A fic is born!
Ah, the pitter-patter of plot bunnies. :)
Title: "A Friend in Need"
Fandoms: Invisible Man and Greatest American Hero
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Characters belong to ABC, Sci-Fi Channel, Stephen J. Cannell Productions, etc. I just borrowed 'em.
Words: 516 1,008 2,000+
Sitting crosslegged on the litter-strewn floor, Darien played the new game he'd invented while he waited for his next visitor. He thrust one arm into the nearest of the muted rays of sunlight filtering through the abandoned building's dusty windows. Darien flexed his fingers one by one. Tendons slid under his skin accordingly, animating the black and crimson viper tattooed on the inside of his forearm. His blood-red eyes followed the ouroboros's almost-slithering. Red's always been my color, Darien thought with a manic grin.
"Agent Fawkes?" Darien's head snapped up at the sound of a man's voice from the opposite end of the loft. A ragged, overturned sofa blocked his view of the doorway. Quicksilver enveloped Darien as he rose to his feet to observe his guest.
A slight, light-skinned man with a mop of equally light-colored curly hair stood in the open doorway. The lines on his face told Darien that this guy was old - like, fifty! Yet the string bean stood there in his uninspired JC Penny's suit like he could take out the Invisible Man. The Insane Invisible Man!, Darien corrected himself. He managed to suppress a giggle.
Curly took a cautious step inside, sweeping the room with his eyes. "Hobbes and Keepley sent me. They say that you're ill. Poisoned." He moved forward a few more steps, heading toward Darien's left. "Let me help you."
Darien strolled around the right side of the couch, not making any effort to move quietly, then stopped. Curly whirled around toward the sound of Darien's footsteps to find, of course, no one. Apprehension broke through Curly's façade.
Shall I kill him, or merely maim him, like I did my last gentleman caller? Darien mused. As he studied his guest, whose eyes darted around uncertainly, the answer became clear. Anyone who wears pinstripes in this day and age deserves to die.
Darien extracted the shard of window glass he'd hidden in the sofa, quicksilvering it as he pulled it out. Curly remained oblivious, if anxious. Fixing his gaze five feet to Darien's left he announced, "My name's Ralph."
With a Herculean effort Darien managed not to laugh out loud. Instead he quietly circled behind Ralphie, raising the window shard. Finally his resolve ran out. As he leaped forward Darien admonished, "You'll shoot your eye out, kid."
Ralphie whirled around, eyes wide. Darien drove his impromptu weapon towards his victim's pinstriped lapel, intending to bury the fragment in the man's chest. It sliced through the cotton-polyester blend, then glanced off.
Darien howled with pain as the glass shard sliced his hand, then flew out of his grasp. Still quicksilvered, he collided with Ralphie, sending them both to the floor. Darien threw himself to his right to roll off of his unfortunately named visitor, but found himself held tight. Ralphie had locked his arms around Darien in an amazingly solid grip.
Darien's concentration -- and quicksilver coating -- shattered. As he struggled, cursing and snarling, Ralphie shouted, "Bill, now!"
A sharp pain flared in Darien's back, then numbness. As his vision dimmed, the insane invisible man muttered, "Damn tranqs."
* * * * *
Another wave of heat swept through Darien, prompting a new round of perspiration to ooze from his pores. Trapped between his skin and the quicksilver he'd been covered with for hours, the fluid itched something awful. More anxious than annoyed, Darien glanced at his companions in the freighter's cargo hold: dozens of hungry and frightened Asians. Most of the men and women sat in small groups in the middle of the well-lit hold, occasionally whispering in their native tongue. Some paced. Others slept on the metal floor. They all seemed to be in their teens to middle years, and wore clothes that most Americans would deem rags. Everyone avoided the corner that served as the latrine.
Satisfied that no one was looking his way, Darien turned his attention to the ceiling-mounted security cameras. Once the closest camera panned away from him, Darien allowed a one inch square of quicksilver to fall away from the inside of his wrist. Just as he'd feared, the ourobous bit its red tail. Darien blew out a defeated sigh as quicksilver enveloped the tattoo. If I don't get out of here soon, a whole lot of people are going to get hurt.
A dull thud drew the captives' attention to the one of the hold's thick metal doors. The sound echoed in the high-ceilinged room, coinciding with waves of pain that lanced through Darien's head. Gritting his teeth, Darien willed his quicksilver coating to remain intact as he crept along the perimeter of the room toward the door.
When Darien was ten feet away the door squealed open, admitting a stocky young man wearing plain military fatigues. Holding his Uzi at the ready, GI Joe carefully scanned the room as the human cargo shrank back. Despite his pain-blurred vision, Darien recognized Joe as the guard from whom he'd narrowly escaped that morning. Not that getting locked in the cargo hold was much of an escape.
The waves morphed into a lightening storm of pain ricocheting inside Darien's skull. As he fought to maintain the quicksilver, Darien felt his restraint ebbing away. His quicksilver-poisoned id locked on to the guard's Uzi. Gotta love full auto. Darien felt his lips curl back into a feral smile.
GI Joe stepped aside to make way for a similarly dressed man pushing a cart carrying tens of loaves of bread. Darien leapt forward, snatching the Uzi from the extremely surprised guard, then swinging the butt of the gun into Joe's head. "Fore!" Darien shouted as the guard crumpled, the captives shrieked, and the bread guy gaped at the floating Uzi now trained on him.
Exerting the last of his self-control, Darien willed his finger from the trigger. With a manic giggle, his id clubbed Bread Boy in the stomach with the Uzi, then across his back as he fell. Still quicksilvered, Darien felt his body deliberately step on his victims as he dashed out of the hold.
The next few minutes were a blur of narrow, dim corridors and random assaults of unsuspecting crewmen. Stepping out on to the top deck of the freighter awashed in the afternoon sun brought a fresh wave of pain. Darien and his id winced, involuntary losing his grip on the Uzi. Sunlight glinted off of the weapon's quicksilver coating as it fell. The quicksilver shattered when the gun connected with the deck with a hollow metal thud.
"Fawkes!" Darien felt his head swivel toward Bobby's voice. His partner peeked around the corner of the tractor trailer-sized shipping container nearest the ramp leading to the dock. "C'mon!" he urged, holding his handgun ready.
Darien's poisoned id was happy to oblige. Darien clawed at the monster as his body strode down the ramp toward his partner, but it was no use. Mr. Hyde had control. As he helplessly watched the monster close on his friend, Darien gathered himself for one last assault. He lunged-
-- into a pair of nylon restraints which slammed him back on to a gurney. "Darien!" Claire exclaimed from somewhere nearby. "Darien, can you hear me?"
"Easy there, partner," Bobby's voice crooned.
Darien forced his eyes open, ignoring his head's complaints and his throbbing right hand as he looked around. He was in the Keeper's lab. Hobbes stood to his left, his relieved grin ruining his tough-guy act. Claire hovered to Darien's right, giving him a reassuring smile before returning her attention to the sundry medical equipment around him. "Hey," Darien managed. Then he noticed the sling supporting Hobbes's left arm. Darien met his partner's eyes reluctantly. "Please tell me I didn't-"
Hobbes shook his head. "That wasn't you, my friend." His smile said that no apology was necessary. "Shoulder's sprained," he continued nonchalantly. "Don't need the sling, but Keep insisted."
Claire loosed a weary sigh. "If you don't want to make it worse, Bobby, you’ll wear it." She abruptly shone a pen light in Darien's eyes, causing him to blink rapidly. "Welcome back, Darien," Claire smiled down at him as she unfastened the restraints.
A vague memory floated to the front of Darien's groggy mind. Curly. Pinstripes. He turned to Hobbes anxiously. "What about Ralphie?" Hobbes's eyebrows shot up in surprise as a male chuckle sounded from the far end of the lab.
"'Ralphie?'" Ralphie himself parroted. Propping himself up on one elbow, Darien found Ralphie and a sixty-something white man wearing a conservative three-piece suit leaning against the wall at the far end of the lab. Bright red fabric showed through the tear marring the front of Ralphie's pinstriped suit. Darien grimaced as his memory flooded back.
Gramps turned to Ralphie. "When did you and the punk get so chummy, Ralph?"
Ralph shot a withering look at the older man. "We didn't."
Darien sat up straight and met Ralph's eyes. "I'm sorry about…" he gestured at the gash in Ralph's suit. He widened his gaze to include Gramps, whom he presumed had fired the tranq. "Since you're here, I guess you know why I went all psycho-killer." He looked away, chagrined. "Thanks."
"Sure thing, kid," Gramps replied. "We feds gotta stick together."
Ralph rounded on Gramps. "'We' feds?"
Gramps chuckled. "The Bureau cuts you a check every now and again, right?" Ralph nodded. "Then you're a fed." Strangely, the statement didn't seem to sit well with Mr. Pinstripe.
"Waitaminnit," Hobbes interjected. "Are you or are you not FBI agents like the Official said?"
Gramps drew himself up proudly. "Yessir. For the past 40 years."
"Sometimes," Ralph replied simply.
Putting one hand on her hip, Claire gave Ralph her most skeptical look. "How can you 'sometimes' be an agent?"
Ralph shrugged. "I freelance."
Darien blinked a few times, then turned to Hobbes expectantly. "Why didn't you tell me I can freelance?"
Hobbes frowned, shooting an irritated look at Ralph. "'Cause you can't. No one can."
"But-" Darien began.
"Gentlemen!" Gramps interjected. Claire pointedly cleared her throat. "And lady," he added. "The Bureau has made an exception for Ralph due to special circumstances."
"What sort of circumstances?" Hobbes asked guardedly.
"That's classified," Gramps replied. Ralph remained silent.
Hobbes, exasperated, threw his head back and sighed. "No wonder you're friends with the Official!"
Darien looked from Hobbes to Gramps and back to Hobbes. "He's friends with the Official?"
"Yep. Served together in Korea," the clearly impatient Gramps explained.
Darien pondered this for a moment. "I didn't think the Official had friends." Claire and Hobbes shrugged.
Gramps frowned at the three of them. "Okay, boys and girls, let's focus," he reprimanded, ignoring their glares. "We've got to figure out a scenario-"
Darien hopped off of the gurney as Hobbes took an indignant step forward. "Just a minute, my friend," Hobbes protested. "You are not in charge-"
"Who are you?" Darien demanded, gesturing at Gramps and Ralph. Turning to the latter he continued, "Where'd you get the spandex body armor? And what's with the red? Is it, like, the new black?"
The others stared wordlessly at Darien for what felt like an eternity. Finally Ralph broke the silence. "Let's start over." He strode up to Darien, hand extended. "Ralph Hinkley." Darien took it and introduced himself. Then he noticed the all-too-familiar paranoid gleam in his partner’s eye.
"Any relation to that other Hinkley?" Hobbes queried.
Darien frowned at him. "What other Hinkley?"
Hobbes fixed a disapproving look on him. "The nutjob who shot Reagan." Darien shrugged.
"None whatsoever," Ralph assured Hobbes. "You wouldn't believe how often I get that."
Gramps stepped up beside Ralph. "Bill Maxwell, FBI," he announced, also exchanging a handshake and introductions with Darien. "That's a neat trick you got there, kid. Glad to hear that you're using it to help Uncle Sam."
A sharp look from Claire helped Darien bite back the half dozen retorts that immediately came to mind. She quickly turned to Ralph. "So, Ralph, what is it you do when you're not freelancing?"
"I teach."
Hobbes cocked his head, intrigued. "At the FBI academy? 'Cause I worked with--" Maxwell's chuckle stopped Hobbes short. "What?"
The corners of Ralph's mouth tweaked into an amused grin. "At Whitney High."
Claire blinked. Darien’s eyebrows shot up. Bobby sniffed, then spun on his heel and headed for the door. “Bobby, where are you going?” Claire called after him.
“To see the Official. Bobby Hobbes does not work with amateurs.” A blond and charcoal-gray blur sped from the far end of the lab, materializing into Ralph a few feet in front of Hobbes. Hobbes stopped short, gaping open-mouthed at the schoolteacher.
“Amateurs?” Ralph asked innocently. Hobbes managed to close his mouth, but continued staring.
Darien exchanged dumbfounded looks with Claire. “Raphie’s got skillz,” he commented. Darien noticed Maxwell’s smug grin grow even wider.
“You’re another government lab rat?” Hobbes finally managed.
Ralph shook his head. “Not exactly.”
“Would one of you please give us a straight answer!” Claire exclaimed, catching the others off guard. She turned her impatient gaze from Maxwell to Ralph. “How on Earth did you cover that distance in less than a second? You were going at least 50 mph!”
Ralph walked back to the group with a still-perplexed Hobbes in tow. “It’s not me. It’s the suit,” Ralph explained, gesturing at the red fabric showing through the tear in his jacket and dress shirt. Claire’s dubious expression said that she wasn’t convinced.
Maxwell stepped forward, impatience clear on his face. “Look, kids. Long story short, Ralph here has himself a super-suit. It makes him faster, stronger, bulletproof, all that good stuff. And thanks to your boss being a buddy of mine, we’re here to help you with whatever’s going on in that freighter.”
Darien wanted to laugh, but couldn’t after what he’d seen today. After all, a super-suit was only slightly more improbable than him being able to go invisible.
As he pondered this, Claire strode over to Ralph, her eyes locked on the garish bit of super-suit visible through Ralph’s JC Penny’s attire. While she murmured something about nanobots, Hobbes’s face grew redder than the super-suit. He rounded on Maxwell. “You have a middle-aged high school teacher wearing a super-suit?!” Hobbes exclaimed. “What are you morons at the Bureau smoking?”
“And where can I get some?” Darien added.
“Can it, Fawkes.”
Ralph looked up from Claire -- who was scrutinizing the suit’s material - to Hobbes. “The suit only works for me.”
Hobbes smirked. “Isn’t that convenient.”
“Don’t think we didn’t try it with our best agents,” Maxwell said. “The li-- the suit’s creators designed it exclusively for Ralph.”
Claire tore herself away from her inspection of the suit to face Maxwell. “Why?” Claire asked, puzzled. Ralph took a relieved step backwards.
Maxwell crossed his arms impatiently. “That’s classified, Miss. Now can we please get back to the case?”
Claire frowned, then turned thoughtfully back to Ralph’s suit. Hobbes glowered. Darien shrugged, throwing an arm around his partner’s shoulders. “C’mon, Hobbesy. It’s not every day that the Official assigns a super-fed and partner to work with us.” Hobbes grumbled something in Brooklynese under his breath. “Atta boy!” Darien encouraged. He turned to Maxwell, removing his arm from Hobbes’s shoulders. “What do you have in mind?”
The white-haired agent clapped his hands together, grinning eagerly. “Finally, the scenario!”
As Maxwell gleefully moved to the white board Darien’s stomach sank. Hobbes nodded at the enthusiastic fed, quietly commenting, “Enjoying this a bit much, hm?”
“Yeah,” Darien reluctantly agreed. “Ought to be interesting.” As long as interesting doesn’t get us killed.
(To be continued)
Crossposted to crossoverfic, hot_donuts, and the_official
Title: "A Friend in Need"
Fandoms: Invisible Man and Greatest American Hero
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Characters belong to ABC, Sci-Fi Channel, Stephen J. Cannell Productions, etc. I just borrowed 'em.
Words: 516 1,008 2,000+
Sitting crosslegged on the litter-strewn floor, Darien played the new game he'd invented while he waited for his next visitor. He thrust one arm into the nearest of the muted rays of sunlight filtering through the abandoned building's dusty windows. Darien flexed his fingers one by one. Tendons slid under his skin accordingly, animating the black and crimson viper tattooed on the inside of his forearm. His blood-red eyes followed the ouroboros's almost-slithering. Red's always been my color, Darien thought with a manic grin.
"Agent Fawkes?" Darien's head snapped up at the sound of a man's voice from the opposite end of the loft. A ragged, overturned sofa blocked his view of the doorway. Quicksilver enveloped Darien as he rose to his feet to observe his guest.
A slight, light-skinned man with a mop of equally light-colored curly hair stood in the open doorway. The lines on his face told Darien that this guy was old - like, fifty! Yet the string bean stood there in his uninspired JC Penny's suit like he could take out the Invisible Man. The Insane Invisible Man!, Darien corrected himself. He managed to suppress a giggle.
Curly took a cautious step inside, sweeping the room with his eyes. "Hobbes and Keepley sent me. They say that you're ill. Poisoned." He moved forward a few more steps, heading toward Darien's left. "Let me help you."
Darien strolled around the right side of the couch, not making any effort to move quietly, then stopped. Curly whirled around toward the sound of Darien's footsteps to find, of course, no one. Apprehension broke through Curly's façade.
Shall I kill him, or merely maim him, like I did my last gentleman caller? Darien mused. As he studied his guest, whose eyes darted around uncertainly, the answer became clear. Anyone who wears pinstripes in this day and age deserves to die.
Darien extracted the shard of window glass he'd hidden in the sofa, quicksilvering it as he pulled it out. Curly remained oblivious, if anxious. Fixing his gaze five feet to Darien's left he announced, "My name's Ralph."
With a Herculean effort Darien managed not to laugh out loud. Instead he quietly circled behind Ralphie, raising the window shard. Finally his resolve ran out. As he leaped forward Darien admonished, "You'll shoot your eye out, kid."
Ralphie whirled around, eyes wide. Darien drove his impromptu weapon towards his victim's pinstriped lapel, intending to bury the fragment in the man's chest. It sliced through the cotton-polyester blend, then glanced off.
Darien howled with pain as the glass shard sliced his hand, then flew out of his grasp. Still quicksilvered, he collided with Ralphie, sending them both to the floor. Darien threw himself to his right to roll off of his unfortunately named visitor, but found himself held tight. Ralphie had locked his arms around Darien in an amazingly solid grip.
Darien's concentration -- and quicksilver coating -- shattered. As he struggled, cursing and snarling, Ralphie shouted, "Bill, now!"
A sharp pain flared in Darien's back, then numbness. As his vision dimmed, the insane invisible man muttered, "Damn tranqs."
* * * * *
Another wave of heat swept through Darien, prompting a new round of perspiration to ooze from his pores. Trapped between his skin and the quicksilver he'd been covered with for hours, the fluid itched something awful. More anxious than annoyed, Darien glanced at his companions in the freighter's cargo hold: dozens of hungry and frightened Asians. Most of the men and women sat in small groups in the middle of the well-lit hold, occasionally whispering in their native tongue. Some paced. Others slept on the metal floor. They all seemed to be in their teens to middle years, and wore clothes that most Americans would deem rags. Everyone avoided the corner that served as the latrine.
Satisfied that no one was looking his way, Darien turned his attention to the ceiling-mounted security cameras. Once the closest camera panned away from him, Darien allowed a one inch square of quicksilver to fall away from the inside of his wrist. Just as he'd feared, the ourobous bit its red tail. Darien blew out a defeated sigh as quicksilver enveloped the tattoo. If I don't get out of here soon, a whole lot of people are going to get hurt.
A dull thud drew the captives' attention to the one of the hold's thick metal doors. The sound echoed in the high-ceilinged room, coinciding with waves of pain that lanced through Darien's head. Gritting his teeth, Darien willed his quicksilver coating to remain intact as he crept along the perimeter of the room toward the door.
When Darien was ten feet away the door squealed open, admitting a stocky young man wearing plain military fatigues. Holding his Uzi at the ready, GI Joe carefully scanned the room as the human cargo shrank back. Despite his pain-blurred vision, Darien recognized Joe as the guard from whom he'd narrowly escaped that morning. Not that getting locked in the cargo hold was much of an escape.
The waves morphed into a lightening storm of pain ricocheting inside Darien's skull. As he fought to maintain the quicksilver, Darien felt his restraint ebbing away. His quicksilver-poisoned id locked on to the guard's Uzi. Gotta love full auto. Darien felt his lips curl back into a feral smile.
GI Joe stepped aside to make way for a similarly dressed man pushing a cart carrying tens of loaves of bread. Darien leapt forward, snatching the Uzi from the extremely surprised guard, then swinging the butt of the gun into Joe's head. "Fore!" Darien shouted as the guard crumpled, the captives shrieked, and the bread guy gaped at the floating Uzi now trained on him.
Exerting the last of his self-control, Darien willed his finger from the trigger. With a manic giggle, his id clubbed Bread Boy in the stomach with the Uzi, then across his back as he fell. Still quicksilvered, Darien felt his body deliberately step on his victims as he dashed out of the hold.
The next few minutes were a blur of narrow, dim corridors and random assaults of unsuspecting crewmen. Stepping out on to the top deck of the freighter awashed in the afternoon sun brought a fresh wave of pain. Darien and his id winced, involuntary losing his grip on the Uzi. Sunlight glinted off of the weapon's quicksilver coating as it fell. The quicksilver shattered when the gun connected with the deck with a hollow metal thud.
"Fawkes!" Darien felt his head swivel toward Bobby's voice. His partner peeked around the corner of the tractor trailer-sized shipping container nearest the ramp leading to the dock. "C'mon!" he urged, holding his handgun ready.
Darien's poisoned id was happy to oblige. Darien clawed at the monster as his body strode down the ramp toward his partner, but it was no use. Mr. Hyde had control. As he helplessly watched the monster close on his friend, Darien gathered himself for one last assault. He lunged-
-- into a pair of nylon restraints which slammed him back on to a gurney. "Darien!" Claire exclaimed from somewhere nearby. "Darien, can you hear me?"
"Easy there, partner," Bobby's voice crooned.
Darien forced his eyes open, ignoring his head's complaints and his throbbing right hand as he looked around. He was in the Keeper's lab. Hobbes stood to his left, his relieved grin ruining his tough-guy act. Claire hovered to Darien's right, giving him a reassuring smile before returning her attention to the sundry medical equipment around him. "Hey," Darien managed. Then he noticed the sling supporting Hobbes's left arm. Darien met his partner's eyes reluctantly. "Please tell me I didn't-"
Hobbes shook his head. "That wasn't you, my friend." His smile said that no apology was necessary. "Shoulder's sprained," he continued nonchalantly. "Don't need the sling, but Keep insisted."
Claire loosed a weary sigh. "If you don't want to make it worse, Bobby, you’ll wear it." She abruptly shone a pen light in Darien's eyes, causing him to blink rapidly. "Welcome back, Darien," Claire smiled down at him as she unfastened the restraints.
A vague memory floated to the front of Darien's groggy mind. Curly. Pinstripes. He turned to Hobbes anxiously. "What about Ralphie?" Hobbes's eyebrows shot up in surprise as a male chuckle sounded from the far end of the lab.
"'Ralphie?'" Ralphie himself parroted. Propping himself up on one elbow, Darien found Ralphie and a sixty-something white man wearing a conservative three-piece suit leaning against the wall at the far end of the lab. Bright red fabric showed through the tear marring the front of Ralphie's pinstriped suit. Darien grimaced as his memory flooded back.
Gramps turned to Ralphie. "When did you and the punk get so chummy, Ralph?"
Ralph shot a withering look at the older man. "We didn't."
Darien sat up straight and met Ralph's eyes. "I'm sorry about…" he gestured at the gash in Ralph's suit. He widened his gaze to include Gramps, whom he presumed had fired the tranq. "Since you're here, I guess you know why I went all psycho-killer." He looked away, chagrined. "Thanks."
"Sure thing, kid," Gramps replied. "We feds gotta stick together."
Ralph rounded on Gramps. "'We' feds?"
Gramps chuckled. "The Bureau cuts you a check every now and again, right?" Ralph nodded. "Then you're a fed." Strangely, the statement didn't seem to sit well with Mr. Pinstripe.
"Waitaminnit," Hobbes interjected. "Are you or are you not FBI agents like the Official said?"
Gramps drew himself up proudly. "Yessir. For the past 40 years."
"Sometimes," Ralph replied simply.
Putting one hand on her hip, Claire gave Ralph her most skeptical look. "How can you 'sometimes' be an agent?"
Ralph shrugged. "I freelance."
Darien blinked a few times, then turned to Hobbes expectantly. "Why didn't you tell me I can freelance?"
Hobbes frowned, shooting an irritated look at Ralph. "'Cause you can't. No one can."
"But-" Darien began.
"Gentlemen!" Gramps interjected. Claire pointedly cleared her throat. "And lady," he added. "The Bureau has made an exception for Ralph due to special circumstances."
"What sort of circumstances?" Hobbes asked guardedly.
"That's classified," Gramps replied. Ralph remained silent.
Hobbes, exasperated, threw his head back and sighed. "No wonder you're friends with the Official!"
Darien looked from Hobbes to Gramps and back to Hobbes. "He's friends with the Official?"
"Yep. Served together in Korea," the clearly impatient Gramps explained.
Darien pondered this for a moment. "I didn't think the Official had friends." Claire and Hobbes shrugged.
Gramps frowned at the three of them. "Okay, boys and girls, let's focus," he reprimanded, ignoring their glares. "We've got to figure out a scenario-"
Darien hopped off of the gurney as Hobbes took an indignant step forward. "Just a minute, my friend," Hobbes protested. "You are not in charge-"
"Who are you?" Darien demanded, gesturing at Gramps and Ralph. Turning to the latter he continued, "Where'd you get the spandex body armor? And what's with the red? Is it, like, the new black?"
The others stared wordlessly at Darien for what felt like an eternity. Finally Ralph broke the silence. "Let's start over." He strode up to Darien, hand extended. "Ralph Hinkley." Darien took it and introduced himself. Then he noticed the all-too-familiar paranoid gleam in his partner’s eye.
"Any relation to that other Hinkley?" Hobbes queried.
Darien frowned at him. "What other Hinkley?"
Hobbes fixed a disapproving look on him. "The nutjob who shot Reagan." Darien shrugged.
"None whatsoever," Ralph assured Hobbes. "You wouldn't believe how often I get that."
Gramps stepped up beside Ralph. "Bill Maxwell, FBI," he announced, also exchanging a handshake and introductions with Darien. "That's a neat trick you got there, kid. Glad to hear that you're using it to help Uncle Sam."
A sharp look from Claire helped Darien bite back the half dozen retorts that immediately came to mind. She quickly turned to Ralph. "So, Ralph, what is it you do when you're not freelancing?"
"I teach."
Hobbes cocked his head, intrigued. "At the FBI academy? 'Cause I worked with--" Maxwell's chuckle stopped Hobbes short. "What?"
The corners of Ralph's mouth tweaked into an amused grin. "At Whitney High."
Claire blinked. Darien’s eyebrows shot up. Bobby sniffed, then spun on his heel and headed for the door. “Bobby, where are you going?” Claire called after him.
“To see the Official. Bobby Hobbes does not work with amateurs.” A blond and charcoal-gray blur sped from the far end of the lab, materializing into Ralph a few feet in front of Hobbes. Hobbes stopped short, gaping open-mouthed at the schoolteacher.
“Amateurs?” Ralph asked innocently. Hobbes managed to close his mouth, but continued staring.
Darien exchanged dumbfounded looks with Claire. “Raphie’s got skillz,” he commented. Darien noticed Maxwell’s smug grin grow even wider.
“You’re another government lab rat?” Hobbes finally managed.
Ralph shook his head. “Not exactly.”
“Would one of you please give us a straight answer!” Claire exclaimed, catching the others off guard. She turned her impatient gaze from Maxwell to Ralph. “How on Earth did you cover that distance in less than a second? You were going at least 50 mph!”
Ralph walked back to the group with a still-perplexed Hobbes in tow. “It’s not me. It’s the suit,” Ralph explained, gesturing at the red fabric showing through the tear in his jacket and dress shirt. Claire’s dubious expression said that she wasn’t convinced.
Maxwell stepped forward, impatience clear on his face. “Look, kids. Long story short, Ralph here has himself a super-suit. It makes him faster, stronger, bulletproof, all that good stuff. And thanks to your boss being a buddy of mine, we’re here to help you with whatever’s going on in that freighter.”
Darien wanted to laugh, but couldn’t after what he’d seen today. After all, a super-suit was only slightly more improbable than him being able to go invisible.
As he pondered this, Claire strode over to Ralph, her eyes locked on the garish bit of super-suit visible through Ralph’s JC Penny’s attire. While she murmured something about nanobots, Hobbes’s face grew redder than the super-suit. He rounded on Maxwell. “You have a middle-aged high school teacher wearing a super-suit?!” Hobbes exclaimed. “What are you morons at the Bureau smoking?”
“And where can I get some?” Darien added.
“Can it, Fawkes.”
Ralph looked up from Claire -- who was scrutinizing the suit’s material - to Hobbes. “The suit only works for me.”
Hobbes smirked. “Isn’t that convenient.”
“Don’t think we didn’t try it with our best agents,” Maxwell said. “The li-- the suit’s creators designed it exclusively for Ralph.”
Claire tore herself away from her inspection of the suit to face Maxwell. “Why?” Claire asked, puzzled. Ralph took a relieved step backwards.
Maxwell crossed his arms impatiently. “That’s classified, Miss. Now can we please get back to the case?”
Claire frowned, then turned thoughtfully back to Ralph’s suit. Hobbes glowered. Darien shrugged, throwing an arm around his partner’s shoulders. “C’mon, Hobbesy. It’s not every day that the Official assigns a super-fed and partner to work with us.” Hobbes grumbled something in Brooklynese under his breath. “Atta boy!” Darien encouraged. He turned to Maxwell, removing his arm from Hobbes’s shoulders. “What do you have in mind?”
The white-haired agent clapped his hands together, grinning eagerly. “Finally, the scenario!”
As Maxwell gleefully moved to the white board Darien’s stomach sank. Hobbes nodded at the enthusiastic fed, quietly commenting, “Enjoying this a bit much, hm?”
“Yeah,” Darien reluctantly agreed. “Ought to be interesting.” As long as interesting doesn’t get us killed.
(To be continued)
Crossposted to crossoverfic, hot_donuts, and the_official