Chapter Text
He wanted to kiss her so badly in that moment.
Which was funny, because she nearly slapped him for getting too close.
But that was just the thing. It was strange, but the way she walked tall and confidently did something to him. That was the only thing about the real Carmen that stayed. When he got too close, she snatched his wrist and pinned him to the ground. She was bold enough to take her own goddess form, regardless of how she was born. She could come and touch him with love and he would promise her that he would never see a more beautiful woman for all of his days.
"Little close there, Gray." A smirk played on her lips, "Guess you must like me or something."
The words "Can you blame me?" slipped out before he could catch himself.
"Flatterty won't save you in V.I.L.E., but keep it coming. I don't mind." The amusement was real but the lack of warmth was an unfortunate reminder of her brainwashing. Empathy was a foreign concept to her. "Just don't go gettin' soft on me."
"Soft? Not a chance." He retorted, but the lie felt easy to bend. He could wrap himself around her words and sleep soundly. But she would kill him if he ever got close like that.
Graham sits at an outdoor café, fixated on the office building across the street. In the distance, he can see the Sydney Opera House, where he used to work. The shimmering white sails painfully recall his termination two years prior, and the sting of that dismissal still lingers. He had been reckless, unfocused, they said, and being an electrician was a dangerous occupation that just was not cut out for him. He wanted to be angry at them, but how could they know of the turmoil he endured? He could only blame himself—
The bitter coffee burns his tongue. It hurts, but it brings him back to the present. As he checks to ensure nothing got on his coat, his phone buzzes, precisely on schedule, demanding his attention.
Graham picks up the phone.
"Are you outside the café?" The voice belongs to Isabella Rossi, in charge of collecting all the data for their cases. She is probably perched beside their boss, Callum Owens, as they give each other their trademark withering looks. He detects irritation in her voice and resists the urge to tease her.
"As ordered, mate. What's the job?"
"Callum has sent his regards. Client's a Potts Point housewife. Her husband, Christopher Miller, claims he can never eat with her at dinner because of his 'heavy workload,' but she suspects otherwise, and needs proof."
"Ah, classic 'pin the tail on the cheating husband'. He works in the building ahead, I presume?"
"You presumed correctly," Bella confirms. She provides details as Graham watches his sightings closely: Christopher Miller. Early forties. Six foot one. Lean build, but wiry, not muscular. Always wears tailored suits (gray or navy mostly). Carries an almost antique-looking briefcase. And, most importantly, a distinctive limp in his left leg. "He should be done with work about now."
As if on cue, a man emerges from the building.
Ah, so he's punctual as well.
Just as Bella had detailed, he is impeccably dressed in a dark gray suit, his hunched posture betrays the limp in his left leg, and he carries a briefcase that does indeed look like it belongs in a museum, rather than in the hands of a modern businessman. A minor detail he picks up on is the Rolex watch on his right wrist. It looks retro and it is definitely expensive. He is a successful tech entrepreneur. He can afford extravagance. The man is old-fashioned, perhaps, but Graham does not judge. He knows many with similar taste, but he prefers not to dwell on the unsettling ones.
"Bingo. Looks like our penguin's ready for a stroll. Thanks for the intel, Bella. I'll let you know when I have the picture."
"Good. Be discreet."
Graham sighs, shaking his head. Her tone reminds him of someone he knows...
But he does not have time to reminisce.
He falls into step behind Miller, maintaining a safe distance as the man hurries along the sidewalk and occasionally glances over his shoulder. Miller's pace quickens as they approach a busy intersection. Without hesitation, the man hails a cab and jumps inside. Graham does not break his stride. He simply raises his hand to signal the next available cab in a calm, languid fashion. As he slides into the backseat, he instructs the driver, pointing, "Follow that cab." He leans back against the plush headrest, his arms casually crossed behind his head. "No need to rush."
Miller's cab turns to a quieter side street lined with upscale restaurants, then slows. He shoves a wad of cash into the driver's hand before stepping out without a word.
Graham, in contrast, pays the driver with calm efficiency. He gives him the cash with a quiet, "Thank you, mate," and steps out. He watches as the man ducks into the windowless building pulsing with a scarlet neon sign that reads, Dollhouse Gentlemen's Club.
Bella's words suddenly echo ironically. "Good. Be discreet."
Like he would want to make a big scene at a strip club.
Inside, the bass vibrates his chest. Smoke hangs in lazy swirls, obscuring the flashing lights and the bodies writhing on the dance floor. The air smells thick with the cloying mix of perfume, sweat, and desperation. Graham watches the patrons fawn over the woman above them with flushed faces drunk off liquor, thrill, and arousal. The women's smirks are strained through their polished performances. Pushing aside his unease at the transactional nature of the scene, he finds Miller in an easy spot. He is ensconced in a booth with a platinum blonde draped across his lap.
He sidles up next to a stage closest to the alleged couple and pulls out his phone. A beautiful woman, who dances sensually above him, her hips rising and falling to the beat, looks down at him. "Well, aren't you a cutie. You want a dance, sweetheart?" she purrs.
Graham chuckles, focusing on his target, "Business only." He nods subtly toward Miller, angling his phone so that the lens points in their direction.
He sees her face twist into a grimace from the corner of his eye. "Ah, ol' creepy Chris? Bust his ass," she hisses, "We depise him."
"Don’t think you’re alone on that," Graham replies, snapping a clear photo of Chris and the blonde, their faces engulfed by the club's strobe lights as she gives him a lap dance.
Graham slips out of the club seamlessly and sends the photos to Bella. The job is done. He pauses, however, noticing a bouncer (the name tag identifying him as Rico) is standing guard. He tosses him a twenty. "Keep an eye on Christopher Miller," he says, amusement in his voice from the day's success. "He might need a little extra attention."
He is walking down the streets of Potts Point when his phone hums in his pocket. Work. Work. Work.
Bella is back on the phone, sounding crisp and efficient, "Change of plans, Graham. The housewife can wait. Meet us at the office stat. Callum has another job for you."
"You sure you don't wanna hear about my amazingly discreet—"
"Head to the office now." She cut him off.
“Yes ma'am."
Half an hour later, he stands in Callum's office, the familiar scent of old leather and expensive coffee filling his nostrils. Bella is busy typing away on a high-end computer, and Callum stands impatiently at the far end of the room.
"How did the stakeout go?"
Graham produces his phone that displays the incriminating photo of Miller and the stripper, "You tell me." He crosses his arms once his boss takes the phone.
He observes for half a minute, then hums, pleased, "Good work."
Isabella, looking up from her screen, says, “He's good at his job."
"Gracias, Bella." Graham gives her a wink.
Callum simply rolls his eyes, "Don't stroke his ego, Bella," he grumbles, handing the phone back. "Or he'll be gettin' ideas above his pay grade."
"And what's wrong with ideas?" Graham styles an innocent tone.
"Why the twenty to the boucer, Gray?" Bella asks. She had been looking through the street cameras, it seems.
He winces at the nickname, but quickly shrugs to appear unfazed, "Professional courtesy," he explains, "Besides, the guy looked like he could use a little extra income. Anyways," he turns his attention to Callum, "Bella said you had another job for me."
"Yep. Missing persons case. You're familiar with Maria Sawtell?"
Graham nods. "Yes, I know her. She’s a prominent figure in the city's art scene. A wonderful woman, actually."
"Great. No need for flowery descriptions. Her friend, Tyla Volkov, is visiting from Russia and has been living in Australia for about a month. They had lunch together yesterday, and Volkov hasn't contacted her since. She was here for one of Sawtell's art exhibitions, I believe."
"So she hasn't even been missing for a day?"
"Not officially. But they have a daily morning call. Sawtell's concerned because Volkov didn't call this morning, and that's very unlike her."
"Hm. Awfully close if they're calling every morning." Graham notes.
"I'd agree."
"Okay, so a missed call isn't necessarily cause for alarm. People miss calls."
"Sawtell has already checked everywhere she might reasonably be," Callum counters, his voice hardening. "The problem is, ever since Volkov has been in Australia, Sawtell has had a stalker, a persistent one."
"So, potential kidnapping?"
"Correct."
Bella, who has been quietly observing from her chair, finally chimes in, “What does Tyla have to do with their infatuation with Maria?"
Callum steeples his fingers, mirroring Graham’s earlier posture, “Well, just as Calloway has done, the stalker had to have noticed their close friendship, and is likely using Volkov as bait to lure Sawtell into a trap. Sawtell's having a fundraising gala tonight at the Australian Museum to test this. She's playing it cool, but she knows her stalker will be there. She's counting on you to track them down before they can harm Volkov."
“Police aren’t getting involved?”
Graham rubs his eyes, ”It hasn’t even been a day yet, so they’ll think it’s a waste of time. If Maria wants a preliminary investigation, she’ll have to wait.”
Callum nods, "Mhm. That is where we come in. Doing the jobs they won't."
”I’ll head to the precinct to get the files and start planning for tonight.”
"Good. Please take Rossi with you. I don't need her here giving me sass."
"Harsh but fair." Graham stifles a laugh from her offended, "hey!"
"I've already called you two a car. Scurry on out."
Graham and Isabella sit beside each other at a table in a dimly lit corner of the precinct. The still afternoon after lunch hours is punctuated only by the hum of the computers and the distant sirens. Graham’s mug is empty, but a quarter of Bella’s coffee has turned cold from abandonment, much to his silent dismay. For two long hours, they have been poring over the case. Callum, if present, would likely have growled his characteristic order to go home. They probably should leave, but Graham is too focused on reading between the lines of his paperwork.
When they first walked through the doors, Bella explained her theory: "What if Tyla was involved in something illegal? And what if this 'disappearance' is a calculated move to escape from that dangerous situation? Maria's stalker could be using her as a convenient distraction to steal all her pieces.”
It was not horribly far-fetched. In fact, it could totally be probable.
”There will be some at the party no doubt. Maria likes to flaunt.” As she should, though, with talent like hers. But Graham prefers his take, “Well, I think they're in a relationship. I mean, come on, Bella, we're close, but I'm not calling you every morning. But, say I had a wife, it would be different. Perhaps the stalker discovered their relationship and needed to eliminate Tyla to isolate Maria.”
Bella shivers, “Jesus."
Graham continues, despite the gravity, “Makes sense, though. And chances are they're keeping their relationship on the down low, which explains why Maria's so skittish about revealing details. She wants Tyla found, but is terrified of exposing their relationship. She's very influential in the art world. The news would spread like wildfire and could ruin her reputation. No matter how supportive the world can be, she will lose some fanbase. I’m sure she’s fragile about that.”
"Fragile enough to keep details that would lead to her friend's rescue?"
He can’t say he hasn’t been there. He was willing to kill his best friend for validation from an organization that cared nothing for him. He was so anxious to prove himself and reach the top that he'd nearly sacrificed the one person who truly cared.
No. Stop thinking about that. You’re not that guy anymore.
It was not fair to compare his past self to Maria Sawtell anyway. She is a woman who dedicates her life to charity, art, and community. His point, however, remains: "People in general are fragile.”
Heavy silence settles between them.
The chaotic bundle of thoughts in his brain prevents him from speaking, so Bella is the one to break it. “So. That gala.”
”Hm?”
”Sounds like a fun night out.”
"Oh, yeah," Graham replies, thoughtfully pausing before he continues, "though it's a big task for one night. Wouldn't hurt to have a date." He mumbles the last part, testing the waters.
"Pardon?"
"Are you busy tonight, Bella? We've clearly demonstrated that this case could branch out in several directions, and I can't realistically test our theories all in one night. That's two jobs in one. But with an extra pair of hands, I can cover more angles. Only if you're available, of course. No pressure."
They hold a special kind of gaze. Bella has pretty eyes. The irises are bright and gray, but he cannot stare at them for too long. They are too much like another woman he knew, though the memory of those eyes is more luminous than its failure. Even on the train, with the crackle rod in her hand, defeating him, she was so alluring. Hypnotic. Captivating. He was so lost in her iris.
He looks away before he can get lost in Bella’s.
She’s not in your life anymore.
"I would be more than happy to. It would make my night way less boring."
With the reply, he can quickly disguise his unease. "Good. Because if I have to face another champagne flute-wielding socialite alone, I might lose it. And I'm sure Callum would appreciate the extra muscle. He's already complaining about the lack of security personnel."
“I'll see you tonight.”
"Adios."
Upon arriving, Graham notices the attendees at a nearby inn: high-ranking officers and their entourages. Or, to put it more bluntly, men with a collection of attractive young women, attempting to appeal to the cynical system with the beauty of youth. The irony is not lost on him. The lavish party, amidst a breathtaking display of opulence, with crystal chandeliers, artwork adorning the walls, and champagne flowing like a river, is an excellent trap. Like every party, the prosperous will display their riches. What may give the trap away is the tight security, as agents with thick, black lines below their right earlobes blend in with the crowds.
Good thing Bella does her research beforehand.
He is positioned near the entrance as he waits for her, and during his wait, he scans for Maria. In the distance, near a towering fountain sculpted from white marble, he spots her. Her back is turned to him, her dark curly hair juxtaposing with her white dress and gloves. Though she is speaking to a group, she seems isolated. His interest is piqued... she is just close enough that if he steps a little closer, he may be able to hear...
There is a tap on his shoulder. Graham snaps his head around.
There she is. Bella. In a dark emerald dress, gloves, and a delicate pearl necklace. He is momentarily speechless; she looks stunning. The dress complements his suit perfectly with the matching tie. He knew of her wearing emerald, but did not think about the effect it would have on him. A warmth spreads through his chest and rises to his ears. He covers his astonishment with a smirk, "Eres muy bonita," he extends his arm with a confident smile. The compliment feels inadequate, yet it is the only way he can express the sudden rush of emotion.
Returning a stolen piece of Maria's personal collection was one of his first major cases, and the one that made him realize he needed this job. For a time, he doubted his suitability as an investigator. Even as an electrician, the occasional power outage would trigger the ache of the irresistible urge to steal. He chose evil in the past when given the choice. The temptation to choose evil again was always strong. Always a constant, gnawing presence.
But Carmen changed that for him. Following his hospital stay and the pardon from A.C.M.E., which erased his criminal record, he dedicated himself to a life of good. That's what she deserves after all he has put her through during those six months.
He is grateful for the case, as it reaffirmed his path during his period of self-doubt. He wants to be good. Without that case, he likely would have abandoned the profession and missed the chance encounters that led him to Callum and Bella.
He nods, "We'll find her."
"Thank you."
Though he is comforting for Ms. Sawtell, his own growing unease sprouts in his gut as the night continues. A waltz plays on, and he dances with Bella through the throng of guests. Food and drink flow freely as the night deepens, and the suspicious characters Graham anticipates remain elusive. His apprehension reaches a fever pitch, simmering and threatening to boil over. He begins to doubt the effectiveness of their plan; perhaps their target hadn't fallen for the ruse after all.
However, as he walks away from the dancing scene, his vision is snagged upon a woman examining the room. She had remained imperceptible from the backdrop of the lively party, but her eyes darting from piece of furniture to wall, assessing the placement of artwork with a predatory ease, are now apparent. The way she moves, the shifts in her posture, the glances over her shoulder –it is the language of a thief. He recognizes the body vocabulary easily from his own time at V.I.L.E.. Casually, he approaches, his hand extending to gently grasp her arm. Yet, as he reaches for her, he notices her skin... the unnatural pallor of it... and her fingernails... they could be daggers of their own. Their skin touches, and she turns. It is Tigress, his old classmate.
Wait. Tigress?
She is not in the utilitarian uniform given from V.I.L.E.. Instead, she wears a dark black gown that clings to her body. It contrasts with her white skin and hair painfully, but she blends well with the crowd of modern, fancy attire. He can even speak truly by admitting it looks good on her, that it accentuates the lethal grace he always knew she had, but refused to show.
“Sheena?”
"Wha— why are you here? You're supposed to be dead." Her words are venomous.
In the quick state of shock, which paralyzes her, his glance finds Bella across the room, her sharp eyes already assessing the situation. He subtly caught her eye, and a silent signal passes between them. He mouths a single word: "Toast." She nods in understanding.
She taps on her glass of champagne with a spoon. The music fades, and the chatter subsides as the people turn towards her. The crowd gathers near Maria's most valuable art pieces, creating a natural barrier, isolating Graham and Bella on the opposite side of the museum. Their position was perfect. Tigress would not be able to approach the art without drawing unwanted attention.
"Attention...um... Friends... esteemed guests..." Bella begins
Before Graham can respond, Tigress launches herself at him in a whirlwind of fury. Her movements are brutal and precise. Though being behind bars has rusted her skills, V.I.L.E.'s training regime proves to still be ingrained within her. Graham grapples back while attempting to muffle the clash of their bodies from the polite murmur of the other guests. Their dance leads them to the back outside on a balcony. With a sudden, powerful heave, she sends a heavy, ornate planter hurtling towards Graham. He rolls swiftly to the side as the pot shatters against the balcony railing and showers the setting with soil and broken ceramic. Undeterred, she uses a nearby chair as a weapon, and he dodges once more as it clatters to the floor.
With newfound frustration, she charges back at Graham with sharpened claws. He parries her first strike aimed at the head, and her second blow, aimed at his chest, is met with a block absorbing the force of her fist. He sees his chance. With the speed of a striking cobra, he grabs her wrist like a vise. The sudden halt throws her off balance. Using the opening to his advantage, he wraps a leg around her, locking her knees in place. He shifts his weight to bring her crashing to the ground. He lands on top of her, pinning her stomach to the concrete of the balcony. The entire setting is littered with debris. She tries catching her breath and relaxes, accepting defeat, but Graham maintains his guard. His forearm presses firmly but not cruelly against Tigress' neck.
"Tell me everything." He does not need to say more.
"Why should I?" She struggles against his grip, but he holds her down, "You know what I'm after. Obviously her paintings."
"How did you escape?"
"Not telling."
"Bad idea." He presses down on her harder.
She winces at the impact, but remains silent.
He tries again, sticking to the important matter, "Tell me what you know about Tyla Volkov." She must have something to do with the case. Out of all the places she could be after escaping, why come here? Attending a party dedicated to a missing person?
She shakes her head.
"This or a nice ice bath, kitty-cat."
She hesitates, but the pressure he exerts finally breaks her resistance. "She saw me steal something. I was going to kill her, but then I recognized her. She's friends with that Sawtell woman, and I wanted her art."
"Tell me more."
"I kidnapped Tyla. I needed information to know when to steal her friend's stuff. That bitch was hosting a party in Tyla's name. They're obsessed with each other apparently. I thought it was perfect to blend in because nobody would recognize me. But, ugh—damn it, I didn't expect you to be here. You always ruin things. It's only a matter of time before Fedora shows up and takes me back."
"Where is she? Volkov." He presses.
"The... roof."
He sighs an, "Ah great," before releasing his hold. With a swift kick, Graham knocks her unconscious.
He nonchalantly rejoins the party.
Midway through her speech, Bella subtly gives Graham a thumbs-up with raised eyebrows, silently asking if it is safe to conclude.
He mouths, "Not yet," and encourages her to continue the distraction. Exhaustion etches itself onto her features for a moment, her shoulders slumping, but her practiced smile instantly returns, and she continues her speech in her enthusiastic tone. The brief lapse is so expertly concealed that only Graham notices the tremor in her otherwise flawless delivery.
He finds the two nearest guards. He checks for the telltale lines under their right ears. They have them. They are on the case. He whispers to them, "Ms. Volkov is on the roof."
"Oh, we know." A smooth, cultured voice purrs from one of the men.
Damn it, Graham knows that french accent from anywhere.
Le Chevre turns to him with a smirk, and, of course, flanking him, is El Topo. "The way you handled Tigress was impressive."
"Shame you retired from V.I.L.E.." El Topo adds, his voice smoother than silk.
Claustrophobia and paranoia tighten their grip, and Graham does not waste a second. He breaks into a run, heading for the rooftop access. Each footfall enters his ears with the tapping of his fancy shoes. Bella is still giving her speech, which distracts the partygoers and mutes the chase. Thank you, Bella.
He reaches the rooftop door, his fingers fumbling with the latch in his haste. The door swings open to reveal a narrow, metal staircase spiraling upwards. He scrambles up the steps with burning muscles and ragged breathing, but the adrenaline fuels him to keep moving. He risks a glance over his shoulder – El Topo and Le Chevre are still pursuing him. He pushes himself harder in a desperate need to reach Tyla first.
"I'm terrified, Graham, but I trust you. You've helped me before, and I know hiring you was the right decision."
Maria Sawtell is counting on him.
He bursts onto the rooftop with a heaving chest and gasping breath. His eyes search for any sign of Tyla. Then he sees her, unconscious and bound to a railing. But... someone had gotten to her first.
What was he supposed to expect anymore?
Graham is ready to pounce, but when he sees it — The distinctive red coat, the stylish fedora, the cascade of long brown hair…
No. Oh my God.
Carmen Sandiego is standing in front of him, untying Tyla's bonds.
Disbelief freezes him in place. Time stops when she turns, and her eyes widen in his gaze. Her initial shock gives way to frustrated bewilderment.
"Gray?"
"Carmen?"