[GK]Heat Mode
Sep. 10th, 2025 10:12 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
plotdogSummary: Two mercenaries on a mission to rescue a hostage from the tropical jungle. But as you might have noticed the "sea otter stew" in the tags, the hostage should probably look out for themselves.
Note: when i was on my tropical vacation, eating wild banana from trees and paddling with my pathetic tiny arms, all i was thinking was: man, i gotta inflict this on them hoes...though they might actually enjoy it...i don't even know if they get sea otters in Indonesia...
---
Ogata was coiling the last of the tangled paracord when he was finishing his mission brief. His eyebrow lifted at the mention of an extra hand. He didn't like it. A job should be fast and simple: get in, get out, get paid. That's how he liked it.
This one looked standard enough. Some wealthy old man with a dirty little secret, whose associate had walked into a honey trap set in a tropical paradise. Now Ogata had to extract the hostage.
The target was clearly holding something valuable, so much that the client didn't trust sending just the best. Although the agency wasn't in the habit of splitting the bounty, and his pay remained the same. So Ogata just shrugged. He carried his gear, strode through the jet bridge like all normal civil passengers, and slid his eye mask on. He was dead to the world long before the plane touched down in Jakarta.
The airport was air-conditioned, but the moment he stepped outside, a heatwave hit him square in the face. It was then that the reality of the tropical climate truly sank in.
Walking in the sun felt like being on a grill. Staying in the shade was like slow-boiling in the moist, heavy air.
He would've loved to hide in a cab or a motel room, but mercenary work wasn't a job for pussy. The next morning, at the sound of a honk in the yard, he climbed right out of the bed and into the minivan. If he hated this place that much, he'd do better, finish the job and leave sooner.
The driver tossed him a bottled water. Ogata just peered at the suspiciously unbranded plastic and let it slide onto the seat. "Where's the other guy?" he asked, busy checking his phone one last time before they drove into the no-service zone.
The driver didn't answer.
Ogata looked up from his phone. Maybe his pronunciation was off, or the local didn't speak the language. Silly him.
But in the rearview mirror, he saw a white guy who's covered almost head to toe. The van was chilled to near-freezing. Maybe that was why.
If only he hadn't seen the eyes also peering back at him from the mirror.
Ogata swallowed. At least he hadn't drunk from the bottle.
"Privyet," he said as if casually, already switching languages. "How's your face?"
The driver grunted. So he was still in recovery. Ogata hoped he wasn't leering too obviously, but he could see his own face spreading into an ugly, wide grin from the reflection. "Hope it wasn't too painful."
The Russian guy glared with such intensity that he stopped watching the road. He must have stomped on the gas like a kicking bag, because the next thing Ogata knew, the van lunged forward. A passing truck laid on a deafening horn when avoided them. The steering wheel jerked.
"The fuck?" Ogata hooked an arm tightly around the front seat to keep from being tossed through the open window.
He heard a murmur from under the man's facemask. "Safebelt," it seemed to say.
Now it was Ogata's turn to fumble with the seatbelt, trying to buckle himself in. Dying in a car crash on the way to a mission was exactly the kind of story that would outlive him
He fiddled around the metal clip in the backseat, feeling foolish under the Russian's silent judgment.
Eventually, Ogata dropped the belt altogether. The other guy nearly yelped as he climbed between the seats and dropped into the passenger side, if not for the injury on his face.
"You should probably take off the mask, you know." Ogata said, finally content. He leaned back into the cushion, side-eying. "Let the air flow. Heals faster."
Mr. Pachinko, or whatever his name was, muttered something under his breath again. But he couldn't possibly know that Ogata's kind suggestion was purely for his own satisfaction. Ogata smiled faintly at the pink-and-brown gash now exposed beneath the removed mask. He liked what he saw. His own handiwork.
Sure, it might have been a nasty shot, sending a bullet through the other man's cheek, but Ogata could have just as easily blown his brains out. After all, this guy was hired to assassinate Ogata's asset. It was fair, justified. Nothing personal.
In a way, he was being unusually nice, leaving him with nothing more than a minor inconvenience.
Ogata pretended that he hadn't noticed the man's attractiveness even from half a mile away through his scope.
"So," Ogata began, lazily draping an arm over the back of the seat. "Didn't know you ever worked with this agency."
The other mercenary responded with a series of quick, muffled hums. Even with his mask off and his wounds nearly closed, he still wasn't speaking. Maybe he had lost his tongue, too. Ogata thought with a slow nod.
It must be deeply embarrassing, walking around with that. And frustrating. Their line of work required blending in, and now everyone who saw him would do a double take. He no longer looked like a sharp shooter capable of protecting an asset, but like a thug, a low-level goon.
That probably explained it. His old agency must have struggled to get him hired after such a visible failure. Now he was forced to look for work outside their usual zakonniki circles. And Ogata had to hold his hand through it all, like babysitting a toddler.
He sighed. He'd been hoping for an easy task. Now he'd have to watch both ways every time he got off for a pee, or there was a fair chance he'd get run over by their own minivan.
This wouldn't do. ogata pulled himself back in the pants, zipped up, and turned to find the other guy peeking creepily from the tinted window, probably thought he wouldn't be noticed.
He whistled as he dug out his freeze-dried meal pouches. "Want an ice cream sandwich?" He waved the foiled bag at Pachinko. The guy's eyes tracked the motion like a cat following a feather toy. "They say it's astronaut food."
No answer came, but Ogata tossed over the mint chocolate one anyway. He never liked that flavor. Besides, it'd be a little unbecoming to murder a guy who'd just given you ice cream in this heat.
The Russian took it, didn't say thanks, and started nibbling quietly at the frozen bar.
"So," Ogata leaned against the car door. The black van's surface was scorching against his arm, but he held the pose, because it looked cool. "When are we arriving?"
They arrived at the ferry bay as the new dawn broke over the sea line. After crossing the water and driving across the island, Ogata grew more impatient by the minute. Everyone around them was on vacation except him. Instead, he had to keep taking quick glances, just to make sure the other guy didn't have sudden ideas. But the Russian man had already passed out in the back seat after driving through the night until Ogata took the wheel.
Could've taken him out then, just to be safe. Ogata played with the idea. He was sure there'd be something interesting in this guy's rifle case that he'd want to keep for himself. But then again, this boring job needed some kind of stimuli. Sometimes Ogata liked feeling threatened. It pushed him to do better.
It wasn't until they rolled off another ferry that Pachinko finally stirred.
"Wha—" His fingers dug into the seat as he rubbed his eye with the back of his hand.
"Start changing," Ogata said simply. "We're on foot soon."
Ogata's gear was simple. The island was only about half the size of Yellowstone, and if his intel was right, the crime lord would be away in Singapore for his monthly visit in two days. With fewer guards left at the lair, two people were enough to sneak in and finish the job. So he'd packed light, just his gun bag and a few essentials. But when he glanced at Pachinko, he had to do a double take.
"The fuck are you doing?" he stared at the man, who looked ready for a week-long camping trip with his oversized backpack and two hard cases.
The other man just hummed vaguely, clinging firmly to his billy pot.
"C'mon, drop that." Ogata tsked. "We've got MREs. We're not boiling rainforest lizards."
But some men were just stubborn. It was a miracle their raft hadn't sunk under all that weight.
They couldn't use the road as it was under security surveillance and likely compromised by local influences. Instead, they took a raft from the deserted river mouth, where no residents or tourists ever went. It was safe, but far from cost-effective.
They had to stay in the mid of the channel to avoid running aground. The current pushed hard, forcing them to row constantly just to hold position. Ogata had expected more shade from the rainforest, but it never came. The coconut trees on the banks offered little cover, their sparse leaves letting the sun beat down relentlessly. Before long, his skin began to burn.
Pachinko, still hidden under his hat, mask, and sunglasses, glanced over. Without a word, he tossed the hat to Ogata.
Ogata accepted it as a peace offering. Maybe they'd settle their scores later, when they weren't busy sweating every ounce of life essence from their pores.
Just before sunset, they hauled the raft ashore and hid it. The river stretched on, but they had to take cover, since a storm was moving in.
They sat beneath a plastic sheet in awkward silence, finishing their meal kit dinners. When the rain finally stopped, Ogata began changing into dry clothes and winced at the scratches on his arms.
The sun had scorched his skin, leaving it red and tender, almost too painful to touch. He tried cooling his arms in the river, but even the water felt warm.
He heard the crisp snap of a bottle opening. Turning, Ogata found his companion scooping a clear gel from a green bottle, working it into his legs. Their eyes met, but the other man didn't pause, just continued applying the stuff while keeping the eye contact. Almost like a challenge when he was finally making use of that useless shit he carried all this way.
If he was that prepared, maybe he should've just worn long pants to begin with. Ogata's eyes trailed down, taking in the same sunburn that painted Pachinko's skin from the knees down. A sharp line separated pale thighs from scorched calves, and the thick hair there was now dark and slicked tight against the leg muscles with gel. Ogata swallowed, almost unnoticeably.
He coughed. "Can I have some of that? My arms hurt."
He'd meant for Pachinko to just pass the bottle when he was done, let Ogata tend to his own burns in peace. But instead, the man stood and pressed his gel-coated palm firmly against Ogata's biceps.
"Al—alright." A little surprised, Ogata held still. The coolness spread quickly over his parched skin, as if the parched layers were glued back together.
And Pachinko took the job seriously. He wasn't satisfied with just a surface layer. He meant to rub it in. He even handed Ogata the bottle, so he could probably cupped both hands around one thick arm, working the gel in with firm squeezes tirelessly up and down.
"I think my biceps are fine, Pachinko," Ogata said dryly. "It's the forearms that hurt."
"Pavlichenko." The man's voice was rough, breath speeding up, yet he had no trouble forming the long name. He ignored Ogata's suggestion entirely, his hands continuing going wherever they felt like going.
"I know your name," Ogata replied, holding his breath to keep his voice even. This really wasn't the best time, not when the other man was too close to miss any reaction. "First name, last name, patronymic name… Too long for my liking."
"Vasya," the guy offered, his voice low.
A corner of Ogata's mouth lifted. "Did't know we were on a first-name basis. But fine. Try pronouncing mine."
The other man struggled for half a minute before managing something vaguely like "Haiku." Ogata just waved it off. It wasn't his fault his tongue couldn't quite touch his palate.
Note: when i was on my tropical vacation, eating wild banana from trees and paddling with my pathetic tiny arms, all i was thinking was: man, i gotta inflict this on them hoes...though they might actually enjoy it...i don't even know if they get sea otters in Indonesia...
---
Ogata was coiling the last of the tangled paracord when he was finishing his mission brief. His eyebrow lifted at the mention of an extra hand. He didn't like it. A job should be fast and simple: get in, get out, get paid. That's how he liked it.
This one looked standard enough. Some wealthy old man with a dirty little secret, whose associate had walked into a honey trap set in a tropical paradise. Now Ogata had to extract the hostage.
The target was clearly holding something valuable, so much that the client didn't trust sending just the best. Although the agency wasn't in the habit of splitting the bounty, and his pay remained the same. So Ogata just shrugged. He carried his gear, strode through the jet bridge like all normal civil passengers, and slid his eye mask on. He was dead to the world long before the plane touched down in Jakarta.
The airport was air-conditioned, but the moment he stepped outside, a heatwave hit him square in the face. It was then that the reality of the tropical climate truly sank in.
Walking in the sun felt like being on a grill. Staying in the shade was like slow-boiling in the moist, heavy air.
He would've loved to hide in a cab or a motel room, but mercenary work wasn't a job for pussy. The next morning, at the sound of a honk in the yard, he climbed right out of the bed and into the minivan. If he hated this place that much, he'd do better, finish the job and leave sooner.
The driver tossed him a bottled water. Ogata just peered at the suspiciously unbranded plastic and let it slide onto the seat. "Where's the other guy?" he asked, busy checking his phone one last time before they drove into the no-service zone.
The driver didn't answer.
Ogata looked up from his phone. Maybe his pronunciation was off, or the local didn't speak the language. Silly him.
But in the rearview mirror, he saw a white guy who's covered almost head to toe. The van was chilled to near-freezing. Maybe that was why.
If only he hadn't seen the eyes also peering back at him from the mirror.
Ogata swallowed. At least he hadn't drunk from the bottle.
"Privyet," he said as if casually, already switching languages. "How's your face?"
The driver grunted. So he was still in recovery. Ogata hoped he wasn't leering too obviously, but he could see his own face spreading into an ugly, wide grin from the reflection. "Hope it wasn't too painful."
The Russian guy glared with such intensity that he stopped watching the road. He must have stomped on the gas like a kicking bag, because the next thing Ogata knew, the van lunged forward. A passing truck laid on a deafening horn when avoided them. The steering wheel jerked.
"The fuck?" Ogata hooked an arm tightly around the front seat to keep from being tossed through the open window.
He heard a murmur from under the man's facemask. "Safebelt," it seemed to say.
Now it was Ogata's turn to fumble with the seatbelt, trying to buckle himself in. Dying in a car crash on the way to a mission was exactly the kind of story that would outlive him
He fiddled around the metal clip in the backseat, feeling foolish under the Russian's silent judgment.
Eventually, Ogata dropped the belt altogether. The other guy nearly yelped as he climbed between the seats and dropped into the passenger side, if not for the injury on his face.
"You should probably take off the mask, you know." Ogata said, finally content. He leaned back into the cushion, side-eying. "Let the air flow. Heals faster."
Mr. Pachinko, or whatever his name was, muttered something under his breath again. But he couldn't possibly know that Ogata's kind suggestion was purely for his own satisfaction. Ogata smiled faintly at the pink-and-brown gash now exposed beneath the removed mask. He liked what he saw. His own handiwork.
Sure, it might have been a nasty shot, sending a bullet through the other man's cheek, but Ogata could have just as easily blown his brains out. After all, this guy was hired to assassinate Ogata's asset. It was fair, justified. Nothing personal.
In a way, he was being unusually nice, leaving him with nothing more than a minor inconvenience.
Ogata pretended that he hadn't noticed the man's attractiveness even from half a mile away through his scope.
"So," Ogata began, lazily draping an arm over the back of the seat. "Didn't know you ever worked with this agency."
The other mercenary responded with a series of quick, muffled hums. Even with his mask off and his wounds nearly closed, he still wasn't speaking. Maybe he had lost his tongue, too. Ogata thought with a slow nod.
It must be deeply embarrassing, walking around with that. And frustrating. Their line of work required blending in, and now everyone who saw him would do a double take. He no longer looked like a sharp shooter capable of protecting an asset, but like a thug, a low-level goon.
That probably explained it. His old agency must have struggled to get him hired after such a visible failure. Now he was forced to look for work outside their usual zakonniki circles. And Ogata had to hold his hand through it all, like babysitting a toddler.
He sighed. He'd been hoping for an easy task. Now he'd have to watch both ways every time he got off for a pee, or there was a fair chance he'd get run over by their own minivan.
This wouldn't do. ogata pulled himself back in the pants, zipped up, and turned to find the other guy peeking creepily from the tinted window, probably thought he wouldn't be noticed.
He whistled as he dug out his freeze-dried meal pouches. "Want an ice cream sandwich?" He waved the foiled bag at Pachinko. The guy's eyes tracked the motion like a cat following a feather toy. "They say it's astronaut food."
No answer came, but Ogata tossed over the mint chocolate one anyway. He never liked that flavor. Besides, it'd be a little unbecoming to murder a guy who'd just given you ice cream in this heat.
The Russian took it, didn't say thanks, and started nibbling quietly at the frozen bar.
"So," Ogata leaned against the car door. The black van's surface was scorching against his arm, but he held the pose, because it looked cool. "When are we arriving?"
They arrived at the ferry bay as the new dawn broke over the sea line. After crossing the water and driving across the island, Ogata grew more impatient by the minute. Everyone around them was on vacation except him. Instead, he had to keep taking quick glances, just to make sure the other guy didn't have sudden ideas. But the Russian man had already passed out in the back seat after driving through the night until Ogata took the wheel.
Could've taken him out then, just to be safe. Ogata played with the idea. He was sure there'd be something interesting in this guy's rifle case that he'd want to keep for himself. But then again, this boring job needed some kind of stimuli. Sometimes Ogata liked feeling threatened. It pushed him to do better.
It wasn't until they rolled off another ferry that Pachinko finally stirred.
"Wha—" His fingers dug into the seat as he rubbed his eye with the back of his hand.
"Start changing," Ogata said simply. "We're on foot soon."
Ogata's gear was simple. The island was only about half the size of Yellowstone, and if his intel was right, the crime lord would be away in Singapore for his monthly visit in two days. With fewer guards left at the lair, two people were enough to sneak in and finish the job. So he'd packed light, just his gun bag and a few essentials. But when he glanced at Pachinko, he had to do a double take.
"The fuck are you doing?" he stared at the man, who looked ready for a week-long camping trip with his oversized backpack and two hard cases.
The other man just hummed vaguely, clinging firmly to his billy pot.
"C'mon, drop that." Ogata tsked. "We've got MREs. We're not boiling rainforest lizards."
But some men were just stubborn. It was a miracle their raft hadn't sunk under all that weight.
They couldn't use the road as it was under security surveillance and likely compromised by local influences. Instead, they took a raft from the deserted river mouth, where no residents or tourists ever went. It was safe, but far from cost-effective.
They had to stay in the mid of the channel to avoid running aground. The current pushed hard, forcing them to row constantly just to hold position. Ogata had expected more shade from the rainforest, but it never came. The coconut trees on the banks offered little cover, their sparse leaves letting the sun beat down relentlessly. Before long, his skin began to burn.
Pachinko, still hidden under his hat, mask, and sunglasses, glanced over. Without a word, he tossed the hat to Ogata.
Ogata accepted it as a peace offering. Maybe they'd settle their scores later, when they weren't busy sweating every ounce of life essence from their pores.
Just before sunset, they hauled the raft ashore and hid it. The river stretched on, but they had to take cover, since a storm was moving in.
They sat beneath a plastic sheet in awkward silence, finishing their meal kit dinners. When the rain finally stopped, Ogata began changing into dry clothes and winced at the scratches on his arms.
The sun had scorched his skin, leaving it red and tender, almost too painful to touch. He tried cooling his arms in the river, but even the water felt warm.
He heard the crisp snap of a bottle opening. Turning, Ogata found his companion scooping a clear gel from a green bottle, working it into his legs. Their eyes met, but the other man didn't pause, just continued applying the stuff while keeping the eye contact. Almost like a challenge when he was finally making use of that useless shit he carried all this way.
If he was that prepared, maybe he should've just worn long pants to begin with. Ogata's eyes trailed down, taking in the same sunburn that painted Pachinko's skin from the knees down. A sharp line separated pale thighs from scorched calves, and the thick hair there was now dark and slicked tight against the leg muscles with gel. Ogata swallowed, almost unnoticeably.
He coughed. "Can I have some of that? My arms hurt."
He'd meant for Pachinko to just pass the bottle when he was done, let Ogata tend to his own burns in peace. But instead, the man stood and pressed his gel-coated palm firmly against Ogata's biceps.
"Al—alright." A little surprised, Ogata held still. The coolness spread quickly over his parched skin, as if the parched layers were glued back together.
And Pachinko took the job seriously. He wasn't satisfied with just a surface layer. He meant to rub it in. He even handed Ogata the bottle, so he could probably cupped both hands around one thick arm, working the gel in with firm squeezes tirelessly up and down.
"I think my biceps are fine, Pachinko," Ogata said dryly. "It's the forearms that hurt."
"Pavlichenko." The man's voice was rough, breath speeding up, yet he had no trouble forming the long name. He ignored Ogata's suggestion entirely, his hands continuing going wherever they felt like going.
"I know your name," Ogata replied, holding his breath to keep his voice even. This really wasn't the best time, not when the other man was too close to miss any reaction. "First name, last name, patronymic name… Too long for my liking."
"Vasya," the guy offered, his voice low.
A corner of Ogata's mouth lifted. "Did't know we were on a first-name basis. But fine. Try pronouncing mine."
The other man struggled for half a minute before managing something vaguely like "Haiku." Ogata just waved it off. It wasn't his fault his tongue couldn't quite touch his palate.
