"Cyphers," HL/Leverage, R, gen
Also available here at the AO3.
Set between seasons of Leverage, when the team's scattered to the winds again.
Cyphers
If he hadn't already known he was in Miami from the heat, the humidity, the press of people, and the afternoon thunderstorms, Hardison would have known he was there because where else would he find a drink called the Bay of Pigs?
It seemed to be a cross between an Americano and a caffe Cubano, and Hardison absolutely wasn't taking the blame for that name; he'd've been more subtle. On the other hand, it had espresso, milk, raw sugar, and honey; it tasted like someone'd started adding cinnamon and some other sharp spice to his refills, too. The things were pretty damn tasty, even if he hadn't been coding madly in a coffee bar and sandwich shop a hacker friend had recommended and been completely right about.
Hardison drained his latest cup of the stuff and put the cup back in the saucer without looking, right hand swinging back to the code he was machine-gunning in. He also shoved aside the thought that Eliot would a) know what spice mix he'd been drinking and b) smack him for drinking when he wasn't sure.
Later. Hardison had three minutes and eighteen seconds left (the thousandths of a second timer that'd popped up with this challenge was more annoying than that time Hardison run into the hobbit ninjas in an online D&D game) and he knew he almost had this cypher cracked. If he could just keep his caffeine stream maximized, he'd pull this off and Hothead would owe him another favor. Better'n gold or fame, those.
He started typing in the translation with twenty-three seconds to go, jittered, typoed, fixed it -- and blew his deadline by .037 seconds.
"No!" Hardison would have slammed his fist against the table, but he knew about keeping his hands intact; Parker said it as often as he did. Besides, three groups of caffeine addicts were staring at him now and one of the baristas looked like he was considering cutting off Hardison's supply of the good stuff.
Hardison exhaled and waved a hand at them. "Sorry, sorry. Got caught up in a game." They accepted that, turning away without getting up to move; the barista raised an eyebrow, then went back to work. Conversations buzzed up around him, and Hardison exhaled. Well, fuck. Not to say the cryptography hadn't been instructive; it had, and from Hothead it probably did count as 'here, you might need this.' Still. Fuck, fuck, fuck.
Hardison had really wanted to win that favor and tuck it away in the bank, as it were, because it didn't matter if you needed hacks, cracks or (word had it) backup -- coding or muscle: a favor from Hothead was worth its weight printed and plated in platinum. If Hothead couldn't pay, he made sure someone covered for him.
That the rotating covers for the favors confused the question of who Hothead was and what he looked like -- Hardison was betting good money Hothead was a he for a bunch of reasons explicable and otherwise -- was absolutely and positively an intended benefit.
Hardison sighed, scrubbed his face with both hands, and turned his attention back to his computer. He typed in, 'Yeah, yeah, laugh it up, fuzzface. Right. You won. I owe you, man. Nice work with that migrating transposition.'
The reply back was immediate: 'Not my work, and fucking shit, you got the same translation I did. Hold.'
Hardison gave the screen his best disbelieving stare and never mind that he didn't have a face-to-face running because Hothead and Hardware just did not do that shit. That was how you ended up with APBs out for things you never did.... His keyboard clattered with his irritation. 'Hold? Hold for what? Seriously, Hothead, WTF do you mean that's not some code you invented for this bet?'
Hardison watched the next words pop up; goose bumps also popped up along his arms and neck -- that was not Hothead's typing pattern. 'He means hold on two minutes while we figure out what the fuck to do with a problem from hell, 'cause we ain't there and you are. So give us a second--'
It cut off there and the cursor blinked for a few seconds while Hardison wished he hadn't killed that last espresso so damn fast, and for that matter wished he'd gotten food somewhere in there. There was some simmering pork making his mouth water, and he'd smelled turkey roasting an hour ago.
Then Hothead started typing again. 'Sorry, my partner stole the keyboard while I was cursing. Okay. Got a problem. I've got the muscle in place to handle it, but that's muscle/spy, not tech/thief. You willing to take on that half of the job for me? My usual rate.'
Hardison stared at his screen, then typed madly, 'JFC, I am on a *coffeehouse* server--'
'Encrypted to a fare thee well like usual, tell me something new,' Hothead cut over him.
'Are you --- no, you *are* out of your mind, I mean I am a FINE hacker, but what the hell, what makes you think I--'
Hothead was typing as fast as Hardison was, a list of the last few months' worth of jobs.
Hardison's typing stuttered to a horrified halt because the sneaky bastard only missed half of them. 'oh sweet Jesus.'
'You look to be making an appointment with him, yeah. Some really nice work there. Good taste in targets. I got a friend you should meet if you ever freelance. Seriously, H, that message you translated? Those are initials, dates, and coordinates; three sets of them match his ex-wife and her kids' names. This sonuvabitch has listed where he buried the *literal* bodies. Until you and I both got the same translation, he was dating one of my *family*. She's not dating him anymore -- my text message went out while my partner was typing to you -- but now we know what he's doing. That means we're responsible for anyone else he kills if we let him go.'
'We? No, no, no, I do not--' Hardison paused when Hothead's reply popped up.
'We meaning me and my partner and my sister that he was dating. Chill, man. You're a hacker, not a hitter. I know that, I'm taking that into account, it's OKAY.'
That second typist took over for a minute, a practiced set of keys but not as quick. 'Hardware, this is Hurricane. Lot of Hs around here, I notice. Take five, all right? Get something to eat with some actual protein to it -- milkshakes don't count; no sugar, you hear me? -- and get something to drink that isn't solid caffeine. I'm making Hothead do the same while I make contingency plans on this. *All* we'd need you to do if you took the job is to go along, evaluate the site with the muscle, and shut down a security system if necessary. Take a few deep breaths, get something to eat, get back to us?'
Hardison sat there, working on that whole slow, steady breathing thing that Eliot had tried to drill into him the last time he had a panic attack, after the bad guys had been too close. That helped. So did the thought of Eliot at his back, of Parker on comms to get the system.... Hey. Maybe he could do this. He could shut down a standard security system from outside and if it was one he couldn't handle, Parker'd talk him through it. She'd said she was going to Australia, then New Zealand, and she was a complete night owl; he could get in touch with her.... For a serial killer, he might have to, too.
Hardison finally replied, 'M'here, Hurricane. Okay. Yeah. Sandwich, something to drink -- no caffeine or sugar just to make you happy.' And his fingers from twitching. He added, '300 seconds. BRB.'
Just to be annoying, he sent code that would set a digital timer running on Hothead's system with one more decimal point of accuracy than he'd been saddled with... if Hothead ran it. He probably would. Hardison had run his.
He stood up, stretched, and swiped his thumb across the safety on his laptop. The screen blanked and he turned around -- then blinked at the woman who shifted sideways before his elbow would have caught her. "Sorry 'bout that."
"No harm done, no offense taken," she told him, her words slow and rhythmic. Some kind of Caribbean accent was all Hardison could tell, but she sounded good and she looked fine, all dark skin and colorfully covered curves. Hardison had no idea how he'd managed to miss seeing a woman who looked like that, much less one wearing a shirt covered in huge red and orange poppies, a gold and black scarf around her hair, and some really gorgeous gold and crystal earrings.
Whatever. However he'd missed her before -- and he didn't think she'd been there when he arrived -- he was absolutely looking now.
She gave him a few seconds to admire, smiling as he did, then said mildly, "Got to say, first time I've ever seen an order pop up on my screen for me?"
Hardison winced. "Hell. Sorry 'bout that."
She waved that off, too. "We're still good, but let's be clear: I don't do my bookkeeping on any system hooked to the 'Net. Just in case."
"Still ways it can be hacked, but you're definitely making it a lot--" He broke off and said hastily, "Not that I'd know about that, I'm just playing World of Warcraft over here."
She chuckled. "No way my wifi's fast enough for that. Not with five other laptops set up plus a dozen smartphones and ereaders. And once you finish these," she indicated the tray in her hands, "I might ask you what other ways I don't know about." 'So I can dodge them,' was left unspoken, as was 'As an apology for getting into any of my systems.'
She held out a hand; Hardison shed the iced coffee and two inch thick sandwich to take it, careful not to knock anything onto his laptop. She smiled at him when he shook her hand properly, but Nana had opinions about that kinda thing. "I'm Ysoka Lee," she said.
"Alan Hardeman." He caught his wits up enough to give her the right name, hastily adjusting his cover story in his head to account for using his regular accent. So much for Hardeman's South African passport.
She looked him over thoughtfully. "That's an iced latte, m'brother's spicing. You'll like it. The spice almost makes up for it being decaf."
"Decaf?" Hardison yelped, then remembered he'd been planning to order something non-caff anyway. (Iced tea totally counted.)
Ysoka nodded as if he'd just confirmed something, although at least she didn't look like Sophie contemplating his wardrobe. "Decaf. Second time you've raised your voice in fifteen minutes, Alan. Course, I'm surprised I can't run a generator off you after ten shots of espresso. You're on unleaded for another half hour. If you don't argue, I'll watch your computer for a couple minutes." She tilted her head meaningfully at the hallway to the restrooms.
Hardison's bladder spoke up in enthusiastic agreement now that he was upright and not staring at a screen. His stomach growled, too, at the smell of whatever that sandwich was. Hardison wondered if Hothead had ordered it or Hurricane; of course, he also wondered who'd had the sense to put multi-person bathrooms in a coffeehouse. What the hell. Restroom, food, and some serious cost analysis in the next three minutes.
When Hardison got back, Ysoka was sitting at his table chatting with a young woman in Spanish, which meant the only parts he followed were something about manana, which even he knew meant tomorrow, camarons which he thought was shrimp, and 'tu papa' which was either literal or not an insult. Hardison waved them on with the conversation while he devoured the sandwich. (No, he was not discussing with Eliot the questions of what was in it, who sent it, and was it safe to eat, but he was damn well gonna find out the supplier on that cranberry mustard for the man).
The ladies politely ignored his gluttony -- way thick or not, the sandwich did not last long -- and Hardison considered the time, his now empty iced latte... and swiped his system on again, turning the screen away from them.
Hothead had been typing while he was gone. 'Hurricane has opinions about hacker eating habits. I'd say I have no idea where she got 'em, but I'm blaming my cousin for ratting me out. Can't say I blame you for being late, either; I miss those sandwiches. They're paid for, by the way. Look, yes or no on the job? If you're not gonna do it, I need to catch a plane in four hours.'
Hardison wiped his hands clean of the last mustard and whatever that sticky stuff had been -- orange honey maybe? -- and started typing back. 'Are you serious about literal bodies, plural?'
'Look at what you decyphered and start translating it to hidden treasure instructions and initials; looks like he also kept trophies, which is actually an even worse sign than this list. Means this probably isn't the only page. Fifth through seventh entries, by the way, fit his last wife and her two kids, all of whom have been reported missing.'
Hardison swallowed, torn between nausea and relief that he had something buffering all the coffee and orange soda in his system. Because now that Hothead said that... yeah. Pattern was way too damn right. 'Son of a *bitch*. Okay. Yeah. I'm in. I may have to get a thief buddy of mine to talk me through some of it, but you know me: the comms and vid will be SECURE. You good with that?'
Hothead barely paused. 'If you say it's secure, yeah, I'll put money on that. Or my sister, who's better than money. If she tells you to shut up and follow her and do what she says? Do it. If you get into trouble, she'll get you both back out if it can be done; if it can't, she'll post bail and I'll get you both the rest of the way. Deal?'
Hardison nodded and typed, 'Yeah, deal. Shit like that... Hothead, I made that as eight bodies, man?'
'Yeah. And I don't think she got more than the latest page, not if he's got trophies listed for all of them. Christ. Tell her we'll be down by morning for moral support, and she's by God coming home with us for a few weeks after we finish with the cops. She'll need some sympathetic female support.'
'The cops?' Hardison frowned, typing faster. 'Wait, what?'
'She's still got keys, Hardware. We need you to deactivate the alarm so she can claim it wasn't on, and between the two of you, rig up something that'll justify her going to the basement. Pretty sure the breaker box is down there, but if it's not, think of something. Then *you* get out of there and *she* calls the cops because there's disturbed earth and it smells like something died.'
Hardison reared back and gave the monitor his best surprised look, then took a sip of his iced coffee. Only after he'd drunk half of it did he realize it had been refilled and that the Spanish conversation had stopped. He smiled at Ysoka. "Thank you. I needed that."
"You did," she agreed, reaching up to tie her hair back more securely. "So? You taking the job?"
Hardison looked up, startled. "What?" But his hands were already most of the way through typing, 'Damn, someone else who cuts plans with Ockham's Raz-- *Ysoka Lee* is your sister?!?' He kept the screen turned away from her, too.
'Yup. She moves faster or talks faster, that means the shit is heading towards the fan. See you tomorrow, Hardware.
'And that's two I owe you, by the way. I only gave you the time deadline so you wouldn't work on it around World of Warcraft; I needed the information faster than that.'
The connection closed while Hardison was still sputtering. He bit down hard on the comments he wanted to make, shook his head, and copied and pasted the relevant sections over to a doc file. After he'd minimized the chat session, he turned the screen toward Ysoka. "This fit what he told you?"
She read through it and nodded. "Mm-hmm. I believe him 'bout you and your friend. You good with going about 8:30, after it's dark? He won't be home a'fore 12:30, absolute earliest. He likes to party."
Hardison considered how much he needed to set up before then and how much time he had, then nodded. "Yeah. I can be ready. I can track down my partner by then, get her on comms." He dug around for his wallet. "Can I get another sandwich in the meantime? And what did you put on it? I got another friend who would love your recipes, and that man is crazy picky." He glanced at her and added much more quietly, "And I'm sorry as hell 'bout this. Got to suck to find out... this 'bout someone you were dating. How did you find out?'
Ysoka's smile hadn't left her mouth; it had vanished out of her eyes. "You wouldn’t b'lieve me if I told you. Let's just say... a little bird called me, said my nest smelled wrong."
Hardison blinked. "No shit. You know Hothead and a real psychic?"
Ysoka's smile crept up again. "I like a man who knows reality when he sees it. We pull this off, I'll even introduce you to my brother and his wife tomorrow."
Hardison nodded. "I'd like that, but let's get this done first."
Two favors from Hothead, huh? Totally gonna be worth it, and it was good to have an excuse to call Parker. If Ysoka gave him any of the recipes, he'd even track down Eliot tomorrow to get fussed over.
Besides. Not his city, but Hardison was totally going to pitch in to clean up this mess. Man should not get away with killing children.
Eliot was gonna be pissed he didn't get to hit the guy, though.
~ ~ ~ finis ~ ~ ~
Comments, Commentary, & MIscellanea:
Written for Crossovers100 prompt # 12 - orange. I'd meant to have a fic where none of the on-screen characters were Caucasian. ::shrugs:: I didn't entirely manage that, but that family does help each other out. At least Damien/Hothead and Stormy/Hurricane were only in cyberspace?
No, I didn't invent the "Bay of Pigs" drink; yes, it's a cross between an Americano, a caffe Cubano, and a latte; and no, I didn't run into it in Miami.
Yup, Damien/Hothead, Stormy/Hurricane, and Ysoka are all Highlander OCs of mine; Damien and Ysoka are immortals, and both studied with Aidan. Damien hacks when he's not writing more legitimate code, which gave me an access to Hardison, and it just went from there. Damien also plays around with coffee spicing; Ysoka plays around with alcohol mixes.
Yes, Damien did suggest Hardison and Cory would like to meet each other; I'm worried if y'all aren't! No, I don't know if Leverage is in my usual HL AU, but hell, maybe it is. If so... we've got Amanda in the same universe with the Leverage team. Oops?
Hothead is an alias Damien's been using for a while; he may yet have to change. Hardware seemed a good one for Hardison; close to his name, admits his other specialty, and is probably taken as irony in some corners of the 'Net, which would be useful.
For the Highlander fans: Eliot and Parker are members of Hardison's usual team of white hat crooks: Eliot's a hitter (professional muscle) and Parker is one of the world's best thieves.
Despite the OCs and the topics, I hope you enjoyed.
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Set between seasons of Leverage, when the team's scattered to the winds again.
Cyphers
If he hadn't already known he was in Miami from the heat, the humidity, the press of people, and the afternoon thunderstorms, Hardison would have known he was there because where else would he find a drink called the Bay of Pigs?
It seemed to be a cross between an Americano and a caffe Cubano, and Hardison absolutely wasn't taking the blame for that name; he'd've been more subtle. On the other hand, it had espresso, milk, raw sugar, and honey; it tasted like someone'd started adding cinnamon and some other sharp spice to his refills, too. The things were pretty damn tasty, even if he hadn't been coding madly in a coffee bar and sandwich shop a hacker friend had recommended and been completely right about.
Hardison drained his latest cup of the stuff and put the cup back in the saucer without looking, right hand swinging back to the code he was machine-gunning in. He also shoved aside the thought that Eliot would a) know what spice mix he'd been drinking and b) smack him for drinking when he wasn't sure.
Later. Hardison had three minutes and eighteen seconds left (the thousandths of a second timer that'd popped up with this challenge was more annoying than that time Hardison run into the hobbit ninjas in an online D&D game) and he knew he almost had this cypher cracked. If he could just keep his caffeine stream maximized, he'd pull this off and Hothead would owe him another favor. Better'n gold or fame, those.
He started typing in the translation with twenty-three seconds to go, jittered, typoed, fixed it -- and blew his deadline by .037 seconds.
"No!" Hardison would have slammed his fist against the table, but he knew about keeping his hands intact; Parker said it as often as he did. Besides, three groups of caffeine addicts were staring at him now and one of the baristas looked like he was considering cutting off Hardison's supply of the good stuff.
Hardison exhaled and waved a hand at them. "Sorry, sorry. Got caught up in a game." They accepted that, turning away without getting up to move; the barista raised an eyebrow, then went back to work. Conversations buzzed up around him, and Hardison exhaled. Well, fuck. Not to say the cryptography hadn't been instructive; it had, and from Hothead it probably did count as 'here, you might need this.' Still. Fuck, fuck, fuck.
Hardison had really wanted to win that favor and tuck it away in the bank, as it were, because it didn't matter if you needed hacks, cracks or (word had it) backup -- coding or muscle: a favor from Hothead was worth its weight printed and plated in platinum. If Hothead couldn't pay, he made sure someone covered for him.
That the rotating covers for the favors confused the question of who Hothead was and what he looked like -- Hardison was betting good money Hothead was a he for a bunch of reasons explicable and otherwise -- was absolutely and positively an intended benefit.
Hardison sighed, scrubbed his face with both hands, and turned his attention back to his computer. He typed in, 'Yeah, yeah, laugh it up, fuzzface. Right. You won. I owe you, man. Nice work with that migrating transposition.'
The reply back was immediate: 'Not my work, and fucking shit, you got the same translation I did. Hold.'
Hardison gave the screen his best disbelieving stare and never mind that he didn't have a face-to-face running because Hothead and Hardware just did not do that shit. That was how you ended up with APBs out for things you never did.... His keyboard clattered with his irritation. 'Hold? Hold for what? Seriously, Hothead, WTF do you mean that's not some code you invented for this bet?'
Hardison watched the next words pop up; goose bumps also popped up along his arms and neck -- that was not Hothead's typing pattern. 'He means hold on two minutes while we figure out what the fuck to do with a problem from hell, 'cause we ain't there and you are. So give us a second--'
It cut off there and the cursor blinked for a few seconds while Hardison wished he hadn't killed that last espresso so damn fast, and for that matter wished he'd gotten food somewhere in there. There was some simmering pork making his mouth water, and he'd smelled turkey roasting an hour ago.
Then Hothead started typing again. 'Sorry, my partner stole the keyboard while I was cursing. Okay. Got a problem. I've got the muscle in place to handle it, but that's muscle/spy, not tech/thief. You willing to take on that half of the job for me? My usual rate.'
Hardison stared at his screen, then typed madly, 'JFC, I am on a *coffeehouse* server--'
'Encrypted to a fare thee well like usual, tell me something new,' Hothead cut over him.
'Are you --- no, you *are* out of your mind, I mean I am a FINE hacker, but what the hell, what makes you think I--'
Hothead was typing as fast as Hardison was, a list of the last few months' worth of jobs.
Hardison's typing stuttered to a horrified halt because the sneaky bastard only missed half of them. 'oh sweet Jesus.'
'You look to be making an appointment with him, yeah. Some really nice work there. Good taste in targets. I got a friend you should meet if you ever freelance. Seriously, H, that message you translated? Those are initials, dates, and coordinates; three sets of them match his ex-wife and her kids' names. This sonuvabitch has listed where he buried the *literal* bodies. Until you and I both got the same translation, he was dating one of my *family*. She's not dating him anymore -- my text message went out while my partner was typing to you -- but now we know what he's doing. That means we're responsible for anyone else he kills if we let him go.'
'We? No, no, no, I do not--' Hardison paused when Hothead's reply popped up.
'We meaning me and my partner and my sister that he was dating. Chill, man. You're a hacker, not a hitter. I know that, I'm taking that into account, it's OKAY.'
That second typist took over for a minute, a practiced set of keys but not as quick. 'Hardware, this is Hurricane. Lot of Hs around here, I notice. Take five, all right? Get something to eat with some actual protein to it -- milkshakes don't count; no sugar, you hear me? -- and get something to drink that isn't solid caffeine. I'm making Hothead do the same while I make contingency plans on this. *All* we'd need you to do if you took the job is to go along, evaluate the site with the muscle, and shut down a security system if necessary. Take a few deep breaths, get something to eat, get back to us?'
Hardison sat there, working on that whole slow, steady breathing thing that Eliot had tried to drill into him the last time he had a panic attack, after the bad guys had been too close. That helped. So did the thought of Eliot at his back, of Parker on comms to get the system.... Hey. Maybe he could do this. He could shut down a standard security system from outside and if it was one he couldn't handle, Parker'd talk him through it. She'd said she was going to Australia, then New Zealand, and she was a complete night owl; he could get in touch with her.... For a serial killer, he might have to, too.
Hardison finally replied, 'M'here, Hurricane. Okay. Yeah. Sandwich, something to drink -- no caffeine or sugar just to make you happy.' And his fingers from twitching. He added, '300 seconds. BRB.'
Just to be annoying, he sent code that would set a digital timer running on Hothead's system with one more decimal point of accuracy than he'd been saddled with... if Hothead ran it. He probably would. Hardison had run his.
He stood up, stretched, and swiped his thumb across the safety on his laptop. The screen blanked and he turned around -- then blinked at the woman who shifted sideways before his elbow would have caught her. "Sorry 'bout that."
"No harm done, no offense taken," she told him, her words slow and rhythmic. Some kind of Caribbean accent was all Hardison could tell, but she sounded good and she looked fine, all dark skin and colorfully covered curves. Hardison had no idea how he'd managed to miss seeing a woman who looked like that, much less one wearing a shirt covered in huge red and orange poppies, a gold and black scarf around her hair, and some really gorgeous gold and crystal earrings.
Whatever. However he'd missed her before -- and he didn't think she'd been there when he arrived -- he was absolutely looking now.
She gave him a few seconds to admire, smiling as he did, then said mildly, "Got to say, first time I've ever seen an order pop up on my screen for me?"
Hardison winced. "Hell. Sorry 'bout that."
She waved that off, too. "We're still good, but let's be clear: I don't do my bookkeeping on any system hooked to the 'Net. Just in case."
"Still ways it can be hacked, but you're definitely making it a lot--" He broke off and said hastily, "Not that I'd know about that, I'm just playing World of Warcraft over here."
She chuckled. "No way my wifi's fast enough for that. Not with five other laptops set up plus a dozen smartphones and ereaders. And once you finish these," she indicated the tray in her hands, "I might ask you what other ways I don't know about." 'So I can dodge them,' was left unspoken, as was 'As an apology for getting into any of my systems.'
She held out a hand; Hardison shed the iced coffee and two inch thick sandwich to take it, careful not to knock anything onto his laptop. She smiled at him when he shook her hand properly, but Nana had opinions about that kinda thing. "I'm Ysoka Lee," she said.
"Alan Hardeman." He caught his wits up enough to give her the right name, hastily adjusting his cover story in his head to account for using his regular accent. So much for Hardeman's South African passport.
She looked him over thoughtfully. "That's an iced latte, m'brother's spicing. You'll like it. The spice almost makes up for it being decaf."
"Decaf?" Hardison yelped, then remembered he'd been planning to order something non-caff anyway. (Iced tea totally counted.)
Ysoka nodded as if he'd just confirmed something, although at least she didn't look like Sophie contemplating his wardrobe. "Decaf. Second time you've raised your voice in fifteen minutes, Alan. Course, I'm surprised I can't run a generator off you after ten shots of espresso. You're on unleaded for another half hour. If you don't argue, I'll watch your computer for a couple minutes." She tilted her head meaningfully at the hallway to the restrooms.
Hardison's bladder spoke up in enthusiastic agreement now that he was upright and not staring at a screen. His stomach growled, too, at the smell of whatever that sandwich was. Hardison wondered if Hothead had ordered it or Hurricane; of course, he also wondered who'd had the sense to put multi-person bathrooms in a coffeehouse. What the hell. Restroom, food, and some serious cost analysis in the next three minutes.
When Hardison got back, Ysoka was sitting at his table chatting with a young woman in Spanish, which meant the only parts he followed were something about manana, which even he knew meant tomorrow, camarons which he thought was shrimp, and 'tu papa' which was either literal or not an insult. Hardison waved them on with the conversation while he devoured the sandwich. (No, he was not discussing with Eliot the questions of what was in it, who sent it, and was it safe to eat, but he was damn well gonna find out the supplier on that cranberry mustard for the man).
The ladies politely ignored his gluttony -- way thick or not, the sandwich did not last long -- and Hardison considered the time, his now empty iced latte... and swiped his system on again, turning the screen away from them.
Hothead had been typing while he was gone. 'Hurricane has opinions about hacker eating habits. I'd say I have no idea where she got 'em, but I'm blaming my cousin for ratting me out. Can't say I blame you for being late, either; I miss those sandwiches. They're paid for, by the way. Look, yes or no on the job? If you're not gonna do it, I need to catch a plane in four hours.'
Hardison wiped his hands clean of the last mustard and whatever that sticky stuff had been -- orange honey maybe? -- and started typing back. 'Are you serious about literal bodies, plural?'
'Look at what you decyphered and start translating it to hidden treasure instructions and initials; looks like he also kept trophies, which is actually an even worse sign than this list. Means this probably isn't the only page. Fifth through seventh entries, by the way, fit his last wife and her two kids, all of whom have been reported missing.'
Hardison swallowed, torn between nausea and relief that he had something buffering all the coffee and orange soda in his system. Because now that Hothead said that... yeah. Pattern was way too damn right. 'Son of a *bitch*. Okay. Yeah. I'm in. I may have to get a thief buddy of mine to talk me through some of it, but you know me: the comms and vid will be SECURE. You good with that?'
Hothead barely paused. 'If you say it's secure, yeah, I'll put money on that. Or my sister, who's better than money. If she tells you to shut up and follow her and do what she says? Do it. If you get into trouble, she'll get you both back out if it can be done; if it can't, she'll post bail and I'll get you both the rest of the way. Deal?'
Hardison nodded and typed, 'Yeah, deal. Shit like that... Hothead, I made that as eight bodies, man?'
'Yeah. And I don't think she got more than the latest page, not if he's got trophies listed for all of them. Christ. Tell her we'll be down by morning for moral support, and she's by God coming home with us for a few weeks after we finish with the cops. She'll need some sympathetic female support.'
'The cops?' Hardison frowned, typing faster. 'Wait, what?'
'She's still got keys, Hardware. We need you to deactivate the alarm so she can claim it wasn't on, and between the two of you, rig up something that'll justify her going to the basement. Pretty sure the breaker box is down there, but if it's not, think of something. Then *you* get out of there and *she* calls the cops because there's disturbed earth and it smells like something died.'
Hardison reared back and gave the monitor his best surprised look, then took a sip of his iced coffee. Only after he'd drunk half of it did he realize it had been refilled and that the Spanish conversation had stopped. He smiled at Ysoka. "Thank you. I needed that."
"You did," she agreed, reaching up to tie her hair back more securely. "So? You taking the job?"
Hardison looked up, startled. "What?" But his hands were already most of the way through typing, 'Damn, someone else who cuts plans with Ockham's Raz-- *Ysoka Lee* is your sister?!?' He kept the screen turned away from her, too.
'Yup. She moves faster or talks faster, that means the shit is heading towards the fan. See you tomorrow, Hardware.
'And that's two I owe you, by the way. I only gave you the time deadline so you wouldn't work on it around World of Warcraft; I needed the information faster than that.'
The connection closed while Hardison was still sputtering. He bit down hard on the comments he wanted to make, shook his head, and copied and pasted the relevant sections over to a doc file. After he'd minimized the chat session, he turned the screen toward Ysoka. "This fit what he told you?"
She read through it and nodded. "Mm-hmm. I believe him 'bout you and your friend. You good with going about 8:30, after it's dark? He won't be home a'fore 12:30, absolute earliest. He likes to party."
Hardison considered how much he needed to set up before then and how much time he had, then nodded. "Yeah. I can be ready. I can track down my partner by then, get her on comms." He dug around for his wallet. "Can I get another sandwich in the meantime? And what did you put on it? I got another friend who would love your recipes, and that man is crazy picky." He glanced at her and added much more quietly, "And I'm sorry as hell 'bout this. Got to suck to find out... this 'bout someone you were dating. How did you find out?'
Ysoka's smile hadn't left her mouth; it had vanished out of her eyes. "You wouldn’t b'lieve me if I told you. Let's just say... a little bird called me, said my nest smelled wrong."
Hardison blinked. "No shit. You know Hothead and a real psychic?"
Ysoka's smile crept up again. "I like a man who knows reality when he sees it. We pull this off, I'll even introduce you to my brother and his wife tomorrow."
Hardison nodded. "I'd like that, but let's get this done first."
Two favors from Hothead, huh? Totally gonna be worth it, and it was good to have an excuse to call Parker. If Ysoka gave him any of the recipes, he'd even track down Eliot tomorrow to get fussed over.
Besides. Not his city, but Hardison was totally going to pitch in to clean up this mess. Man should not get away with killing children.
Eliot was gonna be pissed he didn't get to hit the guy, though.
~ ~ ~ finis ~ ~ ~
Comments, Commentary, & MIscellanea:
Written for Crossovers100 prompt # 12 - orange. I'd meant to have a fic where none of the on-screen characters were Caucasian. ::shrugs:: I didn't entirely manage that, but that family does help each other out. At least Damien/Hothead and Stormy/Hurricane were only in cyberspace?
No, I didn't invent the "Bay of Pigs" drink; yes, it's a cross between an Americano, a caffe Cubano, and a latte; and no, I didn't run into it in Miami.
Yup, Damien/Hothead, Stormy/Hurricane, and Ysoka are all Highlander OCs of mine; Damien and Ysoka are immortals, and both studied with Aidan. Damien hacks when he's not writing more legitimate code, which gave me an access to Hardison, and it just went from there. Damien also plays around with coffee spicing; Ysoka plays around with alcohol mixes.
Yes, Damien did suggest Hardison and Cory would like to meet each other; I'm worried if y'all aren't! No, I don't know if Leverage is in my usual HL AU, but hell, maybe it is. If so... we've got Amanda in the same universe with the Leverage team. Oops?
Hothead is an alias Damien's been using for a while; he may yet have to change. Hardware seemed a good one for Hardison; close to his name, admits his other specialty, and is probably taken as irony in some corners of the 'Net, which would be useful.
For the Highlander fans: Eliot and Parker are members of Hardison's usual team of white hat crooks: Eliot's a hitter (professional muscle) and Parker is one of the world's best thieves.
Despite the OCs and the topics, I hope you enjoyed.
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