You don't know how you got here

[mortemscintilla]

WHO: Korra and Hei.
WHAT: Two Contractors after a messy hit.

[ The assignment is complete. After a fashion. ]

[ The target's stretch limousine explodes, a time-bomb hurtling at eighty miles per hour. Hei verifies the detonation in the side-view mirror of their getaway van. The brilliant flames glow across the express lane, a bonfire on a humid July night, the deadly cacophony fifty yards behind him on the I-95. The ferocity from the detonation rolls through the atmosphere, juddering both sides of the interstate and adjacent roads like in a San Francisco earthquake. Brake lights flare in a screeching chorus. Behind Hei, beyond the blazing limousine, four lanes of interstate crowded with cars, trucks, and motorcycles careen to an ear-splitting halt, too late for speed demons to swerve and avoid flying debris. ]

[ Their van keeps going. The target is dead. The botched mission completed in less than forty-eight hours. The teflon-coated politician inside the limo had coasted through a dream-life of caviar and champagne, bodyguards at his side, girls in his lap, boys paid to shoot and kill and girls trained to smile and please. A man who didn't hesitate to have his enemies dragged to the desert and fed to the buzzards. ]

[ A prominent Syndicate faction had become one of his problems. And so the politician became one of theirs. ]

[ All BK201 knows is what he'd been briefed on, during the overseas assignment. And that, in itself, isn't much. The less the killing-machines knew, the better. What mattered was that they rectified the situation as they'd been ordered to. ]

[ The remote trigger that sparked blast is still in Hei's gloved hand. With a zzzt and a curl of smoke, he shorts it out. Tosses it out the window, while their van lurches from right lane to left lane to right lane, threading traffic like a bulky needle, becoming a fast-moving blur vanishing down I-95. Hei exhales, absorbing the metal's chill; the van is a freezer. Across him is the only other survivor of the hit: NC-108. Korra. Both their faces are crusted in dried blood, clothes grimy, hair in tufts. But everything else is intact -- unlike the rest of their teammates. The politician managed to weed them out before they'd fully infiltrated his base. Two were murdered in their hotel room by a hitman dressed as a waiter. The other three were machine-gunned on the street last night during dinner in a café by hostiles in police uniforms. The Syndicate is still recovering their mangled bodies. ]

[ Hei and Korra were advised to abort the operation and contact their respective handlers. Neither had bothered. Hei, because his inner-completionist refused to leave the job undone. Korra, because -- let's face it -- she has a streak, miles wide, that compels her to throw herself into the maelstrom of disaster, daredevilry the cover for an easy exit. During their firefight with the politician's hitmen, Hei had to drag her away a few times from almost certain disembowelment or death -- narrow saves that made Korra grin like she was high, the fevery glow off her skin like an irradiated firefly. ]

[ Hei can't say it bodes well. Not for her -- or her long-term career. ]

[ It doesn't matter. They've both succeeded at this mission. Five dead teammates equal five less cuts on the final payment. There's a tidy sum waiting for the two of them. A quarter of a million dollars, each. Hei's cellphone has already vibrated with the message: FUNDS TRANSFERRED. ]

[ It's a living, he thinks, gazing out the window with a sedate veneer but a tensile edge to his jaw. Forty-eight hours, five eliminated associates, and he's earned $250,000. And all it took was a few scrapes and bruises, a tricky full-immersion identity, and a block of old-fashioned C-4. ]

[ The Syndicate's safehouse is in an old motel, one of twelve pink stucco cottages strung out around a gravel parking lot. The cabin reeks of must, and like everything that night, humidly salty. Switching on the rattling air-conditioner, Hei conducts his careful sweep for bugs across the room. Satisfied, he shrugs off his coat -- stiff with caked blood -- before glancing impassively toward Korra, ]

Take the first shower.

[ He's not being a gentleman. But the widest window for enemy retaliation -- and the Syndicate's own post-mission clean-ups -- occurs in the twelve hours after the successful hit. If they're ambushed, Hei doesn't plan to be naked, dripping wet and unarmed. ]

Comments

[anatural]

[He's mad. He doesn't say it, hardly shows, and probably wouldn't admit it to himself, but Korra can tell that BK-201 is pissed at her. It shows in the glances he shoots her way, checking to make sure she isn't doing anything crazy. It showed in the force he used to pull her out of those fights, away from danger.]

Aye sir. [She gives him a mock salute, and hopes that her levity pisses him off more. She wants to get him frustrated with her. She wants to watch his temper burn.

What she really wants is to figure him out, because he makes no sense. He's shown, in little small ways over the years, a decidedly un-Contrator-ly interest in her survival. Were he human, she'd think it was guilt, but Hei is too rational for that. Like he'd told her, if it hadn't been him, it would have been somebody else. There's no logical reason for him to feel bad about destroying her life; she was dead the moment the real stars left the sky. So why does it matter to him whether she lives or dies?

As much as Korra wants to know the answer, she also doesn't waste much time thinking about it. What other people think & what other people feel aren't in her control, which means there's no point worrying about it. You account for it, the way you account for a mountain when planning a journey, but you don't bother asking yourself why the mountain exists. That kind of pointless shit is for scientists.

In the bathroom, she strips quickly, tossing the ruined clothing into a plastic garbage bag before hopping into the shower. She's still drunk on adrenaline and horny as hell; she can't help tweaking her nipples a little as she washes off the blood, and she has to skip between her legs. Now is not the time to be masturbating. (Not that it would really help. Korra's been through this song & dance before; what she really wants right now is a good hard pounding, one that straddles the line between sex and violence. She can't get that with her fingers.)

In five minutes she's clean & out of the bathroom, dressed in black biker shorts & a skintight blue cami that looks like it might be ripped open by the points of her nipples.]

It's all yours.

[mortemscintilla]

[ Is it guilt? Hei doesn't think so, because guilt is an indulgence, and he has been stripped of that long ago, his life pared down to the barest blade's edge. Guilt is useless because it gets to be a habit, something you live in. You wear it like a cumbersome shell, its heaviness a reminder of how vulnerable you are underneath. ]

[ Hei needs vulnerability like he needs a hole in the head. ]

[ So why? Why the concern for her well-being? Sure, altogether Korra would've been a pitiable case, if Hei were the pitying kind. But the balance of life is too lopsided for him to give pity away for nothing. Crazy, scarred people are nonetheless people, and most are despicable. Especially if they're Contractors. ]

[ Maybe that's the problem. In Hei's memory are snapshots of a different person. A Contractor, but also a girl, wide-eyed and wide-smiled, eager to play out in the snow, bathing her pet dog in the sunlight, sassing her protective parents; the girl she'd been before he'd plucked her from her hometown; a wellspring of destructive power, yet so benignly sweet. Whereas this newer version, reshaped by the Syndicate, is an unhappier Korra who wears darker shades of clothes, darker moods. At times, it's impossible not to see Pai, superimposed across her face like a ghost. An invention of eerie nostalgia. ]

[ Forcibly, Hei shakes it off. Her snarky remark pings off his brain: his own temper is towing at its leash, and there is a dim desire to either be elsewhere, away from Korra's colorful tide of chaos -- or else to punch the girl somewhere tender, in a way that will jog her senses. Unnecessary. He's not her caretaker, or her counselor, or even her colleague. Their alliance is temporary: by tomorrow, they will both be reassigned, she to a different part of the States, Hei back to Tokyo with his default team. Her wellbeing -- or her disregard for it -- isn't his concern. ]

[ His look is flatly inexpressive: both at her mock-salute, and her racy little ensemble when she re-emerges from the bathroom. Her whole manner radiates a stymied arousal, ornery yet entirely unsurprising. He's spent enough years in this profession to recognize the almost sexual charge adrenaline feeds -- during and after. In his case, however, sex is always a secondary priority. He has little tolerance for physical frivolity with impending explosions and rampant cutthraot agendas as the background noise. If there's anything Heaven's War -- the disaster with Amber -- taught him, it's that to stay alive, you need to keep your brain in your skull, not your dick. ]

[ A cursory nod, before he steps past her. In the bathroom, steam curls everywhere, redolent of Korra's particular scent. A hot blast of water and soap allows him to scrub clean the dirt and crusting cuts: aside from a violet spiderwebbing bruise on his right knee, his injuries are superficial. Rinsing the suds and shampoo off with an icy-cold secondary spray, Hei consigns the two garbage bags of their wrecked clothing to the corner, for the Syndicate to dispose of later. ]

[ Dried and dressed -- jeans, gray sweatshirt, tousled wet hair -- he steps out, without letting his eyes turn toward Korra. Straight to the fridge for something to eat or drink: hunger gnaws with sharp little teeth at his gut. With his mouth full, it will be easier to ignore the anger -- and something deeper -- bouncing in his body whenever he glances at Korra. ]

[anatural]

[She's not disappointed by his lack of reaction; if it took that little to get a response out of him, he wouldn't be who he is. She just files it away as another gambit failed.

She chugs a glass of water and steals a little food off of his plate, just to be annoying.]

So. What now?

[mortemscintilla]

[ He bats her hand off when she plucks at his plate of canned vegetables. Not sharp, but forceful -- a reminder for her to stay out of his personal space. He doesn't speak at first. He chews slowly, his face, downturned in reflective habit, suggesting that his mind is elsewhere, his thoughts adrift -- but that's a lie. He is fully conscious of both his solitary audience, and the faintest creaks and rustles in their periphery. ]

[ A beat, then: ]

Wait 12 hours. If the coast is clear, the Syndicate will call. [ Idly, he stirs the goop of food around with his plastic fork: the sticky stockade of potatoes that might have been mashed last year, the wrinkled green peas that belong in a lab test-tube. A few hours, he reminds himself. Then you can get a fresh meal. ] If there is no news from them, we're on our own.

[ Double-layering. Countersurveillance. Rendezvous points. The usual jargon of their profession. She knows all of it -- hell, she's been in the trade long enough. Hei can't imagine why she'd even ask the question -- unless it's a ruse of some sort, or a way to fill in the silence. ]

[anatural]

Yeah, I know the routine. [If she were a few years younger, she'd be rolling her eyes. She's been on plenty of these missions. She doesn't need to be told what the Syndicate wants them to do.]

What I want to know is, what are we going to DO with those twelve hours. [That's a long time for an energetic, horny young woman to be trapped in one place.]

[mortemscintilla]

Conserve our energies.

[ Hei has no patience in his body, but he has practice at making his words calm, steady. He doesn't do any better in confined spaces than Korra does: he can recognize that full charge of impatience coiled in her body. Unlike her, though, he's been trained to switch that facet of his nature off. Recklessness serves no purpose when your survival depends on silence, stillness. The Reaper inside him recognizes the game -- that's what Heaven's war was to him; a grand game -- is the same whether in a prison or a jungle. He prefers to be in a position to excel. ]

[ Spearing a piece of lime-yellow roll on his fork, he takes a tentative bite. Stale and cloyingly sweet, but he needs the sugar boost. ]

[ Flatly, without glancing at Korra, ]

I'd suggest meditation.

[anatural]

Don't tell me the Black Reaper buys into all of that mystical mumbo jumbo.

[She'd never been good at it, but meditation has been important to her once, back when she had been a shaman. Now... Well, if it does provide any benefit, it's not worth the effort. Her time could be better spent on more readily accomplished tasks.]

[mortemscintilla]

[ He's never been interested in the spiritual aspects of the practice. For him, meditation serves as a type of stress-relief, on reshaping his zitzing energies into a plashing flow, letting his thoughts skate through his mind like swarms of leaves without leaving any mark. The purpose is to feel mindful, to feel full: in Heaven's War he used to sit zazen during lulls between battles, not erratically but as a needful practice. A reminder that his mind and body could be mastered, shaped into stillness, like anything else. ]

[ He isn't interested in explaining that to Korra. Instead, shoveling the last goopy mouthful of peas past his lips, he says, ]

If it doesn't suit you, do push-ups.

[anatural]

For twelve hours? [Korra is so not impressed. For someone called "the Black Reaper," he is the most boring person.]

And what are you going to be doing?

[mortemscintilla]

[ He didn't earn that moniker for being a party animal. Or anything remotely entertaining or pleasant. ]

[ Setting his empty plate aside, he flicks his gaze toward his chatty cellmate, whose whole posture telegraphs the slump of profound boredom, an affliction transcending species and professions. He doesn't answer her question. His dark-toned voice layers politeness over impatience over a base note of cool irritation. ]

Twelve hours are well-wasted if you sleep them off.

[ He's too wired to do the same. Always is, after a big mission. Decompression happens in degrees, and in solitude: it's not as easy as he makes it look, shedding somebody else's skin after a full-immersion assignment and feeling like himself again. ]

[anatural]

Like you could sleep right now. [It takes hours for the adrenalin of a mission to deplete enough for Korra to sleep... or super intense sex. All the other Contractors she's met have been similar, and she finds it really hard to believe that Hei is any different.

She leans forward, grinding herself against the chair to give herself some relief.]

Why don't we fuck?

[She makes the offer casually. She's got an itch that really needs scratching. A part of her may still hate him for what he did to her, but you don't have to like someone to bang them.]

[mortemscintilla]

[ Hei blinks, but his smooth face shows no surprise. Or much of anything else. He knows she's itching for a fuck. Like a cat she's practically flushed with it, a sleek armful ready to rub against whatever is handy. That's not what bothers him. It's the tone just under her flippant invitation: words carrying other flavors of feeling that mix poorly and make in whole for an unpleasant taste: mockery, self-mockery, resentment, and underneath it all a basic unhappiness that tugs at Hei's dubious concern despite his resistance. ]

[ Is she deranged? Ready to fling herself at anything that is deadly and available -- explosions, blazing gunfire, sharp objects, infamous Contractors? She's aware of his reputation. He's notorious for never mixing business with pleasure. In the rare instances when he does, it's not a perk, or an indulgence. It's a performance, a smokescreen for the benefit of lulling his mark into trusting malleability. His sole purpose is to put the target at ease, far exceed their expectations -- then crack them open like a human vault for cash and information before discarding them. ]

[ Is that what she wants? To be used, dissected, then flung aside like butchered entrails? ]

[ Flatly, ]

I understand your default setting is bad decisions. But I'm not interested in being the latest.

[anatural]

[What she wants is to work off her excess energy. She wants intensity and pleasure and the oblivion that comes with a really good orgasm. If she likes it best with people who don't care, it's because they don't try to psychoanalyze her or trawl for feelings which aren't there.]

Wow. Somebody's got self-esteem issues. [Well-deserved ones, admittedly. The jibe about her own decisions bounces right off of her; she has no interest in living Hei's definition of a "good life." Constantly breaking and re-shaping himself to satisfy their superiors, sacrificing pleasure for the sake of extending his pathetic existence as a slave. It'd make sense if he had some hope of being free in the future, but there is nothing rational about choosing to extend a life of endless misery.]

But whatever. Point taken. I'll go... do those push-ups. [She heads up to the bedroom.]

A few dad later

[anatural]

[They've been on the road together for days. Every time they have an opportunity to split up, something happens to make sticking together seem like the smarter option. It's driving Korra more than a little nuts. Hei's silent and sullen; she's confined and cockblocked. It's just a terrible combination all round.

She's going through her katas in a vain attempt to quell her restless energy. It's not working very well.]

so many dads

[mortemscintilla]

[ They've spent days in a train of roach-motels: featureless rooms, saggy twin beds that smell like thirty years of dust and sweat, bathrooms with dismally trickling showers. Driven all night, drinking coffee after coffee, radio on to heavy metal music sung in Spanish, but so low that it just seeps in along with all the other ambient noise of barreling through the night, the engine's rumble, the echoing aromas of the road. All through it, Hei has kept his distance, and most of his silence. Awake, asleep, he experiences the unseen passage of the sun and moon across the sky, the enemy like a lowering threat bearing down, so he can imagine the roof of the motel or the car peeling away like the top of a sardine can, exposing him to fry. ]

[ Now after another night of driving, they are in some little town down near Albuquerque, where he'll meet with the cobbler who'll supply them with fresh identities. Not in a motel anymore but in some sleepy little nearly-empty villa, all peeling white paint and slowly-twirling ceiling fans and every door and window louvered. Korra is impatient: he can almost feel an invisible, stretched-tight line between them vibrate with a silvery chime. He knows she yearns for exercise, stimulation. He feels the same way: like a caged wolf, sick of days of confinement to the car, to small rooms. By nature, he isn't someone who can sit idle for long. ]

[ While Korra does her katas, her movements dancelike yet frenetic, a butterfly caught in a jar, Hei, supine on the bed, finishes customizing an FS Hideaway knife he's gotten from one of the more disreputable shops nearby -- The Redneck Underground -- as he's privately termed it. ]

[ Eventually, without looking at Korra, ]

We'll meet our contact within twenty-four hours.

[ Once they've secured their shiny, newly-forged identities, they can go to different ends of the planet for all it matters. ]

GDIT AUTOCORRECT

[anatural]

About fucking time. [She finishes one set and stops to take a few deep breaths. It's gotten to the point where she's getting bored of her katas. She's NEVER bored of her katas.] This whole situation is ridiculous.

AUTOCORRECT MAKES EVERYTHING BETTER

[mortemscintilla]

Better than being dead.

[ That's BK201. Ever the ray of sunshine. ]

[ Carefully, he sheathes his blade -- the light spitting sparks off his face like the glinting sheen of oil dancing over water -- and sets it aside. He's been aware of her movements at his peripheral vision during the kata: familiar undulations and torsions, a corkscrewing circulation of the whole body that seems the natural extension of Korra's flowing energies. It's been a good opportunity to log her stance and style as an opponent, to gauge weak-points transmitted through motion. ]

[ In stillness, however, he's aware of the stuttering thrum of her impatience again. It's almost a reminder, each time, that he's dealing less with a calculating Contractor than a restless girl. In the makeshift and transient blur of fugitive life -- of the Syndicate itself -- she's dangerously out-of-place. And Hei is -- at least partially -- to blame for it. ]

[ Without letting any of his misgivings show on his face, he says, ]

There's a cantina nearby. I've checked it out in detail. It's safe enough. You can head there to unwind -- if you want.

[ Basically undoing her leash so she can run free for the night. Get drunk. Get laid. Whatever. ]

NEIN

[anatural]

Right. [Considering you can't feel anything when dead... well, the inability to feel anything doesn't always sound that bad. But Hei gets tetchy when she talks like that, so Korra doesn't let her cynicism show.

She's about to start her next set when he mentions the cantina. She nearly falls over from shock.]

You've checked it out? When did you get a chance to do that?

JAAAA

[mortemscintilla]

[ He tries hard not to let it get to him, the way she's so determined for her hopelessness to expand to outer space, tearing apart the stratosphere as she pilots her fucking Death-Wish mobile straight into hell. Whenever her eyes get that way, so dull and unblinking, he recognizes it even from ten yards away: that I-don't-care-about-anything-anywhere-anymore-ness that once defined his life, a corrosive dark outline of ichor. He knows it, because he's lived it. He hadn't been in a good state after the war ended -- suicidal in fact. ]

[ But he's much better now. Now, he'd be relieved to die, or else kill. Either will do. As long as a decisive blow is struck for disengagement. ]

[ (It makes him wonder what the fuck he is doing here, one human wreckage trying in his own twisted way to help another. Is that all it comes down to, preserving the status quo of your own life, even when it is only marginally less miserable than the ultimate coup de grace?) ]

[ (Apparently.) ]

[ He doesn't glance at Korra, though the ripples of her shock are palpable. He sprawls back across the pillows, arms folded behind his head, for all appearances as if he's settling in for a nap. (A lie, like so many others: his whole body threatens to betray days of stoppered restlessness, impatience, ill humor -- but there is no way to brutalize his rebellious flesh into submission. No available outlets at the moment, anyway.) ]

[ Quietly, ]

I passed it by while picking up supplies.

nope

[anatural]

That was yesterday. Why wait to tell me now? [Korra stares at him, her eyes narrowed slightly. She can't think of a reason for him to send her into a trap — he's had plenty of other chances to attack her over the past few days, and there are better ways to kill her. At the same time, the timing is awfully suspicious.]

Are you trying to get rid of me?

yeeeee

[mortemscintilla]

If I was, I'd go about it differently.

[ Flat and matter-of-fact. He can't blame her for being suspicious. They're both Contractors -- concepts like 'consideration' and 'compassion' aren't in their lexicon. Not unless there are strings attached. Certainly, if this were an assignment, Hei would never let Korra run off on a whim. But this isn't an assignment. They've both been crammed together for an interminable amount of time, volatile and on-edge. It's risky to prolong the arrangement. They both need to decompress, in their own ways. The past few days have been punctuated by stress and sniping: from a purely rational standpoint, it's dangerous for them to keep running hot. ]

[ Keeping his tone mild to avoid firing off her alarms, he says, half-truthfully, ]

You've been pretty wound-up these few days. It's starting to make me jumpy.

[ Not that it shows. (But does anything, where BK201 is concerned?) ]

forgot i had some spare dw points...

[anatural]

[Yeah, he looks real jumpy. She rolls her eyes, and is still not pacified.]

If you're that jumpy, maybe you should come too. [If this is a trap, she's not going to walk in alone.]

:D :D :D!!!!!

[mortemscintilla]

[ Hei exhales, then rubs a finger along the winged edge of his nose. He'd expected her to leap at the idea of being away from him for a few hours, to fully indulge the brief grace-period -- footloose, fancy-free and well-fucked. He's both commanded and fought side-by-side with men and women in war and understands their needs. Besides, he would rather Korra get a taste of the local fauna early so she'll be less inclined to chase after it when he's preoccupied, the way she did during their hit in California. The situation they're in is dangerous, and Hei wants both of them sharp. ]

[ Except it's clear she's suspicious of his motives. Well -- he can't fault her. ]

[ Cracking an eye open, he gazes at Korra equably, ]

You need a babysitter that badly? [ Arch, but without that characteristic zing of contempt. In the next breath, he sits up, scrubbing both hands through his hair before rolling smoothly to his feet. ] Fine. I'll come.

[ Only so one of them is at hand for careful reconnaissance. ]

[anatural]

Ha. Ha. [She kicks a gust of wind at him, a half-hearted tongue-waggling rather than an actual attack. She doesn't otherwise dignify that "babysitter" comment with a response.

The cantina isn't far, well within walking distance. The night is just cool enough to send a pleasant shiver through her skin. She can already feel the music in her bones, her footsteps the percussive beat to an unformed melody. She loves dancing. Dancing and Naga are the only two things in her life that remain untarnished. They don't make life worth living — they don't make her regret the idea of dying — but they make existence bearable.

She doesn't bother trying to make conversation. He's terrible at it anyway, and not the kind of terrible where she could at least enjoy watching him suffer.]

[mortemscintilla]

[ Hei's footsteps crunch across the pavement, a quiet echo to Korra's. Logging their surroundings on instinct, he gazes absently up at the sky, clearer here than in the big cities. The patterns of the false stars are unrecognizable, nothing like the ones above his flat in Tokyo -- but their stale glow is equally illusory. The length of the town's commercial strip stretches out before him for a handful of blocks, detailed in the wan starlight and neon-glow with an almost antique softness. He might have picked a bar in a different periphery, found a more anonymous chain establishment, but there is something about the district that he likes, something that strikes him as simultaneously stalwart and seedy. ]

[ Certainly it doesn't look like the kind of place where anyone will ask a lot of questions -- even if the visitors are an 'Indian woman' and a 'Chinese man.' ]

[ The cantina -- ironically named Chances -- is nothing fancy, a honky-tonk more than a bar. Glossy cedar-paneled walls, dim golden lighting, a few pool tables, a sunken dancefloor, a couch. Over the hubbub of laughter and conversation, the music is some kind of smoky late-night jazz, like he hears in the old black and white movies that he watches sometimes in the motels when he can't sleep. The walls are lined with the stuffed heads of animals: a bison, a bear, a gigantic ten-point buck. He estimates about forty people at the bar and at the tables, and that the place can accommodate maybe twice that if no one is paying overly close attention to fire code limits. ]

[ Slipping onto a stool, Hei orders a glass of steelhead. Murmurs to Korra, beneath the relentless thump of music, ]

Enjoy your dance.

[ He'll guarantee that once she's out there wiggling her moneymaker on the dancefloor, she'll have her pick of punters within five minutes. She can fuck whoever she takes a fancy to. ]