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fuse_box2015-03-14 08:06 pm
mortemscintilla) wrote in fuse_box2015-03-14 08:06 pm
Entry tags:
You don't know how you got here
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. ]
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. ]
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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.]
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[ But Hei isn't as resigned to the trade as he lets on. There is nothing rational about prolonging a life of endless misery. But there is nothing rational about struggling in the web of barbed-wire when you are ill-equipped to break free. BK201 is in it for the long game. With each mission, he's simply biding his time. He always has been. Life as a Syndicate lackie is a means to an end. His goal is to learn what happened to Pai. To repay Amber for her betrayal. Until he's accomplished that, he's not going to die. He might say he has, inside him, a calendar of sorts -- a measure of his days, and on each page is a list of errands and sufferings, setbacks and triumphs, he has yet to carry out. ]
[ He isn't sure how many pages there are, or what's on every page. Nor does he wish to. But he intuits that calendar is still quite thick. ]
[ That's nothing he'd bother explaining to Korra. Let her believe he's just a compliant cog in the complex machinery of wetwork. It's safer that way. Cogs don't have agendas. Cogs don't have histories or traumas or raison d'etres. They function mindlessly, therefore they are. ]
[ His chin nudges upward in a tiny jerk -- dismissal, indifference. He lets her pad toward the bedroom. Wrenches open the fridge, where there are a few cold diet cokes and a handful of whiskey bottles. He sips from a sweating can while the air-conditioner labors in the sweltering air, then opens the bottle of whiskey and swallows one burning mouthful. ]
[ He's not interested in getting drunk. Just in melting those frozen knots of anger that still throb inside him. Because Pai is gone -- consumed in a flash of white light, all her energy and potential and bright-blooming life sapped away. Yet here is this eerie doppelganger -- Pai-yet-not -- alive yet completely, selfishly wasteful of her existence. ]
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She has no one to live for but herself. So she'll take enjoyment instead of safety.
And in her defense, she goes to the bedroom with the best of intentions. She does 300 pushups before throwing herself onto the bed. Another hundred crunches after deciding against masturbation. She doesn't want to jill off. She wants the kind of sex that leaves bruises.
So Fuck it. Hei can hole up here all safe and cozy and bored. Korra lets down her hair and takes out the contacts that she'd been using to disguise her bright-blue eyes. With a stealth that would surprise Hei, she slips out the window and heads out to the closest bar.]
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[ He is peripherally aware of her movements in the bedroom. Creaking floorboards, whining mattress-springs, muted huffs -- she's certainly doing her best to deplete her energy levels. Not that it's working. She's like a bee caught in a glass jar. ]
[ Forcibly, Hei tunes her out. In the small sitting room, the television has been tuned to an old black and white movie that he's seen a dozen times. In the final bit, when the shooting is done and the chips have fallen, the heroine's eyes brim, and her lip trembles; the hero looks at her with an expression of devoted renunciation, but can't leave her without first taking her in his arms. Hei yawns, half-bored, half-transfixed, until the screen fades to black, then hits mute on the remote. ]
[ When Korra sneaks out, he doesn't instantly know. No sixth sense, no magical precognition. But he's been trained to catalog anything and everything -- nerves drawn taut to catch vibrations no one else picks up on. There's not much he misses. He's halfway through polishing his blades with an oil rag and a whetstone -- when he becomes aware of the silence. No sounds emanating from the bedroom. No secondhand soundtrack of restless Korra-ness. ]
[ When he checks the bedroom, the window is half-open, a breeze fluttering the curtains -- and he doesn't need any other clues. ]
[ NC-108 has snuck out. ]
[ Exhaling, Hei rubs his eyes. He's too tired to feel anything but a dull, bone-deep anger. But by now he knows how to deal with that. It seems to spark somewhere inside him at all times. Part of him weighs the pros of alerting the Syndicate of their wayward operative. They'll deal with her -- with a bullet to the brain. She isn't sanctioned to exit the safehouse. Hasn't been authorized to interact with third parties. To disobey those orders -- barely three hours after the assignment -- would imply that she's either contacting a bridge agent for a rival syndicate, or attempting to flee with her newly-acquired funds. ]
[ Except he knows Korra. She's too short-sighted for such plans. Most likely, she's at a trashy bar, spread-eagled under some tatted-up biker and moaning to the breeze. ]
[ Typical. On a scale of one to ten on the 'how many fucks BK201 can spare on any given day', it's usually about a middling .... zero. But he needs to drag Korra back before the Syndicate finds her. If the higher-ups suspect double-dealing, they'll both end up on the hit list. ]
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They've even got a whole little system worked out. An operative or two keeps an eye on the trashiest bars in the town near the safehouse. They make sure she isn't double-dealing, usually by taking her to bed themselves. Korra knows this, and she keeps an eye out for them. Might as well bang the Syndicate-approved pieces of ass.
Right now, though, she's dancing. Four shots to the wind and letting the energy flow through her.]
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[ But it's dangerous to regard yourself, not as living out of their pocket, but as part of a grand tapestry of profit and expenditure that's been decades in the making. No matter how many of your own stitches are woven in that tapestry, no matter how much you appear to be an inextricable figure in it -- at the end of the day, you are expendable. Everyone is. ]
[ It doesn't take him long to find her. There are a few stuffy bars near the safehouse. The most suitable is a low rambling shack of unpainted weathered grey boards, set amongst marshy reeds, a red neon beer sign in one of its dark windows, and some vehicles parked around it -- mostly, he notices, pick-ups, older domestic cars, and one or two nondescript models that can only be Syndicate-owned. ]
[ Carefully, he wends his way through the smoky red atmosphere, redolent of spilled liquor, tobacco and sweat. The bar is packed, and there are a lot of young people on the dancefloor -- boys, girls, tourists, locals: he hears a jumble of languages spoken. Some of the girls are cute -- at least, they'd have been cute to the average man, a civilian, a shy college boy like Li. Right now they just look like easy targets, unnecessary desserts, the kind you don't eat because you are on a crazy drop-dead serious diet. ]
[ It's barely a moment before he spots Korra. On the crowded dancefloor, shaking her little box to the beat. She makes a pretty sight. He won't deny it. Downright fuckable: that tight body, those pert breasts and the dark sweep of her hair. ]
[ But when he elbows through the crush of bodies, tapping her shoulder, there is nothing appreciative in his manner. His voice, low beneath the thumping baseline of music, is strangely flat: ]
Next time, leave a sticky note.
[ Otherwise he'll just contact her handler to deal with her. ]
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Worried, Dad?
[She gives zero fucks. Z e r o.]
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[ Or maybe it's just Korra. Everything about her, from the tick-tocking pendulum of her hips, to the blue glints of her eyes, makes his stomach seethe and boil, makes him quietly, nail-spitting mad, sour-mouthed; it's as if every ounce of irony and fucked-up karma in the universe has been melted together like warm butter and poured into this girl. ]
[ She's a Contractor. But she doesn't belong in this world. Nor did Pai. ]
[ He blinks, before his expression shifts, taking on shades of dismissal and weariness. ]
Be back at the safehouse in nine hours.
[ What she does until then is her business. He's ready to call it a night and go. ]
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[ Korra does -- but that doesn't mean he needs to obey the compulsion. ]
[ He doesn't fire off a scathing retort. Doesn't give any indication that he's heard her at all. He just turns on his heel and exits the crowded bar. The entire building resonates with noise and smell and light, and its very air feels sharp to his touch, tastes like blood and bitter resignation on the back of the tongue. ]
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Korra's not sure. And she doesn't care. But still... If they're after Hei, they could also be after her, and they could have backup.
She grabs someone's drink, chugs it down to cover her actions, and feigns stumbling out the door. She calls out Hei's codename, giving him the alert both that she's coming and to not be surprised when she grabs onto him and kisses him like a girl just drunk enough to do something stupid.
Under her breath, without removing her lips from his, she gives him the enemy rundown — five men, all packing.]
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[ He doesn't jerk away from Korra. His hand starfishes across the small of her back, fingers against the damp cotton of her shirt. Detaching from the kiss, he stays close, his manner conciliatory, soft. Like they're a couple who've had a quietly blazing row indoors and then come back to each other, their anger burnt off and leaving them raw and tired and clinging together. ]
[ But beneath the surface, he's attuned to enemy movements. His peripheral vision tingles with hyperactive awareness: five men, converging from the shadows. Instinct tells him they're recon and action, both. No way to be sure if they're his enemies or NC-108's. No way of knowing whether they hope to follow him and introduce themselves on terrain they find more favorable -- or if the plan is for him to walk into them. ]
[ Hei doesn't care. Casually, he strolls with Korra down the marshy road, weeds sprouting high, nothing to hear but the ambient chig chig chig of insects. He knows their pursuers are close behind them, but they won't be comfortable yet -- the location isn't quite right. An ideal spot for a hit is an especially congested area, where there are so many people and so much tumult that no one will notice what's happened until several seconds after the fact. Or an especially empty area, where there will be no witnesses at all. ]
[ Hei's money is on the latter. ]
[ Drifting past an empty lot, strewn with trash and battered old cars, he murmurs, lips near Korra's ear. ]
They're going to converge here. Be ready.
[ A team of five usually means two people will tail their target, keeping it in their crosshairs. The secondary trio will be about the same distance behind the first, needing only to maintain visual contact with them. If they narrow the gap between them, it means action is at hand. Hei isn't going to give them that chance. ]
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Not if I move first.
[Not far off there's a fire hydrant... She twirls around, trying to make it seem like she's doing a silly drunken dance -- when she's actually bending the water out in a controlled explosion. She sends a sheet of ice down the road, aiming to catch their feet and freeze them in place.]
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[ Two down. Three to go. The rest of the team -- a hapless trio -- emerges around the corner. From their manner, it is obvious they're either not understanding what has just happened or haven't yet had time to process it. Hei doesn't give them a chance. At full-pelt, he charges toward the first man. A glint of steel, an arc of blood, and his target crumples with a gurgling howl; Hei has slashed him across the jugular with his blade. Barely a heartbeat later, he's leapt at the second, planting his foot in the small of the man's back as though trying to climb a steep set of stairs. The man's body bows violently forward and his head and arms fly back. As he plunges to his knees, Hei wraps his left arm around the man's neck, wrenching his skull savagely up and back. His spine snaps like plaster, and with a similar sound: he puddles bonelessly to the floor. ]
[ The last, he'll let NC-108 deal with as she pleases. Sometimes a good kill is as satisfying as a nice hard fuck. ]
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In just a few minutes, the street is covered with corpses. Not the kind of mess you want to leave lying around.]
I may be flashy, but you are really messy.
[Luckily, it's a dirt road. She bends a giant hole in the ground -- at least fifty feet deep -- and dumps the bodies and the bloody dirt inside. Then she bends the earth shut again, and it's like nothing ever happened. The perfect cover up.
She's panting slightly as she finishes, winded but far from worn out. She gives him a dry look.
Just think. All of this could've been avoided if you'd fucked me when you had the chance.
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[ He doesn't answer Korra's remark, at least not right away. His face is wiped of all expression as he sheathes his blade. Of course the fight hasn't cooled her down. He's aware of her fritzing energy, her eyes bright with a mockery that might as well be banked excitement. ]
[ Tonelessly, ]
There is no guarantee they wouldn't ambush the safehouse.
[ If anything, chances of that are still high. Better to vacate to somewhere different, off the Syndicate's radar. ]
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So we split up. Makes us less of a target.
[It's a question disguised as a statement. Korra's got a rough sense of strategy -- enough that solo missions aren't suicide -- but between the two of them, Hei's the master. Deferring to his judgement in this only makes sense.]
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Odds are better if we stick together.
[ They're already a target. They don't know if their enemy was from a rival faction -- or on the Syndicate's payroll. And the only time it's rational to divide a force is when either its components retain a significant force advantage over the enemy, or enjoy other attributes, like mobility or communications, that negate any force advantage that the enemy might have. It's not feasible to divide a two-person team into one-man units that are subject to defeat in detail. This is what scouts or guerrilla forces are for -- and they don't have the luxury of either. It's not Heaven's War. ]
[ Quietly, ]
We have no intelligence. Or mutually supporting positions. Not until we're sure who those thugs were working for. [If you can achieve mobility, split up. Otherwise stay close. Amber's rule of thumb during battles. Ironic, that even after her betrayal, her advice has rarely failed him. ] Right now we should get to a secondary safehouse.
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I know a place. Maybe twenty minutes away. Got cash for cab fare? [Her biker shorts are lacking in pockets. Fortunately, she doesn't need a key to get into the place she's thinking of -- an empty house in an affluent neighborhood. The houses were far enough apart that you couldn't tell if someone was breaking in unless you were looking really hard, but close enough that too much noise would get the cops swarming quickly. Not the typical Syndicate safehouse, and the kind of place where you'd hesitate to make a move unless you didn't care about attention. From what she can tell, the guys after them do. They won't want the noise and nuisance of frightened suburbanites.]
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[ Cash in hand: always. But beyond that he's stitched the equivalent of five hundred dollars in large bills of various currencies beneath the lining of his jacket for this particular assignment. It's hardly the first time. He tends to keep an emergency fund on his person: easy cash converted into gold and gems -- a Rolex watch, for example, or a platinum bracelet, or expensive cufflinks worn out of sight. Any Contractor worth their salt has to be able to move from country to country as quickly as possible, freed from dependence on banks. He never worries that a thief who suspects his wealth will try to take it from him. They're only courting their own gruesome death. ]
[ It's almost reassuring, how Korra has managed to find her balance in this quivering web of spycraft. While Hei doesn't trust her, he knows she isn't a particular threat. It is in his best interests to go to ground with her -- as long as the place isn't insecure -- until he's formulated a proper exit strategy. ]
[ (What about her? He shakes the thought off, as if he's been dragged out of a dangerous undertow. She's as accustomed to the quicksand of spycraft as he is. Left alone, she can handle herself. ]
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[At the main road, she flags down a cab for them. Gives the cabbie the address of an apartment complex a few blocks away from their actual destination so the neighbors won't notice. As they drive, she cozies up to Hei, pretending to be sleepy to avoid making conversation with the driver, and so the driver doesn't wonder why his passengers aren't talking to each other. Considering how turned on she still is, the entire drive is torture.]
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[ The driver catches almost every green light; they race uptown on the nearly deserted avenues, turning left at last to stop in front of a neighborhood of cozily uniform houses, two stories tall. In the streetlight's yellow glow, Hei pays the driver his fare, then gently gathers Korra out of the cab, the picture of an indulgent hubby with his tipsy wife. ]
[ But once the cab has zoomed off, he drops his hands like they're a pair of dead spiders. ]
Let's get indoors.
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Don't drop the act until we're inside. Suburbanites could be watching.
[But mostly she just wants to irritate him, and as much physical contact as she can get. She leads him down a few blocks, just a couple taking an evening stroll, until they reach a neighborhood of cozy little colonials. Korra strolls to the back door of the one with a bright red porch. There's an outside door to the basement, which is kept unlocked. A neighborhood this rich doesn't worry about squatters.
Once they're inside, she presses him against the wall and kisses him. It can definitely hurt to try — but she doesn't mind hurting.]
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[ Hei steps into the darkened basement with her, his eyes tracking left and right, checking hotspots, logging his surroundings. The place seems secure enough, the walls wood-paneled, the air carrying the inescapable smell of dankness and dust. He's about to conduct a proper sweep, to determine weak-points of egress and entry -- when Korra is suddenly against him, her tip-toe feet touching his, her body too. Close enough to that he can feel her disquieting warmth, busy with hot pulse, the quick incessant beating of her heart that is like a war-drum, her lips soft and craving as they catch his. ]
[ What the hell? After the first spasm of alarm passes, Hei's temper flares, then flattens to coldness. It's tempting to knock her away with one sharp blow. Instead, catching her shoulders, he puts her back firmly. He can still feel the hot imprint of her kiss. Wants to wipe his mouth, but he's not sure if that impulse is triggered by disgust or a more disquieting radioactive throb. ]
[ His eyes, fixed on her in the dark, are like two glints of black ice. ]
No suburbanites watching anymore, NC-108.
[ The use of her messier code is a deliberate distancing, a verbal barb-wire. Reminding her that she's a Contractor, not a hormonal little wreck who can't keep her clothes on. ]
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