— "Jesus Christ Dunne, what the hell is this?" I barely open the door and I'm hit with the stench of beer and trash, an entire living room worth's of beer cans and fast food wrappers.
Dunne suddenly wakes up and without moving out of the sofa, instinctively throws a beer can at me. But in his drunken spur, he misses by about a foot and hits the wall instead.
A hung picture frame falls from the wall.

— "Ah, jus' what I needed. What the fuck do ye want? Ye knock doors before enterin' back in China?"

— "You can't really knock on automatic doors." I shut the door behind me as I walk to the picture frame to put it back in its place. "And either way, I've been knocking at your door for the past 5 minutes, you're too drunk." Placing it back and making sure it's straightened, I realize it's an image of him with mates in some kind of military unit. What was it, hell divers? Something about flames and hell, I'm sure... He looks happy. "In any case, I'm here because Aiko told me to."

— "What'd she tell ya?" He's covering his eyes from the light, tightly gripping his sinus with his fingers, still with his face towards the ceiling.

— "She just told me to come for 'the job', didn't explain too much because...-"

— "...-she was too busy with her fuckin' alligator." He talks over me but says the exact same thing. "I know, I know. She always fuckin' goes and does that. I hate it." He puts his hand on his chest and exhales deeply. "The job. Aye, the job fer Dunne. The job specifically fer Dunne." He gets out of the sofa and picks up another beer can as he balances himself into an attempt of walking, still during this he manages to shot put the can into the skull of a cat that was trying to climb into his apartment's window. "Fuckin' cat, always tryin' ta steal me food."
I follow him wherever he's going, and he continues rambling. "I don't even fuckin' remember where I left the doc..." He stands still and looks at his kitchen before muttering. "It's in the fridge."

— "What?" I'm perplexed.

— "It's in the fridge." He walks towards it and opens it.

About 6 blocks of C-4 are in the fridge, several M84 and M67 grenades, along with various chemical compounds in plastic jugs, correctly labeled in his handwriting.
He grabs an envelope in brown paper and closes the fridge before handing it over to me.
There's a strange symbol on it, the type of symbols shitty no-name defense contractors... such as ourselves— like to display. This one's an eagle over a shield, how very pretentious. I open it up and read the documents.
— "I see, so it was just an assassination job." Usually these go to Aiko or Yusuke.
There's an image of the target affixed to it.

— "Aiko was meant to come with me but Charles takes priority." I break concentration from reading the paper to look at him and ask.

— "Charles?" 

— "The alligator." Ah, makes sense.

— "Right... The target is meeting up in a couple hours in a junkyard near here. Really makes you ask yourself what's up with criminals meeting in junkyards." I put the paper back in and seal the envelope again. "Let's go then."

— "Wait." Dunne says before walking to a closet and opening it, putting on a plate carrier and a coat over it, he then takes a bag in which he adds a couple grenades from the fridge.

We get out of the apartment and head downstairs. Exiting the building. The Eleventh is not a shithole I'd expect most people to live in, but Dunne is... well, a particularly exceptional man. Anyone else? Likely wouldn't make it out alive of the district past 17 hours. But after working with him for so long, he's a box of surprises when it comes to combat, I find.
His apartment complex; decrepit and falling to pieces some days, or straight up collapsing in others- serves as a backdrop to the most despotic of city planning archetypes: The Parking Lot. Likely no other place on this earth is as disgusting as this, a thoroughly depressing concrete desert devoid of any human emotion. But that can be inferred for most of the Eleventh, some sad bureacratical attempt at public housing that- just like all public works not directly funded by some company all giddy-giddy with Congress- ...Well, that's just how the cookie crumbles. Or the apartment, I suppose.
As we approach my car, amongst many others on an otherwise desolate patch of asphalt arbitrarily marked with white paint, I take out my keys and direct my hand towards the lock.
 
— "What the fuck is that?"

— "Hm? It's my car." I open the door and before I enter I look at Dunne for a second. "Are you going to get in?"

— "Fuck no, I'm not going in that old shitbox."

A hearty laugh is all I can muster at the silliness I've been exposed to.
— "I guess I'll just tell Aiko you pussied out." I get in and take out my jacket as I wait for Dunne to, very reluctantly, get in the car. As he sits on the passenger seat, he sees me putting my harness on.

— "What, a seatbelt not enough for ye? Christ, yer some example for a worrywart."

— "Oh, this isn't for a car crash." This silly man, blissfully unaware of what's coming to him... Hell, had he not spoken at all, maybe I wouldn't feel so compelled to give him a little taste of this so called shitbox.
As soon as I turn the engine on he frowns his eyebrow in confusion. "We're going into dirt roads right?" A rhetorical question, one which I don't intend hearing an answer to before slamming on the gas and throwing the car into a powerslide, all thanks to the absurd amount of wheelspin I still have not figured out how to circumvent without technique.

Dunne immediately holds onto the doorframe and his seat as he asks "What the fuck?", I keep speeding through what little road infrastructure this district holds, through some sort of avenue until my GPS tells me to take a left turn, one into unkempt asphalt which quickly ends and becomes a dirt road that goes out of the district, into the Depot. I guess it helped that Dunne lives in bumfuck nowhere.
The dust kicks out the back of the car. This little engine I found for cheap really does wonders when I let her rip, a deep growl turns into a scream, with the usual sigh of relief the turbocharger exudes whenever I depress the gas pedal. And do I ever depress it! On a bumpy road like this, micro-managing the gas and brake is a must, but it's a straight enough road to stay in fourth gear for most of it. Every now and then I catch a glimpse of Dunne, still holding onto the door, trying to keep composed. 
Only a couple minutes were needed to finally reach a close enough perimeter to this junkyard of theirs. I allow the car to slowly deccelerate, gently pressing on the brakes, as opposed to the sharp braking I was doing through that road.
I pull up next to an abandoned apartment complex, looking like a fortune-teller's interpretation of the final destination that Dunne's own complex will suffer. These GDP-inflating structures exist everywhere in the south of the Paradise. Quite nothing works out outside of the Constitution's sphere of influence.

— "Talk about a shitbox, aye?" I present a smug grin to Dunne, now looking mildly dejected and thoroughly defeated.

Exiting the car, putting my jacket back on, Dunne gets out the opposing door and promptly asks me:
— "What the hell is in that thing?" He points at the hood.

— "Just a little all-american horse heart." I replied.

— "On a French car?" I leave him dumbfounded and continue with the job at hand, walking towards... anywhere, or at least towards where I believe the junkyard will be.

— "Aiko was quite ecstatic with it!" Giggle away, proud Eliza. You deserve this victory.

Walking away from the car, Dunne by my side, I keep my head on a swivel, promptly spotting this supposed junkyard and trying to figure out how to deal with it, how to approach it, any possible angles of attack. Dunne taps my shoulder and points at the building we just parked next to. It makes sense, I'm surprised I didn't immediately think of it; good overview, moderate range. I tell him "Go look around it while I cover the car a little bit better.", he follows my command and disappears into the foliage claiming the concrete structure.

            

                
I keep a tarp inside my car, just for scenarios like these. Not that I'm actively going into combat zones or AOs with my personal vehicle, it's just a way to... well, keep it safe from the elements. Tarp on my hand, I throw it as best as I can across the car, covering most of it. I walk around and open the trunk, taking out a gun case. Closing it, I hear rustling from behind me.

— "It's clear all around it." It's Dunne's voice. I follow him back into the building, through the main entrance, going upstairs and onto the roof. A shame the elevator wasn't working, but perhaps it was best to not even try, even if it did. It's a nice view all around, the gentle darkness of the city never gets old. You can see the skyscrapers of the Circuit and the Seventh, and a glimpse of the river that splits the city. No matter how many times I see it, I always find it impressive how well the name of Sunless Paradise fits this place.
Dunne is looking at the junkyard, I stand next to him.

— "You see anything?" I sardonically ask.

— "No, not really, only a bunch o' cars piled up on each other."

— "Sounds like a junkyard to me."
I put the gun case on the ground, opening it and revealing bits and pieces of a disassembled rifle.

— "Where's yer bed?" Dunne asks as I hand him over a rangefinder.

— "Bed?" I ask, cluelessly.

— "The thing ye put under ye when usin' a precision rifle."

— "Oh, that." I take out my jacket, it's large enough to be used as a pad. Just so I don't have to carry one around... Maybe it wouldn't hurt to bring one next time.
Assembling the gun, it goes from rods and rectangles into my good ol' reliable. The first gun I bought with my own money, an imported M200 CheyTac from Old Terra, I extend the bipod and place it on the floor. I was not aware of the nature of this operation, and time constraints means I couldn't have gone back to my place just to pick up my actual rifle... What a beast that thing is, would've loved to use it here, but I suppose I'll have to do it the old fashioned way; basic 5-20X sight, no assists, simple bipod... just gotta some arithmetics and a gentle pull of the trigger.

— "Car pulled up." Dunne announces.

— "What's the range?" I ask.

— "Dunno, figure it out yerself." He doesn't break line of sight, and I don't particularly believe he carries a rangefinder around. Luckily I have mine, bring it up to my eye and seeing through the scope, I figure it must be around 800 meters. It's always such a hassle to do it manually, but enhanced cybernetics have just about killed laser rangefinders, I haven't seen one in an open market in a while, even. Only ever seen them still used in range days at the Community.
— "Are you not fond of rangefinders?" Not taking my eyes off the scope.

— "Not really, I think snipers are cowards."

— "Is that so? How do you intend on killing the target if not with a precision rifle?" I identify the target, and get on the gun while saying this.

— "I'd just blow 'im up." A small chuckle escapes my lungs.

— "At this distance? No way in hell lad, no explosive you could set up has this range, and proximity might not get the target- and even then, how could you ID the target?" I'm still fixed on the blond man 800 meters out.

— "Buncha excuses, I tell ye." Hearing this, I lose my temper. I break line of sight and twist my head towars Dunne.

— "Well then, enlighten me you fuckin' lunatic, go on and kill the target." He glares me down and unbuckles his duffel bag, leaving it on the ground. He promptly unpacks it and reveals a full size AT4. I'm starstruck.
— "W-wait, Dunne, I was joking, let's just do this normally and make sure he's dead."

— "Chalk it up with Aiko, ye asked for this." He places it on his shoulder, and with his free hand he extends his arm and measures the junkyard with his thumb, as if he were a painter.

— "Dunne, there's no fucking way you can hit that, an 84 mil has a maximum range of 300 meters."

— "Those are just excuses, it can reach 2 kilometers if yer good enough."

— "Dunne at that range the speed and mass of the projectile will give it an absurd drop, not to mention the wind, or—"

— "Shut 'yer trap already." He clicks the safety off, lifting the launcher and aiming it high up. "...About there, maybe?" He mutters.
The round launches off on his tap, debris and dust behind him blasting off the floor, the 8 centimeter shell flies off into the distance. Dunne puts it back in the bag and takes out a pair of rusty binoculars, looking through them at the Junkyard.
— "It's the blonde one aye?" I let out a sound resembling an affirmation. There's no fucking way this man is for real. I get back on my gun's scope and get my crosshair on the target. The rocket isn't propelled and its mass means that it has a substantial velocity drop. 2 seconds have passed since I've acquired the target… and then, suddenly.
The guy blows up, promptly launched at incredible speeds into a car he was standing next to, or whatever's fuckin' left of him, anyway. The dust cloud kicks up into the air. It takes the sound of the explosion several seconds to come back, but when it does it snaps me out of it.

I get out of the gun and just sit, staring blankly. I look over to Dunne, he's still on the binoculars until he takes his eyes off it.
— "He's dead, no surgery is fixing that." He nonchalantly confirms his kill, putting the binoculars in the bag and zipping it up, before placing it on his back and buckling it.
I groan and wipe my eyes, before dismantling my gun and packing everything back up. Finishing said task, I lift the gun case and put the jacket on top of it. I don't feel like wearing it anymore.

— "Nice tracksuit, wi'dja get it?" Dunne asks.

— "It's from back home" If I can even call it a home. "Mandatory exercise sportswear. Most people, myself included, would just use it as daily clothes." I reply with a distilled tiredness on my face.

We go through the door, going downstairs into the musky, worn out abandoned complex.
Going down on the 2nd floor, I hear a creak, stopping Dunne immediately with my hand and tapping my ear. Dunne understands and unbuckles his bag again, gently leaving it on the floor.
Drawing my handgun out, I begin to wish I had brought something for a situation like this, but anything to defend myself is better than nothing.
Peeking the corner, I'm acquired by an armed man, I dash back into cover right before the brick and plaster from the wall flies off into a dust of itself and the brass that impacted against it, prompting Dunne to fan out his coat and draw his own sidearm. His face has completely changed from a tired look to that of a distressed man ready to kill or die. Without a moments' notice and with the bravado of a meth junkie, he runs off directly into the line of sight of the shooter and begins magdumping him, I can only see him from behind.
The slide locks back and he immediately flicks the magazine out, loading a new one and allowing the slide to kick forward with astonishing speed, training his sights on what I assume is now a corpse.
I swing around to see, nothing but a simple dead man.
Dunne's eyes go back to normal as he holsters his Browning, likely one of Yusuke's. I don't holster mine just yet as I move in, closer to the body.
He's 100% dead, 13 holes all over him.
I catch a glimpse of a small steel-like badge on the inside of his coat, flicking it over, I get taken aback.
— "What the fuck, CIA?" Dunne looks over and hurries up to see the badge for himself

— "Oh shit" He runs back to his duffel bag, no—  my gun case, opening it up.

— "Wait, Dunne what are you doing?" He grabs the paper bag with the target file, ripping it open, throwing it on the floor and stomping on it like it's on fire, grunting with each impact. "Dunne, what the fuck are you doing!?" I pull him to make him look at me and answer.

— "I fuckin' forgot! I was too fuckin' drunk to remember!" He's distressed again. "This piece of shit paper was pulled from some big agency or whatever the fuck, Aiko told me to be careful with it and its donkey ass gobshite tracker! I put it inside my fridge and I fuckin' forgot why!" His hand travels back and forth between his temples and the airs, gesturing with as much intensity as his face contorts into a pained expression.

— "What do you mean? Why would the tracker not work in your fridge?"

— "Have ye fuckin' seen me fridge? I put all kinds of toys inn'ere! How d'ye think I can sleep soundly at night knowin' I have kilograms upon kilograms o' hi' explosives not 3 bloody feet next to me? Damn thing's well covered in lead! Why else would I not put the food inn'at tinbox!?" Dunne's reached his limit, he looks absolutely distraught. "I'm a fuckin' moron..." He mutters to himself.
The lead had prevented the tracker from transmitting, and by taking it out we had alerted whatever intelligence operatives the ESA's employing at the moment.

— "Let's just get out of here, guy's dead, pray he didn't have a black box on him." I hurry up to Dunne to pick up his stuff. I lift my gun case as well, and hold his arm as I lead him back to the first floor, outside, and to the car. He looks more tired than usual.

I put the gun case in the trunk, Dunne looks like a zombie, I unbuckle his bag and put it in the trunk as well, pushing him onto the passenger door and then into the seat.
I go around the car, yanking the tarp and pummeling it into a more malleable ball of fabric. I open the door and throw the tarp into the cramped, empty chassis that would've acted as backseats were this not a coupé. I sit on the driver's seat, and then he finally speaks.
— "Next time I'm telling Aiko to fuck off." He looks like he hasn't slept in 3 days. "Let's go drink something, I'm starched… and I need some beer."

I flip the keys and the engine rumbles. And still with a worried look on my face:
— "Yeah, let's go get something to drink."