37. Shared Enemies
37
SHARED ENEMIES
~JESSICA~
"I f you call me Sora one more time, I swear on everything unholy I will stab you with this butter knife."
"It's not even sharp."
"I'll make it work."
I watch the exchange between Sera and Kai with fascinated amusement, their bickering carrying the particular rhythm of people who've fallen into comfortable patterns of conflict that contain more affection than genuine animosity. Sera brandishes the aforementioned butter knife with theatrical menace, while Kai merely raises an eyebrow, completely unbothered by the supposed threat.
"You'll just activate my latent keyblade powers," he responds dryly. "Then where will we be?"
"In a Disney lawsuit, probably," she shoots back, dropping the knife to reach for her chocolate milkshake instead.
The diner bustles with post-lunch activity around us, families and couples occupying booths beneath vintage neon signs and black-and-white photographs of the town's early days. Our table near the back provides both privacy and tactical advantage—clear sightlines to all entrances, minimal exposure to exterior windows, easy access to the kitchen exit if necessary. I hadn't consciously selected it for these reasons, but I notice Bastian's approving nod as we're seated, confirming his similar assessment.
Old habits die hard for all of us, it seems.
Now that I'm no longer in fight-or-flight mode—no longer watching Knox's lifeless body while desperately fighting off attackers in a rain-soaked forest—I can properly observe Sera's appearance. The family resemblance between her and Knox is immediately apparent despite their different coloring. They share the same distinctive mismatched eyes—one blue, one green—though hers seem to shift more dramatically with changing light, the colors intensifying or receding as if responding to her mercurial emotions.
Her facial features echo Knox's softer angles—the slightly upturned nose, the high cheekbones, the particular curve of lips that always seem poised between sarcasm and genuine smile. These must come from their mother, I realize, these gentler shapes that counterbalance the sharp intelligence evident in both siblings' expressions.
The most striking difference, of course, is her hair—currently a vibrant bubblegum pink that should look ridiculous on an adult but somehow suits her perfectly. I can see silver roots beginning to emerge, suggesting her natural color is actually similar to Knox's distinctive silver-white shade rather than the artificial bright pink. The color complements her porcelain complexion, which lacks the smattering of freckles that dot Knox's similar pale skin.
My gaze shifts to Kai, studying him with the automatic assessment I apply to anyone new in my proximity. He carries himself with the particular stillness that speaks of extensive combat training—the controlled economy of movement, the deceptive relaxation that can transition to deadly action without telegraphing intention. His indigo hair with its silver-grey tips should seem affected or contrived but somehow doesn't, perhaps because everything else about him is so deliberately understated.
He reminds me simultaneously of both Marcus and Bastian—combining Marcus's strategic calculation with Bastian's quiet physical capability, yet distinct from either in ways I can't immediately articulate. There's a darkness to him, a shadow that suggests experiences beyond what most could survive intact, yet he maintains moments of unexpected gentleness when interacting with Sera despite their constant verbal sparring.
"They don't make real milkshakes anywhere else in this town," Sera declares after a particularly long sip that hollows her cheeks with suction force. "Everywhere else uses that pre-mixed crap that tastes like sweetened plastic."
"Last month you said Dairy Castle had the best milkshakes," Kai counters, methodically cutting his club sandwich into precise triangular quarters. "Before that it was that hipster place downtown with the metal straws and 'artisanal' ice cream."
Sera waves a dismissive hand, nearly knocking over the salt shaker in the process. "I'm allowed to have evolving opinions. It's called growth."
"It's called being fickle," he responds without looking up from his precise dissection of lunch.
"Bite me."
"Not in public."
The exchange continues with the rhythm of practiced combatants, neither gaining nor conceding ground, both seemingly satisfied with the perpetual stalemate their interaction maintains. They bicker like cats and dogs, yet there's something oddly harmonious about their discord—as if they've each found in the other the perfect counterbalance to their individual personalities.
Yin and yang, I think, watching Sera's animated gestures contrast with Kai's measured responses. Chaos and order. Spontaneity and calculation. Each clearly fulfilling something the other requires despite their apparent differences.
Bastian's hand finds mine beneath the table, fingers interlacing with casual intimacy that still surprises me with how natural it feels. His thumb traces small circles against my palm, the gesture both soothing and slightly distracting as I try to maintain focus on the conversation flowing around me.
"So," Sera says, attention suddenly shifting fully toward me with the particular intensity I recognize from Knox when he's locked onto a new target of interest. "How long have you known my brother? I mean, obviously before this whole trying-to-die situation, given how Bastian mentioned you're part of their pack."
The direct question catches me slightly off guard, not because it's inappropriate but because I've become unaccustomed to straightforward inquiries after years in Dead Knot, where everything is cloaked in layers of implication and hidden agenda.
"I met Knox first through his technological reputation," I answer, deciding simple truth requires no strategic filtering in this case. "Our paths crossed periodically in Dead Knot over the past year or so, though I didn't know his connection to the others until recently."
I deliberately avoid specifying exactly how recently, not wanting to highlight the unusual nature of our pack's formation or my continued resistance to fully acknowledging what's developing between the five of us. Some complexities are better left unexplored in public settings, regardless of how seemingly accepting the audience.
"Mmm," Sera hums noncommittally, her mismatched eyes studying me with surprising intensity given her otherwise playful demeanor. "And how did you end up in Dead Knot? You don't have the usual look of someone who grew up there."
The observation is accurate enough to be slightly unsettling. Dead Knot residents typically carry visible markers of their harsh environment—particular wariness in their expressions, specific calluses from weapons training begun too early, distinctive patterns of scarring from conflicts that define territorial boundaries among the various factions.
While I've adopted many of these characteristics over my years there, I lack the bone-deep conditioning that comes from childhood immersion in that particular brand of violent chaos. Even with my carefully constructed persona, something about me must read as "other" to someone with Sera's evident perceptiveness.
"I transferred there after some... personal difficulties at my previous academy," I reply, the careful phrasing technically accurate while avoiding specifics that might darken the relatively light atmosphere we've maintained since arriving at the diner.
Bastian's hand tightens briefly around mine—silent support, silent permission to share as much or as little as I feel comfortable revealing. The gesture creates unexpected warmth in my chest, this evidence of respect for my boundaries even in seemingly innocuous social interaction.
Our waitress arrives with dessert before Sera can pursue her line of questioning further—four ice cream sundaes arranged on a tray with the particular pride of someone who takes genuine satisfaction in providing small pleasures to others. The perfectly crafted treats feature scoops of vanilla ice cream topped with hot fudge, whipped cream, chopped nuts, and maraschino cherries that add splashes of artificial red to the otherwise brown and white confections.
"Perfect reward after that mud run," Sera declares, immediately diving into her sundae with enthusiasm that matches Knox's approach to particularly intriguing technological challenges. "I thought Kai was joking when he suggested signing up. I mean, who voluntarily subjects themselves to that much mud and physical torment on a Saturday morning?"
"People who enjoy testing their limits," Bastian answers before I can formulate response. "People who understand that controlled physical challenges provide useful practice for uncontrolled ones."
Kai nods in agreement, the motion subtle but conveying complete understanding of Bastian's perspective. "Exactly. Plus, it benefits veterans' rehabilitation programs."
"I'm still covered in mud in places I didn't know mud could reach," Sera complains without genuine rancor, somehow managing to speak clearly despite the significant spoonful of ice cream and fudge occupying her mouth. "These showers were barely functional. More like standing under a garden hose with delusions of grandeur."
"You're just mad because you lost," Kai observes, his own approach to the sundae considerably more measured, each bite precisely constructed with careful ratios of ice cream to toppings.
"We didn't lose," Sera protests immediately. "We placed fourth overall out of fifty-seven teams. That's solidly respectable."
"It's not winning."
"Says the guy who got beaten by Mountain Man over here," she retorts, gesturing toward Bastian with her spoon.
Despite the competitive bickering, both appear genuinely comfortable in each other's presence—the particular ease that comes from compatible tension rather than genuine conflict. They argue like people who've discovered perfect opposition in each other, who've found in disagreement a form of communication that works where more conventional interaction might fail.
"How's my brother doing?" Sera asks, abruptly shifting topics with the particular conversational whiplash I recognize from Knox's similar tendency to follow internal logical threads without providing transitional markers for those attempting to follow his thought processes. "Is he really okay after the whole heart-stopping episode?"
The direct reference to Knox's near-death experience triggers a momentary flash of memory—his still form in the mud, the absolute absence of pulse beneath my searching fingers, the gray-blue tinge to his skin that spoke of oxygen deprivation and imminent death. I push the images aside, focusing instead on his current recovery rather than how close we came to losing him permanently.
"He's doing much better," I confirm, deliberately keeping my tone light despite the seriousness underlying the question. "Recovering quickly, all things considered."
"The fucker acts as if he didn't go to heaven and come back," Bastian adds, his crude phrasing somehow perfect for conveying Knox's remarkable resilience in the face of what should have been permanently debilitating experience.
Sera's laugh carries genuine relief beneath its bright surface. "That sounds exactly like him. Bouncing back as if nothing happened is practically his superpower." Her expression shifts toward something darker, more focused as she continues. "We're so close to taking down who did that rubbish, you know."
The statement catches my full attention, previous observations and social niceties immediately relegated to background processing as tactical assessment takes precedence. "You know who was responsible?" I ask, carefully modulating my tone to avoid revealing the full extent of my interest in her response.
Sera's animation falters, gaze shifting to Kai with the particular hesitation that suggests uncertainty about information sharing parameters. They exchange a look loaded with unspoken communication—the particular shorthand that develops between people who've learned to trust each other's judgment regarding sensitive matters.
After what feels like extended silent negotiation but probably lasts mere seconds, Kai gives a subtle nod. "If you trust them, I don't mind," he says, voice pitched for our table alone despite the diner's ambient noise providing reasonable cover. "Especially if your brother is associated and on good terms with them. I'm assuming they're in similar fields."
The careful phrasing suggests much more than casual acquaintance between Kai and Sera—speaks of operational security protocols, of shared missions with genuine consequences for information mishandling, of trust extended through careful calculation rather than emotional impulse despite their evident personal connection.
Sera's smile returns, though with sharper edges than her previous expressions. She leans forward slightly, voice dropping to ensure privacy despite our relatively isolated table position. "The plot seems to lead directly to the Senators—particularly Senator Caldwell's campaign."
The name sends electric current racing through my system, every nerve suddenly hyper-alert despite the casual setting. My gaze shifts automatically to Bastian, finding in his expression the same controlled reaction I'm attempting to maintain—recognition without revealing the full significance this particular information carries for us personally.
"We're familiar with the Senator," Bastian confirms, the deliberate understatement almost comical given my years-long mission to find and eliminate the man who participated in my rape and attempted murder. "His name has appeared in our own investigations."
"It's definitely him behind the attack at Dead Knot," Kai states with the particular certainty that suggests information obtained through methods beyond standard investigation channels. "His campaign has been put on pause like every other political activity due to the incident, but he's been making interesting moves behind the scenes that suggest this wasn't an isolated event."
"What do you mean?" I ask, ice cream forgotten as more urgent matters take precedence.
"This isn't the first suspicious incident connected to Knot Academy," Kai elaborates, his methodical approach to information sharing reminiscent of Marcus's similar tendency toward precise disclosure. "But due to the extent of student casualties this time, authorities couldn't dismiss it as accidental or typical Dead Knot violence. They're officially investigating whether one of the running council members was directly involved."
"Why would a Senator target students at Knot Academy?" I ask, genuinely curious about their assessment despite my personal knowledge of Caldwell's capacity for violence and cruelty. "What possible benefit could come from such an attack?"
Kai's expression shifts toward the particular focus I associate with professional analysis rather than personal speculation. "Control of Knot Academy provides access to significant government funding streams," he explains. "The school system receives specialized allocations for designation-related research, security development, and social integration programming that amounts to billions annually with minimal oversight."
"It's massive amounts of money for someone who probably comes from nothing," Sera adds, her characteristic animation momentarily subdued by the seriousness of the topic. "Perfect combination of power and financial opportunity for someone with the right ambitious streak and limited moral constraints."
The assessment aligns perfectly with what I know of Caldwell—his carefully constructed public persona as champion of traditional values concealing the predatory reality I experienced firsthand in that rain-soaked alley seven years ago. His apparent concern for Omega welfare masking willingness to violate and destroy those same Omegas when they serve his purposes or simply cross his path at inopportune moments.
"Why would you two know so much about Senator Caldwell anyway?" Sera asks, head tilting with the particular curiosity that reminds me strongly of Knox when he's detected information gaps he's determined to fill. "Seems like a very specific political figure to be investigating."
It's my turn to exchange glances with Bastian, silently negotiating how much of my personal history to reveal to these relative strangers despite their evident connection to Knox and potential alignment with our own objectives regarding Caldwell. Bastian's expression conveys complete support regardless of my decision—willingness to follow whatever lead I establish without imposing his own preference regarding disclosure levels.
His hand finds mine again beneath the table, squeezing gently before lifting it to place a kiss against my knuckles—the gesture both reassurance and encouragement, reminding me that whatever I choose to share, I'm no longer facing these battles alone as I have for seven years.
The realization loosens something tight in my chest—this evidence that vulnerability doesn't automatically equate to weakness or tactical disadvantage, that selective trust might actually strengthen position rather than compromising it. I take a deep breath, decision forming with surprising clarity despite years of careful isolation and information control.
"Senator Caldwell raped me when I was sixteen," I state, the words emerging with clinical precision despite the emotional weight they carry. "In an alleyway behind a club, along with five others. They left me for dead afterward."
The blunt disclosure creates immediate stillness at our table, ambient diner noise continuing around us while our small bubble of conversation freezes in shocked silence. Sera's spoon hangs suspended halfway to her mouth, eyes widening with the particular horror that transcends her usual theatrical expressions.
"I've eliminated four of the six men involved," I continue, finding strange freedom in this naked honesty after years of carefully constructed cover stories and strategic misdirection. "Caldwell and Elliott Prescott Junior are the only two remaining."
Kai's expression doesn't register shock or disbelief—merely the particular recalibration that suggests new information being integrated into existing assessment frameworks. "How soon do you want him dead?" he asks, the question emerging with the same casual tone someone might use to discuss dinner preferences rather than assassination planning. "Because we can do it in twenty-four hours or less."
The matter-of-fact offer—this immediate alignment with my long-term mission without requiring additional justification or evidence—creates unexpected emotion that threatens the composure I've carefully maintained. I swallow against sudden tightness in my throat, against the peculiar vulnerability that comes from being believed without question, from having traumatic experience acknowledged as valid basis for retribution without societal judgment or moral questioning.
"Convenient," Bastian observes, the single word encompassing volumes regarding unexpected alignment of previously separate operational objectives.
I take another steadying breath, organizing thoughts that have become unexpectedly chaotic given the conversation's sudden intensity.
"I've always assumed I needed to be the one to do it," I admit, examining this long-held conviction with new perspective gained through recent experiences. "That perhaps it would provide some satisfaction, some closure to what happened."
I pause, fingers tracing condensation patterns on my water glass as I articulate shifting perspectives that have been forming since my near-death experience in the forest. "But after nearly dying during the campus attack, I've been questioning whether this obsession with revenge has actually prevented me from truly living. Whether I might be better served by letting it go rather than allowing it to define my entire existence."
Sera's palms slam against the table with enough force to rattle silverware and startle nearby diners, her expression transformed from shock to fierce determination with the particular emotional velocity that seems characteristic of her personality.
"Nope," she declares, volume barely contained within socially acceptable parameters. "No way are you letting that bastard go free. No one deserves to walk away from something like that without consequences. Especially not someone seeking public office and power over others."
"But my obsession nearly got me killed," I counter, surprised to find myself arguing against my own mission after years of single-minded focus. "It prevented me from forming connections, from experiencing anything beyond vengeance and survival. I'm not sure that's actually living."
"Then you learn to balance both," Sera insists, leaning forward with intensity that reminds me forcefully of Knox during particularly passionate technical explanations. "You deserve justice AND a full life—they're not mutually exclusive. But that starts with ruining that bastard and whoever the last guy is."
"Elliott Prescott Junior," Bastian provides, the name emerging with particular precision that suggests personal interest beyond mere factual disclosure. "Son of manufacturing magnate Elliott Prescott Senior, is currently enrolled at Knot Academy, Dead Knot in particular, despite being well beyond typical student age."
Kai's expression shifts toward something darker, more predatory than his previous analytical demeanor.
"Good," he says, the single syllable carrying layers of meaning beyond its simple construction. "We have the same enemies, then. This simplifies matters considerably."
A phone ringtone cuts through our conversation—distinct electronic notes that immediately draw Kai's attention to the device appearing in his hand with practiced efficiency. He glances at the screen, expression shifting toward the particular focus that suggests incoming information of significant operational value rather than casual communication.
"We need to take this," he announces, already moving to stand from the booth with the particular urgency that speaks of time-sensitive intelligence.
"Why 'we'?" Sera asks, confusion momentarily replacing her previous intensity. "I don't even know who's calling."
"Because if I leave you here alone, one of your alternate personalities will decide you're an escaped convict and go running to another country," Kai responds with the weary certainty of someone recounting historical fact rather than hypothetical scenario. "And yes, she's done it before, so don't ask."
The casual reference to Sera's apparent psychological complexity emerges without judgment or embarrassment—simple acknowledgment of reality that requires practical accommodation rather than emotional response. Sera's expression suggests this candid disclosure isn't unwelcome despite its potentially sensitive nature, her relationship with Kai clearly encompassing acceptance of her full complexity rather than merely the socially presentable aspects.
Bastian and I nod understanding, accepting their need to step away without question or complaint. The particular respect for operational necessities comes naturally to all of us, regardless of our different backgrounds and specific training protocols.
"We should discuss potential collaboration," I suggest as they prepare to leave, the tactical advantages of combined resources immediately apparent despite typically preferring solo operations. "Perhaps compare notes on our respective intelligence regarding the Senator and Elliott."
"Definitely," Sera agrees, already shifting toward the manic energy that seems to be her default state. "Knox will shit literal bricks when he hears about this coincidence. He loves when separate data streams converge unexpectedly. Says it validates his conspiracy wall, whatever that means."
With final nods of acknowledgment, they depart—Kai's hand resting lightly against Sera's lower back as he guides her through the crowded diner with the particular protectiveness that transcends simple designation dynamics, suggesting personal connection deeper than mere pack functionality.
Their absence creates momentary silence between Bastian and myself—not uncomfortable, but weighted with the significance of information just exchanged and potential implications for our ongoing mission against Caldwell and Elliott.
"Interesting coincidence," I finally observe, taking a bite of my now-melting ice cream more from desire to appear normal to surrounding diners than genuine appetite given the conversation's intensity.
"I don't believe in coincidences," Bastian responds, his voice pitched low enough that only my enhanced Omega hearing could possibly detect it above the diner's ambient noise. "Not when they align this perfectly with existing objectives."
I nod agreement, tactical assessment temporarily superseding the more complex emotional responses our unexpected allies have triggered. "Do you think they're trustworthy?" I ask, the question encompassing far more than simple reliability assessment.
Bastian considers this with characteristic thoroughness, his expression suggesting complex calculation rather than instinctive response despite his evident comfort with Kai during their earlier interactions.
"Kai carries himself like someone with extensive covert operations background," he finally says, the assessment professional rather than personal. "Moves like special forces, observes like intelligence, controls information like someone accustomed to compartmentalization protocols."
He pauses, gaze tracking the couple through the diner's front windows as they stand outside, Kai speaking into his phone while Sera paces nearby with characteristic restless energy.
"But he's protective of Sera in ways that transcend tactical necessity," Bastian continues, observation shifting from purely professional to more nuanced assessment. "And her connection to Knox provides additional verification layer that would be difficult to falsify convincingly."
I nod, following similar analytical thread despite the unusual circumstances surrounding this potential alliance. "Their knowledge of Caldwell's connection to the campus attack seems legitimate rather than manufactured," I add, contributing my own assessment to our collective evaluation. "And their immediate alignment with our objectives regarding him suggests genuine rather than strategic motivation."
"We'll verify through Knox, of course," Bastian notes, the caution automatic rather than indicating specific suspicion. "And have Marcus run additional background verification through his networks before committing to significant operational collaboration."
"Of course," I agree, tactical prudence overriding the unusual immediate trust these strangers have somehow inspired despite years of carefully cultivated paranoia.
We fall silent again, each processing the unexpected developments and potential opportunities they present. The ice cream continues melting in elegant surrender to ambient temperature, physical reality progressing regardless of our temporary abstraction into strategic assessment.
"There's a night fair happening next weekend," Bastian says suddenly, shifting from evaluation to active planning with the particular transition I've noticed characterizes his approach to problem-solving. "Annual event that draws significant attendance from across all Knot territories, including administration and affiliated political figures."
The tactical implications immediately register, possibilities unfurling in my mind with increasing clarity and potential. "Elliott is involved?" I ask, already anticipating the answer given his family's prominent position within local power structures.
"Prescott Industries is primary sponsor this year," Bastian confirms. "Elliott will be on stage for the opening ceremony, likely introducing Senator Caldwell as honored guest given their public association through his campaign."
The scenario presents itself with perfect clarity—public setting providing both cover and constraint, targets positioned with predictable precision, multiple exit routes and contingency options depending on evolving situation assessment.
"Perfect opportunity to damage their reputations publicly," I observe, thoughts racing toward comprehensive exploitation of the scenario's potential. "Create sufficient chaos to force their retreat from the event, then..."
"Then lead them somewhere more private for final resolution," Bastian completes, our thinking aligned with the particular synchronicity that continues developing between us despite our relatively brief active association.
A smile forms unbidden, spreading across my face with the particular satisfaction that comes from perfect strategic alignment. "An alleyway that leads to a dead end would be ideal," I note, the poetic justice of such location immediately apparent given the origins of my mission.
Bastian's expression mirrors my own, understanding immediate and complete without requiring explicit articulation. "Several such locations exist within the fair's vicinity," he confirms. "Including one particularly suitable candidate approximately three blocks east of the main entrance."
The location registers immediately despite his careful phrasing—Rook's alleyway, the dead-end corridor where I first encountered him in his Viper persona, where our peculiar relationship began months before I understood his connection to the others or their collective interest in my survival.
"Perfect," I whisper, satisfaction bordering on reverence as the plan crystallizes with unusual clarity and completeness. The word emerges with haunting resonance that might disturb someone less accustomed to violence's necessity, less comfortable with retribution's occasionally poetic manifestations.
But Bastian merely nods, understanding completely without requiring further elaboration or justification. This shared perspective—this mutual recognition of justice's sometimes violent requirements—creates connection beyond mere tactical alignment, beyond even the physical intimacy we've recently established.
This is recognition at fundamental level—soul seeing soul across the particular divide that separates most people from those who've witnessed darkness firsthand, who've both experienced and delivered the kind of violence that permanently alters one's relationship with conventional morality.
As we sit in this ordinary diner, surrounded by families and couples engaged in innocent weekend activities, I find myself experiencing unexpected contentment despite the violent plans currently forming between us. There's something strangely peaceful about this moment—this perfect balance between ordinary human interaction and extraordinary strategic planning, between seemingly normal date activities and preparation for execution of long-pursued vengeance.
Perhaps Sera was right—balance is possible rather than elusive, vengeance and normal life not mutually exclusive despite years convincing myself otherwise. Perhaps I can pursue justice for what was done to me while simultaneously building connections that extend beyond mere survival or tactical advantage.
Perhaps, after seven years of single-minded focus and carefully maintained isolation, I can finally have both—the satisfaction of completing my mission AND the beginning of something new, something potentially transformative with these four unlikely Alphas who've crashed into my carefully constructed solitude with such devastating effect.
The thought creates warmth that spreads through my chest, unfamiliar but not unwelcome as Bastian's hand finds mine again across the table. His touch grounds me in present reality while simultaneously encouraging forward momentum toward whatever future might emerge from our current complicated circumstances.
For the first time in longer than I can remember, that future feels like possibility rather than threat, like potential rather than limitation. The path forward remains uncertain, complex with both danger and opportunity intertwined in ways impossible to fully predict or control.
But I'm no longer walking it alone—no longer solely responsible for both strategy and execution, no longer carrying the entire weight of vengeance and survival on shoulders never meant to bear such burden without support or connection.
Whether this unexpected development proves blessing or complication remains to be seen. But as Bastian's fingers interlace with mine, as our eyes meet with perfect understanding across the table, I find myself willing to embrace the uncertainty rather than resist it.
To move forward into whatever comes next—revenge, justice, connection, pack—with something dangerously close to hope blooming beneath the caution and calculation that have defined my existence for far too long.