Chapter Text
"And with their second overall pick, the Pittsburgh Penguins have chosen to waive their pick and have instead opted to claim entry to the program for an Accelerated Growth Individual. If the individual proves to be viable and grows to acceptable parameters as outlined by the Accelerated Growth program, they will be eligible to play the upcoming season. If no viable individual is produced, the Accelerated Growth Individual contract will be terminated, and the Pittsburgh Penguins will be in repossession of an equivalent first round pick for the following season."
Everything is silent. Even through the television screen, miles away from the dressed-up arena, sitting on his parents’ old faded couch, Sid can feel the shock rippling through the room like a stone has been dropped in a lake. He’s in shock too - he can hear his heartbeat thudding in his ears. He had been bracing himself for Ladd's name or even Wheeler, ready to start thinking about someone to fit onto their second line or his wing, someone who wouldn't leave Sid shouldering the entire franchise as they rebuild. But this, this is insane.
“Goddamn, Sid,” his dad says softly from behind him. “When Mario said they'd definitely find someone to keep up with you, I didn't think they'd literally make someone to keep up with you.”
Sid's throat clicks as he tries to answer. “The program never works,” he says. “I'll just be waiting a year longer.”
“It sometimes works,” his mom says, reaching over to squeeze his hand. She's pale and her fingers are trembling slightly. “Remember Kurri? The program grew him to play with Gretzky and that worked out.”
Sid just shakes his head, lips pressed together in a hard line. Rationally, he knows it's not about him, he knows he’s part of a team and he has to try and trust in the decisions made by the organization, but he’s still so bitterly disappointed.
He stares at the TV without really seeing as the brass from Blackhawks line up to take a picture with Ladd. Tries to push away with disappointment and think about what he can do. He can still play his best hockey without a second overall joining him straight away.
He's just going to have to be patient.
Mario calls him the next day. He seems supremely unconcerned by Sid's worries.
“But if the program doesn't work,” Sid bursts out, cranky from a poor night’s sleep and perilously close to whining. He makes himself loosen his chest and shoulders, tries to get his voice back down into neutral conversation territory. “The team will be waiting longer.”
I'll be waiting longer, is what a part of him thinks. He ignores it.
“The team will be okay, Sid,” Mario says gently but firmly. “High risk, high reward.”
“It's less than a percent,” Sid says. “I looked it up. Less than a percent of AGI's are viable. And that’s if they even take. Most don’t start growing at all. So it’s more like, nought point nought one percent.”
“Well, you're one in a million,” Mario says. “So one in ten thousand should be easy.”
Sid returns to Pittsburgh earlier in the summer than he had originally planned, way before training camp is scheduled to begin. Even with the Penguin’s poor standings last season he still came out with over a hundred points - and a hundred penalty minutes, but that’s honestly not completely his fault - but he knows he can do better. He knows he can be better for the team.
He settles back into Mario’s guesthouse, which feels almost as much like home as home does, and immediately starts negotiating for more ice time. He’s firmly rebuffed so has to make do, filling his time with off-ice drills and watching hours of game tape instead. He bulks up, pleased to see he's starting to leave behind the baby-faced kid from the previous season.
He’s getting ready for dinner with Mario and the family one evening when hears something that makes his ears prick up - he’s going to collect glasses for the table when he hears Nathalie ask, “did the installation go okay?”
He stops in the doorway, heart thudding strangely in his chest.
“So far so good,” Mario says, and then turns and spots Sid lurking. Sid’s cheeks go pink even as he tries to act casual, striding over to the cabinet where the glasses are kept.
He clears his throat. “Is that the installation for the AGI?” he asks.
Mario and Nathalie share a look. He probably missed casual by a mile; it makes him cringe like he’s missed an empty net.
“Yes,” Mario says simply.
Sid shifts from foot to foot. “...did it work?”
“It’s just equipment installation,” Mario says. “The actual Growth Team aren't starting anything until later in the week.”
“Can I see?”
“I don’t think it’s a good idea, Sid.”
“Please? Just one look?”
Mario shakes his head. “I don’t want to get your hopes up.”
“They’re already up,” Sid says. “Like, here,” he says, raising a flattened hand level with his temple. “I just want to see. I think I'll focus better if I know - if I can like, visualise what’s happening. I just keep wondering.”
“Fine,” Mario sighs, somewhere between amused and resigned. “You can see, if you promise you’ll then visualise or whatever, and then take your mind off it.”
Sid grins. “I promise.”
The Accelerated Growth Suite is in the basements of the Igloo. Even Sid didn’t know that there was this much space down here - he’s explored most parts of the rink but didn’t know there was a cavernous space akin to an empty parking garage beyond a nondescript grey door next to the boiler rooms.
Mario leads him through the door, followed by a lawyer and a stern-looking AG technician. Sid’s signed a whole bunch of forms and an NDA and promised to not touch anything. Sid can respect that - he feels like the technician thinks of her equipment like Sid thinks of his hockey gear, and he’s not about to go messing with something that’s clearly super important to someone.
Besides, it’s important to him that this all goes well. He’s not about to mess up his chances of getting a great player for the team because he couldn't resist prodding a switch or fiddling with a wire.
The equipment is all in place, just like Mario said. There’s less of it than SId was expecting. Two desks with an array of computers on. A stack of metal boxes labelled with words like BASE MATERIALS and GENOME ACCELERATOR, and then more words in a language he doesn’t understand, letters he doesn't even recognise.
And in the centre of the room, a huge tube-like tank with pipes coming in at the side and the bottom, bolted into a complex metal frame. There’s a softly humming generator nearby, and two smaller tanks on the floor. The tank is full of a thick yellow-green liquid. Disconnected wires drift through the liquid. Sid shivers as he thinks about what they might end up being connected to.
He takes a step forward without thinking. The tube is huge. Easily nine feet tall. Plenty of room to grow, his brain thinks and for some reason it makes him want to laugh.
“There, you’ve seen it now,” Mario says. “Curiosity satisfied?”
“Yeah,” Sid nods, and then turns to the technician. “What’s the water actually made up of? I mean, is it water that’s got something in to make it green, or is it something different?”
Behind him, Mario heaves out a sigh and rubs at his temple.
That night, Sid dreams of skating, and the ice is green and filled with wires, frozen in beneath the surface.
It’s a relief when the team trickles back into town, and some semblance of team practice starts up again. Colby immediately puts him in a hug that is closer to a headlock, and Flower calls him fuckface and chatters away at him in French, beaming the entire time.
Sid’s missed them.
They get together for an unofficial optional skate the day before training camp starts proper; it’s easy and relaxed and full of new-season promise; eighty-two games to play, eighty-two chances to win and show the world what the Penguins can do.
“What’re you grinning about, Creature?”
Sid blinks as Colby skates up to him, waving his hand in front of Sid’s face. Sid knocks his hand away, still beaming.
“Just feeling good about the season,” he says.
“Oh good, we’ll definitely win the Cup then if you’re feeling good.”
“Army!” Sid snaps, whacking at his shins just as Talbo and Flower skate over, grabbing water bottles from the boards.
“Why are we hitting Sid already? Can I join in?” Talbo says, squirting water down the back of his jersey, even though he’s not even been skating all that hard, in Sid’s opinion.
“He’s feeling good about the season,” Colby says.
“I’d be feeling better if we had an actual second overall skating with us,” Flower says. “Fucking hell, what were they thinking. An AGI? Those things are one in a million. And even if they grow, they end up growing extra legs and shit.”
“I skate with a third leg all the time and I’m okay,” Talbo jeers, and Sid rolls his eyes.
“I heard they grow as big as the tank you grow them in,” Colby says.
“That’s goldfish, you moron.”
“No, really,” Colby insists. “So if you put one in an Olympic sized pool you’ll get an Olympic sized hockey player.”
“They don’t grow in pools, they grow them in tubes,” Sid says, even though Colby and Talbo are arguing rather than listening to him. “Like a human-sized cylinder, full of some green watery shit. It’s like man-made amniotic fluid.”
“Now, how the fuck do you know that?” Flower asks. “Are you something kind of an expert all of a sudden?”
Well, his NDA didn’t say he couldn’t tell the team. Just that he wasn’t allowed to tell anyone outside the organisation about what may or may not be happening in the AG suite.
“I’ve seen it,” Sid says, and everyone goes quiet.
“Fuck off, have you,” Talbo says, and then pauses. “Have you?”
“Yeah, I bugged Mario about it and he let me go down and see it for myself so I’d stop asking questions,” Sid says. “I signed an NDA though.”
“Fuck the NDA, what’s down there?” Flower demands. “Is it like a mad scientist's lab? Like Frankenstein?”
“No, just a bunch of computers and the tube,” Sid shrugs, and then hastily adds, “And you can’t tell anyone outside the team that I said that. I mean it, Flower. Mario’ll kill me.”
“Then they’ll just regrow you again in the basement,” Talbot says, and Colby smacks him on the back of the legs with his stick.
“Did you see the AGI? Are they growing yet?” Colby asks. “Damn, I used up the nickname Creature way too early.”
Talbot snorts with laughter, and jerks his chin at Sid. “First we’ve got you, hockey robot boy, and now we’ve got another fucking one growing in a fish tank.”
“It’s not a fish tank.”
“Do you think he’ll have gills?”
“He could have gills and still be prettier than you,” Flower says and skids back out of the way cackling as Talbot lunges for him.
“I don’t think it’ll work,” Sid says, even as he watches Flower trying to outskate Talbot; an impossible task in goalie gear. “The odds are bad.”
“We play professional sports for a living, kid,” Colby says, throwing an arm over Sid’s shoulders and giving him a shake. “Since when did we believe in odds?”
Training camp takes Sid’s mind off the AGI, albeit in temporary fits and starts; the moment he’s off the ice or on his own, his mind drifts to the AG suite, wondering what could be going on down there. He’s a professional though, and still lives and breathes hockey, so it’s simple enough to throw himself into drills, relishing the feel of the ice under his skates and the gentle ache in his muscles that tells him he’s pushing himself, just enough. He basks in the sounds of the team in the arena, the camaraderie that starts to build with every pass and scrimmage and goal. He falls back into the groove with his old teammates, and also makes sure to take some time to scope out the style of the new guys that they’ve bought in or up over the summer, Flower seems to have stepped up his game over the summer, and blows Sid a kiss when Sid tells him so. The whole team seems to be in and ready to go right off the bat, and it feels good.
Somehow, Sid still feels like he’s waiting for someone to show up.
The team has just finished video review with Therrien when Sid finds Mario waiting for him outside the room. He gestures for Sid to follow him and Sid does, pulse quickening.
“What is it? Is everything okay?”
“Yes,” Mario says. “Just thought I’d show you something, if you have time.”
“Yes,” Sid says immediately. He’s been desperate for news on the AGI, and Mario knows it, giving him non-answers and nothing yets every time Sid has asked for an update. Together, they head down into the AG suite. Sid watches Mario key in the code, stomach twisting with anticipation. “Did it work?” he asks. “Is it growing?”
“So far so good,” Mario says. “And yes, it is.”
Sid feels off-balance as he follows Mario down into the AG suite, the same way he sometimes does when he has to step foot back on solid ground after a long session of skating. There’s two technicians down there today; one is tapping away at the computer, which is full of lines of complicated green code. The other is standing by the tube, making notes on a clipboard.
“Holy shit,” Sid says, and leaves Mario standing by the computer banks as he walks up to the tube, transfixed. Inside, floating in the middle of the green liquid, is a very tiny but unmistakable human baby. It’s got fingers and toes and Sid can see the delicate whorls of an ear. It’s - his - hands are curled up near his face, like he’s hiding from everyone. Sid can see his eyelashes.
“Don’t touch anything,” the technician belatedly says, glancing over at Sid.
“I won’t,” Sid says, looking at the vast array of wires that are attached to the baby. “Is he cold in there?”
The technician looks amused, like Sid has asked something stupid and childish. Sid flushes.
“No, the filter keeps the fluid warm and clean,” the technician says, and then looks over Sid’s shoulder to the other technician. “Is he supposed to be down here?”
“Yes, he has clearance,” the other one asks absently. “He’s the player they’re growing the AGI to play with.”
Sid feels himself bush harder at that, but he’s not sure why.
“See,” Mario says gently. “Growing quickly and healthily. He’s already the equivalent of a baby that’s been carried fully to term. Forty weeks.”
Sid nods. The baby looks so tiny, floating amongst all that liquid, in an adult-sized AG tube. “Will he be tall?”
“Aiming for six three, maybe could push a little taller,” the technician says, flipping over the paper on his clipboard and grimacing. “Though he’s not going to break two-fifteen pounds.”
“I thought you could grow them to whatever stats you wanted?”
“Well, we try, but we’re constrained by the genetic materials provided,” the technician shrugs. “And if you push it too far, you risk complete cellular collapse. So, two-fifteen is your limit I’m afraid.”
“That’s okay, that’s-” Sid shakes his head. “That’s amazing.”
The technician smiles. “Glad you think so.”
“Does he have a name?” Sid asks, but the technician shakes their head.
“Not until they’re fully grown. It’s still a very risky period, we don’t want to get attached if they’re non-viable, or if-”
“Okay,” Sid interrupts quickly, not wanting to hear the myriad of ways that this could go wrong. “As long as he’s good at hockey, that’s all I want. That’s all the team wants.”
“Time to go, Sid,” Mario says, putting a hand on his shoulder.
“Just five more minutes,” Sid says. He can’t tear his eyes away as he watches the baby’s fingers twitch, a minute flex that seems to scream, I’m here. I’m growing. Just wait a little longer.
“What was it like? Did it have webbed feet?”
“Is it like ten feet tall?”
“It’s definitely a dude, right? Imagine all that and you accidentally grow a girl.”
Sid wrinkles his nose at the barrage of questions. Someone has accidentally let slip to the rest of the team that Sid has seen the AGI with his own eyes, and they quickly worked out where Mario took him after practice, so now team dinner has turned into twenty questions. He’s sandwiched between Colby and Whits, and Gonch and Flower are listening in avidly across the table.
“He was just a baby,” Sid protests. “A normal, human baby.”
“Normal apart from the fact it’s growing in a fucking test tube in the basement.”
“Well, yeah,” Sid says, digging his fork into his chicken salad. “But honestly, he looked completely normal. They say he’s going to be at least six-three if he gets to fully grown.”
“If? Not when?”
“Well. It’s not like, certain. There’s a whole bunch of stuff that could go wrong yet.”
“Fucking expensive punt when there’s so much that could go wrong,” Colby says. “I heard someone in the front office saying it was costing more than Sid’s bonuses.”
“Bullshit,” Whits says. “Kid scores a goal and they shove another hundred thousand up his ass.”
Sidney ignores him, and the accompanying laughter. Colby nudges him. “How’s it feel to be paid less than a baby?”
Sid needs new friends, honestly. He rolls his eyes and grins, choosing to shove more chicken into his mouth so he doesn’t have to come up with a chirp in return.
“It’s unnatural,” Gonch says, shaking his head. “I don’t like it. A baby should grow with a family, not alone in a science experiment.”
“You’re just mad that the baby is gonna take all your minutes, old man,” Colby says. “It’s gonna be birthed out of that test tube, be put in a pair of skates and outscore you within a week.”
Sid and the others laugh, but Gonch doesn't.
"I don't think it's right," he says firmly.
"Lighten up," Colby says. "Mario'll probably adopt the thing and move it into the guesthouse with Sid. There you go, problem solved. He can have a whole family of weird hockey creatures under one roof."
Everyone laughs again, including Sid, but he has to ignore the way that Colby's joke makes his stomach twist and the hope that's been rooting in his chest blooms into something stronger.
Sid arrives early for the next morning skate, wanting some time to skate on his own. He loops long meditative laps, before picking up a stray puck and saucering it from end to end, deliberately icing it so he can chase it down.
He thinks about the AGI as he does. Six foot three, two-fifteen. Taller than Sid but only slightly heavier. He imagines a tall, lanky player effortlessly skating alongside him. Someone built like Chara maybe, but with better hands. Faster. Someone who would understand Sid when he talked hockey, who would understand Sid when he talked about anything. Someone he could play with year on year, build a franchise with. Raise a Cup with.
The thought pushes him to skate even harder during practice. Flower curses at him in increasingly inventive French as Sid gets increasingly inventive goals past him in black on white scrimmage. Colby keeps calling him a beast, which makes the others laugh. Sid doesn’t care. He feels lit up from the inside like he was chasing down his 100th point last season, like he’s got something to prove.
When practice is over, he strips out of his gear and showers hurriedly, promises Flower he’ll meet him for lunch after he’s been to see Mario, dodges past Talbo who tries to whip him with a towel, and slips out of the changing rooms.
Before he can second-guess himself, he heads down to the AG suite. He keys in the code that Mario really should have shielded from him if he didn’t want Sid seeing and remembering it. He pauses for a moment, then decides ‘fuck it’ and pushes through the door.
There’s no-one else there. The computers are running lines of code, and everything is lit up, but there are no technicians around. It makes Sid feel strangely angry, like there should be someone here looking after the AGI at all times.
It’s lonely down here.
He walks over to the tube and his stomach lurches as he sees the baby - well, it’s not a baby anymore. It’s a young boy of around five or six, with a mop of dark hair floating around his face. He’s got even more wires today - someone has put two round sensors on his temples, and two on his forehead. He’s got a long face, sleepy downturned eyes.
“Hi,” Sid says, his voice echoing slightly against the concrete. His face breaks out in a smile. “Hi.”
He goes as close as he dares, and touches one fingertip to the glass tube. It’s warm to the touch. He can see the boy’s eyes moving under his eyelids, rapidly flicking back and forth. Is he thinking? Is he dreaming? Can he hear Sid?
“Hi,” Sid says again, and flattens his palm against the glass. “I’m Sid. We’re going to play hockey together.” He swallows hard. “I’m waiting for you.”
It becomes routine.
Sid visits after every practice. If technicians are there he stands out of the way, asks polite questions about how much the AGI is growing, and spends a few minutes standing with his hands shoved in his pockets, just watching. If the technicians aren’t there, he’ll walk over to place his hand on the glass, softly saying, “Hi, it’s Sid,” before doubling back to look over the clipboards on the desks to see what’s happening with the AGI on that particular day. Then, he sits down cross-legged in front of the tank, and talks.
Mostly, he talks about hockey. He tells the boy how it’s going, he explains the Pens systems for practice and drills. He tells him who performed well, who is having a hard time finding the rhythm. He tells him about the brilliant poke-check save that Flower made, about the backhand he managed to get in during scrimmage. He talks about trades around the league, about who has retired, who has drifted away to play overseas during the summer. He talks about his gear, explains his routines, somehow feeling that the boy would understand why it just has to be right skate first.
He also talks about the bird he saw on the way home. Tells him about the tooth his sister just lost. Tells him how he finally overtook Flower’s win points on Call of Duty.
After each visit, when he gets back to Mario's, and sits alone on the end of his bed in the guesthouse, he thinks about the AGI and smiles as he thinks about the possibilities, the future laid out in front of them.
The season starts and even from the first puck drop Sid can tell it's going to be an uphill struggle. They're still lacking defensive depth and Sid can only do so much on his own; he could have another hundred points season but if the rest of the team isn't able to work together and get the goals - and stop the goddamn opposing team getting more - then it isn't going to matter.
He tells this to the AGI when he visits after their home opener - a long drag of a loss in overtime. The AGI is growing fast; he's now closer to twelve or thirteen, and Sid figures that's old enough for him to start hearing about the pitfalls of the coaching staff and their lacklustre defense and the way Sid feels almost crushed by the expectations and the weight.
“And I can't say this to my dad, or Mario or anyone,” Sid says, cross-legged in front of the tube, leaning back on his hands as he peers up at the AGI. “I am so grateful to be here, and I know how much people have sacrificed for me to be here, and I want the team to do well. I just.” He looks down at his knees. “It's a lot. Somedays.”
He sighs, the sound carrying in the quiet. “Sorry. I'm crazy, talking to you. I tell you all this stuff and I don't even know your name.”
His gaze travels to the stack of metal containers next to the tank. The incomprehensible wording stamped on the side, with a few words translated into English. The crate that's level with the boy's head is stamped with four lines of the text he doesn't understand, then the phrase GENOME ACCELERATOR.
“Well I can't call you that,” Sid muses out loud. “How about Geno, for short?”
The boy doesn't answer, but his long arms drift slightly as if he's teaching towards Sid. Sid takes it as a sign from the universe, and he can't help but grin crookedly. “Geno,” he murmurs. “Nice to meet you.”
His mom asks about the AGI every time she calls, those casual, light-touch mom questions that even Sid knows are weightier than her tone of voice is letting on. It’s halfway through the preseason when Sid admits he’s been visiting the AGI on a regular basis, and the ringing silence on the other end of the phone tells him that maybe he’s misstepped somewhere.
“It’s okay, I’ve got clearance,” he says into the phone, leaning back against the counter in the kitchen of the guesthouse, and wants to laugh at how stupid it sounds. He sounds like a spy, not a hockey player.
“No, I trust you’re not doing anything you’re not supposed to, I just,” his mom starts, and hesitates. “You seem to be getting your hopes up, honey.”
“Oh,” Sid says, the desire to giggle fading somewhat. He traps his phone between his ear and shoulder, unscrewing his jar of peanut butter and squinting into it to see how many more sandwiches he can get out of it. “Maybe I am.”
“Sid, remember when you went through that rough patch in juniors, and you said you would just play harder, and you could wait for someone to be your friend-”
“It’s not like that,” Sid says quickly, banging the almost-empty jar onto the counter and grabbing his phone before it slips. “Jeez, mom. I’m not a kid - I’ve got friends. I’ve got a team-”
“I know, I know. You just-” his mom sighs. “I know you struggled last year.”
“I got a hundred points.”
“And a hundred penalty minutes,” his mom reminds him.
“That was not my fault.”
“Sidney. Sid, I think we’re - look, that’s not what I want to argue about. Gosh, I don't even want to argue. I just want to check you’re okay, and you’re not getting your hopes up too much. The AGI might not even wake properly, he might not be as good at hockey as you hope-”
“He will be,” Sid says.
“Sid.”
“He will,” Sid insists. “He’s made it this far. He’s almost there. You should see him, mom. He’s so tall, and they’ve been like, uploading him with so much game tape - they say he’ll wake up and his brain will just know how to play at NHL level. Maybe even the same level as me.”
“Okay, honey,” she says. “Look, I better go, I need to get Taylor’s lunch sorted. Your dad will call you when he gets in, yes? You know he wants to talk about net-front presence."
“Mine, or everyone else’s?”
“Goodbye, Sidney,” his mom says, a smile in her voice. “Keep me updated, eh?”
“Will do,” Sid says. “Love you, mom. Bye.”
He snaps his phone closed and drops it onto the counter, leaning back against it and rubbing his face.
After the last game of the preseason, Sid wishes he could get straight off the ice and head down to see Geno. He can’t though - there’s routines to follow and media to speak to, teammates to check in with and sock tape to pick up off of the floor. He works through it all by rote, and then when the final reporter is ushered away and the rest of the team are busy packing up their last few bits, Sid slips out of the door.
He vanishes into the depths of the arena, the cold air of the basement making his still shower-damp skin prickle. The familiar wash of green light welcomes him in, and he heads over to press his palm to the tank. "Hi Geno, it's Sid," he says with a quiet smile, before going over to check the clipboards. Huh, looks like the neural sensors are currently uploading Geno with a basic competency in high-school math and a working knowledge of the game of chess. Sid doesn't know why a guy grown to be optimised for hockey might need that, but he guesses he'll just have to trust the process. He taps his fingers against the clipboard, then heads to his usual spot right in front of the tank.
“So, preseason’s over. First regular season game in two days. So if you could hurry up and grow, eh? I need you out there.”
He talks for a little while about face-off percentages, the other players in the league who he'll be up against once the season starts. When he's done, he gets up and brushes his sweats down, sighing and slapping his palm against the glass tube in farewell. Geno's drifted slightly as Sid has been talking, tilted forward slightly in a way that makes him look even bigger than ever. Sid knows from both clipboards and observation that Geno is definitely taller than him by now, and packed with sinew and muscle. He looks strong.
Sid swallows, hard. He looks away, suddenly feeling like he’s been caught doing something he shouldn't. He clears his throat but can’t think of anything to say, looking away at the computer banks. He feels restless, like he doesn't know what to be doing with his hands. He looks at the clipboard again, and flips the top sheet of paper up.
AGI will hit nineteen years old at 10:20pm
Geno’s nineteen. The same age as Sid. God, he’s nineteen already and he’s never had to navigate school and training and making huge terrifying decisions about which team to sign with and when, never had to go through the hell of being bullied by his own teammates. He’s never had to deal with fucking puberty, has never had to sit awake at night wondering what will happen if he doesn’t get drafted, if actually it doesn’t all work out. He’s never had to skip eating birthday cake, or missed Christmas because his schedule didn’t leave him time to get home.
But then he’s never taken his first step on the ice. Never played pond hockey, never spent hours laughing with his dad in the basement, flinging pucks into the side of the old dyer. He’s never hugged his little sister, never spent a holiday with his family. Never kept a puck from his first goal, never laughed through losing a tooth in a midget game. Never netted an OT winner, never made a pass to a teammate that clears both defensemen and lands right on tape. Never sang songs with teammates on the bus, played pranks, never skated so hard that it feels like you’re flying.
Sid drops the clipboard and walks back over to the tank.
“We’ll do all those things,” he says earnestly to Geno. “All of it.”
Geno’s mouth is slightly open. From this angle, Sid can see that his bottom teeth are slightly crooked, just about visible behind his fat lower lip.
He’s never kissed anyone, Sid thinks suddenly, and feels the back of his neck go hot. He quickly steps back away from the tank, embarrassed. He's suddenly very, very aware that Geno is completely naked - before today it wasn't even a thing to be noticed, it was just how it was, like it is in the locker room. But today, with the sudden realisation that they're the same age-
Sid shakes his head, willing himself to get a grip. Geno is going to be your teammate, he tells himself. Don't make it weird.
Fuck. He needs to leave.
He presses his palm quickly to the glass again, another goodbye. “You’re nearly there, Geno,” he says hoarsely, and it sounds like a promise. He clears his throat. “Just a little longer, then we can play.”
The day that the AG team declare Geno viable is the day that the Penguins win their first game. It seems more than serendipitous to Sid; he thinks maybe the hockey gods have lined up the two events on purpose to show them the connection.
The day after the win is a rest day, and he’s raiding the Lemieux refrigerator for any leftovers that might stop him feeling hungry for more than two hours at a time, idly planning to head down to the basement to tell Geno about the win when Mario catches up with him.
“Sid, you need to check with Stewart about your ankle, okay? I know you said it was fine but we don’t want to take any chances.”
“It’s fine, honestly,” Sid protests. “I iced it and rested and everything.”
“You go and see Stewart and I’ll take you down to see the AGI after you've done your interviews,” Mario barters.
“Deal,” Sid says immediately, because Mario either isn’t aware of just how much time Sid has been spending down in the basement, or knows that Sid is always desperate for more.
“If all goes well, we’ll announce that the AGI is viable at the end of this week,” Mario says. “The press are hungry for news.” He drums his fingers against the counter. “We’ll have to get you briefed on what to say, you’ll definitely get asked about it the moment they know it’s worked.”
Sid feels his nose wrinkle up in distaste. He knows media is part of the job, has always handled it well, but the thought of reporters wanting to know about Geno doesn’t sit right with him. Geno’s a person, even if he technically and legally isn’t yet, and Sid doesn’t like people talking about him like he’s not.
“I know, I know,” Mario says, placatingly. “We’ll get a limit on it. One AGI question a session and I promise the rest will be about hockey.”
Sid accepts both the misunderstanding and the compromise, and heads off to practice. He gets his ankle checked over, does two back to back phone interviews, and then goes to find Mario, waiting patiently for him and Therrien to finish chatting, idly texting Flower about a Call of Duty rematch on the upcoming road trip. The bastard beat Sid 3 rounds to 1 last time they played and Sid is not having it.
“Thanks for waiting,” Mario says, and they head down into the basement. “You okay? What did Stewart say?”
“All good,” Sid says. "It's just from where Flower bumped me into the net at the end of the game, but the bruise is already pretty much gone.”
“Hmm,” Mario says and Sid winces internally, hoping he’s not just gotten Flower into trouble. He forgets, sometimes, that Mario wears all these different hats, and that what might be a non-comment to a friend might not go down as well with the team owner.
There are six technicians down in the AG suite today, the most Sid has ever seen at once. There’s a scaffolding tower set up next to the tube, and Sid watches with a mix of panic and intrigue as two technicians gently pull on two cables to lift Geno up towards the surface. God, Geno looks even taller than he did yesterday.
“What are they doing?” Sid asks, wanting to rush forward and - he doesn't even know. Help? Make them stop? His throat goes tight as Geno’s head gets close enough to the surface for one of the technicians to reach into the green liquid with gloved hands, attaching two more sensors to his head. There’s six now, and two on the back of his neck.
“Increasing the neural development load,” one of the technicians says as the technicians let go of the cables and Geno slowly sinks. His feet gently bump the bottom of the tank. His whole body sort of ripples and rolls as he settles back into place, and Sid shivers.
“Is he fully grown?” Sid asks, mouth dry.
“Almost,” the technician says, leaning over to tap a button on the computer console. “He should have been fully grown for the start of the season, but the pace has been slower than we expected.”
“Why?” Sid asks. “Is something wrong?”
No-one answers him. Mario is deep in discussion with two of the technicians, and the others are busy fussing with wires around the computers. Sid only has eyes for Geno, and sees it the moment that Geno’s face creases in a frown, his hands and feet twitching. He looks hurt, like he’s having a bad dream. The computer lets out a shrill beep just as Geno’s neck spasms, his head tossing back.
“Is that-" Sid begins, and then his throat seizes up because the water around Geno’s face is turning rusted brown, so dark it’s almost black, and it takes Sid a moment to process that his nose is bleeding.
“Hey!” Sid shouts, his voice cracking. “He’s bleeding!”
The technicians all whip around like they’ve been electrocuted. The computer starts beeping rapidly. Sid is pushed back out of the way; Mario clamps his hands onto Sid’s shoulders to keep him in place.
“What’s happening?” Sid asks.
“Just let them do their work,” Mario says. “Come on. We better go.”
“No,” Sid says. “I’m not leaving.”
Mario seems to understand that he means it, because he doesn’t force Sid to move. He just stands there and holds on tightly to his shoulders. Sid’s grateful, he feels like he’ll shake apart at the seams if Mario doesn’t hold on tight enough.
It probably only takes two minutes but it feels longer, like the moment where you skate up to take a penalty shot. One long agonising moment where the world around you slows down, and you don’t know if you’re going to win or lose. But the moment does end - the technicians get everything under control: the computer stops beeping and Geno stops bleeding, the cleft between his brows smoothing out into his usual serene expression again.
One of the technicians approaches Mario, looking apologetic. “Sorry you had to see that.”
“Is he okay?” Sid asks, and the technician gives him a strange look.
“Obviously, the AGI’s source material and all the corresponding programming is imported,” he says, and Mario nods in understanding. “We’ve been trying to patch it over with English, but there’s only so much strain the computer system and the AGI can take. We suspected that’s why he was growing slower than predicted, but this proves it - we were trying to override and update the language patch and the entire system just shorted out.”
“What does that even mean?” Sid demands.
“He’s an import,” Mario says shortly. “The North American AGI program has a poor success rate. European AGI’s are statistically more likely to be viable and succeed. We paid to have an AGI imported, to stand a better chance of it working.”
Sid’s jaw doesn’t drop, but it’s a close thing. “Where’s he from?!”
Mario exhales heavily. “Russia. He’s from Russia.”
“And then Mario told me he was Russian,” Sid finishes lamely. He feels exhausted, which is not the best way to start off a road trip. He’s in his usual seat on the bus, with Colby crammed in next to him, eyes wide as Sid recounts the fuck-up he'd witnessed in the AG suite. Flower is kneeling up over the seat in front, and behind him Talbo and Brooks are leaning over the seats behind. Malone is standing in the goddamn aisle so he can listen in, too.
“What the fuck? They can grow a hockey player from scratch but they can’t make him Canadian?” Malone asks.
“Were you not listening? Source material came from Russia, all the computer shit is in Russian.”
“All the boxes in the lab are covered in Russian writing,” Sid tells them, voice quiet and barely audible over the rumbling of the bus. “I didn't know that’s what it was, before.”
“Holy shit,” Colby says. “So is he gonna know any English?”
“I don’t know,” Sid admits.
“Crisse,” Flower mutters with feeling. Sid can’t help but agree. He can’t shake it from his mind, the way Geno had frowned, the way his neck had spasmed, the way the blood turned the green water black. He feels ill just thinking about it.
“Told you they should have just drafted Ladd,” Malone says.
“Okay, are you the GM now?”
“I should be, then I’d have drafted an actual real hockey player and not some fucking Russian goldfish.”
“Don’t call him a goldfish,” Sid says, and regrets it the moment the words leave his mouth because they pounce on it like delighted wolves, jeering and laughing at him.
“Aww, have you made a friend, Croz? Sticking up for your friend? The Russian goldfish in the basement?”
“Probably because the goldfish isn't awake to tell him to shut the fuck up.”
“I bet he is awake, he's just pretending to sleep so he doesn't have to talk about PK stats with Croz.”
Sid sighs. “Yeah, yeah, whatever," he mumbles. He normally enjoys a decent amount of being teased, likes to feel less like some strange awkward hockey prodigy and more like one of the guys. But not about this.
He's about to open his mouth to defend himself when there's a shout from the front of the bus.
“Hey! Coach says sit down before we crash and you all end up like bugs on the windshield!”
“Well tell ‘em to not crash the fucking bus!” Malone shouts back, but does as he’s been told and drops down into his seat anyway. The others follow suit, and Sid is saved.
“You okay there, Creature?” Colby asks.
“Yeah,” Sid says, turning his head to stare out the window. He can see his own reflection in the glass, but not Colby or anyone else. “Yeah I'm good.”
They win two out of three on the roadtrip, and Sid gets himself six points. They go out for beers afterwards and Talbot sneaks Sid a couple, and he's only halfway down one before the guys start ribbing him. The chirps start off about the size of his ass anyway, which is really pretty old material, and he tells the guys that. He grins when Whits reenacts the way Sid practically tripped over his own stick after he scored against the Kings, suppresses his giggles as Flower sits nonchalantly emptying little paper packets of salt into any beer that's left unguarded.
It's fun. It's one of those road trips that makes him beyond grateful that he gets to do this, that hockey gets to be his job.
But.
He can't deny how excited he feels to get home, too.
The excitement takes a swift nosedive into something closer to panic when Mario appears as he's unpacking, game day suit crumpled across the foot of his bed and tie somehow missing even though he always puts it in the same pocket every time. He blames Flower.
“Sid,” Mario says, quiet and urgent. “It's happening. He's ready.”
Sid abandons his missing tie and his luggage and every thought that isn't Geno. He trips out of the doorway after Mario, trying to shove his feet into his sneakers and walk down the stairs at the same time; the evening air has a chill to it but he barely notices, even though it didn’t even cross his mind to stop and grab a jacket. He rides shotgun with Mario, knee bouncing the entire time. He feels faintly nauseous, and worries that he's missed it.
“They're due to take him out at nine,” Mario says like he's reading Sid’s mind. “We've got time.”
“What if they do it early?”
“Can't control that.”
Sid forces himself to exhale, sinking back into the seat. He thinks about texting Colby or Flower to tell them but he's forgotten his phone. He gnaws at the inside of his lip, mouth twisting. God, Geno is going to be - he’s going to be awake, and out of the tank, and his eyes will be open and he’ll actually see Sid.
It’s almost too much to think about.
“It’s going to be okay, Sid,” Mario says as they stop at a red light, the inside of the car glowing faintly with it. “He’s ready.”
Sid nods jerkily, bites back on the thought, But what if I’m not.
The AG suite is full; Sid apologises to five different people as he edges into the space. There’s every technician that Sid has ever crossed paths with plus a few more. There’s several members of the Penguins' upper organisation in suits and ties. There’s a guy with a camera, who Sid notes and carefully stands away from. There’s even a gaggle of men and women who Sid highly suspects are Pens’ lawyers. They’re muttering to each other and shooting the tank worried looks, like they’re nervous that Geno is just going to vanish or come out screaming or something.
Geno takes Sid’s breath away. He’s now probably older than Sid by a year or two, and it shows. His shoulders are broad and his long limbs corded with muscle. His hands are huge. He looks like he’s going to tower over everyone. There’s a strange dangerous air about him, even though he’s as sedate as ever; it seems to Sid that there’s so much power in that serene frame, just waiting to explode out if given a chance.
Maybe the suits are picking up on it too, and that’s why they’re nervous.
Sid ignores them all, and heads straight over to the tank. “Hey Geno, it's Sid,” he whispers, and he can't stop smiling. “I’ll see you in a minute.”
“Out of the way please, Mister Crosby,” a technician says with a tired smile. “You know I’m actually going to miss saying that to you.”
Sid ducks his head with a grin, obliging. He heads back to Mario, who raises a knowing eyebrow at him. Sid feels his cheeks going warm but he can’t bring himself to care, fighting down a grin as he stands shoulder-to-shoulder with Mario, bumping shoulders with him companionably.
Nine PM comes and goes. The technicians are fussing with cables and computers and the tube, and Sid is getting antsy.
“I’d rather play an hour of overtime,” he mutters to Mario, who snorts out a laugh.
Then, finally, there’s a series of mechanical beeps and the entire tube starts to tip backwards, the frame holding it in place lowering and turning slowly through degrees until it's horizontal. There’s another beep and then Sid notices the waterline slowly receding down the side of the tube, the fluid being drained bit by bit until it’s gone and Geno is lying on the smooth glass of the tube. He’s winter pale and already looks so different now Sid can actually see him without a filter of green water.
"La vache," Mario breathes.
Four technicians close ranks around the tube to split the seals and lift the top half up and away. Geno is hidden from view as they bustle around. Sid’s hands are clenched and his nails are digging blunt crescents into his palms, and he finds himself thinking please, please, please over and over again.
And then, Sid hears a deep, choking cough and he has to hold back a shout of joy.
“Awake and alert,” one of the technicians calls, and a murmur ripples around the room. There’s more awful coughing and retching, and when it subsides Sid can hear deep, heaving breaths like someone has just finished a three-minute PK shift.
“Evgeni, can you hear us?” a crisp but kind voice says. “Evgeni, welcome to Pittsburgh.”
Sid is confused for a moment, but then he realises that someone has given Geno a name. An actual, real name. A Russian name, by the sound of it, Sid thinks, mouthing ‘Evgeni’ to himself and screwing his nose up when he messes it up.
The chatter in the room gets louder. The suits are shaking hands with each other, clapping hands on shoulders and elbows. Two of the technicians are leaning back against the computer bank, exhausted and relieved. One lifts his hand to the other for a silent high five.
The rest of the technicians are still fussing around Geno. There are several doctors as well, white coats with stethoscopes and blood pressure cuffs. Sid shifts from foot to foot, desperate to get closer.
“Go,” Mario murmurs, and Sid does, edging forwards past the computer banks. He’s about ten paces away when there’s a parting in the crowd and he sees Geno awake for the first time. He’s sitting up on one of the technician's plastic chairs, a towel and a silver thermal blanket wrapped around his shoulders. His teeth are chattering. His still-wet hair is slicked to his forehead; a thin rivulet of green-ish water runs down one long cheekbone. He still has the round sensors on his temples. His huge shoulders are hunched in and his long legs are folded underneath him like he’s trying to make himself smaller. He’s got one foot on top of the other, toes all scrunched up.
And his eyes are on Sid.
His skinny chest is heaving for breath still, but his eyes are big and brown and clear, and he’s looking straight at Sid.
The doctors are still talking about him. “Vitals are good.” “Brain function appears normal.” “We need a translator over here, please.” “We need to check pupil response again.” “Is he able to stand?”
They’re still asking him questions. “Evgeni, can you understand me?” “Evgeni, how are you feeling?” “Evgeni, please look at me.” “Evgeni, can you tell me who you are?” It’s a strangely calm hubbub, layers of soothing practiced voices on top of each other. One doctor is clicking his fingers near Geno’s ear, another is hovering with a penlight in hand.
But Geno is staring straight at Sid.
“Hi, Geno,” Sid says without thinking.
Geno’s mouth opens slightly, just enough that Sid can see his crooked bottom teeth. His brow furrows slightly, like he’s concentrating. He swallows hard, and the room seems to go quiet just as Geno finally makes his voice work, the words quiet and deep.
“Privyet, Sid.”