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11 vs 37: Spring-Loaded [Part Two]
Title: 11 vs 37: Spring-Loaded [Part Two]
Author: igrab
Fandom: Spy vs Spy
Rating: PG-13 for humorous violence
Word Count: 1,426
Summary: Black Spy attempts to get revenge.
← Part One: Decoy
Goddamn White.
God. Damn. White.
Black 11 was, understandably, utterly hacked off.
He wasn’t quite sure if he was more angry about not getting the intelligence, or the fact that his suit was in tatters now. But either way, they both had a very clear, very obvious culprit.
White 37.
White EFFING 37.
11 went home, took a shower, stomped around his room without any clothes on for a while, then collapsed into his bed with a dramatic outcry of frustration. This would be much more effective with an audience, he thought irritably, and huddled deep under his covers. Someone to coo over me and go ‘ooh, it’s all right, you’ll get the bastard next time - ’
A HA. There. ‘Next time’.
Now that was a bloody fantastic idea.
As nefarious plots began to swirl in Black 11’s black little mind, he finally drifted off to sleep, a sinister smile on his lips.
{ + }
“You...”
“What?” Lark frowned, a puzzled crease appearing between his eyes.
Number 9 shook her head. “...I’m sorry. I just can’t believe you actually did it.”
The younger White Spy rolled his eyes and sighed. “People always underestimate me. I don’t get it.”
“Well...” She took the TOP SECRET bag in gloved hands, frowning thoughtfully. “It wasn’t really that I underestimated you, I just...”
“I said I wouldn’t let bullies like him get the best of me, and I didn’t.” He sighed again, and poked the ice in his ginger ale with a straw. “And you didn’t believe me.”
9 tried to justify herself, but the more she thought about it, the more she really couldn’t. “...We’re Spies. We’re not supposed to believe each other,” she finally replied, but it sounded even lamer out loud than it had in her head.
Lark just raised an eyebrow at her, and swirled his ginger ale around and around. “Right.”
{ + }
He hadn’t needed the warning - that Number 11 was 99.999% certainly going to be on his tail from now on. Lark wasn’t worried. Not only was he armed with gun and knife and disguises, but he had the best weapon of all - his mind.
Thus, when he was seated in the comfort of his own sparsely tidy apartment, a mess of wires and phone hooks spread over his worktable, he had no lingering thoughts about being accosted. This was good, since he needed all his concentration at the moment, to sort out the mess of information he was gathering from three separate phone lines.
Suddenly, though, a swarm of static raged through all three lines - and very suddenly stopped, as if they’d all been cut. He froze.
“White Spy Number Thirty-Seven.”
He moved the receiver away from his mouth, swallowed hard, then brought it back. “Y-yes?”
“I am sure I do not have to introduce myself.”
Lark’s eyes narrowed slightly. He was being toyed with and he didn’t like it. “On the contrary; I’ve no idea who you are.”
“Tch, such animosity! What do they teach you in these silly English schools; your manners leave much to be desired.”
“Please leave me alone.” He’d gone through fear, anger, and had arrived firmly at something approaching boredom, to which he reacted with deadpan.
“No.” There was a squeak, and a tiny fuzz of static. “Who else would it be? I am a Black Spy - Number Eleven.”
“Sorry, never heard of you,” Lark ground out through clenched teeth, enunciating each word to compensate for Black 11’s cheesy overdramatics.
“Lies! You know as well as I that you know who I am, you knew I’d be calling. You planted a bomb on me three days ago,” the other voice snarled.
“I’m sorry, was that you? I thought I heard something exploding.” Lark frowned and poked at his wires, trying to figure out if he could reroute them. “If you cut through my connection I’ll be royally hacked off, you know,” he informed 11 as if commenting on the weather.
“No, I did not, because lucky for you, you are useful. You now have something I need, and I cut in to let you know that you can give it up to me, or I can take it by force.”
Lark tried a few different cables; nope, nothing. “Well isn’t that lovely. Are you too stupid to do your own spywork, or are you just lazy?”
“You little brat. I’m coming up there!”
“You’re going to be disappointed.” He picked up his knife and scraped the plastic off a new length of wire and wrapped the end around some clips to serve as a makeshift bridge connector. “I haven’t transcribed anything yet.”
“You are full of shit. You can't keep that much dialogue in your head.”
“Well, if you want to think that, go right ahead. I won’t stop you. But it might be to your benefit to hook those cables back up again; I don’t think they were quite finished closing the deal.”
A snarl was the only response he got to that, and Lark could only feel grateful that 11 hadn’t been lying, and his connection was reestablished. He let one elbow rest on the table and focused back on his surveillance task.
{ + }
Shit, shit, shit, was all Black 11 could think as he uncurled his rope ladder from the precarious position he had on the roof of Number 37’s apartment building. Le petit con blanc, he added as his internal string of swears continued in French. Merde.
And back to English. Fucking little white shit! he thought as he was forced to hang upside down to pick the locks on the window and shimmy down inside. The living room was familiar, but 37 was further in - some kind of study, he supposed, and he nearly tore the handle off the door as he flung it open.
The little White rookie was sitting there - calm as you please, one knee tucked up under his chin, one arm leaning on the wire-covered table. 11 didn’t see any paper or writing, but he wasn’t quite thinking straight right then - only revenge was on his mind, and as he strode forward, he reached inside his jacket for his knife -
The floor lurched, there was a rather loud ‘SPROING’ sound, and everything went black.
{ + }
Lark took his time hearing out the final goodbyes as his targets closed their deal. Then, he neatly unhooked all his equipment and packed it away, all his wires color-coded and carefully labeled. After that, he pushed his chair in, straightened his tie, and flicked an unimportant-looking light switch on the wall - very important, however, as it deactivated the spring-loaded tiles forming a precise square around his work area.
Only then did he turn around, move over to the east side of the room, and crouch down before one section of black tile, that was now unfortunately getting rather bloody.
“Are you quite done, Eleven? I can call an ambulance if you promise to stop picking on me.”
The Black Spy glared up at White with a look so venomous, a drop would have annihilated a small village. “You are a bastard,” he spat.
“Oh, come now,” Lark said rather genially, patting Black 11 on top of his rather smooshed hat. “You can do better than that. Tell you what, I’ll call an ambulance, you give it up, and then you can call me whatever names you like as long as it doesn’t interfere with my work. Deal?”
Beams of pure and utter hatred were practically shooting out of the Black’s eyes. “...Fine,” he growled, not sounding sincere in the slightest.
But this was apparently enough for Lark, who stood up and went to dial for an ambulance. “You’re lucky,” he informed the other as he was put on hold. “The springs were a little old; not up to their full tension. I’ll have to look at them again, they’re supposed to - oh, yes, hello...”
Black 11 clenched his teeth as the paramedics lifted him down and sent him off to the hospital. I’ll get you, he thought, eyes still fixed on the last point he’d seen 37’s apartment - and the little White asshole waving, a smile on his face. I will bring you down, mon Blanc, even if it’s the last goddamn thing I do.
→ Part Three: Dream Research
Author: igrab
Fandom: Spy vs Spy
Rating: PG-13 for humorous violence
Word Count: 1,426
Summary: Black Spy attempts to get revenge.
← Part One: Decoy
Goddamn White.
God. Damn. White.
Black 11 was, understandably, utterly hacked off.
He wasn’t quite sure if he was more angry about not getting the intelligence, or the fact that his suit was in tatters now. But either way, they both had a very clear, very obvious culprit.
White 37.
White EFFING 37.
11 went home, took a shower, stomped around his room without any clothes on for a while, then collapsed into his bed with a dramatic outcry of frustration. This would be much more effective with an audience, he thought irritably, and huddled deep under his covers. Someone to coo over me and go ‘ooh, it’s all right, you’ll get the bastard next time - ’
A HA. There. ‘Next time’.
Now that was a bloody fantastic idea.
As nefarious plots began to swirl in Black 11’s black little mind, he finally drifted off to sleep, a sinister smile on his lips.
{ + }
“You...”
“What?” Lark frowned, a puzzled crease appearing between his eyes.
Number 9 shook her head. “...I’m sorry. I just can’t believe you actually did it.”
The younger White Spy rolled his eyes and sighed. “People always underestimate me. I don’t get it.”
“Well...” She took the TOP SECRET bag in gloved hands, frowning thoughtfully. “It wasn’t really that I underestimated you, I just...”
“I said I wouldn’t let bullies like him get the best of me, and I didn’t.” He sighed again, and poked the ice in his ginger ale with a straw. “And you didn’t believe me.”
9 tried to justify herself, but the more she thought about it, the more she really couldn’t. “...We’re Spies. We’re not supposed to believe each other,” she finally replied, but it sounded even lamer out loud than it had in her head.
Lark just raised an eyebrow at her, and swirled his ginger ale around and around. “Right.”
{ + }
He hadn’t needed the warning - that Number 11 was 99.999% certainly going to be on his tail from now on. Lark wasn’t worried. Not only was he armed with gun and knife and disguises, but he had the best weapon of all - his mind.
Thus, when he was seated in the comfort of his own sparsely tidy apartment, a mess of wires and phone hooks spread over his worktable, he had no lingering thoughts about being accosted. This was good, since he needed all his concentration at the moment, to sort out the mess of information he was gathering from three separate phone lines.
Suddenly, though, a swarm of static raged through all three lines - and very suddenly stopped, as if they’d all been cut. He froze.
“White Spy Number Thirty-Seven.”
He moved the receiver away from his mouth, swallowed hard, then brought it back. “Y-yes?”
“I am sure I do not have to introduce myself.”
Lark’s eyes narrowed slightly. He was being toyed with and he didn’t like it. “On the contrary; I’ve no idea who you are.”
“Tch, such animosity! What do they teach you in these silly English schools; your manners leave much to be desired.”
“Please leave me alone.” He’d gone through fear, anger, and had arrived firmly at something approaching boredom, to which he reacted with deadpan.
“No.” There was a squeak, and a tiny fuzz of static. “Who else would it be? I am a Black Spy - Number Eleven.”
“Sorry, never heard of you,” Lark ground out through clenched teeth, enunciating each word to compensate for Black 11’s cheesy overdramatics.
“Lies! You know as well as I that you know who I am, you knew I’d be calling. You planted a bomb on me three days ago,” the other voice snarled.
“I’m sorry, was that you? I thought I heard something exploding.” Lark frowned and poked at his wires, trying to figure out if he could reroute them. “If you cut through my connection I’ll be royally hacked off, you know,” he informed 11 as if commenting on the weather.
“No, I did not, because lucky for you, you are useful. You now have something I need, and I cut in to let you know that you can give it up to me, or I can take it by force.”
Lark tried a few different cables; nope, nothing. “Well isn’t that lovely. Are you too stupid to do your own spywork, or are you just lazy?”
“You little brat. I’m coming up there!”
“You’re going to be disappointed.” He picked up his knife and scraped the plastic off a new length of wire and wrapped the end around some clips to serve as a makeshift bridge connector. “I haven’t transcribed anything yet.”
“You are full of shit. You can't keep that much dialogue in your head.”
“Well, if you want to think that, go right ahead. I won’t stop you. But it might be to your benefit to hook those cables back up again; I don’t think they were quite finished closing the deal.”
A snarl was the only response he got to that, and Lark could only feel grateful that 11 hadn’t been lying, and his connection was reestablished. He let one elbow rest on the table and focused back on his surveillance task.
{ + }
Shit, shit, shit, was all Black 11 could think as he uncurled his rope ladder from the precarious position he had on the roof of Number 37’s apartment building. Le petit con blanc, he added as his internal string of swears continued in French. Merde.
And back to English. Fucking little white shit! he thought as he was forced to hang upside down to pick the locks on the window and shimmy down inside. The living room was familiar, but 37 was further in - some kind of study, he supposed, and he nearly tore the handle off the door as he flung it open.
The little White rookie was sitting there - calm as you please, one knee tucked up under his chin, one arm leaning on the wire-covered table. 11 didn’t see any paper or writing, but he wasn’t quite thinking straight right then - only revenge was on his mind, and as he strode forward, he reached inside his jacket for his knife -
The floor lurched, there was a rather loud ‘SPROING’ sound, and everything went black.
{ + }
Lark took his time hearing out the final goodbyes as his targets closed their deal. Then, he neatly unhooked all his equipment and packed it away, all his wires color-coded and carefully labeled. After that, he pushed his chair in, straightened his tie, and flicked an unimportant-looking light switch on the wall - very important, however, as it deactivated the spring-loaded tiles forming a precise square around his work area.
Only then did he turn around, move over to the east side of the room, and crouch down before one section of black tile, that was now unfortunately getting rather bloody.
“Are you quite done, Eleven? I can call an ambulance if you promise to stop picking on me.”
The Black Spy glared up at White with a look so venomous, a drop would have annihilated a small village. “You are a bastard,” he spat.
“Oh, come now,” Lark said rather genially, patting Black 11 on top of his rather smooshed hat. “You can do better than that. Tell you what, I’ll call an ambulance, you give it up, and then you can call me whatever names you like as long as it doesn’t interfere with my work. Deal?”
Beams of pure and utter hatred were practically shooting out of the Black’s eyes. “...Fine,” he growled, not sounding sincere in the slightest.
But this was apparently enough for Lark, who stood up and went to dial for an ambulance. “You’re lucky,” he informed the other as he was put on hold. “The springs were a little old; not up to their full tension. I’ll have to look at them again, they’re supposed to - oh, yes, hello...”
Black 11 clenched his teeth as the paramedics lifted him down and sent him off to the hospital. I’ll get you, he thought, eyes still fixed on the last point he’d seen 37’s apartment - and the little White asshole waving, a smile on his face. I will bring you down, mon Blanc, even if it’s the last goddamn thing I do.
→ Part Three: Dream Research