#alternative name: Car That You Tried To Outrun For Mockery Too Many Times After Getting Constantly Ran Over By

[fuckyeahxenobladechroniclesx]

Today's weekly XCX model is:

NLA Resident Car (oj400101)

[talltales]

            —EVIL, I'VE COME TO TELL YOU THAT SHE'S EVIL, MOST DEFINITELY              EVIL, ORNERY, SCANDALOUS AND EVIL, MOST DEFINITELY              THE TENSION, IT'S GETTING HOTTER. I'D LIKE TO HOLD HER HEAD UNDERWATER                                                            anonymous request!!

the slip of paper is worth its weight in gold.

“make sure to come out of there alive, alright?”

she turns it over in her hand, reading the scrawled address on one side for what feels like the thousandth time. on the other, a bolded warning is underlined twice—for extra emphasis, she supposes.

come alone.

“i will,” she affirms and jackson, torn between tired and a little drunk, cuffs her on the shoulder before tilting dangerously toward the edge of the couch. absently, she pats the thick cast covering the majority of his left leg before she rises to her feet, “worry about yourself. i don’t want to find you laying in a pool of your own vomit.”

unruffled, jackson shifts onto his back and throws his leg over the arm of the couch. any other time, she might’ve welcomed this sight: the perilously cocky man getting his just desserts for baiting the wrong idiot, left hobbling on a broken leg for his troubles. but any humor to be found in the situation comes more sour than sweet.

your timing is horrible, she almost says. but if she gives him a taste of guilt, jackson will drown himself in it.

“o ye,” his voice is low, exhausted in a way that she tries not to let herself feel. he rests his temple against a half-fluffed pillow and closes his eyes, “of little faith.”

her tongue flicks over her teeth before she huffs; a sound that might’ve passed for a laugh any other day. instead, it is a wispy and hollow thing that sinks into the walls.

though her back is turned when he breaks the soft, uncertain silence, she can hear his fear—caught in his throat, “we’ll find him, alright? just be careful.”

she nods, makes her way to the door and slips her boots on—pretends she doesn’t hear him say anything more.

i can’t lose you, too.

the paper disappears into her pocket as she closes the door behind her.

—

“so what brings a pretty lady like you to a place like this, hmm?” her latest tail—burly, heavily tattooed and smelling of gunpowder—whispers somewhere over her shoulder, bending at the waist until she feels his breath fan across her nape. too warm, too close, too loud even over the cacophony of curses and laughter. “surely you’re not here for a drink.”

he isn’t wrong. most people didn’t make a habit of walking into a bar notorious for housing the most dangerous gang in the country for a cocktail. the man laughs, as if enjoying his own private joke and the sound is punctuated with a distant wolf-whistle.

fresh meat in the lion’s den.

“i’m not, really.” she calls back to him, her voice soft but steady. the slip of paper is cradled between her fingertips, folded in half twice over in her unease. the crowd, to their credit, shifts to grant her movement through to the half-cracked door in the back of the building, “i’m here to meet someone.”

“and who would that be?”

“your boss, i’m guessing.” casting a significant look at the marking stamped to the inside of his wrist, she remains all-too-aware of the odd assortment of criminals and outcasts circling the perimeter. they’ve made a home of the bar. most laze about on leather armchairs, shouting at the tv. the more suspicious ones follow her with their eyes.

out of place doesn’t begin to describe the feeling. it is more and less than a physical sensation; than the belief that she is, in many ways, descending to the underworld to make a deal with hades himself.

“can’t say that’s a wise move, lass.” the pressure of his hand settles on her shoulder—sweaty palms and fat fingertips—and she bites back a soft curse. for the love of god.

and like a talisman, she presents the scrawled note to him, poised for him to inspect until his grip lightens and his hand falls away.

“well, you could’ve just said so.”

only an unnerving awareness of her surroundings keeps her from rolling her eyes, “now i have.”

“let’s go.”

before her, the crowd parts like the red sea.

—

youngjae goes missing on a wednesday.

her first thought it is that of course, he would choose the night right before her latest deadline to skip town. the anger gets caught beneath her collarbones any time she tries to talk, so jackson alternates between balancing on his crutches and giving the bored officer all of the necessary information.

it isn’t until the gambling holes in the neighboring towns come up empty that she starts to worry.

his rap sheet, they find, reads like a checklist for every petty crime a person can be arrested for. and that’s that. the police stop looking after a day—the sun is barely over the horizon when they turn in; squad cars making wide turns back onto the highway and disappearing out of sight.

from the passenger seat, jackson swears.

they comb the streets until dawn, though she isn’t sure what they’re looking for—

doesn’t want to think about what they might find.

by friday, she’s spending her evenings thumbing through old cases with retired journalists; old fogies she’d dreamed of working with, once upon a time. when they stop laughing at her—what advice columnist goes sniffing around for underground contacts—they provide mountains of paperwork and few promises.

saturday morning, she has a name and a number.

an address, when she bargains with the woman that picks up the phone.

a slip of paper worth its weight in gold.

—

the first thing she notices is him—a quiet figure clad in nothing but jeans and a t-shirt; young, with shoulder-length hair tied back into a loose ponytail. he’s as unassuming as the average college student, but the glint in his eyes holds nothing but vicious intelligence.

i can’t lose you, too.

“a guest?” he intonates, more statement than question. the way that the room settles around him speaks volumes; the tension held in the stillness says even more as the remaining men in the room either line the walls or make for the exit. it feels like a movie scene, but the dread settling low in her stomach serves as a brutal reminder of how real it is.

“sir. she was poking around out front, had an invitation.” says the gruff fellow, with none of the casual mockery she’d endured from the front door onward. it would’ve been funny if it wasn’t terrifying, “i can take her out.“

before she can argue, the stranger clears his throat—exhales—and focuses his attention on her as he addresses the man behind her, “i’ve told you not to call me sir. you’re not speaking to my uncle, you’re speaking to me. leave her here and go.”

“right, jaebeom.”

he stumbles over the name, hesitates from the first syllable to the last before he backs out of the room and closes the door behind him. her fingers curl ever-tighter around the paper, dig deeper into her pocket to ease her own nerves. because jaebeom, the man she’s looking to ask a favor of, takes perverse pleasure in making his men trip over their own feet.

the humored tilt of his lips is a cruel thing, emphasized only by the idle tapping of his fingers against the table top, “so to what do i owe this pleasure?”

when she opens her mouth, she finds all of her carefully-chosen words gone, “i—“

fuck.

“money? men?” jaebeom turns to wave away the stragglers; men who look all too eager to remove themselves from the room, “women? i don’t judge.” his head tilts then, hair falling in pieces to cover his eyes. he sweeps the stray strands aside and folds his hands together in front of his chin, steepled—“or do you have a problem you want to get rid of?”

the amused gleam in his eyes never quite fades, but he is patient.

she crumples the paper in her fist and bites back the urge to retreat under the intensity of his attention. no matter how harmless he appears to be—im jaebeom has a reputation for brutality that he simultaneously confirms and contradicts.

her tongue feels heavy; weighted by dread, “i heard that you were good at finding people.”

we’ll find him, alright?

“my friend is missing.”

there’s a long moment of silence; she watches as jaebeom leans back in his seat, regarding her with a raised brow and reignited interest. he clicks his tongue, tone wry when he finally speaks, “so call the police.”

“they won’t look. he has history.”

desperation creeps into her words before she can check herself—this, she thinks, is why jackson was supposed to be here. to handle the messy parts and keep her from spilling her fury like lava down a mountain side.

jaebeom is unaffected; unmoving as she swallows her fear and closes the distance between herself and the opposite edge of the table. her palms press into the wood, hard enough to obscure the way her hands shake, “if you can put a hit out on a man, surely you can find one.”

“i’m not search and rescue.”

it’s a true enough sentence, though the way that he says it leaves room for question. an opening. by now, it’s clear that a trap is being laid at her feet—that she can either leave empty-handed, or be ensnared by a vicious man with a penchant for psychological warfare. he isn’t smiling, but he is positively thrumming. pleased.

knowing she won’t get another chance, she takes it, “what do you want?”

somewhere in the back of her mind, she imagines the sound of a shackle snapping shut.

jaebeom merely hums, rising from his seat in a smooth motion. any retreat she can make is halted by the pressure of his thumb and forefinger cradling her jaw. she remains still as he leans in, inspecting her changing expressions with bemusement and something unnamed.

something darker.

“we’ll worry about that later. what’s your friend’s name?”

—

when they find youngjae the next wednesday, outrunning loan sharks on the west coast, she barely refrains from drowning him in the tub he’s washing his clothes in.