“So?” Wendy asked, starting to feel uncomfortable under some intense scrutiny from the other two women. She twisted the teacup in her hands. “What is it you want from me?”

“I’m building a team,” Irene said. “Joy is a talented grifter. An actress by day, she can convince nearly anyone to do anything--simultaneously a perfect middleman for intel and a distraction, if need be.”

“I've never heard of her,” Wendy muttered.

“Well, I didn't say she was a big actress,” Irene pointed out.

“Hey--”

“So you’re a con artist,” Wendy said, turning to her. She kept her voice level, removing traces of curiosity. “A scammer.”

Joy shrugged a shoulder, leaning her elbows on the dining table. “A very good one,” Joy agreed.

Wendy stopped spinning her teacup, bemused. “If I may ask, Irene, what's an ex-intelligence agent doing in a house with a con artist?” she asked, finally, hesitantly, sipping at the room-temperature tea. 

“Wouldn't you like to know,” Joy said, voice full of insinuation and innuendo, but when Wendy turned to stare at her, the woman was startlingly straight-faced.

Perhaps the woman was better at this job than Wendy was giving her credit for. “Excuse me?”

Irene smiled, somewhat apologetically. “Don’t listen to her. She loves to kid. Joy and I… we--we have worked together in the past, and--”

“It's okay, Irene. You can say it. It's not a bad word,” Joy prompted, to Wendy’s increasing confusion. She lifted her brows and looked at Irene expectantly.

Irene blinked at Joy in turn.

“It's called friendship, Irene,” Joy said, smug at her own joke. “We’re friends.”

Wendy rolled her eyes and Irene groaned.

"Your role, Wendy," Irene continued, "is the mercenary--the metaphorical muscle and field expert. We need someone who can take people out without a hitch, and you are very clearly trained in weaponry and quite the selection of hand-to-hand combat techniques."

She frowned. "What do you mean metaphorical?" At least, she supposed, she was getting the recognition she deserved. Beneath her initial thoughts, she mind itched for a number, a price--some sort of tangible pay for this job. “Also, before you continue--what’s in it for me?”

Irene gave yet another exasperated sigh. Personally, Wendy thought it was a very reasonable question. “Upholding good morals and helping maintain human integrity?” she tried.

Wendy stared.

“And three thousand, cash.”

Wendy squinted. “Five thousand.”

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Joy grin at Irene’s hesitancy.

“... Four thousand,” Irene tried, “and consider that this is a team of five, not one.”

If she hadn’t already been surprised at three thousand dollars, she was at the team. Five was a small enough team that suggested genuine trust would be required, and she was certain that wasn’t listed on her contract. “Four thousand,” she agreed--it was more than she had seen in quite some years for a single job. Suspicious . Where did these two get the money?

“Who else have you got your eye on?” she asked instead.

Irene reached behind her, brushing her sleeve against Wendy’s chair to grab a folder off to the side. “I’ve been doing some research--”

Wendy shot her hand out, snatching the folder out of the woman’s hands. “Kang Seulgi?” She pulled the folder closer to her face, examining the taped photo closely. It was pixelated and in washed-out colors, but if it wasn't Seulgi, it was her twin--and Wendy had known Seulgi long enough to know she had never had a twin. In fact, she had helped her move into the apartment the photo had been taken at. “What do you want with her?”

Irene raised a brow; exchanged a glance with Joy. “You're acquainted.” Somehow, Irene made it sound like a statement instead of a question.

Childhood memories and a friendship cut short just hours prior; if Wendy were to have told anyone about faking her own death, it should have been her closest friend, not someone who she thought she had killed years ago. A deep breath, and a sigh. "I know her," Wendy said. If she was going to be interrogated by these strangers, she wasn't about to bother giving out information for free. Frankly, with the amount of research Irene seemed to have done, she was surprised they did not already know.

"That's very vague," Joy pointed out.

"Yes," Wendy said.

Irene sighed. "Let's not make this difficult. It doesn't matter, either way--Seulgi will be our transport."

"Transport?"

"Getaway driver--whatever you would like to call it."

Wendy stared. Was Seulgi even a good driver? "Seulgi isn't a criminal." Not like the rest of us.

Irene took the folder from her hands, quick enough to threaten paper cuts. Wendy rubbed the undersides of her fingers with her thumb. "That never seemed to stop you from doing your job, so let me do mine."

Joy whistled. "Low blow."

"Shut up," Wendy and Irene said in unison. She could worry about Seulgi later. Seulgi would be the best person of all of them--and if Wendy could help it, Seulgi wouldn't get involved at all.

"There's also one more," Irene added, after a distinct pause. "She's--"

"Are all of your associates female?" Wendy interjected.

Joy gave something that was partially a pleasant smile and partially an insufferable smirk. "Do you happen to take issue with women, Seungwan?"

"First of all, don't call me that." Wendy clamped shut for a moment. She wasn't quite sure what her second point was supposed to be.

"Anyway," Irene said, this time haltingly, "her name is Kim Yerim. Excellent breaking-and-entering skills.

"Kim Yerim..." Had she heard that name before? "What does she do for a living?" Wendy asked, trying to pinpoint the familiarity.

Irene shifted in her seat, taking a sip of her room-temperature tea before responding. "She's a student."

"Oh," she said. "What university?"

"In high school," Irene added, quieter.

It took a moment for that statement to sink in. When it did, Wendy stood, chair scraping against the tile as it nearly fell backwards. "She's a child?"

Next to her, Joy put her hand on Wendy's shoulder, pushing her back into the chair. Wendy fall back into it solidly, hearing it scrape a few more inches back. "Sit down, she's the best at what she does."

"But if she--"

"She is barely younger than us, and Joy is right--she's the one we need. Inconspicuous, small, clever. I've been keeping tabs on her for a few years.”

Wendy busied her hands with unrolling and rerolling her sleeves. “Fine, not my problem. When do we start?”

Joy glanced at her wristwatch, pursing her lips. “We seek out Kang Seulgi in approximately 45 minutes. Explore the house for the time being, if you wish.”

Seulgi. Wendy couldn’t remember the first time they met, but she could remember every weekend trip and late study night they had. Kitchen adventures to philosophical discussions, the years they had been friends were very dear to her.

She missed the girl; that was for sure.

When Wendy had first accepted a target--which she had learned to inconspicuously call jobs--she had been so close to telling Seulgi the whole scenario. It was always at the tip of her tongue, and yet…

And now, years down the road, Wendy had been driven to abandon her old life, including Seulgi. She hadn't spoken her in months--hadn't even seen her in years. Seulgi would believe her dead. Guilt was not Wendy’s favorite emotion, and it was starting to nibble at her conscience.

40 minutes.

Wendy began to make her way around the quaint house that had become the headquarters for this operation. She wandered down the hallway Joy had first emerged from, noting the bleakness of the walls. At least , she figured, it means no one actually lives here.

Peeking into the first room, she encountered nothing of interest: a small bathroom, fitted with a shower and a few stray toiletries. She moved down the hallway and--is this a bedroom?

A few steps more and she stood in front of an unmade bed, a small knapsack and a half-zipped duffle bag. Is this where Joy stays?

The half-filled closet certainly suggested it, at least, all bright and bold hues with not a single button-up in sight.

“Never seen a bed before?”

Wendy had heard her approach, but wanted answers. “Do you sleep here?”

Joy stepped inside. “That is generally what people do in bedrooms, yes. Although--”

Wendy rushed to stop the thought. “No, I mean you stay here? In this house? Don't you have your own place?”

“I do. You're standing in it.”

This was not expected. “Why?”

“Ask Irene,” Joy offered, and leaned back against her own plain bed. “Or join me, if--”

Wendy closed the door behind her as she left the room, continuing down the hall. Another barren room followed some storage closets, and then next door was closed. This place seemed more fit for an extended hospital stay than either a home or headquarters.

30 minutes.

Wendy knocked--Irene had retreated somewhere after the “debriefing,” and this was the only remaining potential hideout.

“Come in.”

Wendy tried the door. “It's locked,” she said, stepping back.

The other woman gave a faint “hmm” and opened the door, stanning in the doorway. Her hair was tied back in a professional ponytail, glasses resting on the bridge of her nose.

“Hi,” Wendy ended up saying.

Irene looked, to say the least, unimpressed. She must have been in the middle of working. “Hello. Is there an issue?”

Right. “There's three bedrooms,” Wendy said.

“Yes.”

She leaned against the wall. “Do you intend to keep us here during the entire job?”

Irene gave a noncommittal half-shrug and took off her glasses. She folded the circle frames, dropping her arm to her side. “Yes. The more I see you, the more I know you're not off double-crossing us.” She waved her hand. “Not that we don't trust you. I say ‘you’ broadly--the general ‘you’--”

“There's only three rooms,” Wendy repeated, shifting her weight.

Irene opened to respond, but Joy shouted from across the house. “You two can share one if you're that concerned, Wendy.”

She pressed her lips together. “Thanks for the room, then.”

Without waiting for a response, she spun on her heel and headed toward the remaining bedroom.

Time to come up with a speech that will dissuade Seulgi from ever being a part of this.

When was the last time she had stood on this doorstep, staring at the worn wooden door, listening to the buzzer alert Seulgi of her arrival?

Never, she remembered. With a glance to her left, she appended that thought. And definitely not with Irene.  Since Seulgi had lived here, Wendy had been the owner of the duplicate key. She was in and out of this place like a resident. Her chest tightened at the memory. No more.

A few quiet moments later, Seulgi opened the door and peeked out at the two of them. Her hair fell over a simple black shirt. She made direct eye contact with Wendy, blinked, gave a definitive “Nope!” and shut the door.

Wendy gaped. “Hey!” she shouted, slamming on the door with an open palm. “It's cold out here. Se--Kang Seulgi, let me in!”

Irene stepped forward, tilting her head with something like amusement. “That went well.”

“I don't see you doing much either,” Wendy scoffed, opting to slam on the door again. On the second hit, the door whirled open and Wendy had to stop her hand from hitting her friend-- former friend?--directly in the face. “Ah.”

Seulgi threw an anxious glance to the left, then the right, then at Irene. Waving them in quickly, she spoke in hushed tones. “Wendy?”

She breathed a sigh of relief. “Listen, I have a lot to expla--”

“I knew it wasn't true!”

Irene turned curious eyes from the precarious light fixture to Wendy, who could only shrug helplessly. “What do you mean?”

“You, you know,” Seulgi said, gesturing vaguely at the small volume of space Wendy occupied. “Dying. I thought I just didn't want to believe it, but deep down…”

Frowning, Wendy was beginning to think all these women were out to poke holes in her professional demeanor. “I thought I did a good job,” she huffed indignantly. “What gave it away?”

The other woman shook her head, putting her hands in the pockets of the apron strewn haphazardly around her neck. “Oh, nothing, I just… I mean, I wasn't invited to the funeral, for one thing. Seemed suspicious.”

Wendy wanted to explain, tell her she couldn't bear to lie to her closest friend, tell her what and why and everything, but Irene chose this moment to begin her spiel.

“Kang Seulgi--may I just call you Seulgi?”

Why wasn't her introduction this polite for me? And at my own funeral.

Seulgi finally turned her attention to the apparent stranger. “I suppose, but it certainly depends on who you are.”

On cue, Irene pulled that iconic business card from her crisp jacket pocket and the ex-hitman/mercenary reveled in experiencing everything from the sidelines. It was almost hilarious, she reflected, to know the lengths Irene and Joy had gone through to introduce themselves.

“Joy won't be coming with us this time,” Irene had explained, sliding into the passenger seat of Wendy’s car as they left the headquarters. Wendy frowned, briefly wondering if she had Joy drop her off at the cemetery hours prior--purely so Irene could make Wendy drive back.

“Okay,” Wendy had replied, not particularly heartbroken by this turn of events. The car door closed with a satisfying slam. “Ready, then?”

Irene furrowed her brow. “Absolutely not. Here's your script.”

Wendy stared at the paper being waved in front of her face, mouth agape, a laugh threatening to escape. “My--”

“Yes, I get it, it's hilarious, yes, we use scripts around here. Are you taking it or not?”

After a moment, she realized the woman was being serious. Wendy snatched the paper, scouring over the lines. She was almost disappointed that any lines labeled “W” actually sounded like something she might say. Before her laid a conversation that already included her trying to dissuade her friend. Was she so predictable?

“My whole purpose in this dialogue is to try to convince her not to come,” Wendy began slowly, questioningly.

“We both get what we want. Is there a particular issue?”

Wendy chewed on her bottom lip, scanning the handwritten lines. How was she supposed to stop Seulgi when that was exactly what was required? Irene must somehow already know Seulgi agrees, no matter what Wendy did. What went on in that mind of hers?

“This sounds familiar. You pull out a business card, throwing it to Seulgi--ah, it's a test. Isn't it?”

Irene gave a faint smile. “Good. I like to gauge reflexes when possible.”

“And then you say, ‘Irene, Private Investigator. I believe I could help you find work, if--’” Wendy paused, leaned back in her seat. “How did you know she was struggling to pay rent?”

A shrug. “Isn't everyone?”

“Then Seul--you've written lines for her, too?”

Another shrug. “She doesn't know that.”

“She says--”

“Sounds odd, and I'm listening, but I need Seungwan to tell me something, first.”

Wendy’s mouth opened. She had to admit, Irene seemed pretty good at this. “I can explain,” Wendy was already saying, stepping toward her friend. The truth. She blew out a breath. No big deal. She could do this. “I'm--I was a… a hired gun,” she tried, forcing herself to not cringe at the words. “Like a mercenary. ‘Gun’ made it sound worse, didn't it.”

Seulgi remained impassive. “Hmm.”

Wendy tried again. “I'm sorry I kept this from you so long, but you get why it can be hard to explain. I'm not...” a bad person? Hesitancy would be the death of her, one day.

Irene glanced at Wendy and back to Seulgi. “Are you aware--”

“Yes, I know what that means. How dumb do you think I am?” Seulgi grumbled. She kicked down the upturned corner of her rug.

There was a silence.

“Oh, come on.”

Wendy thought she might feel some sort of liberation after telling her, but she was only confused at the lack of horror, or fear, or disgust, or any real reaction at all. “You're… not surprised?”

“I knew something was going on behind the curtains,” Seulgi said slowly, “but honestly, I think the truth of the matter hasn't quite set in yet. I'll get back to you on that.”

Wendy looked to Irene for guidance.

“In that case, Seulgi, let me give you another thing to mull over. I'm building a team…” she began, and Wendy nodded appreciatively at the routineness of it.

“The scripts are nothing personal, I just prefer we start with these until we know how well we work together,” Irene had explained, slipping a gun into the back of her pants.

Eyebrows raising, Wendy paused in her review of the script. “Expecting trouble?”

She shrugged. “You should know as well as anyone--we always expect trouble.”

“Maybe we are the trouble.”

Irene looked at Wendy fully for the first time since they got in the car. Her dark hair glinted in the light off the snow. “Perhaps we are. I'll read aloud, you drive.” 

And so Wendy drove.

“Driving,” Seulgi considered, rubbing her chin. “What sort of driving?”

Irene put her hands on her hips in silent victory. “The fast kind.”

Wendy grimaced. “This is when you say, ‘No, this sounds like a terrible idea, I'm reporting you all to the police.’”

The corners of Seulgi’s lips pulled down. “No, it sounds… interesting. And you're clearly on board. If it's for a good cause…”

“Seulgi,” Wendy warned.

“I'm in.”

Wendy wished she could have said she was surprised. As the two shook hands and Irene gave her more details, Wendy stared at the worn, lumpy sofa that hadn't been replaced for years. She felt like she hadn't truly given her all in trying to sway the conversation despite taking it away from the script and using her best look of innocence. She realized, selfishly, that at least it meant having a friend back. She was scarce on those to begin with.

Seulgi nodded, eyes wide at something Irene said.

Control was a rug pulled out from under her feet, but at least Wendy still had the luxury of being disappointed. She thought back to the unfamiliar dining table and the cups of tea and Joy and Irene’s prying eyes.

"Wait." She had grabbed Irene's shoulder as she turned to leave. "So what role do you play in all of this?"

"If you learn to trust me," she said, eyes and voice very level, "I will be the reason you survive this job."

////////

A/N: Before anyone asks, yeah, this is 100% inspired by the show Leverage, plus a bit of Six of Crows. As usual, let me know your thoughts (and sorry as usual for the slowness).