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akingdomscrypt · 1 year ago

Text

Make a Mercy Out of Me

Part One

Paring; König x m!reader

Word count; ~6k

Warnings; uhmm.. violence and a whole lotta google translate

(this is my first time using this platform for fics, so please bear with me-)

--- "far from home" ---

You were not a fan of public spaces. Or people in general. You were especially not a fan of overcrowded, rowdy bars - with slippery bodies pressed so close together you could barely take a breath without inhaling someone else's CO2.

You found slight reprieve at the counter, seated farthest from the door and chin propped up on your gloved palm, watching the bartender race around mixing drinks and chatting politely with customers who definitely didn't deserve her kindness. It was a little entertaining watching the woman balance glasses while simultaneously putting on a show for her drunk viewers.

You didn't like being in public, but the bartender in front of you made it a little more worth your while. Besides, you were here for a reason. You had a job to do.

A job that should have arrived almost half an hour ago. They were late, typical. You had expected this; he always pinged you the location for drop-off hours before the person arrived. In fact, you had specifically chosen to wait a good few hours after the initial message for this very reason.

You still ended up being early.

A few more minutes passed before you felt a shift in the atmosphere of the room. Felt the searching eyes land on you, burning a hole through the side of your masked face. You resist the urge to turn around and look for them, knowing they would be by your side soon enough.

A brief moment later - probably the person trying to maneuver through the sea of sweaty bodies - an inconspicuous person seated themselves to your left, dressed in civilian clothes with nothing but a darkly colored medical mask to obscure their identity. They gave a bright smile to the woman behind the counter and waved off her inquiry for a drink.

"So," They began, "how's the weather back home?"

As they spoke, they kept their focus floating around the stuffy room. Expression relaxed and elbows planted firmly on the wooden surface of the bar.

"Bright and sunny." You reply simply, letting the other person know you are alone. That you haven't been followed, your identity compromised - that the last mission had gone well.

"No overcast?"

"None." Your voice is pitched low, almost gravelly as you respond. You trail your gloved fingers along the lip of your own, untouched glass, waiting for whatever this person has in store for you.

"I see," their tone shifts, still keeping on that laid-back persona, to something more professional before they slip into your native tongue.

"Na túto misiu cestujete do zahraničia. Niekde pozdĺž americko-mexickej hranice."

"Dosť ďaleko od domácej základne, nie?"

"Áno."

"A ona mi verí, že sa o to postarám?"

They glance over at you briefly, before their eyes flicker away again.

"Of course."

You nod, pulling out enough cash to cover the drink and placing it on the counter. Moving to stand, you take your drink with you.

Taking a clumsy step forward, as if you had drunk enough to kill a small deer, you stumble into the person sitting beside you. Spilling the contents of the glass all over the front of their shirt in the process.

"Shit!" You exclaim, reaching over to grab a handful of napkins. You begin frantically pressing the thin papers to the person's clothes, muttering apologies under your breath.

"I'm so sorry- really, I am! It was an accident-" you continue to ramble, adding an exaggerated slur to your words as you speak. Their hands reach down to assist you in your frantic movements, the chaos in which your two's hands are moving distracting from the moment the other person slips a small, folded paper into your jacket sleeve.

Once you feel the press of the note against your wrist you pull away, tucking it into your pocket. The glare in their eyes speaks volumes as you back away, even as they mutter a quick;

"It's fine."

Was it necessary? Absolutely not. Was it a delight to see the person splutter and tug the drenched fabric away from their skin as you slunk away into the crowd? Yes, yes it was.

You reach the exit and pull out the door, mentally laughing to yourself at the look on their face before you'd left. Payback for making you wait so damn long. You draw in a deep breath, the air chilly even through the cloth of your mask. It was refreshing, a breath of fresh air after having been stuck in that filthy establishment for a little over an hour.

When you decide you've walked far enough, fingers reach into your pocket. Your pace doesn't falter, continuing at a lazy waltz as you unfold it with one hand. A car's headlights light up the paper as it passes by, illuminating the digits on the note when you bring it up to inspect it.

Coordinates, lovely. Because your handler was nothing if not a fan of the dramatics.

27.5036° N, 99.5076° W

You huff a small sigh, rolling your eyes before pocketing the paper once again. Welp, better start moving.

You get dropped off a few miles south of the city, a little ways away from the river, because apparently flying a helicopter into the heart of it would be 'too suspicious'. Meaning you'd now have to walk through muggy plains for a good hour or two.

Not even halfway out the heli and you were already mourning the loss of the freezing tundra that is your home base. You sling your duffle bag over your shoulder, not bothering to look back at the pilot who brought you into the pit of hell.

The Heli takes off not even a moment after, leaving you completely alone. With a drawn-out sigh and a roll of your eyes, you begin the long trek through this godforsaken hellscape.

The sun is just above the horizon when you arrive at the outskirts of the - now that you're here - fairly large city. Peaking over the edge of the small hill you mentally groan. People.

Not only did your handler send you across the fucking northern Atlantic ocean, but she sent you into one of the most populated cities along the damn border!

When the sun finally begins to set - a pretty mix of purples and orangish hues as the ball of fire disappears over the horizon - you pick up your bag once again and take off down the hill, carefully maneuvering over the uneven ground.

After a few minutes of wandering aimlessly through the streets bordering the city, you manage to find a cheap, sketchy-looking residence for shelter. All it takes is a couple of bills, some broken Spanish, and a fake identity and you're walking up a creaky flight of stairs to your home away from home for the foreseeable future.

Upon twisting the key into the door and hearing that satisfying click sound, you push the door open slowly. Your eyes flicker around the room for a minute, scoping out the space for anything sticking out of place, before you finally step in. Shutting and bolting the flimsy door quietly behind you.

In the room lies a small bed frame, a thin mattress on top, and a worn wooden side table next to it - pushed up against the far left corner. There's a tiny window fixed into the center of the wall, to the right of the bed. Pushed up against the opposite wall is a dusty, wooden dresser. A dirty mirror dangling above it. Farthest to the left of the room is a half bathroom, the door propped open. This allows you to see almost the entire interior from where you stand near the entrance of the room.

You heave the duffle off your shoulder and onto the dresser, taking out a small bottle and then leaving it there as you turn to make your way to the bathroom. It wasn't exactly the most hygienic, but splashing your face with water and using the last bit of your cheap shampoo to clean the sweat out of your hair was as good as it was going to get. After that you exit the tiny room, heading straight for the lumpy mattress near the door.

You grab the fleece blanket from your bag on the way over, discarding the sheets already wrapped on the bed onto the floor - there's no telling what caused those colorful stains, and you weren't too keen on finding out. You place the blanket on top of the now bare mattress, as you figure the heat of the air would keep you warm enough as you sleep. You remove your shirt, balling it up and using it as a pillow as you get comfortable.

As you lay there, eyes flicking around the dark, unfamiliar room, your stomach churns harshly. It had been a while since your last meal, but you weren't exactly eager to fix that problem. Nor did you really have the means to at the moment.

Choosing to ignore the insistent rumbling of your stomach, you nuzzle your face into your makeshift pillow and close your eyes. It takes a little while, but after laying there for an extended period of time, with nothing else to occupy your mind, you eventually drift into a light slumber.

— POV: König —

Capture. No kill.

Those are his orders - and the rest of the team, but that doesn't matter right now. What matters is the very real man - he'd overhead Soap talking to Gaz, wondering if the fabled fool even existed - walking dangerously close to a frail woman under the cover of a thick, noisy crowd.

They'd gotten tipped off to your location by an anonymous caller. Something about you being the infamous man the crew had been hunting these past few years - leaving mutilated bodies in your wake. You didn't discriminate against your targets, but that wasn't what made you so dangerous. No, it was the fact that they didn't know why you killed.

If it wasn't for the sporadic timeline in which you did it, and that your targets weren't specific to a certain city or country - added to the fact that the majority of your killings were either political leaders, or their affiliates (which wasn't limited to the people in power, but included their wives and children as well) - you wouldn't even be on their radar. You would've just been another psychotic serial killer.

In their eyes, you were simply another terrorist. One with no known rhyme or reason for your methods; unpredictable. And that was far more dangerous than your typical run-of-the-mill terrorist. At least they have - no matter how separated from reality - ideals and morals. At least they were predictable.

You had had them chasing your tail going on for two years straight now, leaving them to pick up your breadcrumbs and discover the carnage you left behind.

This all came to a close when one random Friday afternoon they got a hit on where you'd be headed next through the way of a call to Laswell's office landline. They, of course, had wondered just how exactly the man on the other line had known your location - and if the intel was even authentic - but the call had cut to dead air before they could interrogate him. Besides, if this was a real tip, it was far too good to pass up.

And, after a lengthy flight, now they were here. Watching. Waiting. For anything. For you to make a move, for you to materialize from what seemed like thin air. Gaz had had the hunch that, though you would try to blend in, you would be easy to pick out of the crowd. He, on the drive here, had reasoned that though someone like you was likely a master at his craft - there had to be a fault somewhere.

Why else would all of your kills take place under the blanket of the night? It clearly wasn't just to avoid witnesses or catch your victims off guard. Your kills showed great strength, and the places where you left the bodies weren't always exactly… hidden.

Gaz had drawn the conclusion that you must just not be a people person, or that there was something about high-traffic areas that put you on edge. König couldn't fault you for that, he too - as well as some of the others - wasn't exactly the most sociable either and didn't blend well with civilians. You, however, he had said that you would stick out like a sore thumb. Unable to hide the tension in your body, or the urge to fidget with whatever you could get your hands on.

He was right. Here you were; tapping the tips of your left fingers against your thumb incessantly and jaw clenched so tight, König was sure it would snap.

"Got him." Soap spoke into his ear, the man himself being a good few meters ahead of you - tucked away near an alley, leaning up against an old brick wall. The others, after a short moment of silence, muttered their affirmation. Five people had their eyes on you, and yet you seemed to be so blissfully unaware. Too caught up in your anxieties to notice the men stationed on every side of you, waiting for the opportunity to strike.

König watches as the old lady stumbles into you, watches as you scramble to pick up the items that had tumbled out of her shaky arms from the impact. They wait. Wait for your next movement. Wait for you to get away from so many innocent civilians, to the thinner part of the herd.

The moment comes far too soon, you hurriedly shove the fallen objects back into her hands, muttering what is most likely an apology under your breath. After that you look up, eyes flickering around the exposed area you seem to have found yourself in - and that's when it happens. Your icy glare connects with his own, unwavering stare, and your body seizes up.

"Spotted." He grunts out, shifting off of the large crate he had been perched against to disguise his height. "Target headed your way Soap-"

He barely gets the Scots name out, barely has the time to lift his chin to keep his eyes steely on you before the screaming starts. König goes flying backward at the strength of the blast, catching himself at the last minute, inches from getting up close and personal with the clay underfoot.

He gets a glimpse of you - knocked off your own balance and struggling to right your footing - before the cloud of dust and smoke becomes too thick, obscuring you from view.

— —

You wake up before the sun does, covered in a thin layer of cold sweat despite the heat of the room and feeling more tired than you were the day before. The first thing you do is stumble off the bed and to the duffle bag you had left open on the dresser last night. You pull out a change of clothes - a thin t-shirt and a pair of well-worn pants - then zip it back up.

After you change into the new clothing and roll up the dirty, used ones to stuff into the far corner of your bag - you lift the duffle, carrying it over to the bed to tuck it underneath. With nothing else to do but get on with your day, you leave. Making sure you lock the damn thing behind you. You didn't want any unwanted visitors going through your shit, after all.

The sun has risen now and it's time to find out just what your handler sent you out here for. It better be worth it - this damn heat made you want to tear your skin off.

You travel the outskirts of the city as long as you can, trying your best to ignore the crowd of people milling about and just get what you came here for. Hopefully, the what in question would make its appearance soon enough.

You've never been… good at blending in with your surroundings. Sure, you could manage yourself - you were a professional, after all. But being around so many unknowns made you uneasy. A feeling you're certain even the most socially unaware of the crowd could pick up on.

Eventually, though, you have to make a right and dive into the busy streets. Your phone pings in your pocket, letting you know you're getting closer to your destination. You pass by an ungodly amount of bars - seriously, why are there so many? - on your way. Now and again there's a tiny buzz from your phone, stronger as you inch closer to the designated drop-off. Or, at least you think it's a drop-off? What else could it be? There are only so many possibilities in the midst of a populated city.

Thankfully, the what makes its entrance in the form of a suspicious old lady walking your way. Well, suspicious to you. Not as much to the other people around you, as they continue about their morning without even sparing her a glance.

You adjust your mask as she approaches, trying your damn hardest to seem unaware of the person currently beelining her way towards you. A small huff of breath escapes you at the impact, the lady's tiny body carrying much more weight behind it than you had assumed it would, various fruits and other small items coming crashing to the ground.

You scramble to retrieve the fallen objects, spotting another small folded paper in the mix.

"Mis disculpas, señora." You mutter under your breath, silently wishing you'd paid more attention when learning this particular language (at the time you hadn't considered the possibility that you'd ever use this specific dialect).

"No te vi allí." You speak again, the woman uttering her own exaggerated apologies - arms flailing about. Holding most of the objects in your hands, you begin to shove them into her arms; eyes pinpointed on one small white square, getting closer to it with every item you pick up.

When your fingers wrap around the flimsy paper you stand up, passing the last few things - seriously, how did this woman carry so damn much? - to her you lift your head, scoping out your surroundings.

It went against your training, but fuck training right now- because you were pretty damn sure you were being watched, a prickly feeling at the base of your skull. Slipping the folded paper into your pocket, you turn around. You spot them instantly, locking eyes with a giant, blue-eyed man. His eyes are all you see. And they are all you need to see before you're flipping back around and speeding up to a fast-paced walk.

You only get a few steps away before you're launched sideways; crashing shoulder-first into a brick wall. You feel the distinct movement of bone dislodging from its rightful place, and you don't have to look down to know it's likely dislocated. Teeth dig into the soft flesh under your mask, tasting metal as you fight to suppress the scream building in your throat.

You have to get out of here. You need to get back to that damn room and call your fucking handler before these men have the chance to get their grubby hands on you.

You push off the wall, blinking in an attempt to clear the dust out of your eyes. You stumble a bit, nearly toppling over an unmoving body at your feet, but quickly right yourself. Boots hit the muddy ground with reckless abandon, not caring about the sound you're making any more - not worried about being seen as out of place.

Survive. That's the only thing on your mind. Survive and make it to your room. Make it to your room so you can scream bloody murder at your boss. Survive, make it to your room, cuss out your handler, and make it back to the tundra that is your home. You can do that.

You can do that.

You continue running, hand clutching at your injured shoulder to hold it in place. You loop around buildings, twisting and turning every which way as you try to regain your bearings - to find a way out of this maze of alleys. You come to a stop at a dead end, a tall wire fence separating you from the freedom you oh so desperately crave.

Your breath comes out in sharp bursts from your nose, heating up under your mask to the point it has you contemplating ripping the damn thing off. This is compromised by tugging off your gloves and shoving them into a pocket. You're snapped out of your thoughts by the sound of gravel crunching behind you.

You flip around, eyes wide as you catch sight of the man standing behind you. He's not too tall, plainly built, and covered head to toe in makeshift gear. You consider just jumping the damn fence despite the burning in your arm, and not dealing with this guy at all. Before you can decide that, the man is charging at you - screaming out vile half-Spanish-half-English words as he does so.

You don't have time to dodge, too caught up in your head, and the next moment there's a searing pain in your already wounded shoulder. You look up, teeth clenched, glaring daggers at the man. You pull the throwing knife out of your flesh, preparing for when he finally reaches you.

The full force of his weight knocks you off balance, and you both come careening to the clay-packed ground. You manage to roll before that happens, the man beneath you taking most of the impact. You don't have time to stew in your minor victory before he's thrusting another knife at you - this one nicking you in the face, blood welling up and dripping into your eye.

You fight to stay on top, reaching for your own blade that lays tucked away in your civilian outfit - the one you pulled out having gotten lost in the brunt of the attack. Your struggling provides the man with the opportunity to flip you two over, cursing at you and wrestling against your waning strength. Your arm gives in, and he pins it above your head, still shouting directly into your face.

He reaches back and at the same time he drives back down to land another strike on you, you managed to wrangle your knife free. Your hand flies through the air, coming to rest in the juncture between his neck and shoulder at the same time he wedges the blade into the muscle of your thigh.

You pull the weapon out, blood already bubbling to the surface and spilling out, and thrust back in. Over and over again until his grip on his knife loosens, no longer digging the damn thing into your poor thigh, and his body goes limp. You scramble to push him off before you are crushed by his weight, crawling away backward on your hands.

You take a moment to catch your breath, chest heaving with the effort to get as much oxygen into your lungs as possible. After sitting there for a brief second longer, you remember the man you had seen at the city square, and you're hit with another burst of adrenaline.

You clamber to your feet, planting them firmly on the ground a little bit apart to stabilize yourself. Taking another deep breath you look up at the looming fence. Fuck it, you decide, limping over to it.

You struggle to gain any sort of footing at first, but using the pile of crates in the far right corner you manage to scramble halfway up the wire fence before you have to rely on pure upper body strength - not that you have much of that at the moment - to heave yourself up. By some miracle, you succeed. Now sitting unbalanced at the top, you squeeze your eyes shut and bite down on your tongue.

Flinging yourself over the edge, you brace for the impact - aiming to spread the force throughout your entire body instead of breaking your legs. No amount of bracing could prepare you for the mind-numbing pain of your feet hitting the ground - shooting up into your thighs and cutting through your stab wound. Tears prick at the corners of your eyes, a muffled cry tearing through your throat.

Your legs tremble, threatening to give out beneath you. Cracking open your eyes you take in your surroundings. You know this place. You're close. So close.

You leave bloody footprints on the stairs as you climb them, bracing yourself heavily on the railing. When you reach the top you're gasping for air, hands fumbling with the key before you insert it in the lock - turning it sharply to the right. You nearly vocalize your relief when the door clicks open, granting you access to the dingy room.

You hurry over to the bed, collecting your blanket, and pulling out the duffle bag from beneath the bed. Unzipping the bag you shove the blanket inside, zipping it back up just as fast. You drop your weight onto the now bare mattress, sitting down as you rush to retrieve your phone from your left pocket.

Blood has seeped out of your wound and through your pants, running down your leg and dripping onto the floor. You ignore it, crimson-stained hands tapping ferociously at the cracked screen of your cell. Somehow managing to type in your handler's number, you wait for her to pick up.

When she does, you're furious - shouting unintelligible expletives and pressing the device close to your ear.

"WHAT THE FUCK, VIK?" You finally find the ability to say more than string after string of curses and threats.

"Calm down, soldier." She speaks, voice low and frustratingly relaxed.

"Calm down!? CALM DOWN!?!?" You yell, blood thrumming in your ears. "Don't tell me to calm down, dammit. I just got blown up, then fucking ran down and stabbed. You need to pull me out of here- I need to get out of here."

"Did you get the target already?"

"Target? Are you even hearing me!? I'm bleeding out in this filthy rundown complex, and you're talking about the fucking target?"

"What do you want me to do about it, Myš?"

"What do I-" you cut yourself off with a disbelieving snort. "Are you fucking kidding me?"

"Get. Me. Out. Of. Here."

She sighs on the other line, the sound of that damn office chair of hers squeaking in the background. "No can do, soldier. You have a job to do, do it."

"Job? You cannot be serious-" The line goes dead, and you see red.

"She did not just hang up on me." You grit out, grip on the phone tightening. She did.

You seeth, and - not your brightest moment if you're being honest -, in a fit of rage you wrench back your arm before swinging it forward. The phone goes shooting out from your hand, smashing to pieces against the wall to the right of the bathroom door.

You take a minute to think; you are still very much not safe, and no one is coming to help you. You are entirely on your own, you have no one to depend on but yourself.

First things first - you are still very much bleeding out, and your dislocated shoulder isn't going to relocate itself. You stand on wobbly legs, walking until you reach the nearest wall. Propping yourself against it you take a deep breath in, brace your other hand on your shoulder and push. A sickening crack emits from it, along with a burning pressure before it gives way - locking back into its socket.

You let out a strangled whine, exhaling the breath you were holding harshly. Catching your breath you take a minute before limping back over to the mattress.

After sitting down you reach for your duffle bag, lifting it and setting it on the bed beside you as you search through it. You don't have much, but a few pairs of clean shirts should be enough to hold it, right?

Now you just needed something to hold it in place… aha! You reach in for your trusty roll of duct tape - you should really invest in another roll, this one was running on fumes. You never went anywhere without this. Never knowing when it could come in handy. Like right now.

The good thing about duct tape was that it was sturdy as hell and, most importantly, could be easily ripped with one hand and a set of teeth.

You tear the shirt into one long usable strip first, deciding the blood gushing out of your fractured arm was more urgent than your leg. You make sure to wrap it tightly, a sloppy job would only cause more harm than good. Once the torn shirt is firmly packed around your upper arm, you reach for the roll of tape. After fiddling a bit to unravel enough to start, you bring it to the cloth and begin looping around it again and again - until you're satisfied with your now metallic-covered limb. Using your good hand, you pull the roll taut. After which allows you to use your teeth to tear off the end of the tape; fastening it down tightly.

Looking down at your mutilated thigh, you groan softly to yourself. From what it appeared - the man hadn't caught any major arteries. That was good news at least. Not so good news was that the entire upper portion of your pant leg was now soaked with your own blood. You didn't have time to change clothes, didn't even have time to rip open the cloth to get better access to the wound.

Grabbing another mostly clean shirt - at this point, you were going to run out of wearable clothing - you rip that one as well. Similarly to the way you had wrapped your arm, you secure your leg. By the time you finish covering it in duct tape, the roll is empty and you huff. Great.

You go to zip up your bag, only to be interrupted by a knock on your door. Your heart rate picks up immediately, ears straining to hear any commotion coming from behind the door. The door creaks open slightly - had you forgotten to lock it?? -, accompanied by the sound of metal clinking against the faux wood floor.

Hindbrain kicking into first gear you grapple for your duffle, slinging it over your good shoulder and dashing for the bathroom. You slam the door shut behind you, bracing against it. The telltale sound of a timer going off then the impact of shrapnel hitting the other side of the door erupts nearly seconds after the door forcefully clicks closed.

You only have seconds to think as the loud, gruff voices of men fill the room you were just in mere moments ago. You scramble to get your duffle off your shoulder, dropping it to the ground and rifling through it once more.

You pull out a small pistol and pray to a god you don't believe in that the damn thing is loaded. Your fingers curl around the cool metal, and your nerves settle as the feeling grounds you into the present. This is life or death. You've trained all your life for situations like this. And one thing is for certain - you're not going down without taking out as many of these fuckers as you possibly can.

You yank the door open and take open fire. You don't care where the shots land. You just hope they hit something. When the fog settles and you can see again, you take a look around. There's one patchwork armored man on the floor, clutching at his chest as crimson soaks through and envelopes the cloth. One other is gripping his arm, glaring at you with gritted teeth.

He lifts his gun to aim at you, blood seeping through the wound and dripping on the floor. There's a bullet through his skull before he gets the chance to pull the trigger. Deciding to put the other man out of his misery, you load another into his skull as well.

You grimace at the bodies laying in growing pools of their own blood. You honestly felt a little bad for the poor maintenance worker that would have to deal with your misfortune. Oh well, it's a good thing the flooring wasn't carpet.

After retrieving your duffle bag from the bathroom and shuffling out into the hall, you begin to descend. Making your way to the back exit - as you assumed the front door probably wouldn't take too kindly to your presence.

Halfway down the stairs, you hear muttering in the front room. Damn these stars and being placed so close to the front office…

You grit your teeth and try to make yourself as inconspicuous as possible. Something that isn't an easy feat when you're covered in your own blood, have a mystery bag on your shoulder, and a mask obscuring your identity. Still, you somehow manage to pass by undetected. The woman at the front desk keeps her answers vague, and you are a little grateful that past you chose such a sketchy place to take shelter in.

When the voices fade to nothing but background noise you let out a small breath of relief. Your arm aches and the burning in your thigh isn't letting up. You don't know how much longer you can do this, how much longer you can even walk before blood loss plunges you into darkness.

Vision fuzzy around the edges and breath labored under your mask, you stumble around the maze of hallways. You didn't even think there were this many - how many rooms could possibly fit in such a tiny building? You brace one hand on the closest wall, trusting it to support the majority of your weight. Time passes and you're starting to feel a little hopeless that you'll ever make it out alive. Lightheadedness kicks in at the same moment you hear muffled talking around the corner.

"-ooks like he-" One of them says. Your ears are full of cotton, and you cannot decipher their words fully.

"-eah, and he left the carnage for us-"

"- like him-"

You know that you are the him in question. You know they're looking for you. But who are they? Are they with the man from earlier? If so, what do they want with you?

Whatever it is can't be good, you decide. You turn away, opting to go down a different offshoot of the hall to avoid them. Your footing is uneven, shambling down the dimly lit corridor blindly.

Eventually, through some grand miracle, the neon-lit sign comes into view. Your saving grace is in the form of a flickering 'exit' sign anchored above a metal door. Renewed fervor erupts and your chest and you move faster. You're so close- only a few feet away from your salvation.

Granted you still had to get out of the city, and somehow find a way back to your home base… But that didn't matter right now. What mattered was your shaky, bare hands reaching up for the panic bar. It gives way with little resistance, and sunlight fills the darkness that had swallowed you. You breathe in the thick, humid air and find yourself almost grateful for it. Then the overbearing heat returns at full force to remind you why you hate this place so much.

You take a step forward, peaking your head out to check the back alley before you continue - fingers flexing around the grip of your handgun. Seeing that the coast is clear, you open the door more, slipping out onto reddish brown clay. It's a welcomed contrast to the dingy laminate wood flooring you had been stumbling around mere seconds before. Adjusting the duffle bag a bit, you move to fully exit the building.

Your fractured arm is wrenched behind your back before you make it any further. A cut-off yelp escapes you, breath catching at the cool press of metal against your throat.

"Drop it."

You don't register the words at first, too enraptured by the sound of the voice - distinctly of German descent - to cipher the meaning. Low, rough, and oddly appealing.

"Drop." The hold on your arm tightens, the blade inching closer. A silent threat. "It."

The words finally click and decades of rigorous training go out the window, your pistol clattering to the ground.

_____

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