The Turk MO has always been about doing the not-so-easy things. Slit throats, disappeared politicians, crime scenes wiped without a trace—Tseng has seen it all before. Once upon a time, Veld had told Tseng, tone straddling the line between cautionary and apologetic, "It never gets easy." Tseng had simply nodded along, ever agreeable and obedient, instead of saying what it was that came to mind.
When does it get difficult?
There was a reason why he made it look effortless: because it was. He had a lot of anger back in those early days, which made it easier to lash out, to forget that targets had names and faces and families—until it was time to take the latter hostage, that is. And when all that pent up aggression petered out, well, that was when the honey-voiced high of brotherhood hit, painting everyone outside of a black suit with a big red sign that read Other, a situation joyfully exacerbated by all the power-playing factions within SEPC. It's been a perfect storm of indifference all along.
But now... Maybe not so much. His most recent mission is weighing heavily on him. He feels bent beneath the weight of his pack as he keys himself into the basement levels, like the weight of the whole planet is mixed in with his extra socks and drawers. He keeps thinking of Rude, faithful and devout and doing his absolute best with the absolute best of intentions, and how his heart would break if he knew what it was that he was truly facilitating, and it's... Enough that he thinks it'll do him so good to square up with a glass of that bourbon tucked away in the back of his desk before he settles down to do reports. At least, that's the plan until the door whooshes open and Tseng comes face to face with himself.
"Ah," Tseng says, carefully unloading his luggage on to the sofa, eyes trained on his double. Strange that he feels underdressed to meet himself, his hair still wound up in a bun, still clad in the same dusty hiking apparel he'd fallen asleep in on the plane. "I've been expecting you."
He respectfully fixes his posture once he has been liberated of his burden.
"I'd offer you a drink, but I am sure you know where to find one."
im so sorry this is long I got so excited
When does it get difficult?
There was a reason why he made it look effortless: because it was. He had a lot of anger back in those early days, which made it easier to lash out, to forget that targets had names and faces and families—until it was time to take the latter hostage, that is. And when all that pent up aggression petered out, well, that was when the honey-voiced high of brotherhood hit, painting everyone outside of a black suit with a big red sign that read Other, a situation joyfully exacerbated by all the power-playing factions within SEPC. It's been a perfect storm of indifference all along.
But now... Maybe not so much. His most recent mission is weighing heavily on him. He feels bent beneath the weight of his pack as he keys himself into the basement levels, like the weight of the whole planet is mixed in with his extra socks and drawers. He keeps thinking of Rude, faithful and devout and doing his absolute best with the absolute best of intentions, and how his heart would break if he knew what it was that he was truly facilitating, and it's... Enough that he thinks it'll do him so good to square up with a glass of that bourbon tucked away in the back of his desk before he settles down to do reports. At least, that's the plan until the door whooshes open and Tseng comes face to face with himself.
"Ah," Tseng says, carefully unloading his luggage on to the sofa, eyes trained on his double. Strange that he feels underdressed to meet himself, his hair still wound up in a bun, still clad in the same dusty hiking apparel he'd fallen asleep in on the plane. "I've been expecting you."
He respectfully fixes his posture once he has been liberated of his burden.
"I'd offer you a drink, but I am sure you know where to find one."