Instinct

Armando wheels back from his desk, rubbing furiously at both eyes. He can feel his focus waning. Tap. He pauses the gas station surveillance playing on his monitor, the faces blurring too much to be written off as poor quality.

Time for a break.

Stretching his legs to their full extension, he crosses between desks towards the small kitchen tucked into the corner of the office. One of the admin ladies traded him her secret tea stash spot for a weekly supply of chocolate coated almonds from the corner store near his apartment. He has changed it up this week by purchasing the mocha flavor, he knows she will respond in kind. Armando’s fingers close around a little box hidden behind the sink’s pipes. Pulling his mug from its hook with one hand, he pops open the box and inhales. She has not disappointed. The gentle, nutty scent brings a smile to his face.

He presses the kettle and pulls his phone from his pocket.

[I would like to book a taxi for 3.30.]

Armando bites his lip around a smile. It took three months after he moved in for Alex to even speak a word to him. The quiet, sullen 14 year old would pass him on the stairs, backpack slung over his shoulder, without so much as a nod. His vintage pinball machine, glimpsed through a half open front door by a stunned middle schooler helped to break the ice. One pinball schooling later and they were neighbours. Three years later and they are family. Alex had apparently moulded his couch to the perfect shape. Armando helps them rearrange furniture when Erik’s leg is between upgrades. Erik is scarily good come tax time. Erik is scarily good at a lot of things.

Armando has no other family nearby and having them one floor up makes the place his home more so than any pinball machine or goldfish (A birthday gift from Alex to ‘teach him responsibility’).

Alex and Erik mean a lot to him.

[Could be wrong, just a detective but I’m pretty sure it’s class time.]

[Free period.]

[Try again.]

[Was Dad ok today?]

Armando pauses. Oh man. He cannot lie to Alex. That tough act exterior with a too-open smile and a heart that is much too large for any kid to carry. He can’t lie about Erik.

[He took the stairs but I think he’ll be alright.]

There is a long pause and Armando pours boiled water into the teapot.

He glances down.

[Ok. Thanks man. You still owe me a ride.]

A small smile forms involuntarily on his face. He makes a note to check in with them later in the night. It is always tough to see the past creeping like a shadow over people’s lives. He sees it far too often at work and he won’t let it happen to this little family too. That’s what neighbours are for.

He inhales the scent from the brewing tea. This might just get him through another hour of footage.

His leg twitches upwards, its inner mechanics exposed to the light.

“It’s so great to have a working model.” Raven states to the room.

Erik closes his eyes, praying for patience.

“Get it?” She laughs.

The two others present groan quietly. It is not a new joke.

Erik responds with silence.

She sighs dramatically, twisting the pin attaching the new ligament fibre to the smooth metal bones and tightening it by one final quarter turn.

“There. Try the active warm up with that tension. Tell me if you feel in control of the bend.”

She closes up with the efficiency of a surgeon, stepping back to eye her handiwork.

He stands and begins to move. Long strides, lunging forward. Moving from a crouch to attention. And on it goes. He feels off balance at first as his right side adjusts to the new tension on his left but the movements become easier as he works through them, discovering a slightly improved range of movement as he goes through the crouching movements for a second time.

“Sharper angle. Better range.” He nods at Raven.

“Alright.” She leans over to her desk to make a note on her laptop.

“You,” she points to one of the Techs present without looking up, “Get me the readings from the leg for this session so I can compare.”

“On their way.” He calls, ducking back down behind his computer screen.

“You can escape back to your cave now.” She dismisses Erik, waving her hand, eyes still fixed to the screen.

He reaches the door, catching her loud “You’re welcome!” as he passes through.

Reaching into his pocket, he pulls out his phone. A missed call from the mechanic. He puts the phone to his ear.

Hopefully this means he has a ride home. 

A small green dot blinks across her screen, pausing at the meeting of two crossed lines, an intersection, before continuing its path. Emma rotates her neck, feeling each muscle pull to its extreme.

“The tracker is in place. Shaw’s contribution to our plan is in play. Be sure to let him know.” Emma gestures to her door.

Moira stays firmly seated.

“Do you mistake me for a puppet, Ms Frost?” Her voice is calm, quiet.

She is both of those things, they disguise her cunning. Emma appraises her from across the desk.

“I am on a schedule. If you have something to say, say it.” Emma lays her words out guardedly. Fishing for a flinch, an eagerness, the seam of a disguise. She did not get to this point by trusting easily.

“I work under Shaw. I notice things. Patterns.” Moira begins. “His approach is direct. Uninspired. Reckless.”

Emma raises an eyebrow.

“And yet, here we are on the verge of an honest to god result.” Moira leans forward. “Somebody has been cleaning up his mess. That’s one hell of a garbage man.”

Emma allows a small twitch of amusement to show on her face.

“I am not in the habit of giving out my allegiance unearned. Impress me and it’s yours.” Moira finishes and sits back.

Emma checks the progress of the tracker before fixing Moira with her full stare.

“You say you’ve noticed Shaw’s patterns. His experiments have them too. Logan then Lehnsherr. Mr Logan’s time with Shaw made him quite susceptible to anyone who could give him a purpose. We made sure I was first in line. Shaw created him, I control him. Erik requires an approach with a little more… art. His case is still in progress and is about to begin its conclusion. As you said, with garbage, I am an artist. Though I prefer to think of it as picking up a toddler’s broken toys.”

An alert pops up at the bottom of her screen.

Emma extends a nail to brush the transmission button on her desk’s comm unit.

“Logan,” she continues smoothly, still watching Moira, “It’s time. Get inside. Get Lehnsherr to the meet site. No restrictions. No other parameters. Get it done.”

A muffled grunt comes back along the frequency.

Emma releases the button, still watching Moira.

“Like I said. I point him in the right direction. He does his best work acting on instinct.”

Moira leans forward again.

“I’m a crack shot, I‘ve been in all of Shaw’s meetings for the past year and…” she pulls a sleek black, non retractable pen out of her pocket and places it on the desk “…I have one hundred of these pens.”

Emma doesn’t try to hide her smile.

“Welcome to the most exclusive team in the Department of Defense.”