#letale.closed

Sandro couldn’t remember when his vision turned red, or when his focus switched from making the best of a shitty situation to simply staying alive, but maybe that didn’t matter anymore. The mission was compromised, Tehrani took his gun, and his brain had just turned foggy from too much alcohol with too little food. His fists, the one source of reliability no matter the scene, were formed long before now, eager to collide with a jaw, a gut, an eye -- anything nearby that just barely asked for it -- and as his steps echoed in the once-bustling corridor, the curled fingers of both fists raised to his chin in anticipation of throwing the first punch, senses heightening as he turned the corner.

There was no real threat here, only her, and when he saw the living, breathing face of the only agent he’d been properly assigned to assist and protect, he couldn’t help but exhale in relief. There was too much blood on his hands already.

“You,” Sandro barked, not caring who heard him when everything around them had turned to chaos. “With me.” He gestured for her to follow him as he turned back the other way. “Destination might be safe, but the path sure as shit won’t be. Got a gun on you?”

It was the first thing that Lise felt. 

Her eyelids didn’t seem to be. Working properly? She could manage to get them open a crack. It took a few tries for them to stay like that. Breathing. Breathing was. It was working, a little. Her tongue felt rubbery in her mouth, like it didn’t quite belong to her. 

First dull, and then. Fuck. Pain. She reached a trembling hand up to the back of her head, but let it fall back quickly with a hiss. Something was wrong here.

“Wh..” She tried, squinting with the effort. Someone else was in the room. Someone.. safe. “Zahra..?” That was right, she thought. Right enough.

The moment Clara --- nay, May, arrived at the event, the first thing she wanted to do was leave. She supposed she’d have to thank whoever was in charge of picking the assignments for not putting her in high heels and a tight red dress. It would be a disaster, though the fact that she spoke four languages (though one of them considered dead) might’ve come in handy in conversations with snobs like the ones some Agents were serving that night. 

Thankfully, she got the job to explore every nook and cranny of the place; and she loved exploring and doing her own thing, by her lonesome. Of course, being an UMBRA Agent meant knowing how to play in a team so when her and Ten got basically the same job, it was almost automatic in her... agent side of her brain that she ought to be paired up. Safety in numbers, and all that, despite it being a seemingly easy mission. 

As they explored the lower floors, Clara looked at Ten and smirked before she looked around. “Y’know, if you wanted to kill me, this would be the perfect spot. I think I even saw a freezer in one of the rooms.” Rooms being different areas of the creepy basement they had started on.

Of the three things in this world that he could rely on (waking up, throwing punches, and falling asleep), the first was hardly ever the one that he desired most of all. And still, it came, constant as a cloudy day in London, beckoning him to join the land of the living and embrace the inevitability of his fists at a punching bag. It was only when he checked his watch that he realized today’s awakening was a cruel one; 3AM was hardly the right time to start the day. His feet, never ones to argue with his head, carried him from his quarters to the gym, stopping only from the quick startle when he realized he was in the presence of another. Out of instinct, he stayed in the shadows to survey, still combating the heaviness of his lids and the fogginess of his sleep-deprived mind. It was clear that her emotions were a springboard for her talent, accelerating the already imbalanced fight into a succinct one, wholly in her favor. In mere moments, anger became fury, the springboard leveling itself too high, and the mark missed entirely. 

He was witnessing a weapon turn in on itself without the recognition of its betrayal, a transformation he’d endured over and over again, and all he could think to do was enter the room and offer a joke.

“You tryna’ take my job, agent? Or just pretendin’ that your punching bag’s one of the moron chefs who cooked tonight?”

                      Harry had split up from Agent Fifty Three and Agent Seventy Three after they had descended the stair wells together, silently rounding every corner slowly, a knife gripped tightly in his hand. Harry hadn’t concealed a weapon earlier in the evening, his role in the mission wasn’t to take down any possible assailants — nor was he a trained killer. The knife had felt heavy in his hands, now that he was alone and had reached a heavily populated floor of the hotel again, he decided it was better for everyone if he sheathed the blade. The last thing this mission needed was for a civilian to see a supposed member of staff strolling the hallways, armed with a knife that looked big and thick enough to cut through bone. It had belonged to Agent Eighty Four before Harry had taken it from his lifeless body. It wasn’t like he was going to be needing it anymore, unlike Harry.

                     Before splitting off from the other two Agents, Harry had agreed that he would search for Agent Twenty Nine and fill her in on what had been happening. Of course that would have been easier said than done had their communications not been cut off by whoever had killed Agent Eighty Four.  ❝ Level three difficulty my ass. ❞ Harry muttered to himself, if it hadn’t been for the fact that her priority was to protect their client all night long then this might have turned into the second wild goose chase for him of the night. 

                    Harry’s objectives were clear: find Peter Mcgee and he’d find Agent Twenty Nine.. if the killer hadn’t gotten to the pair of them already.

There was little thrill in this mission, no high stakes, no grand heist. It was just protection detail for a high-paying client, and Nadia found it ironic that she was working for a man who her father used to know. If this had been her old life, she would have been a regular guest, making connections and gathering information to cement her position in the realm of the wealthy and elite, not to stop a potential assassination. She’d gone from a queen on the chessboard to a pawn, but that wouldn’t stop her from acting like she still wore a crown on her head. 

( That was her assignment tonight, anyway. Play a role and play it well. )

She flitted through the crowd like a glittering butterfly, making casual conversation and laughing at all the right times. A flute of champagne was ever-present in her hand, yet she barely sipped from it, preferring to keep her mind clear and in control. But she encouraged her fellow guests---her new friends---to take a second and third glass, to try the wine because it was absolutely amazing, it’s a Cheval Blanc 1962, you know. Loose lips sink ships, and if there was one thing alcohol did well, it was getting people to open up. 

Removing herself from the absolutely riveting story of some hotel magnate’s rise to success with the excuse to freshen up, she wove through the ballroom and towards one of the hotel’s bathrooms. It was too far for most people to have the patience to walk, and thus was almost always empty. Heels clicked on tile as she walked in, stopping in front of the mirror. She shot a glance at Ana, who had joined her right on time.

“Have you met Simon Bellamy yet? He’s this duke who I’d very much like to punch in the face or break his wrist, or both. Would that be so bad?” She pulled her lipstick out of her clutch, leaning forward on the counter. “Anyway, anything interesting you’ve learned? Gossip’s only useful when it’s about certain things, and who’s honeymooning in Santorini next month is not. However, the CEO of Dalton Industries swears McGee stole his investors, and the wife of that one plastic surgeon is his college ex-girlfriend. It appeared to be a bad break-up.”

  └    @agenteleven

          Anastasiya had learned very early on in life that everyone had a tell, no matter how self-aware or composed they were. The subtle lift of an eyebrow, the nearly imperceptible twitch of their mouth, the gentle crossing of one’s arms ⏤ everyone revealed something about their current state of mind through nonverbal cues. Whatever was going on with Eleven had her practically screaming for assistance with her body language in the middle of the bustling ballroom. Ana had spotted the shift in the woman’s usual demeanor from the sidelines as the agent, disguised impeccably in a blunt blonde wig and chocolate-colored contacts, her full cleavage on display in a shimmering low-cut gown, appeared to be pinned by an uncomfortable conversation with a rather persistent guest.

          Not on Ana’s watch. 

          Walking determinedly, she maneuvered herself through the crowd, most attendees already drunk on top-shelf liquor and the prospect of luring in new business before dinner was set to be served. Cocktail receptions always had a way of loosening up a crowd before dinner, which was likely why gala events tended to start off with a bit of drink and casual conversation; by the time the first course hit the tables, everyone was already contentedly chattering with their table mates, bellies warmed by a few double-aged bourbons.

          “Elisabeth Kenway, in the flesh,” Anastasiya exclaimed as she approached her fellow agent, leaning close to kiss both of the woman’s cheeks in greeting. “Oh, my wife and I were just talking about your New York Times feature this morning over breakfast.” Turning ever so slightly to acknowledge the man that had been aggressively hoarding the supposed American businesswoman, Ana offered an apologetic smile. “You’ll have to forgive me, love. I’ve been following Ms. Kenway’s career for years. Do you mind if I steal her away for a moment to talk business?” She didn’t wait for his response before reaching for Eleven’s hand. She tugged the woman away, entwining their fingers, their bangles clattering together as she led Elisabeth to the bar. "Let’s get you a drink, shall we? You look like you could use one.”

Even the most acclimated of tongues needed some sugar with their poison, and Nadia Tehrani was no exception. 

Throughout the briefing, she’d been so dedicated to her courtesy, that he drifted off into a dreamland where she spoke with personality behind her words rather than the depthless void he’d come to expect. As rare as the moments had been, Sandro had caught glimpses of something else before, of what looked like an actual person with a mind of her own, baring her teeth through her pretty words.

“So, the judges kill a girl for killing,” he started, once most of the other agents had left, before snatching one of the dossiers placed in front of her, flipping through with disinterest. “And it becomes our job to hang the judges. Next, we’re onto the ones that butter ‘em up, and then there’s each and every one of us until there’s no one left.” The briefing had been a harsh reminder of what was so typical of those in power -- to make a law and break it in the same breath. Sandro rolled up the file and absentmindedly started swatting at her elbow. “And here I was, thinking that this was a place you wanted me to be proud of.”