
Like it found a better position.
—
Like something had already decided where it should be.
—
Then nothing moves again.
—
Safehouse.
—
No alarms.
No sterile lighting.
—
Just a room that behaves like a room.
—
Ace leans back against the wall.
Arms crossed.
—
Doesn’t say anything at first.
—
She doesn’t fully relax.
—
Mai sits.
Not slumped.
Not rigid.
—
Just… there.
—
Shammy stands by the window.
Watching outside like she’s making sure the world is still doing what it’s supposed to.
—
For once—
—
no one rushes to fill the silence.
—
Mai exhales slowly.
—
“…it was simple.”
—
Ace glances at her.
—
“…yeah?”
—
Mai nods slightly.
—
“Everything had a place.”
Beat.
—
“And anything that didn’t… could be removed.”
—
Shammy doesn’t turn.
—
“…sounds quiet.”
—
Mai looks down at her hands.
—
“…it was.”
—
Too quiet.
—
Ace pushes off the wall.
Steps closer.
—
Not invading space.
Just… there.
—
“…and?”
—
Mai pauses.
—
“…and it didn’t feel right.”
—
That’s as close as she gets to saying it.
—
Ace nods once.
—
“…good.”
—
Shammy turns from the window.
—
The air shifts slightly.
Subtle.
Familiar.
—
Not perfectly even.
—
Just enough.
—
“…you’re still here.”
—
Mai looks up.
—
“…yes.”
—
Shammy studies her for a second.
—
She doesn’t look relieved.
—
Just… satisfied enough.
—
“…good.”
—
That’s it.
—
No follow-up.
No analysis.
—
Just confirmation.
—
Ace tilts her head slightly.
—
“…you done fixing things?”
—
A beat.
—
Mai actually considers it.
—
Then:
—
“…for now.”
—
She doesn’t sound entirely certain.
—
Ace smirks faintly.
—
“…I’ll take it.”
—
The room is quiet again.
—
Outside, something moves in the distance.
Normal.
Expected.
—
Inside—
—
a glass on the table shifts slightly.
—
Just enough to settle more evenly on the surface.
—
No one touches it.
—
No one reacts.
—
Maybe no one notices.
—
Or maybe—
—
they do.
—
And choose not to say anything.
—
The glass doesn’t move again.
—
But it doesn’t feel entirely done moving, either.
—
—
© 2025-2026. “World of Ace, Mai and Shammy” and all original characters, settings, story elements, and concepts are the intellectual property of the author. All rights reserved.
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