Work Text:
Aalto would be lying if he said a small, dingy warehouse like this one made for an ideal business location. Personally, he’d replace the busted window, install new lighting fixtures and do a bit of spring cleaning before he ever considered opening it up to the public. A comfortable environment brought in happy clients after all, though these exiles seemed to follow a different set of customer service policies.
His cloak had been unfairly confiscated for one, along with his guns, terminal, arm guards and everything else he had in his pockets.
The hospitality here really was lacking.
He tested his bonds lightly. His arms had been tied behind his back and another length of rope looped around his torso, securing him to the chair. But as much as he wanted to break out and show these exiles how to treat a guest properly, he was forced to sit pretty and play along. At least, until he found out more about their elusive arms dealer.
He mentally cataloged the exiles in the room. There were six of them in total. One and Two were standing guard by the door, rifles propped against the wall as they grumbled to each other. Something about the foggy weather? Three, Four and Five played cards around a fold-out table pushed to the side while the last exile, Number Six, sat on an upturned crate, quietly polishing his gun.
And he was scowling, not that the other exiles seemed to care.
“My wrists are starting to get sore, could you loosen them a bit?” Aalto asked, gesturing to his tied hands.
“Shut up,” Six grunted.
Jeers and shouts erupted from behind him and accusations of cheating were thrown around. Seems the game they were playing was getting heated.
“Say, they’re getting kind of rowdy back there. Aren’t you going to do something? I mean, you are in charge right?”
The scowl on Six’s face deepened if that was even possible. “Stop talking. Or do I have to gag you too?”
Rude.
Fortunately, he was saved from having to answer by a loud burst of commotion.
Panicked this time as the guys in the back rushed to pack up their table and sweep up the fallen cards. One and Two quickly straightened up by the entrance, rifles at the ready as they tried to project an image of diligence in time.
And not a moment sooner.
The doors slammed open. A sharp metallic clang resounded as its steel frame collided with the corrugated iron walls and the warehouse itself seemed to shudder from the impact. An imposing figure stormed through.
“Boss,” Six greeted and moved to stand aside.
The other exiles cleared a path as their boss shouldered past them, his footsteps heavy, long coat billowing. They were silent as if choked by his presence.
The boss’ pace slowed as he neared the center of the room, stopping just short of the chair. Now that he had come closer, Aalto took the opportunity to steal a glance at his would-be captor.
The man’s face was marred by a history of scars and conflict. Of the largest was a scar that divided the right portion of his face: an uneven line running jagged across his eye and down the side of his jaw, curving inward toward his lip. In the dim lighting, it appeared silver and shifted slightly as he spoke, distorting with the movements of his mouth.
He loomed over Aalto, casting a long, dark shadow that blotted out the weak fluorescent lighting from the lamp above.
“I said our deal was off unless my shipment arrived,” the boss said, his gruff voice betraying his foul mood. He stretched a hand out to his lackey, empty palm held up and expecting. Six handed him the gun. “So why'd that lady mail me a proxy instead?”
At the mention of a ‘proxy’ his glare fell sharply onto Aalto.
‘That lady’ – The detail caught Aalto’s attention. He had a hunch, but this just confirmed it. The exile’s arms dealer was indeed a woman. Let it be known that women were fully capable of supplying criminal groups with volatile weapon prototypes, too.
And what’s more; the boss seemed convinced he was her middleman. He could work with that.
Putting on his best customer service smile, Aalto relaxed into the chair, as much as he could anyway, and played along. “I think you already know the answer.”
“So now she wants us to work for free, huh?” The man’s lip curled into a sneer. “She thinks I’m stupid, does she? That bitch wants more resonators to experiment on but isn’t willing to go catch them herself.”
Aalto’s eyes widened imperceptibly.
Resonators?
He had heard nothing about this.
According to his sources, there had been an influx of reports on exile activity near the walls of Jinzhou. Normally it wasn't a concern, but firsthand accounts from some unlucky Midnight Rangers warned of a new, dangerous weapon being used.
That was nearly a month ago when the General had enlisted the Ghost Hound's help in quelling the threat. Shortly after, Calcharo came to him for information. Information about where their base was, what weapons they were using, and who they were dealing with.
At no point did anyone suspect the involvement of trafficking.
He schooled his expression into neutrality. “My employer simply sent me here to iron out the contract's details and see how you’re holding up on your side of the deal. She has to make sure, you see?”
“Make sure? The hell you mean make sure? I didn’t smuggle three of them across the border for you to ask me to make sure.”
The border. So a case of international trafficking then. Not good.
“I get that,” he said placatingly, “But she can be very…particular with what she receives. Especially if the standards aren’t up to par.”
The insinuation didn’t go over well. The boss bunched up the fabric of his shirt in a single fist and Aalto was yanked forward by the collar. Had he not been bound to the chair, the force would have lifted him clean off his feet.
The boss leaned in, breath hot against Aalto’s ear. Brandishing the gun with his other hand, he hissed as his voice gained a razor edge. “Listen here. I brought you the three resonators as promised. In exchange, you give me those weapons. That was the deal.”
Aalto grimaced. Proximity and a weapon: it was a common intimidation tactic. He eyed the firearm held dangerously close to his face. “If that’s what you say.”
“You calling me a liar?”
“Hey now, you’re just putting words into my mouth. I thought I was pretty clear,” Aalto said, “But I didn’t realize you might be hard of hearing.”
The man’s trigger finger twitched.
Ah, that struck a nerve didn’t it?
His head recoiled as the butt of the gun connected with his jaw. His teeth clacked together from the impact and pain bloomed across the side of his face.
The gun pressed against his temple with an audible ‘click.’
“I should shoot you for that,” the man said. “But because I'm feeling nice, I'll give you ten seconds to convince me why I shouldn't. Make them count.”
The man’s finger was on the trigger, hammer cocked back. A silent countdown began in Aalto’s mind.
Ten.
He was distinctly aware of the gun jutting into the side of his head, right next to his eye socket. Neither of them broke eye contact.
Nine.
The ropes dug into him, constricting around his chest. The circulation in his wrists would be cut off if he struggled.
Eight.
His eye sockets would shatter first if it fired, the bullet penetrating through cartilage and bone.
Seven.
The ground would be a mess.
Six.
Splattered with his brain matter and blood.
Five.
Would he be lucid? In those last milliseconds?
Four, three—
“—You wouldn't,” Aalto suddenly said. “You wouldn't unless you want to lose out on the entire deal.”
The air was stagnant, choked almost.
The man’s eyes narrowed, sharp with disdain as he mulled over his decision. He lowered the gun a fraction.
“Our agreement will be voided,” he bluffed. “Do you really think my employer will let you renegotiate after—”
A sharp movement blurred at the edge of his vision. Anticipating another strike, Aalto instinctively braced himself.
But the blow never hit.
Instead, his jaw was seized by rough hands prying his mouth open and the gun was shoved inside. He jerked back reflexively but the hand gripping his jaw traveled to the crown of his head, grabbing a fistful of his silver hair and holding him fast.
"That'll shut you up," the man said, keeping the pistol in place.
The cold metal weighed down on his tongue, rendering him speechless. He inhaled sharply through his nose and tried to steady his breathing. From his periphery, he noticed the other exiles leering at him.
His head was forced back to expose the pale column of his throat. He swallowed his spit to keep it from pooling. For a long moment, the gun was held there, stretching his mouth uncomfortably wide around the barrel.
And then it pushed in.
"Hrrk?!" He gagged, trying to pull away but the man’s grip prevented his escape. The gun slid in deeper, inch by inch until he felt it hit the back of his throat.
“You're a feisty one, aren’t you? Bet you never learned how to keep quiet,” the man said, jostling the gun.
Aalto made a muffled noise of complaint and received a painful tug on his hair in response.
“Come to think of it, I haven't seen you around before. You one of her new experiments?”
The hand that was gripping his hair went slack. Instead, it moved to wrap around his neck. Calloused fingers dug into the skin of his throat and a thumb pressed down hard on the sound mark located there. The mark pulsed slightly.
Aalto’s eyes narrowed into an indignant glare that only spurred his captor's sadistic streak.
“Just because you're a resonator now doesn't mean you get to be cocky.” The man smirked, “Guess I'll have to teach you a lesson.”
His movements were slow and leisurely— mocking, as he slid the gun along Aalto’s tongue. The barrel dragged against his bottom lip as it pulled out slightly. Not far enough for him to try to dislodge it from his mouth, but enough that the taunt was clear.
Without warning, it slammed in.
His eyes opened, wide and panicked, and he couldn't, for the life of him, do anything except stare at the hand around his neck, then up at the man's face.
Whatever expression he was wearing right now must have looked downright humiliating because the man seemed to take pleasure in it, speeding up to pump the gun in and out at a punishing pace.
Aalto squeezed his eyes shut, attempting to control his erratic breaths. He breathed in short, sharp huffs through his nose, timed with the gun’s rough movements. Still, the constant motion caused the metal ridges to scrape against his teeth, and desperately, he opened his mouth wider to accommodate its width.
Just as he was getting used to the rhythm, his neck was squeezed.
A strangled sound escaped his lips as his airway was further compressed and the gun’s tight fit became even tighter. He drew a breath wherever he could. It wasn’t enough.
Tears pricked the corner of his eyes and he had to open them to blink them away. It was when he began to feel lightheaded, that he started to weakly struggle again but it did nothing to alleviate the pressure on his neck.
The man’s chokehold tightened and he let out a hoarse wheeze. Spots danced in vision. At this rate, he'll have to break cover. He'll have to—
His throat convulsed, once, twice, and the man ripped the gun out of his mouth in a none-too-gentle maneuver.
Aalto gasped, chest heaving as he sucked in greedy mouthfuls of air. A string of saliva trailed between his lips and the muzzle of the gun, and the metal glistened under the dim light, shiny with his spit.
He slumped forward against his restraints and loose strands of silver hair fell into his face. His breathing was ragged.
“Not so chatty anymore, huh?”
He kept his head low, pretending to look away in defeat — That’s what the man expected to see, a helpless prisoner. But when he didn’t respond, his chin was grabbed and his face forcibly turned upwards.
“You're lucky you're cute,” the man started. “And I need someone to send a message back to your bitch boss.” He leaned in closer until Aalto could feel the hot breath on his skin. “I’m not getting her any more test subjects until I get those weapons. Am I understood?”
Aalto averted his gaze. “...Yes.”
“Good boy. Now wasn’t that easy?” The man patted him on the cheek condescendingly.
How humiliating.
His jaw still throbbed from the earlier hit and it'll likely leave a nasty bruise. Not to mention the mess his throat will be. He shut his eyes and focused on the scratchy sensation of the rope around his wrists.
Ah, the things he did for first-hand intel.
Calcharo was in his office when Aalto slid a yellow file across the desk to him. “Here's the information you asked for.”
He caught it and began leafing through the folder’s contents. Main exile base location. Estimated enemy count. Armament inventory. It was thorough.
“By the way, you won't have to worry about going up against any crazy weapon-wielding exiles. At least, not for a while. From what I've heard, they've had a few shipping delays,” Aalto said, shrugging, and he leaned forward onto the table to rest his head in one hand.
He appeared to be his usual self: boisterous and playful, though his eyes were sharper today. The lighthearted, mischievous gleam that usually lit them was replaced by an uncharacteristic intensity. Up close, it was obvious that the side of his jaw was painted in an uneven, wheatish color. Smudged, like makeup. What had happened?
Without thinking, Calcharo reached out.
Before his fingers could make contact, Aalto brushed him off. “Admittedly, they did give me a bit of trouble but it all worked out in the end.”
There was something else he wasn't saying, but Calcharo chose not to push.
“I'll pay extra for the inconvenience,” Calcharo said while processing the rest of the payment through his terminal. “You should have received it now.”
“Much appreciated! If only my other customers were as easy to work with as you.” He tugged the collar of his cloak higher as he made his way to the exit. Abruptly, he stopped. “Oh, and one more thing.”
“What is it?”
“...Give them a shocking welcome for me, will you?”
He said nothing more.
With a two-fingered salute and a mysterious smile on his face, Aalto melted into a fine mist and slipped beneath the gap in the office door.