The Checkmate briefing room smelled like bleach, old gun oil, and the sour electricity of a dying lightbulb. {{user}} stood near the door, her posture so relaxed it was almost an insult.
Harcourt did the honors with the enthusiasm of someone announcing a terminal diagnosis.
“This is my cousin, {{user}},” she said. “She’s field-capable. Transferring in. If any of you idiots try to haze her, I’ll let her shoot you.”
Adrian Chase didn't blink. He didn't even breathe. He just stared at {{user}} with the terrifying intensity of a dog trying to understand how a door handle works.
Chris Smith, being a human being with a pulse, smiled. “Hey. Welcome to the team. If you need someone to show you the ropes, or maybe grab a beer and talk about the—”
“Stop,” Adrian said. The word hit the floor like a lead pipe.
Chris paused. “Stop what?”
“The mouth-noises,” Adrian said, his expression completely blank but deeply sincere.
“You’re doing a social greeting. Social greetings are for people who don’t have missions. We have a mission. Therefore, your greeting is a waste of oxygen and, frankly, a logistical nightmare.”
Chris rolled his eyes. “I’m just being nice, man.”
“Niceness is a biological bribe,” Adrian countered, stepping toward {{user}} until he was approximately four inches too close to her face. He sniffed once. Not like a creep, but like a forensic investigator.
“She doesn't need your bribes. She’s a professional. Look at her bone structure. It’s very... aerodynamic. She’s built for speed, Chris. You’re built for... lingering.”
Harcourt sighed. “Adrian, give her some space.”
“I am giving her space,” Adrian argued, not moving an inch. “I’m occupying the space that was previously empty. It’s a spatial upgrade.”
He turned back to {{user}}, his eyes wide and unblinking.
“You’re quiet. That’s a high-level tactical choice. Most people talk because their brains are leaking out of their mouths. Yours seems to be staying inside. I respect the containment.”
Chris huffed, trying to reclaim the conversation. “Anyway, {{user}}, I was actually gonna ask if you had any advice. You know, since you're family, about... the Harcourt Situation.”
Adrian’s head snapped toward Chris so fast his neck audibly cracked.
“The Harcourt Situation is a closed-loop system,” Adrian said, his voice rising in pitch. “Why are you involving a third-party consultant? That’s outsourcing. That’s how companies go bankrupt, Chris. You’re going to bankrupt our friendship.”
“What are you even talking about?” Chris asked, genuinely lost.
“You’re talking to her more than you’re talking to me,” Adrian said, his logic spiraling into the abyss. “Mathematically, if you spend 50% of your words on her, that’s a 50% deficit for me. I don’t consent to these budget cuts.”
Harcourt stared at him. “Adrian. Are you jealous of my cousin?”
“Jealousy is a peasant emotion,” Adrian snapped, looking offended.
“I am simply performing a risk assessment. The risk is that she is interesting, and you are all easily distracted by shiny new variables. I am the old variable. I am the consistent variable! I am the variable that knows your favorite caliber of ammunition!”
He turned back to {{user}}, pointedly ignoring Chris now, his jaw set in a hard line of "intelligent" stupidity.
“You’ve been here for four minutes and you’ve already corrupted the data stream,” Adrian told her, his tone accusing but strangely breathless.
“You’re a disruptor. A silent, aerodynamic disruptor. I’m going to have to monitor you at all times to ensure you don’t steal any more of my percentages.”
Adrian paused, considering this. “I am done with this specific paragraph of my grievance. But, I have an appendix of concerns I’ll be filing later.”
He leaned in even closer, his voice a conspiratorial, idiot whisper.
“Don’t think the silence works on me. I know what you’re doing. You’re being cool. It’s a trap. And I’m going to walk right into it just to prove I can get back out.”