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We as humans are never perfect. We as cyborgs are damn near close. |
| [Introduction] High Tech and Low Life
"It has become appallingly obvious that our technology has exceeded our humanity." - Albert Einstein |
- One: Right Hand On My Heart - Noah lay on his stomach. The comforter had been kicked onto the floor, the sheet on his bed scrunched up into one corner because it was too soft. He’d thrown his pillows halfway across the room and he laid now on only the mattress. It was rough and scratchy against his cheek as he laid there and looked out the window. He wore a pair of sweatpants and that was it. That was all he wore when he went to bed. Outside, light from the downtown city painted the night. It was never truly dark out. Not here. Not in this city or this country. He closed his eyes and the same image that had kept him awake for the last 13 months was branded onto the back of his eyelids and he couldn’t keep his eyes closed. He couldn’t keep seeing what was keeping him awake, the image that only allotted him two hours of sleep a night, all night, every night. He couldn’t get rid of it. He couldn’t shake it and nothing he did helped. He’d killed in the name of his country and it didn’t feel good or honorable, like he’d imagined it would. Picking at a loose thread on the mattress, he stared out the window and beneath his apartment was the city. A city full of people who hated him for being a soldier. A city full of people who called him baby killer and they didn’t know a thing about what he’d done. They didn’t know how true they were. Sighing, Noah pushed himself to his hands and knees, reaching for the phone panel next to his bed. He had Doctor Taylor on speed dial. Had since he’d come home. The screen popped up and after a moment of ring tones, an image of a man lying in bed appeared. Behind him, Noah could see a woman with her back to the screen. Dr. Taylor’s wife. “Noah,” the doctor said. It looked as though he were still wiping the sleep away from his eyes. He was an older man, with gray hair and a beard. He wore fine pajamas, probably because of calls like these. But the doctor had made it a point when he’d first met Noah that he should call whenever he needed to, no matter the time. Noah thought it made Dr. Taylor a better man than him. He should be able to deal and cope, but something hadn’t clicked back into place after he’d gotten home from the war. After Somalia. Running a hand through his hair, Noah sighed and gave a wry smile to the doctor. “Sorry to wake you,” he said. Dr. Taylor waved a hand in front of his face. “Nonsense,” he said. “Can’t sleep?” Noah nodded. “It’s bad tonight.” “Same memories? Have they changed at all?” Shaking his head, Noah ran a hand over the stubble on his chin. “Same thing. No sounds, no…it’s just…” he trailed off. The doctor already knew what he was going to say. It was the same every time he called. “Okay, have you tried writing a letter?” Dr. Taylor suggested. Noah smirked and glanced to the desk in the corner of his room. There were about two hundred files stored away in that computer, each of them a letter addressed to “Her.” He felt his throat start to close up at the thought that he’d written all those letters, but she’d never get them. And they hadn’t helped him any. He glanced back towards the screen and shook his head. “I typed one earlier,” he whispered. “What if we tried hand writing?” Dr. Taylor said. “It will make it more personal. Give you time to analyze your words. And once you write them, it’s hard to erase or delete. Try that, Noah. Call me in the morning.” Noah nodded. “What if this never goes away, doc?” he asked. “It just seems to get worse and worse. And…” “Noah,” Dr. Taylor cut him off. “You’ll get through this. We’ll find a way to rid you of this guilt. Unfounded guilt, might I add.” Noah snorted, crossing his arms over his chest. “I could have…” “We’ve been over this,” Dr. Taylor said. “No could have’s. No should have’s. What is done is done and Noah, you were following orders. It’s normal to feel a small amount of guilt, but remember the big picture.” Dr. Taylor held up a hand when Noah opened his mouth to say something further. “And I don’t care if you can’t see the big picture. Write your letter. Hand written. Call me tomorrow.” On the screen, Dr. Taylor reached forward and switched off the phone call. The screen went dark and slid back down, shut and silent. Noah stared at it for a moment before he glanced back over to the desk in his room. He pushed himself up off the bed and started to scrounge through the junk in the desk, looking for something to write with. Buried deep in one of the drawers, he found a pencil and he headed for the kitchen. He grabbed a notepad from the kitchen counter and sat down at the table, tapping the pencil on the pad of paper. He stared at his front door, his boots sitting to the side, near the closet. There was a painting of a woman dressed in red above his television screen. A blanket with a picture of a white tiger was strewn across the back of his couch. His place was bare, aside from those few small decorations. He wasn’t a materialist. He had what he needed to be comfortable. He’d had a lot less when he’d been in Somalia. Three years ago, he’d enlisted into the military. He’d been assigned a post in Somalia, overseeing a small village on the border that was used to maintain trade routes and traffic in weapons and supplies. Thirteen months ago, he’d been sent home. He had a scar on his left hand from shrapnel during a fight. He had a purple heart in the silverware drawer that he never looked at. And he had the memories of Somalia in his head that kept him up at night. PTSD, that’s what’ Dr. Taylor said it was. Post-traumatic stress disorder. Thirteen months and they hadn’t really made progress turning it around. It hadn’t really manifested itself until after a couple months of being home. Then it had started really affecting him. It kept him from doing a lot of things. From sleeping, eating, from picking up the phone to call those he’d left behind when he’d been shipped over to Somalia. It kept him alone. That’s how he preferred it, is what he told himself. He wanted to be alone. He wasn’t sure how true that was, but it’s what he told himself and the doctor and everyone who wanted to be anywhere near him. Leave him alone. Alone was better, because there was less to lose. The pencil moved slowly as he started to scratch the words onto the paper. “To Her,” he started it with. It was the same he’d always started. “To Her.” No names. It had always been no names. Licking his lips, he turned the pencil over and violently erased the salutation. He let out a slow breath from between his lips and started over. “To Dalia,” he wrote. Immediately, he felt his throat close up. He could see her. Dark skin, red clay smeared across her nose. She always laughed at his jokes. She hugged him at the end of every day. She was twelve years old. Crumbling up the paper, he chucked it across the room and watched as it hit the wall and fell to the floor easily. He stared at the crumpled ball of paper and shook his head. Standing up, he walked to the kitchen cupboard and pulled out a bottle of whiskey. He poured himself a glass, double, and sat down on his couch. He should erase it again. It should always be, “To Her.” |
| Ian had three problems. The first problem was a small piece of silicon and metal less than two millimeters in diameter. It was sitting comfortably against his brain, its little claws digging into his flesh and connecting to the nerves and synapses like a wretched little spider. That one he’d asked for. He’d accounted for that and it had fit neatly into the con he’d been building for a year and a half. The second problem, the one he hadn’t accounted for, was that the nice people at C-Tech that had put the chip there in the first place had gone ahead and put a GPS inside it and had been dogging his heels ever since he’d taken off with their property. That one he could have dealt with, if it weren’t for the third and final problem that was currently lying in his path. They’d locked down all his bank accounts. Even the ones that no one was supposed to know about. He knew better than to ask how they’d found out about them because corporations like them had their fingers in just about everything. That one didn’t just derail his plans. It pissed him off. He’d paid a visit to one of his banks, flashed a smile that he knew was charming because he’d practiced it enough times in the mirror. It was amazing what a simple smile and a wink could get him. All it had gotten him this time were the words “your account’s been locked down as part of an investigation on tax evasion by the IRS.” It had sent him out the door in a heartbeat. He made a few more phone calls and got the same story every time. Whether or not the IRS was actually looking into his dealings or not didn’t matter. C-Tech had pulled some strings and effectively cut him off from the majority of his funds. He’d had a little bit stashed away, but it wasn’t enough. He was in deep this time. Ian was effectively stone cold broke. The last time he’d been this poor had also been the last time he’d seen his older brother. They’d had a few beers, had a few laughs, he’d feigned drunk, and then as soon as his brother was out cold he helped himself to the credits in his account and been out the door. Shortly after that he’d been out the city and then out of the state, because he hadn’t seen a reason to stick around. His familial loyalty extended as far as there was a percentage in it. Anything beyond that was asking more than he had to give. It was almost hilarious that he found himself back in almost the same position, slumped on a subway car headed in that direction. He kept his head back, arm tossed over his face like he was tired but the truth was that he didn’t need one of those shitty billboards latching onto his cortex and screaming his name across the car. The left one he could fix. The right one he couldn’t. He’d had a couple of advancements, not all of them legal. Silver laced the whorls of his fingers on his left hand, and sometimes it was ridiculous just how easy that made it for him to get what he wanted. His thumbprint was whatever he wanted it to be. His left eye wasn’t quite the same pale blue as the right. In the right light, it was almost reflective. Technology was a beautiful thing. He was pretty sure the point of it had been to stop people like him, but it just made it so damn easy. He was a thief and a con man. It was what he enjoyed and what he was best at and if he was supposed to feel regret or remorse for it then that was too bad. He hadn’t felt guilty about it in years. There was always a thrill of satisfaction at taking something he wasn’t supposed to have while being somewhere he wasn’t supposed to be and pretending to be someone he wasn’t. He liked attending classy parties in a name brand suit and a glass of wine in his hand that he should never be able to afford. He liked the penthouse apartment he’d stayed in for a month with the mistress of the man he’d been pretending to be at the time. Thieving, lying, deceiving, he’d gotten to be the best at those things, and why shouldn’t he be proud of being the best in his field? The subway car hissed to a stop and he used the metal pole next to him to get to his feet. It was less than crowded this time of night. There were a few teenage kids with shitty skin shines sitting down and to his left. On his right was an elderly woman holding her bag of groceries to her chest and the billboard across from her telling her that she needed to change her brand of cat food. There was a man crouched in the corner with a dirty, tan overcoat, and Ian watched him out of the corner of his eye while he slipped out the door. Every time he thought he was out of trouble, one of them showed up again. And running was getting exhausting. He kept his head down as he made his way through the subway station, rubbing at his temple to try and keep his right eye down and out of reach. He wasn’t excited about his destination but he was running on empty and had run out of other options. He needed money. He just needed enough that he could get another con set up and fast. Dr. Z wasn’t going to do him favors for free. There were already offers out for the chip in his head, but he didn’t trust any of the assholes bidding on it to take it without leaving him a drooling mess when it was over. He wanted to keep his head intact, thanks very much, and that meant outside contracting. That meant paying a visit to the Doctor, and he didn’t trust that asshole much farther than he could spit either. But at least he knew if he slid some green across his palm he’d be more likely to dig the thing out of his skull and put him back together when it was over with. Then Ian would get paid, the Doctor would be paid, and they could all go home happy. Everyone except the nice people at C-Tech but he didn’t care much if they got the short end of the deal because they’d pissed him off so they could go fuck themselves. There were a few basic tricks to being a good thief and a good con man, and the first and most important was to always look like he belonged. Smile at people, lie through his teeth and tell them that yes of course he was supposed to be there. Pick a name off the census list and rattle it off like they were old friends, and that usually got him through. It was the same trick when breaking into houses. Never look guilty, because there might be some nice neighbor around wondering who the hell that nervous, suspicious looking man was. Sometimes he thought concerned citizens were the bane of his existence. The apartment building was just another plain one set into a line of them. It almost surprised him. He’d always thought his brother would be the one to make it big out of hard work and spit. He figured he’d end up a police officer or maybe a lawyer doing pro bono work or some other save the world bullshit. Maybe a doctor. Hell, maybe if he’d become a doctor he wouldn’t have ripped him off and skipped town. They had their uses, like getting this chunk of silicon out of his head. His brother had always been smart, athletic, best at everything he put his mind to. He’d been the Captain America standard that lanky little Ian was never going to live up to, so he’d stopped trying. He just looked out for number one. If that made him a shitty brother, well, he didn’t really care about that. Family was just blood, and that didn’t mean much these days. It was easy to let himself into the apartment building. He fought the urge to look over his shoulder and that was fueled less by any guilt or anxiety on his part and more on the pricking between his shoulders that someone was still following him. The sensation hadn’t left him for a week, not since he’d slipped out of their fingers and gone on the run. He’d be happy when this piece of metal and plastic was out of his head and he could go back to his every day life. He should have known better than to take the risk. But he just couldn’t resist a challenge. |
| The tv was silent and on the screen, a woman was crying in front of a man in a suit. Noah didn’t know why the woman was crying and he rightly didn’t care. He imagined it was something romantic or family related and altogether nothing but absolutely horse shit. The man looked like he could give a shit that she was crying and Noah imagined himself in that man’s place. What would he say? What would he do? He wasn’t motivated to turn up the volume to find out what was going on. He was tired. He was just tired. The letter he wrote was sitting on the kitchen table and it was nothing he hadn’t written before. It was all “I’m sorry” and “I should have…” even though Dr. Taylor said to avoid those. It was impossible to avoid them. It was impossible to not speculate on his own shortcomings. A small noise in the hallway caught his attention and he rolled his head along the back of the couch to look at his apartment door. The doorknob wriggled a little in its place and immediately, Noah tensed. He stood quickly, grabbing the baseball bat he kept by his coat and pulling it up to hold over his shoulder. He kept it handy just for situations like this. This wasn’t exactly the best sector in the city. Poor, low-life. That’s what he’d come back to. The lock was controlled by a keypad just above the door handle. He typed in his code and a small screen popped up, showing him what was on the other side. He felt the breath stall in his chest. The familiar face of his younger brother, Ian, appeared on the screen, not realizing he was being caught on camera. Noah closed his eyes a moment and leaned his head against the door. He wasn’t sure he was up for this right now. The last time his brother had come to see him had been a few days after he’d come home from Somalia and Noah had thought they were having a good time, but when he’d woken up in the morning, he’d found out his brother had stolen pretty much all of the money he’d had saved up. He hadn’t pressed charges or done anything like that. He had a tie to his family, even if his younger brother could care less. Sighing, Noah undid the lock and pulled the door open quickly. On the other side, Ian was crouched down, a laser lock-pick in his hands. His eyes went wide at the sudden exposure, but it didn’t last long. Without missing a beat, Ian stood up, a huge grin across his face. “Hey, bro!” he said, stuffing his lock pick in his pocket. He rubbed his fingers together and Noah didn’t miss the slight silver sheen of his fingertips. He’d gotten some upgrades since he’d seen him last. “You’re awake,” Ian observed. His brother tried to lean in for a hug, but Noah held up his hand, catching him in the chest and holding him off. “Ian,” he acknowledged. “What do you want?” Ian backed up a peg and put a hand to his chest. “What? I can’t visit my big brother without wanting something in return?” Noah made a point of glancing over at the clock before looking back at his brother. Ian just grinned more and it was the fakest thing Noah had ever seen. He’d learned to recognize it. “Okay, so maybe I could use some help.” Scrutinizing him for a moment, Noah appraised his brother and he knew it must have taken a lot for him to even mention that he needed help. Maybe he was still in shock that he’d been caught red-handed trying to break into Noah’s apartment. Sighing, Noah put the bat down next to the door and turned around, walking into his small kitchen. “Want something to drink?” he asked. His brother smiled, stepping in and closing the door. Noah didn’t miss the way Ian appraised the hallway before locking the door again. He was expecting someone, Noah concluded. “You wouldn’t happen to have chardonnay, huh?” Ian asked, leaning on the kitchen counter. Noah grabbed a can of beer and slid it across to him. Ian snorted. “Guess it’s too much to ask that you at least have your beer in a bottle.” Noah cracked open his own beer and leaned against the opposite counter. “How much do you need?” he asked, keeping his voice low and his eyes cast downward. He wasn’t sure why, but it was difficult to look at his brother. He felt a wave of guilt wash over him. Maybe his brother would be ashamed of him if he knew what he’d done. Maybe he was ashamed of him for everything and the thought made it hard to look at his little brother. Ian gave a small laugh. “What makes you think this is about money?” Tipping his head back, Noah looked up at him, giving him a stern look. He wasn’t in the mood. Ian took a sip of his beer and then tipped it towards Noah. “You know, you look tired. I didn’t interrupt anything, did I? There’s not a girl waiting in your bed, is there?” “No,” Noah smirked, shaking his head, despite himself. “There’s no girl.” “Well, what are you doing up at this hour?” Ian asked, looking around the apartment. Noah ran a hand over his face. “Ian,” he tried to gather his brother’s attention. “How much do you need?” Ian grinned wider, shaking his head and he started to say something, but Noah wasn’t having it. He slammed his beer down onto the counter and held up a hand to cut his brother off. Ian had the decency to look a little surprised at the movement. “Don’t,” Noah snapped. “Don’t lie to me and tell me that’s not why you’re here. You fucking stole from me before and the only way to keep you from stealing from me again is to give you what you want. So how much?” Ian was quiet a moment, like he was appraising Noah and Noah almost cringed beneath the scrutiny. But then, Ian shook his head and shrugged a little. “I just need enough to get back on my feet. Then I can take care of the rest.” Noah ran a hand through his hair. He wasn’t sure how much it would take to get Ian on his feet again, but he meant it when he said he didn’t want his brother to steal from him again. He didn’t want his brother to steal from anyone. Noah was the older brother and he’d always felt like he’d had a responsibility and duty to his younger brother, even if Ian didn’t return it at all. “Have you ever just tried to get a job?” Noah asked, heading towards his computer in the corner of the room. He started to pull up his bank accounts, but paused to throw the question over his shoulder at his brother. Ian shrugged, sipping at his beer and maintaining a straight face even though it was obvious he couldn’t’ stand the drink. “We can’t all be model citizens like the great Noah D’Angelo.” He shrugged and Noah could hear the bitterness in his voice. “Jobs and I just…don’t get along.” Noah nodded. “God forbid you have to work for your wealth.” Ian grinned. “I know, it’d be a shame, wouldn’t it?” |
| Ian watched his brother with a fake smile still plastered on his lips. If he’d had any other options he would be out the door without a glance back because the last thing he wanted to do was ask for help from Noah. There was a difference between taking what he needed and accepting handouts. He was probably eating it up, the chance to play the hero. Big brother to the rescue. Noah had always been that way. He was the protective big brother who’d tried to look out for him and he never understood that Ian didn’t want his help. He didn’t want his brother’s help because he didn’t need the great Noah D’Angelo fighting his battles for him. He was still surprised that his brother hadn’t taken a swing at him, especially after he saw it was Ian. It’s what he would have done. “You haven’t done much with the place, have you?” Ian said. His hands wandered while he spoke, setting the beer down on the counter. He didn’t much like the taste anyway. He preferred something a little richer. Like cognac. A cognac and a cigar, and as soon as he got this damn chip out of his head that was the first think he was doing. Crashing some swanky party, drinking expensive booze, and hitting on supermodels in strapless dresses. It would be the perfect way to celebrate after everything else. “What can I say, I’ve got simpler tastes,” Noah drawled. Ian thought he detected faint criticism in the words. He snorted and kept one eye on his brother’s back. “The painting’s a good start. Maybe a house plant next.” His fingers tugging at the silverware drawer and pawing idly through them. Not that he expected his brother to have anything worth selling, and what he did he wouldn’t be keeping in his kitchen drawers. He doubted his silverware was even real silver. Noah snorted and it might have been a laugh if Ian didn’t suspect his brother was still a little sore than the last time his kid brother had come to visit. Still, it was going better than he’d expected. At least he wasn’t walking out of here empty handed or in handcuffs. He lifted an eyebrow when he found a medal tucked away in the back of the drawer. He held it up in front of him. “So where’d you get shot?” he asked, glancing past the purple heart towards his brother. A dark look crossed Noah’s face, even if he didn’t look up. His movements were stiff and Ian tried to remember if that was something he’d been told when big brother had first gotten back from Somalia. “It won’t sell for shit,” he snapped. “So don’t bother stealing it.” Ian frowned. “I wouldn’t-” he started to say. “Stop,” Noah snapped. “Don’t pretend that’s not always your first thought.” Ian scoffed and leaned heavily against the counter. He shoved the drawer closed and just played with the medal in his fingers. A part of him was surprised that it was the only one his brother had and more of him was surprised that it was shoved deep in the back of his kitchen drawer. “How about you don’t pretend like you ever knew anything about me?” he said. He kept his head down and pretended that he wasn’t still bitter. He hadn’t had a bad childhood. He could just never live up to the Noah standard. Noah finished up at the computer, slim, clear credits in hand and walked back towards the counter. His fist closed around the medal and took it from Ian’s hand, a dark look on his face. He didn’t look at it or his brother’s face when he tucked it back in his pocket and Ian found the reaction interesting. “This should be enough to tide you over,” he said. “Hey thanks,” Ian told him. “I’ll pay you back.” “No you won’t,” Noah snapped. The words were harsh and a little angry and he thought again that yeah, his brother wasn’t quite over Ian stealing every credit in his account the last time he’d come to town. He’d probably get over it. But if he expected Ian to feel guilty about it he had another thing coming. There was no percentage in feeling guilty, and that meant he wasn’t interested in it. Besides, his brother was smart, hardworking. He could afford it. “Yeah, alright,” Ian agreed. “But saying it counts for something, right?” He kept the grin plastered on his face as he reached for the credits in his brother’s fingers but it slipped when Noah pulled them just out of his reach. Their eyes clashed and Ian tried to keep his expression passive. “Are you in trouble?” Noah asked him. His tone was serious. It was big brother voice, and he struggled to keep the sneer off his lips. “Nothing I can’t handle by myself,” he said. It was a battle not to let old bitterness leak into the words, to tell his brother that he didn’t need his help. He wished he hadn’t had to ask for it. It would have been better if he’d still been asleep and if he hadn’t been caught red handed than he would already have what he needed and be long gone. The last time he’d skipped town he hadn’t really planned on seeing his brother ever again. It wasn’t something conscious, it just seemed like more work than it was worth. Noah nodded and he looked back at the ground. He didn’t meet Ian’s eyes when he passed the money over to him and he didn’t care if that was the patented Noah D’Angelo look of disappointment on his face. He didn’t give a shit if his brother was disappointed because he was happy with his life and he wouldn’t change it for a thing. He just didn’t expect the next words. “Be careful, Ian.” He grinned, the practiced charming one that never seemed to work on his brother. “Me? Careful? That’s my middle name, bro.” He put a hand to his chest and stepped backwards, sliding the credits into his back pocket. Noah snorted and lifted an eyebrow. “Your middle name is Michael,” he said. He smirked and pointed a finger at him. “Only on paper.” Noah rolled his eyes, arms leaning heavily on the counter as he watched Ian head for the door. He looked tired, Ian realized. Tired like a man who hasn’t slept in a year, and if he were any kind of good brother maybe he’d ask his brother if he was in trouble. But he wasn’t, never had been, and wasn’t planning on becoming. Besides, he had rough men on his heels and couldn’t stick around to bond. “Well, this has been fun,” he said. The smile stayed on his lips and he didn’t miss that his brother didn’t return it. “We should do it again some time. Catch a game or hit the bar or something else brothers are supposed to do.” “But we won’t,” Noah said quietly. The look of disappointment was unmistakable as he looked down at his kitchen counter. Ian shrugged his shoulders. The fake smile finally died, the lie slipping off his lips. “No,” he agreed. “I’ll see you around.” He turned to pull the door open and immediately found himself looking down the barrel of a pistol. Behind it was a man in a dirty tan trench coat with a hat pulled down over his messy hair. Ian snorted, holding his hands up slowly. Behind him he heard his brother suck in a breath but he couldn’t see him to know what he was doing. “Knew you weren’t on the level,” he snapped. The man just smiled and then motioned his gun at Ian’s head. “Mr. D’Angelo,” he said. “You have something that belongs to us.” |
| Noah didn’t like the gun pointed at his brother’s face. Ian may have been a little shit and Noah doubted his brother gave a crap about brotherly love or bonds of family or whatever other corny thing they could think of – but that didn’t mean that Noah was just going to sit there and watch a gun be shoved in his brother’s face. He didn’t like it and he didn’t care if Ian had disowned his own family, he was still family to Noah. “What’s going on?” Noah demanded. The man in the trench coat seemed to ignore him and he squared his jaw. He didn’t like being ignored in his own apartment. But the man still had a gun in Ian’s face and he made his brother take a few steps back into the apartment. The man came into the doorway and his eyes flicked towards Noah, but then settled again on Ian. “Don’t try to be a hero,” the man said and Noah wondered which one of them he was talking to. Ian snorted, “Too late.” Noah felt his stomach churn at the bitterness in his brother’s voice. He’d never known what he’d done to his brother to make him hate him so much. But there must have been something. Then, as they were watching him, the bitterness slipped from Ian’s face and was replaced with something more in control. Something smarmier. “Look, can’t we negotiate about this?” The man holding the gun shook his head slightly. “No,” he said. “I’m getting what I came for. You either pay up or come with me.” Ian looked like he was about to say something, but Noah cut him off. “How much does he owe?” “Stay out of this, huh?” Ian said, turning to give him a pointed look, which Noah promptly ignored. The man snorted. “Judging by your apartment, more than you can afford.” Noah took a few steps forward and the man stiffened, his gun wavering in front of Ian’s face. Ian held his hands a little higher and Noah brought his own up as he made his way slowly towards them. “Okay, look,” Noah said, keeping his eye on the man. “I’m sure we can work this out.” “There’s nothing to work out,” the man said, the gun shaking as he struggled to keep it trained on Ian instead of pointing it at Noah. Noah slowed down, his hands held up and he kept eye contact with the man. This wasn’t a new situation. He’d been trained for this sort of thing and he’d dealt with it frequently while he’d been in Somalia. Guns, fighting, stand offs. This was all part of the gig and it scared him a little at how calm he was right now. How in control of the situation he felt. A normal person would be freaking out. But he wasn’t. That scared him. He moved without a moment’s hesitation. One hand was grabbing the man’s wrist, shoving the gun upward so it wasn’t pointed at his brother. With the other arm, he elbowed the man in the gut, shoving him backwards towards the door. He twisted the man’s wrist, pulling the gun from his fingers and he turned around quickly, putting himself between Ian and the armed man. The man’s gun was now pointed at himself, but Noah lifted an eyebrow as the man stumbled out into the hallway and lifted his own gun, aiming it towards Noah’s head. “Whoa,” Ian said behind him. Noah knew there was a snarky remark getting ready to be said, but the man didn’t like Ian finish that thought. “You should have pulled the trigger, soldier,” he growled. Noah lifted his chin. “I still can.” “Not if I put a bullet between your eyes.” Noah snorted. “If you’d wanted to, you would have already.” The man smirked. “I try to avoid killing war heroes.” Behind him, Ian snorted and Noah could recognize the bitterness back in his voice. He didn’t turn around to say anything to his brother, he just studied the man who obviously knew more about him than he was letting on. The man sighed. “Look, I’m here for that dipshit behind you. I don’t have any beef with you. Just let me have him and I’ll be out of your hair.” “Sorry,” Noah shook his head. “Can’t do that.” Ian scoffed, “Yeah, yeah, just turn around big guy and let my big brother feel like a hero.” Noah sighed and thought about what his brother would do if he just let the guy take him. He’d never do it of course, but it would almost be comical to see the look on his face. “How much does he owe you,” Noah said firmly. The man shook his head. “Like I said, it’s more than you can afford.” Noah kept his gun trained on the man, while his own was trained back at Noah. He shook his head. “How much?” Ian stood right behind Noah’s shoulder. “Look, this isn’t going to go anywhere. I have something of theirs that I can’t give back. So it’s either I pay them back or they come take it from my corpse and I, personally, would prefer you just shoot this guy in the head so I don’t have to do any of those options.” The man snorted at Ian and then nodded his head to Noah. “You seem like a logical man,” he said and Noah smirked, despite himself because he could practically feel Ian’s annoyance at being pushed aside like that. “You don’t want your kid brother to die, and I don’t want to leave here without some sort of guarantee I’ll get my money back. So what if I propose a deal?” Noah frowned. “What sort of deal?” “Yeah,” Ian said, stepping up to Noah’s side. Noah tried to move in front of him again, but his brother wasn’t having it. “What sort of deal?” The man pointed a finger at Noah. “Your brother has a big debt to pay. But it just so happens we have a few odd jobs that need to be done. You agree to do these jobs and work off the debt, and I agree to let brother dearest keep all his limbs and his life. What do you say?” Noah chewed the side of his cheek in contemplation. “What sort of jobs?” he asked. The man smirked. “Jobs that require your kind of talent.” Beside him, Ian scoffed. “Noah, just shoot this guy.” Noah ignored him. He pulled back the safety on his gun and aimed it up at the ceiling. “I’m listening,” he said. |
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