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Ughhh.

/Not only is he hung over, but he's still blind.

He lies on his blanket, stares at nothing, and starts to cry./

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"How'm I gonna be a grea' agen'f I can' even see half'a time??"

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"I'm still gonna be the best secret agent," he whispers as he struggles to blindly load a gun he could barely use when he could see.

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It's only after she spends another three days prying his eyelids open that she finally leaves him alone-- completely alone, back where he was left.

For a second, 'I can see in the dark' is an exciting idea, at least until he's reminded at how badly he's blinded in the light as soon as the sun hints at rising.

Okay: light equals blindness, any amount of light, however small, equals blindness. That's easy to remember, he thinks.

Now.

He sits smiling in camp, but his hopefulness slowly escapes him. He gropes the dirt until he bumps against a toy train track. Okay.

Now to get something to eat.

It’s always embarrassing when a project goes wrong.

Worse, of course, when it’s something you know you ought to be good at, something you’re paid for, something you’ve done dozens of times, a procedure you know better than the back of your own hand.

Inputting the new set of eyes was as simple as it’d always been, but Odette knows something is wrong when the boy rises, blinks, and immediately stretches out both arms.

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/He blinks dumbly, surprised, then bares his teeth in a grin and flicks his tongue./

Cute.

QUINTIN

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He sets up a tent for himself not far from the tower, if only for familiarity's sake.

He contemplates setting up the train set, denies himself, denies himself, denies himself. After a few hours of dragging boredom, he finally gives in, designing intricate track pathways for the train to follow, including a log (a bridge) and a puddle of water (a lake) and a roundabout a patch of dead grass (a community park.)

The train chugs noisily around, and he smiles to himself.

Childish, maybe; who cares, he doesn't have any work to do.

He gets to making little people out of sticks and weeds, but they keep falling apart. This alone slowly ruins his lifted mood.

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quintins idk

dumb doodlin

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Roast.

Doyle is curious.

Quintin is being positively childish on the floor of the shed-hut; he'd just found an old train set and a full army of tiny plastic men in the trunk of Doyle's car, left there for whatever reason, and he's got the men positioned on a battlefield before him. He mimics weaponry and helicopters and bombs being dropped, amazed at his power of vocal mimicry.

It's driving Doyle mad, and he's madly curious.

He looks up from his newspaper. "Tintin," he whistles, and lowers his voice, hissing; "I'm gonna burn you alive."

The boy freezes, familiarity bringing his fun to a screeching halt. Why is this even familiar? "You -- what?"

"I'm gonna burn you alive."

Quintin swallows, pulling the box with the train set to his chest in a hug, chewing his bottom lip. He doesn't respond to Doyle's further repetition, instead scooting back across the floor until he scrambles to his feet and, soundlessly, escapes.

Doyle returns to his newspaper. Curiosity satiated.

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"Well, I didn' -- not...really. Nobody really talked about it."

Quintin takes a shaky breath, rubbing his jaw. He takes a seat before he drops limply, embarrassingly, down, scooting a few more inches from Kinks.

He wrings his hands, thinking. "I dunno." He does know, but he also knows that what he'd claim doesn't make sense at all, and he doesn't want to make anything any more tense than it is. "I think I'm engaged." Quintin squints. "Married. Wit'a kid. But I don' remember much, jus' that I'm sick'r somethin', I'm always at the doc's." A laboratory, more like, but this isn't a term Quintin's familiar with.

Now that he thinks about it, Quintin's never spoken to his supposed wife. "Least they told me I got a wife. I jus' remember livin' in a hospital." He rubs his teary eyes.

"I'm trainin'a be a spy. Sort of. I'm an intern. Y'-- " he squints at Kinks, calmed down enough to be somewhat bold. "Y'never said how y'knew Walsh."

Dammit,not with the tears again. At least they’re quiet.

With the beginning of Quintin’s story, his brows knit, and the further he tells, the more the furrow deepens. A brother and sister is all he needs to hear for the issue of Walsh’s identity to solidify in his head, and to let the kid off the chopping block for now, but everything else is still murky. A body bag, really?

Wait.

“Y’didn’ know you have a brother and sister?” He leans back, easing off the kid’s jaw in favor of plucking up the gun for inspection. It gives him a reason to look away from those watery doe eyes, but it also entails glancing downward, and in that motion he notices that he’s still hard.

Irritation swells in his chest, and he sighs through his nose to keep it out of his voice. “D’you not remember anything before all tha’?”

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/Leans toward her, wrinkling up his nose./

Yeah?

QUINTIN

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QUINTIN

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"Look, I'll -- I'll tell y'everything, right? Jus' -- this's everything, I swear."

His eyes are beginning to well with tears, and he wipes them on his wrists -- it doesn't help much, but he's not so worried, mainly trying to figure out a plan to save his ass.

Nothing's sounded very good, so far.

"I think -- I woke up in a bodybag, yeah? Couple days ago. Walsh's'ere, an'  he says he stuck me in'at bodybag 'cause we got goons after us. An' I figured he's right. He didn' say why we're here, jus' I got a brother'n sister here'n to stay out'a their way, but I jus' -- I don' really like Walsh, gonna be honest, an' I don' think he likes me. He's always shooin' me." That gets a sad sniff out of him, and he rubs his eyes.

"I don' get sent anywhere, 'cause nobody's gonna send me somewhere. I only sell drugs sometimes, s'it. Walsh told me not t'go certain places, so I don't get to talk to anybody, an' s'jus' luck I noticed there's a person out'ere, I swear. I don' even know you, I jus' -- " he swallows. "They're not gonna send me after somebody, they don' even give me bullets for my gun." He pulls it from his pocket -- a tiny thing, and holds it to Kinks by the barrel. "I think Walsh wan's t'kill me, even, but that's -- I jus' wanted t'alk t'somebody. I swear'at's it."

The Sniper’s scowl deepens as he’s presented with two polar opposites, each as implausible as the other, and dead weight slumps into his hand. Now that his story has fallen apart, they’re back to square one; he has next to no context for Quintin’s visit. They may as well start back at the beginning.

He sucks his scarred cheek between his teeth to keep from grinding them and forces his voice even— dangerously low, but still even. “Let’s try this one more time: who sent you, and why?” His grip goes strong on the kid’s jaw, mostly to scare, but also to ache, eventually. “I’m about done with you; if the next words out of you aren’t the fokken truth, I’ve got a nice plot in the woods in mind for you..”

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Quintin chokes mid-nervous swallow, and his anger -- Quintin's Bad Temper -- finally flares.

But only for a second.

He's been raised in a place run by fear, and violence gets the point across. He reflexively takes Kinks' wrist in both hands and wilts, going entirely limp. "I didn' mean nothin', I promise, I jus' -- I jus' hear everybody's out'a get him, I wasn' gonna tell nothin', I swear, you could kill him if y'wan', I don' even like him!" He pulls at the man's grip, wincing.

Wait. That sounds bad. He backtracks himself, painfully badly; "I didn' mean'at, I'd care if y'killed him I mean, s'two peas'n a pod him'n me, 'course I'm one'a'is'n I'd care if y'killed him, just -- I won' say nothing, I swear! I'll jus' go, I swear, I won' bother you!"

Right. Change of plans.

Without missing a beat, the hand that had been the source of so much discomfort snaps up to seize the collar of Quintin’s shirt and drags him down to the Sniper’s level. Eyes narrowed to slits, he glares straight through the kid, voice steadily rising as he grits out, “He’s gonna fokken shoot you anyway, tha’s what. He knows I’m not to be disturbed without reason, and if he really brought you out here, he would have told you that. Yet here you are, making a ruckus, giving away my position, wasting my resources.

“You’re the one who can’t get his story straight, kid. You wouldn’t be alive right now if you weren’t one’a his, an’ if I find out you’re not, I’ll fix that right quick.” His voice drops low into a growl as fingers threaten to curl around his neck.

Let no one say he’s bad at bluffing— about Walsh’s involvement, not the murder. He’s far from opposed to that if the risk of the kid talking outweighs the risk of someone knowing about the blood on his hands.

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He doesn't answer at first, distracted.

...is that --

Nah. He averts his eyes across the room, but his ears have gone red. There's an odd twist in his stomach that tells him not to be embarrassed, that he shouldn't be embarrassed, but he can't help it. His face, at least, doesn't follow the example of the blush on his ears.

"Well's'n't -- s'not my real...er." Was he supposed to say that? He's not sure if it's even true. "I, er. Got a lot of family workin'is way." Things are beginning to click, and Quintin narrows his eyes.

"Y'don' even know Walsh, do you." He's excitedly suspicious, now, and his trust is fading. "Why? Wha's gonna happen if I do tell him?"

‘Papa,’ really? That single utterance whittles down all confidence in his identification of the kid’s father. Unless Muggie takes after his old man in more ways than anticipated, he’s been off the mark all this time. The possibilities are dwindling; there was never so much as a passing mention of a younger brother, but it’s still plausible.

Before he can set his head off spinning once more, he’s grounded by Quintin’s stuttering. Initially, his brows knit, and through the buzz in his head, the reason for his sudden discomfort is slow to dawn on him. ”But y’said your da was out here with you.”

He takes the risk of glancing upward, then follows that glassy stare to his own hand. Inwardly, he curses— he really hadn’t meant a thing by that, but now the kid will surely be scrutinizing him. With any hope, it’ll just push him out the door faster.

His hand falls lower, and he gives the stained material another tug for emphasis. Voice even and face betraying nothing, he replies, “He can’t know you were here, remember. Got any better ideas?” 

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"Heh, yeah -- 's'him alright, he'll make y'call'im 'papa' but he treats y'like one'a'is dogs, s'f' sure." He doesn't sit, but he still favors the leg, not putting all his weight down. Quintin wipes his eyes and goes quiet, listening, until he can breathe easy and talk without an echo of a whimpery sniff.

He hadn't even thought about what Walsh would think of torn-up pants, much less an explanation. If Kinks knew Walsh, after all, did it matter?

And: would Walsh even ask? Possibly not. 'Just a fight' would probably be adequate, now that Quintin considers the embarrassment of the truth. What kind of spy gets caught in a bear trap, anyhow?

The pants, though, were they a good pair of pants? He could get hit for ruining a good pair of pants --

Quintin's thoughts screech to a halt and he stares, dumbly, at Kinks' hand. He tries to ignore it and continues as casually as he can (not very casually at all;) "w-well, normally I'd...I'd jus' -- er. Jus' g-get new...pants," he says weakly.

"...what're y'doin'?"

The Sniper quirks a brow when the offered hand is ignored in favor of his shoulders, but he withholds complaint; it gets the kid up and moving, and that’s a step closer to getting him out of the tower. Still, he stares intently down at Quintin’s legs, following his progress, and keeping his eyes anywhere but on the kid’s face.

“Defeats th’ point if you’re jus’ gonna hang on me— ‘ere we go.” he mutters encouragingly, just to get him going a little faster. His hands follow his steps, hovering, but ultimately unneeded, from the look of things.

At the boy’s revelation, his brow climbs higher. “Would’e now.” A curious sound thrums in his throat. He can’t really say what sounds like Muggie— he’s an unpredictable little twat, and he still assumes that this is all a ploy to get to him, somehow. Still, precaution comes first, just in case it isn’t.

“Well, we still need an excuse for your clothes.” He gives the damaged pant leg in question a tug. “Could jus’ rip the bloody part off and say it snagged on somethin’, but…” Smoothing a palm up his inner calf, he trails off, and ends up drumming his fingers against the beginning swell of his thigh.

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/Swings his legs./

If I pay, y'wanna go somewhere'n eat? /He taps his chin./ D'they have food at bars?

MIKHAIL

/Looks pathetically up at him from where he’s sitting on the kitchen counter./

I’m hungry, an’ there’s nothin’ good.