Clipped Wings
A Clover fanfiction written by: RinoaDestiny
Chapter 1
As the Azaiean agent wended his way through the quieter part of the central city, rain continued to fall, accompanied by a damp chill in the air. The surrounding asphalt and pavement were slick and mirror-wet, throwing back reflections. Overhead, the cloudy sky rumbled, threatening lightning along with its constant thunder. The city was gray and miserable, its inhabitants donning all manner of rain gear and suspended umbrellas.
A once familiar sight.
It was just as well his assignment wasn't until two days later.
Keeping his head bowed, eyes averted from the milling crowd, the agent made his slow way towards his destination. His hands remained deep in the pockets of his long coat, fingers loose and empty.
According to his instructions during the briefing, there was a pre-prepared apartment for him overlooking where their target often showed up during twilight hours. A quiet district, convenient for work like this. Yet another notable person, this one elderly, but with too much clout here to leave alive.
Taking a shallow breath, he passed a patrolling guard – dared not raise his head to look – and kept his walking pace unchanged, even, so not to reveal himself. He knew this area, as it turned out. Had been here before.
When he reached his destination, he used the key in his pocket to let himself in. A gate, a solid exterior wood door, two flights of stairs, and the actual apartment door before reaching the entranceway, going down a short hallway, and entering the main room. There were windows here, a necessity for what he came to do.
Now that he'd arrived, exhaustion bludgeoned him, urging the immediate need for sleep; it could no longer be held at bay. His body ached, strained from the journey and mending from unrelated injuries. Removing his coat, shoes, and hat, the agent headed for the bedroom located off to the side. He'd wash tomorrow or whenever he awoke. Rest was required and failure was not an option regarding any of his assignments.
He was Agent 284 (although before, he'd been a citizen of this country and had served with the Special Forces Hisoku). He'd even had a name, one which he no longer considered himself worthy to have. Everything before was in the past now, erased as surely as the hopes he'd once had for his future.
He was only 284, one of many operatives from Azaiea and nothing more. Closing his eyes, he slept.
Used to waking early, he was up before sunrise, consuming a simple breakfast of water and a dried ration bar. Due to his knowledge of the country and several of its districts, the Azaiean black ops and their specialists had laid the groundwork weeks before his arrival. Ration bars were less suspicious than real foodstuffs being transported and delivered on-site and easier to dispose. They were also, budget-wise, less expensive, considering the Azaiean military surplus.
His aching shoulder forced an end to his meal, the dull throbbing uncomfortable. Fortunately, it wasn't his rifle shoulder – his handler knew better than to damage critical areas of his body. Still, without drugs to ease the pain – neither his handler nor the Azaiean government trusted him enough for those – he was forced to find ways to assuage discomfort. It was still dark outside and the building quiet, but he needed warm water to soothe the ache.
The bathroom was small, with only a sink, shower (no tub), toilet, and a single mirror. The floor was tile, cool beneath his bare feet. Stripping off his clothes and avoiding the mirror, 284 entered the shower enclosure and turned on the water. A couple adjustments and then warmth filled the room. Turning his face upward, he let the water stream down.
Old and new scars on his body, most from his past. As Agent 284, Azaiea never allowed him to get too close in his assignments, for he was a rare (if despised) and valuable asset. What happened with his handler, outside the government's purview, mattered little as long as he wasn't maimed or killed. A fine line trod sometimes – would've crippled or killed a frailer person – yet, he was always left able to complete his jobs.
His handler had superiors and answered to them. That alone stayed his hand sometimes, which could account for why the worst outcomes hadn't happened yet. Neither maiming nor being killed had occurred, though an overextended shoulder (almost dislocated) and other hidden injuries (he'd been left able to walk) put him at a slight disadvantage. Then again, this was a long-range job; the higher ups had considered all variables and possibilities.
The water had gone cold. Turning it off, pressing his forehead to the tiled wall, 284 took a few deep breaths. He emptied his mind out – a blank slate, nothing else – so that he could continue for today and then the next and then prepare to return.
He had no home, but Azaiea was the only place where he belonged now.
Getting dressed – a slight glimpse of dark hair reflected in glass – he stepped back into the main room. Observation was required and he needed to confirm for himself the target's daily habits. While he'd been briefed, relying on what their spies observed and relayed, he found it remiss if he forewent the chance to see for himself. What he noticed could make the difference between success and failure.
Failure was what got him here. He couldn't afford to fail again.
Already, sunlight brightened the sky, the colors of night disappearing. Pulling up a chair and taking a seat by the window, 284 watched the street below. Here and there in the distance, a few people headed out. They were too far away to notice specific details, more silhouettes than personalized individuals.
Massaging his shoulder, he kept watch until his target stepped outside from one of the parallel apartment complexes. The man was old and graying, yet his gaze was sharp and his posture upright. Not someone in his sunset years and still a threat to be reckoned with, going off the little information he'd received. There was an object in his right hand, glinting. Seconds later, the man turned to the tiny plot of earth outside the building and stooped down.
284 didn't know this man personally, not even when he was in certain rarefied circles in the past. Perhaps someone keeping a low profile, despite the reach and connections he had in the upper class. If the Council here was aware of him…then again, wouldn't they be?
Whatever it was, Azaiea wanted this man dead. Wetwork, easily done by someone formerly from the military with experience. A certain type of experience…
His throat was dry.
Stifling the sudden threatening rise (spillover) of memory, he dipped his head and inhaled. Exhaled, inhaled again, and repeated the actions, wresting for control. The past was done; this was his life now. He'd chosen and stayed, remained alive when a knife through his throat would've sufficed. A surfacing thought now and then, but pointless to dwell upon.
He, 284, deserved no mercy or pity. After his abysmal failure, he never deserved either one. Neither from Azaiea or… By the time he raised his head, the old man was gone.
Afternoon came and went, the streets undergoing a city's usual ebb and flow of human traffic as the hours ticked by. His target was a no-show; he spent part of the time eating more of the bland rations. Finished and began to mentally line up the kill shot, trying to figure out where to best place the table and sniper rifle.
A diagonal lineup for a straight downward shot, possible if he adjusted correctly. The window would have to be open – a risk, but risks were inherent in these kinds of jobs. Once done, he needed to quickly and accurately confirm that the target was permanently down and then scramble. The extraction point was behind this building and street, near some branching alleyways.
His handler would be waiting.
As always after one of his assignments, the top echelons of the Azaiean government would be awaiting their return. A required debriefing and then he'd go back to his handler's home until the next job rolled around. It could be weeks or even a month or several months, depending on the type of job and the necessary skillsets.
His stomach clenched. Ignoring it, focusing instead on the particulars of his work, he decided an adjustment of a few millimeters would make the difference. If the target was consistent in his habits, even better.
Mentally imaging the sniper rifle, it appeared in his hands, conjured out of nowhere. The unique aspect about him, which was why he wasn't immediately killed once Azaiea noticed his left wrist. The bar code on his tattoo had been defaced, deliberately abraded, but the shape remained intact. It'd turned him invisible – missing in action – which provided explanation enough for why things fell out as they did. Several years ago, Azaiea had tried everything to get their hands on someone similar. Someone even more powerful.
They'd only failed, because of –
Slamming the door on his memories (this one in particular, still raw and painful), 284 wrenched the cap off the scope, making sure no sunlight reflected off it. Tipping his hand here, with well-trained black ops soldiers swift to react to any possible national threat, would lead to his interrogation and death.
Failure was not an option.
Backing away from the window, raising the scope to his dominant eye, he pinpointed where to shoot. If his target remained stationary, then one good shot would terminate him. It was difficult to survive a laser beam to the head.
After several more hypothetical attempts, he recapped the scope, put the rifle down and finished day one's rations for an early dinner.
Towards twilight, the old man reappeared. There wasn't anything in his hands and no telltale signs of where he'd been, but his clothes appeared finer than before. A meeting perhaps or simply an elder out for a leisurely stroll dressed in his best. Time to burn, to enjoy.
Leaning closer towards the window, mentally marking his target's movements, 284 looked for a pause, a delay, a lingering wherein he could take advantage. He needed the target still, if only for a minute or two, and preferably without people around.
His shoulder, better but still sore, became momentarily forgotten as the prime opportunity presented itself. Outside the target's apartment complex, close to where he'd seen him this morning, was a standing monument. Steel, its surface rough, rising to meet the sky.
A memorial, a sudden recollection. The Council had granted its construction due to the district's fallen, casualties from an earlier war before his time.
The old man stopped before it, laid a hand upon the surface, and stayed there. Family? Friends?
He had a sight on his target, was lining up the shot, but didn't pull the trigger. Timing mattered and if he killed the old man ahead of schedule, his extraction point wouldn't be available yet, which would leave him stranded and in peril.
Counting how long his target remained stationary before the memorial, 284 shelved the information for the day after. According to the briefing – proven accurate – the old man did have this one habit, fortunate for Azaiea and its dispatched assassin. A minute passed and then two before the man moved on, returning indoors.
In the interim, 284 had figured out his positioning and finessed the final touches necessary to ensure a successful kill. Now, it was a matter of waiting.
Unlike the old man, he had time. He wasn't going anywhere.
"You know, Gingetsu," Ryuu said, tilting his head to look wearily at him. "When this is all over and we send Azaiea scurrying away again, we outta go home and celebrate. Maybe have it at your place – make your boy Ran part of it."
He returned his friend's gaze, considering what to say. Although Ryuu had retired from service and didn't need to be here, General Kou had allowed his participation this time, since Ryuu was also familiar with Azaiean territory. They also had their shared professional work history, something the Council was privy to. Upon commencing the mission, they'd fallen back into their usual patterns, as though nothing had changed.
"You're unusually quiet," Ryuu said and then also fell silent.
"It's been a difficult few days." The Azaiean counteroffensive had been brutal, straining their companies and causing him endless anxiety. Reports were sent home via his visor, detailing the fluid situation, circumstances in a constant state of flux. Since his last report sent this morning, he hadn't heard back from the Council or any of the Wizards he usually answered to.
Stretching out what were likely stiff and sore muscles, Ryuu kept his bespectacled gaze on him. His hair was gray with dust, churned up by the battlefield. "Nothing from the Council yet?"
"No. This worries me, Ryuu." Words he could only say to this man. For everyone else, he had to stand strong – be the commander they followed, dauntless to the very end.
"You've got this."
"It doesn't feel that way."
"We'll be home by the end of the week. Don't fret." His former deputy commander laid a hand on his shoulder, a reassuring touch. "Think about Ran. About us."
He didn't smile, but nodded instead. Maybe Ryuu was right.
Notes: After twenty plus years since being with the Clover fandom, I finally managed to get my hands on the original Japanese volumes and do some rudimentary lore checking. The biggest change from my other fanfics is the official name of the military force Gingetsu commands and is a part of. Per early 2000s' fan translations, it was known as Secret Colors Battalion (because Gingetsu is a lieutenant colonel). In the English translations (Tokyopop, Dark Horse, and the recent Kodansha hardcover omnibus release), it is called Special Forces.
After conferring and discussing with some friends via Discord, I settled on Special Forces Hisoku (credit to David Tai from FFN for this one!). Hisoku in Japanese is "secret colors", but Secret Colors Battalion sounded really silly to my buddies, so Special Forces Hisoku is a good compromise between the original Japanese and the English translations. I will also be using the word "Hisoku" in certain contexts (i.e. Hisoku officer, Hisoku companies, etc.) as the story continues.