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While on assignment, a special agent’s handler is tasked with their maintenance. Stone has been housed in five star hotels and canvas tents, on luxury yachts and in the back seat of a rusty broken down sedan. Whatever the assignment requires. Whatever the handler chooses.
Stone’s new living quarters are a storage room in the back of his new handler’s laboratory. The storage room is nothing new - he’s spent many nights on the exact same type of cot someone has shoved in there - but it’s the first time he’s had a handler with a laboratory. They’re usually military, mid-career, varying in eagerness and jadedness depending on how long they’d been a handler and how many special agents they’d gone through. (Stone prefers the older ones, insofar as he allows himself to prefer anything. Novices try to be nice.)
This one is different. Some kind of scientist, specializing in robotics and weapons design, although apparently he has more than one PhD. Weapon design makes sense, in a way, but it doesn’t really explain why Stone has been assigned here or what they expect him to do. He has no relevant educational background. He’s familiar with weapons, but not manufacturing or design. He doesn’t question orders, but if he did, he’d question this one.
Even the scientist doesn’t know what to do with him. The first day Stone introduced himself the guy only vaguely acknowledged him, too focused on whatever he was working on. “Room’s that way,” he said, pointing without looking. “Stay out of my way.”
Well. An order is an order. Stone took his small duffel bag to the indicated room, unpacked, and waited for further orders.
He’s still waiting two weeks in. He’s not the only agent under this scientist, but he’s the only one of his class and propensity for wetwork. The rest are weedy and weak and, based on his observations, not too bright. None of them notice him, and he’s happier for it. It’s not unusual for agents to be treated like under qualified assistants, but Stone is different. He’s not really an agent. He’s a weapon.
And a good one, at that.
Possibly too good.
There have been issues.
Stone’s beginning to think this assignment is some kind of soft retirement. Somebody finally decided he’s too big of a liability to keep on active duty, but too difficult to kill off, so they sent him here to rot under the thumb of a man who barely acknowledges his existence.
It’s boring. It’s insulting. It’s the worst assignment he’s had in years, and that includes the incident in the Maldives with the wine press. (Turns out even he has limits, and that was just gross.) The doctor doesn’t entrust him with anything important and he’s left to his own devices. Generally, that means training. The barracks where special agents are housed while off-duty include a firing range, a well-equipped gym, and other useful facilities to keep them sharp and occupied between assignments. Stone’s not allowed to leave the building without his handler’s approval, so he’s reduced to bodyweight exercises in the cramped confines of his designated room. It’s better than crawling through the mud in a jungle so humid his gun started to rust, but not by much. At least that led to some action.
Stone lies in bed, hands folded neatly across his chest, staring at the ceiling. It’s late, and all the normal agents are long gone. His handler’s still in the lab. He seems to make a habit of late nights and little sleep. Stone respects dedication, but he also understands the symptoms of sleep deprivation and that you don’t have to spend a solid week being tortured awake to feel them. (Though that does make them worse.)
The quiet of his room is interrupted by a blaring high-pitched siren and a spray of red lighting. Stone hasn’t been briefed on the lab’s security systems but he recognizes an alarm when he sees one. In seconds he’s on his feet, sidearm in hand with safety off. Without specific orders, he defaults to his standing ones, the ones baked into his hindbrain:
- Protect handler
- Protect G.U.N. resources
- Protect G.U.N. personnel
Stone’s own life goes somewhere in that category of “resources.”
Stone’s door slides open and he peers into the hall. With no sign of danger or intrusion, he proceeds towards the main lab entrance. His handler is in there, and that’s his first priority.
He makes it most of the way there when his watch beeps. He’d almost forgotten about it; his handler had tossed it at him a few days earlier. Vital signs, GPS, and comms all in one sleek little wrist-based package. Much nicer than the clunky devices his handlers had saddled him with at the start of his career.
He glances at the screen.
Dr. Robot…
calling
Too small to display his handler’s full name, whatever that is. (Someone had told him, at some point, but the man never introduced himself so the information didn’t seem vital.) He taps it to answer and brings his wrist up to his mouth. “Yes, sir.”
“You’re still here, right?” Dr. Robot… sounds so calm that for a moment Stone wonders if it’s a false alarm.
“Yes, sir.”
“Security breach on the east side. The lab’s in lockdown until it’s resolved. Go resolve it.”
“Yes, sir.”
The call drops, so Stone lowers his arm and takes a ready stance. He’s on the southern side of the building, so he just needs to go…
He turns the corner and sees the intruder. One, dressed in all black, a pistol in a holster on their hip and a crowbar in hand. Stone can see the door they pried open hanging off its hinges. That will need to be fortified later. Actually, if incursions like this are to be expected, he’ll want to patrol for other weaknesses. And given the alarms and Dr. Robot…’s calm, they do seem expected. Which would have been nice to know, but at least he understands why he’s here.
The intruder is facing away, and Stone takes a moment to dream of shooting them now. It would be so easy, and so quick. They aren’t very far. Stone can make the shot easily. One shot, and this could be over without literally dirtying his suit.
But his previous handler would have told him to attempt a non-lethal approach first. And the one before that, and the one before that. This new one is almost certainly going to say the same thing, and be upset if he resolves the situation in the most efficient and safest way possible.
(There have been issues.)
This Dr. Robot… clearly hasn’t been properly informed on how to manage Stone. Technically he hasn’t received any orders beyond “resolve it,” but he had technicalities beaten out of him a decade ago.
So he holsters his weapon, pictures a single bullet to the back of the head - fast, relatively painless, effective - and instead, breaks into a run.
The invader doesn’t stand much of a chance. They don’t react quickly enough to the sudden sound of Stone’s shoes against the floor, so they’re only halfway turned when Stone swings a fist. Stone aims for the torso, and hits the side of the rib cage. The intruder swings the crowbar, but they’re either an idiot or an amateur, because they aim for his head. It’s easy to dodge, and Stone takes the opportunity to dive under the intruder’s arm and punch them in the gut. It’s more pain than damage and it works; the intruder doubles over, gasping.
The intruder’s got two weapons, and one is significantly more dangerous than the other, so Stone opts to relieve them of their pistol while they can’t fight back. He pops the clip out and lets it fall, unfired bullets clattering over the smooth tile floors. It only takes a second, but it’s a long enough second for the intruder to lurch towards him, flailing, and this time the crowbar connects. It catches Stone low, on the thigh, and Stone barely manages to roll with it enough to avoid a fracture. As it stands, he’s going to have a hell of a bruise.
But that’s something he can think about later. For now, there’s still an active hostile in front of him, and they’re starting to stand up again. Stone doesn’t give them the chance. He jabs - not at the head, with its protective skull that can easily break a fist - but at their soft, exposed neck. It’s a move that takes precision and speed beyond what most people are capable of, so most people would be foolish to try it.
Stone’s not a person.
He hits his target square on and the intruder chokes. Their larynx is spasming. While they’re panicking without breath, Stone swoops up behind them and curls his arm around their neck. He pulls tight, cutting off the blood flow in the carotid artery. The intruder claws at him, but it’s useless. They pass out within seconds.
Stone holds a little longer than necessary, just to be sure, before he lets the limp intruder fall to the ground. He keeps an eye on them as he taps at his watch and lifts it again.
“Excuse me, sir. I’ve subdued the intruder. What should I do with them?”
The scientist’s voice is light and careless. “Kill ‘em.”
Stone does.
It’s automatic. Before his brain can even fully process the command his hand is on the grip of his sidearm. It rises, and aims at the unconscious body, and fires. Clean shot through the head.
Stone blinks at the corpse, lying in a rapidly growing puddle of blood.
Huh.
It’s not that he likes killing, exactly, although he certainly doesn’t mind it. He enjoys the rush of adrenaline that combat brings, but he’s never taken to watching the life drain from their eyes or any of that serial killer nonsense. It’s just a way to end a job that happens to be the best choice in many circumstances.
No, what’s really getting him is that for the first time in a long, long time, it feels right. He was given an order, and it was the correct order. No sentimental nonsense or undeserved scolding. Only an order and its unerring execution.
It’s probably ironic that it feels freeing.
“Hostile neutralized,” he says into the watch.
There’s a quiet moment. Then, “Really?”
Stone doesn’t allow feelings like disappointment, but this is pretty close.
“No pleading?” the voice in his watch continues. “No arguing? No attempts to appeal to my better nature or convince me they’re more useful alive for questioning or as a hostage or they’ve got kids blah blah blah - I tell you to kill someone and you just do it?”
Stone takes half a step back; the puddle is spreading and it’s close to his shoes. “You gave me an order, sir. I follow orders.”
“Finally. Somebody with some sense. What was your name again?”
“Agent Stone, sir.”
“Doctor. Not sir. Well done, Agent Stone.”
The words strike him like lightning. Well done. His handler is pleased. Stone barely keeps his voice from shaking. “Thank you, Doctor.”
His handler speaks again. “Now clean up your mess and stop bothering me.”
“Yes, Doctor. Do you have a disposal protocol to follow?”
“I don’t caaaare. There’s a ditch out back. The records building has an incinerator in the basement. Tomorrow’s Sloppy Joe day in the cafeteria. Take your pick.”
The call drops with a flat beep.
The incinerator is the best choice; Stone had clocked it long ago and made a point of gaining access, just in case. He checks the body and finds nothing interesting aside from a locked smartphone. The cleanup takes some time, but within an hour the body is reduced to embers and Stone finishes mopping the floor. There is some amount of blood on his suit but that’s not a concern. It’ll wash out, and if he doesn’t then he has others. (Good shoes are harder to replace, so he makes a point to keep them clean.) Task complete, he reports to his handler.
The scientist - Doctor Robotnik, that’s his name, Stone remembers now, he will never forget it again - doesn’t acknowledge him when he enters the lab. He’s busy at a console, surrounded by computer screens covered in indecipherable code. Stone stops just inside the door and assumes parade rest: feet apart, hands behind his back. “Disposal complete, Doctor. I recovered a smartphone, but it’s locked.”
The doctor snorts. “Oh no. How will I ever get into it. Give it here,” he adds, extending a hand without looking. “Might as well figure out who’s trying to kill me this time.”
Stone’s grown much more concerned about his assignment this evening, but silently hands the phone over. Doctor Robotnik tosses it into a desk drawer and goes back to work.
After a few minutes, Robotnik glances at Stone. “What, you want a cookie or something? Am I supposed to give you a Milkbone when you do a trick?”
“No, Doctor.”
“Then what are you waiting for?”
“An order or a dismissal, Doctor.”
“You’re going to stand there until I tell you to buzz off?”
“Yes, Doctor.”
“Huh.” Robotnik drums his fingers on the arm of his chair. Then he turns back to his computer.
Three hours later, Robotnik finally shuts down the various screens in front of him. As the console goes dark he stretches and yawns, then slowly stands up and turns around to see Stone.
He shrieks and jumps backwards, clutching his chest. “Don’t do that!”
Stone’s muscles are stiff, but the ache is mild compared to the sorts of pain he knows. “Sorry, Doctor.”
Robotnik takes a deep breath, straightens up, and smoothes back his hair. “No you’re not,” he mutters.
(He’s correct.)
Robotnik shakes his head. “Whatever. You’re dismissed. Go on back to your hidey hole. But I want you back here at 0800. Understood?”
That’s less than three hours from now. “Yes, Doctor.”
“Good. You might turn out to be useful after all.”
Useful. The word is soft and warm as spring sunshine. “Thank you, Doctor.”
“Your simpering needs work.” But there’s a hint of something, just a twitch at the corner of his lips, almost hidden by the moustache. His handler is pleased. His handler, who somehow knows exactly how much slack to put in his leash. His handler, who understands what Stone is for and how to use him correctly. His handler, who has decided he is useful.
His Doctor.
They’re going to be a very, very dangerous pair.