. (euphie) wrote in warrantlogs, @ 2015-12-06 02:10:00 |
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Entry tags: | euphemia corte-real, mathias jones |
Who: Mathias & Euphie
What: Killjoys.
Where: HQ gun training range.
When: Day after this.
Warnings: Mentions of violence.
Euphemia straightens her stance, the ground breaks beneath her and she is swallowed whole; the length of her arm(pistol included) and the thin curb of her elbow as she held it steady. Recoil. Again. Recoil. Looking at the target through smudged white goggles and muffled by the sound protectors(orange, dwarfed her head, bright beneath the lights overhead). She practices even as she feels the ground give way. Focus. Deep breath. Reload. Will never be a Killjoy by choice but she wants well trained agents that kill as well catch. The corrupt did not deserve mercy, their old captain should've shot that manbeastdemonthing. Lowered her gun and cleared her view. Point blank. Head. Heart. Lungs. Incapacitate or kill. Legs. Arms. Both. Incapacitate then kill. Mathias freezes in the shadows of the gun range. RAC Agents are prone to bad sleeping habits—he knows from experience. Even so, it’s odd for someone to be here at this time of night. He was just arriving, but if there’s someone else here— The weight of the pistol feels awkward in its holster. He holds his breath and counts to five, exhales, takes a shaky breath and repeats. They’d cleared him for active duty, he should have been fine now. He knows, he knows he has to get it together, that’s why he’s here after all. What use is a RAC medic who can’t hold a loaded gun. He looks from his spot on the wall and recognizes the profile, his captain. No, this is fine. If it’s Euphie maybe it’ll be okay. After all, she knows just about all there is to know about him, and then some, snooping where she had no right to do so. He approaches her slowly, takes a look at the target and whistles low, “Damn, they really don’t just promote anyone to captain.” "No, they don't, though I wonder why they promoted me." Holsters her gun, the weight against her hip and Euphemia is glad that he has decided tonight to practice. Simplified the news that pressed against the breast pocket of her jacket(they had a life of their own, breathing slowly through her). She really was going to do this to him. Of all people. Her conscience had warred and decided and debated. Sitting with her feet tucked beneath, the files open across the living room(not her home)as she read through them all. Yes, she really was going to. "Couldn't sleep well, darling?" “They didn’t tell you when they promoted you?” Though, he can’t imagine a situation where they didn’t promote her. Who else could do what she does? He leans against the safety glass and huffs out a laugh, “To be honest, I don’t think I remember what sleeping well feels like. You?” She grabs his arm lightly, sharp, metal, paper-thin (tugs at him(as if each move holds an apology she doesn't mean) a quiet plea). "The standard comment of being capable and such. I suppose that is true enough." She tugs at him again, more touch than strength, debates a second answer that gets stuck in a knot in her throat(palpitates faster and faster until she chokes). "Neither do I. Years now." She averts her eyes for the first time, shielding the twisted core, palpitating — the truth of why she doesn't sleep. Even though she's sure the entire crew knows why; how could they not? "I feel better when I don't sleep alone." Years. That sounds about right. His brain flashes briefly to a point in time but doesn’t stick, how can just a handle of minutes terrorize him for so many years? Her words bring him back and he grins, corners of his mouth curving up like a cat. “Captain, could you be-” A pause, “Are you propositioning me?” Which is not out of the realm of possibility, the captain of Singapore Sling feels her expression shift— — surprise, the instinct to laugh at being caught out like that. She responds in kind, sinews and muscle and bones(red and pink and pale liquorish marrow at the inside). Picking up the game, her fingers resting on his hips once the surprise has simmered down, she tugs him by the waistband of his pants and shifts so that he is facing the newly added target at the end. "Maybe after you're finished practicing I'll consider it." Mathias’s smile falters briefly, breath shallow as he allows his captain to handle him like a puppet. Tunnel vision guides his gaze to the target at the end of the range. His palms are clammy as he raises the gun, aims, fires. Hands shaking, he feels like he could jump out of his skin. When he looks, his bullet has missed its mark, landing just an inch shy of the right ear. He frowns, lowers his gun and closes his eyes. Focus, He tells himself, You got this. A quiet breath against the side of his neck, "Focus." Leaning against his back, blurred lines between them as her hands positioning his arm, finger on the trigger. Her chin is on his shoulder briefly, dark eyes in the white and black outline. Another touch against his hip: steadying, firm, grounding. "Again." And her hand remains but the rest moves back to anticipate the recoil of the shot. Mathias does as he’s told, feeling steadier hearing his own thoughts repeated to him out loud. He takes a breath, pulls the trigger. This time, the bullet hits its mark between the eyes. Killshot. He looks at Euphie, silently asking for approval, and it's there in the tilt of her head; dark hair plaited over her shoulder. "You show promise, dear one." A touch against his jaw, "Do it again." Limbs withdrawn, giving him space to stand on his own. He had to get it right, she had to be sure he would not break. A deep breath and a slow exhale. He shifts his feet slightly and angles himself just so. Eyes trained on the target he raises the gun again, mind clear now. Aim. Fire. Right through the heart. Without pause he fires again, twice. They all find their mark: Left shoulder, right shoulder, through the heart. He lowers his gun, hands steady but heart racing. He’s only ever been able to do that alone. “What do you think?” He puts the safety on the pistol and leaves it on the counter; Euphemia following his movements, two firm nods of approval(there was a slim chance that the fracture beneath could spread. She really was going to do this to him. The paper in her pocket burning a hole: beneath her skin, ribs, heart. The paper in question was inoffensive at first glance, folded in four as she slipped it out of her jacket's breast pocket. No explanations offered as she extends it, no smile, nothing but that vacant expression she sometimes wore: thin, dark features like a mask. “What’s this?” He takes the folded paper, concern written in his features. And on another night she would've touched his cheek amiably, and reassured him that it was nothing bad. "You were up for promotion once," the emphasis on 'promotion' before continuing, lips moving(because, because, because), "You have been nominated again." His brain freezes for a second before kicking into overdrive. He opens his mouth only to close it again, sputters trying to find the words. This has to be some kind of joke in bad taste. Fingers clumsy, he struggles to unfold the paper, but there it is plain as day. No joke. When he looks up, his eyes are filled with betrayal. Just one word comes out of his mouth, “Why.” It’s not a question, but he’s still looking for an answer. Because and the rest trails off into the depths of her mind. "I need you to." Him: broken, and malleable and Jude's fingers attempting to tap the cracks and hold them but she wants to pry him open and slip inside. Her fingers spill over like water over his, paper, fist - the crunching paper sound. "But if you say no, I won't make you." But, I need you to. Need, not want. The choice of words surprises him and he falters, isn’t that why they got Rhia? He looks at the crumpled paper in his hands, feels his chest tighten. What use is a medic who refuses his captain? “I have to go,” Voice barely a whisper, he doesn’t wait for a reply. It isn’t until he’s out of the building that he realizes the paper is still in his hand; faded beat of her heart in the ink of his name, sunken, hollow eyes painting a target on his back. |