[fanfic] deus ex monstrum || pt. i
Title: Deus Ex Monstrum
Fandom: EXO
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: graphic descriptions of violence, blood, etc; eventual character death
Summary: In between the shadows and destruction and nothing, there is a change.
A/N: Because Monster and Lucky One had me rolling on the floor with joy. Haven't been this happy with EXO for a while. Also, this concept really reminded me of Big Bang's Monster from however many years ago. I loved it when it first came out, and truth to be told, I had almost forgotten about it by now. Since they are so similar, I tried to unite the concept in this AU, though you can't really tell that much.
I am not dead? What? Haven't written anything for two years, and the jury is still out on my current ability to write.
This is also a shit time to get back into writing because rehearsals are tight, my dissertation is breathing down my back and work starts soon, but that's what EXO's comeback has done to me.
They fight with ruthless competence.
Quiet, effective and without mercy. This is the mission. This is what they do.
At the end of the night, the only thing left in the old office is the pungent smell of blood and rotten bodies. They leave them lying there, crumpled and ugly and terrifying in a macabre display, because that is what the mission states.
A demonstration. Eliminate, and warn. That is what they were supposed to do.
They do not know why. It is not their concern.
One of them digs two fingers between the torn throat of a heavy man in gold rings and a suit. He lets the blood soak, coating his fingers thickly even as he pulls them out and turns towards the big window facing the streets below. It is still dark, and the flickering lights of the street lamps don’t reach their position on the third floor.
The others watch patiently, almost in reverence as he drags his fingers across the window slowly, in precise and controlled movements. When he turns away there is a jagged hexagon painted in scarlet across the pane. A lonely drop crawls down towards the floor and leaves a small trail in its wake.
He turns around and nods to the others.
Then they all take off, in the blink of an eye, away from the scene, into the night, and back to their master, awaiting new orders.
--
The first time something goes wrong is when 10 hears the plea from a man just as he is about to break his woman’s (wife? Lover? Sister?) neck.
“Please,” the man sobs, ugly sobbing and wretched hiccups. “I beg you, let her be. You’re only after me, right?”
The woman cries at his feet, her head still held between 10’s palms. He looks at the man, expression void but eyes curious.
This isn’t supposed to deter him. This isn’t supposed to mean anything to him.
But it triggers something in his chest and 10 doesn’t understand what it means.
His brief pause seems to encourage the man.
“I know they sent you after me,” he continues, his face all red and puffed and contorted and for all of his familiarity with the grotesque, 10 wants to look away. “But she doesn’t know anything, I swear…”
The woman keeps crying, twisting between 10’s hands, and he digs his nails into her skin to force her to stay still. She does, but the volume of her wails increase and it’s starting to hurt his ears. He should just finish the job and take off immediately.
He doesn’t.
“I don’t know who you are,” the man says, and 10’s attention flies back to him. His expression is still blank, unreadable, but his eyes are intently focused on his primary target, radiating faintly in the dark. “But have some compassion, please, she is with child - “
But then the man crawls forward, and 10’s lightning reflexes and instincts kick in. He draws a knife from his thigh holster and smashes it between the man’s eyes before he can react, his expression still frozen in a hopeless prayer as red slides out between polished steel and clammy flesh.
The woman, dropped to the floor a mere second earlier, shrieks and flails, scrambling backwards and stumbling to get as far away from the scene as possible. She hits the wall, trembling and crying until she runs out of breath and huddles in on herself. 10 pulls out the knife with careless precision, unminding of the bloody waterfall unleashed by its absence.
He kills the woman and leaves.
--
The second time is when 88 shoots a robber on his way to a mission with 12.
He can’t explain why he did it when his handler asks him about it.
He spends two days with psych.
--
Then 94 comes back to the ward with a teddy bear clutched in one hand.
He settles down to initiate the lengthy post-mission protocol, ignoring the incredulous and confused looks of the nurses and the agents, and starts talking.
“Mission report: 583-double-B, X-94 reports - “
“Hold the fuck up,” his handler cuts him off, and 94 obeys, looking up at him silently. He has never experienced this before, he always recounts his mission carefully before the enquiries begin. But he doesn’t question his handler, because his handler is his master’s mouth, and he is in charge. 94 must always listen.
“What is up with the toy?” His handler demands, pointing to the bear still hanging from 94’s left hand. “We didn’t ask for a souvenir.”
94 thinks about this for a second. Why did he bring the teddy bear back?
“Target was hitting a boy,” he says slowly, phrasing his explanation carefully. “I eliminated the target. The boy was not a part of mission parameters. He gave me the object when I left.” And he had held on to it. It was important. He always had to hold on to any weapons or tools his handler gave him, otherwise he would be punished.
The boy had said it was a gift. His handler said that sometimes too.
“Oh my god,” his handler shakes his head, half laughing, half groaning. 94 doesn’t understand why. He keeps quiet.
“Well, I’m afraid that was a waste of a kid’s favourite toy,” his handler says and rips the bear from 94’s hands. He doesn’t like it, but he doesn’t protest either. His handler tosses it to someone by the door and motions something with his head. Then he turns back to 94.
“Alright, let’s start over, X-94, mission report.”
“Mission report: 583-double-B, X-94 reports mission success - “
--
The next issue is with 21.
21 is dangerously effective, and one of the soldiers best suited for solo operations. They are all capable, but 21 seems to excel at them.
That is, until he returns to the ward after a mission with a question rather than confirmed kill.
“Target does not match description provided by the informant,” he says to his handler, dead serious and eyes twinkling. “I suggest abort mission, please advise.”
His handler looks like something just struck him.
“X-21, elaborate,” he demands after a while, and he should punish this kind of audacity, the soldiers are meant to obey, not come up with ideas, but this has never happened with 21 before, and he is not sure what to do.
“Informant identified target as a ‘high level threat’ and a quote, ‘bag of dicks’, unquote, but my observations don’t match this proposition.”
His handler pauses once more, taken aback by both the language and the issue at hand.
“Why not?”
“After observing the target for 11.7 hours,” 21 wrinkles his nose a little. “He appears anything but threatening. He exhibited no behaviour suggestive of danger to anyone, but appeared friendly to weak life forms. Sir, is the target misidentified?”
“That is not your concern,” his handler says, but shuffles through the mission folder anyway, until he finds the picture of the target and hands it over to 21. “Is this the target?”
21 only glances at it for a brief second before nodding.
“I can confirm that this is the target, X-21,” the handler sighs, tucking the picture back. “Now go out and complete the mission. A second team will be dispatched after 24 hours unless mission success is recorded. Do not fail.”
“Very well, sir.”
--
The biggest problem turns out to be a development, rather than a glitch.
It occurs with 61, which should be expected, because despite his aptitude, 61 has always been the most difficult soldier to work with. He is not the oldest or the youngest, but his functionality is still notably different from the other soldiers.
Still, they mostly catch any changes in the inception phase, and are able to correct or accelerate any nonconformities according to their designs.
This time it happens on a mission.
It is also a much bigger deviation than anything they have seen before. It takes everyone by surprise, including 99 and 12, who are on the mission with him.
The hit was done and the parcel extracted when they are ambushed on their way out. 99 is leading the way, while 12 cradles the parcel and 61 brings up the rear. They have just rounded a corner outside the complex when there is a screech and an enormous black van speeds towards them. 61 is barely able to grab the back of 12’s jacket and pull him back, but 99 takes the full brunt of the car’s aggressive charge, and is sent flying several yards, crumpling against the neighbouring building.
The car skids to a halt as 61 positions himself protectively before 12 and the parcel. He is bigger and bulkier than 12, and the package must be delivered to the ward. That is their mission. That is the only important thing.
His rifle is slung over his shoulder, but he opts for his small sidearms instead as armoured guards stream out of the van’s back door and point their own guns at them. 61 fires three rapid shots, taking out the first two while motioning for 12 to take cover. Then he charges at the group, moving too quickly in the dark for their assailants to follow, and takes two of them down with him in a violent rush of red and black. They crumple to the ground, and one of the guards fires a shot that goes wild, not in 61’s direction at all, but rather towards the car as the angle is twisted by their descent.
The jumble of bodies confuse the remaining three guards for a second, unwilling to shoot and accidentally hit one of their companions, but this is all 61 needs. He is up in a second and shoves the nearest guy into the van with all of his enhanced strength, leaving a great dent as he slumps to the ground. A bullet flies past his head, but he doesn’t pay it any heed. Another one embeds itself in his shoulder as he turns around, and there is a small splash of blood in the night, though 61 hardly seems to notice it. His eyes are gleaming and those are the eyes of a hunter, determination surging stronger than pain.
He needs to finish the mission. Eliminate all threats.
Barely a second later the two guards join their companions on the ground, one neck broken and another taken down by friendly fire.
61 takes a moment to assess the area for further threats when a grenade goes off two yards to his left, knocking him off his feet and into the side of the car.
The world blurs for a second as he tries to gather his bearings, get rid of the dizziness, and this annoys him (he isn’t supposed to be annoyed - he’ll have to state that in the mission report later) because it is a nuisance and he doesn’t like unnecessary interferences in his missions.
He is lying face-down on the ground, shoulder burning and spine creaking from the impact against the car. 61 blinks a couple of times and sees the black forms of the guards he knocked out, his ears are ringing, and something smells like gasoline -
“Don’t move,” a voice says above him, the driver, the one 61 forgot about for half a second - he is getting careless, lack of maintenance? - and he hears a gun cocking. He mentally maps out the scenario. No sound from 12 or 99. 12 must still be in hiding, maybe he even ran off on his own during the fight. 61 frowns. He hopes not. That was not a part of the plan. But if it gets the parcel back to the ward, he supposes it’s okay.
99 might still be out cold. He shouldn’t be, but it is not impossible.
61 isn’t used to relying on others anyway. He cooperates well, they all do - but no matter how good they become at predicting each other, the only thing 61 knows for sure is himself.
This is also why he is the only person involved in his own contingency plans.
Guns are a pest when he is at a disadvantage, because although his body can withstand a lot, he would probably be incapacitated if the guy shot him at point-blank. If he knows how to aim - which he probably does. If he got upright he should be able to overpower him, but he might not get the opportunity. What else? He smelled gasoline earlier - the car is right by him. He would survive the blast, but the driver…
61 thinks about his gear. Muzzle flash is not precise enough, friction unpredictable, but he has a lighter in a side pocket. Can he get it without the driver shooting him?
He moves his right hand slightly, still facing away from the driver, whose loud breathing puts him somewhere behind 61, by the front of the car.
However, he doesn’t move much before a bullet ricochets by his elbow, not close enough to be threatening, but still illustrating the driver’s resolve. Why he doesn’t just shoot him bewilders 61, but he isn’t supposed to consider these things. That’s not his job.
His job is to get the package safely home.
“I told you, don’t move!” The driver yells again, and 61’s hand freezes mid-air, hovering slightly above the tarmac.
“Now put your hands on the ground by your head!” and 61 frowns again, because this is getting very annoying. He needs to finish the mission, quickly, effectively, and he should be able to do this now -
The instant his hand hits the gasoline-covered ground, fire engulfs his arm and it lights up the area in the blink of an eye as it spreads towards the car, and -
Then his world is seared by pain, burning, white, scratching, ice cold and biting, and the driver doesn’t even have the time to cry out as the explosion engulfs them.
He doesn’t pass out, not entirely, but time flies by in a strange, muted fashion, and suddenly strong hands grip his shoulders, lifting him up carefully. He suppresses a groan at the pressure on his injured shoulder, the bullet wound agitated by the heat, and he feels burns littering his back.
“Status, 61?”
That’s 99’s voice. Calm, steady, and it anchors him a little bit. He opens his eyes and slowly regains his balance with one arm slung over 99’s shoulder. He is a lot shorter than 61, but they make it work, and 12 is there as well, standing towards the side and observing them in silence. He still has the package in his arms.
The car is a wreck, still burning and smoking, but the fire is dying out around the carcass, and 61 sees the remains of the guards he took out earlier and the driver. He allows himself to feel mildly pleased by his work.
His work… The fire -
He started that?
“Status, 61?” 99 presses again, nudging him a little.
61 shakes his head and takes a heavy breath.
“Functional,” he says, because above all he is still operational and able to see the mission through. Although he wishes he could lie the fuck down and sleep.
He knows that’s not relevant, but the thought flows through his mind anyway.
99 nods, and starts leading him away. They move slower for a while, until 61 feels confident enough to walk on his own, and they resume their previous flanking position.
They make their way back to the ward and 61’s handler groans at his state while 12 and 99 are whisked away to another room.
When he gives the mission report, 61 does not mention how the car exploded.
--
The day after their return from the mission, 61’s handler approaches him with a fuming look on his face.
61’s handler is a middle-aged man with no tolerance for nonsense and very little affection for his charge. Some of the handlers like to pretend that their soldiers work like regular people and treat them almost like children, if only in mocking tones.
This is not the case for 61. His handler does not appreciate the difficulty that comes with 61, with all his idiosyncrasies and weird penchants. He wishes for someone that is easier to work with - someone like 88. Though with that said, he enjoys corporeal punishment, and 61 gives him enough opportunities to practice his slaps.
He delivers a swift one to 61’s right cheek when he is a foot away from the soldier’s chair, opening one of the healing cuts again and a small red drop trickles down his cheek.
“X-61,” he grits out, crossing his arms as 61 straightens in the chair, looking up at him obediently, as if he has no clue about what this is about. Maybe he doesn’t. “You gave me an incomplete mission report yesterday. Please correct yourself.”
“I apologize,” 61 says quietly. His eyes are not glowing, but they are not dull either. “I don’t know what you are referring to, sir.”
“I talked to the rest of the team today,” the handler says. “You left out a detail. 12’s report states that you - that you set fire to the car with your hand?”
“Not entirely precise, sir. I set fire to the gasoline leaking from the car.”
“And why did you refrain from mentioning this yesterday?” His handler is fuming now.
But his expression falls into shock when 61, instead of excusing himself or apologizing looks up at him, looks him right in the eye and grins, wide and white and -
“It wasn’t relevant to the mission.”
--
They run 61 through tests for three days, and when they are done, they bring in 10 for comparisons. They keep him around for a week, and he doesn’t protest. Doesn’t say anything, in fact.
Although none of the soldiers are talkative, 10 has a peculiar kind of unnerving silence.
He doesn’t speak, but his eyes vibrate and spark, like they contain something dangerous and unknown.
They know 10 is dangerous.
They don’t know what else he might be.
He keeps his thoughts to himself on the matter.
There are whispers, hopes, and additional studies of the original blueprints, but no one voices it out loud for a while. Maybe 61 was an oddity, exception, but if he isn’t -
Eleven days after 61’s hand lit a patch of gasoline on fire, they confirm it.
The soldiers are still developing. And this time, the changes are major.
--
04 is a problem.
He is unstable, and they barely take him out. He was the last one, and his mind is still a labyrinth they have only mostly mapped out. He is cooperative when he is with the other soldiers, but alone he defies their wipes and orders.
It scares them a little bit, that they are not able to control him, to understand him.
He is useful - so useful, just like the others, but capable in his own ways, because they all have different skills and qualities.
04 is active where the others are passive, taking control and running a vocal weaponry where the others keep quiet unless specified in the mission statements. 04 can be independent and thinking, beyond the single-mindedness they have instilled in their soldiers, and this can be a useful asset when situations escalate and expected scenarios go awry.
But this tendency is also what makes him a problem.
He works well with 94 and 61, sometimes with 01 and 21. 99 and 10 he doesn’t interact with much.
All of this is fine.
But 04’s individuality makes him question things. Makes him angry, insubordinate - allows him to remember things. He doesn’t accept anything they tell him, and encourages his fellow soldiers to think like him.
It makes him dangerous, not only to their enemies, but to their very foundation.
This is why they don’t take him out very often.
His handler walks into the barren room with a thick dossier tucked under his right arm. He grins at 04, and it is a wicked, ugly thing that 04 detests with all his being.
He detests it like he detests his uniform, the guard they put on his mouth, the screams of dying children and cheap beer. This place, what they do, what they have reduced him to. He hates them all, and his only reconciliation is the presence of the other soldiers, and what little he has left of his own sanity.
It is precious to him, now that so little remains of it.
Was it ever there to begin with?
“Cheer up, X-04,” his handler calls. “You’ve got a mission.”
04 glares at him, hard, hating, cold. His eyes glow, but there is no darkness to wrap himself in now, only the pale, sterile light that strangles his freedom and weighs his shoulders down. He hates this. He hates his handler.
He hates what they call him.
“My name is Baekhyun.”