Chapter Text
Buenos Aires, Argentina
November 10th, 1971
Iwaizumi would never truly be able to wrap his head around the flipped seasons. The warm wind blowing over the tarmac felt nothing like any November he remembered. His starched dress shirt peeled away from his shoulders as he ran is index finger inside the collar. It sat bunched up between his skin and his tan suit jacket with the uncomfortable familiarity that always came from long haul flights.
Three bloody connections, he groused as he stepped inside the sunlit terminal. It could be worse, a voice that sounded an awful lot like his stoic handler sounded in the back of his mind. Could have been four.
It could have easily been four, if the headquarters of their unit was in Washington like most agents. But Iwaizumi and Ushijima were not like most agents, as they were so frequently reminded. With a bit of hindsight, Iwa supposed it was inevitable that they would have ended working together. Both foreign born, both Japanese, both held in equal amounts of suspicion by the rest of the CIA.
“Let the two Japs work on the case together,” had been Dulles’ specific wording,“They’ll get along like a house on fire!”
The scrutiny and slurs were largely contained within the older, upper rank agents, so they were seldom said directly to Iwa’s face. But still, the fact that the sentiments lingered didn’t make his job any easier.
A small army of ceiling fans spun in unison above him, pushing the warm air around in circles that did nothing to alleviate the heat. The security officer’s blue uniform complimented her chestnut hair nicely. Iwaizumi had no idea how she wasn’t sweating to death in her little glass booth as she collected his two passports. It was like her own mini greenhouse in a room already made of glass. And yet, her makeup and neat low bun remained flawless; not a single hair out of place.
“Business or pleasure, sir?” she asked in perfect English.
“Business,” he said, his own English slightly accented, “10 days. I’ll be in Buenos Aires until the 25th.”
She flipped between the red and blue booklets, checking the names and stamps, before lifting her head with a smile, “Welcome to Argentina, Mr. Iwaizumi.”
He lifted his steel blue suitcase off the floor and walked straight through the terminal, cutting the throngs of tourists and harried businessmen with only a bit of resistance. The doors opened to the line of taxis waiting to take passengers to the city center.
“Hotel de Palace Alvear, por favor,” he said, passing the driver 100 pesos and a two dollar tip as he shuffled awkwardly across the faux leather seat. The man shook his head in agreement before flipping the car into first and merging in with the rest of the traffic.
It was only just past two in the afternoon as the taxi rolled along the duty cobbled streets. He still had a full seven hours until the gala this evening, but Iwaizumi already felt like he was running late. A part of him knew it was just the nerves — an even smaller part of him acknowledged that the feeling would never go away. If everything went according to plan, a man would be dead by Iwaizumi’s hands by midnight.
A monster pretending to be a man, more like it, he thought dryly. But still, his target technically counted as human all the same.
“Aquí, señor,” said the driver, pulling Iwaizumi from his musings.
He glanced out the window as a bellhop dressed in emerald green suit approached the car door.
“Gracias,” said Iwa, tapping the back of the row seat, thanking the taxi driver, “Y buenas tardes.”
“De nada, de nada,” said the man, waving Iwa away with a genuine smile.
“Bienvenidos, señor,” said the bellhop, automatically taking his suitcase and disappearing with it. Iwa felt a fleeting moment of panic at having the luggage out of his sight, he didn’t even have a room number yet. But as he glanced up at the marble facade and belle époque architecture of the overly fancy hotel, he had a sneaking suspicion a place like this was not known for losing people’s luggage.
The man and the front desk presented him with his key and waved him toward the elevators with an impressive smoothness that told Iwa the man was older and more experienced than he looked. In the span of a few minutes he had handled three customers simultaneously, flipping back and forth between English, Spanish, and Russian with an ease that made the words all seem like they were from his native language. Be careful, Iwa thought with a wry smile and he pressed the lift button for the 8th floor, a talent like that and the CIA is gonna come knocking at your door soon.
The room was elegant, grand in a way that felt excessive to Iwa, but should have felt entirely natural to Minamoto Shohei, the cover name on both his faux Japanese and American passports. There was a bedroom and a lounge with space to entertain guests, not that Iwa was expecting any. The walls were set with a soft green wallpaper that complimented the darker uniforms of the hotel staff. The furniture itself was all cream, none of which looked particularly comfortable, but he doubted he’d even be sitting on them once.
His suitcase was already waiting at the end of his bed as he stripped of his sweaty airplane attire and stepped into a scalding hot shower. The water was a balm for his rising nerves as he looked up at the shower head. He let it run until it began to turn cold. He wrapped his towel around his waist and returned to his suitcase for the rest of his clothes.
After laying his suit out on the bed, he flipped his suitcase over and coded in the latch to open the hidden compartment.
“0104…” he said to no one but himself.
The slat opened with a satisfying click, reveling a small leather pouch, a steel silencer, and his gun; 22mm Walter PPK, CIA standard issue. He opened the pouch and nearly dropped the ear piece on to the floor as it slipped between his fingers and landed in his other hand.
“Damn thing,” he muttered, slotting the hidden device into his ear, as he reached for his pants and settled the silencer into place. Many years ago, an older agent had said, “One day you will prep your gun before you even put your boxers on.” He had politely laughed it off at the time, never imagining a world where that of all things would become a reflex.
Iwaizumi scoffed to himself as he set the gun down and reached for his underwear, “Guess he was right…”
The plastic ear pieces crackled to life with the sound of a familiar voice, “Iwaizumi-san,” said Ushijima, his voice a robotic mimic of the real thing, “Can you hear me?”
“Loud and clear,” said Iwa, adjusting the ear piece as he ran his towel through his still damp hair.
“How was your flight?” Ushijima asked. Iwaizumi knew pleasantries and small talk never came easily to the man. He could put on a brilliant performance when the mission called for it, but Ushijima’s skills as an agent largely lay in a more behind-the-scenes fashion. And he had the kill count to prove it.
“Fine,” Iwa replied, “You know how it is. Customs in Panama always takes ages, and the ride is never smooth between Rio and Buenos Aires.”
Ushijima hummed with a noncommittal reply that translated to, “Yes, I know exactly what you mean.”
Iwaizumi took a step out on to the balcony, taking in the breathtaking summer skyline as he began to tuck his dress shirt into his trousers. It reminded him of Madrid in some ways, San Diego in others, but every city had a different identity — a unique fingerprint to call their own.
“Where are you by the way?” Iwa asked.
“I’m never very far away.”
Iwaizumi turned his head at the doubling effect of Ushijima’s voice. Sat on the balcony next to his was the man himself, sipping a cup of tea and looking more at ease than any spy handler had the right to look. Then again, even at his most relaxed Ushijima Wakatoshi still had a dependable habit of looking stiff. Maybe he was always on edge so it made him seem relaxed.
Ushijima lifted his cup with a neutral expression as if to say, ‘what took you so long?’
Iwaziumi rolled his eyes.
“You need to fix your phrasing,” said Iwa, adjusting his cufflinks, as he stalked back into his suite and away from the balcony.
Iwaizumi could see Ushijima’s confused head tilt in his mind’s eye, “How so?”
“It just sounds ominous when you say it like that.”
A brief pause before…
“Noted,” said Ushijima.
Iwaizumi scoffed. He knew his handler was not going to change a single thing, but he appreciated his poor attempt nonetheless.
“Shall we go over the mission again?” Ushijima asked.
“Sure,” said Iwa, slipping his bow tie under his collar, “Take a car to the marina at 9:00. Arrive fashionably late by 9:20. Wait for the guest to drink themsleves silly. Catch Herr Gerhard Müller alone. And make it look like an accident.”
There was a pause down the line that Iwa hadn’t been expecting, “What?” he asked, “Am I forgetting something?”
“You’re nervous,” Ushijima stated.
An “I am not” reply sat poised on the end of Iwa’s tongue. But it would have been a lie, and there was no sense in wasting time by lying to a man who immediately knew how read him,
“How can you tell?” he asked.
“You’re reaching for levity when you normally just state the facts of the mission,” said Ushijima, “It’s your tell.”
Iwa sighed. He couldn’t put his finger on why, but there was something about this city that was putting him on edge. There was no reason for it. The weather was stunning. The mission was simple. And it was exactly what he had been trained for. So why did he feel the lingering agitation just beneath his skin? What was it about Argentina that had him feeling so… off?
“If I can be perfectly candid—”
“When are you not?” said Iwa, equally parts barbarous and fond.
“I don’t think you have any reason to worry,” said Ushijima, rolling forward as if Iwa had never interrupted him, “You’ve handled far more capable, more dangerous, targets before and come out with barely a scrape.”
“Yes, but those times didn’t require me to socialize with Nazis for three hours,” said Iwa closing his suitcase again and setting it at the end of his bed, “I didn’t realize drinking ‘blood money champagne’ was part of the job description.”
“Then you clearly we’re paying close enough attention,” said Ushijima, “You are employed by the American government.”
Ushijima was actually quite funny when he tried to be, although Iwa knew few people would believe him for saying so.
“You will be more than fine, Iwaizumi-san,” he said, by way of parting encouragement, “What could possibly go wrong?”
Ushijima was right. The CIA was asking him to take out a target with extremely limited hand-to-hand combat training, who was almost certainly going to be several glasses of champagne in by the time Iwa was able to get him alone.
“Should be an easy one,” said Iwa, settling down in one of the suite’s arm chairs (just as uncomfortable as it looked), as he picked up his dog eared copy of The Sun Also Rises of the top of his suitcase. Only really looking for ways to kill time, “I’m sure it will be fine.”
__________
For a wanted Nazi criminal, Gerhard Müller was not doing a very good job of living quietly. Iwaizumi had to hold in his shocked surprise as he stepped out of the car and took in the sight of the 150 foot yacht. It could barely be classed as a yacht at this size, this was a private cruise liner. Three tall masts sat evenly spaced along the length of the ship with births wide enough that a man would struggle to reach all the way around. Both the starboard and leeward sides had been decorated with yellow and red lanterns, and despite himself, Iwa found the effect comforting.
He took a steadying breath before slipping on his dark grey mask and made his way toward the walkway that lead on to the ship. There were easily 200 people on the yacht, each one dressed in black tie and sporting some kind of mask. The host had a reputation for hosting expensive and elaborate parties — Viennese waltzes, polo matches, and masquerade balls like tonight, — with long guest lists. It made slipping in to a party like this easy enough, but it did make getting his target alone more of a challenge.
He felt an uneasy bristle beneath his skin by how many people were in attendance for more than one reason. The party was funded by Müller himself, and by money he made on the deaths of thousands, maybe millions. Perhaps the guests didn’t know. Perhaps they were blissfully unaware and assumed Müller’s millions were family money covered in less blood than the truth would tell. A darker part of his mind floated the more likely truth.
Perhaps they just don’t care.
He spotted Müller at the ship’s bow, surrounded by a horde of vapish admirers. Their host commanded attention easily as he held court and welded his champagne glass in hand like a king’s sceptre. His adoring fans
He’d been a man of industry during the war; close enough to the top to be in the moustached man’s inner circle, but very technically, not military. There was irony in that now Iwa supposed. Müller had been savvy enough to flee Germany before facing trial, but was now not savvy enough to know that the US government had put a it out on him. He was neither particularly bright nor wealthy enough to be of use to them, so it was decided he had to go.
It made his skin crawl thinking about the contrary; how many murderers had been granted a pardon by the US Government simply because they had a skill that the Government wanted.
For some unusual reason, he couldn’t shake the feeling he was being watched. It was probably nothing, most of the party guests were far too inebriated to be of a a great to anyone but themselves. But still…
“Iwaizumi,” Ushijima’s voice crackled to life in his ear. Odd, he thought to himself, he almost never calls until after the mission was over.
“Ushijima what’s wrong?”
“There… onboard with… …other… same… target…”
Iwa tried to make it look casual as he adjusted the dial on the hidden earpiece. It didn’t have a very long range on the bed of days and being on water just made the connection five times worse.
“Do n… engage… nfront…!”
Iwa suppressed a wince as the device whined and died in his ear. He leaned away from the crowd of party goers as he took it out and dropped it into his half finished glass of champagne. It was probably nothing. They had very specific codes to kill a mission halfway through, none of which sounded like what Ushijima had been trying to say. He’d figure it out at the debrief in a few hours anyway.
As the night waxed on, the party became more and more loose as the alcohol endlessly flowed. Iwaizumi had never been a particular fan of it before, but he was glad when his targets were. It made his job far easier and afforded him of a built in excuse if he needed to make a person’s death look like an accident.
Such a shame! I can’t believe he fell down the stairs and broke every single vertebrae on the way down!
Iwa chuckled to himself remembering the Panama incident a few years earlier. Not his best work, but one of his first solo missions, so he remembered it fondly. Or as fondly as one can remember a covert assassination.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” said a woman in a long pale ballgown, “Please take your places. The fireworks will begin very soon!”
A chorus of ooo’s and ahh’s became Iwaizumi’s cue to cut away from the crowd. Müller had moved away from the crowd to one of the upper balconies for a more private viewing. It only made Iwa’s job easier.
He glanced around the leeward side of the ship, keeping his distance from Müller and watching out for any potential witnesses. Not that the word of any of these drunks would be particularly reliable, but still, it never hurt to be careful.
Müller swayed on his feet a few meters ahead. Iwa ran his hand across the inside of his jacket, feeling for his gun and silencer. Maybe he wouldn’t have to shoot the man at all; a slam to the head and a push off the balcony might be all he needed.
He freed the gun from it’s holster, holding it close to his head. “Just a bit more,” he whispered under his breath, watching carefully as Müller swayed toward the edge of the upper deck, “A little to the left… come on…”
He allowed himself to extend his arm, if Müller had turned he would have seen him and his cover would be blown. But there was no reprieve coming. The first firework sounded just over their heads. Now, now he should—
His arm was pulled back. Pinned to the wall by a dagger that had landed in his sleeve.
What the fuck?
He looked across the deck. A tall, masked man stood just 30 feet away, arm still poised from the expertly trained throw. His brown hair was combed perfectly to the side, not a hair out of place. His mask was a deep emerald green, accented with flashed of bright blue, and it curved down both sides of his face like a vicious pair of fangs.
That throw was not an accident and this was not just any party guest. This man was a professional. And he wanted Iwa dead.
“Fuck…”
The man stalked toward Iwa, crossing the distance with a second dagger raised above his head. Iwa dodged the blade with only a moment to spare, tearing his jacket clean off and leaving it lodged in the wall by the first knife.
No one said anything about Gerhard Müller being ready for him, let alone having an exceptionally skilled personal guard. Ushijima’s now poorly timed “what could possibly go wrong?” rattled around in the back of his mind like a curse. This, apparently, was the answer.
The man pivoted around the missed strike with incredible speed; moving fluidly through the action like he’d always intended to do so. Iwa dodged several times, leaning away from the blows that landed dangerously close to his face. His back connected with the solid rail at the edge of the deck. Behind the mask, the man’s eyes glinted with twisted glee, — a look that so clearly read, “No where left to run.”
Iwaizumi dropped low to the ground, kicking the man’s feet out from under him. He landed with a thud. The smile that cracked across Iwa’s face vanished in an instant as the man bowed his back and immediately lept back to his feet.
“Oh, come on,” said Iwa.
He needed to take the offensive. Reaching for his gun, he quickly fired off two shots that the masked man instantly avoided.
The porcelain mask clattered across the deck, pieces scattering everywhere. So much for hiding my face, Iwa thought for a fleeting moment as he continued to roll across the ship’s floor. The other man landed on top of him as the hit the ship’s outer wall, straddling his waist, knife raised over his head.
Fuck, Iwaizumi thought.
Out of options and places to run, he braced his arms in front of his face, already thinking beyond the blade’s inevitable impact.
The man froze.
Stunned by something he saw, his grip faltered ever so slightly on the hit of his knife. Iwa was not about to look a gift horse in the mouth as he rotated his hips, aiming to slam his leg into the man’s upper body.
The man lowered the blade, just a second before impact. His mask still on but beneath it the rage and determination of a trained killer had melted away.
“Iwa-chan…?”
The man’s head slammed against the deck with a echoey metal thud as Iwaizumi’s thigh made contact with his neck. Iwa felt as though he had been hit in the head as the man’s word — a long forgotten name, — rattled around inside his head. The single word had flickered to light vivid memories of a life he had nearly forgotten. How? How?
“What did you say…?”
The masked man coughed under Iwaizumi’s weight; winded from the unexpected blow, and lying crushed beneath him as Iwa’s knees pressed into his shoulder.
It was impossible, there were five billion people on this planet. The odds were astronomical. It couldn’t be.
And yet, despite every piece of logical reasoning telling him it was impossible, there was a small voice in the back of his mind — chanting the singular truth Iwaizumi had always known.
He was impossible.
He felt it then, as the warm November breeze cut across his freshly exposed cheek, the desperate need to be certain. He needed to know if it was true.
The man cried out in pain as Iwa rolled him over, pressing his weight down to keep his arms trapped at his sides. Iwa felt his arms desperately flail as he seemed to realize Iwaizumi was reaching for his mask, but he was too strong, and had already been expecting the response. He pressed his forearm down across the man’s chest as he tore the mask off with his opposite hand.
A pair of soft brown eyes blinked up at him as his face was now fully exposed to the evening air.
“Oikawa…?”
It was true.
His breath was still coming fast as Iwa sat back to give him air, “Hello, Iwa-chan.”
There was a slight sheepishness to his tone, like he’d been caught stealing his mushrooms without asking. Not this. Not a decade of silence concluded by… whatever had just happened. Iwaizumi sat back on his heels giving Oikawa space to sit up. His hair was shorter than it had been in high school. He had always worn his brown waves a bit on the longer side, despite his parents protests. But now, even slicked back, Iwaizumi could tell it was shorter. He was taller too, much to Iwa’s annoyance. His mind felt like it was stuck in a tidal wave; one that crashed against the inside of his skull over and over as dozens of emotions battered over him. Rage, relief, anger, sadness; they flowed over him all at once, and then receded to start again.
Oikawa made no move to run as he sat up and gingerly rolled his shoulder, and for that, Iwa was quietly thankful. The thanks was dulled beneath his tempest of confusion and simmering rage, but there nonetheless. He wasn’t sure he could handle losing Oikawa again without answers, an explanation, something.
Oikawa gently made an effort to stand, “Look, I know you’re probably angry with me…”
It was that Iwa’s shock gave way and reality seemed to snap back into place, like a rubber band pulled taught in the back of Iwa’s mind. He grabbed Oikawa’s shirt front and slammed him back down on the deck, allowing his anger and pain to take the driver’s seat. Oikawa groaned as he landed back on the same shoulder that Iwa had pressed his knee into.
He didn’t care. Let the bastard feel something.
“Do not tell me how I feel. Angry does not even begin to cover it.”
“I know! I know!” Oikawa said, physical and mental anguish both clear in his tone.
“Except you don’t,” Iwa spat, lifting Oikawa a few inches off the deck before slamming him down again, “You have no idea how I feel!”
Oikawa winced, trying to curl against his wounded shoulder despite Iwa pinning him in place, “Iwa, I’m sor—”
“Don’t fucking say it. You don’t mean it so you don’t get to say it.”
A tear dropped on to the deck beside Oikawa’s head. Iwa felt another roll down his cheek but he was to angry to do anything. The world felt too loud, it all felt like too much.
“Iwa, please, I—”
“You don’t get to disappear for nine years and then just say ‘I’m sorry’. What the hell is wrong with you? Where the fuck have you—”
A sharp wooden crack echoed from behind. Iwa turned his head as the bow-side mast splintered near the bottom like an ancient tree felled after millennia. The sound of scattering footsteps and panicked screams came from the upper deck as party goers scrambled to clear out of the way. The ropes began to snap, metal riggings lifted from the deck and flew into the air, unable to hold the weight as the mast slowly leaned closer, toward their side of the boat.
Oikawa’s eyes flashed wide as he watch the mast swing precariously in their direction. He narrowed them a moment later as he lifted his knees out from under Iwa and pressed them close to his chest.
Iwa leaned back in his confusion, “What are you—?”
“Sorry, Iwa-chan.”
Iwaizumi let out a low grunt as the balls of Oikawa’s feet connected with his chest. His world turned as Oikawa extended his legs and sent Iwa flying over the side of the deck. The rush of cool night air helped settle his nerves as he careened towards the dark water. He righted himself just seconds before impact, extending his arms he collided with the inky salt water. He emerged with a gasp just in time to watch Oikawa elegantly dive into the water after him. He sputtered gracelessly as he surfaced again. His hair had lost most its hold and clung to the side of his face in streaky chunks. Despite himself, Iwa couldn’t help but think, he still looked good.
A deafening crack sounded as the mast finally snapped free, careening towards the water in three large chunks.
“Look out!”
Iwa grabbed hold of Oikawa’s neck and pushed them both underwater, away from the largest mastpiece headed toward them. The crash was barely muted as the mast broke the surface of the water and sunk into the depths just a few feet away from them. Iwa felt the pull of inertia as it slid past them and into the darkness below. He made sure to push Oikawa back toward the surface before coming up himself, gasping again for much needed air.
“Thank you,” said Oikawa between laboured breaths.
“Don’t mention it,” said Iwa, coughing out water as he sounded equally out of breath, “Nice kick.”
“Thanks,” “I’ve been practicing.”
Iwaizumi rolled his eyes, settling back into long forgotten reflexes with more ease than he cared to admit. He was still angry, he still needed answers and Oikawa was not leaving his sight until he had them. But there, despite himself and every logical reasoning, Iwaizumi knew the fondness he had for Oikawa Tooru could not be stamped out by a century apart, let alone a decade. It was just have to exist in tandem now with the anger and pain.
“Iwaizumi!”
Iwa turned his head toward the edge of the marina deck. The sounds of people shouting and police sirens suddenly came back to him as he pulled his gaze away from Oikawa. Ushijima stood at the edge of the deck, his hair was slicked back and his black tie suit was almost identical to Iwa’s. Or well, had been, lord knows what had become of his jacket. He looked the same as every other party guest, even clutching a dark blue mask in his opposite hand.
“What happened?”
“It’s a long fucking story,” said Iwa. Translation: I’ll save it for the mission debrief. It was sure to be a long one this time.
“Oikawa!”
Iwa turned his head back toward the battered deck of the massacred yacht. A young man around Iwa’s age, ran up to the side. His mask was maroon and silver which he hastily removed to reveal a rather stressed expression.
“What the fuck did you do?!”
“A spontaneous change of plans, Samu-chan!” said Oikawa, sounding as buoyant as ever, “I was interrupted by… well…”
The unknown man’s gaze drifted from Oikawa to Iwa and then across the narrow stretch to where Ushijima stood. His face dropped as he met the handler’s eye.
“Ushijima?” he said, his tone less than shocked, but far from pleased.
“Miya?”
Oikawa looked just as confused as Iwa at their handler’s reactions, “You two know each other?”
A sense of recognition seemed to cross ‘Miya’s’ face, before being quickly swallowed up by unmasked frustration and no small amount of rage, “Oh for the love of god!”
He continued to mutter to himself as he stepped away from the ship’s edge, presumably to make it off the yacht and yell at Oikawa and Ushijima (or both).
Ushijima sighed.
“Stay there. I’ll get you a ladder,” he said before vanishing out of sight again.
Despite the absurdity of the situation, or perhaps exactly because of it, Oikawa began to laugh. It was a bit manic and over bright, but Iwa couldn’t blame him. How else do you respond at a moment like this?
Iwa ducked his head below the surface of the water, pushing a plethora of bubbles out his nose in a useless attempt to clear his mind. In the past hour, his entire life had flipped upside down by the reappearance of Oikawa, a man he had already resigned himself to never seeing again.
It was just creeping up to midnight by the time Ushijima threw the rope ladder over the side of the deck. In a different universe, the mission was already done and he was back in his hotel room enjoying a good book. But here in this universe? He wasn’t half so lucky.
Iwaizumi had a feeling it was going to be a very long night.