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The day Omen leaves, he finds a scrap of paper tucked neatly into the pocket of his pants.
It's tiny, so tiny that he only notices it hours after his departure. When he takes it out and unfolds it, there is a set of numbers written in a familiar scrawl he's only seen at the bottom of certain mission reports in the form of a signature and date. Here, it takes the shape of coordinates.
He doesn't need to guess who wrote it, but he is curious. Omen had not told anyone he was leaving—his transmission to Brimstone was scheduled to be sent three hours after he snuck out of headquarters. The last time he remembers interacting with Cypher was a day ago when Cypher brushed past the training rooms on his way back from the kitchen and found Omen inside, ripping robots apart with his bullets then his knives then eventually his hands. He had watched until Omen eventually stopped, and then he came inside and made some fleeting comment about cleanup and sat with him for a while, surrounded by sparking wires and dismantled parts.
They hadn't said anything. When Omen's huffing finally eased to slower, calmer breaths, he rose whilst flicking oil off his claws and left. Cypher hadn't followed him.
Maybe he had figured it out then.
The location on the paper isn't far. An hour's travel if he walks, less than that if he warps half the distance.
He thinks about not going. It could be a trap for all he knows—some attempt by Brimstone to get him to stay, or a desperate, last ditch effort by Viper to keep him under her control. He wouldn't put it past her.
It would be safer, perhaps, if he didn't go. But the writing is familiar, and when he presses his fingers hard into it he can feel the fading traces of its author and all the cloying emotions that sunk into the ink. Emotions that he does not— cannot name.
Omen rips up the paper and tosses its scraps to the wind.
Then, he changes course. And he goes.
The coordinates lead to a single apartment building in a shadier part of San Francisco, away from the usual bustling streets. These ones are quieter despite the coming evening, bare of post-workday rush as all kinds of people make their way home. He slips into the building through the roof, weaves his way through the shadows and hunts for the door labeled 5B. When he finds it, he dispels his own form rather than knocking. Omen reforms in the shadows of a well-worn space, nicely furnished and dimly lit.
He feels Cypher before he sees him; the low thrum of his life force curling throughout the space like smoke. Eyes roaming the apartment, they settle in the corner where a body clad in white sits.
Cypher lounges on a window seat decorated with simple pillows, one leg propped up and one hanging down to rest on the wooden floors, flicking a tripwire between his fingers. The evening bathes half his figure in stripes of orange sunlight that spill out onto the floorboards. When Omen meets his eyes, he finds Cypher already looking at him.
Dryly, he notes that Cypher had probably known precisely when he got within a ten mile radius. The thought is brushed away quickly when Cypher shifts, resting his arm on his knee, flicking the tripwire into his other hand with a sharp sching! that cuts through the apartment's stale air.
“Here I was beginning to think that you were going to make me wait all night,” he says, a note of amusement in his words. “Wonderful entrance, by the way. Very smooth.”
Omen steps silently out from the shadows. He crosses his arms and stills the wavering of his face-lights. “And if I hadn't come?”
Cypher laughs and says, simply, “I knew you would.”
He stands, heading to the tiny kitchen cutting into a corner of the living room. There's a small kettle that he tugs out of one of the cupboards.
The words make Omen's stomach churn. He glances once more around the apartment, looking for cameras or listening devices, or any other gadgets Cypher may have set up before his arrival. Even though he spots nothing, there may still be something there, hidden beyond his sight.
Omen shifts his weight, an arm shuddering out of form before he wraps his hand tightly around it to keep it solid. “Whose behalf are you here on? Brimstone, or Viper?”
Setting the kettle on the stove to boil, Cypher hums. “Officially, I'm supposed to be convincing you to return. Brimstone's orders.” When Omen bristles, he waves a dismissive hand as if he knows, despite his back being turned. “But I know better than to try that. So, my dear shadow, I suppose you can say that the answer to that is: neither, really.”
Omen knows better than to think that Brimstone and Viper can exercise any more control over Cypher than what goes beyond their contract as his superiors. Even then, Cypher has no issue doing what he pleases so long as it doesn't impede his ability to do his job. Despite this, Omen doesn't fully relax.
Cypher laughs. “Don't worry. There are no surveillance devices of any sort, I assure you. This is my personal safehouse. No one but you and I know of its existence.”
There's the soft noise of a cup being placed upon the counter. Cypher doesn't ask if he wants anything to drink, knowing all too well that Omen staunchly refuses to consume anything in front of others. He starts rifling through the cupboards again, snatching a box of tea from its depths.
“If that's the case, why did you call me here?” Omen rasps.
Cypher chuckles. “To chat, dear, that's all. I want to know what you intend to do with this little sabbatical of yours.”
He is quiet for a bit. Cypher finally turns back around to face him, the fresh mug of tea stark white against the dark coloring of his gloves. He moves forward to sit on the arm of one of the couches, watching him expectantly.
After a while, Omen sighs. He heads to the window, not sitting in the seat but instead just leaning against the wall, head tilted so he can peer out into the streets.
“I… want to dig more into Hourglass,” he admits quietly. “Their boss may be dead, but he was far from the only thing keeping them afloat. If he could know so much about me, then surely…”
Surely there is more, he does not say. Judging by the hum Cypher makes, he doesn't need to.
“And how do you intend to dig more into them? They're a rather secretive organization, as I’m sure you know.”
“I spoke to Iso before I left. He gave me leads.”
“I see.” Cypher sounds like he's smiling. He sets his cup down on the side table and comes towards him, boots making quiet thuds on the creaking floorboards. Omen tilts his head to watch him approach, then turns fully as Cypher comes to stop directly in front of him. “Hold out your hand.”
After a moment of hesitation, he complies. Omen's body is nebulous more often than not, never quite fully solid despite the bandages and armor that attempt to hold him together, always shifting and twitching and distorting. But his hand turns firm when Cypher cups it between his own two. There is the press of something—two things, in fact—being pushed into his palm.
Omen isn’t very sensitive to temperature, but Cypher’s hands are warm. He can feel it even through the fabric of both of their gloves.
Cypher pats him once gently—so gentle he almost misses it—before drawing back. Omen looks down at his hand and finds a familiar looking hard drive, along with a small, disc-like object not unlike the ones that Cypher's tripwires and cages project from.
“The drive holds all of our information about Hourglass thus far,” Cypher says, prompting Omen to look up. “I know you likely combed through it already, but it might be helpful during your journey regardless.”
“And the other?”
“It's a line.” Cypher tips his head. “My personal one, so rest assured that neither Brimstone or Viper know of it. If you need assistance of any kind, use it to contact me. I'll help to the best of my ability.” A pause, then he adds, softer, “No payment required.”
Something fuzzy curls up in the hollows of Omen's chest. He nods, closing his fist around the two items. Then he tucks them into one of the subtler pockets sewn into his pants, where he knows they will be safest.
“Thank you,” he says then, all too aware of how much it means to receive something like this from Cypher, of all people. He tilts his chin downwards, the lights of his face pulsing softly, and reaches out with a hesitant hand.
There is a moment where Cypher just stares at him, and his confidence wavers. He almost draws back, until Cypher starts forward. A slender hand settles gently within his own. Omen grips it firmly, squeezing once, and tugs Cypher forward to wrap him in a gentle embrace.
He tucks his face into the high collar of Cypher’s white coat. Cypher’s arms stutter, but come to wrap gently around him in turn. It's almost funny, Omen thinks, how much smaller Cypher feels like this. His usual attire always makes him seem larger than he actually is, but this way Omen can feel all the lean curves of his body. And like this, he can catch flickering waves of Cypher's emotions, pulsing along with the steady beat of his heart.
It feels cool, light; like mist passing gently over his skin. It's melancholic, in a way. And there is something warmer underneath it, prickly like needles and hidden beneath layers of other emotions. Omen's only felt this a few times before, typically from the likes of Raze and Killjoy, sometimes humming in the space between Sage's breaths when she watches Reyna charge into the throes of battle.
He lets go and draws back to put space between them, feeling suddenly off-kilter. Cypher lets him with no resistance. He is about to speak when Cypher abruptly raises a hand to stop him. The other goes to his temple, pressing against the side of his mask.
“Brimstone,” Cypher greets cheerily. A moment of silence. “Yes, I did. No, I won't be telling you where.” Glancing at Omen once, he adds, “He's gone now, anyway.” Another beat. “Understood. I'll be heading back soon. I'll send you coordinates for pick-up.”
It takes another minute for Cypher to lower his hand. When he does, he gives a little sigh, and the smile he adopts feels tired, if anything.
“Seems like that's all the time we get,” he says lightly. “Don't worry, our dear leader still doesn't know where this place is—he trusted me to do what he asked and meet you, and I did.”
“He also trusted you to bring me back,” Omen says. “But you lied.”
“Yes,” Cypher agrees, voice soft. “I lied. Because I trust you.”
They linger for a moment in silence, Cypher watching him with that careful, calculating gaze. Then, he gives a sigh that seems to melt into a smile and inclines his head briefly. “I hope you find what you're looking for, Omen. Feel free to use this place whenever you need.”
Cypher turns with a single wave of his hand and strolls towards the door, shoving his hands in his pockets. Just as he grips the handle of the apartment, Omen calls, “Wait,” and he stills, head turning slightly to look over his shoulder.
“Thank you,” Omen says again. “I will return eventually, but for now… goodbye, Cypher.”
Cypher laughs. “Goodbye, dear shadow.”
The door opens and shuts with a quiet click, sealing Omen with all their tender emotions and the things neither of them dare to say. He stands, unmoving, for a while before the loud blaring of a car horn sounds outside, drawing him out of his thoughts. He gives another glance around the apartment, only then noticing the still steaming mug of tea Cypher had never finished—or sipped from at all, for that matter.
He goes to pick it up. The ceramic is still warm, and the tea—it's not the usual kind Cypher drinks. It smells too flowery, too sweet. Only after he raises it to his face does he realize that it's his favorite tea.
Ah. No wonder Cypher hadn't asked him if he wanted anything to drink.
Omen sighs and glances out the window, holding the cup close to his chest. The sun still has yet to fully set, but the sky has already begun to darken.
He should probably leave. It would be the logical thing to do, considering Cypher's penchant for lying and general secret keeping. Realistically, there is little reason for Omen to believe what he said about Brimstone not being aware of this location.
When he opens his mouth to drink the tea, he tastes Cypher's fading feelings, still swirling around the apartment like smoke. He grips the mug tighter and thinks about all the gentle curves of Cypher's body against his, and feels more solid than he's felt in days. Cypher's gifts are a snug press against his thigh.
Omen sets the cup down on the coffee table. He takes a seat on the sofa, sinking into the soft pillows.
A little while longer can’t hurt. Just until the sun sets.