#rexgraves

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 !!!

Coda glances back over his shoulder to see they’ve gained a bit of distance, one of them has to be running a Kerenzikov or something, he's making Coda’s full tilt sprint look like a cakewalk. He makes the call last second to try and hop the fence into the back alley behind a bar, vaulting over it without a hitch, but he can't quite stick the landing. The dumpster breaks his fall, but he knows he isn't lucky enough to evade capture.

He should be a fortune teller, he thinks, as the Claw wrestles him out of the dumpster and up against the brick wall, a snarl of a laugh escaping as he knees Coda directly in the stomach. If he had eaten dinner, it would've been on the concrete. He writhes against the hold of several men and women, far larger than him thanks to their chrome, with little more fight to give than the spit in his mouth.

Bad idea.

“1万5千ドルだ、モレリ、それがお前の勘定に残っている金額だ!”

Coda doesn't speak Japanese.

He winces in preparation for being hit again, but to his surprise he hears gunshots, and they're close enough to have blown his head off. When he opens his eyes he sees the Claw holding him with a bright red hole where the side of his head should be, optics visibly shutting down as he crumpled and lets go of Coda. Scrambling away, towards the gunfire, he watches the other Claws drop dead before looking to his savior.

“Told them no good bastards to stay out of my fucking property.” A dark haired man mumbles, checking over a pistol in his hands. He’s pretty chromed out, a half mask covering the lower part of his face and presumably some killer implants. “You alright, kid?”

“Got a nasty fucking headache, but…yeah.” Coda says with a sigh from where he’s still sat on the ground, arms behind him for support, looking at the bloodied corpses of his attackers. “You didn't have to do that. I could've handled it.”

“That bitch had a monowire that would've cut your head off.” The brunette replies, extending a hand to Coda. He’s got smart-grips, and what looks to be mantis claws hiding beneath his sleeves. Coda can just barely make out the edge of the sharp metal implants, a subtle red glow under a suit jacket.

“Maybe I would’ve deserved it — y’don't know me, choom.” Coda isn't even close to face-to-face with the man, a height disadvantage making him feel remarkably dysphoric in his bones. He steps back and lets go of the man’s hand, looking past him to the bustling activity inside the dimly lit bar.

“Nobody deserves a fate like that — ‘sides, you look pretty harmless. Thirsty?” He doesn't miss a beat asking if Coda wants to come inside, which is a welcome gesture. These types of bars, usually you need to know someone or pay some ridiculous cover charge, so Coda considers this a stroke of luck and nods.

“Incredibly. They chased me here from Jig-Jig Street.”

“Shit, maybe I should've let them have their prey if you made ‘em run that far. Must’ve really pissed Wakako off, huh?” He holds the door for Coda to walk in and the air shifts ever so slightly, smelling of bergamot and vanilla, icy and cold.

“I owe her a few eddies.”

“15 grand isn't a few.”

“How do—”

“Real time translation implants — oughta get you a set if you're gonna keep trying to fuck over Miss Okada.” The brunette states in a matter of fact manner as they walk deeper into the bar, a neon sign behind the counter marking the place as ‘Shadows.’ It’s white neon on a black background, an ace of spades playing card smack behind the word Shadows. Something tells Coda that he shouldn't be here, but he can't quite place a finger on it, especially not when he takes a seat at the bar alongside the brunette that saved his life. He’s awkward and small in comparison to the hulking mass of a man, who speaks first to the bartender. “Two Blue Grass, double shots, on the rocks.”

“You got it, Wasp — who’s your friend?” The bartender asks the newly named fellow, Wasp, with a raised brow as he pours the drinks.

“Well, kleptoid?” Wasp asks, taking his glass and pulling his mask down. No heavy duty chrome, just a whole lot of scarring.

“Coda Morelli.”

“Spitfire. This one’s on the house, keep them sticky fingers off of anything it looks like you can't afford, yeah?” Spitfire says as he nudges Coda’s glass across the counter, a lopsided smile on the blonde’s face out of kindness. He seems much warmer in demeanor than Wasp does, but that just might be surface level customer service.

“I’m not a thief, you know — I just got wrapped up in some bad biz is all.” Coda murmurs as he sips the whiskey, wincing slightly at the burn it leaves in his throat.

“You mean to tell me you racked up fifteen big ones in debt? Not stolen eds?” Wasp almost laughs. “Shit, choom, I should've let them eat you alive.”

“Yeah, it's…it's debt.” Coda sighs and slams the rest of the drink before resting his forehead against the cool surface of the bar counter, eyes shut. “But, hey, I’ll figure it out. Always do.”

“D’you think Ace has anything—” Spitfire starts, but Wasp cuts him off quickly.

“Kid isn't a merc, look at him. A gentle breeze would knock his ass out.” Coda can hear the smirk on Wasp’s face without having to see it there.

“He’s not wrong.” Coda sits up straight again, propping his head up on a closed fist. “I’m not a merc.”

“You need the scratch, don't you?” Spitfire raises a brow, idly pouring Coda a second drink without asking.

“Yeah, but—”

“If you get zeroed trying to make the scratch, it doesn't matter. You’ll die if you don't pay her back.” Spitfire says in a way that is somehow both incredibly serious and dangerously playful at the same time, like he’s daring Coda to take the bait and ask. He does.

“So…who's Ace?” Coda asks, taking a sip from the second double shot of Blue Grass. It tastes better the second time.

“Probably the only fixer that can actually get you out of this mess.” Wasp replies as he replaces his mask, standing up from the bar. He tosses a cred chip at Spitfire, who catches it, stashing it at the terminal for payment. “Come on. Let's see if he'll even entertain letting a prole take a contract.”

Coda can't help but follow.

Shadows is a cozy, dark bar, with a lively nightlife. There’s mercs drinking and dancing, brain potatoes in the corner somewhere getting their rocks off on XBD’s, and a distinct lack of gambling. It's interesting. Most places at least have some sort of slot machines or a zombie running five finger fillet with a rusty knife, but anything of the sort is absent here. Coda keeps his eyes low as Wasp leads him through the bar, through what is very clearly a joytoy hall, and then to a top floor where the owner presumably resides. There’s a door with a spade on it, just like the symbol behind the bar, but with an A in the centre of it. Wasp knocks with two knuckles, firm.

“Commander, got some fresh meat out here that wants work.” Wasp barks, and there's a subtle clatter inside the room.

“One second.” A voice calls back, and a few moments later the door opens. Who Rex can only assume to be a joytoy, dark hair and soft blue eyes, stumbles out with a huff as he adjusts the collar of his shirt. His gaze then shifts to the man behind the desk, who has a real-time face distortion field. It’s not like old world television static, more like a censor bar or black ice on the net. When his face shifts, so does it. “Evening, meat.”

“Coda Morelli.” Coda corrects, stepping into the room.

“You say your name like it should ring a bell.” The man chuckles.

“It shouldn't, but I’m not just meat. I deserve a name. Yours is..?” Coda cuts back as Wasp shuts the door, disappearing as quickly as he had appeared to save Coda in the alleyway. The air feels stuffy, especially as the owner lights a cigarette, though he does crack a window immediately afterwards.

“Ace.” The owner says back, extending a hand for a shake. He’s barren of visible implants. Coda isn't sure he even sees a jack-port on him, let alone anything on his hands or neck. “You don't look like a mercenary, Coda.”

“I’m not. I need work, though, I need the eds to pay back a debt that I owe — twice over, now, I guess because your tall, dark and angry lackey back there saved my life from the Claws hunting me down.” Coda murmurs the last part with a bit of embarrassment, his hands stuffed into his jacket pockets. He feels awkward and sort of like a loser, begging for work after such a close call with his own demise, but if this man can help him then it's worth it. If he can squash his debt with Wakako, then maybe he can start to find a way out of the pit he’s dug himself into.

“Sounds like him — what do you have experience with? Driving, net running?” Ace asks, taking a drag of his cigarette mid sentence, blowing the smoke out the window respectfully. He hasn't told Coda to get the fuck out yet, which is a good sign.

“I can drive, yeah.” Coda nods. “I have a Mizutani Shion MZ1, 2065. Used to run races with it.”

“You win?”

“Always, every time, sir.” Coda isn't sure where the formality came from, but it feels right on his lips. Afterall, this man could help him out, a little ass kissing won't hurt.

“Then I have a task for you. Transporting some goods from a contact out in the Badlands to here — if you get it back here safely, then I’ll pay out a nice little piece of the earnings to you. How much do you owe?”

“15 thousand.” Coda is embarrassed, it's clear in the way he shifts his gaze away.

“Done. You’ll get twenty.” Ace nods.

“What is it I’m transporting that’s worth so much?” Coda raises a brow.

“Find out when you get it here, won'tcha sugar?” Ace has a low, husky rumble to his voice that makes Coda’s hair stand on end, his eyes focusing on where Ace’s eyes should be in an instant. The empty blackness that stares back tells Coda he ought to behave on this once in a lifetime chance at saving his hide. “I’ll flick the cords over and call my contact, let him know to look for a…what, a black Mizutani?”

“How’d you guess?” Coda flashes a smile.

“I drive the same one.” Ace is smug about admitting this, but his soft expression reflects a certain kindness as well. Coda is about to make a comment when he gets the notification of the coordinates, pinging so incredibly far out in the desert that he wonders if he’ll have enough gas to get there and back. He wants to ask for a meeting time, but Ace has other plans. “Better get going, kid. It's getting dark out.”

“Right.” Coda nods and backs away, out the door and into the hallway before he can even register what he’s gotten himself into. He feels his pockets, checking for his keys. It's not often that he actually calls his Mizu out or uses the auto-driving features, because truthfully the fee is outrageous, but this sort of mission beckons the frivolous eddie spending. If he succeeds, then he can afford a permanent subscription to the auto-arrival feature. All that exists in his mind as he steps back outside and onto the sidewalk in front of Shadows, pressing the auto-arrival button on his keys, is the notion that there’s a way out of this hole.

It only takes a few minutes for the car — affectionately named “Betty” to pull up — and for Coda to get behind the wheel. It's already warmed up, the engine, so he floors it in the direction of the Badlands coordinates. His main hand taps anxiously at the steering wheel as the other holds the shift stick with intention, expertly moving between gears to make the engine roar out as he weaves in and out of inner city traffic.

Eventually, the traffic breaks, and he can see the stars. Night City’s light pollution is a distant memory in the desert, out in the wild, breathing in slightly cleaner air. Coda reaches over and pops his glove compartment, grabbing his backup pistol from where it's stashed, checking that it's loaded as he pulls up to the middle of nowhere. It's a landfill, essentially, a junkpit. Full of Night City’s discard, probably a few dead bodies and a booster or two.

He leaves his engine idling as he gets out of the car, stuffing his pistol in the back of his jeans with an anxious huff as he waits. No headlights in sight. Regretting that he didn't ask Ace for any sort of contact information regarding the person he was to be meeting, he pulls his phone out and thumbs over it. The screen glows quietly, showing a lack of text messages and the music that's playing in Betty, some melodic metalcore that quickly fades whenever he sees headlights approaching.

Quickly.

The car, some nomad modified special, drifts across the sand and skids to a stop mere inches from Coda’s front bumper. He scrambled back to avoid the impact, pulling his heat the instant he saw the gonk that was driving it fall out. It's a nomad, sure as hell, of the Bakker variety. He’s got a hole in his chest, bleeding profusely, and a look in his eyes that screams terror.

“Hey — fuck — you’re Ace’s merc, right?” The Bakker gonk asks, hand pressed to the gaping wound as he stumbles to his knees, then to his feet.

What the fuck did Coda get himself into here?

“Uh — sure.” Coda nods slowly. “You alright, choom?”

“I’ll be fine, listen — the package is in the back, don't — don’t fuckin let them catch up. Maelstrom gonks.” The Bakker nomad huffs as he stumbles to the trunk of the car, Coda following with an anxious twitch to his aiming hand.

He doesn't feel safe, something's fucking wrong, it's like he can feel the danger without seeing it.

Maelstrom is bad news, this he knows, but something about having a half dead nomad talk him through the process whilst actively bleeding out from these guys…it makes it feel all the much more terrifyingly lethal. The trunk opens and he swears he can hear cars in the distance, growing closer, engines screaming louder. His gaze shifts to a large metal container, several massive locks in place on it, with a big, fat MaxTac logo smacked on the front of it.

“Get going, kid, I’ll hold ‘em off you as long as I can.”

“Wait, wait, MaxTac?” Coda stutters. “The fuck is this thing?”

“Are you the only fuckin’ prole in the city that doesn't know to delta the fuck out when they hear about Maelstrom coming or what?” The nomad barks, hand still pressed to the gaping wound on his chest. Coda doesn't answer, just picks up the case and jogs to the back of Betty, popping her trunk and gently placing it inside. When he looks back up, he can see the nomad wrenching an oversized rifle out of the back of his ride. He’s propping it up on the trunk, bracing it against the shoulder that isn't wounded, not even glancing back to see if Coda is running.

He is.

It doesn't cross his mind that he should protect the Bakker clan member, not whenever Maelstrom is clearly interested in whatever Ace has him transporting. Betty is hurtling across the desert before he can even begin to question his choices, he’s shifting and steering with the same hand whilst the other is fucking with his phone, trying to find contact information for Ace. Afterall, he flicked the cords over, he should be somewhere in there…

“You've reached the voicemail box at the office of The Shadows, leave a message after the—” Coda practically throws his phone into the backseat and glances back in the rear view mirror to see several sets of headlights tailing him.

“Motherfucker.” Coda mutters under his breath as he shifts once again, car rapidly making way towards the bridge entering back into Watson, which he knows he can get into Kabuki from. If he just takes a deep breath and navigates the streets, he can fucking do this. He just has to lose the Maelstrom rats along the way, right?

Gunfire. It's getting closer. They really want this package, don't they?

Coda keeps looking back as he drives, eventually deciding that he can't risk returning fire. He needs to lose them the old fashioned way, with good and hard driving, as fast as he possibly can in crowded streets. Night City is a bustling hub around every corner, with sharp turns and complicated traffic laws. Good thing he intended on ignoring street lights and crosswalk signals. There was no way he could be a lawful citizen right now, not if he wanted to take this package back to Ace and get his miracle paycheck.

He just prayed that the badges weren't going to be in his way, and floored it. Coda turned the radio up so loud that he couldn't hear the gunfire or the thumping of his heart in his head, eyes affixed on the road ahead and the peripheral traffic interference.

The bullets are penetrating the car. He can hear it, the thwip of full metal jackets slicing through the metal exterior.

Hard turns. Bearing into the curves. Coda can't breathe. He’s watching with nothing short of terror as two large, kitted out Maelstrom cars pull up alongside him and attempt to push him back and forth. Cars are swerving out of the way frantically, he's certain that he can hear police sirens in the distance, eyes locking briefly with a bunch of beady, red optical implants on the gonk driving the car on his right. They make eye contact and then he can see the barrel of a gun, flinching on instinct and taking the gunshot directly to the upper arm.

Everything is a burning, searing pain, but he doesn't stop driving.

He doesn't even slow down.

Coda decides to take an alternate route back to Shadows, whipping Betty around a post with expert skill, losing two of the Maelstrom chasers in the process.

“Fuckin’ hell…” Coda lets a shaky breath out as he starts navigating the streets to the best of his ability, scanning the signs to see where he needed to go. His hands aren't shaking anymore. There’s confidence in the way he swerves in between other cars, despite the gaping bullet wound in his arm that’s screaming in pain.

A few more blocks.

He watches in complete fear as a couple of badge cars round the corner and cut Maelstrom off, leaving him a few precious seconds to speed up and evade them, which he does. With Betty whipped into a parking spot outside Shadows, he sits there with the bass blasting for just a minute more, white-knuckle grip on the wheel as tight as ever. Well, with one hand. The other isn't able to grip as tightly as he would appreciate, not with the — oh, that's worse than he thought it was.

When he looks down at the bullet wound he's sure they must've been hollow points or explosive rounds, because it's not just a gaping maw of flesh — he isn't sure there's much at all aside from bone holding his arm on, and even then it’s been shattered by the bullets. Adrenaline is one hell of a drug.

At least it wasn't his head.

He’s still sitting there, shaking ever so slightly, when someone thumps on the window to the driver's side door, which swings open a second later. Wasp. Coda wasn't sure that he could ever assume that big, angry looking fucker to be a sight for sore eyes, but here he was.

“You’re alive.” Wasp scoffs. “Bones, gimme a hand, would you?”

“Bones?” Coda murmurs.

“Oh, pequeño, está bien. Bones está aquí, estás en buenas manos.” A dark haired woman is in his line of sight in an instant, thick red chunks of dyed hair sticking out in the midst of the natural hue. She’s a ripperdoc, she has to be, she’s got all sorts of BioMon implants and a stethoscope around her neck. Her sclera are white, but her actual pupils appear to be red crosses. “Coda, right?”

“Yeah — right, no— where’s Ace?” Coda argues as Bones helps him out of his car, watching as Wasp pops his trunk open to retrieve the MaxTac case. The Merc whistles as he picks it up, seemingly in awe that he actually has his hands on the contents. It has to be something priceless, something worth murdering for. In Night City, that bar is low, but with MaxTac grade gear…it has to be something good.

“Can you relax, kid? You survived, Bones’ll take care of you — Ace doesn't forget an act of bravery like this one.” Wasp isn't very convincing, but the needle that Bones is injecting him with is. It's some sort of sedative, because when Coda wakes up his vision is blurry and he’s lying uncomfortably on what he can only assume to be Bones’ table.

He doesn't know it, but he's been there for a few days. Drifting in and out of consciousness thanks to any number of painkillers to keep him satiated through the initial brunt of his injuries. Hopped up on regulation hormones to ensure he doesn’t panic upon waking up, but there's little stopping him from doing so anyways.

It's cold and hard, the table. Not cushiony by any means but she’s a ripper after all — they're life savers, not comfort bringers. He can only guess how high the fucking bill will be for this one, because he’s sure that Shadows won't comp an entire medical bill on top of the fee Ace agreed to pay him for this mess. Coda sighs and shuts his eyes again, rubbing at the bridge of his nose as the sedative wears off completely and things start to come into focus. The world is less blurry this time, sounds less sharp, lights less bright.

“Keep still.” Bones’ voice is distinct, rigid as she demands that Coda doesn't move. He obliges her without question, glancing at the curtain that's currently obstructing his view of his arm, the one with the bullet wound.

It's a blessing that he can't feel the pain anymore.

“What's the damage, doc?” Coda murmurs, holding as still as he can for fear that she’ll chastise him.

“You were due for some chrome, barely had any running.” Her only reply doesn't ease his mind in the slightest, because it makes him wonder just what she had to do. Is there a metal plate in his arm? A titanium joint replacement? It could be any number of things and he won't know until she moves the damn curtain. “You scared of going psycho or something?”

“Isn't everyone?” Coda asks, wincing slightly as Bones tweaks something behind the curtain, the pain shooting up his entire arm. He can feel it twitch independently, and he begins to fear the worst. “Is it gone?”

“Is what gone, pequeño?”

“Very funny — my arm?”

“It's…better. Consider this your scratch for the job well done, hm?”

“What about the eddies?” Coda protests, but Bones is moving the curtain before she can answer, letting him see his arm. What remains, at least. It's a full prosthetic, entirely made of high carbon steel, thin lines of neon glowing somewhere within its confines. The place where it conjoins with Coda’s shoulder is still red and angry, bandaged up, but the rest of it looks silver and pristine. He can see a sharp edge along the back of his wrist, probably a blade of some kind, as well as a brand new jackport. It doesn't hurt, but it feels strange — heavier than the old arm, like it has more heft behind it than a fist of flesh and blood ever could. “O-Oh…”

“MaxTac custom, made specially by Militech for the NCPD’s newest addition. Delivered here by you, so…I figured you’d accept it as your reward.” Bones says as she watches Coda lift his arm up and turn it over, flexing his fingers and wiggling them to ensure they all function. It's uncomfortable to say the least. He wants his arm back, without a doubt. “What? You don't like it?”

“...I agreed to be paid in scratch, doc, not…not this.” Coda says, still in shock, reaching over with his left hand to touch the cold metal surface of his right.

“I’m sure you can work out the details with Ace, guapo.” Bones replies, nonchalant as she slides away on her rolling stool, humming to herself as she slots in at her desk. The screen is showing that Coda's brand new chrome should be functioning at max capacity, so she unplugs it from the diagnostic scanner and stands. Her hands are extended to his, a gentle offering of peace to help him stand. “Come on, sleeping beauty.”

“No, I don't — I don't want this thing. I want my arm.” Coda protests firmly, his hands refusing to find Bones’.

“It's in a dumpster outside, though there's a chunk from your elbow to your shoulder that’s the closest thing to ground beef it can get without being the real thing.” Bones gestures over her shoulder towards the door, and Coda begins to wonder if it's the same dumpster he fell into when he was running from the Claws earlier that day — was it yesterday now? The timepiece integrated into the wrist of his new arm told him it was in fact three later.

He fucking hated it.

Coda takes Bones' hands within his own after he contemplated ripping the implant off, standing up on shaky legs that quickly regain their stability. She smiles at him in a way that makes him feel at ease despite the foreign body attached to him, the icy static where flesh meets metal still tingling.

“You’ll need some anti-rejection chems for a little while, but…you took to it well. Chrome suits you, Coda.” Bones looks him up and down like a hungry animal searching it's prey, and he sort of scoffs while looking away. “What? You really that disappointed about it? That thing cost a lot more than Ace was paying you.”

“I needed the money, doc.” Coda insists, sighing as he scratches the back of his head with the new hand. Metal fingertips lack nails, so it doesn't do the job quite right.

“Hm.” Bones crosses her arms. “Ace said he’d be around to check on you once you were vertical, guapo, you’ll have to ask him. Lift back up to Shadows is down the hall.”

Coda nods and thanks Bones with a cred chip carrying just a little extra scratch, a tip for a job well done even if it was work he didn't really want. She installed the chrome beautifully, and it was slowly starting to feel less foreign the more he walked around using it.

Then again, that was the point, wasn't it?

Chrome is supposed to feel like an extension of the self, especially for whoever it's custom made for. Of course this unit wasn't made for Coda, some roided out gonk on MaxTac is likely missing an arm because of this, but it sure feels like it was made for him now. He sits at the bar, flexing his fingers repeatedly from a fist to an open palm, occasionally sipping on a seltzer. Spitfire watches him, leaning on the glass bar surface as Coda plays with the new limb.

“You know, whenever I first got my leg I hated it, too. Felt strange.” Spitfire hums as he watches Coda drop his drink, still getting the hang of the whole neuro-sensitive response thing. He gave him a plastic cup for a reason, and this was why. It would've been rude to give him a glass and expect him not to drop it at least twice before really getting the hang of it.

“Was your chrome on purpose?”

“No. Lost it back when I worked with NCPD.”

“You? A corpse?” Coda laughs, picking up the dropped cup and snatching a rag from behind the counter to wipe up the spillage. “I can't imagine it.”

“Mmmhmmm…I used to love myself in a three-piece suit until one day, they had me attempting to arrest some gonk that went psycho, wanted me to zero the girl — I can't support that shit. There’s a person in there that's probably terrified.” Spitfire sighs, pouring Coda a new drink without missing a beat. Liquid comfort seems to be going a long way towards his coping with the limb-loss, that's for damn sure. “Oh — heads up, klep.”

Coda can't lie, he damn near breaks his neck to turn and see who he’s been warned about. Ace still has the live facial distortion field on, but Coda can get a view of the back of his head whenever he takes a seat beside him at the bar counter. His right ear is clipped, looks like a bullet cut through it and took a chunk, but that's as close to the face as Coda can see before it's all hazy from the black ice censor. Ace appears to be blonde, with warm tanned flesh, but again — it's difficult to discern anything more.

“What can I get you, boss?” Spitfire asks, a smile crossing his expression briefly.

“Silverhand?” Ace raises a brow.

“I don't think I remember the recipe perfectly but I can give it a shot.” The blonde bartender replies as he disappears to find the ingredients for a ‘Silverhand’, a drink that Coda hadn't heard of, but the irony isn't lost on him. He looks down at his chrome plated palm and then to Ace, who he knows is smirking despite the distortion filter.

“Well, I know you have questions, sugar. Shoot.” Ace leans forward slightly, though he’s very clearly still looking at Coda. It's awkward to make eye contact without actually making eye contact, but Coda wants some answers more than he wants humanity.

“I can't take this implant. I needed that scratch, Ace, I…I appreciate the reward, and the replacement of a busted limb, but…” Coda shakes his head and averts his gaze. “I’ll give it back if you just give me the eddies.”

“Slow down. I already talked to Miss Okada.” Ace replies as he takes the drink from Spitfire, swirling it around in the glass before taking a sip from it. He seems satisfied, because the bartender slips away without comment, leaving them to their conversation. “Your debt is paid, sug, you don't owe her a cred.”

“Huh?” Coda is baffled. Beyond baffled, fuck, he’s floored. He shakes his head once to clear his mind before turning entirely in his seat to look at Ace, or at least where his features should be under the distortion. “You paid it off?”

“Sure did — Bones said you needed the chrome, I knew you needed the eds, but therein lies a problem. That arm was gonna sell for…hell, twenty, thirty times what you owed Wakako.” Ace states as he polishes off his drink, turning to face Coda all the same. He can see the dark haired man just fine through the distortion field, watch his green eyes dart back and forth anxiously as he waits for the devastating news. Ace would deliver it with a smile, if Coda could see it. “So now you owe me — let's call it a hundred grand.”

“I’m gonna be sick.” Coda mutters, his face buried in the palms of his hands, a cold sweat running down his back. What the fuck had he done? Not only had he gone and gotten his body mangled past the point he ever saw it going, but he’d gone and dug himself into an even worse debt in the process. This time to a man he barely knows, doesn't even recognize the face of. Ace could shoot him on the street tomorrow and he’d never know it was him.

Hundreds of possibilities whir around in Coda’s mind as the reality sets in that he’s got one hell of a target on his head, but Ace’s hand on his back levels him out. It’s heavy, his touch, grounding his wandering thoughts back to earth. Ace rubs large, bounding circles with his palm, covering the entire expanse of Coda’s small back.

“With chrome like that, Coda, you’ll be an effective merc. It's got smart-weapon integration, aim assist, a built-in mantis claw — I’m sure the smart-grip’ll help with your driving, too, which I heard was impeccable.” Ace continues to idly rub Coda’s back as he praises him for the job well done, giving him a rundown of what the prosthetic can do. It almost comforts him into forgetting that Ace just smacked a several year merc contract onto Coda’s very existence.

He was property of Shadows now, at least for a while. It was better than being dead, better than being hunted by Tyger Claws until he was a shell of himself. Ace was at least trying to improve his little existence, and he wasn't kidding — this caliber of cyberware was incredibly powerful. This motherfucker could do some damage, permanent damage, to anything in Coda’s path. He sits up slowly but Ace’s hand never moves, if ever so slightly down to the small of his back. It's intimate. Uncomfortably so. He instinctively twitches to shrug Ace’s touch away but he holds firm.

“You have a place to stay in, or do you need one?” Ace asks after a long silence.

“I have an apartment in the megabuilding.”

“I’ll take over the rent payment.”

“I’m capable of paying my own rent.”

“You’re not gonna spend a cred without me knowing, sugar. I had my netrunner get access to your assets — our assets. Just to make sure that you don't delta before your debt is repaid to Shadows, of course, I won't touch any of your personal scratch.”

For some reason, Coda doesn't believe him.

“Anything else I need to know about?” Coda asks, turning to look into the black void that stares back at him. Its abyssal emptiness is a stark contrast to the warmth of Ace’s hand, snaking beneath his jacket to touch at the bare skin between his cropped shirt and the waist of his jeans.

“You’ll need a uniform. Other fixers’ll leave you alone if they know who owns you.”

He isn't sure how he feels, but fucked doesn't begin to cover it.

—

SOOOOO HOW DO WE FEEEEEEEL ABOUT IT ?!? graves fixer name is ace cause playing card get it...im so clever. mwah. i love u if u read this far.

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