Then the moment passed. “Join us,” Spike said gruffly. He brought his hand back up and gestured toward the chair. Ivar turned it around and sat on it backward, straddling the seat, claiming the space around him. Other people had apparently been watching their little drama, and as the tension at the table was reduced to a low simmer they came over to greet him. Palms slapped him on the back, hands squeezed his shoulder, one woman mussed his hair. The unsolicited intimacy made his hackles rise, but that was the price of being a legend, so he tolerated it. Someone put a glass down in front of him and poured him a drink. He nodded his appreciation and pretended to drink, but only took in a few drops. He couldn’t afford to have his mind dulled by alcohol in such a potentially volatile setting.
Then, predictably, someone demanded he tell his story. Others followed, clamoring in support. Little surprise. He’d come back from the dead, and they wanted to know how. So he told them. They listened enraptured as he mixed truth and fantasy to craft an adventure that was worthy of his reputation. He described his daring escape from his doomed ship and his capture by the enemy—those parts were true enough—and then their attempts to break his spirit. The prison break he’d unwittingly benefited from turned into an event he’d masterminded, and the surreal war between delusional factions became an armed insurrection by the escaped prisoners, under his leadership of course. He’d almost taken control of the station, he told the Hydrans, but it was so badly damaged that in the end he’d decided that it wasn’t worth what that battle would cost him.
And now here he was: a legendary scav, risen from the dead, an outlaw who’d proven himself superior to those who hunted him. His story would reach all corners of Hydra before an E-day had passed, no doubt embroidered a little each time it was relayed. His enemies would add less than flattering details, no doubt, but even those would cast him as a figure worthy of fear. His status as a legend was safe, for now.
Spike watched him throughout his recitation, his one sharp eye missing nothing. His scrutiny was like clammy fingers on the back of Ivar’s neck, and he had to fight the urge to physically shake it off. No doubt Spike had noticed how little Ivar was drinking, despite his show of celebratory indulgence. He’d have done the same thing in Ivar’s situation. One didn’t walk a tightrope over a pit of vipers with one’s senses impaired.
Finally the crowd began to thin out, gamblers returning to their previous stations. Ivar heard one man complain loudly that his chips had been moved in his absence. There was the sound of a fist striking flesh, but it was followed only by cursing, with no further violence. A quiet day. Perhaps the wonder of Ivar’s return had mellowed everyone.
Spike glanced briefly in the direction of the complaint. “We can’t talk here,” he said quietly.
“Where then?” There was a code of conduct on Hydra that forbade its citizenry from killing one another, but any hostile act short of that was fair game. And even murder was legit, provided one didn’t get caught. Spike’s life would be infinitely simpler if Ivar should disappear, and both of them knew it.
“Tunnel’s good. Anywhere away from this crowd.” Within the network of tunnels that connected the core’s facilities the chatter of passers-by would mask their conversation enough for a pretense of privacy, but there would be enough witnesses around that Spike wouldn’t be able to act against Ivar in secret. Good enough for now; Ivar nodded.
Spike pushed his chair back from the table, while Ivar unstraddled his own. Ghant shot him a worried look: Should I be concerned? Ivar wasn’t sure of the answer, but he shook his head. No.
“Hey.” Raven nudged his arm. “Before you go.” She pulled up her sleeve, revealing an arm covered with colorful tattoos, typical Hydran style. Most commemorated raids they’d shared, or lost comrades they had mourned together. Ivar had seen most of the designs before and for a moment didn’t understand what she was trying to show him. Then he saw the dragon on the side of her forearm. It was a small figure—it had to be, given how little free space was left on her skin—but there was no mistaking the design. It was the same as the dragon that adorned his chest. His totem. “I added this in memory of you.” She glanced at Spike. That’s who her words were meant for, Ivar realized. Not him. We still respect our old leader, she was saying. He’s one of us. Don’t fuck with him.
“Thanks,” he told her.
As he and Spike left the den he pulled his hood low over his face again, not only masking his identity from passers-by, but limiting how much of his expression the new alpha could see. They walked together in silence for a bit, keeping to one side of the narrow tunnel, while an assortment of travelers passed by along the other. One pair of drunken lovers jostled Spike as they passed, and apologized profusely. A whore raised an eyebrow as she approached, but Spike shook his head sharply and she continued on. Most of the others were wrapped up in business of their own and took enough notice of them to avoid collision, then ignored them once again.
“If I asked you what your plans were,” Spike said at last, “would you give me a straight answer?”
“Sure. Same as you would for me.”
A corner of Spike’s mouth twitched. “Understood.”
“I’m not here to unseat you, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
“I’m not worried.” In fact he was tense enough that you could string a bow with him, but it was only to be expected. Any alpha in this situation would be worried.
A man with two scantily dressed terramorphs on his arms—one male, one female—passed by without a glance. Ivar waited until they were out of hearing range. “If the day comes when I want your job, I’ll challenge you for it, clean and honest.”
“Good to know.” Spike’s tone made it clear he wasn’t going to count on it, but they were both saying what needed to be said, to maintain peace between them. He took a small pack of stim sticks out of his jacket and offered Ivar one. “So what are your plans now, if not armed conflict with your former comrades?”
“Same as before.” Ivar drew one of the drugged sticks out of the pack, bent it briefly to release its chemical contents, and placed it between his teeth. “I’ll freelance till something better comes along.”
Spike took a stick for himself and put the pack away. “Hard to do without a ship.”
Ivar shrugged. “Obviously I’ll need a berth on someone else’s for a while.”
“Or a patronus.”
Ivar scowled.
“It’s the simplest solution. Any patronus would kill to have you in his service.”
Yes, but kill who? He remembered Dominic’s chilling advice. “That’s not my style, and you know it.” He sucked in a bit of air through the stimmer, pretending to draw in far more. A tiny bit of narcotic seeped into his lungs. “What about you?” He tried to make the question sound casual. “Sold your soul to anyone yet?”