Chapter Text
Stratt hasn't been in the medical wing since she killed Ryland Grace. He'd been in a coma for three days before the launch. Yao and Ilyukhina had visited, thanking the unconscious man for his sacrifice. Stratt had been at Grace's bedside the entire time. She'd lied, said Grace had been scared but eventually saw it was the only way. Said he'd opted for an earlier coma so he wouldn't psyche himself out. It's a lie that only a few people know is a lie. She thinks Yao might have suspected. It's all too late now.
Three minutes after launch, Stratt had been in the medical wing after vomiting. Nausea, fear, misery - all toxically smothering her throat and refusing to let her breathe. A small moment of weakness. She'd taken a xanax and anti-nausea medication and got back to work. The smell of disinfectant makes her sick now. Everything and anything clinical makes her skin crawl and ghostly crying ring in her ears. She hasn't stepped foot in the medical wing since. It's all useless fear, but an indulgence she'd allowed herself until now. When Carl had sent her an urgent SOS over their singular line, she'd swallowed her fear and raced to medical, expecting the worst. Someone dead or dying or in the middle of taking their own life.
She hadn't been wrong. Someone was definitely dying, but she wasn't prepared for the blonde hair fanned over a surgery gurney. It's lighter than Dr. Grace but the color is still too close. The sight had nearly sent her into a fit, panic bracketing her lungs in iron bars, superheated and shaped like the last hug Grace had given her. The observation room, attached to the operating theater by a sheet of glass, suddenly felt too small. A few of her higher ups and security team were there, waiting for her to discuss the interloper. Stratt can't look at them. She can't tear her eyes away from the young man on the operating table. Carl, knowing that she was coming, had reached out and laid a single, steadying hand on her shoulder as she's slammed open the door to the observation room. Stratt has never been one for physical affection, but her own hand comes up to grasp Carl's and grip tightly. She can allow herself this.
"Who is that?" Stratt asks after swallowing down her panic with the practice of years being the head of humanity's only hope. The others in the observation room, all people who once knew Grace, move to the side to let Carl guide her to the glass. It's terribly quiet.
"No clue," Carl explains, keeping his grip on her hand casual so she can let go once she doesn't need it anymore. She keeps holding on. "About an hour ago, security reported an approaching car, swerving wildly. It crashed into one of the poles in the perimeter fence. When they got there, they found a young man bleeding out from a stomach wound. Looks like he got stabbed and tried to drive away. Wouldn't have made it to the hospital, so Dr. Lamai was contacted. She told them to bring him in for emergency surgery. I contacted you as soon as I could without Lamai biting my head off for 'wasting time'."
The woman herself is covered in scrubs and sterile equipment. Two assistants help her, using forceps to hold back flaps of skin and muscle as Dr. Lamai deftly fixes the hole in the man's intestines. An anesthesiologist watches the man's heart rate and breathing with a critical eye. Two more nurses hand over tools and take away damaged tissue for disposal. Stratt doesn't worry about if the man will survive. The medical team is the best Earth has to offer in their fields.
She's more worried about when the man wakes up. She doesn't want to see what color his eyes are.
"Any ID?"
"None on him. The license plate on the car is fake. Comes up as some woman in Long Island, despite being a California plate." Carl pulls up a file on his phone and holds it out for Stratt. None of the information makes sense. It's like someone filled out a title for the Malibu Chevrolet with just enough information to trick a tired DMV clerk. Definitely involved in something illegal. Just depends what it is. The stab wound implies a meeting went wrong. It's in his stomach, so he was facing whoever did it. It's low, at his waist, so perhaps a sneak hit. Judging from the amount Lamai's suture needle dips into his abdomen, the blade was about five or six inches, if it was buried to the hilt. Someone who could get close to him. An associate? Someone he knew. Criminal attachment? Or opponent he expected, but couldn't react to in time. Is it someone who will come looking for him? Or are they already dead?
"Previous title owners?"
"Mechanic shop in L.A." Carl swipes to a different file. Stratt lets go of his hand, mind focusing on the mystery in front of her instead of her uneasy guilt. It's a useless emotion, anyways. "Looks like it's connected to a crime. Previous owner is a guy named Shannon. Found with his wrist cut and signs of a struggle."
"Our friend here?" Stratt asks, tilting her head at the glass while keeping her eyes on the bpm machine.
"Dunno. Guy was acquainted with some shady people." Carl scrolls up the profile on the LAPD's database. Thank you, total martial internet access. Her hearing is in a few weeks. She wants to stand trial. She doubts she will. Things will need to be run until, hopefully, they one day get those beetles back. Someone will have to make the tough decisions, say who gets to live and who they can spare to die. She's already shown she's good at making those decisions.
"Focus on L.A. Seems like that's the best place to start. Look into the immediate area around this Shannon fellow."
"What about him?" Carl asks. He stays stone faced, as practiced in masking his emotions as Stratt, but she knows him too well to be tricked. He's desperate, off balance, just like she was. Is. She knows what he's thinking when he looks at their mystery blonde.
He looks just like Grace. Thin nose, long face, down-turned brows. A little brown mole by his left eye. Are they blue? Stratt doesn't know what she'll do if they're blue.
"He managed to drive all the way out here with a stomach wound. Whoever he's trying to get away from might still be looking for him," Stratt says. The others in the observation room mummer, but Stratt ignores them. She'll say jump, and they'll jump. Let them talk. "At the very least, I will not let him leave until he's healed. The fact he's not gone septic is incredible. Don't let him leave when he wakes up. I have a feeling he might try to. He'll just tear his stitches."
"Stubborn?" Carl's lips pull up in a smile, before the haunted look he's worn since Grace begged him to help comes back. "I bet he is. Stubborn enough to drive away while dying. I'll see if Dr. Lamai recommends seda-" He swallows. "Someone watch him."
Stratt nods. Her cellphone vibrates in her pocket. Another of her eternal meetings approaches. Three years, going strong. Always explaining and arguing and fighting for people to do the things they put her in charge to decide on. She doesn't want to step back outside. She wants to stay here and watch. She wants to see the man open his eyes. She can't let her last image of him be with his eyes closed.
She has to. There is no other option.
Stratt leaves for her meeting with the US Department of Agriculture. Carl stays in the observation room, waiting for the surgery to end.
Carl listens to the ticking of the wall clock. The room is quiet, only the beeping of machines and the smell of disinfectant bringing any life to the white walls. Being in any medical room stresses him the hell out. He hates every part of them. The sterile colors, the hushed noises, the sound of nurses walking around behind the door. Medical is a cold place on the best of days - and that was before he watched Grace sleep. Now, he's right back in another ungodly painful chair, waiting on a washed out blonde man to please, please, please wake up. You could practically miss him in the white sheets for how pale he is. All the blood that should've colored his cheeks was in his busted car. The IV drips and infusions Lamai had ordered had brought some life back to his face, but the man is still too pale. Bags have grown under his eyes over the past two days. Half the time he frowns, and the other half his face is eerily blank.
His clothing is cleaned, sewn, and folded on a cart against the opposite wall from the bed. Satin jacket with a golden scorpion, leather driving gloves, jeans, all the sort of clothes Grace would never be caught dead in. Because he's not Grace. He's just a ghost. A guilty ghost here to haunt Carl for being a fucking coward.
You'd be forgiven for thinking the man was a relative. The similarities are nerve-wracking. But there's enough difference to quell any thoughts that you might be losing your mind. Where Grace was thin, this man is sturdy. He has muscles that only come from physical labor. His face is smooth with youth. He can't be older than thirty. It all creates a complex mystery that picks at the open wounds Grace left. Carl wants to reach out and press his fingers to the man's cheeks, just to check that he's real. He doesn't.
He checks his phone instead, giving his twitching hands something to do. No update on the man's identity, though he was closely involved with the car shop of the dead Shannon. He isn't listed in any employee records though. That'd just be too easy. Stratt's informants found he did work as a stunt driver for movies as well. It seems every one has a different name. None of them connect. Whoever their mystery man is, he takes great care to stay hidden. Nice and shadowy, under a rock, just like his golden scorpion. The only real update has been in the LAPD database. It seems Shannon had been involved with a few robberies and mobsters, two of whom have turned up dead since their mystery man arrived. One of them had a knife, covered in blood that matches the DNA their own medical team tested. There's no matching records in the police database to offer them any name.
"You were in deep trouble, huh?" Carl says to the sleeping man. It's hard to picture the soft, youthful features staring down a gangster - but people are full of surprises. "Why'd you get involved in all of this stuff?"
It hurts to think about. What would have happened if this guy hadn't crashed into the fence? Would he have kept driving until he finally bled out? Was getting away that important? What else was he running from? The gangsters were dead. Did he fear retribution? Or was it because his employer was dead? Did he have a deeper connection with the older man? More importantly, why didn't he go to a hospital? Human nature is survival at any cost. It's why Grace ran. Any human being, threatened with death, will act in their own interests unless self sabotaging. It's why it's so hard to kill yourself. Once you get halfway down, your body struggles to fight back and survive. The man's body should have taken over at some point to stop for help. Once he was out of L.A., there would have been plenty of places to stop and get medical aid. Instead, he kept driving for hours. What was he trying to escape? Or was he punishing himself? Maybe he'd just lost too much blood to think about anything other than 'drive'.
Carl tucks his phone back into his pocket. No use in running his brain in circles. Once the man wakes up, they'll learn the truth. He knows Stratt won't stop until she's peeled him open like an orange. He saw how she reacted when she first laid eyes on their trespasser. Carl had felt the same way. Shock, fear, hope. Ugly, squirming emotions that he didn't deserve to feel. Grace? Is that you? No, he didn't deserve to think that at all. Even through her carefully flattened expressions, Carl had recognized the same thoughts in Stratt. They make a fucked up couple, they do. Both of them mourning a man they killed. What right do they have?
The beeping of the heart race monitor picks up. Carl rips out of his internal spiral and sits up straight in the chair. His spine pops from how long he's been sitting. There's no movement in the mystery man's face, but that heartbeat keeps climbing. He's waking up. Or he's already awake, and is trying to pretend he isn't. Sussing out the situation. Understandable. If the last thing you remember is bleeding out after killing a man, and you suddenly wake up in a strange place, you'd be a dumbass not to be careful.
"Morning, sunshine," Carl says automatically, cringing when he hears the words. Fuck's sake, he always said that to Grace when he'd slump into the lab with coffee and bags under his eyes. It would make Grace snort. This isn't Grace. He's not fucking Grace, get it through your head.
The mystery man snorts, but winces in pain. Carl feels his eyes burn.
Apparently deciding the cat's out of the bag, the blonde slowly creaks open his eyes. They're blue, sweet baby blue and shiny with pain. Carl clenches his fists so hard he's sure to leave crescent shaped marks from his nails. He should tell Stratt the man is awake. The nurses will probably be by in a minute or two once they notice his heart rate has risen. Still, Carl can't force his hand to get his phone. Selfishly, he wants to bask in this quiet a little longer. It's delusional. It's awful. His therapist - mandated by Stratt, and who she will never give herself the luxury of seeing - would tell him this is a terrible idea.
"Feeling okay? Need any pain medication?" Carl asks, repeating the words he'd say to Grace every time he saw him slumped over a table with his head in his hands. The mystery man pinches his brows together, looking around the room. He takes stock of everything like a seasoned veteran, or criminal. Exits, clothes, weapons. Figuring out ways to escape if anything happens. They hadn't kept him sedated or tied down, despite his flight risk. No one could stomach the idea. Not after Grace. Now, Carl's thinking it was the right idea. Someone as skittish as this man would only see restraints as a threat. "You just hit that button on the railing. They've got you on the good stuff."
The man looks at the red button, but doesn't touch it. Might still have plenty in his blood. Might also want to stay as clear headed as possible. Doesn't talk much, does he?
"Found you crashed into our fence, " Carl offers, hoping it will help the man open up if he's offered information. He might not even remember how he got here. Between the trauma from crashing and the blood loss, Carl's pretty sure he must have been out of it. "Our medical team got you in surgery and fixed that nasty wound in your stomach. You've got a lot of stitches, so try not to do anything stupid that would open them back up." Carl puts a little more emphasis on those last words. Don't run out of here like the Devil's chasing you and rip your stitches, idiot. The man seems to understand if the way he shrinks into the pillows is any indication. "Scared the hell out of us. This place isn't exactly easy to find. Had half the security team in a panic."
"Where…" His voice is rough from lack of use. Carl waits patiently while the man clears his parched throat. He needs to get him water, but getting up will break this quiet peace they have. "Where is here?"
"Ground VATs. Land version of the big VATs ship where we handled the astrophage problem." The man's brows draw together again. Carl smiles despite himself. "Common man wasn't in the big loop about all the intricacies. You all just heard that there were people working on the Petrova line problem." Recognition. So the guy knows about that at least. Probably didn't occupy himself with far-fetched ideas like star-eaters and astronauts while he was running around driving cars and killing gangsters. Three months ago, right after the launch of the Hail Mary, it had been all over the news. Everyone was praising the selfless heroes who volunteered to go on a suicide mission to save the world. Talking about what comes next while they wait for a miracle. He has to have at least seen some of it.
The man doesn't ask any other questions. Instead, he looks at the IVs in his hand where saline and blood and all sorts of other good stuff feeds into his body. He's got nice hands. They're slim where Grace's had been wide, adding to his clumsy nature. Hard to delicately poke the membrane of an astrophage cell when your fingers are a little too thick to delicately grasp the needle. It's easy to picture mystery man's fingers curling around a steering wheel like it's an extension of his being. With how sturdy the rest of him is, he must move with the car like a rider on a horse. Not a vehicle, but a body part. It's easy to picture him as a stunt driver. It helps that Carl had looked up one of the movies they'd confirmed their man had worked on. He was only in a few brief scenes, barely visible, but he drove like it was second nature.
With the man unwilling to ask anything else, Carl slides his phone out and sends a text to Stratt, letting her know he's awake. Over the top of the phone, he notices the man tense up. Is he worried he's calling the cops?
"Just letting boss lady know you're awake," he says, hopeful that it will help calm him down. Carl waits to see Stratt's curt reply before putting his phone back. "She's coming down to meet you. You know Eva Stratt?"
The man shakes his head, then nods it. Recognizes the name, but no real knowledge.
"She's the head of the Earth's Petrova Task Force. The one in charge of getting all of these geniuses together and herding them to a solution." And herding is the right word. It was slightly easier when Grace was around, using his teacher voice like he was facing down a horde of unruly children instead of grown-ass adults. Now, though, people obey her with fear and revulsion. Those who know that Grace didn't want to go. Those who spotted a yellow raincoat tackled by the fence, close to where the Malibu crashed. No one meets her eyes to argue anymore. Others look at her like the Mother Mary. "Wanted to know when you woke up so she could make sure you were okay. And ask you questions."
Like he suspected he would, the mystery man's expression closes off. It's unsettling. Grace would never have been able to make an expression like that. He was all down turned eyes and tilted brows. This man has had practice in putting forward a mask. It's cold and hard but free of animosity. Blank, bland, unappealing, and unobtrusive.
"You aren't in trouble, if you can believe it," Carl says. He leans back in the world's most uncomfortable chair with a sigh. Just act like you aren't a threat. Let the man see you aren't hyper-focused on him. It's just like a stray dog. Don't point, don't corner, let him come to you. "She won't say it, but you got us worried. There was a lot of blood in your car."
"Where is it?" The man asks suddenly. It's the strongest his voice has sounded yet. Carl looks back at him to find a slight concern in the tense set of his shoulders. He loves that car. Probably due to the connection to the dead Shannon. Did he gift it to the man? What was their relationship? Friends, or familial? He's more defensive about the car than himself. Noted.
"Got it in an empty hangar. Engineering fought each other for the chance to repair it." Carl smiles softly, doing his best to let the man know it's safe. "Learned way more facts about it than I've ever wanted to know."
His chest warms as the man's mask cracks, letting a small twist bring the corner of his mouth into a smile. It's tiny and timid. A stray dog wagging its tail while it remains pressed flat to the ground.
"Never really been one for cars myself," Carl admits, waiting to hear Stratt's approaching heels. Nurses and Dr. Lamai will likely be with her. Hopefully they'll come in one at a time instead of trying to all crowd in. "Just drive what I need to drive. Mostly bigger cars. Gotta carry people around. Small sporty cars like that make me feel like a giant balloon. It's for ants."
The tiny smile becomes a small smile. The tail wags again.
"You know, for the last few years, all I've gotten to do is sit in big black SUVs like the bad guy in a movie. Minus the action chases. Don't even get to drive them. Just really boring."
"SUVs are terrible," the man agrees. A knock on the door stops any further conversation. The man drops his smile, tensing again. Carl sighs internally. That hurts to see.
"It's just Stratt," Carl says, hoping to soothe the man's fears. There's no helping it. The easy smile and softness is long gone. Shit. "Come on in," he calls, half turned in his chair. The door creaks open, and Dr. Lamai barges through before Stratt. Both women enter, letting the door close to keep out curious onlookers.
Dr. Lamai blusters up to the man, using a pen light to check his eyes and forcing him to follow her finger. He obeys meekly, cowed by the overbearing presence of a grumpy doctor. Stratt steps up to Carl's side, waiting for Lamai to finish.
"How is he?" she asks quietly. She can't take her eyes off the man, looking him over with a critical glance. Cataloguing needs and creating options. Every note that Lamai scribbles on her clipboard will be on Stratt's desk before noon.
"No name," Carl answers, keeping his voice low. He doesn't want the man to know they're talking about him. Hopefully Lamai's poking and prodding is occupying all of his attention. "Cognition seems intact. Real quiet and reserved."
"To be expected." Stratt huffs, rubbing a hand over her pale face. She clears her throat to get both Lamai and her patient's attention. "How is he recovering?"
"As well as to be expected," Lamai says. She tucks her clipboard under her arm and tugs the blanket away from the man's stomach. His eyes go wide and flinch up to the ceiling, but he doesn't stop her. Carl winces. Shit, that wasn't good. Lamai hums. "Bandage still good. Most of the bleeding stopped yesterday, but we will need to change it in a few hours and reapply disinfectant. Stomach wounds like this can be tricky." To aid in bandage changing, the man had been dressed in a medical gown backwards, with the ties in front to aid in accessing his wounds. With the covers drawn back, he's all but naked. Carl feels uncomfortable. This level of vulnerability obviously makes the man upset. He wants to reach over and pull the covers back up, but he knows that Lamai needs to be able to check that he's healing well. "How's everything feeling? No sudden pains?"
The man shakes his head minutely. He keeps his gaze focused solely on the ceiling. Lamai blows a breath out through her lips, pulling the blanket back up. "Alright. I'll have a nurse come change the bandages in about an hour. Stratt. Carl." She gives them a cursory nod and leaves, barking orders at the nurses haunting the corridor outside the room. The door closes with a gentle tap. The only sound in the cold room is the beeping of the heart-rate monitor. What now? Carl's at a loss for words.
"What is your name?" Stratt asks. There's another chair in the room. She does not sit in it. The man peeks at her from behind blonde eyelashes. "I'm Eva Stratt. It seems that you were running from trouble. For what it is worth, we have no current plans on turning you over to the police." That surprises Carl. He doesn't want to toss this guy to the wolves either, but he didn't expect Stratt to have the same thought. Maybe he should have. After all, she's looked at the mystery man with the same mix of emotions that Carl had.
The man swallows, Adam's apple bobbing. He stares. "Driver," he offers at length. It's not a name, but it's at least something.
"Driver?" Stratt asks, eyebrow popping up.
Driver nods and doesn't offer anything else. Stratt sighs.
"Alright. It is nice to meet you, Mr. Driver. I feel it should go without saying, but you will need to stay here for at least a few weeks. You won't be able to get up for a couple days still. Your surgery was successful, but recovery will be difficult. I recommend you stay here for the next month, at least."
"Otherwise Dr. Lamai will hunt us all for sport," Carl jokes. Driver doesn't smile. Big blue eyes dart nervously between Stratt and him.
"I can't pay for this," Driver mumbles. He looks down, free hand clenching and unclenching in his lap.
Stratt scoffs. "This isn't some American hospital. You were in need of help. We provided it. So please do not try to run away in the middle of the night like I expect you are thinking of." Driver's startled expression meets Stratt's raised brow. "It would undo all of Dr. Lamai's hard work, and make her very angry. For your own safety, follow her instructions to rest."
"Don't you have more important things to do than adopting stray dogs?" Driver asks, self-deprecation thick in his words. He turns his head to stare into an empty part of the room. "I've already caused enough trouble."
Stratt's lips twist into a frown. "I am not offering out of the goodness of my heart. You crashed into the VATs fence, on the run from what looks like criminal activities. There's several dead people in L.A. connected with you. Keeping you here until you heal also keeps you out of trouble."
"Are you going to turn me in?" The question whispers into the air like escaping steam. Driver stares into the corner. Carl feels a chill run up his spine. The man has no weapons, hell, he doesn't even have clothes, but something about the stillness in his body makes him worried. Poised like a scorpion, ready to strike at a threat.
"No." Stratt's answer hits like a gunshot. Driver slumps back into the pillows, face finally visible again. He's pale, strained, sweat prickling at the edge of his hairline. He needs to rest, but that's not going to happen until Carl and Stratt leave the room. Eyes like chips of melting ice finally look back at them. "I don't care about what happened in L.A. I just need to know if it's going to cause an issue for us here."
"No issue," Driver says. His free hand pulls the thin medical blanket up as he begins to shiver. Something like hope shines in his wet eyes. It makes Carl's heart hurt. Hope, fear, disbelief. It's too similar to how Grace looked at him while his face was pressed into the grass. Carl stands and doesn't run to the door, back to Driver to block out the sight of those tears. "I won't do anything. I'll be good." His voice is so soft. Begging, pleading, as much as he will let himself. A dog on its back.
"I'll make it an order too, if that makes it easier to listen," Stratt says, a little mirth in her own wobbling voice. "You will stay in this room until Dr. Lamai clears you for physical therapy. I'll have team members meet with you to keep you company. You won't run away. You'll listen to us and heal. Is that clear?"
"Yes ma'am."
"Stratt. Please."
"Yes, Stratt." It's like Grace's ghost come back to haunt them. Carl never thought he'd hear it ever again. He doesn't know what to do. Half of him wants to run until his legs give out and his heart beats out of his chest. The other half wants to grab Twizzlers and sour Skittles and comfy blankets and never leave this goddamn room. If he leaves, the ghost will vanish and take the last traces of Grace with him.
This man isn't Grace.
He's not Grace.
"Would you like us to stay here until you fall asleep?"
"I'd… Like some space? If that's alright."
"Of course. You've been through a lot." Something clatters, and Carl turns to see Stratt pick up a slim black remote from a shelf on the edge of the room and lay it down next to Driver's free hand. "Controls the TV. I would have brought you a book, but I came directly from a meeting. Carl and I will be back later. When would you like us to visit?"
Driver looks at the old analog clock on the wall next to the small TV. "One?"
"One," Stratt agrees. "You will be here, in the bed. Correct?"
"Yes, Stratt." Driver looks down, unable to meet her direct gaze, but it doesn't seem like he's lying. Not like he can escape anyways, between all their alarm systems and the big ass hole in his gut. Stratt nods, turning and coming to the door. Carl opens it for her and leaves the room, closing the door behind them both. He gets one last look at Driver. He lays against the thin pillows and rolls the remote in his hand, TV dark.
Stratt and Carl walk in silence for a while. They stop by Lamai's office to share the information Driver gave them - what little of it they actually have. Then they continue on to Stratt's office. Neither talk for the entire trip. It's not until Stratt's own door closes with a heavy click that Carl turns to face her and ask his burning question.
"I thought Grace didn't have any relatives."
"He doesn't." Stratt sits heavily behind her desk, sinking into her large chair with a sigh. She rubs her forehead. "His older brother is dead and his twin died a month before the launch. Driver's blood also doesn't match Grace's."
"You tested it?"
"Of course I had it tested. You know what he looks like." Stratt runs a hand down her face. Under the harsh office lights, she looks older. Tired. "No, he's not related. He's just a near perfect copy of the man I murdered."
"We murdered."
"Don't," Stratt snaps. "I gave the order. You followed it. I killed Grace."
"I let it happen."
"If you hadn't, I would have gotten rid of you. You know that. He had to be the one. If I could have gone in his place I would have." It's an old argument, retread time and time again. They won't get anywhere like this.
"What happens now?" Carl asks. He sits in the chair across from Stratt, a brand new one she got after the launch. "Something tells me he doesn't have anywhere to go. We still can't find anything about him in the system. Best lead we have is an apartment next to the one belonging to a man he worked with once. Died around the same time as everything went down. Name on the apartment is Dale Something-or-other. Another fake name. Doesn't really seem like a Dale to me."
"For now, we concentrate on keeping him healthy and alive."
"And what about after that?"
Silence. Neither Carl nor Stratt is willing to let the idea in their mind come to light. They can't let him leave. Someone this dedicated to disappearing? The moment he steps foot out of their sight, they'll never find him again. That blonde hair and thin face will fade away into the masses. He came into their lives by chance. What might happen to him out there? Is he the sort to get right back into trouble again? Will he get hurt again?
"He's a driver, yes?" Stratt starts. She picks up a pen in her hand, rolling it back and forth. "We could hire him. Make him part of the security team."
"You mean kidnap him?"
"Hire him."
"Stratt, we can't just. Keep him."
"It seems like he can't be trusted to keep himself safe," Stratt says. The pen in her hand creaks. She puts it back down before it can break. Carl scrubs his mustache, thinking. "All those fake names and identities, and he nearly died. He may not be a relative of Grace's, but I do not want to see him get hurt."
"This feels like some obsessive shit," Carl grumbles, but it's half-hearted. He didn't want to think about Driver getting hurt either. Even seeing those blue eyes prickling with tears and fear had nearly given him a heart attack. He'd do anything to make sure Driver never looks that scared again. Stratt notices the lack of vitriol.
"Perhaps it is. I am not so foolish as to assume I am in my right mind. I haven't been ever since I was put in charge of this godforsaken taskforce," she says. She twists her smile into something cruel and self-deprecating. "You cannot be in your right mind when you agree to bomb Antarctica."
"Pretty sure our Driver would rather turn tail and flee with his tail between his legs once he's healed up enough."
"Then we make the VAT too good to leave. Steady job, people who appreciate him, safety. He responded well to instructions."
"And it sounds like he doesn't have anything to return to."
"That will help, yes."
Carl puts his head in his hands. "This is insane."
"It is," Stratt agrees. She opens her laptop and begins typing away. "We will need to create a job opening. Do you think he would prefer to be a part of the general driving team, or would he tolerate being our personal driver?"
"This is fucking crazy."
"You've already said that." More keyboard clattering. "What is the phrase? 'Shit or get off the pot'?"
Carl chuckles. "You didn't learn that one from me."
"I did not. It was from Bob."
"Fuckin' Bob." Carl sits up, rubbing his eyes. They still sting. "Fuck. Fuck. God, I can't. I don't want to lose him. Why? He looks like Grace. That can't be it. I can't be acting this fucking crazy because he looks like Grace."
"Well, I am," Stratt says, plain and simple. Straightforward as ever. "No point in pretending otherwise. I already had that crisis when he was brought in."
"Damn, had a crisis party without me?" Carl jokes. Stratt smiles at him over her laptop.
"Yes. You should have been there. Popcorn and kalter hund." Companionable silence settles between the two for a few minutes. The clock behind Stratt's desk ticks.
"I hope he stays," Carl says, finally, strained. Stratt mirrors his worry.
"I agree."