Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It was a bright day in Northern Australia, the sun dappled forest and glistening rock faces setting the scene for what ought to have been a beautiful day of LARVAE training. If you had woken that morning and felt the cool breeze flow across your face, you wouldn’t have believed that this would be a day that sparked tragedy.

The boys lined up in little rows, each wearing a uniform of a white t-shirt and tan shorts, black fisherman sandals letting the blades of the grass tickle their ankles. Breakfast had been oatmeal and hard-boiled eggs, washed down with the sweet taste of a cup of orange juice. Ash was collected in little piles next to the riverbank from last night’s fire-starting training and every boy’s eyes were fixed on Sam Colt standing before them.

“The danger,” he said in his loud, deep voice, “of the rapids is that they are fast. One wrong move and you can get swept away like that.” He snapped his fingers together with a loud clack to emphasise his point. His gaze moved over to the frothing whiteness of the river. “There are crocodiles in there.”

The simple sentence elicited gasps from the crowd of children and Sam held up a hand to silence them. “That’s exactly why none of you are entering that river. You fall in there; you could lose a limb or worse.” A few kids grumbled, wanting to prove themselves, but knew better than to argue against their instructor. Nobody thought it wise to correct a man they had once seen split a tree trunk in half with his bare hands. Sam took their silence as understanding and opened to his mouth to explain the tasks of the day, when suddenly the kid from Colwin City raised his hand. “Yes, Casey?”

“How big exactly are those crocodiles?” Casey asked, adjusting the cap that cast a shadow over his face as he spoke, quiet and cautious.

Sam balked slightly at the question. “Quite large. The males can grow up to 20ft.”

The Colwin City kid paused. “How many teeth?” His tone of voice sent a few shivers down his peer’s spines. There was something cold and calculating in the question, an odd shine to the kid’s eyes as he spoke. The kid, almost as if he had realised there was something off putting about his tone, smiled sweetly and raised his chin to look Sam in the eyes. “I want to do research on the wildlife here,” he explained, procuring a black notebook from his back pocket, flipping the pages to show a few detailed diagrams of local birds and mammals. “I want to get all the facts about the crocodiles I can.”

Everyone relaxed slightly as the kid explained and Sam beamed back. It was always good to meet a budding zoologist amongst the trainees. “Approximately 66,” he informed them, smile brightening as he watched the kid scrawl down the fact, “about 4 inches in length.” He held out his hands to illustrate and the kids gasped again. “Quite scary, right?” 29 heads nodded in unison and he laughed. “Don’t worry - stay away from the water and they won’t come and get you.”

Sam allowed the children to murmur excitedly amongst themselves for a few seconds longer before he interrupted. “For today, we’ll just be testing out rafts on the water - under no circumstances are you to go near that river without permission. Now, I won’t be able to keep an eye on everyone all the time, so I’m putting Bradley in charge too.” Everyone’s heads swivelled around to look at the most gifted student out of all of them, standing plainly at the back of one of the lines. The boy warmly raised a hand to signal who he was, as if anyone didn’t know the kid wonder known as Bradley Baker. He was one of the tallest out of the lot, lean and clearly athletic for a boy of his age. Strawberry blond hair fell over his face and he brushed it away, revealing pleasant blue eyes shining amiably as he surveyed his fellow trainees.

“I’m happy to help, Mr Colt,” Bradley spoke, a bright west coast American accent twinging his words, “and I promise to be responsible.”

“No doubt you will be,” Sam replied. He gestured to a stack of blackwood logs and high strength rope. “Your first task will be giving out the equipment to your fellow trainees and letting them try to build their rafts on their own. If you get stuck, Arthur and James,” he pointed to the young men standing off to the side of the riverbank, both proudly sporting Spectrum Agent polo shirts, “can help you. Do we all know what we’re doing?”

“Yes, Mr Colt!” the boys barked in unison.

“Then get to it!”

Everyone turned around to face Bradley, who gestured for them to come closer. “Okay everybody,” he said as they walked to him, his tone light and soothing, “I want you all to pair up and get a length of rope and about 12 logs for each raft, all right? You’re probably only going to be able to carry two logs per person if you’re really strong, so try to help each other carry them and help each other build them too - it’ll make it go faster. Once you’ve got both rafts done, we can show an instructor. Do you understand me?” The boys all nodded their heads, clearly fond of Bradley and eager to please him. He simply smiled in response. “Okay then, let’s do this!”

The boys scattered, each hunting out a specific partner they wanted to work with. Bradley viewed the sight with a small grin, happy to watch how enthusiastic everyone was, when he suddenly felt a small tap on his shoulder. He spun around on his heel to be faced with one of the youngest agents of the bunch, a little seven-year-old boy with shimmering hazel eyes and brown locks. “Hey there, kid.”

“Hi Bradley,” Hitch hummed, looking up at Bradley hopefully. “I was wondering if you wanted to partner up again?”

Bradley's smile widened - he always liked Hitch best out of the others, the younger boy’s infectious charm and thoughtful nature making him a joy to be around. “Sure, kiddo,” he replied, “but doesn’t Casey need help?”

Frowning slightly, Hitch shook his head, brown curls bouncing slightly at the movement. “I asked, but he said he prefers to work alone.”

“Oh,” Bradley said.

“Does that mean we can work together?”

“Well, I suppose if he doesn’t want any help,” Bradley conceded, “it would be fair if we worked together.” He laughed at the unbridled look of joy on Hitch’s face and waved the younger trainee in the direction of the few remaining logs. “Help me pick these up and we can get started.”

The woods filled with quiet, interrupted only with the low chatter of boys discussing how best to build their rafts and the rough sound of the rapids whirling by. Hands worked on stacking logs against each other, tying them up and as they worked, the sun slowly crawled up into the sky. Bright sunbeams wove through the leaves like thread through a needle, the heat rising to fever pitch in the Australian summer. Bradley smiled at Hitch; wiping sweat away from his own brow as the younger boy fumbled with a complex knot. Sensing his friend’s irritation, Bradley took the rope from Hitch’s hands gently, causing Hitch to look up in confusion. “Here, let me show you,” Bradley offered, “it’s simple when you know how.” He pinched the rope by the ends. “Do you remember what part of the rope this is?”

“The running end.”

Bradley nodded, running his fingers down the length of rope to just an inch or two away from the end. “And everything else?”

“The standing part.”

“Well done!” Bradley praised, “Mr Colt would be proud of you.”

Hitch looked up and his eyes searched the camp. “Where is Mr Colt?”

“He’s probably down by the tents clearing up the mess we made,” Bradley dismissed calmly, putting a hand on his friend’s shoulder and guiding Hitch to look back down at the rope. “It’s not important right now. So, what knot are you attempting?”

“The lashing knot.”

“Ah, well that’s not too difficult. See, what you have to do is…”

Bradley put his hands over Hitch’s as he spoke, gently guiding the younger boy’s to work through the instructions, weaving the rough blue rope under and over the logs until eventually the running ends were ready to be tied together. Eventually the first raft was done and from there, Hitch and Bradley quietly worked on the next. The heat began to dissipate as the sun set, clouds floating in the sky, the breeze softly whistling through the branches of acacia trees. When the last knot was tied with aching fingers, Hitch laid back in the grass and let out a sigh of relief. His companion laughed.

“Not used to working so hard?” Bradley teased.

“Are you kidding?” Hitch propped himself up on his elbows, staring at Bradley incredulously. “That was painful.”

Shrugging, the older boy hefted the larger of the two rafts up onto his back, looking over his shoulder at Hitch. “Well, you’re only seven. You’ve still got a lot to learn before you become an agent. We all do.”

“Easy for you to say,” Hitch grumbled, “you’re basically an agent already.”

“C’mon, I still have things to learn.”

“Oh, yeah, like what?”

“Mr Colt hasn’t entrusted me with a proper gun yet.”

“You hit every target on the training ground when we were using paintball guns though.”

“Can’t fish too well.”

“You caught the most out of anyone here.”

“Don’t know how to deal with a volcanic eruption.”

“Nobody does!”

Bradley took a moment as his mouth parted, clearly searching for a retort but coming up empty. Hitch smirked at him.

“Told you! You’re basically an agent.”

“Perhaps…” Bradley acquiesced. “But!” he continued, cutting Hitch off before the boy could continue talking, “we’ve still got more to do before Sam gives me a LARVAE badge. Pick up your raft and let’s go find him.”

Hitch shakily got back up onto his feet, dusting down his trousers with his hands, before grabbing hold of the raft. He quietly followed Bradley to the riverbank where the instructors were lazing around, eyes careless moving to look at the two kids. “You done?” the taller one asked, pushing his cropped ginger hair back from his face to get a better view. Hitch nodded. “Alright then!”

“I’m Arthur,” the other instructor said, pointing to himself as his companion began to stand, “and this is James.”

“Nice to meet you,” Hitch murmured politely.

Arthur cocked an eyebrow. “Is that an English accent I hear?”

Hitch blinked before nodding. “Yes, sir.”

“Nice! Where are you from?”

“Uh, London.”

“Oh! Do you know Carrigan’s, down by the gallery near Cheapside? I always loved that place, it’s so calmi-”

James cut across. “He’s seven, Arthur. He isn’t going to know what you’re on about.”

The instructor’s eyes widened. “Seven?!” He looked back at James. “Isn’t that a bit young? I mean, no offence kid, sure you’re great, but he isn’t even old enough to drive a car, let alone do everything else.”

James shrugged. “Listen, if the higher-ups think it’s cool, then I guess it’s happening. Do you wanna be the one to tell them this is a bad idea?”

“No.”

“Then shut up.” James looked back at the boys with a smile plastered thinly across his face. “Sorry boys - what was it that you needed, again?”

“We just wanted to know where we should put the rafts,” Bradley replied.

“Ah, back near the tents.” Arthur rummaged around in his short pockets before procuring a black marker. “Put your names on them too, big letters, so everyone knows whose they are.”

Turning the plastic tube over in his hands, Bradley frowned. “Won’t it bleed when it gets in the water?

“Nope!” Arthur grinned, “It’s Spectrum issue. Special waterproof ink.”

“That’s so cool!” Hitch marvelled, standing on his tiptoes and leaning over Bradley’s shoulder to look at the pen. Bradley laughed at the wonderment in the younger boy’s eyes and handed it to him.

“C’mon Hitch, let’s go put these by the tents and we can write our names on ‘em.”

The boys walked considerably faster - half because they wanted to put down the heavy objects and half because they wanted to test out the pen. The pale khaki coloured tents were organised with every 6 in a little circle around a small campfire. Hitch had to avoid tripping on a water tap that stuck out of the grass as they moved to the area behind the tents. The grass grew taller here, unlike the cropped sheaths that the campground was built on. The wooden cabin with working bathrooms had its door ajar, letting the soft yellow light spill out in the woods that were growing darker by the minute. With a resounding pop Bradley pulled the cap off the pen and leant down into the grass where they had deposited their rafts. The plastic foam tip of the pen gilded softly over the wooden log and the words appeared in pretty cursive - Bradley Baker, the lettering as skilled as the boy who had penned it. Hitch’s hands shook as he wrote, the ink leaving little dots and a few trembling lines in its wake, but eventually the boy’s name was written in a surprisingly neat, small font. Bradley squinted.

“Your first name is Art?”

Hitch flushed embarrassedly. “I don’t like it, so I asked Mr Colt to just call me Hitch. It’s a stupid name, the other kids said so.”

“Well,” Bradley said gently, “I think it’s a pretty cool name.”

“You do?”

“Yeah!”

The younger boy shifted awkwardly on his heels before looking up Bradley earnestly. “Well,” he offered, “maybe I wouldn’t mind it if you called me it sometimes.”

Bradley smiled. “Sure thing, Art.”

They stood there for a moment, simply enjoying the feeling of the dusk air, when suddenly they heard shouting from behind them. The other children had finished building their rafts and began talking rapidly to the two boys all at once.

“My fingers are so sore from all that rope tying-”

“-can’t be worse than Tommy-”

“-he started singing which was awful and then-”

“- apparently hucked his shoe at the chipmunk which-”

“-had teeth a million miles long! I was terrified!”

Bradley’s head shot up at the last words. “What are you talking about?”

The kid telling the story turned to Bradley excitedly. “We saw the crocodiles!”

“You did what?”

“Yeah, we went down to the riverbank-”

“And who told you that you could do that?” Bradley’s usually soft and calm expression had morphed into something cold and stony. He crossed his arms, staring down at the kid who was wilting under Bradley’s disappointed gaze.

“Well, Casey said-”

Immediately, Bradley searched through the crowd and caught sight of a signature blue cap. He stormed through the gaggle of kids, Hitch hot on his heels, right towards the Colwin City kid. “What the hell were you thinking?”

The kid spun around on his heel. “What?”

“You let the kids go down to the riverbank?”

“So?” The Colwin City kid looked Bradley up and down, visibly unimpressed by the stern attitude Bradley was emanating. “They’re going to white water raft tomorrow, what difference does it make?”

Bradley shifted his weight onto one foot, leaning towards the kid, getting more and more frustrated. “There weren’t any instructors! If somebody had fallen in-”

“-nobody did.”

“Still! They could have! And if they did, what would’ve you done? It would’ve been far too late to call for help and somebody might’ve died. Sam made it clear how aggressive those crocodiles are.”

“Sam?” Casey scoffed, crossing his arms. “What are you, his best buddy? Big boots for someone who’s not even a Spectrum agent yet.”

“I’m more of an agent than you,” Bradley snapped. “What, do you think you’re smarter than everyone else or something? Because you mostly definitely are not!”

When he spoke those words, something changed in the Colwin City kid. It wasn’t anything big, but for a moment there was something frightening about him. His expression was unnerving, the look he was giving Bradley positively evil. He drew his hand up into a fist as if to punch Bradley, trembling with unprovoked rage. Hitch stared in shock, a chill running down his whole body, as for a split second he saw what lay under the mask the kid was wearing - the true ugliness beneath the surface.

But the moment passed and abruptly, the kid relaxed. Tension seeped out of him like water flowed through the river and he offered up a sheepish grin. “I’m sorry. You’re right. I should’ve been more responsible.”

Bradley paused before nodding. “Sure. But it better not happen again under my watch.”

A Cheshire cat grin pulled at the kid’s lips. “Oh. I can promise you that.”

~

The morning sun peeked up from behind the fluffy sheets of cumulus clouds, sending bright sunbeams across the woods and hills of the Australian wilderness. Hitch sat with his warm pot of porridge clasped in his small hands, looking at the world with the gaze of somebody much older than tender seven. Dew shimmered in the grass as he swung his feet up and down. He had chosen to sit a good distance away from the camp, pondering the events of the day before. The way the Colwin City kid looked had stayed in his mind all night like some kind of spectre, haunting the corners of all his dreams. Despite the rising heat of the day, he shivered.

“You alright?”

Speak of the devil. The Colwin City kid had appeared out of nowhere, his cap still firmly on his head, looking down at Hitch with narrowed eyes. He swallowed awkwardly.

“Mhm.”

“Sure?”

“Yeah,” Hitch managed to blurt out, “Yeah, I’m good.” He took a moment to take in the image of the kid before him and noted something funny. “What have you got there?”

“Hmm?” Casey blinked at Hitch before looking at what he was holding in his hand. “Just some deadwood.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah, it was in the way of the campfire.” The explanation Casey provided made perfect sense, but something was quietly muttering in the back of Hitch’s mind, something that didn’t entirely believe the other boy. There was no proof though, no evidence to explain that feeling other than one look and so Hitch tried to lay it to rest.

“Okay then.” He gave his best polite smile which Casey accepted.

“Alright. See you on the rapids,” the Colwin City kid grinned and then, he turned around and headed back to his tent.

Hitch sat there at the edge of the camp, his bowl going cold, watching other kids getting up and making their breakfast. Bradley came over and asked him how he was, and Hitch responded that he was doing okay.

“You sure?”

“Yeah, go on without me.”

“...Alright. I’ll see you later, Art.”

Something about today felt wrong, a day that shouldn’t be lived, ought to be skipped over to get to tomorrow. He sank deeper into his thoughts, a heavy weight settling over him - only for him to nearly jump 4 feet into the air when a hand slapped itself down on his shoulder.

“What are you still doing here?” The boy looked up to see the smiling face of Sam Colt. “Everybody's already left to go rafting!”

Hitch blinked. “They have?”

“Yep! We’ve got instructors all the way up and down the river for as far as the campsite is, so you can just find a place to start sailing. I’d advise a big further downstream from someone so young, you’re an exceptionally good recruit Hitch, but perhaps less danger-”

“Where’s Bradley?” Hitch cut across, offering up a placating smile to Sam as if to apologise for the interruption, but with worry visible in his eyes. Something was wrong, he could feel it.

Sam paused, a little taken aback. “He’s as far upstream as we’ll let a trainee go. But I really wouldn’t advise such a risky course for a child of your age.”

“Which way is it?”

Hitch clearly refused to budge on the matter, so Colt sighed and pointed the direction to the trail. Watching as the kid shouldered his raft, Sam weakly called after him. “Be safe!”

The dirt was rough and coarse against his skin as Hitch stumbled up the path, the weight of the raft his own Sisyphean rock. His whole body felt like lead but something in him kept going. He had to see Bradley. He had to know that his best friend was safe.

Foliage grew thicker and denser the higher up the path he went; the rough branches and thorny leaves beginning to scrape against Hitch’s ankles, leaving small red scratches on his tanned skin. The impossibly hot heat beat down on his face just like the day before, but the kid kept moving, ignoring all other noises in favour of hunting out the sound of Bradley’s voice. And then, he heard it - a chilling shout of his own name.

“HITCH!”

Tossing down the raft, Hitch ran to the edge of the riverbank, nearly sliding down into the waves below in his haste. Amongst the swirling white waves, he could see the horrible sight of Bradley’s sinking raft, the 14-year-old boy within it barely visible as the water swallowed him up. Bradley screamed something before the waves crashed over him, dragging him further downstream and out of sight. It took a moment for Hitch to realise what he had said.

“Behind you.”

The child spun around only to be faced with the terrifying, looming figure of one Casey Morgan advancing on him. The older boy tutted disappointedly. “Shame. I kinda liked you, Hitch.”

“What did you do?” Hitch’s voice trembled as he stepped away from the Colwin City kid, gaze flickering between the river and Casey as he still tried to see if Bradley had resurfaced.

Casey laughed. “Aren’t you meant to be smart? Put the pieces together.”

Hitch furrowed his brow for a second before sick realisation dawned. “That deadwood…” he realised, “you were sabotaging Bradley’s boat!”

“Well done,” Casey cooed, pushing the small seven-year-old closer to the edge of the bank. Hitch dug his heels into the dirt but only succeeded in dislodging small rocks which crumbled away and fell into the rapids with stomach-churning crashes. “I was always planning to pull that Baker kid down a few pegs, but I was kinda hoping you wouldn't have to go down with him” His gaze flickered to the seething water below. “Quite literally, it seems.”

“You won't get away with this!” Hitch shouted, desperately hoping to catch the attention of an instructor.

“Please,” Casey grinned, quickly sussing out Hitch’s desperate plea for help, “like I would’ve been so stupid to let any agents stick around while I was about to murder the boy genius. I told them there was a fire down by the tents.” Yawning languidly, he picked up a paddle that had been tossed in the shrubbery, the initials B.B clearly engraved on the side. “I could hit you over the head with this before I throw you in,” Casey offered wickedly, “maybe you’d pass out before the water flooded your lungs, huh?”

Hitch stared in disbelief. “You’re twisted.”

“Nah. I’m just more…effective than the rest of you.” Casey paused. “Any last words?”

Hitch blinked in horror, tears welling in his eyes as it truly began to dawn on him that these might be his last moments on earth. This could truly be it. But then - if this truly was the end - why go down without a fight? He took in a breath, smelling the salty bitterness of the river, before lunging at the Colwin City kid. Casey yelped in surprise, before tackling Hitch to the ground, trying to punch the kid in the face. Hitch scrambled to his feet, only to find himself pushed to the very brink of the riverbank, no more ground between the water and himself, only a gap of empty, whistling air. Casey crawled back up, clawing on Hitch’s arm, and desperately, the younger boy’s hands grabbed onto the closest thing he could reach to save himself from being tossed into the rapids - Casey’s cap. He pulled it from the kid’s head and as he did, hair fell from where it had been tucked in the cap, brown waves framing a face that suddenly appeared to be much rounder than before. He gasped. “You’re a girl!”

She smirked at him. “I am. One girl who's better than every boy here.” Her other hand shot out to grab Hitch as the younger boy nearly stepped off the rocks into the water below - clearly not amused enough with her little game of cat and mouse to let him die just yet.

Even as he stood precariously on the small rock lip, seconds away from falling into the rapids below, he still managed to choke out one last retort. “Not all of them.”

“Oh?”

He shook his head, glaring at her. “You’re not as good as Bradley.”

The girl snarled, her vice-like grip sending searing pain through Hitch. “Wrong answer.” Her eyes trailed up his arms to where her hands were digging into his skin. Small droplets of red were staining onto the fabric. “Would you look at that - you’re bleeding, poor thing,” she noted in mock sympathy. She stared at him again, this time with warped amusement dancing in her gaze. The girl let go of one of his arms, Hitch letting out a small scream as he began to lose balance. “Hmmm. I wonder.”

“What?” Hitch spluttered; his throat paralysed with fear.

Casey admired the red pearls beading on her fingernails, letting Hitch see his own blood drip down onto the rocks. “I wonder,” she hummed viciously, “if the crocodiles are going to like the scent of blood as much as I do?” Her grip on his other arm went lax. Hitch barely had a moment to realise what she’d done before he fell down, down, down, not even a scream managing to fall from his mouth before the river swallowed him up. It didn’t matter either way.

The boy was dead before he hit the water.

~

The light of the room was blinding, the five hot white circles in the surgical light spinning in Hitch’s vision. Still silence hung in the air which smelt like eucalyptus with the underlying hint of sanitising spray. He lay there trying to figure out where he was - the strongest memory he had was of yesterday: him and the other boys lying under the stars, listening as Sam pointed out the pin-prick dots in the sky. Bradley nudged his shoulder as he figured out where the constellation Eridanus was, both of them laughing when they tried getting up, only to find their legs had fallen asleep.

Hitch shifted uncomfortably in the sheets - only for a sharp pain to pierce his abdomen. A vague, hazed memory flashed in his mind.

The water filling up his mouth as he tried to choke out any words - the hot burn of his lungs as he thrashed - only stopping when he felt something scaled brush past his waist -

He screamed.

Instantly, the door to the room was flung open and 3 people ran right in. Sam stood tallest out of them; his expression panic struck as he ran to Hitch’s side. Bradley stood there on crutches next to a girl, her skin dark and her feet bare. Both were also looking at him worriedly.

“Hitch! Hitch! Are you alright?” Sam exclaimed, kneeling next to the side of the bed, his large frame casting a great shadow over Hitch.

“Where-where am I?” Hitch cried frantically, “Mr Colt, what’s happening?”

Sam frowned, something in Hitch’s expression confusing him. “You’re in the hospital Hitch.” The boy only continued to stare blankly; his face contorted in terror. “Do you… not remember what happened?” Sam stared in shock.

“What?”

“The river,” the girl piped up. Hitch turned to look at her and winced as the pain shot through him again. Sam put a hand on Hitch’s arm to steady him and the girl waited before getting closer to the foot of the bed. “Do you remember what happened with the river?” Her deep brown eyes studied at him cautiously as she spoke with an even, soothing tone. Something about her sparked some kind of recognition in Hitch’s memory -

The sight of a figure diving into the waves after a sinking raft - the image being obscured by the white foam of a wave dragging him down -

Hitch paused. “I-I don’t know.”

“Then it’s probably PTSD,” the girl muttered, still looking at Hitch with concern in her gaze. “What happened to him- he’s repressing it.”

“What?” Hitch panicked, “What happened to me?” He tried to sit up but once again, the atrocious pain froze him in place. His hands moved on instinct to where the pain seemed to be coming from. He paused and then, in one swift motion, pulled the white sheets away.

“Hitch, don’t-”

Red, raised scarring. It mottled his skin- or at least most of the skin that he could see. The rest of his stomach was wrapped tightly in bandages, hiding whatever was lurking under the surface. For a moment, Hitch thought that they were pink, only to realise in horror that they were bloodstained. He ran his fingers over the cotton fabric and then, purposefully and yet carelessly, as if he didn’t quite believe it was his own body he was staring at, he pushed down. The feeling of his fingers pressing down on his open wound elicited a scream from his mouth and he doubled over. What had happened? What - who had done this? Why couldn’t he remember?

Hands pushing him off the rocks - the wide jaws stained with the red that spooled into the water - the sight of his own abdomen torn open- turning around to see those eyes, so dark they drank in light, so hungry - and nobody there to rescue him-

Tears began falling down the boy’s face, his hands flying up to his face as he began to weep, the onslaught of traumatic memory far too much for a seven-year-old to handle. Bradley and the girl stared open mouth in horror as Hitch began shaking. Sam yelled out for “someone, come quick!” Doctors and nurses swarmed into the room, but the child just kept crying at the top of his lungs, thrashing about as if he was back under the water. It was too much and as the pain and the terror closed in around him, subduing his consciousness, there was only one thought on the boy’s mind.

Why didn’t anyone come save him?

Chapter Text

His footfalls make sharp tapping noises as he runs across the roof, his eyes searching out in the darkness for any light, any quick shine in the murkiness that would alert him to the position of his enemies. Using his free hand, the one not grasping a standard issue revolver, he sweeps a coil of dark auburn hair away from his eyes and looks over his shoulder.

“Can you see anything, Leo?” His gaze falls onto the tall figure standing beside him, their emerald cocktail dress fluttering in the wind. They too hold a revolver, examining the surroundings with a cool blue gaze.They frown.

“Negative, Hitch.” Raising their chin to the sky, they take a deep breath. “Can’t smell them, either.”

“Smell them?” Hitch questions, quirking an eyebrow.

Leo laughs. “The little pretty one - soft features, those blue eyes?”

“Babyface,” Hitch supplies helpfully, “that one?”

“Yeah, him. He simply reeks of cheap cologne. I bet you I’ll smell him before I see him.”

“Is that an official bet, agent?”

Leo giggles again, the sound being tossed into the dark, bitter Twinford night by a sudden gust of the winter’s biting breeze. “It is if you’re offering, Hitch. But isn’t Spectrum work just enough fun as it is?”

He smiles in return, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. At the mention of the agency they work for, the pretty curve of his mouth becomes so tight it looks like it would snap. “Sure. Think I just like thrills though.”

The sentence is greeted with another laugh. “Oh, I’ve seen you on the shooting range, mister,” they remind him, “and I can tell you that’s 100% true. You work like you aren’t afraid to die.”

Hitch shrugs, wincing at the crackling noise his bad shoulder makes as it rolls. “Maybe I’m not,” he murmurs pensively, adjusting his grip on his freezing gun, the metal so cold it feels like it could take skin off his palm. A moment passes, both of them studying their surroundings, until Leo pipes up.

“I think we’ve pretty much established they’re not up here. No point in standing out in the icy dark all night, especially not if we’re going to let Babyface and his companion slip out of our hands.” Their palms ineffectually attempt to smooth the satin of their dress down their thighs, trying to conserve their body heat. They scowl. “Wish I’d gone with a suit. It’s like the fucking artic up here.”

“Language,” Hitch chides playfully, “and anyway, green is a very flattering colour on you.”

“Doesn’t stop my ass from falling off when I get hypothermia. And anyway, I could’ve worn a green suit.”

Hitch looks disgusted. “A satin green suit?” He shakes his head. “You’d be worse than the criminals we’re chasing.”

Leo snorts. “It’s not that bad.” They spin around on their heel, stepping back to the exit door on the roof, fishing around in a strategically placed pocket for the key. “And speaking of criminals,” they grin, turning the lock and opening the door, “I believe we have some to catch.”

Hitch follows, stepping through the exit that Leo had opened. “Ever the gentleman.”

“I aim to please. Now, start running or Agent Oren will tear us both open before Babyface even gets a shot in edgeways.”

Hitch tenses at the promise for just a second. His hand trails over his abdomen in a gesture Leo can’t decipher. However, before they can react, he’s nodding and setting off down the stairs, his feet so fast they barely even make contact with the glass before he’s midleap again. Leo blinks in shock before shooting after him, their legs aching with the speed they’re having to move at just to keep up with him. The staircase seems to go on forever and the lights fade out the further down they move, right down to the gallery floor.

If it wasn’t for the bright gleam of his cufflinks in the darkness, Leo wouldn’t be able to spot their fellow agent. Wheezing, Leo drags themself over to where Hitch is now standing in the centre of the room, eyeing up every entrance with distrust. “What the hell got into you?”

Hitch doesn't hear the question, or chooses to ignore it, because he responds, “I bet you they’re through there.” He gestures in the direction of a doorway with a large banner spread across the top of it - Leo can barely make out the words. They fumble in their pocket for a flashlight, switching it on with a satisfying click, only to be greeted with an unfamiliar name.

Hitch clearly notes the confusion on Leo’s face because he sighs. “Babyface’s partner is some thief. Fenton Oswald’s little darling, Nine Lives Capaldi, she loves to leave little calling cards. A few rhinestones, a little diamond ring, a cutesy little IOU.”

“And you know her how?”

“Been tracking her for at least 3 years. She’s always the one criminal that gets away, no matter how close I get to finally bringing her in. But I can tell you that I know her better than anyone and that exhibition-” He once again points at the banner, “-is exactly the kind of place she’d hit up.”

“Why?” Leo frowns. Looking over their shoulder they can see the large bold print of the words ‘Franz Kline’ and they nod their head at it. “I know who he is. His work is abstract, colourful. It’s expensive too, valuable. I’ve got no clue who,” they swing back over to light up the name in the glow of their flashlight, “Marion Wachtel is.”

“Yeah, and that’s exactly why it’s a good idea to steal from her exhibition instead of hers. A Franz Kline goes missing, everybody cares, everyone knows his name. You can’t just steal one of those and expect nobody to report on it. You won’t be able to sell it for months. But a Marion Wachtel? Only a discerning eye is going to recognise the value of her name. One of her little Californian plein air pieces disappears? Who really notices except the people directly making a loss?” Hitch starts walking towards the exhibit, his footfalls more quiet and precise than before.

“Huh. Well, I’d still go for the Kline. More expensive,” Leo hums, following in step with Hitch. “What’s a Wachtel worth anyway?”

Lifting a finger to his lips, Hitch scans the room. When he’s assured that nobody else is watching or waiting in the darkness, he points a finger at an oil painting of a little house sat beneath the swaying eucalyptus trees. “Guess how much that one is.”

“Probably not much,” they shrug.

“Is $6,000 not a lot to you?” Hitch questions, his eyes twinkling with wit. Leo nearly chokes on their own breath.

“That thing,” they whisper incredulously, “is worth $6,000?” Their gaze trails over it again, blinking in disbelief. “I should really quit and start oil painting.”

“Aw, and leave me without a partner?” Hitch feigns upset, his free hand splayed dramatically over his heart, “You wouldn’t do that to me, would you?” As he speaks, they step into a room lit only by flood lights positioned on the floor, sweeping the Wachtels and amber wood walls above with a shimmering amber glow. Marble stairs spin upwards in the furthest right corner of the room, a bleak white, bleached of any imperfections. A red velvet curtain is draped over a floor to ceiling window beside it and a little silver bow of the moon shines through. Hitch runs his fingers over the material and feels the smooth threads brush his skin, the fabric rippling soundlessly.

Leo turns back to face him. “Yeah, you’re right. You wouldn’t be a decent agent without me.” Hitch grins, but then suddenly a noise startles both of the agents. A low rustling comes from the shadows, causing both of them to raise their guns in a defensive stance.
“Who’s there?” Leo yells but only silence speaks back.

Hitch takes a tentative step forward, gaze darting across the room with intent swiftness. His face remains cool, as if he’s unbothered by the concept of a shadowy figure lurking in the darkness, but his hands feel clammy against the metal of the revolver handle. His heart pounds in his chest - he wishes to quell it almost as if he thinks the thump thump thump will give away his position. He gets closer to the staircase - the marble brushing against his exposed wrist sending chills through him. Then suddenly something overcomes his senses - oppressively sweet and yet with top notes of pinewood and leather. He pauses, confused, and then it hits him. Cheap cologne.

“Get down!” he shouts to Leo, just in time for gunfire to start erupting from above. White flashes spark, the marble pinging and wood splitting filling the room as Hitch dives, sending bullets back in the direction of where he thinks the assailants are shooting from. He catches sight of a figure leaping from the staircase, their hands grappling on the curtain as they jump. It can't hold their weight and the red velvet spools around Babyface like a cape as he lands on his hands and knees. Hitch takes the opportunity to fire back at his enemy, but Babyface deftly springs out of the way, the bullets only succeeding in shattering the now exposed window. Gunfire rains down from every side, agents and villains leaping and vaulting in different directions.

Leaning up against a wall, Hitch takes in an unsteady breath, still watching as Leo covers him. “Feeling lucky?” Leo queries Babyface.

“Always,” Babyface snarks back, firing a shot which tears across a Wachtel, splitting a pretty oil paint lake in two.

“What do you think you're doing?”

A voice cuts through the fighting. Everyone stares up at a figure dressed in black, red hair flaming across her shoulders as she descends the staircase. One brow is raised, glaring down at Babyface. “You’re meant to steal the paintings, you moron, not render them worthless.' Her gaze flits over to Leo, vague interest filling her gaze. “Well, what do we have here?”

“Valerie, I presume,” Leo manages to utter.

The villainess hesitates, confusion twisting her features. “And you know that how exactly?”

“Always good to see you again, Nine Lives.” Hitch pipes up, stumbling away from his hiding spot behind the staircase, arms wide in mock greeting. He bows but his gaze never leaves her, anticipating that she has a trick up her sleeve. Valeries grins the second she sees him and curtsies low in response, visibly entertained by the theatrical nature of their relationship.

“Hitch, how lovely to see you,” she purrs, pulling a sparkling revolver from a hidden pocket on her upper thigh. She points it directly at him, the sound of a click alerting him to the fact that it is most definitely cocked and loaded. “How long has it been? Days? Months? Far too long either way, darling.”

“2 months and 13 days, I believe,” he replies, taking a small but purposeful step towards her, “so yes, far too long.”

“Uh-uh,” she says pointedly, aiming the gun at his feet, “Don’t try anything.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

“Sure you wouldn’t, sugar.”

“Well, now we’ve established that I am most definitely not trying anything - would you be so kind as to tell me what you’re up to here?”

“Mhm, just pinching a few paintings here and there. A few thousand in my pocket always appeals to me, as you know. However, it seems as though I’ve hired a frankly incompetent collegue.” Valerie glares down at Babyface, who at least has the decency to shrink slightly under her gaze. “But no mind.” Her index finger coils over the revolver trigger, sparkling silver nails scraping against the handle as her grips tightens. Tilting her head to one side, she pouts. “What on earth am I going to do with you?”

Wind whistles through the broken window as everyone holds their breath. Shards of glass glint in the light. For a moment, there is silence, four figures sizing each other up, adrenaline coursing through their veins. And then -

A shot rips through the room. Hitch spins on his heel to see Leo staring back in disbelief at him, their hand on their stomach. Blood drips through their fingers, pooling on the floor, black and shimmering like oil in the moonlight. They let out a rasping wheeze, barely comprehending what’s happened to them, barely registering the searing pain, before they topple over.
Hitch freezes, feeling like he’s floating above his own body, watching everything happen in slow motion; Leo’s body is suspended in mid-air with Babyface’s fingers still locked around the trigger of his gun. It’s only when Valerie finally speaks that the world seems to let out the breath it’s been holding. “What the hell have you done?” She stares at Babyface, for once in her life properly appalled. Leo lies there, motionless and drenched in their own blood - a wretched portrait illuminated in the moonlight, like the most expensive piece of art in a collection befitting the Count. The sight in all its gruesomeness causes the words she wants to scream to catch in her throat and all she can manage is a horrified whisper. “You didn’t have to shoot them.”

“I did, they had a gu-”

“I’m going to kill you.” The words pierce Babyface's excuse; all eyes turn on Hitch. The agent’s tone is steady and calm - but his body vibrates with rage. “I’m going to rip you to pieces.” The two villains tense in genuine fear at the coldness in his voice, the bullets rattling in the chamber due to the shaking of his hands. There’s something animalistic in the set of his face - sharp, gleaming teeth and pupils so narrow they’re slits - and nobody dares move for fear of setting the beast on themselves.

“Hitch-”

“Stay out of this Valerie!” Hitch lashes out and she recoils instantly. He turns his fury back on Babyface, his steps slow and purposeful as he stalks towards the villain. “I’m going to rip out your throat. I’m going to present your body to my boss like a trophy to hang in his office. When I’m done with you,” he promises, “the coroner will have to identify you by your fucking dental records!” He advances closer and closer, Babyface too petrified by this man he barely recognises to even consider fleeing - when an odd rasping noise echoes throughout the room. Hitch freezes. It echoes again and he can barely bring himself to turn around and look at the only person who can be making such a spine-chilling sound.

Leo’s bloodied body twitches. The faint rise and fall of their chest is almost imperceptible, their eyes struggling to stay open, lashes matted with blood and tears of shock. Hitch doesn’t even hesitate as he immediately ignores his quest to brutalise Babyface and launches to Leo’s side. His hands seek out the wound, fuitely attempting to stem the bleeding. “Hitch,” Leo manages to croak, “please-” Their voice fails them. Leo’s eyes flutter closed, the exertion clearly too much, but their chest continues to move, feeble as it is.

The watching villains seem to shake out of the trance they’ve been under as Leo lets out their last words. Babyface turns and runs out the room, face white in repulsion, bloodied footsteps left in his wake - but Valerie stays. Pocketing the revolver, she moves hesitantly, towards Leo and then kneels by Hitch’s side. His gaze snaps up, eyes meeting hers. She puts her hands over his. “Let me help.” Hitch pauses before nodding, on the verge of tears.

Valerie keeps up the search, both tentatively pressing down on certain areas of Leo’s stomach where the staining seems darker, clearly looking for a response from the near catatonic agent. She and Hitch work side by side for a few seconds, when suddenly his wristwatch beeps. He raises it to his lips, shaking. “Yes, Oren- ah, sir.”

“What’s going on, Zachary?” The voice on the other side of the line is clearly unimpressed. “I’ve tried calling Leo and they’re not responding.”

“Leo- Leo is-” Hitch can barely speak without sobbing. He grips his wrist to steady himself, skin turning white at the force, and manages to choke out the words, “Leo’s been hit.”

“What?” Oren is only slightly surprised.

“They’ve been hit, sir. Badly.”

“How badly?”

“I think- I think they could die, sir, if someone isn’t called quick.”

“Who shot them?”

“Uh- Babyface.”

“And where is he now?”

“He got away.”

“And you're just letting him?” The words fly out of the receiver like a slap to the face. “Answer me.”

“Sir- I thought protecting Leo was my first priority-”

“Is there anyone else in the room with you?” The voice is uncertain for the first time as if the man on the other end is weighing up his next words, depending on Hitch’s answer.

Hitch looks up at Valerie; she makes no move to flee. She sits still by his side, waiting. “No.”

“Agent, are you utterly sure?”

“Yes, I am, sir.” He speaks with conviction this time, so much that the voice at the other end believes him.

“Then go get Babyface.”

“But, sir, Leo needs urgent care-”

“Did I hesitate? Go now.” The voice is cold, unremorseful, righteous. “Go capture him now, agent.”

Valerie barely holds back a gasp in abject shock, but Hitch simply nods, bowing his head as if such callousness is to be expected. “Yes, sir,” he murmurs, the unsteady sound of his breathing punctuated by a beep as his boss hangs up. Hitch leans down, lips trembling, and kisses Leo’s cheek. His friend is too far gone to register the gesture but Valerie recognises it immediately.
A final goodbye.

“Hitch-” Valerie begins, reaching out for a bloodstained sleeve as the man moves to stand, “you don’t have to.”

He looks at her with eyes so stricken with misery, face filled with such resignation, it strikes the breath out of her. “I do, Valerie.”

“You don’t! You don’t have to capture him,” She gestures forcefully at Leo’s body. “You can stay, you can help,” she begins to beg, the heavy emotion of having to witness a victim dying threatening to shatter her.

“I can’t.”

“Then come with me.” His eyes widen in shock at her words and she repeats them, more assured. ”Come with me. Leave them. We can - we can take Leo with us, get them to a hospital. You’d make a wonderful villain, Hitch,” she laughs bitterly, “and you’d never have to go back there. Not with their rules or their regulations or their heartlessness and, and, and- we can make something better of it.” She tries to make herself believe it because then, maybe then, he’ll believe it too. The thought of him leaving aches deep down inside her. She isn’t sure where all this latent humanity is coming from, but if she’s going to spend it in one go, it’ll be on him. He gazes at her and for a moment, she truly believes he’s going to take her up on it. “We can run away together. C’mon, darlin’ - we’d make the most wonderful pair of criminals Spectrum has ever seen, wouldn’t we?”

“Valerie-”

“You can stay,” she whispers, voice hoarse - a final plea, earnest and desperate. “Please. Stay.”

He looks down at her, his tears mimicking her own. “I can’t.”

The certainty of his words is heartbreaking. It’s made worse by the fact that she knows he’s right. “I have to go, Valerie. You have to go too. Oren will’ve called an ambulance by now,” he informs her, “so leave.”

“I’m not leaving!”

“You will.”

“I-”

“Don’t go down for this - it’s his fault, Valerie, and nobody will even know you were here. You’ve got to go.”

“I’ll do what I want!”

“C’mon, Nine Lives.” He smiles weakly at her and the nickname tugs at her heart. “You’ve got to leave.”

“But why do you?”

As she stands, her hand brushes against Hitch’s face, smearing red over his cheeks. She searches for a reason in his eyes, for something that will make everything alright again. The misery in his gaze nearly breaks her - but it is his reply that finally does.

“Because I was told to.”

And with that, he is gone.

Chapter Text

“Does it hurt?”

Bradley spins in his chair, looking at Hitch with concern in his gaze. The latter is sitting with his shirt unbuttoned, a safe way away to avoid being hit in the face by Bradley’s extended legs, nursing a nasty looking laceration seaming his side. Hitch glances up, wincing as his hands slip and he applies a little too much pressure on the wound.

“Nah,” Hitch mutters through gritted teeth, “it’s fine.” He points to a roll of gauze resting precariously on the golden desk near Bradley. “Could you pass me that?”

“Sure,” Bradley replies, leaning over and tossing it over to Hitch who is sitting facing away from him. He grins as Hitch’s hand instinctively sweeps up and catches the roll in the air, grasping it like some kind of trophy. “Still amazes me that you can do that.”

“Catch a roll of gauze?” Hitch sarcastically responds over his shoulder.

“No, no, your reflexes!” Bradley’s enthusiasm makes up for Hitch’s total lack of it. “You caught that without even knowing where it was coming from!”

Hitch shifts around to look Bradley in the eyes. “I could hear it,” he explains, “and that let me know where it was coming from.” He undoes the roll of gauze in his hands, the fabric cool and surprisingly smooth against his palm. The colour is a stark contrast to the bright yellow of the carpet: Bumblebee, if he recalls the name right. Only a few years ago this room, like the rest of Spectrum, was a bleached white - and then LB became second in command and finally got the go ahead to fill the whole building with colour. Now the room is well lived in - the yellow desk Bradley sits at has a drawer on the right hand side that’s been stuck for so long Hitch has completely forgotten whatever he kept in there. Despite all the vibrancy though, Hitch feels like Spectrum has only gotten colder in recent years, the weight of this job showing itself in the changes to his manner and enthusiasm. And, he notes bitterly as he wraps gauze over a sloppily self-stitched wound, showing its effects on his body too. “You know where the sound is coming from, you can figure out how to react.”

He throws Bradley an unimpressed glance. “But as if you didn’t already know that.”

Bradley simply hums back, still smiling. After a moment, Hitch asks, “are you excited?”

Bradley stares at him like he’s just the world’s most foolish question. “Of course I am!” He tilts his left hand, watching adoringly as the diamonds on his ring finger sparkle under the lamplight. “It’s the biggest adventure of my life,” he murmurs.

Hitch shakes his head affectionately. “Not that,” he corrects, “the mission.”

“Huh?” Bradley’s gaze snaps up, slightly dejected at the change in topic. “Oh, what, the odd issue with the jewellery store in Sweden?”

“Yep.”

“I’m not really bothered,” the older agent confesses. He throws another look at his engagement ring and smiles widely. “I’m more excited about what’s already at home.” He sighs dramatically. “She’s the light of my life, you know that. Saved my life in more ways than I can count. I can’t believe I’m lucky enough to spend the rest of my life with someone so beautiful and smart and just so - perfect.”

The roll of gauze is deposited on the floor with a muffled thump and Hitch carefully ties the knot on the opposite side of his waist. He raises an eyebrow at Bradley’s lovesick expression. “LB would throw up if she heard you talking like that,” he warns, but his voice is warm, clearly endeared by the love his best friend has for his fiancée. “I hope your vows aren’t that sappy.”

Bradley grins again. “Don’t you worry, they’re a hundred times worse.” Using his feet to propel himself across the room, he moves over to Hitch’s side, expression morphing from smitten to troubled again. “Speaking of worse…”

Hitch doesn’t miss the obvious worry on Bradley’s part and shrugs off-handedly. “It’s fine, really.” He avoids eye contact, attempting to hide the irritation and anger bubbling under the surface of his calm facade. “It’s nothing that hasn’t happened before,” he points out.

“Still,” Bradley interjects, “that doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt.” His hand extends tentatively towards the white bandaging, small fissures peeking out from either side of where the laceration is hidden. Bradley waits a second for Hitch to nod, before pressing his fingertips over it, checking if the motion brings Hitch any pain. The other agent winces slightly at the contact; however, it’s clear that the wound is protected and cushioned to the best extent possible. Satisfied that the bandaging is taut and doing its job, Bradley moves as if to pull away - only for his fingers to linger over Hitch’s bare skin.

“Hey, Art? Are you okay?”

Hitch blinks, thrown by the sudden touch and also by the question. “What do you mean?” The words come out more breathless than he’d like.

Shaking his head, Bradley continues. “You’ve been… distant.” He looks up, searching in Hitch’s gaze. “Like you’re unhappy. Like you don’t want to be here anymore.”

Quick as a flash, Hitch’s smile turns sardonic. “You’ve always been far too good at reading me.”

“It’s what a friend is for,” Bradley replies carefully, leaning back as Hitch slowly rises to his feet. He watches with concern as the younger man wanders over to the glass mirror stretching from wall to wall across the room. Hitch steadies himself, putting his weight on it before glancing back over at Bradley.

“Don’t you- do you- it’s-“ He struggles to find the words, to vocalise the bitter feeling that’s slowly found root and grown in him the past few years. The sentence that would illuminate the failings of Spectrum to its best, most loyal agent. There isn’t one. So instead, Hitch stares at Bradley, fingers splaying against the mirror as he steadies himself. “Isn’t there something wrong with this?”

“What?”

“This,” Hitch repeats, “isn’t there something wrong with it?”

Bradley shifts awkwardly in his seat. “I don’t understand your point.”

“Is what we’re doing right, Bradley? I mean, look at this place! Everyday something else for us to deal with and everyday somebody else-”

“Hitch, what are you trying to say?”

“I hate it here!” The words spill over Hitch’s lips before he can stop himself, furious and wretched. Bradley flinches at the sudden outburst.

“I hate it here,” Hitch repeats emphatically, volume rising. “The missions and the fighting and the dying - Bradley, somebody is always dying. I can’t live like this - and I don’t want to die like this either.” His eyes betray deep seated pain and Bradley can only stare in shock.

Silence falls over the room, heavy and suffocating, contrasting with the loud noise of all the yellow walls and furniture. The seconds linger on, lasting for far too long - until Bradley stands. He walks carefully, hands extended out, palms flat like he’s approaching a wounded animal, cautiously noting all of Hitch’s quick and frightened movements as he draws closer. After a few slow steps, he gets close to Hitch and speaks, tone low and soothing. “Hey, it’s okay.” He puts his hand on Hitch’s shoulder, frowning slightly as he feels the other agent shiver under his touch. “It’s okay,” he repeats earnestly, “it’s okay to feel that way.”

Hitch pulls him into a hug, nails catching on the wool fibres of Bradley’s jacket as he grips onto him like an anchor. His words are muffled and hoarse against Bradley’s shoulder, disbelieving and afraid. “Is it?”

“Of course it is,” Bradley replies gently, holding his friend with utmost care, “this job is stressful. It’s perfectly natural to doubt yourself or what we’re doing. But,” he continues, pulling back slightly to look Hitch in the eyes, “what we’re doing is right. It’s not easy, nor is it fair, but we have to.” His gaze is earnest and his tone honest, belief as strong as his grip. “We’re doing the right thing.”

Hitch desperately wants to believe him: that these saccharine words are true and that the guilt he feels eating away inside him is a lie. He wants hope and belief to wash over him and cleanse him of this doubt, the holy water of faith. Yet something in him resists, knowing that no matter how hard he believes, he can’t go back to the wide-eyed hope that Bradley still clearly holds. He may be a few years younger than Bradley but he’s the one who sees Spectrum for what it is.
Nevertheless, instead of speaking, Hitch holds his tongue. If anyone in the whole world is worth his faith, it’s Bradley, and so he swallows the lies with a small, tight smile on his face. He simply holds Bradley tighter, almost afraid to let go. And then-

“Are you going to see me off tomorrow?”

“Sure,” Hitch replies. Bradley takes a deep breath before asking another question.

“Are you gonna stay at Spectrum?”

Hitch freezes instantly and Bradley, sensing his discomfort, quickly continues.

“As long as I’m around,” he amends, “will you stay?”

Hitch is taken aback slightly by the clause. He knows that Bradley will never quit. The Wonderboy of Spectrum owes them too much of his loyalty to simply turn his back and walk away. To agree is to promise the rest of his life to an agency that he doesn’t believe in anymore. But to say no would mean turning his back on Bradley, the one person he’s relied on, cared for, loved in a myriad of ways his whole life. He pauses for a fraction of a second. He makes his choice.

The inevitable answer is muffled slightly as Hitch turns his face into the crook of Bradley’s neck, but he is glad for it as it means the other agent cannot hear the slight tremor of his voice.

“...Sure.”

~

Hitch turns over the thin paperweight in his hand, flipping it between his fingers. The motion repeats itself like a Newton’s Cradle - left and right it goes, the precision of his movements impeccable. Every other part of his body is motionless, eerily still under the faint glow of moonlight slipping through the gaps in his curtains. He doesn’t know what to do with himself tonight - alone in an empty apartment built for a family, the soft and bittersweet sound of guitar chords spilling out from the speakers of his gramophone he’s pulled out from under his bed just for tonight. The quiet would be too much, so he replaces it with the music and the thwip of the paperweight traversing his fingers and back. The noise doesn’t drown out the feeling of emptiness, though.

It’s been two days since Bradley left. Time has been filled with routine paperwork and regular check-ups on his wound which no longer bleeds anymore. Apparently it’ll be healed in two weeks. By 3 months, he won’t feel it anymore. But a scar will remain, another brutal line to join the others littering the arch of his back, the width of his shoulder blades and the special one, seaming the length of his abdomen. He regrets his promise, but there’s no words with which to take it back.

Leaning back in his chair, Hitch stares up at the frost white ceiling. He doesn’t know what he’s looking for in the swirls of paint. Perhaps a purpose; some great sign to lead him in the direction that would save his life. He’ll waste it away at Spectrum, all for the sake of love. Bradley’s love, LB’s love, of everyone who he knows there. If he left, would they want to talk with him again? Does he want to talk? Does he even want to leave? The acoustic guitar fades away and is replaced by the gentle lilt of piano notes.

Then the phone rings.

Hitch’s heavy lidded eyes snap open, his hands immediately letting the paperweight drop on the floor with a loud clatter. He sits up and eyes the phone on its hook with distrust. The black plastic rattles again with the force of the vibration, calling for him to come pick it up. He stands, too tired to function properly and his legs half asleep, stumbling across the room.
The upside of working with Spectrum is the access to early technology. His phone is possibly decades ahead of any that the ordinary person would own, slim and antenna-less and most importantly, with caller ID. He checks the number and instantaneously knows something is wrong. It’s LB’s home number - something she never uses to call him, not unless it’s intensely personal. Dread freezes him in place, like standing on thin ice sheets while the river still whirls under the blue frost. He’s afraid to pick up the phone. If the ice cracks, he’ll fall under. He doesn’t know what to do with himself. But he can’t stand staring forever. If something terrible has happened, there’s nothing he can do to change it. He knows he will spend the rest of his life wishing he could, but whatever is waiting on the other end of the line is inevitable.

So, with trembling fingers, he cautiously picks up the phone and lifts it to his ear.
“Hello?”

Instantaneously, he hears ragged breathing, each inhale and exhale rough around the edges. He can almost see the woman on the other end of the line, clutching her glossy green phone in one manicured hand, steadying herself against the wall with another. He can see her chest heaving, makeup running in black rivulets down her cheeks and staining the collar of her yellow silk shirt. Waiting for a few more seconds, he almost asks her what’s wrong, when she suddenly says his name.

“Hitch…” her voice is rougher than usual and it scares him. It’s uncharacteristic for her to express so much emotion - let alone something so visceral as grief.

“LB, what is it?” He closes his eyes tight and begs that his worst fears aren’t coming true. Perhaps if she stays quiet, if she doesn’t say anything, then he can lie to himself. He already knows what she’s going to say. But he prays that she won’t.

Life is rarely ever so merciful though. LB hesitates, summoning all her courage. Her words are punctuated by sobs, making them difficult to distinguish, but what he can hear confirms his worst fears. “He- mountains- crashed-”

The ice breaks under Hitch’s feet. The river swallows him up whole, so cold it burns. Thrashing under waves, swept on by the current, he is eviscerated, blood seeping red into the water. It’s his worst nightmares all over again- but this time, luck is not on his side and he doesn’t wake up. Instead, he’s dragged down into the churning water below, filling his lungs and drowning out his screams. His body won’t surface again.

Neither will Bradley’s.

~

The man walking into Spectrum offices looks nothing like Hitch.

His tie is askew. His hair is barely combed, his first two shirt buttons undone and his suit jacket creased across the back. The dark circles under his eyes betray the way he’s been crying all night, if the red and still watery state of his eyes immediately don’t. Usually well manicured nails are jagged and there’s the alarming shape of a bite mark on his hand, his attempt to muffle his crying through any means necessary.

Buzz stares up at him like she’s seen him for the first time - and she has no clue what to make of it. The only thing she can do is slide his papers across the table and keep face. “You’re expected in room 37,” she blandly informs him, her gaze faltering slightly as she tries to take in what she's seeing.

He stares back blankly at her, before picking up the file with both his hands. “Where’s LB?” He asks, voice hoarse as if he’d been drinking all night, “what room?”

“Her office,” Buzz replies. “Listen, are you alright?”

“Mmm…”

“Hello?” Buzz glares at him slightly as he continues not to respond. “Hitch!”

Her sharp tone shakes him out of his reverie and in a brief burst of lucidity, Hitch looks at her intently. Something about it sends shivers down her spine, as if he can see right through her. He stares unhesitatingly for a few more seconds, before blinking confusedly as if he’s just snapped back into his body. “I thought…” The look combs over her one more time before he shakes his head. “No- I-“ he stumbles over his words before finally managing to say, “I thought you looked like someone I knew a long time ago.”

Buzz doesn't even raise an eyebrow. “How long?”

Pursing his lips, Hitch faintly murmurs the answer, staring at the floor. His expression is haunted and it’s clear that his mind is far away. The sight is unnerving and Buzz wants nothing more to get him away from her desk, just so she can stop having to deal with him. She points down the hall. “LB will be expecting you,” she reminds him, before turning back to her typing, pointedly looking away from him.

Hitch stands there for a few seconds, as if he has no clue what he’s supposed to do with himself, before robotically setting down the hall. The wallpaper shifts from crimson to cerise to salmon as he moves, but it might as well all be colourless. Even when he was standing in Buzz’s rainbow office, no colour shone out to him - instead every hue seemed muted. His feet move instinctively and when he advances through the canteen, he sees the rest of his colleagues. The mood is subdued, nobody laughing or swapping jokes, but they’re still all talking. There are no tears, just forlorn faces. People glance up at him as he passes, faces blurring under his fogged vision, but nobody reaches out. He moves through the room like a ghost and instinctively, soon he’s turned down enough corridors that he stands in front of a boysenberry door. It’s slightly ajar, just a small sliver of white lamplight peeking out into the hall. He pushes it open and expects to see a woman in an equally distraught state as him; expects to see coils of hair spooling over her shoulders, eyes sore and red, her clothes creased - but when he enters, Hitch stops. This is an LB he’s never seen before, but not the one appropriate for the occasion.

Her hair is tightly braided - luxuriant and shiny as any other day he’s ever seen her. There are bags under her eyes but otherwise, her eyes are clear with no inflamed redness. From a first glimpse, her composure is utterly intact, but the part that shocks him is this - everything she is wearing is pure white.

Gone are the colours of yesterday: the bright cobalt matching skirt suit, the summer yellow shirt and the short heeled black t-strap shoes swapped for a completely white shift dress. Her engagement ring is gone, removed and leaving a slightly pale circle on her ring finger. Even her previously patterned nailpolish has been replaced with snow white varnish, her nails looking almost bare in comparison with her dark umber skin. Hitch blinks in shock. The woman sitting in front of him is LB, without question, but he feels like he’s never met her before in his life. She’s too pristine, too tidy, like a version of her created for efficiency and work.

LB is waiting, however, staring at him. She’s obviously expecting a reaction, but decides that clearly, she’s the one who will have to speak first. “Sit down,” she gestures at the seat in front of her and almost mindlessly, he follows her request. Sighing, she sifts through her papers, avoiding eye contact. “Of course,” she acknowledges, “you want to talk about yesterday-”

“What the hell?”

LB’s head snaps up at this and she raises an eyebrow at Hitch. “I’m sorry?”

He leans across the table at her, a mixture of astonishment and anger playing across his features. “What the hell is this?” No gesture is required to convey exactly what he’s confused about and LB simply frowns in response.

“This,” she says, her tone forced to remain calm and collected, “is simply an outfit.”

“Oh, really? An all white outfit, right after Bradley’s death?” LB winces at the blow but remains calm, and Hitch shakes his head. “This is unbelievable.”

“Hitch-”

“There ought to be flowers,” he snaps, “there ought to be a meeting, there ought to be people bawling in the corridors.”

“People react in different ways.”

“But you should at least be sad.” Hitch speaks with vitriol.

“Listen-”

“No, you listen!” LB flinches, falling quiet at Hitch’s vicious interjection, unwillingly giving him permission to yell at her. “You should at least be telling everyone. There’s nothing for him. Nobody is talking about it. They’re eating lunch, they’re talking to each other like it’s any other day. It’s like it doesn’t matter. And you’re sitting here like everybody else, thinking I care about your aesthetic concerns, but I don’t care!” He’s shouting now, but he makes no attempt to lower his voice. The rage and the guilt and the misery have risen up in him and he can’t force them back in - the only person he can vent his frustration on is her. “You’re sitting here, doing nothing, when the most important man in the world is dead!”

He waits, watching as LB stares at the floor. He expects her to scream at him back, to tell him he has no right to speak to her like that, that he is an agent expected to do better. But instead, she looks up at him.

“Do you think I don’t know that?”

Her tone knocks the air out his lungs: quiet, furious and above all else, grief-stricken. The composure she has worked so hard to keep up in his presence shatters like glass as she stares at him, eyes brimming with tears. “Do you think,” she spits, “that I don’t know all of that?” Her hands ball into fists, shaking aggressively as tears blot the ink on the papers strewn across her desk. Her breathing is heavy, the only sound in the room when she pauses to collect herself. “I know that he’s dead, Hitch. I-” and for a moment, it seems like she’s about to confess to something, when she stops herself. The words she wants to say die on her lips and instead, she coolly reminds him, “I got the call first.”

Hitch has the decency to burn in his seat with shame, the hot pin-prick feeling spreading over his skin as he shrinks in his seat. “I’m sorry,” he barely manages to choke out, throat tight with humiliation. LB simply shakes her head.

“You’re upset as well,” she murmurs, “I wouldn’t expect anything different from you.” The sentence both eases Hitch’s abashment and intensifies it. “You have always had an awful temper when you’re upset.”

Shifting awkwardly, Hitch can barely bring himself to look at her, but LB refuses to have it. “You want to know why nobody is wailing in the halls?” she asks dryly, slowly slipping back into her façade of an unvexed Spectrum agent. When Hitch nods, her whole body tenses and she leans across the table towards him.

“I have been told,” she confides, eyes darting across the room as if she fears there’s a hidden camera watching in the walls, “not to make a big deal out of it.”

“What?!”

“Be quiet,” LB hisses. Pausing for a moment, her gaze moves behind him, fixed on the door. After a few seconds, she looks back at him, a thin grimace playing on her lips. “Oren thinks that Bradley’s death… ought to be handled with a certain level of care.”

“Why?”

LB’s expression morphs quickly through a thousand emotions at such a simple question, before she manages to regain control. “I am not,” she hesitates, “at liberty to explain exactly why. But this period of brief,” her teeth close around the word with visible anger, hot tears threatening to spill over again, “mourning is to be as quiet and as non disruptive as possible.” Hitch moves forward, his mouth open as if to beg for an explanation but she leans back in her chair, hands folding her lap and it’s clear the conversation is over. LB has said as much as she possibly can.
With a heavy, forced smile, LB points to the door. “You can leave now, agent.”

Shaking, Hitch rises, turning to leave, before glancing back at LB. They both look at each other. The quiet that settles over them is not awkward but is that of understanding - two people who feel the great loss only death can bring, the abscess grief has carved out of them. In that moment, he sees her for who she is. The misery in her eyes is borne from the great love she has always carried for Bradley, now a great weight with nowhere to put down. There sits the girl willing to dive into a river for a boy she didn’t know, the one who fought tooth and nail for her place in Spectrum, the one who refuses to back down no matter the cost. Nobody in the whole of Spectrum, he realises, has suffered in the great ways she has. And so, before he knows what he’s doing, he leans across the desk. He hugs her.

LB freezes in place but all Hitch does is hold her tighter. He waits, until suddenly she falls apart in his arms. Deep sobs resonate against his shoulder, her hands throwing themselves around his figure and pulling him closer. “I love him,” she chokes out and the utter despair in her voice pangs in his chest. “I love him so much.”

“I know.” Hitch feels tears rolling down his cheeks. He stares down at her, smiling weakly.

“He knew.”

~

The yellow room feels faded without Bradley. It’s been hours since he left LB’s office and he’s spent all day in his own, sorting through files. The catharsis of his and LB’s mutual grief is not enough to completely subdue it and so the dull ache persists, no matter what he does. Trying to focus on anything sends him spiralling - reading over old case files procures pictures of Bradley smiling at the camera, grinning a way that he never will again. Looking at items in his office reminds him of Bradley, the chair opposite reminds Hitch of him - hell, even the low, dull ache of his side reminds him of the man he’l never see again. He puts his head down on the desk, tired of reading the same words over and over when suddenly, a quick beep from his watch catches his attention. He sits up for a second and furrows his brow at the words that flash across the screen.

Funeral: Friday 3:00 PST. No body.

The LED letters form a sentence that sends fire burning through his blood. The callous and cold words ‘no body’ enrage him - this is how he finds out? This is the method that Spectrum deems appropriate to let Bradley’s closest friends know that there will be no casket? How can they do this to him?

For the second time in one day, anger overcomes his grief. The feeling builds up like magma swirling under the earth’s crust, heating up and building in strength until it breaks through the weak mantle of his fortitude and erupts - with brute force, he slams his hand against the desk. The impact causes the wood to shudder and instantly, the long-stuck drawer pops out. There, under a thin mantle of dust, is a hidden cache of mementoes. Hitch’s eyes widen in surprise at the sight of objects he had long presumed were missing and forgetting the stinging of his palm, he leans over to pull something out.

His fingers brush against a small keychain, a plastic square attached to a metal loop. The only legible words on it are ‘Disneyland’ in red and black text. The figure of Mickey Mouse has faded to an almost unrecognisable degree, but he remembers the day he was given it almost perfectly.

“You coming?” Bradley smiled at him, hair having been bleached golden by the extraordinarily hot California sun.

Hitch looked up from tying his laces and frowned slightly. His gaze rested on the sign behind Bradley. “I mean,” he noted, “Jungle Cruise sounds nice, but do I really want to get on a raft and go see a crocodile?” He raised an eyebrow and Bradley smiled sheepishly.

“It could be good with getting over the incident,” he suggested. Staring skywards, he lifted his hand up to his face to shield it from the brilliant sunbeams and noted, “it would probably be good to go somewhere cooler too.” He looked back at Hitch, smiling. “I think I could melt out here.”

“Mmm…”

“We could get something to eat after!”

“And?”

“And?!”

“Well, it was nice talking to you Wonderboy, but my hotel room is really calling to me-”

“Okay! How about I get you something from the gift shop too?”

A pause. And then-

“Deal.”

“Great!” Bradley grinned, “C’mon, the line looks pretty short right about now.”

Hitch wearily got to his feet, adjusting his soft blue sports shirt as he stood up, still eyeing the sign with deep mistrust. “Is LB coming?”

As soon as he spoke, a pair of hands clamped down on his shoulders, causing him to let out a sudden yelp of surprise. “That I most definitely am,” she grinned, her head resting on his shoulder as she stood on her tiptoes behind him.

“Hey, sweetheart,” Bradley smiled at her. LB returned the smile with equal affection.

“Hey, baby,” she replied, moving over to Bradley and kissing him on the cheek. “How have you been?”

“Fine.” He glanced at Hitch, still smiling. “Just been hanging out with Art.”

“You boys get up to anything interesting?”

“Well, I learnt that this one,” Hitch gestured to Bradley, “really hates Magnolia Park.”

“Really?” LB faux pouted at Bradley, clutching onto his arm. “What’s wrong with it?”

Bradley blushed. “It’s not that I hate it, more that it’s just really, really pink.”

“I thought you liked bright colours?” LB’s pouting intensified.

“I like them on you,” Bradley quickly stumbled over himself to appease LB, “but on the gazebo it looks a bit like…”

“What?”

“Americana dead fish,” Bradley concluded. “Like somebody slapped the flag on a salmon.”

“I bet you SJ would disagree,” Hitch replied, “you know how much she loves pinks and reds.”

“Where is SJ, anyway?”

The group looked around, attempting to find their older friend, when suddenly Hitch pointed to a tall, polka dot wearing figure walking towards them.

“Over there!”

“SJ!” Bradley waved enthusiastically at his friend, gesturing her closer.

SJ waved back awkwardly as she approached. One hand was holding LB’s polaroid camera, the other preoccupied with a dripping ice cream sandwich, the hand holding the camera extended at a 90 degree angle from her body. “Didn’t want to get ice cream on it,” she explained to a bemused LB, immediately switching focus on the treat that was melting under the sun. “You could die out here,” she muttered between bites, “it’s so damn hot. I bet you it’s warmer here than it was in Monterrey when I was a kid.” She took another bite before adding, “and it got to 83°F out in August.”

“Jesus, it only got to 23°C out in London… it’s, what, about 15°F hotter over here?” Hitch guessed.

“Really?” Bradely sounded surprised.

“God, I don’t doubt it,” LB winced as a particularly bright sunbeam flashed over her eye, “I could have just let the sun straighten my hair instead of using a hot comb this morning.”

“Well, are we going to go on the ride,” Hitch interjected, “or just stand out here complaining how hot it is?”

“You’re coming?” SJ asked, quickly swallowing the last of her ice cream in one gulp, “I thought the… you know… would put you off.”

“Apparently I’m an idiot,” Hitch told her, “and also he,” once again thrusting a finger in Bradley’s direction, “convinced me to do it, so if anything goes wrong, it’s his fault.”

“Aw, c’mon now,” LB smiled, using her free hand to tug Hitch towards the ride. “What’s the worst that could happen?”

*
“BRADLEY BAKER I AM GOING TO KILL YOU-”

SJ was doubled over laughing, her hands on her sides as she howled, absolutely delighted. LB had her hand over her mouth, desperately trying to suppress a giggle, while the ‘tour guide’ blinked in shock as she pulled on the brakes, the ride juddering to a halt as she stared at the sight in front of her.

“Oh my god, Hitch,” Bradley exclaimed, leaning over the side of the boat to reach out to the younger man, “I am so sorry-”

“I am up to my KNEES in WATER,” Hitch griped, “and he pushed me, you saw him push me,” he pointed at LB who was failing terribly at not looking amused, “it was on purpose-”

“I really didn’t mean it, I swear,” Bradley mollified, “it was an accident.”

“Oh, yeah? I didn’t even want to come on this stupid ride! And now I’m soaking wet-”

“-And who knows what’s in that water,” SJ helpfully supplied, managing to calm down long enough to gaze at the muddy brown liquid with a clear sense of distaste.

“Exactly!” Hitch replied, “Thank you!”

“Although it is pretty funny,” SJ considered, tilting her head at Hitch
.
Hitch whined, stomping his foot petulantly in the water. “Don’t laugh!”

SJ paused, before laughing harder. Meanwhile, Bradley was still leaning over the side of the boat, outstretching his hand to Hitch to try lift him back in when suddenly, something caught his gaze, just behind Hitch. His eyes widened in surprise and LB clapped her hand over her mouth. SJ suddenly stopped laughing, her expression snapping into one of terrified anticipation. “Hitch-”

“Oh, what is it?”

“Get out of the water.”

“What?”

“Get out of the water now!” Bradley shouted but it was too late - Hitch heard the loud bellow before he saw the creature and as he spun around on his heel, he came face to face with a giant fanged crocodile. It rose up from its hiding place behind a great pile of rocks, clawed feet propelling it closer to him. Frozen with terror, Hitch watched as it drew closer and waited for its gaping wide jaws to swallow him whole, to tear him to pieces-

And then it stopped.

The crocodile ceased to move, sitting placidly on its rock, glassy eyes staring back at him blankly. The man stared in shock for a few moments longer and as he did, its fakeness became more apparent, smooth snout and hard foam teeth revealing that it was simply a half decent animatronic. Despite the low gasps of his friends behind him, he crawled up the slippery rock face and reached his hand out to graze the jaw of the reptile. From past experience, he knew the feeling of a crocodile’s skin, scaly and cold to the touch, but his fingers instead came into contact with slightly warm rubber, pliant to the touch. Everyone else stood slightly stunned at the sight, thrown to see him interacting with a crocodile so carelessly. And then suddenly, Hitch turned around.

“This,” he grinned, “is so fake.”

LB and Bradley still stared blankly in shock at him, but it was SJ who started laughing first. “Oh my god,” she snickered, “you should have seen your face!”

“SJ,” Bradley warned, but she clearly found the scenario too amusing to pass up.

“C’mon, Bradley,” she reasoned, “up close it looks as realistic as a bath toy.”

“She has a point,” Hitch shrugged, “it’s pretty fake.”

LB paused. “Well,” she admitted, “it was kinda hilarious.”

“Cheer up Baker,” Hitch grinned, “at least it didn’t eat me this time.”

With this quick quip from Hitch, Bradley relaxed, the tension seeping out of his shoulders and back, until he was looking at the crocodile with a slight smile on his face. “I guess…”

“It’s all good.” Hitch took the time to look down at his swamp water soaked slacks. The scent of Disneyland swamp was becoming slightly overbearing, metallic and uncomfortably warm, and he really wanted to get off the ride and back to the hotel as soon as possible. “Is anybody gonna help me back in now?”

Bradley leaned back over the side of the boat, when LB reached into her bag. “Wait!”

“Huh?”

She grinned, adjusting the weight of her slightly clunky polaroid camera she had pulled out in her hands. “I’m not,” she explained, “letting an opportunity like this pass by.” She aimed the lens at Hitch and the crocodile. “Smile!”

“Pull a face!” SJ yelled and Hitch obliged, grinning widely, crossing his eyes and sticking his tongue out. As soon as he heard the click of the polaroid shutter, he slid back down into the water and took Bradley’s hand, hoisting himself back into the boat.

“You okay?”

Hitch shrugged, still smiling. “I mean, it wasn’t fantastic, but it was fun.” He leaned over LB’s shoulder and took a look at the picture. “Hey, it looks pretty good!”

“Only you could look good soaking wet and pulling a stupid face at an animatronic crocodile,” SJ noted fondly, “I wouldn’t be able to.”

Raising an eyebrow, Hitch smirked. “Oh, do you wanna try?” He stepped towards her as she shrieked, playfully threatening to push her in the water when suddenly, they all heard a cough from behind them. The four adults slowly turned around to face the tour guide and three other boats of Spectrum agents, staring at them disapprovingly. They all flushed bright pink, immediately sitting back down in the boat under the gaze of their superiors. “Sorry,” Hitch mumbled.

“Anyway,” the tour guide began again, flipping the lever that let the boats start up again, “the swamp area of the jungle is very dangerous…”

*

Hitch was sitting at the bottom of his bed when he heard a knock at his hotel door. “Come in!” he called, wincing as water rushed out of his boot as he finally shucked it off.

“I can’t come in unless you unlock the door,” Bradley reminded him from the other side and Hitch slowly rose to his feet, hobbling over and twisting the handle open. He stepped back unsteadily as his friend came through the door. The older agent’s gaze traversed Hitch’s attire and smiled apologetically as he closed the door behind him. “Sorry about pushing you in.”

“Ah-hah!” Hitch cried. “You admit you pushed me in!”

Bradley laughed. “That doesn’t mean it still wasn’t an accident.”

“Still.” Hitch walked back to the bed and took his other boot off, before leaning down to peel off his socks. His face screwed up at the horrible smell of the synthetic swamp water and he tossed the socks as far away from him as possible, with them landing on the tiles in the en suite bathroom. Looking back up at Bradley, he faltered. “Do you need something? I don’t want to be rude but…” He gestured at his clothes. “I kinda need to change.”

Bradley blinked stupidly for a second, before snapping back to reality. “Yes, sorry!” His hand rifled in his bomber jacket pocket, clearly hunting for something, when suddenly he pulled out a small square on a chain. He leant over to Hitch and put it in his palm, the plastic cool and smooth to the touch. It smelt like sugar and waffles, sweet and oddly reminiscent of breakfast.

Hitch gazed bemusedly at the little figure of Mickey Mouse for a few seconds, before staring at Bradley. “And this is?”

“I promised you something from the gift shop if you came on the ride, right?” Bradley reminded him. He put his hands in his pockets sheepishly. “Sorry it’s just a keychain, but everything else was jungle themed and I was pretty sure you were done with animal adventures for the day.”

“That’s for sure,” Hitch agreed. He turned the keychain over in his hands, his smile slowly growing wider the longer he looked at it. “Thank you,” he said, looking at Bradley earnestly. “Nobody has ever gotten me a gift like this before.”

Shifting on his feet, Bradley beamed back. “It’s nothing really.” He paused. “Did you have a good time?”

“Uhhh…” Hitch considered the question. “You know what? Yeah. I did.”

“Good. I don’t want my best friend to have a terrible time on holiday,” Bradley replied. He waited for a second, before adding, “You know that me and LB have always got your back, right?”

“What?”

“She just wanted me to tell you that. I mean, I wanted you to know too,” Bradley corrected, “but yeah. I know I may have pushed you accidentally-”

“-on purpose-”

“-accidentally, but we didn’t want to upset you.” He cocked his head at Hitch, genuine affection showing on his expression. “You’re our best friend.”

The sincerity of Bradley’s sentence panged in Hitch’s chest. It was one thing to hang out with Bradley and LB and call them his friends - another to know that they felt exactly the same way. “Thank you,” he repeated, staring at Bradley intently. He lifted the keychain up, taking a proper look at it. “I’ll take care of this,” he promised and Bradley smiled.

“You better,” he joked, “or I’ll push you right back in.”

“I dare you,” Hitch retorted, “I’ll throw my boot at you.” He grabbed the shoe as if to follow through his threat and Bradley put his hands up in mock surrender.

“Alright! Alright! I’m going!” he laughed. As he walked back to the door and opened it, he threw one last smile at Hitch. “We love you buddy.”

Hitch flushed. “Yeah, love you guys too.” When the door shut, he stared at the keychain for a second. The great well of emotion in him felt like it was fit to burst, but instead Hitch threw himself back onto the bed and smiled widely. This was one of the best days of his life.

In the present, Hitch can’t say he feels the same way at all. The memory washes new waves of grief over him, a breaker hitting the shore during a storm. What is he meant to do with one of the closest people in his life dead? He can barely grasp how LB must be feeling, the intensity of her misery overwhelming to even consider, and he suddenly feels the need to go to her office and hug her again. The haunting idea of Bradley’s crash plays itself in his mind too, over and over, more violent and gruesome with every reiteration. Olfactory hallucinations help it along as well - he can almost smell the bitter metal, warping under the blazing oil fire, the word ‘Spectrum’ on the wing melting away under the heat.

Spectrum. The word causes anger to rise back up again in Hitch. If it wasn’t for them, none of it would have happened. Their callous disregard for Bradley’s death is the worst thing they could possibly do - for all the sacrifices their golden boy made for them, they’re still more than willing to sweep the memory of him under the carpet. Hitch wonders if Bradley would still be alive if he had tried more to convince him of Spectrum’s faults, if he had spoken up against them. The very thought causes his hand to constrict around the keychain, gripping it with extreme force.

This agency has taken everything from him: his childhood lies in tatters, scarred by trauma and physical therapy and his friends have been destroyed - one killed in a crash and the other so upset he doubts she’ll ever be the same again. The tension in his hand increases. He won’t ever be the same again either, will he? There’s no chance of being happy as long as he remains a Spectrum agent, no chance of rest or relaxation and the constant fear of those he loves dying will forever have him looking over his shoulder. He’s lived like this for so long. Will he die like this too?

Suddenly, a sharp, exquisite feeling spreads across his palm. He doubles over in agony, and clutching his wrist for support, opens his hand that has been clutching the keychain. The plastic has shattered in a thousand small shards, the image inside utterly destroyed. Metal loops have dug into his skin, leaving little white indents on his palm.

The dull world fades away as he continues to stare at his hand. His vision is fixed on the centre of his palm - not because he’s surprised by it, but simply because it shines. The colour is clearest, most vibrant hue he’s ever seen, drowning out the monochromatic world around him, until there is only one thing he can focus on: the beautiful, rich red wound that tears across his palm.

His blood pools out of his hand, seeping into the creases of his palm, accentuating the imperfections and blemishes. Warmth spreads over his skin almost pleasantly, the wound swelling. Thick beads spill over his palm, heavy with a scent that is earthy and slightly sweet, so thick he can almost taste it. Such a smell is instinctively nauseating but still a deep hunger pangs deep within him as it drips, tarnishing the pristine yellow carpet. A sanguine mirror shines back at him, his warped reflection gazing back and jarringly, the image is almost flattering. Blood oxidises, turning a deep crimson, so like wine he feels tempted to lift his palm to his lips and drink. As Hitch stares, he realises one thing - he’s never seen something so gruesome, so appalling and yet so utterly, utterly beautiful.

Chapter Text

Three short, sharp knocks.

Hitch’s head turns abruptly to the door as he puts down the papers he’s been rifling through. It’s 3am in the morning and he’s not expecting anyone. Fear surges through him - the paranoia instilled by years of Spectrum training and agent work flaring to life like flint against steel. He waits hesitantly for a voice to call out for him, only to be greeted by a low groan from outside. The knocking repeats - one, two, three - but this time it’s weaker, as if the person on the other side of the door can barely bring themselves to lift their hand.

He stands before crossing the room hesitantly. Putting his eye against the keyhole, he can see somebody leaning against the door frame, perfectly manicured fingers splayed over their upper thigh, dress hiked up to sport a nasty gash. Their panting is rough and unsteady, every breath sounding like it’s painful to take but they manage to summon enough strength to speak. “You gonna open the door, darlin’?”

At the sound of that unmistakable Texan accent, he undoes every latch and deadbolt on the door in rapid succession. His fingers fumble in his haste to pull it open, it swinging back with excess force. Hitch looks down at Valerie in utter confusion. “What the hell are you doing here, Nine Lives?”

“Aw, c’mon, is that any way to treat a lady?” Valerie complains, pushing past him with her elbow, “and in the state I’m in?” She throws herself on the sofa with a loud groan, wincing as a cushion digs into her wound. Taking a moment to inhale another unsteady breath, “and here I was, thinking you were a gentleman.”

He glares at her. “That’s a vintage Bauhaus sofa,” he informs her, “so I’d thank you not to bleed all over it.” Hitch moves into the kitchen, rummaging around the back of a cupboard to find his trusty first aid kit. The foil of a chocolate bar rustles against his arm and he pauses, looking at it; under further consideration, he takes the bar in his other hand and walks back into the living room. Valerie turns to look at him as he enters and her eyes brighten at the sight of the treat he’s brought her.

“Oh!” she exclaims, suddenly full of energy, “how sweet of you!” A hand extends, fingers beckoning towards her palm in a clear ‘give it over’ motion.

Hitch frowns. “It’s to help with the pain.”

She narrows her brows. “If it’s for the pain, why aren’t you giving me it now, huh?” Throwing herself back on the sofa, she flings her hand over her forehead, the perfect picture of a woman in distress. “I’m sufferin’ an awful lot,'' she adds, looking at him earnestly.

Hitch suppresses a laugh. The lid of the first aid box opens with a click as he leans down and undoes the latch. The chocolate bar is swapped for a brown glass bottle, liquid of an indistinguishable colour swirling around inside. Valerie studies it with displeasure. “What the hell is that?”

“Saline solution.” He undoes the cap and pours some out onto a cotton bud. “It stings,” he supplies helpfully, too much mirth dancing in his eyes for her liking. She recoils.

“Why would you need to use that?”

“To clean it, Valerie.”

She whines. “Can’t you just pour some alcohol on it and wrap it in gauze like a normal person?”

“That stings more,” he stares at her, baffled, “you know that, right?”

“It doesn’t sting,” she counters, hesitating for a moment before continuing, “it just burns a lot.”

“How is that better?”

“Well, it takes a lot less time! You’re probably going to want to clean it properly and dress it up like it’s your wife. I know you.” She pauses, looking at him cautiously. “Why are you taking care of me, anyway? Aren’t you meant to be tackling me to the floor and dragging me to your underground lair?”

“It’s called Spectrum,” Hitch spits the word out with more bitterness that he’d like, desiring to conceal his distaste for his job from Valerie and failing. He ignores the slight surprise in her eyes and simply nods. “And yes, probably.” In actuality, he knows the procedure for a situation like this very well - if a villain, enemy of Spectrum or affiliate attempts to contact an agent or engages with them in any matter, regardless of the meeting’s connections to their crimes, said agent is obliged to capture or subdue the enemy until other operatives can assist in capture. Violent and fatal force is permitted, even if the enemy is wounded - in the majority of cases, it is advised.

Hitch shudders at the memory of what subduing Valerie looks like. The aftermath of that particular lapse of judgement is scratched across her eye, her left pupil dilated permanently from the force of their struggle. She notices him staring and scoffs quietly. “Admiring your design?” she murmurs, her tone walking the fine line between teasing and serious. She lifts one hand away from pressing down on her wound and runs her fingers over the raised scar. “It’s pretty, I’ll admit.” She gestures down at her leg, which is still slowly spilling blood onto his sofa. “But I’d prefer it if we focused on this one instead.”

Hitch startles. “Of-of course,” he says, sinking down to kneel beside her for better access to the gash. He softly dabs the cotton pad against the wound and Valerie hisses, leg jerking back in shock.

“Shit-”

“Here. Let me.” A palm rests itself on her thigh, turning the wound towards him, the touch tender but firm. Hitch looks at her expectantly - a reaction, a slap in the face, a scathing retort. But instead, Valerie’s tensed body slacks, muscle relaxing. “You okay?”

“Sure,” she hums, worrying her teeth against her bottom lip, accent growing thicker under duress, “go ahead.”

With her consent, Hitch continues to clean the wound. Occasionally Valerie’s leg twitches on instinct but otherwise, she says nothing, her pain tolerance higher than most after years of getting into scrapes like these. It takes a few minutes, silence filling the room, hanging in the air like a thick fog; neither of them exactly sure where they stand with each other and too uncertain to make the first move, to say the first word that’ll break this rare bubble of calm. When the majority of the blood has been wiped away, he leans down and hands her the bar of chocolate. As she pulls back the foil, snapping a square off before putting it precariously on the sofa arm, he continues to examine her injury. When he’s assured there isn’t anything in the lesion, he pulls out the gauze.

His fingers move swiftly, precise and with all the skill she’d expect a professionally trained agent to have. The scent of the solution he’s used to remove the wound reaches her, salty and with a bitter chemical smell she recognises from her youth - the nights in hospital, lying about where she’d gotten her cuts and bruises - rock-climbing sounding more appropriate than ‘my mentor was teaching me to scale a 3 storey building for criminal reasons’. Her breath catches as Hitch’s fingers gently brush over her skin in order to tie the bandage. Immediately, his eyes meet hers, wondering if he’s done something wrong and she shakes her head. He pauses and then finally, speaks.

“How did you know where I live?”

She stares at him. “What?”

“How,” he repeats, “did you know where I live?”

“Ah, that.” Propping herself up on her elbows, she smirks. “I was rather hoping you wouldn’t ask, darlin’.”

He allows himself a small smile in return but persists. “Well, I did. So?”

Valerie sits up properly, careful not to catch her freshly bandaged leg on anything. “Well, I cased the joint a couple of times,” she says carelessly, like she’d told him the mail had just come in or that it was raining outside, like it’s nothing much. His jaw drops.

“You did what?”

“Aw, it’s not like it’s serious-”

“Not serious? You broke into my apartment!”

“Wouldn’t call this an apartment,” she retorts, “more a flat. It’s tiny.” He sighs. “And bare,” she adds, noting the complete lack of decoration.

“So, what? You came here to judge my aesthetic choices?” he quirks a brow, clearly unimpressed.

“No, I was just curious about what you were hiding. Judging you? Well, that’s just what I ended up doing,” she corrects, her eyes roaming across the space. The walls are a solid white, impassive and cold, large windows looking out onto a rainy Twinford backstreet. A pair of matching seats are opposite the sofa she is currently reclining on, black felt cushioning curved inside a frame of aluminium tubing. Books, everywhere, ranging from topics like the culinary arts to deep sea diving - but she can’t spot anything well thumbed, no dog eared pages or faded spines. A small TV set, a patterned rug and a singular painting round out the rest of the flat’s interior. She points to the latter object with a sad smile playing on her features. “How pretty,” she says, “one of her best.” Trees cluster together on the outer frame around tall mountaintops; the expansive lake is deep teal. The overall impression is of something grand and yet hopeful: the magnitude of the snow-dusted mountains contrasting with the brightness of the light dappling them, turning them almost blue. She looks at him, eyes suddenly slightly damp. “What’s it called?”

He hesitates. “Lake Mary, by-”

“Marion Wachtel,” she finishes for him.

He smiles weakly, letting a few seconds pass before returning to his original line of questioning.

“How did you know this was my apartment, though?”

“Well,” Valerie replies, wiping an errant tear from her eye, “you’re far too easy to track.”

“Is that so? Why?”

“Because you’re far too handsome to be a secret agent.”

A slight flush blooms in his cheeks, dusting them pink. “Really?”

“Oh, of course, darlin’. I’d recognise that face anywhere.”

At that, Hitch laughs, half amused and half charmed. He’s been complimented many times in his life over his looks but from Nine Lives, it feels earned. Perhaps it’s counterintuitive considering whose company he’s in but it’s the first time he’s ever let himself properly relax in a while. Unfortunately for him and his newly acquired sense of ease, it’s at this second that Valerie chooses to prod a still sore wound of his.

“I’m sorry about Bradley.”

The words suck out all the warmth and mirth from the room, replacing it with an icy silence. Hitch’s mouth snaps into a thin line, eyes darkening with an implacable emotion. Valerie swears she can see frost tinting the windows white.

“What?” His tone lets her know it’s not a question - instead, a warning to stay out of danger. Alas for both of them, danger is her day job.

“I’m sorry about Bradley.” Before he can interject, she continues, looking away. “He was a good man - a thorn in my side, no doubt - but good. Charming too, more fun than most agents I’ve met, present company excluded of course. We may not have been on the same side, but I was sorry to hear about the accident. It won’t be the same without him.”

Valerie waits. For the shouting, the screaming, the yelling - but nothing comes, so she chances a look.

And Hitch is crying.

The sobs escaping his lips are soft, heart-wrenching gasps that he can barely take due the shuddering of his chest. His hands trembling in his lap, curls of hair obscuring eyes that are filled with sorrow. He can’t bring himself to even glance up at her, so he just weeps, till his throat is sore and his collar is soaked with tears. It is only her hand on his own, déjà vu of another grief stricken moment, that shakes him out his misery. She pulls him close to her, soothing him with soft words of comfort.

But her eyes are too earnest when they meet his - despite any amiability between the two of them, it is not in her nature to be so sympathetic. He knows something is wrong. Everything about the pity in her eyes feels synthetic to him; her behaviour clashing with her past actions. Ugly thoughts twist his hurt into anger, grief morphing into rage and he turns it all onto her.
“You don’t do anything,” he spits, “unless someone does something for you.”

She stares, shaken, at him but doesn’t attempt to argue back and he sneers. “Of course. You’d never come over here unless you wanted something.” He gets up, roughly wiping away his tears, crossing the room to scowl out of the window.

“Hitch-”

“Are you actually sorry he’s dead?” He turns on his heel to give a solid death-glare. “Do you actually care at all?”

She balks. “Yes, of course-”

“Of course? Please,” he scoffs, “like I can trust you at all.” Hitch’s roaming inspection catches on the bandaging around Valerie’s thigh and a thought sparks in his mind, one that turns his stomach. “Were you even wounded?”

“I’m sorry?” It’s her turn to be incredulous. He simply gestures at the gauze with a look of disgust in his gaze.

“It probably wasn’t even that deep,” he suggests, “you were probably putting it on just to get some sympathy from me. Is anything about you real, or is it just one big fabrication?”

At this, Valerie’s had enough. “Listen here. I needed help and I came to you, alright? There’s no need to be so cruel.” Unsteadily, she moves to her feet and lurches towards him, the movement weak but deliberate.

He looks her in the eyes for a moment. She doesn’t know what he’s looking for until he hisses his final question, the words so sharp they could pierce skin. “Why did you come here?”

“What?”

He corrects the sentence. “Why did you come to me? You could get help from an ally of yours. A doctor who’d look the other way. So - why me?”

Holding his fixed stare for a few seconds is all she can manage, before she looks away. Hesitantly, her face burning like wildfire, Valerie murmurs, “the offer is still on the table.”

“What?” Hitch is confused. Her response is neither another question nor is it an answer - just like throwing a drowning man a box of matches, he has no clue how it’s supposed to help him.

“The offer is still on the table,” she repeats but her gaze isn’t on him. It’s resting on mountaintops dusted with snow, leaves unfurling on branches under the sunlight, the great Californian expanse of Lake Mary. He remembers that night, nearly over half a decade ago - misery and silvered moonlight. Sitting there on the gallery steps, he had watched the smoke from a cigarette borrowed off Leo - his first and last - coiling up into the darkness, tracing patterns against the sky - her words echoing in his mind. Come with me. An icy breeze swept through him and he had turned his collar up against the wind, only for his hands to come away bloodied. We can run away together. Only then had he let himself cry properly, horrible juddering cries as he waited for the ambulance to come pick up the corpse he had once called a friend. You can stay. Please. Stay.

As memory rises up in him, something snaps. “Fuck you.”

The coldness in his tone, mixed with the words she’s never heard him say before, cause Valerie to flinch. “Fuck you.” His stalks across the room to her, steps calculated but animalistic. “You don’t get to offer me that. You don’t get,” he snarls, looking at her with hate in his eyes, “to act as if it would be so easy to just uproot my life and leave. Do you know what I’ve seen? The things I’ve done to make sure everyone in this city gets to go to sleep safe at night? How many colleagues and how many friends I’ve seen die, without a word to say goodbye? I was seven when I joined Spectrum. Decades of this happening to me and it never gets better, Valerie. You get to choose your missions - if people live or if they die, but I don’t get that freedom. Tomorrow somebody else could abandon me and there wouldn’t be a thing I could do about it. You know nothing about the things that I’ve done - about the things that have happened to me!” The tears come back but his expression stays angry - hot, blinding grief and rage.

“You’re right.”

Hitch stops dead at her words, the simplicity of her admission throwing him off. “I don’t know the things you’ve done. I don’t know everything that’s happened to you. But - I know who you are, darlin’.” Valerie’s words are soft. They’re quiet. And they’re earth shattering.

“That’s the rage you’ve kept under the surface. But it’s not me you’re angry with, is it?” She waits for him to say something but he stays quiet, her words freezing him in place. “Tell me you haven’t thought about it.”

“About what?” he can barely choke out the words, his body language switching from visceral predator to frightened prey - shoulders dropping, eyes flashing with fear.

“Quitting Spectrum. Leaving the agent work behind.” The wood panelled flooring creaks beneath her feet as she walks to him, high heels making low clacking sounds. “Running away.”

He hesitates, before looking away, almost ashamed of admitting the truth. “Yes.”

“Why not, then?”

“I couldn’t-”

“You can. You know you can. There’s not much in this apartment - you could take the little that matters to you and then” her hands make a theatrical motion, fingers quick unfurling from her palm, “you could disappear. I’ve heard that plane trips are particularly fatal for Spectrum agents.”

She steps forward, closing the gap until there is no more than half a foot between them. Despite himself, he can’t help but flinch. The movement pulls a frown on Valerie’s lips and she steps back, hands raised defensively. “I’m not gonna hurt you,” she reminds him, “I just want you to know you can leave. You can disappear anytime.” She smiles tentatively. “I’d go with you.”

He blinks, disbelieving. “Are you- are you serious?”

Valerie shrugs carelessly but she’s looking at him with an intensity that threatens to bring back the tremors and tears he’s only just managed to suppress. “I could teach you about my world. There’s no way we’re getting what we want separately. But like I’ve told you before, you’d make a wonderful villain. Quid pro quo, tit for tat, my wants,” she draws even closer, “and yours.”

“And what exactly is that? What do I want?” The words are carried on a quick, shuddering breath, the question hurried and weak, as if he fears the answer it’ll bring.

“You?” She pauses, almost shuddering with the buzz the words provide, “You want to see Spectrum brought to its knees. You want,” her face barely an inch away from his, “To set hell upon them all. And I understand why, honey. The question isn’t what have they taken from you, but what haven’t they? They’re going to keep taking and taking, till you’ve got nothing left, and you know it far more than I do.” She cocks her head and suddenly lets out a little, low humming noise. “You’re in the crocodile infested waters now, Zachary. What are you gonna do about it - sink,” she purrs, “or swim?”

Hitch gazes at Valerie’s bright green eyes shining in the dim lamplight, gazing at her as if she contains the darkest, deepest secrets of the universe. Her bright red locks frame her face, curled around her cheek and falling over her scarred eye. The line across her face is raised and almost shines, a pretty gruesome shade of pink, he notes, genuinely admiring his own handiwork this time. The rage and the anger have dissipated away and all that’s left is just instinct, the only guide his own emotion. He doesn’t say a word, content to simply stare at her as if she’s a particularly complex line of code, a cipher he’s determined to crack. Then, clear and assured-

“I choose to swim, Nine Lives.”

She grins, feline mischief dancing across her face. “Well, how unexpected,” she says, as if she knew the outcome all along, “So. What now?”

He grins back, taking her hand and kissing it in a chivalrous gesture. His words are barely audible as his breath warms the back of her hand, but when she registers what he’s said, the thrill shoots through her spine like a bullet.

“I believe, dear Valerie, it’s time for me to die.”

Chapter Text

Ruby stares at the piece of paper and then back up at the building. It’s massive, a looming derelict old manor house in Trashford, different from the office tower he’s sent her to before but no less shabby. She’s glad she chose to take her bike instead of getting a taxi from school - the drivers in Twinford may keep it zipped for the average kid bunking, but even they would have qualms about dropping her off in front of a building that looks like H. Holmes’ Murder House.

After chaining her bike to a lamppost, she crosses the desolate parking lot, watching as the building grows larger and larger. She wonders what on earth it could have been used for in the first place - the outside looks like a mansion but creepily, there’s almost a complete lack of windows, excluding two in an arched gothic-style that wouldn’t look out of place in a church. The porch stairs creak as she ascends, letting out low, ominous whines. Ruby wouldn’t ever call herself superstitious like Mrs Digby, but she knows that sometimes the environment you’re in can give clues as to whether you’re making a good choice or not - and from all the signs she can see, the house seems to be telling her that she’s making a bad one.

The feeling of unease intensifies as she gets to the door. She looks for the keypad, the code to unlock the house written on the note she carries but a whistling noise catches her attention. In-between the frame and the door, there seems to be a small gap where the wind is whistling through. Ruby pauses in confusion for a second, before a horrible thought dawns on her: she puts her hand against the solid red oak and with a gentle push, it swings backwards. It’s unlocked.

Fear rushes through her as she stumbles backwards. Quickly, she checks the note, but nowhere on it does it say that the door would be left unlocked. All it says is that she should let herself in, work on the code left on the desk and then at some point, Blacker will be around to pick her up.

For a moment, Ruby feels like running - getting on her bike and cycling as fast as she can from the building - but then she considers how pathetic that could seem. What if it’s just an accident that the door is unlocked? How can she even consider being a proper field agent if one unlocked door unnerves her? The thought of being dismissed horrifies her and worse, there’s the thought of LB or Blacker thinking poorly of her. Blacker may be slightly fond of her but LB has been nothing but cold to Ruby since she arrived; if Ruby didn’t know better, she’d think that the head of Spectrum 8 didn’t even want to hire her. There’s no way that Ruby can abandon Spectrum, not after she’s gotten a taste of what coding work is like, and so she forces the unease deep down inside her. She steps through the doorway and into the house.

Instantly, she feels worse. The hallway she’s in is cramped and dark, the ceiling so low it looks like it’s about to crawl down and swallow her up. The wallpaper is pitch black and the only decoration on the wall is a silver mirror which shows her a distorted version of her reflection as she passes by. There are doors all the way along but each one seems to be tightly shut. However, the worst part is the chilling feeling sinking into her: the second that the door swings behind her with a loud slam, Ruby is entirely sure that someone else is in the house. Invisible eyes bore into her back and although she rationalises it away as a draft, it feels like someone is standing right behind her. Refusing to bow to her own paranoia, Ruby continues, walking down the hall with her pace slightly quicker than usual, till she reaches the bottom of a grand iron staircase. It seems to rise all the way up to heaven and with one look down, also seems to descend straight into hell. Swallowing roughly, she clutches onto the bannister, her clammy hands making it difficult to keep a proper grip, beginning her ascent to god knows where. Blacker’s messy handwriting tells her that there ought to be an office at the end of the second floor, so she follows an equally unnerving corridor past multiple doorways until she reaches a small room.

Within, she finds a desk, rickety and at least a decade old, illuminated only by a dim, humming lamp. She can tell from the flaking paint chips that remain that the desk used to be a bright yellow, large drawers on either side. When she tugs them open, she finds that while the left drawer is perfectly ordinary, the drawer on the right hand has chips of plastic at the back. She pulls the largest out and examines it: from what she can make out, it’s a black background with red cursive spelling a letter - under further inspection, most definitely the letter ‘D’. Putting it back, she suddenly notices that the drawer is stained with dark brown spots. Something about them causes bile to rise in her throat and it takes a few seconds for her to realise why - it’s blood.

Slamming the drawer shut, Ruby takes a few deep, gulping breaths. She’s not usually so faint-hearted but something about this house unnerves her deeply. However, her mind wins over her body and so she hesitantly sits at the desk, taking a look at the newspaper sheets that are on it. Her tensed shoulders relax as she flicks through them, recognising Lopez’s neat and tidy annotations, the sentences clearly containing some kind of code. Settling into a steady rhythm, Ruby begins to work through them, attempting to see what Lopez had, her focus moving away from the house and instead to her task.

Without a clock above her head, Ruby isn’t too sure of how long she’s been working for: it has to have been a couple hours, seeing how this code provides her with a proper challenge for once, but suddenly, a noise startles her from the assignment. In any rational situation, Ruby would dismiss it as her paranoid brain playing tricks on her, but this sound is unmistakable - the click-clack of high heels coming from the floor below. The young girl freezes in her seat. Having spent many an evening binging horror films with Mrs Digby, she knows better than to call out and let whomever is in the house know she’s there, so instead, she carefully takes off her sneakers. Without them, her footsteps are barely audible and as she passes back down the corridor, her sharp memory helps her recall which of the floorboards creak, meaning that the intruder has no idea anyone else is inside. Ruby fears coming face to face with whomever it is that has broken into the house, only to see nobody there when she reaches the bottom of the steps. For a second, she relaxes, considering the possibility that her mind has somehow conjured incredibly realistic auditory hallucinations, when the sound repeats itself. Ruby knows it’s not coming from the floor above and there’s nobody standing in the hallway, so that can only mean one thing. Uneasily, her eyes stare down the staircase into the inky depths of the basement. The noise echoes right back up at her.

All of her common sense tells her to run, that the door is only a few seconds away and there’s no way that someone all the way down in the basement will be able to catch her if she sprints. However, someone deep inside Ruby is determined to be a hero. Unrealistic fantasies of apprehending some crazed villain fill her head and before she realises, she’s slowly descending the staircase, the patterned iron pressing against her socks. For a moment, Ruby thinks that the abyss below is utterly unilluminated, claustrophobia tightening her throat. However, just before she gives up, a small pinprick of light shines out. She hurries towards it, disregarding any sound she could be making for the hope of getting out the terrifying dark. Moving into the bright light from the pitch black blinds her and it takes a few moments of intense blinking before she can see what exactly she’s walked into.

To her astonishment, it looks like a ballroom; mirrors with metallic lace trim are embedded at regular intervals in the wall. The walls are marble, white with gold detailing across the coving, the polished wooden floor cool to the touch. It’s what’s above that catches Ruby’s attention most though - chandeliers of fine cut glass sparkle like small suns suspended in the air and a stunning renaissance sky is painted across the ceiling. Fluffy white clouds float over a backdrop of navy sky, shimmering stars blinking back down at Ruby, staring at her with amiability. The sight completely wipes Ruby’s mind of her troubles - all she can focus on is the beauty of the room she’s found herself in. She becomes so engrossed that she swears the sky is moving slowly across the ceiling, her jaw agape in shock. Perhaps, she considers, her mother had a point about appreciating fine art, her hand absentmindedly extending upwards as if she could brush her fingertips against the cumuli.

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”

The words freeze her in place. The voice is unfamiliar, not one of any Spectrum agent she’s ever heard before. Her fear must be apparent to whomever is standing behind her as they laugh, a jarringly sweet sound, like church bells on a winter’s morning.

“Oh, honey, don’t be so nervous! C’mon now, turn around and let me see your face.” A slightly faded Texan drawl tinges the sentence and Ruby barely summons the strength to turn around and face the intruder.

The woman standing opposite her is beautiful - but in the most terrifying way possible. Red locks are cropped short, resting just below her ears where a pair of open teardrop earrings hang. Soft make-up frames her face, with a long jagged scar across her dilated left eye. Her dress has a wrap neck bodice that tails off into a godet tulle skirt detailed with flecks of copper, a thin belt with an equally burnished copper clasp sitting around her waist. Manicured nails are the colour of rich, expensive red wine and Ruby’s fear peaks as she notes the sparkling diamond revolver she’s holding.

The woman makes no move to step towards Ruby as she turns. Instead, her eyes widen, her gaze wandering up and down Ruby’s figure in shock. Her mouth parts slightly as she lets out a noise somewhere between a snarl and a groan. And then she speaks. “He is not going to like this.”

“Who exactly are you? And who isn’t going to like what?” Ruby suppresses her fear and manages to spit out the question without any stuttering.

The woman cocks a brow, before spinning on her heel and calling out. “Darlin’!” As soon as she speaks, Ruby hears another pair of footsteps descending the staircase. She scarcely has a second to comprehend where this person could have been hiding before he suddenly enters the room.

The woman’s companion is tall and unquestionably handsome, brown wavy hair falling slightly over his eyes before he brushes it back. “What’ve you caught then?” he grins flirtatiously, his dark purple suit jacket shifting under the chandelier light. His brow furrows when she doesn’t respond, cocking his head at her questioningly. “What's got you so serious?”

Soundlessly, the woman points her revolver. The man follows the gaze of the barrel, until his eyes rest on Ruby, standing there, barely suppressing her trembling. Instantaneously, the set of his face changes. His smile snaps into a thin line, eyes burning with rage as he takes the sight of the young girl and without warning, he takes a sharp step forward. “You’re a child,” he spits. “You’re tiny.”

Despite her panic, Ruby finds it in her to make a quip. “Actually, I’m 5’5”,” she corrects, “which is pretty tall for my age.”

The man continues to glare at her, his voice trembling with anger. “And how old exactly,” he snarls, “is that?”

“...thirteen,” Ruby gulps.

The second she says it, something the man snaps. With a deft sweep of his arm, he snatches the revolver from his companion’s hand and, lifting it towards the ceiling, rapidly fires a series of consecutive shots. Flecks of navy blue paint fall onto his suit jacket and the ceiling lets out a horrible groaning noise, the action and the sound stunning Ruby. However, the man doesn’t seem to be phased at all, turning his piercing gaze back on her. He turns as if to advance towards her, when suddenly-

Slap!

His companion’s hand ricochets off the side of his face, her gaze filled with righteous anger. “What the fuck,” she snarls, “do you think you’re doing?” One hand wrenches the sparkling revolver from him while the other grabs his collar, forcing him to face her.

“What?!”

The woman hisses at him, her voice low and warning. “You’re scaring the stupid kid, Hitch.”

Both of them glance at Ruby, who is still standing there, looking like an animal about to bolt. Her body has curled inwards, her arms tucked over her chest in a defensive position, her legs upright and tense. She isn’t shaking or crying, but there’s alarm in her eyes, as if she’s planning out her best route to escape. Hitch’s eyes widen in shock horror. “I- I didn’t mean- I’m-” he stutters, visibly sickened to have brought a child to such a frightened state. “Val, I didn’t-”

Valerie’s face softens slightly. “I know.” She looks back at Ruby. “But she doesn’t,” she reminds him, “so fix it.”

Hitch nods. Slowly, he approaches Ruby with his hands raised, his footfalls soft. “Hey kiddo,” he says softly, “hi.”

Ruby’s gaze is fixed on him and she allows her expression to shift into one of distrust rather than sincere worry. Hitch takes it as a good sign, taking one more step closer. “I’m sorry,” he tells her, genuine remorse in his tone, “I didn’t mean to scare you. I’m just-” He pauses, trying to find the right words, before deciding that an explanation can come later. “I swear I’m not here to hurt you.”

“Neither of us are, sweetheart,” Valerie chips in, her tone equally as soothing as Hitch’s, the drawl intensifying with her emotion. “We were just surprised.”

With the reassurance that the two of them mean no harm, Ruby begins to relax - and of course as she does so, her wit resurfaces. “Why are you surprised?”

“You’re a child,” Hitch states. The frown returns to his lips, but the anger that previous matched it has dissipated. “You’re far too young to be working for Spectrum.”

At the name of the secret agency she works for, Ruby starts with surprise. “How do you know about Spectrum, buster?” The moniker slips out her mouth without her even thinking about it and for a split second she worries that Hitch will react poorly to it.

However, instead of getting mad, he lets out a small laugh. “Well, kiddo,” he retorts, “I used to work for them.”

“You did?”

The smile falters slightly and his gaze falls to the floor. “A long time ago,” he admits, “but, yes, I did.”

“You don’t seem too happy about it.” Ruby notes.

His hands fiddle with his shirt sleeves, small diamonds cufflinks that match those on Valerie’s revolver glinting. “I’m not.” He looks at her in the eyes. “Who hired you?” The question isn’t so harsh as to be a demand but Ruby knows she ought to answer it.

“I don’t know if you can exactly call me hired,” she says tentatively, “but the person who made me crawl down a manhole into a freaky white room was called LB.”

The name causes Hitch to flinch violently and his jaw drops in shock. Confusion and worry are apparent in his gaze. “LB?” he whispers the name disbelievingly, his previously assuring and friendly expression switching to one that can only really be described as pathetically wounded. Taking a few steps backwards from Ruby, the movement becoming unsteady the more he moves as his legs grow weak beneath him. For a moment, it looks like he’s about to collapse, when suddenly Valerie’s hands grasp onto his shoulders, propping him up.

He turns to look at her and his eyes are filled with tears, confusion and upset visible in his gaze. “Why would she- what was she thinking?”

“C’mon, Art, honey-” Valerie begins, clearly attempting to prevent him from crumbling, but the former agent won’t have it.

“She knows,” he says vehemently, “she knows what it did to me and him. I left her a letter, I wrote her it for her before I left, she knows-”

“I’m sure she does, darlin’,” Valerie interjects. “She knows.”

“But then why-” The words die on Hitch’s lips, this betrayal far too much to fathom. He stares at Valerie for an explanation - and Ruby does the exact same thing.

“What’s he talking about?” The teenage girl is completely thrown - she’s watched this man go from charming to enraged to friendly to utterly broken in a matter of minutes. She doesn’t understand. And if there’s one thing that Ruby Redfort cannot deal with is a puzzle she cannot solve. Even when Valerie throws her a look that clearly tells her to stay out of trouble, Ruby persists.

“You can trust me,” she finds herself saying, “I can keep it zipped.”

Valerie quirks an eyebrow. “Is that a promise, honey?”

“Yes,” Ruby promises and to prove that she means it, she mimes sealing her lips. Valerie relaxes slightly, although her hands keep a strong grip on Hitch.

“Good,” she says, “Because you’re lying, I won’t take it well. Got it?” She isn’t frowning but nor is she smiling, her tone carrying a hint of warning. Something about the look in her eyes sends chills rippling over Ruby’s skin; for a split second she can imagine, in another life, finding herself staring down the barrel of a gun held by a much less benevolent Valerie.

“I understand you completely.”

While she still supports Hitch’s weight, the man standing in a state of delirious shock, Valerie worries the skin of her lower lip between her teeth. “When he was younger he started training with other recruits to work for Spectrum,” she explains, “and... from what I can gather, he doesn’t exactly remember it - but the short version is that another trainee threw him and a friend of his into the river. And while his friend got out mainly unscathed, the crocodiles got to Hitch.” She winces like the memory is her own. Ruby stares open mouthed.

“And then-” she chokes on the words, the enormity of his trauma too much to explain so simply. “Many things,” she decides. “So much happened to him.” Another pause. “I was there for one of them. It was- hideous.”

“But why did he leave?”

“Because… his best friend died.”

Ruby doesn’t know where the boundaries are with this story, isn't sure what could set either of them off. So she chooses in typical Redfort fashion to plunge right into the deep end and see if the water swallows her up and spits her out alive or not. “What was his name?”

Valerie’s mouth parts slowly as she moves to answer, but Hitch gets there first. “Bradley.” The name shocks Ruby with its familiarity.

“You mean, like Bradley Baker?”

Hitch stares at her. “You know about him?”

“I heard agents chatting about him in the hallway. Something about living up to expectations.”

“Ah.” On the surface, his voice is empty, stripped of emotion but around the edges, Ruby can hear the fondness. “He was the best man I ever knew.” His mouth tightens in a thin line, his expression clearly one of deep hurt. “So I don’t understand why LB would do it.” He looks at Ruby. “Why would she make the same mistake they did?”

“It’s not just her running Spectrum,” Hitch turns to Valerie, who’s grimacing. “She has her own bosses to bow to. You know that, honey.”

“You don’t think…”

“I wouldn’t put it past them to try it all over again,” Valerie states coolly.

“Why would they, though? It’s a terrible way to treat your agents.” Despite his years of separation from the agency, it’s almost second nature for Hitch to try to defend them, part of him still hoping futilely that their promises of a reason will come to fruition.

She holds Hitch’s gaze. “They don’t care. They’ve never cared about their agents. You know what they did after you ‘died’.” Her laugh is bitter and aching. “The funeral didn’t even last more than twenty minutes, darlin'.”

“She could leave,” Hitch tries, but Valerie shakes her head.

“From what you’ve told me of her - and the little that we crossed paths - she’d never give in. She probably thinks it’s her responsibility to protect new agents.”

“You sure? Because from everything I’ve gathered about her, she hates me.”

Both adults quickly look at Ruby, both their expressions morphing into ones of astonishment.

“What?”

“She hates me,” Ruby repeats bitterly. “I know it.” Her teeth clench slightly as she talks, “Ever since I walked in, she’s wanted me gone.”

“Are you sure?” Hitch asks.

“Yes.”

“No - are you entirely sure?” Hitch stares with Ruby with such intensity that she feels compelled to answer with the truth, as much as it stings.

“Yes. She hates me.” Ruby expects Hitch to frown or even perhaps collapse again - but what she does not expect him to do is to laugh.

The sound is loud and free, echoing against the mirrors and the domed ceiling, his voice filled with mirth and above all else, delight. “She hates you,” he repeats gleefully, “oh, she hates you!”

Ruby scowls. “Forgive me for not being a mind reader, but I don’t see how that’s a good thing.”

Hitch stops his laughter. He draws closer and kneels down so he can properly look her in the eyes: usually Ruby would find such an action demeaning but there is something honest about it, so much so that she holds her tongue. “Kid,” Hitch focuses on her, his eyes bright with unadulterated happiness, “she hates you because she thinks hiring you is a terrible idea.”

“How-” Ruby stumbles over her words, utterly confused by how happy Hitch can look while telling her something so horrible. “How does that make it any better?!”

“Because it means,” Hitch smiles, “she wouldn’t ever put a kid in harm's way on purpose. She wants you gone, kid, ‘cause she thinks that working for Spectrum is a dangerous thing.” He cocks his head at her. “She wants to protect you.”

Ruby considers the idea for a moment. Loath as she is to admit that she’s read LB’s character entirely wrong, there’s something soothing about the idea that her boss doesn’t actually want her dangling over a volcano but instead is doing everything to keep Ruby from falling into the wrong hands. She looks at Hitch hesitant. “So what now? Are you suggesting that I quit?”

Hitch rolls in shoulders in a noncommittal gesture but Valerie grins wickedly. “No.”

“Huh?” Ruby looks from Valerie to Hitch, raising her eyebrow. “Can you guys make up your minds?” she complains. “One second you’re saying working for Spectrum is a terrible idea, next you’re saying I shouldn’t leave?”

“It’s complicated…” Hitch trails off, clearly unsure of how to explain to her. However, it’s clear that Valerie seems to think the kid can handle it.

“Spy work is far too dangerous for a kid your age.”

“Have you met me?” Ruby shrugs the comment off the same way she’d ignore her mother’s pleas for her to ‘wear something pretty for once Ruby?’. “I can handle it.”

“Oh, she’s gutsy!” Valerie grins, before pausing, moving over to Hitch to sling her arm around his waist. As she lays her head affectionately upon his shoulder, she smiles at Ruby. “But sorry to burst your bubble, honey, you absolutely can’t.”

“What, am I not smart enough or something for you? ‘Cause I took the 66 second test, I know the kind of super geeks I’ll be working with.”

“But you won’t want to be a desk agent forever,” Hitch informs her.

“I bet she’s already feeling the itch to go out and do some proper agent work,” Valerie comments, before looking back at Ruby. “She’s trouble, I can tell.”

“Hey!” Ruby complains, “it’s usually considered rude to talk about people in front them, you know.”

Hitch laughs. “She’s just messing with you, kid.” He pauses. “Although perhaps she isn’t wrong in calling you trouble.”

“You don’t even know me!” Ruby argues, “It’s pretty full of yourself to deem me as trouble when I haven’t done anything wrong.”

“For one, you entered an unlocked house-”

“-came downstairs unarmed after hearing a weird noise-”

“-didn’t call for help at any point...”

“Okay,” Ruby grumbles, “point made.”

“Why didn’t you just call them, kid?” Hitch’s tone suddenly takes on an exasperated quality, like a father talking to his daughter right after she’s done something reckless. “You didn’t need to come down here by yourself.”

Ruby tilts her head in admission that Hitch is making a point but ultimately argues back, “I just like doing stuff by myself, you know what I mean?”

“Fair,” Valerie replies.

“Not fair!” Hitch says aghast. “Children shouldn’t be going into creepy basements and chasing criminals!”

“I was doing that at her age,” Valerie argues, stepping away to face him.

“Yeah, buster, she was doing that at my age,” Ruby repeats.

Throwing his hands up in the air in disbelief, Hitch states the obvious, “she was the criminal! She was a jewel thief! That’s not normal behaviour for children!”

“For you,” Valerie shrugs.

“Weren’t you eaten by a crocodile by my age?”

“That’s still different!”

“Is it?”

“Yes! Yes it is! And that’s not normal for children either!”

“I’m not a normal kid, bozo.” Ruby states it as if it makes all her trauma perfectly normal, underscored by Valerie once again nodding her head in agreement.

Hitch stares at Ruby in shock. “Who hurt you?”

“Math camp mainly.” Ruby pauses before adding, “also, Conseula’s cooking.”

“I don’t know who that is-”

“Be glad you don’t,” Ruby tells him, “her spinach smoothies could kill a man.”

“They really do just hire absolute gems at Spectrum, don’t they?” Valerie claps her hands together in joy, visibility entertained by their back and forth. She throws Hitch a pleading look. “Can we keep her?”

“You’re both terrible.”

“Isn’t everyone technically terrible in their own special way?”

“Okay, you know what? This conversation is officially over.” Hitch throws his hands up in a shushing motion to prevent either of them talking.

Ruby rolls her eyes but obliges - or at least for a moment, until something dawns on her. She shifts her weight onto her heel, crossing her arm as she stares at the two villains, eyebrows raised. “You haven’t explained one thing though, buster.”

“Huh?”

“If I’m trouble and spywork isn’t for a kid my age… then why shouldn’t I quit?”

The adults exchange a look. Hitch frowns slightly while a smile slowly works its way across Valerie’s features. The silent battle they seem to be having with each other goes on for a few more seconds, when suddenly Hitch glances away to the floor, his mouth still in a tight line. Valerie, clearly pleased with having won, turns back to Ruby. “Because honey, it would be a waste of paperwork.”

This piques Ruby’s interest. “What does that mean?”

“Kid, don’t-”

“It means,” Valerie cuts across, clearly relishing the words, “Spectrum isn’t going to be around for much longer.”

The mood in the room slowly shifts, the familiarity between them dissipating as Ruby looks between Hitch and Valerie in alarm. “And why isn’t it going to be around for much longer?” she presses.

“I wouldn’t ask too many questions if I was you.” Hitch’s voice isn’t cutting but it is slightly stern - warning Ruby that she’s close to falling into turbulent waters.

Part of Ruby knows she ought to heed his warning but there is an irrepressible part that hungers for danger. After all, they’re right - she’s trouble. So she stares at him intently, her gaze unwavering as she lets a dangerous question slip out of her mouth. “And what will you do if I decide to tell Spectrum about this?”

She sees Valerie tense slightly in the corner of her eye, hands slowly tightening around the handle of her revolver; she’s clearly not intending to fire but weighing up the threat that Ruby poses to them. However, Hitch holds her gaze.

“You won’t.” His tone is almost tinged with amusement and it riles Ruby up.

“Why not?” she spits the words out with disdain, refusing to be the one to back down. Hitch cocks his head at her, slight surprise shining in his eyes. The sides of his mouth turn up into a smile.

“Because - who on earth would you tell? LB? Blacker? Froghorn?”

Ruby doesn’t even have time to process the chilling fact that he knows the names of agents he’s never met because suddenly, Hitch laughs. The sound is clear, mirthless, and somewhere deep at its centre, wounded. Ruby swears she feels a cold breeze brushing over her skin, leaving goosebumps in its wake. Her eyes betray the question that sits at the tip of tongue, fear of the answer preventing her from letting it slip. But Hitch knows what she wants to say. The navy ceiling above seems to darken as he leans closer, the stars losing their sparkle. The words that fall from Hitch’s lips are hushed and quiet, his pitch falling an octave. “You want to know who you can trust at Spectrum, kid?”He pauses and Ruby’s eyes snap shut in terrified anticipation of the answer. She knows that she’s already figured it out. But even then, when he finally speaks, the singular word still chills her to her core.

“Nobody.”

It takes a few seconds before Ruby can bring herself to open her eyes. She doesn’t know what she expects to see - Hitch’s dark eyes studying her, both of them standing in front of her, perhaps even the barrel of a glinting gun - but then the air is struck out of her lungs. Nobody else is in the room with her.

The chandeliers above her sparkle brightly and when the mirrors cast back the image of her standing there all alone, only her eyes fixed on her isolated figure, Ruby almost believes that she imagined it all. It’s only when she feels the warm air wash over her chilled skin and unfurls her tightly clenched hands, seeing the half-moon indentations on her palms, that the gravity of the situation falls over her. Swallowing roughly, she looks back up at the starlight sky, committing the swathes of clouds and constellations of stars to her memory. And then, she runs.

Her feet carry her up the staircase at a frantic speed, the darkness swirling around her for only a moment before she breaks back up into the light of the dimly lit hallway. Heart pounding like a bass drum, she looks down the long stretch of the hall, almost hoping to catch a glance of Valerie or Hitch. Instead, she sees the door firmly locked, no slip of light shining in from the outside world.

Ruby doesn’t know what to do with herself; her legs are too tired for her to cycle home and there’s no way she can call for someone to come pick her up. So, with heavy resignation, she treads up the stairs back to the musty room with the peeling yellow desk. She sits down in the chair, wincing as it groans under her weight and attempts to get back to her work. Questions whirl in her head as she absentmindedly studies Lopez’s notes - who exactly were they? Why were they here? And why does something in Ruby feel such an odd familiarity with Hitch, as if she’s known him for a long time? She becomes so absorbed with it all that when a loud knock sounds against the downstairs door, she almost jumps out her skin. Putting her pen down, one she’s been rolling up and down her desk almost methodically for the past half hour, she stands on precarious legs. Taking the papers off her desk, she puts them under one arm before wandering back downstairs. She crosses to the door, opening it with force. On the opposite side stands Blacker, looking slightly astounded as he peers into the house.

“Hey, Blacker.” Ruby uses her honed acting skills to keep her voice steady.

“Hey, Ruby,” the man returns affectionately. He continues to stare at the house in disbelief. “When LB said she was sending you somewhere slightly aged, I wasn’t thinking it would look so….” His voice trails off.

Of course, Ruby thinks, of course it was LB that assigned her such a creepy house.
However, she doesn’t say that, instead shrugging carelessly. “It wasn’t too bad.” She points at the car parked by the curb, a slightly beat up blue number with a faded license plate. “That for me?”

“Yep!” Blacker responds cheerfully, stepping back to let Ruby exit the house. He follows after her as she walks down the steps and across the carpark. The sun has since set, black twilight spread across the sky. The icy wind whips both their faces. “She doesn’t look like much, but she’s incredibly trustworthy. You want me to put your bike on the roof?”

“Sure,” Ruby replies, stepping over and quickly unclicking the lock. She slips into the passenger seat of the car, clicking on her seatbelt as Blacker hefts her bike onto the hood. It smells comfortingly of vanilla and cherry soda, no doubt from snacks Blacker has been eating on his way to pick her up, but it does nothing to calm the butterflies in her stomach. Leaning over to the window, Ruby breathes on the car window, before drawing a little fly in the condensation to try calm herself.

“You taking up art?” Blacker jokes, opening the door on the opposite side. Leaning over into the back, he swaps the papers she’s left on his seat for a familiar looking brown paper bag. “Thought you’d enjoy a jelly donut after all your hard work.” He hands it to her, smiling, but it slowly falters when she fails to smile back. “Is something wrong, Ruby? You usually don’t look so… uncomfortable.”

“It’s nothing,” she tries to reassure him, but Blacker isn’t having it.

“You can tell me,” he says earnestly and for a brief second Ruby hesitates. She finds it almost impossible to believe that Blacker could be on the opposite side and from what Hitch implied, it was only higher-ups who posed a threat to her. Blacker seems to be the perfect partner any secret agent could want: kind, thoughtful, reliable and he’s always been ready to back Ruby when she needs it, even though she hasn’t been working for Spectrum long. She wants to tell him, spill her metaphorical guts all over the car seat and watch his face as she tells him who she’s just met - but Hitch’s words rear up in her mind. You want to know who you can trust at Spectrum, kid? Nobody. Unease prevents her from telling the truth, paranoia convincing her she’s better off facing her problems alone. So instead, she grips the paper bag a little tighter, forcing a lopsided smile onto her face.

“I’m just tired,” she lies, “Lopez’s code proved to be a little bit difficult today.” She fishes the donut out the bag and makes a small show of taking a bite. The action seems to placate Blacker slightly, as he doesn’t seem entirely convinced, but he puts his seatbelt on without further questions. With a twist of the keys, the engine purrs to life and the car slowly begins to pull away from the curb, juddering slightly with the movement.

Ruby takes one last look at the house, eyes roving over the gothic architecture and dismal colour scheme. As her gaze trails over the second floor, she catches a glimpse of an image that shakes her to her core. In one of the arched windows, there they stand - a tall, handsome man and a scarred, beautiful woman, their stares sharp and intent. Before they disappear from view entirely, Ruby watches as Hitch mouths something to her. As skilled as she is, Ruby’s lip-reading proves a little rusty and it is only once the house and the surrounding building have faded from view that Ruby deciphers the words - and they are both soothing and utterly disquieting as she stares out into the moonlight night.

Good luck, kid.