Chapter Text

1 - Deja Vu Showgirls

“I’m ready. Let’s head in.” A man Omen doesn’t recognize emerges from the shadows behind the pub. It’s not the first time they’ve donned disguises during an infiltration mission, but the discomforting incongruence between Cypher’s pretend face and real voice remains to be as off-putting as it has always been. There is less rasp, to add to the illusion, and it’s only due to familiarity that Omen can recognize the change. 

To say that the wraith has disdain for the current assignment is an understatement. He’d never been to a strip club and never intended to do so; he finds their purpose rather unsavory. Humans getting horrifically drunk to shamelessly ogle at naked strangers? He would pass. Alas, the hands of the other recon-oriented agents were all rather full: Chamber was busy fucking his way through the French government, Fade and Yoru are injured from a previous mission, and Sova flat-out refused to participate (which no one had the energy to protest). After a couple days of trying to weasel his way out, Omen caved. It was time-sensitive, Cypher claimed, their target was only going to be in Vegas for a week! And everyone figured that the sooner they got this over with, the better. Truly an unfortunate stroke of luck for the ghost. 

The interior of the complex is just as nefarious as expected. Unnecessarily loud music, the clatter of silverware on plates, and the periodic whoops and swoons of audience members as if they were attending a circus. Multicolored lights of vibrant blue, magenta, and the occasional green swim over every dimly illuminated surface. Omen is only grateful for the fact that the semi-dark hides the spy duo better. The pair follow a host to the far right of the open space, to a table against the wall. 

Cypher drops into the chair closer to the center of the room with an uncharacteristic lack of poise. “I got a seat on the edge of the room for you. I know you don’t like noise and people.” 

The shadow shifts uncomfortably, keeping his eyes averted from the stage despite the fact that his chair is pointed directly towards it. The generous consideration might have been true, but it was much more likely a table that happened to get them close to their victim. Stiffly, Omen glanced around the room, taking it all in while subtly scanning the crowd. The man in question wasn’t hard to find, minding his business a couple tables over with a glass of wine. 

“Why are we here?” he grumps. Logically, he knows that keeping Cypher alive and tracked is important, but the environment has this distinctly itchy and bothersome feeling that can’t be shaken. 

Cypher laughs and claps him on the back. “You’d be surprised at the kind of bodies you see here.” The reply, spoken in an awful American accent that didn’t match the Moroccan, has a double meaning. While obviously referring to the strippers themselves the informant is also making an allusion to the conversation at headquarters from the week prior. You’d be surprised at what kind of people go to places like that. They always think the undergrounds are safe, free of unwanted eyes and ears. 

Omen scoffs. “Why come so far out? If I wanted to admire naked people, I would simply watch porn from the comfort of my own home.” In code, he reiterates the argument that he made just before their departure from headquarters: the spy’s army of gadgets is more than well-equipped to complete the mission without human interference. This frivolous errand was wholly unnecessary and the Controller wasn’t sure why Brimstone cleared it to begin with. 

“Tell me you’ve never touched a woman without telling me you’ve never touched a woman,” the uncanny impression of a blonde American idiot says sarcastically. You know nothing of my trade. “Real-time is something else. Wait until they take you to the back rooms.” 

“This is irresponsible.” The wraith chastises, not bothering to play his character. You could get captured. We could get captured. What target is worth that risk? A waitress comes by, offering water and letting them know she’ll be back in a minute for drink orders. Cypher then picks up the menu, and Omen half-heartedly follows suit if only to fit in. 

“C’mon, relax. All the fun is in the risqué!” The ghost fights the urge to flinch at the words so revoltingly out of character. Although the reply is simple enough, he finds it cryptic and doesn’t change his own attitude one bit. “Besides, we’ve been planning this for months. Just chill. If you don’t wanna come back, you don’t have to. What do you want to drink?” 

Irritated, the shadow drops the topic and switches his attention to the paper before him. They’re already here, there’s nothing more he can do about the situation. If Cypher wants to play with fire, then that’s his choice. None of the options listed below are particularly appealing, so he truthfully replies, “I’m not sure. Do I need to choose?” 

“Nerves will be better if you do,” Cypher smiles and tilts his head as he shrugs. Both of them know that the spy won’t be ingesting anything of the sort to keep a clear head. “I’m getting the mint-raspberry thing. I’m paying, get whatever you want.” 

The menu is laid down on the table. “I’ll get the same.” 

“Perfect.” The waitress is flagged down, and after a quick murmuring between the two of them, she notes their order down and is on her way. 

Meanwhile, Omen has finally set eyes on the stage and its performers, if only out of boredom. An androgynous figure saunters up to the pole nearest him, a good ten yards away. Their outfit is very pretty, aside from the uncomfortable amount of nudity. Black sequins on an open black top, fishnet leggings, and ankle-length shiny-leather boots. Most of the exposed chest is adorned with a tattoo, a heart-shaped ring of roses with some words inscribed in the center. 

The shouts and whoops from the crowd spike, some of them shouting something like ‘Korrine’ which Omen assumes must be their stage name. He hadn’t done too much in-depth research into the location other than a survey of its general terrain inside and out, the stripper’s personas notwithstanding. (Cypher probably knew all of that information, and Omen was willing to bet that a few of them were bribed to ensure the duo’s smooth entry.) The stripper makes a few circles around the pole then lifting themselves into a lazy spin a few feet off the ground. Nothing crazy. 

“Enjoying yourself?” Cypher asks, smugly. At first Omen can’t tell if it’s part of the disguise or if he is genuinely being teased, but then decides that it’s equal parts both. This particular Sentinel is very fond of ambushes of every kind, and here is no exception. 

More twirls, a leg lifts and the other follows, and then they’re rotating in a horizontal position. 

Omen shrugs. Enjoyment wouldn’t really be the best term for this experience. “I have been thrown into the deep end of human sexuality,” he eventually remarks, bluntly. If nothing else, he can admire the athletic capabilities of all three of the performers around the room. Toned muscles, lithe and dexterous movements, obviously very skilled at their craft. 

Their drinks arrive, and Omen arbitrarily decides that he’ll order the chicken cutlet because he doesn’t particularly care about any particular flavor or texture. Most food doesn’t make an impression on him anyway. Cypher asks for a steak. 

Humming to himself, the Moroccan browses the internet on his phone for a few seconds before going back to watching the performance. Korinne increases speed, getting more into their role of seductress. People in the front row continue to throw dollar bills, or hand them to Korrine directly when they kneel in front of them. While in a squat facing the audience, they spread their legs, showing the area between. Omen looks away simply out of second-hand embarrassment. It’s not gross, but he felt that he’d seen something he shouldn’t have. Private parts were called as such for a reason. Maybe he’s just being prudish. 

“It is… a lot.” The information broker agrees. The shadow scoffs. “I’ll be right back— bathroom.” 

With that, he abandons the fellow assassin to wade through the sea of tables. His chosen path uncharacteristically cuts into the broader atmosphere of the room, but leads straight into the chit-chat of the target and his mates. Pretending to trip over the leg of a chair, Cypher stumbles right into the group. He is caught and righted by none other than the target himself, no doubt taking the opportunity to plant a few bugs and whatever else he wanted to do. 

Omen sighs, turning back to his drink. So much for complete stealth. As usual, Cypher had not informed his colleague of the true goals of their visit. The less the shadow knew, the better. Quietly, he wonders what was in store for their enemy. Contrary to the information broker’s boasting from moments before, their necks hadn’t been stuck out just for the fun of risk-taking. Perhaps the enemy was awfully good at covering their tracks and avoiding normal methods of surveillance. Something that requires the Agent to make a personal visit of his own. Hell, they could even be here on an assassination mission. The wraith wouldn’t know. 

The raspberries float on top of the liquid level, mingling with the slowly-melting ice cubes and tinting the water a faint pink. The mint leaves, submerged below the ice, do not stand out as much in the dim lighting, and are pretty much just dark shapes lurking in the bottom of the glass. It tastes exactly as expected, as far as the fresh ingredients go, but the tang of lemon and bitter slap of tequila immediately follow. He swallows, carefully, disliking the aftertaste. 

With nothing else to do, his eyes drift up to the stage to catch a glimpse of Korrine giving a lap dance to one of the young men sitting close to the stage. In their place on the pole is a male stripper, wearing a rather skimpy piece of red underwear and a see-through robe of crimson lace. Unlike Korrine’s languid dance, his movements are a wide and acrobatic style focused on flourish and brilliance. At the moment, his ankle is wrapped around the top of the pole, while the rest of him hangs towards the floor with his head barely a foot off the ground and the lace pooled in a semicircle on the floor. Flipping himself upright, he relaxes with a few struts across the stage with a few erotic poses laced in there. 

Omen likes his butt back muscles. It’s very round. Referring to those deltoids, of course, totally. And the wicked slope of his legs is very beautiful, supporting the weight with an incredible boisterous poise. The wraith finds himself wondering what such muscles might be like to touch. Ah, whatever. Likely no different from any of the Valorant agents he could think of off the top of his head. Grueling training regimens pushed all of their bodies to the maximum strength they could possess. 

“Drooling over Mica?” Cypher materializes at his side. 

“No.” Omen rips his gaze away, taking a gulp of his drink to pretend he’d been busy. Upon lowering the glass, he remembers firstly that it is alcoholic, and secondly that there is no way Cypher wouldn’t see through the act. “I simply find his style to be less… indecent.” 

Cypher juts his chin, and Omen follows his gaze to see him full on twerking at the center of the crowd. “Less indecent, hmm?” 

“Oh, shut up.” The shadow grumbles, deciding once and for all that he really, really hates strip clubs. Must his coworker poke fun at him at every mission they ever go on together? Despite the embarrassment, however, Omen can only look on the ridiculing banter with fondness. Out of everyone in the Protocol, Cypher is the only one who seems to have any semblance of fresh humor, and this is why they are friends. Even amongst rotting corpses, the air between them is always as fresh as the mint in the glass he holds. 

Cypher chuckles, taking a sip of his own drink. The wraith frowns, to which the man counters that his version is alcohol-free. He also notes that it was only because of the buddy system that Omen had been forced to come in the first place, and that the spirit wasn’t responsible for anything but keeping a loose eye on the Moroccan. The shade didn’t need to be completely sober, so he should just relax and stop complaining. He only responds with an eye-roll as the waitress arrives with their food. The two men both thank her and assure her that they are enjoying everything so far. 

“Oh, and Miss,” Cypher catches her just before she leaves, slipping a fifty dollar bill into her hand. “Please give this to Mica. My friend here is too shy to do it himself.” 

“I am not –” the shadow sputters while Cypher positively cackles, waving the (similarly smirking) waitress away. 

“Oh and by the way, both of the drinks are alcoholic. I was just messing with you. My job’s done, so I figured I’d treat myself a little. Besides, I don’t get drunk easily.” 

The back-to-back blows simply leave the wraith speechless, embarrassed and confused, significantly irked but only in a lighthearted way. He is used to this sort of treatment, and despite his outward grumpiness he does enjoy it a fair bit. There isn’t anything entertaining on the battlefield but small, harmless pranks, and this is no exception. Sarcastically huffing, he picks up his knife and cuts into his chicken, and Cypher does the same. For a short while, silence falls between them as they eat. 

The next question for the shadow seems to come out of the blue. “Men or women?” Cypher asks casually, as if Omen is simply supposed to have an answer offhand. 

“Sorry?” 

“Which do you prefer– men or women, both or neither?” 

Omen pauses, unsure of how to respond at first. Upon reflection, it wasn’t a particularly outlandish question considering the setting, but it was unexpected nonetheless. “Neither. I don’t allow myself to think those thoughts.”  

Behind them, their target and his entourage begin shuffling, gathering their things and filing out of the door one by one. The lit lockscreen of his phone tells him that it’s about 1:20 am, but due to the jetlag neither of the Agents feel tired. Not to mention the fact that neither of them are known for having regular (or even existent) sleep schedules anyway. The Sentinel watches them go out of the corner of his eye, and the Controller pointedly begins cutting at his chicken again so that they are not both suspiciously looking in the direction of the party. 

“You don’t allow yourself?” Cypher asks curiously after the last of them has left. 

The wraith chews slowly, sifting through his thoughts. Well, if he really tries to decide, men are innately more attractive, as evidenced by this recent viewing of Mica versus Korrine. 

“I could never interact with a human that way,” is what gets verbalized instead, and the train of thought about men is kept to himself. He might be a Radiant and Radiants might be a subset of humans, but he was something even less. A ghost, a mere memory of a man the rest of the world has forgotten; sometimes it was hard to tell if he even had an intact soul to begin with. He wasn’t a human and could never hope to be, plain and simple, but he’d decided long ago that he wasn’t going to care. No use crying over spilled milk. Humans would do their human deeds, and he would remain off to the side. 

 “And you?” he returns the question, eager to shift the attention away from himself. Besides, secret agents didn’t have much room for romantic lives, even if others in the Protocol broke that rule as often as Sage watered her plants. 

“Both,” the other agent answers without hesitation. “And everything outside and between.” 

“I see,” Omen says passively, not really listening. Cypher’s romantic life doesn’t concern him anyway. 

Korrine twirls and flips their hair, catching his attention. A wad of dollar bills is stuffed into their outstretched hand, and the sex worker moves onto the patrons on the other side of room. After losing sight of them, Omen redirects his attention to the stage. Mica is still dirty dancing, this time with another male-presenting stripper. With Mica’s back towards him, the shadow gets a clear and direct view of the other one’s tanned hands coming down to squeeze Mica’s ass, cupping the roundness with tender care. The two spin in slow circles, forcing Omen to observe the complete lack of personal space between them. The wraith looks away, folding his arms. Again, a distinctly human intimate act that he doesn’t need to see. No matter how beautiful those legs are or how gentle those hands look. 

“I don’t think you’re as inhuman as you think you are.” Cypher says softly, at a volume that only barely carries over the music. 

The shadow doesn’t entertain the thought for a second. That Moroccan will never know what lengths the shadow must go to just to keep intact and alive. Omen may not remember his time in flesh and bone, but he knows from watching others that his ghostly existence is much more painful and difficult. Mortal men do not spend half of their energy maintaining the physical stability of their skeletons. Humanity is something the spirit can yearn for, but will never achieve. This is a fact, and it isn’t about to be shaken anytime soon. He isn’t human, and he won’t pretend. Solitude is the only future left for him. 

“I would rather keep my distance,” he growls threateningly. This whore of a coworker can pack up and get right out of his head, thank you very much. 

Another neatly-dressed person that Omen doesn’t recognize emerges from a door next to the edge of the stage and makes a beeline for their table. Cypher simply smiles, reaching for his hand and kissing the back of it. “Welcome back, Mr. Horesh,” the stripper greets in a low and seductive tone.  

“Good evening, Mr. Qi,” his companion greets back in the same voice, making Omen jump out of his skin. That was not something the ghost expected to hear tonight. The Moroccan’s slight rasp is back, and suddenly it hits him that it really is his close colleague in front of him, and not just some American. An odd feeling pools in Omen’s gut, but before he can linger on it the Valorant agent is speaking again. “I don’t believe you’ve met my friend here. Daniel, Mr. Qi; Mr. Qi, Daniel.” 

The newcomer extends his hand and Omen goes to shake it, but is instead surprised by the same gesture of being kissed on the back of his hand beside the knuckles. Even after their hands part, the shadow can still feel a trace of the contact on the back of his hand. It was… warm. And nice. He doesn’t remember the last time he was touched with affection like that. Or even touched at all, for that matter. 

Suddenly he feels very lonely. 

“If you’ll excuse us.” Cypher stands, linking arms with the man. “We have some… business to attend to. Despite your aversions, you are welcome to join if you’d like.”

Aversions? Ah, but the wraith had just stated moments ago that he wasn’t interested in sexual activities. That’s what they were going off to do. Good for them, he thinks bitterly. Nothing can mask the bite of jealousy in his voice. “No, thank you.” 

“Ah. I see. See you in an hour.” Mild disappointment hangs in the air, hidden just beneath the surface of his smooth tone, which Omen decides to ignore. There was no way that Cypher was sad that the shadow wasn’t interested in sex with him. That would be ridiculous. When neither of them move, the informant checks his watch and nods to himself. “In the meantime, consider… allowing your thoughts to wander.”

Yeah right. Like he’s going to sit here and stare at every inch of these prostitutes’ skin, noting every detail that separates himself from the rest of humankind. Nope, Omen will keep to himself in this shadowed corner, tamping down impure thoughts for as long as is necessary. “Sure,” he says dismissively, eager to get the two of them out of his sight. Fortunately, they don’t linger for long. 

“Shall we?” Mr. Qi gestures with his free hand, and the two sweep away and the stage-adjacent door shuts behind them. 

Suddenly Omen feels very, very lonely. 

He downs the rest of his drink. Checks his phone– no new messages, like usual. Scrolls on Pinterest and Instagram for fascinating knitting ideas, most of which he has already seen and done fifty times over. Had he known he was going to end up on his own for the greater part of their night out, he would have brought some knitting equipment along, disguises be damned. 

When the light of his screen fades to black, the pink light is what he notices first. Swirls of its warm hue and a serene shade of indigo mingle on his sleeves, a bit like the cyan among the metallic gray of the Radiant’s skin. He hates that color. The deathly gray, the electric blue. What a rancid combination. At least the sleeves of his too-clean shirt cover up the bandaged and scarred tissue for now. 

Omen, a reanimated zombie, desolate and alone in a vibrantly living world. No matter the pitying words fountaining from Cypher’s lying mouth. 

Korrine is on the ground, back arched, showing off every luscious curve in their body. He doesn’t want to look, but he can’t help it now. There is simply nothing else to do. Thin waist and wide hips, flat chest, broad shoulders. Smooth, young skin, tight and clinging to the flex and stretch of muscles and protruding bones and tendons. Mesmerized by the smooth motions, Omen lets out his breath, letting it sail away to places unknown. How he wishes he could have anything like that. 

Staring the truth in the face hurts. 

By the twenty-minute mark, he is bored. He’d finished his food (which was surprisingly not bland, even if he couldn’t really grasp the nuances). The waitress takes his plate, asking whether he wanted another drink upon seeing his empty glass. He shrugs and agrees. At the thirty-minute mark, another raspberry-mint margarita graces the wooden surface of their table, and he is starting to become agitated. There was only so long he could pretend to be entertained by flamboyant mockery of intimacy. 

Eventually, his thoughts wander back to that soft kiss that Mr. Qi had planted onto his hand. Believing the shadow to be human, treating him as a human. Not just polite talking, which was usually the case on previous infiltration missions, but the physical intimacy as well. It was so nice. If only he could get more of that someday, but sadly he knows it won’t happen. These thoughts might seem despairing and unfairly cruel to the average outsider, but to Omen, they are simply a fact of life. He brushes them to the side. 

Angel is the only one on the stage now, slowly going through some basic spins and poses. Their fatigue is clear, but the remaining audience is drunk out of their minds and obviously doesn’t give a damn. At some point, the stripper’s and the shadow’s eyes find each other and she realizes that Omen is the only one really watching. They blow him a kiss, now focusing only on him. Her eyes become alight, energy renewed, makeup glistening in the fuchsia and sapphire blue, the inside of her thigh shown off with a wide spin around the pole. It isn’t not for him to see– it is dedicated to him . 

There it is again. That intimacy. Inviting him in, enticing. But the shadow is quick to remind himself that such an invitation isn’t meant for him. It’s for the man he’s disguised as. The shadow averts his gaze, forcing himself to overcome the embarrassment. Why is she doing this? He wishes she wouldn’t. Not hearing any of this internal monologue, Angel takes a final sweeping glance at the crowd, which is mostly passed out on the tables or headed out of the club. She dismounts the center pole, making her way over to one closer to the shadow, taking up the same routine there. 

By a quarter after two in the morning, most of the hubbub has died down. Most of the tables have seen their last set of guests for the night and the waitstaff is about done cleaning them off. Overhead, the multicolored lights keep up their dance in the little mechanical fixtures. The music is quieter but still a wee bit overpowering for the poor ghost. Korrine and Kilik (the one who was onstage with Mica) are enjoying pints of beer at the bar, now fully clothed and exchanging lighthearted chit-chat to celebrate the end of their shift. Leaning back in his chair, Omen soaks in the relative calmness of the scene. Several minutes pass like this, the wraith’s attention drifting from person to person, table to stage, floor to ceiling, whatever could catch his fancy.

His drink is finished now, unfortunately. The only thing left to do is wait, which luckily only takes ten minutes. Cypher emerges alone, without Mr. Qi, sitting back down at the table as casually as he did before. A greeting is made, but it’s quite obvious that he’s running on autopilot. There’s a mildly vacant look in his eyes– the one that means that the information broker is lost in thought. He waves at Nicole to bring the check and a box, which she does swiftly now that the rest of the place is practically deserted. There’s a minute or so of awkward silence as Cypher finishes his meal and signs the check.

“How did it go?” The question is asked just to get them out of the hell-hole that was complete silence. It seems to rouse something out of the Moroccan, who shakes his head slightly and refocuses his eyes on the scene directly in front of him. His answer is strangely noncommittal, but Omen doesn’t press the matter. Whatever the case, they are done here and it is time to rest. 

At long last, they leave that dratted strip club and all of its insolent doings. Finally, the spirit can breathe again— no more of that pressure cooker for the darkest wishes he keeps stored under lock and key. 

2 - Walking Home

“How was Mr. Qi?” Omen asks again, directly but still open-endedly, enjoying the brisk wind that distinctly smells like urban sewage. Anything to be gone from that goofy, artificial, lust-saturated cesspool of false affections and donned disguises. Having been freed, the shadow is curious what his colleague had done during that long stretch of time. At least he got to let loose a little. 

They pass under a street lamp, crossing the road and making a left. The street-fronts are mostly dark, but it’s still easy to tell that they alternate between restaurants and clothing stores and the occasional miscellaneous item. Enough time goes by that even the ghost assumes the question won’t be answered, and goes back to thinking about knitting and types of yarn. He did promise to make a bonsai for Sage a very long time ago, maybe that would be a suitable new project. After a whole minute passes, Omen begins to wonder if his voice had been heard at all, but it’s then that Cypher decides to prove this thought wrong. 

“Ah, well,” Cypher shrugs. The Moroccan’s natural accent and melodic speech pattern is back, which is a relief to the ghost. He wasn’t sure how much more of that uncanny impression of a young American man he could take. “The sex wasn’t particularly enjoyable, but the information was the desired quality. Several of Kingdom’s laboratories are nearby, as you know.” 

“In the desert,” Omen says neutrally, but in a way that also serves as a question. The other Agent nods in agreement, briefly making a tangent to how the organization always seemed to be creating one new confidential project after another. Each one seemed to test the boundaries of reality and spacetime more than the last, malicious purposes intensifying along with them. The vast expanse of lifeless, sandy wasteland they were nested within was good for hiding these experiments. If anything went wrong, the immediate physical destruction was remote and contained. Any lifeforms that escaped were far enough from civilization that they could never hope to get there alive; Omen was the only known exception but no one knew how it had been done or which facility it was from. Viper may be hiding various things about his past, but she had been adamant about this particular point. 

They had been to one of these labs themselves once, a very long time ago, on a very violent mission. It turned out to be a booby trap and they were lucky to have made it out alive. (Somehow, Omen didn’t think it was a coincidence that Cypher started mentioning implants and donor organs only a few months later.) They never did find out anything about who set the trap or who it was for. 

They’re standing at a stoplight, waiting for it to turn to the walk sign. There’s just enough traffic that J-walking would get them killed, so all they can do is press the cross button and wait. He wonders if pretending to be a mere civilian is as alienating to Cypher as it is to himself. Did they have crosswalks back in Morocco? A few other pedestrians cross the street with them, but they immediately turn left while the Agents head straight. The two of them are close to leaving the red light district; skyscrapers can be seen jutting from the ground and interrupting the sky with their steel bones about ten blocks away. Those buildings are considerably less run-down, many of them either offices or hotels. 

“The sex was bad?” smiling devilishly, Omen takes advantage of the opportunity to finally tease his colleague in return. The lighthearted bullying between them is often mutual, but Omen has not had the chance to reciprocate it tonight due to the unfamiliar setting of the strip club. So far, there were no easy footholds to take and shove back in Cypher’s face to highlight his incompetencies. A sex joke might be a cheap jab but it is a jab nonetheless, and it might be the only one he’ll get to make tonight. “I’ve never heard of a prostitute being terrible in bed. You with all your gadgets, I’d be surprised if you ever learned how to pleasure a human body, yourself included.” 

The insulted man laughs along with the joke, shaking his head. “You’re right, perhaps I have forgotten it all… but judging by his face twenty minutes ago, Mr. Qi himself doesn’t seem to agree with you. Guess again, my friend.” 

“Did he fuck you so hard your ass hurts?” Belatedly, the shadow realizes he’s talking a lot for someone who claims not to be interested in his colleague’s sex life. Part of him is tempted to blame it on the alcohol, but at the same time that felt like a very lame excuse. At any rate, he hopes that the joke was not an overstep, and he seems to be in luck– a smile is toying with the corners of the Moroccan’s mouth. 

Cypher pretends to gasp in shock. “So crude, Omen!” His tone is casual, but there’s a mismatching stormy look in his eye. For a moment, it almost seems as if the joke was indeed too invasive, but that impression disappears within seconds. The thoughtfulness of the following faraway gaze indicates that the real issue on the information broker’s mind is much more intense than just the mild indecency of Omen’s teasing. It seemed like the comment had reminded him of something else that struck a much deeper nerve. 

“Hmm, so what is it then?” The shadow continues to prod, despite getting the sense that it isn’t a particularly good idea. Tight shoulders pinched to the spine, a walking pace just a smidge faster than his normal stride: this thick, visible disgruntlement was reserved for bomb-site massacres only. Omen wasn’t even sure if it was fully there at all, but then reasons that if he has to guess, then it is there and Cypher is simply trying to repress it. 

Half of him wants to apologize, especially as the quiet between them carries on. He doesn’t, though, something holds him back. Is it curiosity? No one wouldn’t be at least wondering what Cypher might say. This man is always using facts or cryptic phrases such as ‘less than ideal’ and ‘somewhat off-putting’, so it’s up to the listener to pry the real sentiments out of his tight-lipped mouth. Now is probably one of those times. Whether Cypher will open up in the end is obviously his choice, but some minor prompting never hurts. After all, he is a renowned information broker experienced in concealing whatever feelings and facts and other thoughts he deems fit. If lying or hiding is something he is interested in, he’d do it now with ease. 

So, the question still hangs in the air and no effort is made to take it back.

“A stranger.” Surprisingly, the Moroccan gives a simple answer that does indeed answer the question. A quick smile flits across his face, but it’s one that only touches the corners of his mouth and seems like a way just to fill in the silence. Ironically, it only makes his discomfort more evident. In their year or so of being colleagues, Omen has come across a range of the informant’s emotions, from inquisitiveness to playful cheer to despair to protective angst. Sour is not something he can say he has seen before. They keep walking, nothing alive on the street but themselves and some skittering rats. 

“I don’t like strangers,” Omen agrees with a somewhat simplistic (and even childish) sentence. It was nonetheless true; the shadow was a shy man who didn’t bother interacting with others because there often wasn’t much to get out of it. He was happier with his books and his knitting, just as Cypher was happier with his gadgets and jigsaw puzzles. Other people were often noisy, afraid of him, didn’t share his hobbies, or some combination of the three, so he didn’t have a rapport with pretty much anyone except for the Moroccan. He liked the quiet, ever-present buzzing of his luminescent mind. They could coexist together very well, and Omen had always appreciated that. But he digresses. 

Cypher, and a stranger. What might he not like about a stranger? Mr. Qi didn’t seem so boisterous as to offend the senses. Hobbies and fear-factors didn’t seem particularly relevant here. Perhaps the Deja Vu Showgirls had given both of them new experiences, some not as savory as either would have liked. At this realization, the spirit feels slightly less alone and prudish for having been so nervous upon the Agents’ entry into the strip club. Maybe it was a particular action that they had done together, some sex act that Omen wouldn’t know the nature of but that the Moroccan obviously didn’t like. Maybe their general compatibility was off? 

But that wouldn’t explain the bleeding distaste painted all over Cypher’s frame. It had to have been extremely bad for an effort of concealment to fail so poorly, or rather if he was deliberately letting these negative emotions be shown at all. 

Oh, no. 

It couldn’t have been… that . Right? 

Omen doesn’t say his name, only stopping him with an outstretched arm on the shoulder. At first Cypher flinches in surprise, but otherwise makes no effort to escape from his coworker’s grip. They come to a halt, the Controller’s hand turning the torso of the Sentinel to face him. A quick glance tells him that the street is empty, but he lowers his voice nonetheless. He feels stupid for demanding this answer, but it wouldn’t have been right to let it slide and fester. 

“Were you raped?” he hisses, to which thick eyebrows shoot up. 

“No! No, that’s not what happened.” Quick to dispel Omen’s suspicions, the Moroccan waves his hands in front of his chest in a definitive x-motion. “Everything was pre-arranged. Don’t worry.” 

Glancing up and down the street, the information broker once again makes sure they are in privacy, clearly wishing that this conversation would take place anywhere but here out in the open. Paranoid though the spy may be, Omen can’t blame him. City streets could have any number of unwanted eyes or ears. Nevertheless, he pointedly keeps his hand on his shoulder so that both of them are rooted in place. Cypher doesn’t fight it, sensing that the topic won’t be dropped even if he tries to force it. 

The spirit, for his part, says nothing at first. Pre-arranged… that ungrateful word— prearranged— made it seem like options were limited to begin with. In what world would Cypher choose interpersonal intimacy over any other method of black-market bartering? A renowned informant with expertise in every known form of negotiation, violent and otherwise, had somehow been reduced to this sort of transaction? This was nothing short of suspicious. 

“Your body language… makes it hard not to,” the wraith points out, rumbling low in his chest. “So. What did he do to you?” 

Cypher shakes his head, trying to dismiss the topic. He looks up the alleyway, again showing his clear desire to escape the conversation, but makes no real movement to go back to walking. Seconds go by, the informant seeming to debate whether or not to lie. However, the mere presence of suspenseful silence is all it takes for the informant to cave, leaving Omen to think that he wasn’t really intent on hiding any of it to begin with. Nothing could be easy with this man, could it? Always so cryptic. 

“It wasn’t him,” the spy counters, jaw setting and shoulders locking. Finally he shrugs the offending hand off of his shoulder, and it falls back to the spirit’s side, but neither of them begin walking again. “I… Nevermind,” he cuts himself off tersely. Lips sealed, Omen simply watches him ponder whether to finish the sentence, letting him stew in his thoughts alone. That’s what they did on the battlefield: always let the strategist think in peace. 

Seconds pass. The Moroccan wrings his hands, gaze shifting from side to side, looking more uneasy than Omen had ever seen. “Let’s not talk here,” he tries, but the ghost shakes his head. 

“If we leave, you’re never going to talk,” he argues. Cypher exhales, exasperated but resigned. 

“Fine. I don’t like selling my body for information.” The words finally spill out, rushed and ashamed. Bitterness coats every syllable, making the distaste sound more like a humiliated hatred. The lifelessness in his eyes is like that in each darkened window pane on the street. 

“And you let this happen?” Both of them are startled by the confrontational question. Omen because it wasn’t thought out before it left his lips, and Cypher because he was expecting something more comforting. Mortified, he decides that he won’t say anything else without at least ten full seconds of deliberation for the rest of the night. 

Cypher fumbles before snapping, “Sometimes I don’t have a choice.” 

For a moment, the only sound is the empty wind. Dissonance rings in Omen’s mind as he stares into the unfamiliar face spewing a familiar voice, examining a disgusted facial expression that would never otherwise be seen. It’s peculiar, seeing his usually-masked colleague’s voice matched to a face, even if it is not his real one. Even more disturbing is the stain of personal hurt so painstakingly clear: Cypher’s true sound coming low from his chest, the real part of him that would never change no matter the disguise. It’s not the pretend man that bleeds, but the man beneath: the friend Omen has known for years now. 

A horrid scene comes to mind: Cypher, stranded and alone, forced to take strangers to bed. Forced to let their hands roam his not-so-agreeing body, no matter what excuses were made about pre-formed plans. Devious, anonymous agents of unknown purposes disrobing him, pulling cloth away until nothing lay between their bodies and the Agent’s own, showing every inch of skin that had always been carefully hidden by masks, sleeves, and gloves. Two years of building a new family, who are shown nothing, versus a stranger who has seen everything? That can’t be true, it can’t be right. Omen doesn’t want to believe it but the lack of rebuttal says more than confirmation ever could. 

A terrible silence ensues as the spirit looks for something to say, to no avail. Such an abhorrent lack of bodily autonomy has no proper response. Any form of consolation that can be thought of seems cheap and ineffective, dodging the horrifying depth of this assault on privacy, body, and mind. Their eyes meet but only for a fraction of a second before brown irises slip away, into the pavement, and a concave torso turns to face the direction they were initially facing. 

And then Cypher begins to walk. One step away, then two, and Omen can do nothing but trail along a few paces behind. At the end of the grim alleyway are brazen fields of traffic and neon lights typical of streets in Vegas, blinding in their supernova of color. As they near the intersection the noisy ambience of both foot and automobile traffic can be heard, the spirit realizes he is running out of time. He’s not sure if anything should be said at all. But no, he has to. Only a few feet ahead is the end of the deserted street.

“I’m sorry,” he calls, and is spared only a sorrowful glance over the shoulder. 

They don’t stop their steps or slow their pace, quickly approaching the boundary between the dingy red light district and the brilliance of the hospitality neighborhood. Despite the attempt at consolation, the conversation between them has been closed. He’s… sorry? That does nothing to heal the pain raking through Cypher’s chest. But there’s nothing else to say. All he can offer is sympathy and the informant knows this. Perhaps his apathy, pushing to end this moment between them, is a reflection of that. Better to cut the conversation off before it stretches into awkward silence. That’s not true, though. This stoicism is just to hide the suffering. Just to take themselves out of the open air, and continue it somewhere safer— if it is going to be continued at all. 

A last piece of dark murmuring is slipped in at the last second, perfectly timed so that the shadow has no time to respond. “It’s alright. Don’t apologize. I’m sorry for involving you.” 

Then their time is up: the duo emerge into the noisy ambience of the boulevard and make a right, heading towards one of the hotels on the corner. With the change of setting, Cypher’s demeanor becomes miraculously sunny. His back straightens into his usual poise and chin turns up from his collarbone as he observes all the movement around them. It’s incredible, how he can transform his body language so easily, exerting such precise control over every fiber of every muscle. It almost seems to pass the pain along to Omen, who is not taking the end of conversation nearly as well. He’s never seen Cypher in so much pain. He wonders how much else is hidden beneath every smiling act the informant has ever pulled, and his heart clenches at the thought. 

Omen is going to put a stop to this, whether Cypher wants him to or not. 

3 - Hotel Room 

Cypher stares out the floor-to-ceiling window of the hotel room, musing at the winking lights of the city skyline. His stance is square, arms folded, looking like a war-weary admiral staring out at the sea. 

“How pensive.” Omen remarks, coming to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with his colleague and mimicking his posture. Silence lingers, the only acknowledgement of the shade’s presence coming as a slight shift in the other man’s weight. 

“How observant,” the strategist returns. 

The shadow takes the opportunity to gaze out the window himself. Most of the lights are dark, save for the occasional speck of light in a singular window. Far below, neon lights are ablaze, no doubt saying that whichever store it’s attached to is closed. His eyes travel along the avenue, following it to the right, where it inclines on a steady hill. There are no pedestrians and nary a car in sight. 4:30 am: Omen’s favorite, Cypher’s least, and an hour they were both often awake during. The desk lamp behind them illuminates their frames, throwing a sharp reflection of them both on the floor-to-ceiling glass.

 It's the end of an era for them, isn’t it? 

Throughout their time in the Protocol, they talked surprisingly little. They didn’t need to. Suffering was omnipresent, gnawing at their minds, bodies, and hearts, and bringing anything up would just bring the pain rushing back anew. It was much easier to simply steep in silence. But being alone was its own form of suffering: trapped with nothing but their own minds, they would spiral in guilt and fear until they became physically sick. So they came to a middle ground, where they would pass the nights together in silence. Unsurprisingly, it was harder to sustain the urges to rage and cry when the only thing in sight was a companion doing the most nonviolent of things. Somehow, the ruckus of smashing dishes didn’t seem to go very well with the soft elegance of sewing. 

In the depths of the night, there they were together. Cypher and Omen: A semi-control freak obsessed with expensive teas and interior design, and an unstable zombie more attached to stuffed animals than real people. Most people would find this distance alienating, but to the two of them, it was a sanctum. 

But now, it is abundantly clear that their mutual masquerade of invincibility is over. It was cut short in that alleyway, at the very moment Cypher’s suffering was acknowledged. They are still a sanctum for each other, of course… but that might now include some talking. Omen is well aware that it is not his right to pry… but here, when Cypher looks on the verge of a breakdown, he supposes that an exception must be made. 

“About Mr. Qi,” he begins, prompt as open-ended as it could possibly be. A few seconds tick by, Cypher unmoving but clearly listening. “You sold… yourself? To him?” 

Cypher cocks his head, the reflection of his cybernetic blue lenses tilting away from the shadow. His signature gray mask is unreadable, as usual. Lifted collar bones are the only part of his body language that shows anything at all, the bony edges pointed up in a semi-defensive curl. 

“That I did.” Although he is present in the conversion, the informant’s eyes are unfocused and directed off into the glittering night. It’s rare to see the Sentinel so discomforted, and the novelty makes the Controller falter. It didn’t seem wise to prod, for both their sakes. If the situation was enough to draw Cypher from his usual stoic shell, what might it do to Omen? 

At the same time, the shadow finds that it is his duty to push. He might try to come across as humble, but Cypher is almost as proud as it gets. When he runs into a problem, his first ten strategies will involve fixing the problem himself, without anyone else ever finding out. In the same vein, he barely admits to any form of wounding, whether physical or mental. He takes any battery that comes his way and carries on, determined to believe that he is alone. Omen suspects it’s a bad habit from having spent most of his career as a singular bounty hunter. At any rate, if he is going to get support, the shadow will need to initiate it. 

“Did he see your body?” he asks, knowing the question is far too forward for either of their tastes. As it leaves the end of his tongue, however, he forces himself to remain still to best gauge how to proceed. 

The spy doesn’t even move. 

“Inappropriate question.” Omen gives the verdict aloud, backpedaling. He looks away, trying to occupy himself by counting the number of lit windows in the hotel across from them. There are eight, glowing like stars in the night sky. 

“No one has seen my face in the last ten years.” Cypher sidesteps with a semi-related remark. Of course his face wasn’t shown, that went without saying. As for the initial question, however, the absence of a definitive ‘no’ spoke volumes. 

So. Someone— multiple people, probably— had seen at least part of the rest of Cypher’s body, while no one in the Valorant Protocol had ever seen so much as an inch of skin. Omen had kept his hopes up this far, but this confirmation only brought a list of implications each more unattractive than the last. The oddity of it all chafes against what little Omen knows about the man. 

A long, hard look is taken at the informant. His gaze, still pointed out the window, is steely and unmoving. The way those gloved knuckles grip at his biceps is far from relaxed and natural. His chest looks like it’s caving in a little. Watching this discomfort, his observer can’t help but feel a niggling sense of illogicality. There were so many ways to extract information, and the only one with merit was the one that violated every code of privacy Cypher has ever set. It didn’t add up. 

“Why did you do it?” he questions, trying not to sound like he’s begging for a response. After a microsecond, he decides that in reality, he doesn’t care. He needs to know if he’s ever going to get to the bottom of this and destroy it from its core. “Why didn’t you have a choice?” 

“He was the only one with the information I wanted.” Cypher says matter-of-factly. “Anything important has a high price.” 

“And yet the price you paid was abhorrent,” Omen rebuts. “Why not torture him? Why not put malware on his devices? You paid with your body. You paid with sex. He is not deprived of bodies, not as a sex worker. Your tactics here are… unusual.” 

At first Cypher doesn’t look like he’s going to answer, using the quiet pause to let his clear discomfort spread to the air around them. Without a sound, his chest rises and falls with each deep breath. Three seconds in, three seconds out, done twice. It looks like he’s trying his utmost to keep calm and composed. If it weren’t for the fact that he was otherwise perfectly still, Omen would have started to panic. He takes another breath, closing his eyes for a moment before opening them again. And then, by the way those hands relax, the shadow knows he’s hit the nail on the head. 

“It’s not about the sex, my friend,” he says softly, a glimmer of relief amongst the strained line of his shoulders and vocal tone. His chest turns a few degrees away from the window and toward the ghost, opening his stance. Reciprocating the motion, Omen feels as though he has just passed a test of trust, and he can’t yet tell if it’s a good or bad sign. “It’s about power.”

There’s a stretch of silence to let the spirit muse over the meaning of these mysterious words. They share a glance, before the Moroccan turns his gaze back to the window. The explanation continues, slowly, choosing his words with care as if to shield Omen of the true horror he was facing. 

“Mr. Qi is an information broker of similar caliber to myself. My usual tools wouldn’t work. He also knows my American alias well, and the efforts I put into covering my face. ” He pauses again, deliberating. There’s a short inhale as if he is about to speak, but it takes him a few seconds to follow through. “In exchange for information about Kingdom’s newest experiment on life force, he wanted the rest of my body to himself.” 

Sometimes Omen is reminded that he and Cypher are not so different. Now is one of those times. A soldier’s posture is forbiddingly straight and together they are no exception. They keep themselves alive with muscles strung tight, tethering all the pieces of their minds and bodies into a broken mosaic. Outwardly, they are always still, always tense, always halfway unreadable. Only a trained eye can discern the miniscule differences marking each emotion. Happiness, sadness, anger. The wraith, having kept the information broker company for a year or so now, is experienced enough to see the ashamed helplessness rippling just beneath the skin. The shoulders that were once squared against the window have the slightest curl forwards; his gaze is steady but fixated at a faraway point as if even moving an eye will let a tear spill down his cheek. The expression beneath the mask cannot be seen, but Omen guesses that if he could he would be far more concerned than he already is. 

“You had no choice.” Omen echoes the words from before in a meek murmur. 

To think that once upon a time, he assumed Cypher to be a coward of the filthiest intentions. This was wrong. This man had stared down the filth of his destiny in the eye, and forged through anyway. He had been trapped. He lived, but only at the sacrifice of his body. 

Omen himself had been like that, when this ghostly form had been taken. A phantom sensation prickles at the insides of his elbows and lush curves of his deltoids. Syringes, bandages, scalpels... he remembers how the frigid metal blades and needles sank like a fang into already complaining muscles, forcing its way into the warmth of a human body. What if, in the nightclub, Cypher had gone through that same sensation? But instead of a needle, it was another man’s flesh, probing an area decidedly… different… 

The imagery is violently pushed aside with a shiver. “Are you alright?” 

In the end, the Moroccan says nothing at all. Blue lenses stare aimlessly at the expanse of glittering city beyond their glassy reflections, mirroring the witching-hour deadpan. The exhaustion is evident, but Omen knows that it runs much deeper. A shameful feeling that he wishes he weren't familiar with: the knowledge of having been used, of one’s raw flesh sadistically and crudely flayed to ruin. 

Although light comes from two bronze frames, the man’s lively luminescence is all but gone. It’s reminiscent of the vacant gaze of a corpse, if not for the fact that he is still breathing. Air is taken in, once, twice, and at the end of the third his chest caves, no longer trying to hide the pain. His head turns away from Omen, tilting down into his collarbone to hide his already covered face. 

The ghost again recalls the hands that ran across his skin, eons ago. If that experience were fresh, he would be sobbing on the spot. Something tells him that Cypher isn’t very far away from that. 

"Cypher?" he asks in the barest trace of a whisper, lifting a hand. It hovers, uncertain, between the wraith's chest and the spy's upper arm. He racks his mind for the specific words that can articulate everything he senses and feels, but they are too layered to describe in a single sentence. There is protective rage, humming in harmony with the shame of failing to protect the other man. There is empathetic heartbreak, stemming from the cutting memories of his own slavery. There is jealousy of Mr. Qi, for having been allowed to see what Omen has not. All of these hover in the thick silence between them, and in his outstretched fingertips. 

“Yes. I’m alright,” he assures, making a small wave to ward off Omen’s hand, which lowers back down to his side. He doesn’t bother to meet the expectant gaze of the other man, instead fixing his vision out of the window at the nearest skyscraper. “Just lost in my thoughts, as usual.” 

It’s not the whole truth, though. He does tend to get carried away with his duties, so much so that his hygiene and physical well-being often become neglected, but these are all logical and technical in nature. Here, he is not poring over a map or a program or a gadget, he is thinking of himself. Omen cannot know, but he will guess. He can imagine that distinct sense of isolation that comes from burdens that must be faced alone. He knows how pathetic it feels to have become so upset over something that he should have become accustomed to by now. 

“You have nothing to be ashamed of. My own body was once taken from me, long ago.” The gravelly whisper that is his voice floats quietly over the open air between them, simultaneously softer and graver than intended. “You are not worth less for having been subject to another’s control.” 

“That’s… kind of you, Omen. It’s hard to remember that, sometimes.” Cypher takes a deep breath in, letting it out with a visible motion of the shoulders. Perhaps it is a sign that the consolation has at least been heard.  

“I know.” Omen returns, the words ending with a melancholic downturn. This is the curse of being a ghost: never being able to sound as whole and heartfelt and loyal and smooth as humans do. It just sounds raw, on the cusp of disapproving. He turns towards Cypher, head and torso both, attempting to communicate sincerity in the absence of facial expression. Bionic blue lenses hold his gaze, looking up from a head that still bows forward in the slightest way. It’s the closest the spy has ever looked to utter defeat. 

Breaking the eye contact, Cypher nods and looks away. “I should rest,” he says slowly, off-topic in lieu of dragging on the current topic. It’s a half-hearted farewell, not harsh enough to dismiss the other man outright but nonetheless clear in meaning. The shadow focuses his gaze out the window once again, letting the Sentinel slip out of his field of vision. The confusion and helplessness in his posture are easy to read, and Omen will spare him the grief of scrutiny. Outwardly, at least. This topic will not leave his mind for quite some time. 

“Goodnight,” he says politely, but makes no move away from the window. If Cypher wants to end this conversation, he can easily leave. The shadow, on the other hand, is not at all tired and will spend some time observing the city skyline before sleep. By remaining stationed at the window, he will also give the privacy the other man clearly desires. 

“Goodnight. Sleep well,” the Sentinel responds, turning his back on their reflections. For the second time of the night, physical distance is used to end a conversation, but this time it won’t be continued later tonight. One step is taken backwards, then two, and the rest are silent as his back retreats into the greater body of yellowed light flooding the room.