Chapter Text
“That’s not it.”
“Not what?” She doesn’t sound particularly interested, and for a moment he imagines her scoping out which of the trees to scale, which branch to lounge in before dropping on someone’s head.
He grits his teeth, feels his fists clenching. “That’s not the whole story.”
“Is it not?”
“No.”
“How do you know?”
“How do you know when someone’s a monster?”
“Point taken.”
“Besides: the tape’s still running.”
He sees her head cock, her shoulders slump at the whirr.
“You’ve got problems, Sims.”
“Tell me about it.”
“Hah. I just…”
“Tell me about it.”
An instant later, he’s rammed against the nearest trunk, papers fluttering to the ground from his nerveless hand.
“I thought I told you not to do that, freak!” Her breath is hot in his shrinking face, teeth bared, inches from his flesh.
“How are you able to resist?” It’s like a reflex and he longs to pull it back but, oh, he really needs to know.
A thin, drawn-out sound emanates from her throat, something between a whimper and a snarl, and she flings herself away from him the next second, back turned, tucking over into her gut, arms over her head.
“Are you alr–”
One arm flings back towards him, finger outstretched. “Shut the fuck up!”
“Right, right. Sorry,” he murmurs.
After a few deep, ragged breaths, she straightens, turns back to him, and he squeaks before he can help himself, pressing back into the tree as she advances. “You and your endless, fucking need to know. If it wasn’t for–” Another couple of hard breaths. “Right. You want this? Fine. You were worried about a trap. From me.”
“Y-yes.”
“You were right to, as it goes. But your timing’s wrong. Trap’s already sprung.”
“W-what?” He flings his gaze around reflexively, even though he knows there’s no getting away from her.
“Idiot,” she hisses. “If I was going to kill you, you’d be dead already.”
“What if…” he swallows, tries again. “What if this is part of the hunting – running me to ground, making me scared…?”
She looks genuinely puzzled. “What the fuck you talking about, Sims?”
“Er.” Oh, dear God. “N-nothing.” Is it possible she doesn’t–? “Sorry. Go on.” It’s not like she’s read any of the statements, is it?
“Why was I in the station, Sims?”
“You. You got caught.”
“Why did I get caught?”
“Because you w– the explo–.” He tries to imagine her stunned enough to be caught, finds it next to impossible, especially coupled with how she got rid of the gun so efficiently in plain sight.
“You weren’t concussed.”
“Do I sound concussed?”
“And…” he sees it clearly – the hard throw of the firearm, the other hand that scoops it up. “You had help.”
“Good boy,” she’s nearly bouncing, and he feels absurdly pleased for a moment. “Go on…”
“You wanted to be caught. Taken to that station, and then set free.”
“Thanks for that, by the way.” And the hard grin is back.
“I’m guessing that the technical issues…”
She holds her hands up. “Nothing to do with me.”
“No, but it’s an awfully big coincidence, don’t you think?”
She shrugs, attention sliding. He realises belatedly that her focus is often divided between what’s in front of her and their surroundings – head flicking, eyes distant.
“And me?”
“Hmm?”
“Why was I there?”
“Oh,” she says carelessly, “he said it needed to be you.”
“So you had them send for me.” He can’t keep the sourness from his throat.
Another shrug. “If he’d said Stoker, it would have been him. Or Blackwood. Or… the other one.”
“Not Basira.”
The look she gives him is dark. “No.”
“No, I guess not,” he says, slowly.
“Hmm.”
“I still don’t… Oh.”
She cocks an eyebrow.
“There’s only one reason he sends you anywhere. Two, in fact.” Bodyguard or assassin.
She’s gone still again. Focused.
Shit.
“Were they even…”
“What?”
“Living mannequins? In that warehouse?”
“Oh yeah,” she says. “Definitely. That and taxidermy freaks. Two for one, you might say.”
“Bit of a coincidence.”
“Not really.” She steps away. “You coming?”
He sighs. “I suppose so. Hold on.” He scrabbles for the file and recorder, finds it’s still whirring.
Okay…
“Daisy?”
“Yes?” She’s staring up at the clouds dancing through the silver sky.
“Who was it?”
“Radcliffe. Shame.”
“Wh-why?” He steps up hesitantly beside her and she sets off again.
“I met the original. He was all right.”
“Oh. Right.” A pause. “I thought it might be her.”
“Who?”
“That female officer.”
“Narrow it down.”
“The one who hated you.”
“Narrow it down.”
He reaches. “Lumley. Tizemt Natasha Lumley. Born Birmingham, 1991. Right-handed. Currently seconded to –”
She’s laughing at him. “Yep, that’s narrowed, and no – she’s human enough. Decent shot. Heading for specialist.”
“SCO19.”
“Sigma Charlie Oscar,” she says, voice dreaming.
“I thought it was Sierra.”
“Fuck off, Sims.”
They trudge on for a bit. The thin whirr still echoes under his hand. He finds himself leaning both towards and away from the next thought. “And, er, how…?”
He catches the edge of her grin. “Turns out there’s a lot you can do with a pen. Worth bearing in mind.” And she turns a waggish look his way, taps under her eye twice, and strides on.
“Jesus,” he mutters, then gets his legs under him and catches up with her.
“Come on Sims,” she says, grimly merry. “We might even get you back to your pit before sunrise…”