Work Text:
It's common knowledge that Cypher’s office is not his office. Or rather, it isn't the only one, and the man rarely does anything of actual importance in it (nothing ‘snoop-worthy’, as Phoenix would complain). Ostensibly, with the amount of work Cypher gets done, he must have another office somewhere. But no one knows for sure where that other office is, or even how many there actually are. Not vigilant Fade (“Whatever nest he’s built, he hasn't updated the blueprints about it.”), nor perceptive Skye (“Well, I can tell for sure that wherever his office is, it hasn't got a single living thing! Probably for the best—I can't imagine Cypher’s the nurturing type.”), nor even Brimstone (“I think you all severely overestimate the command I have over Cypher.”). In fact, no one’s actually sure it’s in headquarters (“For all we know, he could be working from home whenever he ominously disappears. Wish I could do that,” Neon remarks.).
No one knows because Omen doesn't tattle.
Being Cypher’s senior where Valorant is concerned, he witnessed the establishment of this office himself—not that Cypher wanted him to. At the time, Brimstone, Viper, and Killjoy were all busy with their duties. Omen took it upon himself to tail the newcomer and ensure he wasn't a traitor. Yes, perhaps he had more free time than he knew what to do with, and perhaps it had started out as something to do between missions, but! Consider that they were entrusting all their data to a newbie who regularly snuck around at night, stole expensive equipment, and hacked into their servers under the flimsy excuse of ‘routine penetration testing’. Omen’s suspicions were completely justified.
So yes. He does in fact know where Cypher keeps his humongous mainframe computers.
***
(Another thing: no one knows where Cypher’s bedroom really is either. But this is a secondary issue; it’s still up for question whether or not Cypher sleeps, so the existence of an office is more probable than a bedroom.
This one, Omen genuinely hasn't figured out.)
***
Omen teleports straight into Cypher's office. Before his shadows fully subside, he is greeted with a scream. And a tripwire disc to the head.
"Gah! Omen?” Cypher nearly tumbles off his seat. His ocular sensors are wide and bright, peering from behind his workstation of seven giant monitors. “You couldn't have knocked?"
"Sorry," Omen says sheepishly.
"What day is it?"
"Thursday."
"If you're here, who is teaching the fledglings?" Cypher asks.
Officially, Sage and Reyna are assigned to teach the younger Radiants. Unofficially, they argue too much on Thursdays that Omen has taken to showing up like clockwork to pick up their slack. None of this matters though, because—
"Thursday morning, Cypher. It's 2 AM."
“Oh.” That gives the man pause for all of half a second before he returns to his blinding white computer screens. Those gigantic monitors are the only source of light in the room, barring the dim blue streaks from the units upon units of Valorant’s secret mainframe. The frames tower over them, surrounding them on all sides like a futuristic maze. Omen could only wonder how a human could spend days cooped up in this artificial fortress without going mad.
Not for the first time, he considers that Cypher could secretly be a robot like KAY/O.
“Your screens are all blank,” Omen points out, as if Cypher could somehow be unaware of this. It’s odd to see someone staring so intently at seven pure white computer screens.
Cypher’s typing is undeterred. “For you, yes,” he says. “I've stripped out their polarizers. Only I can see what's really on them! Or, uh—anyone else with polarizer sunglasses, I suppose.”
“All that precaution for a place no one knows exists?” Omen asks. It’s what the kids would call ‘overkill’.
“Clearly, it came in handy.” His tone is a silent accusation, but Omen lets it slide for now.
He watches Cypher. Even without the screens, it’s interesting to watch their information broker at work. The man types lightning-quick on a keyboard of symbols Omen doesn't understand. His head swivels periodically to consult the other monitors, but it barely slows him down. There’s a rhythm to his work that's almost mesmerizing.
“Skye tells me you've been in for almost a week," Omen says. There's a subtle accusation in that too. (He doesn't mention their chess appointment—even though he badly wants to.)
There’s a long pause before Cypher mumbles, "Hm? What? Oh yes, I've been here…” There’s an even longer pause, and Omen is tempted to cross his arms and tap a foot on the floor. Finally, the man pipes up, “I'm sorry, did you need something?"
There was no way Cypher was too preoccupied to pay attention to an intruder in his precious den of servers. Ergo: Cypher was purposely ignoring him. Perhaps he thought it would drive him away.
Ha. It would take more than that to stave off a predator.
Omen lifts a leather-gloved hand and raises it towards a mainframe cabinet—
“Don't touch anything,” Cypher scolds sternly. “Omen. Omen, I mean it!”
“So you are paying attention,” he says, voice thick with amusement.
Cypher drops the pretense. “What do you want? You've never visited me here before, though I know you were tempted.”
“You’re not surprised I know of this place?”
“You are sneaky, Omen. But not a—” he makes an odd sound. “—a-as sneaky as me.”
The sound surprises Omen, then he realizes—Cypher just yawned.
“How long since you last slept?” he asks.
“Sleep?” The man scoffs. “Don't need it.”
This, sadly, Omen could neither confirm nor deny. He's known Cypher for a few years now, and yet he’s only 75% sure the man has a human circadian rhythm. Him and his secrets…
Omen decides to risk that 25%. "You are tired, Cypher. You forget you are neither god nor machine."
"No. I am Prometheus!" Cypher trains all his focus on his screens again and types faster, as if he could surpass the limitations of his mortal body through hard-headedness alone.
Omen shakes his head. "Not even that." He creeps up to Cypher’s ergonomic chair and, with one hand, spins it around to face him.
"What are you doing?” Cypher shrieks. “Omen! You forget you're in my office! Trespassing, no less! This is highly unprofessional!"
Then something growls.
It isn't Omen.
They exchange confused looks before lowering their gazes to Cypher’s stomach. It rumbles again, as if in greeting.
Huh. Not a robot after all.
"You're hungry,” Omen says.
"I am not!"
"You must eat."
"I will!” Cypher seizes command of his chair once more and spins it back to face the screens. “Once I catch my quarry!" he says vindictively.
"...Which will take how long, exactly?"
There's a prolonged silence punctuated by pointed typing. Cypher is ignoring him again.
Omen spins his chair with more force. Cypher struggles to keep it in place, but he’s no match for Omen’s strength.
"Gah! Stop that! What's gotten into you?" He throws up his hands in defeat and slouches into his seat.
He’s exhausted. Omen doesn't need to see his face to know that.
"Take a break, Cypher,” he says in a tone he hopes is kind. “A few minutes will not dim Prometheus's fire."
The man tips his head back and sighs. "I suppose..." he concedes. He unscrews what looks to be framed polarizing films from each of his ocular sensors and pockets them. Then he levels Omen with a suspicious look. "What's this about?" he asks.
Omen walks to the exit without answering, which is the only way to ensure Cypher will follow. He teleports out the door (he has no idea how to open it) and walks steadily towards the kitchen. Sure enough, he hears the groan of mechanical walls sliding open and the sound of footsteps behind him. Despite his curiosity, he does not look back—he won't give Cypher the satisfaction.
The kitchen isn't very far from the office. This should have probably been a hint to the other agents—Cypher couldn't go on for very long without his expensive tea. The easiest way to catch the elusive sentinel was to hide his tea and wait a few hours. (The risk of retaliation was too great for anyone to actually test this technique, but it was theoretically sound.)
Omen peeks into the fridge to take inventory. When he turns around, Cypher is sitting by the dining counter across from him. He watches Omen, assessing. "Whatever you're hiding from me, Omen, I am more than capable of finding out for myself. So I suggest you tell me now. Save us the time, no?"
The remark sends a frisson of panic—and not a small amount of embarrassment—down Omen’s proverbial spine. "I am not hiding anything,” he replies, trying not to sound defensive.
He’s done a poor job of it, by the look in Cypher’s eyes; his ocular sensors have narrowed in a way that feels like a shit-eating grin. "Now I know you're definitely hiding something!" he says, and there is no mistaking the smile in his voice.
Omen practically rips the refrigerator door open. (How he wanted to disappear into it, to burrow into the vegetable compartment and never resurface.) "What do you want to eat?" he bites out with effort.
Finally: a genuine silence from Cypher. "...Huh?"
"It's past dinner time. They already stowed the food away," Omen explains.
"You're going... to cook for me." Somehow, even with a mask on, he manages to perfectly convey deadpan disbelief.
"You need to eat."
"I thought poison was more Viper's expertise."
Omen growls. "Whatever! Since you're so keen on being obtuse, you'll eat whatever I make and like it!"
He takes the leftover rice out and fishes for a skillet. He takes some chopped kimchi out too, because the fridge is full of it, and he’s sure Jett wouldn't mind. While he’s setting up the stove and pouring out some vegetable oil, he hears Cypher pipe up:
"I can't eat, actually."
Omen huffs.
Cypher shakes his head. "I meant— I can't eat in front of you. Or anyone, for that matter."
Omen stares at him, realizing for once, that the mask he wears is a choice, not a necessity. That he can take it off, but for whatever reason, chooses never to.
"I won't look," Omen assures. Cypher’s gaze, when he meets it, is skeptical, so he says it again, firmer. "I promise. I won't look."
Omen returns to his task—stir-frying the kimchi. He expects to hear an argument. He gets none.
"I didn't even know you could cook,” Cypher says, surprised. “Why bother?"
"I don't know," Omen admits. This is actually the first time he's tried it for… for as long as he can remember. The thought frays at his composure, and he begins to feel his shadows push and clash against the boundaries of himself, threatening to sunder his control. He grabs the tupperware of leftover rice like a lifeline.
Focus. Cooking. Yes, I am cooking. He dumps the rice in with the kimchi and stirs them all together, trying to convince himself that this was completely natural. Hmm. Onions. He returns to the fridge to rummage for some green onions.
“Fried rice?” Cypher says, mirth creeping back into his voice. “Are we having breakfast for dinner?”
“Dinner was hours ago. I'm not going to make a full course meal for one stubborn man.”
“Wait. Are you saying you know how to prepare a full course meal? I believe we’ve made a breakthrough with your case, Omen! I'll be sure to investigate every high-end restaurant for a missing chef!”
“Hmm.” Omen doesn't know how to deal with people teasing him, since that hardly happens often. Instead, he wonders if he actually was a chef in his past life. Maybe the agents would appreciate that. Maybe he should cook for them more.
"That's Jett's recipe," Cypher says.
"Is it?"
"I recognize the smell. She never taught you that. I would have noticed."
No she didn't. Omen doesn't know what to say. "I'm a fast learner," he settles on.
Cypher squints at him, pointing a finger. "You weren't even in the room when she cooked that.” He stares for a moment. Then he brightens. “Oh I remember now! That night! You looked into the fridge and opened the tupperware. That couldn't have been more than ten seconds, Omen! I had no idea I was in the presence of a culinary maven!"
Omen shakes his head vigorously. "I'm not! I just—some things feel familiar. I think I used to cook. I think I enjoyed it."
Cypher’s expression falls. "Oh," he says, and they must both be thinking about how Omen can no longer eat or even taste, the way he is now. Cypher lifts his head, looking almost shy. "Um. Is it done yet?"
Omen scatters some final garnishes and transfers it into a bowl. "Here," he offers, placing it on the counter between them.
Cypher brightens. "Let's try it!" He looks pointedly at Omen until he gets the message.
“Oh. Uh. Right.” Omen pulls his hood over (what passes for) his face.
Cypher laughs at him, so it's just as well that Omen doesn't have a face—he feels flustered.
"Turn around," Cypher instructs him, and he does as he’s told, sitting backwards on the kitchen stool so that his back is to the dining counter.
He hears a familiar sound.
"Do you always tripwire the door when you eat?"
"No peeking! You promised!" Cypher’s voice sounds different— clearer —without his mask.
"I'm not," Omen says petulantly.
He listens as Cypher takes his first bite and makes a surprised sound.
"Why Omen!” he exclaims. “Who would have thought you were so talented! My compliments to the chef! It does taste—ah— different from Jett’s!" Cypher’s breathing is heavier, and he’s dropped his spoon.
Ah. So Omen made it too spicy.
He reaches for the refrigerator and takes out a pitcher of water. Without ever fully turning, he passes Cypher the pitcher.
"Ah. Th-thank you. It's still a bit—well—hot. But still delicious!" From the way Cypher guzzles down the water, ‘hot’ is an understatement.
Omen tilts his head, amused. "You used to be afraid of me. Now, you're just afraid of hurting my feelings."
"I'm not afraid of you, Omen," Cypher says, but Omen recognizes it for the deflection it is. He doesn't deny that he used to be afraid of him, nor does he affirm that he’ll never be afraid of Omen anymore.
"Then why were you watching me?” he shoots back. “I’m fairly sure I was alone that night." Generally speaking, peering longingly into tupperwares for things he could no longer experience was something he usually didn't want company for.
Cypher shrugs, ever evasive. "I'm always watching everybody. It's my job description."
"You forget I was there when you were hired. You have no job description. You just bullied Brimstone into keeping you around."
"Is that what this is? An intervention? You can't blind my eyes no matter how hard you try. Nobody can."
"No, that's not why—that's not what this is."
"No?” He hears Cypher put his spoon down. “Enlighten me."
As much as Omen wants to be a forgotten purple cabbage at the bottom of the vegetable container right now, he doesn't back down. Cypher at least deserves this.
"I. Wanted to thank you,” he says. “For retrieving all that information for me. And to apologize. I know you were disappointed at the fruits of my interrogation. Or lack thereof."
"Oh,” Cypher says. “Oh dear.” There’s a sound, like he’s fiddling with the spoon, or playing with his food, maybe. And then: “Well, you're very welcome, but you have nothing to apologize for. On the contrary, the interrogation was very fruitful for me."
Omen bristles at the blatant lie. "How could that be? I know nothing of my past. Only almost-impressions and the itching absence of memory. I am more shadow than man. I was no more help to you than a ghost to a camera."
Cypher chuckles lightly. "You are mistaken, Omen. True, I hoped to unearth hints of your past perhaps buried in your unconscious. But I had already guessed that you knew next to nothing. Your request told me as much. Why else would you ask for such a hefty load of information?"
"Then what was the interrogation for? What did you find out?"
"I found out that I could trust you."
Omen is struck dumb. He wants to turn around—to seek the truth of the words in an honest face—but he stays frozen in his seat.
Cypher continues. "I wasn't sure before. I am now."
"How?" Omen’s voice is rough. Rougher than normal.
"You didn't lie to me. And you wouldn't betray Brimstone or Viper. Honesty and loyalty are good foundations for a friendship, don't you think?"
"A friendship," he repeats.
Omen begins to turn, but then he remembers his promise and keeps his head firmly in place. Turns out, he needn’t have bothered. A gloved hand on his shoulder gingerly pulls him in, until he’s facing the counter again.
Omen’s hood is still pulled down, so he can't see Cypher, but judging by the shadow on the table, the man is standing. When he next speaks, the slight muffling of his mask is back. "I appreciated the meal, Omen. Thank you. It was nice! But I must return to my task."
"You've been locked up in your office for days,” Omen argues. “I don't suppose you'd consider taking the rest of the day off?"
That grin is audible again. "Not a chance!"
Omen hums. "Well. Miracles don't happen overnight."
Cypher laughs. "Not with me!" The man leans over, reaching out with both hands to take the hood off Omen’s face. Omen stills as metallic knuckles ghost over the shadows of his cheeks. When their gazes meet, they are closer than they’ve ever been, so much that the slits on Omen’s face flare up like a furnace door.
Cypher, despite the mask and the mystery, has humor written all over him. "But you're always welcome to try!"
He recalls his tripwire and walks out of the kitchen, leaving Omen frozen to the spot.
***
(When he finally snaps out of his stupor, Omen realizes that the sneaky bastard left him to do all the dishes by himself.)