Chapter Text
“Awright, 015,” Tracer began, eyes scanning the CCTV video feed. “You go ask the ba’tender if he’s seen anything extrordinary lately. Next go ‘round, I’ll come in, walk ‘round a bit, and see if I can’t find anyone with connections.”
“Mmhmm,” you say. “The ol’ tag team routine. It ain’t my first rodeo. Go do your thing 008.”
She smiles as you get out.
You’ve been doin the whole secret agent thing for a long while. Didn’t expect when you signed up to do your duty as an American at the ripe legal age of 18 that they’d take one look at you and whisk you away to some special forces bullshit.
“Your ruggish charm naturally makes people more trusting of you.” they said. Psychologists. It’s all bullshit. Nothing a man can trust ‘cept his ol’ revolver, you told ‘em.
“Perfect.” They said, “keep saying stuff like that. You’ll do fine.”
The fancy bar scene was never your thing, but it’s even less Tracer’s thing, and somebody’s gotta do it. Here, the seats at the counter are all connected in a bench to promote talking and networking amongst the rich patrons. You prefer the old-fashioned type deal, where everyone got their own stool and largely ignored everyone else in the room ‘cept the guy shoving alcohol into their hands.
Thankfully when you enter you see the bench-barstool-thing is largely empty. You sit as far away from everyone else as possible. This’ll help with inconspicuously gathering intel.
“One appletini.” you tell the bartender. You have to order a few drinks before they’ll start talking.
“What’re the odds!” a voice pipes up behind you. Sugary: sweet and scratchy like they’re used to screaming names, “that’s my drink of choice too! Mind if I sit here, guv’nor?”
You look in the speaker’s direction to see a tall, skinny but lightly muscled boy with his platinum blonde hair styled in slicked spikes around his head. He wears a tight-fitting red dress. Sequined. He indicated the seat he wanted to take by putting his far-side foot on the spot, you could only imagine causing the side-slit down his dress to open far wider than what was probably socially acceptable. He wore black high heels with thin ribbons around the ankles. He grinned at you from under his blonde eyelashes as he waited on your answer.
“Barkeep?” you asked, not able to tear your eyes off him, “better make it heavy. I think it’s gonna be a long night.”
The male laughs as he straddles the seat. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep, cowboy.”
He turns his body to the bartender to place his order, and you find yourself trying your hardest not to stare. He has tattoos. One of them peeks out on the slip of skin you can see on his thigh, and it’s hard to decipher what it is without seeming like a creep.
“So!” He starts in a thunderclap of a word, “what’s a guy like ya doin’ ‘round ‘ere? Not much for an American tourist to do out in the middle of nowhere.”
It kind of looks like a… tire track? Or like the pattern on a tire? You can’t be sure cause it’s on his far leg, and you can only see a small portion from where the dress slit sits on his thigh, but you’re pretty sure it’s something to do with a tire.
You realize he asked you a question and if you don’t answer fast enough, he’l get suspicious. The agency taught you default shit-on-America phrases that foreigners love to here, thankfully, and you say the first one you can think of.
“Well, you know us Americans. Can’t keep our hands outta anything.”
Crap. Shit. You’re still staring at his thigh. Fuck.
He chuckles, “an investor, then. I shoulda figured from the choice in joint.” He side eyes you and smirks, “see somethin’ ya like?”
You grasp vaguely at the back of your mind and remember another tidbit the agency told you to help with opening friendly negotiations.
“Sorry for staring, but… I don’t wanna get your pronouns wrong.” The bartender places down your drink and you gratefully start on it immediately.
The guy turns around so his legs are outside the bench and he’s leaning back on the bar. He tilts his head at you. “Aww! Real sweet of ya to worry, cowboy. I use he, though, so no worries!” He leans his elbows on the bar behind him and lets his head fall back. “Ya ain’t the first to wonder ‘bout this ‘ol fashion sense o’ mine, but I just never been a fan o’ suits myself, ya’know? Stiflin’ those things are. I don’t see how a fellow’s s’posed ta breathe with that silk noose ‘round the neck.” He holds his hands up in a nonchalant surrender. “Not that that’s always a bad thing! I don’t judge.”
You choke on your appletini. He laughs. His laugh is loud enough to fill a room and full of so much genuine mirth you can’t help but chuckle along.
“The, uh,” you think this is the point where you compliment his dress? That’s where it’d be if you were siphoning info from any other dress-clad target. “I like it, though. Goes real well with your tattoos.”
“Oh!” He lights up, “Ya noticed!” He pulls forward the arm further away from you, and you see the same tire pattern band that you think’s around his thigh.
You wonder why you didn’t notice that before, but opt to instead think about literally anything else other than his thighs.
So you bring up the next thing people always ask when they see your tattoo.
“That a meaningful tattoo or just a fun icebreaker?”
He laughs again, doubling forward slightly with the force of it.
“Oh these sure got a story alright! Care to ‘ear it?”
You shrug. You can’t get any info from the barkeep without him catching on, so you’ve got nothing else you can do, really. Might as well talk to this guy. He seems alright.
“Sure. I got time.”
He lights up again, excited beyond belief that you actually want to hear about his tattoos. You swallow. There’s something about his eyes…
“It’s gotta do with my, uh... other attachments.” He says, gesturing less-than-subtly down his body to what you’re now realizing is an artificial peg leg. Wow. How did you not notice that before? He turns so his body faces your direction, and leans closer to you, resting his elbow ont he counter and holding his cheek in his hand. His eyes, lit up in excitement, look like they hold all his secrets in a safe that you’re not even sure HE knows the passcode to. They also look like they want you to find out.
“I’m originally from the outback, see? And you know us Australians…” He lowers his voice an octave, leaning even closer to you. “We can get pretty… adventurous... ” He leans back all at once and you find yourself leaning forward subconsciously. “So me n some of the lads were out tourin’ on our 4-wheelers. Mine was still in the shop so I shared with a good buddy o’ mine we call Roadhog.” At your confusion he laughs again. “That’s a story for another time, cowboy! Aaaaanyway, he guns it without warnin’, ‘n I fell off backways. Lost me arm n’ leg to the guy behind me’s bike. S’why I wear the tires of it, see?”
He pulls the side slit of his dress away from his leg to show you his whole thigh. You know you’re supposed to be looking at where he’s showing you the comparison between his arm and leg bands, but you’re too busy fighting to keep your eyes from traveling anywhere they shouldn’t be. Leading lines like they taught you in art and shit. That’s gotta be it.
“Mmmm,” you say intelligently. “Real brave of you there to share all that. People where I come from don’t really like to talk about their past so much.”
“Really?!” He recoils with the incredulity, “That’s dumb! Nothing in my past i ain’t willing to share.” The bartender puts his drink down, and he turns to grab it. “Well..” he adds, side eyeing you again, “with the right company, o’ course.”
You swallow. He throws back the martini glass, downing the whole drink like a shot, and slams it back down onto the counter, shattering it with the force. The barkeep looks over, but he waves away the concern and holds up the sign for two more drinks.
You remember that in Australia, a V sign is an insult similar to the middle finger for America.
He just fucking broke the guy’s glass and flipped him off.
Shit, that’s hot.
He seems to consider something and turns back to you.
“You know…” he says, leaning forward again. You don’t lean away. “Ya seem like a right proper fella, and since ya listened to my jabberin’ on, and ya brought up such a good point about the, how you say, ‘ands on portion o’ your culture, I’d ‘ate to be insensitive. Why don’t-”
A hand clamps down on your shoulder, grounding you.
“MARTIN?” Tracer asks incredulously, “oh my word it is you! Why, I haven’t seen you in ages! What in blimey are you doin’ ‘round these parts?!”
“Oh! Hey!” You start. You were never as good at the fake name thing as 008’s always been. “I was just talking to a new friend. Uh, Mr…”
When you look to the side, he isn’t there anymore. You scan the place. He’s gotta be here somewhere.
“Well!” She leads, “I gotta run, but you just HAVE to come with me! There’s so much we oughtta catch up on!”
She puts some bills on the counter and leads you out by your arm. You check around the bar again, but you don’t catch sight of him anywhere.
As soon as you’re in the car, Tracer’s debriefing you on all the valuable information she picked up. You have honestly no idea what you’ll tell her when she’s done.
You shift and there’s a strange rustling like paper. You look down and see a note tucked into the space between your buckle and belt. How the hell did he…
The note says JOHN KRACHT followed by what you take to be a phone number.
“Oooo!” Tracer coos, snatching the note from your hand. “Did you find yourself an informant too?” She squints at the paper. “Joonk...raht? Is that ‘ow you say it? Nothing much here.”
“That’s cause he ain’t… really an informant I don’t think.”
“Then what is this?” She asks. She squints her eyes at it again, like maybe there’ll be fine print on the number.
“I couldn’t really get anything from the barkeep with that guy sitting right next to me, but I think I did learn something.”
“And what’s that, love?” She asks, looking up at you again.
“I might not be as straight as originally planned.”