Foxtrot Nekropolis

Chapter 4

Believe it or not, Wynn actually had a great night's sleep that night. Had he stuffed his ass with like eight different painkillers? Yes, absolutely. Were he still feeling numb by the time he woke up? Perhaps. But he'd actually had a good, long night of uninterrupted and dreamless sleep, and that was rare.

It may sound weird, but the days on which he was injured constituted a large part of the vitae's guilty pleasures. There was no need to jump out of bed and meet with the team in the mornings or rush to fight some gate.

On that day, Wynn was very, very intent on not rushing himselves at all. Instead, he took it slow, letting himself drift to awareness and then slowly, slowly, actually awaken. Conscience comes to him in small, drifting waves of thoughts. But he is warm, under those blankets, and happy and content and all other sorts of things. So Wynn takes the time to curl into himself for a little bit longer, relishing in the softness of his blanket's inner lining.

He had a really big salary, after all. And calm, comfortable mornings were one of his biggest indulgences. Rare ones, too.

Stretching with a soft little yawn, Wynn arched his back and let the sheets slide and pool down near his waist, taking another minute just to relax before he rolled his way out of the bed.

Was it nearly 3PM?

Yep! But this was Wynn's day off. 'Morning' was arbitrary anyway. He was determined to make that day as good a day as he possibly could —

14 Missed Calls, his smartphone says as soon as he pick it up from his bedside table. Across the room, he can see his sunpad's shell flashing red, signaling unread messages there too.

Welp. Shows what he get for being hopeful.

Tapping on the transparent screen of his smartphone, he found himself a bit surprised to see the influx of information. All 14 calls were from Mack, for god knows what reason. He'd went from 3 or 4 unread messages to 22.

What in —

Oh, no.

not fuhsaz: please tell me there wasn't another gage

not fuhsaz: *gate

not fuhsaz: *please*

hat dumbass: holy s**t took u long enough

hat dumbass: what the s**t fuhsaz

Scrolling up for a second, he was a bit embarrassed to note that Hjæl had sent him a lot of messages. Some of those were practically hysterical. He wasn't going to read through them all right now, though. That'd take too long.

not fuhsaz: come on dude

not fuhsaz: you know how I was yesterday

not fuhsaz: drugged myself with painkillers and slept through a whole 14 hours

hat dumbass: what.

not fuhsaz: bedrest :)

hat dumbass: oh my *god*

hat dumbass: why are you like this

not fuhsaz: daddy issues essentially

not fuhsaz: now really

not fuhsaz: what the f**k is going on?

hat dumbass: ur guy in the gov was a Mack right

not fuhsaz: yeah?

not fuhsaz: I think I complained here bout him

hat dumbass: u did

hat dumbass: so uh

hat dumbass: some dude called Mack been caught for money laundering and some other shit

hat dumbass: government looking into all his vitae

hat dumbass: could be urs, could be another mack

not fuhsaz: ah

not fuhsaz: ah, *f**k*

Ah, f**k didn't even begin to describe it. Really, it was almost comical; Wynn had gone from only half-awake to hysterical in exactly four messages.

Aggressively closing his chatting app by tapping at the screen with a bit too much force, he instantly dialed in Mack's number and hit 'call', holding the thin device against his ear as he started to pave around the room, his feet tapping against the darkwood flooring insistently.

Shit, s**t, s**t. Shittity s**t f***s. Please pick up. Please —

Ding!

The sound of the call being accepted played audibly, and Wynn couldn't help but sigh in relief.

"Sweet f*****g Vesta, Mack, what the s**t —"

"Sorry," a very smug-sounding masculine voice answered. One that very, very obviously did not belong to Mack. It was deeper and gruffer, kind of like whomever was talking had been smoking. There was a strong drawl to it, an accent Wynn wasn't too familiar with. "Mack's unable to take the call. This is Fuhsaz, right?"

Fuck.

Fuck, f**k, f**k, f**k, f**k.

Fuck.

"Depends," he asked. "Who wants to know?"

The voice let out a dry bark of laughter at that.

"Oh, feisty. You're exactly like what I thought you'd be, Fuhsaz." A pause. "Or, and forgive me for the movie cliché, do you prefer to be called Wynn? Or Gwynn, perhaps?"

He froze.

"...Don't." His voice came out as a mere whisper, barely audible. But the cold rage in it was clear. "Wynn will do just fine."

"Ah, sensitive subject? Sorry, I genuinely didn't know. None of your messages or calls with Mackenzie had much on your personal life, so I didn't have much to go by."

Fuck.

Okay. This was bad. Like, pack your bags and skip town bad. Wynn looked around his room frantically, trying to come up with a quick way to pack his bags and f**k straight off.

"You've yet to introduce yourself, you know." He casually mentioned, doing his best not to sound terrified. "Sounds a bit rude."

"True, true." The voice chuckled. "Sorry for that. The name's Liam. Well, technically, my name is Aurelian, but that makes me sound a little stuck-up."

"And from the Coalition." He politely pointed out. "Can't imagine that's too popular."

"Yeah, that too." Liam chuckled. "Either way — let's cut to the chase here, Wynn. That alright with you?"

"...Oh, thank god." He paused. Play it cool, Wynn. Play it casual. "I cannot handle much'a that posturing."

"Mm, believe it or not, I noticed. And I can't imagine you're doing too hot either. Rough day yesterday, huh?"

"I'm actually okay. Had a great night's sleep."

"I was wondering why I wasn't seeing any activity from you." He chuckled. "Thought you'd already skipped town for a while there."

"Why would I?" Wynn casually questioned, walking up to his closet and opening it. Clothes, clothes, clothes — he only really needed a few. "I didn't do anything."

"Didn't you just — Ah. I see." Another chuckle. The man was quite chipper. "You were banking on Mack having cleared his data, weren't you? Trying to bait me into either making an accusation or an attempt to bait you into confession. Clever. Fair enough. He didn't wipe his personal devices, unfortunately. And we seized them off of him quite suddenly. So, again, don't bother. I know about your deals with the man, including yesterday's robot hulls. Though I can't for the life of me figure out why you kept buying ruined gate tech off of him."

His eyes wandered to the pile of scraps on his living room — the remains of the robots Wynn had ordered from Mack and then disassembled. Wandered to the small vials next to his bed, where the sol liquid and the powdered Sídhe were neatly organised.

Wynn wasn't dumb. He knew when he was caught in a web, and Liam had him in a bit of a hard position. Gate tech was pretty important to the government, and illegal possession of it was a pretty hefty crime. Even if he weren't arrested, the fines he'd end up having to pay would f**k him up something fierce.

So, what angle to go with? Whatever he said had to have enough honesty for him to be able to prove it.

… Okay.

"I have some issues with my Sídhe. Pretty hefty ones — it won't recharge on it's own. So…"

A pause.

"Ah. So you need a way to recharge. And acquiring Gate Tech is easier than finding native Sídhe Powder in the black market, not to mention less expensive. You'd need the know-how necessary to isolate it, though."

"And I've got it." He promptly replied. "In spades."

Liam hummed into the line.

"Mm… well. That checks out with the info we have on you. Your energy levels have been inconsistent throughout the years. Never expected this to be the cause, though. Risky, no?"

"Says the man using a criminal's phone to call one of his superpowered associates."

"Touché, touché. Pot calling the kettle black. Though… I don't believe I have to explain to you what a difficult situation we're in right now."

"We?" He echoed.

"We," Liam confirmed. "Unfortunately, you're pretty popular as far as vitae go. Yesterday's gate only compounded that; one of the civilians got a recording of your evacuation of that one house. People trust you, even if you're not the, um, figure Sunburst is. Bringing you in would already be a nightmare — but the specifics of your identity, and now your, hm, motives, make it even uglier."

Wynn could see it.

Truth be told, that was the entire reason he chose to reveal this aspect of his request — his need for an outside source of energy was both pathetically easy to prove and, in a pinch, damaging enough that he could play it off like something akin to a condition; just exhaust himself a bit and suddenly he'd look frail and sickly, and the illegal gate tech would suddenly turn into necessary medication.

"I'm just curious about why you believed me so easily," Wynn admitted into the line. "I was half-expecting you to shoot me down."

"I've got a good grasp on how you think, I think." A pause. "Oh, that sounded weird. But anyways, you wouldn't reveal something that wasn't at least 60% true. Truths and omissions over lies, I suppose. I put you in a situation where I knew you'd play a card that was both safe and easy to turn against me, and you did."

"My, oh my, are you a fan, mister?" He did his best to make his voice sound teasing. "If you wanted an autograph, you could just say so."

Liam snorted.

"Oh, no." He deadpanned. "You caught me. I am, in fact, your biggest fan. I own all of your collectible plushies."

At that, Wynn paused.

"...how sad is it that I don't actually know if I have collectible plushies?"

"Oh, you do. He came out last year. Sold like hotcake. You have a cute design, kids dig it." A pause. "I actually do have one."

"Huh." He felt himselves blink slowly, almost owlishly, at that. "I… don't really know how to answer that."

"I wouldn't, either. Whatever the case, though, I think you're more than smart to realize we're at a bit of an impasse here."

"Not really."

"Oh?"

"This isn't an impasse. Worst case scenario is you leave me to my own devices, which, while improbable, isn't necessarily negative to you. And that's still more likely than your outright going for an arrest attempt, even if I'm quite certain you set up people around my building."

Liam hummed at that.

"I actually didn't."

"Excuse me?"

"I didn't set up people around your building. I only have one person there, actually. The one person I trust."

"Oh?" He questioned. "And who's that? Your partner?"

"No." He could hear the man's smile. "Me! Now please open your door, I've been sitting in this hallway by your front door for over three hours."

. . .

. . . . . .

Click!

The phone call was immediately interrupted, and Wynn unceremoniously dropped everything he was holding and sighed, running fingers through his hair.

Walked in slow, careful steps to his front door. Threw it open. Looked at it.

Yep.

That sure is a man. Tall guy, really buff, black hair, green eyes, strong features. Looked kind of like a model or a wrestler. His face was quite striking, although a few scars on his cheeks and near his lips made Wynn wonder what was up with 'im. Liam, or the man Wynn presumed was Liam, was wearing a black suit, but he'd neither bothered to button it up or to actually tie his tie.

And he was sitting on his carpet. Staring up at him and holding a…

Wynn blinked.

"Are you eating f*****g cup noodles?" The boy asked disbelievingly.

"Hey, I've been here for hours," Liam spoke, a smile on his lips. He looked tired, though; there were bags under his eyes. "I had to bring lunch. Now, can I come in?"

"I —" he blinked. "You know what? Sure! You can't possibly ruin my couch more than I have, anyway."

His apparent guest pushed himself off from the floor with a smile.

Wynn's eyes narrowed.

"If you drop f*****g cup noodles on my couch, though, I will kill you." He spoke slowly. "This is not a threat, it's a promise."

Liam looked down on him like he was a particularly quirky-looking puzzle.

"What's your deal with cup noodles, anyway?"

"Just shut up and come in before I change my mind. And you've been warned."