Harold always keeps the line open when John is actively working a number, as has become their custom. He doesn't say anything if John doesn't take him up on the wordless offer, but over time, more and more, he has. It's indescribably comforting somehow, in a way Harold wouldn't dare put to words. He's all too aware of how thin a line they walk, how keenly sharp loss can be and how sudden.
Instead he just silently appreciates it, silently listens, offers up occasional commentary to let John know he's there. He's caught quite a few things this way, and today he catches that as John accepts a phone number written on his hand, it crawls into existence on his own hand, invisible pen strokes fluttering across his palm. It takes much longer than it should for Harold to understand the implications, and then his brain stutters and crashes to a halt.
Once their current number has left, Harold quietly instructs John to return to the library, staring down at the digits smeared into his skin, his other thumb mutely running over them, back and forth.
So many things he'd wondered about growing up piece together. The way nothing showed up for him for years, until after high school, after his father died; the way his soulmate had never tried to exchange contact information, never even offered a name, never chanced a word. Their writing marks were always purely incidental, never deliberate. Harold had-- tried a couple times, drunkenly or morosely or desperately, but he'd never gotten a response.
And now he knows why.
He can't keep this from him, much as he'd like to. That would be-- destructive to the trust they've formed. They keep secrets from one another, things about the past, but nothing that could be a real betrayal. Harold has to decide how to handle this with John, though his heart is lurching into his throat and pounding at the same time and he's full of wonder, of dread, of confused hope that a dream he'd given up on long ago may come true. And it makes sense, there's an of course about finding out it's John that's his soulmate, of course, the person Harold respects wholly and deeply, who saves Harold in equal measure as he saves John, who pries him from his traumatic isolation and loneliness, his one-man crusade turned to two--
Of course it's John. Now he's just not sure John will think, of course it's Harold.
That's why he gives him room and time to react when John reaches his desk in the library, ignoring the usual exchange of greetings to merely hold up his hand, palm out, an innocent seven digits scrawled across the skin.
John knows that something has transpired, there was no "Well done, Mr. Reese" in Harold's satisfied tone, or some other phrase to communicate a job well done on saving this number. Perhaps there's a new number already? Surely Harold would have mentioned it. But he was planning on returning to the library as usual, so this changes nothing. He'll find out what Harold wants soon enough.
He is not ready for this.
There had been an incident in high school where two sweethearts discovered they were soulmates and it was the talk of the school. There had been a flurry of writing on skin and an endless amount of drama and breaking up as a result. He'd pretended to be mature and above it all, but late one night had put put a dot right on the crease of his elbow, just to see if anything happened. Of course, nothing had, and that was that.
Surely not now, after all this time.
John's first reaction is to apologize. Harold's soulmate is him not Grace-- somehow he'd just assumed it was them. It wasn't rare for people to have a relationship that wasn't their soulmate, but he'd just-- he really had assumed they were. And now Harold is stuck with him. It hardly seems fair. Harold is so generous with John, has time and time again given him second chances, given him a chance at redemption, but-- when he wakes up in the dark of night sweating and shaking from a nightmare, he knows who he is. What he's done. Harold doesn't deserve that, he deserves someone like Grace, whose hands create things.
There is, of course, a part of him that rattles the bars of the prison he's locked it in, that's crying out in victory. The part of him that, when he wakes up from those nightmares, wishes that Harold was there to pet his cheek and tell him it's just a dream. It's an indulgent desire that cuts as much as it soothes; Harold will never do this for him. Only now there is-- there's just the slightest chance that he will get what he wants. It's a dangerous thought to explore so John locks it away again, quickly. He knows what he wants but he will never, ever ask Harold for it. It's simply not something that happens for people like him. John knows better than that.
Instead John settles on a smile that feels painful, that he knows Harold will see through. Harold does know him well enough for that, but John quite frankly doesn't know what he feels in this moment (terrified, a small part of his mind supplies).
"Well, now we have a backup method of communication if we can't talk for some reason. We should come up with a system." John stares down at his hand. His face hurts despite the fact that his mouth has barely moved. "I'll go wash my hand."
He walks past Harold without so much as a second glance, to the sink in the kitchenette, turns the water on cold, and starts scrubbing.
There's so much of himself that Harold keeps contained on a daily basis. Pithy quips, genuine sentiment, whole sides of his personality and his self that he doesn't dare show. What was once merely a personal affectation has turned into a crutch with which he keeps himself going. If he's doing his best to limit exposure to who he is, how can it be his fault when they die? With John it might seem absurd to perpetuate that illusion, given everything, but habit is its own inertia, and so Harold finds himself leaving windows open for John here and there but can never quite manage a door.
Now he realizes the door has been open all along, his soul left it that way, a focused tunnel just to John like an encrypted channel, and he's-- they-- have only been ignoring it.
Harold lets him go at first, have some space, but he follows. He knows he's not going to sneak up on John with his unsteady gait and the creaky floors, and he doesn't try, just lets himself into their awkward crash space and makes his way to John at the sink without apology. He goes to stop his hands with his own and feels how cold the water is, mouth tightening.
He will not be made an excuse for John to punish himself. Not now, not ever, not even in the most mild symbolic manner with cold water. Harold won't pressure John to do anything but he won't let him walk away with that rictus of a smile, either.
He turns the hot tap on midway before reaching in again.
"It doesn't need to be a backup method." They're standing beside one another hunched over the same small sink, avoiding each other's eyes in the mirror, close enough that a long line of Harold's bad leg is pressed against John and the water splatter is getting his cuffs wet and he doesn't care. "You can contact me at any time, using any method, John."
The use of first name is deliberate; his voice quiet but steady, the even tonal pace of Harold's typing an echo behind it, dependable; and his fingers lace through John's in the sink, tangled, keeping them still.
John hopes that Harold will leave it at that but he knows-- fears-- that Harold won't let this pass. All he can do is accept Harold's hand in his, staring at the water running into the sink. His eyes try to look everywhere but where their hands are joined as the water grows warmer.
He notices the slight discoloration around the drain in the sink, it's time to clean it again even though it feels like he did so just recently. He tries thinking back through the days, and-- yes, he did it five days ago when they were between numbers. The cleaner is in the cabinet, he'll put it on his list of things to do. He'd-- part of him wants to just do it now, but that would be-- too much. That would be too much. Harold is trying to face this and John is trying not to, but. That would be cruel to Harold and John wants to cradle Harold's hands so gently in his own that it's physically painful.
His eyes keep searching.
His own sleeves had been pulled up slightly so they don't get wet, but Harold's hadn't, so they're starting do darken at the edges from the splash of the water. Somehow that seems unacceptable -- Harold would hate having his sleeves wet, surely -- which gives John a course of action. He carefully untangles one of his hands and turns both taps off before reaching for the towel. John has a momentary vision of freeing his other hand, of carefully drying Harold's hands, all the little folds and crevices-- and his other hand lets go, moves to join its pair-- but at the last second he catches himself and simply presses the towel into Harold's hand, letting his own dripping hands linger for just the briefest moment before withdrawing them.
John doesn't look at the smudged remains of the ink on his skin as he grips the edge of the sink for support. He doesn't really lean on it, the weight its supporting isn't physical. He lets his fingers feel the smooth porcelain and tries to understand how this feels, but comes up wanting. It's incomprehensible apart from the knowledge that something in him is breaking under Harold's touch, under his words. He doesn't know what, or how to put it back together, or if he even wants to be whole again, or if maybe this is like setting a broken bone. He doesn't know.
"We should keep pens on us from now on, in case I lose my phone, or if there's interference." Both of those things have happened before, it's not an unreasonable suggestion. He can suddenly hear Kara's laughter ringing in his ears, mocking him. He feels ill. "But it's not safe, I'm in too many situations where it could be abused. You have to promise--" He'd done that before. They had intel that their mark had a soulmate and used the partner as bait-- he thinks of Harold alone in the library, calling his name over their private line-- he had felt like part of him died after that mission and he feels that again, tenfold, imagining Harold.
Harold doesn't know what he's getting with this deal. John does.
"You can't put yourself in danger because of this. Nothing can change in the way we operate."
Everything goes to shit at the last second. Harold is supporting John from outside and gets jumped when John doesn't properly get the drop on their mark. It's a little more complicated than that, they hadn't expected a vampire to be involved in this situation, but the fact of the matter is he gets away. John is too busy dealing with the other goons to pursue but he doesn't think much about it, just assumes he ran away, until he hears Harold's exclamation of surprise over the comms. After that there's no response but it takes John too long to extract himself. By the time he sprints out of the building Harold is on the ground and John doesn't hesitate to shoot the vampire on the spot. He doesn't know if Harold is dead, all he knows is blind anger and desperation. Not Harold, not Harold, not Harold, is all that races through his mind as he makes his way over. But once he's by Harold's side relief washes over him. Harold will never be the same, his life will be forever changed, but he's not truly dead. John's heart remains whole. He doesn't have to learn what he'd do without Harold in his life.
Of course, this introduces a complication. After only a moment of consideration John throws out the idea of bringing Harold to the hospital. No, he would hate having to be registered, having to be scrutinized, having his life intruded upon like that. It might be safer for him in the short term, but the long term ramifications would be too much to handle. The least John can do is not make this worse for him. John debates taking him to his own loft or the safehouse and settles on the latter. It's a "safehouse" for a reason.
The clock is ticking but he has enough time to gather some supplies, mainly blood bags. John knows enough to know that they're not preferable, but he makes sure to get his own blood type; there's a good chance that Harold will feed on him when he wakes up and John isn't sure how much control he'll have. John thinks there's a very real chance Harold kills him without even realizing, and if that's the case then so be it. Maybe he should leave a note behind so Harold doesn't feel too badly about it. It's short, to the point, and he sticks it in his jacket pocket.
In the end with all his preparations made all he can do is settle in by Harold's side as he lays in the bed and wait. He doesn't allow himself any distractions, doesn't let himself close his eyes, just waits. He'll be by Harold's side as long as is necessary.
He is truly dead. There's an immutable reality to vampires that some try to romanticize away but Harold is of the opinion can't be ignored: they're dead, they're living an alternate existence, they're not human. As someone who prides himself on his absolute dedication to humanity, that's going to be a very hard pill to swallow.
Not that there's coherent thoughts in his head when he first returns to consciousness. There's a strange lack of pain in his back but it's completely overshadowed by a blinding, consuming thirst. He feels not just thirsty but dehydrated, woozy and out of it, unable to form coherent thoughts. It's almost like being intoxicated, except--
Except his focus is precise and unerring. There's someone beside him and there's no gradual awakening; he's dead and then he's awake and he's thirsty and there's--
He rolls over with a fluidity to his movement that would shock him in his right mind, and he presses his prey forcefully down beneath him on the bed, hair mussed and glasses gone. Harold's eyes are wide and gleaming faintly red and he has his jaw loose showing faint traces of his fangs between his cold whitened lips, not yet comfortable with how to carry them naturally.
He's about to bite, a perfectly natural and instinctive action, but then he stops.
"John," he says like it's an abstract concept, staring down at him unblinking.
Somewhere distant inside him, he's faintly certain he would rather starve to death than kill John. In all the horrid morbid detail that might mean. The thirst has run up against an immutable wall of resolve: Harold isn't human anymore but he is Harold, and if there's a place he's willing to bend his rules, it isn't here. It isn't something that would cause him to be the agent of harm to John.
Even for John it's hard to pay rapt attention for that long, so he misses the exact second when Harold's eyes open, but he's alert in the second before he finds himself pressed to the bed. It doesn't stop him from going tense at the sudden change in position, but he wills the urge to struggle to pass, lets himself go lax. Vampire or not, this is Harold. Whatever Harold wishes to exact on him, he'll accept.
And he thinks he probably has death coming, is glad he wrote that note, when Harold just... stops. It's like he's frozen, somewhere far away. It's not the usual way Harold says his name, it lacks precision somehow, but he doesn't miss that Harold calls him John.
He lays still, doesn't move at all. Tries not to breathe too much. "There's blood bags if you would rather, but if you want, it's okay, Harold." He says it as quietly and gently as he can. He's offering. Whatever Harold wants, he's offering. It's okay.
Blood bags? It sounds horrible. Stale and rancid. There's a live warm moving person beneath him offering himself up and he's--
Harold continues staring at him, fixated, eyes flicking up and down as he takes him in. "You smell lovely," he says in a musing tone, like he's noting an observation. "An aged roasted tea, rare and exceptional. I suspect that's my personal sentiment altering my sensory perception rather than an innate characteristic."
That would make sense. There's very little that's reputably verified about vampires, so Harold is going to be doing a lot of figuring things out for himself. He assumes immediately and automatically that John has killed his sire, which in this animalistic state feels completely right. There should be no one dictating his actions, no one thinking he has power over him. Not when he has John to take care of. Harold would not accept anyone else thinking they could step over his role in their relationship.
"You deserve so much more, but I would be honored to taste you."
It's solemn, careful, the thirst clawing at him angrily but Harold holding fast, resolute and stubborn. John deserves his very best and here he is, a slavering desperate creature slaking his thirst on him rather than savoring him as he deserves. But he can't deny...
John's being the first blood he ever tastes is as it should be.
[ Harold is frustrated and alarmed and, okay, highly worried, and he really needs to be working on the Machine and not fussing over his soulmate. But his soulmate keeps responding to offers from the CIA like he's seriously considering them and meanwhile resolutely ignoring all the perfectly legitimate offers Harold arranges for him to get instead. He's never contacted him directly before, vastly preferring to play invisible guardian angel from time to time -- interference as minimal as possible, he swears -- but now he has to resort to drastic measures.
He can't see his soulmate join the CIA. Not when he has access to all of its feeds and knows all too well what kind of wetwork that entails, to use the industry's charmingly awful euphemism. So Harold sends him a text message from an unknown number: ]
Whatever your annoyance with me, Mr. Tallis, please don't make any hasty decisions about your career prospects. The man trying to recruit you has significant black marks on his record.
[ John stares at the text for a long time. Ignores it for a day. Opens it up again. Whoever this is knows very personal details about his life, and he's pretty sure only the CIA (or some other government agency) knows this much about him. Is this a test?
In the end John decides to delete the text and responds to the CIA with further intent on joining their program. ]
[ This is so... infuriating. Harold can clearly see the mistake he's making and is absolutely failing at communicating effectively to deter him from it. It's so easy to admire his soulmate from afar and so much harder to actually talk to him without revealing anything. Of course, he realizes that's the problem; why would John trust someone completely anonymous who keeps interfering with his life? But there's so much inertia behind Harold's years of refusal to come clean that it isn't an easy choice to make now.
This is exactly what he has Nathan for, Harold reflects sourly, and absolutely does not mention this latest development to Nathan for advice. Obviously what he needs to do here is offer more proof. ]
Mark Snow shot a civilian child in Vietnam three months ago just to make a point. That's not who you are.
[ The fact that he got a second text is a bit more concerning. The subject of the second text is a bit more concerning. How does this anonymous sender know this? How do they know who he's talking to? John is only more convinced this is a test, but he can't help the seed of doubt that's forming.
What if this is real? Does that matter? He's had to make difficult decisions during his deployments. He's killed people he'd rather not. But he never did it in cold blood, that is true. It doesn't stop him from regretting it, it doesn't stop the nightmares, but it's a shred of consolation. The text said That's not who you are and he wonders how much this mysterious sender knows about him. It's true, he'd never do that. He also doesn't think that's the kind of line the CIA would include if they were testing him. Maybe they would. He doesn't know what to think, in the end.
But this has to be a test. They're just trying to scare him off, to make him question this decision. They're seeing if he's really committed.
He doesn't delete this text, but he doesn't cease his contact with the CIA either. ]
[ It feels much like a normal assignment to Harold, a number like any other, except something is off. And it's not the increasing involvement of the supernatural as they get deeper into the case. That's strange, certainly, but not unheard of. It's just that there's something... tweaking at the edge of his consciousness, a familiarity like deja vu, a loose tooth that he can't stop worrying.
Harold never meets most of the numbers, and he likes it that way. He's the voice behind the earpiece, the one giving directions, doing all the research. Occasionally he's called on to commit some light breaking and entering or to go undercover in one of his many bird-themed identities, but it's in and out, quick. The people they help that he has a real conversation with, a real heart-to-heart, are few and far between. So why does he feel like he needs to introduce himself to James Novak, or whoever is really in there? He feels... drawn. Compelled.
It's an unnerving sensation and not one he obeys readily. That leaves him trailing Mr. Novak from a distance, cautious, hesitant, trying to get a read on who he is and what he does now that the immediate danger is over. The threat to Mr. Novak has been dispatched and Harold is left with questions, a properly dressed and covert form trying to hobble around corners fast enough to keep up with his target.
Normally he'd assign Mr. Reese to something like this, but he doesn't. It feels personal. It feels--
He yelps in surprise and lurches back against the wall of the nearest building, heart racing and jumping into his throat. He didn't see him coming at all. ] E-Excuse me?!
[ Is the jig up? Can he pretend he doesn't know who he is? ]
[ it feels much like a normal assignment to castiel as well, at least up until he keys onto the fact he's been followed for at least as long as he's been following sam and dean winchester.
he'd been confronted when he took this vessel. and then several times after, in the midst of various encounters with demonkind. he still isn't entirely sure what they were trying to accomplish. hunters, he assumes. it wouldn't be out of the ordinary to find them nearby demons where they congregate and cause misfortune, but it was always in concert to him, and always they arrived only just in time to see the aftermath.
but it isn't his responsibility to babysit a couple of hapless hunters, so he pays it no mind.
the situation isn't entirely unprecedented, anyway. people notice them sometimes— those with especially developed extranatural senses, those who are particularly devout. those occasions are often only relegated to a glimpse. something seen out of the corner of an eye, a brief flash of light. an image that lingers on the cornea.
but repetition is a key constituent of the apocalypse. perhaps this is a sign.
what's stranger now, however... a man has been following him since the gas station where dean stopped to put fuel in his big black car. there are no demons, this time. it's undoubtedly him who's being tracked.
he walks away from the motel, leaving sam and dean winchester behind, and waits until they're sufficiently isolated to land directly in front of him.
castiel is unfazed by his shock. ]
Who are you?
[ there's something... different... about this man. that much has already been made apparent. ]
[ Harold is a capable driver, if not an exciting one. He's regularly the getaway driver simply because he isn't in the thick of the action. He's comfortable renting a car and chasing down "James Novak" from a distance, needing no excuses for John or Shaw about where he's going; he doesn't explain his movements to them, even though he monitors and knows all of theirs.
It's pretty rare he's taken off-guard like this, considering he's the paranoid surveillance expert. Still, he's not totally freaked out; he's observed Mr. Novak enough by now to know he isn't typically a threat to random citizens. He just needs to establish himself as one.
As soon as his nerves stop racing enough for him to convince himself of that.
Harold's eyes are wide behind his glasses as he fumbles out a reply. He answers literally. ] Harold Wren. I'm-- I'm sorry. It's just that you looked familiar to me.
[ That's quite a weak excuse to follow someone in a car this far, but it has the advantage of being close to the truth, and Harold wants to see how he'll take it. As for Harold Wren -- his oldest alias, it's also one of his most innocuous. It'll stand up best to heavy scrutiny, if it comes to that, and it's one he can embody as a second skin. ]
[ it would be a weak excuse to anyone human, but harold has the advantage, in this scenario, of facing something distinctly not. it was clear to castiel before, and it's clear to him now, that— that this harold isn't a demon or any other stripe of monster—
in fact.
in fact, now that he's close enough to look the man in the eye, he's beginning to realize something that should have been obvious to him the moment harold pinged his radar. this man isn't a man at all. castiel's eyes narrow, and he takes a step forward. this might lead harold to think that castiel's seen through some part of his act, and he has, but not in the way that one would assume.
once he's uncomfortably close, castiel speaks (under his breath, to himself), ]
Who are you?
[ never in all his days on earth did he expect to find a fallen angel here. ]
It's a gruesome scene that's revealed when the sack comes off his head, dirty and intimidating. Probably something like Guantanamo back when that was considered a remarkable breach of human rights, which is long ago now. Harold blinks into the dim hazy light, waiting for his eyes to adjust, and eventually realizes with astonishment that he recognizes who's joined him in this sparse torture room.
He's hurt and restrained and probably bleeding, and there's any number of reasons they could have him here, so he should probably start finding out what's going on if he wants even a remote possibility of getting out of this. He can either establish himself as a terrified victim or as something more, and frankly, they've just muddied up and torn one of his handful of remaining matching suits, so Harold is annoyed. They can torture him all they want and he's aware he'll likely break and he's sure he'll cry, but he's just so damn tired now, tired of it all, both the slow erosion of anything of real value and the gleeful combustion of any trace of decency. It's been years, and he's never stopped wanting to rail against it.
"I'd say you've come a long way from Korengal, Mr. Carver," Harold says mildly, deliberately, laying each word like a carefully lit fuse, "but it doesn't appear that you have."
Although the comment isn't wise and it isn't calculated, it's not entirely impulsive, either. Harold is scared for his life and terrified of what might happen to him prior to losing it; he's well-sourced with information even now, and he has substantial reason to believe that Carver and his group are willing to commit far more malevolent acts than Harold is comfortable imagining. He shouldn't be instigating anything.
But a part of him he's never lost -- not so much clung onto as failed to squash, honestly -- is morally offended by the idea that all of humanity has degenerated to nothing better than what used to be an infamous killing field. Is that all they are now? Is Brandon Carver satisfied with that?
Harold isn't. He's prepared to die refusing to participate in that kind of hell and calling it what it is. It's not as if he has anything left to save for himself.
They haven’t taken any prisoners for a while. The commander hasn’t demanded any and they’ve been quick and clever with their raids, all the survivors cornered before they have a chance to get far enough to regroup and become threats. But this man, fortified and protected in his shelter like a hermit crab, is different. This one they knew.
Carver tilts his head one way, then the other, motioning his brothers out of the room. This is his task now. Pope commanded it. God is watching.
“You always did like your suits, Egret,” Carver drawls, stepping forward. He drags a chair behind him, letting it scrape against the concrete. The room smells like shit and rot, and all the things they’ve done in it. They dragged the corpses out but didn’t scrub the floors. Didn’t do much of anything except fortify the walls and the door, and hang a single lantern overhead.
Shadows are good. The smell is good. It raises the stakes right off the bat. They haven’t beaten this man yet, but they’ll come to that. They have all the time they need.
He sits down across from the target, face bland. One eyebrow crooked as he begins stripping his gloves off. Right, then left. There’s a certain pageantry to this. A script they’re both following.
“Didn’t think you’d recognize little old me,” he drawls. This part is almost conversational. “But you always had a thing for details, didn’t you?”
It's disgusting and awful and Harold has had to get used to a lot of disgusting and awful things. He wants more, he wants better, and he'll never stop longing for something more than what they collectively have now. He's not hardened or cold, just worn, his eyes pinched tight and trepidation clear to read in the tense hold of his muscles. He should get used to this, too, this brutality, but he's never managed to.
"Just because society has collapsed doesn't mean my sense of appreciation has to along with it," he answers, tight. "Or my recognition of individuals. What is it you think you're going to get out of me?"
That could be challenging, but Harold is possibly prepared to give it, depending on what it is. He won't be foolish but he also won't apply double standards. There's a possibility that it's something he would support.
That's its name on paper, in reality the latest in a long line of decades of trials, experiments, tests and research. The Stargate Project, the Princeton Engineering Anomalies Research Laboratory, MKUltra, Unit 731, the National Laboratory of Psychical Research - different countries, different governments, thousands of researchers, all of them working towards the singular goal of pushing the human brain as far as it can possibly go, and then beyond that boundary into the realm of God. Most people would find such a thing ridiculous, but there have been enough influential people believing in such a possibility that even if the experiments themselves differed, that overarching research still trudged onwards, through two world wars, the rise of the Atomic Age, past the invention of the modern computer, and right up through modern times.
That research still quietly chugged along, even as humanity programmed an electronic god and unleashed her upon the world.
With those decades of data being digitized in the 1980s, 90s and 00s, and new data being born digital, it's no wonder one of those gods eventually took notice. The most recent team continuing this research were clueless to the Machine's existence, squirrelled away in their own corner of the government, similarly hidden by layers and layers of subterfuge - fake documentation that leads nowhere, real documentation that's carefully redacted or manipulated, human resources who no longer officially exist. It's about as locked down as a project can be.
Except this time, after millions of hours of research resulting in failure, they were successful. And success in the modern age means a digital footprint, however tiny. As hard as the government tried to obscure it, it still existed, out there for the right individual to find. The most recent facility has been placed underground in a remote area in Colorado, the wilderness making it less likely for the location to be found. The place is more like a reinforced nuclear bunker than a proper scientific facility. Windowless, reinforced concrete walls, carbon steel doors and locks, a security system that requires three separate instances of approval before anyone is allowed to enter or exit. Rotating teams of researchers are brought in and out, and if anyone doesn't follow the strict protocols as part of their contracts, they're conveniently disappeared. It seems like overkill, especially when one considers all of this security and secrecy is to keep the identity of one child from becoming public (or even known to other countries), but given what that child can do it makes a little more sense.
Accelerator has spent his entire life in the bunker. At least, he thinks he has. He can't remember a time outside of it, just like he can't remember if he has an actual legal name. It's possible he did when he was really young, but if he did those memories have been thoroughly wiped from his mind. It doesn't matter, anyways. Why bother thinking about things that don't matter? He gets referred to as Accelerator (after the project title), or his ID number, or in the case of Kihara Amata (the head of the project), 'you shitty brat.' All of them carry the exact same weight, which is to say he's indifferent about what he's called. Often the researchers are too scared to call him anything, which he finds a bit funny.
Most days in the bunker are the same. Part of his day is dedicated to testing and running experiments on his brain, which can vary from routine electroshock, testing his reactions to certain kinds of drugs, or conducting different kinds of measurements on his ability. They haven't found a ceiling for that last one, so they're continually finding new ways to try and find the upper limit of what he can accomplish. He's pretty sure a group of researchers have started a betting pool on how those tests will go, though he's never asked. It's not like they would tell him if he did, so why bother.
The other part of the day is dedicated to lessons. Given the nature of his ability, Kihara is strict about making sure he gets hours out of the day in order to build the pool of knowledge in his brain. Early on he realized that the more he knew the more effective his ability, so even though there are a dozen scientists eager to run own test ideas at any given time they have to get in line. Most of the time his lessons are focused on math and physics, though other scientific topics get covered regularly, and occasionally those lessons are expanded to social sciences, history, the humanities, and fine arts. Accelerator is mostly indifferent to these classes; he's an excellent student, effortless in the way his brain can memorize, analyze, and build connections between all this information. Any teacher would be over the moon with how quickly he can learn various subjects. For him they offer a break from all the experiments, and they're the only way to learn bout the rest of the world, so he's inclined to behave during them.
The experiments aren't as easy to get through. On good days they're little more a brain MRI and a routine physical; on bad days there's enough pain to leave him catatonic for hours. Occasionally days. Needle marks litter his arms from all the time some doctor has drawn blood or plasma, or taken bone marrow samples, or injected him with god-knows-what to test how his brain and body react. Most of the time he has no idea what they're doing, and he learned years and years ago that there isn't any point in asking because he isn't going to get an answer. He doesn't have any strong feeling towards the experiments; he used to hate them, but that emotion has been long burned out of him. Mostly he just feels numb when he goes through them.
Then there are the trials. Tests to measure his development and push him even further. These ones he actually enjoys, since it's the only chance he gets to let loose a little. Sure, there are usually rules he has to follow, but it's still fun getting to break something or something. It's a controlled release, like a letting pressure out of a valve or something, and he always feels good afterwards.
The trials, he figures, are the most important, since their purpose is to research his ability of manipulating vectors. He's unique in that way; he knows from his history lessons that people in the past have claimed to be psychic, but they were always imposters or charlatans looking for money or popularity or power. He's the only one in the world who is truly psychic, the result of countless experiments when he was small. It's hard to remember when it all started - maybe they'd been testing on him since he was a baby? He isn't sure, but he knows early on he had showed what they called "promising signs," and then when he was ten a researcher had gotten fed up with him, hit him, and his power had destroyed the entire room they were in. From then on he had been deemed a success, and the number of experiments he went through tripled.
It's been five years since then, so that's been his daily life. His power manifested as the ability to manipulate vectors through touch, and for the most part has never expanded beyond that. Further testing showed that when he underwent a large amount of stress he wasn't limited to just touch, but even more testing revealed that was less development and more a breakdown of his brain. Even though the researchers sometimes still ran tests on that stuff, it was mostly deemed too dangerous and not a viable extension of his ability. And after enough incidents, Kihara grudgingly allowed for the research team to be expanded so he could have regular therapy sessions, in order to make sure his brain remained stable. For a year or two he's had psychiatrists and psychologists in and out, some of them better than others, though Accelerator's always found them boring. Talking about his feelings? Why should he give a shit about that? He's aware Kihara hadn't wanted to bother with them and being the head of the entire project, Accelerator is inclined to believe that he's right.
So when he's finally told he's getting a new psychiatrist he doesn't feel particularly strongly one way or another. It's going to be more of the same, so why should he bother caring?]
[ This is going to be a fun one, she can tell. The Machine's never had her take a long-term cover identity before, which means there's something here worth all the time she's going to spend on this mission. Root only asks the questions necessary to make sure she gets the job done right, and otherwise sails into a black site facility with the absolute assurance in purpose she always has while following the Machine's orders.
Caroline Turing has a conveniently well-established preexisting career from the time Root spent putting her together so she could pin down Harold, and it's an easy role for her to embody. She smooths out her hair and pins it up, making sure it still conceals her implant, and dons her best cold corporate chic. It takes months to get into a position where they'll actually let her on-site, and the whole time she's not sure exactly what they're doing there or what her aim is going to be. The Machine directs her with static whispers in her right ear and she follows along, making Caroline Turing a soft-spoken but mercilessly ambitious clinical researcher, and the Machine ultimately leads her to a place even she didn't know existed from her time as a hacker.
Goodness. They're really doing to dig up some skeletons with this one, aren't they? How exciting.
By the time she gets her first session with Accelerator, she's put together what she's here for -- there's really only one project at this site, one focus, and the Machine's motives are obvious as always -- and she's fantastically eager to meet him. The Machine is going through a tremendous amount of hassle and risk to save him; therefore she's made a calculation weighing this one life as worth all the others Root could be saving instead while she does this, and that's interesting. That kind of calculation doesn't come from sentiment but from cold hard logic, implying saving this life right now would either save or prevent from death countless others later, with a high degree of certainty. Maybe this kid actually is psychic. Hard to believe the government could've gotten something successful out of a program descended from a shitshow like MKUltra, but maybe so.
After all this set up, they're getting to the good part, where Root gets to shine and work independently. The goal is to both run a plausible therapy session and start establishing herself as an ally against the rest of these moronic egotistical cretins. Root can't wait to see what he's like, but that doesn't work for her cover, and she'd prefer to do a few of these sessions believably before she starts bringing the house down around them. It'll be far easier to get him out if he goes with her willingly, too.
She strides over on professional pumps to open the door and let him in, and makes sure she's schooled herself into nothing more than soft interest when they first see one another. There might be guards accompanying him -- she isn't sure what to expect, or how compliant he is with instructions, so she's starting from zero. Zero percent honesty. ]
Please come in and take a seat, [ she opens with, unprepossessing.
It's probably the same office he's had all his other sessions in with previous psychologists, and it's just the person who's changed. And it's a terrible office, too, utterly sterile. Maybe the Machine will let her burn it all down as they leave if she's lucky. The particular intersection of brutality toward children and self-aggrandizing government conspiracy at hand just really piques Root's ire. ]
[A small, scrawny kid with shoulder length hair enters the office. He's stark white - white hair, pale skin - it's as if all the colour has been drained out of him, except for his eyes. Those are a bright, blood red, and as he enters they dart around lazily before settling on his newest therapist.
He's wearing hospital pyjamas and slippers, a band-aid on one wrist from having had blood drawn earlier in the day, and he's accompanied by two orderlies. They're unarmed, less there for security and more to ensure he gets to his appointment on time. Not that there are many places for him to wander, but there's a schedule to adhere to and he's still a child. He needs supervision.
Once he enters into the office and drops into one of the chairs, one of the orderlies checks something off on a tablet before the two of them leave. With the hand-off done they don't need to stick around for the actual session, and as soon as their backs are turned he shoots them an irritated scowl before focusing back on Root, draping an arm over the back of his chair and slouching.]
Well? What are you gonna start with? Talk therapy? Or are you gonna jump straight to more fucking drugs?
There are some numbers that Harold works on his own, though he doesn't inform Mr. Reese of that, of course. The last thing he needs is to give him more hints about personal matters, or let him further into his life. Harold already feels... well, strongly, about him. If this goes the way it did with Dillinger, he's not sure he'll manage to try a third time.
Where he can, he tries to give Mr. Reese some days off and tackle the more white collar numbers on his own. It also lets him utilize identities and tactics that he would feel uncomfortable with Mr. Reese knowing about.
That's how he's ended up planning to attend an insufferably high-brow kink party, and if he wants to fend off unwanted advances, the wisest thing to do is come with his own escort. Operative word being escort: paying someone for the service establishes neat boundaries that Harold will have no trouble upholding, and in fact greatly prefers maintaining. Now his task is to find one that will suit him, believably.
Although he doesn't identify as homosexual, something about taking the classic subdued woman to the event rubs him the wrong way. He can afford to be seen as eccentric here, and impervious to questioning is his preferred sort of cover if he has to be a rich pretentious annoyance.
He meets one such candidate for an interview at an establishment specializing in high society, proper tea. He's not about to meet him for the first time at the event, perish the thought. Harold has to be able to pretend to be sexually attracted to him at least in some measure, and he finds even pretending that requires some established equanimity with the subject. Not to mention, if it goes well, he might even engage his services again for similar assignments.
Harold Egret is polished and understated in the way of old money rather than new, and he has a private room booked for a 2 PM meeting.
Conscientious that there will be more than enough power plays to come in the future, he stands when the teahouse attendant shows his guest into the room. He thinks about buttoning his jacket since he's standing and squashes the impulse, deciding that's far too fussy. Just because he is nervous doesn't mean he has to demonstrate it.
"It's a pleasure to meet you," he says diplomatically, and he makes no move to shake hands or approach. But his eyes are sharp and he's paid in advance for an hour, making no presumptions on his time.
"Please call me Harold."
He hopes that will remove a potential point of ambiguity. In all his research, one thing he's learned about these sorts of arrangements is that being direct and explicit in his expectations is the biggest kindness he can offer.
First meetings for security work and the other thing tend to fall along similar lines. You show up at the designated spot, you wear the uniform. Then you go through whatever tests the other side’s laid out to prove your credentials. Walk the walk, talk the talk, hash out the duties and the agreed upon price. There are scripts, which Carver likes. They keep the universe orderly. They clarify expectations and what role everyone’s meant to play. The fact that he’s here for the other thing and not a security job like he told Riley is a detail, a lie of omission that Carver tries not to dwell on. The money is better for the other thing. And he is, supposedly, still of some use like this.
There’s a job, anyway. He has a role to play.
Carver shows up ten minutes early to scout potential exits, just in case. But he’s right on time when he’s shown into the room. He wears a good suit for this past, tailored to his shoulders. He does his hair nice and wears dress shoes instead of steel toed boots. None of it suits him but it’s a uniform like any other. He wears it well enough to pass inspection. No loose threads, no wrinkles. Shoes polished and neatly laced. Even in a place like this, he doesn’t look out of place. He can pretend for a bit.
That, and he doesn’t allow himself to drink before first meetings. It’s a bad turn. It begs bad ends.
He tilts his head, examining Harold Egret close. Middle age white guy with glasses. Well-dressed. At home in the chosen surroundings, with all this quiet pomp. Not fidgeting or leering. Not approaching, either.
Okay, then.
Carver hums. “You can call me Ben, since we’re getting to know each other.”
Ben’s a stranger. Ben’s never been to Afghanistan and doesn’t flip his shit when he sees trash on the road. Ben’s a useful nobody who dresses nice and fucks real good. It’s an easy mask to pull.
“Hi,” he adds, calm and watchful. Wondering what elaborations he’ll need to add to this mask. What role he’s meant to play here.
It's acceptable attire for the establishment, meaning he passes the first unspoken test -- but not nearly good enough for Harold's tastes. He resists the urge to immediately go Pretty Woman on him and insist on buying him clothing. What a tiresome film that is, and an effective cautionary tale for this whole encounter.
He does know who Brandon Carver is and his full background, but he'd been waiting to see what name he preferred to use here, and he nods in acknowledgment once given. Harold then looks past to the restaurant attendant and gives a simple, "Thank you," as dismissal. The truly rich don't waste words on the help.
Harold despises certain aspects of this persona, but it is at least convenient in ushering people quickly in and out of his life. No one expects a man like him to remember someone's name, much less have scoured their entire service history.
Brandon Carver is no coincidental pick. If he's going to be engaging someone else in solving a number, he won't bring in someone unprepared to defend themselves, even if he has gauged the threat level to be low enough to go in on his own for this one. It gives Harold a moral solace that he clutches close to himself when he's trying to go to sleep, a slim relief.
"Have a seat; serve yourself if you like," he goes on, nodding toward the spread of tea and scones and pastries on the table as he takes his own seat. "I had a bit of an unusual request that I felt more comfortable discussing in person."
Without making a record of it through text, he means. Harold assumes this is not the first time 'Ben' has encountered that.
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Instead he just silently appreciates it, silently listens, offers up occasional commentary to let John know he's there. He's caught quite a few things this way, and today he catches that as John accepts a phone number written on his hand, it crawls into existence on his own hand, invisible pen strokes fluttering across his palm. It takes much longer than it should for Harold to understand the implications, and then his brain stutters and crashes to a halt.
Once their current number has left, Harold quietly instructs John to return to the library, staring down at the digits smeared into his skin, his other thumb mutely running over them, back and forth.
So many things he'd wondered about growing up piece together. The way nothing showed up for him for years, until after high school, after his father died; the way his soulmate had never tried to exchange contact information, never even offered a name, never chanced a word. Their writing marks were always purely incidental, never deliberate. Harold had-- tried a couple times, drunkenly or morosely or desperately, but he'd never gotten a response.
And now he knows why.
He can't keep this from him, much as he'd like to. That would be-- destructive to the trust they've formed. They keep secrets from one another, things about the past, but nothing that could be a real betrayal. Harold has to decide how to handle this with John, though his heart is lurching into his throat and pounding at the same time and he's full of wonder, of dread, of confused hope that a dream he'd given up on long ago may come true. And it makes sense, there's an of course about finding out it's John that's his soulmate, of course, the person Harold respects wholly and deeply, who saves Harold in equal measure as he saves John, who pries him from his traumatic isolation and loneliness, his one-man crusade turned to two--
Of course it's John. Now he's just not sure John will think, of course it's Harold.
That's why he gives him room and time to react when John reaches his desk in the library, ignoring the usual exchange of greetings to merely hold up his hand, palm out, an innocent seven digits scrawled across the skin.
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He is not ready for this.
There had been an incident in high school where two sweethearts discovered they were soulmates and it was the talk of the school. There had been a flurry of writing on skin and an endless amount of drama and breaking up as a result. He'd pretended to be mature and above it all, but late one night had put put a dot right on the crease of his elbow, just to see if anything happened. Of course, nothing had, and that was that.
Surely not now, after all this time.
John's first reaction is to apologize. Harold's soulmate is him not Grace-- somehow he'd just assumed it was them. It wasn't rare for people to have a relationship that wasn't their soulmate, but he'd just-- he really had assumed they were. And now Harold is stuck with him. It hardly seems fair. Harold is so generous with John, has time and time again given him second chances, given him a chance at redemption, but-- when he wakes up in the dark of night sweating and shaking from a nightmare, he knows who he is. What he's done. Harold doesn't deserve that, he deserves someone like Grace, whose hands create things.
There is, of course, a part of him that rattles the bars of the prison he's locked it in, that's crying out in victory. The part of him that, when he wakes up from those nightmares, wishes that Harold was there to pet his cheek and tell him it's just a dream. It's an indulgent desire that cuts as much as it soothes; Harold will never do this for him. Only now there is-- there's just the slightest chance that he will get what he wants. It's a dangerous thought to explore so John locks it away again, quickly. He knows what he wants but he will never, ever ask Harold for it. It's simply not something that happens for people like him. John knows better than that.
Instead John settles on a smile that feels painful, that he knows Harold will see through. Harold does know him well enough for that, but John quite frankly doesn't know what he feels in this moment (terrified, a small part of his mind supplies).
"Well, now we have a backup method of communication if we can't talk for some reason. We should come up with a system." John stares down at his hand. His face hurts despite the fact that his mouth has barely moved. "I'll go wash my hand."
He walks past Harold without so much as a second glance, to the sink in the kitchenette, turns the water on cold, and starts scrubbing.
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Now he realizes the door has been open all along, his soul left it that way, a focused tunnel just to John like an encrypted channel, and he's-- they-- have only been ignoring it.
Harold lets him go at first, have some space, but he follows. He knows he's not going to sneak up on John with his unsteady gait and the creaky floors, and he doesn't try, just lets himself into their awkward crash space and makes his way to John at the sink without apology. He goes to stop his hands with his own and feels how cold the water is, mouth tightening.
He will not be made an excuse for John to punish himself. Not now, not ever, not even in the most mild symbolic manner with cold water. Harold won't pressure John to do anything but he won't let him walk away with that rictus of a smile, either.
He turns the hot tap on midway before reaching in again.
"It doesn't need to be a backup method." They're standing beside one another hunched over the same small sink, avoiding each other's eyes in the mirror, close enough that a long line of Harold's bad leg is pressed against John and the water splatter is getting his cuffs wet and he doesn't care. "You can contact me at any time, using any method, John."
The use of first name is deliberate; his voice quiet but steady, the even tonal pace of Harold's typing an echo behind it, dependable; and his fingers lace through John's in the sink, tangled, keeping them still.
"I will always answer."
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He notices the slight discoloration around the drain in the sink, it's time to clean it again even though it feels like he did so just recently. He tries thinking back through the days, and-- yes, he did it five days ago when they were between numbers. The cleaner is in the cabinet, he'll put it on his list of things to do. He'd-- part of him wants to just do it now, but that would be-- too much. That would be too much. Harold is trying to face this and John is trying not to, but. That would be cruel to Harold and John wants to cradle Harold's hands so gently in his own that it's physically painful.
His eyes keep searching.
His own sleeves had been pulled up slightly so they don't get wet, but Harold's hadn't, so they're starting do darken at the edges from the splash of the water. Somehow that seems unacceptable -- Harold would hate having his sleeves wet, surely -- which gives John a course of action. He carefully untangles one of his hands and turns both taps off before reaching for the towel. John has a momentary vision of freeing his other hand, of carefully drying Harold's hands, all the little folds and crevices-- and his other hand lets go, moves to join its pair-- but at the last second he catches himself and simply presses the towel into Harold's hand, letting his own dripping hands linger for just the briefest moment before withdrawing them.
John doesn't look at the smudged remains of the ink on his skin as he grips the edge of the sink for support. He doesn't really lean on it, the weight its supporting isn't physical. He lets his fingers feel the smooth porcelain and tries to understand how this feels, but comes up wanting. It's incomprehensible apart from the knowledge that something in him is breaking under Harold's touch, under his words. He doesn't know what, or how to put it back together, or if he even wants to be whole again, or if maybe this is like setting a broken bone. He doesn't know.
"We should keep pens on us from now on, in case I lose my phone, or if there's interference." Both of those things have happened before, it's not an unreasonable suggestion. He can suddenly hear Kara's laughter ringing in his ears, mocking him. He feels ill. "But it's not safe, I'm in too many situations where it could be abused. You have to promise--" He'd done that before. They had intel that their mark had a soulmate and used the partner as bait-- he thinks of Harold alone in the library, calling his name over their private line-- he had felt like part of him died after that mission and he feels that again, tenfold, imagining Harold.
Harold doesn't know what he's getting with this deal. John does.
"You can't put yourself in danger because of this. Nothing can change in the way we operate."
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Of course, this introduces a complication. After only a moment of consideration John throws out the idea of bringing Harold to the hospital. No, he would hate having to be registered, having to be scrutinized, having his life intruded upon like that. It might be safer for him in the short term, but the long term ramifications would be too much to handle. The least John can do is not make this worse for him. John debates taking him to his own loft or the safehouse and settles on the latter. It's a "safehouse" for a reason.
The clock is ticking but he has enough time to gather some supplies, mainly blood bags. John knows enough to know that they're not preferable, but he makes sure to get his own blood type; there's a good chance that Harold will feed on him when he wakes up and John isn't sure how much control he'll have. John thinks there's a very real chance Harold kills him without even realizing, and if that's the case then so be it. Maybe he should leave a note behind so Harold doesn't feel too badly about it. It's short, to the point, and he sticks it in his jacket pocket.
In the end with all his preparations made all he can do is settle in by Harold's side as he lays in the bed and wait. He doesn't allow himself any distractions, doesn't let himself close his eyes, just waits. He'll be by Harold's side as long as is necessary.
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Not that there's coherent thoughts in his head when he first returns to consciousness. There's a strange lack of pain in his back but it's completely overshadowed by a blinding, consuming thirst. He feels not just thirsty but dehydrated, woozy and out of it, unable to form coherent thoughts. It's almost like being intoxicated, except--
Except his focus is precise and unerring. There's someone beside him and there's no gradual awakening; he's dead and then he's awake and he's thirsty and there's--
He rolls over with a fluidity to his movement that would shock him in his right mind, and he presses his prey forcefully down beneath him on the bed, hair mussed and glasses gone. Harold's eyes are wide and gleaming faintly red and he has his jaw loose showing faint traces of his fangs between his cold whitened lips, not yet comfortable with how to carry them naturally.
He's about to bite, a perfectly natural and instinctive action, but then he stops.
"John," he says like it's an abstract concept, staring down at him unblinking.
Somewhere distant inside him, he's faintly certain he would rather starve to death than kill John. In all the horrid morbid detail that might mean. The thirst has run up against an immutable wall of resolve: Harold isn't human anymore but he is Harold, and if there's a place he's willing to bend his rules, it isn't here. It isn't something that would cause him to be the agent of harm to John.
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And he thinks he probably has death coming, is glad he wrote that note, when Harold just... stops. It's like he's frozen, somewhere far away. It's not the usual way Harold says his name, it lacks precision somehow, but he doesn't miss that Harold calls him John.
He lays still, doesn't move at all. Tries not to breathe too much. "There's blood bags if you would rather, but if you want, it's okay, Harold." He says it as quietly and gently as he can. He's offering. Whatever Harold wants, he's offering. It's okay.
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Harold continues staring at him, fixated, eyes flicking up and down as he takes him in. "You smell lovely," he says in a musing tone, like he's noting an observation. "An aged roasted tea, rare and exceptional. I suspect that's my personal sentiment altering my sensory perception rather than an innate characteristic."
That would make sense. There's very little that's reputably verified about vampires, so Harold is going to be doing a lot of figuring things out for himself. He assumes immediately and automatically that John has killed his sire, which in this animalistic state feels completely right. There should be no one dictating his actions, no one thinking he has power over him. Not when he has John to take care of. Harold would not accept anyone else thinking they could step over his role in their relationship.
"You deserve so much more, but I would be honored to taste you."
It's solemn, careful, the thirst clawing at him angrily but Harold holding fast, resolute and stubborn. John deserves his very best and here he is, a slavering desperate creature slaking his thirst on him rather than savoring him as he deserves. But he can't deny...
John's being the first blood he ever tastes is as it should be.
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He can't see his soulmate join the CIA. Not when he has access to all of its feeds and knows all too well what kind of wetwork that entails, to use the industry's charmingly awful euphemism. So Harold sends him a text message from an unknown number: ]
Whatever your annoyance with me, Mr. Tallis, please don't make any hasty decisions about your career prospects. The man trying to recruit you has significant black marks on his record.
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In the end John decides to delete the text and responds to the CIA with further intent on joining their program. ]
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This is exactly what he has Nathan for, Harold reflects sourly, and absolutely does not mention this latest development to Nathan for advice. Obviously what he needs to do here is offer more proof. ]
Mark Snow shot a civilian child in Vietnam three months ago just to make a point. That's not who you are.
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What if this is real? Does that matter? He's had to make difficult decisions during his deployments. He's killed people he'd rather not. But he never did it in cold blood, that is true. It doesn't stop him from regretting it, it doesn't stop the nightmares, but it's a shred of consolation. The text said That's not who you are and he wonders how much this mysterious sender knows about him. It's true, he'd never do that. He also doesn't think that's the kind of line the CIA would include if they were testing him. Maybe they would. He doesn't know what to think, in the end.
But this has to be a test. They're just trying to scare him off, to make him question this decision. They're seeing if he's really committed.
He doesn't delete this text, but he doesn't cease his contact with the CIA either. ]
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Harold never meets most of the numbers, and he likes it that way. He's the voice behind the earpiece, the one giving directions, doing all the research. Occasionally he's called on to commit some light breaking and entering or to go undercover in one of his many bird-themed identities, but it's in and out, quick. The people they help that he has a real conversation with, a real heart-to-heart, are few and far between. So why does he feel like he needs to introduce himself to James Novak, or whoever is really in there? He feels... drawn. Compelled.
It's an unnerving sensation and not one he obeys readily. That leaves him trailing Mr. Novak from a distance, cautious, hesitant, trying to get a read on who he is and what he does now that the immediate danger is over. The threat to Mr. Novak has been dispatched and Harold is left with questions, a properly dressed and covert form trying to hobble around corners fast enough to keep up with his target.
Normally he'd assign Mr. Reese to something like this, but he doesn't. It feels personal. It feels--
He yelps in surprise and lurches back against the wall of the nearest building, heart racing and jumping into his throat. He didn't see him coming at all. ] E-Excuse me?!
[ Is the jig up? Can he pretend he doesn't know who he is? ]
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he'd been confronted when he took this vessel. and then several times after, in the midst of various encounters with demonkind. he still isn't entirely sure what they were trying to accomplish. hunters, he assumes. it wouldn't be out of the ordinary to find them nearby demons where they congregate and cause misfortune, but it was always in concert to him, and always they arrived only just in time to see the aftermath.
but it isn't his responsibility to babysit a couple of hapless hunters, so he pays it no mind.
the situation isn't entirely unprecedented, anyway. people notice them sometimes— those with especially developed extranatural senses, those who are particularly devout. those occasions are often only relegated to a glimpse. something seen out of the corner of an eye, a brief flash of light. an image that lingers on the cornea.
but repetition is a key constituent of the apocalypse. perhaps this is a sign.
what's stranger now, however... a man has been following him since the gas station where dean stopped to put fuel in his big black car. there are no demons, this time. it's undoubtedly him who's being tracked.
he walks away from the motel, leaving sam and dean winchester behind, and waits until they're sufficiently isolated to land directly in front of him.
castiel is unfazed by his shock. ]
Who are you?
[ there's something... different... about this man. that much has already been made apparent. ]
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It's pretty rare he's taken off-guard like this, considering he's the paranoid surveillance expert. Still, he's not totally freaked out; he's observed Mr. Novak enough by now to know he isn't typically a threat to random citizens. He just needs to establish himself as one.
As soon as his nerves stop racing enough for him to convince himself of that.
Harold's eyes are wide behind his glasses as he fumbles out a reply. He answers literally. ] Harold Wren. I'm-- I'm sorry. It's just that you looked familiar to me.
[ That's quite a weak excuse to follow someone in a car this far, but it has the advantage of being close to the truth, and Harold wants to see how he'll take it. As for Harold Wren -- his oldest alias, it's also one of his most innocuous. It'll stand up best to heavy scrutiny, if it comes to that, and it's one he can embody as a second skin. ]
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in fact.
in fact, now that he's close enough to look the man in the eye, he's beginning to realize something that should have been obvious to him the moment harold pinged his radar. this man isn't a man at all. castiel's eyes narrow, and he takes a step forward. this might lead harold to think that castiel's seen through some part of his act, and he has, but not in the way that one would assume.
once he's uncomfortably close, castiel speaks (under his breath, to himself), ]
Who are you?
[ never in all his days on earth did he expect to find a fallen angel here. ]
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He's hurt and restrained and probably bleeding, and there's any number of reasons they could have him here, so he should probably start finding out what's going on if he wants even a remote possibility of getting out of this. He can either establish himself as a terrified victim or as something more, and frankly, they've just muddied up and torn one of his handful of remaining matching suits, so Harold is annoyed. They can torture him all they want and he's aware he'll likely break and he's sure he'll cry, but he's just so damn tired now, tired of it all, both the slow erosion of anything of real value and the gleeful combustion of any trace of decency. It's been years, and he's never stopped wanting to rail against it.
"I'd say you've come a long way from Korengal, Mr. Carver," Harold says mildly, deliberately, laying each word like a carefully lit fuse, "but it doesn't appear that you have."
Although the comment isn't wise and it isn't calculated, it's not entirely impulsive, either. Harold is scared for his life and terrified of what might happen to him prior to losing it; he's well-sourced with information even now, and he has substantial reason to believe that Carver and his group are willing to commit far more malevolent acts than Harold is comfortable imagining. He shouldn't be instigating anything.
But a part of him he's never lost -- not so much clung onto as failed to squash, honestly -- is morally offended by the idea that all of humanity has degenerated to nothing better than what used to be an infamous killing field. Is that all they are now? Is Brandon Carver satisfied with that?
Harold isn't. He's prepared to die refusing to participate in that kind of hell and calling it what it is. It's not as if he has anything left to save for himself.
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Carver tilts his head one way, then the other, motioning his brothers out of the room. This is his task now. Pope commanded it. God is watching.
“You always did like your suits, Egret,” Carver drawls, stepping forward. He drags a chair behind him, letting it scrape against the concrete. The room smells like shit and rot, and all the things they’ve done in it. They dragged the corpses out but didn’t scrub the floors. Didn’t do much of anything except fortify the walls and the door, and hang a single lantern overhead.
Shadows are good. The smell is good. It raises the stakes right off the bat. They haven’t beaten this man yet, but they’ll come to that. They have all the time they need.
He sits down across from the target, face bland. One eyebrow crooked as he begins stripping his gloves off. Right, then left. There’s a certain pageantry to this. A script they’re both following.
“Didn’t think you’d recognize little old me,” he drawls. This part is almost conversational. “But you always had a thing for details, didn’t you?”
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"Just because society has collapsed doesn't mean my sense of appreciation has to along with it," he answers, tight. "Or my recognition of individuals. What is it you think you're going to get out of me?"
That could be challenging, but Harold is possibly prepared to give it, depending on what it is. He won't be foolish but he also won't apply double standards. There's a possibility that it's something he would support.
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time skip perhaps?
Sure!
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cw: child abuse, medical experimentation
That's its name on paper, in reality the latest in a long line of decades of trials, experiments, tests and research. The Stargate Project, the Princeton Engineering Anomalies Research Laboratory, MKUltra, Unit 731, the National Laboratory of Psychical Research - different countries, different governments, thousands of researchers, all of them working towards the singular goal of pushing the human brain as far as it can possibly go, and then beyond that boundary into the realm of God. Most people would find such a thing ridiculous, but there have been enough influential people believing in such a possibility that even if the experiments themselves differed, that overarching research still trudged onwards, through two world wars, the rise of the Atomic Age, past the invention of the modern computer, and right up through modern times.
That research still quietly chugged along, even as humanity programmed an electronic god and unleashed her upon the world.
With those decades of data being digitized in the 1980s, 90s and 00s, and new data being born digital, it's no wonder one of those gods eventually took notice. The most recent team continuing this research were clueless to the Machine's existence, squirrelled away in their own corner of the government, similarly hidden by layers and layers of subterfuge - fake documentation that leads nowhere, real documentation that's carefully redacted or manipulated, human resources who no longer officially exist. It's about as locked down as a project can be.
Except this time, after millions of hours of research resulting in failure, they were successful. And success in the modern age means a digital footprint, however tiny. As hard as the government tried to obscure it, it still existed, out there for the right individual to find. The most recent facility has been placed underground in a remote area in Colorado, the wilderness making it less likely for the location to be found. The place is more like a reinforced nuclear bunker than a proper scientific facility. Windowless, reinforced concrete walls, carbon steel doors and locks, a security system that requires three separate instances of approval before anyone is allowed to enter or exit. Rotating teams of researchers are brought in and out, and if anyone doesn't follow the strict protocols as part of their contracts, they're conveniently disappeared. It seems like overkill, especially when one considers all of this security and secrecy is to keep the identity of one child from becoming public (or even known to other countries), but given what that child can do it makes a little more sense.
Accelerator has spent his entire life in the bunker. At least, he thinks he has. He can't remember a time outside of it, just like he can't remember if he has an actual legal name. It's possible he did when he was really young, but if he did those memories have been thoroughly wiped from his mind. It doesn't matter, anyways. Why bother thinking about things that don't matter? He gets referred to as Accelerator (after the project title), or his ID number, or in the case of Kihara Amata (the head of the project), 'you shitty brat.' All of them carry the exact same weight, which is to say he's indifferent about what he's called. Often the researchers are too scared to call him anything, which he finds a bit funny.
Most days in the bunker are the same. Part of his day is dedicated to testing and running experiments on his brain, which can vary from routine electroshock, testing his reactions to certain kinds of drugs, or conducting different kinds of measurements on his ability. They haven't found a ceiling for that last one, so they're continually finding new ways to try and find the upper limit of what he can accomplish. He's pretty sure a group of researchers have started a betting pool on how those tests will go, though he's never asked. It's not like they would tell him if he did, so why bother.
The other part of the day is dedicated to lessons. Given the nature of his ability, Kihara is strict about making sure he gets hours out of the day in order to build the pool of knowledge in his brain. Early on he realized that the more he knew the more effective his ability, so even though there are a dozen scientists eager to run own test ideas at any given time they have to get in line. Most of the time his lessons are focused on math and physics, though other scientific topics get covered regularly, and occasionally those lessons are expanded to social sciences, history, the humanities, and fine arts. Accelerator is mostly indifferent to these classes; he's an excellent student, effortless in the way his brain can memorize, analyze, and build connections between all this information. Any teacher would be over the moon with how quickly he can learn various subjects. For him they offer a break from all the experiments, and they're the only way to learn bout the rest of the world, so he's inclined to behave during them.
The experiments aren't as easy to get through. On good days they're little more a brain MRI and a routine physical; on bad days there's enough pain to leave him catatonic for hours. Occasionally days. Needle marks litter his arms from all the time some doctor has drawn blood or plasma, or taken bone marrow samples, or injected him with god-knows-what to test how his brain and body react. Most of the time he has no idea what they're doing, and he learned years and years ago that there isn't any point in asking because he isn't going to get an answer. He doesn't have any strong feeling towards the experiments; he used to hate them, but that emotion has been long burned out of him. Mostly he just feels numb when he goes through them.
Then there are the trials. Tests to measure his development and push him even further. These ones he actually enjoys, since it's the only chance he gets to let loose a little. Sure, there are usually rules he has to follow, but it's still fun getting to break something or something. It's a controlled release, like a letting pressure out of a valve or something, and he always feels good afterwards.
The trials, he figures, are the most important, since their purpose is to research his ability of manipulating vectors. He's unique in that way; he knows from his history lessons that people in the past have claimed to be psychic, but they were always imposters or charlatans looking for money or popularity or power. He's the only one in the world who is truly psychic, the result of countless experiments when he was small. It's hard to remember when it all started - maybe they'd been testing on him since he was a baby? He isn't sure, but he knows early on he had showed what they called "promising signs," and then when he was ten a researcher had gotten fed up with him, hit him, and his power had destroyed the entire room they were in. From then on he had been deemed a success, and the number of experiments he went through tripled.
It's been five years since then, so that's been his daily life. His power manifested as the ability to manipulate vectors through touch, and for the most part has never expanded beyond that. Further testing showed that when he underwent a large amount of stress he wasn't limited to just touch, but even more testing revealed that was less development and more a breakdown of his brain. Even though the researchers sometimes still ran tests on that stuff, it was mostly deemed too dangerous and not a viable extension of his ability. And after enough incidents, Kihara grudgingly allowed for the research team to be expanded so he could have regular therapy sessions, in order to make sure his brain remained stable. For a year or two he's had psychiatrists and psychologists in and out, some of them better than others, though Accelerator's always found them boring. Talking about his feelings? Why should he give a shit about that? He's aware Kihara hadn't wanted to bother with them and being the head of the entire project, Accelerator is inclined to believe that he's right.
So when he's finally told he's getting a new psychiatrist he doesn't feel particularly strongly one way or another. It's going to be more of the same, so why should he bother caring?]
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Caroline Turing has a conveniently well-established preexisting career from the time Root spent putting her together so she could pin down Harold, and it's an easy role for her to embody. She smooths out her hair and pins it up, making sure it still conceals her implant, and dons her best cold corporate chic. It takes months to get into a position where they'll actually let her on-site, and the whole time she's not sure exactly what they're doing there or what her aim is going to be. The Machine directs her with static whispers in her right ear and she follows along, making Caroline Turing a soft-spoken but mercilessly ambitious clinical researcher, and the Machine ultimately leads her to a place even she didn't know existed from her time as a hacker.
Goodness. They're really doing to dig up some skeletons with this one, aren't they? How exciting.
By the time she gets her first session with Accelerator, she's put together what she's here for -- there's really only one project at this site, one focus, and the Machine's motives are obvious as always -- and she's fantastically eager to meet him. The Machine is going through a tremendous amount of hassle and risk to save him; therefore she's made a calculation weighing this one life as worth all the others Root could be saving instead while she does this, and that's interesting. That kind of calculation doesn't come from sentiment but from cold hard logic, implying saving this life right now would either save or prevent from death countless others later, with a high degree of certainty. Maybe this kid actually is psychic. Hard to believe the government could've gotten something successful out of a program descended from a shitshow like MKUltra, but maybe so.
After all this set up, they're getting to the good part, where Root gets to shine and work independently. The goal is to both run a plausible therapy session and start establishing herself as an ally against the rest of these moronic egotistical cretins. Root can't wait to see what he's like, but that doesn't work for her cover, and she'd prefer to do a few of these sessions believably before she starts bringing the house down around them. It'll be far easier to get him out if he goes with her willingly, too.
She strides over on professional pumps to open the door and let him in, and makes sure she's schooled herself into nothing more than soft interest when they first see one another. There might be guards accompanying him -- she isn't sure what to expect, or how compliant he is with instructions, so she's starting from zero. Zero percent honesty. ]
Please come in and take a seat, [ she opens with, unprepossessing.
It's probably the same office he's had all his other sessions in with previous psychologists, and it's just the person who's changed. And it's a terrible office, too, utterly sterile. Maybe the Machine will let her burn it all down as they leave if she's lucky. The particular intersection of brutality toward children and self-aggrandizing government conspiracy at hand just really piques Root's ire. ]
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He's wearing hospital pyjamas and slippers, a band-aid on one wrist from having had blood drawn earlier in the day, and he's accompanied by two orderlies. They're unarmed, less there for security and more to ensure he gets to his appointment on time. Not that there are many places for him to wander, but there's a schedule to adhere to and he's still a child. He needs supervision.
Once he enters into the office and drops into one of the chairs, one of the orderlies checks something off on a tablet before the two of them leave. With the hand-off done they don't need to stick around for the actual session, and as soon as their backs are turned he shoots them an irritated scowl before focusing back on Root, draping an arm over the back of his chair and slouching.]
Well? What are you gonna start with? Talk therapy? Or are you gonna jump straight to more fucking drugs?
[He's expecting the former.]
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carver (brothel AU -- POI S1)
Where he can, he tries to give Mr. Reese some days off and tackle the more white collar numbers on his own. It also lets him utilize identities and tactics that he would feel uncomfortable with Mr. Reese knowing about.
That's how he's ended up planning to attend an insufferably high-brow kink party, and if he wants to fend off unwanted advances, the wisest thing to do is come with his own escort. Operative word being escort: paying someone for the service establishes neat boundaries that Harold will have no trouble upholding, and in fact greatly prefers maintaining. Now his task is to find one that will suit him, believably.
Although he doesn't identify as homosexual, something about taking the classic subdued woman to the event rubs him the wrong way. He can afford to be seen as eccentric here, and impervious to questioning is his preferred sort of cover if he has to be a rich pretentious annoyance.
He meets one such candidate for an interview at an establishment specializing in high society, proper tea. He's not about to meet him for the first time at the event, perish the thought. Harold has to be able to pretend to be sexually attracted to him at least in some measure, and he finds even pretending that requires some established equanimity with the subject. Not to mention, if it goes well, he might even engage his services again for similar assignments.
Harold Egret is polished and understated in the way of old money rather than new, and he has a private room booked for a 2 PM meeting.
Conscientious that there will be more than enough power plays to come in the future, he stands when the teahouse attendant shows his guest into the room. He thinks about buttoning his jacket since he's standing and squashes the impulse, deciding that's far too fussy. Just because he is nervous doesn't mean he has to demonstrate it.
"It's a pleasure to meet you," he says diplomatically, and he makes no move to shake hands or approach. But his eyes are sharp and he's paid in advance for an hour, making no presumptions on his time.
"Please call me Harold."
He hopes that will remove a potential point of ambiguity. In all his research, one thing he's learned about these sorts of arrangements is that being direct and explicit in his expectations is the biggest kindness he can offer.
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There’s a job, anyway. He has a role to play.
Carver shows up ten minutes early to scout potential exits, just in case. But he’s right on time when he’s shown into the room. He wears a good suit for this past, tailored to his shoulders. He does his hair nice and wears dress shoes instead of steel toed boots. None of it suits him but it’s a uniform like any other. He wears it well enough to pass inspection. No loose threads, no wrinkles. Shoes polished and neatly laced. Even in a place like this, he doesn’t look out of place. He can pretend for a bit.
That, and he doesn’t allow himself to drink before first meetings. It’s a bad turn. It begs bad ends.
He tilts his head, examining Harold Egret close. Middle age white guy with glasses. Well-dressed. At home in the chosen surroundings, with all this quiet pomp. Not fidgeting or leering. Not approaching, either.
Okay, then.
Carver hums. “You can call me Ben, since we’re getting to know each other.”
Ben’s a stranger. Ben’s never been to Afghanistan and doesn’t flip his shit when he sees trash on the road. Ben’s a useful nobody who dresses nice and fucks real good. It’s an easy mask to pull.
“Hi,” he adds, calm and watchful. Wondering what elaborations he’ll need to add to this mask. What role he’s meant to play here.
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He does know who Brandon Carver is and his full background, but he'd been waiting to see what name he preferred to use here, and he nods in acknowledgment once given. Harold then looks past to the restaurant attendant and gives a simple, "Thank you," as dismissal. The truly rich don't waste words on the help.
Harold despises certain aspects of this persona, but it is at least convenient in ushering people quickly in and out of his life. No one expects a man like him to remember someone's name, much less have scoured their entire service history.
Brandon Carver is no coincidental pick. If he's going to be engaging someone else in solving a number, he won't bring in someone unprepared to defend themselves, even if he has gauged the threat level to be low enough to go in on his own for this one. It gives Harold a moral solace that he clutches close to himself when he's trying to go to sleep, a slim relief.
"Have a seat; serve yourself if you like," he goes on, nodding toward the spread of tea and scones and pastries on the table as he takes his own seat. "I had a bit of an unusual request that I felt more comfortable discussing in person."
Without making a record of it through text, he means. Harold assumes this is not the first time 'Ben' has encountered that.
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