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“I’m so sorry.”
For the hundredth time since he picked up the phone an hour ago, Player sighs.
“It’s just- work got in the way, you know?” The woman’s soft voice echoes through the speakers and out into the stairwell. With each step, her tone shakes. It’s not that he doesn’t understand his mother’s guilt. Nor is it that Player doesn’t feel the same way. It’s just that... well...
He’s a college student now.
Between two armfuls of groceries and walking up a flight of stairs, he brings the device to his ears. It’s a newer model, a gift sent over by Carmen a few months ago. Something about them still having money left over from their VILE days, he’s not really sure. The fact of the matter is that the fancy thing allows him to perfectly hear the guilt of a mourning mother.
“I swear, I’ll make it up to you, alright?” It really wasn’t that big of a deal, Player climbed up the next few steps in short order, trying to focus the falls of his feet rather than her desperate offerings. Of course, they’d be a day where he couldn’t spend his birthday with his mom; he was growing up. “Your presents are already on the way over and in a few weeks, I’ll fly out there, and-”
It had to happen sometime.
Player reached his floor. In front of him, a labyrinth of hallways stretched. It looked endless, filled with twists and turns, but he knew better. Twenty rooms on this floor. A lot, sure, but not immeasurable. He’d known that much from the building floorplans – his mom had insisted he see them for safety. Then so had Carmen. And Shadowsan. And both of the siblings – and then more from walking it every day for the past few months. Up and down, back and forth, dragging books, backpacks, groceries...
His arms ache from the strain of his bags, a good incentive to hurry his steps. Player speedwalks down the hallway, stopping halfway down at a familiar door. He buries one hand into his jacket, hop-scotching on one leg to free his keys. It takes considerable effort, but the hacker succeeds. He dives the keys towards the door, and-
It gives way freely. Opening without so much as a click.
His door was unlocked.
His door was open.
“Mom?”
The woman on the other end stops talking. “Yeah, baby?”
“I… I gotta’ go.” He stares at the door, his heart leaping into his throat.
“Oh.” She sounds startled by the haste, “Everything okay?”
“Yeah, it's just… I love you, okay?”
A beat. “I love you too, Sunshine. Happy birthday.”
Player ends the call.
Its just him, now. Staring at the door. His hand still hovering over the knob, still holding the set of keys. Its an instinctual sort of fear taking hold of his heart, one honed from his time with superthieves. His door was unlocked, okay. Cool. Sure, that could mean a lot of different things. Maybe he just left it that way when he left for school this morning, except- No, he hadn’t been rushing. And Carmen had drilled into him how easily one could break into an unlocked apartment, not to mention the dozens of lectures Shadowsan had given on the topic. Plus, being a white hacker made one pretty aware of different security measures.
He knew the importance of security. He- he wouldn’t make this sort of mistake. A normal, distracted person, maybe, but not him. Not after everything he and his friends had gone through over the years.
So, he takes another lesson from Carmen.
Slowly, ever-so-quietly, Player inhales. He feels his chest expand, his diaphragm contract, the whole of his system breathing slowly, taking the oxygen in one long, drawn out breath. He waits there, his lungs filled, for a second, then another, and finally a third, before releasing it all. Again, moving slowly. Again, in a careful, drawn-out manner.
Now that his heartrate has gone from ludicrous to slightly above average, Player allows himself to start thinking.
There’s no damage to his door. Not any that’s readily visible, at least. The lock doesn’t look like it was broken to get in. No scuff marks around the keyhole (at least, none that haven’t been caused by him and some half-asleep fumbling with his keys). No broken wood.
Which means one of two things; Either there’s no one inside, and he’s being paranoid over nothing... or whoever got in knows what they’re doing.
He sets the groceries outside the door - Carmen’s got the whole team on a nice stipend to live the rest of their lives off of, but in the worst-case scenario, Player would rather not waste money or food – and carefully, slowly, pushes it open.
The inside of his home is as dark as it can be... with daylight pouring in from the balcony. Which is, really, not at all. And yet, in the silence of his own breath, Player eyes even the tiniest shadows.
A good thief knows how to hide. A good VILE operative can make even the tiniest overlooked spot work in their favor.
From the doorway, Player can’t see any obvious signs of ruin. No overturned tables, open cabinets, flipped couches. If someone is here, they’re being polite about it (and if no one is here, then he’s just being overly cautious, not paranoid!)
He takes a step inside. Just one, at first. Then another. When nothing stirs, Player takes a risk, raising his voice to call out into the empty house, “Hello?”
Silence returns his call.
And yet...
“I know you’re here!” It’s a bluff. A bad one, too. Any reasonably cautious person worth their salt would claim the same thing. “If you don’t come out right now, then I’ll-” Not call the cops. Not with the amount of cybercrimes sitting happily on his computer, “I’ll run you out!”
Yeah, a kid whose only just cracked five feet is going to do that.
Predictably, no one appears from the confines of his home. Player is left standing there awkwardly, feeling a little like a kid who just lost their mom in the grocery store.
Just as Player is beginning to wonder if he’s going to be stuck there forever, trapped between safety and fear, a thought comes to him.
VILE operatives aren’t the only thieves who’d want into his apartment.
And oh, if that doesn’t make him feel like an idiot.
“Red!” He snaps, trudging forward. Leave it to his friends to be jerks. “This is not funny!”
When the thief doesn’t present herself, Player’s irritation surges. “You guys gave me a heart attack! I thought someone broke- well, okay, I thought someone bad broke in!”
Nothing.
...
“Guys? Seriously, if you’re just trying to scare me, it’s not going to work!”
No master thieves. No redheads. No ninjas.
Fine. Fine! FINE! It’s his birthday, if they want to be difficult, he can play that game too. By ruining theirs.
Yanking his phone from his pocket, Player flips straight to his list of contacts and scrolls until he glimpses the familiar icon of a red hat.
He dials. The phone rings.
And rings.
And rings.
Player frowns; Carmen wasn’t usually one to not respond to one of his calls... Scrolling again, he finds the next name on the list, this one marked with a simple sword. Shadowsan.
The same routine plays. He dials, the phone rings. Nothing happens.
Another scroll downward. This time, he finds an icon marked only by a little plant. Ivy. His thumb hits the call button.
And a second later, to his immense – incredible, really – relief, a matching ringtone echoes from across the room.
It’s followed immediately by rapid cursing as a red-headed woman emerges straight from behind his couch, fumbling with her phone.
“Crap! Hell! Fu-” Panic sends the device twisting, turning, jumping about in her hands. Ivy tries to catch it, but not even instincts homed from years of working with the greatest master thief in the world can save the device from startled panic. It lands with a thump squarely in the space between the both of them.
Player smiles, “Smooth, detective.”
“Oh, shut up!” Her eyes roll, her finger jabs at him accusingly. “You startled me! On purpose!”
“You broke into my house.” Player deadpans.
“To surprise you!” Ivy throws her hands up, “It’s your nineteenth birthday, dude! And you have nothing planned! That’s like- that's so sad!”
“I- that’s not-” He starts, then stops, because... yeah, okay, maybe he’s nineteen today, but- “It’s not worth a fuss, Ives.”
Despite the disapproving cross of her arms, Ivy’s face doesn’t exactly read as shocked. “Yeah, Carmen said you’d say that.”
“Well... Red’s right.” When her head shakes, he continues, “I don’t want a party. Seriously, Ivy.”
“She also said you’d say that.” His mouth opens to argue - because, well, yeah, Carmen would probably call him out like that, but it didn’t mean she was right about it – when Ivy’s eyes turn from his face, looking to something far behind him. Something that makes her smirk. “It’s a good thing you don’t have much of a choice, huh?”
Player’s eyes widen, his blood growing cold. There was one person he didn’t call. One person who always ran in tandem with Ivy. One person who would go along with any scheme, any mischief, any sort of evil, betraying, birthday-related surprises.
Zack.
Arms close around his sides, his feet lifting him clean from the ground. Even without any pain to accompany the sudden weightlessness, Player still yelps in surprise.
“Got him!” Zack cheers, reshuffling to hold Player beneath the armpits, letting him dangle limply like a cat. It’s a humiliating position. Player kicks out, if only to show his displeasure, but facing forward, he can’t turn enough to reach his captor. “You ready to go, Ives?”
“No!” Player shouts, only to be resolutely ignored.
“Always, Bro.”
“Wait, wait-” Zack turns, carrying him with frightening ease towards the door. Despite Player’s best attempts, he can’t grab at the doorframe. He can’t escape. And he can’t- his eyes widen; the groceries! “Okay! Okay! I’ll come! Just let me put my stuff away!”
Zack stops.
“Please?” His hair scrapes against Zack’s chin as he looks up, doing his best to make his eyes pleading and pitiful (ugh, he hates doing the whole ‘sad puppy’ routine). “I just bought milk. It’ll go bad.”
“Ugh,” Ivy groans, “Fine.”
--
He gets ten minutes to put everything away.
Player takes six, then spends about thirty seconds trying to run fast enough down the hall to escape.
The siblings catch up because, well... they’re two detectives fresh out of their rigorous probationary period and Player is a hacker whose spent the past year actively denying Carmen’s attempts at getting him to go to the gym.
The remainder of the time is spent by the siblings themselves as they wrangle him into a car. Player keeps up the struggle - even though by then it’s really more about being difficult on principal than actually getting away – all the way until they start the vehicle, at which point survival becomes far more important.
Because Zack is the one driving.
“Oh my god,” The psychopathic redhead calls as Player clutches onto Ivy, allowing her to help him down from the vehicle only because his own legs are too jelly-filled to be trusted. “It wasn’t that bad!”
It was. It really, really was. Player’s throat is in his stomach, and his heart is in his lungs, and he’s about half a second away from collapsing on the sweet, sweet, solid ground. “I don’t- Carmen-” He wheezes like an old man, “I don’t know how you drive like that.”
Zack huffs, “I’ma detective, bud. I need to go fast to catch criminals!”
The snicker Ivy releases is almost as much of a betrayal as his own kidnapping,
His mouth opens to tell them as much, when his eyes find their destination.
A building stretches out in front of them. Big and black, it juts out as badly as a sore thumb between the busy streets of Niagara Falls. Even on the street, Player can hear the loud music booming from within, something that grows several octaves in volume as a handful of partygoers are allowed in by the big, burly man standing at the entrance.
“You’re... you’re taking me to a bar?” Player gapes.
Ivy and Zack share a mutual look, the former’s hold on him tightening in preparation for another escape attempt. “Okay, Player. First of all; it’s a nightclub. Second; You’re turning nineteen.”
“Yeah! You gotta’ party!”
The siblings have lost their mind, their senses, their everything. Player is not a partier. Player is not a nightclub guy. Player is not going to be doing this.
He kicks. He fights. He drags his feet. He puts it all into fighting against the foolishness of this stupid, idiotic plan.
... And is quite literally dragged straight to the door.
The guy standing out front – A classic bouncer guy, right down to the massive biceps, bald head, and black shirt reading “SECURITY” in big bright lettering – looks to Ivy, then to Zack, and then to Player himself, before quirking his brow.
The judgement is palpable.
“Little brother.” Ivy says by way of explanation, a little breathless from having to fight to get Player both up the stairs and liberated of his wallet for his driver’s license. “It’s his birthday, he’s ungrateful.” She slides three IDs straight to the man. “You know how it is.”
“Ah.” That’s it? He thinks, before his brain registers what Ivy said; little brother?
... She said little brother.
All at once, Player goes slack in the siblings’ grip.
“I know how it is.” The guy chuckles as he checks the dates, oblivious to Player’s rapidly mounting crisis – yeah, he was little! He was small! And he was kinda, sorta, maybe their... brother? Not by blood, but... “Tried to get my guy out fishing for his b-day last year, he freaked so hard.”
“Right? They’re always so dramatic about it!” Dramatic. Little brother. He sighs, watching as the IDs are given right back.
There wasn’t much hope in fighting them, was there?
“Well, happy birthday.” The bouncer nods, opening the door wide enough to allow all three of their group through the car. Some kind of obnoxious pop album greets them; the volume turned up so loud Player winces. “And good luck with him!”
“Thanks!” The siblings call back, even as the door clangs ominously shut, leaving him blinkingas his eyes adjust to the abrupt change in lighting.
The bar – nightclub, he corrects in his head with a groan - is a wide open but dimly lit space. On one end of the room, booths have been created, simple walls boxing in each one to create privacy for the people seated within. On the other, a sleek black bar with regular stools, staffed by a revolving door of people. In the center between both spaces, a large dance floor has been built and filled with over two dozen already drunk strangers who are far too rambunctious for this early in the night.
If Player grimaces as the siblings drag him towards the booths, then neither one acknowledges it. Instead, he’s practically shoved into the seat, then boxed in on either side by the redheads.
“Okay.” Ivy says, hands splaying out on the table as if this were one of their old heists, and not apparently, a horrific birthday surprise. “What alcohol do you like? We need something good here, P.”
Isn’t that your job? He thinks, unsuccessfully resisting the urge to roll his eyes. “Don’t know. I haven’t really... tried it?”
Player thinks it’s proud to say that. Look, besides the whole ‘aiding, abetting, and directly working for an internationally recognized and feared super thief’ thing, he’s been a pretty good kid! He doesn’t steal (from non-criminals), he doesn’t really cuss, and, despite plenty of opportunities after he’d finally gotten into college, he hasn’t imbibed. Not beyond the occasional glass at family dinners, at least.
By the looks on Ivy and Zack’s faces, they certainly don’t agree.
“Okay, so Player’s a square.”
“Hey!”
Ivy turns to her brother. “We know he likes sweet stuff, right?”
“That’s not-”
“Yeah.” Zack agrees, “You thinkin’ like, a margarita?”
“Seriously, guys?”
“No,” She shakes her head, “Too easy... Cosmo?”
“So, I’m just not going to have any input on-?”
Her brother makes a so-so gesture with his hands. “Not interesting enough. What about a clover club?”
That Player knows, and the idea makes his face scrunch. “Ew, my Dad used to drink that.”
“No clover club.” They agree, speaking in perfect unison, before turning back to one another to restart their debate.
Player sighs, resting his chin on his hand. Around him, the conversation between the siblings continues. The knowledge that he has veto power is nice, even if he doesn’t recognize half the drinks they spout off, and the other half he doesn’t know enough to understand if he’ll actually like them or not.
They go back and forth for a while, offering up then shooting down a handful of drinks. Some of them sound good, some of them sound awful.
Ivy eventually huffs and stands, announcing to the entire booth – and really, with her volume, the entire nightclub – that she’s just going to pick the first drink she can think of when she gets to the bar, so they’ll just have to be drinking it no matter what.
... She comes back with three small shot glasses, each filled with a clear liquid.
Player raises an eyebrow.
“Raspberry vodka.”
“Vodka.” He repeats, dubious, yet still grabs catches it in his hand when Ivy slides the glass over, “You’re starting us with vodka?”
“Relax,” She drawls, “We won’t be driving home.”
Right. That was the problem.
Player rolled the shot in his hand, letting the liquid swish around. It doesn’t do anything – or Player thinks it doesn’t, since he’s fairly sure aeration is just a wine thing – but Ivy and Zack don’t tell him to stop. Instead, they watch with almost baited breath as he eyes the liquid, lifting it slowly up towards his nose.
He sniffs, grimaces at the nail polish-like scent, then looks to the siblings.
They raise their own glasses, metaphorical tails all but wagging as they wait, watching. Player brings the glass, slowly, to his lips.
And together, they take the shot.
--
Two shots of vodka - well, two shots followed by splitting something called a blue lagoon - later and Player feels sufficiently... good.
It’s not like he wasn’t happy to see the siblings (ignoring the whole minor kidnapping thing), but it’s common knowledge among the team that he’s their resident house mouse. The alcohol, then, is a balm to his nerves. A cool undercurrent running through his veins, pushing all the regular anxieties away until they’re only background noise.
Until he’s just... existing with his friends, giggling and laughing, making stupid jokes and stupidier conversation. It’s dumb and awesome, all at once. Player gets the appeal of alcohol.
After the burning sensation in his throat goes away, at least.
Ivy and Zack have taken turns picking out their drinks, making sure that there’s plenty of time between each one for Player to feel the effects and decide if he needs to tap out. On their fourth round, however, they decide he should get to pick.
Stumbling to the bar is difficult. As dinnertime starts to fade into proper night, the whole club has gotten busier. The couple dozen on the dance floor has doubled. The rest of the booths have been claimed. The bar, already a bit busy when they’d first arrived, is filled with people either placing orders or waiting to ferry them back to their friends, so much so that Player is forced to squeeze between two different people just to sit down.
Which is, of course, when he realizes he has no idea what to order. He’s pretty sure the siblings suggested a few things, and he’s sort of got a better handle on what he might like now, but it all turns to a thick slurry in his brain as he watches the working hands of a bartender.
The guy’s good at his job. He’s fast, efficient in a way Player appreciates, with a bit of flourish to match. And he doesn’t seem to mind the audience, if the little tricks of flipping the glasses and pouring shots from ludicrous angles are any indication.
Still, Player needs to make a choice. A good one, too. No more shots, probably. Something cool. Something good.
But what?
He huffs, frustrating boiling in his veins.
A flicker of red clothing and long hair catches Player’s attention from the corner of his eye. He jerks his attention towards it, except alcoholic sluggishness delays the reaction too much. By the time he turns, the person is gone. Vanished from sight to disappear into the throngs of a rapidly growing and overzealous crowd.
Funny... it almost looked like-
“Jesus.” A voice to his other side. Player jumps, jerking back in surprise – and nearly braining a poor, drunk woman in the process - but an arm falls around his shoulders, drawing him back in again. Closer to the bar, a few inches farther from the crowd, her voice, filled with warmth, returns. “When I told Ivy and Zack to take you out and keep you busy, I expected them to take you to dinner, not get you wasted.”
“Carmen. Red. Hi.” Carmen’s dressed in her casual wear, hair down and smiling. She looks the epitome of his wonderful, amazing, awesome, best friend. “Hi!”
“Hi, Player.” She sounds faintly amused. Player doesn’t blame her, it’s so good to see her in person. Like, really, really good. They never hang out. They should do that more!
He frowns, a thought occuring, “I’m not wasted. I’m uhh.. M'just... just buzzed.”
“Buzzed, huh?” The arm around his shoulder squeezes, Player quite happily melts into her hold. “And how much have you had to drink?”
“Ivy and Zack are paying.” Player says, by way of answer. “We got a uhh... a booth. In the corner.” He looks up at Carmen, brows furrowed, “You’re joining us, right?”
“Mhm.” Carmen confirms, “I would’ve been with the welcoming committee, but the flight from Mexico was late. Shadowsan should be here in the morning, too.” A pause. Her eyes examine his face, searching for something. “... Have the siblings been ordering for you?”
“Yup.”
“That explains it.”
“That explains...” The cogs in his brain attempt to turn, only to fall rapidly short. “What?”
“Nothing.” She leans more against the bar, lifting an eyebrow, “What are you doing back here, now?”
That, at least, has a simple answer. “Ordering!”
Across the bar, someone sloppily shouts an order to a new bartender, waving their hands rapidly to get the poor worker’s attention. Carmen wrinkles her nose at the blatant disrespect. “Ordering what?”
Uh. Crap. He blinks at where the first bartender – the one with all the cool tricks - was, only to find the spot empty. He huffs, annoyed with himself. How could he have been standing here so long and still not have an order? “I don’t know... Ivy and Zack want me to pick.”
“You don’t drink, though.” She gets it, immediately. Bless his best friend, Carmen knows him so well. “You’re stuck?”
“I don’t do alcohol.” Player whines, leaning a tad more heavily into the superthief. She doesn’t seem to mind. In fact, the corners of her lips even tilt up, twisting into a familiar, sly smile.
Player knows that look. It’s the same one she used to get whenever they were about to go on a caper, or they’re about to start some mischief together.
Like the polite hacker he is, Player sits up a little straighter, offering Carmen as much of his full attention as he physically can (which is... harder than it sounds when you have half a bar milling around you).
“I could order for you.” There it is. “But it’ll be a surprise.”
From any other person, Player would certainly agonize over the decision. Hell, he’d probably say no as soon as it came right out of their mouth. Carmen isn’t just some stranger, though. If she trusts him enough to let him guide her sky diving from a plane, he trusts her enough to let her order a drink. “’Course, Red.”
Her grin is a sight to behold. By the time he’s blinked, Carmen’s already leaning across the bar and flagging down one of the workers. The new bartender – an older woman who looks a bit too tired to be taking care of a place this rowdy – doesn’t seem to be all that surprised when Carmen leans in to whisper something in her ear. She does, however, twist her gaze towards Player, waiting until he nods his ascent before she abandons them both to go make Carmen’s request.
Minutes pass in companiable conversation, mostly Carmen lamenting about her flight over, then asking after his mom. “She seemed really upset about the birthday thing,” Carmen explains, when he raises an eyebrow, “I don’t think she really clued in that we were probably going to be showing up, even before she gave us permission.”
It’s not shocking that his mom helped orchestrate the whole thing. The confirmation is nice, though. He’s opening his mouth to tell Carmen such, when four tall glasses slide across the bar. One for him, one for Carmen, and two for the siblings.
Inside each and every one of them sits a brightly colored orange liquid, one that twists to a familiar amber in the dim overhead lighting. At the bottom, cushioning the main drink is a deep, bright red color. At the other end, topping each glass, a slice of orange.
"It looks like a sunrise.” Player muses, watching as the oranges and reds swirl around one another, little ribbons of color dancing around it all. Experimentally, he leans forward to disturb it all by taking a sip.
Orange juice. Alcohol. Underneath it; Sweetness, like syrup, but not overwhelmingly so.
Player takes another sip, and then another, relishing the taste. It’s good, really good. Not to mention far easier to get down than the vodka the siblings had been giving him. “Shoulda’ waited for you,” He says, by way of compliment.
“Trust me, Player. I’m well aware.” Pride swells in her voice, “Just remind me to tell the siblings they owe me five bucks.”
“Shtup. Stop.” He licks his lips, chasing the orange. It doesn’t work, Player has to go down for another sip. Not that that’s a terrible thing, mind you. “You guys need to stop betting on me.”
“Please, I stop now and I lose a good fifty.”
It might be annoying, how well she knows him. Just like it was annoying that the siblings broke into his apartment. But, much like the drinks of tonight, it’s also... sweet. Sweet that they know him so well, sweet that they cared enough to come all the way out here, sweet that they dragged him out just so he could have fun. Even though he complained, kicking and dragging his feet the whole time.
It’s sappy, and it’s probably just from the alcohol, but without much thought, Player finds himself blurting, “You know I love you guys, right?”
Carmen blinks at him, startled.
Then, to both their surprises, she laughs.
“Happy birthday, Player.”