The warehouse is cold, the air stale and thick with the smell of concrete and dust as you pace between stacked crates. Your gun is a solid weight in your gloved hand, held low and loose by your side, your footsteps quiet on the hard-packed ground. You’re dressed in dark clothes, hood pulled up, and not for the first time - certainly, not for the last - you miss having IVI’s voice in your head, that second pair of eyes to watch your back.
It feels wrong to be in the field without Nash.
You don’t like to linger on it; tell yourself that they’re back at the safehouse by now, their own part in your little venture already complete. Bite your tongue along with the thought, don’t let yourself vocalise, even inside your own head, the cynical response that follows.
They’ll be fine, and you have your own mission to think about.
Besides, it’s not like you’re entirely alone.
You step around a corner, settle into the shadows under the walkway for a moment. Going up would get you better visibility; it would also make you more vulnerable, more noticeable.
The faint sound of voices floats towards you, somewhere in the stacks. Biting back a curse, you slink forwards, pressing yourself against the wall to peer around the corner.
You’re just in time to see two soldiers vanish into the stacks, rifles slung casually over their shoulders.
You take a step forwards, ambling after them, keeping one ear cocked for signs of anyone else as you trail your targets. They’re chatting - far too casual, and not in the way that makes you wary.
You trail them for a full three minutes without any sign that they’ve noticed, their conversation continuing long and loud. It’s when you find yourself siding with the blonde one’s girlfriend about their latest domestic that you decide it’s gone on long enough.
It’s almost too easy. You step up behind them, dispatch one with a rabbit punch to the back of the neck, put a bullet between the other’s eyes as he turns around with a gasp. Neat and clean (except for the blood), and you’re left with two cooling bodies at your feet. You pat them down, pocket their radios and the dog-tag IDs you find around their necks, and lazily roll the bodies into the shadows between a stack.
You’re making your way towards the exit when the hair on the back of your neck stands up. You can taste something bitter and metallic at the back of your throat, has you opening your mouth slightly to taste the air, hand going tight on your gun. Press yourself against the nearest crate, inching slowly towards the corner.
You step around it sharply, raising your gun in a single, fluid motion - and find it knocked from your hand with a blow hard enough to bruise, a cold hand closing over your throat as you’re slammed against the wall, pinned against the metal by a single, huge claw. You fumble for your knife, still running on adrenaline-fuelled instinct, the blade pressing tight against their soft underbelly before you catch yourself, freezing awkwardly.
Rhaxa, too, takes a moment to compose himself. Even in the cobweb-dark of the warehouse, xir eyes are bright. You clear your throat, feeling xir claws shift against your skin.
“Fancy meeting you here.” You grin as he laughs, low and clicking, exhaling slowly as he drops his hand from your throat. Extend the same courtesy, sheathing your blade. Rhaxa doesn’t move away, though you can feel their tail curl around your ankle, so you slouch back against the metal wall. “How’d you get on?”
“Sniper on the walkway,” he replies, low and easy. “Got their tags. Thought we could trace them from that.”
You smirk, digging in your pocket to tug out the tags you’d taken from your own targets, let them dangle from your fingers. “Got one up on you.”
Rhaxa clicks again. “Didn’t realise it was a competition.”
“Everything’s a competition.” You pause, tilt your head. “Or is that just a Nash thing?”
“Maybe.” Rhaxa’s voice is dry. “I’m sure I could find something for us to fight over if it would make you feel more at home.”
The grin is back, and you can’t quite suppress it. It’s wildly inappropriate - which, you suppose, is part of the appeal. You reach up, cup xir jaw in your hands and drag your thumbs over the smooth scales there.
“You’re cute when you’re being bitchy.”
“Yes, you are.” You lean forwards, plant a kiss on the tip of their muzzle. “It’s adorable.”
Their tail tightens around your ankle.
“Pick up your gun,” they tell you curtly, amusement betrayed by the purr in their voice, the way they’re pushing their face into your hands. “There’s another squad in here somewhere. If you want a competition…”
They pull back, flex their wings. Bunch their muscles, and with a metallic clatter, scale the side of the stack.
Swearing, you scramble for your gun, take off at a sprint. In the distance, you can hear someone scream.
