Chapter Text
Space is cold. Knives are sharp. The Outer Rim is dangerous. And Vespa Ilkay trusts Buddy Aurinko. Some things are just so obvious that you barely even need to spell them out.
But it’s a damn good thing that the last item on the list is so dependable right now. Because as much as Vespa believes in her Bud's judgement, she can’t understand why she has to work with him . Especially on a day like today. They’re docked on Brahma, just one planet away from Vespa’s old home, which is already making her tetchy enough. And Ransom is just the cherry on top of this fast-growing migraine.
A snarl starts in Vespa’s throat, and she slams her knuckles against the doorframe for the millionth time. “Ransom! You done yet? It’s already ten in the morning, we gotta get moving!”
“Ten? Oh my. Just… give me a few more moments, would you?” Ransom’s voice is muffled from deep inside his room, but he still sounds like an actor in some over-the-top stream. “I’m almost finished!”
“It’s been two hours,” Vespa growls. “Not even your fancy-schmancy primping could possibly take that long. And we gotta get our supplies before the rest of the team’s done with their part of the heist, which is getting closer and closer by the minute!”
The thief makes a distant sound of offense. “Primping?”
Vespa ignores him. “You’re with me today, Ransom. Buddy changed the lineup today on purpose, just to make that happen. I have no idea why she thought that was a good plan, but since she did make that call, I think you better at least try to listen to it.”
“Yes, yes, I’m coming. And if you’ll give me just two more moments, I believe I can actually help explain the captain’s rationale on… ah -ow! ” A thump sounds from inside the thief’s room.
“Ransom!” Vespa’s hands clench into fists. “The hell was that?”
“Nothing, nothing! I’m perfectly fine, I just…” A rhythmic tapping approaches the door, which swings open to reveal Ransom’s apologetic smile. Finally. He’s hiding behind even more makeup than usual today, and he’s gripping a gilded walking stick in both hands. “My cane has just been giving me some trouble. That’s all.”
“Then don’t use it, idiot.” Vespa narrows her eyes at the thief, trying to figure out what in the world could’ve taken him that long. His pastel suit is definitely way fancier than it needs to be for a ten-minute grocery run, but there’s no way it took two whole hours to get right.
“Well, you see, my… leg, has also been giving me some trouble,” Ransom admits sheepishly. “I happened to slip and twist it last night, which only aggravated my wound from back on Le Verrier, you remember…”
Oh, yes. Vespa remembers Le Verrier. She remembers a lot of gunfire. A lot of chaos swirling in her brain. A lot of blood that shouldn’t have been there, and yelling , and voices , and… Yeah. Yeah, that hadn’t been a good day for either of them.
You gave me that wound , Ransom’s voice continues, even though Vespa can see that his lips aren’t moving any more. That gunshot through my knee that could have crippled me forever. Your carelessness, your hallucinations could have destroyed me. You could have...
“Don’t you dare put that on me, goddamnit.” Vespa glares daggers through the thief, even though she wants to believe he wouldn’t blame her outright. And even though she knows he’d be right to.
“I wasn’t going to,” he protests. “I was just explaining…”
“Shut up and follow me.” Turning on her heel, Vespa marches down the corridor that leads to the Carte Blanche’s exit hatch. “So is that why Buddy told you to work with me today?”
“Ah, yes, I believe so.” The irregular taps of Ransom’s cane probably mean he’s scrambling to catch up. Good for him. “I did request a job that wouldn’t require running. Or six-inch heels,” he adds with a nervous attempt at a laugh.
“Huh.” Vespa shoves her hands in her pockets and doesn’t slow her stride. Mister Long-Legs can finally learn how he makes the normal-sized people on this ship feel.
“Don’t, don’t get me wrong, of course. I love stilettos as much as the next melodramatic master thief, and I love art heists even more. And it really is a tragedy to miss seeing Juno posing as a stuffy professor specializing in ancient Impressionistic painting techniques. Oh, if he confuses Monet and Manet just like I told him not to…”
“Yeah, you can quit the nervous babbling now.” Vespa rounds a corner and heads for the Blanche’s front door. “We stock up on food, we replenish our medical supplies, and then we’re back on the ship in an hour, just in time to sail out of here with the rest of the team. Got it?”
Ransom looks away and mutters something about wanting to spend even less time on this godforsaken planet if at all possible. Finally, something Vespa can agree with.
“All right. The shops are just a couple blocks away.” Ignoring her nerves, she grabs the door’s valves and starts undoing the latches. “Let’s go.”
As soon as Vespa wrenches open the ship’s exit hatch, she knows she’s screwed. The Carte Blanche is cold and comforting, quiet and predictable. But now, hot air rushes in and blasts onto her skin, and images of memories grab her mind in a searing grip. Falling. Radiation. The scorching Martian sun. I own you now, Vespa Ilkay, and there’s nothing you can…
“Vespa? What is it?”
She shuts her eyes, shakes her head, grits her teeth. The hallucinations clear. Now Vespa can see the cobblestones in front of her, and she jumps down onto them with much more confidence than she feels. “Nothing. Just thought the Outer Rim was supposed to be cold, is all.”
“Well, it is supposed to be,” Ransom mutters from behind her, clambering down from the Blanche onto the Brahman streets.
“Yeah? What’s that mean?” Vespa starts walking, only half-listening to the thief’s answer as she scans the neighborhood around her. Rows of shops. Graffitied walls. Bustling, carefree, working-class people. The details of the environment go a long way towards grounding her, even though the languages on the street signs remind her a little too much of home.
“This far from the sun, the Outer Rim planets are naturally frigid,” Ransom is explaining. “But this city breathes in machinery and breathes out pollution, and every laser blast raises the temperature another half degree. Yes, Brahma is a hothouse, and the temperature retention shields that once protected it are now working to boil it alive. It’s rather poetic, really, in a tragic sort of way…”
“Okay, this place is a mess. I get it. No need to write poetry about it.” Vespa shoves her hands into her pockets. “And anyway, lasers? Didn’t you hear Buddy?”
Ransom’s walking stick clatters clumsily over the cobblestones. “Hm?”
“There hasn’t been a laser fired here in two decades,” Vespa snaps, trying to jog the thief’s memory. “Not since New Kinshasa got haunted. Something like that.”
Catching up to her, Ransom squints up at the floating city on the horizon. “That’s… that’s New Kinshasa, up there.” His voice is oddly tight, and Vespa can’t tell whether that’s a statement or a question. For a chameleon like him, even tiny indicators of stress are weird, to say the least. Something’s up.
“Yeah.” She studies the thief out of the corner of her eye. “I gotta say, Ransom I don't get it. You’re an expert on this place’s messed-up meteorology , but you’re clueless about basic facts of life here?”
“I travel often, I talk to many people, I learn eclectic things.” Ransom shrugs elegantly and keeps walking, but the tight line of his shoulders stays static as he limps on his cane. “Have you ever been forced to impersonate a climate scientist while running from your life? You become an expert in strange things when a cover story requires it, and really, scientific expertise always becomes useful in the strangest of ways…”
“Babbling again,” Vespa growls. She glances over her shoulder, scanning alleys and corners for movement. But nothing is there--at least, nothing that stays if she blinks enough times. And yet, when she looks to Ransom for confirmation, his body language is just as paranoid as hers is. It doesn’t add up. Unless...
The thief huffs, pulling his jacket tighter around him. “That was barely three sentences.”
“Doesn’t matter. You’re nervous, so you’re babbling.” Vespa checks her surroundings yet again, slowing her stride. “And you’re making me nervous, too.”
“Nervous?” Ransom chuckles. But even his laugh sounds tightly controlled, and his eyes are darting just like Vespa’s. They’re the only part of him that doesn’t look vapor-locked into place. “Why would I be nervous? We’re about to reach the shops, all we need to do is pick up some supplies and head back to the ship.”
Vespa presses her lips together and stops walking altogether. “You saw something. Something is freaking you the hell out, which is making me wonder why you aren’t telling me a thing.”
Oh, Vespa, she hears Ransom reply. Are you sure you aren’t just seeing things? Hearing things? Making things up to be terrified of? Is your delay going to detain the rest of the team for no reason? Is your paranoia going to get Buddy killed?
Close eyes. Shake head. Gone.
“I’m fine,” the idiot thief is saying. “If being on Brahma is making me a bit… tense, just know that the reasons are entirely personal. And they will not interfere at all with my completing a simple shopping run. Now, can we please move on? We are on a schedule, you know.”
Vespa blinks again, but this version of Ransom is staying put. “Yeah. I guess so. Let’s go.”
Or maybe I’m actually keeping something very important from you, Not-Ransom leers from her peripheral vision. Maybe I’m leading you into a trap. Maybe it’s revenge for my leg, maybe…
She shakes her head for the millionth time, starting to feel like a dog with fleas. Gone. It’s gone, her brain is shutting up, and it’s gonna stay that way, damnit...
“So… shall we?” Ransom’s eyebrows are raised, and Vespa realizes she hasn’t started walking yet.
“Yeah. We, uh, shall .” Vespa sets her jaw and starts walking. “That shop looks like a good place for supplies. Let’s start there.”
“Sounds like an excellent idea to me,” Ransom replies automatically, mind clearly elsewhere.
“Sure.” Taking a quick breath to steady herself, Vespa pushes open the door. Cool air washes over her, and the jangling bell makes her flinch. But the shop is innocuous--small and almost cute, with trinkets on display and wide aisles of space travel supplies. Multiple exits, wide windows. Vespa almost starts to relax. “I’ll get the medical basics and stuff for Buddy to eat,” she mutters. “You grab food for the rest of us. Not too expensive, okay? And nothing too spicy, Rita doesn’t do that.”
“Yes, yes, I know.” Ransom’s voice is hurried, and his eyes are fixed on something across the store. “Nothing too expensive or spicy. It’s always the same, and you know I only made the mistake of buying that Venusian curry once...”
Vespa raises an eyebrow at him, but he walks away before she can say anything. Oh, well. She tells herself he can’t mess up anything too important on his own.
Not like you, kid. You can’t do a single goddamn thing right, and…
“Medical supplies,” she mutters, shaking her head and marching toward the right aisle. If she knows anything, she knows what it takes to keep people in one piece. Chemicals, formulas, bodies, math. So she focuses on what makes sense.
Vespa grabs a brown-paper shopping bag, and her fingers flit over the shelves like magpies. Take this, leave that, substitute these cheaper chemicals for that overpriced formula. It’s automatic, and before long, her sack is full of the clinking of glass bottles. She’s done within minutes. Next stop, nutrient packets for Buddy, and then it’s time to go find Ransom. Vespa just really, really hopes he hasn’t gotten into too much trouble yet.
When she spots a half-full shopping bag sitting alone on the shop’s tile floor, her guard flies right back up. Damnit. The thief’s been taken, or he betrayed her, or he’s running away and never coming back, or…
Or, as the case may be, he’s just standing there and staring at a rack of keychains. Huh. The light from the window slants across his face, casting his angular features into sharp contrast, and he looks as still as a statue. He’s holding something small in one reverent hand and gripping his cane tightly with the other.
Vespa walks up to him, clomping her boots loudly on the floor to let him know she’s coming. But he doesn’t seem to notice. His gaze is transfixed on a little golden image that rests in his palm, like a miniature version of those icons of saints they used to use back on Earth. It’s a picture of an angel with no face, with a knife in one hand and the entire city of New Kinshasa in the other. Underneath it in an old Cyrillic font is written one, unfamiliar word.
Squinting, Vespa tries to sound it out. “Nu… Nureyev?”
The thief flinches and whirls around, and the icon clatters to the floor. “What did you just say?” he demands, voice quiet and intense. His eyes lock onto hers, then dart away, then snap back into focus.
Frowning, Vespa steps back. “Isn’t that what the little trinket says? The one with the wings and the lasers you were holding.”
“The… the little…” Ransom’s chest is moving in tight, small breaths. “Oh. The, erm, trinket. Yes, well… apparently this character is somewhat of an urban legend around here. You can... you can find that name in any shop you’d like.” There’s something strange in his voice that Vespa doesn’t get.
“Huh.” She glances down at the golden figure, then at the discarded brown bag. “So are you gonna finish what you were doing, or what?”
“Oh, ah, of course.” A nervous smile spreads across the thief’s sharp teeth, and he bends down to pick up the icon. His cane wobbles disconcertingly as he hauls himself back up. “Sorry about that, I just… it’s such an odd legend, isn’t it?”
Vespa raises her eyebrows. “What, the ghost who showed up in New Kinshasa to haunt the rich and save the poor, then vanished into thin air? Or the fact that it actually scared the politicians enough to stop lasering people to death?”
“Well, the latter, I suppose.” Ransom hefts the bag onto his hip and surreptitiously drops the trinket into it. “It would be a bit absurd to think that something like that could even have a chance of working...”
Vespa squints at him. “Huh.”
“What?” he snaps defensively.
“Nothing, I just…” A conclusion hangs just out of reach in Vespa’s mind, and she resolves to keep it in her peripheral vision until she has time to sit down and figure out what it is. “Nothing. Come on, what do you have left? Let’s work together and get out of here.”
The two confer briefly and hurry to finish up the shopping trip. Ransom stays as focused as he can, but Vespa notices him trying to sneak a can of exotic spices, a deck of Outer Rim playing cards, and a bubbly Brahman drink into his technicolor coat. Well, that’s not her problem. If he gets caught, he’ll have to deal with it.
And then they’re at the counter and checking out, and Vespa is convinced that they’re almost home free. The cashier is cheerful and portly, and she scans the supplies fast. But then she notices Ransom’s stupid keychain and pauses. “Are you two from around here?”
Vespa glances warily at the thief, paranoia already rising in her throat, but Ransom is opening his mouth before she can stop him. “No, we’re only passing through. I just like to pick up souvenirs from every planet I stop on. For my daughters, you understand. Those three just love shiny reminders of their pa.”
The shopkeeper’s round face bursts into a grin. “Daughters? I have two sons! And I tell you what, you picked a good gift for your kids. It ain’t just a keepsake, it’s got a story behind it, too!”
Ransom’s friendly smile gets imperceptibly tighter. “Ah yes, the tales of Brahma’s Angel. I’ll be sure to tell them all about it.”
“So you know the legend!” The cashier leans forward on her elbows, pointing to the twisting font on the bottom of the trinket. “But there’s one more secret this little guy is hiding. In direct sun, the light reflects to spell out the ghost’s name--Nureyev.”
Ransom flinches. “Ah, yes, wonderful. We are a bit late, however…”
“This’ll just take a second.” The shopkeeper cups her hand over the icon, blocking the light over the intricate text. “You see, in dimmer light, the font changes to spell out the pseudonym the ghost was using when it took control of New Kinshasa. The name that thrives in the shadows, see? Just like the story says!”
The thief snatches the trinket from the shopkeeper’s hands and drops it in the bag, chuckling an airy, hearty laugh. “Wow, that’s really something! Here’s enough creds to pay for the supplies…” He swiftly slides a few bills on the counter. “And then we’d better be going. Thanks so much for the story--my girls will be so pleased!”
The cashier blinks. “I…”
“Wonderful, goodbye!” Ransom sweeps past Vespa and out the shop’s door, out onto the sweltering streets of New Kinshasa.
Vespa squints at the cashier, still groping for words for a few moments. “Ma’am? Did that… did that thing say Ransom ?”
“Uh, yes. Peter Ransom was the name chosen by the Angel of Brahma, the Ghost of New Kinshasa. Everybody around here knows that.” The shopkeeper glances at the window. “But is your friend all right? He left awfully fast.”
Ah. There’s that conclusion that was hovering just out of reach. It’s slamming into Vespa now, and she’s smacking herself for not seeing it sooner. Ransom is… aw, hell...
“Yeah, he’s fine,” Vespa manages. “Thanks for all your help, lady.” Then she turns on her heels, grips her supplies tighter, and dashes out into the street.
The thief is already just a flash of pastel colors up ahead, clutching his brown bag under one arm and limping furiously on his flashy golden cane. Peter Ransom. The legend that singlehandedly paralyzed the entirety of New Kinshasa.
...and he just tripped over his own feet. Typical.
Vespa grits her teeth and chases after him, shoving down the swirl of questions and objections and begrudging admiration in her head. Now is not the time. They have to get back to the Carte Blanche and get off this damn planet. Then maybe she can get a minute to sit down and figure this thing out.
“Wait up a minute, Ransom, not all of us have mile-long legs!”