Chapter Text
Autumn Hall
20:45 PM
Resting by the staircase, Diego looks at the crowd on the first floor. The sound of jazz echoing through the hall, elegant strangers dressed to the nines; it’s a honey-colored daydream, and Diego, who’s always been a bit rough around the edges, is about to start throwing things.
Two hours, and still no signs of the target. With his back against the wall, Diego puts a hand on the piano that’s there as decoration, and slowly moves it down until it’s resting on the keys. Lack of progress makes Diego’s patience burn quicker, but he’s been working on being more reliable, more there; he’d rather die than ruin his streak. This is it, after all: Five’s said the person responsible for this timeline will be here, and that’s a chance they can’t waste.
(Calling someone else the culprit of this mess is a bit unfair, since the whole family had a go at beating the timeline up, but that’s all said and done now, and in the end, it was Carmichael that pulled the trigger).
His eyes remain on the entrance, waiting for his target to make an appearance, only getting briefly distracted by a lady on a masquerade mask- there’s something odd about her, maybe . He’s been waiting for too long. Briefly, Diego entertains the idea of Five finding A.J at the first location: His brother would take care of it himself, of course, and Diego wouldn't even have to help. Much to his surprise, this is not a calming thought. As much as he understands this as a necessary evil, Diego’s tired of it, this constant risking everything, losing everyone they’ve turned into a way of life. It might be what they deserve, but that doesn’t mean he wants it. Not for himself, and certainly not for his brother, who he has grown fond of despite his best efforts against it.
You’re getting soft , Five would probably say. It’s not like that matters, at this point.
By the main door, the greeter argues with a rowdy guest.
“I’m sorry,” she says, “but if you’re not accompanied by-”
“Lady, for the last time, I am on the list,” a jaded, familiar voice interrupts her, “and my plus-one is waiting for me, so if you could just go away, that’d save us both a lot of trouble.”
Now that devil he recognizes. Diego almost leaps towards the entrance, much to the annoyance of everyone standing in his way.
“Five!” He says, just a little too loud.
“Hey,” Five replies, unamused. With a swift movement, he snatches up a glass of champagne from an unsuspecting waiter and points towards the staircase, walking away before Diego can react, “upstairs, now.”
Like Diego, Five has dressed appropriately for the occasion, although his hair is flopping over his forehead in a less than formal fashion. His eyes are glinting with unexplained hostility, and his usually quick pace seems more erratic, exhausted. Trying to appear unfazed by it, Diego does a little run and catches up to his brother.
“Didn’t expect to see you here,” he says.
“Things went to shit. Had to leave early. We’re going with plan two.”
“You good?”
“Yeah, just,” Five licks his lips and grabs onto the handrail just a bit more intensely, “just a bit roughed up. How did things go for you?”
“Got the intel you needed,” he taps his front pocket for emphasis, “right here, baby.”
Much to Diego’s surprise, Five actually seems impressed.
“Thanks,” he tries to say, but his voice falters.
There’s a moment of silence, both of them realizing what just happened. Diego would just point it out, if only he didn’t empathize with Five’s prideful side so much.
“Love the suit,” he heckles his brother instead, “you look like an accountant.”
“And you look like regurgitated tropical punch,” Five replies, going up two steps at a time, “so, where’s the-.”
They’re reaching the end of the staircase and Diego hears, feels Five tensing up beside him. Like gears in a clock, they both stop dead on their tracks. Someone’s behind them. Diego’s hand hovers over his front pocket, ready to grab one of his hidden knives.
“Excuse me,” a tiny voice says, and Diego turns to see a scrawny teenager barely managing to carry a cello upstairs.
“Ah shit, I’m- sorry ma’am,” he says, and steps to the side.
The girl thanks him profusely as she walks past them.
“You think A.J’s in the violin?” Diego adds once she’s out of earshot.
Five makes an exasperated sound and blinks up the last few steps.
The Autumn’s Hall second floor is just as massive as the first one. The band setting up their instruments by the east wall is noisy, and would definitely be a dealbreaker if things weren't this dire, but at least it’s ten people at most, which is way better than the cluttered reception hall. Diego sits by the large window, tapping his fingers on the frame. With a wince, Five sits by his side.
“Those goddamn bureaucrats. If I didn’t have an oath, I’d kill Herb with my own hands.”
“Come on, man. Herb’s nice.”
“Who cares if he’s nice, Diego. He’s a cop.”
Diego pauses, then shrugs.
“I got the SIM card for the briefcase tracker,” Five continues, eyes trained on the staircase, “the tracker itself, didn’t get so lucky. Did you get the system password?”
The way he says it, it sounds like whatever happened to the tracker was way worse than just being lost in the way.
“Yeah, here’s-” he mumbles, fishing the small piece of ripped paper out of his pocket “-here. Atlas Jericho, 1X-9X-55.”
“That’s good.”
Without hesitation, Five pulls his phone out and bites the back of it until it pops open. He snatches the SIM card from Diego’s hand and slides it in, turning the phone on with more violence than needed: It comes to life with a little jingle, much to Five’s annoyance. He types the password in. The screen unlocks for a second, but then turns white again, a small message popping up. Couldn’t start the program. This device is not authorized for real-time tracking.
“Son of a bitch!” Five barks.
“You got the tracker though? Maybe I could-”
“Got shot through it,” Five says, quick, “no amount of MacGyvering is gonna bring that one back to life.”
Diego’s eyes go wide for a second, but he manages to look away before Five catches on. Then, he realizes someone new is by the staircase. Masquerade lady. No- it’s a theatre mask, a mouse face stylized to fit the night’s aesthetic. She’s wearing a nutcracker suit that’s just a little odd around the chest, and she’s mumbling something to herself. Diego’s heart picks up the pace.
“Five,” he murmurs, “on your left. Mouse King mask.”
“What about her?”
“Earpiece. Shoulder holster under the little nutcracker suit.”
“Temps.”
“Most likely.”
Five glances at her, then looks at the floor, pensive. He’s keeping his right hand awfully close to his chest, and when he breathes in, he shudders. As he begins to speak, his voice turns dark and low, its cadence matching what Diego imagines his old self sounded like.
“Let’s split,” he says, “meet me here in thirty minutes. I’ll see if she’s got any briefcase trackers we can use, you keep an eye on the entrance in case Carmichael shows up.”
“Wait,” Diego replies, uselessly grabbing at his brother’s sleeve.
Five doesn’t blink away.
“What now?”
“You got shot?”
“Yes, I- look, Diego, I don’t have time to explain this to you.”
Diego’s grip goes slack, but he doesn’t look away. He knows it’s a desperate attempt, but there’s no way he could verbalize his concern without making it all worse. His expression, he guesses, will have to suffice. It’s a bit embarrassing, honestly.
“Take care,” Five says, and it’s strangely sincere.
“You too,” Diego replies, and hopes Five hears it the same way.
Suddenly stricken by an unexplainable sense of dread, Roux hesitates before reaching the end of the staircase. The band should offer enough cover for her to coordinate with the rest of her team, but something’s just off , a heaviness in the air that reminds her of a thunderstorm. The gun she keeps snug against her side feels like it’s burning all of the sudden; metal against skin, begging for some action. It’s not the first time this has happened to her, and it surely won’t be the last. Perhaps one day this muscle memory from another lifetime will be a saving grace- today, however, she has to stick to the plan. Roux takes a deep breath and wills herself to relax.
“Pavlova, status,” she says, her voice muffled slightly by the mask she’s wearing.
“Can we not do that? I don’t like codenames.”
“Please cooperate, Pavlova .”
“Sorry, boss,” she replies in an impish tone, “I’m outside the theatre now, but the tracker’s not picking up shit.”
“Alright. Clementine, status.”
“No signs of the target, possible accomplice detected.”
“Who is it?”
“He’s looking at you now, boss. By the window.”
Roux glances over at them, the Mouse King’s milky-white eyes covering her gesture. Recognition hits her quick, about as pleasant as a brick to the face.
“Oh, for god’s sake.”
“Roux?” Pavlova and Clementine ask at the same time, making the earpiece rattle.
Ignoring them, Roux walks towards the nearest table, grabs a glass of white wine, and gulps it down in one swing.
“We’ll wait until they split up. Clementine, keep an eye on the entrance. I’ll take care of the short one. Pavlova, how good are you at hand-to-hand combat?”
“Could be worse, really.”
“Second floor, black suit, floral dress shirt. Isolate and extract information.”
“Got it.”
“We’re gonna get our hands on that son of a bitch.”
There’s a small beeping sound as Clementine turns off their earpiece. Roux looks over at the desserts on the table, her eyes locking on a small cake slicer that’s been left beside the meringue cake. Covertly, she slides it up her sleeve.
“Huh, they do have pavlova,” she murmurs then, and the earpiece immediately comes alive, “I guess I will have to call you by your name, then.”
“It’s a pity you didn’t pick a cake as a codename,” Pavlova says, cheeky, “because I love saying your name.”
“I know you do, Lila,” Roux says, and sighs, “I know you do.”