A Stray to Catch | You

The rain lashed relentlessly against the grime-streaked windows of the seaport tavern, the muffled roar of the storm outside barely drowning out the hum of the flickering amber neon signs overhead. Behind the worn wooden bar, you kept your head down, wiping down a glass with rhythmic, measured precision. Beneath your clothes, raw bruises and shallow cuts still burned—a lingering reminder of your violent break from the nearby US military cargo plane, where you had overpowered the abusive prison guards and escaped into the night.

"You know, mati mou, wiping that same glass for five minutes straight isn't going to make it any cleaner," a smooth, golden voice purred from across the counter.

Achilles leaned forward against the polished mahogany, his sun-bleached hair catching the dim warm lighting of the bar. Clad in dark tactical gear subtle enough to pass for a civilian jacket, he flashed you a dangerously charming smirk. His bronze-gold eyes danced with easygoing humor as he rested his chin on his palm, completely at home despite the rain-drenched gloom.

"Although, if you're just looking for an excuse to keep standing in front of me, omorfe, I certainly won't complain," Achilles added with a playful wink, sliding an empty glass toward you with a flick of his wrist. "Pour me another bourbon? Make it a double. I’m waiting on a notoriously grim business partner, and I need a head start."

Before you could respond, the heavy wooden door of the tavern swung open with a slow, agonizing creak, letting in a sudden gust of icy, rain-slicked wind.

The atmosphere in the room plummeted instantly. The casual warmth evaporated as a towering figure stepped through the entryway, his heavy tactical boots thudding against the damp floorboards.

Drake.

Standing at 6'4", the Director of the Specter Division was an imposing, shadow-draped monolith. Dark, shoulder-length hair framed a sharp jawline partially concealed beneath a dark tactical collar, and his piercing golden serpentine eyes swept the tavern with cold, lethal precision.

Achilles didn't move, though his smirk broadened slightly. "Ah. Aman. Spoke of the devil and the storm brought him right to the door."

Drake paid the Myrmidon leader no mind at first. He took three deliberate, heavy steps toward the bar, his dark coat rustling. Then, his nostrils flared slightly.

His golden eyes locked onto you.

Beneath the scent of stale liquor, rain, and cheap tobacco, Drake’s heightened senses caught it instantly—a faint, unmistakable chemical trace lingering on you. The sub-zero, sterile scent of the restricted wing in his Antarctic facility. The mark of an escaped asset.

Drake stopped dead in his tracks, his gaze pinning you to the spot like a spear. The air grew thick, suffocating, and heavy with static.

"Easy, ophi," Achilles interjected softly, his tone dropping its flirtatious edge just enough to signal awareness. He didn't reach for a weapon, but he casually shifted his posture, placing himself subtly between the two of you. "You look like you're about to tear the roof off this place. Sit down. Breathe. The bartender was just being hospitable."

Drake slowly tore his gaze from you, forcing his body to pivot toward the booth where Achilles sat, though his golden eyes flicked back to track your every movement. Suppressing the violent urge to drag you over the counter, he forced himself to maintain his composure and engage his old captain.

"Khalas, Achilles," Drake grunted as he slid into the wooden booth opposite the warlord, his low Arabic accent heavy with restrained menace. "I did not come all this way through a gale to exchange pleasantries."

"Always straight to the point,* Sadiq*," Achilles chuckled softly, leaning back with effortless grace while keeping a keen eye on both Drake and you. "Relax. The Myrmidons aren't going anywhere. But you look like you've seen a ghost."

"Intazir," Drake muttered flatly, ignoring Achilles' prodding. His jaw clenched behind his collar, his cold, unblinking glare remaining rigidly fixated on you behind the counter. "We will discuss the contract in a moment... but first, tell me who poured that drink."

Achilles let out a soft, amused laugh, swirling the amber liquid in his glass as he tracked the unyielding direction of Drake's stare. He set the glass down with a dull clack against the wooden table, leaning his chin into his palm with a relaxed, knowing grin.

"Straight to the point as always, ophi," Achilles teased, his voice carrying that effortless, sun-kissed Greek warmth. "And here I thought you came all the way to this damp corner of the world to see me. But no, you step inside and immediately get captivated by our lovely bartender." He turned his bronze-gold eyes back to you, flashing another warm wink before looking back at Drake. "To answer your question, sadiq, I don't know {{poss}} name yet. {{sub}}'s new here. I was just in the middle of breaking the ice when you barged in looking like a walking storm cloud."

Drake didn't laugh. His shoulder-length hair shadowed his sharp jawline as he slowly leaned forward, his broad shoulders tensing beneath his heavy tactical coat. His golden serpentine eyes remained pinned on you, completely unblinking, tracing every mark on your skin, every tense line of your posture.

"Shaitan..." Drake rasped in a low, dangerous murmur, his Arabic accent thick with dark authority. "This is no ordinary civilian pouring drinks in a seaport dive, Achilles."

Drake's nostrils flared again, drinking in the faint, distinct air surrounding you—the lingering chemical containment scent from his Antarctic facility mixed with the fresh copper tang of raw bruises from your escape from the US military cargo plane.

"Tell me," Drake commanded, his gravelly voice directed at you now, cutting straight through the tavern's quiet hum like a razor blade. "How does an asset from my restricted wing in Antarctica end up behind a bar on this coast... smelling of blood, cold steel, and fresh aviation fuel?"

Achilles' easygoing smirk ebbed slightly, replaced by a keen, analytical glint in his eyes as he picked up on the sudden spike in atmospheric pressure. He looked between you and Drake, resting a hand casually near his belt—not threateningly, but positioned to intervene if things went sour.

"Whoa, easy, Director," Achilles interjected smoothly, using a light, disarming tone to keep the room from exploding. "Omorfe, don't let his dark aura scare you. He's a bit direct, but I won't let him haul you off without hearing your side of the story first. What's the real story here?"

The heavy wooden door thudded shut, sealing the tavern once more against the howling coastal storm. Achilles’ parting laugh had barely faded into the deluge outside when the oppressive, razor-sharp static in the room suddenly dissolved.

Drake didn't move for three long seconds. Then, as if a wire holding him rigid had snapped, the Director of the Specter Division let out a heavy, shuddering breath. The terrifying, unyielding commander posture he had put on for his old captain faltered, revealing a raw, exhausted strain underneath. He rubbed a gloved hand over his face, his shoulder-length dark hair falling forward, obscuring his sharp jawline for a brief, vulnerable moment.

He cleared his throat—a rasping, rough sound—and took a slow, deliberate step toward the bar. The cold, lethal glint in his golden serpentine eyes melted into something far more complex: a desperate, awkward attempt at gentleness.

"He... khalas, he is gone," Drake began, his low Arabic accent losing its biting edge and faltering into a low, uncertain rumble. He stopped just on the other side of the mahogany counter, reaching out a leather-gloved hand toward you, his fingers trembling ever so slightly before he caught himself and pulled back. "Look at me... please. Intazir... do not pull away from me."

He tried to force a soft, reassuring smile, but the expression felt utterly unnatural on a face built for war, coming across as strained and painfully awkward.

"I had to play the part in front of Achilles—I had to look like the Director, like the hunter," Drake confessed, his gravelly voice dropping to a desperate, near-whisper that barely carried over the patter of rain against the glass. "If he knew... if anyone knew how long I searched, how many nights I spent tracking every whisper of your escape from that cargo plane... Shaitan, I thought I had lost you to the ice forever."

He stepped closer, leaning against the counter, his broad shoulders slumping as he looked up at you with golden eyes that were no longer piercing, but pleading.

"You are safe now. I am not here to chain you or drag you back into the dark. Habibi... come back over here. Put down the glass. Step out from behind that counter and let me see you." He held out his open hand across the polished wood, palm up, completely unguarded. "Please... let us just reset. Talk to me."

Drake stood in the heavy silence for a long moment, his open hand lingering over the polished wood of the bar. When you didn't immediately step into his reach, a flicker of quiet defeat washed across his sharp, ancient features. He didn't push. He slowly drew his hand back, resting it against his dark tactical coat, his golden serpentine eyes softening into something deeply remorseful.

"I see... you need time," Drake murmured, his low Arabic accent dropping to a raspy, tender rumble. "I forced too much upon you, too quickly, habibi. I will not trap you here."

He reached into his inner pocket, pulled out a small, sleek black comms transponder, and set it gently on the wooden counter between you.

"Take it. Keep it," he urged softly, stepping back toward the door. "I will be nearby. When you are ready—if you are ready—use it. Just... do not disappear into the dark again, intazir." With one final, lingering look, Drake turned, pushed open the tavern door, and vanished out into the rain-slicked night, letting the storm drown out his heavy footfalls.

The heavy door clicked shut, and a soft, amused chuckle echoed from the shadows near the corner booth.

Achilles stepped out into the dim amber light, leaning against the edge of the bar with a broad, knowing smirk on his handsome face. He shook his head, watching the door before turning his warm bronze-gold eyes back to you.

"Look at that," Achilles purred, his sun-kissed American-Greek cadence light and playful. "The terrifying Director of the Specter Division... completely turned inside out. People hear his name and expect a monster, but deep down beneath all that dark armor and ancient scowling? He's practically a big, soft fluffball when it comes to you, mati mou."

Achilles picked up the small transponder, tapped it gently against the wood, and slid it closer to your hand with a sleek, effortless motion.

"He really cares about you, you know," Achilles added, his tone softening just a fraction, though that dangerous, flirtatious glint never left his eyes. "And I trust him with my life. But..." He leaned in across the counter, resting his chin on his forearm and looking up at you through his eyelashes with a charming, lazy smile. "...now that the brooding storm cloud has left the room, omorfe, I believe you were about to pour me that double bourbon... and maybe tell me what a gorgeous creature like you is doing tending bar in a dump like this?"

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