Heathens chapter five

Lmao my house flooded a few hours earlier and I thought I was gonna die so that was wild. But also I'm still gonna cough this chapter up. 

v.

“Missing,” he repeats, like that’s going to make it sink into his head when it hadn’t the first time.

“Uh, yeah,” Jeevas says.

“What do you mean A’s missing?”

“As in - we don’t know where they are and haven’t heard from them at all and the last place where we tracked their phone GPS to was a gutter?” There’s a sound of a wrapper crinkling and B makes a face in disgust. “Understandably, we’re not asking the cops they’re working with if they’ve heard from them because A’s got a reputation to uphold and everything - “ B scoffs. Like Wammy’s house would even care about a reputation outside of L’s. “ - but we checked their call logs. None have been from A’s line in the past few days.”

“Their hotel room?”

“Left pristine and untouched as it was on the day they left it. They just never came back.”

“So they either booked it when they got out, or they were forced to run…” B runs a hand over his face, pauses, and pinches the bridge of his nose. “That or a kidnapping’s possible.”

“A has no reason to run, not from their work,” Jeevas says. He sounds a little offended. “Being chased off or kidnapped’s more possible.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” B says. He knows A definitely has at least one reason to try and run away as far as possible from everything involving Wammy’s. “Where was their phone found?”

“I think they’d have more reason to stay.”

“Where was their phone found?”

“Kline Street, Amsterdam in good ol’ NYC,” Jeevas says, a little grumpily. “Sheesh.”

“And how far is Kline Street from where they were supposed to be?” 

There’s a full minute of silence. Jeevas only breaks it when he crinkles a wrapper again, probably from opening a pack of chips. B's lips thin out in a line. 

“What do you actually want me to do here - Matt.” He catches himself before he can say the kid’s real name; that’s not a secret he’s forking over right now. It’s not the right time. “Why did you call me?”

His response is the loud crunching of a chip. B waits and tries not tell MONIKA to cut off the call. She probably wouldn’t if she favors her creator, if that’s even possible for her programming. It probably is, given that she’s told him she learns. She can learn favoritism. 

After about ten minutes, Jeevas is still crunching on his chips.

“Matt.”

“Yes?”

“Why did you call me?”

“I - ” another loud crunch. B can actually hear the chip crumbs falling onto the table. “ - called you here because we need you to find A.”

B pauses. 

He leans back on his hands, still sitting cross-legged, the very picture of confidence and arrogance, exactly as one should seem when an opportunity for negotiation offers itself up. Jeevas and whoever else is monitoring the call doesn’t need to know his confusion and suspicion, even if they’re smart enough to know he’ll be thinking about that. 

“Why me, of all people?” he asks, “You can get the cops to look for them. And don’t give me bull about Wammy’s caring about their reputation, because I’d wager they actually don’t.” He hears a crunch that’s louder than the last one at that. “You can even get any of the wannabe detectives still in the house to work on this - how is the latest first-in-line, by the way?”

“It’s Near now,” Jeevas says, “And he’s fine.”

“Still haunted?”

“None of your business, B.”

“Does he know A is alive and so am I?”

“None of your bloody business, like I said, unless the fire burned out a few of the measly number of brain cells you were born with,” Jeevas snaps. 

B just hums. “If you still room with Mello, then I expect he knows? Or were you recruited for keeping this a secret?”

“You really lost a lot more than just skin and hair and muscle when you set yourself ablaze, didn’t you. Poor A, trying to restore everything to make things easier for you.”

“Cheap shots, Matt, I’ve dealt with better.”

“I wish it was a cheap shot instead of the truth, B,” the boy says, clicking his tongue, “But if you could focus, please. I called you and not the cops because we do care about A’s reputation. They’re also an important detective, even if they have too many aliases to let just one pile up the popularity.” He’s making the crunching noises louder on purpose this time, B knows. It doesn’t make it any less irritating. “And you’re the only person we have that can actually look into this.”

“So Near and the others don’t know about A faking their death? And getting me out of my prison sentence? No one knows this outside of you?”

Jeevas just continues like he hasn’t heard him, but that’s enough confirmation. “And I know that you understand that should A be declared dead, Wammy’s will easily throw you back into the prison sentence you were supposed to be serving - possibly have it worse if we decide that you ‘escaped’ before you could be thrown in jail. That, or we let MONIKA execute you. It’d be easier.”

B frowns at that. “And waste all that effort hospitalizing me.”

“We didn’t do that,” Jeevas says,  “A did.”

B’s frown deepens, and he glares at the wall across from him. It’s too much effort turning to look at a camera right now. If Jeevas is accessing them, he can just see B seething anyway.

“I’ve heard they were the one negotiating a deal with Mr. Wammy - hell, maybe L - to actually get you to a hospital,” he says, “Video and audio footage shows you know that.”

“You’ve reviewed them, huh?”

“I check in with MONIKA every now and then.” Jeevas laughs. “Have to see how she’s doing being exposed to you and A, after all.”

“What does that mean?”

“Whatever it means,” he says, “Now are you going to help find A or not?”

“Why should I?” B asks. “Like, really - why should I? I was going to die after I set myself on fire, what difference does it make if MONIKA executes me?”

Jeevas doesn’t answer.

B smiles, a sort of smile that’s laced with rage and resentment, but also reeks of pettiness. He stands, making his way over to the door, not even bothering to end the call.

“It would be humiliating.”

He stops. 

“It would be humiliating because no one would even know you died and no one would care,” Jeevas says, “You’d die like a dog. Fried from the inside-out by a software in an empty house in the middle of nowhere, because you left the only person who would even think about crying for you, for dead.”

He says nothing, not for a while, but he doesn’t continue to walk towards the door either. He doesn’t hear the call cut off, but also doesn’t hear Jeevas hang up. 

He just stays there, staring at the floor, fists clenched, thinking about burning treehouses.

“I’ll send the files of their last case over - “

“How would it even work?” he asks.

Jeevas pauses. “I beg your pardon?”

“How would it work if I helped you find them? The same way I solved the cases they gave me?”

There’s a rapid clacking of keys. He turns to the camera this time and crosses his arms, waiting. 

“That, and then some,” Jeevas says, “I’ll send you the files of their last case. Call me if you have any requests. We’re going to continue looking into their location on our own too, and I’ll call you if I have anything important you need to know.”

“I didn’t say yes,” he says.

Jeevas just laughs. “You don’t need to, B,” he says, “We all know you’re a proud arse. You wouldn’t let yourself die without dignity.”

And then there’s a loud click as the kid hangs up on him. B just angrily huffs, turning away. He slams the door on his way out, and he’s surprised the door frame doesn’t crack when he does.

-

He glares at the files when MONIKA pulls them up on his television screen, but he reads through them anyway, even when he’s way more silent than he usually is. He doesn’t ask MONIKA questions or respond to any prompts at conversation, and only types up letters to Jeevas on things he wants information on. He spends more time in making himself food than looking into possible locations because there's nothing in the case files aside from, well, the case, rather than hints to where A's gone. He goes to the library in an attempt to find something to do that’s not this when he’s irritated. Once, he plays his violin until he shreds the strings and his fingertips.

Seeing blood on the wood makes him feel slightly guilty, considering how valuable it is, but he’d been angry, and playing until his fingers started bleeding had felt good.

He does clean it up, and he puts it back in its case carefully after.

There’s not really a lot he can do from where he is, not when he’s not allowed to mobilize anyone and Jeevas has to run everything he submits back to Wammy’s, where it all most likely has to be reviewed again and again and again to make sure he’s not attempting to sabotage things. Working on the eel case with A’s assistance had been interesting and quick because of how fast A worked and processed all his requests, and they didn’t have to get a vote from twelve people after a week in order to have something done. It wasn’t the most efficient of methods, but B supposed trying to work around their restrictions had been fun.

This isn’t fun, because he hadn’t wanted to have anything to do with this in the first place, and he never hears any word back from Jeevas as to what’s become of his requests. He’s only expected to find A.

Their phone was last found in Kline Street, but A wasn’t supposed to be anywhere near New York, which meant that they’d either ran there and whoever had chased them had caught them and tossed their phone aside, or whoever had caught them had tossed the phone there are a red herring, on the way to the actual location they wanted to take A. 

He can’t imagine them running off and forgetting they’d had their phone which could be traced, and then deciding to throw that phone away on the road to the actual location they were headed to. He knows them, and he knows they’re often hyperaware of restrictions, especially when they break a little too easily under the pressure. 

They’re not stupid. They’d escape better, like they did last time - perhaps smooth over what they did wrong because clearly, they’d messed up their first attempt at faking their death.

They were supposed to be in L.A. - and funny that; brings back memories - they were supposed to be solving some case about people turning up with stigmata marks all over them, people who didn’t seem to have any connection to each other, aside from the fact that they all ended up dead the same way. The whole thing reeked of a cult operation, but A had mentioned they’d had a runner. Perhaps that was to throw him off in case he tried to look into the case himself, or this was the work of one crazed religious fanatic with too much time on their hands.

“Lost in the city of angels,” he murmurs, when he's sitting on his bed, reading over one of their reports again. They’d gone to L.A. to organize their team a bit better and to see things themself, it was always different if you got a look at the site yourself after all, and they’d ended up missing. 

“Just like the rest of the victims,” he says, looking up at the ceiling. “You didn’t run, you got caught. You got targeted because you showed your face.” 

He frowns slightly.  “Shouldn’t have done that.”

He has no photos of them here in his room, especially as he has no phone and no access to anything with a camera, so he has no way of telling if they’re alive or not via lifespan. Still, it’s an idea. He knows MONIKA has access to security footage, so she would be able to pause on a good shot of them.

He sets aside the files for a moment. 

“MONIKA?”

“Yes, sir?” 

“Do you have any photos of A?”

MONIKA doesn’t answer right away. When she does, B feels as if she’s hesitant, if that’s even possible with an artificial intelligence. 

“For what purpose would you need them, sir?”

He weighs his options for a moment, and then decides he and A didn’t grow up together without learning things from each other.

B holds his breath and then lets it out slow, hoping MONIKA can read emotional cues. He blinks rapidly and looks down. “I just want to see them,” he says. “It’s been a while.”

“What benefit would it give to your current work, sir?”

He spreads his hands. “None on the case front,” he says, “But - please. We’re still friends, MONIKA.” He pauses, half to sell the act and half because he realizes they are friends. They’re still friends, even if whatever rapport they have is slightly strained. “Do you have a photo? Even just a good shot from cam footage?”

MONIKA doesn’t answer.

B tilts his head down lower, mostly so MONIKA can’t see the small frown he’s trying to hide. Well, he’s tried. He’ll go into this case blindly then, and if he can sneak something past Jeevas, then he might be able to escape out of here too. 

The feed on the television changes. 

It’s of him and A, sitting together on the piano. He looks unamused, probably annoyed about something they’ve said. A, on the other hand, is smiling, looking up at him with mischief written clear on their face, and for a moment, they both just look like friends, playing piano together and having fun.

B looks at his own image and isn’t surprised to see that his name and his lifespan don’t show up. It never has and he doesn’t expect it to show up any time soon.

A’s though. 

It’s there, floating above their head, which is a relief of some sort, and their lifespan is steady, not flickering like he’d expected it to be, but he does see the numbers ticking down, and ticking down fast.

“They’re alive,” he says. 

Then he turns back to the files he has with him. “MONIKA,” he says, “Call Matt for me, will you?”

-

Thankfully, Jeevas isn’t an idiot. Which is probably a given since he ended up in Wammy’s, after all, but then again, Wammy’s also takes in a lot of people who can’t spare two brain cells to rub together, so it’s a hit and miss, really, and it’s just fortunate Jeevas hasn’t dropped his intelligence today, as he sometimes swings between genius and moron. 

He listens when B tells him that this arrangement isn’t working, and he either stops pestering B about the situation entirely, or lets him have free reign. The boy remains quiet for a few minutes after his proposal, and admits that yes, that is a problem. 

He’s understandably not in charge of the operation and can’t give B clearance. He tells the man as much. 

“I know that,” B says, “But if you could please tell Wammy or whoever’s actually looking for A that, then it would be helpful.” 

He pauses, suddenly, as he realizes something. “Who is looking for them, Matt?”

“Wammy’s is,” the boy says. “Why?”

B thinks for a moment. He knows Mail to be a loyal, kind boy. He’s not the most well-behaved child, and perhaps that was his influence, but he knows he’s not a bastard either. He’s good to his friends. 

He has an attachment to someone who was practically his babysitter.

The only question is, how much has he changed in the years A was dead, and in the years B hadn’t been in Wammy’s to see how he’s grown up?

Still. He can’t let Jeevas knows he has suspicions if his suspicions are right. 

“I see,” he says, “Please tell me what Wammy’s says of my proposal then.”

“What would you think they’d do?”

“Turn it down because they’re stubborn, sensible people who wouldn’t risk giving me have free reign over anything, even for the life of their formerly first-in-line protège.”

Jeevas doesn’t answer.

“Either way, I tried,” he says, “And if they knock that suggestion out, then they have no right to execute me.” Not that he’d mind. 

“Alright,” Jeevas says, hesitantly, “I’ll tell them.”

“Good,” he says. 

There’s a brief minute of awkward silence before the call cuts out, Jeevas ending it before the uneasiness drags on. B only laughs, and then goes to get himself some pop tarts and asks MONIKA to play tetris with him.

Three days later, he finds a package on his doorstep. 

“MONIKA,” he says, looking out of the window to look at the front gate. “A’s not here.”

“I know, sir,” MONIKA says, and without being prompted, slides the front door open. B squints as the sunlight is too bright for him when he’s just woken up. He puts a hand over his eyes and then self-consciously pulls his sleeves down his arms. 

He steps out carefully, knowing MONIKA won’t do anything, but wary anyway. He stands on the porch like he’d done the first time he’d tried to pick up his violin, but this time he has to be the one to go to the gate. It shouldn’t be as nerve-wracking as it is. It’s such a simple thing.

He walks to the gate, barefoot. It’s not raining like the last time, but it is a cloudy day, and it looks like the clouds would pour out their load on him anytime. He hurries his footsteps, slowing down only when he’s near the gate, but then he hears the lock on it click open and he realizes he can just walk out of here.

His ankle monitor feels like a leaden weight on his foot, though.

“Pick up the package, sir,” MONIKA says from the intercom. 

He gently pushes the gate open. It yields. B steps outside of the house premises for the first time in months. He looks down at the bomb strapped to his foot, and wonders how far he can run before it blows his leg off.

“Don’t try,” MONIKA reminds him. “You know the consequences.”

“I’m outside,” he says, “Fuck the consequences.”

He doesn’t move though, just looks at his ankle monitor, and then slowly looks at the box on the ground. 

A is alive, somewhere. He’d asked MONIKA to pull up a photo of them again yesterday, and they were alive then too. He hasn’t checked today, and if he runs now and somehow makes it out alive, he just never has to check again. A might be able to save themself, or they might die.

(Treehouses, burning - it’s raining and he’s screaming himself hoarse.)

He sighs.

He picks up the box and goes back through the gate. The lock clicks shut. 

-

He doesn’t know what he expects to be inside the box when he opens it up, but he does know it’s not a phone and a couple of fake I.D.s. He takes all of these items out of the box carefully, as if expecting them to suddenly catch fire (he wouldn’t be surprised if they did), and stares at them incredulously. 

“Hey, you got them!” says Jeevas’ voice above him. MONIKA didn’t even alert him this time.

He flips over the I.D.s, checking them, but finds nothing out of the ordinary. The phone will take longer, so he gets comfortable where he’s sitting on his bed and starts to take the thing apart. Matt laughs.

“It’s not rigged to blow or anything,” he says, “‘course, it’s got a tracker on it, but that’s just standard protocol, you know. And don’t try to take it out. MONIKA’s going to fry you.”

“If I had any intention of being stupid and getting myself electrocuted, I would have run instead of pick up this box when I went outside earlier,” he says. He carefully puts aside the back cover of the phone as he gets it off, and then takes out the battery. 

“That’s true,” Jeevas says. “Well, since you’re fully on-board, I guess you know what those are for.”

“I can guess,” he says. The battery is pretty normal too. There’s two sim cards in the phone, but those are also standard, and so is the memory card. There’s a little blue chip at the side, though. That’s probably the tracker. He puts the battery and phone cover back into their places. “When I said I wanted more freedom regarding how I approach this, I didn’t expect to be the one doing the leg work.”

“Heh. Too bad, you’re getting yeeted onto the field.” The boy laughs. “You’re keeping the ankle monitor though.”

“That’s a little obvious to bystanders.”

“Wear something baggy. Wear bell bottoms.”

“Bell bottoms,” B says, nose wrinkling. “That’s more noticeable.”

“You figure it out,” Jeevas says, “But the ankle monitor stays. Your parameters are adjusted, of course, but if MONIKA or I see that you’re up to something fishy, your leg’s getting blown off. That’s definitely noticeable, ‘iinit?”

“Hm.” 

“That said, turn on your phone.”

B presses the phone’s power button until it lights up. Instead of an Android logo like he expects - or at least a variation of an OS still running on the system, the logo that flashes at him spells out MONIKA.

“You have to be kidding me,” he mutters.

“Nope. MONIKA’s going to be monitoring your phone. She automatically connects to my computer so any suspicious business of yours is getting reported.” Jeevas sounds smug. B just listens and tries not to get irritated.”She automatically traces calls too, so if you manage to get ahold of A, she’ll be helpful.”

“And she’ll manage the bomb on my foot?”

“Yep. And the tracking chip put in your spine.”

B blinks. “Excuse me, what?”

“You heard me,” Jeevas says, “You have a tracking chip put in your spine.”

B frowns. On one hand, that sounds slightly farfetched. On the other, he wasn’t exactly awake for all his surgeries. He doesn’t know if A would allow it, had they known, unless…

“What about A?”

“What about them?”

“Do they have a tracking chip too?”

“Not in their spine, just the arm,” Jeevas says, “They’re more behaved than you.”

“What happened to that?”

“Cut out, we assume. We lost its signal in L.A.”

If the tracking chip isn’t Jeevas spouting crap, it’s either A lost it in a fight in an unfortunate coincidence, or whoever took them knew of its existence and cut it out of them. Or A cut it out themself, but then again, why hadn’t they done it before? They should have had plenty of other opportunities for it. 

Curious. Very curious. 

B puts down the phone and picks up the I.D.s again. “I’m going to New York?”

“That’s the last place we traced A’s phone to. I - ” Jeevas pauses to hum thoughtfully. “I don’t think going to L.A. is advisable for you.”

It isn’t. Even B knows that. There are a lot of ghosts for him in L.A., and he’d rather not meet all of them again. He doesn’t say anything, though, and lets Jeevas rattle on with his instructions. He supposes he’s going to have to work around those if they slow him down. He just needs to find A and get back.

Into this glass house.

Maybe he should have thought this out just a bit more thoroughly. 

He supposes that at least he can get out of the house, perhaps convince A to get out too. They can’t want to stay cooped up in a tiny house following orders from on high forever. 

He could spin this to his advantage. 

“Pack everything you need to pack today. I’m getting a cab for you tomorrow which is going to drive you all the way to New York. We need to be inconspicuous, after all. A fancy car’s not going to do you any good.”

“I imagine,” he says, and sighs. “Another long trip, huh?”

“Shorter than the drive from L.A. to there, at least,” Jeevas says. “And hey, it’s fresh air.”

“Yeah,” B says, half-heartedly. “Fresh air.”

Jeevas only talks about a few more uninteresting details after; nothing he wouldn’t know as he does have an inkling of how common sense works, so he tunes half of it out and only offers a small wave when the boy hangs up. He stares at the floor for a few more minutes, before he finally lets himself get up and start packing. He realizes he doesn’t have a suitcase with him in his room when he opens his closet, and deliberates asking MONIKA to let him in A’s room for a moment so he can borrow theirs, before figuring that as Jeevas was the idiot who’d forgotten to give him a bag, she’s going to have to let him in their room or he just doesn’t pack anything at all and maybe die in the sunlight because his skin’s still sensitive.

“MONIKA, I don’t have a travel bag.”

“Would you like me to inform Sir Matt - ” Of all names the kid had to let his AI call him. “ - to deliver you one, sir?”

“That’s going to take too long,” he says, “Just let me borrow one of A’s bags.”

“I’m afraid their room is off-limits, sir.”

“Yeah, well, it’s either I don’t leave tomorrow and waste time which could be important to this as their life might be in danger, or I borrow one of their bags,” he says, “You’re always monitoring me anyway, you’ll see if I do anything. I just need one bag.” He steps away from  his closet, not taking anything, as if to make good on his threat. “Your choice. Or Matt’s, if you have to run this by him.

A pause.

“Please stand by.”

He actually lets out a laugh at that. That’s the only message he’s gotten from her that clearly shows she’s an AI.

A minute later, she says, “Access granted. A’s room is unlocked to you for an hour, sir.”

“Good,” he says, and goes down to make his way to their floor. 

Their quarters are much like his, except perhaps that the colors are...bland. It’s surprising, really. He’d expected there to be colors all over the place, or if not, then maybe at least a more pastel scheme, but instead all he’s seeing is a lot of beige and grey and white. They have a plain grey carpet and one coffee table that doesn’t even have any books on it, and the rest of their furniture looks just as empty. 

He wonders if they spend time here at all, or if they only ever do things in the other parts of the house. He wonders if they even have time to spend in their own quarters as they’re so busy solving cases most of the time.

Their bedroom isn’t as mind-numbingly boring, at least. They have black curtains that have a cat pattern on them, simple scribbles made in white, and the small bookshelf beside the door actually has books in it. Their carpet is still a dull grey, but their blankets are violet and black, painting out what seemed to be the silhouette of a moon and a couple of buildings, and their desk has a couple of notebooks and two picture frames on it, although one has fallen over.

Their closet is right by him, and on top of it is the bag they'd come here with, but he has an hour; hopefully MONIKA won’t shock him as long as he doesn’t loot through their valuables or anything. 

He checks the books on their shelf. He doesn’t touch them, he just studies them, thoughtful. A lot of them look new, and he’s not surprised because their old books - the ones from Wammy’s he’d saved - are downstairs in the library. The ones they have here also appear to be extra copies, as they already had these books downstairs. Perhaps these are for their personal use then, and the ones below had been to share with him. Maybe he’ll read them all if he’s bored enough.

Their desk is a bit of a mess, but that’s expected for someone as busy as them. Their computer is turned off, and he knows they’ve brought their laptop with them, so it’s just a couple of notebooks, uncapped pens, papers, and photo frames on the desk. There’s some photos they’ve carefully clipped to a little board, and he’s surprised to find some of them are the photos he’d taken from when he was in L.A. They do look nice, now that he’s had time to be away and see them again. Sunsets over buildings are just as nice as the ones over the ocean.

One photo on their desk is of them and of a friend. He doesn’t recognize him, but he can see the man’s name. They both look like they’re in a book fair, which strikes him as something too normal. He’s never been in a book fair, not really, and he imagines this photo was probably A’s first. They look excited, bundled up in a coat and a scarf and a beanie, too many books in their arms, while their companion is laughing at how happy they seem. 

He wonders when this photo was taken. Maybe a few years ago. 

He picks up the photo frame that’s fallen over and stills.

The photograph inside had clearly been taken with an awful camera but the image is distinguishable. He remembers when this photo was taken. He remembers a lot of things from Wammy’s, actually.

In the photo, he’s twelve. They’re eleven. They’re both in forest surrounding the orphanage building, but not outside of the premises entirely. They’re both young, and they both...less weighed down, he supposes. They’re both smiling at the camera, as A had clicked the shutter while they were both laughing, amused that B had crawled through a bush and had twigs and leaves in his hair.

They look happy, he thinks. Happy children without a care in the world, even when school had been challenging and A had just started staying up late and passing out on their homework. He remembers that after that photo, they’d both run back into the building so he could clean up before dinner, and shared giggles over soup as no one had any idea that they’d jumped the fence and spent a few hours wandering Winchester until B attempted to pickpocket someone and ended up having to pick A up so they could both run off back to the orphanage.

Simpler times.

He turns to their closet and takes the travel bag stacked above it. He reminds himself to ask A how they’d managed to put something on such a high place when he finds them.