Gregory POV
This is not how he wished to spend his Christmas; in the harsh winters of Russia, darting around what he suspected was now the outskirts of Chernobyl. The perfect lay low really- if one could bypass the possibility of radiation poisoning. Something else he would much like to avoid.
Tip off had told him his most recent target had chased himself into the middle of this desolate waste land; probably hunting down Russian radicals or perhaps even a paranormal phenomena. He couldn't help a laugh at the second option. (Spirits. What a joke.)
Normally the esteemed mister Sharpe would have manipulated one of his lackey Mercenaries into such a situation for him, but the current mission seemed rather personally addressed to the British man specifically. A burn notice. Quite the odd burn notice at that; it lacked a name, face, any information at all really other than the fact printed in bold that whomever this was needed to be wiped from the face of this particular business. A Free-lancer. Those were not very appreciated in this day and age by the growing rings and ring masters.
Sliding down a small slope leading to the quarantine fence was easy enough with no foliage littering the dead ground getting in his way, though he gave a soft scoff at the wet mud clinging to his shoes, pants and the ends of his trench. No time to worry about high fashion, sadly- He reminded himself, vaulting his body against the fence and scaling it rather quickly despite the heavy rain working against everything he try to do. However, now that he was within city limits, it was only a matter of hunting down a target. Hopefully this wouldn't prove too difficult, but the landscape offered abandoned buildings, fallen in tunnels, and rotting houses as hideaways.
This would be less of a hunt; more a game of viscous and violent hide and seek.
And with Gregory out in the open he appeared to be 'it'.
A soft grin cracked across his lips at how childish he'd made all of this sound. How amusing this should be then, and with one gloved hand held firmly against the hilt of his sword he pressed into the wasteland.
"Let the game begin."
Christophe POV
It had been a slow year. No work. A man like him could barely make the money needed for survival these days. Everything was big, fancy businesses. Nobody wanted the "Ruthless French Mercenary" anymore. The morning had been the same, quiet and cold, yet something felt off. His last job was three weeks ago, a small mission in Kuala Lumpur, but it had seemed to be such a long time ago. Since then he had been hiding out in Poland. The last tip he had gotten had one broken sentence written on it : RUSS- Decembre25-CHERNOBYL SETUP
The mercenary didn't recognize the ink, it didn't feel right, and what was Setup? Never the less a job in a job and he needed the money.
He set out on the ending days of November; he had only his supplies for the job, no means of transportation. He managed to hijack a plane without trace marks and made it their five hours before day break.
Something felt off.
He shook the thought out of his head trying to clear his mind, work and survival were the only two things that mattered.
The sharp sting of the icy wind cut him like a knife as he trekked through the ice and snow.
He saw a fence and ventured under it as a mole would do, and Ze mole he is.
Once to the surface again he hid out in an abandoned building, on the verge of collapse. There he waited for the game to begin.
His eyes twitched, his mind alert, when he heard a familiar voice, what was this man playing at, who had sent him here. Though he could not place the voice he knew it was bad news.
He approached the sound (being as egotistical as he is) and saw a tall, lean figure with an unmistakable blond head of well kempt hair. The figure had not turned around. Christophe felt his body go limp.
Bad news indeed.
Gregory POV
Unlike quite a few other assassins on the market, Mr. Sharpe was rather well off when it came to riches, not only for familial reasons but putting yourself in a position of power; that is rather, being the master and not the dog-He'd worked up his own ring of killers and in the center, himself as their reign holder dealing out missions and signing checks in his father's name should need be. William wouldn't miss the money, not with the political collapse he needed to swim through in his job. He'd be far too busy.
But no.
Gregory was not here for the money, or the identification that would surely come with picking off a pesky free floater. The man was here purely and simply out of curiosity. The vague letter had intrigued him, pulled at something in his gut that urged him all the way from holiday in England to the decaying city before him. That's another thing; at least the location was fascinating if not dismal and disturbing. Not to mention a medical disaster waiting to happen.
Breathing the chemicals lacing the air around him was not exactly a primary concern at the moment. It should have perturbed him more, walking down the ruin of what was probably at the time a ruined neighborhood anyways- Children's toys left toppled and scattered, husks of what he presumed used to be vehicles littering the main roads. This street however seemed rather...empty.
Solemn.
It wasn't the scenery that tugged against the innards of his stomach, making them twist and turn. Though, that was a good part of it. The faint shuffling of another body echoing off fallen and crumbling houses is what finally caught his attention.
"Going to make it that easy for me, are you?"
He let his form seize up a bit, not noticeably of course, why would you ever give an opponent the advantage of witnessing your nerves tense. He made a point of keeping his back to the other -a dangerous option, but rather affective in mental manipulation. It showed, as his shoulders relaxed, that he was calm, confident and in no way frightened.
"Honestly I thought you'd give more of a chase, I'm rather disappointed you simply step into the open. Foolish, a move you'll certain-" Midway through his own sentence he leaned back on the heel of his left foot to pivot and face his opponent calmly, though every nerve in his body only tensed again.
"-regret..."
For a brief moment contemplation flashed across his features. Everything about the figure standing limply in the distance gave off a feeling of déjà vu. And though it may have taken a moment for him to finally reach realization, he recognized the rigged form. Tussled brown hair, sunken in eyes lined heavily with the weight of a harsh life. Most prominent however was the shovel strapped firmly against the man's back.
And the confidence in his expression simply fell.
Christophe POV
Terror
It coursed through his veins spreading like the plague.
His stomach a pit, a trench. His face expressionless it once was, but now agape.
Everything he had learned. About survival combat. About not dyeing...well that, that was all gone. Flushed down the drain in some flurry of lost friendship and sweltering emotion.
Who is this man, you may ask. The only person able to bring the French man to his knees (in more than one way). The only person in the world who was able to make him drop anything, anything and rush to his aid.
This, my friend is Christophe's right hand man, his partner in crime, and most of all his ami.
This is Gregory Sharpe.
His knees threatened to betray him but he held steady. The golden speckles in the blond man's icy blue eyes glimmered with frustration. Something was wrong, terribly wrong. This couldn't be possible. Such a horrid fate at this extreme should be left to Oedipus. No he was no tragic hero, he was a cold ruthless young French man, only nineteen years of age. And he, he was destined to murder his best friend.
TIME STAMP: 11 years prior
It was right before the war, the night was cool and the air seemed to caress my young body. He was late. He never was late. Gregory had had a disposition for being, and I quote "on the dot".
I sat on the roof, my mother asleep (what to do if she awoke!) and I waited.
He never came.
But when he sent four other boys to my house that fate full night of LA RESISTANCE I knew I still passed his mind.
I didn't see him for seven more years.
7 years later
I had just arrived from France, a trip I had insisted since the day we had arrived to this wretched town. As I made my way back to the house a long-lost person sat on my steps.
"Why now?" I spat.
He gave no reply other than the solemn look in his eye and I knew, no explanation was needed for his absence.
Even though I longed for one.
Many adventures came to follow, trying to make up for lost time.
Time never fully made up because,
when he left for his fancy elite collage,
I stayed behind.
And I never did see the boy again. And how I longed for his snide remarks, sense of leadership, and most of all his companionship as I spent long months lonely, traveling through rugged terrain.
Until today, because today I see him again. What a joyous reunion this should be, except not. For this day is quite horrific in its whole.
My mouth hung the ever so slightest agape. "G..gre.." the name couldn't leave my mouth whole. And one question hung in the air.
Why?
Gregory POV
For a brief moment, he let the broken fragments of what should have been his name hang weakly in the air, the weak whisper of what was usually a loud, boastful voice shattered by the cold Russian wind and splintered by the rain.
A fitting atmosphere.
He too wanted to know, why?
"Hello Christophe."
The words were soft, solemn and came out with a visible puff of breath that was dragged down with the rain.
The name sounded so foreign on his tongue and nearly burnt his senses as it passed his lips.
Of all cliché scenarios, here and now. And in such a terrible way.
Words, normally his forte, were absolutely lost upon the sight of what should be a rigid, angry French man trembling against the bite of ice water bombarding the two boys from above.
Years had come and gone, communication was desperately fought for in the first couple months of his second leave for college but keeping tabs on The Mole was harder than even he'd first imagined. And though he promised, swore to his friend it wouldn't be, their friendship fell into the gaping distance between them. Both gone in the other's eyes.
Though many a desperate attempt was made to forget, no matter how many times he tried to start off with a clean slate it was impossible. He could muddy and blur the images, the memories but that angry little French child was always there, in the back of his skull screaming himself hoarse in that thick, gorgeous accent of his, begging Gregory to remember.
He'd all but forgotten why he wanted to forget; it hurt.
It was as if the flood gates he'd erected within his own mind, after cracking and crumbling under the pressure of time had finally given way forcing the blond to remember every little detail. Not just the bigger things, missions, birthdays, milestones. But every finite little prick of a pin no one else would ever have stored still in their memory.
Every sideways glance, light shove, playful slur and awkward hug. All of their fits every little fist fight and every single speck of a bruise that blemished his porcelain skin after words.
It all hit him square in the chest at once, simultaneously pulling at his innards and making the boy feel disgustingly ill as he realized the both of them had maintained eye contact for far too long. He would turn away, but found his body paralyzed by the flecks of anger and veins of hurt coursing through Christophe's dull, tired green eyes.
The urge to flee had never been so prominent. To pretend this had never happened would be ideal.
Perhaps start over in some back road restaurant in the Ukraine, but not here.
Anywhere but here.
Anything but this.
Christophe POV
" .ha" his laugh was brittle, crack with loathing.
was this some sort of sick joke?
Nostalgia filled the Frenchman. He felt at him breaking point. The droplets fell like bullets, faster and harder than a minute before, stinging his forever tan skin. He could never forgive himself if he got himself killed. If he died, all that he had ever worked form would be ruined. He would be a disgrace to his broken mother. He would be nothing, only a body in the ground. He is nobody, but not yet nothing. And he intends to keep it that way. He intends to live his limbo (life unsuitable to be called so). He intended to not let anyone or anything interfere either.
Though this may set a problem he has no idea how to fix.
"I wish people were like dirt, then I could just dig through them and keep on going." he paused "But it's not like that at all, people are alive, people car..e" he dropped the last words, slightly breaking eye contact with his old companion.
"So...I see your field of work suites you quite well, and you have always been the smarter of us" he looked into the man's icy eyes again "what do you suppose we do?"
His voice was cracked with frustration, but his physique was calm.
Unusual for the hot- headed man.
His eyes threatened him, it would be so easy, with the rain as a blanked emotion capable. But that was something unimaginable, something weak. And no, he was not weak, not one little bit.
He stood the weird weather taking its toll on his ripped up clothing.
: He held his knife.
Letting the blade sink deeper and deeper into his own skin.
He fought back.
He thought he had won the battle with himself.
But one thing you should know is that you can never truly win.
Gregory POV
People did care. Gregory cared, or at least had at one point in time.
It might seem to Christophe that he did not anymore. Hopefully his hesitation proved otherwise, body ridged and screaming silently for this to come to an abrupt and idealistically less solemn end.
It was painfully evident they'd reached an impasse. Had it been anyone else either side would have promptly attacked at so much as the sound of the other. He was almost relieved their bodies had stalled at once.
The accusation was however, correct. Though Gregory was not as hands on, he was in fact very skilled at all he did. "Someone has to handle the paper work." He joked, voice dry and nearly humorless. Anything to drown out the others pained laughter, or the way his voice seemed so strained to tether itself together. It was almost thinkable that the other may in fact crack.
No, this was Christophe. Gregory couldn't recall a single time, except one very painful instance, when the other had cried. Even then, it was brief, short lived choking sounds that the French boy had quickly swallowed up for fear of the other judging his emotions.
"I am afraid though, old friend-"
He let his mouth hang open, agape and collecting rain water unwillingly in contemplation as he slowly shook his head, searching feverishly in his own thoughts for a solution. "-I've not the damnedest clue. It appears we've no leeway on the matter."
Being nearly as hard headed as the other, if they were to fight it would be right down to the bitter end. The French and the Brit would go at it endlessly, gashing each other up in exchange for deep purple hemorrhages. Punching, hitting, and swinging until there was nothing left but bone and blood- that is to say, should either of them be able to strike. Despite their separation, it appeared each still cared for the other just as much as when they were children.
Though neither showed it too openly then either.
Only if behind closed doors and in the presence of simply each other were they friends.
It was a relationship no one truly understood. But everyone who knew of the two little European boys knew at least this; At one point in time, Christophe De'Lorne and Gregory Sharpe were inseparable.
Crisp, tired blue eyes scanned his opponent's movements. Every blink, twitch.
Each inhale and exhale. Gliding his gaze over scores of scars piled onto the boys flesh over time, down to his trembling fist and how it wrapped, coiling in pained desperation around the blade in its palm. Willingly drawing blood from himself if only to stall a bit more.
Stand your ground Sharpe.
No.
Slowly, his firm grip on the coiled hilt of his most prized Rapier began to loosen. Lithe, thin gloved fingers pulling away slowly, gently. Until the hand was held up in an act of submission, showing the other that at least for the moment, he had no intentions for battle.
Doing something he never had for anyone before, Gregory had left himself open.
Christophe POV
He stood studying the man.
His hand bled more.
It was numb.
Everything was.
He heard him speak, it wasn't harsh, but his tone was not friendly.
Oh how long he had yearned to hear the voice of this one person, and finally when he gets his wish its painfully, dry and cracked.
So rough it almost made his ears bleed.
Bitterness and uncertainty hung in the damp air. He chewed his lip nervously, what to do, what to do. His rather large ears twitched listening carefully to every word the Brit managed to push out. Oh and how painful that was, how it broke him inside. A voice once rich and cocky, now broken and dead resembling his own which was bitter with a dry sense of humor and now listless. He took a slow breath trying to take all of it in, the situation what was to come..
He tightened his grip on his blade, studying the other with a blank face until something quite interesting. The man had dropped his weapon, hands up in surrender. Was this some kind of sick joke, all of this? Or had some rekindling of lost, old feeling taken place. His mind swam, his skin pricked. Just the sight of the "undefeatable" surrendering made him uneasy. Gregory Sharpe didn't surrender; he fought, till the end. He had learnt that the hard way, but luckily he was the same and equally hard headed. He was stunned, an animal of habit turning a new corner. So stunned in fact that he didn't even notice the blade leave his grasp, or his knees betray him. But no it was not his body's fault. His body never made these kind of mistakes. His knees had not betrayed him. But he had found that something else quite worse had happened. Someone, someone else was there. And that person had cut him.
He felt the sharpness of a blade and the sting of wood upon his legs. And once he was down he knew that he had been set up.
Mistake
Mistake
Mistake
Is all he could think as he was knocked unconscious by wood and metal beating his limp body.
Dammit, how stupid could he be?
He had let his guard down.