Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Since I can remember, I’ve had no memory.

My recollections before the age of two are broken shadows, faceless fragments. Maybe there was a mother. Maybe a father. Maybe I was happy. But that died the moment a group of men stormed into my home in the middle of the night, wrapped me in a blanket, and handed me over to the metallic corridors of the Red Room.

That’s when my real life began.
Or what they called life.

The Red Room is not a place—it’s a cage built with psychological control, drugs, military training, and constant pain. While other kids learned to walk, I was learning not to cry when my fingers were dislocated. While they went to preschool, I was forced to memorize weapon blueprints, recite orders in Russian, Chinese, German, French, Spanish, and Italian. By the time I turned five, they told me I had “graduated”: I was now an assassin.

I was the youngest to complete Operation Red Vein: a triple elimination in Berlin without leaving a trace. At that age, my hand didn’t tremble as I drove a knife into someone’s throat.

“William Clockwell” doesn’t exist. It’s a name they gave me to infiltrate, to live as a shadow in a world that wasn’t mine. Until they assigned me the strangest mission of all: spy on an American teenager named Mark Grayson.

The son of Omni-Man himself.

At first, I thought it would be just another elimination, another routine surveillance. But the Russian government had different plans. They wanted Mark’s DNA. They wanted to replicate Viltrumite power, create an invincible army. And I, as one of their best agents, was to stay close. Earn his trust. Become his friend. Regularly extract DNA samples: saliva, blood, skin, hair… whatever was useful.

What they didn’t know was that they were giving me freedom to choose my methods. I gave myself space to act like a normal teenager, to “adapt.” That was a mistake.

Because Mark Grayson was the first mistake they ever made.

---

The first time I saw him, I thought he was an idiot. With that face of a kid who still believes everything’s going to be okay, those clumsy gestures, and that naive heart that drives him into trouble. He asked me to sit with him in class without knowing a thing about me. As if it didn’t matter that I didn’t even know how to laugh.

It was awkward. It was new.
It was the first memory I *belonged* to.

Since then, every month I fulfilled my routine. I sent detailed reports: “Social interaction successful. Grayson displays high levels of empathy, dangerous naivety. Strong physical development. Possible signs of emerging powers. DNA sample obtained via toothbrush.” I did it without thinking. I fulfilled the mission.

But each day, the lines blurred more.

I started to care.

Not because of the mission.
Not out of duty.
Because of *him*.

Mark listened to me, even if he didn’t know the truth. He talked about his family problems, how his father was a hero he couldn’t understand, how he wasn’t sure he could ever live up to him. He talked about comics, dumb movies, his dreams of doing good.

And for the first time, I didn’t want to be William the spy.

I wanted to be William, his friend. His trust.
His… something more.

---

“Wanna go to the movies tonight?” he asked that afternoon with his usual easy smile. “They’re playing *Aliens vs Space Dogs 3*. It sounds so bad, it might be amazing.”

I was sitting on the bleachers pretending to do homework. I always pretend.
“Didn’t we hate that one?”

“Exactly! Let’s mock it in low voices like cynical old men. Come on, Clockwell. I need a friend to remind me not everything is so serious.”

My heart—that thing I thought was rusted—gave a strange beat.

“Okay,” I said.

---

At the theater, Mark bought too much popcorn and a soda that tasted like cough syrup. He laughed like there was no tomorrow, and I found myself laughing with him. Not because of the movie—it was a disaster—but because his laugh was contagious. Every time the space dog spoke with a British accent, he elbowed me in the side.

I didn’t mind.
I didn’t want it to end.

For a moment, I wanted to forget.
I wanted to stop being the machine that watches, that calculates.

I wanted to hold his hand.
I didn’t.

---

When we left the theater, the night air was cool. We walked through a shortcut to his house, a dimly lit side street. Mark was rambling about crazy theories—real aliens living disguised as pets.

That’s when I heard it.
A scream.
A woman.

I ran before thinking. Mark followed me.

An alley. A bulky man. Knife in hand. A woman crouched over her small child.

“Hey!” Mark shouted.

Stupid. Poor Mark. He thought yelling would be enough. The man turned, raised the knife. The blade caught the faint light.

And then, my programming kicked in.

My body moved without command. I slipped between Mark and the attacker, catching his wrist before he could react. I twisted it, snapping the bone with a dry crack. The knife fell. I kicked it away.

The man tried to fight back.
Mistake.

Two precise hits—broke his nose, dropped him. Then I pinned him in a chokehold. I didn’t kill him. Just enough pressure to knock him out.

All of that in six seconds.

The woman ran off with her child. Mark just stared at me like he had never seen me before.

“William… what the hell was that?”

I had to lie. I *should* have lied.
But I couldn’t.

“I just reacted,” I said. My voice sounded hollow.

“Reacted? You looked like some damn army ninja! Since when do you know how to do that?”

“Always have.”

---

We kept walking in silence.
He was processing. So was I.

My breathing was controlled—not from exertion, but from fear. Fear I had shown too much. That I had revealed a glimpse of who I really was.

Mark broke the silence:

“You hiding something from me?”

“Yes,” I wanted to say. “I’m a weapon trained since childhood. My whole life is a lie. I’m here to betray you. To destroy your trust and deliver you to a country that doesn’t care if you’re human.”

But I said:

“We all have things we’d rather not talk about.”

Mark nodded slightly, gaze down.
“Thanks for saving them.”

That phrase. That damn phrase.

No one had ever said it to me before.

“Thanks for saving them.”

Not for killing. Not for following an order.
For saving.

---

That night, when I got home, I slid the saliva sample Mark had left on the soda bottle into a small vial. I activated the encrypted channel and sent the monthly report.

But this time, I wrote less.

And lied more.

“Mark Grayson continues to show no abnormal signs. Physically healthy. Stable behavior. No active Viltrumite manifestations. Social bond maintained.”

I stored the syringe but didn’t send the rest of the samples.

I just stared at it.

What it held was valuable. Vital. One step closer to creating monsters with Viltrumite strength.

And yet…
I wanted to destroy it.

---

My name is William.
I don’t know if that’s my real name.
But I know that when I’m with him, I don’t want to be anyone else.

Chapter Text

**Months Later**

Since I can remember, I’ve been a weapon.

My earliest memory is a white room. The smell of iron, of blood. Cold. Silence. Then screams. Then blows. They taught me to kill before I could add.

At ten years old, they told me something I never expected to hear in the Red Room:

“You have freedom of choice. As long as you complete your objective.”

Ironic, right? Freedom… conditional.

And so I began to build *William Clockwell*—that charming, clumsy, funny, adorable guy. The best friend of the most powerful kid on the planet.

Mark.
When I saw him smile at one of my stupid jokes, something in me… changed. I didn’t know what it was. All I knew was it hurt and, at the same time, warmed my chest.

I didn’t know what humanity felt like. Mark was my first real contact with it.

And that’s why tonight, as I leap across Washington’s rooftops in my black, red‑trimmed suit and reinforced mask covering my face, I can’t help but think of him.

I’m about to betray his trust.

But I’m also protecting him.

Cecil has been developing a dream—a dream that could alter the Viltrumite genetic structure. I’m not clear what he intends with it, but if there’s any chance it could be used against Mark, I need to know.

That’s why I was ordered from Moscow to infiltrate the GDA and retrieve the files. The rest… is up to me.

---

I enter through a secondary ventilation shaft at 2:37 a.m. The cameras are hacked; the thermal sensors disabled with a temporary EMP microburst.

The GDA has elite security. But I am what their agents wish they could be: a ghost.

I drop silently into a dark corridor. The floor glints beneath my boots. I consult the mental map I memorized this morning: fourth subterranean level, room 3B.

I move in silence. Every step measured. Every breath controlled. I carry no weapons—they’re forbidden. But my fists, elbows, my legs… are everything.

By the server room door, I’m already sweating slightly. Not from effort. From pressure.

I insert an encrypted key into the side panel. The systems whir, protest. For four eternal seconds, I wonder if it will work.

And then… *click*.

Inside.

I move fast. Plug in a modified USB stick into the console. Data begins transferring: 23%… 46%… 71%…

“Who’s there?”

A feminine voice. I don’t recognize the agent. Doesn’t matter.

I run toward her before she can hit the communicator. One move. A chokehold. She’s out—but alive. She’ll sleep fifteen minutes.

Download complete.

I exit the same vent, leaving behind an entire security system in chaos. Alarms never triggered. Nobody knows I was here.

Except Cecil, of course.

He’ll know. Soon.

---

I get home before dawn. I strip off the suit, secure it in a biometric-coded bag, and step into a hot shower.

By 8:00 a.m., I’m in front of my university locker. I smile—the same gesture as always.

William the fool. William the best friend. William the clown.

Mark comes running up. Always in a rush, backpack half‑zipped, hair disheveled as if he’d wrestled a hurricane.

“Will!” he greets me with a smile that destroys me from the inside.

“Late again, Invincible?” I wink. “What happened? A kitten stuck in a tree? A lady who couldn’t open a jar?”

“A minor earthquake in Japan,” he answers, scratching the back of his neck. “Not a big deal.”

“Sure. For you, moving mountains is like scratching an itch.”

He laughs. I watch him. And for a fraction of a second, I notice something strange in his expression.

A hesitation. A pause.

“You OK?” I ask without thinking.

“Huh? Yeah. Yeah, just… didn’t sleep well,” he replies, eyes drifting.

That’s odd too.

Mark never avoids my gaze.

---

At lunch, things don’t get better. We sit at our usual table. Him across from me. I’m cracking jokes as always. But every now and then, I sense it.

He looks at me.

Quickly. As if he doesn’t want me to notice. And when our eyes meet, he blushes and pretends to look away.

Mark never blushes.

Until finally, I confront it.

“Hey, are you sure you’re okay?”

“I told you I am.”

“Mark.”

He bites his lip. I exhale. He sets his fork aside.

“It’s just… lately, I feel weird around you.”

My heart skips.

“Weird how?” I ask, feigning ignorance.

“I don’t know,” he says, frustrated. “It’s stupid. You’re my best friend. For as long as I can remember. But now, when I see you… I don’t know. My heart races. Sometimes I can’t even look at you because I feel like… I’m sick or something.”

He forces a laugh—it doesn’t come out right. He’s embarrassed. Confused.

And I… want to hug him. To tell him he’s not sick.

But I can’t.

I mustn’t.

Because I am too.

And it makes me weak.

A weakness that could cost me the mission. Cost me my life.

Cost him his.

“Mark…” I say softly. “You’re not sick.”

He looks up, surprised.

“So what’s wrong with me then?”

I smile. Slightly. Bitterly.

“Maybe… you’re beginning to see things differently.”

I say no more.

And he doesn’t ask.

But from that day, something changes.

---

That night, I receive an encrypted message from Moscow:

> **MISSION SUCCESSFUL. DATA ACQUIRED. PENDING INSTRUCTIONS.**
> **SECONDARY PRIORITY: CONTINUE OBSERVATION OF SUBJECT MARKED (CODE: 45633#46\_66).**
> **DO NOT INITIATE AFFECTIVE BONDS.**

Too late for that.

I turn off the screen. Collapse onto the bed, stare at the ceiling.

And for the first time in a long time, I feel fear.

Not of dying.

But of losing him.

---

Two days later, Cecil summons us to his office. A Mark, an Eve… and me.

“And me—why?” I joke as we're seated. “I’m just the funny friend. The powerless sidekick.”

Cecil doesn’t laugh.

“Someone broke into our facilities three nights ago,” he says, looking directly at Mark. “They stole ultra‑secret files. Including something about a dream we were… evaluating. An emergency protocol in case you, Mark, ever went hostile.”

Mark freezes.

“You think it was me?”

“No. But I want you both to be alert. This was the work of a professional.”

I maintain my poker face. I look between him and Mark. Make sure he doesn’t suspect.

And he… doesn’t.

I’ve never liked Cecil Stedman’s gaze. His dead-eye stare—as if he’s seen too much. Things others couldn’t even imagine.

As we leave his office, after talking to Mark and Eve about the stolen files, Cecil calls my name.

“Guillermo.”

I stop. Mark and Eve walk a few steps ahead before noticing I didn’t follow.

“Give me a minute,” I tell them with a quick smile.

Cecil closes the door. The room falls silent. His fingers intertwined, his back straight like a soldier. Like a crow judging from its perch.

“You’re a curious boy, William,” he says. Not a compliment.

“Me? If I got paid for being ordinary, I’d be a millionaire.”

“Curious that we don’t have any records of you before age seven.”

My pulse doesn’t rise. I’m trained for this.

“My house burned down when I was a kid. Many records were lost.”

Cecil doesn’t respond at once. He takes a folder from his desk. Shows it to me. Inside: photos—me, Mark, the school… everything normal. Except one thing.

“In every picture, you’re alone. No parents. No siblings. No visitors. And yet you have your own house, paid bills, perfect attendance, decent grades. Everything too clean.”

I say nothing.

“And you’re the best friend of Omni-Man’s son,” he adds.

Silence.

Then it resonated. Not of joy—it was a threat in disguise.

“I’m not accusing you of anything, William. I just say…it’s very likely that whoever accessed those stolen files also knows what Mark is.”

I look at him. Straight into his eyes.

“Mark is furious. Nobody messes with him.”

“I hope so,” he said. “For your sake.”

On the way to the bowling alley, I laugh at Mark’s jokes. I pretend Cecil’s implied threat didn’t freeze me. But something inside me is more alert. More tense.

Cecil knows.

Or at least suspects.

And if he knows, my disguise is at risk. And if my disguise is at risk, he could use it against me… or worse, against Mark.

Mark, who’s dying to know what’s up with me but doesn’t dare ask again.

Mark, who looks at me when he thinks I’m not looking.

Mark, who smiles at me like nothing else matters.

Arriving at the bowling alley, I make sure to keep the act: the fun, competitive, loud guy.

“Get ready to be humiliated by a bowling master,” I proclaim, raising my arms.

“How good can you be?” Eve laughs.

“Good enough to make you regret being born.”

And that’s how it went.

I beat them in the first round. Then in the second. Later I’d give them handicap. I played it silly. Still won.

Mark flopped to the floor joking:

“How the hell do you do that?! Nobody’s that good!”

“It’s my only useless skill: I’m a killer… of bowling pins.”

Eve laughs. She comes closer while Mark goes to get another round of drinks.

“You know something funny, Will?”

“Something more funny than your face when I scored that third strike?”

“Ha-ha. No. I mean… did you know I’m Atom Eve?”

I feigned surprise—pretty convincingly, I might add.

“What? The same Atom Eve who can manipulate matter at the atomic level and fly in a pink suit? The Eve who studies boring math with me?”

“That same one.”

I whistled as if impressed.

“That explains coming to class late every day with ridiculous excuses. I was wondering how on earth a human could have that much ‘traffic’ at seven in the morning.”

“Better than saying ‘I saved a town from a tsunami!’” she laughs.

“No surprise, really. If you’re friends with Mark, you had to be special.”

Her smile faded a bit. She looked at me more seriously.

“You’re special, too, right?”

The question tenses me. But I feign ignorance.

“Of course. I’m special at beating them at bowling.”

“No, I mean it.”

I didn’t answer. But I held her gaze.

She understood. She said no more.

We left the alley laughing like the world was simple.

The night was cool. Mark walked between us, swinging his arms like a happy child. For a moment, I wished time would stop right there. Right then.

And then, everything happened in a second.

A motor sound. A light. A scream.

WILLIAM!!!

The car came straight at me. The driver was distracted. I had no time to react. Or rather, I didn’t want to.

I wanted to see how much I had forgotten what human pain felt like.

The impact was brutal. My body tumbled across the asphalt. Mark and Eve ran to me, horrified.

“WILL!” Mark lifted me in his arms. “God, Will! You OK?”

I opened my eyes.

“That was… a Toyota?”

“WHAT?”

“I’m just saying, for reporting it properly,” I smiled. My side hurt, but it was nothing serious. My bones had been reinforced since I was eight. My organs resistant to pressure, cold, rupture. The Red Room spares no expense on modifications.

The driver got out, pale.

“I’m so sorry! I didn’t see! God, did I hit you? You OK? Do you want to go to a hospital?”

“Nah, it’s cool,” I said, getting up. “Just a little bump.”

Mark wouldn’t stand for it.

“A little bump?! You flew through the air! We’re going to the hospital now!”

“It’s not necessary.”

“William!” Eve intervened. “You could have internal bleeding and not feel it yet. You can’t joke about that!”

Hell of a neighbor.

I couldn’t refuse without raising suspicion. So, reluctantly, I agreed.

“Alright. But if I die, you owe me a pizza.”

The ER was gray and cold. They asked me a series of questions while Mark waited outside. They took my blood pressure, temperature, reflexes.

Then the doctor said something that froze my blood:

“We’re going to do a CT scan to rule out internal fractures.”

No.

I couldn’t let them see my skeletal structure.

The X‑rays would show metal. Reinforcements. Fake inserts. Implants. Modifications impossible for a civilian.

“Doctor,” I said with a smile, “the truth is I don’t have insurance. And I don’t want to go into debt over a small scare.”

“Don’t worry. This is covered by the state program.”

“Still, I’d prefer to go. I feel fine.”

“I don’t recommend it.”

“I insist.”

I looked at him—with that look I learned to use when I don’t want someone to follow up. That look that says, “you don’t know who you’re dealing with.”

The doctor swallowed.

“Fine. But sign here, please.”

I walked out into the hallway where Mark was waiting, clearly stressed.

“What’d they say?”

“Nothing broken. Just a bit of luck.”

Mark looked at me again, like that time at lunch.

As if he couldn’t understand why I—a regular kid—was so okay after a car hit me at 60 km/h.

“Will…”

“I’m okay, Mark. Really.”

I said nothing more.

But he hugged me.

And you?

I hugged him back. Eyes closed.

Wanting to stay there.

Leaving nothing behind for anyone.

A deceptive sin.

No fear. I love you