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wingedcat13 · 10 months ago

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The barista’s dead-eyed, ‘I’m-not-paid-enough-for-this-shit’ look finds a mirror in yours as the flash goes off.

They’ve caught you accepting your drink, which you tried to do with a brief smile and a genuine thanks, because customer service is a goddamn nightmare. But even your patience is wearing thin by now.

Your surprise photographer fumbles his phone with a quiet ‘shit’ as half the occupants of the Starbucks turn to look at him, yourself included. The other half are either too busy working or still zombified, awaiting the sweet and terrible awakening of caffeine.

This makes the third time this week this guy has fucked up trying to take your photo.

Casually, you stroll over to the guy, swinging one arm around their shoulders. If it had been the first time, you would’ve just made eye contact and maybe sipped your drink if it wasn’t the temperature of the sun. Second time, probably would’ve glared and had a shadow trip him. But it’s the third, so the quiet parts need to be said out loud.

“Heya buddy.” You say cheerily, voice just slightly too loud for the general clientele. With your hair tucked up in your hat and the coat you’ve chosen today, you look like a guy who’s just met up with a coworker he may or may not despise. “Wonderful weather, isn’t it? Come on, I know you love the snow.”

You steer the bewildered new victim out of the Starbucks, to the absolutely frigid outdoor seating area that the awning has not protected from the last hour’s worth of snow. You’re well insulated and have a hot drink. Your conversational partner hunches their shoulders.

“Have a seat.” You say, less congenially.

You know this type of person. Not-quite-tall, bundled in several sweaters, tan overcoat and a chronic inability to make eye contact. Actually, that describes several types of people. Categories suck.

You disregard the thought and take your own seat without bothering to wipe off the snow.

“Hey, look, it was an accident-“ they start, complete with the nervous chuckling undertone and apologetic hand gestures. “- I was trying to send my girlfriend a meme and hit the live camera instead, fingers are still cold-“

“Oh I’m not offended.” You answer casually. “I just thought I’d spare you the trouble. You remembered to keep it muted this time, at least.”

Last time, it had been the sound cue that had made him impossible to ignore. Particularly given you’d been idling through an art gallery at the time, in an area where pictures were forbidden. Security had escorted him out shortly after, which at least had meant he wasn’t your problem.

He starts to laugh again, the nervous edge sharper now, and you risk enough to have the shadows of his chair pull it out for him. The screech of metal on icy concrete is awful. The rapid realization that he can’t get out of this is satisfying.

Slowly, he sits.

“What’s your name?” You ask, casually folding one leg over the other. There’s barely enough room beneath the table to do that. The metal edge is now seeping cold into your leg.

“That’s not important.”

“Okay.” You don’t care anyway, honestly. “I’m going to call you Sam then. Who hired you, Sam?”

He folds his hands together, leaning forward on the table. That’s got to be frigid, man’s not even wearing gloves. “I’m not at liberty to discuss that.”

You raise your eyebrows and take a sip of your drink. So warm. So sweet.

“Was it Kevin’s wife?” You’re not sure you’ve hurt anyone named Kevin recently, but this guy probably doesn’t know either. “Or widow, I should say. I don’t regret it. I’m not paying her. And she probably won’t pay you.”

You swirl your drink idly, watching him as you continue, “Hm, or is this more personal? Do you have a vendetta, Sam?”

Wide-eyed, ‘Sam’ shakes his head. “What? No.”

“Damn.” You sip your drink again. “It’s been awhile since I’ve had someone declare a vendetta.”

Sam regards you quizzically, and you can see the moment it occurs to him that you might tell him something he could actually use. It’s like a tiny light flicking on, way in the back room of a big box store.

“When was the last one?” He asks, turning his face to not be looking at you dead on, tone more coaxing. Is this supposed to be good? Is he bad at this or are your standards obscene?

“Well, it probably had something to do with that river incident.” You drawl, just wholesale making shit up now. You fully intend to claim you’ve hidden Hoffa’s body in the Hoover Dam if given half a chance. “But everyone’s heard enough about that. And you still haven’t said why you’re following me, ‘Sam.’”

“Are you someone worth following?” ‘Sam’ inquires, as though he hasn’t already tacitly admitted to being paid to follow you. You can see the twitch of his lips as he tries not to mouth ‘river incident?’ to himself.

You shrug, “Ask the Umbral Legion, or whatever they’re calling themselves these days.”

(That part, unfortunately, is true - you’ve done absolutely everything you can to avoid interacting with them or feeding into it, but some people are just cultists looking for a god. The only reason you haven’t been violent against them is because that might actually make the problem worse.)

Sam looks at you directly, an eyebrow raised, “So you are Synovus.”

Disappointment washes its way across your face. You don’t even bother looking to see if anyone heard. You do, however, glance at ‘Sam’s shoes.

“Washed out of the CIA, huh?” You ask darkly.

“I’m flattered you think I got that far.”

“I’m sure.” You take several swallows of your drink, not sipping conversationally but A) trying to drink it before it gets somehow ruined and B) figuring out where you actually want this conversation to go.

Because while Sam is terrible at his job - you considered the possibility this was a front, that he’d been trying to score a meeting with you, drawing your attention slowly, but the man was no Columbo - you don’t like killing investigative journalists. They tended to flock to their fellows’ corpses like hornets, and considered being targeted for their work the highest award possible.

(Did hornets even do that? You’d have to look it up later.)

You could just keep fucking with him, but he wasn’t even fun to banter with. Zero supervillain potential here.

“Okay.” You sigh, lowering your drink again. “You get five questions.”

‘Sam’ raised an eyebrow, “And then you, what, eat me?”

“And then I leave, and the next time I see you following me ineptly, then I eat you.” You said pleasantly. “Four questions left.”

‘Sam’ winces, his gaze darting around you. “Why aren’t you worried I’ll reveal your identity?”

You sigh, swirl what’s left of your drink, and study the name written on the cup. “Go on.” You say, dispassionately. “Tell the world my real name is ‘Aragorn.’ Maybe google it first.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s a kind of answer.” You correct, smiling tightly. If he has more than two braincells, he’ll realize you’re implying everything he knows about you is false. “Three.”

Your interviewer rolls his lips, jiggles one leg. Stops, when it shakes the table. “Why take the time to talk to me at all?”

This is a straighter shot, so you give it a straighter answer: “Bored.”

You can see he thinks that’s all he’s going to get, so you add, “I want you to know that you had an opportunity most of your colleagues would kill for, and you wasted it, because no matter what you think to ask me next, it will be nothing compared to what you’ll think of later while trying to sleep.”

“And that makes you happy.” ‘Sam’ deadpans.

You wink - but you don’t count it as a question. “Two.”

Here, you think, is the question he’ll really want answered. Leaving the big question for last means he wouldn’t have a follow-up, a way to try and trap you into information. Or maybe this will be one meant to try and unbalance you? The previous set meant to highlight his uncertainty, shots in the dark -

“Who was Loralai Weber to you?”

You seriously reconsider your policy about investigative journalists.

You may wear a helmet as much possible, but you’ve been in this game a long time, and you weren’t always allowed to cover your face. So you don’t flinch. You don’t reach for your cup to cover your mouth. You don’t do anything other than tilt your head.

And ‘Sam’ flinches.

Right, your eyes. Can’t do anything about that. Better to roll with it.

“A dead girl.” You say coldly. “Used as a prop by a rival. One.”

‘Sam’ is panicking, you can see that. Frankly, you’re a little alarmed too, that he even dug far enough to find the name Loralai Weber. You didn’t mean to imply that you’d killed her somehow, but - well, probably better that way. You do have a reputation to keep up.

You can curse your own missteps later. For now, as you start to rise, taking time to make sure all of your clothing is in order, ‘Sam’ blurts, “What happened to Athena and Legionnaire?”

You pause, standing at the table side, and smile at him. “Oh, that’s an easy one.” You drawl. “I killed them. And little Mercury too.”

‘Sam’s face turns ashen. A true believer, then? There’s no way he couldn’t have known you’d killed plenty of people, but maybe he just wasn’t expecting you to be so open about it. Ah, well, at least you can tell Minerva that people really did like her work.

“Why?” ‘Sam’ whispers, even though he has no questions left. And because you are a bewildering, benevolent creature, you give him an answer.

Leaning in, you pat him on the cheek. “Bored.”

A private investigator, was hired to spy on you. You know this because he is comically bad at his job.

#synoverse #synovus #this is not siren call 3 #but I did want to take the opportunity to write Synovus fucking with someone #siren call 3 is in progress I swear #I wrote the opening in a notebook instead of directly into my tumblr drafts and now I cannot find the notebook #‘OP your methods are unhinged�� I know #I do not control the speed at which the blorbos manifest #nor the medium in which they choose to form

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