The silence after my declaration hung in the air. All of the Curator's men had their rifles leveled at me. However, no order was given, therefore they didn't fire. Overwatch's representatives hadn't flinched; they were curious about what the deal could be. The Curator looked like he was trying to fold himself into his own robes.
I kept my stance straight, not betraying any signs of weakness. The Curator stared up at me, sweat collecting at his brow. I tilted my head with a sharp jerk as I continued.
"You want protection from Overwatch?" I asked. "You won't need it. Give me the information and leave Overwatch out of this, and Talon won't pursue you anymore."
A ripple passed through the room. The guards glanced at each other, unsure whether the threat came from my words or my presence.
The lead Overwatch representative stepped forward, adjusting their gloves with slow precision.
"Mr. Valentino," they said coolly, "you realize that bargaining with him makes you complicit."
The Curator blinked. "W-what?"
"If you make a deal with Dagger," the rep continued, voice like polished steel, "we will consider you aligned with Talon. And we will treat you accordingly."
A low tremor ran through the Curator's knees. Everyone saw it.
He looked between the representative and me. Prison… or me. It wasn't even a choice.
"I… I accept Dagger's deal," he whispered.
The Overwatch representative's jaw tightened. Another sighed with disappointment. A third scribbled something on a datapad, likely sealing his fate in some internal report.
"Then our business here is finished," the lead agent said curtly. They turned toward the door.
The other two followed... But one paused.
I sensed the hesitation and prepared for an attack. Although that would be foolish on his part as he was vastly outgunned and it wasn't in Overwatch's policy to execute known Talon members or criminals. They were taught to bring me in to face justice. But you could never know these days.
He stopped just short of the exit, hands clasped behind his back as though addressing a student who failed an exam. He didn't even bother turning around when he spoke.
"I remember when the war ended and you the main benefactor helping America regrow," he said. "When you funded hospitals. Schools. Relief shelters. When you stood on rooftops and said you'd rebuild what the war burned."
He finally glanced over his shoulder.
"Now look at you. A frightened little man hiding behind a private militia, begging for scraps of protection. You're not even a shadow of who you used to be."
'Shut up, shut up, shut up, shut up. Come on, man. You lost. Take your L and go.' I thought but couldn't say out loud.
The Curator's breath caught like someone had slapped him.
His fingers twitched. His shoulders squared by a centimeter. Something behind his eyes flickered awake, pride or maybe resentment. The agent gave him one last, pitying look.
"You really think this" he gestured around at the guards, the barricaded windows, the trembling man in layers of false luxury, "is who you are now?"
No one said a word. Then he nodded to the others and exited with them. Silence pressed in.
The Curator remained still, staring at the table in front of him. His breaths steadied. His spine lengthened. His trembling ebbed.
He turned toward me, and I saw the shift in his attitude, his posture.
"Don't let his words influence you to do something rash. You made the right choice. You don't have to bow to Overwatch's whims and remain free. Just give the information that I seek and you'll be free from Talon's radar as well.
The Curator's eyes sharpened. He wasn't trembling anymore.
"I assumed that you wanted me dead. But if I have information that you require, then it would appear that I have the advantage all along." He says as he takes a step forward.
"And that," I added, remaining firm, "does not make you safe. It makes you useful. Temporarily. Don't get confident. Don't get clever. Don't do anything..."
He cut me off by pulling out his pistol.
A polished, gold-lined sidearm. His voice regained something it had long been missing, authority.
"By your death, my reputation will return if not soar." He pointed his weapon at me. "Kill him."
In unison, safeties clicked off and all rifles swung toward me. I didn't move.
The Curator's newfound confidence sparked like a match against gunpowder. He thought he controlled this game that he was playing. He had no idea that he was merely a pawn, a stepping stone.
He confused usefulness as the same as leverage. Or that his hundred or so hired guns was enough to stop me. If that was the case, I wouldn't have even walked in here. The only problem I had, was that nothing was ever easy for me.
I let my head twitch sideways with a slight jerk just as I had trained. And then I spoke in a voice that was calm despite the danger, quiet even though I should be terrified, and mechanical.
"You shouldn't have done that."