Chapter Text
“Good shot, McCabe,” Agent Park says approvingly, and McCabe glows. It’s been a long time since anyone commended them on their sharp-shooting abilities. In fact, it’s been a long time since anyone commended them on anything. McCabe knows how good they are, and has let that simple knowledge drive them forward since graduating from the Academy. But it’s still nice to hear it from someone.
Even though they still have so many questions (and, if they’re honest with themself, a few niggling doubts) about what Agent Park went through, McCabe can’t deny that their spirits have been high since Agent Park reappeared. Everything finally feels like it’s falling back into place.
“We’ll take it from here, Officer,” Park tells the remaining, shaken, guard. She nods and departs.
“So! Krejjh Sh’Eejjhgreb,” Agent McCabe says triumphantly.
“That’s- not how Dwarnian names work, champ,” the downed Dwarnian manages.
McCabe pushes down the momentary prickle of embarrassment at the mistake. The opinion of a captured Dwarnian matters very little.
“Agent McCabe to Major General Frederick,” says McCabe. “We have incapacitated Source D with a bullet to the knee! What is our next course of action?”
“Good work,” says the Major General, clipped, and McCabe is so busy being pleased that they almost miss what she says next. “Kill them.”
“Uhh-” McCabe’s tone is light, mostly due to disbelief. They’re sure that this must be some kind of bluff, a tactic to intimidate the prisoner. They must be missing something. “Ma'am? If we kill a Dwarnian, especially the relative of a high-ranking diplomat…”
“McCabe, your duty is not to ask questions. It’s to follow orders from the ones who know more than you,” the Major General replies witheringly, and just like that, McCabe feels like a kid again, belittled and patronised. Made to feel, just like every time they had to deal with Goodman’s drawling sarcasm and his insubordination, that they didn’t really earn the position that they hold. And that everyone is just playing along until the adults get back into the room. "Are we clear?“
"We’re clear, Ma'am,” Agent Park says smoothly. Agent McCabe watches the scene unfold in front of them with a sense of unreality - feeling removed, as if they’re listening to one of the recordings from the Rumor.
“Krejjh to Br-” The Dwarnian tries to make a comm connection and fails, breaking off to cough uncontrollably. “Brian Jee…” They trail off as Park pulls out his gun and levels it at their head.
“Agent Park?” asks McCabe numbly. This isn’t happening. Park wouldn’t do this - Park is loyal to the Republic, yes, everyone knows that now, but - Park is a good man. A small, subconscious part of them was hoping that Park would take charge and get them out of this situation, talk the Major General out of executing a Dwarnian.
Instead, Park is taking charge in order to do what McCabe cannot.
“Listen. My time in Zone Z reminded me why I signed up in the first place - why we do this work.” Agent Park has his gun levelled at the Dwarnian, but he is looking McCabe straight in the eyes - urgent, as if he’s trying to communicate something important. “Keep the stakes in mind, and everything becomes simple. Stand back, McCabe.”
McCabe obediently takes several steps back, but can’t look away. They steel themself, the same way they steeled themself to take their first shot with an air rifle at the age of ten years old; the same way they steeled themself to come into work the day after Park was taken away.
Two shots ring out. The Dwarnian makes a choked-off sound, and McCabe blinks. Park doesn’t miss. Unless- the eyepatch is throwing off his depth perception…?
But then the Dwarnian winks, putting a finger to their lips, and McCabe is lost for words. They turn to Park, seeing him with completely new eyes.
“You…”
“Humankind, McCabe. That’s why we do what we do.”
“Agent Park?” McCabe asks. It feels as though they just took a step off a ledge and are free-falling into the unknown. Nothing is as it should be. Agent Park… is a traitor to the Republic.
(Agent Park… spared the life of a Dwarnian).
“Agent Park to Major General Frederick. It’s done.” Park speaks into his comm link as if nothing is amiss. And McCabe should say something, is duty-bound to say something, but… they can’t.
“Perfect! Find a handcart, and bring the body down to Lab 1008. And don’t get too close - they’re still infected with the strain H nanoswarm.”
“We’re aware, Major General. Roger that.”
McCabe watches as Park retrieves a handcart from a supply closet and begins wheeling it over. Grinning, the Dwarnian hoists themself up onto it.
Now is McCabe’s chance to do something, say something, anything - alert the Major General, alert the other agents, shoot to incapacitate Park. But for the first time in their life, they can’t make themself go for their gun.
Park wheels the handcart around, and looks at McCabe. McCabe tells themself that they will demand answers from Park before they take further action. Maybe there’s a greater plan at work here. Maybe Park isn’t disobeying orders.
“You’d better get out of here, McCabe,” says Park in an undertone. And then he wheels the handcart past. As if he knows that McCabe isn’t a threat. But it doesn’t feel like disdain - it feels like trust.
McCabe stands there and knows that they could shoot him in the back, right here, and doesn’t.
They’ll play along for now, they think, and let the insurgents think that everything is going according to plan. Then, at the opportune moment, they will strike. They always were best at taking stock of a situation from a distance. A sniper to the end.
It doesn’t occur to McCabe that by doing nothing, they might be implicated in this, too.
Or perhaps, deep down, they do know. And they still let Agent Park walk away, pushing the handcart with a Dwarnian insurgent riding along on top of it. Humming.