Chapter Text
“Bloody hell. What was that?” Hoxton blinks, rubbing his clammy palms over his eyes. Nightmares are normal for him, but there was something weird about this one. It’s left him sweatier than usual; one little bead is rolling down his temple right now. Pulling his weighted blanket off the floor (Wolf had bought it a few months ago), he groans and flops back onto his bed. There isn’t any heist today (as far as he can remember), so unless a raid happens, he can have a couple of moments to get back into the groove –
“Get up, Hoxitron! There’s a raid!” Wolf bangs on his door. Well. So much for that. Wolf must have been upstairs for breakfast if he’s the first to know.
“I’m coming!” Hoxton shouts, rubbing at his eyes again. Why are they so dry today?
Hoxton gets up, leaving the blanket as a big, grey mass in the middle. He can deal with it later. He walks over to the wardrobe, pulling it open to reveal several identical suits. Well, this job does have a uniform. He wonders briefly where his old suit is, but there’s no time to tarry. Dumping his silk pyjamas on the bed, he pulls on a shirt as the first shots are fired outside. Dual revolvers… must be Sangres. Pants, tie – ow, too tight – socks, shoes, vest, blazer… done. Hoxton grabs his mask off the vanity. He puts it on; it’s almost more familiar than the original mask that’s sitting on Dallas’s snivelling little brother right now - if the shit is even helping out. He always seems to disappear when you need him… and, to be fair, when you don’t.
Clover’s Enfield L85A2 (that she lovingly nicknamed the Queen’s Wrath) finds its way into his hands. There’s no time to carefully consider his guns, so he also takes his faithful Five-seven. A couple of first aid kits, his trusty shiv. That should work.
Hoxton kicks the door open, sauntering out into the living room. A medic falls dead in front of him. The impact should splash some blood on Hoxton’s shoes, but there’s only an exaggerated bloodstain on the floor. Huh. Weird.
A flash grenade falls and Jacket shoots the thing before it explodes. Usually Jacket just steps on it. Maybe he’s feeling fancy today.
“Please follow,” Jacket calls, rushing up the stairs. Hoxton follows, finding Sokol and Houston on the balcony shooting down into the living room. Money bags sit piled in Duke’s gallery.
Duke wasn’t happy about it the last time this happened. Ah well.
Hoxton stabs a taser in the neck. There’s a couple of heavy SWATs behind the kitchen island, but he’s barely been feeling the bullets. They get precise shots between the eyes. Agh, they’ve knocked someone’s coffee over.
Hoxton blinks on instinct as the sniper laser points at him. He dives under the window. His pulse throbs in his neck. A flash grenade goes. Hoxton’s not blinded, thank God. The tinnitus is just fading as he hears it. The cloaker goes down.
“Cloaker taken care of!”
“Make way for the DOZER!” There’s a bulldozer behind him. Fuck. Jacket runs up to the dozer (ha, ballsy) and empties a mag of Lion’s Roar into his faceplate. A couple of SWAT units scuttle behind him. Undoubtedly, they’re the jokers for this raid.
“Bulldozer is out of service.” Jacket throws a concussion grenade down into the living room.
“They’re retreating!” Houston shouts, having not moved from his open spot on the balcony. Weird. The fucker usually ended up under a chair or something. Or at least behind cover.[1] Wait, was he also holding a Queen’s Wrath?
Ah shit, what about that sniper? Get off your ass, Hoxton! Well, Dallas would say it that way. Maybe. He always blanks out trying to remember what people say exactly.
Jacket hip-fires out the window Hoxton is under.
“Oi, watch it, wanker!” Hoxton gets the hell out of the line of fire, killing officers as they rappel in through the window. Ugh. Weird. The smell of blood must be getting to him today.
“Marksman non-operational.” That’s not possible. What the hell? He got that sniper without using sights?
A flying helmet almost knocks Sokol on the head, but he doesn’t flinch. The Russian shoots at a shield instead.
“Shield’s history!” He shouts confidently, holding a… another Queen’s Wrath? If Hoxton didn’t know better, he’d call himself a trendsetter.
“You’ve defeated the first wave of cops!” Yeah, whatever. Thanks, Bain. Hoxton swears the bastard is laughing from his little rabbit hole somewhere.
Wait, something’s off about this. About Bain.
Eh, it’s probably nothing.
Hoxton leans on the kitchen counter for a bit, catching his breath. He checks his guns (reloaded) and his general condition (totally fine, despite some close calls). He is a bit glad that there isn’t any coffee in his system yet. He’d want to spew it back up by now.
“Cops just got here!” Houston is still in that horrible open spot. Whatever. Not his problem. The cocksucker’s doing pretty well.
Hoxton decides to hang around in the kitchen to spread out their firepower effectively. As he walks over, a couple of police units run past. Hoxton obviously shoots them first. Idiots.
“Where’d everyone go?” He wonders idly to himself as he watches the cops arrive from the kitchen window. Usually, these raids mean that whoever was home would have to help out as best they can. And he knows for a fact Wolf is here; he’d banged on his bloody bedroom door this morning.
“I’m here, and I brought drugs!” Bloody medics. Hoxton whips around and stabs the medic with his shiv. The shiv comes out clean. Weird. The medic is limp, but he’s not taking any chances. Hoxton finishes off with a couple of bullets to the head, kicking the body away.
A round of bullets gets Hoxton in the shoulder. He turns to shoot at the culprits. He swings his arm a bit, testing his injuries. The first aid kits are useless at this point; he’s feeling fine already. Apart from the prickling on his back from all the exercise, at least. But that just comes with wearing suits for work like this. Maybe Houston had the right idea with going with a stealthy approach most of the time.
Enough idling. Hoxton raises his gun, trained on the taser that just came in. He can think after this is done.
“OK, that’s the last of them. Now we need to make sure no one knows what happened here. I’m gonna make a call, hang on, guys…” Bain goes offline. Hoxton sighs. Finally, it’s over. He can get some comfier clothes on now.
Hoxton pulls his mask up, wiping his brow with his sleeve. The tension completely fades from the safehouse, with other crew members (who were conspicuously missing from the front lines) appearing in the kitchen. Chains mourns his spilt coffee. Clover is eating a bagel and getting crumbs all over the floor. And he’d heard Sangres’s guns, so why is the Mexican petting the goat like nothing happened? Whatever. Hoxton didn’t need them anyway.
Hoxton takes stock of the other three that defended just now. Sokol is chugging a coffee, his blazer dumped on a chair. Jacket is still armed and heading downstairs. Houston has disappeared for all anyone knows or cares. Back to the garage, probably. Hoxton makes to skulk back to his room and get changed when he sees an armed Dallas waving from the bottom of the stairs.
“Hox, buddy, we’ve gotta go! There’s a job we’re doing.” Really? Out of everyone else in this safehouse, he has to be the one to go? The guy who just defended the place? Unbelievable. Hoxton doesn’t bother hiding his disbelief.
“Dallas, mate, you’re working me like a donkey. You can’t get someone else to go?” Hoxton sighs, his lips pursing. He holds back a dramatic groan. Dallas looks like shit this morning; he doesn’t deserve that much attitude right now. Well, maybe he does, actually. Even when Dallas looks like shit, he looks like he came off a Paris runway. Bastard. Hoxton wishes dimly he had a fraction of that natural charisma.
“Boss’s orders. It has to be us.” Dallas climbs into the van, where Sydney and Jacket are already waiting patiently. Hoxton hadn’t noticed it earlier but Jacket is wearing a stupid-looking black sombrero. He sits next to Sydney, who doesn’t make a move to give Hoxton any extra room. She leans casually on the Brit, munching on a muesli bar. Sydney has always been casual with everyone, but she’s always been extra familiar with him. Hoxton’s never minded; in fact, it’s extremely endearing. She’s sprawled along the seat with her feet sitting behind the driver’s seat. Jacket politely moves her foot away from him. Hoxton can see the gears turning in Sydney’s blue head. Knowing her, she’d want to kick Jacket in the face.[2] But after a few seconds, she leaves it and continues chewing. Good on ya, Sydney!
They receive their briefing in the van. Hoxton has heard this all before. He’s not paying attention.
“One downtown skyway, five pounds of strategically placed C4 and impeccable timing has given us a stranded convoy of GenSec trucks. Hit them hard while they’re still disoriented. Break into the trucks and the strongboxes, and return the goodies to the escape driver.” Hoxton doesn’t respond. None of them do; but Bain probably expects it at this point. Dallas nods subtly, which Hox is sure Bain saw.
The weird feeling about Bain hasn’t gone away. Hoxton wills the feeling back down into the depths. He knows he’s paranoid; it’s probably nothing.
In a ride that is far too short to go anywhere, Twitch parks in an alleyway.
“Alright, gents and lady, get out. I’ll be back when Bain calls me.” Twitch takes out a DS, placing it lovingly into the cup holder next to him.[3]
Dallas nods, masking up. Everyone else follows suit except for Jacket, who adjusts his sombrero awkwardly. Hoxton notices they all have Queen’s Wrath rifles, except for Jacket who brought a Remington 700. Now, how’d he get that in the two minutes before everyone had to leave? Bain talks again, snapping Hoxton out of it.
“C4 is in place. Just need to press this button and…” Boom! Looks like their cue to get out. As Hoxton stumbles out and shuts the van door, Twitch speeds off like he’s immortal. The heat hits the hapless Brit, enveloping him like a granny’s stifling hug. Twitch was running polar temperatures in that van. Hoxton’s sure he’s ready, but double checks he’s got everything. Guns loaded, first aid on hand… yeah, he’s good. He jogs a little faster to catch up to his crew. He really wants to wipe his forehead. His face is sweaty just from being outside already, and deep in his shrivelled little heart he knows it’s going to get worse.
“Hot damn! Three trucks are pulled over. Their crews are on the street. Hit them hard!” Bain doesn’t need to say that twice. Christ almighty. They’ve done this so many times before. Weren’t they done with this?
Hoxton feels like this is a bad time to question it. Later, then.
As the crew rushes down the stairs, Hoxton picks up the faint sound of electronic music. It sounds weird for some reason, but he’s got no time to ponder it. There are vans that need drilling! Jacket runs ahead, a large bag on his back. Hoxton pays it no mind; he’s always been a bit of a wild card. At least he comes when called. Sometimes.
“Oi Jacket, I’ll back you up!” Hoxton feels like an idiot for saying it already. He shoots down the street at cops sneaking up on the other heister. He runs towards Jacket. It’ll be easier to help defend if he’s closer.
Jacket, installing a drill, calls his name in acknowledgement. A cop shoots the occupied heister in the face. Jacket smacks him with a golden spoon, setting the poor bastard on fire. Hoxton doesn’t question it. It never gets him anywhere. Gage keeps shipping in weirder and weirder weapons, anyway. It’s probably one of those.
“Gh, bastard.” Hoxton hears the grumble of a strange voice inside his head. It sounds like when Bain talks through the earpiece, but this clearly isn’t their handler or someone he knows.
Jacket moves to install another drill. He’ll need backup. Hoxton moves away from his spot, watching for cops running down the street towards them. A couple of bullets graze him, but it’s only a short searing pain before everything’s fine again. Hoxton’s suit is fine as well, somehow. There are shouts. No matter, then. Time to keep shooting. Dallas and Sydney have his back covered while Jacket’s busy.
“Shield down!” There’s Dallas.
“Alright, ramblers. Let’s get rambling!” There’s Bain.
“Achoo! Sniper!” And… there’s Sydney.
The music is really getting to Hoxton now. As if matching the circumstances, it gets more intense. He’s not sure if that’s his blood pumping or just drums in his ears.
Who picked this background music? Bain’s never done this for them.
An enemy sniper round goes. Damn, that’s loud. They’ve got earpieces but no fucking earplugs?
“Shit, there’s a sniper!” The weird voice is back. “Where is he? I’ve got dozers to deal with here!” Hoxton dives behind a car. He needs to see what’s happening with his team. Jacket’s got a couple of dozers hot on his tail. As well as a bunch of police officers. Hoxton’s grip tightens. Is Bain hearing this? Is anyone? Nobody’s reacting. Hoxton is going fucking crazy.
“Bulldozer is non-operational.” Jacket’s gotten the dozers off him, but nobody’s eliminated the snipers yet. Jacket’s aiming up, searching. Hoxton shoots down several heavy SWATs sneaking up on the Floridian.
Another sniper round goes off. Jacket goes down. Hoxton could shout and encourage him to fight harder (he’s done it many times before), but with all the cops and their guns trained on the both of them, Jacket’s better off on the ground for now. Hoxton moves towards the building, using the pillar as cover to take out the enforcers surrounding the other heister.
Like flies to dog shit.
Jacket is still trying to find the sniper. He shoots once before his arm shakes and collapses.
“Ah, there you are, bastard! At least there’s only one of you on the map,” says the weird voice. Hoxton almost groaned. He’s sweating like a pig and now he’s hearing voices. He’s got heatstroke or something, for sure. It’s all Bain’s fault, for sure. As Locke would say. For sure. Where is that old coot anyway?
“Sydney! Anyone, save me, dammit! I’m on the ground here!” The weird voice is desperate and frustrated.
“Please assist,” says Jacket. He’s bleeding out badly.
Blimey, Jacket’s possessed. Or someone’s playing an elaborate joke using Hoxton’s earpiece.
“Get off your arse!” Hoxton shouts, inspiring Jacket to get back up like nothing’s wrong. He runs into cover, shooting some SWAT units before hurriedly placing and using a first aid kit.
“Oh, thank god. I thought Hox would stand there forever and leave me to die! He’s done that before,” says the weird voice.[4] Jacket gets up and runs towards the trucks to finally get that last drill on.
Sydney and Dallas are running around aimlessly, which lets the cops get the drills. Hoxton sighs behind his mask, which he regrets immediately because it makes his face warmer. He’ll need to restart those drills after the assault ends.
Jacket (or whatever is possessing him) has terrible aim with the sniper rifle. Granted, normally these cops would be passed out from a bullet to the throat. Hoxton hears the quiet grumbling as Jacket struggles.
“What’s wrong with you lot today?” Hoxton asks nobody in particular. He can consider weird later. First, money.
Hoxton runs to the closest truck, ready to fix the drill. He hears the whir of the taser too late. Searing pain stops him short. His gun almost drops from his spasming hands. His eyes shift focus, leaving Hoxton off-kilter.
“Ci vediamo all’inferno.” Jacket kills the taser easily. He throws a concussion grenade to help thin out the cops gathered around the trucks and being general nuisances.
Hoxton would usually feel lingering pain from the taser, but it’s fine now somehow. It was like a switch; suddenly he was right as rain. As Jacket continues shooting, Hoxton sees an opportunity. He fixes the drill, then shoots near the next truck to clear a path forward.
Jacket runs ahead, getting a medic with his spoon. There’s thirty seconds left on the drill Hoxton is in front of. He doesn’t want Jacket to go down again, but he’s also worried about Dallas and Sydney, who are much less coordinated than they usually are. They seem to be OK enough to heist, at least; Hoxton can ask what’s up when they get out of this alive.
Fifteen seconds left. Hoxton shoots a medic.
Ten seconds left. Hoxton shoots a cloaker sneaking up on Jacket.
Five seconds left. Hoxton shoots a cop going for the drill.
It’s open.
Jacket seems to be defending the other GenSec truck. Considering Bain only wants five bags at least, they can just get the five from two trucks and get out. There’s no need to get more, especially because Dallas and Sydney are off their game. Hoxton himself isn’t doing better. Either he’s crazy or Jacket’s possessed and even with Hoxton’s pride he’d rather be crazy in this case.
Hoxton hops in the truck, his lockpick in hand.
“Well done, gentlemen! Nice lot of cash.” Bain congratulates the crew briefly before going offline. Hoxton doesn’t mind. It gives him time to think. The music’s faded as well as that obnoxious voice, leaving peace and quiet in his mind.
Everyone is tired after the heist, letting a comfortable silence fill the escape van. Hoxton is the only one who’s uncomfortable. There are so many questions he wants to ask his crewmates, but he can’t bring himself to say anything.
What’s that weird voice, and are they possessing Jacket? Jacket’s been doing things very out of character for him. Whether that’s shooting a flash grenade or being able to get a sniper by hip-firing, these aren’t normal things the Floridian can do. The voice speaks as if they experience what Jacket’s experiencing. How long has that voice been there, anyway? They knew too much about what was going on to be a recent addition. Is it someone who’s stalked the gang and CRIME.NET, like Locke? If so, how did they make it so only Hoxton could hear them? Not even Jacket, the person they seemed to be possessing, could hear them. They didn’t seem to be aware that Hoxton could hear them, either. Hoxton decides to get the conspiracy corkboard out and look for leads. If he can find any, that is; he’s feeling pretty stumped already.
Why is hearing Bain’s voice so unsettling? Bain’s been a staple of his life in the Payday gang, so why does it feel so wrong to hear his voice? Hoxton tries to remember current affairs but finds a dull headache clouding his thoughts. Why can’t he remember? He remembers Locke joining, then Bain… what happened to Bain? Did Bain betray them? Did Bain just leave?
Ow. Maybe Hoxton can think about it later. He massages his temple lightly, emptying his mind. As soon as it came, the headache went away. OK. Not a good time to think about that topic then. He resumes.
What is wrong with everyone today? Firstly, there were only four heisters defending the safehouse, despite there being more than that around to help. And, instead of the rotations they used to give everyone sufficient rest, two of the heisters defending the safehouse had to go straight on another heist. And on both heists, everyone other than himself was acting shockingly out of character. First was Houston who didn’t mind open spaces, then Dallas and Sydney who weren’t paying attention to the drills and let them break. And speaking of which, neither of them helped pick the locks or pick up the bags. Hoxton and Jacket did it all themselves. At least these two didn’t go down at all. In any case, is there something in the water that’s making everything weird? Or is Hoxton the one going crazy?
Hoxton sighs. The second he says any of these things he’s going to sound like a bona fide wanker. He keeps his mouth shut. Maybe he just needs breakfast and a shower and it will all be over.
It is not over. The safehouse has been dead quiet, everyone’s been standing like robots and Hoxton has an empty corkboard in front of him. Aldstone’s been walking around talking to himself like he has dementia. Bloody hell. Something’s definitely up.
Hoxton hears a whack from downstairs. Jimmy makes a non-committal noise. Hoxton is tempted to stick a pin through Jacket’s face on the photo he’s holding. His self-control somehow wins the fight. Hoxton pats himself on the back for his restraint but stabs himself with the pin while doing it.
As Hoxton is pulling the pin out of his suit jacket, Jacket punches one of the glass walls and walks in casually, fully armed. Dallas is gonna flip, for sure – oh?
Dallas doesn’t react at all. Jacket’s not even injured. He just walks up to Dallas and punches him.
“That fucking Dentist. We should never have gotten involved with him,” says Dallas, mouth and face unmoving.
What the fuck?
Jacket walks past, into Clover’s office. Hoxton expects her to chase him out with a broom, but…
She doesn’t respond either.
Jacket plays around with the cameras. Clover stands by, completely oblivious.
"What do you say? Fuckin' lovely eh?" Clover’s face is frozen as well.
What about this is lovely? Fucking nothing! Hoxton huffs, turning back to his empty corkboard. Normally a good drink and sleep would fix everything, but things have been weird for all of today. They’ve been even weirder after the voice possessing Jacket showed up.
Wait. If the voice could hear and see what was happening, and Hoxton could hear the voice… Maybe they could communicate?
Jacket’s leaving. Now’s his chance.
“Hey, Jacket. We need to talk.” Hoxton turns around, carefully grabbing the other man by the shoulder. Even docile, Jacket’s still armed right now.
Jacket looks at him owlishly.
“Uh… is Hoxton talking to me?” The weird voice responds instead of his crewmate. Hoxton wants to say something, but the voice continues instead.
“I would think that Overkill added new lines in an update, but they’re lazy and they paid Pete Gold for that Hoxton Christmas single already.” The voice giggles. “I’m hearing things.”
Wait, how does the voice know about the Christmas singles? Only Bain, Dallas, Wolf and Houston (wanker) knew about it existing in the first place. The fresh CDs are nestled in the Christmas cards ready to get sent out once it rolls around. The voice knows more about them than the man they’re possessing does. If this voice is an enemy, they’re all fucked.
Jacket walks off.
“Hey, wanker, I’m talking to you!” Hoxton shouts, knowing that nobody else will respond.
Jacket pauses.
“Oh god, I’m not hearing things,” the voice whispers.
Jacket walks back, standing a respectful distance away. He nods.
“So, Hox. You hear me?” asks the voice, stating the obvious.
“No shit I hear you, arsehole. Who are you, and what do you want? You’re ruining my fucking day!” Hoxton growls, pinching the bridge of his nose. He’s had no sleep, he’s had no food, he’s tired – look. Nobody can blame him for losing his temper.
“Hey, man. Chill. I’m just as weirded out by this as you are,” says the voice, not sounding particularly weirded out at all. “Um… consider me a god or something like that. And I’ve accidentally granted you divine favour. So you’re the only one who can hear me. This world is nothing but a plaything. And I can do (almost) anything I want! Congratulations!” The voice sounded more and more confident, which means it’s probably bullshit. Hoxton can’t think of any better explanation, however, so he’ll have to take this for now. The more he thinks about it, the more it makes sense. His friends are weird. The weird god is playing with them! And of course the weird god knows things; they’re a god! It really does make sense.
The voice clears their throat. Hoxton realises he hasn’t responded.
“If I’m the one with divine favour, then why are you possessing Jacket?”
The voice laughs heartily.
“Hozza, you crazy fiend. I had to commit one count of digital smuggling to pl – possess the funny chicken man.” Well, that is one way to describe him. “I can possess anyone I want. I’m a god, you know! But still, Jacket’s funny.”
Hoxton mulls over this for a bit. He blurts out a question.
“Could you possess me then?” He regrets asking this immediately. He hopes this doesn’t happen, ever.
Bloody hell, what’s going on inside Jacket’s head? Is he still conscious, acting out something he doesn’t want to do? Is he suffering or is the possession letting his consciousness sleep peacefully?
“Yeah, nah. It’s not gonna be fun because you’re actually smart on heists. Plus, why not just leave you with the burden of knowing? I think it’s more interesting that way. Possession would just be a reprieve you don’t deserve!” The voice cackles. The voice is an asshole. The possession of Jacket is somewhat fitting.
Hoxton frowns, but it looks more like a pout.
“What do I get from this divine favour, then? An asshole who follows me around by possessing my crew then acts like a dickhead?”
“Well – “
“And on top of that, anytime you’re here, my mates – my crewmates – act like fucking robots!”
The voice is silent for a moment. Jacket turns away slightly.
“Look. I’m going to leave soon. I think the crew should be back to normal when I’m not here.” Jacket turns back to face Hoxton. “I’m hoping I can actually help you. Being a god, it’s hard to not break your little brain. But we’ll work it out, OK?”
Hoxton considers this. Yeah, that’s fair. Probably. Hoxton’s never considered anything like this in his life.
“Anyway, I’ll see you later. Rest up, Hox!” The voice leaves, and Hoxton can see this happening. Jacket’s eyes light back up. He looks down at his guns, blinking slowly. Then, he looks up, staring at Hoxton. Hoxton, still dumbfounded, doesn’t say anything. Jacket walks off casually, like all of that shit didn’t just happen. That Kentucky-fried chicken nugget bastard. Hoxton is not suffering through this alone.
“My office!” Dallas shouts, making Hoxton whip his head around. “I’ll have to get this glass fixed again. God forbid you have anything nice in this safe house.”[5] He sits down in his chair, huffing.
Hoxton turns to see his butler with a dustpan.
“Aldstone, get that glass replaced, will you?”
Aldstone bows.
“Of course, Master Hoxworth. This is hardly an appropriate decoration for this office as it is.” He starts sweeping the shards, taking care to get every last bit.
Hoxton turns back to his corkboard. It’s time to piece together the true identity of this… “god”. As he’s writing down notes to pin up, a thought slithers into his mind.
Wait, who the fuck is Pete Gold?
Man, I’m hungry. It’s 8pm already. I always lose track of time when I play Payday.
I get up, but I feel like there’s one more thing I can do in the game. I sit back down. Now watch as I stay here for at least another twenty minutes.
Hoxton’s been a smart lad recently. These last two heists, he’s been doing some good work. I didn’t think he was any different in the safe house raid, but damn. He helped pick locks; he helped carry bags. He’s coming on every heist.
And of course, the big bonus is that we can talk to each other! I feel bad for breaking his little brain, but the funny Brit is funny to tease. There’s some weird stuff going on, sure, but I’m going to enjoy this little play for as long as it lasts.
It’s not like he can punch me through the screen, can he?
Hoxton huffs. He’s not getting anywhere. The corkboard is filled with scribbles and scraps with one photo of Jacket right in the middle. (It’s been doodled on, giving Jacket glasses and a moustache. Hoxton couldn’t resist it.) But there’s nothing he can add without making shit up. He decides that a conversation with Jacket is in order. It probably won’t go anywhere, but if anything works, that’d be it. There are no other leads. Hoxton can’t leave this alone. It’s eating at him, just like the Rat had. Call Hoxton a block of Red Leicester, because this happens too damn much.
Getting up, Hoxton slicks back the stray baby hairs that have fallen on his forehead. He glances over to his right. Dallas is taking a dad nap at his desk. As Hoxton exits to head down the steps, he catches a glimpse of Clover buttering a cracker. Everything is fair and normal without that voice around.
As he nods to Chains and Sangres on the couch on the way to the basement, Hoxton’s mind presents him with something. Dallas said something just now. Something about the Dentist.
The Dentist is a figure who helped the gang get him out of jail. They haven’t had contact with the man after the job at the Golden Grin Casino and delivered that weird box to him. Wait. They’ve seen him after that and –
He stops in front of the workshop. How could he have forgotten this?
The Dentist. Bain. Bain’s gone. The Dentist took him.
He’d seen them on that screen in Henry’s Rock.
Hoxton steps forward. He needs to sit down.
Dallas had been entranced, even with the bullets whizzing by. Hoxton had covered the idiot’s ass, cursing him, but then he had turned to look too.
One foot falls in front of the other. His balance fumbles with each step.
They had wondered for so long. Where he’d gone. If he was still alive. Bain was the glue holding the gang together, after all.
He’s on the floor. He needs it. Everything’s spiralling.
They had been floundering without their handler, even under Locke. Hoxton had seen the decline in all of his crewmates. For once, there had been hope. They just needed to find where Bain was. They would find him alive, right?
The carpet itches. Hoxton rolls over. The lights above him are too bright; he’s breathing heavily.
Jiro had let out a cry. Then Hoxton suddenly saw what he was seeing; a young man with the same cool and collected expression as what the Japanese heister usually wore. But there was nothing behind those eyes. They had found Jiro’s son. But he’d been with one of their greatest enemies this whole time.
A droplet of sweat rolls down his temple. Hoxton squints.
Hoxton hadn’t registered the gravity of it. He’d been too preoccupied.
They need to make the Dentist pay. They need to get Bain back!
Hoxton sits up. Everything’s too bright. He looks down, wiping off the sweat on his forehead.
How could he forget all of this? How could he forget any of this?
Alright. Breathe in… out… in… out…
So, Bain’s been missing. And Hoxton’s been hearing his voice today on the heists like everything’s normal. But why – no. Alright. Let’s consider that later. He needs to talk to Jacket first.
“Alright, chicken boy. Let’s have a chat.”
Jacket barely looks up, kicking Matt Roscoe off the couch so Hoxton can sit down. After breaking the traitorous getaway driver (also Hoxton’s former cellmate) out along with himself, Hoxton let Jacket do whatever he wanted with the wanker. Might as well use him as entertainment after all that trouble. Hoxton takes the offer, kicking Matt’s head once before taking a seat. Jacket joins him after a swift tap on the back of the driver’s shins.
“Hello, Hoxton. How can I help you today? ” Jacket offers Hoxton a drink whose label he can’t decipher, which he declines.[6] The Floridian takes a swig. Hoxton sighs, staring at Jacket’s tape collection. Best to be straightforward; silver-tonguing isn’t worth it with his crew.
“Look, summat you’re hiding from us?” Hoxton turns to his left, studying the other heister. Jacket pauses at the question. The man was usually still, but he had downright turned to stone now. Jacket doesn’t look at Hoxton as he presses a button on the tape recorder.
“Non.” What a conveniently simple answer. And, deep inside of Hoxton’s shrivelled heart, he could believe it. The long years with the gang after his incarceration had convinced Hoxton that they wouldn’t betray him again… but that’s not the issue here.
Hoxton likes information. It’s the thing that let him take revenge on that rat. It will be the thing stopping anyone else from cornering him or the gang ever again. If he has to squeeze it out of anyone, he’ll do it.
Even if they’re his friends and allies.
“You’ve been weird today. What do you remember? You can tell me anything you want.” Hoxton is intentionally vague. Leading questions don’t get you accurate answers. Jacket has to give everything up on his own for any of this to have value. Unfortunately, talking to Jacket is like talking to a brick wall or a misbehaving child.
“Attendez, s’il vous plaît. I do not understand. No. No. No.” Jacket genuinely looks confused, but Hoxton’s guessing from the minute furrow of the brows as Jacket avoids his gaze. A couple of seconds go by. Hoxton can hear Sokol hitting pucks right behind them. Jacket fumbles with the recorder a bit before continuing. “Warte. Sorry. I forgot.” Jacket gestures to the freshly polished gun on the table. Hoxton can’t tell what it is. It’s not that important. He doesn’t get up.
“The gun? You had a different one… before.” Hoxton glances over again. He’d really like a drink right now. Swallowing is getting painful. Maybe he’ll get one in the kitchen after talking to Jacket.
“A good chef should always be prepared. Mise en place. Did you know that Murphy's law is an adage or epigram that is typically stated as: “Anything that can go wrong will go wrong”?
“Something went wrong? What fucking thing went wrong, arsehole?” And he’s lost his temper already. Whatever. He’ll keep going. Hoxton internally curses himself. Jacket has a talent for being impossible to deal with or understand. Stringing together exactly what he means is more of a task for Dallas, Sydney… or fuck, even Sokol would have an easier time.
“An exclusive deal, just for you! Did you know that dementia is a disorder which manifests as a set of related symptoms, which usually surfaces when the brain is damaged by injury or disease?” Jacket smirks a little at that. Sometimes Hoxton wonders if not noticing Jacket’s expressions would be better or worse for dealing with the mute heister. Maybe both. What’s so funny to him?
“You are far too fucking young to have dementia.”
Jacket points at him, his gaze telling Hoxton exactly what the other heister had meant. There was no need to deploy the tape recorder for this one.
“Oh, fuck right off. Get Kentucky-fried, you twit.”
Hoxton gets up, stepping over a screaming Matt. He storms out, not even bothering to look at Jacket. He wouldn’t hold it against him, anyway. He’d never cared enough.
Striding past the stairs to the garage, Hoxton considers his next move. He’s stepping closer to that place now, and one thought passes through his mind.
Wolf.
Wolf’s been what most people would call a best friend to Hoxton, but Hoxton himself would rather call him a brother-in-arms and leave it at that. They’ve been confidants (wow, what a prissy-sounding word) since the early days back when it was just the four of them, so they know each other much better than two pods in a pea.
And of course, Hoxton doesn’t want to suffer this ordeal alone. This mysterious voice is able to just fuck up his world so easily and with no remorse. Maybe telling someone means they could work together to get to the bottom of this. And if it’s Wolfie…
Hoxton’s already at the front of Wolf’s workshop. The Swede is preoccupied with fixing a turret, not noticing the figure in the doorway.
No. Wolf doesn’t need to know. He can’t do that to him. Not when Hoxton’s the only one who can do anything when the voice is around without looking and sounding like a robot. What would Wolf think in this situation and knowing about the voice’s power? If he can’t do anything about the voice, then would Hoxton just be burdening his closest friend for no reason? Is Hoxton’s own peace of mind worth wrecking that of his friend’s?
It isn’t. Of course not. Hoxton’s not a good man, but this is not something even he wants to do.
He walks away silently up the stairs. Wolf doesn’t even turn around.
“Hold on, little brother. We’ll get you fixed up in no time. Just… stay with me, alright?”
Locke had sent Dallas, Houston, Jiro and Hoxton out on a hunt for information at a Murkywater warehouse, and they had come away with a server that Joy was ready to help decrypt, as well as a few other goodies. Duke had reserved the right to any paintings for his own personal collection, and Jiro had uncovered what was (apparently) an original Vermeer.[7]
Houston, that fucking idiot, had gone and hurt himself just as they were getting the server they needed. Some stealth expert he was. Wanker. He’d been trying to sneak into the camera room to get the server with (possibly) some information the gang might need.
Houston had shot. He had missed.
The Murky guard inside had not.
Because they were going in the stealthy way, of course none of them wore armour.
Houston’s right shoulder was gone. It wasn’t his life, but it was his livelihood. He tried to raise his gun, but his grip was too weak…
And Dallas shot the Murky between the eyes.
Hoxton had swept in to take the server while Dallas was gingerly holding his younger brother and helping him to the escape van. Jiro had placed down an ECM jammer to aid their exit.
Now, Houston is lying across Dallas’s lap, breathing shallowly. His face is pale, clearly visible even in the darkness of the van. His eyes are barely open, glassy and unfocused. The wound had been bandaged, but that arm hangs limp, fingers brushing the floor of the van. While Hoxton is familiar with the microexpressions of pain the other heister sometimes shows - a quick twitch of the brows or a slightly deeper purse of the lips - what must be excruciating pain is showing very plainly now. Knitted brows and gritted teeth would be normal on most others (except for Jacket, maybe), but here it’s… unsettling.
“Am I… gonna be OK, Nate?” Houston’s fighting, that’s for sure. Hoxton’s pleasantly surprised. …What? He doesn’t want the motherfucker to die!
“Yeah, you’ll be just fine, buddy.” Dallas says, barely more than a whisper, but everyone hears it over the noise of the road.
Hoxton can’t look at Dallas’s face.
“Alright Hox, boss’s orders. We need you on this heist.” Twitch looks behind at the grumpy heister.
“You’re fucking joking.”
“Nope, get out.”
And so, Hoxton finds himself in broad daylight standing in front of a jewellery store.
Of course, Jacket’s there. And so are Wick and Chains, who are casually smoking cigarettes. They ignore him. Bastards.
“What do you want me to do now, fuckface?” He turns to Jacket, knowing that damn voice is here.
“Hey, Hox! I’m gonna quietly steal a tiara. You can hang out here if you want!” Jacket wiggles around, his blank face not matching with the voice’s jovial tone. Hoxton finds it a little funny. Wait, he’s supposed to be pissed off. He feels his face harden.
“No way. I’m coming with you.” This is the perfect opportunity for Hoxton to observe the voice in action during stealth. There must be more clues he can get.
Taking a quick glance around, Hoxton notes a couple of cops munching on hot dogs down the street. As long as they stay over there they won’t be much trouble.
Jacket walks down the alleyway next to the Precious Things store, strolling behind a shitbox car. There is always a certain stink to DC that Hoxton never liked much, even near high-end stores like these. Today, he doesn’t smell anything. Maybe this is the moment he’s been dreading for years: the moment he gets used enough to DC to not notice the stink. He really really needs to move.
“Allons-y.” Jacket masks up as a guard is rounding the corner. He crouches down before the guard notices him. Hoxton hangs around the dumpster, aware that civvies are still walking around behind him. There’s no point masking up yet; Jacket’s got it covered. Well, the voice controlling him does.
The guard drops at his feet.
“Psst, mask up behind the bin and answer the pager! I’ll get the other guard behind the shop.” Jacket crab walks out from behind the car, casually shooting his Locomotive shotgun and jumping forward to answer that guard’s pager.
“Hey, dispatch checking in, what's your status? Everything fine down there?”
“Ah, shite. Ok. Here goes nothing.” Hoxton masks up, crouching behind the dumpster as the voice directed. He picks up the pager. “Uh, I'm good except that I definitely need to ease up on the coffee. I'm vibrating over here.”
“OK, everything checks out.” All clear. Hoxton bags the body, binning it. Thankfully nobody had walked past while that was happening.
“Hox, I’m about to get the camera guard. Can you break into the other office and restrain the civvies? There aren’t any more guards after this one, don’t worry!” Hoxton doesn’t have the spoons to ask how the voice knows this. They’re a so-called “god” after all. He picks the lock on the window, jumping inside. The civilians take a second to register he’s even there. Absolute idiots.
“Everybody get the fuck down.” The woman gets down. The man hasn’t gotten down in the 0.2 seconds that the heister has generously given him. Hoxton strikes the man with the butt of his gun. “Down!” The man, smartly, gets down.
“- please contact us during normal business hours. Thank you.” Jacket’s finishing up with answering the pager.
“What? Who is this? If you call this number again, I will get my husband to call the police!” Blimey. Hoxton thanks whatever higher power is watching over him (other than the voice) that the pager operator can’t hear them.
“Ah, great great great. Just a second.”
“Hehe. I always like saying that.”
Hoxton idly wonders how much shit the pager operator normally goes through to think any of this is OK. He doesn’t have time to think about this, actually. He gets up, directing the civilians behind the desk so they’re hidden from view for anyone in the hall. Apparently they’re all shit-faced because none of them can walk a straight line properly.
Jacket walks in, setting up a drill practically instantly. Hoxton looks up at him, finally noticing the Titan safe.
“And now… we wait,” says the voice.
“For what?” asks Hoxton. Jacket turns around and goes into the other room. He faintly hears the drill going in there too. There’s two safes, then.
“We’re waiting for a tiara. It’s in one of these safes. Vlad wants it to ruin a wedding, yada yada yada.” The voice sighs as the drill jams and Hoxton hears Jacket hit the thing to get it running again.
“I was meaning to ask you about that, actually. All I know is that I got dropped off on another fucking heist I didn’t get briefed on by anyone.” Hoxton spots a package under the desk that looks like the ones that Gage wants. He picks it up. “Why does no one ever tell me what the fuck is going on?”
“Twitch just kicked you out?” Hey, why are they incredulous? Aren’t they a “god”? Shouldn’t they know everything? The hostage behind Hoxton whimpers.
“You got something to say? Don’t!” Hoxton holds himself back from kicking the idiot. He’s not that angry yet. He resumes the conversation with the voice. “Yeah, I got kicked out. You find that funny or summat?”
“Well, shit. That’s fucking hilarious, sorry mate.” The voice chose the right vessel with Jacket. Hoxton feels like things would have been more disastrous if Dallas had been chosen instead.
The drill he’s watching jams, so he tries to hit it to no avail. Hoxton feels like an idiot, now he has to fix it the old fashioned way.
“You said that Vlad wanted this piece of shite tiara right, er… look I’m calling you fuckface because you don’t have a name.”
“I have a name.” Jacket is jumping up and down trying to punch a lamp.
“No you don’t, fuckface.”
The drill goes again just as Jacket breaks the lamp. He runs to fix it. A second passes.
“OK.” The voice doesn’t seem inclined to argue. That suits Hoxton just fine.
They don’t talk for a bit. That gives Hoxton time to think. Something’s really been bothering him. The tiara. He knows about a job with a tiara. And that’s a problem. Unless Vlad is having the same problem once again, there’s no way this job would happen twice.
The drill breaks. Hoxton doesn’t even bother trying to hit it this time. He fixes it. He then decides to amuse himself by punching the Precious Things posters and watching them fall to the ground. Hah. Hilarious.
Wait.
There’s a really important detail about this tiara job that’s making it worse and worse by the minute.
“Fuckface. This job happened while I was in jail. Why am I here?” Dallas has talked about it before, after the first time Hoxton met Vlad at a party in the old safe house. Of course Hoxton wouldn’t forget one of the very first jobs the gang had done without him. He’d been mildly interested then, in the man who had helped the gang crawl back out of obscurity.
“That it di – well. I mean, Vlad just happens to have another guy whose wedding he wants to ruin by stealing his fiancée’s tiara. This is a different Ukrainian Job.” Hoxton’s gut is telling him not to accept this answer. His gut’s been right about not having that last cup of tea and not stealing Houston’s mug by accident before.[8] He should probably trust it.
“You’re not being convincing.”
The voice doesn’t respond. Looks like he’ll have to think things through himself.
Hoxton notices a gasp, turning to see a civilian who had walked in and seen everything.
“Get down on the fucking ground!” With the civilian down, Hoxton zip-ties them and takes them behind the desk where the other hostages are. He huffs. “This is like a bad dream. Heisting overtime, some fucking voice messing with me,” Hoxton punctuates this with a swift kick to the computer monitor, “all my friends are fucking weird and nothing makes a lick of fucking sense!”
Wait, that may be it.
“It really is all a bad dream.” Hoxton laughs. “I’m just asleep in my bed somewhere.” But why has the dream gone on for so long? Why can’t he remember the time before he fell asleep?
“Are you sure about that?” Hoxton doesn’t want to consider the implications of how genuinely questioning the voice’s tone is. But he wants to be sure. So he is.
“Yeah, I’m sure.” Hoxton says that, but he’s looking back on things now. It took him so long to remember that Bain went missing. And he still can’t remember exactly what happened after that either. It still hurts trying to recall. Is he in a coma or something?
He thinks about asking the voice for help, but what’s the point if they’re in the dream too? That’s just his own consciousness then, isn’t it?
The safe opens. The tiara is in there.
“Alright. Let’s go?” The voice is quieter, more placating. That’s more like it. Jacket comes back in. “Something tells me you don’t want to stick around.” Hah. They are capable of thinking. Wait, of course they could think eventually. They’re him.
“I don’t. Let’s go.”
“Hox, you’re in the garage?” Jacket pokes his head in, strafing inside awkwardly.
Hoxton sighs. Of course, he knew the voice was here when he saw how robotic everyone was again.
“Little Loverboy over here got himself shot in the shoulder.” Hoxton’s studying Houston up close, who’d normally have shooed him out of his personal space already.
“But he’s fine,” points out the voice, stating the obvious.
Houston’s shoulder is completely fine. Not only that, it looks like that shot never happened.
Hoxton knows it’s all a dream, but he’s glad he doesn’t have to see the arsehole all mopey because he can’t shoot. He’s also glad that he doesn’t have to see Dallas be all mopey either.
“It’s not got to do with you, does it?” What a redundant question. Hoxton knows it’s all coming from him -
“I’m certain that it does.” The voice is resolute. Absolutely certain.
There's silence for a few seconds. Hoxton wonders idly if there’s more to that voice than just being his consciousness. They’re a bit too weird to be any part of Hoxton (even the ones he doesn’t want to acknowledge).
“Shit. I gotta go. Catch ya.”
And just like that, the voice leaves before Hoxton can ask anything. He’s starting to doubt the voice being his consciousness. They’re not British enough.
As if snapping out of a trance, Houston whips around, glaring at Hoxton. Hoxton doesn’t want to speak to him, so he just turns around and leaves. He really is fine. There’s no more need to w – think about it.
Hoxton walks into his room, closing the door gently. He shakes off the image of Dallas hunched over his younger brother in the van.
None of that was real.
None of this is real.
He’s on the floor, feeling a bit too aware of his surroundings. He gets up. There is always one way to solve everything.
“Right, then. Let’s go have a few pints.”
[1] Houston once spent a safehouse raid on Dallas’s desk under an office chair with a machine gun. He may have looked like a turtle, but not one cop touched the money that time. [return]
[2] Hoxton usually doesn’t care about decorum, but Sydney kicked Clover in the face once and the two started trying to bite each other. Sydney thought it was a friendly scuffle. Clover did not. [return]
[3] Twitch owns many game consoles, most having been refurbished by Wolf. His most prized part of the collection is a Sega Saturn. Today, he’s brought a pink DS Lite. [return]
[4] Hoxton once left the player to die when he came on his own breakout and left them to the mercy of a sniper. Not cool, bro. [return]
[5] Dallas doesn’t bother asking who breaks the glass now. He doesn’t want to know anymore. [return]
[6] Jacket likes having bottles of drinks to offer to guests. They range from alcoholic to all-ages. The strangest may have been the bottle of L&P. Apparently, he found it in the attic of a ratty old place in the suburbs. [return]
[7] “Vermeer was a wonderful painter, but I do wish he used a little more red,” says Duke. [return]
[8] Houston’s mug is white. However, there are many other white mugs in the safe house that look the same to the naked eye. Out of all of the heisters, only Chains, Duke and Hoxton can easily tell the mug apart from the others. Bain is able to pinpoint the mug in CCTV. Dallas just wishes Houston would write his name on it. [return]