Chapter Text
It would be easier to cut the tension with a knife than talk. The silence grated against Horangi’s skin. It was a far too small room to house this much adversity. Nausea bubbled at the back of Horangi’s throat with how quickly the atmosphere changed with the arrival of the other PMC.
All the men from KorTac were on the right side of the room perched warily on whatever furniture they had laid claim to. They were all practically lined against the wall, refusing to take the risk of having their back turned towards the dangerous men in front of them.
Horangi was too antsy to sit. His arms were folded over his chest, hands tucked away to prevent him from picking at the lint he spotted in the velcro of his gear. He ground his teeth behind his mask, thankful that he had the foresight to put his sunglasses on prior to the arrival of SpecGru. The fact that the operators arrived at Eagle base armed set Horangi’s teeth on edge. If only he had his gun on him, instead of tucked away in his bag, he would feel marginally better about the situation.
König sat in one of the few chairs next to Horangi. He was normally always moving: fidgeting with his gear, bouncing his leg, darting pupils that constantly scanned the room even at rest. Bad habits that manifested as boons for being an insertion specialist. At this moment, the massive man was still. The only movement from him was the gentle puff of air that disturbed where his sniper hood hung loosely over his face.
Declan was on the other side of König, leaning against the wooden table. The Irishman’s face was stoic, if Horangi didn’t know better he would assume that he was actually calm. Declan’s glare passed over each of the SpecGru men, daring them to do something. His posture appeared to be far more lax than either Horangi’s or Königs, or any of the other men of KorTac. He saw things in Declan’s stance that made his skin crawl, a posture that mirrored street thugs in the Kkangpae.
Horangi just kept his eyes forward.
He volunteered to be placed under the worst microscope in the universe. The three of them silently took the task of guarding Hutch’s gear as he did room checks with Price, the captain of the SpecGru operators. Eyes were already on him if anything were to happen.
Things did not start off on the right foot between Price and Hutch when the SpecGru vehicles arrived. The menacing gray vehicles were harbingers of animosity and jetlagged soldiers.
Admittedly little was done to ease the tension between both teams. The fact that the SpecGru operators were partially kitted out created an additional level of unease. If someone got trigger happy, there was little that anyone in KorTac could do to combat it. Horangi just hoped that they were as disciplined as their dossiers made them out to be. He knew from experience both on and off the battlefield that punches do little against kevlar and plate armor.
Horangi managed to stay out of a majority of the barbed words that were exchanged between operators. Now that all the men were corralled in the same room, there wasn’t a hallway to duck into to avoid the other team.
Horangi’s eyes kept drifting to the small group that surrounded Price’s discarded gear just as quickly as he, König, and Declan had done so for Hutch’s gear. From what he remembers from the dossiers they were given, these were the members of the former Task Force 141. It would make sense that they guard Price’s bag like loyal dogs.
One man was the only member of SpecGru to snag a chair, sitting down heavily as he claimed it. His cap proudly displayed England’s flag, as if the patches on his chest and back didn’t already denote his background. His eyes lazily swept over the line of KorTac members with little urgency. Unlike Declan, his ease looked to be entirely genuine. Or he could be better at hiding his distrust towards the KorTac operators.
The other two stood at the ready as their eyes easily scanned over the members of KorTac. Their icey eyes pierced as Horangi felt their gaze on him.
At least, it was easy to confirm the line of sight for the mohawked man. Soap.
He wasn’t able to tell where the man in the skull mask was looking. The Ghost was just as menacing as his file proclaimed his to be. Shadows cast by the fluorescent lights made the eyes look like voids.
More than half the men remained close to the entrance of the hallway. Many kept their hands rested over holstered weapons. Horangi knew that if any member of KorTac made too fast of a motion it would be a guaranteed slaughter.
Sudden speech made Horangi jump, his head whipping towards its source.
“Sore de, anata no hanashi wa nanidesu ka? Dō yatte kono yarō-tachi to shiriatta nda?” Oni’s voice was clear and concise. His eyes were locked on the group of operators that stood by the door.
The air in the room grew impossibly tenser. Horangi had no idea who Oni was speaking to in his native language. He doesn’t remember any documentation about another operator knowing Japanese. As Horangi was wracking his brain, fruitlessly trying to recall information he may have not even absorbed in the first place. His eyes flicked over the group of six operators. Each of them equally baffled about being spoken to.
“Hanasanai no?” Oni’s voice was mockingly sweet before ending in a harsh laugh. He continued in his regular, harsh tone, folding his arms. “Watashi ni totte baka wa gomide shika nai.”
Despite not knowing what Oni was saying, sirens went off in Horangi’s head.
Klaus elbowed the Japanese man, “What are you saying?”
Oni’s eyes narrowed, turning towards Klaus when one of the SpecGru men snapped their fingers.
“So you’re the yakuza one.” One of the smaller operators near the door spoke. The body armor seemed to give him an artificial bulk, with the padding over his shoulders and chest made him look wider in the worst way. At the center of his chest piece was a bright red patch.
“Yakuza.” Oni narrowed his eyes, rolling the word in his mouth like a bitter candy. He had pulled on a balaclava shortly after SpecGru arrived. Oni has been a part of KorTac for so long that everyone had forgotten how secretive he had been about his identity at first. He never gave anyone a formal reason why, at least one that Horangi’s heard of, but he would’ve never guessed yakuza ties.
“I didn’t think you were deaf.” The man spoke again. “I thought you were just stupid.” He enunciated each of his words as if to “help” Oni understand him.
“Dude.” The taller asian man he was standing next to nudged him. “We should be trying to keep the peace, Zimo.”
Zimo scoffed. “Keep the peace among scum like that.” He jutted his chin towards Oni in disgust. “He’s probably already planning to pluck out our eyes in our sleep. Is it too late to ask Price to double check all the locks on the doors, Ronin?”
Klaus, the saint, decided to pipe up. “Ronin right? Uh, Japanese?” Klaus elbowed Oni again. “Do you have family-”
“No.” Ronin glanced away from the larger man. “I grew up in Denver. Colorado.” It was admitted as if it was a dirty secret instead of a fact.
Before Ronin could speak further, Zimo butted in. “Why, looking to recruit? Not enough yakuza ties this far from home?”
Horangi could see Oni grit his teeth underneath his balaclava.
“Are one of your cronies hiding in the shadows?” Zimo continued. “Some hidden den of pompadour-topped chimpira primed to jump out at your command? Or, even better, you already made a comfort woman out of one of your teammates.” Zimo spat the words out.
As he spoke, Oni’s hand tightened into fists “How do you know he’s not the yakuza one?” Oni managed to snap back at the man, pointing towards Horangi.
Zimo leaned forward and sneered. “Because I know what a filthy fucking ya-”
Oni launched himself at the man. There was a thud of flesh against flesh, a rip of cloth, and a bitten back cry of pain. Its brutality highlighted in the stunned silence. Up until this point, it had been only barbed words, sharp-toothed snarls, and clipped threats. It was an unspoken expectation for them to remain professional towards each other despite what malcontent burbled from their clashing morals.
A few solid hits were traded before Klaus managed to pull Oni back. The Japanese man tried to shake off the larger man, twisting angrily to get back into the fight. Klaus wrapped his arms around Oni to get a better hold on the smaller man.
It was the same for Zimo, both of Ronin’s hands firmly on the man’s shoulders. A solid red mark was at the crest of Zimo’s cheek. Directly where Oni’s first punch landed. While Oni was struggling to jump back into the fight, Zimo was taking a more defensive stance. A quick shake from Ronin, who is easily two heads taller than him, broke Zimo out of his stance.
“We should check on the girls. Just to see if they’re settling alright.” Hearing Ronin speak more made his American accent laughably noticeable. His grip on Zimo’s tactical gear was white-knuckled as he manhandled him towards the door. “We can help them with unpacking.”
Zimo finally managed to twist out of Ronin’s hold. He didn’t launch himself back at Oni, opting to dust himself off in two heavy swipes. He gave one final, poisonous glare at the Japanese man before turning his back and lockstepping out of the room. Ronin followed swiftly and silently behind.
The silence was stifling now. They all stiffly listened to the disappearing footsteps.
A SpecGru operator spoke up. “Yakuza… that’s similar to mafia, right?” He was much quieter than Zimo. He was the only member of SpecGru that was masked outside of Ghost, with it pulled up just underneath his nose.
“I’m not tied with them.” Oni had managed to shake off Klaus’s hold, tugging his jacket into place. “Not anymore.”
“That’s not a life you leave easily.” A different SpecGru operator grumbled out, his cowboy-style hat tugged low over his face. He had an accent that Horangi wasn’t familiar with.
Oni bristled at that comment. Klaus spoke, cutting off Oni before he could retaliate. “But it is possible.” His voice matched the same defensiveness that the cowboy had.
“Not without turning up dead or worse.” A third operator spoke up from the SpecGru side of the room. This one Horangi actually remembered the name of. Enzo Reyes, the Canadian native on the SpecGru roster. Since they were going to be posted in what was basically this man’s backyard, Horangi studied his dossier closely. It was only seconded in time by how much he spent pouring over the former 141.
Several of the operators that surrounded Enzo nodded and murmured in agreement.
“Clearly,” Horangi gestured towards Oni. “He’s not, as you put it, dead or worse .”
He isn’t sure why he spoke up, but it did quiet down the murmuring from the SpecGru operators. Horangi hoped that the room checks were nearing the end. Every additional second he was standing in front of this opposite team rankled him more and more.
“Didn’t you have ties to the Japanese mafia too?” Soap’s voice made every single head in the room swivel towards him. “What, did you think we would skip over that?” He stared directly at Horangi.
Everyone immediately focused on Horangi. Each pair of eyes dug through his skin like gnawing worms, trying to goad Horangi into snapping the same way his teammate did. He folded his arms over his chest, a poor attempt to shield himself from the scrutiny. A creak of furniture next to him managed to break Horangi’s attention away from the onslaught of scrutiny.
Declan was one of the few people who wasn’t looking at Horangi. Even König’s ice blue stare bore holes into his skin.
Declan was focused on Soap.
He could see the flex of Declan’s jaw underneath the rust color of his beard. It was almost indistinguishable from the ruddy color his face was turning. Declan’s hands were fisted deep in the pockets of his olive green jacket. His entire body was as tense as a coiled spring.
A sharp movement from Zero, standing on the other side of Declan, snapped his attention away from the Irishman. A quick jut of his chin towards three of the SpecGru operators that were clustered near the door.
“So.” His accented tenor sliced through the suffocating silence. “Are you going to tell us which one of those guys are still with the cartel?”
The comment made two of the three men’s jaw drop. If Horangi couldn’t feel the palpable tension that laced the air he would have laughed out loud at their expressions. The third man, however, furrowed his brows. Horangi glanced at the patch half-hidden by the man’s bulky equipment. It has the same colors as Stiletto’s patch for the Italian flag, with some kind of tiny bird at the center of it.
“What terror cell did you crawl from?” The man’s voice was clipped and decidedly not Italian. “Is that why your name is censored?” Dark glasses covered his eyes. The sneer across his mouth barely contained the vitriol that he used to spit the words out.
“That’s none of your business.” Declan spoke through gritted teeth.
“Fine by me,” Soap’s face split into a shit-eating grin. “Declan O’Carbomb .”
There was a crunch when Declan’s fist connected with Soap’s face. Horangi didn’t even see the man move, he was suddenly on the other side of the room.
Soap let out a cry of pain, his knees buckling as he reared back from the blow. Declan did not let him escape. Declan was larger, burlier than Soap, easily caging any means of escape. He gave a second, third blow, his knuckles easily finding their target against Soap’s exposed face and neck.
Everyone was still. A stunned disbelief that a second fight had broken out between the two factions in such a short amount of time.
To Horangi, it didn’t matter that he had to work alongside domestic terrorists or cartel members or condescending whoever as long as his teammates didn’t go through the same hellish trap that was set up in Norway. A few weeks of discomfort outweighed seeing any of his teammates bedbound like he was. Especially if that teammate was König–
The choking noise the Scotsman made caused a flurry of action. Declan had followed him to the floor, one hand around the Scotsman’s throat, the other primed for another blow.
König’s own hand wrapped around Declan’s fist as he lifted the Irishman away from the fight. It was comical how easy König was able to peel Declan away.
Soap had his own help in SpecGru. Ghost hauled Soap to his feet none too gently, at least to Horangi’s eyes. Soap staggered upright. The beginnings of a bruise prominent on his cheek. A sneer ripped across his features.
“Good to know that the files were right about that. Have to be kept on a short chain–” Soap let out a harsh sound, choked off when Declan writhed out of Königs grasp and launched himself back at Soap elbow first
This time, Soap wasn’t the only one hit.
Ghost staggered back from the Irishman’s impact, nearly dropping Soap in the process. He tried to move himself between the two scrabbling men to break up the fight. When one of Declan’s blows glanced off of the hardshell of Ghost’s mask, it flipped a switch in the massive man. The action was so fast that Declan reeled back before Horangi could figure out why.
The Irishman brought his hand up to his face. He pulled it away, staring at his fingertips in disbelief. Blood dripped into Declan’s mustache. Declan sneered, the blood starting to stain his teeth.
Declan wasn’t able to raise a fist in retaliation when someone else gripped the neck of Ghost’s vest.
König stood as a wall of muscle between Declan and Ghost. He had to curve forward, towering over the already massive Ghost. His broad frame almost caged both Ghost and Soap away from Declan.
The tense air was filled with stifled breathing. Horangi’s own breath was caught in his throat.
Then there was the sound of someone spitting .
Horangi has seen König spar. Swift, sharp movements that have been honed by decades of military training. A graceful brutality that stopped mere inches before permanent damage. He turned into an undeterrable force of power and strength.
In the field König rarely backed down from adversaries. He was even deadlier weaponless. Vivid images of watching König rip through enemies while heading insertion missions. He had no reason to hold back the same way he did while practicing hand to hand combat with the other KorTac operators.
Ice filled Horangi’s blood as he watched König rear back one of his fists. A renaissance painting of violence in motion.
The sound carved itself into Horangi’s teeth. It was made all the more brutal by Soap stumbling backwards. He thought Soap was the one who was hit by the blow. The grunt from Ghost said otherwise.
The next motion was König reeling back from an equally devastating punch from Ghost. Instead of recovering like Declan did, he surged forward, forcing Ghost to take retreating steps back. Ghost had managed to bring his arms to block some of the worst of the blows.
Even though everyone in this room was a professional mercenary, no one wanted to get between the two titans.
Horangi saw a glint of steel. The blade of a knife , his mind easily supplied, resting in Soap’s palm. The SpecGru operators were already armed, what’s stopping them from pulling out weapons now? Horangi didn’t have anything on himself. He knew that.
He was surprised that no one had pulled a gun on König yet.
His legs were moving before he could stop himself.
“WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING?”
The bellow froze the fighters and snapped the rest out of their stupor. Horangi himself had only made it halfway towards König.
The entrance of the dorm hallway contained both Price and Hutch. The former had his arms crossed, both his expression and hat downturned at the scene in front of them. The latter stood a half-step back.
Ghost stood with one heel against the wall, his arms still raised in self defense. König had managed to get a grip on Ghost’s gear during his assault. He was still primed to make another blow. Both men’s faces were unreadable even with their masks in place.
Hutch looked mortified.
“Professional behavior, hm?” Price didn’t even turn around when he spoke.
“How do you know this wasn’t caused by your men?” Hutch immediately countered, schooling his face quickly .
Price didn’t even give him the dignity to turn around. “Because one of your men has my lieutenant by the throat.”
The emphasis on the rank made König wince and finally release Ghost. König took a few steps back. Not enough to return back to the KorTac side of the room, but enough to give Ghost space to recover.
Horangi felt his own shame well up. He was one of the few members of KorTac that had crossed the room. The others were König, Declan, and Zeus, who was tending to Declan. There were a few SpecGru members who had engaged in their own fight. The three men accused of still being with the Mexican cartel had crossed the room too, two of them holding back the third, who was straining against their grip to attack Zero. In retaliation, Zero, Aksel, and Fender had adopted defensive positions. Oni and Klaus had taken up protecting Hutch’s computer. Klaus’s hand curled around a handle on top of the tower, primed to take the machine and run if things had escalated further.
“Would anyone care to explain what happened?” Price’s voice held the same condescending tone as an elementary school teacher.
“I’ll tell you what fucking happened.” Declan grit out. Zeus had somehow produced paper towels for Declan to mop up the worst of the blood. His finger pointed directly at Soap. “That little fucker-”
Soap spluttered at the accusation. “You were the one that threw the first punch!”
Declan bared his teeth at the Scottish man. The tacky blood that clung to his beard and mustache made the expression even more threatening.“And I’ll throw the last if that’s what it takes–”
“That’s enough.” Hutch cut off Declan. He stepped up to stand beside Price.
The other group primed to fight remained silent and still.
If Horangi hadn’t witnessed the carnage firsthand, he would have laughed at how childish all the operators were acting. It was like watching teenagers try and blame the other in front of their teacher, trying to avoid any punishment doled out. Hutch and Price didn’t find the scene as amusing.
“Since we are on mission, any disciplinary action will be performed once the mission is over.” Hutch continued, the men from both KorTac and SpecGru separating back to their agreed halves of the room. “Due to this outburst, we will be assigning rooms now, opposed to having you all choose for yourselves.”
“As it stands, KorTac operators will get rooms on the left side of the dorm hall, SpecGru will be on the right.” Price turned towards Hutch, lowering his voice. Not low enough for Horangi to miss what he said. “If you stuck with your career as a marine, you might’ve been captain.” The words had a malicious twist that made Horangi’s gut churn.
Hutch looked like he had been force fed spoiled milk.
The room assignment was a tense, juvenile affair. A name was called, followed by a number, and the operator shuffled off down the hall to their room. Odd numbers were given to SpecGru. Even numbers were given to KorTac. Other than that there was no pattern for who was called to be in which room.
Oni. Gaz. Zero. Reyes. König. Chuy. Systematic. Clinical. Horangi almost missed his own room number when his name was called. He shouldered his bag
Horangi passed between Hutch and Price. It was as unremarked upon as all the other operators. When he faced his door, the next SpecGru operator was called. Horangi twisted the handle and entered the musty room before he could see who Gromsko was.
Horangi stayed in the room almost the entire day. He pretty much had everything he needed, including the small provisions he and the rest of KorTac had bought at the general store. He picked at the incredibly unsatisfying bags of cheez-its and beef jerky as the moon rose.
It was the only thing that was keeping his spirits up. The window, a paltry meter by meter square of graying glass, faced the east. Its grime did little to hide the beauty of the night sky as it bruised from purple to black. Horangi was gifted with an array of blinking stars and the wide, flat disc of a full moon. It looked close enough for Horangi to trail his fingertips around the edge.
The rising moon was a double edged sword. It was chilly when all the operators arrived at Eagle base. Horangi’s room was frigid despite the rattling rasp of the heater. He had tugged on an additional layer of clothes, trying to ignore the cloud that appeared in front of his face with each exhale. The cold made his skin feel like it was too tight against his body. He wanted to peel it off.
Another click-thunk prefixed the much softer woosh of heat that bypassed Horangi’s room again. He adjusted his jacket, trying to get the same amount of fabric to cover more of himself. There was no change in temperature.
That was the last straw for Horangi. It was the third time the heat had failed to reach his room. He wretched his door open and physically recoiled at how bright the hallway still was. The hall was undeniably warmer than what his room was easily by ten degrees. The heat prickled against his cold cheeks and nose.
Horangi shifted his jacket as he stepped into the hall.
The tile was still cold. His socked feet carried him easily to König’s door. König was assigned to one of the rooms furthest down the hall. Practically the last one. Horangi had seen the heel of his boot disappear through the doorway when the room assignments happened. When he got to the door, however, he couldn’t bring himself to knock just yet.
Between defrosting in the hallway and the two dozen steps it took to get here, Horangi began second guessing himself. It had been hours since they had been assigned rooms. Even though he had no way of contacting König, he should have at least ventured over earlier to check on his more-than-friend.
Horangi placed his palm against the door. He didn’t have the strength to knock just yet. Maybe his room being unable to heat up had been more of a penance than he realized. He glanced down the hallway, only to feel the door pull away from his hand.
Horangi’s hand dropped down to his side.
König stood in the doorway. He wore only loose plaid pajama pants. His hair had yet to be mussed from his pillow.
His face was bare.
Horangi’s voice caught in his throat when König’s palm rested against his cheek. It felt molten.
“You’re cold.” He stated plainly. “Come.” König stepped to the side, allowing Horangi to enter the room.
It was just as spartan as his own. König’s bed was made to regulations with the exception of one disturbed spot. A copy of Redshirts was splayed open next to it. König picked up the book, not bothering to mark the page he was on and placed it on the desk next to his closed suitcase. “I was getting ready for bed.” Was the only context the Austrian provided.
Horangi stood lamely as the door clicked shut behind him. He watched as König pulled back the blankets on the twin sized mattress before gesturing to it. A familiar, wordless invitation.
König laid behind him once Horangi settled. It was easy to sink against the warm embrace behind him. Everything smelled like lavender and sandalwood. Horangi could close his eyes and pretend that the two of them were back at KorTac’s main base, and that they had never met the SpecGru team at all. He let out a deep, long sigh, letting the last of his muscles unknot.
“Horangi?” König murmured into his hair.
He hummed back.
König was still tense behind him. “The…” He trailed off.
After a few seconds of silence, Horangi turned his head. Not enough to face König just yet. He was relaxed in König’s arms, but he had a feeling sleep would evade him for a few more hours. “The?” He tried to coax the words out of the Austrian.
The silence stretched between them again. Horangi turned in König’s arms.
König’s face was stony. He was looking at the wall behind Horangi. His eyes were unsettlingly vacant.
“You’re supposed to close your eyes when you sleep.” Horangi’s voice seemed to snap König out of the trance he was in.
“Oh, right.” He gave a humorless laugh as he let his eyes fall shut.
Horangi rested his head against König’s chest and wrapped an arm around him. The official mission end date was a tentative two months away, and subject to be extended at any moment. They had no duties outside of keeping a low profile. This many mercenaries twiddling their thumbs in the same area could only lead to trouble.
König spoke up again. “Horangi, the others, do you think it will get better?” He didn’t give himself the chance to back out of asking his question.
“I don’t know Yeobo.” Horangi muttered into König’s chest. “I don’t know.”
König didn’t say another word for the rest of the night.
In the morning Horangi reported to Hutch and Stiletto that the vent in his room was broken, and didn’t heat his assigned room. Aksel met up with him about mid morning, toting along a steel stepladder and a box of tools he found in the janitorial area. Between the two of them they pried the vent cover off, leaving a gaping hole in Horangi’s wall.
Even though his room was significantly warmer that night, Horangi still walked over to König’s door. He knocked this time.