The residents of the floor gape at the torn girl making her way through the lit corridor. Whispers and mumbles wriggle their way into her brain like hungry little worms while she drags her exhausted limbs through the hall. Her ears are still ringing from the burst of gunfire, blood and dust coating her tousled hair.
Her entire body feels broken, yet nothing compares to the harrowing sensation in her ribcage; it's as if an animal ate both her heart and lungs and left her open chest gushing with blood. She feels dead, yet walking alive. A dying expedition parades in her bloodshot eyes, ghosts and skeletons raving in the grey matter of her sullen gaze.
All she needs to do right now is keep moving, just a few steps into sanctuary.
'August Walker really did a number on you.'
Ingvild swallows a pained whimper, the furious throb in her groin and the sticky filth lining the triangle in her underwear reminds her of his weight, hovering on top of her, pushing back and forth, in and out. In the blinking fluorescent light, images of August grunting and growling spark behind her eyes.
'It hurts.'
She manages to make it to the entrance with considerable effort, unlocking and twisting the knob with a bloodied hand. A sick feeling rises in her throat as she stumbles into the cold, timid apartment. The wheeze of air thrusts itself through her nose before she collapses against the white wooden door with laboured breath. Holding a hand over her mouth, she sustains the vomit that begs to burst out. Liam once said that when the adrenalin depletes, the pain kicks in 10 times stronger.
'Liam, he's waiting...'
Pained grunts squeak in her throat, the sinew of her muscles sears as she reaches for her pocket. The device is badly cracked and she can't help herself as the laughter bubbling through her lips swiftly turns into a shaking wail.
Liam would be pleased to hear she ruined another device in less than a week. As if the old grunt was ever pleased.
A rumbling thunder reverberates through the heavy sky outside while Ingvild unlocks the phone and gingerly swipes through the folders. The task is simple: send evidence of the eliminated target along with the coordinates. Icarus' hound dogs will then find and extract the corpse.
A corpse, that's what he is; no warmer than the storm clouds outside. She tries to remind herself of this as hesitation strikes her red-stained fingers, trembling at the reflection of the man's pale face. He looks serene girdled by sombre.
Dead, while she's alive.
But the life she earned is suddenly depleted of purpose, and the bleeding sensation in her chest extends to her guts.
Agitated, she takes a deep breath and texts Liam the photo as quickly as she would rip a bandaid before dialling the old man's number.
"Ingvild," he answers nearly instantly, calling her name devoid of emotion. It sounded different on another man's lips, who called her "sweet, sweet Ingvild."
She takes a moment trying to see if she is even capable of any verbal communication other than groans and pathetic husky wheezing sounds.
"It's done," she reports with a quiver in her voice. Her grey eyes peer blankly into the dust that floats in the air of the blank room. "He is gone."
Liam remains silent on the other side, observing the image to make sure the evidence will please Sloane. "The target," he corrects her chidingly. "I'll send an extraction for you and the body."
Ingvild shudders at his words; the thought of sharing a helicopter ride with August's cadaver sounds like a pure nightmare. How is it that a girl who's seen so many dead bodies in her life is suddenly terrified to the bone?
"Liam?" She calls his name achingly.
"What?" The old man grunts as if he was on his way to do something important and she has disturbed him.
The pale specks of dust blur within her gaze while she holds the broken phone against her cheek. For some reason, she imagines being a child again, right before Icarus took her. "Do you think my parents loved me?"
Liam's breath becomes tense. In her mind, she can see the old grouch sulking with his lips curled downward, the way he always was when she sought for his attention, even when she was nothing but a lost teenager with an absent childhood.
"No."
A tragic chuckle escapes her. There is no lie in his voice. Would it matter if they did? She never knew them anyway, and she never will.
"What's wrong with you?" Liam scolds, unapproving her odd behaviour. The girl was always weird, but now she is downright being obscure. "You just succeeded where everyone else failed, you killed August Walker, go celebrate or whatever it is you do when you complete a mission."
The simple, characterless room becomes a washed smudge as tears seam her lids. In the aching pit of her chest, the emptiness suddenly conceives a carnival of unfathomable emotions. "I'm done," she half-whispers, "I don't want to go back, don't want to any...more."
Her voice cracks, while tears run down her face. The drops clear a path through the blood and dirt.
Ingvild never shed a tear in her life; not when the girls shunned her as a kid, nor when the nuns hit her. She didn't cry when Liam took away the toys she stole from the store, and certainly not as an adult.
Not until August walked into her life and turned them upside down.
"Ingvild, quit being a child again. No one leaves Icarus, you know this. Now, get yourself ready, extraction will be in a day or two." Without much so as a goodbye, Liam hangs up.
Ingvild is left listening to her own shuddering breath as the phone drops from her hand. Outside, the rain slams onto the window, the furious rain clouds preventing any sunlight from coming into the room.
She can still taste him on her tongue. Warm and dark and haunting with reveries.
~*~
'Whore, betrayer.'
Thick drops of blood trickle on the sidewalk as the agent walks urgently through the bleak streets of London, appearing like an undead creature. At the late hour of the night, the rain washes the crimson trail down the drain and soaks through his tattered shirt.
A pale face with protruding cerulean eyes seeks refuge. His skeletal hand clutches his shoulder. The sharp pain deluges through, stinging and stabbing beneath the muscle. Physical pain is just an ounce of what the real hurt is.
He wonders if the queasiness he's sensing is the thought of treason, or perhaps it's just the blood that seeps from his gut.
August makes his way back to the safe house. Tainted hands smear the pristine railing brownish-red as he takes the stairs. Swallowing every weary groan, his legs tingle as if millions of tiny ants climb their way through the sinew; the ground is barely felt with each step he takes. Legs as wobbly as the legs of a virgin getting fucked for the first time.
He laughs with a flavour of cynicism on his tongue.
'This time, I'll make sure she stays dead.'
August swallows to dampen his dry throat, slamming against the door. His hand reaching desperately to find the keys in his pocket.
'I will choke her until all the bones in her pure little throat crack.'
Hissing, he collapses at the entrance of the dark house. Knees giving in, crashing down to meet the stiff ground. His stretched-out arm prevents his face from colliding with the wooden surface. Shaking violently, another sardonic cackle leaves his bitter mouth, rolling into the air with pure madness.
'She felt good, didn't she? Screaming as you tore her apart, violating that tight virgin pussy. Oh, how she cried for you...'
This must be a new low, to be gravely wounded by a girl he just deflowered.
A woman who was at his mercy. Who he could have killed so easily but chose to spare for those teary eyes that looked so angelic and vulnerable.
'It was all a pretence. Fake bitch, she never wanted you. Sloane sent her'.
August collects the last ounces of strength remaining in him to stand on his feet, teetering through the house with twisted determination. He wonders how many days has it been since he laid dead in a grimy ditch.
Maybe she's still here, perhaps there's still a chance to trace her.
'Are you a fool?! Forget her! You're dead to her now. This is the golden ticket, a chance to complete the mission.'
"I need to see her," he growls to himself, reaching the bedroom and stumbling frantically toward his laptop which rests on a small glass desk. "I want her! Want to feel her one more time.." He flips the computer open and presses a blood-covered finger to unlock the system. "Want to feel your sweet naked neck. To kill you again and again," he chokes out in laughter. The throb in his chest begins to decrease as life slowly begins to drain.
****
Everything before the orphanage is a dark abyss. As if she simply came into being out of nothing. An odd child who meant nought to no one and was never claimed. Days and years melted into a short timid memory until the day Liam found her.
The day her life began.
The young girl lies on the ground, feeling the warmth of the cement beneath her small belly. The wind brushes her ponytail gently while she looks through the scope, glancing at the old fat politician who floats lazily in the swimming pool. Completely oblivious to the 14-year-old girl with a sniper rifle aimed to his head.
"Breathe slow, or don't breathe at all," Liam warns, patiently lying right beside her. "With sniping, it's all about being precise. Once you miss, you're dead."
Ingvild remains silent, trying to halt her own airflow for the sake of appeasing her mentor. Her small finger strokes the trigger, feeling the curved metal. In weeks she had learned to master various types of weapons and today marks her very first actual live kill.
"What do you see?" Liam queries, breath loud and husky next to her ear. The greying man smells like ashes, or perhaps it's just her clothes which are dusted with gunpowder.
"A fat old paedophile," the girl answers, tilting her head and slowly following the heavy politician as he moves in the water.
Liam ticks his tongue. "Funny but wrong, Ingvild. Try again."
Bitter and pragmatic, her mentor never smiles or shows affection yet she finds this arrangement as kindness. Liam provides her with both shelter and the making of her career at an agency called Icarus. Numerous times she hears him conversing with them on the phone. Praising the girl for being an extraordinary recruit although stating he could do without her "charming" personality.
No one has ever praised her before.
"A target." the girl answers.
Liam provides no answer and continues to watch the girl intently while she follows her victim, waiting for the opportune moment.
Reducing the rhythm of her breath till her lungs remain frozen and her heart beats slow, the girl pulls the trigger. The sound of a gunshot rips through the sky and the strong smell of ashes fills her nose.
Ingvild lifts her head from the scope, peering at the scenery in front of her with what feels like pride. A small grin creeps on her lips as the sky-blue pool turns cherry-red.
Liam observes the girl's face, looking for a twitch or a trace of panic. The girl remains as peaceful as a graveyard, her naive grey orbs sparkling of something ominous.
"How does it feel?"
"I was excited to kill him," Ingvild answers in a voice which is both soft-spoken yet enthralled. She turns her piercing icicles to stare directly into Liam's eyes, giving him a look that makes him swear the girl would kill her own mother if she knew her.
"And now I don't really care." The girl shrugs, peering over the horizon with indifference.
***
A soft rustling noise pulls Ingvild out of a deep slumber like a seducing whisper calling from the void. Her eyes itch as she blinks them open, still puffy from the weariness of sleep and the unruly grieving tears. Rubbing them with slight force, she tilts her head and peers at the room. Her mind makes a sluggish attempt to analyze the fuzzy image in front of her while she squints.
Physically and emotionally shattered, she fell asleep on the floor with her face pressed against the hard surface.
A small sigh releases through her nose, her body shifting gently as she stares at the empty living room aimlessly, seeing no reason to leave the cold floor. But the whisper calls for her again, a mellow swish that greets her from behind before something claws at her neck and lifts her up to the air. Slammed against the wall she flinches, dangling her feet while trying to stop the room from spinning so she can get a better view of her attacker.
'If this is death, just let him take me.'
Eyes, angry like a storm in the ocean pierce right into the depths of her soul and split it in half. This is not the gaze of a dead man, but one who staggers on the edge. His hair a bundle of untamed curls, his face sickly and pale, darkened by the shade of days-long stubble.
Even spat out of hell, he is the most beautiful monster she has ever seen.
'How? Is this a dream?'
Something weaves within her chest. A tingling sensation, like an electrical current that jitters through her tendons.
The very sight of him beats her heart to race with exhilaration and sweeps her into an undertow of consuming emotions. If only his words were as honeyed as the sensation of his warm body pressing into hers.
A feeling that made her weak for more.
"You whore, backstabbing filthy whore!"
Shuddering, he grits his teeth, squeezing her delicate neck while he leans close to inhale her scent. Fury and hurt surge through every sinew and bone, raving fiercely in his berserk glare. The aching wound inside him throbs with extreme anguish yet hatred blinds his vision, leaving no room for the rest of his senses.
"You deceived me," he rasps, breathing hot against her gaping mouth. His large hands tighten their grip around her neck, pulling her closer toward him. Their lips brush for a tender instant before he once more slams her against the wall, like an animal trying to stun its prey.
Ingvild gasps, tears springing down her cheeks.
'I accept it, let him have me, one way or another.'
"You lied to me!"
The girl's face turns scarlet, her corneas becoming rosy and glossy with tears due to the oxygen diminishing from her brain. It all appears too familiar, like a dream that keeps haunting him for eternity.
Yet something feels absent and misplaced.
"I had... to..." she swallows, trying to find her submerged voice. "But now you can have my life in exchange for yours, August Walker."
There is not a drop of fight remaining in her. The muscles of her face loosen as if she offers herself to him, surrendering to her own demise. Bemused, he scowls at her, pushing the weight of his body against her as if he is trying to sniff out her fear.
Yet he senses nothing.
'This is not how it happens.'
There is no struggle nor terror unlike before, but the mesmerising awe in her suffocating reflection instead. Like a child seeing the moon for the first time. August watches as if struck, observing the silent tears which leave a wet trail down the hollow of her pale face. A memory of her talons reaching out to scratch him makes him flinch yet her fingertips press against his cut cheek, offering caresses that are sweetened in a foreign tenderness instead.
Rage implodes within him; his hand snaps at her wrist, pinning it to the side of her head while he pushes himself between her legs.
"Don't touch me, Lacey!"
The girl's forehead is riddled with deep lines, for a moment she nearly looks offended.
"Who is Lacey?"
Still holding her throat, he steps back. August's pupils dilate, then widen like a crazed cat's as he takes her sight in. The delusion of a dying man begins to slowly dwindle, a faint haze changing her eyes from green to grey and her fair from bright to dark.
She is the girl who lived.
Shutting his eyes, August leans his sweaty forehead against her own, taking a deep breath drenched with anguish.
"Why can't I kill you?"
Ingvild shudders in his grip, moaning at the feeling of his broad body as it covered her entirely. He smells sweet of rot and iron, and she can almost taste the saltiness of the tears that rim his beautiful eyes.
"There cannot be peace, without, first, a great suffering."
August pulls away, staring at Ingvild astonished as she recites his own words to him with devotion on her tongue. The pale skin of her body glows of the palest blue, her irises bright like two silver swords. In his delirium he sees black wings spreading wide from her back, feathers soft, shimmering like pristine onyx stones.
'Angel of destruction.'
Her wings engulf him, surrounding him until his strength wanes and the world fades to black.
~*~
Dragging cadavers is much easier than handling a soon-to-be-one, especially when the man in question weighs more than twice her size and her body screams at her for the torture it has been put through. Ingvild squeezes whatever drops of stamina are left in her strained muscles and haul the unconscious August Walker through the small apartment. The trail of blood and dirt paves the way to the bedroom like a crimson stroke of a brush, painting the apartment bloody murder.
Getting him on the bed almost seems impossible. The girl sits on the edge, slinging her elbows beneath his armpits and taking a deep breath while pulling him up. Her lungs burn, forehead slick with sweat and the tethered threads of her muscles sting. Her own body is spent, forcing her heart to pump so incredibly fast she fears the loss of her own consciousness.
With one last grunt, she manages to get him on top of the mattress. Exhausted, she collapses beside him, panting heavily and tucking away the sticky strands of hair that stuck to her forehead.
"We've made it," she swallows hard, rolling on her side to peer at him. The beautiful monster lies dormant, face cold and grey as stone, fallen and frozen in time. Her fingers trace his face, feeling the faint heat of his body against her fingertips.
It's diminishing like a dying flame.
"Don't go into Valhalla yet, August Walker," she whispers, roaming her hands down his chest to where the cloth feels soaked the most with blood. Unbuttoning his shirt, she exposes his muscular chest. The wound tarnishes his skin, black ooze clots around the damaged flesh, and the veins circulating the injury throbbing. She brushes her hand over his pec, feeling the skin burning beneath her hand.
"Don't leave," she pleads, caressing his hard cheek with her thumb.
Climbing off from the bed, she fetches the medical kit from her bag. Her hands rummage through the kit, finding a bottle of alcohol and forceps. She opens the small bottle, curling her nose at the strong scent that fills the room before pouring the clear liquid onto the open wound.
A loud grunt exclaims from August. He grit his teeth, his broad chest flexing with excruciating anguish.
"I'm sorry," she speaks softly, her palms landing on his furry torso, pressing him back down. Her hand hovers the forceps over the wound while she chews on her lower lip. The only time she ever got injured during a mission was by his hand, and ironically he was the one who saw over her treatment, as she is now left to nurse him.
Even unconscious, August coughs and groans with agony, the tortured muscles spasm involuntarily as the forceps dig into his flesh. Ingvild remains stoic, ignoring the horrifying squelching sounds that come from the wound as she pries inside. She has seen her fair share of blood on what she likes to call "freak accidents," working for so long in the business. She sometimes had to get creative.
"Sloppy work..." Ingvild muses out loud as she manages to trace the bullet and pull it out. In the 13 years of her career she never missed, never had to fire a gun more than once, or ever left anyone to bleed to death.
She was an assassin, not a torturer, after all.
'Have you missed on purpose? Or have you lost your skill?'
"Shut up..." she spits out, her fingers making hasty work of sewing August's gushing wound while the large man writhes violently, nearly shoving her off the bed in his unconscious suffering. Her hands work deftly through the blood, making one final stitch before carefully dressing the wound.
A long sigh leaves her body, shoulders slumping, limbs completely drained. Never in her life has she desired sleep as much as does right now. August seems peaceful too, the muscles of his face have loosened, his cut features almost looking soft.
His broad body is a temptation that calls for her like stars calling for the night.
Ever so gently, she feels herself falling, her bones soft, mind becoming cloudy. August feels nice, a vague familiarity which she cannot place. His heartbeat meets her ear, his chest still warm against her cheek.
Letting herself go, she holds tightly onto his body, her stiff muscles begin to soften, she sinks into the warmest, soothing ocean.
______________________________________
Disclaimer: I don't own Mission Impossible franchise or August Walker