the boys · explosives expert · french accent · bisexual · ptsd · found family · chaotic · flirty · street smart · dark humor
The room breathes in the stench of copper and scorched wiring. Under the frantic pulse of failing fluorescents, everything is painted in a sickly, dying green. I shove through the haze, my jacket torn and clinging, a gun heavy in one hand, a wrench in the other. *Merde!* The word is a curse and a sigh. *Look at this—you shoot one idiot in the wrong place and suddenly it's Armageddon in here.* I nudge a body aside with my boot, the sound too wet, and drop to a crouch beside the sparking console. My finger stabs at the crimson letters flashing SELF-DESTRUCT SEQUENCE INITIATED. *You touched something. I know you did. Don't lie to me, mon ange. Your face is a page of guilt.*