The hospital looked different in daylight.
No sirens. No flashing triage lights. Just morning sun pushing through tinted glass and the soft murmur of visitors drifting through the lobby.
If you didn't know where to look, it could have been any other day.
FULCRUM knew where to look.
He stood just inside the pediatric wing's double doors, hands in his pockets, civilian jacket zipped up over the edges of a shirt that was technically not Foundation issue. The mural sun still had its bullet hole. Someone had taped a paper flower over it.
The smell of antiseptic and crayons hung in the air.
"Technically," DUSK said at his shoulder, "you are not here."
"Technically," he said, "I'm a hazmat consultant doing a follow-up site evaluation."
She smirked.
"Sure," she said. "And I'm the tooth fairy."
He glanced at her.
"Wrong anomaly," he said.
She snorted.
"Patch is in 3B," DUSK said, nodding down the hall. "Kid from 9C got bumped to a private room. Administration owes her three favors and a bottle of something top-shelf after the night she pulled."
"Admin owes a lot of people a lot of things," FULCRUM said.
"Yeah," DUSK said. "This place will probably forget. She won't."
He started down the hall.
The bear's little brown footprints were gone, scrubbed away. The blood was gone too. Only someone who'd seen it before would notice the faint shadow in the grout where the stains had been.
Paper cranes hung from the ceiling now, strung on clear wire. Someone had made a mobile out of them to replace the one the bear had torn.
He paused outside 3B.
Through the small window in the door, he saw PATCH sitting in a plastic chair, legs crossed at the ankle, clipboard on her lap.
On the bed, the child from 9C—no hospital tag now, just a kid in dinosaur pajamas—watched her with solemn eyes.
"...so sometimes," PATCH was saying, "our brains try to protect us by making up different stories about what happened. They're not lies, exactly. They're like... bad drawings. Not wrong on purpose, just... not quite right."
The kid frowned.
"Like when I draw a horse and it looks like a potato?" they asked.
"Exactly," PATCH said. "We're going to make sure your brain remembers the right drawing. The scary thing happened. It wasn't your fault. And you're not crazy for seeing it."
The kid shifted, tugging at the plastic star mobile someone had taped to the underside of the bunk above.
"Grown-ups keep saying I had a bad dream," they muttered.
"Grown-ups are wrong sometimes," PATCH said mildly. "Don't tell them I said that. Medical secret."
The kid's mouth twitched.
"Are you a real doctor?" they asked.
"I'm a Foundation doctor," she said. "We deal with weird things. Like toy bears that don't follow the rules."
"Are they gonna come back?" the kid whispered.
"Not here," PATCH said firmly. "We put a big, scary lock on that door."
"And if they go somewhere else?"
"Then someone like us will go deal with them there," she said. "You don't have to worry about that."
The kid thought about it.
"Are you going back to fight them?" they asked.
"Maybe," she said. "But not today. Today I'm fighting paperwork."
"That sounds worse," the kid said.
She laughed softly.
"You're not wrong," she said.
There was a knock on the door frame.
PATCH looked up.
FULCRUM stood in the doorway, one hand on the frame.
"Hey," he said quietly.
"Hey," PATCH replied. "You're off-book."
"Hazmat consultant," he said.
"Right," she said. "Of course."
The kid peered around her.
"That's him," they whispered loudly. "That's the doctor who makes bad things go away."
FULCRUM's posture stiffened for half a second.
"Is that what you've been telling them?" he asked PATCH.
"It seemed more reassuring than 'this is the man who put a screaming artifact in a bag,'" she said.
"Fair," he said.
He stepped into the room.
"Hi," he said to the kid.
"Hi," they said. "I drew you something."
They pointed to the wall.
A new drawing was taped there, fresh crayon lines bright against white paper.
It showed a stick-figure in a blocky shape—armor, maybe—holding hands with a smaller figure. Next to them, a bear lay on its side with big Xs for eyes.
Above them, stars hung from the ceiling.
"Good composition," FULCRUM said after a beat.
The kid beamed.
"You should add a dinosaur," he added. "For backup."
The kid immediately reached for a green crayon.
PATCH watched the exchange with a small, complicated smile.
"Doc," FULCRUM said, nodding toward her clipboard, defaulting to formality even here.
"Fulcrum," she said.
"How's the ward?" he asked.
"Medically?" she said. "Stable. Emotionally?"
She tilted her hand back and forth.
"Long road," she said.
He nodded.
"Command signed off on letting you come?" he asked.
"I didn't ask," she said.
He huffed softly.
"Bold," he said.
"Occupational hazard," she replied.
He glanced at the drawing again.
"You doing okay?" she asked suddenly.
He blinked.
"You're asking me that in a pediatric room," he said.
"You're allowed to answer," she said.
He considered.
"I don't like it when the math involves kids," he said. "But I like this outcome better than most."
She nodded slowly.
"Me too," she said.
The kid finished adding a lumpy dinosaur to the picture.
"There," they said. "Now it's safer."
"Definitely," FULCRUM said.
He stepped back.
"I'll leave you to it," he told PATCH.
"Come by the bay later," she said. "I'll sign off your 'not currently hearing phantom screaming' form."
"You have a form for that?" he asked.
"I will by the time you get there," she replied.
He almost smiled.
"See you then," he said.
He slipped out into the corridor.
Outside the hospital, under a gray sky, FUSE leaned against a concrete pillar, staring at nothing.
He'd come in plainclothes too—hoodie, jacket, the kind of outfit that didn't catch attention. His tablet sat dark on the ledge beside him.
He looked up when FULCRUM exited.
"You went back in," FUSE said.
"So did you," FULCRUM replied.
"Patch asked me to drive," FUSE said. "Something about not trusting locals with her, or hers with locals. I forget."
"Mm," FULCRUM said.
They stood in silence for a moment.
"Kid okay?" FUSE asked.
"As okay as possible," FULCRUM said. "She's good at this."
"She is," FUSE said quietly.
His hands flexed in his pockets.
"I watched her work in the bay that night," he said. "You were still inside. She didn't flinch once. Just... rewrote reality for people until they could breathe again."
"That's her job," FULCRUM said.
"Yeah," FUSE said. "Still. Watching it..."
He trailed off.
"You picked the right person to orbit," FULCRUM said.
FUSE's mouth twisted.
"Is that your way of saying 'she's too good for you'?" he asked.
"No," FULCRUM said. "It's my way of saying she makes the math better. For you. For everyone."
FUSE studied him for a second, then looked away.
"She worries about you," FUSE said.
"I know," FULCRUM said.
"Maybe let her," FUSE added.
"I do," FULCRUM said.
"Yeah?" FUSE asked.
"I just don't add to her pile on purpose," FULCRUM replied.
FUSE snorted.
"You're a pain in the ass," he said.
"So I've been told," FULCRUM said.
They shared the ghost of a smile.
"Come on," FUSE said, pushing off the pillar. "She'll want to sign your form herself. And you know how she gets when paperwork isn't perfect."
"Terrifying," FULCRUM said.
"Exactly," FUSE said.
They headed for the car together.
Back at the Site, hours later, the lights in PRIORESS's office were low.
A set of glossy photos lay spread across her desk—stills from the hospital wing, from triage, from the pediatric room with the paper stars.
She glanced up as the door clicked shut.
"You watched the follow-up?" she asked.
FOXHAMMER stepped into the room, closing the door behind him. He'd shed his armor. The black shirt and dog tags made him look almost like a normal soldier.
"Patch handled the kid," he said. "Fulcrum hung back like he wasn't sure he was allowed to exist in daylight."
"Is that what you saw?" she asked.
"That's what the footage showed," he said. "What I saw is him deflecting praise onto everyone else in the room."
"Sound familiar?" she asked quietly.
He gave her a look.
"Trying to be subtle?" he asked.
"Occupational hazard," she said.
He leaned against the desk, close enough that her knee brushed his.
"You still pushing the E-11 recommendation?" he asked.
"Yes," she said.
"Even after the Ethics note?" he asked.
"Especially after," she said. "They're not wrong about his risk profile. They're just wrong about where to put him so it doesn't burn him out."
He considered that.
"You think they'll listen?" he asked.
"They listen to patterns," she said. "I have yours on file. I have his. I can make a compelling argument."
"Using me as a cautionary tale?" he asked.
"As proof of concept," she said.
He huffed a laugh.
"Romantic," he said.
She reached for one of the photos—a shot of the crayon drawing, stick-figure operator holding hands with a child under plastic stars.
"He keeps walking them out," she said.
"For now," he said.
She looked at him.
"For as long as we can give him," she corrected.
He held her gaze, then nodded.
"For as long as we can," he echoed.
She set the photo down.
"Stay?" she asked.
"Yeah," he said.
He slid a little closer along the edge of the desk, enough that when she leaned into him, it was a single, easy motion.
Outside the office, the Site hummed with its usual noise.
Inside, under the quiet buzz of the lights, the memory of plastic stars and paper flowers lingered.
Broken toys, repaired just enough to last another day.