Chapter Text
The others didn’t look at him as he walked up the gangway and into the ship’s cargo hold. Or rather, he noted, they don’t look at his face. Instead, their eyes went to his shirt, to his hands, and then to the knife that he held in a casual grip. It might also have been the dripping that drew their attention, crimson following behind him as he walked past them. He couldn’t help but feel a little surprised that they would be as unblooded to have issues with his current state of dress.
Then again, considering his current... employer, he imagined that they were being told that they were on the side of the angels. A knife sharp smile curled at the edge of his mouth at his own phrasing, causing one of the younger members of the group to shy away after a glance at his face. Nureyev let the emotion drop from his face, regaining the impassive face that he had shown them. It wouldn’t do to have them be more afraid of him than they already were, especially if he was to work with them for the time being.
Apparently this was who he was, after all.
Nureyev felt more than heard the engines kick on, the vibrations rumbling under his feet as they began their journey. With a nonchalant sigh, he folded the knife and tucked it into the pocket of his trousers. He pretended not to notice how the tension in the room lowered as soon as it was out of his hand.
“I don’t suppose any of you have a spare set of clothes?” he asked.
The four people left in the cargo bay jumped at his voice. Nureyev marked the idea that these were what his employer would have called a “light-touch” crew as verified, before filing it away. It wouldn’t do him much good to know that about them, though it did make a part of him feel better. And worse, though the show that he had put on had hopefully convinced his employer that he wasn’t playing him. Not that the man wouldn’t already be thinking that, but that was the way that thieves often thought about one another.
Though the thought of calling him a thief was... distasteful in a way. This act had been more mercenary than anything that required true talent. The acquisition of Nureyev’s services, his hiring of these people, was like a warlord accumulating his forces rather than the crew that Buddy had built up as a family.
No.
Nureyev looked across the cargo bay, focusing on one of his new crewmates as she walked over to him with a bundle of clothes. Her eyes skittered from his as she held them out, going to his gore-spattered hands. Nureyev sighed, drawing her attention back to his face. There was something in her expression that seemed to change the longer she looked at him, which was disquieting.
“I assume there’s a bathroom of some sort on this ship?”
“Just down the hall and on the left, right next to the crew bunks,” she said.
Her voice deeper than he expected, but now that he eyed her critically, fitting. She was still wary, but the blood that was splashed over him wasn’t the cause. If he had to guess, she had seen worse before. Which meant that it was the personality of Peter Nureyev that was making her uncomfortable. Not that it was surprising. Peter Nureyev was apparently someone who was disturbing in ways that he had not yet catalogued.
“If you wouldn’t mind helping me there?”
She nodded, shoving the bundle of clothes under her arm and striding past him. To her credit she didn't flinch as he fell into step behind her. If anything her spine straightened with an almost military precision as she led him to the bathroom, as if he was some sort of general that she was escorting to a meeting. When they arrived she shoved the clothes onto a shelf as he stepped past her. Two shower stalls sat against the wall, with a door that Nureyev assumed led to a toilet opposite the door he had entered. A set of mirrors over two sinks finished the remaining wall of the room, and he spared a quick glance at one of them.
He didn’t recognize himself.
It wasn’t the drops of crimson that were speckled across his cheek and nose, likely from when he had stabbed Jet. His hair, usually held back from his face with products to make it look natural, falling forward and tracing his jaw was not the reason either. The massive bloodstain that had soaked into the lavender fabric of his shirt would have been cause for concern if it had been his. A part of his mind, a dark corner sealed with chains and locks that rattled if he dwelt on it for too long, cried out that the blood that was there did deserve his consideration.
Nureyev stamped that thought down. Juno would be fine. He knew his own skill with a blade. He hadn’t felt anything more than muscle and skin part under his blade; the wound would be painful, but was not deadly. Not that it would have appeared as such to those who were watching.
“You really are him, aren’t you?”
Nureyev turned towards the woman who had led him here. She met his eyes for a second before dropping them to the floor again. There was something in the way she spoke Solar, a slight hint of an accent that took a bare second for him to place.
“That depends,” he told her.
“You’re the Peter Nureyev, right?” she asked. “You broke into the Guardian Angel System and forced them to stop using it.”
“I threatened them. A threat I haven’t felt the need to follow through on.”
“But you saved so many people-”
“I’m not some sort of savior,” Nureyev corrected her before she could continue. She looked ready to argue the point, and he decided to nip her opinion of him in the bud. “Whatever generous things you want to ascribe to me, don’t. That man died a few lifetimes ago.”
“But-”
“Now, if you’ll excuse me, I believe I need to shower.”
Nureyev turned away from her, drawing his shirt over his head. By the time it was off she was gone, the door sliding shut behind him. He sighed, using a clean corner of the shirt to wipe off the drying spots on blood on his face. It was better for her to have realistic opinions of him. If everything went to plan, no one would ever hear from Peter Nureyev again after this job. The way that it should have been.
Looking up, he caught sight of himself in the mirror again. A bit of the blood was still on his chin, dried in a way that would require soap and water to wash away. There was still something about the person in the mirror that he didn’t recognize, and he leaned closer to the mirror as if that could help him decipher the issue. It was only when he looked into his own eyes that he saw what had been escaping him.
There was nothing in his eyes. He stared into them and saw nothing of the Peter Nureyev that had once been there. Perhaps there had never really been a Peter Nureyev that had taken up residence there, the name merely another mask that he had worn. Another persona for the Nameless Thief.
Nureyev clapped a hand over his mouth to stop the mad giggles that threatened to spill out. There would be time to have a breakdown later, once he was off this ship. As he breathed in through his nose he caught the scent of iron and rust and had to pull his hand away. A few lines of blood transferred to his face from the still drying blood on his hands - Juno’s blood. He shoved himself under the showerhead, and pretended not to notice the tears that dripped down his face as he washed.
The process of cleaning was mechanical, though he paid special attention to his hands. By the end of it the water was cold and his cuticles were ragged, but there wasn’t any blood left besides his own. His own clothes he tossed in the waste receptacle, knowing that there was nothing that he wanted salvaged from them. The clothes that had been left for him were plain, nothing more than a button up shirt and pants that were a bit too short in the leg.
Regrettably, he pulled on his own shoes after wiping the most visible blood stains off of them. As soon as he was able he would have to gather his own wardrobe since he had been unable to take anything from the Carte Blanche. It was an unfortunate side effect of his employment, and Nureyev regretted the loss of a few items that he had left behind. Nothing that he owned was irreplaceable, something that he had learned early on, but that didn’t mean that there weren’t items that he preferred. He wouldn’t be surprised if the members of the Carte Blanche made some sort of pyre with them. Burning him in effigy since he had made it impossible to do in person.
Nureyev shoved those thoughts down into the deep, dark prison of his mind and drew the chains over the door. That was in the past. Peter Nureyev had no friends, had no one to rely on but himself. That was the truth of who he was. Of who he had to be.
With a sigh he left the bathroom. The woman who had led him to it was long gone, so he took the opportunity to explore on his own. The ship wasn’t dissimilar to many long-haul cargo ships, though he noted that some of what had been cargo space had been quickly converted into more barracks than were needed for the skeleton crew that had come to Laverna. Considering his employer’s manpower needs, Nureyev guessed that his retrieval was merely one stop on the trip.
There was only one place that he could see the people on this ship ending up. He doubted that they realized that they were going to end up there, probably thinking that the people they went up against were the type to take prisoners. From what he had gleaned in the years following his departure, Nureyev had seen that it was the opposite. Laser blasts were always a much cleaner way to take care of dissidents. Even if there were always more to take their place.
The same woman who had led him to the bathroom was the one who found him again a day later as he mused. She looked harried, her thick blonde hair falling out of the bun that she wore. Nureyev felt a smidge of pity, but let the feeling fall away; she had obviously been looking for him, and he wasn’t very inclined to leave the place he had made for himself. It hadn’t been the most comfortable spot to hole up in, between a vent and the bulkhead, but was someplace that people were less likely to look. People were always hesitant to look up in his opinion, even people who hadn’t grown up under a floating city that would kill you for the smallest infraction. The hurried, almost circumspect way that the woman’s eyes snapped to the corners of the ceiling spoke to someone who was used to looking for cameras, and it took a moment before she spied his hiding spot.
“The boss has been wanting to speak with you,” she said, her tone annoyed compared to the slightly deferential way that she had spoken the day before.
“And how long ago was that, I wonder?” he asked, dropping down and landing with nary a sound.
“Yesterday.”
“Ah,” Nureyev said with a wry grin. “I imagine you’ve been searching for me?”
“He told us to look up,” she replied. “Said you were fond of the rafters.”
“And I’m sure you were very thankful for the tip, Ms. ...”
She rolled her eyes. “Mason Dobrynina. I’d appreciate it if you’d follow me to the comms room. Some of us haven’t gotten to sleep yet.”
Nureyev let the grin drop from his face as Mason turned sharply on her heel. A sense of apprehension began to roil in his stomach, though he was careful not to let it show. He had hoped to keep his interactions with his employer strictly through intermediaries, but apparently he had other ideas. Not that it was surprising; putting together all of the pieces and making sure they fell as he wanted was his trademark. Only ruined once, and corrected years after the fact with the albatross that Nureyev currently wore.
Mason led him past what he assumed was the kitchen, and he made a mental note of its location. He wasn’t hungry, per say, but living on the Carte Blanche had gotten him used to the option of regular meals. Not that he had taken many of them, though he hadn’t been able to escape them entirely. Usually someone would come up with a reason why the entire crew had to be together for a meal, and he would find himself in his bed hours later with a full stomach. It had been nice to not worry about where his next meal would come from, or who he would have to deal with to get it.
Not that he thought his employer would withhold food from any of the crew. He was all too aware of how much food could be used to guarantee loyalty. Nureyev choked back the bile that rose in his throat, his stomach feeling terrible all of a sudden. He supposed it was a small comfort that food wasn’t what was being held over him - though he couldn’t say he would have preferred it.
“You know how to work a comms call?” Mason asked as she came to a stop outside. She leaned against the wall, giving him a quick once-over, as if he had managed to find and hide something from her in the scant time they had been walking. Nureyev tipped his head to her and opened the door instead of answering.
The interior of the room was lit by soft blue lights, which cast an odd sheen over the black screen that dominated the room. Nureyev looked around the room, spying a few cameras that had been placed in various spots around the room, allowing for whomever called to choose the angle they wished to view. It also, he noted with a little disgust, made it impossible to hide one’s face. Not that it mattered for him in this case, but it was... annoying to put it mildly. He looked over at the controls to the system, but before he could even touch them the largest screen in the room turned on.
“Giving my people some trouble, eh Peter?”
Nureyev didn’t bother to answer him. “Is there a reason you needed me?”
“You haven’t fully paid your debts, so I wouldn’t be as glib as you are.”
“I got you four of the most valuable items in the known galaxy so that you could get the most valuable thing in the galaxy. I rather think that knocks down my debts considerably.”
“There were only three items brought onboard,” his employer said, his owl-like eyes narrowing. “I wouldn’t think you would try and cheat me, Peter. Not again.”
“I didn’t in the first place and we both know it,” Nureyev shot back in a fit of pique before he regained his composure. “But, as I said, all four items were brought onboard. I have the Key.”
“Keeping it as insurance?”
“Well, I’m sure that you could ask one of your lackeys here to try and retrieve it from my corpse. If they could even find it.”
“I don’t want you dead, Peter.”
“Just under your thumb?”
The older man on the vid screen sighed and rubbed his fingers over his brow. He wasn’t as broad as he had once been, but he still cut an imposing figure. Nureyev crossed his arms, waiting for whatever line Mag was going to feed him this time. Not that he had any real need to. They both knew the threat that held Nureyev to his service, no matter how reluctantly. The debts, extravagant as they were, were simply an excuse. He could have whispered Nureyev’s name to any of the people searching for him in New Kinshasa’s name and been rewarded as a king. Instead, he had decided this was the way to get what he truly wanted - a thief who was loyal to him and only to him.
In the recesses of his mind, under the same chains that held everything that he could no longer care about, Nureyev could admit that there was a young man who was desperate to do anything but kill the man he had seen as a father. That part of him was glad that Mag had managed to live,and had managed to fool the security forces of New Kinshasa into believing he was one of the guards. The new heart he had been given had been the beginning of the debt, he had told Nureyev when he had finally tracked down the Nameless Thief a few years later.
And he had been so happy to find out that Mag was alive that he had offered to pay for it. Had taken on more and more, bound himself so tightly that by the time he realized what Mag had done there was no real way to escape. The debts kept adding up, interests compounding, and Mag kept coming to him to pay. He had told Mag that what he was bringing, the items that he had stolen with the crew of the Carte Blanche, would be enough to settle the debts and sever their connection for good.
Not that Mag would have let him go. He had figured that out rather quickly as the debts seemed to compound interest the longer that he stayed on the Carte Blanche. The collar that he had willingly put on was now a snare around his neck, tightening ever further as he fought against it. By burying him further into debt Mag was keeping a hold on his most valuable resource, one that could bring him whatever he needed, like a dog to heel.
“There’s no need to be so contrarian, Peter,” Mag scolded him lightly, a hint of his former fatherly tone in his voice. Nureyev steeled himself, wary of even twitching to let his former mentor know how much it could still affect him. “We both know that you do better with someone to guide your movements. Even Buddy Aurinko knew that, what with her machinations.”
“I was never hers, though, was I?”
“Never,” he agreed with a smile.
His teeth were straight, so different from the slightly crooked ones that Nureyev had known growing up. But, then, he had needed to change after Nureyev had abandoned him. And small things were enough to throw most people off of a good thief’s scent. With new teeth, hair lightened just a touch even as it greyed, eyes outlined in dark liner giving them a more almond shape, Mag looked like a different man. But Nureyev could see the man he had known twenty years ago, even through the lines that wrinkled across his brow; could see the calculation that sparked in his gaze.
“But, I will say that you haven’t kept up your end of the bargain, Pete,” Mag continued.
“Oh?” Nureyev asked, raising an eyebrow.
“Don’t play with me. You brought me three of the artifacts that Buddy acquired. Where’s the fourth?”
“I have it. I even have it on me right now.”
Mag squinted at him, and Nureyev could almost hear the different cameras whir as he was observed through them. He let himself relax, a gambler’s grin coming easily to his face. There was no way that Mag didn’t know that he had changed clothes, that he didn’t have the time or ability to sew in hidden pockets. And, of course, he had catalogued what Nureyev had brought him, and knew that the only thing he was missing was the Key. And keys, they both knew, were easy enough to hide on one’s person.
“I hope you aren’t thinking of cheating me,” Mag said, the warmth in his voice gone as if it had never existed.
“Hardly,” Nureyev said, crossing his arms in front of his chest. “I simply wanted some insurance for myself. You may say you don’t want me dead, but I’d rather have a reason for you to keep me alive.”
“If you swallowed it-”
“I didn’t,” he cut Mag off. “The Key isn’t a physical key. So, even if you wanted one of your crew here to go on a cavity search, they wouldn’t find it.”
“Clever, Pete,” Mag told him, his forehead that had creased in displeasure smoothing. “But as I said, I don’t want you dead. I’d never raise a hand against family.”
Nureyev couldn’t stop himself from flinching at the rebuke. “Of course, Mag. I know you wouldn’t.”
“But I can understand your need for this safety net. But it will put a hamper on some of the things I was planning on for you.”
“I don’t see how. You have everything that you need to go after the Cure Mother. We can head there and grab it now, if you’re so worried.”
“Would that we could. But it appears that what you brought us isn’t enough to get us to the Cure Mother.”
“I brought you the Map.”
“A Map that doesn’t tell us where the Cure Mother is. It’s a map of the facility that’s keeping it.”
Nureyev felt the non-existent collar tighten around his neck. “Well, I’m sure a man of your talents-”
“Spare me, Peter,” Mag said. “It will take us months of going over star charts to figure out where this facility is in the Outer Rim. Which means that the debts you owe aren’t yet paid off.”
“It would appear not.”
Mag gave him a magnanimous smile as he continued, “But that doesn’t mean that we can’t get rid of any of the interest that would accrue in that time period. Or, we could have. If your intention is to keep the Key to yourself, I can’t use you as I had planned. A shame, really.”
“There’s no reason why you can’t,” Nureyev replied. “I’m assuming you need something stolen, and I am one of the best thieves in the galaxy.”
“I don’t need one of the best. I need the best.”
“Afraid I’ll get caught and you’ll lose the Key?”
“Can I not be afraid of losing you, Peter?”
Nureyev didn’t bother answering the question. He waited as Mag rubbed a hand across his forehead, as if Nureyev’s insolence was a problem that they could talk through. It wasn’t, Nureyev was certain. Not so long as Mag was content to yank his chain the second he got too far from his influence.
“There are a few things that would be beneficial to our cause if they were liberated from their current residences.”
“And you now have a master thief in your employ.”
“I’ve always had you,” Mag corrected with an easygoing grin, trying to walk back from the ledge that they had wandered near. “I doubt I could have gotten as far as I have without you, Peter.”
“I’m sure you would have found a way,” Nureyev told him. “I’ll need the names and places you need the items acquired from. And you need to tell this crew to drop me off at the nearest port.”
“Have Mason get you a comms unit. I’ll send the information to it, and I’ll have her notify the navigator. It shouldn’t be too hard to have them drop you off on one of Tyche’s moons.”
“Sors,” he said, letting his arms hang loosely again. “I have a cache there that I can use.”
“I wasn’t aware that you did.”
Nureyev raised an eyebrow. “I’m allowed to have a few secrets, aren’t I?”
Mag simply smiled at him, letting the silence speak for itself as he cut the call. Nureyev let his lips twist into a displeased frown for a moment, before replacing it with the disinterested mask he had cultivated. The cache that he had on Sors wasn’t one of the ones that he had visited since Mag had come back into his life. Going to it now was just one more thing that he was giving up in pursuit of his goal.
He wasn’t sure how much more he had to give. How much more he would have to give.
Mason wasn’t standing outside the door when he exited, which Nureyev found himself strangely grateful for. He quickly made his way back towards the hideaway he had made for himself. A slight grumbling of his stomach made him stop at the galley as he mentally calculated how long it had actually been since he had eaten anything. It had been a while since he had actually felt that way, and he felt his fingers tremble as he stashed ration bars away in the pockets of the clothes he had been given.
At a quicker pace than he would have liked, Nureyev went back to the spot that he had claimed as his for this journey. He was certain that Mason, whom he assumed Mag had made his contact for as long as he was aboard, would find him again when it was time for him to leave. Knowing the space routes that the ship would be using, and taking into account the time that had already passed in their travels, Nureyev guessed that he had about a day until they would reach Sors.
He arranged himself into a position that anyone else would have considered uncomfortable before he let the memories overwhelm him. Nureyev pressed a hand against his mouth to stop the sound of panic that threatened to escape. It took longer than he wanted to shove them back down, the horror within them bleeding into one another. Mag’s betrayed face warping into Juno’s as he pressed a knife into his gut, only to disappear behind a metal door with a sad smile. He could hear the sound of a body hitting a metal floor, and he wasn’t sure if the ragged breaths he heard were theirs as they bled out or his own as he rode the waves of panic.
Eventually he came back to himself, the memories tamely going back into their boxes. Nureyev let himself drift, slightly uncomfortable in the cold sweat that pooled at the base of his spine and the notch of his throat. He wasn’t sure how long that went on for, an oversight that should have horrified him. But like everything else, it seemed far away and unimportant. It was only when Mason tossed a comms unit at him that he managed to bring himself back into some sort of awareness.
“You okay?” she asked as he unfolded himself and dropped to the floor.
It seemed like an honest question, and Nureyev found himself giving her a shaky smirk. She stepped closer to him, only to stop when his entire body stiffened. He rolled his shoulders, forcing himself into a relaxed posture. It was already irritating enough that she had seen him in a state of disarray. To think that she needed to comfort him was even worse.
“Quite alright, Ms. Dobrynina.”
“Hang a noodle on someone else’s ears,” Mason said. “You look like shit.”
“I’m sure it’s nothing that my cache on Sors can’t fix,” Nureyev said, scrolling through the comms unit that she had given him.
“You really don’t want to be here, do you?”
“My dear, what gave you that idea?”
“This, for a start,” she said, gesturing at his entire being. “From what I’d heard growing up you were some sort of mythical figure that had New Kinshasa quaking in their boots. You’re what got me involved in the Resistance in the first place.”
“Terrible idea.”
“Yeah, maybe. But then Mag told us about you, and you became a real person, sort of. You weren’t just the Angel of Brahma, you were Peter Nureyev -”
“Don’t,” Nureyev said, cutting off whatever else she was about to say. “Whatever he told you, whatever pretty stories he’s filled your head with...”
Nureyev trailed off, looking away from the comms unit. His eyes danced around the small space, but within seconds of checking for exits he was looking at her again. There was something in her face, a look that almost seemed to be pity. And if there was one thing that Nureyev knew he didn’t need to receive, it was pity.
“You’re still helping us,” she said after it was clear he wasn’t going to continue his thought. “Why don’t you just leave? Run as far and as fast as you can?”
“If I could, I would,” he replied. “I did, for years. But there are some things that you can’t run away from, much as you might like to. Not if you care about them.”
“What do you care about?”
“Brahma.”
The words were out of his mouth before he could even think about it. He let his eyes drop from hers, his mind racing. They were true, of course. He had given up everything for Brahma, for her people. What was a name, in regards to millions of people who would live without fear of a laser from the sky striking them down for the smallest infraction?
“You do,” she agreed. “That’s why I like you, Peter. The stories he told built you up as some sort of paragon who was helping us. Seeing you like this? Reminds me that you’re human too.”
“How terrible,” Nureyev said. “Stories are much better. You can be whoever you want in a story.”
“You’ve got some practice with that.”
“I think I’d prefer to be anyone else right now,” he told her as he stored the comms unit in his pocket.
“Well, you’ll get your wish,” Mason said. “Captain sent me to tell you we’re about to dock at Sors. That was about ten minutes ago, so I figured you have about twenty until we actually do, if you wanted to clean yourself up a bit.”
Nureyev took the exit she gave him graciously. Stepping past her, he found his way to the small bathroom he had visited before and made sure that his face didn’t look as if he had been crying or having a panic attack. The redness that he saw around his eyes and on the tip of his nose wasn’t great, but would clear up quickly enough that the common passerby wouldn’t take a second look at him.
As he nodded to himself in the mirror, Nureyev felt the inertial dampeners kick in, and knew that they had entered Sors atmosphere. He walked to the gangway, noting Mason sitting on a crate nearby. He didn’t acknowledge her as he waited for the gangway to lower, but he could feel her eyes on him all the same. But when it did lower, letting in the slightly acidic air of Sors, he stepped off the ship a bit quicker than he usually would.
It wasn’t until he slipped through the crowd and was half a dozen streets away that he felt like they weren’t still staring him down.