Sabine led them down another hall. Marielle fell into step with Liam at the back of the line, biting her tongue as they walked. She’d only been with Valorant a little under six months, but she wasn’t the biggest fan of change, and this one seemed anxiety-inducing. Liam, like a big father, had always taken care of them. He even sat with them occasionally and played video games in his spare time. She would never forget the time he’d done so with Mateo after forcing him to clear out an old, dusty room. Although Marielle spent a lot of time counseling each of the agents, she had avoided getting close to several of them as friends. However, in the past few weeks, she’d grown to truly admire and like Liam.
“They can’t do this,” she whispered to him.
“Marielle, we all knew this was coming.”
“Nothing good comes from the government.” She sighed. “You know you agree with me.” She looked down when Barbara glanced back at the two of them. They picked up the pace a little to avoid falling behind.
“Whether I agree or not isn’t the point right now.”
“You’re in charge,” she growled.
“Not anymore,” Liam whispered.
Barbara slowed down to be closer to them. “Problem?”
Liam cleared his throat and straightened his back, throwing a glance at the folder. “So, what do you know? Did you have time to look it over?”
Marielle caught on immediately: drop the subject, talk about the briefing instead. She took in a breath. “A little. Jamie gave it to me moments before I came in.”
“We’ve had Chamber for eight days now, today being the ninth. The folder goes more into detail, but essentially he showed up at the charity event we were holding last Saturday night. He was spotted running around placing things in random locations, and then he took a shot at me, missed”—Liam paused—“and teleported.”
“Teleported?” Marielle’s eyes grew wide. “He’s altered.” She lifted the folder and began leafing through it again.
“Exactly.”
“Apparently not very smart, though,” Sabine jeered without looking back at them. “He teleported straight into our hands.” She sounded proud. Apparently, she’d participated in his capture.
Marielle glanced up from the papers briefly. “Maybe he meant to.”
“Why in the hell would he mean to get caught?” Sabine demanded, her tone full of below-the-surface rage she was obviously holding back.
Marielle shrugged her left shoulder and flicked that same brow, refusing to make eye contact with Sabine. “I don’t exactly think missing the shot was an accident, either.”
“You think he showed up and put on this whole production just to be caught on purpose?” Barbara interjected.
“I don’t know. What has he said?”
“Nothing. That’s why you’re here,” hissed Sabine, continuing to saunter down the hall.
Marielle stopped walking. “Wait. You guys have had him for almost nine days and he’s said… nothing?”
“Not a thing,” Liam confirmed.
“Has he made any noise?”
“Oh yeah, we know he can speak. He just won’t.”
“What has he done?”
Everyone stopped as Sabine approached her with slow, steady steps. “Sleep, sit up, eat, piss, read some books, shit, do some random exercises, sleep, eat, and start all over again,” she growled.
Marielle’s eyes darted between them. “In that oddly specific order?” she quipped, matching Sabine’s sarcasm but making it sound like a real question.
Liam had to cover a chuckle with a cough into his fist, but Sabine rolled her eyes and continued down the hall. Barbara tried to quell another proud smile. It didn’t work, so instead she went the other way and grinned at Marielle. Her inner monologue was obvious: “Good work, kid.”
All four made their way into a small room with dark-gray walls and a table in the middle. A small rectangle the size of a credit card lay in the center of the table.
“That was it? That’s all he had on him?” Marielle asked, leaning over it. A symbol she didn’t recognize was printed on it, as well as his name: Vincent Fabron.
“Well, aside from his clothing,” Liam said with a nod. He crossed his arms over his chest, staring down at the little card and stroking his facial hair with his left hand.
“Is this all we know?”
“We don’t even know this,” Barbara broke in. “This”—she gestured dramatically at the table—“could all be fake. Vincent Fabron? That could be nobody, a fabrication.”
Marielle squatted next to the table, eyeing the card. “May I?”
Liam nodded and gestured with one hand. Marielle removed her right glove and hovered her hand over the card, then paused. Nothing. She felt nothing.
“Did you think it might be cold?” Sabine jeered.
“Nah, I thought it might high-five me.”
Sabine went silent again, leaning on the wall by the door with her right arm.
Sometimes Marielle felt things from objects. This one told her very little from hovering over it, so she cautiously put her hand down flat on it. It was cool to the touch, but it warmed a tad as her hand sat on top of it. It hummed underneath her palm, buzzing with a soft electricity she didn’t quite understand.
She pulled her hand back. “It’s like it’s alive.”
“I felt it, too,” Liam agreed.
A pause as she thought. “Where did the teleporter and his other things go?”
“We have no idea.”
Marielle looked to Sabine.
“They just sort of… vanished,” Sabine stated.
“Curious,” Marielle whispered as she stood straight again. “Okay… I want to see him.”
Barbara nodded and gestured for them to follow her to the next room. Inside was a large two-way mirror, and seated in a chair in the middle of the room just beyond: the stranger, Chamber.
Marielle flattened her shoulders against the wall as she stared at the man in cuffs. She took in his form, trying to sort through the information she had on him, what she saw before her, and what had been explained to her. She noted again the dark hair and eyes. The diamond studs in his ears appeared to be real, not cubic zirconia or glass. He reminded her a little of Morgan. She briefly glanced at Sabine, then back at him. The way Sabine regarded him told Marielle that she didn’t think so, or perhaps had become acquainted enough with Vincent’s appearance for the initial effect to wear off.
“You see, of course, the golden—”
Marielle cut Barbara off. “The tattoos? Yeah, I noticed them instantly.” There was stunned silence. Marielle forced an apologetic smile. “Sorry. Just doing my job. I-I’m already noticing everything.”
“Yeah, I’m sure you are,” Sabine spat under her breath. Everyone ignored her.
Marielle continued her assessment of the stranger. He was poised with definite flare and style; that much was obvious immediately. The three-piece suit he wore (sans overcoat) seemed to be custom, as she had never seen bullet-shaped brass buttons or blue fabric quite like that on his vest before.
She’d also never seen such vibrant gold tattoos. Most of them were hidden under his clothing, but they ran up both of his arms as far as she could see, and she assumed they worked their way up his chest, back, and neck as well since they peeked out from underneath his collar. A vaguely tribal pattern wrapped around the back of his head and the left side of his forehead. Every movement made them flash like polished metal.
The last thing she noted was the small gold ring on the ring finger of his left hand. This was odd to her, although she couldn’t figure out why. It looked like the kind of ring she’d always imagined giving to her husband, yet Vincent didn’t seem like a married man.
He glanced up at the two-way mirror, his eyes scanning the space as though he were looking for something. Marielle knew this to be false, of course, since he couldn’t see anything through the glass. And yet his eyes—and their urgency—stopped when they reached her, then remained locked with her own. They were the color of almonds, and behind them rested layers of an untapped soul revealing itself.
For a few moments, he and Marielle remained fixated on one another. He couldn’t be staring at her… or could he? It should be impossible, but in a world filled with radianite, powers, and abilities… What actually were the chances?
Vincent narrowed his brown eyes, then hung his head.
Silence spread through the room, all eyes darting from him to her, then back to him again. Everyone had seen what had just occurred.
It was several long moments before Marielle cleared her throat and broke the silence. “Let me talk to him.” It was a whisper.
The others briefly exchanged looks, and then Barbara approached Marielle. “Fine. You think you can get him to talk?”
Marielle gave Barbara a confident nod. “He’ll talk to me,” she assured, straightening her back.
Sabine scoffed, but said nothing.
Marielle glanced at Sabine, who only drew her blazing green glare away from Marielle and back to the man—a clear cut message that said, “Don’t even talk to me.” Nothing new. Sabine was all venom.
Marielle went to the door and entered, shutting it behind her. The moment she crossed into the room with him, she felt the atmosphere around her change. His eyes locked on her form and narrowed for a moment, then widened as if a realization of some kind had hit him.
Her eyes met his. This was it. No going back. There was something about the way he looked at her that she didn’t like. It felt familiar, or maybe it was attraction. It was subtle, but whatever the correct description was, Marielle couldn’t quite put a finger on it.
She took half a beat to notice everything about him, a series of words framing themselves in her mind: cocky, sensual, reckless, gentlemanly, deadly, romantic, untrustworthy… Pepé Le Pew… She shook that one from her head. More like the Merovingian from the Matrix movies.
She breathed deeply, doing her best to barely move in the process. In addition to sweat, she detected a faint whiff of cologne, even though he probably hadn’t reapplied any in several days. He was nervous.
“Hello,” she said casually, opening the folder for show. “It says ‘Vincent?’”
She looked to him for a response and saw a flicker of something in his eyes that seemed inappropriate for what she’d asked. It unnerved her, but she didn’t show it.
“Or do you prefer”—she scanned the paper—“Chamber?”
He said nothing. Instead, he leaned back in the chair with his right arm over the back and his knees spread. He was too comfortable, so she matched it, relaxing her own posture.
“Parlez-vous Français?”
He flicked an eyebrow at her, repressing a smile; underneath it, he seemed impressed by her pronunciation.
She grabbed a chair, spun it around, and slapped it down between them, straddling it as she faced him. The ghost of a smile crossed his attractive mouth. “Come on, don’t embarrass me. I promised those guys you’d talk to me.”
“That would be embarrassing, yes,” he said, his accent thick. His voice was deep, rich, and pleasant.
“Well, only if you don’t talk to me,” she quipped.
He couldn’t seem to help the grin spreading across his lips, and he replied with a silent chuckle. She laughed as well, but after it passed, silence came between them again.
He leaned forward a bit as if looking around. “Is there a man here?” he asked cautiously. “A man… like you?”
“No, there isn’t.” This was odd to her. He was finally speaking to someone after eight days of silence, and he asked for a man like her? What did he even mean by that? “Would you rather speak to a man?”
“No,” he answered quickly, and that “no” told her he wasn’t going to say anything more about it. Silence passed for a few moments.
“Well, Vincent, my name is Marielle Chaenes,” she began, riffling through the folder. “My friends call me Masin. If you play the right cards, you might be able to someday as well—”
“Masin?” he asked, stroking his bottom lip with the middle finger on his right hand. “Masin Chaenes?” He narrowed his eyes at her. The play on words was obvious. Mace and chains. “Well, that must be hard.”
She gave him a half smile, making a mental note of the way he’d said “hard,” and continued, “I’m a senior profiler here at Valorant as well as an agent in training. You can talk to me, or you can go back to the holding cell until you do talk—and let me be clear: we can keep you here indefinitely. You were on Headquarters property, you fired at an agent, and you are definitely altered.” She gestured at the golden tribal tattoos running down the left side of his face and neck. “How far do they go?”
He looked down at his hand where the golden lines ran beneath the burgundy leather of his fingerless gloves. “A bit personal, don’t you think?” He smirked. “We just met.”
She smiled, biting her lip, and looked him over. “Well, you look good,” she noted. Then her eyes fell on his white shoes, something between a sneaker and a dress shoe. “Except for the shoes. Those are abysmal.”
“Don’t knock the shoes,” he replied, then gave her a prize-winning grin. “They were made by a friend.”
“Girlfriend?”
He leaned toward her a little. “Is that your way of asking me if I’m single?”
She glanced briefly at the ring. “Are you?” she pressed, trying to pull anything out of him.
“When I want to be.”
“Ah… So you’re a playboy.”
He clicked his tongue against his cheek. “No, no, mon amie. I’m—how you say?—enchanting.” He’d said this word too easily. He knew it. Why the red herring?
She glanced down at the folder. “Enchanting. A daring label to give yourself.”
“Ah, no…” He rubbed his gloved hands together. “Daring… is how I make love.” He was staring her down, commanding her next move.
She paused, making note of the way he’d emphasized “make love.” Clicking the pen in her hand, she leaned back a little, doing her best to steel herself. “You’re aware that I know this game, right? It’s basic training to make the other person as uncomfortable as you can—”
Vincent cut her off. “Oui, I do know… Of course.” He laced his fingers behind his head and stretched a little. “I have had basic, too.” He became strangely serious then. “So the question you should be asking yourself is… if I know the game, why am I still playing it?” He smirked salaciously and trained his gaze on her.
She felt herself shrink, but refused to show it. “Why are you?”
“If I tried to explain, I would sound”—he gesticulated a bit—“how you say?—like a crazy person.”
“You’re not doin’ too hot right now, handsome,” she replied flatly.
He swallowed, and his expression faded from flirtatious to serious. “Let’s just say that you will find out eventually.”
“Sounds vaguely threatening.”
“Trust me, it’s not. Just sad.”
Silence again.
“Do you want to tell me why you shot at an agent? Why you obviously missed?”
“Who says I obviously missed?”
“Come on.” She cocked her head to one side and crossed her arms over her chest, the folder now resting against her side. She let the silence go on for too long, but just when she felt it appropriate to speak again, she let the dead air linger for another count of five. “Just so we’re clear, Vincent… We’re going to find out more. We have you, and it’s only a matter of time—and contacting the French government.” She got up and started to leave.
“Masin?”
She paused. She didn’t know why the sound of her name on his lips—and the fact that he chose to call her by the more intimate name—made the hair on her arms stand up.
“You’re French, aren’t you? Your pronunciation is too good.”
“Yes, I’m French. But I was raised here.” She sat back down. “Will you tell me why you allowed yourself to be captured?” She narrowed her eyes at him, searching for anything in his expression.
He wiped some sweat from his forehead, looking at it on his fingertips. “Hot in here. I’m wet,” he said under his breath. She cocked her head at that comment. He met her eyes again. “My teleporter has a cooldown. I wasn’t captured on purpose.”
A wry smile started across her full mouth. “Yes, you were.” She leaned toward him a bit. “I read people well. It’s part of my job,” she explained slowly, as if speaking to a small child. A small smirk formed on the right side of his mouth as she spoke, and only got larger as she continued. This was a game. “I’ve already got your number, Vincent.”
She stood again and started for the door. “I’ll learn more than your name, and how well you can kill people.”
“Bonne chance,” he growled under his breath.
Her eyes met his one last time; they were serious and focused on hers, unblinking. The slight incline in his tone at the end implied it was actually a challenge for her. Anyone else would have seen it as sarcasm, but she knew how to listen for tone of voice. She thought on this only for a moment before she cleared the door and closed it.
No sooner had she left the holding room than Sabine grabbed her from the side and threw her against the wall.
“Calm down!” cried Marielle as her back collided with the wall.
“You said you’d get him to tell you something,” hissed Sabine, her arm across Marielle’s neck.
Marielle held the length of Sabine’s arm back with greater strength so she didn’t crush her windpipe. “No, I said I’d get him to talk to me.”
Liam appeared with Barbara right behind and peeled them apart.
Marielle gasped for a moment before continuing, “And I did.” She pulled her tank top back down, smoothing it, and pointed between Sabine, Liam, and Barbara. “Something none of you could do.”
“But he didn’t say anything,” Liam growled, crossing his enormous arms over his chest.
“Actually, he said quite a bit,” Marielle countered, straightening her back.
Sabine tapped her black nails on her other arm. “Nothing important.”
“You just don’t know what to look for.”
“Do you?” pressed Barbara.
Marielle shifted her weight onto the balls of her feet and let out a sigh through rounded lips. “Yeah.”
Sabine rolled her eyes. “I’m convinced.”
Liam glanced through the window at Vincent. “What did he say at the end? Band chance?”
“Bonne chance,” Marielle corrected. “It means ‘good luck.’”
“He’s taunting you.”
Marielle wasn’t sure how much she wanted the others to know yet. Her mind was swirling with thoughts, mental notes, and questions. She decided to hold back. “Something like that.” She drummed her bottom lip for a moment. “He emphasized five words, and all of them were sexual or relational: hard, enchanting, make love, Masin, wet…”
“Wait a second,” Liam interjected, eyes narrowing. “How do you know that wasn’t a coincidence?”
Marielle rubbed the underside of her chin with her fingertips. “No, no… Once is a coincidence, but three times or more? That’s purposeful. It’s guided conversation,” she explained. “For whatever reason, he wants me to think about him that way.” She gesticulated for a moment. “Or at least he wants me to think about words which emphasize a sexual undertone because those things stick in our subconscious.”
“What’s guided conversation?” Sabine asked.
“Uh…” She paused. “It’s using certain words and phrases to implant thoughts and feelings into a person’s head without them being aware of it.”
“So like being hypnotized?” Liam wondered.
“Kind of, except you’re not actually under anyone’s control. It’s like what he just did. He used words that are highly sexual or intimate in nature—again: hard, enchanting, make love, Masin, wet… He’s trying to plant an idea.”
“You said he emphasized those words? You heard that?” That was Barbara.
“Barely,” she explained, shaking her head.
“Do you think the very fact that he knows how to do this, and that he seems aware that you do too, is a sign that he’s also trained in profiling and mind games?”
“I wouldn’t doubt it, but…” She pressed her teeth together and winced. “It’s something more…”
“Maybe he just wants to sleep with you,” Sabine scoffed, crossing her arms over her chest again and glancing away.
Marielle continued their game of not looking each other in the eye, and instead stared at nothing in particular as she continued to stroke her chin. “No.” She flicked her fingers upward. “Well, I mean, okay, he might,” she said quickly and dismissively. “But he doesn’t speak to any of the beautiful women in this building for over a week, and then I show up and he’s hot for Momma? Please.” She chuckled. “No, regardless of attraction, he’s trying to say something. I just don’t know what.”
“Wonderful,” Sabine growled.
“What does that mean?” Liam asked, eyes darting from one to the other.
Marielle tucked her lips in and shook her head. “I…” She glanced at the door, where just beyond she knew that Vincent—Chamber?—was sitting still. Then she flicked her gaze back to Barbara. “Listen, I need to see his room. Can you do something with him for about an hour?”
“Like what? Take him for croissants?” Sabine asked.
“Sure,” Marielle quipped, then turned on her heels and headed to the elevator to the cellblock.