Lights rolled his hidden eyes and cursed underneath the safety of his mask. Not fucking Mr. Hotknife. One half of him berated himself for expecting literally anything else. Of course this guy was gonna offer to house him. Fellow defectors, shared a moment, the whole nine yards. There wasn’t any other feasible outcome.

The other half knew it was for the best, as much as it made him want to bash his own skull in with a rock. “Gee, wonder why a fellow defector would want to house a current defector. Surely there are no ulterior motives here. Keep me honest, hey Mr. Hotknife?”

“Not gonna go back. Not now, not never,” he said with a fire in his voice, as he entered the proper Ranger HQ, “Even if I wanted to. You know how we first met, when I was running for my damn life? Didn’t happen cause I stole someone’s sandwich from the fridge, and their friends got pissed.”

“Killed four of my group,” he whispered. Not out of desire to keep that hidden, but to not alarm the staff. “Cold blood. I go back, they’ll do everyone a favor and send me on a deep dive with concrete shoes.”

A lose-lose situation for him. Submit, or forfeit his life. Only this time, submitting didn’t mean he lost moral or ethical obligations. It was better this way. Meant he had no choice, he had to stay honest like a good little noodle. Roll over, play fetch, don’t piss on the carpet, whatever the League, and Caleb, asked.

Didn’t mean he had to like it. That’s why he shoved a fist into his pocket and let Caleb show the way again, further into the building. At least the ranger couldn’t see Lights’ scowl.

---

Caleb Harcourt
I DAMN YOU TO POST PRISON!!!!!!!!!!!

“What’s there to say?” Lights entered the room behind Caleb, and half-dropped-half-threw his meager bag of belongings next to the chair. He flopped down into the comfy seat and threw his feet up and around, to rest on the lip of the desk. At least his high-tops looked clean, like he’d just polished them after a basketball game at the gym.

“Knew I couldn’t just run off. Figured I’d do some good for the League by takin’ out the trash. They were scum, probably ten times worse than I ever was,” he explained. “Should’ve been five, if anything, but I fucked up my priorities.”

“And for why… y’know can’t put my finger on it,” he leaned back and rested his head on his arms, “if I had to say, probably the women. A lot hotter on the yellow side. Beer’s better too. Though, Rocket did have some damn good baseball players, so that held me back for quite a while...”

His voice reeked of sarcasm, yet despite the clown mask, it felt anything but comedic. Lights chuckled at the thought, “Say, scale of one to ten, how much does the clown mask improve my answers?”

---

Caleb Harcourt

“Sorry, my… me literally killing four other Rockets and putting a target on my fucking back doesn’t speak loud enough?”

Some part of Lights begged to drop the matter. It was just a figure of speech, nothing more. Something to build into the next thing. Mr. Hotknife had a weird way of saying things, no reason to pick it apart. Tear into the meat until nothing but bones and marrow were left. Until every stone was unturned.

But two things stood in the way of that: his temper, and the– well, meat of the matter.

That’s why he slammed his feet back onto the carpet, shot forward, and slammed his fist into the desk. “I ain’t askin’ for a medal or a ceremony, I’m askin’ for a damn chance– you think I’ll go turncoat twice?!”

“Of course I’m takin’ the fuckin’ job– but don’t think for a god damn second that I’m glazin’ past what the fuck you just said,” he yelled. Of fucking course. Even the one guy who offered to guide him in the right direction still had the gun to his head. Ready to pull the trigger the second things got bad.

The second he thought Lights was a ‘liability’. A bad example. Whatever the fuck he wanted to call it. Even if he meant in the eyes of the League, he was a part of the League. This wasn’t a hardware store, where the cashier told you the warranty the store offered was a scam.

Like Caleb even said: this wasn’t a game. This was life and death. Literally. He should know that.

“Don’t pitch this like a fuckin’ option,” Lights said as he leaned back in the chair. He followed it with a scoff. “Sell it to me straight. Tell me how fucked I am.”

"And don't call me by my name. I don't like it."

---

Caleb Harcourt

“No the fuck I don’t, and no the fuck I’m not.”

Just not in the traditional sense, but he’d have eyes on him everywhere. All the defectors would. Lights not being in cuffs was a formality, nothing more. It didn’t take a genius to know that. He’d have a curfew. Limited purchasing power. Frequent check-ups. Wouldn’t be surprised if they wanted to wipe his ass.

And for options… yea, he wanted to rot in a cell. Totally. Throw it all away to get assassinated in prison or forgotten to a cruel system. Cause that was an option, and the only other one.

A very fucking stupid one.

But, at the end of the day, he had to listen. See the semblance of reason. Determination in Caleb’s eyes, even as he tried to feed him more bullshit. He had no right to make the promises he did– but what was he going to do about it? Disagree? Say he was going to be forgotten or taken care of?

Almost as stupid as foregoing clemency. That’s why, finally, he sighed and nodded his head. Slightly, but definitively. “Okay.”

“Alright then.” Fuck, did he really need to throw in that sappy shit? It sounded stupid as hell. Thank Arceus the mask hid his violent cringe, or else things would’ve gotten more awkward. Instead, he grabbed a pen and clicked it open. "Give it here. Let's get this over with, Caleb."

"Surprised we don't have to slit our palms open and do a handshake, though."

---

Caleb Harcourt

If Caleb thought this was self-pity and whining, then the man was still as drunk as the day he thought he quit. Coins had two sides, and Lights preferred to see both sides so that he couldn’t get fucked over by some hidden clause or condition. One-half of it was the chance of ‘redemption’ via amnesty

The other was the cost of attempting, and the price he’d pay if he dared step out of line. Nothing more. Caleb’s determination and hope couldn’t dare hope to hide it from him. Likewise, Lights wouldn’t ignore it either.

He would earn his chance one way or another. But he wouldn’t pretend there were any second chances.

The pamphlet disappeared into his hands, given a brief glance, then shoved into his duffle bag. Things like that were best read on the shitter. “Damn. I was gonna to go out into the early hours of dawn, litter and jaywalk, and ignore all my emails. But don’t worry, I trust you. You won’t lie to me.”

“And I won’t lie to you either: won’t even be acquaintances at this rate.”

Within the depths of the mask were two blue eyes, and they stared at Caleb with some hidden emotion. Frustration? Anger? Defiance? Or perhaps some other negative emotion altogether. Regardless, he only met the ranger's gaze for a second before he disappeared below the desk.

He grabbed his bag and rose.

“What next, Hot Knife?”

---

Caleb Harcourt