Stashing the doctor's head in one of those ice buckets people put bottles of alcohol in, a sigh escapes Tyrving's lipless face as he settles into his captain's chair. Most of the upper half of his face has filled in, a jarring result of his artificial stem cells working from the top down when growing his new identity. His fleshless teeth grind together, a habit he’s yet to leave behind from his days as an organic.
“Tyrving to command, I’ve boarded Trembler and am on route, over.”
His responder rests in his hand, laxly held as he awaits a response. A thumb presses against the only button on it, reaching out to the connecting line.
“Tyrving to command, I have lost contact with my handler. Looking to affirm their code H, over.”
The ship's mufflers activate, letting him know that its engines are ready and loud enough that they need to be silenced. His foot taps, nervously fidgeting in its boot before slotting into the floor-based steering interface.
“Swapping to hinderhall propulsion and going radio silent. Predicted time of coms reactivation is… 0200. Hope you’re safe, over.”
Dozens of lines of circuitry spread from where his feet are docked, adding a dim white glow to the dark room. The mufflers work overtime, counteracting the booster's sound waves to the extent that the lack of sound becomes noticeable.
His world lurches as the ship lifts off the roof, pressing him into the plush cushion of his chair until it levels out into an even ascent. Foregoing the autopilot and its sensors, Tyrving tilts the Tremblers boxy frame on its side, rising sideways along the building and showing the sweeping drones his ship's bottom—where the cloaking tech works best.
Fifty years of experience in flying, escaping, and getting chewed out by Dvallin had instilled an almost casual ease in which he could now skirt under the radar. That’s not to say he doesn’t still get caught once in a while, but dealing with new technology is really more of a reactive sport.
Clearing the top of the building, the agent pulls back and twists, flipping the ship right side up and sailing out of the city’s airspace.
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Lounging in his captain's chair in a sideways position that could realistically only be comfortable without an organic back, Tyrving flicks a switch, turning his coms back on.
“This is Tyrving to command, I am safely out of enemy airspace and coasting over the Bourim Ocean. Once again reaching out to inquire about a code H.”
His words echo in the empty cabin, returning to him like a consolation response when nothing comes back through the radio. A biologically unnecessary sigh escapes his lips, followed by the soft thump of his wide-brimmed hat settling once again upon his upturned face.
“Czzcht”
Tyrving leans up, his hand lifting his hat so his uncovered eye can get a better look at the communicator.
“...lly?”
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Righting himself as quickly as possible, the agent grabs for the coms device, missing it once despite his enhanced dexterity, before grabbing it again and talking into it.
“I hear something through heavy interference; is that you, command?”
A muffled voice that doesn't quite sound like it’s talking to him responds, “He’s alive! I hear him!” Followed by static-filled chatter and cheering.
A bemused grin wrinkles the skin around his fully formed mouth, his confusion not taking away from his mirth at hearing them sounding okay. “I’m somewhat concerned that my life was the one in question from a code-H, but I’d rather hear the whole story. Is Tuna there?”
A new voice comes into focus, this one familiarly rough yet clear, the static being drawn out of it. "They're supposed to be recuperating, but I’m fairly certain that’s their footsteps I hear now. Someone must have told them you were safe without my permission.” Odin says, her tone entering a growl with her last three words.
Slipping his feet into the tremblers manual control, Tyrving increases his ship's speed as he brings the responder up to his mouth. “Glad to hear you’re okay, commander. Casualty report?”
“None. Other than some rudimentary firewall AI, the assailant didn’t attack anyone. Tuna’s damage is entirely their own fault; they tried to cut off the network attack by themselves and were soundly rebuffed by the attacker's automatic defences.”
His free hand tracing the stubble now growing around his chin, Tyrving lets out a whispy laugh. “If only I were surprised. What was the attacker's goal? Do we know?”
A momentary bout of silence plants a seed of worry in his chest, which is replaced by an even larger seed when she finally does respond.
“It took us a few hours, but we managed to trace the path they cut through straight to our database.”
The seed of worry grows, its thin branches wrapping around and squeezing his chest.
“And?”
She seems almost afraid to say, that emotional clifface of a woman.
“The only thing they stole were the [BANE] codes. Yours, specifically.”
One of his fake teeth crack under the pressure of his bite, spreading additionally fake blood around his mouth. A quick auto-cleanse drains the liquid, allowing him to speak again.
“Only mine? This felt intentional too, right? Not some smash and grab of information.”
“Only yours.” She affirms. “It’s like they knew the exact path to it as well. But no, this wasn’t an inside job. Not entirely, at least. I could believe someone gave them information, but the raw skill at manipulating data this person had is beyond anyone at AESIR.”
Trying to think of any individuals with that level of skill but drawing a blank, Tyrving instead poses a question down a different path: “We might be able to work backwards and find them; have you found any in-house leads?”
“None, they all have rock-solid alibi’s for the last few months, but you of all people know how unreliable that is. I’ve got Mugen doing a comb on them regardless.” Someone mumbles to her inaudibly, eliciting a growl from her. “Fine, let them in.”
“We know there’s some sort of motive; you don’t reveal this level of competence to your enemies without something to gain. What do they hope to gain from having my [BANE] codes?”
Tuna’s voice comes over the coms, though much more nasally and congested than yesterday.
“I’m so glad you’re safe! We all thought they would use them immediately after stealing them, so it’s been really somber over here. I’m pretty sure I saw the commander cry!”
The choppy sound of two things colliding and a yelp come through, telling a story all on their own.
“Siddown, brat. You didn’t see shit, and we’re not out of danger yet. Focus.” Odin chides, taking over the coms. “Motivation wise, we’re a bit stumped. There are plenty of folks who want us dead, but if that were the case, they’d have pulled the trigger already.”
Spotting the island coast of Mascodia, Tyrving slows down a bit and raises his altitude. As much as he wants to get home, putting a pin in this conversation for the two plus hours he’d need to be radio silent sounds unwise.
“So not only do they know who I am, they want something from me, and they need me alive for it. Was there a ransom note? Any demands?”
Tuna’s voice chimes in, “My theory is that this was some kind of stunt. They come in, bypass our defences like cake, steal one super-specific piece of data, and then leave nothing but a calling card where the data was. That’s textbook genius with something to prove.”
Odin’s sigh is audible, her breath crackling against their microphone. “It’s an absurd theory, but nothing else has made more sense yet. I’m hoping you’ll see something we don’t.”
A ping on his interface brings up an image of the calling card, Odin having sent it to him.
His eyes widen, recognizing that orange-hinted manilla color immediately. A set of words and a small drawing of an orange peeled like a lotus send him half a lifetime into his past. It’s not encrypted, but it doesn’t need to be. The only person who’d ever recognize it is him.
Tyrving leans back with a huff, unable to pull his eyes from the card.
Orange break.
“Tyrving? Do you copy?” Odin asks with a tinge of worry.
“Yeah, I copy. I’ve got good and bad news.”