Work Text:
mission 0121
“Can you not wait one minute? Would you drop dead if you slowed down?”
“Can you not move faster?” Minho shoots back, even though he’s already slowing his stride so Jisung can catch up.
With his dark wool overcoat, briefcase in hand, he looks like any normal businessman on his way to work—Jisung less so as he tries to walk and eat a pastry at the same time when the wind keeps blowing his hair into his eyes and he has to pause to brush it away every two seconds. It whistles past his ears, rustles the few leaves still holding out on the trees lining the sidewalk, and once he’s at Minho’s side, Jisung sees that it’s left his cheeks tinged with the faintest bit of cerise.
The location is only a couple more blocks down: a building with scaffolding that’s been up for at least a year now because the plans to repair it have been abandoned, and whoever owns it hasn’t thought to do something about it; it’s a surprise that no squatters have claimed the vacant building yet.
Jisung counts the flights of stairs as they head up, stopping once they reach the floor that should be just below the uppermost one. They head to the end of the hall where Minho easily kicks a door open and leads them into a a room that's empty save for a few pieces of equipment and a couple of crates, all covered in a thick layer of dust. There's a window against the far wall, wide and facing the street, and it's when they stop in front of it that Minho sets the briefcase down.
He takes a moment to trace his fingers across the sides of the silver case; slowly, carefully, and Jisung thinks it almost seems like a greeting. Then Minho thumbs over the tiny wheels for the combination lock before releasing the clips with a sharp, satisfying click, one after another, and flipping the case open.
Jisung watches as Minho lays out the parts of the gun before them; a sleek barrel, a muzzle break, a suppressor, a high precision scope, and the stock are the largest features of the dismantled rifle. He pieces it together with practiced ease, hands working with quick, efficient movements. Soon he has the rifle laid out; an M77, a long, sleek weapon that gleams in the dim morning light.
Taking a bite out of his pastry, Jisung reaches out to undo the latch of the window, pushes the pane open and forces it up with a creak. Cold, crisp air floods the room, clears his lungs. He leans his shoulder against the wall as Minho loads a single, metallic yellow cartridge into the magazine and clicks the bolt into place before he gets into position.
It's never gotten any less unsettling to Jisung just how graceful Minho’s fingers look wrapped around the gun's grip, letting the tip of his pointer hover over the trigger; delicate hands a shocking contrast to the steel and synthetic black. He steadies the butt firmly against the pocket of his left shoulder, arm tucked against his hip; lets his cheek press against the stock as he supports the body with his right hand, in an effortless manner that for some reason has Jisung staring a bit more than he usually would.
Jisung checks his watch, the dial reading 6:27A.M. Three minutes to go. He reaches into his pocket with his free hand, pulls out a pair of binoculars small enough to fit in the palm of his hand, and brings them up to his eyes. The view is slightly blurry, but he doesn’t feel like setting down his breakfast to adjust the diopter, so he deals. Through the window of the building across the street, just a floor higher than the elevated train tracks between them, Jisung can see the mark; standing in the middle of the living room and fiddling with the buttons on his sleeve.
And then: the slow, telltale sound of the train approaching, a rattling rumble that soon goes from dull in the distance to near deafening just before it passes them by. Minho fires a split second before it does, the suppressed sound of the gunshot carried away by the thundering of the train, and Jisung just barely gets to see the mark drop before the blurred rush of lights reflected through the windows of the train cars obscures his view.
Lowering the binoculars, Jisung takes another bite and turns to Minho. He hasn’t lowered the rifle yet, keeping his good eye against the scope until the train passes. A moment after it does, he clicks his tongue.
“Shit.”
“What is it?” Jisung asks around a mouthful, already lifting the binoculars back up. He can see the body toppled onto the back of the sofa, slumped over in a heap, but not much else. He holds out his half-eaten pastry, gives his hand a little shake until Minho rolls his eyes but holds it for him anyway.
Jisung adjusts the diopter until the sight before him is crystal clear: grisly red hole severing the man’s spinal column in two, blood so dark it almost looks purple as it streams out from the where the bullet burrowed through his neck, and soaking into the collar of his shirt. And now Jisung can also see the way the man’s back is moving by an almost indiscernible amount, still sucking air. He snorts, lowering the binoculars.
“Well that’s what you get for being a show-off, hyung” he says, taking his pastry back and watching Minho load a shameful—by Minho’s ridiculous personal standards for himself—second cartridge into the rifle.
Minho turns to Jisung with a huff. “Why don't you just do it for me then?” he asks in a tone that Jisung knows means I dare you to suggest doing it instead.
Jisung shrugs. “Okay.” He crams the rest of the pastry into his mouth, takes the gun from Minho’s hands before he can protest, and then takes a step over to stand in front of the window fully.
Taking a deep breath, the chill bite in the air invigorating him, Jisung falls into his stance; left hand gripping the forestock and his arm rigid against his side, right hand fitted around the grip. Then, he goes down on one knee, supports his elbow on his thigh and lifts the barrel of the rifle, letting it rest on the window sill for stability. He’s not as accurate a shot standing up as Minho is, doesn’t have the type of muscle control or the specific strength that allows him to keep a rifle perfectly steady in an unstable position; but then again he’s still not quite as seasoned as Minho is either.
“You’re going to hurt yourself if you keep your arms locked like that,” Minho comments; nudges his knee against Jisung’s shoulder until he elbows him away, but lets the arm against his ribs go just the slightest bit more lax.
Then, moving his hand slightly, fingers flexing over the grip, Jisung presses his eye against the scope; gently angles the gun downwards, until the fluorescent green crosshairs of the sight hover above the back of the mark’s head.
Jisung swipes the pad of his fingertip over the cool curve of the trigger, his heart a steady beat in his chest and a familiar calm washing over him. He applies pressure, feels the metal click beneath his finger, and with a bang and a kickback the bullet’s discharged.
There had been a time when Jisung’s heart used to flinch in his chest hard enough for it to hurt whenever a gunshot would sound, loud like blaring horns on a highway. But they’ve become the same as everything else now: normal.
Normal just like the way the body instantly falls with a dull thud he can’t hear, but knows the exact sound of anyway; like the weight of Minho’s hand on his shoulder as he gives it a small squeeze that Jisung’s come to know is a silent good job, and just like blood he sees splattered on the white upholstery of the sofa that the body has completely dropped off of now. They’re only small stains, nothing important, and with that it’s over with. Finished. All before seven in the morning.
Standing back on his feet, Jisung pulls the bolt of the rifle back to expel the empty shell, hand poised to catch it before it can roll onto the floor, and passes the rifle back to Minho. He takes one look at it and makes a face.
“You left your greasy little prints all over this,” Minho complains, rubbing the cuff of his jacket over the grip where Jisung can see that he had, in fact, left greasy little fingerprints.
“My bad, hyung.” He gives Minho the most insincere, rueful smile he can pull because for whatever reason, it always manages to work on him, despite being one of the worst expressions Jisung is capable of making.
Glaring back without any real conviction before he turns back to the rifle, and Minho has it disassembled and back in its case within five minutes. Then he reaches over and swipes his thumb over Jisung’s lip in a way that’s more of a harsh rub than the gentle touch that Jisung doesn’t know why he’d expected.
“The hell was that?” he asks, throat suddenly gone dry as he automatically brings his own fingers up to his mouth.
Minho holds his hand up, lets Jisung see the single speck of sugar glaze on the pad of his thumb. Then he licks it off and tilts his head in the direction of the hall. Ten minutes later and they’re back out on the street, crowds thicker than they had been an hour ago, and Jisung with his hands shoved down deep in his pockets—because of the cold, and not so he doesn’t go to touch his lip again.
mission 0018
Jisung has been doing official work for the company since spring; can clearly remember the day of his first legitimate assignment, because he also remembers how it had been the day that the first of the magnolias had finally started to unfold, and he’d nearly missed the briefing to stop and admire the pretty pink blossoms. But it’s not until six months later, when all the trees have gone bare and he’s been to more briefings than he can count, that he works one of those jobs.
The blood had splattered and speckled over Jisung's shirt, on his hands and in his hair. Minho had stopped at the first gas station they’d come across on their way back and taken Jisung to the bathroom, where he immediately fell to his knees and heaved over the toilet until all that came out was saliva. Then, wordlessly, Minho had pulled him up, over to the sink, and washed the crusted blood off of his fingers and out from under his nails for him when Jisung found himself unable to move; firm touches, as if polishing him up.
He had handed Jisung his own suit jacket to wear because Jisung’s had been ripped off in the middle of the chaos, and had seemed completely unfazed by the pointed, judgemental looks the cashier shot Jisung’s swollen eyes and the state of their clothes as he led him back to the car.
And after it all, when his throat is raw from the bile he’d retched up and the skin on his hands is cracked and dry and an ugly red from the near hour he’d spent scrubbing them under water that ran scalding, Jisung can still feel the cold dread that had run through him right before it happened, when he’d realized what would have to happen; a needling chill that had coated his skin and made him hesitate for just a moment.
That hesitation was what had made the bullet pound through the man’s shoulder instead of his head, was what had torn a gurgled scream from his throat before Jisung had frantically shut him up by adding a second bullet to his temple.
Jisung knows that he never actually heard the sounds of it happening, hadn’t really heard the sound of the man’s collarbone shattering when he’d shot through it, nor the break of his skull. He knows that the gunshot that left his ears ringing had also blocked out any other noise in the moment. But that doesn’t stop Jisung’s brain from conjuring up an awful, wet cracking sound, playing over and over again in his head like a broken record in the hours that had followed.
He hears it even now, sitting on the cool tiles of the bathroom floor in his boxers, slumped against the tub with his arm braced atop its edge; eyes sore and a sheen of cold sweat all over him. Wiping the back of his hand over his mouth, Jisung pushes himself up just enough to reach over to flush the toilet after he’s sure that nothing else is going to force its way up.
And then he makes the mistake of glancing to the side, catches sight of the stained white dress shirt he’d tried and failed to wash—because there’s only so much he could do with a bar of hotel soap—left in a wet, brown-blotched heap in the tub, and immediately lurches forward to dry heave over the toilet bowl.
Gripping the ceramic edge hard enough that his knuckles go white, until they ache, his head bowed between his shoulders, Jisung misses the sound of the door to his room opening. He doesn’t even notice anyone’s come in until the door of the bathroom is nudged open and Minho enters, clearly rolled right out of bed if the mess of his hair and the way he hasn’t bothered putting a contact in to conceal his blind eye are anything to go by. He’s got his pistol in his left hand, and, when it becomes clear that Jisung’s groaning isn’t because he’s been attacked by anyone, clicks the safety on and sets it on the marble vanity top before slipping back out of the room.
Jisung swallows hard, wipes the back of his forearm over his face in an attempt to not look as shitty as he knows does in the half minute it takes before Minho reappears with a bottle of water in his hands, which he cracks open before proffering.
“Thanks,” Jisung grunts, taking a shaky pull of water; pauses with it in his mouth for a moment, then swishes it around and spits the putrid taste on his tongue out into the bathtub before falling back against it. He can feel Minho watching him closely and makes a point not to look at him; rakes a trembling hand through his hair and tugs at it hard when his fingers catch on a knot until it comes free; drops his hand and crosses his arms to keep himself from picking at the skin around his nails.
Finally, when he realizes that Minho isn’t going to leave on his own, Jisung looks up at him, meeting his eye for just a moment before darting his gaze away. He clears his throat. “Thanks for this,” he says again, holding the water bottle up lamely, “But you can go back, I’m fine.” His voice is so raspy it’s unfamiliar.
“You're not,” Minho says, voice soft enough that Jisung has to look up to make sure he’d actually spoken. He stays there with a shoulder leaned against the doorframe, and he doesn't speak again until after it’s been long enough that Jisung lolls his head back over the edge of the bathtub and stares blankly at the ceiling.
“You’ll get used to it,” he eventually continues. “You’ll get used to it, and it’ll get easier after that.”
Jisung’s laugh is clipped, and it sounds empty even to his own ears. “Will it actually, or is that just what you have to tell yourself because it’s included in the fine print?’
“Both,” Minho replies, and from the corner of his eye Jisung can just see him taking a step closer and crouching down in front of him. “I know you don’t believe me, and I’m not expecting you to either—not right now, at least, but it does.”
Jisung snorts. “Sure, okay,” he says, letting his head drop back forward just in time to see Minho clench his jaw, expression shifting into something stringent. “‘Course it does.”
“You knew what this job is like before you started,” Minho says, voice still low, but tighter than it had been a moment ago. “And if it’s something you’re clearly going to struggle with, then you should have considered that before you accepted.”
It's those words that have Jisung straightening up immediately. He stares at Minho, incredulous; turns away, rubs his knuckles over his unshaved jaw, then turns back.
“As if any of you even gave me fucking a choice about it,” he snaps, grateful for the anger that’s flared in his chest because it gives him something to focus on other than the horrible hollowness he feels throughout his entire body. “‘Accepting the job,’” he jeers. “What a load of shit. As if I sent in a fucking resume and decided that I just love the company culture and the paid time off and free dental and—and whatever the fuck else other benefits are supposed to come in an employee package.”
Minho doesn’t flinch, his voice even and each word biting. “Don't make it sound so fucking dramatic, princess. You would have kept your little head even if you never agreed to work in the first place. If that's your biggest worry then you can go ahead and quit right now. They won’t do anything as terrible to you as they would have before, not now after spending so many resources on you. There's your choice."
Jisung hates the sharp prickle at the back of his eyes, nerves in his neck pinching as he forces himself not to shrink back like a child who's been reprimanded. Blowing out a noisy breath, "How generous. Can't have company assets going to waste."
For a moment, he thinks Minho is going to say something else condescending. But then he grips Jisung firmly around either elbow, hauls him up to his feet, and steers him back into the room. And Jisung, not quite sure what exactly just happened, watches Minho as he slips back into the bathroom. He comes back with his pistol in his hand and sighs a quiet, “Go back to bed, Jisung,” before gently closing the door behind himself as he leaves.
Jisung wakes up to the feeling of something wet and frigid resting on his forehead, and the switchblade he keeps beneath his pillow is in his hand before his eyes open; whatever was on his face is instantly pulled away.
“It’s only me.” There’s a faint clacking sound before Minho presses something to Jisung’s palm; he automatically curls his fingers around it and glances down at the cup of iced coffee he’s more or less been forced to take, the cool condensation on the outside of the plastic pleasant against his clammy skin.
Setting the knife on the small side table, Jisung pries the lid off the coffee, tilts his head back, and downs half of it in one go. He barely gets the chance to lower the cup before Minho's shoving something else at him: a crinkled brown paper bag.
Clearing his throat in a way that Jisung could almost believe is sheepish if he didn't know any better, he says, "I'm going down to the lobby, call me when you're ready to go."
He's out of the room before Jisung can say anything, although he's not sure he even would have. And then, after peering into the bag and finding an assortment of different breakfast pastries, he thinks maybe he wouldn’t really have needed to.