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It was all he could think to do: an act of retribution against the will to not exist—or rather, to exist only as a vacuum, taking in but never giving back. If Cypher would choose the path of thievery, cunning and unkind, then Sova would be the hunter who turns in his bounty.
And where else to begin than with a name?
Cypher blinks back at him, trying to process what he had just heard: a simple sound, composed of two brief syllables but incomprehensible in meaning. (Sova adds nothing else, simply studying Cypher with a blank expression.)
He could not have just said your actual, legally documented name. It is far more likely that you have misheard it for one of its many homophones. “A mirror,” perhaps.
“Come again?” Cypher asks.
“That’s your name,” Sova remarks, raising an eyebrow, “isn’t it?” Beyond the act, he demonstrates no emotion, merely standing there with his arms crossed. One of Cypher’s fingers begins tapping away at his armrest. “Amir,” he repeats, and the sound is cacophonous.
“No,” Amir lies, and already, his usual walls are building themselves higher. (Something must’ve been let to slip—Sova knows your name.) Just his given name, of course, nothing more damning than that—but he shouldn’t even know that. (And in what context is it divorced from the rest of his name anyhow?) Sova knows your name. How did he find that out?
Sova huffs, an amused sound accompanied by the faintest upturn of his lips. He never was the sort to smile in Cypher’s company, and the broker finds he’d prefer if that continued to be the case.
“Is that all you came here for?” Cypher continues, crossing one leg over the other where he’s seated in his chair. Sova is standing a few steps from the doorway; his words are an invitation for him to leave.
“Yes,” the hunter confirms with a curt nod of his head. His arms fall to his side as he adds, “Farewell,”—and then, he departs.
The doors shut and it is permission for Cypher’s brain to start visibly ticking. He could rack his mind for every possibility—every potential point of weakness—but he’d only get his answer by digging it up with his own two hands. He swivels in his chair and starts pulling up databases; access logs; anything.
Sova should not have that information. (Cypher needed to figure out how he got it and fix that before anything else came loose.)
They were the ultimate hint, the perfect starting point—and in many cases, the final end. The possession of a name could begin any number of hunts, and as a result, they were often the end goal of various others. It begins with a name, and it becomes a presence—littered across the world but a presence all the same—and that becomes an identity; that becomes a person.
Cypher is not a person. Cypher is a collection of letters assembled in an order meant to harken back to nothingness—‘zero’ in all of its vastness; its limitless potential and its humble beginnings.
Not a person. It’s hardly a name, mixed in with a bunch of other aliases and treated just the same as them; ‘Cypher’ is the word meant to refer to the man lacking any presence; lacking any identity; lacking any personage.
Cypher is not a person. It is simply a name—the only name there is.
Sova doesn’t mention it again.
Not within the first few weeks at least, and that bothers Cypher more than he would like. He’d hoped, after the encounter, that perhaps it was a nightmare he had forgotten to wake up from, but when the hunter proceeded to give no further indication that it had been real, the broker was not calmed; instead, those letters sank into his veins, coursing through him as a pulsory reminder:
He has your name. He has it for a reason.
Routine monitoring becomes excess, and habitual tracking becomes obsessive; he watches Sova’s every movement whenever he’s not in his room, and when he is, he uses the time to backlog all of his messages, searching and searching and searching–
—and finding nothing. (And that didn’t even begin to answer why he’d been told to begin with; if Sova was up to something nefarious, why would he make Cypher aware of his actions?)
To prove a point.
He waves the thought away—not Sova; not the Protocol’s golden boy, the stickler and upright. He wasn’t petty like that, Cypher thinks. There had to be something else.
Cypher times his tea refill to coincide with Sova’s time in the kitchen, looking away from the footage as he opens the door to the space. The hunter is inside, chatting with Skye—as he had seen—and the conversation is innocuous; something about joining the rest of the crew for game night, with Sova saying he’ll consider it. They look over when Cypher arrives, and the broker tips his hat.
Sova nods back, and the two chat for a while longer before the hunter excuses himself. At this point, the water is finished boiling, so Cypher takes the kettle off the stove. He looks at Sova as he’s leaving; Sova looks back.
And Sova smiles, a warm and gentle thing, and it makes Cypher’s skin crawl.
It is to that end that a false name is a good thing to have—after all, if one must be referred to and a real name is too dangerous, then why not one that hides your presence, identity, and person? Such is the popularity of aliases, though in certain spheres, they are more accolades than actual items of anonymity.
In the context of the latter, however—which is to say, a context in which an alias defends an individual’s personhood from malicious actors elsewhere—this makes the unveiling of a name a threat to the person who holds it. Why else would one go so far as to reveal that which was never meant to be revealed?
And that was what Sova had done, whether he had meant to or not (though, one could rightfully expect he had). To tear away the alias of ‘Cypher’ and reveal the man beneath was an affront to the man’s very non-existence—as it had been intended, and as Cypher had been opposed.
The moment he stopped being letters and started having a name was the very same moment he became an actual person.
And actual people are fallible. (That was the threat Cypher wished to avoid.)
Cypher lied.
Which was nothing new, to be quite frank, but the objective of this lie was one he hadn’t really sought after before; to have Sova in his presence without any external need and without any external eyes. It was one of his lower quality mistruths, making up something about a report he needed to finish and which would be benefited by Sova’s input, but the hunter hadn’t been busy and hadn’t questioned further; thus, he now stood at the entrance to Cypher’s office.
The door opens without him needing to knock.
“Sova, my friend!” Cypher begins, spinning to face him and feigning enthusiasm. “Thank you so much for coming here—and on such short notice as well!”
“Of course,” Sova replies, stepping inside and smiling. “I am here for whenever you need assistance.”
“Perfect. Before the report, however—” Quite conveniently, he has two teacups prepared and a kettle to match—so he moves from his desk to his side table (read: a table he took from the lounge earlier, paired with two chairs he also stole) and motions for Sova to sit. “—why don’t we have a little chat first? We hardly have the opportunity to talk, and this seems like as good a chance as any.”
Sova hums, but sits as Cypher takes it upon himself to pour a drink for the both of them. Sova watches, and Cypher can feel his gaze acutely, but neither comment; instead:
“Do you have any preferences for how you have your tea? Sugar? Honey?”
“Honey is good.”
Cypher nods, preparing both cups as such, using his own taste to determine the appropriate amount of sweetening. When the process is complete, he places the cups down and takes a seat, though no motion is made to remove his mask; Sova absolutely notices, but he says nothing on the matter.
“It is hot, by the way,” Cypher warns. Sova nods.
“Of course. I wouldn’t expect anything else.”
“Of course,” he echoes. Of course. “Now then, how are you today, Sova?”
“I’m doing quite well. And you, Amir?”
(There it was again. His name.) Almost perceptibly, Cypher twitches. Calmly, he replies:
“Good.”
Cypher pauses here, contemplating his next set of words carefully. Sova seems content to wait, merely looking back at him in casual anticipation. It irks him; eventually, he decides:
“Sasha.”
Sova quirks a brow, clearly amused. “Yes?”
“…I am simply curious. Why do you think that’s my name?”
“Sasha? We both know that’s mine.”
“And we both know that’s not what I meant.”
Sova half-laughs, an amused sound accompanied by the briefest of smirks. He offers nothing else, however, only picking up his teacup, blowing away some of the steam, and taking a few sips.
“This is good tea,” Sova points out politely.
“Thanks,” Cypher replies, tone dry. “That doesn’t answer my question.”
The teacup is placed back down, slow and graceful, with all of the hunter’s attention. After, his eyes meet Cypher’s again, innocuous. “What question?”
Cypher wants to bash his skull into the wall.
“A few weeks ago,” he says instead, every ounce of concentration going into keeping his tone calm and even, “you showed up here, claiming to have found my name.” He tilts his head knowingly, gesturing one hand towards the hunter. “I want to know why.”
“‘Why’ indeed,” is Sova’s answer.
Cypher retracts his hand, sitting more upright. Either he’s actually daft, or he’s determined to not give me a straight answer. (He’s incapable of forcing an explanation, however, which meant that Sova had to give it willingly—or Cypher could witness the consequence whenever it happened, but he would really prefer for it to not get there.) His eyes narrow, and he can feel a headache onsetting.
Then, suddenly, Sova says: “I think I understand now.”
“Understand what?”
“Why you like to dodge answering questions so much.” (Calmly, he takes another sip of tea.) “It’s rather fun.”
Cypher does his best to stay calm. When he exhales, he feels that that sentiment is betrayed.
But what could he say? Were the roles switched, Sova was technically right—Cypher would be acting precisely the same, and while that worked rather well for the broker, the intention was to be a nuisance to whoever was trying to interrogate him instead. To have his tactics wielded against him—and with such efficacy—was not just unprecedented; it was also incredibly annoying.
So, props to Sova, he supposes.
“All that I am asking is why you’re looking for my name—that is all.”
“How do you know I’m looking?” (Again, that calm, avoidant look in his eyes.) “How do you know I didn’t just pick a name at random? After all, we all know you’re from Morocco, and Amir isn’t that uncommon a name. I could’ve simply guessed.”
He could’ve. (But that would’ve been bold.)
(It also would’ve worked, so it seems, given how Cypher had chosen to react.) If Sova hadn’t shown up knowing the truth for certain, then this conversation was all the proof he needed to know he was actually correct. That’s also rather annoying, but it’s also a tactic that cannot be overlooked. Cypher stares him down, though the hunter does not flinch.
“Was I correct?” he asks instead. Cypher sighs.
“Fine. Yes! You have my name! Congratulations!” (Here, he stands, clasping his hands together in a faux joy.) “I’m ever so proud of you for solving that, Sova—but they will never believe you.”
“Thank you,” Sova smiles, his voice unnervingly even. “They don’t have to believe me though. It isn’t about everyone else anyway.”
It isn’t? “Wh– So then, why?”
“I just wanted you to know I could.”
(‘I wanted you to know I could,’—said so calmly and in such a casual tone.) It was, perhaps, the friendliest threat he’d ever received, and given it was from his most antagonizing coworker, he isn’t certain how to feel. ‘I wanted you to know I could,’ just as he demonstrated that two could play the game of nonchalance; of non-compliance; of being a thorn. Sova stands to leave, that same easy smile still present on his face. Before he goes:
“Good luck with that report. Have a good day, Amir.”
Amir says nothing as Sova vanishes in silence.