you can't reverse the bullet from a gun.
fandom: exo
pairing: yixing/kris
rating: nc-17
word count:
prompt: here
for: roo ♥
[title lyrics from The Script - Bullet From A Gun]
one
I'm a breathing, talking, dead man, walking.
(The Script - Dead Man Walking)
Prague, Czech Republic
5:43AM
Kris woke at dawn, his room bathed in an ethereal red-orange glow. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see a thin manila envelope poking out from under his door, and with two lithe steps, he was out of his bed and bounding across the room to pick it up. It was like any other job: per his request, only the address of his current location was stamped on the front. No return address. Generic stamps sold in any shop in Prague glued on the corners. Kris opened the envelope, and extracted a single sheet of paper. He felt the familiar rush of energy that came with every new job, every new target, every new kill. Who was it this time?
It wasn't that Kris was heartless or that he didn't care. He cared. He cared about the crisp feel of dollar bills in his hands, about the sleek luxurious texture of his rifle, about the satisfaction of a job well done. His targets meant nothing to him not because he didn't care about them but because he couldn't care about them. It was the job, he supposed, or maybe years of living alone and in the shadows. It didn't matter anyhow; a job was a job, and a job well done kept Kris well-funded.
His family was long gone, victims of a botched home invasion when Kris was just a baby. Kris had been scooped up by the burglars and placed outside a hospital. From there, he had traveled through the foster care system, floating from one home to the next with a growing sense of isolation and transience. Years of abuse and neglect had turned him into a thin, cold, and vicious person, one who wouldn't hesitate to snap someone's neck if it meant food in his belly and money in his hands. At 16, he ran away from his foster home in Georgia, hitchhiking and strongarming his way to New York City.
When he arrived in New York City, he had scarcely gotten off the bus and walked through Chinatown before a tall man in a suit slipped behind him and slammed his hand against Kris's mouth. Fighting was futile; the man was stronger, and he whispered in Kris's ear, Fight back and I'll break every bone in your spine slowly. Kris followed mutely, and that night began Kris's new life.
The man in the suit belonged to the Chinese Triads, part of an extensive web that wove through New York City, Chicago, San Francisco, and Seattle. They belonged to the shadows, trained in martial arts and sharp shooting, and they operated without morals. What was black and white when green money existed?
The night of his initiation, the man in the suit, who went by 湖 ("river" in Chinese), told him he would have to pick a new name for himself. "Wu Fan", the name his first foster family had given him, was dead. Without a moment's hesitation, Kris remembered a billboard from the interstate he crossed on his way into New York City, advertising a concert with a known singer, Kris something or other. It was easy to remember, a monosyllabic moniker that would carry the weight of his shadows with him. Wu Fan is dead.
Kris jolted back to the present when his cell phone rang. One ring, two rings. Then the cell phone fell silent. Kris recognized the symbol as a request to confirm if he had received his next job, and he picked up the phone, shooting off a quick text to a number he had long ago memorized. "3" was all he wrote, and then he was back to scrutinizing the piece of paper in the manila envelope.
Target: Zhang Yixing. A few quick stats followed, and Kris skimmed them quickly before jumping down to the large blurb that would explain his actual mission. Target is son of wealthy Chinese politician. Mission in Shanghai. One month to scope target, three months to complete mission. Fee will be double the usual. Top priority, X. Committee on standby. Failure to complete will result in termination.
Kris stared at the "X" on the page, his sense of apprehension growing by the minute. A politician's son? The Committee (what the Triad called themselves) was really stepping out of the shadows to make a point, and Kris was the arm they'd be using. His missions often involved kills, but the doubling of his usual fee and the final threat in case of incompletion made Kris uneasy. This was really a do or die mission.
He let out a long sigh, and placed the paper back in the manila envelope. He reached inside, further down, until his fingers connected with something thicker. He slid it out and found plane tickets, addressed for Kevin Li, a flight departing from Prague to Shanghai in four hours. Time to pack.
----------------------------------------------------------------
Shanghai, China
6:38PM
Kris hailed a taxi outside of the airport, slipping effortlessly through the hordes of people into a yellow cab. He told the driver his hotel name and situated himself comfortably into the car as it lurched onto the highway.
When the car had reached a steady pace, Kris reached inside his duffelbag, eyeing his rifle case carefully. He was always cautious about what he brought to his missions: his rifle, his mission envelope, and his cell phone. He kept a pair of sunglasses with him only because they had a built-in camera he used for his scoping, but he never brought clothes or momentos. An transient childhood had prepared him well for the transience of the rest of his life. Having checked that everything he needed was there, Kris zipped the bag shut and leaned back in his seat, closing his eyes briefly to rest them. He had a restless night on the flight over, queasy whenever he had to travel in cramped conditions and even more so knowing the consequences of this mission.
The minute the taxi slowed to a halt, Kris peeled off a few renminbi bills, stuffing them in the driver's hand. He was out of the car in a flash and climbing the stairs to the hotel lobby. He made his way to the reception desk, and within minutes, a kind bellhop was asking him if he needed to be escorted to his room. Kris shook his head brusquely, and charged forward into the elevator. He wasn't comfortable with anyone handling his bag, and he certainly didn't want someone to come into his room and remember him as anything other than the tall gawky guy in sweats.
Inside his room, he put his bag carefully onto the couch and headed straight for the shower. He stripped in the bathroom and tossed his clothes into a bag. He'd have to get rid of it eventually. It had been comfortable on the flight, but he didn't want people to remember anything about him.
When Kris had finished his shower, he stepped into his room, relishing the comfort his choice of employment sometimes provided him with. He dressed quickly, black jeans and a black button down with a black blazer on top. He was a shadow, as literal as it could have been, and as he grabbed his sunglasses from his bag, he thought to himself, This poor motherfucker I have to kill.
He slipped his sunglasses on and clicked a button on the side to engage the camera. Then he was speeding down the emergency exit stairwell down to the lobby and sneaking out through a back entrance. He had twenty minutes to make it from the west side of the city to the east side to see his target's father cut the ribbon at the opening of a new community center, and he had no time to waste. Every minute he spent tracking his target was a minute he could use to find a weakness. Kris felt his breath hitch in his throat as he picked up the pace, the backs of his feet barely touching the ground as he moved ahead.
He made it to the venue in eighteen minutes, and he settled comfortably in the back of the crowd, slipping behind a bunch of excited girls. He leaned in close to hear their conversation, something about how excited they were to see Zhang Yixing, who was supposedly one of the most eligible bachelors because he was so cute and set to inherit millions and the son of a politician.
And before Kris could roll his eyes at the absolute superficiality, the silliness of these girls and their trivial pursuits when there were bigger things in the world, when Death stood in the shadows ready to take the next victim while they giggled about cute boys, his target's father was at the podium introducing his son, this dead man walking, every breath potentially his last if Kris had anything to do with it, Zhang Yixing...
Kris's mouth dropped open. Fuck.
part two
pairing: yixing/kris
rating: nc-17
word count:
prompt: here
for: roo ♥
[title lyrics from The Script - Bullet From A Gun]
one
I'm a breathing, talking, dead man, walking.
(The Script - Dead Man Walking)
Prague, Czech Republic
5:43AM
Kris woke at dawn, his room bathed in an ethereal red-orange glow. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see a thin manila envelope poking out from under his door, and with two lithe steps, he was out of his bed and bounding across the room to pick it up. It was like any other job: per his request, only the address of his current location was stamped on the front. No return address. Generic stamps sold in any shop in Prague glued on the corners. Kris opened the envelope, and extracted a single sheet of paper. He felt the familiar rush of energy that came with every new job, every new target, every new kill. Who was it this time?
It wasn't that Kris was heartless or that he didn't care. He cared. He cared about the crisp feel of dollar bills in his hands, about the sleek luxurious texture of his rifle, about the satisfaction of a job well done. His targets meant nothing to him not because he didn't care about them but because he couldn't care about them. It was the job, he supposed, or maybe years of living alone and in the shadows. It didn't matter anyhow; a job was a job, and a job well done kept Kris well-funded.
His family was long gone, victims of a botched home invasion when Kris was just a baby. Kris had been scooped up by the burglars and placed outside a hospital. From there, he had traveled through the foster care system, floating from one home to the next with a growing sense of isolation and transience. Years of abuse and neglect had turned him into a thin, cold, and vicious person, one who wouldn't hesitate to snap someone's neck if it meant food in his belly and money in his hands. At 16, he ran away from his foster home in Georgia, hitchhiking and strongarming his way to New York City.
When he arrived in New York City, he had scarcely gotten off the bus and walked through Chinatown before a tall man in a suit slipped behind him and slammed his hand against Kris's mouth. Fighting was futile; the man was stronger, and he whispered in Kris's ear, Fight back and I'll break every bone in your spine slowly. Kris followed mutely, and that night began Kris's new life.
The man in the suit belonged to the Chinese Triads, part of an extensive web that wove through New York City, Chicago, San Francisco, and Seattle. They belonged to the shadows, trained in martial arts and sharp shooting, and they operated without morals. What was black and white when green money existed?
The night of his initiation, the man in the suit, who went by 湖 ("river" in Chinese), told him he would have to pick a new name for himself. "Wu Fan", the name his first foster family had given him, was dead. Without a moment's hesitation, Kris remembered a billboard from the interstate he crossed on his way into New York City, advertising a concert with a known singer, Kris something or other. It was easy to remember, a monosyllabic moniker that would carry the weight of his shadows with him. Wu Fan is dead.
Kris jolted back to the present when his cell phone rang. One ring, two rings. Then the cell phone fell silent. Kris recognized the symbol as a request to confirm if he had received his next job, and he picked up the phone, shooting off a quick text to a number he had long ago memorized. "3" was all he wrote, and then he was back to scrutinizing the piece of paper in the manila envelope.
Target: Zhang Yixing. A few quick stats followed, and Kris skimmed them quickly before jumping down to the large blurb that would explain his actual mission. Target is son of wealthy Chinese politician. Mission in Shanghai. One month to scope target, three months to complete mission. Fee will be double the usual. Top priority, X. Committee on standby. Failure to complete will result in termination.
Kris stared at the "X" on the page, his sense of apprehension growing by the minute. A politician's son? The Committee (what the Triad called themselves) was really stepping out of the shadows to make a point, and Kris was the arm they'd be using. His missions often involved kills, but the doubling of his usual fee and the final threat in case of incompletion made Kris uneasy. This was really a do or die mission.
He let out a long sigh, and placed the paper back in the manila envelope. He reached inside, further down, until his fingers connected with something thicker. He slid it out and found plane tickets, addressed for Kevin Li, a flight departing from Prague to Shanghai in four hours. Time to pack.
----------------------------------------------------------------
Shanghai, China
6:38PM
Kris hailed a taxi outside of the airport, slipping effortlessly through the hordes of people into a yellow cab. He told the driver his hotel name and situated himself comfortably into the car as it lurched onto the highway.
When the car had reached a steady pace, Kris reached inside his duffelbag, eyeing his rifle case carefully. He was always cautious about what he brought to his missions: his rifle, his mission envelope, and his cell phone. He kept a pair of sunglasses with him only because they had a built-in camera he used for his scoping, but he never brought clothes or momentos. An transient childhood had prepared him well for the transience of the rest of his life. Having checked that everything he needed was there, Kris zipped the bag shut and leaned back in his seat, closing his eyes briefly to rest them. He had a restless night on the flight over, queasy whenever he had to travel in cramped conditions and even more so knowing the consequences of this mission.
The minute the taxi slowed to a halt, Kris peeled off a few renminbi bills, stuffing them in the driver's hand. He was out of the car in a flash and climbing the stairs to the hotel lobby. He made his way to the reception desk, and within minutes, a kind bellhop was asking him if he needed to be escorted to his room. Kris shook his head brusquely, and charged forward into the elevator. He wasn't comfortable with anyone handling his bag, and he certainly didn't want someone to come into his room and remember him as anything other than the tall gawky guy in sweats.
Inside his room, he put his bag carefully onto the couch and headed straight for the shower. He stripped in the bathroom and tossed his clothes into a bag. He'd have to get rid of it eventually. It had been comfortable on the flight, but he didn't want people to remember anything about him.
When Kris had finished his shower, he stepped into his room, relishing the comfort his choice of employment sometimes provided him with. He dressed quickly, black jeans and a black button down with a black blazer on top. He was a shadow, as literal as it could have been, and as he grabbed his sunglasses from his bag, he thought to himself, This poor motherfucker I have to kill.
He slipped his sunglasses on and clicked a button on the side to engage the camera. Then he was speeding down the emergency exit stairwell down to the lobby and sneaking out through a back entrance. He had twenty minutes to make it from the west side of the city to the east side to see his target's father cut the ribbon at the opening of a new community center, and he had no time to waste. Every minute he spent tracking his target was a minute he could use to find a weakness. Kris felt his breath hitch in his throat as he picked up the pace, the backs of his feet barely touching the ground as he moved ahead.
He made it to the venue in eighteen minutes, and he settled comfortably in the back of the crowd, slipping behind a bunch of excited girls. He leaned in close to hear their conversation, something about how excited they were to see Zhang Yixing, who was supposedly one of the most eligible bachelors because he was so cute and set to inherit millions and the son of a politician.
And before Kris could roll his eyes at the absolute superficiality, the silliness of these girls and their trivial pursuits when there were bigger things in the world, when Death stood in the shadows ready to take the next victim while they giggled about cute boys, his target's father was at the podium introducing his son, this dead man walking, every breath potentially his last if Kris had anything to do with it, Zhang Yixing...
Kris's mouth dropped open. Fuck.
part two