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The stale, institutional scent of floor wax and disinfectant clings to the air, a familiar aroma in any school, but here, in the bustling hallway of Mission City Junior High, it's mixed with the eager hum of pre-teen anticipation. Dennis, dressed in a casual long-sleeved shirt, faded jeans, and compression fidget gloves, allows his eleven-year-old son, Cassian, to pull him along. Cassian, usually a bundle of nerves and quiet observations, is practically vibrating with excitement. His voice, usually a soft murmur, is surprisingly clear and bright as he chatters about the upcoming science presentation.
"... and Mr. Ericson is the best, Dad!" Cassian’s voice chirps, echoing slightly in the tiled hallway. His hand is small in Dennis’s, surprisingly firm in its grip. "Valerie and Reggie say he makes science super fun. He's, like, a legend here." Cassian's eyes, wide with enthusiasm, glance up at his father. "You're gonna love them too! Reggie's really smart, and Valerie's super nice!"
Dennis offers a noncommittal grunt, his gaze sweeping over the various posters taped to the lockers—colorful depictions of the solar system, historical timelines, and algebraic equations. He’s used to Cassian’s boundless energy, especially when it comes to anything scientific. Chemistry and astronomy are his son's passions, hobbies that Dennis tolerates, even encourages, despite their lack of immediate practical application in his profession.
As they round a corner, the hallway opens into a wider common area, a gathering space where students and adults mill about. Dennis’s eyes, honed by years of observation and assessment, quickly scan the faces. And then, his breath catches, a subtle hitch in his otherwise controlled composure. A man stands amidst a small cluster of teachers, his back to Dennis. He’s a little heavier than Dennis remembers, his dark hair now shot through with streaks of gray. But the set of his shoulders, the way he inclines his head slightly as he listens, it's all too familiar. Twenty-four years. It's been twenty-four years.
"Arthur Ericson?" Dennis's voice is low, a murmur of disbelief that barely escapes his lips.
The man in the dark green cardigan over a baby blue striped button-up turns slowly, his gaze sweeping across the room. When his eyes, a familiar warm hazel, land on Dennis, a wide, genuine smile spreads across his face, crinkling the corners of his eyes.
"Dennis, my boy! What are you doing so far from New York?" Arthur’s voice booms, filled with an easygoing warmth that instantly transports Dennis back to sticky summer evenings and the scent of freshly cut grass.
Dennis gestures to Cassian, who is now looking up at Arthur with a curious, slightly bewildered expression. "My son," he says, the words feeling a bit clunky on his tongue, "comes to these science events. He's friends with two of the girls here, and I was able to make it this time."
Arthur’s smile widens, and he steps forward, extending a hand to Dennis. His grip is firm, reassuring. "My word," he chuckles, "I don't believe I've seen you since you were about the age of these kids here." His gaze flickers to Cassian, a friendly twinkle in his eye.
"1992," Dennis nods, the year springing unbidden to his mind. "I was eleven." After a beat, he asks, a genuine curiosity creeping into his tone, "How's the family?"
He recalls Arthur being married, with five kids. Jeff, who was his age, taught him Spanish, a language that proved surprisingly useful in later life. They used to play Combat, a rudimentary video game, when his own dad wasn't home, the simple beeps and boops filling the otherwise silent house.
Arthur clears his throat, a fond, almost wistful expression on his face. "Well," he begins, "Buster's an officer, Meg's gotten married with two kids, Lin lives in France, and Kevin went and made himself a business owner in Home Security." He lists them off, a proud father recounting the lives of his successful children.
"Impressive," Dennis replies, and he genuinely means it. It’s a stark contrast to his own path, a path carved from shadows and violence.
"And what have you been up to?" Arthur asks, his gaze unwavering, friendly.
Cassian, ever eager to participate, pipes up before Dennis can formulate a suitably vague and acceptable answer. "Dad's a hatchet man!"
His voice is full of pride, as if being a "hatchet man" is the most impressive occupation in the world. Arthur's eyebrows furrow slightly, then he smiles, a sympathetic expression softening his features. He clearly interprets Cassian’s declaration as Dennis being someone who handles layoffs and firings, not a secret agent, which Cassian believes, or an assassin, which Dennis actually is. Arthur puts a comforting hand on Dennis's shoulder, a gesture of solidarity.
"Go ahead and take a load off. No need for that expertise today."
Murdoc, caught off guard by Cassian’s innocent but wildly inaccurate pronouncement, can only nod. He offers Arthur a tight, almost imperceptible smile. Cassian, oblivious to the silent exchange, tugs on his father's hand, already eager to move on.
"Come on, Dad! Reggie and Valerie are over there!"
Arthur, seemingly seeing someone outside the common area, excuses himself, turning to leave the room. Dennis's attention, however, is already diverted. Cassian, pulling him along with renewed vigor, leads him towards a cluster of giggling girls near a display of student projects.
"Reggie! Valerie! This is my dad!" Cassian announces, his voice brimming with uncharacteristic confidence.
Reggie, a girl with bright, intelligent eyes framed by spectacles, offers Dennis a polite, if somewhat shy, smile. Valerie, more outgoing, waves cheerfully. Dennis offers them a curt nod, his mind still reeling slightly from the unexpected encounter with Arthur Ericson. The world, it seems, is far smaller than he sometimes imagines.
A short while later, the common area has transformed. Rows of plastic chairs face a small stage, and the buzz of pre-presentation chatter fills the air. Dennis, having quietly excused himself to the restroom, now hangs back in the hallway, just out of sight, observing the proceedings from the shadows. He leans against the cool concrete wall, his fidget gloves a constant, subtle motion on his hands. Arthur Ericson, ever the charismatic educator, stands at the podium, a warm smile on his face.
"And now," he announces, his voice projected clearly through the small PA system, "it is my distinct pleasure to introduce our guest speaker today, a former student of Mission City Junior High, a true innovator, and someone who embodies the spirit of curiosity and problem-solving. Please give a warm welcome to Angus MacGyver!"
Dennis watches as a young man, perhaps in his mid-twenties, walks onto the stage. He’s a little awkward from the get-go, his gaze sweeping over the audience with a hint of nervousness. He has a shock of sandy blonde hair that falls over his forehead, and his blue eyes, even from a distance, seem to hold a perpetual spark of curiosity.
Arthur continues his introduction, outlining MacGyver's impressive resume: "From MIT to the army, where he worked as an EOD tech disarming bombs overseas. And now, he's working at a think tank, solving problems facing our future."
Dennis’s internal database, a vast collection of dossiers and intel, whirs to life. MacGyver. Angus MacGyver. Age twenty-six. MIT graduate. Former EOD technician. And, as of a month ago, a target. Murdoc had been hired to eliminate him and his team. The information Arthur is relaying is nothing new, nothing that wasn't in MacGyver's dossier, save for the "think tank" detail. That's a new one. A "think tank." Dennis almost snorts. It's as realistic as Murdoc being a secret agent.
Anugs, still slightly ill at ease, clears his throat and steps forward, a shy smile on his face. He’s a little…adorable, Dennis admits to himself, a surprising observation that flickers through his mind before being dismissed. Adorable or not, he’s still a target.
The presentation begins, and MacGyver quickly warms to his subject. He starts by talking about the importance of observation, about seeing the world not just as it is, but as it could be. He pulls out various everyday objects from a worn messenger bag, demonstrating how seemingly mundane items can be repurposed, reimagined.
Then Valerie speaks up, her voice clear and enthusiastic. "Mr. Ericson told us you built an in-line four-cylinder engine in sixth grade!"
Murdoc, from his vantage point in the hallway, raises an eyebrow. That’s impressive. But not surprising. His dossier noted MacGyver's exceptional aptitude for engineering and mechanics from a young age. He’s a natural. A prodigy.
MacGyver blushes slightly, a faint dusting of red on his cheeks. "Well, it was more of a functional model," he clarifies, "but yeah, that was a fun project."
He smiles, and his eyes light up as he continues, engaging in a back-and-forth with the students. Valerie and Reggie have the most questions, but even Cassian gets one in. He answers their questions with patience and genuine interest; his passion for science is infectious.
Then, MacGyver grins, a mischievous glint in his eyes. "Alright, who likes to watch things blow up?"
Murdoc's lips twitch upwards in a small, almost imperceptible smile. Of course. It's the universal language of pre-teen boys. And, judging by the immediate flurry of raised hands, of girls too. Cassian’s arm, surprisingly, is the first to shoot into the air, his usually timid demeanor replaced by unadulterated excitement. The rest of the class follows suit, a sea of eager hands reaching for the ceiling. Dennis feels the familiar urge to fidget, and his compression gloves provide a soothing, tactile distraction. He watches as MacGyver pulls out a large plastic bottle, some hydrogen peroxide, and a few other seemingly innocuous ingredients.
"Today," MacGyver announces, his voice laced with an almost boyish enthusiasm, "we're going to make some elephant toothpaste!"
The class murmurs with anticipation. Dennis, even from his distance, can see the excitement radiating from Cassian, his eyes glued to MacGyver's every move. MacGyver then demonstrates, with a flair that is surprisingly theatrical for someone so awkward, an "escalated" form of elephant toothpaste. The concoction, a frothing, rapidly expanding plume of foam, erupts from the bottle, resembling an "expedited creamsicle," as one student excitedly describes it. The entire class erupts in a chorus of "oohs" and "aahs," their faces lit up with wonder and delight. Dennis finds himself, for a fleeting moment, almost impressed. Almost.
The final bell of the day rings, its shrill sound echoing through the hallways, a signal for freedom. Students scramble from their seats, a cacophony of chattering voices and shuffling feet. Cassian, a whirlwind of energy, bursts out of the classroom, his eyes scanning the hallway until they land on his father.
"Dad!" he exclaims, his voice a mix of excitement and disappointment. "You missed everything! It was awesome!" He gestures wildly with his hands, trying to convey the spectacle he’d just witnessed.
Dennis, ever the master of deception, manages a convincing look of regret. "Oh, Cassian," he says, his voice laced with feigned sympathy, "I'm so sorry, buddy. I had a really bad stomachache." He gestures vaguely towards his abdomen. "I didn't want to disrupt anything, so I just stuck around out here."
Cassian’s initial disappointment quickly dissipates, replaced by concern. "Oh," he says, his brow furrowing slightly. "Are you feeling better?"
"Much better now that you're here," Dennis replies, a small, genuine smile gracing his lips. Cassian accepts this explanation without question, his inherent trust in his father absolute.
Then, Cassian’s eyes light up again. "Hey, can I hang out with Valerie and Reggie for a bit? They're still in the classroom."
Murdoc agrees with a nod. "Sure, kiddo. Just don't be too long." He watches as Cassian darts back into the classroom. Dennis then grabs a small, plastic chair that’s been sitting nearby, probably left behind by a younger student. He pulls it into a shadowy alcove, lowering himself at an angle where he can watch his son yet remain out of sight from MacGyver and Arthur, who are still chatting near the stage.
He settles in, his gaze fixed on the classroom doorway. A moment later, Cassian reappears, holding something small and pink in his hand. He hurries over to Dennis, his eyes wide with concern. "Reggie said you can have this one for your tummy pains," he says, holding out a Minnie Mouse reusable water bottle. "She's got a Daisy Duck one at home."
Murdoc takes the water bottle, his fingers brushing against the cool plastic. It’s a simple gesture, a small act of kindness from Reggie, a child he has only just met. And yet, a warmth spreads through him, a surprising, almost alien sensation. He looks at the Minnie Mouse on the bottle, then at his son’s earnest face. He’s slightly surprised by the unexpected thoughtfulness, and undeniably, undeniably warmed. The world, it seems, is full of small, unexpected kindnesses. And dangerous, brilliant men.
Dennis sips the water from the Minnie Mouse bottle, the cool liquid comforting. His gaze is fixed on the classroom, watching MacGyver. The young man has now joined the small group around Valerie’s project. Valerie, usually so bright and animated, has become noticeably withdrawn, her shoulders hunched slightly, though she's not overtly unfriendly. Dennis can't make out the specifics of their conversation from his vantage point, but MacGyver is clearly engaging with all three kids, his posture open, his attention undivided.
Valerie's robotic project, a complex assembly of wires, sensors, and small mechanical arms, sits on a nearby table. It looks remarkably sophisticated, like something plucked straight from a regional science fair. The more Murdoc watches MacGyver interact with the children, explaining, listening, and gesturing with an easy enthusiasm, the more he sees how truly brilliant and, dare he admit it, absolutely adorkable the man is.
Twenty-six, his brain reminds him. Angus MacGyver is eleven years younger than him. Eleven. The number echoes in his mind: Cassian is eleven, Valerie is eleven. Reggie is eleven. He was eleven the last time he saw Arthur. The number eleven echoes in his mind, a strange, unsettling pattern he's only just noticing. Is it a sign? A strange, unsettling pattern he's only just noticing. He dismisses the thought. He's Murdoc. He doesn't believe in signs. Murdoc’s unusual moment of introspection is shattered, violently. Everyone’s heads, including his own, snap over in unison at the sudden, sharp slam of a door. He initially dismisses it, a fleeting thought that perhaps Arthur Ericson is just leaving the room.
But the ensuing quiet is unnerving, a heavy silence that presses down on the usual school-day din. It’s too quiet, and a cold dread begins to coil in his gut.
He never brings his guns near Cassian. Never. The closest thing he carries is a small, razor-sharp pocketknife tucked discreetly into his shoe. As the chilling quiet persists, a distinct smack-thump echoes from the hallway—the unmistakable sound of someone getting punched and falling heavily to the floor. Instinct takes over. Murdoc silently, smoothly withdraws the knife. He presses his back against the wall, using it for leverage as he rises from the plastic chair, ensuring it doesn't clatter against the tiled floor. His eyes, now narrow and focused, dart back to the classroom.
MacGyver stands, his posture suddenly rigid. He moves, almost imperceptibly, pushing the three children—Cassian, Reggie, and Valerie—behind him. A wave of determination hardens MacGyver’s features, a fierce resolve that Murdoc recognizes. He saw that face last month, a grim, focused mask, when MacGyver built a makeshift weapon against him in that junkyard, a testament to his unexpected, infuriating ingenuity.
A guttural voice cuts through the tense silence from the entryway. "Give us the blonde girl and no one gets hurt."
Murdoc’s mind races. Valerie. He instinctively knows this isn’t going to end well. This isn’t a simple schoolyard scuffle. These aren't kids' games. Without a moment's hesitation, MacGyver reacts. He grabs a bottle of nitrous oxide and, with a swift, decisive motion, pours its contents into a nearby sink. A thick, opaque cloud of smokescreen immediately billows outwards, rapidly engulfing the immediate area of the classroom. MacGyver doesn’t wait, using the sudden obscurity to his advantage, running to the side, already aiming for an exit with the kids shielded behind him.
But the hallway is active. A third man, tall and menacing, appears from the swirling mist, a gleaming knife in his hand. He lunges at MacGyver. MacGyver, still shielding the children, parries the attack with nothing but a thick textbook, the heavy tome absorbing the blade's impact.
That's Murdoc's cue. He springs forward, disappearing into the swirling white cloud. The knife in his hand finds its mark with sickening precision. He fatally stabs one man, the figure collapsing silently into the growing smoke. But before Murdoc can react, the second man, the one who punched someone earlier, lunges. He kicks out, connecting with Murdoc’s wrist. The knife, an extension of his will just moments before, is knocked from his grip and clatters loudly, disappearing into a boiling vat of boron that was part of a demonstration.
Murdoc snarls. He's not going to die like that, not from a splash of boiling chemicals. He eyes the vat, a dangerous thought forming. But he can't risk pouring it on the man. The kids are too close. He won't risk hurting them.
"Dad!" Cassian’s voice, a high-pitched cry of sheer panic, slices through the chaos.
Murdoc hears the frantic screeches of two children—his son’s and Valerie’s—a sound that cuts deeper than any blade. A fourth man appears, materializing from the dissipating smoke, moving with an alarming efficiency that suggests he’s far more skilled than the previous two. He engages Murdoc one-on-one, a blur of fists and calculated strikes. Murdoc, momentarily distracted by a terrifying glimpse of his son being carried away, a small hand reaching out in desperation, falters.
A sharp zap jolts through his throat. He collapses instantly, the world spinning as his muscles lock up. The last thing he hears, before the darkness claims him, is a deep, menacing voice, a warning aimed at him and the prone figure of MacGyver: "Don't call the cops, or the kids are dead."
Murdoc comes to with a groan, the world slowly, agonizingly spinning back into focus. A sharp prodding sensation against his ribs accompanies the return of his senses. He blinks, then sees three faces glaring down at him: Riley, Jack, and Bozer. Each face is a mask of suspicion, anger, and something akin to disbelief. A low grumble from beneath him reminds him that MacGyver is also still there, likely still stunned from the taser. He doesn't have time for this. He pushes himself up, ignoring the throbbing in his throat.
"Your Director of Operations hired me to kill you," Murdoc rasps, his voice still rough from the taser's jolt. His eyes, however, are sharp, filled with a cold fury. "But some fucking mooks just kidnapped my son and his friend." His gaze sweeps over their disbelieving faces. "Don't tell Thornton, and I'll give you full access to my connections."
MacGyver, still on the floor but starting to push himself upright, speaks before anyone else can react. "I'm with Murdoc," he says, his voice strained but clear. With a slight nod of acknowledgment, he adds, "Thanks for helping in the fight."
Just then, a small, quick blur of motion. Reggie, her face pale but determined, runs over. She doesn't go to MacGyver. Instead, she throws her arms around Murdoc, clinging to him in a tight, desperate hug. Murdoc, caught off guard, freezes for a split second before his arm instinctively comes up, a fleeting, awkward pat on her back. Riley, ever the pragmatist, cuts through the emotional moment. Her gaze is fixed on Murdoc, unwavering.
"You have proof that Thornton is a traitor?" she asks, her voice laced with skepticism.
"Yes," Murdoc replies, pushing Reggie gently back so he can properly address Riley. "But not on me." He glances at her, then at the laptop bag slung over her shoulder. "Do you have your laptop? I can remote access my information."
Riley eyes him, clearly weighing the risk. This is Murdoc, after all. But the urgency in his voice, the raw anger about his son, seems genuine. She nods slowly, unzipping her bag and pulling out her sleek, silver rig. She watches him, a wary, analytical glint in her eyes, as he takes her laptop. Murdoc cracks open the lid, his fingers flying over the keyboard with an effortless, fluid grace. Riley’s eyebrows shoot up as he logs in with her user and password, seemingly without a moment's hesitation. But that's just the beginning. She's completely blindsided by the fastest hacking job she has ever seen. Murdoc's fingers dance across the keys, a blur of motion, his gaze fixed intently on the screen.
In mere seconds, lines of code scroll past, followed by file directories opening and closing with impossible speed. Then, like magic, a trove of encrypted files decrypts itself, and all of the information linking Thornton as the mole appears onscreen. Riley stares, dumbfounded, as the data loads: detailed reports, intercepted communications, and damning evidence. It all paints a clear, horrifying picture: Thornton getting black market information from Nikki to put out a hit on the team, specifically a KOS (kill on sight) order for MacGyver, Bozer, Riley, and Jack. The order for Thornton himself? Simply for maiming. It’s a chilling, undeniable betrayal.
Riley, her mind reeling, quickly shoves a flash drive into a port and downloads everything, her movements jerky with urgency.
Just then, Arthur Ericson groans, stirring on the floor. His eyes flutter open, blinking against the fluorescent lights. MacGyver and Murdoc are at his side instantly, their shared focus on the older man a strange, temporary truce. Arthur looks up at MacGyver, then at Murdoc, a slow smile spreading across his face.
"Angus," he murmurs, his voice weak but clear. Then, he turns his gaze to Murdoc. "Dennis." He calls them by their first names, a familiarity that clearly puzzles the rest of the team.
Arthur pushes himself up with MacGyver's help, his gaze sweeping over the baffled faces of Riley, Jack, and Bozer. "Well, I know that you know Angus," he says, winking at the young man. "He and Wilt blew up the gym once, too, trying to make some, ah, 'controlled' fireworks." He then looks at the older man who's still young by Arthur's standards. In a softer voice, he continues, "Little Dennis. Our neighbor. Quiet kid, usually, but always observing everything. Never missed a trick. I remember one summer, he must have been, oh, about eleven. My dog, Rusty, got himself stuck in the hollow of a tree. Wouldn't come down for anything. Dennis just stood there, watching, for a good twenty minutes. Then he came over and told me, 'Mr. Ericson, if you put a piece of that steak you're grilling by the fence, Rusty will come down the other side.' And wouldn't you know it, he was right! Clever boy. Always figuring things out." Arthur pauses, a distant look in his eyes. "And then there was the time..."
"Arthur, no offense, but we really don't have time for this," Jack interrupts, echoing Murdoc's earlier sentiment with surprising precision. His gaze flickers between the two men, a tense suspicion still etched on his face. "We need to know what just happened here, and where those kids are."
Reggie, still standing close to Murdoc, her hand instinctively clutching the fabric of his jeans, steps forward. She quickly explains to her bewildered teacher what just happened, her words tumbling out in a rush, eyes wide but resolute.
"... but Cassian's dad is a secret agent," she declares, pointing emphatically at Murdoc, "and Mac's a boy scout at a think tank, so we're gonna get them back, and they're gonna pay!" Her pronouncement hangs in the air, a child's confident declaration in a suddenly very adult, perilous world.