Chapter Text
The crush of hot air that falls onto Angel as she steps off the bus in downtown Austin is so powerful, it steals the breath from her lungs for a moment with its absolute heat. The transition from the overly-air conditioned bus to the world outside is brutal, and within seconds she’s dragging her hair back and up into a ponytail. The prospect of her hair on her neck is torture, even for the short walk to Hyperion’s headquarters.
It’s only two blocks away from the bus stop, but Angel feels every step. It doesn’t help that it’s midday, and the sun is perfectly situated to soak into the city between the tall buildings, no shade to be found, on this street at least.
A hot time, summer in the city, and not a bit of that urban canyon wind for relief. She walks on the right, close to the store fronts, soaking in every stolen bit of cool air when the shop’s automatic doors open.
All that pales upon reaching Hyperion. The employee door is closer to her than the public entrance around the block, and Angel has her keycard in hand and ready before she even reaches it, waving it under the scanner and tapping in her code with the quick precision of muscle memory before slipping inside and into shelter.
For a moment, she just stands under the vent near the door, head tipped back and eyes closed. It’s great. She’s been living in the south for half her life now, but no amount of time seems enough to acclimatize her to the August heatwave in Austin. At least autumn’s coming. The reprieve will be amazing. She might actually go outside for more than ten minutes at a time.
She gets into the elevator and considers her options for a moment. Her father’s on the top floor. Robotics is on 17. She presses the latter and smiles at the way the honeycomb button panel lights up a sunny yellow.
Angel doesn’t know why everything at Hyperion is set with hexagrams and octagons, but she likes it. It reminds her of a hive of bumblebees, all buzzing around efficiently, working on a million things. Everyone at Hyperion always seems to know what they’re doing, which makes her feel a little better about not.
Also, if Hyperion HQ is a hive, that would make her father the queen bee.
Which sounds about right, honestly. She thinks he’d like the crown.
Robotics is built from frosted glass partitions and brushed steel, black carpets and gleaming orange tile floors (hexagons, of course). There are only a few cubicles in Robotics, instead more open spaces with long metal tables scattered with design documents and prototypes. There are interesting projects being worked on, but that’s always the case.
She can ask Rhys. He would know what cool things were on display today.
At the thought, she smiles. She’s seen Rhys so sparingly since she started her classes and since he went back to Robotics.
As she nears his office at the far side of the robotics division, her smile fades. Rhys has the biggest office on the floor, and the one that overlooks the city from the best angle. It’s usually open and inviting, with Rhys exercising an open door policy for the people working under him.
Today, his door is closed. Angel hurries over, dodging the mailboy’s cart with a quick apology. Her hand falls onto Rhys’ doorknob. It’s locked.
It’s remarkable, how quickly her good mood is snuffed out. As she turns back around, she feels… somewhat bereft. Now, everyone buzzing around doing their work isn’t so comforting. Instead, it’s a reminder that she’s not really meant to be here. Not that she’s not welcome, because when your father runs the company, you’re allowed anywhere that isn’t classified. But she doesn’t actually work here, and her—and Rhys isn’t around.
No one says anything upon seeing her, used to having her around. It should help.
Instead, she sort of wishes someone would ask her what the heck she’s doing there just to give her an excuse to scurry away.
“What the heck are ya doing? You looking for Rhys?”
Angel jumps, knocking back into the door and wincing at the sudden, cheerful voice to her right. The doorknob hurts as she nearly falls on it, and she reaches back to rub the sore spot above her hips.
“Whoa hey, sorry, didn’t mean to do that.” Angel turns to the voice and finds a girl wearing Hyperion-brand overalls standing there, her hands lifted placatingly, one flesh and one metal. After so long around Rhys, Angel can’t avoid noticing the hand; it’s myoelectric like Rhys’, but where his is built of clean edges and polygonal shapes, hers is more… industrial, perhaps, with hard casings and exposed hinges on proud display. There’s even a sticker along the bicep: This Machine Destroys Fascists.
The girl notices her looking—staring, Angel’s staring and it’s rude—but thankfully doesn’t seem to upset. “Yeah, it’s not as flash as Hyperion’s stuff, but you try doing on-the-fly repair of one of Hyperion’s limbs, yanno? Can’t really slap duct tape on those bad boys.”
“No, no no, sorry, I didn’t mean to…” Angel makes herself stop, taking a breath. “My, uh, Rhys, he has a myo too. You…” She laughs, bright and nervous. “You already know that, sorry.”
The girl grins. “Hey, it’s fine. Can’t really work around Robotics without a healthy interest in this stuff, you know? Are you new around here? That why you… kinda look like a cat with tape stuck to its paws?” She holds out her hand. “I’m Gaige, by the way.”
The idea that Angel is new makes her laugh again. Oh, if only. She shakes Gaige’s hand briskly. “Angel, I’m Angel. And no, I’m sort of impossible to avoid around here. Always underfoot of Rhys. I was just wanting to check in on him.”
“I think he got called up by the bossman.” Gaige hitches her thumb back to the elevator. “I don’t think he’ll be gone too long. Wanna stick around? Anyone who’s a friend of Rhys is pretty good in my book.”
The polite refusal is on the tip of her tongue. She could go up and try to catch Rhys on his way out of Dad’s office, or just head home for the day. Angel thinks about it.
But… Gaige lifts her eyebrows and bounces a little on her heels, her orangey-red ponytails bouncing with her, and Angel thinks turning and walking right back out of Hyperion HQ sounds horribly lonely.
“Ah, sure, if you’re not busy. I don’t want to keep you,” Angel says, clasping her hands in front of her, fingers laced and squeezing tight against each other.
“Pppft, nah.” She flaps one hand through the air, and the hinges squeeze just a little, in need of a little care. Though that’s none of Angel’s business, of course. “I’m an intern here, so I don’t get saddled with that old Hyperion 80 hour work week or whatever. I get my own desk, though, c’mere!”
Gaige backwalks along, nearly bumping into the same mailboy that Angel nearly knocked over, and leads the way to one of the desk clusters. A few are situated together, around a column that houses a variety of outlets. Tools or computers or full fabrication machines, all have their specialized plugs and the column has them covered.
Gaige’s desk is small and fairly tidy. Angel sees some blueprints laid out, all stamped with Hyperion’s big, ostentation CLASSIFIED mark.
“Well, seems like they have you working on something interesting,” Angel offers levelly, sitting in the desk chair when Gaige nods to it.
Gaige herself boosts onto the desk and looks down. “Oh, those? No, those are the CL4P-TP design prints. The guy who was working on them got seriously fired, and then the bossman made all the files classified just so we couldn’t discuss the project anymore. It’s kind of hilarious.”
That does sound like her father. Angel smiles and tucks her hair behind her ear. “Bit harsh.”
“Nah, according to Rhysie, it was a long time coming. Hey, hey, that’s cool.”
She’s pointing, and Angel follows it to see her focus is on Angel’s bicep, right under her short sleeves. There’s a tattoo there, a dark blue outline with long parallel lines and dots imitating the look of a circuit board with its weld points and conduits and chips.
Smiling and biting her lip for a moment, Angel says, “Oh, thanks. I’m, uh, I do a lot of programming. Software and theory are my thing more than the practical work you must do around here. I wanted something to—to show that off.”
“That,” Gaige says seriously, “is super cool. Man, I want one of those, but I keep bruising my arm in matches, I figure I’ll inevitably bang my arm right on a fresh tatt and end up crying. No one needs to see me cry, it’s ugly business.”
“Match?” Angel asks.
Gaige lifts her chin a bit and plants both her fists on her hips, posing. “I’ve been doing derby for over a year now. You need a blocker to smash a girl into the track, look no further.”
It’s difficult to imagine Gaige on a horse. “Are you… a jockey, or…”
Gaige gasps dramatically. “Angel, not horsey derby! Roller derby! You know…” She mimes something that looks more like a left hook than anything, which doesn’t help much. “Lots of babes on skates tearing up a track?”
Shaking her head, Angel shrugs. “I think I know what you mean but I’m not too familiar.”
The aghast expression on Gaige’s face is funnier than it should be, and Angel covers her mouth as she snickers. Gaige doesn’t seem to mind, though, and carries on. “You live in the… the delivery room for the glorious birth of roller derby, the epicenter of the sport, and you’ve never been?” She calms, all the suddenness of a volume knob being spun down. “I’m crushed. This is crushing.”
“I didn’t mean to disappoint you,” Angel says, then looks away quickly. That was a little—but Gaige, she’s known Gaige for all of five minutes and Angel likes her.
The gasp Gaige lets out is explosive, so much that with anyone else, Angel would worry she’s hurt herself or something bad has happened, but already Angel’s starting to understand that Gaige’s reactions to things are a little bit… larger than most.
“You wanna see a match? Oh, oh man, so its sorta between seasons right now and the different leagues are playing games with each other, right?” She pauses, waving a hand. “Why am I asking you, you don’t know, you poor deprived soul… okay, but trust me, Jakobs’ team is playing one of the pro teams and you should totally come see.”
“Jakobs? Like the—“
“Yeah, yeah, all the big names bought teams to make a sponsor league a few years back. ‘Cept Hyperion, but Jakobs’ team is great, I once tried out for them and their pivot, Booticca, she bodychecked me into a wall and man.” Gaige sighs dreamily. “It was love, that kind of love that makes you blast “Girl With One Eye” with the windows down, you know?”
Angel has no idea, actually, unsure if that’s an emotion she’s not experienced yet or if Gaige is just using some… interesting nomenclature. Either way, Gaige seems certain about it, and thankfully takes Angel’s head shake with grace.
“Anyway. Match, tomorrow, I think it’s around six, you in?” She claps her hands together, flesh and metal making a strange sound. “Please say yes.”
Suddenly, Angel finds she can’t imagine saying no. “Okay, sure.”
“Awesome, it’s a date! Or, haha.” For once, Gaige sways away, looking contrite for just a second. “Sorry, got excited. I’ve never introduced anyone to derby before. Oh, lemme get you my number. If that’s cool with you.”
As Gaige bends to grab a sticky note and a pen, Angel nods, hoping the warmth in her cheeks is just the remnants of the hot weather outside. “That sounds like fun.”
“What sounds like fun?” A familiar voice says nearby. “There’s no fun allowed. If anyone is caught having fun, I’m firing them.”
Angel looks up and beams at Rhys as he walks over to join them, apparently fresh from the elevator. He has the sort of look to him that often went hand in hand with dealing with her father, tired around the eyes with his arms hanging loose at his sides. Dealing with Dad was sometimes exhausting, even for Rhys.
Standing, Angel turns to face him, stepping closer. She wants to hug him. She knows she shouldn’t. “How was your meeting with Dad?”
Rhys smiles, shaking his head slightly. “Nothing worse than usual. You waiting on me, Angel?”
“I, uh, only if you have time.”
“Always.” He looks past her. “Hey Gaige. Is that diagnostic finished?”
“Not yet, sir, it’s collating on the big computer.” She looks at Angel. “You said Dad, is… has Handsome Jack procreated?”
“Fortunately. About time he put some good in the world,” Rhys murmurs, putting his hand on Angel’s shoulder and grinning when she ducks her head, going pink. “Mind if I steal Angel now?”
“Sure, sure sure. Here, for later.” Gaige hands Angel a folded sticky note and a smile. “Text me and I’ll get exact times for you, okay?”
Angel nods and pockets the note. “Thanks, I will. It was—nice meeting you.”
Gaige waves cheerfully as Angel’s drawn away, Rhys’ hand a comfortable weight on her shoulder as he pulls her along to his office. At the door, he lets go, unlocking and letting them both in.
Rhys hip-checks the door shut behind them before circling his desk and half-throwing himself into his chair. It rolls a bit from the momentum, and Rhys tips his head back, eyes shut. “Christ.”
Angel sits in the chair across from him, pulling one leg up so she can rest her cheek on her knee. “That good, huh?”
Tossing his hands up, Rhys groans. “So your father,” he starts, and Angel grins to herself; when he was your father instead of Jack, Rhys was annoyed with Dad, and Angel took an odd joy from listening to him complain. “He blew off two major meetings to have a three hour lunch with Nisha. So his PA calls me, almost in tears, because Jack’s not around and he’s not at any of the meetings, and no one’s seen him, no one knows where he is, and this PA has no idea what to do.”
“They must be new,” Angel says softly.
“Yeah, there’s that, but Jack could have said—“ Rhys sighs, shaking his head. “Somehow I’m still the person that gets called in for Jack crises, so the short version is I’m going to kill your father.”
If anyone had earned the right to, it was Rhys. Angel lets him sit like that for a while, watching the tension ease from his shoulders. His lips are curled up, though. He’s smiling. Upset at Dad for being casually thoughtless again, but smiling.
“How’s Gortys?” Angel asks, happy to steer them back to safer waters.
“I actually don’t know anymore,” he answers slowly. “I packaged up the software, sent it to the lab. It’s… out of my hands now.”
The project had been lifted from the broken remains of Atlas’ robotics development after Hyperion had bought out the company. She didn’t know the details, but remembered the month Dad had spent in his office just reading boxes full of files and reports bearing Atlas’ branding, sieving through hundreds of documents looking for the things worth preserving. Gortys had been one of the only projects he’d considered viable, some sort of companion robot that’d been in the concept stages when he’d given it to Rhys. Since then, Rhys’d spent most of his time since leaving her working on the personality construct for Gortys.
Angel isn’t even jealous of the robot for having Rhys’ attention. Most days, anyway.
“So, prototype soon?” she asks.
“Ha, no. I might’ve gone a bit… overboard with the, ah.” He lifts his hands, waggling his fingers. “Physical personality aspects, the way Gortys moves, the little idiosyncrasies. I mean, Jack wanted my best work. Now the engineers have to turn all that code into actual locomotion, and that’s going to take forever. Until then…” Rhys shrugs. “I’m sort of… between projects right now.” He frowns, humming contemplatively. “I think that’s why Jack’s being such a pain in the ass. Trying to keep me busy. It’s going to end in me strangling him though.”
At that, she smirks. ”So, after you strangle Dad, could… I have the car?”
Lifting his head, Rhys fixes her with a curious look. “Hm? What for?”
“Tomorrow, I… I have something to do in the evening? I could take an Uber, but if it’s okay, could I…?”
She trails off because Rhys’ face changes. There’s a sudden tension between his brows, a little unhappy line appearing before he looks away, mouth curving down. It’s sad, and Angel feels it like a pang in her chest.
Quietly, Rhys says, “That’s not up to me anymore. You’ll have to ask your father.”
“Oh,” Angel murmurs. “Of course.”
Right. That isn’t Rhys’ job anymore.
She keeps forgetting that.
It was years ago, in the old house before Dad moved everyone out to the villa. All the windows in the house were weird, situated too high off the ground, and Angel had to haul herself up onto one of the wicker barstools around the kitchen island to see the snow outside. In Chicago, this time of year, everything was grey and white, a landscape so cold, Angel felt it in her bones, even inside the warm house. She laid her head down on the worn tiles of the island, watching the snow with her back to the family.
What was left of it, anyway.
Dad and Uncle Tim were in the hallway, and they weren’t being quiet enough. But that wasn’t unusual; Dad never really knew how loud he was speaking. Most days, it didn’t bother Angel.
“I’m not sure I understand this plan,” Uncle Tim said, his voice pitched low.
“What? Movers are coming tomorrow, you’re not packed. Why the hell aren’t you packed yet? I’m not paying for another trip.” Dad’s words were distracted, and bracketed by the sound of packing tape being pulled from its cardboard ring, that distinctive fwrrrrp noise as he sealed boxes.
“No, that’s not what I mean. Jack, stop for a second, come on.”
“Ooooh my god you’re slowing me down more. I’m already on a tight schedule here.”
The sounds of cardboard boxes and tape and packing stopped. “This is really sudden, what’s gotten into you?”
“Hyperion’s R&D down in Austin’s making way more headway than the Chicago branch, I need to go down and oversee it, if we’re going to release to consumers before DAHL gets their feet under them again, we gotta go, go, go,” Dad said, punctuating with his fingers snapping, one two three.
“And your wife leaving you has nothing to do with that, huh?”
“Less sh—crap to pack. Gonna be even less if you don’t get a move on.”
Uncle Tim’s exasperated sigh was loud, echoing around the house oddly. With all the pictures and paintings off the walls, most of the furniture gone, sound bounced more, Angel noticed. Everything seemed louder.
“Can you slow down and tell me your plan? I—I mean do you have a plan? Shut up, I’m not talking about your product line. I’m talking about moving to another state a week after your divorce’s finalized. I’m talking about moving Angel to another school—have you got her enrolled in Austin? And what about taking care of her until classes start, you’re going to be working.”
Angel tucked her hands under her knees, squeezing her arms around her legs and shutting her eyes.
“That’s what you’re coming for. I’m paying your rent, and Angel likes you besides. Are you…” There was a sudden chill in Dad’s voice as he stopped, words coming back colder. “Are you saying I can’t do this? I can’t handle this? I’m not the one who bailed on the family, am I? I’m here, I’m going to do this, are you coming or not?”
Uncle Tim’s voice lowered, a tense edge to his words. “Knock it off, I’m not saying any of that. I’m just worried, Jack, jesus, you’re uprooting all of us without warning, I’m allowed to ask you some basic goddamn questions.”
“Language.”
“Oh, shut up.”
For a moment, they both did, the silence deafening, angry in Angel’s ears as she strained to listen, worried they’d just walked further away or started whispering. Soon, though, her father sighed.
“I can make this work. Just not here. Not in Chicago. We’ll go to Austin, before the winter comes and effs us all with its icy bullcrap. Start over there.”
Uncle Tim was quiet for a long moment. “Okay. I’m going to let you have this one, but Jack, seriously, slow down and think everything through, alright?”
Dad scoffed. “Or everyone else can just get to my speed. I’ve got this. Go home, pack your things, moving people are going to be around tomorrow evening and we’ve got tickets out at nine.”
“Oh well,” Uncle Tim said with mirth, “deal’s off. You know I hate the red-eye.”
“Yeah, but you l—like us, so you’ll do it.”
Another deep sigh. “Yeah. Yeah, I do."
Austin was another world from Chicago. It took Angel a few years to figure out what was so different. Both were cities on a lake with tall buildings and unforgiving weather, with life seeping from the seams, with brutal storms and sculptures dotting every open area that had enough room. If she’d written it down in her notebook, stacked everything into neat, clear lists and compared the two places she’d lived, the only major difference that she noticed was snowstorms versus thunderstorms.
After living in Austin, though, the difference came to her, slowly. Chicago was a city like a boa constrictor, its streets ready and willing to squeeze the vibrancy and life out of its people. Austin, though, the people there were bleeding for the city, pouring everything they had into it.
Neither was home.
Or, for a long time, Austin wasn’t home. Then her father brought her a gift.
He was a tall man who walked with his elbows tucked in close to his sides, like he didn’t want to disturb the air around him. He had a metal hand, and Angel stared with wide eyes as it moved, his fingers twitching. His shoulders sloped low, almost timid as he hovered over her, glancing between her and her father.
He had one brown eye, one blue, and smiled pretty under the nervousness.
“Angel, this is Rhys. Do you remember him from the office?” her father asked, leaning on the door frame and grinning approvingly.
She nodded.
“Well, for now he’s your… uh.” Dad scratched his brow, nail against the scar that furrowed through his skin. “Nanny? Caretaker?”
Rhys shrugged and palmed the back of his neck. “Something like that. What’s… what’s all this?” He waved his hand to the mess on her bedroom floor.
Angel looked over the bits and pieces that had, an hour ago, been her desk fan. She’d separated the blades and stacked them neatly, took the rotor to pieces, and now held the wire mesh in her hands, cleaning it with a face cloth.
“I’m making a hovercraft. I saw a picture, it’s really easy if—if you’re not carrying a whole person,” she explained, and lifted up one of her stuffed bears to show Rhys. “This one only weighs two pounds, I think I—I can build it for him.”
Rhys knelt down and picked up one of the blades, turning it over to examine it. “Hm. We might need to curve the blade a little more for up-thrust.” He set it down on the carpet again, right next to the others. “Have you had dinner, Angel?”
She shook her head, and Rhys smiled.
“How about we have something to eat, then build a hovercraft. These projects can go long and I know what it’s like to get caught up and then, whoops, it’s midnight and you forgot dinner.” He tipped his head to the side, color high in his cheeks and eyes soft. “How’s that sound?"
Instead of saying anything, Angel looked over Rhys’ shoulder at her father. He was watching, his own grin easing into something less smug. He looked happy.
Rhys looked, again, between the two of them, biting his lip. “I—I mean, if you want, you don’t have to, I just thought—“
“Can you make macaroni and cheese?” Angel asked.
Stilling, Rhys considered, tapping his fingers on his knee. “Uh, the real stuff or the box?”
“Cheese isn’t supposed to be orange,” Angel replied, pursing her lips.
Rhys laughed. “Well, good thing I know how to make the real stuff then.” He stood again, his legs unfolding, reminding Angel vividly of origami, the little hopping dollar bill frogs that Dad put under her pillow when she lost her baby teeth, twenties that bounced so perfectly she didn’t want to unravel them.
Holding out a hand, Rhys said, “Come on, you’ll… have to show me around the kitchen, I think.”
Behind him, Dad nodded, and vanished back down the hallway.
Angel took Rhys’ hand, pulling herself up, and let herself smile slowly.