lavender & silk, darkened & flattened by the lights going out. zeliha, in her concentration, a twist of the wrist to bring the flute of champagne closer to her lips, stained dark-cherry, immediate in how she glances around the room. tension of a different kind trickles down her shoulders. even so, otherwise, she remains unmoving โ as is best. in situations like this, one must evaluate the premises before making an apt decision. the last thing she needs to be, in these days, is impulsive. the pulse may flutter in her throat, but that does not equate making a decision. & sometimes, choice is made for her. as it is, here, when hazel eyes lock with familiar ones. two snaps of a magnetic, polar-locking into place. his approach; her stance.
her intake of breath, once he stands beside her, alerts her to the state of his sweat & cologne. these hyper-awarenesses cannot be blamed on any cybernetics. the sole one she wields is the one she rests the majority of her weight upon: a chrome-sleek, clear-cut depiction of what happens when you take an unnecessary risk. all risks she has taken are necessary. don't you remember? familiarity breeds uncertainty to her. at the same time, she is relieved. her right side angles towards his left. the nickname of days that happened before these leaves a trail of goosebumps on that same side of her neck, as if he whispered it against her. he didn't. "your guess is as good as mine." despite the flicker, she keeps her lips as still as possible. "but it's far too convenient. i was already distrustful of how coming to this was required." caustic. silver, teardrop earrings swing with her shift of weight. "what do you think? there's a perfectly good perspective from here. unless you're in the mood for skulking."
a whiff of her perfume, accompanied by something forgotten swirling down in his stomach, mixing with the champagne from before. through practiced motions, he does not let this get to his head ( the alcohol or the-โ? ), without knowing what 'it' is to begin with. once today is over, and he has time to mull over everything in detail, about seeing her in person after so long, it will be easier to come up with reasons, or excuses. the starkest one would be that she was gone. too quickly, too soon, without warning โ and kit is not stupid enough to think most of them won't meet that end one day. though the sting that comes with that realization, with her disappearance... is irrational. locks it into a box, tucks it away. they have more pressing matters at hand.
low hum, quiet enough that it's for her ears only. to learn she is as clueless as he is adds another element to this. field agents are not always notified the first about developments, and albeit weapons division was announced merely minutes ago, he was entertaining the possibility this was something she knew. not really then, how interesting. "it is, isn't it?" sharp brown eyes continue to look around, trying to take in the details, see if he can gauge the answers out them. "do you think it is... mediated?" uttered in a much quieter whisper. trusts her enough to question the motivations behind this dinner, hosted by their employers. maybe it is part wishful thinking to put that option on the table. only time will tell. if there is one thing kit knows, however, is that his hunch is telling him to stick his nose into it. whatever this is, it smells fishy. "something's... off." shifts on his feet, leaning into her space another inch. "and i'm not just talking about the lights." lips curl into a grin, though muted with whatever he put into that box, as well as the tension they are under. "a message, maybe? a lot of important people are here." at her comment, that grin only widens, playfulness swimming in his eyes. "you know i can't say no to a good skulking. though might be better to figure out which direction first." both the physical and metaphorical way forward. he wonders if there will be a new direction from mercy any time soon. doesn't know if they can afford to wait with the way civilians are growing antsy already.
ani. there were only four three people in the entire world who called her that. she would know that voice anywhere. that voice would always remind of her first mission alone, the sense that maybe, just maybe there was someone in the world who she could love without feeling the responsability of her entire existence. that maybe she could be someone other than 'older sister mother' and still matter. of nights spent over books, the closest she could get to the life she once dreamed of.
she turned around and there he was. of all the people in the world, he found her. "nix" their name slips from her mouth almost like a prayer. her joy at seeing him slips at his next question and the reality of why she was here, hitting her like a sledgehammer. "iyla is dead." the whispered statement falls from her mouth almost without thought as if waiting for someone to tell. someone who understood. someone who she didn't have to hold together while crumbling herself.
it's not difficult to see how joy slips from her face, at least, not for him. not for how many years they have known each other and have been close friends. her countenance gives way to something... more serious. something nix has seen in the mirror too many times, something he never wants to see on a friend's face. "oh." if he had to guess... no, he doesn't want to guess. not about something like this. instead, a hand slowly reaches out, wraps around her wrist.
"come with me, we need- somewhere more private." as private as it can be, given the circumstances and the fact they are surrounded by people who eavesdrop for a living. as slowly as he can, without attracting any unwanted attention to them, he leads them to one of the corridors, then around another corner. when he is sure they are far away enough that people won't accidentally hear them talk, he stops, drops the hand on her wrist. pain crosses his own face, and in order not to reach out again, he crosses his arms in front of himself. "what- what happened, ani? talk to me."
there are a thousand reasons why nix doesn't enjoy events like these. he could probably make a list in order of importance. the first ones would probably be about how they aren't fit to mingle with the crรจme de la crรจme of society. well, at least he knows at least half of them aren't. been part of mercy for long enough to know everyone's wearing carefully sculptured faรงades, some simply get more joy out of mingling than others. agent neo, falls in the category of those who don't. once he spots not only a familiar but also a welcome face, he slips to sit on the seat next to prospero. asking for a gin tonic from the bartender, his fingers wrap around the glass before he turns to the younger man. a hum in agreement, though he doesn't seem nowhere near as bothered by this as his company. "it is... quite dull." from a bowl on the counter, long fingers pluck an olive at the end of a toothpick. "dinners like this, unfortunately, come with the territory." diplomacy and all that. in his first years at mercy, he was incredibly vexed by this realization as well. wearing tuxedos? trying to keep up with whatever was the 'hot topic' amongst socialites? nix would prefer solitary confinement over any of it. then, years passed and he come to accept it. however, this doesn't mean they couldn't have fun with it. after chewing and swallowing down the olive, he raises his eyebrows, lips curling in a grin. "wanna play a game to pass the time?" discards the toothpick into the waste bowl. "i know... a lot of these people by now. try picking ones you don't and guess what kind of company they own. i'll tell you if you're hot or cold."
that was quick. the switch between the celebrations and the sudden panic is so quick that if kit wasn't so well-versed in this line of work, he would surely get whiplash from it. the applause cuts off in an almost comedic way the moment ceo kang leaves the stage, large lights shutting off, giving way to eerieness. reds, blues, and whites reflect off designer clothes, jewelry; some of which kit's also wearing himself. the artificial shine to his face, the shimmery eyeshadow, the smoky eyeliner. the glamour of it all seems to vanish instantly. a glance at his phone relays a message that does not surprise him with the way lights have shut off, but it's more than enough to flip that switch in kit's mind as well, slipping into work mode, eyes flitting around to see, to pick up anything important. his gaze stops short at the sight of a familiar face, their eyes meet up despite the lack of main lights. kit moves slowly on his feet, as if nothing was wrong, near the table with the drinks, then next to her side.
being next to zeliha again, in a situation like this one, brings up more memories than he has the time to think about. it's been way too long since they have done this. since they have simply had a chat together. there will be time to talk and mull over all of these, to pull her aside and ask where the hell she had been. instead, for the moment, he finds it easy to slip into that rhythm they have ( had ? ) with each other on the field. once within earshot, he stands next to her, his right side brushing against her left. "zel." nickname slips perhaps way too easily, dark eyes continuing to scan every possible movement he can. "do you have any further information about... all of this?" quiet enough that only she can hear. "what's next? should i scout the area?"
hands wrapped around two champagne flutes, one alcoholic, the other not, kit cuts a striking image. a deep neckline due to the lack of a shirt, a long serpentine necklace draped along his neck. sort of a silver glitter on his eyelids above kohl-rimmed dark brown eyes. when he spots a familiar face across the room, a smile spreads across his face, not necessarily a dazzling one granted to the rest of the crowd, a more genuine, softer look reserved to a handful of people instead. making his way across the people, he brushes his shoulder against uriel's once in his space. "don't you clean up well." less of a tease, more of a compliment. one that kit sincerely means. after a hum, he holds out the flute. "this one's yours. non-alcoholic." once his hand is empty, he puts it behind his friend's back, leading them to a side of the room so they can properly chat. "so, how's everything going, urie โย enjoying yourself?"
agent ๐๐๐ arrives twenty minutes early, spending another fifteen minutes in his car before entering the venue. clad in a black two-piece ๐ด๐ฟ๐ธ๐๐ด๐๐ท๐ธ๐ ๐๐ถ๐๐๐ธ๐ธ๐ suit, embroidered with flowers and birds on one side, wears a white shirt inside. besides the black ring on his finger, and a long silver earring on one lobe, he wears no other jewelry.
clad in a two-piece suit by ๐บ๐ผ๐๐ ๐บ๐ผ๐ ๐ด๐ ๐๐ด๐๐ผ's last f/w collection, agent ๐๐๐๐๐๐๐ enters the ball only half an hour late. deciding to forego a shirt, instead, adorning his neck, a piece from ๐ต๐๐ฟ๐บ๐ด๐ ๐ผ from their serpenti collection, rubies shining against the skin. other pieces of jewelry and rings on his fingers, he tends to twist them as he speaks, a dazzling smile on his face.
nix despises wearing tuxedos. they always seem to be either a size too small or a size too big. never fitting just right. feels like an image of a boy wearing his father's clothes, the sleeves too long on his arms, a gap at the back of his shoes. never fitting. never his own. that is, of course, an exaggeration. agent neo, as he stands there, in between many people he knows, and a few he doesn't, wears a tailored tuxedo, most likely something designer. his silver cufflinks glint from the lights reflecting on them, a pair of black cartier browline glasses up his nose. this is his entry back into this world after all, the jubilรฉ of sentinel and mercy's partnership. and ironically enough, the start of him picking up the mantle of agent neo again.
there is a sense of excitement, a sort of nervousness clinging to his frame ( despite knowing this organization for almost twenty years now ) as he makes his way through the crowds. there's a flute of champagne grasped in one hand, still full, an accessory to keep his hands full more than anything else. while he expects to see familiar faces, this one still makes him freeze in surprise. eyes widening, his expression softens almost immediately. "ani โ-" the nickname falls from his lips with ease, and he takes a step closer to her. "i would say small world but..." the words linger off, and a part of him wishes there weren't so many people around. "how have you been?"
โข หหห a starter for open, feat. ??? ... setting: mercy hq.
"so this is actually telling me that all i've been working on for the past week is for nothing?" his question is that of a relief, which might be a tad unexpected coming from a xavier han. he pulls his hair up, tying it into a messy bun as he narrows his eyes, checking the screen once again to ensure that everything that he's been hyperfixating on has been, in fact, futile. "huh... that's peachy. alright, then. shall we just go out and grab some late lunch? i don't think i want to see the screen for another day. i'll just hit the training room after lunch, if you're up for that, too." a shrug, then. "at least now i can stop asking myself why it has no answer. obviously, because it doesn't exist. glad to know it's not because i'm that stupid."
"oh, come on, cheer upโ" he begins. cuts it short. it sets a second later that xavier isn't... upset by this fact. lips turn into an 'o' as realization sets in. this is an odd way to take in a defeat ( ...is this a defeat ? ), though kit isn't the one to judge. everyone to their own, and all that. "you're not... upset?" another hum, a shrug. "good, then." a snort leaves his lips, an amicable one, camaraderie in the sense of not being keen on looking at screens for prolonged amounts of time. standing up quick, he presses the palms of his hands down on the sides of his black slacks, smoothing out the wrinkles. "come on, let's go. before the midday rush sets in." not that the queues are ever terribly awful at mercy, though it's always nicer to be there when it's empty. "hm, you wanna train? sure, if you can handle getting your ass beat for the second time in a row." a grin, eyebrows raising up. truth be told, there was no clear winner, yet kit enjoys claiming to be the one. as they leave the offices, he bumps into his shoulder. "tell me about what you were battling with. how the hell did you stumble upon an unanswerable question? aren't answers the nature of questions?"
RECORDS
( general tw/cw: death, guns, weapons, violence, descriptions of interrogations, allusions to situations where police are involved, there is no brutality, but they use threats )
LOCATION: nondescript interrogation room, โโโโโโ HQ
DATE & TIME: 03:25, 5th of March, 2029
NOTES: by agent โโโ doe
a young man, who seems to be in his early twenties, sits at the interrogation table. he keeps pushing a pair of thick-rimmed glasses up his nose. at each movement, the handcuffs clang against the steel table, making a loud noise. this seems to bother him as he leans back each time, huffs of breath falling from his lips, looking around. his curly, dark hair flops against his forehead, he makes an attempt to get it off of his eyes. this only causes more noise. his leg moves up and down in restlessness, impatient. when the door finally opens, he tries to sit still.
AGENT DOE: can you state your name for the file?
SUSPECT: ... and why exactly would i do that?
chin raises up in defiance. it's easy to figure out this isn't his forte. his words have a lilt to them that gives way to stutter. the agent stands up, a 'tsk' falling from their lips. they press the button of the intercom next to the door, utter a few words. time stretches thin. the man tries not to fidget. there are drops of sweat by his temple. chest rising up and down in breaths only slightly quicker than normal. after a moment, the door opens, and the agent is given a laptop.
it's thrown on the table, making such a loud noise that the man flinches. tries to cover it up with a cough. it has a steel case on it. stickers litter every corner of its lid. most of them are colorful. ranging from 'fuck the police' to 'pwnd' to 'your password was too short, so i changed it'. AGENT DOE probably would have laughed, if not for the fact that this โ fucking teen is the one who got into their systems.
AGENT DOE: because... not corporating isn't going to get you anywhere. you see this? what do you think we will find when we sweep for your fingerprints? and i'm not only talking about the physical ones. i have men who can crack this. and they can do it quick. so stop. wasting. my. time.
half a lie. half a truth. AGENT DOE has already tried letting them crack it. they told them it would take days. maybe weeks. this is... easier. maybe they can even get something else out of this. two birds with one stone. the man on the chair continues to fidget, eyes flitting to the laptop, and then back at the agent.
SUSPECT: you may call me nix. nix turner.
an attempt by AGENT DOE not to sigh. fingers going up to the bridge of their nose, closing their eyes shut. one. two. three. deep breaths. an exercise they picked up during psych training. opens their eyes back up again. leans forward.
AGENT DOE: you have two options in front of you, mr. turner. you either rot in jail for the rest of your life... which isn't very pretty, believe me...
an intentional pause. light reflects off of the man's glasses. AGENT DOE wonders if they will see that spark of defiance again. if they did not catch him right-handed, he would not believe this boy to be capable of doing what he had done a couple of days ago. a federal offense, complete taking over their systems. a clusterfuck that will take them months to fix.
AGENT DOE: or... i let you go. a friend, from a place you have not heard of before. will visit you. with a job offer.
an ultimatum. there is no illusion of choice. this is how nix turner gets recruited into mercy. with degrees in industrial engineering, computer science, and complex networks ( albeit not under the name nix turner ), he finishes his junior training with stellar results. after his graduation, the intelligence division is where he gets assigned.
โ
LOCATION: hr office, MERCY HQ
DATE & TIME: 09:17, 24th of April, 2046
NOTES: by doctor โโโโโโ
intelligence agent nix turner, codename: neo, thirty-nine years of age, sits in front of the HR DIRECTOR. once they look down at his file, there is a picture of the interrogation in the attached images. one they have seen once, many years ago. the physical difference between then and now seems to be the grey in nix's hair, the wrinkles at the corner of his eyes, his glasses only slightly more modern. while his countenance certainly seems to be the same person, the way they hold themselves is no way alike. the person in front of them seems tired, shoulders slumped, a tight edge to his face. a quiet determination opposite to the erratic fear from two decades ago. sorrow that they have not been able to keep at bay.
HR DIRECTOR: agent neo. do i understand this right... they've told me you want to resign? with so close to being a head agent?
a pause. he sits up straight. regardless of the exhaustion and grief that seems to cling on to him, his voice comes out firm. resolute.
NIX TURNER: yes, sir. i have put in my letter last week. i thank mercy for everything it has done for me, but i... do not belong in this division anymore.
the hr director takes off their own glasses, sets it on the table. this is a sensitive subject matter. they know everything and nothing. many people know, much, much less than they do. then there are things some people know. whispers in corridors. this is none of these things. everyone knows what happened. they try not to look at turner with pity in their eyes, but a sort of empathy. nix does not think it works particularly well.
HR DIRECTOR: does this have anything to do with... what happened? you know you can always take another sabbatical. clear your head. come back.
a subtle, hopefully imperceptible flinch. 'what happened', nix has been dealing with what happened for the past year. the way the shots sounded in his ear, the way he screamed despite every single training he had. husband โย darling, dearest, dead. that's what it all came to in the end. he cannot take sitting at his desk anymore, guiding someone else to death. not after him. not after 'what happened'. what a joke. to be asked to put grief in a box. to lock it tight. to put that box in one of the dusty filing cabinets in the archive, from a time everything used to be analog. ridiculous. no, nix has made up his mind.
NIX TURNER: thank you, sir. but... i have to decline. i'll be... working at sentinel, as arranged.
a hum, closing off a digital file. this is how nix turner leaves mercy. much to everyone's surprise. this is not for long.
โ
LOCATION: hr office, MERCY HQ, again
DATE & TIME: 11:42, 3rd of April, 2049
NOTES: by recruiter โโโโโโ smith
this is getting comical, nix thinks idly. what are the odds he is getting recruited for the same company, for the second time around. thanks to a joint venture between sentinel and mercy. to which he is the tailor-made candidate, with his background in espionage, intelligence, as well as phd in industrial engineering.
RECRUITER SMITH: mr. turner. i suppose this will be an easier final interview. you already know mercy so well. you've worked here for... seventeen years until you resigned from intelligence?
NIX TURNER: doctor. it's doctor turner. but- yes. that is correct. have been working with sentinel for the past three years.
his employment under them has been interesting, to say the least. not in a bad way at that, just unusual to what he used to be doing. as much as he had been subjected to weapons and had been tinkering on them for longer than that, the last three years had been intensive in terms of him actually learning more about sentinel and what they were capable of. he didn't have trouble catching up. it matched up with his skill set quite well.
RECRUITER SMITH: of course, doctor turner... i am happy to tell you that after many discussions internally and externally. we are offering you the head sentinel armaments position.
a part of him expected this. mostly, he is honored, he really is. however, the rest of him sees the irony in all of this. that the reason he left was bullshit in the first place. that his husband was never dead to begin with. it was a lie he was forced to believe in until โ- he cuts that line of thought. not the place, or the time. he has already made up his mind before the interview. it all boils down to a few words, signing away the next chapter of his life.
NIX TURNER: and i'm honored to accept, ms. smith. can't wait to get started.
this is how nix turner gets back into mercy. new title, new toys, new equipment. old history.
BIOGRAPHY
( general tw/cw: death, fire, kidnapping, violence )
fire spreads through your veins.
vivid, yet fragmented memories of standing in front of a house in the dark. flashing lights, sirens all around you, falling on deaf ears.
you look up. the flames from the windows reflect against a tear-stricken face.
is this a real memory? or a nightmare?
you wake up.
โ
kittakhun ( endearingly shortened to kit ) chaichana has been raised by his mother for as long as he can remember. it's natural for a single mother's love to stretch thin, especially one who has to juggle making a living for them, but kit doesn't have any complaints. he goes to school and comes back, helps whatever he can around the cafรฉ that his mother owns.
the bell above the door rings often. it's a melody that the boy is used to. an elderly couple, another pair of regulars, enter inside. kit's sitting at one of the corner tables, hunched over his homework. wrinkly hands gently pat his hair and tell him to work hard before making it to their usual booth.
he runs between the cook's legs, stealing some candies from the counter. gentle, fond sighs fall from his mother's lips, and she tells him to be careful of the stove lest he gets burned.
it's a good childhoodย except for his father's absence. kit sometimes feels guilty about this line of thinking, that maybe it would have been better for him not to be in the picture at all. the man sometimes shows up for his birthdays, then disappears for a few years. other times, kit can see him smiling from afar at his violin recital, and then he disappears before he can even speak to him.
it troubles him in ways a young boy's mind cannot put into words. anger and frustration swim low in his belly. hands curled into fists at the lack of answers, lack of reasoning.
so, he tries to find answers in whichever way he can. asking his mother directly never works, so he tries other ways around it. asks his mother's friends, looks through old letters. takes his father's printed picture and asks the regulars of the cafรฉ who give him weird looks.
until, one day โ- he hears it. quiet on his feet, he reaches his mother's room, and from the gap in the door, he can see her. can hear the quiet, broken hitches of breath, the way she is curled into herself. shoulders trembling. a sort of helplessness in her countenance he will never forget.
after that, he stops. stops asking questions, stops trying to figure it out. he has his mother by his side, and that's enough- that's always been enough.
until, fate weaves his webs. twists and cuts the strings holding him up.
this memory's only in pieces: kit wakes up with a hand on his mouth. a sweet, revolting smell, emanating from a piece of white cloth. he can hear the muffled screams, feel how his scalp hurts from being pulled downstairs to the cafe. then there are chairs, they scrape against the ground, in a way his mother always hated. there's... someone on top of them, tied down, struggling. when his vision clears, recollection sets in. it is his parents with duct tape around their mouths. wrists and ankles tied down to the chair. tear marks on their cheeks, wrists rubbed raw from the rope.
this is the last time he sees them.
one day later, he wakes up. fluorescent lights hurt his eyes. there's an iv by his bedside. there are burns tracing up his arms. a few hours later, a police officer comes. she tells him his parents have died in a housefire. a freak accident. a gas leak. ( 'be careful with the stove, kit!' ). they tell him that he is the only survivor. and it's gone- all of it's gone. the cafรฉ, their house, kit's violin, the pictures his mother has hung up on the wall, some of them hers, some of them his. it's all gone.
and no one believes him. no one believes in the boogeyman who murdered his parents. they chalk it up to the colorful imagination of an eleven-year-old. a trauma response. how he doesn't recollect every single detail, how his mind fills the gaps to make memories more palatable.
he's put into the foster system after that. too old, too headstrong to be one of the favorites, he ends up back in the orphanage after a few weeks at a time.
there's a fire inside of him, one that never goes out โ lit up by the sheer belief he has in his own truth. in himself. that he knows he wasn't lying. he knows what happened. and he will be the one to uncover it one day.
this does not mean the trips to the counselor's office, or every return from a foster family stings any less. but the shell around him hardens how lava turns into molten black stone.
when he turns eighteen, he leaves that place. learns how to survive on his own feet. takes a couple of odd jobs here and there, waiting tables, bartending, and cooking at restaurants where he has to look the other way.
it's a while after that mercy finds him. orphans always make the best recruits, after all. and the way the tactical agent looks at him sparks something in his chest that this might be the way to the answers he has been looking for all these years. that maybe, just maybe, he will be uncovering his own truth sooner than later.
after his training, it doesn't take him too long to sign up for the solaris drug. sees the potential in it, and a part of him looks for that thrill, the idea of mutations, of powers, knowing how useful it will be in this line of work. then โ- he gets what he asked for. his own powers.
another cruel web of fate. as if someone is laughing down at him.
pyrokinesis. fire manipulation. as the result of the drug, he can manifest sparks at the end of his fingertips. burn a house with the snap of his fingers. make their enemies scream in agony and wish for a better end.
his life has been defined by fire, and it never lets go of him.
eventually, this too, is taken in stride. phoenix is what they call him. an apt name for a boy who knows nothing but to survive. to reinvent himself so that he can burn brighter, fight harder.
he learns how to live with his mutation, how to make it his own. how to use it to do what he does best. having been part of mercy for almost a decade now, he thrives in the field. embraces the fact that by definition, he is disposable, and this makes it all worth so much more. enjoys having fun, a charming grin on his lips, hands always warm when they wrap around someone's waist. and then- knows when to jump back into that state of mission.
agent phoenix knows he has only so many shots at making a difference, and he is going to use it well.
