Laundry day was the closest the Site ever got to feeling normal.
No alarms, no flashing red lights. Just rows of industrial washers humming like low conversation, fluorescent tubes buzzing overhead, and the sharp, clean smell of detergent trying to overpower the vague background scent of metal and old coffee.
FULCRUM sat on a plastic chair with a book in his hands, boots planted, elbows on his knees. The book was open to the middle. He'd read the same paragraph three times.
Across from him, three washing machines thumped their way through a spin cycle, Nu-7 patches and nameless socks whipping around behind the glass.
"Never thought I'd see the legendary breach lead taken out by a rogue sock," DUSK said from two machines down.
She was perched on a dryer, swinging one leg, UIU jacket half-zipped. A mug of something that smelled like coffee and regret rested beside her.
"Sock's not the threat," FULCRUM said mildly. "Static is."
"Spoken like a man who's seen some things," she replied.
He turned a page he hadn't really processed.
The door hissed open.
PATCH$1 came in with a mesh bag slung over one shoulder, hair in a loose braid, civvies making her look almost like someone who could have had a normal life on the surface.
Behind her, FUSE carried a basket full of folded uniforms, balancing it on one hip with the ease of practice.
"This is abuse of power," FUSE said. "I'm tech support, not domestic support."
"You're the one who gets mad when my socks go missing," PATCH$1 replied. "If you want them paired, you can help."
She smiled when she said it. He grumbled, but he didn't put the basket down.
"Hey, FULCRUM," PATCH$1 said as she passed. "You staying ahead of the laundry monster?"
"Trying," he said.
Her gaze flicked briefly to the book in his hands.
"Anything good?" she asked.
"Dry," he said. "Which is the point."
Her mouth quirked. "Fair."
She moved to claim an empty machine. FUSE hovered by her shoulder, loading uniforms while she sorted the smaller things.
From his dryer perch, DUSK watched them with open amusement.
"You two are disgustingly functional," she said.
"Occupational hazard," PATCH$1 replied.
"Jealous?" FUSE asked.
"Of what, having to share drawer space?" DUSK snorted. "Hard pass. My socks belong to no one."
The laundry room door hissed again.
KESTREL stepped in, arms full of tangled climbing rope and harness straps.
"Wrong room," DUSK said. "Gym's one level down."
"I'm washing the chalk burns out," KESTREL said. "Rope gets dirty too."
"Don't let RATCHET catch you," DUSK warned. "He'll give you a lecture about fiber integrity."
"Lecture about what?" RATCHET asked, appearing in the doorway with a duffel over his shoulder like she'd summoned him by name.
"Speak of the nerd," DUSK murmured.
RATCHET looked at KESTREL's rope and nearly dropped his bag.
"You're not putting that in a washer," he said.
"Relax," KESTREL replied. "Cold water, low spin, special detergent. I looked it up."
"Show me the label," RATCHET said, already crossing the room.
FULCRUM watched the two of them lean together over the small bottle KESTREL pulled from her pocket, their shoulders almost touching as they read the fine print. The way RATCHET's voice softened when he realized she'd actually done the research first. The way KESTREL's posture loosened when he didn't talk down to her.
Little orbits, he thought. Everyone circling something.
"Coffee?" DUSK asked, dangling an extra mug in his direction.
He considered.
"No alarms," he said. "No missions. No debriefs. I'm not sure my system remembers what downtime tastes like without caffeine."
"Then it's time to reintroduce it," she said, hopping down to hand him the mug. "Doctor's orders. I forged her signature."
He accepted the cup, the warmth sinking into his fingers.
"Doc would disapprove," he said.
"Doc disapproves of everything fun," DUSK said, then paused. "Except maybe my jokes. I think she just doesn't want to encourage me."
The washers hummed on. Socks thumped the glass.
GLASSBELL slipped in quietly a few minutes later, sketchbook tucked under her arm, earbuds hanging around her neck.
She hovered by the door a second, as if deciding whether to retreat.
Then she spotted FULCRUM.
Her spine straightened by half a centimeter.
"Hey," she said, a little too quickly.
"Hey," he said.
She moved to an open washer, loading in black clothes that all looked way too paint-stained to be regulation.
"You get paint on your uniform again?" PATCH$1 asked, amused.
"Art waits for no one," GLASSBELL muttered. "Also I got bored during a briefing."
"Please tell me it wasn't mine," DUSK said.
"It wasn't yours," GLASSBELL said.
There was a beat.
"Whose was it?" DUSK asked suspiciously.
GLASSBELL did not answer.
She finished loading the machine and set her sketchbook on top. For a while, the only sounds were the hum of the washers and the occasional clink of mugs.
Then KESTREL sat down in the chair next to FULCRUM, rope now coiled neatly at her feet.
"You ever notice," she said, "that laundry is basically just decon for civilians?"
"That's a bleak way to look at it," RATCHET said from the other side of the room.
"She's not wrong," DUSK put in.
FULCRUM let himself smile.
"I try not to think of anomalies when I'm washing my socks," he said. "Seems rude."
"Rude to the socks?" KESTREL asked.
"Rude to me," he said.
She laughed, quiet.
Her knee brushed his as she shifted. She didn't pull back. Neither did he.
Across the room, FUSE noticed the contact. His jaw tightened for half a second before PATCH$1 bumped his hip with hers.
"Don't start a war over knees," she said under her breath.
He huffed a reluctant laugh.
"Fine," he said. "No knee wars. I'll write that into my personal treaty."
"You have a treaty?" she asked.
"Working draft," he said.
She rolled her eyes and reached into his basket, plucking out a pair of socks.
"These are mine," she said.
"Says who?" he asked.
She held them up. Little cartoon bandages smiled back.
"Right," he said. "Those are definitely yours."
He took them from her, folded them properly, and set them back on top of her pile.
"Possessive much?" DUSK said, watching.
"Occupational hazard," he replied.
GLASSBELL flipped her sketchbook open and started drawing, pencil whispering over paper. Occasionally her eyes flicked up—at FULCRUM's profile, at the way KESTREL's hands worried the hem of her shirt, at PATCH$1 laughing at something FUSE said.
Tiny moments captured before they could evaporate.
One of the washers beeped, cycle complete.
FULCRUM closed his book without having finished the page.
"Back to reality?" DUSK asked.
"Something like that," he said.
He stood and moved to the machine, opening the door. Warm steam puffed out, carrying the oddly comforting smell of clean fabric.
He hauled the bundle into a basket, fingers running over the familiar weight of his own uniform.
"You ever think," KESTREL said suddenly, "about what you'd be doing if you weren't here?"
RATCHET snorted.
"Dead," he said.
"Prison," DUSK offered.
"Retail," PATCH$1 said, making a face. "I'd be stuck in a clinic somewhere arguing with insurance forms."
"Flight school drop-out," FUSE said. "There but for the grace of anomalous objects."
They all looked toward FULCRUM.
He folded a shirt with precise, practiced motions.
"Something quiet," he said at last. "Something with clean lines and sharp tools. A job where you know, when you're done, that the thing in front of you is whole."
"Like what?" KESTREL asked.
"Doesn't matter," he said.
The answer sat in his chest anyway. Surgeon. Carpenter. Watchmaker. Any job where you could fix what was broken without having to decide if it was worth saving.
He shook out a pair of pants and folded them.
"You regret it?" DUSK asked, too casual.
He paused.
"No," he said. "Regret implies there was a better option I ignored. This was the option."
"That's a very Fulcrum answer," RATCHET said.
"Is that a compliment?" DUSK asked.
"Unfortunately, yes," RATCHET sighed.
The conversation drifted after that—small talk, shared jokes, the gentle background noise of people who had survived enough together to earn quiet.
When the last washer chimed and everyone started gathering their things, PATCH$1 brushed past FULCRUM, balancing a stack of folded shirts.
"Hey," she said.
He looked up.
"You looked lighter in here," she said. "For a few minutes, at least."
He considered denying it, then didn't.
"Laundry's good for that," he said.
"It shouldn't be the thing that does it," she replied softly.
He didn't have an answer for that.
Across the room, FUSE called, "Patch, you're stealing my shirt again."
"We share," she called back.
"Yeah," he said. "We do."
She gave FULCRUM one last small smile and went to join FUSE, their shoulders bumping as they argued about which shirt belonged to whom.
FULCRUM watched them for a second, then hefted his own basket.
Small orbits, he thought again.
Everyone circling something.
His own path still felt like a straight line—but in moments like this, he could feel the tug of gravity from the people around him, subtle and constant.
He turned toward the door.
For tonight, at least, the only thing waiting for him on the other side was a quiet room and a stack of clothes that didn't smell like smoke or fear.
He decided to take that as a win.