If you're real sneaky, you can get Lion to give you a lil tiny smooch. Theres gotta be very few people around and he has to be in a good mood. You've been trying this for months and failing every time. But one day its perfect. Hes in his office. There is exactly one (1) serf doing some cleaning at the back of the room while Lion works, and an astartes guard outside the door. Seeing as how Lion hasn't explicitly barred your entrance today, hes not overly busy either.
You sweep into his office, using the exact demeanor he finds most endearing from you in public and in the exact dress he had pushed up around your hips last night. (A risky move but worth it to use his edietic memory against him).
He immediately knows something is awry and that something is definitely about to be a request from you; but hes in a good mood, so he decides to at least hear what it is you want.
A quickie? No, you know how he feels about those and you wouldn't dare ask unless he were completely alone. A stop at Caliban? To see family or friends? Possible, but then why the dress?
And then you ask. A kiss. An act of affection. Due to a stress dream during the latter hours of your rest period. (He had extended your latest, as he always did after nights he spent satisfying himself with you.) Reassurance was your request. Comfort.
He ran possibilities in his mind. The astartes had clearly heard the request. As had the serf, no doubt. This was an issue. Affection shown blatantly was a weakness. A chip in his image as a primarch. Yet denying his consort comfort. Denying a small act of kindness to the person he kept closest, could be considered dishonorable.
He could be quiet enough so as to not alert the serf to his aquiescence, but the astartes.. the fact that he had not immediately denied you already as well, was a clear mark on his image as wholly dedicated to his purpose.
There was little he could do about that. Just the act of keeping a consort was a crack in his carefully crafted image, and then there was you. Wearing the dress he had buried his head beneath mere hours ago.
Despite his thorough cleaning of the skin from the waist down, he could still smell the aftermath of your shared activities. No doubt it had gotten on the fabric.
The memories ran in the back of his mind while he considered you. After several long moments of consideration, Lion made his decision.
He leaned out from his chair in your direction. You turned one side of your face to meet him. A quick, chaste kiss to your cheek. Thats all it was, for you anyways. For Lion? An act of devotion. Something was off though. There was an unexpected taste lingering on his lips. Familiar. Pleasant.
You had touched yourself before coming to see him. And swiped a bit of slick onto your cheek, in the exact spot you knew he would kiss you.
You watched the realization hit. Saw him work out your entire plan in milliseconds.
You wore the dress to mask the scent, and to use his perfect memory against him. Ensured a minimum amount of listening ears to back him into a moral corner. And knowing he would be in a better mood after last evenings coupling, made a request he would usually have refused outright.
And he fell for every step of it.
This. This is exactly why he loved you.
He may have taken the bait to your plan, but he wouldnt be bested.
He gently took your hand. Folding your fingers over the side of his and lightly covering the ends of your fingers with his thumb. He pressed a kiss to your knuckles.
Faint taste.
He did it again, lower on your hand this time.
Strong taste.
It was all he could do to control his breathing. He could not give away to the prying ears exactly what was happening to him in that moment. His eyes told you everything you wanted to know though.
This small victory of getting under his skin went to you, but there will be a price to pay for it.
contains: minor angst, fluff afterwards tho, maybe a little ooc of keegan but idgaf, loving relationship dynamic !!
MDNI ! AGELESS DNI !
if anyone asked, he would say it would was because of the whistling. they called him canary because he was the sniper, because he was perched up high with a loud call that could signal his whole team. he was a canary, a watchful and loving bird, cared for by his team and revered for his ability to take care of them.
that's what he told anyone who asked, at least.
he didn't like to tell them why it really came about.
it made him feel expendable, useless, y'know?
he hadn't spoken to anyone outside of keegan in months after they rescued him. he mustered a yes sir or a no sir every once in a while for merrick and elias, but otherwise kept his mouth shut. it was too hard to formulate the words most days, too harsh on his throat if he could think straight, and simply overall too much for him. it was easier to stay quiet. last time he spoke up, he got beat within an inch of his life — broken bones that never quite stopped hurting.
so he didn't. he swore it off, swallowed every thought that he wanted to vocalize and settled for sign language. it was inconvenient and hard, but the ghosts didn't seem to mind learning. it just took time, as all things do.
keegan picked it up the fastest. he felt it was the best way to make up for blowing their "thing" off for so long, whatever it was, though it was now established as a partnership. relationship. something. they didn't know what to call it, but "boyfriends" felt silly for men nearly in their 40's, so they opted for partners instead. keegan then taught kick and ajax, who taught up the ladder until elias was able to at least talk to jack. his partner still mostly translated for him, though, all of his sharp whistles and hand motions coming much easier to keegan as a language.
the silence, though, was truly how he got his call sign.
it wasnt keegan or even a ghost that gave it to him, no, it was a random marine they were working with for a brief period of time.
they'd successfully liberated a group of hostages from the federation, civilians this time, and were camping out for the night. it was cold out, a fire keeping them warm as the groups of soldiers sat around to bullshit. pass the time until morning, when safe travels could occur. he was, of course, relegated to whatever keegan could translate fast enough for the marines to keep up with and actually care. mid-story, their captain stopped keegan to look at jack, a flush in his cheeks screaming intoxication. it was only the partners and a handful of others, no other ghosts, sharing this time. perhaps that's what led the captain to feel inclined to rile them up.
"so, what, you just don't talk?" the captain laughed, genuinely in disbelief. jack swallowed anxiously, licking his dry lips beneath his mask as if trying to muster the nerve to defend himself. he couldn't find the strength to, though. "s'fucking pathetic."
"excuse me?" keegan huffed. defensive. icy blue eyes fixed on the higher ranking officer with disdain, anger even. "leave him alone. he ain't done shit to you."
"what? he's a canary. he'll die before the rest of us." he joked, earning a right laugh out of his team. keegan didn't find it as funny. jack, though, well...he understood.
he would die before the rest of him. fear would choke him up and he wouldn't be able to call for help, to save his own skin on anyone else's. he couldn't even call for help when he was rescued from actual torture, why would he be able to in another life or death scenario?
like a canary in a cage, sitting inside of a coal mine, he would go down before the rest of the ship. it stung, and keegan ensured the captain was spitting teeth before he got another word out. stalker left in the middle of the night from that camp, ghosts far too unsettled by the unrest to stick around. keegan wouldn't explain when merrick asked why he did what he did, and neither would jack.
it stayed between them.
it haunted jack, as if he needed another reason to have nightmares so often. he would die and nobody would hear him. the least experineced, soft spoken, frightful and unconfident man. not a soldier, a man. there was only so many nights that keegan could ease him through a panic attack before he couldn't stand to see him like that any longer. clawing at his chest, trying to force words out. not out of desire to speak, no, out of shame.
"stop it." keegan insisted, firm but kind. "you don't need to talk."
"can't let that — f-fucker be right." jack spoke softly, his voice trembling and raspy. he coughed, the anxiety overwhelming him.
"jackie, he isn't. you know that they used canaries for a reason, right?"
"h-huh?"
"in coal mines. they would sing and whenever the bird stopped, it meant there was carbon monoxide. the miners could get out in time, save themselves and you know what?"
"what?"
"they saved the canary, too."
jack stopped dead for a beat, not quite seeing the point.
"you're our sniper. you watch out for the carbon monoxide and when you stop singing, the boys on the ground know to watch their six." keegan gave an exasperated sigh, looking down at his partner with a firm look that said 'don't argue with me.' jack didn't. he felt his heart stop racing and his eyes fixed on keegan's, pupils blown out wide.
and here he thought he couldn't love him more.
"so yeah, maybe you're the canary, but you don't die at the end and neither do we, goddamnit." keegan pressed his lips to jack's forehead, warm and soft, albeit a little bit chapped. bad habit, chewing on the skin. "i keep living because of you. i-i thought for years that it wasn't worth this bullshit anymore and...and then you come around and make me feel like maybe i should focus on keeping my head above water."
"you live for me?" jack said softly, voice less shaky but still unconfident.
"i did back then, and i will now. doesn't make sense to die for someone...if you really love 'em, i mean. should stick around instead."
needless to say, jack didn't really mind being the canary if it meant that his friends — no, his family, his partner — got to keep living. even if he died before the rest of them it would never be in vain, keegan made sure that he knew that, as well as the fact he'd never let jack die. not on his watch. the reaper would have to take a rain check, as far as the sergeant was concerned, and jack was just fine with that.
the next time they were in the field, and keegan called for canary over the radio, he whistled back.
it stuck.
perhaps the ghosts didn't understand, attributing it to the melodic whistles, but they knew. they'd live for each other, not die.
Half a million dollars to extract some sensitive information from a high-security facility and get out before anyone noticed it was gone. Intense, but doable. Coda had picked up on his knack for stealth rather soon into his endeavors in the army, though he knew they’d be better placed elsewhere — mercenary work. Nonviolent, if at all possible, but he didn’t mind much if it got rough.
It was a simple mission.
How he had ended up handcuffed to a chair in a base he did not recognize, he had no idea.
It was cold in the room, definitely well within the range of freezing. It made him shudder once, shivering slightly as he tried to focus on his surroundings. His eyes fixed slowly as he came to, focusing on the man standing a few feet in front of him, behind a metal folding table. He was tall, his presence dark and domineering.
“Who the hell sent you?” He asked, leaning forward slightly on the table. Coda blinked a few times, trying to get the fuzz in his vision to fade and failing. Everything tasted like blood, coppery and pungent in his mouth, and when he licked his lips she tasted it. “Hey, kid, who sent you?”
“Hm?” Coda tilted their head slightly, the ache of the cuffs on their wrists settling in. Everything hurt. “I’m sorry?”
“Who contracted you to break into the secure facility you were found outside?”
“I-I’m sorry — who are you? Where…where am I?” They were anxious, clearly. Voice shaky and eyes darting around in some attempt to gain footing, but it was all in vain. The room was without demarcation, no signs as to where he was being kept.
“I need answers, kid. Start talkin’.” The man insisted despite his confusion, stepping a little bit closer to Coda, closing the distance in an instant. He felt his heart racing, pounding before he even noticed the switchblade in his hand. They knew taking a contract like this was risky, but not to this extent, not to being tied to a chair with a knife to their flesh.
“Who the hell are you?” They snapped again, earning a low chuckle from the tall man.
“You really don’t know?” He took a moment to take his appearance in, the sandy blonde color of his hair, the cobalt blue of his eyes. The long scar on his cheek. He was completely unfamiliar to him though he spoke as if he should know him just based on the pretty face. He was handsome, he’d give him that, but not recognizable.
“No.” Coda confirmed, shaking their head. The man who hired them hadn’t told them much about what they were getting into, just what he needed to do, the layout of the building and all. He hadn’t mentioned a really grimy interrogation room, but that's besides the point.
“Name’s Philip Graves.” He said, crouching down so that he was a little closer to eye level with Coda, looking up at him now. The knife traced up his clothed leg, leaving a surface level cut on the fabric of his trousers. “And you were tasked with breakin’ into my facility.”
To say Coda was surprised was to say the least, he didn’t look like much of anyone let alone the owner of a building like the one he was meant to infiltrate. Their eyes wandered him for some kind of sign, landing on the badge stuck to his plate carrier. Shadow Company. Nothing he’d heard of.
“I-I didn’t — listen, I don’t know what you want from me but I didn’t know what I was gettin’ into when I took this job.”
“Who hired you?” He asked, picking at the buttons of his shirt with the knife’s end. They fell off and the fabric fell open, though he was still covered by his trusty plate-carrier. The air was even colder now with more skin exposed, making him feel vulnerable in a new, more terrifying way. “I don’t take too kindly to trespassers, kid. You’re lucky my boys didn’t shoot you on sight.”
“I-I don’t…know.” He wasn’t lying. The man remained anonymous entirely, only communicating through encrypted networks and the like. He had broken into a facility so secure that it was terrifying to imagine the lengths it would take to infiltrate it. How could he not know the person who instructed him to do so? It would’ve taken countless hours to study and learn this place inside and out in order to break into it.
“Bullshit.”
“Not bullshit, I mean it: I don’t know.” Coda pleaded, looking up at him with confusion in their eyes. They had been interrogated before by friendly forces as training, taught what to do in these sorts of situations, but now that it was happening they were worried. He never quite stopped tracing the switchblade up their body, digging the point in but never piercing the flesh. “I saw a big paycheck and agreed, okay?”
“I don’t buy that, kid, I really don’t…see, I got a lot of folks that’d want to put a bullet in my head, and you were hired by one of ‘em. It's not so hard to tell me their name, is it?”
“I don’t know who hired —“ A crisp smack across the face and he felt dazed, vision blurring slightly as he recoiled from the collision. Coda caught his breath and looked up to the man, Philip Graves, something between fear and anger in his eyes. He only looked smug, satisfied with the red welts on his cheek. “Fuck you.”
“In your dreams, darlin’, now the man who hired you…what was his name?” He asked him, the switchblade finding it’s way up to his throat. It was a threat, poignant and sharp, leaving him holding his breath involuntarily. All he wanted was the money, a new start at life, a chance to make a name for himself — this was not what he bargained for.
“I’m not tellin’ you shit if you’re gonna play dirty like that.”
“It’s not dirty. You’re the one who was breakin’ in to my facility, so…” Graves trailed off, digging the tip of the blade in slightly before he flicked it, nicking the skin of their throat just enough to bleed. He watched them wince at the sensation before he put the blade away, deciding to focus on the emotional strategy for now. The man was littered with scars, pain likely wouldn’t elicit a reaction.“You don’t look like a merc, y’know.”
“You don’t look like someone with important intel.”
“Watch that mouth, darlin’.” Graves hummed, circling around them as he spoke, sort of inspecting his prey. They weren't entirely sure what he was thinking, but it couldn’t be good for them. After a few moments of silence he stepped back from their personal space, making way to what seemed to be an exit door. He opened it, stepping out halfway before glancing over his shoulder. “I’ll give you some time to decide what you wanna tell me.”
“As if.” He mumbled as he slammed the door, silence overcoming the room. Coda glanced around at the barren space to find nothing of importance or interest, and his mind began to try and work through it all. Just what would he have been stealing here? It was a base, this he knew, but of what? Military? Mercenaries? It had to be something important if they had intel worth half a mil.
To the best of his ability he tried to relax in the chair, leaning back slightly and widening his stance so that it wasn’t entirely uncomfortable to be in. The cuffs on his wrists and ankles were the worst of it, digging in slowly as he adjusted over time, cutting into his flesh.
Hours went by in silence and after a while, he fell asleep sitting up in the chair. Busted lips and all, covered in blood, body aching. The cut on his neck never stopped stinging, though it eventually stopped bleeding, the front of his shirt soaked in crimson. He wasn’t sure he would even try and fight his captor — the blonde man had the power here, and letting him go wasn’t an option was it? Even he knew that this was probably the room he would die in, and as he realized such he decided he would at least try and get him to believe him. Not before a rest, albeit uncomfortable and restrained.
They woke an unknown amount of time later to his hand on their cheek, gently tapping until he came to, met with those hazy cobalt blue eyes. He looked more surprised than anything, if not concerned, that they were able to sleep in an interrogation room. Covered in blood and restrained. He was too trusting, that was clear, because who falls asleep when held in captivity.
“Mornin’, sleepin’ beauty.” Graves spoke, retracting his gloved hand. “How the hell’d you fall asleep like that?”
“M’just exhausted. Spent the past few days plannin’, didn’t get much sleep.” He replied, shaking his head in an effort to wake himself up more. Once more, a strange level of trust from someone cuffed up.
“You think about what I asked, yet? Who told you to break into my facility?”
“I told you, I don’t know. He was anonymous.”
“You see, I’d love to believe you sweetheart, but I don’t.” Graves pulled up another chair, placing it across from Coda’s own, and then sitting down in it. “Half a million dollars on the line, a larger than life covert facility, and you didn’t ask his name?"
“How am I supposed to know where the hell he got his information from? I’m just a merc.” He glared up at Graves, who only rolled his eyes.
“You’ve got one helluva mouth on you, and I thought I told you to watch it.”
“I don’t think I will.” Despite the small amount of sleep they’d managed to get tied up in the chair, their personality remained intact. What hadn’t held up was their physical resolve. Every pound of them hurt from top to bottom and since they hadn’t really moved they couldn’t tell the extent of their injuries, but they were certain that whoever had knocked them out and brought them here had not been gentle. At the very least they’ sprained a joint or two, based on the incessant pounding in their wrists.
“Suit yourself…” Graves replied, extending a hand out towards them, ripping the name badge off of their empty plate carrier. “Morelli.”
“Coda Morelli.” He mumbled, knowing that he’d probably find it out one way or another. If he was a merc like them, he probably had a way of accessing those types of files — military or otherwise. Afterall, he bore an American flag on his uniform, there was no way this guy wasn’t a Marine or something of the like. He had that cocky air about him that screamed USMC.
“Alright, Coda. Tell y’what, I’ll give you a few options here.” He reached out and ripped the flag badge off of their vest as well as the military insignia from their old platoon. It wasn’t like they worked with them anymore, after basic they were scraped up into the contracting world fairly quickly, but they liked the reminder. “You get real honest about who sent y’here and I’ll go easy on you, or you can keep actin’ like you don’t know a thing n’I’ll have to make you spill it.”
“I. Don’t. Know. Anything.” He looked over at him through the haze in his vision, a sincerity lacing the words, but understandably he didn’t buy it. Someone had leaked sensitive information about his company and now it was in their hands, and they were the only one who even had a little bit of an idea who had leaked it. They knew this was what he had to do but they truthfully had no idea, and knew for sure that he’d try and get it out of them. “I’ll tell you anythin’ else, but I don’t know who gave me the information, it was a dead drop.”
“See, now we’re gettin’ somewhere, sugar. A dead drop where?” A smile flashed across his face, his hands idly toying with the patches from their vest that he now held. He had a charm to his personality that they despised — it was almost easy to talk to him.
“Some small town in Texas, at a bar…someone left it in the pocket of a pool table n’I slipped in and grabbed it.”
“How’d he get ahold of you to…contract you in the first place?”
“He called me but I think it was automated — y’know what I mean? Not his voice.”
“Don’t know why this was so hard for you t’tell me before.” He said in reply, standing up from the chair and tossing the patches aside, somewhere behind that she couldn’t see for the time being. “You still got the drive, or did he have you break it?”
“It’s at…it’s at my apartment. I was supposed to, uhm…to break it after the op.”
“Alright, well, what PMC am I dealin’ with when I break that door down? M’sure your boss won’t love us showin’ up on your doorstep.”
“I’m…not in one..?” This was the part he was hesitant to let slip, but there wasn’t much of a choice here. If he lied he’d probably assume that he was hiding something, and he didn’t want to see what it looked like when he didn’t cooperate. He looked genuinely surprised by their answer, but who wouldn’t be? One person attempting to break into a high-security facility all alone? It seemed ridiculous — just plain suicidal. “It’s just me.”
“So nobody’s lookin’ for you?” He asked, pacing the small stretch of room, a sort of disbelief in his words. Realization set in slowly for Coda, and they knew right then they were completely and entirely screwed.
The only person who would realize he was gone soon enough was his roomate, but he knew about his work, knew he could leave for extended periods of time. Still. His family didn’t know what he got up to, he didn’t have a day job. This was it, and nobody had any idea where to look for him if he went missing.
“No.” He answered in a quiet fear, shaking his head slightly though it made the room spin, head pounding. “No, nobody’s…lookin’ for me. I work alone.”
“Christ.” He breathed, a laugh slipping out through the utter disbelief on his face. “You must have quite the reputation for someone to put that much faith in one man to break into this place, I’ll give you that.”
“I could…go get the drive — bring it here.”
“Oh, no, no, sweetheart. No, I’m not lettin’ you leave here.” He laughed again, though this time it hit him just how in danger she truly was. A person that nobody would miss, a blip on the radar, just one person who got contracted to do the wrong job, in the wrong place at the wrong time. Luck was not on his side. “You know too much.”
“But I-I didn’t…I didn’t do anything! I-I’m sorry, okay?”
“But you had the intent to, didn’t you Coda?” Graves closed the distance between them once again, his hand going to his jaw, grabbing it and forcing him to look up at him. He was holding onto them so hard they might bruise if he let them live long enough to see it.
“I-I’ll go, I won’t — I won’t come back after I bring the drive.” He was begging. Begging. A person that had considered themselves strong willed was so afraid of dying at his hands that they begged. It was horrifying to imagine that they would die here and no-one would know. They would be a missing person for decades, plastered on milk cartons for eternity. “You’ll never see my face again.”
Graves held his gaze for a moment longer before he let go, little red fingerprint shaped marks littering his jawline, all red from being squeezed. He looked somewhat pleased with the markings, inspecting them for a moment before he stepped away, the eerie silence somehow doing much more in the way of intimidation than the physical violence had. His eyes shifted to them as he left the room once again, the door slamming, leaving Coda in complete silence once more.
He didn’t want to die. Not here, not like this. But what choice did he have?
His thoughts raced as the silence overcame the room, heavy on his heart and mind. Was he going to kill him? He understandably couldn’t let someone with sensitive information like security codes go running, but did he deserve to die for taking a contract? He wasn’t sure where his head was at but he knew where his mind was: in the lowest part of his thoughts, thinking the absolute worst.
He’d kill him.
Probably slow and torturous, see if he can get any more information out of him before he finally gives him the sweet release of death, but even then? He’d probably draw it out. It was just a nightmare in their mind for now, a horrible thought of what could possibly occur, but they were still scared it would become a reality.
It was a long while — how long he didn’t know — before Graves opened the door, something more like concern on his expression than anything else. They had to have looked a mess, disheveled from lack of sleep and stress, green eyes tired and hazy. Coda’s gaze shifted from his boots up to him where he stood in the doorway, holding something small in his hand.
“You weren’t lyin’.” He spoke, stepping a bit closer to show him the drive in hand, that godforsaken little piece of plastic that had gotten him into this mess. “Nothin’ on here about who sent it, not at first glance. I’ll have t’get a better look.”
“…you went to my apartment? My roommate, he —"
“Not me, no. And don’t worry, my boys didn’t bother the kid, they just went for the drive.” He sat down across from him in the other metal chair once more, rolling the drive over between his fingers. “I read your file, too, Coda.”
“Oh, yeah? Find anything good?” His tone was somewhat teasing despite his exhaustion, voice scratchy from dehydration. “I’m sure there’s a fuckup highlight reel in there somewhere.”
“You’re 20.”
“21 in a few months.” Coda managed a laugh, looking up at him. He was not amused.
“Fresh out of basic trainin’, and this is what you get yourself into?” He raised a brow, genuinely curious as to how and why he had gotten himself tangled up in the mess that was PMC work. “You scored high enough on the ASVAB to go to special forces and you didn’t bother. Why?”
“What do you care? Is it normal for you to play with your prey before you kill it?”
“I’m just tryin’ to understand how a young man with a bright future ends up here.” He leaned back in the chair, watching her reaction. Coda rolled his eyes at his statement and looked away slightly, only turning back when he tapped his boot with his own, garnering his attention. “Well?”
“It just wasn’t for me, too…too strict.”
“Well I can tell you have a problem with authority, don’t need to explain that."
“You asked.” He huffed, glaring daggers at him that only seemed to elicit a smile. He was smug, if nothing else.
“I did. Go on.”
“I just don’t play well with others, and I don’t…fit the mold of some SEAL Team Six bullshit.”
“So you run off on your own? Take operator contracts meant for an entire company?”
“Again, I don’t see why it matters.”
“I’m curious, that’s all.”
“Just fuckin’ kill me already.” Coda snapped at him, jerking forward slightly in the chair, causing the cuffs to dig into his wrists. This was a departure from the nearly crying, begging person he had been the day before, but an expected change. One can only be pushed so hard before fight or flight kicks in. He was reminded of the brutal pain of metal cutting in quickly, feeling the warmth of his blood dripping down his hands now.
Great, it finally broke the skin.
“You got a death wish, then, is that it?” Graves asked as he looked at them, glancing down to the droplets of blood speckling the floor behind them, where their wrists were bound. “Because nobody sane would try and break into a facility like this alone.
Maybe in the past they hadn’t been too entirely kind to themselves, but he couldn’t possibly think he was right, could he? They mulled it over in their mind for a moment, letting his words fully sink in and be processed. Was that it? Did they keep doing reckless things like this for some deep-seated, unsated desire for self sacrifice? Maybe it was just a lack of self preservation, but they truthfully had never looked at it that way. It was always a positive trait to be so headstrong, but when he worded it that way it came into a negative light.
“Why are you even askin’ all this if you’re just gonna kill me? You told me I wasn’t leavin’ here, so what the hell’s your angle?"
“I want to understand your reasonin’, that’s all. I expected to find you at a big company, not all alone.”
“Why does it matter to you? I-I don’t…matter.”
“It does matter. If you’re just disillusioned with the military then I have a solution, but if you’re tryin’ to get yourself killed I got a solution, too.” Graves spoke with sincerity, something he was not certain was a good thing. He was threatening his life, sure, but he also said he had other solutions. Maybe it was worth a shot. “What’ll it be?”
“I…I just don’t think the military did for me what it does for everyone else.”
“Now I’ll have t’kill you if I tell you much more than this, but…I felt the same way.” Graves relaxed his posture slightly, his hands laced behind his head as he sort of kicked back in the chair, looking more comfortable than before. Acting like this was a normal thing, casually chatting with a man you have chained up. “That drive didn’t tell you what goes on here, I saw that much, so…let me give y’some context. This right here’s the Shadow Company PMC’s HQ.”
“So you are a merc.”
“I was the Chief of a MARSOC squad.”
Yeah, I'm fucked.
“What, you didn’t like eating crayons so you became a mercenary?” He actually laughed at his quick remark, much to his surprise. It was their way of coping with the reality that they were staring down a man who probably had more confirmed kills than they could even dream of.
“Didn’t have a taste for them. My point is…if you aren’t just suicidal you should take up work with a PMC. Different structure, different experience. Better suited for little brats like you.”
“And if I am just suicidal?”
“I’ll put a bullet in your head. You’re not leavin’ here, Coda, I already told you.” There it was. The promise that he wasn’t going to just walk away from this. He internally screamed at himself for taking that stupid job — he wouldn’t be surprised if he himself had set it up just to catch him in this trap, take out competition or make them join. It wasn’t too far-fetched of an idea to be unrealistic, and that scared him. Had he done just that? “I saw those scores, I saw your training records, you are more than capable. I’m not exactly pleased to waste that kinda talent, but it’s in your hands.” Graves spoke again, leaning forward in his seat once more, reaching a hand out to him. She flinched instinctively, but was met with the gentle touch of his finger under his chin, lifting his head up to look at him. “You wanna make somethin’ of yourself or what?”
“I…” Coda swallowed, anxiety coursing through them that would have had them shaking had they not been restrained. It was clear as day. Give in, or give up. “I-I don’t…”
“Clock’s tickin’.”
“Fine.” They complied, mostly out of fear. A newfound sense of wanting to live, not just survive.
“Is that any way to talk to your Commander?”
Fucking narcissistic bastard.
“Yes, Sir.”
“Try and sound like you mean it next time.” He retracted his hand and patted them on the cheek, stinging slightly from the strike he’d landed earlier. They looked down at the floor once he had let them go, their gaze fixed on their boots, the worn concrete below.
Worth a shot.
—
tag list ! this is gonna be a big big big long series of posts !!!
featuring my shadow company ocs in all their glory as well as graves!
TW FOR TYPICAL CANON VIOLENCE, MINOR GORE, ADULT LANGUAGE, MANIPULATIVE DYNAMIC DOWN THE LINE BETWEEN REX AND GRAVES. READ AT YOUR OWN RISK! :)
Night City has never been forgiving.
Coda knew that for many years prior to the exact instance that's reminding him of that fact, but the pack of Tyger Claw thugs chasing him through Kabuki is an excellent refresher. He doesn't have nearly enough chrome to compete with these guys, some two-bit fucking optics and a grip for his pistol, but he dropped the pistol about six blocks ago and he can't exactly stop to pick it up. It's at the point now with Wakako that he knows he owes her eds, she knows he owes her eds, and so does every nearly-psycho Tyger Claw that sees him on the street.
Evenings often end like this. Sprinting down the block, praying he finds somewhere safe to run into before they beat the credits out of him and he’s left battered and without cab fare to make it home.
Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.
Coda glances back over his shoulder to see they’ve gained a bit of distance, one of them has to be running a Kerenzikov or something, he's making Coda’s full tilt sprint look like a cakewalk. He makes the call last second to try and hop the fence into the back alley behind a bar, vaulting over it without a hitch, but he can't quite stick the landing. The dumpster breaks his fall, but he knows he isn't lucky enough to evade capture.
He should be a fortune teller, he thinks, as the Claw wrestles him out of the dumpster and up against the brick wall, a snarl of a laugh escaping as he knees Coda directly in the stomach. If he had eaten dinner, it would've been on the concrete. He writhes against the hold of several men and women, far larger than him thanks to their chrome, with little more fight to give than the spit in his mouth.
Bad idea.
“1万5千ドルだ、モレリ、それがお前の勘定に残っている金額だ!”
Coda doesn't speak Japanese.
He winces in preparation for being hit again, but to his surprise he hears gunshots, and they're close enough to have blown his head off. When he opens his eyes he sees the Claw holding him with a bright red hole where the side of his head should be, optics visibly shutting down as he crumpled and lets go of Coda. Scrambling away, towards the gunfire, he watches the other Claws drop dead before looking to his savior.
“Told them no good bastards to stay out of my fucking property.” A dark haired man mumbles, checking over a pistol in his hands. He’s pretty chromed out, a half mask covering the lower part of his face and presumably some killer implants. “You alright, kid?”
“Got a nasty fucking headache, but…yeah.” Coda says with a sigh from where he’s still sat on the ground, arms behind him for support, looking at the bloodied corpses of his attackers. “You didn't have to do that. I could've handled it.”
“That bitch had a monowire that would've cut your head off.” The brunette replies, extending a hand to Coda. He’s got smart-grips, and what looks to be mantis claws hiding beneath his sleeves. Coda can just barely make out the edge of the sharp metal implants, a subtle red glow under a suit jacket.
“Maybe I would’ve deserved it — y’don't know me, choom.” Coda isn't even close to face-to-face with the man, a height disadvantage making him feel remarkably dysphoric in his bones. He steps back and lets go of the man’s hand, looking past him to the bustling activity inside the dimly lit bar.
“Nobody deserves a fate like that — ‘sides, you look pretty harmless. Thirsty?” He doesn't miss a beat asking if Coda wants to come inside, which is a welcome gesture. These types of bars, usually you need to know someone or pay some ridiculous cover charge, so Coda considers this a stroke of luck and nods.
“Incredibly. They chased me here from Jig-Jig Street.”
“Shit, maybe I should've let them have their prey if you made ‘em run that far. Must’ve really pissed Wakako off, huh?” He holds the door for Coda to walk in and the air shifts ever so slightly, smelling of bergamot and vanilla, icy and cold.
“I owe her a few eddies.”
“15 grand isn't a few.”
“How do—”
“Real time translation implants — oughta get you a set if you're gonna keep trying to fuck over Miss Okada.” The brunette states in a matter of fact manner as they walk deeper into the bar, a neon sign behind the counter marking the place as ‘Shadows.’ It’s white neon on a black background, an ace of spades playing card smack behind the word Shadows. Something tells Coda that he shouldn't be here, but he can't quite place a finger on it, especially not when he takes a seat at the bar alongside the brunette that saved his life. He’s awkward and small in comparison to the hulking mass of a man, who speaks first to the bartender. “Two Blue Grass, double shots, on the rocks.”
“You got it, Wasp — who’s your friend?” The bartender asks the newly named fellow, Wasp, with a raised brow as he pours the drinks.
“Well, kleptoid?” Wasp asks, taking his glass and pulling his mask down. No heavy duty chrome, just a whole lot of scarring.
“Coda Morelli.”
“Spitfire. This one’s on the house, keep them sticky fingers off of anything it looks like you can't afford, yeah?” Spitfire says as he nudges Coda’s glass across the counter, a lopsided smile on the blonde’s face out of kindness. He seems much warmer in demeanor than Wasp does, but that just might be surface level customer service.
“I’m not a thief, you know — I just got wrapped up in some bad biz is all.” Coda murmurs as he sips the whiskey, wincing slightly at the burn it leaves in his throat.
“You mean to tell me you racked up fifteen big ones in debt? Not stolen eds?” Wasp almost laughs. “Shit, choom, I should've let them eat you alive.”
“Yeah, it's…it's debt.” Coda sighs and slams the rest of the drink before resting his forehead against the cool surface of the bar counter, eyes shut. “But, hey, I’ll figure it out. Always do.”
“D’you think Ace has anything—” Spitfire starts, but Wasp cuts him off quickly.
“Kid isn't a merc, look at him. A gentle breeze would knock his ass out.” Coda can hear the smirk on Wasp’s face without having to see it there.
“He’s not wrong.” Coda sits up straight again, propping his head up on a closed fist. “I’m not a merc.”
“You need the scratch, don't you?” Spitfire raises a brow, idly pouring Coda a second drink without asking.
“Yeah, but—”
“If you get zeroed trying to make the scratch, it doesn't matter. You’ll die if you don't pay her back.” Spitfire says in a way that is somehow both incredibly serious and dangerously playful at the same time, like he’s daring Coda to take the bait and ask. He does.
“So…who's Ace?” Coda asks, taking a sip from the second double shot of Blue Grass. It tastes better the second time.
“Probably the only fixer that can actually get you out of this mess.” Wasp replies as he replaces his mask, standing up from the bar. He tosses a cred chip at Spitfire, who catches it, stashing it at the terminal for payment. “Come on. Let's see if he'll even entertain letting a prole take a contract.”
Coda can't help but follow.
Shadows is a cozy, dark bar, with a lively nightlife. There’s mercs drinking and dancing, brain potatoes in the corner somewhere getting their rocks off on XBD’s, and a distinct lack of gambling. It's interesting. Most places at least have some sort of slot machines or a zombie running five finger fillet with a rusty knife, but anything of the sort is absent here. Coda keeps his eyes low as Wasp leads him through the bar, through what is very clearly a joytoy hall, and then to a top floor where the owner presumably resides. There’s a door with a spade on it, just like the symbol behind the bar, but with an A in the centre of it. Wasp knocks with two knuckles, firm.
“Commander, got some fresh meat out here that wants work.” Wasp barks, and there's a subtle clatter inside the room.
“One second.” A voice calls back, and a few moments later the door opens. Who Rex can only assume to be a joytoy, dark hair and soft blue eyes, stumbles out with a huff as he adjusts the collar of his shirt. His gaze then shifts to the man behind the desk, who has a real-time face distortion field. It’s not like old world television static, more like a censor bar or black ice on the net. When his face shifts, so does it. “Evening, meat.”
“Coda Morelli.” Coda corrects, stepping into the room.
“You say your name like it should ring a bell.” The man chuckles.
“It shouldn't, but I’m not just meat. I deserve a name. Yours is..?” Coda cuts back as Wasp shuts the door, disappearing as quickly as he had appeared to save Coda in the alleyway. The air feels stuffy, especially as the owner lights a cigarette, though he does crack a window immediately afterwards.
“Ace.” The owner says back, extending a hand for a shake. He’s barren of visible implants. Coda isn't sure he even sees a jack-port on him, let alone anything on his hands or neck. “You don't look like a mercenary, Coda.”
“I’m not. I need work, though, I need the eds to pay back a debt that I owe — twice over, now, I guess because your tall, dark and angry lackey back there saved my life from the Claws hunting me down.” Coda murmurs the last part with a bit of embarrassment, his hands stuffed into his jacket pockets. He feels awkward and sort of like a loser, begging for work after such a close call with his own demise, but if this man can help him then it's worth it. If he can squash his debt with Wakako, then maybe he can start to find a way out of the pit he’s dug himself into.
“Sounds like him — what do you have experience with? Driving, net running?” Ace asks, taking a drag of his cigarette mid sentence, blowing the smoke out the window respectfully. He hasn't told Coda to get the fuck out yet, which is a good sign.
“I can drive, yeah.” Coda nods. “I have a Mizutani Shion MZ1, 2065. Used to run races with it.”
“You win?”
“Always, every time, sir.” Coda isn't sure where the formality came from, but it feels right on his lips. Afterall, this man could help him out, a little ass kissing won't hurt.
“Then I have a task for you. Transporting some goods from a contact out in the Badlands to here — if you get it back here safely, then I’ll pay out a nice little piece of the earnings to you. How much do you owe?”
“15 thousand.” Coda is embarrassed, it's clear in the way he shifts his gaze away.
“Done. You’ll get twenty.” Ace nods.
“What is it I’m transporting that’s worth so much?” Coda raises a brow.
“Find out when you get it here, won'tcha sugar?” Ace has a low, husky rumble to his voice that makes Coda’s hair stand on end, his eyes focusing on where Ace’s eyes should be in an instant. The empty blackness that stares back tells Coda he ought to behave on this once in a lifetime chance at saving his hide. “I’ll flick the cords over and call my contact, let him know to look for a…what, a black Mizutani?”
“How’d you guess?” Coda flashes a smile.
“I drive the same one.” Ace is smug about admitting this, but his soft expression reflects a certain kindness as well. Coda is about to make a comment when he gets the notification of the coordinates, pinging so incredibly far out in the desert that he wonders if he’ll have enough gas to get there and back. He wants to ask for a meeting time, but Ace has other plans. “Better get going, kid. It's getting dark out.”
“Right.” Coda nods and backs away, out the door and into the hallway before he can even register what he’s gotten himself into. He feels his pockets, checking for his keys. It's not often that he actually calls his Mizu out or uses the auto-driving features, because truthfully the fee is outrageous, but this sort of mission beckons the frivolous eddie spending. If he succeeds, then he can afford a permanent subscription to the auto-arrival feature. All that exists in his mind as he steps back outside and onto the sidewalk in front of Shadows, pressing the auto-arrival button on his keys, is the notion that there’s a way out of this hole.
It only takes a few minutes for the car — affectionately named “Betty” to pull up — and for Coda to get behind the wheel. It's already warmed up, the engine, so he floors it in the direction of the Badlands coordinates. His main hand taps anxiously at the steering wheel as the other holds the shift stick with intention, expertly moving between gears to make the engine roar out as he weaves in and out of inner city traffic.
Eventually, the traffic breaks, and he can see the stars. Night City’s light pollution is a distant memory in the desert, out in the wild, breathing in slightly cleaner air. Coda reaches over and pops his glove compartment, grabbing his backup pistol from where it's stashed, checking that it's loaded as he pulls up to the middle of nowhere. It's a landfill, essentially, a junkpit. Full of Night City’s discard, probably a few dead bodies and a booster or two.
He leaves his engine idling as he gets out of the car, stuffing his pistol in the back of his jeans with an anxious huff as he waits. No headlights in sight. Regretting that he didn't ask Ace for any sort of contact information regarding the person he was to be meeting, he pulls his phone out and thumbs over it. The screen glows quietly, showing a lack of text messages and the music that's playing in Betty, some melodic metalcore that quickly fades whenever he sees headlights approaching.
Quickly.
The car, some nomad modified special, drifts across the sand and skids to a stop mere inches from Coda’s front bumper. He scrambled back to avoid the impact, pulling his heat the instant he saw the gonk that was driving it fall out. It's a nomad, sure as hell, of the Bakker variety. He’s got a hole in his chest, bleeding profusely, and a look in his eyes that screams terror.
“Hey — fuck — you’re Ace’s merc, right?” The Bakker gonk asks, hand pressed to the gaping wound as he stumbles to his knees, then to his feet.
“I’ll be fine, listen — the package is in the back, don't — don’t fuckin let them catch up. Maelstrom gonks.” The Bakker nomad huffs as he stumbles to the trunk of the car, Coda following with an anxious twitch to his aiming hand.
He doesn't feel safe, something's fucking wrong, it's like he can feel the danger without seeing it.
Maelstrom is bad news, this he knows, but something about having a half dead nomad talk him through the process whilst actively bleeding out from these guys…it makes it feel all the much more terrifyingly lethal. The trunk opens and he swears he can hear cars in the distance, growing closer, engines screaming louder. His gaze shifts to a large metal container, several massive locks in place on it, with a big, fat MaxTac logo smacked on the front of it.
“Get going, kid, I’ll hold ‘em off you as long as I can.”
“Wait, wait, MaxTac?” Coda stutters. “The fuck is this thing?”
“Are you the only fuckin’ prole in the city that doesn't know to delta the fuck out when they hear about Maelstrom coming or what?” The nomad barks, hand still pressed to the gaping wound on his chest. Coda doesn't answer, just picks up the case and jogs to the back of Betty, popping her trunk and gently placing it inside. When he looks back up, he can see the nomad wrenching an oversized rifle out of the back of his ride. He’s propping it up on the trunk, bracing it against the shoulder that isn't wounded, not even glancing back to see if Coda is running.
He is.
It doesn't cross his mind that he should protect the Bakker clan member, not whenever Maelstrom is clearly interested in whatever Ace has him transporting. Betty is hurtling across the desert before he can even begin to question his choices, he’s shifting and steering with the same hand whilst the other is fucking with his phone, trying to find contact information for Ace. Afterall, he flicked the cords over, he should be somewhere in there…
“You've reached the voicemail box at the office of The Shadows, leave a message after the—” Coda practically throws his phone into the backseat and glances back in the rear view mirror to see several sets of headlights tailing him.
“Motherfucker.” Coda mutters under his breath as he shifts once again, car rapidly making way towards the bridge entering back into Watson, which he knows he can get into Kabuki from. If he just takes a deep breath and navigates the streets, he can fucking do this. He just has to lose the Maelstrom rats along the way, right?
Gunfire. It's getting closer. They really want this package, don't they?
Coda keeps looking back as he drives, eventually deciding that he can't risk returning fire. He needs to lose them the old fashioned way, with good and hard driving, as fast as he possibly can in crowded streets. Night City is a bustling hub around every corner, with sharp turns and complicated traffic laws. Good thing he intended on ignoring street lights and crosswalk signals. There was no way he could be a lawful citizen right now, not if he wanted to take this package back to Ace and get his miracle paycheck.
He just prayed that the badges weren't going to be in his way, and floored it. Coda turned the radio up so loud that he couldn't hear the gunfire or the thumping of his heart in his head, eyes affixed on the road ahead and the peripheral traffic interference.
The bullets are penetrating the car. He can hear it, the thwip of full metal jackets slicing through the metal exterior.
Hard turns. Bearing into the curves. Coda can't breathe. He’s watching with nothing short of terror as two large, kitted out Maelstrom cars pull up alongside him and attempt to push him back and forth. Cars are swerving out of the way frantically, he's certain that he can hear police sirens in the distance, eyes locking briefly with a bunch of beady, red optical implants on the gonk driving the car on his right. They make eye contact and then he can see the barrel of a gun, flinching on instinct and taking the gunshot directly to the upper arm.
Everything is a burning, searing pain, but he doesn't stop driving.
He doesn't even slow down.
Coda decides to take an alternate route back to Shadows, whipping Betty around a post with expert skill, losing two of the Maelstrom chasers in the process.
“Fuckin’ hell…” Coda lets a shaky breath out as he starts navigating the streets to the best of his ability, scanning the signs to see where he needed to go. His hands aren't shaking anymore. There’s confidence in the way he swerves in between other cars, despite the gaping bullet wound in his arm that’s screaming in pain.
A few more blocks.
He watches in complete fear as a couple of badge cars round the corner and cut Maelstrom off, leaving him a few precious seconds to speed up and evade them, which he does. With Betty whipped into a parking spot outside Shadows, he sits there with the bass blasting for just a minute more, white-knuckle grip on the wheel as tight as ever. Well, with one hand. The other isn't able to grip as tightly as he would appreciate, not with the — oh, that's worse than he thought it was.
When he looks down at the bullet wound he's sure they must've been hollow points or explosive rounds, because it's not just a gaping maw of flesh — he isn't sure there's much at all aside from bone holding his arm on, and even then it’s been shattered by the bullets. Adrenaline is one hell of a drug.
At least it wasn't his head.
He’s still sitting there, shaking ever so slightly, when someone thumps on the window to the driver's side door, which swings open a second later. Wasp. Coda wasn't sure that he could ever assume that big, angry looking fucker to be a sight for sore eyes, but here he was.
“You’re alive.” Wasp scoffs. “Bones, gimme a hand, would you?”
“Bones?” Coda murmurs.
“Oh, pequeño, está bien. Bones está aquí, estás en buenas manos.” A dark haired woman is in his line of sight in an instant, thick red chunks of dyed hair sticking out in the midst of the natural hue. She’s a ripperdoc, she has to be, she’s got all sorts of BioMon implants and a stethoscope around her neck. Her sclera are white, but her actual pupils appear to be red crosses. “Coda, right?”
“Yeah — right, no— where’s Ace?” Coda argues as Bones helps him out of his car, watching as Wasp pops his trunk open to retrieve the MaxTac case. The Merc whistles as he picks it up, seemingly in awe that he actually has his hands on the contents. It has to be something priceless, something worth murdering for. In Night City, that bar is low, but with MaxTac grade gear…it has to be something good.
“Can you relax, kid? You survived, Bones’ll take care of you — Ace doesn't forget an act of bravery like this one.” Wasp isn't very convincing, but the needle that Bones is injecting him with is. It's some sort of sedative, because when Coda wakes up his vision is blurry and he’s lying uncomfortably on what he can only assume to be Bones’ table.
He doesn't know it, but he's been there for a few days. Drifting in and out of consciousness thanks to any number of painkillers to keep him satiated through the initial brunt of his injuries. Hopped up on regulation hormones to ensure he doesn’t panic upon waking up, but there's little stopping him from doing so anyways.
It's cold and hard, the table. Not cushiony by any means but she’s a ripper after all — they're life savers, not comfort bringers. He can only guess how high the fucking bill will be for this one, because he’s sure that Shadows won't comp an entire medical bill on top of the fee Ace agreed to pay him for this mess. Coda sighs and shuts his eyes again, rubbing at the bridge of his nose as the sedative wears off completely and things start to come into focus. The world is less blurry this time, sounds less sharp, lights less bright.
“Keep still.” Bones’ voice is distinct, rigid as she demands that Coda doesn't move. He obliges her without question, glancing at the curtain that's currently obstructing his view of his arm, the one with the bullet wound.
It's a blessing that he can't feel the pain anymore.
“What's the damage, doc?” Coda murmurs, holding as still as he can for fear that she’ll chastise him.
“You were due for some chrome, barely had any running.” Her only reply doesn't ease his mind in the slightest, because it makes him wonder just what she had to do. Is there a metal plate in his arm? A titanium joint replacement? It could be any number of things and he won't know until she moves the damn curtain. “You scared of going psycho or something?”
“Isn't everyone?” Coda asks, wincing slightly as Bones tweaks something behind the curtain, the pain shooting up his entire arm. He can feel it twitch independently, and he begins to fear the worst. “Is it gone?”
“Is what gone, pequeño?”
“Very funny — my arm?”
“It's…better. Consider this your scratch for the job well done, hm?”
“What about the eddies?” Coda protests, but Bones is moving the curtain before she can answer, letting him see his arm. What remains, at least. It's a full prosthetic, entirely made of high carbon steel, thin lines of neon glowing somewhere within its confines. The place where it conjoins with Coda’s shoulder is still red and angry, bandaged up, but the rest of it looks silver and pristine. He can see a sharp edge along the back of his wrist, probably a blade of some kind, as well as a brand new jackport. It doesn't hurt, but it feels strange — heavier than the old arm, like it has more heft behind it than a fist of flesh and blood ever could. “O-Oh…”
“MaxTac custom, made specially by Militech for the NCPD’s newest addition. Delivered here by you, so…I figured you’d accept it as your reward.” Bones says as she watches Coda lift his arm up and turn it over, flexing his fingers and wiggling them to ensure they all function. It's uncomfortable to say the least. He wants his arm back, without a doubt. “What? You don't like it?”
“...I agreed to be paid in scratch, doc, not…not this.” Coda says, still in shock, reaching over with his left hand to touch the cold metal surface of his right.
“I’m sure you can work out the details with Ace, guapo.” Bones replies, nonchalant as she slides away on her rolling stool, humming to herself as she slots in at her desk. The screen is showing that Coda's brand new chrome should be functioning at max capacity, so she unplugs it from the diagnostic scanner and stands. Her hands are extended to his, a gentle offering of peace to help him stand. “Come on, sleeping beauty.”
“No, I don't — I don't want this thing. I want my arm.” Coda protests firmly, his hands refusing to find Bones’.
“It's in a dumpster outside, though there's a chunk from your elbow to your shoulder that’s the closest thing to ground beef it can get without being the real thing.” Bones gestures over her shoulder towards the door, and Coda begins to wonder if it's the same dumpster he fell into when he was running from the Claws earlier that day — was it yesterday now? The timepiece integrated into the wrist of his new arm told him it was in fact three later.
He fucking hated it.
Coda takes Bones' hands within his own after he contemplated ripping the implant off, standing up on shaky legs that quickly regain their stability. She smiles at him in a way that makes him feel at ease despite the foreign body attached to him, the icy static where flesh meets metal still tingling.
“You’ll need some anti-rejection chems for a little while, but…you took to it well. Chrome suits you, Coda.” Bones looks him up and down like a hungry animal searching it's prey, and he sort of scoffs while looking away. “What? You really that disappointed about it? That thing cost a lot more than Ace was paying you.”
“I needed the money, doc.” Coda insists, sighing as he scratches the back of his head with the new hand. Metal fingertips lack nails, so it doesn't do the job quite right.
“Hm.” Bones crosses her arms. “Ace said he’d be around to check on you once you were vertical, guapo, you’ll have to ask him. Lift back up to Shadows is down the hall.”
Coda nods and thanks Bones with a cred chip carrying just a little extra scratch, a tip for a job well done even if it was work he didn't really want. She installed the chrome beautifully, and it was slowly starting to feel less foreign the more he walked around using it.
Then again, that was the point, wasn't it?
Chrome is supposed to feel like an extension of the self, especially for whoever it's custom made for. Of course this unit wasn't made for Coda, some roided out gonk on MaxTac is likely missing an arm because of this, but it sure feels like it was made for him now. He sits at the bar, flexing his fingers repeatedly from a fist to an open palm, occasionally sipping on a seltzer. Spitfire watches him, leaning on the glass bar surface as Coda plays with the new limb.
“You know, whenever I first got my leg I hated it, too. Felt strange.” Spitfire hums as he watches Coda drop his drink, still getting the hang of the whole neuro-sensitive response thing. He gave him a plastic cup for a reason, and this was why. It would've been rude to give him a glass and expect him not to drop it at least twice before really getting the hang of it.
“Was your chrome on purpose?”
“No. Lost it back when I worked with NCPD.”
“You? A corpse?” Coda laughs, picking up the dropped cup and snatching a rag from behind the counter to wipe up the spillage. “I can't imagine it.”
“Mmmhmmm…I used to love myself in a three-piece suit until one day, they had me attempting to arrest some gonk that went psycho, wanted me to zero the girl — I can't support that shit. There’s a person in there that's probably terrified.” Spitfire sighs, pouring Coda a new drink without missing a beat. Liquid comfort seems to be going a long way towards his coping with the limb-loss, that's for damn sure. “Oh — heads up, klep.”
Coda can't lie, he damn near breaks his neck to turn and see who he’s been warned about. Ace still has the live facial distortion field on, but Coda can get a view of the back of his head whenever he takes a seat beside him at the bar counter. His right ear is clipped, looks like a bullet cut through it and took a chunk, but that's as close to the face as Coda can see before it's all hazy from the black ice censor. Ace appears to be blonde, with warm tanned flesh, but again — it's difficult to discern anything more.
“What can I get you, boss?” Spitfire asks, a smile crossing his expression briefly.
“Silverhand?” Ace raises a brow.
“I don't think I remember the recipe perfectly but I can give it a shot.” The blonde bartender replies as he disappears to find the ingredients for a ‘Silverhand’, a drink that Coda hadn't heard of, but the irony isn't lost on him. He looks down at his chrome plated palm and then to Ace, who he knows is smirking despite the distortion filter.
“Well, I know you have questions, sugar. Shoot.” Ace leans forward slightly, though he’s very clearly still looking at Coda. It's awkward to make eye contact without actually making eye contact, but Coda wants some answers more than he wants humanity.
“I can't take this implant. I needed that scratch, Ace, I…I appreciate the reward, and the replacement of a busted limb, but…” Coda shakes his head and averts his gaze. “I’ll give it back if you just give me the eddies.”
“Slow down. I already talked to Miss Okada.” Ace replies as he takes the drink from Spitfire, swirling it around in the glass before taking a sip from it. He seems satisfied, because the bartender slips away without comment, leaving them to their conversation. “Your debt is paid, sug, you don't owe her a cred.”
“Huh?” Coda is baffled. Beyond baffled, fuck, he’s floored. He shakes his head once to clear his mind before turning entirely in his seat to look at Ace, or at least where his features should be under the distortion. “You paid it off?”
“Sure did — Bones said you needed the chrome, I knew you needed the eds, but therein lies a problem. That arm was gonna sell for…hell, twenty, thirty times what you owed Wakako.” Ace states as he polishes off his drink, turning to face Coda all the same. He can see the dark haired man just fine through the distortion field, watch his green eyes dart back and forth anxiously as he waits for the devastating news. Ace would deliver it with a smile, if Coda could see it. “So now you owe me — let's call it a hundred grand.”
“I’m gonna be sick.” Coda mutters, his face buried in the palms of his hands, a cold sweat running down his back. What the fuck had he done? Not only had he gone and gotten his body mangled past the point he ever saw it going, but he’d gone and dug himself into an even worse debt in the process. This time to a man he barely knows, doesn't even recognize the face of. Ace could shoot him on the street tomorrow and he’d never know it was him.
Hundreds of possibilities whir around in Coda’s mind as the reality sets in that he’s got one hell of a target on his head, but Ace’s hand on his back levels him out. It’s heavy, his touch, grounding his wandering thoughts back to earth. Ace rubs large, bounding circles with his palm, covering the entire expanse of Coda’s small back.
“With chrome like that, Coda, you’ll be an effective merc. It's got smart-weapon integration, aim assist, a built-in mantis claw — I’m sure the smart-grip’ll help with your driving, too, which I heard was impeccable.” Ace continues to idly rub Coda’s back as he praises him for the job well done, giving him a rundown of what the prosthetic can do. It almost comforts him into forgetting that Ace just smacked a several year merc contract onto Coda’s very existence.
He was property of Shadows now, at least for a while. It was better than being dead, better than being hunted by Tyger Claws until he was a shell of himself. Ace was at least trying to improve his little existence, and he wasn't kidding — this caliber of cyberware was incredibly powerful. This motherfucker could do some damage, permanent damage, to anything in Coda’s path. He sits up slowly but Ace’s hand never moves, if ever so slightly down to the small of his back. It's intimate. Uncomfortably so. He instinctively twitches to shrug Ace’s touch away but he holds firm.
“You have a place to stay in, or do you need one?” Ace asks after a long silence.
“I have an apartment in the megabuilding.”
“I’ll take over the rent payment.”
“I’m capable of paying my own rent.”
“You’re not gonna spend a cred without me knowing, sugar. I had my netrunner get access to your assets — our assets. Just to make sure that you don't delta before your debt is repaid to Shadows, of course, I won't touch any of your personal scratch.”
For some reason, Coda doesn't believe him.
“Anything else I need to know about?” Coda asks, turning to look into the black void that stares back at him. Its abyssal emptiness is a stark contrast to the warmth of Ace’s hand, snaking beneath his jacket to touch at the bare skin between his cropped shirt and the waist of his jeans.
“You’ll need a uniform. Other fixers’ll leave you alone if they know who owns you.”
He isn't sure how he feels, but fucked doesn't begin to cover it.
—
SOOOOO HOW DO WE FEEEEEEEL ABOUT IT ?!? graves fixer name is ace cause playing card get it...im so clever. mwah. i love u if u read this far.
this is incredibly self indulgent, but i wanted to get it out of my chest, i guess. it's raw and silly at times but i love it all the same and i hope you do too. ive never posted my writing on tumblr so i really hope it does ok out here heh.
18+ for swearing, canon COD violence, no explicit sex but alluding to further acts, just generally not for minors ! adult topics and characters individual trauma discussed within .
There’s something to be said about the haze of being a teenager in California in the early aughts. The warm, all-over feeling of the sun beating down on tanned, freckled skin. Bruised knees, busted knuckles. Spending every day in a lake or a river, god forbid the chlorine riddled soup of a swimming pool, making the most out of what time is had.
Jack Skalbek was, by all accounts, an average teenager, who did average teenage things. Smoking pot behind the bleachers when he should be in class, watching his marginally more athletic friends throw themselves at gym class like it actually mattered. Football, soccer — whatever it was, he could usually find Keegan and Alex there.
Keegan, a year his senior, and Alex a year older, the closest things he could call his friends. They’d spent much of their childhood daydreams running around town together, iPod plugged into a speaker on the back of one of their bikes, blasting some obnoxiously emo music that all of them indulged in. 2004 lends itself to that aspect, dyed hair and painted nails, one too many chains hanging off of Jack’s wallet.
Alex would never speak of it, but he could see it in little glimpses. Catch the fleeting hand-holds and hushed laughter, that look.
There was no way they weren't feeling something.
They just didn't know what to call it.
Sitting on the roof of Jack’s parent’s house, having climbed up through an access point that certainly wasn't meant to be used by 16 year olds, Keegan and Jack lingered. Long past Alex’s curfew, his need to return home leaves them in each other's presence.
“You decide anything about college yet?” Keegan asked, watching Jack fumble with his lighter in an attempt to light the cigarette between his lips. They tasted awful, and he didn't even like the nicotine buzz, but the ‘deep breathing' exercise was relaxing.
“No — I mean, I still have a year.” Jack huffed, sighing with satisfaction as he got it to light. The burn in his throat was comforting, but his attention was more focused on Keegan. “Did you?”
“Yeah.” Keegan murmured, his voice low and quiet. “I, uh, I was talkin’ to a recruiter downtown the other day.”
“Oh? Is that why you blew off our mall date?”
“It wasn't a date, but yes.” Keegan chuckled, pulling the sleeves of his hoodie down over his hands. Worn from use, he slipped his thumbs through holes in the cuffs, the heather gray fabric fraying at the edges. He felt like he was doing the same thing, some days.
“So, like, what sport? Did you get picked up for football?”
“No, I mean, like — a Marine recruiter.”
“Oh! Yeah, I got that letter too — you actually went and talked to those guys?” Jack snickered, but Keegan was infinitely more serious about it. He had really gone and discussed a future in the military? What future was there in something like that? Brutish violence and bloodshed, all for some rich man’s greed — proxy wars.
“I mean, yeah. Alex came with me. They said I’d be a prime candidate. I’m taking the test soon to see where I place, but they said my grades were high enough that —”
“Slow down.” Jack turned to face the other boy entirely, the warm glow of the setting sun painting him somewhere between coral pink and tangerine. His eyes, though, were still an icy blue. It made the hair on the back of his neck stand up. “You joined?”
“Enlisted.” The dark haired boy shrugged, fixing his gaze on Jack’s. “It’s no big deal, Jackie.”
“It’s a really big deal.”
“It’s not — it's the same as if you told me you were gonna go to art school in New York City.”
“Art school doesn't get me killed.” Jack said softly, almost embarrassed that his qualm with the entire thing was the idea of his person Keegan dying. His cheeks were flushed red, all heated up and uncomfortable. He averted his gaze, but Keegan's hand on his cheek returned him to reality.
“Is that what bothers you about it?”
“It's dangerous, Keegan. Y-You could get shot, or lose a leg, or —”
“I can live without a leg.”
“You're not funny.” Jack groaned, pushing Keegan's hand away only to feel it in his hair this time, fingers laced in-between his long grey-blonde hair. It grounded him, making his thoughts clear up and focus down to just one, very clear idea. “I don't want you to go. I-I thought you had to be 18 to enlist.”
“If I pass all the tests, they’ll make an exception. It’s still a couple months out, I’ll be 18 by the time I get out on deployment.” Keegan said whilst gently brushing through Jack’s hair, a bit tangled from being wet earlier that day, knotted with pool water. “This is somewhere I can make a difference.”
“But why does it have to be you?” Jack replied, having long forgotten his cigarette by now. It was mostly ash, all balanced perfectly at the end. One little twitch of his hand and it all fell off, leaving half an inch of smokable length behind. It didn't matter anymore, though.
“Because if I don't, and I just assume someone else will, nothing’ll ever change.”
“How poetic.” Jack mumbled, closing his eyes as Keegan’s hand drew forward, back to his jaw. Soft, gentle, well intentioned. Better than anyone that Jack could ever pray to fill the gap Keegan would surely leave behind with. It made his heart ache knowing that these nights were fleeting, slipping through his fingers already and Keegan hadn't even passed his exams yet. “Promise that you’ll come back from wherever they send you?”
Keegan bit back the words that came to mind first, acknowledging that he couldn't promise to come back. Men and women die all of the time overseas, and he could likely become one of the many that don’t come home outside of a casket. He looked down at Jack, those soft brown eyes enamored with him, and knew he had to make that impossible promise.
“I’ll come back to you.”
It happened quickly. His exams came up fast and he passed them with flying colors, eviscerating the physical testing all the same. Even with the sword of Damocles above their heads, they continued to share hurried kisses and late nights, begging for a few minutes more from the universe. Fighting the timer with every movement. Pressured by the impending doom, Jack started applying to colleges — it was a year too soon, but if Keegan could weasel his way into the Marine Corps at 17 then he could finesse his way into some pretentious art school.
Flashes in his memory now, images of his acceptance letter and Keegan’s coming just days apart, his call to action a far greater anomaly. He and Alex would be leaving for the opposite side of the country in a matter of weeks, ensuring Jack felt helpless. His best friends, whisked away to die in the middle of the desert.
The night before Keegan needed to be at the airport, to be sworn in and shipped off, he didn't spend a second longer at home than he needed to. He was at Jack’s house the second he finished packing, duffel bags discarded at the front door. Mrs. Skalbek would surely move them and re-fold the messy clothes, probably even press his uniform nicely for the next day — she knew it, too, the way that her boy was enraptured by the Russ kid.
She didn't mind, even if Keegan’s parents did. He was leaving, now, she could at least provide them with a safe home for one more evening.
Keegan half expected Jack to break down in tears, begging for him to change his mind or something, but he didn't. He opened the window of his room instead, letting the salt air in, a gentle breeze cooling the room down. Christmas lights strung from the ceiling the only real illumination save for the fading sunset, casting a pinkish glow over everything. On his desk, a closed sketchbook with about a million drawings of Keegan and Alex, though there was a distinct pattern of a particular set of blue eyes repeating every few pages. Then there was Jack laying on his bed, swallowed whole by the comforter, his sad and tired eyes fixed on Keegan in the doorway.
They skipped the “awkward” part fairly quickly.
No hello or how are you, just straight and to the point. Wrapped up in each other’s arms above the sheets, bodies warm and hazy at the edges, blurring the lines between a tangle of limbs. Jack didn't say a word as he closed his eyes and breathed in the achingly familiar scent of the gold standard of a boy he’d grown to love.
“Don’t get hung up on me, alright?” Keegan asked, sleep laced between his words.
“What’d’you mean?”
“Like…go and do whatever you’re gonna do in LA. Don’t worry about me. I can handle my own.”
“Respectfully, shut the fuck up. I’ll be worried about you until you’re home.”
“M’not gonna change your mind, am I?”
“No.” Jack replied, pulling Keegan in closer. It was much too hot for proximity like this, but neither seemed to care.
“At least make some good memories so we have somethin’ to talk about when I come back.”
Jack hummed in reply and drifted off to sleep against his will, waking up without another body in his bed. In a panic he sat up, making his head spin, but he realized Keegan was just getting dressed. He hadn't left yet. The uniform he wore looked foreign on his frame, a little too big on him, but he looked happy enough in it. Keegan looked up when Jack startled awake, a slight frown on his face.
“Wanted to slip out without wakin' you.”
“You didn't say goodbye.”
“That was the point, Jackie.” Keegan chuckled as he sat on the edge of the bed, lacing his boots up with unpracticed hands. “I didn't wanna make you have to go through a goodbye.”
He was right. Goodbye sounded awful. It took Jack a moment of contemplation before he settled on an alternative, his half asleep brain convincing him it was a great idea.
“I love you.” Jack spoke softly, though confident in those three words. They'd remained an unspoken law thus far, only now being brought into the fabric of reality. They made Keegan stop in his tracks for a split second.
“I love you, too, Jackie.” He replied, his voice a solemn tone. After he finished tying his boots he turned and placed a kiss on Jack’s forehead, rustling his hair up one more time for good measure. “I’ll text you when I get to base. Be safe.”
‘made it 2 base. no phone 4 a few months. alex says hi. xx keegs.’
Jack loved and hated those text updates every single time he received one. They were few and far in-between, but they meant the world. It was all he really had left of Keegan. The following summer, after nearly a year of no real contact, Jack finally got a phone call. He was moving into his dorm at UCLA when his phone started blaring Keegan’s ringtone, setting his mind on high alert. Jack fumbled his phone open, pressing the green answer button as soon as his fingers stopped shaking enough to do so.
“Keegan?”
“Jackie.”
He’s alive.
“Oh, it’s so good to hear your voice. Holy shit.” Jack laughed, tears welling up in the corners of his eyes from the sheer emotional weight. He could hear idle chatter in the background, Alex’s voice included, carrying on about something he didn't quite understand. “How has it been?”
“Listen, I don't have a lot of time. We’re gonna be leaving for Tel Aviv, soon.” Keegan sounded all too serious, some of that warmth and wonder gone from his voice. It’d dropped an octave, too. “S’been good, Jackie. I just wanted to call and talk to you before we hit dirt.”
“Tel Aviv?” Jackie mumbled. “You’re in the middle of the war?”
“Fuckin’ neck deep in it.” Keegan replied quietly. “You made it to LA, right?”
“Didn't know you still got my texts.”
“Of course I do. I just — I don't have time to reply, some days. I don't have a good excuse, either. Just want to make sure you know I meant it, back then. Miss you like hell.”
“S’that your girl?” Someone’s voice called from a distance, earning a huff out of Keegan. “Is she hot?”
“Shut your fuckin’ trap!” He barked back. “Sorry, Jackie. Listen, I — I gotta bounce, I don't know how long we’ll be out here. Be safe for me, okay?”
“I — yeah, of course, K.” Jack stuttered, running a hand back through his hair in a self-soothing manner. Though Keegan hadn't said the words, Jack wanted to make sure that the point got across that he understood. “I love you, too.”
Click.
Radio silence did not begin to describe what followed that phone call. Jack pushed down his anxiety for a long, long while, ignoring all of the news outlets claiming that a civilian hospital in Tel-Aviv had been assaulted and defended by U.S. Marines. That there had been countless casualties, that those men would be honored posthumously with medals and awards. He didn't read a single article out of fear that he would see Keegan Russ or Alex Johnson in the list of names.
College flew by. The war raged on. He didn't hear from Keegan, his family, no one. Even when his mother called, he blew her off, fearing that she was calling to break the news of his untimely death in the Middle East. Birthday after birthday, year after year, and he had not even begun to fill the space in his chest with something real. Uppers and downers, party culture — it was his way of smothering the pain temporarily, far better than anything his psychologist offered him in way of coping.
Deep breathing exercises and journaling didn't bring Keegan back.
Nothing did.
Not drinking, not partying, not kissing strangers in bars — nothing.
The world continued to strife while Jack continued to linger in 2004, the better part of him remaining on the rooftop of his mom’s house. He especially noticed his inability to change with the rest of the world as ‘The Federation of the Americas’ rose to power. News of their rampage spread like wildfire until they, themselves had spread closer and closer to the U.S. Even when their leader was assinated, it didn't stop them.
Tensions were high, tides ebbing and flowing with every passing day, until 2017.
Jack Skalbek had settled into his life in Los Angeles. He had a house that he rented with a few roommates, a cat, a rather nice car — nothing was too awful those days. He could go outside on his porch and rip a bong like his life depended on it, seeing stars in broad daylight, and —
Wait.
Those aren't stars. It’s broad daylight.
Jack blinked a couple of times as he raised his hand over his eyes, shielding out the harsh glow of the sun. There were small pieces of something hurtling towards the earth, like shooting stars, and as they drew closer he knew they weren't small. They were large, flaming chunks of a spacecraft or something — that was the only logical explanation.
People were running. Something was rumbling.
Impact.
The earth split in two, directly through Los Angeles, and all Jack could do was run. He ran like he never had before, stumbling through the literally broken streets with little regard for anything else. His cat, Molly, leapt out into the street (he never quite stopped thanking God for that) and he scooped her up, hauling ass as fast as he could.
He never really stopped running.
Molly learned to stay at his side, mewling as they traversed what remained of Los Angeles for a while, eventually forced up North by the Federation’s invasion. Before he knew it, Jack had found company with a military squad, having been on base whenever ODIN hit. They stuck together in the aftermath, and when they found Jack essentially camping in the wilderness, they picked him up. At least then, he was “camping” with a group of heavily armed, skilled soldiers.
It didn't last long, the ideation that he could just tag along. Before he knew it, Lieutenant Ames had shoved a rifle into his hands.
“You're too tall to be a sniper and too lanky to be close quarters, so you’re gonna scout. Think you can manage that, Skalbek?” Ames asked, watching Jack inspect the rifle. He’d never used a gun before, or held one, but he supposed that now was as good a time as any to learn how. It would likely be the only difference between him living and dying, so it felt important.
A distant memory these days, although a sweet one, Keegan would have been proud of him. He had passable marksmanship, steady artist hands coming in handy for such a task. His lungs were a weakness, but it wasn't exactly commonplace to come upon large quantities of smokable substances in their travels. Stretching a pack of cigarettes became a habit, until he was barely smoking them at all. Once he could hold his breath long enough to get a few shots off, he was good enough.
That was all that mattered. He could protect himself in the wild.
Jack spent years with the same crew of men, calling them brothers. He never grew too close, never squinted to see Keegan’s face in theirs — he didn't think of those blue eyes often those days. It was hard to dream of good things in such a bad place, like a war-torn America, in desperate need of saving.
Jack just prayed that Keegan was alright, wherever he may be, whatever he may be doing. He had to have survived the initial attack in Tel Aviv.
The soldiers would gossip about a team of men that came from Santa Monica, made up of the survivors from Tel Aviv — fifteen men out of sixty that came out on top when up against five hundred Federation attackers. Ghosts, they were called, a supernatural force that somehow overcame the odds.
He believed that men had survived, but he didn't believe that they were so mythical. Though, after so many years of dissidence, some will cling to those little miracles out of desperation.
Hope was a very dangerous thing for anyone to have, let alone some random man from Northern California that barely survived Los Angeles' implosion, but he had it. Even if he would never admit such a thing aloud for fear of it being taken away. Jack spent most of his time from 2017 until 2022 doing the best he could to hold himself together, and eventually in the winter of that year, it came crashing down.
He woke up to gunshots. Loud, quick, violent. Close. Jack startled awake and reached for his rifle, but before he could even aim he felt a firm thunk on the side of his head. Everything hurts, his head ringing until he falls unconscious, and everything goes painfully black.
Jack had never been knocked unconscious before, but he learned quickly that the wake-up was infinitely worse than the go-down. Nothing was worse than realizing he was chained up, though. His hands were cuffed above his head, the distinct taste of copper rich on his tongue as his eyes fluttered.
“Fuck…” Jack breathed, the sound of his lungs almost wet. He’d surely aspirated his own blood, but he couldn't be certain he wasn't waterboarded by the way his lungs felt liquidy. “Hello?”
Mistake.
A Federation soldier joined him in that cell within seconds, and he learned to keep his mouth shut from then on. It went on for a week straight, the torture, getting beat senseless day in and out by Feds just for fun. They’d laugh, dump alcohol on his gaping wounds, break bones like it was a game. One of them took a bat to his knee on the last day of that first week, and he was sure that he would die in that cell.
Cold. Alone. Bloody.
Months went by. Long, arduous. Sometimes he wouldn't see another human being for several days, and then he would be forced to take a beating alongside another of the soldiers from his company. He wasn't sure when he started referring to himself as one of them, as a soldier, but the Feds saw him that way too.
Corporal Skalbek. The punching bag.
Six. Long. Months.
He was happy that he was still alive on occasion, but most days were spent half-conscious and starving for breath. He couldn't even scream anymore. His throat was so terribly dry he was certain that it was only wet from his blood, coating every gulp with the distinct taste of it. If he coughed, it’d sputter out and paint his pale flesh with an array of sanguine specks, blending with the other stains from the physical abuse. Bruises littered his body, alongside gashes and lacerations, marks from where ligatures had dug into his skin.
The handcuffs were always the worst, a little too rusty and worn, sure to give him tetanus if he survived this ordeal. But, in some sort of optimistic turn, he wasn't sure he would survive it.
If Jack closed his eyes, he could almost hear Marines charging the camp, barking orders over gunfire. That, however, was a fantasy, just like the idea of going home was. Well, at least back to the U.S.. LA wasn't home anymore, and he didn't rightly have a place to live since the soldiers he ran with were always moving, but he would be happy to live in an abandoned motel for the rest of his days at this rate.
Fantasies of a better life left him feeling warm and fuzzy inside despite the exhaustion gripping his every emotion. He was sure, now, that he was starting to see things that weren't really there. Disturbed cognitive functioning is a symptom of mental deterioration, and with the way his mind was creating custom imagery of Marines coming to save him he had to be close to death at this rate. The deafening sound of gunfire traveled closer down the hallway, echoing off the walls alongside the repetitive drum-beat of bootfalls.
“Clear every room — I want every last one of these boys to survive.” A voice shouted, followed by a few affirmative replies of some kind. Jack perked up, straining the cuffs holding his hands up, aggravating the painful friction wounds. A fresh stream of blood ran down his forearms, warm and wet.
It took a few minutes for him to actually believe that someone was here to rescue him from this hell, but once he did he started fighting his restraints. Trying desperately to make the chains jingle but failing at that as well. The pain in his wrists was too much to simply push through it, and he truthfully couldn't feel the lower half of his body anymore. He tried to push himself up on his knees but they were in pure agony.
It wasn't fair.
They’d never hear him.
When they came to the door of his cell, a pair of eyes appeared in the barred enclosure, glancing the room over. He opened his mouth to speak, to beg for mercy, but once more nothing came out. Jack fought his restraints once again and the eyes lit up. Next thing he knew, the door was wide open and he was sure that this was all some vivid hallucination before his death.
The man looked to be a grim reaper, or a twisted angel of mercy. His eyes were nearly white, they were so blue and he knew right then and there that it was him.
He couldn’t mistake those eyes.
“Hey — look’a’me. You’re gonna be jus’ fine.” The man’s voice was low and gravelly, husky in every sense of the word. He went to whimper his excitement but, well…it came out as a coughing fit, blood coating his dry lips once again. Did he not recognize Jack? Has so much changed? Did he not look like himself anymore? “Don't push yourself.”
Jack huffed and sat patiently as the man, who’s last name was too blurry to read and he knew it anyway, broke the cuffs off his wrists with bolt cutters. It hurt, but it reminded him that this was actually happening and that he was alive still. Air still filled his lungs at a quickened pace, he could still feel the warmth of another person’s flesh on his. The man had gloves on, but there was life in his touch — gripping Jack’s fragile and broken body.
“Can you walk?” He asks. Jack shakes his head rapidly and the man doesn't reply, picking the semi-emaciated other up without hesitation. When they enter the hallway, Jack can see the blurry outlines of other men populating the space, both his soldier friends and Marines. “Merrick! Got the last one — he’s not doing too hot.”
“Exfil’s outside — he’s still breathing?’ ‘Merrick’ called back, a fuzzy figure in the distance.
“Barely. Pulse is thready.” The man holding him barked back to Merrick, leaving Jack wondering if he would die anyways, regardless of being saved. It was getting hard to stay awake now that he knew he wasn't going to be stuck in captivity any longer, his eyelids fighting sleep. He knew he was safe. “Hey — stay awake. Eyes on me.”
Jack suddenly felt his eyes open wide again, fixing on the man holding him. He felt like a teenager all over again, looking up through tired eyes on that last day before he lost his best friends to a war he was now fighting, too.
“There we go…eyes on me. Just a few more minutes.” Focusing on that voice wasn't hard. It had gotten deeper, but it was as familiar as breathing.
It was just a few more, in truth. Jack found himself seated in the back of a Humvee, bleeding all over the fabric interior. His body begged for sleep but his blue-eyed angel kept nudging him awake, occasionally pinching his arm to make sure he felt something enough to keep him awake.
“Stop it. You fall asleep, you die.” He huffed in frustration as Jack dozed off again.
“Don't be such a prick, Keegan. He’s a prisoner of war.” Merrick called from the front passenger seat, gazing back at Jack and his mangled body. A mess of limbs and blood, but with the widest smile he could possibly muster. It was him. In the flesh, breathing right in front of him, holding his hand. “You’re gonna be alright, kid.”
Oh, he would be just fine.
Upon arriving in Fort Santa Monica, he was allowed to rest. Anesthetic sleep was never truly restful, as it was artificial, but it was enough for him to walk in a more lucid state. His vision wasn't blurry, his head was no longer pounding, and he didn't taste blood.
A much better day in Jack’s book by a hundred miles.
He rolled onto his side and overlooked the small med-bay, the typical hustle and bustle of a hospital environment carrying on beyond the curtain. It smelled sterile there, but it was welcome in comparison to the scent of rust and rot. The flat white surface of the curtain was disrupted by a hand, followed by the presence of Keegan fucking Russ.
“Didn't think you'd be awake so soon.” He sort of darts his gaze away from Jack, embarrassed that he’d come to sit with a man that he’d presumed to be unconscious. The trouble, though, really came when Jack went to reply. No noise came out. His throat was sore, but it likely only felt that way because morphine was smothering any real pain he would normally be feeling. He touched at his throat anxiously, fingertips dancing across bandages wrapped around the entirety of his neck. “I can do most of the talking, s’alright. I’d like to know who I’m talking to, though. You know sign language or something?”
Jack rolled his eyes. It definitely made sense for him, a person with functional vocal chords and ears six months ago, to have learned sign language. Keegan chuckled at the display of attitude, not a clue in his mind still that he was who he was.
“Stop me when I say the right letter. A, B, C, D, E, F, G, H, I, J—”
Jack tapped Keegan’s hand. A flash of recognition crossed his face before he continued.
“Okay, J. A—”
Another tap.
“J-A…A, B, C—”
Tap.
“Jack?” Keegan spoke softly. “You — sorry, you kinda look like someone I know. His name was Jack, too. When LA went, he went, too.”
Huh? How had he even heard something like that? How was he so certain that Jack was dead?
“Nevermind. I’m, uh, Sergeant, First Class. Keegan Russ. You in pain or anything, Jack? I’m sure I could get them to sneak you a little extra morphine or something. Maybe a cigarette? Not that you should smoke with your throat torn open, I guess…”
Jack stared up at him. If there was any uncertainty, it was resolved immediately.
“What’s that fuckin’ look for?”
Jack went to speak and he literally squeaked in place of words. God damnit.
“Exactly. Go on, get some sleep. I’ll be around with a better way for you to talk, later.” Keegan said as he left, pulling the curtain shut once again. Instead of throwing a fit because Keegan didn't recognize him, Jack opted for sleep, coiling up on his side as the morphine lulled him into a sense of security, the warmth putting him out like a light.
A man of his word as he always had been, Keegan returned after Jack got some much-needed sleep, food, and water. He looked somewhat disappointed though, taking a seat across from Jack’s bed.
“Does a pen and paper work? I really thought I’d have a more innovative solution to the, uh, no-talking thing but…” Keegan said sheepishly as he snatched the medical clipboard from the side table of Jack’s bed, flipping to a blank sheet of paper before handing it to Jack alongside a pen.
‘It’s fine.’ Jack wrote, turning it to face Keegan. ‘My wrists hurt, though.’
“I figured — Doc said you got some pretty deep lacs. I’ll keep it brief. Your last name?”
‘Skalbek.’
“No it isn't.” Keegan’s expression dropped. “Don't fuck around. Who the fuck told you that?”
Jack furrowed his brow and turned the clipboard around, scribbling out a response as fast as he could before Keegan reasonably flipped out. ‘Do I not look the same?’
“You're not Jackie.”
‘How can I prove it?’
“You can't. Fucking…that's a sick prank, you know that? Whoever the hell told you his name is gettin' gutted.” Keegan stood up and turned to leave, only serving to frustrate Jack more. How did he not recognize him? It would seem that while he was excited to see Keegan again, Keegan was…upset? He licked his lips, dry and cracked as they were, and did the only thing he figured would work.
He whistled.
He whistled the tune to Drowning Lessons by My Chemical Romance. It was cheesy and fucking stupid, but he knew for a fact that Keegan knew it because they’d bought the CD together. They didn’t rip it off of Limewire or Napster, no, they bought the actual disc.
They would listen to that song on repeat, Jack never quite shutting up about the bridge and the melodies of Gerard Way’s gang vocals, and Keegan always said it was easily the best song on the record. He knew that they were never really together, and they never had a song, but if they did it would be that. He whistled until Keegan’s expression softened up, and he pulled his mask up over his head.
Same oceanic blue eyes, same slightly crooked nose, a few more scars. Still Keegan.
“I searched the wreckage at that address he — you sent me.”
Now, it was Jack’s turn for rightful emotional revelations. Keegan still got his texts in 2017? He only texted out of habit, out of a desire to vent every once in a while to nobody, even knowing that Keegan was dead. Being convinced that he was, at least.
“I found a body, I…”
‘Housemate. I had three.’ Jack wrote, urgent this time.
“He was so-so burnt that I…I thought the worst, I guess, I —” Keegan stuttered, his eyes never quite leaving Jack. The gap between them was much too far all of a sudden. “I need a minute.”
‘Take your time.’ Jack wrote back, but Keegan was gone before he could even turn the paper around. He sighed and leaned back into the pillows, closing his eyes once again. He would never know, but Keegan practically bolted outside because he didn't want to crack in front of anyone, let alone Jack. The dark haired man locked himself in a broom closet and covered his mouth with his gloved hand, chest heaving with pure emotion as he panicked. His entire world view was shattered by that one living, breathing man out there.
Keegan Russ was not a man that broke down often. He fought back the urge to feel anything about this for two decades, to let his emotions get the best of him, but there was little he could do to stop it now. Jack was alive, a miracle in it of itself, but he was right there in front of Keegan. Busted and bruised, shattered bones and a scruffy face, but it was Jack.
He always regretted not getting a hold of him once they survived Tel Aviv, but there was little he could do about his mistakes now. They had already been done. Truthfully at the time it didn't seem like such a terrible thing, Keegan always had the hope that he would make it to UCLA to see Jack when the war ended, but it never did. Then, he looked forward to seeing him again when he moved to the outskirts of the city, but when ODIN struck LA…
In his mind, Jack had died. He had already mourned him and their brief respite of time together. The grief was simply something he grew around, letting it become a piece of his past that he could lovingly look back upon. Smile, knowing he gave Jack the best version of himself, untainted by war and violence.
Now what was he?
A killer, hardened by years of killing Federation soldiers indiscriminately, unable to look himself in the mirror on the bad days. The last thing that they never see coming. A ghost.
Jack didn't deserve that.
After all of that time, of burying his first and only semblance of love in the backyard outside next to who he used to be, he was sitting right there. If he opened up the door right in front of himself, he was right out there.
He moved his hand from his mouth once he was sure his breathing had regulated down to normal, taking a couple of shaky and unsure breaths before feeling satisfied. The last thing he needed was for their medic to appear out of nowhere and start prodding Jack again, only to see Keegan visibly shaken by seemingly nothing.
It wasn't Jack's fault that everything panned out the way it did, and if it was anyone’s fault it would be Keegan’s. He left, not the other way around. In fact, his squad was responsible for Tel Aviv, which sparked the following energy crisis, inevitably landing them where they are today. Here. In Santa Monica, perhaps the last safe place close to No Man’s Land.
There were two options.
He could, reasonably, walk away and let the medical staff deal with Jack. This could end right here and now, send him on his way with the survivors of the squad he was found with. Keegan would never have to see him again, never have to let him see this mangled version of himself that he had become.
Alternatively, he could walk back out there and sit back down, and start from the top. A do-over. Pretend that the last twenty or so years weren't so long, own up to his fuckups, and make a new starting point here and now. It would be infinitely more difficult, but Keegan also knew that it was indubitably the right thing to do.
With a few more seconds of silence to think about what he was about to choose, he stood up from the pile of boxes he’d been sitting on in the closet, and then went right back to Jack’s side.
“Sorry.” Keegan said quietly as he re-opened and shut the curtain again, sort of standing at the end of the bed rather than sitting in the chair he had previously been in. He was too full of anxious energy to sit down, having to actively think about not tapping his boot on the tile floor. “I just — you have to understand why this is weird for me.”
‘I thought the same when you unchained me.’ Jack wrote, earning a little sad-puppy look from Keegan. It was much harder to see Jack all beaten up and bruised knowing that it was, in fact, Jack.
“You don't look the same, for the record. I don't know who this badass, battle-worn version of Jackie is.”
‘Me neither.’ Jack shrugged.
“He seems like an alright guy.” Keegan said, a hint of a smile tugging at his lips. “You’ll have to tell me about him whenever you can talk again, huh?”
‘How about you tell me about this Sergeant Russ guy?’
“Very funny. You need some sleep, y’look like shit, Jack.”
‘Come on. You’d have, like, pretty good bedtime stories.’
Keegan couldn't help it, he laughed at that one, a wide smile on his face. Still the same little spark of attitude that he always had, just with a few more years of bite to them.
“Fine — what’d’you wanna know?”
‘Tel Aviv.’
“Not right now. How about…basic training?”
‘Fine.’
It became a ritual, almost. Every single night without fail, Keegan would return to his side with something he stole from the mess hall and a new story, carrying the conversation enough for the two of them. Beforehand, he had been the quiet one, but Jack had involuntarily taken that role. He told him tales of Task Force: STALKER and the Ghosts. Their adventures through the entirety of the war, how many lives they saved — shit, he even got to hang out with Alex, too, on occasion. Well, Ajax, now.
It also became ritualistic that every single night, without fail, he'd wake up in a cold sweat.
He could only manage to gasp for breath, clutching at his throat as he set the attached heart monitors off time and time again. The ringing noise it made was most insensitive to someone having a panic attack, but it at least actually alerted the medic to his state. Grim, his name was, as in reaper.
It was no comfort to have a medic named after death itself at first, but he learned rather early on that Grim was a saint. He’d show up, mute the monitors and administer anti-anxiety medication, which was in short supply, but useful all the same.
Jack wasn’t terribly embarrassed about it either, he’d survived something traumatic and deserved to feel any way about it that he wanted to, until Keegan witnessed one of those late-night panic attacks. He'd fallen asleep in the chair beside Jack’s bed after a late night of one-sided conversation, barely awakened by the quickened breathing of the man in the bed beside him. Jack had never had panic attacks as a teenager, but the heavy breathing and scared eyes were a dead giveaway. Grim had learned to leave the monitor’s sound off, so it wasn't blaring, but Jack was still gasping for breath. His hands were clasped over his chest, eyes screwed shut as he tried to get his heart to slow down.
He looked over when he saw Keegan jolt awake, his eyes flicking anxiously up and down the other man as his cheeks flushed red. Fully embarrassed of the way the trauma affected him so deeply. It meant he was damaged goods. Discardable for something more favorable, less troubled.
“Y’alright? Should I get Grim?” Keegan asks, genuine concern laced into his words. He was so soft spoken it was almost scary, gruff texture never leaving even at a low volume.
“No.” Jack squeaked out, wincing at the pain. It sounded painful, too, a fragile pitch that wavered for the brief second it was spoken. His hand rubbed at the front of his throat, hoping to smother the pain out.
“Easy, Jackie.” Keegan replied, his brow knit in worry.
“M’fine.” Jack hacked, that wet feeling in his lungs returning in a phantasmal way.
“You're not. Take a deep breath. You’re safe. I’m here.” It was so very grounding, hearing those words spoken aloud. He was safe. He was alive. He was no longer cuffed to a wall in some dank basement.
He was with Keegan again.
Jack heaved a few more anxious breaths out, hand grasping at his chest for purchase until Keegan grabbed it, stopping him from scratching at the bandages constricting his breathing, a bit of a frown hidden beneath his mask. At first, Jack struggled, but he gave in after a few short moments of Keegan’s firm, gloved grasp on his twitching fingers.
“Thanks—” His voice comes out timid in both tone and volume.
“Stop trying to talk. You’re just gonna make it hurt worse.”
“Fuck —” Cough. “— off.”
“Just tryin’ t’help.” Keegan murmured, giving Jack’s hand a gentle squeeze. “You've been having night terrors like that a lot?”
Jack went to reply but bit his tongue, squeezing his hand instead.
“Yes?” squeeze. “Okay — hey, I can work with that. Do you want me to stay?”
Jack didn't reply. He just held Keegan's hand tighter, not letting go for a long, long time.
It was unconventional, this method of communication, but it got the point across. One for yes, two for no became the gold standard, especially when he was able to leave the med-bay and explore a bit. Fort Santa Monica was in no state of beauty, sure, but from what he could see it was a haven. There were refugee camps surrounding the military installments, packed tight with families and off-duty soldiers alike, lining the sandbag ridden streets. It was engineered to be impossible to take, the perfect place to shack up just outside of No Man’s Land.
Jack stood outside once he was cleared to walk again, leaning on a railing that overlooked the dismantled city. He was in a great deal of pain most days, but he’d rather grit his teeth and bare it over scarfing down painkillers. A brace and a dream, he could get just about anything accomplished these days.
“Elias said he wants to talk to you.” Keegan’s voice came as a shock, giving Jack the slightest bit of a scare. He turned on his heels to look up at the other man, brow knit in confusion. “Don't know why, don't ask. C’mon.”
What the hell could STALKER’s Lieutenant even want with him? The Ghosts weren’t exactly arms wide open to anyone in particular. They were brothers forged in blood and dirt, and he certainly was not present during Operation Sand Viper. So, short of kicking him out of the encampment, he had no idea what thee Elias Walker could possibly want.
Nothing bad, surprisingly.
“You must be Jackie Skalbek — pleasure. Elias Walker.” A firm handshake from the older man, setting Jack back a few notches. He felt awkward and terribly small next to such a force of power. Keegan had told him so many stories by now that he was certain Elias was inhuman purely based on skill and drive to do more, do better. Jack nodded a reply and Keegan stood quietly by, waiting for his presence to be necessitated.
“So…you’re the infamous Jack.” Elias smiled. “Keegan didn't shut up about you in…what was it, ‘06?”
“Embarrassing.” Keegan huffed, averting his gaze.
“I gotta say, son, your squad sung some high praises of you. Keegan, too. You’ve got a lotta reputation preceding you.” His squad? The soldiers he’d been shacked up with. They were saying he’d done well? His marksmanship was nothing to scoff at, sure, he had steady hands — but make him a soldier it did not. “I know you’re still taking it easy for now, but…we need warm bodies. Desperately. I’m sure Sergeant Russ filled you in on our work, the things that STALKER is responsible for?”
“Only the good parts, I promise.” Keegan said jokingly, earning a bit of a glare from Elias.
“Point is, if you’re up to the challenge, I could use the hands around here. You’re no Marine, but I betcha I can make one out of you yet.” Elias had a sort of warm smile, a confidence that exuded from every word he spoke, that almost made Jack feel like he could do it. How could he fit into the very rigid spot here, though? The lifestyle was hard and rigorous, made for men with years of experience in the field, not…him. “What's that look for?”
“I —” Jack squeaked. Squeaked! In front of Elias Fucking Walker. Frustrated with his own inability to produce a sound that wasn't equivalent to a hamster, he turned to Keegan. Now, they hadn't tried lip reading, but there wasn't exactly a better way to deal with this.
“He’s — slow the fuck down, Jackie, Jesus — he doesn't think he’s cut out for it.” Keegan roughly translated the quick talking, focused on the irregular way Jack formed certain words, the way he most definitely still had a slight lisp based on the way his tongue caught his front teeth sometimes. His fully grown voice was probably lovely if he could choke out more than two words at a time.
“I have it on pretty good authority that before the Federation got their paws on you, you were the best sniper among that squad of army veterans.”
“That was before the Federation.” Keegan translated once again, a slight sadness to the way he spoke the words. It didn't feel good knowing that he’d taken such a confidence blow from being held hostage — it made sense, though. Nobody comes out of that sort of ordeal without a few loose marbles. “He doesn't want to get someone killed because of his inexperience.”
“I understand that, but you've got a certain…quality. It’s that resilience, Jack. That’s what being a Ghost is.”
It resonated deep in his chest, the way that he spoke of what comprised a Ghost. Surviving against all odds. Coming back from ungodly nightmares and asking the world if that was all it had. Having the guts and courage to do what just be done. When Alex and Keegan enlisted, he knew they had more willpower than he ever would, and he wondered how Elias could possibly see that quality in him.
Scrawny, terrified, shaking, Jack Skalbek.
That was no Ghost. He was no soldier.
“I’m not who you think I am.” Keegan spoke his words once more, shaking his head just a little. “I did what I had to do to survive out there, but that's it.”.
“You can live, not just survive. I just need you to have a little faith in yourself, huh? Those boys you ran with sure have it. There’s a lotta folks out there that can't fight for themselves, that’s why we’re here — you can make that difference for folks. It’s up to you, though, I won't force it. I just know a Ghost when I see one, and I have a real good feeling that you’d be at home with us.”
Home. Home wasn't a place anymore, was it? Not since his home got blasted off the face of the earth by ODIN, not since his family and housemates got —
Then, there was us. The Ghosts. His closest friends from growing up.
Men that he’d spent weeks hearing stories of, the legend of brothers in arms coated in blood and sand, walking corpses. He was not made to do that, let alone the minimal work he’d put in during his travels. Jack realized he was just looking at Elias with shock and awe still, shaking his head to get his thoughts right.
Jack knew that if he took this opportunity, he’d be roped into this war for good. Moreso than if he only stuck around for Keegan’s company. There wouldn't be a way out of it, not that there was now, but he would cement his future if he trained to take up work with STALKER. He swallowed his fear, the anxiety welling in his stomach, and extended a hand to Elias.
“Good.” Elias shook his hand, taking it as the ‘yes’ answer that it was. “Once you're cleared for duty, we'll see how well you do.”
“Y-Yessir.” Jack managed to speak, a slight terror in his eyes that paired well with the confidence that came from actually forcing words out.
This, of course, meant that he was now privileged enough to meet the rest of the Ghosts. He’d met them in passing, trailing around behind Keegan most days like a lost dog, but now they were becoming acquainted. They were few in number compared to normal squads and battalions, but they were a force to be reckoned with.
Ajax was more than thrilled to see Jack again, having a much more overwhelmingly positive reaction to his presence than Keegan had. Saying that ‘I knew you weren’t dead because you’re too stubborn to die.’ It almost felt like the before again, memories flickering back to life in the back of his mind. Synapses that hadn't fired in decades.
Kick was the friendliest by far. He sat down with Jack before any proper training and got him kitted out, thrusting a marksman rifle into his hands before he even had the chance to protest. Boasting American made quality, a magazine that would make Vogue blush, and a scope with dual magnification. The matter of his tactical gear would come later, but Kick was more than satisfied to ramble about the specs of his firearms whilst Jack listened intently. He promised him custom gear and maybe even a mask, one day, but he needed more time.
Torch, Grim — they were well acquainted enough from his time in the medical bay under Grim’s watch, Torch often spending his days down there as well for an extra set of hands. He worked in demolitions, but that didn't mean he didn't have surgically delicate hands to assist when Grim couldn't get to something himself. He was actually the one to remove Jack’s stitches — a painfully long process that was almost, but not quite, as bad as his bones getting shattered in the first place. Grim would occasionally cheer ‘you’re doing great!’ and Jack couldn't be sure if he meant him or Torch.
Merrick, though, he was the tough one to crack. Cold, harsh — but effective. He was a decorated officer, completing the SEAL training at 17 years old with flying colors. Sure, Keegan and Ajax had become Marines at the same age, but that wasn't the same as being a Navy SEAL. It was overachievement to the highest degree, except he wasn't showing off — he was just that good. Jack felt small and insignificant in the presence of a man like him, who could outsmart entire battalions of Feds without much forethought.
He was out of his league, and Merrick knew it from the moment they met.
Sitting in the arsenal, having been gifted his uniform by Kick, but too terrified to put it on, Jack just held it. It was dark gray in color, camouflage and flat black as well, though the vest and accompanying guards were all matte black. They’d given him the standard patches that matched everyone else’s, a STALKER insignia set, but his name was the most jarring one to observe.
Skalbek. Corporal Skalbek.
He wasn't even enlisted — how could he be classified as a Corporal? The soldiers called him one, sure, but it was mostly in a teasing way. Jack thumbed over the embroidery and took a deep breath, deciding it would be better to just get dressed and have an existential crisis later. He had to tape and brace his knee in order to walk for long periods, but he’d grown used to the limp in his gait by now that it didn't bother him much anymore. The return of his voice, though, did bother him.
Even as he strapped his gear into place and laced his boots, every little huff or grunt of exertion felt foreign in his mouth. He didn't know what he was supposed to say for himself, truthfully, so he wasn't comfortable with using his voice. It was impossible to even fathom an explanation for how he ended up here, for what he went through in that cell — so he just didn't.
Instinct always takes over, though.
“You all set, blondie?” Keegan asked, leaning in the doorway of the arsenal. He could see Jack all geared up, but it felt right to ask.
“Yeah. All set.” Jack spoke, unaware that he'd even done so at first. Keegan knew better than to overreact, though, it would likely scare him off. Take that pretty voice away. If he wanted to talk, he could, and Keegan wouldn't apply pressure in any way.
“Good, good…lemme see.” Keegan said as Jack turned to face him, sort of standing awkwardly with his arms down at his sides. He looked lost. Uncomfortable in all of th buckles and straps, like the gear was suffocating the life out of him. “You look suicidal.”
“I’m —” Jack stopped himself, a bit shocked in his expression.
“You were doing great.” Keegan huffed in response, mildly disappointed. “The uniform looks good, though, Jackie.”
Jack rolled his eyes and crossed his arms over his chest, watching Keegan draw in closer across the room. He picked up the other man’s marksman rifle, inspecting it for a moment before handing it back to Jack.
“Needs some dirt on it — lucky for you, we’re just doing recon. Nothing crazy, just gettin’ your boots wet out in the field.” Keegan watched Jack take the rifle back, clicking the carry strap around his neck into place, carefully snapping the scope cover on for travel. He looked nervous, like a kid on his first day of school, only with much more weighing on his chest. It made sense. He hadn’t been sure of himself the entire time Elias was giving him a golden opportunity, so it made sense that confidence wasn't leaking out of his every movement. “Stand up straight, act like you know what you're doing until you do. Merrick prefers his name or his title, not sir, if you decide to talk to him.”
Jack nodded, letting a shaky breath out. He held up a thumbs up, hand trembling ever so slightly, pathetically. Keegan reached out and steadied it.
“You’ll be fine. I’ll be with you.”
Jack turned his hand and held his pinky out, raising a brow. Without much hesitation, just the normal amount from a tough guy, Keegan did the same and interlocked them. He leaned in instinctively and pressed where his mouth would be under the mask to Jack’s knuckles. It was a thing from years ago, something they did to “seal” a promise. Jack was surprised that he remembered, but not upset by any means.
It wasn't a terribly long drive to the recon point. It felt that way because of the deathly silence in the SUV, save for Merrick giving the mission brief. Kick sat in the passenger seat beside their Captain, humming to himself as they flew down the dirt roads, jostling over every bump. Jack kept his eyes on the floor until they arrived at the infil, at which point he and Keegan exited the vehicle. It was fairly heavily wooded, the area well covered and higher than the place they were doing recon on, making it ideal for a sniper’s nest. Jack had a natural sense for that sort of thing, carefully and quietly slinking around the woods before coming to a tall, heavily branched tree. He looked it up and down, sizing it up, then looked at Keegan. He was all searching for a nest, a ways away into the brush.
“You take up high, I’ll go down low?” Keegan asked into the comms for confirmation as he found a comfortable place to get vantage from, half expecting a vocal response from Jack and half expecting a snap or something in reply.
Whistle.
“That works.” Keegan chuckled to himself as he pulled his rifle off his back and nestled into the dirt, mounting the tripod on a hard surface so that he could get a stable view. Meanwhile, Jack climbed up into the large redwood. He struggled at first because of his knee, but eventually he powered through and hoisted himself into straddling a large limb. “Are you in position?”
“Roger — the place should be empty, but you know how that goes. We’ll clean and clear, then raid for supplies.” Merrick replied, voice a low crackle over the comms, before silence fell over the area. Jack relaxed back against the trunk of the tree as he racked a round in his rifle, sliding the bolt into place as he looked down the scope. It was peaceful, almost, quiet. The idle rustle of birds in the trees and the quiet thrum of the earth breezing past, only occasionally interrupted by the crackle of activity over the radio.
Jack hummed quietly, the soft rumble of his voice in his throat only truly comfortable in a muffled manner, barely making any sound at all. He felt his finger gently sliding over the trigger, not quite squeezing just yet — there was next to no movement ahead, save for Merrick and Kick as they navigated the empty warehouse.
They spent a long while going through the place room by room, combing it through, picking up any usable supplies. Sterile equipment, alcohol, first aid kit materials — all sorts of things. It had been vacant for quite a while, clearly, despite old Federation flags flying above. They’d yet to reoccupy it after their removal, meaning everything inside was up to date and ripe for the taking.
Jack’s gaze traveled around outside, flickering from the warehouse to the dirt road leading up to it, watching a car start to close in. Federation flags. His eyes went wide and he stuttered to speak, nothing quite coming out. Damn anxiety reaching up from the depths of his stomach to choke him out internally, clawing his vocal chords into submission.
Three, rapid fire whistles. High pitched and quiet all at once, ringing out through the comms.
“Movement?” Keegan asked quickly.
One.
“Got it. Watch your backs, boys. How many?” Keegan called.
Five.
“Five tangoes, on their way to your position.”
“He didn't say anything, Keegan. Are you sure you're not hearin’ things?” Kick asked, almost a laugh to his voice when he spoke.
“I’m sure.” Keegan asserted, glancing over through the blur of leaves and trees blocking his view of Jack. He had to be right. A couple of seconds pass and he can see the vehicle for himself, five Federation soldiers climbing out slowly. Stalking their prey. Merrick and Kick. Jack wasn’t scared, though, knowing very well that he only had one shot before they were aware of him.
He let out all of the breath he had been holding in from his lungs, took a deep breath and released it slowly, feeling the unsteadiness slip out of reach.
Bang.
Two down. One shot.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
Jack gave a long, drawn out whistle of satisfaction as he took a new breath in.
Pride washed over him all at once. The warm, fuzzy feeling of success seeped into his bones and made him blush all over, a hot feeling in the pit of his stomach.
“We're on our way out now to confirm kills. Meet us down here?” Merrick asked.
“Rog.” Keegan replied, leaving Jack to watch the doors in anticipation. Before he knew it, Keegan had made his way over, looking up at Jack perched in the tree. He rocked back on his heels slightly, taken aback by the way Jack had curled himself up onto a tree limb, nearly wrapped around it as he aimed down sight. His cheek was pressed up against his rifle, keeping him nice and steady.. “Look like a bird up there, y'know that, Jackie?”
Jack sat up straight, a bit surprised. He hadn't been listening at all to his surroundings, sort of zoned out as he watched down his scope. A bird? He prayed that didn’t stick.
“The whistling works. Got my attention real fuckin’ quick.” Keegan extended a hand to Jack, helping him climb down from the tree unceremoniously. He replied with a playful whistle, a smile crossing his expression briefly. After collecting his first 5 confirmed kills as a Ghost, they returned to base in the same car they came in. Quiet, at first, but Merrick broke the silence midway back to HQ.
“Quiet type, huh, Skalbek?” Merrick asked, glancing back in the rear view mirror.
“Leave him be.” Keegan asserted. His voice always seemed to be quiet and soft spoken, but he had a bite to it that showed he meant business. If anything good happened to Keegan while he was gone, it was that voice.
“Didn't mean anything by it. You did great out there, Jack.” Merrick defended himself.
Silently, Jack thumbed over the pristine Federation tags before stuffing them into the pocket on his vest. He didn't like the idea of keeping trophies, but those tags were proof that he could actually do some good here.
It took a long time for him to truly feel that way.
Like, the first time he got to see his own dormitory. It wasn’t anything crazy, just a room with four walls and a bed right down the hallway from the showers, but it was his room with four walls and a bed. Dark, cozy sheets on the mattress, a warm light overhead — his name on the door. Jack actually sort of felt important for once in his life, and he began to understand the draw and appeal of military life. There was one tiny problem with the lone dorm, though.
Even at UCLA, he dormed with someone else. His first apartment had a roommate, and the same man moved with him into their home in Los Angeles with a handful of friends. He had no siblings as a child, but Keegan and Alex were at his house so frequently he may as well have at that point. Being alone did not come easily to Jack.
“Hey — came to drop off your tags.” Keegan knocked at the door, a little whistle coming from inside telling him to enter. When he threw the door open he saw Jack sitting on his bed, legs crossed, just sort of looking lost once again. A recurring theme for the blonde. “Need some decor in here, seriously. It’s abysmal.”
Jack just sort of shrugged, catching his tags mid-air when Keegan threw them, the jingling making him flinch slightly. They had, of course, his name on them. Blood type, affiliation, spot for a call sign if one ever stuck to him. He thumbed over the engraving before undoing the clasp and snapping it back into place around his neck, stuffing it beneath his shirt. It was ice cold, but the metal would warm and warp to him eventually. Become like a second skin, something he couldn't go anywhere without.
“I had something else, too, but — s’up to you if you want it or not. Could always make your own.” Keegan added as he came a bit further into the room, taking a seat on the edge of the bed beside Jack. He reached into his pants pocket and pulled out a piece of black fabric, neatly folded into a little square. When unfolded, Jack could see it was a mask, his very own. It looked similar in pattern to Keegan’s, but noticably neater and cleaner in texture and facial features — across the mouth were two black strips in an X. Maybe a little bit on the nose, but he couldn't complain.
“It’s not great compared to what you could probably do — don't know if you’re still into the whole art thing these days.”
Jack shook his head, turning the mask over a couple of times in his hands before he went to put it on. The fabric was thick, making him uncomfortable at first, but once it was in place he could breathe easily. He looked over at Keegan as if to ask how he looked, the scrunched up wrinkles around the other’s eyes telling him everything he needed to know.
“Little Ghost.” Keegan hummed, ruffling up Jack’s hair in a playful manner. “You’re one of us now, as far as I’m concerned.”
Wide eyes like saucers, just looking up at Keegan with awe, wondering how they'd managed this. Circling back to sitting in Jack’s room, though this time it was less than cozy. Even without the Christmas lights casting a warm glow over everything, though, Keegan was more sure than he ever had been that everything was worth it to end up here.
That summer, July was hot in Santa Monica. The sun bathed the city with regularity, not even letting up in the evening. Though, there seemed to be a brief respite in between months of hardship.
After a particularly good bout of missions, Jack even getting some more confidence in himself (and a call sign, while he was at it) they decided to have a small leisure break. Time for themselves, to breathe in without the threat of being dispatched on a mission looming overhead. Something that many of them hadn't had a chance to do in a long, long while. There often wasn't much remaining time for recreational drinking, but Keegan couldn't lie, there was something about Jack in the doorway of his dorm with two cans of beer that made his heart skip a couple of beats.
Sure, they’d stolen liquor as teenagers and gotten wasted on Jack’s roof. His mom always made sure that they were safe and well looked after when they made those foolish errors, giving them plenty of room to make mistakes and not feel stupid about it.
They had kind of missed out on sharing 21st birthdays, though. Keegan's was a year sooner than Jack’s, so they would've had to wait anyways, but they’d inadvertently waited over a decade. The crack of the pop-taps couldn't come soon enough, and neither could the ensuing burn of alcohol. It was liquid comfort, burning the whole way down and settling in the stomach, leaving every sensation tinged a hazy shade of amber.
Kick, in his endless curiosity, had obtained a camcorder at some rate. They had access to new technology, high quality drones and cameras, and yet he was obsessing over the film grain and scan lines of the older camera. It was probably as old as him, the brand name long scratched off from time and use, but he still boasted it’s American made durability. Pointing it at Jack after a couple of drinks, giggling to himself as he zoomed it in and out.
“Alright, alright — this one’s Jack. We’re still — heh — getting used to him, but this kid?” Kick turned the camera to himself for dramatic effect. “Sharpshooter. I think he could shoot the pimento out of a fucking olive from a hundred meters out.”
“He said that’s pushing it.” Keegan answered for Jack, having taken up that role nicely. They weren't quite at the point of telepathy, but beating ASL into his head was starting to work. Jack picked up usage of it back in college, so a refresher was needed before he could actually use it, but the main problem was teaching it to Keegan. He was impatient and short tempered, but he could learn it for the other's sake.
“Maybe! Maybe it's not! Only way to find out is to try, Jack.” Kick snickered as he turned the camera around again, watching through the viewfinder as Ajax joined Keegan and Jack on the balcony. The sunset over Santa Monica Pier was beautiful, even now, with a fort plopped overtop of it. Ajax took his spot between the two others, throwing his arms around them with a smile.
“Good to have the gang back together.” Ajax hummed, pulling Jack in a bit closer, spilling a little bit of his drink in the process. “Fucking missed you, kid, seriously. You have no idea what it was like dealing with Grumpy over here for 15 years without you.”
“I’m not grumpy.” Keegan huffed. “I’m apathetic.”
“Whatever you say.” Ajax laughed, snatching Keegan’s drink from his hand before disappearing back inside with Kick hot on his heels. It was a mostly empty can anyways, so he wasn't terribly disappointed. Still, he wanted to obtain just one more for the end of the night, grabbing one for Jack as well. Turns out, both of them grew up with quite the tolerance for the stuff despite having exactly zero when they were younger. Keegan’s resilience could be attributed to body mass, but Jack’s was built entirely on whiskey lullabies.
The years of travel were hard on him, a once soft and fearful creature of a boy, now…a man.
Keegan took a moment in the doorway to look at him, really look at him. Wearing sweat-shorts and that blasted knee brace, scars drawing up and down the length of his left leg. His sweatshirt, an increasingly well used and loved camouflage tarp of cloth, swallowing up his lanky frame with ease. Those pretty brown eyes, watching the sun dip beneath the horizon, casting tangerine and coral hues all over him.
It was straight out of a movie, or a memory, he couldn't tell.
What’re you staring at? Jack signed, catching Keegan a bit off guard. He bit at his bottom lip beneath his mask and unhooked one side of it to take a drink from the fresh can.
“You. Just…taking it all in.”
Take your time. I’m here now.
“Got no idea how good it feels to know that you're still kickin’ dirt up, Jackie, I…” Keegan stuttered a bit, an uncommon occurrence for him. He didn't feel that sort of nervousness often, hadn't since he left for basic. Scratch that. He hadn't felt genuinely nervous since Tel Aviv, calling Jack from the back of that plane, hands trembling in fear. This wasn't anything like that, though, this was the butterflies sort of nervousness. Somehow, infinitely more terrifying than getting shot at. “I want to make it up to you, somehow.”
What?
“The last…what, 15 years?”
We're older now. You know that. Can't go back and change what already happened. Jack shrugged, not quite grasping that Keegan meant it. He wanted to repair what damage had been done to whatever extent he could, even if things were vastly different, even if they were entirely different people now.
Whether Jack knew it or not, he still had the combination to Keegan's pad-lock chest, the chasm labeled hollow to keep anything good out. It didn't matter how they got here, what mattered was now Keegan has a shot at actually apologizing. Making right what he had once done wrong. He would regret not reaching out sooner until the day he was dead, but he could do better this time around. This is not the kind of opportunity he could squander.
No way in hell.
“I know. But…I can be the person now that I couldn't be then.” Keegan came closer until he was leaning up against the railing, too, overlooking the pier. If he looked up at the stars long enough, he could almost imagine the floating space trash left behind from ODIN, what didn't enter the atmosphere swirling and churning above their heads. “I’m not saying we pick up where we left off in ‘07, I’m just asking that you hear me out.”
Okay. I’ll bite.
“Plain and simple. We know what happened in-between then and now, but we can just…ignore it.” Keegan inched closer as he spoke, until he was shoulder to shoulder with the shorter man. The cold drink in his hand was all he had to steady himself, shocking his system into continuing to speak. “You know I loved you then and I still do.”
Jack swallowed. Loud. The can in his hand crinkled slightly under the pressure he was holding it with, his mouth dry. He still loved him? He? Stone cold, violence wrought, Keegan fucking Russ still loved him?
He, who hid at Jack’s house from his parents, always thanking Mrs. Skalbek for the place to stay, always denying how often he was there. Hiding the fleeting kisses, never lingering long enough to leave a mark on soft flesh. Lying to himself and his father, always forcing himself into the image of what he thought a man to be, never showing much softness at all.
Only to Jack, only back then, only behind closed doors.
This was a massive, groundbreaking departure from whomever that was back then. It took their semi-permanent separation for Keegan to admit that he loved Jack the first time, it only took a few months this go around. The promise of staying, rather than leaving or coming back, was much more emotionally grounding.
“Was that too much?” Keegan asked after a moment. He seemed on edge about Jack’s reaction, gaze flickering anywhere but on those soft brown eyes, eating him alive.
No. It's just been a long time.
“You probably moved on, like, a few months after I last called, huh?”
Never. Jack sighed softly in reply. There was emotion in the movement of his hands, his eyes portraying all of that sadness well. It was never really over.
Just five words, but those five words carried an unspeakable weight. Keegan stared for only a few seconds, going to speak when Jack continued.
Everything came back to you one way or another. My thesis for my degree was a portfolio full of you. I still texted you every time I needed to talk even if you didn't answer, I needed you. My mom called me every few months and I was so scared that she would tell me you were dead that I just didn't pick up. Everything I did up until the fucking world ended was about you, no matter how fast I ran.
It all spilled out so fast that Jack couldn't even be impressed with himself. His hands stuttered every once in a while on more complex words. The words themselves shocked Keegan, too, but that was secondary. He felt wholly guilty for ever letting himself get so close to Jack back then, because his own feverish dreams of doing something with his life just meant he did that to Jack. Got him hooked and ran, watching it spiral out of hand until he was sure he lost Jack forever. The red string tying them together threatened to be severed by the universe with every knot and fray in its threads.
But it never broke. It never fell lifeless.
He would've thought that Jack married, maybe even squeaked out a kid or two, joined the PTA. Cut his hair short and finally start making art for a living, take his kids to soccer practice — not wake up in the middle of the night missing his highschool boyfriend.
Boyfriend.
Were they ever even that much?
Are you gonna say something or what, K? Jack added, breaking Keegan out of the cyclical nightmare of thoughts in his mind.
“I just didn't…know you felt that way about it.”
You had everything to lose by loving me, and you did it anyway. How could I ever move on from that? He wasn't speaking, but he was feeling every emotion from every word. Jack’s eyes were all welled with tears, a soft gasp escaping with every mouthed syllable. Threatening to spill out, but not quite making a sound.
Keegan knew what Jack meant. He would’ve been kicked out if his father ever caught wind of what Keegan was doing with ‘the no-good Skalbek boy’ down the street. If not for Jack’s mom, they would’ve never gotten as far as they did back then. Even then, it wasn't far. He would’ve been spitting teeth from that fight, if he ever found out, probably dead.
He’d unknowingly shown Jack that someone could love him enough to die for him, and as a consequence he never really learned how to be loved any less.
“You still feel that way?” Keegan asked after a moment of silence, a bit of his inhibition slipping away. Perhaps it was the alcohol, perhaps it was just an old spark flickering back into life.
Always.
“Can I start trying to make up for that lost time, then?”
“Please.” Jack replied out loud, gaze averted out of embarrassment. That didn't last long, though, not with that spark beginning to rage into flames. Nothing could've kept Keegan’s hands off of him, his drink thrust into Jack’s hand so that he could pick him up a little bit easier. Hoisting him up onto the railing of the balcony for balance, strong arms laced around Jack holding him steady. The railing creaked, the drop was far, but neither of them seemed to give a damn.
Hot. Heavy. Hurried, whiplash kisses, hands in hair and lips on teeth. It was not gentle, it was not pretty, it was feverish and raw. Keegan could've made him bleed with sharp canines on his bared neck and he would’ve been quite alright with it.
Even when Kick threw the door open, trailed by Ajax with the camcorder, he couldn't have guessed what was going on outside until he saw it. Under the haze of one flickering light that never quite stays on long enough to catch a clear glimpse, but the camera picking up their meshed bodies nonetheless.
“Get a room, you two! Sheesh!” Ajax laughed, but impressively enough, neither seemed to care.
“Mmmhmm…Can’t hear you.” Keegan murmured against Jack’s lips, earning a snicker from the blonde in his arms, still faithfully holding both of their drinks.
“Talk about making up for lost time.” Ajax joked. Kick all too certain he would get chewed out by Keegan if he drunkenly giggled too, he stayed quiet. As quickly as they came they dipped back inside with Ajax pumping his fist, proclaiming that he always knew.
“This alright, Jack?” Keegan asked, breathless as he took a moment to cool off. Still holding the other man, just leaving some space between them for now. Foolishly, Jack dropped the cans so he could sign, a blush dusting his cheeks as the half-drank liquid spattered on the ground beneath them.
Haven’t been this alright since I don't know when.
“Can't lie to you, I never — you were — ugh, fuckin’ sounds pathetic…” Keegan sucked a breath in shakily and buried his face in the crook of Jack's neck, faint scent of cologne and body wash still attached to him. “Never let anyone get close after you. No-one.”
Touch-starved did not begin to cover it.
He didn't hug, he didn't do physical contact, skin-to-skin was a foreign thing. Jack was probably the last person who touched him with bare hands and he didn't convulse. Ajax was an exception to that rule, but it wasn't like they were snuggling. Pats on the back, pull-ups onto a ledge — those weren't intimate like this. He didn't get intimate.
Jack felt sort of dirty knowing he'd gone and tried to bury the feeling of needing someone he couldn't have in the arms of others, never succeeding, whereas Keegan had done the opposite. Instead of voicing that he only ran his hands through Keegan’s short, scruffy hair, pressing a kiss to the top of his head.
“You think it’s pathetic, don't you?” Keegan sighed, nuzzling into the other man with wandering butterfly kisses, lips ghosting over his main artery.
Two whistles for no.
“Hah! Sure thing, Jackie, sure…” He laughed. “Remind me to never ask you that sorta thing again, ‘cause even your whistles sound sarcastic.”
They weren't, but Jack would let him live in his little bubble. Moments like this were never long enough, and thankfully they got to spend the rest of the night catching up on the important things, previously undiscussed stories of Jack’s life in SoCal. It was good to know that they at least had a chance before things began to kick up once again.
For some reason, things didn't.
It was a pure, mostly calm stalemate.
Sure, they still got sent on patrols. They often made ventures to the No Man’s Land border, overlooking the minefields and traps, wondering what could possibly shift the tides. Piece by piece, some bizarre force of nature allowed them to rebuild what used to be between them.
Some nights that meant they’d climb atop the roof with Keegan's iPod, still functional despite a cracked screen and barely functional UI, and let the world melt away. If only for one night at a time they could pretend to be real people, living some sort of domestic existence in a place far from the halted war. Perhaps, in that distant timeline, they wouldn't even have survived a relationship in their teen years without the hardship they’d suffered.
As far as either was concerned, it made them stronger.
Forced them to learn what it meant to live without the other one. Of course, this meant that they knew how dull and awful life could be when it was empty, and they'd fight a hell of a lot harder to stay now that they'd been threatened with separation once.
Jack was a silent killer, Keegan a mouth full of vicious mockeries. Ghosts. Wisps in the wind. Dead already, living a better afterlife on the other side of the apocalypse. Nothing the Federation could throw their way would hold any weight, of this they were certain.
its the first time ive said her name and it tastes like a fever that i know i cannot simply sweat through.
(i should've known.)
—
jesse from my novel archangels anonymous , in both of his selves . one a little more archangelic than the other , but it's still him under there ! ... right?
the divine urge as a multi-art form being to write something and draw something to go with it or vice versa . to make fanfiction that backs up my own artwork . to draw pictures of my own fanfic . im a mess .
