Jon awoke as they pulled into their base, reversing into the warehouse like structure zoned industrial. Given that it was nearly dawn he knew his dad had driven the long way to get here, standard procedure after a job. He was hungry, he couldn't eat before a job due to nerves, so despite remaining up all night he had not eaten since 6-7pm. It was now nearing 6am and his head was swimming as his blood sugar was... doing something.
John quickly went to the small group of open lockers and began removing his tactical gear and stowing his weapons save for his knife, he always carries his knife. The motions seemed second nature to him but something felt off. His nerves beginning to calm he went to the small cabinets serving as a pantry and grabbed a jar of peanut butter and a spoon. The "kitchen" was a small employee breakroom and consisted of a utility basin and an electric hot plate. The ancient fridge growled occasionally as the compressor kicked on. The protein and fat should tide him over while he gets some real sleep, or real food is created.
Jon also began making some coffee, his sisters looked beat, his mother looked haggard, his father was already on the phone reporting in. "No, the operation went off clean, without a hitch... Yes, we have the recipe for your grandma's cookies... okay." Again, something felt wrong. Jon took his 6th heaping tablespoonful of peanut butter from the jar, closed the lid, and returned it to the pantry. He's tired but isn't thinking straight. He looked over at the pot of coffee and cursed it for only just starting to brew.
He slipped outside appreciating the chill in the early morning air. He lit a cigarette and tried to figure out why he felt so off. He's been working out like normal, his diet has been following routine... a vague idea that the job was all wrong gnawed at him... he went back over the intel they got for the job, the pay, the execution... that's where his brain did a backflip... Everything went smooth, just like Alpha said... in this version of events.
Jon threw his butt away and lit another. His mind struggling to remember what he did with the stone, he must have done something mentally that impacted himself he realized. A moment later his sister came out, "Coffee's ready." she said clutching her own cup, post adrenaline exhaustion hitting her hard.
"Thanks", he muttered, taking a last drag.. then rethinking it and taking another...
Jon went inside, pouring himself a cup, then realized that 6+ servings of peanut butter wasn't a fantastic idea. Groaning to himself he conceded the coffee is too hot right now anyway and letting it sit for minute will actually be ideal. He went to the bathroom and pulled out his knife to play with while letting his bowels revolt. Finishing, he looked in the mirror and was struck again by the wrongness. His handsome, heavily stubbled 26 year old face stared back at him. He had been trained from ages 12 to 22 focusing on mastering little other than physical ability and technique, he wasn't used to feeling like things are wrong because there is hardly anything he can't handle.
Working his way backwards he recalled his last wish upon exiting the house... that the targets forget. Nothing wrong with that, killing them would have been messier. The wish before that... that his team gain.... "Oh! Oh shit..." His brain, now rejecting the current reality of the flawlessly executed plan. The reality where his finely tuned family of soldiers participate in the traditional 10 years of para military training in the wilderness between ages 12 and 22. It all began to crumble as the questions began.
'Why would he wish for combat training from civilians?' his brain lurched to him at gunpoint, his family on the floor, him accepting that he had no control and offhandedly wishing for the bullies to become the bullied. He followed that to his nearly passing out, possibly bleeding out, and wishing to be better trained than Diedrich. The whole mission was absolute chaos that he barely managed to suppress. They were all civilians with guns and attitude. until his last wish as they exited the house... Their house.
The formula was their dads. Jon was a dweeby 16 year old, not some jacked contract killer. Actually, the whole family should be 10 years younger since the wish was that they all got "the training" not knowing it meant what he now thought of as the trials... He doesn't really use coffee, nicotine, and sex to carefully manage his emotional state before and after a job (though his loins were already encouraging him to make a few calls).
He needs to undo 3 separate wishes from a life or death situation, or accept the family business of unsavory stuff. Furthermore, fixing the state of things now won't get him answers to who sent Boris and Natasha in the first place, or why...
Jon looked at his reflection. The hardened mercenary in him was disgusted by his plan to go back to weak civilian life, the teen in him looked at the knife still resting in his hand and was deeply disturbed that it gave him a sense of comfort and control.
