Breaking the line (chapter one, PG-13)
It’s supposed to be just the next job, repeat of a well-known routine remembered after a few long years he’s been doing this. Nothing new, nothing to be excited about, nothing that will give his body any extra adrenaline. It’ll be just half an hour at most, filled by mechanic movements and cold, observant eyes concentrating only on it’s target, and nothing more.
Standing in front of the door of his small, rented apartment, in one hand he’s holding a big, grey envelope with a name written on it with capital letters. Well, it’s not a name - more like a nickname, something he came up with when he had decided his job requires remaining anonymous, letting people know as little about you as it’s possible. That’s why a long time ago he became Arsenal - an assassin, who quickly gained high respect in the criminal world. After many years of everyone calling him like that, he almost forgot already that he actually owns a name and a surname, the ones he really liked in the past, and it doesn’t come as a surprise or awkwardness when he gets those envelopes with a seven letters written neatly in a Latin alphabet.
He’s always opening them just moments before setting off to his destined location. It’s the easiest and most reasonable way of doing things - thanks to seeing his target in the last minutes, he’s sure he won’t get attached to whoever he’s going to see on the photo. No emotions and no sentiments - that’s the first and probably most important rule of every assassin.
And for the most of them - it’s also the hardest one.
When Arsenal, young man in the middle of his twenties, pulls out the photo, there are no emotions in his eyes. Corners of his mouth doesn’t twitch and his breath doesn’t stop - but his whole frame is suddenly freezing and the time between looking at and remembering the face and crushing the photo is lengthening, seconds turning into minutes, and minutes starting to seem as an incredibly long hours.
In the other hand he holds a revolver - it’s deep black and shining, and it’s weight is perfect, being in a complete symbiosis with Arsenal’s fingers. One could say his gun is rather old and impractical in the world where the lead have automatic weapons with many improvements and additions. But Arsenal prefers to call this an old-school friend of his, the one who won’t disappoint him because of sudden jamming of those so-called perfect automatics.
Now the rather long barrel of his revolver traces a spiral path over the surface of the photo - grazing young woman’s black hair, naked shoulder and delicate smile, ending it’s journey on a happy face of a small kid who can’t be older than five, maybe six years. It’s a nice photography. The one you could put into a family album, perfect for the first page - but also for the memorial plate standing next to the coffin in a funeral home.
Big hand with only slightly rough skin on the fingertips is crumbling the photo right after the barrel hooks the edge of the mat paper, and soon the messy ball hits the trash bin after being perfectly aimed at it’s target.
Arsenal never misses.
*
Seeing him for the first time, even in the most trivial situation, you can easily notice that he’s incredibly agile and fast, which together with an ability to keep silence, makes him almost impossible to detect by any human being. He can aim well even in the hardest conditions, he always strikes home in the first try and there aren’t many things that could make him lost his composure. He has also never had any second thoughts before pulling the trigger.
Until this day, that is.
Arsenal killed many people. He had never really thought if their death is righteous, if they should die or not - it has never been and will never be his role to judge this. As unwilling to admit this as Arsenal is, the truth is he’s only a tool in the hands of the real murderers. Of course, one could say it’s a great excuse to wriggle out of the responsibility for taken lives, but it’s just a statement of facts. He gets orders, he takes money, and he does what he has to do to repay for the amount laying safely on his bank account. He is not a murderer - he’s just an automatic gun, remote-controlled by his temporal boss’ words.
Automatic gun he despises so much.
It’s probably that night - the one in the late summer, when the temperature in the evenings starts getting colder and colder - when his disdain takes lead and overcomes all the professionalism he carries in his mind, and hands, and body. The house he’s standing in front of is small and inconspicuous, nothing like a place where someone worth dying would live in. Quite the contrary - it has everything that fits into Arsenal’s idea of the perfect family, the one everybody would like to grow up in - and the one he had never had an opportunity to savour. Maybe that’s why every next step he takes feels heavier, the gun he kept safely inserted behind his belt gaining a few extra kilograms, dragging him down and making him unable to use his usual abilities. It’s almost as if someone has injected him a drug without him acknowledging it. Suddenly, when the light brightens up one of the rooms and both of his targets are right in front of his eyes, uncovered by anything, perfect to aim at and pull the trigger - he’s sure there must be something wrong going on with him, because he doesn’t move, doesn’t reach for the hidden revolver, doesn’t squint his eyes in order to measure the length right. Instead, the view just hypnotizes him - woman’s smile is bright and wide when she’s watching his kid, who’s trying hard to reach for the apple laying on a kitchen counter, way too high as for his height. They’re talking, their mouths moving with the next words, and even though the window effectively muffles all the sounds, Arsenal can have the idea what they’re talking about.
“Just wait a second, I’ll give you this!” says the mother, finishing watering the plant standing near the door, laughing softly at how adorable her son is.
“It’s not fair I can’t reach whatever I want,” the child complains, pouting in that special way only kids can do. “But dad said soon I’ll grow even bigger than him, and then I’ll be able to get even things both of you can’t have!”
“Of course you will,” the women answers, nodding her head. “Just a few years and there won’t be a thing that’s impossible for you,” she ends, handing him the apple and patting his head with that characteristic motherly affection.
Arsenal knows the moment he turns around on his heels and escapes, leaving his target untouched, he puts himself into a big trouble. There is a fixed amount of money laying on his bank account, secured and ready to be withdrawn, but the job he got them for - is still undone. And it won’t be, he’s sure, because he knows himself too well to believe he’ll change his mind. Not now, and not ever - it’s not him. He has many faults, but being honest with himself has always been his strong point.
He didn’t plan this. Well, the truth is he never plans his actions, always believing his instincts. In this job you can’t really foresee what will happen and what actions will have to be taken. That’s why, coming back to his apartment, he’s not sure what he should do next. There are only three certain words repeating itself in his head - trouble, faith and escape.
He is in trouble. He has to escape. And he has to believe he’ll succeed.
Grabbing the phone, he doesn’t really know what he wants to do with it. Through all the years of sinking deeper and deeper in his profession, he hadn’t met many people. Most of them he ever talked to, or even looked in the eye, are already dead, and the other ones were only an employers - persons too lazy to deal with things themselves, who Arsenal wouldn’t trust even if they were the last human beings living in this world. He has always been alone, working on his own account, deciding it’s the best to be responsible only for himself and his own actions.
But then, suddenly and completely out of blue, one certain name pops out in his head, and one of the few saved positions on his contact list are dialed without much further thinking.
“Ace,” he breaths the moment he hears a familiar clicking sound of the phone being picked up. No one answers him though, and after a few very long seconds, stretching and making Arsenal feel nervous for the first time in ages, he tries again, calling the person on the other line with the name he used to use in the past, “Ryo.”
It turns out to be the turning point in the one-sided conversation, when the person takes a deep breath, muttering uncertainly, “Arsenal?”
“Yes. Gods, yes, it’s me,” he whispers with an overwhelming relief easily detectable in his voice. But that relief is followed only by silence, both of the sides not knowing what to say or how to react. It occurs to Arsenal just now - what is he going to ask for? What is his plan, what are his ideas to deal with the affair, and most of all - does he even have the right to ask Ace for anything?
The stream of thoughts is suddenly broken by half-irritated, half-amused voice, which surprisingly, despite how long time ago he’d heard it for the last time, doesn’t sound distant nor unfamiliar, “Are you going to actually say something, or you just wanted to hear my voice saying out loud your name?”
“I need help,” he says and somehow, he’s sure that Ace-or rather Ryo, will know what he means by helping.
“And what makes you think I will help you?” comes the answer, the one Arsenal expected to hear as anything else.
“Because you promised me this two years ago.”
*
The story of Ace and Arsenal is long and old, and Arsenal thought he won’t have to recall it anytime in the future. They met accidentally, trying to work out two different members of the same underground company. Having similar rules - which among other things involved working alone and not trusting anyone except themselves - somehow they ended helping each other. At first they had done it completely unintentionally, by sheer chance of the second sides of their routines - but soon they decided that they can just as well co-operate, making their jobs easier and faster.
Soon they found their outlooks changing, finding out that not having any friends and working alone all the time might not had been really the best way of doing things, even - or maybe especially - while being assassins.
But then, when first changes had taken place, the next ones came as an avalanche - and while Ace was rather willing to accept them and let himself go with the flow, Arsenal didn’t like the idea of turning his whole being upside down. And so after a few weeks of nice, calm cooperation, the problems had started, with Arsenal not agreeing with Ace’s new methods of working and thinking, and Ace’s frustration caused by Arsenal’s denial towards his ideas.
Neither of them know what was the cause of Ace’s sudden decision to retire. Maybe it’s because he couldn’t deal with the situation when something he accustomed to turned out to not be exactly how he had seen it at first. Maybe because he didn’t see any other option after losing his first - and last - battle. Maybe because his pride took him over. Ace used to say it’s the only normal turn of events - you decide to do something, you’re doing it, and then you’re finding something new - while Arsenal kept saying he’s just cowardly, escaping when the problems starts popping out.
And that’s how they parted - Ace coming back to his Ryo-self, leaving behind his failure and Arsenal, who didn’t chase after him, allowing his partner do whatever he pleases to. Somehow it felt like the only right way of dealing with the situation, coming back to the point where their joint history had started - living as the two individuals, not dependent on anyone else than themselves.
“You know, it’s never too late to take a few steps back and start something again,” had been the last Ace’s words to Arsenal when he was about to leave, their shared then, flat.
“What makes you think I’ll ever want to move back?” was Arsenal’s reply, voice cold and distant.
The verbal answer never came, but the gesture of Ace’s hand saluting slovenly and his teeth showing in a wide grin was enough for Arsenal to understand the unspoken words. And without really wanting to do it - he remembered them, etching them in the deepest of his memory.
*
“I can’t help you now, I’m out of the country,” Arsenal hears in the receiver and he can’t help the small, disappointed “oh” escaping from between his lips. “But it doesn’t mean I’m going to leave you alone sinking in this shit you put yourself into.”
“You just had to add that damn moment of uncertainty, didn't you?” Arsenal comments, not really amused by Ace’s sense of humour, but somewhere deep he knows he missed it. He missed the company, people willing to talk to you not only because of work, people who care about you and don’t see you as a perfect tool for killing.
There is a low chuckle at the other side of line, “Of course. Two years sure is a long time, but it’s still not enough to change me. But we both can see it’s kind of different with you.”
“Are you going to-,” Arsenal starts but is soon harshly cut off by the other one. “All I’m going to do is to give you a number with directions, tell you to hurry up and wish you luck. Because surely you’ll need it as hell.”
“You managed to do it, so why wouldn’t I?” comes a question, Arsenal slightly irritated at those words.
“Because you clearly have no idea what you’ll have to come through.”
*
It's probably just some sort of a prologue, but I hope you all liked this even just a little tiny bit! ♥
(Also, if there is anyone who would like to help me with beta-ing this thing, I'd be more than glad to accept your help.)
Standing in front of the door of his small, rented apartment, in one hand he’s holding a big, grey envelope with a name written on it with capital letters. Well, it’s not a name - more like a nickname, something he came up with when he had decided his job requires remaining anonymous, letting people know as little about you as it’s possible. That’s why a long time ago he became Arsenal - an assassin, who quickly gained high respect in the criminal world. After many years of everyone calling him like that, he almost forgot already that he actually owns a name and a surname, the ones he really liked in the past, and it doesn’t come as a surprise or awkwardness when he gets those envelopes with a seven letters written neatly in a Latin alphabet.
He’s always opening them just moments before setting off to his destined location. It’s the easiest and most reasonable way of doing things - thanks to seeing his target in the last minutes, he’s sure he won’t get attached to whoever he’s going to see on the photo. No emotions and no sentiments - that’s the first and probably most important rule of every assassin.
And for the most of them - it’s also the hardest one.
When Arsenal, young man in the middle of his twenties, pulls out the photo, there are no emotions in his eyes. Corners of his mouth doesn’t twitch and his breath doesn’t stop - but his whole frame is suddenly freezing and the time between looking at and remembering the face and crushing the photo is lengthening, seconds turning into minutes, and minutes starting to seem as an incredibly long hours.
In the other hand he holds a revolver - it’s deep black and shining, and it’s weight is perfect, being in a complete symbiosis with Arsenal’s fingers. One could say his gun is rather old and impractical in the world where the lead have automatic weapons with many improvements and additions. But Arsenal prefers to call this an old-school friend of his, the one who won’t disappoint him because of sudden jamming of those so-called perfect automatics.
Now the rather long barrel of his revolver traces a spiral path over the surface of the photo - grazing young woman’s black hair, naked shoulder and delicate smile, ending it’s journey on a happy face of a small kid who can’t be older than five, maybe six years. It’s a nice photography. The one you could put into a family album, perfect for the first page - but also for the memorial plate standing next to the coffin in a funeral home.
Big hand with only slightly rough skin on the fingertips is crumbling the photo right after the barrel hooks the edge of the mat paper, and soon the messy ball hits the trash bin after being perfectly aimed at it’s target.
Arsenal never misses.
*
Seeing him for the first time, even in the most trivial situation, you can easily notice that he’s incredibly agile and fast, which together with an ability to keep silence, makes him almost impossible to detect by any human being. He can aim well even in the hardest conditions, he always strikes home in the first try and there aren’t many things that could make him lost his composure. He has also never had any second thoughts before pulling the trigger.
Until this day, that is.
Arsenal killed many people. He had never really thought if their death is righteous, if they should die or not - it has never been and will never be his role to judge this. As unwilling to admit this as Arsenal is, the truth is he’s only a tool in the hands of the real murderers. Of course, one could say it’s a great excuse to wriggle out of the responsibility for taken lives, but it’s just a statement of facts. He gets orders, he takes money, and he does what he has to do to repay for the amount laying safely on his bank account. He is not a murderer - he’s just an automatic gun, remote-controlled by his temporal boss’ words.
Automatic gun he despises so much.
It’s probably that night - the one in the late summer, when the temperature in the evenings starts getting colder and colder - when his disdain takes lead and overcomes all the professionalism he carries in his mind, and hands, and body. The house he’s standing in front of is small and inconspicuous, nothing like a place where someone worth dying would live in. Quite the contrary - it has everything that fits into Arsenal’s idea of the perfect family, the one everybody would like to grow up in - and the one he had never had an opportunity to savour. Maybe that’s why every next step he takes feels heavier, the gun he kept safely inserted behind his belt gaining a few extra kilograms, dragging him down and making him unable to use his usual abilities. It’s almost as if someone has injected him a drug without him acknowledging it. Suddenly, when the light brightens up one of the rooms and both of his targets are right in front of his eyes, uncovered by anything, perfect to aim at and pull the trigger - he’s sure there must be something wrong going on with him, because he doesn’t move, doesn’t reach for the hidden revolver, doesn’t squint his eyes in order to measure the length right. Instead, the view just hypnotizes him - woman’s smile is bright and wide when she’s watching his kid, who’s trying hard to reach for the apple laying on a kitchen counter, way too high as for his height. They’re talking, their mouths moving with the next words, and even though the window effectively muffles all the sounds, Arsenal can have the idea what they’re talking about.
“Just wait a second, I’ll give you this!” says the mother, finishing watering the plant standing near the door, laughing softly at how adorable her son is.
“It’s not fair I can’t reach whatever I want,” the child complains, pouting in that special way only kids can do. “But dad said soon I’ll grow even bigger than him, and then I’ll be able to get even things both of you can’t have!”
“Of course you will,” the women answers, nodding her head. “Just a few years and there won’t be a thing that’s impossible for you,” she ends, handing him the apple and patting his head with that characteristic motherly affection.
Arsenal knows the moment he turns around on his heels and escapes, leaving his target untouched, he puts himself into a big trouble. There is a fixed amount of money laying on his bank account, secured and ready to be withdrawn, but the job he got them for - is still undone. And it won’t be, he’s sure, because he knows himself too well to believe he’ll change his mind. Not now, and not ever - it’s not him. He has many faults, but being honest with himself has always been his strong point.
He didn’t plan this. Well, the truth is he never plans his actions, always believing his instincts. In this job you can’t really foresee what will happen and what actions will have to be taken. That’s why, coming back to his apartment, he’s not sure what he should do next. There are only three certain words repeating itself in his head - trouble, faith and escape.
He is in trouble. He has to escape. And he has to believe he’ll succeed.
Grabbing the phone, he doesn’t really know what he wants to do with it. Through all the years of sinking deeper and deeper in his profession, he hadn’t met many people. Most of them he ever talked to, or even looked in the eye, are already dead, and the other ones were only an employers - persons too lazy to deal with things themselves, who Arsenal wouldn’t trust even if they were the last human beings living in this world. He has always been alone, working on his own account, deciding it’s the best to be responsible only for himself and his own actions.
But then, suddenly and completely out of blue, one certain name pops out in his head, and one of the few saved positions on his contact list are dialed without much further thinking.
“Ace,” he breaths the moment he hears a familiar clicking sound of the phone being picked up. No one answers him though, and after a few very long seconds, stretching and making Arsenal feel nervous for the first time in ages, he tries again, calling the person on the other line with the name he used to use in the past, “Ryo.”
It turns out to be the turning point in the one-sided conversation, when the person takes a deep breath, muttering uncertainly, “Arsenal?”
“Yes. Gods, yes, it’s me,” he whispers with an overwhelming relief easily detectable in his voice. But that relief is followed only by silence, both of the sides not knowing what to say or how to react. It occurs to Arsenal just now - what is he going to ask for? What is his plan, what are his ideas to deal with the affair, and most of all - does he even have the right to ask Ace for anything?
The stream of thoughts is suddenly broken by half-irritated, half-amused voice, which surprisingly, despite how long time ago he’d heard it for the last time, doesn’t sound distant nor unfamiliar, “Are you going to actually say something, or you just wanted to hear my voice saying out loud your name?”
“I need help,” he says and somehow, he’s sure that Ace-or rather Ryo, will know what he means by helping.
“And what makes you think I will help you?” comes the answer, the one Arsenal expected to hear as anything else.
“Because you promised me this two years ago.”
*
The story of Ace and Arsenal is long and old, and Arsenal thought he won’t have to recall it anytime in the future. They met accidentally, trying to work out two different members of the same underground company. Having similar rules - which among other things involved working alone and not trusting anyone except themselves - somehow they ended helping each other. At first they had done it completely unintentionally, by sheer chance of the second sides of their routines - but soon they decided that they can just as well co-operate, making their jobs easier and faster.
Soon they found their outlooks changing, finding out that not having any friends and working alone all the time might not had been really the best way of doing things, even - or maybe especially - while being assassins.
But then, when first changes had taken place, the next ones came as an avalanche - and while Ace was rather willing to accept them and let himself go with the flow, Arsenal didn’t like the idea of turning his whole being upside down. And so after a few weeks of nice, calm cooperation, the problems had started, with Arsenal not agreeing with Ace’s new methods of working and thinking, and Ace’s frustration caused by Arsenal’s denial towards his ideas.
Neither of them know what was the cause of Ace’s sudden decision to retire. Maybe it’s because he couldn’t deal with the situation when something he accustomed to turned out to not be exactly how he had seen it at first. Maybe because he didn’t see any other option after losing his first - and last - battle. Maybe because his pride took him over. Ace used to say it’s the only normal turn of events - you decide to do something, you’re doing it, and then you’re finding something new - while Arsenal kept saying he’s just cowardly, escaping when the problems starts popping out.
And that’s how they parted - Ace coming back to his Ryo-self, leaving behind his failure and Arsenal, who didn’t chase after him, allowing his partner do whatever he pleases to. Somehow it felt like the only right way of dealing with the situation, coming back to the point where their joint history had started - living as the two individuals, not dependent on anyone else than themselves.
“You know, it’s never too late to take a few steps back and start something again,” had been the last Ace’s words to Arsenal when he was about to leave, their shared then, flat.
“What makes you think I’ll ever want to move back?” was Arsenal’s reply, voice cold and distant.
The verbal answer never came, but the gesture of Ace’s hand saluting slovenly and his teeth showing in a wide grin was enough for Arsenal to understand the unspoken words. And without really wanting to do it - he remembered them, etching them in the deepest of his memory.
*
“I can’t help you now, I’m out of the country,” Arsenal hears in the receiver and he can’t help the small, disappointed “oh” escaping from between his lips. “But it doesn’t mean I’m going to leave you alone sinking in this shit you put yourself into.”
“You just had to add that damn moment of uncertainty, didn't you?” Arsenal comments, not really amused by Ace’s sense of humour, but somewhere deep he knows he missed it. He missed the company, people willing to talk to you not only because of work, people who care about you and don’t see you as a perfect tool for killing.
There is a low chuckle at the other side of line, “Of course. Two years sure is a long time, but it’s still not enough to change me. But we both can see it’s kind of different with you.”
“Are you going to-,” Arsenal starts but is soon harshly cut off by the other one. “All I’m going to do is to give you a number with directions, tell you to hurry up and wish you luck. Because surely you’ll need it as hell.”
“You managed to do it, so why wouldn’t I?” comes a question, Arsenal slightly irritated at those words.
“Because you clearly have no idea what you’ll have to come through.”
*
It's probably just some sort of a prologue, but I hope you all liked this even just a little tiny bit! ♥
(Also, if there is anyone who would like to help me with beta-ing this thing, I'd be more than glad to accept your help.)