You shower me with lullabies
As you're walking away
Reminds me that it's killing time
On this fateful day
----------------------------------------------
"I knew she was crazy the first time I laid eyes on her. It was in some dank little techno nightclub in the south end..." the recording stuttered brokenly and thinned to a whine. Merchant leaned over and clicked it off with a violent jab to the button then leaned back in her chair and ran a hand over her eyes, letting the tension seep away to tiredness. This was pointless. It had been pointless when they started trying to clean up the damaged digitals and it was still pointless three months later.
"This is pointless."
Anderson echoing her thoughts did nothing to help her mood and she answered correspondingly. "No, it isn't. There has to be something on here. South end..."
"We've had south end for months. We've had the 'dank little techno nightclub'. It's all we've fucking had and this has to stop."
"No."
She heard the squeak of his chair as he stood. His hand was warm on her shoulder and he kept it there even after she tried to shrug him away. "Woodman's gone. We have to let it go."
He said 'we' and meant 'you'. He'd given up hope after a few weeks, she knew that. Half of her was disgusted he'd do that so easily. The other half grateful he'd still spent his free time, early mornings and late nights that blended together seamlessly, with her digging in broken archives long after obligation would have been paid. "He carried you. He saved you."
"I know what he did, Merchant. You tell me every day." But she could hear the resignation in his tone. One day the reminder wouldn't keep him with her but, until then, she'd use it every time she had to.
"Then come with me to the nightclub. It's re-opening this evening. They might be there, Isaac has a pretty sick sense of humour."
"Wow, if you look really closely, you can almost see the straws you're clutching at." His hand tightened then, at last, released her. "Okay. I'll come with you but, if they're not there, that's it. We're done. You know the psych crew are already sizing us up for straight jackets."
"Deal." She raised her head at last, craning her neck to look back at him. He stood with his hands buried in his pockets, a torn expression on his face that hadn't been in his tone. A flicker of guilt for judging him so harshly nearly surfaced, but she swept it aside as she stood and turned to face him.
"Why don't I believe you?" But a smirk had appeared and he shook his head, reaching to open the door for her. "You better freshen up before shift, you look like shite."
"And you wonder why Mel wasn't wowed by your charms."
"She loved my charms. She fucking adored my charms, okay? I have great charms. She just didn't like the way I was spending all my time with another woman."
Merchant felt her eyes widen as she stopped mid stride into the corridor and looked to him. "You were cheating on her?"
"Moron. I'm talking about you. Unless being stuck in a glorified broom closet listening to white noise hits your kink, I'm on the moral high ground." He grinned and nothing was going to halt the flush to her cheeks.
"Sorry. I'm just..."
"Horrifically suspicious? Convinced I have the ethics of a plague rat?"
"... tired. And sorry again. But you completely led me into that."
"Well, the moral high ground was nice while it lasted."
"Stop toying with the sleep deprived. Come pick me up at eight, my place. And wear something ... clubby. Also, bring something clubby. Or pointy. Or shooty."
He just snorted and left her at the door to the women's bathroom. At six in the morning it was usually deserted and she'd almost come to think of it as hers, resenting the few intruders she occasionally found in there. A tragic statement on her life that she really didn't want to think about, but at least it was empty for the moment.
The thick walls muffled what sound there was from the corridors and the lights were bright and clean, reflecting off white tile to make a stark contrast to the dingy archive room where she spent most of her time now. A tap dripped solidly, no amount of plumbing assaults had convinced it to stop and she found it a familiar comfort rather than an irritation - just another part of her six a.m.
A shower took some of the fog away, a clean shirt almost made her feel like a real Agent again. The mirror tended to take that impression away and she generally avoided looking in it until the last. Make-up didn't quite hide the dark rings under her eyes or the unhealthy pallor of her skin. She couldn't really remember the last time she'd been out in the sun for any length of time. Her hair hung lank in its ponytail, the lustre her boyfriends had inevitably admired long gone. So were the boyfriends, for that matter.
Anderson was being kind, she looked like shit warmed over and served with a death dressing.
"Sam Merchant, you're pathetic. Smile." Her reflection commanded and she obeyed. After a moment she was even able to work a glimmer of it into her gaze. She'd pass inspection for today and it was only for today. Despite Anderson's disbelief, this would be the last chance to find Woodman.
The day passed in the haze she had become accustomed to. Her assignment wasn't taxing, her superiors had made sure of that. Four months after the near destruction of the HQ and they were still treating herself and Anderson like spun glass. What Woodman had said to make sure they even remained with the Project was a mystery, but he'd done something. And then, of course, he'd disappeared.
Anderson bought a sandwich she forgot to eat, again, and that was the only real demarcation she had of hours passing. Only when an exodus began around her did she focus on the time at the bottom of her computer screen.
Apparently it was six in the evening and, miraculously, she appeared to have typed a full report. It would make for fascinating reading at some point, probably, but she simply saved it to the server for retrieval and joined the others in the rush for the door.
The air was cool on her face as she left the building, the sun just visible through the sunset pollution as it slipped behind the towers of the cityscape. She let herself be swept to the tube station with the rest of the Suits, finally managing to fight her way clear at her stop.
Only when she'd taken another shower and stood before an open wardrobe full of clothes she didn't remember buying did her brain begin to show signs of sentient life. Wear something clubby, she'd told Anderson, and only now did she realise the same applied to her.
Everything she owned appeared to be ironed, that was depressing. She dug a little further into the closet and eventually came upon the box she'd dimly remembered throwing clothes into when she'd left University, to mark the end of an era. With a degree of trepidation, she took the box to the bed and opened it.
"Christ, what was I thinking?"
Inside was an aggressively violent jumble of colours that had gone from her life when she took up the standard black and white. The first thing that caught her eye was a shimmering gold top. It seemed the least offensive of the choices and, as a sleeveless polo, it would also cover her neck – something she considered a distinct bonus in its favour.
A bottle of glitter spray rolled from its folds and she grinned despite herself.
When the doorbell rang promptly at eight, she wobbled her way to the door trying to work out how she hadn't broken her neck long before now. Six-inch heels, had she had some kind of death wish as a teenager?
Habit made her look through the peephole before opening the door, revealing Anderson waiting impatiently in the London drizzle. With his hair in gelled into short spikes, he looked about five years younger than he was and she saw, when he lifted his hand to press the bell once more, he'd painted his nails black.
Before he could press the buzzer again, she opened up and stepped back to let him in. A grin tugged at her lips but she restrained it. Laughing at his neo grunge look would be an open invitation for him to return the favour over her outfit. His mouth hung open for a moment before he stepped in and spoke.
"That's not a skirt, that's a belt. You're going to freeze to death and see if I come pick you and your friends up after the party, young lady."
"Dad, is that you?" She let the grin come as she went to fetch her coat "You're babbling, is it the glitter?"
"It's pretty much the entire package. And the legs. Who knew you have legs? And where the legs meet the back, that whole area."
"Such a smooth talker. Marry me, I must have your little grungy babies."
"Yeah, yeah. I had to raid my brother's wardrobe and don't think that didn't lead to embarrassing questions. The things I do for you." He helped her on with her coat, catching her when she inevitably stumbled over her heels. "Are you sure those are a good idea? In the really fucking unlikely event they're there, if we have to run…"
"Then we've done something wrong. The point is to look harmless and unconcerned, he'll think we must have something else for him to worry about."
"Sorry, forgot I was talking to a profiler for a moment there. It's the glitter. And the legs."
"Enough about the legs."
"Told."
"What did you bring?"
He shrugged and opened the tattered over shirt enough she could see the gun holster. "It's all I could requisition, and I owe Forsythe my first born for that. They were all out of rocket launchers. You?"
"Do you seriously think I could conceal anything in this outfit? I'm bringing my winning smile."
"We're going to die."
As you're walking away
Reminds me that it's killing time
On this fateful day
----------------------------------------------
"I knew she was crazy the first time I laid eyes on her. It was in some dank little techno nightclub in the south end..." the recording stuttered brokenly and thinned to a whine. Merchant leaned over and clicked it off with a violent jab to the button then leaned back in her chair and ran a hand over her eyes, letting the tension seep away to tiredness. This was pointless. It had been pointless when they started trying to clean up the damaged digitals and it was still pointless three months later.
"This is pointless."
Anderson echoing her thoughts did nothing to help her mood and she answered correspondingly. "No, it isn't. There has to be something on here. South end..."
"We've had south end for months. We've had the 'dank little techno nightclub'. It's all we've fucking had and this has to stop."
"No."
She heard the squeak of his chair as he stood. His hand was warm on her shoulder and he kept it there even after she tried to shrug him away. "Woodman's gone. We have to let it go."
He said 'we' and meant 'you'. He'd given up hope after a few weeks, she knew that. Half of her was disgusted he'd do that so easily. The other half grateful he'd still spent his free time, early mornings and late nights that blended together seamlessly, with her digging in broken archives long after obligation would have been paid. "He carried you. He saved you."
"I know what he did, Merchant. You tell me every day." But she could hear the resignation in his tone. One day the reminder wouldn't keep him with her but, until then, she'd use it every time she had to.
"Then come with me to the nightclub. It's re-opening this evening. They might be there, Isaac has a pretty sick sense of humour."
"Wow, if you look really closely, you can almost see the straws you're clutching at." His hand tightened then, at last, released her. "Okay. I'll come with you but, if they're not there, that's it. We're done. You know the psych crew are already sizing us up for straight jackets."
"Deal." She raised her head at last, craning her neck to look back at him. He stood with his hands buried in his pockets, a torn expression on his face that hadn't been in his tone. A flicker of guilt for judging him so harshly nearly surfaced, but she swept it aside as she stood and turned to face him.
"Why don't I believe you?" But a smirk had appeared and he shook his head, reaching to open the door for her. "You better freshen up before shift, you look like shite."
"And you wonder why Mel wasn't wowed by your charms."
"She loved my charms. She fucking adored my charms, okay? I have great charms. She just didn't like the way I was spending all my time with another woman."
Merchant felt her eyes widen as she stopped mid stride into the corridor and looked to him. "You were cheating on her?"
"Moron. I'm talking about you. Unless being stuck in a glorified broom closet listening to white noise hits your kink, I'm on the moral high ground." He grinned and nothing was going to halt the flush to her cheeks.
"Sorry. I'm just..."
"Horrifically suspicious? Convinced I have the ethics of a plague rat?"
"... tired. And sorry again. But you completely led me into that."
"Well, the moral high ground was nice while it lasted."
"Stop toying with the sleep deprived. Come pick me up at eight, my place. And wear something ... clubby. Also, bring something clubby. Or pointy. Or shooty."
He just snorted and left her at the door to the women's bathroom. At six in the morning it was usually deserted and she'd almost come to think of it as hers, resenting the few intruders she occasionally found in there. A tragic statement on her life that she really didn't want to think about, but at least it was empty for the moment.
The thick walls muffled what sound there was from the corridors and the lights were bright and clean, reflecting off white tile to make a stark contrast to the dingy archive room where she spent most of her time now. A tap dripped solidly, no amount of plumbing assaults had convinced it to stop and she found it a familiar comfort rather than an irritation - just another part of her six a.m.
A shower took some of the fog away, a clean shirt almost made her feel like a real Agent again. The mirror tended to take that impression away and she generally avoided looking in it until the last. Make-up didn't quite hide the dark rings under her eyes or the unhealthy pallor of her skin. She couldn't really remember the last time she'd been out in the sun for any length of time. Her hair hung lank in its ponytail, the lustre her boyfriends had inevitably admired long gone. So were the boyfriends, for that matter.
Anderson was being kind, she looked like shit warmed over and served with a death dressing.
"Sam Merchant, you're pathetic. Smile." Her reflection commanded and she obeyed. After a moment she was even able to work a glimmer of it into her gaze. She'd pass inspection for today and it was only for today. Despite Anderson's disbelief, this would be the last chance to find Woodman.
The day passed in the haze she had become accustomed to. Her assignment wasn't taxing, her superiors had made sure of that. Four months after the near destruction of the HQ and they were still treating herself and Anderson like spun glass. What Woodman had said to make sure they even remained with the Project was a mystery, but he'd done something. And then, of course, he'd disappeared.
Anderson bought a sandwich she forgot to eat, again, and that was the only real demarcation she had of hours passing. Only when an exodus began around her did she focus on the time at the bottom of her computer screen.
Apparently it was six in the evening and, miraculously, she appeared to have typed a full report. It would make for fascinating reading at some point, probably, but she simply saved it to the server for retrieval and joined the others in the rush for the door.
The air was cool on her face as she left the building, the sun just visible through the sunset pollution as it slipped behind the towers of the cityscape. She let herself be swept to the tube station with the rest of the Suits, finally managing to fight her way clear at her stop.
Only when she'd taken another shower and stood before an open wardrobe full of clothes she didn't remember buying did her brain begin to show signs of sentient life. Wear something clubby, she'd told Anderson, and only now did she realise the same applied to her.
Everything she owned appeared to be ironed, that was depressing. She dug a little further into the closet and eventually came upon the box she'd dimly remembered throwing clothes into when she'd left University, to mark the end of an era. With a degree of trepidation, she took the box to the bed and opened it.
"Christ, what was I thinking?"
Inside was an aggressively violent jumble of colours that had gone from her life when she took up the standard black and white. The first thing that caught her eye was a shimmering gold top. It seemed the least offensive of the choices and, as a sleeveless polo, it would also cover her neck – something she considered a distinct bonus in its favour.
A bottle of glitter spray rolled from its folds and she grinned despite herself.
When the doorbell rang promptly at eight, she wobbled her way to the door trying to work out how she hadn't broken her neck long before now. Six-inch heels, had she had some kind of death wish as a teenager?
Habit made her look through the peephole before opening the door, revealing Anderson waiting impatiently in the London drizzle. With his hair in gelled into short spikes, he looked about five years younger than he was and she saw, when he lifted his hand to press the bell once more, he'd painted his nails black.
Before he could press the buzzer again, she opened up and stepped back to let him in. A grin tugged at her lips but she restrained it. Laughing at his neo grunge look would be an open invitation for him to return the favour over her outfit. His mouth hung open for a moment before he stepped in and spoke.
"That's not a skirt, that's a belt. You're going to freeze to death and see if I come pick you and your friends up after the party, young lady."
"Dad, is that you?" She let the grin come as she went to fetch her coat "You're babbling, is it the glitter?"
"It's pretty much the entire package. And the legs. Who knew you have legs? And where the legs meet the back, that whole area."
"Such a smooth talker. Marry me, I must have your little grungy babies."
"Yeah, yeah. I had to raid my brother's wardrobe and don't think that didn't lead to embarrassing questions. The things I do for you." He helped her on with her coat, catching her when she inevitably stumbled over her heels. "Are you sure those are a good idea? In the really fucking unlikely event they're there, if we have to run…"
"Then we've done something wrong. The point is to look harmless and unconcerned, he'll think we must have something else for him to worry about."
"Sorry, forgot I was talking to a profiler for a moment there. It's the glitter. And the legs."
"Enough about the legs."
"Told."
"What did you bring?"
He shrugged and opened the tattered over shirt enough she could see the gun holster. "It's all I could requisition, and I owe Forsythe my first born for that. They were all out of rocket launchers. You?"
"Do you seriously think I could conceal anything in this outfit? I'm bringing my winning smile."
"We're going to die."