Chapter Text
The Irishman found himself giggling like an idiot as he blasted the other’s character across the screen.
“No that’s bullshit!” the brunette yelled as he slammed his controller down on the sofa, “That wasn’t supposed to hit me!”
“Come on, just admit it. I’m better!” he said as he laughed.
“No, I refuse! This game is just bullshit!” the other groaned as he laid back into the couch.
“I’m better,” he said, giggling as he playfully punched the brunette in the shoulder.
“No. Absolutely not!” the other huffed.
Before he could respond, a small static sound permeated the place.
“…Target sighted…” said the voice of his agent.
“Target sighted... “
Jack opened his eyes slowly, and drifted from his daydream back to reality as his comm piece sounded. He coughed lightly, indicating that he had received the message.
“Position is confirmed. Two blocks to your west. Third story apartment above a laundromat. Pretty generic. Just says laundromat on a large yellow sign.”
He clicked his tongue this time as an acknowledgement, and stood up from his seat in the coffee shop. As he walked out the door, he disposed of his long-empty black coffee cup. He breathed in the cold November air, and adjusted his glasses that had slipped down to the tip of his nose since. Guess he was a bit too hasty in trying to formulate his disguise this time. He turned and faced the glass window of the coffee shop to observe himself. He wore a decently fitted brown faux leather jacket, some faded dark-blue jeans, completed with a deep blue beanie and classic black converse. Though his comm piece was small, the beanie helped to further conceal it in case anyone close enough would be able to notice otherwise. He gave his pants a quick little brush-down and started towards where he left his equipment.
Jack walked at a brisk pace down the streets of Queens, shivering slightly at the cold weather. At least it wasn’t snowing. He turned a corner, coming face to face with a street performer playing the guitar. He nodded to the performer lightly, who gave a wink in return and stopped playing. The performer turned and handed Jack a second guitar case. Jack whispered a thank you and strapped the case to his back, and quickly continued on his way to his destination.
Once he spotted the laundromat just a bit further down the street, Jack slowed to a stop. He looked around, spotting a bus station, and walked over to stand underneath it. He scanned his surrounding briefly, noting a small Italian restaurant on the opposing corner the laundromat was on, along with a small bookstore next to it. Closing his eyes, Jack let his surroundings speak to him. He heard the ringing of a bell, likely tied to the bookstore’s entrance. Pigeons cooed in the distance, along with the occasional fluttering of wings. The sound of footsteps and indistinguishable chatter resonated quietly around him. Without opening his eyes, the Irishman drew in a deep breath. The pleasant smell of food, mixed with the slightest hint of detergent and gasoline permeated his nostrils.
Now refocused, Jack opened his eyes again, and looked at the building complex directly across from the laundromat. It was a small hotel of sorts, nothing too fancy. As he was thinking about how he would conceal the sound of his firearm from neighboring rooms, his comm piece sounded.
“Room 322 is set up for you in the hotel. The walls have been soundproofed to try and minimize sound. The rest is up to you. You’re checked in as Cason Northrup.”
Jack huffed in annoyance. The intel team could’ve told him sooner. At least already set up some stuff for him, making his job a bit easier. Waiting to take the shot wasn’t the hard part about his job. It always is the escaping part that’s difficult. Since there was often glass or some other medium between his rifle and his target, reducing the noise on his side simply wasn’t enough. Every time after a job, he always had to escape as inconspicuously as he could, all the while with his large guitar case in tow.
The Irishman walked to the front desk of the hotel, and put on a little smile. The receptionist smiled in return and spoke.
“How can I help you, sir?”
“Hey, I have a room reserved under Cason Northrup?”
The sound of clacking on a keyboard resounded momentarily as the receptionist typed away, confirming his reservation.
“Can I see some I.D., sir?”
Jack pulled out his wallet and presented his “I.D.”
“… Alright, thank you very much. Here’s your key. Enjoy your stay!”
Jack smiled again at the receptionist before grabbing the keycard and hurried up the elevator. Once he reached the room, he set down his guitar case and opened it up. He smiled at his ebony guitar in the case. It was old, and there were numerous scratches on it. It was the one possession he always carried with him. Strumming his fingers across the strings briefly, he sighed. Time to get to it. The man pressed a little latch on the inner edge of the case, opening up the opposing end of the case, and revealing his rifle. He whistled a little tune as he put together his gun on the floor. He stood up from the ground and walked over to the window and peered out the curtain. Across the street was a 4-story apartment, with each window covered by stark white curtains. Jack propped his rifle near small hole in the window, and peered down the sights. He closed his eyes momentarily, and began to focus as he reopened his eyes again.
“Could you hand me the car jack?” the brunette said as he looked up from the ground. His face was pressed to the ground, inspecting the bottom of the car.
“Jack, the car jack,” he said, with a wry little smile, which prompted the Irishman to shoot him a glare for that stupid pun, if you could even call it that.
He opened the trunk and retrieved the item, and also brought out the tool kit.
“Thanks,” the brunette said as he positioned the car jack and began lifting.
“So, how bad is it?” Jack asked.
“Ehhh… nothing underneath is really fucked, but the tire’s got to be changed for sure,” Mark said as he knelt down next to one of the blown-out tires, and began to unscrew the bolts. Jack went to the trunk again to retrieve a spare tire this time.
He set the spare down next to Mark, and knelt down next to him.
“Can you change the oil just in case?” he heard the other speak.
“Yeah sure,” Jack said as he went to the trunk once again, “10W30?”
“Yup that one.”
The Irishman brought the can of motor oil to the front of the car, and opened the hood. He wiped the sweat from his brow. It was real hot. The sun indicated that it was around midday. Jack turned his attention back to the car. He pressed his face down against the ground, and popped the plug, letting motor oil leak onto the dry dirt. Not really environmentally friendly, he mused, but he didn’t have another option right now. He pulled out the old filter, and replaced it with a new one. Then, he stood back up, again wiping his brow. The sound of clinking stopped momentarily, which piqued Jack’s interest. He looked over at where the brunette was, only to be met with the man shirtless, his t-shirt on the ground next to him as he knelt back down to the tire.
Mark’s eyes met Jacks.
“What, it’s really hot.”
He blinked, breaking from his integration.
What was that just now? Jack’s brows furrowed, a bit concerned. He was broken out of his thoughts when in the corner of his eye, the curtains shuffled briefly for a moment.
Movement.
Jack immediately trained his sights on where the curtain moved, but there was no further indication of activity. He huffed his cheeks a bit, thinking that his job would’ve been done by now. This was the eighth location his target had moved to since he started his job. This Mark guy was a stubbornly cautious son of a bitch. Jack had been on his trail for about four months now, and the closest he had gotten was the curtain shuffling that happened just a moment ago.
Good. This means he’s running out of patience.
“Put down the gun,” he heard the man say coolly.
Mark was shaking in fear as he fumbled with the rifle. He was an engineer, not a soldier god damn it!
“I’ll let Thomas go if you just put down the gun,” the man said again.
“Y-You first!” Mark stammered.
Thomas struggled in futility against the unknown man. He was injured from the previous fight. Mark knew that his brother had to have a broken nose from the amount of blood dripping. He came to visit his brother for the holidays. Where did it go so wrong?
“I can’t do that,” the man simply said, “I trust you’ll put down the gun, unless you want me to blow Thomas’ brains out.”
Mark felt tears gathering in the corner of his eyes. His glance flicked back and forth between Thomas and the man. He could tell that Thomas didn’t want him to put down the gun. ‘Take the shot’ he saw his brother mouth.
The brunette could hear the blood pounding in his head.
“I’ll count to three,” he heard the man say.
“One.”
He felt as though his chest was going to burst.
“Two.”
Every limb was shaking. Oh god, were his legs going to give out?
“Three.”
The sound of a gunshot resounded through his ears.
White.
Blinking a few times, the brunette stared forward.
The ceiling.
Mark sat up slowly, peeling the sweat-soaked sheets off of him. He brought his palms to his face, and rubbed lightly.
Not again.
He drew in a shaky breath. The brunette climbed off his bed and walked to the bathroom. He turned on the faucet, and splashed some cold water on his face. He looked in the mirror. There were dark bags under his eyes. He chuckled a bit.
I look like shit.
It’s been some four months since his life was turned upside down. Mark turned and walked back to his bedroom, and removed the sheets. As he made his way across the small living room to put his sheets in the laundry, he eyed the curtains briefly. It had been so long since he took a peek at the outside world. Shaking his head, he continued and put his sheets and clothes in the washer.
Mark picked out a t-shirt and a pair of shorts, still feeling flush from his nightmare. He sat on his bed and stared at his bare wall for a while before finally getting new sheets and fitting them to his bed. Once the task was done, he found himself in the living room, sitting on the couch. He sighed, staring blankly at the blank tv monitor. His eyes wandered to the curtains once again. It’d been what, a month since he moved to this location? He hadn’t a peek at the world since, under strict guidelines to remain hidden. The brunette chewed at his lip lightly, anxious to look out at the world around him. He felt like he was suffocating. Was he really living at all? Certainly didn’t feel like it. He rubbed his face in an attempt to clear his mind. His stomach growled, reminding him that he hadn’t had anything to eat yet. He sighed as he got up and walked to the kitchen, which was just a few feet away. Opening the fridge, the brunette observed what was left. He wasn’t really running low on food yet. Protection services kept him pretty well fed. Though it wasn’t too extravagant, it wasn’t bad either. Mark grabbed the jug of milk and set it on the counter as he looked for cereal in the pantry.
After eating, Mark took out his laundry from the washer and ran them through the dryer. He sat on the kitchen counter, not knowing what to do. This is what his life had been reduced to; simply existing. He felt something wet on the back of his hand. Was he crying? He wasn’t too sure. He bright his hand to his eyes and wiped, finding that he had indeed started crying. He slumped down to the floor, curling into a ball.
Eventually, Mark found himself sprawled on the kitchen floor, staring blankly at the ceiling, again.
Fuck it.
He stood up abruptly, and started towards the living room. As he reached the sofa, he slowed his pace down. He was now a few feet away from the curtains. He was aware of his elevated heart rate. Holding his breath, he reached for the curtains. His heart was pounding now. He felt beads of sweat on his forehead as his hand reached for the edge of the curtains. His hand brushed the curtains. In a moment of panic, he ducked down beneath the window. He could hear his own heartbeat in his ears.
Why did I just do that?
He breathed shallow breaths, trying to calm himself down. He sat there, panicked.
Finally, after a good while, he decided that he should move and try and do something. He crawled across the living room, in fear of disturbing the curtains. He had just put his life at risk. He was afraid. But a part of him felt alive again, even if it was just for a brief moment.
Jack blinked. How long had it been? There was absolutely no sign of his target since the brief curtain rustling. He pulled out his phone.
‘Tuesday, November 12’
He made a sour face. It’d been a full three days already. He sighed and laid his gun down.
That stubborn fucker…
Rubbing his eyes, the Irishman realized that he should probably get some food, and then get some rest. Dismantling his gun, he let out a large yawn. God was he tired.
Probably should contact HQ.
He tapped on a small button on the back of his comm piece.
“No dice. He’s still got that stupid amount of self-control.”
There was a brief silence before a staticky voice sounded.
“Acknowledged. Hold your position and continue observations until further notice.”
“Got it.”
Jack switched off his mic, and placed his rifle back into his guitar case. He raised his arms into the air and stretched, clearing the stiffness in his muscles. He strapped his guitar case to his back, and headed out the door.
He walked down the street, looking for something that appealed to his appetite.
Italian, Mexican, pizza… Nothing I want right now...
The Irishman paused in front of a Korean restaurant, and looked at the menu.
Huh. Chicken dumplings sound good.
Deciding to go with this restaurant, Jack ordered some takeout and headed back to his hotel. He was tired, but also hungry. The chicken dumplings were devoured in an instant, and Jack laid on his bed content with what he bought. Eventually, he forced himself to go take a quick shower before getting some shuteye.
He yawned as he laid down on the bed, his guitar-and-gun case safely tucked in the corner. He busied himself with some meditation, and quickly fell asleep.
He’ll have to break someday. But until then…
‘Moving you again soon.
- Crank’
Mark stared at the concealed message cleverly disguised within a rent statement. He let out the breath he had been holding when he saw the marking that indicated its origin. It was a relief that he was finally getting a change of scenery. He found himself smiling a little, something he hadn’t done in a while. The rest of his evening was a bit more cheerful than usual, and he slipped into his bed when nighttime came around. Sleep came to him easily that night.