Round 25: Welcome, ghosts
Title: Welcome, ghosts
Team: AU
Rating: R
Fandom: 2NE1
Pairing: CL-centric (CL/Bom)
Summary: a girl is a gun.
Author's Note: assassin au. warnings for violence.
Prompt Used: SPICA - Russian Roulette
Chaerin trips into the company by accident when she is fourteen years old, half a year after she's been turned out of her family's old house for not being able to scrape rent together the third time in a row.
It starts with an explosion that kills the loan sharks who took her parents from her, a group of shadowy figures she's been trying to track down for months. The night is dark and cold, and the only man who walks out of the burning building is smoking a cigarette, the tip of it flickering orange with every puff, hands shoved in his pockets as he walks away.
She tails him halfway across the city. He knows she's following him; she knows he knows. He leads her to the double doors of a nondescript six-story office building in Hapjeong-dong and sinks down on the front steps. She sees his face for the first time in the light: severe brow, strong nose, eyes that taper downward at the corners. "Are you gonna come out and let me see you or not?" he asks, elbows propped up on his knees. "Lurking about isn't very polite."
Chaerin slides out from beneath an awning, suddenly conscious of the ratty bun her hair's pulled into and the dirt underneath her fingernails. She hasn't showered in God knows how long. She sits across from him on the other side of the empty street, the cement curb digging into her thighs.
He watches her fold her arms around her shins and blows smoke out of his mouth. "Kids these days," the man says gruffly, pulling at the baseball cap underneath his hoodie. "Why were you following me?"
"Those people you killed," she rasps out after a brief pause, voice cracking from disuse, heart pounding in her ribcage. "They were bad people."
He looks at her askance, eyes narrow. "That's why sajangnim asked me to kill them."
"They took my parents," she says. "I wanted to-"
"Ah," he says, drumming his fingers against his chin. His eyes crinkle at the corners when he smiles. "Revenge." He pauses, takes another drag of his cigarette. "I'm sorry I took that away from you. What were you going to do when you found them?"
She shakes her head, hands fisting in the fabric of her jeans. "I don't know."
He leans forward and gazes at her, quiet and assessing. "We could teach you," he says, and the words are barely out of his mouth before she's saying, "Yes. Yes. Yes."
The man's name is Teddy. "What kind of name is that?" she asks when he offers it. He just sends her an amused look before letting her in the building.
There's a couch in his office that she stays on for the night, tossing and turning. At dawn, he pushes her into a communal shower room on the third floor and hands her a change of clothes that hang loose on her frame and smell of floral detergent.
The sun's just coming up over the horizon when he takes her to sajangnim, a frog-looking guy in a plain white t-shirt and a gray newsboy cap who tells her to call him Yang-goon. He steeples his hands and stares her down, gaze flickering between her and Teddy. "She doesn't look like much."
"I didn't notice she was following me until we got across the river," Teddy remarks casually. "I'd say that's something."
They take her down to the shooting range and put a gun in her hand. Her first bullet glances off the shoulder of the human-shaped target, but she puts the next two straight through the heart, the gunshots clanking around in her head as she lowers her arm.
"Good," she sees Yang-goon mouthing grudgingly as she turns. He taps a hand on the earmuffs cuffed over his head. "Next time, remember these."
The clothing on her back turns out to be Bom's, the resident munitions expert with a vacant, disarming face that belies everything she knows. Chaerin moves into her tiny apartment, in a skyrise two blocks away from the company's headquarters. On nights when Chaerin wakes up shaking, Bom puts a hand in her hair and rubs smooth circles into the knotted muscle between her shoulder blades. Chaerin clenches her fingers in the material of Bom's shirt and doesn't let go until morning.
Gummy teaches her ten different ways to kill a man with her thighs. Kush shows her how to make bombs out of things like orange juice and soap and gasoline, drills it into her head like middle-school math. They teach her English and Spanish and French and Japanese, language lessons she sits in with Jiyong and Youngbae, Seungri and Minji. She takes it all and parrots it back, knowledge falling out of her mouth with every breath.
Chaerin learns never to use a machine gun when a semi-automatic would do, the best way to silence her footsteps when tailing a mark, how to conceal knives in every article of clothing she could ever own, what it means to feel so sore that every part of her body aches from over-exertion.
On her seventeenth birthday, she is finally allowed to accompany Bom on a sniping job in Gangnam as a spotter, her first real involvement in any mission.
"Range to target, seven three niner," Chaerin says. "Wind, 2 mils left. On scope."
Bom shifts underneath Chaerin's arm, breath evening out in tandem with hers. "On target," she whispers.
"Fire."
It's a beautiful headshot. Chaerin barely blinks. "Stand by for second target. Running down the street, 5 mils right. You got it?"
"Yes."
"Fire."
Blood slides in rivulets through the gaps in the cobblestone. "Stand by for third target."
Bom leans in.
"Range to target, seven five seven. Wind, 3 mils left. Low crawling-"
"Got him."
"Fire."
Chaerin watches the bullet sink through the last man's head with a sort of clinical interest, traces the trajectory of it as it ricochets off the stone.
Her heart thuds in her throat once, twice-she imagines, for a moment, the faces of the men who took her parents, how they might look with their heads blown off, lying in pools of their own blood on the sidewalk below-and then she pulls back, moves to pack up the scope, hands shaking a little from the rush of adrenaline.
Bom casts her a sidelong glance. "You okay?"
"Fine," Chaerin says, and it's the truth. A truth. "I've just never seen a man die before."
Bom hums in understanding. Despite (because of?) the three bodies on the ground below, it gives Chaerin some measure of comfort.
Poll Round 25: Welcome, ghosts
Team: AU
Rating: R
Fandom: 2NE1
Pairing: CL-centric (CL/Bom)
Summary: a girl is a gun.
Author's Note: assassin au. warnings for violence.
Prompt Used: SPICA - Russian Roulette
Chaerin trips into the company by accident when she is fourteen years old, half a year after she's been turned out of her family's old house for not being able to scrape rent together the third time in a row.
It starts with an explosion that kills the loan sharks who took her parents from her, a group of shadowy figures she's been trying to track down for months. The night is dark and cold, and the only man who walks out of the burning building is smoking a cigarette, the tip of it flickering orange with every puff, hands shoved in his pockets as he walks away.
She tails him halfway across the city. He knows she's following him; she knows he knows. He leads her to the double doors of a nondescript six-story office building in Hapjeong-dong and sinks down on the front steps. She sees his face for the first time in the light: severe brow, strong nose, eyes that taper downward at the corners. "Are you gonna come out and let me see you or not?" he asks, elbows propped up on his knees. "Lurking about isn't very polite."
Chaerin slides out from beneath an awning, suddenly conscious of the ratty bun her hair's pulled into and the dirt underneath her fingernails. She hasn't showered in God knows how long. She sits across from him on the other side of the empty street, the cement curb digging into her thighs.
He watches her fold her arms around her shins and blows smoke out of his mouth. "Kids these days," the man says gruffly, pulling at the baseball cap underneath his hoodie. "Why were you following me?"
"Those people you killed," she rasps out after a brief pause, voice cracking from disuse, heart pounding in her ribcage. "They were bad people."
He looks at her askance, eyes narrow. "That's why sajangnim asked me to kill them."
"They took my parents," she says. "I wanted to-"
"Ah," he says, drumming his fingers against his chin. His eyes crinkle at the corners when he smiles. "Revenge." He pauses, takes another drag of his cigarette. "I'm sorry I took that away from you. What were you going to do when you found them?"
She shakes her head, hands fisting in the fabric of her jeans. "I don't know."
He leans forward and gazes at her, quiet and assessing. "We could teach you," he says, and the words are barely out of his mouth before she's saying, "Yes. Yes. Yes."
The man's name is Teddy. "What kind of name is that?" she asks when he offers it. He just sends her an amused look before letting her in the building.
There's a couch in his office that she stays on for the night, tossing and turning. At dawn, he pushes her into a communal shower room on the third floor and hands her a change of clothes that hang loose on her frame and smell of floral detergent.
The sun's just coming up over the horizon when he takes her to sajangnim, a frog-looking guy in a plain white t-shirt and a gray newsboy cap who tells her to call him Yang-goon. He steeples his hands and stares her down, gaze flickering between her and Teddy. "She doesn't look like much."
"I didn't notice she was following me until we got across the river," Teddy remarks casually. "I'd say that's something."
They take her down to the shooting range and put a gun in her hand. Her first bullet glances off the shoulder of the human-shaped target, but she puts the next two straight through the heart, the gunshots clanking around in her head as she lowers her arm.
"Good," she sees Yang-goon mouthing grudgingly as she turns. He taps a hand on the earmuffs cuffed over his head. "Next time, remember these."
The clothing on her back turns out to be Bom's, the resident munitions expert with a vacant, disarming face that belies everything she knows. Chaerin moves into her tiny apartment, in a skyrise two blocks away from the company's headquarters. On nights when Chaerin wakes up shaking, Bom puts a hand in her hair and rubs smooth circles into the knotted muscle between her shoulder blades. Chaerin clenches her fingers in the material of Bom's shirt and doesn't let go until morning.
Gummy teaches her ten different ways to kill a man with her thighs. Kush shows her how to make bombs out of things like orange juice and soap and gasoline, drills it into her head like middle-school math. They teach her English and Spanish and French and Japanese, language lessons she sits in with Jiyong and Youngbae, Seungri and Minji. She takes it all and parrots it back, knowledge falling out of her mouth with every breath.
Chaerin learns never to use a machine gun when a semi-automatic would do, the best way to silence her footsteps when tailing a mark, how to conceal knives in every article of clothing she could ever own, what it means to feel so sore that every part of her body aches from over-exertion.
On her seventeenth birthday, she is finally allowed to accompany Bom on a sniping job in Gangnam as a spotter, her first real involvement in any mission.
"Range to target, seven three niner," Chaerin says. "Wind, 2 mils left. On scope."
Bom shifts underneath Chaerin's arm, breath evening out in tandem with hers. "On target," she whispers.
"Fire."
It's a beautiful headshot. Chaerin barely blinks. "Stand by for second target. Running down the street, 5 mils right. You got it?"
"Yes."
"Fire."
Blood slides in rivulets through the gaps in the cobblestone. "Stand by for third target."
Bom leans in.
"Range to target, seven five seven. Wind, 3 mils left. Low crawling-"
"Got him."
"Fire."
Chaerin watches the bullet sink through the last man's head with a sort of clinical interest, traces the trajectory of it as it ricochets off the stone.
Her heart thuds in her throat once, twice-she imagines, for a moment, the faces of the men who took her parents, how they might look with their heads blown off, lying in pools of their own blood on the sidewalk below-and then she pulls back, moves to pack up the scope, hands shaking a little from the rush of adrenaline.
Bom casts her a sidelong glance. "You okay?"
"Fine," Chaerin says, and it's the truth. A truth. "I've just never seen a man die before."
Bom hums in understanding. Despite (because of?) the three bodies on the ground below, it gives Chaerin some measure of comfort.
Poll Round 25: Welcome, ghosts