Chapter Text
By four-thirty, Suncoast CyberCare sounded like every machine in the building had decided to die loudly and with witnesses.
The number screen above the intake desk blinked between C-47 and a frozen error message Valerie had already reported twice. The printer behind her kept spitting out half-pages of coverage forms before choking on its own toner. Somewhere near exam room three, a diagnostic scanner gave a long, offended beep every forty seconds, like it was personally disappointed in the city of Clearwater.
The waiting room was full.
It was always full.
A man with a matte-black cyberarm sat near the window, flexing his fingers one at a time while arguing with his wife about whether the clicking sound was new or “new since he started messing with the grip settings.” An older woman in a floral blouse kept tapping the side of her ocular implant and squinting at the appointment kiosk like it had insulted her family. Two teenagers shared a charging port by the west wall, one with aftermarket knee braces glowing faint blue at the hinges, the other with a cheap skin-display sleeve flashing broken little hearts down her forearm.
A mother with a sleeping toddler on her lap stared at the coverage denial in her hand like if she hated it hard enough, the paper would burst into flames.
Valerie understood the impulse.
She stood behind the front desk with her red hair twisted into a messy knot that had started respectable at nine that morning and surrendered before lunch. Her Suncoast badge hung crooked on her black top. Her flannel sleeves were shoved to her elbows, showing the small constellation of tattoos along her forearms: tiny stars, a little wave, a line of script, a shark tooth Ava had insisted was “not scary, just brave,” and the delicate tattoo near her wrist that only looked abstract until you knew Ava’s name was hidden inside the curve.
Ava liked tracing it when she was sleepy.
Valerie liked pretending that didn’t undo her every time.
At the moment, Ava was under the corner table in the children’s area with a stuffed shark, a half-eaten sleeve of crackers, a tablet playing a cartoon at mercifully low volume, and enough crayons to supply a preschool uprising. She was supposed to be at preschool. She had been at preschool until the building’s air-filtration scanner threw a fault code at noon and Cleo Hart sent every child home with a cheerful apology and the facial expression of a woman ready to fight the entire maintenance department.
So now Ava was at Suncoast, wearing one pink sock and one yellow sock because Valerie had chosen not to die on that hill this morning.
“Mommy,” Ava called from under the table.
Valerie finished typing an override code into Mrs. Valdez’s hearing-band renewal and looked over. “Yeah, bug?”
“My shark is hungry.”
“Your shark ate crackers.”
“He doesn’t like crackers now.”
“He liked crackers ten minutes ago.”
Ava’s face appeared over the edge of the table, serious and sticky. “He changed.”
“Tell him personal growth is expensive.”
The man with the cyberarm laughed under his breath. Valerie glanced at him.
He looked back down at his hand very quickly.
Her phone buzzed beside the keyboard.
Rhea.
Valerie knew without looking because Rhea had a gift for texting exactly when Valerie had reached the stage of the day where murder became less a crime and more a scheduling issue.
She checked the screen.
Rhea: You right?
Valerie snorted.
Valerie: Working.
The reply came fast.
Rhea: That’s not an answer.
Valerie: Yes, we’re fine.
Rhea: Ava ate?
Valerie looked at Ava, who was now pressing one cracker to the stuffed shark’s mouth and whispering stern encouragement.
Valerie: Crackers and spite.
Rhea: That’s your side of the family.
Valerie: We are the same side.
Rhea: Yeah, nah.
Valerie smiled before she could stop herself.
Ava caught it immediately, because four-year-olds were government-level surveillance when it came to their mothers’ faces.
“Is that Auntie Rhea?”
“Maybe.”
“Is she coming?”
“Maybe later.”
“Is she bringing chips?”
Valerie looked back at the phone.
Valerie: Ava wants to know if you’re bringing chips.
Rhea: Tell Ava I love her.
Valerie: That means no.
Rhea: It means I’m training.
Valerie: That also means no.
Rhea: There are chips in my car.
Valerie closed her eyes. Of course there were.
Ava had snacks in Rhea’s car, stickers in Rhea’s car, a tiny blanket in Rhea’s car, and, allegedly, a booster seat that Rhea claimed was “temporary” despite having installed it with the emotional intensity of a woman preparing for war.
“Your auntie says maybe,” Valerie told Ava.
Ava nodded like that was good enough and vanished under the table again.
Valerie turned back to the intake screen and found it frozen.
Again.
“Beautiful,” she muttered.
Nina Calder, passing behind her with a stack of forms and a cup of coffee that looked older than the building, leaned close enough to say, “That terminal hates you.”
“It hates justice.”
“It hates Mondays.”
“It’s Thursday.”
“Then it hates commitment.”
Valerie laughed once, tired and real, and hit the side of the monitor with two fingers. The screen flickered, considered its life choices, then returned to the form.
Nina glanced toward the children’s corner. “Ava good?”
“She’s negotiating with a shark.”
“Healthy.”
“Better than most of our clients.”
Nina made a soft, deeply professional noise that meant she agreed but would never say it where Hollis might hear. Then she moved to the next intake window, already smiling at a patient who looked one denied claim away from tears.
Valerie admired that about Nina. She could turn warmth on like a lamp, even when the whole room was falling apart.
Valerie had warmth too.
It just came with teeth.
The front door slid open with a soft hydraulic sigh.
A burst of wet heat came in from the parking lot, carrying the smell of rain on asphalt even though the storm had passed an hour ago. Clearwater outside the clinic windows was all late-afternoon glare and neon reflection, palm trees moving lazily against a sky still heavy with cloud. The clinic sign buzzed blue-white above the door, catching on chrome prosthetics, wet umbrellas, and the scuffed tile floor.
Valerie glanced up out of habit.
Then paused.
The woman who walked in did not look like a regular Suncoast client.
Not because regular clients had one look. They didn’t. Public cyberware was normal enough now that Clearwater had every kind of person walking through the clinic doors: office workers with upgraded wrists, dockhands with old shoulder ports, rich tourists with glossy designer eye overlays, kids with sensory bands in candy colors, retirees with powered knees and no patience.
This woman looked different because she entered like she expected the building to disappoint her and was already preparing to be right.
She wore dark pants, black boots, a cropped utility jacket, and a fitted shirt under it. A black tech case hung from one hand, sleek and reinforced. A badge clipped near her collarbone caught the clinic lights.
NXT technical operations.
Valerie saw the badge first.
Then the hair.
Purple and green, vivid even under Suncoast’s miserable fluorescent wash. The colors cut through the room like they had no interest in asking permission. Deep violet on one side, electric green threaded through the other, messy around the ends like she had tied it back with one hand and spite.
Then Valerie saw the expression.
Tired. Guarded. Sharp.
Paperwork problem, Valerie thought immediately.
The woman stepped up to the desk and set the tech case down with controlled care. Up close, she had dark eyes, a small silver hoop in one ear, and the kind of face that probably looked softer when it stopped bracing for impact.
It was a good face.
Valerie decided not to notice that.
“Can I help you?” she asked.
The woman looked at the frozen number screen, then at the line of exhausted people behind her, then at Valerie.
“Probably,” she said. “Against my will.”
Valerie felt the corner of her mouth try to move and did not allow it.
“Strong opening.”
“I’ve been betrayed by two databases, one shuttle driver, and my sister since noon. I’m trying to keep expectations realistic.”
“Your sister is the one with the appointment?”
“She’s the one with the compliance issue.” The woman reached into her jacket and pulled out a folded authorization sheet. “Rita Wheeler. NXT performer. There’s supposed to be a public emergency coverage crossover on file for her ring-regulated implants, but NXT says Suncoast never confirmed it, Suncoast says NXT never submitted it, and Rita says she definitely sent me a message about it, which means she forgot.”
Valerie took the sheet.
Rita Wheeler.
The name landed before the rest of it.
She knew Rita. Not personally-personally, not yet, but Rita was Rhea’s best friend, tag partner, occasional dinner invader, and one half of the reason Ava had once tried to body-slam a couch cushion and called it “training.” Rita was loud, bright, dramatic, and allergic to doing boring tasks on time.
Valerie looked at the woman again.
“Wheeler?”
The woman’s face shifted with the weary acceptance of someone who had been asked this too many times.
“Judy Alvarez Wheeler,” she said. “Rita’s sister.”
Of course.
Of course this was Rita’s sister.
Valerie kept her face professional through effort. “Valerie Ripley.”
Judy blinked once.
Not dramatically. Just enough.
“Rhea’s sister?”
“Unfortunately when she worries. Proudly the rest of the time.”
For half a second, Judy’s guarded expression cracked.
Not wide. Not soft exactly.
But something warmed there.
“Unfortunately before coffee,” Judy said, tapping the top of the authorization paper, “proudly after.”
There it was.
The little click.
Not romance. Not anything that needed a name. Just the strange relief of being understood without explaining the whole family tree first.
Valerie looked back at the paper before her face could do something stupid.
“Okay. Rita’s crossover file.” She typed Rita’s name into the system. “This is for regulated ring cyberware, yeah?”
“Eye overlay, internal impact monitoring, joint-stress alerts, and emergency lockout protocols,” Judy said. “All NXT-approved. Nothing that should touch public coverage unless she gets hurt outside arena medical.”
“Which she might?”
“She’s Rita.”
Valerie nodded. “Fair.”
The file loaded.
Then locked.
A red banner appeared across the screen.
AUTHORIZATION CONFLICT: LEAGUE-GRADE COVERAGE ACCESS REQUIRES SECONDARY APPROVAL
Valerie stared at it.
Judy leaned in just enough to see. She smelled faintly like rain, machine oil, and something clean under it.
Valerie did not notice that either.
“Please tell me that’s normal,” Judy said.
“It’s normal in the sense that this system makes everyone miserable equally.”
“That’s not comforting.”
“I don’t get paid enough to comfort NXT.”
Judy huffed the smallest laugh.
Valerie felt it land somewhere it had no business landing.
She reached for the override menu. “Do you have the secondary approval?”
Judy handed over another code.
Valerie entered it.
The system denied it.
Judy’s jaw tightened. “It accepted that at Neon Forge.”
“This isn’t Neon Forge.”
“I’m aware. Neon Forge has air-conditioning that doesn’t sound haunted.”
“The air-conditioning here has seniority.”
“It should retire.”
“It tried. Coverage denied.”
Judy looked at her then, really looked, and the laugh that escaped her was quiet and unwilling enough to count as a victory.
Valerie smiled before she could stop herself.
Ava chose that exact moment to emerge from under the table.
Of course she did.
She stood beside Valerie’s leg, stuffed shark tucked under one arm, a green crayon gripped in her fist. Her hair was coming loose from one side ponytail. One cracker crumb sat proudly on her cheek.
She stared at Judy.
Valerie saw the stare and immediately felt the day get worse.
“Ava,” she said. “Don’t stare.”
Ava did not look away from Judy. “Why is your hair two colors?”
Judy glanced at Valerie first.
Not annoyed. Not amused in the wrong way.
Checking.
That tiny look went through Valerie more cleanly than any flirting could have.
She nodded once.
Judy crouched slightly, not too close. “Because I couldn’t pick one.”
Ava considered this. “Does it glow?”
“Only when I’m annoyed.”
Ava’s eyes widened. “Are you annoyed?”
“A lot,” Judy said. “But not at you.”
Ava nodded, satisfied by the fairness of that answer.
Valerie looked down at her daughter. “You need something, bug?”
Ava held up the crayon. “Green.”
“I can see that.”
“For her hair.”
Judy looked at the crayon like she had been handed classified military intelligence.
Then she took it carefully. “Good match.”
Ava beamed.
Valerie’s chest did one small, inconvenient thing.
Judy stood again with the green crayon between two fingers and tucked it behind one ear like it belonged there. With the purple and green hair, it looked ridiculous.
It also looked perfect.
Nina, from the next desk, saw it and mouthed something Valerie chose not to interpret.
Valerie went back to the terminal.
The system had not healed itself through the power of emotional symbolism.
Naturally.
“Okay,” she said. “We’re going around it.”
Judy shifted closer, not crowding, but enough that her shoulder almost lined up with Valerie’s. “How?”
“Rita’s public emergency file is probably under general performer coverage instead of league-grade specialty.” Valerie opened another menu. “If NXT submitted through the wrong portal—”
“They did not.”
Valerie glanced at her.
Judy paused.
“Probably,” she amended.
Valerie smiled. “If Rita submitted through the wrong portal?”
“Almost certainly.”
“There we go.”
Judy leaned over the counter enough to see the sub-menu. “That’s not listed on the public form.”
“No. Because if anything made sense here, Hollis would turn to dust.”
“Hollis?”
“My manager.”
“Is dust a common risk?”
“Emotionally.”
Judy made another small amused sound, and Valerie had to look very hard at the screen.
The file finally opened under performer auxiliary emergency registry, which was, in Valerie’s opinion, the worst possible name for something that already had three other names.
Rita’s information appeared in fragments.
Wheeler, Rita.
NXT Performance Division.
Regulated ocular overlay.
Internal biometric monitor.
Emergency care sync incomplete.
Public coverage backup pending.
“Found it,” Valerie said.
Judy’s shoulders dropped by maybe half an inch.
Not relief exactly. More like a machine powering down from emergency mode.
Valerie noticed.
She noticed too much.
“Can you complete it from there?” Judy asked.
“If the system decides to remember I’m not its enemy.”
“I wouldn’t count on that.”
“Neither would I.”
Valerie selected the sync option.
The system froze.
Then unfroze.
Then produced a new message.
MANUAL CONFIRMATION REQUIRED: PUBLIC COVERAGE LIAISON AND LEAGUE TECH REPRESENTATIVE
Judy looked at the message.
Valerie looked at Judy.
Ava, still standing beside Valerie, whispered to her shark, “They’re mad.”
“We are not mad,” Valerie said automatically.
Judy said, “I’m a little mad.”
Ava nodded solemnly. “Green hair glows?”
“Soon,” Judy said.
Valerie bit the inside of her cheek and absolutely did not laugh.
—
Judy had been inside Suncoast CyberCare for twelve minutes and had already decided three things.
One: the public coverage system was designed by people who had never once sat in a waiting room with a crying child and a broken prosthetic.
Two: Rita was going to owe her coffee, dinner, and possibly a formal apology written in blood.
Three: Valerie Ripley was a problem.
Not in the usual way.
Judy worked around wrestlers, technicians, medical staff, performers, production coordinators, compliance officers, and people who thought being loud was the same as being right. She knew how to handle confidence. She knew how to handle anger. She knew how to handle beautiful women, generally, by noticing them at a safe professional distance and then moving on with her life.
Valerie made that last one irritating.
The red hair was the first problem. It should not have worked under these lights. Nothing worked under these lights. The entire clinic looked like it had been lit by a depressed vending machine.
But Valerie’s hair caught warmth where none existed. It had been tied up badly enough to suggest she had given up on vanity hours ago, but pieces had escaped around her face and neck, copper-bright against her skin. She had tattoos down both arms, not showy in the way Judy saw on performers trying to build a look, but accumulated. Lived in. A small shark tooth near her wrist. Little lines and stars and things Judy wanted to understand before she had any right to ask.
The second problem was competence.
Valerie moved through the system like someone who hated it intimately. She knew which menu lied, which button pretended to be useful, which policy had a workaround buried six clicks down under a name no human would choose. She answered a patient’s question without looking away from the screen, reached down to steady Ava’s tablet before it slid off the chair, and kept one hand near the phone every time it buzzed.
Mother. Worker. Sister. Person being asked to do too much by systems too lazy to care.
Judy recognized that kind of exhaustion.
She also recognized the way Valerie wore it without making herself small.
That was dangerous.
The third problem was Ava.
Kids did not usually make Judy nervous. Adults with expectations made Judy nervous. Kids, at least, were honest in their tyranny.
Ava had stared at her hair, asked a direct question, accepted a direct answer, and then given Judy a green crayon with the gravity of a royal appointment.
Judy should have given it back immediately.
Instead it was behind her ear.
Rita would never let her live.
The manual confirmation screen pulsed between them.
Valerie clicked into the liaison approval field and entered her employee code.
“Your turn,” she said.
Judy pulled her NXT tech authorization from the wrist display she wore under her jacket cuff. “It may reject mine again.”
“Then we insult it until it submits.”
“That works?”
“No. But morale matters.”
Judy glanced at her.
Valerie’s mouth was almost a smile. Not fully. Like she rationed them.
Judy found herself wanting another one.
Deeply inconvenient.
She entered the code.
The system thought about it.
Ava leaned against Valerie’s leg, looking between the screen and Judy with open investment.
“Is it working?” she asked.
“No,” Judy said at the same time Valerie said, “Maybe.”
The system flashed green.
SYNC COMPLETE
Valerie lifted both hands off the keyboard like she was afraid touching it again might undo the miracle.
Judy stared. “That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
“No warning? No secondary denial? No request for a blood sample?”
“Give it a second.”
The screen stayed green.
Valerie sat back and blew out a breath. “Rita Wheeler is now officially less likely to become an administrative corpse.”
“Great. She can find a new way to make my day worse.”
“She’s talented. I believe in her.”
Judy laughed before she meant to.
Valerie’s eyes flicked up.
The little smile appeared again.
Worse.
Ava tugged at Valerie’s flannel. “Mommy, is the lady done being annoyed?”
Valerie looked at Judy.
Judy looked at Ava.
“Partially,” Judy said.
Ava held out both hands. “My crayon?”
Right.
The crayon.
Judy reached up and took it from behind her ear. “Sorry. Borrowed.”
Ava looked at it, then at Judy’s hair, then shook her head with sudden authority. “You can keep it.”
Judy froze for half a second.
There were normal responses to this.
Thank you. That’s very nice. I have no use for a crayon. I am an adult woman who calibrates ring optic systems and should not be moved by office supplies from children.
Instead Judy heard herself say, “I’ll borrow it.”
Valerie’s gaze sharpened.
Not suspicious. Not exactly.
Aware.
Judy felt heat flicker up her neck and immediately hated her own body for confessing to things she had not approved.
Ava nodded. “You have to bring it back.”
Valerie looked down at her daughter. “That’s what borrow means, yes.”
Ava looked at Judy again. “Don’t lose it.”
“I won’t.”
The promise came out more serious than expected.
Ava accepted this and retreated to her table, apparently done with both of them.
Judy slid the crayon into the small pocket on the side of her tech case because putting it back behind her ear felt too visible now. Her fingers brushed the worn edge of the case and she remembered she had a life that included Rita waiting somewhere with unreasonable expectations.
As if summoned by irritation, her wrist display buzzed.
Rita.
Rita: You fix it?
A second message followed immediately.
Rita: Also don’t bully civilians.
Then:
Rita: Unless they deserve it.
Judy stared at the messages.
Valerie must have seen her expression. “Rita?”
“My burden, yes.”
“She checking on the paperwork?”
“She’s checking whether her consequences have been outsourced successfully.”
Valerie leaned back in the chair, arms crossing loosely. “Sounds familiar.”
Judy glanced at the Ripley name on her badge again.
“Rhea?”
Valerie made a face that was too affectionate to count as annoyance. “Rhea’s consequences arrive in combat boots and ask if I’ve eaten.”
Judy smiled despite herself. “Rita’s arrive in glitter and pretend paperwork is a rumor.”
“That sounds like them.”
It did.
Rhea and Rita were already becoming a thing in NXT. Black Current. Dark and bright. Power and voltage. Judy had watched them in training rooms and from tech stations, watched Rita step into Rhea’s orbit like she belonged there and watched Rhea, who did not let many people close, make room without announcing it.
They were going to be champions.
Judy knew it the way she knew when a system would fail before the warning light caught up.
She looked at Valerie again.
Rhea’s little sister.
Ava’s mother.
Red hair. Sharp mouth. Tired eyes. Tattoos and crackers and a green crayon now sitting in Judy’s case like an accusation.
This was not part of the day’s plan.
“Anything else you need from me?” Judy asked.
Valerie’s eyes moved to the completed file. “Not unless Rita has another secret emergency.”
“She always does. I’m not telling her where you work.”
“Too late. My name’s on the confirmation.”
“That feels unfortunate for you.”
“I survive most things.”
Judy believed her.
That was the problem.
She picked up the tech case. “Thanks. For fixing it.”
“You gave me the right codes.”
“You found the right wrong place to put them.”
Valerie smiled fully that time.
Just for a second.
Judy forgot what she had planned to say next.
Ava called from the corner, “Bye, Judy!”
Judy looked over.
The child waved with the stuffed shark’s fin.
Judy lifted the hand not holding the tech case. “Bye, Ava.”
Ava pointed two fingers at her own eyes, then at Judy.
Valerie groaned softly. “She learned that from Rhea.”
Judy, because apparently she had lost control of her mouth in this clinic, said, “I’m scared.”
“You should be.”
Judy laughed once and turned before she could ruin anything else.
The door opened. Clearwater’s wet heat hit her. She stepped outside, the green crayon tucked in her case and Valerie Ripley’s laugh following her out in a way that felt entirely too physical.
—
After Judy left, the clinic did not magically improve.
The printer jammed again.
Mr. Kinley’s cyberarm claim turned out to be filed under the wrong service tier.
The older woman with the ocular implant finally discovered she had been tapping the wrong side of the frame for twenty minutes and blamed the kiosk anyway.
Ava decided her shark was no longer hungry but sleepy, which required three paper towels, two crayons, and one chair to construct a suitable shark bed.
Life continued, rude and unbothered.
Valerie should have been grateful.
She was not.
She kept glancing at the door.
Not often enough for Nina to catch her.
Probably.
Nina caught her.
“Purple-green hair?” Nina asked as she came by with a folder.
Valerie did not look up. “What?”
“You’ve looked at the door three times since she left.”
“I’m monitoring clinic traffic.”
“You are monitoring your own dignity leaving the building.”
Valerie gave her a flat look. “You want to handle Kinley’s supplemental arm appeal?”
Nina immediately straightened. “I support your privacy.”
“Thought so.”
Nina grinned and moved away.
Valerie tried to go back to work, but the day had shifted in some small way she could not argue with because it would make her sound ridiculous.
Nothing had happened.
A woman came in with paperwork. Valerie fixed it. Ava donated a crayon to the cause. Judy left.
That was it.
Except Valerie kept thinking about Judy looking at her before answering Ava. Asking permission without saying the words. That tiny pause had settled somewhere in Valerie’s chest and refused to move.
People were rarely careful with Ava in public. They were kind, usually, or charmed, or too familiar. They crouched too close. Touched Ava’s hair without thinking. Asked questions over her head. Treated Valerie like being young meant she needed parenting explained to her by strangers.
Judy had not done that.
Judy had looked at Valerie first.
That should not have mattered so much.
It did.
Ava climbed into the chair beside the desk at five-forty, dragging her stuffed shark by one fin.
“Mommy.”
“Yeah?”
“Judy has monster hair.”
Valerie kept typing. “Does she?”
“Grape monster.”
Valerie laughed.
It escaped too quickly to stop.
Ava looked pleased with herself.
“Cool monster or scary monster?” Valerie asked.
Ava thought seriously. “Cool. But annoyed.”
“That seems accurate.”
“She has to bring my crayon back.”
“She said she would borrow it.”
“Borrow means come back.”
Valerie’s fingers stopped over the keyboard for half a second.
Ava had already moved on, pressing the shark’s face to Valerie’s elbow.
“Can Auntie Rhea bring chips now?”
“Your priorities are incredible.”
“Thank you.”
Valerie finished the last confirmation, clocked out twelve minutes late, and packed Ava’s crayons back into the little pouch. There was a green missing. Ava noticed and smiled like this was part of a legal agreement.
Outside, the parking lot was still damp. The setting sun had broken through the clouds enough to turn puddles gold and pink. Neon from the clinic sign shook in the water under the curb. Valerie shifted Ava’s backpack higher on one shoulder, held Ava’s hand with the other, and started toward her pearl-white compact SUV.
A matte-black armored electric SUV sat beside it.
Valerie stopped.
Ava lit up. “Auntie Rhea!”
Rhea leaned against the driver’s side, arms crossed, still in black training gear with a sleeveless top that showed the familiar lines of her tattoos. The classic ink across her arms and hands caught the parking-lot light, dark and sharp. Near one forearm, worked into the tattoo pattern with more softness than Rhea would ever admit, was the little Ava piece: a small star and wave design with Ava’s initial hidden in the line.
Valerie had pretended not to cry when Rhea got it.
Rhea had pretended not to notice.
Ava let go of Valerie and ran.
Rhea crouched just in time to catch her, lifting her with one arm like Ava weighed nothing.
“Hey, bug.”
“You have chips?”
Rhea looked at Valerie over Ava’s shoulder. “Nice to see you too.”
Valerie unlocked her SUV. “She gets it from your side of the family.”
“Again,” Rhea said, “same side.”
Ava patted Rhea’s cheek. “Judy had grape monster hair.”
Rhea’s eyes flicked to Valerie.
Subtlety had never been her gift.
“Judy Wheeler?”
Valerie opened the back door and tossed Ava’s backpack onto the seat. “She came in for Rita’s paperwork.”
Rhea stood with Ava on her hip. “Rita forgot?”
“Rita forgot.”
Rhea sighed like this was the least surprising news in Florida. “Yeah. That tracks.”
“She was fine,” Valerie said before Rhea could ask.
Rhea looked at her.
Valerie shut the door a little harder than necessary. “What?”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You were about to.”
“Wasn’t.”
“You have a face.”
Rhea shifted Ava higher. “My face is my face.”
“Your face asks background-check questions.”
Ava nodded solemnly. “Auntie Rhea has scary happy face.”
Rhea looked offended. “I do not.”
Valerie pointed at Ava. “Expert witness.”
Ava held out both hands. “Chips?”
Rhea reached into the pocket of her SUV and pulled out a small snack bag like she had been waiting for the cue.
Valerie stared at her. “You are making me look bad.”
Rhea handed Ava the chips. “You look tired, not bad.”
That softened too much of the air.
Valerie looked down at the wet pavement.
Rhea noticed. Of course she did. Rhea always noticed, even when she pretended not to. She could miss six texts in a row during training and still somehow catch the exact second Valerie’s voice changed on the phone.
“You good?” Rhea asked, quieter.
Valerie huffed. “That question again.”
“Still asking.”
“I’m fine.”
“That was your work fine.”
Valerie looked at her sister. “You have categories now?”
“Always did.”
Ava opened the chips with Rhea’s help, immediately dropping one onto Rhea’s boot.
Rhea looked down. “Casualty.”
Ava picked it up. “Five-second rule.”
“No,” Valerie and Rhea said together.
Ava sighed, betrayed by both Australians at once.
Rhea strapped Ava into Valerie’s car seat while Valerie stood by the open door and watched the dark lines of her sister’s tattoos move with the shift of muscle. Rhea looked huge in the soft evening light, all black gear and tired eyes and strength that made strangers move out of her way.
But with Ava, she softened.
Not smaller.
Just open in a place most people never got near.
“Judy’s good people,” Rhea said as she tightened Ava’s straps.
Valerie looked over too fast. “I didn’t ask.”
“No.”
“I didn’t.”
Rhea glanced at her. “Still said it.”
Ava, mouth full of chips, said, “She borrowed my crayon.”
Rhea’s eyebrows lifted.
Valerie rubbed her forehead. “Ava gave her a green crayon.”
“She has to bring it back,” Ava explained. “Borrow means come back.”
Rhea looked at Valerie.
Valerie looked back.
For once, Rhea did not tease.
She just closed Ava’s door gently and leaned against the car.
“Long day?” Rhea asked.
“Very.”
“Want dinner?”
“No.”
“Val.”
“I mean no, I don’t want you buying half of Clearwater because my shift was annoying.”
Rhea’s mouth twitched. “I was going to say there’s food at the duplex.”
Valerie narrowed her eyes. “Already bought?”
“Maybe.”
“That is not asking.”
“It was for me too.”
“You bought enough for yourself, me, Ava, and probably Rita.”
“Rita eats a lot.”
“Rita is not my dependent.”
Rhea opened her mouth.
Valerie pointed at her. “Do not say emotionally.”
Rhea closed her mouth.
That was love, Valerie thought. The terrible kind. The kind that came with takeout and a woman built like a nightmare standing in a parking lot because she wanted to make sure her sister and niece got to the car safe.
It should have annoyed her.
It did.
It also made the world easier to stand in.
“Fine,” Valerie said. “Dinner.”
Rhea smiled like she had won something.
“You’re smug.”
“Yeah.”
“Australia regrets you.”
“Australia made both of us.”
“Rude of it.”
Ava kicked her little feet in the car seat. “Can Judy come to dinner?”
Valerie froze.
Rhea went very, very still.
Ava looked between them. “What?”
“Nothing,” Valerie said too quickly.
Rhea’s face did not change, but her eyes absolutely did.
Valerie pointed at her again. “Don’t.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“Your face is texting Rita right now.”
Rhea finally smiled, small and wicked. “Might.”
“Rhea.”
“Won’t.”
“You better not.”
Ava looked out the window, unconcerned with adult weather now that she had chips. “She has my crayon.”
Valerie walked around to the driver’s side and tried very hard not to smile.
—
Neon Forge’s NXT tech wing smelled like hot cables, disinfectant wipes, old coffee, and the faint synthetic smoke they tested for entrances even though everyone complained it got into the vents.
Judy liked it better than Suncoast.
Not because it was cleaner. Though it was.
Not because the systems worked all the time. They absolutely did not.
She liked it because when something broke here, someone usually knew whose fault it was.
She came in through the side entrance with Rita’s completed file uploaded to the league sync folder and the green crayon still tucked in the side pocket of her tech case.
She had considered moving it.
She had not.
That was already a mistake.
Rita Wheeler found mistakes like a heat-seeking missile wearing lip gloss.
Judy had made it halfway to the diagnostics bay when Rita appeared from the training corridor in red-and-black practice gear, athletic tape around both wrists, hair damp from sweat, and the expression of someone who had never once handled an administrative consequence personally and did not plan to start now.
“Tell me you fixed it.”
Judy stopped. “Hello to you too.”
Rita clasped both hands in front of her chest. “My brilliant sister, light of my life, destroyer of forms.”
“You called me a goblin this morning.”
“With love.”
“You said I had the people skills of a locked drawer.”
“With accuracy.”
Rita grinned. “So it’s fixed?”
Judy lifted the tech case slightly. “Yes.”
Rita let out a dramatic breath and leaned against the wall like she had personally survived the ordeal. “Amazing. I was worried.”
“You were training.”
“I can multitask emotionally.”
“No, you can’t.”
Before Rita could defend herself with whatever nonsense she had prepared, her gaze dropped to the side pocket of Judy’s case.
Then sharpened.
Judy knew immediately.
“No,” she said.
Rita’s smile began slowly. “Why do you have a crayon?”
“It’s not important.”
“That is the least believable sentence you have ever said.”
“I work with visual systems.”
“Do you color them by hand now?”
Judy walked past her.
Rita followed instantly.
“Is it evidence?”
“No.”
“Contraband?”
“No.”
“A tiny fan gave it to you?”
Judy opened the diagnostics bay door and set the case on her workbench. “Go shower.”
Rita leaned in the doorway, delighted beyond reason. “Oh my God. A tiny fan did give it to you.”
Judy did not answer.
Wrong choice.
Rita gasped. “Who?”
“No one.”
“Judy.”
“Rita.”
“You have a green crayon in your tech case, and your hair is purple and green, and you are trying to look normal but your ears are doing that thing.”
“My ears do not do a thing.”
“They absolutely do. They get guilty.”
Judy took the crayon out of the pocket and set it carefully beside her smallest calibration tool.
Rita watched the care with open hunger.
“Oh,” she said.
Judy closed her eyes.
“That wasn’t a random child.”
“I need you to go away.”
“That was a meaningful child.”
“All children are meaningful to someone.”
“Don’t get philosophical at me. I’m not wearing the right shoes.”
Judy turned on the bench light. Purple and blue LEDs glowed across the tools. The green crayon sat absurdly bright among polished metal, optic screws, cable ties, and diagnostic chips.
Rita stepped closer.
“Wait.” Her grin widened. “This was at Suncoast.”
Judy said nothing.
“Valerie Ripley.”
Judy picked up a cable.
Rita smacked both hands over her mouth.
Judy pointed the cable at her. “Stop.”
“You met Valerie.”
“I processed your paperwork.”
“You met Valerie.”
“She works there.”
“And Ava.”
Judy set the cable down too carefully. “Rita.”
Rita’s eyes went softer for half a second at Ava’s name before the delight came roaring back. “That kid gave you a crayon?”
Judy looked at the little green thing on the table.
Ava’s serious face. Valerie’s hand resting lightly on the back of the child’s shoulder. Borrow means come back.
“She said it matched my hair.”
Rita clutched her own chest. “I’m going to be unbearable about this.”
“You already are.”
“This is different. This has purpose.”
“Nothing happened.”
Rita stared at the crayon.
Then at Judy.
Then back at the crayon.
“You kept it.”
“I borrowed it.”
Rita’s mouth fell open in theatrical horror. “That is worse.”
Judy frowned. “How is that worse?”
“Because now you have to return it.”
“I told Ava I would.”
“Ava,” Rita repeated, like she had been given live ammunition. “First-name basis with the child already.”
“She told me her name because she was standing there.”
“Did Valerie smile?”
Judy said nothing.
Rita pointed. “She did.”
“People smile.”
“Not Valerie. Valerie looks like she has bills and a knife.”
Judy thought of Valerie behind the desk, tired and sharp and warm when Ava leaned against her. “She has bills.”
Rita’s expression changed.
Judy hated that too, because Rita was annoying but not stupid. Under all the flash and volume, she saw things.
“She’s good,” Rita said, quieter.
“Valerie?”
“Yeah. Rhea worries about her, but Rhea worries about everything that breathes near her family.” Rita leaned against the bench now, less theatrical. “Valerie’s tough. Funny too. Doesn’t always let people see it.”
Judy looked at the crayon.
“She was nice,” Judy said.
Rita snorted. “That’s such a sad review.”
“She was competent.”
“Worse.”
“She fixed your mess.”
“Our mess as a society.”
“Your mess.”
Rita waved that away. “Did she ask about me?”
“She said you sounded familiar.”
Rita frowned. “That could mean anything.”
“It meant Rhea.”
“Oh.” Rita grinned again. “That tracks.”
The door behind them opened, and one of the junior techs stuck his head in. “Judy? Compliance wants the Black Current ocular test logs for tomorrow’s taping.”
Rita immediately straightened, smug again. “Black Current. Hear that? Sounds official.”
Judy looked at her. “You are not helping your case.”
“I’m helping my brand.”
The junior tech looked between them, wisely decided he had entered something he did not want context for, and vanished.
Rita picked up the green crayon before Judy could stop her.
“Don’t,” Judy said.
Rita turned it in her fingers, expression bright and fond and so irritatingly pleased that Judy considered disowning her on the spot.
“She really gave you this?”
“Yes.”
“And you promised to bring it back?”
“Yes.”
Rita set it down exactly where it had been.
That, more than the teasing, made Judy look at her.
Rita smiled smaller this time.
“Well,” she said. “Then don’t lose it.”
“I wasn’t going to.”
“Good.” Rita pushed off the bench and started toward the door. “Because if you mess up with Rhea’s niece, Rhea will kill you.”
Judy groaned. “Nothing happened.”
Rita looked back, eyes wicked again.
“Not yet.”
Then she left, laughter trailing behind her down the corridor like red light.
Judy stood alone in the diagnostics bay, surrounded by tools and screens and the familiar hum of systems she understood better than people.
The green crayon sat beside the calibration slate.
Ridiculous.
Impossible to ignore.
She should have put it in a drawer. She should have taken a picture and sent it to Rita with some sarcastic caption. She should have treated it like a funny artifact from a long day and nothing else.
Instead, she left it where it was.
The workbench lights shifted through their automatic cycle, purple fading into blue, blue into green.
The crayon caught the glow and looked brighter than it had any right to.
Judy stood there a second longer than necessary, thinking about Ava’s solemn little face and Valerie Ripley’s tired smile, and understood with an inconvenient kind of certainty that she was going to return it in person.
The green crayon stayed there all night, ridiculous and bright under the purple glow of Judy’s desk lights.