Chapter Text
In the darkest pit of his mind, Sierra Six is aware of many things (the shape and tear and wear of long forgotten memories, favorites, stories and songs), the biggest one of them, that he was a person before— And people unlike assets and equipment have milestones that they cling to, birthdays and anniversaries, achievements.
Six remembers the cold comfort of a thick piece of paper handed to him as recognition of… something, a reward for being good at school, for not failing his classes. A meaningless object that carried no weight other than the one he convinced himself was proper.
Six knows he was a child once (a son and a brother and a—) but that was before he tore himself away from it in an instant of panic and shock. ones now are weighed and measured against the All his milestones now are measured against the quiet hum of a fan, quick fingers against a quiet keyboard as he’s assessed and found wanting.
Always wanting.
His worth is found in his missions, in his compliance, easy and expected. Because how could he ever go against the hands that plucked him from the gore and the tang of prison sweat and gross vindication?
Six is a man now, his age is an unspecified variable that can be adjusted according to what is needed of him; older and younger than he looks, than what appears in his death certificate– another thick piece of paper that means nothing beyond the power he gives it.
Beyond the powers his brothers give it.
And he really should know better than this. He should be better than this.
But a foolish child is always a stupid man, he guesses.
Because he should not be here, he should be moving right now, ready to take on a new assignment. But he is not, because he’s stupid.
Instead he’s looking down at a cold cup of coffee, breath a freezing halo around him and the sound of people talking wavers in and out of focus. He’s in a coffee shop, his phone dormant on the table, screen black and cracked from the last time he stupidly dropped it.
His handlers won’t be amused by that, but what can they do? Short of giving him an indestructible burner every time he needs to go on some unsavory trip.
It’s easy to forget once he’s in the thick of it all, that he was a person before, that he had a name that people would call (“Courtland Gentry-Grace to the office, please.”) and that his hands could be used for something other than killing. That he was once a person who cared for someone else’s injuries beyond the annoyance of having to wait while they tended to them.
But after the mission is done and he gets the call to get back on the road, sometimes he slips and he remembers. Sometimes, his treacherous hands (so steady now when they shook so much the day that he—) would make him do things he wasn’t ready for, things he should avoid at all costs.
There is a picture he found, going through old pictures and reports, something someone left behind– because Six would never be as stupid and sentimental to hold onto something like this.
There is a picture saved onto his phone, a scan or a corrupted version of something someone sent him once as a threat. One that landed, but not in the way the sender had expected it to.
In it there are two teens standing side by side, arms oh-so-casually wrapped around each other. Both blond and blue eyed, one of them an inch or so taller than the other, and constantly preening and standing taller to make it count. Kind eyes, tired eyes, nothing like the pools of disgust he sometimes catches watching him through the mirror.
Ryland and Colton Grace, at their graduation. Years and years ago, long enough that the pain is only an echo in Six’s bruised heart. They had looked happy, he thinks, exhausted and expectant in that way all teens do, all ego and want. The whole world was open for them, Six made sure of it, or at least he tried to ensure nothing of his rotting darkness would ever touch them.
Even if they never knew of it, he was glad for the small leeways they were afforded thanks to his blood-signed contract. A quick family attorney, a good foster home, scholarships and grants and clubs ready to welcome them no questions asked. Even the reckless driving incident Colt was involved in that made Court’s blood boil when he found out about it because how could he be so stupid as to risk himself over something so meaningless, how could he worry and hurt Ryland like that? Was smoothed over with only a metaphorical slap to the wrist and some community service.
Sometimes he felt ancient looking at that picture of them, or like an alien, an indescribable other that existed so far away from them they might as well be orbiting different planets.
He wonders if there is another world out there, another universe, where Six never existed and Courtland never died… would he have been in that picture? Stuck in the middle of his brothers, his twins, arms wrapped around them and smile proud.
What would Courtland Gentry-Grace be in another world? Would he have the same eyes (cold and broken), the same hands (blood soaked and rough)?
Who is Courtland Gentry-Grace beyond the carnage that Sierra Six can promise?
He doesn’t know, and if he is being honest with himself, which he usually avoids, he doesn’t want to know. It’s better to leave that ghost trapped in a grave that no one should ever visit, cold and forgotten.
Sierra Six doesn’t get graduation caps and thick paper that means nothing and everything all at once. He doesn’t get parties and family gatherings, lazy mornings and extended deadlines.
What he gets is this: curt phonecalls and plane tickets pressed into his cold hands by people who don’t even know his name. He gets a mission directive and a quiet whisper about his brothers’ whereabouts, both as a concession and a quiet threat if he does not get the job done.
He’s missed every milestone in Courtland’s brother’s lives. And that is alright, because that means they’re safe from Sierra Six and the weight of his silence and the rot in his blood.
Sierra Six is not Courtland Gentry-Grace, and that should be alright. Perfect even.
Cortland Gentry-Grace died, and that is alright.