Work Text:
“Again? Really?” Amélie heard the the stage manager mutter outside the dressing room.
Amélie did not wait for the specifics, but she recognized the subject of that day’s drama: the omnic was back again, and no one could work out why. And why should they have to? They were students of ballet, not engineering!
And why would the omnic even want to be there? The dance academy had selected the ballet Coppelia for its senior performance. It was a show about a girl who pretended to be a living doll. The choice in programming was a political statement in of itself: If the academy approved of omnics, they would have chosen The Nutcracker.
Nevertheless, there was an omnic in the audience. In the dressing room, the other girls made a predictable fuss, as they powdered their armpits and massaged each others shoulders in preparation for the evening performance. It was much the same as the stage manager's complaint. Again? Really? Amélie had grown tired of hearing it, the back and forth that had replaced the typical ‘Okay, but who’s got my fucking eyeshadow?’ Yes, there was an omnic in the audience. No, he wasn’t there to check tickets. Yes, he had come to the matinée. No, no one knew why. Yes, he had come for the Wednesday performance, and the Monday one, and last weekend’s, and, yes, he bought the exact same seat each time: center balcony, front row, where everyone could see his phone-bright red sensors, before he dimmed them for the show.
“It is a creepy distraction and we should complain,” cried Renée, the loudest of the lot. She was the local eyeshadow thief and more than happy to milk this new distraction for all it was worth. “Why do they keep letting it in?”
“I don’t know, Renée,” said Amélie, with a careful hand on her make-up bag, “maybe because he pays.”
“It’s just unprofessional!” Renée huffed. Amélie turned back to the mirror. This was a student production, not the Royal Ballet, but Amélie chose not to point that out. Half of the girls pretended otherwise, and Amélie had no interest prolonged conversation. She had already said more than she ever did before a show. She finished her make-up, did her stretches alone, and turned herself over to the costuming major who managed the wardrobe that evening. In the chorus line, dressed and waiting for her cue, Amélie eyes instinctively lingered on the spot where the omnic would be. She saw nothing but black. Yes, there was an omnic in the audience. No, it didn’t matter. Between scenes, the girls went back to wondering if Eloise was sleeping with the director or that guy in lighting.
“Maybe she’s sleeping with the omnic,” suggested Alais.
“Then she’s really playing the robot,” said Marie.
Laughter. Then they arranged themselves quickly for their next cue.
It was their last show. The final bows were a production in of themselves. Amélie pranced out onto the stage with the rest of the chorus. She did her appropriately timed twirls and flourishes, waited for them to thank everyone, and thank everyone again. She smiled like a doll. They stood prettily through the trustee speeches and the calls for more donations, and then afterwards she returned to the dressing room, peeled off her sweaty costume, checked her thighs for chafing, dressed, and escaped out the stage doors before anyone could stop and pretend to be her friend.
A crowd loitered outside. Friends and families, waiting with hugs and flowers, but Amélie knew none of them would be waiting for her. She went to the dance academy for a different reason than her fellows. Who would bring her flowers? Her combat instructor? Hah.
So it was with some surprise that a gentleman stepped into the light of that back alley and said: “Miss d'Épinay. May I give you this?”
It was the omnic from the center balcony seat, dressed in a sharp, chequed suit, and a pink neck scarf. He held a bundle of white spider mums in one well-articulated hand.
The onlookers gave him a wide berth. Amélie stood there in her sweaty sundress and stared. She wondered how he’d known her name, then she’d remembered he’d probably been given the program at least five times this last week.
“...thank you,” she said, watching the flowers warily. “I think you may have confused me with someone else.”
“Village Girl #3, correct?” asked the omnic. “And doll #4?”
He had a surprisingly lively voice. The mechanical accent only emphasized the warm tenor of it.
“Yes,” said Amélie, a little stunned.
“Then I am not mistaken,” said the omnic, with a pleased flash of his sensors. Many omnics had their sensors arranged to look like human eyes: Friendly and comforting. This omnic had done no such thing. He had seven, all arranged on his faceplate in a manner not unlike some sort of predatory insect. She took the offered flowers. They smelled sweet and fresh, despite it being the middle of winter. “I’ve learned I’m a great fan of your work.”
“You must be joking,” said Amélie, who was, in all this, a student of dance in her last year at the academy -- not a member of the Royal Ballet. “If you were human, I’d call you a stalker.”
“A stalker?” The robot rested a hand on his chest, a clear picture of mortification. “Ah, never! Please, allow me to be perfectly upfront about my intentions. My name is Gérard Lacroix. I enjoyed the show, I find you attractive, and I’d like to know you better. I’m here hoping to do just that.”
“My, you’re forthright,” allowed Amélie, sizing him up. He was a bit taller than her, but light as most human-type omnics were, with a slim waist and long limbs. “Were you hoping to say that to the first woman who walked out the door?”
“Only if that first woman was you. Have I given you the impression otherwise?”
“Hmph. You have given me no impression besides you have some nerve,” she said, shouldering the flowers as one might with an assault weapon. “What if I said I was seeing someone?”
“Then I would say simply that I enjoyed your performance,” said Gérard. “You kept perfect time, I found it impressive, and that I wish you a good evening. I hope they cast you in the spring.”
At that moment, Alais and Marie came out behind her. She heard them stop, confused. A great deal of alarmed whispering ensued. Is that Amélie ? Is that the omnic ? What’s it doing here, oh my god should we call someone? They really did fritter about like birds sometimes, and Amélie felt obligated to give them a real shock.
“And if I’m not seeing anyone?” Amélie twirled the flowers in thought. She tucked one ankle behind the other, tapping her toe against the cobblestones. She had nearly forgotten, by then, how sore she was from the show. “How would you propose to ‘know me better?’”
“I like to spend my mornings in the Louvre,” said Gérard. “I would be honored if you would join me next weekend.”
“The Louvre on a weekend? The lines are hell.”
“I have a membership.”
“And now? My curiosity,” said Amélie, to the horror of the chorus girls behind her. “All right, then, Gérard Lacroix. Satisfy it.”
Amélie’s combat instructor called her the next morning, congratulating her on the performance.
“It seems the bait took,” said her instructor. “Overwatch is interested in the academy. A known agent’s just bought a season pass.”
“My,” said Amélie, with her legs stretched above her head, “what a surprise.”
“Keep an eye out for him, Amélie.”
“Hm,” said Amélie, eyeing the new message from the omnic, “I will see what I can do.”
Gérard’s superior called him the next morning, wondering about the show.
“You were right about the school,” admitted the commander, a little sheepishly. “It looks like it might be a training program. Two of the operatives we captured went there for at least a semester, and they sure love anti-omnic programming...”
“It did seem convenient,” said Gérard, blowing steam through an empty cigarette as he sat in his window, “and their production values are astounding. They must have quite the board of trustees...”
“Don’t doubt it, but we can’t go busting civilian non-profits without a good reason,” said the commander. “Keep an eye on it, will you?”
“I have a season pass,” said Gérard, as he sent Amélie his available hours. A moment later, he received a reply: Yes, Saturday morning. Be prompt. I hate lines.
Amélie’s fellow students were worried about her. It wasn’t that they knew her or liked her -- Amélie had done her best to be nothing but efficient and invisible for almost the entire time she’d been enrolled in the dance academy -- but, now that she had done something that had caught their notice, the situation had changed. Suddenly Amélie d'Épinay was a great friend, an indispensible member of their class, and they would express their concerns for her in the most condescending way imaginable:
“Oh, there you are, Amélie! Amélie how are you?” asked Marie, as Amélie came into the studio. Marie had, up until this day, only exchanged in total about four or five sentences with her, most of which were along the lines of ‘Hello!’ or ‘Where is the instructor?’ She never waited for a reply. In this tradition, Amélie sat down on the mats and slipped on her flats. It took Marie hovering over her to realize she was expected to say something.
“Oh. I’m fine,” said Amélie. Marie seemed quite disappointed by the normal nature of this response.
“Amélie! You look so pale,” bubbled Alais, as they did their stretches on the bar. “Would you like to get a drink? I’ll come with you!”
Alais had, up until this point, very staunchly called Amélie ‘Analise’ when she could be bothered to remember a name at all. To remember it now must have taken herculean effort.
“I have water,” said Amélie, flexing her leg. It was a bit stiff. Taking the day off after the show had done her no favors. Alais pouted and left her alone.
“Amélie, you should know we’re very worried for you,” said Renée, while they waited for their turn on the floor. “Alais said you looked like death!”
Amélie had just simply never liked Renée.
“Oh, stop pretending,” said Amélie, “This is about the omnic.”
“What about the omnic?” asked Renée. “Is something the matter?”
“It’s not any of your business,” said Amélie, “and Eloise knows you took her make-up case.”
“What?” goggled Renée.
“That was YOU?” exploded Eloise, on the other end of the line.
“Next,” called the instructor. Amélie raised her arms above her head and launched herself across the room.
In the meantime, Gérard Lacroix considered his own situation. Saturday was a terribly long way away. To an omnic, who processed thoughts and sensory input much faster than humans, the wait was even longer.
He did his best to stay occupied.
“You would not believe my fortune,” said Gérard, to his present companion: a very irate arms dealer who he had cornered attempting to make a break for London. “I’ve met someone!”
The arms dealer called in his bodyguards: a number of re-programmed combat omnics who had fallen on very hard times. Gérard threw up a personal shield and five rebound barriers. He subdued them with a shock of energy. He delivered the dealer to the local authorities. He delivered the damaged omnics to a very skilled mechanic near Sacre-Coeur.
“I know what you’re thinking,” said Gérard, to a gentleman he met for lunch: one whom was actually running an omnic trafficking ring under the guise of employment opportunities. “‘Ah, Gérard, you have always just met someone.’ But I’m quite serious about this one.”
“Glad to hear it,” said the gentleman, misunderstanding. He reached out to shake Gérard’s hand with a glove rigged to disable his core processors. Gérard kicked the man’s feet out from under him and pinned him under the cafe table. He arrested the cafe’s manager, for good measure. He’d been in on the whole thing.
“Ah, it does present a new line of problems,” admitted Gérard Lacroix, to his next mark: a cornered hacker they caught data-mining off a government server. “It pains me to admit it, but it has been some time since I have been on a proper date.”
His companion nodded, eyes darting towards the door.
“Not that present company is unwelcome,” said Gérard, tapping his chin in thought, “but I am not certain this upcoming event will be what one would call the platonic ideal.”
His companion smiled. Yes, he understood very well. He pulled out a semi-automatic weapon. Gérard stepped sideways to contemplate. The subsequent spray of gunfire took a chunk out of the wall behind him.
“Also, that was very foolish,” said Gérard. “I was going to offer you a plea deal.”
He threw a barrier at the door. The hacker ran straight into it, rebounded backwards, and straight into the omnic’s waiting arms.
“Is this what you do all day?” asked Amélie, at the museum: where the lines had been predictably hell and they’d skipped all of them. “Come and look at old paintings?”
“On quiet days,” said Gérard, “which I find have become a rare commodity in my line of work.”
“And what do you do, Mr. Lacroix?” asked Amélie, who knew exactly what he did: Overwatch’s capture of weapons dealer and their suppliers had been all over the news. They had not attributed the bust to one particular agent, but the right circles knew their man in Paris, and that man wore chrome plating and very dapper suits.
There were a few ways for him to answer her:
- He could say he was an administrative assistant. A lie, but a believable one.
- He could say he worked for the UN, which was not untrue, if a bit implausible -- the UN had not quite yet decided how to handle the issue of omnic citizenship and as such employing them was an administrative nightmare.
- He could say he was an auditor -- a bit more of a stretch, but surprisingly accurate, if one considered the particular brand of complaints she’d heard from her handlers just this morning about losing their most recent ‘business partner’ owing to government action.
“I’m an agent of Overwatch,” said Gérard.
"Overwatch." Amélie forgot to blink.
"I work for the international crime division," said Gérard.
"I see." Amélie checked over her shoulder. "That sounds… difficult."
The tour groups and families passed them on either side, and, though a few glanced their way, none of them stopped. None of them were dressed in particularly aggressive blandness.
"We’re not always the most popular of people," agreed Gérard. "Does it bother you?"
“Not particularly,” said Amélie, with a stiff smile. She kept the emergency exit in her line of sight, considered her options, and asked, “Unless you are about to arrest me. I think I would be very bothered if you were to do that.”
“Is there a reason I would?”
“Perhaps there is. Perhaps you are in the company of a most dangerous criminal, one whom you have cornered at last,” said Amélie, raising her eyebrows in challenge. “In which case, I will confess in full: I’ve committed multiple traffic violations, I don’t plan to do anything with my scholarship, and I stole a barrette when I was eight.”
The omnic laughed. A curious sound, tinny and pre-recorded, and yet oddly genuine in the way it played up and down the range of his vocal sensors. His optical sensors flickered in counterpoint to it.
“A formidable record,” he said, “but what interest would I have in the exploits of a larcenous eight year old?”
“I see,” said Amélie. “Then my initial assumptions must be true. You have some kind of fetish, Mr. Lacroix, and I’m playing to it.”
“If going to a museum with a beautiful woman is a fetish, I am guilty as charged,” said Gérard.
“My classmates think I’m going to fuck you.”
“Your classmates sound quite nosy.”
“They are. I don’t like them very much,” said Amélie, “but I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t considering it.”
“Oh?”
“Isn’t it obvious? I’m at a museum with a well-dressed stranger who gave me his number,” said Amélie. “But I remain undecided. So. Help me make up my mind. When you said you found me attractive, what did you mean?”
“Isn’t it obvious?” echoed Gérard, with a bit of an impish flick in his sensors. “But I see. You are questioning whether or not I am one of those machines who is interested in aesthetic above all else. That I might admire you as I admire these paintings. Cerebral and untouchable.”
“Were you designed for it?”
“Regrettably, no.”
“Have you been modified for it?”
“No, and I have no programmed biological compulsions to speak of.”
“Then…?”
He turned to face her. He held out a hand. He wore dark leather gloves. She could just make out the bumps of his finger joints under them as he held up a hand and traced the air between them in the vague shape of her jawline.
“Then,” he pronounced, carefully, “I will set your mind at ease. I find your silhouette appealing. Your black hair looks good under bright lights. Our conversation is engaging and intriguing.” Here, the omnic paused, head tilted to one side. “And you have very good legs.”
“Thank you,” said Amélie. “But is it physically possible?”
“Of course.”
“Show me,” said Amélie.
“Here?” He did not have eyebrows to raise, but she could hear it in his voice. Amusement. Deep and rich.
“Yes. Right here in the gallery,” said Amélie, rolling her eyes. “Take me back to your place. Unless you live in a closet. In which case, forget I even asked.”
“How fortunate then that I don’t,” said Gérard. He offered her his arm. Amélie took it, and let him lead the way.
They left the museum. They returned to his apartment. He lived in the Latin Quarter. It wasn’t far. They walked fast, but it still took much too long.
He lived in a gated apartment complex, behind a set of thick 19th century doors. In the courtyard, an old woman watered her flowers alongside an unclothed omnic. The old woman glanced up as Gérard came in. She saw Amélie. She mindfully returned to her flowers. The unclothed omnic waved, clearly very eager to speak with him, but the old woman shoved a watering can into his hands to shush him up.
Gérard turned right. Amélie followed him under an arch and up a set of old steps into the complex proper.
“I have to ask,” she said.
“I love questions,” he said.
“Why do some omnics wear clothes and some don’t?”
“I love questions about nudity,” said Gérard, with a certain gleeful twist in his vocals. “Isn’t it obvious?”
He led her to the second floor. The third door from the stairway.
“Aesthetics,” said Amélie.
“Expression,” said Gérard. “Personal preference. We’re as varied as humans, you know. Some omnics prefer to express themselves through their function. Others dislike covering themselves. They consider it hiding what they are.”
“And do you hide what you are?”
The apartment complex was old, with only the barest of modern additions. He pressed his hand to an archaic security panel. The door unlocked and opened with a surprisingly mechanical noise. It stuttered only slightly as it slid aside.
“I love what I am,” said Gérard, his sensors flicking back her way. “Shouldn’t everyone love what they are?”
The automatic lights came on in the apartment. It was picturesque studio, furnished to look like an old 20th century flat, complete with an empty kitchenette and an actual book shelf, filled with old bound books. A picture window looked into the courtyard, where the old woman was still clipping her flowers. The door slid shut behind them. Amélie considered this, along with the question.
“...They should,” said Amélie, shaken, despite herself. She found the strange knot in her throat distasteful, and resolved to rid herself of it. “But we are dodging my real question! You. Yourself. Why do you do it?”
“I would think that is obvious as well,” said Gérard. “I like them. They make me colorful and interesting, and, oh, they fit so well.”
“Ugh! And you said you weren’t about aesthetic.”
“I am about many things.”
“Fine! Then prove it!” said Amélie, growing impatient. She pulled her dress over her head and threw it at the nearest chair she could find.
He pulled off his gloves. She bunched her hand in his necktie and pulled. He could see the muscles standing out in her arm and it was magnificent.
“Kiss me,” she said, deep with challenge.
He placed rested his hand on her cheek. She raised her eyebrow at him.
“I have 2048 sensors in my fingertips,” he said, brushing his thumb along her cheekbone. Those sensors told him many things just then. Her body temperature. Her heartbeat.
“Oh, is that all?” she said. She turned her head and took his thumb in her mouth. A rush of data exploded through his input.
“Ah,” he said.
Amélie laughed.
The sheets of the bed were cold and unused. The omnics hands were warm and quick as he worked on her, one hand braced on her inner thigh. Amélie sat at the edge of the bed, with her toes just barely on the floor. She stared at the ceiling. Her thigh began to shake. The heat in her throat and eyes was nearly unbearable. She inhaled and dug her nails into the sheets.
“Oh, you liar,” she murmured hazily, letting her head fall to one side. “You cad. You said you weren’t designed for this.”
“Ah, my dear, you say the sweetest things,” said Gérard. “It’s to your liking, then?”
She felt the thrum in his voice through his fingers. He paused and reached for the bottle of lube on the bedstand. the wet sound of liquid over metal. Then, he returned to his work: the wet sound of metal against flesh.
Amélie bit back a groan. She would not give him that much. Not yet. In the dark, his seven eyes were like a spotlight. When she closed her eyes, the impression of them lingered in her vision.
“Well enough,” she lied, because she liked it quite a bit more than that. “And you?”
“It is very much to my liking.”
“Liar.”
“The truth!”
His sensors flared.
“Then tell me,” said Amélie, pushing back against his hand. “Tell me everything.”
“I like watching you,” he said. He punctuated it with a particular twist of his wrist quite difficult for a human lover. Amélie’s knee jumped a half inch. “I have liked it from the start.”
“Voyeur,” muttered Amélie.
“No, no. Well. Maybe a bit. It can’t be helped. To watch you now, what man wouldn’t be overcome?”
“No, no. Not enough. Tell me what you see .”
“A-ha! Now I understand. Well, if you must know, it seems there is a woman in my bed…”
“Oh my god.”
“I find her quite striking. She’s very pale, the sort where you can see her veins through her skin.”
“Really.”
“But I can’t see them now. She’s rather flushed, you see. Did you know, she flushes up to her collarbone on one side, but not quite on the other? No, no, it ends about here.”
“Ah.”
“And it is deepest here.”
“Ah.”
“And also here.”
“All right fine, FINE, that’s kind of--”
“And it shows so remarkable, against her black hair. Such smooth hair. Sometimes it lies like a blade.”
“What does that even -- Oh.”
“But not right now, I find. No, it’s a bit of a mess right now, like a pool. I should like to run my hands through it.”
“Not now.”
“Not now. No.”
“You’d better not, I--”
“But I find in movement I like her best. The way she moves now is of particular interest to me. Economical. Every muscle tensed for something. I do wonder what it is. I do wonder what she’d like from me now.”
“Enough, enough, just finish it already I can’t--”
He obeyed.
“Like that?”
“Yes,” she said, and then was unable to say much else for quite a bit.
“Yes,” he said. The input from her vitals was like a flood: enough his sensors flickered, just a touch, in the dim afternoon light.
There was a delicatessen around the corner from his apartment. Gérard had passed it many times on his way to and from saving the world, but-- being an omnic-- he had had little occasion to visit it.
He stepped in for the first time that afternoon. The owner and her assistants paused in their gossip when they saw him. He wore his checked trousers and a loose pink dress shirt, but he felt terribly underdressed for the occasion. He walked ten steps to the center of the establishment, turned to the right, turned to the left, and then, finally, turned to the two women behind the counter.
“I suppose it goes without saying,” he said, with some sheepishness, “that I’m not here for myself.”
“Yes,” said the owner, “that much is obvious.”
“You are a bit more familiar with this concept than I am,” he admitted.
“Eating or buying?” asked the assistant, before she could stop herself.
“Both,” said Gérard. “Perhaps I might have your recommendation? It’s a very specific circumstance.”
“Sure,” said the owner. The assistant muttered something, but the owner reached over and gave her a quick pinch. It was clear from their appearances they were of some genetic relation.
“What would you recommend for a human who has exerted themselves considerably in a very short amount of time and may do so again very soon?” asked Gérard.
This gave the owner and her assistant some pause. Aware of the discretion of the situation and the vagueness of the request, Gérard chose to elaborate:
“They might prefer not to spend too much time waiting around for preparations. They won’t have much patience for it and I would like to see to their needs sooner rather than later.”
“I,” said the owner. She scratched her chin.
“There are energy drinks on that shelf over there,” said the assistant, “and I’ll ring you up some sandwiches.”
“Thank you,” said Gérard, brightly.
“Thank you ,” said the assistant. “You’ve just made my day.”
Alone in the omnic’s bedroom, Amélie reached bonelessly for her buzzing phone. It took her a few tries, but she found it.
She had a text. Amélie stared blearily at it for some time.
OMG, it said, GOOD LUCK!! TELL ME EVERYTHING!!1
None of her classmates had her number, but her combat instructor had a creative idea of what counted as a cover.
Amélie threw her phone back in her purse and fell back across the bed. She knew exactly what she ought to do: search the room for hidden compartments and plant a bug close to the omnic’s charging station. There were a few problems with this:
- She could not quite work out where his charging station might be. Since he had a bed.
- Planting the bug would take time, and she did not know exactly when Gérard would return. Which was hard. Since she was in the bed.
- The sheets were extremely comfortable. Leaving them would be a difficult task. It was a comfy bed.
- Her legs were completely and accountability weak. It was almost as though she’d exerted herself heavily. In the bed.
What’s more, though Gérard had turned up the heat as he’d left, the apartment was quite chilly when one went without clothes. Solving this problem was Amélie’s obvious first step. So, with great efficiency born from her line of work, she set about exploring the standing wardrobe next to the bed. For information, obviously.
She didn’t find any secret compartments, but she did find five different brightly colored bathrobes. She chose the one with the loudest textiles and slipped it on. The first step of her mission was accomplished.
Next, she checked cabinets in the kitchenette. She was looking for secret Overwatch technology, of course. What use did an omnic have for a kitchenette? The refrigerator was predictably empty. The counters were expectedly sparse. She found a beautiful set of cups and dishes in the top cabinet. She found an automated teakettle in the bottom cabinet, along with a lacquered box filled with confusingly fresh and aromatic teas.
Damn. These would have to be tested. It was perfectly possible the water heater was secretly some sort of surveillance device, and she’d have to ascertain the origins of the tea. By taste, of course. It was only professional.
By the time the tea was done, so were her legs. Amélie decided she would simply have to save her strength for a later effort. She took a saucer and a cup and returned to bed. She grabbed one of the antique books of the shelf as she went. She hadn’t read a printed book in… well, ever. And besides, he might keep some kind of code in it. One could never be sure.
If Amélie hummed as she did all of this, she could hardly be blamed for it. She could hardly prowl around in silence like some home invader. That would have completely given her away.
And so, in this way, Amélie was settled in perfect innocence when the omnic returned. He carried an overstuffed grocery bag.
“Miss d'Épinay,” he said. “I have returned. I was not sure what you’d like. So I got… well, everything.”
“Hello, Mr. Lacroix,” said Amélie , looking up from the book: Her cover as well-maintained as his bathrobe, currently slightly askew on her shoulders. “Why the hell do you have tea?”
The omnic cocked his head to one side.
“For guests,” he said, as though it was the most obvious thing in the world.
Monday morning Gérard got a call from HQ. It arrived on his personal channels. Heavily encrypted.
“So,” said the man on the other end, by way of introduction. Gérard paused in the middle of placing a tea cup back on the shelf. “You’re the tin can who’s giving our Strike Commander a headache over some ballet dancers.”
It was a commander, but not the one Gérard expected.
“Hello, my friend,” said Gérard, carefully, “I don’t believe we’ve met.”
“We still haven’t,” said a man that Gérard’s voice records identified as Gabriel Reyes, an agent who, beyond his prominent role during the Omnic Crisis, barely existed on public record. A quick mental search of government websites told Gérard that Reyes did unspecified administrative work for Overwatch’s HQ, had done so in the past twenty years, and was considered generally retired from active duty. He lived a boring life that coincidentally required him to be in at least twenty countries a year. “And we’re not going to. You don’t work for me. No one does.”
“And I have no idea what you are talking about,” said Gérard, who understood this dance perfectly. Gabriel Reyes was the leader of absolutely nothing, a fact understood among much of Overwatch’s higher offices.
A laugh on the other end. Deep and genuine. “So. You’re one of those types.”
Reyes had killed many omnics over the course of his early career.
“Discrete and non-lethal,” said Gérard. “Mostly.”
“Great,” said Reyes. “Keep that up, and don’t tell me a damn thing about that school.”
“The dance academy?” said Gérard, at perfect attention. He ran his fingers over the rim of the teacup. "I know nothing about it. Besides what I have already told the Strike Commander. And my examination of their admissions records. And their alumni career profiles. And their current student and faculty listings. And their upcoming season. They'll be doing Romeo & Juliet in the spring. Are you interested in theater?"
“Sure. Big fan. Funny thing about those student and faculty records,” said the man who didn’t always exist, “a good quarter of those people are a little like me. Off record. Haven’t done much in the last twenty years. Morrison says it’s because half of the people in France are war orphans. I’m not convinced. What’s your take on it, Lacroix?”
“We live in very tragic times,” answered the man who wasn’t, strictly, an acknowledged sentient being.
“Any current operatives in the student roster?”
“It’s very possible,” said Gérard. He recalled a different record in his head just then: one of long black hair, sliding over his palm. “But difficult to confirm. It’s tricky to ask for advice from someone I do not work for and have never met, but how would you suggest I proceed?”
“No idea. I keep lists. Think you can keep tabs on some of the students and faculty?” asked Reyes. “Hypothetically speaking.”
“Yes,” said Gérard, composing a text in his built in messaging app. “It’s quite possible. I am following a lead as we speak.”
‘My dear,’ it said, ‘can I see you again?’
He reviewed it and mentally pressed send.
“Follow it,” said Reyes. “Follow it as far as it fucking goes.”
An icon blinked in the corner of Gérard’s vision. A swift reply. He opened it right away.
“With pleasure,” said Gérard, out loud. He meant it to his very core.
Monday morning Amélie had a meeting with her academic advisor. As her academic advisor was also her combat instructor, this meant work. It was a boring meeting. Amélie’s thoughts drifted as she sat sideways in her chair. She flexed her feet above her head. Her instructor let her. The topic of conversation was mostly what she expected: their sponsors approved of her recent performance. They wanted her to perform a solo encore to test her abilities: it would take place in a small German town close to the border. When she returned she would be enrolled another term at the school, and after was to be given a recommendation for one of the more respectable local dance companies…
That last bit gave her some pause.
“Local?” asked Amélie, fiddling idly with her phone. “I thought you wanted me on an international company.”
Travel was convenient in their line of work.
“There’s been a change of plans,” said her instructor. “Did the agent make contact with you again?”
He had. Repeatedly. Amélie remembered the sound of whirring wrist plates and kept her face very blank. She checked her text messages. She had a new one.
“Yes,” she said, quite truthfully. “He has.”
“This is important, Amélie,” said her instructor, a little severely. Amélie slid her phone back into her bag. “I’ll need you to listen, because I won’t say this again. We’d hoped he’d prove a minor nuisance, but that minor nuisance arrested one of our major suppliers just this last week. We’ll need to keep a closer eye on him. We’ll need you to gain his confidence. Do you think you can do that?”
Amélie considered. She considered a lot of things. She considered look on her classmates faces as she’d come to school that morning. She considered the train ride to the border. She considered, also, the omnic’s glowing red sensors, and how they’d watched her as the afternoon had faded into a warm night. She considered the echoing warmth in her stomach just then. She considered her reply, which she meant to send that afternoon: Yes. You can. Maurais District. 8 p.m. Don’t be late. I won’t wait for you.
“Hm,” said Amélie, “Well. I can try.”