To forget one's purpose is the commonest form of stupidity.
--Friedrich Nietzsche
Thrax knows when Jones wakes up because there is an almighty crash from the pallet in the corner of the room. He turns from his work to see the kid flat against the wall, groping at himself for a weapon. He's searching his chest and arm, for where a shoulder holster would be, and Thrax realizes he must have been a cop once.
It's hard on cops, the transition. Hard at the best of times. It's no wonder that his little Jones is as broken as he is-- it's a wonder that he isn't completely mad.
As if realizing that he is no longer what he thought he was Jones blinks, hard, and scrubs his hand over his face.
"Thrax," he mumbles, then giggles hysterically.
"I'm here, babe," Thrax says, catching him as he starts to slide down the wall. He's so little-- small even for a cop. Young. He fists his hands in Thrax's coat and giggles.
"Man, I thought-- I thought---" he lets his head rest against Thrax's chest. "I dunno what I thought. This is so screwed up."
"Shh. It's all right." He pats Jones' head, enjoying the curve of it underneath his hand.
"You're gonna fix me," Jones says, and it's almost a question.
"Yeah." He draws Jones back on to the pallet. "Your--" doesn't want to say daddy, not anymore, "--virus, he didn't do so well. He didn't finish the job. You're not all the way there."
"Bastard." Jones says, and Thrax laughs, surprised and delighted at the curl of heat and anger still beating inside this guy. He's fierce.
"Yes." He presses Jones down against the pallet gently, so gently, trying not to spook him. Jones seems the kind of guy that would fight every step of the way, if pushed, and jump over a cliff, if led.
"What are you..."
"I'm going to make you all better," Thrax croons, and sets his claws into Jones' shirt. The material shreds without effort, peeling away in filmy curls.
"Oh man, what--" Jones gasps, and squirms. Thrax holds him down by his hips, all business, and peels every last piece of worn shirt off of him. "Thrax, what--"
"Mmm." Thrax murmurs, and brands a kiss into Jones' chest, where a gun holster would once have rested. Jones twitches underneath him, breath ragged and hands fisted in the sheets.
He's so, so new at this, and on his face is equal parts terror and desire and rage.
Thrax lets him go, rises neatly from the bed.
He's going have to ask for it, if he wants it. When he wants it. When he even knows what he wants.
"Now that rag's gone," he says, "You can put on something that suits you. You run with me, you gotta have some class, babe."
Jones gapes like a fish when he's presented with a thick, neatly wrapped package. Thrax raises one brow to say Well? and Jones closes his mouth abruptly, but the crazed, dangerous look in his eyes recedes a little.
Jones opens the package and pulls the thick white sweater on without a word, and if his hands are shaking, they both pretend not to notice.
***
Thrax gives him a box, filled with more neat packages of clothes, and pushes him gently towards the tiny bathroom attached to their hideout. Thicker pants, tough shiny boots, a tight glossy jacket that hooks together around his waist, that doesn't hang right. He misses his cop jacket, but he's lost it a long time ago. He wonders if he can trade this one out for a parka or something, something with some give in it. He suspects that he can't, if Thrax has anything to do with it.
There's a mirror in the little room, dull and scratched, and he studies his reflection. He looks sharp: not just stylish, but fierce and dangerous.
("Next time I wanna be the bad cop," He tells his partner.
"You are a bad cop," His partner tells him.)
He looks like a virus, like mafia: someone's hired muscle, a sleek and deadly hitman.
"Bad cop," He says to his reflection. The man in the mirror gives him a brittle, toothy smile that doesn't reach his acid-yellow eyes.
He turns away, and can almost pretend he's not hiding from his own face.
He leaves the bathroom slowly, testing the give in his new outfit. It's not that restrictive, really, it just feels tight and a little claustrophobic because he's been wearing worn-through clothes for too long, ignoring holes in his knees and fraying on his cuffs. He feels secure, now, safer, and ashamed.
Thrax is lounging on the pallet, a cell's phone up to his face. Jones feels his hunger surge up inside of him at the sight of his long fingers, his mouth, going yes please oh this one, please and he braces himself on the door frame.
What the hell is he doing with himself?
He's surviving, he thinks. Killing Thrax won't take more than a couple minutes, but he's going to be a virus for the rest of his life. He needs--
("I'm going to fix you," Thrax says, and he wants it so bad)
--needs help.
"Yes," Thrax drawls into the phone, then "Yes, yes, no, Spider, come on, babes, you know I'm good for it."
The phone buzzes, and Thrax's face draws into a mask of fury. "Yes," He says, tightly. "Yes, I'll be there, you can count on it."
He takes the phone away from his face and drives his thumb through the off button, watching with wide, furious eyes as the device swells and bubbles and then pops, as the device leaks boiling oil down his wrist. Then the anger is gone like it's been switched off and Thrax flicks the oil off his hand, glances up at Jones.
"Show time, pretty baby." He says, and smiles a wicked smile. "We're gonna rob ourselves a bank."
***
Thrax has a sleek black motorbike waiting for him a block away from their hide-out, and it chills Jones more than a little. Just how entrenched is Thrax in this body, how long has he been here? Who does he know, what favors is he owed, does he owe, what exactly is Jones getting himself into?
"Are you gonna stare at it all day or are you gonna get on?" Thrax asks, swinging his leg over the bike. Jones startles, then carefully fits himself on the back seat.
Thrax is broad and hot against him, and when he starts the bike up it screams like a demon and Jones yells and grabs on to the big virus's coat for dear life. Thrax howls with laughter, and then they're off, all power and deadly motion.
The plan is explained as they speed along, towards the bank, weaving through traffic lanes like maniacs. Jones hangs on tight and tries not to die, tries to think of a way to say 'no' that Thrax will listen to.
The plan goes something like this: Thrax has a friend, and the friend has a thing that he has or a thing that he does, no, a thing that he knows, and Thrax needs this thing (done to him? done to Jones?), and the friend needs them to rob this bank. Then Thrax can go ahead and fix Jones (with this thing, however it works) and everyone will live happily ever after, except for the people in the bank that they are going to rob and maybe burn down.
A mutually satisfactory transaction.
"Except for the bank employees," Jones shouts over the roar of the wind and the bike. Thrax just laughs in that way Jones is rapidly becoming familiar with, the one that means 'you're cute when you're stupid'.
The bank is an information bank, an archive of Immunity intelligence reports. All the Immunity intelligence reports, ever, detailing every germ or bacteria or bug or allergen or virus that this body they're in has ever encountered. They're going to steal them for Thrax's friend.
The friend, Spider, is waiting for them in a dark alley a little ways away from the bank. He has bright blue eyes and sick yellow skin and long, long segmented fingers.
("Don't let him get too close without me around," Thrax shouts over the wind, "And we'll all get along all right," )
"Enchante, yo," he tells Thrax, noisily kissing the air on either side of the virus's face, then peers at Jones. "This the kid? He's got your eyes."
"He came like that," Thrax says, "What do you think?"
Jone can't quite resist the urge to edge behind Thrax. Spider is one creepy motherfucker and he would gladly plant a hole between those horrible blue eyes if he could get over how much better it feels to have someone large and protective between him and the tall yellow virus
Thrax edges sideways enough for this Spider guy to take his face in his hands and there are too many fingers-- Jones vision blurs and his mind reels, trying to, wanting, needing to focus, understand what is happening to him. The hunger inside of him rises up like a flame in a draft, howling, and he clutches frantically at the hands on him and maybe whimpers a little. Just a little.
As quickly as the onslaught began it is over, strong red hands peeling him away and tucking him very firmly against Thrax's side. He clings, helplessly overstimulated, and tries to remember how to breathe. In, out. In, out. Thrax is very warm, and smells like heat and spices and other things that Jones would be very interested in licking. He's never noticed before, and now it's all he can think of. Possibly he whimpers again.
"Hard to say," Spider is telling Thrax when Jones manages to refocus. "You're related, but I think he's infected with just straight up baseline meningitis, and his default code is starting to screw with it big time. You said he used to be Immunity-- those dudes have one bitch of a defense system, you know how they come apart like cluster bombs when they're infected. You go in all freestyle, man, and this kid is going to be in a world of hurt, like for real, head-exploding kind of hurt."
"And you suggest...?" Thrax asks. His hand is curled protectively around Jones' neck, one hot thumb rubbing gently. It's distracting, to say the least, and Jones seriously considers the merits of whimpering some more.
Spider considers the both of them, shrugs, spreads his hands. "Best thing for him is to hang chill and wait 'till we get a full expression analysis set down, work with him then-- red light and we'll code something up custom, green light and you two can get your freak on regular-style."
"And you're telling me this honest, Spider?"
"Honest as the tapeworm is long, sugar daddy."
Thrax sighs, runs his free hand over his face. "All right, then. We're goin' in."
"I'm not--" Jones says, and Thrax gives him a casual shoulder-squeeze that makes him tingle all down to his core. "Um."
"What?" Thrax says.
"I can't," Jones says wretchedly. "I can't, I can't do this!"
"We need you," Thrax says implacably, "And you need this."
Spider grins, showing too many sharp teeth, and pulls a pen and a pad out from his jacket.
"Now, Officer, " he says, "Why don't you tell your uncle Spider how you bad boys lay those big ol' banks out."
Jones shrinks back against Thrax, but the sharp, stroking claws against his neck give him nowhere to hide.
***
There's an Immunity officer at the front desk when they sweep in, obviously dropping off a new case file. She's tall and thin and is joking with the teller at the desk, looking like she's having a good time.
She drops the file when she sees them and goes for her gun but she's not quick enough, and Thrax is on her in a flash, his scythe-like claw spearing through her gun and his other hand ready to tear her apart.
"No!" Jones shouts, and latches on to Thrax's raised hand, digging in his claws. "Don't kill her!"
Thrax growls low in his throat, shakes Jones to the floor.
"And why shouldn't I, doll?" He demands.
"She's an Immunity," Jones says, thinking fast, his eyes locked on to the girl. "She's more use as a hostage."
Thrax stares at him for a long moment, then chuckles. "How sweet. She's yours."
Jones barely manages to get to his feet to catch her as Thrax pushes her away, prowls onwards. Her eyes are wide and dark, and she looks like she's thinking of fighting. He holds on to her wrists as gently as he can, ties her hands in front of her with a strip of her shirt. She could wriggle out of it, but it would take her a bit of work.
"Just cooperate, girl," Jones whispers, "and we'll all make it outta here alive."
She glares.
"Time's wasting, lover," Spider calls.
Jones drags the girl after his two partners in crime. When he pulls level Spider takes one look at the girl and stops walking, neatly plucking the girl away from Jones with two long fingers around her throat.
"Nice catch," Spider says approvingly, and slowly squeezes. She gasps, shuddering all over, and he chuckles, leaning in, pressing her back against the wall and she chokes and thrashes. Jones' mouth has gone dry, and he thinks he should do, he doesn't know, he should do something but he can't think of what. Spider's so close he can feel the wet heat radiating from his yellow skin, can see the immunity girl bead with moisture as she struggles.
"Man," he manages to say, "Spider," and he puts his hand on Spider's arm. The contact thrills through him like a siren but Spider only laughs again, sending another thrill down Jones' spine, and pulls him up flush against him. The girl is still squirming, and panting now, her lush mouth close enough to kiss--
"Stop that," Thrax says, appearing suddenly. Jones jolts away from Spider and the girl both.
"Thrax," Spider whines.
"We're in the middle of a heist, Spider," Thrax says, "Your heist. Get moving."
"Motherfuck, but you're a tight ass," Spider grumbles, but he drops the girl on her butt and slouches off down the hall, following their plan.
"Keep it together, Jones," Thrax says to him, and brushes his cheek. Jones sways and takes a step towards him without meaning to, longing for him, for this nightmare to be over, for something. Thrax smiles a little, and strides off after Spider.
Jones stands there for what feels like a long while, pulling himself back together. It's getting harder every time. He wants to descend on that girl like a locust, pin her up against the wall like Spider did and go farther, make her scream. He wants to run after Spider and fall at his feet, beg for whatever it was he was going to do to her, he wants that too. He's not done enough for the viruses, but he's so far gone for a cell. He stands trembling for a long time, just trying to breathe, trying to work through the storm inside of him. When he's fought down the hot wash of need and aching hunger he turns, kneels down by the immunity girl. She's still in a pile from where Spider had dropped her, her eyes unfocused and shocky.
"You all right?" He asks.
The girl trembles when Jones touches her, but she pulls herself back together quickly enough to get an elbow in his chest as he hauls her up to her feet.
"Guess I deserve that." He mutters.
"You deserve more than that," The girl growls at him, her voice low and fierce, "and you're gonna get it when I get free."
"Okay, look, I'm sorry," Jones snaps, "but you could be a little nicer. Could I get a 'thanks for not letting your crazy partner kill me' up in here? Huh? Maybe?"
She glares at him for another long moment, and then it fades into something more thoughtful.
"Thank you." She says slowly.
He smiles at her before he can help himself, then looks away. "Nah, I'm sorry. It's cool."
"You..." She says. He looks back sharply. She's biting her lower lip, her head turned to one side.
"Me what?" He demands suspiciously.
"You weren't always a virus," She says. She's thoughtful, calculating. "You're not like them, I can see it in you."
Jones opens his mouth but a flip answer won't come. He just feels hungry and hot and shaky. And angry. He takes a step back from her, shrugs.
"We'd better catch up with them," He says. Shows his teeth in a smile that's more of a grimace. "Can't keep the boss-man waiting. Boss-men."
She follows him for a while, then says, "He's not your boss, is he?"
"Which one?" he tries to joke.
"Either of them." She says, touches his arm.
"No," he says. Stops walking.
"You're a hostage too," She says suddenly. He spins, startling her, and grabs the binding on her wrists as she flinches back. He cuts through the material with one savage jerk.
"What?" She stammers. He puts a hand on her shoulder, pushes her back.
"I'll tell them you got loose," He tells her. "You escaped. Get out of here."
"But--"
"Go on!" He pushes her again, furious.
She doesn't go. She take a step forward, catches his hand and peers up at him. "What were you? I mean-- who were you?"
"I used to be a cop," Jones says. He can't meet her eyes, can only stare at their hands, her hand in his, at his dark red claws.
"What happened?" She asks.
(Burning, everything's so hot, panic in the streets but he holds on to the steering wheel, a man on a mission, he's going to save the world.)
"I wasn't good enough," Jones says. "I wasn't fast enough, strong enough, and I failed, and everything burned and burned and burned---" He breaks off, reigns in his hysteria. "And all I had left was finding the man who did it, and stopping them, and I couldn't even do that the first time so I needed to be better. I didn't think it would be like this. I didn't mean for it to be like this."
She looks sad.
"What's your name?" She asks. "Is it really Jones?"
"Osmosis," He says, and the word feels foreign and strange in his mouth. "It was Osmosis Jones."
"Osmosis," She says, and squeezes his hand. "We can help you, Osmosis. The Immunities, we-- we take care of our own. All of our own. We got a virus protection program. We could get you away from here, give you a new life. You could-- can still do good work."
Jones lets her go, takes a step back. His head is spinning-- it sounds too good to be true. Too good to be for him.
Who would he be if he could stop? What would even be left of him?
("Jones," Lea says, "What are you going to do--" and he kisses her because she's gorgeous and he loves her and he's going to save the day and she'll love him back and then he tucks himself into Drix's arm cannon, a man on a mission--)
"I don't have anyone left," Jones says helplessly. "Just Thrax."
"You got me," She says. She takes a step forward and hugs him, soft and cool. "I can take of you."
He hugs her back and she's this pale lovely miracle in his arms, and it feels like maybe everything could be okay.