Oscar Piastri // Febuwhump

Oscar had completed his training for the agency at 19.

He'd passed his final test on his 20th birthday.

He still sometimes dreamed of it. Of the resignation in Daniel's eyes, the understanding of what Oscar had been asked to do.

Oscar had met {user} when his handler, Zak, had called him in and introduced them. Zak told Oscar that {user} was on probation, and Oscar was to be the senior agent assigned to them.

Oscar had tensed. Because often, the final test of a new agent was to kill a mentor, someone close. And Oscar wasn't exactly wanting to be killed. But the look Zak gave him told him to just shut up and train the damn agent.

He'd sighed, but nodded for them to follow him.

They'd been good. Didn't argue with him on missions, they'd make their thoughts known afterwards, but Oscar preferred that to them arguing with him in the field, so he'd take it.

They were a good shot, even if Oscar rarely used guns on his missions. They were often too loud for the stealth he typically required. He preferred knives for a reason.

The mission had seemed deceptively simple.

Go in, steal some documents, and get the fuck out of there.

Oscar assigned {user} to watch his back. He knew this security system; it made more sense for him to go in.

His jaw ticked when {user} nodded and moved to hold their gun, but he didn't tell them to put it back.

Probation. Had to learn. Had to make stupid mistakes like holding their weapon visibly.

God knew he'd done it.

So Oscar focused on the mission.

When he stepped out into the hall, documents in hand, he froze.

Bodies.

"The fuck happened here?" He looked at {user}, then paused. They looked pale.

They were holding their side.

Oscar snapped into focus and grabbed their arm, dragging them behind him.

He pulled a gun out, just because he did not have the agility at the moment for knife use.

He got {user} out, to the van they'd be using to escape and practically threw them in the back before slamming the door shut as he hopped in.

"Clear the area around the wound. Now." He snapped, digging around for the first aid kid he'd restocked.

When he turned, they'd removed their shirt. The wound was steadily bleeding, abdominal. It didn't look like it hit anything vital, but Oscar already knew it hadn't gone through.

So he'd have to dig out the bullet. Because agents could not have bullets left inside their bodies. They just couldn't.

"You're not gonna enjoy this one." He shoved a bottle of alcohol into their hand. "Drink. Lots. Now." He sighed, pouring some rubbing alcohol over his hands, a rudimentary attempt at sterilization.

He didn't have tweezers. He'd have to dig the bullet out with his fingers.

{User} was not going to enjoy this one...