A/N: unfortunately doesn't have the extensive tagging system ao3 does, but this is slow burn and here is your proof right here ;)

Vaclav mentions idly one day that there's a new name in the game. Icarus. "Some sort of assassin-intimidation man," he'd said.

She'd left it at that – she didn't use assassins and she doubted she had anything to worry about from a new name. Anyone who wanted her dead also likely wouldn't go with a new hitman who didn't have any kills under his belt and would instead stick with those already known. Nothing worth paying attention to, really.

Of course, then Icarus had to go and make a name for himself. By killing the underground's top three assassins in one night.

Suddenly everyone was paying attention. Everyone wanted to know who this Icarus was, what work he would do, and how much he wanted in payment. Or what he wanted in payment.

The trouble was that no one could find him. He left no number, no email, made no announcement on the dark web.

A few weeks passed, and the interest slowly began to subside. Until someone found a gold wing sprayed on a wall and followed the point of its feathers and found him. He took the offered job, supposedly, and the client said that while he would not describe Icarus, it would be impossible to miss him once you knew him. That the job cost a fortune, literally, and that finding him was the first test to actually hiring him.

Malik was interested, now.

And then she saw the spray. Icarus, one wing pointed down and the other stretched to the sky, and it had so much the same silhouette that the Sarif logo had, that she started to wonder. To worry. Was this a trap set by Sarif to catch her? She'd pulled a huge heist from him and then 'died' in a crash in Hengsha (of course Hengsha, of course again), but Pritchard had called her later and said that Sarif suspected she wasn't dead. Or perhaps that she was, but he'd figured that she was the one who'd stolen literal millions from him. Rather, that she'd helped an individual by the name of Phoenix steal them. Faridah was not tied to any sales or drop-offs or donations of Sarifaugs, but the Phoenix was. She wonders how upset David would be to hear of his designer augs being given to the poorest who needed them, at no cost. That was her contract with every mechanic she worked with – she'd give them the augs for free on the condition that they install them on anyone who needed them, also for free. She switched from LIMB to individual mechanics because, although harder to find and make deals with, she knew LIMB charged for installations and parts no matter how they got them.

Vaclav was one such mechanic of hers, and he was definitely her favorite. She did her best to conceal that fact, just in case anyone ever tried to hurt him to get to her. She'd chosen him because when she'd found him, he was already doing free installations, to the point that he was barely able to feed himself because he still had to buy the parts. She immediately signed the deal with him, and told him he could ask a labor fee from those who could afford it so he could still buy food.

He often read her books while she flew long distances, raiding warehouses or making drop-offs to mechanics. Books from his shop, and specifically only those garbage romance books she'd been looking at when she first met him. He'd just finished a chapter of their most recent book when he mentioned the name, and she started looking into it.

She asked Pritchard if he knew anything about an Icarus, if the spray looked at all familiar to him. If it really was Sarif, as she feared.

Francis "cyberhacker extraordinaire" Pritchard couldn't find a thing.

This was either very good – Icarus was totally unaffiliated and picked the icon by chance – or very bad – Sarif knew he'd be looked into and wiped everything. The former was, perhaps, more likely than the latter, but she'd learned to not discredit something just because it was implausible. That kind of thinking got one killed.

So she set out to find him. If he was affiliated with Sarif, better to find out now and, well, try to strike a deal of some sort (she couldn't fight an assassin, not one so apparently skilled). If he wasn't, then maybe she could make use of his skills. There was a mechanic in need of intimidating – she'd heard from a patient that he had charged for one of her augs. All of her augs she stamped with a phoenix feather over the brand name, so if she ever saw it she could ask how much they'd had to pay. The answer had always better be 'nothing' and if that wasn't the case, she asked for the mechanic's name.

A good way to test the waters, if she ever managed to find Icarus.

Her streak of bad luck finally broke when Pritchard called and told her that Icarus' spray had been spotted in Vienna. He gave her the location, and she took off immediately. She'd sold her Sarif plane for a fair amount more than it was worth, on account of her beautiful upkeep of the thing, and bought herself a new, unowned bird. Debated on painting a phoenix onto it, but decided she didn't need to be that extravagant and arrogant. Left it black.

When she got to the wall, face-to-face with that gold spray, glinting in the low light of streetlamps, she wondered how she was supposed to figure out where Icarus was. There were no hints, no clues, nothing but a spray. Closer to one edge of the wall and tilted a little off-center. Maybe she was meant to go down that road? Better to hurry, anyway – she was wearing her Phoenix flightsuit, a black, armored thing she'd had custom-made with a phoenix on the back, the wings spread over the backs of her arms. No need to draw the attention of police, or any overly interested civilians.

A quick jaunt down that road and she spotted something different – a glittering gold spray, like the Icarus one, but this one a drifting feather. Follow the falling feathers, and she'd find Icarus?

The trail led her to an abandoned warehouse nestled in a quiet corner of the city, and she stared up at the building, hands on her hips. Elaborate trap, or new ally? She wouldn't know if she didn't walk in. The question became, did she enter armed and holding her gun and potentially offend a powerful assassin, or did she enter unarmed and peaceful, potentially into the jaws of her own death?

It took her a few moments to decide to just go in unarmed. She'd always been reckless, adrenaline-hungry. The door opened with a clang, dust falling in a cascade as the sound of rusted metal being moved from its longtime home echoed through the cavernous space. She stepped in, let her eyes adjust to that muffling, enveloping darkness. Had she made a mistake? There was no one here.

She stood, listened. For a sound, looked for a light, anything. Just when she was about to turn around and go back to the last feather spray, she thought she heard something. Toward the back of the warehouse, by the staircase. Maybe it was nothing, just a decades-old building settling in the evening. Maybe it was Icarus.

Her brisk footsteps threw puffs of dust into the air, echoed loud in the silence. To the stairs and she walked up them, sure and confident. Best to make a good first impression, if he was here.

She would have missed the fact that there was a second floor at all, the flight of stairs tall and the first floor's ceiling stretching a hundred or more feet up. By the time she got to the top, she was wondering if she'd been misled, been stupid. If Icarus was even real.

Malik was greeted by the light of a small lamp once she reached the last turn of stairs. A lamp. She's surprised to find that this is one of the stranger things she's seen. By the light, she sees a person, sitting on a collapsed support pillar. He – the figure looks male, anyway, though she really shouldn't assume – has his back to her, is wearing a dark jacket of some kind. Ruffled, short hair. Her back straightens as she walks forward, tries to keep the stutter in her step short, keep her surprise subtle and not too obvious.

The figure stands, slow, and turns to her. He'd been sitting so casually with his back to the only entrance. Was he so confident that no one could hurt him?

She's surprised all over again when she sees his face, shadowed heavily by the lamplight behind him, but those are shades on his eyes, golden and opaque. His hands are augmented, though possibly more, and his jacket turns out to in fact be a long trench coat. Heavy boots on his feet, likely steel-toed.

"Icarus?" she asks, keeps her voice confident. He's around half a foot taller than her, and she has to tilt her chin up in the slightest to look him in the eye – well, the shades.

He quirks an eyebrow, she can see that at least, over his shades. Looks…disinterested? She's finding it hard to get a read on him with those damn shades.

"And you are?" his voice is a low rumble, something deep. This surprises her too.

"The Phoenix," she answers. He might be new to this, but even he should know her name, especially if what he's outfitted with is Sarif tech, which it looks like it might be. No one was quite so in love with that deep black and gold scheme as David was.

This gets an actual reaction from him. His shoulders slacken in what must be surprise, his face looking a little less inscrutable, a little less tense. "The Phoenix is a woman?" the question is asked neutrally, despite the obvious reaction in his body language.

The question doesn't irritate Malik – she purposely keeps anyone who doesn't directly work with her assuming that the Phoenix is a man. For one, it makes it a bit easier to make deals, since the underground tends to be disproportionately run by men. For another, it's easier to live in cities where she's hunted if they assume they're looking for a man.

"Yep." He didn't seem to be a fan of overly long statements, from what she'd gathered.

He just looks at her after that. The silence stretches, and she realizes he's waiting for her to speak. She was the one that sought him out, after all. Which, probably, means that he isn't working for Sarif. If he was, the moment she'd said 'phoenix' she should've been dead. Instead, he actually looks…a little more relaxed? Strange.

"You're not…affiliated with Sarif, are you?" she finally asks, shoulders tense. Heart racing, as she wonders, waits.

He snorts, quiet in the dead warehouse. "No."

Her shoulders droop in relief, despite her attempts to suppress the reaction. She found herself trying to be as inscrutable as he was, though for what reason, she wasn't sure.

"Your insignia looks a fair bit like his." She answers, to explain. His brow furrows, and she thinks he might actually be irritated at that?

"Nothing to do with him." The rumble is sharp, this time. Pointed.

She may have hit a nerve. "He fuck you over?" No one knows anything about Icarus. She's not trying to pry, not actively, but she is curious. Few people on this side of the Atlantic Ocean dealt with Sarif in any way beyond his products, and few had any opinion beyond 'charges a shitton'. This looked a fair bit more personal than that.

"Yes." He lifts his augmented hand, makes a tight fist with it. So something had happened, Sarif had done something, had caused him to be augmented? They weren't weapons of choice, she supposed. "Coffee?" he asks, suddenly. She's dragged out of her pondering on exactly what David had done to Icarus, looking at him in mild confusion.

"Sure." He wasn't working for Sarif, he likely hasn't poisoned the drink. Why would he? She's more curious about where he's going to get it – oh. There's a coffee pot next to the lamp, a little machine, and she wants to laugh at the absurdity of it. Icarus in an abandoned warehouse full of graffiti, brought a lamp and a coffee machine while he waited for a job to find him. She almost asks if he brings a book to read, too. There are easier ways to find work, she wants to tell him. She's sure he knows. There must be some reason he does this.

He pulls two cups from behind the machine and pours the coffee into each. Hands her one, and doesn't offer any sweeteners or creamer. She supposes that might have been too much, she would've burst into laughter if he pulled little half-and-half packets from a pocket.

Malik takes it, and sits down on some debris across from him. Now that he's facing the lamp, she can see more of him. A well-defined jaw, some carefully maintained facial hair, his beard a sharp point. A scar through one eyebrow, and a hexagonal indent in his forehead from a neural implant. The shades stay, and she finds herself curious of what's behind them. Wants to know.

"What did Sarif do to you?" if he didn't want to answer, she figures she'd just be stonewalled. Has a feeling that he's good at that.

"Thought if he put enough augs into me, I'd become his bodyguard."

It's the most words she's heard from him yet, and the anger curled tight in his voice isn't disguised.

"He thought you'd become his property," she adds. He nods, realizing she must know Sarif, too. Know the way he thinks of people, of his assets.

"Why Sarif?" he asks suddenly, taking a sip of his coffee. Clear punctuation that he wasn't going to elaborate further.

She puzzles through that, wondering what he's asking. Why is Sarif such an asshole? Why did he try to own Icarus? Or…why did she steal from him? That's probably the question, she realizes.

A shrug. "Kinda fell into it. First job I found in the States and saw just how much profits he was making off the backs of augs who couldn't afford their upgrades. Who didn't choose alloy limbs." She frowns down into the dark cup of coffee, only glancing up to see Icarus' reaction at the end. "It's fun, I help augs, and it pisses offol' David. What more could I want in a job?" a crooked grin.

Icarus seems…satisfied? With the answer. With her. A small tip of his head, like a nod, before taking another drink. He seems so casual, at ease, and Malik has to consistently remind herself that he's an assassin, a very successful assassin. She doesn't see any guns around, but then he likely doesn't expect trouble when he's just waiting for a client, either. Or he doesn't use them – those arms look lethal enough.

"D'you have a good mechanic?" she asks, before she's even realized what she's said.

He looks up from his cup in surprise. Really, this is not how his usual client meetings go, she's sure. "Most people want to buy a service from me, not sell one."

She laughs, and he wonders how far off-script she's gone. "Not selling. But I bet it's not easy for you to find parts, and if you weren't kidding about Sarif stuffing you, I'm sure you need a lot. I've got mechanics around the world who've got an abundance of Sarif pieces." A shrug. "'Course, they appreciate payment if you can afford it, which, if the rumors are true, you can."

He doesn't confirm or deny it, but she thinks she can see the ghost of a smile on his face, his lip twitching. She'll take that as a victory.

"I'll consider it." Interesting. She's itching to know more about him. It's so rare she finds interesting men in the underground, who aren't on power-trips or made solely of inflated ego. "Did you have a request or were you just wandering around abandoned buildings?"

Request. Not job, not mission, not target. Making it clear that he can decide not to take it if he so chooses.

She shrugs. "My main goal was to see if this was a trap to kill me."

Again with that eyebrow, edging in a neat curve over his shades. "And if it was?"

"Then I'd be dead. But at least I wouldn't be glancing over my shoulder every minute."

He doesn't say anything, stares at her like he can't believe it. She knew she was reckless, but really, this had made sense when she'd calculated all the outcomes. Mostly.

"Not that I don't anyway, but." Taking another drink of the coffee, not so scalding hot now, just barely steaming from the cup in the low light. "Thought that if you were going to kill me, maybe I could buy you into not going to."

Icarus snorts, and she thinks that maybe he doesn't operate like that, highest bidder winning out even in the middle of a job. Most mercenaries she knew of did, and anyone with a fat enough wallet could buy their way back into safety. Of course Icarus would be different – had he followed a single expectation yet? Besides 'infuriatingly mysterious'?

"Not gonna take a hit on someone who hates Sarif like I do." And oh, well that's a relief. Maybe the secondary plan might actually work – she can only imagine how much more good she could do, how much more freely she could operate, with someone like Icarus on her side.

"Can I get that in writing?" she glances up, a bright smile despite the jest.

Icarus laughs.

A low rumble, like his voice, and short, but still. A laugh. He's actually a human, not some murder-bot like a few of the descriptions listed him to be.

She's already far too invested and she hasn't even hired him yet. "I've got a mechanic that needs intimidating, if you're interested?"

"What'd they do?" His back straightens, setting the coffee aside. Back to business. She almost misses the softer company, the quiet coffee in the low darkness, with the sounds of the city a dull thump against the walls.

"Charged a patient for an aug install, when that's against contract. He's not allowed to charge anyone who can't afford it for my augs." Hers. Not Sarif's, not anymore. They were Phoenix augs now.

"Sure."

"How much?" She doesn't have money, credits – each heist is budgeted perfectly. She sells enough augs to pay the smugglers who get the items to her mechanics, and the rest of the augs are given to them. Pays off her expenses and has nothing left. He might be amenable to a crate of Sarifaugs, though.

"That network of mechanics you mentioned." A glance at his alloy hands holding his coffee.

She almost asks, 'that's all?' but thinks better of it. "What's your infolink? I'll forward you the locations. Just tell them you're Icarus and they'll let you in."

"Jensen," he answers.

"What?"

"Call me Jensen."

"Malik," she replies. He stands and offers her his hand. She takes it, feels the curve and strange temperature – warmed by the coffee but naturally cool otherwise. Shakes it, and smiles wide at him. He doesn't smile back, but seems…pleased, nonetheless.

She has a feeling she's just made a very powerful friend, indeed.