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Of all four hundred and twelve doors in the White House, O'Doyle knows the patch of hallway surrounding this one the best. He is standing, hands clasped in front of him, while President Curtis takes his standard 9:22 AM shit on the other side.
The air shifts, a new aura entering his effective range. Banks rounds the corner; O'Doyle’s skin crawls a little as he reads her. (She woke up on time to the minute, she's on her third cup of coffee, and she's about to greet him.)
“Hey, O'Doyle.”
Something about her scent irritates him—perhaps the note of hot steel wafting up to him, undercutting her perfume. He refuses to sneeze.
“Are you allergic to saying good morning or something? You're sniffling.”
He doesn't look at her. “No.”
“Right,” she says, clearly intent on asking him another question. “Because you'd be lying?”
“Because getting distracted by social pleasantries is detrimental to my job performance.”
“Cranky,” Banks smiles, sipping her coffee.
“They don't pay me to be nice.” Why did he even dignify that with a reply? O'Doyle dislikes how easily she can get a response out of him. He'll have to meditate about it later.
The doorknob turns. He sneezes discreetly into his sleeve when Banks turns around.
“Let's roll,” says Curtis, as he always does. O'Doyle, grateful to have something else to do, proceeds towards the Oval Office at his side.
“A baby with a gun, huh,” muses Curtis. “And he'll never grow up?”
“No,” Banks says. “It was built to test special agents forever. If the engineers needed a gun-child, they would've built one from scratch. You can't fit good transformation tech into an infant-sized robot.”
“Not with that attitude.”
“Not while obeying the laws of physics.”
“You've been here less than six months, Banks. Wait a while before telling me what's impossible. Which part of our day-to-day aligns with a normal human understanding of the world so far, anyway? Set a meeting with R&D.”
“Yes, sir.” Banks reluctantly starts tapping at her wrist console.
O’Doyle listens idly to their chatter and watches GunBaby sleep, hands resting on the rail of the crib. They've established a nursery of sorts in a storage room on the third floor. It's sparsely furnished with a worn armchair, an American flag, and O’Doyle’s own contribution—a mobile with paper cutouts of little Glock 43s.
With Banks's expertise, they've worked out a system to meet GB’s needs. (He's to remain on-premises for security reasons.) His crib doubles as a docking station, which puts him to sleep; when awake, GB returns to normal settings and requires regular feedings. Banks even rigged a prototype “bottle” with a USB-C plug tip so O'Doyle can feed data to him too.
It's infuriating to feel so pandered to for a baby that isn’t even real, but he’s tried his hardest to detect deception and found none. Actually, that might be the scariest part.
GunBaby fusses when O'Doyle picks him up. Curtis approaches, extending a curious finger, which GB immediately grabs and attempts to eat.
“Glad to see you're polling well with the 0-6 month crowd,” Banks says jokingly.
“He'd definitely vote for me,” agrees Curtis. “Wouldn't you, GB?”
GunBaby coos and maintains his grip, which feels like a yes.
“... How is he drooling?”
“I think that's lubricant,” Banks says.
“Guess he'll be a smooth talker if he ever learns.”
After a few moments, GB’s facial features scrunch up; he begins to cry. O'Doyle looks about for the bottle, but Banks is already next to him. She pulls one of her cables and jacks into the port on GunBaby's temple to start the feed.
O'Doyle doesn't protest. He feels a little prickly with this many people in his personal space outside of combat. It's not bad, per se. Just strange.
“There we go,” Banks murmurs, tucking the cable back into her hair as GunBaby's eyes close. O'Doyle puts him down for a nap and wipes away a stray tear or two.
“Wish it were that easy with all of them,” says Curtis. He gives O'Doyle's shoulder a gentle pat.
“Ugh, you're telling me. Plane travel would be so much better.” Banks sighs, looking at her schedule. “Last meeting of the day starts in five.”
O'Doyle lets them file out in front of him. He resists the urge to put a hand on the doorframe and look back—GB will be fine. He’s a robot. And O’Doyle is a man with a genuine, flesh-and-blood job to do without anything or anyone impeding his decision-making.
Special Agent Chomps walks up to relieve him one evening. Much like the president, O’Doyle has no great love for Chomps, but being superior in rank earns him enough respect for a cursory nod.
O'Doyle notices a thick metal collar around Chomps’s neck and raises a brow. “That doesn't look standard-issue.”
“Accurate as ever, my friend. I, uh, contracted lycanthropy while you were away. This helps manage the symptoms.”
“Mm. Welcome to Hell's waitlist.”
“Thank you!”
The two stand in silence for a moment while O'Doyle wrestles with his own curiosity and loses.
“‘Did he make a move?” he finally asks.
“Eh, she let him down easy.”
O'Doyle shakes his head and departs.
They’re in Massachusetts—trouble and fish-men are multiplying faster than you can say “Cthulhu fhtagn.” Several tourists have gone missing from small coastal towns, so the presidential team is conducting an investigation at the soggiest bed-and-breakfast on the Eastern Seaboard.
Banks bursts into their temporary command center, breathing hard, and looks at O'Doyle. He can tell by her guilty aura that whatever idiotic thing she's about to say will affect him specifically with great prejudice.
“I may have volunteered you for a battle royale.”
“What?” O’Doyle, tamping down the initial surge of rage, really hopes none of these creatures are related to Swamptopus. “Weren’t you going to the bathroom?”
“I'm sorry, okay? One of them started making small talk with me and I panicked!”
“Then why didn't you stay fucking quiet? Did you learn nothing from West Wing World?”
“Oh yeah,” Banks says thoughtfully. “Not yet, I guess. Still working on implementing that.”
“What's to implement? It's less effort!”
“See, you'd think that because you’re you, but I'm used to talking my way out of things.” She has the nerve to look smug.
O'Doyle scoffs. “If that were the case, you'd be better at it by now.”
“Yeah, well, I'm used to avoiding 7 AM meetings and office Secret Santas, not eldritch survival games!”
O'Doyle pretends his eyes are guns and shoots tiny bullets out of them into her eyes. Banks appears to return fire. Curtis, unaware of or unaffected by their invisible battle of egos, speaks up.
“Anything you can do to help from the sidelines, Banks?”
“Definitely,” she replies without missing a beat, connecting to the Deep Ones’ Necronomicon wiki, her pupils lighting up bright green. “I'll run point, put all our money on you, and make sure you get some good loot, okay? Any requests?”
“A gun is fine. Just try not to go mad beyond all comprehension.”
“Got it.” Her smile grows as she accesses the weapons database. O'Doyle rolls his eyes and prepares to douse himself in fish guts.
He despises mischief, especially in excess. Banks seems genetically predisposed to it. (O'Doyle would know, because he actually is. He's tested for momusosis at every annual physical.) Probably why she irritates him so much.
One week later, he receives an encrypted thank-you message from Swamptopus: O’Doyle killed his most annoying cousin. He breathes a sigh of relief and sends a thumbs-up emoji back.
[TRANSMISSION INTERCEPTED]
rbanks: thx for earlier. you saved my ass lol
fodoyle: ybfbi
rbanks: what?
fodoyle: 😐
rbanks: oh
rbanks: there's NO way that catches on, dude. 💀
fodoyle: we'll see
[END TRANSMISSION]