Chapter Text
I beg my backwards son to speak
but he only responds
with silence.
The truth is
he & I share
absolutely no resemblance.
Yet I cannot help
but love him.
More & more each day.
— Bob Schofield, "Backwards Son"
— D-d-do you have any id-d-dea what they’re wwwanting you to do?
Not a clue.
This is your first mission since… well, your first in a long time. Between the headshrink-therapy (which still makes you seethe to think about), the physical therapy, and the occupational therapy, this is the first time you’ve done anything as Black Noir™ (— A Vought Corporation!, says Hayden brightly, and Hayley snickers) in about two (— Two and half, says Godfrey. — Can’t forget that coma!) two-and-a-half years.
You’re not sure if you want to keep doing it, but at this point, they own you now. And what do you have to go back to? Your parents are dead, you’ve got no partner, and your team seems to have scattered. Forward is the only direction you can go.
So here you are, following a terrified and underpaid intern through the underbelly of a Vought facility you weren’t even aware existed. You’re in your armor, and this is the first time it hasn’t felt stiff and awkward and wrong. (It’s only the armor that’s felt like that. Your helmet and mask have been on nearly 24/7 since then.)
Your briefing, if it could be called that, was… well. Brief. This is an easy assignment, Edgar had told you, while your (old)(new) friends sat around you, listening raptly. It’s meant to be easy. If it sat well with you, this could be an ongoing thing as Vought figured out what direction to take your character. (Godfrey had a few choice words to say about the fact that they were still “figuring it out,” but you ignored him. He was just being a sourpuss.) You agreed, unsure of whether or not you resented the way Edgar had phrased things.
The intern (on your right, always on your right) stops in front of a door. He hands you plastic case he’s been carrying. It’s about the size of a hardback. Curious, you open it.
There’s a plastic card, like a credit card almost, a couple of pencils, a couple of pens, and a small plastic device. All this rests on two black composition books. You look up at him.
“Keycard,” he said, pointing at it. “Swipe it. This will get you in and out of pretty much anywhere. Pens, pencils, and paper. We figured, since you--” he looks up at you and seems to reconsider. He swallows. “Uh. Anyway. Writing will work. And this,” he says, picking up the device, “This is your distress beacon. It emits a signal to disarm and open the door and emits a high-pitched sound to temporarily disable it. Sort of like a dogwhistle. Humans can’t hear it.”
You wonder if it occurred to the people in charge of this project that any sound that disabled the creature that lay behind the door (your mind is already conjuring images of dragons and demons and monsters from your childhood) would also disable you.
You decide you don’t want to know the answer.
The intern returns the device to the box.
“Good luck in there,” he says, and walks off. You raise your hand to get his attention, to ask just what it is that you’re supposed to be doing to the thing Vought is keeping locked up, but of course, he doesn’t notice, and of course, he can’t hear you. You wonder why he’s leaving instead of keeping an eye on you or letting you in.
— You r-r-ready? asks Buster, looking up at you earnestly.
Nope, you say, taking a deep breath, ready to jump at whatever’s on the other side of that door.
You swipe the card and open the door. Your jaw drops, your legs go weak, and you hear a small thup as Buster’s legs give way and his butt hits the floor. A small, eager voice pipes up.
— Is that… says Buster, not a hint of stutter in his voice. You nod silently. Even if you could speak, you wouldn't be able to.
A small boy sits on the bed. He appears to be about five or six. The light reflects off his soft, blond hair, giving him a sort of angelic corona. His eyes are impossibly blue. He’s wearing a blue jumpsuit that only makes them appear bluer in the harsh glow of the fluorescents. He’s sitting on the edge of a bed that might look more at home in a prison cell, his knees together and his hands folded neatly in his lap.
Someone has just told this little boy to be on his very best behavior. You’d recognize that position anywhere—god knows you assumed it enough times growing up. It’s so absurd that you’d laugh if you had any idea what was happening.
Despite his surroundings, despite a large armored stranger coming in his room, despite having sat like that for who knows how long, he still gives you his biggest smile. He’s missing a tooth.
“Hi!” he says, jumping up and waving. “I’m John!”