It's been a while, but I wrote a thing. It's for a long-dead fandom. If anyone is into Bioshock, it's posted for your reading enjoyment.
Title: A Thing to be Wound Up and Set Loose
Relationships: Atlas/Jack. Long-ass lead up.
Wordcount: 11848
Summary:
Jack is fine, Jack is goddamn indestructible. He’s the strongest man ever made and even if he dies there’s the Vita-Chambers, and as long as they’re working there’s no reason to panic--
Ice blossoms in Atlas' chest. He was panicked. He was worried because he thought something had happened to Jack. He had cared.
Oh fuck.
AU where Atlas came to Rapture to be a mechanic first, ruthless socialist revolutionary second, and accidental romantic third.
"Our contact in Miami wants to speak with someone from the organization. Spy, that’s where you come in.”
“Naturally,” Spy says neutrally.
“Aaand,” Miss Pauling draws out the word, “He specifically asked to speak with a real person, not a mask.”
“Ah,” Spy says less neutrally.
“Which is where you come in.” She beams at Scout, whose face is anything but neutral. “Spy might need backup and you’re the only one who’s already seen him without a mask.”
In which Scout and Spy take an involuntary cross-country road trip. Includes bad clothing and unexpected family bonding.
Warnings: cannon-typical violence, internalized homophobia, personal headcannon about ScoutMa.
part 2
NOTES:
Is this fandom still alive? I love this fandom, whether it's alive or not.
This was based off of @sugarandmemories‘ comic about Spy and Scout having to go on a mission together in Miami (here) which I planned to make a short fic for and instead made this because I have apparently never done a thing half-way in my life.
Thanks to @tired-pinetree for being a fantastic beta-reader and editor, and for sitting me down and going "these parts aren't working". Without you, I'd just have a mess of words on the page <3
Enjoy!
-
“Thank you for coming,” Miss Pauling says. She is cleanly dressed and holding one of her many clipboards in one hand. Scout waves at her when he enters the room; Spy rolls his eyes skyward and steps silently into the space just behind Scout’s shoulder.
“Hi,” Scout says, “What’s up?”
“I have an assignment for you,” she says brightly, “Now that you’re both here—”
“Both—?”
Scout actually jumps when he registers Spy in his peripheral vision. It’s very satisfying. Spy catches the elbow aimed at his throat before it can make contact.
“Bon matin,” he says smugly.
Scout shakes Spy’s hand away and growls something obscene under his breath.
Miss Pauling clears her throat. “Yes, hello.” She gestures to two chairs set up between a projector screen and a Kodak Carousel, “If you would?”
Spy takes a seat. Scout, still glaring, flops into the remaining seat.
Miss Pauling dims the lights and brings the carousel to life. A picture of the RED team logo appears on the screen. “As you know, I occasionally ask people to do a little ‘extracurricular’ projects for the company,” she says, her air quotes silhouetted in the light of the projector. “And today I’m tapping you two.”
Spy arches an eyebrow but doesn’t comment.
The carousel clicks to its next slide, showing a loaf of bread. “As you know, one of our subsidiaries is Red Bread.”
“I thought that was a front,” Scout says.
“The Administrator doesn’t like to use words like ‘front’,” Miss Pauling says with more air quotes, “And besides, Red Bread is a real company servicing the real community of Miami, Florida. We’re bringing baked goods to other underprivileged ‘subsidiaries’ at affordable prices.” She clicks forward to a picture of a blond man ducking out of a suspicious-looking pizza parlor. “This is Mikhail Vasechkin, one of our local connections. Apparently there’s been some new development he can’t communicate through writing or phone and he’ll only speak with a RED agent in person. Spy, that’s where you come in.”
“Naturally,” Spy says neutrally.
“Aaand,” Miss Pauling draws out the word, “He specifically asked to speak with a real person, not a mask.”
“Ah,” Spy says less neutrally.
“Which is where you come in.” She beams at Scout, whose face is anything but neutral. “Spy might need backup and you’re the only one who’s already seen him without a mask.”
“He’s ugly,” Scout says. It comes out like a reflex, as though his mouth has fallen back on instinct while the hamster wheel in his head works on something else. “It’s just a there-and-back, ain’t it? If Spy’s so good he can do it alone.”
“We don’t want to risk it. This could be a new development about the subsidiary underbelly, or it could be an attempt to capture one of our best agents. The Administrator and I are in agreement that this is a two-man job.”
Scout looks sharply at Spy. “In a car, all the way to Miami. With Spy.”
Spy pointedly does not look away from the projector screen, even as he agrees with the sentiment. “Well summarized,” he says, “Details?”
“Estimated time: one week. We’ve already loaded a souped-up car with supplies, maps, and disguises. Your first destination is written down in an envelope in the glovebox, you’ll get further instructions from there. No weapons, and no contact until you get back to base. This should be a simple operation, but you’ll be way out of respawn range so make sure you don't die. You have an hour to pack any personal items before you leave. Then you’re off on a road trip vacation!” Miss Pauling sheepishly tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. “I’m a little jealous.”
“You could come wi—”
“Thank you, Miss Pauling,” Spy interrupts. “We’ll be ready. Come along, Scout.”
“But—”
Spy grabs him by the back of the neck and forcibly steers him out of the room. “ Come along. ”
Miss Pauling either doesn’t notice or politely ignores the struggle. Scout starts shoving in earnest once they’re back out in the desert heat. “Let go , what the fuck?”
“She obviously cannot take a week off from work and asking would only make her feel worse,” Spy says.
Scout finally yanks himself free and rubs his reddened skin where Spy’s fingers dug in, mumbling, “You don’t have to be a dick about it,” which is as close to ‘thank you for not letting me make a bigger ass of myself than usual’ as he’ll ever get.
“It seems to be the only language you understand,” Spy replies, lighting a cigarette, “I’ll meet you at the car. I am driving.”
“Asshole’s the only language you understand,” Scout snaps, jogging ahead to the barracks to, presumably, fill a suitcase with dirty laundry and baseball cards. Spy exhales a nicotine cloud. His disguise kit can hold up to ten cigarettes, but he’s going to need at least double that to make it through the week.
-
“Minnesota!”
Spy grunts and almost drops his cigarette when Scout's fist connects with his shoulder. He’s certainly made up this ‘license plate game’ with the sole intent of punching Spy while he can’t retaliate, and while he’ll never admit it, Spy’s arm is getting sore. Luckily, the cars on the road are precious few; by the rules of his own game Scout has only been able to hit him six or seven times. Spy subtly rolls his shoulder. He can see Scout grinning in the corner of his eye.
He adjusts the cigarette in his mouth. “If I were not driving, I would kill you.”
“I’d like to see you try,” Scout says as he begins to play with the radio. He’s wearing the red-tinted glasses they’d found in the glovebox next to their instructions, which turned out to be nothing more than an address several miles outside of Miami.
“I’m no school boy but I know what I like, you should have heard them just around midnight,” a singer croons.
“You cannot honestly think you could beat me in a fight.”
“You think you’ve lost your love, well I saw her yesterday-yi-yay. It’s you she’s thinking of and she told me what to say-yi-yay--”
“Oh man, I’m so scared right now.” Scout holds up his free hand and wiggles his fingers. “Look at them shakes. So scared.”
“Hope you’ve got your things together, hope you are quite prepared to die--”
“If you do not pick a station,” Spy says calmly, “I’m putting a knife through the speaker.”
“You said you didn’t care what we listened to.” Scout continues to flip through the jumble of radio waves. It’s a miracle he can hear anything over the noise of the car traveling at 150 mph (courtesy of Engineer’s tinkering and Spy’s impeccable driving), let alone identify the sounds coming through the speakers well enough to decide to look for something else. “And anyway, you don’t have a knife.”
“There are almost a dozen within reach,” Spy mutters.
“You brought a weapon on this mission? Spy, I’m hurt! Miss Pauling specifically said--”
“I saw you put your bat in the trunk.”
“For batting practice! Can’t afford to slack off.”
“I saw you put your gun in the trunk.”
“For shooting practice! Can’t afford to--”
“You know what,” Spy says abruptly, “There is something I’d like to listen to. Have you ever played the quiet game? ”
Scout’s incredulity is so strong, Spy can see the expression without turning his head. “Are you kidding. Are you kidding me right now? You’re seriously treating me like a kid?”
“If the shoe fits--”
“No freakin’ way. If you felt like being a parent, you missed the boat like twenty years ago.”
Spy sighs slowly through his nose. “Are we going to have a problem, Scout?”
“No problems from me.” Scout props his feet up on the dashboard and shoves a piece of gum into his mouth. He idly spins the radio dial with his toes. A million stations fill the cabin, accompanied by the sound of the most obnoxious open-mouthed chewing Spy has ever had the misfortune to experience. Scout’s toothy grin tells him none of this is accidental. “How’s about you, Spy? You got anything you’d like to air out?”
Spy takes a deep breath. His has worked in international espionage since the age of fourteen. He once spent three years undercover in a maximum security hair salon. He once escaped a Boxing Day party using nothing but his wits, a pen cartridge, and two sprigs of rosemary. Surely he can endure one cross-country road trip without killing his remarkably irritating son.
Scout sticks out his gum-covered tongue. He must have added three more pieces to the one he was chewing because dear god the resulting bubble is going to kill them both. Spy grabs one of the three knives taped behind the steering wheel and bursts the thing in self defence. He gets his quiet when the splatter engulfs Scout’s entire head, gluing his mouth shut for three blissful minutes until Spy’s conscience kicks in and he cuts Scout an air hole.
“If you say anything,” Spy says as Scout gasps and sputters back to life, “I will let you suffocate in your own idiocy.”
His gummy passenger probably glares, but the effect is lost under the bright pink candy. Scout spends the next half hour silently clawing gum off his face. Spy magnanimously doesn’t count his deeply disgusted noises as talking.
-
Scout, who doesn’t seem to handle idleness well at the best of times and began fidgeting in his seat several hours ago, throws himself out the passenger-side door as soon as Spy backs into their designated motel parking space.
“No, don’t worry about it, I’ll take care of our things,” Spy deadpans. He slings his suit jacket over his shoulder and walks around behind the car before it becomes apparent Scout isn’t coming back.
A quick glance at their room confirms it: the door is open. Perhaps they’ve chosen a poorly secured placed to stay, but Spy has been driving for ten hours and doesn’t care to search for another. He collects his case, locks the trunk, and enters their room.
Scout has already claimed the bed farthest from the door. He sits cross-legged with his attention fixed rapturously on the TV. Spy assumes there is some kind of baseball game going on.
“Did you at least check the room before you zoned out?” He asks, closing the door behind him.
“Bathroom’s clear, nothing under the beds,” Scout says.
“Perfunctory. You realize anyone could have come in here before us?”
“It’s fine.”
“You assume everything is fine,” Spy says, “You have no idea what kind of dangers there are in our line of work.”
“Uh, yeah I do, I get killed like twenty times a day. Besides, the door was locked and the window in the bathroom ain’t been picked, so.” He waves his hand in a shushing gesture without looking away from the game.
“Clearly it wasn’t if you could get in,” Spy says, but his finely-honed sense of misplacement is going off. “Did you steal keys from the manager?”
“Nah,” Scout says with a smirk.
Spy checks his pockets. He checks them again. He checks his jacket pockets. He even pats down the twin knife holsters under his shirt because there is no possibility that Scout picked his pocket.
“Check your gloves?” Scout asks sarcastically. Sure enough, he’s spinning their keys on his finger.
“You little brat,” Spy hisses.
“What about your fake molars? Maybe they’re in there.” When Spy storms towards him, Scout flicks the key ring away. It pings across the room with unerring accuracy and disappear down the floor vent. “Whoops, clumsy me.”
It takes several very long moments for Spy to master himself. When he can speak without grinding his teeth, he calmly crosses the room to the TV. “If you are going to act like a child.”
“Hey--”
“Then you are,” he snaps an antenna, “Grounded.”
The screen immediately flips to static. Scout lets out a cry of horror and shoves Spy aside, but the damage has already been done: reception is well and truly lost. He fruitlessly beats the side of the box with his palm. “Nonono no .”
“Do you know how to fix a broken receiver?” Spy twirls the severed metal between his fingers. “I do, but I seem to have forgotten. If only I could go for a walk to jog my memory without leaving the door unlocked.”
Scout scowls murderously.
“Alas, the keys are misplaced--”
“You're a bastard, you know that?” Scout says as he stomps into his shoes.
“Ah-ah, I believe 'grounded’ means you are to stay here.” Spy moves to lean his shoulders back against the door, “And I want those keys.”
“First, fuck you. Second, I got nothing to get them out, so get the fuck out of my way,” Scout says, roughly shoving Spy’s arm.
Spy continues to block the door. He wonders how long Scout’s tenuous sense of self-preservation will keep him from attacking. “Let me be more clear: get the keys, or I will call your mother.”
As it turns out, Scout is even less concerned with his own well being than predicted. He throws his full weight behind a forearm against Spy’s chest and, when Spy doesn’t yield, moves the arm to his neck. “Listen, asshole,” Scout growls, “I’m not even gonna pretend to get your relationship with my Ma, but for some reason you make her happy enough to forgive you for running off when she got pregnant. You and me got shit, sure, whatever, but you do anything to make her even remotely upset,” he grinds his arm into Spy’s throat, presumably for emphasis, “I will fuckin’ kill you.”
Spy grabs Scout’s opposite wrist and bends it the wrong way. To his surprise Scout rolls his arm with the motion and smashes his elbow into Spy’s side. Spy counters with a sharp knee to Scout’s gut. They stagger apart in opposite directions.
After a nice long string of curses, Spy uses a bed as leverage to get to his feet. He manages to grunt, “The feeling is mutual. ”
“Fuck,” Scout wheezes from where he’s clutching his stomach and swearing into the carpet. “I mean good. ”
Spy ignores his spasming diaphragm to straighten his tie. “It is truly a mystery how a woman as lovely as your mother raised a monster like you . I am going to take a shower,” he says, turning towards the bathroom where he can catch his breath away from Scout’s spiteful gaze.
Just as the door closes behind him, he hears Scout mutter, “Probably because she had to do it alone.”
After more than thirty years of intelligence work involving lies, betrayal, and the occasional murder, Spy thought there was nothing anyone could say to hurt him. He turns on the water and ignores everything he’s thinking.
-
When he exits the bathroom an hour later, Scout has already passed out on the bed by the defunct TV. Predictably, he tosses in his sleep, mumbling and kicking and shoving the bedclothes away only to frown and throw a searching hand onto the floor when he can’t find them. Spy watches him feel half-consciously across the carpet for his missing blankets.
“Snipes,” Scout mutters, “Can’tcha just...”
Even unconscious, he is too loud and too energetic. Spy is probably supposed to feel ‘fondness’ or perhaps ‘contentment’, but all he finds a muted version of his usual annoyance.
After finding Scout’s name just after his own on RED’s roster (and hadn’t that been a nasty shock), Spy had expected watching his deaths to be unpleasant. Braced himself for it, even. Instead he found the same irritation he’d feel towards any coworker’s incompetence; watching Scout meet his end in enemy fire felt the same as watching a receptionist load their typewriter backwards. Spy supposes he never was the sentimental type, but to feel nothing at the repeated deaths of his own child is… disappointing.
Spy removes his tie and shuts off the light. He listens to Scout shuffle across the mattress until sleep comes for him.
-
Spy is only a morning person through discipline. It took years of training to get himself out of bed before noon, so he’s surprised to see Scout awake only ten minutes after Spy has made is morning espresso.
“Where the hell did you get coffee?” He grumbles, hair sticking up in all directions.
“I brought it with me,” Spy says coolly.
Scout blearily smudges the heel of his hand across his eyes. “Lemme guess, you only brought enough for one.”
“I could be convinced to make another cup, if you--”
“Get the keys, yeah, I get it.” Scout yawns and shuffles across the room, leaving blankets trailed across the floor in his wake. “You're such a bastard.”
Spy eyes the blankets with distaste. “You are twenty-seven years old, not a teenager. Perhaps consider acting your age.”
Scout flips him off as he disappears into the bathroom. He even slams the door for effect. It reopens a moment later. “The fuck are you wearing?”
Spy sips his espresso and refuses to feel any embarrassment. “The disguise Miss Pauling chose for me. Yours is hanging in the shower.”
“Is that floral print? Why the fuck are you wearing sunglasses inside?”
“You know, I somehow thought your vulgar word choice was to appeal to our teammates.” Spy sets down his tiny cup. “How foolish of me to think of you as anything but an uncouth man child.”
Scout rolls his eyes and slams the bathroom door a second time.
The truth is that after years wearing a mask, Spy isn’t comfortable with his own uncovered face. He’d rather deaden his eyesight than be exposed.
By the time Scout emerges from the bathroom, Spy has washed his tiny cup and saucer and set them on the windowsill to dry. Scout is still wearing his pajamas, but has bent the clothes hanger into some approximation of a hook.
“You don’t really expect that to work,” Spy sneers.
“Chill, asshole.” Scout peers into the vent, “You’re lucky I’m doing this at all.”
Spy watches as he studies the grating. Scout looks at it from all angles, adjusts his makeshift fishing tool, and slowly lowers it into the vents. The wire taps against the metal duct a few times. Scout actually sticks his tongue out in concentration.
“It isn’t possible to—”
“Got it.” Scout carefully draws the wire back. Sure enough, the keys dangle off the end. “Time to put your coffee maker where your mouth is, jackass.”
Spy cocks an impassive eyebrow. “Can you handle espresso?”
“After the stuff Medic makes for me, I’m gonna need at least three of those before we hit the road,” Scout says dismissively.
“No wonder you’re so short.”
Scout chucks the keys at Spy’s head. “Asshole,” he grumbles, wandering back into the bathroom. The shower sputters to life a moment later.
Despite his best efforts, Spy is both mildly impressed at the boy’s dexterity and mildly concerned that Medic is feeding him questionable energy drinks. He shelves both thoughts and flips the coffeemaker on. It gurgles. The shower rattles. Spy looks out the window on the off-chance something interesting happens outside. On a whim he rummages through his suitcase for a tube of welding glue and uses it to reattach the TV antennae. It flickers to life when he turns the knob. He turns it to a local news station and attends the espresso.
The shower squeaks back off. Scout makes a terrible racket of thumping and swearing, finally emerging in the clothes Pauling picked for him. The hat is only slightly different from his uniform, but the enormous black and white tracksuit is quite the departure from his uniform. “What the fuck is wrong with Miami?”
Spy has similar feelings on the matter. If this clothing selection is accurate, Florida has done something terrible to these people.
“Hey, you fixed the TV. I figured you didn’t know how,” Scout says as he picks up his coffee. To Spy’s disgust, he tosses back the espresso like shot. “Ugh, this stuff tastes like shit.”
“And that is why I only brought cheap coffee.” He plucks the empty cup from Scout’s hands before he can do something stupid with it. “I will be leaving in ten minutes. Be in the car or I will leave you behind.”
Scout mutters something like “asshole” under his breath, but collects his things all the same.
-
“ Louisiana! ” Scout slams his fist into Spy’s arm. It’s the third poignantly forceful punch since they began driving this morning.
Spy takes a deep breath. “You said the plates only counted if they are from another state. We are still in Louisiana.”
“Whoops, my bad,” Scout says in a tone that convey zero apology. Another car drives by and he shouts, “ Louisiana!” again.
Spy catches his fist this time. “If you hit me one more time , I will drive this car back to Teufort and tell Miss Pauling it is because you failed. ”
He means to sound threatening. To his immense irritation, Scout bursts out laughing. “That’s such a freakin’ dad thing to say.”
“It is not,” Spy says through gritted teeth, “It’s something adults say to children who cannot behave.”
“You tried to play the ‘quiet game’,” he says, making air-quotes the way Miss Pauling might, “You ‘grounded’ me, and now you’ve pulled ‘don’t make me turn this car around’. Sure you don’t have kids running around somewhere? Oh, wait.”
Spy grits his teeth. They will be at their first destination in eight hours. Surely he can refrain from doing anything rash for that long.
“There’s another one! I think the license plate starts with an ‘L’--”
-
Thanks to Engineer's ridiculous turbo-boosters (as he calls them), they arrive in Tampa by nightfall. Spy finds an independent motel a few short miles from center city. The motel owner is a professional who offers a copy of the evening paper without asking why Spy is wearing sunglasses at night, or why his car is making repeated banging noises. Spy smiles politely, pulls up to their room, and smugly lets Scout out of the trunk.
“I fuckin’ hate you,” Scout grumbles, massaging bloodflow back into his limbs.
“The feeling is mutual,” Spy replies, shoving Scout’s suitcase into his arms. “Behave and you get to ride in the car tomorrow.”
Scout glares, but keeps his mouth shut and keeps the TV to a reasonable volume for this evening’s game. For a while, Spy pretends not to notice the furtive staring he does between pitches, but he’d be a poor intelligence agent if he couldn’t recognize someone psyching themselves up to speak. “Do you have something to say?” He asks without looking up from the paper.
Scout makes a face that suggests he’s thinking about something dangerous. “Nah,” he says, “But uh. Do you wanna watch?”
“I do not follow baseball,” Spy says.
Scout looks away. His face hardens and his shoulder hunch. “Right. Probably not a thing in Europe or wherever.”
Spy studies him in his peripheral vision. “No.”
Scout turns back to his program, but no longer seems to be paying attention. He doesn’t say anything through the evening continues to hold his peace after the lights go out.
-
They leave early the next morning. Scout, who has been quiet and, dare Spy say, polite , gets to sit in the passenger seat. He stares out the window and keeps the fidgeting to a minimum. Even the radio remains untouched. It’s heavenly, better than Spy could have hoped.
It’s also suspicious.
“Scout.”
“What?” Scout says, breathing on the window to doodle in the condensation.
“What are you doing?”
“Nothing.”
“You are always doing something, what is it?”
Scout throws his hands in the air. “I’m not doing anything! I’m not doing any of the shit you were complaining about: I’m not making noise, I’m not moving around, I don’t even have any gum.”
Spy’s eyes narrow. “You are always doing something.”
“For fuck’s sake, Spy, there’s nothing else for me to not do! Do you want me to stop breathing, is that it? Am I breathing too loud?”
“You are certainly complaining too loudly now,” Spy snaps.
Scout makes a frustrated noise and a strangling gesture, then dives headfirst over the center console into the back seat.
“What are you doing?!” Spy yells, holding the gearshift so Scout can’t kick it out of place.
“Fuck you,” Scout says as he squirms beneath their clothing and into the foot space, “Wake me up when we get wherever.”
“Oh yes very mature, hide in the backseat like a child. ”
Scout throws up a one-fingered salute in the rear view mirror.
“Good riddance,” Spy hisses, settling himself back into the driver’s seat.
The miles rack up in silence. The sun creeps up over the horizon ahead of him, chasing off the night with pink and orange ombre. It’s beautiful in a cliche sort of way, and as if he could not be more of a French stereotype, reminds him of the night he met Scout’s mother.
The second of Don Genarro’s five children, Minerva had wrenched the throne from her older brother who cited a sudden desire to become a painter in Canada and hasn’t been seen since, leaving her as mob boss of the greater New England area. Spy met her one night at a bar, long after her (mostly peaceful) takeover. She had recently performed a (mostly peaceful) restructuring of her nuclear family, and was taking a rare night on the town before rolling up her sleeves and diving into single motherhood; Spy was paid by a rival gang to watch her for weaknesses. She had seven (seven!) children, was six years his senior and wore her hair in a beehive and swore like it was going out of style and snorted when she laughed.
“Gonna stare all day,” she’d asked, “Or are you gonna buy me a drink?”
Her dress was a similar pink to today’s sky. Upon taking the seat next to her, he’d found himself on the business end of a stiletto blade that, to this day, she will not tell him where she hid. It hovered just over his femoral artery while the the bartender made her drink.
“Here’s what’s going to happen: you’re going to tell me what Donnie Mareto thinks he’s going to accomplish by ruining my fucking night off, then you’re going to pay my tab and just maybe I won’t have to ruin my new Ava Gardner dress with your arterial spray.”
He never had a chance.
“Are you going to sulk back there all day?” He asks the back seat.
Scout doesn’t reply. He seems intent on sleeping, or possibly on ignoring Spy.
Spy knows Scout’s mother wants him to get along with their son. It isn’t reasonable, there’s too much time and too many difficult emotions between them to ever be a ‘real family’ (her words, not his), but still he grits his teeth and asks, “What do you want for breakfast?”
The backseat yields no answer.
“I understand a traditional American breakfast involves pancakes.”
“Fuck off,” Scout mutters from under a sweater.
When Spy sees a diner advertised on the next exit board, he makes the executive decision to pull over for food. He enters the establishment alone and orders a breakfast special and coffee. Scout, who is always less stubborn than hungry, shuffles in ten minutes later to a plate of eggs and bacon.
They don’t talk, but they don’t argue either. Spy sips his coffee. The diner seems to be some kind of neutral ground between the arguing.
“You already eat yours?” Scout asks.
“I ate in the motel.”
“Was it one of those weird-ass tiny dinners you keep in your teeth?”
“If you must know, it was fruit. I managed to find some at a gas station yesterday.”
“Yeah, I didn’t see that part because I was locked in a trunk.”
“Hmm,” Spy says, pointedly not meeting Scout’s glare, “I remember you being insufferable and then much better behaved.”
Scout snorts, but doesn’t stop shoveling food into his mouth. Breakfast seems to have mollified him. “You can never call Ma on me now, y’know. I got the last word on everything because you locked me in a trunk. ”
Spy had considered this at the time, and ultimately decided a full eight hours of silence was worth the potential backlash. “It seems our problem must stay between us.”
“No shit.” Scout folds a pancake in half and starts loading eggs onto it like a tortilla. “I’ll be honest, I didn’t think you had it in you.”
“Oh?” Spy asks, watching breakfast foods pile into the makeshift tortilla. It’s horrifying, yet fascinating to see what Scout will try to eat next.
“You like to keep your hands clean, I figured you’d be a wuss in an actual fight.”
“Just because I wash my hands--”
Scout makes a stop gesture with the hand holding his breakfast wrap, splashing a drop of syrup on the table. “Not like that, jackass. You always do things sneaky-like, all disappearing and backstabs and ‘right behind you’ . You never take a guy head-on. I didn’t think you’d be any good at it.”
Spy leans back in his seat and cocks an eyebrow. He’s actually curious to see where this conversation goes. “You have seen me kill enemies with my bare hands on multiple occasions. What on Earth made you think I wouldn’t be able to fight you?”
Scout shrugs and bites off half the pancake concoction. He mercifully does not try to talk around it until he’s finished. “Mick says you’re a wuss.”
That gives Spy pause. “I wasn’t aware you two were on first-name basis.”
“ Sniper says your a wuss,” Scout says with an eye-roll.
“That man lives in a car and engages enemies by running five miles away and looking at them through a tube. What does he know?”
“He’s got long arms,” Scout points out.
“That he uses to hold two tubes glued together.”
“Got a big knife.”
“Compensation,” Spy says.
Scout chokes on his food.
Spy studies Scout’s face to make sure the sunglasses aren’t distorting his vision. “Surely you are not--”
“No.” Scout bangs on his own chest to clear it, glaring at Spy through the endeavor. Given the short duration of the choking, his face is redder than it should be. “Fuck no, and fuck you. I don’t think of anyone like that.”
“Good god, you are prude. You are so American, you can’t stand even the thought of another man’s body.”
Scout grabs the remains of his breakfast off the plate. “And that’s it for me.”
“How have you survived in the locker room for this long? Everyone gets changed at the same time, surely you’ve seen--”
“Nope.” Scout crosses the diner toward the door, pancakes in hand. “Not talking about this.”
Spy sips his coffee as Scout makes his red-faced exit. He spares a moment to imagine the pairing (what would Scout and the busman even do? Go camping? The idea is laughable) and takes his time flagging down a waitress for the bill. He is… not amused, but not completely irritated either. He muses on this as he leaves change on the table.
-
The address leads them off the highway, down a small side alley, then onto a wide road running parallel to the Tampa’s main street. It clearly has no problems being less prestigious than the city center, with its more sedate traffic and fewer neon lights. It appeals to Spy’s sense of décor until they pull up to their destination.
“Non,” he says, helplessly staring up at the billboard.
“Hell yeah! ” Scout says, already vaulting out of the car and over the hood.
MATINEE DOUBLE FEATURE, the theater sign announces proudly, PSYCHO and BILLY THE KID V. DRACULA.
“Why would anyone put those things together,” Spy asks the empty car, as though it can save him.
The marquee is done up in dozens of lights. Large, well-lit letters over the billboard proclaim that this mockery of an theater is called The Danvers, and the front window is lined with tacky second-hand movie memorabilia. Spy reluctantly parks the car and approaches the ticket counter, where Scout is somehow already causing a commotion.
“And then it’s like eeek-eeek-eeek! And she’s like ‘ahhh!’ ,” he says, dramatically miming what appears to be a woman being murdered with a knife.
“Did you know they used chocolate sauce for the blood,” the ticket taker asks excitedly. She can’t be older than sixteen, which puts her mental age a few years ahead of Scout’s. No wonder they’re getting along.
“Psh, yeah, everybody knows that ,” Scout replies, sniffing in a way that communicates his complete lack of knowledge on the subject, “S’not like they could’ve used real blood or anything.”
“Two, please,” Spy interrupts unenthusiastically.
She takes his money (a complete waste of a dollar, they could have used that to buy so much coffee ) and stamps their tickets. “You’re in for a real treat, mister! It’s a double feature, Psycho and—”
“I saw the sign.”
His deadpan doesn’t seem to dampen her mood. “Real good, both of ‘em. Enjoy!”
“I will not,” he says, grabbing the back of Scout’s jacket to drag him away from the counter before he can re-engage with the ticket taker.
“Fuck off ,” Scout jabs an elbow into Spy’s ribs to make him let go. “What’s your problem now?”
“I have to spend the next four hours watching terrible American films,” Spy replies testily as they approach the gaudy front doors, “I will not spend one moment longer than necessary in this god forsaken excuse of an entertainment house.”
“Shoulda guessed you’d be a killjoy,” Scout says.
Spy is more than happy to have a target for his ire. “And I should have guessed you’d like this kind of tasteless drivel. Of course you would enjoy watching a deranged man kill naked women in showers, and whatever the second monstrosity is.”
“Billy the Kid fights Dracula the Vampire. It ain’t that deep, dumbass.”
Spy responds by shoving Scout into the doorframe. It makes him feel a little better, and better still when Scout retaliates by tackling him into the popcorn stand and starting a short brawl in the wreckage. Unfortunately they seem to have found the East Coast’s most tolerant theater, as the fight only earns them an escort to their seats and a stern warning that further destruction of property will earn them a fine.
“Fuck,” Scout gripes after the usher leaves, “I wanted a coffee, you asshole.”
“I was hoping we'd be thrown out,” Spy says gloomily.
“You were willing to throw the whole freakin’ mission just so you wouldn’t have to sit through a movie? ”
“Two movies,” Spy corrects, crossing his arms and sliding down in his chair. It sticks to the back of his jacket, as though to really, truly emphasize how badly his day has been ruined.
The lights dim, and Spy switches his sunglasses for the tinted pair provided by Miss Pauling. To his disgust, they’re still sticky from Scout’s gummy brush with death. He picks at the residue through the opening credits before sliding them on, bathing the black-and-white movie in shades of pink. Despite the color change, Psycho doesn’t deviate from its usual story: man and woman cannot be together due to financial problems so woman steals money from her employer in the name of love (or something, he doesn’t really care).
“The costuming in this movie is terrible,” Spy grumbles, “And why must we see every errant thought that runs through her head? It ruins the pacing.”
“Shut up,” Scout says without looking away from the screen.
The movie drags on. Spy watches half-heartedly.
“They could have cut half of this so-called plot and had the same film. This could have been a commercial between segments of a soap opera.”
“If you’re so freakin’ miserable, give me the glasses and go do something else,” Scout hisses.
It’s a tempting offer, but Spy has seen Scout become distracted by his own shoelaces while pinned down by enemy fire. There’s no guarantee he’ll be able to watch a movie and keep an eye for the film’s encoded messages at the same time. He explains this to Scout, who has some creative ideas about what Spy can do with his ‘shitty fuck-ass opinions on other people’s fuckin’ attention problems’.
“You do not have ‘attention problems’,” Spy says, disdainfully eyeing Scout’s bouncing leg, “You have a problem paying attention.”
Scout snorts. “Oh yeah, I’m gonna take your word for it.”
Something about the way Scout emphasizes ‘your’ in ‘your word’ sticks in Spy’s head. He picks at it until the thread unravels into clarity. “Medic has been focusing your attention with the energy drinks. That’s why the caffeine content is so high.”
“Duh,” Scout says.
It’s painfully obvious in hindsight. Spy watches him for another moment, reexamining all the fidgeting and chattering in this new light. He pulls a balisong from one of the many hidden pockets he’d sewn into his ridiculous disguise. “Give me your hand.”
This finally draws Scout’s eyes from the screen. “Uh,” he says, eyeing the knife, “No.”
Spy flips it open in the simple three-step clockwise rotation. He does this again more slowly, then puts the knife in Scout’s hand. “Do you understand?”
“What the fuck,” Scout says, which probably also means ‘no’.
Spy walks him through the steps again. Scout’s eyes keep darting between Spy’s face and the knife in his hands until he finally tries to open it himself. He immediately nicks his palm, but the cut is shallow and Spy trusts Scout to be undeterred by a little blood. With uncharacteristic patience, he guides Scout’s hands through the motions until he can replicate them on his own.
“Good.” Spy watches until he is satisfied Scout won’t cut off his fingers, then returns his attention to the movie. “Do that.”
“Why?” Scout asks as he continues flips the blade open and closed.
“Having your hands occupied will help you concentrate.” He glances to where Scout is playing with the knife. “It is something your mother used to do.”
Scout moves the balisong through open and closed a few more times. “I guess so. She messes with hair pins, though.” He curses when he misses a catch and has to close the handles manually.
Spy’s knife continues to click in Scout’s hands as the movie ponderously waddles on. He receives a few cuts, but his fingers remain firmly attached and his leg stops bouncing so Spy considers this a success.
Because Mikhail is a bastard, their secret message doesn’t turn up until the end of the movie. He’s somehow managed to highlight specific letters in the credits. Spy jots them down to spell out a second address and flees the theater. Surprisingly, Scout follows him with minimal complaints, still fiddling with the knife as they walk back to the parking lot. It would be satisfying to put him down for playing with a knife in public, you ridiculous child . The insult rises easily on Spy’s tongue, but he finds that he cares less about public opinion than Scout’s ability to focus. Besides, he’s gaining fluidity with the motions, and can now talk and flip at the same time.
“You owe me a movie,” Scout says as Spy pops the trunk.
“I taught you how to open a knife without killing yourself,” Spy replies, locating a map and shoving their luggage aside to spread it out, “Surely that’s time better spent than watching a movie about cowmen and vampires.”
“I bet Pyro can get the Billy the Kid movie when we get back to base.” Scout leans back against the car, spinning the knife around his finger in a trick Spy did not teach him, as Spy runs his finger across the roads. “So what’s the place?”
The address is a small dawn-to-dusk park in the heart of Miami. Spy memorizes the location and briefly considers slamming the trunk closed on Scout’s jacket. “Apparently we are going to walk in a park,” he says, shooing Scout away from the car to close the trunk instead.
“Now?”
“There was no time indicated, so I can only assume we are meant to attend now.”
TRICK OR TREEEEAT Stan’s POV during Dreamscaperers!
(did you know you give really good prompts? these are so much fun)
Stanley knows he’s dreaming. Endless corridors with impossible rooms behind their doors? Not a thing. He keyed in the moment he opened the fridge and found the first winter he’d spent in Gravity Falls behind the soda. Stanley eyes the scene with a raised eyebrow and shuts the door.
He has to play out the memories anyway. Dipper, of course, hears the wrong part of his conversation with Soos. In hindsight it was a pretty weird way to phrase things, but he means the full context with all his shriveled, grifter, old-man heart. Dipper is still wet behind the ears in ways that will get him hurt and Stanley will be damned if he lets that happened. He’d rather be tough on the kid now, where it’s safe, than let him stumble into something he can’t handle later. Maybe he’ll get someone to give the twins boxing lessons this summer.
@roseyanon *dramatically bursts through a window* HOW ABOUT PAPYRUS AND SANS STARTING A FARM
like they’re on the surface and wanna grow enough food to be mostly self sufficient? i loved all that farmer art people made of sans when we got his japanese pronouns, and the visual of Hot Farm Hand Papyrus is very A+++
[Note: videogames plus farming equals Stardew Valley. This is Stardew Valley, friends.]
Papyrus is up by the crack of dawn to feed the chickens. He scatters the grain for them and lovingly pets each one before collecting the eggs they left in the night. Half of those go into mayonnaise machines, and the other half go into the fridge. He then harvests and waters the crops (blueberries and tomatoes for their high yield, wheat for bread, and melons because everyone loves a cool snack in the summer), tosses together a few easy meals, and runs to the store for more wheat seeds.
By the time he’s finished fertilizing and planting these, it’s just after noon. An alarm goes off somewhere inside the house. Ten minutes later, Sans shuffles onto the porch with two mugs of tea.
“Morning,” he calls.
“It isn’t,” Papyrus replies, primly watering the newest plot of wheat.
“It’s morning somewhere,” Sans says with a grin. A real grin, not the one he used to wear in the Underground. It makes Papyrus smile.
Coming to the surface was the second best decision they’d ever made, eclipsed only by Papyrus’ brilliant idea to start a farm just outside the new monster capital town. He gets to work all day, he’s protecting monster citizens from hunger, and he oversees the delivery of fresh fruits and vegetables into the town shops. Everything he dreamed of has become a reality. It’s wonderful.
Papyrus gently sets his pride aside (to be enjoyed at a later time). He stores his watering can and walks up the steps to the porch. “You slept through the morning here.”
Sans’ lazy grin widens a fraction as he hands over Papyrus’ afternoon chamomile tea. “I was up all night in the mines. Made a deal with the guys on floor 78 for a skele-ton of iron ore.”
“Let me guess,” Papyrus says, “You, a skeleton, negotiated with the inhabitants of floor 78, who are also skeletons. That’s the joke, right?”
Sans uses his mug to gesture to the chest next to the smelting machines. “Got it in one.”
“Fantastic. I’m going to ignore everything you just said and instead says well done.”
“There’s enough to upgrade all our tools ones. I’ll be making iron bars all afternoon.”
“By which you mean you’ll be sleeping next to the machines and filling them as needed.”
Sans grins again.
Papyrus sighs, but there’s no real annoyance behind it. They’d been realistic in dividing the labor: Papyrus took care of the crops and animals, and Sans navigated the mines, fishing, and public relations. It played well enough off their strengths and gave them both enough work to be satisfied.
“Very well,” he says. He sips his tea and shields his eyes against the noon-day sun, looking out over the fields and buildings they’ve put together. At the life they’ve put together. “Sans--”
“I’m proud of you, bro,” Sans says, cutting him off.
Papyrus looks back. Sans is watching him with the relaxed grin Papyrus wasn’t sure he’d ever see again. The real one.
@pizzabiscuitwithglasses How do you imagine the skeleton bros in underfell universe?
[I don’t follow Undertale AUs, but I have to admit the goth fourteen-year-old in me loves a good grim!dark retelling.]
“Sans! Get up.”
Sans, sprawled comfortably over his mattress, ignores the call and does not get up.
“SANS. Do not make me come in there.”
Papyrus ability to conveys caps-lock shouting without raising his volume is one hell of a mystery. Front page material, probably. “I’m sleeping.”
“You are not, open this door.”
“I am SLEEPING.” Unlike the Great and Talented Papyrus, Sans yells to communicate his feelings. He’s currently communicating irritated and go away.
The door explodes inward. Sans grabs his brother’s soul in the same moment Papyrus snaps up his. They glare at each other through the settling dust, souls lit bright in the glow of their matching red magic. It tints the underside of Papyrus’ jaw a deep and unsettling red.
“You left your dishes in the sink,” Papyrus says at length.
“Yeah, I do that,” Sans replies.
“Well don’t do that. It annoys me.”
Sans doesn’t raise an eyebrow, or smirk, or change his facial expression in any way. He knows Papyrus will read the non-commitment in his silence. Papyrus openly scowls at him and tightens the grip on his soul. Sans responds in kind.
“One of these days,” Papyrus says, straining to ignore the choking effect Sans’ magic has on him, “You will go too far and I will dust you.”
He won’t. They both know Sans’ magic is stronger, just like they know that he’ll never, ever use it to kill Papyrus. And to be honest, Sans thinks that even if he was given the chance, Papyrus wouldn’t kill him either. They’re locked in familial stalemate until one of them slips up.
Papryus huffs. He drops the magic in favor of stomping across the dirty room to yank Sans out of bed by the scruff of his jacket. Sans glares as he’s carried downstairs and into the kitchen. Papyrus sets him on his feet and shoves him towards the sink.
“Wash your dishes,” he snarls.
Sans flips him the double bird, but shuffles up the stairs to the sink as told. His bowl and spoon are cleaned and resentfully slung into the drying rack. He stomps back down the steps when he’s done.
“Dishes,” Papyrus says from where he’s watching TV on the couch.
“I’m going out.” It’s a tacit affirmative. Papyrus knows, just like he knows Sans’ expressions. They’ve spent their lives together and in spite of everything they know each other as well as they know themselves.
“Dinner is in an hour,” Papyrus doesn’t take his eyes off the TV. “Don’t be late.”
“Yeah yeah,” Sans grunts.
“Be here,” Papyrus growls.
Sans flips him off again. He pops his forearm out of the elbow socket so he can continue the gesture as he goes through the door, which he leaves wide open to the winter outside. The resulting caps-lock shouting makes him feel marginally better as he stomps down the front walk.
@nikkilbook said: CAN WE GET A GASTER FAMILY FLUFF PIECE (i’m still not over the derpy science fam)
*casually googles “how tall are twelve year olds”*
For Papyrus’ fifth birthday, they take him to the local fast food joint. After ordering their food (greasy cheeseburger for Sans who is supposedly approaching his teens but stopped growing several years ago, child-sized tomato-and-lettuce sandwich with side salad for Papyrus), Sans gathers up the birthday boy and throws him headlong into the ball pit.
“This is uncharacteristically laid back of you,” Gaster says as they watch Papyrus break the ball pit surface with squealing glee.
“Paps isn’t a baby anymore. Donahue says I need to practice backing off,” Sans says, hands stuffed in his pockets. His nonchalance is broken by the way he won’t take his eyes off Papyrus.
“I think these play-areas are made with safety in mind.” Gaster places a supportive hand on Sans’ shoulder. “Why don’t we pick out a table?”
It’s not that he doesn’t agree with Donahue’s assessment. In fact, he thinks lunch in a child-safe environment like this a perfect opportunity to practice giving Papyrus space. That doesn’t mean Gaster isn’t also keeping an eye on his youngest’s whereabouts and well being as they eat. The other eye is firmly on Sans, who has made incredible strides since he turned up in a bush four years ago. Gaster wants to swoop in and fix everything that was ever wrong in his life, but understands that Sans has to heal and mature at his own pace. That doesn’t make it easier.
“How are you doing?” Gaster asks.
“It’s tough letting go,” Sans says between bites, “But if Paps going to grow up right, he needs space to do things his own way.”
Gaster watches Sans watch Papyrus for a long moment. “Yes,” he says, “I supposed that’s true.”
The goal here was to a.) take the idea of Reaper being terrifying and pitch it out the window, and b.) take characters who don’t interact and put them together to see what happens. I really enjoyed this.
Might continue if I get more ideas. No promises.
Wordcount: 2019
Summary: Hanzo has no interest in joining Talon. No, really. Reaper, stop asking.
A small hand mirror (extracted from a circular hand compact because its round edges are pleasing to nervous fingers) reflects Dorado’s center square, its string lights illuminating the messy space and showing it to still be empty. Hanzo tucks the mirror into his pocket. His communicator reads quarter-to-eleven. He turns the display off and folds his arms. Someone is wasting his time, and if there’s one thing Hanzo can’t abide, it’s someone who wastes his time.
He begins to dial Overwatch HQ’s main line.
“I said don’t call anyone.”
By the time the speaker his finished, Hanzo is already on the adjacent rooftop, arrow nocked and aimed into the smoky, billowing mass coiling up over the gutters of his original vantage point.
“You’re late,” he says, bow still at the ready.
“You’re not where we agreed to meet.”
“You didn’t really expect me to stand in the middle of the square.”
The mass begins to fold in on itself, trading volume for density as it builds up into a human shape. “I don’t care what you think I expect. I’m here to make an offer. Put that down.”
“I will not,” Hanzo says. “What is your offer.”
“You’ve just watched me turn into mist and ooze up the side of a building. Do you honestly believe that sharpened stick is any kind of dissuasion?”
“If it’s no dissuasion, then you won’t mind if don’t put it away.”
The particles coalesce into a figure, roughly six feet tall by Hanzo’s estimate. A man, if the voice isn’t modulated. He’s wearing a hooded coat, under which is a mask that is shaped either like a skull or a barn owl. The ensemble is black with fasteners that seem to be made of ammunition holders. His gauntlets are large, his shoulder pads are huge, and his boots are the most enormous of all. The entire thing, Hanzo decides, is utterly tacky.
“Fine,” Reaper says, folding his arms, “If it makes you feel better. Did you come to hear my offer, or would you rather trade barbs over your toothpick all night?”
“I’m listening.”
“I represent an organization called Talon—”
Hanzo has already released the tension in his bowstring. “No.”
“You don’t know what I was going to say.”
“I’m well aware of your organization,” he says, storing the arrow back in its quiver, “You believe that humanity is strengthened through conflict. To this end, you stir up chaos wherever you go, although why you wish to force growth on humanity is a mystery to me.” Hanzo swings himself off the roof to a drainpipe, “I do not share your ideology, I do not care for the means through which you pursue your goals, and I am not interested in aiding or joining your cause.”
Reaper watches him. The mask doesn’t articulate emotions, but he has an air of inhuman patience about him. “I have ways of making you change your mind.”
“I will not,” Hanzo says as he scales down the building’s façade.
“You will,” Reaper calls from the roof.
“I will not!” Hanzo rebuts as he exits the square.
As he selects Overwatch, Gibraltar from his list of contacts, he hears a faint noise through the cracks in Dorado’s historic architecture, like a man-sized pile of autumn leaves burning to ash and scattering across the ground. The wind carries a faint whisper that sounds eerily like You will.
Hanzo allows himself an eye roll as he keys in his location for extraction.
-
“There’s no need to debase yourself,” Winston says when Hanzo’s report strays into reassurances about his allegiance, “I had full confidence in you. If there were doubts about your loyalty, I wouldn’t have invited you to Overwatch.”
“Thank you,” Hanzo replies. He clears his throat to cover the gratitude that must show in his voice. “Do you believe Talon’s interest was based on my abilities, or my place in the organization?”
Winston skims the last of Hanzo’s written files before uploading them into one of Athena’s many databases. “Both make you a prime target. I’m grounding you for a few days to see if I can find where they the intel. Most likely they caught you during their surveillance of Overwatch, but I want to be sure they haven’t breached our security. I’d like your eyes on it after I’ve done the first sweep.”
“Of course,” Hanzo says.
Winston sends him off with two days off and strict instructions to schedule a full physical sometime during them. Hanzo makes a reluctant appointment with Doctor Ziegler for the next morning. Having completed his return-to-base duties, he showers off the post-mission stink and settles at his desk with a cup of tea and the latest piece of Helix security coding queued up on his tablet.
He’s just begun testing for standard weaknesses (which Helix usually covers beautifully, but it’s always good to try the basics first) when there’s a knock at the door.
“One moment,” he calls, saving his progress and locking the tablet before he opens the door.
“I want you to reconsider— now stop that.”
Hanzo, who has already grabbed his bow and quiver and thrown himself out the window, rolls to his feet at the edge of the cliff and slams the red Intruder Alert button on his communicator. The base’s windows turn red as the lights switch to emergency mode, and a klaxon begins sounding the alarm that means a hostile agent has breached Overwatch’s defenses. Hanzo slings the quiver over his shoulder and sprints along the path leading towards the control room in hope of getting some part of the base on lockdown.
The ground ahead of him begins to crackle and smoke, and Reaper rises up out of the grass with his arms crossed like this encounter isn’t meeting his expectations.
“You’re not listening to me,” he says.
Hanzo dodges around him, desperately trying to remember if there are any shortcuts to the main hall that connects with Winston’s meeting room. If not, he’ll have to run the full perimeter and scale the barriers that have surely descended around the front door by now, which isn’t impossible but will slow him down considerably.
“Who threw the alarm?” Someone barks into the main communications channel.
“I did,” Hanzo replies, “Gabriel Reyes just knocked on my door.”
“What? Are you sure?”
“Unless someone here has taken to wearing black cloaks with an owl mask. Then it would be a problem of taste rather than security,” Hanzo deadpans. He recognizes this as his tendency to shut down his emotions in the face of danger.
The ground ahead regurgitates Reaper again. “My taste is impeccable.”
Hanzo fire off an arrow. It passes through Reaper’s wraith form and soars into the distance.
The smoky human shape slithers through the air and places itself directly on the path, cutting off Hanzo’s only escape route. Reaper materializes and has the gall to look annoyed. “I said stop that.”
Hanzo lets loose a volley of arrows. Each finds its mark in Reaper’s torso, knees, head, and each continues through until the ground is peppered with failed homicide attempts.
“Stop shooting me,” Reaper snaps, “I want to make another offer.”
“There is nothing you can offer me,” Hanzo snarls, bow drawn as he tries to edge between Reaper and the building.
Reaper matches his movements. “The Shimada Clan is in shambles. Talon could pull them together under your leadership.”
“I will do no such thing,” Hanzo spits. Over the communication chatter coming from his wrist, he can hear the intruder alarm spilling out of an open window behind him and halfway up the wall.
Reaper holds his ground. “You could rebuild it, better, strong. In your own image instead of your father’s.”
Hanzo stashes Stormbow on his back and scales the wall, vaulting back into the cacophonous base without answering. Reaper’s sigh carries on the wind again as Hanzo pings his location and runs for the control room.
-
It takes several hours for the various members stations at Gibraltar to turn the base upside-down. Unsurprisingly, they find nothing. Hanzo gives his second report of the night. With little doubt that Reaper’s second visit means there will be a third, Winston creates a buddy-system schedule to ensure Hanzo’s safety while on base.
“This is humiliating,” he tells Orisa as she finishes sweeping his room.
“It is logical,” she disagrees, carefully pushing his chair back under the desk. “The hour is late; a human guard would be affected if they were to guard you at this hour, but I am able to recharge at any time.”
“I meant it’s humiliating that Winston thinks I need a guard at all,” he snaps.
“That is also logical. If there are two people, no one can be taken unaware.”
“I have trained since childhood to prepare for an assassin’s life. There is no need for anyone to babysit me,” Hanzo snarls.
Orisa pauses. Hanzo has seen this behavior when she is researching vocabulary. “I do not believe Winston believes you incapable,” she says a moment later.
The pause has given him a moment to collect himself, and for that, he is grateful. Hanzo takes a slow breath and mirrors her calm. “You are probably correct,” he says in a smoothed-out voice, “It would be foolish to leave a target unguarded, no matter what their skill level. There is no reason to sacrifice safety for my pride.”
“Your pride is important, but in this case, there are other things to be considered,” Orisa says agreeably. “I will take up a position outside to ensure the hallway is clear. Please summon me if you have any need.”
Hanzo thanks her and bids her goodnight. His ego stings, but Orisa has given him space to see the necessity behind Winston’s plan.
He sighs, toeing off his shoes and opening the closet to retrieve a robe.
“Don’t shoot me this time.”
Hanzo slams the door shut.
“Rude,” Reaper says from the other side.
He leaves one shaky hand planted against the closet door. It will do little good if Reaper decides to ooze between the cracks in the frame, but it makes Hanzo feel better. “Why are you in my room?”
“Well I came to make an offer, but I guess what I really wanted was to sit in your clothes hamper and chat through a door all night.”
“Give me one reason why I shouldn’t call the OR-15 unit standing outside.”
“Because you haven’t been able to catch me so far and you want to gather intelligence. It’s what you do in the face of uncertainty.”
He isn’t wrong. Hanzo glares at the door. “Alright. What is your offer?”
Something makes a noise like someone moving several coat hangers to one side and then shifting to lean against a wall. “Your clan, your power, and your family. All of it, up to and including the latest research in human genetic regeneration for your brother.”
“Is that what happened to you? Regeneration?”
“Don’t interrupt, but yes, something like that. The technology has advanced since I… happened, and there have been multiple cases where over 70% of the body was restored. So what I’m really offering is redemption. You like redemption, don’t you?”
“You’re absurd,” Hanzo mutters.
“And you murdered your brother. Wouldn’t it be nice to make up for that?”
“You don’t know anything,” Hanzo hisses.
“Of course, what would I know about death? Aside from that fact that it turns up in the least expected places and doesn’t appreciate the smell of lilac detergent.”
“I did not choose the soap--” Hanzo uses his free hand to pinch the bridge of his nose. “I am going to call the guard in a moment. Please leave by whatever means you entered.”
“Think about the offer,” Reaper says, followed by the same burning/scattering noise from Dorado.
Hanzo wrenches open the door to find his closet predictably empty. He stomps to the door, informs Orisa of his visitor, and allows himself to be relocated to an empty set of quarters while his room is systematically taken apart because someone decided to make a house call.
