The applause followed her out of the building like a swarm of insects, loud enough to drown thought, hollow enough to make her skin crawl.

  Mavis did not fly. She walked.

  It was a choice made out of spite and discipline both—a refusal to give them the spectacle they wanted, a refusal to let her body do the one thing that always made her feel untouchable. And above all, perhaps subconsciously, she didn’t want to be alone – not now, not in this moment, not after what she had just done in front of them.

  The air outside was cold and thin, the sky bruised with low clouds, the streets around the old federal building littered with wind-blown grit. The honour guard stood in two lines, rifles held across their chests, faces tight as masks. They snapped to attention as she passed, as if their bones were hinged.

  “Supreme Commander,” one of them murmured, voice cracking.

  Mavis didn’t look at him.

  Behind her, boots scuffed hurriedly. General Arnold and Agent Palmer emerged with the rest, their formation breaking into a loose stream of officers and aides. Monica and Sam were there too, flanking like shadows.

  Francis came last.

  Mavis felt him without turning. She felt him the way she felt pressure changes in a room, the way she felt the mass of an object before she touched it. His presence was a weight behind her shoulder blade, and she hated that she could tell when he was close and when he wasn’t.

  They reached the vehicles—two armoured carriers and a van. People moved with too much purpose, hands too busy, eyes too careful. No one spoke about what had happened inside. The absence of words was its own confession.

  Mavis paused at the open door of the van. The interior smelled of rubber and cold metal. She placed one boot on the step, then stopped.

  Francis had caught up.

  He didn’t touch her. He didn’t even step into her space. He just stood beside the doorframe with his hands at his sides like he was afraid his body might betray him into pleading.

  “Mavis,” he said quietly.

  She looked at him then.

  His face had the same shape it always had—tired, earnest, too human—but something in his eyes was different. Not fear. Not hatred. Something worse: a grief that had nowhere to go.

  “What,” she said, and the word came out sharper than she intended.

  Francis swallowed. “Why did you do it?”

  Mavis’s jaw tightened. “You saw why.”

  “I saw what they said,” he replied. “I didn’t ask what they said. I asked why you did it.”

  She stared at him, and for a heartbeat she could not find language that didn’t sound like excuse or weakness. Her mind offered her old tools—threats, contempt, dismissal. The easy things.

  “They came here to insult me,” she said at last. “They weren’t negotiating.”

  Francis’s mouth tightened. “People insult each other in negotiations.”

  “They told me to leave,” Mavis hissed. “To disappear. As if I’m a mistake they can erase. As if I’m something that can be sent away like—like trash.”

  He flinched, not from her anger but from the crack in it.

  “And you proved them right,” Francis said.

  The sentence was quiet. That was what made it cut.

  Mavis’s fingers curled around the van doorframe and the metal groaned, bending slightly under her grip. She released it before she tore it off.

  “I ended the talk,” she said. “That’s what you wanted. Peace.”

  Francis shook his head once, slow. “That wasn’t peace. That was… execution.”

  Mavis leaned closer, eyes bright with something dangerous. “So what am I supposed to do, Francis? Smile? Let them spit at me and call me a monster while I sit there like a good girl? Let them say I should leave the only place I’ve ever had?”

  His gaze flicked over her face, as if searching for the girl he’d spoken to in the briefing room—crying, ashamed, wanting to be forgiven.

  “I wanted you to have a choice,” he said. “Not just… the same reflex every time someone hurts you.”

  Mavis’s throat tightened. She almost laughed, but it stuck.

  “Choice,” she repeated. “They took my choices away when they put me in a box.”

  Francis’s eyes narrowed. “And now you take everyone else’s away.”

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  Silence fell between them. The vehicles idled. Somewhere in the distance, wind rattled through broken street signs like bones.

  Mavis straightened, forcing her shoulders back, forcing her face into the cold shape they all expected.

  “Get in,” she said, voice flat.

  Francis didn’t move.

  “Mavis—”

  “Get in,” she repeated, and now there was an edge of command that made the nearby officers stiffen without meaning to.

  Francis’s jaw worked. Then, slowly, he stepped back and climbed into the van, taking the seat opposite the door. Monica slid in after him, eyes flicking between them, her mouth tight. Sam took the front passenger seat, avoiding looking back.

  Mavis stepped inside last and slammed the door.

  The convoy rolled out.

  For a while, no one spoke. The van’s suspension creaked over rubble. The windows were thick and scratched, turning the outside world into a smeared painting of ash and ruins. Mavis sat with her arms crossed, staring at nothing.

  Francis sat opposite her, staring at his hands.

  Monica finally broke first, voice careful. “You… did what you had to do.”

  Mavis didn’t look at her.

  Francis’s head snapped up. “No,” he said, and the firmness in his tone startled even him. “She didn’t.”

  Monica’s eyes widened. She looked between them. “Francis, don’t—”

  “Don’t what?” Francis asked, and now his voice was brittle. “Don’t say what we’re all thinking? Don’t remind her she’s still human enough to make decisions?”

  Mavis’s eyes flashed. “I’m not human.”

  Francis stared at her. “Then what are you?”

  The words hung, heavy as a door that refused to open.

  Mavis’s gaze slid away to the window. Outside, the sky looked lower than it should, pressing down on the land as if the world itself was tired.

  “I don’t know,” she admitted, barely audible.

  The van jolted. A bolt somewhere rattled loose. Monica drew in a breath, as if she’d heard something sacred.

  Francis’s shoulders sagged slightly. He rubbed his face with one hand, exhausted. “Then let’s stop acting like you’re only a weapon,” he said. “Let’s stop pretending this is what you want.”

  Mavis’s voice went small again, almost spiteful. “You don’t get to tell me what I want.”

  Francis looked at her, and the grief returned to his eyes like a tide. “No,” he said. “But I get to tell you what I see. And what I see is someone who keeps saying she wants friends and belonging, and then… making sure nobody can ever give it to her.”

  Mavis’s nails dug into her palm. She could feel the blood beneath the skin, the fragile human thing she pretended not to be.

  The rest of the ride passed in silence.

  When they reached the bunker entrance, the steel door lifted with its usual slow, grinding ceremony. Warm air breathed out, smelling of disinfectant and cooked starch. Personnel clustered near the vehicle bay, lined up like they’d been told to witness something important.

  The convoy rolled in. The door sealed behind them.

  As Mavis stepped out, the people watching bowed, some too deep, some too quick. Their eyes were bright with forced devotion, their mouths ready to shape whatever slogan was necessary to survive.

  Mavis felt the dried flecks of someone else’s blood in her memory, and her stomach turned.

  General Arnold approached, smiling broadly. “A decisive outcome,” he said, voice warm. “The remaining anti-Mavis leadership will collapse without a central council. We will broadcast what happened as—”

  “As what?” Francis cut in, stepping down beside Mavis. “A successful negotiation?”

  Arnold’s smile didn’t change, but his eyes sharpened. “A demonstration,” he replied. “Of resolve.”

  Mavis watched Arnold and realised, with a cold clarity, that he was pleased. Not afraid, not horrified. Pleased. The same way John used to look when a test result confirmed a theory.

  Arnold turned to her. “You have secured our future.”

  Mavis’s lips parted, and for a moment she almost asked: At what cost?

  But she didn’t.

  She simply nodded once.

  “Good,” Arnold said, and moved away to issue orders.

  The crowd dispersed. Mavis found herself walking without deciding to, her boots carrying her down familiar corridors. Monica and Sam peeled off at a junction. Francis followed her for a few turns, then stopped.

  “Mavis,” he said.

  She paused but didn’t turn.

  “I’m not going to applaud you,” he said quietly. “Not for that.”

  Mavis swallowed. “I didn’t ask you to.”

  “I know,” Francis replied. “That’s the problem.”

  She turned then, and her face was almost expressionless, but her eyes were not. They looked tired.

  “Do you hate me?” she asked.

  Francis’s throat moved. “No,” he said, and the honesty in it was painful. “But I’m scared of what you’re becoming.”

  Mavis stared at him, as if he’d just told her the world was ending again.

  “I became this a long time ago,” she whispered.

  Francis shook his head. “No,” he said. “You became powerful a long time ago. This—this coldness—this is new.”

  Mavis’s mouth tightened. She wanted to argue. She wanted to strike him with words until he flinched the way everyone else did. But she couldn’t. Not him.

  Not the only person who still spoke to her like she could be better.

  So she did the only thing she knew that kept pain from spilling out.

  She turned away and walked.

  Francis didn’t follow.

  ??????

  Days continued to pass like a blur. The bunker felt too small.

  Mavis moved through corridors that had once seemed endless and now felt like a looped track. People bowed. People smiled too quickly. People stepped aside like she was a rolling boulder they couldn’t stop. Their fear had the same taste as always, but now it mixed with something else—euphoria.

  They were winning. Because of her.

  General Arnold’s broadcasts played on monitors in common areas. He spoke of unity, of rebuilding, of “the dawn after the long winter.” The words sounded like propaganda because they were propaganda, but people wanted to believe them, and belief was a currency more valuable than food.

  Mavis didn’t watch.

  She found Francis in the hydroponics corridor, standing between rows of pale green leaves under harsh lamps. He was alone, hands in his pockets, staring at a tray of seedlings as if their fragile existence was a riddle.

  He looked up when she approached, and something in his face tightened. He hadn’t avoided her, but he hadn’t sought her out either since the negotiation massacre.

  “Mavis,” he said carefully.

  “Hey” she said softly. “Have you been avoiding me?”

  “No” Francies denied, almost too quickly, like her question was poisonous.

  She sensed it and inhaled, hanging her head. Then she faced him once again. “Don’t judge me!” she blurted out, the expression on her face pained, like she was pleading.

  Francis walked over to meet her, reached out and took her hands. “I— I’m not.”

  “Yes you are.” She let go and turned, moving away from him. She didn’t want him to see her looking so vulnerable. Why did he always make her feel so vulnerable?

  Mavis reached the end of the row of hydroponic plants. Anger and frustration seeped into her voice. “You don’t know how it feels. To… to be alone. To be feared by everyone. Every day.” She glanced from the hydroponic plant she had been staring at, to look at him, expecting a response. But he gave her nothing. The expression on his face was more amused than anything.

  “What’s so funny?” Mavis glared at him.

  “Nothing.” Francis smiled. “Just that you’re not alone. You have me.”

  Her gaze shifted to one of confusion then relief.

  He was relieved too that she hadn’t abandoned him.