part eighty

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EXO COMEBACK EUREUREONG

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Re: real timeline again

[(Anonymous)]

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Re: real timeline again

[(Anonymous)]

Jongin's never actually been inside the security offices on the first floor before. He's been working here for eight years, knows the faces (if not the names) of every single guard on duty at the door. He's used to the routine: wait in line, surrender any firearms and devices with recording capabilities, swipe your ID card, sign in and you're home free. This is usually enough for the pencil pushers, the kids hired right out of college to make pro-democracy comments on the websites of various news outlets. The security measures increase with the floor numbers. Jongdae's office is on the sixth floor—fingerprint scans— and beyond that, getting on the elevator to the director's office requires an additional retina scan before it'll even let the button engage. Any breach and the entire facility snaps into a full lockdown until the security team double- and triple-checks every person on the property.

The NIS building's laid out like a bisected wagon wheel, office buildings branching off the main arch like spokes. He's usually on business in building one, which houses most of the international intelligence agents. Jongdae likes to call it 007 Wing because he's had a Bond fantasy ever since he was thirteen years old, but everyone else just calls it the mausoleum because it's fucking dead most of the time. Handlers like Jongdae and independent tech operatives like Baekhyun are in most of the time, but the field agents come and go, schedules dictated by their assignments instead of some 9-5 time card bullshit. Jongin loves this about his job, loves the unpredictability, the freedom from neckties and alarm clocks. Most days he's just biding his time, blending in with the scenery. Observe, report. Interact if necessary. He laughs at the new recruits who come in expecting some Bourne situation. Truth? Most days, being a spy's mostly about waiting and acclimating to the local cuisine.

That's on the job, though. He's not blending in at all right now. He squints up at the beady lens of the camera in the corner of the interrogation room, wondering who's sitting behind the monitor and watching him sweat. The guard that'd halted him at the ID scanner comes back in—Siwon, Jongin thinks, hoping he's remembered correctly—and shuts the door.

Jongin tries a proactive tack. "Siwon-ssi, I'm here to clear up a misunderstanding—I'm sure you've seen the news. I need to speak to my handler Kim Jongdae—I tried to get in touch but couldn't get to a secure line. I don't know what happened, but they've got the wrong guy. I'd never—you know. Do what they're saying I did."

Siwon narrows his eyes but says nothing.

Jongin sits there for another twenty minutes in stony silence, watching Siwon's dark eyes flicker to his cast, his face, the wall, then back to the paper in front of him. This is not good. Jongin recognizes that letterhead, sees a pixellated copy of the headshot from his personnel file paperclipped to the memo. This is serious—there's been an order issued specifically relating to his detainment. If this whole thing is a mistake, it's gone deeper than a botched mission, a blown cover in front of the entire world. This isn't an intern pressing the wrong button somewhere—there's something going on at headquarters and like it or not, Jongin's been volunteered to be the face of everything that ails the NIS.

The door opens. "Oh, my God. Jongin."

Siwon stands to block Soojung's arrival but she bulldozes straight past him to Jongin's side. "I just heard you were here—nobody'd heard from you for days, we all thought you were—"

"I know," Jongin mutters, ducking away from her hands. They follow his face, cupped around his cheeks, thumbs stroking the line of his jaw.

"What did you do?" she whispers. "Jongin, this is—Jongdae's been in the director's office all day, and I don't know if he's going to be fired over this or what."

"This?"

Soojung swallows. "The Columbia job. You."

Jongin grabs at her hand. It's cold, palms clammy with fear. He notices for the first time the trembling in her lower lip, the flyaways in the normally-neat braid she always wears slung over her left shoulder. She's probably been up for days, ever since he dropped off the radar. She's barely keeping it together. "Soojung-ah," he whispers. "What's going on?"

She ignores him to look up at Siwon. "They're ready for him upstairs." Siwon purses his lips. She gestures at the intercom in his sleeve. "Go on. Check if you don't believe me."

As if on cue, the speaker crackles to life. Siwon listens for a moment, mutters confirmation. "Alright," he says gruffly. "Jongin-ssi. I need to escort you to the director's office."

Soojung had been with the company almost as long as Jongin. He remembered her first day vividly—skinny, knock-kneed, wide eyes and a beautiful face. She didn't look a day over sixteen. He'd made a remark to this effect and received a twisted wrist for his trouble. And so it began. Soojung's best weapon was her disarming smile, her ability to assess any situation and act swiftly to protect the members of Jongdae's team. She'd make one hell of an agent, Jongdae'd said to Jongin one day, but I'm glad she's not interested in getting out from behind the desk. I'd tear my hair out worrying about her.

There are benefits to working with the same people for so many years. For instance, when Soojung flips her braid over to her right shoulder and fiddles with her earring, Jongin snaps to attention. It's a sign. They've used this one before, when the assistant director's made a personal visit to Jongdae's office for the express purpose of chewing him out. Soojung purposefully tugs at the lobe of her ear under the pretense of fixing the back of her earring and Jongin knows to turn around in the doorway and come back later.

She's doing it now, eyes trained on Jongin. Run, her expression says. There'll be trouble if you stay. Run fast. He blinks twice in rapid succession and hopes she catches that he means okay.

Her hand drops. She got the message.

Jongin's known as one of headquarters' most obedient assets. He hates the way he's described, doesn't care for the descriptor that paints a picture of Kim Jongin, puppy dog. But it's true—he does as he's told, doesn't ask questions that don't pertain to his task at hand. And no matter what, the job always gets done.

Siwon knows this. He's been studying Jongin's file for the better part of an hour with the fastidious attention of a student with an exam on the horizon. Jongin wonders how much he's seen—there's no way someone at Siwon's pay grade has the level of clearance he'd need to read about North Korea and Afghanistan. It's probably the manufactured one, the one that details his peacekeeping missions in parts of the Middle East like he's some fucking genius mediator. Siwon can't hide the contempt from showing on his face. Jongin recognizes the type—some aspiring agent who never quite managed to clear the hurdles that stood between being a Salaried Government Employee and becoming an asset. Probably thinks Jongin's training has been a waste.

Jongin sees an out: the bathroom at the end of the hall. He clutches his hands over his crotch like he's about to split in two. "Siwon-ssi—I need to use the bathroom. Please."

Siwon shakes his head curtly. "Orders were to bring you straight upstairs."

"C'mon," Jongin cajoles, eyes fixated on Siwon's and pleading. "You know how long-winded the director is. I'm gonna piss myself waiting for him to get to the point."

"Not my problem."

"I know you have to escort me. I'm not asking you to wait outside—just come in with me. Thirty seconds. That's all I'm asking." He lowers his voice. "Help me out, please."

It's the longest minute of Jongin's life waiting for Siwon to come to a decision. "Fine. Thirty seconds and I'm dragging you out of there—I don't care if you've finished or not."

And that's it: in that moment, Jongin knows why Siwon never made it as an agent. Siwon doesn't consider the tactical possibilities of a bathroom, doesn't understand that Jongin doesn't need a weapon, just a well-placed hand at the back of Siwon's head. One swift push towards the mirror and a sickening crack rings out in the tiled room, a shower of glass shards cascade onto the floor. An unconscious Siwon slumps to the floor with a dull thud. The gash on his cheek is already wet with fresh blood. Jongin debates kicking him in the ribs for good measure but decides he's done enough damage—if Siwon weren't an ally, this'd be about the time to put two bullets in the back of his head and get the fuck out of there.

Besides, there's no way a noise that loud went unheard, especially on the first floor of this building.

He takes off at a dead sprint, past a startled Soojung who's already backing away towards the lobby like she's fleeing the scene of a crime (which, he supposes, she is). The alarms start just as he rounds the corner to the back hallway—he knows he's got seconds to get out before he's trapped, stride extending, arms outstretched to push through the emergency exit and onto the sidewalk. The ruckus outside is just as shrill, maybe worse—the piercing whine of bells volleying off every concrete surface.

He calculates his odds of getting off the property before a security guard stops him. Not good, all things considered—they're located on a plot of land large enough to leave him winded if he sprints the length of it. His best shot is getting to the road. Civilians, tons of them—a backdrop in which to blend, a chance to rest. The adrenaline's doing wonders for overriding the drowsy codeine buzz he's been working with but he can already feel that the crash later is going to be what kills him. Fuck you, Taemin. This is why I work alone, he thinks bitterly.

A horn honks at him as he's crossing the parking lot. He doesn't look, doesn't want to know who the fuck it is and prefers to speculate on which particular government-issued firearm they're currently training on him. The muscles in his thighs burn when he pushes to run faster.

It honks again. This time, a familiar voice follows it. "Jongin. Jongin. Get in the goddamn van."

Jongin looks across just in time to see Taemin hanging across the van's front seat, pushing the passenger side door open with his fingertips. He doesn't have enough time to contemplate how Taemin's managing to drive in a straight line when he's looking right at Jongin, beckoning.

So he runs.

It hurts more than he's expecting it to when he dives headfirst into the moving van. It doesn't help that he clubs his broken wrist on the console, sending shockwaves of electric pain vibrating down the length of his arm. He struggles for an agonizing second to pull himself upright and slam the door closed behind him, chest expanding and contracting like a pair of bellows from the exertion. "You came back," he says through the heaving.

Taemin spins the wheel with his palm and barrels across the lawn between two trees. "I never left, idiot. I went around the traffic circle." He steals a glance out of the corner of his eye mid-maneuver. "You sure you're a spy? You're not just some weird dude who's seen too many movies and just thinks he's a spy? Because you're really bad at this." He tosses Jongin a rag. "Here. Wipe your fingerprints. I'm going to dump this as soon as I can find a parking garage."