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[05] Of Wires and Threads (part one)
Authors: nemesae & taylormercury
Rating: PG-13
Focus: Geng, Kibum
Summary: It's ironic, that escaping the Syndicate when he had the chance was perhaps the worst thing he could have done.
Notes: Archive. Freedom.
Chewing is a monotonous business. Grind grind grind. Teeth moving constantly against food. Masticating, wasn’t it? Kind of boring, too, which is probably why Heechul even thinks such things in the first place. He stares down ponderously at the half-eaten hamburger in his hands, greasy and cheap but good enough for now, and wonders if he can finish the last of it in a single bite. And then how many chews it might take. Then he decides he really doesn’t care, and finishes it in two bites, tosses the flimsy wrapper to the ground, already strewn with litter, so what does one more thing matter?
“Shouldn’ litter, y’know,” a voice next to him says, and wheezes out a laugh that sounds more like a cough.
“Shut up,” says Heechul good naturedly. Long fingers slip into a pocket and a moment later he pulls out a crumpled packet of cigarettes. He’s irritated to find that there’s only three left. Crap.
“Hey,” a nudge in his side, and he looks to see - his friend, his source, his what? - miming smoking. And then a brilliant smile, or what might once have been brilliant, if half of his teeth weren’t black or missing, and he had any charm whatsoever. And if the guy didn’t happen to stink, either. Heechul had some wonderful friends, he really did.
Heechul sticks one between his teeth, looks at the two left in the pack, and hands another over. Now, there’s only one left. Great. “You owe me, Wang.” He lights his own and hands Wang the lighter. The smouldering tip of his cigarette reminds Heechul of exactly why he’s here, spending an evening outside a shelter for the homeless, talking to Wang. He watches the tip dull and then glow again as he inhales, and thinks it would be mighty handy, being able to light his own cigarettes; quite often, Heechul misplaces his lighters. Or pulls one out of his pocket only to find it bent out of shape and completely useless.
It’s dark, night; the only light besides the glow of two cigarettes is the street light halfway down the street from them. They’re propped in the shadows, out of sight, out of mind. Sometimes, that way is best. Especially considering the, ah, delicacy of this particular, miniature project of Heechul’s.
Another inhale, and this time along with the smoke Heechul can smell Wang, close beside him. He doesn’t say anything about it, but his nose wrinkles in slight distaste all the same. Wang smells of old smoke, of piss and sweat and dirt and about a hundred other things that Heechul would rather not be able to identify. If it weren’t for his sometimes valuable (and right now perhaps essential) information, and the fact that Wang too is quite the avid Star Wars fan, Heechul might not even bother with him.
“So, paid in the usual?” Wang questions, after several moments of silent contemplation and smoking. It’s a strangely quiet night so far, but still he keeps his voice low. It’s simply safer that way, usually.
Heechul nods. He watches the smoke coil away as he exhales, evaporate in the barely-there breeze of the night. So easy to simply disappear like that. Sometimes. And he’s determined that this isn’t going to be one of those times. He’s going to find him. Because if he doesn’t, someone else is bound to.
He hears, feels, smells, Wang shuffle closer. If they weren’t hidden in shadows, they would have looked incredibly conspicuous. The stench fills Heechul’s nose, and he sucks on the thin cigarette between his lips, fingers the lighter in his pocket and tries not to focus on it. This is what he’s here for.
“You heard ‘bout the new guy?”
He turns his head, eyes flashing only briefly with piqued interest, and then Heechul looks entirely casual again. “Isn’t there always someone new?” He asks flippantly, tips the excess ash from the end of the cigarette; he watches it lazily as it spirals to the sidewalk.
Wang exhales, and Heechul can hear the way his breath shakes as he does so. Wang is getting old, and it’s more noticeable now in ways other than his silvered hair and lined, weathered face. Heechul shudders; he doesn’t like being reminded of ageing and mortality.
“No, this one. He’s different. Not like the rest. I can smell the difference on ‘im.” Wang bares his teeth - what’s left of them, anyway - in a smile that looks like a hideous grimace, the lines around his mouth deepening with the years between them. He laughs his wheezing laugh. “For a start, he’s always warm. It’s gettin’ cold now, righ’? But he don’t wrap up warm.” He tugs with his free hand - Heechul sees how dirty and scratched his fingers are - on the layers of old, tattered, coats and sweaters he’s bundled up in against the chill autumn night. “Strange, ain’t it?”
Heechul feigns semi-carelessness, takes a last drag on his cigarette and stubs it out against the wall, drops it to the floor and forgets about it as it’s carried away by the breeze. “Maybe. But strange isn’t anything unusual there, is it?”
“It ain’t jus’ that,” Wang insists. “He’s-" he’s cut off suddenly by a deep, body-wracking cough, from the very depths of himself by the sound of it, and even after he’s done his breath is shaky and he wheezes.
“That’s going to kill you one day,” Heechul points out as Wang drags on his cigarette.
“Eventually.” The grimace-smile again, and Wang tosses his own stub away. “Now, where were I? Oh, yeah. But see, he don’t look homeless, either. Not skin ‘n’ bone like the other kids we see. He’s different!”
Heechul continues to pretend that he doesn’t really care, that he doesn’t quite believe it, and in Wang’s attempt to prove the value of his information (how else is he supposed to pay for the cigarette, after all?) Heechul finds out quite a bit. And he’s actually far more interested than he lets on. Wang tells him about the first time this new guy showed up at the shelter, looking somewhat worse for wear, visible scars, and blood stains on his clothes, by the looks of it like he had been in a fight, but not at all as if he were homeless. Not malnourished racks of bones like most of them, not begging for money, not sleeping away the day in whatever corner can be found.
“He jus’ don’t fit, y’know what I’m sayin’? The homeless, you can tell by the look in their eyes. But not this one. He’s a strange one.”
When he’s heard everything he thinks might be of use, Heechul let’s Wang slip off to whatever he spends his time doing, and mulls over the information on his own. This is the most he’s managed to dig up so far, and he feels a small buzz, a slight thrill, of excitement and getting closer. He’s been a hard one to track down, to follow, but Heechul thinks, really thinks, he might just be getting close.
Smiling to himself, he takes the lighter from his pocket again; sometimes he just likes to play with it, for no reason whatsoever. His smile fades when he looks down and sees a misshapen lump of metal in his hand, bent way beyond use. His seventh that week.
Careful footsteps resound in the emptiness of the alley, painted in the orange from street lights and the cast-off they leave in pools of fresh rain on the streets, and the green from the flickering neon sign of a late hour pawn shop. They're barely heard, but the echo is palpable like a strung bass in the symphony of the nightly city. Though the melody it plays is particularly distorted in these areas, and there's plenty of reason never to drop a wrong note. From shadows eyes observe him, and he knows it. It's been driving him insane. But he has no choice but to roam these streets at night.
Sorrowful eyes look up at the sky. Even the brighter lights from downtown, where all important streets eventually slither down towards, are sometimes too harsh on Geng's eyes, and he tries to be from their grasp wherever he goes. To be seen is something he can not afford. So he hides during daytime in old storage houses, those that he's sure have no possibility of being connected to the Syndicate because they're simply too small to harbour a gathering of more than three people at any given time, and underneath bridges in areas where no one with a sane mind ever ventures. They are the places of addicts, and of the delusional.
He has been venturing into unexplored roads. It's tricky, dangerous, and every new sound or syllable a potential threat. Even the rat peeking up at him curiously before it crawls away - sensing that this one, too, is a bit too unstable to guarantee a safe passage away after coming too close - nearly kills the last of his nerves.
It's ironic, and in the right circumstances it could have caused a wry smile upon his lips. That escaping the Syndicate when he had the chance was perhaps the worst thing he could have done. That it's breaking him down, to know that he's hunted down, that every unfamiliar face is a suspicious one, and to not be able to give in to it and surrender. To finally not have to fight to stay alive. Not like this. It's so hard not to give up, some times. Going back to the shelter is something he resents, but it's the only place where he has a chance at food when he still refuses to eat from trash bins or beg from strangers. It's simply too dangerous for him.
And then, pulling him out of his thoughts, then there are footsteps behind him.
Footsteps, but no silhouette to match them, when he turns around and feels his breath stick in his throat. But as suddenly as they appeared, they cease.
No one's there. There aren't any streets branching off of the one he's in, and he's sure it's just the paranoia that has been eating away at him, but it didn't sound like feet on cobblestone. It didn't even sound like it was at ground level. What's worse, he can't even distinguish whether it's just his imagination or reality. Images blur. And almost, almost he feels like he's going to hyperventilate.
But then his ears pick up another sound, and he tenses, the pulse of blood beating painfully against the veins that it courses through.
Someone's passing him by, running past him at great speed. Relentlessly.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
Heels on wet bitumen felt. Rooftop felt. Not stone or litter and wet cardboard.
But there's no one.
It's just an illusion. Just an illusion. Just an illusion, he chants to himself. Geng's breath is audible in the void that the footsteps leave in their wake, and the rain that's starting to drip down in soothing manners onto his skin - the only way he's been able to experience something akin to a shower for the last two months - and into the pools.
It's gone. And the sensation of being hunted down falls off of him, albeit reluctantly, with the scent of rain purifying his nerves. Geng has always liked the rain. He doesn't smile, but he's relieved, so relieved, that there's no more sound now. That it's gone. He allows himself some naivety believing that it's the rain washing away an illusion. It's the only thing that keeps him going some times. Pretending that it's not real.
Regardless of anything, people don't want to be out when it rains. Perhaps that's the biggest reason why Geng finds it comforting.
He breathes in the fresh scent of moss and the sound of drops clattering indiscriminately against every surface it meets with. The city is cold, sticky, terrible, and he can still remember how surprised he was, first time he came outside again after years of not having tasted the rain, in an area so densely populated that it's unlike anything he has ever been to before, to find that the rain of a metropolis could still remind him of days long gone, when he would go fishing with his father on one of the rare days that he was home, and bad weather would sneak up on them and send them laughing as they sought shelter in the woods near the lake.
Geng smiles sadly.
He wants to go home. Be released from this nightmare, and his ability, to just be normal and enjoy life as it's supposed to be given to everyone. Not excluding the anomalies such as himself.
When the sound of footsteps rise again from the other side, and he's sure he's seen a shadow of a reflection in the ripple-distorted pool on the ground, his self-defence mechanism finally takes over, tired of running, and of not being spotted. Sparks sprout out of thin air - with just a little more trouble to vaporise the water clinging to his battered clothes first. The next moment, a solid wall of fire lights the rooftop, blocking off the path that the footsteps seem to take. Then tongues spear forward at great speed. Geng is tired of running, and it makes him thorough. Whatever is up on the rooftops, he doesn't want it to survive.
A shape jumps to the other side of the alley, overhead, and is immediately followed by rays of fire. It's not flashy - dragons and phoenixes are reserved for the arena, to impress rather than to hurt - but it's effective. Something catches fire.
A coat falls down onto the pavement.
Next to him, the iron of a street light heaves a deep metallic groan, and suddenly wrinkles like it's made of tin foil. Momentarily distracted, he stares at the light in horror.
"God damn it!"
Geng's mechanism is rebooted. He looks up, eyes showing nothing of that desperation any longer. This, this is what three years of being trained, manipulated and forced to fight has done to him. He's good at what he does. He shows no regret. Playing fair, he's taught, should only be done out of respect for an opponent. There's no need to kill, in an arena where they're all in the same boat. Now that he's left in the real world and everything's a potential threat, he has no other choice.
The rays of fire duplicate, strengthen, and speed up until they're a maze of deadly threads in a rainy sky, trying to ensnare their pray and to bring it down. He doesn't intend for them to burst and make a cluster bomb out of nothing, but it happens, and it happens in one of the strongest bursts of energy he has ever been able to produce.
He knows something is off when the cobblestone under his feet doesn't glaze over like it usually does when he's using large amounts of heat, but cracks like a cobweb, although he's not in the centre of it. When the inferno dies out, the sickening breaking of stone all around him, of corners of walls crumbling down, waits a few seconds longer before it stops.
All is quiet. Geng is breathing hard. He smiles.
Then the tapping of heels on stone emerges from a shadow behind the broken street light, and an exhausted laugh is accompanied by clapping.
"Bravo."
Hostile, sparks light up in a perfect prelude to an atomic disaster, but the figure holds up his hand, coughs, and chuckles "No more. I got it now." He brushes himself off, steps into the light, and bows courteously. "So that's your secret. It took me a long time to find you. But you shouldn't be here."
The man isn't at all military like Geng expected.
He bows again, like nothing happened between them, and bows dramatically like he's an actor in a black and white movie. "Heechul. You owe me a new coat, dear."
He lights a cigarette and sighs out when the first nicotine rush leaves through parted lips again, offering the pack to Geng but returned only a suspicious look, and stuffs it away again eventually with a shrug. Very well. It's only being polite.
"That was quite the show you gave there," he starts, "But if you're interested in not going back to being the pet gladiator of that fat blob or of the tall handsome who is so anxious to have you as his own," Heechul smiles, "I wouldn't do it here." He points in the direction down the road, a little closer to the centre of the city.
"Wired."
"... Who are you?"
"Heechul," Heechul shrugs, "Didn't I tell you? Pay attention, dear, or this is going to take a while. You might think you got this covered all on your own just fine. Trust me, you'll need me on this."
Geng frowns. "I don't need anyone."
"Ah, but you need Kim Kibum, don't you?"
It's not as if the tables are turned - it has been Heechul monologuing most of the time, after all - but this time Geng is silenced. Smiling appreciatively, he leans against the mangled light post, and inhales another drag of his cigarette. Whatever Heechul does, he does so with style. He also makes sure to dictate the conversation wherever he goes. Drawing out a heart with his finger, and then blowing a puff of air through the centre of it like a highly deformed arrow obnoxiously with a raised eyebrow, he actually manages to make the firestarter nervous. Heechul is proud of his control of the concept of subtlety after all, too.
"So," he smiles, "I think it's imperative we're going to have to look into your housing situation first. I'd hate to break it to you, but the others are ratting on you," he pauses for extra effect, "Luckily, I have some room in my wonderful penthouse for you."
Geng opens his mouth to ask why on earth he would have to trust him, but Heechul's one step ahead of him.
"Face it. You need a shave."
The dull, toneless tap tap tap of fingers against cheap wood echoes the restlessness that ticks throughout his entire body. He can’t do anything. He feels useless, powerless, unable to help, and he’s almost certain that it’s starting to drive him slowly insane. How long has it been now? Two months? Or there about. Two months, and not a sight, not a word, not even a hint. The amount Kibum actually knows about what’s going on outside his own home adds up to a nice, even zero. There is this huge black space of nothing, and he worries, he worries about all the different possibilities that can fit so easily into that nothing.
“Could you - please -" the word is drawn out between irritated teeth, “stop that tapping?” For once Donghae, who is more often than not in a good mood, sounds annoyed, the edges of his voice starting to fray with built up tension.
Kibum says nothing, but he does stop tapping. But there’s still that restless energy, that need to do something, coursing through his body, flowing through his veins and seeping into his muscles, this urge to just be able to do something about it ticking incessantly inside his head. He feels wound up, coiled too tightly for too long and unable to do anything about it. Two months of this. Two months.
And Kibum isn’t sure how much longer he can actually handle this.
“Look,” Donghae starts, seems somewhat apologetic in the way he leans in towards Kibum, face close, “I know you’re worried, but the best thing you can do right now is nothing. Think of what could happen, if-“
His words are cut off quickly by the simultaneous sounds of the door closing and of Hyukjae’s voice ringing through the apartment; without thinking, Donghae quickly sits back.
“Hey, you know that guy who’s been hanging out by the street light?” As Hyukjae enters the room he drops his bag carelessly to the floor and helps himself to the chair, the only unoccupied sitting space left. “He’s still there. It’s been weeks now.” He looks at his two roommates, a smile starting to cross his face. “What do you think? Something shady going down?” He smiles the kind of smile that says ‘yeah, right’, excited at the prospect of something going on, but not believing it.
Donghae fiddles with the hem of his shirt. “Uh, yeah, Hyukjae, about that-“
“We’re being watched.” Kibum’s words cut coolly through Donghae’s and he ignores the look this gives him.
Hyukjae’s mouth falls open. “What?”
“Not us, really. More like, Kibum is being watched.”
“Oh, great.”
Picking at one of the questionable and unexplained stains on the tattered arm of the couch, Donghae continues, “I found out awhile ago. They’ve been watching, and have the place wired.”
Hyukjae seems to chew over this new information, digesting it slowly. He looks from Donghae, who isn’t quite looking back at him, to Kibum, who hardly even seems to be there at all, but somewhere else entirely, with the silent look on his face. The same look that hasn’t shifted from his face for over a month now. It’s obvious now, that Kibum has known for just as long as Donghae has.
“Why am I always the last to know these things?” He bemoans sourly. “Thanks, guys. Thanks for telling me we were being watched.”
And really, it’s not as if they can’t tell Hyukjae these kinds of things. Isn’t he entitled to important information like that, anyway? This is his apartment, after all. Well, alright, maybe not so much his as it’s all of theirs, but that’s beside the point. And considering that the last time Kibum got up to no good and into trouble Hyukjae’s apartment had ended up burning down, well, it’s only fair he be informed of any other trouble that will possibly arise. He doesn’t want another apartment of his to burn down. Or to be stalked. Or possibly kidnapped and held for information or leverage or something. Or be decorated with bullet holes.
So he actually feels kind of offended, that neither saw fit to inform him of this. And after all the things he did for the both of them, too. Like live with them, for a start. And put up with them on a daily basis. Well, put up with Donghae, Kibum is alright. When he isn’t bringing people home that can turn his apartment to ashes.
“I only told Kibum to stop him from doing anything stupid,” Donghae shoots a glare over in Kibum’s direction, but finds it’s pretty much useless, Kibum isn’t looking. “I wouldn’t have told either of you otherwise,” he continues in his defence. “I don’t want them to know we know. Then they might get even less obvious about it.”
Hyukjae grunts. It makes sense, but still. These things, he’d like to know about them before weeks had passed already for once, he really would.
Kibum, who until this point had remained both silent and still suddenly pushes himself up from the couch. He says nothing, instead just walks over to the window. It really is driving him crazy, sitting around and doing nothing, despite whatever Donghae says, despite the fact that for once he’s actually right and makes sense. It just feels wrong, to continue going to work as if nothing has happened, to not go out and look for him, try to find him, see if he’s okay. (Oh God, please, please, be okay, he thinks). If this has to carry on for much longer, with no word, no clues, nothing, Kibum thinks that he might, he really might, just snap loose and go try and find him himself anyway.
His hands come up to rest on the windowsill, the old, cheap paint flaking off beneath the pressure, and he stares out into the distance, at the lines upon lines of rooftops and apartment blocks, streets and street lamps and the sky and nothing at all. Nothing. Which is exactly how much Kibum knows of what is going on, of what happened to him. Hopes, as well, is what has happened to Geng. Nothing.
His gaze wanders to the glass itself, to the small crack in a corner of the pane, splinters twisting through the glass like veins. That was thanks to Donghae, he remembers. Not the why, or what came before it, simply that some kind of fight - play fight, real fight, he doesn’t recall - between Donghae and Hyukjae had resulted in Donghae’s elbow meeting the corner of the window, cracking it and bruising his elbow nicely, but breaking neither. Thankfully, because there isn’t enough money between them for window replacements.
As he stares and remembers, tries to ease some of his restless energy away - though he knows it’s not going anywhere, not until he knows - he slowly, very slowly, starts to realise that there’s something a little strange happening outside, beyond the pane of glass and the memories. Light, flickering light. In the distance, far away, but it’s just unusual enough to catch Kibum’s attention. He watches, mesmerised.
In the background, Donghae and Hyukjae are arguing over something, Kibum isn’t listening, he can’t hear the details, doesn’t care, either. It’s probably all the same old thing, anyway. Instead, he watches the strange flickers until they die out, and thinks to himself, I hope you’re okay, wherever you are.
"Hey pretty boy."
"... Oh, it's you."
"Nobody else calls you pretty boy?"
"No, it's the way you make it sound. Look, does this have a point, or are you going to keep taking up my time for the upcoming half hour again when I should be working, and give me the wonderful opportunity to just put the hook down and continue what I was doing while still getting paid? I'm fine with that. Unfortunately for you, I can't promise you you will have a listening ear."
Heechul smirks. "Oh, you'll listen."
"Maybe. Unless something's showing on the cam registrations or I manage to get into the sprinkler system of your apartment building and have some fun. You're getting sloppy, calling me from the same phone for the third time. Eighth quarter, empty building..." a pause, "Rooftop?"
"Top floor, but close guess. Sorry, Padawan."
"It's that freak again?"
"None of your business! Stop listening in, Hyuk!"
"There's nothing on TV!" whines the third voice with a larger amount of static, but continues with an obviously feigned innocence "The customer's channel is getting boring, so I'm checking out the drama channel."
"You're calling my line the drama channel?"
"You're on the intercom, dove," Heechul casually informs them, lights another cigarette. It's bad for him, but then, so is living in the city, and he sure as hell isn't contemplating moving into the country. The country is for old people. Besides, he doesn't have a home to begin with. It's all temporary. "Come on, use your malware and cut your friend out of the line and let's get down to business."
"I can hear you, you kn - OW!"
Donghae grins from the other side of the line. It doesn't take a touch of brilliance for Heechul to comprehend what just happened - not that he normally isn't brilliant, mind you - and he sighs out the smoke, glancing at the rather astounding view. It's been a while since he's seen it from up here. At least they have that, in the rather poor solace of an empty floor, that has a bathroom and a tap but no running water, and where the wind can't reach inside but it's always chilly this time of year.
It looks so peaceful from up where they are. Nothing like the rotten world that it is when you get to the core of it. A click sounds through the phone lying on the floor in the middle between them. Heechul has taken up the place closest to the hearth fire - he doesn't really care if the place burns down, so he doesn't really care about safety precautions either, and has just decided to light a pile of old wood that once served as furniture - resting against a few crates adorned and softened into a comfortable budget lounging spot with pillows that might or might not have been there originally. He throws a wrapper with half a burger in it to Geng, who sits in the corner of the room, and is luckily not as hostile towards him anymore like he was at first. Heechul would have gotten fed up with the way anything that came near him would glow and become too hot for him to hold very, very soon. It started when he was trying to be nice by offering to shave him himself. And found out very soon that sharp objects really shouldn't be pointed at pyrokinetics when they weren't overly fond of him. Not that anyone is, but he likes to believe he's the centre of the universe all the same.
"So," he says with the last mouthful of burger, "Let's get down to business."
"Down to business." Donghae mocks.
"Shut up. I'm not giving you a wage boost for nothing."
"Actually, you usually do."
But the voice doesn't sound altogether unpleased. Amused, more like. They can hear typing on the other side of the line. Heechul doesn't need more to derive the knowledge that once again, Donghae's probably working on one of his little programs. He doesn't care. If he did, he'd ask how far along with that firewall that's supposed to upgrade his usual desktop loop he got, or how his master plan to get the museum's most boring exhibition a dashing near-stroboscopic light show - with accompanying techno music; hey, Donghae would claim, that wasn't his idea, that was Hyukjae's - is going. But Heechul doesn't care, so he doesn't have to share the knowledge that he knows. They both have their own ways to gather information.
"How's camera coverage?" he suddenly gets straight to the point.
Geng has been in the company of Heechul for a few weeks now; he obviously doesn't know what he's doing there, but Heechul knows that as long as he offers a roof above his head and doesn't pose a threat, Geng will be there. He'd occasionally light a small ball of fire between his fingertips, levitates it as if it's the easiest thing to do, and lets it snap out with a sigh. Heechul envies him.
Donghae shrugs. "Still a few snipers, but the cameras are gone. Just a precaution, I think. Maybe a few more weeks. Look, is this really because of that one guy? The cameras have been fun to toy around with, but it kind of sucks having to be so careful about it, you know."
Geng perks up. Heechul throws a flippant 'told you it would be interesting' look at him, and gestures him to eat his food with a strict fatherly look when he notices he hasn't had a single bite yet.
He decides to up the stake.
"How's your friend doing? Nearly got caught there, didn't he?"
Eyes turn big. There's suspicion enough, in that recently malnourished but still obviously trained and enduring body, but he needs confirmation. Confirmation that is brought to him on a silver platter.
"Yeah, thanks a lot for that. I swear, if you ever ask me to do something like that again, you're dead. Faking his ID and rerouting the database just to get into one of those fight clubs. And what does he get? Nothing. The guy's worse off than he was before. Not to mention the cameras. We're being monitored around the day, here. Be glad I secured the line, or they would have traced you by now."
"He'll get something," Heechul muses.
"He'll get trouble," Donghae huffs.
"Come on. Do you think I've been staying in the same place for all these days for you not to come and look me up?"
Donghae is quiet. Obviously his usually bright mind hasn't thought about this possibility before. Of course he hasn't; there have been cameras to fuss about. Cameras that shouldn't reasonably be around at an empty apartment building in the eighth city quarter that could be visited after work and nobody would ever find out. There are snipers, but they aren't being shadowed any more.
"I don't know," comes the stubborn answer, "Why would I want to? It's probably a trap. You're probably setting me up, and th-"
"... Who are you?" Geng suddenly speaks up, because he still can't recall anyone like this in the past, and what he has to do with Kibum. Oh, Heechul has been hinting enough to know who the conversation has been about.
Five hours later, right after his shift ends, Donghae stands in the opening of the door.
"Next time," he pants breathlessly, "You pick a building that has working elevators, you ass. Nice to meet you too."
But Heechul is gone.
-------
part two can be found here!
Authors: nemesae & taylormercury
Rating: PG-13
Focus: Geng, Kibum
Summary: It's ironic, that escaping the Syndicate when he had the chance was perhaps the worst thing he could have done.
Notes: Archive. Freedom.
Chewing is a monotonous business. Grind grind grind. Teeth moving constantly against food. Masticating, wasn’t it? Kind of boring, too, which is probably why Heechul even thinks such things in the first place. He stares down ponderously at the half-eaten hamburger in his hands, greasy and cheap but good enough for now, and wonders if he can finish the last of it in a single bite. And then how many chews it might take. Then he decides he really doesn’t care, and finishes it in two bites, tosses the flimsy wrapper to the ground, already strewn with litter, so what does one more thing matter?
“Shouldn’ litter, y’know,” a voice next to him says, and wheezes out a laugh that sounds more like a cough.
“Shut up,” says Heechul good naturedly. Long fingers slip into a pocket and a moment later he pulls out a crumpled packet of cigarettes. He’s irritated to find that there’s only three left. Crap.
“Hey,” a nudge in his side, and he looks to see - his friend, his source, his what? - miming smoking. And then a brilliant smile, or what might once have been brilliant, if half of his teeth weren’t black or missing, and he had any charm whatsoever. And if the guy didn’t happen to stink, either. Heechul had some wonderful friends, he really did.
Heechul sticks one between his teeth, looks at the two left in the pack, and hands another over. Now, there’s only one left. Great. “You owe me, Wang.” He lights his own and hands Wang the lighter. The smouldering tip of his cigarette reminds Heechul of exactly why he’s here, spending an evening outside a shelter for the homeless, talking to Wang. He watches the tip dull and then glow again as he inhales, and thinks it would be mighty handy, being able to light his own cigarettes; quite often, Heechul misplaces his lighters. Or pulls one out of his pocket only to find it bent out of shape and completely useless.
It’s dark, night; the only light besides the glow of two cigarettes is the street light halfway down the street from them. They’re propped in the shadows, out of sight, out of mind. Sometimes, that way is best. Especially considering the, ah, delicacy of this particular, miniature project of Heechul’s.
Another inhale, and this time along with the smoke Heechul can smell Wang, close beside him. He doesn’t say anything about it, but his nose wrinkles in slight distaste all the same. Wang smells of old smoke, of piss and sweat and dirt and about a hundred other things that Heechul would rather not be able to identify. If it weren’t for his sometimes valuable (and right now perhaps essential) information, and the fact that Wang too is quite the avid Star Wars fan, Heechul might not even bother with him.
“So, paid in the usual?” Wang questions, after several moments of silent contemplation and smoking. It’s a strangely quiet night so far, but still he keeps his voice low. It’s simply safer that way, usually.
Heechul nods. He watches the smoke coil away as he exhales, evaporate in the barely-there breeze of the night. So easy to simply disappear like that. Sometimes. And he’s determined that this isn’t going to be one of those times. He’s going to find him. Because if he doesn’t, someone else is bound to.
He hears, feels, smells, Wang shuffle closer. If they weren’t hidden in shadows, they would have looked incredibly conspicuous. The stench fills Heechul’s nose, and he sucks on the thin cigarette between his lips, fingers the lighter in his pocket and tries not to focus on it. This is what he’s here for.
“You heard ‘bout the new guy?”
He turns his head, eyes flashing only briefly with piqued interest, and then Heechul looks entirely casual again. “Isn’t there always someone new?” He asks flippantly, tips the excess ash from the end of the cigarette; he watches it lazily as it spirals to the sidewalk.
Wang exhales, and Heechul can hear the way his breath shakes as he does so. Wang is getting old, and it’s more noticeable now in ways other than his silvered hair and lined, weathered face. Heechul shudders; he doesn’t like being reminded of ageing and mortality.
“No, this one. He’s different. Not like the rest. I can smell the difference on ‘im.” Wang bares his teeth - what’s left of them, anyway - in a smile that looks like a hideous grimace, the lines around his mouth deepening with the years between them. He laughs his wheezing laugh. “For a start, he’s always warm. It’s gettin’ cold now, righ’? But he don’t wrap up warm.” He tugs with his free hand - Heechul sees how dirty and scratched his fingers are - on the layers of old, tattered, coats and sweaters he’s bundled up in against the chill autumn night. “Strange, ain’t it?”
Heechul feigns semi-carelessness, takes a last drag on his cigarette and stubs it out against the wall, drops it to the floor and forgets about it as it’s carried away by the breeze. “Maybe. But strange isn’t anything unusual there, is it?”
“It ain’t jus’ that,” Wang insists. “He’s-" he’s cut off suddenly by a deep, body-wracking cough, from the very depths of himself by the sound of it, and even after he’s done his breath is shaky and he wheezes.
“That’s going to kill you one day,” Heechul points out as Wang drags on his cigarette.
“Eventually.” The grimace-smile again, and Wang tosses his own stub away. “Now, where were I? Oh, yeah. But see, he don’t look homeless, either. Not skin ‘n’ bone like the other kids we see. He’s different!”
Heechul continues to pretend that he doesn’t really care, that he doesn’t quite believe it, and in Wang’s attempt to prove the value of his information (how else is he supposed to pay for the cigarette, after all?) Heechul finds out quite a bit. And he’s actually far more interested than he lets on. Wang tells him about the first time this new guy showed up at the shelter, looking somewhat worse for wear, visible scars, and blood stains on his clothes, by the looks of it like he had been in a fight, but not at all as if he were homeless. Not malnourished racks of bones like most of them, not begging for money, not sleeping away the day in whatever corner can be found.
“He jus’ don’t fit, y’know what I’m sayin’? The homeless, you can tell by the look in their eyes. But not this one. He’s a strange one.”
When he’s heard everything he thinks might be of use, Heechul let’s Wang slip off to whatever he spends his time doing, and mulls over the information on his own. This is the most he’s managed to dig up so far, and he feels a small buzz, a slight thrill, of excitement and getting closer. He’s been a hard one to track down, to follow, but Heechul thinks, really thinks, he might just be getting close.
Smiling to himself, he takes the lighter from his pocket again; sometimes he just likes to play with it, for no reason whatsoever. His smile fades when he looks down and sees a misshapen lump of metal in his hand, bent way beyond use. His seventh that week.
Careful footsteps resound in the emptiness of the alley, painted in the orange from street lights and the cast-off they leave in pools of fresh rain on the streets, and the green from the flickering neon sign of a late hour pawn shop. They're barely heard, but the echo is palpable like a strung bass in the symphony of the nightly city. Though the melody it plays is particularly distorted in these areas, and there's plenty of reason never to drop a wrong note. From shadows eyes observe him, and he knows it. It's been driving him insane. But he has no choice but to roam these streets at night.
Sorrowful eyes look up at the sky. Even the brighter lights from downtown, where all important streets eventually slither down towards, are sometimes too harsh on Geng's eyes, and he tries to be from their grasp wherever he goes. To be seen is something he can not afford. So he hides during daytime in old storage houses, those that he's sure have no possibility of being connected to the Syndicate because they're simply too small to harbour a gathering of more than three people at any given time, and underneath bridges in areas where no one with a sane mind ever ventures. They are the places of addicts, and of the delusional.
He has been venturing into unexplored roads. It's tricky, dangerous, and every new sound or syllable a potential threat. Even the rat peeking up at him curiously before it crawls away - sensing that this one, too, is a bit too unstable to guarantee a safe passage away after coming too close - nearly kills the last of his nerves.
It's ironic, and in the right circumstances it could have caused a wry smile upon his lips. That escaping the Syndicate when he had the chance was perhaps the worst thing he could have done. That it's breaking him down, to know that he's hunted down, that every unfamiliar face is a suspicious one, and to not be able to give in to it and surrender. To finally not have to fight to stay alive. Not like this. It's so hard not to give up, some times. Going back to the shelter is something he resents, but it's the only place where he has a chance at food when he still refuses to eat from trash bins or beg from strangers. It's simply too dangerous for him.
And then, pulling him out of his thoughts, then there are footsteps behind him.
Footsteps, but no silhouette to match them, when he turns around and feels his breath stick in his throat. But as suddenly as they appeared, they cease.
No one's there. There aren't any streets branching off of the one he's in, and he's sure it's just the paranoia that has been eating away at him, but it didn't sound like feet on cobblestone. It didn't even sound like it was at ground level. What's worse, he can't even distinguish whether it's just his imagination or reality. Images blur. And almost, almost he feels like he's going to hyperventilate.
But then his ears pick up another sound, and he tenses, the pulse of blood beating painfully against the veins that it courses through.
Someone's passing him by, running past him at great speed. Relentlessly.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
Heels on wet bitumen felt. Rooftop felt. Not stone or litter and wet cardboard.
But there's no one.
It's just an illusion. Just an illusion. Just an illusion, he chants to himself. Geng's breath is audible in the void that the footsteps leave in their wake, and the rain that's starting to drip down in soothing manners onto his skin - the only way he's been able to experience something akin to a shower for the last two months - and into the pools.
It's gone. And the sensation of being hunted down falls off of him, albeit reluctantly, with the scent of rain purifying his nerves. Geng has always liked the rain. He doesn't smile, but he's relieved, so relieved, that there's no more sound now. That it's gone. He allows himself some naivety believing that it's the rain washing away an illusion. It's the only thing that keeps him going some times. Pretending that it's not real.
Regardless of anything, people don't want to be out when it rains. Perhaps that's the biggest reason why Geng finds it comforting.
He breathes in the fresh scent of moss and the sound of drops clattering indiscriminately against every surface it meets with. The city is cold, sticky, terrible, and he can still remember how surprised he was, first time he came outside again after years of not having tasted the rain, in an area so densely populated that it's unlike anything he has ever been to before, to find that the rain of a metropolis could still remind him of days long gone, when he would go fishing with his father on one of the rare days that he was home, and bad weather would sneak up on them and send them laughing as they sought shelter in the woods near the lake.
Geng smiles sadly.
He wants to go home. Be released from this nightmare, and his ability, to just be normal and enjoy life as it's supposed to be given to everyone. Not excluding the anomalies such as himself.
When the sound of footsteps rise again from the other side, and he's sure he's seen a shadow of a reflection in the ripple-distorted pool on the ground, his self-defence mechanism finally takes over, tired of running, and of not being spotted. Sparks sprout out of thin air - with just a little more trouble to vaporise the water clinging to his battered clothes first. The next moment, a solid wall of fire lights the rooftop, blocking off the path that the footsteps seem to take. Then tongues spear forward at great speed. Geng is tired of running, and it makes him thorough. Whatever is up on the rooftops, he doesn't want it to survive.
A shape jumps to the other side of the alley, overhead, and is immediately followed by rays of fire. It's not flashy - dragons and phoenixes are reserved for the arena, to impress rather than to hurt - but it's effective. Something catches fire.
A coat falls down onto the pavement.
Next to him, the iron of a street light heaves a deep metallic groan, and suddenly wrinkles like it's made of tin foil. Momentarily distracted, he stares at the light in horror.
"God damn it!"
Geng's mechanism is rebooted. He looks up, eyes showing nothing of that desperation any longer. This, this is what three years of being trained, manipulated and forced to fight has done to him. He's good at what he does. He shows no regret. Playing fair, he's taught, should only be done out of respect for an opponent. There's no need to kill, in an arena where they're all in the same boat. Now that he's left in the real world and everything's a potential threat, he has no other choice.
The rays of fire duplicate, strengthen, and speed up until they're a maze of deadly threads in a rainy sky, trying to ensnare their pray and to bring it down. He doesn't intend for them to burst and make a cluster bomb out of nothing, but it happens, and it happens in one of the strongest bursts of energy he has ever been able to produce.
He knows something is off when the cobblestone under his feet doesn't glaze over like it usually does when he's using large amounts of heat, but cracks like a cobweb, although he's not in the centre of it. When the inferno dies out, the sickening breaking of stone all around him, of corners of walls crumbling down, waits a few seconds longer before it stops.
All is quiet. Geng is breathing hard. He smiles.
Then the tapping of heels on stone emerges from a shadow behind the broken street light, and an exhausted laugh is accompanied by clapping.
"Bravo."
Hostile, sparks light up in a perfect prelude to an atomic disaster, but the figure holds up his hand, coughs, and chuckles "No more. I got it now." He brushes himself off, steps into the light, and bows courteously. "So that's your secret. It took me a long time to find you. But you shouldn't be here."
The man isn't at all military like Geng expected.
He bows again, like nothing happened between them, and bows dramatically like he's an actor in a black and white movie. "Heechul. You owe me a new coat, dear."
He lights a cigarette and sighs out when the first nicotine rush leaves through parted lips again, offering the pack to Geng but returned only a suspicious look, and stuffs it away again eventually with a shrug. Very well. It's only being polite.
"That was quite the show you gave there," he starts, "But if you're interested in not going back to being the pet gladiator of that fat blob or of the tall handsome who is so anxious to have you as his own," Heechul smiles, "I wouldn't do it here." He points in the direction down the road, a little closer to the centre of the city.
"Wired."
"... Who are you?"
"Heechul," Heechul shrugs, "Didn't I tell you? Pay attention, dear, or this is going to take a while. You might think you got this covered all on your own just fine. Trust me, you'll need me on this."
Geng frowns. "I don't need anyone."
"Ah, but you need Kim Kibum, don't you?"
It's not as if the tables are turned - it has been Heechul monologuing most of the time, after all - but this time Geng is silenced. Smiling appreciatively, he leans against the mangled light post, and inhales another drag of his cigarette. Whatever Heechul does, he does so with style. He also makes sure to dictate the conversation wherever he goes. Drawing out a heart with his finger, and then blowing a puff of air through the centre of it like a highly deformed arrow obnoxiously with a raised eyebrow, he actually manages to make the firestarter nervous. Heechul is proud of his control of the concept of subtlety after all, too.
"So," he smiles, "I think it's imperative we're going to have to look into your housing situation first. I'd hate to break it to you, but the others are ratting on you," he pauses for extra effect, "Luckily, I have some room in my wonderful penthouse for you."
Geng opens his mouth to ask why on earth he would have to trust him, but Heechul's one step ahead of him.
"Face it. You need a shave."
The dull, toneless tap tap tap of fingers against cheap wood echoes the restlessness that ticks throughout his entire body. He can’t do anything. He feels useless, powerless, unable to help, and he’s almost certain that it’s starting to drive him slowly insane. How long has it been now? Two months? Or there about. Two months, and not a sight, not a word, not even a hint. The amount Kibum actually knows about what’s going on outside his own home adds up to a nice, even zero. There is this huge black space of nothing, and he worries, he worries about all the different possibilities that can fit so easily into that nothing.
“Could you - please -" the word is drawn out between irritated teeth, “stop that tapping?” For once Donghae, who is more often than not in a good mood, sounds annoyed, the edges of his voice starting to fray with built up tension.
Kibum says nothing, but he does stop tapping. But there’s still that restless energy, that need to do something, coursing through his body, flowing through his veins and seeping into his muscles, this urge to just be able to do something about it ticking incessantly inside his head. He feels wound up, coiled too tightly for too long and unable to do anything about it. Two months of this. Two months.
And Kibum isn’t sure how much longer he can actually handle this.
“Look,” Donghae starts, seems somewhat apologetic in the way he leans in towards Kibum, face close, “I know you’re worried, but the best thing you can do right now is nothing. Think of what could happen, if-“
His words are cut off quickly by the simultaneous sounds of the door closing and of Hyukjae’s voice ringing through the apartment; without thinking, Donghae quickly sits back.
“Hey, you know that guy who’s been hanging out by the street light?” As Hyukjae enters the room he drops his bag carelessly to the floor and helps himself to the chair, the only unoccupied sitting space left. “He’s still there. It’s been weeks now.” He looks at his two roommates, a smile starting to cross his face. “What do you think? Something shady going down?” He smiles the kind of smile that says ‘yeah, right’, excited at the prospect of something going on, but not believing it.
Donghae fiddles with the hem of his shirt. “Uh, yeah, Hyukjae, about that-“
“We’re being watched.” Kibum’s words cut coolly through Donghae’s and he ignores the look this gives him.
Hyukjae’s mouth falls open. “What?”
“Not us, really. More like, Kibum is being watched.”
“Oh, great.”
Picking at one of the questionable and unexplained stains on the tattered arm of the couch, Donghae continues, “I found out awhile ago. They’ve been watching, and have the place wired.”
Hyukjae seems to chew over this new information, digesting it slowly. He looks from Donghae, who isn’t quite looking back at him, to Kibum, who hardly even seems to be there at all, but somewhere else entirely, with the silent look on his face. The same look that hasn’t shifted from his face for over a month now. It’s obvious now, that Kibum has known for just as long as Donghae has.
“Why am I always the last to know these things?” He bemoans sourly. “Thanks, guys. Thanks for telling me we were being watched.”
And really, it’s not as if they can’t tell Hyukjae these kinds of things. Isn’t he entitled to important information like that, anyway? This is his apartment, after all. Well, alright, maybe not so much his as it’s all of theirs, but that’s beside the point. And considering that the last time Kibum got up to no good and into trouble Hyukjae’s apartment had ended up burning down, well, it’s only fair he be informed of any other trouble that will possibly arise. He doesn’t want another apartment of his to burn down. Or to be stalked. Or possibly kidnapped and held for information or leverage or something. Or be decorated with bullet holes.
So he actually feels kind of offended, that neither saw fit to inform him of this. And after all the things he did for the both of them, too. Like live with them, for a start. And put up with them on a daily basis. Well, put up with Donghae, Kibum is alright. When he isn’t bringing people home that can turn his apartment to ashes.
“I only told Kibum to stop him from doing anything stupid,” Donghae shoots a glare over in Kibum’s direction, but finds it’s pretty much useless, Kibum isn’t looking. “I wouldn’t have told either of you otherwise,” he continues in his defence. “I don’t want them to know we know. Then they might get even less obvious about it.”
Hyukjae grunts. It makes sense, but still. These things, he’d like to know about them before weeks had passed already for once, he really would.
Kibum, who until this point had remained both silent and still suddenly pushes himself up from the couch. He says nothing, instead just walks over to the window. It really is driving him crazy, sitting around and doing nothing, despite whatever Donghae says, despite the fact that for once he’s actually right and makes sense. It just feels wrong, to continue going to work as if nothing has happened, to not go out and look for him, try to find him, see if he’s okay. (Oh God, please, please, be okay, he thinks). If this has to carry on for much longer, with no word, no clues, nothing, Kibum thinks that he might, he really might, just snap loose and go try and find him himself anyway.
His hands come up to rest on the windowsill, the old, cheap paint flaking off beneath the pressure, and he stares out into the distance, at the lines upon lines of rooftops and apartment blocks, streets and street lamps and the sky and nothing at all. Nothing. Which is exactly how much Kibum knows of what is going on, of what happened to him. Hopes, as well, is what has happened to Geng. Nothing.
His gaze wanders to the glass itself, to the small crack in a corner of the pane, splinters twisting through the glass like veins. That was thanks to Donghae, he remembers. Not the why, or what came before it, simply that some kind of fight - play fight, real fight, he doesn’t recall - between Donghae and Hyukjae had resulted in Donghae’s elbow meeting the corner of the window, cracking it and bruising his elbow nicely, but breaking neither. Thankfully, because there isn’t enough money between them for window replacements.
As he stares and remembers, tries to ease some of his restless energy away - though he knows it’s not going anywhere, not until he knows - he slowly, very slowly, starts to realise that there’s something a little strange happening outside, beyond the pane of glass and the memories. Light, flickering light. In the distance, far away, but it’s just unusual enough to catch Kibum’s attention. He watches, mesmerised.
In the background, Donghae and Hyukjae are arguing over something, Kibum isn’t listening, he can’t hear the details, doesn’t care, either. It’s probably all the same old thing, anyway. Instead, he watches the strange flickers until they die out, and thinks to himself, I hope you’re okay, wherever you are.
"Hey pretty boy."
"... Oh, it's you."
"Nobody else calls you pretty boy?"
"No, it's the way you make it sound. Look, does this have a point, or are you going to keep taking up my time for the upcoming half hour again when I should be working, and give me the wonderful opportunity to just put the hook down and continue what I was doing while still getting paid? I'm fine with that. Unfortunately for you, I can't promise you you will have a listening ear."
Heechul smirks. "Oh, you'll listen."
"Maybe. Unless something's showing on the cam registrations or I manage to get into the sprinkler system of your apartment building and have some fun. You're getting sloppy, calling me from the same phone for the third time. Eighth quarter, empty building..." a pause, "Rooftop?"
"Top floor, but close guess. Sorry, Padawan."
"It's that freak again?"
"None of your business! Stop listening in, Hyuk!"
"There's nothing on TV!" whines the third voice with a larger amount of static, but continues with an obviously feigned innocence "The customer's channel is getting boring, so I'm checking out the drama channel."
"You're calling my line the drama channel?"
"You're on the intercom, dove," Heechul casually informs them, lights another cigarette. It's bad for him, but then, so is living in the city, and he sure as hell isn't contemplating moving into the country. The country is for old people. Besides, he doesn't have a home to begin with. It's all temporary. "Come on, use your malware and cut your friend out of the line and let's get down to business."
"I can hear you, you kn - OW!"
Donghae grins from the other side of the line. It doesn't take a touch of brilliance for Heechul to comprehend what just happened - not that he normally isn't brilliant, mind you - and he sighs out the smoke, glancing at the rather astounding view. It's been a while since he's seen it from up here. At least they have that, in the rather poor solace of an empty floor, that has a bathroom and a tap but no running water, and where the wind can't reach inside but it's always chilly this time of year.
It looks so peaceful from up where they are. Nothing like the rotten world that it is when you get to the core of it. A click sounds through the phone lying on the floor in the middle between them. Heechul has taken up the place closest to the hearth fire - he doesn't really care if the place burns down, so he doesn't really care about safety precautions either, and has just decided to light a pile of old wood that once served as furniture - resting against a few crates adorned and softened into a comfortable budget lounging spot with pillows that might or might not have been there originally. He throws a wrapper with half a burger in it to Geng, who sits in the corner of the room, and is luckily not as hostile towards him anymore like he was at first. Heechul would have gotten fed up with the way anything that came near him would glow and become too hot for him to hold very, very soon. It started when he was trying to be nice by offering to shave him himself. And found out very soon that sharp objects really shouldn't be pointed at pyrokinetics when they weren't overly fond of him. Not that anyone is, but he likes to believe he's the centre of the universe all the same.
"So," he says with the last mouthful of burger, "Let's get down to business."
"Down to business." Donghae mocks.
"Shut up. I'm not giving you a wage boost for nothing."
"Actually, you usually do."
But the voice doesn't sound altogether unpleased. Amused, more like. They can hear typing on the other side of the line. Heechul doesn't need more to derive the knowledge that once again, Donghae's probably working on one of his little programs. He doesn't care. If he did, he'd ask how far along with that firewall that's supposed to upgrade his usual desktop loop he got, or how his master plan to get the museum's most boring exhibition a dashing near-stroboscopic light show - with accompanying techno music; hey, Donghae would claim, that wasn't his idea, that was Hyukjae's - is going. But Heechul doesn't care, so he doesn't have to share the knowledge that he knows. They both have their own ways to gather information.
"How's camera coverage?" he suddenly gets straight to the point.
Geng has been in the company of Heechul for a few weeks now; he obviously doesn't know what he's doing there, but Heechul knows that as long as he offers a roof above his head and doesn't pose a threat, Geng will be there. He'd occasionally light a small ball of fire between his fingertips, levitates it as if it's the easiest thing to do, and lets it snap out with a sigh. Heechul envies him.
Donghae shrugs. "Still a few snipers, but the cameras are gone. Just a precaution, I think. Maybe a few more weeks. Look, is this really because of that one guy? The cameras have been fun to toy around with, but it kind of sucks having to be so careful about it, you know."
Geng perks up. Heechul throws a flippant 'told you it would be interesting' look at him, and gestures him to eat his food with a strict fatherly look when he notices he hasn't had a single bite yet.
He decides to up the stake.
"How's your friend doing? Nearly got caught there, didn't he?"
Eyes turn big. There's suspicion enough, in that recently malnourished but still obviously trained and enduring body, but he needs confirmation. Confirmation that is brought to him on a silver platter.
"Yeah, thanks a lot for that. I swear, if you ever ask me to do something like that again, you're dead. Faking his ID and rerouting the database just to get into one of those fight clubs. And what does he get? Nothing. The guy's worse off than he was before. Not to mention the cameras. We're being monitored around the day, here. Be glad I secured the line, or they would have traced you by now."
"He'll get something," Heechul muses.
"He'll get trouble," Donghae huffs.
"Come on. Do you think I've been staying in the same place for all these days for you not to come and look me up?"
Donghae is quiet. Obviously his usually bright mind hasn't thought about this possibility before. Of course he hasn't; there have been cameras to fuss about. Cameras that shouldn't reasonably be around at an empty apartment building in the eighth city quarter that could be visited after work and nobody would ever find out. There are snipers, but they aren't being shadowed any more.
"I don't know," comes the stubborn answer, "Why would I want to? It's probably a trap. You're probably setting me up, and th-"
"... Who are you?" Geng suddenly speaks up, because he still can't recall anyone like this in the past, and what he has to do with Kibum. Oh, Heechul has been hinting enough to know who the conversation has been about.
Five hours later, right after his shift ends, Donghae stands in the opening of the door.
"Next time," he pants breathlessly, "You pick a building that has working elevators, you ass. Nice to meet you too."
But Heechul is gone.
-------
part two can be found here!