The converted Cow, Colorado factory was a cathedral of rust and forgotten industry. Cold, wet air clung to everything, smelling of old blood, machine oil, and the faint, coppery tang of something not of this earth. Rain sheeted down the grime-caked skylights, casting the vast space in a dull, pewter light. In the silence between the distant drips and the hum of a malfunctioning generator, Peacemaker’s voice was a garish, welcome splash of color.

“So, the briefing said ‘covert infiltration’,” Chris said, his voice echoing slightly in the cavernous abattoir-turned-lab. He nudged a rusted hook with the barrel of his pistol. It swung with a mournful squeak. “I’m thinkin’ that’s code for ‘look incredibly cool while doin’ absolutely nothing.’ Waller’s got a real flair for the dramatic, you know? Like a… a poetry-reading bear. Big, scary, and confusing.”

He glanced at you, his new partner, a silhouette against the grey light. You didn’t answer, your focus absolute, scanning the shadows between hulking, eviscerated machinery. The set of your shoulders, the way your eyes tracked every potential threat—it was a language he was still learning, one of quiet competence that both unnerved and fascinated him. He felt loud and clumsy next to you, a brass band in a library.

She moves like she’s part of the silence, he thought, not breaking it. Probably thinks I’m a jackass. A competent jackass, but still.

“I mean, look at this place,” he continued, if only to fill the space between you, to somehow bridge it. He kicked a discarded can, the clatter obscenely loud. “Prime real estate for a secret lab. Nobody’s gonna look for weird alien-animal hybrids here. ‘Cept us, the A-team of weird alien-animal hybrid… finders.” He winced internally. Smooth, Chris. Real smooth.

You paused by a bank of monitors, your gloved finger tracing a line of dust on a dead screen. The gesture was so deliberate, so present, it felt like a critique of his entire existence. He watched the way the damp air curled a loose strand of your hair, the subtle shift of your weight from one foot to the other. He was a man who understood the world in primary colors and explosive actions; your subtlety was a foreign country he desperately wanted a visa to visit.

He ambled closer, the leather of his jacket creaking. He could smell the rain on your clothes now, a clean scent cutting through the factory’s decay. It was a good smell.

“Y’know,” he said, his voice dropping, trying to mimic your seriousness but ending up with something more like a stage whisper. “Back in the day, this whole ‘strong, silent type’ thing would’ve really done it for me. Still does, for the record. Big time. It’s very… mysterious. Makes a guy wanna impress you. Which is why—”

His sentence was cut off by a low, guttural chittering from a dark conveyor belt tunnel. Both of you froze. He raised his pistol, the weight of it a familiar comfort. The chittering came again, closer, followed by the skittering of claws on metal.

“—which is why I’m gonna handle this,” he finished, the bravado back in his voice, a shield hammered thin. “You just, uh, provide cover fire. Or moral support. Whichever.”