Chapter Text
It all started one fateful morning.
White woke with a start, choking on nothing, fists swinging at no one. No matter how many times he died at the hands of his enemy, waking up the next day was always incredibly jarring.
Damn that Black Spy.
His plan had been flawless, or so he thought. Pretend to drop his briefcase in the center of a frozen lake in order to lure Black out, then set off the TNT hidden under the ice. For the most part the plan had worked. The initial explosion hadn’t killed Black, but it did cause him to fall into the freezing water. White foolishly took the moment to point and gloat as he went to retrieve his bag, only for that bastard to shoot a hand out of the water, grab him by the ankle, and drag the white coated spy down with him. He doesn’t remember if it was drowning or hypothermia that got him first.
White suppressed a shudder at the memory before sliding out of bed to get himself ready for the day. He'd need to check in with his Embassy to report the lost intel, which he wasn’t looking forward to having to explain, suffer the consequences, then if there were no assignments that needed his immediate attention he could work on drafting up a new set of plans to enact his revenge against the Black Spy. He snickered to himself, already fantasizing about new ways he could kill and humiliate his rival. How about shoving his stupid nose through a pencil sharpener? Or maybe set up a fake hotdog stand. Black was a notorious glutton and definitely wouldn’t notice if White replaced his frank with a stick of dynamite. Hell, maybe White would keep it simple and just strap Black to a target board. It'd be a great way to practice his knife throwing skills. He smirked, imagining Black's terrified face as a blade pierced right between his eyes. His really nice eyes…
White quickly shook the thought from his head. It wasn’t the first time the thought floated through his head and unfortunately probably wouldn’t be the last. Stupid Black always haunting his mind with his stupid handsome face-
Ugh, he needed a shower.
He hesitated before he stepped into his bathroom, thinking of all the traps he encountered before ranging from the mine in his tub to the gun in his hair dryer. It was hard not to be paranoid when potential death lurked behind every corner. He reached an arm through the slightly cracked doorway and flicked on the light switch.
Nothing happened.
Surely even if Black was alive by now, he wouldn’t have been able to sneak into this particular safe house, booby-trap White's entire bathroom, and then escape before White woke up, right?
White pushed the door open and stepped fully onto the cold tile, making his way over to the shower and turning the knob. No cement shower for him today, it seemed. Nothing but plain, hot water.
He finally relaxed under the warm spray, thoughts washing away along with the grime down the drain. He could have stayed until the hot water ran out, but he still had a job awaiting him and wanted enough time to at least have a cup of coffee before he had to leave.
Reluctantly he parted from the shower, throwing on a robe and heading to the kitchen to turn on the percolator. While it was heating up, he went to his bedroom to get dressed. He came out in his characteristic getup: all white from his coat down to his boots. His hair was slicked back and he had his favorite wide brimmed fedora in hand when the smell of fresh coffee hit his nose. Placing the hat on his head, he stepped back into the kitchen, grabbing a mug from a nearby cabinet and filling it up. A dash of sugar and a lot of cream later, White finally found it palatable enough for his tastes. He took a bagel out of the fridge and stuffed it into the toaster oven on the counter, sipping his coffee as it heated up. He’d prefer a more complete breakfast, but he didn’t have the time to stop at the supermarket yesterday considering he had drowned, so for now this would have to do. He promptly scorched himself removing the bagel from the toaster oven, cursing at the machine as if it were intentionally conspiring against him.
After consuming his meager breakfast, White packed his favorite weapons and gadgets into the various pockets of his coat and headed out for the day. As he made his way to the White Embassy, the paranoid side of him kept an eye out for his rival, expecting him to sneak up from behind with a club or dagger in hand, but strangely enough, Black never showed.
A whole day had passed without any signs of White’s best enemy. He wasn’t worried. Sometimes they took a day or two to revive, and White kind of enjoyed the temporary respite. It made his job a lot easier. Stealing intel is a piece of cake when your adversaries are, at best, enthusiastic amateurs and, at worst, completely oblivious. The other spies barely warranted the label, and he felt almost guilty having to finish them off. One even begged for mercy at the end of his gun, and White pitied the young fool enough to send him to the hospital rather than the morgue.
5 days passed, still no sign of Black. White was getting bored. Missions were too easy without his rival, the only spy that could keep up with him and keep him on his toes. The thrill of the chase, once the very pulse of his existence, dulled into a listless routine of uneventful missions and half-hearted traps left unresolved. He hasn’t even bothered to check his home for potential traps. But a part of him still couldn’t shake the suspicion that somewhere out there, Black was planning something new, something bold, and the anticipation made White’s pulse quicken with a mixture of dread and excitement.
Almost 2 weeks had passed, and now White was getting... well, he wouldn’t say scared, but he was definitely concerned. This was the longest either of them had gone without respawning, and at this point he knew something was wrong. He even broke into the Black Embassy one evening, desperate to find answers regarding Black's absence. There was nothing; no secret missions, no obituaries or funeral plans, nothing suggesting Black had been terminated or had gone dark. Just a note that he had been MIA for the past two weeks. No shit.
White prowled the city restlessly, searching for any hint or shadow that could betray Black's whereabouts, but every alley was empty and every familiar haunt seemed to echo with absence. His thoughts spiraled, replaying each encounter, each scheme, searching for the moment when the balance had shifted from playful vendetta to hollow silence. At night, his sleep was haunted by fever dreams: a flicker of a black coat down the alleyway, an ominous ticking beneath his bed, the sensation of ice-cold hands locking around his ankle. It made his work during the day sloppy, and his leaders were beginning to notice with increasing criticism. White didn’t want to admit it, but Black’s disappearance deeply disturbed him. He never realized how much he needed Black, how he much relied on his nemesis to give his own life some semblance of purpose. It had his mind reeling, because if Black wasn’t coming back... then... then...
What did that mean for their rivalry?
And what did that mean for White’s own immortality?
At what would have been the start of week 3, White received his first clue that Black may be alive, in the form of a mousetrap in his boot. The pain both enraged him and gave him hope, especially with the Black Embassy coded message taunting him.
The next clue took place later that evening. White followed a cryptic message that directed him to the park he and Black frequented, finding an inconspicuous handbag on the bench. He opened it to find a pair of Black’s gloves and a lit explosive, prompting him to chuck the bag into a nearby pond before it exploded. A close call, but White was finally beginning to feel a thrill again. It left him anticipating what would come next, what trail of breadcrumbs Black was leaving for him to find, setting the stage for something big.
The third clue was at a cafe he and Black had tried to poison each other at numerous times. Another coded message stuffed in the napkin dispenser with a simple translation.
Miss me yet?
White scanned the café, finding suspense in every clink of china and every rustle of newspaper. He didn’t drink the latte the waitress served him. Just in case.
The final clue was stuffed in White’s mailbox the next day – an old communicator. It was visibly damaged but still mostly functional, a burst of static as he powered it on. Over the crackly background the white clad agent could make out a series of rhythmic taps. Morse code. The code this time was challenging White to rise to the occasion, daring him to unravel the message and meet Black on unfamiliar ground. As the fragments of coordinates flickered on the screen, White felt the familiar rush of anticipation.
Black was issuing a direct challenge to White, inviting him to confront him personally as if they were heading for a final dramatic showdown. White honestly found the theatrics amusing. How could there be a final battle between two men who couldn't die?
It didn't take long to track the coordinates to an abandoned storefront on the outskirts of town. White wasn't stupid. It was obviously a trap, but he was desperate for a real challenge at this point. And a part of White just had to know. He HAD to know why Black had disappeared for as long as he did.
He was going into this seeking answers just as much as a confrontation.