#callsign rex

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 !!!

It's just the arm at first, Rex taking his time to adjust to it before agreeing to any more implants, which Ace pushes on him without hesitation.

Top of the line Kiroshi optics come first after the prosthetic, complete with the highest quality scanners that eddies can buy. He tells Coda that he’ll just tack it onto his debt, reasoning being that he needs good optics in order to survive in mercenary work. Coda tries to pull one over on him and run a scan with them, to see if they bring up any of Ace’s real information, but they don't.

Then comes the armor. It's low grade, enough to stop a hollow point from blowing his other arm off, though. His flesh feels the same with the low level armor beneath it, but if he pushes too hard he can feel the scaly pattern of the metal through the first few layers of his skin.

A Kerenzikov boost system here, a Militech Berserk there.

He barely bats an eye whenever Ace dangles a Cyberware Compressor in front of him, stating that he can get more chrome installed if he uses it. Supposedly, when in use with a stronger capacity shard, he can run even higher amounts of chrome without the chance of going psycho.

Coda installs it without a second thought.

He watches the numbers every time Bones runs a diagnostic exam, tapping his fingers anxiously as he watches the limit get pushed further and further past what he ever would've done for himself. A monowire to the throat on a gig means that he gets a new one, metal scales now covering the exterior of his neck, going down to his chest in a design that's purely aesthetic. The clean cut lines and wires of the cybernetic implants are nothing short of a vicious, bloody contrast to the jagged surgery scars that run beneath his pecs, a reminder that he’s human under all of that chrome.

“You know, you're racking up more debt than you started with.” Bones says as she holds Coda’s palm in her own, fine tuning the newest grip he installed to ensure it functions alongside the MaxTac arm without any hiccups.

“It’s worth it. You should see me out in the streets, doc, I’m starting to make a name for myself.” Coda replies nonchalantly, locking eyes with the ripperdoc for just a moment. Fleeting, as all things are in this town.

“Just don't push your luck, okay?”

“I’m not.” Coda replies, firm in his belief that he can quit at any time. He tells himself he can always walk away from this lifestyle, a wannabe street samurai, and he tells everyone else that too.

Nobody believes him.

He’s at home one night, staring himself down in the reflection of his mirror when there’s a thunk at his front door. Heavy, like someone has intentions of busting it open if he doesn't open it for them. This is the reality. The door is broken open in an instant, shuddering in malfunction as Coda flicks his mantis blade out, barely having enough time to react when his attackers strike.

It's vicious and raw, the tussle, but it ends in a pair of dead scavs and Coda covered in their blood. His apartment is in shambles, his hands are shaking, and he can barely think straight enough to scoot back against the wall from where he collapsed on the floor.

Coda’s eyes stay locked on the twitching door, knowing damn well he has about five minutes until the badges show up with the sort of commotion that was going on. The illegal chrome covering his body like bondage starts to feel like a death sentence rather than an extension of the self.

Who gives a fuck if theyre scavs? One look at Coda and the pigs’ll assume he’s going psycho.

MaxTac won’t be so kind as to check and see if he’s feeling alright.

Before he knows it, he’s calling Ace on the Holo, praying that he picks up. He still hasn't moved from where he’s sitting on the floor, watching the dead scav’s body shifting with residual electrical impulses.

Come on, come on, come on — pick up.

“Coda. What's wrong? S’the middle of the night.” Ace sounds like he just woke up. Coda can't see his face on the holo, it's like he's got the feed covered or something — that or it’s just too dark to see.

“I-I need help.” Coda stutters out. He swallows the anxiety welling in his chest and slowly stands, knowing he needs to get his shit together and delta. “Scavs broke in, I…I’m fine, I just — I know if a badge sees this and sees me…”

“Right, yeah — s’alright.” Ace replies, a slight urgency to his tone. “I catch your drift, I’ll be there in five.”

“No — I can't stay here, Ace.”

“Okay — meet me here, then?”

“Where?” Coda is more hurried now, as he hustles around his apartment to grab up whatever belongings he can. Personal effects for the time being, identification, weapons. He's got a bag slung over his shoulder and is already calling Betty up from the parking garage whenever he’s running out the door.

“I’ll zip you the address.” Ace hangs up and in the corner of his vision Coda can see it, the address of a location he’s unfamiliar with. What he can only assume to be Ace’s abode. He doesn't pay much mind to anything as he jogs to the lift, then down to the ground floor of the mega building, eyes darting all around the plaza as he sprints to get into Betty. His belongings are tossed on the passenger seat as he throws the car into gear and starts off, following his in-optic GPS to the coordinates.

It's a short drive to Westbrook, North Oaks to be specific.

He passes Shadows on the way, the usual evening activity whirring along, but chooses to go to the North Oaks address instead. Ace wouldn't intentionally send him to the wrong place, he has faith in that by this point — afterall, he's let the man pump him full of expensive, illegal cyberware implants. It's a rather large, comfortable home whenever he pulls up the driveway. No, it's not a billion dollar mansion, but it's bigger than Coda could've expected it to be. His hands are still shaking slightly whenever he gets out of the car and starts walking up the short path to the front door, eyes lingering briefly on a car in the drive — the same make, model and colour as his own.

This must be Ace's personal home.

It sure looks like he lives here, now that Coda thinks about it, a subtle dark aura about the place giving off the same general air that the fixer does. He’s about to knock when the door opens, and he sort of stares blankly for a moment.

Ace.

The live distortion field shudders slightly, a harsh line against the tan expanse of his chest — he hasn't a shirt on, barely has a loose pair of pajama pants on, and slippers. It's warm enough outside that this doesn't seem to faze Coda at all, but Ace knows the cards he's playing and he knows them intimately.

“This is your place?” Coda asks, quiet as he looks at the fixer, his boss, curiously.

“Wasn’t gonna drive to Shadows, just in case the scav-pack knew you worked for me.” Ace replies, still largely blocking the doorway with his frame. He leans on it slightly, reaching out to wipe a smear of blood off of Coda’s cheek. “You’re filthy, sugar. C’mon, let's get you cleaned up.”

It's an act of humanity that Coda doesn't necessarily expect, not whenever Ace has been fairly hands off this far. He gives him his gigs, manages his mounting debt, and that's about it save for occasionally assigning someone to help him through cyberware implant recovery. Coda follows Ace inside his home, the door shutting behind them, and he’s astonished. The place is spick-and-span, floor to ceiling, wall to wall. It's not decorated in any sort of comforting way, rather sterile in nature, but Coda can see the occasional personal touch. Boots by the door, takeout on the kitchen table — he’s barely paying attention, though, because he’s inside Ace’s bedroom. The bathroom is through there, he says, and he's not lying. A large, cozy bath is just past the master bedroom, complete with a shower and tub.

“I'll let you be, but I’d love to stitch you up afterwards if that's alright? Got a real deep gash across the front of your face, sugar.” Ace says from the doorway, watching Coda yank his bloodstained shirt off and toss it to the floor. He glances back at the fixer and sort of nods.

“Yeah, sure. You think it needs stitches?” Coda touches at his nose, wincing slightly. He pulls back a bloody finger, confirming Ace’s musings.

“It does, promise. Don't wanna fuck that handsome face up.”

“You’re funny.” Coda replies as he sits on the edge of the tub and pulls off his boots, followed by his jeans — Ace is staring behind the black facial distortion, which he's grateful for at the moment.

“I know. Come get me when you're done.” Ace leaves, and Coda doesn't pay any mind as he turns the shower on and lets the hot water wash away his sins, at least the surface level ones that haven't sunk into his flesh yet.

He can get the blood off of his hands.

It doesn't stain the chrome, either.

Coda stands there for a while, letting the warmth encapsulate him entirely, his eyes shut as the water goes from red to a pinkish hue and then clear at last. He’s starting to feel the sting of the hot water in his wounds, though — the adrenaline and automatic hormone injections from his implants are starting to wear off. He doesn't waste time getting out of the shower only to find a fresh, folded up set of clothes. It doesn't take long for him to get dressed and realize that they're far too large for him, meant to fit Ace’s bulkier frame, but he doesn't care much whenever he's standing in Ace’s bedroom again.

Alone, this time.

He takes a moment to scan the room, using the fancy Kiroshi scanners to his advantage. In some stroke of luck he actually finds Ace's wallet sitting on his night stand, picking it up and sifting through it. A couple of credchips, business cards for other fixers, a phone number scrawled out on a lined strip of paper and his ID. There's no picture on it, just a name, and it's too princely to make sense for Ace.

Philip Graves.

He is most certainly not a Philip, let alone a Phil — Ace works just fine.

Coda tosses the wallet back into place and checks his reflection in the mirror before heading out to the kitchen that they'd walked through, finding Ace sat at the island. He has a medkit in front of him, gloved hands already toying with a needle and thread.

“Thanks for the, um, threads.” Coda says softly, pulling at the front of the shirt. It's worn, but he can still make out the words on it “MaxTac?”

“Didn't work for them directly. I was on the corpo side of it, though.” Ace replies, gesturing for Coda to sit, which he does. He looks up at Ace expectantly, watching the other man load up an inhaler with local anaesthetic. Coda takes a few puffs off of it and hums softly, his vision blurring at the edges, enough so that whenever Ace touches the gash on his face it doesn't really hurt. It feels more like a distant ache, something for future Coda to deal with.

“I could've guessed that much, sir.” Coda closes his eyes whenever he feels Ace start to suture the wound shut. He doesn't need to see that.

“How come?”

“You still dress like a corporat.”

“Pardon me for enjoying a collared shirt.”

“I'm just saying, you read like a corpse, not a fixer. I’ll bet that face says the same thing.” Coda is smug about this little comment and Ace can tell, gently tugging on the sutures in retaliation. “What? Am I wrong?”

“You are. Sit still and shut up, would you?”

“I can't. Incapable.” Coda murmurs, getting a firm grasp of his cheeks in reply. He opens his eyes to look at Ace whilst he does this, squeezing Coda’s face gently and making his lips purse. When he speaks it comes out sort of strange, because he's being smushed. “Shorry — I’ll shut up.”

“Good boy.” Ace pats him on the cheek before continuing to suture him up, though Coda doesn't shut his eyes again. He just watches the black emptiness twitch and shudder gently with every little movement Ace makes, every subtle tilt of the head and breath intake. “You’ll need to stay out of your apartment for a while, if you go back at all. All this chrome’ll get you in trouble when they find the scavs you zeroed, so I suggest keeping your head down.”

“I wasn't going psycho when that happened, I want you to know that. I felt in control.” Coda says after a moment, Ace’s hand moving to put the sutures down. He then shifts to clean up any of the excess blood dripping down Coda’s face still. It’ll leave a nasty scar, but at least he's not dead.

“You don't have to justify it to me.”

“I do—”

“I trust you, Coda. If you said you were in control, then I believe you.”

“Just like that?”

“You’ve put a lot of trust in me, haven't you?”

“It's different. You’re a fixer, the one I'm indebted to no less.”

“All the much more of a reason not to trust me and yet…” He gestures to his home, their surroundings. It’s written all over Coda’s face, that easy to manipulate naivete. Ace could easily convince him to drive into the middle of the desert armed with nothing but a pistol to fend off Maelstrom gonks and — oh. He’s already done that. Coda is lucky, really, that Ace took him in. Anyone could abuse his kindness, his genuine unknowingness. “You show up at my doorstep without even asking if that's where I’m telling you to go. Dangerous, Coda.”

“I guess you're right.” The merc replies, tilting his head slightly into Ace's hold. He’s still gently palming Coda’s cheek, and Coda isn't pushing him away so… “I don't know who else I would've called. Thank you for, uh, picking up.”

“Why do you always sound so unsure of yourself?” Ace takes his hand away and stands up, meandering to the refrigerator and opening it to sift around for a drink. He holds a bottle of water out to Coda before getting one for himself, leaning up against the cold metal surface of the appliance. “You kneecap your own sentences. Um and uh and nervous laughter.”

“Maybe because I’m nervous? I mean, I just got shot at in my own home, and now I’m…here — in my boss's house, in his clothes.” Coda pulls gently at the collar of Ace’s shirt, the one he is wearing, mainly because the fixer still doesn't have one on. He’s awfully comfortable for how nervous and slightly shaky Coda feels around every turn of phrase he makes.

Ace desperately wants to comment, to make some sort of bite in response to Coda’s little discomforted eye movements, put those raw feelings on display like the smoldering end of a cigarette in an ashtray. He can feel it in the air, if he pushes a little harder Coda might just bend to his will right then and there, allowing Ace to see all of those little vulnerabilities for what they are and not how they're weak spots. He doesn't, though, perhaps against his best judgement. It would be far too easy to do. A little bit of a chase is part of the fun, isn't it?

“I’m sorry if I make you nervous, wasn't my intention. Just the best course of action to make sure you and I don't get our heads blown off in our sleep yeah?” Ace says as he takes a long drink of water before glancing into the rest of the home. It's a fairly open floor plan, meaning he can see straight through most of it without much in his way. “Do you want the bed or the couch?”

“I have an option?” Coda chuckles slightly. “The couch. I couldn't ask you to give your bed up for me.”

“Alright, you remember where the bedroom is. I’ll be in the living room if you need anything.” Ace, of course, takes whatever shred of gentlemanly decency a man of his low morals can muster and heads for the couch. It's a comfortable couch, he bought it after all — besides having a pretty boy in his bed was just fine with him, even if he wasn't also in that same bed. Coda couldn't even protest, the fixer throwing his muscular frame onto the couch with a soft huff of the cushions, a blanket getting pulled over him the instant he can grab one and curl into it.

Without argument, because it would genuinely be one sided, Coda slipped into Ace’s bedroom again. The bed wasn't made, likely his fault for calling Ace in the middle of the night, but that makes it all the much easier to slide beneath the duvet and into its cozy confines. It smells like some overpriced cologne and cigarette smoke, partially of hair product as well.

When his eyes flutter shut he can imagine the gentle fluff of Ace’s short blonde hair, the way it’s just long enough to need to be wrangled out of his face by product.

What colour are his eyes?

The scar tipping his ear, does it come across his cheek, too?

Is his nose a little bit crooked from being broken a time or two?

Are his lips the same blushed shade as his busted knuckles?

Coda falls asleep peacefully, wrapped up in Ace’s clothes and his duvet, wondering how often he washes it, if he separates his whites when he does his laundry and if he uses a dryer or hangs them instead.

When Ace asks him if he would rather go back to his apartment or get a new one he barely recognizes his own voice when he says that he’d rather stay with him, here, in North Oaks. Surprised, but not opposed, the fixer agrees.

“I don't have a guest room.” Ace replies, flicking the ash off of his cigarette as he looks to Coda.

“That's alright. It's a king sized bed isn't it?” Coda asks rhetorically, a brief and smug smile crossing his expression. Bloodied sutures and all, he’s got Ace wrapped right around his little finger, and neither is displeased about that fact.

—

taggies!

“No, no, no, no…I don’t take orders from you.” Alejandro stepped forward slightly, earning a glare from Sergeant MacTavish. Rex grips his rifle with an iron touch.

“Didn’t Valeria say that? Now, that makes me wonder what else I don’t know about your affiliation with a drug lord.” Graves says with all of the coy confidence of a fox, tilting his head slightly before everything exploded

In an instant, Alejandro stepped forward, beginning to close the distance between himself and Graves. MacTavish grabbed him by the arm, stopping him just short. Still, Rex couldn’t blame him. This was absurd from either perspective.

“What the fuck did you just say to me, pendejo?” Alejandro barks.

“You’re out of line, Graves — Rex, yae can’t be alright with this —“ MacTavish speaks up, but before Rex can reply he’s spoken for.

“Don’t…Don’t do that. Don’t talk to them.” Graves’ voice cut like a knife, a searing red pain sending signals through Rex’s body. He looked up, eyes locked with MacTavish, wanting to tell him to run. His gaze shifted to Riley, to Rodolfo and Alejandro. Rex went to take a step forward but Graves’ grip locked on his vest strap stopped them, even yanking him back slightly much to MacTavish’s surprise.

They hadn’t seen it before, had they? It was a blatant display of their power dynamic, and Rex felt embarrassed. His cheeks heated up and he tensed up.

“No one needs to get hurt here.” Graves spoke again, his voice low and dark. It terrified Rex. He had no idea up until this moment, right here and now, that the mission with Shepherd had failed. So, on top of mourning dead friends that had supposedly been on an extended leave, he was now faced with the immediate future.

Graves was going to take direct orders from Shepherd to harm the 141, and he was going to go along with it.

“Are you threatenin’ us?” Lieutenant Riley asked, his hand wandering but not quite grabbing the rifle hanging from his carrier.

“Soldier, I don’t make threats. I make guarantees. So, let’s not do this.” Graves replied with a smug callousness that sent a chill down Rex’s spine, even in the Central American heat. Their gaze shifted between the men in front of them, locking eyes with Lieutenant Riley. He gave them a knowing glance before looking at MacTavish.

“I’m callin’ Shepherd.” MacTavish spoke up, pointing a finger at Graves.

“General Shepherd sends his regards.” Graves' hand left Rex’s vest, traveling to the assault rifle in hand. His finger lingered on the trigger. “He told me y’all wouldn’t take this well.”

“He knows about this?” Lieutenant Riley asked, disbelief in his voice, but when he looked at Rex he knew it was the truth. He was too scared to speak, truthfully, so he didn't. He knew if he spoke up he would only defend Graves and Shadow Company. It would only stoke the flames.

“He’s put me in command of this operation from here on out. So, y’all need to stand down, it’s time to let the pros finish this.” Here Graves stood, betraying the people that Rex had grown to trust. They’d laid their lives on the line right alongside themselves and Graves this entire time, this is not what they deserved. “And why the hell are we talkin’ like this is some kind’a negotiation? It’s not. I’ve got my orders, and now you have yours.”

“And who the fuck do you think you are, cabron? My men are inside!” Alejandro snapped, eliciting a response from Rex. They looked to Graves, stepping back slowly, out of his peripheral vision. Their back was met with the broad side of Wasp’s chest. It only took a moment for Wasp to grab his plate-carrier strap, quelling the desire to jump to Graves’ defense. He could feel it welling, some kind of vicious remark, but he couldn't have anticipated what was coming.

“I’m afraid not. Your men have been…” Graves bit back a smirk, looking to the ground and then up at Alejandro. “Detained.”

It all happened so quickly.

Alejandro was zip tied and held against a vehicle whilst Rodolfo, MacTavish and Riley made a run for it.

Everything in Rex’s head was quiet. All he knew was that he had to finish the mission, find Hassan and the final missile. It didn't matter the cost. Rex felt Wasp let him go and his rifle was aimed upwards in an instant, boots already migrating down into Las Almas after the escaped Task Force operators.

Indiscriminate killing did not begin to describe what MacTavish and Riley were doing. Rex stepped over corpses around every corner, over shattered ceramics that smelled of gunpowder, and spent shell casings. He couldn't breathe. It was a vicious effort to recover every tag that he could, knowing that they couldn't drag every single Shadow back to base, but he began to run out of room to carry them. It didn't take long before he started shooting back at the ghosts he heard around the streets, pulling familiar knives out of bodies if only to throw them back at Riley when he saw him.

This was unnecessary. Just make the escape, that was all they needed to do, and yet here they were. Slaughtering Shadows in a fucking massacre. His anxiety got the best of him and he returned to base to regroup whilst the others cleaned up the streets, ensuring Hassan wasn't anywhere to be found and that both of the 141 members had escaped before they did.

He sat in the stolen MexSpec-Ops facility with shaking hands and wired nerves, every little sound setting him off. No amount of comfort from Graves quelled it. Cigarette after cigarette, taking in deep breaths and letting them go to no avail, images of what could come to pass haunting him. It should've come as no surprise whenever Graves formulated a plan for the coming days. He should've known it would be a disaster plan.

“I’m what? You’re not sending me back to HQ, not fucking now.” Rex barks at his Commander, his partner, shoving him with open palms. He’s angry, being cornered back into a Jeep with little more than Graves’ orders telling him to do so. The Commander would never lay a hand on him, he knew that, not now anyways.

“You have to, Rex. This is what that fucking promotion was for, now use it.” Graves replies, calm in comparison. He’s riled up too, though, and Rex can tell. “If I get blown to hell here, then someone needs to keep the Company afloat. That someone,” he places a finger in the middle of Rex’s plated chest, “is you.”

“No.” Rex huffs. Their back is to the door of the Jeep. “No, I’m not leaving you.”

“That loyalty'll get you killed.”

“Good. Better me than you. I want revenge for the Shadows, Graves, I need it—”

“Then go home, tend to our wounded and wait for me there.”

“You promised me I’d never have to run this shit by myself, don’t be a fucking liar.”

“You won't have to. I’ll come home when this is finished, we’ll get what we need from Valeria in the meantime and use it to find that last missile. Take Hassan down and come home, right t’you, sugar.” It was a promise, a big one, and Rex was unsure if Graves could hold up his end of it. Coming home was an uncertainty that most would not try to guarantee. Especially up against the likes of the 141, trained killers that were unlikely to stop at the orders of anyone except Laswell or Price.

“You’re suicidal, you know that?” Rex scoffs. “If you had any self preservation instincts, then you'd have me stay here and deal with their inevitable assault. I’d do anything for you, Graves—”

“Then go home.” Graves says quietly, pulling Rex in by the front of their vest, hands gripped onto the sides of it. He can see something flicker across those lovingly familiar green eyes, something rebellious, but Rex bites it down. “S’just two hours t’get there, babe, I bet I can make it back ‘bout an hour or so.”

“Better not be lying to me, Shadow.” Rex murmurs, grabbing Graves by the collar of his blue dress shirt. He pulls the blonde down to be eye-level with himself before crashing their lips together in a heated exchange, all terror and feverish tension, not knowing what was going to impact them. It left them breathless, wanting to take a moment longer to revel in the fact they were both alive, but a loud thunk of the Jeep door slamming cleared Rex's mind of any impure thoughts.

“Let's go, LC.” Maverick’s voice calls, the Sergeant Major entirely oblivious to what's going on around the opposite side of the vehicle he’s in the driver's seat of.

“Go on, Coda. Just a few days.” Another brief kiss and Rex is ducking away wordlessly into the Jeep, glancing back only to see Graves smiling back. Cobalt blue eyes and a pipe dream about a perfect world in which the 141 shows up alone, but they both knew that wasn't going to happen.

Rex regretted staying silent the moment they saw the American border come into view and passed into Texas. He wanted to call, but he also knew that he had things to attend to at HQ that required his immediate attention. Assisting the medical staff in tending to wounded Shadows from Las Almas, who had somehow survived the trip back. Filling out the after-action reports for all of the missions, writing detailed explanations of what had gone down with the help of bodycam footage — sifting through tags to catalogue the deaths. It was a lion’s share of work, but he thought that whatever he couldn't put a dent in, Graves would return to finish off with him.

Days passed sitting in that office.

He had started sleeping in there, the bed far too empty without Graves in it, an increasing stack of files sitting before him. There were at least twenty-five dead from Las Almas, another fifty or so from the prison they were keeping the Vaqueros in, and an unreported amount from the MexSpec-Opsnbuilding. No correspondence yet about what had gone down, not until Wasp walks into the office with a sort of fear in his eyes that instills immediate terror into Rex.

“Where’s Graves?” Rex asks, quiet at first. If Wasp has returned, that means that they finished up in Mexico. He was staying there to assist in the defense of the facility.

If he was back, then Graves should be too.

“Rex, I—” Wasp starts, patting at his vest to search for something in his pockets.

“Where. Is. Graves?” He’s angry now, standing up, hands planted firmly on the desk in front of them. Their eyes are firmly affixed on Wasp’s hands as he pulls a chain out from one of his pockets, the tags clinking together. It's realistically quiet, but it sounds like gunfire the way Rex’s brain shuts everything else out.

He holds his hand out and it's trembling.

“I did everything I—”

“Give.” Rex barks, more wrath than sadness. The chain coils up in their palm and the crinkled metal of the tags follows suit. He turns them over, caked on blood and soot making them hard to read at first, but whenever he can read them it's like a shot to the head.

CDR PHILIP GRAVES.

SHADOW 0-1.

OPOS. CATHOLIC.

He doesn't say a word at first. He turns the tags over again and again, gently smudging off the stains until they're mostly silver once more. It's impossible to believe that these came from thee Philip Graves. They’re mangled. Rex looks up at Wasp, who is just barely holding it together himself.

“What do we do?” Wasp asks just above a whisper.

“What happened?” Rex doesn't give him the grace of an answer, not yet. He sinks back into his seat — Graves’ office chair — and clutches the destroyed tags between shaking fingers. Feverishly rubbing over the embossing like prayer beads, hoping that maybe if he holds them tightly enough then this will be over sooner.

“You don't wanna know.” Wasp replied without hesitation.

“Oh no, no, I do want to know. What happened?”

“Rex, I swear—”

“Don't fucking promise me shit, Walker, what the hell happened?” Rex is firm in his questioning, knowing better than to take more oaths from men around here. He didn't care if anyone thought he didn't need to know, if they swore he was better off unaware. There was no sense in dancing around the facts, plain and simple. Graves was dead. He was likely not in a box outside, and if he was then he was likely unrecognizable. If anyone ever deserved an answer about what happened to someone in full truth, it was Rex.

“We attempted a counter-assault on the 141, but they brought the Vaqueros as well as their, uh, friend in the chopper. Nikolai. Facility was in rubble, we needed to use a last resort and Graves hijacked a tank from their hangar—”

“He specifically did? He didn't have someone else do it?”

“Yeah, he…he said that we needed to get as many of our wounded out as possible, that he would take care of the remaining assailants.” Wasp speaks like he’s giving a mission report. Partially because it's easier than the alternative, which is greeting Rex like a newly widowed spouse. He takes in a breath through his teeth and looks up at the ceiling before his eyes met Rex’s again. “Between MacTavish and his…um, proclivity for explosives and — the, um, Nikolai in the chopper…”

“He didn't stand a chance.” Rex murmurs. Explosives? That would explain the state of the tags.

“Not even a little.” Wasp replies. Solemn. “I rallied the survivors, they left after they I.D’d him. Aggressively. I’m surprised that they didn't take his tags, but…”

“That’s it, then, isn't it?” Rex unclasps the clip on the back of Graves’ chain before placing it around his own neck, clipping it shut once again. It's warm, the metal, as he tucks it underneath his shirt.

“What do we do now?” Wasp asks again, and while he’s relieved that Rex didn't shatter into a million tiny pieces at the news, he’s certain that a hurricane is coming. Brewing deep in his chest, just waiting for the right moment to spill out and take everything down with him. Rex hadn't ever thought about what was supposed to happen whenever this day came because he was promised on repeat like a broken record that it never would, but there’s only so many ways to break the news to an entire PMC of men and women. He glances around the desk, pushing papers and files aside to grab the microphone to the P.A. system. They rarely used it, given that little had changed in long enough that no service announcements needed to be made, but that changed today. Rex blew the dust off and pressed the little red button on the front, which started glowing afterwards, signifying that he can begin.

“Alright, Shadows, I need all units to report to the tarmac ASAP. This is your Commander speaking.”

Nothing felt worse than dragging himself down there, than fixing his face in the reflection of some picture hung in the hallway, taking a deep breath and attempting to look like he had some sort of clue. It got easier, though. There were hang-ups in the first few weeks, but eventually Rex adjusted to being called Commander. He knew that this was on his shoulders now, that handling the legal case was on him and so was continuing to make Shadow Company a profitable business as its CEO. Aside from burying the charred remains of his person, that was the worst part of all of this — trying to seem as though he could keep his head above water as well as everyone else's.

There was a part of him that thought if he simply pushed hard enough that he could ignore the grief. Maybe he could avoid it entirely by just working until he forgot that he was unhappy, that his bed was going to be half-full forever; that his husband was dead.

Rex looked up one morning and didn't recognize that person in the mirror. His hair was down past his shoulders now, his cheeks less full than they had been. Every scar felt more apparent with every passing day that he spent running drills outside with the Shadows, because his skin was flushing a shade of tan that it never had before. He stopped taking hot showers. Fucking warmth reminded him of Graves. Winter came quietly to Texas as it always did and still he slept with the windows open.

Graves would've wanted them closed.

He left the television on all night.

Graves would’ve wanted it off.

He got a new vest without the strap on the back because who was he supposed to kneel to now? A patch on the front reading Commander still doesn't feel at home on his chest, neither does the Shadow 0-1 callsign so he refuses to use it outright. Rex pushes the court case against Shadow Company back even further due to the lack of a man to charge, as they can't be held liable for a dead man’s crimes. He knew it was getting bad whenever the Justice of the peace actually let it slide.

Shadow Company returned to some semblance of normal within six months.

Rex never felt like himself anymore, but at least everyone else seemed to have recovered. The newest Shadows never even met Graves — brought on by Rex to replace the mass losses taken in Mexico. He could barely believe it, he was actually doing it all alone and somehow he hadn't given up on the people or the place. It was running smoothly as far as anyone was concerned, at least further down the ladder of command.

The Shadows knew. The officers, at least. Wasp and Spitfire weren't fucking stupid, keeping a close watch on everything Rex got his hands dirty with to ensure he wasn't just running headfirst into his own death. They watched him take a backseat to his own life, everything he worked for passing him by whilst others reaped the benefits. Graves would be proud of how efficiently the Company ran, that was for damn sure, but he wouldn't be happy that it came at the cost of Rex’s spark.

He lost it. That quick wit, the bite that backed up his bark, the things that made him…well, him.

The day that a ceasefire was pushed across his desk by Kate Laswell, she knew it, too. This wasn't the Rex that would kill someone for speaking ill of his Commander, no, this was Commander Morelli, or what remained of him at least. She looked up at Rex with an understanding in her eyes that the 141 could not possibly fathom, not for a monster like Rex that would turn tail on them so quickly.

“You don't have to sign it, I…I just want you to know that they’re intent on closing this chapter. We have work to do, business that needs tending.” Kate says with all of the bureaucratic charm she usually has, a kind enough smile tugging at her features. Rex nods slowly as he looks it over, seeing a spot at the bottom for his name. Captain John Price has already signed it. It’s August. He looks out the window of his office before looking back at the paper, pressing his pen to it with nothing short of defeat. “Thank you, Rex.”

“No problem.” He sort of nods as he pushes it back to Kate. “I just want this to be over with. Any luck finding Shepherd?”

“Not yet…we have bigger fish to fry, I’m afraid.” Kate purses her lips in thought. “Would…Shadow Company be interested in working with—”

“Absolutely not.” Rex cuts her off. “I appreciate the kind gesture of the ceasefire, but I won't need a gun if I have to work with a single one of them brits again.”

Point made.

“I understand. Just…don't hesitate to reach out, alright? I know we have a rocky relationship now, but the C.I.A. is happy to continue to administrate your contracts as we have been. I’ll leave Price's men out of them.” Kate is nothing short of a saint. Rex is all teeth and flattened ears, somewhere in the valley between anger and depression. He’s armed with those emotions because it's easier than admitting he’s nothing like how he used to be on the inside, and though Kate can see right through it she chooses to say nothing.Professionalism is what she aims for and it's not exactly the picture of it to call him on his bullshit.

She disappears as quickly as she came to HQ and Rex can safely say he’s relieved. His hands find the top drawer of the desk and he pulls out a half crumpled pack of Newports and a lighter, not hesitating to spark one up inside. The window is open anyways. A playing card shaped ashtray on the desk with a spade in the center taunts him, though he chooses to ignore it whilst he looks down at his copy of the ceasefire.

…hereby agrees to cease all hostile contact with Shadow Co. as long as said agreement is upheld inversely towards Task Force 141…

“What a bunch of bullshit.” Rex mumbles to himself as he stuffs it into his desk, sighing as his forehead meets the warm surface of the hardwood.

It changes nothing. They operate as per usual, carrying out the typical business that they had beforehand without any special addendums. No intentionally risky missions, no smuggling American made missiles for a disgraced General, nothing out of the ordinary for a privatized military group. A ceasefire only matters in wartimes and as far as Rex is concerned, they aren't involved in any wars. Kate doesn't contact them about any ongoing changes in the worldwide political climate, so he rightfully assumes that everything is coasting along as it should be. He never asked about the PMC that assaulted them in Urzikstan and stole the missile shipment for Hassan because, truthfully, he knew nobody outside of Shepherd would have answers. The Konni PMC was placed on a back burner in his mind, at least until his phone starts ringing.

It's a Tuesday when Farah calls him.

He doesn't pick up.

Instead, he goes outside.

There's a tree on the back of the property, a weeping willow in all white. Whenever Graves passed, Rex knew they weren't going to be able to give his remains up to some mortuary, so they buried what they had out in the back 40. It's what he would've wanted, anyways, not some cramped cemetery. Rex came out whenever he needed to think or breathe, mull things over with the only motherfucker that would've been real with him. Graves would always be honest about things even if it meant knocking Rex down a peg or two. Rex crossed their legs and sat down, pulling out an all too familiar flask from their pocket. P.G. embossed in the leather casing, a playing card shoved in there too. The ace of spades. Rex threw back a shot and let the warmth settle in his stomach.

He isn't sure how long he's out there when he hears someone behind him.

Footsteps, then the clearing of a throat.

“You mind?” Rex doesn't even look back. He knows that only a newer Shadow would be so dumb as to traipse on up whilst he’s sulking out here. Commander Morelli is very famously armed at all times, this they know. “I’m a bit busy, recruit, what do you want?”

“Didn't anybody ever teach you some god damn manners? Your daddy didn't hug you enough or somethin'?” Rex whips around with all of the fire of a sun, his eyes locking with a set of cobalt blue ones that stand behind him. He stares for just a moment, entirely slack jawed, his hand still gripping the flask as if it's a lifeline.

He clears his throat again, whoever it is, and Rex makes a mental note about making them run laps later.

He’s wearing a light blue dress shirt, a Lacoste, and faded blue jeans. The belt around his waist is black with a red stripe down the middle, matching the magazine holder that dangles from it, a snake embroidered on the front panel. He’s got his hands shoved in his pockets save for his thumbs, a silver watch on his left wrist that Rex recognizes well as he was the one who purchased it. There’s a nauseatingly familiar scar just below the man’s right eye, running back across his cheek and back through the top of his ear. Clipped like a feral dog that’s been taken to the vet.

“He didn't, actually, how’d y'know?”He says with a hum, rocking back on his heels ever so slightly. He has boots on, casual ones, though the leather is worn all the same as a pair of tactical ones. Rex can hear the material creak. It's been a long while since anyone wore them. “Well? You just gonna stare or what?”

Rex has pulled his sidearm before he can even consciously think about doing so and its pointed at the imposter’s forehead, pressed up against it actually.

“Bit much, ain't it, sugar?”

“Go fuck yourself — who the fuck do you think you are? What kind of sick fucking joke is this? Huh?” He taps the barrel against the man’s forehead. The imposter’s hands are up and behind his head in a quick movement that almost gets him shot. Rex is so certain this isn't Graves, because he isn't smiling about it. He doesn't have that smug grin that says ‘surprise’ as if this is something laughable.

No, he actually…he looks distraught.

“Answers. Now.” Rex slowly turns to walk the imposter backwards from the grave, never taking the pistol from his forehead. They’re not even shaking, hands entirely too steady for how electric all of their nerve endings feel. “Spill.”

“Coda, can you put the gun down?”

“Who? That isn't my name, I’m sorry, try again.” Rex taps the barrel off his head and the lookalike shifts his gaze away.

“Rex. Put the gun down.” His voice is too eerily similar. Rex feels faint. “What do I need to do to convince you that I’m me?”

“Explain how the fuck I buried a body, that’s what. Philip Graves is dead, he’s in a pine box three feet behind and six feet under me.” Rex clicks the hammer back into place on the revolver and the man tenses up, though his pupils are blown out wide. He doesn't look afraid for his life, if anything he looks oddly relieved.

“How else did you expect me to win down there in Mexico, huh? Gave ‘em some bait, they took it. I had to disappear, Rex, or they would've kept botherin’ us. Would’ve really put us both under.” He seems genuine, but Rex isn't buying it. This is all too convenient. Graves wouldn’t have left him out of the plans, would he? Not intentionally. No, this had to have been a last minute decision. Wait. Why is he even believing this sick fuck? Pretending to be a man’s dead husband? Rex shakes his head to clear his thoughts and grabs at his belt, feeling around for his radio. “Who are you calling?”

“My Lieutenants, that's who.” Rex huffs as he picks the radio up.

“Wasp and Spitfire let me in, sugar. Can you put the gun down, now?” Graves isn't quite begging, but he sounds exhausted. Rex falters for a moment, his aim wavering, before giving out all together. The revolver falls to the grass and he clasps his hand over his mouth, looking up at the blonde before him with something close to what they used to share. Things are different now, though. Terribly. It had been a long, hard year. Then his arms are open and are can't process if he wants to hug him or hit him. “C’mere.”

It hurts.

Real, physical pain.

He wants to scream, cry, something.

Don't call me sugar, don't do this to me, look at the fucking wreck I've become.

He can't.

“No, no, this…this isn’t…you’re not him.” Rex stutters, shaking his head. Before he can back away completely Graves has him in his arms, smothered into his chest, and all of those nagging thoughts disappear instantly. He smells how he always did. The cross around his neck is cool metal where Rex’s face presses into it, the expanse of his back is warmed by the sun. His arms are strong and capable, swearing silently to protect Rex from everything he had failed to.

“It's me, Coda. M’home.” Graves says with that familiar sickly sweetness that almost makes Rex forget the suffering he endured. The longest year of his life, burying Coda for good. Graves hadn't really died, but he wondered if he could resurrect the other version of himself that he used to be.

The days and weeks that follow are filled with a kind of tension that everyone is sick of within a few hours. Rex has developed the capability to run the Company with nothing short of confidence and self assurance, becoming much more than just the leashed animal he had been before. He’s skin and bones and claws, all bloodied maw and choked up flesh, a promise to die for this Company.. The problem is that Graves doesn't recognize that person wearing the Commander badge, supposedly his partner, though he can't be sure through the unkempt mess of hair and tired eyes. Rex doesn't look like that, no, Rex is soft on the edges even when he’s baring his teeth.

Whoever he came back to isn't him, but he tries to love him all the same. Rex doesn't let him close enough for that.

They still don't really trust each other whenever they arrive in Urzikstan to meet Alex and Farah. Though, there's something to be said about the surprised smirk Alex gives when they walk into the room. He straightens up, sort of tilts his head like a curious puppy when he speaks.

“The Shadow himself.” Alex speaks, followed by Farah.

“Welcome, Graves.”

“Heard you died in a tank in South America.” Alex smirks.

Rex freezes instinctually. South America? They were in Mexico. Who the fuck told them South America? Farah sounded like she knew what had happened whenever they spoke on the phone, did she not? Either Graves doesn't clock the mistake or he chooses to ignore it.

“Well, I wasn't in that tank.” Graves says with all of his usual smug confidence. He suppresses a smile, though. “What else have you heard?”

“We’re fighting our battles, here, no time for rumors.” Farah cuts off his curiosity. Rex can't help but wonder who gave them their information — as far as Rex was concerned they had only communicated with Shadow Company about the events of the last year. Had they been in contact with John Price? He knew that they'd worked together to retrieve Kate Laswell from captivity at some point, sure, but Rex was of the understanding that they’d ceased contact as Farah didn't even ask about Las Almas over the phone.

Did they not know why Graves’ life had been ‘taken’? What Shadow Company had done to the 141? Rex had a million questions that would go unanswered for far, far too long, but he was at least able to come to grips with the fact Graves was alive.

He didn't understand why he was left out of the plans, why the entirety of the Company was, or where Graves was for that excruciating year. He didn't understand why it had to be so hush-hush. If anyone should've been in the loop, it should've been him. They sit on the jet ride back to Texas, to prepare the shipment of missiles to be cargo-shipped to Urzikstan’s coast for Farah to retrieve. It's deathly quiet for the longest time, just the two of them in the cabin, splitting a bottle of whiskey.

Rex thumbs over the tags still around his neck, crinkled metal against the smooth surface of his own tags, glancing up to meet Graves’ gaze. They still had yet to share a bed again, let alone anything more intimate than a ‘hello.’

It feels more like a mercurial affair than what was previously a marriage, but theres some sort of hope buried in there somewhere. Like maybe if they can dig Farah out of this mess then maybe they can find themselves again, but they both know it's not that simple.

For now, their boots touch and Rex doesn't pull away. They share a drink on the ride home and the silence as well, wondering how many more miniscule heartbreaks it will take for them to need each other again.

—

💫 tags // @simonrriley 💫

They sat dazed on the ground, nursing a forming bruise on their forearm from the ever-tight grip of the comrades, as he watched in annoyance.

“Get up, go again. You need to be able to outrun any of them.” Graves barked, his gaze shifting from Coda to the pack of Shadows that were training with them. They were just running laps, but they were trying to outrun them — if they caught up to them, it was another lap they had to do later that evening. The larger men, with longer stride lengths, set a brutal pace that Coda just couldn’t keep up with, even if they tried. They were faster, stronger, and harder to evade.

“I fucking can’t, Graves, Christ.” Coda huffed, clambering back up to their feet to approach him. They had grown…fiery. Their personality was trying to come out after being suppressed, and that resulted in their spitfire attitude regularly getting them in trouble. They walked up to him and tried to make themselves look bigger, but being five foot four doesn’t really lend itself to that. “I can’t outrun them, I can’t.”

“You act like you have a choice.” Graves replied smugly, leaning down to his level, his expression that of a sly fox. It was annoying in every sense of the word, the way he seemed to hold himself in such high regard.

“I’m not doing this anymore.” Coda went to walk away from him, which was a first. Given that he kept them so close, they had gotten used to staying close, and never really put much distance in between them. That didn’t last very long, as he grabbed them by the strap on the back of their vest, yanking them right back. “Hey!”

“You’re not goin’ anywhere.” He whispered to them, his voice sending shivers up their spine that made their entire body shudder. They struggled, but there was no use. “You already tried to run once, darlin’, an’ you couldn’t even do it then.”

Fuck.

He knew.

“No — no I didn’t.” Coda protested, a whimper escaping as they pulled against the restraint. “Let me go!”

“Mmhmm…I know you did, sweetheart. You really think I just…walked away without thinkin’? I knew you were gonna try and run, Coda, what do you take me for?” Graves' voice was low and condescending, tone gravelly and thick with the power he held over them. He was very quickly reminded Graves was not the kind man they had thought he was for a moment. He was a bastard, he was in charge, he knew he had a strong hold on their psyche and he wasn’t letting go. “Now, you go out there an’ you run circles aroun’ them boys, or I’ll put you back in the medbay.”

Was that a fucking threat?

His body instinctively jerked against the restraints but he had let go, and he watched Coda fall to the ground. They didn’t waste a second scrambling back to their feet and bolting out in front of the group of Shadows. They took note of their presence and like a pack of wild dogs they picked up the pace, whistling and catcalling after him as he hauled off, stumbling through every meter he ran.

Everything in Coda told them to stop, to let him win, to give up before their body gave out, but they didn’t.

They ran as fast as their legs would carry them, eventually pushing themselves hard enough to lap them. Once they were certain they had caught up with the pack their body gave out from under them, collapsing to the tarmac with a thud. Their knees were scraped up on impact, palms skinned from catching themself, elbows busted; but they did it. By the skin of their teeth, they did it.

Their blood painted the tar immediately, red stains littering the worn gray material, and they felt incredibly dizzy. Running that hard, that fast…it was a bit much, admittedly.

Much to their surprise when he looked up, Graves stood in front of him with a hand extended outwards again. Like he was some savior, some saint for helping him.

“That’s my boy…c’mon, get up.”

“You just — you’re a prick.” Coda refused his hand, crawling up to standing again, wiping their bloody handprints off on their shorts, sighing at the scraped skin. “You threaten me and then praise me and I-I can’t — I can’t.”

“I thought we established that you don’t have a choice, darlin’.”

“And I thought we agreed that you callin’ me that shit is so misplaced.” They snapped back at him, earning nothing more than a smirk in reply.

“You’re gonna do what I ask of you either way, so what does it matter? I could just be mean, if you’d like.”

“Is that supposed to imply that you’re not being mean now?”

“Oh, no, I am. I’m an asshole, sweethear’, never claimed to not be. I’m sayin’ I could cut out callin’ you a good boy an’ praisin’ every time you actually apply yourself, if that’s what you want.”

“I want to just — I want to be alone.” Coda felt their chest pounding with anxiety, wanting to walk away but knowing it would end in being grabbed up by the vest-strap again. They wanted to cry, truthfully, but that too would end in horror. He would see it as weakness and remember this the first time they actually cried in front of him, probably mark it on his damn calendar.

“Why? There somethin’ you wanna hide?” Graves asked them in a rhetorical manner, well aware of the tears brimming in their hazy green eyes. He reached out, his hand resting on their jaw, thumb gently swiping over their cheek. Were they already crying and just hadn’t noticed it?

“No.”

“No, who?”

“No, you motherfucker, just — fuck off.” Coda’s voice came out as more of a whimper than anything as they went to pull back, but his hold was strong. They felt it then, the tears running down their cheeks. Graves didn’t look at all fazed by it, maybe even a little bit satisfied as he wiped them away.

“Took you long enough.”

“I’m — I’m not...L-Leave me alone.” They reached up to push his hand away, but it would seem the touch of fingertips on his forearm stopped them both dead in their movements. Instead of moving him, their hand just lingered there, leaving a few bloody smudges from being scraped.

“I mean it. I expected you to crack months ago.”

“You made the mistake of underestimating me.”

“I’ll never make that mistake again.” Graves replied softly, watching as they stopped crying, and he retracted his hand. They didn’t look scared of him so much as they just looked exhausted, which was understandable. They’d just outran a bunch of men double their size, easily, it would be an ordeal for anyone to endure. “I only push you so hard ‘cause I don’t wanna see you break in the field.”

“Why the hell do you care what happens to me out there? One less problem for you to put up with if I’m in the dirt.”

“I wanted you here, didn’t I? Wouldn’t it be incredibly counterproductive to just letcha get yourself killed?”

“I guess but —“

“No buts. Now, do I have to worry about you takin’ off if I letcha go?”

“No.” Coda was shocked by their own words as they left their mouth, even shaking their own head without even thinking about it. “No, m’not gonna try again.”

“Can I ask why?”

“I mean…what’s out there for me? Rent? Car payments? A family that’s always disappointed in me?” They were honest, which he didn’t expect — he’d assumed they’d give some generic answer that they just didn’t want to leave, or try to convince him they liked it here for some reason. Maybe a distraction so he’d believe they wouldn’t run off and then do it anyways, but he never expected pure honesty. “There’s nothin’ back there for me, I-I know that now. I…I’m better off doin’ somethin’ that matters with my life — I can do good here.”

He’d really gotten to them that easily? Just a short six months of pushing them to the limit and past it on occasion, and they were sure that they could do good here at Shadow. He wasn’t sure if he was proud or genuinely concerned for the man, but that didn’t matter. What mattered was seeing if they actually meant it, and would give this their all.

“Good to hear, Coda. M’glad we see eye to eye on that.”

“Can…can I go, then?”

“Go where?”

“I…don’t know.” They truthfully hadn’t spent any time alone on base, and hadn’t a clue what they would do with the time if it was available to them.

“Well, it’s up to you now, isn’t it?” So he was letting them go off on his own. They cracked a smile, a strange sight to Graves considering he hadn’t seen it since he gave them a Shadow Company uniform. That, and they were all scraped up and exhausted, so the smile was misplaced.

Most things shared between them felt out of line, though.

“Thank you.”

“Thank you, who?” Graves asked in a teasing tone, his arms crossed over his chest.

“Thank you, Graves.” They said as they turned and walked away from him, careful at first in case he went to tug on her vest, but happily trodding along back inside the base after they were comfortable.

“It’s Commander.” He called out, earning a little laugh from the dark haired man who had just been crying in front of him. Yeah, something was definitely wrong with him, but he liked it.

Somehow, the fact that he liked Coda terrified him more than their resilience. They would be the death of him, surely.

—

I LIEDDDDD ANOTHER PART BECAUSE WORK WAS SO DEAD I HAD TIME TO FORMAT IT!!! bye

They stirred in the sheets, not quite even awake when they hummed in reply. Their eyes fluttered open and their gaze landed on Graves, a soft sigh escaping them. Why was he so fucking close? Coda sat up slowly, pulling the blankets up to their chest as they observed him sitting on the edge of their bed.

“C’mon. Bones said she’s got time for you.”

Coda peeled out of bed and pulled their boots on, feeling much less dizzy than the night before. Once they were up they reluctantly followed him to the medical bay, immediately distrusting of the bubbly and kind woman who approached them about redressing and stitching the wound up.

He leaned in the doorway, watching as Bones numbed and began stitching the wound shut, much to Coda’s seeming disgust with watching themself get sutured. It would take a while, and he didn’t plan on walking away until the medic was done.

Not because he cared. Not at all.

“All done, sweetheart, you did great.” Bones cooed to Coda, earning a scoff.

“Don’t call me that.” Coda cursed softly as they went to get up from the cot, only to be stopped by Graves.

“You’re stayin’ here for now. You look exhausted, you’re…probably dehydrated, just — let her take care of you. I’m not tryin’ to kill you.”

What did he just say?

“Really?” Coda raised a brow. “No training?”

“No training. Get some rest, you’ll do better when you’re not half dead.” Graves patted them on the shoulder before leaving, a foreign sight to Coda after so many times they had been denied to walk away from him. He kept them close out of distrust, maybe this was some strange way of him telling them that he was starting to trust them.

Maybe. Maybe he just didn’t want to bury a body.

They hated the way that they almost missed him.

It’d been nearly four months of being at his side day in and day out, save for sleeping. Graves still didn’t let them shower alone — on the other hand, he didn’t let other Shadows in while they were showering, so they sort of appreciated it. Still, she was thrown off by this sudden lack of his presence. Coda was almost too anxious about it to carry on a healthy, normal conversation with Bones, their eyes always ending up fixed on the doorway, waiting for him to show up.

He was a permanent fixture in their thoughts, now, and there was nothing they could do but let it happen.

Bones was kind enough, providing something in the way of conversation that Graves usually didn’t, even sneaking them some sweets from the mess hall from time to time on top of normal meals. It was honestly the most peaceful few days they had since before even arriving here in this hellhole, just laying around, sleeping and healing.

A few days later, and one much less swollen arm, Graves rolled around again. He was silent in the doorway, watching Coda and Bones interact, the casual conversation carrying on until he made his presence known.

“You feelin’ better?” He asked, something genuine in his tone.

“Yeah, much.”

“Good, good…listen, I — I don’t want you to mistake this for weakness.” Graves, for the first time since they met him, stumbled through a sentence. He looked genuinely apologetic, like he meant every word that followed. “I shouldn’t have pushed you so hard that you weren’t thinkin’ straight — coulda killed you if you misstepped.”

“It’s…okay.” Coda replied, not sure what to make of his words. It was odd, that was for sure, but they were open to receiving an apology for what happened. He was right, really, it could’ve been much worse than it was, but that didn’t make it okay by any measure.

“It’s not.” He was firm, looking away for a moment before coming back to them. “C’mon, I got somethin’ t’show you.”

Coda followed without hesitation, giving Bones a quick goodbye as they met Graves in the hallway, taking up their position at his side. He looked down at them with something that could easily be seen as admiration as they walked, his thumbs hooked in the edge of his vest to keep his hands busy. They walked for a while in silence before he stepped in front of them, opening a door they had yet to see in their time walking around the base. It was labeled Armory but it contained much more than just weaponry. All sorts of gear, ghillie suits, sentries, drones — the whole nine.

“Oh, wow.” Coda said softly, looking around the room, taking in the sight. Who they could only assume to be Shadow Company’s gunsmith sat at a table in the room, fiddling with a rather large and in charge shotgun, his gaze only flickering up for a moment when the pair sauntered in. “What’d you wanna show me?”

“I gotta grab it. Wasp, keep an eye on him.” Graves was gone as quickly as they had gotten used to his presence again, leaving them in the care of the gunsmith. Wasp. He looked up once again, setting the shotgun down on his work station.

“You must be the problem he keeps goin’ on about.”

“I—“

“A lot shorter than I thought you’d be, given that he says you got the personality of a rottweiler.”

“You’re a ray of fuckin’ sunshine, aren’t you?” Coda crossed their arms, earning them a little chuckle from the gunsmith. He stood up and approached them, large figure practically looming over them, engulfing him in his shadow.

“You have a name, or..?”

“Coda.” He answered, and he stuck his hand out for a handshake.

“Good t’see a new face around here keepin’ him busy. Bastard needed some new blood to chase around.” Wasp took his hand and shook it, surprised by the firm grip he held despite the wound on his forearm. Graves returned moments later, a cardboard box in hand. Coda went to peek, but he stopped them, holding the box above where he was able to look into it.

“Impatient, much?”

“I’m just curious.”

“You can be curious forever, I don’t care. Patience will getcha a long way, darlin’.” Graves replied smugly, setting the box down on one of the tables in the room before he pulled something out of it. A plate carrier, with a couple of patches stuck to the chest. An american flag, blood type OPOS, a Shadow Company insignia, and…

His last name?

Morelli.

“Got your first mission comin’ up, n’I don’t want you stickin’ out. You’ll get caught if you’re the only one not in black.” Coda’s eyes were wide, fixed on the vest as they took it in hand, overlooking it like it were a precious artifact. It was strange. Before recently, he didn’t care about being a Shadow. They just wanted to live long enough to stand a chance at escaping Graves’ grasp, but for some reason it fulfilled him to see his name next to the insignia. “You’ll have to earn a rank, this is just…a start.”

There weren't any words.

He was a Shadow now.

“Well? You just gonna stare at it or are you gonna try it on?” He held out the box to them as well, a full uniform of clothing inside, including a new pair of boots. He wasn’t sure whether to be scared or not, because it honestly felt too kind to be true, to be Graves. This was an imposter, surely. Coda hesitantly took the box from his hands and he swore he saw the tiniest hint of a smile on his face. “Go ‘head.” He gestured toward the back room that he had come from with the box, and they slunk through the door into the room.

After getting changed into the sleek black uniform they felt like maybe things wouldn’t be so terrible here. Like, maybe the literal blood, sweat and tears paid off into making a life out of a fuckup. That one simple mission had become much more, and truthfully, they liked it. He liked that he had become a sort of staple in his day to day, that he was willing to challenge them and let them challenge him right back. For as much as he hated their smart comments, he never retaliated. If anything, they would not know this of course, he liked it just as much as they did.

There was something to be said for their unbreakable spirit, though it comes from a place of pain and suffering, they are tougher for it.

When they stepped back out they placed the box down, now holding the comfortable clothes they’d been living in for a handful of days at that point. Graves’ eyes settled on them all decked out in Shadow Company standards, a wicked spark of something they couldn’t place in them.

“Looks good on you, Coda.” He spoke after a moment, giving them a little nod of approval.

“I make it look good.” He was just being snarky, of course, but what else was to be expected? Coda looked down at himself and smoothed out any wrinkles in the fabric, seemingly comfortable in the new attire, feeling like part of the dynamic here now. As strange as their beginnings here had been, they wanted to be happy here, even though it was probably the most wrong thing to do. He had taken them captive, which they could not forget.

“We’re headin’ out tomorrow, it’s a an easy one t’start. We’re providin’ a security detail for a shipment.” Graves explained to them, averting his gaze from them to Wasp. He didn’t want to stare, but god did they look good in black.

“You’re comin’ with?”

“I’ve only been around s’much because I’ve been stuck with your ass — m’not the type’a person to lead from distance if I can help it, like to be with my boys one way or another.” They were surprised, to say the least. They’d seen so much of him these past few months that they’d assumed he was more of a paperwork type guy at this point in his career, but it would seem they were wrong. The idea of him being out there in the dirt with the Shadows, working the jobs all the same, was oddly comforting. It was more like a big family than it was a mercenary group.

“Close air, or..?”

“Close air overwatch will be present, yes. But I want you in the convoy, so I’ll be in it too. Still ain’t lettin’ you run off on your own, darlin’.”

“I expected as much.”

“Don’t let me down, a’right?”

—

meant to fucking queue this FOR LATER but HERE WE ARE!!!!!!! FAT FUCKING THUMBS

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