The isolation rig hummed to life at 0700 city time.
Jax had finished the last solder joint an hour earlier, hands steady despite the exhaustion rings under her eyes. The setup looked makeshift but deadly serious: a nested Faraday cage of mesh and conductive foil around a low reclining chair scavenged from an old med-bay, wires snaking to a portable quantum scrambler Eddie had pulled from who-knows-where. A single thick cable ran from the chair's neural interface port to Jax's deck, buffered through three layers of encryption.
Robin stood guard at the door, pistol loose in her hand, eyes on the external feed.
"Clean for now. No drones, no heat signatures closer than two blocks. Window's open."
Steve sat on the edge of the workbench, arms crossed, watching Eddie calibrate the final buffer. Eddie's fingers moved with practiced ease over the holo-controls—long, scarred, chrome-tipped nails glinting in the low light.
Jax plugged in the black shard with the red veins.
"Protocol fragment is stable. Sync handshake should take thirty seconds if we don't trip any corruption thresholds. After that… it'll either accept the dual Anchor link or fry our brains trying."
Eddie glanced at Steve.
"Romantic, right?"
Steve's mouth twitched.
"Always knew you'd be the death of me."
Eddie's eyes softened for a second—then hardened again.
"Only if you let it."
Jax exhaled.
"Who's first?"
Steve stood before anyone could argue.
"Me. I'm the one it pinged first."
Eddie opened his mouth—then closed it. Nodded once.
Steve settled into the chair. The neural port at the base of his neck clicked open with a soft mechanical sound. Jax connected the cable—gentle, almost careful.
"Ready?" she asked.
Steve met Eddie's gaze across the room.
"Do it."
The sync hit like cold water down his spine.
His vision fractured into overlays: green code vines twisting, red clock chimes echoing in his skull, a deep voice—not quite Vecna's, but close enough to make his stomach turn—murmuring, *"Welcome back, Prime Anchor."*
Stats bloomed uninvited:
**[Prime Anchor: Steven Harrington]**
**[Synchronization Progress: 12%… 28%…]**
**[Corruption Risk: 4% – Stable]**
Then the second wave.
A second presence flooded the link—warm, chaotic, familiar. Eddie's signature: black metal riffs layered over static, leather and smoke and stubborn heartbeat.
Eddie staggered a step, hand flying to his own neck port.
"Fuck—there it is."
The progress jumped.
**[Dual Anchor Detected: E. Munson]**
**[Synchronization Progress: 47%… 62%…]**
**[Protocol Accepting Link]**
For a moment it felt… good.
Like two mismatched puzzle pieces finally slotting together. Steve could feel Eddie—not thoughts, exactly, but echoes: adrenaline, old grief, a sharp spike of want that mirrored his own.
Then the twist landed.
The progress bar froze at 89%.
A new alert screamed across both their HUDs:
**[Critical Error: Anchor Resonance Imbalance]**
**[Secondary Protocol Directive Activated]**
**[To Complete Gate Closure Sequence, Anchors must achieve Full Neural-Emotional Convergence.]**
**[Requirement: Intimate physical synchronization required within 72 hours.]**
**[Failure to comply: Permanent Level 5 Corruption – Mind Wipe & Gate Reopening]**
The room went dead silent.
Jax yanked the cable free.
"What the hell was that?"
Robin's pistol lowered slowly.
"It just… demanded sex?"
Eddie laughed—harsh, disbelieving.
"Not sex. Convergence. Whatever the fuck that means. But yeah… intimate. Physical. Emotional. All of it."
Steve pushed himself up from the chair, legs unsteady. His skin felt too tight, pulse hammering where the port sealed shut.
He looked at Eddie.
Eddie looked back—eyes wide, then narrowing with something between fury and dark amusement.
"So the gates didn't just want us dead," Eddie said quietly. "They want us *together*. Properly. No half-measures."
Jax stared between them.
"Is this… real? Or is the Protocol fucking with us?"
Robin answered before either man could.
"It's real. I saw the code flash before the disconnect. It's not optional. It's baked into the shutdown sequence. Like the gates are using our history as the key."
Steve rubbed his neck, feeling the faint warmth where the port had been.
"Seventy-two hours."
Eddie stepped closer—slow, deliberate.
"We don't have to rush. We can… figure it out. Test the edges. See if there's a workaround."
But his voice was rougher now. Lower. And when he stopped in front of Steve, the space between them crackled.
Steve felt it again—that echo from the sync. Eddie's want bleeding through the link like static heat. His own mirrored back: years of buried glances, near-misses, the way Eddie's hand had felt on his jaw last night.
Steve reached out—slow—and hooked two fingers in Eddie's belt loop. Pulled him the last inch.
Their foreheads touched.
"We'll figure it out," Steve murmured.
"But not here. Not with an audience."
Eddie's breath ghosted over Steve's lips.
"Yeah."
Robin cleared her throat—loud.
"Okay. New plan. You two… go process. Jax and I will run diagnostics, see if we can spoof or delay this bullshit timer. But don't disappear. We're still on Arasaka's radar."
Eddie nodded without looking away from Steve.
"Got it."
He took Steve's hand—chrome fingers threading through flesh ones—and led him toward the small side room Eddie had called a "storage closet" earlier. It was barely big enough for a cot, a lamp, and stacked crates.
They stepped inside. Door clicked shut.
Darkness first—then Eddie flicked the lamp on low.
They stood there. Breathing.
Eddie spoke first, voice soft.
"We don't have to do anything tonight. We can just… be close. See what happens."
Steve shook his head.
"I want to."
Eddie searched his face.
"Yeah?"
Steve answered by kissing him—harder this time. Less tentative. Hands sliding under Eddie's shirt, palms flat against warm skin and faint scars.
Eddie groaned into his mouth—low, needy. Pushed Steve back until his shoulders hit the wall.
"Slow," Eddie reminded, even as his hands roamed—tracing Steve's ribs, dipping under the hem of his shirt to feel muscle and old wounds.
Steve tugged Eddie's shirt off—careful of ports and scars. Eddie did the same to him. Skin met skin. Warm. Real.
They moved to the cot—slow, deliberate. No rush.
Eddie kissed down Steve's neck—soft bites, soothing licks—while Steve's fingers mapped Eddie's back, feeling the ridges where chrome met flesh.
Eddie's hand slid lower—over Steve's stomach, pausing at the waistband of his pants.
"Still good?" Eddie whispered against his collarbone.
Steve arched into the touch.
"Better than good."
Eddie's fingers worked the button open—slow. Zipper down. Then his palm cupped Steve through the fabric—firm, teasing.
Steve's breath hitched.
"Eddie…"
Eddie kissed him again—deep, languid—while his hand moved in slow strokes. Steve's hips rolled up instinctively, seeking more.
They shed the rest of their clothes piece by piece. No hurry. Just hands exploring, mouths tasting, quiet gasps and murmurs.
When Eddie settled between Steve's thighs—bodies aligned, skin slick with sweat—Steve pulled him down for another kiss.
Eddie rocked forward—gentle friction at first. Then deeper. Slower.
Steve wrapped his legs around Eddie's waist—pulling him closer. Hands in Eddie's hair. Mouths never far apart.
It built gradually—heat coiling low, breaths ragged, the cot creaking softly under them.
Eddie's voice broke on Steve's name—once, twice—when the rhythm turned desperate.
Steve came first—quiet, shuddering, face buried in Eddie's neck. Eddie followed seconds later—body tensing, low groan muffled against Steve's shoulder.
They stayed tangled after—sweaty, breathing hard, hearts hammering in sync.
Eddie pressed a kiss to Steve's temple.
"Convergence achieved?"
Steve huffed a tired laugh.
"Think so."
Eddie rolled to the side—pulling Steve with him. Arms around each other. Legs entwined.
"Seventy-two hours," Eddie murmured.
"We'll beat it."
Steve traced a scar on Eddie's chest.
"Together."
Outside, the rig hummed on.
The timer ticked.
But for the first time in decades, the quiet didn't feel empty.
**End of Chapter 5**