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It is February thirteenth, and she’s only waited this long because she knew she could get away with doing this at the last moment.
She doesn’t plan down to the minute. Dokkaebi knows the approximates, she measures out what she needs, but she isn’t going down to the nanosecond. That’s obsessive, that’s insane, and that’s not what she is. She’s practical. And preparing for a mission, knowing what to do and where to go and what wires to cross at what time? That’s something she’ll spend a lot of time on, that’s where she’ll invest. After all, that has to be perfect, in order to keep her record in line. But with this shit? Forget it.
These people are easy. A whole mess of mental problems and complexes, mixed and matched to fit their needs like the glitters and glues that surround her now. They’re all here because they’re half suicidal or they think they’re better than everyone else or they’re trying to prove that they’re better than this one person who probably isn’t even relevant to their life anymore. Not to mention parental issues and religious hangups – she could go on all day about it if someone asked. Do you want to be lauded while alive? Post-mortem? Maybe both? Rainbow’s your gig. All the prestige in the world, and all the stakes to back it up. Those stakes can get you killed, but… it’s been a while since anyone’s gone that far.
Dokkaebi’s white gel pen pauses, the tip clicking against crimson cardstock as she ponders over that for a moment. It’s true. No one has been killed in a while. If she were to run the numbers, which she won’t, what would she find? It’s not as if there aren’t high-tension situations to defuse. It’s not as if they pass off the “more dangerous” jobs to someone else – Rainbow was who you called when things were fucked as fucked could be. Maybe they really were that good at their job. Sure, they send recruits on some of the more mop-up missions where the lead spray might hit someone, and she knows it. But doesn’t everyone need cannon fodder? Did the others even notice, or is it just her?
This isn’t relevant.
She’s writing love letters.
It’s a pain, really. It’s hardly worth the effort. But it’s another drop in the bucket, another little maintenance thing. If you do something kind, you make an impression, and that kind of thing builds over time. Soon enough, you have people thinking that you’re better than you really are - nicer than you really are. You don’t have to build a façade if someone else builds it for you, and she’s plenty good at construction already (a disdainful glance is paid to one of the game posters on her walls, what a load of utter shit). Rainbow’s easy. Once you worm your way through the PTSD and PTSD in progress, anyway.
She’s using Google translate because this isn’t the kind of thing you go to a professional for, and because it’d ruin the surprise if she asked anyone on base. Additionally, if any mistakes are made, it’ll only result in extra charm. Oh, Dokkaebi really made the effort, she messed up here and there, but isn’t that cute? Isn’t it so endearing that she went through all the trouble?
It’s almost infuriating that she isn’t using a reputable translator; that she isn’t even trying. She shouldn’t be making mistakes, she doesn’t make mistakes in the field. It’s not a complex, it’s just necessary. She stays on the team by being good, and making it look easy. She doesn’t panic, she doesn’t freak out, and she doesn’t make it look like she’s fighting for her life. It’s a stroll. Make a few phones ring; all a parlour trick, and no one can see the years of research that goes into it. That’s the trick part. It’s not the accomplishment itself, not the technological genius, it’s making it seem like she can just summon these things out of thin air. Like she didn’t claw and scratch and lie her way into this.
The difference between the handwriting on these cards and the one she uses in her reports is absolutely criminal. Arced lines where they should be straight, larger lowercase letters in some alphabets, curled ends on others. The characters balloon themselves on the page in Chinese when she jots something out for Ying. So cute. Cute. A corner of her mouth turns down as their private joke gets translated onto the cardstock, some shit about Fuze that she remembers only for moments like this.
What the hell is she even going for here?
None of these are flirty. She can’t manage the puns in all these different languages, she doesn’t even know the basics of some of them. Maybe it was too far trying to do them in everyone’s native tongue, but that’s just the kind of bitch she is. Overachiever, striver, and part of her wishes she could give a backhanded compliment in every single one just to watch them get confused and squirm.
What do they want, what do they want? It shouldn’t be this hard.
They just want compliments. Another pat on the ass, another “good job”. No, no, that can’t be right. They got that already; most of them try to turn away the hero worship like they’re better than bathing in it behind civilians’ backs. But, what else do they want, aside from praise? Oh, yeah. Doing good, saving the world... as if she believes that. As if they aren’t all deceiving themselves, hiding what they want, telling themselves a lie so they can sleep at night. “I’m such a good person, I do the right thing, I protect those who can’t protect themselves.”
They aren’t multi-millionaires with political figures in their pockets. All of their efforts are temporary at best. They’re superglue on the battlefield instead of stitches. Amazingly innovative, but without a permanent fix, eventually useless.
She stares at the white lace ribbon she’d bought at the craft store. What does she want?
She looks at the pink heart laid out and coated with glitter that was in-progress for Montagne. Sure, he’d enjoy this cute quip about him being the shield for everyone’s hearts, but it makes her feel nauseous just thinking about receiving something similar to this. It’s just so shallow. Something that someone would make because they felt obligated, not because they liked her.
Sure, it’s happened before. She’s attractive, and she puts forward the right affect when she wants a reaction. She can be attractive, but she doesn’t like it all too much. It’d be a lie to say she hasn’t used the small advantage it’s given her now and again, but it never helps in the professional field. Just makes things complicated, shifting the goalposts, it just… doesn’t work. And as far as love, well. Good luck. She’d never gotten close – she doesn’t know if she can. She doesn’t want it. She doesn’t need it, she doesn’t pine after it like the absolute desperate mess known as Rook (“je t’aime :P” written messily in glitter glue pen, gold against a giant red heart). She knows that she sounds like a cartoon villain, saying that love makes you weak, makes you vulnerable.
But isn’t it true?
No amount of love could stop a bullet. Stay her hand from reprogramming someone’s electronics. Keep things from exploding, people from dying. Sure, hope was good. She believes in hope. But love? God. Forget it. “I pushed through because of love-" no you didn’t, no you fucking didn’t, it’s all a lie. It has to be. It has to.
And yet here she is. Sitting here, at this desk. Hoping to be loved.
Well. Maybe not loved. She secures ribbon to IQ’s rectangular card, the little pink heart inside made solely out of the stuff. She wants to be valued in Rainbow, she wants to have a good reputation in front of the others. But. Deeper than that… more desperately than that, she wants to be seen. As what she is, not what she put forward. But everyone’s so wrapped up in themselves, in their problems; no one wants to look. Why grease a wheel that isn’t squeaking? Why pause to think, to consider, when she’s so well organized, so put together? And why does she want to be found out, exposed, taken to trial for being the best two-faced bitch that ever walked the planet?
It’s self destructive, wanting these things. Wanting for someone to look at these crappy, home-made valentines and say “she’s faking it, she has to be, she’s been faking it all”. But she does. She wants for someone to see through it, and what. Want to fix her?
God, no. She wants a challenge, for once in her life.
She relishes the idea of a true rival. Of someone being able to see through it all, being able to truly see her. To admire her. To look at her and say “you cunt, you had us all fooled”, and that’d put an icicle against her spine and a pit in her stomach, and she’d feel it. She’d feel the thrill of having all of her work recognized retroactively, by someone worthy of it. Someone who put the pieces together, someone who paid attention, someone who pushed past everything. All those reports of good behavior, all those rumors from people saying how nerdy she was, how sweet and how simply behind-the-scenes kind; all of it would fall away. They’d see through the mask and the smile and see it. Her. The real her.
A monster. But a damn good one.
But that person, that operator, that saw through her - they’d try to prove her existence. Oh, now that makes her grin as she writes to Bandit that he’s “electrifying”, tapping glitter over looping lines of white glue. They’d try to convince everyone that she was what she was. And they’d fail, of course, but it’d be so good, so delicious, to watch them attempt it. And during that time, when they were doing that dangerous dance? She could talk to talk to them frankly. Tell them what she really felt of the buffoons she worked with. She could corner them, bare her teeth, and she’d have someone stand up to her for the first time, because no one’s had to before. She hasn’t been a threat before, but she is now. Just for them. Just to them. There’d be competition, a game of baiting and snaring, something never finished because they’d both be so good at what they do. And it’d be… special.
She can’t even really imagine how it feels. Just what she thinks it might feel like. And it’s almost too good to dwell on for too long, because she’s real with herself. No one’s watching her that closely. No one cares. She’s done too good a job, and it’s their faults that compared to her, they’re all fucking idiots.
She stands. Her cards are complete, each one more garish than the last. Gold and pink and white and red conglomerates of cutesy Valentine’s Day cheer. Disgusting. She takes the walk down the hallway and into one of the general meeting areas, where the mail shelf is. One box for each operator. Most are cleaned out – people liked getting mail. Usually letters from family, close friends. Thank you notes from people around the world that some of them pin up to corkboards like they mean something. Another trophy. She slips her cards into the right boxes. There’s no use bothering with envelopes – besides, she’s sure that some of them will get excited just seeing the lace and glitter.
When she gets back to her room, the door is ajar. Strange. She nudges it over, looking about for a moment. Was someone in here?
She’s still. Waiting. Listening for a sign of movement or breathing.
Nothing.
But there. On her desk. A single, red rose. She furrows her brows in confusion, stepping up to the thing. For a moment, it’s exciting – then she sees that it’s been de-thorned, and the thrill dies in her throat. No. If it was anything worth paying attention to, if they knew her, they would’ve left them on.
The tag is of course even more telling. A tight, neat script, black ballpoint pen. “To a beautiful, amazing, intelligent woman. Someday I’ll tell you in person, but for now… I just want you to feel like there’s someone who sees just how sweet you are. I hope I can ask you out soon. I just need to muster up the courage! I’ll see you around, Doki. Xoxo, your secret admirer.”
She can’t help the laugh that tumbles out of her mouth. There’s an ache in her that she can’t describe, a blistering something in her chest. She laughs. She looks at the rose, the lovely thing, dethorned, with pity, smiling with her teeth showing.
“Oh…” she sighs, rolling the stem in her hand.
She stands there for a few moments, looking at the velvet petals and emerald green of its leaves. Then she holds it by the end of the stem, dangling it above her trashcan. And with a simple release, it softly crashes against the scraps of Valentine’s Day castoffs.
She sits back at her desk, looking one last time to the bin. She shakes her head, pulls out her phone, and murmurs, “Just another sucker.”