Chapter Text
There were no guards stationed nearby when Hank came to him.
The address his new client had given him led to an old and dingy building that suited to be some homeless squatter’s refuge rather than the secret building to a growing faction that had enough gall to contact Hank for their dirty work. Status Quo they called themselves. Hands exchanging money and guns, dangerous men and glaring eyes all hidden beneath the harmless visage of an aging structure, and as soon as the mercenary stepped in, he expected people’s hackles to be raised up, for someone to show off their little guns at his face to show that they weren’t to be messed with.
Like they had a chance against him.
But none of that behavior came. No, all the people here simply graced Hank with a simple lingering glance before returning to their busy work, whispering plans and slipping ammunition between deft fingers. Hank huffed, it was better that way, no one to bother him.
Ruffling his hand into his pockets, he fished out the piece of paper that had been scribbled down for him by some messenger sent by Status Quo’s big boss. There were a few directions and instructions on it.
‘Do not speak to anyone. Leave your weapons by the stairs before you come up.’
Hank almost laughed at that. Leave your weapons... as if. He’s not going anywhere without a single blade strapped to his side.
Though, when he does reach the staircase, he does leave a few of his guns by the steps, just in case anyone was keeping an eye on him during this whole thing. Hank drops two of his pistols and his sword in a pile, but he keeps the knife in his boot and a revolver hanging off the side of his belt, sneakily hidden beneath his heavy coat. With that, the mercenary walks up the stairs, feeling wind rush past his face and chill his exposed skin as he approaches an already opened door leading to what seemed to be the rooftops.
The sky was as red as ever. Bleeding into the grey that surrounded Nexus city and giving it a sheen of scarlet wherever you stepped. A man was leaning forward against the railings, his own coat thrashing against the strong winds. He looked small, a few inches shorter than Hank. No clear indications that he had any weapons on him, or really...any sort of backup.
Confidence or foolishness, Hank didn’t care. He had the upper-hand here.
Hank takes a few steps towards the man, pausing only when he sees him look over his shoulder. The stranger had a mask on his face, obscuring any sort of emotion or distinct appearance. The only thing that the mercenary could clearly see was his eyes, sharp and analyzing, a wall of red lenses drowning the stranger’s eye color.
If this were any other client, they would have made a show of the power they held over Hank at the moment. A gun on the desk, a knife strapped to their hip, or muscle stationed by their side to glare down at the mercenary. But this man...he had nothing. None of that. He didn’t even try to look threatening or scary. Once, he’d been like that too. Hands still soft, free from calluses and cuts, his body untrained and fueled by how brutish he could be. If Hank wanted, he could just kill this guy, he probably wouldn’t even be able to fight back all that much.
Yet, something inside Hank told him that would be a very bad idea.
The stranger fully turns around now, eyes meeting Hank’s, emotion hidden behind that mask and betraying nothing of the thoughts that ran through his head. At a glance, a rookie could have said that that man seemed casual in the way he moved, a hand poised at his side and the other gripping the roof railings. But no, as Hank took a closer look he noticed the way the man moved seemed almost trained, ingrained into his mind to place his hands and feet in a certain way.
And then, it was eye-contact. Hank could always tell what kind of personality a person had just by glancing at the way their eyes looked at him. Fear, nervousness, pride, intimidation—
But that look in the stranger’s eyes, it was practically a blank slate. Unreadable. Hank narrowed his eyes for a split second in confusion as another thought wound its way through his head. One that felt like reminiscing, as if he was meant to remember something about that look. It was rare for Hank to feel familiar with someone, as he’d never bothered to remember any person he meets, their faces practically blur whenever he had to interact with someone. There were more important things to focus on.
For the first time in meeting up with a client, Hank is pushed to speak first. It was thoughtless, but he doesn’t regret it, he almost never regrets anything he does.
“Do I know you?” He asks, and something flickers in the man’s eyes before it quickly diminishes. The stranger looks away as the winds pick up.
“I can’t answer that for you.” The stranger replies, dismissive. Hank promptly shoves the thought away, no matter how unusual that reply was to him. “But I can tell you what I need you for.”
With a simple gesture of his hand, he motions for Hank to come closer, and the mercenary obliges him, standing by his side near the railings and looking out to the sea of battered down buildings all surrounding the Nexus Core skyscraper. Wherever you went in Nexus City, you could never not see that building lurking over everything else. Below, Hank knew that the AAHW crawled around between the darker cracks of the city, their acronym plastered upon wanted posters and propaganda, reminding everyday citizens of their presence like a ghost and using Hank’s name like a warning to those who’d dare to get a wanted poster of their own.
Hank J. Wimbleton meant a lot of things to Nexus City, from a mercenary who didn’t want money to an example to be made.
And a weapon to be held.
“This isn’t going to be the usual request that people would ask of you.” The stranger then says, attention turned to the horizon before them both as he speaks. “I would like to recruit you; semi-permanently.”
Hank snaps his head to the side to look at the man, brows furrowed. “I don’t stick with factions.” He grips the railing tighter, but the man doesn’t seem bothered by the sign of aggression. Even if it was small, irking the mercenary was a mistake that most wanted to avoid. “You give me one job and one job only— and you and I can fuck off after it’s done.”
And that was if the man had something that Hank wanted.
The stranger silently gives him a side-eye before rolling it back towards the red sky. “I know.” He says. “But I have something you want.” Now that jarred the mercenary, and he straightens himself, waiting for the other man to add more to his words.
“I’ve heard of what you’ve been looking for, information about... revival, was it? And you need people capable enough to pull through.” Hank stiffens, shoulders hunching slightly. Caught red-handed, it seemed. “It’s sensitive information...and a dangerous thing to look for.” Hank huffs beneath his mask, patience running thin, but the man doesn’t keep him waiting for too long.
“I can do it for you.” The man says, like it was the simplest thing in the world. “No cloning, I can reach into Hell and pull you back in the land of the living as long as you do what you’re told.”
Hank had been through enough that he wasn’t surprised by many things. But to be offered revival on a silver platter only with the cost of doing the things he’d already been doing for years...it was too good to be true. But at the same time Hank knew that no one had the gall to trick him on purpose and make an enemy of him, not unless they were the AAHW themselves or the agency was paying them off with something good enough to risk it.
“And, I have the resources to save you when you’re on the brink of death too.” The man then says. “Even when dying is a lot easier to do...” Hank swore he could hear a bit of a smile in his voice at that.
“...where did you even get the information that I’ve been looking for that?” Hank asks, not bothering to hide the suspicion in his tone. The stranger scoffs, resting his elbow onto the railings and propping his chin up with his arm.
“I just know.” He answers, and for some strange reason, Hank found it in himself to not pry at the once again, vague answer the man seemed to love handing to him. “And all I ask is for your cooperation, is that clear?” The man faces him, eyes still hard to crack and painfully recognizable to Hank. A hand holds itself out towards the mercenary, poised for acceptance.
Hank is quiet.
The answer was obvious, and inwardly, Hank had already accepted the offer in his head. But that didn’t erase the other thoughts lingering in his mind. Why did this man seem so frighteningly familiar? He didn’t recognize anything about him, yet he couldn’t shake the feeling that he should be catching something about the other man. It brought upon a feeling that Hank knew well, it was like—
Having an AAHW clone look at him for too long.
All the clones made within AAHW walls all had that same ‘look’ to them that Hank could practically feel at the back of his neck. Agents had this firm glare, haughty and eager to please their superiors. Soldats, even when they barely showed any form of emotion, had something excessively cruel about their one-eyed stares. Their single optics meant to maximize efficiency in combat, even if it proved detrimental to them on more ‘normal’ tasks, but that was never a problem. They would never have the chance to hold anything else but knives and guns.
And then, it was the Engineers. Rare to find on the front lines, and even harder to out-think. Hank hadn’t fought many face-to-face before, but you could always tell something was running in their heads, even in the heat of a fight, it was like they were reading into every possible move that you could ever decide to do.
They had their differences, but Hank had caught a similarity.
Blank, empty canvases. It was obvious that they didn’t grow up like the usual folk. Hank had heard before that your personality was shaped by the people around you, and well...the clones had no other people around them but other clones. There wasn’t anything to take but the constant nonsense the AAHW had to spout.
Strange how this man could look so similar to those clones with just those eyes of his...but Hank knew the AAHW’s proficiency at sniffing out potential dissenters.
They are to be damned. Posters plastered on the walls would say in big, bold letters.
It was hard to forget the Soldats who would march out the streets, parading the corpses of their own to show off what they could do to lowly liars who betrayed their causes. The sight wasn’t just to cause fear and obedience to the normal crowds, but also to let any one of their clones know that if they dared to even think of a single thought that strayed off what they were taught, they’d join those mangled corpses hanging off those Soldats’ tight grips.
Impossible that this stranger could be one of those clones.
The man sighs, like it was his turn to be impatient. “I’m not going to stand here and wait all day, Wimbleton.” He snaps. “You better either take out that little revolver you got hidden under your coat and point it at me or shake my hand.” The weight of the weapons becomes heavy on Hank’s side. Oh, so he did know all this time...
So Hank lifts his hand, fingers wrapping around the other man’s in a firm handshake. “That’s good enough for me.” He says, and the stranger’s eyes curve, telling of a smile.
When the man pulls away, the thick leather of his gloves caresses the tips of the mercenary’s fingers, Hank suddenly feels the urge to grab him and pull him back. It was an irrational sensation, one that simply settles on the center of his thoughts. Hank looks down at his hand, fingers closing in the air slightly before pulling open. It was like it had meant to grip tight into something. A dangerous craving sinks deep between Hank’s ribs in that moment, a hunger for something he had not felt in ages—
A solace.
He had not felt that. Not since that time...
“Wimbleton.” The man’s voice shakes Hank from his stupor. “Get your thoughts in order now.” He sounded a bit amused, and he walks past the mercenary, shoulders brushing against each other for just a moment. Hank lets himself step aside, watching the stranger walk down the stairs and disappear back into the building.
Hank cannot help but look back at his hand, still empty, still aching for something that he could not remember. Fingers open and close around a phantom, a memory that the mercenary frustratingly struggles to dig up.
With a sigh, he lifts his head up, and follows the stranger down.