The secure channel crackled to life in 328's quiet room.
"I'm fine, thanks for asking, jerk," 328's voice came through, laced with sarcasm but lacking its usual sterile filter.
"But I asked you if you had any news," Wolfen's dry reply followed.
"Oh, yeah, and I'm perfectly fine. My arm wasn't cut off or anything. I'm on a freaking medical leave," she shot back.
A pause on the other end. "Huh."
"I'm not working for a week. Superior-1 is doing the paperwork himself. Says I 'contributed to the removal of a tactical liability.' He's in a weirdly good mood."
"Okay. Sooooo... how's the arm?" Wolfen asked, his tone shifting to something almost... awkwardly solicitous.
"It's fine. It's a synth-graft. It itches. It's weird having a hand that doesn't get calluses. Now stop acting like a concerned grandmother and tell me you're not about to do something stupid."
"Rest. Don't do anything risky," he said, ignoring her demand.
"RISKY?!" Her voice spiked. "You* are the one doing 'risky' stuff! Are you insane? Attacking a facility in Sector 7-G? It was a decoy hub! They had three Superiors waiting! I saw the feed!"*
"The risk I took was calculated," Wolfen's voice came back, infuriatingly calm.
"Oh, really?"
"...But man, am I bad at math."
A groan of pure frustration came from 328's end. "Stop. Joking."
"Nah, I'd joke."
"Take this seriously! They're escalating! They're pulling assets from the Frontier Wars. They're talking about a 'Prime Intervention.'"
From Wolfen's end, a distant, muffled sound cut through. It was a short, sharp scream, abruptly cut off. Then the sound of something heavy being dragged.
328 froze. "What was that?"
"Oh, it's nothing," Wolfen said, his voice returning to the mic as if he'd just stepped away. "Just getting some... tourist information out of this guy. Nothing to worry about. He was lost."
"Wolfen..."
"Gotta go. The local hospitality is demanding. Rest that arm. And... watch the paperwork. Superior-1's 'good mood' is more dangerous than his bad one."
The channel went dead.
In her room, 328 stared at the silent device, her good hand rubbing her synth-skinned forearm. He was out there, literally interrogating someone for intel, making terrible math jokes, and treating a triple-Superior ambush like a minor scheduling conflict. He was a hurricane wrapped in a bad pun, and she was stuck in a sterile room, itching.
A small, grudging smile touched her lips. The world was ending, her arm was fake, and her best ally was a chaotic, ancient weapon with the sense of humor of a teenager. But for the first time in a long time, the Architects' grey walls felt just a little bit thinner.