Work Text:
When Sully first meets Nathan Drake, his immediate thought is, Better pretend to look at this model of Sir Francis Drake’s boat until the kid goes away. His second thought is, Why is this kid in a museum by himself in the middle of the day? Doesn't he have school? And then his third thought is, Just go away.
But even before knowing Nathan’s name, Sully knows that the kid is stubborn. Specifically, he’s stubbornly in the way, standing in front of the display case containing Francis Drake’s astrolabe and ring. So in an effort to look inconspicuous, Sully lingers, hopping from artifact to replica waiting for the kid to leave.
Eventually, the boy does leave, and that’s when Sully moves in. He takes a glance at the astrolabe, turns so his back is facing the display, and sticks a blank key into the display lock. He watches the room, but no one is watching back. He’s finally, blissfully alone.
Except the kid, of course, watching from another display on Sully’s right. But Sully doesn’t worry too much about it. It’s a kid. Marlowe’s competitors are psychos, but they wouldn’t hire a kid spy. Even they have their limits.
Sully wiggles the key in the lock. Left, right, left, right. Up, down, out. In one smooth motion, he flips the key around, drops it in his back pocket, and saunters away. Behind him, he hears some angry words from the guard. Sully’s Spanish is a bit rusty, but it sounds like the kid is getting some karma for taking up so much of Sully’s time.
The locksmith is a quick couple blocks away, but that doesn’t mean the walk is without its excitement. Sully doesn’t miss the mop of brown hair. The glimpse of a dirty red shirt sleeve.
The kid is following him again. He was a minor annoyance before. Now he’s edging on “migraine” territory. A pickpocket, probably. Maybe the kid figures him a tourist? An old man and easy mark?
Well, even if the boy could be a problem, he’s currently not. Still just a gnat buzzing in his face. Something that will go away with enough swatting.
So Sully takes the long route. He pushes through the market, weaving between stalls and disappearing behind slow-moving crowds. He turns down an alley or two. He finds routes with police along the way. He doesn’t put a ton of work into shaking the kid, but he’ll do his best to make it clear: he is not an easy mark, and he is not worth the hassle of robbing.
The locksmith is waiting when Sully finally arrives.
“Sully,” the man greets, his usually crooked smile evening out.
“Julian,” Sully replies, shaking his hand. “¿Bien o qué?”
But Julian has never been a big talker. He holds out an open palm and eagerly accepts the impressioned key. Then he pulls his magnifying glasses over his eyes and gets to work, inspecting and filing the key like the pro he is.
Sully waits patiently by the window, noticing tiny fingers gripping the window ledge outside. He raises an eyebrow, spots the brown hair and red shirt, and sighs heavily, massaging his temples. He’ll give the kid credit; he's a persistent little brat.
The fingers shift further and further down the sill, the hair bobbing into view as the boy tries to spy through the windows. Sully pretends not to notice.
“¿Cuántas llaves?” Julian calls, still filing away at the little brass key.
“Dos.” Sully has made the mistake of only getting one key in the past. It's hurt him every single time. But the payoff for this job will more than cover the cost of an extra key.
Julian nods, blows the shavings from the blank, and twisting the key into the cutter vise. Then he places a new blank in the parallel slot and drags it across a blade, the identical ridges and notches slowly forming in the second key. Sully has never been a locksmith - and has no desire to be, really - but he has to respect the craft. There’s an artistry to it, just like sleight of hand or dodging laser tripwires. The ice sculpting of security.
Julian scrubs the keys down with a wire brush, slides them over to Sully, and accepts his payment. Sully places the keys in his wallet and leaves with a wave. “Gracias.”
Once out of sight of both Julian and the boy (who just will not give up), Sully takes one key from his wallet and drops it in his right shoe. He’s played this game before. Keeping both keys in the same spot is about as smart as tongue-kissing a cactus.
Sully heads back outside, surprised not to see the kid hiding out in the bushes. It’s unlikely he left; probably watching Sully from above.
But whatever. Not a threat. Sully has an appointment. One he’s pretty eager to get to. Whatever bullshit the boy is planning, Sully will deal with it when the time comes.
So instead, Sully heads back for the market, eyes scanning the area for a familiar blond bob. It doesn’t take too long. There aren’t many women in power suits around here. Something-something heels are impractical for brick streets? Sully wouldn’t know. He hasn’t worn a pair of heels since that job in Monaco.
“Victor,” Katherine greets, and her smile melts the usual ice in her eyes, leaving it oddly warm with the occasional cold spot. Like when you find a warm spot in the ocean that you know is urine, but the second you leave, you wish you were still wading in fish piss.
… okay, bad analogy. Sully could definitely think of a better comparison. You know, if he wasn’t holding a conversation with the wickedly smart, disarmingly gorgeous woman in front of him.
“Hi, Kate,” he replies, offering his arm like the gentleman he is. (Okay, maybe “gentleman” is hyperbolic. Like the charmer he is. That sounds better.) Kate slips her hand into the crook of his elbow.
“Let’s talk somewhere… quieter,” she suggests.
“I know a place,” Sully agrees. He leads her through the crowds, distinctly aware that he’s lost track of the kid. Just as the crowded market makes it difficult to tail someone, it also makes it tough to know when you’re being tailed. With luck, the kid is gone and isn’t coming back. But more likely…
They arrive at a bar on the very edge of the market. Well, “bar.” It’s illegal for private businesses to sell alcohol here, but the cops are willing to turn a blind eye so long as no idiot tourists get drunk and cause a scene.
“¿Me regala dos chichas por favor?” Sully calls to the vendor. The man nods stiffly and pours two drinks.
“Chicha?” Kate raises an eyebrow. “Why, Victor, it’s only noon.”
Sully shrugs. “Yeah, well, it’s 5 o’clock in NYC so…” He raises his glass, smirks, and takes a sip.
“We’re only one hour behind, Victor,” Kate sighs fondly, shaking her head but taking a sip herself.
“So we are,” Sully muses.
“So, how did it go?” Kate never has been one to tiptoe around business. If she wants information, she wants it immediately. Any and all idle chitchat can wait until afterwards. It’s something they contrast rather starkly on. Sully loves good, mindless discussion.
“Key’s all made up and ready to go.”
Kate smiles, and this time, it’s not just thawed ice. Her eyes are sunbeams, her hand on his arm like warm laundry. God, he missed this. They’d been apart for far too long this time.
“It seems we have some time to kill,” Kate says, humor flitting across her lips.
“I’ve got an idea,” Sully teases back. “We could-”
The smile drops from his face, back stiffening.
“Victor? What is it?”
“I…” Sully shakes his head. This is a smidge embarrassing, and definitely not something he wants to tell his employer. “Sorry, I need to take care of something. I’ll be back in five, okay?”
The concern slowly drips off Kate’s face, and she takes their drinks to a table. “Of course. Hurry back.” She doesn’t ask questions because she’s a highly secretive person herself. She knows the tricks, and she knows when what you’re hiding is worth discovering.
And this? Well, it’d be better for both of them if she never found out.
Sully takes a shortcut through the market, cursing under his breath. The damn kid. The damn kid stole his wallet. Sully knew he was coming. He knew standing at a bar would put him at risk. And he knew Kate would distract him.
But the boy was better than Sully realized. If he hadn’t been expecting a pickpocket, he never would have noticed the missing wallet at all.
Sully comes down the alley just in time to catch the sticky-fingered kid by the arm.
“Crap,” the boy says, followed by a vehement, “Suéltame, viejo!”
The Spanish is good - insulting, but good - but the kneejerk “crap” tells Sully all he needs to know about this kid.
“Let’s try that again.”
“Let go of me!” the boy shouts, accent distinctly American. An American street urchin in Cartagena? Strange, indeed.
“Ahh, that’s what I thought. Now don’t try to run.” Sully lets go, and the boy snatches his hand back, instinctively rubbing his wrist. “You’re a long way from home, son.”
The kid laughs humorlessly and glares fiercely at Sully. “Don’t call me that.”
“Your parents must be worried about you,” Sully presses, though he realizes his mistake in an instant. The dirty clothes. The pickpocketing skills. The fact that it’s the middle of a schoolday and the kid’s out and about. There’s no way his parents are in the picture.
The boy huffs out another laugh and confirms the obvious. “Yeah, not likely.”
“Okay, sore subject.”
Sully tips his head in the direction of the bar. “That was a nice lift back there.” Because game recognizes game. “You’re pretty good.”
The boy wrinkles his brow and takes a long second to reply. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, old man.”
“Hey,” Sully says firmly, but his lips curl into a smile. “Don’t call me that.”
Sully figures, if he’s gonna take back this kid’s score - this kid, who probably hasn’t eaten in ages and just wants to survive - he might as well give some advice. “Your technique is really sloppy though,” he warns. “You’re telegraphing all your moves.”
The kid’s eyebrows shoot up for a second. Then he shakes his head, expression relaxing into an aggressive frown. He won’t win actor of the year, that’s for sure.
“You’re crazy,” the boy says, trying to walk past Sully.
“Oh, yeah? You’ve been tailing me all over town.” Sully turns to keep the boy in his sights. The kid’s an amateur, but that doesn’t mean Sully is going to give him an opportunity to steal from him again. “Probably figured me for an easy mark. But you picked the wrong guy, pal.”
The kid doesn’t deny this, eyes looking at everything but Sully, and shuffles backwards.
“Ah-ah,” Sully tuts, holding out an open palm.
The boy throws out his own hands in frustration. “What?”
“My wallet,” Sully demands.
The kid puts his hands on his hips. Stubborn to the very end, it seems.
“Fine,” Sully concedes. “Maybe we’ll just call the police.”
The boy smiles, and his tone takes on this slightly-mocking, pseudo-cool-guy air. Like he’s figured out a loophole, and he’s the smartest person in the world. It’s infuriating. “Go ahead.” He takes a step forward and folds his arms. “‘course, they might wonder why a middle-aged tourist is following young boys down alleyways.”
Okay, that’s actually pretty good. Sully has to give credit where credit is due. He laughs. “You are a crafty little beggar, aren’tcha?”
“I know how to take care of myself.” The boy shrugs. “Anyway, I’m pretty sure you don’t like the cops any more than I do.”
He’s right. He’s right, and Sully honestly can’t go too hard on the kid. He’s… familiar. He reminds Sully of himself at that age. Obnoxious and brash and immortal, but also hurt and aching for stability.
“Good point,” Sully replies softly.
The boy holds out his arms in a See? I’m always right gesture and begins to walk away.
“Kid.” Sully holds out his hand again. “The wallet.”
The boy smiles - a real smile this time, free of arrogance - and laughs. He takes the wallet from his bag and tosses it to Sully. “Had to try.” Then he turns and jogs off.
“‘course you did.”
There’s a pit in Sully’s stomach, because no kid that persistent would give up a score like that without at least trying to run away. He flips the wallet open, fully expecting his cash and cards to be missing. But they’re all there. Down to the last peso. But what is missing?
The key.
“Shit,” Sully mutters.
This isn’t the worst problem in the world. Sully still has a key in his shoe, digging holes in his sock. Getting into the display case won’t be an issue at all.
The issue is the boy. It’s obvious now that he wants what’s inside the case. That’s why he went on the wild goose chase. That’s why he’d been following Sully since the museum.
If the kid gets into the case before them, there won’t be an astrolabe or ring to collect. Sully won’t complete his contract. He may be sent after the kid to get them back.
And Sully isn’t in the mood to steal from street kids, even if it is an ancient artifact that could lead to boundless treasures.
So Sully makes a plan. Their timeline just got pushed way up.
---
“We should wait,” Kate insists for the umpteenth time. “I don’t understand your insistence on going now.”
“Hey, you hired me for my expertise, didn’t you?” Sully argues. “Well, my expertise says we go now.”
“Funny. Last night, your expertise said three hours after closing. Now it says fifteen minutes?”
“Just…” Sully pinches the bridge of his nose. “Just trust me on this, Kate. I know what I’m doing.”
Kate sighs. “Oh, fine.” She waves her muscle forward. “Move in.”
The group enters the museum easily. The lock is no match for a good set of picks and a better set of hands. Without security cameras, it’s all too simple to walk up the steps and to the-
“Dammit, kid,” Sully mutters. Because of course the kid is here already. Of course the kid jumped through a window the second the place closed and broke into the display. Sully should have known that a kid that persistent wouldn’t wait until security was clear of the building to go after his prize.
“Why, Victor, look who it is,” Kate lilts, amusement sprinkled through her tone. “The filthy little stray who made off with your wallet.”
Sully hadn’t told Kate about any of that, but he’s not surprised that she figured it out. She’s always been smarter than he gives her credit for.
They walk closer, and the boy turns, realizing that more of Kate’s men are covering his exit.
“C’mon, son,” Sully says apologetically, holding out his hand. “You haven’t got a chance. Just hand it over.”
The boy watches, tension in his shoulders and fear, hurt, betrayal in his eyes. Kate rips the astrolabe from his grip with an unusual amount of force. It’s not like the kid was fighting back. She passes the astrolabe to Sully and holds out her hand to the boy.
“Now,” Kate demands. “The ring.”
The boy looks between the two but doesn’t offer it up. Frustrated, Kate grabs his wrist and yanks it up.
The boy smirks and slowly opens his empty fist, wiggling his fingers in a mocking gesture. “What ring?”
Kate lets go and takes a step back. She laughs quietly, and it’s unlike any laugh Sully has ever heard escape her. It’s almost… sinister.
And then, at lighting speed, she reaches forward and slaps the boy across the face
“Katherine!” Sully throws a hand up in the universal “what the hell was that for” gesture, but he doesn’t intervene. He feels slimy about it - he really does - but if the kid gets away, Kate will send someone after him. And she might send Sully, but it’s more likely she’ll go for a heavier hitter. Someone who’s not afraid to kill a child if that’s what it takes to get the ring. If the boy just hands over the ring now, he might survive to see his sweet sixteen.
The boy doubles over, one hand ghosting his cheek. But he doesn’t cry. He doesn’t shout out. He silently accepts the punishment.
A chill runs down Sully’s spine. He was that boy once, biting his lip through brutal beatings. He was the one trapped with nowhere to go. He was the one with no one to defend him.
“Who do you think you are, boy?” Kate spits. Her once lilting mezzo has hardened into something unrecognizable to Sully. Something so horrific and cruel that it turns his stomach just to hear it. This isn’t her. This isn’t his Kate.
“You’re nothing but a filthy, cast-off little beggar,” she continues. “You’re not fit to touch these objects.”
The boy straightens, meeting Kate’s glare, and Kate draws her hand back, ready to strike again.
Sully snatches her wrist before she can make contact. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he demands, trying everything in his power to keep a lid on his rage. “He’s just a kid!”
The kid realizes that this is his opportunity. He darts, weaving past the guards blocking the stairs.
Kate shakes free of Sully’s grip and points at the boy. “Stop him!”
The guards go running, disappearing up the stairwell.
“What the hell was that, Kate?” Sully demands.
“I could ask the same question,” Kate snaps back. She pokes him in the chest. “You let him go!”
“I was stopping you from hurting a child!” Sully argues. “I thought I knew you! I thought you were better than that!”
Kate laughs again, that low, foreboding chuckle. The hair on the back of Sully’s neck stands up. “Oh, Victor,” she tuts, shaking her head. “You know my devotion to this hunt. I understand you might not feel the same, but you are my employee. I need you - at the minimum - to shut up and let me work.”
“You’re… You are not the person I thought you were.”
Katherine walks her fingers up Sully’s arm and pats him on the cheek. “Oh, Victor,” she huffs in that fond, tired sigh. He used to love that sound. Now it makes his skin crawl. “Are you really so naïve?”
“He's a kid, Kate.”
“Children aren't spared from war, Victor. You should know that better than anyone.”
Sully clenches his jaw. “This isn’t war. This is a rich woman’s ego trip. No kid should-”
BANG! BANG! BANG!
Sully’s heart plummets to the Earth’s core. He feels his mouth go dry. “You gave them permission to kill?”
“I always have,” Kate says flippantly. “It’s a standing order. A requirement, really. Did you not read the job description before you signed up for this?”
“Guess not,” Sully intones. He pushes past her and sprints for the stairs. “Consider this my resignation!” he shouts. “Good luck chasing me in those four-inch stilettos, you crusty-!”
Sully’s words are drowned out by more gunfire. He stops taunting Kate and returns to the task at hand, following the path of destruction up the stairs, across the rooftops, and…
Oh, shit.
“What are you shaking for?” one of Kate’s men asks the boy, almost gleefully cornering him on a rooftop with a gun trained on his forehead. The boy holds a gun too, but he’s trembling and defensive, and obviously not comfortable shooting someone. (And he shouldn’t be because he’s a damn kid!)
Sully races to the pair, doing his best to remain outside of the gunman’s line of sight.
“Just close your eyes,” the man continues. “This won’t hurt a bit.”
Sully lines up the shot and fires.
The man chokes and collapses. He’s dead before he hits the ground.
The boy jumps when he sees Sully, redirecting the gun at him. He’s still shaking. Still petrified.
Sully holsters his gun and approaches slowly, confident that the kid won’t pull the trigger. He’s scared. He’s confused. But he’s not a killer.
“C’mon,” Sully soothes, taking the boy by the arm and helping him to his feet. He takes the gun from him, removes the clip, and tosses both to the ground. “You’re okay, kid.”
The boy doesn’t speak. Just a few hours ago, he was an arrogant, mouthy little brat, and now he’s standing on a rooftop, drenched in sweat, paler than the moon’s ass, and unable to say a word.
That’s okay. Sully remembers that. He had been there, once. Not this exact scenario, beaten, chased by contract killers, and held at gunpoint, but the horrors were still there.
“I hate to tell you this now, but it’s really important,” Sully says, stooping slightly to make eye contact. “Kate- Marlowe, the lady from inside, is gonna be after you. Probably me too. We need to get out of here.”
The boy stares at him. The terror never left his eyes.
“I need you to respond so I know you’re hearing me. A head nod is good.”
The kid nods.
“You got family here? Friends? Any home at all?”
The boy shakes his head.
“Alright. I need you to follow me. Do exactly as I do. Y’hear me?”
Again, the boy nods. He coughs and then asks, voice unsteady, “What’s gonna happen?”
“We’re skipping town. Tonight.”
---
The bus ride from Cartagena to Cereté is both deadly silent and deafening. Deadly silent, because the boy is in no mood to talk and Sully is a bit too concerned with which passengers might be Marlowe’s agents to hold a conversation. And deafening, because the Colombian buses are notorious for playing music at a volume somewhere between ear-blasting and brain-melting. Sully keeps a pair of earplugs for just such occasions, but he hands them off to the kid. Least he can do, considering the night’s events.
But, after a long four hours of cumbia and reggaeton, they arrive in Cereté. Sully doesn’t know about the kid (who still won’t always answer his questions), but he’s starved. All the restaurants are closed this early in the morning, but there are a couple 24-hour gastro-bars in the area. It’ll have to do.
The boy follows closely behind Sully, refusing to walk ahead. Sully figures it’s to make sure he doesn’t attack him or something. A silly prospect, really, because Sully bought them both bus tickets. It would have been easier to kill him back in Cartagena and save a little money.
But whatever makes the kid comfortable. It’s been a long day. He’s well outside of his normal routine. Sully won’t push him on this.
“You hungry?” Sully asks as they enter the bar.
The boy shrugs. Shakes his head no.
“Fine. Find a table. I’ll grab you a drink or something.”
“Or something” is the more accurate descriptor. Because what Sully actually buys are drinks and two meals. Because he doesn’t care how much the kid claims otherwise; he can’t have had a decent meal recently. He’s got to be hungry.
The boy is still standing by the entrance when Sully returns, either taking in the bar’s decor or completely zoned out.
“You can relax, kid,” Sully tells him, taking a seat at a nearby table. “We’re safe here.”
The boy just stares at Sully like he has a third ear or something.
“Go on,” Sully urges, gesturing to the empty chair across from him. When he still doesn’t sit, Sully slides the boy’s plate over to his side of the table. “Suit yourself. If you don’t want it-”
The boy snatches the plate and sits down. He obviously is hungry. No satiated person can put away chorizo that fast.
Looking at his own plate, Sully realizes that he’s actually not hungry. He’s nauseous. Just reflecting on the night they’ve had… seeing that look on Kate’s face, the venom in her tone… the way she slapped a child…
Sully had given a piece of his heart to her. After decades of scams and dirty jobs and high-stake art heists, Sully finally found someone who seemed to understand. He’d told her about his past. Things he’d never told anyone before. About his scumbag father and absent mother. About the beatings, the tongue-lashings, the watching his mother as she escaped everything - her husband, her kid, the world. And Kate had sympathized. She’d told him she couldn’t imagine it. How much she wished he’d been dealt a better hand in life.
And then she turned around, and she hit a kid. She spat Sully’s past in his face. She stole that piece of his heart and crushed it under her heel like a used-up cigarette butt.
Yeah. Sully’s really not that hungry anymore.
The boy pauses eating to take a breath, and he points his fork at Sully accusingly. “What do you want from me?”
Sully pulls a cigar from his pocket and lights the end. “Hm. A little gratitude would be nice. I did save your ass back there.”
The kid scowls. “Thanks,” he says in a way that makes it very obvious that he feels no gratitude. “But what’s in it for you?” He tries to take Sully’s beer, and Sully grabs it first, chuckling under his breath. Resigned, the boy grabs the soda bottle instead. “I mean, you’re a crook, right? You gotta have an angle.”
Sully chews on his cigar for a moment, because he really doesn’t know what the plan is from here. He knows that they’ll stop by a motel for a few hours rest, then grab an international flight from there. He doesn’t know where they’re going. (Wherever the plane is flying, he supposes.) He doesn’t know what he’s going to do once he gets there. (He’s running from Marlowe, and he’ll need some money to buy back the luggage he lost, so he’ll have to find a job.) And he definitely doesn’t know what the hell he’ll do with the kid.
So instead, Sully redirects the conversation. “You are one piece of work, kid. What’s your story, anyway?”
The boy leans back and snorts. “Look, mister. No offense, but I don’t even know you.”
Sully sets his cigar on the rim of the ashtray and offers his hand. “Easily remedied. Victor Sullivan.”
The boy stares at his hand like it’s a slug covered in mucus.
“This’d be the part where you introduce yourself,” Sully explains.
But the boy doesn’t reply, taking another bite of chorizo. He stares at Sully pointedly.
“Okay,” Sully concedes, taking his hand back. “Suppose you tell me what’s so special about that ring?”
And this was the correct question, because the kid drops his fork and holds the ring - still strung around his neck - and smiles smugly. “It belongs in my family. I’m just taking it back.”
“Passed down from Francis Drake himself,” Sully notes.
The kid nods. “That’s right.”
“I don’t know how to break this to you, kid, but Drake didn’t have any heirs. No children.”
The boy only smiles wider. “Well… not with his wife back in England, anyway.”
Sully laughs. “Okay, good point.” He holds out his hand again. “Let me see it.”
Immediately, the boy’s hand clenches around the ring and holds it close to his chest, leaning away from Sully.
“C’mon, kid. If I was gonna take it from you, I would’ve done it by now.”
The boy hesitates before pulling the makeshift necklace over his head and dropping it in Sully’s hand.
“Thank you.” Because Sully has to appreciate any and all vulnerability this boy will afford him. It’s been a rough night, and he has a reason to be reserved, even if it’s not all that logical.
Sully turns the ring in his hands, noticing the engraved letters. “What is this? Parvis Mag-”
“Sic Parvis Magna,” the boy corrects. “It means ‘greatness from small beginnings.’ That was his motto.” He walks over to Sully, pinching the ring between his fingers, like he’s already getting nervous without it around his neck. “You see, Queen Elizabeth gave it to him in 1581, when he got back to England after circumnavigating the globe. That’s when she made him a knight.”
Sully raises an eyebrow. “You sure as hell didn’t learn that on the streets. How’s a kid your age know Latin?”
The kid shrugs. “The nuns sort of insisted on it.”
“Ah, so like a boarding school.” The kid doesn’t strike Sully as the type, but he’s been wrong before.
“That’s a nice word for it.”
Ah. More ambiguity. Shocking.
“Okay, then.” Sully hands the ring back, and the boy returns to his seat. “So what’s all that business with the ring and that astrolabe thing back there?”
The kid smiles coyly. “Why don’t you tell me? You’re the one working for ‘em.”
Sully sighs. “Look, kid, a client wants something, I obtain it for a price. I don’t ask any questions. It’s just a job.”
The boy folds his arms. “Looked pretty friendly to me.”
This is the last thing Sully wants to talk about, so he waves the subject away. “Yeah, well, I quit.”
“Okay, look,” the kid says, pulling the necklace back over his head and producing a journal from his bag. He opens it to a page with a drawing of the astrolabe. “First of all, that was no astrolabe. It’s some sort of decoding device. Check this out-” He flips to a hand-drawn map. “On his way around the world, Drake sailed through the East Indies, only he says it took him six months to get from here-” The boy points to the Philippines. “-to here.” And then he points to the eastern Indian Ocean.
“Yeah, so?”
“So it doesn’t add up,” the boy says emphatically. “He was way too good a sailor for that! It would’ve taken him a month, tops. He was hiding something. Something big.”
Sully thought the boy was full of shit. Now… he’s not so sure. “How big?”
“Like, secret-mission-from-the-queen big. Like millions in plundered treasure that hasn’t ever been recovered, big.”
“That big?”
The boy smiles. “That big.”
“And that decoder has something to do with it?”
The kid folds his arms. “I would bet my life on it.”
Sully sighs, because this means he’s going to have to find Marlowe again, isn’t he? “Oh, swell, and Marlowe’s got it.”
“Won’t do her much good without the key,” the boy assures him, holding up his ring.
“So it’s a stalemate, then.”
The boy smiles confidently. “For now.”
Sully laughs. The ego on this kid wouldn’t fit inside the Taj Mahal. “So you still haven’t told me what your name is.”
“And you still haven’t told me what you want from me.”
Yeah. He’s not gonna let that one go. And Sully supposes he’s right, because that’s probably something they should both know very soon.
“Okay, look-” Sully says, hoping whatever plan comes out of his mouth makes a lick of sense. “You’ve got talent, but you’ve got a lot to learn. You stick with me, and I’ll teach you a few things.”
The boy shakes his head. “Thanks, but I’m doing just fine on my own.”
“Yeah,” Sully replies dryly. “Clearly.
“Whaddya say we try this again?” Sully suggests, once more holding out his hand. “My friends call me Sully.”
“Nathan Drake,” the boy finally admits, grabbing Sully’s hand and giving it a solid shake. “Nate.”
“‘Drake,’ huh?” Sully muses, grabbing his cigar with one hand and beer with the other. “Okay.” He leans back in his chair and looks at the boy - at Nate - again. He’s arrogant and idealistic, but he’s also scrappy and talented. He’s down on his luck and yet still optimistic enough to have a whole adventure planned out in his head.
Try as he might, when Sully looks across the table, he sees himself, twenty-five years prior. Just a kid. A kid who deserves a chance. And this time, he’s going to get it.
“I see great things in our future, kid,” Sully says with a grin. “Great things.”