Chapter Text
This is not how Gregory wished to spend his Christmas; in the harsh winters of Russia, darting around what he suspected was now the outskirts of Chernobyl. The perfect lay low really- if one could bypass the possibility of radiation poisoning. Something else he would much like to avoid.
A tip off had told him his most recent target had chased himself into the middle of this desolate waste land; probably hunting down Russian radicals or perhaps even a paranormal phenomena. He couldn't help a laugh at the second option. Spirits. What a joke.
Normally he would have manipulated one of his lackey Mercenaries into such a situation for him, but the current mission seemed rather personally addressed to the British man.
A burn notice. Quite the odd burn notice at that; it lacked a name, face, any information at all really other than the fact printed in bold that whomever this was needed to be wiped from the face of this particular business. A Free-lancer. Those of whom were not appreciated in this day and age by the growing rings and ring masters.
Sliding down a small slope leading to the quarantine fence was easy enough with no foliage littering the dead ground getting in his way, though he gave a soft scoff at the wet mud clinging to his shoes, pants and the ends of his trench. No time to worry about high fashion, sadly- He reminded himself, vaulting his body against the fence and scaling it rather quickly in defiance from the mud that clung to his form. However, now that he was within city limits, it was only a matter of hunting down the target. Hopefully this wouldn't prove too difficult, but the landscape offered abandoned buildings, fallen in tunnels, and rotting houses as hideaways.
This would be less of a hunt; more a game of violent hide and seek.
And with Gregory out in the open he appeared to be 'it'.
A soft grin cracked across his lips at how childish he'd made all of this sound. How amusing this should be then, and with one gloved hand held firmly against the hilt of his sword he pressed into the wasteland.
Gregory was not here for the money, or the identification that would surely come with picking off a pesky free floater. The man was here purely and simply out of curiosity. The vague letter had intrigued him, pulled at something in his gut that urged him all the way from holiday in England to the decaying city before him. That's another thing; at least the location was fascinating if not dismal and disturbing. Not to mention a medical disaster waiting to happen.
Breathing the chemicals lacing the air around him was not exactly a primary concern at the moment. It should have perturbed him more, walking down the ruin of what was probably at the time a ruined neighborhood anyways- Children's toys left toppled and scattered, husks of what he presumed used to be vehicles littering the main roads. This street however seemed rather...empty.
Solemn.
It wasn't the scenery that tugged against the innards of his stomach, making them twist and turn. Though, that was a good part of it. The faint shuffling of another body echoing off fallen and crumbling houses is what finally caught his attention.
"Going to make it that easy for me, are you?"
He let his form seize up a bit, not noticeably of course, why would you ever give an opponent the advantage of witnessing your nerves tense. He made a point of keeping his back to the other -a dangerous option, but rather effective in mental manipulation. It showed, as his shoulders relaxed, that he was calm, confident and in no way frightened.
"Honestly I thought you'd give more of a chase, I'm rather disappointed you simply step into the open. Foolish, a move you'll certain-" he leaned back on the heel of his left foot to pivot and face his opponent calmly, though every nerve in his body only tensed again.
"-regret..."
For a brief moment contemplation flashed across his features. Everything about the figure standing limply in the distance gave off a feeling of déjà vu. And though it may have taken a moment for him to finally reach realization, he recognized the rigged form. Windswept brown hair, and sunken in eyes. Most prominent however was the shovel strapped firmly against the man's back.
And the confidence in his expression simply fell.
--------------------------------------
It had been a slow year for Christophe, no work. A man like him could barely make the money needed for survival these days. Everything was big, fancy businesses. Nobody wanted the "Ruthless French Mercenary" anymore. The morning had been the same, quiet and cold, yet something felt off. His last job was three weeks ago, a small mission in Kuala Lumpur, but it had seemed to be such a long time ago. Since then he had been hiding out in Poland. The last tip he had gotten had one broken sentence written on it : RUSS- Decembre25-CHERNOBYLSET
The mercenary didn't recognize the ink, it didn't feel right, and what was Set? Nevertheless, a job is a job and he needed the money.
He set out on the ending days of November; he had only his supplies for the job, no means of transportation. He managed to hijack a small cargo plane and made it there five hours before day break.
Something felt off.
He shook the thought out of his head trying to clear his mind, work and survival were the only two things that mattered.
The sting of the icy wind flushing his face as he trekked through the ice and snow spotting a tunnel up ahead.
Once to the surface again he hid out in an abandoned building, on the verge of collapse and waited.
His eyes twitched, his mind alert, when he heard a familiar voice, what was this man playing at, who had sent him here. He could not place the voice, but he knew it was bad news.
He approached the sound and saw a tall, lean figure with an unmistakable blond head of well kempt hair. The figure had not turned around. Christophe felt his body go limp.
Bad news indeed.
Terror coursed through his veins spreading like the plague.
His stomach a pit, a trench. His face expressionless it once was, but now agape.
Everything he had learned. About survival combat. About not dying...well that, that was all gone. Flushed down the drain in some flurry of lost friendship and sweltering emotion.
The only person able to bring him to his knees. The only person in the world who was able to make him drop anything, and rush to his aid.
Gregory Sharpe.
His legs threatened to betray him but he held steady. The golden speckles in the blond man's icy blue eyes glimmered with frustration. Something was wrong, terribly wrong. This couldn't be possible. Such a horrid fate at this extreme should be left to Oedipus. No he was no tragic hero, he was a cold ruthless young French man, only nineteen years of age. And he, it seemed, was destined to murder his best friend.