TARGET

结束的开始

The collision of a scaly, callused hand striking his left cheek jarred him off balance,

"You insufferable shit, you had one job,"

He hung his head, fringe plastered to his forehead, "Sorry sir,"

The latter man, roughly in his fifties, stood in a pristine suit. A bulky figure, he was; the fitted suit jacket clinging on to his robust arms, stuffed into the pockets of his trousers,

"You had nearly eighty personnel on top of the six of you all, and you couldn't stand a measly eleven men-"

"Sir-" the sensation, a plethora of eyes barring holes upon his hunched shoulders, made his stomach lurch,

"-eleven men that demolished the entire base. The entire base, Mr. Choi?"

"..."

The birth of day licked the horizon line that stretched far beyond his peripheral vision, painting the tract sky with marigold and deep lilac; the stars of the azure night sky dying one by one above his scalp.

The hues reflected upon the sheen of polished vehicles surrounding the premises, combating the blaring red of the paramedic van and the muted gray of the pavement,

"Seungcheol, I will give you one more warning, the first and last,"

"Fix. Your. Act." the Ringleader glowered between clenched teeth,

"Yes sir." Seungcheol's adam's apple bobbed, promptly bowing,

He hung, his eyes tracing the individual kernels of gravel below his feet. He heard the squelch of shifting gravel beside him as the Ringleader strode past him,

Seungcheol straightened his posture, idly realigning the remnants of his nightwear, tattered and hanging off his stature. The howling winter gale intertwined its laces in between the rips of his garments, chilling to his bruised skin,

Medics herded to him, assessing and prodding his condition, but he was preoccupied with the discourse behind him:

"Are you well?" The gruff baritone of his Ringleader,

"Yes sir," a familiar pitched voice,

"Good, updates?" The Ringleader shifted his weight upon the sea of shale,

"If it helps any, I have the face of one of the Ursula Minor members and some Intel I would be pleased to provide you," the latter remarked,

The ringleader nodded, a monotonous countenance evident in his tone:

 "I always can rely on you, Jihoon,"

"Thank you, sir," Jihoon bowed,

"Rest well,"

"Yes sir, likewise,"

Seungcheol clenched his fist, pushing away one of the nurses disinfecting a gash on his arm. He slightly pivoted his head, meeting the gaze of the younger:

It wasn't conspicuously cocky, but far from modesty, hawk and scrutinizing,

Jihoon was aware of his competence, he always had been.

Seungcheol hid a scowl, diverting his gaze elsewhere. He drove himself through the crowd of paramedics and personnel, jaw tightly hinged.

The sting of his raw cheek numbed through the piercing of the icy currents, the coral tint blossoming across his cheeks adjoining to his disheveled appearance,

He abated his pace to a steady saunter, he shuffled in his slippers, provided by one of the cadres, along the chilled pavement,

His lengthy eyelashes fluttered as he arbitrarily in took the dawn's scape,

"Cheollie..."

Seungcheol stilled at the evasive memory:

His golden locks swept over the porcelain mask, cloaking the relative entirety of his features except for his parted, parched lips, and his glassy orbs, frantically scanning his visage,

the melancholy emitting from his longing gaze, perplexing to the estranged man,

It felt...

like perturbed electricity,

coursing through his veins.

And he cracked.

But he couldn't help but recall the tremulous voice, nearly grazing a whisper, the blond warbled the foreign yet familiar rendition of his name:

"Cheollie..."

it rolled off his tongue, dainty and nectarous, it made Seungcheol's organ caged by his ribs swell queerly,

He hated it.

who the fuck was that?

what did they do to me?

Seungcheol then realized he was standing upon a stranded patch of grass, emerging from a fissure of the pavement, and peculiarly,

it was warm.

"cheollie..."

___

"Seungcheol?"

He settled in the company of his colleagues-

well, the ones who weren't on the brink of death, of course.

The 17th Circle Junior squadron was sent off to be treated and was to reassemble to conference and devise a consecutive course of action; they reconciled at a remote private hostel owned by the corporates of the Circle for the time being,

"We'll work with what we have," Seungcheol perched on the edge of the conference table, leering at the nothingness the unblemished encasement had to offer. The reticence was residue from the turbulence and only brewed with the excruciatingly sickening unadulterated aura,

and yet, he could only think back to the vibrant verdure that the eccentric man twirled around his talons as juxtapose to the bland sterile room,

Seungcheol sharply respired, "I want perspective briefs, full ones. Complete them by noon tomorrow,"

And perhaps, it was the bothersome nature of the perpetual recollections that incited Seungcheol:

"If its war they want, then war they'll receive,"