Chapter Text
The 23rd reset.
Or was it the 24th? The number didn’t matter anymore. They blurred together—silent echoes of things you couldn’t remember but still felt in your bones. Flashes of motion. Fragments of sound. A heartbeat caught in rewind, but slower, heavier, quieter with each turn of the wheel.
Reset.
Reset.
Reset.
The word itself feels alien, splintering across your mind like shattered glass.
You don’t even know what “reset” means. Maybe you did once-no lets not fool a mind which is already on the verge of collapsing. You don't know. Not really. You don’t remember why you’re here, or how you got here. You just are. And in the spaces where memories should be, there’s only static.
Then—
Something cold brushed against your cheek.
When your eyes finally flicker open, it isn’t the dim ceiling of your hotel room you find. It’s stars—scattered, fractured, and so close they might as well be etched into your skin. The ground beneath you is no ground at all. Just empty space, cold and endless, stretching far beyond the edges of your vision.
You try to move.
The pain doesn’t register until the second attempt, a shivering scream of agony clawing up your spine. The cold touch shifts against your cheek—no longer comforting, but pointed, unyielding.
You turn your head, breath catching.
And you see it.
Blue Bone.
Cold like steel slicing through skin, like frostbite taking hold in marrow.
It had burst through you like lightning, ripping through your chest in a jagged arc. Your ribs crack, sharp edges splintering inward, and your lungs falter as though they’ve forgotten how to draw air.
Blood wells up in your throat, thick and metallic, spilling over your lips as you gasp and gurgle. The agony doesn’t just sit in your core—it consumes you, radiating outward until every nerve feels alight with fire and ice.
You claw at the source, desperate, fingers scrabbling for the spear lodged in your chest. It’s smooth and white—bone—and it thrums with power as if alive. Your hands slip, slick with blood, as your vision swims.
Someone’s holding your wrist.
No.
Not someone.
Not anymore.
A skeletal hand—grip firm, unshaking, as if to say don’t bother.
“Don’t move,” a voice murmurs, low and steady. There’s no malice there, no rage. Just the hollow finality of this voice resigned to the inevitable.
The tears in your eyes blur, and you look up, blood shot, burst veins pulse in time with the stars above, some fade into streaks of light, smudged by the growing dark.
Your lips part, though you don’t know what you’re trying to say—whether it’s a plea, a question, or just the half-formed gasp of air slipping too fast from your collapsed lungs.
Your mind spins.
What-
The hand releases your wrist, its absence colder than the chill of death creeping up your spine.
No. Please.
And then the bone twists.
A wet, sickening crunch follows, accompanied by a burst of heat that sears through your chest, rattling every breath from your throat. Your heart stutters, the rhythm broken, a beat.
The voice hums again, softer now. Regretful. “Please, just stop coming back.”
The last thing you realize, blinking, that wetness that pools on your cheek. Gasping. Realizing.
The voice is crying.
Wait.
You’ve been here before.
You’ll be here again.
And when it ends—if it ever does—
"✋︎❼︎❍︎ ⬧︎□︎❒︎❒︎⍓︎📬︎"
Your Heart Has Stopped.
The first rays of dawn streamed through the blinds of your modest home, casting pale streaks of light across the cluttered floor. You groaned, rolling over to silence the shrill beeping of your alarm clock.
It had been a hand-me-down from your mother, a relic from the '90s with a crack running through its plastic casing.
It still worked, though—just like the rest of your life.
Functional, if a little worse for wear.
Your apartment smelled faintly of overwatered soil and yesterday’s takeout. Ferns lined the windowsill, their leaves drooping slightly despite your best efforts to keep them thriving.
Your favorite one, nicknamed "Stumpy," had been with you for years, surviving countless close calls with neglect. You reached out to touch its pot as if to apologize.
Neck feeling tight from sleep, a headache knitting between your brows you let the faucet run, sipping at some water as your medicine hit the back of your throat.
Probably the way I was laying you guised.
Your coffee machine sputtered indignantly when you turned it on, groaning under the weight of its years.
While it worked its magic, you shuffled into the bathroom, catching a glimpse of yourself in the mirror. Your hair was a mess, your eyes slightly puffy from yet another night of too little sleep. You sighed, brushing your teeth with mechanical efficiency.
Work bag sat by the door, bulging with folders and papers you’d meant to review last night but hadn’t gotten around to. One of them, stamped with a bright red "CONFIDENTIAL," caught your eye again.
You’d picked it up just before clocking out yesterday, handed to you by none other than Meredith Habberdash, the office’s reigning gossip queen and unofficial HR department spy.
Her words echoed in your mind: "Big assignment, they said. You’re their first pick darlin."
You didn’t feel like anyone’s "first pick" for anything. Social work wasn’t exactly glamorous, and your caseload had been steadily growing heavier for months. But you loved it.
Helping people navigate their struggles gave you a sense of purpose, even if it came at the cost of your own peace of mind.
As the coffee brewed, you grabbed a quick breakfast—a bruised apple and a granola bar—and checked your phone. A text from her lit up the screen:
Meredith: Don’t forget to bring your big girl pants today. Mount Ebott rumors are flying. Bet your "special assignment" is related. Also, Friday happy hour?
You frowned, your thumb hovering over the keyboard. Mount Ebott had been popping up in the news lately, though the details were always vague.
Strange seismic activity, unexplained power surges, whispers of something big happening out there. It was the kind of thing you’d normally dismiss as tabloid fodder, but the frequency of the reports was hard to ignore. Still, you weren’t sure how any of that would involve you.
Happy hour sounds good. As for the news…no clue. Probably some boring bureaucratic nonsense.
Her reply came instantly:
Meredith: Uh-huh. Keep telling yourself that. See you at the office.
You sighed and slipped your phone into your pocket.
Meredith loved a good conspiracy theory, and you weren’t in the mood to indulge her this early in the morning.
There’s something about office buildings—how they can hum with life and still feel absolutely lifeless at the same time.
Maybe it’s the flickering fluorescent lights or the stained beige carpet that’s seen more coffee spills than pay raises.
Maybe it’s the outdated posters pinned to the break room corkboard, the ones with inspirational quotes about teamwork that everyone ignores.
Or maybe it’s just this place.
You walked up the stairs to the floor your job's slot office was at, using you key fob on the wall sensor, letting it snap back on the lanyard as you pushed open the glass door. Phones rang. A copier jammed.
Someone muttered a curse under their breath before slapping the side of one of the problem printers like that would fix it.
Social workers moved through the hallways like surgeons in an overcrowded ER—focused, efficient, carrying paperwork like it was someone’s lifeline. Because, in a way, it was.
The stakes weren’t life or death, not exactly, but they were close enough. A misplaced file, a missed call, a late response to an urgent case? It could be the difference between help arriving now or help arriving too late.
And in the middle of it all, perched on the breakroom counter like she belonged there, was Meredith.
"Morning, sunshine!"
She was nursing a coffee mug the size of her ego—this one emblazoned with the words I’m Not Gossiping, I’m Networking. Her auburn curls were swept into an effortlessly messy bun, and her blouse and pencil skirt combo was the perfect mix of I am an authority figure and I might also convince you to do something illegal for fun.
You grunted in response, barely sparing her a glance as you made a beeline for the coffee pot.
Meredith slid off the counter, landing with a practiced ease
“You look like shit,” she added, eyeing you over the rim of her coffee. The lipstick stain was a perfect 'O' on the cups rim, your eyes flicker up to hers.
“Good. That’s the look I was going for.”
Straight to the coffee pot. You needed another. The smell was bitter, promising more disappointment than energy, but you weren’t here for the taste.
The machine sputtered as you poured, and for a moment, you just stood there, hands wrapped around one of the cups you pulled from the dishwasher below, letting the warmth seep into your fingers.
“Big day ahead,” Meredith mused, changing the subject.
“Every day’s a big day,” you muttered.
“No, no, this one’s different.” She lowered her voice, leaning in. “Word is, the higher-ups have been in a frenzy all week. You’re lucky to have been out of the loop.” A pause. Then, with a sly grin: “Until now.”
You took a slow sip of coffee. It was scalding, but at least that meant you were awake. Unlike the drive over. “Yeah, lucky me.”
Behind you, someone nearly collided with the doorframe.
“Oh, for God’s sake—”
Carla, one of the case managers, stood there juggling a binder, two overstuffed file folders, and a half-eaten bagel clenched between her teeth. She looked exactly how you felt. Meredith caught the door before it could swing back into her.
“You good, Care Bear?” Meredith smirked.
Carla made an indignant noise around her bagel, then spit it into her palm. “Do I look good?”
No. She looked like she’d been at her desk since dawn, drowning in casework and caffeine.
“Morning meeting?” you asked.
“Morning disaster.” She shook her head, folders teetering in her grasp. “Henderson’s trying to push through another last-minute placement without proper approval, Marquez’s got a family threatening to sue again, and someone from central office is supposed to be ‘observing’ today, which basically means we all get to perform for the bureaucratic peanut gallery.”
She sighed, adjusting the precarious stack in her arms.
“Also, HR sent another email about ‘workplace morale,’ so congratulations, I think we’re getting donuts.”
Meredith gasped. “Donuts and government-mandated emotional validation? Holy shit it’s for Christmas.”
Carla snorted. “Yeah, if Christmas was funded by the lowest bidder.”
Mer belly laughs. She’s using her dramatic voice. “Look I don’t get shit from Saint Nick himself, so if these corpo big wigs get us a box of the big D I’m gonna scream”
Before you could ask or do anything else, a voice called for you from down the hall, something about a conference room reservation.
Meredith raised a brow. “Oof. That was fast.”
You sighed, setting your coffee down. “Tell my story.”
“I will, but I’ll make you sound way more interesting than you actually are.”
As you turned to leave, Carla called after you: “If this is about Mount Ebott, you better fill me in after.”
”I’ll tell him you said Merry Chrimbo”
She snorts at that.
With how fidgety your boss looked right now this better be about the Mount Ebott rabbit hole.
Because this man does not do fidgety.
Across from you sat Mr. Langston, your department supervisor. A tall, wiry person with thinning hair, a perpetual frown, & rubbing at his temple like he’d already decided this was going to be a headache. He wasn’t the kind of man who liked headaches—just the kind who got stuck with them. His glasses sat low on his nose, one bad sigh away from falling right off.
"You’ve been selected for a very… unique opportunity," he breathed, voice even, hands folding neatly over the desk like he was reading to present a performance review and not whatever this was.
You glanced at the folder, then back at him. "Unique how?"
Langston exhaled through his nose.
"I don’t know much," he admitted, rubbing a hand over his face. "And before you say anything, yes, I know how that sounds. My job is to manage, not to ask questions. All I know is that the higher-ups—my higher-ups—got a call from their higher-ups. The company lawyers had a field day with whatever this is, and when the dust settled, the verdict was unanimous: we couldn’t say no."
Your stomach twisted.
"You don’t know what it is, but you can’t say no to it?"
"Welcome to corporate America," Langston muttered dryly.
He leaned forward slightly, elbows on the table, expression unreadable behind the glare of his glasses.
"What I do know is that it involves Mount Ebbott. And before you ask—no, I don’t know what the hell is going on up there either. I wasn’t given details, just a directive: pick someone from my department, someone discreet, and send them to gather findings. They didn’t want to send their own. Not yet."
Oh.
Oh, shit.
Because Meredith and half the HR department totally called it when she said something big was happening, and for once, she wasn’t just spinning conspiracy theories between bites of her lunch.
And now, here you were. Sitting in a too-bright office, staring at a folder that might actually confirm every whispered rumor, every grainy leaked image.
You really should of watched the clips more and not skipped them. Today's like one of the biggiest pop quizzes that you didn't really study for.
Mer would have been perfect for this.
"Why me?" you asked, voice careful, controlled.
Langston sighed.
"Look, this isn’t personal. I didn’t pick you because of your numbers, or your efficiency, or whatever else makes you an exceptional employee. I picked you because you’re unassuming."
You blinked.
"Excuse me?"
He waved a hand, impatient.
"You’re not flashy. You don’t have a reputation. You’re not splattered all over People’s Magazine with the whole mess going on with the mayor. You’re just… there. You do your job, you don’t cause problems, and—most importantly—you don’t have reporters sniffing around your personal life looking for the next scandal."
Right.
That.
The mayor was in deep. Every news outlet was having a feeding frenzy over the Upset, and everyone even remotely involved with city administration was getting dragged into it. The last thing the company needed was another headline, another name for the public to obsess over.
They needed someone invisible. Someone who could be dropped into a classified situation without causing ripples.
Someone like you.
Langston gestured toward the folder. "Read it. Take the night. Let me know your answer by morning."
You hesitated.
The folder sat there, silent, waiting.
"Is this a choice?" you asked, and the words felt heavy.
Langston met your eyes.
"As much as anything ever is."
The next sunrise found you clutching the folder in your lap.
You’d been avoiding it, from where you originally threw it on the kitchen counter, to it stashed under the foot of your bed to the coffee table- you snatched it up and all but stared at the damn thing.
Normally, documents like these are straightforward—victim impact statements, someone’s long and tragic battle with addiction, that one client who definitely didn’t make their therapy appointment last week but insisted on still having a session over the phone...you know, the usual mess you sort through while mentally filing away your last shred of patience.
But those somethings were not plastered in red tape and confidential smeared all over it.
Normally, you get a little heads-up. A call, an email—anything that tells you what you’re about to dive into.
But nooo, in office suspicions followed by the worst don't ask don't tell spheal in history. Not even a hint outside the what if's and upfront reveal from your boss that thinks you're the wallflower of the office. Grand that.
So there you sat, on your equally threadbare couch (which was a surprise given that you swore you’d bought it on some kind of adulting high from Target, but no, that was years ago), staring at the half-eaten ramen cup you hadn’t touched in...oh, God, when was the last time you ate?
Stress nomming was an Olympic sport, and right now, you were a gold medalist. You added hot sauce, your mug of tea (a.k.a. liquid courage) balanced precariously on the armrest beside you.
Yeah, you were definitely trying to calm the impending panic with comfort food.
Meanwhile, Stumpy—leaned toward you as if he, too, wanted a sneak peek at your impending doom. Or, you know, was just thirsty as usual. You checked his soil meter (because you weren’t a monster), and nope, he was fine. Don’t let the fern guilt trip you, you reminded yourself.
Focus.
Alright, you whispered to no one in particular, opening the folder with the solemnity of someone preparing to face the DMV. “Let’s see what’s so ‘sensitive.’”
The first few pages were what you expected: the usual red tape. Legal jargon, confidentiality clauses, the obligatory "if you leak this we will ruin your life" disclaimer. You skimmed through it, eyes darting until you found the section labeled: Population Background.
Now, this was where it got interesting—well, in a "this is gonna be a shit show" sort of way.
The text? Heavily redacted. You know, the kind of redacted where it looks like someone with rage issues had access to a black marker. Entire paragraphs were blotted out, leaving only bits and pieces of useful information.
Origin: Mount Ebott region. Undisclosed location.
Arrival Method: Classified.
Current Status: Temporary accommodations pending integration.
You frowned, leaning back. “That’s...uh, cryptic as hell.” You scratched your head, trying to piece this together. You couldn’t help but laugh at the absurdity. ’This mountain shit is like a live ant hill someone kicked- and they wanted you to go there.
You were so lost, on what this could be. Could’ve been an alien. Could be the presidents daughter in a kidnapping. Could’ve been literally anything and you’d probably be equally confused.
Hell, maybe this was one of those days where you would’ve been better off just rolling back under the covers.
“Alright, alright, let’s get to the meat of this,” Time to do what you did best: overthink and make assumptions until the truth hit you like a freight train.
The next section was a bit more-
Huh.
"The Ambassador believes this course of action will benefit our people."
"Ask The Ambassador. We won’t proceed without their consent."
"The Ambassador requests clarification on this policy. They are concerned about its long-term impact."
The word "Ambassador" popped up repeatedly, always in the context of guiding decisions or approving actions. You squinted at the small, italicized note beneath one of the records:
"The Ambassador is a child, non-verbal, communicates via sign language. All decisions are deferred to them by unanimous consent of their people."
Your head snapped up from the page. "Wait. A kid?"
The idea threw you. Children weren’t diplomats. They weren’t political leaders or decision-makers. And yet, these people seemed to treat this child like their cornerstone, refusing to make a move without them. It made your face scrunch up.
Your gaze drifted back to the page. There was no photograph, no name, no further context. Just a note that interpreters within the imagrints temporary compound were very.
Adamant.
About being with this child when they talked. There’s more notes about a few staffed brought in. Lines are annoying blanked out, something about the staffs removal.
"Why?" you muttered, tapping the page with your finger.
"Why would an entire group rely on a child for something this big?" Are they a huge figurehead’s heir or something? Thinking to a few grouos that may-
Oh shit.
Your feet were suddenly very interesting as you took a breath between your feet, the ideas flooding through that there might be a possibility that these refugees may have worrying customs.
That’s okay, a conversation could be had, this worrying-not so informative-for-your average everyday social worker can understand thank you. Not right now at least, the things you do know are kids, and what’s got you suspiciously curious is how this kid is fairing, outside of everything else that appears to not be going on up at that mountain.
instead you focused on what you did know. flipping to the financial section of the packet inside, eager for anything more concrete. That’s when you saw the add-on at the bottom of the contract.
The numbers made your breath hitch.
Okay.
That’s more than a couple of Cup Noodles worth.
A stipend.
A commission for the duration of the assignment. Wages so generous you felt the weight of your credit card debt—and the countless sleepless nights worrying about it—start to lift just by looking at them.
You quickly flipped back to the payment terms.
The packet promised more than you made in six months.
Combined with the recent relief of finally paying off your medical bills, it was the kind of financial reprieve you desperately needed.
You gnawed at your bottom lip, torn between caution and temptation. You didn’t know enough about this "unique opportunity" to feel good about saying yes. But you also knew what saying no meant: another month scraping by, another missed chance to get ahead.
Your fingers traced over the edge of the folder, your mind racing. Something about this assignment didn’t sit right, but the allure of stability—and that enormous paycheck—made it hard to ignore.
The notes about Mount Ebott loomed in your mind. Seismic activity, classified locations, a child ambassador who couldn’t speak but somehow held the reins of a whole population. And yet…
What’s the worst that could happen?
You glanced at the stack of unpaid bills sitting on the kitchen counter, then down at your hands-