CIÇA HANDLER AU
part 1 — [300926] summon
CWs: Murder, violence and reluctant whumper (all alluded to), living weapon whumpees and organized crime. Wink wink
Hi ^_^ This has been haunting my brain for a while now and I'm finally getting around to doing this! Just a little introduction this time around. Here is Ciça's design in this au also. Enjoy <3
Next (coming)
The knife rose up in her grip, glimmering silver by its sharp end. She evaluated her target, planning her blow. Her aim, now, was unwavering. She'd become good at doing this, over the years. When first it'd been a daunting task—a mess—it hardly fazed her by now. No; today, it was second nature. She did not even spare attention to the tears anymore.
And so, as she had, countless times in her life, she expertly angled the blade. As she had, countless times in her life, she brought it down.
The cutting board rattled a little with the impact. The onions sliced easily under her practiced cuts, allowing her to part their form in the little tiny squares she liked. Ciça hummed to herself, quick-handed. On the far corner of the kitchen, water boiled. Its soft gurgling was welcome company.
Soup, she was making today. It was a soft, early spring afternoon. The clouds were a lovely curtain to the shy heat outside, and there was a crisp chillness to the air. A slight breeze came in from the open doors and windows, carrying over a sweet smell. Her flowers. Ciça inhaled the scent of daisies and coriander, relished in the faint rustling of the widest leaves brushing together. It was a peaceful day.
The woman finished the onions, taking her time with the meat and potatoes. She dried up the pasta on the pan, shoved her vegetables in the other to brew. Steam rose in thin, slow wisps to hug the air. Ciça smiled a little to herself. All said and done, she washed her hands before picking up the book she'd left on the sofa table and stationing herself by the living room.
Ciça greatly enjoyed times like these. Some years ago—seven, now?—they were rare. It was always a high tension in her shoulders. Those days weren't so soft. Rather, sharp. Stinging to the touch. Suffocating. To balance sensitive information and a pile of secrets on her hands, both stained with the sickly crimson of blood. There wasn't always time to wash it before the next. She brought to her lips a mug of tea, sighing away the memories. The aftertaste of the drink made her itch for a snack; she should take a trip to the bakery too, she thought, before sun set. Get some butter and bread with her allowance to go with the soup. She found herself smiling to the rim of the cup with the idea. It wasn't like she could never treat herself to such luxuries too, before. She'd just never had the stomach to.
Ciça tried not to think much about that time. She couldn't remember food tasting good, then. It was pointless. Maybe it was the screams that soured it. Maybe it was the sleepless nights. It was like hunger: clawing at your insides to try and swallow everything, render your psyche in endless, all-consuming pain, until you gave in and sated it. She could not give herself the luxury of doing so. People needed her. To blend in with cruelty. To be the hands that carried out so much gore. To be unwavering in face of it all, be a cog in the machine, all so that nobody suspected it when files got stolen, when intel was suddenly missing. She'd been sent in to be hungry. She couldn't afford to feed. To sate on kindness.
Another rush of wind came from the open doors behind the couch, the gentlest of touches to caress her cheeks. Ciça closed her eyes, relishing in the comfort of her house. It was so safe, here. Her soup exhaled a delicious scent from the kitchen, relaxing her spirits. She took another sip from the tea.
Warm.
— + —
Whenever Ciça went out, she made sure to lock all of the doors and the padlock on the porch. There was barely a need these days. Still, old habits died hard. Decades of experience that reminded her it was always better to be prepared, even if it meant a minute or two double-checking her latches for good measure. The wide doors of the house they'd given her when she retired to remote work closed with a reassuring creak. She could oil them, if she wanted. She didn't like doors that closed too silent.
It were warm smiles and familiar waves that greeted the former handler when she made her way down the street towards the bakery. Olívia, a young girl that lived right next door, was walking her dog to the last rays of sun, as always. Ciça stopped to pet him, giggling at the over-excitement of the mixed puppy pawing at her clothes.
"Taking a walk, sweetie?" She asked the owner, out of politeness. The girl nodded, lips irking up as she pried a coily lock of hair behind her ear. Ciça received Mel's wet kisses with laughter bubbling out of her chest, easing him out of her legs when he tried climbing up her pants.
"Mellie!" She chastised and tugged at his leash, voice high with embarrassment. Ciça brushed it off, endeared. He was just growing, it was all. With an ache, she fondly recalled the time she'd been allowed a pet herself. Ciça brushed away the sadness from her smile. Told her to be gentle with him.
"It's commendable patience," she sighed with a pout. She'd learned the word commendable recently, and would find ways to use it at every turn. "You're very good, Ciça. I can't really be like you."
It was met with a laugh.
"I hope your mom is well," she wished as she adjusted her dog-driveled bag on her shoulders and went back on her way. "See you around!" Olívia flashed her a pleasant smile and traded down her own path with an I'll tell her you send a hug! Ciça hummed to the air. Some older neighbors, closer her age, were sitting by their own porches along the way too, calling her in greeting as she passed. She beamed at them, hellos and good evenings spilling past her lips with a newfound ease that hadn't been there back when she moved. She didn't bother catching bits of their resumed conversations. It was nerve-soothing, really, not having to pay attention to every bit of information—potential intel—thrown around her. This wasn't enemy territory, after all.
This was home.
Even the cashier—Leila, a younger woman that had moved in from the south of the state earlier this year—recognized her with some warm small-talk as she weighed her share. R$ 5.32 on a dozen loaves, tagged and paid over the owner, Gerúndio, on the way out. He prodded her with some of the new candy he'd received from a new provider when she went to grab the butter, adding some on her bag as a gift. She giggled, waving him goodbye as she made her way back under the cooling streets and the laying sun.
She was in no rush, so it was nearly night by the time she finally turned the corner that'd lead to her house. It was a fancy one. Not new, but cared-for. Comfortable. She had had nothing to complain when they told her this was the spot they'd give her, out of her selected locations. Ciça, an outstanding agent, had no reason to not be awarded by years of hard work with such decorum. Good city, large house, generous allowance. Nobody else in the neighborhood knew, given—and she wasn't gonna tell. The Dove—her loyalty, on paper—didn't know it all either, and she was ready to take it with her to the grave. It was her job, after all. She'd completed her duty years ago, to both of the parties, valuable leakages to her real side. Now, Ciça could settle herself with periodic reports and analysis on her issued computer, little work on the side. She still passed on all that she could reasonably get her hands on, but it'd be suspicious to get too involved in her position. Connections hadn't been cut. They'd only softly faded into the background. The chirp of evening birds was louder than them, out here.
It'd taken a while to get used to. This ease. Not being on high alert every day of every week for decades, always waiting to be found out or pushing down regrets to make her role work. It'd taken a while—but now, she couldn't be happier. Had she ever, in her wildest dreams, imagined such a peaceful life for herself? It'd always felt so out of reach. Undeserved. She considered it a miracle of sorts. And, Ciça would merrily think, she wasn't going to trade it for anything else.
But when dusk fell, so did a heavy weight on her shoulders.
She had barely turned the street when she caught glimpse of it: The car, standing just in the corner of the road. Her system was quick to flood with something foreign. She made a point to ignore it—the people lounging inside the vehicle as to not invite suspicion—as she got the front gate keys from her pocket and hummed some melody to open the door. It was sleek in the corner of her eye. White, to blend in. Subtle enough that nobody would pay much attention to it. But Francisca knew better.
Even after years, it struck to the front of her attention whenever she saw it. Glistening, silver. Too tiny and too bland to draw a look from anyone else, placed in the corner of the hood. Ciça recognized it for what it was.
The logo of a flying, glistening dove.
She carefully settled her bags on the bench after the door. It was dark inside, all windows closed. For more than just caution, really—over here in this part of the country, mosquitoes flooded through every crack at twilight if you didn't shut all the doors regardless of the weather. Ciça flicked on a switch to let some light in.
She grabbed a jacket. Came out from the back door, to approach the people awaiting for her.
Her first thought, obviously, had been that she was absolutely fucked. She hadn't brought in any of her knives from the kitchen—acting like you'd been caught was a sure way of getting you caught—but couldn't help her muscles from tensing. Stance ready, eyes watching for any hints of a threat as if they'd never stopped scanning for them. She carefully kept it all away from her face and approached the car with an easy smile.
"Evening, gentlemen!" She greeted them. Ciça allowed herself to lean over the top of the window, cracking the driver a wink. On cue, the tinted panel rolled down. The muffled sound was grating to her ears. It was like nails on a chalkboard.
"Francisca," the man nodded in way of greeting. Ciça's smile became strained. It did not drop. The other person who'd been in the car with him had come out in the while she'd taken to go inside. Keeping guard, she figured. So cautious. She straightened up to her full height, hands in her pockets. He didn't continue; just took off a pair of sunglasses and wiped them on his shirt. The agent stationed across the car to watch the streets shot her a look. She didn't spare him much attention, but she clocked something odd about him. Like an itch on the middle of her back she couldn't quite locate to scratch. He looked younger than the driver. Wary, too.
From inside the car, he resumed, "Long no see. I take it you have packed already?" He asked, cold. The order made itself clear from between his words. Pack. Fuck, was it really urgent? Ciça minutely tensed. She forced her frame to relax.
She made her tone remain light. Lighthearted. "As soon as they told me," she lied. "Was just coming from the grocery store to grab a couple last." She cast a look over the houses across the street. Lights on, only a few kids and gossipy elders outside at the hour. Her throat felt a little tight. "Apologies for keeping you in the wait."
He ignored her half-assed attempt at sounding natural and put his glasses back on, despite the sunset. Ciça's eyes didn't linger on its beauty. His pale fingers curled up to tap on the steering wheel. "You recall it won't take long. Your brother has been looking forward to tonight." He glanced at her from over the darkened lens. "Should we come in to help you get it all in the car?"
Ciça frowned.
"Oh, thank you," she went along. Didn't purse her lips. A brief meeting with a "brother"? This wasn't code for anything good. She cast another look at the kid keeping watch outside of the car. His arms were crossed, idle. Forcefully so. "That's very kind of you."
There was a pause. A click, and she got out of the way for him to open the door. The kid just behind took the cue, crossing the distance to follow suit. Then it clicked. It dawned on Ciça what was it she wasn't being able to put a finger on, at his presence.
A weapon.
Brown skin, like cherry wood, short hair plastered to his brow in black, thin strands. By the looks, something past fourteen. An Arara? Likely. It didn't sit right with her to have something high like a Condor being sent just to retrieve her for some meeting, especially after so much time. Still, he looked enough at ease in a civil environment that this couldn't be one of the lowest-ranked—the Sabiás, confined to the undergrounds of the base, dispatched for simple executions and rarely going out. Out of the three, it was most reasonable. His eyes, black, caught hers for a moment. From the slight flinch, she assumed he hadn't meant to find her looking back. The reaction was subdued enough, trained instinct. Ciça cracked him a shy smile and made a point to let it slide. It wasn't lost on her how his relaxation was minute.
The agent—the fellow handler, she could now conclude—crossed the doorway with large strides, the weapon behind not straining in the slightest to keep up. Used to it, probably. Ciça politely held open the door for both, then closed it behind her as she left the remaining sunset for the bright, vast hall.
— + —
When Ciça flicked on the rest of the lights indoors, she saw the handler letting out a strained sigh. He leaned against the kitchen balcony, caressing the bridge of his nose and not bothering to keep up the cool, composed pretense now that they were inside. Ciça tried not to let her eyebrows raise. How unprofessional. The weapon, on the other hand, had settled himself on the corner of the living room and assumed a proper parade rest. She eyed his position for a split second, knowing any longer would make him nervous. Nodded to herself; it was a good one. He'd been trained well.
"I'll go straight to the point," he said, after Ciça had offered him a glass of water. The weapon stood there, awkwardly holding his own. Ciça was just about to tell his handler to give him permission to drink it when he'd started talking. A finger was pointed in her direction. She couldn't help it, then. A brow lifted on its own. "Francisca Vieira Correia, you have been summoned by the sector administration to resume your active duties. Effective immediately."
Ciça's second eyebrow joined the first.
"I see," she said, even thought she did not, not quite. Tried to keep the frown out of her expression. "And to what do I give the honor…?"
There was a pause. Hesitation. "It's too confidential to discuss here. I have orders to instruct you to ready yourself for a day and two nights at the base for briefing." He stared into her eyes. His were light, almost blue. Ciça faced him back, unfazed. "It is an urgent matter."
She let the silence stretch for a moment, replying with a hum. It sounded cynical even to her ears.
He was still a little unexperienced, she figured. At her silence, he let the tension line his posture. He was a whole head shorter than her. Most people were. And she wasn't brittle either. It seemed to dawn on him, then, his resolve faltering. Amused, she spared him.
"Sure," she shrugged. "I will get some clothes and toiletries in a bag. I reckon bedding and the like is provided?" She didn't wait for him to answer. "I would appreciate it if you borrowed me your weapon to get it over with quicker."
It was written plain and clear on his face that he did not like the idea. Still, she was a senior agent after all. Tight-lipped, he granted the permission. The weapon just gave him his slightest of bows and hurried to follow Ciça into the master bedroom.
She didn't bother turning on many of the other lights. Ciça very pointedly ignored the feeling of dread sinking on her stomach, the sourness pooling under her tongue. Tightened the strings on her duffel bag containing sleep and formal wear for five days, just to be sure. It was never just "a day and two nights," she reckoned, bitter. She gave some of the easy stuff for the kid to pack, roll or carry.
"Thank you," she smiled at him as he held them. From his stunned freezing, it wasn't something his handler did a lot.
Ciça felt her smile tightening. Brushed it away, before he could see it.
This was exactly why she didn't miss her field days.
Three minutes later, Francisca had gathered all that she'd need for the rendezvous and gotten her groceries in the drawer. She left the weapon holding the last of the bags as she moved all of her perishables to the freezer, opened the windows to put the more fragile of her plants indoors and away from the sun. She bit her lip. She hoped they wouldn't wither while she was away.
"Done?" He asked, impatient. Ciça made a point of ignoring him and checking up on her latches and locks one last time. She eyed the half-brewed soup over the oven. A wave of something she didn't try to name washed over her, but she locked it away. Bit her lip.
She carefully packed half of it into a tupperware and shoved it inside the bag along with her other stuff.
He was tapping his foot when she finally rose back to the living room. She didn't roll her eyes. Instead, and to his obvious annoyance, she just asked, "Shall we?"
She tried not to feel too deep an ache at closing the front gate and guarding away the key, too. Ciça breathed in. Held it in there, sighed out.
The handler put her bags over her shoulder, walking away and towards the car without looking back. She wasn't really in a position to refuse.
She waved at Olívia on the way to the car, receiving a bright reaction in response. The girl was coloring something from a book on her own frontyard. Ciça waved her, and the people's curious eyes watching her from their own porches, a final goodbye, plastering a smile over her face.
Take care! I'll be back soon.
A frown. Has something happened?
Her smile didn't waver, even as her escorts got in and buckled up their seatbelts. Night had fallen; no stars could be seen above, yet, but all light had vanished from the sky in the short while she'd taken to pack up. It now wore something akin to a nauseous shade of dead, navy blue. The clouds surely were to blame.
She merely reassured them, before getting in the car:
Just some family matters.
Next (coming)
Espada taglist: @otter-chaos-violence @oros-ash3s @inhurtandincomfort @swisscheesethethird @warmfuzz-ies @whumpawaydarling @catnykit @melpomenelamusa @whump-until-wretched @sirnef-fenris @stars-hide-our-fires @mxrr0rball @supasos0 @aromanticsky @violets-whumperflies @painwithoutplot @whumpshaped
Tagging the main taglist just for this one; lmk if you want to be added to this au's taglist! ^_^
Main story masterlist
