“Agent Snow,” Rohan gnashes out, more a snarl than spoken words, “I don’t need a reminder to be professional from you. I’ve had one from your aunt and from Senior Agent North. I’m fully aware that however I may feel about the brutal assassination of my mother, it is irrelevant in the face of what Agent Roth could do for the agency. I know this. I accept this. You don’t need to pile on.”
For a moment I’m confused, then I’m shocked,thenI’m outright appalled. What the hell was all that nonsense he just said to me?
I think about moving closer to him, but the wariness in Rohan’s eyes, not to mention the frustration in how he’s holding himself, warns me off.
“Rohan,” I say, careful, all too aware how easily I could mess this up given what Rohan has just described to me as his previous experiences when talking to people about what happened to his mother. “In what world am I here to have a go at you for being upset about working with your mum’s killer?” Like.No. “Because I’m telling you right now, it isn’t this one.”
Jesus Christ, some people are ridiculous. What lunatics tell someone to get over it and be professional with the person who murdered their mother? My aunt and our unit handler, apparently. Those bloody sociopaths. They’ll both be hearing from me about this because that shit is sonot onit’s unreal.
“Oh,” Rohan says, blinking at me like a startled bird.
“Right,” I scoff. “Have some grit, Rohan. Next time, tell my aunt to fuck off. She deserves to be told that by more people.”
I leave it there because anything else I could say right now would be pointless or furious or a joke to break the tension. And you can’t joke about dead mothers. I mean. You can. But it’s not socially advisable. Unless you also, maybe, have a dead mother. Then you can bond.
Both our dads are evil bastards. Maybe Rohan and I can bond over that?
Worth a shot.
“You know,” I say, taking a stab at casual, “my dad worked for your dad.”
Rohan releases another sigh, eyeing me thoughtfully.
“Yeah. He was one of the arseholes my dad ordered to go after the children of FISA agents for the Liquid Onyx project.”
I wince at that, remembering how it felt when I first found out what my dad was capable of. It doesn’t feel any less devastating to be reminded of the true extent of his depravity.
“You think Jack was one of the children he gave to them?” Because I’ve been afraid of that since the safe house. I can tell Jack is trying to figure out what my agenda is for wanting to help him, and it would be a lie to say my secondhand guilt played no part in my desire to set him free from OI.
I’m certain I would have wanted to do it anyway, but the idea that my dad could have been partly responsible for the pain he’s suffered is a powerful motivator.
Rohan appears to consider my question with more gravity than I expected as if trying to root around inside his memory and give me a real answer.
“Quite possibly,” he offers. “There weren’t many people my dad trusted to be involved in the Liquid Onyx project. I don’t think he even trusted Dr Solar. But that could’ve been because he was beholden to her, he couldn’t do the experiment without her, and my dad would have hated that.”
For Ian Stone, a man with a hard-on for control, I imagine having to wear any amount of vulnerability would severely grate.
“Are you going to be okay working with Jack?” I ask, bringing us back around to the part that matters, the reason why I came to see him in the first place. “And just to be clear, I’m asking because I care aboutyou, not the unit or the success of any future missions.”
Rohan lets out a rough bark of laughter. He closes one hand into a fist and lightly wraps his knuckles against the table’s edge. He looks away from me, a series of abstract expressions slipping on and off his face like different masks from a steadily built collection.
When Rohan brings his gaze back to settle on my face again, I recognise the emotions playing around with his features. I recognise them because they’re the same ones I see in the mirror whenever I try desperately not to see any resemblance between myself and my dad. I want us to look different because somehow, that proves we’re two entirely separate people.
Except we aren’t, and I know that. Part of who I am, I will always owe to him, to my mum, to my uncles, and to my aunt. Blood is blood, and as much as I’d like to believe we have the power to charter our own course in life, it’s an inescapable truth that we are bound to it, forged by it, fucking stuck with it. Trapped in this thing, with them.
“I really hated her, sometimes,” Rohan tells me, and I don’t need to ask who he means, because I know. Because I know what it’s like to hate someone you love. It’s an utterly powerless feeling.
“That doesn’t mean you have to forgive your dad or Jack,” I tell him, shrugging my shoulders lightly. “You can be pissed off she’s dead and pissed off about how she died and pissed off at everyone involved and pissed right the fuck off at all the people who think you should pretend otherwise about the rest of it.”
Rohan peers at me then, leaning back and away, like he’s caught sight of something in my eyes which he’s reading as a warning sign.
“Sounds kind of tiring to be that angry,” he remarks. “Should I be asking if you’re alright?”
I offer him a tiny quirk of my lips, the preface to a saccharine smile.
“Not unless you enjoy being lied to.”
I can tell I’ve surprised him by the laugh that comes out of his mouth. This time, it’s nothing but genuine, an unattractive snorting thing no one could fake, because why the hell would they want to, it makes you sound like a goose who just stubbed their toe on a karma-placed rock. And geese don’t even have toes. Work that one out.
