How They Became Family

I get asked sometimes how the Compass Point team became what they are — this particular group of people, this specific found family that somehow held together across years and deployments and everything that comes with both. And the honest answer is that I’m not entirely sure it was a choice. Not a conscious one, anyway. It was more like something that happened to them while they were busy surviving other things.

Let me tell you where they started.

Marc’s team was part of an international peacekeeping force — special forces drawn from across the globe, different countries and different arms and different traditions all pressed together under the same operational umbrella. Australians and Americans and Canadians and British. SEALs and Rangers and Delta and SAS and combinations thereof that would make a traditional military org chart weep quietly into its margins. It was not, on paper, a natural fit. In practice it turned out to be the only thing that made sense.

Personnel cycled through constantly. That is the nature of that kind of work — people come, people go, tours end and assignments change and the team you had last rotation is not quite the team you have this one. Marc’s brother Cole served a tour with them, which is its own complicated chapter in its own complicated story. Darius filtered in and out for infiltration work the way Darius does everything — quietly, thoroughly, leaving you slightly unsettled about how much he observed while he was there. Sienna and Harper were frequent inserts, two women who could walk into any environment and be completely underestimated right up until the moment that became someone else’s problem.

But the core stayed.

I’ve thought about why, and the best answer I have is this: they were good at their jobs individually, but together they became something that was harder to explain and harder to replicate. Garrett as their medic — steady-handed and steady-tempered in the way that the person responsible for keeping everyone alive needs to be, carrying more than anyone saw and asking for less than anyone should have to. Sonny on breach, which requires a very particular combination of precision and nerve that Sonny makes look effortless and is absolutely not. Finn on demo and intelligence, which tells you most of what you need to know about Finn — that he is simultaneously the person who understands the mechanics of destruction better than almost anyone and the person who is always, always thinking three steps ahead of the destruction. Wyatt on security, which suits him down to the ground because Wyatt’s entire orientation toward the people he cares about is protection, at every level, in every context. And Knox sharing demo with Finn — which required a particular kind of trust that not everyone is capable of, and which tells you something about both of them that neither of them would ever say out loud.

They saw things together that change people. They did things together that cost people. They lost people — not from the core, mostly, though there were close calls that still live in the spaces between them when the room gets quiet enough. But around them, the work was full of loss, and grief shared in that specific way — not talked about, not processed in any conventional sense, just carried together — does something to people. It builds a particular kind of bond that doesn’t have a clean civilian equivalent. You were there. I was there. Neither of us needs to explain it to the other. That is the foundation of it.

The family didn’t announce itself. It accumulated. One deployment at a time, one crisis at a time, one three-in-the-morning moment at a time when the only people who understood were the ones right there in the same dark.

By the time they came home — really came home, for good, or as close to for good as people like them ever get — they had been family for years without ever quite saying so. Compass Point was the shape that family took in civilian life. Not a job. Not a business arrangement. A way of staying together once the thing that had held them together was over.

It has never been just a company.

It has always been them.

— Avery

On Found Family, and the People Who Choose You

There’s a particular kind of luck that some people are born into — a family where love is the default setting, where you are held before you even know you need holding. I think about those people sometimes, and I mean it genuinely when I say: good. More of that in the world, please.

But that’s not everyone’s story. And it certainly wasn’t mine.

I’m not here to paint my childhood in colours it didn’t have. It wasn’t all darkness. I had two siblings who were — and remain — the exceptions that prove the rule, the people who make me believe that blood can mean something. But the broader family I was born into was a place where love was conditional at best and weaponised at worst. Where violence — personal, physical, emotional — was part of the furniture. You stop seeing it after a while. It just becomes the shape of the room you live in.

What I know now, and what I think many people who grew up in that particular kind of room come to understand, is that the experience doesn’t break you so much as it redirects you. It makes you a finder. You learn, early and out of necessity, to look for your people — not the ones you share a surname with, but the ones who see you. The ones who stay. The ones who, without any obligation of blood or law or paperwork, decide that you are worth showing up for.

That is found family. And for a lot of us, it is the first experience of family we ever truly recognise as such.


It shouldn’t surprise anyone, then, that found family is threaded through almost everything I write.

The Compass Point universe is built on it. Marc and Finn don’t come from soft beginnings — neither of them. What they build together, and what they build with the people around them, isn’t inherited. It’s constructed. Brick by careful brick, out of trust that had to be earned because neither of them knew how to offer it freely. Knox and Garrett didn’t become parents because it was easy — they became parents because they looked at three children the world had already failed and decided, simply, not on our watch. That’s not biology. That’s devotion. And I’d argue it’s the harder and more intentional form of love.

Rafferty and Enola, in Silent Ground, find each other in the aftermath of separate survivals. What grows between them, and between them and the people they gather — that’s not the family either of them was handed. It’s the one they finally allowed themselves to have.

I write these stories because I believe them. Because I have lived a version of them. Because I know what it feels like to sit around a table with people who chose to be there, and to feel — perhaps for the first time — that the word home might actually apply to you.


You don’t have to be blood to be bound by love.

I’ve come to think that’s not just a comfort for people like me — it’s actually a more honest description of what love is. Choice, repeated. Presence, chosen again and again. The decision, made daily, to remain.

Blood is an accident of birth. Family — real family — is something you make.

Some of us just start making it a little earlier than others.

— Avery