Chapter Text
“No, wait– please!”
“I said what I meant, kid,” the man snarled in the doorway, throwing what little belongings you had at you to shoo you off his front stairs. “You broke our deal, and now you have to face the consequences of your actions!”
“I have nowhere else to go–” a bag lands at your feet and you quickly snatch it up.
“Well, you should have thought about that before you ROBBED ME!”
A firm kick with work boots connects to your chest and you yelp in pain as you fall back ass first onto the concrete sidewalk.
You jerked your head toward the door, another plea on your tongue as it slams shut in your face. You scoff at yourself. Accepting defeat, you lay all the way back against the cold concrete sidewalk, street light shining overhead like you were a dramatic actor in one of those perfectly scripted soap operas. Aw, poor lonely soul cast away yet again for his ornery behavior! Pity the damsel in distress! pity, pity, pity. Only there was no audience watching to pity the consequences of your poor behavior.
A new bruise was added to the collection of cuts and scars on your chest for certain. You breathed a puff of half-visable air into the night, watching as the steam slowly rose up to the clear night sky. All you could do now was get used to the view of the stars over your head because you’d be sleeping under them from now on. Or at least until another kind soul decides to trust you like many had before, only for you to take from them when things are getting good. Fuck. It was so stupid, you are so stupid. But it wasn't like you had a choice in the matter. Life dealt you a dirty hand of cards, and if you wanted to make it, you had to play with what you had. So you have to rob, take, and steal for your own survival.
And that's just the way the cookie crumbles, you supposed.
You sighed again before slowly pulling yourself up onto your knees. At least he gave you your bag back, and after opening it you can see that he let you keep most of your things too. That was a plus, you supposed. Sometimes people are so mad about whatever stunt you pulled that they decide whatever you have is theirs now, and then you pull the leftovers out of their trashcan in a week.
Well, you didn't mind dumpster diving, but this was still the preferable alternative.
You stuck your hand into your bag and started digging around for all the essentials. The few bucks you had your name, your clothes (plus the ones that were chucked), and your extra shoes had all been returned to you. You took out the few rumpled dollars in the bottom of the bag, sloppily straightening them before thumbing through them to count how much you had left.
1…2…5…10…15…
5…10…20…45…
Wow. Only fifteen dollars and forty-five cents to your name. You were a thief, a con for christ’s sake! And you had less than sixteen dollars to your name?
You swallowed hard, trying to smother the thoughts of how pathetic you are with ideas of what to spend on. Your first and only idea was the local bar.
Fifteen bucks and some cents was enough for at least a couple of drinks, and if it wasn't– bars were always on your list of pick-pocketing spots. Drunk men only reached for their wallet when they wanted another drink, but if a man was drunk enough to not notice a random guy digging in his pockets, he is also probably drunk enough that his words turn to intelligible slurry. Can't talk, can't order. Besides, the barkeep knows you. His name is Francis, and he knows what your situation is. You’ve watched him look the other way on multiple occasions when you were knuckles deep in a random person’s wallet. Like everyone else you got friendly enough with, you asked him for a spot on his couch. Unfortunately, (even though you are friends) Francis knows how you think, what you do. He’s smart enough to refuse you a place on his couch, knowing you'll be digging for change in his cushions. It’s fair. After all, you are kind of known for playing…
***
“Cuckoo!” Francis called, bell ringing over your head as you pushed through the door. The smell of cigarette smoke and alcohol hung familiarly in the air as you stepped in. Your bag was slung over your shoulder as you stalked over to an empty seat at the bar.
The barkeep, Francis, was a round, older man with grey hair and beard that matched. He had a thinly veiled bald spot on the top of his head and wore an old stained apron that (probably) used to be white. As far as you knew Francis has worked here since his teenage years, and has had the same apron the entire duration of his employment. It was much too small for him now, but he still wore it. He often had on an oxford or a quarter button underneath the old rags, and slacks and loafers on his bottoms.
You sat on the cracked faux leather seat and waved, calling a, “Hey!” back.
“How are ya, my boy?” The barkeep chuckled as you got comfortable, setting your bag in your lap.
You gave Francis a kind of sidelong glance. Not a rude glare, but one that showed your thinly veiled frustrations.
“I could be better.” you waved off.
“Ohhhhh, come on now, boy,” it sounded like he drawled out the oh from the bottom of his chest. “I know that look. Been makin’ bad choices again?”
Your face dropped what bit of a grin it had and you sighed. Your gaze was drawn down to the floor. “You know I can't help it.” You grovel defeatedly.
“Yeah, I know.” Francis’s voice had become noticeably softer. “There’s a reason why I call ya after that bird, y’know? It's like an instinct for ya to steal.” he chuckled a bit.
You felt a large, warm, calloused hand land on your shoulder and you looked back up to meet his gaze.
“Chin up, Cuckoo.” He smiled at you, a kind one that an old friend gives. “Would a Vodka Palmer cheer you up? On the house.”
You smiled softly and shook your head. “You don't have to do that for me, Fritz.”
“I know. But I wanna do something nice for you, and I think ya need a break. These are the most homes I think I've seen ya go through in such’a short time.” he laughed again offering one last smile before turning to the back of the bar, yelling at other customers to be patient while he refills their drinks.
You look around at the crowd in the bar while you wait for your drink, gauging the environment around you like usual. Everything seems to be in order. A bike gang here, all with cigars in their mouths, a non-bike gang there smoking cigarettes, some good buddies hanging around, another guy trying to pick up the only noticeable woman in the establishment, and some guy puking in the drunk “time out” corner. Everything seemed to be in average operating order. None of these guys were easy marks because they all knew you at this point. You also weren't exactly brave enough to try and pickpocket seven buff men, a squad of angry teenagers, or a guy who would gladly beat you to try and impress a lady– and you knew better than to try and finesse the guy puking his guts out. You turned back to the bar, laying your head in your arms while you waited for your drink, gently running your hand through the overgrown stubble on your face.
I need a shave. You thought to yourself. The last time you tried growing anything out you were left with the patchiest mustache you had ever seen. The five-o-clock shadow you have on wasn't much better, but at the very least the patchiness was less noticeable. You silently cursed your genes, still continuing to gently scratch at your face.
You heard the bell above the door ring behind you and you lifted your head to see who it was.
A lanky, snobby looking man dressed in a burgundy suit with slicked back black hair and an expensive looking fedora walks into the bar with a much shorter woman dressed in a purple dress by his side. She wore glasses with cat-eye frames and also had black hair, except hers was pulled back into two messy buns. They were talking to each other by the door, seemingly surveying the environment the same way you were. The woman had taken out a small folded piece of paper, and handed it to the suave looking man. He nodded at her before they split ways, quickly turning back around as the man had begun walking to the bar.
These people had been unfamiliar. They don't know you. A small smile cracked your face as you slowly started imagining the perfect pickpocket from both of them. He’ll be too rich to notice a hundred missing from his wallet. She’s easily distracted and has a hidden purse. Or they’re both lightweights who get promptly distracted and are loaded with fat wads of cash. God, you couldn't help that you acted like such two-bit, you were practically drooling at the thought of a perfect steal. You couldn't help but fantasize stealing from these new–
“Cuckoo!”
You jumped when he suddenly shouted your name and you spit out a “Hey there Francis!” in your slight panic.
Francis leaned down toward you, pushing your drink aside as he started whispering to you. “Get your mind out of the gutter, boy. I know that look of yours when your eyes get blown wide like that with your little creepy ass smile. Whatever you're planning, it's not a good idea.”
Even though this was the most serious you’ve seen Francis in a while, your brain was addled with thoughts of snatching wallets and stealing jewelry. You gave him a guilty look, but a look that wasn't guilty enough to say you stopped considering your plans.
“Have some control.” was the last thing he said before stepping back to attend to his barkeeping duties.
You swallowed hard. Despite your attempt at exorcizing self control, you found your eyes slowly rolling back toward the rich-looking man perched on a barstool next to you. You hesitantly pulled your glass back toward you, attempting to distract yourself with the alcohol you had begun to sip on the edge of the glass.
Glance–
Hey! Eyes on your glass. You can do this. Francis trusts you. You told yourself subconsciously
You begin to gulp down your drink in an attempt to distract yourself from the new man when an unfamiliar voice interrupts you.
“So… are you from… around here?” His voice was smooth, yet gravely with the sound of a cigarette addiction with an accent just heavy enough to discern as french.
You nearly choke on your drink when the otherwise silent man suddenly talks. You cough once, twice, before clearing your throat and facing him.
“I- yeah, you could… say.”
…
You could almost feel him trying not to roll his eyes at your little “stunt.”
But instead he simply nodded instead, gingerly pulling his jacket open and taking out a cigarette tin from his internal pocket. He snapped the metal box open and plucked a cigarette from it, hesitating a bit before closing it again and placing it back in his jacket.
“For how long?”
“Long enough.” You were beginning to get a bit defensive.
The man nods almost thoughtfully. “Long enough to have multiple names–”
“Alright, alright, what’s your problem? I only got one name, and that's Cuckoo.” You snapped. “What are you anyways, a cop?”
The man snorted. Then chuckled. Then laughed. He laughed hard for a couple of minutes before composing himself with a snickered;
“No. Hah. No. I am far from a cop.”
You look at him skeptically, now silently glad you didn’t pickpocket this likely cop. The way he was talking to you was very much in the “hello fellow teenagers!” way that made you really not believe him. You nodded with the same skepticality written on your face before chugging the rest of your cup. You slid the empty glass back to the inside edge of the bar before getting up and swinging your bag back over your shoulder.
“Whatever you say, man…” You murmur before heading toward the door.
You could feel the eyes of the snobby man burning into the back of your neck, hands pressing against the bar of the door when you looked over your shoulder to try and wave a “goodbye” to Francis. Instead, you saw the man sitting next to you had…disappeared.
And you paused, hand still pressed against the door. Ready to run again.
There’s no way that man got up and left that fast. Your eyes darted around a bit, trying to catch the crimson shades of his suit in the crowd of the bar, but your gaze found no purchase. Your breath started to pick up. God, have I finally gone insane? Seeing police officers now, huh? No— Francis saw him. I know he did. Because he was telling me not to pickpocket him— you shook your head, finally pushing through the pane of glass. The cold night air hit you once more, but knocked sense into you at the same time. You ran a hand through your hair, short puffs of steam coming from your rapid breaths.
You swore you could still hear his laugh. It felt like it was echoing in your skull. You started running. To where? you didn’t know. Just, away from that freak of a—
The woman in the purple dress seems to materialize in front of you and your breath caught on your throat. You swallowed hard.
“How did you—“
“Pauling, Ms. Pauling from Mann Corporation, New Mexico.” She held out her hand expectantly.
New Mexico? What was she doing this far north then? You cautiously took her hand for a swift hand shake before she was back to talking.
“You are,”
“None of your—“
“Ah yes, Carter. Or should I say Sullivan. Or possibly Cuckoo?”
“How do you—“
“Oh,” she held her clipboard (one you didn’t even realize she was holding) out to you. “It really wasn’t that hard.”
You took the board into your hands. It had a manilla folder pinned to it via the clasp at the top. You slowly removed the folder from the board and opened it, and your eyes widened at what was inside.
Countless pictures of you from every angle. Some close up, some far away, a few taken through the scope of a sniper, a few taken from across a street. Your throat tightened again. One your discarded I.D.’s, a scrap of cloth from a few houses back, old discarded blueprints and drawings from before you dropped out of school, records from a shooting range you used to go to for self defense classes, and even a picture of Francis.
You were left speechless.
“You…you…how did you…”
“I told you. It wasn't hard.” She took the folder from your hands, tugging it slightly due to your nervous grip. “I will be needing that legal name, though.”
You slowly shook your head, hesitantly taking steps back. Your felt something that wasn’t there hit your back and your stomach dropped when you felt the puff of warm air on the back of your neck. Arms covered in burgundy suede suddenly appeared in your vision, restraining you to the person you were pressed against. He was invisible? Am I dreaming?
“Thanks, Spy.” Pauling nods to the person behind you.
“Just another job done.” He groveled as you struggled in his hold.
“Yes. Done. We are finished. Mr…Cuckoo, you are coming with us as a new recruit to a team of mercenaries to fight in battles known as the Gravel Wars,” your eyes widened and you thrashed harder. For his skinny physique this guy sure was strong. “Yadda, yadda, yadda, we already gathered all your belongings from the trash of your previous home—“
“What!? I— I don’t want to be a mercenary—“
“I have a feeling that you’ll change your mind once you meet your lovely team.” She threw on a faux smile. Before backing away again. “Spy? Would you mind sapping him ‘till we get back? I’m not really in the mood to hear him complain on the way there.”
“Hah,” that laugh again. “With pleasure.”
You opened your mouth to once again protest but your words died in your throat when you felt a hot jolt of electricity connect with the back of your neck. Everything had gone black. I’ll wake up from this dream any second now.