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It is Condor’s first escort mission under Ingrid. It is her seventh time running Condor’s missions solo without Tony to guide her, but who’s counting? Totally not her. Ingrid is probably more nervous than she should be; Condor gives no indication that he minds having Ingrid as his solo guidance. It’s not as if Webster has said anything negative about her performance, either— quite the opposite. He praised her last week for how seamlessly she has found her footing, saying that he is glad that she is so confident handling Condor (and the nonsense that comes with him).
She isn’t superstitious; not even particularly religious, but she cannot shake the sensation that this will jinx her in some manner. She hasn’t ever had a boss praise her personally like that without ulterior motives. Not that she thinks Webster is planning something— it just still feels so very early to say that Ingrid is doing well with Condor. It was only three missions ago that she didn’t notice that Condor’s symptoms were related to heat stroke and not sepsis… and she didn’t even think of sepsis, either, not until the other agent on scene mentioned it. Ingrid thought Condor’s symptoms were all due to blood loss and whatever pain medication Condor took.
Projecting confidence (and more importantly, calmness) is a skill she mastered early into her FOS agent career, so Ingrid does not correct Webster or bring up her unfounded concerns. It will take time for her unfabricated confidence to catch up. On an objective level, she is doing well enough. If there is one thing she can take solace in, it is that Condor would have complained to her face if she wasn’t performing to his expectations.
This mission was not projected to be a particularly dangerous one. Condor was to meet up with a high-level executive in Vancouver and transfer him into US government custody. The details were sparse over why this person needed such protection, but it is never her place to ask those kinds of questions. What is nice to see is that Condor had permission to perform this operation within Canada’s borders. It is a refreshing change of pace from the streak of clandestine missions Condor has had. Ingrid assumes that Canada wants the US to handle their own people, considering the principal is an American on a visa.
Condor’s kit consisted of the bare minimum: a hand gun, a knife, and radio contact. It is the first time Ingrid has heard him be required to wear something specific: a suit. She thought Condor would be one of those agents who disliked suit-wearing, but Condor didn’t make a comment about it. The comment he does make is about his concealed handgun holster, saying the leather matches his shoes and belt. Ingrid actually laughs at that, which makes Condor chuckle, surprised that he amused her so much. It is the mental image of Condor picking from a wide range of color and style of holsters that tickles her so much.
There is a little hiccup in the planning; the principal is very nervous about something, says that he needs Condor to meet him at his office, not his house. It raises Ingrid’s suspicions, but Condor is not that worried.
“Guys like this get nervous all the time, it’s probably just cold feet,” Condor says as he parks the car. It is just past 1900, so the office building is empty of most people. Ingrid has permission to hack into the building’s security systems to ensure things remain unlocked for Condor. She is able to watch Condor approach through parking lot camera feeds. Whatever this company does, they are serious enough about their security that their parking lots have complete coverage by cameras. It isn’t so serious, though, that they have any checking IDs or a gate checkpoint.
“He probably believes the information he has is more valuable than it really is, so he’s jumping at shadows. All I got to do is show up, smooth over some ruffled feathers, prove that I’m taking things seriously, and he’ll be easy to talk back into getting stateside again.” Condor usually does not talk this much, not to explain things like this.
Between that and being able to watch his casual, unhurried walk towards the right building, Ingrid takes it that Condor is relaxed. Condor is almost always confident, but this is way more secure without any stress underneath it. Ingrid wonders how much of that is due to knowing he has the permission of the Canadian government to be allowed to be where he is doing what he is going to do. It must be easier to cross the border with a gun if it is done legally. Condor’s ID and cover for the mission is an existing alias, one that is tied to the persona of a professional bodyguard, active US Army reserve.
Ingrid watches Condor stroll into the building and chat with the security guard for a moment as he waits for Vaughn to get over himself and buzz him up. Ingrid does not know what any of the operatives look like; that isn’t part of the files she gets access to. She studies Condor through the security cameras as he makes his way to the elevators. It is the first time she has had the opportunity to see what he looks like.
It is hard to get a sense of Condor without anyone next to him to put him in context, but Condor isn’t built like she thought he was. She was expecting to see a burly, muscly man squeezed into an ill-fitted suit, looking way out of place, but Condor fits right in the corporate world. He is on the leaner side of muscular, looking like an average white man. She cannot tell what color his eyes are but his hair color is either blond or light brown. His hair is longer than she was expecting, too. She has been picturing him with a buzz-cut, sort of like all Hollywood soldiers.
“Don’t laugh if I say something cheesy; sometimes I gotta give these guys the kind of act they’re expecting to get them to calm down.” Condor is looking at his reflection in the elevator, fiddling with the wire running under his jacket. He adjusts it, making it more visible.
“Are you going to quote movie lines at me?” Ingrid asks, amused. Condor is quite the movie buff. Most of his references slide over Ingrid’s head, but Tony likes them a lot. It never fails to make Tony chuckle, although he would never admit that.
“Absolutely, Q.”
“Hm?”
Condor’s sigh is suffering, dramatic. “You’ve never watched a James Bond movie? What kind of secret agent are you?”
“A boring one,” Ingrid replies. She absolutely would not call herself a secret agent.
Condor hums. “That’s terrible. Where’s your sense of adventure? Of suspense?”
“Oh, I get more than plenty of that at work.”
It is strange to be able to see Condor smile in response to something she says. With audio only interactions, she usually has to rely on verbal cues to gauge his mood. Then, Condor arrives on the right floor with an anxious Vaughn hovering at the door, wringing his hands. As smooth as anything, Condor slips into a gruff, serious persona like a person putting on a well-worn coat.
It is the first time Ingrid has heard Condor switch up his behavior to match the situation. It shouldn’t surprise her; Condor is a high level agent. He has probably done this dozens of times. Ingrid feels redundant watching Condor sweet-talk Vaughn in a way that has the man calming, melting away Vaughn’s anxiety with exactly the kind of thing Condor said he needed to hear: a mix of B-movie quality reassurances about protecting America’s interests and throwaway lines like Condor has a whole team of dedicated people working very hard right now to make sure Vaughn is safe and ready to move.
It works really well. It almost sounds like Condor is having a bit of fun with it. Ingrid thinks it is idle chatter, not meant for her. Vaughn drops that he’s been in contact with a name that means nothing to Ingrid.
“Yes sir, that’s someone we’ve been trying to assist as well. That was Webster’s contact, wasn’t it, Cortana?”
Hearing Webster’s name is as clear of a message as Condor can send without any change in his demeanor. On the camera feed, Condor hardly reacts. His tone barely changes, either, but he reaches a hand up to his ear. Ingrid would have never thought to look the other name up because this isn’t an intel-gathering mission on her end.
“On it, Condor.” She says, and stabs a button to alert Webster.
“Sitrep?” Webster says as soon as he gets on the line.
“Condor asked for you,” Ingrid says for Condor since he is still mid-conversation with Vaughn.
Condor gets Vaughn to repeat the name that Ingrid couldn’t catch. Still not familiar to her, even when Condor repeats it with what must be the appropriate accent Vaughn is unable to replicate as a westerner not familiar with any Asian languages.
Vaughn’s tone brightens. “Oh, you know him?”
“Yes, sir. It’s our job,” Condor replies— Ingrid hears a hint of tension in his voice, a warning.
Webster’s silence does not last much longer; he apparently needed time to look that up with his resources, too.
“Noted, Condor. I’ll stay on the line to monitor. Continue as normal,” Webster’s voice has that same undercurrent of stress in it.
Ingrid wonders what that is about, but Webster does not elaborate. Ingrid keeps her mouth shut and banishes her curious thoughts from the forefront of her mind. If she needs to know, she’ll be informed.
. .. … .. .
The time to inform her is— apparently— after someone fires a smoke bomb into Vaughn’s office from the exterior window. Vaughn yelps. Smoke billows up, spitting out from the canister at Condor’s feet. Condor kicks it away, hauls Vaughn out of the room by his scruff.
“Hunnigan, get that building emptied!” Webster’s obvious, sudden fear scares her worse than the sudden explosion. He must have been watching Ingrid’s screen to react that quickly.
The door to the office slams closed behind Condor and Vaughn. Smoke leaks out from the gap under the door. Ingrid fumbles for her keyboard, diving into the building’s security system. She trips the fire alarm. Sirens wail.
“Oh my god, what was that?!” Vaughn asks, spluttering and coughing.
“Sprinklers!” Condor gasps. In the hallway cameras, she sees him rip off his jacket first then do the same to Vaughn. Vaughn yelps again, resistant, but Condor is stronger. He throws their suit jackets to the floor and urges Vaughn into a stumbling jog down the hallway. Condor’s gun is in hand. His arm is over the lower half of his face.
“Say again?” Ingrid asks, wildly confused—
“Trigger all the sprinklers on that floor, now!” Webster says, as harsh an order he has ever given her. “I’ll intercept the fire department. Watch Condor.”
Ingrid does not ask why. She does as she is told. Hundreds of gallons of stale water in old pipes are dumped onto that entire floor, drenching the two men, killing the electronics. Her view of Condor glitches. She pulls up the floorplan, identifies another camera overlooking the stairs that Condor runs towards before the video feed cuts into static, rendering her temporarily blind.
Although it only takes seconds, Ingrid’s worry threatens to become panic for the few seconds she cannot see Condor. He bursts into the stairway, Vaughn in tow. Condor takes a huge gulp of air, heaving like he had been holding his breath. Coughing, Condor ignores Vaughn’s frantic questions. Instead of going downstairs like Ingrid was expecting, Condor turns, pulls Vaughn up to the next floor. Forcefully, because Vaughn, still shouting, is trying to break Condor’s hold on his wrist. Condor is stronger. Vaughn trips on the steps, still not breaking Condor’s grip. Condor hauls Vaughn back onto his feet. Condor leads, stepping onto a floor almost identical to the one below it.
Vaughn’s words are understandable now that they are a floor above the sirens and the sprinklers. “What the hell is going on? What was that? Agent Tanner—”
Condor swings Vaughn around to face him, shoving him against the wall. “How long have you been in contact with Xiaoli?”
Vaughn coughs. Condor recoils, backs up a few steps.
Vaughn rubs his throat. “Uh, a few weeks? He reached out to me—”
“Don’t touch your face.” Condor jumps forward again to smack Vaughn’s hand down when he reaches up to his eyes. “And it’s not a ‘he’. It’s a biochemical manufacturer. Black market.”
Oh my god. That’s why Webster wanted the building cleared— Condor was just exposed— Ingrid moves to flag the right alert, but it is already in her system, blinking a silent warning. Webster. He’s handling things. He is silent but Ingrid checks; he is still on the call, just muted.
“Chemical manufacturer?” Vaughn repeats. “What—? Oh my god, is that— was that—?”
“You need to tell me everything you know right the fuck now—”
A ringing cell phone interrupts Condor. It’s Vaughn’s. Ingrid watches Condor snatch it out of Vaughn’s hand when he pulls it out. Condor flips the phone open after shaking it to get the water off. Both men look waterlogged, their white dress shirts clinging to them.
“Let me guess: you’re trying to leverage some money, huh?” Condor asks as a greeting. He is furious, jumping straight in to not let whoever is calling get the first word.
“That’s a ballsy move—” Condor breaks to cough, clearing his throat. “— you just fucked up big time. You should have stayed underground—”
Ingrid can’t hear the other end of the call. Whatever the other person on the other end is saying, it incenses Condor. His response is a vicious, hair-raising growl that doesn't sound like it should originate from a human throat.
“You better fucking admit that you’re lying to me right fucking now—”
Condor goes silent, interrupted. Then, he snarls, loud and deep. Almost a roar. “You cannot possibly comprehend how much you fucked yourselves—” Condor’s voice gives out as he coughs again. “I don’t negotiate with terrorists— Nope. Don’t care.”
Condor slams the phone closed with such force, Ingrid expects it to break.
“Oh my god, oh my god— did we just get dosed with something?! What do we do? What do they want?” Vaughn hovers, trying to grab his phone back. Condor brushes him off.
“Doesn’t matter,” Condor says.
“What’s going to happen now?” Vaughn’s voice is high with fear.
Condor’s voice is rough. He clears his throat. “We gotta sit tight, wait for further instruction—”
“Are we going to die? I don’t want to die—”
The phone rings again. Condor ignores it. Vaugh is panicking. He lunges for his phone still in Condor’s hand. He is no match for Condor’s strength and training. Condor sends the man sprawling.
“Please— what do they want? I don’t want to die! Please, I don’t want to die, let me talk to them—”
“Calm down! I’ve got people handling this.”
Ingrid wants to ask what Condor wants her to do, because she doesn’t know what she is supposed to be doing in this situation. She knows how to handle decontamination on an individual level, what steps she needs to take— steps to walk Condor through, but she doesn't know what to do when a chemical agent is deployed in an office building other to evacuate the people inside— and Webster already had her do that.
Vaughn’s coughing is not helping his panic. Or Ingrid’s concerns. Condor coughs, too, but not as harshly. Ingrid wishes she knew what it was they were exposed to, but it could be dozens of different things— and that’s if it is a known agent—
“Did they say what agent they’ve used?” Webster rejoins the call with the same question that Ingrid has.
“G-Virus, supposedly.” Condor says. Another thing that does not mean anything to Ingrid— but Webster takes an audible breath.
“No.”
Ingrid is stunned. Webster, in disbelief?
Condor's breath is a sharp, punchy exhale. “They’re probably lying. Trying to extort—”
“We cannot risk calling that bluff!” Webster snaps. "That's what they said?"
Condor growls again, but stays silent. Not repeating himself.
“Fuck, that changes things!" Webster says, voice almost a hiss.
Ingrid’s stomach flips. She has never heard him swear before.
"Sure fuckin' does," Condor snaps back.
There is a three second pause of silence. Ingrid looks. Webster, muted. When he unmutes himself, his voice is steadier. Not his normal, but more level.
"This is going to need to be handled by the military,” Webster says.
Whatever that is, that is bad. Most hospitals are equipped to handle decon events— this G-Virus is military-level serious?
Condor’s voice, in contrast, loses its anger, returning back to professional flatness. “So we’ll wait. Can’t do much else.”
“No, we can’t. I’m sorry, Condor.”
Ingrid’s blood runs cold. That is the first time she had ever heard Webster apologize to any field agent. What is going on?
Condor coughs into his elbow. “I’ll probably be fine. Been, uh, vaccinated recently.”
Ingrid takes a large breath. That's something good, finally— that explains why Condor, while furious, is not freaking out.
Ingrid hears Vaughn’s voice, broken, weak. “— please, I haven’t— what do we do?”
“Shut up!” Condor snaps, rounding on him— Ingrid winces. Condor’s calmness is only a thin veneer, it is not actually real. “I’m negotiating for you right now, don’t piss me off.”
That is not at all what Condor is doing, but it stops Vaughn from scrabbling at Condor’s hand, trying to take control of his phone when it rings again. Xiaoli, whoever they are, is not expecting to be ignored. Ingrid watches Vaughn rub his face, rocking on his feet, hunched posture like a terrified child.
“Do you need anything more out of him?” Condor asks. In the background, Vaughn coughs harder, rubbing at his chest.
Ingrid straightens up, not liking that phrasing. Is Condor implying that they are about to take back Vaughn’s protection? What is she missing? Is Condor about to abandon him over this situation?
“Only if he knows anything about Xiaoli,” Webster says, grim. “You both have to stay there, wait for decon. I’ve got people searching for where that gas canister was shot from, but that’s not your responsibility. You can’t go after them. You could potentially expose other people.”
Condor turns his back to Vaughn, quiets his voice into a rasping whisper. “How many people might be affected?”
“Building was almost empty. It’s looking like just you two directly exposed. We reacted quickly.”
Condor takes a shaky breath. “Okay.”
Webster’s pause is agonizingly long. “If it is G—”
“Yeah, I got some for him.” Condor says, louder. “As long as he cooperates, got it.”
Ingrid has no idea what Condor is talking about. Vaughn’s attention returns to Condor. His posture straightens again.
Webster takes Condor’s strange statement in stride. “I trust your judgement, Condor— I have to step away again, I have to coordinate with the military on this.”
“Yes, sir. Everything is under control. Tanner out.”
What on earth is under control?! Ingrid bites her tongue. She can tolerate many things, but being left in the dark is not one of them. Not when the situation is critical— which it sounds like it is. She can’t do her job if she doesn’t know what’s going on. She understands that Condor isn’t likely able to fill her in due to being overheard by Vaughn, so she tries Webster.
“Sir—”
“Continue to monitor Condor,” Webster cuts in, firm. “He needs to stay there, but other than that, it’s just a waiting game at this point. If Condor gets any more information, record it for me. Do not act on any of it.”
Based on context clues, this G-Virus is seriously dangerous. Vaughn is struggling to breathe but Ingrid has no idea if that is from panic or from the biochemical agent. Condor got exposed, too. He isn’t panicking (although he has a poor grip on his temper) but he is coughing, too. Condor said he was vaccinated, but how effective is that? Is the only thing they can do is wait for the military to arrive? Will the military have whatever Condor and Vaughn need to be treated?
Condor moves and convinces Vaughn to sit at one of the many desks. This office has an open floor plan for a bullpen with low walls, not traditional cubicles. It is the same design as the floor below. Ingrid watches Condor look at all of the large windows before moving Vaughn to relocate to a more centrally-located desk. Probably for whatever safety Condor can get. Glass windows are not cover or concealment; they don’t need a repeat of what happened on the floor below.
“—sorry, I don’t know them that well, I thought—”
“Stop talking and listen to me,” Condor says. His tone is firm, not aggressive. “How did they contact you?”
“I—” Vaughn coughs. “I got an email—”
“Work or home?”
“Uh, home. I didn’t do anything on my work, that’s not secure—”
“I don’t need a long explanation, I just need the facts.” Condor interrupts again. He looks around again. “Do you have a computer at home?”
“Yes, I—” Vaughn stops. “Yes.”
“Did you only talk via email?”
“Mostly with a chatroom, said it was more secure.”
Condor clears his throat again. “Password protected?”
“Yes, I can write it down for you.”
“Do that,” Condor replies, still stern but steady. “Any passwords, any applications, I need to know.”
Vaughn nods and starts digging through the desk in front of him. He coughs, but it does not sound as wet as it was. Condor coaxes more information out of him, sporadic details that Ingrid records, too, just in case. It sounds like Xiaoli was posing as an individual that was scared about contacting the US for protection, same as Vaughn, risking their career. She does not know the specifics of why Vaughn even needs protection; this isn't that high level of a mission, either in terms of security or danger Condor’s leg is probably still healing from his unfortunate stairway accident; he was probably assigned to this mission because it was supposed to be light activity and low threat. So much for that.
Vaughn's phone rings yet again.
“Why aren't you answering it? What if they—”
Condor flips open the phone just to end the call again. “I don't negotiate with terrorists—”
“Please— You said you were vaccinated, but I'm not! Is this G-Virus going to kill me?” Vaughn stands up from the chair. When he wobbles, Condor puts a hand on his shoulder and pushes him back down into it.
“It won't. There is a vaccine for you on the way with on one condition— ”
Vaughn grabs Condor’s arm. “What? I'll do anything—”
Ingrid was expecting Condor to lose his temper again, but he detangles himself from Vaughn’s grip without unnecessary force. “You need to help me figure out what all they told you, okay?”
Vaughn nods frantically. “Yes, I can do that— I'm not hiding anything, I swear! We hardly talked—”
“Tell me everything you talked about. Have they sent you any money, have they sent you any packages?”
“No— nothing like that! We have hardly talked, honestly. All they wanted was for me to get back in contact after I was back in the US, ask me how everything went and if I felt protected.”
“Have you gotten any gifts recently, any free stuff that showed up at your office or your house?” Condor is trying to find out if there is a risk of Vaughn’s house being another point of exposure.
“No, no, everything has been very normal—”
“Have they asked you to send them anything? Money, items, anything?”
Vaughn keeps pleading ignorance, swearing up and down that he hasn't done anything, he didn't mean to do anything wrong. It is all a huge misunderstanding; he thought he was contacted by a whistleblower looking for political asylum. After a few more minutes of interrogation, Condor draws back. It does not sound like any of this was planned on Vaughn’s end— whatever scheming was done, whether to target Vaughn or the government, seems to be Xioali’s work.
Both men are not coughing as much as they were, which has to be a good sign, right? Ingrid tried to look up G-virus in her protocol system to find more nuanced directions as to how she should advise Condor and Vaughn to decontaminate themselves even more, but she cannot find anything on G-virus specifically. She has the standard decontamination procedure memorized, but still she checks it again.
Condor’s immediate call for the sprinklers was a smart move; it hopefully washed all the infected particulates off of their skin and clothes. Both men are still dripping water, darkening the carpet underneath their feet. Vaughn keeps touching his face. Condor continues to correct him. Ingrid has been watching Condor to make sure he does not make that same mistake, but Condor is disciplined about keeping his hands down. Neither Vaughn or Condor have access to a change of clothes right now, and it isn't practical to ask them to strip down and hang out around naked. Ingrid trusts that Condor would have taken action if it was dangerous to potentially have contaminated clothing trap G-virus against skin. Condor keeps looking around, scanning the entire floor from their central point. He is still on high alert, which likely means he is ready to react if danger presents itself again.
It is unbelievably stressful to sit in silence and wait for updates— and Ingrid isn't even the one who has been exposed to the biochemical attack. Condor said terrorist. Is Xiaoli a terrorist organization? Vaughn has stayed mostly silent, not speaking. His breathing is still ragged and fast, which Ingrid thought would get better with the lull In Condor questioning him, but it gets more pronounced.
“H-how long is it going to take for the vaccine to get here?”
Condor glances at his watch as if he was given a timetable. “About thirty minutes or so.”
“Thirty minutes?! What's taking so long?”
Condor shrugs. “That's pretty quick.”
“Can— can you ask if they can go any faster?” Vaughn tugs on his shirt collar and clears his throat again. “I'm not— I'm not feeling too well.”
“It is probably just anxiety,” Condor replies without a single speck of alarm. “It’s normal to be anxious in these circumstances—”
“No, what if it's—”
“The virus doesn't work that fast,” Condor says, firm but still without any concern. “It takes a few hours at least to start having any symptoms.”
Ingrid is glad Condor knows the details. It eases some of the tension in her chest. Vaughn is not as easily soothed.
“I think it's more than anxiety. My eyes and my throat burn— I've got a horrible headache and I'm freezing—”
“I'm freezing my ass off, too, but that's because we're sitting in an air conditioned building after being drenched with water,” Condor remains patient, thankfully. “The other stuff is probably from the smoke.”
“You don't seem to be feeling the same,” Vaughn says, tone dropping into an accusation of disbelief.
“I've had training to endure things like tear gas and other things, sir.”
Vaughn settles down again, shrinking into the chair. Ingrid notices that Condor has switched his attention to watching Vaughn, though, so she watches him, too. She keeps checking to see if Webster has dropped the call but no, he is still here. Just muted and deafened.
Another five minutes pass at a snail's pace. Ingrid taps her fingernails on desk.
“Everything okay, Condor?”
“Yes, ma'am.”
Condor’s reply is immediate. Ingrid automatically scrunches her nose. “Ma'am” is a weird thing to spring on her out of nowhere. If he addresses her at all, it is only by her last name.
“Can you please ask— I'm sorry, I don't feel right.” Vaughn, still nervous.
Condor stands up. “Ma'am, do I have permission to give him—”
He cuts himself off as if Ingrid interrupted him. He nods.
“Condor, what are you talking about?” Ingrid asks, trying not to sound annoyed. He is acting as if there is a script they both know, but Ingrid has no idea what he is going off of.
“I know it's not meant for civilians— yes, ma'am.”
She taps her fingers on her mouse in a faster rhythm. “Is this some kind of back and forth I should understand?”
“No, ma'am.”
Ingrid takes a breath. “Is this to keep the principal satisfied that you're something other than waiting for further instruction?”
“Yes, ma'am.”
She lets it out in a sigh that she makes sure she is muted during. Okay, so that's still Condor playing that same charade for Vaughn, same as he was earlier. But why?
“Okay, well… I haven't heard anything from Webster, but I'll make sure you stay updated with any new information if I get any.” The key part being if she gets any information. This has turned into the weirdest situation for her; she feels as if she is being left in the dark as deliberately as Vaughn.
“I understand.”
Ingrid wants to shoot back that she doesn't, but that is absolutely not professional. She is better than that. If Webster wanted her informed, she would have been. That is how things work around here with top secret subcompartments (ignoring how strange it is that she is still allowed to be on call and hear piece-parts if that is what is going on).
“I'll take responsibility for it— yes, I insist.” Condor says, still setting up whatever thing he is about to tell Vaughn to help calm him down again. Ingrid hears his breathing; it is getting worse again, more wheezy, more shallow. Vaughn has his head tilted back, showing his face to the camera above them. The camera quality isn't the most high definition thing, but she is pretty sure Vaughn’s eyes are closed. His mouth is parted.
“Yes, ma’am. Ten minutes.”
Ingrid has no idea what Condor is going to do when this invented chopper is going to arrive. Unless Condor is working with some rather specific details and knows which military and how G-virus attacks are handled to the point where he knows that the response team has a helicopter full of vaccines and where that originates from— but that is unlikely. Condor is probably making things up.
“Sir, I have something that will help.”
Oh, where is this going? What does Condor have that he thinks will help?
It takes effort for Vaughn to straighten back up. “... yeah? What— what is it?”
“I have something that I use only for emergencies. It's meant to help with injuries, but it can help with this, too.”
Vaugh takes a labored breath. “... and what is this that I'm feeling? It's no panic attack—”
“They got a doctor on the line. You might be having a reaction to the tear gas. It's rare, but it happens sometimes.”
Condor lies so easily, so quickly. It is a little scary, hearing him be able to do that on the fly. Is that a skill he has to practice often? Ingrid does not think she has heard him lie to this extent— not to her knowledge.
“... oh. That's it? It's not… it's not the virus?” Vaughn wipes at his face. Condor does not make a move to stop him.
“No, sir. It does not act that fast. That's only something you see in movies.”
Vaughn stays silent. As silent as he can, breathing as hard as he is. Condor pats his shoulder, friendly and reassuring.
“I'll get you some water so you can take this. It might hit you pretty hard since it is dosed for me and I'm used to it, so it might make you pass out.” Condor’s tone is as soothing as Ingrid has ever heard from him, about the same level of kindness she remembers him having with Kestrel. He is making a great effort to calm Vaughn down.
Ingrid looks around the bullpen. She clicks over to another camera and identifies a water cooler by the restrooms.
“Water by the restrooms. Centrally located, next to the elevator,” she tells Condor.
He pats Vaughn’s shoulder again before heading off. He is walking at a fast pace. That is at odds with his demeanor. Ingrid switches camera again to see if she can get a read on his expression, but Condor’s hair obscures his eyes when his head is angled down. The cameras aren't that good, anyway, even if Ingrid could see his face.
“What are you going to give him?” She asks when he is dispensing water into a paper cup.
Although Condor is far away to not be overheard by Vaughn, he does not answer. He sets the cup on top of the cooler and pulls something out of his back pocket.
“Condor?”
The video is not detailed enough to reveal what he has in his hands. Ingrid frowns. Did the radio die? It should be pretty well resistant to water damage, but maybe it is on the fritz.
“Condor, can you hear—”
“Dealing with something, Hunnigan.”
“Okay,” she replies. She almost apologizes, startled by his curt tone, but he suddenly stopped responding to her when he was having no issues earlier. She thought that maybe he would take this opportunity to explain himself but apparently not.
Ingrid watches in silence as Condor takes the water back to Vaughn. His breathing seems to have gotten even louder. Condor coughs into his elbow.
“Here, sir. Take this. It should help you feel better,” Condor says. He is standing about six feet away from Vaughn, not getting closer.
“Sir?”
Vaughn stirs. “Oh, sorry… What is this?”
Condor passes over the water. Vaughn needs two hands to steady the cup. He rests it on the desk.
“Medicine. It'll slow your heart, lower your blood pressure. It will help. Might make you drowsy, but that's okay.”
“... okay,” Vaughn’s voice rasps. “And— and the vaccine?”
“Almost here, sir. Here.” Condor drops something into Vaughn’s hand. “Don't chew, just swallow. It acts fast.”
Ingrid would love to know what Condor is giving him. He hasn’t consulted anyone or asked Vaughn if he has any health issues that might be affected. Vaughn does not ask, either. He is so focused on Condor doing something to help him that he trusts whatever Condor is offering.
Ingrid taps her mouse with her nails. Webster said he trusted Condor’s judgement. He said that explicitly. Maybe he was intending for that to be directed at Ingrid, not Condor.
Vaughn’s head droops. “Oh, that does work fast.”
“Here, sir. Lean over your legs, head between your knees. It will help keep your blood pressure stable.”
Lying down with his feet elevated would be the best for his blood pressure, but maybe Condor wants to be able to move quickly if needed. Condor stands over Vaughn who is folded over his middle, still breathing hard, face turned down to the floor.
“Better?” Condor asks, a hand resting on Vaughn’s back.
“A little.”
“Good,” Condor says. “Take deep breaths. Try to relax. Let the medicine work,”
Ingrid hears Vaughn take a hitching, shaky breath and let it out slowly. She is glad Condor has something that could help calm Vaughn down. She wonders what kind of medical supplies Condor is carrying, or if perhaps today he just got lucky. Maybe he gave Vaughn something he was given for his laceration (which… If Condor needs to still be taking something for his leg, Ingrid does not approve of Condor being in the field. But she has not seen him limp at all so maybe it is just something he has just in case).
“I'm sorry… for causing all this trouble…” Vaughn’s voice is muffled. Ingrid cannot tell if he is breathing any easier.
Condor’s hand crosses his body. “It's not your fault, sir. You didn't do anything wrong.”
A gunshot explodes the brief moment of silence. Ingrid jumps. Vaughn’s body tips forward off the chair. Condor’s hand follows— he is holding his gun. He shoots again. Ingrid rears back.
“Oh my god!”
Ingrid is muted— thank god she is muted. Her reaction is completely unprofessional—
Condor crouches next to the body, revealing the dark splatter across the desk, the floor—
“He's dead, ” Condor says, tone devoid of all emotion.
Ingrid gapes at her screen, covers her mouth with her hand. Come on, Ingrid, get it together. One breath. In, hold, out. Two breaths. In, hold, out.
“... Condor?” Her question in her throat. All she wants to ask is why? Why did he do that?!
“Yes?”
“Are you… what's going on?” Ingrid hates that her voice is unsteady, hates that she is so rattled when Condor is as cool as ever—
“G-virus. Bio-organic weapon agent.” His voice is as steady as steel.
Bioweapons. Not just biochemical warfare, bioweapons specifically.
“He was going to turn into one.”
How is he so calm?!
“How—” Ingrid swallows hard, tries to get her dry throat to work better. “How did you know?”
“He was dead as soon as he breathed in that gas. Nothing else could be done.”
Oh my god. It is that infectious?
“But Condor, you—”
“I'm immune.”
“You're sure?”
This is the first time that Condor's laugh raises the hair on the back of her neck. It is way too real to be fake. It's his honest reaction, which scares her on a visceral level. Condor’s sense of humor has always been odd, ill-timed, but this is something else— this is a whole other different kind of perversion—
“Guess we'll find out, won't we?”
“What do I do if—”
“If I'm infected?”
Ingrid clenches her hands, squeezes them between her knees.
“Yes.”
“Nothing you can do.” Condor laughs again. “Maybe you’d be granted a leave of absence if you have to watch me blow my brains out—”
“Hunnigan, take a break.” Webster’s steady, serious-soft voice cuts in.
Ingrid doesn't reply. She pulls the headset off her head. On her screen, Condor holsters his gun, then rolls Vaughn's body over. Ingrid glances away when Condor leans over the man's head, Condor not hesitating to touch the man's neck—
Ingrid pushes her chair away from her desk and stands up. She pauses. Looks back at the screen. Condor has moved, sitting on the edge of another desk that faces the body. He has a leg propped up in another office chair, looking all the world like he is casually hanging out. Bored, even.
This shouldn't be bothering her as much as it is. She glances down at her system, checking her headset. She is still on the call; Webster didn't kick her off or deafen her side. Unless this is an oversight, Webster telling her to step away was not so much an order as it was a suggestion— for welfare.
Ingrid switches her headset to a wireless one, waits for it to reconnect She puts it on and stays muted.
“— pretty confident it is. Or something similar.” Condor is in the middle of talking, his voice absent of that unsettling, sardonic amusement. Back to business as if he isn't perched above the body of a man he just shot in the back of the head in the middle of comforting him.
Ingrid steps out of her office, finds that her entire body is trembling. She leans against the door, takes a huge breath.
“Why do you think that?” Webster’s voice, back to his normal inflection, too. Ingrid is amazed. How is he so unbothered? It is one thing to have an operative die or lay dying on the line… but to stay this calm? When Condor might be—
“The skin around his eyes was dying, slipping. Oozing blood. Pretty typical of the initial stages of G. Turning grey, too.”
Ingrid shudders. She makes herself head to the restroom. She does not want to risk running into anyone in the break room. She focuses on her feet as Condor coughs again. All that coughing— Vaughn was coughing, too—
“Wasn't going to let that progress any further. He'd've either turned hysterical or hostile,” Condor says. “Was going to have to shoot him anyway, wasn't going to waste time.”
Webster’s silence is impossible to read.
“And the coughing?” Webster asks.
“Don't know. Might be a respiratory irritant to get us to breathe in more. Could be something new added to the virus. Got no idea.”
An even longer pause.
“How do you feel?”
“Fine,” is Condor’s immediate response. “Might be developing a fever, but that might be a good thing if my immune system is working.”
“Okay.”
“Or not, I'm no scientist.”
“Unfortunately, neither am I.”
Condor chuckles. Was Webster meaning to joke around with Condor, or is that just how Condor is choosing to react? To Ingrid’s ear, Webster’s tone hadn't changed.
“If I start losing my mind, remind me to shoot myself, okay?”
“If it comes to that,” Webster replies, mild as if he is chatting about anything else other than Condor wanting to commit suicide—
Ingrid pushes open the bathroom door and sticks her hands under the faucet. Cold water splashes out. She would splash her face, but she does not want to look like she had been crying by messing up her makeup...