Chapter Text
American Secret Service HQ, 1961
Curt knew the best thing for him to do was simply to quit before Cynthia made the call for him.
It was a respectful, responsible thing to do after the mess he made, even if it meant he had to first come face to face with the devil herself. Hell, just by showing up in her office he’d probably be fired on the spot. Or more likely, murdered on the spot. Among the gunshots and poison and all manner of tests Cynthia liked to weave into her briefings, if she wanted him dead Curt would be powerless to stop it. And Curt, heavy limbed, foggy brained, sore and miserable in more ways than one, was so damn exhausted he wasn’t sure he’d protest if it actually came to pass.
“Did you kill him?”
This was a familiar scene, Curt in that same uncomfortable chair, Cynthia with that same impatient fury writ on her face, cigarette in hand. Yet her top priority was not to threaten or abuse him. Curt, who had for the past two hours been mentally preparing himself for a thorough dressing down, could only react with stunned silence before his brain caught up. Now that the dust had settled, there was only one person that Cynthia would care enough to ask after.
“He got away,” Curt admitted, decidedly not making eye contact with his (soon to be ex) boss. Curt had spent a week chasing his former partner across Europe and he’d still managed to lose the man in Russia. He braced himself for her inevitable rage.
“Oh thank God.”
Curt started, his gaze snapping to Cynthia. “What?”
“At least you didn’t completely fuck everything up again,” Cynthia continued, stabbing her cigarette laden fingers toward him even as she sagged in visible relief. “It was just as well Owen managed to salvage some of that mess you made, and we got to take out a whole Chimera compound on top of it. There’s honestly never really been any question as to who the real professional is between you two.”
“I’m sorry?” Curt’s voice was small, confused. He might have found it in himself to be a little offended if it wasn’t for the fact that he couldn’t understand what Cynthia was saying. Cynthia spoke of Owen like nothing had changed, like Owen was still a favourite agent instead of the lunatic terrorist that he’d become.
Cynthia glanced at him with a look of disgust, and then did a double take when she saw the confusion on Curt’s face. “What? Why the fuck are you looking at me like that? Did you think we didn’t already have plans about Chimera? Please.” She rolled her eyes.
“I- You knew?”
“Curt, did you think this entire agency just sat around with our collective thumbs up our asses for the past four years like you did? Of course we knew, Chimera’s just one of over a dozen groups we’ve been keeping an eye on. Which you’d have realised if that space between your ears wasn’t fucking empty.”
“But…” Curt surged to his feet and leaned forward over the desk. “I… what does Owen have to do with this? He’s a traitor, he’s working for Chime-”
“Are you- Are you seriously doing this right now?” Cynthia’s contempt shifted into wide-eyed fury right before Curt’s eyes. “Owen. Our Owen. The best damned spy this business has ever seen. A traitor?”
Something was beginning to click together in the back of Curt’s head, and his eyes grew wider and wider as he finally understood what Cynthia had been implying from the start.
“Have you never fucking heard of deep cover?”
Russian Weapons Facility, 2 days earlier
Curt's shot sent Owen’s gun clattering to the ground. And the enemy spy raised a hand to his head with an exasperated sigh.
This was Owen, his voice, his face, the shape of his long fingers, everything familiar to Curt in a way he had never known things could be before. Every day for the past four years, Owen Carvour had haunted him in dreams and in reality, on street corners and in crowds, in flickering glimpses of a love and a future Curt had sacrificed with his own recklessness and incompetence. But this man before Curt was like a monster in a mask, a mockery of all that was good and beautiful of Owen, of his Owen, all of it familiar yet completely unrecognizable at the same time.
“You know, killing me won’t take the system offline."
The same dark eyes, the same lilting accent. Curt tried desperately, in that moment, to glean anything of the man he had known, had loved, would have willingly died for. This was Owen, yet all Curt could see was simmering madness and cold calculation. The warmth, the affection, the trust, none of that existed anymore.
Here’s some advice Curt. It’s called moving on.
Curt felt like he couldn’t breathe, and he recognized this, this grief, this rage, this helplessness inside of him.
“So Curt,” Owen said, “what are you doing?”
Owen was right, Curt thought. Owen had a habit of being right. And in but a second Curt's mind was made up. "Taking your advice.”
Curt aimed and squeezed the trigger. The crack of the gunshot thundered through the air, underlined by Owen’s scream of agony as he crumpled to the ground, clutching his ear.
Even with a possible burst eardrum, Owen still reacted like lightning, his leg sweeping out at Curt’s knees just as Curt lunged forward to take Owen out for good. With a heavy thump, Curt fell, losing grip of his gun as the metal stair edge sent pain jolting through his still-healing wound. Curt choked on a scream as the world flashed white. And it was all the opportunity Owen needed to scramble to his feet and dart up the stairs.
Taking gulping breaths to bring the pain under control, Curt pushed himself up with an angry growl and clumsily gave chase.
“Give it up, Owen!" Curt shouted. "You’re not getting away with this!”
They weaved in and out of rooms and hallways, Owen always frustratingly ahead as Curt struggled to not lose him in the complex. Owen was the one who brought them here, and he knew this facility better than Curt had any hope of, taking the lead as they tore through the floors. With each step he took, Curt could feel his injury pulling in his gut. He grit his teeth against the pain, blocking out everything but the sound of Owen’s pounding footsteps, closer, then further away, always infuriatingly ahead as they wound their way higher and higher.
Above Curt, there was the screeching creak of a metal door being forced open, and a rush of wind flowed past him as Owen burst through the roof access. Seconds later, Curt leapt up the final stairs and followed him into the open.
The air was outside crisp and cold, hitting Curt like a slap to the face as he desperately looked around. He was just in time to see Owen leaping from the rooftop, and Curt’s racing heart leapt to his throat before the sound of grinding reached his ears and he caught sight of the zipline. Owen’s figure was flying across to the distant building beneath, and Curt ground his teeth in frustration as he desperately tried to find a discarded piece of debris, some rope, anything that he could use to carry himself across as well.
He wasn’t fast enough. As Curt’s gaze scoured the seemingly empty roof, there was the sound of a snapping line, and he ran for the roof’s edge.
Owen was already on the other side of the yawning gap, and the zipline between them was swinging loosely below Curt. The distance between them was an impossible jump to make.
Watching Curt from the opposite roof, Owen flipped the knife in his hand with a practiced grace, the metal glinting in the moonlight. Curt’s heart seized at the familiarity of it, Owen always was a damned show off.
“Look, it’s been a lovely diversion, this little chase of ours,” Owen announced with a spread of his arms. His voice, breathless from exertion, carried through the chill air. “But I really don’t have time for any more of this.”
“You won’t have much time for anything when I catch you, Owen,” Curt shouted. He stood frozen in anger and impotent fury, wishing for his gun, for an unspent gadget, for anything, as he glared across the divide.
“Oh,” Owen made an exaggerated face of disappointment, “it’s okay, you’ve done your best. But I do have places to be, people to kill. You know how it is, old boy.”
Curt could see the flash of that familiar crooked smile. And Curt, his heart a rebellious, weak, useless thing, caught his breath at the sight of it.
“You’re not getting away with this, Owen!” He should have just killed him, Curt thought in wild anger. He should have simply killed him, ended it all. Moved fucking on. And now Owen was slipping away again.
“Except that’s exactly what I’ll be doing, my dear,” Owen said, as he backed away from the edge. “Getting away with it. Let’s pick this up some other time, shall we? I’ll be seeing you around.”
“Owen!”
Curt screamed, lunging forward in anger. But Owen was already hopping over the opposite edge, and then, he was gone.
American Secret Service HQ
Curt had lost him, there on the roof of that Russian facility. And he had spent every hour since then hating himself for not shooting to kill, imagining the devastation that a man like Owen could cause if he remained on the loose. Curt had realised far too late that the encounter had been his best chance to kill Owen and end things for good, yet he had squandered it, wasted it, he-
“No,” Curt said, collapsing back into the chair. Unable, unwilling, not wanting to believe Cynthia’s words. If Owen had been on their side all along then why? Why the grandstanding? The torment? Why had he dragged Curt across half of Europe on that wild chase? Why risk his own life at Curt’s hand?
The answer was there, Curt could see it, could feel it, even if he couldn’t bring himself to voice it.
“But he shot me,” was the only thing Curt said, the slightest whine coloring his tone. “He tortured me.”
“Yeah, yet here you are.” Cynthia watched Curt boredly as he processed her words, looking almost disappointed. “Just imagine if he’d shot to kill instead.”
“What? No, he was about to kill me in Monte Carlo. It was Tatiana…”
Cynthia actually looked proud, her eyes crinkling as she looked into the distance. “Yeah... talk about that Russian chick. You know, that’s the distinction between a good agent, and a truly great agent. The ability to plan, to manipulate others without them even realising it. That is talent.”
Curt gaped. Was Cynthia suggesting that Owen had… expected Tatiana to betray Von Nazi? He voiced as much to Cynthia.
“Well I don’t fucking know,” she snapped. “You were the one in the room, what do you think happened?”
If Cynthia was right, then it was Owen’s intention to keep Tatiana in the room during that initial interrogation, for him to learn about the ‘little birdies’. (Well you fucking asked.) Had he wanted Von Nazi to reveal his plans to Curt? (Don’t forget about the castle.) Wanted the maniac to make a fool of himself so Tatiana would realize that she was being played? (Don’t get involved, love.)
Curt had always known Owen was good. But surely he couldn’t have- The chances of all of that was- He couldn't have predicted-
“But he was about to kill me. He did kill...”
“I’m assuming you’re not crying over dead criminals and Nazis. But, yes, well, our agent was an unfortunate loss." Cynthia said, waving her cigarette around. "I’m not happy about it, but we’ve made sacrifices before if it meant we could maintain an agent’s cover. Hell, I would have traded your life in a heartbeat if it meant keeping Owen’s cover intact.”
Curt’s expression turned blank. Cynthia glanced at him, and seemed to realize she’d perhaps gone too far.
“Curt, you’re four years out of touch, you fucked up the first mission I sent you on post-reinstatement, and completely disrespected the chain of command and caused an international diplomatic incident on top of that,” Cynthia stated, matter of fact. “In contrast, we have a deep cover operative with an exemplary record who has, for years, contributed intel about a dangerous global threat. Tell me, if you were in my place, who would you prefer to save?”
Curt lowered his head, this time, the shame was genuine. “Why didn’t you tell me?” The words slipped out unthinkingly.
“Why the fuck would I tell you, Curt? People die all the damn time in this business. The fact that you don’t know how to keep your shit together and function like a regular human being is not my responsibility,” Cynthia said. “Owen could have just as easily died for good at any time over the past four years. I’m not going to threaten his cover when you'd probably just dig yourself back to rock bottom all over again if it happened."
Curt didn't have anything to say, memories of the past four years still vivid in his mind.
“When you told me you wanted to come back I thought you’d finally figured out how to compartmentalize, that I might finally have my best agent back,” said Cynthia. “And I told you, I told you that our world has changed, that things are more dangerous, that it's different now. But still you go recklessly charging off based on two bits of evidence you don’t even understand, ignoring direct orders from people who know better than you. Ever since you’ve come back, you’ve shown me nothing but arrogance, tunnel-vision, and a complete lack of respect. And you know what Mega? I’m just about fucking done with you. I paired you up with Owen in the past because he could temper that recklessness, and hell, somehow he still managed it even while undercover.”
“What?” Curt breathed in bewilderment. He had given up on fighting Cynthia’s logic, and fuck, if what she said was all true, then he probably did deserve everything she was saying to him right now. Barb had told him, back in that elevator, that he should heed Cynthia’s orders. I need a win here, he'd said. Curt winced as he remembered his selfishness, the arrogance in his own words. Someone has to save the world and I’m pretty sure I’m the only one who can do it.
“Do you- is there- is there anything in that idiot head of yours? He laid out the entirety of Chimera’s plans and purpose to your little team just so you might choose to do something actually productive for once in your sorry life. Remember to thank him when you see him, by the way. God fucking knows when your tiny pea-brain might have pieced it all together on your own.”
Inventors, entrepreneurs, politicians.
“He-” Curt remembered then, how in under five minutes Owen had given them more information than what a week-long interrogation should have offered.
We call ourselves Chimera.
At the moment it had just seemed like the arrogant rant of a madman, showing off his plan, rubbing his smug self-superiority in Curt’s face.
An advanced Nazi information surveillance network to collect and archive state secrets.
But Owen would have known better than that, he was a spy, he was among the best. Owen knew better than anyone the value of intelligence, of how precious information is.
The largest wealth of pure unmined natural silicon the world has ever seen.
He could never have just given all of that away, not without a purpose, not without much more to gain than what others could see. Not with so many loose ends untied.
The current system is as big as an entire warehouse, nay, a compound, filled with enormous computing consoles. And it takes up an entire island in the Pacific Ocean.
God, Owen had all but literally told them what they had to do, where they had to go.
Perhaps you’ve destroyed that island facility, but what of the others?
Even in the Russian facility…? Was he…?
“Your job was only ever to retrieve the bomb, Mega,” Cynthia sighed. “If you’d had half a brain to follow your orders then we would never have had to assassinate the prince. We could have rescued him from Von Nazi, fucked over the Russians, and wouldn’t have ended up in this mess in the first place. Owen could have kept his status a secret.”
“You-”
Cynthia rolled her eyes. “Don’t fucking give me that look. You lost us an alliance and forced us into Plan B. Besides, this is international politics. Everyone fucking hated that inbred fool. They’d never say what they think, but in the end we sure did the New Democratic Repub… whatever, a service.”
“So…” Curt’s thoughts were skipping like a broken record. He’d barely slept at all this past week, had spent an entire red eye flight from Leningrad fuming and obsessing over what might happen at this meeting. But he hadn’t expected any of this. This was all too much. “If what you're saying is true. Then is Owen… still MI6? Or... is he... your agent?”
Cynthia actually smirked at that. “What, did you think I was kidding all those times I told him our door was always open?”
Curt just stared at her helplessly.
“I mean, don’t think I’m not fucking pissed at him.” Cynthia continued. “That boy had no authority to take you on the wild fucking chase that he did. But you know what? In comparison to the bullshit you pulled, I’m almost inclined to forgive him. I mean protocol aside, if you’d fucking left me to die on the floor of some filthy Russian compound, I’d come back from the dead to kill you myself. So be glad he didn’t. Kill you that is.”
It was a low blow, and Curt doubted Cynthia didn’t know it. He said nothing, not trusting his voice, not trusting his mind. How had everything become this complicated, this confusing, so fast? He thought he understood what had happened, he thought he had made sense of it all...
For a long time, Cynthia was also silent, scrutinizing him as she finished the last of her cigarette.
“You know what, Mega?” she said eventually. “I don’t even know what to fucking do with you. I let you back in because you used to be a good agent, and I thought I’d still get some use out of you, that I’d still get some of that old Curt Mega who could pull miracles out of his ass. Yet ever since you came back you’ve been acting like you’re the only man in the world who knows how to be a spy and the only one whose actions can matter. But let me tell you this, Mega. You don’t. You don’t fucking matter. You’re not the only man in the world who can get the job done and you are not the fucking messiah you like to pretend to be.”
Curt flinched. Pretending to be a hero. Owen’s condemnation echoed through Cynthia’s angry words.
“So here’s the deal.” Cynthia said, stubbing out her smoke that was starting to burn past its filter. “You’re going to fucking find Owen Carvour. And you’re going to join him.”
“What?” It seemed like the only word Curt had in him left to say. Join Owen? Join... Chimera?
“This is your fucking mess, Mega. You’re the one who risked his cover so you're going to help him finish the job. I’m sure it’ll be just like old times.”
“I- I can’t.” Curt stuttered. “He hates me.”
“So he clearly still cares about you,” Cynthia sing-songed. “Great. Use that to your advantage. I’m not here to give you lessons on how to be a spy. Figure it the fuck out.”
“Is that…” Curt almost choked. “Is that an order?”
“Order? I’m not fucking ordering you to do anything. You don’t work here anymore. Did you think you could go rogue and fuck with the World Peace Gala with zero consequences? You’re fucking fired. I don’t know shit about you infiltrating a criminal organization to bring down one of the biggest threats to freedom the world has ever seen.”
Disavowed. The implications of Cynthia's words settled around Curt's shoulders with the weight of a pillory. Though he had intended to quit when he walked into this office today, the cold brutality of Cynthia’s words still somehow felt like a stab in the back.
“Now get the fuck out of my sight. Mega. This meeting never happened.”