Olivia [Ch. 7]
You're Not In Quantico Anymore, Dorothy.
Welcome back, Void Demons.
Grab something cozy and snuggle up to a story about your favorite psychopathic serial killer—as we totally normal and completely sane people do.
It’s time for the main event…
Content Warning: Olivia contains mature content not suitable for readers under 17. This series explores psychological profiling, manipulation, and emotionally detached narration that may be unsettling for some readers. Content is rated Mature (17+) for realistic violence, strong language, and dark psychological themes. Chapter 7 contains scenes of physical torture that may be disturbing to some readers.
Reader discretion is advised.
You can read chapters 1-4 below
Chapter 1: Necessary Introductions
Chapter 2: Boundaries
Chapter 3: The One Where Olivia Makes A Mistake
Chapter 4: Clean Up Time
Chapter 5: Is Olivia Losing Her Edge?
Chapter 6: The Cavalry
Where We Left Off Last Time
I blinked myself back to reality, putting that perfect smile back into place as I introduced myself to Air Bud and Chameleon.
“You must be the cavalry.” I extended a hand toward Air Bud—seemingly the most vulnerable of the three. “Ben’s told me so much about you.”
“Dakota. But everyone calls me Jackson.” Air Bud grinned, puffing his chest like a rooster.
Ben stepped in to ruin the moment. “I wouldn’t recommend that. She’s a literal psychopath,” he said, half-laughing.
I braced to explain myself—cognitive empathy, how I learned it, all the usual TED Talk trivia—when Dakota cut in.
“You and I always had a type, huh?” Dakota said with a smirk. “Should I even ask about—”
Just like that, there was nothing to defend. They’d already moved on. From the looks on everyone’s faces, that was the least interesting fact they’d heard all day.
“Dude,” Ben said with a nervous smirk—I clocked it. “This doesn’t even crack the top ten most compromising situations you’ve caught me in. Call it a kinky weekend and move on.”
Garcia shook his head, voice clipped. “Save the reunion. One of them’s waking up—I’m assuming you left one alive on purpose.” He nodded toward Weasel, who was starting to stir, pain etched into his expression. “Ben’s not exactly known for restraint.”
We all turned at once toward Weasel. The Great Value Avengers exchanged a look.
Dakota’s grin stretched wider, vibrating with anticipation. “Family trip to Disneyland?” he asked, eyes gleaming.
I took “Disneyland” as code for something far darker—and, as always, I was right. What they had planned for Weasel was nowhere near cotton candy and churros.
I considered my options. The Not-Cops weren’t cops, but they were trained. It had taken Ben hours to get what he wanted—details I’ll circle back to later.
The Cavalry in my basement didn’t seem phased by anything. That meant enough trust had been established for blind belief to feel normal. That only supported my hypothesis that Ben was the leader.
Chameleon looked the most capable. His focus split between studying the captive and watching Ben. Not hands-on, but precise. He moved like someone trained to arrive thirty seconds before disaster. Air Bud played good cop. Those skills would come in handy.
Weasel was the only Not-Cop left. I’d expected more from a man in uniform—even a fake one—but now, he looked like he was about to ask for his mom.
Garcia dumped out a toolbox. Someone—Ben, I guessed—had fashioned a club from a broken table leg. They worked fast. Methodical. Like this was just another Tuesday. I watched, notebook in hand. Data is data. People are more honest when they’re afraid.
Weasel tried bravado first. “I’m FBI. You lay a hand on me and you’ll wish you hadn’t—”
Ben’s eyes studied Weasel’s. He slammed the club on the table, hard enough to rattle the bolts; inches from Weasel’s fingers. “You’re not in Quantico anymore, Dorothy.” Ben’s voice was flat. “Here’s how this works: I ask questions, you answer. You lie, I let Dakota start naming Disney villains.”
Dakota didn’t miss a beat. “First up—Ursula. I think I’ll start with your voice, princess.”
Weasel flinched. His eyes flicked toward the door like it might open and save him. He switched tactics. “You don’t know who you’re messing with. There’s a chain of command, lawyers on standby—”
Garcia snorted. It didn’t slow any of them down.
“I can make it worth your while,” Weasel said, voice cracking now. “You let me go, I can talk to someone. Make sure this all disappears. Whatever you want.”
Ben stepped closer, and the temperature seemed to drop with him. No more jokes. Just clinical dissection.
“Let’s start simple,” he said, voice low. “You tell us what you’re here for, and maybe you live. You give us more than that, and maybe you even get to enjoy the life I spare. All ligaments and extremities still attached. Mostly.”
Weasel clamped his jaw shut. His hands trembled, but he didn’t speak. Ben sighed like he was dealing with a broken appliance. Then, with quiet efficiency, he drove a screwdriver through the meat of Weasel’s left hand, pinning it to the chair. The scream was immediate—high, jagged, ragged with disbelief.
Impressive how fast the room went quiet after that.
“Try again,” Ben said, softer now. Too soft. “The next one goes through your knee.”
Weasel’s body shook, but his mouth stayed shut. For maybe five seconds. Then he snapped. “Okay! Okay—fuck—okay, I’ll talk, alright?!”
Ben waited.
Weasel wheezed through the pain, sweat beading at his temple. He looked at me, not Ben. Like I might be the safer choice. Wrong choice, buddy.
“We—weren’t here for any of you, we didn’t even know she had friends—” he said it frantically—a soundtrack to submission. “We were here for her. Olivia.”
Nobody moved. I didn’t blink.
“Why?” Ben’s voice cut in, too fast. He twisted the screwdriver deeper.
Weasel howled, breath hitching, his entire body sagged to one side. “There’s a guy! Behavioral R&D—off-books ops. He flagged her after the first body. Thought she was a viable asset.”
He was unraveling fast. Words spilling out between gasps.
“They wanted to fake an arrest. Scare her. Push her just far enough she’d flip. There’s a lawyer on standby—meant to offer a deal. Immunity in exchange for compliance. Black site placement. Behavioral testing. Off-grid.”
Ben leaned in, almost forehead to forehead with him. “So let me get this straight,” he said. His voice rumbled like a volcano a few seconds before eruption. “The FBI sent three idiots to fake-arrest a serial killer, hoping she’d sign up to be a company assassin… and you failed?”
He didn’t laugh this time. Just watched. Weasel sobbed, the pain finally overtaking him. No more words left.
That was when it registered—first in Ben’s face, then the others. Weasel wasn’t lying.
Which meant I had two—soon to be three—dead federal agents in my basement, and three ex-military assets with resumes so redacted they may as well not exist.
And they called me the crazy one.
Air Bud and Chameleon tensed, both watching Ben, whose jaw locked tight. His eyes darted—everywhere but at me—for 3.2 seconds.
Then:
“FUCK!” Ben roared.
He grabbed the chair—with Weasel still in it—and slammed it to the ground. Wood cracked. Screws sheared loose. Weasel stayed strapped in until the frame splintered and collapsed. His head hit the floor with a sickening crack. Ben didn’t hesitate. He grabbed the screwdriver, hand slick with blood, and hurled it with practiced force. It buried itself in Weasel’s temple with a wet thunk. His body slumped.
“Okay. Cool.” Air Bud muttered, dry-heaving in the corner. “That’s in my brain forever.” He vomited on my floor.
“What?!” Ben shouted, spinning toward him. “We already have two dead agents—what’s one more?!”
“Jesus Christ,” Garcia muttered, rubbing his face like he could scrub away the moment. “We’re so fucked.”
“That depends,” I said. “Fucked is a probability, not a guarantee.” I closed my notebook and crossed the basement to the enclosure. “Ben’s recon. Chameleon’s disposal. Air Bud’s tech. That gives us a full stack: eyes, hands, brain.” I looked at each of them. “Treat it like a mission. You got in. You got the intel…”
Ben snapped his fingers once, sharp. “Now we exfil. Clean.” His spine straightened. Seventy-three percent more confident.
That was all the cue they needed. The Great Value Avengers scattered like they'd drilled it. Ben moved fast, clearing the Not-Cops’ vehicles of weapons and IDs, scanning radios for chatter, tracking active patrol routes. Chameleon wrapped the bodies in plastic and dragged them to the garage with zero wasted motion. Air Bud launched into the digital ether—scrambling signal towers, corrupting GPS feeds, wiping their electronic footprints like they’d never existed.
The only sound was the hum of effort—until I cut through it. “Field teams check in every thirty. If they miss thirty-five, Command assumes they’re dead or dirty.”
Ben’s eyes snapped to mine. “How long’s it been?”
I didn’t hesitate. “We’re already past it. They started moving ten, maybe fifteen minutes ago.”
Chameleon called from the garage, voice low and certain. “Safe house off Kessler. That’s fifteen miles. Unmarked SUV, best-case ETA—three minutes. If they don’t get visual, SWAT escalates. County or federal.”
“We’ve got three minutes, max,” I said. “No more room to maneuver.”
Ben’s jaw ticked. “We can’t stall that clock. Command’s already red-flagged the op.”
He didn’t say it, but we all heard it: They’re coming in hot.
“I’m on it,” Air Bud muttered. Calm, but tight. His fingers flew over the keys. “Feeding false pings. GPS drift, spoofed cell traffic—maybe patch a fake voice check-in if I can spoof the modulation. It won’t save us, but it might buy a little bit of time while they investigate. I’ll take the agents’ trackers and drive them out myself.” He grabbed keys, snapped his laptop closed, and bolted for the door.
“Warehouse on Vernon’s still vacant,” Chameleon called out, low and deliberate. “No cameras, no foot traffic. I’ll torch what I can. Salt the remains.”
He was already gone, bodies in tow. The room shifted—just like that—from chaos to controlled execution. Mission mode.
Ben turned to me. “Alright, Olivia. We had an hour. You used it to take notes.” he said, and cracked the smallest grin. “Let’s hope those notes save your ass, because I certainly won’t.”
“And you used that hour to beat a federal agent to death with a chair—or was it the screwdriver that did it?” I smiled back. “If anyone’s ass needs saving, it’s yours. Lucky for you, I ran the numbers and they’re in your favor. Don’t screw it up.”
Sh*t just got real, huh?
Let me know your predictions for chapter 8 in the comments!
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Until the next chapter,
—The Narrator.
Ben heart broke when he understood he was not the target. You're not the warm heart of the universe, my boy. (OR ARE YOU?)
So let me get this straight, Olivia could have had a nice cushy fbi job but a *man* ruined it for her? Benji you’re on my shit list now 😒😂