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r0ttenb0gb0dy · 5 months ago

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Cyberpunk!Shadow Company AU by @r0ttenb0gb0dy

featuring my shadow company ocs in all their glory as well as graves!

TW FOR TYPICAL CANON VIOLENCE, MINOR GORE, ADULT LANGUAGE, MANIPULATIVE DYNAMIC DOWN THE LINE BETWEEN REX AND GRAVES. READ AT YOUR OWN RISK! :)

Night City has never been forgiving.

Coda knew that for many years prior to the exact instance that's reminding him of that fact, but the pack of Tyger Claw thugs chasing him through Kabuki is an excellent refresher. He doesn't have nearly enough chrome to compete with these guys, some two-bit fucking optics and a grip for his pistol, but he dropped the pistol about six blocks ago and he can't exactly stop to pick it up. It's at the point now with Wakako that he knows he owes her eds, she knows he owes her eds, and so does every nearly-psycho Tyger Claw that sees him on the street.

Evenings often end like this. Sprinting down the block, praying he finds somewhere safe to run into before they beat the credits out of him and he’s left battered and without cab fare to make it home.

Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.

Coda glances back over his shoulder to see they’ve gained a bit of distance, one of them has to be running a Kerenzikov or something, he's making Coda’s full tilt sprint look like a cakewalk. He makes the call last second to try and hop the fence into the back alley behind a bar, vaulting over it without a hitch, but he can't quite stick the landing. The dumpster breaks his fall, but he knows he isn't lucky enough to evade capture.

He should be a fortune teller, he thinks, as the Claw wrestles him out of the dumpster and up against the brick wall, a snarl of a laugh escaping as he knees Coda directly in the stomach. If he had eaten dinner, it would've been on the concrete. He writhes against the hold of several men and women, far larger than him thanks to their chrome, with little more fight to give than the spit in his mouth.

Bad idea.

“1万5千ドルだ、モレリ、それがお前の勘定に残っている金額だ!”

Coda doesn't speak Japanese.

He winces in preparation for being hit again, but to his surprise he hears gunshots, and they're close enough to have blown his head off. When he opens his eyes he sees the Claw holding him with a bright red hole where the side of his head should be, optics visibly shutting down as he crumpled and lets go of Coda. Scrambling away, towards the gunfire, he watches the other Claws drop dead before looking to his savior.

“Told them no good bastards to stay out of my fucking property.” A dark haired man mumbles, checking over a pistol in his hands. He’s pretty chromed out, a half mask covering the lower part of his face and presumably some killer implants. “You alright, kid?”

“Got a nasty fucking headache, but…yeah.” Coda says with a sigh from where he’s still sat on the ground, arms behind him for support, looking at the bloodied corpses of his attackers. “You didn't have to do that. I could've handled it.”

“That bitch had a monowire that would've cut your head off.” The brunette replies, extending a hand to Coda. He’s got smart-grips, and what looks to be mantis claws hiding beneath his sleeves. Coda can just barely make out the edge of the sharp metal implants, a subtle red glow under a suit jacket.

“Maybe I would’ve deserved it — y’don't know me, choom.” Coda isn't even close to face-to-face with the man, a height disadvantage making him feel remarkably dysphoric in his bones. He steps back and lets go of the man’s hand, looking past him to the bustling activity inside the dimly lit bar.

“Nobody deserves a fate like that — ‘sides, you look pretty harmless. Thirsty?” He doesn't miss a beat asking if Coda wants to come inside, which is a welcome gesture. These types of bars, usually you need to know someone or pay some ridiculous cover charge, so Coda considers this a stroke of luck and nods.

“Incredibly. They chased me here from Jig-Jig Street.”

“Shit, maybe I should've let them have their prey if you made ‘em run that far. Must’ve really pissed Wakako off, huh?” He holds the door for Coda to walk in and the air shifts ever so slightly, smelling of bergamot and vanilla, icy and cold.

“I owe her a few eddies.”

“15 grand isn't a few.”

“How do—”

“Real time translation implants — oughta get you a set if you're gonna keep trying to fuck over Miss Okada.” The brunette states in a matter of fact manner as they walk deeper into the bar, a neon sign behind the counter marking the place as ‘Shadows.’ It’s white neon on a black background, an ace of spades playing card smack behind the word Shadows. Something tells Coda that he shouldn't be here, but he can't quite place a finger on it, especially not when he takes a seat at the bar alongside the brunette that saved his life. He’s awkward and small in comparison to the hulking mass of a man, who speaks first to the bartender. “Two Blue Grass, double shots, on the rocks.”

“You got it, Wasp — who’s your friend?” The bartender asks the newly named fellow, Wasp, with a raised brow as he pours the drinks.

“Well, kleptoid?” Wasp asks, taking his glass and pulling his mask down. No heavy duty chrome, just a whole lot of scarring.

“Coda Morelli.”

“Spitfire. This one’s on the house, keep them sticky fingers off of anything it looks like you can't afford, yeah?” Spitfire says as he nudges Coda’s glass across the counter, a lopsided smile on the blonde’s face out of kindness. He seems much warmer in demeanor than Wasp does, but that just might be surface level customer service.

“I’m not a thief, you know — I just got wrapped up in some bad biz is all.” Coda murmurs as he sips the whiskey, wincing slightly at the burn it leaves in his throat.

“You mean to tell me you racked up fifteen big ones in debt? Not stolen eds?” Wasp almost laughs. “Shit, choom, I should've let them eat you alive.”

“Yeah, it's…it's debt.” Coda sighs and slams the rest of the drink before resting his forehead against the cool surface of the bar counter, eyes shut. “But, hey, I’ll figure it out. Always do.”

“D’you think Ace has anything—” Spitfire starts, but Wasp cuts him off quickly.

“Kid isn't a merc, look at him. A gentle breeze would knock his ass out.” Coda can hear the smirk on Wasp’s face without having to see it there.

“He’s not wrong.” Coda sits up straight again, propping his head up on a closed fist. “I’m not a merc.”

“You need the scratch, don't you?” Spitfire raises a brow, idly pouring Coda a second drink without asking.

“Yeah, but—”

“If you get zeroed trying to make the scratch, it doesn't matter. You’ll die if you don't pay her back.” Spitfire says in a way that is somehow both incredibly serious and dangerously playful at the same time, like he’s daring Coda to take the bait and ask. He does.

“So…who's Ace?” Coda asks, taking a sip from the second double shot of Blue Grass. It tastes better the second time.

“Probably the only fixer that can actually get you out of this mess.” Wasp replies as he replaces his mask, standing up from the bar. He tosses a cred chip at Spitfire, who catches it, stashing it at the terminal for payment. “Come on. Let's see if he'll even entertain letting a prole take a contract.”

Coda can't help but follow.

Shadows is a cozy, dark bar, with a lively nightlife. There’s mercs drinking and dancing, brain potatoes in the corner somewhere getting their rocks off on XBD’s, and a distinct lack of gambling. It's interesting. Most places at least have some sort of slot machines or a zombie running five finger fillet with a rusty knife, but anything of the sort is absent here. Coda keeps his eyes low as Wasp leads him through the bar, through what is very clearly a joytoy hall, and then to a top floor where the owner presumably resides. There’s a door with a spade on it, just like the symbol behind the bar, but with an A in the centre of it. Wasp knocks with two knuckles, firm.

“Commander, got some fresh meat out here that wants work.” Wasp barks, and there's a subtle clatter inside the room.

“One second.” A voice calls back, and a few moments later the door opens. Who Rex can only assume to be a joytoy, dark hair and soft blue eyes, stumbles out with a huff as he adjusts the collar of his shirt. His gaze then shifts to the man behind the desk, who has a real-time face distortion field. It’s not like old world television static, more like a censor bar or black ice on the net. When his face shifts, so does it. “Evening, meat.”

“Coda Morelli.” Coda corrects, stepping into the room.

“You say your name like it should ring a bell.” The man chuckles.

“It shouldn't, but I’m not just meat. I deserve a name. Yours is..?” Coda cuts back as Wasp shuts the door, disappearing as quickly as he had appeared to save Coda in the alleyway. The air feels stuffy, especially as the owner lights a cigarette, though he does crack a window immediately afterwards.

“Ace.” The owner says back, extending a hand for a shake. He’s barren of visible implants. Coda isn't sure he even sees a jack-port on him, let alone anything on his hands or neck. “You don't look like a mercenary, Coda.”

“I’m not. I need work, though, I need the eds to pay back a debt that I owe — twice over, now, I guess because your tall, dark and angry lackey back there saved my life from the Claws hunting me down.” Coda murmurs the last part with a bit of embarrassment, his hands stuffed into his jacket pockets. He feels awkward and sort of like a loser, begging for work after such a close call with his own demise, but if this man can help him then it's worth it. If he can squash his debt with Wakako, then maybe he can start to find a way out of the pit he’s dug himself into.

“Sounds like him — what do you have experience with? Driving, net running?” Ace asks, taking a drag of his cigarette mid sentence, blowing the smoke out the window respectfully. He hasn't told Coda to get the fuck out yet, which is a good sign.

“I can drive, yeah.” Coda nods. “I have a Mizutani Shion MZ1, 2065. Used to run races with it.”

“You win?”

“Always, every time, sir.” Coda isn't sure where the formality came from, but it feels right on his lips. Afterall, this man could help him out, a little ass kissing won't hurt.

“Then I have a task for you. Transporting some goods from a contact out in the Badlands to here — if you get it back here safely, then I’ll pay out a nice little piece of the earnings to you. How much do you owe?”

“15 thousand.” Coda is embarrassed, it's clear in the way he shifts his gaze away.

“Done. You’ll get twenty.” Ace nods.

“What is it I’m transporting that’s worth so much?” Coda raises a brow.

“Find out when you get it here, won'tcha sugar?” Ace has a low, husky rumble to his voice that makes Coda’s hair stand on end, his eyes focusing on where Ace’s eyes should be in an instant. The empty blackness that stares back tells Coda he ought to behave on this once in a lifetime chance at saving his hide. “I’ll flick the cords over and call my contact, let him know to look for a…what, a black Mizutani?”

“How’d you guess?” Coda flashes a smile.

“I drive the same one.” Ace is smug about admitting this, but his soft expression reflects a certain kindness as well. Coda is about to make a comment when he gets the notification of the coordinates, pinging so incredibly far out in the desert that he wonders if he’ll have enough gas to get there and back. He wants to ask for a meeting time, but Ace has other plans. “Better get going, kid. It's getting dark out.”

“Right.” Coda nods and backs away, out the door and into the hallway before he can even register what he’s gotten himself into. He feels his pockets, checking for his keys. It's not often that he actually calls his Mizu out or uses the auto-driving features, because truthfully the fee is outrageous, but this sort of mission beckons the frivolous eddie spending. If he succeeds, then he can afford a permanent subscription to the auto-arrival feature. All that exists in his mind as he steps back outside and onto the sidewalk in front of Shadows, pressing the auto-arrival button on his keys, is the notion that there’s a way out of this hole.

It only takes a few minutes for the car — affectionately named “Betty” to pull up — and for Coda to get behind the wheel. It's already warmed up, the engine, so he floors it in the direction of the Badlands coordinates. His main hand taps anxiously at the steering wheel as the other holds the shift stick with intention, expertly moving between gears to make the engine roar out as he weaves in and out of inner city traffic.

Eventually, the traffic breaks, and he can see the stars. Night City’s light pollution is a distant memory in the desert, out in the wild, breathing in slightly cleaner air. Coda reaches over and pops his glove compartment, grabbing his backup pistol from where it's stashed, checking that it's loaded as he pulls up to the middle of nowhere. It's a landfill, essentially, a junkpit. Full of Night City’s discard, probably a few dead bodies and a booster or two.

He leaves his engine idling as he gets out of the car, stuffing his pistol in the back of his jeans with an anxious huff as he waits. No headlights in sight. Regretting that he didn't ask Ace for any sort of contact information regarding the person he was to be meeting, he pulls his phone out and thumbs over it. The screen glows quietly, showing a lack of text messages and the music that's playing in Betty, some melodic metalcore that quickly fades whenever he sees headlights approaching.

Quickly.

The car, some nomad modified special, drifts across the sand and skids to a stop mere inches from Coda’s front bumper. He scrambled back to avoid the impact, pulling his heat the instant he saw the gonk that was driving it fall out. It's a nomad, sure as hell, of the Bakker variety. He’s got a hole in his chest, bleeding profusely, and a look in his eyes that screams terror.

“Hey — fuck — you’re Ace’s merc, right?” The Bakker gonk asks, hand pressed to the gaping wound as he stumbles to his knees, then to his feet.

What the fuck did Coda get himself into here?

“Uh — sure.” Coda nods slowly. “You alright, choom?”

“I’ll be fine, listen — the package is in the back, don't — don’t fuckin let them catch up. Maelstrom gonks.” The Bakker nomad huffs as he stumbles to the trunk of the car, Coda following with an anxious twitch to his aiming hand.

He doesn't feel safe, something's fucking wrong, it's like he can feel the danger without seeing it.

Maelstrom is bad news, this he knows, but something about having a half dead nomad talk him through the process whilst actively bleeding out from these guys…it makes it feel all the much more terrifyingly lethal. The trunk opens and he swears he can hear cars in the distance, growing closer, engines screaming louder. His gaze shifts to a large metal container, several massive locks in place on it, with a big, fat MaxTac logo smacked on the front of it.

“Get going, kid, I’ll hold ‘em off you as long as I can.”

“Wait, wait, MaxTac?” Coda stutters. “The fuck is this thing?”

“Are you the only fuckin’ prole in the city that doesn't know to delta the fuck out when they hear about Maelstrom coming or what?” The nomad barks, hand still pressed to the gaping wound on his chest. Coda doesn't answer, just picks up the case and jogs to the back of Betty, popping her trunk and gently placing it inside. When he looks back up, he can see the nomad wrenching an oversized rifle out of the back of his ride. He’s propping it up on the trunk, bracing it against the shoulder that isn't wounded, not even glancing back to see if Coda is running.

He is.

It doesn't cross his mind that he should protect the Bakker clan member, not whenever Maelstrom is clearly interested in whatever Ace has him transporting. Betty is hurtling across the desert before he can even begin to question his choices, he’s shifting and steering with the same hand whilst the other is fucking with his phone, trying to find contact information for Ace. Afterall, he flicked the cords over, he should be somewhere in there…

“You've reached the voicemail box at the office of The Shadows, leave a message after the—” Coda practically throws his phone into the backseat and glances back in the rear view mirror to see several sets of headlights tailing him.

“Motherfucker.” Coda mutters under his breath as he shifts once again, car rapidly making way towards the bridge entering back into Watson, which he knows he can get into Kabuki from. If he just takes a deep breath and navigates the streets, he can fucking do this. He just has to lose the Maelstrom rats along the way, right?

Gunfire. It's getting closer. They really want this package, don't they?

Coda keeps looking back as he drives, eventually deciding that he can't risk returning fire. He needs to lose them the old fashioned way, with good and hard driving, as fast as he possibly can in crowded streets. Night City is a bustling hub around every corner, with sharp turns and complicated traffic laws. Good thing he intended on ignoring street lights and crosswalk signals. There was no way he could be a lawful citizen right now, not if he wanted to take this package back to Ace and get his miracle paycheck.

He just prayed that the badges weren't going to be in his way, and floored it. Coda turned the radio up so loud that he couldn't hear the gunfire or the thumping of his heart in his head, eyes affixed on the road ahead and the peripheral traffic interference.

The bullets are penetrating the car. He can hear it, the thwip of full metal jackets slicing through the metal exterior.

Hard turns. Bearing into the curves. Coda can't breathe. He’s watching with nothing short of terror as two large, kitted out Maelstrom cars pull up alongside him and attempt to push him back and forth. Cars are swerving out of the way frantically, he's certain that he can hear police sirens in the distance, eyes locking briefly with a bunch of beady, red optical implants on the gonk driving the car on his right. They make eye contact and then he can see the barrel of a gun, flinching on instinct and taking the gunshot directly to the upper arm.

Everything is a burning, searing pain, but he doesn't stop driving.

He doesn't even slow down.

Coda decides to take an alternate route back to Shadows, whipping Betty around a post with expert skill, losing two of the Maelstrom chasers in the process.

“Fuckin’ hell…” Coda lets a shaky breath out as he starts navigating the streets to the best of his ability, scanning the signs to see where he needed to go. His hands aren't shaking anymore. There’s confidence in the way he swerves in between other cars, despite the gaping bullet wound in his arm that’s screaming in pain.

A few more blocks.

He watches in complete fear as a couple of badge cars round the corner and cut Maelstrom off, leaving him a few precious seconds to speed up and evade them, which he does. With Betty whipped into a parking spot outside Shadows, he sits there with the bass blasting for just a minute more, white-knuckle grip on the wheel as tight as ever. Well, with one hand. The other isn't able to grip as tightly as he would appreciate, not with the — oh, that's worse than he thought it was.

When he looks down at the bullet wound he's sure they must've been hollow points or explosive rounds, because it's not just a gaping maw of flesh — he isn't sure there's much at all aside from bone holding his arm on, and even then it’s been shattered by the bullets. Adrenaline is one hell of a drug.

At least it wasn't his head.

He’s still sitting there, shaking ever so slightly, when someone thumps on the window to the driver's side door, which swings open a second later. Wasp. Coda wasn't sure that he could ever assume that big, angry looking fucker to be a sight for sore eyes, but here he was.

“You’re alive.” Wasp scoffs. “Bones, gimme a hand, would you?”

“Bones?” Coda murmurs.

“Oh, pequeño, está bien. Bones está aquí, estás en buenas manos.” A dark haired woman is in his line of sight in an instant, thick red chunks of dyed hair sticking out in the midst of the natural hue. She’s a ripperdoc, she has to be, she’s got all sorts of BioMon implants and a stethoscope around her neck. Her sclera are white, but her actual pupils appear to be red crosses. “Coda, right?”

“Yeah — right, no— where’s Ace?” Coda argues as Bones helps him out of his car, watching as Wasp pops his trunk open to retrieve the MaxTac case. The Merc whistles as he picks it up, seemingly in awe that he actually has his hands on the contents. It has to be something priceless, something worth murdering for. In Night City, that bar is low, but with MaxTac grade gear…it has to be something good.

“Can you relax, kid? You survived, Bones’ll take care of you — Ace doesn't forget an act of bravery like this one.” Wasp isn't very convincing, but the needle that Bones is injecting him with is. It's some sort of sedative, because when Coda wakes up his vision is blurry and he’s lying uncomfortably on what he can only assume to be Bones’ table.

He doesn't know it, but he's been there for a few days. Drifting in and out of consciousness thanks to any number of painkillers to keep him satiated through the initial brunt of his injuries. Hopped up on regulation hormones to ensure he doesn’t panic upon waking up, but there's little stopping him from doing so anyways.

It's cold and hard, the table. Not cushiony by any means but she’s a ripper after all — they're life savers, not comfort bringers. He can only guess how high the fucking bill will be for this one, because he’s sure that Shadows won't comp an entire medical bill on top of the fee Ace agreed to pay him for this mess. Coda sighs and shuts his eyes again, rubbing at the bridge of his nose as the sedative wears off completely and things start to come into focus. The world is less blurry this time, sounds less sharp, lights less bright.

“Keep still.” Bones’ voice is distinct, rigid as she demands that Coda doesn't move. He obliges her without question, glancing at the curtain that's currently obstructing his view of his arm, the one with the bullet wound.

It's a blessing that he can't feel the pain anymore.

“What's the damage, doc?” Coda murmurs, holding as still as he can for fear that she’ll chastise him.

“You were due for some chrome, barely had any running.” Her only reply doesn't ease his mind in the slightest, because it makes him wonder just what she had to do. Is there a metal plate in his arm? A titanium joint replacement? It could be any number of things and he won't know until she moves the damn curtain. “You scared of going psycho or something?”

“Isn't everyone?” Coda asks, wincing slightly as Bones tweaks something behind the curtain, the pain shooting up his entire arm. He can feel it twitch independently, and he begins to fear the worst. “Is it gone?”

“Is what gone, pequeño?”

“Very funny — my arm?”

“It's…better. Consider this your scratch for the job well done, hm?”

“What about the eddies?” Coda protests, but Bones is moving the curtain before she can answer, letting him see his arm. What remains, at least. It's a full prosthetic, entirely made of high carbon steel, thin lines of neon glowing somewhere within its confines. The place where it conjoins with Coda’s shoulder is still red and angry, bandaged up, but the rest of it looks silver and pristine. He can see a sharp edge along the back of his wrist, probably a blade of some kind, as well as a brand new jackport. It doesn't hurt, but it feels strange — heavier than the old arm, like it has more heft behind it than a fist of flesh and blood ever could. “O-Oh…”

“MaxTac custom, made specially by Militech for the NCPD’s newest addition. Delivered here by you, so…I figured you’d accept it as your reward.” Bones says as she watches Coda lift his arm up and turn it over, flexing his fingers and wiggling them to ensure they all function. It's uncomfortable to say the least. He wants his arm back, without a doubt. “What? You don't like it?”

“...I agreed to be paid in scratch, doc, not…not this.” Coda says, still in shock, reaching over with his left hand to touch the cold metal surface of his right.

“I’m sure you can work out the details with Ace, guapo.” Bones replies, nonchalant as she slides away on her rolling stool, humming to herself as she slots in at her desk. The screen is showing that Coda's brand new chrome should be functioning at max capacity, so she unplugs it from the diagnostic scanner and stands. Her hands are extended to his, a gentle offering of peace to help him stand. “Come on, sleeping beauty.”

“No, I don't — I don't want this thing. I want my arm.” Coda protests firmly, his hands refusing to find Bones’.

“It's in a dumpster outside, though there's a chunk from your elbow to your shoulder that’s the closest thing to ground beef it can get without being the real thing.” Bones gestures over her shoulder towards the door, and Coda begins to wonder if it's the same dumpster he fell into when he was running from the Claws earlier that day — was it yesterday now? The timepiece integrated into the wrist of his new arm told him it was in fact three later.

He fucking hated it.

Coda takes Bones' hands within his own after he contemplated ripping the implant off, standing up on shaky legs that quickly regain their stability. She smiles at him in a way that makes him feel at ease despite the foreign body attached to him, the icy static where flesh meets metal still tingling.

“You’ll need some anti-rejection chems for a little while, but…you took to it well. Chrome suits you, Coda.” Bones looks him up and down like a hungry animal searching it's prey, and he sort of scoffs while looking away. “What? You really that disappointed about it? That thing cost a lot more than Ace was paying you.”

“I needed the money, doc.” Coda insists, sighing as he scratches the back of his head with the new hand. Metal fingertips lack nails, so it doesn't do the job quite right.

“Hm.” Bones crosses her arms. “Ace said he’d be around to check on you once you were vertical, guapo, you’ll have to ask him. Lift back up to Shadows is down the hall.”

Coda nods and thanks Bones with a cred chip carrying just a little extra scratch, a tip for a job well done even if it was work he didn't really want. She installed the chrome beautifully, and it was slowly starting to feel less foreign the more he walked around using it.

Then again, that was the point, wasn't it?

Chrome is supposed to feel like an extension of the self, especially for whoever it's custom made for. Of course this unit wasn't made for Coda, some roided out gonk on MaxTac is likely missing an arm because of this, but it sure feels like it was made for him now. He sits at the bar, flexing his fingers repeatedly from a fist to an open palm, occasionally sipping on a seltzer. Spitfire watches him, leaning on the glass bar surface as Coda plays with the new limb.

“You know, whenever I first got my leg I hated it, too. Felt strange.” Spitfire hums as he watches Coda drop his drink, still getting the hang of the whole neuro-sensitive response thing. He gave him a plastic cup for a reason, and this was why. It would've been rude to give him a glass and expect him not to drop it at least twice before really getting the hang of it.

“Was your chrome on purpose?”

“No. Lost it back when I worked with NCPD.”

“You? A corpse?” Coda laughs, picking up the dropped cup and snatching a rag from behind the counter to wipe up the spillage. “I can't imagine it.”

“Mmmhmmm…I used to love myself in a three-piece suit until one day, they had me attempting to arrest some gonk that went psycho, wanted me to zero the girl — I can't support that shit. There’s a person in there that's probably terrified.” Spitfire sighs, pouring Coda a new drink without missing a beat. Liquid comfort seems to be going a long way towards his coping with the limb-loss, that's for damn sure. “Oh — heads up, klep.”

Coda can't lie, he damn near breaks his neck to turn and see who he’s been warned about. Ace still has the live facial distortion field on, but Coda can get a view of the back of his head whenever he takes a seat beside him at the bar counter. His right ear is clipped, looks like a bullet cut through it and took a chunk, but that's as close to the face as Coda can see before it's all hazy from the black ice censor. Ace appears to be blonde, with warm tanned flesh, but again — it's difficult to discern anything more.

“What can I get you, boss?” Spitfire asks, a smile crossing his expression briefly.

“Silverhand?” Ace raises a brow.

“I don't think I remember the recipe perfectly but I can give it a shot.” The blonde bartender replies as he disappears to find the ingredients for a ‘Silverhand’, a drink that Coda hadn't heard of, but the irony isn't lost on him. He looks down at his chrome plated palm and then to Ace, who he knows is smirking despite the distortion filter.

“Well, I know you have questions, sugar. Shoot.” Ace leans forward slightly, though he’s very clearly still looking at Coda. It's awkward to make eye contact without actually making eye contact, but Coda wants some answers more than he wants humanity.

“I can't take this implant. I needed that scratch, Ace, I…I appreciate the reward, and the replacement of a busted limb, but…” Coda shakes his head and averts his gaze. “I’ll give it back if you just give me the eddies.”

“Slow down. I already talked to Miss Okada.” Ace replies as he takes the drink from Spitfire, swirling it around in the glass before taking a sip from it. He seems satisfied, because the bartender slips away without comment, leaving them to their conversation. “Your debt is paid, sug, you don't owe her a cred.”

“Huh?” Coda is baffled. Beyond baffled, fuck, he’s floored. He shakes his head once to clear his mind before turning entirely in his seat to look at Ace, or at least where his features should be under the distortion. “You paid it off?”

“Sure did — Bones said you needed the chrome, I knew you needed the eds, but therein lies a problem. That arm was gonna sell for…hell, twenty, thirty times what you owed Wakako.” Ace states as he polishes off his drink, turning to face Coda all the same. He can see the dark haired man just fine through the distortion field, watch his green eyes dart back and forth anxiously as he waits for the devastating news. Ace would deliver it with a smile, if Coda could see it. “So now you owe me — let's call it a hundred grand.”

“I’m gonna be sick.” Coda mutters, his face buried in the palms of his hands, a cold sweat running down his back. What the fuck had he done? Not only had he gone and gotten his body mangled past the point he ever saw it going, but he’d gone and dug himself into an even worse debt in the process. This time to a man he barely knows, doesn't even recognize the face of. Ace could shoot him on the street tomorrow and he’d never know it was him.

Hundreds of possibilities whir around in Coda’s mind as the reality sets in that he’s got one hell of a target on his head, but Ace’s hand on his back levels him out. It’s heavy, his touch, grounding his wandering thoughts back to earth. Ace rubs large, bounding circles with his palm, covering the entire expanse of Coda’s small back.

“With chrome like that, Coda, you’ll be an effective merc. It's got smart-weapon integration, aim assist, a built-in mantis claw — I’m sure the smart-grip’ll help with your driving, too, which I heard was impeccable.” Ace continues to idly rub Coda’s back as he praises him for the job well done, giving him a rundown of what the prosthetic can do. It almost comforts him into forgetting that Ace just smacked a several year merc contract onto Coda’s very existence.

He was property of Shadows now, at least for a while. It was better than being dead, better than being hunted by Tyger Claws until he was a shell of himself. Ace was at least trying to improve his little existence, and he wasn't kidding — this caliber of cyberware was incredibly powerful. This motherfucker could do some damage, permanent damage, to anything in Coda’s path. He sits up slowly but Ace’s hand never moves, if ever so slightly down to the small of his back. It's intimate. Uncomfortably so. He instinctively twitches to shrug Ace’s touch away but he holds firm.

“You have a place to stay in, or do you need one?” Ace asks after a long silence.

“I have an apartment in the megabuilding.”

“I’ll take over the rent payment.”

“I’m capable of paying my own rent.”

“You’re not gonna spend a cred without me knowing, sugar. I had my netrunner get access to your assets — our assets. Just to make sure that you don't delta before your debt is repaid to Shadows, of course, I won't touch any of your personal scratch.”

For some reason, Coda doesn't believe him.

“Anything else I need to know about?” Coda asks, turning to look into the black void that stares back at him. Its abyssal emptiness is a stark contrast to the warmth of Ace’s hand, snaking beneath his jacket to touch at the bare skin between his cropped shirt and the waist of his jeans.

“You’ll need a uniform. Other fixers’ll leave you alone if they know who owns you.”

He isn't sure how he feels, but fucked doesn't begin to cover it.

—

SOOOOO HOW DO WE FEEEEEEEL ABOUT IT ?!? graves fixer name is ace cause playing card get it...im so clever. mwah. i love u if u read this far.

tags //

@simonrriley @whitewolfmystery

#bogs ramblings #bogs writing #rexgraves #coda morelli #coda rex morelli #philip graves #walker wasp hayes #eric spitfire torres #cyberpunk au #cyberpunk 2077 #cyberpunk #au #oc x canon #canon x au #cod au #cyberpunk cod au #doomed toxic yaoi

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r0ttenb0gb0dy · 6 months ago

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cyberpunk au where graves is a fixer .

he has a bar , shadows , where he runs his business out of . the afterlife doesn't really appeal to him whenever he can run his own joint , keep his own mercs to himself , ensure business stays clean . he was a maxtac contractor at one point , so some dirty business follows him around , not that he really minds .

the pack of cyberware loaded dogs he calls mercs will keep him safe .

rex was your average little street rat until he got scouted for his net running capabilities, the fact he was packing chrome that should've gotten him arrested a while ago. graves knew he recognized the shit from a stolen cache he was supposed to be retrieving as a contract, but he let it slide . rex was rocking some mods that would knock any normal choomba back on his ass. you don't waste that sort of cyberware capacity . you push it as far as you can .

it's all fun and games until a contract rolls across his desk, an offer from a fellow fixer . splitting the winnings on a relic , a shard with something wicked on it , worth billions of eddies .

what could go wrong ?

#cyberpunk au #rexgraves #i may actually write this #bogs ramblings #call of duty au #cod au #coda rex morelli #alternate universe #cyberpunk 2077 #cyberpunk

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r0ttenb0gb0dy · 6 months ago

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9/10 Coda "Rex" Morelli

Coda sat once again across from Graves at his desk, two files sitting in front of them. One had their headshot from basic training paper clipped to it. The other file was an empty, basic manila folder with no picture on it, a blank slate.

It’d been a few months since they asked Graves to kill Coda, and it would seem he had succeeded.

“It’s done?” They asked softly, picking up the file with their picture on it, a bright eyed version of themself staring back at them. There was hope in those eyes, and they missed that boy dearly.

“All done.”

“How’d you do it?”

“You don’t wanna know, darlin’.” He seemed genuine, so they didn’t press further. If it was bad enough that he didn’t tell them right off the bat, it was probably something horrific that would haunt their nightmares. “All that’s left is figurin’ out who you are.”

“Is it bad that I don’t care what name’s on the file?” Coda chuckled softly, picking up the file of the dead boy, flipping it open to view the information it contained. Nothing on the death, which they were okay with.

“No, not bad at all…I just need to know what you want to be in there. How much of a ghost do you want to be?” Graves was oddly humane about this. He was sympathetic to their situation, to the difficulty of a decision like this. It had to be weighing on Coda knowing that they were legally nonexistent now, and he couldn’t begin to understand, but he could sit here and listen if they needed. He would deny it to anyone that asked, including them, but he cared.

Just a little.

“Completely. I-I don’t want my picture in there, I don’t want anything you don’t need.”

“Full Casper.”

“You’re not funny.” They retorted, setting the original file back on his desk.

“I think I’m adorable.” Graves replied with a slight smile, looking them over as they sat before him, their body language telling him everything he needed to know. They looked confident, more than they had in the past, eyes bright with the promise of a fresh start. “I’ll put the bare minimum. Name, blood type, age…”

“It’s that easy to make someone up, huh?”

“I’ll have to fake your documents, too, but I’ve got a government official or two that’d be happy to help.”

“Is there anyone you aren’t blackmailing?” Coda raised a brow, earning a laugh out of Graves.

“Sweetheart, it’s not blackmail. Blackmail is a threat, I guarantee I’ll spill their secrets one day. They just do what they can to push that day off.”

“God, you’re insufferable.”

“I never claimed I wasn’t.” Normally he would reply with something annoying about talking to their superior that way, but it would seem that today he was letting up. A grace period while they adjusted to rheir new reality. “So, what should I call you now? Don’t think Coda would be a great idea.”

“The Shadows already call me that, though.”

“They’re not stupid, if I tell ‘em that name stays in the company, it stays in the company. You need a callsign so we have somethin’ t’call you over the radio.”

“Can I sleep on it?”

“You can have a day, angel.” Graves hummed as he picked up his old file and stuffed it away in a cabinet, the new one still sitting open on his desk, ready to be filled with the new information.

“I’m not an angel.” Coda mumbled, leaning back in the seat as they watched him. He scribbled some generic name on the folder’s label, nothing that mattered much to them at all right now, his handwriting was practically illegible even if they wanted to read it.

(It most certainly did not say some off-brand first name with Graves tacked onto the end, no, he would never stoop to that level.)

“What are you then?”

“Well, I mean — what am I allowed to be in your little empire here?”

“Sure as shit ain't Caesar.”

“Then I’m Brutus.”

“Keep dreamin’.”

“What, like…like you’re the almighty Julius Caesar?” They laughed, earning a glare from the Commander.

“Not really, because I don’t die in this story.” Graves replied, leaning forward slightly on his desk. “I’m the ruler who doesn’t call himself king because all kings in Rome die, and I don’t die.”

“So I can be Brutus, then?”

“You’re gonna murder me? You?” He cocked a brow up, that ever-smug expression somewhat charming to Coda by this point.

“Brutus wanted to kill Caesar and become king, so…”

“If your plan is to murder me and usurp the Company, I have news for you — it’s not happenin’.”

“How about Rex?” Coda asked after a moment in deep thought, their eyes meeting his. He let out a low, gravelly chuckle, lacing his fingers together on the desk in front of him. They seemed serious, which was adorable.

“What makes you think that callin’ yourself that will get you what you want?”

“Well, that’s my answer. Call me Rex.”

“Fine.” Graves replied with a laugh, just the thought of this small, fiery man proclaiming himself a king enough to brighten any day. He wasn't very convincing about it, more so than his eyes were too pretty say no to.

“Fine, who?” They said teasingly, half expecting to be reprimanded for mocking him.

“Fine, Rex.” He was entirely too smug about it, but they still got their way. “Now, get outta my office.”

“I love the name of honor more than I fear death.” Rex replied as they stood up, ripping the sergeant badge off their uniform and tossing it on his desk expectantly. He only watched as they left the room, a well-earned confidence in the way they carried themselves.

Only Coda could quote a Shakespearien tragedy whilst demanding a promotion and leave him considering it. He had Graves around his little finger just as much as Graves had him on a tight, tight leash.

—

taggies !!!! @simonrriley

#bogs ramblings #call of duty #bogs writings #coda morelli #coda rex morelli #lieutenant commander coda rex morelli #shadow company rex #rexgraves #graves x oc #oc x canon #of humble origins and born of the cursed sex #my name is brutus but the people will call me rex #i love the name of honor more than i fear death #coda being an unhinged little monster #doomed toxic yaoi #toxic doomed yaoi #your honor they are in love #now listening: tears over beers by modern baseball

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r0ttenb0gb0dy · 6 months ago

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10/10 Coda "Rex" Morelli

It didn't take long at that rate, hurtling towards something dangerously close to love at a speed that would make a Blue Angel blush.

They sort of, kind of, not really hated each other. It was a delicate dance of pointed words, followed up by all-too-soft touches in passing. A pat on the shoulder, a hand grasping at another, Rex’s boot nudging him under the table during meetings. It was almost annoying, actually, how quickly Rex warmed up to him completely and entirely.

Graves cared about Rex and after a long, long while of acting like he didn't see the potential, he gave Rex that promotion. Lieutenant. It felt almost wrong to give it to him over some other Shadows that had been there longer, but something deep within his chest told him that the loyalty Rex offered was to the bone. It wouldn't waver at the slightest hint of anger, come and go like the tide — it was ingrained in Rex’s very being to do what was best for Shadow Company.

The years seemed to move by in slow motion and fast forward all at once, watching Rex go from some skinny, sharp-toothed, afraid little thing with an attitude to a bulky, even shorter-fused firecracker of a Lieutenant. A pack of black cats in a red paper wrapper. He came running whenever Graves called, he went wherever he was told, did whatever he had to. The job got done, regardless of personal feeling or strife.

Rex was a force to be reckoned with.

He would kill for Graves with his bare hands. Rip and tear into flesh like it were paper if it meant that he could satisfy his Commander. The day that he obtained his, supposed to be, final promotion at Shadow Company was a horrific one. Coated in a thin layer of sweat and a thick layer of blood as he dug his knife out of the chest of the enemy in front of him, another thick splatter coating his face.

Graves decided right then and there, in the middle of a bombing run over their precise location, that if anyone was going to carry on the legacy of the company, God forbid anything happened to him, it would be Rex. The way he flickered his green eyes up to meet Graves’, his mask coated in blood, a wicked smile that showed from just the creases around his eyes.

Messy and raw, the way a leader should be.

Only a few moments were wasted being back at base when Graves said something, unable to bite his tongue as he watched Rex light a cigarette and take a long drag. He was still dressed in his full tactical gear, still covered in the red liquid that made his eyes that much more vibrant, black painted fingernails chipped as they idly picked at the dried blood.

“You know, I never would've thought I’d see you gut a man with a knife with the way you used to fight with one.” He starts, looking Rex up and down. Inspecting him, dissecting his features. “Used to be so scared of them things.”

“Yeah, well, things change. I got thicker skin.” Rex sort of shrugs, reaching up to yank his helmet off unceremoniously. Dark hair spilling out, streaks of grey more pertinent than they had been years prior. Roots all grown in a similar shade of grey, making the dark ends look that much darker. “I’m just doin’ my job.”

“You do more than that, though, and you know it. You always push that extra mile.” Graves replies, taking a seat next to Rex. He nabs the cigarette from his Lieutenant’s hand and takes a drag for himself before returning it. “Always have a goddamn smile on your face while you do it, too.”

“Always have, haven't I?” Rex chuckles.

“You hated me for a long time, don't act like you didn't.”

“Hmm? Who's to say I still don't?” They say in jest, shouldering Graves gently. The Commander almost laughs, shaking his head instead as he leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. He has always despised the way that Rex can make his brain get all cross wired with just a few words, making any sense of control disappear in the instant it takes to make a witty remark. “I’m kidding, I…I don't think I could ever hate you. You’re my person, y’know?”

“Should start rethinkin’ your choices if I'm the person you choose to rely on.”

“Why’s that, huh?”

“You can rely on yourself in this world, that's about it.” Graves replies, his hands behind his head now, fingers interlocked. He’s deep in his thoughts when Rex places a hand on the broad surface of his back, gently rubbing circles in some form of comfort. Graves couldn't quite place why he needed that little comfort, but it was welcome all the same. “Really wormed yourself into my head, y’know that?”

“So that means I’m your person, too, right?”

“My Achilles heel.” Graves mumbles under his breath with a combination of disdain and admiration.

“Romantic.” Rex replies with a little smirk crossing their expression. “It always comes back to a tragedy with us, doesn't it?”

“Does it?” Graves looks up to meet Rex’s eyes, finding that charming little smile. Warm, cozy like a cup of tea on a particularly cold morning. He chooses to ignore the usage of ‘us’ in order to hear Rex’s explanation.

“I mean, Achilles was arrogant towards anyone else that looked his way, anyone except Patroclus. He mourned nothing more in life than the death of Patroclus, you know that? They were cremated and placed in the same urn.” Rex states in a matter of fact tone, though Graves’ mind is elsewhere from his deadpan delivery. It’s on the fact that he, too, would mourn nothing more than losing Rex. The Company could burn, the country could burn, he just needed Rex to be alive. He hadn't realized it outright until then that he relied on Rex so heavily, but years of close knit attachment will do that. He couldn't imagine the Company without him. “History books call them best friends. A general and his soldier.”

“What do you call them?”

“Lovers.” Rex hums softly, flicking the ash off of their cigarette. “But I mean, Roman soldiers had a very strange relationship with each other, so…maybe I’m just reading too far into it.”

“Yeah, maybe.” Graves murmurs, thinking for all of two seconds before he puts an arm around Rex. “How about us? Commander and Lieutenant Commander?”

“Hah — you're somethin’ else, y’know? I’m trying to be nice to you and it comes back to some power dynamic.” Rex laughs. Graves is entirely serious.

“You’d inherit the Company, should anything ever happen to me. I don't think that's something ‘best friends’ do, though.” Graves shrugs, all too playful in his wording, the same way Rex is. They rubbed off on each other a miserable amount. Briefings have become interesting, that's for sure, with two equally witty men at the head of the table.

Both too confident to admit what they're both trying to.

“Are you trying to tell me you love me, Philip Graves?” Rex says with a teasing tone, dragging their hand up Graves' arm. Tracing over the Shadow Company insignia embroidered on the sleeve, Shadow 0-1 right below it. His matches, 0-2.

“Maybe. Is that a bad thing?”

“Oh, terrible.” Rex replies, nestling themselves up against Graves as they finish the smoldering cigarette between their middle and ring fingers. “I thought we're only supposed to rely on ourselves, lest we succumb to the tragedy of needing another person?”

“Do as I say, not as I do.”

“Hypocrite.” Rex mumbles, whilst Graves gently rests his head against theirs, hesitating to let himself get close.

“I know, darlin’. Can you love me anyways?”

“Depends, will you leave me to run this place by myself?”

“Not if I can help it. As long as I’m breathing you won't ever have to be alone again.”

Bold words. A tall order. Both are firm believers that nothing could ever come to pass to separate them, not permanently.

“Promise?” Rex asks, holding out their pinky finger. Graves’ locks with it, as childish as it feels.

“Promise.”

—

epic conclusion . this is like... 3-4 years before MWII takes place bt dubs ! ill eventually try my hand at writing some rexxy insert fics for the campaign but im also incredibly lazy 💔😔

taggies @simonrriley the realest

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r0ttenb0gb0dy · 6 months ago

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6/10 Coda "Rex" Morelli

tw for blood, abusive dynamic and for the victim being okay with being victimized

Coda wasn’t entirely sure what he had done, but Graves was pissed.

It’d been a few weeks since he woke up in his bed after falling asleep in his office, wrapped in a blanket that smelled like gunsmoke and cologne, and Graves had been…tense. He was being hard on them again, back at square one it would seem, like before he cut their arm. The wound had healed, but it would seem the emotional damage had not for either of them.

They sat dazed on the ground, nursing a forming bruise on their forearm from the ever-tight grip of the comrades, as he watched in annoyance.

“Get up, go again. You need to be able to outrun any of them.” Graves barked, his gaze shifting from Coda to the pack of Shadows that were training with them. They were just running laps, but they were trying to outrun them — if they caught up to them, it was another lap they had to do later that evening. The larger men, with longer stride lengths, set a brutal pace that Coda just couldn’t keep up with, even if they tried. They were faster, stronger, and harder to evade.

“I fucking can’t, Graves, Christ.” Coda huffed, clambering back up to their feet to approach him. They had grown…fiery. Their personality was trying to come out after being suppressed, and that resulted in their spitfire attitude regularly getting them in trouble. They walked up to him and tried to make themselves look bigger, but being five foot four doesn’t really lend itself to that. “I can’t outrun them, I can’t.”

“You act like you have a choice.” Graves replied smugly, leaning down to his level, his expression that of a sly fox. It was annoying in every sense of the word, the way he seemed to hold himself in such high regard.

“I’m not doing this anymore.” Coda went to walk away from him, which was a first. Given that he kept them so close, they had gotten used to staying close, and never really put much distance in between them. That didn’t last very long, as he grabbed them by the strap on the back of their vest, yanking them right back. “Hey!”

“You’re not goin’ anywhere.” He whispered to them, his voice sending shivers up their spine that made their entire body shudder. They struggled, but there was no use. “You already tried to run once, darlin’, an’ you couldn’t even do it then.”

Fuck.

He knew.

“No — no I didn’t.” Coda protested, a whimper escaping as they pulled against the restraint. “Let me go!”

“Mmhmm…I know you did, sweetheart. You really think I just…walked away without thinkin’? I knew you were gonna try and run, Coda, what do you take me for?” Graves' voice was low and condescending, tone gravelly and thick with the power he held over them. He was very quickly reminded Graves was not the kind man they had thought he was for a moment. He was a bastard, he was in charge, he knew he had a strong hold on their psyche and he wasn’t letting go. “Now, you go out there an’ you run circles aroun’ them boys, or I’ll put you back in the medbay.”

Was that a fucking threat?

His body instinctively jerked against the restraints but he had let go, and he watched Coda fall to the ground. They didn’t waste a second scrambling back to their feet and bolting out in front of the group of Shadows. They took note of their presence and like a pack of wild dogs they picked up the pace, whistling and catcalling after him as he hauled off, stumbling through every meter he ran.

Everything in Coda told them to stop, to let him win, to give up before their body gave out, but they didn’t.

They ran as fast as their legs would carry them, eventually pushing themselves hard enough to lap them. Once they were certain they had caught up with the pack their body gave out from under them, collapsing to the tarmac with a thud. Their knees were scraped up on impact, palms skinned from catching themself, elbows busted; but they did it. By the skin of their teeth, they did it.

Their blood painted the tar immediately, red stains littering the worn gray material, and they felt incredibly dizzy. Running that hard, that fast…it was a bit much, admittedly.

Much to their surprise when he looked up, Graves stood in front of him with a hand extended outwards again. Like he was some savior, some saint for helping him.

“That’s my boy…c’mon, get up.”

“You just — you’re a prick.” Coda refused his hand, crawling up to standing again, wiping their bloody handprints off on their shorts, sighing at the scraped skin. “You threaten me and then praise me and I-I can’t — I can’t.”

“I thought we established that you don’t have a choice, darlin’.”

“And I thought we agreed that you callin’ me that shit is so misplaced.” They snapped back at him, earning nothing more than a smirk in reply.

“You’re gonna do what I ask of you either way, so what does it matter? I could just be mean, if you’d like.”

“Is that supposed to imply that you’re not being mean now?”

“Oh, no, I am. I’m an asshole, sweethear’, never claimed to not be. I’m sayin’ I could cut out callin’ you a good boy an’ praisin’ every time you actually apply yourself, if that’s what you want.”

“I want to just — I want to be alone.” Coda felt their chest pounding with anxiety, wanting to walk away but knowing it would end in being grabbed up by the vest-strap again. They wanted to cry, truthfully, but that too would end in horror. He would see it as weakness and remember this the first time they actually cried in front of him, probably mark it on his damn calendar.

“Why? There somethin’ you wanna hide?” Graves asked them in a rhetorical manner, well aware of the tears brimming in their hazy green eyes. He reached out, his hand resting on their jaw, thumb gently swiping over their cheek. Were they already crying and just hadn’t noticed it?

“No.”

“No, who?”

“No, you motherfucker, just — fuck off.” Coda’s voice came out as more of a whimper than anything as they went to pull back, but his hold was strong. They felt it then, the tears running down their cheeks. Graves didn’t look at all fazed by it, maybe even a little bit satisfied as he wiped them away.

“Took you long enough.”

“I’m — I’m not...L-Leave me alone.” They reached up to push his hand away, but it would seem the touch of fingertips on his forearm stopped them both dead in their movements. Instead of moving him, their hand just lingered there, leaving a few bloody smudges from being scraped.

“I mean it. I expected you to crack months ago.”

“You made the mistake of underestimating me.”

“I’ll never make that mistake again.” Graves replied softly, watching as they stopped crying, and he retracted his hand. They didn’t look scared of him so much as they just looked exhausted, which was understandable. They’d just outran a bunch of men double their size, easily, it would be an ordeal for anyone to endure. “I only push you so hard ‘cause I don’t wanna see you break in the field.”

“Why the hell do you care what happens to me out there? One less problem for you to put up with if I’m in the dirt.”

“I wanted you here, didn’t I? Wouldn’t it be incredibly counterproductive to just letcha get yourself killed?”

“I guess but —“

“No buts. Now, do I have to worry about you takin’ off if I letcha go?”

“No.” Coda was shocked by their own words as they left their mouth, even shaking their own head without even thinking about it. “No, m’not gonna try again.”

“Can I ask why?”

“I mean…what’s out there for me? Rent? Car payments? A family that’s always disappointed in me?” They were honest, which he didn’t expect — he’d assumed they’d give some generic answer that they just didn’t want to leave, or try to convince him they liked it here for some reason. Maybe a distraction so he’d believe they wouldn’t run off and then do it anyways, but he never expected pure honesty. “There’s nothin’ back there for me, I-I know that now. I…I’m better off doin’ somethin’ that matters with my life — I can do good here.”

He’d really gotten to them that easily? Just a short six months of pushing them to the limit and past it on occasion, and they were sure that they could do good here at Shadow. He wasn’t sure if he was proud or genuinely concerned for the man, but that didn’t matter. What mattered was seeing if they actually meant it, and would give this their all.

“Good to hear, Coda. M’glad we see eye to eye on that.”

“Can…can I go, then?”

“Go where?”

“I…don’t know.” They truthfully hadn’t spent any time alone on base, and hadn’t a clue what they would do with the time if it was available to them.

“Well, it’s up to you now, isn’t it?” So he was letting them go off on his own. They cracked a smile, a strange sight to Graves considering he hadn’t seen it since he gave them a Shadow Company uniform. That, and they were all scraped up and exhausted, so the smile was misplaced.

Most things shared between them felt out of line, though.

“Thank you.”

“Thank you, who?” Graves asked in a teasing tone, his arms crossed over his chest.

“Thank you, Graves.” They said as they turned and walked away from him, careful at first in case he went to tug on her vest, but happily trodding along back inside the base after they were comfortable.

“It’s Commander.” He called out, earning a little laugh from the dark haired man who had just been crying in front of him. Yeah, something was definitely wrong with him, but he liked it.

Somehow, the fact that he liked Coda terrified him more than their resilience. They would be the death of him, surely.

—

I LIEDDDDD ANOTHER PART BECAUSE WORK WAS SO DEAD I HAD TIME TO FORMAT IT!!! bye

tagzz <3 @simonrriley (this is the fourth today im SORRY)

#bogs ramblings #call of duty #callsign rex #shadow company rex #call of duty rex #rexgraves #coda morelli #coda rex morelli #lieutenant commander coda rex morelli #toxic dynamic lol #doomed toxic yaoi #toxic doomed yaoi #toxic relationship #hurt/comfort #straight up whump to straight up flirting #its kinda a nasty dynamic #but ummmmm #im into it #listening to: beg for the torture by destroy boys

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r0ttenb0gb0dy · 6 months ago

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4/10 Coda "Rex" Morelli

He let them sleep in the morning.

Didn’t wake them up at some ungodly hour, didn’t even shake them awake like they had gotten used to — he gently nudged them until they came to.

“Coda,” He spoke softly. “Get up, darlin’.”

They stirred in the sheets, not quite even awake when they hummed in reply. Their eyes fluttered open and their gaze landed on Graves, a soft sigh escaping them. Why was he so fucking close? Coda sat up slowly, pulling the blankets up to their chest as they observed him sitting on the edge of their bed.

“C’mon. Bones said she’s got time for you.”

Coda peeled out of bed and pulled their boots on, feeling much less dizzy than the night before. Once they were up they reluctantly followed him to the medical bay, immediately distrusting of the bubbly and kind woman who approached them about redressing and stitching the wound up.

He leaned in the doorway, watching as Bones numbed and began stitching the wound shut, much to Coda’s seeming disgust with watching themself get sutured. It would take a while, and he didn’t plan on walking away until the medic was done.

Not because he cared. Not at all.

“All done, sweetheart, you did great.” Bones cooed to Coda, earning a scoff.

“Don’t call me that.” Coda cursed softly as they went to get up from the cot, only to be stopped by Graves.

“You’re stayin’ here for now. You look exhausted, you’re…probably dehydrated, just — let her take care of you. I’m not tryin’ to kill you.”

What did he just say?

“Really?” Coda raised a brow. “No training?”

“No training. Get some rest, you’ll do better when you’re not half dead.” Graves patted them on the shoulder before leaving, a foreign sight to Coda after so many times they had been denied to walk away from him. He kept them close out of distrust, maybe this was some strange way of him telling them that he was starting to trust them.

Maybe. Maybe he just didn’t want to bury a body.

They hated the way that they almost missed him.

It’d been nearly four months of being at his side day in and day out, save for sleeping. Graves still didn’t let them shower alone — on the other hand, he didn’t let other Shadows in while they were showering, so they sort of appreciated it. Still, she was thrown off by this sudden lack of his presence. Coda was almost too anxious about it to carry on a healthy, normal conversation with Bones, their eyes always ending up fixed on the doorway, waiting for him to show up.

He was a permanent fixture in their thoughts, now, and there was nothing they could do but let it happen.

Bones was kind enough, providing something in the way of conversation that Graves usually didn’t, even sneaking them some sweets from the mess hall from time to time on top of normal meals. It was honestly the most peaceful few days they had since before even arriving here in this hellhole, just laying around, sleeping and healing.

A few days later, and one much less swollen arm, Graves rolled around again. He was silent in the doorway, watching Coda and Bones interact, the casual conversation carrying on until he made his presence known.

“You feelin’ better?” He asked, something genuine in his tone.

“Yeah, much.”

“Good, good…listen, I — I don’t want you to mistake this for weakness.” Graves, for the first time since they met him, stumbled through a sentence. He looked genuinely apologetic, like he meant every word that followed. “I shouldn’t have pushed you so hard that you weren’t thinkin’ straight — coulda killed you if you misstepped.”

“It’s…okay.” Coda replied, not sure what to make of his words. It was odd, that was for sure, but they were open to receiving an apology for what happened. He was right, really, it could’ve been much worse than it was, but that didn’t make it okay by any measure.

“It’s not.” He was firm, looking away for a moment before coming back to them. “C’mon, I got somethin’ t’show you.”

Coda followed without hesitation, giving Bones a quick goodbye as they met Graves in the hallway, taking up their position at his side. He looked down at them with something that could easily be seen as admiration as they walked, his thumbs hooked in the edge of his vest to keep his hands busy. They walked for a while in silence before he stepped in front of them, opening a door they had yet to see in their time walking around the base. It was labeled Armory but it contained much more than just weaponry. All sorts of gear, ghillie suits, sentries, drones — the whole nine.

“Oh, wow.” Coda said softly, looking around the room, taking in the sight. Who they could only assume to be Shadow Company’s gunsmith sat at a table in the room, fiddling with a rather large and in charge shotgun, his gaze only flickering up for a moment when the pair sauntered in. “What’d you wanna show me?”

“I gotta grab it. Wasp, keep an eye on him.” Graves was gone as quickly as they had gotten used to his presence again, leaving them in the care of the gunsmith. Wasp. He looked up once again, setting the shotgun down on his work station.

“You must be the problem he keeps goin’ on about.”

“I—“

“A lot shorter than I thought you’d be, given that he says you got the personality of a rottweiler.”

“You’re a ray of fuckin’ sunshine, aren’t you?” Coda crossed their arms, earning them a little chuckle from the gunsmith. He stood up and approached them, large figure practically looming over them, engulfing him in his shadow.

“You have a name, or..?”

“Coda.” He answered, and he stuck his hand out for a handshake.

“Good t’see a new face around here keepin’ him busy. Bastard needed some new blood to chase around.” Wasp took his hand and shook it, surprised by the firm grip he held despite the wound on his forearm. Graves returned moments later, a cardboard box in hand. Coda went to peek, but he stopped them, holding the box above where he was able to look into it.

“Impatient, much?”

“I’m just curious.”

“You can be curious forever, I don’t care. Patience will getcha a long way, darlin’.” Graves replied smugly, setting the box down on one of the tables in the room before he pulled something out of it. A plate carrier, with a couple of patches stuck to the chest. An american flag, blood type OPOS, a Shadow Company insignia, and…

His last name?

Morelli.

“Got your first mission comin’ up, n’I don’t want you stickin’ out. You’ll get caught if you’re the only one not in black.” Coda’s eyes were wide, fixed on the vest as they took it in hand, overlooking it like it were a precious artifact. It was strange. Before recently, he didn’t care about being a Shadow. They just wanted to live long enough to stand a chance at escaping Graves’ grasp, but for some reason it fulfilled him to see his name next to the insignia. “You’ll have to earn a rank, this is just…a start.”

There weren't any words.

He was a Shadow now.

“Well? You just gonna stare at it or are you gonna try it on?” He held out the box to them as well, a full uniform of clothing inside, including a new pair of boots. He wasn’t sure whether to be scared or not, because it honestly felt too kind to be true, to be Graves. This was an imposter, surely. Coda hesitantly took the box from his hands and he swore he saw the tiniest hint of a smile on his face. “Go ‘head.” He gestured toward the back room that he had come from with the box, and they slunk through the door into the room.

After getting changed into the sleek black uniform they felt like maybe things wouldn’t be so terrible here. Like, maybe the literal blood, sweat and tears paid off into making a life out of a fuckup. That one simple mission had become much more, and truthfully, they liked it. He liked that he had become a sort of staple in his day to day, that he was willing to challenge them and let them challenge him right back. For as much as he hated their smart comments, he never retaliated. If anything, they would not know this of course, he liked it just as much as they did.

There was something to be said for their unbreakable spirit, though it comes from a place of pain and suffering, they are tougher for it.

When they stepped back out they placed the box down, now holding the comfortable clothes they’d been living in for a handful of days at that point. Graves’ eyes settled on them all decked out in Shadow Company standards, a wicked spark of something they couldn’t place in them.

“Looks good on you, Coda.” He spoke after a moment, giving them a little nod of approval.

“I make it look good.” He was just being snarky, of course, but what else was to be expected? Coda looked down at himself and smoothed out any wrinkles in the fabric, seemingly comfortable in the new attire, feeling like part of the dynamic here now. As strange as their beginnings here had been, they wanted to be happy here, even though it was probably the most wrong thing to do. He had taken them captive, which they could not forget.

“We’re headin’ out tomorrow, it’s a an easy one t’start. We’re providin’ a security detail for a shipment.” Graves explained to them, averting his gaze from them to Wasp. He didn’t want to stare, but god did they look good in black.

“You’re comin’ with?”

“I’ve only been around s’much because I’ve been stuck with your ass — m’not the type’a person to lead from distance if I can help it, like to be with my boys one way or another.” They were surprised, to say the least. They’d seen so much of him these past few months that they’d assumed he was more of a paperwork type guy at this point in his career, but it would seem they were wrong. The idea of him being out there in the dirt with the Shadows, working the jobs all the same, was oddly comforting. It was more like a big family than it was a mercenary group.

“Close air, or..?”

“Close air overwatch will be present, yes. But I want you in the convoy, so I’ll be in it too. Still ain’t lettin’ you run off on your own, darlin’.”

“I expected as much.”

“Don’t let me down, a’right?”

—

meant to fucking queue this FOR LATER but HERE WE ARE!!!!!!! FAT FUCKING THUMBS

tags

@simonrriley

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r0ttenb0gb0dy · 6 months ago

Text

3/10 Coda "Rex" Morelli

(minor gore, descriptions of blood)

A few months into the never-ending hazing ritual Coda called the Shadow Company, he was on a hot streak. Graves had taken up the mantle of sparring with him, training him, all of it — it was better for him over the Shadows, who never quite pushed him to the limits. They didn’t want to break him, not that he really wanted to either, but he wasn’t scared to in order to get results.

Coda looked up at him as they got up off the mat, clutching a combat knife in hand. This week was a non-stop run of knife training, the only thing he truly seemed to struggle with. It was the timing maybe, or the sharp edge of the blade, but he couldn’t quite get it down.

“Remember, Coda, this isn’t just about survival. It’s about provin’ your worth t’me, okay?” His tone was oddly gentle, soft even as he watched him clamber up to his feet again, boots planted firmly on the mat.

Coda nodded and looked down at the blade in hand, momentarily catching a glimpse of his reflection in it — pleasantly surprised to see that the small cut he had given him on his cheek wasn’t bleeding. He was really pushing them, though, and they were confused. How do you essentially imprison and beat the hell out of someone, and then hand them a knife and not expect them to hurt you? Maybe that’s what he wanted — Coda to push harder, go for a wound instead of just letting him walk away.

“So…you really want me to go for it? You trust me like that, to come at you with a knife full force — prove myself?”

“Trust, darlin’, is a delicate thing.” Graves’ tone was low, dark and practically unreadable. He was a mysterious sort of guy, they had gotten used to that. “Make no mistake, sweetheart, this ain’t about trust. It’s about testin’ your mettle, pushin’ you to the limit until you can show me just what you’re worth to Shadow Company.”

“So you’re sayin’ you trust me not to kill you?”

“I’m sayin’ you should just put your money where your mouth is and actually fight, soldier.”

Fucking prick.

They fought again and again, every time he nicked them with the blade or sliced a slit in their shirt he learned something — the way he moved, the tells that gave it away over time. The goal in mind was to get as close to killing him as possible without actually doing it, to show him that they were capable of besting someone nearly twice their size in physical combat.

Eventually, after a grueling hour of attempts, Coda had him right where they wanted him. Unconsciously they flipped the blade in the air mid-fight, catching it by the blade so that they could press the hilt into his stomach. It cut into their palm slightly, drawing blood, but it didn’t bug them much with the thrill of a win coursing through their veins.

“Better,” They breathed, looking up at him with pure satisfaction. “Much…much better.”

“Better indeed.” He laughed, a deep gravelly tone, looking down at the way they were just casually gripping a serrated blade. He reached out and removed their hand from the blade, turning it around so they eere holding the hilt again. “Try not to maim yourself next time, though, darlin’.”

“No promises.” Coda replied, stepping back slightly as they inspected the cuts on their palm. A problem for much later. “I don’t get why you keep callin’ me that. Your dear or your darlin’.”

“My dear, my darling,” He repeats them, his words dripping with sarcasm and mockery. “Terms of endearment, don’t read too much into it.”

“Just thought that terms of endearment were for those you care about, that’s all.” They replied as they began the ever-dangerous dance of a knife fight once again. Carefully dodging his swipes and grabs, his blade never quite finding their flesh. Maybe they were getting cocky, maybe they were just distracted by something — but the searing hot pain of a knife slicing into their arm brought them back to reality. Stupidly, they’d tried to block with their dominant arm, something he didn’t account for since it’d be ridiculous to try and block with the hand holding the knife. Their blade clattered to the floor as they looked on with abject horror, a massive slice dug through the flesh of their forearm.

“Oh — oh, fuck.” Coda stared. “Y-Yeah, that’ll…that’ll do it.” They stuttered as they watched the blood trickle down their wrist, pattering into the mat beneath their boots. He didn’t know what to do. Stop and tend to the wound or pick the knife up and keep going. Their gaze shifted to Graves, to the knife, and then back to the bloody mess on their forearm. He only watched as they bled, the sight of the crimson liquid sending a surge of conflicting emotions through him.

“Damnit, Coda.” He huffed, his voice laced with a rare hint of genuine concern. “You need to be smarter than that.”

He stepped closer, gaze fixated on their arm, the blood pooling and trickling down. A part of him urges him to stop, tend to the wound, ensure she’s okay. Another part of him, the winning part, reveled in the chaos of forcing her to continue past their own limits. Break that bright-eyed demeanor right out of them like a wild horse.

“Get up.” He commanded, picking the knife up and holding it out to them. “Finish what you started.”

The heartbreaking whimper that came out of them would’ve stopped anyone else. Not him. Their fingers clasped over the torn skin of their arm in some sad attempt to stop the bleeding. They went to make a smart comment but all that came out was an apology.

“I’m sorry.”

He cut them, and they were apologizing.

Coda looked at the blade for a moment before they ripped at the sleeve of their shirt, using the piece of fabric to half-ass tie it around the gash, blood darkening the fabric in seconds. They were beyond dizzy, but they took the knife back, despite the way their hands were shaking violently. They would not see it, but the way they struggled with teary eyes and trembling hands — it tugged at something deep inside of Graves. They were like a scared animal, teeth bared out of terror, not rage.

Coda swallowed their fear and raised their blade up to him, but it was no use. His movements were erratic and exhausted, unsteady despite his best efforts. Their mind was clouded with too many thoughts — both the pain and the genuine fear seeded in their mind making it difficult to worry about fighting back.

His blade met Coda’s throat once again but he didn’t cut, just like the many times before. He had won. They knew he would, he probably saw it coming as well. Their hand dropped the blade as soon as they were sure he had taken his victory and they looked down to see the thick layer of blood coating their hand.

“I-I’m so-sorry again, I-I’ll — I’ll do be-better next time.” Coda was not sure why they were apologizing but he was, even as he crumpled to the floor, clutching the aching wound. “Sorry for — fuck — for bleeding on th-the mat.”

“Coda,” He says, kneeling down to meet their gaze, “Stop apologizing.” He reaches out, watching as they sort of jerk away at first out of fear, but then allows him to grasp their arm. It was almost like he genuinely felt bad about cutting them, like it wasn’t the intention despite the fact he had nicked them before without remorse. After a moment he left their side to grab a medkit from the side of the room, something they kept just in case of accidents, and he knelt back before them with a bandage in hand. It wasn’t the best, but it would hold the wound shut until he could get the medic to look at it.

“Th-Thank you…” Coda said softly as he bandaged the wound, soft winces escaping them as it sincerely hurt worse than anything he had ever felt. Their gaze flicked up from the cut to him, cobalt blue eyes fixed on their arm with careful intent.

“I’ll take you to Bones tomorrow.” Graves replies. “Medic.”

They weren’t sure if they had proved themselves or not, but getting to see a real medic must mean something. He went to stand up when he finished but he nearly fell right back down, vision going dark the second he went vertical again. “Fuckin’ hell…can — can you…h-help me walk me back? I-I can’t see straight.”

Graves looked unamused, and like he almost would rather leave him there than help him back. He got himself in this mess, he should walk back to the barracks himself. By his side, of course, he still didn’t let him wander — but on his own.

“M’sorry, m’just a whole fuckin’ problem, aren’t I?” Coda realized he probably wasn’t going to help him and tried to stand again, truly shocked when they looked up and saw him holding a hand out to them.

“You’re a fucking problem, yes, but you’re my fucking problem, and I don’t let problems go unresolved.” His touch was firm and cold as he took their hand, pulling them up to their feet. Maybe it lingered longer than it needed to, but he’d chalk it up to asserting dominance if they pestered him about it. “Lean on me. I won’t let you fall.”

If they weren’t lightheaded before, they were now.

He spoke to them like they were human just then, like they were more than the dirt on his boots, than an inconvenience.

Lean on me, I won’t let you fall.

It repeated over and over in their mind as he helped them back to the barracks, a sense of comfort washing over them as he sat them down on the edge of the bed.

“Get some rest.”

“I-I will — thank you.” Coda replied softly as he left, the room oddly silent. A few Shadows were asleep, a few were just sort of around, but nobody bothered them even seeing them covered in their own blood. Coda thought for a long while before they peeled themselves out of their blood stained clothes and pulled on a fresh shirt and sweats before coiling up in bed. The mattress squeaked under them, but it was a great comfort to just lay down.

It was silent in the barracks before they let themselves feel anything, but when they did, it hit them hard. Tears cut down his cheeks, all warm and salty, soft sobs choking out as he clutched the frumpy pillow to his chest. His wrist hurt terribly but not bad enough to elicit tears, no, this was all emotional.

He had been captured, interrogated, and then forced into subhuman treatment by a man he despised only to get stabbed by that same man and they apologized. His small frame trembled as he sobbed, eventually succumbing to the pain and exhaustion and passing out. He had grown so used to him in such a short time and yet he hated him so deeply. It was like breathing in air that was sure to kill him eventually, but he needed it all the same.

Graves was making him regret choosing to comply, that was for God damn sure. Being in a pine-box sounded peachy in comparison to this feeling of unwantedness, of inconvenience, of constant rejection from the only thing he really wanted.

It sat wrong with Coda that he wanted to belong here, to have Graves' approval.

Why did he care what that bastard thought?

—

taggzzzzzzzz

@simonrriley

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r0ttenb0gb0dy · 6 months ago

Text

Coda "Rex" Morelli — After The Fall

“You heard me.” Graves’ voice rings out, making Rex’s vision tunnel as he focuses on the men before them.

“You’re crazy, this is my base.” Alejandro quips, but Graves seems to already have a reply locked and loaded.

“It's not a base. This is a sizable covert facility and I admire it — so, I'm takin’ it. You boys have been relieved. Thank you for your service.” Graves’ tone was low, vicious even. Rex looked over with worried eyes, the information he had just learned minutes prior still fresh in his mind. What had happened in Russia, what Shepherd was asking them to do. It felt wrong, but at the same time he knew that when it came down to the wire he would always choose Shadow Company. Every time, without fail.

“No, no, no, no…I don’t take orders from you.” Alejandro stepped forward slightly, earning a glare from Sergeant MacTavish. Rex grips his rifle with an iron touch.

“Didn’t Valeria say that? Now, that makes me wonder what else I don’t know about your affiliation with a drug lord.” Graves says with all of the coy confidence of a fox, tilting his head slightly before everything exploded

In an instant, Alejandro stepped forward, beginning to close the distance between himself and Graves. MacTavish grabbed him by the arm, stopping him just short. Still, Rex couldn’t blame him. This was absurd from either perspective.

“What the fuck did you just say to me, pendejo?” Alejandro barks.

“You’re out of line, Graves — Rex, yae can’t be alright with this —“ MacTavish speaks up, but before Rex can reply he’s spoken for.

“Don’t…Don’t do that. Don’t talk to them.” Graves’ voice cut like a knife, a searing red pain sending signals through Rex’s body. He looked up, eyes locked with MacTavish, wanting to tell him to run. His gaze shifted to Riley, to Rodolfo and Alejandro. Rex went to take a step forward but Graves’ grip locked on his vest strap stopped them, even yanking him back slightly much to MacTavish’s surprise.

They hadn’t seen it before, had they? It was a blatant display of their power dynamic, and Rex felt embarrassed. His cheeks heated up and he tensed up.

“No one needs to get hurt here.” Graves spoke again, his voice low and dark. It terrified Rex. He had no idea up until this moment, right here and now, that the mission with Shepherd had failed. So, on top of mourning dead friends that had supposedly been on an extended leave, he was now faced with the immediate future.

Graves was going to take direct orders from Shepherd to harm the 141, and he was going to go along with it.

“Are you threatenin’ us?” Lieutenant Riley asked, his hand wandering but not quite grabbing the rifle hanging from his carrier.

“Soldier, I don’t make threats. I make guarantees. So, let’s not do this.” Graves replied with a smug callousness that sent a chill down Rex’s spine, even in the Central American heat. Their gaze shifted between the men in front of them, locking eyes with Lieutenant Riley. He gave them a knowing glance before looking at MacTavish.

“I’m callin’ Shepherd.” MacTavish spoke up, pointing a finger at Graves.

“General Shepherd sends his regards.” Graves' hand left Rex’s vest, traveling to the assault rifle in hand. His finger lingered on the trigger. “He told me y’all wouldn’t take this well.”

“He knows about this?” Lieutenant Riley asked, disbelief in his voice, but when he looked at Rex he knew it was the truth. He was too scared to speak, truthfully, so he didn't. He knew if he spoke up he would only defend Graves and Shadow Company. It would only stoke the flames.

“He’s put me in command of this operation from here on out. So, y’all need to stand down, it’s time to let the pros finish this.” Here Graves stood, betraying the people that Rex had grown to trust. They’d laid their lives on the line right alongside themselves and Graves this entire time, this is not what they deserved. “And why the hell are we talkin’ like this is some kind’a negotiation? It’s not. I’ve got my orders, and now you have yours.”

“And who the fuck do you think you are, cabron? My men are inside!” Alejandro snapped, eliciting a response from Rex. They looked to Graves, stepping back slowly, out of his peripheral vision. Their back was met with the broad side of Wasp’s chest. It only took a moment for Wasp to grab his plate-carrier strap, quelling the desire to jump to Graves’ defense. He could feel it welling, some kind of vicious remark, but he couldn't have anticipated what was coming.

“I’m afraid not. Your men have been…” Graves bit back a smirk, looking to the ground and then up at Alejandro. “Detained.”

It all happened so quickly.

Alejandro was zip tied and held against a vehicle whilst Rodolfo, MacTavish and Riley made a run for it.

Everything in Rex’s head was quiet. All he knew was that he had to finish the mission, find Hassan and the final missile. It didn't matter the cost. Rex felt Wasp let him go and his rifle was aimed upwards in an instant, boots already migrating down into Las Almas after the escaped Task Force operators.

Indiscriminate killing did not begin to describe what MacTavish and Riley were doing. Rex stepped over corpses around every corner, over shattered ceramics that smelled of gunpowder, and spent shell casings. He couldn't breathe. It was a vicious effort to recover every tag that he could, knowing that they couldn't drag every single Shadow back to base, but he began to run out of room to carry them. It didn't take long before he started shooting back at the ghosts he heard around the streets, pulling familiar knives out of bodies if only to throw them back at Riley when he saw him.

This was unnecessary. Just make the escape, that was all they needed to do, and yet here they were. Slaughtering Shadows in a fucking massacre. His anxiety got the best of him and he returned to base to regroup whilst the others cleaned up the streets, ensuring Hassan wasn't anywhere to be found and that both of the 141 members had escaped before they did.

He sat in the stolen MexSpec-Ops facility with shaking hands and wired nerves, every little sound setting him off. No amount of comfort from Graves quelled it. Cigarette after cigarette, taking in deep breaths and letting them go to no avail, images of what could come to pass haunting him. It should've come as no surprise whenever Graves formulated a plan for the coming days. He should've known it would be a disaster plan.

“I’m what? You’re not sending me back to HQ, not fucking now.” Rex barks at his Commander, his partner, shoving him with open palms. He’s angry, being cornered back into a Jeep with little more than Graves’ orders telling him to do so. The Commander would never lay a hand on him, he knew that, not now anyways.

“You have to, Rex. This is what that fucking promotion was for, now use it.” Graves replies, calm in comparison. He’s riled up too, though, and Rex can tell. “If I get blown to hell here, then someone needs to keep the Company afloat. That someone,” he places a finger in the middle of Rex’s plated chest, “is you.”

“No.” Rex huffs. Their back is to the door of the Jeep. “No, I’m not leaving you.”

“That loyalty'll get you killed.”

“Good. Better me than you. I want revenge for the Shadows, Graves, I need it—”

“Then go home, tend to our wounded and wait for me there.”

“You promised me I’d never have to run this shit by myself, don’t be a fucking liar.”

“You won't have to. I’ll come home when this is finished, we’ll get what we need from Valeria in the meantime and use it to find that last missile. Take Hassan down and come home, right t’you, sugar.” It was a promise, a big one, and Rex was unsure if Graves could hold up his end of it. Coming home was an uncertainty that most would not try to guarantee. Especially up against the likes of the 141, trained killers that were unlikely to stop at the orders of anyone except Laswell or Price.

“You’re suicidal, you know that?” Rex scoffs. “If you had any self preservation instincts, then you'd have me stay here and deal with their inevitable assault. I’d do anything for you, Graves—”

“Then go home.” Graves says quietly, pulling Rex in by the front of their vest, hands gripped onto the sides of it. He can see something flicker across those lovingly familiar green eyes, something rebellious, but Rex bites it down. “S’just two hours t’get there, babe, I bet I can make it back ‘bout an hour or so.”

“Better not be lying to me, Shadow.” Rex murmurs, grabbing Graves by the collar of his blue dress shirt. He pulls the blonde down to be eye-level with himself before crashing their lips together in a heated exchange, all terror and feverish tension, not knowing what was going to impact them. It left them breathless, wanting to take a moment longer to revel in the fact they were both alive, but a loud thunk of the Jeep door slamming cleared Rex's mind of any impure thoughts.

“Let's go, LC.” Maverick’s voice calls, the Sergeant Major entirely oblivious to what's going on around the opposite side of the vehicle he’s in the driver's seat of.

“Go on, Coda. Just a few days.” Another brief kiss and Rex is ducking away wordlessly into the Jeep, glancing back only to see Graves smiling back. Cobalt blue eyes and a pipe dream about a perfect world in which the 141 shows up alone, but they both knew that wasn't going to happen.

Rex regretted staying silent the moment they saw the American border come into view and passed into Texas. He wanted to call, but he also knew that he had things to attend to at HQ that required his immediate attention. Assisting the medical staff in tending to wounded Shadows from Las Almas, who had somehow survived the trip back. Filling out the after-action reports for all of the missions, writing detailed explanations of what had gone down with the help of bodycam footage — sifting through tags to catalogue the deaths. It was a lion’s share of work, but he thought that whatever he couldn't put a dent in, Graves would return to finish off with him.

Days passed sitting in that office.

He had started sleeping in there, the bed far too empty without Graves in it, an increasing stack of files sitting before him. There were at least twenty-five dead from Las Almas, another fifty or so from the prison they were keeping the Vaqueros in, and an unreported amount from the MexSpec-Opsnbuilding. No correspondence yet about what had gone down, not until Wasp walks into the office with a sort of fear in his eyes that instills immediate terror into Rex.

“Where’s Graves?” Rex asks, quiet at first. If Wasp has returned, that means that they finished up in Mexico. He was staying there to assist in the defense of the facility.

If he was back, then Graves should be too.

“Rex, I—” Wasp starts, patting at his vest to search for something in his pockets.

“Where. Is. Graves?” He’s angry now, standing up, hands planted firmly on the desk in front of them. Their eyes are firmly affixed on Wasp’s hands as he pulls a chain out from one of his pockets, the tags clinking together. It's realistically quiet, but it sounds like gunfire the way Rex’s brain shuts everything else out.

He holds his hand out and it's trembling.

“I did everything I—”

“Give.” Rex barks, more wrath than sadness. The chain coils up in their palm and the crinkled metal of the tags follows suit. He turns them over, caked on blood and soot making them hard to read at first, but whenever he can read them it's like a shot to the head.

CDR PHILIP GRAVES.

SHADOW 0-1.

OPOS. CATHOLIC.

He doesn't say a word at first. He turns the tags over again and again, gently smudging off the stains until they're mostly silver once more. It's impossible to believe that these came from thee Philip Graves. They’re mangled. Rex looks up at Wasp, who is just barely holding it together himself.

“What do we do?” Wasp asks just above a whisper.

“What happened?” Rex doesn't give him the grace of an answer, not yet. He sinks back into his seat — Graves’ office chair — and clutches the destroyed tags between shaking fingers. Feverishly rubbing over the embossing like prayer beads, hoping that maybe if he holds them tightly enough then this will be over sooner.

“You don't wanna know.” Wasp replied without hesitation.

“Oh no, no, I do want to know. What happened?”

“Rex, I swear—”

“Don't fucking promise me shit, Walker, what the hell happened?” Rex is firm in his questioning, knowing better than to take more oaths from men around here. He didn't care if anyone thought he didn't need to know, if they swore he was better off unaware. There was no sense in dancing around the facts, plain and simple. Graves was dead. He was likely not in a box outside, and if he was then he was likely unrecognizable. If anyone ever deserved an answer about what happened to someone in full truth, it was Rex.

“We attempted a counter-assault on the 141, but they brought the Vaqueros as well as their, uh, friend in the chopper. Nikolai. Facility was in rubble, we needed to use a last resort and Graves hijacked a tank from their hangar—”

“He specifically did? He didn't have someone else do it?”

“Yeah, he…he said that we needed to get as many of our wounded out as possible, that he would take care of the remaining assailants.” Wasp speaks like he’s giving a mission report. Partially because it's easier than the alternative, which is greeting Rex like a newly widowed spouse. He takes in a breath through his teeth and looks up at the ceiling before his eyes met Rex’s again. “Between MacTavish and his…um, proclivity for explosives and — the, um, Nikolai in the chopper…”

“He didn't stand a chance.” Rex murmurs. Explosives? That would explain the state of the tags.

“Not even a little.” Wasp replies. Solemn. “I rallied the survivors, they left after they I.D’d him. Aggressively. I’m surprised that they didn't take his tags, but…”

“That’s it, then, isn't it?” Rex unclasps the clip on the back of Graves’ chain before placing it around his own neck, clipping it shut once again. It's warm, the metal, as he tucks it underneath his shirt.

“What do we do now?” Wasp asks again, and while he’s relieved that Rex didn't shatter into a million tiny pieces at the news, he’s certain that a hurricane is coming. Brewing deep in his chest, just waiting for the right moment to spill out and take everything down with him. Rex hadn't ever thought about what was supposed to happen whenever this day came because he was promised on repeat like a broken record that it never would, but there’s only so many ways to break the news to an entire PMC of men and women. He glances around the desk, pushing papers and files aside to grab the microphone to the P.A. system. They rarely used it, given that little had changed in long enough that no service announcements needed to be made, but that changed today. Rex blew the dust off and pressed the little red button on the front, which started glowing afterwards, signifying that he can begin.

“Alright, Shadows, I need all units to report to the tarmac ASAP. This is your Commander speaking.”

Nothing felt worse than dragging himself down there, than fixing his face in the reflection of some picture hung in the hallway, taking a deep breath and attempting to look like he had some sort of clue. It got easier, though. There were hang-ups in the first few weeks, but eventually Rex adjusted to being called Commander. He knew that this was on his shoulders now, that handling the legal case was on him and so was continuing to make Shadow Company a profitable business as its CEO. Aside from burying the charred remains of his person, that was the worst part of all of this — trying to seem as though he could keep his head above water as well as everyone else's.

There was a part of him that thought if he simply pushed hard enough that he could ignore the grief. Maybe he could avoid it entirely by just working until he forgot that he was unhappy, that his bed was going to be half-full forever; that his husband was dead.

Rex looked up one morning and didn't recognize that person in the mirror. His hair was down past his shoulders now, his cheeks less full than they had been. Every scar felt more apparent with every passing day that he spent running drills outside with the Shadows, because his skin was flushing a shade of tan that it never had before. He stopped taking hot showers. Fucking warmth reminded him of Graves. Winter came quietly to Texas as it always did and still he slept with the windows open.

Graves would've wanted them closed.

He left the television on all night.

Graves would’ve wanted it off.

He got a new vest without the strap on the back because who was he supposed to kneel to now? A patch on the front reading Commander still doesn't feel at home on his chest, neither does the Shadow 0-1 callsign so he refuses to use it outright. Rex pushes the court case against Shadow Company back even further due to the lack of a man to charge, as they can't be held liable for a dead man’s crimes. He knew it was getting bad whenever the Justice of the peace actually let it slide.

Shadow Company returned to some semblance of normal within six months.

Rex never felt like himself anymore, but at least everyone else seemed to have recovered. The newest Shadows never even met Graves — brought on by Rex to replace the mass losses taken in Mexico. He could barely believe it, he was actually doing it all alone and somehow he hadn't given up on the people or the place. It was running smoothly as far as anyone was concerned, at least further down the ladder of command.

The Shadows knew. The officers, at least. Wasp and Spitfire weren't fucking stupid, keeping a close watch on everything Rex got his hands dirty with to ensure he wasn't just running headfirst into his own death. They watched him take a backseat to his own life, everything he worked for passing him by whilst others reaped the benefits. Graves would be proud of how efficiently the Company ran, that was for damn sure, but he wouldn't be happy that it came at the cost of Rex’s spark.

He lost it. That quick wit, the bite that backed up his bark, the things that made him…well, him.

The day that a ceasefire was pushed across his desk by Kate Laswell, she knew it, too. This wasn't the Rex that would kill someone for speaking ill of his Commander, no, this was Commander Morelli, or what remained of him at least. She looked up at Rex with an understanding in her eyes that the 141 could not possibly fathom, not for a monster like Rex that would turn tail on them so quickly.

“You don't have to sign it, I…I just want you to know that they’re intent on closing this chapter. We have work to do, business that needs tending.” Kate says with all of the bureaucratic charm she usually has, a kind enough smile tugging at her features. Rex nods slowly as he looks it over, seeing a spot at the bottom for his name. Captain John Price has already signed it. It’s August. He looks out the window of his office before looking back at the paper, pressing his pen to it with nothing short of defeat. “Thank you, Rex.”

“No problem.” He sort of nods as he pushes it back to Kate. “I just want this to be over with. Any luck finding Shepherd?”

“Not yet…we have bigger fish to fry, I’m afraid.” Kate purses her lips in thought. “Would…Shadow Company be interested in working with—”

“Absolutely not.” Rex cuts her off. “I appreciate the kind gesture of the ceasefire, but I won't need a gun if I have to work with a single one of them brits again.”

Point made.

“I understand. Just…don't hesitate to reach out, alright? I know we have a rocky relationship now, but the C.I.A. is happy to continue to administrate your contracts as we have been. I’ll leave Price's men out of them.” Kate is nothing short of a saint. Rex is all teeth and flattened ears, somewhere in the valley between anger and depression. He’s armed with those emotions because it's easier than admitting he’s nothing like how he used to be on the inside, and though Kate can see right through it she chooses to say nothing.Professionalism is what she aims for and it's not exactly the picture of it to call him on his bullshit.

She disappears as quickly as she came to HQ and Rex can safely say he’s relieved. His hands find the top drawer of the desk and he pulls out a half crumpled pack of Newports and a lighter, not hesitating to spark one up inside. The window is open anyways. A playing card shaped ashtray on the desk with a spade in the center taunts him, though he chooses to ignore it whilst he looks down at his copy of the ceasefire.

…hereby agrees to cease all hostile contact with Shadow Co. as long as said agreement is upheld inversely towards Task Force 141…

“What a bunch of bullshit.” Rex mumbles to himself as he stuffs it into his desk, sighing as his forehead meets the warm surface of the hardwood.

It changes nothing. They operate as per usual, carrying out the typical business that they had beforehand without any special addendums. No intentionally risky missions, no smuggling American made missiles for a disgraced General, nothing out of the ordinary for a privatized military group. A ceasefire only matters in wartimes and as far as Rex is concerned, they aren't involved in any wars. Kate doesn't contact them about any ongoing changes in the worldwide political climate, so he rightfully assumes that everything is coasting along as it should be. He never asked about the PMC that assaulted them in Urzikstan and stole the missile shipment for Hassan because, truthfully, he knew nobody outside of Shepherd would have answers. The Konni PMC was placed on a back burner in his mind, at least until his phone starts ringing.

It's a Tuesday when Farah calls him.

He doesn't pick up.

Instead, he goes outside.

There's a tree on the back of the property, a weeping willow in all white. Whenever Graves passed, Rex knew they weren't going to be able to give his remains up to some mortuary, so they buried what they had out in the back 40. It's what he would've wanted, anyways, not some cramped cemetery. Rex came out whenever he needed to think or breathe, mull things over with the only motherfucker that would've been real with him. Graves would always be honest about things even if it meant knocking Rex down a peg or two. Rex crossed their legs and sat down, pulling out an all too familiar flask from their pocket. P.G. embossed in the leather casing, a playing card shoved in there too. The ace of spades. Rex threw back a shot and let the warmth settle in his stomach.

He isn't sure how long he's out there when he hears someone behind him.

Footsteps, then the clearing of a throat.

“You mind?” Rex doesn't even look back. He knows that only a newer Shadow would be so dumb as to traipse on up whilst he’s sulking out here. Commander Morelli is very famously armed at all times, this they know. “I’m a bit busy, recruit, what do you want?”

“Didn't anybody ever teach you some god damn manners? Your daddy didn't hug you enough or somethin'?” Rex whips around with all of the fire of a sun, his eyes locking with a set of cobalt blue ones that stand behind him. He stares for just a moment, entirely slack jawed, his hand still gripping the flask as if it's a lifeline.

He clears his throat again, whoever it is, and Rex makes a mental note about making them run laps later.

He’s wearing a light blue dress shirt, a Lacoste, and faded blue jeans. The belt around his waist is black with a red stripe down the middle, matching the magazine holder that dangles from it, a snake embroidered on the front panel. He’s got his hands shoved in his pockets save for his thumbs, a silver watch on his left wrist that Rex recognizes well as he was the one who purchased it. There’s a nauseatingly familiar scar just below the man’s right eye, running back across his cheek and back through the top of his ear. Clipped like a feral dog that’s been taken to the vet.

“He didn't, actually, how’d y'know?”He says with a hum, rocking back on his heels ever so slightly. He has boots on, casual ones, though the leather is worn all the same as a pair of tactical ones. Rex can hear the material creak. It's been a long while since anyone wore them. “Well? You just gonna stare or what?”

Rex has pulled his sidearm before he can even consciously think about doing so and its pointed at the imposter’s forehead, pressed up against it actually.

“Bit much, ain't it, sugar?”

“Go fuck yourself — who the fuck do you think you are? What kind of sick fucking joke is this? Huh?” He taps the barrel against the man’s forehead. The imposter’s hands are up and behind his head in a quick movement that almost gets him shot. Rex is so certain this isn't Graves, because he isn't smiling about it. He doesn't have that smug grin that says ‘surprise’ as if this is something laughable.

No, he actually…he looks distraught.

“Answers. Now.” Rex slowly turns to walk the imposter backwards from the grave, never taking the pistol from his forehead. They’re not even shaking, hands entirely too steady for how electric all of their nerve endings feel. “Spill.”

“Coda, can you put the gun down?”

“Who? That isn't my name, I’m sorry, try again.” Rex taps the barrel off his head and the lookalike shifts his gaze away.

“Rex. Put the gun down.” His voice is too eerily similar. Rex feels faint. “What do I need to do to convince you that I’m me?”

“Explain how the fuck I buried a body, that’s what. Philip Graves is dead, he’s in a pine box three feet behind and six feet under me.” Rex clicks the hammer back into place on the revolver and the man tenses up, though his pupils are blown out wide. He doesn't look afraid for his life, if anything he looks oddly relieved.

“How else did you expect me to win down there in Mexico, huh? Gave ‘em some bait, they took it. I had to disappear, Rex, or they would've kept botherin’ us. Would’ve really put us both under.” He seems genuine, but Rex isn't buying it. This is all too convenient. Graves wouldn’t have left him out of the plans, would he? Not intentionally. No, this had to have been a last minute decision. Wait. Why is he even believing this sick fuck? Pretending to be a man’s dead husband? Rex shakes his head to clear his thoughts and grabs at his belt, feeling around for his radio. “Who are you calling?”

“My Lieutenants, that's who.” Rex huffs as he picks the radio up.

“Wasp and Spitfire let me in, sugar. Can you put the gun down, now?” Graves isn't quite begging, but he sounds exhausted. Rex falters for a moment, his aim wavering, before giving out all together. The revolver falls to the grass and he clasps his hand over his mouth, looking up at the blonde before him with something close to what they used to share. Things are different now, though. Terribly. It had been a long, hard year. Then his arms are open and are can't process if he wants to hug him or hit him. “C’mere.”

It hurts.

Real, physical pain.

He wants to scream, cry, something.

Don't call me sugar, don't do this to me, look at the fucking wreck I've become.

He can't.

“No, no, this…this isn’t…you’re not him.” Rex stutters, shaking his head. Before he can back away completely Graves has him in his arms, smothered into his chest, and all of those nagging thoughts disappear instantly. He smells how he always did. The cross around his neck is cool metal where Rex’s face presses into it, the expanse of his back is warmed by the sun. His arms are strong and capable, swearing silently to protect Rex from everything he had failed to.

“It's me, Coda. M’home.” Graves says with that familiar sickly sweetness that almost makes Rex forget the suffering he endured. The longest year of his life, burying Coda for good. Graves hadn't really died, but he wondered if he could resurrect the other version of himself that he used to be.

The days and weeks that follow are filled with a kind of tension that everyone is sick of within a few hours. Rex has developed the capability to run the Company with nothing short of confidence and self assurance, becoming much more than just the leashed animal he had been before. He’s skin and bones and claws, all bloodied maw and choked up flesh, a promise to die for this Company.. The problem is that Graves doesn't recognize that person wearing the Commander badge, supposedly his partner, though he can't be sure through the unkempt mess of hair and tired eyes. Rex doesn't look like that, no, Rex is soft on the edges even when he’s baring his teeth.

Whoever he came back to isn't him, but he tries to love him all the same. Rex doesn't let him close enough for that.

They still don't really trust each other whenever they arrive in Urzikstan to meet Alex and Farah. Though, there's something to be said about the surprised smirk Alex gives when they walk into the room. He straightens up, sort of tilts his head like a curious puppy when he speaks.

“The Shadow himself.” Alex speaks, followed by Farah.

“Welcome, Graves.”

“Heard you died in a tank in South America.” Alex smirks.

Rex freezes instinctually. South America? They were in Mexico. Who the fuck told them South America? Farah sounded like she knew what had happened whenever they spoke on the phone, did she not? Either Graves doesn't clock the mistake or he chooses to ignore it.

“Well, I wasn't in that tank.” Graves says with all of his usual smug confidence. He suppresses a smile, though. “What else have you heard?”

“We’re fighting our battles, here, no time for rumors.” Farah cuts off his curiosity. Rex can't help but wonder who gave them their information — as far as Rex was concerned they had only communicated with Shadow Company about the events of the last year. Had they been in contact with John Price? He knew that they'd worked together to retrieve Kate Laswell from captivity at some point, sure, but Rex was of the understanding that they’d ceased contact as Farah didn't even ask about Las Almas over the phone.

Did they not know why Graves’ life had been ‘taken’? What Shadow Company had done to the 141? Rex had a million questions that would go unanswered for far, far too long, but he was at least able to come to grips with the fact Graves was alive.

He didn't understand why he was left out of the plans, why the entirety of the Company was, or where Graves was for that excruciating year. He didn't understand why it had to be so hush-hush. If anyone should've been in the loop, it should've been him. They sit on the jet ride back to Texas, to prepare the shipment of missiles to be cargo-shipped to Urzikstan’s coast for Farah to retrieve. It's deathly quiet for the longest time, just the two of them in the cabin, splitting a bottle of whiskey.

Rex thumbs over the tags still around his neck, crinkled metal against the smooth surface of his own tags, glancing up to meet Graves’ gaze. They still had yet to share a bed again, let alone anything more intimate than a ‘hello.’

It feels more like a mercurial affair than what was previously a marriage, but theres some sort of hope buried in there somewhere. Like maybe if they can dig Farah out of this mess then maybe they can find themselves again, but they both know it's not that simple.

For now, their boots touch and Rex doesn't pull away. They share a drink on the ride home and the silence as well, wondering how many more miniscule heartbreaks it will take for them to need each other again.

—

💫 tags // @simonrriley 💫

a little more of the rexgraves lore in-between mwii and mwii ❤️‍🩹

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