The room feels cosy, protected by cherry wood walls and thick braces latched to corners of the ceiling. It's been a while since she felt warm. A thick white blanket embellished by a red Scandinavian floral print hugs her bare body. It has an odd sensation to it, almost too mellow. She wants to sink into the comfort the bed provides and forget all her problems, Icarus, and August Walker.
But a buzzing noise breaks into her state of ease. As if there is a hornets' nest hidden somewhere under the bed, it keeps worsening, clattering in her bones. The more she tries to brush the anxiety away, the more it begins to transform into a new sound. Like a clock ticking, louder and louder, drumming inside her brain.
The pattern on the blanket doesn't look like flowers anymore. It looks like blood splatters.
A sudden gust of wind onslaughts her, the blanket sliding onto the hardwood floor. It leaves her naked in the harsh daylight for his wicked appreciation. The living god who stands at the edge of the bed, every breath emphasizing his pure masculinity. Shadow and light flow from his impressive naked figure while a Cheshire grin paints his face.
Ingvild prepares to fight him yet her hands appear to be paralyzed. Lifting her gaze back, she realizes she is bound by ropes to the wooden bars she broke in the past. His smirk deepens, one cheek rising up in victory as he climbs onto the bed. His blue eyes preying on her, his hands grasp her feet, throwing her legs apart. In her chest, she feels the need to resist but her muscles remain dormant as he crawls between her thighs.
'No, I don't want it.'
August shifts himself on top of her, his large palms capturing her face as he leans in to kiss her deeply. Hot and wet, his tongue penetrates her mouth, stealing the breath he gave her.
'Stop.'
He breaks the kiss and spits on his fingers. Ingvild sees the beaming leer on his face as his hand reaches down to her groin, smearing his saliva between her delicate petals only to find out she's already soaked, her lips ripe with an open invitation for him.
"You want this." his eyes shine with bliss, lips parting open into a smile full of sharp teeth.
"No, I don.."
She breaks into a gasp, overwhelmed as he sinks himself inside her inch by inch. A low growl tickles her ear as his head lowers to the side of her head, his breath hot against her neck. She can feel her body lifting beneath him, demanding more of his skin against hers.
No words form on her tongue, only embarrassing animal-like wails as August drives between her thighs, eliciting guttural grunts with every shove. Her ankles kick into the mattress, wrists hurting as she tugs and fights for her freedom. His palms cage her face once again, forcing her to gaze into his stormy blue eyes.
"You want me."
She wakes with a loud gasp, her upper body snaking up from the single bed as if possessed by some demonic force. No longer in Bergen, but in an unfamiliar bed–a cold, compact AirBNB apartment. Mundane and practical. Rented for the next following week of her short stay.
Lying on her back, her breath is heavy, her body still tingling from the disturbing dream. She never dreamt of anything but her past. Nothing ever gave her nightmares, up till now.
'August Walker is the devil.'
Fury throbs at her core, a desperate need hinges at her nerves, so powerful it dims her senses. She feels the wetness coating her womanhood. Slippery and slick, awaiting something that's out of reach. Hazy and meek she slips her fingers below, finding their way between her inner thighs, flirting with the swelling arousal.
Sweat glistens between her thighs, golden and thick like maple in the dimmed candlelit room. Keeping herself in the penumbra of light, her knees push together violently as her hand strokes between her legs. She tells herself she doesn't want it, but the need suppresses her resistance effortlessly.
Her mind continues to remind her of the cruel dream. Of August grinding heavy on top of her, his scent vivid in her memory, inching her into a sensation that's impossible to struggle with. The climax is so sweet, her entire body shivers at once as her cunt clenches around an empty void. Howling gasps leave her throat in a delicate, vulnerable voice.
It makes her feel like a sinner, self-loathing surges through her tendons just like the orgasm that ruptured between her lips. Trying to brush any reasoning of these thoughts, she rolls on her belly, wiping her fingers clean on her bare thigh and grabbing her laptop while still catching her rapid breath.
Covered by sweat and lying on her belly, she opens the screen and stares as the bright red loader appears on the screen. The dark web is Icarus' playground, just as much as it's "Lark's" and his apostles. All information and communication between agents stream through undetected, and information of agents, targets, last known locations, even dirty little lascivious sex videos can easily be found here.
It was the dark web that taught her of golden showers, something she regrets to this day.
Yet somehow, within this vast ocean of information, her efforts to find any information on "Lark" seems nearly impossible. As arrogant as August is, he is smarter than he looks.
The day before, she managed to find a server that she hopes to be related to him. Machiavelli's the prince. "It is better to be feared than loved, if you cannot be both." she cites, wondering if August would find both her intelligence and resourcefulness impressive, right before she'll put a bullet between his beautiful blue eyes.
Her request to join the room is yet to be approved. Impatiently she stares at the little notification box every few seconds, hoping to be added to the server. Luckily, she has more than just waiting to do.
Blondie Sydney, as dumb as she may be, gave her an idea on how she might track August.
Sydney mentioned August was trading all the time, but never mentioned what or who he did his bidding with. Ingvild's intuition tells her to examine the black market. If August is really intent on finishing his little apocalypse project, he would be scouring the market for plutonium.
'Oh, to reign in hell.'
The black market may not offer exact locations, but she won't need one anyway. The IP addresses were traceable. All she needs now is to find information about a buyer or a seller and she is set.
Her eyes skim through the list, ignoring the disturbing "quality" material being offered by insidious personas. Narrowing the search she manages to find three dealers and a broker. He calls himself Knight of Darkn3ss.
'Sounds like a cockstain.'
She rolls her eyes and mocks the name, shaking her head with disbelief of what she is forced to do. Yet she clicks his profile to examine the groups this person is a member of: government officials, leaked government lies, MILFs, sluts for hire.
'For fuck's sake.'
Just when she is close to losing her cool, she sees Machiavelli's the prince on the list. Her eyebrow crooks up. Might be something, might be nothing. At this point, she is willing to tear herself limb by limb to find even a piece of thread. She clicks the little direct message icon and writes him a private mail.
Waiting to be answered, she pins her eyes to the black and white photo of August that is now plastered to the mirror in her hotel room with a piece of duct tape. Those bright eyes return her gaze, as if he is present in the room with her, taunting her with his smug face. Her body begins to tingle as if she is sitting naked on that bed. She grabs the 9mm pistol that's laid on the nightstand next to the bed and directs it at the image.
"Pew pew!" she utters playfully and then places the gun back down while still staring at the hideous man.
A small chime emits from her laptop, redirecting her focus to the screen. A message from Knight.
Knight of Darkn3ss: Selling?
Kitten-mittens: Selling.
Knight of Darkn3ss: Send me your coordinates.
Kitten-mittens: May I be joined to the Machiavelli group first?
Another chime rings in the half-empty room as the generous Knight allows her request to join the group.
If she had a heart, it's probably singing right now.
But instead, it's the wound in her torso that oddly begins to itch the instant she walks through the gates of the forbidden server. Leaning closer with determination dancing on her face, she seeks a member named "Lark" among the users' list. Her nose nearly bumps against the screen, her breath steaming on the glass as she slides her fingers on the touchpad.
There he is, all pixels and glory, J_Lark@1983.
Like a maddened bitch, her eyes grow wide as she clicks his profile. Curiosity sears through her gut and her ears throb as the blood gushes to her brain. He is almost close enough to touch, yet oh so far away. However, his profile is empty but for a PDF file attached to the server's database. It hardly weighs more than 13kb.
'His manifesto?'
Sloane has been eager to keep this information censored. Even though Liam claims Ingvild always lacked ideals, a certain hunger keeps growing in her brain, festering like rotting fruit. August has latched himself into her consciousness; it was only fair to peek inside his wretched mind and learn more of his motives.
She clicks the download button and while waiting for the file to completely load, alters back to her chat with Knight to send him her coordinates. It occurred to her that she doesn't have spare plutonium to sell at the moment, yet she hopes to keep Knight under the veil enough to get closer to August. He may not choose her as a seller, yet he might still provide her with enough hints of his whereabouts.
The file finishes loading within seconds and his manifesto unravels on her screen, the light of the white pages reflecting on her glassy eyes as she begins reading. Her lips voice his words silently. She leans her hand on her elbow and tilts her head while her fingers twirl a lock of her brown hair with earnest fascination.
'No wonder Sloane keeps this hidden.'
The ringing tune of a new message plays in her ear once again, interrupting her concentration, and causing her to jump with slight shock.
Knight of Darkn3ss: I may be able to arrange a meeting for the two of you. You're both in London.
'Well. If ain't Lady Destiny again.'
~*~
The hall is surrounded by nothing but vast glass walls and comfy seats for visitors to take selfies at rather than enjoy the city view. From the tall sky tower, you can see the entire London skyline from each side. The queen's palace and the beautiful green parks can be seen here. The grey and blue mirrored skyscrapers are also visible, the sigil of capitalism which he finds as offensive as the churches and pointless palaces.
'An old world that must fall.'
August sits at a round metal table next to the glass wall while drinking his espresso with a bitter glare on his face. He wears a fedora and sunglasses to hide his appearance as much as possible, looking like a retro movie star from the 40s. His hand strokes the stubble of his square chin down his throat, musing if they'll think he is stupid enough to visit a tourist landmark.
Knight of Darkn3ss is already 20 minutes late and if there is something August can't stand, it's having his time taken for granted especially when every minute spent outside his safe house puts him at risk of being targeted.
Shaking his head he opens his laptop, hiding his head behind the screen. There is a small chime indicating his received notifications. A new recruit has joined his server.
Kitten-Mi... I swear these names are getting more and more ridiculous.
He rolls his eyes and skim through new messages before sending Knight an angry one asking him where the fuck is he.
Girlish laughter distracts him from his fury like a group of four young women passes in front of him, heading to the small cafe at the centre of the hall. His gaze immediately sets upon them as they find themselves a square table and take their seats. His attention eventually falls on the pretty little brunette of the group.
Funny, he used to like them blondes, yet recently he became more accustomed to brunettes.
'Must be an age thing.'
He chuckles to himself, remembering the last blonde he was with. Poor Sydney. I wonder if she still lives around town and if she still wants to kill me. She didn't like it when he woke her up in the middle of the night with his hand around her neck and his erection brushing against her thigh. He couldn't help it, he dreamt about Lacey and she was there with her blond curls and her long neck. The thought of her panicking makes him smirk to himself.
Yet shortly his smile subsides. The memories of his ex and a dead girl are being replaced by a revived one. While waiting for Knight he wonders if her file is available via the dark web. Most of Icarus' shit recruits are.
She read his file, probably knowing every little detail the CIA collected on his life, starting with his favourite type of beer to the size of his cock. It seems only fair he'd learn more of that untrustworthy little girl.
'Perhaps I can hire her to kill herself.'
Beginning to type her name in the search engine, he realizes he doesn't even know her last name, yet he imagines there aren't many Icarus agents named Ingvild.
And just like so, her file loads, much to the curiosity that gnaws at his bones. Her pale face sulks at him through the large passport photo, grey eyes piercing into his as if staring right into the black pit where his soul is supposed to be. Though to his great disappointment, her file states nothing but dry details like her age, height, skills, and years of recruitment, which he finds to be terribly young.
Icarus was a small organization, formed way back during the early 90s in western Europe. Their assassins never failed, yet most people hated working with them.
Probably because their agents were people like Ingvild.
By quick calculation, he learns that Ingvild Einarson was recruited when she was 14. She was either sold or joined freely, which leads him to believe her parents were far gone by then or perhaps were the ones who sold her into this life.
'Could have been worse. For a young pretty girl, could have been sold to a life of sexual servitude.'
He stares at her photo, his glare focusing on the furious grey gaze. Cold and blazing at once, assaulting him through the pixels of the screen. It's almost as if she is facing him now. In his mind a vivid memory of those irises tearing little cuts into his flesh.
The only form of contact is possible through the man she referred to as Liam. He imagines he is the one who sired her and eventually became her handler. He wonders how strong their relationship is as she called his name while she was unconscious. He searches for Liam next, finding a glorified assassin.
Perhaps one of Icarus' founding fathers.
"Lark?" A hoarse voice calls to him in a cockney accent. It makes him shut the laptop in an instant and direct his gaze to the man who leans against the window, staring at the cafe and avoiding eye contact.
August narrows his eyes at the small man who pretends as if they are not meeting. Even while standing slightly far, August can smell the ageing cheese and corn snacks off his body.
"I expected you to be a 15 years old boy," August mocks, observing the receding hairline and the thick-rimmed glasses Knight wears. He seems around his 50s, wearing a t-shirt a size too small on his bulging belly and no apparent wedding ring. He is a rather short man, yet not as short as Ethan Hunt.
'That fucking midget.'
"Cut the act, if anyone sees me here I am a dead man anyway. This location is shit." August complains, quickly observing the hall to make sure for the hundredth time no one is tailing him.
He had enough "surprises" in Bergen.
Knight turns to face him and August immediately regrets as the ghastly smell of cheese pipes up his nose. The square-looking man doesn't smile, only stares at August with his beady eyes while adjusting the frame of his glasses between his sweaty digits.
"I have two sellers for you, both in England. One is here in London, the other in Manchester."
Though Knight smells like someone who is living in his mother's basement, he is quite straightforward. A quality that August appreciates. No questions, no introductions, just business.
"What are the bids?" August asks. "Do I meet them, or are all arrangements through you?"
"London strictly wants to meet you face to face, says he will send details if you'll choose to accept the offer. Manchester I can arrange." Knight answers, adjusting his glasses again as they continue to slide down his nose.
August clenches his jaw and chews on the inside of his cheek anxiously. This entire ordeal has a bad scent to it, worse than Knight's body odour. A coiled knot in his stomach warns him not to take either offer, yet his arrogance and the chance that it might not be a trap planted by the CIA forces him to take his chance.
What other choice is there? His resources are limited these days.
"They want 14 million GBP."
"I have the money," August answers, rubbing the dark stubble on his chin and looking down for a moment to consider his decision.
"Tell London I can meet him today."
Knight nods and takes his phone out of his pocket. August watches as he types a message with his sausage fingers before returning his gaze to the group of girls. While waiting for a response, Knight doesn't attempt to start a small talk, to which August feels thankful. He'd rather smile at the ladies who are examining him and giggle amongst themselves too obviously.
He returns the smile, giving them a small wave before taking a final gulp from his espresso.
"London can meet tomorrow, he sent the coordinates and the time. I'm passing them through to you." The stubby man speaks as he transfers a message to August through his mobile phone. August's phone vibrates in his jacket pocket as the coordinates are received. He peers at the device, making sure he has the full information and shoves it back into his pocket. He nods at the fellow apostle with gratitude.
"I will keep you posted," August mutters before getting up from his chair. "If things go well tomorrow, I will contact the rest on our server. We have a new detonator being assembled, it will be quicker this time. We won't fail."
Knight nods in return and then lifts his greasy fingers, gesturing the devil horns at August. "Hail Satan!" he jokes, although there is no hint of humour or a smile on his face.
August returns Knight a serious unphased glare, the shaking of his head coming out more intimidating than he intended. As stoic as Knight appears to be, he still seems slightly frightened.
"Don't. do. that."
With his final words, the tall man stretches himself up from the rounded bar stool. He throws a wrinkled five-pound note on the silver surface and makes his way toward the ladies who hush one another while watching him approach. His gaze burns at the innocent-looking brunette.
It's not that he has the luxury of spare time. The chain of events is already set to motion, stretching tight like a celluloid film playing on a large screen. A new device is being built by another turned nuclear physicist abiding his will. Hunt must have thought Nils Delbruuk was the only professor turned apostle, but there were more than a few who believed his cause. Men of science and logic. He'd like to think of himself as one, a genius of some sort, even though his knowledge of building nuclear devices is still sparse.
But until the plutonium will be in his grasp, he can allow himself the delights of violent pleasures.
Towering over the blushing lady, he lowers his shades on the bridge of his nose and smirks flirtatiously. She smiles back, hazel eyes and freckles on porcelain skin. She almost looks pure, almost like her.
If there is anything August loves, it's destroying beautiful things.
'Not perfect, but close enough.'
~*~
The Airbnb apartment she rented in south Kensington has a nice view to other people's houses. For two nights Ingvild laid on the small cot and gazed through the wide glass, looking at other people living their boring, normal lives.
She often wonders what it must be like: having a mundane routine, working, eating, fucking the same person, having children, growing old and withering.
Another form of servitude, she thinks to herself as she carries her sniper rifle and climbs up the iron stairs to the rooftop.
According to Sydney's address, August should be in the building right in front, which is why she deliberately rented her room based on proximity. Having confirmed her target is in London, she wonders how many times they've nearly bumped into each other like in romantic comedies, missing one another by mere seconds every single time.
No, she would have sensed him, her nose would pick up his musk, her chest would tingle at the sensation of his menacing presence. There was an odd bond between them, like two celestial beings, circling one another in constant gravity. He was the man who killed her, marked her by the kiss of death. The crescent in her abdomen begins to itch and throb. A memory of him penetrating her flesh beats her blood to run hotter.
Placing her sniper rifle on its stand, she crouches on the gravel and begins looking around the scope, running window through window. Likely he has a safe house in one of these apartments. Probably a place he bought, under a false name, something so obvious the CIA would ignore.
She is patient, she can wait hours over hours, imagining the way his brain will splatter on the wall or on the floor as her bullet will pierce through.
'Will I be a hero? For saving the world?'
Not much to save anyway, she muses as she continues to seek window by window. The words of his manifesto sit on her heart and hang on her mind, repeating like an echo. Dark whims and dark words, written in blood and passion.
Ideals that could only be uttered by a man who bears a terrible secret.
'Who wronged you to hate the world so much, August?'
A blunt memory of their last chat in Bergen comes to mind. Bound again to the bed, as he cupped her chin between his long fingers and spoke of Erica Slone with eyes drenched with rage.
"Did Erica mention what she did?"
'Do I even care?'
Gentle raindrops begin to hit the gravel softly, tapping on the tip of her head, she inhales the fresh scent. Humming to herself and brushes the thought away, reminding herself that her task is to eliminate him, the sooner the better. Though the rifle is unarmed, she means to wait for tomorrow, since having a go with him with the sniper rifle is risky; if she'll miss the shot, he'll likely escape again.
To have him know she is the one to kill him, to look into his eyes one moment before taking that shot, makes her wet.
Yet the desire to see him, to stalk into his skin on his last night before his demise was too tempting to refuse.
She licks her lips wickedly and chuckles dryly to the chill air, enjoying the slight wetness the rain brings. There in one of the rooms, a soft light blinks open. Ingvild's pupil widens and a small gasp leaves her lips. In the dimly lit room, August Walker stands like an anarchistic angel. His muscular naked body glows in the amber light, standing tall, his solid form admirable. She tilts the scope slightly, taking interest in his large erect cock as he grips it in his palm, giving in a few long strokes.
He is not alone. A woman accompanies him: petite, with long brown hair. She runs her hands around his chest, nails stroking at the hair on his pecs with appreciation yet he turns her around and bends her over with dominance.
Grabbing a condom, he rips the package between his teeth and rolls the rubber down his length before slapping her ass. Ingvild bites her lips, watching how he adjusts the condom and enters the girl from behind and begins moving inside her, rocking her forward, brow furrowing, his eyes half shut.
Bile rises in her throat as her eye focuses through the scope. Watching in stern silence, but for the rain that grows slightly stronger and the beating drum in her ears. August fucks hard, pounding into the brunette in a rigid rhythm, back and forth, one hand on her nape while the other holds her waist.
His lips agape, Ingvild's mind completes the sounds by the memory of his grunts from their shared adventure in the shower. Those deep melodic groans play as she watches his lips move. He likes to be vocal, so she learned.
Swallowing the dryness in her mouth, she continues to watch. His abs clench with every thrust, his hairy pecs flexing upward and his sweat covered brow-rises as he gasps. He shuts his eyes and throws his head back, his face the sight of ecstasy and violence.
Feeling a sudden angry throb at her core, she pushes the scope away as if it was some hideous thing. Her breaths turn into pants, her thighs clench as she reaches to grab her pulsating mound.
Without thinking too much into it, she takes her phone and dials Liam.
"I'm cutting close, it will happen tomorrow."
She never waits for an answer, only hangs up while leaning against the wall of the rooftop, letting the intensifying raindrop roll down her breathless face.
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